Tag: literature

Arrows

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excerpt

When he had finished with my face, he gave me an appreciative
look and nodded his satisfaction. Then, he extended the gourd to me
and told me to do the same over the rest of my body. I was reluctant
at first, but after a spell he left, and I began to feel the itching ease.
Good enough for me, I thought, and proceeded to do as I was told.
I was squeezing the last of the sap and applying it to my groin
when Guacaipuro appeared, still wearing his perpetual scowl.
“Mareoka,” he said.
Apparently he was resuming our conversation. He extended his
hand, palm upward. I looked at it stupidly and then at his
countenance, failing to grasp his meaning.
“Mareoka,” he repeated. He thrust his hand toward me again. I
felt as though there was a tiny monk running amok inside my head,
looking in every corner for something related to this one magic word
that was the gateway to his witchcraft.
“Ah! Mareoka!” I slapped my forehead, as if I suddenly
understood.
For the first time, Guacaipuro smiled, as if he had finally won me
over. From the pocket of my habit I extracted my copy of the New
Testament that he had previously rejected by tossing it onto the
ground. I offered it to him again. “Mareoka,” I said, solemnly.
If I was agreeing that Mareoka was superior, it was only to allow
me the freedom to prove to him otherwise. I hoped God would
forgive me.
“Tamanoa,” I said, pointing to my friend.
Guacaipuro was more interested in the strangeness of the book. I
seized the opportunity to take advantage of my newfound
respectability by untying the ropes. Guacaipuro did not appear to
object. I moved slowly, deliberately, until Tamanoa was able to
stand beside me, free.
Guacaipuro shook his head, dissatisfied. He took the rope and
tied Tamanoa’s wrist to my wrist. This was his compromise
solution. I must not allow my servant to run away. As soon as I
gleaned his intent, I yanked hard on the rope, jerking Tamanoa
beside me.

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562848

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

Swamped

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excerpt

up six more cents, leaving a good sixty thousand share purchase
order on the low end. Eteo turned to Logan with a grin, “They obviously
like the stock all of a sudden. Let them buy as much as they
like, but keep an eye out for when they look like they are going out
in case they plan to do that soon.” Logan just nodded and walked
back to his desk.
Eteo’s phone continued ringing all day long because of Platinum
Properties. Even Mario called again, almost at the end of the trading
session, to say how pleased he was that Eteo decided to stay with Platinum
for the long run. Eteo asked him to pass by for a minute or two
after the market closed and Mario agreed and said he would bring
the Nostra Ventures subscription forms with him. Half an hour later,
Mario Messini was sitting in Eteo’s office, his face gleaming with satisfaction.
He waved the forms at Eteo.
“How many copies did you say you needed? I only brought one
of each.”
“No worries, I’ll make some,” Eteo assured him. “Let me see,” he
mused as he studied the forms and thought about who to involve in
this. “Two for Robert and three for me, five altogether.”
“I have to admit, Eteo, that I liked your aggressive buying at the
end of the day,” Mario said. “It up-ticked the stock at once and left it
looking very good for tomorrow’s opening.”
“What can I say,” replied Eteo, smiling. “I like the company, and
I certainly like its trading pattern over the last two weeks. I’ve talked
to my people, and most of them will stay. Some even bought some
extra stock today, but I should also let you know something. Just between
us two. I have your word, right?”
Mario nodded yes.
“The boss is buying most of it.”
“Connors? Hell no! Are you sure?”
Eteo told him about his meeting with Bradley Connors while
Mario shook his head.
“I don’t know whether to take that as good or not,” he finally
replied.
“I know what you mean, but look at it this way. Even if the boss
has a short fuse, as everyone says, at least for the next few days…

