…and the green pastures were faraway along with the flowering villages and when each quietened down in the embrace of the other, from the groan of the camel to the prayer of the muezzin, when everything was left behind, the thin skinned ascetic and the slow passing of the caravan that left behind a sweet lengthened harmony and the echo of colours and shadows of female travellers with undulating breasts, half covered women with black eyes and servants who followed helped by their canes, tireless women and the patriarch life that each evening turned more holy and blissful of which voyagers sang with their tired voices. And when he was left without the company of passing wild horses chased by the simoon in the sunlit paths, the Tearless felt a strange pain in his viscera, the Ghost of thirst that tyrannized him.
It Was a Beautiful Night The beautiful night reflected in your eyes and in your songs, that sweet night in your old songs night full of stars, exotic night. The only love in your loneliness so beautiful so evocative became passion in your heart in the loneliness of your heart. Ah, your old songs which sobbed ineffably sweet modestly hid they talked of it. Ah, your old songs sad like secrets of love like sad silent flowers.
Pendulum Soft murmur pendulating between the tip of the last leaf and the brown earth, ambivalent desire for a fall or stand against October’s hoarfrost and the insatiable yearning for Death in the heart of autumnal chiaroscuro cloud witnessing the sequence between ambivalence and fate say, let the cicada’s exoskeleton on the olive tree trunk ready to be blown away like most leftover cadavers chanting a hymn or Gloria substituting elegy sung by the mother of the dead poet what one can say about the unheard whistling out of her perfectly contoured lips and what one can say about his graceful ride on top of golden mares and what one can say about Eros standing firmly between the lips of the Kore and the blushing breeze when the poet throws his love to the four corners of the Earth, thus defining his borders which Death cannot defile? Just frost is left and the shock of rose petals waking up to November’s thirst for their blood say, make haste to the fireplace and let winter write notes about darkness April always returns triumphant
It snowed during the night, a good two inches which prompted Cam to say when he came down to breakfast, “Is our skating party off then? The lake will be covered with snow.” “Heck, no.” Jeremy slapped butter onto his toast and glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall. “Some of the guys’ll be out there already clearing it off. We’d better hurry up and go help them.” “Really?” Cam pulled a chair out from the table and sat down. “What do you clear the ice with?” “We put our skates on and push homemade snow ploughs along the ice. Someone usually comes with a tractor and pushes the snow to the side of the lake.” Jeremy helped himself to another dollop of butter. Tyne reached across the table and slapped her brother’s hand. “Enough,” she scolded, thinking she sounded very much like their dad. More gently she said, “You already have more butter than you need on one slice of toast. Leave some for Cam.” Cam grinned as he stirred his coffee. “Leave him alone, big sister. He’s a growing boy.” And one who’s used to having butter only when we have company, Tyne thought. Usually, they had margarine which, until recently, had been purchased in white unappetizing blocks that had to be mixed with a capsule of orange colouring. Cam, she was sure, would have no knowledge of such things. Nor would Morley, of course, since he had always lived on the farm and had fresh cream and butter year round. Why does Morley always have to come to mind, even for the most mundane things? I’m sure he never thinks about me. They finished their breakfast and the young men went to their rooms to change into their outdoor clothes. As Tyne began to clear the table, her mother appeared at the pantry door, carrying a wicker picnic basket. “Leave the dishes, Tyne, and run along. I’ve packed you a little lunch because I know you won’t think of coming home…
…was smashed on the back of a pew. As Liam approached, he saw Padraig’s body lying against the altar at the end of the chancel. With heart pounding from fear at the sight of the still body, Liam rushed to its side and knelt down. “Oh my God. Oh no. Not Father Padraig.” Liam stretched his trembling hand towards the prostrate body, but drew back. The blood on the chancel floor below Padraig’s head frightened him, as did the cuts and swelling bruises on the side of his face. Liam knew that two fingers placed somewhere on the neck could feel if the pulse was beating but he didn’t know where exactly. “Father Padraig,” he said, as if trying to rouse the priest from sleep. “Father Padraig.” He looked around helplessly, wishing that someone with more experience than he had would enter the church. Then he looked again at the inert, bloodied body of the priest. Padraig wasn’t moving; he didn’t appear to be breathing. “He’s dead. Oh my God, Father Padraig is dead.” Liam rose and ran outside. “Home, boy,” he shouted to the dog as he bounded down the steps. Followed by his old dog, Liam ran all the way to the main street of Corrymore. At the head of the street, the first house on the left was the home of Dr Starkey. Not only would the doctor be able to confirm if Padraig was alive or dead, his house had a telephone by which he could summon the police from Lisnaglass. Frantically Liam pounded on the door until a dishevelled Dr Starkey, wearing a plaid dressing gown, opened it. “Liam,” said the doctor in surprise. “What’s wrong? Is it your father?” Ciaran Dooley was known to have a bad heart. “No, it’s Father Padraig,” Liam replied. “I think he’s dead. I think he’s been murdered.” “Murdered?” cried the doctor. “Father Padraig? No. It can’t be.” “I’m afraid it may be so, Dr Starkey. Father Padraig is lying in a pool of blood in the church and he’s not breathing. The pulpit has been knocked over, and I don’t know what other vandalism might have been perpetrated. Can you telephone the RIC in Lisnaglass and then go and see to Father Padraig? If he’s alive he needs help urgently. But I fear he’s dead. Murdered in his own church.” Liam recalled the glimpse he had caught of the figure fleeing from the church. Could it really have been Michael Carrick? Yes, he was sure in his own mind that it was. But why would Michael do such a terrible thing? Liam troubled himself with questions as he walked down the still-deserted street to his home. Was it because Padraig was preparing Caitlin for the…
