Tag: short-story

The Qliphoth

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excerpt

He still won’t talk about Nick, he won’t talk about Tanya, his own dear
mini-model girl, his lost dream. He is fatter; and insists on wearing a regulation
striped shirt and one of Her Majesty’s grey jackets. Pauline chides him for
showing off.
“They’re good, these porridge-jackets. Cult collectables, as soon as I get
back in the business. ” But he won’t say what business, or discuss concluded
business, except in general terms. He smiles wrily at the thin brown curtains,
the broken Dansette record player, a chaos of books and one small picture, a
last retrieved treasure, on the damp wall —an ancient engraving of a bearded
man holding a complex structure, like triangulations of spherical retorts, radiating
light. She asks him about it —an old alchemist, a cabbalist or whatever?
She has to say something. He forces a hollow laugh and taps the dusty glass.
“I’m told it’s by Paulus Ricius, Augsburg 1516. Beautiful, isn’t it? God
knows what it means. All my alchemists turned to fool’s gold. At one point, I
had a guy with a PhD. brewing pure acid for me, I had two guys specialising in
THC oil, and they all turned rotten on me, turned Queen’s Evidence. You
wouldn’t believe I had a gold Ford Thunderbird, and whole wardrobes of
money . . . I could have given you enough bread to ransom Lucas three times
over.”
But in Larry’s professional opinion, Lucas hasn’t been kidnapped. The boy
might be on a little caper, perhaps, he’s at an age when the nerves are good. But
he’ll be back, give him a chance. Larry believes that Lucas is more stable than
Nick.
“It’s your civilising influence,” he says softly, with a slow smile that transforms
his rough-cast mock-up of a face. She wonders if he’s remembering
their distant dark-age act of hurried unbuttoning, A tiny moment swirling into
non-being. She’s let go. But has he? “That’s the trouble with inside—no
women. Just piles of demented men.”
She hopes he’s going to say more about Nick and Lucas but he’s back to a
re-run of prison life. It was a monastery with real mediaeval penances. This
vicar was a nonce who spanked young choirboys, so they made him run
around barking on all fours with a burning blue paper up his arse. Branded on
the bum, as old Geoffrey Chaucer puts it.
“Larry, I really need your help . . .” She goes into explicatory overload, the
whole construct sounding more and more implausible as her words fill the
dingy room and the clock ticks.

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Swamped

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When Saturday finally arrives, it is a beautiful, hot summer day,
so hot Eteocles goes to the sea twice, early in the morning and again
in afternoon. He meets Antonia on his morning visit to the sea, and
she tells him she is planning to go to the party with her girlfriend
Koula. Eteocles sends her a kiss with a movement of his lips, and Antonia
responds in kind, then they dive into the water together and
swim well out from the shore. Eteocles swims close to her and puts
his arm around her waist, but Antonia isn’t a good swimmer. She is
uncomfortable in deep water, and his touch makes her nervous. She
asks him to let her swim in peace, then says, “Tonight … tonight at
the party.” It is a promise.
Hesperus, the lone evening star, bright as ever, gazes down at the
earth later that day, watching the little ants that scurry about searching
for a common goal, a common word, a common future without
perils or famine or devastation. Bright as ever, the evening star gazes
at the land below and wonders how long it will take before its inhabitants
figure things out and settle on the concept of people helping
people rather than bombing and obliterating each other.
Under its gaze Eteocles and George walk together down the road
along the hillside toward the shore where the house of the party girl
is located. When they reach there, they find a crowd of boys and girls
already gathered in the backyard that faces out toward the sea no
more than about thirty meters away where the elevation dips sharply
down to the seashore with its sand dunes and lapping waves.
All the partygoers gather around the boys who have brought the
music from Athens, waiting for Eteocles to put a disc on so they can
dance, and as soon as this is done, all the boys and girls suddenly become
couples. George quickly pairs off with Maria, his favorite girl
in the village, and pulls her tight while the music, the latest hit by a
popular Italian singer, tuneful and modern, excites everyone and mixes
with the heady smell of the sea to create an exhilarating atmosphere.
At that moment Antonia enters the yard with Koula, a girl with black
eyes and black hair tied in a bun on top of her head.

