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Block

The Writer’s

Brought to you by the English School

English Department

Issue 2, June 2015

An online magazine featuring poetry, prose

and drama pieces by English School students

From the Editor A Note

2

Dear Reader, It is probably common (oh, it isn’t? let’s assume it is), in an editor’s note, to find a heartwarming

message reminiscing about how time has passed by so fast and how we’re concluding yet another

academic year with the publication of this magazine. And time has passed fast (you can read about

it in ‘Cardiac Clock’, ‘Time’, and ‘A Frozen Moment in Life’), but The Writer’s Block doesn’t have

much past to look back to, as it is still taking its first baby steps after crawling into existence just

last year.

It’s because of this newborn state we’re in that you’ll notice some changes in structure and layout;

after all, we’re just trying to figure out what exactly The Writer’s Block is, and our contributors

have ventured out on similar journeys of discovering selfhood, identity and character-crafting in

“Invisible”, “Confessions of the Addicted”, “Pink”, “Unknown Last Words”, “Tangled”, “Ballet”,

“I Know”, “She Wasn’t Screaming”, “skeleton girl”, “-say something” and “You Are Enough”.

That’s a lot of questioning and a whole lot of characters, I hear you say. Yes, it is! And isn’t that

exciting? There’s more of us, with 18 contributors this year!

And since our little community of writers is growing stronger, we deserve our share of dreamers

and romantics, so take a leap into the ever-changing realm of monsters and murders, fairytales and

romance, dreams and war with “Alpher Gland” , “Maps”, “A Red Balloon and a Little Blue Bear”,

“Raspberry Sorbet”, “In Fragments”, “You Will Forget”, “Travel the World”, “Not Back Yet”, “The

Dust of Life” and the narrative opening “Two People Stuck in a Lift”.

And so we hop on to the happy adventure that is this year’s issue of The Writer’s Block. In the

driver’s seat of our lexivorous little train sits Ms Karen Mason, the Teacher Who Wasn’t Too Busy.

In the glorious seats saying Editorial Team are sat with me Nadia Alexandrou-Majaj, Michelle

Miranthi and Stephanie Georgiou, whose valuable input has helped propel our literary train onto

skies of fiction. To them, to this year’s submitters, and to you, dear reader, many thanks.

Your train engineer/chief editor,

Kleopatra Olympiou

If you like our magazine, spread the word!

Contents poetry skeleton girl by Maria Pavlou

Ballet by Chara Rossou

Cardiac Clock by Nadia-Alexandrou Majaj

You Are Enough by Emily Petrou

I Know by Michelle Miranthi

Time by Myrto-Lilia Charalambous

In Fragments by Orestis Michaelides

You Will Forget by Sophia Archontis

-say something by Orla Hadjisophocleous

She Wasn’t Screaming by Kleopatra Olympiou

Invisible by Michelle Mirbagheri

Maps by Orestis Michaelides

A Frozen Moment in Life by Margarita Psaras

Alpher Gland by Michelle Mirbagheri

p. 5

p. 6

p. 7

p. 8-9

p. 10

p. 11

p. 12-13

p. 14-15

p. 16-17

p. 18-19

p. 20

p. 21-22

p. 23-24

p. 25

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Contents prose The Dust of Life by Evdokia Kakouta

Not Back Yet by Kalliopi Demetriou

A Red Balloon and a Little Blue Bear by Nadia

Alexandrou-Majaj

Tangled by Kleopatra Olympiou

Two People Stuck in a Lift by Margarita Psaras

Raspberry Sorbet by Lucas James Irwin

drama Confessions of the Addicted by Stephanie Kalli

Unknown Last Words by Marita Anastasi

Pink by Stephanie Georgiou

Travel The World by Kalliopi Demetriou

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p. 26

p. 27-30

p. 31-34

p. 35-38

p. 39

p. 40-41

p. 42-43

p. 44-45

p. 46-47

p. 48-50

5

poetry By Maria Pavlou

skeleton girl

so cold so pale

a see-through blanket of skin

covering a road map of blue and red

so young so slight

a body riddled with razor sharp edges

covered in bumps and crevices

so sad so delicate

a butterfly caught in a jar

silk-like wings and elegant legs

so soft so silent

a deer; peaceful and quiet

a predator with a velvet tread

kindness touches even the darkest of hearts

6

The smile on my face

Broadened as I sprung

Forward and sideways

Moving gracefully

Agile and fluid

And my smile broadened

As I felt the ache

The lights were blinding

Heat unbearable

The tulle kept itching

Though fragile it looks

Powerful it is

Majestic and strong

Aches to be graceful

To touch perfection

Responsible for

The smile on my face

By Chara Rossou

poetry Ballet

poetry Cardiac Clock By Nadia Alexandrou-Majaj

Counting out time’s ceaseless passage

A clock ticks in its weathered cage.

I hold my heart in the palm of my hand

asking hollow chambers for answers to questions

that have seeped under my skin,

have flowed through blood vessels, as defiantly essential as oxygen,

have wrapped around my bones and held me up as they tore me down.

These are the questions that have sunk into my being,

embedded between codes to form their own

And in doing so, translating from mere chemical sequences

a whole new me.

On a monitor, they show up in vital signs

Heart beat lines:

Rise rise, fall fall.

A looping cadence of doubt,

tone-deaf and pleading

While inside walls of bone

the cardiac clock ticks on.

7

By Emily Petrou

Living in this nation,

Obsessed with the term of perfection,

Trying to fit everyone in a mould

And recovering from the feelings it sold

This image that has been haunting every single one of us,

Makes us, breaks us determines what we think we are,

Letting us pull and tug and squish everything away from the mould

Making us hate what we see across the mirror

Obsessing over simple, little things

Do you think it really matters?

Why under the most perfect you have ever been, lies the most imperfect of you

All because of numbers, all sorts of numbers

They affect you, they affect people around you

And what will the next little girl, who’ll come along the way, think?

Will she think her body deserves to be loved and appreciated the way it is?

Or will she look around her and notice different things

Is that the example you want to give?

Should we let the next generation stigmatise people and get stigmatised?

We compare ourselves to everyone we see

Taller, thinner, leaner, stronger

We think attractiveness falls into a box

A box with edges hard, impossible to get through

But being attractive has to be more than being thin

More than having the “perfect” body,

Imperfections make you, who you are, make you unique and special

And when you think you’re doing well, when you see the pounds shifting

away,

You discover something else, something big you’ve also lost

poetry You Are Enough

8

You missed out on being your special, true self because of what others imposed

Of what they thought was right for you

Do you want to be influenced by someone else’s views?

Their Ideals?

Do you want to be controlled and guided by things you don’t believe in?

Are you letting them make decisions you must do?

They want you to have the “ideal” body

But what does it mean to have the “ideal” body?

