Confession by Stella Pierides

The lake sparkled. Puffs of cloud travelled on its surface. The mountains were wrapped in haze, as if wishing to hide from view. I walked on the pier listening to the water swishing through reeds and lapping to the shore. I thought a big branch floated ahead. Shocked, I realized it was Johannes, our local war hero gone missing. He was still dressed in black, as always since he returned from the war. Facing down as if obsessed with the bottom of the lake, he rose and fell with the water. He’d been my hero too, though whatever else transpired between us in the past was no longer there. He had come back another man, spending his time by the lake fending off imaginary enemies. Youths teased him and asked him about the war. But he never answered them. The mountains across the lake now looked as if sitting in judgment. I found a piece of wood and, leaning over, tried to pull him towards me. A water snake slithering away frightened me and I swayed to avoid falling in. I stood there feeling guilty, as if I had violated him with my branch. Once the water settled, I saw he was now turned sideways, the way he shyly used to turn whenever I tried to catch his eye, before he went away. At that moment, I saw shades of dark red, and dusky purple on his face, and I thought, I must confess, that these colors suited him.

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Fishing by Stella Pierides

If you are looking for a disaster story, stop reading right here. Turn the page, if you can. Make yourself a cup of coffee. This story is not about disasters, or even little unhappiness. In all truth, it is not even a story. You know, it has no plot. It is just me writing and you reading. What did you expect? I am reminded of a cute little tale, but this is neither the place, nor the time. May I show you my home? Look around you. The Isfahani rug, by the fireplace, is priceless. That globe on my desk was once aboard the Nostromo, in the captain’s cabin. As a child, I used to spend hours tracing with my finger the Amazon, the Thames, and the Nile. I hope you like the sound of the waves crushing on the rocks below. For me, it is the music of the seas. From your face, I can see you like my home. I am never alone up here. Many like you visit me. Sleepless, they scour the internet and stumble upon my doorstep, expecting sympathy, a little entertainment, even excitement. Well, I say to them, and to you, well, you should’ve stayed in bed, should’ve snuggled up to your wife, should’ve appreciated your sweet home. Why? Because by now, my homemade virus XFauDE.xe has bored into your computer and infected your system. Because, by now, your soul’s essence, together with your passwords, is downloaded onto my computer. Thank you for visiting!

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Cold front by Stella Pierides

In our part of the world, the weather is unpredictable. It has defied the best of our weathermen. Except, of course, Tim Bates, at least for a while. But then, no need to tell you that story, is there? I see a question mark on your face. OK, you are not from these parts, and you’ve come a long way. Internet roads are long and littered with all sorts of bits and pieces. I’ll tell you. He always got the weather wrong in the beginning of his career. Young Tim’s wrong again, we used to say, winking. He had a cute way of admitting his mistakes every night on the box. He was devastated, though; ambitious little thing he was. So, they say, he made a deal with the devil. He promised him his soul in return for precise weather reports. That’s how he made his career. Then the devil changed his mind. He had a better offer from a weatherwoman. He gave her the right information, and Tim the cold shoulder. Poor man! Suddenly, he got his predictions wrong again and had to apologise. We could all read the fury in his face. He didn’t last long. The corporation sacked him. He now spends his days on his riverboat fishing, they say. I know it is true. I often set up tackle downstream on the towpath. I hear him sigh a lot. And he wears a heavy coat all year round, as if expecting a cold front.

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Written by Stella Pierides

Even though Nikolas was born on an island – which he left at 18 to study abroad – he hated the sea. He never swam in it, or even walked by this unpredictable medium. Water was not his element. It introduced a level of uncertainty for which he was constitutionally unprepared. You can imagine his surprise when his publisher asked him to write a novel set by the sea, with boats, swimmers, fish and sand in it. Add the whole damn lot, he had said, even sea shells. Even sea shells. Nikolas, despite bearing the name of the patron saint of the seafarers, felt his heart sink. However, not wanting to miss a deal in this climate, he bought a ticket for one of the most advanced, and at the same time exotic islands on earth, which was bound to inspire and inject vigor in his writing. An island so far removed from his everyday life that it was bound to help him overcome his hydrophobia: Japan. It took a lot of courage for him to stay in the quiet fishing village. He forced himself to walk next to his imaginary foe, learned to breath-in deeply the salty air and watch the sunrise over the horizon. In fact, when the tsounami surprised him, he had been standing right next to the sea, lost in thought, marveling at two tiny sea shells in the palm of his hand.

