Twenty-Fourth Hour My words ripple in the air meshing untangling a spider’s web you fall into as though in emotional fervor of our last kiss before the boat’s departure while an alarming uncertainty and guilt beats the inside walls of your heart swells with our intense crescendo shuddering at His zeal when such concepts as parochial narrow-minded petty incidental unfold their perennial petals on the horizon and I’m pulled down as though in a whirlpool as smug God stands admiring the results of insane sanity and as His zealot starts to speak with eloquence the stars suddenly turn into black holes or wall of a tsunami swallowing meaningless and important measly and grand old experienced Death having been there and done that steps out in His fine pressed suit with a tie smartly knotted and creates balance with His gift of greatness to all little insects all unimportant winds every petite bird and minnow who dare ask ‘do you like what you see?’ and the oceans plumb their wisdom peering into depths of cathedral dungeons answering: who cares?
The galley kitchen was utilitarian and old-fashioned with a two-burner gas stove, a scarred countertop and a tiny porcelain sink. Marta peeled cucumber and kept her back to Jennifer, her posture erect. “May I help you?” Jennifer asked. There was no answer. Suddenly Jennifer knew exactly what to say. “Is that cabbage rolls I smell?” she asked. “Mom used to make those—were they ever good.” The shoulders relaxed slightly and Marta turned, wiped her hands on a dishcloth and said with a wan smile, “Yes, they are Misha’s favourite, too.” The conversation was polite but not warm over the dinner table although Nadya recovered some of her childish energy and rattled on to Jennifer about her school work and her friends. As soon as the dishes were cleared away, Marta directed Volodya and Jennifer to Nadya’s room, hastily vacated for the night in order to accommodate the travellers. The single bed had been made up with clean sheets for one person and a series of cushions had been placed on the floor with a quilt on top. “I’m sorry we don’t have more beds and another room for you,” Marta said coolly. “But I think you will be comfortable in here.” Marta closed the door behind her, leaving Jennifer and Volodya staring at each other wordlessly. She turned away, wanting only to sleep and too exhausted to challenge his behaviour. He began undressing with no further comment. But as they prepared for bed, a knock on the door startled them. Misha’s head appeared around the door. “Can I see you, Zhen? I’ll be in the living room.” Wrapping her robe around her, she glanced at Volodya and left the room. Misha was sitting on the uncomfortable sofa. “This is where we should have started—right when you arrived, Zhen.” He patted a worn, leather-bound album. “Forgive me that I did not show you this sooner.” Family photos, thought Jennifer. How will this help? Misha opened the album lovingly, smoothing the pages. She sat beside him. Most of the pictures had been taken in the last few years and they showed the couple at their wedding, traditional photos posed in front of the war memorial, some scenes from their trip to Sochi and many of Nadya’s childhood. Flipping through the book quickly, Misha opened it at a page of older, grainier photos. He pointed at one dog-eared print. Jennifer gasped. The picture depicted two teenagers standing together solemnly, kerchiefs around their heads, their faces forming weak smiles, their arms linked.
Anton smiled at George’s point thinking that he tended to somewhat agree with it. He gestured to George that he wanted to talk and the Cretan cook came out of the kitchen and followed Anton to a table. When alone Anton mentioned to George the diary entry which referred to the twelve year old girl named Deborah. Needless to say that George, upon listening to Anton, got furious and standing up he was ready to go and act on it right at that moment. However Anton convinced him to stay cool and think of what they might do together. First, they had to mention it to Marcus although the temperamental nature of the youth would most likely make him react in a horrible way, yet, it was his right to know firsthand what was going on. Perhaps they could plan something appropriate, like calling the authorities again and lay charges on the priest, although that would be even more difficult to exercise due to the position of the guilty person, he wasn’t a simple carpenter after all.
Pilgrimage Trembling steps, scared mesmerized anticipation sweet wonderment steps on a pilgrimage to the holy enclave where man opened the gates of heaven for the eyes of a hungry world steps one by one upwards the staircase upholding hope towards the cosmos of man, of a Giant a cosmos which still stands between the shiver of wheat and the pain of asphodels. Thoughts on a pilgrimage between doubt, fear, anxiety, sweet wonderment thoughts one by one upwards between your constant agony to achieve the impossible your passion to fight for your ethereal world. My steps upwards toward the celestial world of my great ancestor’s on the same path with his Cretan glance which sees through the world as the sunlight through a crystal his Cretan glance which orates to the golden wheat fields
Back in the Saddle Two weeks after her marriage Sarah Fielding had a visitor. She was cleaning and rearranging cupboards in the pantry when she heard the thud of a horse’s hooves in the backyard. Through the window she could see that it was not Ben as she had expected, but a stranger dismounting from his horse. He stood for a moment and looked towards the stables before walking to the back door. When Sarah opened it, the young man removed his hat to reveal a head of curly auburn hair. His smile reached to his eyes and lit up his face. “How do you do, Mrs. Fielding? I’m Dave McNeill. Live over there about a mile.” He jerked his thumb in a south-westerly direction. “I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. McNeill,” Sarah said cheerfully, “you’re the first neighbour I’ve had the privilege of meeting.” “It’s Dave, please. Is Ben around?” “Yes, I believe he’s gone over to that field behind the stable.” She, too, pointed. “Oh, the north pasture. Thanks, Mrs. Fielding, I’ll see if I can find him.” He replaced his hat, and was turning away when Sarah, surprising even herself, said quickly, “But won’t you come in? I was just going to make a cup of coffee. Would you like one? And,” she added stepping aside to let him enter the kitchen, “I’d be pleased if you’d call me Sarah. I’m not used to Mrs. Fielding yet.” “Right, Sarah it is then. We’ve been anxious to meet you, Penny and me.” At Sarah’s questioning look, he added, “Penny’s my wife.” Sarah bustled from the pantry to the kitchen and back again, anxious to get the coffee started before her visitor should become impatient and decide he had to go. But he seemed in no hurry.
