Jazz with Ella

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Excerpt

The day’s itinerary included lessons, a visit to the Kremlin and Lenin’s tomb, followed by a trip to the Lenin Museum. Evening was reserved for the ballet.
“I’m thrilled about the Kremlin,” whispered Paul, “but frankly I don’t want to see the Lenin Museum.”
“It’s early days yet,” Jennifer whispered back. “Don’t start an international incident.” She speared a wedge of sausage that sat in a grease slick beside a rubbery poached egg. “The bus is leaving at 9. Let’s eat this delightful repast and get going.”
★
Yawning and groaning, the group boarded the bus under Natasha’s watchful eye, then waited while Paul was dispatched to round up the twins who had already found the hotel’s souvenir shop. “Just ask if they’ve seen two copies of Liza Minnelli wandering about,” Hank called after him. The twins certainly resembled the movie star although with an extra twenty pounds of weight per twin.
They waited again while Professor Chopyk delivered a brief but pompous speech of welcome. Aaargh! Why does he do things like that? Jennifer thought. It’s so irritating.
The bus took them across Red Square and parked two minutes later at one of the Kremlin gates.
“That was hardly worth the ride,” grumbled Marty.
“Arriving by bus marks us as foreign visitors,” said David, who was laden with camera equipment, “and we get privileged treatment on the tours.” It was true. Natasha marched them behind the Kremlin walls, past the many line-ups, ignoring the passive stares of the crowds, and ushered them into each historic location. They visited the quiet, simple Church of the Assumption, examined the Tsar’s Bell that had never been rung and the Tsar’s Cannon that had never been fired, and they gazed across a closely guarded, cobblestoned courtyard at the imposing edifice of the Supreme Soviet.
The Kremlin’s armoury museum was not a house of weapons as Jennifer had expected. Instead, it was a dazzling display of fine crafts, jewellery, ornate costumes, royal regalia and richly decorated carriages.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763246

Arrows

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Excerpt

I gripped the lifelines, my habit soaked and
pasted to my body. He shook his head and curled his mouth as he
placed his bare feet on the steps.
Bartolomé glared when I came up to the quarterdeck. He and the
helmsman were fighting with the long tiller to steer the Isabella who
was surfing a wave downwind with increasing speed. He was too
busy to pay me attention.
I could see he was thinking hard, for he had seen men break their
bones when propelled by the long tiller as the waves jerked the
rudder.
The pilot concentrated on the movements of the needle in the
compass set in a wooden box fixed onto the binnacle. A sailor tried
to record the time and course while another minded the sandglass.
Every man there had a duty to perform; all others were tucked away
in the relative safety of the ship’s innards. Bartolomé chewed his
inner cheek, as he always did when considering his options.
The visibility was nil, no other ships were in sight. Every vessel
was on its own now, each full of men fighting for their lives and
praying, the galleons surely better off than the Isabella. They didn’t
have the wretched high castles fore and aft, taking all the wind and
making the vessel ungovernable.
Bartolomé growled, covering his eyes with one hand and
lowering his head without releasing his grip on the tiller. I saw his
lips move silently amid the roar of wind and sea. He could attune his
senses to the mood of the wind, feeling it on his nape, sniffing it out
of the air, hearing it on the sails and rigging.
Bartolomé knew I was adamant about staying on deck; nothing
short of an angel or God’s thunderous voice would send me down.
He aimed a sullen glare in my direction and yelled to the sailor
minding the sandglass to pass me a coil of line. I caught it in the air
and fumbled, keeping an eye out for waves until I found the end of
it. Bartolomé motioned me to bring it around my waist. I managed a
knot above my Franciscan cord and tied myself to the rail as the
others were to the binnacle, but he sighed, nodded to the pilot, let go
of the tiller and came to tie the knot to his liking.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0981073522

Neo-Hellene Poets, an Anthology of Modern Greek Poetry

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I

The angel,

We had waited for him for three years, concentrated

       closely examining

the pines, the seashore, the stars.

