An attempt

A soul bursting at the seams

Ideas about the future, and what it brings

Stuck in the unknown, tied by ties

Creeping inside out, watching, listening

And all is still.

No pulse of light, no touch of screams

A never-ending whirr of a thought

Loosely hanging on the precipice of reason.

Sin! Sin! Sin!

Undermined, overgrown.

And all is still.

Fluttering of breaths, sinking lower

Capsized attempt of a strain

Masking it’s way upwards

Awake! Awake! Awake!

A crack in a foundation, a trifle

And all is still.

Iron Queen

As soon as she entered the room she shut the door, turned the lock twice by swishing her left hand twice over the scanner and bolted it. Bolts were illegal, but she had one installed several years ago, after  Nicholas had shown her how easily anyone could crack the lock code nowadays.


Roman was close. Calling Mr. would not help, not after everything she had said to him the last time they spoke. Catching her breath she looked around the room for something heavy to place on the door. That old armoire in the corner was too much for her. The desk!  A loud thump made her jump, so she rushed behind the desk and started to move it. While she was pushing it, she could see a small pool of blood on the floor by the door where she had been standing. A drop of blood slid down her cheek, falling on big metal scissors and glistening on the smooth surface of the desk. 

She didn’t feel any discomfort, but when she traced her fingers across her head she could feel a small indentation at the back of her skull. With the bloody hand she reached for her cell phone and dialed Nicholas. The number was busy. Roman was able to crack open the door and slide his hand inside the room, scraping the wall. She had no plasma ammo to actually hurt him, so she went for the scissors and stabbed him, knowing it would take only a few seconds now, to completely remove them. She considered her options. 

The vents were too small. She was on the 77^th floor, jumping was not an option. She had to go for the armoire. She took a deep breath and with all of her strength tried to move it. It wouldn’t budge. She tried again. Her hands were slipping and then out of nowhere, a surge of power, coursed through her body and she lifted it, holding it in her hands like a baby. She thought of adrenaline and mother saving children from under cars on fire. She managed to place the armoire on top of the desk, when a loud blast to the door threw her backwards. Roman was smiling.

For a second he just looked at her. She embraced her death as something that was inevitable now, closed her eyes and waited. She heard the first shot but there was no pain. I’m already dead, she thought. A smell of burning flesh filled her nostrils. Just kill me already! Her palms were getting hotter, the warmth spreading from her palms to her chest, her stomach and legs, ultimately heading for her head where the hotness emanating inside her body made her open her eyes. As she did that, Roman was falling down to his knees, bowing his head.

“Queen,” he said. “You have returned.”

Mater Familias

Teško je ljudima koji nisu sa Balkana objasniti šta mi, koji smo odavde, podrazumevamo kada kažemo „porodica“. Jednom strancu bi to bili roditelji i rođena sestra ili brat; ovde pod tu definiciju spadaju svi koji su u ikakvoj rodbinskoj vezi sa vašim roditeljima, pa njihovim roditeljima... i kada počnete da nabrajate, nema kraja. Specifično je svakako i to što su ovde svi braća odnosno sestre, dok bi na engleskom, i mnogim drugim jezicima takvi bili smatrani rođacima.

Zato je i teško opisati ispreplitanost svih članova i njihov međusobni uticaj. Gde početi?

PROLOG

I u osmom mesecu je radila. Još jedan dosadan radni dan koji se svodio na pakovanje ampula u plastične kontejnere. Toliko je dugo to radila da je postala mašina nalik pčeli radilici; bez problema je mogla da razgovara sa Olgom koja je sedela preko puta nje, sa druge strane trake, ređa ampule u pakovanja i razmišlja o ručku za sledeći dan. Nekih dvadesetak minuta pred kraj smene osetila je kako se beba okreće, kako je šutira sve jače, ali je sav bol prepisala naporu podizanja kutija, iako su se kolege trudile da joj u što većoj meri pomognu.

