R94

They caught us, red handed.

We sat on the sand, watching the breeze sift it. Mep and Tuni managed to roll a spliff from crumbs in their pockets. Rul watched them, inhaling their puffs greedily, but they didn't let him toke. They didn't offer me, either, but even if they did I was in no mood or condition for it. I was barely able to keep down sickness from fear, grass didn't smell like relaxing, more like nauseating. Guard frowned as he felt the spliff. He didn't move, just sneered at them, reaching for a sucker that snaked from his helmet down the jawline. Guard audibly sucked few gulps of rasa.

That attracted Rul's attention.

"Just look a that, we can't even get a puff and this guy sucks like there's no tomorrow", Rul was acrid.

I could bet that behind that dark visor guard's eyes were shining like opals, his mind being sprinkled with orange shreds of pleasure. Dull pain in my stomach reminded me that there is no peace or joy for me, not even in daydreaming. I shivered and spat, Rul got slapped. Mep and Tuni were determined to defend their spliff. Fucking fools, anyway.

We would never get caught if they weren't high. We were just about to dig to the lower levels. Rul found some pictures, real photos, shiny glossy paper and all... whole bunch, too. Tuni unearthed something that could be an ashtray, and damn coppers took from me a real glass Coke bottle, you know, that sweet little 0.2 thing... fuuuuu!

R94

Bird has to fly, man has to dream. My friend Sergiu and I were close to fulfilling our dream. Monkette Kelsang Namtso was also on the brink of her dream. It happened one autumn morning high in the Himalaya.

Last base before Cho Oyu peak was near the Nangpa La Pass. Some mountain climbers thought that Turquoise Goddess was therefore a less of a challenge. That morning, refugees from Tibet were traveling trough Nangpa Pass.

To Sergiu and me, this morning was about the final test. Snow and ice of Cho Oyu was challenge to us, just because "it was there". We were grateful to Edmund Hillary for putting the essence of mountaineering in this concise sentence. To hundreds of frozen people that we saw as thin thread of hope in the distance, Cho Oyu was the cruel goddess. They prayed to her to let them pass trough Nangpa La.

The climb was exausting. Thin air was draining our energy fast and we didn't bring our oxygen tank. I chiseled ice and glacier retaliated with snow dust that stung at my cheekbones. I was panting into the jacket and marveled at the heat that made me sweat, eight thousand meters high up in the mountains. From above, I could see row of freezing refugees. They snaked down the glacier, trying to find the easiest way to the valley below.

At the last stop, Sergiu was panting like a tired puppy. I manged to smile and pat his back. Though we were exhausted from heights, cold and wind, we felt some kind of magic that was pushing us upwards and onwards. We moved slowly, like in a dream, like in a slow motion. Down there, refugees were moving trough the pass. Little Kelsang cheered her friends and smiled to them, her cheeks all flushed up. Their hearts were pounding, their desire to see Dalai-Lama gave them strenght to fight their way trough the snow. The Spirit was guiding us, The Body just obeyed.

Finally, we advanced step by step, inching towards the top. And then we just climbed to our dream. We made it to the peak! Sergiu removed his hood, we kissed and hugged. Squinting at the sun we enjoyed in quiet ecstasy. I didn't have the strength to scream, nor to laugh, nor to feel happiness.

Then shots echoed trough the valley and filled our universe with dread. We rushed down the cliff, towards our base. Soldiers appeared on the far ridge. They took potshots at refugees, as if they were hunting rats or rabbits. Thin line kept going on, like enthralled. To them, bullets were not important, only their pilgrimage was. Shots were falling closer to the column of people. Sergiu reached the base and grabbed his cam. Refugees broke into run, slow, painfully slow, much slower than the bullets were falling.

Glacier turned red. Young monk-girl Kelsang Namtso dropped to her knees. She looked into the sky and her soul started to ascend to heavens.

As if the wind from Cho Oyu scattered them, refugees split up. Frantic people swamped our base camp. Like a pack of wolves, Chinese soldiers fell on them, picking on those who strayed. I felt anger but I was unable to react. I turned to the mountain peek and felt as if the entire Cho Oyu is standing on my chest. I gasped in the thin Himalayan air, too petrified to cry. Shots kept echoing, glacier was still bleeding.

I couldn't believe what I was witnessing. Pain rose from my guts. Pressure was pounding in my temples. Bowl of sufferance gathered in my central chakra. I wanted to breathe air, to inhale hope, but cries of children and rattle of gunfire cut deeply into my soul.

Base camp Crew were enjoying the autumn day in the mountains. Chinese soldiers were just a nuisance, a minor menace. Mountaineers were having their coffee, lazily milling about. They chose to be invisible to frenzied soldiers. No one helped the fallen man, no one fed the hungry, no one sheltered the hunted.

I found Sergiu, he was giving some biscuits to the kid and showing to refugees how to evade soldiers, how to reach Nepal quickly. I fought trough my pain and horror and I joined Sergiu. Thin thread of hope was was broken, eight of them were lying dead in the snow. Thirty of them were captured by Chinese soldiers and herded across the border, like cattle. Half of them reached the valley, some of them died on the way down.

Day was reaching it's end. But for me it will never pass. Sergiu and me decided to speak up. It was the only way to save our souls and fight back at the doom of Turquoise Goddess.

-

Dedicated to Matei Sergiu and Gavan Alexandru, two Romanian climbers who taped the massacre of Nangpa La and forced Chinese government to admit the crime. This story is also dedicated to all those mountaineers that did not 'mind their own business', to those who spoke out and helped Tibetan refugees.

Also, this story is dedicated to monk girl Kelsang Namtso, seventeen years old, who left her body eight thousand meters high up in the Himalaya.

R93

Some people just don't have a story in them. They just don't. And they live without a story. They maybe have some anecdotes, but that's it. However, what is a writer to do if he or she has no story? That's hell, right?

I can't create a story. I feel empty. But not just empty, I feel like I have a leaking holes. It's not a tragedy if artist is empty. They can fill up. I don't claim it's an easy task, but it is doable. You listen to the classical music, or read good books, or go to excursion, collect the impressions. You get filled up. But when a man is hollow, full of holes, you know, then the story just leaks out. And if you are trying to be a writer, then it's pure hell. Stories just elude you, they wiggle out of you as if you were a rotten apple abanoned by even the worms.

So what else can I do, but record my dreams. They are the stories from the other side. I hunt them carefully. Gently wielding my net. But dreams are like creatures from the bottom of the ocean. Brought to surface they decompose with suprising speed. Rotting almost instantly. Then only the jellified bits remain. I try to stitch them together. Taxidermy them. Decorate them. Color with random colors, I have no idea what I'm doing there. Then I wait for them to dry and solidify. They don't turn bad. Almost the real thing. But they are not stories. I can sell them to a naive tourist, but not to real experts. I can't even show them to everyone. What if there is an expert among the crowds?

Sometimes even the dreams die. Sometimes they don't survive the journey to the surface. They remain without form. Like untold prophecies. Just hints. Some dull impulse.

And what if I told everything there is to be told? What if the whole story expired and there will no more be any. That's it. You had a pocket able to hold a single story and now it's gone. And you still want to write. Then you fill the void with anything, evn trash. Sure, the stories will be trashy too, but they will at least be stories, don't you think? Maybe there is something there... But what kind of writer am I, if I write trashy stories? Is that writer any better than the one who robs from his dreams?

R92

Start writing, she said. Without any plan or preconception. Suprise yourself, just see what comes out. What a bunch of crap. Who ever writes like that? Kids... well there it goes, she says herself that it's not working out any longer. What am I to do? I am no longer a kid. Maybe she is right, though, maybe I should just relax and write whatever comes to my mind. But it's not easy! What if my story bends. I did write like that once and then suddenly my story ended up in a ditch along the road. That's so frustrating. I mean, really... no one should write so recklessly like that. Seriously.

At the other hand, I am itching for writing. Without any plan or goal, just to write. Is that too much to ask? Can't a man just write and let go at the sweet flow that wells straight from the subconsciousness, without even pronouncing each word as I write them.

Because once I reach that level, it will be a different kind of writing, because under the treshold of conscioussness there are treasures hidden, naked people, spurting blood, kidneys and tallow, gosh how can I even start to explain this, you see, you shouldn't be ashamed of your subconsciousness that's why it's called sub-consciousness, because it's underneath, and yet it is strange how humans can neatly manipulate it, as if there is a band between consciousness and subconsicousness, maybe in ths band the things can be shifted...

Where do stories come from, at all? Deo they arrive from subconsciousenss or preconsciousness or unconsciousness? I'll never understand...

R91

I sit in the bath tub and watch the water flowing out. I didn't do it in quite long time. Since childhood. I am enthralled by whirlpool that just disappears, the gurgling sound when water goes away. I was again amazed by the speed which bath tub loses the liquid. It seems like there is ample water, then suddenly there is none. Just a bit of foam, silver creeper that wiggles up and down the tub's spine.

Today was different. At the very moment when the drain gurgles, I hear slurred whisper. How odd, I think to myself. Imagine if at that moment when tiny black hole of the bath tub dies, imagine if then a connection with another world would form. I think to myself, hey there it is, that will be my story. Like... there is a character... like me... and he is also admiring the whirlpool in the bath tub.. and then he also hears the whisper from another world and then becomes obsessed with the maelstrom of the bath tub and repeats it countless times and records them, explores them, and then he finds words in the whispering gurgle, and then tries to communicate with the being or beings across the horizon, but he fails and sits alone and sad in the bath tub.

