also by the author:
|| from THE DOLL
by Lukáš Tomin
ZOE'S SEVENTH FLASH OF VOLUNTARY MEMORY
The breeze blew softly, spraying hues of blue fresh morning air over the woods and meadows. My father and I walked
hand in hand, minding all the little flowers and bees and bugs that hustled and bustled in the happiness of springtime.
A hare and a stag danced a dance of mistaken identity. A sparrow and an eagle spat out kisses to each other in
demi-ellipses. A beggar heaved his loins in a drunken, dewy, sunny sleep. An athlete stopped running, lay down face
down pants down, and rolled down a hill, purring. A horseman pulled the reins sharply to stop the horse's belly
swelling on account of the too great freshness of the fields. A wasp chased a bee to murder with renewed relish. A
hornet rare in those parts sat on father's nose, kissed a freckle and flew away in one first and last act of charity of
the year. Father had many freckles all over his Hector face. Why not Achilles because Hector lost and papa lost and
both were heroes. And Troy was the setting and Homer the poet and I the memory.
Down with it, down with it, down with it, I say, down.
The rosy-fingered dawn.
Homer, you blind fool, be a trifle more original, Cressida sang that a century before you and Karl May two millenia after.
Up with it,
the darkened sea,
the stormy rock,
the fishy beast with a hoof instead of a tail.
And Achilles' heel was simply mouldy and rotten with the illness he'd caught when the Big Macedonian Cat bit him. We
left the gentle country lane we had strolled on leisurely and ran up towards the woods treading on the bugs and the
bees and blood and juice and honey splashed.
The next day Catherine trotted and even galloped against Sim's express orders and was admired and admired herself
for she had an easy talent for horsewomanship.
ZOE'S SEVENTH FLASH OF VOLUNTARY MEMORY CONTINUED
The woods were too dark and damp and cold for it was too early in the year and the sun in its weakness found it
hard to penetrate the thick foliage. Father and I went out again and sat in the meadow in the warmth and ate two
sandwiches jambon-gruyere each and drank lemon tea, revelling in the purity of our relation. Father and daughter,
mother and son. No brother so couldn't tell.
Was Hector Achilles' brother?
They had to kill each other or they loved each other in and across and over and beyond the brotherly way.
But who is Achilles if my father is Hector? He has not any known close male relations. An uncle with a mouldy foot lost somewhere in the long wide wild wolly of a
Something to hope for or in.
Something to long to know about.
Something to crave for.
Craving after knowledge all your life, reserved for specialists. ZOE CHAMORO, SPECIALIST IN MOULDY UNCLES.
What a door!
What a door, darling, said a gentleman to a lady and adjusted his cap, what a door-sign. Having waited for the signal I opened the door with a jerk, jumped out and bit him
in the neck.
ZOE CHAMORO, THE DANGEROUS WOMAN OF PARIS. A RARITY. MECHANTE SANS LIMITES.
Father laughed and laughed and laughed, twitching his ears. He was a happy man and could see into the future. L'avenir. Better. Never made any money out of it. Sold magnifying glasses. GO AGAINST THE CHURCH AND ESTABLISHED MORALS! MAGNIFY THE MOST SECRET AND DELIGHTFUL PARTS OF YOUR PARTNER'S NO DOUBT LOVELY BODY. Kinky handles. FEEL THE CURVES AND CORNERS IN YOUR HAND EVEN BEFORE LOOKING! DARE WITH UNCLE HECTOR. Domine, ad adjuvandum me festina.
I curled up on my father's lap and fell asleep in the shade of his breast. He stroked my hair and tears washed his face. He bit his lip and a crack opened and blood and water mixed and slid down his chin in one large round drop to dissolve when having fallen on the flowery shirt. Shshshshshshshshshshshshshsh.
© Twisted Spoon Press
© Lukáš Tomin