Dreamscape
SCHOOL OF EDUCATION, HUMANITIES AND SOCIAL SCIENCES Issue 1 June 2024
We extend our heartfelt gratitude to everyone involved for their contributions in bringing Dreamscape's first edition to life.
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Aleksandre Ghibradze - Carpe Mori
Ana Markoidze 11
Nato Mamadashvili
Nanka Tchiaberashvili
Aleksandre Ghibradze - Carpe Mori
Mariam Sarkiashvili
Lika Miruashvili
Ketevani Lomidze
Aleksandre Ghibradze - Carpe Mori
A photograph of Georgian dancers performing an Abkhazian dance. Egrisidc, Wikipedia Commons, (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0), CC BY-SA 4.0
Freed from the noise of the street, I sit and wait for the curtain to rise, The light fades, applause begins, Sounds rustle from behind the curtain,
Hu, hu, hu! The anguished stage thundered,
Drenched in blood, toiled with sweat, The drum embraced, the torment began,
A shudder passed through my soul.
My insane mind, having taken flight, Beholding them, my body trembles, Unable to bear the clamorous voices, My still body secretly flees.
[1]The Georgian National Ballet, founded by Iliko Sukhishvili and Nino Ramishvili in 1945.
I recall my childhood, the time, When I danced and felt my body, I recall the warmth of that chokha, In which I sweated, rejoicing in the dance
In the dance emerges an extreme depth, Love and freedom, A story explained through the bodybattles, Fearlessness and chivalry
In “Samaia” we have three queens, A white veil will end the battle I'll sweat like a papakhi of Tsdo, Enamored by the delicate veiled one.
Adoring the attire and their spectrum of hues,
The purple one charms me with its embroidery, Adoring music, the pure living voice, The stretched leather and the mountain-mistress.
[2] A traditional Georgian men’s wool coat and dance cloth, characterized by a high neck.
[3] A traditional Georgian dance performed by three women clothed in traditional Queens’ dresses.
[4] A traditional Georgian wool hat still worn in the mountainous regions of Georgia.
[5] A traditional Georgian dance that involves movements taken from battles, sports, and games. Additionally, it is a village in the Dariali Gorge in Georgia.
[6] Implying the leather stretched over a wooden cylinder forming a traditional Georgian instrument called the doli
Like a Svan, I defy the foe, through the eyes of “Khorumi,”
With “Daisi,” I learn how to treat a woman,
Like a Laz, tenderly, daring with my gaze,
In the new waves, the tide is visible.
In the end, hands worn out from applause,
Eyes with tears, soul with sorrow, Life returns, again, in the wind, Because a Georgian is dancing on the stage.
Meet the Author
Aleksandre Ghibradze - Carpe Mori is a junior in Law at International Black Sea University
“My interest in poetry started in my childhood when my grandpa taught me the poems of some of the greatest Georgian poets such as Rustaveli, Galaktioni, VazhaPshavela, and others. Once, he told me “When you learn 3 poems, you should write the 4th on your own.” As he also wrote, he had a great influence on me and served as my inspiration. My pseudonym, a combination of “Carpe Diem” and “Memento Mori,” vividly depicts the motto I am trying to live by as a writer. In my poem “Sukhishvilebi,” I wanted to convey viewers’ pure emotions and a deep connection with dancers. As for my other poem “Life,” I explore the endless and universal question, “Who am I?”.”
Ana Markoidze A Night’s Turning Point
A photograph of evening sky, Stiller Beobachter, 2017 ,Wikipedia Commons (https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/c/c7/Evening_sky_-_Flickr_-_Stiller_Beobachter.jpg.), CC BY 2.0
I thought my nostalgia had finally been tucked away from sight. Yet, another unexpected broken tie between a close friend of more than a decade provoked my usual habit of getting lost in my thoughts. I found myself wondering: isn’t life fleeting? We’re constantly moving from place to place or even from person to person. So, why do nostalgic memories remain effortlessly consistent throughout our lives, waking us up one day and reminding us where we come from?
It was a random Tuesday night, when rather than waiting for the new day to start, I was swallowed by my thoughts, reminiscing. As the clock struck midnight, a subtle cycle of flashbacks started to overcome me. And just when I was drifting off, I realized that this wouldn't be any normal night. It was the beginning of the turning point . . .
