Contributed By: Katerina Stoykova-Klemer, Valentin Dishev
Nobody cries
for the rock
turned into a statue.
There is no one to mourn
the statue,
on its patient way
to dust…
I want to praise the scar.
You shall know them by their scars.
* * *
Никой не плаче
за камъка,
превръщан в статуя.
Няма кой да оплаче
статуята,
по търпеливия път
към прахта…
Искам да възпея белега.
По белезите им ще ги познаете.
Return to table of contents for Issue 7 Summer 2013
It is no secret we are supposed to despise the witch in the traditional fairy tale, but while brutal, this witch is not lonely, nor is she pathetic, and we question whether her violence is unwarranted.
There were graffiti, initials, dates carved everywhere, much of it around doorjambs which had no doors; much also around window frames where the air just passed through—there was no more glass, not even shards, anywhere. Alice S. and Robert W. visited before the Great War. They carved their initials, in 1912, with great care. […]
When they threw me into the pit, a shard of flint split my chin. I flicked it out of my jawbone and lay In my leaking heap, regarding the fineness of its flesh- incising point. Up the black chimney of my prison Vulture stars were circling, repeating all the familiar horrifying patterns. There was blood […]
