Fleece Bed-Sheets Soft, warm fleece fabric checkered red and green color. The winter bed-sheets of my single life were put on the bed, my love. For how long I hadn’t spread them? When we slept together the warmth of your body was enough to keep next to you, with no need for them, like a cat purring of happiness. Now the bed is too big and cold. You aren’t next to me and the sweet sensation of the fleece fabric is the only thing that can keep me warm during the cold winter nights. I remember the first time you spent in my house. I was a single woman and in the bed I had these two fleece bed-sheets. When we embrace for the first time and felt the sweat of our lust the sheets were drenched in our love. The next morning when you kissed me before you left for work you asked me to change them into the linen sheets because the night before you were too hot. Last night I went to bed in those fleece sheets after a long time I discovered something of our smell has remained in the fabric.
Crack Through the slightly open door, you saw the disguised fox getting into the full chicken pen. Its little raised tail, and with soft movements, dusted the stars. Then the old men with rotten teeth lay down with their backs on the yard tiles, still expecting something and having a dry tree branch in their shirts. This was needed, he’d say, and this too. It seemed that he didn’t believe it nor he expect the others to believe him. The thin woman took the glass, went close to him, bent her small finger and passed the ring of his smoke as if she was the only one who believed him.
Message In the wedge of pain I type the message rushing, misspelling hoping to get your answer to fill my lonely hours But you don’t answer and for the third time, I send it, edited and corrected not knowing that hugging the laughter of your comforter you’ve fallen asleep leaving your muted phone on your nightstand
“We’ll be here. You know William, he doesn’t like to go out very much. You’re welcome to come and stay with us; what time are you getting into San Francisco? We’ll come and pick you up, or I’ll come and pick you up.” “Oh, you don’t have to, Evelyn. I’ll be just fine getting a cab.” “Nonsense! What time is your flight, Bevan?” Her voice is firm. “I’ll be in around five or just a bit past five. Flight 673.” “Well now, you just stay and wait for me, even if I’m late. I’ll come pick you up okay?” “Okay, Evelyn,” Bevan puts the phone down. He starts packing his bag, which he does so professionally after all the years of repetitive action. He’s very happy that he talked to her and whistles a tune as he puts his things together.
Hakim is back from his walk in Memorial Park and takes a quick shower. He didn’t feel like going to the office this morning, and after calling Peter, decided it wasn’t necessary for him to be there. He’s anxious to see Talal later in the afternoon. He has promised to pick them up from the airport. He wants to hear all about the trip and what Talal has to say about his uncle. There’re so many things he needs to talk to Ibrahim about and it’s impossible to talk directly to the old man these days, as he knows certain things cannot be discussed over the phone or by computer. He might take a quick trip to Iraq soon, after he moves to the new place. First he wants to know what news Talal has for him. When he is done with his shower, he calls Jennifer to ask what time she’ll be getting home. “Hi there, baby. How’s your schedule later on?” “I’ll be leaving a bit early, honey; shall be there in an hour. What time is the flight coming in?” “About five; we should leave no later than four.” “Okay then, I’ll be home long before that; see you, love you.” She sounds excited, as she’s also anxious to see her mother and hear all about her trip. Hakim logs on to the computer and tries to get in touch with his uncle. He sees, to his surprise, that Mara answers his message. “Hello, my dear Hakim, how are you?” “I’m okay, Mara. Where is Ibrahim?” “He is in bed, sweetheart. He wasn’t feeling well today; he’s been in pain since this morning, even before Talal and Emily left. Have they arrived yet?”
F After the death of authority we waited for the king’s celebrations messengers of the lost war and the orders of the slaughtered on these sunken mountains we waited for the vow of youth forgotten along with the adventure of the roads we carry the light and the spade of the eighth day entrusted in us by the bitterness of God. With the silence of memory that consumes us wrapped like an ivy over our bodies with the music of love spent along the bands of stench with the full of holes prayer of the Esfigmeni monks.
Alexander Jannaeus and Alexandra Successful and completely satisfied, the King Alexander Iannaios and his wife Queen Alexandra go by, announced by music with plenty of grandeur and luxury, passing through the streets of Jerusalem. The work started by the great Judas Maccabeus and his four famous brothers, which was carried on afterward amid many dangers and many obstacles have been overcome superbly. Now nothing improper remains. All submission to the arrogant monarchs of Antioch has ceased. Look, King Alexander Jannaeus, and his wife Queen Alexandra are equal to the Seleucids in every way. Good Jews, pure Jews, above all faithful Jews. But, as the circumstances demand it, also proficient in the Greek language, and closely associated with the Greeks, and the Hellenized as equals, though, let that be known. Indeed, it has succeeded superbly, succeeded most surprisingly, the work that began with the great Judas Maccabeus and his four famous brothers.
In the prologue of the first edition the editor said that it was brought to Zakynthos by Cretan refugees a er the fall of their island to the Turks; and these same Cretans made it known to the islanders, since it was written in their own Cretan dialect. In that edition the name of the poet was clearly stated as Vitsentzos Kornaros from Sitia Crete. is declaration bears witness to the authenticity of the poem, its origin and its idiomatic Cretan dialect. All other following editions have this same declaration or a similar annotation. erefore, everyone today believes that Erotokritos is a Cretan poem wri en by Vitsentzos Kornaros from the eastern Cretan city of Sitia. His father was Iakovos and his brother, the Venetian-Cretan author Andrew Kornaros. Vitsentzos, was born in 1553 and died in 1613 or 1614. Based on this we believe Erotokritos was wri en between 1590 and 1610, although there are other suggestions depending on the reviewer and his sources. The first person who seriously referred to Erotokritos was the English author Leake who makes sure to inform us, with no substantial proof of any kind that the book was written two hundred years before 1810; and further on in his comments he states it was written around 1600.