They ideal body is not thin and lean and strong

The ideal body brings out confidence from within

And it’s not just something external,

Something that could be covered with pounds and pounds of makeup

We all need to take control of our bodies, ourselves,

Before they take you to dangerous places, places you don’t want to be in

Don’t let them make you feel worthless and unworthy of respect

Don’t let them conquer your thoughts

Control them, don’t let them control you

Before it’s too late, before all the perceptions mask our preferences,

And let you wander around believing you are not enough

You are tall enough,

You are skinny enough,

You are fit enough

Whoever you are, however you look

You are enough

poetry continued from previous page

9

poetry I know

“You’re not studying enough”

“These are life-determining exams”

“You need to work harder”

I know you try and I know you want to yell “Piss off” to the world

I know you’re tired

I know you’re tired of feeling empty, I know you’re tired of feeling like you were never

good enough, always second best, never a first option

I know you hate the word almost, I know you hate the song ‘Numb’,

It’s easy to fake a smile when people are around

It’s easy to say you’re happy and make jokes and laugh and hug people

Nobody asks why you’re happy

But I know you’re soaking your pillow every night

You say you’re dreading the nightmares that visit you when you fall asleep

But I know you’re dreading sleep because you’ll have to wake up and life isn’t that

different from your nightmares

You sit around in sleepless nights waiting

Waiting for a day to pass, for another day to survive

I know you lie there with one question aimlessly messing with your head ‘What if...’

I know you live on caffeine and I know you hate mirrors

I know your heart’s too weak to feel

I know you could never keep a diary but it’s times like these when you really need it

People are busy. Too busy for you.

I know what it feels like to feel numb

I know what it’s like to want to cry but those stubborn tears never leaving your eyes

I know what it’s like to hate yourself

I know

I’m there

I’m you.

I Know By Michelle Miranthi

10

poetry Time By Myrto-Lilia Charalambous

Time passes and so do seconds become minutes, minutes become hours,

hours become days, weeks, months, years, centuries and eternity.

And as time passes, it leaves behind nostalgic memories of the past.

Bitter and sweet recollections of childhood.

Melancholic and joyful, innocent memories...

And with the time passing, history becomes legend and legend transforms into a

myth…

We cannot escape from the hands of time, for he is running like a furious mad Dog.

Neither can we stop him, for his power is infinite.

The future seconds, minutes, days will soon belong to the past and so will we

become forgotten as dust.

The world would be then left to unravel the darkest mysteries of the past!

11

poetry In Fragments By Orestis Michaelides

I’m sat against the cold museum wall.

Behind me are old canvases

covered in layers of treasured paint,

enclosed in elaborate wooden frames.

And there you are –

standing tall among breathless admirers,

shining eyes looking strictly ahead,

comfortable in your skin of flawless marble.

But I am here when the crowds leave

and the room goes dark,

when your back grows hunched

and tired gaze hangs low.

I study you from a distance,

processing the proportions,

the features, the curves

that seem to rip my heart apart.

I suddenly notice a strange glow to you,

a bright scar running down the side of your

face.

Inching closer, I am mesmerised

by the thousand colours inside your head.

12

You dream of calm oceans of teal,

gold sand between your toes;

of white mountaintops

and dark woodland quiet.

I trip over my words and stay silent,

hearing you sigh disappointedly.

Turning to the floor, I realise

the masterpiece is always cracked.


13

poetry You Will Forget By Sophia Archontis

You will forget.

You will forget her laugh,

You will forget the details of her face,

The sound of her voice

over the telephone,

The length of her hair,

The color of her eyes.

You will forget.

You will forget the taste of cheerios

at six in the morning,

The taste of cheerios

at six in the evening,

The inherent difference between the both.

The

bite

of vodka mixed with lemonade,

The

grit

that came with trying black coffee for the first time.

You will forget.

You will forget the day she left you,

the bitter anguish of despair

biting your cheeks like a cold February morning.

You will forget the way she made you feel,

Like the last fingers of a sunset

fading into night.

14

Her name will no longer linger in your mind

like a cough you cannot shake

like a sniffle you cannot get rid of.

She will fade

like the blurry outline of a faded photograph.

Welcome the darkness like an old friend,

Remember that you are now forever changed

but

it

doesn't

have to be

this damn

Hard.

Not anymore.

Turn off the light.

Pick up a pen.

Let your eyes adjust to the dark and let yourself

feel the words as you write,

Feel the way they look as you curl your pen and

circle an i and an n and an o.

Empty your soul.

Lighten your mind.

And as you feel your eyes droop,

Mind fogging with drowsiness,

It's almost like the sky is clear

but

the world still smells of

rain.


15

poetry One

i. It’s 2am and 6pm

It’s broken hearts and battered souls

It’s disappointment and dismay

It’s forest fires and monsoons

And blood red and oh, that black

ii. It’s empty veins spilling on to bedroom floors

It’s cracked ribs and death in your bones

It’s ice in your veins and 14th floors

It’s lies dipped in honey

And haunted minds and pulled down shades

Still.

iii. It’s smoke and alcohol

It’s ocean currents and black and white

It’s white.

Why can’t it be grey?

That black.

iv. It’s shattered.

It’s inherently bad decisions and toxic traditions

Silence-

-say something By Orla-Nicole Hadjisophocleous

16

Two

i. It's racing hearts and bright eyes

It’s resonating fingerprints

-stars and galaxies and a thousand suns

(It’s black!)

it's north, south, east and west

it’s working week and Sunday rest

Three

i. it’s holding on to something that doesn’t

exist

ii. black?

iii. please, just —

Three

i. twenty-

seventeen-

Silence.

continued from previous page

poetry

17

poetry She Wasn’t Screaming By Kleopatra Olympiou

She had blades instead of

lips, rough surfaces scraping

truths off pages.

She felt the world on her fingertips,

looking for textures in the hollowness

of others.

She was a cut-out silhouette, empty

and disconnected,

leaving behind a trail

of white noise.

She swallowed lies and whispered truths

and breathed through all deception,

held out her palm to strangers

offering blue bits of her soul.

She wasn't screaming.

In her memory lay names and faces,

all detached. Her lungs and liver

were pure. A lonelier self,

a frailer self stood broken

inside her spine—but a timid

blue hushed it to sleep.

She wavered between homes and

despised relentlessly.

Lost, she waited,

blinking, blinking, blinking

to cats, the rain, the thunderstorms

she feared.


18

Woven among her fingers

was a name.

She wore it proudly like a ring,

her own personal magic,

the silence of a falling star

crushed in her fist.



a j

h

b

f

w

e

r

o q

y

t

n

s

19

poetry Invisible By Michelle Mirbagheri

I put on a mask

And I hide my true face

Not because I don’t like it

But because I’m afraid

I’m afraid of the guilt

I’m afraid of the blame

So I bury myself

And I hide my shame

I’m not proud

And I am definitely not pleased

But not revealing who I am

Puts me at an ease

I can’t go anywhere

Without constantly glancing over my shoulder

Because whenever I keep walking

Everything becomes colder and colder

I keep running

But I always end up in the same place

This is pointless

Life is like a maze

20

I don’t have anyone I can go to

I don’t have anyone that will listen to me

All I have

Are my troubles and worries

But those don’t comfort me

They only make me feel worse

For once in my lifetime

I want to feel warmth

It would be a miracle

If one day I would just wake up

And I wouldn’t feel any pain

And I’d have someone to trust

But that never happens

And I don’t think it will

I guess I will now and always will be

INVISIBLE


21

poetry Maps By Orestis Michaelides

On a small coffee table

the colour of mahogany, as old as love itself,

I’ve piled up ancient atlases,

hoping to find a path to you.

Extending out indefinitely

is an old map of mine,

filled with tiny holes

that now drain the oceans.

My hands cast shadows

over castles and battlefields.

Mountains of difference

tear this world apart.

Our bodies – adjacent,

with souls in different continents.

You and I might be destined

to live as passers-by.

I notice a misty trail

that moves in your direction.

And as I jump up I realise

I’ve knocked over

my small coffee table.

