…I always carried leaves and fresh branches in my hands and wherever a river stopped my steps, I disregarded its powerful current, mule-rider who I was, I started crossing in a fastened path that lasted only while I was passing; and I was a river passer, a mule rider an engraving on the rock mule and man, the same flesh different from the stone, which assumed a soul and departed if I was lost in the deep thought of struggle, pain and yearning in my mind the one emperor having a crown on his head the crown of the universe.
Sitting beside Morley’s bed, her eyes resting on his face, Tyne could detect less swelling and a slight fading of the bruises. The wounds on his shaven scalp were healing cleanly, and his breathing, as he slept, seemed less laboured. She lifted his right hand to her cheek and held it there – the hand that had caressed her face so many times. Through the hours as she sat at his bedside, Tyne prayed – prayers of praise and thankfulness because Morley was getting well. Every day brought progress. But she also prayed for his complete healing, and restoration to the man he had been. The doctors had told her that although most of the signs were positive, there still remained the possibility of some brain damage. Tyne could scarcely bring herself to say the words, either out loud or in her mind, as she pleaded for God’s healing power. When she wasn’t praying, she was whispering words of encouragement, or telling Morley about the children. She longed to tell him her concerns for them, but told them to God instead. That is what Morley would want her to do. It had been two days since she had held a tearful Rachael in her arms in the bus depot, and later listened to her mother’s revelations about the girl’s state of mind. “I didn’t tell you on the phone, Tyne,” Emily Milligan had said…
“Yeah, you’re right. It’s pretty far-fetched,” he said hastily. “It’s great having family here in the Soviet Union. You are so lucky, Jennifer.” “Yes, I am. Do you think I should phone my mom? Tell her that I’ve met with Misha—Can you believe it? She calls him Misha—like she’s known him for years.” “Well, you’ll be phoning your folks anyway to tell them you’ve arrived safely, won’t you?” “No, they aren’t like that. It’s not that they don’t care. They just…” “Yeah, I remember meeting your dad when I was studying in Toronto. He didn’t have much to say. I get the sense your mom is really running the show?” “No, she’s browbeaten by my father.” “Is this to do with the accident, Jen?” “Everything about my family is to do with the accident.” “You have Jewish background, don’t you?” “Yes, but I don’t talk about it because I wasn’t raised a Jew. My father was Church of England. Listen, I think I’ll try a telegram. It’s easier than the phone.” But when Jennifer enquired at the Rossiya’s front desk, they directed her to the telegraph and telephone bureau next door to the hotel. This seemed like a lot of effort and she decided to wait. If her mother couldn’t be bothered telling her that she had family in the Soviet Union, then she couldn’t be bothered describing her joy to her mother. Withholding, it was called. It ran in the family.
Dancers Black dancers arced sprang and after picking their shoes they left in hushed tones so they didn’t wake old man front row lost in dreams of a lavish dance hall chandeliers and many fit scantily-clad girls smiling jewel eyed their breasts nodding persuasive firm contours swell desire tease out his hand before black dancers wheeled just before he fell into divine sleep
Monument of a lonely afternoon when the wind blows reflections of young vendors onto the wise and irreplaceable words monument of everyday chatter without conviction, overseeing the unmatched bodies, mixed limbs, legs that grow in the asphalt sweat, monument without a bang, without pleasure with inert touch deep in your viscera like dead polypus in an empty sternum and voila, from the depths of falls and risings horrible angels appear, ready to claim darkness to gain belief and take advantage of your metal. I, motionless in front of you, don’t beg for my death nor do I get lured by withering immortality.
The predictable phrases came and went, and the warmth of the wine, combined with the body heat of the people in the room, made the atmosphere cozy. Even the conversation grew softer and fluffier as the wine flowed. When Paula got up to visit the powder room, one of the guests, Kostas, found the courage to lean in and ask, “Hey, Costa, is she hot?” Costa flashed his widest smile at the poor man, but before he could reply, Vangelis butted in. “Don’t worry about Costa. He’s got it right. He can pick and choose.” Costa could almost see the man salivating at the concept. He laughed out loud, but now the doorbell interrupted them, and as their host went to greet the new arrivals, Costa saw Anna, the airy, sexy, pretty, and ethereal Anna, enter the foyer, her husband close behind. Anna was always perfectly dressed, always trendy and sexy. She walked gracefully, elegantly, through the living room, and Costa’s expert nose picked up her light lilac perfume. He fixated his eyes on her, and he sensed that Anna knew he had been watching her as soon as their eyes met. Somewhere between her sexy walk and her faint, provocative smile, Costa saw the prettiest female of the evening. How do women always know when a man is looking at them? Costa had often wondered about this but had never found an answer that satisfied him. But they always know. And they almost always smile back. It must be the same knowledge Costa always had when, in a gathering of women, one, that special one, would be looking at him with desire amid others who didn’t give a damn. It was knowledge acquired from experience, and a womanizer like Costa had plenty of that. Anna surely must have heard all the stories of Costa’s escapades and misadventures. After all, the whole Greek community had heard of them. As Anna joined the other women, Costa watched all the hugs and kisses coming and going, each woman hugging and loudly saying, “Hi, how are you?” while murmuring to herself, “bitch,” a word every woman used when a prettier one entered the room and the eyes of all the men glued themselves to her like limpets on a rock.
