Coal When the sun was scorching all earth dwellings the voice of the coal seller was heard, a sweaty man promoting his black merchandise, his treasure trove for people’s heaters, coal made of olive tree wood, good heating coal some bought while the sun up on the horizon smiled ironically for coal seller who at the end of summer had brought the cold in people’s minds and the wine flask and the chestnuts on top of the burning stove, thoughtful villagers taking care of their winter needs justified the coal seller, who in the summertime, sweaty and tired as he was selling his black merchandise to the wise villagers concerned with the cold days and nights of winter and you said, he too had tied an anchor around his ankle like a donkey fastened onto his predestined space-time.
Picking up a dry twig, she started to draw lines and figures in the dirt around her. Her childhood did not seem as far away now as it had just last week. Maybe Lyssa was right, maybe she was still a baby, and maybe she needed to grow up. But if growing up meant going out with guys and drinking and making out in the back seat of a car like Lyssa did … well, did she really want to? Rachael had overheard a group of girls from her church talking in the school corridor. She had been about to close her locker door and go over to join them when Julia spoke in a voice that carried further than she probably realized. “Well, I don’t think she should be hanging around with her cousin so much. Everyone in school knows that Lyssa’s fast.” Rachael knew they were referring to her and her cousin. Who else would they be talking about? Fast? What exactly did that mean? She wished there was someone she could ask. She could hardly broach the subject with Lyssa, her closest confident. She’d like to ask her mom, but then she would have to reveal what she’d heard, and that would only add to her parents’ already poor opinion of Lyssa. Maybe she should ask Ronnie; he wouldn’t squeal on her even if he guessed the reason for her asking. She heard a sudden thump on the wooden bridge. Looking up she saw Tim Buckley striding in his lumbering gait from his side of the stream. She sat up straight and waited until he was within hailing distance. “Hi, Timmy. Whatja doin’?” “Lo, Rachael.” He grinned as he lowered his large frame to the ground beside her. His big face registered delight as he looked at her then shifted his gaze to her schoolbag. “Comin’ home from school? Whatya doin’ here then?” Rachael shrugged and looked across the creek where two crows danced among the debris from fallen branches. “Just thinking.” “Yeah? I think all the time.” She turned to look at him, smiling at his boyish naivety. “What about, Timmy?”
I had a good bite of my sandwich, turned the food in my mouth and chewed slowly while I stared at the beautiful Goddess who was observing me and after I slowly chewed and swallowed my food while she was chewing hers and while my wife was sipping her red wine, I sent towards the Minoan beauty a kiss with an imperceptible movement of my lips to which the Minoan Goddess reciprocated with an even sweeter kiss sent my way and the pact of the day was sealed, the beauty the up to now dull day had changed into, brought back my thoughts about the travellers in the Atocha train station in the bowels of which thousands of people go through, like that blonde traveller I met yesterday, who played footsies with me and who would probably was with her lover, yes at this moment in time, in this big city of Madrid, she was surely enjoying the body of her husband, or lover, or Lesbian partner, while the Minoan beauty, who had just finished paying her waitress, got up and walking towards us and quite unexpectedly she faced my wife and asked, “visitors?” to which my wife said “yes”, “Having a good time in Madrid?” “Yes,” my wife said, “how long have you been here?”, “a week, but we go home tomorrow” my wife added, “have a great time and safe travels back home…by the way where is home?”, the Minoan beauty asked, “Vancouver, in Canada,” my wife said, “well enjoy your stay in Spain” the young woman added, to which my wife and I said in unison, “thank you” and the Minoan beauty turned and walked away showing us the calligraphy of her buttocks, knowing well that I’d make sure I’d pay attention to them as I paid attention to the unimaginable images she graced me with, images that surely I’ll keep in my mind for the rest of my life.
He wrapped the scroll again and made a cup out of it, lowered it in the water well and fetched some water and his thirst he quenched. Again he rode up his horse that took him away to a faraway land next to rivers and lakes a country with many castles that shone in the sun and threatened the wide open skies; there, he told his horse to stop.
