Forum Klix.ba

Beware of the Dog

by ROALD DAHL


DOWN below there was only a vast white undulating sea of cloud. Above there was the sun, and the sun was white like the clouds, because it is never yellow when one looks at it from high in the air.

He was still flying the Spitfire. His right hand was on the stick, and he was working the rudder bar with his left leg alone. It was quite easy. The machine was flying well, and he knew what he was doing.

Everything is fine, he thought. I'm doing all right. I'm doing nicely. I know my way home. I'll be there in half an hour. When I land I shall taxi in and switch off my engine and I shall say, help me to get out, will you. I shall make my voice sound ordinary and natural and none of them will take any notice. Then I shall say, someone help me to get out. I can't do it alone because I've lost one of my legs. They'll all laugh and think that I'm joking, and I shall say, all right, come and have a look, you unbelieving bastards. Then Yorky will climb up onto the wing and look inside. He'll probably be sick because of all the blood and the mess. I shall laugh and say, for God's sake, help me out.

He glanced down again at his right leg. There was not much of it left. The cannon shell had taken him on the thigh, just above the knee, and now there was nothing but a great mess and a lot of blood. But there was no pain. When he looked down, he felt as though he were seeing something that did not belong to him. It had nothing to do with him. It was just a mess which happened to be there in the cockpit; something strange and unusual and rather interesting. It was like finding a dead cat on the sofa.

He really felt fine, and because he still felt fine, he felt excited and unafraid.

I won't even bother to call up on the radio for the blood wagon, he thought. It isn't necessary. And when I land I'll sit there quite normally and say, some of you fellows come and help me out, will you, because I've lost one of my legs. That will be funny. I'll laugh a little while I'm saying it; I'll say it calmly and slowly, and they'll think I'm joking. When Yorky comes up onto the wing and gets sick, I'll say, Yorky, you old son of a bitch, have you fixed my car yet? Then when I get out I'll make my report and later I'll go up to London. I'll take that half bottle of whisky with me and I'll give it to Bluey. We'll sit in her room and drink it. I'll get the water out of the bathroom tap. I won't say much until it's time to go to bed, then Ill say, Bluey, I've got a surprise for you. I lost a leg today. But I don't mind so long as you don't. It doesn't even hurt. We'll go everywhere in cars. I always hated walking, except when I walked down the street of the coppersmiths in Bagdad, but I could go in a rickshaw. I could go home and chop wood, but the head always flies off the ax. Hot water, that's what it needs; put it in the bath and make the handle swell. I chopped lots of wood last time I went home, and I put the ax in the bath. . . .

Then he saw the sun shining on the engine cowling of his machine. He saw the rivets in the metal, and he remembered where he was. He realized that he was no longer feeling good; that he was sick and giddy. His head kept falling forward onto his chest because his neck seemed no longer to have- any strength. But he knew that he was flying the Spitfire, and he could feel the handle of the stick between the fingers of his right hand.

I'm going to pass out, he thought. Any moment now I'm going to pass out.

He looked at his altimeter. Twenty-one thousand. To test himself he tried to read the hundreds as well as the thousands. Twenty-one thousand and what? As he looked the dial became blurred, and he could not even see the needle. He knew then that he must bail out; that there was not a second to lose, otherwise he would become unconscious. Quickly, frantically, he tried to slide back the hood with his left hand, but he had not the strength. For a second he took his right hand off the stick, and with both hands he managed to push the hood back. The rush of cold air on his face seemed to help. He had a moment of great clearness, and his actions became orderly and precise. That is what happens with a good pilot. He took some quick deep breaths from his oxygen mask, and as he did so, he looked out over the side of the cockpit. Down below there was only a vast white sea of cloud, and he realized that he did not know where he was.

It'll be the Channel, he thought. I'm sure to fall in the drink.

He throttled back, pulled off his helmet, undid his straps, and pushed the stick hard over to the left. The Spitfire dripped its port wing, and turned smoothly over onto its back. The pilot fell out.

As he fell he opened his eyes, because he knew that he must not pass out before he had pulled the cord. On one side he saw the sun; on the other he saw the whiteness of the clouds, and as he fell, as he somersaulted in the air, the white clouds chased the sun and the sun chased the clouds. They chased each other in a small circle; they ran faster and faster, and there was the sun and the clouds and the clouds and the sun, and the clouds came nearer until suddenly there was no longer any sun, but only a great whiteness. The whole world was white, and there was nothing in it. It was so white that sometimes it looked black, and after a time it was either white or black, but mostly it was white. He watched it as it turned from white to black, and then back to white again, and the white stayed for a long time, but the black lasted only for a few seconds. He got into the habit of going to sleep during the white periods, and of waking up just in time to see the world when it was black. But the black was very quick. Sometimes it was only a flash, like someone switching off the light, and switching it on again at once, and so whenever it was white, he dozed off.

One day, when it was white, he put out a hand and he touched something. He took it between his fingers and crumpled it. For a time he~lay there, idly letting the tips of his fingers play with the thing which they had touched. Then slowly he opened his eyes, looked down at his hand, and saw that he was holding something which was white. It was the edge of a sheet. He knew it was a sheet because he could see the texture of the material and the stitchings on the hem. He screwed up his eyes, and opened them again quickly. This time he saw the room. He saw the bed in which he was lying; he saw the grey walls and the door and the green curtains over the window. There were some roses on the table by his bed.

Then he saw the basin on the table near the roses. It was a white enamel basin, and beside it there was a small medicine glass.

This is a hospital, he thought. I am in a hospital. But he could remember nothing. He lay back on his pillow, looking at the ceiling and wondering what had happened. He was gazing at the smooth greyness of the ceiling which was so clean and gray, and then suddenly he saw a fly walking upon it. The sight of this fly, the suddenness of seeing this small black speck on a sea of gray, brushed the surface of his brain, and quickly, in that second, he remembered everything. He remembered the Spitfire and he remembered the altimeter showing twenty-one thousand feet. He remembered the pushing back of the hood with both hands, and he remembered the bailing out. He remembered his leg.

It seemed all right now. He looked down at the end of the bed, but he could not tell. He put one hand underneath the bedclothes and felt for his knees. He found one of them, but when he felt for the other, his hand touched something which was soft and covered in bandages.

Just then the door opened and a nurse came in.

"Hello," she said. "So you've waked up at last."

She was not good-looking, but she was large and clean. She was between thirty and forty and she had fair hair. More than that he did not notice.

"Where am I?"

"You're a lucky fellow. You landed in a wood near the beach. You're in Brighton. They brought you in two days ago, and now you're all fixed up. You look fine."

"I've lost a leg," he said.

"That's nothing. We'll get you another one. Now you must go to sleep. The doctor will be coming to see you in about an hour." She picked up the basin and the medicine glass and went out.

But he did not sleep. He wanted to keep his eyes open because he was frightened that if he shut them again everything would go away. He lay looking at the ceiling. The fly was still there. It was very energetic. It would run forward very fast for a few inches, then it would stop. Then it would run forward again, stop, run forward, stop, and every now and then it would take off and buzz around viciously in small circles. It always landed back in the same place on the ceiling and started running and stopping all over again. He watched it for so long that after a while it was no longer a fly, but only a black speck upon a sea of gray, and he was still watching it when the nurse opened the door, and stood aside while the doctor came in. He was an Army doctor, a major, and he had some last war ribbons on his chest. He was bald and small, but he had a cheerful face and kind eyes.

"Well, well," he said. "So you've decided to wake up at last. How are you feeling?"

"I feel all right."

"That's the stuff. You'll be up and about in no time."

The doctor took his wrist to feel his pulse.

"By the way," he said, "some of the lads from your squadron were ringing up and asking about you. They wanted to come along and see you, but I said that they'd better wait a day or two. Told them you were all right, and that they could come and see you a little later on. Just lie quiet and take it easy for a bit. Got something to read?" He glanced at the table with the roses. "No. Well, nurse will look after you. She'll get you anything you want." With that he waved his hand and went out, followed by the large clean nurse.

When they had gone, he lay back and looked at the ceiling again. The fly was still there and as he lay watching it he heard the noise of an airplane in the distance. He lay listening to the sound of its engines. It was a long way away. I wonder what it is, he thought. Let me see if I can place it. Suddenly he jerked his head sharply to one side. Anyone who has been bombed can tell the noise of a Junkers 88. They can tell most other German bombers for that matter, but especially a Junkers 88. The engines seem to sing a duet. There is a deep vibrating bass voice and with it there is a high pitched tenor. It is the singing of the tenor which makes the sound of a JU-88 something which one cannot mistake.

He lay listening to the noise, and he felt quite certain about what it was. But where were the sirens, and where the guns? That German pilot certainly had a nerve coming near Brighton alone in daylight.

The aircraft was always far away, and soon the noise faded away into the distance. Later on there was another. This one, too, was far away, but there was the same deep undulating bass and the high singing tenor, and there was no mistaking it. He had heard that noise every day during the battle.

He was puzzled. There was a bell on the table by the bed. He reached out his hand and rang it. He heard the noise of footsteps down the corridor, and the nurse came in.

"Nurse, what were those airplanes?"

"I'm sure I don't know. I didn't hear them. Probably fighters or bombers. I expect they were returning from France. Why, what's the matter?"

"They were JU-88's. I'm sure they were JU-88's. I know the sound of the engines. There were two of them. What were they doing over here?"

The nurse came up to the side of his bed and began to straighten out the sheets and tuck them in under the mattress.

"Gracious me, what things you imagine. You mustn't worry about a thing like that. Would you like me to get you something to read?"

"No, thank you."

She patted his pillow and brushed back the hair from his forehead with her hand.

"They never come over in daylight any longer. You know that. They were probably Lancasters or Flying Fortresses."

"Nurse."

"Yes."

"Could I have a cigarette?"

"Why certainly you can."

She went out and came back almost at once with a packet of Players and some matches. She handed one to him and when he had put it in his mouth, she struck a match and lit it.

"If you want me again," she said, "just ring the bell," and she went out.

Once toward evening he heard the noise of another aircraft. It was far away, but even so he knew that it was a single-engined machine. But he could not place it. It was going fast; he could tell that. But it wasn't a Spit, and it wasn't a Hurricane. It did not sound like an American engine either. They make more noise. He did not know what it was, and it worried him greatly. Perhaps I am very ill, he thought. Perhaps I am imagining things. Perhaps I am a little delirious. I simply do not know what to think.

That evening the nurse came in with a basin of hot water and began to wash him.

"Well," she said, "I hope you don't still think that we're being bombed."