It didn’t even take me counting sheep before I found myself back in my tiny, yet bustling city with crowded streets, a limitless horizon of sea and sky. Rather than envisioning the beautiful landmarks of my hometown all around me, my mind immediately went to a little nameless bakery near my school. It had served as a hidden harbor for me and my friends, where time seemed to stand still amid the
chaotic pace of adolescence.
All of a sudden, I was back in those days with the smell that wafted from the bakery. The smell never failed to stir our senses and used to be the only thing my some-teen-year-old friends and I looked forward to, to pass the time. Even from the fourth floor of our school building, we could catch a whiff of freshly baked goodness drifting through an open window, teasing us with the promise of warmth and comfort. Whether my nostalgia was a blessing or a curse, it let me relive the secret glances we passed each other in the classroom. And enthralled by the furtiveness of our covert glances, we filled the classroom with our little giggles. They were a sign of our unspoken agreement to again set off to our traditional meet-up place once the bell had rung for the last time that day.
It’s true that this time I was more of a distant observer, watching myself from afar in a dream, but waking up early in the morning, I understood why my mind wandered there – because my heart used to find solace in the simplicity of that nameless bakery. A solace that my mind so badly needed again. After all, it wasn't just a place to savor the mouth-watering pastries, it was a space for shared laughter, whispered confidences, and our closeness. All of which was nowhere to be seen now that we’ve parted ways. And as we’ve ventured into adulthood, the memories of those carefree days linger like the sweet smell of freshly baked bread, reminding us of a time when the only thing we were rushing towards was a familiar gathering spot.
Isn't it beautiful that nostalgia gives us the opportunity to time travel? It comes with a price, of course; never-ending night reveries, interfering with reality and bringing back memories of all the places and people, frozen at once in time. Knowing what fuels those dreamy nights hurts a little bit. But isn’t it beautiful to feel a reconnection to your Blue Spring Ride, to revive youthful memories after a separation, and to know that although they will never return, they are still here as a part of you? Yes, that’s what nostalgic nights do – turn everything upside down and connect us to the special memories that hold a permanent place in our hearts and truly shape our identity.
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[11]Blue Spring Ride (Ao Haru Ride/ アオハライド ) is an anime adaptation of the manga series written and illustrated by Io Sakisaka. ⻘春 (ao haru / springtime of life) is often used to describe youth and adolescence metaphorically.
Meet the Author
Ana (Anko) Markoidze is a senior in English Philology at International Black Sea University.
"When lying down before falling asleep, there is one small, transient moment when we all know ourselves." These lines by one of my favorite Georgian writers, Guram Dochanashvili, deeply resonate with my naturally nostalgic personality. I enjoy the present yet still look back to the past, cherishing memories that may gradually fade but emotionally remain solid in the subconscious. And as this process unfolds before finally diving into a deep sleep, it makes my story partially autobiographical.”
Nato Mamadashvili Soldier’s Crimson Veil
On the brink of dawn, he wakes With a strange look on his face
Patting the space around him, only to realize What brought him peace is far out of his reach.
He lays there, still, faithful in his divine will
With his mind in a haze,
Wishing that the humid wind hitting him in the face
Was the effortless grace of his mother’s hands, in an embrace.
Only twenty minutes to sleep, the longing for his homeland is deep
He makes a bargain with the devil and his innocence is shrouded in a crimson veil,
And when the voices in his head start taunting him, he wonders Is there sanctuary for a prey-to-be?
A photograph of soldier standing on top of a hill looking into the sun.
He longs for the feeling of green grass instead of scorching sand under his feet, When he sat in a bustling bar, sipping whiskey, neat, And the sound of careless laughter playing like a symphony Led him to an epiphany.
Now he dreams of coming home, To stand on the land he’s fought for, shaken to the core. The one whose flag he proudly bears And has given his blood, sweat, and tears.
No more can be hidden behind the veil of denial, Side by side, reality walks with him, Armored in his heaviest gear, he sends a prayer in the wind.
Meet the Author
Nato Mamadashvili is a sophomore in English Philology at International Black Sea University
“My journey with literature began at a very young age, and crafting poetry has become an essential part of my identity. This creative outlet allows me to channel my thoughts and emotions into something tangible. The piece I submitted was inspired by the stories shared by my best friend, whose family has a history of longstanding military service. These stories, combined with the legacy of my own greatgrandfather, who was tragically declared missing during World War II, highlight the profound sacrifices made by soldiers and resonate deeply with me. Therefore, my true passion lies in sharing the beauty and power of language with others, aiming to inspire them to view the world through diverse perspectives.”
