Two adolescents joined them. The boy bounced a basketball, oblivious to the vista. The girl leaned against the car, gyrating to head-phones. I moved to the edge of the property for a better look. House hunters, I presumed; the Project, gentrified now, was crawling with them. But when returning to the car, the man glanced my way. There was no mistaking that stain. It covered one eye like a splotch of paint. He seemed to recognize me, although I can’t be certain. He appeared to nod his head, but that also might be interpretation. I could have made some calls and verified his identity, but I didn’t. I preferred to believe it was him. Returning to a place that had meant something once. Because it’s what I did. It’s who I had become.
That was just like Infante, to find a way to turn the tables. So I was being accused of insensitivity, failing to honour the memory of my slain friend. “Exactly what I was trying to do when you interrupted me, Infante,” answered Losada. “It is not the place of Friar Salvador to decide the security of this city,” Infante said. “That is my job. I am sure, Friar, you would take equal offence if I was to start leading us in prayer.” There was a good deal of chortling at this remark. I was appalled by Losada’s lack of control. What was going on? Why did Losada accept such a tone from his subordinate? “Friar Salvador, please tell us why are you so sure they are seeking peace and not our demise?” Losada said. “I told you. Their morale has been shattered. I can assure you they are convinced they cannot win. They want to secure the survival of their people. Some have opted for peace. Others are staying away.” “Where? Away where?” “I told you I didn’t come here to lead you to their villages. I couldn’t if I wanted to. I don’t know where they are.” “But you know their language, I presume,” Infante intervened. “I do.” “I, in the captain’s boots,” Infante said, turning to the others, “would interrogate the caciques with Friar Salvador’s aid to secure the safety of the people in the city.” A murmur of approval spread among the onlookers. “I will do as I must, don Infante,” answered Losada, indicating his leniency for insubordination still had its limits. I didn’t like Infante’s obsequious tone or Losada’s conciliation to it. There was something going on between the two. “We are sure you will, don Diego,” Infante conceded. “Our lives are in your hands.” Infante bowed and the others followed. It was mockery rather than respect. This bode ill. I left Losada disappointed and afraid. Not one day among the Spaniards, and already I smelled unshed blood.
Leader from Western Libya In general, Alexandria liked the Prince from Western Libya Aristomenis, the son of Menelaos, who stayed there for ten days. Like his name, his attire is fittingly Greek. He gladly accepted the honours, but he did not seek them; he was modest. He bought Greek books, mainly historical and philosophical. Above all, he was a man of few words. He was profound in his thoughts, people said, and for such men, it is natural not to talk a lot. But he was neither deep in his thoughts nor anything else. Just an ordinary, funny man. He took a Greek name, dressed like the Greeks, he learned how to behave like a Greek, more or less, and his soul trembled as if he would to ruin the somewhat good impression he made by speaking Greek with a few barbarisms, and the Alexandrians would make fun of him, as it is their habit, those awful people. For this reason, he restricted himself to a few words, being careful with the conjunctions and pronunciation, and he was so terribly bored having all those unspoken words piled up inside him.
Letter Thought of writing you a letter to say that I loved you but soon I recalled people don’t write letters anymore and grabbing the mobile phone I texted that I wanted to see your playful eyes when you turned on your phone and you appeared on the screen with your laughing eyes and you laughed, and laughed and said that I was a student of the old school and I agreed and sent a kiss to you from the other side of the planet
With the help of the two constables they placed the body in a plastic bag and carried it to their car. Soon they drove away to the lab. The two constables left in their cruiser after Ron promised to come back next day for a more detailed examination. They still had to find the knife in question. Soon as they left Sister Gladys with the help of Mary cleaned up the floor off the blood stains. Father Jerome advised everyone to go and lie down it was a very hectic day full of sadness and the unexpected passing of Father Thomas at the hands of a brute. George the cook reached Anton’s house in five minutes of a fast walk. Not wanting to risk waking up Anton’s parents he walked to the back and knocked at the basement door. Anton opened. He looked at the cook with surprise written on his eyes. The cook walked inside and in one breath, as if he had recanted in his mind the whole sentence many times he informed Anton about Father Thomas’ killing and who the killer was and where he along with his sister were this very moment. Anton was dumbfounded. He knew the youth, Marcus, would someday take revenge on the misfortunes and abuses him and his sister suffered under the rules of the Residential School, however he didn’t expected it to happen so soon. George told him the youth had thrown the knife he took from George’s kitchen in the water of Thompson River and asked what they could do for the two youths. Anton didn’t know what to do and looking at George he realized he didn’t have a clue either. Then as if an epiphany struck Anton he said, “Let’s go; I know where to take them,” and with that they both got in Anton’s truck and drove back to George’s place. They found the two youths who looked scared and cold.
