Maja on the pier

For ages she longed for this. And finally her dream, everything she desired, came true. Out of the cold of the sea shoals. Onshore. But when she finally reached it, she realized, the world up here was nothing than a whiter shade of pale. Every single day she came to the pier and dreamed. Dreamed of her world in the deep.

The water. Cold, threatening. But it promised freedom. Freedom, she was refused to have here.
She knew, one day, she will be reunited with it.
And free.
Now she knew she loved the sea.
Even though it was cold.

Anna Ludwig(Germany)


Maja auf dem Steg

Lange hatte sie sich danach gesehnt. Und endlich war ihr Traum wahr geworden. Raus aus der Kälte des Meeres. Auf das Festland. Doch als sie endlich dort war, wurde ihr klar, das die Welt hier oben, viel grauer war als im Wasser. Jeden Tag kam sie zum Steg und träumte. Träumte von einer Welt im Wasser.

Das Wasser. Kalt und bedrohlich. Und doch verhiess es eine Freiheit, die sie hier nicht hatte.
Und sie wusste, eines Tages würde sie wieder mit ihm vereint sein.
Und Frei.
Sie liebte das Meer.
Auch wenn es kalt war.

Anna Ludwig(Deutschland)

Pacug 18

Pogledala je skozi okno precej nove hiše na stebrih, čudeža moderne gradnje poznih šestdesetih. Ni imela ne časa ne volje uživati v prekrasnem pogledu na mogočne borovce ne na sinje morje globoko pod njimi.
Z nervozno kretnjo si je odmaknila dolge svetle lase z obraza in popravila tanek trakec, ki naj bi predstavljal kopalke, in ki je komaj pokrival njene bujne prsi.
Popoldne se zopet obeta zabava ob bazenu. Ni imela pojma koliko ljudi bo prišlo. Verjetno prijatelji, pa prijatelji od prijateljev in še kakšen naključen mimoidoči, ki ga bo pritegnila divja glasba in razuzdan smeh pijanih in drogiranih mladcev. Hitro bo še treba poskrbeti za dovolj hrane, predvsem pijače. Pisane brisače in blazine so bile že razporejene po ležalnikih razpostavljenih po vrtu.
Tako je bilo že vse poletje in stvari, ki so jo sprva navduševale, so postajale vse manj pomembne in vedno bolj obremenjujoče.
Ali bo konec poletje prinesel tudi konec vsega drugega?
Še enkrat je pogledala skozi luknjo v ograji, saj ni mogla verjeti, da je od prekrasne hiše in vrta ostalo takšno razdejanje. Pa saj še ni minilo toliko časa, ali pač?
Boleče kosti, luknja v zobovju in zmeda v glavi so ji povedali vse.

Milojka Sitar(Slovenija)

Where do you go to my lovely?

A yellow staircase leads up to her apartment. In some places it has already turned brown; it is the spots where children’s fingers left behind traces of ice-cream and where teenage girls in love caressed the wall with their hands. She struggles along these imprints of time, counting down the stairs left to the door. Three more to go... two... one...
She opens the door to her small and empty apartment, which smells of childhood memories and mothballs. In the kitchen she divides up the contents of the bags, which have carved painful lines into her hands, into small, manageable units. Milk, sugar, oil, some canned food and bread. She undoes the large red buttons on her flowery dress and scuffs her slippers towards the bedroom where her day gown is resting on an armchair next to a TV set which allows the world to visit her every evening. But she halts half way, as the evening sun reflects in the mirror and exposes her half naked body. She stops to observe this body that has skin hanging off it, as if it were a slightly oversized costume she is wearing to a masquerade ball. Her skin, cut up by deep wrinkles and home to brown liver spots. She used to dye her long gray hair brown, but that was a long time ago. Now her hair falls out in flocks and she combs it into a bun. But in her eyes, her brown eyes, the sparkle is still there, she thinks to herself. Her brown eyes are a reminder of her youth just as the eyes of a young girl are a premonition of the old age to come. She stares into her eyes and stares, until her legs begin to tremble and deeper still until the wrinkles around her eyes begin to smooth.
It is Friday and he is probably already waiting in front of her house to take her to the dance. And she combs her hair, puts on her make-up and observes herself in the little mirror, tinted blue by the evening sun. She applies her perfume, so a tender mist of fragrance is lifted behind her like a veil in the wind and is carried towards the white flowers he is holding in his hands. Along the banks of the Ljubljanica the weeping willow trees hang their branches in the water, like they were trying to catch time. The two of them walk slowly, as if every step could take them further away from the brightly lit ball room and the colorful swirling bodies which are stirring up the hot summer air. Lovers are sitting on banks of the river, couples stroll, vendors are selling their sweet treats to children’s eager eyes. Street lamps cast a warm glow onto the promenade. When they step into the ballroom, ranks of bodies united sweep past them upon the glazed dance floor. For a while they observe the happy faces and listen to the laughter, which reaches them in pockets of sound. Then his hand locks her to his body and they join the dancing river. As they launch into their dance step beneath the grand chandeliers, they feel the ever more familiar scent of each other, gathering the moments, piece by piece in their memories like children collecting stones on the beach. They spin and spin, slowly and carefully at first, and then faster and faster, until the colors start to mix and the sounds echo and their feet totter…
Until she falls down tired into the arm chair in her empty apartment wrapped in darkness and falls asleep, her nostrils full of memory.

