Addicted
Issue #1 – Summer '17 1
Š 2017, Write the City Mag All content in this publication may not be copied or republished without written consent. Copyrights of individuals' work are held by the relevant author and requests for reproduction should be made to them.
Masthead This issue is made by Vlad Guzman Editor in chief Yulia Laschuk Concept & original idea Lorenzo Berardi Editor & translator coordinator DJ Lawrence Editor & grammar authority Sasha Bravin Editor Anna Kulach Editor
Who Are We? It all started with the voices, the migrated voices. Two young migrated voices wishing to break through and be heard. They struggled with the language, their new host city – Warsaw – had her own language, which as beautiful as it is, it was still not for them. They sat down and thought. They perused in their brain archives and tried to find a solution. Then it came: let’s Write The City! They found support. They gathered an initial group of amazing migrant young writers and set off on an adventure within the city we all came to love. Together they discovered its corners and cherished its lights. They complained and felt bitter. They enjoyed and cried. And they made Warsaw their city. The initial plan was to give voice to migrant writers so that they could be heard and speak of the city that they, though not Poles by birth, also called home. They gathered their stories and poems and put them all in a book. Months later, this magazine was born. As a response for the need of migrant writers to have a place to express themselves. As a site for authors writing in any language to have a place to be read, not only by those who understand the language, but for many others beyond any geographical or language borders. Because words go beyond borders. We have poetry and short stories, and will have longer works and novels published by chapters for you to enjoy. Don’t forget to share and spread the news. Let the words travel worldwide. If you are a young writer who migrated, or you write in a “minority” language, feel free to submit your work here. We also have a whole section for articles related to culture, arts and diversity. Take a look, and also feel free to contribute with your texts and articles. Now just lay back in your favourite place and read us.
www.writethecity.org
For all those who have transcended borders‌
Wordsmiths & Contents Ron Stoop
Unbroken
11
Alina Ivanova
Return
13
Matthew Eleckar Bratrsovsky
Invasion
17
Viktoria Khomenko
Fairytale about Grandpa
20
Казка про Дєда
21
Iva Marie Couchman
Dance with Me
23
Adam Coombs
Mars Bars
27
Timothy Connolly
Absolute Ecstasy
33
Vlad Guzman
Sketches
35
Lorenzo Berardi
Moonshine Swansong
43
No Danger
44
Hanka
47
Ханка
53
Confession Booth
59
Alevtina Shavlach
Melissa Rose
Write the City
Ron Stoop Ron is a twenty-four years old Dutch kid, living in Warsaw. He writes words and makes sounds.
10
Issue 1 – Addicted
Unbroken Dangling feet Pushing air Castles of the mind fell when you left the door In the open, exposed, scrutinized descending, yet flat-surfaced The inner sermon preaching, obscured by grim reality Take a breath Try to find direction Complexity numbs the soul Grab A ledge of passion and salvation Through the narrow tunnel The end confuses your mind Pictures of the past turn negative Find your breath Cut all ties exterminate connections Repair the unbroken bicycle And then Tranquility sets in Water flows back into the cup A structured entity Wheels start spinning Find your center Feet return to the earth For now. 11
Write the City
Alina Ivanova Alina was born in Eastern Ukraine and has been living in Poland for four years now. She's never bored by contemplating. Well, she also likes rice noodles, but she promises to quit. Writing seems to be the only way for her to sound coherent, so she does it from time to time.
12
Issue 1 – Addicted
Return He barged into a compartment of the Berlin-Warsaw train holding a big gym bag. It was an almost bald guy in a track suit, being around 25 years old. Poles that look like him are called dresiarze, something like English chavs or Russian gopniks. Ironically, the compartment contained: a Russian man coming back from a business trip; a woman who lived in Fiji and was on her incomprehensible way to native Belarus through Europe; and me coming back home after getting my degree in Poland and at that time being uncertain whether to call myself an immigrant, a cosmopolitan or an antagonist of any identity considerations. The Pole put his gym bag on the floor and said loudly: “Bonjour, dzień dobry!” he sat down and as the smell of alcohol started to diffuse, everything became clear. I greeted him in Polish and was followed with two Russian words: “Добрый день.” The guy experienced quick bewilderment, but then quickly replaced it with an incoherent, vivid bilingual story about an unplanned train ticket purchase. The story quite absorbed him, so he put French “mais,” “sais pas,” then rushed emotions made him scream “kurwa,” “pojebane,” to explain how hard it was to be on time for the train. “Pardon,” he added. The Russian man frowned and returned to his monologue, which he believed to be a dialogue with the Belorussian woman: “There is no preconceived attitude in homeland. I have to work elsewhere, but my soul will always belong to my country. Luckily, the Internet allows me to cut half of my business trips abroad. It also helps my daughter with school. She knew there are six oceans and four continents before geography lessons even started!” The guy caught linguistic dissonance once again. Even so, he still tried to join the two and as he finally began to recognize similar lexicon, he nodded a couple of times saying “Oui, d’accord.” 13
Write the City
I interrupted him: “Shouldn’t it be the other way around? Four oceans and six continents.” “No, I doubt it.” The answer sounded a bit angry. I looked at his suit, smiled and softly enumerated all of them. The man glanced at the woman in front, who lowered her eyes and quickly said: “I shall check it out when I am near my laptop.” The tension only defused as the Pole suddenly asked where we had been going. I told him I was on my way home. It came to my mind we all were. He nodded exaggeratedly and said he had been coming back from France, where he had been working for five years. “Our car broke down in Świecko, somewhere between Germany and Poland, kurwa! This train was the only choice for today. I am going home, to Tarnów. I haven’t seen my mother since I went to France, I haven’t seen her for five years.” While talking about himself, his eyes were everywhere but in contact. He used to get silent suddenly. A couple of times, he started once again, adding new information as if soberness made him realize. I learned his friends were in another compartment. The car they bought together in France was meant to deliver them home, to be sold and to bring some extra cash. Instead, they had left the broken car, met border-guards, got a little upset, bought more native alcohol and a few tickets to reach the final destination. When the Pole got silent, the Russian’s stories filled the whole space. The guy then glanced at the window, at the native landscapes, which now probably felt unusual and the speech in the compartment was barely understandable. Sometimes he whispered meaningless “sais pas, sais pas.” I also didn’t know how his return would look like. Would he be sober when embraced by his mother? Would his friends and he laugh when remembering train ticket purchase or would he cry because of nothing would be the same as it used to be before? Each scenario made me feel sad. When it was time for him to change trains, he stood up, straightened himself up and, 14
Issue 1 – Addicted
saying “Mesdames,” he kissed the woman’s hand and then mine leaving a smell of alcohol. His track suit looked awkwardly elegant then. The disappearing platform outside the window reminded us that we were closer to home, closer to the comfort zone we had all escaped from.