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Empathy and other human traits by Stella Pierides

After falling through the rafters and getting trapped under heavy perches, Lucky was rescued three days later and adopted into a happy home. Being both smart and considerate, she settled in well, and became her savior Molly’s pet. Despite appearances though, she never liked the Badedas bath she was regularly given. It smelled strange to her, too human. Why didn’t Molly use it herself instead, Lucky wondered. But she would not count her blessings. She knew she had been lucky. She had watched the other 11,999 chickens in the factory suffer; she had felt their terror, together with her own, when they were all taken to be turned into something humans call ‘stock cubes.’ She had squeezed herself to the furthest corner. When she fell, she just became numb. At heart, she is indeed a chicken. If Molly knew her secret of survival, she would not admire Lucky. She would pity her. It was all down to the fact that Lucky dislikes crowds. In the barn, the more the other chickens flocked together, the more she kept apart. Although she rubbed feathers with the others, she kept herself at the edge of the flock. Now, from a corner in the lounge, Lucky clucks to warn Molly against rubbing shoulders with that human she calls her husband. Humans are strange, she thinks. So clever, yet they don’t realize attachments can be detrimental to survival. Best to stay in your corner.

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Grey Skies by Stella Pierides

Ever since the militia thrust a Kalashnikov into Gamal’s hands, he stays indoors. “Use it,” the men had shouted at him. After their car sped away, Gamal fell on his knees wanting to cry and pray at the same time. At seventeen, he is no stranger to guns. His old father keeps three well-oiled specimens under the carpet-covered divan. These Persian carpets with boteh paisley motifs, hide three weapons against the enemies of the state. “May God forgive you, Father,” Gamal repeats to himself. But he himself cannot forgive his father. “He knows our leader personally,” mother explains to him, as if she feared he’d forget. “It is tribal loyalty.” That’s no excuse for supporting a killer, he says to himself. Deep down Gamal knows it is not out of loyalty his father supports the regime. It is out of fear. Now Gamal is expected to fight on the same side. The thought of the dictator makes him sweat. So he stays indoors and watches the sky from the inner courtyard: normally a beautiful square of blue, fringed with overhanging cherry blossom, it now tells him the news of the city. The last few days, the sky has turned grey. Black billowing clouds carry an oily smell to Gamal. Ash snows on jasmine, geranium, and on his mother’s beloved cacti. He is hiding ‘his’ gun under his mattress. He dreads his friends coming for his father. He knows he’ll have to act, then; he’ll have to choose sides.

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Serendipity by Stella Pierides

I had been out rowing the Stella, a small, creaking boat, in the waters off the holy island of Tinos, the Lourdes of the Aegean. I was escaping the constant arguments with my wife about money, or rather the lack of it. Nine months after closing down our bookshop in Athens, visiting the island seemed our best strategy: she would be praying for a job, while I, a sworn atheist, would be avoiding the strikers – who did have jobs, after all! Following our breakfast argument, I took Nikos’ boat out to let off steam. He was asleep when I started off, as he is up all night fishing. I knew he wouldn’t mind. Then my eye fell on a golden, filigreed cross the thickness of my little finger stuck between the boards. My mouth opened. I pictured it around my wife’s neck, a peace offering. I could see her looking at me lovingly. Mesmerized, I couldn’t stop staring at it. The answer to our prayers – so to speak – given to me on a borrowed boat. This brought me back to reality. It must have been meant for Nikos to find, not me. The thought pierced me like a knife. By this time, I had turned the boat around. Numerous belfries were pointing upwards. I fought with the currents and with myself. I knew she’d kill me if I kept it; she’d kill me if I didn’t. And this was the first time I set foot in a Church.

