Forlorn Forlornness on the glassy face of the northern lake where the loon flaps its wings once, twice, thrice and flies toward the source of light; the skipping stone in the opposite fashion flies back to its source: the open hand of the boy. Flapping, skipping, the movement of air, ethereal like your body, my beloved, curves and caves I’ve caressed and enjoyed — The gutters need to be cleaned before autumn. Are you listening to me? Open palms bestowing love, small begonias, fern roots by the lake shore, sun rays ripple on the surface, waking the owl on the tall conifer, wisdom in creative motion —Eating two servings of ice cream will make you fat Your death echoes onto the shadow of the aspen outlined on the green forest floor, and all movement is momentarily suspended like my dream — Stop spending your time with the computer. Do come here next to me A bad omen becomes reality, and the loon turns back to the water, wings flap backward, and the skipping stone keeps skipping until it dives deep in its watery purpose, like my heart in the darkness of your absence —You know, we could look for another set of furniture for the living room
That day we were all busy: the burial, the inheritance; however in each home where one dies a suddenly grown child stands at the top of the stairs and looks around awkwardly as if he has to restore something; no one of course paid attention to him and only the strange woman smiled at him as she placed the flowers inside the mysterious shadow where perhaps we had forever remained and I remembered the room with the echo of gas when they hurriedly brought me in a child bloodied by the wheels of the car, the same woman had come in almost unnoticed and then my eyes fell on the window where the curtains were in attention as if they also had to endure this.
And here came female gypsies wearing celebratory, colourful dresses off which they had hung colourful, big, shiny beads, female gypsies with their red dresses came and with their yellow scarves, oh lustful eyes oh, bosoms, oh lips! And they came crowned with flowers, tambourines and belts which they play as they dance creating circles and singing of May and among them one appears the special one, an eighteen year old who swings and bends and dances ready to fly in the air a maniac’s dance from the queen of dance with the lustful body the young enticing gypsy the girl the great enchantress. Female gypsies came who sing: here comes May and the spring, here the summer comes when the foreigner wanting to return to his land puts the saddle on his horse the golden horseshoes with the silver nails and you oh cursed gypsies who don’t have a motherland, no land awaits for you, only this month of May awaits for you, the emperor May is calling you; come gypsies from the West and gypsies from the East the month of May the festive calls you to the three day festival to the festival of gypsy life. And from the Kakava boiling legumes, bitter, and harsh, and sickly food, a little water from the spring, bring some honey and some milk, mix them with water, and bring some old
Riddle We have nothing left only the passion of Eros and vague names incised on our sculptured gravestones a lone ray over the futile void that shines on your breast momentary lightning that attracts my glance and you asked is there any meaning to all this as we grope in darkness to discover it or is the loneliness of our bodies our only refuge?
“I’ll remember that.” “Even if you or Talal need something, you call Bevan. If he calls and wants to meet you, find the time for him, find anything he needs. Don’t hesitate to do what is right.” “Yes, my uncle. I won’t forget.” The time comes for Ibrahim and the two guards to get to their gate for departure. Ibrahim hugs and kisses his nephew. “You have a safe and pleasant trip, my uncle. My kisses to Mara.” “Thank you, my dear son. See you in Iraq, soon.”
