Category: 2021 – Spring

Image: Ⓒ Roxane Kokka

Author: Roxane Kokka

Ανίκητη

My aunt had always been a person of wonders. While growing up, I remember her running up and down the stairs in her huge old house, regardless of her age or the grey color of her hair. Not to mention, she had one of those wide staircases with tall steps, similar to the ones you see in old movies. She ran like that to answer her old greyish-beige whirred rotary dial phone. And she would have this old piano with all the white keys turned yellow that apparently survived a bombing (well, some of the keys actually broke but she never bothered to have them repaired). Nevertheless, that did not stop her from singing, and she had one of the most moving voices I ever heard. Without her needing to be in any sorrowful state of mind (especially around my siblings and me who she loved as if we were her grandchildren), whenever we asked her to sing, I was fascinated by how quickly she changed from laughing, gossiping and telling stories to singing songs with great nostalgia and melancholy, but nevertheless sublime tones in her voice. It was as though each sound that escaped from her lips managed to find a way deep down into your chest and fill you with awe.

As I said before, my aunt used to tell us all kinds of stories. Some were of pure invention, such as the fictional “naughty boy called Peter” who, according to her, was the one always ripping her sheets whenever my sister and I asked her about the holes in the bedsheets she lent us. There was also the story of that time she jumped out of a car window after the driver told her that the breaks were not working. I do not know if that story is true or not, but I would not be surprised if it were, especially after I found out a few years ago that she refused to go to the hospital when she broke her arm. That was a true story, along with the ones about her experiences of World War II and the Greek Civil War. There was, for instance, that time when a shooting took place in the street right outside her parents’ summer home she was staying in alone that summer, which was all on one floor and full of windows. She recalled hiding in the fireplace because it was the only part of the house that remained intact from the bullets shattering the windows, as they simply crossed right in front of it. My aunt also told me that if it were not for Hitler, she would not have been able to finish her education. As she was the eldest girl in the family, her mother did not want her to finish school in order to keep her at home to do all the hard work in the fields and chores around the house (this was, back then, the fate of most eldest daughters in Greek families living on islands or in the countryside). But her father, you see, was a headmaster and teacher, and during the war, when the island was under Italian rule and children were not allowed to go to school or work in the fields, her father, the only one allowed to enter the school, took her with him and gave her private lessons. My aunt also told me that, unlike most women of her time, if it were not for her marriage, she would have never earned her independence. At forty-five she broke free from her tyrannical mother thanks to her husband. At forty-five she was finally allowed to move out of her parents’ house and stop working in the fields like a slave or take care of her healthy parents as if she were a nurse. At forty-five she would never get beaten again by her parents for coming back home past midnight, even at the age of thirty.

My aunt died last year. The funniest thing was that I thought she never would. I knew she was mortal alright, but I always thought that she would die at a hundred and fourteen (like her grandfather) instead of ninety-four. She survived two wars while she was a teenager and young adult. She jumped out of a car running down a mountain out of control. At the age of ninety-two she broke her arm and refused to go to the hospital – my uncle had to drag her there. At ninety-three she was still running up and down the staircase in her husband’s big, old house. At ninety-four she had breast cancer and did not even feel concerned by it and apparently did not even need to – it did not put her life in danger. At ninety-four all of the doctors she saw were impressed with how much energy she had and how well her brain and speech worked for a woman of her age. She was quick and she was sharp. Even at ninety-four. I do not know what exactly killed her. All I know is that it was neither her cancer nor the current pandemic. And I do not want to know. I will always remember her as the strongest woman I have ever known. Invincible.

Image: ‘American Optical Original Pilot Aviator sunglasses‘ © GuySie. Source – CC Licence.

Author: Leah Didisheim

This evening, way across the east side in New York, this man was crossing the road. He had a briefcase in one hand and the other hand in his pocket. He wore a long coat and a suit under it, a cashmere suit, with a perfectly adapted hat. He probably bought them together so they could match. He wore black waxed shoes and a scarf nicely put around his neck.

But most strangely, he wore sunglasses. Sunglasses is not a strange thing to wear, I agree. But the thing is that it was winter. A cold evening in winter. Who would wear sunglasses except if they were drunk or if they had something to hide?… I’m pretty sure this man was not drunk. He was not the type of man to be drunk. He was really elegant and we could see with his clothes that he came from the high society. So, what did he have to hide, I ask you?