Echoes of Neon Love
Nanka Tchiaberashvili
Dedicated to the boy whose eyes are the color of a sunflower in front of a blue sky.
A few moons ago, I glimpsed you, and in that moment, the impossibility of our reconciliation was solidified within me. Your distant gaze etched that conviction deeper into my heart. As I watched you with your friends, a pang of jealousy swept over me. Every inch that drew them nearer to you, I envied; every word they exchanged, I coveted. Oh, how I yearned for the intimacy of your gaze upon me, to have ears blessed to capture the melody of your voice and laughter. In quiet moments, I found myself even envying the cigarette between your fingers, for it filled the void, where once my hands rested.
From a distance, I gazed upon you, tracing the contours of your presence veiled by the walls of our self-doubt. In that moment of realization, I felt the weight of the distance between us, a barrier constructed by hesitations and fears, yet it was a barrier I could no longer bear. My heart yearned to bridge the expanse that separated us. The thought of losing this love, so pure and profound, was inconceivable.
A photograph of a bouquet of flowers in a vase with colorful lights in the background.
I couldn’t accept the fact that I wouldn’t see those sunflowers again. In your absence, the world seemed devoid of vibrancy, like a canvas without color, a melody without harmony. The memory of your touch lingered in my mind, an intoxicating fragrance that I craved with an insatiable hunger. Like a sunflower yearns for the sun's gentle caress, I yearned for the warmth of your presence, the reassurance of your embrace that whispered promises of forever in every tender moment shared.
I remember the smell of tobacco on your fingers when you gently stroked my cheeks, looked at me, and smiled. If you didn't know it before, I'll tell you now that your touch often takes my breath away, blood flows through my veins with a cosmic trajectory, and butterflies collide with the walls of my body from the inside.
I awaited you each day, even in the realm of dreams. Your fingertips, like whispers of love, gently ran fingers along the coils of my curls, igniting a symphony of sensations within me. How I longed to implore you to stay a while longer, but sadly, the sun began its ascent, casting hues of dawn across the sky. A chill crept up from my bare feet, a poignant reminder that our time together waned with the night. The unspoken words of my heart, the silent echoes of loneliness, leaving me yearning for the comfort of your presence.
Sadness reigned in the cold room . . .
The flickering rays of the sun streamed through the open kitchen window, powerless. With a heavy heart, I closed my eyes, swallowing the lump that had lodged itself in my throat. I couldn't help it, but there was no other way - I greeted the new day and new hope. The weight of my loneliness was not just physical but in the depths of my soul, bearing down on me relentlessly. It was the sadness of longing that filled me from the inside. In its place was an emptiness, suddenly filled with stinging, tearful anger.
Walking in the streets where we once wandered together, memories surged forth, flooding my senses. How many times had I whispered into the breeze, confessing my yearning to see you once more? Each step carried the weight of my vulnerability, my timidity laid bare for the world to see. Every breath I took seemed to carry your name, every heartbeat, a reminder of the space you once filled in my life. The burden of unshared sorrow pressed down on me; a secret I dared not reveal. I could not tell anyone that I missed the man, whom I had declared out loud months ago, that I no longer loved.
What a fool I was to try to deceive myself with this!
It was during those moments, when the yearning reached its peak, that I realized the depth of my feelings for you. The thought of your smile, your touch, your presence, was enough to set my soul free. In the silence of the night, when the world around me slept, my thoughts wandered to you. I longed for the warmth of your embrace, the familiarity of your voice, the comfort of knowing you were near. So, I reached out to you that night . . .
You answered . . .
I felt a fleeting satisfaction, a glimpse of the connection I craved. I thought that if it was just one night it wouldn't hurt anything. That it would fulfill my desire. But my thoughts were just an illusion as the next day I wanted to talk to you more. After such a long separation from a loved one, when would a little conversation be enough? You understand, right?!