Maja Cimerman(Slovenia)


Kam greš, ljuba moja?

V njeno stanovanje vodi rumeno stopnišče. Barva se je na nekaterih delih že umazala v rjavkasto, tam, kjer so otroški prsti pustili sledi sladoleda in kjer so zaljubljene najstnice vlekle roke za seboj ter z njimi nežno gladile steno. Med temi odtisi časa se prebija s težkima vrečkama v rokah in šteje stopnice do vrat. Še tri… Še dve… Še ena…
Odpre vrata v svoje majhno in prazno stanovanje, ki diši po otroških spominih in sredstvu proti moljem. V kuhinji razvrsti vsebino vrečk, ki sta ji v dlani vrezali boleče črte, v majhne obvladljive kose. Mleko, sladkor, olje, nekaj konzerv in kruh. Odpenja velike rdeče gumbe na svoji rožasti obleki in vleče copate v spalnico, kjer poleg televizije, iz katere ji vsak večer hodi na obisk svet, na naslonjaču leži njena dnevna halja. Vendar na pol poti obstane, ko se večerno sonce odbije v ogledalu na hodniku in ji osvetli napol golo telo. Obstane in opazuje to telo, s katerega visi koža, kot da ji je malce prevelika, kot malce prevelik kostim, ki ga je oblekla za maškarado. Koža, ki jo režejo globoke gube in naseljujejo rjave pege. Dolge sive lase si je nekoč še barvala rjavo, vendar že dolgo ne več, ker ji ponekod izpadajo v kosmih in si jih češe v figo. Ampak oči, njene rjave oči, se še zmeraj iskrijo, pomisli. Njene rjave oči so spomin na mladost, kot so oči mladenke slutnja starosti. Zazre se v svoje oči in zre, dokler ji noge ne začnejo omahovati in še dlje, dokler se ne začnejo gube okrog njenih oči gladiti.
Petek je in on jo najbrž že čaka pred vhodom, da jo pelje na ples. Ona pa češe lase, nanaša šminko in se ogleduje v ogledalcu, ki je od večerne svetlobe obarvan modro. Nanese še parfum, da se nežen vonj vleče za njo kot tančica v vetru in steče proti belim cveticam, ki jih on drži v rokah. Ob Ljubljanici vrbe žalujke kot ribiči časa namakajo svoje veje v vodo. Onadva pa stopata počasi in si želita, da bi z vsakim korakom lahko bila dlje od osvetljene plesne dvorane in valujočih pisanih teles, ki mešajo vroč poletni zrak. Na bregovih reke sedijo zaljubljenci, se sprehajajo pari, prodajalci prodajajo svoje dišeče dobrote velikim otroškim očem. Svetilke pa mečejo toplo luč na promenado. Ko stopita v dvorano, mimo njiju švignejo vrste združenih teles, ki se vrtijo po pološčenih tleh. Nekaj časa opazujeta vesele obraze in poslušata smeh, ki v majhnih kosih prodira do njiju, potem pa jo njegova roka priklene nase in pridružita se plešoči reki. Stopata plesne korake pod velikimi lestenci, čutita vse bolj znan vonj drug drugega in shranjujeta drobce trenutka, kot otroci kamne s plaže, v svoj spomin. Vrtita se, najprej počasi in pazljivo, potem pa vse hitreje in hitreje, dokler se barve ne začnejo mešati in zvoki odmevati in noge opotekati…
Dokler ne pade utrujena na naslonjač v svojem praznem stanovanju, ki ga je že zagrnila tema in zaspi, z nosnicami polnimi spomina.