Nastojnik je u osam ušao u ogromni, bučni hangar sa četiri trake po kojima su puzile ampule do ruku radnika i saopštio da je smena gotova. Sa Olgom je otišla do prostorije u kojoj su ostavljali radne mantile, nešto što je ličilo na današnje svlačionice i nakon što su pokupile svoje torbice, ispravile nabore na svojim suknjama i proverile frizure u ogledalu, ove dve devojke izašle su iz ogromnog postrojenja koje se zvalo „Staklara“.

Olga je Anicu ponudila cigaretom iz tabakere, koju je ova pripalila. Pošle su zajedno ulicom ka severu; dim cigareta vijorio se iza njih dok su štikle lupale po kaldrmi. I pored relativnog siromaštva, izgledale su kao dve devojke sa naslovnih strana stranih magazina. Imale su frizure koju je svaka žena tog vremena imala, šivenu garderobu koju nisu platile ništa skuplje od ostalih, ali je bilo nečega u njihovom hodu, njihovom načinu držanja cigarete.

Anicina zift crna kosa bila je natapirana, sa leve strane podignuta i zategnuta zelenim češljićem sa sitnim kamenčićima. Na bledom licu, tamne obrve isticale su njeno visoko čelo i prćast nos. Pune usne uvek su bile premazane jarko crvenim karminom. U tonu sa usnama, uredni, dugi nokti sijali su crvenim sjajem. Očigledno je bilo da je trudna, ali je išla ulicom i pušila. Bilo je nekakvog zadovoljstva u tom malom prkosu, u pogledima ljudi dok su prolazili pored nje. Iako taj dan nije bio ni po čemu poseban, osećala se srećno, raspoloženo i po prvi put posle dugo vremena pomisli kako možda ipak sve bude u redu.

Sačekao ju je na uobičajenom mestu.

„Ne, ne opet,“ reče ona tada. Nije ju bilo briga što su prolaznici videli kako leži u jarku i valja se u sopstvenoj povraćki. Nije marila ni što je Olga tu; ona je znala kakva je njena porodična situacija. Bilo joj je teško zato što je verovala da će danas biti drugačije. Zato što je verovala da će posle sinoćne svađe i rasprave o tome da je dete na putu i da će morati da se uozbilji, te njene reči zaista dopreti do njega. A eto ga sad, leži u jarku.

„Olga, nemoj nikada da pokušaaš da promeniš muškarca. Pomozi mi da ga unesem u kuću.“ Olga je ćutke prišla i uhvatila ga ispod desnog ramena. Anica je za to vreme spustila torbicu, izula se i prišla sa njegove desne strane. Nije napravila ni korak, kada je tup udar bola preseče u krstima. Nakon toga ga je ispustila i presavila se u travi. Olga savladana njegovom težinom, skliznula je i jedva uspela da ga lagano spusti nazad u jarak. Pritrčala je svojoj drugarici koja se izvijala i držala za stomak.

„Trči po doktora Anastasijevića. Ne, zovi prvo Vidu. Idi po Vidu. Ona će znati šta da...“ Ostatak rečenice pretvorio se u vrisak. Olga je zbunjeno i uplašeno trčala po kaldrmi, a nakon par sekundi nestala iza ćoška ulice.

Svakim atomom svoje snage, Anica je nekako ustala, a onda uvidela da su joj ruke krvave nakon čega joj se zavrtelo u glavi. Neko je prišao i snažnim rukama podigao sa zemlje. Videla je obrise njegovog lica, imao je uredno podšišane brkove i tople oči. Nekako je skupila snage da mu saopšti kuda da je nosi. Ubrzo se našla na svom krevetu. Nekoliko sekundi kasnije čula je Vidin glas. Zahvaljivala se nekom, a nečije ruke počele su da joj skidaju odeću.

Sve ostalo delovalo je kao u snu. Govorili su joj da gura, što je uz veliki napor i radila. Stvarnost i san su se smenjivali iz sekunde u sekundu. Bol je zamenio osećaj olakšanja, čula je plač bebe i osetila Vidin parfem kada ju je ova poljubila u čelo.

Godina je bila 1951. Olga Vajagić došla je na ovaj svet.

Brain - The Shiny Armor!

     I was always fascinated with a certain invisible connection that most certainly exists between our hearts and brains.