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Redemption

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The taste of her mouth aroused all his instincts, and he wanted
to touch this girl all over. However, they heard the clearing of the proprietor’s
throat and stopped. Hermes pulled back, and she gave him
her best smile, showing a straight line of teeth and a hungry tongue.
They stayed there for another half an hour, and then she
wanted to go.
“What would you like to do now? See a movie?”
He looked at his watch; it was eight o’clock. “Where do you like
to go?”
She suggested they go to see the latest movie in a cinema close
by, and he agreed. They walked to the cinema, and Hermes offered
her his arm. She took the chance and leaned toward him a bit more,
which Hermes loved. They got to the theatre and realized the place
was almost full, so they made their way to the balcony, where they
noticed that it was almost empty. They found two seats. He turned
to look at her, and she took the courage and offered him a long and
passionate kiss. His hunger for her body became evident. She took
his hand and placed it between her legs, a move he took even further
by sliding his hand up and touching her pubic hair. That made her
go wild. He didn’t let go, and the rubbing of his hand inside her
made her move her body left and right with such intensity that she
had an orgasm in a matter of seconds. She then found his erection
and played with him for a minute or two, but he wanted a lot more
than that.
“You like to go?” she asked.
“Where could we go?”
“I know a place.”
He wondered where this place might be, surely not her parents’
house.
“A friend of mine, she whispered, is out of town; I have the key
to her place.”

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Still Waters

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…made and she could not take a chance on hurting them by refusing
their generous offer. It was kind of them to even think of an engagement
gift, but she wished they had decided on something less ostentatious.
Oh well, maybe if it was a small, inexpensive car she wouldn’t
feel so bad about accepting it.
She had not told her parents. She did not want them to feel they had
to give the newly engaged couple a gift. Such a thing had never entered
her mind, and she hoped Cam did not expect it either. And anyway,
her parents certainly could not afford anything as lavish as a car.
Maybe I’m out of my league, Tyne thought. We’re just simple
country people. I shouldn’t be marrying someone like Cam.
This new revelation made her uneasy, taking the edge off the excitement
she felt about returning to the city. She turned to look out
the window onto the bleak winter landscape, but a little girl in the
seat beside her suddenly caught her attention and offered a welcome
diversion for her thoughts. The blond-haired child held up a story
book and asked her a word.
“That says hospital,” Tyne replied, smiling into the innocent face.
Noting the pictures in the book, she asked, “Is your story about a nurse?”
The child beamed. “Yeth. When I grow up, I’m going to be a nurth.”
“Are you? That’s lovely. I’m a nurse, and I work in a hospital like
that one in your picture book.”
The little face turned up, the blue eyes wide and incredulous. “Oh
… oh, you’re a nurth … oh.”
Tyne laughed softly, and could not resist the urge to put her arm
around the little one and hug her. Looking up, she saw the warm
smile of a young woman sitting across from them.
“You’ve made her day, thank you,” the woman said, smiling.
“Are you her mother? Oh then, I’ll trade places with you so that
you can sit with her.”
“No, no,” the mother waved her hand. “She wouldn’t thank me for
that.”
Tyne laughed and turned back to the admiring child. Someday,
would she and Cam have a little girl like this dear one? A girl who
wanted, more than anything, to be a nurth?

