HOWEVER, since something unusual always occurred around me I never asked for anything more since when we opened the door at dusk we oen saw someone to pass holding the unusual in such a simple way that when the carriage men were drinking, it stood lightly behind them (even if the Bible doesn’t refer to it) thus, next morning at seven o’clock, as it was its habit, the dead man came down and started working in the old carpentry shop only that now we had to cry in a low tone voice since he was so thin and sometimes we said to him “you’re so beautiful” although he always kept his promise: humble people, of whom nothing will ever be said as this story continues.
Blood Most people don’t understand whether the fire 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 and inexplicable happiness was laid in the display window of the department store as loneliness was again eulogized in churches, but as the years went by the man with the severed arm, wrote on other people’s discoloured walls, one-word written with fiery red letters: blood, blood, blood.
and around her nipple; then quite unexpectedly he squeezed her right nipple a bit, enough to make her squirm of pain and desire. Suddenly his face darkened, he had the sensation of defeat; he was losing something he had considered his and only his: Mary’s body disturbed his mind; was he truly never to enjoy it again? His eyebrows almost joined creating a deep concern on the upper part of his face. He stopped arousing her with his hand and turning he looked deep in Gladys’ eyes. “What’s going on between them?” He asked. Sister Gladys was taken aback, her face tightened, why the image of Mary had to suddenly got between them, she wondered, but after a thoughtful moment she replied. “Nothing serious as far as I know.” “They sure looked serious to me.” “Just forget of them, ok? They are young and they deserve to have an interest in one another,” Gladys said to him. “Somehow I felt that Mary wouldn’t be a good fit in the School. She is so” he hesitated to use any word, “so pure,” he added. “Pure? Ha, what purity did you find in her? Believe me she can choke the rabbit as they saying goes,” Sister Gladys said spitefully. “You think they have slept together?” His insistence irritated Sister Gladys. “Stop talking about her, ok?” Suddenly his face brightened again as if the half-moon shone a special joyous glint on him taking away the paleness and leaving behind a light gleam and a smile on his lips. “Yes, let us play our game, come, come Gladys,” he said and got up. He took a table napkin from her drawer, folded it, made a blindfold and tightened it around her eyes.
And he has a silent deceitfulness in his goodness; he waits until the light gets tired in its width, to lean and disclose his secret, which he will make his, like he did with the secret of the shadow and its root, of the water and the stone. Then, embarrassed, he stops in front of the kiosk of the crippled man to buy a newspaper and insists to read it with such naturalness, trying to wedge himself between the opposing titles or between the fine printed letters that run like ants, poke holes in and nest in the newspaper as if it is their earth homes. However, a bird winks at him, and he responds, a stray dog wags its tail in front of him, a green leaf shows all its veins to him, and he smiles
…this song somehow produces sadness to the person who reads it and to the one who hears it though we never hid it from anyone: if the most beautiful songs are naturally the saddest songs written for the moons exception of the rule, write it down, are the songs written close to a cataract and others sung on a sinking ship while the siren with the dishevelled hair accompanies it and others sang by a Kore with a harp under the plucked statue of an old goddess and flooded by the moons close the blinds and listen to the passerby the steps you hear is the rising moon think of the sea and go to sleep think of lust and wake up undo her hair and flood it with moons…
couldn’t discuss a pending case and that there’s no pending case to discuss. Typical Williams. It might even be true. Later, the chief went down to the train wreck and talked with the Great Northern inspector. That doesn’t mean there’s a connection.” Winifred searched her memory of Angie Karn’s call. “I told you that George Pearson’s name came up the other day.” “I gave him a call,” Sonny said. “After it became obvious that I knew about his meeting with the mayor, he told me that he agreed to appear at the hearing. When I asked him what he knew about Poodie James, he said that Poodie taught his daughter to swim and is fond of him. Cute. I pressed him about whether Torgerson is taking direct action against Poodie. I don’t think he knows.” “We have run a story—only an announcement, really—about the fact that the council will call a hearing, “ Winifred said. “It’s probably time to have someone do a backgrounder on hobos in the valley. The problem, of course, is that if we do, it gives credibility to Torgerson’s strange little crusade.” “Nonetheless,” Sonny said, “he’s pursuing it, the council is involved, the story is alive. It’s news, Mother.” “Oh, I know it. What an irritating man this Torgerson is. Keep me up to date.” Chief Darwin Spanger walked slowly between rows of trees in his