22

poetry A Frozen Moment in Life By Margarita Psaras

Three acquainted faces stamped on the small paper sheet

Discoloured by the endless time- tarnishes mark their territory

Yet the gloss still thrives, gleaming gloriously upon a pair of observant eyes.

The elapsing years have not altered this captured moment- the people remain

Immobile; their youth is permanent, and they are forever immortal,

Untouched by age’s irreversible powers.

The first face is my grandmother- her chestnut brown hair arranged in short curls,

Her woolly copper brown jacket buttoned to her middle, revealing a silvery

Necklace sparkling proudly on her chest. A crimson picnic cloth shields her thighs,

Which are positioned under her auburn skirt. Her gaze is fastened to the camera,

Her eyes staring placidly and her mouth extended to form a clement smile.

The second face is my grandfather- hazel brown hair draping his head,

Elation is adorning his face as he stretches out his hand to clink his glass and toast.

His grey sweater and a white shirt finalises a casual and smart outfit which

Corresponds with his body sculpture impeccably.

The third and last face is that of my uncle’s- the third youngest out of my

Grandmother’s four sons. His bushy eyebrows twist into a frown as the sun

Blinds his minute brown eyes which try to focus on the camera.

His coffee brown hair is nattily combed to one side and his white shirt is worn

Beneath a navy blue jumper.

23


The evergreen countryside conquers the background, as still and as silent as a statue.

A bed of green tenderly tickles the people’s feet, and miniature grey pebbles relax

Serenely on the turf. A tranquil lake constantly ripples and wrinkles, the crystalline

Water smoothly spurting about, glistening idyllically within the sun’s presence.

Such sentiment, such joy confined in just one photograph.

It can bring so much delight to observe a fragment of a loved one’s past,

However it could create confusion due to the fact that these people might not even

Exist anymore, that they will only be a wonderful memory

That will be cherished and treasured eternally.

Even though this has happened years ago, it seems like it has happened yesterday.

When you view the photograph, you feel like you’re there,

Like the moment is happening right there and then. It appears that the moment has

Been resurrected with just one glance, replaying itself in our thoughts like a movie.

You see, it’s a clash between reality and the mind-

You’re in such devastation and scepticism that you don’t know what to believe.

All these varied feelings that are created in you while you see this photograph,

Can make your mind ignite to the idea that this moment will never occur again,

And will only live in our thoughts. And if it is forgotten,

It will be lost forever.

24

poetry Far, far away

In the outlandish land

Lives un unknown creature

Called the Alpher Gland

Asleep during the day

And awake during the night

With bloodcurdling teeth

Ready for a bite

Its black fur is unseen in the dark

But only the flaming eyes glow

It spots an enemy miles away

And with reckless feet, it goes

Watch out for this killer

For it will hunt you down

Not knowing where it is

Or when it makes a sound

Alpher Gland By Michelle Mirbagheri

25

prose The Dust of Life By Evdokia Kakouta

Once upon a time, there was a little, brittle, shiny star hanging from the night’s

endless silky sky. Years have passed from the last time it gave life and that night it

was its chance to spread again the silvery, shiny dust of life. This magical dust,

given by the stars, to every creature that comes to life, is embedded in the soul of

the heart, but nobody knows until they feel it. Some don’t believe in its existence;

they never feel it. Those who do believe, they let it shine. They let its sparkling rays

go through their veins and out they come, outlining their glowing face. The star

thought and thought. It didn’t want its dust to be wasted for someone who would

reject it. But what else could it do than take the risk and try? Out it rose above a

home built in the forest’s loam. In that little house a baby was to be born that night.

The night was cold and it was dark. The lady struggling and breathing hard. And as

the newborn creature came out to the world and breathed in a taste of life, her

breath was out. She passed away. Her star’s dust rose from her heart, through her

resting now body and flew above to meet the star that was now pouring its own dust

into the baby’s heart. And after that, the star was sobbing. Sobbing for the loss the

baby had on the moment it came to life. It moaned because it knew that the pain of

the loss wouldn’t let the baby feel the dust until years would have passed.

It will be hard, it’ll take time to discover the power of the dust; but once it’s done,

the heart will shine.

26

prose Not Back Yet By Kalliopi Demetriou

This story is written for a school magazine to help students’ understanding of the

harsh conditions people went through during the invasion in 1974 in Cyprus.

He is not back yet… I’m lying here in the field, in between the locust trees, watching

the stars while the same old questions keep coming back in my mind. Why did he

leave? Why couldn’t we go back with him? How did we end up sleeping here?

Mum says he is fine and that he is going to be back soon. She says that he is bringing

my Little Annoula with him and I really hope he does! She must be really frightened,

left all alone in the house. Even I was scared when I heard the airplanes flying over our

house and the bombs exploding in the near villages, imagine Little Annoula who’s

much younger. She must have been terrified!

***

When my mum grabbed my hand and said that we were leaving my first thought was

to run and get Little Annoula! At first she was nowhere to be found but I suddenly

recalled the moment when my dad rushed into the house and said that we shouldn’t get

out, that they were bombing at our village and the enemy’s army was coming closer.

Without further thoughts I grabbed Little Annoula and burrowed under my bed.

“She should still be there!” I whispered to myself.

I hurried to my bed and saw her little arm digging out from it. That was when my

oldest brother picked me up and carried me out of the house.

“We don’t have time!” he said.

“We must go now, we will come back later and you can get your doll then.”

***

It’s been two weeks and we haven’t been back yet. Yiannis keeps telling me that

everything is going to be over soon and we could go back home and do all the things

we loved to do together. We would play in the endless fields with our cousins and we

would go to my father’s farm to take care of the cows. The previous week Yiannis told

me that I’m now old enough to learn how to milk them, so he started teaching me and I

was so excited! 27

I really want to go back! I am not saying that I don’t like it here! I’ve always loved it

when we were going on camping, but now it’s different. Even though there are

children at my age here, they are all strangers. I miss my friends! I miss Giorgos, who

lives just around the corner, Mehmet, the one with the curly black hair, Kiriakoula,

who has a doll just like mine but hers is called “Kuklitsa” and Sheval with the long

long hair. We had fun together, playing outside for hours. We started building our little

tree house in the eucalyptus tree, in the back yard of my house.

I really love eucalyptus. They remind me of my little village where there are fields

full of them. I used to stand just next to their stem and look up to the sky, through the

thick branches of the tree. It seemed as if they were touching the sky. That picture will

never ever leave my mind. Even if we don’t go back, when I grow up I will become

an artist like Uncle Kyriakos and I will draw that picture on a piece of paper so that I

can look at it every single day.

“Why are you still awake?” my mum’s whispering frightens me.

“I’m waiting for daddy,” I reply.

“He won’t be back until tomorrow morning! Now, go to sleep,” my mum orders me.

I nod but I’m not going to sleep. I want to stay awake because it’s dark and he might

not recognize us when he comes. I will call him and he will run and hug me. He will

bring Little Annoula as well and I will hold her to sleep like the good old days. I know

he will bring her because he promised he would do that, the very moment we were

leaving.

