Thematism Polyphonic symphony of blades of grass swaying across my mind human weakness: the post guarding two plains separating abundance encroaching into abysses of hatred fencing the freedom of the wind jester in Zeus’ court rebel, an atheist revering life amid trees mesmerized at the far away view of people building fences to divide the fence-less and with to respect for images free they cut and measure and build and die building plots over their stagnant void
He ran to the first aid clinic next door. “What’s going on?” he asked. “There’s been an accident on the road,” the medic said. “What sort of accident?” “A tractor-trailer jackknifed and went off the road.” “Anyone else involved?” “A pickup truck. There’s other help coming from town.” Ken’s skin crawled. He forced the bile in his throat back down into his gut and ran back to the lab, yelling through the door to John that he was going to check on Jessica and her family. He cranked up the truck, his heart pounding, an unnameable fear rising in his chest. He put his foot to the floor, the truck careening around potholes and over the rutted washboard road. About thirty miles down the road he saw the flashing lights. He pulled up, got out of the truck and ran to the RCMP car parked at the edge of the road. Below him, at the bottom of the embankment, amid the jagged broken-up pieces of the semi, the pickup burned. Shaking beyond control, Ken ran, stumbling and sliding down the steep slope. The young RCMP officer he had met previously was struggling back up toward him. He held up his hand. “Don’t go down there!” he shouted to Ken. Ken stumbled toward him. “Don’t go down there!” He yelled, again. The officer grabbed at Ken’s shirt. Ken spun away. “Is the pickup blue?” he shouted. “I don’t know.” The officer said. “How many people are in the truck?” “I don’t know.” “How many people in the god damned truck?” Ken screamed. “Three, I think.” “What do you mean, you think?” “Don’t go down there, the officer pleaded. “Please don’t go down there.” Ken ran down; tripped, fell, rolled, picked himself up and scrambled down. He stopped when he hit the wall of heat bursting from the truck. The flames were dying; the truck was gutted. But what he saw was a vision he would spend the rest of his life trying to erase from his mind – a scene that would come to him in nightmares over and over, until sleep meant nothing but reliving the carnage – pieces of charred bodies inside the truck – one of them still wearing a piece of fringed and beaded leather jacket. I have spent so much of my life trying to contain these feelings – to deal with these things. For a person of that age I had seen far too much death. I was born to it – born in it. Anyone looking at me – coming from the right side of the tracks, from a privileged family – anyone who would imagine the sort of life a person like that would have would be completely off the mark. So, I have to deal with these feelings very severely because I can’t make the pictures go away. They don’t go away.
Terrible Game where the thoughts grab it in their cruel power forceful twirling feelings throw it in the high then smashed it down in its mysterious depth in this terrible game the poem emerges
that he had truly learned how to cook. Jonathan and Logan cleaned up the table, took the dishes to the sink and rinsed them, and Alex loaded them in the dishwasher, while Eteo went to his office to make a few phone calls to inform more clients about the new Target Resources company and the shares he recommended for them. Meanwhile Jonathan sat down at the family room table and did some homework while Logan went out to meet his new flame, as he called his new girlfriend, and Alexander got busy with his play station.
Next day Eteo arrived in the office at 6:10, well before Helena, but almost as soon as he turned his computer on, Logan walked in. Herbert was not far behind, smiling and chuckling. “Let’s look at the opening orders” he said to Eteo and stood behind him. Eteo went to the page that showed the buying and selling orders for Platinum Properties. Pointing to two orders from Pacific Trends, he confirmed to Herbert that they were both his orders. “Could I buy a few more shares, Eteo, before these two orders?” “We bought you some yesterday morning, remember?” “Yes, I know, and here is my cheque, by the way.” Herbert handed Eteo a cheque for yesterday’s purchase and what he was planning to buy today. “For another 30,000 shares,” he explained. Eteo wrote the buying order and turned to his client. “I should go to the trading desk to instruct the head trader in person about who’s first and who’s second. I’ll be right back.” He needed to get to the trading desk quickly. It was almost time for the opening bell. By the time he got back to his office, trading had begun and a beaming Herbert had his extra 30,000 shares. With that, the always smiling investor walked out, though not before promising to keep Eteo in the loop. The rest of the morning unfolded like any other trading day. Eteo’s other orders were in line, and he steadily picked up more shares of Platinum Properties and allocated them to the six clients he had selected while keeping a steady eye on the price of the stock, which moved up slightly into the low forties.