…those comments, the meeting blew up. Joel could understand that all Mr. Johansson was trying to do was help, but if there were two things you wouldn’t want to be telling Edward Hooper, it would be suggesting government help and calling his child underprivileged. There was no doubt that the Hoopers could sure use some help to finance Joel’s education, but the last thing that was going to happen in the hills that night was for Edward to admit it to any fancy dressed school teacher. Later, the school year came to an end. Joel graduated from high school, and Mr. Johansson, after once again encouraging Joel to consider the possibility of going further with his education, left town for wherever he went every summer. Joel spent the next few weeks working for his father, riding the high ridges, checking the cattle, counting cows and calves, and making sure that all was well in the pasture. Back then, on July 20, 1969, as seventeen-year-old Joel rode along, he thought of the hurt that he had experienced at home, especially during the last few weeks of high school, the brutal treatment of his mother by his drunken father, and the hard way that his dad treated him. Back then, the Circle H was not a healthy place for this seventeen-year-old boy to be; and really, not a healthy place for anyone, and certainly not a place with a future. That hot summer day back in July of 1969, Joel found himself a long way from home at the end of the afternoon. Feeling mighty hungry and needing to water both himself and his horse, Joel dropped down out of the hills to the Ladners’ place. Larry Ladner and his wife Erica were a dirt-poor young couple trying to eek out a living for themselves and their four children on a small patch of rented land. Their dream was to one day be able to put a down-payment on a place of their own, but the way things were going it looked like it wouldn’t be long before the Ladners would be forced off of the land. Larry had been coming in from a day of fieldwork on the tractor when he welcomed Joel. He knew the Hoopers were good neighbors. As Joel sat with the Ladners and ate his evening meal, he heard some exciting news on the radio.
Here Among the Bones Among the bones some music goes by the sand goes over the sea. Among the bones sound of a flute sound of a distant drum and a light ringing, goes over the dry plains over the sea with the dolphins. High mountains, you can’t hear us! Help! Help! High mountains, we’ll dissolve, dead with the dead!
Cells Like the cells of each body that die and in darkness they float and talk cells of an undefined wholeness, we die without noticing or understanding while wholeness lives in our death moves and breathes eternal youth of an odyssey.
Stout reached for the sugar. “You don’t want to mess with this son. I’m a powerful man around here.” “Yes,” Pease said, “So is the mayor. This thing is no longer a secret, Mr. Stout.” Stout breathed as if stirring his coffee was a workout. He plied the spoon with concentration, looking into the cup. “Why should I believe you?” he said, working more sugar into his coffee, lifting his eyes toward Pease without raising his head. Pease thought he had the aspect of a dog deciding whether to bite a stranger or submit to him. “How do I know Torgerson talked about this?” “What did Pearson tell you?” “Pearson’s scared.” “It must be an uncomfortable feeling.” “Look, Ned, I was born in this town, lived here all my life. I’ve been on the council for nine years, done good work in the community. I’m not saying anything one way or the other, but don’t you think all this stuff from the past, whatever it is, just oughta stay in the past?” Pease watched the big man wipe his spoon with a paper napkin and take a tentative sip from his cup. Perspiration was forming just below Stout’s hairline. Pease said nothing. The silence lasted nine or ten seconds. “You can do a story without using names,” Stout said. “Not this one, councilman. I have the names.” “And names make news, right? Maybe that’s the trouble with news.” “Could be.” “Where’s all this going to lead, anyway? What does it matter?” Stout said. “It matters, councilman.” “Does Winifred Stone know about this? I know the Stones, know them very well.” The dog is growling, Pease thought.
Manolis Aligizakis 