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Patience is a Virtue\n\n\n\n\nIntroduction.\n\nThat \"east is east, and west is west, and never the twain shall meet,\"\nis an axiom with most Englishmen to whom the oriental character seems\nan insoluble enigma. This form of agnosticism is unworthy of a nation\nwhich is responsible for the happiness of 300,000,000 Asiatics. It is\nnot justified by history, which teaches us that civilisation is the\nresult of the mutual action of Europe and Asia; and that the advanced\nraces of India are our own kinsfolk.\n\nThe scene of Mr. Banerjea's tales has been won from the sea by\nalluvial action. Its soil, enriched by yearly deposits of silt, yields\nabundantly without the aid of manure. A hothouse climate and regular\nrainfall made Bengal the predestined breeding-ground of mankind; the\nseat of an ancient and complex civilisation. But subsistence is too\neasily secured in those fertile plains. Malaria, due to the absence\nof subsoil drainage, is ubiquitous, and the standard of vitality\nextremely low. Bengal has always been at the mercy of invaders. The\nearliest inroad was prompted by economic necessity. About 2000 B.C. a\ncongeries of races which are now styled \"Aryan\" were driven by the\nshrinkage of water from their pasture-grounds in Central Asia. They\npenetrated Europe in successive hordes, who were ancestors of our\nCelts, Hellenes, Slavs, Teutons and Scandinavians. Sanskrit was the\nAryans' mother-tongue, and it forms the basis of nearly every European\nlanguage. A later swarm turned the western flank of the Himalayas,\nand descended on Upper India. Their rigid discipline, resulting from\nvigorous group-selection, gave the invaders an easy victory over the\nnegroid hunters and fishermen who peopled India. All races of Aryan\ndescent exhibit the same characteristics. They split into endogamous\ncastes, each of which pursues its own interests at the expense of\nother castes. From the dawn of history we find kings, nobles and\npriests riding roughshod over a mass of herdsmen, cultivators and\nartisans. These ruling castes are imbued with pride of colour. The\nAryans' fair complexions differentiated them from the coal-black\naborigines; varna in Sanskrit means \"caste\" and \"colour\". Their\naesthetic instinct finds expression in a passionate love of poetry,\nand a tangible object in the tribal chiefs. Loyalty is a religion\nwhich is almost proof against its idol's selfishness and incompetence.\n\nCaste is a symptom of arrested social development; and no community\nwhich tolerates it is free from the scourge of civil strife. Class\nwar is the most salient fact in history. Warriors, termed Kshatriyas\nin Sanskrit, were the earliest caste. Under the law of specialisation\ndefence fell to the lot of adventurous spirits, whose warlike prowess\ngave them unlimited prestige with the peaceful masses. They became\nthe governing element, and were able to transmit their privileges by\nmale filiation. But they had to reckon with the priests, descended\nfrom bards who attached themselves to the court of a Kshatriya\nprince and laid him under the spell of poetry. Lust of dominion is a\nmanifestation of the Wish to Live; the priests used their tremendous\npower for selfish ends. They imitated the warriors in forming a\ncaste, which claimed descent from Brahma, the Creator's head, while\nKshatriyas represented his arms, and the productive classes his less\nnoble members.\n\nIn the eleventh century B.C. the warrior clans rose in revolt against\npriestly arrogance: and Hindustan witnessed a conflict between the\nreligious and secular arms. Brahminism had the terrors of hell fire\non its side; feminine influence was its secret ally; the world is\ngoverned by brains, not muscles; and spiritual authority can defy the\nmailed fist. After a prolonged struggle the Kshatriyas were fain to\nacknowledge their inferiority.\n\nWhen a hierocracy has been firmly established its evolution\nalways follows similar lines. Ritual becomes increasingly\nelaborate: metaphysical dogma grows too subtle for a layman's\ncomprehension. Commercialism spreads from the market to the sanctuary,\nwhose guardians exploit the all-pervading fear of the unknown to\nserve their lust of luxury and rule.\n\nBrahminism has never sought to win proselytes; the annals of ancient\nIndia record none of those atrocious persecutions which stained\nmediaeval Christianity. It competed with rival creeds by offering\nsuperior advantages: and the barbarous princes of India were kept\nunder the priestly heel by an appeal to their animal instincts. A\nfungoid literature of abominations grew up in the Tantras, which are\nfilthy dialogues between Siva, the destroying influence in nature,\nand his consorts. One of these, Kali by name, is the impersonation\nof slaughter. Her shrine, near Calcutta, is knee-deep in blood,\nand the Dhyan or formula for contemplating her glories, is a tissue\nof unspeakable obscenity. Most Hindus are Saktas, or worshippers of\nthe female generative principle: happily for civilisation they are\nmorally in advance of their creed. But it is a significant fact that\nKali is the tutelary goddess of extremist politicians, whose minds\nare prepared for the acceptance of anarchism by the ever-present\nideal of destruction.\n\nIt was Bengal's misfortune that its people received Brahminism in\na corrupt and degenerate form. According to legend, King Adisur,\nwho reigned there in the ninth century of our era, imported five\npriests from Kanauj to perform indispensable sacrifices. From this\nstock the majority of Bengali Brahmins claim descent. The immigrants\nwere attended by five servants, who are the reputed ancestors of\nthe Kayasth caste. In Sanskrit this word means \"Standing on the\nBody,\" whence Kayasths claim to be Kshatriyas. But the tradition\nof a servile origin persisted, and they were forbidden to study the\nsacred writings. An inherited bent for literature has stood them in\ngood stead: they became adepts in Persian, and English is almost their\nsecond mother-tongue to-day. Kayasths figure largely in Mr. Banerjea's\ntales: their history proves that the pen is mightier than the sword.\n\nEconomic necessity was the cause of the first invasion of India: the\nsecond was inspired by religion. The evolution of organised creeds is\nnot from simple to complex, but vice versa. From the bed-rock of magic\nthey rise through nature-worship and man-worship to monotheism. The\ngod of a conquering tribe is imposed on subdued enemies, and becomes\nLord of Heaven and Earth. Monotheism of this type took root among\nthe Hebrews, from whom Mohammed borrowed the conception. His gospel\nwas essentially militant and proselytising. Nothing can resist a\nblend of the aesthetic and combative instincts; within a century of\nthe founder's death his successors had conquered Central Asia, and\ngained a permanent footing in Europe. In the tenth century a horde\nof Afghan Moslems penetrated Upper India.\n\nThe Kshatriya princes fought with dauntless courage, but unity of\naction was impossible; for the Brahmins fomented mutual jealousies and\nchecked the growth of national spirit. They were subdued piecemeal;\nand in 1176 A.D. an Afghan Emperor governed Upper India from Delhi. The\nAryan element in Bengal had lost its martial qualities; and offered\nno resistance to Afghan conquest, which was consummated in 1203. The\ninvaders imposed their religion by fire and sword. The Mohammadans\nof Eastern Bengal, numbering 58 per cent., of the population,\nrepresent compulsory conversions effected between the thirteenth\nand seventeenth centuries. Eight hundred years of close contact have\nabated religious hatred; and occasional outbursts are due to priestly\ninstigation. Hindus borrowed the Zenana system from their conquerors,\nwho imitated them in discouraging widow-remarriages. Caste digs a\ngulf between followers of the rival creeds, but Mr. Banerjea's tales\nprove that a good understanding is possible. It is now imperilled by\nthe curse of political agitation.\n\nIn 1526 the Afghan dynasty was subverted by a Mongol chieftain lineally\ndescended from Tamerlane. His grandson Akbar's reign (1560-1605) was\nIndia's golden age. Akbar the Great was a ruler of the best modern\ntype, who gave his subjects all the essentials of civilisation. But\nhe knew that material prosperity is only the means to an end. Man,\nsaid Ruskin, is an engine whose motive power is the soul; and its\nfuel is love. Akbar called all the best elements in society to his\nside and linked them in the bonds of sympathy.\n\nReligion in its highest phase is by mysticism which\nseeks emblems of the hidden source of harmony in every form of\nlife. Anthropomorphic conceptions are laid aside; ritual is abandoned\nas savouring of magic; hierocracy as part of an obsolete caste system;\nmetaphysical dogma because the Infinite cannot be weighed in the\nbalances of human reason. The truce to fanaticism called by Akbar\nthe Great encouraged a poet and reformer named Tulsi Dasa (1532-1623)\nto point a surer way to salvation. He adored Krishna, the preserving\ninfluence incarnate as Rama, and rehandled Valmiki's great epic, the\nRamayana, in the faint rays of Christian light which penetrated India\nduring that age of transition. Buddha had proclaimed the brotherhood of\nman; Tulsi Dasa deduced it from the fatherhood of God. The Preserver,\nhaving sojourned among men, can understand their infirmities, and\nis ever ready to save his sinful creatures who call upon him. The\nduty of leading others to the fold is imposed on believers, for we\nare all children of the same Father. Tulsi Dasa's Ramayana is better\nknown in Bihar and the United Provinces than is the Bible in rural\nEngland. The people of Hindustan are not swayed by relentless fate,\nnor by the goddess of destruction. Their prayers are addressed to a\nGod who loves his meanest adorer; they accept this world's buffetings\nwith resignation: while Rama reigns all is well.\n\nIf the hereditary principle were sound, the Empire cemented together by\nAkbar's statecraft might have defied aggression. His successors were\ndebauchees or fanatics. They neglected the army; a recrudescence of\nthe nomad instinct sent them wandering over India with a locust-like\nhorde of followers; Hindus were persecuted, and their temples were\ndestroyed. So the military castes whose religion was threatened, rose\nin revolt; Viceroys threw off allegiance, and carved out kingdoms\nfor themselves. Within a century of Akbar's death his Empire was a\nprey to anarchy.\n\nIndia had hitherto enjoyed long spells of immunity from foreign\ninterference. Her people, defended by the Himalayan wall and the\nocean, were free to develop their own scheme of national life;\nand world-forces which pierce the thickest crust of custom, reached\nthem in attenuated volume. Their isolation ended when the sea was no\nlonger a barrier; and for maritime nations it is but an extension of\ntheir territory. A third invasion began in the sixteenth century,\nand has continued till our own day. The underlying motive was not\neconomic necessity, nor religious enthusiasm, but sheer lust of gain.\n\nIn 1498 Vasco da Gama discovered an all-sea route to India, thus\nopening the fabulous riches of Asia to hungry Europe. Portuguese,\nDutch, French and English adventurers embarked in a struggle for\nIndian commerce, in which our ancestors were victorious because they\nobtained the command of the sea, and had the whole resources of the\nmother-country at their back.\n\nWesterners are so imbued with the profit-making instinct that they\nmentally open, a ledger account in order to prove that India gains\nmore than she loses by dependence on the people of these islands. It\ncannot be denied that the fabric of English administration is a\nnoble monument of the civil skill and military prowess developed by\nour race. We have given the peninsula railways and canals, postal\nand telegraph systems, a code of laws which is far in advance of our\nown. Profound peace broods over the empire, famine and pestilence are\nfought with the weapons of science. It would be easy to pile up items\non the debit side of our imaginary cash-book. Free trade has destroyed\nindigenous crafts wholesale, and quartered the castes who pursued\nthem on an over-taxed soil. Incalculable is the waste of human life\nand inherited skill caused by the shifting of productive energy from\nIndia to Great Britain, Germany and America. It cannot be said that\nthe oversea commerce, which amounted in 1907-8 to L241,000,000, is an\nunmixed benefit. The empire exports food and raw materials, robbing\nthe soil of priceless constituents, and buys manufactured goods which\nought to be produced at home. Foreign commerce is stimulated by the\nhome charges, which average L18,000,000, and it received an indirect\nbounty by the closure of the mints in 1893. The textile industry of\nLancashire was built upon a prohibition of Indian muslins: it now\nexports yarn and piece goods to the tune of L32,000,000, and this\ntrade was unjustly favoured at the expense of local mills under the\nCustoms Tariff of 1895. But there are forces in play for good or evil\nwhich cannot be appraised in money. From a material point of view\nour Government is the best and most honest in existence. If it fails\nto satisfy the psychical cravings of India there are shortcomings on\nboth sides; and some of them are revealed by Mr. Banerjea's tales.\n\nCaste.--As a Kulin, or pedigreed Brahmin, he is naturally prone to\nmagnify the prestige of his order. It has been sapped by incidents\nof foreign rule and the spread of mysticism. Pandits find their\nstupendous lore of less account than the literary baggage of a\nuniversity graduate. Brahmin pride is outraged by the advancement of\nmen belonging to inferior castes. The priesthood's dream is to regain\nthe ascendancy usurped by a race of Mlecchas (barbarians); and it keeps\northodox Hindus in a state of suppressed revolt. One centre of the\ninsidious agitation is the fell goddess Kali's shrine near Calcutta;\nanother is Puna, which has for centuries been a stronghold of the\nclannish Maratha Brahmans. Railways have given a mighty impetus to\nreligion by facilitating access to places of pilgrimage; the post\noffice keeps disaffected elements in touch; and English has become\na lingua franca.\n\nWhile Brahminism, if it dared, could proclaim a religious war,\nit has powerful enemies within the hierarchy. A desire for social\nrecognition is universal. It was the Patricians' refusal to intermarry\nwith Plebeians that caused the great constitutional struggles of\nAncient Rome. Many of the lowest castes are rebelling against Brahmin\narrogance. They have waxed rich by growing lucrative staples, and a\nstrong minority are highly educated. Mystical sects have already thrown\noff the priestly yoke. But caste is by no means confined to races of\nIndian blood. What is the snobbery which degrades our English character\nbut the Indo-German Sudra's reverence for his Brahmin? The Europeans\nconstitute a caste which possesses some solidarity against \"natives,\"\nand they have spontaneously adopted these anti-social distinctions. At\nthe apex stand covenanted civilians; whose service is now practically\na close preserve for white men. It is split into the Secretariat,\nwho enjoy a superb climate plus Indian pay and furlough, and the\n\"rank and file\" doomed to swelter in the plains. Esprit de corps,\nwhich is the life-blood of caste, has vanished. Officers of the\nEducational Service, recruited from the same social strata, rank as\n\"uncovenanted\"; and a sense of humiliation reacts on their teaching.\n\nThe Land.--In 1765 Clive secured for the East India Company the\nright of levying land-tax in Bengal. It was then collected by\nzemindars, a few of whom were semi-independent nobles, and the\nrest mere farmers of revenue, who bid against one another at the\nperiodical settlements. Tenant right apart, the conception of private\nproperty in the soil was inconceivable to the Indian mind. Every one\nknows that it was borrowed by English lawyers from the Roman codes,\nwhen commercialism destroyed the old feudal nexus. Lord Cornwallis's\npermanent Settlement of 1793 was a revolution as drastic in its degree\nas that which Prance was undergoing. Zemindars were presented with\nthe land for which they had been mere rakers-in of revenue. It was\nparcelled out into \"estates,\" which might be bought and sold like\nmoveable property. A tax levied at customary rates became \"rent\"\narrived at by a process of bargaining between the landlord and ignorant\nrustics. The Government demand was fixed for ever, but no attempt was\nmade to safeguard the ryot's interests. Cornwallis and his henchmen\nfondly supposed that they were manufacturing magnates of the English\ntype, who had made our agriculture a model for the world. They were\ngrievously mistaken. Under the cast-iron law of sale most of the\noriginal zemindars lost their estates, which passed into the hands\nof parvenus saturated with commercialism. Bengal is not indebted to\nits zemindars for any of the new staples which have created so vast\na volume of wealth. They are content to be annuitants on the land,\nand sub-infeudation has gone to incredible lengths. Most of them\nare absentees whose one thought is to secure a maximum of unearned\nincrement from tillers of the soil. In 1765 the land revenue amounted\nto L3,400,000, of which L258,000 was allotted to zemindars. A century\nafterwards their net profits were estimated at L12,000,000, and\nthey are now probably half as much again. The horrible oppression\ndescribed by Mr. Banerjea is impossible in our era of law-courts,\nrailways and newspapers. But it is always dangerous to bring the sense\nof brotherhood, on which civilisation depends, into conflict with\ncrude animal instincts. In days of American slavery the planter's\ninterest prompted him to treat his human cattle with consideration,\nyet Simon Legrees were not unknown. It is a fact that certain zemindars\nare in the habit of remeasuring their ryots' holdings periodically,\nand always finding more land than was set forth in the lease.\n\nThe Police.--A pale copy of Sir Robert Peel's famous system was\nintroduced in 1861, when hosts of inspectors, sub-inspectors and\nhead constables were let loose on Bengal. The new force was highly\nunpopular, and failed to attract the educated classes. Subaltern\nofficers, therefore, used power for private ends, while the masses\nwere so inured to oppression that they offered no resistance. There\nhas been a marked improvement in the personnel of late years;\nand Mr. Banerjea's lurid pictures of corruption and petty tyranny\napply to a past generation of policemen. The Lieutenant-Governor\nof Eastern Bengal does justice to a much-abused service in his\nAdministrative Report for 1907-8. His Honour \"believes the force to be\na hard-working body of Government servants, the difficulties, trials,\nand even dangers of whose duties it is impossible for the public at\nlarge really to appreciate\". He acknowledges that \"India is passing\nthrough a period of transition. Old pre-possessions and unscientific\nmethods must be cast aside, and the value of the confession must be\nheld at a discount.\" Bengal policemen fail as egregiously as their\nBritish colleagues in coping with professional crime. Burglary is\na positive scourge, and the habit of organising gang-robberies has\nspread to youths of the middle class.\n\nEducation.--Though Mr. Banerjea has no experience of the inner working\nof our Government offices, he speaks on education with an expert's\nauthority. Lord Macaulay, who went to India in 1834 as legal member of\nCouncil, was responsible for the introduction of English as the vehicle\nof instruction. He had gained admission to the caste of Whigs, whose\nbattle-cry was \"Knowledge for the People,\" and his brilliant rhetoric\noverpowered the arguments of champions of oriental learning. Every one\nwith a smattering of Sanskrit, Arabic or Persian, regrets the fact that\nthose glorious languages have not been adequately cultivated in modern\nIndia. Bengali is a true daughter of the Sanskrit; it has Italian\nsweetness and German capacity for expressing abstract ideas. No degree\nof proficiency in an alien tongue can compensate for the neglect of the\nvernacular. Moreover, the curriculum introduced in the \"thirties\" was\npurely academic. It came to India directly from English universities,\nwhich had stuck fast in the ruts of the Renaissance. Undue weight\nwas given to literary training, while science and technical skill\nwere despised. Our colleges and schools do not attempt to build\ncharacter on a foundation of useful habits and tastes that sweeten\nlife; to ennoble ideals, or inspire self-knowledge, self-reliance,\nand self-control. Technical education is still in its infancy; and\nthe aesthetic instinct which lies dormant in every Aryan's brain is\nunawakened. A race which invented the loom now invents nothing but\ngrievances. In 1901 Bengal possessed 69,000 schools and colleges,\nattended by 1,700,000 pupils, yet only one adult male in 10 and\none female in 144 can read and write! The Calcutta University is an\nexamining body on the London model. It does not attempt to enforce\ndiscipline in a city which flaunts every vice known to great seaports\nand commercial centres, unmitigated by the social instinct. Nor is the\ntraining of covenanted civilians more satisfactory. In 1909 only 1 out\nof 50 selected candidates presented himself for examination in Sanskrit\nor Arabic! Men go out to India at twenty-four, knowing little of the\nethnology, languages or history, of the races they are about to govern.\n\nAgriculture.--Seventy-two per cent. of the Bengalis live by cultivating\nthe soil. The vast majority are in the clutches of some local Shylock,\nwho sweeps their produce into his garners, doling out inadequate\nsupplies of food and seed grain. Our courts of law are used by these\nharpies as engines of oppression; toil as he may the ryot is never\nfree from debt. The current rates of interest leave no profit from\nagriculture or trade. Twelve to 18 per cent. is charged for loans on\nample landed security; and ordinary cultivators are mulcted in 40 to\n60. A haunting fear of civil discord, and purblind conservatism in the\ncommercial castes, are responsible for the dearth of capital. India\nimports bullion amounting to L25,000,000 a year, to the great\ndetriment of European credit, and nine-tenths of it is hoarded in the\nshape of ornaments or invested in land, which is a badge of social\nrank. Yet the Aryan nature is peculiarly adapted to co-operation. If\nfacilities for borrowing at remunerative rates existed in towns,\nagricultural banks on the Schulze-Delitzsch and Raiffeisen systems\nwould soon overspread the land. Credit and co-operative groupings for\nthe purchase of seed, fertilisers and implements, are the twin pillars\nof rural industry. Indian ryots are quite as receptive of new ideas as\nEnglish farmers. They bought many thousands of little iron sugar mills,\nplaced on the market a generation back by some English speculators,\nand will adopt any improvements of practical value if the price is\nbrought within their slender means.\n\nThe revolution which began a decade ago in America has not spread to\nBengal, where the average yield of grain per acre is only 10 bushels\nas compared with 30 in Europe. Yet it has been calculated that\nanother bushel would defray the whole cost of Government! Bengalis\nobey the injunction \"increase and multiply\" without regard for\nconsequences. Their habitat has a population of 552 per square mile,\nand in some districts the ratio exceeds 900. Clearly there is a\npressing need of scientific agriculture, to replace or supplement\nthe rule-of-thumb methods in which the ryot is a past master.\n\nThe Bengali Character.--Mr. Banerjea has lifted a corner of the veil\nthat guards the Indian's home from prying eyes. He shows that Bengalis\nare men of like passions with us. The picture is perhaps overcharged\nwith shade. Sycophants, hustlers and cheats abound in every community;\nhappily for the future of civilisation there is also a leaven of true\nnobility: \"The flesh striveth against the spirit,\" nor does it always\ngain mastery. Having mixed with all classes for twenty eventful years,\nand speaking the vernacular fluently, I am perhaps entitled to hold\nan opinion on this much-vexed question. The most salient feature in\nthe Indian nature is its boundless charity. There are no poor laws,\nand the struggle for life is very severe; yet the aged and infirm,\nthe widow and the orphan have their allotted share in the earnings of\nevery household. It is a symptom of approaching famine that beggars\nare perforce refused their daily dole. Cruelty to children is quite\nunknown. Parents will deny themselves food in order to defray a son's\nschooling-fees or marry a daughter with suitable provision. Bengalis\nare remarkably clannish: they will toil and plot to advance the\ninterests of anyone remotely connected with them by ties of blood.\n\nTheir faults are the outcome of superstition, slavery to custom,\nand an unhealthy climate. Among them is a lack of moral courage,\na tendency to lean on stronger natures, and to flatter a superior by\nfeigning to agree with him. The standard of truth and honesty is that\nof all races which have been ground under heel for ages: deceit is the\nweapon of weaklings and slaves. Perjury has become a fine art, because\nour legal system fosters the chicane which is innate in quick-witted\npeoples. The same man who lies unblushingly in an English court, will\ntell the truth to an assembly of caste-fellows, or to the Panohayat (a\ncommittee of five which arbitrates in private disputes). Let British\nPharisees study the working of their own Divorce and County Courts:\nthey will not find much evidence of superior virtue! As for honesty,\nthe essence of commercialism is \"taking advantage of other people's\nneeds,\" and no legal code has yet succeeded in drawing a line between\nfair and unfair trade. In India and Japan merchants are an inferior\nclass; and loss of self-respect reacts unfavourably on the moral\nsense. Ingratitude is a vice attributed to Bengalis by people who\nhave done little or nothing to elicit the corresponding virtue. As a\nmatter of fact their memory is extremely retentive of favours. They\nwill overlook any shortcomings in a ruler who has the divine gift\nof sympathy, and serve him with devotion. Macaulay has branded them\nwith cowardice. If the charge were true, it was surely illogical and\nunmanly to reproach a community numbering 50,000,000 for inherited\ndefects. Difference of environment and social customs will account\nfor the superior virility of Europeans as compared with their distant\nkinsmen whose lot is cast in the sweltering tropics. But no one who\nhas observed Bengali schoolboys standing up bare-legged to fast bowling\nwill question their bravery. In fact, the instinct of combativeness is\nuniversal, and among protected communities it finds vent in litigation.\n\nEnglishmen who seek to do their duty by India have potential allies\nin the educated classes, who have grafted Western learning on a\ncivilisation much more ancient than their own. Bengal has given many\nillustrious sons to the empire. Among the dead I may mention Pandits\nIshwar Chandra Vidyasagar and Kissari Mohan Ganguli, whose vast\nlearning was eclipsed by their zeal for social service; Dr. Sambhu\nChandra Mukharji, whose biography I wrote in 1895; and Mr. Umesh\nChandra Banarji, a lawyer who held his own with the flower of our\nEnglish bar. A Bengali Brahmin is still with us who directs one of\nthe greatest contracting firms in the empire. How much brighter would\nIndia's outlook be if this highly-gifted race were linked in bonds\nof sympathy with our own!\n\nThe women of the Gangetic delta deserve a better fate than is\nassigned to them by Hindu and Mohammadan custom. They are kept in\nleading-strings from the cradle to the grave; their intellect is\nrarely cultivated, their affections suffer atrophy from constant\nrepression. Yet Mr. Banerjea draws more than one picture of wifely\ndevotion, and the instinctive good sense which is one of the secrets\nof feminine influence. Women seldom fail to rise to the occasion\nwhen opportunity is vouchsafed them. The late Maharani Surnomoyi\nof Cossimbazar managed her enormous estates with acumen; and her\ncharities were as lavish as Lady Burdett-Coutts's. Toru Dutt, who\ndied in girlhood, wrote French and English verses full of haunting\nsweetness. It is a little premature for extremists to prate of autonomy\nwhile their women are prisoners or drudges.\n\nSuperstition.--Modes of thought surviving from past ages of\nintellectual growth are the chief obstacles in the path of\nprogress. Mr. Banerjea's tales contain many references to magic--a\npseudo-science which clings to the world's religions and social\npolity. It is doubtful whether the most civilised of us has quite\nshaken off the notion that mysterious virtues may be transmitted\nwithout the impetus of will-power. Latin races are haunted by\ndread of the Evil Eye; advertisements of palmists, astrologers and\ncrystal-gazers fill columns of our newspapers. Rational education\nalone enables us to trace the sequence of cause and effect which\nis visible in every form of energy. Until this truth is generally\nrecognised no community can eradicate the vices of superstition.\n\nThe \"unrest\" of which we hear so much finds no echo in Mr. Banerjea's\npages. It is, indeed, confined to a minute percentage of the\npopulation, even including the callow schoolboys who have been\ntempted to waste precious years on politics. The masses are too\nignorant and too absorbed by the struggle for existence to care\none jot for reforms. They may, however, be stirred to blind fury by\nappealing to their prejudices. Therein lies a real danger. Divergence\nof religious ideals, to which I have already alluded, accounts for\nthe tranquillity that prevails throughout Bihar as compared with the\nspirit of revolution in Bengal proper. The microbe of anarchy finds\nan excellent culture-ground in minds which grovel before the goddess\nKali. But the unrest cannot be isolated from other manifestations of\ncosmic energy, which flash from mind to mind and keep the world in\nturmoil. Every force of nature tends to be periodic. The heart's\nsystole and diastole; alternations of day and night, of season\nand tide, are reflected in the history of our race. Progress\nis secured by the swing of a giant pendulum from East to West,\nthe end of each beat ushering in drastic changes in religion,\neconomics and social polity. It is probable that one of these\ncataclysmic epochs opened with the victories wrested from Russia by\nJapan. The democratic upheaval which began five hundred years ago is\nassuming Protean forces; and amongst them is the malady aptly styled\n\"constitutionalitis\" by Dr. Dillon. The situation in India demands\nprescience and statecraft. Though world-forces cannot be withstood,\nthey are susceptible of control by enlightened will-power. Will peace\nbe restored by the gift of constitutional government at a crisis when\nthe august Mother of Parliaments is herself a prey to faction? It\nis worthy of note that the self-same spirit has always been rife in\nBengal, where every village has its Dals--local Montagues and Capulets,\nwhose bickerings are a fertile source of litigation.\n\nMr. Banerjea's tales were written for his own countrymen, and needed\nextensive revision in order to render them intelligible to Western\nreaders. I have preserved the author's spirit and phraseology; and\nventure to hope that this little book will shed some light on the\nproblem of Indian administration.\n\nFrancis H. Skrine.\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\nThe Pride of Kadampur.\n\nKadampur is a country village which is destitute of natural\nor artificial attractions and quite unknown to fame. Its census\npopulation is barely 1,500, four-fifths of whom are low-caste Hindus,\nengaged in cultivation and river-fishing; the rest Mohammadans, who\nfollow the same avocations but dwell in a Para (quarter) of their\nown. The Bhadralok, or Upper Crust, consists of two Brahman and ten\nKayastha (writer-caste) families. Among the latter group Kumodini\nKanta Basu's took an unquestioned lead. He had amassed a modest\ncompetence as sub-contractor in the Commissariat during the second\nAfghan War, and retired to enjoy it in his ancestral village. His\nfirst care was to rebuild the family residence, a congenial task\nwhich occupied five years and made a large hole in his savings. It\nslowly grew into a masonry structure divided into two distinct Mahals\n(wings)--the first inhabited by men-folk; the second sacred to the\nladies and their attendants. Behind it stood the kitchen; and the\nPujardalan (family temple) occupied a conspicuous place in front,\nfacing south. The usual range of brick cattle-sheds and servants'\nquarters made up quite an imposing group of buildings.\n\nVillagers classed amongst the gentry are wont to gather daily\nat some Chandimandap (a rustic temple dedicated to the goddess\nDurga, attached to most better-class houses). Kumodini Babu's was a\nfavourite rendezvous, and much time was killed there in conversation,\ncard-playing, and chess. Among the group assembled, one crisp afternoon\nin February, was an old gentleman, called Shamsundar Ghosh, and known\nto hosts of friends as \"Sham Babu\". He was head clerk in a Calcutta\nmerchant's office, drawing Rs. 60 a month (L48 a year at par),\nwhich sufficed for the support of his wife and a son and daughter,\nrespectively named Susil and Shaibalini. After a vain attempt to\nmake two ends meet in expensive Calcutta, he had settled down at\nthe outskirts of Kadampur, which has a railway station within half\nan hour's run of the Metropolis. Sham Babu's position and character\nwere generally respected by neighbours, who flocked to his house for\nCalcutta gossip.\n\nOn this particular occasion talk ran on Kadampur requirements, and\nsomebody opined that another tank for bathing and drinking purposes\nought to be excavated at once; he did not say by whom.\n\n\"True,\" observed Sham Babu, \"but a market is still more necessary. We\nhave to trudge four miles for our vegetables and fish, which are\nobtainable in a more or less stale condition only twice a week. If\none were started here, it would be a great boon to ten villages\nat least.\" Kumodini Babu assented, without further remark, and the\nsubject dropped.\n\nIt came up again on the following Sunday, when Kumodini Babu said to\nhis friend:--\n\n\"I have been thinking about your idea of a market in this village,\nand should like, if possible, to establish one myself. How much would\nit cost me? As an old commissariat contractor, I am well up in the\nprice of grain, fodder and ghi (clarified butter used in cooking),\nbut I really know very little about other things.\"\n\nThe confession elicited a general laugh, and Sham Babu replied,\n\"It will be a matter of Rs. 200\".\n\n\"Two hundred rupees! Surely that is far too much for a range of huts.\"\n\n\"True enough. Your own bamboo clumps, straw-stacks and stores of\ncordage would provide raw material; and as for labour, all you have\nto do is to order some of your ryots (tenants) who are behindhand\nwith their rent to work for you gratis.\"\n\n\"That would be contrary to my principles. How are these poor people\nto live while engaged in begar (forced labour) on my behalf? They\nmust be paid.\"\n\n\"Very well, then, let us set apart Rs. 20 to meet the cost of market\nbuildings. But, for the first few weeks, you will have to buy up\nthe unsold stock of perishable goods brought by Farias (hucksters);\nyou must patronise the shopkeepers who open stalls for selling grain,\ncloth, confectionery, tobacco and trinkets. Once these people find\nthat they are making fair profits they will gladly pay you rent for\nspace allotted, besides tolls on the usual scale. At least Rs. 180\nmust be set apart for these preliminary expenses.\"\n\nKumodini Babu never did anything in haste. A fortnight elapsed ere\nhe announced to the neighbours gathered in his Chandimandap that\nhe intended starting a bi-weekly market on a vacant plot measuring\none Bigha (one-third of an acre), known as the Kamarbari (Anglice,\n\"Abode of Blacksmiths\"). On an auspicious day towards the end of April,\nhe inaugurated the new enterprise with some ceremony. His own ryots\nwere enjoined to attend; shopkeepers, hucksters, and fishermen who\nhad hitherto gone much further afield, came in considerable numbers;\nand business was amazingly brisk. Zemindars (landed proprietors)\ngenerally have to wait for months and spend money like water\nbefore they gain a pice (a bronze coin worth a farthing) from a new\nmarket. Kumodini Babu, however, began to reap where he had sown in\nless than a fortnight. Not an inch of space in the Karmarbari remained\nunoccupied; his Hat-Gomastha, or bailiff, levied rent and tolls for\nvendors, at whose request the market was proclaimed a tri-weekly\none. His fame as a man of energy and public spirit spread over ten\nvillages, whose people felt that he was one who would give them good\ncounsel in times of difficulty.\n\nThere is some truth in the notion that fortune's gifts seldom come\nsingly. Kumodini Babu's success in a business venture was immediately\nfollowed by one in his domestic affairs. It fell out in this wise. Sham\nBabu's daughter, Shaibalini, was still unmarried, though nearly\nthirteen and beautiful enough to be the pride of Kadampur. Money was,\nindeed, the only qualification she lacked, and Sham Babu's comparative\npoverty kept eligible suitors at a distance. For three years he had\nsought far and wide for a son-in-law and was beginning to fear that\nhe might, after all, be unable to fulfil the chief duty of a Hindu\nparent. One evening his wife unexpectedly entered the parlour where\nhe was resting after a heavy day at office.\n\n\"Why has the moon risen so early?\" he asked.\n\n\"Because the moon can't do otherwise,\" she answered, with a faint\nsmile. \"But, joking apart, I want to consult you about Saili. Our\nneighbour Kanto Babu's wife called on me just before you returned\nfrom Calcutta, and, after beating about the bush, suggested Kumodini\nBabu's younger son, Nalini, as a suitable match for her.\"\n\nSham Babu's face wore a worried look.\n\n\"Surely that would be flying too high for such as us,\" he\nrejoined. \"The Basus are comparatively rich, and very proud of their\nfamily which settled here during the Mughal days (i.e., before British\nrule, which in Bengal date from 1765). Young Nalini is reading for\nhis B.A. examination and wants to be a pleader (advocate). Kumodini\nBabu would hardly allow his son to marry the daughter of a poor clerk.\"\n\n\"Still, there is no harm in trying,\" remarked the wife. \"If you don't\nfeel equal to approaching him, there's Kanto Babu who would do so. It\nwas his wife who broached the subject to me, which makes me think\nthat they have been discussing it together.\"\n\n\"An excellent idea,\" exclaimed Sham Babu. \"I'll go to him at once.\" And\ntaking his stick, he set out for Kanto Babu's house, which was barely\nfifty yards off. In half an hour he returned to gladden his wife with\nthe news that their neighbour had consented to act as a go-between.\n\nKanto Babu was as good as his word. That very evening he called\non Kumodini Babu, whom he found reading the Mahabharata (an epic\npoem). After dwelling now on this matter, now on that, he asked\ncasually:--\n\n\"Have you never thought of getting Nalini married? He is over twenty,\nI believe.\"\n\n\"My wife has been urging me to look out for a wife for him, but in\nmy opinion he is too young for such responsibilities. Better wait\ntill he has passed the B.A. examination.\"\n\n\"Your wife's idea is sounder than yours, if I may be permitted to say\nso. Just think of the awful temptations to which unmarried students\nare exposed in that sink of profligacy, Calcutta! How many promising\nlads have succumbed to them, wrecking their own lives and causing\nbitter grief to their parents!\"\n\nKumodini Babu started. \"You surprise me! I had no idea that Calcutta\nwas as bad as you paint it. We must certainly get Nalini married at\nonce. I wonder whether you know of a likely match for him. I don't\ncare about money, but--\"\n\n\"That I do,\" interrupted Kanto Babu, \"There's Sham Babu's\ndaughter, Shaibalini. What a pretty creature she is; modest,\nloving and kind-hearted! You won't find her equal in this elaqa\n(lit. jurisdiction). If you approve, I will gladly be your spokesman\nwith her family.\"\n\nKumodini Babu mused awhile before answering. \"I know Shaibalini\nwell by reputation, and she is all you describe her. Sham Babu,\ntoo, comes of excellent lineage, though he is not a Zemindar, and\ndepends on service. I should not object to marrying Nalini with his\ndaughter. But wait a bit: what gotra (clan) does he belong to?\"\n\n\"I believe he is a Dakhin Rarhi,\" answered Kanto Babu.\n\n\"But I am an Uttar Rarhi,\" remarked Kumodini Babu. \"Is not that a\nfatal objection?\"\n\nFor the benefit of non-Hindu readers I may explain that Kayasthas are\nsplit into clans--probably a survival of the tribal organisation which\npreceded the family almost everywhere. According to tradition, a King\nof Bengal named Adisur imported five Brahmans, and as many Kayastha\nservants from Kanauj in Upper India. From the latter are descended\nthe Ghosh, Basu, Mitra, Guha, and Datta families. The first four are\ngenerally recognised as Kulin (Angl., \"aristocratic\") Kayasthas, while\nthe Dattas and seven other families are known as Sindhu Maulik--\"coming\nof a good stock\". Adisur and his companions found 700 Brahmans and\nthe same number of Kayasthas already established in Bengal. These are\nthe supposed ancestors of a large number of Kayastha families still\ntermed Saptasati, \"the Seven Hundred\". The ancient Greeks reckoned\ntheir neighbours beyond the Hellenic pale as \"barbarians\". So Brahmans\nand Kayasthas of Central Bengal styled their congeners north of the\nGanges Rarh, or \"uncivilised\". The epithet survives in Uttar (north)\nand Dakhin (south) Rarhi, but has lost its offensive meaning. Barendra\nis another phrase for the inhabitants of a tract north of the Ganges,\nwhich answers to the modern districts of Rajshahi, Pabna, and Bogra.\n\nKanto Babu was evidently perplexed; but after reflecting for a short\ntime he asked, \"Now why should such a trifling matter cause any\ntrouble whatever? The time has long since passed away when arbitrary\ndifference of clan was considered a bar to marriage among Kayasthas.\"\n\n\"You are quite right,\" was Kumodini Babu's reply, \"and personally I\nam above these old-fashioned prejudices. My daughter-in-law may be\nDakhin Rarhi, Banga-ja, or Barendri for all I care, provided she be\ncomely, well-mannered and come of good stock. But will Sham Babu\nbe equally tolerant?\"\n\n\"That I can't say until I have consulted him,\" answered Kanto\nBabu. \"One thing more I must know. What is your idea of Dena Paona\n(a word answering to our 'settlements')?\"\n\n\"Ram, Ram!\" exclaimed Kumodini Babu. \"Am I the man to sell my son for\nfilthy lucre? I hear that Calcutta folks occasionally do so, but I\nam quite opposed to the custom. Should Sham Babu agree to this match,\nI will make no stipulations whatever as to a money payment. He is in\nvery moderate circumstances, and may give whatever he chooses. Please\nsee him at once and let me have his decision.\"\n\nKanto Babu promised to do so and withdrew, inwardly chuckling over\nhis diplomacy.\n\nSham Babu called on him the same evening to learn its issue. He was\ndelighted to find that Kumodini Babu was not averse to the match,\nbut his face fell on hearing of the difference of clan. Observing his\nagitation, Kanto Babu observed gently, \"I don't see why a matter, which\nis not even mentioned in our Shastras (holy books), should cause one\nmoment's hesitation. Pluck up your courage, man, and all will go well.\"\n\n\"Perhaps so,\" murmured Sham Babu. \"But I do stand in awe of the Samaj\"\n(a caste-assembly which pronounces excommunication for breaches\nof custom).\n\n\"That's all nonsense! Look at our friend Kunjalal Babu who has just\nmarried his son to a Barendri girl. Is he an outcast? Certainly not. It\nis true that the ultra-orthodox kicked a bit at first; but they all\ncame round, and joined in the ceremony with zest. I can quote scores\nof similar instances to prove that this prejudice against marrying\ninto a different clan is quite out of date.\"\n\nSham Babu had nothing to urge in opposition to these weighty\narguments. He promised to let Kanto Babu have a definite reply on\nthe morrow and kept his word. Having endured a curtain lecture from\nhis wife, who proved to him that an alliance with the Basu family\noffered advantages far outweighing the slight risk there was of\nexcommunication, he authorised Kanto Babu to assure Kumodini Babu that\nthe proposed match had his hearty approval. Once preliminaries were\nsatisfactorily settled, all other arrangements proceeded apace. The\nPaka Dekha is a solemn visit paid by males of the future bridegroom's\nfamily to that of his betrothed, during which they are feasted and\ndecide all details regarding the marriage ceremonies. It passed\noff without a hitch, and the purohit (family priest) fixed Sravan\n17th as an auspicious day for consummating the union. Thenceforward\npreparations were made for celebrating it in a manner worthy of the\nesteem in which both families were held.\n\nKumodini Babu issued invitations to all his relatives. Chief amongst\nthese was a younger brother, Ghaneshyam Basu by name, who practised\nas a pleader (advocate) at Ghoria, where he had built a house after\ndisposing of his interest in the family estate to Kumodini Babu. This\nimportant person was asked to supervise the ceremonies, inasmuch as\nKumodini Babu's increasing age and infirmities rendered him unfit to\ndo so efficiently, while his eldest son, yclept Jadu Babu, had barely\nreached man's estate. The letter of invitation referred incidentally\nto the difference of clan as a matter of no importance. Kumodini Babu's\ndisappointment may be conceived when he got an answer from his younger\nbrother, expressing strong disapproval of the match and ending with a\nthreat to sever all connection with the family if it were persisted\nin! The recipient at first thought of running up to Ghoria, in view\nof softening Ghaneshyam Babu's heart by a personal appeal, but the\nanger caused by his want of brotherly feeling prevailed. Kumodini\nBabu and his wife agreed that matters had gone too far to admit of\nthe marriage being broken off. If Ghaneshyam did not choose to take\npart in it, so much the worse for him!\n\nSoon after dusk on Sravan 17th, Nalini entered his palanquin, arrayed\nin a beautiful costume of Benares silk. The wedding procession set\nout forthwith, amid a mighty blowing of conch-shells and beating\nof drums. At 8 P.M. it reached the bride's abode, where her family,\nwith Sham Babu at the head, were ready to receive them. An hour later\nNalini was conducted to the inner apartments, where the marriage\nceremony began. It lasted until nearly eleven o'clock, when the young\ncouple were taken to the Basarghar, or nuptial apartment. During these\nrites the men-folk were perhaps more pleasantly engaged in doing ample\njustice to a repast provided for them in the outer rooms. Then they\nchewed betels in blissful rumination, before separating with emphatic\nacknowledgments of the hospitality they had enjoyed.\n\nOn the following afternoon both bridegroom and bride were taken in\npalanquins to Kumodini Babu's house, where she instantaneously won\nevery heart by her grace and beauty. Two days later the Bau-Bhat\nceremony was held. This is a feast in the course of which the bride\n(bau) distributes cooked rice (bhat) with her own hands to bidden\nguests, in token of her reception into her husband's family and\nclan. Kumodini Babu had requisitioned an immense supply of dainties\nfrom local goalas (dairymen) and moiras (confectioners) with a view\nto eclipsing all previous festivals of the kind.\n\nEarly in the morning of the Bau-Bhat day a palanquin was carried into\nKumodini Babu's courtyard; and who should emerge from it but Ghaneshyam\nBabu! He ran up to his brother, who was sitting with some neighbours\nin the parlour, and, clasping his feet, implored forgiveness. Kumodini\nBabu's heart leaped for joy. Tenderly did he embrace the penitent, who\nadmitted that his peace of mind had fled from the moment he penned\nthat cruel letter. He now saw the absurdity of his prejudices,\nand begged Kumodini Babu to forget his unbrotherly conduct. It\nis needless to add that the prayer was cordially granted and that\nGhaneshyam Babu received a blessing from his elder brother. Thanks\nto his supervision the Bau-Bhat feast passed off at night without\nthe slightest contretemps. Ten years later people still dwelt on the\nmagnificent hospitality they had received, and held Kumodini Babu up\nas a model to fathers-in-law. In order that all classes might rejoice\nwith him, he remitted a year's rent to every ryot, besides lavishing\nconsiderable sums on Brahmans and poor folk. The more enlightened\nsection of Kayasthas were unanimous in pronouncing him to be a true\nHindu, on whose descendants the gods on high would pour down their\nchoicest blessings. There were others, however, whose malignity found\nmaterial to work on in his disregard of caste prejudices.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\nThe Rival Markets.\n\nThe immediate success of Kumodini Babu's market caused infinite\nannoyance to Ramani Babu, who owned one long established in the\nneighbourhood. Hucksters and country-folk found the tolls levied\nthere so much lighter, that the attendance at Ramani's fell off\ngrievously. It is well known that when a new market is started,\nproprietors already in the field endeavour to break it up with the\naid of paid lathials (clubmen). If, as often happens, the daring\nspeculator be a man of substance, he employs similar means in his\ndefence. Free fights occur on market-days, ending in many a broken\nhead--sometimes in slaughter. The battle is directed by Gomasthas\n(bailiffs) on either side, with the full knowledge of their masters,\nwho keep discreetly aloof from the fray.\n\nRamani Babu did not foresee that his property would be injured by the\nnew venture, and allowed it to be firmly established without striking a\nsingle blow. Finding a lamentable decrease in his receipts, he ordered\nthe bailiff to \"go ahead,\" and took an early train for Calcutta in\norder to set up an alibi in case of legal proceedings. A day or two\nlater his bailiff, attended by six or seven men armed with iron-shod\nbamboo staves, assembled at the outskirts of Kumodini Babu's market,\non a spot where four roads met.\n\nEre long a cart was descried approaching from eastwards, whose driver\nbawled snatches of song and puffed his hookah between whiles. When\nit reached the crossing, the bailiff shouted:--\n\n\"Stop! whither so early, friend?\"\n\n\"To market,\" the man replied carelessly.\n\n\"Whose market?\"\n\n\"The new one, started by Kumodini Babu.\"\n\n\"What have you got in those baskets of yours?\"\n\n\"Oh, sweet potatoes, brinjals (egg-plants), and a lot of other\nvegetables.\"\n\n\"Why don't you attend Ramani Babu's market?\"\n\n\"Because it does not pay me to go there.\"\n\n\"So you used to take your vegetables to Ramani Babu's market?\"\n\n\"Yes; but there are hardly any customers left. Now please let me go;\nthe sun is high up.\"\n\n\"So you won't obey me!\"\n\n\"No!\" roared the carter, prodding his oxen viciously.\n\n\"Stop a minute, I tell you! Whose ryot (tenant) are you?\"\n\n\"Ramani Babu's.\"\n\n\"What, you are his ryot and yet are acting against his interests? If\nhe hears of your perfidy he will certainly turn you out of his estate!\"\n\n\"Why should he?\" asked the fellow, now thoroughly frightened. \"I am\na very poor man, and Ramani Babu is my father and mother. He cannot\nobject to my selling a few vegetables wherever I please.\"\n\n\"But he does object,\" rejoined the bailiff sternly. \"What's your name\nand residence?\"\n\n\"Sadhu Sheikh, of Simulgachi.\"\n\n\"Now, do you know who I am?\"\n\n\"No-o,\" replied Sadhu, hesitatingly.\n\n\"I am Ramani Babu's new bailiff, sent with these men to see that his\nmarket is well attended.\"\n\nSadhu's tone completely changed. \"Salam, Babu,\" he whined. \"I did\nnot know who you were. Please let me pass or I shall be too late.\"\n\n\"Not so fast, friend,\" shouted the bailiff. \"Once for all, are you\ngoing to obey me or not?\"\n\nSadhu prodded his bullocks into a lumbering canter; but the bailiff\ngave a signal to his clubmen, who ran after him, dragged him out of\nthe cart, and thrashed him soundly. Then two of them escorted him, with\nhis wares, to their master's market, which was being held about three\nmiles away. The bailiff waited at the crossing for new arrivals. They\nwere not long in coming. A fishwoman, heavily laden, passed by. He\nhailed her, and on learning whither she was bound, ordered his men\nto drag her to their master's market, which they did, despite the\nvolume of abuse which she hurled at their heads. In this manner some\nhalf a dozen deserters were captured and escorted to the old market.\n\nThe story of his tyranny spread like wildfire through neighbouring\nvillages, with many amplifications, of course. Kumodini Babu heard\nthat his rival had arrested a hundred frequenters of his market and\nwas about to destroy the shelters he had erected for salesmen. This\ninformation filled him with anxiety and, after consulting friends,\nhe lodged a complaint at the police station. In the remote interior of\nBengal policemen are all-powerful. They usurp authority to which they\nare not entitled by law, and use it for private ends. All classes go\nin perpetual fear of them; for, by a stroke of the pen, they can ruin\nreputations and defeat justice. No one has recourse to their dreaded\nagency who can avoid doing so or has the means of gratifying their\ngreed. By giving a handsome douceur to the Sub-Inspector, Kumodini Babu\nobtained a promise of support, which he was simple enough to rely upon.\n\nMeantime Ramani Babu's market bailiff was not idle. Knowing that\nhe had acted illegally, he resolved to \"square\" the executive. So,\none evening, he persuaded his master to accompany him to the police\nstation, provided with a bundle of ten-rupee currency notes. After\ndiscussing commonplaces with the Sub-Inspector, they adjourned to\nan inner room, where they induced him to take their side--for very\nweighty reasons.\n\nMatters now began to look ugly for Kumodini Babu. Every vendor who\napproached his market was intercepted. He implored the help of the\nSub-Inspector, who, however, observed a strict neutrality, hinting\nthat the complainant was at liberty to defend himself with the aid\nof clubmen. But Kumodini Babu was a man of peace, and finding the\npoliceman something less than lukewarm, he resigned himself to the\ninevitable.\n\nHis evil star continued to prevail, for, soon after these untoward\nevents, it brought him into collision with the police. In consequence\nof an understanding with Ramani Babu, the Sub-Inspector took to buying\nprovisions from the few shopkeepers who still attended Kumodini Babu's\nmarket and referring them to him for payment. His constables, too,\nhelped themselves freely to rice and vegetables without even asking\nthe price, and had their shoes blacked gratis by Kumodini Babu's\nmuchis (leather-dressers). His bailiff put up with their vagaries,\nuntil the shopkeepers came in a body to say that unless they were\nstopped, the market would be entirely deserted. The luckless Zemindar\nwas staggered by the tale of oppression. He paid for every article\nextorted by the police, but strictly forbade the vendors to give any\nfurther credit. The Sub-Inspector was deeply incensed in finding this\nsource of illicit profit cut off, and his vengeance was perpetrated\nunder the pretence of law.\n\nOne evening, while Kumodini Babu was conning the Mahabharata (an\nancient epic) in his parlour, the Sub-Inspector came in, armed with\na search warrant issued by the Deputy Magistrate of Ghoria, which\nhe showed the astonished master of the house. A charge of receiving\nstolen property brought against him was indeed a bolt from the blue;\nbut when Kumodini Babu regained his scattered wits, he told the\nSub-Inspector scornfully that he might search every hole and corner of\nhis house. For half an hour the police were occupied in turning his\nfurniture and boxes topsy-turvy; and at last the Sub-Inspector went\nalone into a lumber-room, while his head constable kept Kumodini's\nattention fixed on the contents of an almeira (ward-robe) which he\nwas searching. Shouting, \"I have found the property!\" he emerged\nfrom the room with a box containing various articles of gold and\nsilver, which he said were hidden under some straw. On comparing\nthem with a list in his possession he declared that they exactly\ntallied with property reported as part of the spoils of a burglary\nin the neighbouring village. In vain Kumodini Babu protested his\nentire innocence and asked whether he, a respectable Zemindar, was\nlikely to be a receiver of stolen goods. He was handcuffed and taken\nto the police station on foot, while the Sub-Inspector followed in\na palanquin. Kumodini Babu's women-folk filled the house with their\nlamentations; and his eldest son, Jadu Nath, was the first to recover\nfrom the prostration caused by sudden misfortune. He had a pony saddled\nand galloped to the railway station, whence he telegraphed to his\nuncle, Ghaneshyam Babu, the pleader, \"Father arrested: charge receiving\nstolen goods\". Ghaneshyam arrived by the next train, and after hearing\nthe facts returned to Ghoria, where he applied to the Deputy Magistrate\nfor bail. There was a strong disinclination to grant it, owing to the\ngravity of the charge; but finally an order was issued, releasing the\nprisoner on personal recognisance of Rs. 10,000 and two sureties of\nRs. 5,000. The necessary security was immediately forthcoming, and\nKumodini Babu found himself temporarily a free man, after enduring\nnearly forty-eight hours of unspeakable misery in the station lock-up.\n\nIn due course his case came on for hearing before the Deputy\nMagistrate. Ghaneshyam Babu secured the services of a fighting member\nof the Calcutta bar and was indefatigable in his efforts to unearth\nthe nefarious plot against his brother. Proceedings lasted for four\ndays in a court packed with spectators. The Sub-Inspector and his\naccomplices told their story speciously enough. A burglary had really\nbeen committed and the jewellery found in Kumodini Babu's outhouse\nwas proved to have been part of the stolen goods. The issue was--who\nplaced them there? On this point the Sub-Inspector's evidence was\nnot by any means satisfactory. He finally broke down under rigorous\ncross-examination, and was forced to admit that it was quite possible\nthat some one acting on his behalf had hidden the property in Kumodini\nBabu's lumber-room. The battle of the markets was related in all its\ndramatic details. Shopkeepers and ryots alike, seeing that justice\nwas likely to prevail, came forward to depose to acts of tyranny by\nRamani Babu's servants and their allies, the police. Evidence of the\nprisoner's high character was forthcoming, while his age and dignified\nbearing spoke strongly in his favour. The Magistrate saw that he had\nbeen the victim of an abominable conspiracy and released him amid\nthe suppressed plaudits of the audience. His reasons for discharge\ncontained severe strictures on the local police, and even suggested\ntheir prosecution. Thus, after weeks of agonising suspense and an\nexpenditure on legal fees running into thousands of rupees, Kumodini\nBabu was declared innocent. He took the humiliation so much to heart,\nthat he meditated retiring to that refuge for storm-tossed souls,\nBenares. But Ghaneshyam Babu strongly dissuaded him from abandoning the\nstruggle, at least until he had turned the tables on his enemies. So\nKumodini Babu moved the District Magistrate to issue process against\nRamani Babu and the Sub-Inspector. He met with a refusal, however,\nprobably because the higher authorities thought fit to hush up a\nglaring scandal which might \"get into the papers,\" and discredit\nthe administration. Ramani Babu, therefore, was not molested, but his\naccomplice was departmentally censured, and transferred to an unhealthy\ndistrict. Kumodini Babu also thought of discontinuing the market\nwhich had been the fount and origin of his misfortunes. Here again\nhis brother objected that such a course would be taken to indicate\nweakness and encourage further attacks. His advice was followed. The\nnew market throve amazingly, while Ramani Babu's was quite deserted.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\nA Foul Conspiracy.\n\nOn a certain morning in February Ramani Babu sprung a mine on\nhis tenants by circulating a notice among them to the effect that\nthey would have to pay up every pice of rent on or before the 10th\nprox. Some hastened to discharge their liabilities, while others ran\nabout asking for loans or sat with downcast eyes, unable to decide\nwhat course to take. The English reader is perhaps unaware that every\nBengal landowner is required to pay revenue to Government four times\na year, vis., on the 28th January, March, June and September. Any one\nfailing to do so before sunset on these dates becomes a defaulter,\nand his estate is put up to auction in order to satisfy the demand,\nhowever small it may be. Property worth many thousands of rupees\nhas often been sold for arrears of eight annas (a shilling) or even\nless. The near approach of these kist (rent) days is of course a\nperiod of great anxiety to landlords; some of whom are forced to\nborrow the necessary amount on the security of their wives' ornaments.\n\nOn March 28th, 18--, Ramani Babu had to pay about Rs. 10,000 as land\nrevenue; but his ryots' crops had failed, owing to want of rain, and\nby the end of February he had been able to realise only Rs. 1,000,\nthe greater portion by threats of force. The Indian peasant's lot is\nnot a happy one. He depends solely on the produce of the soil, which\nyields little or nothing if the annual rains should fail, or there be\nan excess of moisture. Millions of cultivators never know what it is to\nhave a good, solid meal. In order to meet the landlord's demands they\nhave recourse to a Mahajan (moneylender) whose exactions leave them a\nslender margin for subsistence. But religion and ages of slavery render\nthem submissive creatures. They murmur only when very hard pressed.\n\nSadhu Sheikh, of Simulgachi, lived by raising vegetables for sale\nin Kumodini Babu's market, until he was forbidden to do so by Ramani\nBabu's clubmen. Failing this resource, he abandoned the little trade;\nand thus got deeper into the books of his moneylender. At this crisis\nhe received a written notice ordering him to attend Ramani Babu's\nkucheri (office) on 17th March without fail. A visit to the local\nmoneylender was fruitless and only led to a hint that old scores must\nbe cleared off. So Sadhu returned home crestfallen and determined\nto abide by his fate. On obeying the summons, he found Ramani Babu,\nsitting in his office to receive rent, which was brought him by a crowd\nof dejected-looking ryots. A great hubbub was going on; one Bemani\ninsisting that he had paid up to date while Ramani Babu's gomastha\n(bailiff) stoutly denied the assertion and called n the objector to\nproduce his receipt. This was not forthcoming for the simple reason\nthat Ramani had mislaid it. He asked the bailiff to show him the\nledger account, and after spelling through the items laboriously\nbe found that not a pice stood to his credit, although he had paid\nnearly sixty rupees since the last hist (rent) day. There are few who\nunderstand the value of the dakhilas (rent receipts) which landlords\nare compelled by law to give them. The little slips of paper are lost\nor destroyed, with the result that many ryots have had to pay twice\nover. Bemani vainly invoked Allah to witness that he had discharged\nhis dues; the bailiff ordered him to pay within twenty-four hours on\npain of severe punishment. Goaded to fury by this palpable injustice\nthe poor man declined to do anything of the kind. At this stage Ramani\nBabu intervened:--\n\n\"You son of a pig, are you going to obey my orders or not?\"\n\n\"No, I have paid once, and I won't pay again,\" yelled Bemani,\nthoroughly roused.\n\nRamani Babu beckoned to a stalwart doorkeeper from the Upper Provinces,\nwho was standing near.\n\n\"Sarbeshwar, give this rascal a taste of your Shamchand (cane)!\"\n\nHe was zealously obeyed and poor Bemani was thrashed until he lay\nwrithing in agony on the ground. After taking his punishment he rose,\nand looking defiantly at Ramani Babu said:--\n\n\"You have treated me cruelly; but you will find that there is a God\nwho watches all our actions. He will certainly deal out retribution\nto you!\" He then turned to go.\n\n\"I see you are not yet cured,\" exclaimed Ramani Babu. \"Let him have\nanother dose of Shamchand.\"\n\n\"Yes, go on!\" roared Bemani, \"beat me as much as you please; you'll\nhave reason to repent sooner or later!\" With this remark he stood\nerect, looking fearlessly at his tormentors. Sarbeshwar administered\nanother welting, which drew blood at every stroke but was borne\nwithout sound or movement. When the doorkeeper stopped for want of\nbreath, Bemani cast a look of scorn at Ramani Babu and strode out of\nthe house in silence, full of rage.\n\nPresently another disturbance was heard. One of the ryots had paid\nhis rent in full but declined to add the usual commission exacted by\nthe bailiffs, who fell on him in a body and pummelled him severely.\n\nSadhu witnessed these horrors from a corner of the room and inwardly\nbesought Allah to save him from the clutches of those demons. But\nSrikrishna, who was the bailiff of his circle, happened to see him and\nasked whether he had brought his rent. Sadhu got up, salamed humbly,\nand replied, \"Babuji, you know my present circumstances well\". \"Answer\nyes or no,\" thundered Srikrishna, \"I have no time to listen to your\nexcuses.\"\n\n\"Your servant is a very poor man,\" continued Sadhu, shaking from head\nto foot.\n\n\"Who is this person?\" inquired Ramani Babu.\n\n\"This is Sadhu Sheikh, of Simulgachi,\" was the bailiff's reply,\n\"the very same rascal who gave evidence against your honour in that\nfaujdari (criminal) case.\"\n\n\"Is that so?\" roared Ramani Babu. \"And the son of a pig owes me rent?\"\n\n\"Now, please, do not abuse me, Babuji,\" protested Sadhu, \"only listen\nto my tale for one minute!\"\n\n\"What, you dare to bandy words with me, haramzudu (bastard)?\" shouted\nRamani Babu, rising from his seat. \"Doorkeeper, let him have fifty\ncuts, laid on hard!\"\n\nSwish, swish, swish, sounded the nimble cane, and made a grey pattern\non Sadhu's naked flesh. His screams and prayers for mercy were mocked\nby the obsequious crowd, and at length he fell senseless on the floor.\n\n\"Look, he is shamming,\" observed Ramani Babu; \"drag him outside and\nsouse him with water until he comes to.\" The command was obeyed,\nand when Sadhu was able to sit up he was brought back to the dreaded\npresence. Again his arrears of rent were demanded, and once more he\nfeebly protested that he could not discharge them. Thereon Ramani\nBabu ordered him to be hung up. Forthwith, a dozen eager hands were\nlaid on him, a rope was passed under his armpits, and the free end\nthrown over a rafter of the office. By this means he was hauled from\nthe ground and swung suspended, a butt of sarcasm and abuse for Ramani\nBabu's myrmidons. After enduring this humiliation for an hour or so,\nhe was let down and a final demand made on him for the arrears of\nrent. On his again asserting inability Ramani Babu ordered his hut\nto be levelled with the ground and pulse to be sown on its site,\nas a punishment for his disobedience. He was then allowed to leave\nthe scene of his misery.\n\nOn reaching home he found Bemani seated in the porch, in expectation of\nhis arrival. His fellow-victim said that he had lodged an information\nagainst Ramani Babu and his servants at the police station and intended\ngoing to Ghoria, next day, to complain to the Deputy Magistrate. Would\nSadhu help him by giving evidence? he asked. \"That I will,\" was the\nreply, \"but I must first consult Jadunath Babu, who, I am sure, will\nhelp me.\" After Bemani's departure Sadhu went to his protector and\ntold the story of his sufferings in full. Jadunath Babu bade him be\nof good cheer; for he would do all in his power to bring Ramani Babu\nto justice. Sadhu was comforted by this promise. He returned home\nand soon forgot all his sorrows in sleep.\n\nAbout midnight he was aroused by voices in his yard, and, sallying\nforth, discovered a gang of clubmen employed by Ramani Babu, in the\nact of tearing the roof from his hut. Remonstrance was met by jeering\nand threats of violence; so the luckless man stood helplessly under\na neighbouring tamarind tree, while his house was reduced to a heap\nof bamboos and thatch. The material was taken away in carts, the\nsite dug up, and pulse sown thereon. Thus not a trace of Sadhu's\nhome was left. He passed the remaining hours of the night under\nthe tree; and early next morning he called on Jadu Babu, to whom he\nunfolded the story of this latest outrage. His patron boiled over\nwith indignation. He sent Sadhu to the police station, in order to\nlay an information against his persecutors, promising to give him a\nhouse and land to compensate his losses. In less than a fortnight,\nthe injured man was installed in a new hut and in possession of enough\nland to support him comfortably. Then he settled down, with heartfelt\nprayers for Jadu Babu's long life and prosperity. He even sent for\nhis wife and a young sister-in-law, who had been staying with her\nbrother near Calcutta.\n\nMeantime Bemani had taken out a summons for causing grievous hurt\nagainst Ramani Babu and his servants. When the case came on for\nhearing before a Deputy Magistrate at Ghoria, all the accused pleaded\n\"not guilty.\" They could not deny the fact that he had been beaten\nwithin an inch of his life, but alleged provocation on his part,\ninasmuch as he had fomented a rebellion among the ryots. Jadu Babu was\nnot idle. He provided the complainant with first-rate legal advice\nand paid all the expenses of adducing witnesses. Emboldened by his\nsupport, at least a dozen of Ramani Babu's ryots who were present\nwhile he was being thrashed, came forward to give evidence of the\nbrutal treatment he had received and to deny the counter charge\nbrought by the defendants. Thus the case ended in the conviction of\nRamani Babu and three of his servants, who were sentenced to fines\naggregating Rs. 200. Then the charges preferred by Sadhu were taken\nup by the Deputy Magistrate. As they were of a far graver character,\nthe barrister brought from Calcutta by Ramani Babu obtained a week's\nadjournment in order to procure rebutting evidence.\n\nAt this time the Muharram festival was in full swing. Sadhu was too\nbusy in getting up his case to take part in it; but he sent his wife\nto some relatives at Ghoria, while his young sister-in-law, who was\nsuffering from fever, remained at home. He was aroused one night by\nloud screams coming from the hut occupied by this girl. On running\nout to see what was the matter, he fell into the arms of a stranger\nwho was crossing his yard in a desperate hurry. A struggle ensued,\nbut the intruder managed to escape, not before Sadhu had recognised\nhim as a ryot of Ramani Babu, named Karim. On asking his sister-in-law\nwhat had happened, the poor girl told him with many sobs that a man\nhad broken into the hut, and awakened her by seizing her throat,\nbut had been scared away by her screams. As soon as day dawned,\nSadhu ran to the house of Karim's uncle, in the hope of finding him\nthere. The uncle, however, declared that Karim had been absent since\nthe previous evening, and on learning the grave charge preferred by\nSadhu, he begged with folded hands that the scandal might be stifled,\nat any cost, for the sake of both families. Sadhu would promise\nnothing, but for obvious reasons he laid no information against Karim.\n\nTwo days later he was engaged on his evening meal, when a Sub-Inspector\nappeared. After asking whether his name was Sadhu, the policeman\nslipped a pair of handcuffs on his wrists and turned a deaf ear to his\nbewildered request for information as to the charge preferred against\nhim. Thus he was ignominiously taken to the station lock-up, followed\nby a crowd, whom he begged to inform Jadu Babu of his trouble. The\nlatter was speedily fetched by a compassionate neighbour, and, after\nconversing with the police officer, he told Sadhu that he was actually\ncharged with murder! Karim's uncle had informed the police that,\nhis nephew having disappeared since the day of the alleged trespass,\nhe suspected Sadhu of foul play. An inquiry followed which led to\nSadhu's transfer to the district jail.\n\nJadu Babu was certain that his enemy had instigated the charge, and\nknew that he was quite capable of suppressing Karim in order to get\nSadhu into trouble. He was advised by friends whom he consulted not\nto poke his nose into so ugly an affair: but his sense of justice\nprevailed. He went to Ghaneshyam Babu, whom he told the whole story\nrelated by Sadhu. On learning that Ramani Babu was implicated, the\npleader saw an opportunity of wreaking vengeance on the persecutor\nof his brother. Gladly did he undertake the prisoner's defence.\n\nIn due course the charge preferred by Sadhu against Ramani Babu\nwas heard by a Deputy Magistrate. With Ghaneshyam Babu's aid,\nthe complainant proved it up to the hilt, and all concerned were\nheavily fined. Soon afterwards Sadhu himself appeared before the\nDeputy Magistrate to answer a charge of murder. The circumstantial\nevidence against him was so strong that he was committed to the\nSessions Court. When brought up for trial there, he astounded his\nbackers by pleading guilty and offering to point out the spot where\nhe had buried Karim's corpse. The case was forthwith adjourned for\na local inquiry; and the European District Superintendent of Police\ntook Sadhu to the place indicated, where he had the soil turned up in\nall directions without result. Sadhu admitted that he was mistaken\nand piloted the police to another spot, where they again failed to\ndiscover any trace of the missing man. On these facts being reported\nto the judge, he fixed the morrow for final hearing.\n\nAt 11 A.M. he took his seat on the bench in a Court packed with eager\nspectators, and was reading a charge to the jury, strongly adverse\nto the prisoner, when an uproar was heard outside. Proceedings were\nsuspended while the judge sent an usher to ascertain the cause;\nbut ere he returned, half a dozen men burst into the courtroom\ncrying Dohai! (justice!). Jadu Babu, who was one of the intruders,\nsignalled the others to be silent, and thus addressed the judge with\nfolded hands:--\n\n\"Your Honour, the dead has come to life! Here is Karim, who was\nsupposed to have been murdered!\"\n\nThere was a tremendous sensation in Court. When it subsided the judge\nthrust aside his papers and asked for evidence as to Karim's identity,\nwhich was soon forthcoming on oath. Then he ordered him to be sworn,\nand recorded the following deposition:--\n\n\"Incarnation of Justice! I will make a full confession, whatever may\nhappen to me. I was sent for about a month ago by my landlord Ramani\nBabu, who ordered me to insult some woman of Sadhu's household, in\norder that he might be excommunicated. In fear of my life I consented\nto do so, and that very night I broke into the hut where Sadhu's\nsister-in-law lay asleep. Her cries attracted Sadhu, who grappled with\nme in his yard. However, I managed to escape, and on reporting my\nfailure to Ramani Babu, he sent me in charge of a Barkamduz (guard)\nto Paliti, which is ten coss (20 miles) away. There I was confined\nin a Kacheri (office building) until yesterday, when I got away\nafter nightfall. I had to pass through Ghoria Bazar, on my way home\nthis morning, and there I ran up against Jadu Babu, who stopped and\nquestioned me closely about my movements. There was nothing for me\nbut to make a clean breast of everything. He took me to a babu's house\nwhere he was staying, and thence brought me to your honour's presence.\"\n\nKarim's confession took every one by surprise, and it was corroborated\nby Jadu Babu in the witness-box. The judge then asked Sadhu why he\npleaded guilty.\n\n\"Incarnation of Justice,\" was the reply, \"it was the Daroga\nBabu (Sub-Inspector of Police) who frightened me into making a\nconfession. He told me again and again that he had quite enough\nevidence to hang me, and advised me to escape death by admitting\nthe charge of murdering Karim. While I was shut up alone in jail,\nI had no one to consult or rely on. Through fear, my wits entirely\nleft me and I resolved to obtain mercy by making a false confession.\"\n\nThese circumstances, strange as they may appear to the Western reader,\nwere no novelty to the Sessions Judge. In charging the jury, he\ncommented severely on the conduct of the station police and directed\nthem to return a verdict of not guilty, which they promptly did.\n\nGhaneshyam Babu did not let the matter drop. He moved the District\nMagistrate to prosecute Ramani Babu and his bailiff, Srikrishna, for\nconspiring to charge an innocent man with murder. Both were brought\nto trial and, despite the advocacy of a Calcutta barrister, they each\nreceived a sentence of six months' rigorous imprisonment. Justice,\nlame-footed as she is, at length overtook a pair of notorious\nevil-doers.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\nThe Biter Bitten.\n\nBabu Chandra Mohan Bai, or Chandra Babu, as he was usually called,\nwas a rich banker with many obsequious customers. He was a short\ncholeric man, very fond of his hookah, without which he was rarely\nseen in public. He had no family, except a wife who served him\nuncomplainingly, and never received a letter or was known to write\none except in the course of business. His birthplace, nay his caste,\nwere mysteries. But wealth conceals every defect, and no one troubled\nto inquire into Chandra Babu's antecedents. This much was known--that\nhe had come to Kadampur fifteen years before my tale opens with a brass\ndrinking-pot and blanket, and obtained a humbly-paid office as a clerk\nunder a local Zemindar. In this capacity he made such good use of the\nmeans it offered of extorting money that he was able to set up as a\nmoneylender at Simulgachi, close to Kadampur. When people learnt that\na new Shylock was at their service, they flocked to him in times of\nstress. His usual rate of interest being only 5 per cent, per mensem,\nhe cut into the business of other moneylenders, and in four or five\nyears had no serious competitor within a radius of four miles from\nKadampur itself. Once master of the situation he drew in his horns,\nlending money only to people who could give ample security in land,\ngovernment papers, or jewellery. He also started a tejarati business\n(loans of rice, for seed and maintenance during the \"slack\" months,\nrepaid in kind, with heavy interest, after the harvest). Although few\nKhataks (customers) were able to extricate their property from his\nclutches or clear off their debit balances, Chandra Babu continued to\nbe in great request. He was heard to boast that every family in or near\nKadampur, except the Basus, were on his books. The rapid growth of his\ndealings compelled him to engage a gomastha (manager) in the person\nof Santi Priya Das, who had been a village schoolmaster notorious for\ncruelty. The duties of his new office were entirely to Santi Priya's\nliking, and he performed them to Chandra Babu's unqualified approval.\n\nOn a certain morning in late August, Chandra Babu sat in his office to\nreceive applications for money or grain. One of his customers named\nKarim Sheikh came in and squatted close to the door, after salaming\nprofoundly. On seeing him Chandra Babu at once remembered that\nhis bond had run out on 15th July, and that he owed nearly Rs. 100,\nprincipal and interest. He therefore addressed the newcomer in accents\nof wrath. \"What do you want here, you son of a pig?\"\n\n\"Babuji,\" pleaded Karim, \"my stars are unlucky. You know how wretched\nthe rice harvest has been.\"\n\n\"Yes, we know all that,\" replied Santi, who sat near his master. \"It's\nthe old story, when people who can pay won't pay. Have you brought\nthe money, eh?\"\n\nKarim was obliged to confess he had not.\n\n\"Then why have you come here?\" roared Chandra Babu. \"To show your\nface, I suppose. We see hundreds of better-looking fellows than you\ndaily. You have got to pay up at once, you badmash (rascal).\"\n\nKarim's wrath was stirred by this expression. He replied, \"Now, Babu,\ndon't be abusive; I won't stand it\".\n\n\"What, do you want to teach me manners, Maulvie Saheb (doctor learned\nin Mohammadan law)?\" asked Chandra Babu sarcastically.\n\nAn exchange of compliments followed which were not altogether to\nShylock's advantage, and at length he roared, \"Get out of this office,\nyou rascal, and look out for squalls! I'll sell you up!\" Karim left\nin high dudgeon, inviting Chandra Babu to do his worst, and the latter\nforthwith concocted a scheme of vengeance with his manager.\n\nNext day Santi obtained a summons against Karim from the Munsiff\n(civil judge of first instance) of Ghoria and, by bribing the court\nprocess-server, induced him to make a false return of service. In\ndue course the suit came on for hearing, and as the defendant was of\ncourse absent, it was decreed against him ex parte. Execution being\nalso granted, Santi accompanied the court bailiff to Karim's house,\nwhere they seized all his movable property and carried it off to the\nCourt, leaving him in bewilderment and tears. He was unable to tear\nhimself away from his gutted home but sat for hours under a tree hard\nby, pondering on his ill-fortune. Not until the sun had set and village\ncattle began to file in from pasture, did he cast one lingering look\non the scene of his childhood and walk away with a sigh, whither no\none cared to inquire.\n\nA week later, however, Karim strode into Chandra Babu's office\nattended by two friends, and counted out ten ten-rupee notes, which\nhe handed to the moneylender, with a peremptory request to release\nhis chattels at once. Chandra Babu was greatly surprised by the turn\nmatters had taken, but he was not the man to let property slip from\nhis clutches. So he asked Santi whether the debtor did not owe a bill\nof costs. The manager referred to his books and declared that Rs. 33\n8. 0. were still due. Karim planked down the money without further\nado and asked for a receipt, which Santi reluctantly gave him. Then\nhe again demanded the immediate release of his property. On receiving\nan evasive answer, he remarked that Chandra Babu would hear from him\nshortly and left the office.\n\nAbout a month later, Chandra Babu was aroused from sleep in the\ndead of night by shouts coming from his inner courtyard. He jumped\nup and popped his head out of the window, but withdrew it hastily\non seeing twenty or thirty men running about his premises, with\nlighted torches, and shouting--\"Loot! loot!\" Paralysed by fear, he\ncrawled under the bed and lay in breathless expectation of further\ndevelopments. Presently the door was forced open, and a crowd poured\ninto the room. Chandra Babu's hiding place was soon discovered by\nthe dacoits (gang robbers), who dragged him out by the legs and\ndemanded his keys on pain of instant death. Seeing a rusty talwar\n(sword) flourished within an inch of his throat, the unhappy man at\nonce produced them, whereon the dacoits opened his safe and took out\nseveral bags of rupees. Then at a signal from their sardar (leader),\nthey bound Chandra Babu hand and foot and squatted round him in a\ncircle. The sardar thus addressed him:--\n\n\"Babuji, do you know us?\"\n\n\"How can I know you?\" groaned their victim. \"Your faces are blackened\nand concealed by your turbans. Gentlemen, I implore you to spare my\nlife! I never injured any of you.\"\n\n\"Indeed!\" replied the sardar sarcastically; \"you have been the ruin\nof us all. Look you, Chandra Babu, we are all Khataks (customers)\nof yours whom you have fleeced by levying exorbitant interest on\nloans and falsifying our accounts. It's no use going to law for our\nrights; you are hand in glove with the civil court amla (clerks) and\npeons (menials) and can get them to do whatever you wish. So we have\ndetermined to take the law into our own hands. We have made up our\naccounts and find that you have extorted from us Rs. 5,000, over and\nabove advances of rice and cash with reasonable interest. Now we're\ngoing to help ourselves to that sum, besides damages at four annas\nin the rupee (twenty-five per cent.). This makes just Rs. 6,250 you\nowe us.\"\n\nThereon the dacoits counted out cash to that amount and no more,\nwhich was placed in bags containing Rs. 1,000 each, ready for\nremoval. Chandra Babu heaved a sigh of relief, thinking that he had\ngot off rather cheaply, but his troubles were not at an end. The\nsardar came close to him and asked:--\n\n\"Look at me carefully: do you know me?\"\n\n\"No baba, but you are my son. Pray, spare my life! See, I am half\ndead already and ruined as well!\"\n\n\"I am Karim Sheikh,\" said the sardar impressively.\n\n\"So you are,\" replied Chandra Babu, after recovering from his intense\nsurprise; \"but why have you turned dacoit?\"\n\n\"It was owing to your oppression, which drove me from my house, and\ndeprived me of the means of livelihood. All my companions here have\nbeen beggared by you, and scores of other families too. The whole\nof Kadampur and Simulgachi are clamouring for your blood, and Allah\nhas appointed me to be the minister of his vengeance. Time was when\nI had to cringe to you, just as you are doing to me, but never did I\nreceive mercy from you. Now the tables are turned. I might kill you,\nand who would dare to inform the police folk?\" (Here Karim made a\nvicious with his talwar, which passed within half an inch of\nthe terror-stricken victim's throat.) \"I might put you out of caste\nby slaying one of your cows and forcing you to eat its flesh. You\ndeserve all this and more--but we will be merciful. Swear by your\ngoddesses Kali and Durga that you will never in future demand more\nthan four annas in the rupee yearly for loans of money or rice. Swear\nthat you will never again bribe the amla or peons of the Courts;\nswear that you will never again falsify the accounts of your Khataks.\"\n\nChandra Babu took the oaths demanded with an appearance of unction\nand then implored his captors to release him.\n\n\"Wait a minute,\" was Karim's reply, \"we must collect our belongings.\"\n\nSo saying he ordered the dacoits to extinguish their torches and\nfollow him with the bags of money. He led them to a ravine on the\nriver bank, about a coss (two miles) distant, where the spoil was\nequitably divided according to a list of names and amounts due\nin Karim's possession. Then after arranging for alibis in case of\ncriminal proceedings, the band dispersed, well satisfied with their\nnight's work.\n\nChandra Babu's neighbours made no sign until the dacoits were well\nout of hearing, when they flocked in to unloose his bonds and offer\nhypocritical condolences. The village Chaukidar (watchman) was sent\noff to the police station, and next day arrived the Sub-Inspector with\na posse of constables to investigate the dacoity. After recording\nthe complainant's statement, they endeavoured to secure additional\nevidence, but Chandra Babu was so cordially disliked, and the dacoits'\nvengeance so dreaded, that not a soul came forward to corroborate\nhis story. Karim was arrested, with half a dozen accomplices named\nby Chandra Babu. They had no difficulty in proving that they were\nattending a wedding ceremony five miles away on the night of the\nalleged dacoity. So the case was reported to headquarters as false;\nand Chandra Babu escaped prosecution for deceiving the police, by\ngiving a heavy bribe to the Sub-Inspector.\n\nHis evil star continued in the ascendant. About a week afterwards,\nhe discovered a heavy deficit in his cash book, kept by Santi Priya,\nwhich that rascal failed to explain, and next day the trusty manager\ndid not attend office. Indeed he has never been heard of since. This\nnew calamity was Chandra Babu's \"last straw\". He hastened to realise\noutstanding debts and left the village, bag and baggage, to the intense\nrelief of its inhabitants, who celebrated his exit by offering puja\nor namaz (Mohammadan prayers) according to the religion they severally\nprofessed.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\nAll's Well That End's Well.\n\nEvery good Hindu feels bound to get his daughter or sister, as the\ncase may be, married before she attains puberty. Rich people find\nlittle difficulty in securing suitable matches for their girls; but\nBabu Jadunath Basu, widely known as \"Jadu Babu,\" was not blessed with\na large share of this world's goods; and his sister Basumati was close\non her teens. The marriage-broker had certainly suggested more than\none aspirant for her hand, but they were not to Jadu Babu's liking. As\nyears rolled by, his anxiety deepened into despair. A match was at\nlength offered which was passably good, although it did not answer\nJadu Babu's expectations. He learnt from private inquiry that the boy\nproposed bore a good character, never mixed with doubtful associates,\nand had no constitutional defect. Hindu parents are very careful to\nascertain the health of a suitor, and should they suspect any inherited\ndisease, such as consumption, they reject him remorselessly. It must\nnot be supposed that such lads are always doomed to celibacy, for\ntheir unsoundness may be hidden or counterbalanced by a substantial\nmoney payment.\n\nJadu Babu found out that the boy had matriculated at Calcutta and\nwas attending the second year class at a Metropolitan College; more\nimportant still, his father, Amarendra Babu, had money invested in\nGovernment paper, besides a substantial brick house--qualifications\nwhich augured well for his sister's wedded happiness. The next step\nwas to invite his own father, Kumodini Babu, to come from Benares and\nhelp him to clinch matters. The old man pleaded that he had done with\nthe world and all its vanities; so Jadu Babu had to make a pilgrimage\nto the Holy City, where he induced Kumodini Babu to return home with\nhim. Three days later the pair went to Calcutta with two friends,\nin order to make the suitor's acquaintance. They were welcomed by\nAmarendra Babu, who at once sent for his son. The boy came in with\neyes fixed on the ground and shyly took a seat near Kumodini Babu. He\nunderwent a severe scrutiny, and at last the old man broke silence\nby asking the lad his name. Being informed that it was Samarendra\nNath, he inquired the names of his father and grandfather, which were\npromptly given.\n\n\"Good boy,\" observed Kumodini Babu, \"the times are so completely\nout of joint that youths are ashamed to, utter their father's name,\nlet alone their grandfather's. Where are you studying?\"\n\n\"At the Metropolitan Institution,\" was the reply.\n\n\"An excellent college,\" said Kumodini Babu; then after a whispered\nconsultation with Jadu Babu, he said, \"I am delighted with Samarendra's\nmodesty and good manners, and have no objection whatever to giving\nmy daughter to him in marriage--provided Prajapati (the Lord of\nAll) causes no hitch\". Samarendra thought that his ordeal was over,\nbut he was mistaken. One of Kumodini Babu's friends, who happened\nto be a Calcutta B.A., would not lose the opportunity of airing his\nsuperior learning.\n\n\"What are your English text-books?\" he asked.\n\n\"Blackie's Self-culture, Helps' Essays, Milton's Paradise Lost,\nand Tennyson's Enoch Arden,\" gabbled Samarendra in one breath.\n\n\"Very good, now please fetch your Paradise Lost.\"\n\nThe boy disappeared, returning shortly with a well-thumbed volume,\nwhich the B.A. opened and selected Satan's famous apostrophe to the Sun\nfor explanation. Samarendra was speechless. After waiting for a minute,\nthe B.A. asked what text-book he studied in physics and was told that\nit was Ganot's Natural Philosophy. He asked Samarendra to describe\nan electrophone, whereon the lad began to tremble violently. Kumodini\nBabu had pity on his confusion and told him to run away. Needless to\nsay he was promptly obeyed.\n\nIt has become a Calcutta custom for possible fathers-in-law to\ncross-examine suitors on their text-books; but few boys are able to\nsatisfy the test, however brilliant their acquirements may be. Poor\nSamarendra was too overwhelmed with the strangeness of his position\nto do himself justice.\n\nWhen the elder folks were quite alone they plunged into\nbusiness. Kumodini Babu sounded his host as to dena paona (settlements)\non either side; but the latter courteously left them entirely to his\ndiscretion. It was settled that Basumati's pakka dekha (betrothal)\nshould be celebrated on 12th November at Kumodini Babu's, and that\nof Samarendra's at his father's, two days later.\n\nBasumati being an only daughter, Kumodini Babu determined to conduct\nher marriage on a magnificent scale. In anticipation of the betrothal\nfeast, he brought three Brahman cooks from Calcutta to prepare\ncurries, pillaos and sweetmeats under the supervision of the ladies\nof his household.\n\nAt length the auspicious day came round. At 5 P.M. Amarendra Babu,\nwith half a dozen friends, arrived at Kumodini Babu's house from\nCalcutta. They were received with great courtesy and conducted to\nseats, where a plentiful supply of tobacco and betel awaited them. At\nhalf-past seven, Jadu Babu presented the bride-elect to her future\nfamily. She looked charming in a Parsi shawl and Victoria jacket,\ndecked out with glittering jewels, and sat down near Amarendra Babu,\nafter saluting him respectfully. He took up some dhan, durba and\nchandan (paddy, bent grass and sandal-wood paste) and blessed her,\npresenting her at the same time with a gold chur (bracelet). After\nagain saluting him, the timid girl was led back to the inner\napartments. Then the guests were taken to a large hall where supper\nwas ready for their delectation. Full justice was done to the repast;\nand after it was over, they washed their hands in the yard and smoked\nor chewed betel in perfect bliss until half-past ten. Then Amarendra\nBabu asked leave to return by the last train, declining hospitality\nfor the night on the plea of previous engagements. While saying\n\"good-bye\" he called Jadu Babu aside and thrust Rs. 30 into his\nhands, to be distributed among the guru (spiritual guide), purohit\n(family priest), and servants. Two days afterwards, Kumodini Babu\nand his son went to Calcutta for the boy's betrothal. He blessed\nSamarendra, presenting him with a gold mohur (an obsolete coin worth\nsixteen rupees) besides Rs. 50 for the priest and servants of his\nhousehold. A feast followed on the same scale as the previous one.\n\nKumodini Babu's family priest decided that Asar 28th would be a lucky\nday for the wedding, which was to be held at the bride's great-uncle's\nhouse in Calcutta. Early on the 26th, the Gaihalud (turmeric smearing)\nceremony took place. Amarendra Babu rubbed his son's body with a\nmixture of turmeric and oil and despatched a supply to Kumodini\nBabu by his own barber, with injunctions to have it applied to his\ndaughter's person before 9 A.M., because subsequent hours would be\ninauspicious. On the barber's arrival, the ladies of Kumodini Babu's\nhousehold anointed Basumati with turmeric and oil and clad her in a\ngorgeous wrapper. Then they conducted her to another room where a janti\n(instrument for cracking betel-nuts) was given her and certain nitkits\n(minor ceremonies) were performed.\n\nAt 11 A.M. the presents given on the occasion of the turmeric-smearing\n(gaihalud) were brought by twenty servants who were regaled with a\nfeast made ready in anticipation of their arrival. After partaking\nof it they were dismissed with a largesse of one rupee each. During\nthe next two days presents continued to pour in from relatives of\nboth families.\n\nAt length the fateful 28th Asar dawned, bringing a mighty commotion\nin the respective houses. Shouts and laughter echoed from every\nside. Amarendra Babu had resolved to marry his son in a style which,\nsooth to say, was far above his means, hoping to recoup himself from\nthe large cash payment which he expected from Kumodini Babu. On his\nside the latter had consulted relatives as to the proper dowry. All\nagreed that Rs. 2,000 worth of ornaments; Rs. 1,001 in cash; Rs. 500\nfor Barabharan (gifts to a bridegroom); and Rs. 500 for Phulsajya\n(lit. a bed of flowers) would be sufficient. Thus Kumodini Babu\nprovided Rs. 4,001 and imagined that he was acting generously.\n\nAt 7.30 P.M. the bridegroom's procession was formed. A Sub-Inspector\nof Police and three constables led the way, followed by a band of\nmusic. Next came a carriage and four conveying Samarendra, his younger\nbrother, and the family priest. Carriages belonging to Amarendra Babu's\nfriends, and some hired ones full of invited guests, brought up the\nrear. When a start was made, the little police force hustled vehicles\nout of the way and even stopped tram-cars when necessary; while the\nband tortured selections from Handel and Beethoven to the intense\ndelight of passers-by, many of whom paused to criticise shortcomings\nin the procession among themselves. In about an hour it reached its\ndestination, where Kumodini Babu's uncle received the guests. The\nfamily barber carried Samarendra in his arms to a chair which had\nbeen provided for him. There he sat with eyes fixed steadily on the\nground, while his friends squatted round and cracked jokes at his\nexpense. He smiled, but modestly implored them not to put him out of\ncountenance. The Lagna (auspicious time) was determined to be 9.30;\nmeanwhile the guests sat on carpets or chairs, beguiling the delay\nwith hookahs.\n\nWhile mirth was at its height, strange things were happening in a\nprivate room adjoining. Soon after arriving, Amarendra Babu asked\nKumodini Babu and Jadunath to display the presents destined for the\nyoung couple. They took him into a room where all were set forth to the\nbest advantage. After examining them in silence awhile, Amarendra Babu\nkicked the nearest contemptuously aside, remarking that they were \"mere\nrubbish\". In point of fact he fully expected Kumodini Babu to give\nRs. 4,000 in cash, Rs. 2,000 in respect of Barabharan and Phulsajya\nand Rs. 4,000 worth of jewellery--Rs. 10,000 in all. To judge by the\nornaments shown him, the total dowry would be barely half as much and\nhe could not help expressing disappointment. On asking Kumodini Babu\nwhat he intended paying down in cash, and learning that Rs. 1,001 was\nall he could afford, Amarendra Babu's indignation knew no bounds. He\ndemanded Rs. 5,000, declaring that if it were not paid on the nail,\nhe would take his son away! The wretched father implored twelve hours'\ndelay, but was told in as many words that his promise could not be\nrelied on. The deadlock soon got wind, and Amarendra Babu's action was\nseverely commented on by the guests, but he remained obdurate. Kumodini\nBabu's uncle ran to a wealthy acquaintance for a loan of Rs. 4,000,\nbut was told that so large a sum was not available at short notice. On\nhis return, Amarendra Babu delivered his ultimatum--Rs. 4,000 cash to\nbe paid forthwith; and finding that it was hopeless to expect so much,\nhe hailed a cab, hurried Samarendra into it, and drove home in high\ndudgeon, followed by all his relatives and friends. This unexpected\ncalamity brought mourning into a house of mirth; people spoke in\nwhispers; and anguish left its mark on every face.\n\nSham Babu was supervising the Haluikars (confectioners) when the\nawful news reached his ears. For a few minutes he stood transfixed\nto the spot; but ere long a happy thought struck him. He clapped his\nhands in silent glee, and ran to an inner room, where Kumodini Babu\nlay groaning on the bare floor, guarded by his son who feared that\nhe would do something rash.\n\n\"Mahasay,\" he said soothingly. \"Do not take on like this! God's\nways are inscrutable; perchance He has broken the match off for your\ndaughter's good.\"\n\n\"Yes, God's will be done,\" replied Kumodini Babu in sepulchral\ntones. \"We are but His instruments.\" Then after a pause he added,\n\"What I dread most is loss of caste\".\n\n\"Who will dare to excommunicate you for such a trifle?\" asked Sham\nBabu indignantly.\n\n\"Alas, you know too well that my family's position in society is\nterribly compromised. A marriage postponed is a marriage lost!\" groaned\nKumodini Babu.\n\n\"But why should it be postponed?\" was Sham Babu's eager question. \"I\nhave a proposal to make, if you will only give it a moment's thought.\"\n\nKumodini Babu looked up, and a ray of hope dried his tears; he waited\nanxiously for further particulars.\n\n\"You know my son Susil, I suppose? He is just sixteen and has passed\nthe Entrance Examination.\"\n\n\"Yes, yes,\" answered Kumodini Babu. \"He is a fine lad, obedient and\nwell-mannered. But what has he got to do with our present fix?\"\n\n\"Will you give your daughter to him in marriage? I will not ask a\nsingle pice as dowry.\"\n\nKumodini Babu sprang to his feet and embraced Sham Babu with fervour,\nsaying, \"You have saved my life. Personally, I should be delighted\nto have Susil as a son-in-law, but you must let me consult my son\nand wife.\" He ran to the inner apartments, and communicated Sham\nBabu's offer to his near relatives. This unexpected solution of the\ndilemma filled them with surprise; and a loud clamour of voices echoed\nthrough the house. Finally all, without exception, agreed that the\nmatch would be an excellent one. Kumodini Babu brought news of its\nacceptance to Sham Babu, and it spread among the wedding guests,\nwho were loud in their praises of his true Hindu spirit.\n\nSham Babu went into the courtyard where Susil sat talking with some\nother boys about the astounding piece of good fortune which awaited\nhim. That he, the son of a humble clerk, should espouse the daughter\nof a Zemindar was more than his wildest dreams had anticipated. He\njoyfully accompanied Sham Babu to a room, where he was clad in silken\nattire, and thence to the hall, where he was solemnly inducted into\nthe empty bridegroom's chair amid the acclamations of the assembled\nguests. As the Lagna (auspicious time) had not run out the actual\nmarriage ceremony began forthwith. Basumati was given away by her\nfather; while the ladies performed Satpak (lit. going round seven\ntimes--a ceremony without which a Hindu marriage is not binding) and\nother minor ceremonies with zest. After all had been well and duly\ngone through, the bride and bridegroom were conducted to an inner\napartment. Susil underwent the customary \"chaff\" from the ladies,\nwhich he bore with great good humour and was at last left alone with\nhis young companion for life; while some of the fair guests sang\nwedding songs to the intense delight of their friends. Nor were the\nmen-folk idle. They sat down to a sumptuous feast prepared for the\nrecreant bridegroom's family, nor did they separate till daybreak.\n\nAt 3 P.M. on the morrow Sham Babu took Sasil and Basumati to his own\nhome, where the Bau-Bhat ceremony was performed in grand style. It\nwas attended by all their caste-fellows, who were loud in extolling\nhis magnanimity. Sham Babu accepted their praises meekly, remarking\nthat he had done nothing more than his duty, by neglecting which he\nwould have rendered himself accountable to God.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\nAn Outrageous Swindle\n\nAmarendra Babu had expected Kumodini Babu to run after him,\nwith entreaties to return and the promise of a note of hand for\nRs. 4,000. Disappointment became downright wrath when he heard that\nhis son's prospective bride had been forthwith married to another\nboy. After pondering awhile on this grievance, he sent an anonymous\nletter to Sham Babu's employers, to the effect that their clerk was\nrobbing them right and left and running a business of his own with\ntheir money, under a fictitious name. They had implicit confidence\nin his honesty, and the only action they took was to hand the scrawl\nto him with a remark that they hoped he would discover and prosecute\nthe writer.\n\nMeanwhile Amarendra Babu cast about him for a suitable match for his\nson. Hearing of a likely girl from the marriage-broker, he visited her\nparents, who accepted his overtures with alacrity. The young lady's\nfather, Jogesh by name, was a commission agent, whose regular earnings\ndid not exceed thirty rupees a month; but he lived in such style that\nhis neighbours believed him to be comfortably off. Amarendra Babu, too,\nwas deceived by appearances, while the girl, who was exhibited to him,\nseemed intelligent and pretty. On his side, Jogesh knew his visitor\nto be a house-owner of some means; and learning from him that his son\nwas a second-year student, he gladly consented to the match. The pair\nnext broached a delicate question, that of dowry. Amarendra Babu had\nlearnt by bitter experience of the folly of pitching expectations too\nhigh. He told Jogesh that he should be quite satisfied with Rs. 4,001,\nviz., ornaments 2,000, barabharan and phulsajya Rs. 500 each, and cash\nRs. 1,001. On Jogesh's expressing willingness to provide that amount,\nthe purohit (family priest) was sent for who, after referring to a\npanjika (almanac), announced that Sraban 20th would be an auspicious\nday for the marriage. They then separated with many protestations of\nmutual good-will.\n\nMeantime Jogesh made minute inquiries as to Amarendra Babu's position\nand the health of his son. Their result was satisfactory enough;\nnot so the fiasco related in my last chapter, which reached him with\namplification, and made him resolve that Amarendra Babu should not\nplay such tricks on him. He ordered no ornaments for his daughter,\nbecause he had little cash or credit, but simply borrowed Rs. 300 to\nmeet absolutely necessary expenses. On the afternoon of Sraban 20th he\ncalled in half a dozen city roughs, armed them with thick sticks, and\nplied them with spirits, telling them on no account to appear in the\npublic apartments of his house until they received a signal agreed on.\n\nAt seven o'clock Amarendra Babu, with his son and an uncle named\nRashbehari, arrived at Jogesh's house in a second-class cab. No\nprocession attended them, partly because the last had cost so much\nmoney, partly owing to the fear that another hitch might cover them\nwith ridicule. After exchanging hearty salutations with Jogesh, they\nasked him to exhibit the ornaments prepared for the bride-elect. He\ntook them to a side room and left them there a while, presently\nintroducing a well-dressed man as his family goldsmith. The latter\nunlocked a tin box which he was carrying and took out a number of\nglittering gold trinkets, one by one. After examining them carefully,\nAmarendra Babu asked him to weigh them, which he did, proving that\ntheir weight exceeded 120 bharis (forty-eight ounces), and their\ntotal value, at Rs. 20 per bhari, no less than Rs. 2,400. This was\nfar more than he had bargained for, and Amarendra Babu was highly\ndelighted; but his uncle insisted on sending for his own goldsmith\nto weigh the ornaments. Jogesh at once fell in with the suggestion,\nand this tradesman, on arrival, valued them at Rs. 2,700.\n\nRashbehari Babu's scepticism vanished, and he assented to his\nnephew's whispered hint that they need not ask Jogesh to produce\nthe barabharan. He, however, insisted on satisfying them as to its\nworth and placed in their hands a heavy gold watch by McCabe, with\nan albert chain, equally ponderous; and assured them that he had\npaid Rs. 800 for the two. Amarendra's joy was perhaps excessive,\nand when the lagna (auspicious time) came round, he permitted the\nmarriage to be celebrated. Every ceremony went off without a hitch,\nand the evening closed in feasting and mirth.\n\nOn the following afternoon Amarendra Babu took the bridegroom and\nbride with the box of ornaments to his own home, while Rashbehari\nBabu remained behind at Jogesh's to receive the cash. On mentioning\nthis little formality he was assured that the sum of Rs. 1,001 had\nbeen duly counted out to his nephew; so he took his leave. When he\nreached home, he discovered the dirty trick that had been played by\nJogesh. Amarendra stoutly denied having received any cash; and the\ntin box was proved to contain only fragments of brick neatly wrapped\nin paper, and covered with pink cotton wool.\n\nThe pair of dupes hurried to Jogesh's house for an explanation. He\nsat in the parlour, in evident expectation of their arrival, and\nasked with an air of unconcern what was the matter.\n\n\"You son of a pig!\" roared Amarendra Babu, shaking his clenched fist\nclose to Jogesh's nose. \"Tell me where are the ornaments--where is\nthe cash?\"\n\n\"Why, did you not take away a box full of trinkets? and you must\nadmit that the Rs. 1,001 were handed you in a cotton bag,\"\n\nThis impudence was too much. Both uncle and nephew fell upon Jogesh\nand belaboured him sorely with their shoes. He did not retaliate,\nbut consoled himself with the thought that he had done his duty,\nto God and society, by marrying his daughter, whatever fate might\nawait him. After vowing to bring a suit against the swindler,\nAmarendra Babu and his uncle left the premises and did what they\nwould have done much earlier had they not been in such a desperate\nhurry to marry the lad. They made inquiries as to Jogesh's position\nand soon discovered that he was a man of straw, quite unworthy of\npowder and shot. They learned, too, that he had hired Rs. 3,000 worth\nof trinkets for one night from a goldsmith, who never let them out of\nhis possession. From a wealthy neighbour he had borrowed a McCabe's\nwatch and chain, also for one night only. His arrangements made with a\ngang of city roughs, in order to prevent the marriage being broken off,\nalso came to light. Amarendra Babu saw that he had been dealing with a\ncunning and desperate man and prudently determined to give him a wide\nberth in future. But his daughter was in Amarendra Babu's clutches,\nand she was forced to expiate the sins of her father. The luckless\ngirl was kept on very short commons and locked into a dark room when\nshe was not engaged in rough household work. Contrary to custom,\nshe was not sent to her father's house three days after the marriage;\nnor was the Bau-Bhat ceremony performed. But Jogesh was on the alert;\nhe managed to communicate with her by bribing a maid-servant, and one\nmorning Amarendra Babu's household discovered that the half-starved\nbird had flown.\n\nA year passed away without news of the truants; but, one evening,\nAmarendra Babu was sitting in his parlour, spelling out a spicy\nleader in the Indian Mirror, when, to his unqualified amazement,\nJogesh stepped in and unbidden took a seat. Amarendra Babu's first\nimpulse was to shout for help and eject the intruder with every\nspecies of ignominy, but second thoughts are proverbially peaceful.\n\n\"This Jogesh,\" he reflected, \"must be a very smart fellow, or he would\nnever have taken us all in as he did. It is better to be on the side of\nthe sacrificial knife than the goat that awaits its stroke. Why should\nI not hear what he has to say? He would not have come here without\nsome excellent reason--perhaps he wants to pay up part of his debt\nto me, or maybe he has some scheme with money in it to unfold. He'll\ncertainly try to overreach me again; but then once bitten twice\nshy. I'll be on my guard.\" Then with an attempt at irony he asked:--\n\n\"What brings you of all people to my house? Have you got another\ndaughter to marry?\"\n\nHad Amarendra Babu observed the gleam which shot from Jogesh's shifty\neyes, he would have kicked him out at once, but he waited for a reply,\nwhich came in honeyed accents:--\n\n\"Now, Babuji, please don't rake up old stories; what is done cannot\nbe undone. You, as a father, ought to excuse little subterfuges,\ncontrived in order to get a daughter off one's hands. I was so anxious\nto ally myself with your distinguished family that I did sail rather\nnear the wind. But I have come to offer you some amends by putting\nyou on a really good thing.