She had taken off his pajama top and was soaping his right arm with a flannel. He did not answer.

She rinsed the flannel in the water, rubbed more soap on it, and began to wash his chest.

"You're looking fine this evening," she said. "They operated on you as soon as you came in. They did a marvelous job. You'll be all right. I've got a brother in the RAF," she added. "Flying bombers."

He said, "I went to school in Brighton."

She looked up quickly. "Well, that's fine," she said. "I expect you'll know some people in the town."

"Yes," he said, "I know quite a few."

She had finished washing his chest and arms, and now she turned back the bedclothes, so that his left leg was uncovered. She did it in such a way that his bandaged stump remained under the sheets. She undid the cord of his pajama trousers and took them off. There was no trouble because they had cut off the right trouser leg, so that it could not interfere with the bandages. She began to wash his left leg and the rest of his body. This was the first time he had had a bed bath, and he was embarrassed. She laid a towel under his leg, and she was washing his foot with the flannel. She said, "This wretched soap won't lather at all. It's the water. It's as hard as nails."

He said, "None of the soap is very good now and, of course, with hard water it's hopeless." As he said it he remembered something. He remembered the baths which he used to take at school in Brighton, in the long stone-floored bathroom which had four baths in a room. He remembered how the water was so soft that you had to take a shower afterwards to get all the soap off your body, and he remembered how the foam used to float on the surface of the water, so that you could not see your legs underneath. He remembered that sometimes they were given calcium tablets because the school doctor used to say that soft water was bad for the teeth.

"In Brighton," he said, "the water isn't . . ."

He did not finish the sentence. Something had occurred to him; something so fantastic and absurd that for a moment he felt like telling the nurse about it and having a good laugh.

She looked up. "The water isn't what?" she said.

"Nothing," he answered. "I was dreaming.

She rinsed the flannel in the basin, wiped the soap off his leg, and dried him with a towel.

"It's nice to be washed," he said. "I feel better." He was feeling his face with his hands. "I need a shave."

"We'll do that tomorrow," she said. "Perhaps you can do it yourself then."

That night he could not sleep. He lay awake thinking of the Junkers 88's and of the hardness of the water. He could think of nothing else. They were JU-88's, he said to himself. I know they were. And yet it is not possible, because they would not be flying around so low over here in broad daylight. I know that it is true, and yet I know that it is impossible. Perhaps I am ill. Perhaps I am behaving like a fool and do not know what I am doing or saying. Perhaps I am delirious. For a long time he lay awake thinking these things, and once he sat up in bed and said aloud, "I will prove that I am not crazy. I will make a little speech about something complicated and intellectual. I will talk about what to do with Germany after the war." But before he had time to begin, he was asleep.

He woke just as the first light of day was showing through the slit in the curtains over the window. The room was still dark, but he could tell that it was already beginning to get light outside. He lay looking at the grey light which was showing through the slit in the curtain, and as he lay there he remembered the day before. He remembered the Junkers 88's and the hardness of the water; he remembered the large pleasant nurse and the kind doctor, and now the small grain of doubt took root in his mind and it began to grow.

He looked around the room. The nurse had taken the roses out the night before, and there was nothing except the table with a packet of cigarettes, a box of matches and an ash tray. Otherwise, it was bare. It was no longer warm or friendly. It was not even comfortable. It was cold and empty and very quiet.

Slowly the grain of doubt grew, and with it came fear, a light, dancing fear that warned but did not frighten; the kind of fear that one gets not because one is afraid, but because one feels that there is something wrong. Quickly the doubt and the fear grew so that he became restless and angry, and when he touched his forehead with his hand, he found that it was damp with sweat. He knew then that he must do something; that he must find some way of proving to himself that he was either right or wrong, and he looked up and saw again the window and the green curtains. From where he lay, that window was right in front of him, but it was fully ten yards away. Somehow he must reach it and look out. The idea became an obsession with him, and soon he could think of nothing except the window. But what about his leg? He put his hand underneath the bedclothes and felt the thick bandaged stump which was all that was left on the right-hand side. It seemed all right. It didn't hurt. But it would not be easy.

He sat up. Then he pushed the bedclothes aside and put his left leg on the floor. Slowly, carefully, he swung his body over until he had both hands on the floor as well; and then he was out of bed, kneeling on the carpet. He looked at the stump. It was very short and thick, covered with bandages. It was beginning to hurt and he could feel it throbbing. He wanted to collapse, lie down on the carpet and do nothing, but he knew that he must go on.

With two arms and one leg, he crawled over towards the window. He would reach forward as far as he could with his arms, then he would give a little jump and slide his left leg along after them. Each time he did, it jarred his wound so that he gave a soft grunt of pain, but he continued to crawl across the floor on two hands and one knee. When he got to the window he reached up, and one at a time he placed both hands on the sill. Slowly he raised himself up until he was standing on his left leg. Then quickly he pushed aside the curtains and looked out.

He saw a small house with a gray tiled roof standing alone beside a narrow lane, and immediately behind it there was a plowed field. In front of the house there was an untidy gar- den, and there was a green hedge separating the garden from the lane. He was looking at the hedge when he saw the sign. It was just a piece of board nailed to the top of a short pole, and because the hedge had not been trimmed for a long time, the branches had grown out around the sign so that it seemed almost as though it had been placed in the middle of the hedge. There was something written on the board with white paint, and he pressed his head against the glass of the window, trying to read what it said. The first letter was a G, he could see that. The second was an A, and the third was an R. One after another he man- aged to see what the letters were. There were three words, and slowly he spelled the letters out aloud to himself as he managed to read them. G-A-R-D-E A-U C-H-I-E-N. Garde au chien. That is what it said.

He stood there balancing on one leg and holding tightly to the edges of the window sill with his hands, staring at the sign and at the whitewashed lettering of the words. For a moment he could think of nothing at all. He stood there looking at the sign, repeating the words over and over to himself, and then slowly he began to realize the full meaning of the thing. He looked up at the cottage and at the plowed field. He looked at the small orchard on the left of the cottage and he looked at the green countryside beyond. "So this is France," he said. "I am France."

Now the throbbing in his right thigh was very great. It felt as though someone was pounding the end of his stump with a hammer, and suddenly the pain became so intense that it affected his head and for a moment he thought he was going to fall. Quickly he knelt down again, crawled back to the bed and hoisted himself in. He pulled the bedclothes over himself and lay back on the pillow, exhausted. He could still think of nothing at all except the small sign by the hedge, and the plowed field and the orchard. It was the words on the sign that he could not forget.

It was some time before the nurse came in. She came carrying a basin of hot water and she said, "Good morning, how are you today?"

He said, "Good morning, nurse."

The pain was still great under the bandages, but he did not wish to tell this woman anything. He looked at her as she busied herself with getting the washing things ready. He looked at her more carefully now. Her hair was very fair. She was tall and big-boned, end her face seemed pleasant. But there was something a little uneasy about her eyes. They were never still. They never looked at anything for more than a moment and they moved too quickly from one place to another in the room. There was something about her movements also. They were too sharp and nervous to go well with the casual manner in which she spoke.

She set down the basin, took off his pajama top and began to wash him.

"Did you sleep well?"

"Yes."

"Good," she said. She was washing his arms and his chest.

"I believe there's someone coming down to see you from the Air Ministry after breakfast," she went on. "They want a report or something. I expect you know all about it. How you got shot down and all that. I won't let him stay long, so don't worry."

He did not answer. She finished washing him, and gave him a toothbrush and some tooth powder. He brushed his teeth, rinsed his mouth and spat the water out into the basin.

Later she brought him his breakfast on a tray, but he did not want to eat. He was still feeling weak and sick, and he wished only to lie still and think about what had happened. And there was a sentence running through his head. It was a sentence which Johnny, the Intelligence Officer of his squadron, always repeated to the pilots every day before they went out. He could see Johnny now, leaning against the wall of the dispersal hut with his pipe in his hand, saying, "And if they get you, don't forget, just your name, rank and number. Nothing else. For God's sake, say nothing else."

"There you are," she said as she put the tray on his lap. "I've got you an egg. Can you manage all right?"

"Yes."

She stood beside the bed. "Are you feeling all right?"

"Yes."

"Good. If you want another egg I might be able to get you one."

"This is all right."

"Well, just ring the bell if you want any more." And she went out.

He had just finished eating, when the nurse came in again.

She said, "Wing Commander Roberts is here. I've told him that he can only stay for a few minutes."

She beckoned with her hand and the Wing Commander came in.

"Sorry to bother you like this," he said.

He was an ordinary RAF officer, dressed in a uniform which was a little shabby, and he wore wings and a DFC. He was fairly tall and thin with plenty of black hair. His teeth, which were irregular and widely spaced, stuck out a little even when he closed his mouth. As he spoke he took a printed form and a pencil from his pocket, and he pulled up a chair and sat down.

"How are you feeling?"

There was no answer.

"Tough luck about your leg. I know how you feel. I hear you put up a fine show before they got you."

The man in the bed was lying quite still, watching the man in the chair.

The man in the chair said, "Well, let's get this stuff over. I'm afraid you'll have to answer a few questions so that I can fill in this combat report. Let me see now, first of all, what was your squadron?"

The man in the bed did not move. He looked straight at the Wing Commander and he said, "My name is Peter Williamson. My rank is Squadron Leader and my number is nine seven two four five seven."

znam da sam lame, ali -- all time favorite mrs. jackson...


The Lottery

by SHIRLEY JACKSON


The morning of June 27th was clear and sunny, with the fresh warmth of a full-summer day; the flowers were blossoming profusely and the grass was richly green. The people of the village began to gather in the square, between the post office and the bank, around ten o'clock; in some towns there were so many people that the lottery took two days and had to be started on June 2th. but in this village, where there were only about three hundred people, the whole lottery took less than two hours, so it could begin at ten o'clock in the morning and still be through in time to allow the villagers to get home for noon dinner.

The children assembled first, of course. School was recently over for the summer, and the feeling of liberty sat uneasily on most of them; they tended to gather together quietly for a while before they broke into boisterous play. and their talk was still of the classroom and the teacher, of books and reprimands. Bobby Martin had already stuffed his pockets full of stones, and the other boys soon followed his example, selecting the smoothest and roundest stones; Bobby and Harry Jones and Dickie Delacroix-- the villagers pronounced this name "Dellacroy"--eventually made a great pile of stones in one corner of the square and guarded it against the raids of the other boys. The klix stood aside, talking among themselves, looking over their shoulders at rolled in the dust or clung to the hands of their older brothers or sisters.