Just like I sit and grow sad right now, because I begin to understand that I will never write that story...

R90

I feel death.

It's not in a single of the many blades of the army that storms our castle and puts it to flame.

They are after us, hunting us. But death doesn't ride with them. Although it would probably be the end of us if we get caught, death is awaiting for us elsewhere.

I climb the wooden palace set high in treetops. I look at you in the eyes and shiver when I realise that you don't see it's the end. Deat is leaning against the rail of the balcony as we watch the rowdy enemy patrols trying to hunt us down. She just smiles at me and sips her strong turkish coffee.

"You get it now, don't you?" she looks at me with pity.

I shake my head, choking on tears that fall inside me, filling my lungs with sorrow. I am afraid of hopelesness, but even more that that, my chest was bursting with loneliness.

R89

I fell in love with a snake.

Stepping in her world I found it full of rain, mud and narrow passages. Buses crammed with children slowly traversed the barren cliffs, leaning and shaking when climbing down, empty towards abandoned sport arena.

Snake was sad, but I didn't pay too much attention to it. Thats why I didn't listen to her too carefully as I was snaking and roaming up and down the mountain side just like the buses did.

At one moment I took her and cradled her in my arms. She was surprisingly warm and instead of scales, her skin was soft like plush blankie. She went even more sad.

Tracks and clues swarmed, criminals I came to stop were at the verge of breaking. Only then I noticed that the snake is dying. Only then I realized how dear she was to me. I wrapped her gently around my neck, petting her. I cooed softly at her and she was too weak to even coil around me. She just complained that she minds the mushy words and how it would be the best if I just shut up and hurry to finish my mission.

Luckily, I woke up before she died. It gives me hope that on the other side, we are still running between the boulders and rocks, washed by the rain. That touch of my skin against her is feeding her and that she will recover enough to hiss the witty remarks once more. That she will slither away from me, pretending I didn't help her at all.

R88

I dreamed of woman with fiery hair, scary and beautiful at the same time. In my dream she was childish and serious at the same time. I wanted her to be naive and jaded at the same time. That she doesn't need me and that she can't do without me. I yearned for her to see me and that she is confused as to what is she supposed to see.

I rushed towards her. Maybe she will go away. But now I know she exists.

R87

Young slouched man enters an office decorated with diplomas, certificates and framed cover pages of magazines. His nervous tic is to remove greasy tussock of hair from his forehead while nervously blinking behind glasses rimmed with thick black nerdy frame. In youngster's tow shambles, tightly bound in chains, his novel.

In the office, behind a desk is a fat man. Seeing the youngster he almost jumps off his chair, starts stroking his beard, which could put many woodsmen to shame. He likes nerds and their shabby stories. They always fall for well practiced combo, stab or two of harsh critique, pinch of friendly advice, some balm for the ego, then comes a bait which they always swallow like big fat twats they are.

"Mladen, I presume?" asks the fat publisher, offering hand.

Very weak handhsake.

"Yes, and you are mister Zarkovic?" youngster speaks shyly.
"Of course, now sit my boy. Let's see what you have here..."

Publisher walks around the writer and his hideous story. And indeed it is even more horrible than many scribblings that fat man sees these days. Tragicomically serious title, bumbling introduction, rehashed ranting, three quarters of religious crap, six ninths of stunted ideas and preconceptions, all that coated in same kind of fantasy writer probably sucked from tv and internet, sticky-shy sex scenes, cardboard characters and very very much of whirling senselesness.

Fat man pats the withers of the story and caresses it's stinky curls flowing down the novel's back.

"Well... well... Look here. We get a lot of stories like this lately", publisher shrugs. "Everyone wants to be the next George R.R. Martin."

Youngster nervously smiles, embarassed and honored by the comment.

"Your story really needs more work, you see. Lenghty descriptions, not really making sense there, what's even this? See this spikes on the elbows, needs to be filed and chopped off, skin on the neck needs also grinding and you need to lose the tail and sixth thumb."

Every suggestions sends searing pain across youngster's face.

"However, you were smart to pick our publishing house, we can fix all of that. We will work on it, don't you worry. Overall I would say it has some potential... see you started off nicely over here..." Fat publisher points at, probably only, smooth patch of otherwise scabby and scaly monster.

Then publishers goes silent and pretends to inspect the story once more.

"So... does it mean you will publish it?"

Publisher giggles.

"Look, we already pushed several fantasy novels this season. I'm not sure there is space for one more. Although... it would really be shame to hide this beauty from the audience." Publisher stops and sighs. "How far are you ready to go..."

"Far... I'm ready to go all the way..." youngster rushes to confirm, excited with the prospect of having his writing presented to the audience.

"Well, how about this... you will pay the printing expences, which is not too much, then we will provide promo and..."

Youngster almost jumps from the chair and shakes publisher's hand. Fatso chuckles while inside he is shaking head and thinking: "Thanks God for pop-culture and all the geeky fanboys!"

R86

I'm  made of holes.

There is almost nothing between the two holes, so I lie to myself that void fulfills me.

I can't even be sad because sadness drips through the gaping emptiness and leaves me.

Sometimes, I sing. Then my voice trembles and then I am proud of myself, because I can feel something.

Fuck you.

R85

Longing
Spiderman
Rug
Love
Society
Huge
Lunch
Good smell
Deception
Choice
Dawn
Long
Sad look
Death
Church
Midnight
Hospital
Room

I felt longing when I sit on my rug. Spiderman was looking particularily happy, though of course, I couldn't see his face - it's covered with mask, you know - but he did feel so happy and filled with love, which is understandable, he is a huge hero of the society he protects. Anyway it was time for lunch and I caught whiff of very good smell, my sister, she really knows how to cook.

You know, she also looks like someone very happy and full of love, but that's a nasty deception. She is a big meanie. And I mean, everyone can be a meanie, but it is always her choice. She would spend long hours of dawn waylaying young men with their sad look and puppy eyes. Then she just breaks up with them, and I bet each of them just dies... you know full death experience, proper church burial and all...

But one midnight she just fell on the floor, noone could help her, we called 911, whisked off to the hospital. I managed to visit her once in her room and she finally didn't look happy. I was so happy for her, she could be real for once...

And now I miss her... sitting on a rug, watching Spidey smile at me...

R84

I woke up from a nightmare with kick and shout. Hugged the pillow tight despite acrid stench of sweating it over the night. I stirred under the heavy cover. Morning was peeking in through the window, but I couldn't tell the time. I hoped that I will have some time to lazy about, but then my spine tingled with discomfort.

I moved in my bed and looked at Lela at the door. She was bringing two cups of coffee and a smile. Tingling subsided leaving only itch.

"I told you not to stay up late", she giggled as she passed my cup to me.
"Hail alien" I scoffed.
"You are really looking for trouble, are you?" she smiled and slurped the sip, whacking my knee playfully. "Down that coffe, then off to wash your theet, else you get another zap!"

R83

I wanted to start with: Oh, how wonderful the dream was, but it's too much like pop-song or something equally slimey.

Thing is, it was a wonderful dream indeed! It eludes me, I can't grasp the dramaturgy. I just have flashes remaining.

There were gods and paralell universes, meditations and emerging from the water, big revelation that worlds can be traveled even without the reflection in the surfrace of water. There were gossips and intrigues and secret meetings, as well as pool parties and cocktails.

Oh, there were godesses, too. Long legged, totting firm juicy busts, there was playful splashing, laughter and debauchery that never spills into the tasteless.

Someone would say, too bad that this wonderful dream eluded me, becuase there was even a hint of a novel in there, but too much like Gayman's work, which is NOT a good thing if you ask me. So all in all, this dream is like observing the table after the feast, and those sights always bring fond memories.

R82

If he knew that it would come to this, Rustam would never ever start writing. When his sandwich bled curry spiced ketchup on his brand new shoes, inspiration struck Rustam so hard, he had to call the boss and get a day off. Rushed home and after making sure that his Italian, leather beauties will survive without permanent damage, Rustam opened his laptop.

His whole life he thought that writing is something sublime, beyond grasp of ordinary accountant like himself. It turned out it's easy-peasy. Whiteness of the screen he filled with so much symbols, so easily as if he was pouring himself wine. He didn't pause to read or correct typos that were result of his nearly hysterical tempo of typing.

Story was pale at first. Then claws, legs, feathers, bust, thin arms and wide wings that barely fit the only room of Rustam's tiny flat. Finally she nodded at him with her catlike head and showed him her hungry teeth which drooled saliva. And Rustam kept feeding her, writing line after line.

He didn't catch the exact moment of change. He would even completely miss the smudge if it didn't appear covering letter F , where starting point for left hand's fingers was on the keyboard. Under fingertips he felt something moist and thick, like curry spiced ketchup. He lifted his head just in time to duck. Story missed her clawed blow aimed at writer's temple. Rustam dived under the desk, and feathered monstrosity jumped at his desk, slamming the laptop shut.

Writer crawled, scurrying to the coat crumpled on the bed, manically seeking his phone. Story perched on the table, licking her lips. If I could only remember the phone number of Literary Police, thought Rustam.