\"\n\nAmarendra Babu's cupidity was excited by these words. He asked with\napparent indifference: \"Well, let me hear more of your famous plans,\nand meantime I'll call for a hookah\".\n\nJogesh was overjoyed by the success of his manoeuvres. He answered,\npunctuating his sentences by inhaling fragrant Bhilsi, \"You have\nheard of Campbell & Co., the big cooly recruiters of Azimganj? Well,\nthey have an agency in Calcutta for supplying emigrants to Mauritius,\nTrinidad, and other outlandish places; and it is run by one Ganesh\nSen who is a close friend of mine. He tells me that a number of\nsub-contracts will be given out to-morrow, and I have made up my mind\nto apply for one. Ganesh Babu is sure to come to terms with me; and I\nknow a very smart sardar (ganger) who will supply me with any number of\ncoolies I want. But I shall take care to keep a large margin between\nthe rate per head, at which they will be delivered to Campbell & Co.,\nand that which my sardar will receive. All this will be clear profit.\"\n\n\"It seems a good speculation,\" said Amarendra Babu musingly, \"but\nI should like to have further particulars. What do you expect to\nmake per head delivered; and what capital will be required?\" Jogesh\npulled out a paper covered with calculations, and proved to his host's\nsatisfaction that as much as Rs. 5 might be expected on each cooly. As\nfor capital, a few hundreds would be needed in the first instance as\nan advance to the sardar, and other sums later, to provide outfits\nfor the coolies according to law. Campbell & Co. settled the accounts\nof sub-contractors monthly, so that Amarendra would not have to wait\nlong for his money. Jogesh concluded by urging his baibahik (father\nof a son-in-law) to call with him on Messrs. Campbell & Co.'s Calcutta\nmanager, who would corroborate his statements. Amarendra Babu thought\nthat there would be no harm in going into matters further. He fixed 4\nP.M. on the following day for a visit to 809 Strand, where Campbell &\nCo.'s branch offices were said to be located.\n\nOn arriving there punctually, he was met by Jogesh, who took him\nthrough a courtyard where twenty or thirty coolies were squatting,\nshepherded by a stalwart Mohammadan, wearing a blue turban, who was\nintroduced as Salim Sardar, his ganger. Pushing through the little\ncrowd, they entered a well-furnished office, where several clerks\nsat writing busily. One of them looked up when Jogesh said: \"Ganesh\nBabu, I have brought you my baibahik, who is thinking of joining me\nin a sub-contract\".\n\nThe manager, for such he was, received Amarendra Babu politely and\nsaid that he would gladly come to terms with them. He then produced\na written contract in duplicate on stamped paper, by which the\npartners agreed to furnish at least 1,000 coolies monthly, during\nthe emigration season, at rates which left a net profit of Rs. 5\nper head, to be shared equally between them. After reading both\ndocuments over twice, Amarendra Babu executed them, as did Jogesh;\nand the former took possession of his copy. On returning home with\nhis new partner, he entered on a discussion as to ways and means. It\nwas agreed that he should advance Rs. 5,000 for preliminaries, which\nhe did a week later, raising the amount on a mortgage of his Calcutta\nhouse property. Everything went swimmingly at first; Jogesh calling\ndaily to report progress; and a month later he burst into Amarendra\nBabu's parlour, with a cash-book and bundle of currency notes. The\nlatter learnt to his intense delight that his share of the profits\namounted to Rs. 1268 12.4. which was promptly paid him. Two or three\ndays afterwards Jogesh again called to tell him that an opportunity\nof making Rs. 10,000 net had occurred owing to the pressing demand\nfor cooly freight from a ship which was lying half-empty, and costing\nlarge sums for demurrage. Rs. 10,000 must be forthcoming at once for\nadvances and perhaps special railway trucks, but Amarendra Babu might\ncalculate on receiving 100 per cent. in three weeks at the latest. Such\na chance of money-making was not to be lost. Amarendra Babu rushed off\nto his broker and sold nearly all his Government paper for Rs. 10,000\nin cash, which he handed to Jogesh, against a formal acknowledgment.\n\nSeeing nothing of his partner for several days, Amarendra called\nto inquire how the new contract fared and was thunderstruck to find\nJogesh's house locked up. Hastening to Campbell & Co.'s Strand offices,\nhe saw a notice \"to let\" exhibited there. This spectacle confirmed\nhis worst fears--he had been twice swindled outrageously. His only\nhope lay in the scoundrel's arrest; so he laid an information at the\npolice station, and a clever detective was told off to investigate\nthe charge. Strange was the story which came to light. No such firm\nas \"Campbell & Co.\" existed; Ganesh Babu and Salim Sardar were both\naccomplices of Jogesh, who had rented an office on the Strand for\none month at Rs. 300 which was never paid. He had also engaged twenty\nor thirty loafers at 4 annas (4d.) a head to personate coolies for a\ncouple of hours. This part of the inquiry was satisfactory enough--for\nthe police; not so the efforts they made to trace Jogesh and his\naccomplices. From that day to this nothing has been heard of them.\n\nAmarendra Babu never recovered from this crushing blow. The loss of\nnearly Rs. 14,000 is a very serious matter for any one of moderate\nmeans; to him it was doubly grievous, for he worshipped money and\nvalued nothing but success. By constantly brooding on his misfortunes\nand folly he developed symptoms of madness and was at times so violent\nthat his relatives were obliged to confine him in a dark room. One\nafternoon he eluded their vigilance and hurried to the office of\n\"Campbell & Co.\" on the Strand. After gazing for several minutes at\nthe empty building, he heaved a deep sigh, ran across the road, and\nsprang into the River Hughli. The undercurrent sucked his body in,\nand it was never recovered. Perhaps Mother Ganges was loath to keep\na carcase so tainted in her bosom, and so whirled it southwards to\nthe ocean.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\nThe Virtue of Economy.\n\nSham Babu was a clerk of nearly thirty years' standing, and the\napproach of old age made him anxious to escape from the daily grind of\nbusiness. He asked permission to resign, which was reluctantly granted;\nhis employers signifying their appreciation of his faithful service\nby granting him a pension of Rs. 30 a month and offering to provide\nfor any of his relatives who might be fit for clerical work. Sham\nBabu thanked them warmly and retired to his native village, with the\nintention of passing the evening of life in peace. He had always lived\nwell within his means. People who were thrice as rich could not imagine\nhow he contrived to bring up a family on the salary which he was known\nto enjoy. Some folks insinuated that he had made money by giving his\nson in marriage to Kumodini Babu's daughter, never remembering that a\ndowry is reserved for the bride's benefit, while the cash payment made\nto a father-in-law barely suffices to meet the expenses of elaborate\nnuptial ceremonies. Others hinted that he had waxed rich on illicit\ncommissions--another charge which was quite without foundation. Sham\nBabu was strictly honest, and besides, the opportunities within the\nreach of clerks employed by a private firm are not worth mentioning.\n\nAfter settling down at Kadampur he cudgelled his brains for some\nmeans of increasing his slender resources. Friends advised him to try\nfarming, or start a business in lending grain to cultivators. Neither\ntrade was to his liking. Clerks are of little use outside their own\nsphere; and Sham Babu was too soft-hearted to succeed as a village\nShylock. A matter of pressing importance was to establish his son\nSusil, who had passed the First Arts examination and was hanging about\nthe Government offices at Ghoria, in the hope of securing a post. Sham\nBabu took advantage of his late employer's offer and sent the young\nman off to Calcutta armed with a sheaf of certificates. To his great\ndelight, Susil was appointed clerk on Rs. 25--a magnificent start,\nwhich relieved his father's most pressing anxiety.\n\nSham Babu had begun life with a small patrimony which was slowly\nincreased by savings from his monthly pay. He was worth nearly\nRs. 10,000, the whole of which was lent by him to a trader named\nGopal Datta, certified by Sham Babu's brother-in-law Hari to be\nthoroughly trustworthy. This Gopal dealt in jute; and being a man of\ngreat daring, he speculated so successfully with Sham Babu's money\nthat, within three or four years, he amassed a fortune of two lakhs\n(L13,333). He paid 12 per cent. interest on the loan regularly,\nwhich made a comfortable addition to Sham Babu's pension.\n\nIt was the latter's habit to visit his Calcutta relatives at least\nonce a month. So, one day in June, 18--, he went to Hari Babu's house\nwith the intention of passing the night there. His brother-in-law\nwas absent and not expected till the morrow; but Sham Babu was\nwelcomed by the ladies of the family, who made all arrangements\nfor his comfort. In the evening he sat in the Baitakhana (parlour)\nreading the Bhagavat Gita (a mystical poem). A carriage drove up\nto the door whence alighted Ramanath Babu, who was Gopal's younger\nbrother. After the usual compliments had been exchanged, Sham Babu\nasked what business his visitor was engaged in.\n\n\"I have started as a broker in jute and oil-seeds,\" was the reply.\n\n\"I hope you will do as well as Gopal,\" said Sham Babu, \"but I suppose\nyou have joined him?\"\n\n\"Certainly not,\" replied Ramanath impulsively; then he checked himself,\nas though he had said too much.\n\nSham Babu was astonished by the tone adopted by his visitor. He asked,\n\"Why, what's the matter with Gopal, nothing wrong I hope and trust?\"\n\n\"No, not exactly; but I'm in a hurry to-day, you must excuse my\ntaking leave.\"\n\nSham Babu, however, would not be put off with vague insinuations. He\nsaid, \"I must ask you, Ramanath, to be more precise. You know your\nbrother has borrowed Rs. 10,000 from me on a mere note of hand,\nand I am naturally very anxious to learn the truth.\"\n\nRamanath Babu paused for a few seconds before replying. \"It is a\nfact that my brother's speculations have been unfortunate of late. He\ncertainly made a good deal of money at one time, but sunk the bulk of\nit in bricks and mortar, which you know are not easily turned into\nliquid capital. You, as a large creditor, ought to be told how the\nland lies.\"\n\n\"This is the first I have heard of Gopal's difficulties,\" groaned\nSham Babu.\n\n\"Yes, because no one troubled himself to tell you the truth; but I\ncan assure you that Gopal's liabilities are something awful, and it\nis quite possible that he may have to take insolvency proceedings.\"\n\n\"You don't say so! What shall I do? If Gopal becomes bankrupt,\nI shall be utterly ruined.\"\n\n\"Well, I cannot advise you fully,\" replied Ramanath Babu, \"but\nforewarned is forearmed. If I were in your shoes I would certainly\ncall in my loan.\" Thereon he took leave.\n\nSham Babu passed a restless night, dreaming of the debtor's jail and\na starving family. On Hari Babu's return, next morning, he related the\npurport of his conversation with Ramanath. His host said: \"You should\nnot attach too much importance to such tittle-tattle. Ramanath has\nhad a quarrel with his brother about family matters, and he is not\nat all averse to doing him a bad turn.\" Sham Babu was not satisfied\nwith this explanation. He answered:--\n\n\"I can hardly believe Ramanath capable of telling deliberate lies,\nwhich must inevitably be detected.\"\n\n\"Perhaps not. It is quite possible that Gopal may be in temporary\nstraits. But can you point to a single merchant among your\nacquaintances whose career has been uniformly prosperous? There are\nups and downs in commerce, which no one can avoid. Mark my words,\nGopal will soon pull himself together again!\"\n\nSham Babu was by no means convinced by his brother-in-law's\noptimism. He remarked, \"In any case I ought not to allow my loan to\nstand without some tangible security. Gopal has house property in\nCalcutta, I believe?\"\n\n\"To be sure he has. There is his new house at Entally, which must have\ncost Rs. 20,000; and another in Barabazar, letting at Rs. 3,000. Just\ncalculate what this property must be worth. If I doubted Gopal's\nsolvency, do you suppose I would have lent him Rs. 20,000 on his note\nof hand?\"\n\nSham Babu was quite reassured. He came to the conclusion that Ramanath\nhad attempted to injure his own brother, and returned home with a\nfirm resolve to disregard such scandalous talk in future.\n\nAbout three months afterwards he met Ramanath Babu quite casually in\nHarrison Road and, in the course of conversation, the latter asked\nwhether he had called in his loan to Gopal.\n\n\"I have done nothing of the kind,\" was the curt reply. \"My\nbrother-in-law tells me that he is quite solvent.\"\n\n\"It was just like him to say so--the selfish fellow! I am sorry to\nsay that my brother has lost heavily by speculating in jute and is,\nin fact, a ruined man. If you don't believe me, ask Hari Babu again\nand you will see what tune he sings. Perhaps you don't know that he\nhas called in his loan of Rs. 20,000?\"\n\n\"That is certainly strange,\" replied Sham Babu with tears in his\nvoice. \"He never breathed a word of any such intention to me.\"\n\n\"Hari Babu is your brother-in-law,\" continued Ramanath, \"but Gopal\nis my own brother. Is it likely that I would injure his reputation\ngratuitously? No; you are an old friend whom I cannot allow to be\nruined without a word of warning. If you do not choose to act upon it,\nso much the worse for you.\"\n\nSham Babu was now convinced that no time was to be lost in demanding\nproper security for the loan. He went straight to his brother-in-law,\nto whom he repeated the information which he had received.\n\nHari Babu shook his head sadly. \"Yes,\" he said, \"I am afraid there is\nsome truth in it. Gopal is in temporary difficulties; but you need not\nbe anxious. I will get him to give you a mortgage on landed property\nworth much more than his debt to you.\"\n\nSham Babu felt somewhat reassured, but there was a point to be\ncleared up.\n\n\"One word more,\" he said, \"have you called in your loan of Rs. 20,000?\"\n\nHari Babu looked at him suspiciously. \"Who told you so?\"\n\n\"I heard it from a reliable source.\"\n\n\"It must have been Ramanath, who is always seeking to make\nmischief. Well, yes, I did ask Gopal to repay me, not that I distrusted\nhim but because I wanted to invest the money in land.\"\n\nSham Babu felt indignant at the man's gross selfishness, but he\nconcealed his feelings and merely remarked that he would not leave\nCalcutta till the mortgage was settled. Next morning he insisted on\nHari Babu accompanying him to Gopal's house at Entally. They found the\ndebtor apparently in high spirits, although he admitted that certain\nspeculations had turned out badly. When pressed by Sham Babu to repay\nthe loan, he asked for time, pleading that his whole capital was locked\nup. Sham Babu, however, was obdurate, and with his brother-in-law's\nhelp he brought such pressure to bear on Gopal that the latter sulkily\nagreed to give him a mortgage on an ancestral estate in the Mufassil\n(interior of Bengal). Sham Babu stuck closely to him until the bargain\nhad been fulfilled, and managed matters so expeditiously that the\nmortgage deed was drawn up, executed, and registered in a week. Though\nhe had now something tangible to rely on in case of accidents still\nhe was not happy, for Gopal discontinued paying interest on the loan\nand he did not dare to press him, lest he should precipitate a crash.\n\nMisfortunes never come singly. Soon after settling this unpleasant\naffair, Sham Babu was laid low by fever; and doctor's bills trenched\nsadly on his slender resources. Susil, too, the hope of the family,\ncaught a mysterious disease and was absent from office so long that his\nemployers were obliged to replace him. For the first time in his life,\nthe poor old father felt the pinch of want, but he bore up bravely\nhoping for better times. When he was able to crawl about again, he\napplied to his old employers for work of any kind, but learnt to his\nsorrow that they intended winding up the business and were not able\nto increase their establishment. Sham Babu scanned the advertisement\ncolumns of the daily paper and answered many offers of employment,\nlearning, on each occasion, that he was far too old to fill the\ncoveted post.\n\nOne evening he sat in his parlour brooding over the many misfortunes\nwhich encompassed him. A distant connection named Srish Babu came in\nand, hearing that his host sorely needed work, said:--\n\n\"I am going to start a business in country produce and shall want\nseveral experienced clerks. I must provide for relatives first and\nstrangers afterwards. Now, would you be inclined to come to me as\nmanager, on Rs. 75 a month to begin with?\"\n\nSham Babu jumped at the offer, which would restore him to comparative\naffluence, and it was agreed that he should enter on his new duties\nin three weeks. A month passed by without news from his relative,\nand meantime Sham Babu received a tempting offer of employment. Before\ndeciding what to do he wrote to Srish Babu, informing him of the fact\nand asking whether he could rely on him. A reply came to the effect\nthat he might do as he pleased, but that the business in country\nproduce, which he was to manage, would positively be started in a\nfortnight. After another month of suspense, Sham Babu learnt that\nSrish's bubble had been pricked, and that he had levanted, no one\nknew whither, to escape a swarm of creditors.\n\nThe poor old man was now on his beam-ends. The only course open\nto him was to sue Gopal for arrears of interest and foreclose his\nmortgage. After a year and a half's attendance in divers civil\ncourts and spending his last rupee on lawyers' fees, he obtained a\ndecree. When, however, he tried to execute it, it turned out that\nthe estate on which he had a lien was a joint family possession,\nwith the shares so inextricably mixed up that he could neither trace\nthe property mortgaged to him nor discover who was liable for the\nproportion of profit derived from it. As well poke one's fingers into\na hornet's nest as into a joint family estate! Sham Babu was glad to\naccept an offer of Rs. 5,000 from Gopal's co-sharers, in return for\na surrender of his claims. Despite his heavy loss, enough remained\nto preserve him from penury; and he was even able to start Susil in\na small way of business. Great is the virtue of economy!\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\nA Peacemaker.\n\nYoung Samarendra Dass of Calcutta hoped to enter Government service\nas a Sub-Deputy Magistrate; but this ambition was thwarted by the\nsudden decease of his father, who left a widow and two sons entirely\nunprovided for. After dutifully performing the sradh (funeral rites),\nhe waited on the dead man's uncle, Rashbehari Babu by name, with a\nrequest that he would support the little family until the sons were in\na position to do so. No good Hindu in comfortable circumstances ever\nturns a deaf ear to such appeals. Rashbehari Babu at once invited the\ntrio to take up their abode with him. Having no nearer relatives,\nhe had resolved to leave his whole fortune to Samarendra and his\nbrother Nagendra; and long before his nephew's death he had executed\na will to that effect, which for obvious reasons was kept a profound\nsecret. The young men were, therefore, ignorant of the brilliant\nprospects in store for them, and worked hard to prepare themselves\nfor earning a livelihood. Samarendra was soon provided with a post\nas clerk, which yielded enough to provide the cost of his father's\nfuneral ceremony and also enabled him to pay Nagendra's school fees.\n\nOne evening Rashbehari Babu went to bed supperless, complaining of\nindisposition. At midnight, Samarendra was awakened by his groans and\nfound him writhing in agony on the floor. A doctor was summoned in hot\nhaste; but ere his arrival the poor old man had expired in Samarendra's\narms. His case was diagnosed as one of failure of the heart's action.\n\nSamarendra and his mother were prostrated by this sudden calamity;\nbut there is no time to be lost in hot weather. Calling in three\nor four neighbours, they had the body carried to Nimtala Ghat for\ncremation. Sufficient money was given to the Muchis (low-caste men who\nserve as undertakers) for purchasing an abundant supply of fuel and ghi\n(clarified butter) with which a chilla (pyre) was constructed. After\nthe corpse had been laid reverently thereon, Samarendra performed\nMukhagni (\"putting fire in its mouth,\" the duty of the eldest son\nor nearest relative). Fire was then applied on four sides, and when\nthe body had been reduced to ashes, Samarendra bathed in the Ganges\nwith his companions, and returned home with wet clothes, shouting\n\"Haribol!\" (a cry used at funerals).\n\nNext day Samarendra discovered the dead man's keys, one of which\nopened a drawer where Rashbehari Babu kept his private papers. Among\nthem was a will, which made himself and his brother sole heirs to\nthe deceased's estate. He ran with the glad news to his mother, who,\nin the exuberance of her joy, vowed to offer a sumptuous puja at Kali\nGhat temple after the sradh had been duly performed.\n\nRashbehari Babu left landed property yielding an annual income of\nRs. 1,200, besides Rs. 10,000 deposited in a Calcutta bank, and a\nsubstantial house. His estate was worth not less than Rs. 40,000--a\nlucky windfall for the penniless brothers. It is needless to add\nthat the testator's sradh was celebrated with great pomp, which\nover, Samarendra applied for and obtained probate of the will. A\nsudden change from dependence to comparative wealth is trying to\nthe best-balanced character. Samarendra's head was turned by the\naccession of fortune; he began to give himself airs in dealing with\nacquaintances, and was not over-kind to his mother, who bore her\nsufferings patiently.\n\nA landed proprietor holds service in contempt. Samarendra at once\nresigned his post and settled down at Ratnapur, where Rashbehari\nBabu had owned a house and the bulk of his estate was situated. Soon\nafterwards he yielded to the repeated advice of his mother by marrying\nthe daughter of a caste-fellow, endowed with goods on a par with her\nhusband's new position.\n\nHis brother Nagendra passed the Entrance Examination, but failed to\nsecure a First Arts certificate. This rebuff so disheartened him that\nhe gave up all idea of continuing the University course and returned to\nRatnapur with the intention of living in idleness on his property. In\nvain did Samarendra point out the advantages of a degree. Nagendra\ndeclared that such distinctions were beyond his reach. Sudden wealth,\nin fact, was injurious to both of them.\n\nTwo uneventful years passed away. Samarendra's wife was the mother\nof an idolised boy and was herself adored by her mother-in-law, who\nnever allowed her to do any manner of household work. The result was\nthat her temper changed for the worse. When the old lady fell ill,\nthe young one made horrible messes of her curry and rice. If her\nhusband ventured to remonstrate, she silenced him with abuse, and\neven emphasised her remarks with a broomstick.\n\nSamarendra, in fact, was completely under his wife's thumb. Her word\nwas law in the household; her mother-in-law a mere cypher, who found\nboth husband and wife perpetually leagued against her. Shortly after\nhis arrival at Ratnapur, Nagendra espoused the daughter of Kanto\nBabu, a Zemindar residing in the neighbourhood. At first Samarendra's\nwife received the new-comer graciously enough; but finding that she\nwas of a submissive disposition, she soon began to lord it over her\nsister-in-law. Nagendra sympathised heartily with his young wife,\nbut had such a horror of family quarrels that he was very loath to\nintervene on her behalf. One evening, however, he ventured on a word\nof reproof, which was received with angry words and threats of his\neldest brother's vengeance.\n\nNext day Samarendra called him into the parlour, and, after they\nwere seated, said: \"I hear you have been rude to Barabau (the elder\nwife). Is that so?\"\n\nNagendra raised his hands in wonder. \"No, brother, it was she who\nshowed disrespect to me, simply because I objected to her bullying\nmy wife.\"\n\n\"Do you mean to say that Barabau has lied?\" thundered Samarendra. His\nbrother was nettled by the tone adopted. He replied hotly, \"Yes,\nshe has lied!\"\n\n\"What!\" asked Samarendra beside himself with indignation. \"Is my\nwife a liar and are you a Judisthir?\" (the elder of the five Pandav\nbrothers, heroes of the Mahabharata). \"You are a creature without\nshame!\" So saying, he shook his fist at Nagendra who started from\nhis seat as if to attack him. Luckily a respectable neighbour came\nin at the very nick of time and separated the would-be combatants.\n\nOn the morrow, Nagendra told his brother curtly that these perpetual\nbickerings must be avoided at all cost, and that the only course open\nto them was to separate. Samarendra raised not the slightest objection,\nand from that day forward two distinct establishments were set up\nin the same house. It only remained to divide the estates equally,\nand as a preliminary step Nagendra asked for accounts during the last\nthree years. They were furnished in a few weeks, and he spent several\nnights in examining them carefully, taking lists of defaulters in\norder to verify them by independent inquiry.\n\nWhile returning home, one evening, from supper at a friend's house,\nhe met a Mohammadan ryot who, according to the accounts, was heavily\nin arrears of rent. He paused and, after acknowledging the man's salam,\nremarked that he ought to make an effort to pay a part at least of what\nwas due. The ryot stood aghast with surprise, but invoked Allah to\nwitness that he had paid up every pice, adding that he held Dakhilas\n(rent receipts) from Bara Babu (the elder brother) which would prove\nhis assertion. Nagendra asked him to call next day with the receipts\nin question.\n\nWhen the man presented himself, Nagendra, in his brother's\npresence, asked for the arrears of rent shown in the jama wasil baqi\n(accounts). Again the ryot affirmed that he owned nothing and appealed\nto the Bara Babu for corroboration. Samarendra was taken aback.\n\n\"Yes,\" he stammered, \"you did pay me something about a month ago.\"\n\n\"Why do you say 'something,' Babu? You know quite well that I\ndischarged my rent in full; and what is more I have receipts.\" So\nsaying he untied a knot in his gamcha (wrapper) and extracted some\ngreasy papers, which he flourished in Samarendra's face, shouting,\n\"Will you swear by your gods that these are not in your writing?\"\n\nNagendra took the receipts, which bore his brother's signature. The\nlatter looked somewhat sheepish as he answered: \"My memory failed me;\nI now recollect receiving our rent from you.\"\n\nNagendra turned sharply on his brother with the question: \"Then why\ndid you not enter these receipts in your karcha (cash-book)?\"\n\n\"I'm sure I don't know,\" was the reply; \"probably I forgot to do so.\"\n\nThough Nagendra said nothing at the time, his doubts of Samarendra's\nprobity became certainties. From that day onward he was indefatigable\nin studying the copy of the siah (rent-roll) furnished him,\nthe cash-book, and statement of arrears. Figures set down in\nthese accounts were checked by private inquiries among the ryots\nthemselves. Then the truth dawned on Nagendra, that his brother\nhad misappropriated large sums, which should have been paid to him,\nand concealed his fraud by falsifying the Zemindari papers. After\npreparing a list of defalcations, he showed it to his brother and\nasked for an explanation. None was forthcoming; nay, Samarendra made\nhis case worse by flying into a passion and ordering him out of the\nroom. He went straight to Kanto Babu for advice, and was told that\nthe only course open to him was to sue his brother for recovery of\nthe amount wrongfully appropriated. He resolved to do so forthwith.\n\nOn the self-same night his wife, after discussing household affairs\nwith him as usual, asked casually why he had paid her father a\nvisit. He told her everything that occurred without reserve. The young\nlady listened with breathless attention, but heaved a deep sigh on\nlearning that he intended suing his elder brother. Nagendra paused\nand asked what was on her mind.\n\n\"My lord,\" was her reply, \"I am only a woman, knowing nothing of\nthe world except things within my sphere. Any attempt on my part to\nmeddle in business matters may seem extremely presumptuous. But this is\nsuch a grave and risky matter that I cannot help speaking out. If you\nfile a suit against your brother, he will of course defend himself;\nfor to lose it would ruin him in purse and honour. It will drag on\nfor months. If you get a decree, the defendant will appeal to the\nSub-Judge, and eventually to the High Court. To fight your way step\nby step will cost a fortune; and even should you win all along the\nline, the lawyers will not leave you enough to keep body and soul\ntogether. How can a small estate like yours bear the costs of both\nsides? So in my humble opinion it would be much better to allow your\nbrother to enjoy his ill-gotten gains. Make up your mind, from this\nday forward, to look carefully after your interests, and you may rest\nassured that your brother will never try any such tricks again.\"\n\nNagendra listened with open mouth to this discourse, and when his wife\nhad done speaking, he embraced her fondly again and again, murmuring:--\n\n\"My dearest love, I never knew your real worth till now. The Goddess\nof Wisdom has chosen you as her messenger and has convinced me that\nlawsuits are luxuries which only the rich folk can enjoy--not people\nin my position. I will certainly see your father to-morrow and tell\nhim my resolve to take no steps whatever against Samarendra.\"\n\nA Hindu wife is her husband's truest friend; ever eager to share his\nsorrows and to proffer sound advice in times of difficulty. Yet these\nsweet, unselfish creatures are systematically libelled by men who owe\neverything to them. It was soon noised abroad that Nagendra's wife had\nsaved him from inevitable ruin. Everyone praised her common-sense--not\nexcepting Samarendra and his wife, who thenceforward treated her with\nmore consideration. Nagendra, therefore, began to hope that peace\nand unity would again rule the family.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\nA Brahman's Curse.\n\nDespite his lack of training Samarendra Babu had great capacities\nfor business, and seldom lost a chance of profit-making. He saw that\npeople around him stood in constant need of funds to defray the cost\nof religious and family rites, and were ready to pay 60 per cent for\nloans--at least they undertook to do so. It occurred to him that if\nhe lent money on unimpeachable security at something under the market\nrates, he could not fail to make a large fortune. Soon after he had set\nup as a banker, the neighbours flocked to him for advances, which he\ngranted only to such as could offer substantial security; his charges\nby way of interest being 30 to 40 per cent. He also started a business\nin lending ryots rice for their seed-grain and support till the harvest\nshould be reaped. It is needless to add that his clients paid heavily\nfor this accommodation. So rapidly did his dealings increase that he\nsought an agent to represent him at the district headquarters; and\nparticularly to buy up defaulters' estates at the auctions which are\nheld periodically under Government auspices. His choice fell upon one\nBipinbehari Bhur, who had a widespread reputation for acuteness. It\nwas not belied. In less than a year Bipin had secured for his master\nestates yielding a net income of nearly Rs. 1,200, which had cost a\nmere song at auction. Samarendra Babu never failed to reward him for\nsuch bargains. On one occasion he had such a slice of luck that it\nis worth while to narrate it in some detail.\n\nHe had just retired to rest for the night, when a servant knocked at\nthe door to say that Bipin had come on very urgent business. Samarendra\nBabu went downstairs to his parlour, clad in a wrapper, to find\nhis agent pacing up and down in evident agitation. After the usual\ncompliments had been exchanged, he asked why Bipin had called so late.\n\n\"I have bad news for you, Mahasay,\" was the reply. \"You remember\nbuying the Shibprakash estate at last auction? Well, that property\nmay slip through your fingers.\" He paused to watch the effect of the\nannouncement on his master, and then went on: \"The late proprietor\nhas lodged an objection to its sale, on the ground that no arrears\nwere due, producing a receipt to substantiate his contention. The\nCollector has just called on us to show cause against the cancellation\nof the sale and will take the case up the day after to-morrow.\"\n\nSamarendra was thunderstruck by this information, the Shibprakash\nestate being one of the best bargains he had ever got. After pondering\na while, he asked, \"What would you advise me to do? I am afraid it\nis hopeless to contend against a receipt in full!\"\n\nBipin was not so easily disheartened. He replied, \"Let us consult\nour pleader, Asu Babu, who is sure to have some plan for upholding\nthe sale. He won't ask more than Rs. 100, which is not a tenth of\nthe annual profits for Shibprakash.\" This course commended itself to\nSamarendra, who sent his headman back to Ghoria, promising to follow\nnext day, with the necessary sinews of war. He arrived betimes at\nBipin's house there, and took him to the Bar Library, where Asu\nBabu was sure to be found when not engaged in Court. A few minutes\nlater the limb of the law came in, and asked what business brought\nSamarendra to Ghoria.\n\nAfter hearing the story of Shibprakash and its vicissitudes of\nownership, he asked:--\n\n\"How much will you pay me if I win your case?\"\n\nGlancing at Bipin, Samarendra answered hesitatingly, \"Well, I might\ngo as far as fifty rupees\".\n\n\"Nonsense,\" was the rejoinder. \"I won't take a pice less than\nRs. 100.\" After several minutes wasted on haggling, it was agreed\nthat Asu Babu should be paid Rs. 40 on the nail and Rs. 35 more\nif he won the suit. The pleader pocketed this first instalment, and\nassured Samarendra that he would prove the sale to have been perfectly\nvalid. Then the trio separated, Samarendra returning to Bipin's house\nwhere they passed the day in forming plans for further purchases.\n\nAt 10.30 on the morrow, both attended at the Collectorate and\nfound that the Shibprakash objection stood first for hearing. It was\nopened by the appellant's pleader, who rose armed with a huge account\nbook and bundle of receipts, in order to prove that his client owed\nnothing to Government, and that the sale proceedings were a blunder\nfrom beginning to end. Asu Babu waited till his turn came, and then\ninformed the Collector that he would find, on examining his books, that\nthe appellant was Rs. 1 11. 0. in arrears at the date of the sale. The\nCollector ordered his head clerk to produce the ledger account of\npayments on account of the Shibprakash estates, and, sure enough, they\nshowed a short payment of the amount stated. This was a thunderbolt\nfor the appellant, whose pleader vainly tried to pick holes in the\naccounts, but was at last obliged to confess that a mistake had been\nmade. The only course open to him was to sue for mercy. The Collector,\nhowever, was inexorable, and indeed he had no power to mitigate the\nDraconian law of sale. That of Shibprakash was duly confirmed, and\nits new owner adjourned to the bar library to settle matters with\nhis pleader. The meeting was joyful indeed. After congratulating Asu\nBabu on his unexpected success, Samarendra asked how he had managed\nit. The pleader at first refused to gratify his curiosity, but yielded\nto entreaty. \"The tiger has a jackal,\" he said, \"and I, who cannot\nstoop to dirty tricks myself, have a certain mukhtiar (the lowest\ngrade of advocates) who is hand-in-glove with all the amlas (clerks)\nand can twist them round his finger--for a consideration. I gave him\nRs. 10 out of the advance money and promised as much more if he could\npersuade the Collectorate clerks to cook the appellant's accounts,\nso as to show a short payment. You see how well he has succeeded,\nand now I think the least you can do is to refund the douceur to\nme.\" Samarendra agreed and handed Asu Babu Rs. 55, prophesying that\nhe would have a brilliant career at the bar.\n\nHe had to stop for a fortnight or so at Ghoria, in order to get\npossession of his purchase from the Collectorate nazir (bailiff)\nwho, according to custom, planted a bamboo thereon, as a symbol\nof its transfer. While waiting for this formality he attended\nanother sale for arrears of revenue, in the hope of picking up\nsome profitable bargains. He was not disappointed. The last lot was\nthe whole of Jayrampur, a small village quite close to his house,\ninhabited by hardworking and submissive ryots, who paid their rent\npunctually. Samarendra was all agog when the nazir read out the\nnames of its proprietors, the amount of arrears, and the boundaries,\ncalling on the crowd to bid. A dead silence followed, which was at\nlast broken by a timid offer of Rs. 1,000. Samarendra promptly bid\nRs. 6,000; which he knew was hardly three years' purchase of the\nnet rental, and the rise was so tremendous that it choked off all\ncompetition. Jayrampur was knocked down to him; but his exultation\nwas tempered by the discovery that he had not nearly enough to meet\nthe amount of earnest money which had to be paid down at once. A\nmukhtiar came to his aid by whispering offers of a loan, and the\nrequisite amount was forthcoming in five minutes, on Samarendra's\ngiving his note of hand with a bonus of 10 per cent. payable next day.\n\nHis star continued to be in the eleventh heaven; for this was one of\na series of profitable purchases. In seven or eight years he owned\nestates yielding an income of Rs. 8,000, while his dealings in grain\nproduced half as much again.\n\nSamarendra's ambition rose with growing prosperity. Visions of a\ntitle hovered in his brain, and being a man of resource, he hit upon\nan ingenious method of converting them into realities. Close to his\nhouse there was an extensive bil (marsh) peopled in season by swarms\nof wild-duck, teal and snipe. It was visited occasionally by Europeans\nfrom Calcutta, who are always on the alert for a day's sport, but they\nwere inconvenienced by the total lack of accommodation. So Samarendra\nbuilt a neat bungalow, equipped it with European furniture, and placed\nan old Khansama (Mohammadan butler) in charge, who was versed in\nall the customs of Saheb-log (Englishmen). This menial had orders to\nreport the arrival of white visitors and offer them hospitality. His\ncourtesy was highly appreciated, and there was scarcely a Sunday\nduring the cold weather which did not bring a couple of sportsmen to\nthe bungalow. Samarendra attended personally to their comforts, thus\nmaking many friends. Through their influence he secured carte blanche\nin the matter of guns and ammunition--a boon which seldom falls to the\nlot of middle-class Indians. At their request he subscribed to various\nEuropean clubs, winning the reputation of being \"not half a bad sort of\nfellow\". All this hospitality, however, was terribly expensive, and it\nsoon exceeded Samarendra's income. But he went on spending money like\nwater, in the assurance that one day it would yield a golden return.\n\nOn a bright morning, in January, 18--, he was sitting in his bungalow,\nin the hope of welcoming guests, when a European entered it, attended\nby two orderlies; and seeing a well-dressed Indian, was about to\nretire. Samarendra introduced himself as the local Zemindar and\noffered to send a shikari (game-keeper) with the visitor in order to\nshow him some sport. His overtures were gratefully received, and the\nEuropean, on returning at noon with a heavy bag, was delighted to find\nan appetising tiffin ready for his acceptance. Samarendra kept out of\nthe way until it was finished, and then asked whether his guest had\nenjoyed himself. The latter was profuse in thanks and, ere leaving\nfor the neighbouring railway station, asked whether he could be of\nany service, tendering a card inscribed, \"Mr. Charles Bernardson,\nIndian Civil Service\". He was none other than the Chief Secretary\nto Government.\n\nSuch an acquaintance was not to be lost sight of. A week later\nSamarendra went to Calcutta and called on Mr. Bernardson at his\nchambers in the United Service Club. He was received, so to speak, with\nopen arms, questioned about crops, crime, sport, and other commonplace\ntopics, and again assured that Mr. Bernardson would serve him in any\nway within his power. The latter hint was promptly taken. On receiving\npermission to quit the great man's presence he timidly suggested\nthat he would like to be an Honorary Magistrate. Mr. Bernardson\ntook note of the wish, and a few weeks later the Gazette announced\nSamarendra's nomination to the Ghoria Independent Bench, with power\nto try cases singly.\n\nThe next point was to attract the attention of the district\nauthorities. Samarendra pored over the Penal and Procedure Codes,\ntook lessons in law from Asu Babu, and soon mastered the routine\nof a petty Court of Justice. He never missed any sitting of the\nBench and signalised himself by a rigorous interpretation of the\nlaw. Offenders had short shrift from him; and the police moved heaven\nand earth to get their cases disposed of in his Court. His percentage\nof convictions was larger than that of any honorary magistrate. Such\nzeal deserved a suitable reward, and it soon attracted the attention\nof the authorities. On New Year's Day, 189-, the Calcutta Gazette\ncame out with its usual list of honours, amongst which was seen a\nRai Bahadurship for Samarendra. This dignity answers to the English\nknighthood, and it is usually made an excuse for rejoicings shared\nby all classes. Samarendra, however, thought it unnecessary to waste\nmoney on junketings. He preferred subscribing to movements favoured\nby the \"little tin gods\" of Darjiling.\n\nTowards the end of the same year, he was accosted, while leaving\nCourt one afternoon, by a chuprassi (orderly) attached to the\nmagistrate-collector's person, who salamed obsequiously and said that\nthe Bara Saheb wished to see him at once. Hastening to the district\nchief's bungalow he was graciously received, and in the course of\nconversation a remark fell from the great man's lips, which made the\nblood course wildly through his veins. It seemed that a fund had been\nstarted in Calcutta for the purpose of erecting some permanent memorial\nto the late Viceroy, and a hint was thrown out that if Samarendra\nsubscribed liberally, he might possibly find himself gazetted a\n\"Raja Bahadur\". He assured the magistrate that the Memorial Fund\nwould receive a handsome donation from him and asked for a few days\nin order to decide the amount.\n\nOn returning home, he made a rough calculation of his assets and\nliabilities. The latter amounted to nearly a lakh of rupees (L6,666),\nor about five times his net annual income. Common prudence suggested\nthat he ought not to increase the burden; but ambition prevailed,\nand the only question which Samarendra set himself was, \"What is\nthe least amount I can decently give?\" After thinking over pros and\ncons for a whole night, he decided that Rs. 10,000 would be enough;\nraised that sum at 12 per cent, by mortgaging some landed property,\nand sent it with a flowery letter to the District Magistrate, as a\nhumble donation to the Viceroy's Memorial Eund.\n\nA few days later Samarendra was preparing for a visit to his favourite\nrest-house, in the vague hope that Mr. Bernardson might turn up again,\nwhen a strange Brahman entered the courtyard and thus addressed him:--\n\n\"Sir, you are an Amir, and I am a beggar. I have a request to make.\"\n\n\"Cut it short,\" replied Samarendra testily. \"Come to the point--what\ndo you want?\"\n\n\"Sir, I have a grown-up daughter who positively must be married;\nbut I cannot raise a sufficient dowry. Will your honour give me a\ntrifle towards making one up?\"\n\n\"No, I won't; if you belonged to this village you would know that I\ncannot afford to fling money about. My expenses are enormous!\"\n\n\"Now, please, don't refuse me, Rai Bahadur; surely you can spare a\ncouple of rupees to a poor Brahman!\"\n\nSamarendra was exasperated by the man's importunity. He replied\nsharply, \"You and your kind seem to think that I am Kuver (the God of\nWealth) incarnate, who is able to satisfy every human need! I won't\ngive you anything!\"\n\n\"Only one rupee, Rai Bahadur,\" pleaded the Brahman with folded hands.\n\n\"No! no! Get out of my house at once!\" bellowed Samarendra; then\nturning to his doorkeeper, he ordered him to \"run the fellow out of\nthe yard by the neck\".\n\nThe Brahman was deeply incensed. Drawing himself up to his full height,\nhe looked scornfully at Samarendra, and said:--\n\n\"Babu, you dare to order me, a Brahman, to be ejected with violence\nfrom your house. Is there no religion left in this world? Mark\nmy words, a day is coming when you will be poorer even than\nmyself. I have spoken.\" Then he strode out of the courtyard in high\ndudgeon. Samarendra merely laughed aloud and hurled mocking epithets\nafter his retreating figure, to which no reply was vouchsafed.\n\nNext morning he received a letter from the District Magistrate which\nfilled him with mingled joy and terror. It contained a curt request\nto call at once on a matter of great importance. He drove to the\ngreat man's bungalow arrayed in his best, but was kept waiting for\nnearly a quarter of an hour in the porch. When he was ushered into the\nmagistrate's study he saw intuitively that something was wrong. His\nsalam was returned by a mere inclination of the head and a request to\nbe seated. Then the Magistrate spoke in tones of chilling politeness:--\n\n\"Rai Bahadur, I've sent for you to say that a subscription of\nRs. 10,000 is wholly unworthy of your position. If you wish, I\nwill send it to the Secretary of the Memorial Fund; but I warn you\nplainly that the most you can expect in return is an expression of\nthe Lieutenant-Governor's thanks in the Gazette. I could not possibly\nrecommend you for a title for such a paltry sum.\"\n\nPoor Samarendra's heart beat more loudly than the clock on the\nmagistrate's mantelpiece. He stammered out: \"I need only assure\nyour honour that I have given as much as I could afford; but if your\nhonour thinks the amount insufficient--er--er--er--I am quite willing\nto give--twice as much\". So saying he awaited a reply in trembling\napprehension. It was satisfactory.\n\n\"Now, Rai Bahadur, you are talking sense. Send me Rs. 10,000 more\nfor the fund and I'll undertake to submit your name to Government for\na Rajaship. It will be just in time for the New Year's Gazette. Now\nyou may take leave.\"\n\nSamarendra bowed himself out with precipitation and, on returning\nhome, sent for his factotum, Bipin, to whom he related this momentous\ninterview, with an injunction to raise Rs. 10,000 more by hook\nor by crook. Bipin shook his head ominously and feared that no\nmoneylender would advance any considerable sum on estates already\nover-burdened. However, he promised to do his best and negotiated so\nsuccessfully that Rs. 10,000 were procured at 24 per cent. in less\nthan a week. This additional subscription was gracefully acknowledged\nby the District Magistrate, and a fortnight later Samarendra's drooping\nspirits were revived by the appearance of a notification in the Gazette\nthanking him warmly for his \"munificence and public spirit\". There\nwas nothing for it but to count the days of the expiring year.\n\nOn 31st December, 189-, his impatience could brook no further\ndelay. Hurrying to Calcutta by train, he sent a trusty servant to the\nGovernment printing office with orders to obtain the earliest copy of\nthe Gazette at any price. He slept not a wink on that fateful night\nand rose betimes to intercept the messenger.\n\nAt last the bulky document was thrust into his hands. He unfolded it\nwith trembling fingers and glanced downwards through an interminable\nlist of newly-made Maharajas, Nawab Bahadurs, Raja Bahadurs, and\nRajas--in the hope of finding his own name. Alas, it was conspicuous by\nits absence. Oh, the pangs of hope deferred and wounded pride! Death\nseemed to Samarendra preferable to a life of poverty and despair. He\nreturned home crestfallen and nursed his disappointment until it\nlanded him in a severe attack of brain fever. As soon as he felt\nstrong enough to leave the house, he drove to the magistrate's\nhouse for explanation and comfort. He was courteously received,\nbut the Chief hinted that there might be a hitch about the title,\nas he himself had enemies in the Secretariat, who would be glad of\nan opportunity of placing him in a false position. He counselled\npatience and expressed a conviction that the birthday Gazette would\ncontain the notification so ardently desired.\n\nThis was comforting, but Samarendra resolved to push his own\ninterests. He remembered the promises made by Mr. Bernardson and took\nthe next train to Calcutta in order to secure his influence. On\nreaching the Secretariat he learnt, with deep annoyance, that\nMr. Bernardson had taken sick leave to England and was not likely\nto return. So the only course open was to wait for 24th May. Again\nhe was disappointed, the list of birthday honours ignoring him\ncompletely. Samarendra had not even the resource of consulting the\nofficial who had lured him into extravagant expenditure. The District\nMagistrate was transferred to a distant and unhealthy part of the\nprovince, and his successor disclaimed all knowledge of the bargain.\n\nSamarendra's long suspense and repeated disappointments told severely\non his health. He neglected business, leaving everything in the hands\nof Bipin, who was more anxious to feather his own nest than extricate\nhis master from difficulties; so the interest in mortgages fell into\narrears. One creditor bolder than the rest sued him and foreclosed;\nthen others were encouraged to attack the ruined man. In less than a\nyear, Samarendra was stripped of every bigha (one-third of an acre)\nof land he once possessed, and attachments galore were issued against\nhis moveable property. Too late did he see the depths of folly into\nwhich he had fallen.\n\nGrief and despair brought on a second attack of brain fever, which\nexhausted his failing strength. After tossing for several weeks in\ndelirium he regained sense only to feel assured that the end of all\nworldly ambition was fast approaching. Then he remembered the Brahman's\ncurse, and knowing that it was the cause of all his misfortunes he\nendeavoured to make some reparation; but the holy man was not to be\nfound. One evening he fell into a deep slumber from which he never\nawoke, leaving a wife and several helpless children in comparative\npenury. Then a hush fell on the land, and people whispered that\nBrahmateja (the power of Brahmans) was by no means extinct.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X\n\nA Roland for His Oliver.\n\nNagendra's soul was not haunted by any such ambitions. He was content\nwith the surplus profits from his landed estates, which he did not\ninvest in trade or even Government paper, but hoarded in a safe. By\nslow degrees he amassed a small fortune, and when Samarendra's\ngrowing impecuniosity forced him to ask his brother for a loan of\nRs. 2,000, it was readily granted on a mere note of hand. In less than\nsix months the borrower died and, after waiting as long, Nagendra\npressed his sister-in-law for payment of the debt. She referred him\nto her brother, Priyanath Guha, who, she said, was manager of what\nproperty she had left. This man was a scoundrel of the deepest dye,\nand Samarendra, who was fully aware of the fact, never allowed him\ninside the house. After his death Priya made himself so useful to\nthe widow that she invited him to live in her house and trusted him\nimplicitly. When the neighbours learnt this arrangement they whispered\nthat the poor woman would inevitably be reduced to beggary.\n\nNagendra reluctantly applied to Priya for a refund of the loan,\nproducing Samarendra's note of hand, which was about a year\noverdue. After examining it, Priya said:--\n\n\"The matter is simple enough. My sister must repay you; but you know\nthe muddle in which her husband's affairs were left, and I'm sure\nyou won't refuse to renew the bond.\"\n\nNagendra replied that he would gladly give his sister any reasonable\ntime to discharge her debt.\n\n\"Very well,\" rejoined Priya. \"What do you say to my renewing this\nnote of hand for six months, with 12 per cent. interest?\"\n\n\"I have no objection,\" said Nagendra, \"but you must satisfy me first\nthat you hold a general power of attorney to act for her.\"\n\n\"Oh, you doubt my word,\" sneered Priya, \"but I don't blame you;\nsuch is the way of the world.\"\n\nSo saying he took a registered power of attorney out of his sister's\nstrong box, which Nagendra saw entitled him to transact any business\nwhatever relating to her estate. He handed the bond to Priya and asked\nhim to endorse the conditions agreed on. While doing so Priya looked\nup. \"Have you any objection,\" he asked, \"to my antedating the renewal\na week or so. The fact is, Baisakh 12th has always been a lucky day\nin my family and I should like to date my endorsement then.\"\n\n\"Just as you like,\" answered Nagendra indifferently; and after reading\nthe endorsement through very carefully he took the note of hand away\nwithout saluting Priya.\n\nNot hearing from him when the note matured, Nagendra called at his\nsister's house and pressed Priya, whom he found there, for payment\nof the Rs. 2,000 and interest.\n\nPriya gazed at him with feigned astonishment \"What loan are you\ntalking about?\" he asked.\n\nNagendra attempted to jog his memory, but he stoutly denied having\nrenewed any note of hand which purported to have been executed by\nSamarendra. When the document was shown him, he boldly declared that\nthe endorsement was a forgery, and further that the handwriting on\nthe note of hand itself was not Samarendra's. Nagendra stood aghast\nfor awhile and, on regaining his wits, he said, \"I ought to have\nknown better than trust a haramzada like you!\"\n\n\"Now don't descend to personalities,\" rejoined Priya. \"I can prove\nthat the endorsement could not have been executed by me; and the\nwhole transaction looks fishy.\"\n\nThis was too much for Nagendra, who lost his temper and abused the\nscoundrel roundly. They separated with threats of mutual vengeance.\n\nOn the morrow, Nagendra instructed a pleader to file a suit against\nhis sister for recovery of the principal and interest due on the\npromissory note. When it came on for hearing before the Subordinate\nJudge, Nagendra Babu was dumbfoundered by hearing the defendant's\npleader aver that the endorsement could not possibly be genuine,\ninasmuch as his client was fifteen hundred miles from Ratnapur at the\nalleged date of execution. He then placed Priya in the box, to swear\nthat, on Baisakh 12th, he was at Lahore, in order to give evidence\nin a civil suit. All doubt vanished in the Sub Judge's mind when the\npleader handed him a document bearing the seal of the Chief Court\nof the Punjab, certifying that Priya had been in attendance on that\nday. He dismissed the suit with costs against Nagendra, and remarked\nthat this palpable forgery cast discredit on the whole transaction.\n\nIt was a wise man who said that we hate our enemies less for the harm\nthey have done us than for the harm we have done them. Priya was not\ncontent with depriving Nagendra of his dues; he resolved to injure him\nmore materially. About a month after his unlucky lawsuit, Nagendra\nlearnt quite by accident that one of his estates named Lakhimpur\nhad been notified for sale for arrears of land revenue amounting to\nRs. 197 odd. The Naib (manager), on being asked to account for this,\nlaid all the blame on the ryots, who, he said, would not be made\nto pay their rent and thus deprived him of the means of satisfying\nthe Government demand. Nagendra rebuked him for gross negligence and\nfailing to report the matter, for, he added, the arrears would have\nbeen paid from his own pocket. He at once dismissed the Naib from\nhis employ and hastened to Ghoria, where he instructed a pleader\nnamed Asu Babu to petition the collector for leave to make good the\narrears on Lakhimpur. The request was perforce rejected. Lakhimpur\nwas put up for sale and Nagendra ascertained that the purchaser was\na man of straw representing Priya himself. He endured the loss of a\nvaluable property, resolving to be even some day with his enemy.\n\nOn the following night he was about to retire to bed, when the\nLakhimpur Naib burst into the parlour and clasped his master's feet\nwhich he bedewed with tears. Nagendra shook him off roughly and asked\nhow he dared to intrude upon him.\n\n\"Mahasay,\" whined the Naib, \"I want to make a clean breast of my\nmisdeeds. It was Priya who persuaded me to withhold the revenue due\non Lakhimpur, by promising me a reward of Rs. 2,000 if the estate\nwas auctioned. Now that he has got possession of it, he refuses to\ncarry out his bargain and actually offers me Rs. 20, saying that I\ndeserved no more. The black-hearted villain! Now I am come to implore\nforgiveness of my sin and to make amends for it.\"\n\nNagendra was amazed by the fellow's villainy and impudence. He\nreflected, however, that nothing was to be gained by kicking him out\nof the house, while his offer of reparation was not to be despised. He\nreplied, \"You have been faithless to your salt; but I will pardon you\non one condition that you help me to regain my estate, lost through\nyour treachery.\"\n\n\"That I will,\" protested the Naib. \"Only let me have Rs. 300 in\ncurrency notes of one hundred rupees each, previously recording\nthe numbers. I swear by Mother Kali, not only to pay the arrears\nof revenue but to get the sale quashed.\" Nagendra at first thought\nthat to do so would be only throwing good money after bad; but the\nman was terribly in earnest, and evidently hostile to their common\nenemy. He opened his safe and handed the Naib the amount he asked,\nafter carefully taking the numbers of the notes.\n\nAt the same hour on the morrow, the Naib returned in high glee to\nsay that the business had been satisfactorily concluded. All Nagendra\nhad to do was to file a petition praying for the cancellation of the\nsale, and it could not fail to be granted. On being asked how he had\ncontrived to evade the law, the Naib went on:--\n\n\"I will tell you the whole truth, Mahasay, only concealing names; for\nthe people, who helped me extracted an oath that I would keep them a\nprofound secret. I went straight from your house last night to that\nof an office tout, who is a precious rascal, but tolerated because\nhe is in some way related to the Collectorate head clerk. On hearing\nmy story he said he thought the matter could be settled, and asked\nme to meet him at 1 P.M. under a Nim tree north of the Collectorate,\nwhen he would bring a man to me who was able to do all we wished. I was\npunctual to the minute, and sure enough the tout came with one of the\nCollectorate clerks. I asked him whether it would not be possible so\nto manipulate the accounts of Lakhimpur, as to show that all Government\nrevenue had been paid prior to the alleged default. The clerk at first\nrefused to have hand in such a transaction, as it would be too risky;\nbut when I produced my currency notes he thought the job might be\nattempted, and added that some of the Treasury amlas (clerks) would\nhave to be squared as well as himself. I thereupon handed him Rs. 300,\nsaying that it was enough to discharge the revenue due on Lakhimpur\nand leave more than Rs. 100 to divide as bakshish (gratuity). He\nsaid that he would do his best and made me swear never to divulge his\nname. We then separated, and only two hours ago the tout came to my\nhouse with the news that the accounts had been corrected.\"\n\nNagendra was delighted on hearing these clever tactics and straightway\nordered his pleader, Asutosh Sen, widely known as Asu Babu, to file\na petition praying for the cancellation of the sale. It came in due\ncourse before the Collector for hearing. He called for the accounts,\nwhich fully substantiated the petitioner's statements. After hearing\nthe arguments of Priya's representative the Collector said that he\nwas fully satisfied that a mistake had been made, and called on the\nhead clerk to explain the non-entry of a payment made before the due\ndate. That officer laid the whole blame on an unfortunate apprentice,\nwho was promptly dismissed. The sale was declared null and void, and\nNagendra regained his own to the intense disgust of the rascally Priya.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI\n\nRamda.\n\nNagendra Babu was now the wealthiest man in Ratnapur. Puffed up by\nworldly success, he began to treat his neighbours arrogantly and,\nwith one exception, they did not dare to pay him back in his own\ncoin. Ramdas Ghosal, known far and wide as Ramda, flattered or\nfeared no one. Having a little rent-free and inherited land, he was\nquite independent of patronage. Ramda was \"everyone's grandfather,\"\na friend of the poor, whose joys and sorrows he shared. He watched by\nsick-beds, helped to carry dead bodies to the burning-ghat, in short\ndid everything in his power for others, refusing remuneration in any\nshape. He was consequently loved and respected by all classes. Ramda\nwas the consistent enemy of hypocrisy and oppression--qualities which\nbecame conspicuous in Nagendra Babu's nature under the deteriorating\ninfluence of wealth. He met the great man's studied insolence with a\nvolley of chaff, which is particularly galling to vain people because\nthey are incapable of understanding it.\n\nNagendra Babu did not forget the Brahman's presumption and determined\nto teach him a lesson. So, one day, he sent him a written notice\ndemanding the immediate payment of arrears of rent due for a few\nbighas (one-third of an acre) of land which Ramda held on a heritable\nlease. As luck would have it the crops had failed miserably, and Ramda\nwas unable to discharge his debts. On receiving a more peremptory\ndemand seven days later, he called on Nagendra Babu, whom he thus\naddressed:--\n\n\"Why, Nagen, what's the matter with you? You are plaguing me to\ndeath with notices, yet you must be aware that I can't pay you a pice\nat present.\"\n\n\"Thakur,\" replied Nagendra Babu in stern accents, \"I will listen\nto none of your excuses. Do you mean to tell me that you decline to\ndischarge your arrears?\"\n\n\"I never said that,\" protested Ramda; \"but you must really wait till\nthe beginning of next year. My cold weather crops are looking well;\nand--\"\n\n\"No, that won't do at all. If you do not pay up in a week, I will\ncertainly have recourse to the civil court.\"\n\n\"Do so by all means if your sense of religion permits,\" rejoined Ramda,\nleaving the parlour in smothered wrath.\n\nWhen the week of grace had expired, Nagendra Babu filed a suit in the\nlocal Munsiffs Court against his defaulter. As soon as the fact was\nbruited abroad a universal protest was roused against Nagendra Babu's\nharshness. Some of the village elders remonstrated with him, but were\ntold to mind their own business; whereon they laid their heads together\nand subscribed the small sum due from the Brahman. A deputation of\nfive waited on him with entreaties to accept it, but he refused to\ntake the money on any other footing than a loan. So Ramda paid his\narrears and costs into Court, to the plaintiff's intense annoyance.\n\nSamarendra Babu had left his wife and children in comparatively poor\ncircumstances; for, after discharging his debts, they had barely\nRs. 300 a year to live on. The widow declined to seek Nagendra Babu's\nhelp, even if she were reduced to beg in the streets. After her\nbrother's imprisonment, she had no one to manage her little property\nwhich, as a Purdanashin (lit. \"one sitting behind the veil\"), she\nwas unable to do herself. After mature reflection she sent for Ramda,\nwho had known her from infancy. He obeyed the summons with alacrity\nand gave the poor woman sound advice regarding the direction of\nthe Zemindary. By acting on it she was able to increase her income\nand live in tolerable comfort. Observing that Ramda was a frequent\nvisitor, Nagendra Babu hinted to his sister-in-law that, if she cared\nfor her reputation, she would not be so thick with him. She flared\nup instantly. \"I will talk to any of my friends I please,\" said she,\n\"and you shan't poke your nose into my affairs!\"\n\n\"Very well,\" replied Nagendra angrily, \"but you may rely on my making\nit hot for that old scoundrel shortly!\"\n\nThis threat was of course repeated to Ramda, who merely laughed. As\nfar as he was concerned Nagendra might act as he pleased.\n\nA few days afterwards the bailiff of Nagendra Babu's estate, known\nas Lakhimpur, called on Ramda with a verbal request that he should\nsurrender his ancestral tenure and, meeting with a curt refusal,\nleft the house threatening all sorts of evil consequences. Next\nday, indeed, Ramda received a notice from Nagendra Babu, calling\non him to show cause against the cancellation of his lease on the\nground that, by mismanaging the land, he had rendered it unfit for\ncultivation. Ramda called some of his neighbours together, to whom\nhe exhibited the document. They expressed the greatest indignation\nand assured him that they would spend their last rupee in defending\nhis interests. Ramda gave them a heartfelt blessing and promised a\ndivine reward for their sympathy.\n\nCalling on Samarendra's widow the same day, he was distressed to\nfind that she had received a similar notice, which aimed at robbing\nher of a small estate, on the ground that it had been surrendered\nby her husband in part payment of his debt to Nagendra Babu. She\nknew nothing of any such arrangement and assured Ramda that, if the\nproperty was lost, her income would fall to little more than Rs. 100,\nmeaning starvation for herself and little ones. Her trusty counsellor\ntold her not to lose heart, for she might rely on his help.\n\nIn due course the suit against Ramda came on for hearing before the\nMunsiff. His pleader established by documentary evidence that the\ntenure was one without any condition whatever; while the neighbours\ncame forward to prove that the land in dispute had been admirably\ntilled. The plaintiff, therefore, was non-suited, with costs. The very\nsame result attended Nagendra Babu's action against his sister-in-law,\nwhose case excited universal sympathy. He lost heavily in purse and\nleft the Court with a ruined reputation. It was natural that a man\nso evil-minded should regard Ramda as the author of misfortunes due\nto his own wicked nature. He plotted the poor Brahman's destruction,\nbut no effectual means of compassing it suggested itself.\n\nAs days and weeks wore on, his despondency became deeper and, one\nevening, while sitting with the Lakhimpur bailiff, he asked whether\nthere was any remedy which would restore his peace of mind. The\ncunning rascal said nothing at the time; but at a late hour on the\nmorrow he came to Nagendra Babu's house with a large bottle hidden\nunder his wrapper. It contained some light brown fluid, which the\nbailiff poured into a tumbler. Then adding a small quantity of water,\nhe invited his master to swallow the mixture. A few minutes after doing\nso, the patient was delighted to find that gloomy thoughts disappeared\nas if by magic. An unwonted elation of spirits succeeded; he broke into\nsnatches of song, to the intense surprise of the household! His amateur\nphysician left the bottle, advising him to take a similar dose every\nnight; and Nagendra Babu followed the prescription punctiliously, with\nthe best effect on his views of life. After finishing the bottle he\nasked for another, which was brought to him secretly. It had a showy\nlabel reading, \"Exshaw No. 1 Cognac\". Nagendra Babu's conscience\naccused him of disobeying the Shastras; but the die was cast. He\ncould no longer exist without a daily dose of the subtle poison;\nand gradually increased it to a tumblerful, forgetting to add water.\n\nHis faithful wife did her best to wean him from the fatal habit. She\neven ventured to abstract his brandy bottle and dilute its contents. On\nbeing detected, she underwent a personal correction which was not\nsoon forgotten. The poor creature, indeed, underwent every sort of\nhumiliation from her worthless husband, which she bore in silence,\nhoping that time would bring him to his senses.\n\nDrunken men are proverbially cunning. After brooding long over\nhis supposed grievances Nagendra matured a scheme of revenge. He\nintercepted Ramda, one afternoon, on his way to visit Samarendra's\nwidow, and, affecting sincere penitence for the injury he had\nendeavoured to work, he invited the unsuspecting Brahman into\nhis sitting-room. Once inside, he suddenly thrust a brass vessel\ninto his visitor's hand and dragged him into the yard, shouting\n\"Thief! thief!\" The Lakhimpur bailiff, who was sitting on the\nverandah, also laid hands on Ramda and, with the aid of two up-country\nservants, he was dragged to the police station, too bewildered to\nresist. On their way thither they met one of Nagendra's neighbours\nnamed Harish Chandra Pal, who stopped them and asked what was the\nmatter. On learning particulars of the charge, he saw how the land\nlay, and resolved to defeat an infamous plot. So waiting till the\nlittle crowd was out of sight, he ran back to Nagendra's house and\nwhispered to him that the bailiff had sent for more property, in order\nthat the case against Ramda might look blacker. Nagendra handed him a\nfine muslin shawl and loin-cloth, and a set of gold buttons, adding\nthat he would follow in half an hour in order to depose against the\nthief. On reaching the police station, Harish found the Sub-Inspector\nrecording the statements of the witnesses. He looked on in silence\nuntil Nagendra arrived. Then he asked the Sub-Inspector: \"Do these\npeople mean to say that the brass vessel belongs to Nagendra Babu?\"\n\n\"Certainly,\" was the reply. \"Here are three witnesses who have\nidentified it.\"\n\n\"Well, that's strange,\" said Harish; then producing the shawl and\nloin-cloth he said: \"These are mine, but if you ask Nagen Babu he\nwill tell you a different story\".\n\n\"But they are mine!\" roared Nagendra, \"and part of the stolen\nproperty.\"\n\n\"Dear me,\" said Harish, \"perhaps you will say that these buttons are\nyours too?\"\n\n\"Of course they are,\" was the rejoinder.\n\n\"Now, Sub-Inspector Babu,\" said Harish, \"you must see that Nagendra\nBabu is subject to strange hallucinations since he has taken to\ndrink. He fancies that he is the god of wealth personified, and\nthat everything belongs to him. I am quite certain that Ramda has\nbeen falsely charged with stealing a brass vessel which is his own\nproperty.\"\n\nThe Sub-Inspector evidently thought so too. He called the prosecutor\ninto an inner room. What passed between them there was never known;\nbut presently the Sub-Inspector returned to the office and ordered\nthe prisoner to be at once released. Ramda was truly grateful to\nHarish Pal for having so cleverly saved him from ruin, and the whole\nstory soon became common property. Nagendra overheard his neighbours\nwhispering and pointing to him significantly, and village boys called\nhim ill-natured nicknames in the street. His irritation was increased\nby recourse to the brandy bottle, and he vented it on his luckless\nwife. She suffered so terribly that, one morning, Nagendra found\nher hanging from a rafter in his cowshed. This suicide was the last\nstraw. Nagendra saved himself from prosecution for murder by a heavy\nbribe, and got leave from the police to burn his wife's body. But\nso universally was he execrated that not a man in the village would\nhelp him to take her body to the burning-ghat. In dire despair\nhe humbled himself so far as to implore Ramda's assistance. The\nmagnanimous Brahman forgot his wrongs and cheerfully consented to\nbear a hand. Others followed his example, and thus Nagendra was\nable to fulfil the rites prescribed by religion. The lesson was not\naltogether lost on him. The scales fell from his eyes; he dismissed\nthe rascally servant, who had led him from the path of duty, and\nforeswore his brandy bottle.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII\n\nA Rift in the Lute.\n\nNalini Chandra Basu worked hard for the B.L. degree, not to fill his\npockets by juggling with other people's interests, but in order to\nhelp the poor, who are so often victims of moneyed oppression. After\nsecuring the coveted distinction, he was enrolled as a pleader of the\nCalcutta High Court and began to practise there, making it a rule to\naccept no fees from an impoverished client. But two years of constant\nattendance at Court convinced Nalini that Calcutta had far too many\nlawyers already. He therefore removed to Ghoria, knowing that he\nwould find plenty of wrongs to redress there. About a month after his\narrival, a Zemindar of Kadampur, named Debendra Chandra Mitra, sued\none of his ryots for ejectment in the local Munsiff's Court. Nalini\nespoused the defendant's cause and showed so stout a fight that the\ncase was dismissed with costs. Debendra Babu was deeply offended with\nthe young pleader, and determined to do him a bad turn if possible.\n\nAbout a week later Nalini got a telegram from Benares announcing his\nmother's death. He promptly donned the customary Kacha (mourning-cloth)\nand hurried home, only to find his brother, Jadunath Babu, already\nin possession of the sad news; and they went to Benares to comfort\ntheir stricken father.\n\nAfter the customary month of mourning Jadu Babu made preparations\nfor celebrating the sradh on a grand scale, by giving presents to\ndistinguished Brahmans, feasting his relatives, and distributing\nalms to the poor. No money was spared in order to keep his mother's\nmemory green. The family's position would have been most enviable,\nbut for a slight unpleasantness which was created by some of the\nvillagers. Debendra Babu, who had been waiting for an opportunity\nof revenge, went from house to house urging his neighbours not to\nparticipate in the sradh, on the score that Nalini had married into\na strange clan and was ipso facto an outcast. Jadu Babu was stung to\nthe quick on learning these machinations. He consulted Nalini as to\nthe best method of parrying them, and was consoled by his brother's\nassurance that it would be quite easy to win over his opponents except,\nperhaps, Debendra Babu himself.\n\nWhen the time for distributing Samajik (gifts) came round, Jadu Babu\nsent one to every caste-fellow in the village, but all returned them\nwithout a word of explanation. Nalini was not so much distressed as he\nby the rebuff. He advised an attempt to pacify Debendra Babu; which\nfailing, he would put his scheme into execution. The two brothers,\ntherefore, called on their enemy, and falling at his feet, implored\nhim to say how they had offended him.\n\n\"You are much better off than I am,\" replied Debendra Babu\nsarcastically; \"it would be presumptuous for me to consort with\nsuch people. You remember the old fable of the earthen pot and brass\nvessel?\"\n\n\"Mahasay,\" pleaded Jadu Babu, \"we are young enough to be your sons. If\nwe have unwittingly caused you offence, we beg to be forgiven.\"\n\n\"You have learnt how to talk sweetly enough,\" rejoined Debendra\nBabu. \"Nalini fancies himself a Lat (lord) or badshah at the very\nleast. What times we live in! The young have no respect whatever for\ntheir seniors!\"\n\n\"Nalini is hardly more than a boy,\" said Jadu Babu with folded\nhands. \"I am sure he had not the slightest intention of hurting\nyour feelings.\"\n\n\"What's the use of talking nonsense?\" growled Debendra Babu. \"Go\naway!\" and he pointed to the door.\n\nThe brothers did not stir; but Jadu Babu asked, \"So you won't overlook\nour faults, or even tell us what they are?\"\n\n\"Well, if you will have it,\" replied Debendra Babu in measured accents,\n\"Nalini is an outcast; and no respectable Kayastha can take part in\nyour mother's sradh.\"\n\nJadu Babu fairly lost his temper. He exclaimed: \"If there is a flaw in\nmy sister-in-law's pedigree, what is to be said of people who visit\nwomen of alien religions, take food from their hands, and tipple\nstrong liquor with them?\"\n\nThis was a home thrust. Debendra Babu was well-known to be carrying\non an intrigue with a Mohammadan woman, named Seraji, but as he\nwas well-to-do, no one had dared to propose his excommunication. He\nstarted from his feet in an outburst of fury.\n\n\"What! you have the audacity to lecture me--a wretched brat like\nyou? Leave my house at once.\" So saying he flounced into his inner\napartments; while the brothers went away rather crestfallen.\n\nAfter returning home Nalini disclosed his famous scheme for\ncircumventing the boycott, which Jadu Babu heartily approved. To every\nSamajik they added an envelope containing a new ten-rupee note and\nsent them round to their caste-fellows. The sight of money banished\nprejudices; one and all received the gifts, and some were so shameless\nas to hint that similar largesse would be acceptable to their uncles\nor cousins.\n\nDebendra Babu was deeply annoyed by the success of the strategy. He\nswore a mighty oath not to rest until he had destroyed the Basu\nfamily root and branch. After a good deal of thought he matured a\nplan which was to be executed through a notorious widow belonging to\nthe village. This creature, Hiramani by name, had passed middle life\nand lived on a little money left by her husband, in a hut close to\nDebendra's residence. People used to say that God had created her a\nfemale by oversight, for she had every bad quality which a man could\npossess. She was noted for the fact that misfortune invariably fell\non a house which she honoured with her intimacy. People were very\nshy indeed of inviting her.\n\nOne bright afternoon Hiramani called at the Basus and started a\nconversation with the wives of Jadu and Nalini by inquiring about\ntheir household affairs, and offering advice which is generally\nacceptable if seldom acted on. While they sat talking Jadu Babu's\neldest boy came to his mother, whimpering:--\n\n\"Chota Kaka (my young uncle) has whipped me because an inkpot of his\nslipped from my hand, while I was playing with it, and got broken!\"\n\n\"He served you rightly, naughty boy!\" observed his mother administering\na sharp slap which sent the child off bellowing loudly.\n\nHiramani remarked, \"You ought not to beat him for so trivial a fault\".\n\n\"That's a terrible boy,\" explained the mother. \"He is up to all\nmanner of tricks, and if he is not checked, he will grow up a regular\nBadmash.\"\n\n\"God forbid!\" remarked Hiramani; \"but has he not been too cruelly used\nby his uncle? You must have noticed the welts on his naked back. I\ncounted five as broad as my forefinger. How could a grown-up man\ntorture a child like that?\"--and she looked meaningly at her hostess.\n\nThe mother was evidently impressed by these words. She undertook\nto speak to Nalini about his treatment of her son. Hiramani was\ndelighted to see that the poison was beginning to work. She went\nstraight from the Basus' house to Debendra Babu and reported her\nsuccess. He praised her warmly, presented her with a rupee, and\noffered further instructions.\n\nHiramani soon became a regular visitor of the Basu ladies. She lost\nno opportunity of poisoning the mind of Jadu Babu's wife, by retailing\nNalini's iniquities. At the outset her insinuations were disregarded;\nbut in time the elder wife fell so completely under Hiramani's\ninfluence as to accept her stories as gospel truth. One day, indeed,\nshe ventured to ask her husband to separate from his brother and,\non meeting with a peremptory refusal, declared that she would take\nno food while Nalini remained in the house. Ending that she really\nmeant to carry out this awful threat, Jadu Babu apparently yielded,\npromising to eject his brother. When the villagers saw Hiramani so\nthick with the Basu ladies, they prophesied ill-luck for the family,\nand on learning Jadu Babu's resolve they remarked that the old woman\nhad not belied her reputation. As for Nalini, he knew that something\nwas in the wind, but carefully avoided broaching the subject to his\nbrother, lest he should widen the breach. Like a sacrificial goat, he\nwaited for the stroke to fall on his devoted head. Shortly afterwards,\nJadu Babu told his wife to make arrangements for setting up a separate\nestablishment. Her heart leapt for joy. She cooked twice the number of\ndishes usually prepared for her husband's midday meal, and anxiously\nwaited for him in her kitchen.\n\nJadu Babu went about his duties as usual, never mentioning the coming\nseparation to Nalini. After bathing at 11 A.M. he took Nalini into the\nlatter's kitchen, and asked his sister-in-law to give them something\nto eat. The pair sat down to a hastily-prepared repast, Jadu Babu\nchatting and joking with his brother according to his wont. After\ndinner he took his betel box and adjourned to the parlour for\nrumination and a siesta. Nalini and his wife were surprised by Jadu\nBabu's behaviour. They dared not ask him why he had invited himself\nto eat with them, but waited anxiously for further developments.\n\nMeanwhile the elder wife was eating her heart with vexation and\nforming resolutions to give her husband a curtain lecture. But he\nslept that night in the parlour and on the morrow took both meals\nwith Nalini. When a woman fails to gain her object she is apt to\ntake refuge in tears, which are generally enough to force a mere\nman to bend to her wishes. Jadu's wife watched for an opportunity of\nhaving it out with her husband. On finding him alone, she burst into\nlamentations, beating her heart and praying that God would put an\nend to her wretched life. He calmly asked what was the matter and,\non receiving no reply, went to bed. Presently she asked, \"What has\ninduced you to put me to shame?\" Jadu Babu pretended ignorance,\nand thus made her only the more angry.\n\n\"Oh, you Neka\" (buffoon), she groaned, \"didn't you swear to separate\nfrom Nalini, and have you not taken all your meals with him ever\nsince? Is that the action of a truthful man?\"\n\n\"Well, I should like to know how Nalini has injured me?\"\n\n\"I say that he is your enemy!\"\n\n\"Tut, tut, you ought to be ashamed of yourself! Where could I find a\nbrother so faithful and obedient as he? You wish to live apart from\nhim? Very well; I have made separate arrangements for you.\" Then in\ndispassionate tones Jadu Babu pointed out the treachery of Debendra and\nhis parasite. The woman's eyes were opened. She fell at her husband's\nfeet and implored his pardon. Then she suddenly rose, went across the\ncourtyard to Nalini's room, and knocked at his door. He came out and,\nseeing his sister-in-law there at an unusual hour, asked anxiously\nwhether Jadu was ill. She reassured him and took him by the hand to\nhis brother, in whose presence she asked him to forgive and forget\nthe offence. Nalini was nothing loth; and harmony was soon restored\nin the family.\n\nMeanwhile old Hiramani had not failed to report progress to her patron\ndaily. He was delighted to think that the rift in the Basu lute was\nwidening, and promised her a handsome reward when the estrangement\nshould take place.\n\nOn learning the failure of the plot, he paid Hiramani a surprise\nvisit, abused her roundly, and, when she retorted in the like strain,\nhe administered a wholesome correction with his shoe. On his departure\nshe ran to Jadu Babu's house intending to have it out with his wife\nfor her breach of faith. The doorkeeper, however, roughly denied her\nentrance; and when she threatened to report him to his mistress, he\nran her out by the neck. Hiramani went home in a state of impatient\nanger and despair, and for several days she dared not show her face\nin the village. The spell cast by her malice was broken.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII\n\nDebendra Babu in Trouble.\n\nOne chilly morning in February a Mohammadan neighbour of Nalini's\nnamed Sadhu Sheikh burst into his parlour crying, \"Chota Babu, Chota\nBabu (lit. 'little babu,' used for younger brother, to distinguish\nhim from the elder, styled 'bara babu'), Siraji is dying!\"\n\n\"Who is she?\" asked Nalini looking up from a law book which he was\nstudying.\n\n\"Surely you know my sister, Chota Babu?\"\n\n\"Yes, of course, what's the matter with her?\"\n\n\"She has been ill for three days, with excruciating internal pains;\nwhat am I to do, Babuji?\"\n\n\"Who is treating her?\" asked Nalini.\n\n\"Abdullah has been giving her the usual remedies.\"\n\n\"Why, he is a peasant and knows nothing of medicine. You should not\nhave called him in.\"\n\n\"Sir, we are poor folk. Abdullah is very clever and his fee is a\nmere trifle.\"\n\n\"What drugs has he been administering?\"\n\n\"Homopotik (homoeopathic), they are called.\"\n\n\"Now you had better return home at once to find out how she is\nprogressing. Let me know if she grows worse and I will send Hriday\nDoctor. Don't trouble about his fees; I will pay them myself. Why\ndid you not come to me earlier?\"\n\nSadhu muttered some words, which Nalini could not distinguish, and\nleft the room hurriedly. After waiting for an hour for news, Nalini\nthrew a wrapper over his shoulders and went to Siraji's cottage. On\nnearing it he learnt from Sadhu's loud lamentations that she was beyond\nthe reach of medicine; so, after a few words of sympathy, he went home.\n\nPresently Sadhu sallied forth to ask the neighbours' help in carrying\nthe dead body to burial. One and all refused to lay a hand on it\nbecause, they said, she had lived with an unbeliever. In dire distress\nSadhu again appealed to Nalini, who summoned the chief inhabitants\nof the Musalmanpara (Mohammadan quarter) to his house and ordered\nthem to take Siraji's body to the burial ground. They reluctantly\nagreed to do so, and assembled at Sadhu's cottage; but at the last\nmoment all of them refused to touch the corpse. Nalini was puzzled by\ntheir behaviour. He asked for an explanation, whereon the Mohammadans\nwhispered together and nudged a grey-beard, who became their spokesman.\n\n\"Mahasay,\" he said, \"the fact is Siraji lived with Debendra Babu\nand was actually made enceinte by him. In order to save himself from\nexposure and shame, Debendra Babu got Abdullah to administer powerful\ndrugs to the woman. After taking these she was attacked by violent\npains in the abdomen and vomiting, which ended in her death. The\nChaukidar (village watchman) knows all the facts, and he is sure to\ngive information to the police. You know, sir, that no one would dare\nto touch a corpse without their permission, if there is any suspicion\nof foul play.\"\n\nNalini was greatly surprised; he asked Sadhu whether the old man's\nwords were true and, getting no reply except a significant silence,\nsaid: \"You may now go about your business, but mind I shall expect\nyou all to assemble here and carry Siraji to the burial ground as\nsoon as the police give you leave to do so\".\n\nThere was a chorus of assent, and the crowd dispersed. Nalini was\nabout to return home too, when the Chaukidar came in and told him\nthat he had reported Siraji's death to the Sub-Inspector of police,\nwho had ordered him not to permit the corpse to be touched by any\none until his arrival.\n\nAbout three o'clock on the same day Nalini heard that the police had\ncome to investigate the cause of Siraji's death. He went at once to\nSadhu's house, where the Sub-Inspector was recording the statements of\neye-witnesses. When Abdullah's turn came, the police officer surveyed\nhim from head to foot, saying:--\n\n\"I have heard of you before; what is your occupation?\"\n\n\"Sir, I am a Hakim (doctor).\"\n\n\"Anything else?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir, I have a little cultivation and sometimes lend money.\"\n\n\"Did you attend the deceased woman?\"\n\n\"Yes, I was called in by Sadhu a week ago, and treated her for fever.\"\n\n\"A nice mess you have made of the case too! Swear on the Quran that\nyou gave her no poison or drug!\"\n\n\"Sir, I am ready to declare in the name of God and His Prophet that\nI gave her nothing but homopotik, only nuxo bomicka (nux vomica)\nin doses which would not have harmed a baby.\"\n\n\"Now, remember you are on your oath. Did you administer anything else?\"\n\nAbdullah's shaking limbs proved that he was terribly apprehensive\nof evil consequences to himself. He muttered, \"I gave her a little\npatal-juice too.\"\n\n\"So I thought,\" said the Sub-Inspector. \"Now all present will follow\nme.\" With the assistance of his constable and chaukidars, he led them\nto Debendra Babu's house. The latter received them in his parlour. He\naffected to be surprised and shocked by the news of Siraji's death.\n\n\"That is strange,\" retorted the Sub-Inspector. \"Abdullah here has\nsworn that he poisoned her at your request.\"\n\nDebendra Babu became ashen pale, but he soon regained\nself-possession. Turning on Abdullah he shouted:--\"How dare you say\nthat I gave you any such orders?\"\n\n\"Babu,\" whined Abdullah, \"I never said so. The Darogaji is mistaken.\"\n\nThe Sub-Inspector perceived that, all the witnesses being tenants\nof Debendra Babu, there was no hope of getting them to stick to any\nstatement inculpating him. He sulkily told the Mohammadans present that\nthey might bury Siraji's corpse, and accompanied Debendra Babu to his\nhouse, where he was royally entertained till next morning. However,\non taking leave, he hinted that enough evidence had been secured to\nwarrant his reporting the case as one of causing abortion by means\nof drugs, and that the Pulis Saheb (District Superintendent)\nwould probably order further investigation. Debendra Babu was\nseriously alarmed by the implied threat. Visions of jail--perchance\ntransportation across the dark ocean--floated in his sensorium. He\nresolved to submit the case to an astrologer.\n\nGobardhan Chakravarti was an old Brahman neighbour who lived by casting\nnativities, giving weather and crop forecasts, and prophesying good or\nevil things in proportion to the fee he received. Debendra Babu paid\nhim a visit next morning and was received with the servile courtesy\ndue to a wealthy client. After beating about the bush for a while he\nsaid: \"My fate just now seems very unpropitious; when may I expect\nbetter times?\"\n\nGobardhan covered a slate with mysterious calculations and, after\nporing over them for ten or fifteen minutes, he looked up with the\nremark:--\"Your luck is really atrocious and has been so for more than\nthree months.\"\n\n\"Quite true, but what I want to know is--how long is this going\nto last?\"\n\n\"I am afraid that you may expect one misfortune after another;\nI can't quite see the end of your evil destiny.\"\n\n\"Goodness gracious! what shall I do? Are there no means of conjuring\nit away?\"\n\n\"Certainly, the Shastras prescribe certain Grahasanti (propitiation of\nplanets) processes, which will enable you to counteract the influence\nof malign stars.\"\n\nThe cunning bait was swallowed by Debendra Babu, who asked: \"How much\nwould these ceremonies cost?\"\n\nAfter thinking out the maximum amount he could decently demand,\nthe astrologer said: \"About one hundred rupees.\"\n\n\"Oh, that's far too much,\" was the reply. \"Do you want to ruin\nme? Can't you do it for less?\"\n\n\"Not a pice less. I could perform a jog (sacrifice) for as little as\nten rupees; but such maimed rites are quite contrary to the Shastras.\"\n\n\"Will you guarantee definite results for Rs. 100?\" asked Debendra\nBabu anxiously.\n\n\"I promise nothing; if you have faith in my ceremonies, you must pay\nme my own price; if not--I leave you to Fate.\"\n\n\"I have implicit faith in you,\" groaned Debendra Babu, who was now\nterribly alarmed, \"and will pay you Rs. 100 to-morrow, but please\ndon't delay; the matter is very pressing.\"\n\nGobardhan agreed to the proposal; but seeing that his client was loth\nto go and evidently had something on his mind, he remarked:--\n\n\"When a wise man consults a physician, he always discloses his\nsymptoms. You must be quite frank and tell me how your affairs have\nbeen progressing lately, in order that I may address my incantations\nto the proper quarter. Be sure that I will divulge nothing.\"\n\nThus encouraged Debendra Babu revealed his relations with Siraji,\nconfessed that he had bribed Abdullah to administer a powerful drug\nto her, and expatiated on the very awkward predicament in which her\nsudden death had placed him.\n\nGobardhan listened with breathless attention and then remarked:\n\"You have acted rightly in telling me the whole truth. I will perform\na homa (burnt sacrifice) and verily believe that it will have the\ndesired effect. Let me have Rs. 200 and I will set about it at once.\"\n\nDebendra Babu groaned inwardly at the thought of so heavy an\nexpenditure; but after all, the prospect of escaping deadly peril\nwas well worth Rs. 200. So he returned home and thence despatched\nthe amount in currency notes to Gobardhan.\n\nThe astrologer spent about Rs. 5 on ghi (clarified butter), rice,\nand plantains for his homa sacrifice, and completed it in three\ndays. Then he called on the police Sub-Inspector, who received him\ncordially. After the usual compliments had been, exchanged, Grobardhan\nasked how his host was faring.\n\n\"Things are not going well with me,\" was the reply. \"Most of the people\nin those parts are miserably poor; and what I can extract from the\nwell-to-do hardly suffices for my horse-keep. Thakurji (a term used\nin addressing Brahmans), I want you to examine my palm and say when\ngood times are coming for me.\"\n\nAfter poring over the proffered hand for fully a minute, muttering\nand shaking his head the while, Gobardhan said: \"I am delighted to\ntell you that your good star is in the ascendant. Very soon you will\nmake something handsome.\"\n\n\"I wish I could think so!\" observed the policeman, \"but it is\nimpossible. I have only one likely case on my file, and prospects\nare not brilliant even in that quarter.\"\n\nThen, in answer to leading questions from Gobardhan, he told the\nstory of Siraji's death--adding that he had decided to send Debendra\nBabu and Abdullah up for trial, but doubted whether he could adduce\nsufficient evidence to convict them of murder or anything like it.\n\nGobardhan asked: \"Now, why should you lose such a splendid opportunity\nof making money?\" and seeing the policeman's eyes twinkle, he went on,\n\"Oh, you need not appear in this transaction yourself. I will do the\nneedful. Tell me frankly--how much money would satisfy you?\"\n\n\"I could not run the risk of reporting the case as false for less\nthan Rs. 100.\"\n\n\"That is too much,\" was the wily astrologer's reply. \"Mention a\nreasonable sum, and I will see what can be done.\"\n\n\"Well, I will take Rs. 75, and not a pice less; and understand, if\nthe money is not paid before this evening, I will send Debendra Babu\nup for trial.\"\n\n\"Very good; I will call on him at once and frighten him into paying\nup; but I must have something for myself.\"\n\n\"Certainly, if you can get Rs. 75 from the defendant you may keep\nRs. 15 as commission.\"\n\nGobardhan returned home, took the required amount from the Rs. 200 paid\nhim by Debendra Babu, and handed it privately to the Sub-Inspector,\nwho swore by all the gods that he would take no further steps against\nthe inculpated men.\n\nKnowing well that the policeman would keep faith with a Brahman,\nGobardhan went straight to Debendra Babu with the glad news that the\nhoma sacrifice had been completely successful, and not a hair of his\nhead would be injured. Debendra felt as though a mountain was lifted\nfrom his heart; he stooped to wipe the dust from Gobardhan's feet.\n\nOn learning a few days later that the case had been reported to\nheadquarters as false, he was firmly convinced that Gobardhan's magical\nrites had saved him from ruin, and presented him with a bonus of\nRs. 50. Nalini Babu was not long in ascertaining how the land lay. He\nwas exasperated by the sordid wrong-doing which reached his ears and\nresolved to report it to the District Magistrate. But in the end he\nkept silent, because Sadhu came to him with tearful eyes, saying that\nhe had already suffered deep humiliation; and if old scandals were\nraked up, the community would certainly excommunicate him.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV\n\nTrue to His Salt.\n\nHiramani did not forget the thrashing given her by Debendra Babu for\nfailing to cause a rupture between the Basu brothers. She took a vow of\nvengeance and laid in wait for an opportunity of fulfilling it. Meeting\nhim one day in the village street, she asked with an air of mystery:--\n\n\"Have you heard the news?\"\n\n\"What's that?\" replied Debendra Babu carelessly.\n\n\"It concerns the woman Siraji,\" she whispered.\n\nAll Debendra Babu's fears revived; he exclaimed: \"Speak plainly,\nwhat is the matter?\"\n\n\"The matter stands thus. You know that her case was hushed up by the\npolice? Well, I hear on good authority that the District Magistrate\nhas received an anonymous letter relating the real cause of her death\nand has ordered a fresh investigation. So I am afraid you will soon\nbe in hot water again. As I am your well-wisher in spite of the cruel\ntreatment I have received, I think it my duty to warn you of this\nnew danger.\"\n\nHiramani spoke in faltering accents and wiped away an imaginary tear\nwith the corner of her cloth.\n\n\"How did yon learn all this?\" asked Debendra Babu in deep anxiety.\n\n\"I got the news only last night from the wife of the new Sub-Inspector\nwho has come here on transfer. On paying my respects to her, I was\ntold in confidence that her husband had orders to make a searching\ninquiry into the cause of Siraji's death.\"\n\nDebendra Babu saw that his secret was at the woman's discretion. He\nanswered in an apologetic tone: \"It was certainly foolish of me to\nlose my temper with you, but I had some provocation. Forgive me,\nand let bye-gones be bye-gones. Whom do you suspect of sending the\nanonymous letter?\"\n\nHiramani bit her lips; she knew the author, who was none other than\nherself, and replied: \"It might have been written by Jadu Babu; but\nI suspect his brother Nalini, who is as venomous as a snake and hates\nyou mortally\".\n\nDebendra Babu stamped his foot in annoyance and, after musing awhile,\nasked, \"What would you advise me to do?\"\n\nHiramani wagged her head sententiously. \"Babuji, I am afraid you are in\na serious scrape. The matter has gone too far to be hushed up a second\ntime. You cannot do anything directly without increasing the suspicion\nwhich attaches to you; but I will watch events and keep you informed of\nall that happens at the police station. You know I have friends there.\"\n\nDebendra Babu was profuse in his thanks. He pressed a couple of rupees\ninto the old woman's willing palm, saying: \"Hiramani, I see that you\nare really my well-wisher. Come to my house as often as you like;\nand if you have anything particular to say to me, I shall always be\nglad to hear it--and grateful too.\"\n\nThen the pair separated, and Hiramani took advantage of the Babu's\ninvitation by visiting his daughter Kamini that very evening.\n\nShe was made welcome in the inner apartment and sat down for a long\nchat, in the course of which she asked after Kamini's husband.\n\n\"He has gone out for a stroll,\" her hostess replied, \"but I expect\nhim back every minute.\"\n\nThe words were hardly out of her mouth ere a young man came in\nhurriedly and, not noticing Hiramani who sat in the shade, asked for\na drink of water. Hiramani doubted not that he was Debendra Babu's\nson-in-law, Pulin by name, who had lately come to live with his wife's\nfamily. She introduced herself as a friend of his father-in-law's\nand, being very witty when she chose to exert herself, soon managed\nto make a favourable impression on the young man, He asked her to\ncome again whenever she pleased, adding that he was generally at home\nafter sunset.\n\nHiramani had prepared the ground for a further attack. She left the\nhouse with a certainty that she had made a good impression.\n\nThenceforward hardly a day passed without at least one visit to\nDebendra Babu's. Hiramani wormed all Kamini's little harmless secrets\nout of her and obtained enough knowledge of the girl's tastes and\nhabits to serve her own designs.\n\nOne day, finding herself alone with Pulin, she threw out dark hints\nagainst his wife's character. The young man's suspicion was excited. He\npressed for more explicit information, but Hiramani shook her head\nmysteriously without replying. Pulin insisted on being told the truth,\nwhereon Hiramani poured out a whispered story of Kamini's intrigues,\nmentioning names of male relatives who were known to frequent the\nhouse. Pulin was stung to the quick. Regardless of a stranger's\npresence, he called Kamini into the room, abused her roundly, and\ndeclared that he would never live with her again. Then gathering up\na few belongings in a bundle, he quitted the house, leaving his wife\nin a flood of tears. Hiramani was overjoyed by the results of her\nmachinations. She affected sympathy with the deserted wife, who was\ntoo young and innocent to suspect her of having caused the quarrel.\n\nDebendra Babu had a servant, Ram Harak by name, who had been in the\nfamily for nearly forty years and was treated as one of them. He had\nwatched the growing intimacy between Hiramani and the young couple and,\nknowing the old woman's character well, endeavoured to counteract her\nevil influence. Finding this impossible he sought Debendra Babu in\nthe parlour, salamed profoundly, and stood erect, without uttering\na word. His master asked, with some surprise, what he wanted.\n\n\"Mahasay,\" replied Ram Harak, \"have I not served you for two-score\nyears with obedience and fidelity? Have you ever found me untrue to\nmy salt?\"\n\n\"Certainly not; I know you are a good and faithful servant.\"\n\n\"Then, Mahasay, you ought to protect me against enemies of your\nhouse. That odious hag, Hiramani, has abused me foully.\"\n\n\"Now, Ram Harak, it is you who are abusive. What have you done to\noffend her?\"\n\n\"You are my father and mother,\" replied Ram Harak with his eyes\nfull of tears. \"Let me explain fully. I have long since suspected\nHiramani of making mischief in this house, and have kept a close\nwatch on her movements. The very day of Pulin Babu's departure I\noverheard her whispering all manner of false insinuations against\nmy young mistress. Then came the quarrel between husband and wife,\nwhich ended in Pulin Babu's leaving your house. After he had gone I\nventured to remonstrate with Hiramani for poisoning jamai (son-in-law)\nBabu's mind against his wife; whereon she overwhelmed me with abuse\nand actually threatened to get me dismissed! I want to know whether\nthis woman is mistress of the family? Am I to have no redress?\"\n\n\"Leave all this to me, Ram Harak, and go to your work. I'll speak to\nHiramani myself.\"\n\n\"Babuji, you are treading the matter far too lightly. I would never\nhave complained on my own account, but I cannot bear to see her\nplotting against your daughter's happiness, which she has, perhaps,\ndestroyed for ever!\"\n\nDebendra Babu went into his inner apartments and, seeing Hiramani\nengaged in close conversation with his daughter, he asked her why she\nhad used bad language to Ram Harak. The old woman beckoned him to come\noutside; and after making sure that no one was listening, she poured\ninto his ears a long tale of Ram Harak's misdoings. He was robbing\nhis master, she declared, taking dasturi (commission on purchases) at\ntwice the customary rates. What was far worse, the \"faithful servant\"\nhad spoken freely of Debendra Babu's relations with Siraji in the\nvillage, and it was he who instigated the anonymous letter which was\nabout to bring the police down on his master. Though all this was the\npurest fiction, Debendra Babu swallowed it greedily. He shouted for\nRam Harak and, on the man's appearance, charged him with fraud and\nunfaithfulness to his salt. Ram Harak stood silent with folded hands,\nnot deigning to exculpate himself, which so enraged Debendra Babu\nthat he gave the poor old man a sharp blow on the head with his shoe,\nbidding him begone and never to cross his threshold again. Ram Harak\nwent to his hut, collected his possessions in a bundle, and left the\nhouse where forty years of his life had been spent. Hiramani's plans\nof vengeance were prospering.\n\nSoon after these unpleasant events the new Sub-Inspector of police\narrived at Debendra Babu's house with a warrant for his arrest, and\ntook him to the station despite loud protests of innocence. There\nhe applied for bail, which was of course refused, and he spent the\nnight in the lock-up. Knowing well that he had a very bad case, he\nhumbled himself so far as to send for Nalini, whom he implored with\nfolded hands to save him from destruction. Nalini was deeply moved by\nhis appeal. He heartily despised the fellow's unutterable baseness,\nbut reflected that he had been an old friend of his father's. He\nundertook the prisoner's defence.\n\nIn due course Debendra Babu, with Abdullah, was brought before the\nDeputy Magistrate of Ghoria on various grave charges. The evidence\nestablished a strong prima facie case against both, and Nalini Babu\nreserved his defence. They were committed for trial. When the case came\nbefore the Sessions Judge the Government Pleader (public prosecutor)\nadduced many witnesses proving the prisoner's guilt, the last of\nwhom was Hiramani, who admitted on cross-examination that she had\ncaused the anonymous letter to be sent to headquarters, which led to\nthe charge being reopened. She protested that she had done so from a\nfeeling that so great a crime should not be hushed up. Nalini Babu,\nin his turn, put forward some witnesses for the defence; but their\nstatements were not of material advantage to the prisoner. It was,\nin fact, a losing game, but he played it manfully. After all evidence\nhad been recorded, the Government Pleader was about to sum up for the\nprosecution, when the Court rose suddenly, as it was past five o'clock.\n\nNalini was going homewards in the dusk, when he felt a hand laid\ntimidly on his shoulder. Turning sharply round, he saw an old\nman standing by his side. On being asked his name and business,\nthe newcomer whispered some information which must have interested\nNalini greatly for he rubbed his hands, smiled, and nodded several\ntimes. After a few minutes' talk the pair went together to a spot\nwhere a palanquin with bearers was waiting. Into it got Nalini and\nwas carried off at a smart trot, while his companion hobbled behind.\n\nWhen the Court assembled next day Nalini thus addressed the judge:\n\"May it please your honour, I have, by the greatest good luck,\nobtained certain evidence which will, I think, place this case in a new\nlight\". On getting leave to adduce an additional witness, he beckoned\nto an old man, standing at the back of the Court, who entered the\nwitness-box and declared that his name was Ram Harak and that he was\na dismissed servant of the prisoner. This was a curious opening for\na witness for the defence, and dead silence fell on the Court while\nRam Harak proceeded to swear that it was he, and not Debendra Babu,\nwho had been intimate with the deceased, and that she had poisoned\nherself to avoid excommunication.\n\n\"Did she tell you so herself?\" asked the judge sharply.\n\n\"No, your highness; I learnt this only yesterday from Maina Bibi,\nKarim's own sister; Piyari Bibi, Sadhu's daughter; and Nasiban Bibi,\nhis sister-in-law, who all lived with the deceased.\"\n\nThe Government Pleader at once objected to this statement being\nrecorded, as it was hearsay. Nalini, however, assured the judge\nthat the eye-witnesses were in attendance, and called them, one\nby one, to give evidence. Passing strange was their story. On the\nevening of Siraji's death they found her writhing in agony on the\nfloor and, on being questioned, she gasped out that she could bear\nher kinsfolks' tyranny no longer. They had just told her that she\nwas to be excommunicated for intriguing with an infidel. So she had\ngot some yellow arsenic from the domes (low-caste leather-dressers)\nand swallowed several tolas weight of the poison in milk. The other\nwomen were thunderstruck. They sat down beside her and mingled their\nlamentations until Siraji's sufferings ended for ever. They afterwards\nagreed to say nothing about the cause of her death for fear of the\npolice. But Ram Harak had come to them privately and frightened them\ninto promising to tell the whole truth, by pointing out the awful\nconsequences of an innocent man's conviction. Their evidence was\nnot shaken by the Government Pleader's cross-examination, and it was\ncorroborated by a dome, who swore that Siraji had got some arsenic from\nhim a few days before her death, on the pretext that it was wanted in\norder to poison some troublesome village dogs. After consulting with\nthe jury for a few minutes, the judge informed Nalini that his client\nwas acquitted, and Debendra Babu left the Court, as the newspapers say,\n\"without a stain on his character\". Seeing Ram Harak standing near\nthe door with folded hands, he clasped the good old man to his bosom,\nwith many protestations of gratitude, and begged him to forgive the\ninjustice with which he had been treated.\n\nWhen Ram Harak found himself alone with his master at the close of\nthis exciting day, he repeated the vile insinuations which Hiramani\nhad made regarding the daughter's character. Debendra Babu was highly\nindignant and vowed that the scandal-monger should never cross his\nthreshold again. He then implored Ram Harak to trace his son-in-law,\nauthorising him to offer any reparation he might ask. The old man\nsmiled, and left the house, but returned a quarter of an hour later\nwith a Sanyasi (religious mendicant) who revealed himself as the\nmissing Pulin. Debendra Babu received him with warm embraces and many\nentreaties for pardon; while Pulin said modestly that he alone was\nto blame, for he ought not to have believed the aspersions cast on\nhis wife by Hiramani, which led him to quit the house in disgust. He\nadded that Ram Harak had found him telling his beads near a temple,\nand persuaded him to wait close at hand until he had opened Debendra\nBabu's eyes.\n\nMeanwhile the whole house echoed with songs and laughter. Debendra\nBabu rewarded Ram Harak's fidelity with a grant of rent-free land,\nand publicly placed a magnificent turban on his head. He resolved to\ncelebrate his own escape from jail by feasting the neighbours. The\nentire arrangements were left in the hands of the two Basus, who\nmanaged matters so admirably that every one was more than satisfied\nand Debendra Babu's fame was spread far and wide. When things\nresumed their normal aspect, he held a confab with the brothers as\nto the punishment which should be meted out to Hiramani, and it was\nunanimously resolved to send her to Coventry. They, therefore, forbade\nthe villagers to admit her into their houses, and the shopkeepers to\nsupply her wants. Hiramani soon found Kadampur too hot to hold her\nand took her departure for ever, to every one's intense relief.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV\n\nA Tame Rabbit.\n\nWhen a penniless Hindu marries into a wealthy family he is sorely\ntempted to live with, and upon, his father-in-law. But the ease\nthus secured is unattended by dignity. The gharjamai, \"son-in-law of\nthe house,\" as he is styled, shocks public opinion, which holds it\ndisgraceful for an able-bodied man to eat the bread of idleness. Pulin\nincurred a certain degree of opprobrium by quartering himself on\nDebendra Babu; neighbours treated him with scant courtesy, and the\nvery household servants made him feel that he was a person of small\nimportance. He bore contumely with patience, looking forward to\nthe time when Debendra Babu's decease would give him a recognised\nposition. His wife was far more ambitious. She objected strongly to\nsharing her husband's loss of social standing and frequently reproached\nhim with submitting to be her father's annadas (rice-slave).