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Straits and Turns

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…lavishing her body, erotic and desirous, promising and promiscuous;
Mona, the nurse who came to replace his gauzes. Mona, a woman,
came to the help of a man desiring nothing more than what nature has
allotted to him: lust, even with his half-severed penis, a man desires to
ride on top of a woman’s body, this woman’s, Mona’s. In this war zone,
man never stopped longing for that exquisite moment of coupling,
nature’s first and most powerful expression: a man, an injured man,
coupling an eloquent, musical, poetic, female body.
His eyes still closed, he saw himself on a bed where he was battling
his last, three days and three nights, with his stressed breath in
irregular spasms of a living-dead man, skinny, leftover of stamina
recluse in his austere village bed. Shadow of a man left to perish as
nature commanded, yet, his last breath was delayed as for three long
days and three long nights, he kept on gasping for air unable to release
his soul to his creator while from time to time he would whisper in
his so ever weak voice one word, “pussy” to the amazement of his relatives,
especially to his two sons who didn’t know how to play out their
father’s last wish. And the night arrived again for the fourth time, and
the owls sang their lonely songs in the nearby barn while the moon
kept on playing hide and seek behind the clouds, while the unrested
soul of the old man repeated the same double syllable word, “pussy”.
Indeed, it was tragic and comical for the three relatives who stayed for
the vigil: one of his sons, the old man’s niece, and the servant girl who
attended to the wishes of the almost-dead man. Not any special wishes
did the moribund man have other than perhaps stir him from time to
time to check whether he was still on the upper stratum, although his
occasional whisper, “pussy” was witness to the fact.
At the desperate moment of ambivalence when no one of the three
knew what to do to help the old man relax and let his soul be released
to the elements, Mona, the twenty-four year old maid with her flaming
eyes and promiscuously half-open lips and her voluptuous breasts, an
angel of mercy nonetheless, neared the bed of the old man, raised her
skirt, took his fragile hand and placed it behind her light undergarment
and between her legs upon which time and upon feeling the touch of his…

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In Turbulent Times

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‘Yes, Nora. Yes, I honestly do.’
‘I wish I could share your optimism.’
‘You’re becoming cynical in your old age, Nora. You need cheering up.’
Nora looked behind her towards the door. ‘I don’t know what’s keeping Janet.’
‘I wouldn’t even like to hazard a guess,’ Clifford said with a smile. ‘Would you like me to order drinks for you now? What were you and Janet … ? Ah, here she comes.’ He stood up as Janet rushed in.
‘Sorry I was so long, Nora,’ Janet said, ‘but I kept meeting people. Robert Purdy’s here with his fiancée. And the whole Morgan family from Clondarragh.’
‘Janet, you know Dr Hamilton, don’t you?’
‘But of course I do. How are you, Dr Hamilton? We haven’t seen you down in our part of the world for ages.’
‘I’m fine, thank you, Janet. It’s a pleasure to see you again. I hope your mother and father are well.’
‘Hale and hearty, Dr Hamilton. I’ll tell them you were asking after them.’
‘Yes, please do,’ said Clifford. ‘I actually came to invite you and Nora to join us at our table. My wife, my son, his girlfriend, and some friends of ours are there.’
‘That would be very nice,’ said Janet. ‘We usually have more company with us, but they all had other things to do this evening.’
Clifford led the way to his own table and made the necessary introductions. Nora and Janet sat down on two extra chairs that John had already added to the group.
Nora sat between John and Ian, Janet between Ian and Clifford.
‘Now, what is everyone drinking?’ Clifford asked.
Fiona and Susan had had enough, they said. Janet and Catriona asked for lemonade. Julian a Macallan single-malt Scotch—‘If they have any.’ Nora ordered gin and orange.
‘Mother’s ruin, Nora,’ said John. ‘Make mine a John Powers, Clifford.’
‘Julian’s choice of Scotch for me too,’ said Ian.
‘Do you ever drink anything else, Ian?’
‘Only Drambuie, but not now.’
Clifford smiled. ‘You’ll have Coca Cola in your whiskey, I suppose.’
‘Get away with you, man,’ Ian scolded. ‘Even though I know you’re joking, you should still be horse-whipped for a crack like that. In Scotland we don’t joke about our Scotch.’