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562976

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

Fury of the Wind

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what she had been through since four o’clock that afternoon the
condition of the interior of the house had afforded the most welcome
relief she could imagine.
Ben did not look up so she spoke above the voice on the radio.
“I hope you won’t think me rude if I retire early, Ben, but I’m extremely
weary.”
He nodded. “Be turning in myself soon.”
“Very well. Good night.”
He looked up then and smiled briefly. “G’night.”
In the bedroom she closed the door firmly behind her. There
was no key in the lock. After a moment’s hesitation she carried the
chair from beside the bed and shoved the high back under the door
handle.
She took a cotton nightgown and a hair brush from her overnight
bag, removed the dress she had worn for three days on the
train and hung it, along with her underwear, on a two-inch spike
in the bedroom door. When she had pulled the nightgown over her
head she went to the window, pushed the lacy white curtains aside
and raised the sash. If the flies wanted to come in, so be it, because
she could not stay in that room without fresh air.
Twilight lingered, streaking the western sky red. There were no
outbuildings on this side of the house. The wind of the daylight
hours had diminished to a light breeze in which a field of wheat
waved gently. The faint sweet scent of goldenrod wafted in through
the window. On a fence post a robin sat to warble its evensong.
To the right of the house stood a clump of poplar trees surrounded
by scrub brush. Through them, Sarah discerned the outline of
a small rooftop. Realizing it must be an outhouse she experienced
a moment of panic when she suddenly felt the call of nature. Why
had she not thought to go out before she readied herself for bed?
She didn’t feel inclined to dress again but she certainly had no intention
of embarrassing herself by running into him as she passed
through the kitchen in her robe and slippers. Besides, who knew
what wild animals or species of snake may lurk in the bushes in the
fading light?
Only one hope remained. Sarah quickly got down on her knees
and lifted a corner of the counterpane to peer under the bed. Yes,
there it was – a white chamber pot. She sat back on her haunches…

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0981073530

The Qliphoth

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verses the sun will go pop pop. But that’s in the multiplicity of sacred time.We
live in a single vulgar time, time for the butcher boy apprentices to come into
their own, swaggering out into the garden to escort me inside for tea. Soon
they will be shouting for Fuckbeard the Freaker.
I can’t complain about the name. I probably uttered it myself in one of my
ecstasies . . . These damned drugs have erased so much, so many cut-outs,
cut-ups, my golden memory chart is all such a tat album design, my head full of
flowers and stars and triangles and spheres and tits and bums and fiery swastikas.
Later I will carry on secreting all my secrets. Like a scared insect, I mean a
sacred insect . . .
And Lucas may make his annual visitation. Minded by PP, scowling in the
middle distance. I only want a flying visit, Icarus descending for a brief lesson
with Dedalus, nothing histrionic. Just a chat under the shelter of the Brain
Tree. To talk living eternities. I need help to implement the salvation, transformation
of the world. Why, Pol Pot, you bitch, you talking cactus in a pot,
why have you washed out my son’s brain, flooded it with your serums of
untruth? Why, why won’t he come?
I woke up this morning
Mr Blues all around my bed
Mr Blues he’s mean and evil
He done messed up my happy head
Rocking Rod was sprawled on a pile of cushions in the dayroom, strumming
his boogie on an old acoustic guitar, singing de blooze in a thin weaselly voice
with a Cockney Delta accent. I knew that voice. It had roots, long and tangled
as his hair, as his ratty moustache.
When he saw me, he leapt up, switched to a Stones riff, and began a
duck-walk around the ward. At the end of the room, a cluster of huge cardboard
boxes had been upended in a semicircle. The cartons displayed the logos
of great multinational drug companies—Wellcome, Bayer, Glaxo, Sandoz—as
if they were sponsoring this world tour. He stopped in front of the biggest box,
and made a jabbing bayonet thrust with his guitar. He whirled an arm to hit an
inaudible power chord and froze the pose.
“Get a load of that back line! Four five-hundred watt Marshalls.
Fanfuckingtastic, man! You can’t beat the old valve amps when it comes to
raunch, right?”

