Part V of V. “Huh?” I say, staring at The Sun’s mother, my pride diminishing. She is looking down at the girl. “I didn’t even recognize her,” she sighs. “she’s gotten so old.” She turns and looks at me, sad-eyed. “You must understand. My son is a very temperamental man. He goes out, he comes home, he stays out all night then spends seven months cooped … Continue reading The Mother of The Sun
Part IV of V. I back up. The sun stands. “What are you doing here?” he demands. “Uhhh,” I inform him. I back up until I hit the wall. “You–” he stops. he is staring into the closet. He walks closer, frowning. “Who is that there?” I look into the closet. “Uh, that’s kind of why I am here. She was in the park. Someone … Continue reading Daughter of the Sun
Part III of V. The house of The Sun turns out to be a dilapidated apartment building. I drag my passed out companion off the horse and take a breath. “This is ridiculous,” I tell her limp body. I pull her up over my shoulder and trudge toward the building. I ring the buzzer. It rings, then stops. There is breathing. “Hi, I, uh, your … Continue reading House of the Rising Sun
Part II of V. We walk out of the park meeting no one. “You need food,” I tell her. She nods. There is a shawarma stand near-by. An elderly middle-eastern woman sits playing bejeweled on her iphone. “Hello, do you speak English?” I ask. “A little,” the woman tells me, in Russian. She looks to me, then the woman beside me. She scowls at the … Continue reading Baba-Shawarma
A Babushka stands on the bridge blowing fat juicy bubbles from a label-less container. A drunk man stumbles along the street, shirtless, belting some Russian tune. I carry my thawing body along the canal in a pair of sneakers. Spring is here. The ice has melted and the dog shit is rife. I weave my way over to the bricks and take a breath. I … Continue reading Springtime in Russia
I sit at the kitchen table staring at my pack of cigarettes and a banana; the most important decision I’ll make all day. I look out the window instead. It is spring, finally. After seven months of being beaten half to death with a cold wet pillow made of darkness, it is spring. The front door clicks open. M walks into the kitchen. “You gonna … Continue reading M’s Time Machine
Alice stood there, short, even for her age; knotty hair, knobby knees, one eye bigger than the other, hidden behind glasses with thick frames and thin lenses; a nose, so much like a button, people poked it constantly, without permission. Living in such a messy body made her sure of few things. Though one, unquestionable thing, remained true. She was better than her brother. Her brother … Continue reading What you Wish For
M and I stop at a convenience store on our way to the bar. We buy a bag full of beers. The Babushka behind the counter rings us up, at her pace. We pay, gently, so as to not startle her. The wind, being the strongest supporter of anti-smoking laws, forces us to hide in a doorway to light our cigarettes. “Why did we buy … Continue reading The Man From Peace
My mother has a recipe for something she calls Pizza Bread. Take a choice of meat, onions, garlic, pasta sauce and cheese. Roll it all up in a hunk of dough and bake on 400 degrees (230 celsius) for 12-15 minutes. No one told me that we were walking into my mother’s pizza bread. In St. Petersburg, we trod along with the cold and the … Continue reading Chocolate and Poison in my Mother’s Pizza Bread