This feeling is like a drug. Each taste leaves me wanting more and more. I made countless promises, even to myself, that everything would be alright, that a single dot would mark the end. Yet, my heart insisted on adding another dot, and another. Our story was not meant to end there. Your heart whispered to my heart, guiding my way to you. Despite knowing you weren’t the best for me, I closed my eyes, grasped the rope, and followed blindly, ignoring. If my behavior is wrong, then I don't want to be right! I don't regret a single moment spent with you, not a fight, not a tear, not a breakup. Pain has taught me many things, and I am ready to correct all the mistakes of the past one by one, little by little, step by step, with you and no one else. I want to sit and write you this letter in real life. I want to be with you at the same place, at the same time, and tell you that I deeply love you. I want you and me to be “we” forever.
What should I do, painfully airless and doomed to death, your beautiful eyes, blue as the sky, loaded with infinite meaning, enveloped in darkness, seem to me like neon lights. I am afraid that I will never go back to the time when I first told you my name. That I will love you forever. That we will never be in the same room together again. I am afraid that I will seek you amongst the stars and no matter how hard I scream, “I love you” it will only be an endless echo with no response . . .
Meet the Author
shelter for me, allowing me to untangle the knots of my thoughts and feelings without fear of judgment. This story is about about love. Sometimes love hurts, but it is the only thing that motivates me. Love gives us the strength to tackle life’s obstacles because we know we are not alone. The warmth of a loved one’s hug, the generosity of a stranger, and the laughter shared with friends allow us to completely appreciate the beauty of existence. It encourages us to be our best selves and recognise the good in others. Love is what defines us as humans, reminding us that no matter how different we appear, our hearts beat to the same rhythm of love.”
Mariam Sarkiashvili Freedom
Or when a bird swiftly flies across the clear skies, the wind plays with your hair as you feel the breezy air.
Is freedom doing as you wish? If so, which do you follow –your heart or your mind? Which one’s the better guide?
Meet the Author
Mariam Sarkiashvili is a freshman in English Philology at International Black Sea University
“I feel as though freedom is a different concept for everyone. However, it is something everybody longs for. With this poem, I wanted to paint a beautiful picture of what freedom may feel like.”
A photograph of a woman releasing a bird into the sky.
The Fault of Kindness
Ketevani Lomidze
In the middle of the street, everything was in deep slumber. Two bus stops, each on a different side of the road, stared at each other silently. The darkness of the night was only lightened by the flickering lamps. Rin stood there under the yellow glow in her dirtied boots, one hand in her wet and cold jacket and the other holding the phone close to her ear.
Rin stood, waiting. She didn’t even bat an eye or move a finger as she waited patiently. She just stared at the bus stop opposite the road she was standing on. Her relaxed body and the lazy movements of her head expressed indifference, but her fidgeting eyes seemed to be waiting for something to happen on that side of the road.
Suddenly, the ringing sound stopped at once, and she heard a voice from her phone.
“Hello, this is psychologist Marine, my working hours are over, so please leave a message if it’s something important or try to call again during working hours,” said the voicemail.
A black and white photograph of reflection of a person in a puddle on the street
“Hello, this is Rin . . . ” she finally spoke up in a hoarse voice. “I think I won’t be coming to our sessions anymore.”
She took a deep breath as if taking her time to collect her thoughts, just as her jet-black eyes caught a glimpse of the laughing couple heading towards the bus stop in front of her. Then she went on:
“My beliefs haven’t changed since the day I started the therapy with you, or to be honest, since I saw my first dream when I had turned twelve,” Rin averted her eyes from the flirtatious couple and glanced at her watch, continuing. “I still avoid sleeping . . . I still don’t see any point in living and trying to hold on to this life.”
Rin’s voice became a little choked at the end, so she frustratedly stuck her hand out of her pocket and ruffled her silky hair, shaking rain diamonds off.
“I don’t see the point in trying to act happy, when you aren’t, pretending that everything is fine and that you are in control of your life. And I’ve just got bored of you nodding your head to all my words in that ridiculously white room,“ she continued with the click of her tongue, noticing that some drunken old man had joined the couple at the bus stop.
“I have talked so many times to you, to people I see in my dreams, but none of you seem to understand me. Hell, I’m pretty sure that even you don’t really believe that I can predict people’s death in my dreams!”
Rin stopped for a moment and released a deep sigh which turned into a cloud in the cold air. Then, she continued, “Once you said that trying is the main part of living, but it looks like living is just not for everyone.”
Rin removed the phone from her ear with her slightly shaky hands and looked at her watch once again. After a few seconds of silence, she finally ended the call and let her gaze linger on the bus stop in front of her, where the couple looked annoyed with the noisy drunkard. He waved his bottle up in the air and kept shouting things that probably even he couldn’t understand.