***

The airplanes were still flying over our village and we could hear the whistling of the

bullets ripping the cloudy sky. Smoke and chaos broke the calmness of our little

village. It was the first time I saw our village filled with so many people and the

narrow dirt roads filled with vehicles. Mum said that they were people leaving from

other villages and that we were all travelling towards the south where we would be

safer. I could not understand why we had to leave our home to be safe, but when I saw

the terror in mum’s eyes I thought I shouldn’t ask any more questions.

prose continued from previous page

28

“Don’t worry mana mou, I’ll come and find you. Everything is going to be ok. You just

have to listen to your mum and Yiannis and be a good girl, right?” he said a few

minutes before we left.

“But why can’t I stay with you? I want to go home and get Little Annoula!” I asked

eagerly.

“I’ll bring her when I come and find you! You can’t stay here! It’s dangerous!” he

replied.

He picked me up and carefully placed me in the cart of the tractor. He kissed me on

the forehead and stepped backwards.

“Be careful!” he whispered.

The tractor started and my daddy was left behind.

“She is under the bed,” I screamed.

“I’ll find her kori mou and I’ll bring her. I promise…”

The journey was scary but I don’t remember much. I just remember the traffic; I have

never seen so many vehicles and people together. Every vehicle was filled with so

many people, whole families. Even in our tractor, there was I, my mummy, Yiannis,

my uncles and aunties and some of my cousins. The atmosphere was suffocating so I

decided to hide in my mum’s arms until we arrived.

***

“Why are the grown-ups fighting mummy?” I ask, hoping that this time I will get an

answer.

Usually they tell me that I’m young and I shouldn’t worry about these things. Now it’s

different! I can worry now because they took my daddy away from me.

“Because epellanan, that’s why!”

I agree, there is no way any logical person would choose to leave his house and lose

the people he loves.

“Why doesn’t anyone stop them? Why do we just allow them to take away from us the

things and people we love?”

Mum stares at me saying nothing. Her eyes are filling with tears again.

“Why are you crying mummy? I didn’t mean to make you cry!”


29

“It’s nothing sweetie. Something got into my eye. Now you go to sleep and we will

talk again tomorrow!”

I lie on the little blanket that they gave us, since we have not taken anything with us

when we left, but I can’t sleep. I know that my daddy is coming tonight and I want to

be awake to welcome him and tell him that he shouldn’t ever leave us again and that I

missed him.

“Erkounte!” A voice breaks the silence of the night!

“I can see their figures on the top of that hill! They are coming!” the voice goes on

creating a sudden confusion in the field.

Everyone is waking up. It’s true! We can see some figures walking towards us under

the light of the full moon!

Everyone is standing up and moving up and down anxiously. Who are these people

coming? No one can recognize them yet, but every family believes that their beloved

father or brother is one of them. But I know that my daddy is one of them, I just know

it.

I rush to climb up the tallest locust tree so that I can see my daddy coming. I always

loved climbing trees and I’m really good at it. I can even climb using only one arm,

holding Little Annoula in the other. But this time it’s difficult. It’s dark and I’m

nervous, I want to see him coming. I fall down, but I don’t care. My knee is bleeding,

but I don’t care. I just want to see my daddy coming.

He is coming and he is going to pick me up in his arms and kiss me goodnight and

everything is going to be like the old good days.

I get up quickly and run to my mum.

“Can you see him mummy? Is my daddy coming? Is he holding Little Annoula?”

“I can’t see him yet mana mou. But don’t worry! Your daddy is coming…”

Glossary:

Mana mou(μάνα μου)/Kori mou(κόρη μου): A Cypriot form of address, i.e. honey

Epellana(επελλάναν): They have gone crazy

Erkounte(έρκουνται): They are coming


30

prose There had been a balloon in the corner of the room. HIS balloon. It had been

red, and very shiny, with a big smiley face on the side. That smiley face had

scared him: it was too wide and too red, and he couldn’t go near it, no matter

how much he loved his balloon, so he had his mommy turn it around and then it

was facing the wall and it didn’t scare him as much any more. It still worried

him a bit though; the face wasn’t completely gone after all, he just couldn’t see

it. But the balloon popped later anyway, so it didn’t matter. The vase broke too,

not the ugly one, but the nice vase, the one with the little dancing dragons that

had made him so happy when he saw it in the store, and flowers that weren’t

real but looked real spilled out onto the carpet, and the window shattered into a

bunch of pieces, probably more than ten, but he couldn’t be absolutely sure, as

he couldn’t count any higher than ten, and there was a lot of blood and noise

and the icky smell of something burning. But that was later, after his balloon

popped, and after the dragons stopped dancing.

He had found his balloon the day before, while he and his mom were walking

back from the zoo. He liked the zoo and all the animals, but he didn’t quite

understand what they were doing there. Come to think of it, there were a lot of

things he didn’t quite understand, and he was thinking of them all when he

noticed something bright and red, bobbing cheerfully above a black metal fence

a little way down the road. He ran ahead, past his mom, and stopped at the

corner where the pavement met the road and the big black fence. There, tied to

one of the worryingly pointy bits on the fence, way up out of reach, was a red

balloon, and he wanted it. He really, really wanted it, even though it had a big

scary smiley face on it.

As he waited for his mom to come get it down for him, he looked out into the

area beyond the spiky fence. It was a pretty park with very green grass, covered

in lots of toe-shaped stones, some with flowers, a few with statues and even

one, smaller than the others, with a little stuffed blue bear perched limply on

top. He curled his fingers around the bars and pressed his face against one of

A Red Balloon and a Little Blue Bear By Nadia Alexandrou-Majaj

31

the gaps between them, staring at that lonesome little bear, sitting so sadly on its little

stone, and wondered who had left it there and why they didn’t want their bear

anymore. His mom caught up to him then, found him still standing by the fence,

watching the stuffed bear and the park with its odd little stones. She managed to get

the balloon down from the top of the fence when he asked her to, and then they were

walking home again, him clutching his mom’s hand with one of his, holding on to his

new balloon with the other, but still turning round for one last look at the little blue

bear.

When they got home, Grandpa was there waiting for them in front of the building,

and they all went upstairs and ate lunch, and then they had ice cream and watched

Finding Nemo and no one even mentioned his daddy, and for a while he was

perfectly happy. He still felt a bit sad about the bear, but at least it had the flowers

and the little statues for company, so it wasn’t completely alone, and the park was

very pretty after all, so maybe it wouldn’t get too bored.

And then of course, things went very bad, and it all ended very suddenly and was

never really the same again.

It started with footsteps on the stairs. Then, there was a lot of yelling coming from

the direction of the front door, so his mom and Grandpa got up to see what was going

on, and after a minute he took his balloon and followed them out into the big room.

There was too much noise and it scared him, so he went and hid under the little table

in the corner of the room, next to the window. Everything was still too loud, so he

covered his ears with his hands, but that made him lose his grip on his balloon, and

he could only watch as it drifted up to settle against the ceiling.

He was still watching the balloon, which had floated around so that now the scary

face was facing him, and was starting to wish the black eyes wouldn’t stare at him,

when he heard the first loud bang. He looked down quickly and peered out under the

table, just in time to see their front door splinter into little bits as something, or

several somethings, shot through it. There was more yelling, from both sides of the

door, and then it was smashed down and there were more shots, echoing through his

ears and chest.


32

He didn’t see how it happened, but suddenly his mom was on the floor, slipping

and sliding around in a puddle of something very red, making the sort of sound a

cat makes when you accidentally step on its tail, and there were those thumping

footsteps again and big, heavy boots came through the door. His Grandpa started

to run forward, but then there were even more shots and then Grandpa was on

the floor too, and this time the shots didn’t stop, but kept coming, faster and

louder, biting into everything, smashing through the window and the dragon vase

right above his head, toppling the little table and tearing right through his red

balloon.