\n\nSo, one morning, he poured his sorrows into Nalini's sympathetic ear.\n\n\"Mahasay,\" he said, \"you know that people are inclined to blame me\nfor living in idleness, and I do indeed long to chalk out a career\nfor myself. But I don't know how to set about it and have no patron to\nback me. Do you happen to know of any job which would give me enough\nto live on? Salary is less an object with me than prospects. I would\ngladly accept a mastership in some high school.\"\n\n\"You are quite right in seeking independence,\" replied Nalini, \"and\nI shall be glad to help you. But lower-grade teachers are miserably\npaid, and their prospects are no better. It is only graduates who\ncan aspire to a head-mastership. Are you one?\"\n\n\"No, sir, but I passed the F.A. examination in 1897.\"\n\n\"Ah, then, you are a Diamond Jubilee man--that's a good omen,\"\nrejoined Nalini, with a shade of sarcasm in his voice. \"What were\nyour English text-books?\"\n\n\"I read Milton's Absalom and Achitophel, Dryden's Holy Grail, and many\nother poems, but I'm not sure of their titles after all these years.\"\n\nNalini suspected that his friend's English lore was somewhat rusty. In\norder to test him further, he asked, \"Can you tell me who wrote\n'Life is real, life is earnest,'--that line applies to you!\"\n\nPulin fidgeted about before answering. \"It must have been Tennyson--or\nwas it Wordsworth? I never could keep poetry in my head.\"\n\nNalini thought that an F.A. might have remembered Longfellow's Psalm\nof Life, but he refrained from airing superior knowledge.\n\n\"Do you know any mathematics?\" he inquired.\n\n\"Mathematics!\" replied Pulin joyously. \"Why, they're my forte---I\nam quite at home in arithmetic, algebra, and geometry. Please ask me\nany question you like.\"\n\n\"Well, let us have Prop. 30, Book I. of Euclid.\"\n\nPulin rattled off Proposition 13 of that book, without the aid of a\ndiagram. Nalini now saw that the young man's mental equipment was\nof the slenderest description. He said, \"Well, you may call on me\nanother day, when I may be able to tell you of some vacancy\".\n\nPulin, however, would take no denial. He became so insistent\nthat Nalini reluctantly gave him a letter of introduction to Babu\nKaliprasanna Som, Secretary of the Ramnagar High School, who, he\nsaid, was looking about him for a fourth master. Pulin lost no time\nin delivering it and was immediately appointed to the vacant post.\n\nEnglish education in Bengal is not regarded as a key which opens\nthe door of a glorious literature, but simply and solely as a\nstepping-stone in the path of worldly success. The Department seems to\naim at turning out clerks and lawyers in reckless profusion. Moreover,\nacademic degrees are tariffed in the marriage market. The\n\"F.A.\" commands a far higher price than the \"entrance-passed,\" while\nan M.A. has his pick of the richest and prettiest girls belonging to\nhis class. Hence parents take a keen interest in their boys' progress\nand constantly urge them to excel in class. With such lessons ringing\nin his ears, the Bengali schoolboy is consumed with a desire to master\nhis text-books. The great difficulty is to tear him away from them,\nand insist on his giving sufficient time to manly games. When a new\nteacher takes the helm, he is closely watched in order to test his\ncompetence. The older lads take a cruel pleasure in plying him with\nquestions which they have already solved from the Dictionary. Pulin\ndid not emerge from this ordeal with credit, and the boys concocted\na written complaint of his shortcomings, which they despatched to\nthe Secretary of the School Committee, The answer was a promise to\nredress their grievances.\n\nAt 10.30 next morning Kaliprasanna Babu entered Pulin's classroom and\nstood listening to his method of teaching English literature. Presently\none of the boys asked him to explain the difference between \"fort\"\nand \"fortress\". After scratching his head for fully half a minute he\nreplied that the first was a castle defended by men, while the second\nhad a female garrison! The Secretary was quite satisfied. He left\nthe room and sent Pulin a written notice of dismissal. The latter was\ndisheartened beyond measure by this unkind stroke of fortune. He shook\nthe dust of Ramnagar from his feet and returned home to lay his sorrows\nbefore Nalini, seasoning the story with remarks highly derogatory to\nKaliprasanna Babu's character. In order to get rid of an importunate\nsuitor Nalini gave him another letter of introduction, this time to\nan old acquaintance named Debnath Lahiri who was head clerk in the\noffice of Messrs. Kerr & Dunlop, one of the largest mercantile firms\nof Calcutta. Pulin was heartily sick of school-mastering, and the\nprospect of making a fortune in business filled his soul with joy. He\nborrowed Rs. 30 from Debendra Babu and took the earliest train for\nCalcutta. On arriving there he joined a mess of waifs and strays like\nhimself, who herded in a small room and clubbed their pice to provide\nmeals. Then he waited on Debnath Babu, whom he found installed in a\nsumptuous office overlooking the river Hughli. The great man glanced\nat his credentials and, with an appearance of cordiality, promised\nto let him know in case a vacancy occurred in the office. For nearly\na month Pulin called daily for news at Messrs. Kerr & Dunlop's, and\ngenerally managed to waylay the head clerk, whose reply was invariably,\n\"I have nothing to suit you at present\".\n\nOne morning, however, he was stopped by the darwan (doorkeeper) who\ntold him gruffly that the \"Bara Babu did not like to have outsiders\nhanging about the office\". The baffled suitor reflected on his\nmiserable position. He had just eleven rupees and two pice left,\nwhich he calculated would last him, with strict economy, for another\nfortnight. When they were spent, he would have to return crestfallen\nto Kadampur. But could he face the neighbours' sneers, the servants'\ncontumely--worse than all, his wife's bitter tongue? No, that was\nnot to be thought of. It were better to plunge into the river whose\nturbid waters rolled only a few feet away.\n\nPulin was roused from this unpleasant train of thought by hearing\nhis name pronounced. It came from a well-dressed man, who was just\nentering Messrs. Kerr & Dunlop's office, welcomed by a salam from the\nsurly doorkeeper. Pulin was delighted to recognise in the stranger\na certain Kisari Mohan Chatterji, who had taught him English in the\nGeneral Assembly's College more than a decade back. In a few words he\ntold his sad story and learnt that Kisari Babu had taken the same step\nas he himself contemplated, with the result that he was now head clerk\nin Messrs. Kerr & Dunlop's export department. This news augured well\nfor his own ambition, but poor Pulin was disgusted on hearing that no\nless than three vacancies had occurred in as many weeks, and that all\nhad been filled by relatives of Babu Debnath Lahiri. Kisari Babu added:\n\"A junior clerk is to be appointed to-morrow. Write out an application\nin your very best hand, with copies of your testimonials, and bring it\nto me here this evening at five. I'll see that it reaches our manager,\nHenderson Saheb.\" Pulin punctually followed his friend's advice,\nand dreamed all night of wealth beyond a miser's utmost ambition.\n\nOn arriving at Messrs. Kerr & Dunlop's office next morning he joined a\ncrowd of twenty or thirty young men who were bent on a like errand. His\nspirits sank to zero, nor were they raised when after hanging about\nin the rain for nearly two hours the aspirants were told that the\nvacancy had been filled up. Thereupon the forlorn group dispersed,\ncursing their ill-luck and muttering insinuations against Mr. Henderson\nand his head clerk. Pulin, however, lingered behind. By tendering a\nrupee to the doorkeeper he got a slip of paper and pencil, with which\nhe indited a piteous appeal to Kisari Babu, and a promise that it\nshould reach him. Presently his friend came out in a desperate hurry,\nwith a stylograph behind his ear, and his hands laden with papers.\n\n\"It's just as I anticipated,\" he whispered to Pulin. \"The head\nclerk has persuaded Henderson Saheb to bestow the post on his wife's\nnephew. But don't be disheartened. I will speak to our Saheb about\nyou this very day. Come here at five to learn the result.\"\n\nPulin did so and was overjoyed to find that he had been appointed\nprobationary clerk in the export department on Rs. 20 per mensem,\nin supersession of Debnath Babu's nominee.\n\nOn the morrow he entered on his new duties with some trepidation,\nbut Kisari Babu took him under his wing and spared no pains to \"teach\nhim the ropes\". Pulin spent his evenings in furbishing up his English\nand arithmetic, mastered the whole art of book-keeping, and, being\nnaturally intelligent, he soon had the office routine at his fingers'\nends. He grasped the fact that a young man who wishes to succeed\nin life must make himself indispensable. In course of time Pulin's\nindustry and trustworthiness attracted the attention of Mr. Henderson,\nwho confirmed him as clerk, with a salary of Rs. 35.\n\nBut every cup has its bitter drop; and Pulin's was the persistent\nenmity of the head clerk, who bore him a grudge for ousting his wife's\nnephew and seized every opportunity of annoying him. Leagued with the\narch-enemy were two subordinate clerks, Gyanendra and Lakshminarain\nby name, who belonged to Debnath Babu's gusti (family). This trio so\nmanaged matters that all the hardest and most thankless work fell to\nPulin's lot. He bore their pin-pricks with equanimity, secure in the\nconstant support of Kisari Babu.\n\nOne muggy morning in August he awoke with a splitting headache,\nthe harbinger of an attack of fever, and was obliged to inform the\nhead clerk, by means of a note, of his inability to attend office. An\nanswer was brought by Gyanendra to the effect that three days' leave\nof absence was granted, but that his work must be carried on by some\nother clerk. He was, therefore, ordered to send the key of his desk\nby the bearer. For three days the patient endured alternations of\nheat and cold; but his malady yielded to quinine, and on the fourth\nhe was able to resume work.\n\nSoon after reaching the office, he was accosted by one of the bearers,\nnamed Ramtonu, who told him that the Bara Sahebwished to see him at\nonce. The moment he entered the manager's sanctum he saw that something\nunpleasant had occurred. Without wishing him good morning, as usual,\nMr. Henderson handed him a cheque and asked sternly whether he had\nfilled it up. Pulin examined the document, which turned out to be an\norder on the Standard Bank to pay Tarak Ghose & Co. Rs. 200, signed\nby Mr. Henderson. He was obliged to admit that the payee's name, as\nalso the amount in words and figures, seemed to be in his handwriting.\n\n\"Yes,\" rejoined the manager, \"and the signature is very like my own;\nbut it is a forgery. Do you hear me, Babu, a forgery!\"\n\nTo Pulin's disordered senses the room, with its furniture and\nMr. Henderson's angry face, seemed to be turning round. He gasped\nout, \"I'm ill, sir!\" and sank into a chair. The manager mistook the\nremains of fever for a tacit admission of guilt. He waited till Pulin\nhad regained a share of his wits and said gravely: \"I did not think\nthat one whom I trusted with my cheque-book would act thus. Now you\nwill search your books, to see whether they contain a record of any\npayment of the kind, and return with them in half an hour. But I must\nwarn you that if this forgery is traced to you, I shall have to call\nin the police.\"\n\nPulin staggered back to his room in despair and observed that Gyanendra\nand Lakshminarain, who sat at the next desk, were evidently enjoying\nhis mental agony. Alas! the books showed no trace of any payment\nto Tarak Ghose & Co. He wrung his hands in great distress and\nsat bewildered, until Ramtonu came to summon him to the manager's\ntribunal. In the corridor Ramtonu glanced round, to make sure that\nno one was within hearing, and said, \"Don't be afraid, Babuji. You\ndid me a good turn, and I may be able to help you now.\"\n\nThis Ramtonu was an office menial hailing from the district of Gaya,\nin Behar. He was an intelligent man, but rather unlicked, and was\nthe butt of the younger clerks, who delighted in mocking his uncouth\nup-country dialect. Pulin, however, had never joined in \"ragging\"\nhim, and, on one occasion, he lent Ramtonu Rs. 7 for his wife, who\nwas about to increase the population of Gaya. Gratitude for kindness\nis a marked trait in the Indian character, and Pulin bethought him\nof the old fable of the Lion and Mouse. He asked: \"Why, what do you\nknow about lekha-para (reading and writing)?\"\n\n\"Never mind,\" rejoined Ramtonu. \"We must not loiter, for we should\nbe suspected of plotting together. Come to the Saheb's room. I shall\nbe admitted, for he knows that I don't understand English. All I ask\nis that you will clasp your hands as a signal when I may come forward\nand tell my story.\"\n\nA European police officer was seated by Mr. Henderson's side, engaged\nin writing from his dictation. They looked up, and the manager asked\nwhether Pulin had found any record of the payment in dispute.\n\nOn receiving a negative answer, he said: \"Then I shall be obliged to\nhand you over to the police\".\n\nPulin clasped his hands in a mute appeal for mercy, whereon Ramtonu\nstepped forward. Carefully extracting a folded sheet of foolscap from\nthe pocket of his chapkan (a tight-fitting garment, worn by nearly all\nclasses in full dress), he spread it out on the table and respectfully\nasked the manager to run his eye over it.\n\n\"By Jove,\" remarked the latter, with great surprise, \"here's some\none has been copying my signature--and Pulin's writing too!\"\n\nAll eyes were now bent on the incriminating document. It was made up\nof many fragments of paper, carefully pasted on a sheet of foolscap,\nand bore the words, \"Tarak Ghose & Co., two hundred rupees, 200,\"\nrepeated at least twenty times. Below was \"A.G. Henderson,\" also\nmultiplied many-fold. The manager asked where Ramtonu had found the\npaper, and received the following answer:--\"Your Highness, Pulin Babu\nhere did not come to office on Monday; and for the next few days his\nwork was done by Gyanendra Babu, who got the keys of his desk. I knew\nthat he and some other clerks detested Pulin Babu, so I watched their\nmovements narrowly, to see whether they would try to get him into a\nscrape, and more than once I surprised Gyanendra and Lakshminarain\nwhispering together. On Tuesday neither of them left the office for\nlunch with the other clerks, and I seized some pretext for entering\nthe room where they sit. Gyanendra roughly bade me begone; so I went to\nthe verandah outside and peeped through the jilmils (Venetian blinds)\nof a window close to their desk. Lakshminarain was copying some English\nwords from a paper on his left side, while the other clerk looked on,\nnodding and shaking his head from time to time. After writing in this\nfashion for a while, Lakshminarain took a sheet of notepaper covered\nwith writing and copied the signature many times, until both babus\nwere satisfied with the result. Then I saw Gyanendra unlock Pulin\nBabu's desk, take out a cheque-book, and hand it to the other man,\nwho filled up the counterfoil and body of one blank cheque, glancing\nsometimes at the paper in front of him. He returned it to Gyanendra\nwho placed it in a pocket-book. After tearing up the papers they had\nused and throwing them into the waste-paper basket, they left the\nroom. I ran round, carefully avoiding them, picked the fragments of\npaper out of the basket, tied them in a corner of my gamcha (wrapper),\nand left the office quickly, asking the doorkeeper what direction\nthey had taken. When he said that they had turned northwards, I\nguessed that they were off to the Bank, in order to cash the cheque,\nand sure enough I overtook them not more than a rassi from the\noffice. Following them at a little distance on the other side of the\nstreet, I saw them stop outside the Standard Bank and look anxiously\naround. Presently a schoolboy passed by, whom they hailed and, after\ntalking for a while, Gyanendra handed him the cheque with a small\nlinen money-bag, and pointed to the door of the Bank. The lad went\ninside, while both babus waited round the corner. In a short time he\ncame out and handed the bag full of money to Gyanendra, who gave him\nsomething and hurried back to the office with his companion. Putting\ntwo and two together I felt assured that those clerks had forged the\ncheque; and had I known where Pulin Babu lived, I would certainly\nhave communicated my suspicions to him. Having to work without his\nhelp, I persuaded a student, who lodges near my quarters, to piece\nthe scraps of paper together. It took him two hours to do so, and we\nthen pasted them carefully on this sheet of foolscap. You will see,\nSaheb, that there are thirty-seven in all, and only three missing.\"\n\nThe story made a deep impression on Mr. Henderson and the Police\nInspector, while Pulin was raised to the seventh heaven of delight\nby the thought that his innocence might yet be established.\n\n\"Could you identify the boy?\" asked the Europeans with one breath.\n\n\"I don't know his name,\" was Ramtonu's rejoinder; \"but I think I could\npick him out, for he passes this office daily on his way to and from\nschool. But this is just the time when he goes home for tiffin. With\nyour Highness's permission, I will watch for him in the street.\"\n\n\"Do so by all means,\" was the Inspector's reply. \"Meanwhile, I'll\ntake down notes of your statement.\"\n\nRamtonu went out and in a few minutes returned dragging with him\ntriumphantly a well-dressed lad of fifteen, who seemed terribly\nalarmed by the company into which he was thrust. The Inspector calmed\nhis fears by assuring him that he would come to no harm if only he\nspoke the whole truth. \"You have been unwittingly made the instrument\nof a forgery,\" he added, \"and we want your help towards detecting\nit.\" The boy plucked up courage and answered every question put him\nquite candidly. His tale corroborated Ramtonu's in most particulars,\nwith the addition that the tall babu had given him eight annas bakshish\nfor cashing the cheque. He had not seen either of the men previously,\nbut thought he should be able to recognise one of them owing to his\nunusual height.\n\n\"Now, bearer,\" said Mr. Henderson, \"go and fetch both the clerks;\nbring in the tall one first, but keep an eye on the other outside\nand beyond earshot.\"\n\nRamtonu left the room with alacrity and presently returned ushering\nLakshminarain into the dreaded presence. The newcomer was beside\nhimself with terror; and when he was identified by the schoolboy as one\nof the men who had employed him to cash the cheque, he did not wait\nto be asked for an explanation. Throwing himself at Mr. Henderson's\nfeet he begged for mercy, promising to reveal the entire truth. The\nInspector would make no promises but simply adjured him to make a\nclean breast of his share in the transaction. Lakshminarain obeyed,\nand his statement, interrupted by many sobs, was duly recorded. His\naccomplice was next introduced. At first Gyanendra was inclined to\nput a bold face on the matter, stoutly affirming that it was a put-up\naffair between Pulin and Ramtonu. When, however, the Inspector read\nout to him the deposition of the bearer and schoolboy, he saw that\nthe game was up and confessed his misdoings, accusing the head clerk\nof having prompted them. The culprits were taken in a ticca gari\n(four-wheeled cab) to the police station Pulin occupying the box,\nwhile Ramtonu ran behind.\n\nWell, to cut a long story short, the prisoners stuck to their\nconfession and refunded their ill-gotten gains. They were duly\ncommitted to the High Court on charges of forgery and conspiring to\naccuse an innocent man of the like offence. They both pleaded guilty,\nand the judge remarked that it was one of the worst cases of the\nkind he had ever tried. In passing sentence of two years rigorous\nimprisonment on each prisoner, he added that they would have fared\nworse but for the patent fact that they had been made catspaws of by\nsome one who kept in the background. As there was no evidence against\nDebnath Babu, except that of accomplices, he was not prosecuted;\nbut immediately after the trial, Messrs. Kerr & Dunlop dismissed\nhim without notice. Kisari Babu was promoted to the vacant office of\nhead clerk, while Pulin stepped into his friend's shoes. By unfailing\napplication to duty, he won Messrs. Kerr & Dunlop's entire confidence,\nand in fulness of time succeeded Kisari Babu as head clerk. Ten or\ntwelve years later, Pulin was rich enough to build a pakka (masonry)\nhouse at Kadampur, which far eclipsed his father-in-law's, and had\na well-paid doorkeeper in the person of Ramtonu. The once-despised\ngharjamai took a leading position among the local gentry.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI\n\nGobardhan's Triumph.\n\nJadu Babu's four-year-old daughter, Mrinalini, or Mrinu as she was\ncalled in the family, came to her mother one evening to say that her\nkitten was lost. In vain was she taken on the maternal lap, her tears\ngently wiped away, and all manner of pretty toys promised. Her little\nframe was convulsed with sobs, and she refused to be comforted. So\nher mother sent a maidservant to search for the plaything. The girl\nreturned shortly and said that the kitten was certainly not in the\nhouse. At this Mrinu howled more loudly than ever, bringing her\nfather on the scene. He pacified the child by undertaking to produce\nher pet, and told the servants that the finder would be handsomely\nrewarded. Meanwhile his wife was trying to keep Mrinu's attention\nengaged by telling her a long story, when she suddenly exclaimed,\n\"What has become of your jasam (gold bracelet)?\"\n\nMrinu replied, \"I took it off to play with kitty and laid it down\nsomewhere\".\n\nThis was all the information she could vouchsafe in answer to repeated\nquestions. The mother set her down and proceeded to search every hole\nand corner for the jasam, but it was not to be found. Her husband\nwas greatly alarmed on hearing of this untoward event. The loss of\nRs. 100, at which the trinket was valued, might have been borne;\nbut Hindus believe that misfortune invariably follows the loss of\ngold. He set all his servants and hangers-on to look for the jasam,\nbut they were unsuccessful. In despair he hurried to Nalini for advice\nand was told to send for Gobardhan, which he promptly did.\n\nThe astrologer listened attentively to his story and then asked\nwhether Jadu Babu would try Bati Chala (divination by the bata leaf),\nor some simpler method of discovering the lost jasam. On learning that\nthe matter would be left entirely in his hands, he told Jadu Babu to\ncollect all his servants in the parlour and let him have half a seer\n(1 lb.) of raw rice, with as many strips of banana leaf as there were\nservants. When all were assembled, Gobardhan thus addressed them,\n\"Mrinu has lost her jasam, have any of you seen it?\" The reply was a\nchorus of \"Noes\" with emphatic head-shakings. \"Then none of you have\nstolen it?\" Again a volume of protestations. \"Very well, then,\" said\nGobardhan, \"I must try the ordeal of chewed rice.\" After uttering\nmany mantras (incantations) and waving his hand over the pile of\ngrain and banana leaves, he dealt out a quotum of each to the servants.\n\n\"Now\" he said, \"you will masticate the rice for a minute thoroughly\nand then drop the result on your leaves. I warn you that it will be\ndeadly poison for the thief.\" All obeyed with alacrity, and Gobardhan,\nafter examining the contents of each leaf, assured Jadu Babu that\nthe jasam had not been stolen.\n\nMy readers who are versed in science will understand that, in point of\nfact, there is nothing magical about this rite, which is based on the\ncircumstance that fear checks the flow of saliva. In all probability\na thief would eject the rice absolutely dry.\n\nThe inference was that the jasam had been mislaid; and Jadu Babu\nasked whether Gobardhan's lore was equal to recovering it.\n\n\"Possibly,\" answered the astrologer, \"but it is not a case of Bati\nChala; if you can guarantee me Rs. 10, I will perform Nakha Darpan\n(literally 'nail-mirror'). Let me have an almanac, please, to find\nan auspicious day.\"\n\nAfter examining it and receiving a ten-rupee note from Jadu Babu,\nthe astrologer said oracularly that he would return on the following\nafternoon, with a lad of twelve, who had been born under the\nConstellation of the Scales.\n\nAt the appointed hour, Gobardhan came accompanied by his acolyte, with\nwhom he sat down at the Chandimandab (a shrine of the goddess Durga,\nfound in most Hindu houses, which serves for social gatherings). Jadu\nBabu and the bhadra-lok (gentle-folk) took their seats there too, while\nthe underlings formed a respectful half-circle in front. Adjuring all\nto keep perfect silence, he asked the lad to gaze into the nail on his\nown right index finger and tell the people what he saw there. After\nstaring at it for a minute or so, the boy began to tremble violently\nand whispered: \"I see a mango-tope (orchard); a little girl is playing\nwith her kitten under the trees. Now I see her slipping a jasam from\nher arm, the kitten frisks about, and the child follows it; now it\ndisappears, and the child runs indoors.\" Then, raising his voice to a\nshrill scream, he pointed with his left hand to the north and asked:--\n\n\"What are those animals which are prowling in the orchard? Are they\ndogs? No--they are jackals--one, two, three jackals! They pounce on\nthe kitten, and tear her limb from limb! Now everything is growing\nhazy; I can't see any more!\"\n\nA thrill of fear ran through the audience, and one might have heard\na pin drop. At length Gobardhan broke the silence:--\n\n\"Let us go to the mango-tope north of this house,\" he said solemnly.\n\nThither they hurried and, after a few minutes' search, one of the\nmaidservants cried out that she had found the jasam half-hidden by\nthe gnarled roots of a tree.\n\nJadu Babu was overjoyed by the recovery of his missing jewel, and\npressed another fee of ten rupees on the astrologer. As for Gobardhan,\nhis fame spread far and wide, and his hut was rarely without some\nclient, eager to learn the future.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII\n\nPatience is a Virtue.\n\nSadhu Sheikh of Simulgachi was not long in finding a husband for his\nhalf-sister, Maini Bibi. Before she was fourteen, a young farmer named\nRamzan proposed for her hand, offering a den mohur of Rs. 100. The\nden mohur is a device recognised by Mohammadan law for protecting\nmarried women from capricious repudiation. The husband binds himself\nto refund a fictitious dowry, generally far above his means, in case\nhe should divorce his wife for no fault of hers. Ramzan was accepted\nby Sadhu, and the marriage was duly celebrated. Maini Bibi was a\nhandsome girl; but beauty was among the least of her gifts. She\nwas sweet-tempered, thrifty, and obedient, winning sympathy on all\nsides. The one discordant note was struck by Ramzan's mother, Fatima\nBibi by name, who took a violent dislike to the bride and evinced\nit by persistently scolding and ill-using her. Ramzan was completely\nunder his mother's thumb and saw everything with her eyes. His love\nfor Maini was slowly sapped by her innuendoes, and he treated the\npoor girl with something worse than coldness. Maini, however, bore\nher hard lot without a murmur, hoping that time and patience would\nwin back her husband's heart.\n\nOn returning one evening from the fields, Ramzan was hailed by his\nmother who was evidently in a worse temper than usual.\n\n\"Hi! Ramzan,\" she shrieked, \"I am an old woman, and you, doubtless,\nfind me an incumbrance. Speak out, my son; you have only to say 'go,'\nand I will leave this house in half an hour.\"\n\n\"Why, what's the matter, mother?\" asked Ramzan with open eyes.\n\n\"Matter,\" she yelled. \"Would you believe it, that black-faced daughter\nof a pig has actually abused me--me, your old mother!\"\n\n\"What did she say?\" rejoined Ramzan angrily.\n\n\"My son,\" was the answer, \"you know how she neglects household duties,\nleaving all the hard jobs to me. Well, this afternoon, I ventured\non a word of remonstrance, and she actually abused me.\" And the\nold woman wiped her tears away with a corner of her cotton wrapper,\nadding with eyes cast heavenwards, \"Merciful Allah, to think that I\nshould come to this in my old age!\"\n\n\"But what did she say?\" repeated Ramzan wearily.\n\n\"She told me to my face that I had forgotten to\nput salt into the curry!\"\n\n\"That's hardly abusive,\" rejoined Ramzan.\n\n\"You think so,\" shouted Fatima. \"Now you're taking sides with her\nagainst your mother, who bore you. You will assuredly suffer in\nJehannam (hell) for such a crime! But I'll have it out with that\nshe-devil!\"\n\nSo saying, she dashed from the room to the kitchen, where the\nluckless Maini was cowering in anticipation of a coming storm. She\nwas not deceived. Fatima seized her by the hair and administered a\nsound thumping.\n\nSeveral days passed by, bringing no alleviation to her fate. But\nmatters came to a crisis on a certain morning, owing to Ramzan's\ncomplaint that his wife had over-salted the curry. On tasting the\nfood, Fatima burst into violent imprecations and \"went for\" her\ndaughter-in-law, who took refuge in the neighbouring brushwood. At\nnightfall she crept back to the house and found Ramzan closeted\nwith his mother. They were talking earnestly, but Maini could not\ndistinguish the purport of the conversation. It seemed to her that\nFatima's voice was raised in entreaty, and Ramzan was objecting to some\nscheme proposed by her. She passed the night sleepless and in tears.\n\nEarly next day Ramzan entered her room and said gruffly, \"Get up,\ncollect your chattels, and follow me. I am going to take you back to\nSadhu's.\" Maini obeyed without a word of remonstrance, and a quarter\nof an hour later the ill-assorted pair might have been seen walking\ntowards Simulgachi.\n\nThe rainy season was now in full swing, and their path lay across\na deep nullah (ravine) through which mighty volumes of drainage\nwater were finding their way to the Ganges. On reaching a bamboo\nfoot-bridge which spanned it, Ramzan ordered his wife to go first. Ere\nshe reached the opposite bank, he gave her a violent shove, which\nsent her shrieking vainly for help into the swirling torrent below.\n\nHardly had Ramzan perpetrated this odious deed than he felt he would\ngive his chances of bihisht (paradise) to recall it. He ran along the\nbank shouting frantically, \"Maini! Maini!\" Alas! her slender body was\ncarried like a straw by the foaming water towards the Ganges and soon\ndisappeared in a bend of the nullah. Then her murderer sat down and\ngave himself up to despair. But the sun was up; people were stirring in\nthe fields; and so he slunk homewards. Fatima stood on the threshold\nand raised her eyebrows inquiringly; but Ramzan thrust her aside,\nmuttering, \"It is done,\" and shut himself up in his wife's room. There\neverything reminded him of her; the scrupulous neatness of floor\nand walls--no cobwebs hanging from the rafters, the kitchen utensils\nshining like mirrors. He sat down and burst into a flood of tears.\n\nFor several days he did not exchange a word with his accomplice, and\ndared not go to market lest his worst fears should be realised. Dread\nof personal consequences added new torture to unavailing remorse. Every\nmoment he expected the red-pagried ministers of justice to appear and\nhale him to the scaffold. The position was clearly past bearing. So,\ntoo, thought Fatima, for she waylaid her son one afternoon and said:\n\"Ramzan, I cannot stand this life any longer; let me go to my brother\nMahmud Sardar, the cooly-catcher\".\n\n\"Go,\" he replied sullenly, and the old woman gathered up her\nbelongings in a bundle and departed, leaving him to face the dark\nfuture alone.\n\nWhile brooding over his fate, he was startled by the sudden arrival of\nSadhu. \"Now I'm in for it,\" he thought and began to tremble violently\nwhile his features assumed an ashen hue. But Sadhu sat down by his\nside and said, \"Ramzan, I've come about Maini\".\n\n\"Then she's drowned!\" gasped Ramzan. \"By Allah the Highest, I swear\nthat I did my best to save her.\"\n\n\"Hullo!\" rejoined Sadhu with great surprise; \"you must have been with\nher when she fell into the nullah.\"\n\nRamzan bent his head in silence. After a few moments he looked up,\nclasped his hands, and said:--\n\n\"Tell me the truth, Sadhu, is Maini alive?\"\n\n\"She is,\" was the reply. \"On Thursday morning she came to our house\ndripping wet and quite exhausted, with a story that your mother had\nturned her out of doors and that she was on her way to live with\nus when, on crossing the Padmajali Nullah, her foot slipped and she\nfell into the water. She told us how, after being carried for nearly\na gau-coss (lit. cow league, the distance at which a cow's lowing\ncan be heard), she was swept by the stream against the overhanging\nroots of a pipal tree (ficus religiosa) and managed to clamber up the\nbank. But Maini never told us that you were with her. Why, Ramzan,\nyou're quaking in every limb. I always suspected Maini had concealed\nthe truth. Swear on the Quran that you did not try to drown her.\"\n\nRamzan feebly protested innocence, and the two men sat awhile without\nspeaking.\n\nAt length Sadhu said: \"I've come to make you a proposal. Young Esaf,\nthe son of Ibrahim of our village, has fallen in love with Maini and\nwants to marry her. He is willing to pay the den mohur of Rs. 100\nwhich would be due from you in case of repudiation. Now we want you\nto divorce her.\"\n\nRamzan was overcome by his wife's magnanimity, and the thought of\nlosing her drove him to distraction. \"No!\" he shouted, \"I won't\ndivorce her. I'll fetch her back this very day!\"\n\n\"That's quite out of the question,\" rejoined Sadhu. \"Maini cannot\nbear her mother-in-law's cruelty, and I'm sure she'll never consent\nto live with you again. Besides, Esaf is a rich man and will make\nher happy. She shall marry him.\"\n\n\"I say she shan't,\" said Ramzan emphatically.\n\nSadhu got up and moved off, remarking, \"Very well, I will go to\nthe police station at once and charge you with attempting to kill\nher! We shall soon worm the truth out of Maini, and get plenty of\neye-witnesses too.\"\n\nRamzan was beside himself with terror. He followed Sadhu, clasped\nhis feet, and groaned, \"No, you won't do that! I am ready to divorce\nMaini. Let Allah's will be done.\"\n\n\"Ah,\" replied Sadhu, \"so you can listen to reason after all. Come to\nour house to-morrow evening; we will have witnesses ready, and Esaf\nwill be there with the den mohur.\"\n\nRamzan had a sleepless night and was too downcast to work on the\nmorrow. When evening came, he walked wearily to Simulgachi. There was\nquite a small crowd in Sadhu's courtyard. On one side sat Maini and\nsome other women with faces closely covered; Esaf and the witnesses\nwere on the other. Between them was a mat, on which lay a bag full\nof money. Ramzan was received without salutations, and squatted down\nby Sadhu's side.\n\nMoslem husbands can get rid of their wives by repeating the word\ntalaq (surrender) thrice, in the presence of witnesses. Every one\nexpected him to utter the formula, which would release Maini from his\npower. However, he sat silent, with downcast eyes. After a minute\nor two, he rose and, looking steadily at Maini, was just about to\nspeak, when she sprang forward, laid her hand on his arm, and said:\n\"Surely you are not going to divorce me, your faithful wife, who loves\nyou dearly and seeks only to make you happy? What have I done to be\ntreated thus?\"\n\nA murmur was heard in the assembly, but Sadhu raised his hand in\ntoken of silence.\n\n\"Foolish girl!\" he exclaimed, \"do you wish to return to a mother-in-law\nwho hates and persecutes you? Will Ramzan be able to protect you?\" Then\nlowering his voice, he added, \"Is your life safe with those people?\"\n\n\"Life and death,\" rejoined Maini, \"are in Allah's hands. It is his\nwill that we should fulfil our destinies, and mine is to cling to\nmy husband. I would not change him for Hatim Tai (a legendary hero,\nvery rich and generous) himself!\" Then nestling closer to Ramzan, she\npleaded in a voice of music, \"Surely you don't want to get rid of me?\"\n\nHe was quite overcome and burst into tears.\n\n\"No,\" he sobbed, \"I will never separate from my treasure. Come back to\nme, and you need not fear my mother's tongue. She has left my house\nfor good, and I swear by Allah, in the presence of all these people,\nthat she shall not live with us again. You, Maini, shall be sole\nmistress of my house.\"\n\nMaini was overjoyed by this decision. She clapped her hands twice,\nand then, picking up the bag of money, said to the crestfallen Esaf,\n\"Take back your rupees; I am going home with my husband\".\n\nSo speaking, she took Ramzan's hand and led him out of the house,\nwhile a great silence fell on the crowd, broken at length by many\nexclamations and a buzz of loud talk. My readers who know Maini's\nsweet nature will not be surprised to learn that her happiness was\nthenceforward without a single cloud.\n\n\n\nTHE END\n\n\n\n\n\nEnd of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Tales of Bengal, by S. B. Banerjea\n\n*** ","meta":{"redpajama_set_name":"RedPajamaBook"}} +{"text":"\nThe Ultimate Guide to\n\nWhitewater Rafting\n\nand River Camping\n\nMolly Absolon\n\nGuilford, Connecticut\n\nAn imprint of The Rowman & Littlefield Publishing Group, Inc.\n\n4501 Forbes Blvd., Ste. 200\n\nLanham, MD 20706\n\nwww.rowman.com\n\nFalcon and FalconGuides are registered trademarks and Make Adventure Your Story is a trademark of Rowman & Littlefield.\n\nDistributed by NATIONAL BOOK NETWORK\n\nCopyright \u00a9 2018 The Rowman & Littlefield Publishing Group, Inc.\n\nPhotos by Matt Leidecker unless noted otherwise\n\nAll rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote passages in a review.\n\nBritish Library Cataloguing in Publication Information available\n\nLibrary of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data available\n\nISBN 978-1-4930-3233-4 (paperback)\n\nISBN 978-1-4930-3234-1 (e-book)\n\n The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of American National Standard for Information Sciences\u2014Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI\/NISO Z39.48-1992.\n\nPrinted in the United States of America\n\nThe author and Rowman & Littlefield assume no liability for accidents happening to, or injuries sustained by, readers who engage in the activities described in this book.\nContents\n\nContents\n\nAcknowledgments\n\nIntroduction\n\nChapter One: Whitewater Rafting Basics\n\nChapter Two: Getting on the Water\n\nChapter Three: Rafting Skills\n\nChapter Four: Reading Water\n\nChapter Five: On the River\n\nChapter Six: Planning a Multiday River Trip\n\nChapter Seven: Personal Camping Gear\n\nChapter Eight: Food\n\nChapter Nine: A Day on the River\n\nChapter Ten: Rafting with Kids\n\nChapter Eleven: Leave No Trace\n\nChapter Twelve: River-Specific Health and First Aid\n\nChapter Thirteen: Basic River Rescue\n\nChapter Fourteen: Basic Repair and Maintenance\n\nChapter Fifteen: Dream Trips\n\nAppendix: First Aid and Drug Kit Checklist\n\nAbout the Author\nAcknowledgments\n\nAlthough I have been lucky enough to raft a lot of rivers, and have gained a lot of knowledge doing so, I still don't consider myself an expert rafter. To make this book a reality I relied on the advice and guidance of people I admire and respect for their whitewater boating skills, wilderness river trip experience, and rafting expertise. These people include Allison Berg, Margaret Creel, Brian Goldberg, Ari Kotler, Julie Mueller, Don Sharaf, and Kat Smithhammer. They each brought years of river experience to the book through their input. As a group, they include private rafters, professional rafters, raft instructors, and even the owner of a commercial rafting company\u2014SOAR Northwest. All of them took hours of their personal time to wade through my manuscript checking for accuracy, offering suggestions, and generally just making sure I was on the right track. I am very grateful for their generous help.\n\nI also want to thank Matt Liedecker for his amazing photos. As always, photos make a book like this and I appreciate his skill and the beauty of his images. In addition to Matt, Ari Kotler, Dot Newton, Eric Riley, Eric Scranton, Stefanie Vandaele, Moe Witschard, and Tom Zell provided a few extra photographs to fill in the holes, and my daughter, Avery Absolon, drew the diagrams. Thanks!\n\nFinally, I want to recognize the people I've been down rivers with who aren't included in the list above. There are too many to list, but a few regulars deserve mention: Tim, Erin, and Charlie Burnham; Rachael Price; Mark, Gavin, and Jasper Roy; Georgie Stanley; Ben Hammond; Lisa Johnson; Michael Wehrle; Michelle Williamson. Plus, of course, there's my husband, Allen O'Bannon, who opened up the river world to an old climber, and Avery Absolon, who is rapidly becoming a boater in her own right.\nIntroduction\n\nmy daughter was three when we first floated the Main Salmon River in central Idaho. I wasn't much of a boater, so my primary job was to hold on to her and to the raft when we went through the rapids.\n\nThe weather was terrible. It was August and my friends told me to expect temperatures in the 80s or 90s during the day, so I packed lightly. But it was raining when we got to the put-in, and for the next three days temperatures never got much above 50 degrees. We wore all our clothes and stopped at lunch to rig up a shelter, start a stove, and make hot chocolate for the kids. I'll never forget watching them\u2014we had six kids under eight years old on that adventure\u2014playing in the rain, their slickers covered in wet sand. They didn't care. They built castles and fished. They ran up and down the beach, creating their own games. We read them stories and kept them well fed. They looked like drowned rats, but they were laughing and smiling and having a blast well before the sun finally came out and warmed us up.\n\nThat trip hooked me. I'd been having a hard time figuring out how to backpack with my daughter without carrying a monster pack or hiring horses or llamas to heft the load. River trips meant our gear was on the raft, not on my back. It meant the kids didn't have to cover long miles on their feet. We weren't constantly cajoling them with candy to keep them walking. Instead we sat in the raft, laughing and screaming our way through the whitewater and lounging back watching the scenery slip past when it was calm.\n\nRiver trips are a great way to bring family and friends together away from the stress and distractions of daily life.\n\nOnce the temperatures heated up, we swam and had water fights. We sunbathed on the back of the raft and took turns rowing. It was six days of bliss. The stresses of home were far away. We had no cell coverage or electronics, so no social media distractions. We got up in the morning, ate a huge meal, drank our coffee, loaded up, and drifted downstream. At the end of the day, we set up camp on a beach, made cocktails, ate a huge dinner, and went to bed. I left the river wishing I could stay out there forever.\n\nA friend of mine who routinely floats the Colorado River through the Grand Canyon calls what I described above \"river time.\" It's that sense of living totally in the moment, surrounded by beautiful nature with no cares in the world. It's hard to get that feeling in modern life\u2014there are just too many distractions, obligations, and things on your to-do list. But on rivers you can find it.\n\nYour river trip can be a simple flat-water float or a raging whitewater run, depending on your skill and desires.\n\nRiver trips run the gamut from Class I casual floats to Class V whitewater. Obviously the difficulty of the river affects the nature of your trip and the level of skill and expertise you need to run it. On some rivers you will have a fabulous time with kids; on others the difficulty and danger may make it smarter to leave them at home. Regardless of the challenge, all river trips are unified by that feeling of river time. Everyone comes back reinvigorated and ready for more.\n\nMultiday river trips take you deep into the earth's wildest river corridors.\n\nStefanie Vandaele\n\nThis book is written for newer rafters looking to put together their own multiday river trip. It's not a substitute for experience, rather a supplement to help you solidify your skills. We'll talk a little bit about rafting technique and equipment, and provide an introduction to reading water and running rapids, but those skills are best learned from a more experienced mentor.\n\nFor that reason, it's a good idea to make your first excursions with people who have been there and done that. Ask lots of questions. Follow them through rapids. Get someone to sit in your raft and coach you through a run. Take a class or go with a guide.\n\nThis book comes in handy after you get home from these experiences and you want to solidify the concepts that were thrown at you in the middle of a rapid's chaos. There, in the comfort of your living room, you can refer to this book to analyze what you saw on the river and think about what was actually happening to you in your raft. Together with a good teacher and time spent in a raft, this book will help you become an independent boater who doesn't need to rely on more experienced friends to take a multiday raft trip.\n\nIt can take years to gain the skills you need to safely run Class V whitewater like Devil Creek Rapid on the South Fork of the Salmon River in Idaho.\n\nThis book also covers the ins and outs of river camping. There are all sorts of ways to approach living on a river. You can pile on the gear and bring along a special outfit for every day of the trip, as well as games, musical instruments, cocktails, fresh veggies, and meat and potatoes. You name it: With a big enough raft, you can probably bring it, plus the kitchen sink.\n\nOr you can borrow principles from lightweight backpackers and reduce your load so you need fewer rafts for your team and can be more efficient and nimble both on the water and getting in and out of camp. We'll talk about both approaches\u2014there are pluses and minuses to either option\u2014and include gear lists, packing tips, cooking suggestions, and expedition planning guidelines.\n\nBecoming a proficient rafter allows you to undertake multiday river trips with people of all ages and experience levels.\n\nThis book touches on basic river rescue and safety. But if you plan to do challenging river trips, we highly recommend you take a swiftwater rescue course. Again, think of this book as your cheat sheet\u2014a reference or reminder for when you get home and want to contemplate the rescue skills you've acquired in a class.\n\nFinally, we have included a list of some of the most coveted river trips in the world. Probably every rafter you talk to will have at least one or two of these trips on his or her bucket list. The rivers we've chosen are included because of their scenic beauty, the quality of the whitewater, the camping, and their conduciveness to creating the sense of river time we all seek when we turn off our phones and slip our rafts into the current.\n\nThe best river trips in the world are known not only for their rapids, but also for their beautiful settings and incredible wilderness camping.\nChapter One\n\nWhitewater Rafting Basics\n\nRafting History\n\nHumans have used rafts to navigate waterways for thousands of years. Early rafts were made by lashing together logs, reeds, planks, and other pieces of wood to make a floating platform for transporting people and cargo over water. For the most part these rafts were used on flat water, but in 1811 the Overland Astorians, a group of fur trappers traversing the American West, tried to use a raft to descend the Snake River in Wyoming. The river's rapids proved too dangerous and difficult for the craft, and the Snake became known as the \"Mad River,\" a moniker that is used today by one of the Snake's commercial outfitters.\n\nIn 1842, Lieutenant John Fr\u00e9mont and his assistant, Horace H. Day, created a raft made of rubber to explore the Platte River. The flexibility of the raft made it easier to manage in turbulent water, and Fr\u00e9mont's boat is considered to be the prototype of a modern rubber raft.\n\nBut the Platte River expedition did not result in a revolution in whitewater boating. The first real whitewater river trip was John Wesley Powell's famous Journey of Discovery down the Green and Colorado Rivers in 1869. Powell's party used wooden boats for their expedition, so it wasn't a raft trip, and they lined most of the rapids, but it did begin to open the door to the idea of using boats to explore wild rivers.\n\nIn Idaho, boatmen used wooden scows to descend the Salmon River from the onset of European settlement. Early trips stopped in Shoup, upriver of today's Main Salmon run; there the boats were dismantled to be sold as lumber and boaters returned upstream by road. But in 1896, Harry Guleke took his scow 152 miles downstream to Riggins, proving the entire river could be navigated.\n\nOne of the earliest known recreational whitewater trips occurred in Utah in 1934, when Norm Neville and his new bride went on a honeymoon trip down the San Juan River. Four years later he guided paying clients down the Grand Canyon in what he called a \"cataract boat,\" which he designed and built specifically for the expedition. In 1939, Amos Berg ran a rubber raft down the Salmon River, and the following year the first commercially guided group made the trip. After that the industry slowly grew, with more and more companies offering whitewater adventures on rivers.\n\nThe influx of military surplus rubber rafts, however, really changed the world of whitewater boating. Rubber rafts had been used as landing craft and to create pontoon bridges in World War II and the Korean war. After these conflicts ended, surplus rafts and pontoons flooded the market. Don Hatch and his father Bus were among the first to recognize the value of rubber rafts for commercial river running. They saw that the inflatable boats could carry lots of passengers, that they bounced off rocks, and that they were easy to store\u2014plus, after the wars, they were abundant and cheap. Within a few years inflatable boats had become wildly popular among river runners and the era of commercial raft trips began.\n\nMillions of people enjoy whitewater rafting for its excitement, challenge, and the beautiful places it takes them.\n\nUltimately it was the inclusion of whitewater boating in the 1972 Munich Olympics that marked a turning point for the sport and cemented its place in the general public's imagination. After those Olympics commercial whitewater rafting took off.\n\nIn 2014, 3.8 million people went whitewater rafting, according to the \"Special Report on Paddlesports 2015.\" Rafting is the third-most popular paddle sport, behind kayaking and canoeing. In fourth place, stand-up paddleboarding is quickly gaining popularity. Rafting participation rates have stagnated somewhat in recent years as people discover other ways to navigate rivers and run whitewater, but rafting remains the primary way people enjoy multiday river trips.\n\nModern rafts come in a variety of sizes, materials, and even shapes. Most of them tend to have the classic oval shape we associate with the idea of a raft, but catarafts, which are made from two tubes held together by a frame, are also common. Rafts are popular for a number of reasons: They are stable, fun, and relatively forgiving. Plus they can take you, your friends, and your gear to places that aren't easily accessible without a boat.\n\nRafts come in a variety of sizes and shapes. What works best for you will depend on your goals and budget.\n\nRafts are one of the safest crafts for navigating whitewater and are, therefore, a great way for beginners to get into the sport of whitewater boating. Still, boating Class III whitewater or harder is challenging, and takes skill and practice, so it should always be pursued with humility and guidance.\n\nRent or Buy?\n\nOne of the first questions to ask yourself as your interest in whitewater rafting develops is whether you want to rent or buy a raft. Many river companies rent fully outfitted rafts for day or multiday use. The advantage of this is that you can rent all the necessary gear\u2014frames, oars, paddles, life jackets, etc.\u2014and have it waiting for you at the put-in and whisked away from you at the takeout. You probably won't even have to clean out your portable toilet at the end of your trip if you go this route. The disadvantage is that renting a raft with all the necessary accoutrements is expensive. The rate for a 15-foot raft rental for a six-day Main Salmon River trip in 2017 was roughly $2,000, plus $250 for a kitchen package. For a three-week Grand Canyon trip, rental rates for a raft and kitchen start at around $5,000.\n\nMost high-quality whitewater rafts retail for several thousand dollars depending on the size you opt for, plus there are countless essentials\u2014oars, frame, paddles, etc.\u2014that add to the cost. By the time you get fully decked out, you are probably looking at dropping anywhere from $10,000 to as much as $15,000 on your setup. If you plan to take a lot of river trips each year, that investment is worthwhile. If you think you are only going to go on one trip a summer, renting becomes more appealing, especially when you consider the cost of maintenance together with the time and effort required to prep for and clean up after your trip. Storing and transporting gear is also an issue when you own it.\n\nThat said, owning a raft gives you greater freedom over the location and timing of your next trip. If that is your goal, you may be in the market. Plus, having your own raft can get you invited on more river trips!\n\nNarrowing Your Options\n\nThere's no one-size-fits-all raft that serves every function perfectly, so it's helpful to identify your goals and objectives to ensure you end up with a boat that serves most of your needs well. Make sure you establish your budget before you get down to shopping. It's easy to get talked into something that is bigger, flashier, and more expensive than you really need or can afford if you don't do your homework before you set out to make your purchase.\n\nFor some river trips, such as a long Grand Canyon trip, many people opt to rent all their rafts and equipment to simplify logistics.\n\nMolly Absolon\n\nTo help you narrow down your options, ask yourself the following questions:\n\n 1. What do you want to do with your raft (whitewater, day trips, multiday outings, family adventures, fishing)?\n 2. How often do you plan to use it?\n 3. Where do you intend to use your raft (what part of the country; what types of rivers)?\n 4. How many people do you want to carry or support (i.e., do you need to carry gear for kayakers or other members of your group in addition to those individuals who will be riding on the boat)?\n 5. How long are the trips you plan to use the raft on?\n 6. What experience do you have, and in what kind of rafts? What types of rafts do you see on the waterways you intend to travel?\n 7. Do you plan to paddle, row, or paddle and row the raft?\n 8. Is raft weight a consideration (for flights, portaging, storage, etc.)?\n 9. How much can you spend?\n\nOnce you've answered these questions you will be a more informed and savvy consumer, and you'll be able to help a salesperson guide you to the right raft for your needs.\n\nAnatomy of a Raft\n\nRafts are generally made with four air-filled chambers separated by baffles inside the raft's exterior tubes.\n\nMost modern rafts are made with four air-filled chambers and an inflatable, self-bailing floor.\n\nPaddle rafts will also have air-filled thwarts that run between the outside tubes to help with rigidity and provide a place for passengers to sit or paddlers to brace. Most rafts these days come with an inflatable, self-bailing floor that allows water to run out freely rather than having to bail after every rapid. Non-self-bailers\u2014or bucket boats\u2014are disappearing rapidly, so we won't go into any details about them here. But they do have one advantage: They are much lighter than rafts with a self-bailing floor. If you are flying into a river with your raft\u2014such as in the Arctic\u2014bucket boats may be a better choice because of the weight factor.\n\nPaddle rafts include inflatable thwarts between the tubes. These thwarts help provide structure to the raft and give paddlers a place to sit and brace.\n\nUsually rafts are rigged with an outside line\u2014called a grab or perimeter line\u2014that runs between D rings on the tubes. The line gives you something to grab onto if you come out of the boat or if you need to carry it up onto a beach or around a rapid. Make sure the grab line is secured snugly so no slack can entangle a foot or body part in the event of a capsize.\n\nYou'll also want a line on the bow of your raft to tie it up when you are onshore, so the raft can't drift away if the wind or water comes up. Give yourself 50 feet or so of rope so you have plenty of length to secure the raft to trees, rocks, or a sand stake well back from the waterline. Some people prefer to carry two shorter ropes\u2014one stored away, the other attached to a D ring on the bow\u2014so they don't have to contend with a long, potentially tangled mess of rope when all they need is 20 feet to secure the raft to a log. You may find that the length of your bowline will be determined by the nature of the river you are on. For small rivers in heavily wooded areas, you won't need as long a line as you will need on big desert rivers, where the beaches are sandy and wide.\n\nA line on the front (and sometimes the back) of your boat allows you to secure your raft when you are onshore.\n\nBowlines can be stuffed into a bag for storage or they can be coiled and tucked under the grab line. The key is to make sure the line is readily accessible, without a lot of loose rope that could become an entrapment hazard in the water.\n\nIf you plan to paddle your raft, there's not much else to be done for its setup. Some rafts have foot cups to help paddlers maintain a secure position in the boat in big whitewater, but for most rivers, paddlers can get a good-enough position by wedging their feet under the thwarts and side tubes.\n\nTo complete your setup for an oar rig, you need a frame for the oars and some kind of seat for the rower. We'll go into more details about that later.\n\nSize\n\nRafts range in size from personal inflatable kayaks to ones that are 30 feet or longer. The rafts at either end of this size spectrum tend to be specialty crafts designed for specific purposes such as carrying large loads, using motors or for solo boating. For the purposes of this book, we will focus on rafts between 12 to 18 feet long that are typically used for multiday whitewater rafting trips.\n\nYou see all kinds of inflatable crafts on rivers. Each is designed for a specific purpose, including this makeshift raft to help backpackers navigate flat water.\n\nFor shallow, fast rivers, rafts in the 12- to 14-foot range are nice because of their maneuverability. A party of three people or fewer can make a 12- to 14-foot raft work on a three- to four-day trip, but if you have more people or plan a longer trip, you may need something bigger. Larger rafts\u2014say 16- to 18-footers\u2014provide more cargo space and more room for people to lounge around on the tubes on slower parts of the river.\n\nSmall rafts are more maneuverable than big ones, and the ride is often more exciting than the ride in a big raft that can plow through waves and holes without getting bounced around as much. That also means small rafts tend to be a bit tippier and easier to flip in rapids.\n\nWidth, tube diameter, and rocker are also considerations. In general, wider rafts with larger tubes are going to be less likely to flip than rafts that are the same length but narrower, or the same length but with smaller tubes. The more rocker you have in your raft, the easier it is to spin, which is advantageous in technical whitewater, but does make tracking\u2014or keeping your boat straight\u2014more challenging in flat water.\n\nFinally, boats now come with a choice between I-beam floors\u2014floors with baffles that create ridges\u2014and drop-stitch floors. Drop-stitch floors use the same technology used in inflatable stand-up paddleboards, which creates a flat, more rigid floor than I-beam construction. People have varying opinions on the pros and cons of the different floor types. In general, most people say rafts with I-beam floors tend to track better, while the drop-stitch floor provides a more rigid platform, which is nice if you like to stand to row and don't have floorboards. Drop-stitch floors are laced into the bottom of the raft, which makes them easier to cut out in an emergency or lash gear to for security.\n\nToday's rafts come with either traditional I-beam floor construction or drop-stitch floors like this one. It's worth trying both to see which you prefer if you are in the market for a raft.\n\nPaddle rafts versus oar rigs\n\nPaddle rafting enables lots of people to participate in propelling the raft downstream and through rapids. It's fun, challenging, and allows people to be more involved than they would be if they were just lounging about while their buddy rows.\n\nOn moderate rivers, paddlers can be relatively inexperienced as long as you have a skilled paddle captain and fit participants who can follow orders and paddle hard. On more difficult rivers and technical whitewater, all paddlers should be skilled and able to work together efficiently as a team to successfully navigate challenging rapids that require precise moves.\n\nAnother option, if you want people to paddle, is to combine rowing and paddling by putting a stern-mount oar frame on the back of your raft. The oars give the raft guide more control and enable less-experienced crews to tackle harder rapids than they could with just paddle power.\n\nPaddle rafts allow more people to actively participate in the act of moving the raft downstream, but they don't carry as much gear as oar rigs.\n\nThe downside to paddle rafts on multiday trips is that it's hard to carry a lot of gear, along with your paddle crew, in one raft. You can do it, but you need to think like a backpacker and go light unless you have a gear raft along for support.\n\nOar rigs are perfect for carrying a load. Depending on the size of the raft, they can carry hundreds of pounds of equipment as well as a couple of passengers. Oar rigs require at least one competent rower to negotiate rapids. On flat water almost everyone can take a hand at the oars to help row the boat downstream.\n\nOar rigs can carry lots of gear and passengers, making them the perfect workhorse for a multiday river trip.\n\nBasic Guidelines for Buying the Right Raft\n\n 1. If your goal is to only paddle your raft on day trips, figure that a 12- to 13-foot raft will be comfortable for a maximum of six paddlers. A 14- to 15-foot raft works well for up to eight. More people? Go bigger.\n 2. For a weeklong trip with two people and an oar rig setup, you'll want at least a 13-foot raft. For three or four people on the same trip, you need to up the size to 14 or 15 feet. For high volume rivers, a 15- to 18-foot raft will be more stable. Bigger rafts also mean more room for cargo and people.\n\nCatarafts versus rafts\n\nHistorically, most people start rafting in classic oval-shaped rafts, but catarafts are gaining popularity and are more and more common on rivers these days. Both styles of rafts have their enthusiastic fans, and both work really well for certain functions and less well for others. The choice between the two often depends on personal preference and the style of trip you tend to take.\n\nIn general, properly loaded catarafts are faster and more maneuverable than oval-shaped rafts and for these reasons they make a great play boat and are nice in highly technical water\u2014but the caveat \"properly loaded\" is important. It's easy to put too much weight on a cataraft, and an overloaded cat is sluggish and hard to handle. Furthermore, the weight distribution in a cat is critical to its performance, so packing one takes a bit more care than packing a raft.\n\nA cat's open design means you don't have to worry about taking on water in rapids. But no floor also means it's easy to lose stuff if you aren't careful. Cats are less passenger-friendly than rafts because there are fewer places for people to sit and it's hard to move around on a cat while on the water.\n\nCatarafts are faster and more maneuverable than traditional rafts, making them the rafting version of a play boat.\n\nRafts with floors are easier to load than catarafts. You don't need to worry as much about weight distribution affecting performance, and it's easy to pile things up in the bow and stern of the boat. Rafts can be either rowed or paddled, and they have a lot of room for passengers, which makes them more kid-friendly. Some catarafts are designed to be paddled\u2014usually by two or four people\u2014but for the most part a paddled cat cannot carry much in the way of gear. It's more for playing than transporting cargo.\n\nSome catarafts are designed to be paddled, but these rafts generally can't carry a lot of gear.\n\nRafts have more surface contact with the water because of their floors, which can make them less maneuverable than a cat and can cause rafts to hang up more readily on submerged rocks. However, if a cat and a raft are carrying the same amount of weight, cat tubes will sit lower in the water than the raft, meaning cat has more draft and can get stuck in shallow water sooner than a raft.\n\nFinally, rafts are heavier and bulkier to transport and store than catarafts.\n\nAs all these pros and cons demonstrate, choosing between a cat and a raft really depends on what you want to do with your craft. Both are great options and both will open up a world of adventure for you.\n\nTraditional rafts are powerful, stable, and able to carry a lot of equipment, which means they are usually the best option for people getting into multiday river trips.\n\nBuying a Used Raft\n\nYou can often find great deals on preowned rafts, including rafts used by commercial rafting companies that turn over their fleets every few years. But you should be careful when buying used equipment, and if you are new to the rafting world it behooves you to go shopping with someone who can help you evaluate the deal with a seasoned eye.\n\nIn general, look for signs of wear and tear or repairs. If the boat has been patched, look carefully at the patches to see if they have been placed professionally. That means you don't see any loose edges or wrinkles. The fewer and smaller the patches, the better, since that shows the raft has had an easier life, fewer encounters with sharp objects, and a bit more TLC.\n\nCheck the handles and D rings on the boat for signs of wear. These are relatively easy to replace, but their condition can give you a clue as to the care the raft has received. If the raft color has faded significantly, beware. UV damage decreases the strength of both PVC and Hypalon. A boat that shows its years visually is more likely to puncture or tear.\n\nA fully inflated raft should be smooth, with no cracks or wrinkles. Rough spots can indicate a coming crack. Make sure you look on the underside as well as the topside of the raft. Out of sight should not mean out of mind, especially with a boat that needs to float. If you can, do an overnight leak test to check for pinholes that allow air to escape. Inflate the boat fully and see what happens while you sleep. A fully inflated raft could be flat by morning if it has enough pinholes, which would be a real pain on overnight trips. If you can't do an overnight test, spray down the raft with soapy water and watch what happens. Pay close attention to the seams. If you have a leak, you'll see foamy bubbles forming at the site.\n\nCheck all valves, especially on older rafts, by spraying some soapy water or 303 Protectant inside the valve. Listen and look for leaking. Some valves are easy to replace; some you have to have a professional work on.\n\nOnce you've checked for leaks, let the air out of each chamber individually to make sure the internal baffles are working. Air should not move between the chambers. Similarly, if the raft has a self-bailing inflatable floor, make sure the I beams between the baffles are holding. These can be expensive and difficult to repair. If you have three or more blown I beams it may be easier to replace the floor than to try to fix it. That may not be a deal-breaker as floors are easy to replace, but it should bring the price of the raft down a lot since purchasing a new floor will be expensive.\n\nFinally, look at the overall texture of the material. If you see worn spots or places where the outer coating has been rubbed off, check carefully for leaks. Worn spots are normal but if the raft has lots of them, it probably means you'll be doing some patching in the future. Also ask how the raft has been stored. Rafts that sit outside year-round may have UV damage, which weakens the material.\n\nMaterials\n\nIn general, rafts are made with urethane, Hypalon, or PVC. Your choice will depend on your budget, the type of boating you plan to do, and even where you live, as that may affect which rafts are readily available. There are great rafts made all over the world, but it's nice to have a local provider who can help you maintain your raft and deal with warranty issues should they arise.\n\nUrethane or, strictly speaking, polyurethane, is a durable, lightweight, and puncture- and tear-resistant synthetic rubber. It slides over rocks well. Many users talk about urethane boats having a silky feel to them when they move through the water. Urethane tends to be expensive and stiff, making the rafts difficult to roll for storage and transport. That stiffness also makes urethane boats more prone to flipping than softer materials like Hypalon\u2014or at least some people make this claim. Urethane boats are more difficult to field repair than other materials, but their parts are welded together making the rafts virtually indestructible.\n\nHypalon, a type of rubber, is easy to field repair and has a long life. It is more puncture- and abrasion-resistant than PVC, but less so than urethane. Rubber boats flex with waves, which can be good or bad depending on the particular scenario. That softness means Hypalon rafts are easier to roll up for transport than rafts made with other materials. Hypalon tends to be relatively expensive, but the rafts will last a long time.\n\nHypalon rafts are easier to roll up for transport than other materials.\n\nPVC, or polyvinyl chloride, is the least expensive raft material. Some PVC rafts are mass-produced and so have been known to have quality-control issues. PVC is not particularly durable and can crack when rolled. However, unless you are a commercial rafter or do lots of trips every year, PVC boats are plenty durable for private use, will last a long time if they are properly cared for, and often have a great price tag for entry-level boats.\n\nIf the three materials mentioned above were all you had to contend with, it would be relatively easy to make a choice, but it's not that simple. Several manufacturers use a combination of materials to make their rafts. AIRE constructs its rafts with a PVC shell over a urethane bladder. Maravia makes the opposite: a urethane exterior over a PVC interior. These combinations help reduce costs and are designed to maximize the strengths and minimize the weaknesses of the materials in use.\n\nIt's great to have an understanding of these materials so you can evaluate the marketing material for a particular brand with some understanding of what they are talking about. But in general, if you go with a reputable company, you will be just fine regardless of whether the raft is urethane, Hypalon, or PVC.\n\nTo help you narrow down your options, ask your friends or see what rafts commercial rafting companies are using to get an idea of what is popular. You can also go online and read product reviews. Mountainbuzz.com hosts a forum where you can ask questions on just about anything that has to do with river running. You'll get no shortage of opinions if you start your research there.\n\nTo help determine the right raft for you, ask your friends, research online, rent different styles, and ask commercial raft companies which brand of rafts they use, and why.\n\nDot Newton\nChapter Two\n\nGetting on the Water\n\nOar Rigs\n\nThe person rowing the raft is usually in charge of his or her craft. He or she directs the packing and determines where and how things should be loaded onto the raft. The rower is responsible for ensuring everything is tied down and secure before launching. He or she is also usually the one who oversees the unloading process when you pull into camp. Every rower tends to have a slightly different approach to setting up his or her boat. When you first start out, it's great to copy someone else's system. As you gain experience, you can modify it to suit your own needs.\n\nIf you are a passenger, respect your captain's system and try to pack the raft as he or she likes.\n\nFrames\n\nOar frames come in all shapes and sizes. There are stern mount frames for rowing with paddlers on the sides, frames designed primarily for fishing, and frames set up to carry lots of cargo.\n\nOar frames come in many configurations and sizes, as can be seen in this collection of rafts at the put-in for the Middle Fork River in Idaho.\n\nFor multiday trips, you'll want a center mount frame that places the rower in the middle of the raft. With this setup you can have up to four paddlers\u2014two in the front and two in the back\u2014but really the center mount frame is most commonly used for solo rowers with nonpaddling passengers and gear.\n\nThat's not to say a stern mount frame cannot be used in this scenario. It can, but it does not provide infrastructure for storing gear, and for the raft with a stern mount frame to be balanced and maneuverable you need people in the bow for paddle support. The stern mount setup is useful if you plan to take inexperienced paddlers down a whitewater river where it can be hard for a paddle captain to maneuver the boat without the help of a talented crew.\n\nCenter-mounted frames put the rower at the pivot point of the boat, making it easy to spin the raft. It's hard to get that kind of control from the stern without paddlers up front to provide momentum and leverage.\n\nBeyond the question of a stern or center mount, there are countless options to consider in choosing a frame. For most beginners, it's nice to start with a basic model. NRS makes modular frames that can be added to, adjusted, or manipulated as you gain experience and preferences. Fixed frames offer less flexibility, but if you plan to use your raft solely for multiday trips you will probably never need to make changes to your setup once you figure out what you like, so a fixed frame is fine as long as you know your needs. Breakdown frames are important for trips that you fly into or out from. Breakdown frames are also easier to transport. Some companies make custom frames that cater to your personal desires, but until you know what those desires are, it's nice to start with a basic, generic model.\n\nMany rafters personalize their oar frame setup, but the basic configuration has compartments for coolers and dry boxes, with gear loaded into the stern and\/or bow compartments.\n\nIf you are in the market for a frame, talk to your friends about what they are using on their rafts. Look at other setups you see on the river. Ask questions and try out different boats so that you begin to develop your own sense of what you like and dislike.\n\nFrame size\n\nTo determine the correct frame size for your raft you need two measurements: the center-to-center measurement and the flat length measurement. To calculate the center-to-center size of your raft, measure its width and then subtract the width of one tube. To get the flat length measurement, measure the flat surface of the tube or pontoon to determine how long your frame can be. The flat surface is the level part of the tube between the two ends where the tubes turn up. If you are buying a standard frame, you can usually just tell dealers the size and model of your raft and they can steer you to the correct frame size.\n\nYou will see a lot of frames with built-in seats. For day trips, where you are not carrying coolers and dry boxes, you may need a seat so you have a place to sit to row. Seats are less common on multiday trips because they take up precious storage space, and some people find they actually interfere with their rowing motion. On multiday trips you generally see rowers sitting on padded dry boxes or coolers. For fishing, seats are nice because they allow you to pivot, and they get you a bit higher above the tubes for casting.\n\nAs for the actual configuration of your frame, there are many variations. The most basic frames for multiday whitewater trips have slots or compartments for dry boxes and coolers to rest in.\n\nThese rafts all have a basic frame setup, with the rower sitting on a padded dry box. A wooden beaver tail protects the floor in the stern of the raft in the foreground. The back raft has a cooler and two portable toilets in its stern.\n\nOar Retention Systems\n\nBesides creating cargo space and a seat, the primary function of the frame is to provide a spot for your oars. The two most common oar retention systems are oarlocks and pins and clips. You'll hear some very vocal advocates of both of these systems, but like all systems where you have options, there are pros and cons to both.\n\nOarlocks\n\nOarlocks are the traditional technology used for holding oars in place. These are the classic U-shape metal hooks you see on almost all boats propelled by oars. The advantage of oarlocks is that they allow you to adjust the angle of the blade in the water, feather it through the air, and scull or skim the blade across the surface of the water. They also allow you to move the oar in and out laterally.\n\nTraditional oarlocks have open, U-shape metal cups that allow you to rotate your oar to adjust the angle of the blade.\n\nThe open cup of the oarlock means your oar can pop out if it hits a rock with a lot of force (rather than break from the impact).\n\nOarlocks require oar stops, which are rubber donuts that slide or are bolted around the shaft about a third of the way down from the handle to prevent the oar from slipping through the oarlock and into the river. Oar stops are usually used in conjunction with some kind of stopper sleeve or wrap that protects the shaft from wear.\n\nThis image shows the oar stops, or rubber donuts, that encircle the oar shaft on top of a stopper sleeve to prevent the oar from slipping through the oarlock.\n\nThe downside of oarlocks is that you must control the angle of the blade, which can be difficult in turbulent water. If the blade is at too steep of an angle to the water, it can dive down deeply and get pulled from your hand. Too shallow an angle and your blade may skip across the surface of the water. To help prevent either of these things from happening, some people use oars with oval-shaped grips so they can sense the position of the blade at all times by the feel of the grip in their hand; however, getting that feel takes practice and can be a challenge for beginner boaters.\n\nAnother way to avoid the angle problem is to use an oar right. An oar right holds the blade upright in the proper position for a full-powered stroke. The disadvantage to the oar right is that to change the angle of your blade or feather, you have to pull the oar in until the oar right is clear of the lock. For that reason most people who use oar rights do not bother to feather, which is fine because in reality most people don't bother to feather their blades anyway. Feathering puts a lot of stress on your wrists and elbows and can cause overuse injuries.\n\nAn oar right, like the one pictured here, holds the blade upright in a vertical position with a plastic spine that runs between the sides of the oarlock.\n\nIf you want the option of feathering, you can buy convertible oar rights that allow you to flip the spine that holds the oar in position up and out of the way, thus allowing you to feather between strokes when you desire.\n\nSome people swear by oar rights, others swear about them. They can be a useful tool and give you added confidence in chaotic whitewater where you don't want to have to worry about whether your oar is positioned properly.\n\nOar Leashes\n\nMany boaters like to have leashes on their oars so they don't lose them if one gets knocked out by a rock or in the case of a flip. You can make your own tethers by tying a 4- to 5-foot piece of utility cord (3 millimeter Perlon accessory cord, or even parachute cord will suffice) to the frame near the oarlock with a bowline knot, and then tying it in a loop around the oar. Close that loop with another bowline knot.\n\nThe bowline is a versatile knot for rafters to know. It can be used to tie things off around a tree or post, and is easy to adjust by feeding slack through the system.\n\nYou can also buy ready-made leashes.\n\nThe only real downside to tethers is the entrapment hazard. To minimize this risk make your tethers as short as possible.\n\nPins and clips\n\nThe pin-and-clip method of oar retention entails a U-shape clip on the oar shaft that slips over a pin on the frame. The oar rotates around the pin with each stroke. The biggest advantage to the pin-and-clip system is that you always know the orientation of your blade, which is helpful in big whitewater where you may get tossed around and your oars deflected by rocks and powerful currents.\n\nPins and clips are safer to use with oar-assisted paddleboats than oarlocks because the oar always remains in place\u2014held by a plastic retainer\u2014even if it pops off the clip. That makes it less likely for a popped oar to clobber a passenger.\n\nOne disadvantage to pins and clips is that because the oars are fixed rigidly, they are more likely to break if you hit a rock. Finally, you cannot vary the angle of your blade with pins and clips.\n\nOverall, pins and clips are most popular for big water and Class V rapids, where you don't want to worry about the angle of your blade and power is critical.\n\nBoth pins and clips and oarlocks work. If you don't already have a strong opinion based on your previous experience, try them both out to see which best suits your style.\n\nOars\n\nLength\n\nThe best length oar for your raft is determined by the width of your raft and the physiology of the rower, as well as personal preference. People have different rowing styles and comfort zones as to where they like their hands. So, again, your best bet is to try out other people's rafts to get a sense of what length oar you find most comfortable.\n\nRowers tend to have their own personal preferences for the right oar length. In general, you want your hands roughly in front of your shoulders for the most power.\n\nThat said, there are some general guidelines to help you determine the best average length if you don't have the luxury of doing a lot of testing. To determine this length, measure the distance between the two oarlocks on your raft frame. You are looking to have one third of your oar inside your oarlock and two thirds outside. Halve the distance between the two oarlocks to determine how long one-third of your oar should be then multiply that distance by three for the total oar length. This is a general rule of thumb, and you will probably find that your personal preference is slightly different, but it will give you a good place to start.\n\nMost manufacturers have tables to help you calculate the best oar length for your particular setup, but ultimately the best guideline is trial and error.\n\nYou want to be sure that the ends of your oar handles are at least a few inches apart to ensure you don't catch a hand between the oars in the heat of the moment.\n\nOar material affects feel and flex.\n\nStefanie Vandaele\n\nMaterials\n\nOars are made of everything from wood to fiberglass, carbon fiber, plastic, and aluminum. These materials affect the weight, flex, and feel of the oar as well as its cost. If you can, it's a good idea to try different oars to get a sense of how they feel. You may find you have a strong preference for one material over another. You may also find that your wallet dictates your choice.\n\nOar Blades\n\nOar blades come in different shapes and sizes. For whitewater, a wide blade will give you the most power and versatility. For highly technical rivers, where you need precision over power, narrow blades are preferred. You can also find shoal-cut blades but these are designed specifically for shallow water and so are not recommended for an all-around river blade.\n\nPaddles\n\nRaft paddles also come in a variety of materials that affect their cost, feel, and durability. Read online reviews to help you sort through all the options, but if you are only paddling a few times a year you do not need a top-of-the-line paddle that will set you back a couple of hundred dollars.\n\nMost raft paddlers use 60-inch paddles, although smaller paddlers may opt for shorter ones. You can get an idea of the best length by placing the paddle blade on the floor and seeing where it reaches on the paddler's body. The right length paddle should come up to your chin.\n\nGuide paddlers typically go with a longer paddle\u201466 to 72 inches\u2014so they get more leverage for steering.\n\nInflating Your Raft\n\nThe first step to setting up your raft is to inflate it. Because rafts can be unwieldy and awkward to move, it helps to place the raft close to the river so that when you unroll it downhill, the stern ends up at the water's edge and the bow is pointing uphill. This sets you up for moving off the beach once the raft is inflated, Of course, this point is moot if you have a trailer that allows you to transport your raft fully inflated.\n\nLook at your valves. Some have a center-push spring that can be opened by pushing air into a closed valve or by using a finger to push, turn, and lock the valve open. Others require you to unscrew the valve by turning it counterclockwise to open.\n\nTo inflate your raft, open all the valves and pump air into the chambers in a clockwise direction, filling each to about 70 percent of its capacity. You want the raft to take shape but still be soft. Next, go around in a counterclockwise direction and fill each chamber to capacity, which will be a maximum of between 2 and 3 pounds per square inch (psi). If you don't have a pressure gauge, the psi number isn't that useful. Instead you'll go by feel. You want your raft to be firm but not taut. Press your knee into one of tubes. If this pressure causes the tube to crease, you probably need more air.\n\nUsing an electric pump off your car battery to inflate your raft helps speed up the inflation process.\n\nOnce the tubes are filled, inflate your floor. Many rafters recommend running with a slightly soft floor for better tracking. A hard floor tends to surf waves and holes, making the rafts more prone to flipping. Inflate the floor until the pressure relief valve exhausts a small amount of air. Most floors will hold about 2.5 psi.\n\nAfter the main chambers are inflated, inflate the thwarts if you have them. Again, inflate each to about 70 percent and then go back and top them off until they are firm (about 2 to 2.5 psi).\n\nA properly inflated raft will have some give to the tubes without being too soft.\n\nAs air temperature and atmospheric pressure change, your raft's tube pressure will change. It may be soft in the morning after a cold night; or rock hard after sitting out in the hot sun. The pressure can also change if you tow an inflated raft on a trailer to the river, so be sure to check it periodically en route.\n\nToday's high-quality rafts can withstand a great deal of pressure on their seams, but overinflation strains them, and in extreme cases a raft could blow out its seams. Also, overinflated rafts are more prone to punctures, so it's important to let air out of the tubes if the raft gets too hard. For a rock-hard raft, get four people on each of the tube valves to ensure you release air at the same time in all the tubes or, if you don't have four people, release air from each tube in very small bursts. You can cause a baffle to blow out if you let too much air out of one chamber when another is still overinflated.\n\nAir temperature will affect your raft's tube pressure. You may find you need to top off the tubes in the morning after a cool night or let air out during hot, sunny days.\n\nA soft raft, on the other hand, tends to be sluggish and unresponsive in whitewater, so if your raft feels mushy, add some air. The only time you want soft tubes is when the water is low and the river rocky. In that case, soft tubes tend to ooze over rocks rather than get stuck, which is advantageous when you can't avoid them.\n\nTo deflate your raft, open all the valves starting with the thwarts and floor, and then work around the tubes, beginning at the one you filled last. You can lie on the tubes to help force air out. When the raft is flat, roll or fold it for transporting.\n\nPumps\n\nAC electric pumps blow up your raft quickly, and many popular river put-ins have 110-volt outlets to accommodate them, but check before you assume you'll be able to plug in. A DC electric pump that runs off your car battery also works for inflating your raft at a put-in. There is a wide range of price points for pumps. If you opt for a cheaper model, beware. They tend to overheat, which can blow out the motor.\n\nOnce you are on the river, you'll need a foot or hand pump to top off the tubes. For hand pumps you have two basic configurations to choose from: a 6-inch barrel pump and a 4-inch barrel pump. The 4-inch model is best for topping your raft off.\n\nThe range in price for foot or hand pumps is pretty wide. Make sure the pump you purchase can provide adequate pressure to inflate your raft. A pump designed for a stand-up paddleboard (SUP) or an inflatable kayak is not adequate for a 16-foot raft. If in doubt, ask a salesperson what type of pump you need.\n\nRigging Your Oar Rig\n\nIt's a good idea to strap your frame onto your raft before it is fully inflated. Follow the steps for inflating your raft, but stop when it is about 90 percent full. Then pick up your frame and place it so it is centered in the middle of the raft.\n\nFor most conventional frames, there will be one space in the front for a dry box or rocket boxes, a cockpit, and then one or two storage spaces in the stern. Make sure the frame is centered side to side as well as front to back. Some people like to push the frame slightly forward of center to get more weight in the bow of the raft when they anticipate big water (we're talking a few inches only). Weight in the front helps rafts plow through big waves.\n\nA girth hitch is a simple way to attach straps to the frame. Fold a bight of cord around the frame and then feed the ends through it and cinch down.\n\nSome straps come with sewn loops for girth-hitching around the raft frame.\n\nGirth hitch 2-foot, 1.5-inch-wide cam straps to the D rings, with the cam buckle close to the D ring, facing right side up, so the strap can be tightened with an upward pull from on the boat. Some frames come with frame straps in place, or you can leave the straps you add permanently. This makes rigging easier in the future. Strap down the four corners of the frame. Avoid twists in the lash straps, and just snug things down gently at first. You'll tighten the straps later.\n\nCenter your frame on your raft and then strap it in place by girth hitching 2-foot cam straps at each corner on a D ring.\n\nAttach another 2-foot strap to the D ring in front of each of the oarlock fittings. Check to make sure everything is centered and the frame is secured at all attachment points.\n\nPlace the boat in the water. The pressure in the raft chambers will decrease from contact with the cold water. Let it sit for about ten minutes, then pump up the raft until it is at 100 percent capacity, adding air evenly to all sections. Once your boat is firm, tighten down the lash straps so the frame is securely in place.\n\nCheck that the oarlocks are secure. You'll want to do this periodically during your trip as they can loosen with use.\n\nLash a spare oar (or two) on the outside of the frame. Don't cinch the straps down too tightly as that can cause the oar to break when the boat flexes in big waves.\n\nFor safety, it's important to carry at least one spare oar on each raft. Lash the oar to the frame loosely so it won't break when the raft flexes in big waves.\n\nMany rafters like to have a wooden or metal floor in their boats. You can have a floor in your cockpit, as well as a so-called \"beaver tail\" floor in the bow and\/or stern. These floors are usually custom-made and are suspended from the raft by lash straps. The advantage of a floor is that it gives you something firm to stand or walk on and, more importantly, it keeps gear off the bottom of your raft, protecting the floor from sharp objects that can cause punctures.\n\nYou can also buy mesh beaver tails for your cargo holds. Mesh floors tend to be less effective at suspending your gear than a wooden or metal beaver tail, but they are cheap.\n\nOnce your floors are in, it's time to load your dry boxes and coolers, unless you are heading out for a day trip and don't need storage. Then these things can stay at home. Still it's likely you'll need something to sit on if your raft doesn't have a seat, so you'll need at least one box in your frame.\n\nKeeping Dry Boxes off the Floor\n\nDry boxes should be suspended from the frame to protect the floor of your raft. You can create a sling with lash straps to hold your boxes up, or you can slide your boxes into mesh bags that some companies manufacture to keep them up off the floor. Better yet, you can weld aluminum wedges onto your dry box, or buy a dry box with these wedges already in place. The wedges sit on top of the frame and keep your dry boxes off the floor.\n\nMost oar frames have compartments to slide dry boxes and coolers into so they are secure in the raft and suspended off the floor.\n\nTo be prepared, you should always rig to flip, which means strapping everything in. I've seen a raft get hung up on rocks in a flat section of river, where enough water flooded into the boat to float the gear, so even when you are planning a mellow day on the river, get into the habit of lashing things down.\n\nIt's nice to have \"loop straps\" for lashing down boxes and coolers. Loop straps have loops on one end that can be girth hitched onto the frame. The other end of the straps will have either a cam buckle or a tailpiece that feeds through the cam buckle.\n\nFor lashing down boxes, 4- or 6-foot loop straps are adequate. Orient your straps so that you are pulling away from the frame to tighten the strap, and make sure all cam buckles face the same way so it's easy to cinch things down.\n\nLash Straps\n\nLots of companies make lash straps, but the industry standard is NRS's 1-inch, HD (heavy-duty) tie-down straps. NRS's straps are rated up to 1,500 pounds so you don't have to worry about losing your gear, and the cam buckle grips securely so you won't have any slippage even if you flip. If you opt to use another brand of lash strap, make sure it meets these criteria.\n\nLash straps come in assorted lengths, ranging from 2-footers to 20-footers, as well as loop straps. You'll need an assortment of straps to lash down your gear. Nowadays, you can buy straps that are color-coded by length, which speeds up your rigging as you don't have to dig around looking for the number indicating strap length. Remember to write your name with a permanent marker on the strap or cam buckle. You can also spray paint the buckle an identifiable color so you recognize your straps. It's easy to mix up straps on a big expedition.\n\nYou always want to strap your gear into your raft securely in case of an unanticipated flip. Straps with cam buckles, like the NRS HD straps in use here, allow you to tighten down the load so it stays in place.\n\nLoading Gear onto Your Paddle Raft\n\nWhen you carry gear on a paddle raft it is usually loaded into the central cockpit between the thwarts. This gives paddlers room at either end of the raft to paddle. Again, it's a good idea to suspend a floor off the D rings to keep your cargo off the bottom of the raft. Depending on the size of the raft and the number of people on your trip, you can usually fit a cooler and\/or a small dry box, together with dry bags for camping equipment and food. It's very doable\u2014think how small your backpack is\u2014but you have to be thoughtful in the equipment you choose to bring along. And you may want to load up the raft at home first to make sure you have space for everything you need.\n\nOnce the gear is in place, lash it down, taking care to run straps through everything to ensure it stays in place.\n\nOther Essential River Gear\n\nWe'll go into detail about camping gear later, but for now you need a few more things before you are ready to hit the water.\n\nPersonal Flotation Devices (PFDs)\n\nPFDs are an essential part of your river-running gear. All members of your group should wear one whenever they are on the water.\n\nFailure to wear a PFD is one of the leading causes of river fatalities. All members of your team should wear a properly fitting, Coast Guard\u2013approved PFD whenever they are on the water.\n\nMost adults need at least 12 pounds of flotation to keep their heads above water. For whitewater, the recommended minimum is 15.5 pounds. PFDs with lower flotation are usually less bulky and more comfortable, but whitewater tends to be aerated and provides less support than flat water, making added flotation more critical. For big water, many rafters opt for vests with as much as 25 pounds of flotation to help keep them afloat should they take a swim.\n\nThe US Coast Guard rates personal flotation devices or lifejackets according to their intended use and minimum buoyancy. The more buoyant the vest, the bulkier it will be.\n\nUS Coast Guard Lifejacket Classifications\n\n * Type I lifejackets have a minimum of 22 pounds of flotation and are designed for extended survival in rough water far from shore.\n * Type II lifejackets are the classic lifejacket. They have a minimum of 15.5 pounds of flotation and are intended for use on inland waterways where rescue is usually quick. Most Type II PFDs are designed to turn an unconscious person face up. \n * Type III lifejackets are generally the most comfortable and sleekest. Designed for use during sports like paddling or water skiing, Type III PFDs provide a minimum of 15.5 pounds of flotation. They will not turn an unconscious person face up. \n * Type V flotation devices are designed for special uses. Many provide up to 22 pounds of flotation, so are good for big water. Type V PFDs should only be used for the specific purpose for which they are intended. That use is printed inside the vest. Rescue vests, which include a built-in releasable tow system, are Type V vests. You may also find Type V PFDs with a pillow behind the head that is designed to turn swimmers onto their backs. These PFDs are recommended in big whitewater.\n\nMost whitewater rafters opt for Type III PFDs, although commercial river trips may require passengers to wear Type II or Type V lifejackets designed for whitewater. Some rivers have restrictions on the type of PFD you can use, so it's worth confirming that you are OK with a Type III vest before launching. All PFDs should be Coast Guard\u2013approved. Also, if your PFD is faded, if the writing has worn off, or if it has holes or damage, it's time to retire it. Your PFD is your lifesaver. Don't use one that is worn out.\n\nYour PFD must be snug, yet still allow you to move freely. Features such as multiple adjustment points, large armholes, and short waists enable you to get a good fit and allow you to row or paddle comfortably without chafing. You can narrow down your options by measuring the circumference of your chest to figure out your size. (Kids' sizes are determined by weight.) Many manufacturers make vests specially designed for women, which may provide a better fit than a unisex version, especially for women with large chests.\n\nPFDs must be snug but allow you to move freely, with enough flotation to keep you afloat.\n\nFor people whose stomachs are bigger than their chests, you should add a strap that runs between their legs and attaches to the vest to keep it from sliding up over their heads if they end up in the water.\n\nThe best bet for ensuring you'll be comfortable in your PFD all day on the river is to go to a boating store and try on different models to see what fits best.\n\nTo try out a PFD, loosen all the straps, put the vest on, and zip it up\u2014or pull it over your head if it's a pullover. Starting at the waist, tighten down all the straps. The vest should feel snug but not tight. If you feel something rubbing or if the straps cut into your neck at this point, it's not the right model for you. Have someone try to lift you by pulling up on the PFD's shoulder straps. If the vest moves up past your nose, tighten the straps further and try again. If it still comes up over your head the PFD is too large.\n\nTo ensure your PFD fits properly, have someone lift you up by the shoulder straps. If the vest comes up over your face, it's too big.\n\nMove your arms around, and twist and turn as if you are rowing or paddling, to make sure there are no places where the PFD chafes or restricts movement.\n\nIf you try all these things and the PFD feels like a comfortable extra skin, you've found your match.\n\nRescue Vests\n\nRescue vests are designed to provide buoyancy and freedom of movement for paddling whitewater, as well as to be used for rescues. The main difference between a rescue vest and a Type III PFD is that a rescue vest includes a built-in quick-release harness belt system (QRHS). Rescue vests also tend to have less flotation than other types.\n\nA rescue vest is a tool with limitations, and requires training and consistent practice to use safely and effectively. If you intend to boat hard whitewater, you should probably wear and know how to use a rescue vest, but don't spent money on an expensive rescue vest unless you plan to learn how to use it.\n\nYou may also want to consider the following when selecting your PFD:\n\n * Bright colors and reflective tape make you easier to see if you come out of your raft and are floating downstream.\n * Pockets are helpful for carrying lip balm, sunscreen or a snack.\n * Attachment points are useful for securing a knife or whistle to the outside of the jacket.\n\nHelmets\n\nAccording to American Whitewater's Safety Code, you should wear a helmet when \"upsets are likely.\" That guideline is a bit vague and definitely open to interpretation. Clearly, helmets are essential in whitewater kayaks where it's common to flip and be left hanging upside down, exposing your head to underwater rocks until you roll up or come out of your boat. Rafts are a bit different. It's not common to flip a raft, although it certainly happens. However, it is common to get ejected from one and end up swimming through rapids where you are vulnerable to head injuries. It's also common to get clobbered by an errant oar or paddle. Despite this you often see rafters descending whitewater without helmets.\n\nRafters don't always wear helmets, but if you are running rapids where there's a chance you might fall out of the boat or flip your raft, wearing one to protect your head is a good idea.\n\nIn moving water or mellow whitewater (Class II), it's easy for most people to keep their heads above water and avoid clocking their noggins on rocks. But when you start swimming Class III and above, it becomes increasingly difficult to control your movements. Most of the time you are at the mercy of the river and will have to fight hard to avoid rocks and obstacles. If you fall on a raft going through a rapid, you can hit your head on things like ammo cans or oarlocks. If your raft flips, those objects become even more dangerous. For all these reasons, wearing a helmet in whitewater is smart.\n\nUltimately, you need to decide if you want to wear a helmet, as most river regulations do not require their use. Remember, helmets are never a bad idea, especially on rocky, technical rivers with steep drops and long rapids. You should wear one whenever you run challenging whitewater.\n\nOne of the key factors in finding the right helmet is comfort. If your helmet is uncomfortable you are less likely to wear it, so make sure you find one that fits well. The best helmets are light, strong, and sit snugly on your head, but aren't so tight you end up with a headache after a few hours in your boat. Your helmet should have a chinstrap that is secured with a quick-release buckle. Remember, the helmet only works if that strap is closed.\n\nCarbon helmets are lightweight, but can cost a couple of hundred dollars. Plastic or fiberglass helmets may be slightly heavier, but they tend to cost less than $100 and are perfectly adequate. Go to a whitewater boating store and try on a few models to see what you like best.\n\nOccasionally you will see people wearing bike or climbing helmets on a river. If you have nothing else, I guess these helmets are OK, but they are designed for different impacts and are really not great for whitewater. If you plan to be a boater, buy yourself a helmet meant for whitewater.\n\nClothing\n\nWhat you wear in the boat will be determined by the ambient air and water temperatures. The American Canoeing Association (ACA) defines cold-water conditions as any water that is less than 60 degrees Fahrenheit, or when the combined air and water temperature is less than 120 degrees Fahrenheit. In these conditions, swimmers rapidly lose their ability to function as they succumb to the cold and become hypothermic.\n\nHypothermia can be life-threatening. If you are boating in cold water or cool temperatures, you need to dress warmly. This rafter is wearing a dry suit.\n\nIf you plan to raft in cold-water conditions, you need to dress accordingly. This can be a wet suit, a dry suit, a paddling jacket, and\/or rain gear. Your choice will be determined by the nature of the river you are running, your activity level, and the weather conditions. If a swim is likely, go with a wet or dry suit. If you are just going to get splashed or rained on, a paddling jacket and pants, or waterproof rain gear will suffice. If you are rowing or paddling, you'll need less warmth. If you are a passenger, bundle up. You may also need hats, gloves, and warm waterproof shoes if conditions are really chilly. The key is to stay safe and comfortable. It's always easier to cool off with a swim if you get hot than it is to warm up when you get cold. We'll go into more detail on specifics later in the book.\n\nIn warm weather or warm water, you don't need to be as concerned about hypothermia. Often a bathing suit and shorts will suffice in terms of temperature control. But you do need to be careful about sun protection. Many rafters opt to wear a long-sleeved cotton shirt to block out the sun. A hat with a big brim and a cord that can be tightened under the chin or behind the nape of the neck to keep it in place is also helpful. You may opt to wear a Buff or bandanna pulled up over your face and cotton gloves on your hands if the sun's glare is really intense. In mellow water, people often rig sunshades to provide some relief, and you can always jump into the river to cool off if the temperatures soar too high\n\nWe'll go into more detail about what to wear in your boat in Chapter Seven: Personal Camping Gear..\n\nIn hot weather, a wide-brimmed hat and sun shirt can help you stay cool and avoid sunburn. Plus, you can always jump in the water to cool down.\n\nThrow bags and safety equipment\n\nWe will go into detail about safety equipment in Chapter Thirteen, which covers basic river rescue. Just know that before you hit the river with your raft you need to have a throw rope or throw bag on board, and you need to know how to use it. Most rafters clip their throw ropes on the raft in a place where they can get to it quickly. If they are rowing, it will be on the frame in the cockpit near where they sit. If they are guiding a paddle raft, the throw bag is usually clipped to a D ring in the stern.\n\nSome raft guides like to carry a throw rope around the waist as well as have one clipped onto the raft.\n\nMany rafters carry throw bags clipped around their waists for immediate access if someone goes for an accidental swim.\n\nRoomy storage sacks make stuffing your throw bag between uses easier and faster.\n\nMost rafters carry a whistle and a river knife on their PFDs for emergencies.\n\nThrow ropes typically come in either 55- or 75-foot lengths. On big rivers and with rafts, the longer lengths are recommended. Choose a throw rope that comes in a roomy stuff sack. You want to be able to get the rope in and out of the bag quickly and easily, and if it's a tight fit that can be difficult.\n\nThrow ropes are made from a variety of materials that affect weight, strength, and cost. All are designed to float on the surface of the water. The cheapest ropes are made from polypropylene, but polypro isn't as strong as some of the other materials such as Spectra, so if you plan to do a lot of rafting it may be worth considering a sturdier rope that can be used for rescue.\n\nYou should also consider carrying a river knife to cut yourself out of ropes or other entanglements, and a whistle to alert your team in an emergency.\nChapter Three\n\nRafting Skills\n\nOnce your raft is ready for the water, it's time to get out there to practice your rowing and paddling techniques. Start on an easy river to gain confidence and skill. Look for rivers with a good current, well-developed eddies\u2014calm spots below obstacles or changes in the river bank\u2014and a few easy obstacles to navigate around as you gain comfort moving downstream. If you have a more experienced buddy, bring him or her along to coach you. Make sure your chosen river does not have any must-make moves or high hazards. You don't want a waterfall or dam downstream of a hard-to-make takeout on your first adventure on the water.\n\nPaddle Rafts\n\nSeating arrangement\n\nYour seating arrangement depends on the number of people and size of your raft. Your goal is to distribute strength evenly around the boat, give everyone plenty of room to paddle, and make sure the weight is evened out.\n\nIn general, you want your most powerful and experienced paddlers in the bow. They need to be able to set an even paddling pace that others can follow and be willing to paddle hard into the face of an upcoming rapid. They also need to be able to listen and respond quickly to commands from the captain.\n\nPaddle rafts are steered by a captain who sits in the rear of the raft. Paddlers sit on the tubes along the sides with the bravest, strongest paddlers in front.\n\nPaddle captains usually sit in the stern of the raft, where they can watch their teams and the upcoming rapids, shout out commands, and exert a powerful rudder or draw stroke to determines the raft's direction of travel. Usually the stern compartment is the raft captain's private domain so he or she has plenty of room to maneuver and oversee the rest of the boat.\n\nDistribute your paddlers evenly along the tubes, starting to fill up the raft from the front and working back toward the stern. The role of the middle paddlers is to follow the bow paddlers' lead and pull hard.\n\nPosition\n\nA powerful paddle stroke requires a strong foundation against which paddlers can brace their bodies. Some paddle rafts come with foot cups on the floor, but if yours does not, you can achieve the same strong position by sitting on the raft tubes and bracing your feet and shins against the tube and thwart. Don't wedge your foot all the way under a tube as it can get stuck and be an entrapment hazard if your raft flips. Sit with both legs inside the raft and your buttocks far enough out on the tube to allow you to reach into the water for a stroke but not so far out that you'll fall off the raft at the first wave.