Emily Roberts has been busy making arrangements for Matthew’s funeral scheduled for Friday. She calls relatives, friends, Bevan Longhorn, of course, who assures her he’ll be there not only for the funeral but because he also has something to give her. She sends e-mails to a few people. She calls Cathy and asks for her help in preparing food for people who might like to go to the house after the service. Cathy knows what is necessary and gives Emily a list of what things need to be prepared or ordered from a caterer. Talal has stayed with her three nights in a row, keeping her company, and sharing with her the pleasure of talk, of kiss and of a hug, which she needsmore than anything else these days. They have been in bed next to one another for three days and nights and haven’t made love yet. They talk a lot, the conversation going several times to the underwater photography idea of hers, and Talal reminds her all the time how pretty the water is in the Persian Gulf and how many different species of marine life one can see there. Tuesday morning and they are having breakfast, fruit, coffee, two and brown bread with strawberry jam. Talal sips his coffee and smiles at her. “Feeling a bit better today, sweetheart?” “I’m good, my sweet Talal,” she smiles a brilliant smile. “Well, a few more days and everything will be behind us.” She smiles at him again, leans forward and kisses his lips, while wondering at the same time if everything really will be behind them soon. Are they going to become a memory? What happens if he decides to go away to his country? What is she going to do? Will he ask her to go with him? As if reading her thoughts, Talal says, “Next year, early next year better yet, we’ll take a short trip.What about that, my sweet Emily?” “Where do you want to go, Talal?” Emily asks, anticipating his answer. “How about if we go to my country for a couple of weeks.
A shadow blotted the April sun for a moment, and Sister Margaret came busting across the schoolyard. “Stop that, Samuel,” she yelled. “Don’t you know better than to pick on someone twice your size?” Alexander made a face that looked appropriately put upon. My heart was fluttering and jumping around like a shot squirrel inside me, and the words came out in a silly rush. “It’s not Sammy, Sister, it’s Alex, he beat up Skinhead and kicked Samuel’s foot and Sammy didn’t even hit him.” I took a gulp of air. “Yet,” I finished, hopeful that we might still get to see a pint-sized version of Primo Carnera and the Brown Bomber re-enacted on almost holy ground. Sister Margaret surveyed the schoolyard and when she saw all those little heads nodding in agreement, she said, “Oh, Zander. Big Bully rides again, eh? I heard about you, boy. What do you have to say for yourself?” Alexander was pinned to the fence. He decided to roar. “He’s the bully. He won’t fight fair.” Sammy laughed. Pushed the leg a little higher. “Apologize like a nice moron, Alex.” he said. “Tell Skinhead how sorry you are.” Alexander kicked hard, his face all twisted and then he glowered at Sister Margaret and made a big mistake. A litany of obscene street talk jumped out between loose lips. We all stood there with our mouths open. Sammy, however, took Zander’s words as a personal insult. He dropped the giant’s boot and stepped back, his legendary left arm coiled, his fist so tight you could see the white knuckles under his dusky skin. When Sister Margaret put her hand on Sammy’s shoulder he looked up at her with a kind of confused puppy love. “It’s not your fight, Samuel,” she said. Sammy smiled and stepped aside. Alexander didn’t know what was about to happen, so he indulged himself in some more bad language. Something about how nuns have to have their tits cut off because Jesus is too faggoty to marry a real broad. Sister got that look in her eyes. And she was smiling her Railroad Avenue leather-jacketed smile. Then she slapped the Giant. Not hard, just like a kind of introduction. He looked insulted, like he was going to go home and tell his Mommy. Then he lunged at her and she clipped him a good short right. It rocked him, no lie, but he kept coming. He took a left hook on the ear and grabbed the rope of holy
Virtue For those who’ll follow I took two bales of shredded paper and covered their footprints; the divided element of matter mattered too: a husk, a kernel, a lump of dirt dry and soft like our guilt that was too strong when the doorbell rang, my dead cousin got up and went to let Him in, the elated one, our wildest dream, the deathless dreamer, our flesh avenger, the angel with a sword in His right hand and with our future misery in His left when He laughed uncontrollably: the Eraser of our fear, of our fear littleness and humanness, our most profound dignity our Übermensch. I like those who love their virtue which is their wish for self-destruction and the arrow of longing.
