Preacher Down the mountainside I saw him descending like a warring blaze, a phantasm carrying behind him dissension hatred and fanaticism I saw him riding the rules and dogmatic iron bars tightly placed on slavery and servitude his spite and immense ego brandishing the foreigners’ holy medicine echoing valley of fear flowers hiding their blossoms time was for sorrowful chime of bells untethered and pious freaky creaks gathered to pay the paid-up leaders leading believers to salvation a mass of flesh ready for Purgatory simple-minded and stupid souls hoping for their forever salvation
IT’S A CLOUDY TUESDAY morning in Washington D.C. as Matthew Roberts arrives at his office. The night shift has gone home and he hears the sound of vacuum cleaners as they do their work. Matthew is early as usual. He had no reason to remain in bed longer. Where was his Emily to warm him? However, he likes to be in the office before the others to get organized, which gives him an advantage for addressing the day’s challenges. This morning he has to work on the Balkan file, a review he promised Bevan he’d look into but never found the time for. For a long time now, the attention of the United States has been focused on that side of the globe, and more so since the collapse of the Soviet Union, especially since the administration felt they were losing some of their grip there. After the Bosnia fiasco and the Croatian genocide they turned their attention to the country of The Former Republic of Macedonia (FYROM) a small country wanting to call itself Macedonia against the wishes of Greece and her northern province, Macedonia. FYROM’s ambitions of joining the European Union, has changed the dynamics by sending soldiers to Iraq, along with the United States, thus vying for clout when standing up to Greece. Similarly, Turkey has ambitions of joining the European Union with the support of the U.S., although the Europeans view the Turks with a different eye. Matthew’s attention today is on this file, and he has to come up with solutions to suit the government’s goals before turning it over to his superior Bevan Longhorn. A marine and one-star admiral, Bevan oversees the work of 120 people in the office, although Matthew and two mid-level supervisors take on the majority of his responsibilities. This leaves ‘the old man’, as they call him, with time on his hands to enjoy the odd game of golf. Mathew reads his messages from the receptionist’s desk, takes the file from his briefcase, and spends the next two hours working on it. At 9:15 the receptionist calls to tell him Bevan Longhorn wants to see him. “Right now?” “Yes, right now.” He wonders to himself, what now?, gets his notepad, and walks into the boss’s office.
As she entered, she could see the night staff hurrying along the corridor which stretched out before her. They were in the midst of morning care, preparing the patients for breakfast. She picked up her pace as she headed to an alcove to leave her handbag and retrieve her nurses’ cap. After pinning the cap in place in front of the one small mirror in the cubbyhole that passed as a staff cloakroom, she returned to the corridor and hurried to the nurses’ station where report would be given to the day staff in less than five minutes. She saw Inge Larson, the matron, walking towards her with a grim look on her usually pleasant features. “Mrs. Cresswell,” Miss Larson said quietly when she reached Tyne, “I would like to see you in my office. Never mind report. You can catch up later.” She turned and led the way. Tyne’s heartbeat quickened as she followed. What have I done wrong? Did I do something on my last night shift? Frantically, she tried to recall exactly what she had done that night, and which patients had been ill enough to require extra attention. Had she messed up? She remembered that she had been preoccupied with thoughts of Morley alone with the children, and Bobby’s fretting at bedtime. She also remembered she couldn’t wait to get off duty so that she could go home. “Please close the door, Tyne, and sit down,” the matron said as she seated herself at her desk. Tyne found some reassurance in the friendly tone, and the fact that Miss Larson had called her by her first name. She sat in a chair facing the desk, and waited. Inge Larson placed her arms on the desk top and folded her hands which Tyne could see were not entirely relaxed. “Tyne, I have bad news, shocking news really.” She took a deep breath and let it out on a long sigh. “Lydia Conrad died last night.” Tyne did not know how long she sat in stunned silence, staring at the woman who seemed to recede into a fog in front of her eyes. Finally, she choked out the words, “Why? How? What happened? Oh, dear God, no.”
12 It’s true when you’re tired It’s true when you sleep It’s true when you’re smiling It’s true when you weep It’s true when you’re happy It’s true when you’re sad It’s true when you cheat me If you ever have Was true when it wasn’t But of course it was true The last line, the dozenth Will read: I love you Shivers I said „sweet love”, and felt the shivers Right when I thought of you I said it twice, saw this delivers Most shivers hitherto I said it thrice, to test the feeling, But when the deed was done I realized I forgot believing And shivers are now gone
Jennifer swallowed her protest and asked instead, “Is it my teaching ability that’s a problem?” “Honestly speaking, Mrs. White, though you lack the rigor necessary for academic research, your teaching ability is sound. Hoefert said as much to me just today.” Chopyk fiddled with his glasses for a few seconds. He was a small man, not quite her lanky height and seemed dwarfed behind the antique oak desk. She willed herself to wait patiently. “How shall I put it? I’m a bachelor, as I think you know, but that doesn’t mean I don’t believe in marriage vows.” Already she had an uneasy feeling where this monologue was heading. “Since the advent of the pill,” he shot her a quick look, “young women, even married women, have so much more freedom.” “Well, we’re not kept chained in the kitchen,” she responded pertly. He appeared not to have heard her but went on, eyes on the ceiling. “Just, please—if you’re going to share leadership of this trip—remember you are a mature woman and a professional academic.” Mature woman? She was about to turn 30. She wasn’t ready for the old folks’ home yet. “I would always act with professionalism, if that’s what you mean…Has there been some suggestion that I haven’t?” “It pains me to mention this”—though he didn’t look pained—“but word of your marriage break-up and consequent separation has circulated within the department with some vigour.” “That’s my personal business,” she murmured. “Not if we’re travelling together with a gaggle of adolescent students. Do you understand? You must be an example to them.” At least the interview had cleared the air on that score. After that, while trip preparations got under way, there had been an uneasy truce between them, and she found she was looking forward to the opportunity to teach as much as she was looking forward to the Soviet Union. ★ As the plane bucked and rolled, Jennifer’s ears popped, and she recalled reading how dangerous it was for a plane to land during an electrical storm. Where were the emergency exits? One passenger, a sombre man who had embarked at Paris, appeared to be praying. Paul had closed his eyes though she was comforted to see that he was still smiling.
Praise under the Rain I let us give something to the Theresia of Jesus Christ let us give something to the great poet let us give something to Pablo Picasso but let us give nothing to the black mouths of water wells to the worthy of tears Bactrian camels to the dark clocks of war
Manolis Aligizakis 