\n\nPaddlers need to be in a strong, braced position to withstand the impact of whitewater and to have a powerful, effective stroke.\n\nIf it's your first time paddling, practice in a few different positions to figure out where you are most stable. You can even have someone push you around a bit to see if you are secure. You don't have to be in this position at all times. In flat water it's fine to relax and even dangle your legs around the tube, but when the water starts moving and there are rocks around, it's dangerous to have a leg outside the raft\n\nTo execute a strong, effective stroke you need to use your entire body. Lean forward to catch the water with your blade. Tighten your stomach muscles and brace your legs against the thwart and tubes and so you can use them and your back as well as your arms to move the blade through the water. Rest and relax on the recovery.\n\nPaddle grip\n\nGood paddling technique includes a good grip. Paddles come with some form of T-shaped handle at the end of the shaft. The handle is designed to let your fingers wrap around the top of the grip while your thumb comes up around the bottom. This grip allows you to control the angle of your blade and lessens the chance that you'll drop the paddle.\n\nYour bottom hand clasps the shaft with the palm facing forward about two-thirds of the way down from the handle. Your hands should be closed around the paddle, but you don't need a death grip. Relax your fingers to prevent fatigue.\n\nHolding the paddle improperly can be hazardous. A common raft guide joke warns clients of \"summer-mouth teeth,\" which happens when someone hasn't gripped the top of the T-grip properly and ends up clobbering a buddy in the face, leaving \"sum\" teeth in his mouth and \"sum\" in the bottom of the raft. You can avoid that problem by always keeping your fingers folded over the top of the grip with your thumb coming up from the bottom.\n\nYou'll find you have a natural preference for one side or the other. If you plan to do a lot of whitewater paddle rafting, it's a good idea to learn to paddle on both sides of the raft so you are more versatile.\n\nForward stroke\n\nFor most paddle rafters, the forward stroke is going to be the stroke you use 90 percent of the time. It's a fairly natural stroke, but good technique enhances its effectiveness and helps prevent fatigue and overuse injuries, so it's worth taking some time to master the basics.\n\nStart by leaning forward and reaching ahead into the water with your blade. To make this reach, rotate at the waist and thrust your outside shoulder toward the bow to wind up your torso. Lean your body forward about 10 degrees to maximize your extension. Your lower arm should be straight and your upper arm slightly bent and held around eye level, with the blade at a 90-degree angle to the tube.\n\nPlant the blade into the water next to the raft tube for the catch. The paddle should be at about a 70-degree angle to the water's surface.\n\nNow unwind your torso, pulling back with your lower arm and pushing with your upper. This rotation should provide the power to your stroke rather than your arms. Try to keep the paddle blade close to vertical.\n\nMost of your power will come in the first few inches of the stroke, diminishing as you get closer to your hip. When you really need power, take short, fast strokes and never pull your paddle past your hip.\n\nFinish the stroke just in front of your hip, pulling the blade out of the water by rotating your wrist slightly and lifting the blade up. Reach forward for your next stroke and repeat.\n\nHints for a More Powerful Forward Stroke\n\n * Imagine you are planting your blade in cement and pulling your body and the raft past it rather than pulling your blade toward you.\n * Concentrate on your torso rotation. \n * Don't let your upper hand get too high; keep it at eye level or lower. \n * Time your strokes so you dig into water, not the air between waves or the froth of a hole. Reach ahead and look for dark water.\n * Make sure your paddle is the proper length so you can sink three-quarters of the blade into the water for the most power.\n\nFor a strong forward stroke, rotate at the waist to engage your entire body rather than just your arms. Short, quick strokes are more efficient and effective than long strokes.\n\nBack paddle\n\nThe back paddle is basically just the reverse of a forward stroke. For the catch, you'll rotate your outside shoulder back toward the stern, planting the blade in the water slightly behind your hip. As you move the blade through the water, rotate at the waist to bring your outside shoulder forward until the blade is just in front of your hip. Twist the blade out of the water and rotate back to your starting point.\n\nThe big challenge with the back paddle is that you are fighting the momentum of the raft and the current. Often you'll see paddlers just plant the paddle in place and lean against the current rather than finish the stroke. You can use your body as a fulcrum, placing the paddle shaft against your outside hip to give you some leverage to move the paddle forward. This technique gives you power and supports your shoulder. However, be careful. If your blade hits a rock or a strong hydraulic, you can be pole-vaulted out of the raft before you know what is happening.\n\nDraw stroke\n\nDraw strokes are used to move the raft sideways, allowing you to pull into a dock, up to another boat, or away from an obstacle.\n\nTo perform a draw stroke, place the paddle vertically into the water about 2 feet from the side of the raft with the blade facing the raft and the shaft at a slight angle from the water to your upper hand. To get this reach, you'll need to twist your torso so your outside shoulder is pointing toward the stern of the raft and the inside shoulder is pointing toward the bow. The blade enters the water around your hip and should be fully immersed. Your upper hand should be close to your head. It will serve as a pivot point for the paddle.\n\nPull the blade toward you with your lower hand, straightening the shaft until your upper hand is above your lower one. Be careful not to bring the blade all the way into the boat.\n\nAt this point you can lift the blade out of the water and move it back out to the starting point for another stroke. Alternatively, once you can have drawn the blade in toward the boat, slide it forward or back in the water to initiate some other stroke.\n\nPractice having one side of the boat perform simultaneous draw strokes. Effective teams can \"slip\" their rafts sideways to avoid obstacles with this technique.\n\nTurning strokes\n\nThe easiest way to turn a raft is for the paddlers on one side to paddle forward while those on the other side paddle backward. This method changes the direction of the raft swiftly, but it also slows down its momentum by putting on the brakes on one side. The boat will turn toward the side of the back-paddling paddlers.\n\nYou can also \"spin\" the raft using a combination of draw and pry strokes (see below) in the bow and stern. Play around with your crew to see how these work.\n\nCaptaining\n\nThe captain of a paddle raft typically sits in the stern and uses a longer paddle that enables him or her to control the boat. The captain does all the normal paddle strokes\u2014forward, reverse\u2014but he or she also employs a pry or draw stroke for quick changes in direction. These strokes can be used in other positions in the raft, but that typically involves a skilled, practiced team. With more novice paddlers, it's usually just the captain who employs a pry or draw.\n\nThe paddle captain's role is to steer the raft and shout out commands to the crew. On flat water this is easy. In rapids it gets more demanding.\n\nDraw strokes in the stern are the same as described above. The only real difference is that paddle captains use them more commonly than their crews. From the stern, the captain reaches out and away from the raft and then pulls the paddle in, creating a powerful turning motion. A draw stroke in the stern turns the boat away from the side it is performed on.\n\nPry strokes, which are also called rudders, turn the bow toward the side that it is performed on. A pry on the right turns the boat right, and vice versa,\n\nTo perform a pry or rudder, rotate your shoulders so they are parallel to the raft tube. Reach back and place the paddle in the water roughly 8 inches behind the hip. The lower arm should be bent, while the upper arm is nearly straight and at a 90-degree angle to the centerline of the raft. Place the shaft of the paddle on either the raft tube or your thigh to act as a pivot point.\n\nThe blade is set in the water so it is parallel to the raft tube. Pull your upper hand in, levering the blade against the pivot point. You only get a few inches of real power before you lose your leverage, so pry strokes should be short and quick.\n\nCommands\n\nBesides steering, the captain's role is to get his or her crew working in unison. Put your most experienced and skilled paddlers in the bow of the raft so the people in the middle can follow them. The bow paddlers need to be the ones who are most likely and able to follow your commands. Things get exciting and chaotic quickly in a rapid, especially with newer paddlers, so practice going through your commands with them on flat water before your trip starts rocking.\n\nMost of the time your commands are going to be pretty straightforward. You either want your paddlers to be paddling forward, backward, or resting. Make sure everyone knows which side of the raft they are on. Knowing right from left is important! Your directions will be set by the orientation of the raft moving downstream, with the bow in the front. Paddlers on the right side in this orientation will always be considered to be on the right side, even if you are heading downstream backward.\n\nIt helps to call out the number of strokes you want your paddlers to perform. Open-ended instructions, such as \"paddle forward,\" often end up with the paddlers tapering off after a while, whereas a specific number keeps their attention.\n\nIn addition, paddlers should know what it means when the captain says \"High side.\" Basically, this command tells everyone to move to the high side of the boat to try to bounce off an obstacle.\n\nPaddle commands\n\n * All forward, four strokes (or whatever number you determine is needed)\n * Left forward, include number of strokes\n * Right forward, include number of strokes\n * All back, include number of strokes\n * Left back, right back\n * Right draw, left draw\n * High side\n * Rest or stop\n\nYou may also find yourself needing to call for more power\u2014hard right, hard left, or \"dig in,\" etc.. If one side is constantly overpowering the other, you may have to call for that side to lighten up.\n\nCaptains are most effective if they give these commands in a loud, calm voice. Screaming frantically gets everyone on edge and is usually counterproductive. Be consistent. It doesn't matter if you choose to say \"stop\" or \"rest,\" but it helps to use the same word every time so your crew responds immediately.\n\nIf you are heading out with a crew of novice paddlers, take time to perform some maneuvers in the flat water above the rapids so your crew gets a sense of how the boat responds and what it's like to work together. Practice spinning the raft in both directions and experiment with different strokes in a calm, controlled setting, so when things get a bit crazy in the rapids your crew will know what to do.\n\nTips for the Crew\n\nThe captain may be in charge of the raft, but that doesn't mean the crew is passive. The captain may not be able to see submerged rocks or other hidden obstacles that are obvious from the bow. Crewmembers should let the captain know if there is an obstacle ahead. You can call out, \"Rock on the right,\" or something to that effect, or you can perform a quick corrective stroke\u2014a draw for example\u2014to help avoid the obstacle.\n\nFerrying\n\nFerrying is the act of moving your raft from one side of the river to the other with minimal downstream drift. To perform a ferry you paddle or row against the current, using its power to push your raft across. The keys to an effective ferry are angle and speed, and the proper angle and speed are determined by the river's velocity.\n\nYour raft should be placed anywhere from 30 to 90 degrees to the current. If you find you are being carried downstream, close up your angle to closer to 30 degrees. If you are fighting the current and staying in place, make the angle wider so you'll move across the river.\n\nFerry Terms\n\n * Angle: Angle describes the vector angle of the raft relative to the current.\n * Front ferry: In a front ferry, the paddlers or rowers face upstream and forward paddle or push at an angle against the current.\n * Back or upstream ferry: In a back or upstream ferry, the paddlers or rower face downstream and back-paddle or pull at an angle against the current. \n * Downstream ferry: A true ferry is always against the current, but rafters use the term loosely and employ the moniker \"downstream ferry\" to describe when they row or paddle downstream at an angle to, and faster than or with, the current. This is not a true ferry, but it is an effective way to maintain momentum and use the current to help you move your boat in different directions.\n\nA ferry uses the force of the current to move the raft across the river. In this diagram, the left raft is performing a classic upstream ferry. The raft is about 30 degrees to the current and the paddlers would be forward paddling. The second raft is doing what is known as a downstream ferry. The boat is angled and the paddlers would be forward paddling with the current to cross the river. The third raft is just moving downstream.\n\nAvery Absolon\n\nOar Rigs\n\nUnlike captaining a paddle raft, when you get behind the oars in a raft you are usually on your own. Rowing is very different from paddling. You are basically limited to pulling or pushing your oars back and forth to maneuver and power your craft downstream.\n\nPulling\n\nThe standard rowing stroke\u2014used in crew shells and rowboats\u2014 is the pulling stroke. This stroke has more power than a pushing stroke, but there is one obvious disadvantage: It can be harder to see what you are moving toward.\n\nNewer rowers commonly pull too much. Pulling expends more energy than pushing and causes you to work against the river rather than with it. Pulling is an important stroke to know, but don't over use it.\n\nWhen rafters pull, they tend to float downstream at an angle that allows them to keep an eye out for what is coming so they can ferry away from the obstacle or quickly spin into a power position to pull away. It helps to pick a landmark upstream to focus on so you stay straight as you move backward.\n\nThe pulling stroke is most effective when you use your core and legs as well as your arms to exert force on the oars. To do this, brace your feet against something so you can push off with your legs as you move the oars through the water.\n\nTo initiate the pulling stroke, push down on the oar grips so the blades are above the water, lean forward at the waist, reaching out straight ahead with your arms. When you are at full reach, lift your hands to drop the oars into the water for the catch. When your blade is fully submerged, push back against your feet and tighten your abdominal muscles while you sit up, moving your shoulders back to your starting position. This is the power stage of the stroke.\n\nWhen your body is vertical, bend your arms, pulling the oars in toward your chest to finish the stroke. As with paddle strokes, the finish of the pulling stroke is its weakest point, so it's a waste of time and energy to lean way back to eke out a few more inches of pull. Furthermore, you expose your ribcage to the oar handle in this position, which can lead to a broken rib if your oar hits a rock.\n\nWhen you get to the end of the stroke, push your hands down to lift the blades out of the water and reach forward for your next stroke. This is called the recovery phase. If you are feathering your blades between strokes, roll your knuckles forward until they face down to rotate the blades so they are parallel to the water's surface. You'll roll your knuckles back so the blades are vertical before you drop them in the water for your next stroke. Often rowers will only feather their oars in high winds. The repeated wrist curl can lead to tendonitis.\n\nMake sure to use your entire body rather than just the muscles in your lower back and arms during each stroke. Try to exert equal pressure on the oars. Most of us have a weaker side, so you may find you have to correct by taking an extra stroke on the weak side every now and then to straighten the raft out.\n\nTo help you stay straight when rowing backward down river, pick a point on the horizon that lines up with your desired direction and use it as a guide. Make sure to check over your shoulder now and again to ensure you are on the right track.\n\nA rower's strongest stroke is the pulling or rowing stroke. These photos show one stroke from the catch, where the oars are dropped into the water, through the finish, where the rower is ready to take another stroke.\n\nWatch Out for These Common Rowing Errors\n\nBelow are a few common errors that affect your stroke's efficiency, and that can cause injuries over time. With a little practice and awareness they are easy to avoid.\n\n * Overreaching at the catch. If you lean too far forward before you put your oar into the water, you stress your lower back. Furthermore, your stroke is weakest at its extreme ends. You are better off taking shorter strokes and protecting your back by limiting your forward reach.\n * Leaning too far back at the finish. Some people lean way back before they lift their oars out of the water. You don't gain any power from this lean, and you do make your lower back vulnerable to strain. You should have only a slight backward lean\u2014say 10 degrees or so\u2014at the finish of your stroke.\n * Pressing your hands down too far on the recovery and lunging at the catch. As you move your hands forward in the recovery phase, avoid pushing down on the oar handles, which will cause the blades to lift up too high. Your goal is to move your hands forward on an even plane so the blades stay level just above the water. Take care to maintain this level movement as you approach the catch as well. Some people tend to lunge forward at the end of the recovery, which causes their hands to dive and the blades to shoot up before they drop into the water. \n * Chicken-wing arms. On the recovery try to keep your elbows close to the side of your body and your shoulders low. This helps you conserve energy during the stroke. \n * Rowing with just your arms. For a powerful stroke you need to use your entire body, especially the big strong muscles in your legs and back. To access these muscles, brace your feet and tighten your core as you set your blade in the water.\n * Digging too deeply. If you raise your hands too high in the power phase of the stroke, your oar blades will plunge down deeply, often hitting the rocks or the bottom of the river. You may feel as if you are getting more power by digging deeply, but actually you are more efficient and stronger if you maintain an even pull higher in the water column. If you need more power, increase the cadence of your stroke rather than lowering your blades.\n\nPushing stroke or portegee\n\nThe pushing stroke or portegee is the opposite of rowing. Instead of pulling the oars toward your body, you push them away to move the boat forward. The advantage to pushing rather than pulling is that you face downstream and, therefore, can watch for hazards and obstacles coming toward you. Plus, you use the current to help you move. But pushing is not as powerful as pulling, so it takes skill, practice, and a bit of finesse to push rather than pull your way through a rapid.\n\nBegin the pushing stroke by lowering your hands until the oar blades are out of the water and bringing them in toward your belly. Raise your hands and drop the blades into the water. This is the catch. Your blades should project straight out from the raft at your sides.\n\nBend forward at the waist and simultaneously push the oar handles forward to move the oars through the water, keeping your hands about level. For added power, many rowers drop their heads slightly at the end of the stroke, causing their arms and shoulders to rise slightly, but it's a subtle movement. If you lift your hands too high the blade will dive down too deeply. Brace your feet so you can engage your legs and back as you push. This is the power phase of the stroke.\n\nWhen your arms are straight in front of you (keep your elbows soft), push down on the handles of the oars to lift the blades out of the water and repeat the cycle.\n\nThis series of photos shows a rower pushing his oars through the water to move downstream. Notice how he engages his entire body for power and to help conserve his arm strength.\n\nConserving Energy\n\nIf you decide to push in flat-water sections of the river, you can vary the stroke to conserve energy by pushing one oar through the water at a time, alternating from side to side. Standing up to push is also a handy trick, especially above a rapid because it allows you to see what lies ahead.\n\nYou can conserve energy by varying your stroke as you move downstream. One trick is to alternate arms.\n\nTurning\n\nThe fastest way to turn your boat is to push with one oar and pull with the other to spin the raft. The raft will rotate toward your pulling side.\n\nPushing with one oar and pulling with the other will spin your raft around when you want to change direction.\n\nIf you just want to correct your line of travel, you can pull or push with just one oar for a couple of strokes until the raft straightens out. Pulling back on your left oar turns the boat to the left; pulling with the right moves you right. Pushing with your left oar turns the raft right; pushing with the right will cause you to head left.\n\nPractice turning your raft using different combinations of strokes. When you are just starting out it can be hard to remember which way the boat will move in response to a pull or push on one side or the other. One trick is to remember that your pulling stroke is the strongest stroke and will always turn the raft in that direction.\n\nShipping your oars\n\nIn tight spots on the river, you may need to ship your oars to pass through obstacles without damaging the oars. One technique is to push your hands all the way forward to bring your oars parallel to the side of the raft. The alternative is to pull the oars back behind you so blades come forward and parallel to the raft. Pulling your oar handles back is a bit more awkward than pushing them forward. Whatever your technique, you may need to ship your oars in a hurry. Practice this skill before you need it for real: It could prevent a broken oar, a broken rib, or a flip.\n\nWhen you need to get your oars out of the way of a rock or obstacle, ship them by either pushing your hands back behind you, as this rower demonstrates, or by pushing them forward until the blades are parallel to the raft tubes.\n\nFerrying\n\nAs mentioned earlier, ferrying is a way to move your raft across the river without being carried downstream. Most rowers use an upstream or back ferry when they want to cross the river. The advantage to an upstream ferry is that you are facing downstream so you can see approaching hazards. You also slow the raft, giving you time to come up with a plan, pick your line, or maneuver away from an obstacle. Plus, you are using your strongest stroke\u2014the pull stroke\u2014so you have more power to make a move. But you lose all momentum with an upstream ferry, which, in big water where you need power, can be a problem.\n\nMost rowers don't use front ferries\u2014where the rower faces upstream and pushes\u2014very often.\n\nYou'll also hear people talk about downstream ferries, by which they mean facing downstream, angling the raft, and pushing with the current to move the raft across the river. Technically this isn't a ferry, as ferries are done against the current, but the so-called downstream ferry is a useful technique for moving your raft from one part of the river to another.\n\nThe correct ferry angle depends on the strength of the river's current. If you find you are being carried downstream, you probably have too much angle. Ease off on the angle until you stop losing ground. If you are stalled out or moving upstream, let your stern swing out toward the far shore so you have more angle. It also helps to have weight forward in the raft when ferrying.\n\nPractice\n\nPaddling and rowing come pretty naturally to most of us, particularly those who are athletes. Still, the moves are often unfamiliar, so it's worth practicing on flat water or in easy Class II rapids before you tackle something more challenging. Good technique allows you to be more effective, powerful, and in control; it also helps prevent injury. \nChapter Four\n\nReading Water\n\nWhile there are some nimble rafts that can dart across the water, in general, the rafts used on multiday trips perform more like buses than sports cars. And, like a bus, a raft needs time to maneuver. Your best friend in that maneuvering is going to be the power of the current. If you put your raft on the right flow, you often can avoid having to fight the force of the river to navigate your way through a rapid. Watch a seasoned Grand Canyon river guide if you get a chance. These folks know exactly where to put their rafts when they enter a given rapid. They can navigate even the most infamous rapids\u2014Lava, Granite, Crystal\u2014with only a few well-timed strokes. That's what we're striving for: precision and accuracy over brute strength. But to reach that goal, you have to be able to read water.\n\nKnowing how to read water allows you to use the current to move through rapids safely.\n\nMoving Water\n\nAll water flows downhill, seeking the most direct and cleanest route in its path to the sea. That flow is known as current.\n\nThe current's speed or velocity is determined by a river's volume, width, and gradient, or the steepness of the riverbed. River volume is measured according to cubic feet per second (cfs), which refers to how many cubic feet of water move past a given point in a second.\n\nNarrow river corridors constrict water, forcing it to pile up into waves and flow faster. As the river's currents converge in tight canyons you often find turbulence. Wider rivers typically have calmer, slower water.\n\nRapids generally occur when the river gradient steepens, the current accelerates, the channel narrows, or the river bottom is rough. Flat pools have less gradient and deeper, slower-moving water.\n\nTurns, obstructions, rocks, constrictions, and gradient all affect the character of a river.\n\nAvery Absolon\n\nWater moves slower along the riverbed than on the surface because of friction. This differentiation is known as laminar flow. You also have friction along the sides of the river, where the difference in the current's speed creates helical flow, or spiraling swirls of slower-moving water. This water gets pulled into the faster water in the middle of the river, and then twists down toward the bottom before being drawn back to the shore. You can see this effect when you drop a twig into the river close to shore and watch as it gets pulled out into the main current and sucked under.\n\nAll water flows downhill, but its speed and turbulence vary. Rocks, tributaries, river bends, gradient, and the tightness of the channel determine where you'll find rapids.\n\nRiver Left and River Right\n\nWhen boaters talk about the different sides of a river, they use the terms \"river right\" or \"river left,\" with right and left referring to your perspective as you head downstream. Whenever you hear river left, it always means your left as you face downriver. River right is always to your right while facing downstream.\n\nEddies\n\nEddies are formed on the downstream side of an obstruction in the river. The obstruction slows and twists the water, causing it to turn and flow upstream behind the obstacle.\n\nWhen a river's current encounters an obstruction, the water flows around that feature and then turns to fill in the void behind it, creating an eddy in which the current flows upstream.\n\nAvery Absolon\n\nYou'll find eddies along the sides of the river, on the insides of bends, and downstream of rocks or other obstacles. The water in an eddy can be calm, or, in big water, it can be swirling and violent. Rafters use eddies as a place to pull out of the main current of the river to scout, exit the boat, rest, or regroup. Being able to exit and enter eddies with confidence and ease is critical to your boating skills.\n\nEddies form behind obstacles that divert the flow of the current, forcing it to turn upstream. In this photo you can see eddies formed below places where the rock wall protrudes into the main flow of the river.\n\nRiver bends\n\nWhen the river bends, the main current is forced to the outside of the bend. Here the water will be deeper and faster than on the inside of the turn. Water piles up on the outside of the bend, cutting into the riverbank and depositing debris. Strainers or fallen trees are often found on the outside of bends.\n\nWater on the inside of a bend moves slower and is shallower than on the outside. Sometimes that water will be too shallow to cross. You can recognize shallow water by exposed gravel, rocks, and riffles, or wavy, disturbed water.\n\nChannels\n\nChannels are formed when water collides with an obstruction, such as a boulder, and is forced to move around it into a channel to make its way downhill. In deeper water, these channels form an upstream V, or a tongue of smooth water that starts wide and narrows as it moves downstream. River runners look for these Vs as a safe path through shallow water or past rocks.\n\nRocks\n\nA rock that projects above the surface of the water forces the current to flow around it, creating an eddy downstream.\n\nWhen water flows over a rock that lies just beneath the surface, it forms a \"pillow\" of smooth, glassy water. You may also see an upside-down V downstream of a rock. Unlike an upstream V that indicates a channel, the upside-down or downstream V indicates a submerged obstacle that is diverting the flow of the current. Watch out for these Vs as the obstacle may not be submerged enough to allow a raft to pass over without getting snagged. In general, it's best to avoid them.\n\nWater also pillows up against rocks that break the river surface. These pillows are frothy and turbulent. They show that the water has hit a solid obstacle and is piling up and collapsing down around the edges as it continues downstream.\n\nWater has piled up on the rock in the center of this photograph, forming a smooth pillow upstream and a frothy hole downstream.\n\nUndercut rocks will not have a big pillow because much of the water flows down under the obstacle rather than around it. Undercut rocks are extremely dangerous for swimmers or small crafts because they can get trapped beneath them. Too many fatalities have taken place under such rocks, so it's important to recognize and avoid them. On popular rivers, undercut rocks are often known and identified hazards, which helps you avoid them.\n\nWaves\n\nWater speeds up as it flows over submerged boulders or is constricted in a narrowing channel, and then stacks up downstream into standing waves. As you increase a river's volume and velocity, these waves get bigger and can form a line called a wave train. Waves remain stationary in the river, although the water molecules themselves continue moving downstream. Rafting through a bouncy wave train can be like an exciting roller-coaster ride. Make sure you know the waves are not hiding any rocks or holes that could cause you problems.\n\nIrregularities along the riverbed such as submerged rocks as in this diagram, or constrictions in the river's channel, force water up, creating waves downstream.\n\nAvery Absolon\n\nNovices often have a hard time differentiating waves from holes or frothy water piling up against a rock. Waves are usually symmetrical and have a front and backside. But not all waves are that obvious. Waves can fold back on themselves and break, creating a frothy pile that looks a lot like a rock or hole. You can distinguish rocks from breaking waves by the shape and character of the wave, but it takes practice. One easy rule is that waves will be followed by other waves, whereas a hole will have flat water behind it. Irregular waves or waves that look lower and whiter on the downstream side are generally hiding rocks. The rock may be obvious if you scout the rapid from shore, where you can view the obstacles from different perspectives.\n\nUltimately, if you aren't sure if something is a wave, hole, or rock, it's best to avoid it.\n\nA kayaker punches through a breaking wave between two holes. Water is obviously flowing upstream in the holes while the current continues to flow downstream below the wave.\n\nRock gardens\n\nSections of river with lots of boulders scattered throughout are called rock gardens. Often rock gardens become most apparent at low water, when the normal channels get pinched off as the water levels drop. It can be hard to find a clean line through a rock garden.\n\nRock gardens are formed where landslides or tributaries scatter boulders into the river.\n\nHoles\n\nHoles are made when water flows over an obstacle, creating a depression below.\n\nRock gardens are formed where landslides or tributaries scatter boulders into the river.\n\nThe obstacles are usually at or near the river surface, and often you cannot see them. Instead you see the frothing white foam of turbulent water. The river naturally refills the depression created by the obstacle by folding in on itself and moving back upstream in a recirculating flow, much like an eddy.\n\nWhen obstacles, such as rocks or boulders, are at or near the surface of the river, water drops down over the obstacle creating a depression below it. The current then twists back in on itself to refill the depression, resulting in a frothy, turbulent hole.\n\nAvery Absolon\n\nIf enough water is recirculating, a hole can become a keeper hole that traps and holds solid objects like boats in place. Holes can be fun to go through, or they can be violent and rough and can cause you to capsize.\n\nThis cataraft is entering a classic hole, which is created by water flowing down over a submerged obstacle to create a depression that the river fills by turning upstream and flowing into the void.\n\nBoaters say that smiling holes, or hole where the sides point downstream, are safer because they have definite exit points at the sides, where the water is moving out and downriver, so you get flushed downstream if you come out of your boat. Frowning holes, where the sides point upstream or frown, tend to be more difficult to get out of, especially for a swimmer or a light raft. As you travel to the edge of a frowning keeper hole, you may find yourself surfed back into the middle. Frowning holes are best to avoid, especially when you are first learning.\n\nIt can be hard to see if a hole is smiling and frowning, especially as the whitewater gets more turbulent, so if in doubt, avoid big holes. If you do get caught in a keeper hole, often the only way out is to come out of your boat and dive down under the water so you can swim below the churning currents that are holding you in place. If you cannot determine whether a hole is dangerous, try to avoid it.\n\nLow-head dams\n\nLow-head dams run across a river channel creating a barrier. At certain water levels the current flows over such dams, making them look safe to drop. Low-head dams are hazardous, however. A dam doesn't have to be high to cause problems. Water going over the dam creates a recirculating hole at its base. But unlike a hole formed by a boulder, there is no side to the hole below a dam. Boaters can get caught in the back current, flipped, and trapped. Many boaters have drowned in the turbulence below a low-head dam. Often the dams are not marked, so it behooves you to talk to people about the rivers you plan to run, and to scout ahead when your vision is obstructed.\n\nLow-head dams can create a recirculating hole that is a dangerous barrier for boaters.\n\nTrifocal Vision\n\nIt's fine to have a theoretical understanding of the way water moves, and even better to be able to recognize different river features, but the real trick to effective raft captaining is being able to see and respond to obstacles as you move downstream. Guides talk about having \"trifocal vision,\" meaning they shift their focus constantly between three points. Point one is right in front of the raft, point two is 20-50 feet downstream, and point three is as far ahead as they can see.\n\nYour near focus is to help avoid things right in front of you, some of which you cannot see until you are on top of them. Looking farther downstream allows you to see channels and obstacles, and gives you time to position your raft. Looking even farther out gives you a heads-up on what's coming your way. Shifting back and forth between these three points helps keep you from being taken by surprise by an unexpected hazard.\n\nRafters should constantly shift their focus from up close to farther downstream and in between to anticipate and avoid hazards.\n\nFocus positive\n\nThe other important thing to remember when running rapids is to focus positive, or to focus on where you want to be and not what you want to avoid. If you are a skier or a biker, you know that you tend to drift toward objects if you stare at them. The same is true on the river. Focus your gaze on the channel or current you are heading for and not at the rock that you are trying to miss.\n\nHumans tend to follow their eyes, which means you shouldn't look at the object you want to avoid, such as the large rock to the rafter's left.\n\nBumping into obstacles\n\nInevitably you will run into rocks and other obstacles on your way downstream. The beauty of a raft is that it tends to bounce off most of these things, especially if you hit them head-on with your bow or stern. Many beginner boaters have pinballed down rapids during their early endeavors. That's usually fine. It takes time to be able to see all the rocks ahead of you, especially in shallow rivers.\n\nBut colliding with a rock can cause you to pin or tip your raft, so it's important to know what to do when you hit one. For some reason, our natural reaction is to lean away from an obstacle we are about to collide with. Unfortunately that is the wrong reaction. Leaning away drops your upstream tube and allows water to flow over it, forcing it down and lifting the downstream tube up and onto the obstacle. You could end up stuck on the obstacle, or upside down in the river if your raft flips.\n\nInstead, lean into the rock\u2014a movement known as high siding. This keeps your upstream tube up and out of the current, and allows your raft to simply bump into and slide off the obstacle, sending you on downstream unscathed. When you are rowing, it can be hard to high side effectively from your seat, but if you have passengers and you anticipate colliding with a rock, tell them to high side or move to the side of the raft that is about to hit. In a paddle raft, the captain shouts out the high side command and all paddlers move to the rock side of the raft. Often this weight shift is enough to prevent a pin.\n\nLeaning into, or high siding, a rock may help keep you from pinning your raft. In this photo it may be too late, as the raft's upstream tube is already underwater. High siding can keep that tube up and help you to slide off the obstacle.\n\nIn low water or on rocky rivers, rafters often soften their tubes. Soft tubes help rafts slide off rather than stick to rocks.\n\nFinally, boaters have a couple of sayings to remind them what to do if they find themselves heading toward an obstacle they hoped to avoid. The sayings\u2014\"If you screw up, square up\" and \"If in doubt, straighten out\"\u2014remind you to spin your boat to hit an obstacle with your bow or stern rather than the side of your raft. Hitting an obstacle sideways makes you more likely to flip or pin.\n\nStrainers\n\nStrainers pose a significant hazards to all boaters, especially on smaller rivers where there isn't a lot of room to maneuver. A strainer can be created by any number of things: a fallen tree; a logjam; stray branches; a dock; anything that lets water, but not objects like paddlers or boats, flow through. A boater caught against a strainer is like a fish caught in a net or pasta left in a colander. Anything bigger than the holes will be held in place and pulled under by the relentless force of the current rushing downstream.\n\nFallen trees in the river, known as strainers, can be dangerous hazards for boaters.\n\nStrainers are created when high water from floods or spring runoff eats away at riverbanks, undercutting them until they collapse, bringing trees down that then get stuck along the riverbed. Sometimes the tree's roots remain connected to the bank, and the resulting strainer is called a sweeper. Strainer or sweeper, these hazards can be deadly.\n\nYou should always be on the lookout for strainers, especially when you are on an unknown wilderness river, on any river during spring runoff, or after a big rainstorm that causes the river to rise and erode its banks. The best way to tackle strainers is to avoid them. How? Don't run rivers in flood stage. Scout. And stay alert, particularly when you come upon blind corners.\n\nIf you see a strainer ahead, move away. Sometimes, such as in the case of a river-wide logjam, you'll be forced to portage or walk around the strainer. Other times you can ferry across the river to an open channel. Don't try to squeeze through a space in the strainer.\n\nWhat do you do if you find, despite all your effort, that you are being swept into a strainer? Your best bet is to lean downstream and grab it. Forget about your raft. Haul yourself up on top the strainer. If you can, get out of the water onto the log or tree trunk. If you cannot, concentrate on keeping your head above water and scream or use your whistle to call for help.\n\nLine dancing\n\nWhen people scout a rapid or talk about the way to run one, they talk about seeing a line or path through the whitewater and out the other end. The best line is not going to be straight; rather it will be like a dance with the river as your leader. You need to follow its moves\u2014slip down the green tongue between obstructions; use lateral waves to push one way or another; let an eddy line spin you in a new direction\u2014basically dance your way through the obstacles using the river to lead, but making sure you follow that lead with a sense of purpose and direction. You don't want to float along like a piece of flotsam, reacting to things as you come upon them. To enable you to be proactive in the rapid, take time to scout, picking out lines with help and advice from more experienced rafters. Then hop in your raft and give it a go.\n\nIt takes a long time and a lot of experience to translate your vision of the best line into action. Subtle things can alter your dance and change things unexpectedly: you hit a rock with an oar; you have more (or less) momentum than you planned; or you didn't anticipate the way your raft would react to a hole, rock, or wave. Regardless, you won't always be able to put the dance together as well as you envisioned it onshore while scouting. That's OK. You'll get better with experience and time. You'll solidify your learning if you take a moment after the run to think about how things went. Try to analyze why you ended up left when you meant to be right. Think about how your raft reacted to different obstacles. Experiment with a different plan in the next rapid. You'll figure it out.\n\nRunning some rapids, especially rock gardens like the one pictured here, can be like an intricate dance requiring lots of maneuvering to find the best line between obstacles.\n\nFollow the leader\n\nThe line you run through a rapid depends on your skill level. Beginner boaters should look for the cleanest line with fewest objective hazards and the minimum number of difficult maneuvers to navigate. Advanced boaters tend to look for more challenging but still safe lines through rapids.\n\nOften the best way for a beginner to learn to read water is to ride on a raft with an experienced rafter who points out features as you pass them by. As you gain confidence in your ability to read water and your understanding of how to maneuver your raft, you can begin to follow that person's raft in your own raft. The mother duck\u2014or experienced boater\u2014picks the line and demonstrates the maneuvers needed to move through the rapid efficiently. Mother-ducking works best when beginner boaters are close behind their leader. This enables them to watch their guide carefully and to mimic each and every stroke. But you'll still want to be separated by at least three or four boat lengths to give yourself enough room to maneuver. If you are too close, it's easy to end up on top of each other if something goes wrong.\n\nFor newer boaters it can help to follow a more experienced rafter through rapids.\n\nIn mellow water, make note of what obstacles look like as you pass by so you begin to familiarize yourself with the characteristics of different features.\n\nWhitewater Ratings\n\nThe international system for river difficulty ranges from Class I to Class VI. The scale is helpful, but deceiving. Rating a river is subjective and the character of a rapid varies depending on water level and the type of boat you are using. You may also find regional variations in the way the scale is interpreted and used, meaning in some places a Class III can feel more like a Class IV, or vice versa, depending on who came up with the original rating.\n\nAnother factor to consider is whether the river is a \"pool-drop\" river or one continuous rapid. It's a lot easier to run a difficult rapid if you know you have a pool at the bottom, rather than miles of raging whitewater with no eddy or calm water in sight. Difficult, technical rivers pose greater threats to swimmers, as do rivers with undercut rocks or lots of downed wood creating strainers. Be conservative, especially if the water is cold or the river is remote.\n\nInternational Scale of River Difficulty\n\nClass I: Moving water with a few riffles and small waves. Few or no obstructions.\n\nClass II: Easy rapids with small waves and clear obvious channels that do not require scouting. Some maneuvering may be required.\n\nClass III: Rapids with high, irregular waves and narrow passages that require precise maneuvering.\n\nClass IV: Long, difficult rapids with constricted channels that require complex maneuvering in turbulent water. The line through the rapid can be hard to determine and scouting is usually required.\n\nClass V: Extremely long, technical, and violent rapids with tight channels that need to be scouted from shore. Rafters need to be able to make many precise, intricate moves in turbulent water to negotiate Class V rapids successfully. Rescue conditions are difficult and there is significant hazard to life in the event of a mishap.\n\nClass VI: Class V rapids on steroids. Class VI water is nearly impossible, dangerous, and potentially life-threatening if something goes wrong. Historically Class VI rapids were downgraded to Class V once they'd been run more than a few times. Now there are Class VI rapids that are boated, but they are for experts only.\n\nThe Grand Canyon has its own 1\u201310 rating system, with the hardest rapids on the river getting a 10 and all others gauged in relation to those rapids.\n\nScouting Rapids\n\nThe best way to learn to read water and run rapids is to scout them. Scouting is also critical in difficult water or whenever you come to a horizon line, which occurs when the river drops significantly, blocking your view of what's below, or at a blind curve, where you don't know or can't see what is downstream. Scouting helps keep you out of trouble and allows you to learn to identify safe lines through turbulent water. Sometimes you can river scout by slowing your raft, standing up, and looking ahead. But if the rapid is difficult or requires a specific line, it's best to get out of your raft to take a look.\n\nTalking through options with other rafters while you scout rapids can help you identify the best line and improve your ability to read water.\n\nDot Newton\n\nSome river guidebooks indicate whether you should scout a rapid on one side of the river or the other. Often, however, you won't have that information. Simply pull off the river in an eddy upstream of the rapid in question. Make sure the eddy is easy to get in and out of. You don't want to find yourself in trouble in the eddy with a raging rapid just below you. If in doubt, pull out higher upriver to scout, rather than wait until you are just above a rapid. You may have to walk a bit farther to check things out, but you won't run the risk of missing your eddy turn and getting carried into the rapid unprepared.\n\nDon't forget to tie your raft up. It would be a bummer to have your raft float away while you are gone.\n\nIt's a good idea to carry a throw rope when you scout. That way, if someone slips and falls into the river you can help them get out. Also, you may decide to place spotters along the riverbank to watch while your party negotiates the rapid. These spotters should be armed with a throw rope to assist anyone who gets in trouble.\n\nWear your PFD and helmet to protect you in case you fall into the river, and so you won't forget to put those things back on when you jump into your boat to make your run.\n\nMake sure to look at the river from different perspectives as your angle changes how things look dramatically.\n\nRapids change dramatically depending on your perspective. From above you can see things that you cannot see from your raft, but you also get a skewed picture of what the rapid will be like when you are on the water. Rapids usually look a lot smaller standing on shore than they do when you are in the thick of the turbulence. Obstacles like rocks and holes that are easily seen from up high may be invisible at water level. That means you need to scout from above to get an overall picture of the rapid, and then get down low so you can tell what it will look like when you are in your boat.\n\nFind a high point that gives you a good view of the entire rapid. Look carefully at the entrance. Walk down to the end of the rapid to look at where you'll exit the whitewater. Pick out the best way to navigate through the obstacles.\n\nAs you identify your line, look for unique features that will help orient you when you are running the rapid. Such landmarks include things like distinctive boulders, overhanging trees, a prominent green tongue of water, or a bend in the river. These landmarks help you recognize places in the rapid where you need to make a move or be in a particular place, hazards you have to avoid, and where you want to be as you exit the bottom. Remember, a landmark that is clearly visible from high above the river may not be visible once you are in your raft, so make sure to pick things that you can see from the river perspective. As you walk back to your raft to make the run, stop frequently to look over your shoulder at the landmarks you've identified. They may look different from different angles, so it's a good idea to keep checking on them so you don't start down the river and realize you don't recognize anything any longer.\n\nVisualize your route, using the landmarks you've picked out to help you remember what to do at each point. When you are first learning, it helps to go through your visualization verbally with a friend. So, for example, you'd say, \"I'll enter the rapid river right close to the long black rock with my bow pointed river left. After the rock, I'll push toward the center of the river and straighten out. When I see the big square boulder midstream, I'll look for the V on its right side and push hard onto the current and into the V. Hit the wave train, pushing to maintain momentum.\"\n\nScouting helps you identify eddies like the one on the left, where you can get out of the main current to regroup, look downstream, or provide safety for other boaters.\n\nWhile you are scouting and able to get a good look at the whole river, think about what might happen if you fail to make a critical move during your run. You should only run rapids you know you will be safe swimming if you make a mistake, especially when you are first starting out. If you are unsure you can do a required maneuver and you don't like the looks of a swim, get someone to row your boat for you or figure out a way to line or portage the rapid.\n\nSCOUT\n\nUse the mnemonic SCOUT to ensure you are methodical and thorough when you are scouting.\n\nSection: How many sections are there to this rapid and where do I want to be for each section?\n\nCurrent: Where is the main current going in each section? Which current do I want to be on?\n\nObstacles: What obstacles\u2014trees, rocks, etc.\u2014do I need to be aware of?\n\nUndercuts: Are there places where I could get pinned, or rocks I could get pulled under?\n\nTalk: About safety and how you are going to run the rapid.\n\nRafting Signals\n\nIt can be difficult to talk or yell over the noise of the river, so it's important to know and use hand or paddle signals or a whistle to communicate. Signals are fairly uniform across the country, but go over them with your team to make sure everyone is using the same ones. Signals should be repeated back through the line of rafts to make sure everyone knows what is going on.\n\nOne whistle blow and a raised hand: \"Look at me!\"\n\nRaised hand or paddle: \"I confirm,\" \"Ready,\" \"I understand,\" or \"Run straight down the center.\"\n\nArms out or paddle held horizontally in the air: \"Stop immediately,\" \"No.\"\n\nPointing in one direction with hand or paddle: \"Go this way [whatever direction indicated by the direction of the hand or paddle].\" Always point positive, i.e., where people should go. Never point at a hazard.\n\nThree whistle blasts or waving arms or paddle: \"Help,\" or \"Emergency, stop.\"\n\nCircling arm or paddle and then pointing in one direction: \"Eddy out\" in direction indicated.\n\nTap top of your head: \"I'm OK.\"\n\nThere are other signals that can be used. For example, some people like to point to their eyes and then point in some direction indicating that they want others to look that way. You can decide with your team what signals are critical, but the ones listed above are the most commonly used.\n\nPractice, Practice, Practice\n\nLearning to read water and run rapids is like learning a language. It takes time to recognize different river features and to understand how those features affect your raft. It takes time to learn how to pick a good line through whitewater and to understand the consequences of a mistake. And finally it takes time to gain a healthy respect for the power of water. So practice and find someone to coach you or be your mother duck while you learn.\nChapter Five\n\nOn the River\n\nOne of the benefits of experience or time on the river is that you become familiar with the way your raft reacts to changing circumstances. Each raft has a slightly different feel and its load will affect that feel. The heavier and bigger your raft, the slower it will respond. On the flip side, the heavier and bigger your raft, the less it will be affected by whitewater. Big rafts tend to plow through waves and holes, flattening the turbulence with their momentum and size. Smaller rafts are bouncier and your ride may feel more like a roller-coaster than a plow.\n\nSpeed\n\nYour raft can travel faster, slower, or at the same speed as the current. That difference in speed is what allows you to make moves and control where your raft is going, rather than letting it being carried along at the whim of the river.\n\nMomentum\n\nMomentum can be a rafter's best friend, or his or her nemesis. Momentum allows you to power through big waves and holes, but it also makes it harder to make last-minute corrections, especially if you have a heavy boat. That's why it's so critical that you can identify and place yourself on the current you want to be on as you move downstream.\n\nRafts need momentum to blast through big waves and holes.\n\nAngle\n\nRafters rarely face straight downstream, except when they are in flat water. Usually you'll have your raft angled slightly in anticipation of the moves you'll be making. The direction of that angle depends on whether you are pushing or pulling through the rapid.\n\nPeople have different rafting styles. Some prefer to push through rapids; others like to pull. Pushing requires more finesse because you can't rely on muscles alone to avoid obstacles, but it's easier to harness the power of the current when you push. Pulling is a much stronger stroke, and so often less-experienced rafters rely on it almost exclusively. But it can be overused. It's best to practice both techniques so you are more versatile.\n\nIf you plan to pull, start by identifying the current that will take you through the rapid. Remember you'll undoubtedly need to move from one current to another as you move downstream.\n\nRafters usually angle their rafts one way or the other in anticipation of the moves they will make downstream. This rafter is setting himself up to pull away from the hole on the left side of the bottom of the rapid.\n\nAngle your boat so your bow is pointing toward any obstacle. Identify the current that will take you away from the obstacle and pull or ferry the raft onto that current and away the obstacle. Remember to allow yourself room. It can take longer than you think to make an adjustment to your direction of travel.\n\nIf you are pushing, angle your bow away from any obstacles. Again, keep an eye on the currents rather than the obstacle. Your goal is not to avoid the obstacle so much as to put your raft on the flow of the river that will move you past it.\n\nPlan Ahead\n\nI've been in boats of all sizes, from a 32-foot motorized raft to a 6-foot packraft. I've canoed, kayaked (a very few times!), and duckied my way through rapids. The difference in the feel between these boats is remarkable. Kayaks are like dragonflies darting back and forth through rapids, while a tandem canoe can feel like a Ferrari when your team is in sync. Rafts are slower and more stable than these smaller boats, which means you have to plan ahead. You are not going to eddy out at the last minute to take stock of what's happening downstream unless you are lucky. You need to plan to grab that eddy well before it comes time to make the move. You also need to pick eddies that are big enough to hold your raft.\n\nThe best rafters move almost slower than the current through rapids, strategically maneuvering the raft with a few well-timed and placed strokes. Remember, like a cargo ship that takes a mile to stop, a loaded raft needs time to respond to your efforts. Look downstream, plan your moves, and don't wait until the last minute.\n\nStability\n\nRafts are remarkably stable crafts, but in big whitewater you can definitely flip.\n\nTo help avoid getting into a precarious position, it helps to have your paddle or oars in the water where they serve as a kind of outrigger and give you more balance. Sometimes you may just sit with your oars planted, acting as a brake or brace as you move through turbulence. Other times rowing or paddling hard allows you to break through holes and breaking waves. Rafts flip when they end up where you don't want them to be, so maintaining control of your boat and positioning it where you want to be on the current can help you avoid a spill. That said, if you are pushing your rafting skills, it's likely that at some time you will flip. We'll talk about what to do if, and when, that happens later in this guide.\n\nUsing Eddies\n\nAs mentioned earlier, eddies make good stopping points for rafters to regroup, reconnoiter, or get off the water. Entering and exiting an eddy can be tricky in big rivers, where the difference in flow between the main current and the eddy acts as a barrier. That barrier is called an eddy line or eddy fence.\n\nEddy lines can be turbulent and powerful, and require power to punch through. Smaller eddy lines take less aggression to breach, but the principles for crossing them are the same.\n\nRafts need relatively big eddies to stop in. Unlike a smaller craft that can dart behind a rock for a break, with rafts you need an eddy that is about two or three times as big as your boat for it to be a good place to park. That's pretty big if you are in a 16-foot raft. For this reasons rafters rarely eddy out in the middle of rapids.\n\nEddies can be helpful for slowing down, stopping to wait for the rest of your group, or staging safety. In this photo the rafter is pulling into an eddy to wait for the duckies upstream.\n\nExiting an eddy\n\nUnlike smaller craft that tend to exit out the top of an eddy, where the eddy line is more distinct, performing what's known as a \"peel out,\" rafters often just drift out the bottom where the eddy line is broad and ill-defined. Eddy lines spread out as you move away from the obstacle that created them, resulting in a wider area of swirly water. This water can be unstable for a small boat, but rafts are generally unaffected, so slipping out the bottom is common.\n\nThat said, it's good to practice peeling out of an eddy in your raft, because there are places where you will have no choice but to exit out the top of the eddy. To peel out, row or paddle your raft up to the top of the eddy, trying to gather some speed. Angle your boat at approximately 45 degrees to the eddy line and punch through with as much power as you can muster. Once the middle of your raft passes the eddy line, the bow paddler on the upstream side of the raft paddles forward, while the bow downstream paddler performs a draw stroke. The current will help spin the raft so it is heading downstream. With oars, the principle is the same: Once the middle of the boat passes the eddy line, the rower plants the downstream oar in the water to pivot the boat until it faces downstream.\n\nEntering an eddy (eddy turns)\n\nEntering an eddy is different. You usually can't sneak in at the bottom because the river's current is already pulling you downstream. Like all boaters, rafters need to aim for the top of the eddy if they want to catch it.\n\nTo catch an eddy, angle your boat roughly 45 degrees to the eddy line. The power of the river will determine whether you are best served pushing or pulling into the eddy. The more powerful the river, the more likely you will want to pull\u2014or in a paddle raft, forward paddle\u2014into the eddy to ensure you have enough momentum to punch through the eddy line.\n\nIn a paddle raft on a really big river, paddlers should lean into the turn to help lift the upstream tube. Remember, the direction of the current changes when you enter the eddy, so your upstream tube will actually be on the downriver side of your raft, since water flows the opposite way in an eddy. Think of banking turns on a motorcycle, and you'll get the idea of which way to lean into eddy turns. As your bow crosses the eddy line, the paddlers on the downriver side will paddle forward hard, while those on the upstream side can pause and then reach forward into the current in the eddy to spin the raft in.\n\nIn an oar rig, entering an eddy is more like a ferry. Set your angle at around 45 degrees to the eddy line and pull your raft in.\n\nLeaving an eddy to ferry\n\nOften your goal in leaving an eddy may be to get to the other side of the river. In this case, you may not want to do an eddy turn that will take you downstream right away, but instead want to set yourself up for a ferry. To do this, move up to the top of the eddy line at about a 45-degree angle with as much speed as possible. As you cross the eddy line, pull on the downriver side of your raft to maintain your angle and keep the current from spinning your raft. Once across the eddy line set your ferry angle to take you across the river.\n\nDealing with the Unexpected\n\nIdeally you will always have clean runs through rapids, but we all know that's improbable when you are learning. Even when you have lots of miles under your belt things happen, so it's helpful to be aware of likely problems, and know how to respond.\n\nWe've already talked about bumping into rocks and the risk of pinning your raft. Remember to practice high siding so that your paddle crew or passengers perform the move instinctively when they anticipate a collision.\n\nFor rowers, another common problem is having your oar wrenched out of your hand when you hit a rock, which can hurt you and\/or break your oar. If you see a rock coming your way and have time, ship your oars to avoid contact with the obstacle. Focus on your downstream oar, as that is the one that will get you into trouble if it comes in contact with a rock or the river bottom. Sometimes, however, you can't see obstacles underwater or don't have time to react. Your best bet if your oar collides with something hard is to just let go of the oar handle to avoid dislocating your shoulder or some other injury. But beware of a loose oar flying around. That, too, is hazardous, and can cause injury.\n\nIn shallow rivers it is not uncommon for oars to pop out of the oarlock after hitting a rock. If that happens your best bet is to let go of the oar handle to avoid injury. Here a rafter comes upon a lost oar midstream.\n\nEjection\n\nGetting ejected from a raft is more common than actually flipping. To help stay inside, make sure you have a secure position and your feet are braced under the thwarts, in the foot cups or against the frame. Passengers should make sure they have something secure to hang on to before the raft enters a rapid.\n\nActively paddling or rowing helps you stay in an athletic position and makes you better able to absorb the shock of a sudden change of direction. But if you ram a rock hard or hit some big waves unexpectedly, it's easy to get pitched out of the raft.\n\nIt's easy to get tipped off balance and ejected from your raft if it hits a rock or hole with a lot of force.\n\nIn big whitewater, you may have your paddlers or passengers drop down into the bottom of the raft as you approach big waves or holes. They are more stable in the bottom, and less likely to fall out of the raft.\n\nThe first thing to do if you do find yourself in the water is stay calm. Get your feet up to the surface so they aren't dangling where they could get entrapped by a rock. Keep your mouth closed, and relax.\n\nIf you find yourself in the water, stay calm, keep your mouth closed, and relax.\n\nBeginner kayakers often are told to count to ten while hanging upside down before they try to roll up so they have time to compose themselves. Seconds can feel like hours when you find yourself unexpectedly in the river, especially in big whitewater. But if you panic you'll only make things worse. Close your mouth, hang on to your paddle if you have one, and take stock of your situation. What comes next depends on where you are.\n\nSwimming\n\nIf you come up alongside the raft, try to grab on. Your teammates may be able to haul you back on board in a matter of seconds. But beware. The raft can become a hazard if you are between it and an obstacle. If you are downstream or cannot get back to the side of the boat, move away from it so you aren't in danger.\n\nIf you go for a swim and come up close to the raft, one of your teammates may be able to pull you back in right away.\n\nThe defensive swimming position is on your back with your feet up at the surface and pointing downstream. This position allows you to fend off rocks with your feet rather than your head. In big rapids, you won't be able to do much else, as it's hard to swim with any effectiveness in the turbulence. Usually you just have to wait until you get to the bottom of the rapid before you can consider other options.\n\nThe aggressive swimming position is on your belly. If you want to get somewhere to avoid a hazard or move to safety, flip over onto your stomach and swim in the direction you want to move. Kick hard for power and to keep your feet up. Freestyle is your most powerful stroke, so if you need to get somewhere fast, do the front crawl. If you have more time and want to assess the situation but still move, try breaststroke.\n\nThe defensive swimming position is on your back, feet downstream and up, ready to kick off rocks and other obstacles. If you can, you want to keep hold of your paddle as well.\n\nTry to hang on to your paddle if you have one. It can be hard to swim with a paddle in your hand. The trick to keeping tabs on it when you want to swim is to toss it out in front of you 5 feet or so, chase it down, and toss it again until you get to your destination.\n\nIt can also be hard to get your breath in the midst of whitewater. Try to time it so that you breathe while down in the trough between waves. Usually waves will break in your face at the top, making it hard to get a breath up there. Try also to keep your mouth closed in between breaths to avoid taking in a mouthful by accident.\n\nIdeally your teammates may be able to grab you from the boat or throw a rope to you to help you to shore. You may also be able to swim to an eddy or the raft when the water calms. In this case, turn on to your stomach and swim hard for your destination.\n\nFoot Entrapment\n\nDo not try to stand up in moving water if it is above your knees. It's easy to get a foot stuck in between rocks along the river bottom. Falling forward with your foot trapped can be deadly. The force of the current holds you down, making it very difficult to free yourself. It's even difficult for rescuers to help someone in this situation. The best way for swimmers to avoid this danger is to wait to stand up until the water is well below their knees and the current is mild.\n\nFlipping\n\nIf a paddle raft flips, the crew is usually flung far and wide as the boat overturns. In this case everyone should react as described above. If you end up in the water upstream of your raft, you can try to scramble on top or hold on as the raft moves downstream. This way you can help move the raft to shore after the rapid.\n\nIn big, technical rivers, it's a good idea to think about the consequences of an unintended swim while you are scouting. Your decision about what to do if you end up in the water may be determined by what lies below. If you know there is a hazard you prefer to avoid, you may want to swim hard away from it rather than float through the rapid on your back.\n\nIf you end up underneath the raft, don't panic. It can actually be rather calm under there, especially if you end up in an air pocket. Reach up until you feel the raft and then use your hands to walk yourself to an edge where you can get out from underneath. Ideally you'll find yourself upstream, but if you do end up downstream of the raft, move away as quickly as possible so you aren't in between the raft and any upcoming obstacle.\n\nOar rigs are less likely to flip than paddle rafts because the oars serve as outriggers and help balance the raft. But it does happen. Flipping a raft where the cargo has not been secured properly can be dangerous, as there are lots of hard objects that can hit you and cause injury. Plus, you'll lose your gear if it's not tied down. The oars can also be an objective hazard. For this reason, make sure your cargo is lashed down securely at all times. You never know when you might flip.\n\nOnce you are in the water, your goal is to either get on top of your raft, or get away and upstream of it until you are safely through any rapids.\n\nWe'll go into up-righting an overturned raft in Chapter Thirteen: Basic River Rescue.\n\nMoving Your Group through Rapids\n\nIf you've ever been on a big commercial whitewater river run, you are probably familiar with seeing lines of rafts stretched upstream of rapids. On wilderness rivers, you may be lucky and have only your own group to contend with, or you may need to practice a little river etiquette to avoid a tangled mess when you come to rapids.\n\nIt's nice to have room to maneuver through whitewater. If you end up right on top of another raft, it can add stress and complication to your run. Give yourself at least three boat lengths, and watch the raft in front of you. If it has slowed or stopped, you may need to slow or stop to avoid closing the gap between the two boats too quickly. If a rapid is complex and requires a lot of precise, technical moves, you are probably best off running it one at a time. This allows you to have safety boats positioned in eddies, and people with throw bags standing on shore.\n\nYou provide support for the rest of your party, so when moving through rapids keep your group close enough together to help each other if something goes wrong, but with enough room between boats to maneuver.\n\nIf you bump into another party, river etiquette is that the first party to arrive has the right-of-way. Let that group go first, unless they have elected to scout something you plan to run right through. If they are onshore, you are fine to run the rapid. If they are getting back into their boats to hit the water, it's polite to check in to see if it is OK to go ahead in front of them. Or pull over and let them go first.\n\nRemember, you are all out there seeking the same thing, so be polite and generous with the people you meet on the river.\n\nThere is no rule for determining the proper order of boats in your own group when moving through a rapid. In general, it's nice to have a more experienced team out front and in the back, with the less experienced rafters sandwiched in between.\n\nUnless you are on a super easy river, regroup at the bottom of rapids to ensure everyone gets through OK, or to provide help if they did not.\n\nTips for Being Safe on the River\n\n * Always wear your life jacket. Most river fatalities include the absence of a PFD, the use of alcohol, flooded rivers, and\/or hypothermia. A lifejacket can save your life if worn correctly. Don't underestimate how hard it can be to swim in rapids, and make sure you wear your PFD through all whitewater. \n * Wear your helmet in rapids. Your brain is precious. You can protect it by wearing a helmet when there's even the slightest chance you may be swimming in turbulent water. \n * Wear the right clothes. As mentioned earlier, hypothermia is often a factor in river fatalities. Make sure to wear the proper clothing for the conditions you expect to encounter on the river. Carry a dry bag with extra layers just in case. \n * Know what to do if you end up in the water. The downriver swimmer's position is on your back, feet up and facing downstream, knees slightly bent to absorb shock if you bump into a rock. Try to keep your butt up so it doesn't drag along the bottom. Your arms should be out at your sides to help you maintain control. If you decide to actively swim to safety, turn over onto your stomach, point your body in the direction you want to go, and swim hard. \n * Know the plan. Listen to your captain if you are part of a paddle crew. Listen to your expedition mates if you are rowing your own rig with other rafters. Make sure everyone understands the plan and knows how to communicate with hand or paddle signals. \n * Stay calm. Panicking is a waste of time and energy. If you end up in the water, you'll want all the energy you can muster to get yourself back in the raft or out of the river, so don't use it up flailing and screaming in fear. Take a deep breath and relax.\n\nChapter Six\n\nPlanning a Multiday River Trip\n\nOnce you have your basic rafting skills down, it's time to go on a multiday trip. That's what river life is really all about, at least in my book.\n\nAs mentioned earlier, you can approach a river trip in different ways. There's the \"everything but the kitchen sink\" plan, and the go-light boating backpacker method. Your choice depends upon the size of your raft, the number in your group, the nature of the river, and your personal preference. This book will discuss both options.\n\nPlanning\n\nPermits\n\nMost popular whitewater rivers requires a permit during the high seasons. These permits are often given out through a lottery system that takes place months before the launch date. If you are interested in securing a river permit, get online as much as a year in advance of your desired trip to find out what you need to do to get a permit. Many people mark their calendars each year to remind them to put in for river permits on a certain date.\n\nPermits for popular rivers are distributed through a competitive lottery. It can take years to get a Grand Canyon permit.\n\nStefanie Vandaele\n\nFor popular rivers, such as the Middle Fork of the Salmon or the Colorado though the Grand Canyon, permits are highly coveted and the lotteries competitive. Securing a permit for such rivers is never guaranteed. It's helpful to have all your team members apply for a permit to increase your odds of success, but don't be surprised if you don't get what you want. It can take years to get a permit on some rivers.\n\nSome outfitters offer \"row your own\" hybrid trips. Just what this looks like varies from outfitter to outfitter. It may be you use an outfitter's permit but bring all your own gear. It may be the outfitter provides the gear and a guide or two, but you and your colleagues do all the rowing. Or it may be something in between. The advantage of working through an outfitter is that often you can secure a specific date for your trip, which is helpful if you have a tight schedule. You may also find a guide willing to give you pointers on your rafting technique, plus guides usually know rivers well, so they can help you pick lines through rapids. Usually these hybrid trips are less expensive than a fully guided expedition. It's worth asking outfitters if they are willing to consider such an option, especially if you and your entire team get skunked in the lottery.\n\nIf you have a flexible schedule, you may also be able to secure a permit after someone else cancels. You can sometimes get on a list to be notified of last-minute openings for the river you desire, or you can check in periodically to see if something has opened up. Some rivers have a low season when permits are not required. All this information can be found online.\n\nInternet Search Tips for Permits\n\nUsually, if you type the name of the river you are interested in boating and the words \"permit lottery\" into a search engine on your computer, you'll come up with the site that explains the process for the river in question and allows you to register for any lotteries. For example, if you type in \"Grand Canyon Permit Lottery,\" the first two sites that pop up provide all the information you need to get your name into the lottery. In addition, recreation.gov handles permits for many rivers, so you can go to that site and find details and dates for many rivers by searching for \"river permits.\"\n\nWhen you have secured a permit, read it carefully. River permits have very exacting requirements for how to camp and what to bring on your trip. You may have to show rangers each piece of equipment at the put-in, and often they'll ask for identification to verify the members of your team, so it's important to follow the rules.\n\nYour Team\n\nA successful river trip requires a fair bit of planning. First and foremost is the task of coming up with a compatible team.\n\nPulling together your team takes some forethought. You need boaters capable of navigating the river, plus you want a group that gets along well and has similar goals.\n\nYou may have a group of regulars with whom you boat, but if not, it's helpful to think about the following in pulling together your team.\n\nSkills\n\nIt's fine to have a wide range of experience and skill on your team as long as you have the basic requirements for the river in question covered. You need to have boaters who are comfortable navigating any rapids you will encounter on the trip. You need people familiar with river travel, packing, camping, and rescue. If you do not know some of the people on your trip, ask them about their experience before you commit. Often it helps to have a personal recommendation from someone you trust to ensure an individual you do not know is competent and will be a good fit with your group.\n\nYou can have a wide range of boating abilities in your group as long as there are enough competent rafters to navigate any rapids you expect to encounter.\n\nGoals\n\nTo help make your trip as smooth as possible, make sure everyone on your team has similar goals. You may be traveling with a group that has been on the river many times together, in which case you probably don't need to spend any time figuring out goals. But if it's your first time with the group, it's important to talk about what you want to happen. If half your group likes to party all night long and the other goes to bed at 8 p.m. and rises at 6 a.m., you could have a problem.\n\nAsk your teammates what they hope to get out of the trip, how they like to live on the river, how long they want to spend on the water each day, and whether they want to hike, party, or just hang out on the beach. Make sure everyone understands how chores will be accomplished, who's in charge, and what the trip will cost. You can accomplish a lot of this communication over e-mail, or have a face-to-face meeting a few months before the trip to ensure everyone is on the same page. It sucks to get out on the river and find out that the group is not getting along, that one person is doing all or none of the work, or that you can't trust someone's judgment.\n\nPre-Trip Planning\n\n * Permit\n * Team selection\n * Campsite selection (if designated on permit)\n * Shuttle\n * Group gear \n * Emergency communications: SPOT personal locator device, inReach satellite communicator, satellite phone, or nothing\n * Food and meal schedule\n * Chore schedule\n * Leadership \n * Group goals\n * Skills assessment and safety plan\n * End-of-trip cleanup plan\n\nLeadership\n\nMost groups function better if they have some kind of leadership structure. With highly experienced teams that have worked together in the past, you can have a pretty casual setup, but even then it's critical that someone is making sure you have everything you need before you launch, and that the entire group knows what is going on during the trip.\n\nOften the de facto leader is the permit holder. He or she usually invites others on the trip and organizes the logistics before you launch, but once you are on the river that person doesn't have to be in charge.\n\nTo figure out how you want to function as a team, take a few minutes to talk to your group. You may want to designate a formal leader who delegates tasks and makes sure that everything is in order. That person doesn't have to be in charge all the time, but he or she is responsible for ensuring that everyone knows the drill and is comfortable with the day's plan. On the river, leadership often goes to the most experienced team member, who keeps the group together and makes sure everyone gets through all the rapids safely. Off the water, anyone can be in charge as long as the group knows and respects that individual.\n\nIt can be tricky to balance safety and fun on river trips. The best trip leaders are able to walk that line by demonstrating respect for their team, a willingness to listen to and incorporate the opinions of others in all decision-making, and an ability to recognize when to be serious and when to lighten up and goof around.\n\nRiver trips are fun; they also can be risky. It helps to have a designated leader to help your group find a balance between fun and safety.\n\nGroup chores can be handled in any number of ways, but it's nice to have some kind of agreed-upon system so one or two people don't end up doing the lion's share of the work. Typical chores include unloading rafts; setting up the kitchen, toilet, and hand-washing stations; cooking meals; cleaning dishes; storm-proofing camp at night, and breaking down camp each day before launching on the river. Some people like to have a cook team prepare all the meals and do the dishes for a day at a time, leaving the rest of the group to do other chores or chill out. You may prefer to have separate cook and cleanup teams for each meal. You may decide to all cook together. Whatever method you opt for, make sure everyone understands what is expected to avoid tension and share the load.\n\nMost groups function best with some kind of chore schedule so that work is shared among the team members equitably.\n\nIt's a good idea for group members to check in with each other in the morning, before you get on the water, so everyone has a chance to look at the map and knows what is going on that day. This includes sharing information about the number of miles you're traveling, the rapids you will encounter, boat order, your intended campsite, etc. This can also be a time when the group talks about any issues that have arisen, such as whether you are going through toilet paper faster than anticipated, or if something is going on among team members that needs to be discussed. This doesn't have to be a formal, rigid meeting. It's just time for a quick check-in, but if you make something like that part of your daily routine then when you do have an issue that needs addressing, you have a structure in place to allow for it.\n\nIt's nice to check in with your team\u2014even the kids\u2014before you hit the water so people know what the plan for the day is.\n\nLogistics\n\nPlanning your trip involves making sure you have all the equipment, food, and information you need for the river, and that you have your transportation to and from the river worked out.\n\nShuttle\n\nPart of your pretrip planning includes figuring out how you will shuttle your cars to the takeout. You can run your own shuttle, but on long rivers that is usually impractical as the shuttle can involve days of driving to get all cars to the right spot. Most rivers have outfitters who will shuttle your vehicles for a fee.\n\nBoating season gets busy, so it's important to make your reservation early. You can search the Internet for shuttle drivers by entering the name of your river and the word shuttle, and usually you will find a number of options. You can also ask around with friends who've made the trip for recommendations.\n\nRiver guides and maps\n\nIf no members of your group have been on the river you plan to descend, it's important that at least someone does some research about what to expect before you hit the water. Most popular rivers have some kind of river guide that describes everything from the rapids you will encounter to the campsites, hikes, history, and sometimes the flora, fauna, and geology you'll find along the way.\n\nMost popular rivers have some kind of map and guide that tells you about what you'll find as you head downstream.\n\nIn addition to a river guide, you can talk to people about the trip to get more detailed information. Helpful resources include river rangers, guiding outfits, and the Internet. These resources can give you current river conditions, updates on campsites, and even the beta on things like bugs, or whether bears, skunks, or mice are hanging out in campsites.\n\nOn some rivers, you are required to choose your campsites when you purchase your permit, so it's a good idea to know how far you want to travel each day and which campsites fit that schedule before finalizing your permit. It's also a good idea to consider things like sun exposure when you select your sites. In the summer you may want to look for shade, while in the fall or spring you may want full sun, especially in the mornings when you're trying to get out of camp. River levels and group size are also factors to consider in selecting your sites.\n\nFinally, if you want to hike or leave the river, bring a topographic map of the area and maybe a GPS to help you navigate.\n\nRiver Gear\n\nWe've discussed some of the basic river gear you will need in previous chapters, but it's good to have a checklist to help make sure nothing gets left behind.\n\nThe amount of gear required for a multiday raft trip\u2014especially a twenty-one-day Grand Canyon trip\u2014can be staggering.\n\nDot Newton\n\nRiver Gear Checklist\n\n * Raft: The number and size of rafts you need depends on your group size and the length of the trip.\n * Oars or paddles: One or two extra per raft; check permit requirements\n * Oar frame\n * Lash straps: Assorted lengths for lashing the frame to the raft and securing dry boxes, coolers, dry bags, and other cargo in place. Loop straps\u2014which have a loop of webbing in each end to girth hitch to the frame\u2014are useful for dry boxes and coolers.\n * PFD: One per person, plus one extra per raft (each should be fitted with a whistle)\n * Helmet: Optional, depends on the river\n * First aid kit: One per boat, with an additional large kit for the group\n * Raft repair kit: Details on what to include are in Chapter Fourteen: Basic Repair and Maintenance.\n * Pin kit: Details on what to include are in Chapter Thirteen: Basic River Rescue.\n * Dry boxes: One or two per raft\n * Cooler: One per raft\n * Sponge, bucket\n * Throw bag\n * One or two sand stakes and a mallet per group for anchoring rafts at night if you are on a river with large sandy beaches. Sand stakes aren't necessary on rivers with lots of trees and rocky campsites.\n\nCamping Equipment\n\nYou don't need everyone on your trip to bring all the gear needed, so before your trip create a gear list and consult with your team members to determine who's bringing what. If you are missing a critical piece of gear you may be able to rent it from an outfitter, or if you have plenty of advance notice, someone on your team can purchase the item before the trip.\n\nKitchen\n\nThe bulk of your group gear is going to be kitchen gear. Here you can be either elaborate or streamlined, depending on your menu, the weather, the style of trip you plan, and its length. You'll find the standard river kitchen is pretty well stocked, almost like your kitchen at home in terms of tools and equipment. But you don't have to follow that system. If you prefer to go light, take cues from your backpacking days and pare things down to the essentials. That means nothing more than a one-burner stove, fuel, a large pot or two depending on your group size, and maybe a frying pan. You'll want a pot grips or wool gloves to handle pots, and a spatula is important if you plan to fry anything. But otherwise, like backpackers, you can sit on the ground to cook and forgo the extravagance of tables, chairs, coolers, and heavy, bulky kitchen boxes.\n\nThe classic river trip includes a well-stocked kitchen and elaborate meals.\n\nThat said, it's fun to have the ability to have nice meals on a river trip, and most boaters enjoy a cold beverage at the end of a hot day, so unless you have a reason for going super light, bring a bit more gear and set up an efficient, comfortable kitchen for your cooking needs.\n\nSuggested Group Gear for a Fully Stocked Trip\n\nKitchen Gear | Primary Equipment | Extras | Details\n\n---|---|---|---\n\nFolding river tables | 2\u20133 large tables for prep, cooking, and dishwashing | 1 small table for drinks | Long narrow tables work well because they can be strapped on top of a dry box or across the frame in the raft and\/or serve as seating for passengers.\n\nMesh dish hammock | 1 large for dishes, pots, and pans | 1 small for utensils | Dish hammocks should be able to hang from tables.\n\nStove | 2\u20136 burners | Propane sufficient for entire trip | 2 lighters and waterproof matches\n\nBlaster (optional) | 1 burner; 65,000 BTUs for boiling water quickly\n\n| |\n\nParticularly nice for big groups in the winter, when you want hot water fast, and to expedite dishwashing.\n\nWash bins (plastic bins, metal pails, or collapsible buckets) | 3\u20134 metal wash pails are nice if you want to heat dishwater in the pail. | Bleach and dish soap stored in a small mesh bag for transport | Dish towels, sponge, Brillo pad, or scrubby\n\nPots and pans | 1 large pot for heating water; 1 large pot for meal preparation; 1 smaller pot for cooking; 1\u20132 large skillets and\/or a griddle | 1\u20132 Dutch ovens for baking and casseroles | 2 hot pads or pot grips for moving hot pans around\n\nStainless steel or plastic mixing bowl | 1\u20132, depending on the size of your group\n\n| |\n\nCoffee-making equipment | Insulated bottles and cone filters, coffee press, etc.\n\n| |\n\nUtensils | 1 spatula, 1 can opener, 2 large spoons, 2 large knives, cheese grater, tongs, peeler, kitchen scissors, measuring spoons and cups, corkscrew, etc.\n\n| |\n\nCutting boards | 1\u20132 (plastic sheets pack well in dry boxes)\n\n| |\n\nStrainer\n\n| |\n\nFor removing food particles from dishwater | Usually required on most permitted rivers\n\nCups, mugs, bowls, plates, and silverware | 1 of each for every team member\n\n| |\n\nTrash compactor bags and ziplock bags of assorted sizes\n\n| | |\n\nToilet setup | Determine capacity by the number of days and the number of people on the trip. | Toilet seat, toilet paper (some people like special toilet paper designed for RVs), toilet deodorizer, hand sanitizer, sanitizing wipes | Extra 5-gallon bucket to use as a \"pee bucket\" next to the groover.\n\nMiscellaneous | Paper towels; bee or wasp traps; bug repellant; aluminum foil; a mallet to crush cans; survey tape or duct tape for marking things\n\n| |\n\nDry boxes | 1\u20132 per raft; cardboard boxes or milk crates that fit inside dry boxes are helpful for organizing food | 1 dry box should serve as the kitchen box and contain all pots, pans, utensils, and other cooking and eating supplies\n\n|\n\nLarge (20 millimeter) ammo\/rocket boxes | 2\u20134 ammo\/rocket boxes are useful for garbage, recyclables, and ash as they are emptied of food or beer. People also use grain sacks or large rice bags for trash and recyclables.\n\n| |\n\nLantern with extra batteries | Helpful for fall or spring trips with short days\n\n| |\n\nInflatable, solar-powered LED lanterns work well.\n\n1 scrim cloth kitchen floor | Good for keeping camp clean and collecting food scraps\n\n| |\n\nKitchen floors are required on most rivers.\n\nFire pan with grill and cover | Fire cloth, folding shovel, ash container (can be an ammo can) | Charcoal briquettes impregnated with lighter fluid | Fire pans are required on some rivers regardless of whether you intend to build a fire or not.\n\nRain or shade canopy\n\n| | |\n\nWater jugs | Capacity for roughly 1 gallon per person per day. Many rivers have places where you can stock up on fresh water mid-trip, which will affect the number of jugs you need. | Water filter or purification system\n\n|\n\nChairs | 1 per person\n\n| |\n\nConsider one extra on long trips as chairs often break.\n\nFirst aid and drug kit | For longer trips it's worth talking to your doctor about the pain medications and antibiotics you should carry. | See the Appendix for a checklist.\n\n|\n\nMaps, river guide | It's nice to have a river map for each raft.\n\n| |\n\nCommunications device | Depending on the remoteness of your trip, you may want to include a SAT phone or personal locating beacon in case of an emergency. You cannot get cell phone coverage in many river corridors because of the canyon walls.\n\n| |\n\nSuggested Group Gear for Going Light (group size 4\u20136)\n\nKitchen | Main gear | Extras\n\n---|---|--- \n|\n\n1\u20132 single-burner backpacking stoves, cartridge mixed-fuel stoves, or white gas stoves. You can also cook on fires in some places. | Fuel, lighter, waterproof matches\n\n|\n\n1 pot per stove | Wool gloves or pot grips\n\n|\n\n1 cup, bowl, spoon per person (can use cup as bowl and leave bowl behind)\n\n| \n|\n\nDry box or dry bag for group gear and food | Trash compacter bags and grain or rice sack for garbage\n\n|\n\nPortable light (inflatable LED, solar-powered lantern)\n\n|\n\nWater bag or jugs | 1 5-gallon jug to carry drinking water | 1 water bag to hang up for handwashing\n\nToilet setup | River toilet or personal system for packing out waste, such as WAG bags | Toilet paper, hand soap, hand sanitizer\n\nCommunication device | SAT phone or personal locating beacon\n\n|\n\nFirst aid and drug kit\n\n| |\n\nMaps\n\n| |\n\nNote: On most permitted rivers you are required to carry certain equipment, such as fire pans and kitchen floor cloths. If you want to go light, talk to the land management agency in charge of the river to find out if it allows substitutions to cut weight, such as using an aluminum roasting pan for a fire pan, or bags designed for transporting human waste, such as WAG bags.\n\nKitchen setup\n\nYou'll find a variety of opinions on the best way to set up a river kitchen. All are fine. Your goal is to have your kitchen be as convenient and efficient as possible, just like at home. A good standard setup is to set up two long river tables in an L-shape, with the dish rack hammock suspended from one table and your stove set up on the other. With big groups, you may want to have three tables arranged in a U-shape, as well as a fourth, small table for drinks. Lay your kitchen floor out between the tables so you can cook and prep without worrying about food scraps. Anything you drop will be caught on the floor so you can clean it up easily later.\n\nYou'll find all sorts of ways to set up your kitchen, but the classic is a U-shaped kitchen with a couple of prep tables and a table for dishwashing. This group opted to bring their coolers and dry boxes up to camp. You can also leave them on the boat and just bring up what you need at mealtime.\n\nMost people like to bring their kitchen box, with all the utensils, pots, pans, and dishes, up to the kitchen at every camp. This just makes life easier, as you don't have to run down to the raft every time you need a spoon or knife. Food, on the other hand, often stays on the boats. The simplest technique is to take a shopping bag down to the rafts before each meal to get all the items you need for that meal.\n\nFood organization in the raft is critical, especially for longer trips. Many people put cardboard boxes or milk crates inside their dry boxes to create bins that allow them to organize their stuff. Wine boxes with internal dividers can work well. On longer trips, such as the Grand Canyon, you can use rocket boxes or large ammo cans to hold each day's food. These boxes can be used as trash containers after they are emptied. Coolers may be divided by meals or by contents; for example, you can have meat, produce, and dairy coolers, with those holding food for later in the trip taped shut to help them stay cold.\n\nDepending on the length of the trip, you can arrange your food in different ways. The simplest technique is to have everything separated out by meal, but on longer trips you may not have the space to do that. One efficient system is to put four boxes in your dry box, one for breakfasts, one for lunches, and one for dinners, with the fourth for drinks and snacks. You can also opt to have staples, such as pasta and rice, in one place, crackers and bread in another, canned goods, etc., in yet another, and so on. The key is to have a system that everyone understands so your supplies don't get mixed up and confused every time someone digs in to search of a specific item.\n\nSee Chapter Eight: Food for more details on menu planning and cooking organization.\n\nRiver stoves\n\nMost likely you will use either a two- or four-burner\u2014maybe even a six-burner\u2014propane stove on your river trip. You can use any model stove for this purpose, but it's worth looking at Partner Steel's aluminum stoves, which are made with river-running in mind. Some of Partner Steel's models are built to fit inside ammo cans and dry boxes. The two-burner version folds in half for easy storage, and the 18-inch model is designed so you can have two 9-inch frying pans side-by-side while cooking. Partner Steel also makes a stove stand for some of its stoves. Partner Steel's products are tough, durable, and reliable.\n\nYou can use a classic Coleman two-burner stove or a more specialized Partner Steel four-burner for your river trip.\n\nHow Much Propane?\n\nThe amount of fuel you need on a river trip depends on the number of people in your group, the type and style stove you are using, the length of the trip, and the expected weather conditions. In addition, if you have any other fuel demands\u2014a blaster or lantern for example\u2014you'll need additional fuel.\n\nIn general, you can expect to use one 5-gallon (20 pound) propane tank every eight days on a summer trip with a group of sixteen people. Most Grand Canyon trippers bring at least three tanks on a twenty-one-day trip to be on the safe side. For a five-day Main Salmon trip, you'll probably only need one tank\u2014unless you are bringing a blaster, in which case you'll need a second tank; however, you can bring a smaller size for the blaster.\n\nRound those numbers up for a winter trip and down if you have fewer people.\n\nOne of these 5-gallon tanks of propane should last a group of sixteen about eight days on a summer trip.\n\nFor big groups it's nice to have a \"blaster,\" or a 65,000 BTU burner that boils water quickly.\n\nStefanie Vandaele\n\nHandwashing stations\n\nIt's nice to have at least one handwashing station in camp for food preparers and for people to use after they go to the bathroom. The simplest handwashing system is a water bag hanging from a tree with soap nearby, but on most river trips people use 5-gallon buckets and a foot pump with a spout that fits on the edge of the bucket to create a hands-free handwashing station. If you really want convenience, make a holder for your soap dispenser that can hang off the bucket and keep the soap out of the sand.\n\nYou can help prevent the spread of illness by making sure everyone has clean hands. Easy-to-use, convenient hand-washing stations like this one make good hygiene easy.\n\nStefanie Vandaele\n\nYou can find handwashing setups online\u2014NRS and Partner Steel each make one\u2014or if you are handy, you can create your own.\n\nRiver water is fine to use for handwashing, but if you plan to use that water for other purposes\u2014say to rinse out a coffee press\u2014add half a capful of bleach just to be on the safe side.\n\nRiver Toilets\n\nKnown as the groover, the unit, or the loo with a view, river toilets are something everyone must use at some point on their float. Back in the old days, people used to poop in 20-millimeter (mm) rocket boxes without a seat. This left indents in their butts, which resulted in the nickname \"groover\" for the river toilet. That practice is long gone. Even those who continue to use rocket boxes now carry toilet seats that fit on top for comfort. But the name has stuck, and many boaters still call their river toilet the groover.\n\nThe best groover on the market, in my book, is manufactured by Partner Steel and is called the Jonny Partner. There are other options: ECO-Safe Toilet System, Selway Fabrications, and Coyote Portable Toilet System all make good river toilets, or you can just use a rocket box with a toilet seat. For short trips people sometimes use WAG bags or other disposable systems for packing out poop, although not all river regulations allow this kind of waste management technique. Check before you head to the put-in to make sure your system is approved. If you plan to do a lot of river trips I highly recommend the Jonny Partner, although on long Grand Canyon trips rocket boxes pack a bit more easily.\n\nA Jonny Partner portable toilet sits in a scenic spot ready for use.\n\nGroovers come with an estimated capacity, enabling you to figure out how many you need for your river trip. The Jonny Partner is estimated to hold roughly 50-60 uses, so if you have a party of ten, one Jonny Partner should last you for approximately five days. Different models have different capacities, so make sure you check if you are going with another brand. On long trips it's a good idea to be generous in your figuring. No one wants to run out of groover space.\n\nTo save space and control odors, don't pee in the groover. Most river guidelines require people to pee in the river. You can place your groover on the shore close to the river so people can pee before they poop, or (and I personally prefer this method) bring a 5-gallon bucket for peeing. You can empty the pee bucket into the river at the end of your stay in camp.\n\nFor groups of sixteen or less you can usually get by with one to two rolls of toilet paper per day. Encourage people to go easy on the TP. That helps conserve groover space and keeps your needs down. TP goes into the groover. If you are on a long trip, extra TP rolls can be stored in the empty groovers until needed. Otherwise, bring a 20 mm rocket box or spare dry bag to hold the toilet seat, TP, hand sanitizer, bleach wipes (for wiping down toilet seat) and a dry bleach or chemical deodorizer, such as Campa-Chem RV-holding tank deodorizer. Campa-Chem is sold at Walmart and RV camping supply stores. If you go the deodorizer route, start with one packet in an empty groover and add another when it's half full. You can also use a product known as Groover Tamer to help with odors. Groover Tamer is expensive ($70 for one packet designed for an eighteen-day trip) but the product is supposed to be environmentally safe and many people swear by it.\n\nGroover setup is a critical daily chore. It's one of the first things to be established when you make camp. If you are on groover duty, look for a private spot away from camp, near the river, and with a good view. Place the groover on level ground, remove the lid, and put the toilet seat in place. If you have a pee bucket, set that up next to the groover. Place the TP in a handy spot inside a plastic bag and weighted down with a rock. If it's raining, you may want to store your TP in the ammo can that held your toilet seat. I like to store my toilet seat in a stuff sack during transit to keep it separate from the other items stored in the ammo can, such as TP and hand sanitizer.\n\nSetting up and taking down the portable toilet are critical daily chores. Usually it takes two people to carry a loaded groover.\n\nStore all supplies\u2014wipes, stuff sacks, deodorizer\u2014in a closed rocket box next to the groover while in camp. Make sure the toilet seat lid is closed when the groover is not in use. That will help keep the smell down and animals out.\n\nAt the head of the trail to the groover site, place some kind of sign that indicates the groover is in use. Anything works\u2014a bandana, a pink flamingo\u2014use your imagination! Whoever is in the groover takes the sign along while they do their business and returns it to the head of the trail when they are done, so people know the groover is free.\n\nPlace the hand-washing station near the groover trail so people can't forget to wash up after they are done.\n\nTypically, the groover is one of the last things to get loaded onto the boats. Whoever is on groover duty should give a last call, so people know it's time to do their business. Then, once everyone is finished, wipe the toilet seat down with a sanitizing wipe, then return it to the stuff sack and put the seat into the ammo box. Pour the pee into the river, seal up the groover, and load it onto the raft.\n\nMost groups like to store their river toilets on one raft.\n\nWhen your groover is full and it's time to move to a new one, leave the full groover sealed up on the boat.\n\nAt the end of the trip, the groover needs to be taken to an RV dump station or a SCAT machine (often found at popular river takeouts) to be emptied and cleaned. To facilitate cleaning, you can spray the insides of your groovers with PAM cooking spray or the like before the trip. That helps things slide out when you're all done.\n\nYou may want to add a little water to the groover at the start of the last day if a SCAT machine is at the takeout. If the SCAT machine is down the road, add water before you put the groover on the boat trailer. That little bit of extra fluid and some agitation from driving or rafting helps moisten the load and makes the groover easier to clean. But adding water earlier in the trip weighs down your raft and makes it cumbersome.\n\nYou may find you don't want to venture down to the shoreline in the middle of the night if you must pee. If that's the case, bring a pee bottle or bucket to your sleeping spot. You can use that during the night and empty it into the river the following morning.\n\nTrash\n\nTwenty-millimeter ammo cans or rocket boxes do a little bit of everything on river trips, and holding garbage is one of their great attributes. You can also use 5-gallon buckets with a lid, large grain or rice bags, or dry bags for holding your garbage. Bring extra-tough trash compacter bags for garbage; these won't rip when you transfer garbage from one container to another and allow you to compress the garbage with your foot to maximize space.\n\nIt's a good idea to get rid of excess packaging on food before your trip so you don't end up having to deal with lots of waste on the river. If you have a fire, you can burn paper products.\n\nBring along a mallet or use a rock to flatten aluminum and tin cans, as well as other recyclables, so they are easier to store as you move down river. Having a \"thinnest can competition\" can motivate kids\u2014and kids at heart\u2014to smash cans down for you. Cans can be transported in an old dry bag, an empty ammo can, or rice or grain sacks.\n\nFire Pans\n\nPopular rivers require the use of fire pans and often restrict or forbid the collection of firewood. Make sure you know the rules. If you do have fires, you'll need to pack your ashes out. Fires are great to hang out around, or for cooking with a Dutch oven.\n\nTo help keep camps clean for other river runners, most permitted rivers require the use of fire pans.\n\nSpecialized River Gear\n\nThousands of people go on multiday raft trips every year, and over time the equipment they use has become quite specialized. Today's river tables tend to be long and narrow so they strap on top of dry boxes or directly onto frames to make seats for passengers; river stoves fold in half to fit inside dry boxes; and the foot pumps employed for hand-washing allow for easy-to-use, hands-free cleaning to help prevent the spread of disease. These are just a few of the tools used on rivers that are not commonly found in other camping settings.\n\nDespite this, it's still amazing how much variety and individualization you'll find in the way people rig their boats and the equipment they choose to bring.\n\nThat said, there are definite advantages to purchasing camping gear designed for and by river runners. It just fits together better, and has special features that boost performance in a river setting.\n\nA number of reputable manufacturers make river gear. NRS, Cascade River Gear, and Partner Steel are a few that come to mind for essentials such as toilet systems, tables, frames, dry boxes, and more. You may also be able to find used gear with some online searching. Dry boxes, frames, and toilets tend to be indestructible, especially when handled with care, and buying them used is usually a pretty safe bet.\n\nCostumes, theme nights, and games\n\nLong river trips are good excuses to indulge your inner whimsy. You're alone with your friends on a remote beach far from watchful eyes\u2014what better time for a silly dance party or a costume night? Not all groups are into this kind of thing, but if yours is, plant the seed before the trip so people can bring props.\n\nLong river trips are a great excuse to indulge your inner whimsy and have fun.\n\nTheme nights can range from formal affairs, where people wear long gowns and ties, to evenings where you dress like someone else on your trip, to a Mexican pi\u00f1ata party complete with margaritas and sombreros. Thrift stores are great places to find costumes for your trip. A feather boa or a pair of suspenders can do wonders to accessorize your regular river attire and transform boring into amazing.\n\nSome groups like to have cocktail nights, with a theme cocktail for each evening. You can bring a hand-cranked blender to make frozen drinks or a shaker for a good old-fashioned martini. Parties don't have to revolve around alcohol. If you have kids along, make s'mores or play a game that everyone can join in. Bring a How to Host a Murder game for a long evening of intrigue, or carry a hand-cranked ice cream maker for an extra special river treat.\n\nBeach games are always popular. Bocce ball, KanJam, Frisbee, croquet, or other games that can be packed up and put in a dry box on the raft for transporting can keep you entertained onshore for hours. Or bring along cards, dice, or a cribbage board if you expect bad weather and lots of tent time.