Joining the blade of the plough or the ship’s keel

once again, we searched to discover the first sperm

so that the ancient drama might recommence.

We went back to our homes broken-hearted

with incapable limbs, with mouths ravaged

         by the taste of rust and salinity.

When we woke, we travelled to the north, strangers

driven into the mist by the perfect wings

of swans that wounded us.

During winter nights, the strong eastern wind

         maddened us

in the summers, we got lost in the agony of day

         that couldn’t die.

We brought back

these petroglyphs of a humble art.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763513

Still Waters

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excerpt

Chapter Three
The ambience of the nurses’ residence at the Holy Cross Hospital
in Calgary did not fill Tyne with enthusiasm on the day of her return.
The air that met her as she opened the front door felt hot and stuffy,
and more depressing than the atmosphere of the bus on the three
hour ride from Emblem. She responded to the house mother’s greeting,
signed the ‘In’ register, then carried her bags down the corridor
to her first-floor room.
The tins of cookies and fruit cake, which her mother had packed
that morning, weighed her down more than her suitcase of clothes
and personal items that she carried in her other hand. But the enjoyment
the goodies would afford was worth the effort, not only to her
but to her roommates as well. They would provide a welcome supplement
to the hospital food which was seldom appetizing.
Tyne opened the door to the room she shared with two of her
classmates. The smell of paint, although more than three months
old, assailed her nostrils as it always did when she had been away for
any length of time. But it was a clean, homey smell and Tyne recalled
with amusement their efforts to decorate the unpainted walls, and to
hang curtains at the bare windows. After two years in the stark dormitory,
Maureen had declared she could not spend another twelve
months living like a nun. Tyne and their other roomie, Carol Ann,
had readily agreed. Afterwards, they wondered why they had waited
so long.
Tyne dropped her suitcase on the bed nearest to the door, and
deposited the box of her mother’s baked goods on the desk across
the room. Only then did she catch sight of the note…

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763068

Nikos Engonopoulos – Poems

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Eleanor
for hands, she hath non, nor
eyes, or feet, or golden
treasure of hair
(front view)
her hair is of carton
and like a fish
her two eyes are
like a dove
her mouth
is like a civil war
(in Spain)
her neck is a red
horse
her hands
are
like the voice
of thick forest
her two breasts are
like my paintings
her belly is
the history
of Velthandros and Chrysantza
the story
of Tobias
the story
of a donkey
of the wolf and fox
her gender
is
sharp whistles
in the quietness
of noon
her thighs are
the last
gleams
of timid joy
of the road rollers
her two knees
Agamemnon
her two reverent
small
feet
are the green
telephone
with the red eyes
(rear view)
her hair
is
the oil lamp
that burns
in the morning
her shoulders
are
the hammer
of my lust
her back is
the binoculars
of the sea
the plough
of the foolish
inscriptions
whistles
sadly
on her waist
her buttocks
are
fishbones
saddened
her thighs
are
like
a thunderbolt
her small heals
light
the bad dreams
in the mornings
and finally
she is
a woman
half hippocampus
and half
necklace
perhaps even
part cypress
and partly
an elevator

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763734

Swamped

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Excerpt

“Let’s go Susan, I’m hungry,” he said, taking her by the hand. They
walked past Logan and Helena into the hallway. Alone with Susan in
the elevator, he rewarded her expectations with a kiss, to which she
responded as eagerly as he had hoped. They said nothing until they
reached the ground floor and crossed the street to Da Carlo’s, an Italian
eatery and one of the best spots for lunch in downtown Vancouver.
The place was already packed, but he was known to the manager,
who escorted them straight to a table. When they had settled down,
he gazed wordlessly at Susan. Her brown eyes were brighter now than
earlier, even in the dim light of the restaurant.
“You look beautiful today, Susan,” he said, taking her hand in his.
“Thank you.” Her answer echoed so loudly in his ears.
He called the server, and they each ordered a pasta dish with
chicken. He suggested half a litre of red wine to go with the pasta and
tomato sauce. Susan agreed and added with a smile, “You plan to get
me drunk?”
“You want me to, sweet Susan?” he answered with a question.
She enjoyed being with this man. Since they had met and gone
out a few times, she had gotten used to drinking wine. Canadian born
and raised, Susan had grown up with beer and pubs rather than
restaurants and wine, but he had had an effect on her in that department
and Susan now appreciated the European ways he had kept
after all his years in Canada. He still spoke with an accent, and Susan
sometimes had trouble following everything he said. But other than
that, she loved his ways and in particular his romantic touch, often
expressed unexpectedly on the spur of the moment. She felt very attracted
to him and didn’t shy away from showing her affection. He
felt the same way. She had sensed this as soon as they started dating.
His only concern was what other people in the company might say.
He extended his arm to the middle of their table, where a few
seasonal flowers were placed in a small vase. He took a rosebud and
gave it to her.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08WP3LMPX