Maja Cimerman(Slovenija)

The real war on terror

Inhale, ashtray, inhale, ashtray. He did not give a damn about the stifling atmosphere, the room clung to his neck in any case. A quadrate prison-like cell, rank decay of the old walls, useless colourful plastic on the carpet flooring. The sun beat down in the eight-storey flat.
He touched the photo-frame with his right hand fingertips and caressed the third face on it, the smallest one - his child. He had no idea what to leave the kid with. A letter? A present? Well, whatever the memory will be, she will destroy it. Just like she tried to destroy everything about his beliefs.

He pulled the folded train ticket from his pocket, just to make sure it is still there.

“Where are you going?” Anne knocked on the door with her fingernail.
He turned, looked her straight in the eyes and answered without flinching. “To the grocery store.”
“At night?” She snorted and shook her head. “Stop smoking in the baby’s room.”
He left past her like nothing had happened.

Cleveland Street had always been the same, overgrown, dead and feeding on working people’s carcasses. A plethora of pubs filled him with anger. He watched supermarket after supermarket, all in the same street, his face contorted with rage.
You could see all these buildings through his son’s window, he knew that. So he rummaged through his backpack, the sleeve of his hoodie uncovering some tattoos. He now knew what he can leave his child with. Pulling out a black spray can, he wrote a special message on the store. And on the other one too. And on the other one too.
He could not raise his child, not the way he wanted to anyway, but he could make him see. He left Cleveland Street for good, his hands charcoal black, his heart feistier than ever.

Tina Radaković(Slovenia)

On the evening walk

The sun was slowly setting down, when she left home. The landscape was embraced by silence of an winter idly and there was only the sound of her quick steps and a voice in the distance, which she left behind. She wished to have enough courage to leave this place, full of bitter memories of a man, which she loved once. She was so absorbed in thoughts that she got off the track, standing now in the middle of the woods. She walked in between the trees until she saw a path leading to an iron gate. It was still light, so she decided to take a look. The door made a creaking sound and she found herself in the graveyard. She was looking around reading names from graves covered with snow. Here and there snow fell down from branches and it seemed to her that she wasn’t alone. She felted as she was accompanied by invisible figures of people, which once lived. Her wades through the snow made sounds like people whispering, which rushed to tell her the stories of their lives. She stopped. A sudden fear squeezed her throat. She knew she must return to him. Again he will be waiting at the door with anger in his eyes. Unaware she touched her shoulder. She could still feel his hands holding her tightly when he yelled at her, accusing her of cheating. Through tears she told him that it wasn’t true, but he refused to believe her. Every time the alcohol blinded him, he didn’t care about the truth. Even a neighbor’s hello was suspicious. Her requests to quit drinking were all for nothing, he was changing into an inhuman being. Every night she fell asleep in tears, hoping the next day will be different. But it wasn’t. In the morning he kept apologizing and promising that it was the last time he did it, but then, when he returned from work drunk, it happened again. Accusations, anger, beatings. When she went out with her friends, she could finally relax and with a smile and a lie she tried to cover up the truth. She was too embarrassed to tell them what was really going on. Only her neighbor knew and wanted to help her, but she refused. From day to day her life was vanishing and so was the love for her husband. She flinched. She was still standing in the graveyard, but the feeling was different. It was her who was becoming invisible now. She felt that her figure was vanishing, like her life. That frightened her. She closed her eyes and placed her hands on her heart. Suddenly she saw flashes of the most beautiful moments of her life. The first love, her job, her first car, vacation with her friends. All the moments when she had pride, respect and love for herself. Inside of her she felt a strong wish and need for protection. With every beat of her heart she felt that life and the desire for freedom and love was coming back into her body. Tears of joy ran down her cheek and she realized that something inside her changed. In thoughts she could see herself running to her neighbor, asking for help. She saw a new way in her life which begun with this evening walk.

Tea Petrič(Slovenia)


Na večernem sprehodu?