\n\nAmmo can tug-of-war is a classic beach game rafters use to keep themselves entertained.\n\nRiver Games\n\nTug-of-war: Grab two small ammo cans and set them in the sand 20 to 30 feet apart. Stack the bow line or a throw rope from one of your rafts in the middle with the ends at the cans. One person stands on each can with the end of the rope in his or her hand. At the signal, they begin pulling the rope in as fast as they can. Once the rope is tight, the goal is to pull your opponent off the ammo can.\n\nKubb: You can buy this Scandinavian game online. The game involves throwing wooden blocks at other blocks to knock them over.\n\nBeer box pick-up: Take an empty cardboard box from a case of beer or soda and tear off one end. Set the box up tall in the sand. Players must balance on one foot with their hands behind their backs and pick up the box with their teeth. After each player has succeeded, tear the box down an inch and repeat until only one person is left standing.\n\nKanJam: You can buy KanJam online. The game is played with flying discs and a partner, and involves scoring points by hitting the can or goal.\n\nBocce ball: This game involves throwing colored balls around the beach to see who can get closest to the target. You can buy bocce balls online. Look for glow-in-the-dark balls to add excitement to your game.\n\nSlackline: Take a long piece of tubular webbing (you'll probably need 50 feet or so) and anchor it about a foot off the ground between two trees or boulders. The line has to be as taut as possible, so you'll need to tie it off with a trucker's hitch or something that you can crank down on to create tension. The object is to balance and walk on the line. It's an excellent workout and fun for all ages, but it's hard. You can use a stick or a shoulder to help you get started.\n\nMusic\n\nIf you have musicians in your group, have them bring their instruments on the trip. There's nothing quite like sitting around the campfire singing songs while someone plays a guitar. Backpacking guitars are easier to fit into dry boxes, but if you are creative you can find a safe place to carry a full-size guitar on your raft. Other instruments are also fun to have. In addition, many people like to bring speakers and some way to play music on river trips. That's fine as long as you recognize that there are times when people may prefer to enjoy the sounds of nature more than Led Zeppelin. Be considerate\u2014especially if there are other groups camped nearby.\n\nIf you have musicians in your group, have them bring their instruments. Making music together on the river can be extra special.\nChapter Seven\n\nPersonal Camping Gear\n\nIn addition to the group and river gear, you'll need your own personal equipment for a multiday river trip. At first planning and packing all this stuff can be daunting, but you'll get used to it.\n\nIf this is your first multiday river trip, start with a checklist. You can use the one provided in this book, or ask your friends if they have a list you can borrow. I like to store my list on my computer so I can make notes, and add or subtract items as I discover what works best. Plus, the list is easy to find when it's time to pack for my next excursion.\n\nAgain, you have the option of going light to minimize weight and maximize space on your rafts, or you can be decadent and bring lots of stuff. I like to go for the middle ground. It's nice to have a few extras\u2014I pack baby wipes, a sundress, and UGGs for example\u2014but don't overdo it. Remember you have to lug that stuff up and down the beach every day, not to mention the extra drag it puts on the boat if everyone is carrying lots of luxuries. A heavy raft is a sluggish raft, which can make it hard to keep up with other rafts on the river, hard to navigate through rapids, and hard for newer rafters to row. If you haven't been on a river trip before, start light. You can add more to your packing list as you gain experience.\n\nTents\n\nOn most river trips people bring their own personal shelters. This gets a bit crazy if you have fifteen solo travelers in your group. If that's the case you should probably team up to avoid having fifteen tents dotting the shoreline at every camp. But if you are in groups of families or couples, you'll probably have the family groups and couples sharing tents.\n\nOn summer trips many rafters opt to sleep out under the stars, either on their boats or onshore.\n\nOn summer river trips you may spend most of your nights out under the stars on the beach, but if the wind comes up, the weather turns bad, or there are a lot of bugs, it's important to have a tent. Lightweight summer tents with mosquito netting are nice except when it's sandy and super windy. The lighter particles of sand get blown under the fly and filter down through the netting, leaving you covered in a layer of dust. If you anticipate lots of wind on your trip\u2014Desolation Gray Canyons on the Green River are notorious for wind for example\u2014a four-season tent with ripstop nylon interior walls will help keep out the dust.\n\nA tent is nice to get away from the bugs, off the dirt, and out of the rain.\n\nOtherwise, your camping gear isn't going to be that different from any other camping trip. Like any overnight excursion into the wilderness, you want to anticipate possible weather conditions and pack accordingly.\n\nHere's a sample gear list to get you started.\n\nPersonal Gear Checklist\n\nGear | Warm-Weather Trip | Cold-Weather Trip\n\n---|---|---\n\n1\u20133 dry bags | Usually you can fit all your gear, minus your tent, in one large dry bag (~70 liter). Use a second smaller dry bag or a large group dry bag for tents. A small day bag is also nice for extra layers, snacks, lip balm, etc. | Same as for warm weather trips, although your bags may need to be bigger to accommodate bulkier stuff\n\nSmall ammo or Pelican waterproof box | You can use a small waterproof box to store electronics, cameras, maps, toiletries, etc. | Same\n\nTent | Three-season tent with rain fly and ground cloth (ground cloths are great for sleeping out on the beach). You may also want to consider a fly or hammock if the weather is guaranteed to be mild. | Four-season tent with rain fly\n\nUpper body | 1 synthetic base layer (mid- or lightweight) | 2 synthetic or wool base layers (light or midweight), one for in camp and the other a \"wet set\" for on the raft\n\n|\n\n1 lightweight fleece, wool jacket, or down sweater | 1 insulating layer (down or synthetic-filled, or heavyweight fleece jacket) with hood\n\n| |\n\n1 down or fleece vest, or an expedition-weight top (optional)\n\n|\n\n1 rain jacket | 1 rain jacket\n\n|\n\n1\u20132 cotton T-shirts and a sun shirt | 1 T-shirt\n\n|\n\n1 synthetic sport bra or top (women) | 1 synthetic sport bra or top (women)\n\n|\n\n1\u20132 bathing suits\n\n|\n\nLower body | 1 pair synthetic or wool long underwear bottoms | 2 pairs synthetic or wool long underwear bottoms (mid or lightweight) one \"dry\" pair for camp; one \"wet\" pair for the boat\n\n|\n\n1 lightweight pair of synthetic pants or jeans for hiking or wearing around camp, protection from thorns, poison ivy, bugs, and cold weather | 1 pair insulated pants or shelled polypropylene\n\n|\n\n1 pair rain pants | 1 pair rain pants\n\n|\n\n1\u20132 pairs quick-dry shorts\n\n|\n\nExtras | Loose fitting sundress, skirt, sarong, or trousers (like scrubs)\n\n|\n\nHead layers | 1 visor or sun hat. Wide brims are useful if they have a chinstrap. | 1 visor or sunhat\n\n|\n\n1 lightweight wool or fleece hat (nice if it fits under your helmet) | 1 midweight wool or fleece hat\n\n|\n\n1 polypropylene neck gaiter or Buff that can be used for sun protection, etc. | 1 neck gaiter or Buff, scarf, or balaclava\n\n| |\n\n1 fuzzy helmet liner\n\n|\n\n1 bandanna (optional) | 1 bandanna (optional)\n\nUnderwear | 2\u20133 pairs. Technical fabrics work best for quick drying. Shorts with liners work well for men. | 2\u20133 pairs. Technical fabrics work best for quick drying. Shorts with liners work well for men.\n\nHand layers | 1 lightweight pair gloves (wool or synthetic) | 1\u20132 lightweight pairs gloves (wool or synthetic)\n\n|\n\n1 pair cotton or nylon \"rigging\" or rowing gloves | 1 pair of insulated gloves or mittens, preferably waterproof or neoprene\n\nFeet layers | 2\u20133 pairs wool or synthetic socks | 3 pairs wool or synthetic socks\n\n|\n\nBoating shoes, neoprene booties, or strap-on sandals. On sandy rivers your boat shoes will rub, so it may be nice to wear them with a pair of neoprene socks. | Boating shoes and\/or boots such as BOGS, fishing boots, or neoprene booties\n\n|\n\n1 pair lightweight camp shoes like Crocs, sandals, or slippers | 1 pair insulated booties or camp shoes\n\n|\n\n1 pair hiking shoes, depending on the trip and the potential for day hiking | 1 pair hiking shoes, depending on the trip and the potential for day hiking\n\nBoating gear | PFD, helmet | PFD, helmet\n\n|\n\nThrow rope, whistle, knife | Throw rope, whistle, knife\n\n|\n\nDry suit, wet suit, or paddling attire | Dry suit\n\n| |\n\nNeoprene gloves, mittens, or pogies\n\nSleeping gear | 1 sleeping pad. Paco pads are popular on raft trips. If you have an inflatable sleeping pad, be sure someone in your group has a repair kit. | 1 sleeping pad. Paco pads are popular on raft trips. If you have an inflatable sleeping pad, be sure someone in your group has a repair kit.\n\n|\n\n1 sleeping bag or a quilt and sheet (weight and temperature dependent) | 1 sleeping bag, rating determined by expected weather conditions\n\n|\n\n1 pillow or pillowcase that can be stuffed with clothes for a pillow | 1 pillow or pillowcase that can be stuffed with clothes for a pillow\n\nToiletries | Toothbrush, toothpaste, comb or brush, unwaxed dental floss with needle for emergency sewing repairs, personal hygiene products, contact lens solution, sunscreen, lip balm, etc. Hand\/body lotion is useful on desert rivers, where your skin can really dry out. | Toothbrush, toothpaste, comb or brush, unwaxed dental floss with needle for emergency sewing repairs, personal hygiene products, contact lens solution, sunscreen, lip balm, etc.\n\n|\n\n1\u20132 1-liter water bottles or Camelbak | 1\u20132 1-liter water bottles or Camelbak\n\nExtras | Sunglasses with retaining strap for river use | Sunglasses with retaining strap for river use\n\n|\n\nPee bottle or bucket | Pee bottle or bucket\n\n|\n\nMoney, credit card, driver's license | Money, credit card, driver's license\n\n|\n\nBook, notebook, pencil or pen or ultrafine Sharpie for marking river maps (optional) | Book, notebook, pencil or pen (optional)\n\n|\n\nJournal, watercolors (optional) | Journal, watercolors\n\n(optional)\n\n|\n\nHeadlamp | Headlamp\n\n|\n\nLighter or matches packed in a waterproof bag or container | Lighter or matches packed in a waterproof bag or container\n\n|\n\nCamera (optional) | Camera (optional)\n\n|\n\nBinoculars (optional) | Binoculars (optional)\n\n|\n\nSpare batteries for all electronic devices, or consider a portable solar-panel recharger | Spare batteries for all electronic devices, or consider a portable solar-panel recharger\n\n|\n\nFishing rod, tackle, flies or lures (optional)\n\n| \n| |\n\nThermos (optional)\n\nRiver Wear\n\nRafting is wet. You'll get splashed moving through whitewater, not to mention that there's always the possibility of a swim if you get ejected from your raft or flip. Rafters need to gauge their attire according to the air and water temperature.\n\nThe proper attire for rafting depends on the air and water temperature. These rafters are sporting various options for staying warm and relatively dry in cooler temperatures.\n\nYour choices run from a bathing suit and shorts, to rain gear or a paddling jacket and pants, to a wet suit or dry suit. A bathing suit is fine in the middle of summer when the temperatures are high, the water warm, and you are confident you aren't going to get caught out in a thunderstorm. Rain gear or a paddling jacket and pants work if you are running easy water, temperatures are mild, and your chance of swimming is minimal. Beware: If you do swim, rain pants can drag you down in the water. For cold conditions, you should wear a wet or dry suit to be safe and comfortable.\n\nIn hot conditions you may opt to raft in shorts and a bathing suit.\n\nAs mentioned earlier in this book, the American Canoeing Association considers cold-water conditions to be any water that is less than 60 degrees Fahrenheit, or when the combined air and water temperature is less than 120 degrees Fahrenheit. In these conditions, swimmers rapidly lose their ability to function as they succumb to the cold and become hypothermic.\n\nUnprotected by any kind of insulation, you are subject to the 1-10-1 rule when immersed in cold water. This means that during that first minute in the water you'll be incapacitated by cold-water shock, as the cold receptors in your skin respond to the sudden decrease in temperature by evoking uncontrolled gasping, hyperventilation, increased heart rate, and vasoconstriction. Those reactions will pass, so stay calm. Panicking increases the chance you will aspirate water. Instead, take a few seconds to relax and take stock of your situation.\n\nOnce the initial shock has passed, you have 10 minutes of functional movement before you lose control of your muscles and can no longer swim or pull yourself out of the water. You then have an hour before you are likely to lose consciousness from hypothermia\u2014if you don't drown before that. Insulation gives you more time to withstand the cold water's effects on your body and, therefore, can save your life.\n\nFor cold-water rafting, you need to decide between a paddling jacket and pants, a dry suit or a wet suit. Dry suits are made from waterproof, breathable material, like GORE-TEX, that is sealed at the wrists and neck by rubber gaskets and with either gaskets at the ankles or waterproof socks to keep moisture out. Underneath the suit, you stay dry even if you swim, and can layer clothing according to the air temperature. Wet suits are made from neoprene, which traps a thin layer of water next to your skin. Your body heats up this water and keeps you warm.\n\nPaddling jackets usually have neoprene or rubber wrist and neck closures to keep splashing water out. Paddling pants have neoprene closures at the ankle, although some include built-in socks as well. For rivers where a swim is unlikely but you want to stay dry in the raft, paddling clothes work great. Plus, they are a lot cheaper than a dry suit.\n\nDry suits\n\nDry suits are expensive and can be fragile and bulky, but if you plan to boat in cold places they are worth every dollar and ounce, as most of us are more comfortable\u2014and safer\u2014if we are warm and dry.\n\nYour dry suit is going to be one of your most expensive pieces of equipment, with prices ranging from $600 to more than $1,000. If you are investing that kind of money, it's important to make sure you pick a dry suit that is comfortable and durable.\n\nDry suits have rubber gaskets at the hands and neck (and sometimes the ankles) that prevent water from leaking in, so you are warm and dry inside. They are the ultimate way to stay comfortable in cold conditions, but are expensive and challenging to get into and out of.\n\nHere are some key things to consider in your purchase:\n\nMaterial: Dry suits take a lot of wear and tear. Just sitting in your boat causes your suit to rub as you twist and turn with each stroke. Find a dry suit that is durable and that comes with a lifetime warranty. GORE-TEX is the material of choice, but some brands are being made with other materials. If you opt for a different material, read performance reviews online.\n\nFit: Dry suits, in and of themselves, do not keep you warm; they keep you dry. To be warm you need to wear layers of insulating gear. Just what you wear depends on the air temperature, so you want a suit that is roomy enough to put on multiple layers of clothing underneath and still lets you twist and turn to paddle or row. Many boaters think Kokatat makes the best dry suit on the market, but other brands are catching up and each of them comes with a slightly different fit, so you may find Kokatat is not the best option for you. Try on different models while wearing the layers you anticipate boating in to make sure you are buying a dry suit that is well matched to your physique.\n\nSocks: It's worth investing in a dry suit that comes with built-in socks. The rubber gaskets on dry suits are their weakest link, so if you can minimize the number by eliminating them at your ankles, you'll be happier. Plus, built-in socks allow you to wear cozy wool socks on your feet, which will keep you warmer. Most rafters then wear some kind of boating shoe over the dry suit socks. If you wear a pair of neoprene socks over your dry suit socks, you'll help protect the fabric and prevent pinholes that can lead to leaks. Remember, if you are wearing socks under dry suit socks and a pair of neoprene socks over them, your foot is going to be a size or two bigger than normal, so plan accordingly.\n\nRelief zippers: Most dry suits are one-piece suits that look like some kind of space suit. Higher-end suits come in men's and women's models featuring strategically placed zippers that allow you to pee and poop without having to remove the entire dry suit. While it is cheaper to buy dry suits without relief zippers, you'll soon find the extra cost to be worth it. Keep these zippers clean. Dirt causes them to gunk up and malfunction. Don't yank on a stuck zipper. Clean and lube it with some kind of zipper lube, like McNett Zip Tech.\n\nYou can also find two-piece dry suits. In the past these suits weren't particularly waterproof on long swims, but Kokatat's Idol is joined by a waterproof zipper that is reputed to be totally watertight. Two-piece dry suits have the advantage of being easier to get into and out of, and you can wear just the top or bottom if it's warm out. Plus, you don't have to use a relief zipper to go to the bathroom. The costs are about the same for a one- or two-piece suit, so it's worth considering a two-piece if you are in the market.\n\nWet suits\n\nWet suits are a cheaper option than dry suits, but tend to be less useful in a raft than in kayaks or inflatables, where you are in the water more than in the air. You need to wear a full-body, long-sleeved neoprene suit combined with a paddling jacket and pants to block out the wind and cut down on convective heat loss if you are sitting on a raft in cold, wet conditions. Wet suits also take longer to dry than dry suits. For these reasons, you may as well opt for a dry suit if your goals include cold-water rafting. Wet suits are quite a bit cheaper, however, and if that is what you have, it's much better than nothing.\n\nWhere wet suits really shine is in milder conditions, where you would just steam in your juices inside a dry suit. There are a variety of options for wet suits that keep you comfortable in warmer climes: farmer johns, shortie suits, HydroSkins, neoprene shirts and shorts, etc. For summer boating, these options tend to be lighter, more packable, and cheaper (costing between $100 to $400) than a dry suit.\n\nAs with all boating gear, you'll preserve the life of your neoprene if you take care of it. Rinse your wet suit in fresh water at the end of the day and hang it up to dry away from direct sunlight. Once you get home at the end of a trip, wash the suit in warm water with a mild soap to remove body oils and dirt. Rinse and dry the wet suit thoroughly, and store it in a cool, dry place away from the sun. If your wet suit or other neoprene product becomes funky and smelly, you can buy special soaps that kill bacteria and funguses.\n\nAccessories\n\nNeoprene socks or booties, gloves, mittens, and pogies\n\nIn addition to wet suits, neoprene socks, gloves, mittens, or pogies can be useful tools for staying warm in a wet environment.\n\nIn a dry suit with built-in socks, neoprene socks or booties are unnecessary. In a paddling suit or wet suit, they help keep your feet warm during the day. Look for socks that fit snugly and can be worn under your boat shoes. If you opt for neoprene booties, make sure they fit easily over your dry suit, if you are wearing one. Another trick is to wear GORE-TEX socks over wool or fleece socks. The GORE-TEX will keep water out and your feet dry.\n\nThe choice between gloves, pogies, or mittens depends on your personal preference, the ambient air temperature, and the type of boating you plan to do. In general, gloves are the least warm option, but they give you the most dexterity so you can perform delicate tasks without having to take them off.\n\nThese rafters are ready for cold weather, wearing dry suits, gloves, and hats under their helmets.\n\nGloves\n\nToo-tight gloves will constrict blood flow and make your fingers cold. Nylon coverings on the glove's palms make it hard to grip your oars. Nylon coverings on the back of the hand protect the neoprene from tears, but increase evaporative cooling and so make the glove a bit colder.\n\nRigging Gloves\n\nLoading, unloading, rigging, and rowing are hard on your hands. In addition to having gloves to keep warm, many rafters opt to wear a lightweight pair of gloves while working around or rowing the raft. You can buy specialized gloves for rowing or pick up a pair of nylon work gloves at the hardware store. If you want to wear work gloves for rowing, look for something with a grippy palm.\n\nMittens\n\nMittens are warmer than gloves, but you won't be able to do anything that requires dexterity without taking them off, and it can be cumbersome to deal with the on-off routine if you anticipate making lots of adjustments. Lobster-claw mittens are a compromise. They give you a more agility than mittens and more warmth than gloves.\n\nPogies\n\nPogies are designed to slide over your oar, allowing you to hold the handle with your bare skin while giving you protection from the wind and rain. Pogies don't work on raft paddles. Pogies tend to be the warmest option out there, especially when worn with neoprene gloves underneath.\n\nBoating shoes\n\nLots of rafters boat in strap-on sandals or neoprene booties, but you may want to consider boat shoes, such as those made by Astral, if you are going to spend a lot of time on the river. Boat shoes protect your feet better than sandals, and if you wear them with neoprene socks, you're less likely to have rubbing from sand caught in sandal straps. Boat shoes aren't as clammy as neoprene booties (unless, of course, you are wearing neoprene socks!) and you can hike in them.\n\nThere are all kinds of shoes that work for boating, from strap-on sandals to water shoes and mesh sneakers. You want something with a grippy sole that keeps your feet from slipping on wet rocks and slick rafts.\n\nIf you opt for boat shoes, look for the following:\n\n * Shoes that are comfortable, supportive, and lightweight \n * Shoes made from nonabsorbing, quick-drying, durable fabric. Avoid so-called waterproof shoes. No shoe is waterproof if you submerge it in water. Waterproof coatings tend to just trap water inside.\n * Shoes with sticky rubber soles that provide traction as well as protection and cushioning\n * Shoes with a secure lacing system\n * Shoes that are roomy enough to go over dry suit booties and socks or neoprene socks. You can also opt to pull the insoles out of your shoes so you have extra space to fit your shoes over your dry suit and a warm pair of socks.\n\nPersonal Safety Equipment\n\nYou need to carry some basic rescue equipment if you plan to raft whitewater. Remember, carrying safety gear is useless if you don't know how to use it. If you intend to tackle whitewater, it's wise to take a swiftwater rescue course or to practice basic rescue techniques on your own. We will go into more detail on basic rescue later in this book.\n\nEach individual on your trip should carry a whistle. It's best if the whistle is stored where you can get to it quickly, especially if you are in the water. A lot of people like to hang a whistle from the zipper pull of their PFD, but there's a risk in this. The weight of the whistle can pull down on the zipper, causing it to open. It's better to put the whistle on a short piece of accessory cord and tie it to the shoulder strap of your PFD. Whistles are used to sound an alarm when something goes wrong, such as when a raft flips or gets pinned, or someone is in the water. You can also use the whistle to get someone's attention when a group is too spread out on the water.\n\nIn addition to a whistle, lots of boaters carry a river knife. River knives allow you to extract yourself if you get entangled in a rope or pinned in your raft. Again, the knife has to be handy to be useful, and you need to know how to use one correctly to keep it from being a liability. Most river knives come with a way to be attached to the outside of your PFD.\n\nThis rafter has a knife, a whistle, a rescue PFD, and a webbing line, complete with a couple of carabiners, around his waist so he's ready for just about anything.\n\nIn remote areas it is also a good idea to carry a lighter and some fire starter in a small sealed plastic bag in one of your pockets. This way, if you somehow become separated from your equipment, you can start a fire to get warm. I also carry a lightweight garbage bag in my pocket that I can use as an emergency rain jacket in a pinch.\n\nThe Little Extras that Make a Difference\n\nExperienced river-goers all have special items they bring along that make life on the river just a little bit better. Gear lists can be pretty vague. After all, when the list says pants, it begs the question of what kind of pants? And it says nothing about what will feel good after a long hot day in the sun\u2014or the reverse, a long cold day in the rain.\n\nA well-seasoned river rat knows just what to bring to be comfortable and entertained regardless of the weather.\n\nJust the Right Clothing\n\nThe key on a river trip is to wear clothes that dry quickly and help you stay cool or warm depending on the weather conditions. Comfort is important, and for that you may find a flowy sundress, yoga pants, or loose-fitting cotton trousers feel awesome after spending all day in a soggy bathing suit or wet suit. Many people\u2014male and female alike\u2014like to wear a sarong tied like a skirt around camp. Sarongs are versatile, cool, comfy, and can also be used for sun protection on the raft or for some extra privacy when you want to make a quick change on the beach. Plus, they let you air out if you've been trapped in wet neoprene all day.\n\nIt's nice to have loose, flowy cotton clothing to wear in camp after you've been trapped in wet clothes all day long on the raft.\n\nAs for your feet, you'll probably be wearing some kind of river shoe, river sandal, or neoprene bootie on the raft during the day. When you get to camp, you'll be psyched to get out of those soggy shoes as quickly as possible. Flip-flops make great easy camp shoes that you can slip on and off with ease. Or you may want to consider a pair of slippers with a sole that you can wear around camp for extra comfort and warmth. If you plan to do a lot of hiking, bring hiking shoes, and for wet, cold trips a pair of rubber boots or waders can help keep your feet warm and dry, especially when you are loading and unloading your raft.\n\nFinally, have a little flair on the river. It's fun to be yourself and dress up at night. It's also important to do what you need to be comfortable and healthy.\n\nToiletries\n\nRiver trips can be rough on your skin. Often it's hard to escape the sun and you're usually covered in sand. For that reason there are a few items that can make you feel a lot more comfortable at the end of the day, such as baby wipes, packaged cleaning cloths, or facial cleansing pads to wipe away the grime and sunscreen. Bring along a plastic grocery bag to hold used wipes. They shouldn't go in the groover. After cleansing with a wipe it's nice to follow up with a thorough dousing in some kind of a thick, scentless moisturizing lotion.\n\nSkin Care\n\nIf you are going on a Grand Canyon or any desert river trip, be prepared for your skin to get trashed if you don't take care of it. The sand, sun, water, and wind do incredible damage if you aren't diligent. That includes painful cracks and raw spots from rubbing on your hands and feet. Bring along a thick, viscous moisturizing cream, such as CeraVe Moisturizing Cream, Super Salve, climbOn, or Eucerin Intensive Repair Cream, for all-body moisturizing. In addition, consider bringing Bag Balm, Burt's Bees hand salve, or Vaseline for cracks in your hands and feet. If you do develop cracks, Super Glue helps close them and reduces pain.\n\nSome people carry lightweight cotton gardening gloves to sleep in. They'll slather cream or bag balm on their hands, put on the gloves, and go to bed. Likewise, wearing socks to sleep can help prevent cracking in your feet, as does wearing shoes and socks around camp or on the raft.\n\nHair\n\nRiver guides with long hair recommend carrying a small bottle of leave-in conditioner to help deal with tangles. Plus, they bring lots of hair ties and headbands, and a fun hat that lets them express themselves as well as block out the sun.\n\nHygiene\n\nIt's important to think about cleanliness on the river, and not just about keeping your hands washed. If you are sitting around in damp clothes all day, it's easy for things to get a bit rank down in your nether regions. If it's warm outside, jump into the river whenever you can, and when you get to camp change into dry, loose-fitting cotton clothes to give yourself a breather. Ladies might want to bring along a cotton bandanna that can be used as a pee rag for wiping after urination. That sounds gross, but the truth is you are only wiping away a few drops of urine, and you can rinse the bandanna off in the river whenever you want.\n\nIt's important to keep yourself clean and dry to avoid yeast infections or other discomfort. Fellows need to be careful about that too, so everyone benefits from washing their privates regularly while on the river. Soap isn't necessary for daily rinses, but you may want to bring along biodegradable soap or shampoo for an occasional bath, especially on longer trips. Check river regulations to find out where the land managers want soap disposed of. Some river managers want you to bathe above the high-water mark; others say to put everything\u2014including soap\u2014in the river.\n\nMenstruation\n\nManaging your period on the river isn't a big deal, but it helps to be prepared. Pack a little feminine hygiene kit in a ziplock bag that contains tampons and\/or pads, and a trash bag for used products. I like to use a plastic grocery bag that is opaque and hides what's inside. You may also want to include single-use feminine cleansing cloths in your kit. Used items can be put in the group garbage container.\n\nBooks, journals, painting supplies\n\nOn most river trips, you'll find yourself with lots of time on your hands. I like to bring an e-reader stocked with books to keep me entertained. Some people enjoy journaling. Others bring along travel-size watercolor sets to paint with. Natural history guides, flower or bird books, and binoculars are all great tools for learning about and exploring the environment around you as you float downstream.\n\nIf you are traveling through the land of scorpions, such as in the Grand Canyon, bring a black light so you can go scorpion hunting at night. Scorpions turn neon green under a black light! But remember: Look; don't touch.\n\nA portable watercolor set and journal allow you to tap into your creative side on the river.\n\nSleeping in style\n\nMost river rats opt to sleep on Paco pads, but any inflatable camping mattress will provide a soft bed during your trip. In addition, if you are on a summer trip where the nights are hot, you may want to bring along a sheet and a quilt rather than a sleeping bag. Some people include a pillow for the ultimate luxury, but if you want to save space, you can bring a pillowcase or use a T-shirt stuffed with jackets and other soft clothing to make a good headrest. Finally, an oversized ground cloth or polypropylene mat keeps you off the ground and out of the sand.\n\nMany rafters never bother to set up a tent on river trips, opting instead to sleep out under the stars.\n\nIf you are in a big group, you may want to consider bringing earplugs to help yourself sleep. You can usually spread out on the beach and get some privacy, but if there are snorers or late-night talkers on your team, it's nice to be able to tune them out.\n\nWith a big ground cloth and a thick Paco pad, just about any place makes a good bedroom.\n\nAnd don't forget to bring a container to pee in if you don't want to have to go down to the river in the middle of the night. Women often like a small bucket with a wide-mouth, such as a yogurt container; men can go for a wide-mouth water bottle.\nChapter Eight\n\nFood\n\nThere are as many ways to organize the cooking and menu planning on your trip as there are people. Everyone has a system or a variation on a system that they think is the absolute best. Realistically all of them work. The important thing is organization. If everyone understands how the meals are going to work, no one goes hungry.\n\nYou probably won't lose weight on a river trip as the food is usually good and plentiful, plus you can always eat cake.\n\nOne of the simplest ways to figure out your food is to hire an outfitter to plan, prep, and pack all of your meals. When you go this route, you usually end up with bags or boxes of food organized by day with preparation instructions included. This system works great, but it's not the cheapest route to take.\n\nAnother system is to create cook teams responsible for planning and preparing a certain number of meals during the trip. How you organize your schedule is up to you. Some people like to have one team do all the meals on one day. Some people like to have a team start with dinner and go through lunch the following day. Some people like to do group breakfasts and dinner and have individuals bring their own lunches. Regardless of how you line out your system, make sure to communicate the plan to your group well before the trip so people can come up with their menus. If you intend to cook as a group, make sure everyone is aware of any food allergies or preferences and lets the rest of the group know what they are cooking so you don't all end up making the same thing.\n\nRafting with big coolers and lots of ice allows you to enjoy fresh produce and meat throughout your river trip.\n\nIf you are going the \"everything but the kitchen sink\" way, you can bring frozen food and fresh produce to help diversify your menu. The goal is to have sufficient quantity and variety for everyone on the trip. People need to be well fed to avoid food stress, which can put a damper on any outdoor adventure. The amount of time and energy you want to put into your meals depends on your river. If you anticipate long days on the water, simple foods are preferable. Short days with lots of camp time allow you more flexibility for creativity and complexity.\n\nIf you are looking to travel as lightly as possible, consider dehydrated foods, one-pot meals, and concentrated foods such as energy bars, cheeses, and preserved meats like salami. Borrow ideas from backpackers to help lighten your load and minimize your space needs. The advantage to going light is that you need fewer rafts, less propane for cooking, and your rafts will be lighter and more maneuverable in rapids.\n\nIf you want to go light, bring a backpacking stove with a small pot and freeze-dried or dehydrated food so you can leave the coolers, elaborate kitchen setups, and big propane tanks behind.\n\nIce or No Ice?\n\nYou can do a multiday river trip without bringing along a cooler. It just means shifting your menu toward a backpacking-style plan\u2014focusing on dried food and staples\u2014rather than the standard river fare with all its bells and whistles. Without a cooler you leave behind fresh produce, meat, and cold beverages, but you'll save on space and weight, which can be advantageous, especially on long trips with lots of technical boating.\n\nYou can also plan for the latter half of a long trip to be \"iceless,\" and shift your menu from fresh foods to freeze-dried or dehydrated options once you use up the perishable stuff.\n\nSome people treat ice as a kind of science project. They may go so far as to order \"sculpture ice\" or \"poured ice\" from an ice provider. Sculpture and poured ice has fewer air bubbles in it than regular ice, and should last longer. Ice aficionados may have access to a walk-in cooler that allows them to freeze a layer of ice on the bottom of their cooler prior to the trip. High-quality coolers tend to seal better than cheap ones, and, therefore, hold ice longer. If you can't afford to drop several hundred dollars on a cooler, good cooler management (see page 159) will help you preserve your ice.\n\nFood Service Safety\n\nA river trip can turn into a nightmare if everyone ends up sick from improper food preparation and care. This is not something to be taken lightly. There have been times when sick river runners have contaminated camps along a river, so cleanliness is critical. Make sure to set up a hand-washing station near the toilet facilities so it's easy to wash up after you use the bathroom. Hand-washing before food preparation and eating is also critical.\n\nIn camp, be sure food is stored properly to avoid encounters with rodents, insects, bees, bears, and other animals. Dry boxes and coolers with animal-proof clasps are critical to keep your food and the animals safe. If you are in bear country, you may want to bring bearproof canisters or barrels.\n\nClean and sanitize dishes after every use.\n\nIf you have group snacks that come in a big container, have people pour the snacks into their hands rather than dig in to grab some. This helps keep dirty hands out of group food.\n\nTips for Packing and Conserving Food\n\n * Freeze premade meals, meat, milk, and other fresh items at home. Frozen pasta sauces, lasagnas, curries etc., can be reheated in a skillet or Dutch oven.\n * Bring hardier produce, such as kale versus spinach, or apples versus bananas. \n * Use block ice and place an insulating piece of EVA foam or Reflectix over your food inside the cooler. Place a wet towel or an insulating cover on the outside to help keep the cooler cold. Avoid opening and closing the cooler repeatedly. Plan what you need to get out of the cooler and get it all in one go.\n * Drain the cooler daily, as ice melts more rapidly when sitting in water. Also, draining keeps your foods from getting soggy if there are pinholes in your freezer bags.\n * For long trips you may want to consider using dry ice in the cooler that holds items for the end of the journey.\n * Crack eggs into a plastic water bottle or a heavy-duty plastic bag and freeze before the trip to avoid having to deal with fragile eggshells, and to serve as yet another chunk of \"ice\" in your cooler. Or, if you prefer, eggs can be stored in your dry box. Egg trays\u2014usually holding 20\u201330 eggs apiece\u2014stack snugly in dry boxes. Paper trays can be cut to fit if the size isn't quite right.\n * Use food that can spoil early in the trip (this includes fresh veggies, lettuce, bread, etc).\n * If space is at a premium, bring flat breads and crackers instead of regular bread. \n * Try to plan portions to avoid lots of leftovers. \n * Talk to your group to see if things can be shared to avoid duplication, such as condiments, drinks, etc. \n * Fresh fruit is more likely to be eaten if you cut it into pieces. If you plan on apples for lunch, cut them up so people actually consume them.\n * Turn produce regularly in the cooler to help preserve it. Sitting directly on ice or in meltwater will damage produce, so you need to move it around to keep it from spoiling. \n * When pulling produce for a meal, always use the worst-looking stuff first to make sure it is used up and doesn't go bad. \n * Dry boxes only stay so dry in the event of a flip. If you are boating a river where flipping is likely, consider waterproofing your dry food in plastic bags inside the dry box.\n\nDishwashing\n\nRiver runners typically use a three- or four-basin wash system to ensure all dishes are cleaned and sanitized after every use. Plastic bins, collapsible buckets, or metal \"chickie\" pails that can be stacked inside each other for storage work well for this system. The advantage of chickie pails is they can be placed directly on the stove or blaster for heating wash water.\n\nTo wash your dishes, start by scraping food scraps into the garbage. It's nice to have an extra spatula to help with this task. In a four-basin system, the first basin is used for a prewash, which allows you to get rid of the gunk or scraps that dirty dishwater quickly. This step isn't critical, but some people like it. The next three containers are vital, however.\n\nClean, sanitized dishes help ensure that no one gets sick during your trip.\n\nThe first basin in a three-basin system contains warm soapy water for washing. The second basin contains warm or cold rinse water. The third contains cold rinse water with half a capful of bleach to sanitize the dishes. Hot water deactivates bleach, hence the reason your final rinse must be cold. On clear rivers, you can use river water for dishes. If the river is silty or muddy, it may be best to use jug water, in which case it is important to be conservative but still thorough. Alternately you can pull silty water from the river and let it sit in a bucket until the silt settles out before pouring it into your washing basins.\n\nMake sure to start washing the cleanest dishes first so the dishwater stays cleaner longer. Dishes must be in the bleach water for thirty seconds to be sanitized.\n\nSet up your dishwashing station so it's convenient and easy to use. That way washing is less of a chore for everyone.\n\nOnce the dishes are washed, place them in a mesh drying hammock suspended from a table. The dishes can stay here overnight. If you need to pack up to get on the river, let the dishes air dry as long as possible and then pack them up.\n\nWastewater is strained through either a metal or cloth strainer, and all remaining food particles collected in the strainer are placed in the garbage. The leftover gray water is either disposed of in the river or above the high-water mark. This decision is determined by the specific river regulations. Water is usually poured into the river on desert or glacial rivers, but is not on clear mountain streams.\n\nDishwashing can be brutal on your hands, especially on longer river trips. Pack a couple of pairs of dishwashing gloves to protect your skin. Make sure to store the gloves in a dry box overnight so mice don't make holes in them.\n\nRiver Breakfasts\n\nRiver breakfasts can be cold or hot. The type you choose is largely a reflection of your time constraints. Go with cold on mornings when you want to get out of camp fast, and hot when you have more time.\n\nCooked breakfasts can include French toast, pancakes, hash browns, or egg sandwiches. You can make things like breakfast burritos at home and heat them up (or eat them cold) on the river for an easy breakfast. Baked goods made before your trip are also popular. You can include meat, such as bacon or sausage. (Cleanup after cooking breakfast meat can be time-consuming, so be sure to factor in time to drain grease and clean greasy pans when having bacon or sausage for your morning meal.)\n\nHot breakfasts on the river can range from fried eggs to pancakes or French toast.\n\nCooking on the river is a time to unleash your inner chef.\n\nCold breakfasts usually involve cereal with milk, yogurt, or a milk substitute like Rice Dream. It's nice to include three or four different types of cereal so people have a choice. Fruit can round out the meal. Melon holds up to packing well but takes up a lot of space. Apples and oranges are also good options for rivers because they tend to withstand travel.\n\nMost breakfasts start with a hot drink, usually coffee, tea, or hot chocolate, so even with cold breakfasts you'll need to boil water.\n\nBreakfast doesn't have to be elaborate. If you anticipate a long day or want to make the food on your trip simple and easy, you can have cereal and fruit for a quick, easy meal.\n\nRiver Lunches\n\nLunches can be a formal affair, where you pull out a table and make an elaborate meal, or can be simple, where you pack a lunch at breakfast and eat on the fly during the day. Some groups I've traveled with like to have individuals bring their own lunches so they can eat whenever they feel like it as they float downstream. This works well when everyone is in his or her own raft with access to a cooler and food storage. If your trip includes a lot of kayakers or people in small boats, it's usually easier to do a group lunch, or to have people pack their lunches in the morning after breakfast so they have access to it during the day.\n\nOn upscale river trips, lunches can be elaborate affairs complete with tablecloths, fresh fruit, cold cuts, cheese, veggies, and dessert.\n\nOne of the most common river lunches is a sandwich buffet with a variety of breads, cold cuts, sliced cheese, hummus, lettuce (iceberg travels well), tomatoes, pickles, avocados, etc. You can also make chicken or tuna salad, pasta salad, or three-bean salad for some variety. Tortillas are great for making wraps and are a good alternative for lunches later in the trip, when bread may be getting moldy or smashed in the dry boxes. Pringles make a good river snack since they hold up to packing better than bagged chips. Cookies and fruit round out the meal. The key is to offer some variety so people can pick and choose what suits them.\n\nA yummy but basic lunch spread includes cold cuts, cheese, lettuce, tomatoes, avocados, onions, pickles, and bread.\n\nIf you want a change from cold cuts, you can have cold salmon, hummus, or chicken salad for lunch.\n\nMake sure to identify any utensils or dishes that you'll need to prepare your lunch, and put them in a special spot before the rafts are packed so they are easy to find when you pull over for lunch.\n\nIf you have a long day on the river planned, you can always just eat lunch on the raft. Make sure you put everything you need in a handy place when you load your boat in the morning to expedite your picnic.\n\nIf you think you'll be eating a lot of lunches on the go, it's a good idea to pack some plastic containers so you can make your sandwich in camp in the morning and eat it whenever you get hungry during the day.\n\nSnacks\n\nHave some snacks readily available for people throughout the day. Many groups opt to have individuals bring their own snacks so they have sufficient amounts and options. Energy bars, trail mix, pretzels, gorp, crackers, mixed nuts, and candy can all provide a quick boost on a long day. Have people put their snacks in their day bags so they can get to it without having to open dry boxes or a cooler.\n\nIf it's cold, a few insulated bottles for hot drinks can help chilly boaters revive.\n\nKeep some snacks\u2014bars, gorp, crackers, etc.\u2014easily accessible so people, especially kids, can eat when they need some extra calories to get through the day.\n\nRiver Dinners\n\nDinners can also run the gamut from simple to complex. Many rafters bring Dutch ovens so they can bake or make casseroles on the river. Others opt to prepare and freeze a meal at home so all they have to do on the river is reheat it. Weight is generally not a concern unless you are trying to go light or are on a long river trip with a lot of people.\n\nDutch oven lasagna is a special hearty treat that tastes great after a hard day of boating.\n\nTips from the Pros\n\n * Use instant rice (white or brown), instant oatmeal, and just-add-water pancake mix for ease of preparation.\n * Shredded cheese packages work great for cheesy meals\u2014lasagna, Mexican dishes, etc.\u2014and make preparation faster and tidier.\n * Squeezable mayo, mustard, jelly, etc. make lunches easier and require less cleanup. You can refill squeeze bottles from larger containers at home if you want to minimize the packaging. \n * Pack a spice kit with commonly used spices for the entire group. This includes oil, salt, pepper, hot sauce, soy sauce, garlic, etc. \n * If quantities are short, serve people food to avoid the front of the line taking too much.\n\nDutch Ovens\n\nDutch ovens (DOs) can be used for baking breads, cakes, and casseroles like lasagna, or can be used as a warming dish.\n\nTo use a DO for baking, set up your fire pan to heat the coals. You'll need thirty to forty briquettes per DO. Wipe the DO with an oiled paper towel or empty butter wrapper and load it up with whatever you are cooking. Put the lid on securely.\n\nSpread ten to fifteen charcoal briquettes in an even layer in the fire pan and place the DO on top. Using a shovel, stack the rest of the briquettes onto the lid, spreading them out across the top.\n\nCooking times in the DO will vary depending on what you are preparing. Usually it takes about forty-five minutes for most recipes. You should be able to smell your masterpiece for roughly ten to fifteen minutes before it's ready.\n\nAllow the DO to cool before you wash it. Placing it in cold water when hot causes the metal to warp.\n\nDrinks\n\nMost groups have people bring their own beverages to ensure everyone has what they want to drink. You don't have to go that route, of course, but it's one way to ensure the one-beer-a-week person doesn't end up having to pay for the six-pack-a-day person's habit. It's also nice to have some nonalcoholic drinks and drink mix to add to your water. Water that sits in warm plastic jugs all day can begin to be bit unpleasant to drink, and it's important to keep everyone hydrated on the river.\n\nIf you have the luxury of abundant cooler space, you can devote one to keeping canned drinks cold. Cans can also be put in a drag bag and towed behind the raft to chill.\n\nOn cold-weather trips, pack a few insulated bottles to hold tea or cocoa for a quick pick-me-up on the river.\n\nKeeping Drinks Cold\n\nWhether you are drinking beer, soda, or water, it can be hard to keep your beverages cold on the river. Some people like to have a designated drink cooler. When cooler space is at a premium, hang a mesh drag bag off the stern of a raft to keep drinks a bit cooler during the day. It's not like keeping them on ice but it's better than nothing in the heat. You'll want to pull the drag bag into the raft when you go through rapids. In addition, don't forget to pack a drink koozie to help keep your beverage cold while you drink it. If you expect to encounter yellow jackets on your trip, a cup with a lid is nice.\n\nWater\n\nWhere you get your drinking, cooking, and washing water depends on the river you are on. On some trips you get by with getting all your water directly from the river (although it should be treated if it's not boiled). On other rivers, you may opt to bring drinking water in 5-gallon jugs and get the rest of your water (for washing and cooking) out of the river. On still other rivers (especially those with a lot of runoff from farms, glacial silt, or sediment) you may want to bring all the water you plan to use\u2014except for washing water\u2014in jugs. Jugs can be refilled from springs or clear side streams as you empty them.\n\nFood Amounts\n\nOne of the hardest things about planning a river menu is figuring out how much food is enough. It can be helpful to check with your group members before the trip to find out if they consider themselvves to be big eaters, light eaters, or just average. Young children and older people tend to eat a bit less than your average adult. Teens can put down a lot of food, especially teenage boys.\n\nIt's nice to have plenty of food, but having too much is a drag and a waste. Plan your amounts carefully, and if you find the group isn't eating everything you prepare, cut things down to avoid having leftovers to throw away.\n\nIn general, I like to use the serving guidelines on recipes as a starting point and then round up or down based on the composition of my group, as well as the weather conditions and the level of exertion anticipated on the trip. Cold-weather trips typically mean boaters need more calories. Hot-weather trips often call for more drinks, sodas, and fruit.\n\nSample Food Questionnaire\n\nFood Questionnaire for __________ (please insert name)\n\nCheck here and send this back if you don't care about the food at all, will eat whatever you are served, and NEVER complain: _______\n\nOR\n\nPlease highlight any major food allergies, preferences, or dislikes:\n\nI have an allergy \/ food intolerance to __________________\n\nI have a strong preference to __________________________\n\nI am a vegetarian: _______\n\nI eat fish: _________\n\nHaving vegetables at every dinner is very important to me: __________\n\nIf there is one thing that makes me happy it is ______________\n\nThe one thing that makes me upset or not enjoy a food is __________________\n\nBreakfast:\n\n 1. Do you want soy milk or 2-percent for your granola? Are you a die-hard half-and-half-in-coffee person?\n 2. Do you take sugar in hot drinks? Do you use sugar subs and if so, which type?\n 3. How much coffee \/ decaf coffee do you drink? Are you bringing your own? \n 4. Would you prefer tea or cocoa? Are you bringing your own?\n 5. Any special fruit requests for the days we have fruit?\n 6. Do you prefer variety for breakfast or are you happy with one set meal (e.g., oatmeal or pancakes)\n 7. Anything you love for breakfast (e.g., sausages, bacon, chili, or eggs)\n\nLunch:\n\n 1. Would you like lunch meats as well as cheese? If so, which types?\n 2. Do you like canned tuna or salmon?\n 3. Do you like pickles?\n 4. What are your favorite condiments? (e.g., how much do you use mustard, spicy mustard, mayo?)\n 5. Do you like peanut butter and jelly?\n 6. Anything you love for variety for lunches?\n 7. What are your favorite types of chips?\n 8. Should we bring group snacks or will you bring your own?\n\nDinner:\n\n\u25a1 1. I prefer simple meals over complex meals.\n\n\u25a1 2. Desserts are very important to me.\n\n\u25a1 3. As a meat eater, I want meat every dinner.\n\n\u25a1 4. As a vegetarian, I want protein every meal.\n\n\u25a1 5. Any special dinner ideas \/ requests?\n\nCourtesy of Rafting the Grand Canyon WIKI ()\n\nIf you are a meat eater, a steak dinner cooked over the coals can't be beat, but make sure you know your group's dietary preferences before serving meat.\n\nFood Quantity Guidelines\n\nWhen it comes to how much food people will eat, every group is different. You need to find the balance between having too much food (i.e., leftovers) and not having enough. Remember, your group will start out eating light and then eat more as the trip progresses. Take into account the ages of people in your group (kids eat less), the number of people, boy versus girl ratio, daily activities that may require extra energy, etc.\nChapter Nine\n\nA Day on the River\n\nEvery day is slightly different on a river trip. You are in a new section of the river corridor so the scenery changes, and the obstacles you confront that day also change, but there's a rhythm to life that is predictable and worth considering as you plan your first multiday trip.\n\nRise and Shine\n\nMost groups opt to have a cook team assigned to the morning kitchen duties. The team's job is to get up, make breakfast (and coffee!), and then clean up and put away the kitchen while the rest of the group packs up their personal stuff. Sometimes you'll also have a designated cleanup crew. If you aren't on the cook or cleanup team, once your gear is loaded and your dry bag is on the beach waiting to go onto a raft, you can sub in for someone on one of those teams so they can deal with their personal stuff.\n\nIt's nice to have a designated cook team assigned to get up in the morning to get the coffee going. If you rotate chores through your group, you'll get plenty of days to lie in while your friends start breakfast.\n\nMornings go best when the cooks prep a bit the night before so they know where their food is stored and they have a plan for what time they will get going. If people get up early to make you breakfast, it's nice to be respectful and get out of bed to eat when the food is ready. If you want to have a morning to sleep in, that's fine too\u2014just make sure everyone knows so you don't have someone standing in the kitchen at 6 a.m. with a pot of hot coffee and no one to serve.\n\nLoading your dry bags\n\nToday you can find dry bags that seal with a kind of zipper closure (Watershed's patented ZipDry sealing closure or NRS's TIZIP Master Seal waterproof zipper, for example) or ones with the more common roll-top designs. Either type works well for keeping your equipment dry on the raft, but they need to be packed properly to work properly. Most bags seal best when they are full but not overflowing. You can use a big dry bag for carrying your camping gear, clothing, and so forth. Remember you probably won't have access to that bag during the day. Anything you need on the raft should be packed in a small dry bag that serves as a day bag, or in an ammo can that you can get to easily.\n\nDry bags are the standard way to carry your personal camping gear. Make sure to get out the excess air and roll them closed tightly so they are waterproof.\n\nTents may be too big to go in your clothes bag. If you have a spare dry bag in the group, you can put a bunch of tents in one bag. Sometimes people make room for tents in a dry box or large ammo can. If your tent will fit in your personal dry bag, you may want to consider bringing along a trash compacter bag to put it in so if you have to put the tent away wet it won't get other things in your bag damp.\n\nZippered Dry Bags\n\nThe longer you spend on the river, the more likely you will splurge on a dry bag with a zipper closure that gives you easy access to your stuff. Watershed makes bags that open with what it calls a ZipDry sealing closure, which allows you to get in and out of your bag easily. Rather than having to roll and unroll the opening, you just \"unzip\" a Watershed bag. NRS and AIRE make dry bags with waterproof zippers as well. These bags tend to be a little expensive, but if you plan to spend a lot of time on the river you may want to consider the investment for their added convenience.\n\nDry bags pack best if you simply stuff items loosely in so that all the nooks and crannies are filled and you aren't left with lots of awkward spaces in your bag. But this means things are a bit chaotic when you unload in camp. I like to bring a few stuff sacks or duffle bags so I can organize my gear in camp once I unload my dry bag. I pack everything loosely in the bag for the day, but when I'm unpacking at night I have a duffle bag for my clothes and a stuff sack for my sleeping stuff so things aren't exploded all over the place. If you like to use stuff sacks in your dry bag, try to use big stuff sacks packed loosely, so they are compressible rather than rock hard and difficult to fit into small spaces.\n\nAt night when I'm sleeping outside the tent, I'll put my belongings back into the dry bag for storage in case there's a shower overnight.\n\nTo load a roll-top dry bag, stuff everything down to the bottom, taking time to fill in the voids as you push things in. Once everything is packed, pull the two sides of the bag together and fold the top over once to create a seal. The top of the bag will have a stiff edge, which folds neatly over on itself for this purpose. After the top edge is folded, push down on the bag to force out excess air, then roll the top down carefully, making each roll tight and even. You'll want at least three rolls. Four rolls are better. Push down on the bag. If you hear any air escaping, the bag is not sealed properly or it has a hole. Either way, if air is coming out, water can get in, so figure out why you have a leak.\n\nTo finish closing the bag, clip the buckles in place. Bags have different closing systems. The buckles may be on the sides, with a second set of straps going over the top, or the sides of the bags may be folded back on themselves to clip into each other on top.\n\nPack your small dry bag the same way, but fill it with things you'll need during the day: extra layers, snacks, rain gear etc.\n\nI try to avoid putting anything breakable, leakable, or hard in my dry bags. For these items\u2014sunscreen, e-readers, cameras, etc.\u2014it's nice to have an ammo can or small dry box that you can clip onto the raft. Hard items in your dry bags make holes more likely, and no one likes to have a lotion explosion all over their clothes.\n\nFinally, everyone must have access to a water bottle during the day. You'll need to have a way to clip your bottle onto the raft so it won't get lost if you flip. A 1-foot piece of tubular webbing duct-taped into a loop on the bottle and hooked into the boat with a carabiner works well for a simple clipping system.\n\nBreaking down camp\n\nStart packing up your personal gear while the cooks are making breakfast. When you are done, you can step in to help them finish up in the kitchen.\n\nWhile you wait for breakfast to be prepared, start packing up your tents and personal gear so you can help with the group gear after you eat.\n\nBreaking down the kitchen is easy if you have a dry box large enough to hold your kitchen supplies in one place. This box can be brought up to camp overnight and returned to its place on the raft in the morning, so you don't have to make repeated visits to the raft to load and unload your kitchen gear. Kitchen boxes tend to be heavy so make sure you have at least two people to move it and take your time, especially if you have to move over rocks.\n\nOnce the dishes are dry, take them out of the drying rack, place them in the kitchen box, fold up the drying rack, and load it up. Disconnect the stove from the propane tank, making sure the tank is closed tightly. Place the stove along with the hoses you use to attach it to the propane tank in a dry box where they are protected from sand and water. Put the propane tank down on the beach for loading into one of the rafts.\n\nTables should be folded up and moved down to the beach next to the raft where they are stored.\n\nOnce everything is packed up and ready to be put on the raft, make a last call for the groover, and then load up the groover and the hand-washing station and place those items on the beach next to the raft that will carry them.\n\nLoading the rafts\n\nMoving gear up and down the beach can be strenuous, and some items are heavy. Don't hurt yourself struggling with a heavy load when you can find someone to help you move it and make the job easier. When camp is back from the shoreline, big groups can make a bucket brigade to pass lighter items up and down from the rafts to the campsite.\n\nTransporting your gear from camp to the rafts can be strenuous, as some items are heavy and awkward. You can share the load by getting a buddy to help you carry things, especially big items like the kitchen box.\n\nTo expedite loading and unloading the rafts, form a bucket brigade to move lighter items down the beach.\n\nDon't throw dry bags around. Tossing a loaded dry bag onto a rocky shoreline is guaranteed to result in holes\u2014if not the first time, then sometime\u2014and a hole means that suddenly all your dry clothes will be wet.\n\nOn the first day of any trip there will be a lot of sorting out what gear goes in what raft, but once you have that figured out, it works best to load the rafts the same way every day.\n\nLife will be much simpler if you stick to a system and know exactly where every piece of equipment is carried on the rafts. Tables usually get strapped on top of dry boxes and can be used as a seat. They're more comfortable with a Paco pad on top.\n\nUsually the bow and stern compartments of the raft carry things like dry bags and the groover, as well as chairs, fire pans, and other miscellaneous gear. Once everything is in place, lash it down. People sometimes choose not to rig for flipping (rigging for flipping means everything is lashed down securely, versus just throwing a net over things to hold them in place) on days when they don't anticipate any chance of losing their load. But it's a good idea to get in the habit of lashing things down every day so you are never caught off guard.\n\nYou can pile up a lot of gear in the bow and stern of your raft. Just don't overload your rowers, and make sure every item is strapped in and lashed down so you don't lose anything in a flip.\n\nSome companies make mesh cargo bags for holding gear that fit into the bow or stern compartments of your raft. The bag has cam straps on the sides that attach to the oar frame or D rings, and hold the bag and its load suspended off the floor. You then place your cargo inside the bag, pull it together, and buckle it closed. This system is fast and, if attached properly, holds your gear in place in the event of a flip.\n\nAnother alternative is to use cargo nets to secure your loads. Cargo nets help keep things neat in your raft, and they hold gear in place in the event of a flip if the net is tied down properly. If you opt to take this route, make sure you lash down anything that is smaller than the gaps in the net so it can't float out if the raft goes upside down, and take care to tie the net down tightly so things can't slip out the sides. Some people are wary of cargo nets because they think they present an entanglement hazard. As long as the nets are tight, however, they should be fine.\n\nFinally, in the absence of a cargo bag or net, you can lash your load into place with cam straps or webbing using a star pattern for security. Lashing gear in place is the tried-and-true method for securing your cargo. It's also the cheapest option. Make sure your cam straps pass through every single dry bag or piece of gear in the pile to ensure it's tied down. The star pattern\u2014think of a Star of David formed by straps running between D rings on the tubes\u2014helps keep everything in place, which is critical if your raft ends up running a rapid upside down.\n\nFill the dry boxes and coolers, latch them closed, and lash them down with two straps per box.\n\nTo secure your load, make sure your lash straps go through the handles of your dry bags and are attached directly to the frame or D rings on the raft tubes at multiple points.\n\nAmmo cans, rocket boxes, and water jugs can get lashed in on either side of the cockpit, in the bow and stern compartments, or on top of the frame. Make sure you balance them out as much as possible to help keep your raft evenly weighted. Smaller items\u2014day bags, etc.\u2014get lashed on as is convenient.\n\nIn the absence of a frame\u2014such as when carrying cargo in a paddle raft\u2014use the star pattern to lash your equipment into the central cockpit between the thwarts.\n\nThis brings up the question of how to distribute the weight in your raft. It's best to try to make the raft as evenly weighted as possible, and just a little bow heavy. A raft that is too light upfront is easier to flip. You can use your passengers to help even things out or to weigh down the bow in a rapid if necessary. Side-to-side balance helps ensure your raft is maneuverable in whitewater.\n\nAlso, it's nice for newer rafters to have lighter rafts so they have an easier time moving their boat where they want it. For that reason let the experienced folks take the heavier loads\u2014at least at first.\n\nFor items that ride in the same place all the time, such as your dry boxes and coolers, leave the lash straps that hold them in place, secured to the frame throughout your trip, so you don't have to replace them every day.\n\nCamp check\n\nOnce the rafts are loaded, have someone take a quick wander through camp to make sure nothing has been left behind, including bits of trash. On popular rivers, camps are used almost every night during the high season, so leave yours clean for the next visitors, as well as for the animals that live in the area.\n\nWind\n\nIt's pretty common to get high winds whipping down river corridors. Some rivers are more notorious than others, but all of them have their moments. Make sure you don't leave things scattered around when packing and unpacking. Tents can fly away at a moment's notice if you leave them unattended. Weight light items down with a rock or ammo box. Tie your tent off to rocks, trees, or stakes. Beware of small, lightweight stakes in dry sand: If it's really windy they might not hold. Try placing piles of rocks on top of the stakes to provide added security. If you are drying your river clothes, make sure they are secured and can't blow away in the wind. Put things inside your dry bag or in a tent so you don't lose anything to the elements.\n\nHitting the Water\n\nWhen everything is loaded and everyone is ready, take a few minutes to review the plan for the day. Let people look at the river map so they know what to expect before you get moving. Point out any rapids you plan to stop and scout, and decide where you want to camp or tell people where you are camping if your site has been assigned on your permit. Point out possible lunch spots and hikes. Do this early enough so people can keep their hiking gear out if they want to go for a walk. You can always revise this plan on the water\u2014scouting more or less than planned, for example\u2014but it helps for everyone to have a general vision of what is in store for the day.\n\nOnce on the river designate lead and sweep boats. You can float between the two at your own pace, but if you lose sight of each other, eddy out and regroup. Make sure the sweep boat carries the wrap kit (for getting a raft unpinned) so it's upstream of a boat in need. Your teammates are your support and safety system on the river, but they need to be able to get to you to provide assistance.\n\nMaking Camp\n\nOn rivers that do not have assigned campsites, chat with other groups as you pass each other on the river to figure out where they are heading. If you want to spend the night at a popular site, plan to get there early as you may find yourself out of luck at the end of a long day if you arrive and find a group is already there. Have a backup plan, just in case.\n\nEstablishing your camp is basically the opposite of taking it down. If everyone pitches in, the setup will go quickly.\n\nMake sure you leave your rafts tied up to a tree, boulder, or sand stake so they remain secure on the beach overnight.\nChapter Ten\n\nRafting with Kids\n\nKids love raft trips, and it's a great way for families to camp together in the wilderness without the adults having to schlep heavy loads around on their backs. But there are hazards, especially with little kids who aren't really aware of danger or their own susceptibility to it. To make sure you have a fun, safe trip it's smart to establish clear guidelines both for the kids and for the adults who are coming along.\n\nRiver trips are the ultimate family vacation. You're away from the distractions of daily life, unplugged from your electronics, and out in nature together\u2014what more can you ask?\n\nPick the Right River\n\nThe right river will be determined by the age of your kids and the experience level of your rafters. That said, if you are traveling with infants and toddlers, your best bet is to stick to rivers rated Class II or below, unless you are very confident in your boating skills or it's easy to walk the bigger rapids. The idea of a toddler or an infant swimming a Class III rapid is pretty terrifying, so you should do everything you can to prevent that from happening.\n\nRafting with kids is all about creating a positive, safe environment for them to be on the river. It's not the time to test your rafting skills. Pick a river that will allow you\u2014and your kids\u2014to relax and have fun.\n\nAvoid running rivers during peak flows. Low water generally means less stress, less pushy currents, less debris, and, in general, a more mellow run with your kids.\n\nRemember, river trips with young children should only be undertaken with a highly competent crew. You don't want to be on a steep learning curve with your precious cargo.\n\nAs your kids get older, you can up the ante on your river trips, especially if they've grown up on the water. By the time they are teenagers, you can be on almost any river with them, as long as you\u2014and they\u2014have the requisite skills and experience to be there.\n\nSupervision\n\nChildren of all ages can safely travel down a river, but when they are little, they need constant supervision. Assign someone to watch over the youngsters at all times, and make sure children are wearing their PFDs when they are playing in or near the water.\n\nWhen you go through whitewater, put kids in the raft that is the least likely to encounter any trouble and hang on to them tightly.\n\nIn camp, assign one adult to kid duty so the little ones are supervised at all times. It's not a bad idea to invite along single friends, grandparents, or to have a designated nanny on your trip to spread out that role. The more extra hands on deck the better when it comes to making sure kids are well supervised and cared for on a river trip.\n\nWater Smarts\n\nHelp your kids develop their water sense early. Babies can be swimming at a remarkably early age. If you plan to spend a lot of time on the river with your family, it's a good idea to start swimming lessons when your kids are infants to ensure they are comfortable in water.\n\nOn the river, let your kids float around in the river in their PFDs to get a feeling for what it's like to be in the water. You can get toddlers to jump off the raft and float alongside in the current in flat water sections of the river so they get a chance to practice the proper swimming position. Train them to yell loudly when they go into the water, or to blow their whistle if they have one, to alert others. Even if they're just playing around, if kids know to yell when they go into the water, they will do it instinctively in an emergency. When it's time to pull kids back on board, have them swim up to the raft so you can pull them out with their PFDs.\n\nLet your kids practice floating in the river in the defensive swimmer position so they are comfortable in the water.\n\nKids under six or seven should wear their PFDs anytime they are near the water. Invest in a good life jacket. It should be comfortable and Coast Guard\u2013approved. Infants and toddlers should wear PFDs that have a strap running between their legs, a padded head support that will help flip them onto their backs in the event of a swim, and a grab loop so it's easy to pull them out of the water.\n\nLittle kids should be in their PFDs whenever they are near the water. Make sure your child's life jacket is Coast Guard\u2013approved, fits properly, comes with a padded head flap, and has a strap running between the legs to keep the vest from sliding up.\n\nComfort\n\nWe've all seen kids shivering by the side of a pool or pond, their lips blue. Despite their chill, they are always ready to go back in the water at a moment's notice. Children are not great about taking care of themselves. They will go hard until they collapse. They'll ignore the heat or cold rather than forgo a chance to play with their friends. That means the adults have to ensure the little ones are dressed for the weather conditions.\n\nKids aren't great at regulating their temperature, so the adults on your trip need to be on top of it, helping them cover up to avoid the sun or bundle up to avoid the cold.\n\nMake sure you pack appropriate clothing for your kids. Don't skimp. It's more likely than not that the kids will end up soaking wet (and happy), so you'll want to always have warm, dry clothes available for them. In addition, slather kids with sunscreen and try to get them to wear a hat, a sun shirt, and sunglasses to protect them against the constant glare of the sun.\n\nFirst Aid\n\nYou should carry a well-stocked first aid kit whenever you are out on a multiday river trip, but there are a few extras worth considering with kids. First, consider allergies. You may not know if your kid is allergic to something if he or she has never been exposed, so it's a good idea to bring an antihistamine, as well as epinephrine, in case your child has an anaphylactic reaction unexpectedly. Obviously, if you know your child is sensitive, come prepared.\n\nMore likely your biggest concern will be lesser reactions to things like bee stings, wasp bites, poison ivy or oak, and mosquito bites. Carry a wash like Tecnu or Ivarest to use after contact with poison oak or ivy to help prevent a rash from developing. Anti-itch cream, calamine lotion, anti-sting sticks, and hydrocortisone creams can be helpful to keep kids comfortable if they have a reaction to bites or plants. If you anticipate lots of bugs or poison ivy, make sure to pack long-sleeved cotton shirts and long cotton pants to cover up your kids' skin while around camp.\n\nIf you are traveling in tick country, do tick checks before bed. Look in warm, dark places: behind the ears, in the groin, under the arms. To remove a tick, grasp it as close to the head as possible (tweezers help) and pull slowly and steadily upward. After the tick is out, clean the area thoroughly with soap and water. If you have had to remove an embedded tick from your child, keep an eye on the bite area and the child to watch for any reactions or illness. Most tick-borne illnesses have a slow onset, so it's unlikely anything will occur on the river, but you want to be on the lookout for problems just in case.\n\nFinally, pack lots of Band-Aids. All parents know the magical power of a Band-Aid on an owie, so carry a stash of fun Band-Aids to cheer them up if they get a scratch.\n\nBuild a Nest or Sanctuary\n\nTake time to build a nest on the raft for your little ones, where they can get out of the sun and take a nap. A Paco pad under an umbrella makes a comfortable crash pad for kids who need a break. Some people bring along a portable crib or playpen to set up on the beach and corral little ones in a safe place for quiet time.\n\nCreate a comfortable spot on the raft where your kids can crash out, nap, or escape the sun.\n\nFor little ones, a car seat can make a great throne for them to ride in as they float down the river.\n\nEssentials\n\nEveryone on your trip will have a day bag packed with his or her essentials that is readily accessible during the day. For kids this is especially important. Pack their day bags full of snacks, clean diapers, layers, rain gear, and maybe a toy or book to help keep them entertained and comfortable throughout the day.\n\nBoundaries\n\nRiver trips are a great opportunity for kids to enjoy freedom, but it's key to establish some boundaries to protect them. There are all kinds of potential hazards on the river\u2014water, wasps, bees, poison ivy, snakes, falls, rocks, etc.\u2014so give the kids a sense of where they can be unrestricted in their play and where they need to be with a grown-up.\n\nChores\n\nChildren like to be part of the team, so give them chores. For little ones, these chores can be simple. They can help set up bee traps or roll out the kitchen floor. They can carry light things up from the raft. They can get on the oars and try rowing. They can be in charge of picking up microtrash around camp. In fact, you can make a picking up trash or smashing aluminum cans a game to add to the fun.\n\nOlder kids and teenagers can take on more challenging tasks. When my daughter was sixteen and on our latest river trip she and other teens on a river trip had their own cook group in charge of all the meals and cleanup for a day. Start out by having kids be part of your cook team so they know how things work, and then let them graduate to being on their own.\n\nGet kids in their own boats\n\nOne way to instill a love for river life is to get kids into their own boat. You can bring along inflatable kayaks, stand-up paddleboards (SUPs), packrafts or hard-shell kayaks for them to play around in. When they are little they may need to be in the small boat with an adult, but later on they can fend for themselves.\n\nKids love to be part of the team, so when the water is flat and you aren't in a hurry, let them try rowing.\n\nYou can always lash small boats onto your raft for rapids or when the wind starts blowing upstream, making paddling alone more miserable than fun.\n\nKeep your days short\n\nKids get antsy on boats if they don't have an outlet for their energy and interests, so it's a good idea to limit your time on the river. Take breaks onshore every couple of hours to give kids a chance to run and play. Don't try to do a lot of long-mileage days. Traveling with kids should be slow and leisurely if you want them to have fun.\n\nFishing\n\nBring along fishing equipment and let kids fish off the raft as you float downstream. Make sure you know the regulations, and talk to kids about precautions for casting around people and boats. But other than that, they can pretty much be on their own. Fishing gives kids a lot of independence, and many of them get thoroughly mesmerized by casting in the river and looking for fish.\n\nFishing can be a great way for kids to explore the natural world and learn a skill.\n\nArt supplies, books, games\n\nPack art supplies, books, and games to help keep children entertained. You can give them some guidance\u2014for example, ask them to draw a flower or animal that you see. Such guided discovery helps kids learn about the natural world around them.\n\nPooping\n\nFor kids in diapers, you'll need to bring along some kind of separate diaper pail for transporting dirty diapers. A rocket box or a 5-gallon bucket with a lid and lined with a trash compacter bag works well as a portable diaper pail. Place used baby wipes in with the dirty diapers. Some people like to let their kids run around naked in camp to help minimize the number of diapers they need. This works great if you can manage the sun exposure. Be sure to keep an eye on them so you can clean up if they have an accident on shore.\n\nToddlers and elementary-age kids will probably need some coaching on how to use the groover. Go with them to show them how it's done, and to make sure they are leaving it in good condition after every use\u2014at least the first time. After they get the hang of it, you may be able to let them go on their own. You can decide if they are ready.\n\nKids will find all sorts of ways to have fun on a river trip, and their joy will undoubtedly add to yours.\n\nHave Fun\n\nKids give you an excuse to play on the river. You can have water fights, jump off rocks, swim from the raft, float through easy rapids, fish off the back of the boat, build sand castles on the beach, or play organized games around camp. Be creative, spontaneous, and relaxed. Let children guide you. Their curiosity can help you see the world in a new way. Finally, kids can lighten up the mood and get everyone to chill out and find their inner child, if we let them.\n\nFloating down rivers with your kids can be an incredibly bonding experience and will create memories that last a lifetime.\n\nMolly Absolon\nChapter Eleven\n\nLeave No Trace\n\nWilderness travel comes with responsibility. The things that make it special\u2014untrammeled nature, wildlife, clean air and water, flowers, trees, and scenic splendor\u2014require respect and care to protect them for future generations.\n\nThe Leave No Trace Center for Outdoor Ethics has created seven general principles that guide backcountry travelers on how to move through the wilderness without causing harm to the land, water, and wildlife. These principles are meant to be guidelines that can be adapted to different circumstances and environments. They are not hard and fast rules, but suggestions that allow you to travel lightly on the land that you love.\n\nMany permitted rivers have additional requirements to help minimize impacts along the river corridor. These regulations make a lot of sense when you think about the fact that hundreds, if not thousands, of boaters are using the same campsites over and over again every year. Without special care, those sites would soon be trashed and unusable.\n\nThousands of people travel along popular river corridors every year. To help keep these special places special, all of us need to work to minimize our impact by following the Leave No Trace principles.\n\nThe basic seven principles are:\n\n 1. Plan ahead and prepare. Know the regulations and special concerns for the area you'll visit. Prepare for extreme weather, hazards, and emergencies by carrying the proper gear and obtaining the required skills so you aren't forced to compromise your LNT ethics to ensure your safety. Visit in small groups when possible. Repackage food and plan meals carefully to minimize waste.\n 2. Travel and camp on durable surfaces. Durable surfaces include established trails and campsites, rock, gravel, dry grasses, snow, and rivers. Along most river corridors the lowest impact sites are established campsites on beaches or gravel bars along the water's edge. Good campsites are found, not made. Altering a site is not necessary. In popular areas, concentrate use on existing campsites, walk single file in the middle of trails, keep campsites small, and focus activity in areas where vegetation is absent. In pristine areas, disperse use to prevent the creation of campsites and trails, move camp frequently, and avoid places where impacts are just beginning.\n\nOn popular rivers most campsites are sacrificial sites\u2014that is, they've been used over and over again and show obvious signs of human traffic. But camping on beaches helps keep the impact down and keeps the area in good shape for the next visitors.\n\nMake sure your group knows the rules and regulations for the river you will be descending before you hit the water.\n\nFragile Surfaces\n\nIt helps to recognize fragile surfaces, as well as durable ones, so you can avoid them. In the desert, cryptobiotic soil\u2014which looks like miniature drip sand castles and is often covered with a blackish layer\u2014can be destroyed by a few misplaced footsteps. Once it's destroyed crypto can take years, or even decades, to come back. Treat it with care.\n\nStream banks, especially wet ones, are also fragile and can collapse easily under your weight, so try to find rocky places to get to the river.\n\n 3. Dispose of waste properly. Pack it in, pack it out. Inspect your campsite and rest areas for trash or spilled foods. Pack out all trash, leftover food, and litter. Food scraps attract animals to campsites. Along river corridors where sites are heavily used, this creates problem animals, so keep a clean camp.\n\nDisposing of waste properly includes depositing human waste appropriately. In most river corridors this means packing the poop out, usually in a groover of some kind. It's a good idea to have some kind of portable sanitation system, such as human waste bags, for an emergency when the groover is on the raft and unavailable.\n\nDishwashing and bathing regulations are different on different rivers. Sometimes you do everything in the river; other times you wash above the high-water mark. Make sure to read the regulations for the river you are visiting to ensure you abide by the rules.\n\nFor urination, as with wastewater, regulations vary, but usually they require travelers to urinate directly into the river. There are some areas where this practice is frowned upon so check with land managers before your trip to determine the preferred practice.\n\n 4. Leave what you find. Preserve the past. Examine but do not touch cultural or historic structures and artifacts. Leave plants, rocks, and other natural objects as you find them.\n\nAvoid introducing or transporting nonnative species. This is particularly important with boats. Boats are known to spread invasives like zebra mussels. Make sure you clean and dry your boating gear carefully after every trip to help reduce the chance you are inadvertently carrying a hitchhiker.\n\nDo not build structures, furniture, or dig trenches.\n\nIt's not uncommon to find potsherds around cultural sites. If they have already been collected and moved to one area, go ahead and leave them in place. If you find a piece on its own, don't move it. It's nice to find things in a more natural setting.\n\nStefanie Vandaele\n\n 5. Minimize campfire impacts. Campfires can cause lasting impacts to the backcountry if they are used improperly. Use fires with care and only in areas where they are allowed and wood is plentiful.\n\nOn most permitted rivers, users are required to carry a fire pan for their campfires and to pack out all ashes. Some rivers also require you to carry all your firewood. Away from regulated rivers, build fires in established fire rings, fire pans, or on mineral soil on a beach or gravel bar.\n\nBurn all wood and coals to ash and put out campfires completely. On regulated rivers, place the cold ash in a rocket box to be disposed of when you get off the river. On unregulated wilderness rivers, spread cold ashes away from the river. Make sure the fire is totally out to avoid accidentally starting a wildfire.\n\nOn regulated rivers you are often required to pack out the ashes from your fires. Make sure they are cold before you load them up.\n\n 6. Respect wildlife. Observe wildlife from a distance. Do not follow or approach wild animals. Be aware of the fact that you travel quickly and quietly in a raft and can often come upon animals unexpectedly. Try to make noise to warn them of your approach. If you are causing animals distress, either pull over and let them get away from you, or move on downriver and away. Avoid wildlife during sensitive times, such as mating or nesting season, in spring when animals are raising young, or in winter when conditions are harsh.\n\nNever feed animals. Feeding animals damages their health, alters natural behaviors, and exposes them to predators and other dangers. Feeding includes leaving food scraps around camp. Be sure to keep your camp clean to avoid creating camp robbers.\n\nControl your pets at all times, or leave them at home.\n\nIt's common to see bighorn sheep, deer, moose, waterfowl, and other wildlife as you float downriver. Try not to disturb them as you pass. If you see signs of agitation, move away and leave them alone.\n\n 7. Be considerate of other visitors. Respect other visitors and protect the quality of their experience. Be courteous. Yield to other users on the trail or on the river. Take breaks away other visitors. Let nature's sounds prevail.\n\nWhen floating on rivers, don't pull in to a beach where another party is taking a break or camping unless you have no choice or are visiting a special site. Some rivers have assigned campsites; on others the campsites are first come, first served. If you know you want to stop at a specific spot for the night, get moving early in the day to ensure you get there before someone else does.\n\nSpecial Considerations for Rafting in Bear Country\n\nSome of the best rafting in the world takes place in bear country, so it's important to know how to camp and travel to protect yourself and the bears.\n\nMost bears don't want anything to do with people. But if you stumble upon one in the midst of a meal, protecting its young, or simply by surprise, the bear's natural reaction is to protect itself, its food, and its young. Rarely, you may encounter an aberrant bear that is aggressive for no clear reason. In either case, one too many encounters between bears and humans, and game managers end up \"removing\" the bear\u2014a euphemism for killing it. To avoid this, we need to be thoughtful when we travel in bear country.\n\nThe number one strategy for avoiding an unexpected encounter with a bear is to make noise. Travel in groups when you hike away from camp\u2014and by groups, we mean three or more people close together. If you get spread out, the impact of your group is lost.\n\nIf you know you will be traveling in bear country, make sure you take special precautions to protect yourself, your food, and the bears.\n\nCarry bear spray. Bear spray has been proven the most effective way to stop a bear attack. But you need to have your spray handy. Having the spray in the top of your pack or in a dry bag on your raft does you no good whatsoever if a bear starts to charge you. If you plan to hike away from the river in bear country, several members of your party should carry bear spray. Make sure they have practiced shooting it off quickly so that if they find themselves in a situation where they need it, they'll be able to suppress their natural urge to run and respond appropriately.\n\nThe recommended behavior in a bear encounter is for everyone to group up so you look big. Talk quietly so the bear gets a sense of what you are. Pull your bear spray out. If the bear charges, you want to deploy the bear spray when the animal is roughly 25 to 30 feet away. Be aware of the wind direction. If the wind is coming toward you, wait longer. You may need to spray multiple times to deter a bear.\n\nIf bear spray does not cause the bear to turn and run, drop to the ground and play dead, curling up under your backpack if you are wearing one, and protecting your neck and head with your hands. In many cases, the bears will lose interest if they no longer perceive you to be a threat. If a bear seems to be trying to eat you, fight aggressively.\n\nNeedless to say, playing dead, holding your ground\u2014even getting your bear spray out of its holster and administering a blast\u2014take a lot of composure in the face of a charging bear, especially when your instincts are screaming \"run.\" For all these reasons it's important to do everything you can to avoid bear encounters and to practice the appropriate response so it's instinctive when you get surprised.\n\nRemember to store all food in dry boxes or coolers on the raft to keep bears out. Keep all your smelly stuff stored with your food. That includes toothpaste, sunscreen, and bug repellant\u2014anything that doesn't smell like nature. Sleep away from the kitchen area.\n\nFinal Thoughts on LNT\n\nIf you've traveled down any popular, permit-controlled river, you know that there are hundreds, if not thousands, of people using the same campsites throughout the rafting season, and yet most of these sites are remarkably clean. That's because of LNT. River regulations are designed to minimize camper impacts, and if we all follow the rules and do our part to clean up after ourselves, the river will remain wild and beautiful despite our numbers.\n\nTake time to ensure you have the equipment you need to travel safely. When emergencies or shortages occur, LNT tends to fly out the window. That makes sense\u2014after all, personal safety is our No. 1 priority\u2014but it's a shame to sacrifice the river corridor because we neglected to bring enough fuel and have to build a big fire to stay warm.\n\nIf we do our part to take care of the river, it will continue to be healthy, beautiful, and enjoyable for all of us.\nChapter Twelve\n\nRiver-Specific Health and First Aid\n\nIf you plan to spend a lot of time on wilderness rivers, you should take a wilderness first aid course and CPR. Wilderness first aid is different from the basics you learn in the city, where an ambulance is usually just a few minutes away. On a river trip, it can take hours, if not days, for you to get help, so you need to know how to stabilize and care for an injured or sick person for a long time.\n\nThis book is not a first aid guide. However, there are some river-specific health and safety concerns that are worth mentioning.\n\nCold-Water Swim\n\nMost of the time, an unexpected flip and swim are relatively inconsequential. Sure, it can be startling and even scary, but it's usually not hard to get back into your raft. Flipping your raft happens when you push your boating skills and tackle more difficult objectives. It's one way that you get better, and if you are wearing the right clothes for a swim, you'll be fine. Don't panic if you come out of your raft and end up in the water.\n\nAs mentioned earlier, you should assume the defensive swimmer position\u2014on your back; feet up and pointing downstream\u2014unless you decide to actively swim to avoid a hazard or reach safety, in which case you'll be on your belly swimming freestyle. Whichever position you are in, keep your feet up! Breathe in the troughs between waves to avoid a mouthful of water, and try to relax. Unless you are in an extreme situation, you will be fine. Obviously bad stuff happens on rivers, but most of the time swimming a rapid is more uncomfortable than dangerous.\n\nThat said, you don't want to underestimate the dangers of swimming in cold-water rapids. Swimmers can get chilled and exhausted quickly if they are in cold water for a long time. Remember, the rule of thumb for unprotected cold-water immersion is 1-10-1: 1 minute of cold water shock, when your breathing and heart rate accelerate; 10 minutes of functional movement, when you have the physical power and strength to fight to help yourself; 1 hour before you pass out from hypothermia if you remain submerged. Obviously, these times are drawn out if you are wearing proper attire, such as a dry suit. But it's still important to recognize that people can get cold fast, and may be unable to help themselves.\n\nGoing for a swim is not a health emergency, but it can become one if the water is cold and the swimmer isn't dressed for the conditions.\n\nIf a member of your party swims, your first step is to get him or her out of the water. However, it's important to remember that in all first aid and rescue situations, the well-being of the rescuer is the No. 1 priority. Don't jeopardize your safety or the safety of other members of your party to perform a rescue. If you cannot help someone without risking your own life, you should not attempt to help. That sounds cold-hearted, but the reality is things can escalate quickly and casualties mount when people attempt to be superheroes. Don't take unnecessary risks. Do what you can but make sure you stay safe.\n\nHow to Pull a Swimmer onto a Raft\n\n 1. Grab the swimmer by the shoulder straps of his PFD.\n 2. Consider pushing down on him first to gain some extra bounce as his PFD pops up due to its buoyancy.\n 3. Fall backward into the raft, pulling the swimmer in with you. Use your weight and gravity, not your strength, to pull him in.\n\nHelp swimmers get back into the raft by pulling them up with their life jackets. Swimmers can make things easier by pulling up on the grab line and kicking their legs aggressively while still in the water.\n\nOnce you've pulled a swimmer out of the water, his or her condition determines your next step. Most of the time the person will be just fine. But you do need to be prepared to administer first aid if the swimmer is cold or injured.\n\nDo a quick patient assessment to determine the swimmer's condition. This includes the ABCDEs of first aid (airway, breathing, circulation, disability, and environment). If your patient's ABCs are compromised\u2014he or she isn't breathing or is bleeding profusely, for example\u2014you need to stop and treat that problem right away. These are life-threatening problems, and your patient will die if you don't address them as quickly as possible.\n\nThreats to life: The ABCDEs\n\nThere are a few simple things you can do in the first five minutes after an accident to save someone's life. They include the following:\n\n * Airway: People die if they do not have an airway, or an open passage to get oxygen into their lungs. If someone is drowning, get him to shore and immediately check to see if his airway is open. If your patient can talk, he has an airway, is breathing, and has a pulse. That means you can move on to see if he is bleeding or has suffered some traumatic injury. If your patient is unconscious and you cannot detect breathing, tilt his head back and lift his chin. If you think there could be a spinal cord injury, just lift his chin without tilting his head. Often this will be enough to restore breathing. \n * Breathing: Look, listen, and feel for signs of breathing. Is your patient's chest rising? Can you feel air against your cheek? Can you hear breathing sounds? If you do not detect any signs of breathing after twenty seconds or so, maintain your patient's head tilt and chin lift, and blow two quick breaths into her mouth. If the breaths go in, continue rescue breathing at a rate of about twenty breaths per minute. If the breaths do not go in, reposition the head and try again. If you still cannot get air in, look in the person's mouth to see if there is anything obstructing the airway. If so remove it; if not, reposition her head with the head-tilt, chin-lift technique and try again to blow air into the lungs. Keep trying until you succeed or someone with more experience and training takes over.\n\nDrowning\u2014or near-drowning\u2014victims will often throw up. Anticipate this and be prepared to roll them on their side so they do not aspirate. If you have a face mask, use it to protect yourself from vomit while performing rescue breathing. If not, you may want to place a bandanna over the victim's mouth to serve as a physical barrier.\n\n * Circulation: If you are trained in CPR, once you establish breathing\u2014either because the patient is breathing on her own or you are doing rescue breathing\u2014check for a pulse and go into the CPR routine. If you are not trained, continue rescue breathing as necessary and check for bleeding by sweeping your hands all over your patient's body to look for blood. Remember, if your patient is wearing a dry suit or rain gear, you will need to get inside his clothes to detect bleeding, as the blood will not pass through the waterproof material. If you find major hemorrhaging, try to control the bleeding by placing a sterile dressing\u2014or whatever you have that can absorb the blood\u2014directly onto the wound and pressing down. Elevate the area above the heart if possible. \n * Disability: Check quickly for any obvious signs of trauma. Consider the mechanism of injury. If your patient has taken a big swim through a rocky rapid, have him lie quietly and keep his head or neck still until you can ensure he has not sustained a head or neck injury. You can immobilize your patient by having someone place a hand on his head or by placing bags around it to help remind him not to move.\n * Environment: Remember, it's likely your patient is going to be cold. Get her out of the water and into a warm, dry place. Have her lie on a pad or something to insulate her from the ground. Replace wet clothes with dry ones and pull out a sleeping bag to help hasten the rewarming process.\n\nStabilize your patient as best you can and seek help.\n\nPatient Exam\n\nOnce you've gone over the ABCs, you may want to conduct a head-to-toe exam. If your patient bumped through rocks at high speed, the mechanism for injury is real and you want to be sure he or she has no other problems, such as a head or neck injury or a broken bone. If you know the patient was just in the water for a long time and has gotten cold, you can skip this step.\n\nTake a few minutes to ask the patient a few basic questions. You can get a good sense of a person's level of consciousness by asking his name, where he is, what day and time it is, and what happened. If your patient has trouble answering these questions, be on the lookout for further deterioration and consider the possibility of a head injury.\n\nAny threat to life is serious. If you are deep in the wilderness, it can take a long time to get your patient to a hospital, especially if she cannot walk or boat. Monitor the individual's vital signs (pulse, respiration rate, level of consciousness, skin color and temperature, and pupil size and evenness) every half an hour or so (more if you suspect a serious injury) to keep track of her condition. A normal adult has a resting pulse between 60 and 100 beats per minute (athletes may have rates in the 40s), breathes 12 to 20 times per minute, has pink, warm, dry skin (in dark-skinned people, look at nail beds to detect this skin color), and pupils that are even in size and reactive to light. A normal level of responsiveness is demonstrated by a person who knows her name, location, the time of day, and what happened. Any signs of deterioration in these vital signs ups the urgency of the evacuation.\n\nPeople often have drastically different baselines in terms of their heart rates, breathing rates, etc., so stay calm if you initially get what seem to be bad numbers for your patient's vital signs. That might be normal for them. Watch for the trend over time and if vital signs continue to worsen despite your best care, then you probably need to get your patient to advanced medical care as quickly as possible.\n\nIt is helpful to carry pain medication with you on wilderness expeditions. Recent research indicates that a maximum recommended dosage of ibuprofen taken in conjunction with the maximum recommended dosage of acetaminophen can provide as much pain relief as prescription pain medications. You can take the ibuprofen and acetaminophen together or, better yet, stagger the two every four hours.\n\nGetting Help\n\nOn remote rivers you should carry some kind of communication device that will allow you to get help in the event of an emergency. Remember, calling 911 usually isn't the best option. Check with the land managers in charge of the river you are running to find out who you should call if something goes wrong. It could be they want you to call them, or perhaps the local search and rescue group. Write down important phone numbers and store them with your communication device so they are easy to find.\n\nSigns and Symptoms of Hypothermia\n\nHypothermia\u2014or too little heat\u2014causes a gradual deterioration in a patient's mental and physical abilities. At the far end of the spectrum, when patients are severely hypothermic, they are unresponsive. Severe hypothermia is deadly, so it's important to recognize what's happening and take action to stop it immediately. Your patient doesn't have to take a swim to be hypothermic, and neither do you. Hypothermia can happen when boating in cold wet conditions, so be prepared.\n\nAs your core temperature drops, you begin to get clumsy. At first just your fine motor skills may be compromised. Your fingers don't work, and you can't zip up your life jacket, for instance. If you get colder your gross motor skills begin to be affected, and you may find yourself stumbling when you try to walk. Often hypothermic patients become apathetic or grumpy. Speech may be altered. As you slide from mild into moderate hypothermia, your level of consciousness deteriorates and you may answer questions inappropriately or be confused. Concisely put, the patient has the \"umbles\": They fumble, stumble, mumble, and grumble.\n\nIt can be easier to detect signs of hypothermia in someone other than yourself. Keep an eye on each other when you are paddling in wet, cold conditions. Boaters say 50 degrees and rainy is prime hypothermia weather if you are unprepared, so pay attention if you are out in those conditions. And pay attention to swimmers; they will get cold much faster.\n\nOur bodies lose heat in a number of ways, one of which is convection, or the loss of heat to water or air moving past our skin. The rate of convective heat loss depends on the difference in temperature between your body and the water, which means it can be as much as 25 times as chilling as standing in still, warm air if conditions are extreme. Remember this when you launch on a glacial river.\n\nTreatment for mild to moderate hypothermia\n\nIt is pretty easy to warm up when you first detect signs that you are getting too cold. Get out of the offending environment. Change into dry clothes or seek shelter. Do some jumping jacks, run around, or swing your arms and legs. Exercise ups our heat generation by 15 to 18 times. If you feel chilled, moving will help warm you up.\n\nAs you get colder, you'll grow more apathetic and may just feel like curling up in a ball. Exercise can still help, but most likely you'll need someone to force you to move. As a caregiver, you may have to be more assertive in your treatment if your patient is becoming lethargic. Again, make sure the patient is in warm, dry clothes and out of the offending elements. Pull out your stove and heat up some water for a hot beverage if the individual is able to drink from a cup without assistance.\n\nYou may want to light a fire. Some people carry an emergency reflective blanket in their first aid kits for hypothermia treatment. If you have a fire, your patient can sit in front of it wearing the emergency blanket like a cape to trap the fire's radiant heat.\n\nIf your patient is not responding to these treatments, it's time to get more aggressive. If you are on a river trip you'll have camping gear along, so you can make a hypothermic wrap to warm your patient. To make a wrap, place a ground cloth or a tent fly on the ground. Lay a sleeping pad in the middle of the tarp kitty-corner to the midline. Place a sleeping bag on top of the pad. Have your patient strip down to a dry base layer, put on a warm hat, and get into the sleeping bag. You will probably need to provide assistance.\n\nMeanwhile, heat up a couple of liters of water on a stove or fire. The water does not have to boil. You just want it to be hot enough to warm\u2014not burn\u2014your patient. Pour the water into two or three water bottles. If it feels too hot to be next to your skin, wrap the bottle in a sock or T-shirt.\n\nPlace the water bottles in the bag with your patient. It's nice to have the bottles near the patient's core: between the legs in the groin area or under the armpits. Zip up the sleeping bag and snug it tightly around your patient's head, leaving the face clear. Next fold the corner of the tarp by the patient's feet in over the sleeping bag, and then bring the sides of the tarp across him or her, tucking them in tightly. Wrap the tarp around the patient's head. Don't cover the face. Your patient will be swaddled in the tarp and should look like a burrito when you are done.\n\nOur bodies warm slowly. If we get really cold, it could take hours for us to rewarm. During that time, you'll need to replace the hot water bottles periodically. People who are less cold will recover more rapidly. Moderately hypothermic people are wiped out by the experience. If your patient takes hours to rewarm, he or she may take days to feel normal. In this scenario, you should not expect the individual to be able to row or paddle effectively.\n\nIf your patient is severely hypothermic, gently wrap him or her up in a hypothermic wrap. Do not be too jarring or rough in your handling, as sudden movements can cause heart problems in a severely cold human. Place hot water bottles in with the patient but be extra careful the bottles are not too hot. These patients will be unable to tell you if they are getting burned. The hypothermic wrap will not rewarm this person, but it can help prevent further heat loss. Go for help. This individual needs medical attention, but even if he or she appears dead, there is hope. Some severely hypothermic people are successfully rewarmed.\n\nUltimately, hypothermia is preventable if you pay attention to the environmental conditions, carry the appropriate gear, and respond quickly when you see the signs and symptoms of someone getting too cold. Aim to stop the problem when you can still do jumping jacks to get warm.\n\nDrowning\n\nDrowning or near drowning causes complex physiological responses. As a first responder, the details of what is going on are less important than the steps you can take to help save your patient.\n\nOne of the first things to be aware of is that drowning people do not always present in the thrashing, yelling, splashing way we expect (because we've watched too many movies). People who are drowning are often exhausted and can barely stay above the water. All their energy goes into trying to get a breath. They don't have time to yell for help. For this reason, it's important to keep your eyes on your partners if they go for a swim, and to try to get to them as quickly as possible.\n\nThis passivity changes if you get in the water next to someone who is drowning. Victims often panic and try to climb on top of rescuers in an attempt to get to the surface and air. You are better off approaching a drowning person with some kind of flotation device or a throw rope than with your own body. Sometimes that is impossible, and advanced swiftwater rescue courses will teach you how to dive in and swim to the assistance of victims. But this technique is not without risks, and rescuers are usually connected to shore with a rope to help pull them back to safety. If you are planning to boat highly technical rivers, gaining this skill is imperative. If you are in more moderate water, you are better off focusing on using a throw rope or your boat to assist a swimmer.