Between her horns it held a heavy piece of the sky like a crown. A little later it lowered her head and drank some water from the creek licking, with her bloodied tongue, the other cool tongue of her watery idol, as if licking her internal maternally, serenely, irreversibly, widely her internal wound from the outside, as if licking the silent, great, round wound of the world — perhaps it even quenched its thirst — perhaps our blood is the only thing that quenches our thirst — who knows. Soon after she raised her head over the water, not touching anything, untouched too and serene like a saint, and only a small lake made of the blood of her lips remained between her feet that were rooted in the river, a small red lake, in the shape of a map that slowly enlarged and vanished, melted as if its painless, freed blood traveled far away to an invisible vein of the cosmos; and for that reason she was calm, as if she had learned that our blood doesn’t vanish, that nothing vanishes, nothing, in this great nothing, the inconsolable, cruel, incomparable, so sweet, so consolable, so nothing.
Centaur Morning and the horses neigh tied onto the froth of impenitent sea rustle of naked leaves punished leaves forty times lashed by the winds climbs on the shoulder-blade of Sunday and on the Pelion waters. Here the blood of serpents poisons the ripen languor of serenity like rust the veins of marble and time gathers the wings of ash to debate with the blond gables now that in the sleep of the olive tree the spider forms its wrinkly netting. In the fields the lustful sprouts quiver and bathe in the fountain of convulsion.
We sat in the tent of a comrade talking till late in the night. Proof of love… ignorance of Eros… the third, unsaid thought rippled through the conversation carrying the night on its shoulders like a wounded soldier.
Butcher’s knife He sharpens his knife before he tries it on the hind of the goat hanging from the hook, grey-haired neighborhood butcher who has slaughtered many animals during his career which has sold to meat craving citizens. He was a very important member of the society, Stephen, in his white blood stained apron, a butcher with his washed out blue eyes, you could say the national flag’s white and blue colors, now that his back is constantly aching, hunched man who can’t sharpen his knives as easily as he used to do, sometimes contemplates, would they need a butcher up there in the Heavens, do they still eat meat in Paradise? Other than the days of Lent when both the alive and the dead abstain from eating flesh
…no doubt hoping that the audience might have been larger. Denied by religious difference the pleasure of verbally crucifying Liam in front of his congregation in church, the Reverend MacNevin had decided to get compensating satisfaction by birching him in the barber’s shop. Unfortunately for the Reverend MacNevin only the barber was present. The other chairs were empty. Jackie Harrison’s assistant came in from Carraghlin only on Friday evening and Saturday. ‘I would have preferred not to inform you of this highly distasteful matter, Mr Dooley,’ the minister went on disingenuously, ‘but the act was witnessed inadvertently by two teenaged boys, one of whom happens to be my son. They went to collect waste paper at your house and it so transpired that they caught sight of the adulterers through your kitchen window. Fornicating on the floor. On the floor, I repeat. In their lustful passion they could not even wait to go to bed. I have extracted a promise from my son that there shall be no spreading of this unseemly scandal on his part, and he has endeavoured to extract a similar promise from his companion. But I fear the damage may already have been done. You can, of course, imagine the effect that such a sordid narrative must have on the imagination of adolescents. And what kind of an example does it present to them? The schoolmaster’s wife and an officer of the Royal Navy. By the greatest of good fortune, your wife is no longer a teacher at your school. You showed commendable prudence, Mr Dooley, in removing her from that position of responsibility. But I shudder to think what she might have been instrumental in instilling in the minds of her charges while she was so employed. That is why I have made it my painful duty to draw your wife’s gross indecency to your notice. It cannot be allowed to happen again. Furthermore, as a moral lesson to the young people of this village, it cannot be permitted to go unpunished. The very least you can do, Mr Dooley, is to forbid your wife ever to be seen in public with Joseph Carney again. What further steps you take to ensure that your wife does not repeat such immorality is, of course, up to you. I should think, however, that in view of the house from which she comes, such immorality and gross misconduct are indelible aspects of her character. Good day to you, Mr Dooley. And to you, Mr Harrison.’ With that the Reverend Lucas MacNevin, touching his hat to the two men, abruptly left the barber’s. Jackie Harrison turned to finish the cutting of Liam’s hair. ‘None of this will go any further than these four walls, Liam,’ he promised. But Liam did not hear what the barber said and would not have believed him if he had.
Tears When we met you promised to make the sadness in my eyes disappear, the sadness you said you had noticed. Yet you didn’t say, you meant to do this when they were full of tears. Have a great time, my love, wherever you may be.