Soon the men began to gather. surveying their own children, speaking of planting and rain, tractors and taxes. They stood together, away from the pile of stones in the corner, and their jokes were quiet and they smiled rather than laughed. The women, wearing faded house dresses and sweaters, came shortly after their menfolk. They greeted one another and exchanged bits of gossip as they went to join their husbands. Soon the women, standing by their husbands, began to call to their children, and the children came reluctantly, having to be called four or five times. Bobby Martin ducked under his mother's grasping hand and ran, laughing, back to the pile of stones. His father spoke up sharply, and Bobby came quickly and took his place between his father and his oldest brother.

The lottery was conducted--as were the square dances, the teen club, the Halloween program--by Mr. Summers. who had time and energy to devote to civic activities. He was a round-faced, jovial man and he ran the coal business, and people were sorry for him. because he had no children and his wife was a scold. When he arrived in the square, carrying the black wooden box, there was a murmur of conversation among the villagers, and he waved and called. "Little late today, folks." The postmaster, Mr. Graves, followed him, carrying a three- legged stool, and the stool was put in the center of the square and Mr. Summers set the black box down on it. The villagers kept their distance, leaving a space between themselves and the stool. and when Mr. Summers said, "Some of you fellows want to give me a hand?" there was a hesitation before two men. Mr. Martin and his oldest son, Baxter. came forward to hold the box steady on the stool while Mr. Summers stirred up the papers inside it.

The original paraphernalia for the lottery had been lost long ago, and the black box now resting on the stool had been put into use even before Old Man Warner, the oldest man in town, was born. Mr. Summers spoke frequently to the villagers about making a new box, but no one liked to upset even as much tradition as was represented by the black box. There was a story that the present box had been made with some pieces of the box that had preceded it, the one that had been constructed when the first people settled down to make a village here. Every year, after the lottery, Mr. Summers began talking again about a new box, but every year the subject was allowed to fade off without anything's being done. The black box grew shabbier each year: by now it was no longer completely black but splintered badly along one side to show the original wood color, and in some places faded or stained.

Mr. Martin and his oldest son, Baxter, held the black box securely on the stool until Mr. Summers had stirred the papers thoroughly with his hand. Because so much of the ritual had been forgotten or discarded, Mr. Summers had been successful in having slips of paper substituted for the chips of wood that had been used for generations. Chips of wood, Mr. Summers had argued. had been all very well when the village was klix, but now that the population was more than three hundred and likely to keep on growing, it was necessary to use something that would fit more easily into he black box. The night before the lottery, Mr. Summers and Mr. Graves made up the slips of paper and put them in the box, and it was then taken to the safe of Mr. Summers' coal company and locked up until Mr. Summers was ready to take it to the square next morning. The rest of the year, the box was put way, sometimes one place, sometimes another; it had spent one year in Mr. Graves's barn and another year underfoot in the post office. and sometimes it was set on a shelf in the Martin grocery and left there.

There was a great deal of fussing to be done before Mr. Summers declared the lottery open. There were the lists to make up--of heads of families. heads of households in each family. members of each household in each family. There was the proper swearing-in of Mr. Summers by the postmaster, as the official of the lottery; at one time, some people remembered, there had been a recital of some sort, performed by the official of the lottery, a perfunctory. tuneless chant that had been rattled off duly each year; some people believed that the official of the lottery used to stand just so when he said or sang it, others believed that he was supposed to walk among the people, but years and years ago this p3rt of the ritual had been allowed to lapse. There had been, also, a ritual salute, which the official of the lottery had had to use in addressing each person who came up to draw from the box, but this also had changed with time, until now it was felt necessary only for the official to speak to each person approaching. Mr. Summers was very good at all this; in his clean white shirt and blue jeans. with one hand resting carelessly on the black box. he seemed very proper and important as he talked interminably to Mr. Graves and the Martins.

Just as Mr. Summers finally left off talking and turned to the assembled villagers, Mrs. Hutchinson came hurriedly along the path to the square, her sweater thrown over her shoulders, and slid into place in the back of the crowd. "Clean forgot what day it was," she said to Mrs. Delacroix, who stood next to her, and they both laughed softly. "Thought my old man was out back stacking wood," Mrs. Hutchinson went on. "and then I looked out the window and the kids was gone, and then I remembered it was the twenty-seventh and came a-running." She dried her hands on her apron, and Mrs. Delacroix said, "You're in time, though. They're still talking away up there."

Mrs. Hutchinson craned her neck to see through the crowd and found her husband and children standing near the front. She tapped Mrs. Delacroix on the arm as a farewell and began to make her way through the crowd. The people separated good-humoredly to let her through: two or three people said. in voices just loud enough to be heard across the crowd, "Here comes your, Missus, Hutchinson," and "Bill, she made it after all." Mrs. Hutchinson reached her husband, and Mr. Summers, who had been waiting, said cheerfully. "Thought we were going to have to get on without you, Tessie." Mrs. Hutchinson said. grinning, "Wouldn't have me leave m'dishes in the sink, now, would you. Joe?," and soft laughter ran through the crowd as the people stirred back into position after Mrs. Hutchinson's arrival.

"Well, now." Mr. Summers said soberly, "guess we better get started, get this over with, so's we can go back to work. Anybody ain't here?"

"Dunbar." several people said. "Dunbar. Dunbar."

Mr. Summers consulted his list. "Clyde Dunbar." he said. "That's right. He's broke his leg, hasn't he? Who's drawing for him?"

"Me. I guess," a woman said. and Mr. Summers turned to look at her. "Wife draws for her husband." Mr. Summers said. "Don't you have a grown boy to do it for you, Janey?" Although Mr. Summers and everyone else in the village knew the answer perfectly well, it was the business of the official of the lottery to ask such questions formally. Mr. Summers waited with an expression of polite interest while Mrs. Dunbar answered.

"Horace's not but sixteen vet." Mrs. Dunbar said regretfully. "Guess I gotta fill in for the old man this year."

"Right." Sr. Summers said. He made a note on the list he was holding. Then he asked, "Watson boy drawing this year?"

A tall boy in the crowd raised his hand. "Here," he said. "I m drawing for my mother and me." He blinked his eyes nervously and ducked his head as several voices in the crowd said thin#s like "Good fellow, lack." and "Glad to see your mother's got a man to do it."

"Well," Mr. Summers said, "guess that's everyone. Old Man Warner make it?"

"Here," a voice said. and Mr. Summers nodded.

A sudden hush fell on the crowd as Mr. Summers cleared his throat and looked at the list. "All ready?" he called. "Now, I'll read the names--heads of families first--and the men come up and take a paper out of the box. Keep the paper folded in your hand without looking at it until everyone has had a turn. Everything clear?"

The people had done it so many times that they only half listened to the directions: most of them were quiet. wetting their lips. not looking around. Then Mr. Summers raised one hand high and said, "Adams." A man disengaged himself from the crowd and came forward. "Hi. Steve." Mr. Summers said. and Mr. Adams said. "Hi. Joe." They grinned at one another humorlessly and nervously. Then Mr. Adams reached into the black box and took out a folded paper. He held it firmly by one corner as he turned and went hastily back to his place in the crowd. where he stood a little apart from his family. not looking down at his hand.

"Allen." Mr. Summers said. "Anderson.... Bentham."

"Seems like there's no time at all between lotteries any more." Mrs. Delacroix said to Mrs. Graves in the back row.

"Seems like we got through with the last one only last week."

"Time sure goes fast.-- Mrs. Graves said.

"Clark.... Delacroix"

"There goes my old man." Mrs. Delacroix said. She held her breath while her husband went forward.

"Dunbar," Mr. Summers said, and Mrs. Dunbar went steadily to the box while one of the women said. "Go on. Janey," and another said, "There she goes."

"We're next." Mrs. Graves said. She watched while Mr. Graves came around from the side of the box, greeted Mr. Summers gravely and selected a slip of paper from the box. By now, all through the crowd there were men holding the small folded papers in their large hand. turning them over and over nervously Mrs. Dunbar and her two sons stood together, Mrs. Dunbar holding the slip of paper.

"Harburt.... Hutchinson."

"Get up there, Bill," Mrs. Hutchinson said. and the people near her laughed.

"Jones."

"They do say," Mr. Adams said to Old Man Warner, who stood next to him, "that over in the north village they're talking of giving up the lottery."

Old Man Warner snorted. "Pack of crazy fools," he said. "Listening to the young folks, nothing's good enough for them. Next thing you know, they'll be wanting to go back to living in caves, nobody work any more, live hat way for a while. Used to be a saying about 'Lottery in June, corn be heavy soon.' First thing you know, we'd all be eating stewed chickweed and acorns. There's always been a lottery," he added petulantly. "Bad enough to see young Joe Summers up there joking with everybody."

"Some places have already quit lotteries." Mrs. Adams said.

"Nothing but trouble in that," Old Man Warner said stoutly. "Pack of young fools."

"Martin." And Bobby Martin watched his father go forward. "Overdyke.... Percy."

"I wish they'd hurry," Mrs. Dunbar said to her older son. "I wish they'd hurry."

"They're almost through," her son said.

"You get ready to run tell Dad," Mrs. Dunbar said.

Mr. Summers called his own name and then stepped forward precisely and selected a slip from the box. Then he called, "Warner."

"Seventy-seventh year I been in the lottery," Old Man Warner said as he went through the crowd. "Seventy-seventh time."

"Watson" The tall boy came awkwardly through the crowd. Someone said, "Don't be nervous, Jack," and Mr. Summers said, "Take your time, son."

"Zanini."

After that, there was a long pause, a breathless pause, until Mr. Summers. holding his slip of paper in the air, said, "All right, fellows." For a minute, no one moved, and then all the slips of paper were opened. Suddenly, all the women began to speak at once, saving. "Who is it?," "Who's got it?," "Is it the Dunbars?," "Is it the Watsons?" Then the voices began to say, "It's Hutchinson. It's Bill," "Bill Hutchinson's got it."

"Go tell your father," Mrs. Dunbar said to her older son.

People began to look around to see the Hutchinsons. Bill Hutchinson was standing quiet, staring down at the paper in his hand. Suddenly. Tessie Hutchinson shouted to Mr. Summers. "You didn't give him time enough to take any paper he wanted. I saw you. It wasn't fair!"

"Be a good sport, Tessie." Mrs. Delacroix called, and Mrs. Graves said, "All of us took the same chance."

"Shut up, Tessie," Bill Hutchinson said.