And then finally it stopped, and he took his hands off his ears and stood up,

because there was no point hiding behind a table that had fallen over, and he

looked over to the doorway, which was just a big hole in the wall now- the door

was smashed into little bits all over the floor- and there was no evil monster, just

his daddy with a gun, and even though his mommy was still making that awful

screechy sound, suddenly everything seemed to go really quiet.

After that, there was a lot of noise and flashing lights and people in uniforms

running about. They took his daddy away with his hands held behind his back,

and then some other people in different uniforms came and took his mommy, and

then his Grandpa, and he kept on standing in the corner, just him and the ruin of

his red balloon.

And he stayed there in that corner, watching the red and blue lights dance and

play across the glass and bloodstains on the floor until the sun went down.

Eventually someone noticed him and somehow he ended up in a big building

with white lights and ringing phones, people in dark blue uniforms, and plastic

chairs, one of which a grumpy looking lady with rather greasy-looking yellow

hair made him sit on, next to a closed door for a really long time, most of which

he spent looking around. By the end he had become good friends with the

flickering light bulb above him, the grayish tiles littered with dead flies

underneath his feet, and the wet, sticky wad of gum he found stuck underneath

his chair.


33


It didn’t occur to him right away. For a long time he just sat there on his chair next to

the door, and he watched people rush by him, a blur of noise and bright light and

official blue uniforms. And then the blue blurs endlessly coming and going reminded

him of the lonely little bear, and he couldn’t stop thinking about it, and to be honest

he wasn’t quite sure why he was just sitting there, or whether or not there was any

particular reason he had to be sitting there, and suddenly he realized that there was

somewhere else he’d much rather be and someone else he’d much rather be with, so

he stood up and carefully, tentatively, began to wade through the hustle and bustle of

the hallway.

It took a while, that much he knew, but he couldn’t really remember much else. All

he knew was that he left the building and stepped into a world gone soft around the

edges and then all of a sudden he was sitting in the green park, in front of the littlest

toe-stone, looking once again at the little blue bear. And as he sat there with the bear,

the statues and the flowers, waiting for something he wasn’t quite sure of, he began

to wonder if maybe there was another balloon that he could have, one that wasn’t

popped, even if it did have a big scary smiley face on it.

34

prose Tangled By Kleopatra Olympiou

That Tuesday, like every Tuesday, I was sitting in our cramped kitchen, wordless,

stuffed in my high-waisted, bell-bottomed jeans, existing to the tune of Elvis ‘I’m So

Lonesome I Could Cry’, his voice almost metallic, copper-like as it came through the

radio, altered by the labyrinth of wires tangled within that box.

I was sewing. All I ever did was sew. In a room where the ceiling hung low and the

sound of cars never died away, 5831 miles away from home, with Chris, the husband,

off to a lecture as always, and my daughter at school, I sat and sewed. It was supposed

to be meaningful. My wading through endless spools of thread was what I did for a

living, after all, fingers sliding with feline grace across miles and miles of red yarn. I

was supporting my family. Sewing cat toys together for a factory– Mrs. Anderson said

it’d be something ‘pleasant that’d help financially’ and Chris conceded it was

necessary, though he regretted it.

While my fingers operated mechanically I pictured the yarn growing alive; with closed

eyes I gave it a whiff of freewill, so that it hovered, soared, stretching out as the world

zoomed out and into bird’s-eye view, Ohio growing so small I could press it into the

Atlantic with my thumb, smudging it out of existence, the disgustingly beautiful city

disintegrating under my fingerprints, the nauseous advertisement-like perfection of a

land that wasn’t home pushed back into the earth by the infinity of a spool of thread.

Ohio, I thought, was really starting to feel like an ingrown toe nail– infection upon

infection upon infection, swelling up. I shook my head and had a glass of water.

In the afternoon, my daughter emerged in the doorway, her shadow cast on the toy I

was working on. I didn’t look up. I was sewing. She declared she would go to the park

with Kate and Mrs. Anderson. I was about to mumble what would have been a

permission but she had already hopped off excitedly, the sound of her going down the

stairs growing faint, making our kitchen quieter, darker, emptier. He had said it’d do

her good to socialise with kids her age.

35

I held in a sigh and looked at my fingers, machinery working on auto-pilot, needle

swaying back and forth in a motion that for some reason felt distinctly like it had

nothing to do with me, thumb and index finger grasping the fabric, its pattern

imprinted onto my skin in indentations, tiny hollows like craters, battle scars, shell

holes along the trenches of my bluing veins.

I got up and walked to the window. My hands felt unnaturally still. As I breathed in the

suffocatingly blank air of the campus, I raised my fingers to my temples and gathered

my hair up in a pony tail. I glanced at the clock, then the calendar behind me; 18:47,

5th of December, 1973. I lowered my eyelids trying to grow smaller, in a desperate,

and quite queer, I thought later, attempt to be the closest to nothing I could be. It had

been exactly three months since I had come to Ohio– and, I couldn’t stop the

afterthought, I was still answering ‘What do you do?’ with ‘I sew stuffed cats

together’. I pressed my palms to my eyes, feeling my eye bulbs, springy like rubber,

while all I saw was the shifting shades of black created by my moving fingers. Half an

hour later, I started sewing again.

The husband came home, as husbands do, late at night when I was in bed. I was

sewing. He took off his shoes and opened a bottle of Blatz, told me about some debate

he’d had. I said he had done well and the mail was on the table. He dropped his coat

on the bed, heading to the kitchen, creasing the flawless, perfect smooth surface of his

half. I sat neatly tucked in, under a quilt with an odour strongly reminiscent of

washing-up liquid. The small apartment now smelled like the shiny shoes of the

academia, still warm with life and sweat and feet. I was lying on my back, trying to

sleep, when he slipped into bed next to me. Not long afterwards he was already asleep.

In the silence, his breathing echoed in my ears like the beating of gongs, his heart

sending reverberations across the mattress. Nonetheless, I knew it wasn’t him keeping

me awake. I lay there stiff, tense, my fingers twitching now and then, then clasping

together into a fist. Sleep, when it came, was short-lived. Of that night remained only

flashes of stitches and purls and sewing needles in the morning, 5831 miles of thread

wrapped around me, like the Halloween mummy costume I had made for my daughter,

the one she had found so humiliating.


36

prose The morning after, my work stalled. The thread kept getting tangled around my limbs,

around the cat toy, around the spool itself, a red mass of knots and loops clotting

together. I couldn’t tell how, whether it was me or the wind or even my daughter

toying with me. Every day I would awaken to a growing chaos, a galaxy of knots

clustered together. I clawed at it two weeks, knowing there must be a loose end

somewhere I could pull out, a simple loop I could undo, but the thread held its silence,

revealing nothing.

The husband once asked me if I needed anything, said that Mrs. Anderson suggested

we buy a sewing machine. She recommended Lazarus, a department store downtown,

he said. But of course not, I replied, surprising myself with my passion, we can’t

afford such luxuries, and besides- this is only temporary.

Thirty-six days later, I was still struggling. The knot had grown to the size of my

closed fists put together, and once I even caught a few of my fingers in. Last week it

was my ankle that was looped in, and pretty deep too, so much that I had to carry the

thing around the apartment with me, a hostage of the yarn, weighed down by a ball

and a chain. He assured me I looked quite ridiculous. I said I was only doing this to

earn some money, and he laughed, said, “Thank God we’ve got you to sustain us!”,

then waved goodbye and was gone. My daughter had giggled. It was innocent, but she

giggled.