“Well, I don’t know about that psychologist, but you are just overthinking,” a voice came suddenly from her right. Rin almost jumped as she glanced at the owner of the voice. Her unfazed eyes immediately went wide at the sight of someone who was sitting on the wet concrete in a huge bunny costume.
When the stranger took off the bunny’s head and plopped it next to him, Rin could easily tell that he was the same age as her. He ruffled his blond hair as it quickly became decorated with rain diamonds and lit up a cigarette. The light of the burning cigarette revealed his tired blue eyes that were like the morning sky.
“I don’t think a smoking bunny knows better,” Rin said after a minute.
The guy snickered, glanced at her sideways, and puffed out the smoke.
“So, what were you saying? Seeing death?” he continued in a humorous tone, “Can you predict mine?”
Rin didn’t seem to get the joke. She took a few steps while being unbothered by the rain falling on her face, and she crouched down to his level to stare into his eyes. If the man was surprised, he sure didn’t show it, but out of reflex, he shifted back as Rin put her long fingers in front of his eyes.
“If you want me to, just say so,” she breathed out flatly. “Only one touch is enough for a human to appear in my dreams. Not only will I tell you how you die, but if you are lucky, I will also be with you during the last minutes of your life.”
The bunny boy let out a choked laugh. He didn’t move away but also didn’t dare to smack the girl’s hand, and he said instead, “Thank you, but I’m fine with not knowing.”
He watched as the girl retracted her hand back. She glanced at him with unimpressed eyes and her full attention went back to the bus stop.
“Sounds ironic,” she mumbled. “The psychologist I had been visiting for a month didn’t believe that I see people’s death, but some bunny with eavesdropping tendencies believed instantly.”
The boy laughed wholeheartedly and lit another cigarette.
“If it was a lie, you wouldn’t sound so troubled.”
“Troubled?” she smirked, then her mouth turned into an ugly scowl. “My only worry is insomnia. People die every day. It’s how this world is made and there’s no reason to feel troubled by it.”
“Is that what you say to comfort yourself when you see another person die?” his wicked smile surpassed the girl’s fragile calmness. Suddenly, Rin wasn’t so cold anymore, as if her body had caught on fire. Her eyes couldn’t focus on the bus stop anymore, and they became entirely glued to the boy.
“What? Bunny got your tongue?” he released melodious laughter just as the silence set in. He motioned his cigarette towards Rin to invite her to smoke with him or to encourage her to speak up. “What’s your name?”
“Cold . . . ” she squawked while fluttering her eyelashes and piercing the boy with a glare after collecting herself. “My name is Rin.”
“Cold, huh?” he scratched at his stubble. “Isn’t the main meaning of Rin
‘dignified’ and not ‘cold’?”
“I think Cold suits me . . . ” she responded automatically because she had been distracted by splashing sounds from a puddle underneath someone’s shoes. The image of a teenage girl walking to the bus stop soon followed the noise. As soon as Rin noticed the girl, she quickly glanced at her watch. Horrendous images filled her mind and she became unable to shake the deep color of blood from her eyesight. She weakly took a small unstable step back.
“You seem to spin the world in a twisted way, giving too much credit to unimportant things,” the boy continued once again.
“I don’t think my judgment is wrong, at least not from what I have experienced. And you sound too self-confident for someone who is scared to know how his life will end,” Rin answered him after a few minutes of silence.
The boy laughed at her words again and he even stopped smoking for a while to collect his thoughts.
“Afraid isn’t what I feel. I just don’t see the need of knowing something that will be a burden to my goals,” he continued while motioning his hands and miming his thoughts. “Being in the dark drives me to work harder and think that it’s still not the end.”
“Burden you say . . . ” she repeated. Rin raised her pale finger and drew circles beside her temple in the air, as she watched the boy’s piercing blue eyes that had lost their humor. “Guess how burdened I feel when I see the images of all those strangers’ deaths in my head.”
The boy still didn’t seem impressed, “Burden? It should be a gift. You can prevent death and give people another chance to live.”
The street had already fallen into deep slumber, lulled by the rain. Even the flies had started to get dizzy from all the dancing around the light and they were already dozing off. However, this silent symphony was abruptly interrupted by Rin’s sudden hysterical, evil laughter. It made the whole street come alive at once.