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562839

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0978186508

Water in the Wilderness

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Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, be with us sinners now and the hour of our death. Amen.”
After a moment, she said aloud, “Please keep Morley safe, Lord. Send him to me, I need ….” Her words cut off by another sharp pain, she cried out, “Dr. Rosthern, please hurry.”
Rachael knew she couldn’t go any further. Her feet and hands were blocks of wood. Her whole body felt as though it didn’t belong to her. To make matters worse, she was beginning to see things that weren’t there. Several times she had called out to Ronnie where he walked ahead of her breaking the trail.
“Ronnie, look,” she’d called, “there’s a house up ahead of us.”
But each time he had dashed her hopes. “No, there’s nothin’ … no buildings … nothin’.”
She had felt like crying but was too exhausted to do even that; anyway, her tears were all dried up.
She glanced at Bobby on Ronnie’s shoulders. Her brother had been quiet for a long time. His head had fallen forward, and he looked to be fast asleep.
Sleep – that’s what she needed. She absolutely could not go on another minute without sleep. She stopped walking, sank down on the snow and let her eyes close of their own accord.
“Rachael, get up. Get up.”
She struggled to open her eyes. Her mother was calling her. She must have overslept and she’d be late for school. She tried to sit up, but a heavy weight on her whole body seemed to be holding her down.
“Rachael, Rachael, please get up. You can’t go to sleep. We’ve got to keep moving or we’ll freeze.”
Ronnie stood over her, jolting her back to reality – the reality that seemed more dream that real. He grasped her arm and pulled her to her feet.
“Bobby’s sleeping,” she said tonelessly. Actually, it made no difference to her whether she slept or whether she froze. She teetered on her …

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562884

https://www.amazon.com/dp/192676319X

Ken Kirkby, A Painter’s Quest for Canada

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so that the next morning there they would be – mysteriously having arrived
out of nowhere.
Salvador thought it was a marvellous plan, but his reason for the visit
was to arrange a meeting with Albert Reichmann. It had to be planned
several months in advance, but it could be done.
At last! Ken stipulated that the meeting take place at the Reichmann
home on an afternoon when Salvador and his crew were working in the
garden. “And this is what I want you to say: ‘Mr. Albert, there’s the man
in the garden – the man I told you about. He’s been sent.’ Just use those
words.”
“Why would I say that?” Salvador asked.
“Because that’s what I want you to say.”
“Why?”
“I don’t want to tell you.”
“What do you mean?”
“I promise I’ll tell you when the meeting is over, but those are the
words that have to be used.”
“Give me some idea about why those particular words.”
“Right now I can’t, but I just know that those are the right words.
They’re magic words. Merlin put them in my ear.”
Salvador promised to say the exact words, but as Ken got up to continue
painting and looked back at him, smiling enigmatically, he admitted
to himself that he had no idea whether he would say those words – or
indeed, what he would say or do.
The fundraising campaign was a flop. Most of the corporations sent no
reply and the two that came were gracious refusals. “Send more letters,”
Ken said.
“But they’re not working,” Diane protested.
“It doesn’t matter. Send more anyway!”
The Canadian Cancer Society sent a letter asking for his help in their
own fundraising campaign. Would he donate a painting of an Inukshuk
for a raffle? He and the Premier of Ontario, David Peterson, would pick
the winner at a large media event. Ken saw an opportunity for more publicity
and cheerfully said yes.
On the last day of the campaign, he met with Peterson, an affable, witty
man who was also an art lover. He told Ken that he and his wife had attended
his show at the Columbus Centre, but by the time they had arrived
every painting was sold.
Ken invited him to his studio for a private showing – and a guarantee
that some paintings there would not have a sold sticker. A few days later,
Peterson and his wife arrived and lingered in the studio, taking in the
large paintings and the sketches of Isumataq. They picked out a canvas
and, while Diane and Peterson’s wife selected a frame, …