     When you’re young the bigger part of your brain is on hold, it's overwhelmed by hormons; you fall in love easily, make stupid decisions, wear ridiculous outfits – just because you love it and your heart tells you so.

Then, in one split second, as you get older, the inevitable happens. Your brain wakes up and completely takes over your body. You start to think before you do which, then again leads to awful mistakes plus feeling empty for stopping doing ‘things that you love’. Is brain the right choice then? Is that what life's all about?

     But, why is it so? Why does the brain suddenly kick-start and interferes with our decision-making?

Many people think that it’s a normal process, a part of growing up. 'One cannot base his or her life on following their ‘gut’, their intuition only'. I don’tbelieve that there’s a gene or anything similar that makes us predestined to become ‘mature’. I think that the defining point in everyone’s life is the moment you get hurt. Really hurt. Does pain make us pick the brain over heart? How weird is that?

     Is our brain really just a shiny armor we place over our heart after a painful event? It seems so. The problem is, once it’s there it’s really hard to take it off again.

     This is how I see growing-up.

     Hence, a perfect relationship is defined as two people willingly and in-sync trying their best to remove this shield and (I know it’s a cliché), once again listen to their heart. Is ultimately love a thing of the heart? Or have we come to love our shield so much that it became impossible to remove it?

     Or does it just take a knight without a shiny armor? Someone without the shield? Do we need the other person to love us more just so we could be free of the heavy metal?

Shopping for groceries

“I cannot believe you snuck that into the cart!” – My little brother’s done it again.

“You could’ve taken it back” – protested my father chuckling, and as usual, not helping much.

“When? At the register? And make a complete fool of myself? No, no, no… this has to stop young man. We cannot afford things that aren’t on the list. If you’d told me sooner I might’ve somehow squeezed it into ‘the others’ section on our list, but not like this… It completely throws off the balance our groceries budget.

“Oh please, honey, it’s only a toy. I’m sure we’ll manage.” – again with a chuckle.

“It’s not only a toy. It’s an expensive toy. By the way, why do you need it anyway? I’m sure I saw the same red car somewhere among that pile of toys you don’t use in your room.”

“I do. I’m sorry. It’s not for me.” – whispered my brother, more to himself, but I heard it.

Dad parked the car and all of us picked up two bags from the trunk. After putting them on the kitchen table I decided to stay there hoping to hear the rest of the conversation.

“So, who is it for then? I heard you back in the car.” – I asked him quietly.

“For a friend.” – he whispered.

“Yes? Which friend?” – Mom was apparently standing behind us.

“David.”

“Who’s David?” – dad joined.

“Honey, I’m sure David’s parents buy him gifts all the time, just as we do… and it’s ok about the car this time, but…”

“And where does this David live? Do we know his parents? When and where did you meet him? Dad was trying to sound calm, but there was a touch of panic in his voice, I could tell.

He told him the address. “What? Sweetie that’s impossible, there are no houses there.”

“He doesn’t live in a house. He’s my age and he lives in an alley. He doesn’t have parents and I met him a week ago when he saw me throwing away my tuna sandwich. He asked if you could have it because he didn’t eat that day.”

“Oh…” – the three of us gasped.

Mother’s eyes were in an instant full of tears. There was a moment of silence and then she exclaimed: “Well go get him!”

Dad was puzzled. “Go and pick that boy up. It’s freezing outside. He’ll dine with us!”

“What? I thought we didn’t have money…” – I was being sarcastic.

“It’s three day before Christmas, we’ll manage. Come on, go you two!” She almost pushed dad and me out. “I’ll make some food.” Before we left the house I saw mom wrapping the toy in a paper. My brother was up in his room. She shouted: “Bring some other toys too! And some of your sweaters!”

Later in the car I told my dad that it’s ok if they don’t get me the cell phone I’ve been begging for for months as Christmas present.

“Well, tough luck, son, ‘cause your mother already bought it.”

“Really?”

“Yes, and the pc game you asked for, too.”

David spent the winter with us. Nothing changed, we still went shopping every Saturday and got the same things as always. How? I guess we managed.

