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By Zaher Alajlani The feeling began rising within Dimitris Dimitropoulos. He’d read that the first week would be the hardest, but this was the middle of his fifth, and it had been utter hell. Something felt heavy in his chest as he sat behind the steering wheel. When he turned the ignition key, he heard it again like he had done thousands of times before. It was never old or bland. That sound, the car’s roar, was like a battle cry. And of all people, he could relate to both: battles and crying. The engine noise had always brought about the memory of his father. It was as though his dad’s voice was reverberating from beyond the grave, “Don’t forget me. I’m with you.” He recalled how his father, shortly before departing, had unlocked the apartment door and entered the living room, smiling at him and his mother. “You got good grades, and you’re going to a good college. You deserve your own car, Son.” Before Dimitris or his mother could say anything, he threw something shiny on the coffee table, and a look of satisfaction surfaced on his face when it clanked. “Here. These are the keys. The car is ten years old but still in great shape.” It was still in great shape now after four years—surprisingly, very surprisingly, for those who sunk deep into a whiskey bottle, then drove; those who spent nights at strip clubs watching damaged women twisting like snakes under faint lights, then drove; those whose grief had a touch of insanity like him often ended up driving on the wrong side of the road, into a streetlight, or off a cliff. He was aware of that, all right. Two of his collegemates had it that way. One died upon impact when his car veered into oncoming traffic, while the other shattered both legs and had to re-learn walking after driving straight into a traffic island. He lost both friends, still. God, merciful as He is, decided that no one could communicate with the dead, and so he lost the first one. As for the other, it was a mutual decision. Dimitris didn’t want a reminder that his behavior was akin to attempted suicide. The thought terrified him because he was not naïve nor foolish. He knew that life was fragile and that self-destruction was always wrong: wrong when you’d do it out of sheer stupidity, wrong when you’d do it out of spite, and absolutely wrong when you’d do it to cope with loss. Dimitris began driving towards the office, his hands and forearms feeling the warm Athenian summer sun pouring onto the dashboard. The dust particles were visible, especially around the cross hanging from the rearview mirror. While stopping at the traffic light, he opened the glove compartment, pulled out his sunglasses, and wore them. The tinted view brought on another painful memory: the girl stood in the narrow corridor, her short hair and petite frame making her look almost juvenile. She wasn’t juvenile, I assure you, but twenty. However, what’s the difference between twenty or seventy when it comes to heartbreak or loving someone who is always in an unrelenting existential crisis and whose emotions range from dread to spite, anger, and despair? With every step he took toward her, her tears looked more visible. “What I said was terrible, Agapi. I didn’t mean it. I just got terrified because I felt I was not good enough. I love you. I’d never say that word again. Please forgive me.” She hugged him. “With you or without you, I’m having this baby and raising it.” He embraced her tighter and whispered in her ear as though he were praying, “Forgive me, please. I promise I’ll step up emotionally and mentally. No more drinking. No more smoking. No more guys’ nights out. No more self-destruction. No more that awful word, I promise.” “Abortion” was that horrible word. What Agapi had just witnessed was his nervous breakdown. What he’d just witnessed was a terrific young woman showing the courage and wisdom he lacked. The feeling transmuted into feelings: shame, anger, bitterness, and spite. And those dreadful emotions were supposed to be as familiar to him as driving. Yet, they became suddenly unbearable, like walking on pins and needles. The road he’d taken a thousand times before was now also different. Everything he saw struck him as bizarre—the buildings, the traffic lights, the random faces, and the clear blue sky melting with the heat of the golden sun. Even the potholes he’d gotten so used to were now as repulsive as bird droppings on one’s face. “It’s a boy, the doctor told me,” Agapi’s words thudded in his head. He embraced her in his mind, feeling the warmth of her body and smelling her blemishless Mediterranean skin. “There’s so much to do before the baby comes,” he remembered her words. Financially, there wasn’t. He was fine. Even in the lousy Greek economy, any good IT specialist would’ve