15
Write the City
Matthew Eleckar Bratrsovsky Matthew has always been a creative individual. Using dry humour and hyperbole, tragedy is his specialty.
16
Issue 1 – Addicted
Invasion Denial It could have been anything. Surely, the birds only migrated. Left for the season; resume worshiping. Anger So much blood and dread. Why me? Leave me alone, I said! Bargaining Gentle, Father and Mother Please, be merciful. No, not sister nor brother. Depression So many lost, damned, dead. The cries, most subsided. I think I’ll just stay in bed. Acceptance Gone, at last: torturing, starvation, plague Everything dies, and so must we. Dreams, lives, thoughts, beliefs; all so vague. The worst part? Anticipation. 12
17
Write the City
Viktoria Khomenko Viktoria is a film critic and a writer who studied journalism at the Kyiv Mohyla Academy in Ukraine. She works at Docudays UA Festival as a web editor and a PR-manager in charge of some projects. On top of this, over the last few years she has been producing short films.
18
Issue 1 – Addicted
Photo by Alec Łysak
19
Write the City
Fairytale about Grandpa I am four years old. Grandpa is drunk. I can see brown mushrooms growing inside his mouth like the ones under the chestnut in the garden. Grandma says, climb through the window into the summer kitchen and open the door for me. Grandpa’s drunk and locked the door from inside. I left potatoes and fried zucchini on the stove. It’s hot outside - I’m wearing only a shirt and tights. And a hat... I breathe on the window and tell her Grandpa has mushrooms in his mouth. Grandma grunts "Climb!" I put one foot in, then my head. Grandma holds me up with her wet hands. And I’m dying to kick them...Grandpa starts to snore and the frightened flies fly into my face. I push the bowl with zucchini with my foot. On the table I see Grandpa’s glass, spoon and a piece of black bread with sugar. I turn around to the window and ask Grandma, moving only my lips, to make me a sandwich. I’d really like a piece of black bread sprinkled with water and sugar...Gran hisses. Grandpa gnarls. I stand up, then kick the zucchini bowl with my foot. Against the latched door there are a table, a chair, a broom, a bucket with shucks and one of Grandpa’s shoes. I go up to his bed and watch the mushrooms growing in his mouth. There is also something small, hairy and purple – maybe it's cornflowers. And red poppies stirring there, a little deeper, in the throat. Slightly lower, under his tongue that collapsed on the right, there are white wildflowers that look like asterisks...Yuk...That’s wormwood! Too bad about Grandpa. I don’t turn back to look at the garden. Carefully, I walk under the blue sticky table with a pot of warm water toward the door. "Well? Are you still afraid?" Grandma grins. "And why is your nose covered in pollen?"
Translated from Ukrainian by the author and edited by Sasha Bravin.
20
Issue 1 – Addicted
Казка про Дєда Мені 4 з половиною. Дєда п'яний. Бачу як у нього в роті ростуть коричневі гриби, ніби в саду під горіхом. Баба каже: лізь у шибу, в літню кухню, відкриєш мені двері. Дід напився і двері зсередини замкнув. А вона там картоплю, кабачки лишила на плиті. На вулиці душно — на мені тільки сорочка і колготки. Ще шапка... Я дмухаю в скло, кажу, що у діда в роті гриби! Баба фиркає: "Лізь в шибу!" Я суну спочатку одну ногу, а потім голову. Баба підпирає мене мокрими руками. Так і хочеться ногою її пхнути... Діда захропів і мух мені в обличчя налякав. Відсуваю ногою миску з кабачками. На столі дідів стакан, ложка і шмат чорного хліба в цукрі. Я повертаюся до вікна і тільки ворушачи губами прошу бабу зробити мені бутерброд — дуже вже хочеться чорного хліба збризнути водою і посипати щедро цууукром... Баба шипить. Діда загарчав. Стою. Колупаю ногою миску з кабачками. До дверей із засувкою — стіл, стілець, віник, відро з лушпинням, дідів чобіт. Стою біля ліжка, дивлюся як у нього в роті ростуть гриби. І ще мале щось таке бузкове волохате — майже волошки. І може навіть червоні маки ворушаться — там, трохи глибше, в горлі. А нижче, під вивернутим на правий бік язиком пробиваються білі такі квіти польові, п'ятикутні... Фу... це ж полин! Шкода діда стало. Більше не дивлюся на сад. Обережно під синім липким столом, біля каструлі з теплою водою, йду до дверей. "Ну, що? Не страшно?” баба вищірилася. - “А ніс чого в пилку?”
21
Write the City
Iva Marie Couchman Iva Marie holds an Associates Degree in General Education from Portland Community College, in Oregon. She is currently volunteering as a mentor for Coursera's online, “Sharpened Visions: A Poetry Workshop course,� and is writing her first novel. She has been published in several Oregon newspapers, and in Mopar Magazine. A grandmother of three, Iva currently lives in Chihuahua, Uruguay with her husband Michael, where they are exploring new ideas, a new language, and enjoying the fresh ocean air.
22
Issue 1 – Addicted
Dance with Me Dance with me Through a sliver of time Ignorantly created in my mind Built on hopes and dreams That never come true I am gagged from screams My heart torn in two Dance with me please In my world full of pain See the loss in my eyes I must be insane I wanted your love Ashamed that I asked From father to son We shared a life and a past Dance with me, I’ll ask again I miss you, I care Where have I sinned I don’t understand Please help me to see What will it take For you to need me Come, come Dance with me now You will be ok , I finally see how The pain is too much So you struggle away
23
Write the City Using life as a crutch Closing doors It’s your way I get it, I do But it took me some time You’re a coward that’s true Numb drunk in your wine Dance with me, Dance with me I am free can’t you see I take back all I am All I want, All that is me I leave you to nothing No heart, no pain To a life once something Left riddled in shame Dance with me fool I wish that you had My hat I take off Tip my glass and am sad So much for our family So much for our past I waste not a moment Moving forward at last
24
Issue 1 – Addicted
Photo by Marek Supertramp
25
Write the City
Adam Coombs Adam is an American living in Warsaw, Poland. He enjoys literature of all kinds, craft beer, and traveling.