Guacaipuro surveyed the damage. “Your god,” he panted, “is evil.” Then he seemed to see something in the shadows of the bushes illuminated by the firelight, and all distress lifted from his countenance. He reached out, but life left him at that moment. He collapsed onto Urquía, his face buried in her bosom. I gawked at them. He had trusted me with her life, and there she was, dead. And he saw her die. I was on my feet. Where had all the air gone? I gasped, trying to suck it in, and stumbled away. My knees buckled, and I held myself by the middle. A shout emerged from the centre of my soul, a long throat-shredding, “No!” She hadn’t converted either. The Spaniards stepped back. I would have liked to see them try and touch his body, chop off his head and take it as a trophy. Something stopped them. Horror, I guess. As they fled uphill, leaving only desolation behind, I felt Benjamin’s big hand on my shoulder. “Coming?” I shot him a loathing look; pain choked me, tears stung my eyes, my head throbbed. I saw in the fleeting expression that crossed his face that that was the last thing he expected from me. He strode away, looking back over his big, swaying shoulders a couple of times. It was not his fault, of course, but at that moment he became the Spaniards, a group I did not want to belong to any longer. My reaction was unjust, and I knew it, but couldn’t bring myself to be like Jesus. Had I ever? The next hours were filled with the numbness of incredulity. I just sat there until the hut was nothing more than a glowing mass of smouldering thatch. Desolation after the storm. Not a breath of hope in the air. Nothing but pain and sorrow. Fragments of the person…
With that reassurance that nothing was out of the ordinary Anton walked down to his laundry room where he started his daily work. Three washing machines started humming as if on duty and the driers awaited for their turn soon as the first load of clothes is cleaned. The clouds had thickened outside his window and the rain fell constantly on the wet grass, the leafless tree limbs, the mighty Thompson and the roof of the mausoleum. Anton could hear the water rushing through the downpipes, sound a cascading cataract would make. In this constant rain the city with its almost empty streets seemed like a place forsaken by people and God. Anton went and sat behind his desk when Mary walked inside. Anton got up and hugged her; a kiss was the next in order. She glued herself to his body and their kiss turned into a long satisfying adventure. He laughed as he pulled a bit away and looked in her beautiful eyes. Her glance was telling him something very sweet and definite, something beautiful and permanent which could last for the rest of his life. “I’ve decided to take up studies,” he said as his lips widened in a happy smile. It couldn’t be denied that Mary’s face saddened, “you’ll go away?” she uttered in dismay. “I didn’t mean it that way, baby. First of all I have to find the proper University, apply and wait for acceptance but I also have in mind that you would consider leaving this place to which you don’t belong and come along with me….come baby, a new start, a new life, away from this mausoleum…think of it. Promise that you’ll think of it,” he asked and his concern was brightly written in his eyes. Mary felt a little better at those last words and she smiled at him.
The Sisters’ dining room was quiet in the afternoon with only the distant clatter of pans and dishes in the kitchen. Tyne sat with her two former roommates – still her two best friends – at a corner table. Plates of sandwiches and cakes, and a large pot of tea had been placed before them by a novice nun. Tyne sat back and surveyed the room. It was stark in appearance, but comfortable in which to relax. She had left Aunt Millie at Bobby’s bedside, and come here for the ‘catching up’ that Sister Carol Ann had mentioned two days earlier. She couldn’t help but wonder if she and Moe could ever catch up with, or understand, the kind of life their friend had known for the past four years. But one thing was certain – their Curly appeared happier now than she had since their early days of training. Sister Carol Ann replaced her plain china teacup in its saucer and leaned across the table towards Tyne. Her pretty face looked eager. “I love the letters you write about the farm, Tyne, especially the ones describing the animals and how you’ve made pets of them.” She chuckled. “How is Jezebel?” “As ornery as ever. But Morley insists on keeping her. He seems to be able to control her if no one else can. I’m wondering how Jeremy and Dad Cresswell are managing. I hope they’re careful.”
Marcinelle the pigeons are asleep now and the cyclone rages amid the wild rustle of the trees follows the suspicious silence thunder and cannons echo in the distance and here it rains and rips everything the foliage screams trees stand ready to leave and among the wild blackberry bush opened just like a bare-breasted old woman the lighting reveals two rotten tree trunks lying in the mud bodies of two lovers with bare branches like arms that stir curses or moans learn to live by the peaceful edge is the bread and the steaming pot here is the knife take the knife to cut the bread take the knife take the knife, I tell you, worker tonight be extra careful, tonight t h i s n i g h t i s n o t l i k e o t h e r n i g h t s
Manolis Aligizakis 