Sonce je že počasi zahajalo, ko se je odpravila od doma. Pokrajino je objemala tišina zimske idile in slišati je bilo le njene hitre korake ter glas v daljavi, ki ga je puščala za seboj. Želela si je, da bi lahko zbrala dovolj poguma, da bi šla od tega kraja, ki so ga prežemali grenki spomini moža, ki ga je nekoč tako zelo ljubila. Tako se je zatopila v misli, da je zašla s poti in se znašla sredi gozda. Hodila je naprej med drevesi, dokler ni prispela do potke, ki je vodila do železnih vrat. Dovolj je bilo še svetlo, zato se je odločila pogledat. Vrata so zaškripala in znašla se je na pokopališču. Ozirala se je naokoli in prebirala imena na zasneženih grobovih. Tu pa tam je s kakšne veje padel sneg in zazdelo se ji je, da ni sama. Imela je občutek, da jo spremljajo nevidne postave ljudi, ki so nekoč živeli. Gazila je naprej in zvok njenih korakov je bil kakor šepetanje ljudi, ki so ji hiteli pripovedovati zgodbe svojega življenja. Obstala je. Nenaden strah je stisnil njeno grlo. Vedela je, da se mora vrniti nazaj k njemu. Spet jo bo pričakal pri vratih z jezo v očeh. Nezavedno se je dotaknila rame. Še zmeraj je lahko čutila stisk njegovih rok, ko je vpil nanjo, da ga vara. Skozi solze mu je govorila, da ni res, a ji ni verjel. Kadar ga je alkohol zaslepil mu je bilo vseeno kaj je res in kaj ne, tudi sosedov pozdrav se mu je zdel sumljiv. Zaman so bile njene prošnje, naj opusti pijačo, ki ga je vse bolj spreminjala v nečloveško bitje. Vsako noč je zaspala v solzah in upala, da bo naslednji dan drugače. A ni bilo. Zjutraj se ji je opravičeval in obljubljal, da je bilo to zadnjič, a potem, ko se je vrnil iz dela napit, se je ponovilo isto. Obtožbe, jeza, udarci. Kadar je šla s prijateljicami ven, se je lahko malo sprostila in z nasmehom ter lažmi skušala zakriti resnico. Preveč sram jo je bilo, da bi jim povedala, kaj se v resnici dogaja. Le njena soseda je vedela vse in ji skušala pomagati, a ji ni dovolila. Tako je iz dneva v dan njeno življenje počasi izginjalo in tudi ljubezen do moža. Zdrznila se je. Še vedno je stala na pokopališču, toda občutek je bil drugačen. Sedaj je bila ona tista, ki je postajala nevidna. Občutila je, da njena postava počasi izginja, tako kot njeno življenje. To jo je prestrašilo. Položila si je roki na srce in zaprla oči. Nenadoma so se ji odvrteli najlepši trenutki njenega življenja kot so prva ljubezen, služba, prvi avto, dopust s prijateljicami. Trenutki, ko je imela ponos, spoštovanje in ljubezen do sebe. V njej se je prebudila močna želja in potreba po tem, da se zaščiti. Z vsakim bitjem srca je začutila, kako se v njeno telo vrača življenje in hrepenenje po svobodi in ljubezni. Solze sreče so ji zdrsele po licu in zavedela se je, da se je nekaj v njej spremenilo. V mislih se je videla, kako teče do sosede in jo prosi za pomoč. Videla je novo pot v njenem življenju, ki se je začela s tem večernim sprehodom.

Tea Petrič(Slovenija)

The Irish painter

He lies back and exhales, the sultry summer air heavy upon his face. His mind routing down the avenues of memory, looking for clues. Mark and Brenda, in the painting. His parents, and yet not; in genes only. He picked up the faded 1970s polaroid Mammy Marie had given him, which he had carried with him since he was a boy, as if its proximity would bring them nearer, would stop them forgetting him. He had never forgotten them, even though he had never known them, never seen them in the flesh. His parents, yet strangers.

He wondered what Mammy Marie would think if she knew he was searching for them would she think he had betrayed her love? She who had taken him in as a baby, not her own flesh and blood, but loved as such: unconditional. He knew nothing of Mark and Brenda, save their physical appearance from that day at the beach in the seventies. And here he was again, painting them; not as they were in the polaroid, but how they might appear now. As he sketched Brenda's face on to the canvas, he glanced up at his own reflection in the mirror, looking for a piece of her in him. A clue.

He added some lines to her face, crow's feet, jowls, the signs of ageing. And as he painted he took a swig of whiskey now and again. He painted in the watery eyes of Mark, wondering what sort of a man gives up his own son to be raised by strangers. As he looked deep into those eyes, his own began to fill with tears.

He set down the paintbrush and rubbed his eyes, his chest heaving up and down as he sobbed.
'Niall?'
'Mammy? Just a second.'
He hid the canvas and the polaroid under the bed and went to open the door.

Michelle Teasdale(United Kingdom)