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Stone story by Stella Pierides

Although Kareem is eight, he looks more like twelve. This is neither due to his hairstyle, nor to the long trousers and T-shirt he is wearing; rather the serious expression on his face, and the way he looks at you, straight in the eye. He sells stones. He picked them himself carefully: not too big, for they will not travel far; not too small, for they will impress no one. He arranged them on his wooden tray and priced them accordingly: regular, one piastra; medium, two. By the time the protesters wake up, he is standing in the furthest corner of the square, holding his tray for them to buy his stones. He pockets the notes and coins, and by the end of the first day of business he has enough money to buy his mother flatbread and tahina; and to pay off the loan to Aziz for the trip on the felucca he didn’t want his mother to know about. On the second day though, the protest turns violent and few buy his stones; many grab them and run. Kareem ties his money in his handkerchief, puts it in his trouser pocket and starts for home. Hours later, when he comes to, long after the van that knocked him unconscious sped away, he feels for his bundle. It is no longer there. His strength gone, he falls back to the ground and closes his eyes. He now looks the boy of eight he is.

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On the nature of love by Stella Pierides

They had their meals together, relaxed together, slept together, lived together – but they seemed miles apart to me during the years I rented a room from them. Perhaps the problem was too much proximity, too much knowledge of the other, as if they were one, not two people; as if they lived off each other’s soul – you know the thick, suffocating air that requires such ‘distance’ to be created. They misheard, misread, and had to repeat each sentence, each word coming out of the other’s mouth. They always misunderstood the intended meaning, spending their time in lengthy explanations and irritable exchanges. On a trip to Greenwich Park, last summer, walking in step, sighing simultaneously, they got distracted by the crowd on their Sunday constitutional and incredibly, they got separated. I can tell you, because straddling the Meridian, I watched how they scanned the crowds looking for the familiar grey of their outfits, but could not see each other. I could see both of them looking lost. I was wondering whether I should rush over and point them to their other half, when I remembered Aristophanes’ argument in the “Symposium” – that the human being originally consisted of four legs, four arms and one head with two faces – and, well, I stopped myself. Zeus was said to have separated those early humans into two, condemning them to a state of perpetually seeking their other half. I strolled away, smiling. After all, who am I to argue with Zeus.

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Dream Island by Stella Pierides

Strolling along a track in the river Evros Delta, in Alexandroupolis, on the border between Greece and Turkey, I could see millions of birds feeding. The lagoons, marshes, and lakes provide a heaven for birds seeking milder weather. The terns, warblers, waders, egrets, oystercatchers, shelducks, eagles, pelicans, cormorants have found their Eden. This spectacle, together with the eerie quiet of the landscape, was my reason for coming here. My heart fluttered when I heard a sudden splash. Expecting a big bird, I turned slowly. A human arm momentarily caught in a reed bed, showed out of the water. The flow of the river pushed it past the reeds, sweeping it along on its journey. I froze. Here, in this idyllic, serene waterland, there is neither space nor tolerance for those fleeing poverty and war. I’d read that on this border alone, hundreds of aspiring immigrants lose their lives every year. Easing myself on a stone, I remembered my grandmother’s story. When I asked her what happened to those trying to cross Evros escaping the aftermath of the 1922 war between Greece and Turkey, she said that in the middle of the river, there is Dream Island. Lapped by gentle waters, protected by olive, lemon, and fig trees, and warmed by a kind sun, it welcomes those seeking refuge. Run by angels, who pick up the drowned and the suicides floating past, it is the real heaven on Earth. The birds on the lagoon are their souls.

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A Case of Mistaken Identity by Stella Pierides

Diamond doves are small, beautiful birds, which can be kept as pets, ‘Wiki-Marion’ told me once. Since I knew she enjoys dispensing information, I did not think more about it, until she invited me to see her new pet, “Love”. A bird of beauty! Light blue-grey head, neck, and breast; dark bill, spotted wings fringed in black; orange eyes. I fell in love with Love. He kept bow-cooing, fluffing his wings, strutting, kissing Marion’s hand. I felt jealous, knowing I could not compete with my friend for the bird’s affections. Walking back home, I stopped at the park, looking for doves, ducks and this winter’s migratory birds. None had the exquisite and delicate beauty of the diamond dove. I was heartbroken by the time I arrived home, vowing to stop visiting Marion to avoid the pain. A few weeks later, she phoned me. “Love died,” she announced. “What?” “These birds seem to fall in love with their owner if they don’t have a bird partner. I encouraged his bonding to me. But that was all I could do – I could not let him mate with my hand as if it were a female! He felt rejected and died of love.” “It was only an animal. Animals behave differently,” I said, breaking into hysterical laughter. I put the phone down struck by an acute pang of unease. Who are the animals here, I asked myself, my face burning with shame.