‘Oh I’m in for the long haul, Caitlin. I’ve signed up for twenty-five years. Army life suits me.’ ‘You won’t go back to the fishing then?’ ‘No,’ Tom replied. ‘The Drumard Maid, your father’s old boat, the one my father bought, she has long since gone. Sold for scrap and probably did her bit for the war effort. No, I’m going to stay in the army.’ Then he turned to his companion. ‘Do you remember Gerard Sweeney, Caitlin? I know you do, Seamus.’ ‘I don’t know if I would have recognised you, Gerard,’ Caitlin declared. ‘You’ve been in America a long time.’ ‘Not too long,’ said Gerard. ‘Ten years. I was eighteen. Finbar got the farm, and I got sent out to the colonies.’ ‘Better not let any Yank hear you say that,’ Seamus warned light-heartedly. ‘You wanted to go to America, if I remember rightly.’ ‘Best decision I ever made, Seamus. I love it out there. Married a beautiful woman. I’ve a son aged six and a daughter aged four, a house, a car, a good job when I go back. I’m one lucky guy.’ ‘Gerard likes that chick that Michael’s dancing with,’ Tom said. ‘He wants an introduction.’ ‘You’re married, Gerard Sweeney,’ Caitlin scolded mockingly. ‘And so is she.’ ‘And she’s here with her husband,’ Seamus added. Tom slapped his friend on the back. ‘Too bad, Gerry, old sod. You’ll have to wait till you’re back in California.’ ‘Lots of time, Tommy, my bold soldier laddie,’ Gerard said. ‘As Caitlin has pointed out, this party could go on all night, and what chick can resist a man in uniform?’ ‘You’re a reprobate, Gerard Sweeney.’ Tom looked at Caitlin. ‘Don’t listen to him, Caitlin. He’s big-headed like most Yanks. They think they’re God’s gift to humanity.’ Tom paused to pull a swig from his bottle of beer. ‘Well, we just came over to say hello. I’ll call up to the house, Caitlin, before I leave. Have a chat with you and Michael, if he ever let’s go of that girl. And I want to see Nora as well.’ ‘She’ll be happy to see you, Tom. And bring Gerard with you.’ ‘I don’t know if I should introduce Gerry to Nora. She’s much too pretty.’ ‘She’s married too, Tom. Remember.’
Perfect Day It wasn’t the seashore of Salonica during the daybreak so cleanly washed by the hues of the rain nor the sea hoarse, violent, wild lion with blue flames, it wasn’t the benches in rows with the fatty loneliness of their emptiness, it was that last night I dreamed perhaps for once for the first time, first time death you entered my body behind my soul under the mouths of the body, you entered me and stayed.
Jetstream Look at the jet stream I pointed to the sky, among the clouds, a teardrop falling on thirsty soil to absolve death. The smooth bark of the slender palm tree that shivers to annul Hades rough leaf cut-offs turned into eternity over the gravestone’s time. Why do you say this? Because the poet’s glance observes the curvaceous body of the server with her red minimal thong and the airplane-mosquito with the enormous dream of the passenger resting in the seat twenty-four alpha
Burning Bush Lighthouse that you write letters on the immenseness on every wounded who dreams eyelid that flickers in the night in the wrinkles of fear, you send reflections whirling star and daydream of the horizon guard of the rocks hopeless Aegeus lover of white sails what could you be at the lakeshore of a foreign land without the knowledge of the closing wave that never reaches but changes the world without changing anything a wise book of immenseness the illusion of each day starts in the mind and each day includes invisible versions of all complete beings shivering soul of the bright galaxy what could you be in a world filled with certainty and smooth concepts?
I Logos in absentia while in the stained soil, all earthworms burrow toward the west, trickling anger undresses the magnolias when human nakedness like a yellow dandelion slowly treads down the road steady pace on its sacred path to the clothes factory where it randomly selects fabrics ethereal designs divine colours and dresses itself in softened satin and black velvet. What then of all waterholes and all the thirsty sparrows? Nakedness emerges in phony light, comes out in flashing fashion smooth as the knife’s sharpened edge gleaming like fire from a hungry pistol. Human nakedness is fully clothed externally glowing yet, unbearably naked.
Manolis Aligizakis 