“Another chance, rarely, or let’s say, never, comes . . . No matter how many times you try to help, they just keep embracing their fate. And if some try to fight their death, if I give them a hand to do so, they are suddenly filled with hatred . . . They blame me for what has happened to them and I become the killer in their eyes.”
Rin avoided the stranger’s agape mouth as she proceeded with her confession.
“Have you ever seen a person blaming someone for helping, for being kind? They probably wish that I had never interfered. The people you blabber about and the gift that you feel fascinated by are like the people in my paintings. I make them happy on a piece of paper and they make me feel warmer instead. But life isn’t like my drawings, you know?”
“Sounds wicked,” came the words from the boy, but this time they didn’t have enough power to make Rin lose her balance.
The bunny boy looked nothing like he did before. His broad shoulders had shrunk and his eyes had become downcast. The boy’s tapping fingers sought another cigarette, but they had no strength left to reach for it. He had become smaller and quieter.
Only after mustering up a little courage, he breathed in and said dejectedly, “Everything you’ve said sounds wicked.”
“Of course, it does,” answered Rin without any hesitation, “because everything I have said is true. It’s like an old saying that states ‘The one I have clothed made me naked as a thanks,” her lips already blue from the cold went up into a small smile. She took a final step backwards, glanced at her watch for the last time, and avoided the bus stop in front of her.
[12]
“But . . . ” the boy abruptly said, his gaze suddenly piercing through the girl. “I would still save them!”
The rain after hearing those words seemed to stop for a moment. Even the shuffling trees ceased their movements and let the boy’s phrase echo in the quiet street.
“I would never give up. I wouldn’t be able to live with the reality that I got scared of people’s ungratefulness and cruel words and chose to be the bad guy instead,” he didn’t stop despite noticing how the girl started to tremble.
“As your drawings may have black paint, so will life have evil and wicked people. Everything is temporary in this world and nothing is going to last, including those horrendous people, but kindness will always remain. If ungrateful people rob you, somebody else will surely return the kindness to you. You just have to keep trying. You have to be honest with yourself and that way you won’t be ‘cold’, but ‘dignified’!” The boy huffed and gulped as he spoke.
a quote taken from a Georgian novel “Data Tutashkhia” by Chabua Amirejibi.
“What’s your name?” Rin asked after she had let out a long sigh and looked at her watch.
“Name?” the boy repeated deflated, thinking his speech didn’t have enough impact on her as he had expected. “My name’s Sora.”
“Sora as in ‘the sky’, huh? You sure sound like a “Sky”,” she said with a smile, but he wasn’t able to hear the rest of her words. They were interrupted by an awful screeching sound that had filled the whole street. In the blink of an eye, he turned and saw that Rin wasn’t standing beside him. She was running.
Rin’s limbs were moving as fast as they could to reach the bus stop in front of her. Rin had already lost touch with reality and was having flashbacks of the horrendous death that was about to happen. She recalled the deafening crash buzzing in her ears, and remembered the unfazed face of the teenager, too distracted by her headphones to notice the car coming towards her.
Rin was now focused only on the images in her head, and the splattered hot blood combined with cold rain on the leaves of the bushes. The flickering lamps had finally faded and Rin could hear the couple’s fearful cries calling 911. Even the drunkard couldn’t ignore the teenager’s lifeless body lying on the concrete. The whole street was now filled with the iron-like smell of blood as the teen lay like a broken doll.
The flashing images ceased at once and Rin’s focus shifted to the now crying teenager in her arms. Rin had cheated fate. She turned out to be quicker than death itself. In the end, she was able to push the teenager out of the way of the speeding car. And the silence of the street was finally broken with shocked exclaims from witnesses who had realized what a horrible accident had been avoided seconds ago.
“Oh . . . What a terrible thing it is, when kindness tempts a human,” Rin said with a delightful smile, looking at the sky which seemed brighter than before, as she held the crying, but still-breathing teenager in her arms.
Meet the Author
Ketevani Lomidze is a senior in English Philology at International Black Sea University
“Languages have always fascinated me. I have always wondered how humans can group words, create sentences, communicate, or even dream. Unanswered questions led me to dive deep into this field and find clues that would satisfy not only me but other curious people, too. As an English philology student, I have tried perfecting myself and developing not only through learning English but also by writing articles, research, and creative pieces of work. My short stories, unlike my articles, express human struggles, inner turmoil, and doubts by portraying the characters and scenes that live in my imagination. In addition, my close relationship with languages includes written and spoken translation, which I aim to master as a profession. Acquiring other languages like Korean, Chinese, and Russian, helped me to broaden my point of view and make cross-linguistic observations, too. I have also been an active member of Vitascope's editing team for two years and obtained valuable knowledge in editing and helping other authors to make their voices heard and reach an audience.”