26
Issue 1 – Addicted
Mars Bars She had canceled and left him with an open New Year’s Eve. No more plans. Why had she canceled? He didn’t want to be alone; couldn’t be alone. Scrolling quickly through his contact list, he looked for anyone that might have a flexible schedule or an extra ticket to one of the many evening’s parties getting underway. A flurry of messages went out unreturned, except for one jokingly inviting him to spend the evening Facetiming the parties getting underway back home in New York. Still dripping wet from the shower, he wiped himself down and dropped his towel, put on a pair of shorts, and sat in lazy-boy chair that looked out over the city center from seven stories up. It seemed as if he would have to watch the midnight spectacle alone, having now promised himself he wouldn’t leave the flat without a defined plan, as any aimless nights usually left him open to a relapse. Across the street was a building of flats built as a concrete copy to his own. He looked at the building, its lit and guest-filled windows contrasting the dark ones of the sleeping or not-at-home, forming a checkerboard of light and dark spaces. In the northeast corner were four occupied windows with three more tailing off from the bottom right, resembling domestic constellations of an urban big dipper, he thought. Excited with the prospect of people-watching all night, he took out his brass handheld telescope and looked through his and their windows, watching the partygoers across the way dancing on kitchen tables, raising shot glasses, crying in curtain shielded corners, or sitting around, waiting for the fireworks. This seemed a better alternative now, rather than watching a movie on his laptop. Movies or TV shows usually invited a binge; ideas of a sugar-filled movie session needing only a pause button and a pair of shoes to be off running downstairs to raid the convenience store for every sweet delight. But the real-life movie in front him didn’t have a pause button; it was unfolding in real-time with or without him, and he didn’t want to miss anything.
27
Write the City
As if on cue, just outside his window to the left, the Palace lit up in a rainbow facade. The carnival colour scheme wrapped around the building in a bleeding spectrum of light, doing its best impression of a colossal confection. The universe is cruel, he thought. He had tried to quit countless times before. His reasoning for giving in was as diverse as pure mathematics; the irony being that each reason was proofable by the same denominator. Abstinence usually lasted a few days, maybe a week sometimes, but each continuum was broken by three words whose gravitas seemed to rival a cosmic vacuum:
one last time. Temptation was everywhere: cookies jammed into a cupboard just under the Jaeger machine at work, convenient stores lined the street he lived on, and stands adorned with candy walled him on both sides in supermarket checkout lines. Every method he tried to use to quit had failed him: hypnosis, self-help psyche books, the buddy system, even going as far as to insult the cashier working at the Carrefour just underneath his flat in hopes of getting a lifetime ban. All it did was get her fired after she threw his change in his face. His latest ruse had been to keep his schedule so busy he would have neither time or inclination to allow any urges to give CPR to what he had been trying get off of life-support; empty calories feeding a tumour he was trying desperately to repress. He felt fortunate it wasn’t alcohol or a life-threatening heroine addiction. He wasn’t shockingly unhealthy or overweight; he just wanted to stop because he noticed it was something he was having trouble doing, unable to control an onslaught of urges; their observed outcome only incidental. It was just sugar. His shrink had told him that in no way could the body become physically dependent on sugar, it just wasn’t possible. Which made him feel worse. If it did at least he could pass the blame; but to admit he was helpless thanks to his own inability to walk past a door without walking in, irked him to no end.
28
Issue 1 – Addicted
Screams and air-horn blasts were now wild outside his window. The air-traffic warning lights blinked in unison as the rest of the city’s system moved on in the waning hours of another year. Skeletal trees were caught in streetlamp light casting fingered shadows over satellites of groups orbiting around park at the Palace’s periphery. Faces were now discernible in the windows across the street like inquisitive fish investigating the world beyond their tank, staring at the bedlam below. Rain began pecking at his window; nuclei of drops collected and then slowly broke off, matrices of drizzle blurring the midnight fireworks pixelating the cloudy night sky and all the eager onlookers from across the street. Screams and horns and jubilant greetings built to an exploding crescendo. All of it made for a semblance of a war-zone outside; chaotic sounds and sights bleeding into one another beyond his now opaque window. The light drizzle picked up its pace and intensity, all but erasing any chance of rejoining the parties across the street, even as a spectator. He sat back down in his chair, with only the fading sounds for company. He imagined that too much of a good thing might be what finally cure’s him; an explosion of everything he wanted finally making him sick, crippled by the excess. He would go down to the store and buy all his favourite delights: ropes of Twizzlers, jumbo Skittle packs, bricks of Mambas, Mars bars, the entire colour spectrum manifested in a bag of jellybeans; scrunched up packs of Haribo overflowing from the breadth of his fist as he paid and hurried back upstairs to his flat to consume it all in a Phoenix-like ritual of death and reincarnation. Maybe it would even give him diabetes, if the urban myth had any actual truth to it. He kicked off his socks and decided to stay, acknowledging each self-promised “last time” was just a lettered trail of breadcrumbs that spelled out tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, but couldn’t have been louder in their declaration of never. He sat staring at the floor, the pendulum of choice metronoming between Now and Later in his head.
29
Write the City
Exhausted by the mental gymnastics and the day, he slid out of his chair onto the floor just under his desk whose underside housed planets of dried gum amidst a sunless universe of dust. From under that starless galaxy he imagined he existed in that unknowable place between earth and what must be the universe floor, trying to understand the space above and below that was as futile as the smallest irrational numbers before and after zero.
30
Issue 1 – Addicted
Photo by Marek Supertramp
31
Write the City
Timothy Connolly Timothy is an Irishman living in Warsaw, Poland. He's working on a series of short stories titled "Warsaw: The City of Strangers."
32
Issue 1 – Addicted
Absolute Ecstasy Death does become you, dear While roses become, Another, dear, Lest they rest upon your powdered Neck. As slim as steel And as sharp as, Nails. But, it cannot be, More lush, than your, lips that glisten, like A cold Moonlight. Or the swirling depths Of your glinting eyes Where a million million Faces can be seen, screaming, as if in Absolute ecstasy.
33
Write the City
Vlad Guzman Vlad is a translator, writer, musician, and cultural activist living between Paris and Warsaw. He is actively engaged in the migrant cultural environment in Poland, seeking to promote other cultures and create spaces for dialogue, where different cultures can learn from each other. In his work he uses interdisciplinary approach combining literature and music to address topics like otherness, integration and equality. He is a huge fan of fantasy and metal music.