"Well, everyone," Mr. Summers said, "that was done pretty fast, and now we've got to be hurrying a little more to get done in time." He consulted his next list. "Bill," he said, "you draw for the Hutchinson family. You got any other households in the Hutchinsons?"

"There's Don and Eva," Mrs. Hutchinson yelled. "Make them take their chance!"

"Daughters draw with their husbands' families, Tessie," Mr. Summers said gently. "You know that as well as anyone else."

"It wasn't fair," Tessie said.

"I guess not, Joe." Bill Hutchinson said regretfully. "My daughter draws with her husband's family; that's only fair. And I've got no other family except the kids."

"Then, as far as drawing for families is concerned, it's you," Mr. Summers said in explanation, "and as far as drawing for households is concerned, that's you, too. Right?"

"Right," Bill Hutchinson said.

"How many kids, Bill?" Mr. Summers asked formally.

"Three," Bill Hutchinson said.

"There's Bill, Jr., and Nancy, and little Dave. And Tessie and me."

"All right, then," Mr. Summers said. "Harry, you got their tickets back?"

Mr. Graves nodded and held up the slips of paper. "Put them in the box, then," Mr. Summers directed. "Take Bill's and put it in."

"I think we ought to start over," Mrs. Hutchinson said, as quietly as she could. "I tell you it wasn't fair. You didn't give him time enough to choose. Everybody saw that."

Mr. Graves had selected the five slips and put them in the box. and he dropped all the papers but those onto the ground. where the breeze caught them and lifted them off.

"Listen, everybody," Mrs. Hutchinson was saying to the people around her.

"Ready, Bill?" Mr. Summers asked. and Bill Hutchinson, with one quick glance around at his wife and children. nodded.

"Remember," Mr. Summers said. "take the slips and keep them folded until each person has taken one. Harry, you help little Dave." Mr. Graves took the hand of the little boy, who came willingly with him up to the box. "Take a paper out of the box, Davy." Mr. Summers said. Davy put his hand into the box and laughed. "Take just one paper." Mr. Summers said. "Harry, you hold it for him." Mr. Graves took the child's hand and removed the folded paper from the tight fist and held it while little Dave stood next to him and looked up at him wonderingly.

"Nancy next," Mr. Summers said. Nancy was twelve, and her school friends breathed heavily as she went forward switching her skirt, and took a slip daintily from the box "Bill, Jr.," Mr. Summers said, and Billy, his face red and his feet overlarge, near knocked the box over as he got a paper out. "Tessie," Mr. Summers said. She hesitated for a minute, looking around defiantly. and then set her lips and went up to the box. She snatched a paper out and held it behind her.

"Bill," Mr. Summers said, and Bill Hutchinson reached into the box and felt around, bringing his hand out at last with the slip of paper in it.

The crowd was quiet. A girl whispered, "I hope it's not Nancy," and the sound of the whisper reached the edges of the crowd.

"It's not the way it used to be." Old Man Warner said clearly. "People ain't the way they used to be."

"All right," Mr. Summers said. "Open the papers. Harry, you open little Dave's."

Mr. Graves opened the slip of paper and there was a general sigh through the crowd as he held it up and everyone could see that it was blank. Nancy and Bill. Jr.. opened theirs at the same time. and both beamed and laughed. turning around to the crowd and holding their slips of paper above their heads.

"Tessie," Mr. Summers said. There was a pause, and then Mr. Summers looked at Bill Hutchinson, and Bill unfolded his paper and showed it. It was blank.

"It's Tessie," Mr. Summers said, and his voice was hushed. "Show us her paper. Bill."

Bill Hutchinson went over to his wife and forced the slip of paper out of her hand. It had a black spot on it, the black spot Mr. Summers had made the night before with the heavy pencil in the coal company office. Bill Hutchinson held it up, and there was a stir in the crowd.

"All right, folks." Mr. Summers said. "Let's finish quickly."

Although the villagers had forgotten the ritual and lost the original black box, they still remembered to use stones. The pile of stones the boys had made earlier was ready; there were stones on the ground with the blowing scraps of paper that had come out of the box Delacroix selected a stone so large she had to pick it up with both hands and turned to Mrs. Dunbar. "Come on," she said. "Hurry up."

Mr. Dunbar had small stones in both hands, and she said. gasping for breath. "I can't run at all. You'll have to go ahead and I'll catch up with you."

The children had stones already. And someone gave little Davy Hutchinson few pebbles.

Tessie Hutchinson was in the center of a cleared space by now, and she held her hands out desperately as the villagers moved in on her. "It isn't fair," she said. A stone hit her on the side of the head. Old Man Warner was saying, "Come on, come on, everyone." Steve Adams was in the front of the crowd of villagers, with Mrs. Graves beside him.

"It isn't fair, it isn't right," Mrs. Hutchinson screamed, and then they were upon her.

'ta koJutas?

POEZIJU CE SVI PISATI

san je davna i zaboravljena istina
koju vise niko ne ume da proveri
sada tudjina peva ko more i zabrinutost
istok je zapadno od zapada lazno kretanje je najbrze
sada pevaju mudrost i ptice moje zapustene bolesti

cvet izmedju pepela i mirisa
oni koji odbijaju da prezive ljubav
i ljubavnici koji vracaju vreme unazad
vrt cije mirise zemlja ne prepoznaje
i zemlja koja ostaje verna smrti
jer svet ovaj suncu nije jedina briga

ali jednog dana
tamo gde je bilo srce stajace sunce
i nece biti u ljudskom govoru takvih reci
kojih ce se pesma odreci
poeziju ce svi pisati
istina ce prisustvovati u svi recima
na mestima gde je pesma najlepsa
onaj koji je prvi zapevao povuci ce se
prepustajuci pesmu drugima
ja prihvatam veliku misao buducih poetika:
jedan srecan covek ne moze biti pesnik
ja primam na sebe osudu propevale gomile:
ko ne ume da slusa pesmu slusace oluju

ali:

hoce li sloboda umeti da peva
kao sto su suznji pevali o njoj








EPITAF
Ubi me prejaka rec

InfraRedRidinghood wrote:Bilo

I potpiši Brankeca

e ne znam sad sta je bilo napamet a valjda se zna ko je

brankecomanija

BALADA

Mudrosti, neiskusno svicu zore.
Na obicne rijeci vise nemam pravo!
Moje se srce gasi, oci gore.
Pevajte, divni starci, dok nad glavom
rasprskavaju se zvezde kao metafore!
Sto je visoko, iscezne, sto je nisko, istruli.
Ptico, dovescu te do reci. Al vrati
pozajmljeni plamen. Pepeo ne huli.
U tudjem smo srcu svoje srce culi.
Isto je pjevati i umirati.

Sunce je rec koja ne ume da sija.
Savest ne ume da peva, jer se boji
osetljive praznine. Kradljivci vizija,
orlovi, iznutra kljuju me. Ja stojim
prikovan za stenu koja ne postoji.
Zvezdama smo potpisali prevaru
nevidljive moci, tim crnje. Upamti
Taj pad u zivot kao dokaz tvom zaru.
Kad mastilo sazre u krv, svi ce znati
da isto je pevati i umirati.

Mudrosti, jaci ce prvi posustati!
Samo nitkovi znaju sta je poezija,
kradljivci vatre nimalo umiljati,
Vezani za jarbol ladje koju prati
podvodna pesma javom opasnija.
Onesvesceno sunce u zrelom vocu ce znati
da zameni poljubac sto pepeo odmara.
Al niko posle nas nece imati
snagu koja se slavujima udvara.
Kad isto je pevati i umirati.

Smrtonosan je zivot, al smrti odoleva.
Jedna strasna bolest po meni ce se zvati.
Mnogo smo patili. I, evo, sad peva
pripitomljeni pakao. Nek srce ne okleva,
Isto je pevati i umirati.

F.G. Lorca

Neverna žena



I povedoh nju do reke,
devojkom je smatrajuci,
no, udata ona beše.
Zbilo se na Svetog Jaga,
u podesno nocno vreme,
kad pogase fenjeri se
i zrikavci kad zasvetle.
Na izmaku krajnjih kuca
dodirnuh joj grudi snene,
što se odmah rascvetaše
ko zumbula kite jedre.
I šumeli nabori su
uštirkane suknje njene
kao komad svile što,
od oštrica deset secen.
S krunama bez srebra sjajnog
naraslo je sve drvece,
dok lajaše vidik pasa
u daljini, preko reke.
Kad predosmo glog i trske
i kupina oštre vreže,
od njezine pundje osta
na tlu blatnom udubljenje.
I ja na to mašnu skidoh,
ona haljinu sa sebe,
ja - opasac s revolverom,
ona - prslnik sav izvezen.
Ni smilje ni školjke morske
nisu takve puti nežne,
ni kristali na mesecu
takvim sjajem ne trepere.
Bedra njena bežahu mi
kao ribe uplašene,
do pola hladnoce pune
a od pola osvetljene.
I po putu najboljemu
jezdio sam noci cele,
bez stremena i bez uzde,
vrh omice te sedefne.
Ne želim, jer covek jesam,
da pomenem šta mi rece,
pamet zdrava nalaže mi
da se time ne razmecem.
Prljavu od poljubaca
i peska, nju ponesoh s reke;
dok se s vetrom macevahu
ljiljanove sablje bele.
Pokazah se kao pravi
Ciganin što zna ko jeste.
Ja poklonih kotaricu
Njoj od trske ispletene,
Al u nju se ne zaljubih,
jer udata mada beše,
kaza mi da devojka je
kad povedoh nju do reke.

ovo sam davno postirala, kakve su ovo plagijaze...