R81

Ian Pilsudski dragged passionately the last smoke and tossed the stub out of the car window. His projectile missed the street trashcan. He tapped twice against the car door and whistled. Skinny blonde guy at the wheel nodded sharply, grinned and gunned the throttle. Moment later there was purple and yellow rotation lights and wailing sound of the siren. Literary Police was in pursuit.

"Car 451 to the Central", mumbled Pilsudski at the radio.
"Central to car 451, come in", hissed the Central.
"We report for 261 at corner of Kemish and Augustine', almost screamed Pilsudski to stay louder than siren noise.
"Central to car 451, crime in progress is 594 not 261, please confirm", screeched the Central.

Pilsudski dropped the mic and snorted with laughter. Driver joined in too, hitting the wheel a few times.

"Lazarus, can you believe these bozos?"
"Yea, boss, I'm with you, boss", chuckled the driver, overtaking a few car and running through the junction.
"Some berk is about to finish the novel and they are going soft on me!"

Ian was again on the mic.

"There better be some backup when we fly in, over!" barked the big headed detective and continued to mumble to himself "...mother.... fuck... as if we don't have enough trouble with runaway stories, neglected novelettes and wild essays, now they started writing novels, for fuck sake..."

Detective grasped the handle above the window, as Lazarus turned sharply to left and with meaowing of tires, they entered the Kemish avenue.

"Shit, my shotgun is thirsty", Pilsudski thought to himself as he reached for the weapon tucked in the holster just under his car seat.

R80

In the city, building are flourishing,
We see them when they die.
And that's it.
Death is hidden, otherwise.

In the countryside, everything is flourishing.
And dies, too.
That's why in the morning, we first count each other.
Almost as if it doesn't matter who died and why.
They simply roll you a few times in their hands.
Then they fetch the spade.
Put you on the bottom of the hole and cover with sand.

Countryside death is not less painful, just because there is so much of it visible.
But whoever dies, gets at least a few farewell tears.

R79

I love almonds. I don't nibble on them. I don't even chew them. I crush them like that machine which gobbles up a rock and then poops gravel.

As soon as I get up, before breakfast, I eat at least handful of almonds. Then by lunchtime I destroy at least half a cup. Afterwards, I fry some and use them to spice up my lunch. No nap time after lunch for me, so while I wait for the meal to digest, I crush another handful or two.

When in the late afternoon my sugar levels drop, I remedy it by drinking almond milk. It's thick and sweet. In fact it's not sweet at all, but that's my impression. It's as if it could easily be very sweet.

Before almonds, I had huge problems with my tummy and digestion. Food was simply sticking with me, while my poop was runny. But since I am eating almonds, my poop is like gravel, too. I don't want to go into details there, but it's obvious that almond saved my ass.

Thank you, almond!

R78

I rubbed by eyes and yawned. Midnight with struck soon and heat of the summer day didn't cool yet. I was sitting at the desk, trying to work for serveral hours but something kept bugging me.

Went to the kitchen to get some lemonade. Immediately downed half the pitcher. I turned and gazed at appartment door.

Yea, that was it. She usually returns by midnight, and now she is late. I admit, it was selfish of me to first think how I lost time fidgeting and waiting. Then I whined how without her it will be yet another day sine linea. Then I got mean muttering, wher is that bitch, is she aware what she's doing to me with being this late? Then I plucked at my moustache and scolded myself.

Who knows what happened to her. What do you mean, what can happen to a story? Well, she could go and never come back. She could be kidnapped and turned into a commercial.

I leaned against the fridge door and sobbed.

R77

I was sitting outside the grocery store chugging my beer when she showed up. Skinny, dirty face and pesky. She had this thing to whip her shabby brandy-colored hair. Blinking her blue eyes with long lashes.

"Shoo, go away", I yelled at her and swung my bottle.

She shrieked and pretended she is hiding behind crates of nectarines. Then she sneaked back, snuggling up to my leg.

"Can I be yours?" she asked.
"No you can't" I smirked.

Where did she get those heavy boots and those purple socks. With that short leather jacket and punk tshirt she looked like poorly written character from an urban story.

"You like me?" she smiled and whipped lock of her hair away.

I almost chocked, spitting a bit of beer foam.

"Are you crazy, you want me arrested? Go away."
"Then take me with you."

I didn't reply. After few slow long sad blinks, she just hugged her knees. I shook my head. How people can be this cruel, I'll never understand. They write a story, then kick her out in the street, they don't care where and how she's going to end up. Man without a story, that's fine, but story without a writer, that's so fucking sad. When will this government do something, where the hell was Literary Police?

R76

We were seated in a kitchen that nestled in a former hallway, tucked in between two rows of counters, refrigerator, dishwasher, oven. Feeling of comfy, cozy spot for creativity was marred by food stains, overflowing ashtrays, bottles of rancid milk and white whine, caked puke pools on the floor and array of kitchen gadgets eagerly waiting for their mistress to put them apart and give them thorough wash that would restore them their pride.

She clicked with her fancy lighter and lit another slim cigarette. Puffed a smoke and sipped some white whine.

"I write in English. I have so much trouble thinking only in one language. What I need to express sounds so much better in another language and yet there is that something which asks for another language to support my vast ideas. I'm going crazy here", she smiled and searched my face for clues about my reaction.

I adjusted my tie and took a sip of coffee as excuse for my silence.

"I mean... I did hear your proposal, but hey I will not change anything. I like it this way. Besides, I don't buy into the rules, like... maybe one day when I decide to start a novel... but this... oh, cmon it's just a story...", she dragged few anxious puffs and slammed the cigarette into the ashtray.

Then a story crawled in the kitchen. Big headed, smiling and messy. It tried to stand up, but partly due to weak legs, partly due to wide clothes, it fell on it's cute chubby butt.

I sighed and opened the official notepad.

"Miss Juliana, sadly I will have to report something I'm simply witnessing, which is a gross negligence towards a story. Ministry of story protection can't allow this to go on."

"You can't do anything... it's MY story... why should I care, I'll write it the way I think it should be..." she hissed and lit another ciggy.

I closed the notepad and shrugged.

"I beg you to reconsider", I tried though I knew what her reply would be.

"Get out! Ungrateful bastards, I let you in my home, I show you my masterpiece and you just think you can walk over people and their stories, well thank you and no thank you, go away!"

I bowed and headed out. At the door I turned to look at the story one more time. It was rolling on the cold kitchen floor, blissfully busy with attempt to put it's toe into its mouth.

"You'll hear from Literary police, have a nice day..."

R75

Comrade Kuzmin sat in the snow and held his belt tight. It seemed as if his belly was smoking. He was desperately trying to hold his guts from spilling. His breathing was gurgling and uneven.

Vanya observed comrade Kuzmin and wondered how come there is so little blood. Animals shed little blood, while humans bleed profusely. Maybe, comrade Kuzmin is a fat pig shaped to resemble head of the commissary.

- My son? - Kuzmin tried to plead with young Vanya.
- Yes, my father? - Coldly answered the youngster.

Shotgun was also smoking, but it's plumes were already dispersing while the fog before Kuzmin's eyes was drawing thicker and thicker...

R73

They carried her in and gently laid on the table of doctor Meister. She was pale, her brow glistening with sweat. Blonde hair was matted, but she didn't appear sick. In fact, she looked so charming as if she just stepped out of the shower. Her legs were long and shapely with tiny feet. Doctor Meister didn't mind hairy legs. He didn't quite understand why would they shave and then complain about it. Skin of the patient was shiny as if oiled, so smooth as if hair never even grows there. Kind doctor admired her legs from tip of the toes, through juicy calves, lovely knees and all the way to the thighs, covered in blood soaked mini skirt.

Doctor couldn't spot where did this bleeding come from, but when he approached from the other side, he saw the break. Bone was protruding like tip of the spear. From the crack in the skin, he could see into the insides of the story.

"What the fuck..." moaned doctor Meister.

R72

I enter the store to buy something for dinner. I was bouncing between rotting tropical fruit too pricey for anyone to buy and plastic looking bell pepper that seemed like it will never rot. Someone's wife talks on the cell phone blocking the fridge door. She is idly picking through frozen ravioli bags. I wait for her to decide and pick. With cheese? With ham? Quarter of kilo? Half of kilo? She never stops talking on the phone. Smiles shyly and moves aside when she spots me waiting patiently for my turn to pick through the frozen bags. I move to cheese and delicacies department. Somoene's sister picks hundred grams of this and hundred and twenty grams of that. She wants cheese, too. Curly man in late twenties has no patience and leaves the queue. It's my turn. I want a piece of salami. Petite woman with green eyes and dark hair too wild to be tamed by her white hat brings me my piece of salami. I thought she will just give me the chunk, but she approaches the slicer and wrestles with the machine. I start realizing that she is going to make each slice as thin as possible. While she is facing away I remind myself to smile at her. I receieve neatly packed slices and thank her from the bottom of my heart. Her eyes are tired. She is shy to smile back. Her skin is very dry. Her smile is brighter when she sees I mean it.

I want to cry.

R71

I was running through the forest, across fields, under the earth, through tunnels, over the pools and again under the open sky, left and right down the walls. I was running, falling, standing up, falling through, bouncing off the walls, flailed my arms, grasping skin, tearing chunks of meat, spitting blood, pushing away, scratching, kicking, shivering, jumping, prancing, laughing, mocking, enduring blows and words.