34
Issue 1 – Addicted
Sketches She drew the sketch in anger. She was frustrated from having wasted so much time trying to create something good; not even great or amazing, just good. The deadline was getting closer and she hadn’t come up with any decent idea whatsoever. She had drawn sketches, but they were useless and mostly shapeless. She swore out loud, smashed the pen against her notebook and stood up. There was no way she’d finish anything at 3 am, being so sleepy, hungry and furious at her lack of inspiration. That’s why she hated her everyday life so often: the lack of inspiration. She tried hard to find details in all that surrounded her, so she could create art. However, she found herself most constantly at a loss, peering into the empty paper or ogling through the window. The sketch looked at her as she pushed the chair back and went to the bathroom. It was drawn with just a pen. It had a laconic black and white humour, full of dark inked lines and a few spots shaded black here and there. It laid there still, until she came back and paused for a second to take a look at it. It was as if both stared at each other. She was trying to make out a shape out of it. It was silently asking its creator what was it supposed to be, but only hell knew what it was. She sighed in frustration and went to bed. The sketch wriggled and fell on the floor. The phone fell down as she was trying to shut the alarm off. She reached down to bed to scoop it but ended up falling off the bed, which woke her up better than any alarm ever invented. She picked up the phone hastily and looked at the hour: yeah, she was late, as always. She was so discontent at work that she found herself looking for reasons not to go, rather than feeling the normal panic to hurry. She was about to stand up when she noticed a couple red drops and a scarlet stain on the floor. She looked around to find the fountain pen that could’ve fallen but found nothing. She stood up and went to her working table. Everything seemed normal there. All her pens 35
Write the City
were in place, the ink bottles were closed. Her laptop stood open as she had left it, all her chalks were aligned according to usage. Even the sketch she had made was laying there, boring and ugly. She could swear that it smiled at her distress, as if the black and red lines were moving. If it would’ve been possible, she would’ve preferred that sketch disappeared. She ignored the situation and continued to the bathroom. It was time to face her boring life. The real problem was that she no longer felt any interest in what she was doing for a living. She was rather fed-up and dry after 3 years in the same company. She was copying rather than creating posters, logos and consumer art. If the job title was honest, they’d call her a “copydesigner.” She could just change the colour and orientation of an any existing material and her boss would be happy about it. All the excitement and creativity she had brought when she entered had vanished, swallowed up by the crazy rhythm of mass produced crap. The money was good, though; it paid all that must be paid. But her soul was shrinking with every penny she earned. It’s not like she didn’t try to stay creative. Hell no! She was still fighting to make her art and to find her break out moment in the art scene of the city. Now it seemed her moment had arrived, but she was horribly empty and could only draw those awful sketches. They will certainly not seal the deal for her lifetime opportunity. She came back home after work and settled down to draw. The trip on the subway had given her some ideas, she just needed to put them on paper. She spent hours drawing them, but as time passed, she found herself more and more disappointed for what she got. She had drawn a mountain of sketched sheets, all resembling the one she had drawn the night before but not the ideas she had in the subway. They laid there, the sketches, looking back at her from their black and white quietness. It felt as if they were holding hands with the previous one and were mocking her lack of talent. The red colour of the first sketch started to stir some
36
Issue 1 – Addicted
kind of violence in her. She felt tired, numb and frustrated. She grabbed all those drawings made with a black pen and threw them around in the room. They flew patiently; it seemed that they were actually enjoying the ride. That was it, her chance was gone with the giggles of those drawings. She launched herself on the bed and cried herself to sleep. She woke up without the alarm; she knew perfectly well what time it was. She got up and darted to her desk. The drawings laid there, piled up neatly. She could remember how she scattered them all over the room, but did not stop to think why they were back on the desk. For some strange reason, she now felt they would get her into the exhibition. You could say her dreams had told her how to put them together so they would fit in three amazing images. There was no time to admire their beautiful black lines, shadows and light red fillings. She had less than one hour to number them, so they could be put in order, scan them and send them to the gallery. She got her pen and got to work. You may ask why it was so important for her to send them. The answer is simple: it was indeed the chance of her life. She had applied with some of her work to an open call from her favourite gallery in town. The gallery was opened and run by her favourite artist of all time, whose art helped her go through the shocking death of her parents. In addition to that, that gallery didn’t really make open calls. You needed to be great to get your work presented there, they’d give you the chance to be part of their greatness. So, when she saw the more than bizarre open call of the gallery, she didn’t hesitate: she grabbed her best work (inspired by her favourite artist) and applied. That’s the only way it could be. That was a chance that meant life itself to her. Surprisingly, she received the answer stating the gallery’s interest in her work . It required her to send 3 more works especially conceived for the exposition. The topic was 'essence and identity'. She had 3 weeks for that: a deadline that will come to an end in 20 minutes.
37
Write the City
She managed to put all the sketches together. She scanned them and made them ready to be sent, trusting her life in that send button. There are sounds that ensnare the feelings, they fill us with emotions and can even change our lives. The click of the mouse filled her with hope, but it was the sound of the incoming email she got 3 days later that filled her with happiness. It said “accepted”, which made her jump around the tiny studio. She danced, sang, yelled and ultimately cried. She thanked every soul in the world and kissed all the scarlet drawings on her desk. Now she only needed to put them together and frame them. The gallery was so kind and would send a special courier to pick the paintings 2 days before the exposition. She spent a week on that. By the time the doorbell rang, she had them all ready, beautifully framed in a light red background that outlined the dark scarlet drawings. She looked at her masterpiece once more. Next time she would see those drawings, they’d be hanging in an exposition. The doorbell rang once and she darted to open, dragging her feet. In the threshold stood a rather handsome guy, dressed quite hipsterly, but with a bright smile on his face. He extended his hand towards her and started to actually observe her when he felt her cold touch. Pale, ragged, tired, closer to a corpse than a human being. “Are you ok?” he asked, “You look quite…ill.” She dismissed the question with a smile and said that it was all because she had been working too much lately. Still she couldn’t help but feel flattered when she saw the worried expression in the guy’s face. As for the guy, it was not worry but pure panic what had taken over him, as he surely expected the girl to drop dead any moment. She showed the guy the drawings and he carried them carefully to the car he’d parked right in front of her building. The drawings felt much heavier than they looked when she tried to lift one, so she let the guy do. It wasn’t hard, anyways, since the guy ran up to help her when he saw her trying to carry one canvas. Once he finished, the guy handed her an invitation for the opening night, which would 38
Issue 1 – Addicted
take place in two days. He told her she could invite someone along with her, but she had to give them their names as soon as possible. He proceeded to fill her in on the details about the opening, all of which she’d received by mail too. When he left, she made her way to the bed in trembling small steps. It wasn’t that late, but she needed badly to sleep. The sound of an alarm woke her up. It wasn’t her alarm, but it didn’t matter, when she saw the phone she panicked: it was 6 pm. She had one hour till the opening, and she needed at least 40 minutes to get there. She jumped off of the bed and started getting ready. She didn’t take a shower, no time, just clumsily put some water in the parts that needed the most. It was good to feel quite energetic again, and not nearly dead as she had felt lately. She dressed quickly and grabbed her bag, tossing her only heels in, so she could change them later. She ran down the stairs and towards the subway, not paying attention on how it seemed every door was open. The public transport also seemed to be on her side, and she got just three minutes before the whole event started. She got close to the door. A security guy stood on guard. She looked in, her paintings were hanging right in the middle, nearly sparkling with the light they had on them. She entered the place, though the security guy didn’t seem to see her. The organizers of the event gathered right under her paintings, including her favourite artist. She could see her work was the centrepiece of the whole exposition. Around them stood the rest of the artists whose works were exposed. They seemed nervous and somehow aghast, as though they had received some horrible news. She opened her bag and changed shoes distractedly. The bright red and scarlet of her paintings captured her eyes. She couldn’t remember having drawing so beautifully, nor having given them those colours. She was not enthusiastic of red, but it seemed her talent had shown when she dared use it. The sketch was nearly only red, with some delicate black outlining and some soft shadows. It looked beautiful. “Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention please?”