B Dance of the water with kerchiefs of myrtle and the green steps of the forest erased the marble letters of graves and the lines of Fate in our hands these and wheat ears as they shoot to the gleam of gold mines and fountains laying their hair onto the feet of the morning vesper and the hymns of free from fire skylarks
He didn’t touch anything for three long days, not even water. Doctors spoke of general denial. Lying on his bed, white already like dead, with crossed arms, speechless, with clenched teeth. On the fourth day, he got up, like a ghost, with large eyes, fixated on a point, not scared eyes, rather brotherly and impenetrable; he drank a whole glass of water, wiped his lips and talked to us with a very distant voice yet in a manner clearly informative and impersonal. From time to time, he made an imperceptible gesture as if he was straightening a fine fabric on his knee, a woman’s handkerchief. This movement of his had a strange tenderness, totally different from the tone of his voice.
The atmosphere on the airplane was like the aftermath of a party gone wrong—at which the host had done something embarrassing or insulted esteemed guests. He or she is mortified but defiant, and secretly the other guests have enjoyed the spectacle while publicly shaking their heads and frowning. As the victim of a wrong, Professor Chopyk refused to meet Jennifer’s gaze as she and Volodya shuffled down the aisle to their seats, a few rows removed from the others. It was just as well because she could barely contain her sense of relief at the moment. She was as mortified as the embarrassed host for having drawn so many people into this conspiracy, but she couldn’t help feeling jubilant that it had turned out so well. Just Canada Customs left to hurdle—and that would be far easier. Lona arrived next and settled by the window with a magazine on her lap, looking smug and ignoring them. David was grinning from ear to ear, visibly relieved. Ted appeared nervous and uncomfortable. Hank winked. The twins were oblivious as usual. Maria, just one row over in an aisle seat, gave Jennifer and Volodya the thumbs up. No matter, they had done it—left the Soviet Union. Volodya would be free. She pictured him in Canada listening to live gospel music for the first time—an expression of awe and gratitude on his face. In Vancouver, she would take him to the Hot Jazz Club, an after-hours dive off Broadway, or they would dance together on the sprung floor of the Commodore on a Saturday night. Somehow they would find work—she didn’t expect to be given much gainful employment in the Russian Department after this escapade was over. Maybe she would work in a nightclub—or write a novel and forget about Russia.
When the goddess Habit protects you it makes you bless each small lethargic vegetable since it makes your walk possible on a path without a goal without a starting point since to commence on a path you need to have a goal. The goddess Habit creates the dangerous balance over the everyday void and colors the empty sunsets purple as if by an amateur painter; it does everything with automatic movements that make the days easy and without any secret message. The goddess Habit even orders the breath in and out of the lungs when everything seems normal and only joy is missing. I got used to it, I say and I mean I forget in order to survive I forget the body that is wrapped in ideas and dreams. And behold, the dawn comes to crown my face, ravaged by time, with the miracle of life that the poor tongue can’t name with any other word but light. Yes, goddess Habit I believe in you and I serve you. You too, stay loyal to me until I get tired of you.
I stood at attention and smiled at the cloud’s serene passing over the firmament, and I delved in the meaningful depth of the eternal return, while the soul of man settled on the good and benevolent world and in the meaning of existence hidden in each phase of animate and inanimate life I smiled, and I meditated on my purpose on this Earth, and only one word appeared in front of my eyes, a diaphanous word that warmed my viscera and consciousness: arts the meaning of this word, and its transcendence, was the purposes of my life to excel, to overcome the mediocrity of daily affairs on my climb toward my destined Ithaca
New Day A long time has passed and no one asked me why the paths of loneliness lead everywhere when the dreams gain weight and becomes descending mass of neutrinos we are absent and grope on the presence to change into something deep and unapproachable like the light in the flash of a lightning bolt everything will take place a finger will turn the page behind many coiled realities hides the invisible history of the constant end rivers that flow into other rivers oceans, stoas of other oceans primeval souls climb from pages of books flashing onto the blossom of meanings the vibrating manifestation of the past and the insinuation of the present perhaps are the future’s interchanging plan so, we can reach here oaring in a bubble many inexperienced listening to silence.
Manolis Aligizakis 