Archive for 22/03/2026

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excerpt

SEVEN
The early March evening nodded like an old man nearing sleep. Soon his blue eyes would close, and slumbering darkness come upon him. In the long shadow of the hills the MacLir house darkened. Lamplight appeared in one of the windows. Then a shaft of light speared the gloom as the back door opened and closed again. Caitlin pulled a shawl around her shoulders and looked at the sky as she crossed the yard to the high iron gate that opened into the loaney. Finn, sitting by the range in the kitchen, heard the bolt of the gate drawn back, then clanged into place again. He looked at the clock on the mantelpiece and for a moment watched the pendulum swing to and fro with its regular tock, tock, tock.
Where to this time? he asked himself with a sigh. The cottage or the church?
The church. The squat, granite building topped a low ridge of stony ground overlooking the sea. Whin bushes and brambles grew along the ridge, and sheep grazed the grassy clearings. Behind the church, where the ridge sloped less steeply to the cliffs, the tombstones stood unevenly or slabs of polished granite, carved with forgotten names, lay flat in the cropped grass. No trees grew, no sullen yews, nothing to stay the wet winds or slanting rain nor shade the solemn graveyard from the sun.
No wide driveway led from the main road; only a path covered with shingle that crunched under the footfalls of the faithful as they crowded into Mass. As Caitlin walked this noisy path to the church, a cloud, shining in the last high rays of sunlight, sailed behind the tower and glowed like a halo. A few stars already glittered. A large flock of starlings wheeled across the sky and disappeared in the direction of the village. The breeze was fresh and cool and smelt of kelp.
On her right she passed the white-washed, two-roomed schoolhouse where Liam Dooley hoped one day to teach the Roman Catholic children of the twin parishes of Corrymore and Aughnashannagh once old Joseph Shaughnessy retired. Caitlin considered it a feeble ambition for one who had studied to be a teacher in a training college in London.

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562888

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763203

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excerpt

“At least it’s still chirping,” Eteocles shouts, and they both enjoy
a good laugh.
The next day is a very hot one, with temperatures in the low forties,
so the village boys cool off in the sea twice, once in the morning
and again in the afternoon after the siesta. Eteocles can’t get enough
of the sea. He is a very good, fast swimmer for his age.
The sun shines down almost vertically on them, the other people,
and the sand dunes and rocks visible on the other side of the peninsula
and the houses on the far eastern horizon, way over in Chania,
and on the tavernas arrayed at the edge of the shore, and on the big
monastery that shines in whitewash where it sits on the top of big
rocky outcrop. Day after sunny day, they enjoy their long summer.
Sometimes they split into two teams and play football on the beach,
chasing the ball across the hot, flashing sand, laughing or arguing depending
on the situation. Some stand and others fall, depending on
who can run faster and kick stronger, and who is bigger and older,
and that is how it is decided who will stand and who will fall. But
they all have a chance at the ball, and this is the way things are done
on that seashore, that summer, in that Cretan village where Eteocles
spends his vacation before he has to travel back to Athens to his family
when the school year begins again.
It was beautiful this afternoon until loud screaming is heard from
two women a hundred meters or so away, two women who run toward
the water and stop at the edge, yelling and crying and calling
for help. The boys turn in a flash and focus all their attention on those
two women calling for help and pointing to the sea where they cannot
go, apparently not knowing how to swim. Anthony starts running
toward the women, and Eteocles follows close behind. As they get
close to the two women, they see a body bobbing in the waves about
thirty meters out. Without hesitating, Eteocles and Anthony both
jump into the sea, but Eteocles is the faster swimmer and reaches the
person first. It isn’t an adult but a youngster about his own age. Diving
under the water, Eteocles sees him face down, and as he comes under
him, he pushes the face up and embraces the head to keep the boy’s
face out the water. Now Anthony arrives, and between them they pull
the boy to the shore. He is not breathing, but Eteocles has seen…

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562976

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08WP3LMPX

Ugga

Posted: 22/03/2026 by vequinox in Literature
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zero
Zero
the borderline of Time
reflection
start of reverse
counting of years
subjective invention
and this history
undoubtedly Hesiodus’
Monotheism and Love
down with the idolaters
the echo is heard
in empty vessels
buried in the rich soil

https://www.amazon.com/dp/192676370X

Introspection

Posted: 22/03/2026 by vequinox in Literature
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Defenceless
After his light supper, consisting primarily of vegetables and perhaps a tiny piece of roasted chicken, no wine or beer, his sick stomach couldn’t handle any acidic food, and after his whisper of goodnight to the rest of the patrons, he always walked up a floor to his room with a big chest into which he kept a few pieces of undergarments, and a couple of shirts. On his table, an array of notes: scribbled statements, phrases, aphorisms, even verses, and against the wall, his bed, where he struggled to relax and sleep, which only came with the help of pills; this was his routine in a world that longed for new ideas and images, for new directions and guidance, the martyr with the thick eyeglasses and the gigantic moustache, stood tall on his martyrdom and wrote day in and day out, and during the dark midnight and the optimistic gleams of dawn, he incessantly wrote words none cared to read, yet he kept writing them. In the last months of his life, he wrote the final part of Thus Spoke Zarathustra, he printed a few copies, he eagerly mailed them to his friends hoping for an answer, a word from anyone, a sign that they knew he was still alive, and he kept on writing, alas, NO word was said, NO answer was ever given to his final agony, and the end was soon to arrive

https://draft2digital.com/book/4118210#print

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763777