39
Write the City
The sound of the amplified voice startled her. It was she, her favourite artist, who was going to make the opening speech for her own exhibition. She thought of going up there to join the rest, but when she saw no one seemed to noticed her absence, she decided to remain where she was. “Welcome to the opening of the 'Young women artists' exhibition.” Her voice was rather sad and somber, it certainly didn’t convey the excitement she’d expect for such an opening. The rest of the participants had their heads down and also didn’t seem all too happy about it. They were all dressing black, and her bright silver dress would’ve been an oddity in that group. “This opening is, however, both exciting and deeply sad. Exciting because we have discovered amazing talents and gathered them all here with us. Sad, because one of them can’t be here with us.” “Ella Ona was found dead in her apartment just a day after she delivered us her work. We were told that she committed suicide. We hesitated and discussed at length whether we should present her work. You see, she used her own blood to paint these drawings. These are pieces of art which costed her her own life.” “When we accepted her work, these paintings were not so heavily coloured. They had mere shades and details in red. They were a harmonious combination of black, white and red. It seemed to say life, peace and chaos, all mixed together in one canvas. But when we received her final version, just two days ago, they had mutated into these scarlet and red paintings. They seemed to emanate life and to be pulsating themselves.” “We went back to the artists house to ask her for an explanation for this change. It was not bad, it had more power, indeed, it felt more alive, but it also vibrated with death itself. And death is what we found. She was laying in her bed, cold and motionless. Nothing seemed to point at the reason of her dead. However, as they have informed us today, the autopsy showed that she was drained of blood.” “After long considerations, we decided to present her work and her story, as a testimony of 40
Issue 1 – Addicted
her passion. But we also want to raise awareness to the fact that no art should cost the life of the artist. Even though, for the artist, life itself is art. Be as it may, for this, for Ella, I ask you all please one minute of silence.” When she heard her name and the word dead, she panicked and tried to scream. There was no sound, and everybody around her seemed to not hear her or notice her. She made a move to get to her idol, wanting to take the microphone from her and speak the truth. But as she tried to pass the people in front of her, she noticed she couldn’t touched them. Her body would just submerge in the body of the others, who would only shiver slightly. When the minute of silence started, everybody in the room put their heads down and remained silent. She was aghast, wondering why they would say such lies about her, and thinking why she couldn’t touch them. She turned around, trying to find a way to have the attention of the people in the room, so they would know that she was not dead. She wanted them to see she was very alive and wishing to enjoy her first and most important exhibition in life. As she was looking for a way, she noticed the reflection in a mirror on the wall. She was not there, only the reflection of the sketch hanging on the wall.
41
Write the City
Lorenzo Berardi Lorenzo is a thirty something fellow living in Poland and hailing from Italy. In Warsaw he works as a freelance journalist. He jots down English written poetry and fiction whenever he can. His poems and short stories have been published on American, British, Canadian and Polish literary magazines.
42
Issue 1 – Addicted
Moonshine Swansong Howl at the rear lights! Howl at the flickering streetlamps! Remember all those nights we spent growling at our lucky bane, remember the beautiful silvery sound our bottles made when they clinked all together and pushed the dead silent mornings away? Don't forget how we felt as we gulped what was left of the whisky down in one go! The vigour it brought to our joints a fierce rush of blood from top to toe, how often we bought stout or slender beer bottles of many-hued glass the soft tender way we cradled them in our cupped hands before smashing the sad empty flagons against the same old walls we used to piss on when those thousands of fragments like stars on the pavement shone for us only, us, the invincible losers. Man, those were glorious times. So primitive modern we were, so real so vital before we were told to get lost, to get sober.
43
Write the City
No Danger I look at you on weekdays and I cannot help it. You sit right there each time wearing something nice that I learned to foretell. I suppose you're unaware of my persistent watching and if so, do ignore me. Keep smiling. I'm no danger. It's nothing. Be aware there's a straight line, an invisible thread, a magnetism running mid-air just a few metres long between your desk and mine here, in this office where we could swap lovely glances if I weren't wall-eyed.
44
Issue 1 – Addicted
Photo by Marek Supertramp
45
Write the City
Alevtina Shavlach Alevtina is an illustrator living in Kiev, Ukraine. She is a designer and a psychologist by profession, but currently works in the game development industry. She likes classical literature and is interested in existential philosophy.
46
Issue 1 – Addicted
Hanka His voice sounded sad and heavy. It was an unspeakable bitterness which one could hear in his voice. "Trouble! Shame! Disgrace!" He stammered as he lowered his shaggy head. It seemed that it could sever itself from the neck and fall heavily onto the rotten parquet so that the headless corpse would remain stuck as a hornbeam stump. I remembered him to be absolutely different: funny, cheerful, confident, and ambitious. Here are images of the recent bright past. Here he laughs loudly... Here he passionately tells something, funnily waving his hands...Here’s him being exhausted, tired but happy, lying on my lap and sweetly whispering about his dreams, feeling and expectations...How did it happen? Why? What for? I couldn’t believe that this lost man turned grey in front of me and the neat aspiring handsome man from my memories were the same person. “That’s her! Her!” He suddenly cried, as if someone had punched him. I jumped up. His heavy voice unpleasantly slapped the window glass, making it buzz terribly. “Who is her?” I wondered. “That nasty, dishonest old woman who hexed me!” “Shh, calm down, Ustym,” I said, mentioning his name. “No, I can’t,” he said excitedly while his eyes flashed in anxiety. I felt scared. “Why was I so blind?” He threw these words desperately. His lips twitched. “Don’t, just stop!” I timidly touched his shaking hands which made him go silent for some time. We reflexively turned our heads to the window, when the sudden thunder dangerously squeaked outside. “Indeed,” I thought: “how did it happen that such a strong, good guy was taken by such an old ugly woman? Where were his eyes?” I looked around. The room was empty. The foldable bed – as if apologizing – huddled awkwardly under the peeling wall. “Tell me everything. From the beginning to the end. I have to know!” I rushed suddenly and squeezed his wrists.