I had met him two days ago. It was in a meeting. He wanted to buy the business which I worked in. He came and behaved as if he owned the place, except, well, he did not. It pissed me off to be honest. But that’s the thing with rich people. They think that because they have money, therefore own a lot of things, they own everything else too. They think they are better than everybody else. Well, I say let’s put an end to that.

So here I am today, I’ve been following him for the last 5 hours; he cannot be perfect. There must be something going on with him. Nobody, in his rank, has no secret. And the sunglasses are my first lead of the day.

He opens the door of this hotel, the Colomara, and checks if anybody saw him. He cannot see me from where I stand. I wait five seconds. 1…2…3…4…5… I’m going in. The elevator at the far-right corner closes. I can just have a glimpse at a scarf and a hat. I hurry along the stairs. I can’t know which floor he’s headed to… so I must be quicker and see which floor the elevator opens at.

I’m not used to running like this. I’m at the fifth floor and I hear the sound of the elevator opening. I hurry behind the first wall I find and I wait to hear some footsteps. I don’t understand… nothing happens. And then suddenly I hear a voice.

“Well, well, well, are you done following me now? I have other things to do than to prove you right. I have a wife whom I love very much and three wonderful children. And I cannot help but think that because I have more money than you do, and obviously less time to lose than you do, that you have prejudices against me. Well, let me tell you something, yes, I love being rich but that doesn’t mean you can judge me because you don’t like being poor. And, of course, as nice as I am, even with what you did, as you didn’t deny it, I’m gonna offer you the same deal as I did two days ago: buy your company, and I swear you’ll be able to judge yourself with the amount of money you’re going to make.”

I couldn’t say a single word. I stared at him. My mouth opened. I guess he took that as a yes, nodded, gave me a contract which I quickly signed, and left.

Well, I cannot speak about every rich man in New York, but this one definitely is a very mysterious man!

I was still on the fifth floor when I heard a gunshot on the main floor. Screams followed not long after the first noise. When I managed to bring myself downstairs, nobody was left in the building. When I looked back, before going outside where the street was busier with every more minute I waited, my blood froze: I noticed black sunglasses left behind on the ground.

Author: Martina Nina

I am still waiting. I am still waiting for that sparkle.
This sparkle, they say, is the best thing in the world that can happen to you. It comes to your soul. Why is it taking so long for me? I want to feel this way. I am getting desperate waiting for it. Does it exist for me? I don’t know. I am searching for it. Every day, everywhere.
This is turning a bit ridiculous. Am I so damaged that nobody wants that sparkle with me?
Days and days have gone by. Still nothing. Still ridiculously nothing.
I am giving it a month. If nothing happens, I quit. I will never search a sparkle again. I swear.
One week, nothing. Two weeks nothing. Oh, come on. Three weeks nothing. It’s the last weekend. That’s it. I quit. Definitely quitting.
I am going to that party to have fun, since no sparkle will ever come to me.
I never thought I could have so much fun when I’m not looking for that sparkle in every corner. Why didn’t I quit months before? I have fun, never have this much fun actually.
And there it was, as soon as I forgot it, it came. The sparkle.
The sparkle was standing just in front of me, looking with these beautiful brown sparkling eyes and the most amazing smile I have ever seen. He was wearing a black jacket and dark grey pants; he was tall and skinny, a bit muscular.
The sparkle looked at me, and there it was, love at first sight.
It is so true what they say, love always comes when we least expect it.

Image: “Abandoned Storehouses” by Diego3336 is licensed under CC BY 2.0

Author: Katharina Schwarck

This piece of writing was born in a Creative Writing Club session, with the prompt “Mixing Worlds and Characters”.

Once upon a time, in a kingdom far, far away, lived a mean little creature, tall like three stacked apples, hair and cheeks the colour of a rotten cherry. No one had been able to defeat the little devil, for it had magic powers. One weakness, though, it had. It sang. It sang about its victories and sang about its plans. One day, as the goblin was strutting in the forest, it chanted

The miller’s daughter she was fair.

Found her crying in a prayer.

“I’ll give you anything”, she’d say,

“If you make to gold my hay”.