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562830

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

Jazz with Ella

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“You too,” she said sincerely. “We’ll miss you.” She smiled at Vera who nodded. “There’s something I’d like to give you.” She reached into her purse and removed her wedding ring from where she had tucked it. “You might need this. Please take it. It brought me happiness for a while.” Paul nodded. Vera took the ring wordlessly. Her eyes filled with tears.
“Uh, aren’t you forgetting something else?” asked David.
“The leather jacket? It’s in my cabin—for you.” They all laughed.
“Hey, thanks. But I was actually thinking about what we should say to people back in Canada. Do you have any family at all, Paul?”
He shook his head.
“Any friends who might report you missing?”
“Not any who’d really care. Jen’s been my best friend. Oh, but you can tell Dr. Sommer at the Russian department what happened and tell her that she’s an excellent teacher. I couldn’t have done this without her. But otherwise, no, there is no one. My mother’s been dead a long time now, and so has my grandmother who was my guardian. My dad disappeared—probably because of gambling debts.”
By now Vera was crying openly. “You have family now,” she told him, and Jennifer was overjoyed to see how eagerly he hugged her.
★
Just three blocks away, their tour guide, Natasha Alexeyevna Kuchkov, was sitting on the warm cement buttress of a public fountain. Two other women dressed in sarafani, light cotton dresses, were dipping their bare feet in the fountain’s pool and giggling. Such behaviour was not for her. In any case, the telegram recently received from her director had induced a cooling effect right to the bone. Phone me directly you reach Ulyanovsk, it had ordered. They don’t know what it’s like in the field any more, she thought. When we arrive, I have visits to organize, vouchers to fill in, local staff to supervise. How much time do they think I have?
Thus she had been almost relieved when the rebellious students asked for some afternoon time off, though she wouldn’t admit as much to them. It had given her an opportunity to find the nearest postal and telegraph office where the long distance phone booths were located. She dialled her director on his personal private line and after some buzzing, whining, and several hang-up clicks, she was finally put through.

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562892

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

The Unquiet Land

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“He’s given them up. He doesn’t like Dublin very much anymore. He wants to stay in the village and work in the quarry again. He says that’s the only life for him.”
“Oh Nora, that’s wonderful news.” Mother Ross was almost weeping. “I didn’t want you to go to Dublin. It’s so far away. I think that was worrying your father too. He was beginning to think you’d leave and he’d never see you or Dermot again.”
“He’s silly, Mammy.”
“He’s old, Nora. You said so yourself.”
The two fell silent, each distracted by separate thoughts of Finn MacLir.
Then Mother Ross sighed, sipped her tea, and stirred in another spoonful of sugar. “There’s shortbread in the biscuit tin by your elbow.”
“No thank you. The tea’s fine on its own.”
“Push the tin over here then,” Mother Ross said. “I’ll have some.”
Nora did as her stepmother requested. “I think you’re eating too much, Mammy.”
“Oh, don’t you start, Nora. I get enough of that from Dr Starkey.” Mother Ross took a bite from her wedge of shortbread, ate it with obvious relish and then said, “So Flynn’s decided to stay in the village. The big city’s not for him after all.”
“No. He keeps thinking he ought to be in Dublin. His Uncle Finnegan there is very fond of him. But every time he goes to Dublin he gets homesick for the mountains. He’s up at the quarry now to see about keeping his job there. He’s been in Dublin since the general election in December, over two months now. But they’ll take him back. He’s a good worker. He’s a Drumard stone-man, Mammy. He’ll always be a Drumard stone-man.”
Or stone dead. The thought rushed unbidden into Mother Ross’s head, but unlike the voluble palm reader her tongue refused to give it utterance. Nevertheless she felt impelled to say something, if only to warn Nora. Perhaps she should talk to her husband and remind him that his responsibilities to her and their son were greater than his commitment to Republican idealism.
“I’d be a lot happier,” she said, “if Flynn Casey wasn’t also Rebel Casey.” Mother Ross clasped her stepdaughter’s hand to emphasise the seriousness of her words. “Nora, I’m very fond of Flynn. I know that a lot of people don’t like him, and perhaps some of them have good cause not to. But, Nora, there’s a mood in the country. An ugly mood. If there’s going to be trouble, Flynn’s going to be mixed up in it, and I’m afraid for both of you. And for little Dermot.”