They couldn't catch me and the couldn't stop me. It didn't make me feel victorious. I passed the finish line sadder than ever. I fell on the bed and got up on the other side, where I sat on the edge of the bed, defeated by nostalgia.

When the first wave of sadness was over I managed to get up and approach the window. City will sleep for one, two more hours.

"I accept", I adressed all the red roofs and white skyscrapers, all the streets and red lights. I accept my sadnes...

R70

You paid me a visit in my dream. Usually you appear to torment me. You surround me and make me play without role or script. Or you ask me questions long ago not answered and without any answer save shrugging. You watch me sternly. Then you tell me it's not your looks that are stern, but mere reflection of my self-loathing. Sometimes you smile. That's the scariest.

But last night was different. I was smiling. I don't recall what you've asked, but I answered chirping witticisms I can't recall. I just know you all were so pretty. And it felt good to see you all...

R69

They were sprawled in the bed, covered with sleeping bag which was peeled off at one end, so they looked like freshly opened can of sardine. In the middle, his eyes shut but restless laid Gvozden. He was sweating and shivering. From the left side, Lena was embracing him. Her thigh was across his as she was rubbing his hip with her knee. On the other side was Senka. Her right hand was at Gvozden's forehead, her left was pressuring his navel.

"He's not calming down" Senka wailed in raspy voice.
"Do his head" replied Lena.

R68

"Mister Michko Comma", said mister Michko Comma and extended his hand.

He was thin, which made him look taller than he was. Gray suit with elbow patches and shawl around his neck yelled: "I have extra estrogene and I'm not ashamed of it".

"Mister Buchko Slanthead", answered mister Buchko Slanthead, accepting the hand of Michko Comma.

Slanthead didn't have slanted head at all, but short legs and two mismatched socks that yelled: "I'm single and not ashamed of it."

"Gentlemen!" exclaimed miss Milica Horsekiller flashing her eyes as if she was indeed about to kill a horse.

R67

Look me in the eyes.

Hooting while exhaling helped him focus his gaze at two circles filled with green of all shades and hues. He wondered what his eyes look like in her view and moment after he got his answer when he was mirrored in her verdant gaze. His sparks of blue fitted perfectly all the little cuts in her iris, so that the colors almost completely blended. At first he noticed turquoise hues and gray shades. Then slowly the well he was gazing into without blinking started gaining depth and light that was result of warmth. Her pupils dilated and contracted rapidly, erasing all borders between green and blue. He felt breath, faster and more shallow than his. Skin dry and goose-bumped. Wetness between his legs.

Then everything went dark. Appeared and disappeared again. And every time the darkness would come, he was afraid that the world will not show up again...

R66

They presented themselves from afar, so he could see that they weren't trying to sneak up on him. Approaching carefully, walking slower and slower, they stopped some ten feet away and at the sign of the guide, removed their hats and beanies.

He just watched them in silence. Nothing could be read from his face other than he is aware of their presence. With slow deliberate moves he put aside smoking bowl of kohlrabi soup.

"Master", said the guide almost whispering. "We are in need of your help."

The guide resembled an ant. Mostly because of his round head and big crooked teeth in his tiny jaw. He was balding, though he wasn't yet in the graying age. Behind him two peons were seated, big from hard work and rounded from hearty food. Their skin was ruddy, making their thin blonde hair stand out more.

Though they didn't even explain what help do they need, master knew what they want. It was always the same. But this time he was not able to oblige.

"I can't help you", the master declared. "I've lost my sadness..."

R65

Alarm sounded. Broad brimmed white hats went scurrying this way and that. Farm hands rushed to their well deserved rest. Sun already started scorching and won't stop burning the land till the dusk comes. Only those who have suit or sunblock will be able to walk under the sky. There was no breeze. Pity. I love the music made by plastic bottles on top of poles that support beans, peas and fry.

Everyone went down into the dugout. Chicken clucked. Turkeys responded by gobbling. It was time for me, as well, to retreat underground.

R64

- Who's next? - asked Old Comrade, taking out of his mouth a pipe that was choking as did we all in this cell
- Comrade Lila - tiredly answered commisar Zivan

I ran my fingers through hair matted with sweat. Rough-spun wool of my pants itched and scraped. Cigarettes lost their smokey flavor long time ago. Commisar followed the reading with his fingertip, sharing excerpts from Lila's personal file.

- Unscrupulous... escaped from trade training... caught during a raid....

He laughed gurgly and then coughed.

- She was caught fucking on the roof of the comitee...

Giggle waved through the cell. Old Comrade pointed his pipe at commisar.

- We need that one - he said and puffed another ring of smoke.

Commisar Zivan lowered the file and gave Old Comrade a stern look.

- We do - Old Comrade shrugged and waved for Zivan to read on.

- Comrade Oleg - huffed commisar - Lazy... Escaped from working party... Caught with two female comrades... fornication in the library...

Old Comrade nodded vigorously.

- Write him up, too - I said before commisar switched to another file

R63

Strong headache woke him up. When it starts like this it feels as if someone stabbed him in the eye. He rolled off the bed and tried to reach for the pills on the nightstand. Not only there were no pills, but there were no nightstand either. It made him wake up and straighten, then take a good look around him. Oddly, the nightstand was there, but on the other side of the bed. Pain didn't allow him to ponder this wandering furniture, as he felt compelled to get the pills. Taking two blue ones, he chewed them. Other than slightly different arrangement, something else was missing from his room and it was - the noise of traffic. He approached the windows and peeked out. Street was still there. Cars were still crowding. Multicolored bus was at the head of the traffic jam. But vehicles didn't grunt, growl or honk. Sound they emitted was closer to hum or buzz. He kept looking in amazement. Passers by wore nice brightly colored clothes, mostly freshly-cut-green, blue-as-morning-sky or as-yellow-as-custard-pie. Not everyone was smiling, but they were greeting each other as they went by.

Phone rang.

He fished his cell phone from upper pocket on his suit, folded over the writing desk just across the bed.

- Hullo? - he answered the call
- Mr. Petrovic? It's Zhana calling... - said unfamiliar female voice.
-Zhana? - he tried not to sound aghast.
- Yes, secretary of your department. Just calling to check if you are all right...
- I don't know, actually - he honestly replied
- Don't worry, just let me know if you are going to take a day off or should we expect you later...
- Oh yes, I'll come... I just..
- Excellent, your colleagues can't wait to see you!

Colleagues? That can't wait to see him?
What kind of Disneyland did I wake to, thought mr. Petrovic to himself.

R62

"Bye, see you some other time!"
"Oh, yes we definitely have to repeat this!"

So it was over and the screen went black. After few moments, pink and blue theme of the catalog resumed. Pictures flickered. Commercials popped up like popcorn. Counter in the upper right corner showed the number of credits expended.

His hands were still shaking. Amazing experience. Too bad he didn't have anyone to share it with. He did spent a substantial sum. Stingy self should have been hurt. He should be writing angry mail to company. He should continue seeking what he came for.

But he didn't do any of it.

He felt satiated. Full. Overflowing. Blasted to pieces and remade. Oh it was exaggerating. It wasn't, of course, that intense. Quite the opposite. Feeling he had now was more close to one after doing a good deed. Strange kind of pleasure that doesn't flow through limbs, but gathers in the heart.

He decided to go to sleep hoping to get caressed with this feeling he couldn't discern completely. Instead of peace, fear started creeping in. What if she was unique and he never feels what he hoped to take with him to his dreams? What if she disappears and he never has this feeling again?

R61

- Wait, calm down - said blacksmith Klin to frantic farmer Zdrug

Innkeeper Dunja gave a jug to peasant and he spilled water all over him, barely managing to catch few thirsty quaffs.

- Come, come, say again what happened - asked furrowed Klin
- Aa.a...a..at first 'twas this... flash.. and flicker... and then he appeared - mumbled and stammered Zdrug
- We know that already, cut to the chase - said Dunja and stomped her foot.

Zdrug wiped his mouth with sleeve and clicked his tongue. She poured more water over his head.

- Ooow, then... then he started killing...
- Killing? - asked worried Klin
- Yea he started with grasshoppers then switched to rabbits.
- Without weapons? - gasped Dunja

Zdrug shrugged and tried to show them shape he was sculpting in air.

- He used some... lightnings... it was ... multicolored and light...
- Oh cmon, tell us more don't make me use vice on your tongue to pull more words out of you, man - whined Klin
-Well, then.. then.. he started chasing rabbits and bunnies and... then beavers and the light... it was... flashing..
- I'll flash you if you sober up and tell us what happened! - promised Dunja.
- No, no... I'm not drunk... I swear... on your eyes... it was horrible... dead animals everywhere, and then light... and the smile... he was constantly smiling, like old Chip when he sees a chipmunk.
- Bollocks - murmured Klin

R60

He was fully dressed, yet sprawled in his bed. Someone would say 'ready to commence his working day', though Nick didn't feel ready at all and day turned into unproductive due to his inability to get up. Sprawled, though, was not a good word, though. It evokes image of someone relaxed, lazily stretching, enjoying their day off. Nick didn't enjoy at all. It was too hot under all the layers of covers, blankets, duvets and tracksuit with sweater. He was sweating and his feet itched. Some people drink to forget. Others to remember. Nick was laying from desperation, not laziness or boredom.

Neither coffee nor whiskey nor whine nor beer nor cigarette nor joint nor computer game nor facebook nor unlimited scrolling of porn sites, nothing, nothing, nothing could comfort Nick like the ball of warmth under the covers. As long as he was tucked in the bed, despite itch and sweat, he was safe. World could cease to exist.