InfraRedRidinghood wrote:Treba sadržaj napraviti

sad provjerih, bila je ipak druga tema ali slicna ovoj...

mada me malo stra' ovih koincidencija...

danas wrote:

InfraRedRidinghood wrote:Treba sadržaj napraviti

sad provjerih, bila je ipak druga tema ali slicna ovoj...

mada me malo stra' ovih koincidencija...

uff, ovo mi je zbog onih machaka, sto-posto :P:D:D:D:D:D

ne bih sigurno rado da ponavljam (mada u principu nemam nishta protiv utvrdjivanja gradiva :D:D) al shta cu kad mi je lorca danas lego ko budali shamar a i nemam u glavi bash sve postove sa prethodnih stranica

nego @danas: mani se ti tog tvog, udaj se za mene, ne mozhe ovo biti sluchajnost :P:D:D:D

lady midnight wrote:

danas wrote:

InfraRedRidinghood wrote:Treba sadržaj napraviti

sad provjerih, bila je ipak druga tema ali slicna ovoj...

mada me malo stra' ovih koincidencija...

uff, ovo mi je zbog onih machaka, sto-posto :P:D:D:D:D:D

ne bih sigurno rado da ponavljam (mada u principu nemam nishta protiv utvrdjivanja gradiva :D:D) al shta cu kad mi je lorca danas lego ko budali shamar a i nemam u glavi bash sve postove sa prethodnih stranica

nego @danas: mani se ti tog tvog, udaj se za mene, ne mozhe ovo biti sluchajnost :P:D:D:D

ja cu biti konkretniji:

udajte se sve tri za me!

rikardoreis wrote:

lady midnight wrote:

danas wrote: sad provjerih, bila je ipak druga tema ali slicna ovoj...

mada me malo stra' ovih koincidencija...

uff, ovo mi je zbog onih machaka, sto-posto :P:D:D:D:D:D

ne bih sigurno rado da ponavljam (mada u principu nemam nishta protiv utvrdjivanja gradiva :D:D) al shta cu kad mi je lorca danas lego ko budali shamar a i nemam u glavi bash sve postove sa prethodnih stranica

nego @danas: mani se ti tog tvog, udaj se za mene, ne mozhe ovo biti sluchajnost :P:D:D:D

ja cu biti konkretniji:

udajte se sve tri za me!

samo ako sam JA hanuma broj 1 i nadju cetvrtu, pa da userijatimo kako treba

PS lady -- ne znam, krenule ove koincidencije jucer okacih ee cummingsa dvije sekunde prije infre, a ova mi je najdraza od lorke, prevod je fantastican, mozda me se zato tako dojmila...

dan je kao sunčan
ti si kao veseo
prolaziš kao ne vide te

svima je kao lijepo
svima je kao dobro
svima je kao ludo

i ti si kao sretan

živi se kao u miru
ptice su kao slobodne
budućnost kao na dlanu

savjest je kao čista
i sunce je kao jasno
o srce kao pjevaj

svi kao brinu o svima
svatko je prijatelj kao
svima je kao stalo
do tebe
i do svijeta

i dan kao sviće
i ti se kao smiješiš
i ništa te kao ne boli

KIŠEVIĆ

Safe Sex by Donald Hall


If he and she do not know each other, and feel confident
they will not meet again; if he avoids affectionate words;
if she has grown insensible skin under skin; if they desire
only the tribute of another’s cry; if they employ each other
as revenge on old lovers or families of entitlement and steel—
then there will be no betrayals, no letters returned unread,
no frenzy, no hurled words of permanent humiliation,
no trembling days, no vomit at midnight, no repeated
apparition of a body floating face-down at the pond’s edge

ovo je maksus za infru, neshto mi govori da joj pratchett nije stran

nisam mogla da nadjem nijedan odlomak iz pricha, mada bih rado postirala... recimo neshto iz wyrd sisters

Terry Pratchett

Ode to Multiple Universes

I do have worlds enough and time
to spare an hour to find a rhyme

to take a week to pen an article
a day to find a rhyme for 'particle'.

In many worlds my time is free
to spend ten minutes over tea

And steal the time from some far moon
so words can take all afternoon,

Away beyond the speed of light
I'll write a novel in one night.

Aeons beckon, if I want 'em...
...but I can't have em', 'cos of Quantum

:D

Sahib ili Impresije iz depresije, Nenad Velickovic
roman, Feral Tribune 2001.

Pisma ljubavniku u London evropskog administrativca na službi u Sarajevu. Ko smo, ko su, i ko šta i kako radi u dejtonlendu?

1. pismo

Dragi Džordž,
Najzad, Sarajevo!
Okruženo je planinama u kojima ima još mnogo aktivnih minskih polja. Tako mi je rekao vozač koji me dočekao na aerodoromu.
Na njegovoj ID kartici pročitao sam ime - Sakib.
Po zanimanju je profesor, ali pošto dobro govori engleski više mu se isplati da radi kao vozač nego kao predavač. Prilično je zgodan. Ima lijepe ruke i nokte. Košulja mu je čista, nije vlažna izpod pazuha, i sasvim pristojno miriši. Ni traga bijelom luku, na koji me Vilbi upozorio.

(Zapravo, lokalno stanovništvo se spolja i iz daljine, kad se gledaju iz auta, nipočemu ne razlikuje od nas. Jedina razlika koju sam zapazio jeste da svi i svuda puše.)

Glavna gradska avenija je u jako lošem stanju. Kolovoz je pun rupa i izbočina, između kojih su zakrpe od asfalta. Mnogo je i zakrpljenih zgrada sa obje strane puta. Ima ih nekoliko i obnovljenih. Nažalost, sasvim devastirane pokrivene su bilbordima, što je šteta, jer nakon svih onih ratnih snimaka čovjek ipak očekuje malo više atraktivnih ruševina. Osjećam se prevaren, kao kad naprimjer platiš ulaznicu za neki sexi film, a onda unutra otkriješ da su slobodne scene isječene. Ovako, dobio sam utisak da bi grad i bez rata izgledao jednako zapušteno i propalo.
Sa hotelskoh prozora imam pogled na brda oko grada, kao na razglednici koju nam je Vilbi poslao odavde prije dvije godine. Slika se promijenila. Ili ima manje jablanova ili više minareta.
U parku prekoputa hotela je neobično kamenje, koje oblikom podsjeća na kućice za pse. Oni to ovdje zovu ?stećak? i misle da je to neki istorijski spomenik.
Recepcioner me obavijestio da ih ima mnogo po planinama širom Bosne.

(Riječ je o bezvrijednom kamenju, jer da je imalo neku vrijednost, oko njega bi obilazili turisti u našim muzejima, a ne ovce na njihovim livadama.)

U nekim prospektima pročitao sam da budućnost polažu u travu na tim livadama. Sve same ljekovite biljke.
A mogao bih se kladiti da uvoze mlijeko u prahu iz Ukrajine.



5. pismo
Najdraži,
U pravu si što me grdiš. Ispraviću grešku. Opisaću ti šta radim, s kim radim, gdje stanujem, kako provodim dane.
Radno vrijeme je od pola devet do šest. Imamo pravo na sat pauze, ali to važi samo za lokalce. Mi ostali možemo ostati i duže. Od devet do deset čitaju se vijesti na internetu. Ustvari, vijesti su izgovor, na njih potrošim pet minuta. Ionako je sve manje-više isto. Ja u to vrijeme malo surfam po rasprodajama i aukcijama.
Od deset do jedanaest e-mailom se šalju i primaju vicevi i druge zajebancije.
Od jedanaest do pauze pišemo i čitamo izvještaje, ili pravimo tabele, ili planiramo nešto, ili obrađujemo neke statistike, ili, ako smo dežurni, idemo na press-konferencije.
Od tri do pet surfamo, ili igramo igrica. Mislim da je to razlog zašto je u većini kancelarija monitor sakriven od pogleda s vrata. Uvijek imaš vremena da promijeniš sliku dok ti kolega ili pretpostavljeni dođe iza leđe. Ali je nezgodno, jer se svjetlo izvana reflektuje od ekran, pa još nisam dostigao rezultate kojima sam Tebe pobjeđivao.
Izuzetno, četvrtkom, imamo sastanak sa šefom. Pošto šef obično kasni ili ne dođe, to vrijeme iskoristimo za dogovore o vikendu.
Od pet do sedam čekamo da neko prvi pođe kući, a oko devet izlazimo ili idemo na neki prijem ili party.
Posao nije težak. Najteže je sastaviti dnevna saopštenja lokalnim novinarima i odgovarati na njihova pitanja. Srećom, od nas se ne očekuje da odgovori budu u vezi sa pitanjima. Važno je samo da se nekoliko puta ponovi neka riječ koju izabaremo za taj mjesec.

(Ovaj mjesec je to ?korupcija. Na oglasnoj tabli već ima prijedloga i za sljedeći: meni se najviše dopadaju povratak i antiterorizam .)

Lokalni novinari obično ništa ne pitaju, ne zato što su naučili da njihova pitanja nisu dovoljno dobra za naše odgovore, nego zato što su nestrpljivi da ih poslužimo kafom i osvježenjem. Zbog posluženja zapravo i dolaze, jer saopštenja koja čitamo faxom prethodno šaljemo i u njihove redakcije.
Pojam novinarstvo ovdje se razlikuje od našeg.
Ovdje novinari nastoje da služe istini samo dok istina služi uredniku koji služi vladajućoj partiji. Zbog toga je sasvim normalno da umjesto radoznalosti koriste maštu.
Narod kupuje novine ne da bi pročitao šta se zaista desilo, nego šta bi se možda moglo desiti. Nema naslovne strane bez upitnika u naslovu: U piletini svinjsko meso? Djeca primila pogrešnu vakcinu? Radiokativna pšenica u Bosni?
Neki dan uhapšen je u svojoj vili jedan od optuženih za ratne zločine. Televizijska ekipa je iz daljine snimila kuću, dan nakon hapšenja. A onda je citirila izjavu "prvog komšije koji je želio da ostane anoniman".
Saznao sam nešto o novinarstvu u vrijeme socijalizma. Novinari su do savršenstva razvili umjetnost eufemizma. Bili su u stanju napisati rečenicu od stotinu riječi u kojoj su i subjekat i predikat bili potpuno neodređeni. U tom sistemu nije se znalo kome šta pripada, niti ko za šta odgovara, pa su i novine morale biti takve. Umjesto riječi i stilskih figura koristile su se fraze.
Zamisli da kod nas pročitaš, recimo, "supruga premijera, koja je željela ostati anonimna".

(Sakibova žena je novinarka, ali trenutno je bez posla. Ona je puna primjera poput navedenog. Možda ih iskoristim u članku koji ću napisati.)