been. Of course, there’s so much to do and resolve. Yes, a lot to fix. So much to let go of, he thought. Now his stomach felt like a rope getting twisted and knotted into a noose. Like all men, Dimitris began thinking of familiar vices to find relief. Maybe, I should have one—only one. It would relax me. I won’t drink, not even a drop. But cigarettes are different. All artists smoke, and I’m an artist—an IT artist. I make good money. Why should I deny myself simple guilty pleasures? I can afford to smoke two packs a day, even four. That’s nothing to me. But then again, I’d be exactly like my father. I’d smoke like him. I’d suffer like him. I’d die young like him. And I’d leave my son way too soon like him. This inner monologue absorbed him until he suddenly found himself parking the car by the entrance of his workplace. He looked at the cross. It glistened in the bright light as though not belonging only to this world. He prayed, “Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name; thy kingdom come; thy will be done; on earth as it is in heaven.” He held his tongue, then let go, “And I pray that your will would be that I live better, become less bitter, let go, and have the courage to accept my agony.” He breathed deeply while massaging his forehead, then exited the car. “Please have some, Mr. Dimitropoulos,” said the old security guard at the main gate, extending a tray of chocolate. “No need for formalities. Dimitris is fine.” He took one and thanked him. “What’s the occasion?” The man’s smile carved two dimples on his chubby, red face. “My son got great grades and received his acceptance letter from the medical school. I’ve always wanted him to be a doctor, to be someone. You know what I’m saying.” “Of course, congratulations. I’m happy for you both.” All the negative feelings within Dimitris began receding. He looked at his car and smiled. “Does he have a car?” “A license, yes. A car, no. We can’t afford one, but he got his license when he turned eighteen a few months ago.” Dimitris winked at the man. “Now he has one.” “What do you mean?” “I’ll give you my car, and you’ll gift it to your son.” The man laughed like someone who suspected he was being mocked but was still not quite sure. “No, of course not. I can’t accept that.” “Why not? I was thinking about selling it anyway. But I won’t get much money for it because it’s old. It’s in great shape, though.” “But—” “No buts. Pass by my office during the lunch break, and we’ll go together to the town hall, and I’ll transfer it to your name.” “At least, let me pay you something. How much do you think you’d sell it for?” “Three chocolates.” “Huh?” Dimitris took three pieces of chocolate from the tray in the man’s hand. “You’ve just paid me.” “But—” “Again, no buts.” The guard’s eyes lit up. “I don’t know what to say. Thank you . . .” Dimitris walked towards his office with steady steps, with a sense of purpose he’d never had before. Each breath was as cleansing as a rebirth. By the time he was sitting in his chair, he knew that he’d already let go and that a transformation, much like the accident that killed his friend and the heart attack that stole his father, had happened in an instant. He was sure his life would be different and more challenging from then on, but above all, it would be better—much, much better. Zaher Alajlani is a Syrian short-story author, editor, researcher and translator living between Romania and Greece and writing primarily in English. His work has been featured in various international publications. Besides contributing to The Way Back to Ourselves, he is a prose editor for Agape Review and a proofreader for Metacritic Journal for Comparative Studies and Theory. Zaher has a Ph.D. from the Comparative Literature Department at Babes-Bolyai University, Romania, and speaks English, Arabic, Romanian and Greek.
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By Ron Riekki “Thou hast made me” --John Donne, Holy Sonnets “To be” --William Shakespeare, Hamlet I feel the same thing in my bones, how long of life I’ve led, so that now it’s starting to feel as if I belong in hospitals, as if they’re my new home, and yet I’m created in the image of God, which makes me think of hurt, of pain, of-- of course—crucifixion, and I am embarrassed at how it hurts to move, but such a blessing too to be able to move, to pick up a pen, come back to my bed, and write this poem, to see the page, even if my eyes blur, but to have eyes, to have breath, to have. It is so much having, this body. Hoping I have love and faith and this strength and dedication to be good. To have gratitude, lungs full of it, blood full of it. Gratias tibi. Ron Riekki's most recent book is We're Also Wounded. Right now, he's listening to the John Donne documentary De l'Érotique au Sacré: une vie déchirée.