\n\nIf you pull an unresponsive victim out of the river, go immediately to your ABCs. CPR and rescue breathing can be effective in near-drowning situations. Be prepared for your patient to vomit up ingested water. Call for help.\n\nFlush drowning\n\nFlush drowning occurs when a victim is denied air by rough water or from being held underwater by the force of the current. Flush drownings typically occur during high water, when rivers are in flood stage, or in long stretches of continuous rapids where it's difficult for swimmers to escape the current or rescuers to come to their assistance.\n\nOther River Ailments\n\nTrench foot\n\nTrench\u2014or immersion\u2014foot is nerve damage caused by prolonged exposure to cold, wet conditions. Trench foot is a nonfreezing injury and is most common in places like the Arctic, or occurs during early season travel when temperatures are cool and the weather wet.\n\nTrench foot can be extremely painful and most sufferers cannot walk. Treatment is rest and pain medication, but it's unlikely that the kind of pain meds most of us carry in our first aid kits will touch the pain the victim will experience. Only heavy-duty meds can dull the pain of acute immersion foot, so most people need to be evacuated.\n\nAvoiding immersion foot is the best medicine. To avoid trench foot make sure you do not tolerate cold feet. Wearing neoprene socks, GORE-TEX socks, or booties on the river can help. Dry suits with built-in socks are even better because your feet will not be wet during the day. If you feel your feet getting numb, stop and warm them up. Change your socks. Warm your feet on someone's belly. Swing your legs. Get out of your boat and run around. Consider wearing knee-high rubber boots or even waders to keep your feet dry, but remember these things can drag you down if they fill up with water so aren't recommended on rivers where you might take an unplanned swim.\n\nHand and foot cracks\n\nIf your hands and feet are wet all the time, you may end up with painful cracks in your skin. To help prevent cracking, wear socks and gloves, especially when you sleep at night. Slather your hands with a thick cream: Bag Balm, Vaseline, or Eucerin all work well to help keep your feet moist.\n\nIf you develop painful cracks, you can seal them closed with Super Glue or Nu Skin. Super Glue tubes dry out quickly in hot weather, so instead of bringing one tube, throw a handful of single-use containers in your first aid kit in case you end up with cracks.\n\nIt's also not uncommon to develop raw spots where the grit from silty water gets into your shoes and rubs away the skin. You can help prevent rubbing by wearing socks\u2014even with sandals\u2014and making sure your feet are dry and clean at night when you are sitting around camp.\n\nSunburn, sun bumps, and cold sores\n\nBeing out on the water intensifies the power of the sun, making you more susceptible to burns. Intense UV exposure also can cause sun bumps, or an itchy rash on the back of your hands and cheeks, and may trigger the development of cold sores on your lips. As a boater, you want to be aware of these possibilities, and take precautions to wear adequate sunscreen, as well as sun hats and maybe even gloves to protect your skin. (Lightweight gardening gloves work well in hot weather; neoprene gloves are best when it's cold.)\n\nPoison ivy and poison oak\n\nPoison ivy and poison oak are common along many river corridors. Learn to identify them so you can avoid an encounter. To help remember what these plants look like, remember \"Leaves of three, let it be,\" as both poison oak and poison ivy have leaves clumped in groups of three.\n\nIf you are sensitive to poison ivy or poison oak, bring along something like Tecnu or Ivarest to wash your skin in case you accidentally come into contact with the plant. This may prevent you from developing a rash. It's also a good idea to pack calamine lotion or anti-itch cream, like hydrocortisone, to help deal with the discomfort of a poison oak or ivy rash.\n\nPoison ivy and poison oak can be beautiful when they turn red in the fall, but they can also make your trip miserable if your skin comes in contact with them. Know what poison ivy and poison oak look like so you can avoid them.\n\nBees and wasps\n\nUnfortunately, it's common in many river camps to be surrounded by yellow jackets or bees. Bring along a few traps to put up in camp to help keep them out of the kitchen. Wasps seem to be attracted to meat, so you can put meat in the traps to improve their efficacy. If you or any members of your party get stung, it's nice to have some kind of sting relief medication in your first aid kit. And it goes without saying that people with bee allergies should carry an antihistamine and some form of epinephrine in case they get stung.\n\nPersonal Hygiene\n\nYou can get a little funky sitting in a wet boat if you do it day in and day out. And wearing a wet suit or clammy dry suit, or going without a shower for days on end, can make it hard to stay fresh as a daisy. It's important to take care of your nether parts when you are in the backcountry, and the best way to do that is by keeping clean. Lots of boaters carry a bandanna or washcloth dedicated to sponge baths, and they will clean off every day to ensure they don't end up with something itchy or painful.\n\nWhere you take your sponge bath depends on river regulations. Some say bathe in the river; others say do it 200 feet above the high-water mark. Make sure you know where you are supposed to be before you bathe. If you use soap, rinse thoroughly as soap can irritate your skin if you don't get it off. Let yourself dry completely. The key is to not let things get too damp and warm down there. That's when you run into trouble.\n\nJust in case, throw some kind of antifungal cream, such as Monistat for yeast infections, into your first aid kit. For long trips, see if your doctor will prescribe a round of antibiotics to treat anyone who develops a bladder infection.\n\nFurther Education\n\nWilderness trips take you far from emergency care. You are on your own out there. That solitude is what makes expeditioning exciting\u2014but don't be reckless in your adventuring. There's a difference between a skilled backcountry traveler attempting difficult challenges and a novice getting in over his or her head. Be realistic about your skills and experience, and choose objectives conservatively. You are responsible for the health and safety of yourself and your teammates. If you plan to partake in a wilderness rafting trip, you should consider taking first aid, CPR, and a swiftwater rescue course before you go. These courses give you the tools you need to handle emergencies, improvise treatment, and get yourself out of trouble.\n\nSee the appendix for a first aid and drug kit checklist.\nChapter Thirteen\n\nBasic River Rescue\n\nSafety Talk\n\nIt's important\u2014even when you are out with friends\u2014to begin the trip with some kind of safety talk to ensure that everyone in your group is on the same page. This talk can feel contrived if you've been on lots of rivers together, but it's important to check in with each other every time you head out together to make sure you have all the proper gear, you know who's in charge, and you're aware of the hazards you may meet on the river. If you are familiar with each other, the check-in can be brief. If it's your first time on a river trip with a particular group, be more thorough and take your time.\n\nHere's a basic outline of the key points to cover:\n\n 1. Equipment check\n 1. Make sure everyone has PFDs, helmets, proper boating attire, and basic safety equipment. Take time to check the fit and quality of life jackets and helmets with beginners and kids.\n 2. Make sure you have first aid kits, pin kits, throw bags, repair kits, and other safety equipment, and let everyone know where these items are stored so they can be accessed quickly.\n 3. Make sure you have communication devices, or have left a travel plan with others in case something happens and you don't return on time.\n 2. Review what to do if someone falls out of the raft or a raft flips.\n 3. Review commands and signals.\n 4. Discuss plans for group management on the river (boat order, group leader, etc.)\n 5. Go over the basic itinerary for the day and discuss potential hazards, rapids, the lunch stop, the campsite, day hikes, etc. \n 6. Discuss who will be in charge in an emergency. Share medical information as necessary.\n\nWhen Things Go Wrong\n\nYou can run into all kinds of glitches during a day on the river. Most of the time they won't be a big deal: Someone falls out of the raft and needs to be pulled out of the river, or your raft gets stuck on a rock. For minor issues you usually can respond with simple solutions that don't require equipment or skill. Remember the adage: \"Go slow to go fast.\" Once something goes wrong you usually have time to come up with a plan. Rushing into a rescue blindly almost always causes more chaos, so pause, look around, and figure out what to do next.\n\nYou will probably find yourself on a rock or upside down at some point in your rafting career, so it's a good idea to know a little bit about basic rescue to get yourself out of trouble.\n\nRescue Priorities\n\nAs with first aid, your first priority in an emergency situation is your own well-being. After that you should consider the well-being of your teammates and, only when you are confident that everyone is safe, do you consider the plight of your victim. Size up the scene. This shouldn't take long, but give yourself a good fifteen to twenty seconds to look around, get a visual on everyone in your party, and figure out what is going on. This pause also allows you to calm down so you are better able to perform methodically and efficiently.\n\nPeople always come first in an emergency, followed by equipment\u2014which could be vital if you are on a multiday trip in the wilderness\u2014and finally the environment. In a life or death situation, if you have to cut down trees to rescue someone, do it. But the hope is that you never find yourself in that situation.\n\nPeople always come first in an emergency, followed by equipment. If you can't retrieve your raft or rafts without jeopardizing the safety of the team, leave them.\n\nKeep it simple\n\nYou are less likely to make mistakes and more likely to be successful if you keep your rescue operation as simple as possible.\n\nThe simplest, safest rescue is a self-rescue. If you can get yourself back into your raft on your own, do it.\n\nIn general, when rescuing a swimmer, think: Reach, Row, Throw, or Go. Your first thought should be: Can I reach the swimmer with a paddle or my hand? If you are using a paddle, pass the T-grip to the swimmer so she has something easy to grab on to. Remember, whether you are reaching with your hand or your paddle, you need to be in a secure position so the victim won't pull you off balance and into the water.\n\nIf you are in your raft, and the line downstream is clear, row over to the swimmer. When you are close enough, reach out to the swimmer with your hand or paddle to pull her close to the boat. Then help her back on the raft.\n\nWhen pulling someone onto the raft, grab her by the shoulder straps of her PFD. Have the swimmer kick her legs up to the surface of the water and keep kicking to help give you some momentum. Pull up and back on the PFD. Your best bet is to just fall back into the boat with the swimmer. This takes the least amount of physical strength.\n\nIf you cannot row to the swimmer, or if you are on shore, your next option is to throw a throw bag to her. Ropes in water can be very dangerous. In fact, the main reason rafters carry knives on their PFDs is to cut their way out of a rope that has entangled them or someone else.\n\nBecause of the risk of entanglement, you should rarely, if ever, toss a throw bag from a moving raft. Rather, throw from onshore or from a raft that is tied to shore or secure in an eddy.\n\nIn some situations, your only option is to swim, or \"go,\" to your victim. However, this option exposes you to considerable danger and only should be attempted if you are trained in swiftwater rescue and have the proper equipment, such as a rescue vest, to tow your victim.\n\nThrow ropes from shore\n\nOften the best way to reach a swimmer is with a rope thrown from shore. It's tricky to master this skill. Throw bags don't feel or act the way a ball does when you throw it; you also have the current to contend with in terms of aim, and you often have only one shot to reach the victim before he or she is carried away downstream. Take time to practice tossing your throw bag to develop your accuracy and range.\n\nTossing a rope to a swimmer with accuracy can be challenging in the heat of the moment, so take time to practice using your throw bag onshore, where you can fine-tune your skills.\n\nRescuer\n\nIn the best-case scenario, you have spotters posted along the sides of a rapid armed with throw bags and ready to be of assistance if someone takes a swim. Choose your location carefully. You need to be in a secure, balanced position where you can brace yourself against the weight of the swimmer. Find a spot with slow water or an eddy downstream that will serve as a safe landing zone for your victim.\n\nIf you are not already in position when your partner flips, you'll just have to run to a good spot to make a toss.\n\nWhen you get in position, yell or blow your whistle to alert the swimmer to your presence and the fact that you are there to throw a rope to him or her if needed. If you can't get the swimmer's attention, don't throw the rope.\n\nTry to throw the bag when the swimmer is straight across from you or slightly upstream, so you create an angle when the person weights the rope that will allow him or her to pendulum in to shore.\n\nGet into an athletic stance, with your front foot braced. You may also choose to sit down after you throw the bag so you are in a stronger position to withstand the force of the swimmer and the current.\n\nYou can throw the bag overhand, underhand, or sidearm. All work. In general, overhand and sidearm throws have more distance. Underhand throws tend to be more accurate and are good for short, quick tosses. Place the bag in your throwing hand and hold the end of the rope in the other hand. Pull out a couple of arm lengths of rope before you toss so you have room to wind up for a big throw. Aim to hit the swimmer in the head with the bag. Remember to keep hold of the end of the rope so you don't throw the whole thing in the river, and remove any carabiners you may have used to clip the throw bag to your raft so you don't hit your swimmer with something hard.\n\nWhen the swimmer grabs the rope, try to pull out any slack in the system and brace yourself for the impact of his or her weight. If the force feels too powerful, sit down or walk down along the shoreline to reduce the pressure on the rope. If you are having a hard time holding on, the swimmer probably is too. You can flip the rope behind your back and hip belay the victim to shore, using friction from the rope running across your body to help resist the force of the river. You can also get your teammates to grab onto your PFD to help hold you in place.\n\nOnce the throw rope is deployed, brace yourself for the impact of the swimmer's weight. If you have more than one person on shore, they can help hold you in place, or you can brace yourself against a rock. Hold the rope around your back for added friction.\n\nMoe Witschard\n\nDon't wrap the rope around your hands or arms for better purchase. Remember, the rope can quickly change from an aid to a deadly trap if you get entangled in it and pulled into the river.\n\nSwimmer\n\nIf you find yourself swimming, be alert and on the lookout for a rescuer as you get carried downstream. When a throw rope lands, try as hard as you can to get to it. Grab the rope\u2014not the bag, as there may be more line in the bag\u2014with both hands, flip over onto your back, place the rope over the shoulder that is opposite your rescuer, and hang on tight. You'll feel a strong jerk when the slack goes out of the system and the rope goes taut. Be ready for that pull. Kick hard to help your rescuers pull you in. You will pendulum over to the shore. Don't let go or try to stand up until you are in shallow, slow-moving water.\n\nSwimmers should place the throw rope over their outside or upstream shoulders and flip over onto their backs, kicking hard to help the rescuers. This swimmer will pivot downstream and into shore as the rope gets taut.\n\nMoe Witschard\n\nSwimmer Rescues\n\nIf you must send someone out to a victim or raft, there are several techniques that you can use. Remember, the rescuer will be attached to a rope in moving water, which is dangerous. Make sure the rope is connected with a quick release mechanism so the rescuer can get out of it quickly if things go wrong.\n\nTwo people working together are able to wade to a victim through deeper, swifter water than one person working alone.\n\nMoe Witschard\n\n 1. Team wade: Rescuers can work together to wade out to someone to provide assistance. Use a big stick for support, and have team members hang onto the lead person's PFD to keep his feet down. \n 2. Direct lower: If you can reach a point directly upstream of the accident site, a rescuer can be lowered down to the area. \n 3. Tethered swimmer: In this situation, the rescuer is attached to a rope that is managed from the shore while he or she swims to the accident site. This technique takes skill and experience. \n 4. Fixed rope: A fixed line is a tight line across the river at water level that allows a rescuer to travel hand-over-hand along the rope to the accident site. The fixed line is tightened with a Z-drag.\n 5. Zip line: A zip line is also a tight, fixed line at water level, but it is placed at an angle to the current so the rescuer can use the current to carry him or her to the accident site.\n\nSwimming Revisited\n\nWe've already talked about defensive and aggressive swimming in a rapid, but there are a few more things to consider. One is that you can use all the techniques you use in your raft with your body. You can swim for an eddy if you want to get out of the current. You can angle your body and ferry. The key is to keep your feet up at all times to avoid any chance of foot entrapment.\n\nIf you go over a big drop or into a hole, curl up. The turbulence of the drop or hole can toss you around, so keeping your arms and legs pulled in close helps reduce the likelihood of entrapment or injury. Once you are on the surface, reorient yourself and figure out what comes next. Some hydraulics are difficult to escape. You can try to get to the side or downstream edge of the hydraulic and reach your arm or paddle out over the boil line into the main current, which may pull you out. If this doesn't work, you may need to go deep. Dive down to the bottom where the water is usually moving downstream and see if you can ride that current out. This all sounds very scary\u2014and if you've ever been in a recirculating hole you would probably agree that it is, in fact, very scary\u2014but these kinds of holes are not that common on Class III rivers at moderate flows. Still, it helps to have an understanding of what is happening so in the event you find yourself being tossed around, you can be proactive in your efforts to get out.\n\nGetting Back on Your Raft\n\nThe best place to be if you come out of your raft is back in or on it. If the raft is upside down, you are still in a better position sitting on top of it than you are in the water going down a rapid. It can be hard to get into or onto a raft without assistance, so it's worth practicing in flat water to see what you need to succeed.\n\nRemember that the bow and stern of the raft are higher out of the water then the sides, so go to the side where reentry will be as easy as possible. If your raft is upside down, the ends will actually be lower than the sides, so your best bet is to head to the bow or stern to get on board.\n\nTry to position yourself on the downstream side of the raft so the current isn't pushing your legs underneath the boat. Think of pulling yourself toward the raft rather than straight up. You can give yourself a little boost using the flotation of your PFD if you push yourself underwater and then lunge up and forward, kicking hard. Use the raft handles, D rings, or perimeter line to pull on. Some people hook a flip line onto the raft frame that they can pull on. You can also grab onto drain holes, or use the lacing on a drop-stitch floor for a handhold. If, when you practice, none of these techniques work, you may want to create a small, permanent handle with a loop of webbing that comes out a drain hole on the bottom of the raft to help you up and out of the water. Again, any loop of webbing or rope is a potential entrapment risk, so do this with caution.\n\nYou can create a kind of stirrup to help people get back into the raft on their own. Here, a piece of webbing has been strung around the stern of the raft to help the guide get back into the boat.\n\nBellyband\n\nA bellyband is a rope or section of webbing that runs along the underside of the raft between attachment points near the oarlocks. The band should be snug to avoid becoming an entanglement hazard and to keep it from snagging on rocks. The idea is simple: The band gives swimmers a strap to pull on to help get on top of the raft in the event of a flip. Some people hate having any extra ropes or lines on their rafts so forgo using a bellyband. If you don't want one, make sure you've practiced getting back on your raft so you know how you'll do it in the event of a swim.\n\nIf you cannot get on using these tricks, you may need to undo your bow or stern line, and run it through a D ring or around an oarlock so you have something to secure the rope to. You'll then need to head to the opposite side of the raft to try to haul yourself up using the rope. This is not ideal, as you end up with a free rope and swimmers in the water, which is not good. Furthermore, it takes a long time to set the system up. It's best to practice getting on the raft to see if you need to rig some kind of assistance before you end up in a situation where you need to get out of the water.\n\nUprighting an Overturned Raft\n\nPaddle rafts are much easier to upright than a loaded oar rig. They are also easier to flip, so you are more likely to have to perfect your uprighting technique with a paddle raft than an oar rig. But if you are pushing your abilities as a rafter, you are going to flip sometime in your career, so it's important to know what to do.\n\nHow to Make a Flip Line\n\nFlip lines, or guide belts, can be used for a variety of tasks, including helping you upright an overturned raft. To create a flip line, use a piece of 1-inch tubular webbing that is roughly 10 feet long. (You'll want to personalize the length to fit your torso, so it's best to wait to cut until you know how much you'll need.)\n\nFold the webbing in half to make a bight. Hold the bight at your navel and wrap the webbing around your waist two times. Tie the two ends together with a water knot and clip the loop into the bight with a carabiner (a locking carabiner is best but not essential). You want the guide belt to be snug to avoid any entanglement issues. You may want to allow a little leeway in the webbing length to account for winter and summer layering. If so, you can get rid of excess length by twisting the water knot a few times to shorten the loop.\n\nA water knot is used to connect pieces of flat webbing together.\n\nOnce you are on top of a paddle raft, clip the carabiner on your flip line into a D ring on the downstream side of your raft. On an oar rig, attach your flip line to the frame and remove the oars from the oarlocks. If you have a fully loaded raft, you'll probably need a few people on separate flip lines to get enough umph to right the boat. Once the flip lines are attached, stand on the upstream tube and lean back. One person's body weight is usually enough to upright a paddle raft. It will take more to turn over an oar rig.\n\nMake sure you check over your shoulder for rocks before you try to flip the raft, as you are going to land in the water when the raft comes over.\n\nSome people carry flip lines attached to their rafts. People have different views on this, and there are a variety of systems used. One is to have a flip line stuffed into a bag and hooked onto the oar frame with a carabiner for easy access. Most people go with one bag on each side in this scenario. The trick is to make sure the bag stays closed until you need it open. Again, an extra line in the water is dangerous.\n\nAnother technique, commonly used with dories but applicable to rafts, is to have a flip line run from an attachment point on the frame near the oarlock to the bow or stern. In the event of a flip, you can detach the bow or stern point to free the line so you can upright the boat. Again, a flip line on each side allows you to be prepared for whichever way your boat is drifting downstream.\n\nSometimes this technique is not adequate for a very heavy boat. If you can't upright your raft standing on the tubes, you may have to do it from shore. In this case, attach a rope to the tube closest to shore, run it under the boat and through a D ring or handle on the far side, and then back to shore. Get all hands on deck and pull. This technique allows you to twist the entire raft, and can give you enough leverage to right a fully loaded oar rig.\n\nOverturned rafts can be righted from shore. For a lightweight paddle raft, you can attach your rope to two points on the tube farthest from shore and then get your team together to pull until the raft comes over. If your raft is loaded with gear, you may need to attach your rope to two points on the near tube, then run it under the raft and up and over the far tube before pulling. This setup gives you a bit more leverage.\n\nEric Riley, Swiftwater Safety Institute\n\nGetting Stuck on a Rock\n\nInevitably, you are going to find yourself perched on a rock at some point in your rafting career. Sometimes this can actually be useful. It gives you a chance to pause, catch your breath, and take a look at what's happening around you. Whatever you do, stay calm and breathe. You are fine, just stuck.\n\nIf your raft gets stuck on a rock in shallow water, you can just get as many people as possible to push it until it's free.\n\nObviously, you don't want to stay on the rock forever. If you have a chance, as the boat hits the rock, try to spin away. This may keep you from getting pinned. If that doesn't work and you are, in fact, pinned, try to figure out exactly where the rock is (or rocks are). This can help you determine the direction you want to try to move the raft. Move people in the raft away from the rock. Try to spin the raft by paddling or rowing on the opposite side. Attach your flip line to the stuck side and attempt to peel the raft off the rock. Get your passengers or crew to help.\n\nIf you don't have any luck with these tricks, move to a different part of the raft and try again. Sometimes shifting around can be all that it takes to unweight from the rock and free a raft. If you know one tube is floating freely, you can bounce on it. Beware: If you get a bunch of people bouncing on a tube on top of a rock, you can damage the raft, so only bounce if you know you aren't ramming the tube into a sharp object.\n\nIt can help to soften your tubes, so after trying the tricks listed above, release a little air from the raft and see if that helps. If none of these techniques are effective, check to see if it is possible to safely climb out of the raft onto the rock. From there, you may be able to push the raft off. Plus, getting weight out of the boat may be all it takes to dislodge it. But make sure you have a good plan for getting back in the raft once it comes free. The last thing you want is to leave a bunch of people stranded on a rock in the middle of the river.\n\nIf you can climb safely onto the rock that is pinning your raft, you may be able to come up with more options for freeing it. But make sure you have a plan for getting off the rock should the boat come free.\n\nIf you are still unsuccessful, you may need assistance. Signal to the rest of your party. Sometimes a raft upstream can come down and bump you off a rock. Or you may need to resort to a rope system from shore to get free.\n\nBefore you resort to elaborate rope systems to free your raft, try to improvise. Here, rafters are using rope simply to help them gain some leverage in an attempt to free their raft.\n\nEntrapment\n\nMost river fatalities involve the use of alcohol, the failure to wear a PFD, and hypothermia\u2014all of which are avoidable errors often associated with people who have no business being on a river. But entrapments are a bit different. They can happen quickly and to people who are armed with the right equipment and knowledge. And they, too, can be deadly.\n\nThe defensive swimmer position is intended to help minimize the risk of entrapment, but some data suggests that numbers have actually increased since this position has been emphasized. The reason may be that swimmers are straightening their bodies as soon as they hit the water in an attempt to get onto their backs, putting themselves in vulnerable position with their legs down.\n\nIf you take a swim, pull your limbs in close to your body until you come to the water's surface. Then you can assess your situation. You may be able to swim back to the raft. You may be able to swim to an eddy. Or you may need to get on your back and into the defensive position. Don't be passive. Figure out what is happening and actively engage in rescuing yourself.\n\nThe danger with foot entrapment is that the current pushes victims forward and holds them there, face down in the water. It can be extremely difficult to dislodge a person against the weight of the entire river. Foot entrapments are a life-and-death emergency.\n\nYour first priority is to establish an airway for your victim. To do this, find a way to prop or pull her face up out of the water so she can get a mouthful of air. If you are in shallow water, you may be able to get a team of people to wade out to the victim and hold her up so she can breathe. You may then be able to give her a PFD or something she can use to support her upper body. These are temporary solutions that literally give you breathing room. But you will probably need to secure a rope across the river and under the victim's armpits to support her more securely while you attempt to get her foot out. Whenever you have a rope across a river, make sure to position someone upstream to alert any boaters coming down of the hazard.\n\nBe creative. You may not need to have the rope attached on the far shore. There may be an eddy that gives you a point midstream for an anchor. There may be a way to attach a rope upstream of the victim. You need to act quickly to establish an airway but then can slow down to figure out the best way to stabilize and eventually free the victim.\n\nOnce the victim has a stable airway, it's time to try to figure out how to release her. Unfortunately, there is no guarantee you will be able to do so. The force of the river may be too much. You'll need to be creative to figure out how to release pressure on the foot without undue injury to the victim. That said, there are plenty of stories of boaters breaking someone's femurs to free the person from a pin. In the long run, broken femurs are better than death.\n\nIt's all pretty dire. The best thing to do about foot entrapment is to avoid it. Understanding the consequences may help you react appropriately when you find yourself swimming. Keep your feet up and don't try to stand until you are in slow-moving water that is less than knee-deep.\n\nDislodging a Pinned Raft\n\nIf your raft is truly pinned, it's not going to come off without some outside assistance. That means ropes. Roped rescues take a long time, so before you start make sure everyone on your team is warm, fed, and comfortable. You will all perform better if those needs are taken care of.\n\nYour next step is to come up with a plan for removing the raft. You have a few options. Here are the two most straightforward ones.\n\nHuman-power pull\n\nThe simplest rope trick for unsticking a boat is to attach a line to the raft frame and have your entire crew pull on it. This works best if you looked at the situation carefully to assess the best direction of pull to free the boat. Often, a group of ten or more people will be able to dislodge a raft with brute force using this technique. It's simple, easy, and fast.\n\nVector pull\n\nThe next best trick is to try a vector pull. In this situation, one end of the rope is attached to the raft (clip it onto the frame with a piece of webbing and a carabiner) while the other end is clipped into some kind of anchor, such as a tree or boulder. The group then pulls back on the middle of the rope. This creates a simple 2-1 pulley system, giving you a slight mechanical advantage over hauling hand-over-hand. That advantage may be enough to move your boat.\n\nZ-drags\n\nOne step up from the vector pull is the Z-drag, or a 3-1 pulley system. The Z-drag is the simplest pulley system, but you can piggyback more pulleys and changes of direction onto it to increase your mechanical advantage if necessary. This book just covers the basics of a Z-drag, but if you plan to boat a lot of technical, Class IV or harder whitewater, you should take a swiftwater rescue course to hone your skills and give you the tools you need to improvise more elaborate rope systems as necessary.\n\nThe first step in setting up a rope system on a pinned raft is attaching the rope to the raft. Make sure you can do that safely before you commit.\n\nBasic Pin Kit\n\n * 150-foot, 10 millimeter static rope (approximate diameter and length). You can use your throw rope as long as it is made of Spectra or some material that is strong enough to withstand the forces of a Z-drag. Polypropylene is not sufficient.\n * 2 6-foot pieces of 1-inch tubular webbing for anchors onshore and on the raft\n * 1 or 2 4- to 6-foot pieces of 6 mm Perlon cord or similar accessory cord to make prusik loops. Make sure the difference in diameter between your prusik cord and the rope is enough for a prusik hitch to bite down and hold under a load. \n * 1\u20132 pulleys\n * Minimum of 3 locking carabiners\n\nRope Lingo\n\n * Working end: This is the name of the section of rope you are using to tie knots, etc. It's \"working.\"\n * Standing end: The standing end of your rope is opposite the working end. As its name indicates, the standing end does not move when you are working with your rope. The standing and working ends of a rope may flip-flop as you do different tasks. The names are always in reference to what is going on at that moment. \n * Bight: A bight is a bend in rope or webbing where the ends do not cross. A bight looks like a U. \n * Loop: A loop is a circle in webbing or rope where the ends cross or are tied together. A loop looks like an O.\n\nBuilding your Z-drag\n\nStep 1: Build an anchor. You will be putting a lot of force on your anchor when you begin hauling your raft, so make sure you find something that is bomber. Trees with trunks larger than 6 inches in diameter or refrigerator-size boulders make good anchors. Make sure to inspect your choice carefully. You're looking to see if a tree is alive and well rooted, or if a boulder is buried in the ground or wedged in place by other rocks. Try to shake or move your anchor choice before committing to it.\n\nOnce you find something that will work, tie a loop of webbing around it. Put the webbing low on the anchor. You can use a simple loop tied with a water knot, or you can girth hitch the webbing around your anchor. Check your knots to make sure they are tied properly.\n\nStep 2: Tie a figure eight or overhand on a bight in one end of your rope, and attach it to your raft with a locking carabiner. Consider the angles of your system as you decide where to attach your rope. Ideally you want to avoid having to pull your raft against the main force of the current. Instead, look to use the current to your advantage. With a paddle raft, attach the rope to at least two D rings. With an oar rig, use webbing to tie off to your frame. Again try to get around multiple points.\n\nIt can be tricky to get your rope to the raft if it's in the middle of the river. If someone is still on the raft, you can toss a throw bag to the individual. Or, if you have a boat upstream, you might be able to get to the raft that way. Swimming to the raft with your rope is your last resort, and should only be attempted by someone who is experienced swimming in whitewater. At this point, having an experienced kayaker on your team can be really helpful.\n\nStep 3: Place a pulley on your anchor webbing with a locking carabiner. Grab the rope that is coming from the raft and feed a bight through the pulley. Pull the slack out of the rope between the anchor and the raft.\n\nStep 4: Clip a second locking carabiner onto your anchor. Place a prusik hitch on the standing end of the rope (the end going out to the raft) about 10 inches from the pulley. Clip the prusik loop into the second locking biner. This prusik will allow you to reset your Z-drag if you run out of room hauling up your raft. Some pulleys are \"self-tending,\" which means they will block the prusik hitch, preventing it from getting sucked into the pulley. If you do not have a self-tending pulley, you will need to have someone monitor the prusik, keeping it loose until you want to reset the system.\n\nThe prusik hitch is a friction hitch placed on a rope that cinches down and grips the rope when weighted.\n\nNote: You can use a carabiner rather than a pulley to get the change of direction you need for your Z-drag, but carabiners have more friction and will reduce the mechanical advantage the system gives you.\n\nStep 5: Take the working end of your rope and move down along the standing end as far from your anchor and as close to your raft as possible. Your goal is to get close to the raft to minimize the number of times you have to reset the system. Place a second prusik hitch on the standing end of the rope. Clip a locking carabiner with a pulley into the prusik hitch loop, and feed a bight from the working end of your rope through the pulley. You can use a carabiner rather than a pulley here if that's all you have. Pulleys help minimize the friction in the system so you have more mechanical advantage.\n\nSome rafters like to hang PFDs along the rope between the anchor and the raft. If the rope should break, the PFDs help dampen the shock and keep the rope from snapping back and injuring people.\n\nStep 6: Start pulling. It helps to have a number of people join in to give you more power. Don't wrap the rope around your hands. Remember, it's easy to get entangled in a rope so never, ever, wrap it around yourself. Consider wearing a helmet just in case something breaks and you have stuff flying around.\n\nIf you run out of space and still haven't freed your raft, have the prusik minder at the anchor slide the hitch away from the anchor and then have the rest of the team slowly lower the rope until that prusik hitch catches and holds the load. Then slide the other prusik down the standing end of your rope, back toward the raft. Begin pulling on the rope again to make sure the prusik close to the raft catches. This will relieve pressure on the anchor prusik, allowing the minder to release the hitch by working slack into it. He then can slide the hitch away from the anchor so it doesn't get sucked into the pulley or carabiner.\n\nRepeat the process until the raft comes free or you are unable to pull any more rope in.\n\nThese rafters have set up a simple Z-drag system. Notice the person on the right is minding the anchor prusik so it doesn't get sucked up into the pulley.\n\nZ-Drag Hazards\n\nWhen you create a Z-drag to move a heavily loaded raft you generate huge forces. If something in the system fails\u2014a D ring pulls, the rope breaks\u2014you suddenly have dangerous projectiles flying around. Remember, gear is always second to human life and limb. If you don't have proper equipment in good condition or the technical expertise to construct a safe Z-drag capable of withstanding the forces you put on it, it's better to leave your raft in place and recover it later with the help of an expert.\n\nLast Thoughts on Rescue\n\nYou can get into trouble quickly on a river, but there are a just few things that you have to do immediately to prevent a disaster\u2014namely, attending to the ABCDEs of first aid. You need to get people breathing in minutes if you want to save their lives, so it's imperative that you act fast. If you're trained in first aid, your actions should be almost instinctual: Survey the scene, get people out of the water, open the airway, check for breathing, check the pulse. If you can't find one of those things, do something about it.\n\nOnce you've stabilized your patient, things can and should slow down. Your raft is not going to be any less stuck if you take five minutes to come up with a plan, or with twenty. At NOLS (formerly the National Outdoor Leadership School), where I worked for years, we used to say, \"Stop and smoke a cigarette.\" The saying was attributed to the school's founder, Paul Petzoldt, and the point was not to smoke but to pause, calm down, and weigh your options carefully. After the initial emergency passes you have all the time in the world, so you may as well work methodically to avoid costly mistakes.\n\nAs you make your plan, take care to think about whether you can reverse your system. Try not to get yourself into a situation where your only way out is with your knife. Make sure that you are protecting yourself and your teammates. Remember, a rubber raft is not worth anyone's life.\nChapter Fourteen\n\nBasic Repair and Maintenance\n\nObviously, the best repair is no repair. You can strive for that goal by taking care of your equipment. On river trips that requires a little bit of effort. Sand, wind, sun, and dirt wreak havoc with your gear. One sand granule can plug up a propane stove or a raft valve, as well as make the zippers on your tent unhappy. If you find your gear is starting to perform less than optimally, take a moment to give it some tender-loving care rather than trying to force it.\n\nGeneral Maintenance\n\nTo help prolong the life of your gear, inspect it regularly for damage or wear. Pay close attention to the weak links: zippers, seams, or parts that move around or are exposed to a lot of wear and tear. Wipe down your zippers with a damp cloth to clean the teeth out, especially if you've been camping in dust or sand. If you have Gear Aid, Zip-Tech, or some other zipper lubricant for your dry suit zippers, use some on your tent and other zippers as well to help maintain proper function. Treat the zippers gently when you open and close them.\n\nDuring your trip, hang your gear up overnight to dry it out, and when you get home take time to clean and dry everything before storing it. Inflate your raft for cleaning. It doesn't have to be super tight, but inflating it speeds up drying in nooks and crannies.\n\nWater-borne invasive species threaten the biodiversity and health of watersheds. You can avoid accidentally spreading these species by rinsing all your boating gear in fresh water (make sure you hose out under your boat tubes and in cracks and crevasses to remove all hitchhikers) and drying it thoroughly for a minimum of forty-eight hours. Make sure you dry your gear out of direct sunlight to avoid UV damage.\n\nRinsing and drying will also help preserve your equipment. In some cases you may want to use a mild soap and warm water to get dirt, sweat, sunscreen, insect repellant, and salt off. You can find soap specifically designed to clean and protect high-tech fabrics, including neoprene, at boating and outdoor stores.\n\nOnce your gear is dry, store it in a cool, dark place. If you have space to hang stuff up, great. If not, store your paddling gear loosely in a mesh bag or plastic bin. Try not to pack items in too tightly, as over time the material will weaken along folded areas.\n\nBut even with the best of care, we all have things happen to our stuff. A spark from the fire burns a hole in your puffy jacket; your raft gets punctured by a sharp rock; or your tent zipper splits. You can take care of these kinds of minor repairs in the field if you have the proper tools and a bit of ingenuity.\n\nCamping Equipment Repair\n\nThis book does not go into detail on camping equipment repair beyond recommending you pack a repair kit that gives you the tools you need to fix your gear if something goes wrong. It helps to understand how your equipment\u2014such as your stove\u2014works, so when it needs repair you have an idea of what to do.\n\nIf you have new gear, make sure you practice with it at home to ensure it's working properly and that you know how to use it. If you have old equipment, check it before you hit the river to make sure it's in good working order. Get in the habit of fixing your gear before you put it away for the season so you don't have lots of work to do before you go on a trip.\n\nBasic Camping Repair Kit\n\n * Barge cement or epoxy\n * Duct tape\n * Seam grip\n * Aquaseal\n * Fastex buckle to fit various sizes\n * P-cord (30 feet)\n * Ripstop tape (8 to 12 inches)\n * Sewing kit\n * Speedy Stitcher \n * Tent pole splint with duct tape\n * Zipper pulls (5 & 7; 1 each) and zipper stops (1 each)\n * Stove replacement parts (pump, valve, cleaning tool, oil, etc.)\n * Pliers (vice grip or multitool)\n\nRaft and Paddling Gear Repair\n\nMaterials\n\nAs mentioned earlier, raft manufacturers use different materials. It's important to know the type of material you are working with, as this will affect the type of glue you use and how you prepare the material for patching.\n\nRaft Repair Kit\n\n * Small container of solvent such as MEK (methyl ethyl ketone) for PVC or urethane, or Toluol (toluene) for Hypalon\n * Tear-Aid tape type A for Hypalon, Tear-Aid patch type B for PVC or urethane. Used for temporary patches.\n * Tenacious Tape or Tenacious Tape patches by GEAR AID for dry suit repairs\n * Aquaseal for sealing small holes and seams, and for reinforcing stitches. (Aquaseal needs to cure for at least twelve hours.)\n * Patches (Hypalon, urethane, or PVC, depending on raft material)\n * Glue (type dependent on raft material). Reputable brands include Clifton Hypalon Adhesive, Stabond, and Shore Adhesive. Check with your raft manufacturer if you have any questions.\n * Glue roller or roller rasp\n * Scissors\n * Small-size permanent marker\n * Spare air valve(s)\n * Valve wrench\n * Gloves\n * Respirator (especially if working in a confined space)\n\nFinding the leak\n\nOnce you've determined that you have a leak, inspect your raft carefully. Usually the hole will be obvious or in an obvious area, especially if you've hit a rock with your raft. Pinholes that come from general wear and tear are harder to find, but they also won't cause catastrophic deflation, so it's less of an issue in the field. You may just have to pump up your raft more often.\n\nIf you suspect you've found the culprit, spray the spot with soapy water to see if you can detect bubbles escaping through the hole. Once you've found your hole, mark the spot with a permanent marker if it is hard to see.\n\nLet the raft dry before you begin working on it.\n\nTemporary repairs\n\nIf you are on the water in the middle of a run, you won't have time to go through the lengthy process of making a permanent repair, which generally takes twelve to twenty-four hours for the glues to cure properly.\n\nFor quick fixes, Tear-Aid tape or Tear-Aid patches work well. Type A Tear-Aid is for Hypalon rafts, while type B works on PVC or urethane. It's important to use the correct type for your raft to ensure an effective bond.\n\nStart by drying the site thoroughly and cleaning it with an alcohol wipe or solvent. In a pinch, you can use a lint-free cloth. Release air from the tube for repair work. If you apply tape to a fully inflated raft, it will wrinkle when it is deflated, which creates folds that allow air to escape.\n\nCut a circular piece of tape into a patch that extends roughly 2 inches out from the hole on all sides. Or look for a premade patch big enough to extend 2 inches out. Make sure the patch stays clean, especially along its edges. Apply the patch to the raft and rub it into place, forcing out all air bubbles and warming the patch with friction to help the glue adhere more effectively. If you have a roller in your repair kit, use it to roll the patch down, starting in the center and working your way out to the edges. If you don't have a roller, use a water bottle or something similar to roll out the patch.\n\nFor bigger tears, place strips of tape perpendicularly across the tear to hold it together, like you would use Steri-strips to close a wound, before covering the tear with a patch.\n\nClamSeal\n\nThe ClamSeal is a patented, glueless repair system that repairs small tears or splits in inflatable rafts both above and below the waterline. The system works with two plastic \"shells\" that screw together to clamp the raft material shut and seal the hole. ClamSeals keep you afloat until you have time to place a permanent patch on the site. The clamps are reusable and are a great addition to any rafter's repair kit. Instructions and diagrams come with the repair kit. There is also an informative video on YouTube ().\n\nPermanent fixes\n\nFor more permanent repairs, you will need to allow time for glues to cure. Typically this takes around twelve hours for Aquaseal and twenty-four hours for other glues like Stabond.\n\nThe basic procedure is similar to the procedure you follow for temporary fixes, except instead of tape you will be applying patches made from the material used in your raft. These patches can be purchased from most rafting supply companies. Again, your raft material should dictate your patch material, as the glues have a specific chemical composition that adheres best to the fabric they are designed for.\n\nClean and prep the site with solvent and then let the raft dry thoroughly. For a pinprick hole, all you need to do is dab a small blob (about \u215b-inch thick) of Aquaseal over the hole. Lay the raft flat so the glue won't run and let it dry for twelve hours.\n\nIf you have a tear or a bigger hole, use a patch.\n\nTo prep the site, take a piece of 80-grit sandpaper and roughen up a small area around the hole, as well as the underside of the patch. You just want to dull the shine of the material, not grind it down to expose any interior threads. Wipe the spot clean with solvent and let dry.\n\nDifferent boat manufacturers recommend different glues. Stabond, Vinabond, and Clifton Hypalon Adhesive are examples of reputable brands. Often you can purchase an accelerator for these glues to speed up the curing process and strengthen the cure. Make sure you work outside or use a respirator while using these glues, as they contain known carcinogens.\n\nCoat the surface of the raft and the underside of the patch with a thin layer of glue. Let the glue dry for roughly five minutes, and apply a second layer. (Double-check the directions on your glue container as some glues may need to dry longer between coats.) Let the site dry again\u2014this time wait fifteen minutes, or until the glue is tacky to the touch.\n\nKnuckle Test\n\nThe knuckle test allows you to determine if your glue is ready. To perform the test, touch the glue with your gloved knuckle. If the glue is ready, your knuckle should stick to the spot, but will come away clean, without leaving a dent in the surface of the glue.\n\nPress the patch on the raft tube carefully, making sure you do not get any wrinkles in the fabric. Rub aggressively with a roller in all directions to warm the glue up so it sticks better. Let the raft sit for twenty-four hours for the glue to cure. You can get back on the water earlier if needed; just know the patch will not be as strong as it will be once the glue has cured, and, therefore, it will be easier to scrape off if you bump up against a rock.\n\nMake sure you apply the glue thinly. Too thick and the patch will be bulky and easy to pull off.\n\nDry Suit Repair\n\nAs with your raft, a hole in your dry suit makes it pretty much useless, so you have to be able to make repairs in the field. You can use a drop of Aquaseal to fix pinprick holes in your dry suit.\n\nFor bigger holes in your dry suit, buy a GORE-TEX patch kit with adhesive-back patches. The patches will stick best if you iron them into place. In the field, you can use a Tenacious Tape repair patch or tape to make a temporary fix.\n\nA tear to your gasket is a different story, and needs to be fixed right away to prevent further ripping as you pull the dry suit on and off.\n\nTo fix a tear in the gasket, clean the site with an alcohol wipe and let the moisture evaporate off. Cut a piece of Tear-Aid tape twice the length of the rip, plus roughly 1 inch extra. You want the tape to extend beyond the bottom of the tear by half an inch, and to fold over the top of the gasket so it holds the rip on both sides. Trim the edges so the tape is oval-shaped.\n\nPlace the gasket on a flat surface with the tear exposed. Peel back half of the Tear-Aid tape backing, and place it \u00bd inch below the bottom of the tear. Press down on the tape, smoothing it out as you work it toward the edge of the gasket. Once the first half of the tape is secure, remove the rest of the backing. Fold the tape over the edge of the gasket and smooth it down on the backside so the tear is sealed by tape on both sides.\n\nTear-Aid provides a temporary fix. Keep an eye on it as you pull the gasket on and off. The gasket will stretch more than the tape, so it can come unstuck if you are not careful. If this happens, rub the tape back into place. If the tape has lost its stick, replace the patch.\n\nWhen you get home, replace the gasket. Tear-Aid won't last long term.\n\nValve replacement\n\nThe principles behind replacing a valve on your raft are similar to what you've already learned about gluing on patches, but you have the added step of removing the old valve and replacing it with a new one.\n\nTools:\n\n * Replacement valve\n * Valve wrench\n * Donut patch\n * Scissors\n * Glue and accelerator\n * Mixing container and brush\n * Gloves and respirator\n * Rag\n\nDeflate the tube until it's soft, and unscrew the broken valve with a valve wrench. Remove the top half of the valve. The bottom half will fall into the tube. To remove it, make two small cuts on either side of the valve hole. This can be scary, as no one wants to cut a raft. Make sure your cuts are just big enough to allow you to get the old valve's backside out. Once you've retrieved the old valve, insert the new backside.\n\nPlace the donut patch over the valve hole, and mark where it should go with a waterproof marker. Make a couple of slash marks around the edges of the patch and the tube to help you orient the patch perfectly when you put it in place.\n\nPrep the site and the patch by sanding with 80-grit sandpaper until the shine is gone. Clean both surfaces with solvent (the type depends on material in question) or, in a pinch, with rubbing alcohol. Mix your glue with accelerator.\n\nCheck to make sure the backside of the valve is in place properly, and then paint a thin coat of glue over the underside of the patch and the patch site. Make sure you don't get any glue on the inside of the tube. You can place wax paper over the hole to prevent that from happening. Apply three coats of glue, letting it dry for ten to thirty minutes between coats.\n\nOnce the final layer of glue passes the knuckle test, place the patch on the tube, checking to make sure the lines you made earlier align properly. Roll out the patch thoroughly in at least four directions to mesh the glue together and remove any air bubbles. Screw the top half of the valve into the bottom half and tighten with the valve wrench. Clean up extra glue with solvent. Wait at least twenty-four hours before inflating the tube. You may need to tighten the valve down further after you inflate the tube.\n\nScrim shots\n\nYou may find places on your raft where the outer coating has worn through and the threads, or scrim, inside have been exposed. This can happen underneath your oar frame or where cargo rubs against the tubes. For small scrim shots, cover the site with a thin layer of Aquaseal. Again, give the Aquaseal at least twelve hours to cure fully. If the site is large, you may be better off applying a patch.\n\nZippers\n\nMore and more rafting gear comes with waterproof zippers. These zippers need to be handled carefully to keep them functioning smoothly. Waterproof zippers are one of the most expensive and time-consuming parts of a dry suit to replace.\n\nKeep the zipper clean. NRS recommends using McNett Zip Care for cleaning. Zip Care comes with an applicator brush, so you just apply it to the zipper and wipe away any excess fluid after you are done. You can also use a toothbrush and warm, soapy water to clean the zipper. The benefit of McNett Zip Care is that it cleans and lubes at the same time, thereby enhancing the movement of the zipper. Brush and clean your zipper after every use if you are paddling in silty or sandy water.\n\nYou should also wax the zipper regularly. NRS recommends McNett Zip Tech for keeping waterproof zippers supple and sliding well, but other brands like Gear Aid's Zip Tech work well too. Apply the wax or lube evenly along the zipper, and open and close it a couple of times to work the wax in between the teeth.\n\nThe No. 1 cause of zipper failure occurs when the zipper gets bent, causing breaks in the material between the teeth. To prevent this from occurring, store waterproof zippers so they lie flat. If you are transporting anything with a waterproof zipper, try not to bend the zipper too tightly. Pack it loosely and, if possible, without folds or kinks to help maximize its lifespan.\n\nFinal Considerations\n\nThe big thing with repairs is to make sure you've thought through your entire plan before you cut anything. Just like the carpenter's motto: \"Measure twice, cut once,\" double-check before you commit. It's hard to reverse course without needing new materials if you make a mistake. Also, wait to mix up your glue until you are ready to work, as it can become sticky and difficult to spread if you let it sit around too long.\n\nYou can remove glue with solvent, which is helpful for cleaning your work site as well as if you misalign a patch. If you think your patch is crooked or has a wrinkle, don't press it down all the way. Apply solvent to a brush and work it into the glue beneath the patch, pulling back gently as you work until the patch is free. You'll then have to start the process over.\n\nFor major repairs, you will likely have to send your raft back to the manufacturer. NRS has many helpful videos on basic raft repair on its website, and most manufacturers can answer questions over the phone if you aren't sure what to do with your damaged equipment.\nChapter Fifteen\n\nDream Trips\n\nEveryone has heard of the Grand Canyon, and if you are a river rat, running the Colorado through the canyon is undoubtedly high on your bucket list. The Grand is one of the most incredible river trips in the world. Its scenery is spectacular and unique. Its side canyons provide excellent hiking and adventure. Its rapids are exciting and huge, but not as dangerous or technical as some rapids on other challenging whitewater rivers. Plus, the trip is long. You can spend three weeks in the depths of the canyon, far from the maddening crowd and totally cut off from technology, making it the ultimate escape.\n\nMark Haggerty having the time of his life on his first Grand Canyon adventure.\n\nTom Zell\n\nBut there are lots of other amazing rivers out there, each with its own unique character and charm; each with its personal advocates who claim it is like no other. The following list of dream rivers is by no means exhaustive or authoritative. I'm sure you will find people who question the merits of the rivers included and excluded, but most people will have at least some of these rivers on their list.\n\nThink of this as a starting point. You can always add your own must-dos to your bucket list as you begin to explore. And this list is in no particular order. All the rivers listed are awesome if you have the skill and experience required to navigate them. Lots of other rivers are awesome, too. Let this list whet your appetite as you start planning your own river adventure.\n\nColorado River, Grand Canyon, Arizona\n\nThe classic trip through the Grand Canyon starts in Lee's Ferry and ends 226 miles downstream at the Diamond Creek takeout. In between you float through eighty rapids and past ever-changing layers of rock that rise vertiginously from the river's edge and date back hundreds of millions of years. The canyon is known for its side hikes, which include scrambling up the Elves Chasm and wandering past the aquamarine pools in Havasu Creek. The Colorado's rapids are big, rollicking, and fun, and although challenging to run, they end in pools that enable rafters to regroup and rally if they run into trouble. Securing a permit on the Colorado is through a lottery system. Sign up for an account at . Lottery applications are open from February 1-24 for the following year.\n\nA three-week adventure through the Grand Canyon is considered by many to be the ultimate American river trip.\n\nHiking up Havasu Canyon is one of the Grand Canyon's most famous side trips, but there are hundreds of other worthy hikes along the river.\n\nMolly Absolon\n\nMiddle Fork and Main Salmon River, Idaho\n\nThe Middle Fork and Main Salmon are two classic wilderness rivers that flow through Idaho's Frank Church\u2013River of No Return Wilderness, the second largest wilderness area in the Lower 48. The Middle Fork is a Class III-IV, 75- to 100-mile run (depending on put-in and takeout), with close to one hundred rapids along its course, while the Main is mostly Class III and flows 84 miles from put-in to takeout, with lots of rapids in between.\n\nThe Middle Fork of the Salmon River is a classic wilderness run.\n\nThe Middle Fork is known for its clear water, challenging rapids, hot springs, and great fishing.\n\nA combo Middle-Main trip\u2014known as \"turning the corner\"\u2014is the ultimate wilderness experience, although it's tricky to secure a permit that allows that adventure.\n\nBoth rivers flow through deep-forested canyons featuring wide sandy beaches, hot springs, world-class trout fishing, hiking, wildlife, and spectacular scenery. The Salmon is a free-flowing river, with flows peaking in early summer and dropping off as the season progresses. Both rivers require a permit for their high season, which is obtained through a lottery. For the Middle Fork that season runs from May 28 through September 3. For the Main it's June 20 through September 7. Outside the controlled season a permit is required but there is no limit on numbers. You can obtain a low-season permit through the Forest Service. The Main and Middle Fork lottery opens Dec. 1 and closes Jan. 30 for the following season. Go to the Four Rivers Lottery site at for details.\n\nSlightly easier than the Middle Fork, the Main is a pool-drop river with big sandy beaches that make excellent campsites.\n\nGreen River, Gates of Lodore, Colorado and Utah\n\nStarting in Colorado and running down to the Split Mountain boat ramp near Vernal, Utah, this stretch of the Green River is 44 miles long and rated Class III, with one Class IV rapid depending on water levels. The trip is usually done in three or four nights, and flows through the deep red chasm of Lodore Canyon into Echo Park, where Steamboat Rock towers over the river, then into Whirlpool Canyon, and ends in Split Mountain Canyon. The geology along this stretch of river is spectacular, with rock layers shooting up from the river and twisting back down again in torturous folds. Bighorn sheep are common, as are beavers, skunks, black bears, and deer. The camping is on broad sandy beaches sheltered by box elders and cottonwoods. Permits are required during the high season, which runs from May 8 through Sept. 8. Register for the annual lottery between Dec. 1 and Jan. 30 at recreation.gov.\n\nThe Gates of Lodore run takes you down the Green River through three separate canyons, starting here at the actual gates.\n\nEric Scranton\n\nThe spectacular geology on display in Split Mountain Canyon on the Green River.\n\nEric Scranton\n\nYampa River, Colorado\n\nThe Yampa joins the Green in Echo Park, making it possible for the last part of this river trip to overlap with the Lodore trip mentioned above, unless you opt to take out in Echo Park. The Yampa is one of the few free-flowing tributaries to the Colorado River system. It flows through buff-colored sandstone cliffs streaked with \"desert varnish\" that tower over the river corridor. Camping is on sandy beaches, and side hikes lead up to big vistas that some say rival the Grand Canyon. Known for its archeological sites and wildlife, the Yampa is a four- or five-day trip with Class III-IV rapids. Its season runs from May through July, and permits are secured through recreation.gov's lottery system, which is open from Dec. 1 until Jan. 30.\n\nThe Yampa River is one of the few free-flowing tributaries in the Colorado River system.\n\nMoe Witschard\n\nRogue River, Oregon\n\nThe Rogue River flows out of the Cascade Mountains down to the Pacific Ocean. The classic whitewater run stretches for 35 miles and includes eighty rapids rated up to Class IV in difficulty. The river is surrounded by lush, Northwestern forests renowned for their botanical diversity, huge trees, and abundant wildlife. You are likely to see otters, black bears, deer, bald eagles, great blue herons, and more. Plus, the Rogue is a salmon run, and fishing along its length is world-class. Most rafters take three to four days to run the river. You can stay at lodges along the way, or there are beaches for camping. Permits for the Rogue are obtained through recreation.gov's annual lottery, which takes place Dec. 1 through Jan. 30 for the following season. Permit season runs from May 15 through Oct. 15.\n\nThe Rogue River flows through lush Northwestern forests to the Pacific Ocean.\n\nThe Rogue trip includes running Mule Canyon, where the river tightens and the rapids start rocking.\n\nSelway River, Idaho\n\nIdaho's Selway River stretches for 47 miles through remote wilderness that is only accessible by boat, foot, or horseback. The river drops 28 feet per mile over the course of its run, creating a highly technical, exciting whitewater adventure with rapids up to Class IV in difficulty. Scenery in the river corridor is rugged and beautiful, and the area is home to elk, deer, black bears, and eagles. The river's crystal clear water hosts a healthy trout population, and the fishing is renowned. Most groups spend two to four nights running the Selway. Permit season for the river runs from May 15 through July 31, when water flows drop, making it impassable for larger boats. Only one trip is permitted to launch per day, adding to the river's wilderness allure. Apply for permits between Dec. 1 and Jan. 31 at rereation.gov.\n\nThe Selway River is known for its challenging technical rapids and wilderness character. Only one trip is allowed to launch on the Selway each day during permit season.\n\nCourtesy SOAR Northwest\n\nTatshenshini\u2013Alsek Rivers, Yukon Territory, British Columbia and Alaska\n\nThe Tatshenshini River offers a consummate wilderness rafting experience. It starts in the Yukon Territory and flows between two towering mountain ranges\u2014the Alsek and Saint Elias\u2014on its way to join the Alsek River and then flow into the sea. You'll float past massive glaciers, through emerald-green rain forests, and by aquamarine icebergs. Wildlife is abundant in the river corridor, and you are likely to see grizzly bears, wolves, moose, and eagles. The run is 140 miles long and is Class II, except for a Class III section through the Tatshenshini Gorge. Most groups take nine days to two weeks to make the trip. Permits are required. To secure a permit, contact the Yakutat Ranger Station in Wrangell-Saint Elias National Park and Preserve. With a $25 administrative fee, your name is put on a list. Each fall permit winners are selected from the list. You can reach the ranger station at (907) 784-3295, or by writing the Yakutat Ranger Station, Wrangell-Saint Elias National Park and Preserve, PO Box 439, Mile 106.8, Richardson Highway, Copper Center, AK 99573. All groups must fly out of Dry Bay at the conclusion of the trip.\n\nZambezi River, Africa\n\nStarting at the foot of Zambia's Victoria Falls, the Zambezi River plunges through 120 miles of Class V rapids at the bottom of a 600- to 800-foot basalt gorge. You have to do a guided trip to run the Zambezi, but it's a four-day, once-in-a-lifetime trip that you'll never forget. This river is big, scary, and fun; add in crocodiles and hippos, and you have quite the adventure in store. In the hands of a trained and talented guide, the Zambezi will have you screaming and laughing as you dive into enormous waves and plow through curling hydraulics. The Zambezi appears on this list because it's one rafters talk about, but it's not for the faint of heart, nor can you run it on your own.\n\nFutaleuf\u00fa River, Chile\n\nThe Futaleuf\u00fa, which is a Mapuche Indian word meaning grand, grand waters, is another big volume, Class V river that draws whitewater boaters from all over the world to northern Patagonia, Chile. The river is known for its turquoise-colored water, spectacular scenery, and raging, nonstop whitewater. Typically run as a series of day trips, the Futaleuf\u00fa flows through glaciated mountains that rise more than 5,000 feet above the river bottom. The river itself is fast, fun, challenging, and remote. Rafters need to be confident in Class V water to tackle the Futaleuf\u00fa, but for those who have the skill it's a unique adventure that tops most people's bucket lists.\n\nThe Green River through Desolation and Gray Canyons is a great first river trip for new rafters. The rapids start easy and get gradually harder with the toughest being a Class III+.\n\nOther Thoughts\n\nThe world is full of incredible rivers, many of which allow for amazing, multiday float trips. Other rivers that come to mind include the Firth, the Nahanni, or the Chilko in Canada. You can raft the Salt River in Arizona, or the Green through Desolation\/Gray Canyons. The San Juan River flows through southern Utah's Colorado Plateau, past ancient Puebloan ruins and through deeply incised canyons. Besides the Grand Canyon, the Colorado offers beautiful, multiday, challenging whitewater trips in Westwater and Cataract Canyons, or you can float through Oregon's remote desert canyons on the Owyhee, Bruneau, or Jarbidge Rivers, all of which are designated Wild and Scenic Rivers. The Illinois River in Oregon is hard, beautiful, and fun, while the Deschutes River is easier and more family-friendly. Each river has its own variables\u2014difficulty, length, ease of access, expense, permits, and season, which affect when and if it is runnable, and each is unique in its scenery and character. You may find your favorite river turns out to be one of the more obscure runs just because it is obscure and, therefore, uncrowded.\n\nThe Owyhee River cuts a deep canyon through the eastern Oregon desert.\n\nIf you are excited about heading out on your own multiday river trip, it's time to get online and start doing some research. Figure out how to get permits, check in to outfitters, find out the season, look at the ratings, and you are sure to find a trip that meets your skill level, experience, and schedule. And have fun. River trips are the ultimate escape from everyday life. They allow you to relax, recharge, and enjoy being surrounded by nature's splendor.\n\nThe San Juan River is perfect for families. No rapid is harder than Class II, and there are lots of archeological sites to explore.\nAppendix: First Aid and Drug Kit Checklist\n\nThis checklist comes from the National Park Service's recommendation for a full-size expedition first aid kit for Grand Canyon river runners. Quantities and content should be adapted to the size and length of your trip. (For example, a blood pressure cuff is probably not necessary for most river runners.)\n\nInstruments | Description | Uses\n\n---|---|---\n\nFace mask, pocket mask, or CPR micro shield\n\n| |\n\nProtection for rescuer\n\nNitrile examination gloves | 2\u20133 pairs | Protection for rescuer\n\nAntimicrobial hand wipes and infectious control bag\n\n| |\n\nQuick clean in absence of soap and water and place to dispose soiled bandages, etc.\n\nSoap (Phisoderm, Hibiclens) | 8 to 12 ounces | Antiseptic for wounds\n\nMoleskin | 1 package | For blisters\n\nBetadine | 1 bottle | For cleaning wounds\n\nBand-Aids | 36 (1 inch) | For lacerations\n\nAnti-bacterial ointment | 2 tubes | For lacerations and wounds\n\nButterfly Band-Aids (or know how to make) | 18 (various sizes) | For closing lacerations\n\nCarlisle trauma dressing or substitute (feminine napkin, etc.) | 3 (4 inch) | For large bleeding wounds\n\nElastic bandage | 2 (3 inch) | For sprains and securing rigid splints\n\nSteri-pad gauze pads | 18 (4 inch by 4 inch) | For large wounds\n\nSteri-pad gauze pads | 18 (2 inch by 2 inch) | For small wounds\n\nInstruments | Description | Uses\n\n---|---|---\n\nTape, waterproof adhesive | 2 (2-inch rolls) | For sprains, securing dressings, etc.\n\nTriangular bandage or muslin pieces | 4 (40 inch) | For securing rigid splints, slinging, and securing extremities, and protecting dressings from contamination\n\nRoller gauze | 5 rolls (2 inch by 5 yards) | For holding gauze pads in place, securing splints, and improvising slings\n\nRigid splint, arm board, SAM splint | 1 | For inline fracture, pressure bandage\n\nRigid splint, leg board, SAM splint | 1 | For inline fracture, pressure bandage\n\nThermometers (a hypothermia thermometer is recommended) | 1 oral, 1 rectal | Diagnosing fever or other exposure illnesses: heatstroke, hypothermia\n\nStethoscope | 1 | Diagnostic tool for EMTs and medical personnel\n\nBlood pressure cuff | 1 | Diagnostic tool for EMTs and medical personnel\n\nScissors (EMT type) | 1 (medium size) | Cutting tape, dressings, clothes\n\nRazor blade, single | 2 | For removing hair before taping\n\nTweezers | 1 | To remove wood splinters, etc.\n\nSafety pins | 10 (various sizes) | Mending and triangular bandages.\n\nCotton swabs | 1 package | Cleaning lacerations, eyes, etc.\n\nPencil\/notepad | 1 each | Documenting injuries and items used in treatments\n\nRelief of Discomfort\n\nInstruments | Description | Uses\n\n---|---|---\n\nPain reliever (aspirin or acetaminophen) | 36 tablets | Headaches, minor pain, and fever. No aspirin for kids under age 18.\n\nIbuprofen | 200 milligram tablets | Muscle strains, minor pain, or cramps\n\nAntacid | 18 tablets | Upset stomach\n\nAntihistamine | 18 tablets | Insect bites, colds, hive or rashes. Consider the newer-generation, nonsedating antihistamines like Claritin and Zyrtec, which are dosed once daily and don't make people sleepy like Benadryl.\n\n\"Gookinaid\" or similar electrolyte replacement drink | 1 tub minimum | Relieve or prevent muscle cramps and symptoms of heat exhaustion.\n\nOil of clove or benzocaine (orabase-B) | 1 small bottle | Relief of toothache\n\nCalamine lotion and cortisone cream | 1 bottle | Relief of itching from poison ivy, rash, or allergy\n\nSolarcaine | 1 bottle | Relief of sunburn pain\n\nZinc oxide \/ PABA or sunblock | 1 bottle | Prevent sunburn.\n\nBenadryl syrup | 1 bottle | Minor allergic reactions\n\nMild laxative like MiraLAX | Small bottle | Constipation\n\nKaopectate | Small bottle | Diarrhea\n\nOphthalmic wash or eye drops | Small bottle | Eye wash \/ irritation\n\nEar drops | Small bottle | Clogged \/ infected ears\n\nWater purification tablets | Small bottle | Purify water on side canyon hikes.\n\nEye pad | 2 | Injured eye\n\nTincture of benzoin | 2 small bottles | To hold tape in place and protect skin\n\nInsect repellent | Large can or bottle | Flies, ants, mosquitoes\n\nMonistat | 1 tube | Yeast infections\n\nAntibiotics (consult with physician for prescriptions). Consider Zithromax for respiratory infections, Keflex for soft-tissue infections, Cipro for bacterial diarrhea)\n\n| |\n\nOn long trips far from medical care, it may be helpful to carry antibiotics, but you will need a medical order from a physician.\n\nPrescription pain medications (Vicodin, Percocet)\n\n| |\n\nThese drugs require a prescription from a physician. Consult with your doctor as to whether he or she recommends you carry pain medication on your expedition.\nAbout the Author\n\nMolly Absolon has written ten titles for the Backpacker Magazine Outdoor Skills Series (Falcon). She is also the author of Basic Illustrated Winter Camping, Basic Illustrated Alpine Ski Touring, and Packrafting. Molly spent many years working as an outdoor educator for the National Outdoor Leadership School, and her experience teaching beginners technical skills translates on the page into easy-to-read and follow instructions. She lives in Victor, Idaho, with her husband and daughter. \n","meta":{"redpajama_set_name":"RedPajamaBook"}} +{"text":"\n\n## _Edited by_ Karen Van Dyck\n\n* * *\n\n### AUSTERITY MEASURES\n\n#### The New Greek Poetry\n\n## Contents\n\n_Note on Titles_\n\n_Introduction_\n\n[I \nTRADITION AND THE INDIVIDUAL TALENT](part001.xhtml)\n\n_Poets in Literary Magazines_\n\nPANAYOTIS IOANNIDIS\n\nMosquito\n\nThe Poet in the Hallway\n\nDIMITRIS ATHINAKIS\n\nA Semblance of Order\n\nDelirium for the Four Legs of a Love\n\nWeakness\n\nYIANNIS EFTHYMIADES\n\nfrom _New Division_\n\nfrom _9\/11 or Falling Man_\n\nfrom _O Say Can You See_\n\nYANNIS STIGGAS\n\nSimple Math\n\nBreathing Exercises\n\nArmed with Tenderness\n\nMy Brother Paul, the Digger of the Seine\n\nSelf-Winding\n\nThe Labyrinth's Perfect Acoustics\n\n_from_ The Vagrancy of Blood\n\nYIANNIS DOUKAS\n\nThe Children of Abel\n\nOn the Constellation of Cancer\n\nDOUKAS KAPANTA\u00cfS\n\nCountry Houses in Winter\n\nDIMITRA KOTOULA\n\nHead of a Satyr\n\nThe Poet\n\n[II \nMYTH AND MEDICINE](part002.xhtml)\n\n_DIY and Small Press Poets_\n\nKATERINA ILIOPOULOU\n\nThe Fox\n\nPenthesilea\n\nMister Tau in a Seascape\n\nThe Siren\n\nSTATHIS ANTONIOU\n\nThe Dogs\n\nANNA GRIVA\n\nAttempt\n\n_from_ Depths\n\nWays to Avoid Sadness\n\nThe War with My Animals\n\nThe Ants' Lesson\n\nTriumphal Ode\n\nPHOEBE GIANNISI\n\n(Penelope \u2013 \u0388\u03c7\u03c9 \u03c0\u03ac\u03b8\u03bf\u03c2 \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c3\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1)\n\n(Thetis)\n\n(Lotus Eaters II)\n\nEFTYCHIA PANAYIOTOU\n\nThe Great Gardener\n\nThe Outside of My Mind\n\nJust Before You Stood Up\n\nYour Justice My Justice\n\nEVA STEFANI\n\nDepths\n\nBack\n\nFamily\n\nNew Year's Eve\n\nKRYSTALLI GLYNIADAKIS\n\nNational Anthem, 2008, Redux\n\nThe Next Hundred Years\n\n[III \nUNJUST PUNISHMENT](part003.xhtml)\n\n_Poets Online_\n\nKYOKO KISHIDA\n\nDegenerate Girls Were My Girlfriends\n\nKleine Nachtmusik\n\nThe Violin\n\nThe Lotus Eaters\n\nSirocco or Soldiery\n\nJAZRA KHALEED\n\nWords\n\nRefrain\n\nSomewhere in Athens\n\nBlack Lips\n\nStill Life\n\nDeath Tonight\n\nFuck Armageddon\n\nRe: Lotus Eaters\n\nSTATHIS BAROUTSOS\n\nMy Children\n\nSpeed Dating\n\nTxt Message\n\nBirdsong\n\nDANAE SIOZIOU\n\nThe Guards\n\nHeaviness\n\nAround the House\n\nMapping the Geography of the Symptoms of a Footstep\n\nYANNIS MOUNDELAS\n\nMercury in Retrograde\n\nTruncated Clouds\n\nPAVLINA MARVIN\n\nThe Weeds\n\nThe Perfect Outcast\n\nTHOMAS IOANNOU\n\nHonourable Compromise\n\n[IV \nSTORYTELLING](part004.xhtml)\n\n_Poets in Performance and across the Arts_\n\nTHOMAS TSALAPATIS\n\nThe Box\n\nWord Monday\n\nZ. D. AINALIS\n\nTelemachus\n\nSeptember 3rd 1843\n\nSTAMATIS POLENAKIS\n\nPoetry Does Not Suffice\n\nPoetry 2048\n\nThe Great Enigma\n\nElegy\n\nELENA PENGA\n\nPassages\n\nHeads\n\nFish\n\nSkin\n\nNightmare Pink\n\nAPOSTOLOS THIVAIS\n\nReality\n\nInternational\n\nUnavoidable\n\nDIMOSTHENIS PAPAMARKOS\n\n_from_ Paralogue\n\nELENA POLYGENI\n\nTo Be Done with the Matter\n\n[V \nOUTSIDE ATHENS](part005.xhtml)\n\n_Bookshops, Cafes, and Poets in the Provinces_\n\nYIORGOS ALISANOGLOU\n\nThe Painting\n\nGLYKERIA BASDEKI\n\nLet Down the Chain\n\nMama's a Poet\n\nWhen the Nurses Take their Vengeance\n\nYou'll Come Around\n\nThe Beast\n\nGIANNIS PALAVOS\n\nPassword\n\nELSA KORNETI\n\nA Slight Hesitation\n\nAs of Today\n\nDear Friend\n\nANGELIKI SIGOUROU\n\nColors\n\nOLGA PAPAKOSTA\n\nEmpty Inbox\n\nCHLOE KOUTSOUMBELI\n\nThe Yellow Taxi\n\nPenelope III\n\nVASSILIS AMANATIDIS\n\n[supremacy: a riddle]\n\n[mother's body]\n\nKIRIAKOS SIFILTZOGLOU\n\n_from_ Half Truths\n\nGEORGIA TRIANDAFILLIDOU\n\nSudden Obsession at a Relative's House\n\n[VI \nBORDER ZONES](part006.xhtml)\n\n_Poets between Cultures and Languages_\n\nDIMITRIS ALLOS\n\nor Her White Utensils\n\nIANA BOUKOVA\n\nThe Minimal Garden\n\nBlack _Haiku_\n\nFor Miltos Sachtouris\n\nFractal\n\nTHEODOROS CHIOTIS\n\nZones of Frequency\n\nCHRISTOS ANGELAKOS\n\n'If you dive inside your head'\n\nYANNIS LIVADAS\n\n_from_ Bastard Elegies\n\nJazz, I Say\n\nSynchronization\n\nAs I Am Boosting Your Confidence\n\nMy Bones in the Soup of My Grave\n\nAt the Book Stand of La Manne, 90 Claude Bernard Street\n\nMOMA RADI\u0106\n\nNoon\n\nReally?\n\nStammering Fisherman\n\nGAZMEND KAPLLANI\n\nThus Spoke the Stranger\n\nTHODORIS RAKOPOULOS\n\nEpiphany\n\nTorn\n\nSTATHIS GOURGOURIS\n\nIn the Manner of S.G.\n\nThe Bride with the Bullets\n\nAthena's Dream\n\nNameless Rain\n\nMEHMET YASHIN\n\nThe Bitter Loss\n\n\u00c7\u00fcr\u00fcme\n\nHIVA PANAHI\n\nThe Breath of the Olive Tree\n\nCompanion\n\nAsh Person\n\n_Notes on the Poems_\n\n_Biographies of the Translators_\n\n_Further Reading_\n\n_Acknowledgements_\n\n_Follow Penguin_\n\n#### ABOUT THE EDITOR\n\nKaren Van Dyck is the Kimon A. Doukas Professor of Modern Greek Literature in the Classics Department at Columbia University. She writes on Modern Greek and Greek Diaspora literature, and gender and translation theory. Her translations include her edited and co-edited collections: _The Rehearsal of Misunderstanding: Three Collections by Contemporary Greek Women Poets_ (Wesleyan, 1998); _A Century of Greek Poetry_ (Cosmos, 2004); _The Scattered Papers of Penelope: New and Selected Poems by Katerina Anghelaki-Rooke_ (Graywolf, 2009), a Lannan Translation selection; and _The Greek Poets: Homer to the Present_ (Norton, 2010). Her translations of this new generation of writers from Greece have appeared in _Brooklyn Rail_ , _Asymptote_ , and _The Baffler_.\n\n#### PENGUIN BOOKS\n\n##### AUSTERITY MEASURES\n\n'Austerity is a self-defeating economic policy which has taken an ugly toll in Greece. The silver lining is that, along with the mass unemployment and the rise of Nazism that it engendered, austerity also occasioned a cultural renaissance. This volume of multilingual poetry is a splendid example: living proof that the Greek crisis is of global significance. It deserves an international audience. Now!' Yanis Varoufakis\n\n' \"Wherever I go, Greece wounds me,\" said George Seferis, the Nobel prize-winning poet born in 1900. There have been wonderful generations of Greek poets since his day. Ancient Greek poems, the Classics, are the basis of Western poetry. For Anglophone readers, they need re-voicing in every generation: brilliant English versions of Homer, from James Joyce to Derek Walcott and Alice Oswald, help us re-hear them. Today's Greek poets, however, have a special relationship, of a peculiarly charged and conflicted intimacy, with these founding texts. The light these poets work in, and the language they speak, are still the light and the language of Homer and the great tragedians. _Austerity_ _Measures_ , appearing as Greece faces new difficulties and suffering, offers a newly poignant, imaginative and resonant body of work. The wonderfully inventive translations reveal a different Greece to English readers: one that does not cancel the past but builds upon it' Ruth Padel\n\n'One of the few benefits of turbulent historical moments is that they tend to give rise to a new cultural efflorescence. Nowhere is this more obvious than in this fascinating anthology, which gathers together a remarkably rich, resourceful range of poetic idioms in response to a common sense of moral and political emergency' Terry Eagleton\n\n'Karen Van Dyck has collected an extraordinary group of poets and translators who are bound to put Greek poetry on the map again. I've seen it happen twice in my life: with the Generation of the Thirties that included Cavafy, Seferis, Elytes and Ritsos, and that reached world recognition; and again, during the Dictatorship of the Colonels, when the group that appeared in the Harvard anthology _Eighteen Texts_ (1972) and others living under censorship earned international recognition with the help of accomplished translators. Now, during another crisis in the country, we find exciting new voices emerging, and I am convinced that they are once again saying something no one else is saying. Call it the knowledge that emerges from the underside of devastation and the creative illumination that comes with tragedy, but something is going on in Greece that we aren't seeing in the news. I give this anthology my strongest support' Edmund Keeley\n\n'Karen Van Dyck's _Austerity Measures_ is a timely trove of new Greek voices that reverberates with urgency and authority, girded with hard-earned truth and a deep seeing necessary for our twenty-first century. Here's a language that goes for the gut and the heart, an earthy sonority. It holds us accountable for what we witness and feel in a time of globalism. This marvellous compendium of lived imagery speaks freely' Yusef Komunyakaa\nIt is difficult\n\nto get the news from poems\n\nyet men die miserably every day\n\nfor lack\n\nof what is found there.\n\nWilliam Carlos Williams\nFor Jacob, Benjamin, and Leander\n\n## Note on Titles\n\nThroughout this anthology, English translations of Greek book titles are provided so that the reader may get a sense of the larger body of work to which a poem belongs. Only a few poets in the final section have had any collections translated into English yet; these are indicated in bold.\n\n## Austerity Measures\n\nIf you believe the headlines, then we're sunk. The dateline oracle, giddy with dread: _Greece downgraded deeper into junk_. Stash cash beneath the mattress, pack the trunk. Will drachmas creep where euros fear to tread? If you believe the headlines, then we're sunk. A crisis that lasts for years? \u2013 call it a funk. Austerity starves the more its maw is fed, and downgrades all our deepest bonds to junk.\n\nEvery politician is a punk: the right, the left; the blue, the green, the red; ministers in cahoots with the odd monk. We've lost our marbles \u2013 Elgin took a chunk \u2013 Caryatids, gone on strike, sit down instead. Tear gas lingers like a whiff of skunk. Weep, Pericles, or maybe just get drunk. We'll hawk the Parthenon to buy our bread. If you believe the headlines, then we're sunk, _Greece downgraded deeper into junk_.\n\nA. E. Stallings\n\n## Introduction\n\nWhen there is less to go around, people fight, grab, get tough. Lately, Greece and the Balkans have been living with more than their share of less. Hunger, unemployment, slashed pensions, and ruined businesses draw chalk circles around victims daily in Athens. Electricity and water shortages reach levels associated with countries at war. More than 27 per cent of Greeks are unemployed. Fifty-five per cent of young people, particularly those in the areas of technology and education, have left Greece to find work elsewhere. Forty per cent of children were living in poverty in 2014, and the number is now approaching 50 per cent. Public debt is the highest in Europe, over 180 per cent of GDP, while austerity measures make staying in the euro zone as difficult as a Grexit. The need for fast answers pushes voters to political extremes. Broken promises and corruption on all sides breed unfounded accusations and fatalism. Hardly anyone keeps money in the bank any more. News of murders and robberies shares equal airtime with ads for high-tech security systems. Meanwhile, refugees fleeing Syria, Afghanistan, and Iraq arrive on islands like Lesvos in their hundreds, and at times in their thousands, not wanting to be in Greece, but unable to get to countries with better social services. And where the refugee boats go, local fishermen follow, lining up on shore to jockey for their engines, hoping to resell them at a profit. More people, less to go around.\n\nPoetry, though, is one thing there is more of. Much more. Poets writing graffiti on walls, poets reading in public squares, theaters, and empty lots, poets performing in slams, chanting slogans, and singing songs at rallies, poets blogging and posting on the internet, poets teaming up with artists and musicians, poets teaching workshops to schoolchildren and migrants. In all of the misery and mess, new poetry is everywhere, too large and too various a body of writing to fit neatly on either side of any ideological rift. Even with bookshops closing and publishers unsure of paper supplies for the next book, poets are getting their poems out there. Established literary magazines are flourishing; small presses and new periodicals abound. And if poetry production is defying economic recession, it is also overleaping the divisions of nation, class, and gender. Greek poetry \u2013 poetry written in the Greek language \u2013 can be written inside or outside of Greece, by Greeks or non-Greeks, rich or poor, women or men, young or old. Not since the Colonels' Dictatorship in the early 1970s, when poets such as Katerina Anghelaki-Rooke, Jenny Mastoraki, and Pavlina Pampoudi first appeared, has there been such an abundance of poetry being written, nor such a multitude of projects undertaken. Indeed, the historical affinity does not stop there: it is those same poets of the Dictatorship who are doing the lion's share of mentoring in the new generation.\n\nThe present anthology samples this living tradition, bearing witness not only to the hard lives being led in Greece and the Balkans today, but also to what poetry does best: offering new ways to imagine what can be radically different realities. From the lyrical dream fragments of Anna Griva to the apocalyptic neo-realism of Stathis Antoniou to Thomas Tsalapatis's wry postmodern prose poems, nothing here is as one might expect, even from the Greek poetry of the recent past. Not many statues; not much myth, at least in the classical sense; no patriotism; not even the very intense light or references to the sea we know from the Nobel Laureates George Seferis and Odysseas Elytis.\n\nWhat most distinguishes the poetry of this new millennium from what came before it is, on the one hand, its diversity \u2013 there are no clear-cut schools or factions \u2013 and, on the other hand, the cultural conditions that it takes for granted. Loosely connected, living in Athens, Thessaloniki, and smaller places like Patras, Ksanthi, and Syros as well as outside Greece in Nicosia, Bergen, Paris, and New York, many of these poets have had ready access to computers and the internet since childhood. The reality they seek to represent \u2013 here most obviously in poems with titles like 'Empty Inbox' and 'Txt Message' \u2013 is infiltrated by, and includes, the virtual. They have grown up with the understanding that vast stores of information and a wide range of different languages are only ever a click away. Even those who have not been exposed to a mixture of languages in their own cities, towns, and villages, even those who have somehow missed it on the radio and television, have inevitably found it on their computer screens; and mother tongue, as such, often doesn't determine the language they choose to write in. Some publish in two or more languages; some self-translate. There are more women writing than at any time in the intervening decades since the Dictatorship, as if by placing almost everyone on the front line once again the hard times have levelled other inequalities.\n\nAll of this variety, of course, poses problems for the editor of an anthology such as this. Although the criteria for inclusion are roughly language (Greek), age (under fifty), and date of publication (in the last decade), there are exceptions. A few poets write first in English, then in Greek, translating their own work. Some began writing elsewhere but went relatively unrecognized, or turned to Greek only after starting careers in Bulgarian, Serbian, and other languages, and are therefore suitable for inclusion despite their greater age: whether linguistically or geographically, they remain comparatively new to Greek poetry, if not to poetry as a whole. A handful of poems that anticipate the present mood and times, although published on the cusp of the new millennium, are also here. Literature often tells us what will happen before history has time to unfold.\n\nThen there are the many possible ways of organizing a survey of this lively and fragmented scene. Should the poets be ordered alphabetically or chronologically? Around themes, or around poetic influences from previous generations? It is clear that some kind of organization is required, not least because many of the poets are making their first appearance in English and will be unknown to most of this book's imaginable readership. Ultimately, division into different venues of poetic activity has seemed to make the most sense. From the magazines and small presses to the blogs and performance spaces, in Athens, in the provinces, and abroad, it is the scenes and their internal variety that shape what this poetry is doing. Poets don't, of course, publish only with one magazine or in one place \u2013 there is fluidity and crossover \u2013 but the fact that they tend, in my experience, to be most aware of the work of contemporaries associated with their own sphere of production suggests to me that this kind of mapping does serve a real purpose. The underlying hope is that it will help to render an unfamiliar landscape significantly more legible, more navigable, and perhaps even more alive for the reader.\n\nIn the end, these poets are worth grouping together because they pose the question of what it can mean for poetry to be political, or to be apolitical, in times of social and economic crisis. They live within the limits of capital controls and unrepresentative referenda; if they live abroad, they are invested in the news of family and friends living within those limits; but, in every case, they write through it. Even in the work of poets who began publishing earlier than the past decade, austerity and an uncertain future are unavoidable presences, whether front and center or peripheral to their vision. But what is the relationship of poetry to the world it inhabits? If, as William Carlos Williams says in the lines which I have made the epigraph to this book, 'men die miserably every day \/ for lack \/ of what is found' in poetry, then what is in this writing that could have made those lives less miserable, or even saved them? What _is_ found there? If it's ' _difficult_ to get the news from poems', doesn't this mean that it is nonetheless somehow possible \u2013 especially if we come at poems 'at a slight angle to the universe', as E. M. Forster described the Greek Diaspora poet C. P. Cavafy?\n\nThere have been other anthologies of poetry about the Greek crisis. By expanding its purview to the whole of contemporary Greek poetry, however, and including a much greater proportion of work which _doesn't_ directly address the political situation, this survey aims to provide deeper and more various answers. The poets associated with _\u03c6\u03c1\u03bc\u03ba_ ( _Farmakon_ ) magazine (the title means both 'poison' and 'medicine' in Greek) and grouped here under 'Myth and Medicine' seek to create symbolic worlds that deal obliquely, almost homeopathically, with society's suffering and bafflement. The internet poets in 'Unjust Punishment' \u2013 the most explicitly political of those collected here \u2013 mix pop culture and micro-level current events into poems which read like dispatches from the streets of inner-city Athens and elsewhere. Those in the 'Storytelling' section are more apt to use narrative and historical fact to place the present in its context; and the sixth and final section, 'Border Zones', moves the focus outside Greece altogether, connecting migrants from the Balkans and Middle East as well as Diaspora Greeks who write in Greek with the double vision of another culture and language.\n\nOne approach runs throughout the anthology. These are the 'measures' of the title, which refers not only to courses of state action, but also to the poetic strategies employed in response. Austerity measures call both for cutting back and for turning limited resources to new and creative ends. In poetic terms, this often involves rhyme and syllabic count. In the opening poem, A. E. Stallings dramatizes this resourcefulness by repurposing a news headline, 'Greece downgraded deeper into junk', and using that headline's last word as one of the two repeating rhymes of a villanelle embedded in a prose poem. Similarly, the traditional fifteen-syllable line of the folksong, not coincidentally called 'political verse' (\u03c0\u03bf\u03bb\u03b9\u03c4\u03b9\u03ba\u03cc\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c4\u03af\u03c7\u03bf\u03c2), winds its way through much of the original Greek in this anthology, surfacing at the most unexpected moments. Yiannis Efthymiades's meditation on the final moments of a jumper from the World Trade Center, _9\/11 or Falling Man_ , takes still another inventive approach, following the spirit of its long 27-syllable lines by expanding the brevity of a ten-second descent into a series of poems that runs for twenty-seven pages.\n\nThis question of resourcefulness can also point to a more general ethos of recycling, reminiscent of the empty shopping cart, put to an imaginative range of uses, that shows up with growing frequency in contemporary Greek film, art, and even a promotional video for Piraeus Bank. More often than not, in this poetry, it is the icons of the everyday that bring the crisis home: IKEA cartons for a roof in Jazra Khaleed's 'Words', for instance, or a caterpillar eaten alive in the center of Athens in Iana Boukova's 'Black _Haiku_ '. In 'Mama's a Poet', meanwhile, Glykeria Basdeki turns household chores into a grammar lesson ('all day she cooks up commas \/ sweeps tenses under the rug') and, in so doing, makes poetry about the everyday political: 'comma', in Greek, means both the punctuation mark and a political party. These poets' relationships to history and current events are a mixed bag, sometimes in-your-face, at other times told at a slant, but always pulling at the corners of language, asking it to take in more, to be more open. The times are an invitation to speak out against dogma, division, and monolingualism \u2013 and also, often equally importantly, simply to register the lived experience of Greeks today, the news that stays new when headlines move on to cover other parts of the world.\n\nAs for the translators who have contributed to this anthology, many have linguistic identities as mixed as the poets they translate. Like Olga Broumas, Diamanda Galas, and other Greek Diaspora writers and performance artists, Stephanos Papadopoulos lives and works in English, while his poetry often channels Greek with its preponderance of vowels, loanwords, and calques. The same can be said of the poetry of Rachel Hadas and Stallings, although they learned Greek as translators and scholars. Often translators take their diverse affiliations as a cue to experiment with their own language, to stretch readers' expectations in all sorts of new directions, as when Peter Constantine's version of Stathis Baroutsos's 'Speed Dating' finds an analogue for the poet's direct style in the lexicon of the gay online hook-up scene. This is particularly obvious when translators take on the same poet. Krystalli Glyniadakis translates her own poem, 'The Next Hundred Years', with a post-Black Mountain School use of enjambment that fits right into a dominant contemporary American idiom of lyric poetry. Chloe Haralambous ratchets up the register in her translation of Glyniadakis's 'National Hymn' \u2013 perhaps to keep postcapitalist readers tuned in to feminism? \u2013 translating '\u03b1\u03c5\u03bd\u03b1\u03bd\u03af\u03b6\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9' (masturbate) as 'accessorize their wanks'. Stathis Gourgouris, in contrast, imagines Greek and English as one: in a move reminiscent of Richmond Lattimore's translations of Homer, he retains the definite articles and adheres at times to the word order of the Greek when he translates Phoebe Giannisi's poem about Thetis. My efforts place Giannisi in a trans-Atlantic experimental tradition of visual poetics recalling not only her own concrete punctuationless poems, but also those of the late twentieth-century American L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E poets. Her poem about Penelope swimming laps takes the shape of a pool in the English version. Other examples of experimental translation abound, and when possible they are indicated in translators' notes and biographies. For readers and students of Greek, this anthology can provide the additional pleasure and interest of seeing how translators relish the problems posed by the macaronic layers of myth, history, and language that contemporary Greek poetry exposes.\n\nThe translations chosen, for the most part, view constraints as enabling, rather than limiting: not as a cause for consternation, but as the basis for invention. What is lost in translation is found again, otherwise and elsewhere. The goal is not to reproduce the source text \u2013 you can't \u2013 but to learn from it so as to make something else possible in the new linguistic context, acknowledging the linguistic and cultural differences that translation is summoned to resolve but always winds up proliferating. Although this anthology maps out a particular segment of the poetry landscape in Europe, we must remember that what it discloses is always seen and heard through the English language. What can be conjured, woken up, written, and addressed in English? Editorial weight was consistently placed on the strongest translations, even at the expense of some very strong original poems. This anthology of new Greek poetry is representative, then, not only of a cross-section of Greek poetry now, but also, simultaneously, of that poetry as it stands in relation to other places and languages.\n\nMy goal has been to deepen and thereby alter the way readers think of poetry in Europe, especially at its edges where East and West blur, and to uncover the dilemma of learning to live with less amid the expectation of more: what in her last collection the poet and translator Katerina Anghelaki-Rooke called 'the anorexia of existence'. In post-crisis Greece, questions of blame and recrimination multiply in the face of rising suicide rates and hunger strikes. Did we do this to ourselves, Greeks ask, or was it done to us? The poems and translations collected here demonstrate that the impasse Greeks are now facing is not only theirs, but all of ours, as we struggle to live in a faster, more culturally heterogeneous world with tools from a slower, more homogeneous past. To recast these poems in the rhythms and multilingual idioms of English with an emphasis on the translated text is to view the crisis cross-culturally, and to treat _Austerity Measures_ as a project as much ours as theirs.\n\nSyros, August 2015\n\n## I\n\n## Tradition and the Individual Talent\n\n#### Poets in Literary Magazines\n\nIn the 1980s and 1990s, Greek poetry was going through a dry period. Haris Vlavianos responded by beginning a biannual book-length magazine of critical essays and verse, known first as _\u03a0\u03bf\u03af\u03b7\u03c3\u03b7_ ( _Poetry_ ) (1993\u20132007) and then as _\u03a0\u03bf\u03b9\u03b7\u03c4\u03b9\u03ba\u03ae_ ( _Poetics_ ) (2008\u2013present). Publication in these magazines is a key common denominator among the poets in this section; another is their prominence. The most established are cultural editors for Greece's oldest newspapers, or hosts of poetry shows on the radio. Unlike the rest of the groups in this anthology, they are predominantly men. Poetically, the focus is on form, on what is classical and what will last. Yiannis Doukas puts rhyme and the poem's shape to work in structuring the dark parts of history. Yannis Stiggas's and Yiannis Efthymiades's verse is more metaphysical, and Efthymiades's more vicious, but both are equally interested in poetic form. Doukas Kapanta\u00efs draws on his grounding in the Classics, as does Dimitra Kotoula, whose work combines the traditional rigour and formality of that literature with the next section's approach to poetry as a healing art.\n\n_Poetics_ is defined, too, by its internationalism, offering emerging poets the chance to read and be read alongside not only the Greek post-war poets, but also the likes of John Ashbery, Anne Carson, Paul Celan, Zbigniew Herbert, Paul Muldoon, and Giuseppe Ungaretti. Accordingly, this section's poets are the likeliest to translate from and have their own poetry translated into English, French, and German. Panayotis Ioannidis's wry, plain style takes something from both Seamus Heaney and Robert Creeley, whom he translates; Dimitris Athinakis, more elegiac and playful, is equally at home with the Anglo-Saxon tradition.\n\n## _Panayotis Ioannidis_\n\n#### (Born Athens, Greece, 1967)\n\nTo read Panayotis Ioannidis's work is often to be put in mind of the central role poets have historically played in Greece, especially during difficult times, and to find oneself asking what the task of the poet ought to be today. Both his poems and his translations of a variety of English-language poets, among them Seamus Heaney and Robert Creeley, have been appearing in Greek literary journals since 1995. In 2011 he began curating \u039c\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03bb\u03cc\u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 [\u03b3\u03af\u03bd\u03b5\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9] (Words [can] do it), a series of monthly poetry readings at which Greek poets of different generations perform their own poems alongside foreign-language poetry, delivered in the original as well as in translation.\n\n_\u03a4\u03bf \u03a3\u03c9\u03c3\u03af\u03b2\u03b9\u03bf_ ( _The_ _Lifesaver_ ), Kastaniotis, 2008; _\u0391\u03ba\u03ac\u03bb\u03c5\u03c0\u03c4\u03bf\u03c2_ ( _Unsheltered_ ), Kastaniotis, 2013 _; \u03a0\u03bf\u03bb\u03c9\u03c5\u03af\u03b1_ ( _Poland_ ), Kastaniotis, 2016.\n\n## _\u039a\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd\u03bf\u03cd\u03c0\u03b9_\n\n\u0395\u03c7\u03b8\u03ad\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b7 \u03bd\u03cd\u03c7\u03c4\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b8\u03ce\u03c2 \u03b4\u03b9\u03ac\u03b2\u03b1\u03b6\u03b1\n\n\u03bc\u03b5 \u03b4\u03c5\u03bd\u03b1\u03c4\u03cc \u03c6\u03c9\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03ba\u03c1\u03b5\u03b2\u03ac\u03c4\u03b9\n\n\u03c0\u03bf\u03af\u03b7\u03c3\u03b7 \u03b3\u03c1\u03b1\u03bc\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b7 \u03c5\u03c0\u03cc \u03c3\u03c5\u03bd\u03b8\u03ae\u03ba\u03b5\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1\u03c0\u03af\u03b5\u03c3\u03b7\u03c2\n\n\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03ba\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd\u03bf\u03cd\u03c0\u03b9\n\n\u03bc\u03b5 \u03ba\u03cd\u03ba\u03bb\u03c9\u03bd\u03b5 \u03b1\u03c0\u03b5\u03b9\u03bb\u03ce\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03c2\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc\u03bb\u03b1\u03c5\u03c3\u03b7 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03cd\u03c0\u03bd\u03bf\n\n\u03a4\u03bf \u03c3\u03ba\u03cc\u03c4\u03c9\u03c3\u03b1 \u03be\u03b1\u03bd\u03ac\u03c0\u03b9\u03b1\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf \u03b4\u03b9\u03ac\u03b2\u03b1\u03c3\u03bc\u03b1\n\n\u03ce\u03c3\u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ba\u03bf\u03c5\u03c1\u03ac\u03c3\u03c4\u03b7\u03ba\u03b1\n\n\u03ba\u03b9 \u03ad\u03c3\u03b2\u03b7\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf \u03c6\u03c9\u03c2\n\n## _\u039f \u03c0\u03bf\u03b9\u03b7\u03c4\u03ae\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03b4\u03b9\u03ac\u03b4\u03c1\u03bf\u03bc\u03bf_\n\n\u03a0\u03b7\u03b3\u03b1\u03af\u03bd\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03c2 \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03b1\u03bb\u03ad\u03c4\u03b5\u03c2\n\n\u03b5\u03af\u03b4\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03c0\u03bf\u03b9\u03b7\u03c4\u03ae \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03c0\u03ac\u03c4\u03c9\u03bc\u03b1\n\n\u039e\u03b5\u03c0\u03c1\u03cc\u03b2\u03b1\u03bb\u03b5 \u03c4\u03bf \u03bf\u03b3\u03ba\u03ce\u03b4\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c4\u03ae\u03b8\u03bf\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u03c0\u03ac\u03bd\u03c9 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bb\u03b1\u03c3\u03c4\u03b9\u03ba\u03ac \u03c0\u03bb\u03b1\u03ba\u03ac\u03ba\u03b9\u03b1\n\n\u039c\u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03c3\u03c4\u03ac \u03c0\u03c5\u03c1\u03bf\u03c3\u03b2\u03b5\u03c3\u03c4\u03ae\u03c1\u03b1\u03c2\n\n\u03b4\u03af\u03c0\u03bb\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b1\u03c7\u03c4\u03bf\u03b4\u03bf\u03c7\u03b5\u03af\u03bf \u2013 \u03c0\u03b9\u03bf \u03ba\u03b5\u03b9\n\n\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b1\u03c1\u03cc\u03c4\u03c3\u03b9 \u03b1\u03c7\u03c1\u03b7\u03c3\u03c4\u03b5\u03c5\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf\n\n\u03a3\u03c4\u03c9\u03b9\u03ba\u03ac \u03ba\u03bf\u03b9\u03c4\u03ac\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9\n\n\u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03b1\u03c0\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1\u03bd\u03c4\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf\u03af\u03c7\u03bf\n\n\u03c4\u03b1 \u03b3\u03cc\u03bd\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c4\u03c9\u03bd \u03b2\u03b9\u03b1\u03c3\u03c4\u03b9\u03ba\u03ce\u03bd \u03c0\u03b5\u03c1\u03b1\u03c3\u03c4\u03b9\u03ba\u03ce\u03bd\n\n## _Mosquito_\n\nLast night as I was reading\n\nwith a bright light in bed\n\npoetry written under the conditions of oppression\n\na mosquito\n\ncircled me, menacing\n\nboth enjoyment and sleep\n\nI killed it and took up my reading again,\n\nuntil I got tired\n\nand turned off the light.\n\nA. E. Stallings\n\n## _The Poet in the Hallway_\n\nAs I was headed to the bathroom,\n\nI saw the poet on the floor\n\nHis massive chest was emerging\n\nfrom the linoleum tiles\n\nIn front of him, the fire extinguisher,\n\nnext to him, the standing ashtray \u2013 and there\n\nan abandoned handcart\n\nStoically he is looking\n\nat the wall opposite,\n\nat the knees of the hurried passers-by.\n\nA. E. Stallings\n\n## Dimitris Athinakis\n\n#### (Born Drama, Greece, 1981)\n\nThe influence of post-war poets such as Manolis Anagnostakis and Tasos Leivaditis informs Dimitris Athinakis's conversational tone and unexpected bendings of the possible. He studied Theology, Philosophy and Philosophy of Science in Athens, Thessaloniki, and Amsterdam, respectively. Today, as Cultural Editor at _Kathimerini_ , Greece's most established newspaper, and Creative Director for the social media company medianeras.gr, he is a central figure in the Athens cultural scene. He also translates British and American poetry and fiction.\n\n_\u03c7\u03c9\u03c1\u03af\u03c3\u03b5\u03bc\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2_ ( _withoutus_ ), Koinonia ton (de)katon, 2009; _\u0394\u03c9\u03bc\u03ac\u03c4\u03b9\u03bf \u03bc\u03b9\u03ba\u03c1\u03ce\u03bd \u03b4\u03b9\u03b1\u03ba\u03bf\u03c0\u03ce\u03bd_ ( _The Short Vacation Room_ ), Kedros, 2012.\n\n## _\u0397 \u03b5\u03c0\u03af\u03c6\u03b1\u03c3\u03b7 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03c4\u03ac\u03be\u03b7\u03c2_\n\n\u0388\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c5\u03bc\u03bc\u03b1\u03b6\u03b5\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf \u03c3\u03c0\u03af\u03c4\u03b9 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 '\u03c7\u03b5\u03b9 \u03bc\u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9.