Marginal

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Eyes
questioning, wondering eyes
smiling lips, shy laughter
on the screen, momentarily
uncomfortable reaction
to my comment
visceral need for touch,
dermal and internal which
I dream of experiencing,
emotional fast heartbeats,
body warm, willing, expecting
you in the sweetness
of the moment
eternal image in my mind

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1771715987

The Circle

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Excerpt

“How about we meet at Starbucks by Westport Mall?”
She’s ready to agree, but suddenly hears herself asking, “Why don’t you come
over and we can have coffee here?”
Who said these words? Why were these words said? What is Emily’s purpose
this rainy morning in September? Perhaps the hope and knowledge that there is
always sun behind the clouds? But, of course, this is why she invites him to her
house. Talal’s mind runs to their sweet exchange in the restaurant, and he smiles
as he says, “That’s a better idea. I’ll be there, shortly.”
“Do you know where I live?” she asks, surprised.
“Of course, I do. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
She’s very excited now. Her mind won’t let her relax. Anticipation turns like a
sweet song in her mind, and on her lips she has a thirst for his, like the song of the
poplar to the sunlight sieved amid its leaves. She stands still, holding the receiver,
overtaken by excitement. She realizes she’s still wearing her robe. She definitely feels
aroused, her sexual hunger captivates her once more. Matthew is coming home
tonight. If he didn’t work so hard, so long, if he wasn’t so far away for so long. She
desperately tries to find a justification for all the thoughts of wild sex she’s dreaming
of with this young Iraqi man, because Emily Roberts knows very well what is going
to happen in her house very soon. It’s inevitable, it’s desired, it’s anticipated, it’s
something she has thought of so many times—the young Iraqi man with the
charming accent, with the lovely smile, and all this sadness in his dark eyes.
She runs upstairs, undresses, and steps into the shower. She puts on her
jogging pants and light sweatshirt. Now she is ready, but for what? What’s she
getting ready for? Perhaps, they’ll have coffee and that’ll be it.
He’s there within ten minutes and rings her doorbell, making her heart race
like it wants to leave her chest and fly to the clouds, where her mind has been for
the last few minutes. She opens the door and he stands before her with his
enchanting smile.
“Hi, Emily.”
“Hello, Talal, come in,” she says, softly, and as soon as he steps into her foyer,
their lips lock in a passionate kiss, Emily exploring his mouth and Talal
exploring the fine lines and contours of her body. Before they know what’s
happening, they are by the couch and they have no clothes on. She guides him to
the floor and gets on top of him, while Talal enjoys the view of her breasts
bouncing as though singing a heavenly song that only the nymphs of the forest
know; those nymphs who have come into her living room and guide Emily to the
zenith of her eroticism and to her fantastic orgasm. Her face shows such
satisfaction, and the softness of such a completion ends with her soft relaxing
moan, a moan that could rise the dead from their graves.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0978186524