He was making his way to the bar when a stranger blocked his advance. – What you want? the man said. One eye had been inexpertly sewn shut. Dis a private establishment, pilgrim. Redman’s muscles twitched. He enjoyed a good row, it was a Yukon sport, but on his first night out? Besides, the fellow had shoulders broad as a linebacker. His fists were the size of five-pin bowling balls. – You best turn around, mon. Redman feigned resignation, retreated a few steps — but then pushed into the crowd. Convinced he’d lost Cyclops, he slipped into a vacant seat and ordered a beer. A few drinks later a girl approached his table and began dancing. Her plump black thighs glistened with perspiration. She had breasts and lips women like Marge would pay to replicate. Her hair was a tangle of dreadlocks. Ace jumped to his feet and began to move. Boom-boom-ba-boom . . . Oh, yeah. The girl led him deeper into the crush of dancers. And then he was being nudged into the washroom, its only exit blocked. The girl was waved away. – What I tell you, mon, huh? Dis place not for your kind. There were machetes and at least one pistol tucked into a waistband. All attached to four very large and fierce Caribes. The Cyclops appeared to be their leader. – You a crazy motha, know that, pilgrim? The heat and the booze had caught up to Redman. He was out of gas and the odds were against him. So he approached the man with one eye squeezed shut and played his only hand. His name, he said, was Johnny Cool, and you bet he needed a job. It seemed most able-bodied men on the island did. He was in the lobby sucking on sugar cane when Redman stepped from the elevator the next morning. – The dancer, she yours? he asked. – Dey all mine. – Have her checked out. I’ll want to see the certificate.
…where all the things that are common in your life don’t exist. Imagine a place where the only things that do exist are things that are uncommon to you. You will be in a state of sensory deprivation and sensory overload at the same time. There are no trees. There are no cities. There is nothing – but there are vast numbers of insects so pray that the wind blows. There is almost no night. The size of the horizon is so immense that the prairies by comparison are claustrophobic. It will just eat away at you and you’ll have to go through the experience of feeling a bit wobbly and perhaps teary and that’s fine. I would be worried if you didn’t have an emotional moment or two. You would have to be completely insensitive.” In the weeks leading to the departure day, dozens of incidents demanded his attention. First on the list was the long-planned show at the Ontario Legislature buildings, which was a great success. The Premier steered Ken from group to group, demanding that Ken tell the stories that explained the paintings – even relating some himself that he had heard so often he had committed them to memory. Then Ehor Boyanowsky, his voice almost incoherent with excitement, called him. Ken must fly out to Vancouver right away for an emergency meeting of the Steelhead Society. There were problems with the dam project in Quebec. He drove into town to deliver a painting to London Life on Avenue Road, on the day of his flight. When he got back into his car, a large cheque in hand, he heard Peter Gzowski, radio’s “Mister Canada”, interviewing John Fraser, who was now Speaker of the House. The interview had almost ended. “So, Mr. Speaker,” Gzowski said. “Your life seems to be completely taken up by your office.” “Well, it is,” Fraser, replied. “I know you’re a fanatical fly-fisherman,” Gzowski said. “Do you ever get to do that?” “As a matter of fact, yes,” Fraser said. “This afternoon I’m getting on an airplane to go to Vancouver and I’m going to meet my good friend Ken Kirkby, the painter, and I am going to be honoured at the Steelhead Society dinner. I couldn’t imagine being in finer company. I’m just delighted. So yes, we are actually going to steal some time – but don’t tell anybody – and we’re going to have a few meetings to talk about some problems, which I’m sure we’ll resolve, and then we’re going to go fishing. And the people putting this on have some surprises for us too.” Ken chuckled. So, that was why Boyanowski had insisted he fly to Vancouver. He knew that Ken would never have pulled himself away from Isumataq for a mere fishing trip. When Ehor greeted him in the baggage area, with an immense bear hug, Ken told him that the jig was up. Ehor shrugged. “I wondered if you might be listening to Gzowski’s program.
…in dogs: some of these stones, usually smooth and round most times dissolve over time, and some other kind of stones were jagged and usually they remained in the body for a long time, and this was the kind Elvis had in his bladder. “What do you suggest we do?” He asked the vet. “Surgery,” the vet answered. Cold sweat overtook both as they recalled that Elvis was hit by a car when he was only a year and a half, and that resulted in surgery to join two parts of the right side of his pelvis that were broken. The surgeon used two platinum plates and nine screws to mend the pet’s broken bone, and it took the young animal two months to heal and feel good. The idea of another surgery didn’t sit well with them. “Is there any chance the stone might dissolve?” he asked as if begging for a positive result. “I wouldn’t say this,” the vet insisted. “There is a procedure of using a laser to pulverize kidney stones for people; is this done to animals?” He asked the vet. “Not here; I believe there is a company down south and one in Winnipeg that performs such procedures, but the logistics of doing it there are against you, you know, travelling, US funds, etc.” “I see” “What we could do,” the vet underlined, “is to put him on a sodium diet which will force him to drink more often and with the excess consumption of water the stone might be neutralized for a while.” “Perhaps this is a better option,” they both agreed. And they put the dog on that special diet. They bought the proper food and drove home. However, when they talked about it later and searched the internet for ideas, they decided to get a second opinion. They located another local vet and called him. The next day, the new vet examined Elvis and recommended a scan. They agreed. When the scan results were known, he called them for a consultation. Something made both feel uneasy. True enough, after his initial comments, the vet referred to some calcification, revealed by the scan, and lined the wall of the dog’s penis that led to his urethra.
Manolis Aligizakis 