The miller’s daughter had married the king, and the goblin had been promised the princess’s first-born, which was expected in a year. This day, the creature was strolling through the grass, but little did it know, the fairies had set a trap. One safe step, a second, a third, and the little foot stumbled over a root. The creature fell and fell down the hill. It rolled and rolled, and cursed, and cursed. Underneath the hill, there was a pond. As it approached the bottom of the hill, it braced itself for the fall into the shallow water. The fall hurt much more. It slowly stretched its sore body and opened its eyes. It lengthened its arms and discovered two iron bars on both sides of its body. It lifted its head. The iron path had no visible end. The little devil turned onto its belly and found what had hurt its body were pieces of wood, which connected the iron bars, and black stones, that filled the gaps between the wood shafts. The creature pushed itself onto its knees. Its mouth tasted dust. There, it heard an ear-splitting noise, more powerful than it had ever heard. Lifting its head, it saw: the noise had come from an unknown being. A gigantic iron monster, that was spitting smoke from its head and which was speeding towards the creature like a flash. The goblin rolled itself over hectically, and saw the long, dark beast thundering by on its magic wheels. The creature scarcely admitted to fear, and it was only when someone lifted it up by its hood that it started screaming. It screamed and fought and bit and struck. It looked up and facing it was a tall man, fully clothed in black, with a black hat, and a black mask. His cape blew gently above the dust, and his right hand held a rapier. He smelled of dust, of sweat, and smoke. The man said calmly: “Entonces, eres tú el diablo”.

We do not know what happened after this, but people say the next day the goblin came to the princess’s door with a gift and promised to never show itself again. 

And sometimes, if you pay attention, you can walk along the forest, and still hear the creature sing

The big man said I did harm

I laughed and spat, he rose his arm

“You must be punished, you are foul”

Struck his blade across my jowl

“Quit your evil, you disgrace”

Struck a Z across my face

For life, I’m marked with shame

Three scars, from his first name

Image: © Andres Stadelmann

Author: Andres Stadelmann

You sat at the foot of the hill
The one which softly sloping rose high above the clouds.
And you watched, eyes twinkling as I met your gaze.
That gaze
Wrought of that deep iron which only exists in the mines of memory and experience
Piercingly understanding but softened and smoothened by wisdom.
What a funny thing
How you of all people waited for me there.
I remember as a child how you spoke to me. You knew all my tongues, and I had barely learned yours.
But that sensible experience became
That drive and desire to know more.
It’s always difficult at first. It requires trust, sure, but more importantly the willingness to accept those lofty dizzying sights in order to plunge and go deep and far and above and beyond and to twirl and to tumble and to wake and to sleep and to scream and to scream and to scream and to scream
Perhaps too much.
You always told me, yes we do want to go there. We do want to reach that summit, the clouds, the rain, the cold—it holds no importance.
And that flushing hilly side beckoned yet, light parting and peering ever so slightly.
But why then, what of this urgency? And who am I going with, and how, and when, and
Why
That love which you pronounced on your lips and in your heart, which screamed in your loins and in your eyes.
And suddenly that gaze was not so sunken, not so piercing, not so deep.
And still you looked
The oxygen is always thinner at higher altitudes, your breath catches easier and you need to stop more often
And wait.
Wait for that immense solitude, which, like the clouds, hides that questioning desire and that fear.
Wait for it to come, and when it does don’t hold back.
When it gets cold you can’t hold back
And those precious piercing breaths
The ones who hold sobs
Take them in, let them out
Let them comfort your heart, take them out in the sun
Don’t forget it’s all green, and you’re there at the top
Open your eyes so you’ll know where to stop.
Now again there is music with a promise of song
Still you listen.
Slowly we gather our arms and take steps, which resemble the ones your children made only last year.
Here is dancing, here is singing, and above all
here is crying.
Do it in silence, so I can hear you reappear. I want to go with you I want to have you here.
I want to feel you living
I want to watch you breathe
Please watch me while I stare, while I glare and while I dare.
And looking towards the ocean, of that sky high and wide
The same one that catches the moon when it lays to rest during the day
Sleeping frivolously.
The same sleep of course, which I shared with my mother. I slept knowing only of a love, that love which feeds the same furry hillsides we wish to climb
And kicking to satisfy those itchy jitters
Yes mother, there is still much to learn.
You know that first time when I chanced a glance, when I thought that maybe a part of that blinding light was kept for me, it didn’t look right.
There was something that I knew I could have followed, with my eyes closed. Never stopping, only stumbling.
And now, with you, at the foot of that hill, I did stop
Not to see, nor to hear
But to breathe
While the world all around me keeps screaming