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Ariadne’s Thread by Stella Pierides

I have wanted to learn to knit for a long time. My mother knitted, her mother crocheted and they both embroidered. For the first half century of my life, I bluntly refused to touch a needle. Then, out of nowhere, I felt the urge. I googled immediately. I learnt that once a week, knitters, stitchers, and crocheters from all over London meet and knit together. Stitch by stitch, loop by loop, they aim to take over the world and turn it into a warm, benign, woolly place, where humans knit together, refreshed by cups of tea, glasses of wine, cream cakes, and scones. Rich and poor ladies, ordinary women, Oxbridge blue-stockings, illiterates, persons of various religious persuasions, and origins gather under one roof to knit and teach the learners. For free! Is that for real? I asked. Come and see, they replied. Armed with wool and needles, I went. The Festival Hall, bathed in sparkling lights lit up the river; it overflowed with good-natured crowds. The knitters sat clutching their instruments, fingering the wool. Wine flowed, fairy cup-cakes, scones flew into mouths to the tune of clicking needles. I felt lost to alpaca, mohair, merino, cashmere. I am a beginner, I said. Welcome, they replied. Feeling a huge grin mark my face, I picked up my needles. At last, I had found my way home. Afterwards, it dawned on me: had Penelope really wanted Odysseus back, wouldn’t she have given him a thread to find his way home?

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The bird’s eye view by Stella Pierides

Leaves and branches rushed past, a spade, buckets, a car, crates, tyres, a barrel. She clung to the rough, furrowed bark of the Eucalyptus, terrified that it might not hold on to its place for long. She felt the torrential rain lashing her and the waters indiscriminately, feeding the swollen rivers. A desolate water land covered fields and low-lying areas. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of a book floating past, opened upside-down, then another, then several specimens, as if the entire Amerold town library was being carried away by the flood. Her heart tightened. She had spent her youth in the library, growing up through its books. She used to wash her hands before opening them. She had become Miss Bell’s preferred reader, and she had even been allowed to stay on reading during lunchtime. Scrunching up her eyes, she tried to make out the titles floating past, as if her life depended on it. The water kept rising. Brushing past, a raven flew to perch on the tree’s highest branch. She felt her hold loosening. Feeling the bark for a better grip, she remembered the story of Noah’s Ark, the raven and the dove sent out to see if the flood waters subsided; and the book she’d read about ravens’ intelligence. She sensed the storm lessening. The bird was scanning the vast expanse; she was not alone. She sighed with relief and dug her nails into the tree bark.

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The City beneath the Ice by Stella Pierides

Once upon a time, deep beneath Siberian ice, there existed a glass-domed city. Its tall cathedrals, minarets, and temples looked as if aiming for the sky. As the city had been specifically constructed to engineer the best society possible, this, symbolically at least, was true. Privileged children from around the world were immediately given up to this city below the ice – which was actually very warm indeed – where it was said they would be brought up to live socially productive and utterly fulfilling lives. Provided with the most comfortable and sensual environment there existed, they were schooled in the art of negotiation and rhetoric, profitable and healthy living and hygiene in all its forms. One day, someone entered the city by deception. Touring the city undercover, he filmed the unsuspecting inhabitants going about their daily lives. When he later showed the film to the outside world, there was great fascination, awe, and outcry. Examined in the light of the day, the city-beneath-the-ice-dwellers were shown to be no different from the other humans. The only difference being the outside world’s view of them, as if they were designated containers for humanity’s need for ideals. The resulting furor caused them to be brought cruelly over ground, and the city –demoted to “no better than a cave” – was abandoned to the elements. It is said, that it suffered the most unlikely outcome possible: the city spontaneously combusted and the dome, giving way to the ice above, caved-in.