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Jazz with Ella

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“Because you don’t want to face the consequences of not helping.” Shukshin glowered at the public official.
“What do you mean?” Pyotr became agitated. “Are you threatening me? If this is a joke it’s gone too far!”
“It’s no joke.” Pavel spoke again. “I need all of the documents: permits, propiska, passport, whatever is necessary, and I need them soon. As to why you should help me then I’m afraid it’s like Shukshin says. You don’t want others to know what we can tell them about you.”
Pyotr froze to his chair. It was not a joke.
To his surprise, Vera chimed in. They were all in it together. “You were seen…at the boathouse. You understand me?” He remained silent so she continued. “With the police chief’s wife—what’s her name, Tanya?—and we all know that the police chief would not like your activities with his wife, would he?”
Pyotr was stunned. It was all collapsing in front of him—the careful secrecy, the hidden assignations. “We…simply meet to talk. There’s nothing harmful….” He stopped. Vera was shaking her head. “We have photos,” and she pointed to a large American-style camera on the bed. “We took photos of you and Tanya together. Believe me, you were not just talking.”
“What! Devil take it! Give me those photos. You have no right…” He stood up, prepared to invoke some bureaucratic rule that would force them to comply—or what? Report them to the police? They sat politely while he worked through his tantrum, sputtered another oath or two and smacked the table with his fist. Finally he sat again and slumped in the chair.
“May I pour you another drink?” Vera inquired with a sweet smile as if he were a friendly visiting uncle. “I think it would be best to find the passport first, don’t you? That way we can make the other documents match whatever the name on the passport.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” Pyotr agreed at last. “I know of just such a widow who would probably give up a passport for a sum of money. I hope you people have some cash to pay her.”
“We’ll find the money,” said Pavel. “You find the goods.”
“And some cash for me, for my trouble in locating the passport,” the official continued. But Shukshin had only to glance at him quizzically and indicate the camera once more for Pyotr to understand that any cash benefit to him would not be forthcoming.

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He Rode Tall

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Joel was not a spiritual person. Never had been. For almost
thirty years as a maritime engineer, Joel had spent most if not all
of his time in his head. His brain had earned him some degree of
respect in his profession and helped him to survive disaster after
disaster on the bumpy journey of life. But at this very moment,
sitting astride the orange horse on the crest of a hill, admiring the
grazing mares and foals, Joel felt for a moment the power of his
heart. It had been a long time since he had this kind of feeling,
but Joel knew that he was feeling rather than thinking. He could
feel his heart coming to life.
With the exception of the sounds of nature, the silence was
so powerful that the only way he could think to describe it was
that it was very huge. Or so it seemed to Joel who had spent
most of his mornings for the last thirty-two years nursing a
hangover in one urban ghetto or another as horns blasted and
fumes rose from the heart of the city outside his hotel room or
apartment. Compared to the city this was looking like a pretty
good way to start a day. Sure, it didn’t have a Starbucks. But
you know what. This was better. And with this realization Joel
made amental note to himself that yes, it surely was a wonderful
day to be alive.
It must have been an hour since he had let himself through the
swinging ranch gate that led to the pasture of abundance. Abundant
with the kind of grass that only a true son of the prairie
could appreciate. Sure, it had been a lot of years since his childhood
days on the ranch, but he still knew the value of good pasture
when he saw it. And this pasture was very good, having a
thick mat of hearty wild grasses standing a foot high in some
places. This was the kind of grass that cattlemen yearned for, and
if they got excited about the grass, you can only imagine the kind
of impact it had on the livestock.
Beyond the natural abundance of the grass, this pasture was
special for another reason. Unlike the farmland on the plains
below, these hills had never been cultivated to grow a single crop
of grain. He was riding on the real thing.