World did cease to exist.

R59

Blurg's gaze went from one chieftain to the other. Just two shamans showed up, Rathanas and Dnem. Few bosses who already started skirmishing with elf wizards. Others were mostly prominent orks, landowners and traders.

"Sad.... I am sad my brothers, when I see you like this. Sad is that you succumbed to elfish ways, and yet you complain about their oppression and want to join the uprising."

Gathering hummed and rumored, there were some shouts and unrest, but it was quickly silenced by stern gaze from shamans and chiefs.

"You drink your elven wine, take concubines, dress in silk. You don't seem like Waagh is dear to your hearts."

Shamans nodded approvingly.

"What makes you belong to our breed? Names? You are blaspheming on it! Ancestors? You are shame to them! What's the difference between you and our enemies? Well you live by their ways and customs!"

After this it was not possible to speak any longer. Some jumped and yelled challenging Blurg to duel, others jumped to prevent dueling, shamans started drinking ancient hymns and company leaders started howling and grunting.

R58

Most of present people were already used to stench of pigs, but the sound of grunts and oinks was unbearable. Thousands of them squeezed in tightly packed herds. They couldn't move forward nor back up. Pig herders yelled at each others and cursed at imperial customs officers.

Blurg tried to discern what is going on. Not even in grand fair time there wasn't a jam like this. He didn't understand why the ferries are empty. Pigs should be transported to the other side, he should be seeing happy pig herders totting bags of gold.

"They won't let us cross", someone said through dry cough.

Two ork elders puffed smoke sitting under a small shelter. Blurg called them good day and approached.

"Since this morning we are trying to cross, but imperial army sent us back. Closed the border", spoke old ork with big hairy ears, while the other one was coughing his lungs out.

"Was there an announcement?" asked Blurg.

Coughing granpa finally got his breath back. 

"Yes, they nailed some paper to the tree, but we can't decipher them symbols."

"They say we should talk to our chieftains, that some agreement has been broken", added the other ork and sucked hard on his pipe.

Blurg turned around. New herders were incoming, adding to the traffic congestion. Imperial soldiers were already in shield wall repelling growing sea of animals. He also saw Lerah elbowing her way to the shore, trying to look out for someone.

He waved. She responded. They started plowing trough the crowds, eager to meet.

"They closed the border", she said moving close to hug Blurg.

"There will be war", he murmured.

Old orks simply went on observing the swelling ocean of pigs, puffing their smoke.

R57

So, humans in the valley were building a road. That's why they are so many rising so big cloud of dust, concluded Glum. All was clear now, except - what a road was. Glumb thought it's some sort of trek, but he couldn't fathom why would anyone bother making one. Treks appear on their own, don't they? When animals, orcs and goblins move, ground turns brown and there you get a trek, no? But to build one...? Maybe road was not the same as trek, after all. So he decided to ask.

"Mister chief ladle dipper, sir. What is a road?"

Furrowed orc simply continued to observe and play with his facial hair.

"The road is evil", replied Lerah.

She lowered herself to Glumb so he could feel her breath on his shoulder. It was warm and sweet smelling like primrose. Glumb tried hard not to turn around. He didn't know what to think about Lerah. On one hand, she was a girl, and therefore should be banned from joining the boys in the company, on the other hand she was a witch and therefore very dangerous. She could turn you into a pig or pile of dust with flick of her finger. At least that was the rumor. Glumb sensed that chief ladle dipper held Lerah in high esteem, so he tried to pay her respect in his own goblin way. Which most of the time meant to keep out of her way and never look her in the eyes.

To distract himself from thought about her proximity, Glumb mulled over the meaning of her answer. Road is evil. Humans build evil. Evil builds humans.

R56

Glumb was large headed even for a goblin. There simply wasn't big enough helmet for him, so he wore a hood his aunt made for him. Big green eyes gleamed in the darkness, which is why often teased him to be half-bugbear. Borlg, chief ladle dipper, never gave Glumb noogies or flicks, like he did torment other goblins from the company. Since orc officers didn't understand the concept of compassion, many were wondering if there is truth to rumors that Glumb was indeed half-bugbear. Bugbears were, after all, such sturdy and gritty warriors worth of fighting along black orcs. Others were ready to wage their portion of human-flesh that Glumb's eyes, other than being big and bulbous, were useful for more than simply being a butt of all jokes in the company. Therefore Piragh and Bugar accepted without customary goblinoid jealousy that chief ladle dipper Borlg decided to go scouting with Glumb and that witch Lerah.

Everyone, of course, was afraid of the big orc, but they weren't shy of mocking him behind his back and slacking off whenever possible. Glumb didn't quite understand. He liked Borlg. He was so brave and strong. Large headed goblin dreamed of having so hairy and muscular arms like Borlg had.

Trio climbed the hill and observed humans in the valley. Even Glumb couldn't make out what they were doing. Whatever it was, there was a lot of plumes of dust and they milled about like ants at the anthill.

"What is that, mister chief ladle dipper, sir?" asked Glumb, unafraid in his simple mindedness that he will get whacked across his lips for talking while on the scouting mission.

Lerah smiled and laid her warm hand on Glumb's shoulder.

Chief ladle dipper was silent for a few moments, stroking his beard and ornately braided mustache decorated with human knuckle bones.

"They are building a road", mumbled Borlg.

R55

- Petra! - said Petra and the door opened.

She stepped in the white chocolate colored lobby kicked two times making sure she doesn't topple handful of big and small parcels she was carrying. Automated shoe cabinet swallowed pair of lacquered ballet shoes of black currant color. Petra stepped on the faux fur rug. She enjoyed the warmth of floor heating so she took her time to cross few steps to the living room.

Curtain between lobby and living room looked like frozen waterfall and it promptly and silently disappeared when man approached it from the other size. He only had speedo undies and necktie on him. Parting his arms made Petra dump all the parcels on him. He opened his mouth, but she spoke first:

- Look, sweetie, the last payment invoice just came from the bank

Man bowed lightly as not to drop the parcels, then moved out of her way. Petra tousled his hair across his forehead while passing by, then she removed device she had around her left wrist and inserted it into the slot in the wall. She started undoing the buttons of her silky dress made to imitate Chinese qipao. She discarded her clothes. They went to sofa which looked in shape and color exactly like Tibetan yak. Beam of light flowed from the wall above her head and image appeared on the opposite wall.

Petra waved few times, which looked as if she was swatting flies. Page on the wall divided itself turning to two distinct windows. Left part displayed some sort of document, stamped with virtual stamps, while the other sported images of naked men. Petra went silent, observing both windows while man behind her started sorting parcels leaving them on the coffee table.

- I simply don't know, sweetie. Bank is offering me to buy you for 850, but I think I'll just withdraw the deposit and start a new circle. Dunno. I think I'll probably go for the same model...

R54

We see a man. Sitting in a car. Unevenly shaven, his hair graying and overdue for a cut. Absentmindedly he wipes his nose with crumpled unsavoury looking hankie. Gray coat is worn and light blue shirt we see under his suit is not ironed, but freshly unpacked, fact betrayed buy a few stray needles still in his collar. Common passers by scurrying to avoid the rain couldn't clearly see man's face but we do and we can even see the title of a book he is reading. It's "Absolute Zero" by Llewellin Gloom. Though sitting at the wheel, this man is indulging in reading because traffic congestion lasts for well over thirty six and half minutes. He is using car refreshing pine tree as provisionary bookmark.

From time to time, man looks up, but through curtain of rain and poorly functioning wipes he only sees red lights of cars trapped in the jam. He is glad for this traffic trouble, which we notice by the smile in corner of his lips and his voracious reading.

After seventeen pages, this man licks his lips and wipes them with that disgusting handkerchief. He is thirsty. Rain is falling and I'm thirsty. He thought, as if rain were safe for drink. Next moment he scolds himself for this thought. Connection between rain as water and drinkable water is just another proof that you will never become a writer, he thinks about himself. That thought makes him shiver so he slams the book shut. He checks if there is any chance of traffic jam moving any time soon, then forgets the thirst and scolding, then turns the page number eighteen...

R53

It looked as if someone finger flicked the air. Three fifths of eye blink after that move, almost out of thin air, trail of sparks appeared.

Air finger flicker was a bit shorter than roof of junk yellow Opel Astra. He wore thin autumn trench coat over unremarkable gray suit with thin black sweater instead of shirt. Someone would describe his head as round, others as square, because it was chubby and big like upholstered anvil.

Picking ends of his coat, so they don't get muddy, he squatted next to the story.

"Well you really did a nasty job on her", he murmured to himself almost ignoring a worried writer who stood nearby shivering in the wind.

Writer was silent for a several moments. He was thin and frail, clad in silk pajamas the color of Dijon mustard, wrapped in cloth that resembled lavish curtains more than anything else. We, of course, only provisionally call him the writer, considering the sad state of the story which inspector Pilsudski was examining.

You didn't have to be an expert to see that the story was dying, there was no need to call Literary Police to tell you that. What was confusing the inspector was question of how did it happen. Ian Pilsudski already encountered in his career many cases when story breaks off from a writer's reign. He saw many horrible examples of how story and writer can maim each other. But the pale apparition that was sprawled in the mud didn't look like a wild story. Quite the contrary. She had shiny fur, trimmed claws and exquisite feathers. Why was she dying in a pool of words, her beautiful nose broken, her hair torn, as pale as her writer, Pilsudski couldn't tell.