By Michael Braswell Life is short Make a difference Perseverance more than ability is key Keep trying Even when you are the victim of injustice Even when you yourself are unjust Keep trying Be kind to those around you Be kind to yourself as well And when you are not Keep trying And be encouraging Especially when there is no reason to be Seek completion not perfection Seek truth not power Sooner or later the truth will set you free But not before it beats the hell out of you Keep trying Answers long forgotten, the question remains: When will the peace that passes understanding come? Not at the end of conflict but in its midst Peace is a long-shot Justice even more so Sometimes long-shots come in Believe that they will From peace within to peace without From being just to justice for all Keep trying Michael Braswell is a retired university teacher and former prison psychologist. He has published books on ethics, peacemaking and the spiritual journey as well as several short story collections.
'Peacemaking Boogie' was first published in Justice, Crime and Ethics (Routledge Books). It has been republished here with the author's permission. By Scot Martin Fear is an over- reaction; the right response, perhaps, is respect. The small, wingéd demon only eight inches from where I sit. Oblivious to me, Dolichovespula maculata (not the name Adam bestowed) placidly gnaws on the dead, barkless cottonwood. Dare I smash this vespid? Possessing a spectral face-- white patches on its head and thorax, glossy, solid black eyes—(almost a death’s head in miniature) spawner of sweaty terror and feverish dreams of “revenge and doubt.” Why the desire within to destroy the hornet? Equally troubling, bubbling in myself, a phrase: “For if, when we were enemies, we were reconciled to God…” I inhale as it flies away with mandibles full of wood pulp. Scot F. Martin lives with his family and teaches high school English in the Rouge River watershed in southeast Michigan. He has been published in Jesus the Imagination, Front Porch Republic, Stand, Ignatian Solidarity Network, Flourish and other analog and digital publications.
Scot's previous work on Foreshadow: untitled (Poetry, October 2023) By E R Skulmoski Cold stars splinter above my head as a river dissolves stones in my throat clawing the history off my skin, shedding whispers of childhood secrets where I pretended to be a ghost walking through walls of trees. At some point they bent those trees backwards almost cracking my head. But I got so good at being a ghost that no screams slid out of my throat. And I got so good at hiding secrets, it all blended into my skin. I thought I needed a thicker skin maybe like that of bark from trees expanding to hide more secrets, wrapping galaxies around my head. So I placed stones at the entrance of my throat, hoarding their dead horses and my ghost. But I am a temple of the Holy Ghost Whatever is in my body washes up on my skin, and eventually it will exit my throat. I took that to mean hiding in dead trees and lobotomizing galaxies that are in my head. I took that to mean setting secret fires to those hours of written secrets. but ... … ... the Holy Ghost groans and hears the fires in my head raging as more stains snake off my skin. Now, I can do nothing but cling to His tree. Now, I can do nothing but reach down my throat. With my fingers I pluck those stones off my throat and allow God to take all my secrets. I spit them out green and heavy at the foot of His tree, allowing lovingkindness to pour over my ghost as He removes Cain's mark from my skin as He rids me of whatever they say is all in my head. So my throat gave up my childhood ghost. Secrets oozed out the pores of my skin. My head now clear, my body now a tree planted by the river. E R Skulmoski is a poet who lives in the interior of British Columbia with her husband and four children. She homeschools her children and writes poetry and short stories in her spare time. You can follow her on Instagram @emily_skulmoski and read more of her work at https://ofisandwas.substack.com/.
E R's previous work on Foreshadow: God, Tell Me What It Means (Poetry, October 2023) |
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