And others, as of unquenched thirst, victims of insatiable fairies, stood by the river’s edge as if forever rooted and yearning for erotic apexes with their palms and other times with their mouths they bend down to the ground. And others just out of their sleep as if tied in their sleep, you could say they were coupling wherever they happened to be onto the barren breast of the earth or on the softest grass and they had bulrush branches laid as beds and rocks for pillows; and they were by the river’s edge and in shores and in trenches as if embalmed bodies as if undissolved corpses delivered of their passions…
Sun-bleached and weather-worn grave markers of varying dimensions dotted the plot. What the graves all shared, with the exception of one, was that the prairie had overtaken them. The old man’s grave, the only fresh grave, was already starting to be blanketed by grass. The first thing Joel noticed was that there wasn’t a marker for the old man’s plot so he made a mental note that he would eventually get around to doing something about that. But there was no rush. It was too late for any acts of kindness. Much too late. Even though Joel felt the way he did about the old man, essentially being emotionally abandoned at such an early age, he still found himself dropping to a knee at the side of the tiny grave on the knoll in the middle of nowhere and saying a quiet prayer. It was at this point, still full of bitterness and hatred for everything that the old man had put his mother and himself through, that Joel recognized that your dad is always your dad. No matter what. Walking over to the horse, picking up the long thick leather reins from the ground, and mounting the orange gelding, Joel slowly turned the horse and headed back to the ranch yard. Drifting along the ridges of the hills, the horse started to perk up as they got closer to home and even broke into a bit of a trot which Joel mastered by desperately hanging onto the saddle horn. Joel thought that they probably would have broken into a canter if he hadn’t reined the gelding back to a fast walk. Joel had always been a good horseman as a boy, but that was a lot of years ago. He wasn’t about to test his equestrian competency the first morning back on the ranch. As they climbed the final hill and started to drift down the coulee into the ranch yard, Joel was surprised to smell the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and the scent of bacon from the forlorn-looking little ranch house below. Looking down from the top of the knoll into the coulee below, Joel could clearly see everything that was the homestead. The buildings stood pretty much the way they did when he left that…
Sin Brazen thief that leads my mind to an erotic voyage and your nipple ready to jump over your bra and standing with no skirt before the mirror you accentuate your eyes upright virgin thought my paradisiacal inferno that I long to sing with such fervour
An east wind howled and moaned in turns around the corners of the house, and sent slivers of sleet crashing against the window in Moe’s guest room. Tyne, lying in one of the single beds, came to consciousness with a start. For a moment she could not distinguish between the eerie noises and her dream. But when she opened her eyes, she could see by the faint light coming through the dripping panes that the sounds which had roused her were the reality. It looked to be almost night; she must have slept for hours. Throwing the covers aside, she sat up and looked at the bedside clock. Surprised to see that it was only a little before noon, she lay back again and closed her eyes. The welcome aroma of coffee suggested that Moe was still here, probably ready with a meal whenever Tyne woke up. She should have known that her friend, who had even requested a leave-of-absence to be with her, wouldn’t leave her alone in the house. She really should get up; there was no point in lying in bed when sleep, as it had for three days until this morning, eluded her. But Aunt Millie was on hospital duty, and would be upset if Tyne hurried back. They had finally convinced her – ganged up on her, really – to go back to the Halls’ house where she could sleep much more comfortably in bed than in a chair in a visitor’s waiting room at the Holy Cross.