Chapter Four Weary after her busy day, Tyne lay in bed, her new Bible propped open on her knees. Although her eyes were on the page in front of her, she was not reading. Too many images chased each other through her weary mind, and she could not exorcise them. One moment she saw Jeannette Aubert clutching her rosary; the next moment Adeline Koffer’s family intertwined with the image of old Mrs. Forsyth fighting for every breath beneath the oxygen mask that covered her nose and mouth. And, interposed between those pictures, the handsome face of Cameron Tournquist flashed unbidden and unwelcome. She had spoken to him for only a minute before leaving the ward at the end of her shift. Why should his face be almost constantly before her now? She recognized that her turbulent thoughts did not come only from Cameron or the patients on her ward. Her roommate, Carol Ann, was also having an unsettling effect on Tyne. She had seen again the distress in Curly’s eyes when the three girls met in their room shortly after three o’clock. When Maureen began to tease the curly-haired girl about her attachment to the operating room, Carol Ann answered her sharply and stormed out, slamming the door behind her. Maureen’s obvious hurt prompted Tyne to say gently, “Leave her alone, Moe. There’s something bothering her.” “Sorry.” Moe had looked repentant. “But I always thought she loved being kidded about the OR. I’ve never known her to react like that.”
If he pushed his face right into the window, he could just see the edge of the canal where Gennadi often waited for him to begin their sociable walk to work together. Gennadi was younger than Volodya, 22 years old to Volodya’s 31, and his taste in music was abominable, Vlad thought, but still, he was a friendly, loyal fellow and Volodya really needed support this morning. Their job was a dull one, though it required a certain amount of mechanical aptitude. The firm they worked for serviced automatic machines: the water vending machines located on every street corner and several other types that sold carbonated fruit juices. They replenished them, cleaned them, oiled them and fixed them when they broke down, which happened frequently. It was not the profession he would have chosen, nor why he had received such a comprehensive university education at the state’s expense. In fact, he loathed it. But he was thankful it was not an office job. At least this way, he moved around the city regularly, and it was easy to take an hour here and there for a break or to practice his music. As a job it moved along like a square wheel, and this is what had sparked his current problem with his commissar, a petty, stupid man with bad teeth, who would have him disciplined for breathing. Volodya cursed a little but not too loudly.Each day, he would arrive at work more or less on time, though his punctuality was always subject to the taunts of the administrative clerk, Ivana the Terrible as they called her, she who stamped their work orders and doled out their pitiful tools. After the morning check-in with officialdom, they were on their own. Sometimes he and Gennadi went out on foot together, sometimes they caught a lift to their destination in the service vehicle. That was why he suffered this miserable job. It was in that time, away from official eyes, that Volodya could indulge his passion for jazz music by visiting a musician friend who allowed him to use his piano. He had always been good at finding a piano when he needed one. He had been raised in Leningrad just after the war by his mother and his aunt, and the two women had denied him nothing. In a time of excruciating hardship, they made sure he had his share of toys, candy, as nutritious food as was available, and his own little bed in their tiny, grim apartment. They discerned that he was a musical child at an early age when he would drum and tap on the tabletop, his bed, anything that would make a percussive noise with interesting rhythms. They bought him a toy drum which he adored, though it nearly drove
with Hakim the next morning or early afternoon. The Admiral, who is also ready to go, stands up. Matthew escorts them to their limo, which has been parked in the street, and shakes hands with Ibrahim. “Thank you very much for coming over. I hope everything turns out well with your tests. I look forward to seeing you again soon.” Then turning to the Admiral, he adds, “I’ll see you Monday, Bevan. Thank you for coming over.” “See you on Monday, Matt. Thanks for everything.” Night arrives with her dark colors to replace the light of day and to inspire the poet’s stanzas once again. Helena wants to go; she has a few things to do before going out on Saturday night, and she wants Talal to take her home. Peter and Rose have already gone. Hakim would like to go as well; however, Jennifer keeps him for a while as her mom starts cleaning up from the party. Matthew is eager to talk to Emily again about Hakim and he can’t wait until everyone is gone. Talal has enjoyed the commotion of the party and exchanges looks with Emily, who is still in seventh heaven just having him around her all afternoon and evening. Talal sits next to Hakim for a while in the living room when Hakim says to him, “You won’t believe what my uncle told me.” “What?” “You know the company I work for. A year and a half ago he put up the money and we bought shares when the company did a small financing. The shares trade these days at more than ten times the investment. When I mentioned the value of the stock to him, he said I can do whatever I want with the money. He says all the money is mine. He wants me to keep it for myself.” Talal looks deep in Hakim’s eyes and says, “You don’t even know half of what Uncle Ibrahim has for you. I have a small number of the same shares and Ibrahim paid for them as well. How do you think I pay my bills without a job? I sell shares here and there to get by.” It’s not that Hakim has never thought of what would happen to Ibrahim’s money when he dies. He has thought of it a number of times because he knows Ibrahim and Auntie Mara have no children of their own. He knows his uncle is worth a lot of money, and now he has confirmation even from his buddy, Talal. But today’s news has still caught him by surprise, and suddenly he realizes he’s not a poor man anymore, but a millionaire. “What else does Ibrahim have; what do you mean?” “What is important is that you take care of yourself here in the United States and make sure you get ready to take over for him when the time comes. Never forget where we come from and where our loyalty lies—to Ibrahim, to our homeland, to our people, to our future. Everything will fall into place sooner or
Manolis Aligizakis 