Sakib i ona stanuju u novom dijelu Sarajeva. Ta naselja podsjećaju izvana na sovjetska, a iznutra na crnačka. Sa plafona u haustoru vise stalaktiti skorene pljuvačke, iz rupa u zidovima vire žice, rukohvati su odozdo obloženi žvakaćim gumama (ne pitaj me kako sam to otkrio). Odbio sam da se vozim liftom - mislim da kartonske kutiju ostavljaju utisak čvršće cjeline.
Stanovi su čistiji. Iznenadilo me kupatilo, u kojem imaju kadu, bojler, tuš, pločice, plastično bure sa nekim jakim dezinfekcionim sredstvom, mašinu za rublje, korpu za prljavo rublje, wc-šolju, vodokotlić i ormarić. I stalak za novine. A ukupna površina kupatila manja je od površine mog radnog stola.
Istina, ormarić stoji na veš-mašini, crijevo iz veš mašine završava u wc-šolji, WC-šolja je jako blizu umivaonika (dobro za povraćanje!), zbog ogromnog bojlera se može tuširati samo čučeći, ali sve skupa funkcionira. Mislim, povučeš konopac, i ne ostane ti u ruci, odvrneš slavinu, voda poteče, a papir je ljubičast i troslojni.
Sakibova spavaća soba je malo veća od kupatila. Osim bračnog kreveta u njoj je šivaća mašina, kompjuter, veliki plakar, polica sa knjigama, mali sto i dvije stolice. Osim te sobe, imaju još jednu, koja je spojena sa kuhinjom, koju nazivaju dnevni boravak.
Otkud ja u njihovom stanu?
Sakib me vodio da pogledam neke apartmane koje bih iznajmio, i nismo našli ništa adekvatno, i on me pozvao kod sebe (to je ovdje normalno! Zovu te u svoj dom na piće kao što mi zovemo jedni druge u pab.)
Na kraju su priredili party u moju čast.



6. pismo

Dragi Džopingo,
Lokalni partiji su sasvim drugačiji nego kod nas. Svi sjede u jednoj prostoriji, oko jednog niskog stola na kojem su i sirevi, i meso, i vino, i pivo, i kikiriki, i kafa, i pepeljare. Ne pleše se, ali se puštaju ploče (vinil!) i onda svi pjevaju i plaču.

(Ponekad se zagrle dok pjevaju. Najglasniji su oni koji imaju najmanje sluha.)

Lica sijaju, ali ne znaš da li od suza, ili od znoja, ili od masnoće.
Popio sam manje nego obično, ali jutros me glava boljela više. Mislim da je to zbog lošeg vazduha. Ovdje je običaj da se prilikom ulaska u kuću skidaju cipele, kao da ulaziš u avion. Cipele ti vrate tek kad odlaziš. Pri tome, ovdje nije običaj da se koristi puder protiv znojenja nogu.
Naravno, za svaki običaj ovdje postoji razlog.
Ulice su jako prljave. U centru grada prodavačice koje operu radnju prospu prljavu vodu na pločnik ispred radnje. Dok šetaš, često iza leđa čuješ kako neko pljuje na trotoar. Primjetio sam da ovdje pljuju na dva načina. Jedan je kroz rupe od karijesa na prednjim zubima, a drugi je iz grla. Već ih mogu razlikovati po zvuku: prvi je cssis , a drugi hrrk-mff-pljuf .
Zato ja sve manje šetam. Sakib parkira na trotoar, i ja iz auta uskočim u ofis.
Ako jedu sjemenke dinje ili suncokreta, onda ljuske pljuckaju (sretan si ako ti se ne zalijepe za cipele).
Možda je to njima normalno, jer njihove cipele ne koštaju petsto dolara.
Da. Kupio sam još jedan par.
Treći, od kako sam ovdje. Šta drugo da sebi priuštim u ovakvoj provinciji? Mark iz personalnog trećinu plate troši na kravate. Van der Klift ima osamdeset košulja. Ulrike - tri i po kilograma hromiranog kožnog rublja!
Na tom partiju pitao sam Sakiba zašto ne odgovara poruke koje mu forvardujem. Odgovorila mi je njegova žena.

(Lukavo. Istina, ona govori bolje naš jezik od njega, a opet, on mi nije rekao ništa što bi uvrijedilo. Ona jeste.)

Ukratko, svako ko šalje ono "smeće" ? video-klipove, reklame, čestitke, viceve, apele za pomoć, uglavnom sve što nije sam smislio i napisao, taj je malograđanin.
Rekla mi je da to najviše i rade "elektronski nadničari", tj. svi koji u radno vrijeme ne znaju šta da rade, i da je to pokazatelj bezobrazluka, površnosti, aljkavosti, javašluka, ljenosti, tuposti, nemaštovitosti, neljubaznosti, primitivizma, nepristojnosti i umjetne inteligencije.

(Za većinu ovih riječi morala je pogledati u srpskohrvatsko-engleski rječnik.)

Htio sam da protivrječim, ali bi to izgledalo kao da se pravdam. Ja sve što šaljem izaberem sa pažnjom i ukusom.
Jesi li dobio onog majmuna koji u snu padne sa grane? A onog koji piški sebi u usta?



23. pismo

Pusi,
Nastavak: Ko je ko u Organizaciji.
Van der Klift je najtraženiji čovjek u ofisu, jer sa Šefom odobrava tzv. bespovratne kredite. Naravno da mi nije bilo jasno kakav je to kredit koji se ne mora vratiti, i zašto se onda ne zove donacija.
Van der Klift mi je objasnio razliku. Donaciju dodjeljuju oni koji imaju zadatak da potroše novac a ne da ga korisno upotrijebe, dok bespovratni krediti mogu postati povratni ukoliko se ne utroše u tačno predviđenu svrhu. Njemu lično bilo bi lakše isplaćivati donacije, jer nema naknadnih komplikacija oko pravdanja troškova. Krediti zahtijevaju kontrole, supervizije, izvještaje, dokumentaciju, ukratko, mnogo posla. Ako daš nekome donaciju za farmu pilića, on će kupiti polovnog golfa. Ako mu daš nepovratni kredit, onda će golfa kupiti tek kad preproda farmu. A do tada, ti moraš obilaziti sela, intervjuisati korisnike i fotografisati ih sa pilićima. Ili sa mlinovima. Ili sa štamparijama. Sa svim što se odnosi na tzv. malu privredu ili privatni sektor.
Čudiš se da neko ko dobije kapital za pokretanje proizvodnje potroši novac na polovne aute i namještaj. To je navika iz stečena u socijalizmu, da se smije trošiti više nego što se zaradi, ali poenta je da su ti nepovratni krediti zapravo samo prelazni oblik od donacija ka pravim kreditima. Kao kad djecu bombonama uvodiš u matematiku. Ti pravi krediti (sa tri puta većom kamatom nego kod nas) su njegov pravi posao ovdje.
Kredite uglavnom daje velikim socijalističkim preduzećima koja imaju malo posla a mnogo zaposlenih koje po nekim idiotskim (socijalističkim!!) zakonima ne mogu otpustiti. Te firme, koje osim poslovnih prostora nemaju ništa (ni mašine, ni proizvodnju, ni kupaca), zalažu svoje nekretnine i iz kredita isplaćuju radnicima zaostale plate da ne bi došlo do socijalnih nemira.
Banke za koje Van der Klift radi nakon isteka roka za otplatu preuzimaju nekretnine i prodaju ih investitorima u BiH, koji su za sada uglavnom druge banke. Tako danas u centru ima sve manje predratnih socijalističkih firmi a sve više evropskih kapitalističkih banaka.
Sad Ti može biti jasno zašto Van der Klift nas u ofisu naziva pionirima Divljeg Istoka.
To svi smatraju duhovitim i tačnim, osim Ženeviv. Ona je izgleda istinski i tragično zaljubljena u ovaj grad.
Zamisli, pješke dolazi u ofis. Pije onu njihovu kafu sa debelim talogom. Jede luk u salati. Ostavlja napojnice i kad plaća svojim novcem! Razgovara s njima na njihovom jeziku. Sama kupuje meso!
Ja sam pokušao jednom, i odustao. Tražiš trista grama, on baci na vagu kilu i po, i pita te je li previše? Ako kažeš da jeste, odsječe ti trista grama žila u loju, a ostalo vrati u vitrinu. Na zelenoj pijaci je isto. Cijene su uglavnom jedna i po, ili dvije i po, ili tri i po njemačke marke.
Ako tražiš kilogram, obavezno te pita hoćeš li više, da zaokruži na dva, tri, ili četiri. Ako tražiš manje, onda ti dno kese napune gnjilim i buđavom plodovima. Ne znam odakle ga vade, na tezgama sve izgleda savršeno. Sad zamisli kakva im je politika i kakve su im vođe koje takvi lopovi biraju.
Jednom sam svojim očima i rukama izabrao, komad po komad, kilogram jabuka. Kad sam kod kuće otvorio kesu bila je puna trulih komada. Kako!? Zašto!?
Sakib me savjetovao da kupujem pred zatvaranje pijace. Do tada potroše sve što im je trulo, a često i spuste cijene, da ranije idu kući.
Sad moram malo i da radim. Kis.



35. pismo

Mendomedoviću,
Najzad znam kako da ti opišem Sarajevo?
Zamisli neko istambulsko predgrađe u austrijskoj provinciji. Suviše je, međutim, prljavo da bi i jednog trena pomislio da si u Austriji, a opet nekako mirno i pristojno da bi ga ozbiljno poredio sa Istambulom.
Trg na kojem sam danas pio čaj, u dijelu grada koji se zove Baščaršija, podsjetio me na Veneciju. Ne po veličini, naravno, jer je ovdje sve skučeno i sabijeno, nego po golubovima i smradu. Te ptice su debele i teške kao kokoške, tako da nisam siguran da pilići koje na sve strane okolo peku na ražnjevima nisu baš ovi golubovi koje danju tove a noću čerupaju. Ne vidim drugi razlog da ih ne rastjeraju, umjesto da ih kljukaju kukuruzom. Jer, budući da stalno seru, da bi mogli stalno da jedu, trg je mjestimično posrebren njihovim izmetom. Vlasnici okolnih dućana pokušavaju taj izmet saprati vodom iz gumenih crijeva, ali je krajni rezultat da rastvor izmeta ispuni pukotine između kamenja kojim je popločan trg, i onda se odatle polako isparava. Jedini način da ostaneš duže u toj neugodnoj zapari jeste da mirisom turske kafe neutrališeš venecijanski smrad.
Trg je ovih dana oko podne ispunjen stotinama djece. To su učenici koji dolaze iz provincije (pokukušavam zamisliti provinciju kojoj je ovo centar!) u okviru svog studijskog putovanja. Sjećaš li se onih snimaka iz "Opstanka" kad jata ptica navale na male tek ispiljene kornjače. Tako se na ovu djecu okome ulični prodavači. Za pet minuta djeca ostanu bez svojih džeparaca, ionda dok čekaju da ih vrate u autobus jedni drugima pokazuju šta su izabrali da imaju kao uspomenu sa putovanja.