\n\n\u03a3\u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c4\u03c3\u03ad\u03c0\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c1\u03bf\u03cd\u03c7\u03c9\u03bd\n\n\u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 '\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9\u03c1\u03cc \u03b1\u03c6\u03cc\u03c1\u03b5\u03c4\u03b1\n\n\u03b2\u03c1\u03af\u03c3\u03ba\u03c9 \u03b5\u03b9\u03c3\u03b9\u03c4\u03ae\u03c1\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03bb\u03b5\u03c9\u03c6\u03bf\u03c1\u03b5\u03af\u03b1 \u2013\n\n\u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03c3\u03c0\u03af\u03c4\u03b9 \u03b1\u03ba\u03cc\u03bc\u03b1 \u03b1\u03bd\u03b1\u03b6\u03b7\u03c4\u03ce \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03b9\u03b4\u03c1\u03ce\u03c4\u03b1\n\n\u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bc\u03ac\u03bb\u03bb\u03bf\u03bd \u03be\u03ad\u03c7\u03b1\u03c3\u03b1\u03bd \u03ba\u03ac\u03c0\u03bf\u03b9\u03bf\u03b9 \u03b5\u03c0\u03b9\u03b2\u03ac\u03c4\u03b5\u03c2.\n\n\u039c\u03c0\u03b5\u03c1\u03b4\u03b5\u03cd\u03bf\u03bc\u03b1\u03b9.\n\n\u03a3\u03c5\u03bd\u03b5\u03c7\u03af\u03b6\u03c9 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03b3\u03c9\u03bd\u03af\u03b5\u03c2. \u03a4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c3\u03ba\u03ac\u03b2\u03c9.\n\n\u039a\u03bf\u03b9\u03c4\u03ac\u03b6\u03c9 \u03ba\u03ac\u03c4\u03c9 \u03b1\u03c0' \u03c4\u03b1 \u03ba\u03c1\u03b5\u03b2\u03ac\u03c4\u03b9\u03b1\n\n\u03ba\u03b9 \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b9\u03ac\u03c4\u03b1 \u03ba\u03ac\u03c4\u03c9\n\n\u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c3\u03c9\u03c1\u03b9\u03ac\u03b6\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03b5\u03c0\u03af\u03c6\u03b1\u03c3\u03b7 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03c4\u03ac\u03be\u03b7\u03c2.\n\n\u03a0\u03c1\u03ce\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03b2\u03b1\u03b8\u03b9\u03ac, \u03bc\u03b5\u03c4\u03ac \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c1\u03b7\u03c7\u03ac.\n\n\u0394\u03b5\u03bd \u03c0\u03ac\u03c9 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5\u03b8\u03b5\u03bd\u03ac\u00b7 \u03bc\u03cc\u03bd\u03bf \u03bb\u03c5\u03c0\u03ac\u03bc\u03b1\u03b9.\n\n\u0393\u03bb\u03b5\u03af\u03c6\u03c9 \u03c4\u03bf \u03bd\u03b5\u03c1\u03cc \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c4\u03c1\u03ad\u03c7\u03b5\u03b9 \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03c3\u03c0\u03b1\u03c3\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c9\u03bb\u03b7\u03bd\u03ce\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2\n\n\u03b2\u03ac\u03b6\u03c9 \u03c4\u03b7 \u03b3\u03bb\u03ce\u03c3\u03c3\u03b1 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03bb\u03ac\u03c3\u03c4\u03b9\u03c7\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b8\u03b5\u03c1\u03bc\u03bf\u03c3\u03af\u03c6\u03c9\u03bd\u03b1.\n\n\u03a4\u03b7\u03bd \u03b1\u03c0\u03bb\u03ce\u03bd\u03c9 \u03bc\u03ad\u03c7\u03c1\u03b9 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b5\u03bd\u03c4\u03c9\u03b8\u03b5\u03af \u03cc\u03c3\u03bf \u03bc\u03c0\u03bf\u03c1\u03b5\u03af.\n\n\u0395\u03c0\u03b9\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03c9.\n\n\u038c\u03c0\u03bf\u03c4\u03b5 \u03b8\u03c5\u03bc\u03ac\u03bc\u03b1\u03b9, \u03c1\u03ac\u03b2\u03c9 \u03ba\u03ac\u03c0\u03bf\u03b9\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c4\u03c3\u03ad\u03c0\u03b5\u03c2\n\n\u03c3\u03ac\u03bc\u03c0\u03c9\u03c2 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c6\u03c5\u03bb\u03b1\u03ba\u03af\u03c3\u03c9 \u03cc,\u03c4\u03b9 \u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03bb\u03ac\u03b2\u03c9.\n\n\u039a\u03b9 \u03ad\u03c7\u03c9 \u03cc\u03bb\u03b7 \u03bd\u03cd\u03c7\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b7 \u03b3\u03bb\u03ce\u03c3\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b5\u03bd\u03c4\u03c9\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b7.\n\n## _A Semblance of Order_\n\nA tidy house is what I have left.\n\nIn my pockets,\n\nin those unwearable clothes,\n\nI find wet tickets from busses\n\nthat carted sweat by the ton \u2013\n\nin the house I'm still seeking the sweat\n\nthat some passengers must have left behind.\n\nI'm perplexed.\n\nI continue with the corners of the house. I forage in them. I look under\n\nthe beds, under the plates piled\n\nin a semblance of order. First the deep plates, then the shallow ones.\n\nI don't go anywhere \u2013 I'm just sad.\n\nI lick the water dribbling from decaying pipes,\n\nI stick my tongue into the tube of the boiler.\n\nI stretch it as far as it'll go \u2013 I keep stretching.\n\nWhenever I remember to, I sew some pockets shut\n\n\u2013 as if to lock up whatever I can.\n\nAnd my tongue is stretched out all night.\n\nPeter Constantine\n\n## _\u03a0\u03b1\u03c1\u03b1\u03bb\u03ae\u03c1\u03b7\u03bc\u03b1 \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c4\u03ad\u03c3\u03c3\u03b5\u03c1\u03b1 \u03c0\u03cc\u03b4\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b9\u03b1\u03c2 \u03b1\u03b3\u03ac\u03c0\u03b7\u03c2_\n\n\u0392\u03bb\u03ad\u03c0\u03c9 \u03c4\u03b1 _\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9_ \u03c3\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03ad\u03c1\u03c7\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03bc\u03b1\u03ba\u03c1\u03b9\u03ac\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03b4\u03b9\u03ba\u03ac \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5, \u03c3\u03b1\u03bd \u03ba\u03b5\u03c1\u03b9\u03ac,\n\n\u03ba\u03c1\u03b1\u03b4\u03b1\u03af\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd,\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03af\u03bd\u03b5\n\n\u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03b1\u03b9\u03ce\u03bd\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c0\u03b5\u03c1\u03b9\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03c2\n\n\u03a6\u03cd\u03c3\u03b1 \u03b4\u03c5\u03bd\u03b1\u03c4\u03ac\n\n\u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c6\u03b5\u03cd\u03b3\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf \u03ba\u03b1\u03c0\u03ad\u03bb\u03bf \u03c4\u03b1 \u03b3\u03c5\u03b1\u03bb\u03b9\u03ac \u03c4\u03bf \u03c4\u03b1\u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03ac\u03b6 \u03c4\u03bf \u03c7\u03ad\u03c1\u03b9 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c6\u03b5\u03cd\u03b3\u03b5\u03b9\n\n\u03c4\u03bf \u03c0\u03cc\u03b4\u03b9 \u03ba\u03b9 \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03ac\u03c4\u03b9\n\n[\u039c\u03ad\u03bd\u03c9 \u03ad\u03c4\u03c3\u03b9 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c7\u03b1\u03bc\u03bf\u03b3\u03b5\u03bb\u03ce \u03b5\u03bc\u03c0\u03c1\u03cc\u03c2 \u03c3\u03b5 \u03c0\u03af\u03b4\u03b1\u03ba\u03b5\u03c2\n\n\u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b7 \u03c7\u03b1\u03c1\u03ac \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c4\u03af\u03c0\u03bf\u03c4\u03b1 \u03b1\u03bd\u03b1\u03b2\u03bb\u03cd\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9]\n\n_\u03b7 \u03c7\u03b1\u03c1\u03ac \u2013_\n\n_\u03bc\u03cc\u03bd\u03b7 \u03ba\u03b9 \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03ae_\n\n\u039c\u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b5 \u03b5\u03c3\u03cd, \u03b1\u03bd \u03b8\u03ad\u03bb\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2, \u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u03b1\u03b4\u03af\u03c0\u03bb\u03b1\n\n\u2013 \u03ba\u03b9 \u03b1\u03c2 \u03bc\u03b7 \u03bc\u03b1\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1\u03bb\u03b1\u03b2\u03b1\u03af\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03ba\u03b1\u03bd\u03b5\u03af\u03c2\n\n[\u0394\u03b5 \u03c7\u03c1\u03b5\u03b9\u03ac\u03b6\u03b5\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9 \u03ba\u03b9 \u03b5\u03c4\u03bf\u03cd\u03c4\u03bf \u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b1\u03c2 \u03c0\u03bd\u03af\u03be\u03b5\u03b9]\n\n\u039c\u03cc\u03bd\u03bf \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c1\u03ad\u03b5\u03b9\n\n\u03bf \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9\u03c1\u03cc\u03c2\n\n\u03c4\u03bf \u03ba\u03c1\u03b1\u03c3\u03af\n\n\u03bf \u03ba\u03b1\u03c0\u03bd\u03cc\u03c2\n\n\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c1\u03ad\u03b5\u03b9\n\n## _Delirium for the Four Legs of a Love_\n\nI see your _yesses_ coming from afar\n\nand my own, like candles,\n\nbrandish\n\nand burn\n\nawaiting the centuries\n\nA strong wind\n\ncarries off my hat my glasses my tattoo my arm\n\ncarries off\n\nmy leg and an eye\n\n[I'm left there smiling before jets\n\ngushing the joy of nothingness]\n\n_joy \u2013_\n\n_it too alone_\n\nStay, if you want, by my side\n\n\u2013 even if no one understands us\n\n[Why let that, too, smother us]\n\nJust let it flow\n\nlet time\n\nthe wine\n\nthe smoke\n\nflow\n\nKaren Emmerich\n\n## _\u0391\u03b4\u03c5\u03bd\u03b1\u03bc\u03af\u03b1_\n\n_\u039c\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bf\u03cd \u03c0\u03ac\u03bd\u03b5 \u03cc\u03bb\u03bf\u03b9 \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03bf\u03af \u03bf\u03b9 \u03bd\u03b5\u03ba\u03c1\u03bf\u03af;_\n\n_\u03a0\u03bf\u03cd \u03c0\u03ac\u03bd\u03b5 \u03bf\u03b9 \u03bd\u03b5\u03ba\u03c1\u03bf\u03af \u03cc\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd \u03c0\u03b5\u03b8\u03b1\u03af\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd, \u03bc\u03c0\u03b1\u03bc\u03c0\u03ac;_\n\n\u03a4\u03b1 \u03bc\u03ac\u03c4\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03ba\u03bf\u03b9\u03c4\u03ac\u03b6\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd.\n\n\u038c\u03bc\u03bf\u03c1\u03c6\u03b1 \u03bc\u03ac\u03c4\u03b9\u03b1.\n\n\u039a\u03b1\u03bc\u03b9\u03ac \u03c6\u03bf\u03c1\u03ac \u03b8\u03ad\u03bb\u03c9 \u03ba\u03ac\u03c4\u03b9 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03b3\u03c1\u03ac\u03c8\u03c9 \u03b3\u03b9' \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03ac,\n\n\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c1\u03c9\u03c4\u03ae\u03c3\u03c9 \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1\u03c4\u03af \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03bc' \u03b1\u03c6\u03ae\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03b1\u03ba\u03cc\u03bc\u03b1 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b1\u03c0\u03bd\u03af\u03c3\u03c9.\n\n_\u0393\u03b9\u03b1\u03c4\u03af \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03bc' \u03b1\u03c6\u03ae\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03b1\u03ba\u03cc\u03bc\u03b1 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b1\u03c0\u03bd\u03af\u03c3\u03c9;_\n\n\u03b1\u03b4\u03c5\u03bd\u03b1\u03bc\u03af\u03b1\n\n\u03a6\u03cc\u03c1\u03b5\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c3\u03ae\u03bc\u03b5\u03c1\u03b1 \u03cc\u03bb\u03b1 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c1\u03bf\u03cd\u03c7\u03b1 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b7 \u03c6\u03b1\u03af\u03bd\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b9\u03bb\u03ac \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ad\u03c7\u03b1\u03c3\u03b1,\n\n\u03bf\u03b9 \u03c4\u03c1\u03af\u03c7\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ad\u03c7\u03b1\u03c3\u03b1,\n\n\u03b7 \u03ba\u03bf\u03b9\u03bb\u03b9\u03ac \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ad\u03b4\u03b5\u03b9\u03c7\u03bd\u03b5 \u03b1\u03c6\u03b9\u03bb\u03cc\u03be\u03b5\u03bd\u03b7.\n\n\u03a0\u03b1\u03c0\u03bf\u03cd\u03c4\u03c3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03ad\u03c7\u03c9 \u03ac\u03bb\u03bb\u03b1.\n\n_\u03a3' \u03c4\u03b1 '\u03b2\u03b1\u03bb\u03b1, \u03b1\u03bd \u03b8\u03c5\u03bc\u03ac\u03c3\u03b1\u03b9, \u03cc\u03bb\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03c4\u03b5\u03bb\u03b5\u03c5\u03c4\u03b1\u03af\u03bf \u03b4\u03ad\u03bc\u03b1._\n\n_\u03a7\u03c9\u03c1\u03bf\u03cd\u03c3\u03b5\u03c2, \u03b5\u03af\u03c0\u03b5\u03c2, \u03bc\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c3' \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03ac, \u03bf\u03bb\u03cc\u03ba\u03bb\u03b7\u03c1\u03bf\u03c2. \u039c\u03b1 \u03c0\u03ce\u03c2 \u03c7\u03c9\u03c1\u03bf\u03cd\u03c3\u03b5\u03c2;_\n\n_\u0395\u03c3\u03cd \u03ae\u03c3\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03c0\u03ac\u03bd\u03c4\u03bf\u03c4\u03b5 \u03c8\u03b7\u03bb\u03cc\u03c2._\n\n_\u0398\u03c5\u03bc\u03ac\u03bc\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b1\u03ba\u03cc\u03bc\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c7\u03b1\u03bc\u03cc\u03b3\u03b5\u03bb\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c3\u03c7\u03b7\u03bc\u03ac\u03c4\u03b9\u03b6\u03b1\u03bd \u03c4\u03b1 \u03ba\u03bf\u03c1\u03b4\u03cc\u03bd\u03b9\u03b1._\n\n_\u0391\u03c0' \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03c0\u03bf\u03bb\u03bb\u03ae \u03c7\u03b1\u03c1\u03ac \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b8\u03b1 \u03c3\u03b5 \u03c3\u03c5\u03bd\u03b1\u03bd\u03c4\u03bf\u03cd\u03c3\u03b1\u03bd._\n\n\u03b1\u03b4\u03c5\u03bd\u03b1\u03bc\u03af\u03b1\n\n\u0398\u03c5\u03bc\u03ac\u03bc\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b1\u03ba\u03cc\u03bc\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c7\u03b1\u03bc\u03cc\u03b3\u03b5\u03bb\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c3\u03c7\u03b7\u03bc\u03ac\u03c4\u03b9\u03b6\u03b1\u03bd \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c1\u03bf\u03cd\u03c7\u03b1 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u2013\n\n\u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03ac \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ad\u03b2\u03b1\u03bb\u03b1 \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03b2\u03b3\u03c9 \u03ad\u03be\u03c9.\n\n\u03a0\u03c4\u03c5\u03c7\u03ad\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03c3\u03b1\u03bb\u03b1\u03ba\u03ce\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bf\u03bb\u03bb\u03ac, \u03ba\u03b9 \u03b5\u03ba\u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b7 \u03b7 \u03ba\u03b1\u03bc\u03c0\u03cd\u03bb\u03b7 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ba\u03ac\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd\n\n\u03c3\u03c4\u03b7 \u03bc\u03b1\u03c3\u03c7\u03ac\u03bb\u03b7 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u03b1\u03c0' \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03c0\u03bf\u03bb\u03bb\u03ae \u03b1\u03b4\u03c5\u03bd\u03b1\u03bc\u03af\u03b1.\n\n\u03a4\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5\u03ba\u03ac\u03bc\u03b9\u03c3\u03b1 \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ba\u03ac\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03c0\u03b9\u03b1 \u2013\n\n\u03b3\u03b9' \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03cc \u03c6\u03cc\u03c1\u03b5\u03c3\u03b1 \u03b4\u03c5\u03bf \u03c4\u03c1\u03af\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b1\u03b6\u03af.\n\n\u039f\u03b9 \u03bc\u03c0\u03bb\u03bf\u03cd\u03b6\u03b5\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03bc\u03ac\u03bb\u03bb\u03b9\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5\u03bb\u03cc\u03b2\u03b5\u03c1 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c3\u03c6\u03af\u03b3\u03b3\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03bb\u03b1\u03b9\u03bc\u03cc\n\n\u03b1\u03bb\u03bb\u03ac \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03bc\u03b5 \u03bd\u03bf\u03b9\u03ac\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9, \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1\u03c4\u03af \u03ac\u03c6\u03b7\u03c3\u03b1 \u03cc\u03bb\u03b1 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b1\u03c3\u03ba\u03cc\u03bb \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03c4\u03b1\u03c7\u03c5\u03b4\u03c1\u03bf\u03bc\u03b5\u03af\u03bf.\n\n_\u0389\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03b2\u03ac\u03bb\u03c9 \u03ba\u03b9 \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03ac \u03c3\u03b5 \u03ba\u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03bf \u03c4\u03bf \u03b4\u03ad\u03bc\u03b1,_\n\n_\u03b1\u03bb\u03bb' \u03ac\u03c1\u03b5\u03c3\u03b1\u03bd \u03c3' \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1\u03bd \u03c5\u03c0\u03ac\u03bb\u03bb\u03b7\u03bb\u03bf_\n\n_\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c7\u03ac\u03c1\u03b9\u03c3\u03b1._\n\n_\u038c\u03bb\u03b1 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b1\u03c3\u03ba\u03cc\u03bb, \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c6\u03b1\u03bd\u03c4\u03ac\u03c3\u03bf\u03c5._\n\n\u03b1\u03b4\u03c5\u03bd\u03b1\u03bc\u03af\u03b1\n\n\u0394\u03b5\u03bd \u03ad\u03b3\u03c1\u03b1\u03c8\u03b1 \u03c4\u03af\u03c0\u03bf\u03c4\u03b5 \u03ac\u03bb\u03bb\u03bf \u03cd\u03c3\u03c4\u03b5\u03c1\u03b1 \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03ba\u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b7 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03b7\u03bc\u03ad\u03c1\u03b1.\n\n\u039c\u03cc\u03bd\u03bf \u03ba\u03ac\u03b8\u03b9\u03c3\u03b1 \u03bc\u03cc\u03bd\u03bf\u03c2 \u03c3\u03b5 \u03ba\u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b7 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03ba\u03b1\u03c1\u03ad\u03ba\u03bb\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b3\u03c1\u03b1\u03c6\u03b5\u03af\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b8\u03cd\u03bc\u03c9\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03bc' \u03ac\u03c6\u03b7\u03bd\u03b5 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b1\u03c0\u03bd\u03af\u03b6\u03c9.\n\n\u039a\u03b1\u03c0\u03bd\u03cc\u03c2 \u03ad\u03b3\u03b9\u03bd\u03b1 \u03b5\u03b3\u03ce.\n\n\u0391\u03bd\u03ad\u03b2\u03b1\u03b9\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03c4\u03b1\u03b2\u03ac\u03bd\u03b9 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b3\u03cd\u03c1\u03b9\u03b6\u03b1 \u03c0\u03af\u03c3\u03c9 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03ba\u03b1\u03c1\u03ad\u03ba\u03bb\u03b1\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03be\u03b1\u03bd\u03ac \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03c4\u03b1\u03b2\u03ac\u03bd\u03b9 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03be\u03b1\u03bd\u03ac \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03ba\u03b1\u03c1\u03ad\u03ba\u03bb\u03b1.\n\n\u0392\u03b3\u03ae\u03ba\u03b1 \u03bb\u03af\u03b3\u03bf \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03bc\u03c0\u03b1\u03bb\u03ba\u03cc\u03bd\u03b9.\n\n\u038c\u03c3\u03bf \u03c4\u03bf \u03c3\u03c0\u03af\u03c4\u03b9 \u03c4\u03cc\u03c3\u03bf \u03c4\u03bf \u03bc\u03c0\u03b1\u03bb\u03ba\u03cc\u03bd\u03b9.\n\n\u03a3\u03c4\u03b7 \u03bc\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ac\u03ba\u03c1\u03b7 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c1\u03bf\u03cd\u03c7\u03b1 \u03b1\u03c0\u03bb\u03c9\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1.\n\n\u03a3\u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03ac\u03bb\u03bb\u03b7 \u03b1\u03c0\u03bb\u03c9\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf\u03c2 \u03b5\u03b3\u03ce.\n\n\u03a3\u03c5\u03bd\u03b1\u03b3\u03c9\u03bd\u03b9\u03b6\u03cc\u03bc\u03b1\u03c3\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd \u03c0\u03bf\u03b9\u03bf\u03c2 \u03ba\u03c1\u03ad\u03bc\u03b5\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9 \u03ba\u03b1\u03bb\u03cd\u03c4\u03b5\u03c1\u03b1.\n\n\u03b1\u03b4\u03c5\u03bd\u03b1\u03bc\u03af\u03b1\n\n\u03a4\u03b1 \u03bc\u03ac\u03c4\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5.\n\n\u03a4\u03b1 \u03bc\u03ac\u03c4\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03cc\u03bc\u03bf\u03c1\u03c6\u03b1.\n\n\u038c\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd \u03c6\u03bf\u03c1\u03bf\u03cd\u03bd \u03c4' \u03b1\u03b3\u03b1\u03c0\u03b7\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c0\u03b1\u03c0\u03bf\u03cd\u03c4\u03c3\u03b9\u03b1, \u03b3\u03af\u03bd\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9 \u03ac\u03bb\u03bb\u03b1.\n\n\u03a4\u03b1 \u03bc\u03ac\u03c4\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bb\u03ad\u03be\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03c7\u03c9\u03c1\u03bf\u03cd\u03bd \u03c3\u03b5 \u03c0\u03bf\u03af\u03b7\u03bc\u03b1.\n\n\u03a4\u03b1 \u03bc\u03ac\u03c4\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03cd \u03bc\u03c0\u03b1\u03bc\u03c0\u03ac.\n\n\u03b1\u03b4\u03c5\u03bd\u03b1\u03bc\u03af\u03b1\n\n\u039c\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ae\u03c1\u03b8\u03b5 \u03c0\u03af\u03c3\u03c9 \u03c4\u03bf \u03b4\u03ad\u03bc\u03b1.\n\n_\u2013 \u0386\u03bb\u03bb\u03b7 \u03c6\u03bf\u03c1\u03ac \u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b7 \u03bc\u03b1\u03c2 \u03b5\u03b9\u03c1\u03c9\u03bd\u03b5\u03cd\u03b5\u03c3\u03c4\u03b5, \u03ba\u03cd\u03c1\u03b9\u03b5._\n\n_\u2013 \u039c\u03b1 \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1\u03c4\u03af; \u03a4\u03b1 \u03c7\u03b1\u03bc\u03bf\u03b3\u03b5\u03bb\u03b1\u03c3\u03c4\u03ac \u03ba\u03bf\u03c1\u03b4\u03cc\u03bd\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c9\u03c1\u03b1\u03af\u03b1._\n\n_\u0398\u03ad\u03bb\u03c9 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03be\u03b1\u03bd\u03b1\u03b4\u03ce \u03b5\u03ba\u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c3\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03bc\u03ac\u03c4\u03b9\u03b1._\n\n\u03b1\u03b4\u03c5\u03bd\u03b1\u03bc\u03af\u03b1\n\n\u039a\u03b1\u03c4\u03ad\u03b2\u03b7\u03ba\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf \u03c0\u03c1\u03c9\u03af \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7 \u03bb\u03b5\u03c9\u03c6\u03cc\u03c1\u03bf.\n\n\u03a3\u03bf\u03c1\u03bf\u03af \u03c3\u03c9\u03c1\u03b9\u03b1\u03c3\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c9\u03c1\u03b7\u03b4\u03cc\u03bd.\n\n\u03a4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03b2\u03ac\u03b6\u03b1\u03bd\u03b5 \u03bc\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c3' \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c6\u03bf\u03c1\u03c4\u03b7\u03b3\u03cc. \u039c\u03b5\u03b3\u03ac\u03bb\u03bf \u03c6\u03bf\u03c1\u03c4\u03b7\u03b3\u03cc, \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c1\u03cc\u03b4\u03b5\u03c2 \u03bc\u03b5\u03b3\u03ac\u03bb\u03b5\u03c2.\n\n\u0395\u03c4\u03bf\u03b9\u03bc\u03ac\u03b6\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9, \u03c6\u03b1\u03af\u03bd\u03b5\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9, \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b5\u03b3\u03ac\u03bb\u03bf \u03c4\u03b1\u03be\u03af\u03b4\u03b9.\n\n_\u039c\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bf\u03cd \u03c0\u03ac\u03bd\u03b5 \u03cc\u03bb\u03bf\u03b9 \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03bf\u03af \u03bf\u03b9 \u03bd\u03b5\u03ba\u03c1\u03bf\u03af;_\n\n_\u03a0\u03bf\u03cd \u03c0\u03ac\u03bd\u03b5 \u03bf\u03b9 \u03bd\u03b5\u03ba\u03c1\u03bf\u03af \u03cc\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd \u03c0\u03b5\u03b8\u03b1\u03af\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd, \u03bc\u03c0\u03b1\u03bc\u03c0\u03ac;_\n\n\u03b1\u03b4\u03c5\u03bd\u03b1\u03bc\u03af\u03b1\n\n\u03a4\u03bf\u03bd \u03bc\u03c0\u03b1\u03bc\u03c0\u03ac \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ba\u03b1\u03c4\u03ac\u03c6\u03b5\u03c1\u03b1 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03b2\u03ac\u03bb\u03c9 \u03c3\u03b5 \u03c0\u03bf\u03af\u03b7\u03bc\u03b1.\n\n\u03a4\u03bf \u03ba\u03ac\u03c0\u03bd\u03b9\u03c3\u03bc\u03b1 \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03ba\u03b1\u03c4\u03ac\u03c6\u03b5\u03c1\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c4\u03ad \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf \u03ba\u03cc\u03c8\u03c9,\n\n\u03cc\u03bc\u03c9\u03c2 \u03ba\u03ac\u03b8\u03b5 \u03c6\u03bf\u03c1\u03ac \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b4\u03ad\u03bd\u03c9 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03ba\u03bf\u03c1\u03b4\u03cc\u03bd\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u03c3\u03c9\u03c1\u03b9\u03ac\u03b6\u03bf\u03bc\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bc\u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03ba\u03b1\u03b8\u03c1\u03ad\u03c6\u03c4\u03b7\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03ba\u03bf\u03b9\u03c4\u03ce \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03ce\u03c1\u03b5\u03c2.\n\n\u0395\u03c4\u03bf\u03b9\u03bc\u03ac\u03b6\u03bf\u03bc\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9\u03bd\u03bf\u03cd\u03c1\u03b3\u03b9\u03b5\u03c2 \u03bc\u03ad\u03c1\u03b5\u03c2.\n\n\u03a6\u03bf\u03c1\u03ce \u03cc,\u03c4\u03b9 \u03b2\u03c1\u03c9 \u03bc\u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03c3\u03c4\u03ac \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c0\u03ac\u03c9 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03c4\u03b1\u03c7\u03c5\u03b4\u03c1\u03bf\u03bc\u03b5\u03af\u03bf \u03c3\u03c5\u03c7\u03bd\u03ac.\n\n\u039c' \u03b1\u03c1\u03ad\u03c3\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03c4\u03b1 \u03b3\u03c1\u03b1\u03bc\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03cc\u03c3\u03b7\u03bc\u03b1 \u2013\n\n\u03ad\u03c7\u03c9 \u03c0\u03ac\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1 \u03ba\u03ac\u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bd' \u03b1\u03ba\u03bf\u03c5\u03bc\u03c0\u03ce \u03c4\u03b7 \u03b3\u03bb\u03ce\u03c3\u03c3\u03b1 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5.\n\n## _Weakness_\n\n_But where do all those dead people go?_\n\n_Where do dead people go when they die, Dad?_\n\nHis eyes watch me.\n\nBeautiful eyes.\n\nSometimes I want to write about them,\n\nto ask why they still won't let me smoke.\n\n_Why will you still not let me smoke?_\n\nweakness\n\nToday I put on all my clothes so no one would see the weight I've lost,\n\nthe hair I've lost, so no one would see\n\nmy belly, inhospitable.\n\nThese are my only shoes.\n\n_Don't you remember I put the others in your last package?_\n\n_You said you could fit in them, entire. But how?_\n\n_You were always tall._\n\n_I still remember the smiles the laces made._\n\n_Out of joy that they'd be seeing you._\n\nweakness\n\nI still remember the smiles my clothes made \u2013\n\nthe ones I wore to go out.\n\nAll creases and folds, those wide curves\n\nat my armpit\n\nbecause of how weak I am, how thin.\n\nMy shirts don't fit me any more\n\nso I put on two or three at once.\n\nThe button-downs and wool sweaters are tight at my neck\n\nbut it's fine, since I left all my scarves at the post office.\n\n_I meant to put them in the package too,_\n\n_but one of the clerks liked them_\n\n_so I gave them to him._\n\n_All of my scarves, just imagine._\n\nweakness\n\nI never wrote after that day.\n\nI just sat alone in the desk chair,\n\nmad because he wouldn't let me smoke.\n\nSo I became smoke.\n\nI rose to the ceiling and came back down to the chair,\n\nand again to the ceiling and again to the chair.\n\nI went out on to the balcony for a while.\n\nIt was as big as the house, or as small.\n\nAt one end was the laundry.\n\nAt the other, me.\n\nA kind of contest, to see who was better at hanging.\n\nweakness\n\nHis eyes.\n\nHis eyes are beautiful.\n\nWhen they put on my favorite shoes they change.\n\nHis eyes are words that won't fit into any poem.\n\nMy father's eyes.\n\nweakness\n\nThe package was returned.\n\n\u2013 _Next time don't make fun of us, sir._\n\n\u2013 _What do you mean? Smiling laces are nice._\n\n_I want to see your eyes again._\n\nweakness\n\nThis morning I went down to the avenue.\n\nCorpses heaped high in hills.\n\nWe put them on a truck one by one. A big truck, with big wheels.\n\nThey're preparing, it seems, for a big journey.\n\n_But where do all those dead people go?_\n\n_Where do dead people go when they die, Dad?_\n\nweakness\n\nI managed to put my father in a poem.\n\nI never managed to quit smoking,\n\nbut every time I tie my laces\n\nI fall in a heap in front of the mirror\n\nand look at me for hours.\n\nI'm preparing for the new days.\n\nI put on whatever I find and go to the post office often.\n\nI like stamps \u2013\n\nI always have somewhere to rest my tongue.\n\nKaren Emmerich\n\n## Yiannis Efthymiades\n\n#### (Born Piraeus, Greece, 1969)\n\nComing to the Athens poetry world from the outside, both geographically (he still lives in Piraeus) and in terms of his artistic eclecticism (he is an artist and songwriter as well as a poet), Yiannis Efthymiades's formal reworkings of the Greek literary tradition from Dionysis Solomos to Jenny Mastoraki have nonetheless gained him a place at the center. In his 2012 collection about the Twin Towers attack he succeeds in turning an American tragedy into something both global and very Greek. His poems and translations of English and American poetry appear regularly in _Poetics_ and other literary magazines. He makes a living writing textbooks and teaching Ancient and Modern Greek at the Piraeus Greek\u2013French Lyc\u00e9e, and also hosts an interview show on poetry and music on web radio, metadeftero.gr.\n\n_\u03a3\u03a4\u0399\u0393\u039c\u0391_ ( _Stigmata_ ), Self-published, 2004; _\u039a\u03b1\u03b9\u03bd\u03cc\u03c2 \u03b4\u03b9\u03b1\u03b9\u03c1\u03ad\u03c4\u03b7\u03c2_ ( _New Division_ ), Nefeli, 2007; _\u0393\u03c1\u03ac\u03bc\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03a0\u03c1\u03af\u03b3\u03ba\u03b9\u03c0\u03b1_ ( _Letters to the Prince_ ), Mikri Arktos, 2009; _27 \u03ae \u03bf \u03ac\u03bd\u03b8\u03c1\u03c9\u03c0\u03bf\u03c2 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c0\u03ad\u03c6\u03c4\u03b5\u03b9_ ( _9\/11 or Falling Man_ ), Mikri Arktos, 2012; _\u03a0\u03b1\u03c4\u03c1\u03b5\u03af\u03b4\u03b1_ ( _O Say Can You See_ ), Kihli, 2016.\n\n## _\u03b1\u03c0\u03cc_ \u039a\u03b1\u03b9\u03bd\u03cc \u03b4\u03b9\u03b1\u03b9\u03c1\u03ad\u03c4\u03b7\n\n\u0388\u03c1\u03c7\u03bf\u03bc\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03c4\u03bf \u03c6\u03c9\u03c2,\n\n\u03b2\u03b1\u03b4\u03af\u03b6\u03c9 \u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf \u03c6\u03c9\u03c2,\n\n\u03bf \u03c3\u03ba\u03bf\u03c4\u03b5\u03b9\u03bd\u03cc\u03c2 \u03b4\u03b9\u03ac\u03b4\u03c1\u03bf\u03bc\u03bf\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b5\u03bb\u03b5\u03b9\u03ce\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9.\n\n\u03a0\u03b5\u03c1\u03bd\u03ac\u03c9 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03b9\u03b5\u03c1\u03ae \u03b2\u03b1\u03bb\u03b2\u03af\u03b4\u03b1.\n\n## _\u03b1\u03c0\u03cc_ 27 \u03ae \u03bf \u03ac\u03bd\u03b8\u03c1\u03c9\u03c0\u03bf\u03c2 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c0\u03ad\u03c6\u03c4\u03b5\u03b9\n\n##### 1.2\n\n\u038c\u03bb\u03bf\u03b9 \u03bd\u03bf\u03bc\u03af\u03b6\u03b5\u03c4\u03b5 \u03cc\u03c4\u03b9 \u03c6\u03bf\u03b2\u03ae\u03b8\u03b7\u03ba\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c0\u03c9\u03c2 \u03b3\u03b9' \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03cc \u03ad\u03c0\u03b5\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b1\u03bd\u03b9\u03ba\u03cc\u03b2\u03bb\u03b7\u03c4\u03bf\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03ba\u03b5\u03bd\u03cc\n\n\u0398\u03b5 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5, \u03c4\u03b9 \u03b2\u03bb\u03ac\u03ba\u03b5\u03c2! \u0395\u03c0\u03b9\u03c4\u03ad\u03bb\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2, \u03c0\u03ae\u03c1\u03b1 \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bc\u03cc\u03bd\u03b7 \u03c6\u03bf\u03c1\u03ac \u03cc\u03bb\u03b7 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c4\u03b7 \u03b6\u03c9\u03ae \u03c3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c7\u03ad\u03c1\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u03a0\u03c1\u03bf\u03ba\u03bb\u03b7\u03c4\u03b9\u03ba\u03ac, \u03c0\u03ad\u03c6\u03c4\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03c2 \u03bc\u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03c3\u03c4\u03ac \u03c3\u03b5 \u03c4\u03c1\u03bf\u03bc\u03b1\u03b3\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b5\u03c1\u03ac\u03c3\u03c4\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bc\u03ac\u03c4\u03b9\u03b1, \u03c3\u03b1\u03c2 \u03b2\u03b3\u03ac\u03b6\u03c9 \u03c4\u03b7 \u03b3\u03bb\u03ce\u03c3\u03c3\u03b1 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u03a4\u03b7\u03bd \u03c4\u03b5\u03bb\u03b5\u03c5\u03c4\u03b1\u03af\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b9\u03b3\u03bc\u03ae \u03b4\u03b9\u03ad\u03ba\u03c1\u03b9\u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03ad\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03c0\u03bb\u03ae\u03b8\u03bf\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf \u03ba\u03bf\u03c1\u03af\u03c4\u03c3\u03b9 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b7 \u03b8\u03bb\u03af\u03c8\u03b7 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03bc\u03ac\u03c4\u03b9\u03b1\n\n\u0394\u03b5\u03bd \u03b5\u03af\u03c7\u03b5 \u03c4\u03af\u03c0\u03bf\u03c4\u03b1 \u03be\u03b5\u03c7\u03c9\u03c1\u03b9\u03c3\u03c4\u03cc \u03bd\u03b1 \u03b8\u03c5\u03bc\u03ac\u03bc\u03b1\u03b9, \u03bc\u03cc\u03bd\u03bf \u03c0\u03c9\u03c2 \u03ae\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03ba\u03bf\u03c1\u03af\u03c4\u03c3\u03b9 \u03b8\u03bb\u03b9\u03bc\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf\n\n\u0398\u03b1 \u03bc\u03c0\u03bf\u03c1\u03bf\u03cd\u03c3\u03b1\u03bc\u03b5 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03b5\u03af\u03c7\u03b1\u03bc\u03b5 \u03b1\u03b3\u03b1\u03c0\u03b7\u03b8\u03b5\u03af \u03b4\u03cd\u03bf \u03ba\u03b1\u03bb\u03bf\u03ba\u03b1\u03af\u03c1\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c0\u03c1\u03b9\u03bd, \u03b4\u03cd\u03bf \u03bc\u03b5\u03c4\u03ac \u2013 \u03b8\u03b1 \u03bc\u03c0\u03bf\u03c1\u03bf\u03cd\u03c3\u03b1\u03bc\u03b5 \u2013\n\n\u0394\u03b5\u03bd \u03b5\u03c0\u03b1\u03bb\u03b7\u03b8\u03b5\u03cd\u03c4\u03b7\u03ba\u03b5 \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03ae \u03b7 \u03c0\u03b9\u03b8\u03b1\u03bd\u03cc\u03c4\u03b7\u03c4\u03b1 \u2013 \u03c0\u03cc\u03c3\u03b5\u03c2 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03bb\u03ac\u03b2\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c6\u03c4\u03ac\u03c3\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03c4\u03ad\u03c1\u03bc\u03b1;\n\n\u039a\u03b9 \u03ad\u03c4\u03c3\u03b9 \u03b5\u03b3\u03ce \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03b8\u03b1 \u03b5\u03af\u03bc\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b5\u03b4\u03ce, \u03b5\u03bd\u03ce \u03c4\u03bf \u03ba\u03bf\u03c1\u03af\u03c4\u03c3\u03b9 \u03b8\u03b1 \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b5\u03b4\u03ce \u2013 \u03c4\u03b9 \u03b1\u03c0\u03bb\u03ae \u03bb\u03bf\u03b3\u03b9\u03ba\u03ae! \u2013\n\n\u0397 \u03b4\u03b9\u03ba\u03ae \u03c3\u03b1\u03c2 \u03b1\u03c0\u03bb\u03ae \u03bb\u03bf\u03b3\u03b9\u03ba\u03ae \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03ba\u03ac\u03bc\u03c0\u03bf\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c7\u03c1\u03cc\u03bd\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03b5\u03c0\u03b1\u03bd\u03b1\u03bb\u03ac\u03bc\u03b2\u03b1\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b5\u03c1\u03af\u03c6\u03b7\u03bc\u03b1\n\n##### 2.1\n\n\u03a4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03bd\u03cd\u03c7\u03c4\u03b5\u03c2 \u03cc\u03c0\u03c9\u03c2 \u03c0\u03ad\u03c6\u03c4\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03bc\u03ad\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c3' \u03cc\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9\u03c1\u03bf, \u03ad\u03c4\u03c3\u03b9 \u03bc\u03c0\u03bf\u03c1\u03b5\u03af\u03c2 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1\u03bb\u03ac\u03b2\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c0\u03ce\u03c2 \u03b1\u03bb\u03ae\u03b8\u03b5\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c0\u03ad\u03c6\u03c4\u03c9\n\n\u039c\u03b5\u03c4\u03b5\u03c9\u03c1\u03af\u03b6\u03bf\u03bc\u03b1\u03b9, \u03c3\u03c4\u03c1\u03b9\u03c6\u03bf\u03b3\u03c5\u03c1\u03bd\u03ce \u03c3\u03b5 \u03af\u03bb\u03b9\u03b3\u03b3\u03bf, \u03ac\u03bb\u03bb\u03bf\u03c4\u03b5 \u03cc\u03c1\u03b8\u03b9\u03bf\u03c2 \u03c0\u03ac\u03bd\u03c9 \u03c3' \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b1\u03c4\u03ac\u03c3\u03c4\u03c1\u03c9\u03bc\u03b1\n\n\u03a0\u03cc\u03c4\u03b5 \u03b1\u03bd\u03ac\u03c0\u03bf\u03b4\u03b1 \u2013 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ba\u03bf\u03b9\u03c4\u03ac\u03b6\u03c9 \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03ba\u03cc\u03c3\u03bc\u03bf \u03c3\u03b1\u03c2 \u03b1\u03bd\u03ac\u03c0\u03bf\u03b4\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03c4\u03bf \u03b2\u03c1\u03af\u03c3\u03ba\u03b5\u03c4\u03b5 \u03ba\u03b1\u03ba\u03cc \u2013\n\n\u03a0\u03cc\u03c4\u03b5 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03bf \u03ba\u03b5\u03c6\u03ac\u03bb\u03b9 \u03bc\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c0\u03cc\u03b4\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5, \u03c0\u03cc\u03c4\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c7\u03ad\u03c1\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c3\u03b1\u03bd \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5\u03bb\u03b9\u03bf\u03cd \u03c6\u03c4\u03b5\u03c1\u03bf\u03cd\u03b3\u03b5\u03c2, \u03c3\u03c4\u03c1\u03b9\u03c6\u03bf\u03b3\u03c5\u03c1\u03bd\u03ce\n\n\u039c\u03ad\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c3\u03b5 \u03af\u03bb\u03b9\u03b3\u03b3\u03bf \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9, \u03bf\u03c0, \u03b3\u03af\u03bd\u03bf\u03bc\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03ad\u03c3\u03c3\u03b5\u03c1\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03c1\u03ce\u03c9 \u03c0\u03b1\u03b3\u03c9\u03c4\u03cc, \u03bf\u03c0, \u03b5\u03af\u03bc\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03c1\u03b9\u03ac\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b9\u03b1\n\n\u0395\u03b9\u03ba\u03bf\u03c3\u03b9\u03bf\u03ba\u03c4\u03ce \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b2\u03bb\u03ad\u03c0\u03c9 \u03c4\u03bf \u03c0\u03b1\u03b9\u03b4\u03af \u03bd\u03b1 \u03b2\u03b3\u03b1\u03af\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9, \u03b3\u03af\u03bd\u03bf\u03bc\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b4\u03b5\u03ba\u03b1\u03c4\u03ad\u03c3\u03c3\u03b5\u03c1\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b9 \u03b7 \u03bd\u03cd\u03c7\u03c4\u03b1 \u03cc\u03bb\u03bf \u03b1\u03c1\u03b3\u03b5\u03af\n\n\u0395\u03b9\u03ba\u03bf\u03c3\u03b9\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc' \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1\u03bd \u03ba\u03cc\u03c3\u03bc\u03bf \u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c0\u03b5\u03c1\u03b9\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9 \u2013 \u03bc\u03b1 \u03cc\u03c0\u03c9\u03c2 \u03c6\u03ac\u03bd\u03b7\u03ba\u03b5 \u03bc\u03bf\u03bd\u03ac\u03c7\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7 \u03c3\u03c4\u03c1\u03bf\u03c6\u03ae\n\n\u0395\u03af\u03bc\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c0\u03b5\u03bd\u03ae\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1, \u03ba\u03b9 \u03b5\u03af\u03bc\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b5\u03ba\u03b1\u03c4\u03cc, \u03b5\u03af\u03bc\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bf \u03c7\u03c1\u03cc\u03bd\u03bf\u03c2 \u03cc\u03bb\u03bf\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bf\u03bb\u03cc\u03ba\u03bb\u03b7\u03c1\u03bf\u03c2, \u03ba\u03b9 \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03cc \u03b1\u03c1\u03ba\u03b5\u03c4\u03cc\n\n\u03a3\u03b5 \u03bc\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b9\u03b3\u03bc\u03ae \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c0\u03c5\u03ba\u03bd\u03c9\u03b8\u03b5\u03af \u03cc\u03bb\u03bf\u03c2 \u03bf \u03b1\u03b9\u03ce\u03bd\u03b1\u03c2, \u03bd\u03b1 \u03be\u03b1\u03bd\u03bf\u03b9\u03c7\u03c4\u03b5\u03af, \u03b5\u03c0\u03b9\u03c4\u03ad\u03bb\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2, \u03c4\u03ad\u03c4\u03b1\u03c1\u03c4\u03b7 \u03b4\u03b9\u03ac\u03c3\u03c4\u03b1\u03c3\u03b7\n\n##### 3.3\n\n\u03a0\u03bf\u03bd\u03ac\u03bd\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03bc\u03ac\u03c4\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b8\u03ce\u03c2 \u03c0\u03ad\u03c6\u03c4\u03c9, \u03bf \u03b1\u03ad\u03c1\u03b1\u03c2 \u03bf\u03c1\u03bc\u03ac\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c3\u03b1\u03bd \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03be\u03b5\u03c1\u03b9\u03b6\u03ce\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9\n\n\u03a0\u03bf\u03bd\u03ac\u03bd\u03b5 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bf\u03b9 \u03c4\u03c1\u03af\u03c7\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03bc\u03c0\u03c1\u03ac\u03c4\u03c3\u03b1 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5, \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b7 \u03bc\u03b1\u03bd\u03af\u03b1 \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03ae \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03b1\u03bd\u03c4\u03af\u03c3\u03c4\u03b1\u03c3\u03ae\u03c2 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b6\u03c9\u03ae\n\n\u03a4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03bb\u03b1\u03c7\u03c4\u03ac\u03c1\u03b1\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03cd\u03bb\u03b7\u03c2, \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c0\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c6\u03b8\u03af\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9, \u03bd\u03b1 \u03ba\u03c1\u03b1\u03c4\u03b7\u03b8\u03b5\u03af \u03b1\u03ba\u03ad\u03c1\u03b1\u03b9\u03b7 \u03b1\u03c0\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1\u03bd\u03c4\u03b9 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03b9\u03b4\u03ad\u03b1\n\n\u03a0\u03bf\u03bd\u03ac\u03bd\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03bc\u03ac\u03c4\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b1\u03c0\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1\u03bd\u03c4\u03b9 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7 \u03c6\u03c1\u03af\u03ba\u03b7, \u03cc\u03bc\u03c9\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03ba\u03c1\u03b1\u03c4\u03ac\u03c9 \u03b1\u03bd\u03bf\u03b9\u03c7\u03c4\u03ac \u03c3\u03c5\u03bd\u03ad\u03c7\u03b5\u03b9\u03b1\n\n\u039f \u03ac\u03bd\u03b8\u03c1\u03c9\u03c0\u03bf\u03c2 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c0\u03ad\u03c6\u03c4\u03b5\u03b9 \u03b8\u03ad\u03bb\u03b5\u03b9 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03b2\u03bb\u03ad\u03c0\u03b5\u03b9, \u03b8\u03ad\u03bb\u03b5\u03b9 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03be\u03ad\u03c1\u03b5\u03b9, \u03b7 \u03b3\u03bd\u03ce\u03c3\u03b7 \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03ae \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03b4\u03b9\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9\u03ce\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9\n\n\u039f \u03ac\u03bd\u03b8\u03c1\u03c9\u03c0\u03bf\u03c2 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c0\u03ad\u03c6\u03c4\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c0\u03c1\u03ad\u03c0\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c0\u03ac\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1 \u2013 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03ce\u03c1\u03b1 \u03c0\u03c1\u03ad\u03c0\u03b5\u03b9 \u2013 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03be\u03ad\u03c1\u03b5\u03b9 \u03b1\u03ba\u03cc\u03bc\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03c0\u03c4\u03ce\u03c3\u03b7 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u0391\u03c5\u03c4\u03cc \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf \u03c4\u03af\u03bc\u03b7\u03bc\u03b1: \u03b3\u03bd\u03ce\u03c3\u03b7 \u03b1\u03bd\u03c4\u03af \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b1\u03af\u03c3\u03b8\u03b7\u03c3\u03b7, \u03b5\u03bc\u03c0\u03b5\u03b9\u03c1\u03af\u03b1 \u03b1\u03bd\u03c4\u03af \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b4\u03b9\u03b1\u03af\u03c3\u03b8\u03b7\u03c3\u03b7\n\n\u03a3\u03b9\u03b3\u03ac \u03c3\u03b9\u03b3\u03ac \u03b5\u03b8\u03af\u03b6\u03b5\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03c4\u03ad\u03bb\u03bf\u03c2 \u03b7 \u03c6\u03c1\u03af\u03ba\u03b7 \u03b3\u03af\u03bd\u03b5\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b5\u03b9\u03ba\u03cc\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c3\u03b1\u03bd \u03cc\u03bb\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03ac\u03bb\u03bb\u03b5\u03c2\n\n\u039a\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b7 \u03b5\u03b9\u03ba\u03cc\u03bd\u03b1 \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03ae \u03b3\u03b9\u03b3\u03b1\u03bd\u03c4\u03ce\u03bd\u03b5\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9, \u03ce\u03c3\u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c0\u03b1\u03af\u03c1\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b7 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c1\u03c6\u03ae \u03b5\u03bd\u03cc\u03c2 \u03ba\u03cc\u03c3\u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bf\u03bb\u03cc\u03ba\u03bb\u03b7\u03c1\u03bf\u03c5\n\n##### 6.1\n\n\u03a0\u03ae\u03c1\u03b5 \u03b5\u03c0\u03b9\u03c4\u03ad\u03bb\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b7 \u03b6\u03c9\u03ae \u03c3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c7\u03ad\u03c1\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03ad\u03b3\u03b9\u03bd\u03b1\u03bd \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c7\u03ad\u03c1\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c6\u03c4\u03b5\u03c1\u03ac \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5, \u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c6\u03c4\u03b5\u03c1\u03ac \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u0393\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b5\u03c4\u03ac\u03be\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c3' \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1\u03bd \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9\u03bd\u03bf\u03cd\u03c1\u03b3\u03b9\u03bf \u03bf\u03c5\u03c1\u03b1\u03bd\u03cc, \u03b1\u03c6\u03ce\u03c4\u03b9\u03c3\u03c4\u03bf, \u03b1\u03b4\u03b9\u03b1\u03af\u03c1\u03b5\u03c4\u03bf, \u03ba\u03b1\u03bb\u03ac \u03ba\u03c1\u03c5\u03bc\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf\n\n\u038c\u03c0\u03c9\u03c2 \u03bc\u03b9\u03ba\u03c1\u03cc\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03cc\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9\u03c1\u03b1 \u03ad\u03be\u03c9 \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03c4\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b5\u03bb\u03b9\u03ac \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03ba\u03ac\u03b8\u03b5 \u03bc\u03ad\u03c1\u03b1\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ad\u03bb\u03c5\u03bd\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03b4\u03b5\u03c3\u03bc\u03ac \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u03a4\u03cc\u03c4\u03b5 \u03ad\u03bc\u03c0\u03b1\u03b9\u03bd\u03b5 \u03c3\u03b5 \u03bc\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c7\u03b1\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b7 \u03b5\u03c0\u03b9\u03ba\u03c1\u03ac\u03c4\u03b5\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c7\u03c1\u03cc\u03bd\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b1\u03c1\u03b3\u03cc\u03c4\u03b5\u03c1\u03b1 \u03b8\u03b1 \u03ad\u03b2\u03c1\u03b9\u03c3\u03ba\u03b5 \u03bc\u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03c3\u03c4\u03ac \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u03a4\u03bf \u03c0\u03b9\u03bf \u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u03ac\u03be\u03b5\u03bd\u03bf: \u03ae\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd \u03c0\u03bf\u03bb\u03af\u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b9 \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03bf\u03ba\u03c1\u03ac\u03c4\u03bf\u03c1\u03b1\u03c2, \u03c5\u03c0\u03bf\u03c4\u03b1\u03c3\u03c3\u03cc\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd\u03b5 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03ba\u03c5\u03b2\u03b5\u03c1\u03bd\u03bf\u03cd\u03c3\u03b5\n\n\u03a0\u03cc\u03c4\u03b5 \u03be\u03b1\u03bd\u03bf\u03af\u03b3\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd \u03c3\u03b5 \u03c0\u03ad\u03bb\u03b1\u03b3\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03b9\u03ce\u03bd, \u03c0\u03cc\u03c4\u03b5 \u03c3\u03b5 \u03cc\u03c1\u03b7 \u03cc\u03bc\u03bf\u03c1\u03c6\u03c9\u03bd \u03c6\u03b9\u03bb\u03b9\u03ce\u03bd, \u03c7\u03c9\u03c1\u03af\u03c2 \u03b1\u03bd\u03ac\u03c3\u03b1\n\n\u039a\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b4\u03b9\u03b1\u03c0\u03b5\u03c1\u03bd\u03bf\u03cd\u03c3\u03b5 \u03c4\u03bf \u03ba\u03bf\u03c1\u03bc\u03af \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c1\u03af\u03b3\u03bf\u03c2 \u03c3\u03b1\u03bd \u03ba\u03bb\u03b7\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03af\u03b4\u03b1 \u03cc\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd \u03ba\u03bb\u03c5\u03b4\u03c9\u03bd\u03af\u03b6\u03b5\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b1\u03c0' \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03ac\u03bd\u03b5\u03bc\u03bf\n\n\u03a4\u03bf \u03bc\u03ad\u03b3\u03b1 \u03c0\u03ac\u03b8\u03bf\u03c2 \u03b3\u03af\u03bd\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd \u03c4\u03b5\u03c1\u03ac\u03c3\u03c4\u03b9\u03bf \u03ba\u03cd\u03c4\u03c4\u03b1\u03c1\u03bf \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bc\u03ad\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c7\u03c4\u03c5\u03c0\u03bf\u03cd\u03c3\u03b5 \u03c3\u03b1\u03bd \u03ba\u03b1\u03c1\u03b4\u03b9\u03ac \u03b7 \u03b6\u03c9\u03ae \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u0388\u03bc\u03c0\u03b1\u03b9\u03bd\u03b5 \u03ba\u03b9 \u03ad\u03b2\u03b3\u03b1\u03b9\u03bd\u03b5 \u03b1\u03bd\u03b5\u03bd\u03cc\u03c7\u03bb\u03b7\u03c4\u03bf\u03c2 \u03ba\u03ac\u03b8\u03b5 \u03c0\u03c1\u03c9\u03af, \u03c0\u03cc\u03c4\u03b5 \u03ad\u03be\u03c9 \u03b1\u03c0' \u03c4\u03b7 \u03b6\u03c9\u03ae, \u03c0\u03cc\u03c4\u03b5 \u03bc\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03ba\u03bf\u03c1\u03bc\u03af \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2\n\n## _from_ New Division\n\nI come from the light,\n\nI walk towards the light,\n\nthe dark hallway ends.\n\nI pass the sacred starting line.\n\nKaren Van Dyck\n\n## _from_ 9\/11 or Falling Man\n\n##### 1.2\n\nall of you think I was scared shitless that's why I dove head first into the abyss\n\ngod what idiots for once I took my life into my own hands and let myself\n\ndrop provocative like in front of their eyes immense ghoulish I stick my tongue out\n\nthen in that last moment I see a girl with a sad look in the midst of the crowd\n\nnothing special to remember about her just that she was a sad girl that's all\n\ntwo summers ago or two years after we could've fallen in love yeah could've\n\nthough this chance in a lifetime didn't come to fruition how many ever do\n\nand so in the end I won't be here but the girl sure will what simple logic yours\n\nthe kind of logic I repeated proudly ad nauseam for so many years\n\n##### 2.1\n\nthose nights when you fall when you're dreaming that's how you know I'm really falling I twist\n\nand turn like a meteor in a dizzying spin sometimes right side up on deck\n\nother times upside down see how I'm looking at your world upside down it's not bad\n\nsometimes with my head between my legs, other times with hands like birdwings I twist and\n\nturn in a dizzying spin and bingo I'm four years old eating an ice cream cone\n\nthen bingo thirty the kid comes out when I'm twenty eight at fourteen the day is\n\nendless twenty one the world is new but then it's only a bend in the road\n\nand I'm fifty then a hundred I'm all time and time eternal and that's enough\n\nin one moment all time seizes up opens again at last the fourth dimension\n\n##### 3.3\n\nmy eyes hurt as I fall the air accosts me as if to tear them out uproot them\n\nthey hurt so does the hair on my arms it is mania this resistance of mine\n\nthis desire for matter to appear as if whole even as it disintegrates\n\nmy eyes hurt when confronted with the horror but I keep them wide open to see\n\nthe man who falls wants to see and wants to know knowledge is his justification\n\nthe man who falls must always know his own fall even as he is falling this is\n\nhis punishment knowledge instead of feeling experience not intuition\n\nslowly addiction sets in and the horror becomes an image like the others\n\nand this image becomes gigantic until it takes the shape of a complete world\n\n##### 6.1\n\nfinally he took his life in his own hands and his hands became wings yes his wings\n\nso he could fly in a new sky with no light indivisible hidden from sight\n\nlike when he was small in his dreams and untied his bonds far from the prison cells of\n\neveryday he'd enter a lost dominion where he'd find himself years later shocked\n\nby his predicament both citizen and emperor obeying and obeyed\n\nsometimes open to eye seas other times to mountains of kisses so exquisite\n\nbreath by breath and he'd pass by the shivering center like grapevines trimmed by the wind\n\nthe great passion would become a giant cell and inside life would beat like a heart\n\nin and out undisturbed each morning sometimes outside life sometimes in her body\n\nKaren Van Dyck\n\n## _\u03b1\u03c0\u03cc_ \u03a0\u03b1\u03c4\u03c1\u03b5\u03af\u03b4\u03b1\n\n\u03a0\u03bf\u03b9\u03bf\u03c2 \u03bf\u03c1\u03b3\u03b9\u03c3\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf\u03c2 \u03bf\u03c5\u03c1\u03b1\u03bd\u03cc\u03c2 \u03bc\u03ac\u03c2 \u03b3\u03cd\u03c1\u03b9\u03c3\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03c0\u03bb\u03ac\u03c4\u03b7;\n\n\u03a0\u03bf\u03b9\u03bf\u03c2 \u03ba\u03bb\u03ad\u03c6\u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03ac\u03ba\u03b1\u03c1\u03b4\u03bf\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9\u03c1\u03cc\u03c2 \u03bc\u03ac\u03c2 \u03ad\u03c1\u03b9\u03be\u03b5 \u03b1\u03bb\u03ac\u03c4\u03b9 \u03c0\u03ac\u03bd\u03c9 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c0\u03b9\u03bf \u03b2\u03b1\u03b8\u03b9\u03ad\u03c2 \u03c0\u03bb\u03b7\u03b3\u03ad\u03c2;\n\n\u03a3\u03c4\u03bf \u03bc\u03b5\u03c4\u03b1\u03be\u03cd \u03b3\u03b5\u03bd\u03bd\u03bf\u03b2\u03bf\u03bb\u03ac\u03bc\u03b5 \u03b1\u03b9\u03c3\u03b8\u03ae\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b9 \u03b1\u03b9\u03c3\u03b8\u03ae\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2, \u03c0\u03bd\u03b9\u03b3\u03cc\u03bc\u03b1\u03c3\u03c4\u03b5 \u03bc\u03ad\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c3\u03b5 \u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u03b1\u03b9\u03c3\u03b8\u03ae\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2\n\n\u039a\u03b9 \u03bf \u03c0\u03bf\u03c4\u03b1\u03bc\u03cc\u03c2 \u03c7\u03cc\u03c1\u03c4\u03b1\u03c3\u03b5 \u03b1\u03af\u03bc\u03b1, \u03bb\u03ac\u03c3\u03c0\u03b7 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c7\u03bf\u03bb\u03ae\n\n\u0395\u03bc\u03b5\u03af\u03c2 \u03c1\u03bf\u03c5\u03c6\u03ac\u03bc\u03b5 \u03ce\u03c3\u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c3\u03ba\u03ac\u03c3\u03bf\u03c5\u03bc\u03b5, \u03c1\u03bf\u03c5\u03c6\u03ac\u03bc\u03b5 \u03cc\u03c0\u03c9\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf \u03b1\u03af\u03bc\u03b1 \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03c4\u03c1\u03cd\u03c0\u03b7\u03bc\u03b1 \u03b2\u03b5\u03bb\u03cc\u03bd\u03b1\u03c2 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03ad\u03c6\u03b1\u03b3\u03b5 \u03c3\u03ba\u03bf\u03c5\u03c1\u03b9\u03ac\n\n\u0392\u03b1\u03b4\u03af\u03b6\u03bf\u03c5\u03bc\u03b5 \u03c7\u03c9\u03bb\u03bf\u03af, \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c0\u03cc\u03b4\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b1\u03c2 \u03b2\u03b1\u03c1\u03b9\u03ac, \u03c4\u03b1 \u03bb\u03b5\u03c2 \u03b4\u03b5\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1, \u03c4\u03c1\u03b9\u03b3\u03cd\u03c1\u03c9 \u03c3\u03c6\u03af\u03b3\u03b3\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf \u03c3\u03c7\u03bf\u03b9\u03bd\u03af \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03b2\u03bf\u03c5\u03bb\u03b9\u03bc\u03af\u03b1\u03c2, \u03bf \u03ba\u03ac\u03b2\u03bf\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03c0\u03b9\u03bf \u03c3\u03ba\u03ac\u03c1\u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03b7\u03b4\u03bf\u03bd\u03ae\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b9 \u03b5\u03c0\u03b9\u03b8\u03c5\u03bc\u03af\u03b1\u03c2\n\n\u03a0\u03bb\u03b7\u03b8\u03b1\u03af\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03bf\u03b9 \u03b1\u03b3\u03cd\u03c1\u03c4\u03b5\u03c2, \u03b1\u03bd\u03b1\u03c3\u03b1\u03af\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03b1\u03ad\u03c1\u03b1 \u03b3\u03cd\u03c1\u03c9 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5, \u03c6\u03c9\u03bd\u03ac\u03b6\u03c9 \u03cc\u03c0\u03c9\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03cc\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9\u03c1\u03b1, \u03b2\u03bf\u03c5\u03b2\u03ac\n\n\u03a4\u03bf \u03c4\u03ad\u03bb\u03bf\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf '\u03c7\u03c9 \u03b4\u03b5\u03b9 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03ba\u03ac\u03bd\u03c9 \u03c0\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c0\u03c9\u03c2 \u03b1\u03b3\u03b1\u03c0\u03ce, \u03c0\u03b1\u03af\u03b6\u03c9 \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03c3\u03ba\u03cd\u03bb\u03bf \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03b3\u03c1\u03c5\u03c0\u03cc, \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b3\u03bb\u03b5\u03af\u03c6\u03b5\u03b9 \u03be\u03b5\u03c1\u03cc \u03ba\u03cc\u03ba\u03ba\u03b1\u03bb\u03bf, \u03ae \u03b2\u03b3\u03ac\u03b6\u03c9 \u03b3\u03bb\u03ce\u03c3\u03c3\u03b1 \u03b4\u03b7\u03bb\u03b7\u03c4\u03ae\u03c1\u03b9\u03bf, \u03bc\u03b1 \u03b5\u03ba\u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b7 \u03c3\u03c4\u03c1\u03ad\u03c6\u03b5\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b5\u03bd\u03c4\u03cc\u03c2 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u038a\u03bb\u03b9\u03b3\u03b3\u03bf\u03c2, \u03ba\u03b9 \u03b7 \u03c0\u03ad\u03c4\u03c1\u03b1 \u03bf\u03c1\u03af\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c0\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03c3\u03c4\u03cc\u03c7\u03bf, \u03c3\u03c0\u03ac\u03c3\u03c4\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03b5\u03c0\u03b9\u03c6\u03ac\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bd\u03b5\u03c1\u03bf\u03cd, \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03cc \u03c4\u03bf \u03b1\u03c0\u03bf\u03c4\u03c1\u03cc\u03c0\u03b1\u03b9\u03bf \u03ba\u03c1\u03c5\u03c3\u03c4\u03ac\u03bb\u03bb\u03b9\u03bd\u03bf \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc\u03c3\u03c4\u03b7\u03bc\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03c0\u03bb\u03ac\u03bd\u03b7\u03c2\n\n\u0395\u03c3\u03ac\u03c2 \u03c3\u03b1\u03c2 \u03c0\u03c1\u03ad\u03c0\u03b5\u03b9 \u03bf \u03b2\u03c5\u03b8\u03cc\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03b1\u03bd\u03b1\u03b2\u03cd\u03b8\u03b9\u03c3\u03b7\u03c2, \u03ba\u03b9 \u03b7 \u03ba\u03cc\u03bb\u03b1\u03c3\u03b7 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b5\u03b3\u03b3\u03c5\u03ac\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b1\u03b3\u03b9\u03cc\u03c4\u03b7\u03c4\u03b1\n\n\u03a1\u03b1\u03bd\u03c4\u03b5\u03b2\u03bf\u03cd \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03ba\u03bf\u03c1\u03b4\u03cc\u03bd\u03b9...\n\n## _from_ O Say Can You See\n\nWhat heated heaven turned her back on us?\n\nWhat thieving heartless time rubbed salt in our deepest wounds?\n\nAnd meanwhile we spawn senses and sensations, drown in delusions\n\nAnd the river, sated with blood and mud and bile\n\nWe suck it up bursting in air, we suck it like blood from a puncture by a rust-eaten needle\n\nWe walk crippled, our feet leaden, bound by ropes of greed, the cable of defective pleasure and desire to succeed\n\nCharlatans multiply, they breathe the land of the brave around me, I scream as if in dreams, dumb\n\nI've seen the end and still pretend I love, I play the limping dog that licks dry bones, or I attack with the poison tongue that circulates inside me\n\nVertigo, and now the stone decides its throw ahead of time, go on, break the water's surface, that repellent crystalline abscess of illusion\n\nYou, you deserve the depths of desolation, the hell that guarantees the saint\n\nThe hangman's rendez-vous...\n\nKaren Van Dyck\n\n## Yannis Stiggas\n\n#### (Born Athens, Greece, 1977)\n\nYannis Stiggas's visual poetics and his intertextual references to Paul Celan and Katerina Anghelaki-Rooke make his poems particularly interesting to British and American readers, who may know these poets in translation. It is no coincidence that he is also probably the best known and most translated of the poets in this section, the languages into which his work has been translated including French, German, Serbian, Bulgarian, and Swedish. He studied Medicine in Athens, and still works there as a doctor.\n\n_\u0397 \u03b1\u03bb\u03b7\u03c4\u03b5\u03af\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b1\u03af\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03bf\u03c2_ ( _The Vagrancy of Blood_ ), Gavrielides, 2004; _\u0397 \u03cc\u03c1\u03b1\u03c3\u03b7 \u03b8' \u03b1\u03c1\u03c7\u03af\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9 \u03be\u03b1\u03bd\u03ac_ ( _Vision Will Start Again_ ), Kedros, 2006; _\u0399\u03c3\u03cc\u03c0\u03b1\u03bb\u03bf \u03c4\u03c1\u03b1\u03cd\u03bc\u03b1_ ( _An Even Wound_ ), Kedros, 2009; _\u039f \u03b4\u03c1\u03cc\u03bc\u03bf\u03c2 \u03bc\u03ad\u03c7\u03c1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf \u03c0\u03b5\u03c1\u03af\u03c0\u03c4\u03b5\u03c1\u03bf_ ( _Towards the Booth_ ), Mikri Arktos, 2012; _\u0392\u03bb\u03ad\u03c0\u03c9 \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03ba\u03cd\u03b2\u03bf \u03a1\u03bf\u03cd\u03bc\u03c0\u03b9\u03ba \u03c6\u03b1\u03b3\u03c9\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf_ ( _I Saw the Gnawed Rubik's Cube_ ), Mikri Arktos, 2014.\n\n## _\u0391\u03c0\u03bb\u03ac \u03bc\u03b1\u03b8\u03b7\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03b9\u03ba\u03ac_\n\n\u03a6\u03c4\u03ac\u03bd\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03c4\u03ad\u03c4\u03b1\u03c1\u03c4\u03bf \u03c7\u03b9\u03bb\u03b9\u03cc\u03bc\u03b5\u03c4\u03c1\u03bf \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03c3\u03b9\u03c9\u03c0\u03ae\u03c2,\n\n\u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ad\u03c0\u03b5\u03c3\u03b1\u03bd \u03c4\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b1\u03c1\u03c6\u03b9\u03ac \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u0398\u03b5\u03cc \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03ae\u03bb\u03b9\u03bf.\n\n\u0388\u03ba\u03c4\u03bf\u03c4\u03b5, \u03c0\u03b5\u03c1\u03b9\u03c6\u03ad\u03c1\u03bf\u03bc\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03bf \u03bc\u03b5\u03b3\u03ac\u03bb\u03bf \u03bc\u03b7\u03b4\u03ad\u03bd \u03c5\u03c0\u03cc \u03bc\u03ac\u03bb\u03b7\u03c2.\n\n\u0391\u03c1\u03c7\u03b9\u03ba\u03ac, \u03ae\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1\u03c2 \u03ba\u03bf\u03b9\u03bd\u03cc\u03c2 \u03c5\u03c0\u03bd\u03cc\u03c3\u03b1\u03ba\u03bf\u03c2\n\n\u2013 \u03be\u03ad\u03c1\u03b5\u03c4\u03b5, \u03bc\u03c0\u03b1\u03af\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2, \u03b4\u03b7\u03bb\u03b1\u03b4\u03ae \u03bf\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9\u03c1\u03b5\u03cd\u03b5\u03c3\u03b1\u03b9.\n\n\u03a4\u03ce\u03c1\u03b1, \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b5\u03bb\u03ce\u03c1\u03b9\u03bf \u03bf\u03b9\u03ba\u03bf\u03c4\u03c1\u03bf\u03c6\u03b5\u03af\u03bf\n\n\u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03c8\u03c5\u03c7\u03b9\u03ba\u03ac \u03ac\u03c6\u03bb\u03b5\u03ba\u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2.\n\n\u0391\u03c6\u03bf\u03cd \u03ad\u03b3\u03b9\u03bd\u03b1\u03bd \u03cc\u03bb\u03b1 \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03ac \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03bf \u03bc\u03b7\u03b4\u03ad\u03bd\n\n\u03c6\u03b1\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03c3\u03c4\u03b5\u03af\u03c4\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b9 \u03b8\u03b1 \u03bc\u03c0\u03bf\u03c1\u03bf\u03cd\u03c3\u03b5 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c5\u03bc\u03b2\u03b5\u03af \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03bf \u0388\u03bd\u03b1.\n\n## _Simple Math_\n\nReaching the fourth kilometer of silence\n\nI dropped the nails I had for God and the sun.\n\nSince then I've been going around with the great\n\nzero under my arm.\n\nTo start with, it was an ordinary sleeping-bag\n\n\u2013 you know, you get in, which means you start dreaming.\n\nNow it is a huge boarding school\n\nfor the psychologically inflammable.\n\nSince all this has happened with zero\n\nimagine what might occur with One.\n\nKaterina Anghelaki-Rooke\n\n## _\u0391\u03c3\u03ba\u03ae\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03b1\u03bd\u03b1\u03c0\u03bd\u03bf\u03ae\u03c2_\n\n\u0393\u03cd\u03c1\u03b9\u03c3\u03b1 \u03b1\u03bd\u03ac\u03c0\u03bf\u03b4\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03c8\u03c5\u03c7\u03ae \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u03ba\u03b9 \u03b5\u03af\u03b4\u03b1 \u03c0\u03ce\u03c2 \u03bc\u03b5\u03b3\u03b1\u03bb\u03ce\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03bf\u03b9 \u03c0\u03ad\u03c4\u03c1\u03b5\u03c2\n\n(\u03bc\u03b5 \u03bb\u03af\u03b3\u03bf \u03c6\u03c9\u03c2)\n\n\u03c3\u03ba\u03bb\u03b7\u03c1\u03b1\u03af\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03b7 \u03c4\u03cd\u03c7\u03b7 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b3\u03af\u03bd\u03b5\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9\n\n\u03bd' \u03b1\u03bd\u03b5\u03b2\u03b1\u03af\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03c8\u03b7\u03bb\u03ac \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5\u03bb\u03b9\u03ac\n\n\u03ba\u03b9 \u03ad\u03c0\u03b5\u03b9\u03c4\u03b1\n\n\u03c4\u03b1 \u03be\u03b5\u03ba\u03bf\u03c5\u03c1\u03b4\u03af\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9 \u03bf \u03ae\u03bb\u03b9\u03bf\u03c2\n\n\u03a0\u03c1\u03bf\u03c3\u03c0\u03ac\u03b8\u03b7\u03c3\u03b5 \u03bd' \u03b1\u03bd\u03b1\u03c0\u03bd\u03ad\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b1\u03bd\u03bf\u03bd\u03b9\u03ba\u03ac\n\n\u03bc\u03ad\u03c3\u03b1 \u03b3\u03b1\u03bb\u03ac\u03b6\u03b9\u03bf \u2013 \u03ad\u03be\u03c9 \u03b3\u03b1\u03bb\u03ac\u03b6\u03b9\u03bf\n\n\u03c3\u03b5 \u03bc\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bd\u03bf\u03ae \u03be\u03b1\u03bd\u03b1\u03c3\u03c5\u03bc\u03b2\u03b1\u03af\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03cc\u03bb\u03b1\n\n\u039f\u03b9 \u03c0\u03ad\u03c4\u03c1\u03b5\u03c2 \u03ad\u03bb\u03b5\u03b3\u03b1\n\n\u2013 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c0\u03ac\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1 \u03b4\u03af\u03bd\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c3\u03b1\u03bd \u03be\u03c5\u03c1\u03ac\u03c6\u03b9\n\n\u03ba\u03b9 \u03ac\u03bc\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03b8\u03ad\u03bb\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c0\u03b9\u03bf \u03b2\u03b1\u03b8\u03b9\u03ac\n\n_\u03bc\u03ad\u03c3\u03b1 \u03b3\u03b1\u03bb\u03ac\u03b6\u03b9\u03bf \u2013 \u03ad\u03be\u03c9 \u03b3\u03b1\u03bb\u03ac\u03b6\u03b9\u03bf_\n\n\u03ac\u03bc\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03b8\u03ad\u03bb\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c0\u03b9\u03bf \u03b2\u03b1\u03b8\u03b9\u03ac\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03bb\u03cc \u03ba\u03bf\u03c5\u03c1\u03ac\u03b3\u03b9\u03bf\n\n\u0391\u03c5\u03c4\u03cc\u03c2 \u03bf \u03ba\u03cc\u03c3\u03bc\u03bf\u03c2\n\n\u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b7 \u03c0\u03b9\u03bf \u03c3\u03c0\u03bb\u03b1\u03c7\u03bd\u03b9\u03ba\u03ae \u03bc\u03bf\u03c1\u03c6\u03ae \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c4\u03ad\n\n\u03a0\u03bf\u03c4\u03ad \u03bf \u03b9\u03b4\u03c1\u03ce\u03c4\u03b1\u03c2\n\n\u03c4\u03cc\u03c3\u03bf \u03c0\u03bf\u03bb\u03cd \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03bf \u03b1\u03af\u03bc\u03b1\n\n## _Breathing Exercises_\n\nI turned my soul upside down\n\nand I saw how stones grow\n\n(with a little bit of light)\n\nluck hardens and happens\n\nSo that birds can rise high\n\nand then\n\nthe sun unwinds them\n\nTry to breathe normally\n\n_sky-blue in \u2013 sky-blue out_\n\nin one breath everything happens again.\n\nStones I was saying \u2013\n\neverything that comes to you is like a razor\n\nand if you want it even deeper\n\n_sky-blue in \u2013 sky-blue out_\n\nKeep it up\n\nThis world\n\nis the most compassionate form of never\n\nNever was sweating\n\nso bloody\n\nKaterina Anghelaki-Rooke\n\n## _\u039f\u03c0\u03bb\u03b9\u03c3\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03c1\u03c5\u03c6\u03b5\u03c1\u03cc\u03c4\u03b7\u03c4\u03b1_\n\n_\u0393\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u039a\u03b1\u03c4\u03b5\u03c1\u03af\u03bd\u03b1 \u0391\u03b3\u03b3\u03b5\u03bb\u03ac\u03ba\u03b7-\u03a1\u03bf\u03c5\u03ba_\n\n\u0393\u03b5\u03bc\u03ac\u03c4\u03bf \u03c0\u03bf\u03cd\u03c0\u03bf\u03c5\u03bb\u03b1\n\n\u03c4\u03bf \u03c3\u03c4\u03ae\u03b8\u03bf\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2\n\n\u03bf \u03af\u03c3\u03ba\u03b9\u03bf\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf \u03b2\u03b1\u03b8\u03cd \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03c7\u03ad\u03c1\u03b9\n\n\u03b3\u03b9\u03b1\u03c4\u03af \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03c0\u03bf\u03bb\u03cd \u03bc\u03b9\u03ba\u03c1\u03ae\n\n\u03c0\u03b1\u03af\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf \u03bc' \u03b1\u03b3\u03b1\u03c0\u03ac\n\n_\u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03bc' \u03b1\u03b3\u03b1\u03c0\u03ac_\n\n\u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03bf \u03c6\u03c4\u03ad\u03c1\u03c9\u03bc\u03b1 \u03c4\u03c9\u03bd \u03b1\u03b3\u03b3\u03ad\u03bb\u03c9\u03bd\n\n\u0394\u03b5\u03bd \u03c4\u03bf \u03ba\u03ac\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03b1\u03c0\u03ac\u03bd\u03c4\u03b7\u03c3\u03b7\n\n\u03c4\u03bf \u03ba\u03ac\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b7 \u03c6\u03cd\u03b3\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd\n\n## _Armed with Tenderness_\n\n_For Katerina Anghelaki-Rooke_\n\nFeather-filled\n\nher chest\n\nher shadow\n\nher deep hand,\n\nbecause since childhood\n\nshe's been playing _he loves me,_\n\n_he loves me not_\n\nwith the feather-down of angels.\n\nShe doesn't do it for the answer,\n\nshe does it to keep them near.\n\nStephanos Papadopoulos\n\n## _\u039f \u03b1\u03b4\u03b5\u03c1\u03c6\u03cc\u03c2 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bf \u03a0\u03b1\u03cd\u03bb\u03bf\u03c2 \u03bf \u03c3\u03ba\u03b1\u03c6\u03c4\u03b9\u03ac\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03a3\u03b7\u03ba\u03bf\u03c5\u03ac\u03bd\u03b1_\n\n####\n\n\u00abO du gr\u00e4bst und ich grab\n\nund ich grab mich dir zu\u00bb\n\n_Paul Celan_\n\n\u0388\u03c4\u03c3\u03b9 \u03cc\u03c0\u03c9\u03c2 \u03ad\u03c3\u03ba\u03b1\u03b2\u03b5\n\n\u03bc\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bc\u03ad\u03c1\u03b1 \u03ad\u03c6\u03c4\u03b1\u03c3\u03b5\n\n\u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03c7\u03b9\u03bf\u03bd\u03b9\u03c3\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf \u03c3\u03c4\u03cc\u03bc\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03bc\u03b7\u03c4\u03ad\u03c1\u03b1\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u03c3\u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03bc\u03b1\u03ba\u03c1\u03b9\u03ad\u03c2 \u03c0\u03bb\u03b5\u03be\u03bf\u03cd\u03b4\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c4\u03c9\u03bd \u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03b3\u03cc\u03bd\u03c9\u03bd \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u03bc\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bc\u03ad\u03c1\u03b1 \u03c0\u03ad\u03c1\u03b1\u03c3\u03b5\n\n\u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c1\u03af\u03b6\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bd\u03b5\u03c1\u03bf\u03cd\n\n\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c0\u03ad\u03c4\u03c1\u03b9\u03bd\u03b1\n\n\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c0\u03cd\u03c1\u03b9\u03bd\u03b1\n\n\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c0\u03ac\u03bd\u03b4\u03b5\u03b9\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c0\u03ad\u03c1\u03b1\u03c3\u03b5\n\n\u03ad\u03ba\u03c4\u03bf\u03c4\u03b5 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 '\u03bc\u03b5\u03b9\u03bd\u03b5\n\n\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b1\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf \u03c3\u03cd\u03bd\u03bd\u03b5\u03c6\u03bf \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03b2\u03bb\u03ad\u03bc\u03bc\u03b1\n\n\u03bc\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b4\u03c5\u03c3\u03ba\u03bf\u03bb\u03af\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03ac\u03bd\u03b5\u03bc\u03bf\n\n_Jiskor_\n\n_Kaddisch_\n\n\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c4\u03c1\u03b5\u03bb\u03cc \u03bb\u03b1\u03c7\u03ac\u03bd\u03b9\u03b1\u03c3\u03bc\u03b1\n\n\u00ab\u03c4\u03bf \u03b2\u03ac\u03b8\u03bf\u03c2\u00bb \u03ad\u03bb\u03b5\u03b3\u03b5\n\n\u00ab\u03c4\u03bf \u03b2\u03ac\u03b8\u03bf\u03c2 \u03c3\u03b5 \u03c3\u03b7\u03bc\u03b5\u03af\u03bf \u03b5\u03be\u03ac\u03bd\u03c4\u03bb\u03b7\u03c3\u03b7\u03c2\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b3\u03bb\u03ce\u03c3\u03c3\u03b1 \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c0\u03b1\u03c4\u03c1\u03af\u03b4\u03b1 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\u00bb\n\n\u039a\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03cc\u03c4\u03b5 \u03b2\u03b3\u03ae\u03ba\u03b5 \u03c3' \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03ad\u03c1\u03bf\u03c2\n\n\u03b3\u03b5\u03bc\u03ac\u03c4\u03bf \u03b4\u03ad\u03bd\u03c4\u03c1\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c4\u03ac\u03bc\u03b9\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5\u03bb\u03b9\u03ac\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03ad\u03bc\u03b5\u03b9\u03bd\u03b5 \u03b5\u03ba\u03c3\u03c4\u03b1\u03c4\u03b9\u03ba\u03cc\u03c2\n\n\u03bc\u03ad\u03c7\u03c1\u03b9 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b1\u03ba\u03bf\u03cd\u03c3\u03c4\u03b7\u03ba\u03b5 \u03c3\u03c4\u03c1\u03b1\u03c4\u03b9\u03c9\u03c4\u03b9\u03ba\u03cc \u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u03ac\u03b3\u03b3\u03b5\u03bb\u03bc\u03b1:\n\n\u00ab\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\u03b9\u03c7\u03b7\u03b8\u03bf\u03cd\u03bd \u03bf\u03bb\u03bf\u03c4\u03b1\u03c7\u03ce\u03c2\n\n\u03ba\u03ac\u03bb\u03b5\u03c3\u03bc\u03b1 \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c5\u03c3\u03c3\u03af\u03c4\u03b9\u03bf\u00bb\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c6\u03cd\u03b3\u03b1\u03bd\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03b4\u03ad\u03bd\u03c4\u03c1\u03b1\n\n\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c4\u03ac\u03bc\u03b9\u03b1\n\n\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5\u03bb\u03b9\u03ac\n\n\u039c\u03bf\u03bd\u03ac\u03c7\u03b1 \u03bf \u03a3\u03b7\u03ba\u03bf\u03c5\u03ac\u03bd\u03b1\u03c2 \u03ad\u03bc\u03b5\u03b9\u03bd\u03b5\n\n\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03ba\u03bf\u03b9\u03c4\u03ac \u03c3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03bc\u03ac\u03c4\u03b9\u03b1.\n\n## _My Brother Paul, the Digger of the Seine_\n\n'O you dig and I dig\n\nand I dig inside myself towards you'\n\n_Paul Celan_\n\nOne day as he was digging,\n\nhe reached\n\nhis mother's snowy mouth,\n\nthe long braids of his ancestors.\n\nAnother day he passed\n\nthe water's roots\n\nthe stones\n\nthe flames\n\nthe trials he endured\n\nleft him\n\nwith a scorched cloud in his gaze,\n\na trouble with the wind\n\n_Jiskor_\n\n_Kaddisch_\n\na manic breathlessness\n\n'the depth' he said\n\n'the depth to the point of exhaustion\n\nis my language\n\nand my country.'\n\nAnd then he emerged into a place\n\nfull of trees and rivers and birds\n\nand he was ecstatic\n\nuntil a military command was heard:\n\n'Quick \u2013 fall into position,\n\nreport to the mess hall'\n\nand the trees\n\nand rivers\n\nand birds disappeared.\n\nOnly the Seine remained\n\nlooking into his eyes.\n\nStephanos Papadopoulos\n\n## _\u0391\u03c5\u03c4\u03cc \u03ba\u03bf\u03c5\u03c1\u03b4\u03af\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9 \u03bc\u03cc\u03bd\u03bf \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5_\n\n\u03a4\u03cc\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bf\u03bb\u03bb\u03ac \u03b3\u03c1\u03b1\u03bd\u03ac\u03b6\u03b9\u03b1\n\n\u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03b8\u03b1 \u03b2\u03c1\u03c9 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c4\u03ad\n\n\u03c0\u03ce\u03c2 \u03bc\u03ac\u03c4\u03c9\u03c3\u03b5 \u03b7 \u0386\u03bd\u03bf\u03b9\u03be\u03b7\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c6\u03c4\u03cd\u03bd\u03c9\n\n\u03c4\u03bf \u03c0\u03b1\u03b9\u03b4\u03b9\u03ba\u03cc \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c0\u03c1\u03ac\u03c3\u03b9\u03bd\u03bf\n\n\u03c4\u03bf \u03c4\u03b5\u03bb\u03b5\u03c5\u03c4\u03b1\u03af\u03bf \u03ba\u03bf\u03c5\u03bc\u03c0\u03af \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bf\u03bd\u03b5\u03af\u03c1\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u0393\u03c5\u03bc\u03bd\u03ac \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c0\u03c1\u03ac\u03b3\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1\n\n\u03c3\u03c5\u03bc\u03b2\u03b1\u03af\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03b3\u03c1\u03b7\u03b3\u03bf\u03c1\u03cc\u03c4\u03b5\u03c1\u03b1\n\n\u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03bf \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ba\u03ac\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03b1\u03c1\u03c7\u03ae\n\n\u03c3' \u03bf\u03c3\u03bc\u03af\u03b6\u03b5\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf \u03c4\u03ad\u03bb\u03bf\u03c2\n\n\u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bc\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b1\u03cd\u03c1\u03b7 \u03bb\u03b9\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd\u03b5\u03af\u03b1 \u03b7 \u0386\u03bd\u03bf\u03b9\u03be\u03b7\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03ba\u03bb\u03bf\u03c4\u03c3\u03ac\u03b5\u03b9 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03b3\u03af\u03bd\u03c9\n\n\u03bf\u03bb\u03cc\u03ba\u03bb\u03b7\u03c1\u03b7 \u03b7 \u03b4\u03af\u03c8\u03b1 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u2013 \u03ba\u03b9 \u03b1\u03c2 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03cc\u03c4\u03b9 \u03c0\u03c1\u03cc\u03ba\u03b5\u03b9\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u03ad\u03bd\u03b4\u03c5\u03c3\u03b7 \u2013\n\n\u0394\u03b5\u03bd \u03b8\u03ad\u03bb\u03c9 \u03c0\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03bb\u03ad\u03bd\u03b5 \u0393\u03b9\u03ac\u03bd\u03bd\u03b7\n\n\u03b8\u03ad\u03bb\u03c9 \u03b4\u03c5\u03bf \u03b4\u03c1\u03ac\u03bc\u03b9\u03b1\n\n\u03ba\u03ac\u03c4\u03b1\u03c3\u03c0\u03c1\u03b7 \u03c4\u03cd\u03c7\u03b7\n\n\u03b1\u03c2 \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03ad\u03c3\u03c4\u03c9\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03ba\u03ac\u03b8\u03b5 \u03a4\u03b5\u03c4\u03ac\u03c1\u03c4\u03b7\n\n## _Self-Winding_\n\nThere are so many cogs\n\nI'll never find\n\nhow the Spring was bloodied\n\nand so I spit\n\non my childhood green,\n\nthe dream's last button.\n\nNaked, things\n\nhappen faster.\n\nBy the time you begin\n\nyou can already smell the end.\n\nSpringtime is a black litany\n\nkicking me to become\n\nmy entire thirst.\n\n(let them say it's about masquerade)\n\nI don't want to be called Yannis any more\n\nI want two drams\n\nof blind-white luck\n\neven if it's only\n\nevery Wednesday.\n\nStephanos Papadopoulos\n\n## _\u0397 \u03c4\u03ad\u03bb\u03b5\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b1\u03ba\u03bf\u03c5\u03c3\u03c4\u03b9\u03ba\u03ae \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bb\u03b1\u03b2\u03cd\u03c1\u03b9\u03bd\u03b8\u03bf\u03c5_\n\n##### \u0399.\n\n\u0395\u03c0\u03b5\u03b9\u03b4\u03ae\n\n\u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03bc\u03c0\u03cc\u03c1\u03b5\u03c3\u03b1 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bd\u03af\u03be\u03c9 \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03bf\u03c5\u03c1\u03b1\u03bd\u03cc\n\n\u2013 \u03c4\u03cc\u03c3\u03bf \u03b3\u03b1\u03bb\u03ac\u03b6\u03b9\u03bf \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03c4\u03ad\u03bb\u03bf\u03c2 \u03b5\u03bb\u03c0\u03af\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u2013\n\n\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1\u03c2 \u03ac\u03b3\u03b3\u03b5\u03bb\u03bf\u03c2\n\n\u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c8\u03b9\u03b8\u03c5\u03c1\u03af\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c4\u03c1\u03c5\u03c6\u03b5\u03c1\u03ac\n\n_\u03c7\u03c4\u03af\u03c3\u03b5 \u03bc\u03b5_\n\n_\u03c3' \u03b5\u03c4\u03bf\u03cd\u03c4\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c0\u03ad\u03c4\u03c1\u03b5\u03c2_\n\n##### \u0399\u0399.\n\n\u0395\u03c0\u03b5\u03b9\u03b4\u03ae\n\n\u03cc\u03c3\u03bf \u03ba\u03b9 \u03b1\u03bd \u03ba\u03ac\u03c0\u03bd\u03b9\u03c3\u03b1\n\n\u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03b2\u03c1\u03ae\u03ba\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf \u03bc\u03af\u03c4\u03bf \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u03c4\u03cc\u03c3\u03b5\u03c2 \u03b1\u03b3\u03ac\u03c0\u03b5\u03c2\n\n\u03c4\u03cc\u03c3\u03bf \u03bb\u03b1\u03c7\u03ac\u03bd\u03b9\u03b1\u03c3\u03bc\u03b1\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bf \u039c\u03b9\u03bd\u03ce\u03c4\u03b1\u03c5\u03c1\u03bf\u03c2\n\n\u03c4\u03b9 \u03b2\u03b9\u03bf\u03bb\u03b9\u03c3\u03c4\u03ae\u03c2, \u0398\u03b5\u03ad \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\n\n##### \u0399\u0399\u0399.\n\n\u039e\u03ad\u03bc\u03b5\u03b9\u03bd\u03b1\n\n\u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03bf\u03c5\u03c1\u03b1\u03bd\u03cc \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf \u039b\u03cc\u03b3\u03bf\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03bd\u03b5\u03af\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03be\u03ad\u03c1\u03b5\u03b9 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc' \u03b1\u03b3\u03b1\u03c0\u03ae\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9\n\n(\u03c6\u03c4\u03b1\u03af\u03bd\u03b5 \u03bb\u03b9\u03b3\u03ac\u03ba\u03b9 \u03ba\u03b9 \u03bf\u03b9 \u03b5\u03c0\u03bf\u03c7\u03ad\u03c2\n\n\u03c4\u03b1 \u03b4\u03cc\u03bd\u03c4\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 '\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c3\u03c4\u03c1\u03b1\u03b2\u03ac\n\n\u03c6\u03c4\u03b1\u03af\u03b5\u03b9\n\n\u03c4\u03bf \u03ad\u03c3\u03c9 \u03c3\u03ba\u03b9\u03ac\u03c7\u03c4\u03c1\u03bf)\n\n##### IV.\n\n\u0395\u03af\u03bc\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03cc\u03c3\u03bf \u03c0\u03c1\u03cc\u03b8\u03c5\u03bc\u03bf\u03c2 \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c5\u03bd\u03c4\u03ad\u03bb\u03b5\u03b9\u03b1\n\n\u03ce\u03c3\u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03b3\u03c1\u03ac\u03c8\u03c9 \u00ab\u03bb\u03bf\u03c5\u03bb\u03bf\u03cd\u03b4\u03b9\u00bb\n\n\u03ad\u03c7\u03b5\u03b9 \u03ae\u03b4\u03b7 \u03c7\u03ac\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9 \u03b4\u03c5\u03bf \u03c0\u03ad\u03c4\u03b1\u03bb\u03b1\n\n\u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03be\u03ad\u03c1\u03c9 \u03b1\u03bd \u03c4\u03bf \u03c6\u03c9\u03c2\n\n\u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03ad\u03c7\u03bd\u03b1\u03c3\u03bc\u03b1 \u03c3\u03ba\u03cc\u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2\n\n\u03ae \u03b1\u03bd\u03ac\u03c0\u03bf\u03b4\u03b1\n\n\u03b5\u03b3\u03ce\n\n\u03bc\u03cc\u03bd\u03bf \u03bd\u03b1 \u03b2\u03b1\u03c3\u03b1\u03bd\u03af\u03b6\u03c9 \u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c0\u03b5\u03c4\u03b1\u03bb\u03bf\u03cd\u03b4\u03b5\u03c2\n\n\u2013 \u03ba\u03b1\u03bc\u03b9\u03ac \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03be\u03ad\u03c1\u03b5\u03b9 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc' \u03b1\u03b3\u03b1\u03c0\u03ae\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9\n\n##### V.\n\n\u039a\u03b9 \u03ac\u03bb\u03bb\u03c9\u03c3\u03c4\u03b5\n\n\u03c4\u03bf\u03cd\u03c4\u03bf\u03c2 \u03bf \u03ba\u03cc\u03c3\u03bc\u03bf\u03c2 \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03ac\u03bd\u03b1\u03c8\u03b5 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c4\u03ad\n\n\u03b8\u03ad\u03bb\u03b5\u03b9 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03b4\u03ad\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03ba\u03cc\u03bc\u03c0\u03bf \u03c4\u03bf \u03ba\u03b5\u03bd\u03cc\n\n\u2013 \u03b1\u03bd \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bd\u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03b9\u03ba\u03cc\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b1\u03bb\u03cd\u03c4\u03b5\u03c1\u03b1\n\n\u03bd\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b5\u03bd\u03c4\u03ae\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03c8\u03c5\u03c7\u03ae \u03c3\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ba\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9\u03b3\u03af\u03b4\u03b5\u03c2\n\n##### VI.\n\n\u03c4\u03cc\u03c3\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c6\u03c9\u03bd\u03ad\u03c2 \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c6\u03ac\u03be\u03b9\u03bc\u03bf\n\n\u03c4\u03cc\u03c3\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c6\u03c9\u03bd\u03ad\u03c2 \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b3\u03b4\u03ac\u03c1\u03c3\u03b9\u03bc\u03bf\n\n\u03c0\u03bf\u03cd \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c3\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bc\u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03bc\u03af\u03b1\n\n_\u03bb\u03b5\u03ca\u03bc\u03bf\u03bd\u03b9\u03ac_\n\n_\u03bb\u03b5\u03ca\u03bc\u03bf\u03bd\u03b9\u03ac_\n\n_\u03b5\u03b4\u03ce \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bc' \u03ac\u03c6\u03b7\u03c3\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c1\u03b9\u03b6\u03ce\u03bd\u03c9_\n\n## _The Labyrinth's Perfect Acoustics_\n\n##### I.\n\nBecause\n\nI wasn't able to choke the sky\n\n(so blue that in the end you begin to hope)\n\nan angel\n\nwhispers to me tenderly.\n\n_Build me_\n\n_with these stones_\n\n##### II.\n\nBecause\n\nas much as I smoked\n\nI never found my inner thread\n\nso many loves\n\nso much breathlessness\n\nand the Minotaur,\n\nmy God, what a fiddler\n\n##### III.\n\nI was left\n\nwith the sky and the word,\n\nnone of them knows how to love me.\n\n(the seasons are partly to blame,\n\nmy crooked teeth,\n\nthe scarecrow inside\n\nis to blame.)\n\n##### IV.\n\nI'm so eager for the ending\n\nthat by the time I've written 'flower'\n\nit has already lost two petals.\n\nI don't know if the light\n\nis a trick of darkness\n\nor the reverse.\n\nI\n\nonly know to torture butterflies\n\n(none of them knows how to love me)\n\n##### V.\n\nAnd anyway\n\nthis world was never lit\n\nit wants you to tie the void into a knot\n\n\u2013 If he's a sailor, better to\n\nstitch your soul with squalls of rain.\n\n##### VI.\n\nSo many voices for slaughter\n\nso many voices for scraping\n\nhow do you expect to find one last\n\n_lemon tree_\n\n_lemon tree_\n\n_I'll root here where you left me._\n\nStephanos Papadopoulos\n\n## _\u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03a4\u03b7\u03bd \u03b1\u03bb\u03b7\u03c4\u03b5\u03af\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b1\u03af\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03bf\u03c2_\n\n\u0395\u03b3\u03ce \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03bc\u03bf\u03b9\u03ac\u03b6\u03c9 \u03bc' \u03b5\u03c3\u03ac\u03c2.\n\n\u039a\u03ac\u03b8\u03b5 \u03b2\u03c1\u03ac\u03b4\u03c5 \u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03c3\u03b5\u03cd\u03c7\u03bf\u03bc\u03b1\u03b9\n\n\u03c3\u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03b1\u03b9\u03ce\u03bd\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c6\u03cd\u03c1\u03b1\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4' \u03cc\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9\u03c1\u03bf \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u03ad\u03c7\u03b5\u03b9 \u03bc\u03cc\u03bd\u03bf \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c0\u03cc\u03bd\u03b4\u03c5\u03bb\u03bf\n\n*\n\n\u0391\u03b4\u03b7\u03bc\u03bf\u03bd\u03ce\n\n\u03bd\u03b1 \u03b3\u03af\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03b7 \u0391\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03c1\u03ba\u03c4\u03b9\u03ba\u03ae\n\n\u03b5\u03c0\u03b9\u03b4\u03b7\u03bc\u03af\u03b1 \u03bf\u03c1\u03ac\u03c3\u03b5\u03c9\u03c2.\n\n\u039d\u03b1 \u03bc\u03bf\u03b9\u03c1\u03b1\u03c3\u03c4\u03b5\u03af \u03b5\u03c0\u03b9\u03c4\u03ad\u03bb\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03bf \u03c5\u03c0\u03cc\u03b3\u03b5\u03b9\u03bf\u03c2 \u03ac\u03c1\u03c4\u03bf\u03c2\n\n\u03b1\u03bd\u03ac\u03bb\u03bf\u03b3\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03c0\u03af\u03c3\u03c4\u03b7 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03b8\u03b1\u03cd\u03bc\u03b1.\n\n\u0398\u03b1\u03cd\u03bc\u03b1 \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03c0\u03bf\u03c1\u03b5\u03af\u03c2 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03b3\u03b5\u03bb\u03ac\u03c2\n\n\u03ba\u03c1\u03b1\u03c4\u03ce\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03b1\u03bd\u03af\u03b1 \u03c3\u03bf\u03c5,\n\n\u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03cc\u03bd \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03bc\u03b1\u03cd\u03c1\u03bf \u03ba\u03cd\u03ba\u03bd\u03bf,\n\n\u03c3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c7\u03ad\u03c1\u03b9\u03b1.\n\n\u0398\u03b1\u03cd\u03bc\u03b1 \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b1\u03c0\u03bb\u03ac \u03bd\u03b1 \u03b3\u03b5\u03bb\u03ac\u03c2.\n\n*\n\n\u03a6\u03c5\u03c4\u03b5\u03cd\u03c9 \u03c4\u03bf \u03b4\u03af\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9\u03bf \u03b8\u03b7\u03c1\u03af\u03bf\n\n\u03c3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c1\u03bf\u03c5\u03b8\u03bf\u03cd\u03bd\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ba\u03cc\u03c3\u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u03a3\u03ad\u03c1\u03bd\u03c9 \u03c4\u03bf \u03b3\u03ad\u03bb\u03b9\u03bf \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u03b6\u03ce\u03bf\n\n\u03bc\u03b5 \u03bc\u03c5\u03c1\u03af\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03c1\u03ad\u03c7\u03b5\u03b9\n\n\u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c4\u03c1\u03b1\u03b2\u03bf\u03cd\u03c2 \u03bc\u03ae\u03bd\u03b5\u03c2\n\n*\n\n\u03a4\u03bf \u03ba\u03b5\u03c6\u03ac\u03bb\u03b9 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u03bc\u03b5 \u03cc\u03bb\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03b8\u03b7\u03c1\u03af\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b1\u03ba\u03c4\u03bf\u03c0\u03bf\u03b9\u03b7\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1\n\n\u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03c0\u03ac\u03bd\u03c9 \u03b4\u03b9\u03ac\u03b6\u03c9\u03bc\u03b1\n\n\u03a4\u03bf \u03c3\u03c4\u03cc\u03bc\u03b1 \u03b1\u03bd\u03c4\u03b9\u03b4\u03c1\u03ac\n\n\u03bc\u03b5 \u03c8\u03b5\u03cd\u03c4\u03b9\u03ba\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03bf\u03c5\u03c1\u03b1\u03bd\u03bf\u03cd\u03c2.\n\n\u0391\u03bd\u03c4\u03b9\u03b4\u03c1\u03ac; \u0391\u03c5\u03c4\u03cc \u03c4\u03bf \u03c1\u03b7\u03bc\u03ac\u03b4\u03b9;\n\n\u0386\u03bc\u03b1 \u03c4\u03c1\u03b1\u03b2\u03ae\u03be\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03b4\u03bf\u03ba\u03ac\u03c1\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u03b8\u03b1 \u03c0\u03ad\u03c3\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03bb\u03cc\u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03ba\u03ac\u03c1\u03b2\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd\u03b1 \u03bb\u03cc\u03b3\u03b9\u03b1\n\n\u03b8\u03b1 \u03c0\u03ad\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9\n\n\u03bf \u03c4\u03c5\u03c6\u03bb\u03cc\u03c2 \u03ac\u03b3\u03b3\u03b5\u03bb\u03bf\u03c2\n\n*\n\n\u03a4\u03b1 \u03bb\u03cc\u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b1\u03c2\n\n\u03b8\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1\u03bb\u03ae\u03be\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7 \u03bc\u03b5\u03b3\u03ac\u03bb\u03b7 \u03bb\u03b5\u03c5\u03ba\u03cc\u03c4\u03b7\u03c4\u03b1\n\n\u03b5\u03ba\u03b5\u03af \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c4\u03bf \u03c3\u03ce\u03bc\u03b1\n\n\u03b1\u03c0\u03bf\u03c0\u03bf\u03b9\u03b5\u03af\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf \u03c3\u03ce\u03bc\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b4\u03b9\u03c0\u03bb\u03cc\u03c2 \u03bf \u03bb\u03cd\u03ba\u03bf\u03c2\n\n\u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b7\u03bd \u03b5\u03c0\u03b9\u03c3\u03c4\u03c1\u03ad\u03c8\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2\n\n\u03a3\u03b1\u03bd\u03af\u03b4\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b7 \u03bc\u03bd\u03ae\u03bc\u03b7\n\n\u03cc\u03c3\u03bf \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03c8\u03ac\u03c7\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c4\u03c1\u03af\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9\n\n\u039c\u03b5 \u03c3\u03ad\u03c1\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03c0\u03ac\u03bb\u03b9 \u03c6\u03b8\u03b9\u03bd\u03cc\u03c0\u03c9\u03c1\u03b1\n\n\u03ba\u03c1\u03b1\u03c4\u03ce \u03c4\u03bf \u03c4\u03b5\u03bb\u03b5\u03c5\u03c4\u03b1\u03af\u03bf \u03ac\u03bd\u03b8\u03bf\u03c2\n\n\u03ba\u03af\u03c4\u03c1\u03b9\u03bd\u03bf\u03c2 \u03bc\u03ad\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03ba\u03af\u03c4\u03c1\u03b9\u03bd\u03bf\n\n\u03b8\u03bd\u03b7\u03c4\u03cc\u03c2\n\n\u03bc\u03ad\u03c7\u03c1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u0391\u03bb\u03b5\u03be\u03ac\u03bd\u03b4\u03c1\u03b5\u03b9\u03b1\n\n\u2013 \u03c0\u03bf\u03cd \u03bc\u03bf\u03af\u03c1\u03b1\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03c0\u03bd\u03bf\u03ae \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5; \u2013\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03ad\u03c7\u03c9 \u03b4\u03ad\u03bd\u03c4\u03c1\u03b1 \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b1\u03cd\u03c1\u03b9\u03bf\n\n\u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03ad\u03c7\u03c9 \u03ac\u03bb\u03bb\u03bf \u03c4\u03c3\u03b9\u03b3\u03ac\u03c1\u03bf\n\n\u039c\u03b5\u03b3\u03ac\u03bb\u03b7 \u03bc\u03b5\u03b3\u03ac\u03bb\u03b7 \u03bb\u03b5\u03c5\u03ba\u03cc\u03c4\u03b7\u03c4\u03b1\n\n\u03c3\u03c0\u03b1\u03c3\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf \u03c3\u03ba\u03c5\u03bb\u03af \u03bc\u03ad\u03c3\u03b1\n\n*\n\n\u0398\u03b1 \u03c3\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c7\u03b1\u03c1\u03af\u03c3\u03c9\n\n\u03cc\u03bb\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c3\u03cd\u03bd\u03b5\u03c1\u03b3\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03c0\u03bd\u03bf\u03ae\u03c2 \u2013\n\n\u03bc\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b5\u03c0\u03b9\u03c3\u03c4\u03c1\u03bf\u03c6\u03ae \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7 \u03b3\u03b5\u03bb\u03b1\u03c3\u03c4\u03ae \u03cd\u03bb\u03b7\n\n\u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03ac\u03b8\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c6\u03b1\u03c1\u03c3\u03af \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5\u03bb\u03b9\u03ac\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b5\u03c4\u03c1\u03ac\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03ad\u03c1\u03c9\u03c4\u03b1\n\n\u03c0\u03bf\u03c4\u03ac\u03bc\u03b9 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c4\u03ac\u03bc\u03b9\n\n\u039f \u03c7\u03c1\u03cc\u03bd\u03bf\u03c2 \u03b8\u03b1 \u03be\u03b1\u03bd\u03b1\u03b3\u03af\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03b1\u03c0\u03bb\u03cc\u03c2\n\n\u03bc\u03b5 \u03ba\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03ac \u03c0\u03b1\u03bd\u03c4\u03b5\u03bb\u03cc\u03bd\u03b9\u03b1\n\n\u03ba\u03b9 \u03b5\u03b3\u03ce \u03ba\u03c1\u03b5\u03bc\u03ac\u03bc\u03b5\u03bd\u03bf\u03c2 \u03b5\u03c0\u03af \u03be\u03cd\u03bb\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03ad\u03b3\u03bd\u03bf\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7 \u03c6\u03c4\u03b5\u03c1\u03bf\u03cd\u03b3\u03b1\n\n\u0391\u03c5\u03c4\u03ae: \u03c4\u03bf \u03bc\u03ad\u03b3\u03b1 \u03b1\u03c4\u03cc\u03c0\u03b7\u03bc\u03b1\n\n*\n\n\u03a6\u03c4\u03b5\u03c1\u03bf\u03cd\u03b3\u03b1 \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03cc,\u03c4\u03b9 \u03ba\u03cc\u03b2\u03b5\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c3\u03cd\u03c1\u03c1\u03b9\u03b6\u03b1\n\n*\n\n\u03a4\u03b1 \u03bc\u03ac\u03c4\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c3\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u03c4\u03ad\u03bb\u03b5\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c5\u03bc\u03c6\u03bf\u03c1\u03ac \u03c4\u03c9\u03bd \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5\u03bb\u03b9\u03ce\u03bd\n\n*\n\n\u039c\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b1\u03c1\u03bc\u03bf\u03bd\u03af\u03b1 \u03b7 \u03c6\u03cd\u03c3\u03b7 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03bb\u03b5\u03c5\u03ba\u03cc\u03c4\u03b7\u03c4\u03b5\u03c2\n\n\u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03c3\u03b5\u03bb\u03af\u03b4\u03b1\u03c2\n\n\u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c7\u03b9\u03bf\u03bd\u03b9\u03bf\u03cd\n\n\u03c4\u03c9\u03bd \u03bf\u03c3\u03c4\u03ce\u03bd\n\n*\n\n\u03a3\u03ce\u03bc\u03b1 \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b7 \u03c0\u03ad\u03c4\u03c1\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c0\u03af\u03c3\u03c4\u03b5\u03c8\u03b5\n\n*\n\n\u039e\u03ad\u03c1\u03c9 \u03cc\u03c4\u03b9 \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03ba\u03ac\u03bb\u03b5\u03c3\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b1\u03bc\u03af\u03b1 \u03b8\u03b7\u03c1\u03b9\u03c9\u03b4\u03af\u03b1\n\n\u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03ad\u03c2 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bb\u03b1\u03c4\u03c1\u03b5\u03cd\u03b5\u03c4\u03b5\n\n\u03bc\u03cc\u03bd\u03bf \u03be\u03b5\u03b3\u03cd\u03bc\u03bd\u03c9\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03b4\u03cc\u03bd\u03c4\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03af\u03bb\u03b9\u03b3\u03b3\u03bf \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bc\u03b1\u03c3\u03c4\u03af\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c0\u03b5\u03c4\u03b1\u03bb\u03bf\u03cd\u03b4\u03b5\u03c2\n\n\u0386\u03bd\u03bf\u03b9\u03be\u03b1 \u03c4\u03c1\u03cd\u03c0\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7 \u03bc\u03bf\u03af\u03c1\u03b1\n\n\u03ba\u03b9 \u03ad\u03c7\u03c9\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b7 \u03bb\u03cd\u03c0\u03b7 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c3\u03b1 \u03c1\u03bf\u03cd\u03c7\u03bf.\n\n\u0397 \u03bc\u03bd\u03ae\u03bc\u03b7 \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03be\u03ad\u03c1\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c0\u03c9\u03c2 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c7\u03b5\u03b9\u03c1\u03b9\u03c3\u03c4\u03b5\u03af\n\n\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c8\u03b1\u03bb\u03af\u03b4\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2\n\n\u03b1\u03bb\u03bb\u03ac \u03bf \u03c7\u03c1\u03cc\u03bd\u03bf\u03c2 \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03b1\u03b9\u03bc\u03ac\u03c3\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9 \u03be\u03b1\u03bd\u03ac\n\n\u03b3\u03b9' \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03cc \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03bb\u03b1\u03be\u03b5\u03cd\u03c9 \u03c4\u03bf \u03cc\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9\u03c1\u03bf \u2013\n\n\u03c4\u03bf \u03b4\u03ad\u03c7\u03bf\u03bc\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c3\u03b1\u03bd \u03ac\u03c0\u03bb\u03b7\u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03ba\u03bb\u03b1\u03b4\u03af \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03bb\u03b1\u03b9\u03bc\u03cc\n\n\u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b1\u03bd\u03c4\u03bb\u03b5\u03af \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\u03b3\u03b3\u03cc \u03c4\u03bf \u03cd\u03b4\u03c9\u03c1\n\n\u03a0\u03bf\u03b9\u03bf\u03c2 \u03c0\u03bf\u03cd\u03c3\u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03bc' \u03ad\u03c4\u03b1\u03be\u03b5 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03c6\u03b5\u03b3\u03b3\u03ac\u03c1\u03b9\n\n\u03ba\u03b9 \u03ad\u03c7\u03c9 \u03b3\u03af\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03b7 \u03ba\u03b5\u03c1\u03ba\u03cc\u03c0\u03bf\u03c1\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c6\u03b1\u03b3\u03ae\u03c2;\n\n\u039d\u03b1 \u03b1\u03bd\u03c4\u03b9\u03bc\u03ac\u03c7\u03b5\u03c3\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c3\u03c4\u03af\u03c7\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\u03b9\u03c7\u03b5\u03af\u03b1 \u03c3\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u2013 \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03cc \u03b8\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b5\u03b9 \u03cc\u03bb\u03b5\u03b8\u03c1\u03bf\u03c2! \u2013\n\n\u03ba\u03b9 \u03b7 \u03cc\u03c1\u03b1\u03c3\u03b7 \u03bc\u03c0\u03b5\u03c1\u03b4\u03b5\u03cd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c1\u03af\u03b6\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2\n\nB\u03bb\u03ad\u03c0\u03c9 \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03ba\u03cc\u03c3\u03bc\u03bf \u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u03ac\u03bb\u03c5\u03c4\u03b7 \u03bf\u03bc\u03c0\u03c1\u03ad\u03bb\u03b1\n\n\u03ba\u03b9 \u03b1\u03bd \u03b1\u03bd\u03bf\u03af\u03be\u03b5\u03b9\n\n\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c0\u03ac\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03b4\u03b9\u03ac\u03bf\u03bb\u03bf\n\n\u03a4\u03bf \u03c6\u03c9\u03c2 \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03b1\u03bd\u03c4\u03b9\u03bc\u03b5\u03c4\u03c9\u03c0\u03af\u03b6\u03b5\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c0\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c7\u03c9\u03c1\u03af\u03c2 \u03b3\u03ac\u03bd\u03c4\u03b9\u03b1\n\n\u03c0\u03ce\u03c2 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c6\u03c1\u03b1\u03b3\u03af\u03c3\u03c9 \u03c4\u03bf \u03bb\u03cc\u03b3\u03bf \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u03c4\u03ce\u03c1\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b2\u03b3\u03ac\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b7 \u03b3\u03b5\u03bd\u03b5\u03c4\u03ae\u03c3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c7\u03bb\u03cc\u03b7;\n\n\u03a3\u03b9\u03b3\u03ac \u03c3\u03b9\u03b3\u03ac\n\n\u03bc\u03bf\u03b9\u03ac\u03b6\u03bf\u03c5\u03bc\u03b5 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c0\u03ad\u03c4\u03c1\u03b5\u03c2\n\n\u03a4\u03bf \u03c4\u03ad\u03bb\u03bf\u03c2 \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03ae\u03b4\u03b7 \u03b3\u03bd\u03c9\u03c3\u03c4\u03cc:\n\n\u0395\u03b3\u03ce\n\n\u0395\u03c3\u03cd\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c1\u03cc\u03b4\u03b1\n\n\u0397 \u03bf\u03bc\u03bf\u03c1\u03c6\u03b9\u03ac \u03bc\u03c0\u03b1\u03bb\u03c4\u03ac\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03b1\u03c5\u03c7\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1\n\n## from _The Vagrancy of Blood_\n\nI am not like the rest of you.\n\nEach night I pray\n\nto the eternal hammer\n\nand my dream\n\nhas only one vertebra.\n\n*\n\nI am impatient\n\nfor the Antarctic to become\n\nan epidemic of sight.\n\nFor the underground bread to be shared at last\n\naccording to each one's faith in the miracle.\n\nMiracle, to be able to laugh\n\nwhile holding your boredom,\n\na black swan,\n\nin your arms.\n\nMiracle, simply to laugh.\n\n*\n\nI plant the judicious beast\n\nin the nostrils of the world\n\nI drag my laugh\n\nanimal\n\nit smells me and runs\n\nthrough the crooked months\n\n*\n\nMy head\n\nall its beasts in a row\n\non the upper tier\n\nThe mouth reacts\n\nwith false skies.\n\nReacts? That old mess?\n\nIf you knock down its beams\n\nwhat will fall are words and charcoal words\n\nwhat will fall is\n\nthe blind angel\n\n*\n\nOur words\n\nwill end up in the vast whiteness\n\nwhere the body\n\nrenounces its body\n\nthe wolf is double\n\nso you won't return\n\nGive memory some plank\n\nthat creaks as you search for it\n\nThey drag me again in fall\n\nI hold the last blossom\n\nyellow within the yellow\n\nmortal\n\nas far as Alexandria\n\n\u2013 where did I give my breath? \u2013\n\nand I have no trees for tomorrow\n\nI have no more cigarettes\n\nVast vast whiteness\n\nbroken dog within\n\n*\n\nI'll give you\n\nall the paraphernalia of breath \u2013\n\na return to laughing matter\n\nso you can learn the birds well\n\nand count eros\n\nriver by river\n\nTime will become simple again\n\nwith short pants\n\nand I hanging on the wood\n\nmy worry under my wing\n\nIt: the great impropriety\n\n*\n\nWing, whatever is cut close\n\n*\n\nYour eyes\n\nperfect disaster of birds\n\n*\n\nA harmony, nature with the whitenesses\n\nof the page\n\nof the snow\n\nof the bones\n\n*\n\nBody, the stone that believed\n\n*\n\nI know I provoked no brutality\n\nof the sort you all adore\n\nI just bared my teeth\n\nat the vertigo that plagues the butterflies\n\nI opened holes in fate\n\nand shoved my sadness in like a piece of clothing.\n\nMemory doesn't know how to use\n\nits scissors\n\nbut time won't bleed again\n\nwhich is why I don't sculpt the dream \u2013\n\nI accept it like a greedy branch in my throat\n\ndumbly drawing away my water\n\nWhat fucker promised me to the moon\n\nand I've become the gate that opens onto slaughter?\n\nTo fight your elements with poetry\n\n\u2013 that's what devastation means! \u2013\n\nAnd sight confuses its roots\n\nI see the world as a paralyzed umbrella\n\nand if it opens\n\nit can go to hell\n\nThe light can't be faced any more without gloves\n\nhow can I seal my speech\n\nnow that it's sprouting genital grass?\n\nSlowly, slowly we resemble stones\n\nThe end is already known:\n\nYou\n\nMe\n\nand the rose\n\nBeauty an axe to the nape\n\nKaren Emmerich\n\n## Yiannis Doukas\n\n#### (Born Athens, Greece, 1981)\n\nYiannis Doukas is one of the most metrically accomplished poets of his generation, having learned from immediate precursors such as Nasos Vayanas. His work also draws on Greek and Anglo-Saxon prosody, mingled with a healthy dose of the news. _The Stendhal Syndrome_ (2013) received the Academy of Athens Prize for the best collection by a young poet. The son of Maro Douka, one of Greece's finest novelists, he studied Classics at the University of Athens and Digital Humanities at the University of London. He currently lives in Ireland.\n\n_\u039f \u03ba\u03cc\u03c3\u03bc\u03bf\u03c2 \u03cc\u03c0\u03c9\u03c2 \u03ae\u03c1\u03b8\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03b2\u03c1\u03ae\u03ba\u03b1_ ( _The World as I Came and Found It_ ), Kedros, 2001; _\u03a3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03bc\u03ad\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c3\u03cd\u03bd\u03bf\u03c1\u03b1_ ( _Inner Borders_ ), Polis, 2011; _\u03a4\u03bf \u03c3\u03cd\u03bd\u03b4\u03c1\u03bf\u03bc\u03bf \u03a3\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd\u03c4\u03ac\u03bb_ ( _The Stendhal Syndrome_ ), Polis, 2013.