We locked the big pieces of furniture in the lower floor, same with the heavy carpets and the velvet or silk curtains, tablecloths, embroidered little napkins, crystals, dinnerware, and big silver trays which once reflected the huge face of hospitality, blankets and silk beddings, whites, woollen clothes, purses, the overcoats and the dead’s too, all mixed up: gloves, laces and ostrich feathers from mother’s hats, the piano, guitars, flutes, drums, and wooden horses and dolls from our childhood years, our father’s official uniforms and the first long pants of our brother, or the ivory case with the blonde locks of our little brother, the gold-plated knife, horse riding uniforms, back-sacks and heavy capes, all together without mothballs, or lavender twigs in tulle bags.
It’s not the memory of executed friends that rips my viscera; it’s the lament for the thousands of unknown men who left their blinded eyes for the talons of birds, those who held tightly a handful of empty shells and thorns in their frozen palms; for the unknown passersby to whom we never talked, those we only gazed at for a moment when they helped light our cigarette in the twilight path; for the thousand unknown friends who gave their lives for me.
Scriber Hours have turned pale and he’s found stooped over the unthankful table. The sun slides in through the open window and plays onto the opposite wall folding my chest I search for my breath in the dust of my papers. A thousand sounds life vibrates sweetly in the freedom of the street I’m exhausted, my eyes and mind are blurry yet I still write. I know of two sunlit lilies in a vase next to me as if they’ve sprung up from a grave.
the idea of us going so we can check on how Ibrahim is doing. Hakim is afraid the old man may get sick and not tell him until too late.” Emily sits next to him and hugs him. She kisses his lips and feels all warmed up. “For a while, I thought Hakim makes all your decisions for you. I had it wrong; I’m sorry.” He laughs, stretches his arms and hugs her; his hands caress her hot body. He’s in a great mood. “It’s exactly the opposite, my love. He’s the one who always asks for my advice. Don’t forget Uncle Ibrahim relies on me to make sure Hakim is safe and secure in whatever he does here.” “You mean you keep an eye on him, like spying?” “Not spying, sweetheart. I keep an eye on him to make sure he’s alright. There is a difference between the two,” he answers, as his hand goes deep between her legs. She turns her head and kisses him again while, at the same time, she makes herself more available by opening her legs a bit; he takes the opportunity to slide his fingers over her and feels her hair. She goes wild with his touch; her breathing becomes faster. “In other words, you play the role of guardian angel?” “Yes, sweet Emily.”
Tuesday morning as Peter Bradshaw gets to the office and notices hardly any of the other staff are in. He turns the coffeemaker on in the lunchroom and as he waits for the coffee to brew, he hears another person come in. He sees Lorne walking to his office. A couple of minutes later, Lorne comes into the lunchroom, looking for fresh coffee. “Good morning, Peter.” “Good morning, Lorne.” “How is it going? I saw you guys yesterday coming back from lunch; do you go for lunch together often?” “We go sometimes.” “Anything I should know, Peter? Something I should be concerned about?” he asks. Peter understands that Lorne has his suspicions, but he certainly wouldn’t know what happened yesterday. “Nothing to be concerned with Lorne; we talked about everyday things, nothing important.” “Okay, then,” says Lorne, and then he adds, “If something I should be concerned with comes up, will you tell me, Peter?”
Manolis Aligizakis 