But those same powers—satanic or divine, according to opinions prevailing from time immemorial—held her in their grip and demanded annual or even more frequent submission ever since. Her epileptic seizures were a constantly gnawing concern to Liam while Nora was his pupil and a cause of fright, excitement and storytelling among the other children in the school. Dr Alexander had declared that the fits were simply the result of some slight brain damage that Nora had suffered when she was born and that they were nothing to be alarmed about. More malicious tongues blamed the incompetence of the still unqualified medical student, Clifford Hamilton, who had been called against his will to perform a placenta previa delivery by Caesarean section on a wild, wet winter night when no other doctor was available. Local people said that he should never have been summoned that night to take control of such a difficult delivery. Dr Alexander, the current Corrymore doctor, admitted the possibility that someone more experienced than Clifford Hamilton might have handled the birth with greater proficiency but he added that the delivery was a difficult one in any case, and no one could guarantee that a more experienced doctor would in fact have done any better. To this day Dr Alexander commended Clifford for what he did under such testing circumstances. ‘If there is any brain damage,’ Dr Alexander often said, ‘it is obviously very slight and will not do the child any harm. You can see she is a budding genius already.’ ҂ Nora bore her handicap with a fortitude unexpected in a girl so young, so insecure, so vulnerable, and for this Liam admired her. He took it upon himself to give this quick, intelligent girl, stumbling even at the start of her journey into womanhood, more than ordinary care. He could not resist the mute appeal for sympathy, for help, for encouragement that precocious pride had silenced in the darkness of her eyes. He could not resist the serious determination of the unformed scholar to escape from that strangely disturbed and disturbing mentality. He could see instinctively the intelligence that hid within that young but tortured mind as the sculptor saw the future form within the blank whiteness of his ivory or his marble. Patiently Liam worked upon it, chiselling away slowly and watching the chips of ignorance and childish superstition fall away upon the schoolroom floor. All of Liam’s pupils were output shaped from blocks of stone or clods of clay or challenging curves of ivory. Passionately devoted to his art, Liam was happiest in the theatre of his creations.
A numbing chill crept up my legs. Something warm wet my backside. It must have been the pain that made me lose consciousness, because afterwards it became apparent the arrow had not gone deep. It had been stopped by the bone inmyshoulder. The last thing I remembered was seeing Apacuana running towards me.
“Apacuana! Apacuana!” It had to be a dream. A strange girl’s voice startled me back into consciousness. I was lying on the ground. I kept still with my eyes closed, drifting back into sleep, when I heard Apacuana’s voice much closer to me, answering back. Merciful heaven! What was going on? A sharp pain shot from my neck to my shoulder, reminding me that I had nearly been killed by stampeding horses and an arrow. I turned my head gingerly. My head slid over the polished surface of the big leaves upon which I lay—plantain leaves. I unglued my eyelids and looked around me. What was this place? A cave? The dirt floor was damp and cool, the air musty with a slight pungency. I glanced in the direction of two young women who were talking fast. I could see their figures silhouetted against the bright light of the entrance. I gathered that the other girl was urging Apacuana to go with her. The word Baruta came through several times, always accompanied by a certain apprehension in their manner. Apacuana was holding a small gourd, which she handed to the girl while signalling in my direction. The other girl glanced at me apprehensively, but her eyes sparkled when she discovered I was awake. Apacuana left the cave, crawling through the opening. The other girl, whose voice I had heard first, came towards me, gourd in hand. She knelt beside me and stirred the gourd’s contents, her young breasts pointing downward as though weighted by the many loops of the seed necklace she wore.
Altar He walked to the front part of the altar made the sign of the cross with his three fingers blessed the congregation, hymned the usual words, eyes raised up towards the sky. He was talking to the Lord through His direct link to Him, secure undoubted link, well protected, safeguarded, anti-hacking established, anti-virus software installed on his device, the priest’s wondering eyes ran over the space before he relaxed himself thinking that the Lord always protected His most pious, yet were there any soul protections taken or he would end up, quite unexpectedly indeed, in the arms of the unerring Thanatos, shit, he thought there aren’t such things as insurance established for the fools such as him who had also followed the life path of a donkey: he grew up, got a job, paid his dues and he also procreated just like the four-legged donkeys.
Manolis Aligizakis 