He stood up and waved to morgue technicians.

"Take her away..." he said and reached for his coat's pocket to fish another cigarette.

R52

Tree. What could I tell you about it? It was simply evil and mean. It was grabbing hair of passers by, kicking their hats. It didn't only eat kites but all sort of innocent creatures.

No one could end the terror of this tree. No matter how diligently community workers were chopping off the branches, evil tree always found new uses for the fresh stumps. It would simply spit splinters and pierce balloons, waiting for the limbs to grow back, and city gardeners didn't have time to dedicate all their efforts to this single tree.

Neighbors from this tree's hood, who suffered the most from this wicked plant tried to bring goats and sheep to tame it. As you can tell for yourselves that was quite silly plan, but they conducted it. Sheep came. Browsed a bit at tree's sapling branches and roots, peed and that was all.

Desperate, citizens ceased trying to invent new brilliant scheme, so they simply invited a wise man. I don't know where did they find wise man's cell phone, but they managed to bring him in. He arrived and inspected tree from every side. He wrote down his observations in little black notepad. He had small torch light in shape of pencil. Or was it a pencil in shape of torch? Whatever, really. So he used it to light into the deep crevices in the dark tree's bark. He even took a sample with tiny hammer and chisel, and returned home.

So, I'll let you decide for yourselves if tree continued to torture the neighborhood or the wise man did manage to beat it's pants off.

R51

Someone passed by and left the following thought behind them:

- Dog is red

I turned too late, didn't see who said that. I carried that idea with me all the way to the bakery shop. I entered and bought a bun. It was dry and hard.

It's very interesting with baked goods. Usually, dry and hard would mean that it's stale. But this one was actually fresh. It belonged to that lost species of buns that's made of flour, salt, water and yeast.

So, my bad, I used the wrong wording. Word 'dry' made you think it was expired, but it simply was not one of the pumped up buns full of air. So you'll understand, I couldn't name it 'exhaled' or 'airless' bun. Also 'hard' was not the proper explanation. Admit it, you thought that hard would mean it's gone stale and bad, but in fact it was full, real.

I simply love that kind of buns!

R50

What's that gleaming in the distance? Lights were dancing. We were enchanted by the colors swirling on the horizon. I don't know if you've ever waited for dawn. It doesn't come gradually, but in sudden shifts of light. In an instant everything is bit more bright and sky becomes more blue so the invisible retreats and reveals the visible. I smiled to myself, and she thought that I was smiling at her, so she smiled as well, sighing longingly. I always loved the way her breasts heave when she does that. I recalled what they look like when she is naked next to me, as if they are spilled. Now breasts were held together by the hem of her dress, but swells still looked very lovely.

I stood up, shaking off the ashes and turned to the west. There, just behind that hill is our shelter. I offered her my hand and she pulled herself up. She leaned against her carbine and checked the magazine before the short weapon went slung across her shoulder.

R49

- Do we have a mule in sight? - asked foreman Jack.

- Miasmos in five, jet your cans - Breaking through radio static, Bruce replied with his Aussie accent.

Five out of eight mining ships farted closed canisters filled with ore. Jack saw them through ship's cam as pearls highlighted by the sun against the darkness of space barely penetrated by flickering of asteroids doing their lazy dance of gravity.

- One more week and we'll be able to pay the rent - said Tharadin Kardula in voice devoid of joy.

Of course he couldn't be happy, there weren't even ten miners in the belt. He should be seeing at least three times the number, but most of his pilots were on vacation. Few more were still waiting for transfer from the Empire. Deep space relocation was only halfway through. They didn't have big transporters able for long jumps. Interstellar gates simply attracted pirates and rogue drones, so good number of pilots simply had to limp in life support capsules, managing to reach the corporation's new address through slow and arduous trek. If they don't fulfill the quota, they will lose all they've built so far. Cartel that rented them the mining system, Brotherhood of Trey, didn't look favorably to late payments. As soon as rent was overdue, they would swarm the system with titan destroyers, ready to force the payment or simply evict the poor miners. 

- I see two - squealed Dani, officer in charge for telemetry and scanning

- Ok, back to base, guys - Kardula gave order.

As if the quota and rent were not enough, Tharadin had to run the operation without any fighter escort. Combat pilots were not known for their patience. Guarding the ponderous mining ships didn't sit too high on their list of entertaining and lucrative tasks. 

Slow. Way too slow, mining barge ships started to shift and align towards the command tower. Before the mighty thrusters were ready to fire, first pirate ships zoomed in the belt... 

R48

I promised to visit you in the dream. I don't know if I manged that. Probably not, because one day you just sent a message to announce that you are leaving forever. Memory is not yet gone, but it's fading. There is still and outline hard to grasp. Just like when you get up from the bed, and it stays warm for precious brief moments. Enough to remind me of your scent, not enough for me to rebuild you tracking that lead.

Why do I even miss you so much?

We never met each other. I never knocked at your door. Your children never looked at me shyly. I never made them dinner or lunch. We were never intertwined and I never caressed your tattoos with my fingertips, askinga bout each one. We never shared kisses, hiding away, craving for the next moment together.

Maybe that's the reason why?

R47

I was in love with Christian girl from Pennsylvania.

She had it all figured out. That I will board the plane and fly to her house, that we will look at each other shyly, smiling. That we will take a biking tour up the river and visit the lakes, then hike through the beatuiful forests. After whole day of riding we will raise the tent and sit next to the fire. Maybe she will brush against me, sliding closer than it's actually needed for two persons to pass by each other in the wide outdoors. Her hand will maybe brush against mine or I will sit in such way that she can lean into me as I point at distant stars naming them. Of course we will pray together and then go inside the tents. Each to their own, of course.

I didn't even know her name, or what she looks like. I was probably not even in love with her, but in the ability of young girl to invent all this, to get excited and embarassed by her own fantasy and then to disappear.

R46

Illiteracy is everywhere. I am editing an article of a brat who thinks he's a journalist. Trying to salvage his sentences. As if I'm woodcarving with feather. Hunting runaway thoughts and tired words. As if I'm scraping facade of a hovel trying to make it look like a cathedral. Market is crap. No more available wordsmiths. They either burned out or escaped to more profitable neck of the woods. They are too high to care for hilarous ignorance. Maybe they are hiding, cuddling their words lovingly and grooming them for some loftier audience.

I chew through this writing, so shoddily put together, yet adorned with kitch adjectives and almost anagramatical nonsense. I complain, of course, feeling grumpy like janitor cleaning after kids that care nothing for order and cleanliness. Each passage is like ripe barbecued sausage. I dare not pierce the thin skin, lest few precious droplets of sense will leak and sizzle upon the embers of my anger at this reckless youth's scribbling. 

Poet! I need a poet to sting with his sharpest words, for I'm losing this boxing match with greenhorn phrases of choleric quasi-journalist kid who thinks he is so smart for turning his language to sequence of anglosaxon jokes. My head is dropping. I cluck with exhaustion. 

R45

Reaching for your hand, you took mine and smiled. Pulled you in and there we were at the summit. Wiping your forehead pulled your hood back. Your cheeks were so flushed, snow gleamed in your hair. Taking off your glasses, you scanned the surroundings with binocs. You marvelet at the scenery and I was in awe of you, looking like a mountain goddess.

Several moments later, you dropped your binoculars, then unhooked the strap of backpack and put it away. Peeling the crackers wrapping, you munched at a leaf-thin snack. I love to observe you eat. You nibble like a bunny. As you were eating, however, fear started to creep up on me.

At first it was just worry that you will slip and slide down the ravine we've just climbed. I shook that one off easily. After all we were strapped and securely anchored. In my head I was already saving you, making knots and pulling you to safetly of the next anchor. But what if something happens on the way down? Most of mountaineering accidents happen on descent. I started calculating how far is it to first base. Maybe we don't have to go all the way down. Maybe we could camp out on the cliff. My fear was cracking just like melting ice of clacier that we traversed. I could see it in my mind's eye, crevice opening and swallowing you. Icy snow covering you and suddenly those glistening snowflakes in your hair seemed so creepy. I wanted to rush up to you and hug you tight, but I was afraid that it would only startle you and provoke real accident. So I was shivering and craving that moment when we can really hug.

But the crack went wider. I worried if we would ever reach the hotel. What if avalanche takes us while we are resting in the base camp? I wasn't afraid for myself, but what if the mountain snatches you away from me in that moment of lull. Well, we are able alpinists, so we will probably survive the descent, but what if that rickety van that takes us to hotel spells doom for us. Driver failing us and driving off the mountain road?

I felt my tears freezing on my cheekbones. I couldn't even shout your name. I was simply crying and praying to the mountain to let you safely returned to me.

R44

I didn't have anything else to say. Silently, I was staring at the sea. Waves assaulted the stones and sprayed us with salty mist. You didn't want to sit next to me. Hugging your knees you pretended that you observe the foaming sea.

But under the water, all was different.

You gave me a flower. I gave you a snail. We laughed with our eyes, because there is no other way. I held you close while we were floating at the decompression stop. You caressed my thigh covered with two inches of neoprene. But even through the diving suit I could feel your warmth. Sprinkling light of the surface danced in your playful hair that water choreographed. You tickled my chin, so my laughter was gurgling.