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The Weeping of the Trees by Stella Pierides

Last spring, I hiked up Mount Olympus. The valleys surrounding its peaks are covered in black pine, beech, yew and tall conifers. On its slopes, vineyards spread precariously; olive trees anchor deep with their roots. Streams cascade to thirsty plateaus. No wonder the ancient Gods lived there. I stayed in refuges, drank from the streams and breathed the pine-scented air. Cicadas serenaded me; butterflies I did not know existed covered my arms. Wolves lusted after me. Magical. Yet, I dared not return, fearing the strange sightings and the silence: ghostly shadows appearing through the trees, gathering near water, rushing through the meadows, with a heavy, voluminous silence falling all round. At first, I did not believe my senses. Gradually, I came to expect and even look for the shadows. Whenever I tried to touch a diaphanous apparition – as if made of smoke – it pulled back, avoiding my hand. I thought I saw it sigh, more as a gesture rather than sound, and glide away. It was recently that I understood – and felt freed to return. The shadows are the souls of trees haunting the Olympian home of their Gods. Felled unjustly, burned in war, famine, and in ruthless profiteering, or carelessness, they return to plead with them. Next time you visit Olympus, look for the shadows; seek this silence: If it is not disrupted by a leaf falling, a stream’s gurgle or an animal’s light footstep, know you are listening to the silent weeping of the trees.

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Missed many boats by Stella Pierides

Have you heard the expression “missed the boat?” It is pertinent to where I live, because there are no cars, no buses to “miss” on my island. Only boats. There is the boat to the nearest town, and the ferry-boat to Athens, once a week. No one misses those, as they are the only contact we have with the outside world. No one, that is, except Meropi. After her husband’s boat went down in heavy seas, she never made it on time to a boat: she missed the boat to her daughter’s wedding, to her giving birth; to the christening, and then the marriage of her only grandchild. To the doctor’s office on Naxos, after several days of suffering the big pressure on her chest. She was afraid of the sea, you see. A woman born and bred on an island! Terrified of the Aegean waves crushing on the huge rocks, she avoided even looking at them. No wonder she missed many boats. But, no one misses the boat to Hades. So, today Meropi is on time. She is being carried in her coffin on board, as we speak. The local priest performed the service already – while, curiously, numerous doves collected on the belfry – and she is braving the meltemi to reach her place of rest, on the mainland. I can hear her only goat’s bell ringing, as if already missing her. God bless her soul; I am not one for traveling either. The End

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Where home is by Stella Pierides

He scours streets, bus and tube stations for newspapers. Two years since he arrived in London and he is still amazed at how many newspapers lie discarded around. Although he cannot decipher the writing, they are ideal for keeping warm. He stuffs them inside his pullover and feels like a king: he needs for nothing. He is warm and fed: the city overflows with leftovers. He beds down whenever he is tired, wherever he finds a warm doorway from where he can look at the sky. He loves summer best. At night, sneaking into Finsbury Park, he heads for his favourite bench, near the lake. It is cool and the sky is full of stars. Not as spectacular as the sky in his village, in the floodplains of the Mesopotamian Iraqi marshes, where the stars shine like diamonds on black velvet, but it works. It illuminates the memories that follow him like his shadow: the rice fields and the boat he made himself from reeds, the water buffalo; his father, punting through narrow channels. The Garden of Eden. Then he counts the stars, looks for patterns, for directions; for a sign that it is safe to return home. His heart, filled with nostalgia, trembles like a bird. Often though, he counts his blessings: here, among the floods of people filling the channels of this city, he can blend in and feel safer than in the marshes of his homeland – till it is time to return.

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Letting the door slam shut by Stella Pierides

Even though the fairground sirens were deafening, the flashing lights of the dodgems and carousel delighted the eye and excited the senses. Katerina stood mesmerized, her eyes sparkling. It was then that a woman whispered to her, “Your fate is written on the palm of your hand. Show me your lifeline.” Instinctively, Katerina opened her hand, only to withdraw it, embarrassed. “Thank you,” she said, and walked on joining the crowds. She didn’t believe in fortune-telling, but something about this woman left her puzzled. She rubbed her hand on her skirt and slipped it inside her pocket. Katerina put the incident out of her mind – until next morning, when she chanced upon the woman as she entered her place of work. Pushing past her, she felt a spark of static electricity from their jackets. She didn’t want her to see that she had injured her palm with a knife, trying to cut open a pomegranate. The woman followed her in. “What I said about your lifeline – I meant, I thought I saw…” Katerina held out her hand: a deep wound still oozing blood. The woman cringed. “I should have told you straight, but I was trying to break the ice talking of palmistry; I saw something in your eyes I thought you should know… ” she trailed off. Letting the elevator door slam shut, Katerina faintly heard her saying, “… the unequal dilation of your pupils… a sign of a neurological problem requiring urgent attention…”