47
Write the City
Ustym shrugged apathetically. “Is it worth to fall into sorrow and shame once again?” He said. Apparently, my confident gaze pressed on him and he spoke up. He spoke quietly, sadly, almost whispering. His face got red like viburnum, then it turned pale like the image of a dead moon. But he didn’t stop, he spoke, spoke and spoke. The more words his strangled throat freed, the more lighten his tired eyes became. “Hanka. That’s her name. At least this is what she called herself when I saw her for the first time. At that time she didn’t seem old or disgusting. Her face and her eyes were bright, her white teeth could be seen between her puffy lips when she smiled. I was surprised when I saw a slim, seducing, mysterious her – as there were a lot of bad things I’d heard before. Some had said she was ugly and crooked. Others had told me she was stinky and toothless. Someone else said she went wild. But, in reality, that wasn’t true. Hanka appeared to be a real beauty. I was charmed when I saw her campy movements, her sparkling eyes, her golden hair waving with the wind.” Was it really her? That goddamned loathsome woman with whom our parents and teachers would have scared us. I thought as I watched Hanka languish like a weightless feather among ears. “Was that delicate girl able to harm someone? Nonsense! No. Those were just evil slanders.” Ustym took a breath and continued. “She was so beautiful! So seductive! So alluring! Her beauty amazed me, wrapped me around, inspired me. It seemed to me I fell for her before she pronounced the first vital words...I drowned in her golden eyes like in a sunrise. I chose to think that everything I’d heard about her was a lie.” “No, no, this is not the girl with whom the holy pan-fathers tell their sermons. That wasn’t her, who brought these poor men to their graves. These are slanders. Envy slanders. Would that sweet and funny girl be able to cause such evils?!” “When I approached Hanka, she laughed friendly. That was a strange laugh – like the sound of a thin bell coming from the depths of the underworld. I was nailed to the ground. I was puzzled and frozen. So she spoke first. I remember how benevolent and pleasant her voice seemed.” “Only a mountain spring could whisper so charmingly...And then she extended her thin, pale, delicate hand – and I unconsciously seized it. Her skin was extremely soft and warm 48
Issue 1 – Addicted
and I felt how then an unknown arousal crept over me. That was a strange feeling. It was something wild and free, unnatural! It somehow took my whole being, it filled every cell of my body with a special freedom.” “Oh, if I only knew, how dangerous our first contact was for me...” He got silent suddenly and his eyes screwed up. My eyes got wet and I pulled out a handkerchief without it being noticed. A few seconds later, I was crying uncontrollably. I sympathized with him, myself, and with the hundreds of thousands of poor grieving men who huddled in shelters and rehabilitation centers because of that treacherous bitch, Hanka. Meanwhile, Ustym continued: “In the beginning, our meetings were sentimental and romantic. Hanka seemed to be gentle, caring, attentive...I enjoyed her presence, her humour, her curiosity, and attentiveness. I immersed in another dimension when I touched her lips! Needless to say that I could feel pleasure just by thinking we breathed the same air! Nevertheless, soon I noticed something had changed. Nothing significant, so I didn’t pay attention to it. I know, it was too thoughtless of me. Though, it was too late. It began with her behaviour. From being always kind and polite, she had become annoying and critical. She wanted to hold my hand, avidly looking in my eyes, never leaving my side.” “At night, the only way for her to fall asleep was to lay on top of me, pressing me into the bed with her weight,” he went on talking: “It was hard for me to sleep normally, I couldn’t breathe and every morning I woke up being dispirited. I dreamt of quietness and rest, which made me draw a boundary line for the first time. It wasn’t that easy. At the first day, I felt how much I missed her. Everything, literally everything reminded me of her! I couldn’t work, eat, drink nor communicate. Each ordinary routine seemed to be boring, insipid, vapid. So, in the evening, I crawled to her...But Hanka met me coldly. Her smile was skeptical, her gaze was haughty. ‘See now? You are nothing without me, fool,' her eyes were saying. And then, then everything went even worse. Her love turned into rudeness and her sweet talks turned into despise. There was no pleasure at being with her anymore. And still, I continued to sleep with her. I simply couldn’t not to. I left her hundred of times but each time I came back. Tired, crawling back on my knees, I swore that I would never ever leave her. She only laughed scornfully. ‘You’re nothing!’ She spat out, emphasizing her despise.” 49
Write the City
“Despite knowing the situation was destructive and not right,” he added, “I couldn’t find enough of courage to change anything. Some kind of degenerative power kept me near her.” Ustym hid his face and cried. It broke my heart. I was mad. “Not only her attitude to me had changed, but her appearance changed as well. Little by little, Hanka was losing her beauty. Her skin wrinkled and became yellowish; her eyes went muddy, her hair turned black. Though the uglier she became, the more I wanted her. I didn’t dream to reach the happiness I felt when I touched her hand for the first time. The pleasure I felt being next to her wasn’t the main goal for me anymore, it was to avoid the heavy suffering of her refusal.” “Despite knowing the situation was destructive and not right,” he said, “I couldn’t find enough of courage to change anything. Some kind of degenerative power kept me near her.” Ustym hid his face and cried. It broke my heart. I was mad. “Not only her attitude to me had changed, but her appearance changed as well. Little by little, Hanka was losing her beauty,” he added: “Her skin wrinkled and became yellowish; her eyes went muddy, her hair turned black. Though the uglier she became, the more I wanted her. I didn’t dream to reach the happiness I felt when I touched her hand for the first time. The pleasure I felt being next to her wasn’t the main goal for me anymore, it was to avoid the heavy suffering of her refusal.” Again and again, as if insane, I laid in bed with her, penetrated and hugged her old body, kissed her toothless jaw. I’ve lost all my friends, my job, I’ve lost myself. I didn’t care how I looked, what impression I made. I cut off all contacts, I didn’t answer calls, didn’t wash myself for weeks, didn’t change my clothes for months. When I failed to pay my rent on time, they ousted me. So I went begging, slept in basements, ate rubbish. My speech became incoherent, my voice went hoarse. I literally lost my human look – my body covered with scabs, I lost almost all my teeth and nails.” “And what about Hanka?” I couldn’t wait to ask “Where was she all the time?” Ustym bitterly smiled. 50
Issue 1 – Addicted
“Hanka?” He twisted his face, “Hanka...she had been next to me all the time. Old, ugly, disgusting – such as described by our parents and teachers...The one from whom panfathers wanted us to stay away.” “When she used to leave me alone for some time – it happened when there was nothing I could give her, or when she purposely hid – I simply went crazy. Days and nights, I wandered like a ghost searching for her. It is hard to believe, but at those moments I was ready to do anything just to see her. I couldn’t get her out of my head! Each time that damned woman was found, when I embraced her disgusting body, I didn’t feel relieved. No. I got sick. I hated myself, I felt useless, a real scum. And Hanka...Every time she wanted more. She never had enough. Though I gave her my life, all my money, my vigour, I gave up my dreams for her, but she was never satisfied. Never. ‘More! More! More!’ Said her jaws avidly...” At that word – as if summing up everything that Ustym had told – the thunder rumbled, leaving behind only an oppressive silence. Ustym didn’t move. His face expressed mourn. I lowered my arm on his shoulder. A mixture of anger and pain embittered my soul. “You have nothing to fear now. Everything is in the past,” I said, trying to comfort him. Ustym just made a chimerical grimace at my words. “Is it?”, he whispered, “Why do I still want to feel her touch then...?”