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The Unquiet Land

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…she died of consumption, God rest her soul. Flynn was well up in his teens by then and already working in McGuigan’s quarry. But he grew up with a chip on his shoulder as big as a boulder and a fierce hatred of the English that he’s nurtured for years.”
“He needs to learn the lesson of forgiveness,” Padraig remarked.
“Forgiveness is a rare commodity in Ireland, Padraig,” Mother Ross said. “Irishmen never forgive and never forget. That’s their nature.” She paused, staring into the hearth. Then she asked, “What about Caitlin?”
“What about Caitlin?” Padraig repeated with more feeling than he meant to show.
Mother Ross looked suspiciously at Padraig, but gave him no inkling of the thoughts that rushed through her mind. “Is Caitlin ready to be married in church?”
“She is now, yes,” Padraig replied with a touch of petulance.
“Finn didn’t know, did he?”
Padraig walked across to the door and leaned against the wall beside it. His shoulder and his broken ribs were painful. “Oh Finn knew all right,” he said, but his face had an uncomfortable, guilty look.
Mother Ross made no comment. She felt that Padraig and Caitlin together had indecently betrayed the man who had been closest to both of them. And yet she could not see how anyone but Finn MacLir himself could live outside the Church. She was happy for Caitlin, but disappointed at the same time. “Then they won’t have to wait long before they can be married.”
“They have only to name the day.”
Neither Mother Ross nor Padraig spoke, and they were still silent when voices and footsteps were heard outside, and doors opened both in the front and the back of the house.
“I still think we should have buried his wine alongside of him,” someone said.
“Yes, think how happy he’d be if he woke up one night and found it there beside him.”
“He wouldn’t want to get out.”
“Not till the bottle was empty at any rate.”
“Bottle be damned; he drank it by the barrelful.”
“What an old sot he was.”
“Ay, but you don’t find his likes below every hedge.”
“I’ve heard many a woman between Iceland and the Isle of Wight say the same thing about him.”

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The Qliphoth

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In any case, she suspects that in recent months he became bored with the
whole techno consumerist thing, because she no longer heard the all-night jingle
of marathon game-play with Doom Wizards of Gorm, he abandoned his
painful experiments with sampling and sequencing old guitar riffs, he now longer
nagged her for a loan to buy a faster modem or a bigger hard drive. And
he’d play the drawling media philosopher over breakfast, displaying a growing
impatience with the digitised world-picture. “The trouble, you see, with Virtual
Reality, Pauline, is that it will all be designed in Tokyo. You’re going to
walk around in a Japanese executive’s dream helmet . . .” She’d ignored such
performances—typical of his late night TV manner, which she’d found so irritating
when she was trying to cope first thing in the morning with lesson plans
and job applications, an overdraft and and mental overdrive. But discs and cartridges
are littered all over the table, the floor, the bed, as if he’d tossed them
away in disdain, packages of memory that had somehow failed him.
His books are stacked on the sagging shelves behind the bed. Many were
actually hers, donated to help him with A levels, like all those Pelicans on sociology
and history. Of course, he never opened them. And he’d only done half
the literature coursework properly, and then perversely he’d concentrated on
a few obscure corners, like symbolism in Yeats, while flippantly trashing
George Eliot or Jane Austen in random bursts of invective, not for any clearcut
ideological reason. Lucas wouldn’t read systematically, he’d rather drift
around CND jumble sales trawling for dog-eared things like Colin Wilson’s
The Outsider or those poems of mad skinny Patti Smith, or coffee-table books
on Salvador Dali.. Here’s Labyrinths by Jorge Luis Borges. ‘These metaphysical
detective stories take the reader through the forking gardens of Time and
Space!’ Forking hell . . .
She sprawls across the bed for a closer look, across crumpled paper tissues,
yellowing vests, that horrible black shirt with eagles on the buttons, his broken
sunglasses . . . She never bought an ex-library copy of The Rosicrucian Mysteries.
Or The Ufo Encyclopedia. And what’s this disintegrating edition of Morning
of the Magicians doing in her flat? A signed copy. ‘Nick Beardsley, London,
1966’. She can hardly bear to touch it.
‘The black tide of occultism.’ That’s what old Daddy Freud called this yuck
stuff. This is a residu, a glistening slug-trail excreted by Nick, and it looks as if
it’s sticking to Lucas. She’d thought she’d got rid of all Nick’s ticky-tacky rubbish.
And here she goes again, hurling it across the room, any moment now
she’ll find some more lurid trash. They’re all the same, stupid schoolboy men.

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