That day I decided to try to sew my way out of it. Sewing was what built the knots in

the first place– maybe sewing could take me back to its conception. It didn’t; it started

instead to grow roots into my jeans, slowly climbing from the ankles up, around my

knees and waist and up the small of my back. Sometimes an intricate pattern would

show amidst the layered chaos; elsewhere the thread was just a mesh of yarn. When it

reached the nape of my neck, the thread weaved itself into my hair, twisting around

my scalp, growing into my eyebrows.

I watched the series of dashes as they later appeared on the outer side of my arm with

curiosity, intermittent lines like a Morse-coded message that was abandoned half-way

through, now hanging undeciphered somewhere between yarn and skin and needle, a

muted cry for help. The thread moved with determination, self-willed like a stop-

motion animation, momentary fragments of consciousness in a disjointed sequence.


37

prose The dotted path spiralled around my elbow and back up to crawl into the hem

of my sleeve, fastening me within my clothes, then sewing its way up to my

collar, and yet somewhere in my subconscious Elvis still hummed,

“Did you ever see a robin weep when leaves begin to die?”

and I tilted my head to the beat, noticing for the first time the red marks on my

fingers- oh my, the paint must be wearing off, I thought, not flinching,

but that did not stop the yarn from slithering through my collar and into my

skin, sharp little bites of venomous fangs but I couldn’t stop it, I was suddenly

very aware of the needle plunging into my skin and re-emerging, in and out,

sewing because the cat had to be done soon, I couldn’t afford a sewing

machine, and Elvis sang still,

“That means he’s lost the will to live”

and then I felt weak, I trembled, my muscles tense, a red dizziness glazing over

everything, and as I lifted my head I glimpsed a sea of maroon yarn on the

floor, miles and miles and miles of it,

and I was tangled in, sewed into the heart of the mess as it sewed itself into my

own.

“I’m so lonesome I could cry,”

whispered the fading voice of Elvis,

and I did.


38

prose Bang! The lift suddenly halted escalating the building. It didn’t reach the floor it was

commanded to go to. Like a disobedient servant rebelling against its masters, it didn’t obey

to the screams and shouts of its masters, who thought that with their desperate voices they

could magically repair the lift like fairy godmothers. It was just a useless metal box which

eventually, like all things, had lost its purpose, and had become a malevolent metal trap for

the two people it was enclosing inside, a man and woman with busy lifestyles.

The shock exploded through the veins of the man’s legs like poison, and his muscles

succumbed to its overwhelming powers, letting him plummet to the ground like a tower of

cards. When he regained his strength, he dusted his clothes, disgusted by the thought of

peoples’ dirty footprints which now ruined the spotless cotton of his snow white shirt. He

gently straightened his creased trousers and when he finally finished fixing himself, he

noticed his female companion on the floor, desperately glaring at her steel surroundings and

puffing and panting like a tired wolf. Fear, the thief of happiness, stole the vibrant colour of

her pretty face and a ghostly pale conquered her facial features.

“Calm down. It’s ok, the lift is probably stuck, and right now it can’t move upwards. I’ll try

calling s for help from the emergency phone so don’t worry. We’ll get out before you know

it.” The man consoled the terrified woman with his soothing voice.

“I…I…I’m claustrophobic. I panic whenever I’m in closed spaces and I feel like I can’t

breathe. We have to get out of here!” The woman stuttered, constantly panicking.

“It’s fine. We will get out of here. Just don’t think about being stuck in a metal box. I’ve

called help and they’re coming now to get us out. Now, take deep breaths, I don’t want you

to pass out on me.” The man tried to laugh, but all that came out was a bitter chuckle.

The man moved to sit beside the woman when he distinguished a brown string hanging

from the ceiling, like a snake. He looked closer and realised it was a cable cut off by a

sharp tool. But not only. A paper note was sticking out of the cable’s centre like a white tail.

The man unfolded it and read it through. ‘You will pay.’ The three strong words stuck like

glue to the man’s mind. Who would be so crazy to do this? He showed it to the woman to

see if she knew what it had to do with. She gasped.

“But… but… this handwriting… this is my husband’s. And he’s been murdered three years

ago. This is impossible! This must be a prank, it can’t be true! How can I still remember

seeing with my own eyes his body being bloody wounded when I found him dead on my

kitchen floor? Unless…”

Two People Stuck on a Lift By Margarita Psaras

39

Raspberry Sorbet By Lucas James Irwin

prose

40

6 hours, 6 minutes and 6 seconds earlier, Jay Grant sat on a park bench sipping a

strawberry milkshake while flicking through the pages of his medical magazine. He

was a quiet boy of age 16. Average height, slim build and not too bad on the eyes. His

hair was dark and wavy, covering his ears, but cut just short enough so that it would

not curl out of control. His most striking feature though was his pale blue eyes. So

innocent, but yet, you could not help but feel unnerved as you looked into them, they

were hurt, damaged inside, something was hidden deep within. He took a pause from

his reading and looked up as he wet his fingers with his tongue to turn the next page.

He saw a group of youngsters, similar to his age, playing volleyball by the beach. It

was a hot summer’s day in Miami, with temperatures surpassing 35 degrees. Jay had

never had many friends and frowned as he observed the group who were laughing and

giggling as they tossed the ball back and forth. He found the prospect so pointless.

Why would people want to spend their time, passing an inflatable ball over a net to

each other again, and again and again! He did not let it bother him though. He shivered

and lifted his right arm, clicking his watch as he checked the time. 2 o’clock. It was

time for his weekly library visit.

Just as he was about to embark on his journey to the state library, as he was getting up

from his perch, he dropped his magazine. Before he had time to retrieve it though, a

teenage girl ran up to him and grabbed the book in what seemed like a shockingly

short amount of time. Jay had always been good with girls. He had forever been

happier and more comfortable with the opposite sex and, of course, his looks helped

too. She approached him and handed back the object that had connected them.

He stood there; blood dripping from his sleeve,

with the taste of raspberry sorbet on his tongue as

he clutched the 6 inch razor in his left hand and

stared out into the emptiness of the night. The

thumping of his heart slowly numbing out reality.

41

She was very pretty. Blonde hair, green eyes, around 1.7m tall, almost as tall as Jay.

She could very easily have been a model. They engaged in conversation and took off

on a fantastic start. They talked for a good 30 minutes. Jay had played his cards so

well that she even asked to meet him that night. Oblivious of what she was getting

into.

They said their goodbyes, and both went to prepare…for very different things. They

had arranged to meet at Chuck’s ice cream parlour. Jay arrived first. He stood there

waiting for his date, looking up into the night as he was patted himself down. He

received a buzz in his pocket as the girl texted him. “Soo sorry I’ll be there in 10 xx”.

Jay smiled, and his phone beeped as he turned it off. He slipped it back into his

pocket, feeling the cool of the metal razor as he did. He strolled casually over to the

display freezer, and flicked some notes as he reached the man. He inhaled deeply,

exhaled, smiled and ordered “2 raspberry sorbets please….to go”


drama Confessions of the Addicted By Stephanie Kalli

I feel that I am floating.