Translated from Ukrainian by Alina Ivanova. 51
Write the City
Illustration by Alevtina Shavlach
52
Issue 1 – Addicted
Ханка Голос його лунав важко та журно. Невимовна гіркота вчувалася в ньому. «Лихо! Сором! Ганьба!» – уривав він по словечку і все нижче й нижче схиляв свою кошлату голову. Здавалося, начеб вона йому от-от відокремиться від шиї і грузько гепнеться на підгнилий паркет, а безголове тіло залишиться стирчати, мов грабовий зруб. Я пам’ятала його геть інакшим – веселим, життєрадісним, впевненим, амбіційним. Перед очима раз-у-раз спливали яскраві уривки нещодавнього минулого. Ось він дзвінко сміється… Ось щось захопливо розповідає, кумедно вихаючи руками… А ось знесилений, втомлений, але задоволений, вкладається мені на коліна і солодко шепоче про свої мрії, почуття та сподівання… Як же так сталося? Чому? За що? Навіщо? Я ніяк не могла звикнути до того, що оцей розгублений, посивілий горбань переді мною і отой гінкий, честолюбний красень з моїх спогадів – то одна й та сама особа. - Це все вона! Вона! – раптом скрикнув він, наче його залізом гарячим діткнули. Я підхопилася. Його сутужний голос неприємно хляснув по віконному склу, через що воно моторошно задзижчало. - Хто – вона? – вразилась я. - Ця бридка облудна стара, що зачарувала мене! - Тихо, тихо. Заспокойся, Устиме. – мовила я, назвавши його на ім’я. - Ні, не можу. – відказав він схвильовано і очі його тривожно спалахнули. Мені стало лячно. - Чому я був таким сліпцем? – кинув він розпачливо. Його губи тремтіли. - Не треба, годі. – мої пальці боязко торкнулись його дрижачих рук і він на деякий час замовк. Несподівано на дворі погрозливо скригнув грім і ми рефлекторно пообертали голови до вікна. «А й справді, - майнуло мені в думках. – як так сталось, що такого міцного, ладного молодика звела якась потворна стара? Де були його очі?» Я роззирнулась довкола. В кімнаті було порожньо. Лише похилене ліжко, наче вибачаючись, недоладно тулилося попід облупленою стіною. -
Розкажи мені все - від початку до кінця. Я мушу знати! – зненацька метнула я і стисла його зап’ястки.
Устим апатично знизав плечима. А чи варто, мовляв, знову поринати у той нестримний біль та сором? Проте мій погляд пломенів так відважно й так впевнено, що він, мабуть, не в змозі був протистояти мені і врешті-решт таки заговорив. Заговорив тихо, сумно, майже пошепки. Його обличчя то червоніло, мов китяги дозрілої калини, то блідло, як той мертвий місячний лик, одначе він не зупинявся – говорив, говорив, говорив. Я знала, що йому болить. Й знала, що болить нестерпно. Та чим більше слів звільняла його здушена горлянка, тим світлішими ставали його змучені очі. -
Ханка. Таке її ім’я. Принаймні саме так вона назвалася, коли я вперше її побачив. Тоді вона не здавалась старою чи відразливою. Навпаки! Обличчя її ясніло, погляд сяяв, а поміж пухких вуст виблискували білосніжною посмішкою рівненькі рядочки зубів. Вгледівши її – струнку, манливу, загадкову – я чимало здивувався, адже досі чув про 53
Write the City неї виключно погані речі. Одні казали, буцімто вона страшна й згорблена. Інші подейкували - буцімто смердюча й беззуба. А ще інші – буцім здичіла та відлюдькувата. Втім, насправді все те було неправдою. Ханка виявилась справжньою красунею. Я зачарувався, стежачи за її манірними рухами, за її блискотливими очима, за тим, як гарно та ніжно тріпочуться на вітрі пасма її золотавого волосся. «Невже це й справді вона – тая проклятуща мерзота, котрою нас змалечку лякають батьки, вчителі й вихователі? - думав я, вражено спостерігаючи, як Ханка, мов невагома пір’їнка, мліє поміж колосся. – Невже ця тендітна дівчина здатна когось скривдити? Безглуздя! Ні. Усе те, вочевидь, лишень злосливі наклепи». Устим перевів подих і, ламлючи руки, продовжив. -
Яка ж вона була вродлива! А яка звабна! Яка принадна! Її краса вражала, обплутувала, надихала. Здається, я закохався, заледве вона промовила перші вітальні слова…. Потонув у її золотих, як світанок, очах і одразу ж постановив собі: все, що чув про неї раніше – підла брехня. Ні-ні, не їй присвячують свої застережливі проповіді святі панотці. Не вона звела в могилу усіх тих бідолах. Усе це злісні обмови. Заздрощі. Хіба ця мила та смішлива дівчина спроможна на таке потужне зло?!