Rhyme And those who spoke and those who kept silent and the ones who climbed the highest branch those who let themselves go those who opened their hearts and those who filled it with pebbles and those who poured out rivers and those who made their bed under their shadow and they dreamed and those who lost themselves in books and those who scattered with no care for the forthcoming, with no fear that they might fear it.
Time and Light We are unborn all of us and each of us in the consciousness of timelessness the embryo of the abyss coiled in the wrath of nostalgia fingerprints of loneliness the sob of tomorrow the cell of nothingness. The time and light choke they dream of a leap into the unknown they gather the winds that burst an arrow by an unknown hand aims at the origin of the young age and the innocence of destiny becomes history.
They knew that what was in the pen was really just a baby. Even Roy seemed to calm down his calling as much as was possible. The bid, and there was four people still in the chase, was at 15,000 dollars before Roy even handed the microphone to Dr. Morgan. The good doctor was running out of new words to offer on the horses, but as he told the crowd, “If you don’t see the future in this one, if you don’t know what it means to own a grandson of Topsail Cody on the top side and a grandson of Doc Bar on the bottom side, then you should just get in your truck and leave right now.” Nobody left. When the microphone went back to Roy, he quickly took the bidders to 25,000 dollars. For a weanling! Now, there were only two bidders. Joel had heard someone behind him say that they were both trainers and top-notch reiners; one from Texas and the other from Colorado. Finally, at 32,000 dollars, the Texan waved his hand and walked away from the ring. Joel was in heaven. In quick succession, the remainder of the horses sold for 15,000, 12,000, 19,000, 17,000, and 21,000 dollars. In addition to the 100,000 dollars he had picked up from the ten three-year-olds, he also just sold six unbroken horses for another 100,000, plus change. It was a 200,000-dollar day. Not bad for a sale with only sixteen horses. He tried to figure out the average selling price of a horse, but with all of the excitement it was beyond his mental comprehension, and besides, who cared! As Roy thanked the crowd for attending, Cindy, with little Lila in tow, appeared from the crowd and gave Joel a big hug. “Say something,” she urged him “It’s your sale.” Joel proudly strode across the pen to where Roy stood and took the microphone. “Well,” he said, “I don’t really know what to say. I would just like to thank everyone for traveling way out here for our sale. I sure do appreciate the investment that you have made in our horses. If you need any help, if you didn’t plan on buying, or didn’t bring a trailer, we sure wouldn’t mind keeping an eye on them for another day or two ’til you get home and get a chance to return with your own trailer.”
I took my rowboat and paddled out from shore to start the process of familiarization. I observed the mouth of the creeks, the curve of the beaches, the blend of driftwood and rock, the colour of the sky. I met people with aircraft and begged rides off them. And, do you know? This vast island is totally different than you might think. At one time the bulk of the land between the seashore and the mountains was actively farmed. The climate was favourable, and after clearing, the land was fertile. If you walk through it—there are still roads in the process of being reclaimed by nature—you’d be amazed at how much of it had been cultivated. Some of the parcels were very large, others just enough to maintain a family or two. Then along came the Boer War, which consumed a bunch of the young men, and then World Wars I & II finished the job. Without the next generation to continue what had been started, the forest grew back, roofs caved in, machinery rusted. Once I got the feel of it, I decided I’d try to tell the story of this part of the country—not the history, not the ‘big’ story, but the sense I had of the size and shape of the island. The wind wracked trees and snowcrusted mountains stirred my blood. And I found I was once again a painter. By the end of 2002, Ken was producing paintings to his satisfaction and was pleased to find the attitude of the island galleries more amenable than he’d experienced when he first returned to Vancouver. He came across galleries dealing in second-market sales where a Kirkby oil of a solitary Inukshuk standing proud on the tundra, or a parade of Inuksuit backed with Arctic snows would be on display. He’d introduce himself and was pleased to see that his name was recognised. He’d tell them that he was now in business on the west coast. Might they be interested in fresh pieces? The reaction was always positive. But when he laid out his canvases of coppery grasses, water-worn granite boulders, wind-bowed trees or perhaps a lonely lighthouse blinking eerily behind a rising ocean fog, he was met with consternation. “What’s this? Where are the icebergs? The Inuksuit? We can’t sell these. That’s not you.”
Manolis Aligizakis 