Poslaću ti sliku, zamoliću nekoga iz naše press službe da ih fotografiše za mene. Da vidiš kako izgleda cijeli jedan razred (ovdje je to 35 a ne 15 djece) i šta se sve može kupiti za tri ili četiri funte. Gumeni Betmeni, zastavice Bosne i Hercegovine, vodeni pištolji, gumice za kosu, policijske lisice, dresovi evropskih ili lokalnih fudbalskih klubova, plastični nakit, osvježavajuća pića, slatkiši?
Ako su djeca budućnost, onda budučnost Bosne izgleda ovako: fanta u jednoj ruci, sladoled u drugoj. Oko vrata plastični mobitel, na očima roza sunčane naočare, za pojasom pištolj koji puca kao pravi. Pomislićeš da se prodavci hrane za golubove vjerovatno bune protiv trgovine tim oružjem, ali ove debele ptice izgleda da su oguglale na pucnjavu.
Jednu od njih je na cesti pregazio automobil. Trup joj se zalijepio za asfalt, a krila su ostala čitava. Inspirisala me da napišem jednu pjesmu o Bosni.Točak je prešao preko bijele golubice.
(Nije bijela, malo sam slagao, zbog simbolike.)
Trup se pretvorio u bijelu mrlju na asfaltuA krila ostala nedirnuta.
Njima pokušava poletjeti
U vjetru iza vojnog tranportera.
(I iza svakog drugog auta, ali ovako je simbolika jača: mrtva golubica izgleda kao živa kad preko nje pređe transporter! Super!)
Možda bih mogao napisati zbirku pjesama o Bosni? Imam i naslov: "Poletjela golubica sa Baščaršije".


56. pismo

Dragi Džordž,

Nije lako odgovoriti na Tvoje pitanje.
Ovdje se ljudi između sebe mrze s ljubavlju. Vode rat kao da vode ljubav. Bez rata su kao bez seksa. Frustrirani. Takvima ih odgajaju i porodica i škola. Časnije je umrijeti za djedove nego živjeti za unuke. Kad smo iz njihovih udžbenika izbacili dijelove koji podstiču na međuetničku netrpeljivost, više nisu mogli da prepoznaju svoju istoriju. Jednostavno, vijekovima su okruženi velikim silama, od kojih su uvijek bili pobijeđivani. Jedine pobjede koje imaju su one nad susjedima sa kojima vijekovima žive u "slozi i zajedništvu". I kad im te pobjede izbaciš izknjiga, zbog silovanja, bacanja u jame, klanja u logorima, paljenja kuća i gradova, kao da siim uradio vazektomiju. Kao da si čitavom narodu osporio muškost.

Muškost je status koji se neprekidno mora dokazivati. Muškarci se rađaju sa borama na čelu, od istorijske odgovornosti koju imaju za naciju i potomstvo. Ožiljci se nose kao medalje. Polovina izloga knjižare ispunjena je bedekerima kroz nacionalnu povijest, a druga polovina igračkama među kojima je najviše plastičnih pušaka i pištolja.Zamisli naše navijače pred derbi, ali puno manje pijane i puno bolje naoružane, i imaćeš sliku ovdašnjih muškaraca. Pri čemu su ovi ovdje nervozniji, jer je utakmica prekinuta, a nastavak neizvjestan. (Ne jednom sam čuo da je dejtonski mir predah između dva poluvremena.)

Istina je da ih permanentno razoružavamo, i da smo pretopili tone zaplijenjenih pušaka, ali to nije dovoljno u zemlji gdje su se minobacači dijelili kao lično naoružanje.I sad, najzad, da ti najzad odgovrim na tvoje pitanje: da li možemo ovdje organizovati gey-paradu? Za vrijeme ratapotpisali su ne znam koliko hiljada primirja i ni jedno nisu ispoštovali u potpunosti. Pucali su i ubijali i na Božić, i na Bajram, i na Novu godinu. Siguran sam da smo ih ohrabrivali u tome. Jer da nam je bilo stalo da ih zaustavimo i ujednimo, mogli smo organizovati gey-paradu i svi bi se udružili da zajednički namlate pedere.
Ovdje roditelji padaju u depresiju kad im sin poželi biti baletan, da ga vide u gey-paradi, umrli bi od sramote. Radije bi ga vidjeli bez stopala, nego sa baletskom patikom na stopalu. (Što jerazumljivo, jer su u baletu zadnji na svijetu, a u odbojci za invalide prvi. I ako misliš da pretjerujem, trebaš pročitati izjavu nekog lokalnog stručnjaka da reprezentaciji odbojkaša-invalida nedostaje više juniora.)
Gey-parada u Bosni? Nema šansi. Hare Krišne su pokušali nešto slično, i napali su ihnoževima.Nas bi tukli nogama, da ne prljaju ruke. A skoro sam siguran da bi nas žene tukle više nego muškarci. Kao što muškarce odgajaju za vojsku, tako žene odgajaju za brak. Muškarci nas preziru, žene mrze. Muškarcima smo jadni, ženama bolesni. Žene su moje najveće razočarenjeu ovoj zemlji. Umjesto objašnjenja, ispričaću ti anegdotu koja ovih dana kruži ofisom:
Jedan dečko iz sekjuritija se razveo. I to je teško podnio. I njegovoj majci je bilo žao da ga gleda tako utučenog. I rekla mu je da život ide dalje, da će naći drugu, da ima još žena na svijetu, da nije smak svijeta? I pitala ga je, još, ko je kriv za razvod. Dečko je slegnuo ramenima, i priznao: "ja".
A majka, na to: "Jebla mater svoju!"
Gey-parada u Bosni?
Nemoguće. Pederi ovdje mogu imati paradu samo ako su u maskirnoj uniformi i vojničkim čizmama. I ako skandiraju imena svojih vođa i plemena.

blagozahvaljujem

Terry Pratchett, Wyrd Sisters


On nights such as this, witches are abroad.*
Well, not actually abroad. They don't like the food and you can't trust the water and the shamans always hog the deckchairs. But there was a full moon breasting the ragged clouds and the rushing air was full of whispers and the very broad hint of magic.
In their clearing above the forest the witches spoke thus:

'I'm babysitting on Tuesday,' said the one with no hat but a thatch of white curls so thick she might have been wearing a helmet. 'For our Jason's youngest. I can manage Friday. Hurry up with the tea, luv. I'm that parched.'

The junior member of the trio gave a sigh, and ladled some boiling water out of the cauldron into the teapot.
The third witch patted her hand in a kindly fashion.

'You said it quite well,' she said. 'Just a bit more work on the screeching. Ain't that right, Nanny Ogg?'

'Very useful screeching, I thought,' said Nanny Ogg hurriedly. 'And I can see Goodie Whemper, maysherestinpeace, gave you a lot of help with the squint.'

'It's a good squint,' said Granny Weatherwax.

The junior witch, whose name was Magrat Garlick, relaxed considerably. She held Granny Weatherwax in awe. It was known throughout the Ramtop Mountains that Mss Weatherwax did not approve of anything very much.** If she said it was a good squint, then Magrat's eyes were probably staring up her own nostrils.
Unlike wizards, who like nothing better than a complicated hierarchy, witches don't go in much for the structured approach to career progression. It's up to each individual witch to take on a girl to hand the area over to when she dies. Witches are not by nature gregarious, at least with other witches, and they certainly don't have leaders. ***

Granny Weatherwax was the most highly-regarded of the leaders they didn't have.
Magrat's hands shook slightly as they made the tea. Of course, it was all very gratifying, but it was a bit nerve-racking to start one's working life as village witch between Granny and, on the other side of the forest, Nanny Ogg. It'd been her idea to form a local coven. She felt it was more, well, occult. To her amazement the other two had agreed or, at least, hadn't disagreed much.

'An oven?' Nanny Ogg had said. 'What'd we want to join an oven for?'

'She means a coven, Gytha,' Granny Weatherwax had explained. 'You know, like in the old days. A meeting.'

'A knees up?' said Nanny Ogg hopefully.

'No dancing,' Granny had warned. 'I don't hold with dancing. Or singing or getting over-excited or all that messing about with ointments and similar.'

'Does you good to get out,' said Nanny happily.

Magrat had been disappointed about the dancing, and was relieved that she hadn't ventured one or two other ideas that had been on her mind. She fumbled in the packet she had brought with her. It was her first sabbat, and she was determined to do it right.

'Would anyone care for a scone?' she said.

Granny looked hard at hers before she bit. Magrat had baked bat designs on it. They had little eyes made of currants.
The coach crashed through the trees at the forest edge, ran on two wheels for a few seconds as it hit a stone, righted itself against all the laws of balance, and rumbled on. But it was going slower now. The slope was dragging at it.
The coachman, standing upright in the manner of a charioteer, pushed his hair out of his eyes and peered through the murk. No-one lived up here, in the lap of the Ramtops themselves, but there was a light ahead. By all that was merciful, there was a light there.
An arrow buried itself in the coach roof behind him.



Meanwhile King Verence, monarch of Lancre, was making a discovery.
Like most people – most people, at any rate, below the age of sixty or so – Verence hadn't exercised his mind much about what happened to you when you died. Like most people since the dawn of time, he assumed it all somehow worked out all right in the end.
And, like most people since the dawn of time, he was now dead.
He was in fact lying at the bottom of one of his own stairways in Lancre Castle, with a dagger in his back.
He sat up, and was surprised to find that while someone he was certainly inclined to think of as himself was sitting up, something very much like his body remained lying on the floor.
It was a pretty good body, incidentally, now he came to see it from outside for the first time. He had always been quite attached to it although, he had to admit, this did not now seem to be the case.
It was big and well-muscled. He'd looked after it. He'd allowed it a moustache and long-flowing locks. He'd seen it got plenty of healthy outdoor exercise and lots of red meat. Now, just when a body would have been useful, it had let him down. Or out.
On top of that, he had to come to terms with the tall, thin figure standing beside him. Most of it was hidden in a hooded black robe, but the one arm which extended from the folds to grip a large scythe was made of bone.
When one is dead, there are things one instinctively recognises.

HALLO.

Verence drew himself up to his full height, or what would have been his full height if that part of him to which the word 'height' could have been applied was not lying stiff on the floor and facing a future in which only the word 'depth' could be appropriate.

'I am a king, mark you,' he said.

WAS, YOUR MAJESTY.

'What?' Verence barked.

I SAID WAS. IT'S CALLED THE PAST TENSE. YOU'LL SOON GET USED TO IT.

The tall figure tapped its calcareous fingers on the scythe's handle. It was obviously upset about something.
If it came to that, Verence thought, so am I. But the various broad hints available in his present circumstances were breaking through even the mad brave stupidity that made up most of his character, and it was dawning on him that whatever kingdom he might currently be in, he wasn't king of it.

