The Little Thief (excerpt from novel)

“Once upon a time," started John, "there was a little crow. The little crow was so ugly that no one liked it; even its crow-mates, young and old, disliked it, and pushed it away…”

“Wait, is this the story about the ugly duck?” interrupted him Lara with disappointment. “Because it is a story for little children, and we had it in the orphanage so many times…”

“No, it is not,” John reassured her. “The Ugly Duckling story is for people who are a bit beautiful, but slightly stupid too, just like the swans at the end of that tale. The one I am telling you is the true story, it’s for clever people, and it has an eagle inside. A grey eagle,” emphasized John in with a promise in his voice... click here for more...

Крадец (извадок од роман)

      „Еднаш многу одамна, си беше една мала врана. Враничето беше толку грдо, што никој не го сакаше. Дури и неговите врани-пријатели, стари и млади, не го сакаа и го туркаа на страна...“

„Чекај, да не е ова приказната за грдото пајче?“ го прекина Лара разочарано. “Затоа што е тоа приказна за мали деца и толку пати ни ја раскажуваа во сиропиталиштето...“

“Не, не е таа,“ ја успокои Џон. „Приказната за грдото пајче е за луѓе кои се малку убави, но и малку глупави, токму како лебедите на крајот на таа приказна. Оваа што ти ја раскажувам е вистинската приказна која никој друг не ја знае; за паметни луѓе е, и има еден орел во неа. Еден сив орел,“ нагласи Џон со ветување во гласот. ... кликни овде за повеќе...

Short Stories

The Master and The Horse

... the dirt did not destroy the finery of its nostrils or the expressiveness of its failing eyes, which seemed to be looking within, into a large flame whose burning gave and devoured life in the same time. It was a wild and bewildered creature, potentially dangerous; beaten but not broken, although about to break itself to spite its tormentors. There was no pride in the arch of its neck, but gloom and hatred. The horse gave the air of having lost something essential to its nature, and now it was destroying itself under the braces, the spurs and the stabs of its owners. ... click here for more...

The Man Whom Time Had

... Certainly he had been once in love with his wife, but that was far off in the past; the traces of glamour slowly evaporated through time. It was quite a few years back that its last gleam drowned between them. They, he and his wife, drowned it deliberately. It was somewhat easier to live without ups and downs than to continually make the effort of spurring the old flames and re-living the failure of the other to fulfill one's pleasant expectations. All that was hope and passion died quietly, without drama, on the floor of their drawing room, where all their differences came into the crude light and stayed there, immobile, stooped monuments of earlier decisions. Of course, they did not talk about their differences: they simply went on different ways into different worlds. They both regarded each other as an unspoken, although friendly failure. ... click here for more...

The Strange Dream of The Hermit

Samuel Verner was a solitary man, and to say that is to describe him in vague words. He made a profession out of his solitude; a profession he did not earn his living by, nevertheless it pleased him to consider it that way.... click here for more...

The Snowflake

“Am I dead now? Or am I living? Is my body alive?” – he searched further for recollection. The three men on their ship, in front of him, stumbling, throwing their nets, then waving their blades, then…. then…. Nothing. He could remember nothing then. He tried to concentrate, to recollect, to construct, to guess, but the picture would start from the beginning again, never ending, never changing.

Outside this picture, there remained a question, a burning cycles of invisible blood rushing through the nothingness, pushing, pushing through the dark, turning on itself like a stream returning to its own source: “Am I living, or am I dead?” ... click here for more...

The Book of Silence (unfinished)

... It all started with a quiver. Was it the air that quivered around the one or the other, was it the darkness of the body or the soundless mortality laid through space, through the sparks that pass between molecules? Certainly the knees shook, moved something ancient inherited in the marrow of the shins; something that mantles and stratifies with adulthood, but then it bursts out when the bones grow old, and as fragile, helpless water gropes the space around. Everything started from that quiver.

... Sometimes we are presented with a gift which we do not know what to do with. A tiny box, for example, a pair of slippers, or a sewing needle. Take away the love from the hand, and one receives a heavy stone, or dynamite from the box, the needle becomes a dagger playing over someone's body. One can turn the world into an embroidery of holes, of rejected life pleads; one can tattoo the most senseless games of cruelties on someone's affectionate and benevolent skin. The slippers can become a boat, but without love in the legs, the road turns into the same senseless needle-game of invisible insanity, aimless wondering of damage through worlds. A trip that scathes people's loves, and wastes the traveller. ... click here for more...

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