Lika Miruashvili The Other Bird
The flames dancing along the walls are flashing like sirens. She didn’t mean to start a fire. The feathers on her wings are scalding hot. She doesn’t know if she’ll still have them to fly away once and for all. She can’t believe what she’s doing. After all, it all started only a few days ago.
Though she doesn’t remember it, she used to be young once. Sometimes in the quiet of her lonely nights, she wonders if she used to sing too. Her master never tells her of her past. He only tells her she can’t fly. He says it’s because she broke her wings long ago. So, she never even flutters her wings.
The master is so sweet, so nice. He takes her out of her cage sometimes. He shows her off to his old friends. When he tires of her, he sends her back to her cage and she has to pretend like she can still fly.
She can almost recall the vibrations of a velvety voice gently rolling through her body. Is it a dream? She knows her master wouldn’t lie. She’s sure the voice in her head (so beautiful) is the lie. What she does remember is the master’s stern tone telling her once that she was too loud. So now she barely moves, as to not make a single sound. In the quiet he created in her soul, she forgets she ever used to have a
A photograph of bird flying in the evening sky
voice.
It always starts with a “You’re so pretty. Why don’t you sing for me darling?” and ends with a “You used to be better, Honey. I don’t even know why I keep you.” She’s so scared when he says that, she almost leaps out of her skin. But no amount of sadness can get her out of her golden cage.
Gold is her favorite color. That’s why the cage is golden. It glints in the afternoon when the sunlight hits just the right angles. She can’t imagine a warmer home.
She wants nothing more than to be the best. Every time the master compliments her there’s a sudden giddy warmth in her belly. It elicits a feeling she can’t compare to anything else. That feeling has become an addiction she’s constantly chasing. When she’s alone she allows herself to fear just how far she would go to make him happy. She stashes that thought away in the corner of her mind that she rarely dares to visit. The corner with an emotion she can’t name. It only calls to her when she thinks about flying. Flying . . . As soon as that word crosses her mind, she shoots it off into the distance. It’s a betrayal to think of flying. Her master has given her such a beautiful home, a golden cage. She never wants to leave.
One day he comes home with a new cage. She thinks it's for her, that she’s getting a present. He hangs the cage from the ceiling just like hers and leaves abruptly. She doesn’t know what that means.
The next day there is a new visitor and she can’t believe her eyes. It’s a bird just like her. Her wings are shinier. Looking at her is like looking at a ray of sunshine on the snow, twinkling so bright, so white it’s hard to look at her and not feel dirty in comparison. For the first time in her life, she realizes she can be replaced.
The other bird doesn’t smile at the master. She shakes and shouts and shows off her wings. It’s a clear sign of disobedience. The master doesn’t tolerate it. Instead, he brings a lighter into the room and burns off the feathers on her wings.
She thinks the other bird will learn to do better from now on. She’ll learn to be quiet and won’t cause so much trouble. It might take some time, but it always happens in the end, doesn’t it? She will put herself in an imaginary bubble. The first bird doesn’t even remember when she did that. She didn’t even realize she’d done it until she observed the other bird.
The first bird moves slowly (gracefully, she’s been told) and never spreads her wings for fear of taking up too much space. She doesn’t want the master to think she doesn’t care about her home. If she ruffles her wings and shakes like the other bird, wouldn’t it mean she doesn’t want to be in the cage? That isn’t true. She loves the cage. It would be silly to try to change something that’s already perfect . . . But is it perfect?
As soon as that question leaves her mind, she bows her head and closes her eyes. It’s as if she wants to hide the thought from herself. Everything is perfect. Of course, it is. It has to be. Otherwise, it would mean the master doesn’t love her and that is a silly thing to think.
The other bird doesn’t sing when the two birds are alone. It’s only at midnight that she starts screaming and screeching and stealing away the peace of the home. The master doesn’t like that either. So, one night he comes in and breaks one of the other birds’ wings.
The master is so nice, so sweet . . . He just broke the other bird's wing and now she can’t fly.