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562888

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763203

The Circle

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13


IT’S FRIDAY, the last day of September, and Emily and Talal’s flight to
Baghdad is scheduled for four in the afternoon. They have to get to the
airport two hours earlier to check their bags. Emily hasn’t flown for a few
years, and the thought of the long flight makes her nervous. Even though she
knows Talal will be beside her, she has been jumpy since morning. Talal was
up earlier, so he prepared the breakfast then went back to bed before she was
up, and even his intention of a fun morning of lovemaking was turned down
by Emily.
“What is it, my love?” he asks her when she gets up.
He notices tears in her eyes, takes her in his arms and asks again, “What is it,
my love?”
“I’m scared. I don’t know why I have such a bad feeling this morning. I’m
thinking about the long flight, and it is making me paranoid. I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologize, sweetheart, for being apprehensive; most
people are, although they don’t like to talk about it. However flight security has
improved so much over the past several years, we’ll be very safe. Please don’t feel
bad; we’re going to have a nice flight, you’ll see. And don’t forget I’ll be with you
all the way, so don’t worry.”
They sit and have a light breakfast but Emily has a hard time getting her food
down. She tries to relax and her mood improves only when Talal comments on
how pretty she looks this morning. Her shoulder-length hair is done up and held
with a clip, her eyes are the brightest he has ever seen them, the skin on her face is
so smooth and balanced; he is mesmerized by a feeling of love and caring for this
forty-seven-year-old woman whose body he has explored to the innermost detail
during the time that they have been together. Talal is extremely happy he will be
able to introduce her to his motherland as well as to his brother and sister and
grandfather. Yet, he wonders how she is going to see Iraq, sincel the war and its
aftermath.
Emily takes her watering can around the house to water the plants before
they go. Talal’s phone rings; it is Hakim.
“Hey.”
“Hi, are you coming to pick us up?”

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562817

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

In the Quiet After Slaughter

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Back on the road, rain-streaked fronds slapping at the windshield,
parrots screeching in the jacaranda trees, Paco asks if Witherspoon
would care to meet his fiancée, Carmela.
– A little detour, he says. It’s not far.
They arrive after nightfall. The settlement is without electricity;
oil-fueled torches illuminate the village’s muddy streets. Witherspoon
unfolds a map on the hood of the Datsun and searches with his flashlight.
– What do you call this place again?
– Absolución, Paco says. It means — he consults his phrasebook
— forgiveness.
Carmela’s folks operate a popular eatery. It has a thatched roof, a
fire smoldering in the stone hearth. The food is superb and the
fiancée as lovely as Paco had claimed. She has copper skin that in the
glow of the charcoal embers shines like a newly minted coin.
– Carmela has two sisters, Paco says. Look.
There’s an enclosure walled in by mosquito netting at the rear of
the family compound. Witherspoon is able to make out a pair of silhouettes.
One sister sways in a hammock, an arm lazily draped over
the side as though her fingers trail through water. The other is
perched on a stool. She is raking a brush through her hair, the back
arched like half a parenthesis, thighs spread.
The Canadian thinks to himself: Forgiveness. What a strange
name for a village.
A backlog of vehicles has been idled by the roadblock. Lined up
around the bend are a few squeaky transport trucks, a second-class
bus with threadbare tires, a taxi painted with dust. Youngsters
trickle from the jungle to sell refreshments to the inconvenienced.
His guard off scrounging a cigarette, Witherspoon stole a glimpse
of the swelling crowd. Some huddled in the shade, readying their
bribes. Others made the sign of the cross, wincing with every blow
administered to Witherspoon’s new friend. The ballplayer supposed
all were as terrified as he—evidently the point of the delay.
The welts on Paco’s face were beginning to change colour.
Witherspoon wondered how much more his friend could endure—
wondered how much he himself could endure. And was he next?

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562874

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0980897971