That there is no point in my life. That each minute goes by with me feeling awful and

nothing gets better. I sink deeper and deeper into my own self-absorption. Yet nothing

– I mean Nothing. – not even for a single second, not even by a hair’s breadth,

attempts to ameliorate the torturous effects of this state of chaos I am in. What will

happen once I accomplish my goals? Am I depressed? What if I manage to stop self

harming and my wounds heal and I obtain a healthy relationship with myself? What

next? Will I still feel that I’m just floating? Maybe. Probably. Probably not though.

I.DON’T.KNOW.

My neck narrows and I imagine hopelessness’s demonic hand tightening around it.

My heart beats so hard I’m petrified it wants to break free. Just like a desperate,

frantically flailing fly trapped behind a transparent window glass. Just like me

straining to escape this formless mocker that we, humans, call life. This daunting,

haunting life that my addiction renders me incapable of viewing as nothing but so

miserably monotonous and so helplessly doomed, if not deteriorating even, that

eternal leave seems to be the sole solution.

I want to be happy. But then what? Why should I be happy? After all the

breathtakingly exhaustive efforts and unwelcome but persistently repeated failures to

escape…maybe I don’t deserve to be happy. Do I deserve to be happy when others are

not? Isn’t that selfish? But then again, I cannot make others glad by being sad myself.

I cannot regal the poor with food by just hurting myself. I cannot resurrect my best

friend’s grandpa just by resigning myself to this overpowering feeling that I am

worthless. A filthy, weak and fragile zero.

I must do my best. I must take advantage of what I am given and be grateful for it.

- Yeah, right, you said that before. It’s recorded; Hundred discs. - I must understand

that once I overcome my heroin drug addiction I will still have problems. I must

accept that life will not be perfect. It never is. It simply can’t. But at least it will be 42

better. Better in the sense that my worries and ambitions will be of a new, different,

higher level; that which corresponds to the issues and aims of people who are sane... At

least for most of the time.

I need a balance. I must understand that it is okay to drink. It is okay to have a glass or

two. Maybe more but still! Not in the way that I drink them now. Not with her casting

disparaging stares and self-satisfied smirks at me; with her meaning the lack of self-

control. For she is the one who awakes the self-destructive savage in me. It is that

horrible sense of having no self-control that makes me hate myself every time I fail to

resist. Every time I once again end up with my harmful habits as my frenemy. And then

I’m trapped between the mere desire to be free and my hidden impression that I am not

worth the escape; a conception which arises from why I started damaging myself in the

first place and/or the self-loathing that results from my seemingly untamed stupidity .

But no. I. Deserve. To be. Happy. All I need is to understand that my mentality two

years ago when I drove myself into this fit of madness was wrong. And that my current

mentality, the one that keeps me stuck in this fit of madness is again wrong.

I must embed it well into my swirling mind; I can be happy without the smoke. I can

be happy without forcing myself to puke and then starving for days. I can be happy

without binge eating and stuffing myself. I should enjoy life’s countless opportunities

as long as temporary enjoyment is not followed by an exceedingly devastating period

of guilt and regret clawing at my soul. But how will I know which is the limit? So that

I don’t cross it? I did so once, already. So HOW do I know that I won’t do it again?

HOW?

Carried -by these thirsty thoughts buffeting my mind just like a branching river looking

for the sea; looking for respite - to a destination I do not know, I find myself

somewhere brighter than I used to. At least I know. Acknowledging and accepting

help; they are the first step towards the tunnel’s end.

Therefore maybe –jut saying maybe- there is some hope, after all.

drama continued from previous page

43

drama Unknown Last Words By Marita Anastasi

(Coughs heavily & Takes deep breaths, whispers) Can you look outside the

window? Tell me, what do you see? Is it raining? I can smell the rain. Ah, grasidi

(grass). Can you see my house? It’s over the corner you know, Lepsious street, the

apartment above the prostitutes. Ah my apartment, I wish I could be there right

now, with my kerosene lamp –the loux- next to my bed and my poetry…sto

komodino (on the side table). My poetry of course, my poems are my children you

know (Mucus cough) I take care of every single one like there is no other. When I

publish them it is as if I bring them to life. As for those that remain unpublished,

well not everything is made to share with others. (Harder mucus cough) Bring me

the… (sighs) bring me the medicine, you know whits one. I don’t care if you have

given me my dose. I am d-y-i-n-g!!! I just want to get rid of the pain. Oh the pain,

you have no idea, no idea (faints, falls asleep)

(Wakes up, breaths heavily, sucks lips) Water, give me water! Is he here? Not yet?

Let me know when he comes. He is the only one left, everyone else is gone,

waiting for me up there. Oh you can’t imagine what a relief this is. The thought that

they are all expecting me, mother, Pavlos, Aristides, Mike, grandfather…makes the

pain sweeter. To be honest if I could I would have shot myself to make this faster

but I am so weak I can’t even do this. So I just wait, (cough) Is Alekos and Rika

here? What’s the time? (Exhales heavily) wake me up when they are here.

I am glad that you are here. It feels nice having someone near you, besides the

nurse. She never says anything, she just listens as if I am a crazy old man who

speaks nonsense. How fool she is, I don’t think she even reads poetry. If she did

she would admire me like everyone else. Do I speak nonsense? (laughs and coughs

simultaneously). I don’t want to know, ‘isos to fos nane I nea tirania, pios xeri ti

kenuria pragmata tha feri? (Maybe light is the new tyranny, who knows what new

thigs is going to bring with it?) You smile, why do you smile? I speak no nonsense

(slightly louder). These are my last words you know, I am dying anytime soon, and 44

I have to say my life has been long so long and it’s hard to put everything in

order. But it has been a good one. Liverpool was nice, the countryside

especially with its ttowtally heavy scouse accent!(coughs, tries to make

scouse accent. ah London was too busy for me, I was so happy when we left

from there. The n it was Constantinople, I vasilevusa, ayy Vosporos

(Bosporus), such a magical place. Where my roots were and still are, pateres,

pappudes (fathers, grandfathers). Where everything started. Unravelling all

the history behind generations and generations of grandfathers. (Coughs) But

Alexandria, oh this is home, this is where I come from. This is where I should

and will truly die. This is where I have most of my memories, not always

pleasant but still, they’re part of who I am.

Alexandria is where my poetry was developed. And poetry is who I am. Can

you understand now? I heard the nurse yesterday, talking about me; she was

saying how sorry she felt for me. She felt sorry for me being alone for the

whole of my life. But I told you she is a fool, she cannot understand. After all

of them died, my poems were my company. I was kneading the blanket of my

thoughts word by word, comma by comma (breathes heavily), feeling by

feeling. It was that blanket that always kept me warm, that always kept me

company, even to the darkest hours of my past.

Yes past! (laughs). For my life, I Ithaki mu (my Ithaca) is now becoming past,

the future has been running out. And it is coming, I can feel it. Ke apohereto

tora ti dikimu Alexandria (and I know say goodbye to my Alexandria) Thank

you for coming. Please -you are the only person I say please to you know-

keep visiting me until it’s over. Your company is such a comfort.