Emily cannot see where his eyes are looking, but she knows men well; they are all the same, most of the time. Yet, now a younger man with sad eyes has made her heart melt; this younger man has managed to make her feel like a young woman again. Talal is the man for Emily; Talal is her man and she’s willing to go anywhere he wants to go because she’s so much in love with him. Talal turns to her side and opens his eyes. Emily is on her back and the gardener walks to the other side of the grounds. Talal leans over and puts his hand on her. She squirms for a bit as his touch awakens her flesh to the warmth of his palm. She turns her head to him, smiles, and says, “You are awake; for a while you looked like you were asleep.” “What a beautiful, warm day; pity we have to go and leave it behind,” Talal says. “I know. Back home, right now it’s getting colder.” “Well, we can always hope to come back here some time soon; what would you think of that, my love?” Silence falls between them for a few moments. Emily feels the warmth of the sun on her back and sees the brightness all around; the birds are very busy singing in the beautifully kept yard. These are all things she would like to have around all the time, and her answer comes at the right time. “I would love to come back here sometime soon, honey.” “What if we stayed here for a longer time next time, sweet Emily?” “I would love to come here with you, my love, and stay as long as you like; a week, a month, two months, however long.” He smiles back at her; he leans closer and kisses her lips softy. “Do you mean you could go wherever, as long as we were together?” he whispers to her. “Yes, I could, my sweet Talal,” she says, kissing him. The rest of the day goes by in peace and serenity and sunshine. They have a light lunch with Ibrahim and Mara and later in the afternoon come back and sit to enjoy the warmth of the sun a little longer before getting ready for the party. Ibrahim and Mara take their customary siesta for an hour. Then they get involved with the last preparations for the party; they want everything to be perfect for when the guests start arriving. Rassan is the busiest person of all. He has to coordinate the shopping, the extra cooks hired for the night, the servers, the coat-check people, and everybody else who will help make the party flow smoothly. He enjoys doing all this, and since he has been with Ibrahim and Mara for a long time, knows exactly what they want and what is expected of him. He never disappoints them.
It was a big day for them. With over sixty riders in their class, the competition would be tough. After all, it was the best of the best. Joel and Tanya both knew that the name of the game here was to score in the top twenty and advance to the finals tomorrow night. But as they say, it really is one day at a time, and in this case, one run at a time. With that in mind, both Tanya and Joel saddled up and headed to the warm-up arena, knowing that this is what it was all about for them. This is where it could all come to an end if they didn’t get the best they could from themselves and their horses. Both of the horses showed exceptionally well. Joel got a solid run from the buckskin and scored a total of 216 from three judges, which put him in fifteenth place and qualified him for the finals. There actually were five judges rating each performance, but the scoring system threw out the high and low score and used the scores of the remaining three. Joel was pleased with his performance. His nerves had cost him at least two points, and if he could leave his nervousness behind, he could do better in the finals. Tanya did even better. Winning the hearts of the crowd on the pretty palomino, she put together one of the best runs of the day with a combined score of 225, which was only beat by her new friend Cody. Joel had felt real proud as he watched the amazing Tanya ride the palomino with a skill and competence that he knew he could never match.
Blood Most people don’t understand whether the sun rises from behind the mountain or is shot out of the pistol’s barrel it always burns you. For this so many of our dreams remained unrealized inexplicably happiness was laid in the display window of the department store and loneliness was again eulogized in churches, while as the years went by him, the one with the severed arm, kept on other people’s discolored walls, truth always decorates the cement, one word written with fiery red letters: blood, blood, blood.
Mixing complacency with self-confidence hysteria with passion he won nothing in his involvement with people. Only a repetition of methods and ultimately worn out words that simply fooled him to believe that he existed beyond the motionless appearance of his shapes.
…and ailing mother before she’d let her last breath go up in the air of a stifling hospital room, in old wrinkled bed-sheets, white and pure as the fire of Purgatory, cleansing, purifying, absolving all sins, and others had to go to the front line of defence in one border, there where the souls try to find a single justification for the lunacy that harasses people when they firstly grab the rifle and shoot and then they think that perhaps they should talk to those infidels on the other side of the border, yet these were the moronic ways people did things these days and these were all within the parameters and conditions of life in a big country like Spain and in a big city like Madrid while this afternoon I and my wife were sitting on the sidewalk table of this small cafe where we had a bite and enjoyed our regular glass of beer for me and a regular glass of red wine for my wife when I raised my eyes and stared at the grandiose Atocha which brought to my mind that blonde woman yesterday, on our way from Valencia, the pretty blonde woman sitting opposite me and my wife, that pretty blonde who constantly had her feet between mine and occasionally moved one of them against mine, as if to tell me she was here and somehow she had to count as an important part of my day to which I paid attention as the opportunity allowed me and as if not to disturb the peaceful afternoon while we were travelling at the speed of 310 kilometers an hour on the famous high velocity AVLO train of the big RENFE Spanish train company. Then the unexpected occurred when the ancient Minoan goddess appeared, Ariadne incarnate, with her black curly hair falling lower than her shoulders, with her dark skin complexion, the olive oil skin complexion, with her black eyes and full lips which suddenly gave me goosebumps, she appeared from the right of my wife and walking in the most sensual way she made her way to the table just three meters in front of me and on my line of vision towards the Atocha Train Station; this woman of average height, well lined body, obviously a body that had experienced all the possible erotic pleasures from the soft and delivering to the rough and wild apexes, from the slow and long moments enduring consummations to the fast and fiery encounters which leave nothing but exquisite delight to every inch of a woman’s…
Manolis Aligizakis 