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The Postcard by Stella Pierides

Bringing his knees to his chest, he felt the rock with his hand. The air stunk of campfire. A suffocating fog was rising from the rugged hills below. Alerted by a stir in the scrub, he made out a wounded bird beside him, limping. A pigeon. The bird looked him in the eye as if trying to pass on a message, then scampered away. After years of war, first against the Italians, then the Germans, now their fellow Greeks, even the fertile valleys in the Grammos mountain range below had been exhausted. The fighters had eaten everything that could be eaten, even the homing pigeons that they used as messengers when they had to maintain radio silence. Hunger drives men mad. His eyes searched for the bird, absurdly worrying that it might be shot. His hand caressed his breast pocket, where he kept his postcards to his wife. Poor Eirini, he thought. She didn’t even know he was still alive; still fighting. He had been “writing” to her without words since they retreated to the top. The silence, the isolation and above all the awareness of approaching defeat robbed him of words. He drew on the rough paper the hills, the scrub, rocks that looked as if made by God, scree; the few cypresses, plane trees, and pines he remembered from his village. Recently, the faces of men who died in his arms. One day, he thought, his postcards would be found – these drawings would be his last words.

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Dress Code by Stella Pierides

Stopping momentarily on her doorstep to readjust her headscarf, she stepped out flushed. She was eager to give the right impression at the interview. In her anxiety, she hadn’t noticed it had been drizzling. Now, it poured. Her headscarf, jacket and ankle-length dress soaked up the water. She couldn’t afford an umbrella. The streets were throbbing with shoppers searching for late presents. She felt more determined than ever to get to her appointment on time. Walking close to the curb in order to overtake pedestrians, splashed by passing cars, she kept going over the job advert: “A professional and enthusiastic Receptionist needed for a busy front of house reception role in a prestigious international firm.” It had ticked all the right boxes for her. An “international” firm would be bound to be interested in and respect international employees. She had all the “enthusiasm” one could possibly have. Having searched for employment for a year now – hers was enthusiasm fuelled by despair. As for “professional,” her Masters – from a university in her home country – was surely more than other candidates could show. However, at the company’s steel-and-glass headquarters, the doorman, having checked her name, and stared at her shivering in drenched clothes, denied her entrance to the building. “The wrong dress code, and in such a mess,” he said shaking his head. Then he looked away.

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A hair-raising story by Stella Pierides

He always followed her advice. When she said you should buy this jacket, it suits you, he bought it; this tie goes with your hair, he wore it. She chose his shirts and his suits for him. As if he were a boy and she his mother rather than his wife. So, when he came home with a totally new haircut, she knew he was having an affair. She knew! “This is a bad haircut,” she told him. “It makes you look older. It makes your face look fatter. This is not you.” He didn’t respond. He just stood there, looking at her quietly, steadily, fiddling with his belt. Shifting his weight on the other leg, he reached for his coat, put it on and walked out the door. She bit her lip, thinking. Suddenly a smile rippled on her face. She now had an opponent. Her life would be more interesting from now on.

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A Private Person by Stella Pierides

I’d dreaded meeting him since I heard his news from an acquaintance. Now he was standing behind me at the checkout. Hugging me, he asked the usual questions he always rolls out at school reunions. I am fine, I answered; I am also fine, he told me; his company was booming – picking up more clients than he could manage. Fiddling with his shirt button and looking me in the eye, presumably not realising I’d heard about his terminal illness, “I am not coming this year to the class get-together,” he said, “I’m having my house redecorated.” He cleared his throat, “so much to be done, I’ve got to be there.” I nodded, and as we parted, I clasped his hand with a feeling of relief, and held it longer than I should have.

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