45

drama Pink By Stephanie Georgiou

46

(Shantelle stands in front of a camera, in a dressing room for a beauty pageant,

background sound of clapping, cheers and music)

MAH daughter’s a winner, MAH daughter’s the best, and SHE shoulda won not that

other girl, she ain’t got nothin on mah Tiffany, she was ugly as hell I mean come ON. I

spend ALL that time doin’ all the little curls in her hair, and puttin’ on all her pink

makeup, and dressin’ her up in her little pink glitter princess dress, and doin’ the fake

tan and THIS, THIS IS WHAT I GET? (scoffs)

It’s mah life’s dream to make that girl a winner of a beauty pageant. Everyone tells me

‘Shantelle yous askin’ too much of your little girl,’ but they don’t know the hell I’ve

been through to make Tiffany what she is today.

(sits down on chair)

Hours every day doin’ all her routines, dancin’ and walkin’ round the living room. Her

dad doesn’t help me, ‘cause he’s too high and mighty for that. (rolls eyes)

See, I used to wanna be a beauty queen when I was a little girl too but mah mum used

to tell me that it was a stupid idea, that people would think I was stupid for goin’ to the

contests, and she would laugh at me and tell me ‘Shantelle, you ain’t never gonna win

no beauty contest, all them other girls gonna be better than you, you’ll see.’ She always

hated it when I talked about pageant stuff and um...she’d get real pissed and...

(picks up pageant dress from the floor and puts it on her lap, stares down at it)

All I wanted was a pink room with glitter and fairies, decorated like a proper girl’s

room should be,but mah room was anythin’ but pink. Actually, there was no pink in the

whole entire house. I hated it, and I was miserable. I wanted to be like other little girls,

pretty and dressed in fluffy pink dresses, and I wanted to have mah nails painted pink,

and mah hair curled, but she’d always tell me it was a stupid thing to do, that I wasn’t

grateful for what I had.

(throws dress onto floor, buries face in hands)

And so I ran away when I was 17 and got married to mah high school boyfriend, a lazy

bum, and a year later, I had Tiffany.

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drama (sighs, removes hands from face)

Course, it was tough at first, with the new baby

and all that, but it was through mah own hard

work, jugglin’ 3 jobs at a time that we managed to

earn enough money to raise Tiffany well.

She was mah way out. She’s the best thing that’s

ever happened to me, and she’s the most beautiful

little girl in the world, and she deserves to win

‘cause she works so hard to get all these victories.

She’s worth it.

So I help her out as much as possible. I give her all the dresses and do all the

makeup and the hair that I never had. I help people see how beautiful mah girl really

is. I know some people think it’s wrong, and that I’m using Tiffany to get money and

fame and all that stuff people say, but if they knew the real reason I do this for mah

baby, they would understand. To me, a happy childhood is one where the kid feels

like royalty, and not like they’re worthless and stupid.

Now I ain’t a crazy pageant mum, I’m a mum who wants her kid to feel special, like

a little princess, and that’s why I get so pissed when a girl who I KNOW isn’t as

good as mah girl is wins. Course, there’s been times when girls who were better than

mine won and that’s fine. I mean, it’s fair, I get it.

So when she fails, I give her pink to make her smile, cause it makes her happy, like

it woulda made me happy if mah mum gave me pink when I needed her to. But she

never did and she never will. Oh well. On to the next competition. And this time,

mah girl’s gonna be a winner, I ain’t lettin’ NOONE get in her way.

(stands up and leaves room)


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drama Travel the World By Kalliopi Demetriou

They said we were not gonna make it cause we couldn’t even imagine of the

difficulties we were gonna face… like, like we are 10 years old or something…

But how can I, how can we not make it when we are together? You know… While we

are moving… I might not… I might not really see you but… but I know you’re here, I

know you’re just behind me… I feel your presence cause that’s… that’s what gives me

the courage…

Sometimes it feels like we are not moving… like I just sit here and my surroundings

are moving around me… you see those hills? Those hills right there with the green

splashes on them… you see… now they are in front of us and we can see them getting

closer… but in a bit… they will disappear… Gone!

It reminds me of people, they appear in your life and they become part of it… and you

get to know them, you know? And as time goes by they come closer and closer and…

you start depending on them… think of them as part of you… Stupid thing to do… but

we do it anyway… we think they are always gonna be there but then… suddenly…

Gone! You don’t even realise it until you truly need them and you miss them but… you

can’t find them cause… And what do you do then? Move on?

You see? This whole thing, it gets me lost in my thoughts… it gives me time to

think… reminisce…

Remember when you were lying in that bed… wearing your white dress… beautiful as

always… your face so calm and peaceful; giving me hopes, as always… and your

This is going to be recorded and aimed at a

wider audience. Its purpose is to motivate

people who are going through difficult

times to move on with their lives and fight

for their dreams.

49

annoyed me…Cause… you can’t say that. I mean how can you… what’s your job

anyway? Why do you get paid? Why did you spend so many years studying?

Why… I don’t understand… there are lots of things I don’t understand but… I

guess there in no reason to bother… not any more…

That day as I was sitting next to you, caressing you… your eyes glinting… I could

see it… I could feel it… you would never give up! Ever! Your hand holding mine

and you said “we will do it” and then… I didn’t understand what was going on… I

couldn’t… there was that woman rushing into the room… she said I should get out

but… I didn’t understand… then, then he came in, he was rushing! I didn’t

understand what was going on and that, and that biiiib so, so annoying and it

wouldn’t stop and I didn’t know what to do… then there was another man rushing

into the room… he said I should get out… and, and he was pulling me out of the

room, I don’t understand, they were all on top of you and I couldn’t see you, I

wanted to see you, I wanted to touch you, to hold your hand and tell you that I was

there for you and that you couldn’t leave, you couldn’t leave me cause, we were

gonna follow our dream, we were gonna travel the world on our bikes and… you

couldn’t go now… what could I do without you?

One day I asked you if you wanted us to capture the world.

'No! What for?’ you replied, your eyes still shining bright. ‘I just want to observe

the world! To travel the word!' and that beautiful smile was drawn on your face…

drama eyes… you looked straight into my eyes, as

always… those eyes… blue and wide! My hand in

your hand… “we will do it”, that’s what you said

before… remember? I do!

I never liked him… he would always say “we will

do our best but I can’t promise you anything”

that’s… that little part in the end… that’s what really


50

that smile that… captures you… that makes you believe that anything is possible and

you can’t give up… and that’s, that’s how our dream was created, our dream to travel

the world on our bikes.

They pulled me out. I didn’t wanna leave you, I didn’t wanna leave you but… they

said they were gonna do everything they could… and then… then they said it wasn’t

easy… they said you didn’t make it… they said there was nothing else they could do…

they said they were sorry… I guess they should be…

The next time I saw you… I couldn’t look into your eyes to, to get courage, to move

on, to follow our dream cause… your eyes… those blue and wide eyes… they weren’t

wide anymore… and I couldn’t look into them anymore…

When I’m done with the cycling of the day… when I get to my destination and lie on

my back… the stars above me… when I really miss her and I can’t get myself to

sleep… that’s when she comes back for me, beautiful as always! She doesn’t talk…

only smiles… and... looks into my eyes… I know why she’s here, I know why she

comes back, for me! Cause I need her and I need that courage of hers, and she

wouldn’t want me to stop! No! You should never give up, she’d say! So she comes

back to help me… so that I know she is here for me.

People thought I’d give up on… on everything… they thought I’d give up on our

dream… on my life… But how can I give up? She taught me how we should never

give up, she showed me how we CAN do what we want to do, she wanted me to

promise her that I will make our dream come true no matter what and I did! I did

promise her that we… that I… would travel the world and prove them that there is no

such word as impossible. And she promised she would be here for me.

And she is, and so I will.


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