Gauge was showing less and less air left. We entered the red zone. Back to the surface where we will just be silent. Sitting apart on the rock. Watching the sea and silently praying to bring us together again.

R43

I flipped over my shoulder and scurried for cover. Behind me I heard dull staccato of arrows hitting the ground or trees. Pulling my bow I peeked out. I didn't see the shooters, they were probably reloading, but I spotted three armored grunts running across the field. I exhaled and tried to stabilize my shaking. I almost closed my eyes. I missed the moment when I let go of the arrow. I just saw head of one of the soldiers jerk back violently, his helmet bloodied, feathers of my arrow protruding from the visor. The other two almost caught up with me. Jumping back ran towards the edge of the forest. Again, heavy crossbow bolts zipped past me. My leap to cover was showered by splinters. Luckily nothing got me. I didn't have time to aim the next round. I just peeked enough for the arrow to fly away and the other grunt caught it just under his hip. He buckled to his knee and dropped the sword. One more to go. Sword rung just at the spot where I was moment ago. I dropped to my knees and practically crawled deeper into the forest.

"Get that dirty goblin scum..." someone yelled after me.

R42

She had wide back and smooth rounded shoulders. Under her skin as soft as peach skin I felt so much power trapped there. Not just the power of arm that can shoot handball precisely just in that very corner impossible to defend, but also power of passion, made gentler by her permanent smile. It was a smile that asks for forgiveness. Not for some big sin, but for small mischief, nibbling on a pie before it was time for dinner, hiding that last cookie, or fingers dipped in honey.

I couldn't wrap my arms around her. Though so stocky, she just appeared to be sluggish, it was a nifty trick. She learned well how to snake and weave to avoid the defense players. Part of her softness was a certain slippery quality. She would just slip her hand out of mine. Turn her head so that my kiss bumps against tender neck instead of her lip. It was not a seductive hide and seek.

She honestly believed she shouldn't belong to me. As if she was afraid that I will jump on those big wide shoulders for her to piggyback me. As if she was afraid that I will simply sink my teeth into her peachy skin and suck the juice.

We simply were not different enough...

R41

When you are at sea, you don't sense the scent of the sea. You sense horrible smells. The stink of damp ropes, below the deck stink and the stink of sailors. When you are at the beach, then salty scent of the sea is tickling your nostrils. It's distinct against the sweet scent of creek, pine and needles.

Tiny insects flock above the unknown herbs. They taste sweet juices we never tasted. Maybe some unknown predators are watching us from the bushes, some vampires that didn't bite us yet. We don't see the eyes of indigenous people wondering if they should slaughter us now or wait till we wade deeper into the land.

Everyone is thinking the same. Is this god's or devil's land. Even if this land was god given, no one is sure if it was wise to spill the blood of animals and break the branches of the trees. Are we taking what's ours or defiling a sacred?

To reach this shore, we had to offer horrible sacrifice. Is the plume we see in the distance our reward or our punshiment. Is this island just a temptation? Is it merely a test to find if we are worthy of reaching the holy lands.

Then there is that syrup. Sweetness we all hold for a hidden poison. Milk we didn't found yet, but the honey started pouring...

R40

I was in a dream, and it's not really important what it was about. All you should know is that it was the kind that rocks the both sides of dreaming. As if detonation of kids from the waking side and gremlins from the dream side simultaneously pierced my dreamscape.

So, I woke up. But not to this waking reality. I woke up into the deeper layer of dream, there behind the scenes of my dreams, where all the actors reside, me included as the subject of my own dreams. I found myself in a hotel and realized I feel constricted together with other actors, specially because I was bunked in the same room as my brother who did some screw up so that he left the TV on to play the jazz of static buzz. I got out of the bed, slightly dizzy from the headache and left the fuzzy room. I was greeted by elegant personnel of English school. Whole platoon of butlers. They wanted to show me everything, but before we ended up in the cellars - where pantry, kitchen and emergency dining room were nestled - I wiggled out of their grip and emerged into the dusky day.

Cam changed the angle, so I could see myself walking, strolling with the causal gait of James Bond, that guy Craig, for example, he was so devoid of any bit of charisma... so there I was, moving into the alley behind the hotel, there where chewed up cardboard packaging, slop and broken eggshells are. Angle of the shot was such that I could see the indigo colored sky. In that alley I encountered a bunch of gremlins that were busy jumping up and down all over one of those mobile shelves made of thick sheet metal and thick steel rods. Gremlins were youngsters with long black hair and ugly-green snotty-yellow noses. They really rocked that metal monstrosity so that broken glass was everywhere, and orange juice and fanta was dripping all over like blood of some wounded beast.

- Oi, there - I threatened them with calm voice while I was lighting up thick stubby cigar - Don't you dare make riots tonight, okay?

Their stares were utterly stupid. As if they are wondering what means 'oi', what means 'no' what means 'riots', what means 'tonight'...

- So, you better not be starting the fights, and torching the cars and you better not be clawing at those nicely painted facades.

They nodded and grinned, revealing needle-thin sharp teeth, and in their eyes was that gremlinoid gleam which meant that they didn't receive my words as a threat but as instructions on how to behave tonight.

Fuck it... I thought to myself puffing the cigar. It seems that they were not responsible neither for the explosions nor for my headache. So I returned to a next hotel across the street to follow some hot trail. See at this point I was like a heat seeking missile, but instead of homing on airplane exhaust I was riding the flaming trails of betrayed love. So, I entered the next establishment. As soon as I got in, I realized it was not a hotel, but a Wiener conditorei, all in wood and marble. At the table close to the shop's window wasn't sitting my crew. There was just some heat signature left, as if they were no longer dear to me.

I nodded. Now I understood who's pulling my leg. I went through the wall of this pastry shop and emerged on the other side in the room of a cheap hostel. Three or four beds were maliciously positioned so that you couldn't make it from one end of the room to the next without stepping into someone's luggage. There was a big desk contributing to this cramped mess, covered with sammiches made for the road and other food items with short expiry date.

At one side of the bed, my manager was sitting and she was silently observing the blood stain that radiated from the middle, as if the mattress was bleeding.

- What's the meaning of all this? - I asked angrily.
- I deserve my own room, I am the main actor here - I yelled a tad late as if I've just remembered my line.

She looked at me and smiled with her skyblue smile.

- Of course you deserve it. Go ask for them to give you a separate room.

I already saw myself roaming the halls of this hostel, being avoided by the staff, because they don't like those who want separate room when it's not clear who will cover the bill. To be honest, I would avoid myself if I were in their shoes.

Moment has gone. I was still sick and with headache. Someone was still smashing and breaking down from deep below, from nether layers of the dream, mayhaps even from the subconsciousness itself.

- So, what's really the problem? - I asked her in milder tone.
- Granma and wolf are fighting. Granny wants something and wolf wants something else.
- So... what... is... the... problem - I asked even more clam and slow, but with more threat in my tone.

She smiled and nodded.

- There is no problem. Granny will soon go to sleep and then wolf will calm down as well.

At that moment I realized who is really the cause of my troubles, so I started briskly walking up the small alleys leading to the zoo on the top of the hill.

Fihjcev... Fihcev... Filancev... I was groping, trying to remember the name of this Russian general who was making all this rowdy mess in my mind. Filancev, Frilancev, Filipncev... I murmured wrong names on purpose, trying to provoke my otherside consciousness to kick me back towards the right direction.

I cut short through a backyard and decided to jump across a fence. I will take these stairs and instead walking around the entire block, I will enter through the yard door, up the staircase and leave through the main door. Plus I will be able to avoid the zombified extras that started flocking on the other side where camera couldn't catch them.

So I was pretending that I'm checking something on my mobile phone, though I didn't even hold it in my hand. In fact I didn't even own one. At the end of the stairs, on a little porch just before the yard door I saw a redhead girl with juicy freckled cheekbones. She had full lips and ruffled hair. She was sort of resembling some famous actresses or female athletes that I loved to watch. Black woolen cardigan or cape was wrapped around her. She was smoking and talking to someone on the phone, probably just gossiping with a friend because I did hear that secretive hushing. You know, like, oh I'll call you back, someone is coming, I'll tell you all when we meet, and no I didn't blow his cock... you know that kind of banter.

The closer I was getting to her, the more I was averting my gaze. I don't like to gaze at beautiful girls that pass by. They could imagine things, and besides I don't want to do it. I don't like being pulled by their beauty like ass is being pulled by it's rope. Yea I noticed her. Yea I noticed her looks. As if I couldn't, and that's enough. What? Should I continue watching her, should I be tricked into leering at her. No way. One point for me. I win this round.

So I opened the door and stepped into a very small room. So small I thought it's being furbished for kids or midgets. Also I noticed that there was no staircase here, this was an appartment. Someone made their home here, enduring that, from time to time, some idiot like me, will want to cut short detour around the block. In the same time a realization hit me.

Recognition.

I know this woman. And she remembered me, too. She smiled, hid the phone under her cape or cardigan, snuffed out her ciggy. Hey, I hear the chiming voice of a former slut, now respectable lady, woman of the house and mother of three children.