It ends today.

There he was again. Back in his chair. Remote in one hand, a can of beer in the other.

As she was closing the door, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in a large mirror in the hallway. For the first time after sixteen years, the feeling of fear and shame did not reflect back. She was almost scared of herself, of this new person looking back at her. Her eyes were empty, but just for a second. One look at a scar above her left eyebrow brought a storm of emotions, and even though she thought that the years of feeling afraid, cornered and small completely destroyed her ability to feel anything else but low of herself, there it all was – staring at her.

It was agonizing for a moment, but she accepted the change and let this strong, confident woman take over her body, and enjoyed it , because now, everything, every memory that before brought on so much pain and misery to her soul was being transformed into a powerful fuel to her self-assurance; it fueled her anger, her desire make him suffer.

She entered the kitchen passing the living-room without him even noticing and placed two bags of groceries on the counter. A quick glance at him made her both sick and sorry and her mind started yet one more time to wonder about what happened with the man she first fell in love with. A bruise on her arm stopped all her thoughts.

Tonight will not be one of the nights of endless fighting. Tonight she will not get hurt. No, tonight is the night when everything changes. When it all ends.

She reached into the paper bag on the counter and started to look for something. With every breath she took she felt more anxious, and at one point while rummaging through the loafs of bread and some apples ripped the bag. She focused on the other bag, it cannot be she’d lost it. When finally the cold metal brushed against her fingers it was as though the time has stopped.

A forty-two-year old blonde news editor, with shaky hands and tears in her eyes entered the living-room of her apartment and pointed the gun at husband’s chest.

“I’m leaving,” she sobbed, “and there is nothing you can do about it.”

I am... a T-shirt.

Ok, what is wrong with me? No, seriously?

You know how there are people with real problems out there? The hungry, the sick, the dying… It seems like I am the only person who will somehow manage to find a problem where there is none, then start obsessing about it until it completely consumes me and in time never really cross it off but rather store it in a memory somewhere deep inside my brain until it decides to emerge again. That’s me, The Obsessor. And now you’ll think how there surely must be a problem, that I’m unable to realize what that problem really is, that I’m not being objective about myself, blah blah... But, believe you me… I tried. I’ve been looking for it for days now (in the closet, under the sofa, on my balcony – everywhere!) and I just cannot figure out why on earth I feel like I feel. Maybe you could? Or whether there is a problem at all? Or is maybe exactly that the problem?! Confused? Stop reading! It gets worse…

You know how there’s one (or even worse, two or more things) you are really fond of and you can’t really figure out why? If you’re superstitious as I am, you’ll completely understand what the f**k I’m talking about. Like, a special pen, that you just have to have when doing an exam, or super magic underwear that you simply must wear on a first date. Got that? Ok, now, imagine a t-shirt.

It’s a t-shirt which is absolutely perfect, easy to wash, you don’t have to iron it, it goes with everything and you’d probably wear it every day, but people would find you weird, so… you know, you wear it every other day. You love it. Hell, everybody loves it.

But, one day. One awful day, somebody made a mistake. Somebody you love made a horrible mistake, washed it on a higher temperature so it shrunk, or the colours faded away, or burned it with a cigarette, spilt a juice all over it… you name it, there are numerous things that might happen to a t-shirt. The fact is – it is ruined. Lost for good. Lost its magic.

Suddenly you start to realize how ordinary that shirt was in the first place. Nothing special about a piece of cotton. You even think of yourself being crazy for believing in its powers. You throw it away and after a couple of days forget about it. Get a new one. A better one.

Until one day a person wearing the same shirt passes you by in the street, and everything comes back and slaps you in the face.

Now, comes the worst part.

Well, I had a very similar shirt. Well, I still have it. And it’s as though it stayed out too long in the Sun. As if I’d lend it too often to other people, so it got stretched. It’s full of holes, stains and God knows what, but… I somehow see it the same it. I still love it. It looks same to me.

On the other hand, I'm aware that it's bad. Wrong. The feeling is so rotten. But I enjoy it.

And that’s my readers, what I call a problem.