Коли я наблизився, Ханка привітно розсміялася. Чудний то був сміх – немов тонкий дзвіночок забринів десь з глибин потойбіччя. Мене неначе цвяхами до землі прибило. Я спантеличився і укляк. Тож вона заговорила перша. Пригадую, яким зичливим та приємним здався мені її голосочок. Так чарівно шепотіти може хіба що чисте гірське джерельце… А потім вона простягла мені руку – тонесеньку, білу, тендітну – і я, не роздумуючи, вхопився в неї. Шкіра її виявилась надзвичайно теплою та м’якою, і я відчув, як невидане досі збудження стрімко охопило моє тіло. Дивне то було відчуття. Якесь вільне, дике, неприродне! Воно начеб миттєво заволоділо усією моєю сутністю, сповнюючи кожну клітинку організму особливим привіллям. Ох, якби ж я знав, яку загрозу являв для мене той наш перший невинний контакт… Він різко замовк і примружився. Мої очі зволожились і я непомітно дістала з кишені носовичок. Ще мить і я вже нестримно ридала. Я співчувала йому, собі, а заразом і тим сотням тисяч згорьованих нещасливців, що бідкалися по притулках та центрах реабілітації через ту підступну негідницю Ханку. Тим часом Устим провадив далі: -
Спершу наші зустрічі були сповнені ніжності та романтизму. Ханка видавалася такою лагідною, такою обхідливою та чемною… Я насолоджувався її присутністю, її смішливістю, цікавістю, уважністю. Торкаючись її губ, я буквально поринав у паралельний вимір! А чого лишень варті були її пестощі, її шептані розмови про сокровенне… Що й казати - я отримував небувале задоволення навіть від однієї думки про те, що ми із нею дихаємо одним повітрям! Та згодом я помітив деякі зміни. Незначні, ясна річ. Тож я не зважав на них. Знаю, що то було досить легковажно з мого боку, проте, що вже тепер казати? Спочатку ті зміни торкнулись її поведінки. Завжди ґречна та ввічлива, Ханка спроквола ставала надокучливою та причіпливою. Прагнула постійно тримати мене за
54
Issue 1 – Addicted руку, в'їдливо зазирала в очі, ні на крок не відходила від мене. Навіть до виходу супроводжувала. А ночами видиралася на мене верхи й засинала лише тоді, коли добряче втискала мене своєю вагою в ліжко. Мені важко дихалось, погано спалося й щоранку я прокидався вкрай пригнічений. Я бажав спокою, перепочинку, тому вперше спробував провести між нами межу. Однак виявилось, що то було не так просто. Першого ж дня я відчув, як сильно мені її бракує. Усе, цілком усе, нагадувало про неї! Я не міг працювати, їсти, пити, спілкуватись. Будь-яке звичне заняття здавалося нудотним, прісним та беззмістовним. Тож уже ввечері я мчав до неї… Проте Ханка прийняла мене доволі непривітно. Тепер її посмішка була скептичною, а погляд – зверхнім. «Ну що, дурню, - немовби казали її прищулені очі. – зрозумів нарешті, що тобі без мене гаплик?» А далі… Далі - гірше. Поступово її любощі змінились на грубощі, а пестливі слова – на презирства й образи. Я більше не отримував жодного задоволення від нашої близькості, однак продовжував злягатись із нею. Попросту не міг інакше. Я сотні разів кидав її та тікав, але щораз повертався. Приповзав зморений на колінах, плазував принижено їй в ногах, присягався, що «більше ніколи її не покину», а вона лише зневажливо хихотала. «Ти – ніщо!» - випльовувала вона з підкресленою гидливістю. Я розумів, що все це неправильно, згубно, але не знаходив в собі мужності що-небудь змінити. Якась звиродніла сила утримувала мене поруч неї. Устим вкрив обличчя і заридав. Мені стислося серце. Я лютувала. -
Незабаром змінилось не лише її ставлення до мене, а й її зовнішність. – знову озвався він. – Ханка немовби поволі втрачала свою привабливість. Шкіра її жовкла та морщилась, очі каламутніли, а волосся чорніло. Але чим бридкішою вона ставала, тим міцнішу потребу в ній я відчував. Я більше не мріяв, що мені знову вдасться досягти того щастя, яке я відчув, коли вперше торкнувся її простягненої руки. Тепер моєю метою було не задоволення від її присутності, а позбавлення від тих страшних страждань, які приносила відмова від неї. І я, мов божевільний, знову і знову вкладався із нею в ліжко, встромлявся в її гниле єство, обіймав її старече тіло, впивався поцілунком в її беззубу ротяку… Я втратив усіх своїх друзів, втратив роботу, втратив себе. Мені було байдуже, як я виглядаю, яке враження справляю на оточуючих. Я обірвав усі контакти, припинив відповідати на телефонні дзвінки, тижнями не зазирав у душ, по півроку не змінював одяг. Незабаром я прострочив усі платіжки і мене виселили з будинку. Тож я жебракував, тулився по підвалах та зруйнованих халупах і харчувався зі смітників. Мова моя стала незв’язною та безладною, а голос геть схрип. Я буквально втратив людську подобу: вкрився коростою, збувся майже усіх зубів та нігтів.
-
А Ханка?... – не витримала я. – Де в цей час була Ханка?
Устим якось гірко всміхнувся. -
Ханка? – промовив він, кривлячись. – Ханка… Вона увесь цей час невідступно тяглася поряд. Стара, страшна, відразлива – саме така, як її описували нам батьки… Саме 55
Write the City така, якою лякали нас вчителі та вихователі… Саме така, якою застерігали святі панотці… Коли вона на нетривалий час залишала мене самого – ховалась навмисно або ж у мене не було того, чого їй бажалось – я просто втрачав глузд. Днями і ночами я блукав примарою вулицями, шукаючи її. У це важко повірити, але у такі миті я був ладен на все, що завгодно, аби тільки знову побачити її. Вона не йшла мені з голови! І коли я знову знаходив цю трикляту наволоч, коли вкотре пригортався до її огидного тіла, то не заспокоювався, ні. Мене вивертало. Я ненавидів себе, почувався непотребом, невгіддю. А Ханка… Щоразу вона прагнула більшого. Їй завжди було замало. Хоча я присвятив їй життя, віддав всі свої заощадження, усю свою снагу, знехтував заради неї своїми мріями, та вона ніколи не була задоволена. Ніколи. «Ще! Ще! Ще!» - жадібно голосила її невситима паща… На тім слові за вікном, неначе підсумовуючи Устимову розповідь, жахнув грім, а тоді залягла гнітюча тиша. Устим не рухався. На його обличчі застиг скорботний вираз. Я опустила руку на його плече. Суміш гніву та болю ятрили мою душу. -
Але тепер тобі нічого боятися. Все позаду. – сказала я, намагаючись хоч якось розрадити його.
Проте Устим на ті мої слова лише химерно скривився. - Хіба? – шепотнув він, мов навісний. – Чому ж я й досі жадаю її доторків?...
56
Issue 1 – Addicted
Photo by Yulia Lashchuk
57
Write the City
Melissa Rose Melissa has been writing and performing poetry for over 15 years. She currently lives in Eugene, Oregon and is the Executive Director of Siren, a nonprofit organization that empowers teen girls and women through spoken word.
58
Issue 1 – Addicted
Confession Booth It's the tooth's need for flesh. A desire to see bone. To see what is hidden Below the surface. I slither my tongue to the bottom Of a smudged glass. This is where things Get ugly. Threw my phone in the corner Like a punished child Then stalked bar stools for substitutes Collecting the phone numbers of your replacements Like hungry flypaper. Numbed the lights off. Threw his clothes in a pile. Fumbling and frantic Like I was caught in a river current Grasping at anything. The next morning Popping sleeping pills like blisters The sun doesn't deserve to see. I drag razors across skin Pick scabs until my bathtub Is a place to rest red watercolour brushes. I feel nothing.
59
Write the City
When my throat explodes into a rasp Like a broken wasp nest. I remember there are hooks in my spine. I thread a single string through each muscle. Tighten my face so it can stand upright. Tell myself this is the posture Of someone who can handle Anything.
60
For more poetry and fiction, check our magazine out at www.writethecity.org
Cover picture by Marek Supertramp
Š 2017, Write the City Mag All content in this publication may not be copied or republished without written consent. Copyrights of individuals' work are held by the relevant author and requests for reproduction should be made to them.