Kimon Theodorou: Boy cries about Amy



Kimon Theodorou


Boy cries about Amy


THERE ARE ONLY TWO kinds of people in this world: those who cried when Amy Winehouse left us, and the ones who didn’t cry. Zefi gave me her verdict: “You’re nuts, you didn’t even cry this much about father.” And then she said that we were talking about a junkie here anyhow ̶ Amy that is, not father ̶ and everybody knows how junkies end up. She forgot about that time three summers back when we didn’t go on holiday ̶ besides, we never go because we’re flat broke ̶ and we made do with car rides along the coast, driving from Kalamaki to Saronida. The metal  frame of the Opel was smouldering, the old wreck being a thirty-year institution, a family heirloom, with the windows open to the brim, a fan that didn’t work and a radio that hardly did either, but the old tape player could still spew out music, giving off a kind of retro feeling, ’cause who listened ̶ and still listens ̶ to music on cassette anymore? I’d filled up a tape just with ‘Rehab’ and ‘You know I’m no good’ on repeat. In a way, dear old Amy saved our lost holiday. Still, Zefi remained in the camp of those who didn’t cry and I wondered whether it was possible that we were brought into the world by the same parents. She didn’t cry when she lost the baby either; it was as if the miscarriage didn’t involve her body at all. Then, during the divorce, when she finally got rid of her husband, she almost had a party. At a random moment she had come out with a real slip-up, saying that I had no idea how much trouble I was missing because she didn’t see me getting married any time soon, at least not like I am now stuck in the wheelchair. You should have seen how much I cried about Michael Jackson. More about Amy though.



Source: First published.

Kimon Theodorou was born in Kavala in 1981. He studied journalism and European Cultural Studies. Short stories of his have been published in a number of anthologies.

Translated by Chris H. Sakellaridis

Chris H. Sakellaridis is a poet and teacher who was born in London in 1983 and grew up in Crete. He studied English at Queen Mary University, Social Anthropology at UCL and completed a Postgraduate Certificate in Education at Bath Spa. Poems and translations of his have been published in magazines and anthologies in the UK, Ireland, Spain, Italy and Greece. He has also been involved in radio production, animation and sound art.


John Yiannouleas: You can go your own way


John Yiannouleas


You can go your own way


N A WEDNESDAY morning, Mr Paul, having served his time as a good husband and neighbour, thought that there was nothing else left for him to do but to leave and go as far as he could.

       He opened the door of his house, walked across the tiles on the patio, went through the gate—yet this time, with a sure-footed step, walked downhill on Phoenix Avenue and passed the luminous signs and absent-minded pensioners.

       He carried on walking until the early evening and then took the first bus headed for the outskirts of town—exactly the opposite direction from his house.

       Eleven months later, when he unexpectedly looked upon Phoenix Avenue, he continued without speaking, opened the door, hung his coat on the wooden coat hanger and understood that the other end of the world was in his house.



Source: First published.

John Yiannouleas (1962). He studied Film Direction and has directed the films: The Other Side (1985), an interview of the heretical revolutionary Agis Stinas, mentor of Cornelius Castoriadis and Good morning Managua, (1987) a travel documentary about Nicaragua of the Sandinistas. Books of his are: In 45 Square Metres (short plays, 1997) and Unexpected Garden (poems, 2006), My Unknown Words (2014) and The Cat’s Mold (forthcoming). He has published many critical texts on film and theatre in newspapers and journals.

Translated by Chris H. Sakellaridis

Chris H. Sakellaridis is a poet and teacher who was born in London in 1983 and grew up in Crete. He studied English at Queen Mary University, Social Anthropology at UCL and completed a Postgraduate Certificate in Education at Bath Spa. Poems and translations of his have been published in magazines and anthologies in the UK, Ireland, Spain, Italy and Greece. He has also been involved in radio production, animation and sound art.

Yorgos Haralampopoulos: By blood

 

Yorgos Haralampopoulos


By blood

        — SO WHEN do you leave?

        — Tomorrow morning.

        — How long will you stay?

        — I don’t know, it depends.

        — What do the doctors say?

        — It’s serious, he’s dying. If he could see you…

        — It’s not necessary.

        — …for the last time.

        — Do you need money?

        — If he asks about you?

        — You haven’t seen me.

        — Do you still hold it against him? He’s our father.

        — Panayoti, why don’t you tell me, when my child grows up what shall I introduce you as? Its brother or uncle? Go on, tell me, tell me!



Source: First published.

Yorgos Haralampopoulos (Katerini 1956). He studied Chemistry, completed a Master’s Degree in Statistics and has attended creative writing workshops. His short film screenplay, entitled ‘On the road’, has been published and received awards.

Translated by Chris H. Sakellaridis

Chris H. Sakellaridis is a poet and teacher who was born in London in 1983 and grew up in Crete. He studied English at Queen Mary University, Social Anthropology at UCL and completed a Postgraduate Certificate in Education at Bath Spa. Poems and translations of his have been published in magazines and anthologies in the UK, Ireland, Spain, Italy and Greece. He has also been involved in radio production, animation and sound art.



		

	

Haris Psarras: Circe’s Hall


Haris Psarras


Circe’s Ηall


T’S BEEN years since I last dreamt of Circe’s palace. I came to live in a concrete city.      I made my home in a place of humid nights where dreams dry out. No more unwelcome midnight hauntings. I was lucky to escape her spell, fleeing the island and regaining control. That’s what I tell myself when I grieve for the loss of those dreams.

        One day though, my landlady asked if I knew Circe. A strange question. She asked at breakfast, with her back to me, sitting as usual at her loom. “Of course I know her,” I replied, “she’s a figment of my ancestors’ imagination.” She turned towards me and said: “I’m not talking about Homer’s world. I mean our Circe, our world.” She then changed the subject to current affairs, what she had read in the papers, to fashion and the arts.

        After we talked for a while, she reminded me that I should hurry to work, to my duty. And she was right. I got up, and with a heavy heart left the house. I crossed the woods, passing lions and wolves, and arrived at the pigsty. That’s where I work every day. I feed the pigs and cry, recognising in their eyes my downtrodden companions.


Source: First published in Greek in Planodion-Bonsai Stories (2011).


Haris Psarras was born in Athens in 1982. He studied law in Athens and Oxford. He holds a PhD from the University of Edinburgh. He has held posts at St Catharine’s College, Cambridge and Southampton Law School. His most recent book of poetry, Gloria in Excelsis, was published in 2017. His poetry and flash fiction have been translated into English, French, German, Italian, Romanian, Slovenian and Spanish.


Translated by

Chris H. Sakellaridis is a poet and teacher who was born in London in 1983 and grew up in Crete. He studied English at Queen Mary University, Social Anthropology at UCL and completed a Postgraduate Certificate in Education at Bath Spa. Poems and translations of his have been published in magazines and anthologies in the UK, Ireland, Spain, Italy and Greece. He has also been involved in radio production, animation and sound art.