'Are you Death, fellow?' he ventured.

I HAVE MANY NAMES.

'Which one are you using at present?' said Verence, with a shade more deference. There were people milling around them; in fact, quite a few people were milling through them, like ghosts.

'Oh, so it was Felmet,' the king added vaguely, looking at the figure lurking with obscene delight at the top of the stairs. 'My father said I should never let him get behind me. Why don't I feel angry?'

GLANDS, said Death shortly. ADRENALIN AND SO FORTH. AND EMOTIONS. YOU DON'T HAVE THEM. ALL YOU HAVE NOW IS THOUGHT. ****

The tall figure appeared to reach a decision.

THIS IS VERY IRREGULAR, he went on, apparently to himself. HOWEVER, WHO AM I TO ARGUE?

'Who indeed.'

WHAT?

'I said, who indeed.'

SHUT UP.

Death stood with his skull on one side, as though listening to some inner voice. As his hood fell away the late king noticed that Death resembled a polished skeleton in every way but one. His eye sockets glowed sky blue. Verence wasn't frightened, however; not simply because it is difficult to be in fear of anything when the bits you need to be frightened with are curdling several yards away, but because he had never really been frightened of anything in his life, and wasn't going to start now. This was partly because he didn't have the imagination, but he was also one of those rare individuals who are totally focused in time.

Most people aren't. They live their lives as a sort of temporal blur around the point where their body actually is – anticipating the future, or holding on to the past. They're usually so busy thinking about what happens next that the only time they ever find out what is happening now is when they come to look back on it. Most people are like this. They learn how to fear because they can actually tell, down at the subconscious level, what is going to happen next. It's already happening to them.
But Verence had always lived only for the present. Until now, anyway.
Death sighed.

I SUPPOSE NO-ONE MENTIONED ANYTHING TO YOU? he hazarded.

'Say again?'

NO PREMONITIONS? STRANGE DREAMS? MAD OLD SOOTHSAYERS SHOUTING THINGS AT YOU IN THE STREET?

'About what? Dying?'

NO, I SUPPOSE NOT. IT WOULD BE TOO MUCH TO EXPECT, said Death sourly. THEY LEAVE IT ALL TO ME.

'Who do?' said Verence, mystified.

FATE. klix. ALL THE REST OF THEM. Death laid a hand on the king's shoulder. THE FACT IS, I'M AFRAID, YOU'RE DUE TO BECOME A GHOST.

'Oh.' He looked down at his . . . body, which seemed solid enough. Then someone walked through him.

DON'T LET IT UPSET YOU.

Verence watched his own stiff corpse being carried reverentially from the hall.

'I'll try,' he said.

GOOD MAN.

'I don't think I will be up to all that business with the white sheets and the chains, though,' he said. 'Do I have to walk around moaning and screaming?'

Death shrugged. DO YOU WANT TO? he said.

'No.'

THEN I SHOULDN'T BOTHER, IF I WERE YOU. Death pulled an hour-glass from the recesses of his dark robe and inspected it closely.

AND NOW I REALLY MUST BE GOING, he said. He turned on his heel, put his scythe over his shoulder and started to walk out of the hall through the wall.

'I say? Just hold on there!' shouted Verence, running after him.

Death didn't look back. Verence followed him through the wall; it was like walking through fog.

'Is that all?' he demanded. 'I mean, how long will I be a ghost? Why am I a ghost? You can't just leave me like this.' He halted and raised an imperious, slightly transparent finger. 'Stop! I command you!'

Death shook his head gloomily, and stepped through the next wall. The king hurried after him with as much dignity as he could still muster, and found Death fiddling with the girths of a large white horse standing on the battlements. It was wearing a nosebag.

'You can't leave me like this!' he repeated, in the face of the evidence.

Death turned to him.

I CAN, he said. YOU'RE UNDEAD, YOU SEE. GHOSTS INHABIT A WORLD BETWEEN THE LIVING AND THE DEAD. IT'S NOT MY RESPONSIBILITY. He patted the king on the shoulder. DON'T WORRY, he said, IT WON'T BE FOREVER.

'Good.'

IT MAY SEEM LIKE FOREVER.

'How long will it really be?'

UNTIL YOU HAVE FULFILLED YOUR klix, I ASSUME.*****

'And how will I know what my klix is?' said the king, desperately.

CAN'T HELP THERE. I'M SORRY.

'Well, how can I find out?'

THESE THINGS GENERALLY BECOME APPARENT, I UNDERSTAND, said Death, and swung himself into the saddle.

'And until then I have to haunt this place.' King Verence stared around at the draughty battlements. 'All alone, I suppose. Won't anyone be able to see me?'

OH, THE PSYCHICALLY INCLINED. CLOSE RELATIVES. AND CATS, OF COURSE.

'I hate cats.'******

Death's face became a little stiffer, if that were possible. The blue glow in his eye sockets flickered red for an instant.

I SEE, he said. The tone suggested that death was too good for cat-haters. YOU LIKE GREAT BIG DOGS, I IMAGINE.

'As a matter of fact, I do.' The king stared gloomily at the dawn. His dogs. He'd really miss his dogs. And it looked like such a good hunting day.

He wondered if ghosts hunted. Almost certainly not, he imagined. Or ate, or drank either for that matter, and that was really depressing. He liked a big noisy banquet and had quaffed[1] many a pint of good ale. And bad ale, come to that. He'd never been able to tell the difference till the following morning, usually.

He kicked despondently at a stone, and noted gloomily that his foot went right through it. No hunting, drinking, carousing, no wassailing, no hawking . . . It was dawning on him that the pleasures of the flesh were pretty sparse without the flesh. Suddenly life wasn't worth living. The fact that he wasn't living it didn't cheer him up at all.

SOME PEOPLE LIKE TO BE GHOSTS, said Death.

'Hmm?' said Verence, gloomily.

IT'S NOT SUCH A WRENCH, I ASSUME. THEY CAN SEE HOW THEIR DESCENDANTS GET ON. SORRY? IS SOMETHING THE MATTER?

But Verence had vanished into the wall.

DON'T MIND ME, WILL YOU, said Death, peevishly. He looked around him with a gaze that could see through time and space and the souls of men, and noted a landslide in distant Klatch, a hurricane in Howandaland, a plague in Hergen.

BUSY, BUSY, he muttered, and spurred his horse into the sky.

Verence ran through the walls of his own castle. His feet barely touched the ground – in fact, the unevenness of the floor meant that at times they didn't touch the ground at all.

As a king he was used to treating servants as if they were not there, and running through them as a ghost was almost the same. The only difference was that they didn't stand aside.

Verence reached the nursery, saw the broken door, the trailed sheets . . .

Heard the hoofbeats. He reached the window, saw his own horse go full tilt through the open gateway in the shafts of the coach. A few seconds later three horsemen followed it. The sound of hooves echoed for a moment on the cobbles and died away.

The king thumped the sill, his fist going several inches into the stone.

Then he pushed his way out into the air, disdaining to notice the drop, and half flew, half ran down across the courtyard and into the stables.

It took him a mere twenty seconds to learn that, to the great many things a ghost cannot do, should be added the mounting of a horse. He did succeed in getting into the saddle, or at least in straddling the air just above it, but when the horse finally bolted, terrified beyond belief by the mysterious things happening behind its ears, Verence was left sitting astride five feet of fresh air.

He tried to run, and got about as far as the gateway before the air around him thickened to the consistency of tar.

'You can't,' said a sad, old voice behind him. 'You have to stay where you were killed. That's what haunting means. Take it from me. I know.'


* :D:D
** cao infra :D
*** a pogotove ne one ledenog srca :D:D
**** zar se za ovo mora biti mrtav :D:D
***** evo ga ko tito u bivshoj YU..ni zhiv ni mrtav... :D:D
****** ooooooooooooops :D

je li za ove teme halilovićev odgovor milleru - boomerang?..

(ako jeste..molio bih jokerku.. )

pih..tamo.. :D

InfraRedRidinghood wrote:

Ludačo

ja nemam sta dodat

danas wrote:

InfraRedRidinghood wrote:

Ludačo

ja nemam sta dodat

Joj kad vam ja sad dodam katanac

Orhanowski wrote:

danas wrote:

InfraRedRidinghood wrote:

Ludačo

ja nemam sta dodat

Joj kad vam ja sad dodam katanac

de ba orhanowski. ne budi okrutni puritanac, pusti nas malo da ispoljimo spontane reakcije na prochitano :D:D

evo yavrum, ne ljuti se


İstanbul’u dinliyorum, gözlerim kapalı;
Önce hafiften bir rüzgar esiyor;
Yavaş yavaş sallanıyor

Uzaklarda, çok uzaklarda
Sucuların hiç durmayan çıngırakları;
İstanbul’u dinliyorum gözlerim kapalı.
İstanbul’u dinliyorum gözlerim kapalı;
Kuşlar geçiyor derken
Yükseklerden, sürü sürü, çığlık çığlık;
Ağlar çekiliyor dalyanlarda; Bir kadının suya değiyor ayakları;
İstanbul’u dinliyorum, gözlerim kapalı.
İstanbul’u dinliyorum, gözlerim kapalı;
Serin serin Kapalıçarşı,
Cıvıl cıvıl Mahmutpaşa
Güvercin dolu avlular,
Çekiç sesleri geliyor doklardan
Güzelim bahar rüzgarında ter kokuları;
İstanbul’u dinliyorum, gözlerim kapalı.
İstanbul’u dinliyorum, gözlerim kapalı
Başımda eski alemlerin sarhoşluğu,
Loş kayıkhaneleriyle bir yalı
Dinmiş lodosların uğultusu içinde.
İstanbul’u dinliyorum gözlerim kapalı.
İstanbul’u dinliyorum, gözlerim kapalı;
Bir yosma geçiyor kaldırımdan.
Küfürler, şarkılar, türküler, laf atmalar.
Bir şey düşüyor elinden yere;
Bir gül olmalı.
İstanbul’u dinliyorum, gözlerim kapalı.
İstanbul’u dinliyorum, gözlerim kapalı;
Bir kuş çırpınıyor eteklerinde.
Alnın sıcak mı, değil mi biliyorum;
Dudakların ıslak mı değil mi, biliyorum;
Beyaz bir ay doğuyor fıstıkların arkasından
Kalbinin vuruşundan anlıyorum;
İstanbul’u dinliyorum.

Orhan Veli KANIK