There is no such thing as old hat when it comes to this. It’s like it all happens for the first time each time. It grew more and more intense. We lay there on the ground and I don’t know how long we lay there. The shafts of light rippled up in an arc all around us, and they came to a centre point directly above us and that point was a black hole. All the rest was light, and the colours were showering down – purple, gold, green, blue, red. The words don’t work. It was as if we were laying on the floor of a cathedral the size of the universe. The earth was no longer an issue – we weren’t even part of the planet. I can see how religions began. It was stuff like this – it undoes one. All the rational explanations we have for this are nonsense. They just don’t work. You have to find a bigger answer. This is too big, too beautiful, and too mysterious. Something holy descended on their souls. Ken felt as though they had had a direct experience of God and the magic of that night clung to them during those ten days in the Thelon. The Thelon was like no other place on earth. When the glaciers had retreated they had left behind a vast amount of chirt, a very dense stone that had formed into eskers or low humpbacked hills from forty to a hundred and fifty feet high. The stone was so dense the permafrost could not penetrate it and as a result the vegetation that grew there, born from seeds carried by migrating birds, was that of a more southern landscape. But because of the severe winters and punishing winds, it was a landscape in miniature. Trees that might grow to a hundred feet in the south grew to only a couple of feet here, but they were flawlessly formed. At the base of each esker was a perfectly round small lake, so thick with Arctic grayling you could almost reach your hand into the water and pull one out. When they got back Ken promised himself that this time he wouldn’t leave on another trip until he had finished the painting. He locked himself in his studio and from October 1990 to May 1991. He emerged only long enough to eat and sleep. The epic project neared completion. Elaine suggested a decorous and dignified gathering to commemorate the event. Ken and the word “decorous” were obviously never meant to meet. He insisted on a “last brushstroke” party that would be more extravagant than his “first brushstroke” event ten years earlier. Decorum in his studio? A studio that had a sign at the entrance identifying it as “The Zoo?” Karen had even presented him with a road sign he had admired in Yellowknife: Ragged Ass Road and Lois Lane. Ken had actually tried to steal the sign more than once, but each time he had attempted it, someone had gotten to it before him and taken off with it. He guessed that the City of Yellowknife works department likely had a full time employee doing nothing but erecting a new road sign at…
Unacceptable He pulled away from our company little by little, as if he was somewhat sad as if somewhat strangely serene, as if he had discovered something great and incommunicable — a headless statue, a star, a truth the final and only truth — “which truth?” we asked him. He didn’t answer as if he knew we couldn’t even have wished to know. The first stone was cast by his friends. His opponents couldn’t be stopped. At the trial they asked him again and again. He said no word. Then the judge rang the bell loudly, yelled, turned angry, ordered silence, so that the silence of the accused couldn’t be heard. The guilty verdict was unanimous. One by one we turned and leaned our heads against the wall.
I have been cold in agony waiting for the lone cloud and its misty dress
Where are you running, little creek, the river rocks asked— I’m going to the great ancestor where you and I are not where in its wholeness I shall melt becoming a whiff of air pasted on an autumn day turning to a wish in the heart of a young lover gazing at the stars and longing for his mate who’s kept high among the gleaming eyes, the smiling youth answered— I’m going to the great Ocean
Bevan Longhorn dresses in casual clothes and goes down to the lobby of the Sheraton Hotel. It’s Sunday morning and the lobby is filled with people coming and going. Bevan has stayed here before, and this time, although he has only been here for one night, intends to make the best of it. He has arranged his departure for the evening with American Airlines and is to arrive in Washington sometime before midnight, giving him enough time to relax and get to his office Monday morning. On the other hand, if he feels tired the next morning he can always skip work for a day; the agency will survive without him. What presses on his mind today is making sure he can put his hands on what he needs to proceed with his plan of exit, as he calls it. These two young men better have thought of everything; he doesn’t have the time to pussyfoot. However, he has faith in the old man, whom he has always trusted to deliver what is necessary. He walks into the hotel restaurant and orders his breakfast. He opens the morning paper and reads the headlines; the same stuff again and again. His breakfast comes and he tries to enjoy it, despite the headlines and his thoughts. What happens if the two young men cannot get what he needs? A shiver travels down his spine like a thunderbolt as this thought sinks deep in his mind, and he squirms out of fear that all his mental preparation for this last mission might be in vain. He overhears two couples next to him talking about the Oscars scheduled for sometime in March. They seem to be very absorbed in what they are discussing; he hears one of the men supporting one actor over the others, and the other three people seem to agree, as Bevan doesn’t hear any objection to the first person’s remarks. His thoughts take him away again to his plan of action, and he glances at his watch; it is only 10:30 a.m. He’s so anxious about his plan that he cannot wait to meet Hakim at Earl’s and get answers. Ibrahim’s nephew had better have good news for him, or else. What can he do if they cannot get it? He finishes his breakfast, pays his check and goes for a walk around the hotel grounds with the manicured lawns and the pretty shrubs and flowers everywhere. He needs to clear his mind and the crisp morning air will help. He also needs to stretch his legs.
Behind our Eyes Behind our eyes, silent and crouched, we look at the world out there like through the skylight of a prison. Behind our eyes, we make secret plans we aim and fire as if behind embrasures and when evening comes like we do with windows we hastily pull the curtains and turn on the lights.
Manolis Aligizakis 