I returned to the entrance and peeked in. It made me twist and lean. Pain made me toss and turn like fish that fisherman is examining in his hands to check where and how deep did the hook pierce it. I put my right hand to my face and saw inscriptions. There were two columns with names and between them were arrows that explained the flow of unrequited loves. Daniela loves Jonas. Jonas loves Vanessa. Vanessa would love to be with Lars, who thinks that Melanie is better. But she only cares for Tim, Tim thinks that Jennifer is cool, Jennifer is in love with Kevin, and this Kevin is - gay. Well it was a list not unlike this one, only with only one name repeated, my own. So I finally understood and remembered who is this woman.

- Hihih, awwe... hihi... I wouldn't recognize you... hihi... I'm married, you know... - she started babbling.

I covered my face with my palms and returned to normal straight position, you know, my feet on the ground and all that. Then I lowered my arms and again floated up, this time in the position of a gutted fish that was being searched for the hook. I remembered who this woman was. She was the love of my life. Was. I am aware, while I'm telling you this, that you will not believe me that she is that very woman. It's because the trail has gotten cold, but believe me in that moment when I saw her, the fiery storm was dancing on my face and ball of fire was bobbing up and down from my throat to my belly and back. I was roasted from the inside. May God give you that you HAVE and then HAVE NOT. You think that's a curse? Real curse is the addition... then may you HAVE and HAVE NOT again! That was the curse that was roasting me. Oh, my dear love... here you are, written on my palm so I never forget you. To remember you even in my dreams, oh my dear untwisted love.

- Look at my ring... hihihi... I did gain a bit weight... hihih... come I'll let you through the passage, don't turn around now it's too long to walk around the block... hihi... well it's a good chance to... hihii.. this is my youngest son...

Moron. Looks like gremlin, but he's too small and young to have gremlin's long hair and bratty nose.

- You know, someone called just moment ago (I think from the tv direction) to ask me for the most painful moment of my life. And I gave them an answer and then we shot this scene. But the truth is, this is the most painful moment of my life. This very moment - That's what I told her knowing that it won't change a thing, that she will still be so disgustingly married and that she will slowly start assuming her real shape and not this one that my heart and longing gave to her.

- Omg, it's just like in that book you wrote, what was the title... oh yes 'Disgusting Love Affairs'? Oh yes, that was the one. And it didn't only happen to me, it happened to my friend as well, we both met Mr. G. and it was really unbelievable...hihiih  - she continued to babble and pretend.

She was slowly oozing. First her juicy cheeks were gone. Then her hair grew short and broken. She became taller and thinner and fan-shaped earrings appeared. As if observing her through x-ray, I saw the horror I was never able to see while I was in love with her. I wasn't really going through her house to reach the other side, I was sneaking by the freak that was stalking me.

- And this surgery really helps... hiihi... you know... I really feel much younger along my Zika.. hihi... but this girl friend...hihi... just like in the book... hihii..

She started turning into a cat skeleton. Coated with silvery metal. She jumped on the ceiling and clung to it with her claws. Her neck disappeared turning into a metal hose, like those of antiquated showers. Head bobbed on that weak stalk, but she didn't stop talking. Now I was praising all the saints for preventing our love to blosom. Such a horrid harridan she was.

I got to my senses only once I reached the staircase again. It was done in marble and chrome, just as if it was a bank or some metro station. Around me were flocks of business people, clad in suits. Next to me appeared chubby lady. Her girth was hidden by black fur coat, turning her curves into chunks. I took her hand and behind us that vamp was still barking.

- hhihi...that's my friend.. .she also... hihi... just like in the book... hihihi... everything happened just like you wrote...

I paused, smiling broadly with charming smile of a drunken baron:

- Well, since we've started with the characters from the book, maybe the lady would like to be the next one?

But the fat lady was staring at me blankly just like those gremlins were.

I bit my tongue:

- I didn't mean anything inappropriate, I hope this lady will forgive my reckless expression. I assure you, it was in noblest of intentions, a compliment, although I do see how it could be taken in very very lewd manner, so in this regard, I do... apologize - I declared all this and took the fat lady out of the marble underground.

Where the fuck is the exit, have to take this whale out of here and escape the witch.

- Ah, here we go - I exclaimed, noticing where the exit was.

It was too difficult to open the doors, so the people were flocking on the both sides, further making it difficult to open. As we slowly moved towards the exit, I had to stop several times to show this fat lady how to walk properly. She was so wobbly I was afraid she would just topple over, and she didn't even know how to hold a gentleman's hand. Not like that you stupid goose, I am supposed to hold the palm and you are covering it... try doing it with more sophistication you stupid cow.

- I have to go to the hospital - she said as if she was thinking, I'm so sorry because I can't go with you to be fucked passionately and which would make me brag to my witchy girlfriend, emphasizing that she was out of the loop and that instead of fucking some extras she was doing it with the main actor, mr. writer himself.

I nodded and assured her that I will engage all my gentlemanly powers to safely bring her to that train that will take her to the hospital. Which was just a stupid male promise because I had no idea about where is the train stop, where to expect the train and many other things pertaining to local trains.

There were platforms from the both sides of one tracked rail. Station was in the middle of nowhere, on the sloping hillside. I recognized them by the roof which was the only part of the concrete platform that was still visible, the rest sunken through the mud made by thousands of feet of the mass that was crowding to enter the train.

- I.. .really... am ... not sure...I see Avala on this side... and Belgrade... on the other side.. But I have no idea where this train is coming from or where is it going to... - I stammered.
- Don't you worry, I'll go there - she lurched to unite with the sea of people rushing to the platform like herd of zombies.

Elderly couple started dragging the fat lady and pulling her luggage. They spoke in Albanian so she didn't understand them, but I did because I had subtitles.

- They just want to help you with your suitcase, they say not to worry - I offered to translate.
- Hell no! Fuckoff! - She was cursing and wrestling the old couple for her luggage.

I shrugged. No longer my problem. I turned and saw huge mass of people pouring from one train into another. Well I didn't actually see it, but the camera did record it, oh fuck cmon get used to the camera angles of the dreamscape, for fuck sake...

So as the camera tilted to align with what I see, just between the wall and all the crowds, there was a smiling young woman from my past.

- Hey, look at you! - I yelled, so happy to finally see a familiar face.
- Ciao - she said and kept smiling - What are you doing here?

I flailed my arms. Fuck, I'm just trying to make sense of this dream, you know. Do you happen to know which train will take me to the Other Side? She pointed it with her chin. The train that was just incoming behind me. Many people already flocked to align themselves with the front door. She took me a bit further ahead.

- I always stand here, because the train engineer always pulls over a bit ahead, and then the middle door opens right here where there is no crowd - she said, nudging me there.

It was too late, the mass rushed in colliding with the same mass that wanted to rush out. Comfortably pressed between two masses of people we continued our chat.

- This is my troll - she presented him proudly.

It was a small terribly sick little being, blinking with it's dark eyes under the huge thick glasses. It had an apple shaped head and black hay-like hair, nose oozing with goo. I was not sure if the creature was hiding in the backpack of this woman or if the backpack was it's body. This being was sneezing terribly, trying to slurp all the goo back through a straw.

I tried to help, but the woman stopped me.

- No, no let him try it... it's his fault... he ate too much pepper again.

I felt like a failure. I wanted to tell to this woman all my life from the point when we separated to this point when we are meeting deep under my consciousness. But she kept going on about her troll. Then I realized that it didn't really matter, coz end of dream was near.

So I woke up. On this side that we share. I guess that's the 'right' side. So I rushed to write all this down, though the trail was already getting colder. And that's it. I made it. More or less. It's like a theatre show, you can't record it, you can't re-tell it, you simply had to be there to understand it all.

Fuck it.

R39

I love roads. I could spend my entire life in car. I remember the time when I was driving through north of Italy towards Switzerland. Not a single euro in my pocket, don't have money to pay the toll. Italians have those electronic payment system. No stopping, they just zip through the gate. I set my car just before the toll and wait. When Italian car zooms through I slip behind. I rode the gates all the way to Milan. Then I turned north. Wonderful roads. Four-five tracks in each direction. All vacant. I step on the gas and observe the snowy peaks slowly rising above the plains. Marvelous vistas. But devoid of life. I waited for several hours before someone showed up to help me ride the toll gate. I can't go back. Dusk brings young Italian girl in her Volvo. As soon as I am through I sigh in relief. As if I can already sense the sharp cold air of Swiss mountains.

R38

Lars the Fox kissed his wife and left the shack. Pulling tighter straps of his backpack, he smiled at this summer day. Walking past the Cat's home he wistled. Parting the beaded strings, head of mrs Murrrmitah appeared. She smiled and waved.

- Give me a moment to leave breakfast for my Buzzan, then we are off. Um... where are we going today, again?
- I thought we should visit the ridge, that's where I left off yesterday...

Murrmitah nodded and again disappeared behind the strings. She showed up before Lars had time to roam too far. She found him next to cart wagon of mr. Through

- Greetings mr. Moussey - she meowed.

Light cart were pulled by two fluffy bee-beast bulls and grayfurred mouselike Through struggled to keep his giant bees balanced and steady.

- Bless your heart - he squeaked.
- Don't worry, master Thro', we will be on the ridge if you need us - said Lars.

Murrmitah was already hurrying up the path that was taking her to the northern slopes. She didn't like bee-beasts, but she was too proud to admit that she is actually afraid of them. "That fur... is somehow... ungodly... ewww", she thought for herself.

- Then, see you round - Fox yelled back at mr Moussey and rushed to catch up with his friend.