Ken Kirkby, A Painter’s Quest for Canada

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Excerpt

The bush pilot told Ken that there was no such place as the Arctic – it
was an arbitrary dotted line drawn on a map, by people who had never
been there. The Arctic was a hundred thousand million places, he said,
with an enormous variety of climates and vast distances between small
communities. You might find a few people on the land, he said, but not
many. Most of them had been rounded up and put into camps built like
villages. The idea of the Eskimo as one homogenous group of people was
as big a myth as to say that all Europeans were one race.
Nevertheless, the government had decided that the Eskimos had to be
gathered together – regardless of tribe or dialect – and placed in communities,
which they would use as a base to go out and trap fur animals
for the Hudson’s Bay Company. Then they depended on the company for
their survival and were, in fact, essentially owned by it. Each Eskimo had
been given a number and a letter. Those west of Coppermine River were
assigned the letter W and a number. Those East of the area were given an
E and a number, and in some cases, those letters and numbers were tattooed
on their arms.
Ken was horrified. He repeated to Jessica, Patrick, and Long John what
the pilot had told him. John was furious, not at the government, but at
Ken and his wild dreams. “You’re on a wild goose chase! You’re mad!” he
shouted. “There’s nothing to go to – thousands of square miles of absolutely
nothing but ice, wind, and rocks – lots of frozen rocks and no
people. I tell you, there are no people there. The place is a bloody, frozen
desert. You’re made of flesh and blood – you’re not a god! What is it with
you English and your half-baked need to go to desolate places? As if life
isn’t difficult enough without going looking for trouble!”
“For someone who’s never been to the Arctic you seem to have a helluva
lot of knowledge about it,” Ken said. “How do you know there’s nothing
there?”
“I don’t need to go there,” John said. “I can read. There’s a place called
“The Barrens” and I imagine it’s called that for a good reason, don’t you
think?” John pulled out a map and pointed to the place. “Read it – it’s
right there. The Barrens – there’s nothing there. When he first looked at
the place, one of the explorers wrote in his diary, ‘This is the place that
God gave to Cain’. All I can see is that the place is going to kill you – not
much different from every other Englishman who’s gone up there. I can
see a small headline in some small newspaper somewhere, ‘The Arctic
wastes claim another Englishman.’”
“It didn’t kill Francisco,” Ken argued.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0981073573

Jazz with Ella

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Excerpt

Jennifer suddenly realized she was the hostess. “Listen, let me order some drinks or coffee. Tell me about yourselves. Do you live here in Moscow?” She moved to the phone then realized that room service might be a foreign concept in the Soviet Union.
“No need,” said Misha, pulling two tall bottles of fizzy water from his satchel. “We cannot stay very long and we have brought some drinks. May I pour?”
“Yes, please.” She picked up the two cups that sat beside a metal teapot on a corner table, and Misha poured and passed the drinks to his wife and Jennifer. He took a swig from the bottle.
“We live in Tula,” Marta said. “It’s about 60 miles south of Moscow. You know about it?” Jennifer shook her head. “The traditional samovar town—we make the finest samovars for all of the Soviet Union there. It’s also close to Tolstoy’s estate, Yasnaya Polyana. You are a language student, correct? Surely you will be visiting the home of such a great author?”
Misha cut in, “You must come to visit us. Tula is 100 kilometers east of the village where my father and your mother were born.”
“Yes, I’d like that,” Jennifer replied. She had so many questions. “When my mother got to England and met my father it was the start of a whole new life. She wouldn’t have known that her brother was still alive. Did he go back to the village after the war?”
“Only to find everyone gone: father and mother dead, sisters missing,” Misha replied. He fell quiet for a few seconds. “He said it was the saddest moment of his life.”
Misha continued to describe their family background, Marta chipping in occasionally and smiling fondly at Jennifer. Even little Nadya left her magazine and put her arms around Jennifer’s neck, calling her “auntie.”
I could grow quite fond of these people, Jennifer thought.
“We have applied to leave the country,” Misha told her. “As you know, Jews are allowed to leave—some of them. We will go to Israel.” He looked about uncomfortably. “But perhaps it’s best not to speak of these things here.” He nodded at the wall indicating a grating with a tilt of his head. Of course, microphones. They had been told that the hidden spying devices were in all the hotels that catered to foreign tourists.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763246