father’s orchard, pausing now and then to examine a cluster of apples, clear a ditch, adjust a prop. At the orchard’s edge he came into the last of the day’s sunlight pouring through the notch in the saddle shaped rock formation at the top of the western ridge that cradled the valley. Chill air sliding down the slopes met the warmth rising off the orchard, and the leaves whispered their evening song. The sun bathed Darwin’s face. He closed his eyes. His mind began to clear itself of Torgerson, Poodie James, the train wreck, the long, long day. When he looked up, he saw three figures making their way along the shale fall below the rock, moving in and out of light and shadow. Dan, the yellow Lab, took a seat beside him, ears alert to the hikers’ laughter trickling down the foothill. Darwin scratched the old dog behind the ears, thinking of…
T-Shirt Wonder do people die of love? And if “yes” do they go to hell where the devils look like you? I wish I could die this very moment. Now! Just to meet you; to hear your voice whisper my punishment in my ear. In fact my life is a hell without you…as it was when we were together. And since I’ve died of love, then to hell, my love, as long as you will be there too. I wear your t-shirt. The one you left behind when you gathered your cloths because it was unwashed. And when it was cleaned you weren’t here anymore. It’s left behind, with so other, older t-shirts that keep me company at night, they wrap and warm up my body. It was difficult for me to explain to the girl who ironed them that they were mine, although bigger size and she shouldn’t put them away in your drawer. These t-shirts are my property. Each of them is sewed together with a piece of my soul. They the “lessons” I have paid for the life I have lived up to now. When we used to sleep, you were my clot. I needed wear nothing else. Now, I wear the t-shirts, I wrap myself in my comforter and sleep in my bed diagonally.
She gripped the covers and stared at the curtains moving in the breeze from the open window. The wailing, howling cry continued without letup – Margaret’s laughter from her dream. But this eerie sound was not laughter, and it was interspersed by occasional yelps like those of a dog in anguish. Recognition dawned suddenly. “Coyotes,” Sarah said aloud. The sound of her own voice calmed her. She lay back against the pillows and pulled the sheet up to her chin. When the howling stopped she whispered derisively into the sudden silence, “Sarah Roberts, coward.” O Sarah next awakened to the tantalizing aroma of bacon and coffee. When she opened her eyes she could see light streaming in through a gap in the curtains. She lay still, wondering how to face Ben with the news that she wouldn’t marry him. Breaking her promise was aberrant to her. And she certainly had promised to marry him. Otherwise, why was she here alone with him in this house, on this barren prairie a thousand miles from anything familiar? Finally, hunger pangs overcame the pangs of anxiety. She got up and quickly dressed in slacks and a light blouse. She felt annoyed with herself that she hadn’t thought to bring water into the room the night before so that she could, at the very least, have splashed her face and washed her hands. In the house in Tillsonburg she used to rise early enough to bathe before her mother awoke and required attention. When she stepped into the kitchen she saw Ben standing at the stove. Grease sizzled in a frying pan into which he was breaking eggs. He looked up briefly when she said, “Good morning, Ben,” and nodded his head in response. She dipped water from the stove reservoir into a basin and carried it to a wash stand in the corner of the room. “Want some bacon and eggs?” Sarah half turned. “Yes, please, I would. I’m very hungry this morning.” “No wonder,” he muttered, “after the amount you ate last night.” She glanced at him quickly, childishly grateful that he had noticed even this much about her. But, as she dried her face …
He’s gone, the one you, oh Romiosini had on the throne higher than all palaces the king of kings higher than all kings the Tower raised on top of Euphrates is tumbled the crown of Romiosini and the reverent moon glow. The Square Tower with its eight corners is tumbled Tower with embrasures Tower full of windows that was aimed at Babylon that was gazing at Syria Tower with snow that couldn’t melt by the faraway light. Tauris, Antitauris and Libanese bowed in front of it and the Caliphs of Baghdad and Tarcea with its castles…
VI The gullible soft memory of the clock like the sweetness of the Kore’s puberty and the blue breeze’s soft caressing recreate dreams of times bygone with their crossroads immersed in light when suddenly the calmness of the dream turns into the apocalyptic enormity of a wave engulfing singing stars or the nebula’s untouched vulva. Before the gullible clock dances on the contour of a flower petal the monk crafts an ache and the slender palm trees sway until the anger of the elements emerges catapulting fireballs of scorch out of the fiery pit. Anger of the elements unravels its destruction, hurling the burning curse from the depths of the earth to the top of the sky, to the crocuses, snow breath or the osprey’s clasping talons and to this hymn’s consonance.
Manolis Aligizakis 