She tries to imagine what it would be like to never experience flight. To never feel clouds splitting on her beak, or the cold air around the highest peak of her favorite mountain. Does she have a favorite mountain? It is then that she realizes she hasn’t flown in years. The master never broke her wings, he never hurt her, but he took the ability to fly from her. She doesn’t know how it happened. Her small body feels like a lie he told her now. Was she always this small? She can’t recall. It doesn’t matter anyway. Her wings are big enough to tear the sky apart and circle the world. Her heart is beating in the rhythm of sirens, her whole frame shaking from the force it takes for her to stay still. Every feather stretching toward the window, she needs to fly, to fly, to fly! It's as if even the wind, slowly creeping in the cracks between the tattered curtains, is telling her just to try.
The other bird is asleep. The master is gone. This is as good a time as any to release the shackles holding her mind hostage. But what about the master? Won’t he be sad to see her go? She’ll come back, of course, but he’ll still miss her while she’s gone. She’ll come back, right?
She’s never tried to open her cage. Why would she ever want to leave? The master told her the cage was too heavy for her to ever lift. So, she listened. Like she always does.
She flutters her wings and the moment her feathers touch the cold iron, the gate opens without a sound. She always thought victories were supposed to be loud, crashing into you with such unstoppable force, that it would be hard to breathe. But sometimes you win when you take a single, small step after not being able to move. There was no applause, no thunder to signal the change in the little bird’s heart.
The master had lied! She’s frozen now. Staring at an open gate, which she could’ve opened years ago, not knowing what to do. There’s another cage right by her own, with the other little bird also far from its home. She needs to help her too, but the other bird can’t fly anymore, having become quiet and sick. She is almost alone again.
She gathers all the courage she can muster and flaps her wings once, twice, she flies into the air, but she gets scared. It’s too much all at once. She crashes into a burning candle. The flame on the candle crackles for a moment and then, like a long-forgotten friend, says hello to the curtains. And the curtains relay the greetings to the wooden walls and soon everything is red. Red like the blood from the wing the master broke. Red like the fear in her chest. Red like the sky during a sunset, which she’s never seen.
The other bird wakes. Wide eyes flashing with triumph, she looks at the first
the Author
Aleksandre Ghibradze - Carpe Mori Life
A photograph of sun rays peeking through the clouds over the mountains
Who am I? Who am I?
The wind whistles the question through my body, I dared to dabble in ink, I carry an authentic spark.
Where am I? Where am I?
The magician is lost, Light my way with a pen, Pleads the one standing alone.
Why am I? Why am I?
Silence is deadly,
The gardener seeks an answer, The flower is smiling.
Am I even real? Am I here? Moments are carried off by illusions, I acknowledge my existence, I am the wind, I am the water.
I am fire, I am earth, I can’t shut off my introspection,
[13]
A glass brimming with “Tvishi” wine, Will help you realize who and what you are.
Creation, freedom, Love and kindness,
Individuality, remorse, Chained emotions,
Gazing at the fiery heavens, Illumination under the overcast sky, Seeking, seeking, seeking, praising, Feeding on the ego, tempted by glory.
The attachment, the seduction of the body,
An inevitable ordeal, Is the creator of kissing the tree's brow, Spirituality is eternal.
But in the end, questions still cease Questions for me, questions for you
The questioner burns, the questioner sings
Our chanting rings orange.
[13] A dry to semi-sweet white wine produced near Tvishi village in northwestern Georgia.
?
And the chanting goes like this:
Who am I? Who are you?
Where am I? Where are you?
Why am I? Why are you?
Am I even here? Are you even here?
...I am...
...You are…
Meet the Author
Aleksandre Ghibradze - Carpe Mori is a junior in Law at International Black Sea University
“My interest in poetry started in my childhood when my grandpa taught me some poems by some of the greatest Georgian poets such as Rustaveli, Galaktioni, VajaPshavela, and others. Once, he told me "When you learn 3 poems, you should write the 4th on your own." As he also wrote, he had a great influence on me and served as my inspiration. My pseudonym, a combination of "Carpe Diem'' and "Memento Mori,'' vividly depicts the motto I am trying to live by as a writer. In my poem "Sukhishvilebi," I wanted to convey viewers' pure emotions and a deep connection with dancers. As for my other poem "Life", I explore the endless and universal question, "Who am I?”.”
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