\n\n## _\u03a4\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b1\u03b9\u03b4\u03b9\u03ac \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u0386\u03b2\u03b5\u03bb_\n\n\u03a0\u03b1\u03af\u03c1\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03b4\u03c1\u03cc\u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03b7 \u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03bb\u03af\u03ba\u03b1| \u0394\u03b5\u03bd \u03b8\u03b1 \u03bc\u03c0\u03bf\u03c1\u03ad\u03c3\u03c9 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c3\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c0\u03c9 \n---|--- \n\u038c\u03c4\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf \u03c7\u03bd\u03ac\u03c1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf \u03b2\u03c1\u03ae\u03ba\u03b1| \u039a\u03b9 \u03b5\u03af\u03bc\u03b1\u03b9 \u03ba\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03ac, \u03c3' \u03b1\u03ba\u03bf\u03bb\u03bf\u03c5\u03b8\u03ce \n\u0395\u03b4\u03ce \u03c4\u03b5\u03bb\u03b5\u03b9\u03ce\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c4' \u03bf\u03be\u03c5\u03b3\u03cc\u03bd\u03bf| \u039c\u03b1 \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03c4\u03bf \u03c0\u03ae\u03c1\u03b5\u03c2 \u03bc\u03c5\u03c1\u03c9\u03b4\u03b9\u03ac \n\u0398\u03b1 \u03be\u03b5\u03bc\u03b1\u03ba\u03c1\u03b1\u03af\u03bd\u03c9, \u03b8\u03b1 \u03b6\u03c5\u03b3\u03ce\u03bd\u03c9| \u039a\u03b9 \u03ac\u03bb\u03bb\u03bf\u03c2 \u03bc\u03b1\u03b6\u03b5\u03cd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b7 \u03c3\u03bf\u03b4\u03b5\u03b9\u03ac \n\u0397 \u03c4\u03af\u03b3\u03c1\u03b7 \u03b8' \u03b1\u03bd\u03b1\u03c3\u03ac\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bb\u03af\u03b3\u03bf \u03c0\u03c1\u03b9\u03bd \u03c0\u03b5\u03b8\u03ac\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9 \u039a\u03b9 \u03b1\u03c2 \u03ad\u03c7\u03b5\u03b9 \u03ba\u03b9\u03cc\u03bb\u03b1\u03c2 \u03c6\u03cd\u03b3\u03b5\u03b9 \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf \u03bc\u03b1\u03ba\u03c1\u03cd \u03ba\u03c5\u03bd\u03ae\u03b3\u03b9 \n\u03a4\u03bf Danny F \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b7 \u03a3\u03c5\u03c1\u03af\u03b1| \u0398\u03b1\u03bb\u03b1\u03c3\u03c3\u03b9\u03bd\u03ae \u03bc\u03b5\u03c4\u03b1\u03c6\u03bf\u03c1\u03ac \n\u03a3\u03b1\u03bd \u03ba\u03b9\u03b2\u03c9\u03c4\u03cc\u03c2\u2219 \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c6\u03b1\u03b3\u03b5\u03af\u03b1| \u03a4\u03b7 \u03b6\u03c9\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd\u03ae \u03c6\u03ad\u03c1\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03b2\u03bf\u03c1\u03ac \n\u039c\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03ba\u03cd\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1 \u03b2\u03bf\u03c5\u03bb\u03b9\u03ac\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9| \u039c\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03bd\u03b5\u03c1\u03ac \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b7 \u03c3\u03b9\u03c9\u03c0\u03ae \n\u03a4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03b8\u03ac\u03bb\u03b1\u03c3\u03c3\u03b1\u03c2 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03be\u03b5\u03b2\u03b3\u03ac\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9| \u039a\u03b7\u03bb\u03af\u03b4\u03b1 \u03ba\u03cc\u03ba\u03ba\u03b9\u03bd\u03b7 \u03bd\u03c9\u03c0\u03ae \n\u039a\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c0\u03ac\u03bd\u03c9 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03b1\u03c6\u03c1\u03cc \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2, \u03b1\u03c1\u03c7\u03b1\u03af\u03bf\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b1\u03be\u03b9\u03b4\u03b9\u03ce\u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u0398\u03b1 \u03b2\u03cc\u03c3\u03ba\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf \u03ba\u03bf\u03c0\u03ac\u03b4\u03b9 \u03c3' \u03c5\u03b4\u03ac\u03c4\u03b9\u03bd\u03bf \u03bb\u03b9\u03b2\u03ac\u03b4\u03b9 \n\u0395\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9\u03c1\u03cc\u03c2 \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b7 \u03b8\u03c5\u03c3\u03af\u03b1| \u039a\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf \u03bc\u03b1\u03c7\u03b1\u03af\u03c1\u03b9 \u03c3\u03b9\u03c9\u03c0\u03b7\u03bb\u03cc \n\u039a\u03cc\u03b2\u03b5\u03b9 \u03b2\u03b1\u03b8\u03b9\u03ac \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03b1\u03c1\u03c4\u03b7\u03c1\u03af\u03b1| \u039a\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c3\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5\u03bb\u03ac \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03bf \u03ba\u03b9\u03bb\u03cc \n\u0391\u03c5\u03c4\u03cc \u03c4\u03bf \u03c3\u03ce\u03bc\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf \u03b4\u03b9\u03ba\u03cc \u03c3\u03bf\u03c5| \u03a4\u03bf \u03bc\u03b5\u03c3\u03b7\u03bc\u03ad\u03c1\u03b9 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03b3\u03b5\u03c5\u03c4\u03b5\u03af\u03c2 \n\u03a3\u03b1\u03bd \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1\u03c4\u03c1\u03b9\u03ba\u03cc \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03bc\u03b1\u03cd\u03c1\u03b7\u03c2 \u03bd\u03cc\u03c3\u03bf\u03c5| \u039a\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c3\u03b1\u03bd \u03c6\u03b1\u03c1\u03bc\u03ac\u03ba\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03b3\u03b9\u03bf\u03c1\u03c4\u03ae\u03c2\n\n## _The Children of Abel_\n\nThe truck takes the road| I won't be able to tell you \n---|--- \nThat I found its tracks| And I am close, I follow you \nHere, the oxygen depleted,| But you haven't caught scent of it \nI will retreat, I will approach| And another gathers the harvest \nThe tiger will sigh for a while before dying Even as it has set off already for the long hunt \nThe Danny F bound for Syria| Transport by sea \nLike an arc; for slaughterhouses| Bearing the live prey \nBut it flounders with the waves| In the water and the silence \nOf the sea that does not wash out| A fresh, red blemish \nAnd on its foam, an ancient traveler Will graze his flock in amphibian fields \nIt is time for oblation| And the knife is placid \nIt cuts deep in the lode| And sells you by the kilo \nThis body of yours| For you to taste at noon \nAs the remedy of the plague| And as the poison of the party \nChloe Haralambous and Moira Egan\n\n## _\u03a3\u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03b1\u03c3\u03c4\u03b5\u03c1\u03b9\u03c3\u03bc\u03cc \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ba\u03b1\u03c1\u03ba\u03af\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5_\n\n\u0397 \u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u03b1\u03ba\u03ad\u03bd\u03c4\u03b7\u03c3\u03b7 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03ac\u03c3\u03c0\u03c1\u03bf \u03c3\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bb\u03b1\u03b9\u03bc\u03cc\n\n\u03a3\u03b1\u03bd \u03c4\u03b7 \u03b4\u03b1\u03bd\u03c4\u03ad\u03bb\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c3\u03ba\u03b5\u03c0\u03ac\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf \u03c4\u03c1\u03b1\u03c0\u03ad\u03b6\u03b9\n\n\u0395\u03af\u03b4\u03b5\u03c2 \u03b1\u03c4\u03ac\u03c1\u03b1\u03c7\u03bf\u03c2 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c6\u03c4\u03ac\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03b3\u03ba\u03c1\u03b5\u03bc\u03cc\n\n\u0392\u03ae\u03bc\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf \u03b2\u03ae\u03bc\u03b1 \u03b7 \u03b3\u03b5\u03bd\u03b9\u03ac \u03bc\u03b1\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b1\u03af\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9\n\n\u03a3\u03c4\u03b7 \u03bb\u03b5\u03c0\u03c4\u03bf\u03bc\u03ad\u03c1\u03b5\u03b9\u03b1, \u03b6\u03c9\u03ae, \u03c3\u03b5 \u03bc\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bb\u03b5\u03c5\u03c1\u03ac\n\n\u03a3\u03b1\u03bd \u03c6\u03c9\u03c4\u03bf\u03c3\u03ba\u03af\u03b1\u03c3\u03b7 \u03c6\u03bb\u03b1\u03bc\u03b1\u03bd\u03b4\u03b9\u03ba\u03bf\u03cd \u03c0\u03bf\u03c1\u03c4\u03c1\u03ad\u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u03a6\u03c5\u03bb\u03b1\u03ba\u03b9\u03c3\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf\u03b9, \u03b9\u03c3\u03bf\u03b2\u03af\u03c4\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bc\u03b5\u03c4\u03ac\n\n\u03a4\u03bf \u03c0\u03b5\u03c1\u03b9\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5\u03bc\u03b5, \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03ad\u03c1\u03c7\u03b5\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c4\u03ad \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u03a3\u03c0\u03bf\u03c5\u03c1\u03b3\u03af\u03c4\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c4\u03c1\u03ad\u03c7\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd\u03b5 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03ad\u03c1\u03b7\u03bc\u03b5\u03c2 \u03b1\u03c5\u03bb\u03ad\u03c2\n\n\u03a3\u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03bf\u03c5\u03c1\u03b1\u03bd\u03cc \u03bf\u03b9 \u03b3\u03bb\u03ac\u03c1\u03bf\u03b9, \u03ba\u03c1\u03ce\u03b6\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd, \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u0394\u03bf\u03c5\u03b2\u03bb\u03af\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u038c\u03bb\u03bf \u03c0\u03bb\u03b7\u03b8\u03b1\u03af\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03cc\u03c3\u03b1 \u03b8\u03ad\u03bb\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b9 \u03cc\u03c3\u03b1 \u03bb\u03b5\u03c2\n\n\u03a4\u03b1 \u03b5\u03c1\u03c9\u03c4\u03ae\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c3\u03b1\u03bd \u03ba\u03cd\u03c4\u03c4\u03b1\u03c1\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b1\u03c1\u03ba\u03af\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u03a4\u03ce\u03c1\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ad\u03b3\u03b9\u03bd\u03b5 \u03bf \u03ba\u03cc\u03c3\u03bc\u03bf\u03c2 \u03b4\u03b9\u03b1\u03c6\u03b1\u03bd\u03ae\u03c2\n\n\u0398\u03ad\u03bb\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03b5\u03c3\u03cd \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b7 \u03c3\u03b9\u03c9\u03c0\u03ae \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bc\u03b9\u03bb\u03ae\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2\n\n\u039d\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b7 \u03c3' \u03b1\u03ba\u03bf\u03cd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03ac\u03bb\u03bb\u03bf\u03c2 \u03ac\u03bd\u03b8\u03c1\u03c9\u03c0\u03bf\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b1\u03bd\u03b5\u03af\u03c2\n\n\u039d\u03b1 \u03ba\u03bf\u03b9\u03bc\u03b7\u03b8\u03b5\u03af\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03c8\u03c5\u03c7\u03ae \u03c3\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03ba\u03bf\u03b9\u03bc\u03af\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2\n\n\u039c\u03b1 \u03ba\u03ac\u03b8\u03b5 \u03bd\u03cd\u03c7\u03c4\u03b1 \u03b8\u03b1 \u03be\u03c5\u03c0\u03bd\u03ac\u03c2 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03bf \u03c0\u03bf\u03bd\u03ce\n\n\u039c\u03b5 \u03b4\u03cd\u03bf \u03bf\u03b8\u03cc\u03bd\u03b5\u03c2 \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b7\u03c4\u03ad\u03c1\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b5\u03c1\u03c9\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b7\n\n\u03a0\u03c9\u03c2 \u03bd' \u03b1\u03c1\u03b8\u03c1\u03c9\u03b8\u03b5\u03af \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c5\u03bd\u03b1\u03af\u03c3\u03b8\u03b7\u03bc\u03b1 \u03b3\u03c5\u03bc\u03bd\u03cc\n\n\u039a\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bc\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b8\u03b5\u03c1\u03bc\u03cc\u03c4\u03b7\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c4\u03c9\u03bd \u03bb\u03ad\u03be\u03b5\u03c9\u03bd \u03c7\u03b1\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b7;\n\n## _On the Constellation of Cancer_\n\nThe perforation on your white neck\n\nLike lace that covers the table\n\nYou watched coolly as our generation\n\nReached the cliff, step by step, splitting\n\nHairs, life, on one side,\n\nLike chiaroscuro in Flemish portraits\n\nImprisoned, lifers of _later_\n\nWe wait for it, it never comes\n\nSparrows run in vacant gardens\n\nIn the sky Dublin's gulls caw\n\nThe things you want and the things you say\n\nMultiply questions like cancerous cells\n\nNow that the world has become transparent\n\nYou want to speak with it in silence\n\nSo no one else will hear you\n\nSo you can sleep and tuck in your soul\n\nBut every night you will waken with _it hurts_\n\nWith two screens for mother and lover\n\nHow can a bare sentiment be pronounced\n\nAnd what of the lost warmth of words?\n\nChloe Haralambous and Moira Egan\n\n## Doukas Kapanta\u00efs\n\n#### (Born Athens, Greece, 1971)\n\nDoukas Kapanta\u00efs's classical training shows through in his finely crafted shifts of register, drawing on the rich history of the Greek language from Ancient to Modern times. He is not interested in poetry as social commentary. The poem included here is from his first collection and, he notes, should not be read as political allegory as it predates the crisis. He has two doctorates: one from the Sorbonne, in Ancient Greek Philosophy, and the other from Bern, in Logic. He is an Associate Research Professor in the Centre for Greek Philosophy at the Academy of Athens, which administers literary prizes and supports literary translation among its many other activities.\n\n_\u0391\u03b3\u03bf\u03c1\u03ac\u03ba\u03b9\u03b1 \u039a\u03bf\u03c1\u03b9\u03c4\u03c3\u03ac\u03ba\u03b9\u03b1_ ( _Boys and Girls_ ), Nefeli, 2004; _\u0397 \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03bf\u03ba\u03c1\u03ac\u03c4\u03b5\u03b9\u03c1\u03b1_ ( _The Empress_ ), Nefeli, 2012.\n\n## _\u0395\u03be\u03bf\u03c7\u03b9\u03ba\u03ad\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b1\u03c4\u03bf\u03b9\u03ba\u03af\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf \u03c7\u03b5\u03b9\u03bc\u03ce\u03bd\u03b1_\n\n\u039d\u03cd\u03c3\u03c4\u03b1\u03b6\u03b1, \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c7\u03c9\u03c1\u03af\u03c2 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf \u03b6\u03b7\u03c4\u03ae\u03c3\u03c9\n\n\u03c4\u03b7 \u03c3\u03c6\u03b1\u03af\u03c1\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bc\u03b1\u03c2 \u03b4\u03b5\u03af\u03c7\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9\u03c1\u03cc\n\n\u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03bc\u03ad\u03c3\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b1\u03c2, \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b4\u03ce\u03c3\u03b1\u03bd \u03bd\u03b1 \u03ba\u03c1\u03b1\u03c4\u03ae\u03c3\u03c9\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bc\u03ad\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03c6\u03bf\u03b2\u03cc\u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03bd\u03b1 \u03b9\u03b4\u03c9\u03b8\u03ce:\n\n\u0391\u03c0\u03cc \u03c4\u03bf \u03b8\u03cc\u03bb\u03bf \u03c0\u03ad\u03c6\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd\u03b5 \u03c3\u03b5\u03bd\u03c4\u03cc\u03bd\u03b9\u03b1,\n\n\u03b1\u03c3\u03c4\u03c1\u03b1\u03c6\u03c4\u03b5\u03c1\u03ac, \u03ba\u03b1\u03c4\u03ac\u03bb\u03b5\u03c5\u03ba\u03b1, \u03bc\u03b5\u03b3\u03ac\u03bb\u03b1,\n\n\u03c3\u03ba\u03b5\u03c0\u03ac\u03b6\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03c2 \u03c3\u03b1\u03bd \u03ad\u03c0\u03b9\u03c0\u03bb\u03b1 \u03c3\u03b5 \u03c3\u03ac\u03bb\u03b1\n\n\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c0\u03af\u03c4\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b1\u03c2 \u2013 \u03bc\u03b1\u03bc\u03bf\u03cd\u03b8 \u03ba\u03b1\u03c4' \u03b1\u03c0' \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c7\u03b9\u03cc\u03bd\u03b9\u03b1.\n\n\u0395\u03bd \u03c4\u03ad\u03bb\u03b5\u03b9, \u03cc\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd \u03b1\u03c0\u03bb\u03ce\u03b8\u03b7\u03ba\u03b1\u03bd \u03c0\u03b1\u03bd\u03c4\u03bf\u03cd,\n\n\u03b1\u03bd\u03ad\u03c4\u03b5\u03b9\u03bb' \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03ba\u03ac\u03c4\u03b1\u03c3\u03c0\u03c1\u03bf \u03c6\u03b5\u03b3\u03b3\u03ac\u03c1\u03b9\n\n\u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03bf\u03c5\u03c1\u03b1\u03bd\u03cc \u2013 \u03c3\u03b7\u03bc\u03ac\u03b4\u03b9 \u03c0\u03b1\u03b3\u03b5\u03c4\u03bf\u03cd;\n\n_\u03a3\u03b5 \u03bb\u03af\u03b3\u03bf \u03b8\u03b1 '\u03c1\u03b8\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c0\u03bf\u03cd\u03bb\u03bc\u03b1\u03bd \u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b1\u03c2 \u03c0\u03ac\u03c1\u03b5\u03b9 \u2013_\n\n\u03c3\u03ba\u03b5\u03c0\u03c4\u03cc\u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd, \u03b4\u03af\u03c7\u03c9\u03c2 \u03af\u03c7\u03bd\u03bf\u03c2 \u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03c3\u03bc\u03bf\u03bd\u03ae\u03c2\n\n\u03ae \u03c0\u03b1\u03bd\u03b9\u03ba\u03bf\u03cd \u2013 \u03ac\u03b2\u03bf\u03c5\u03bb\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2, \u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03c3\u03b7\u03bd\u03b5\u03af\u03c2.\n\n## _Country Houses in Winter_\n\nI was drowsy. Without asking\n\nanyone for anything I was handed\n\nthe crystal ball that shows the weather\n\ninside us. I was scared to see myself in it:\n\nFrom the vault fell sheets \u2013 laundered,\n\nmilk-white, large \u2013 covering our houses\n\nlike living-room furniture kept clean\n\nfor guests \u2013 mammoth under the snow.\n\nFinally, when they had spread out\n\neverywhere, a milky moon rose\n\nin the sky \u2013 the first frost? _In a while_\n\n_a coach will come to pick us up_ \u2013\n\nI thought, without a trace of anticipation\n\nor panic. Spineless, docile.\n\nKaren Van Dyck\n\n## Dimitra Kotoula\n\n#### (Born Komotini, Greece, 1974)\n\nWriting in dialogue with the famous twentieth-century poets of ancient myth (George Seferis and Angelos Sikelianos among them), Dimitra Kotoula brings fresh language and a feminist edge to familiar themes. She studied Archaeology and History of Art at the University of Ioannina and the Courtauld Institute of Art. Her poetry, essays, and translations have appeared online as well as in poetry anthologies and journals in Greece, Europe, and the Balkans. She works as an archaeologist and lives in Athens.\n\n_\u03a4\u03c1\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03bd\u03cc\u03c4\u03b5\u03c2 \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\u03c3\u03b9\u03ba\u03ae_ ( _Three Notes for a Melody),_ Nefeli, 2004.\n\n## _\u039a\u03b5\u03c6\u03ac\u03bb\u03b9 \u03c3\u03b1\u03c4\u03cd\u03c1\u03bf\u03c5_\n\n\u00ab\u0388\u03ba\u03b1\u03bd\u03b1 \u03cc\u03bb\u03bf \u03a3\u03b1\u03c4\u03cd\u03c1\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2. \u0389\u03b8\u03b5\u03bb\u03b1 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b1\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03ae\u03c3\u03c9 \u03c4\u03bf \u03c3\u03b1\u03c1\u03ba\u03b1\u03c3\u03c4\u03b9\u03ba\u03cc \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03b3\u03ad\u03bb\u03b9\u03bf \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03c1\u03ad\u03bb\u03b1\u03b9\u03bd\u03b5\u00bb\n\n_\u0393. \u03a7\u03b1\u03bb\u03b5\u03c0\u03ac\u03c2, 1878_\n\n\u0388\u03c7\u03c9 \u03ba\u03ac\u03b8\u03b5 \u03b4\u03b9\u03ba\u03b1\u03af\u03c9\u03bc\u03b1 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03c9 \u03bc\u03cc\u03bd\u03bf\u03c2\n\n\u2013 \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03b5\u03bb\u03ac\u03c7\u03b9\u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03c0\u03c1\u03cc\u03c3\u03c9\u03c0\u03bf \u2013\n\n\u03ad\u03c7\u03c9 \u03ba\u03ac\u03b8\u03b5 \u03b4\u03b9\u03ba\u03b1\u03af\u03c9\u03bc\u03b1 \u03bc\u03cc\u03bd\u03bf\u03c2\n\n\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u03b1\u03c4\u03b7\u03c1\u03ce\n\n\u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03b5\u03c0\u03b9\u03c4\u03ae\u03b4\u03b5\u03b9\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03cc\u03b3\u03ba\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2\n\n\u03c4\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b1\u03c5\u03c1\u03b9\u03c3\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c3\u03ba\u03ad\u03c1\u03c4\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c0\u03ac\u03bd\u03c9 \u03c3' \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03cc \u03c4\u03bf \u03bc\u03ac\u03c1\u03bc\u03b1\u03c1\u03bf.\n\n\u0398\u03ad\u03bb\u03c9 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1\u03bb\u03ac\u03b2\u03c9\n\n(\u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03c3\u03c0\u03b1\u03b8\u03ce \u03bd\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1\u03bb\u03ac\u03b2\u03c9)\n\n\u03cc,\u03c4\u03b9 \u03b2\u03b9\u03ac\u03b6\u03b5\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03b4\u03ce\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03bc\u03c5\u03b1\u03bb\u03cc \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03b5\u03bb\u03b5\u03c5\u03b8\u03b5\u03c1\u03af\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u03cc,\u03c4\u03b9 \u2013 \u03c3\u03b5 \u03b1\u03ba\u03c1\u03b1\u03af\u03b1 \u03b5\u03ba\u03bb\u03ad\u03c0\u03c4\u03c5\u03bd\u03c3\u03b7 \u2013\n\n\u03b6\u03b7\u03c4\u03ac\u03b5\u03b9 \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03c4\u03bf \u03bc\u03c5\u03b1\u03bb\u03cc \u03c0\u03af\u03c3\u03c9 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03b5\u03bb\u03b5\u03c5\u03b8\u03b5\u03c1\u03af\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u03bf\u03bb\u03cc\u03ba\u03bb\u03b7\u03c1\u03b7 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03b9\u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\u03c1\u03af\u03b1\n\n\u03c4\u03bf \u03c3\u03b5\u03bd\u03ac\u03c1\u03b9\u03bf \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf \u03bc\u03b1\u03c7\u03b1\u03af\u03c1\u03b9.\n\n*\n\n\u039f \u03ba\u03b1\u03bb\u03bb\u03b9\u03c4\u03ad\u03c7\u03bd\u03b7\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf \u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03c3\u03c0\u03ac\u03b8\u03b7\u03c3\u03b5.\n\n\u0395\u03af\u03bc\u03b1\u03c3\u03c4\u03b5 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b1 1878.\n\n\u0397 \u0391\u03ba\u03c1\u03cc\u03c0\u03bf\u03bb\u03b7 \u03c5\u03c0\u03ac\u03c1\u03c7\u03b5\u03b9.\n\n\u0397 \u03c0\u03b1\u03c4\u03c1\u03af\u03b4\u03b1 \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03ae \u03c5\u03c0\u03ac\u03c1\u03c7\u03b5\u03b9 (\u03c5\u03c0\u03ac\u03c1\u03c7\u03b5\u03b9;)\n\n\u00ab\u03c5\u03c0\u03cc \u03c6\u03c1\u03bf\u03c5\u03c1\u03ac\u03bd\u00bb \u2013 \u03ad\u03c3\u03c4\u03c9 \u2013\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u00ab\u03b2\u03b1\u03af\u03bd\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03c2 \u03b5\u03c0\u03af \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c7\u03b5\u03af\u03c1\u03c9\u00bb\n\n\u03c4\u03bf \u03c0\u03c1\u03cc\u03c3\u03c9\u03c0\u03bf \u03b4\u03b9\u03c5\u03bb\u03b9\u03c3\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf \u03bc\u03ad\u03c3\u03b1 \u03b1\u03c0' \u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c0\u03c4\u03c5\u03c7\u03ad\u03c2\n\n(\u03bc\u03c0\u03bf\u03c1\u03b5\u03af \u03c3\u03c7\u03b5\u03b4\u03cc\u03bd \u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b1\u03bd\u03c4\u03b5\u03cd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b9\u03bd\u03ae\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b5\u03c1\u03bd\u03bf\u03cd\u03bd\n\n\u03b1\u03ba\u03b1\u03c4\u03ac\u03c0\u03b1\u03c5\u03c3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03b2\u03b9\u03b1\u03c3\u03c4\u03b9\u03ba\u03ad\u03c2\n\n\u03c4\u03b1 \u03bf\u03bb\u03bf\u03b3\u03c1\u03ac\u03bc\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c0\u03ac\u03bd\u03c9 \u03c3' \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03cc \u03c4\u03bf \u03bc\u03ac\u03c1\u03bc\u03b1\u03c1\u03bf)\n\n_\u038c,\u03c4\u03b9 \u03c5\u03c0\u03ac\u03c1\u03c7\u03b5\u03b9 \u03b8\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1\u03bb\u03c5\u03b8\u03b5\u03af_\n\n\u03c4\u03bf \u03ba\u03ac\u03b8\u03b5 \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c0\u03ae\u03bb\u03b9\u03bd\u03bf \u03b5\u03ba\u03c4\u03cd\u03c0\u03c9\u03bc\u03b1\n\n\u03c4\u03bf \u03ba\u03ac\u03b8\u03b5 \u03c3\u03c7\u03ae\u03bc\u03b1\n\n\u03b7 \u03c8\u03c5\u03c7\u03ae \u03bd\u03b1 \u03b5\u03ba\u03c4\u03af\u03b8\u03b5\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b2\u03ac\u03bd\u03b1\u03c5\u03c3\u03b1\n\n\u03c3\u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03be\u03b1\u03c6\u03bd\u03b9\u03ba\u03ae \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03ae \u03b5\u03c0\u03b1\u03bd\u03ac\u03bb\u03b7\u03c8\u03b7\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1\u03ba\u03bb\u03cd\u03b6\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03ba\u03b5\u03bd\u03cc \u03b1\u03ad\u03c1\u03b1 (\u03ba\u03b5\u03bd\u03cc;)\n\n\u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03b1\u03ad\u03c1\u03b1 \u03b3\u03b5\u03bc\u03ac\u03c4\u03bf \u03ba\u03b5\u03bd\u03cc \u03bd\u03cc\u03b7\u03bc\u03b1\n\n\u03bc\u03b7\u03bd \u03c3\u03c4\u03c1\u03ad\u03c8\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2\/ \u03bc\u03b7\u03bd \u03c4\u03bf \u03c0\u03b9\u03c3\u03c4\u03ad\u03c8\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2\/\n\n\u03bc\u03b7\u03bd \u03be\u03b5\u03b3\u03b5\u03bb\u03ac\u03c2 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c6\u03b1\u03bd\u03c4\u03ac\u03c3\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1 \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03ac \u03c4\u03bf \u03bc\u03c5\u03b1\u03bb\u03cc \u03c3\u03bf\u03c5\n\n*\n\n\u0388\u03c7\u03c9 \u03ba\u03ac\u03b8\u03b5 \u03b4\u03b9\u03ba\u03b1\u03af\u03c9\u03bc\u03b1 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03c9 \u03bc\u03cc\u03bd\u03bf\u03c2\n\n\u0388\u03c7\u03c9 \u03ba\u03ac\u03b8\u03b5 \u03b4\u03b9\u03ba\u03b1\u03af\u03c9\u03bc\u03b1 \u03bc\u03cc\u03bd\u03bf\u03c2\n\n\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u03b1\u03c4\u03b7\u03c1\u03ce\n\n\u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03cc \u03c4\u03bf \u03c0\u03c1\u03cc\u03c3\u03c9\u03c0\u03bf\n\n\u03c4\u03bf \u03b3\u03ad\u03bb\u03b9\u03bf \u03c0\u03ac\u03bd\u03c9 \u03c3' \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03cc \u03c4\u03bf \u03c0\u03c1\u03cc\u03c3\u03c9\u03c0\u03bf\n\n\u03b4\u03b9\u03b1\u03b2\u03c1\u03ce\u03bd\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b7 \u03c3\u03c5\u03bd\u03b5\u03af\u03b4\u03b7\u03c3\u03b7\n\n\u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03b2\u03ac\u03bb\u03bb\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03c2 \u03b5\u03bb\u03b1\u03c3\u03c4\u03b9\u03ba\u03cc\n\n\u03bf\u03bb\u03cc\u03ba\u03bb\u03b7\u03c1\u03bf \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03cc \u03c4\u03bf \u03b3\u03ad\u03bb\u03b9\u03bf \u2013 \u03a0\u03c1\u03ce\u03c4\u03bf \u03a0\u03c1\u03cc\u03c3\u03c9\u03c0\u03bf \u2013\n\n\u03b2\u03c1\u03ad\u03c7\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03c2\/ \u03c7\u03c1\u03cc\u03bd\u03b9\u03b1\/ \u03c4\u03bf \u03bc\u03c5\u03b1\u03bb\u03cc\/ \u03bd\u03b1 \u03ba\u03ac\u03bc\u03c0\u03b5\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9\n\n\u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03c3\u03b7\u03bc\u03b5\u03af\u03bf \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03ad\u03c3\u03c7\u03b1\u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03b1\u03bd\u03c4\u03af\u03c3\u03c4\u03b1\u03c3\u03b7\u03c2\n\n\u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bc\u03cc\u03bd\u03bf \u03bf \u03ac\u03bd\u03b5\u03bc\u03bf\u03c2 \u03bc\u03c0\u03bf\u03c1\u03b5\u03af \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf \u03ba\u03ac\u03bc\u03c8\u03b5\u03b9.\n\n\u039f \u03ba\u03cc\u03c3\u03bc\u03bf\u03c2 \u03b3\u03af\u03bd\u03b5\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bf\u03bb\u03bf\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bc\u03b9\u03ba\u03c1\u03cc\u03c4\u03b5\u03c1\u03bf\u03c2 \u2013 \u03c3\u03c7\u03b5\u03b4\u03cc\u03bd \u03ac\u03b4\u03b5\u03b9\u03bf\u03c2.\n\n( _\u03c0\u03bf\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b7 \u03ac\u03ba\u03c4\u03b9\u03c3\u03c4\u03b7 \u03b7 \u03c0\u03c1\u03c9\u03c4\u03b1\u03c1\u03c7\u03b9\u03ba\u03ae \u03bf\u03c5\u03c3\u03af\u03b1 \u03c4\u03c9\u03bd \u03c0\u03c1\u03b1\u03b3\u03bc\u03ac\u03c4\u03c9\u03bd_ )\n\n\u03a4\u03bf \u03bc\u03c5\u03b1\u03bb\u03cc \u03c0\u03b1\u03cd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03bd' \u03b1\u03bd\u03c4\u03b9\u03c3\u03c4\u03ad\u03ba\u03b5\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9.\n\n\u03a4\u03b1 \u03c7\u03ad\u03c1\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b1\u03bd\u03b1\u03c0\u03b1\u03cd\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c7\u03b1\u03bc\u03b7\u03bb\u03c9\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1.\n\n\u0388\u03c7\u03c9 \u03ba\u03ac\u03b8\u03b5 \u03b4\u03b9\u03ba\u03b1\u03af\u03c9\u03bc\u03b1 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03c9 \u03bc\u03cc\u03bd\u03bf\u03c2.\n\n\u0398\u03ad\u03bb\u03c9 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b1\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03ae\u03c3\u03c9 \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03cc \u03c4\u03bf \u03b3\u03ad\u03bb\u03b9\u03bf.\n\n\u0398\u03ad\u03bb\u03c9 \u03bd' \u03b1\u03ba\u03bf\u03cd\u03c3\u03c9 \u03c0\u03af\u03c3\u03c9 \u03b1\u03c0' \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03cc.\n\n## _Head of a Satyr_\n\n'I made only Satyrs. I wanted to stop their sarcastic laughter that was driving me mad.'\n\n_G. Chalepas, 1878_\n\nI have every right to be alone\n\n\u2013 just a face \u2013\n\nI alone have every right\n\nto observe\n\ntheir clever bulk\n\nthe blackened scribbles on this marble.\n\nI want to understand\n\n(I try to understand)\n\nthat which hurries to give the mind its freedom\n\nthat which, at the heights of refinement,\n\nasks the mind for its freedom back\n\nthe whole of history\n\nthe script and the knife.\n\n*\n\nThe artist attempted it.\n\nWe are in 1878.\n\nThe Acropolis exists.\n\nThis country exists (does it?)\n\n'under observation' \u2013 so be it \u2013\n\nand 'going from bad to worse'\n\nthe face disintegrated into its folds,\n\nit can almost guess the fleeting movements\n\nthat pass unceasingly,\n\nholograms over this marble.\n\n_That which exists will be destroyed,_\n\nevery single clay cast\n\nevery single figure\n\nthe soul to expose the vulgarities\n\nto this sudden repetition\n\nflooding the empty air (empty?)\n\nThe air full of empty meaning\n\ndon't turn around\/ don't believe it\/\n\ndon't delude your mind with these phantoms.\n\n*\n\nI have every right to be alone.\n\nI alone have the right\n\nto observe\n\nthis face\n\nthe laugh on this face\n\ndisintegrating its consciousness\n\noffering this elastic, complete\n\nlaugh \u2013 First Person \u2013\n\nraining\/ years\/ the mind\/ to be bowed\n\nto the point of utmost resistance\n\nwhere only the wind can bend it.\n\nThe world becomes increasingly smaller \u2013 almost empty\n\n( _which is the uncreated or primordial essence of things_ )\n\nThe mind stops resisting.\n\nThe hands lowered in repose.\n\nI have every right to be alone.\n\nI want to stop this laughter.\n\nI want to hear what's behind it.\n\nA. E. Stallings\n\n## _\u039f \u03a0\u03bf\u03b9\u03b7\u03c4\u03ae\u03c2_\n\n_\u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03bc\u03c0\u03bf\u03c1\u03b5\u03af \u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u03ac \u03bd\u03b1 \u03ba\u03bf\u03b9\u03c4\u03ac\u03be\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03b5\u03ba\u03b5\u03af \u2013_\n\n*\n\n\u03c4\u03ce\u03c1\u03b1\n\n\u03bf \u03c0\u03bf\u03b9\u03b7\u03c4\u03ae\u03c2 \u03c3\u03ba\u03af\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9\n\n\u03c3\u03b1\u03bd \u03b9\u03c3\u03c7\u03bd\u03cc \u03ba\u03bf\u03c5\u03c1\u03b1\u03c3\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf \u03b4\u03ad\u03c1\u03bc\u03b1\n\n\u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03cb\u03c0\u03bf\u03b8\u03ad\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03c0\u03bf\u03af\u03b7\u03c3\u03ae \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u03c5\u03c0\u03b5\u03c1\u03b8\u03b5\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03af\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9.\n\n\u039a\u03ac\u03c4\u03b9 \u03bb\u03b9\u03b3\u03cc\u03c4\u03b5\u03c1\u03bf \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03ac\u03b3\u03b3\u03b9\u03b3\u03bc\u03b1\n\n\u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03c4\u03cc\u03bd\u03bf \u03b5\u03ba\u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03c4\u03b5\u03bb\u03b5\u03c5\u03c4\u03b1\u03af\u03bf\u03c5 _\u03bd\u03c4\u03bf_\n\n(\u03ae \u03bc\u03ac\u03bb\u03bb\u03bf\u03bd \u03c3\u03b5 \u03b1\u03bd\u03c4\u03af\u03b8\u03b5\u03c3\u03b7 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03cc\u03bd)\n\n\u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03c0\u03b5\u03af\u03b8\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c0\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b7\u03bd \u03b1\u03bd\u03b1\u03b2\u03ac\u03bb\u03bb\u03b5\u03b9.\n\n\u0397 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\u03c3\u03b9\u03ba\u03ae\n\n\u2013 \u03b5\u03af\u03c7\u03b5 \u03b4\u03b9\u03b1\u03b2\u03ac\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9 \u03ba\u03ac\u03c0\u03bf\u03c4\u03b5 \u2013\n\n\u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u03ac \u03bc\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b4\u03b9\u03b1\u03b4\u03bf\u03c7\u03ae\n\n\u03bf\u03c0\u03bb\u03b9\u03c3\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03c9\u03bd \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u03bf\u03c0\u03bb\u03b9\u03c3\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03c9\u03bd \u03ae\u03c7\u03c9\u03bd\n\n\u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bf \u03bd\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03c3\u03b5 \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc\u03b3\u03bd\u03c9\u03c3\u03b7\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c7\u03c9\u03c1\u03af\u03c2 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03ad\u03c7\u03b5\u03b9 \u03b1\u03ba\u03c1\u03b9\u03b2\u03ce\u03c2 \u03c0\u03b5\u03b9\u03c3\u03b8\u03b5\u03af\n\n\u03b5\u03c0\u03b9\u03c7\u03b5\u03b9\u03c1\u03b5\u03af \u03bd\u03b1 \u03b1\u03bd\u03b1\u03bb\u03ac\u03b2\u03b5\u03b9.\n\n*\n\n_\u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03bc\u03c0\u03bf\u03c1\u03b5\u03af \u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u03ac \u03bd\u03b1 \u03ba\u03bf\u03b9\u03c4\u03ac\u03be\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03b5\u03ba\u03b5\u03af \u2013_\n\n_\u03c6\u03c1\u03ad\u03c3\u03ba\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c7\u03bb\u03cc\u03b7 \u03c3\u03c5\u03bb\u03bb\u03b1\u03b2\u03ce\u03bd \u03c3\u03b1\u03bb\u03b5\u03cd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03ba\u03b9\u03cc\u03bb\u03b1\u03c2_\n\n_\u03c3\u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03b1\u03c4\u03bc\u03cc\u03c3\u03c6\u03b1\u03b9\u03c1\u03b1 \u03c6\u03c4\u03b9\u03ac\u03c7\u03bd\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03c2 \u03bd\u03ad\u03bf \u03b4\u03ad\u03c1\u03bc\u03b1_\n\n_\u03bf \u03c7\u03c5\u03bc\u03cc\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c6\u03c1\u03bf\u03cd\u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c7\u03cd\u03bd\u03b5\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9 \u03ac\u03c4\u03c3\u03b1\u03bb\u03b1_\n\n_\u03b6\u03b1\u03bb\u03af\u03b6\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03c2 \u03cc,\u03c4\u03b9 \u03b1\u03c0\u03b5\u03bb\u03c0\u03af\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf \u03bc\u03ac\u03c4\u03b9_\n\n_\u03ba\u03b9 \u03b5\u03bd\u03ce \u03b5\u03be\u03b1\u03ba\u03bf\u03bb\u03bf\u03c5\u03b8\u03b5\u03af \u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b7\u03bd \u03ba\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1\u03bb\u03b1\u03b2\u03b1\u03af\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9_\n\n_\u03b1\u03bd \u03ba\u03ac\u03c4\u03b9 \u03bc\u03ad\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03ba\u03b1\u03b8\u03b1\u03c1\u03cc \u03b1\u03ad\u03c1\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u039c\u03b1\u0390\u03bf\u03c5_\n\n_\u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03b1\u03bd\u03b1\u03b6\u03b7\u03c4\u03b5\u03af_\n\n_\u03b8\u03ad\u03bb\u03b5\u03b9 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c3\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b4\u03b9\u03b7\u03b3\u03b7\u03b8\u03b5\u03af \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03b9\u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\u03c1\u03af\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5_\n\n_\u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b7 \u2013 \u03bb\u03ad\u03b5\u03b9 \u2013 \u03c4\u03b7 \u03c3\u03c5\u03bd\u03ac\u03bd\u03c4\u03b7\u03c3\u03b7_\n\n_\u03cc\u03c4\u03b9 \u03ad\u03b2\u03c1\u03b5\u03c7\u03b5_\n\n_\u03c0\u03cc\u03c3\u03bf \u03ba\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03ac \u03b7 \u03b1\u03bd\u03b1\u03c0\u03bd\u03bf\u03ae \u03c3\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b2\u03c1\u03ad\u03b8\u03b7\u03ba\u03b5 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03c7\u03ad\u03c1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5_\n\n_\u03c0\u03cc\u03c3\u03bf \u03b3\u03bb\u03c5\u03ba\u03ac \u03b7 \u03b2\u03c1\u03bf\u03c7\u03ae_\n\n_(\u03bb\u03ac\u03b8\u03bf\u03c2)_\n\n_\u03c0\u03cc\u03c3\u03bf \u03b3\u03bb\u03c5\u03ba\u03ac \u03b5\u03ba\u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b7 \u03b7 \u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u03ac\u03c6\u03bf\u03c1\u03b7 \u03b2\u03c1\u03bf\u03c7\u03ae_\n\n_\u03bf\u03b9 \u03b1\u03b9\u03c7\u03bc\u03b7\u03c1\u03ad\u03c2 \u03c6\u03c4\u03b5\u03c1\u03bf\u03cd\u03b3\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2_\n\n_\u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c0\u03cc\u03c3\u03bf \u03bb\u03af\u03b3\u03bf_\n\n_\u03cc\u03bb\u03b1 (\u03cc\u03bb\u03b1;) \u03cc\u03c3\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03b2\u03af\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c5\u03bd\u03c9\u03c3\u03c4\u03af\u03b6\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9_\n\n_\u03c7\u03c9\u03c1\u03af\u03c2 \u03b5\u03b9\u03c1\u03bc\u03cc_\n\n_\u03c1\u03b1\u03b3\u03af\u03b6\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03ba\u03c1\u03bf\u03cd\u03c3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03b4\u03b9\u03ae\u03b3\u03b7\u03c3\u03b7\u03c2_\n\n_\u03b1\u03b9\u03c6\u03bd\u03b9\u03b4\u03b9\u03ac\u03b6\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03ad\u03ba\u03b2\u03b1\u03c3\u03b7 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03b9\u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\u03c1\u03af\u03b1\u03c2_\n\n*\n\n\u03c4\u03ce\u03c1\u03b1\n\n\u03bf \u03c0\u03bf\u03b9\u03b7\u03c4\u03ae\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c7\u03af\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9\n\n\u03c3\u03b1\u03bd \u03b9\u03c3\u03c7\u03bd\u03cc \u03ba\u03bf\u03c5\u03c1\u03b1\u03c3\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf \u03b4\u03ad\u03c1\u03bc\u03b1\n\n\u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03cb\u03c0\u03bf\u03b8\u03ad\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03c0\u03bf\u03af\u03b7\u03c3\u03ae \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u03c5\u03c0\u03b5\u03c1\u03b8\u03b5\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03af\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9\n\n\u03c3\u03c5\u03bb\u03bb\u03bf\u03b3\u03af\u03b6\u03b5\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf \u03b2\u03b1\u03bd\u03b4\u03b1\u03bb\u03b9\u03c3\u03bc\u03cc \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b8\u03b1 \u03b5\u03c0\u03b1\u03ba\u03bf\u03bb\u03bf\u03c5\u03b8\u03ae\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9\n\n\u03c4\u03bf \u03c4\u03ad\u03bb\u03bf\u03c2 \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03ae\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ba\u03b9\u03cc\u03bb\u03b1\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03c0\u03c1\u03cc\u03c4\u03b1\u03c3\u03b7\u03c2\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u2013\n\n\u03c4\u03af \u03b8\u03bb\u03af\u03c8\u03b7\n\n\u03bd\u03b1 '\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf \u03c0\u03ad\u03c1\u03b1\u03c3\u03bc\u03b1 \u03ad\u03be\u03c9 \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03c4\u03bf \u03c4\u03bf\u03c0\u03af\u03bf\n\n\u03c4\u03bf \u03b5\u03bb\u03ac\u03c7\u03b9\u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03b1\u03bd\u03ac\u03bc\u03b5\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7 \u03bb\u03ad\u03be\u03b7 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf \u03bc\u03cd\u03b8\u03bf \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03bb\u03ad\u03be\u03b7\u03c2\n\n\u03c0\u03bf\u03c5\n\n_\u2013 \u03c7\u03bf\u03c1\u03b5\u03cd\u03b5\u03b9_\n\n_\u03b7 \u03ba\u03b1\u03c1\u03b4\u03b9\u03ac \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bc\u03ad\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c7\u03ad\u03c1\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5_\n\n_\u03ba\u03b9 \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03cc\u03c2 \u03c7\u03bf\u03c1\u03b5\u03cd\u03b5\u03b9 \u2013_\n\n\u03b7 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\u03c3\u03b9\u03ba\u03ae\n\n\u03ba\u03ac\u03c4\u03b9 \u03b1\u03c0\u03bf\u03b3\u03b5\u03cd\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c3\u03b1\u03bd \u03ba\u03b9 \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03cc \u03b5\u03b4\u03ce\n\n\u03c4\u03ce\u03c1\u03b1\n\n\u03ba\u03c1\u03b1\u03c4\u03ac\u03b5\u03b9 \u03bd\u03c9\u03c0\u03cc\n\n\u03c7\u03c9\u03c1\u03af\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b1\u03bc\u03af\u03b1 \u03b3\u03bb\u03ce\u03c3\u03c3\u03b1 \u03bd\u03b1 '\u03c7\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c4\u03ad \u03b4\u03b9\u03b1\u03c3\u03c7\u03af\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9.\n\n## _The Poet_\n\n_he's forced to look \u2013_\n\n*\n\nnow\n\nthe poet rips up\n\nthe conditions his poetry\n\nadvocates\n\nlike thin worn-out skin.\n\nBeing almost touched\n\nby the pitch of that penultimate _A_\n\n(or rather, resisting it)\n\npersuades him not to wait.\n\nMusic\n\n\u2013 he read once \u2013\n\nis nothing more than a succession\n\nof armed and disarmed sounds\n\nwhich a despairing,\n\ndoubting mind\n\nmight commit to.\n\n*\n\n_he's forced to look_\n\n_at the fresh syllable-grass swaying slightly_\n\n_in the air, weaving a new skin \u2013_\n\n_fruit essences spill everywhere_\n\n_blurring what the eye longs for_\n\n_and while he still doesn't understand_\n\n_whether something in the clean May air_\n\n_is after him_\n\n_he wants to tell you his story_\n\n_about that meeting, he says,_\n\n_how it rained_\n\n_how your breath touched his hand intimately_\n\n_how tenderly the rain_\n\n_(wrong)_\n\n_how that furious rain tenderly_\n\n_its sharp wings_\n\n_for how short a time_\n\n_all (all?) that is violently contested_\n\n_out of order_\n\n_breaking the surface of the narrative_\n\n_surprising the end of the story_\n\n*\n\nnow\n\nthe poet rips up\n\nthe conditions his poetry\n\nadvocates\n\nlike thin worn-out skin\n\nhe considers the vandalism which will follow\n\nwhen this sentence ends\n\nand \u2013\n\nthere's a certain fatalism\n\nin walking across this landscape\n\nin just standing between the word, its myth\n\nand\n\n_\u2013 he dances,_\n\n_his heart in his hands_\n\n_he dances \u2013_\n\nwhat the music\n\non evenings like this\n\nright now\n\nkeeps fresh\n\nand uncaptured by language\n\nFiona Sampson and Socrates Kambouropoulos\n\n## II\n\n## Myth and Medicine\n\n#### DIY and Small Press Poets\n\nThe largely Athens-based poets in this section continue a strong tradition of surrealism in Greek verse, stretching from the 1930s through the post-war poems of Miltos Sachtouris and the later paralogical turn which Yannis Ritsos, Jenny Mastoraki, and others adopted under the Colonels' censorship in the 1970s. The aesthetic is semi-DIY: some self-publish, or turn to Gavrielides, a mass-market publisher which welcomes first collections; some gravitate toward distinguished small presses; some take poetry night classes at the Takis Sinopoulos Foundation; and, crucially, they form collectives and make their own magazines \u2013 most notably _\u03c6\u03c1\u03bc\u03ba_ ( _Farmakon_ ). In Greek, 'farmakon' is both poison and medicine, that which hurts and that which heals. An unstated belief in poetry's ability to work medicinally, as a way of managing and living with pain and uncertainty, unites the raw, documentary-style poems of Stathis Antoniou with the more polished, mystical meditations of Katerina Iliopoulou. In Anna Griva and Eftychia Panayiotou, myth-creation slides into an interest in the magical, whether it is animating strange animal worlds or opening windows with words. And, like the poets of the 'Storytelling' section, Phoebe Giannisi and Eva Stefani work in other genres \u2013 architecture and experimental film, respectively \u2013 but their position here is secured by their mentorship of the younger poets in this mostly female _parea_ (gang). The attention is repaid. Krystalli Glyniadakis's poem 'National Anthem, 2008, Redux' upgrades post-Dictatorship feminism for a new generation; and more generally \u2013 and impressively \u2013 these younger poets have created an arena through their writing in which the important work of their mentors can finally find a place.\n\n## Katerina Iliopoulou\n\n#### (Born Athens, Greece, 1967)\n\nAs a creature who understands her own excess in an age in which the cultural capital of nature and myth are at an all-time low, the fox in \u039aaterina Iliopoulou's eponymous poem is this group's mascot. And Iliopoulou is definitely their leading force, both in terms of her poetics and in her pursuit of the self-made project. She is Editor in Chief of _\u03d5\u03c1\u03bc\u03ba_ ( _Farmakon_ ) and co-edits _Greek Poetry Now_ (greekpoetrynow.com). She also writes essays and reviews, works extensively with visual artists, and has translated Sylvia Plath, Mina Loy, Robert Hass, and Ted Hughes.\n\n_\u039f \u03ba\u03cd\u03c1\u03b9\u03bfs T\u03b1\u03c5_ ( _Mister Tau_ ) _,_ Melani, 2007; _\u0386\u03c3\u03c5\u03bb\u03bf_ ( _Asylum_ ), Melani, 2008; _\u03a4\u03bf \u03b2\u03b9\u03b2\u03bb\u03af\u03bf \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c7\u03ce\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03bf\u03c2_ ( _The Book of Soil_ ), Melani, 2011; _Gestus_ , Alfeios\/Farmakon, 2014; _\u039c\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c6\u03bf\u03c1\u03ac \u03ba\u03ac\u03b8\u03b5 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c0\u03af\u03bf \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bf\u03bb\u03cc\u03c4\u03b5\u03bb\u03b1_ ( _Every Place, Once, and Completely_ ), Melani, 2015.\n\n## _\u0397 \u03b1\u03bb\u03b5\u03c0\u03bf\u03cd_\n\n\u039c\u03ad\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7 \u03b4\u03ad\u03c3\u03bc\u03b7 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c6\u03c9\u03c4\u03cc\u03c2 \u03b5\u03bc\u03c6\u03b1\u03bd\u03af\u03c3\u03c4\u03b7\u03ba\u03b5\n\n\u0394\u03b9\u03ad\u03c3\u03c7\u03b9\u03c3\u03b5 \u03c4\u03bf \u03b4\u03c1\u03cc\u03bc\u03bf\n\n\u039c\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b9\u03ba\u03c1\u03ae \u03ba\u03b1\u03c6\u03ad \u03b1\u03bb\u03b5\u03c0\u03bf\u03cd.\n\n\u039a\u03b1\u03b9 \u03be\u03b1\u03bd\u03ac \u03c4\u03bf \u03b5\u03c0\u03cc\u03bc\u03b5\u03bd\u03bf \u03b2\u03c1\u03ac\u03b4\u03c5\n\n\u03a0\u03af\u03c3\u03c9 \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1\u03bd \u03b8\u03ac\u03bc\u03bd\u03bf \u03c6\u03b5\u03c5\u03b3\u03b1\u03bb\u03ad\u03b1\n\n\u039a\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bc\u03b9\u03b1 \u03ac\u03bb\u03bb\u03b7 \u03c6\u03bf\u03c1\u03ac \u03b7 \u03bf\u03c5\u03c1\u03ac \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03bc\u03cc\u03bd\u03bf\n\n\u03a3\u03ba\u03bf\u03cd\u03c0\u03b9\u03c3\u03b5 \u03c4\u03bf \u03c3\u03ba\u03bf\u03c4\u03ac\u03b4\u03b9\n\n\u039a\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03c4\u03cc\u03c4\u03b5 \u03c0\u03ac\u03bb\u03b9\n\n\u03a4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c0\u03b1\u03c4\u03bf\u03cd\u03c3\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03b2\u03b7\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03af\u03b6\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03b2\u03bb\u03ad\u03bc\u03bc\u03b1 \u03c3\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u03a4\u03bf \u03b6\u03b5\u03c3\u03c4\u03cc \u03b3\u03bf\u03cd\u03bd\u03b9\u03bd\u03bf \u03c3\u03ce\u03bc\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2\n\n\u0391\u03bd\u03ac\u03bc\u03b5\u03c3\u03ac \u03bc\u03b1\u03c2 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c3\u03ba\u03b9\u03c1\u03c4\u03ac\n\n\u03a0\u03ac\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c3\u03b5 \u03c0\u03ad\u03c1\u03b1\u03c3\u03bc\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c4\u03ad \u03c3\u03b5 \u03c3\u03c4\u03ac\u03c3\u03b7\n\n\u00ab\u039c\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bf\u03b9\u03ac \u03b5\u03af\u03c3\u03b1\u03b9;\u00bb \u03c4\u03b7 \u03c1\u03c9\u03c4\u03ae\u03c3\u03b1\u03bc\u03b5\n\n\u00ab\u0395\u03af\u03bc\u03b1\u03b9\u00bb, \u03b5\u03af\u03c0\u03b5, \u00ab\u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03cc \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c0\u03b5\u03c1\u03b9\u03c3\u03c3\u03b5\u03cd\u03b5\u03b9\u00bb.\n\n## _The Fox_\n\nIn the beam of the headlights she appeared\n\nCrossing the road,\n\nA small brown fox.\n\nAnd again the next night\n\nFlitting behind a bush.\n\nAnd another time only her tail\n\nBrushed the darkness.\n\nAnd from then on\n\nHer footprints padded across your sight,\n\nHer warm furry body\n\nSkittering between us.\n\nAlways in passing, never staying still.\n\n'But who are you?' we asked her.\n\n'I am,' she said, 'what's superfluous.'\n\nA. E. Stallings\n\n## _\u03a0\u03b5\u03bd\u03b8\u03b5\u03c3\u03af\u03bb\u03b5\u03b9\u03b1_\n\n##### I.\n\n\u03a3\u03c5\u03c7\u03bd\u03ac \u03bb\u03ad\u03bd\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b7 \u03c3\u03ba\u03b9\u03ac \u03c0\u03b1\u03bd\u03c9\u03c6\u03cc\u03c1\u03b9\n\n\u038c\u03bc\u03c9\u03c2 \u03b5\u03b3\u03ce \u03ba\u03ac\u03c4\u03c9 \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03c4\u03b1 \u03b4\u03ad\u03bd\u03c4\u03c1\u03b1 \u03b5\u03af\u03bc\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b3\u03c5\u03bc\u03bd\u03ae\n\n\u0397 \u03c3\u03ba\u03b9\u03ac \u03bc\u03b1\u03ba\u03c1\u03b1\u03af\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03ba\u03b9 \u03b1\u03c0\u03bb\u03ce\u03bd\u03b5\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c3\u03b1\u03bd \u03c6\u03af\u03b4\u03b9\n\n\u039c\u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b5 \u03b5\u03ba\u03b5\u03af \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bc\u03c0\u03bf\u03c1\u03b5\u03af \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c3\u03b5 \u03b4\u03b1\u03b3\u03ba\u03ce\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9\n\n\u038c\u03c0\u03c9\u03c2 \u03b4\u03b1\u03b3\u03ba\u03ce\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf \u03bc\u03ac\u03c1\u03bc\u03b1\u03c1\u03bf \u03b4\u03b1\u03b3\u03ba\u03ce\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf \u03bd\u03b5\u03c1\u03cc\n\n\u038c\u03c7\u03b9 \u03cc\u03bc\u03c9\u03c2 \u03bf\u03b9 \u03c0\u03b5\u03c5\u03ba\u03bf\u03b2\u03b5\u03bb\u03cc\u03bd\u03b5\u03c2 \u03bf\u03cd\u03c4\u03b5 \u03b7 \u03ac\u03bc\u03bc\u03bf\u03c2\n\n\u0391\u03c5\u03c4\u03ac \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03ac\u03bb\u03bb\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b5\u03af\u03b4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03c6\u03c9\u03bb\u03b9\u03ad\u03c2\n\n\u0395\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b1\u03bd\u03ad\u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ad\u03c1\u03bc\u03b1\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c7\u03ae\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c4\u03c5\u03c7\u03b1\u03af\u03bf\u03c5.\n\n\u039d\u03b1 \u03b5\u03bc\u03c0\u03b9\u03c3\u03c4\u03b5\u03c5\u03b8\u03b5\u03af\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b7 \u03b4\u03b1\u03b3\u03ba\u03c9\u03bd\u03b9\u03ac\n\n##### \u0399\u0399.\n\n\u03a3\u03c4\u03b7 \u03c7\u03ce\u03c1\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03c3\u03ba\u03b9\u03ac\u03c2 \u03c5\u03c0\u03ac\u03c1\u03c7\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03c0\u03c1\u03ac\u03b3\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1\n\n\u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c0\u03b5\u03c1\u03b9\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd\n\n\u0394\u03b5\u03bd \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b5\u03cd\u03ba\u03bf\u03bb\u03bf \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u03b1\u03b2\u03b9\u03ac\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03b5\u03c0\u03b9\u03ba\u03c1\u03ac\u03c4\u03b5\u03b9\u03ac \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2\n\n\u03a0\u03b1\u03c1\u03cc\u03bb\u03bf \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03bc\u03c0\u03bf\u03c1\u03bf\u03cd\u03bd \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c3\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bf\u03c1\u03bc\u03ae\u03be\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd\n\n\u0388\u03c7\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03c4\u03c1\u03cc\u03c0\u03bf \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c3\u03b5 \u03ba\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1\u03c1\u03c1\u03b1\u03ba\u03ce\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd\n\n\u03a0\u03c1\u03cc\u03ba\u03b5\u03b9\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03b5\u03af\u03b4\u03bf\u03c2 \u03b4\u03b9\u03ac\u03b2\u03c1\u03c9\u03c3\u03b7\u03c2\n\n\u039c\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c0\u03b9\u03bf \u03b1\u03bd\u03b5\u03c0\u03b1\u03af\u03c3\u03b8\u03b7\u03c4\u03b5\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b9\u03bd\u03ae\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2\n\n\u039c\u03b5 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03c0\u03b9\u03bf \u03b1\u03b4\u03b9\u03cc\u03c1\u03b1\u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03ae\u03c7\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2\n\n\u03a3\u03b5 \u03ba\u03b1\u03c4\u03bf\u03b9\u03ba\u03bf\u03cd\u03bd\n\n\u03a3\u03b5 \u03bc\u03b1\u03b8\u03b1\u03af\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03c4\u03cc\u03c3\u03bf \u03ba\u03b1\u03bb\u03ac \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b3\u03af\u03bd\u03b5\u03c3\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c0\u03ad\u03c1\u03b1\u03c3\u03bc\u03b1\n\n\u0395\u03c3\u03cd \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03bc\u03c0\u03bf\u03c1\u03b5\u03af\u03c2 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c4\u03ad \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b5\u03c1\u03ac\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2\n\n\u0397 \u03b1\u03bd\u03c9\u03bd\u03c5\u03bc\u03af\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf \u03c0\u03c1\u03b1\u03b3\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03b9\u03ba\u03cc \u03b4\u03b7\u03bb\u03b7\u03c4\u03ae\u03c1\u03b9\u03bf \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ba\u03cc\u03c3\u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u0395\u03b3\u03ce \u03ad\u03bc\u03b1\u03b8\u03b1 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03c0\u03b1\u03af\u03bd\u03c9 \u03b5\u03b4\u03ce\n\n\u0388\u03b3\u03b9\u03bd\u03b1 \u03b8\u03b7\u03c1\u03b9\u03bf\u03b4\u03b1\u03bc\u03b1\u03c3\u03c4\u03ae\u03c2 \u03b1\u03ba\u03af\u03bd\u03b7\u03c4\u03c9\u03bd \u03b8\u03b7\u03c1\u03af\u03c9\u03bd\n\n\u0394\u03b5\u03bd \u03b5\u03af\u03bc\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b5\u03b3\u03ce \u03ba\u03b1\u03bc\u03b9\u03ac \u03ba\u03b1\u03bb\u03cc\u03b3\u03c1\u03b9\u03b1\n\n\u039d\u03b1 \u03c4\u03c1\u03ce\u03c9 \u03c6\u03cd\u03bb\u03bb\u03b1\n\n\u039d\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bb\u03b7\u03b3\u03b9\u03ac\u03b6\u03c9 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c7\u03b5\u03af\u03bb\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03ac\u03b3\u03c1\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c6\u03bb\u03bf\u03cd\u03b4\u03b1\n\n\u039d\u03b1 \u03c5\u03c8\u03ce\u03bd\u03c9 \u03b4\u03b5\u03ae\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c3' \u03b1\u03cc\u03c1\u03b1\u03c4\u03bf \u03bf\u03c5\u03c1\u03b1\u03bd\u03cc\n\n\u0395\u03b3\u03ce \u03bc\u03b1\u03c3\u03ac\u03c9 \u03c4\u03bf \u03b2\u03bf\u03c4\u03ac\u03bd\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03c3\u03b9\u03c9\u03c0\u03ae\u03c2\n\n\u03a3\u03c4\u03ae\u03bd\u03c9 \u03c0\u03b1\u03b3\u03af\u03b4\u03b1 \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03c8\u03ac\u03b8\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03c0\u03bd\u03af\u03b3\u03c9 \u03c4\u03b7 \u03c3\u03ba\u03b9\u03ac\n\n\u03a1\u03bf\u03c5\u03c6\u03ac\u03c9 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03b1\u03bd\u03ac\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2\n\n\u0391\u03c6\u03ae\u03bd\u03c9 \u03c4\u03bf \u03c4\u03c1\u03b1\u03b3\u03bf\u03cd\u03b4\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03c5\u03b4\u03c1\u03ac\u03c1\u03b3\u03c5\u03c1\u03bf \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b1\u03bb\u03ac\u03be\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c3\u03c4' \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03b9\u03ac \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\n\n## _Penthesilea_\n\n##### I.\n\nThey can call shadows an overcoat\n\nbut still I am naked under the tree\n\nwhose own shadow slithers\n\nlike a snake. Stay and it will bite\n\nlike water, bite like marble but not\n\nlike pine needles or sand. Those\n\nare different nests. They are chance\n\ndrifting like strands in air.\n\n##### II.\n\nIn the land of shadows\n\nnaked things wait.\n\nNot to jump you or rush you.\n\nThey have softer ways\n\nto break and tatter you.\n\nWith indiscernible sounds,\n\nimperceptible movements\n\nthey inhabit you.\n\nThey learn you so well\n\nyou become a passage\n\nyou will never be able to pass.\n\nTheir anonymity is the poison of this world.\n\nI have learned how to enter.\n\nI have become a tamer of still beasts.\n\nI am no nun\n\nI don't eat leaves\n\nI don't rub my lips on hard bark\n\nOr raise my eyes to an invisible sky\n\nI chew on the plant of silence\n\nI set a snare of bulrush for the shadow and strangle it\n\nI suck its breath\n\nI let its song of mercury drip into my ears.\n\nRyan Van Winkle\n\n## _\u039f \u03ba\u03cd\u03c1\u03b9\u03bf\u03c2 \u03a4\u03b1\u03c5 \u03c3\u03b5 \u03b8\u03b1\u03bb\u03b1\u03c3\u03c3\u03b9\u03bd\u03cc \u03c4\u03bf\u03c0\u03af\u03bf_\n\n\u039c\u03b1\u03b6\u03b5\u03cd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03b2\u03cc\u03c4\u03c3\u03b1\u03bb\u03bf \u03b1\u03c0' \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03b1\u03ba\u03c1\u03bf\u03b8\u03b1\u03bb\u03b1\u03c3\u03c3\u03b9\u03ac\n\n\u03a0\u03b1\u03c1\u03b1\u03c4\u03b7\u03c1\u03b5\u03af \u03c0\u03c9\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf \u03b2\u03cc\u03c4\u03c3\u03b1\u03bb\u03bf \u03ad\u03c7\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03b1\u03be\u03b9\u03bf\u03c3\u03b7\u03bc\u03b5\u03af\u03c9\u03c4\u03b7 \u03b9\u03b4\u03b9\u03cc\u03c4\u03b7\u03c4\u03b1\n\n\u039d\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b7 \u03b4\u03b9\u03b1\u03b8\u03ad\u03c4\u03b5\u03b9 \u03b5\u03c3\u03c9\u03c4\u03b5\u03c1\u03b9\u03ba\u03cc \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b5\u03be\u03c9\u03c4\u03b5\u03c1\u03b9\u03ba\u03cc.\n\n\u03a4\u03b1 \u03b4\u03cd\u03bf \u03c4\u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03af\u03b6\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9.\n\n\u0395\u03c0\u03b5\u03b9\u03b4\u03ae \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03bc\u03c0\u03bf\u03c1\u03b5\u03af \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c3\u03ba\u03b5\u03c6\u03c4\u03b5\u03af \u03c4\u03af\u03c0\u03bf\u03c4\u03b5 \u03ac\u03bb\u03bb\u03bf,\n\n\u03b1\u03c0\u03bf\u03c6\u03b1\u03c3\u03af\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c0\u03c9\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf \u03b2\u03cc\u03c4\u03c3\u03b1\u03bb\u03bf \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b5\u03c7\u03b8\u03c1\u03cc\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ba\u03cc\u03c3\u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf \u03c0\u03b5\u03c4\u03ac\u03b5\u03b9 \u03bc\u03b1\u03ba\u03c1\u03b9\u03ac.\n\n\u03a4\u03bf \u03b2\u03cc\u03c4\u03c3\u03b1\u03bb\u03bf \u03c0\u03ad\u03c6\u03c4o\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03c2 \u03b4\u03b7\u03bc\u03b9\u03bf\u03c5\u03c1\u03b3\u03b5\u03af \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03cc \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bb\u03ad\u03bc\u03b5\n\n\u00ab\u03c4\u03c1\u03cd\u03c0\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03bd\u03b5\u03c1\u03cc\u00bb\n\n\u039f \u03ba\u03cd\u03c1\u03b9\u03bf\u03c2 \u03a4\u03b1\u03c5 \u03b1\u03b9\u03c3\u03b8\u03ac\u03bd\u03b5\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03c1\u03bf\u03bc\u03b5\u03c1\u03ae \u03ad\u03bb\u03be\u03b7\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b1\u03bd\u03b5\u03be\u03ae\u03b3\u03b7\u03c4\u03b7 \u03b6\u03ae\u03bb\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf \u03b2\u03cc\u03c4\u03c3\u03b1\u03bb\u03bf.\n\n\u03a0\u03b1\u03af\u03c1\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03bb\u03bf\u03b9\u03c0\u03cc\u03bd \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03ac\u03bb\u03bb\u03bf \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf \u03b2\u03ac\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03c3\u03c4\u03cc\u03bc\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5.\n\n\u03a3\u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03b1\u03c1\u03c7\u03ae \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b1\u03bb\u03bc\u03c5\u03c1\u03cc.\n\n\u0395\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03b8\u03b1\u03bb\u03b1\u03c3\u03c3\u03b9\u03bd\u03cc \u03c0\u03c1\u03ac\u03b3\u03bc\u03b1.\n\n\u039b\u03af\u03b3\u03bf \u03bc\u03b5\u03c4\u03ac \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03af\u03c0\u03bf\u03c4\u03b1.\n\n\u0388\u03bd\u03b1\u03c2 \u03c3\u03ba\u03bb\u03b7\u03c1\u03cc\u03c2 \u03cc\u03b3\u03ba\u03bf\u03c2 \u03c3\u03b9\u03c9\u03c0\u03ae\u03c2 \u03bc\u03ad\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03c3\u03c4\u03cc\u03bc\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5,\n\n\u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c1\u03bf\u03c5\u03c6\u03ac\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b7 \u03c6\u03c9\u03bd\u03ae \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5.\n\n\u039c\u03b5 \u03ad\u03ba\u03c0\u03bb\u03b7\u03be\u03ae \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03cc\u03bc\u03c9\u03c2 \u03b4\u03b9\u03b1\u03c0\u03b9\u03c3\u03c4\u03ce\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9\n\n\u03a0\u03c9\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c7\u03c9\u03c1\u03af\u03c2 \u03c6\u03c9\u03bd\u03ae \u03bc\u03c0\u03bf\u03c1\u03b5\u03af \u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b9\u03bb\u03ac\u03b5\u03b9.\n\n\u03a0\u03c1\u03bf\u03c6\u03b1\u03bd\u03ce\u03c2 \u03bf\u03b9 \u03b5\u03c0\u03b9\u03ba\u03bb\u03ae\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b5\u03b9\u03c3\u03b1\u03ba\u03bf\u03cd\u03b3\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9.\n\n\u0388\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c3\u03bc\u03ac\u03c1\u03b9 \u03b8\u03b1\u03bb\u03b1\u03c3\u03c3\u03bf\u03c0\u03bf\u03cd\u03bb\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03c3\u03b3\u03b5\u03b9\u03ce\u03bd\u03b5\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c0\u03cc\u03b4\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5.\n\n\u038c\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd \u03c6\u03b5\u03cd\u03b3\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03b1\u03c6\u03ae\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03c0\u03af\u03c3\u03c9 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03b4\u03c5\u03c3\u03b1\u03bd\u03ac\u03b3\u03bd\u03c9\u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03ba\u03b5\u03af\u03bc\u03b5\u03bd\u03bf.\n\n\u039f \u03ba\u03cd\u03c1\u03b9\u03bf\u03c2 \u03a4\u03b1\u03c5 \u03c3\u03ba\u03cd\u03b2\u03b5\u03b9 \u03ba\u03b9 \u03b1\u03c1\u03c7\u03af\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9 \u03b5\u03c5\u03b8\u03cd\u03c2 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf \u03bc\u03b5\u03bb\u03b5\u03c4\u03ac\u03b5\u03b9.\n\n## _Mister Tau in a Seascape_\n\nHe is picking up a pebble from the seashore\n\nHe observes that the pebble has the noteworthy attribute\n\nThat it does not have an inside and an outside\n\nThe two are one and the same.\n\nThen, because he cannot think of anything else\n\nHe decides the pebble is the enemy of the world\n\nAnd hurls it far away.\n\nThe fallen pebble creates what we call\n\nA 'hole in the water'\n\nMister Tau feels a terrific attraction\n\nAn inexplicable envy for the pebble.\n\nTherefore he takes another one and puts it in his mouth.\n\nAt first it is salty.\n\nIt is a sea thing.\n\nA little bit later it isn't anything.\n\nA hard mass of silence inside his mouth\n\nThat swallows his voice.\n\nTo his surprise, however, he discovers\n\nThat even without a voice he is able to speak.\n\nEvidently his appeals have been granted.\n\nA flock of seabirds lands at his feet.\n\nWhen they fly off, they leave behind them an unreadable text.\n\nMister Tau stoops down and starts immediately to study it.\n\nA. E. Stallings\n\n## _H \u03c3\u03b5\u03b9\u03c1\u03ae\u03bd\u03b1_\n\n\u03a4\u03b1 \u03c3\u03b5\u03bd\u03c4\u03cc\u03bd\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bb\u03b5\u03c5\u03ba\u03ad\u03c2 \u03c3\u03b5\u03bb\u03af\u03b4\u03b5\u03c2\n\n\u039a\u03ac\u03b8\u03b5 \u03b2\u03c1\u03ac\u03b4\u03c5 \u03b3\u03c1\u03ac\u03c6\u03b5\u03b9 \u03b1\u03ba\u03bf\u03cd\u03c1\u03b1\u03c3\u03c4\u03b1\n\n\u03a4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03b3\u03b5\u03bc\u03af\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c0\u03c5\u03c1\u03b5\u03c4\u03c9\u03b4\u03ce\u03c2\n\n\u038c\u03c0\u03c9\u03c2 \u03bb\u03ad\u03bd\u03b5 \u03c0\u03c9\u03c2 \u03ba\u03ac\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03bf\u03b9 \u03c0\u03bf\u03b9\u03b7\u03c4\u03ad\u03c2\n\n\u039c\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf \u03c0\u03c1\u03c9\u03af \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c3\u03b5\u03bd\u03c4\u03cc\u03bd\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b6\u03ce\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u03ac\u03c6\u03bf\u03c1\u03b1\n\n\u0395\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03ba\u03cd\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1 \u03b8\u03ac\u03bb\u03b1\u03c3\u03c3\u03b1 \u03ac\u03b3\u03c1\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b1\u03bd\u03b1\u03b4\u03b9\u03c0\u03bb\u03ce\u03bd\u03b5\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9\n\n\u039a\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03b5\u03ba\u03b5\u03af \u03b1\u03bd\u03b1\u03b4\u03cd\u03b5\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c3\u03c5\u03c7\u03bd\u03ac \u03bc\u03af\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b9\u03ba\u03c1\u03ae \u03c3\u03b5\u03b9\u03c1\u03ae\u03bd\u03b1\n\n\u03a4\u03bf\u03bd \u03ba\u03bf\u03b9\u03c4\u03ac\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9 \u03b1\u03c0\u03b1\u03bb\u03ac \u03ba\u03b9 \u03ad\u03c0\u03b5\u03b9\u03c4\u03b1\n\n\u0392\u03b3\u03ac\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03bc\u03ac\u03c4\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03c3\u03c6\u03ad\u03c1\u03b5\u03b9\n\n\u0394\u03c5\u03bf \u03b3\u03c5\u03ac\u03bb\u03b9\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03b2\u03cc\u03bb\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03c0\u03c1\u03ac\u03c3\u03b9\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2\n\n\u039f \u039a\u03cd\u03c1\u03b9\u03bf\u03c2 \u03a4\u03b1\u03c5 \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03c4\u03bf\u03bb\u03bc\u03ac \u03bd\u03b1 \u03b1\u03c0\u03bb\u03ce\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c7\u03ad\u03c1\u03b9\u03b1\n\n\u039c\u03b1 \u03c0\u03ce\u03c2 \u03c0\u03bf\u03b8\u03b5\u03af \u03c4\u03b7 \u03b4\u03c1\u03bf\u03c3\u03b9\u03ac \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c0\u03ce\u03c2 \u03c3\u03b1\u03bb\u03b5\u03cd\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03c4\u03b1 \u03b4\u03ac\u03c7\u03c4\u03c5\u03bb\u03ac \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c3\u03b1\u03bd \u03c6\u03cd\u03ba\u03b9\u03b1\n\n\u039d\u03b1 \u03c4` \u03b1\u03b3\u03b3\u03af\u03be\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd\n\n\u03a4\u03b1 \u03bc\u03ac\u03c4\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03b8\u03b1 \u03c1\u03bf\u03cd\u03c6\u03b1\u03b3\u03b1\u03bd \u03cc\u03bb\u03b7 \u03c4\u03b7 \u03c3\u03ba\u03cc\u03bd\u03b7\n\n\u03a0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b7 \u03ba\u03bb\u03b5\u03c8\u03cd\u03b4\u03c1\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9\u03c1\u03bf\u03cd\n\n\u0398\u03b1 \u03ad\u03ba\u03b1\u03bd\u03b1\u03bd \u03c4\u03bf \u03b1\u03af\u03bc\u03b1 \u03bd\u03b5\u03c1\u03cc\n\n\u039a\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03b1\u03c3\u03b2\u03ad\u03c3\u03c4\u03b7 \u03ba\u03c1\u03cd\u03c3\u03c4\u03b1\u03bb\u03bb\u03bf\n\n\u0397 \u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03c3\u03c6\u03bf\u03c1\u03ac \u03b5\u03ba\u03ba\u03c1\u03b5\u03bc\u03b5\u03af\n\n\u039c\u03b1 \u03bf \u039a\u03cd\u03c1\u03b9\u03bf\u03c2 \u03a4\u03b1\u03c5 \u03cc\u03bb\u03bf \u03c4\u03bf \u03b1\u03bd\u03b1\u03b2\u03ac\u03bb\u03bb\u03b5\u03b9\n\n\u03a0\u03bf\u03b9\u03bf\u03c2 \u03b1\u03bd\u03c4\u03ad\u03c7\u03b5\u03b9 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03b6\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c3' \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03b4\u03b9\u03ac\u03c6\u03b1\u03bd\u03bf \u03c3\u03c0\u03af\u03c4\u03b9;\n\n## _The Siren_\n\nThe bed sheets are white pages\n\nEvery night he writes tirelessly\n\nHe fills them feverishly\n\nAs they say the poets do\n\nBut in the morning the sheets are raging animals\n\nThey are waves, a wild sea folding on itself\n\nAnd from there a tiny siren often rises\n\nWho looks at him softly and then\n\nTakes out her eyes and offers them to him,\n\nTwo glass marbles, green\n\nMister Tau does not dare stretch out his hands\n\nBut how he longs for their coolness and how his fingers quiver like seaweed\n\nTo touch them\n\nHer eyes would suck down all the dust\n\nWhich is the hourglass of time\n\nThey would turn blood into water\n\nAnd the silica into crystal\n\nHer offer stands\n\nBut Mister Tau keeps putting the whole thing off.\n\nWho can bear to live in a transparent house?\n\nA. E. Stallings\n\n## Stathis Antoniou\n\n#### (Born Athens, Greece, 1982)\n\nA cross between neorealism and melodrama marks Stathis Antoniou's offbeat narrative poems. He studied Mathematics, and now works as both a researcher in Applied Mathematics at the National Technical University of Athens and a business consultant for Avon Cosmetics. Poetically, he is very much self-taught; his bricolage approach includes night classes at the Takis Sinopoulos Foundation in Athens and at the Shakespeare and Co. bookshop in Paris. Though he is yet to publish even a chapbook, his poems, short stories, and travel writing have recently begun to appear in the magazines _Tetradia tou Elpinora (Elpenor's Notebooks), (de) kata (n_ th _degree), Teflon_ , and _Geotropio_.\n\n## _\u03a4\u03b1 \u03c3\u03ba\u03c5\u03bb\u03b9\u03ac_\n\n\u039c\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b9\u03bd\u03b1\u03ba\u03af\u03b4\u03b1 \u03c3\u03ae\u03bc\u03b1\u03bd\u03b5 \u03cc\u03c4\u03b9 \u03c0\u03bb\u03b7\u03c3\u03b9\u03ac\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c3\u03b5 \u03ba\u03b1\u03c4\u03bf\u03b9\u03ba\u03b7\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b7 \u03c0\u03b5\u03c1\u03b9\u03bf\u03c7\u03ae. \u0391\u03bd\u03b1\u03c1\u03c9\u03c4\u03ae\u03b8\u03b7\u03ba\u03b5 \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1\u03c4\u03af \u03ac\u03bd\u03b8\u03c1\u03c9\u03c0\u03bf\u03b9 \u03b1\u03c0\u03bf\u03c6\u03ac\u03c3\u03b9\u03c3\u03b1\u03bd \u03bd\u03b1 \u03b5\u03b3\u03ba\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1\u03c3\u03c4\u03b1\u03b8\u03bf\u03cd\u03bd \u03c3\u03b5 \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c4\u03cc\u03c3\u03bf \u03b1\u03c0\u03bf\u03ba\u03c1\u03bf\u03c5\u03c3\u03c4\u03b9\u03ba\u03cc \u03c0\u03b5\u03c1\u03b9\u03b2\u03ac\u03bb\u03bb\u03bf\u03bd.\n\n\u039b\u03af\u03b3\u03bf \u03c0\u03c1\u03b9\u03bd \u03c4\u03bf \u03c0\u03c1\u03ce\u03c4\u03bf \u03c3\u03c0\u03af\u03c4\u03b9, \u03bf\u03b9 \u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03b2\u03bf\u03bb\u03b5\u03af\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c6\u03ce\u03c4\u03b9\u03c3\u03b1\u03bd \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03ba\u03cc\u03ba\u03ba\u03b9\u03bd\u03bf \u03cd\u03c6\u03b1\u03c3\u03bc\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b9\u03b1\u03c3\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf \u03c3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03ba\u03bb\u03b1\u03b4\u03b9\u03ac\u00b7 \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c6\u03cc\u03c1\u03b5\u03bc\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ba\u03c5\u03bc\u03ac\u03c4\u03b9\u03b6\u03b5 \u03bb\u03b5\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03b4\u03ad\u03bd\u03c4\u03c1\u03b1 \u03ad\u03b3\u03b4\u03c5\u03c3\u03b1\u03bd \u03bc\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b3\u03c5\u03bd\u03b1\u03af\u03ba\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03ce\u03c1\u03b1 \u03b5\u03c0\u03b9\u03b4\u03b5\u03af\u03ba\u03bd\u03c5\u03b1\u03bd \u03c4\u03bf \u03ba\u03b1\u03c4\u03cc\u03c1\u03b8\u03c9\u03bc\u03ac \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2.\n\n\u03a7\u03b1\u03bc\u03ae\u03bb\u03c9\u03c3\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b1\u03c7\u03cd\u03c4\u03b7\u03c4\u03b1.\n\n\u0386\u03b3\u03c1\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c7\u03cc\u03c1\u03c4\u03b1 \u03ad\u03c0\u03bd\u03b9\u03b3\u03b1\u03bd \u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03b1\u03c5\u03bb\u03ad\u03c2. \u03a0\u03b9\u03c4\u03c3\u03b9\u03c1\u03b9\u03ba\u03ac\u03b4\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03ba\u03bf\u03b9\u03c4\u03bf\u03cd\u03c3\u03b1\u03bd \u03c3\u03b1\u03bd \u03bd\u03b1 \u03b6\u03cd\u03b3\u03b9\u03b6\u03b1\u03bd \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03b1\u03be\u03af\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c3\u03b5 \u03bb\u03b5\u03c6\u03c4\u03ac. \u0391\u03bd\u03c4\u03af \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u03ac\u03b8\u03c5\u03c1\u03b1, \u03c4\u03b6\u03ac\u03bc\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c0\u03b1\u03c3\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03ae \u03c1\u03b1\u03b3\u03b9\u03c3\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1.\n\n\u039c\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bc\u03c5\u03c1\u03c9\u03b4\u03b9\u03ac \u03ba\u03b1\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ba\u03c1\u03ad\u03b1\u03c4\u03bf\u03c2 \u03c3\u03ba\u03ad\u03c0\u03b1\u03b6\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b5\u03bd\u03ac \u03b1\u03bd\u03ac\u03bc\u03b5\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03b1\u03c1\u03b1\u03b9\u03bf\u03ba\u03b1\u03c4\u03bf\u03b9\u03ba\u03b7\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c0\u03af\u03c4\u03b9\u03b1. \u039f\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf\u03af\u03c7\u03bf\u03b9 \u03ae\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd \u03b3\u03b5\u03bc\u03ac\u03c4\u03bf\u03b9 \u03ba\u03b1\u03ba\u03bf\u03b3\u03c1\u03b1\u03bc\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c5\u03bd\u03b8\u03ae\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1. \u0397 \u03c0\u03b9\u03bf \u03c7\u03b1\u03c1\u03bf\u03cd\u03bc\u03b5\u03bd\u03b7 \u03b5\u03b9\u03ba\u03cc\u03bd\u03b1 \u03ae\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd \u03b4\u03c5\u03bf \u03bc\u03b5\u03c3\u03ae\u03bb\u03b9\u03ba\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ad\u03c0\u03b1\u03b9\u03b6\u03b1\u03bd \u03ba\u03ac\u03c0\u03bf\u03b9\u03bf \u03b5\u03c0\u03b9\u03c4\u03c1\u03b1\u03c0\u03ad\u03b6\u03b9\u03bf \u03c0\u03b1\u03b9\u03c7\u03bd\u03af\u03b4\u03b9, \u03ba\u03b1\u03b8\u03b9\u03c3\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf\u03b9 \u03c0\u03ac\u03bd\u03c9 \u03c3\u03b5 \u03bc\u03c0\u03b9\u03bd\u03c4\u03cc\u03bd\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bc\u03c0\u03bf\u03b3\u03b9\u03ac\u03c2.\n\n\u0391\u03bd \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03c5\u03c0\u03ae\u03c1\u03c7\u03b1\u03bd \u03c3\u03ba\u03bf\u03c5\u03c0\u03af\u03b4\u03b9\u03b1, \u03bf\u03b9 \u03b4\u03c1\u03cc\u03bc\u03bf\u03b9 \u03ae\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd \u03b2\u03c1\u03cc\u03bc\u03b9\u03ba\u03bf\u03b9. \u03a4\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c0\u03af\u03c4\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c6\u03ad\u03b3\u03b3\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03c0\u03b1\u03bb\u03b9\u03ad\u03c2 \u03bb\u03ac\u03bc\u03c0\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ba\u03c1\u03ad\u03bc\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd \u03c3\u03b1\u03bd \u03be\u03b5\u03c1\u03b9\u03b6\u03c9\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03ac\u03c4\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b1\u03b2\u03ac\u03bd\u03b9\u03b1.\n\n\u03a4\u03b9 \u03b1\u03af\u03c3\u03b8\u03b7\u03c3\u03b7 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u00ab\u03c9\u03c1\u03b1\u03af\u03bf\u03c5\u00bb \u03bc\u03c0\u03bf\u03c1\u03b5\u03af \u03bd\u03b1 \u03b5\u03af\u03c7\u03b5 \u03ba\u03ac\u03c0\u03bf\u03b9\u03bf\u03c2 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bc\u03b5\u03b3\u03ac\u03bb\u03c9\u03c3\u03b5 \u03b5\u03b4\u03ce;\n\n\u03a0\u03b1\u03c1\u03cc\u03c4\u03b9 \u03c7\u03ac\u03c1\u03b7\u03ba\u03b5 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03bc\u03ac\u03c4\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b5\u03af\u03b4\u03b1\u03bd \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03cc \u03c4\u03bf \u03bc\u03ad\u03c1\u03bf\u03c2, \u03ad\u03bd\u03b9\u03c9\u03c3\u03b5 \u03b1\u03bd\u03b1\u03ba\u03bf\u03cd\u03c6\u03b9\u03c3\u03b7 \u03cc\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c0\u03af\u03c4\u03b9\u03b1 \u03ac\u03c1\u03c7\u03b9\u03c3\u03b1\u03bd \u03bd' \u03b1\u03c1\u03b1\u03b9\u03ce\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd.\n\n\u03a4\u03c1\u03af\u03b1 \u03c3\u03ba\u03c5\u03bb\u03b9\u03ac \u03ac\u03c1\u03c7\u03b9\u03c3\u03b1\u03bd \u03bd\u03b1 \u03b3\u03b1\u03b2\u03b3\u03af\u03b6\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd, \u03c4\u03c1\u03ad\u03c7\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03c2 \u03c0\u03bb\u03ac\u03b9 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c1\u03cc\u03b4\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5. \u03a0\u03b1\u03c1\u03cc\u03bb\u03bf \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03cc \u03c4\u03bf\u03cd \u03b5\u03af\u03c7\u03b5 \u03be\u03b1\u03bd\u03b1\u03c4\u03cd\u03c7\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c0\u03bf\u03bb\u03bb\u03ad\u03c2 \u03c6\u03bf\u03c1\u03ad\u03c2, \u03ba\u03ac\u03c4\u03b9 \u03ae\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd \u03b4\u03b9\u03b1\u03c6\u03bf\u03c1\u03b5\u03c4\u03b9\u03ba\u03cc \u03b5\u03b4\u03ce, \u03ba\u03ac\u03c4\u03b9 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03b3\u03b1\u03b2\u03b3\u03b9\u03c3\u03bc\u03ac \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2. \u0395\u03bd\u03ce \u03c0\u03ac\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1 \u03bd\u03cc\u03bc\u03b9\u03b6\u03b5 \u03c0\u03c9\u03c2 \u03c4' \u03b1\u03b4\u03ad\u03c3\u03c0\u03bf\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c3\u03ba\u03c5\u03bb\u03b9\u03ac \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03b4\u03b9\u03ce\u03c7\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd, \u03c4\u03bf\u03cd\u03c4\u03b1 \u03b4\u03c9 \u03ad\u03bb\u03b5\u03b3\u03b1\u03bd \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03cc \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bf\u03b9 \u03ba\u03ac\u03c4\u03bf\u03b9\u03ba\u03bf\u03b9 \u03bd\u03c4\u03c1\u03ad\u03c0\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd \u03bd\u03b1 \u03b6\u03b7\u03c4\u03ae\u03c3\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd, \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u03b1\u03ba\u03b1\u03bb\u03bf\u03cd\u03c3\u03b1\u03bd \u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03bc\u03b1\u03b6\u03af \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2, \u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03bf\u03b9\u03c1\u03b1\u03c3\u03c4\u03b5\u03af \u03c4\u03b7 \u03bc\u03bf\u03bd\u03b1\u03be\u03b9\u03ac \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2.\n\n## _The Dogs_\n\nA road sign indicated that he was entering an inhabited region. He wondered how people would choose to settle in such a repulsive place.\n\nJust before the first house, his headlights lit on a red cloth caught in branches, a dress that dangled as if the trees had taken a woman and were now showing their exploit.\n\nHe lowered his speed.\n\nWild grasses choked the yards. Teenagers looked at him, weighing his worth in change. Instead of windows, broken glass everywhere.\n\nThe smell of burnt meat wafted in the emptiness between the houses. The walls were scrawled with slogans. The happiest sight: two middle-aged men playing a board game, sitting on paint cans.\n\nAlthough there was no garbage, the roads were dirty. The houses were lit by old lamps that hung like gouged eyes from the beams.\n\nWhat sense of beauty could somebody have growing up here?\n\nAlthough he was glad that he had seen this place, he felt relief when the houses began to thin out.\n\nThree dogs started to bark, running beside the wheels of his car. This had happened many times before, but something was different now, something in their bark. While he always had the feeling that stray dogs were after him, these were demanding what the inhabitants were too embarrassed to say. They were begging him to stay, to share their loneliness.\n\nKaren Van Dyck\n\n## Anna Griva\n\n#### (Born Athens, Greece, 1985)\n\nAnna Griva's inventive animal poems reflect the paralogical and elliptical influence of the Dictatorship generation of poets \u2013 Jenny Mastoraki, but also Maria Laina, who, when asked if art imitates life, replied: 'Isn't one reality enough?' Griva is a well-respected translator from the Italian, and actively engaged in initiating her own translation projects, mostly of women's poetry and usually of poetry less well known than the work generally chosen for translation by the _Poetics_ group of the first section. She is also involved in the translation project Workshop Gamma, run by Marios Spiliopoulos at the Athens School of the Arts; see the _Novelty Within or Beyond Language_ anthology, listed in this book's Further Reading, for the work which has emerged from this exciting collaboration between young poets and artists. Like many trained philologists of her generation, she makes a living as a tutor for the Greek university exams.\n\n_\u0397 \u03c6\u03c9\u03bd\u03ae \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c3\u03ba\u03bf\u03c4\u03c9\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5_ ( _The Voice of the Dead_ ), Charamada, 2010; _\u039f\u03b9 \u03bc\u03ad\u03c1\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ae\u03bc\u03b1\u03c3\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd \u03ac\u03b3\u03c1\u03b9\u03bf\u03b9_ ( _Our Wild Days_ ), Gavrielides, 2012; _\u0388\u03c4\u03c3\u03b9 \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5\u03bb\u03b9\u03ac_ ( _Birds Are That Way_ ), Gavrielides, 2015.\n\n## _\u0394\u03bf\u03ba\u03b9\u03bc\u03ae_\n\n\u03a4\u03bf \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03af \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u03b1\u03c1\u03c0\u03ac\u03b6\u03b5\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9\n\n\u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03b1\u03bd\u03b1\u03af\u03c4\u03b9\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03b8\u03bf\u03c1\u03cd\u03b2\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03ba\u03b1\u03c1\u03b4\u03b9\u03ac\n\n\u03c6\u03bf\u03c5\u03c3\u03ba\u03ce\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9\n\n\u03c4\u03bf \u03c3\u03c5\u03bd\u03b1\u03c0\u03ac\u03bd\u03c4\u03b7\u03bc\u03b1\n\n\u03b5\u03bd\u03cc\u03c2 \u03b3\u03ba\u03c1\u03b5\u03bc\u03bf\u03cd\n\n\u03ad\u03bb\u03be\u03b7 \u03b1\u03bd\u03c4\u03b9\u03bb\u03ac\u03bb\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u03ac\u03b4\u03b5\u03b9\u03bf \u03c6\u03bf\u03c1\u03c4\u03af\u03bf\n\n\u03bc\u03b5 \u03c1\u03bf\u03c5\u03c6\u03ac\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03b3\u03b5\u03bc\u03af\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9\n\n\u03bc\u03b9\u03b1 \u03ba\u03ac\u03b8\u03bf\u03b4\u03bf\u03c2\n\n\u03cc\u03c0\u03c9\u03c2 \u03b2\u03c5\u03b8\u03af\u03b6\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9\n\n\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c3\u03cd\u03bd\u03bd\u03b5\u03c6\u03b1\n\n\u03c3\u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03c0\u03c4\u03ce\u03c3\u03b7\n\n\u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bd\u03b5\u03c1\u03bf\u03cd \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2\n\n\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03c9 \u03c0\u03c1\u03b7\u03bd\u03ae\u03c2\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b1\u03bd\u03b5\u03c1\u03bc\u03ae\u03bd\u03b5\u03c5\u03c4\u03bf\u03c2\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b4\u03bf\u03ba\u03b9\u03bc\u03ac\u03b6\u03c9\n\n\u03b1\u03bd\u03b1\u03b4\u03b9\u03c0\u03bb\u03ce\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2\n\n\u03bc\u03ad\u03c7\u03c1\u03b9 \u03bd' \u03b1\u03bd\u03c4\u03ad\u03be\u03c9\n\n\u03b1\u03ba\u03af\u03bd\u03b4\u03c5\u03bd\u03b1\n\n\u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c0\u03bf\u03b9\u03ae\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03bf\u03c2\n\n\u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03b1\u03bd\u03b1\u03c7\u03ce\u03c1\u03b7\u03c3\u03b7\n\n\u03c3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03bc\u03ac\u03c4\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c4\u03c9\u03bd \u03b1\u03bb\u03cc\u03b3\u03c9\u03bd\n\n\u03c3\u03b1\u03bd \u03c4\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b1\u03c1\u03c6\u03b9\u03ac\n\n\u03c3\u03c6\u03b7\u03bd\u03ce\u03bd\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9\n\n\u03bf\u03b9 \u03c0\u03b5\u03b4\u03b9\u03ac\u03b4\u03b5\u03c2\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b1\u03c7\u03cd\u03c4\u03b7\u03c4\u03b1\u03c2\n\n\u03b7 \u03c0\u03c1\u03cc\u03ba\u03bb\u03b7\u03c3\u03b7\n\n\u03bc\u03b5\u03c4\u03c1\u03b9\u03ad\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bc\u03bf\u03bd\u03ac\u03c7\u03b1\n\n\u03c3\u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03ad\u03ba\u03c4\u03b1\u03c3\u03b7\n\n\u03c4\u03c9\u03bd \u03c0\u03bb\u03b7\u03b3\u03ce\u03bd.\n\n## \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc _\u0392\u03c5\u03b8\u03cc\u03c2_\n\n\u039c\u03c0\u03bf\u03c1\u03b5\u03af \u03c4\u03bf \u03ba\u03bf\u03bb\u03cd\u03bc\u03c0\u03b9 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bc\u03b9\u03b1 \u03ad\u03ba\u03c4\u03b1\u03c3\u03b7 \u03b5\u03c1\u03ae\u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u03c6\u03bf\u03af\u03bd\u03b9\u03ba\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c0\u03bb\u03ae\u03c4\u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03c4\u03b7 \u03b3\u03b1\u03bb\u03ae\u03bd\u03b7 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03b1\u03c6\u03ae\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03c4\u03b7 \u03b6\u03c9\u03ae \u03bd\u03b1 \u03ba\u03c5\u03bb\u03ae\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9\n\n\u03cc\u03c0\u03c9\u03c2 \u03bf \u03b1\u03bd\u03b1\u03b2\u03ac\u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03c0\u03bb\u03ac\u03c4\u03b7 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c3\u03ba\u03cd\u03bb\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ad\u03bb\u03b5\u03b3\u03b5 \u03bc\u03b7 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c3\u03c5\u03b3\u03ba\u03c1\u03af\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03b9\u03c0\u03c0\u03cc\u03c4\u03b7\n\n\u03b3\u03b9\u03b1\u03c4\u03af \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03ad\u03c7\u03c9 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7 \u03b6\u03ce\u03bd\u03b7 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c6\u03bb\u03bf\u03c5\u03c1\u03b9\u03ac \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03be\u03af\u03c6\u03bf\u03c2\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bc\u03ad\u03c7\u03c1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03cc\u03c4\u03b5 \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03c4\u03bf \u03b5\u03af\u03c7\u03b1 \u03c6\u03b1\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03c3\u03c4\u03b5\u03af \u03ad\u03c4\u03c3\u03b9\n\n\u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03cc \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ad\u03bb\u03b5\u03b9\u03c0\u03b5.\n\n## _Attempt_\n\nMy ear is\n\nseized by\n\nrandom\n\nsounds and in\n\nmy heart\n\na precipice\n\nunfolds\n\nan echo\n\npulls an\n\nempty\n\nload draws\n\nme and\n\na descent\n\nfills me\n\nas clouds\n\nsink in\n\ntheir water's\n\nfall\n\nI lie\n\nprone\n\nunread\n\nattempt\n\nretreat until\n\nI can endure\n\nthe poem's\n\nleaving\n\nprairies drive\n\nlike nails\n\ninto galloping\n\nhorses' eyes\n\nwounds\n\nthe only\n\nmeasure of\n\ntheir speed's\n\ndefiance.\n\nMaria Margaronis\n\n## from _Depths_\n\nSwimming could be an extension of the desert\n\npalm trees exasperate her calm\n\nand stop life from moving on\n\nlike the rider on the dog\n\nwho said don't compare me to the rider on the horse\n\nbecause I haven't a sword or sheath, not in my belt\n\nand up til now I hadn't considered it\n\nas something he was missing\n\nKaren Van Dyck\n\n## _\u039f\u03b9 \u03c4\u03c1\u03cc\u03c0\u03bf\u03b9 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b7 \u03bb\u03c5\u03c0\u03ac\u03c3\u03c4\u03b5_\n\n\u03a0\u03c1\u03bf\u03c3\u03ad\u03c7\u03c4\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03b2\u03ae\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03ac \u03c3\u03b1\u03c2\n\n\u03ba\u03ac\u03c4\u03c9 \u03b1\u03c0' \u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c6\u03c5\u03bb\u03bb\u03c9\u03c3\u03b9\u03ad\u03c2 \u03c4\u03c9\u03bd \u03b4\u03ad\u03bd\u03c4\u03c1\u03c9\u03bd \u03ba\u03c1\u03cd\u03b2\u03b5\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9\n\n\u03c4\u03bf \u03c3\u03ce\u03bc\u03b1 \u03c3\u03b1\u03c2 \u03bd\u03c4\u03c5\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c6\u03c4\u03b5\u03c1\u03ac \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03bd\u03c5\u03c7\u03c4\u03b5\u03c1\u03af\u03b4\u03b1\u03c2\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c4\u03c5\u03c6\u03bb\u03ac \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03bc\u03ac\u03c4\u03b9\u03b1\n\n\u03b1\u03bd \u03c3\u03ba\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03ac\u03c8\u03b5\u03c4\u03b5 \u03be\u03b5\u03b3\u03bb\u03b9\u03c3\u03c4\u03c1\u03ac \u03c0\u03ac\u03bd\u03c9 \u03c3\u03b1\u03c2\n\n\u03ba\u03c1\u03ad\u03bc\u03b5\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b1\u03bd\u03ac\u03c0\u03bf\u03b4\u03b1 \u03b1\u03c0' \u03c4\u03bf \u03c3\u03b1\u03b3\u03cc\u03bd\u03b9 \u03c3\u03b1\u03c2\n\n\u03cc\u03c0\u03c9\u03c2 \u03b1\u03c0' \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c0\u03b7\u03bb\u03b9\u03ac\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03b5\u03be\u03bf\u03b3\u03ba\u03ce\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03bd\u03cd\u03c7\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c7\u03c1\u03cc\u03bd\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b5\u03b3\u03ac\u03bb\u03c9\u03bd\u03b1\u03bd\n\n\u03ba\u03b9 \u03b5\u03bb\u03af\u03c3\u03c3\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd \u03c3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03ba\u03bb\u03b1\u03b4\u03b9\u03ac\n\n\u03b2\u03c1\u03af\u03c3\u03ba\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03b5\u03c0\u03b9\u03c4\u03ad\u03bb\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03bc\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b8\u03ad\u03c3\u03b7 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03bc\u03c5\u03b1\u03bb\u03cc \u03c3\u03b1\u03c2\n\n\u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03c3\u03ad\u03c7\u03c4\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b7 \u03bc\u03ae\u03c4\u03c1\u03b1 \u03c3\u03b1\u03c2 \u03b1\u03bd \u03b5\u03af\u03c3\u03c4\u03b5 \u03b3\u03c5\u03bd\u03b1\u03af\u03ba\u03b5\u03c2\n\n\u03c4\u03bf \u03ba\u03b1\u03c1\u03cd\u03b4\u03b9 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bc\u03b5\u03b3\u03b1\u03bb\u03ce\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf \u03bb\u03b1\u03b9\u03bc\u03cc \u03c3\u03b1\u03c2 \u03b1\u03bd \u03b5\u03af\u03c3\u03c4\u03b5 \u03ac\u03bd\u03c4\u03c1\u03b5\u03c2\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c0\u03b1\u03b9\u03b4\u03b9\u03ac \u03b1\u03bd \u03bc\u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03c4\u03b5 \u03b2\u03c1\u03b5\u03af\u03c4\u03b5 \u03b5\u03c0\u03b9\u03c4\u03ad\u03bb\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1\u03bd \u03c4\u03c1\u03cc\u03c0\u03bf\n\n\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b5\u03b8\u03ac\u03bd\u03b5\u03c4\u03b5 \u03b1\u03bd\u03ce\u03b4\u03c5\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c7\u03c9\u03c1\u03af\u03c2 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c7\u03c1\u03b5\u03b9\u03b1\u03c3\u03c4\u03b5\u03af \u03bf\u03cd\u03c4\u03b5 \u03ac\u03bd\u03c4\u03c1\u03b5\u03c2\n\n\u03bf\u03cd\u03c4\u03b5 \u03b3\u03c5\u03bd\u03b1\u03af\u03ba\u03b5\u03c2 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c6\u03b1\u03bd\u03b5\u03af\u03c4\u03b5\n\n\u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03c3\u03ad\u03c7\u03c4\u03b5 \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03ba\u03af\u03bd\u03b4\u03c5\u03bd\u03bf \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b1\u03bd\u03b1\u03c4\u03ad\u03bb\u03bb\u03b5\u03b9 \u03ba\u03ac\u03b8\u03b5 \u03c0\u03c1\u03c9\u03af \u03b1\u03c0' \u03c4\u03bf \u03b2\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd\u03cc\n\n\u03c3\u03c4\u03b1\u03b8\u03b5\u03af\u03c4\u03b5 \u03bc\u03b1\u03ba\u03c1\u03b9\u03ac \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b4\u03ce\u03c3\u03c4\u03b5 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bf\u03bd\u03cc\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03be\u03bf\u03c1\u03ba\u03af\u03c3\u03b5\u03c4\u03b5\n\n\u03ba\u03cc\u03c8\u03b7 \u03be\u03c5\u03c1\u03ac\u03c6\u03b9\n\n\u03c6\u03bb\u03bf\u03b9\u03cc \u03b1\u03bd\u03b8\u03c1\u03ce\u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bb\u03b9\u03c9\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b7 \u03cd\u03bb\u03b7\n\n\u03bc\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c7\u03ad\u03c1\u03b9\u03b1\n\n\u03ba\u03ac\u03c0\u03bf\u03c4\u03b5 \u03c3\u03cd\u03c3\u03c0\u03b1\u03c3\u03b7 \u03c3\u03b9\u03c9\u03c0\u03ae\n\n\u03bd\u03cd\u03c7\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5\u03bb\u03b9\u03ac \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c4\u03c1\u03cc\u03bc\u03b1\u03be\u03b1\u03bd\n\n\u03c4\u03c9\u03bd \u03ba\u03c5\u03bd\u03b7\u03b3\u03ce\u03bd \u03c4\u03bf \u03b2\u03cc\u03c1\u03b2\u03bf\u03c1\u03bf\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03b2\u03b1\u03c1\u03b9\u03ad\u03c2 \u03c0\u03b1\u03c4\u03b7\u03bc\u03b1\u03c3\u03b9\u03ad\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2\n\n\u03c4\u03b1\u03af\u03c1\u03b9\n\n\u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03c0\u03ac\u03bd\u03c4\u03c9\u03bd \u03c4\u03b1\u03af\u03c1\u03b9\n\n\u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bf\u03c3\u03c6\u03c1\u03b1\u03af\u03bd\u03b5\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf \u03b1\u03af\u03bc\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b1\u03c2\n\n## _Ways to Avoid Sadness_\n\nBe careful where you tread\n\nunder the trees' foliage lurks\n\nyour body clothed in bats' wings\n\nand blind eyes\n\nif you trip it slithers on to you\n\nhangs upside down from your chin\n\nas if from a cave's protrusions\n\nand the claws that have grown for years\n\nwinding around the branches\n\nfind a home at last inside your brain\n\nBe careful of your womb if you are women\n\nof the Adam's apple swelling your throat if you are men\n\nand if you are still children find a way at last\n\nto die painlessly without needing to appear\n\neither men or women\n\nBe careful of the danger that rises every morning from the mountain\n\nkeep your distance and give it names to exorcize it\n\nrazor cut\n\nhuman peel melted material\n\nin your hands\n\nsometimes spasm silence\n\nnight startled birds\n\nthe hunters' swamp\n\nand heavy footsteps\n\nmate\n\nabove all mate\n\nwho scents our blood.\n\nMaria Margaronis\n\n## _\u039f \u03c0\u03cc\u03bb\u03b5\u03bc\u03bf\u03c2 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03b6\u03ce\u03b1 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5_\n\n\u039f\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd \u03bf\u03b9 \u03b1\u03c1\u03b8\u03c1\u03ce\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03b8\u03c9\u03c1\u03b1\u03ba\u03af\u03b6\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd\u03b5\n\n\u03b8\u03c5\u03bc\u03cc \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03ba\u03af\u03bd\u03b7\u03c3\u03b7 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03bf\u03c3\u03c4\u03ac \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u03b1\u03c0\u03bb\u03ce\u03bd\u03c9 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c7\u03ad\u03c1\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b1\u03bd\u03bf\u03af\u03b3\u03bf\u03bc\u03b1\u03b9\n\n\u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03ba\u03af\u03bd\u03b4\u03c5\u03bd\u03bf \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c5\u03c0\u03ac\u03c1\u03c7\u03c9\n\n\u03c4\u03c1\u03ad\u03c6\u03b5\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9 \u03ac\u03bd\u03b5\u03bc\u03bf \u03b7 \u03bf\u03c5\u03c1\u03ac\n\n\u03b1\u03bd\u03ac\u03bc\u03b5\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c0\u03cc\u03b4\u03b9\u03b1\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bc\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b1\u03bb\u03b9\u03ac \u03b9\u03c3\u03bf\u03c1\u03c1\u03bf\u03c0\u03af\u03b1\n\n\u2013 \u03c4\u03b7 \u03b8\u03c5\u03bc\u03ac\u03bc\u03b1\u03b9 \u2013\n\n\u03c7\u03c4\u03c5\u03c0\u03ac \u03c3\u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c0\u03ad\u03c4\u03c1\u03b5\u03c2\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c3\u03b7\u03ba\u03ce\u03bd\u03b5\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9\n\n\u03c0\u03b9\u03bf \u03bc\u03b1\u03bb\u03b1\u03ba\u03ae \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03b2\u03ac\u03c1\u03bf\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2\n\n\u03c4\u03b1 \u03b6\u03ce\u03b1\n\n\u03bc\u03b5 \u03ba\u03c1\u03b1\u03c4\u03bf\u03cd\u03bd\n\n\u03b4\u03b5\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b7\n\n\u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03ad\u03bd\u03c3\u03c4\u03b9\u03ba\u03c4\u03cc \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2\n\n\u03c4\u03c1\u03ad\u03bc\u03c9 \u03b3\u03c1\u03c5\u03bb\u03af\u03b6\u03c9 \u03c3\u03b1\u03bd \u03c3\u03ba\u03c5\u03bb\u03af\n\n\u03c3\u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03c0\u03cc\u03c1\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c3\u03c6\u03b1\u03b3\u03b5\u03af\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b1\u03bc\u03bf\u03bb\u03b9\u03ad\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b7 \u03bc\u03cd\u03c4\u03b7 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u03c5\u03b3\u03c1\u03ae \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bb\u03af\u03b3\u03bf \u03b1\u03af\u03bc\u03b1\n\n\u03b7 \u03bd\u03bf\u03c3\u03c4\u03b9\u03bc\u03b9\u03ac \u03b1\u03bd\u03b1\u03c0\u03ac\u03bd\u03c4\u03b5\u03c7\u03b7\n\n\u03b7 \u03ad\u03bb\u03be\u03b7 \u03c6\u03c1\u03ad\u03c3\u03ba\u03b9\u03b1\n\n\u03bc\u03ad\u03c7\u03c1\u03b9 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03b3\u03af\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03bf \u03b8\u03ac\u03bd\u03b1\u03c4\u03bf\u03c2\n\n\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03be\u03b5\u03c1\u03cc \u03c5\u03c6\u03ac\u03b4\u03b9\n\n\u03ba\u03b9 \u03cc\u03c3\u03bf \u03ba\u03b9 \u03b1\u03bd \u03b3\u03bb\u03b5\u03af\u03c6\u03c9 \u03b1\u03c0\u03b1\u03bb\u03ac\n\n\u03b7 \u03b3\u03bb\u03ce\u03c3\u03c3\u03b1 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b5\u03c4\u03c1\u03ce\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9\n\n\u03c7\u03b1\u03b9\u03b4\u03b5\u03cd\u03c9 \u03b1\u03ba\u03cc\u03bc\u03b7\n\n\u03b1\u03bd\u03b8\u03bf\u03cd\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03bb\u03b1\u03b9\u03bc\u03cc \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u03c0\u03b5\u03c1\u03b9\u03b2\u03cc\u03bb\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b1\u03bd\u03c4\u03af\u03c3\u03c4\u03c1\u03bf\u03c6\u03b1\n\n\u03c3\u03c4\u03b7 \u03b4\u03cd\u03bd\u03b1\u03bc\u03b7 \u03c4\u03c9\u03bd \u03c6\u03cc\u03bd\u03c9\u03bd.\n\n## _The War with My Animals_\n\nWhen my articulations shield\n\nanger and movement in my bones\n\nI stretch out my arms I open\n\nto the danger that I exist\n\nwind feeds the tail\n\nbetween my legs\n\nand an old balance\n\n\u2013 I remember it \u2013\n\nstrikes the stones\n\nand rises\n\nsofter in its weight\n\nthe animals\n\nhold me\n\nbound\n\nto their instinct\n\nI tremble I growl like a dog\n\nat the door of the slaughterhouse\n\nmy nose darts forward\n\ndamp for a little blood\n\nirresistible saltiness\n\nfresh desire\n\ntill death dries\n\nto a barren weave\n\nand though I lick it gently\n\nmy tongue turns to stone\n\nStill I caress\n\nblossoms at my throat\n\ngardens against\n\nthe power of murders\n\nMaria Margaronis\n\n## _\u03a4\u03bf \u03bc\u03ac\u03b8\u03b7\u03bc\u03b1 \u03c4\u03c9\u03bd \u03bc\u03c5\u03c1\u03bc\u03b7\u03b3\u03ba\u03b9\u03ce\u03bd_\n\n\u03a3\u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03b5\u03c0\u03b9\u03ba\u03c1\u03ac\u03c4\u03b5\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c4\u03c9\u03bd \u03bc\u03c5\u03c1\u03bc\u03b7\u03b3\u03ba\u03b9\u03ce\u03bd\n\n\u03b7 \u03c3\u03ba\u03ad\u03c8\u03b7 \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b4\u03cd\u03c3\u03ba\u03bf\u03bb\u03b7\n\n\u03cc\u03c7\u03b9 \u03c0\u03c9\u03c2 \u03c6\u03c4\u03b1\u03af\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf \u03ba\u03b5\u03c6\u03ac\u03bb\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2\n\n\u03ae \u03c4\u03c9\u03bd \u03ba\u03b9\u03bd\u03ae\u03c3\u03b5\u03c9\u03bd \u03bf\u03b9 \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03bf\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03b9\u03c3\u03bc\u03bf\u03af\n\n\u03bc\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b9\u03bf \u03c0\u03bf\u03bb\u03cd \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c3\u03ad\u03c1\u03bd\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9\n\n\u03ba\u03ac\u03c4\u03c9 \u03b1\u03c0' \u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03b3\u03ad\u03c6\u03c5\u03c1\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c4\u03c9\u03bd \u03c3\u03c0\u03cc\u03c1\u03c9\u03bd\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b1\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03bf\u03cd\u03bd \u03b1\u03bd \u03bc\u03c5\u03c1\u03b9\u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\u03cd\u03bd \u03b2\u03c1\u03bf\u03c7\u03ae \u03ae \u03c7\u03b9\u03cc\u03bd\u03b9\n\n\u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03ae \u03cc\u03bb\u03b7 \u03b7 \u03ad\u03b3\u03bd\u03bf\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c0\u03ce\u03c2 \u03bc\u03b5\u03c4\u03ac \u03be\u03b1\u03bd\u03ac \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03b3\u03cd\u03c1\u03b9\u03c3\u03bc\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ae\u03bb\u03b9\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u03b8\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03c1\u03ce\u03c3\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c6\u03b1\u03b3\u03ce\u03c3\u03b9\u03bc\u03b1\n\n\u03c3\u03b1\u03bd \u03c4\u03b7 \u03bc\u03c0\u03bf\u03c5\u03b3\u03ac\u03b4\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03b3\u03c1\u03b9\u03ac\u03c2\n\n\u03bc\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b9\u03b8\u03b1\u03bc\u03ae \u03b1\u03c0' \u03c4\u03bf \u03bc\u03bf\u03cd\u03c7\u03bb\u03b9\u03b1\u03c3\u03bc\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b1\u03ba\u03c1\u03b9\u03ac\n\n\u03bd\u03b1 \u00b4\u03c7\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c4\u03c1\u03c9\u03bd \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03b4\u03b9\u03b7\u03b3\u03bf\u03cd\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9\n\n\u03bc\u03cc\u03bd\u03bf \u03bd\u03b5\u03c1\u03ac\u03ba\u03b9 \u03b4\u03af\u03c3\u03b5\u03c7\u03c4\u03bf \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03c9\u03bd \u03c4\u03c1\u03b5\u03bb\u03ce\u03bd \u03c4\u03c1\u03b5\u03c7\u03ac\u03bb\u03b1\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b7 \u03bc\u03c0\u03bf\u03c5\u03ba\u03b9\u03ac \u03c3\u03c4o \u03c3\u03c4\u03cc\u03bc\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03b2\u03c1\u03b5\u03b3\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b7\n\n\u03bc\u03b1 \u03cc\u03bb\u03bf \u03bb\u03b1\u03c7\u03c4\u03ac\u03c1\u03b1 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03b3\u03b5\u03c5\u03c4\u03bf\u03cd\u03bd\n\n\u03cc\u03c7\u03b9 \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03c0\u03c1\u03ad\u03c0\u03b5\u03b9!\n\n\u03b7 \u03c3\u03c9\u03c4\u03b7\u03c1\u03af\u03b1 \u03c4\u03cc\u03c3\u03bf \u03c0\u03ac\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1 \u03b1\u03c0\u03b5\u03af\u03c7\u03b5 \u03b1\u03c0' \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03c0\u03ad\u03c8\u03b7\n\n\u03cc\u03c3\u03bf \u03ba\u03b9 \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03ba\u03af\u03bd\u03b4\u03c5\u03bd\u03bf \u03c0\u03bd\u03b9\u03b3\u03bc\u03bf\u03cd\n\n\u03ba\u03b9 \u03bf\u03cd\u03c4\u03b5 \u03c4\u03bf \u03ba\u03b1\u03bb\u03bf\u03ba\u03b1\u03af\u03c1\u03b9 \u03b4\u03b5 \u03b3\u03af\u03bd\u03b5\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b5\u03cd\u03ba\u03bf\u03bb\u03b7 \u03b7 \u03c3\u03ba\u03ad\u03c8\u03b7\n\n\u03b3\u03b9\u03b1\u03c4\u03af \u03bf\u03b9 \u03b2\u03c1\u03bf\u03c7\u03ad\u03c2 \u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u03b1\u03bc\u03bf\u03bd\u03b5\u03cd\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd\n\n\u03b1\u03ba\u03cc\u03bc\u03b7 \u03ba\u03b9 \u03b1\u03bd \u03c3\u03c4\u03ac\u03b6\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03b9\u03b4\u03c1\u03ce\u03c4\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c4\u03c9\u03bd \u03b6\u03ce\u03c9\u03bd\n\n\u03ba\u03b9 \u03b1\u03bd\u03ac\u03c3\u03b5\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03ad\u03c2 \u03bc\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7 \u03c6\u03c9\u03bb\u03b9\u03ac \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2\n\n\u03b3\u03b9' \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03cc \u03bf\u03b9 \u03b5\u03c0\u03bf\u03c7\u03ad\u03c2 \u03cc\u03bb\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c0\u03b5\u03c1\u03bd\u03bf\u03cd\u03bd \u03bc\u03b5 \u03bc\u03af\u03b1 \u03ad\u03b3\u03bd\u03bf\u03b9\u03b1\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b4\u03af\u03c7\u03c9\u03c2 \u03ac\u03bb\u03bb\u03b7 \u03c0\u03bb\u03bf\u03ba\u03ae\n\n\u03bc\u03cc\u03bd\u03bf \u03bf\u03b9 \u03ba\u03b5\u03c1\u03b1\u03af\u03b5\u03c2 \u03b3\u03bb\u03b9\u03c4\u03ce\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd\n\n\u03c7\u03c9\u03c1\u03af\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b8\u03cc\u03bb\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c3\u03ba\u03ad\u03c0\u03c4\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bc\u03c0\u03bb\u03ad\u03ba\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c9\u03c1\u03b1\u03af\u03b1\n\n\u03c3\u03b1\u03bd \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\u03c3\u03b9\u03ba\u03ae\u03c2\n\n\u03c4\u03bf \u03c4\u03cd\u03bb\u03b9\u03b3\u03bc\u03b1\n\n\u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03b2\u03bb\u03ad\u03c0\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bb\u03b5\u03c2\n\n\u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03ae \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b7 \u03ba\u03af\u03bd\u03b7\u03c3\u03b7 \u03cc\u03bb\u03b7 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ba\u03cc\u03c3\u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u03bc\u03b1\u03ba\u03c1\u03b9\u03ac \u03b1\u03c0\u00b4\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b1\u03b9\u03b4\u03b9\u03b1\u03c1\u03af\u03c3\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1\n\n\u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c3\u03c4\u03ae\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03bf \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9\u03c1\u03cc\u03c2\n\n\u03cc\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd \u03bc\u03b1\u03b8\u03b1\u03af\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5\u03bc\u03b5 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03ba\u03bf\u03b9\u03bd\u03c9\u03bd\u03bf\u03cd\u03bc\u03b5\n\n\u03bf \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03ac\u03bb\u03bb\u03bf\n\n\u03b1\u03ba\u03bf\u03c5\u03bc\u03c0\u03ce\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03c2 \u03c4\u00b4 \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03b9\u03ac\n\n\u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03c0\u03b9\u03bf \u03bc\u03b1\u03cd\u03c1\u03bf \u03c3\u03b7\u03bc\u03b5\u03af\u03bf \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2\n\n\u03cc\u03c3\u03bf\u03b9 \u03be\u03b5\u03c7\u03bd\u03ac\u03bd\u03b5 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c3\u03ba\u03b5\u03c6\u03c4\u03bf\u03cd\u03bd\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03bb\u03cd\u03c4\u03b5\u03c1\u03b1 \u03c7\u03bf\u03c1\u03b5\u03cd\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd\n\n\u03cc\u03c0\u03c9\u03c2 \u03c3\u03ba\u03b1\u03c1\u03af\u03c6\u03b7\u03bc\u03b1\n\n\u03ba\u03ac\u03c4\u03c9 \u03b1\u03c0\u00b4 \u03c4\u03bf \u03b3\u03ad\u03bb\u03b9\u03bf\n\n\u03c0\u03b9\u03ba\u03c1\u03ae\u03c2 \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc\u03b3\u03bd\u03c9\u03c3\u03b7\u03c2.\n\n## _The Ants' Lesson_\n\nIn the empire of the ants\n\nthinking is difficult\n\nit's not the fault of their heads\n\nor their automatic movements\n\nit's more that they drag themselves\n\nunder bridges of seeds\n\nand stop if they scent rain or snow\n\nthat's all they care about\n\nand then at the sun's return\n\nhow to spread out their food\n\nlike an old woman's washing\n\non the verge of going mouldy\n\nso they can eat and tell their tales\n\nall unlucky trickling and crazy caravans\n\nand the bite in their mouth damp\n\nbut all eagerness to taste\n\nno you musn't!\n\nSalvation always was just that distance from digestion\n\nand from the risk of drowning\n\nand thinking isn't any easier in summer\n\nbecause the rains lie in wait\n\neven if there's animal sweat dripping\n\nand breath burning in their nest\n\nso all the seasons pass with one preoccupation\n\nand no other plot\n\nonly their antennae get away\n\nwithout thinking altogether\n\ntangling beautifully\n\nlike music's\n\nwinding\n\nyou see them and say\n\nthis is the movement of the world\n\nfar away from the childishness\n\nthat time throws up\n\nwhen we learn to communicate\n\none with another\n\ntouching our ears together\n\nat their blackest point\n\nthose who forget to think\n\ndance better\n\na sketch\n\nunder the laughter\n\nof bitter desolation.\n\nMaria Margaronis\n\n## _\u0395\u03c0\u03af\u03bd\u03b9\u03ba\u03bf\u03c2_\n\n\u03a4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03bd\u03cd\u03c7\u03c4\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c3\u03ba\u03bf\u03c4\u03ce\u03bd\u03c9 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03ce\u03c1\u03b1 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u03c0\u03ac\u03bd\u03c9 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03ad\u03c0\u03b9\u03c0\u03bb\u03b1\n\n\u03bc\u03b5 \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03b8\u03b5\u03c1\u03bc\u03cc\u03bc\u03b5\u03c4\u03c1\u03bf \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7 \u03bc\u03b1\u03c3\u03c7\u03ac\u03bb\u03b7 \u03c4\u03b1\u03be\u03b9\u03b4\u03b5\u03cd\u03c9\n\n\u03b1\u03c0\u00b4 \u03c4\u03bf \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03b4\u03c9\u03bc\u03ac\u03c4\u03b9\u03bf \u03c3\u03c4\u00b4 \u03ac\u03bb\u03bb\u03bf\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bc\u03b1\u03b3\u03b5\u03b9\u03c1\u03b5\u03cd\u03c9 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03bc\u03c0\u03c1\u03af\u03ba\u03b9 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u03c4\u03bf \u03c4\u03b1\u03c1\u03b1\u03ba\u03bf\u03cd\u03bd\u03b7\u03bc\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03ba\u03bf\u03c5\u03c1\u03c4\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03c2\n\n\u03b7 \u03c0\u03cc\u03c1\u03c4\u03b1 \u03ba\u03bb\u03b5\u03b9\u03b4\u03ce\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03bc\u03cc\u03bd\u03b7 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03c0\u03b9\u03b1:\n\n\u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03ad\u03c7\u03c9 \u03c4\u03af\u03c0\u03bf\u03c4\u03b1 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03b4\u03ce\u03c3\u03c9\n\n\u03c3\u03b5 \u03c4\u03cc\u03c3\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03b5\u03c0\u03b9\u03c3\u03ba\u03ad\u03c0\u03c4\u03b5\u03c2\n\n\u2013 \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1\u03c4\u03af \u03ad\u03c1\u03c7\u03b5\u03c3\u03c4\u03b5; \u0393\u03b9\u03b1\u03c4\u03af \u03ad\u03c1\u03c7\u03b5\u03c3\u03c4\u03b5 \u03b1\u03ba\u03cc\u03bc\u03b7\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c3\u03c0\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1\u03bb\u03ac\u03c4\u03b5 \u03c4\u00b4 \u03b1\u03c3\u03c4\u03ad\u03c1\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c0\u03ac\u03bd\u03c9 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5;\n\n\u03a4\u03cc\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b1\u03b9\u03c7\u03bd\u03af\u03b4\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b3\u03cd\u03c1\u03c9 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u03c4\u03cc\u03c3\u03b5\u03c2 \u03b1\u03c6\u03cd\u03bb\u03b1\u03ba\u03c4\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c7\u03b1\u03c1\u03ad\u03c2\n\n\u03ba\u03ac\u03c0\u03bf\u03c4\u03b5 \u03c4\u03c1\u03b5\u03c6\u03cc\u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03bc\u03b5 \u03bd\u03b5\u03c1\u03cc \u03bc\u03cc\u03bd\u03bf\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b5\u03af\u03c7\u03b1 \u03b3\u03af\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03b2\u03b1\u03c1\u03b9\u03ac \u03c3\u03b1\u03bd \u03c0\u03ad\u03c4\u03c1\u03b1\n\n\u03bc\u03b5 \u03c6\u03c5\u03c3\u03bf\u03cd\u03c3\u03b5\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b9 \u03ad\u03bc\u03b5\u03bd\u03b1 \u03b1\u03ba\u03af\u03bd\u03b7\u03c4\u03b7\n\n\u03c3\u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c0\u03bb\u03b1\u03b3\u03b9\u03ad\u03c2 \u03c4\u03c9\u03bd \u03bb\u03cc\u03c6\u03c9\u03bd\n\n\u03c4\u03ce\u03c1\u03b1 \u03b2\u03b1\u03b4\u03af\u03b6\u03c9 \u03ba\u03c1\u03c5\u03c6\u03ac \u03c3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03ba\u03bf\u03c0\u03ac\u03b4\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c4\u03c9\u03bd \u03b6\u03ce\u03c9\u03bd\n\n\u03c4\u03b1 \u03ba\u03ac\u03bd\u03c9 \u03ba\u03bf\u03bc\u03bc\u03ac\u03c4\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03b4\u03cc\u03bd\u03c4\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b4\u03b5 \u03c7\u03bf\u03c1\u03c4\u03b1\u03af\u03bd\u03c9 \u03b4\u03b5 \u03c7\u03bf\u03c1\u03c4\u03b1\u03af\u03bd\u03c9 \u03c4\u03bf \u03b1\u03af\u03bc\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2\n\n(\u03b7 \u03af\u03b4\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03b5\u03af\u03bc\u03b1\u03b9;)\n\n\u03ba\u03ac\u03c0\u03bf\u03c4\u03b5 \u03b3\u03c5\u03c1\u03cc\u03c6\u03b5\u03c1\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf \u03b8\u03ac\u03bd\u03b1\u03c4\u03bf\n\n\u03c3\u03b1\u03bd \u03ba\u03bf\u03c5\u03c4\u03c3\u03ae \u03b3\u03c1\u03b9\u03ac\n\n\u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b8\u03b1\u03c1\u03af\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03ba\u03bf\u03c5\u03b6\u03af\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2\n\n\u03c4\u03ce\u03c1\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03c6\u03c5\u03c4\u03b5\u03cd\u03c9 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c7\u03ad\u03c1\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u03b1\u03bd\u03ac\u03bc\u03b5\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03bb\u03bf\u03c5\u03bb\u03bf\u03cd\u03b4\u03b9\u03b1\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03b2\u03bb\u03ad\u03c0\u03c9 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b5\u03b3\u03b1\u03bb\u03ce\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b1\u03b8\u03b1\u03af\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf \u03c0\u03b5\u03c1\u03c0\u03ac\u03c4\u03b7\u03bc\u03b1\n\n\u03c4\u03c1\u03b1\u03b2\u03ce \u03c3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03bd\u03cd\u03c7\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03ba\u03bf\u03bc\u03c0\u03b1\u03c3\u03bc\u03cc \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03ac\u03bd\u03bf\u03b9\u03be\u03b7\u03c2\n\n\u03ba\u03b9 \u03b1\u03c0\u03bf\u03ba\u03bf\u03b9\u03bc\u03b9\u03ad\u03bc\u03b1\u03b9\n\n\u03c0\u03bf\u03c5\u03bb\u03af \u03b5\u03bd \u03c0\u03c4\u03ae\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9:\n\n\u03b7 \u03b1\u03bd\u03b1\u03ba\u03bf\u03cd\u03c6\u03b9\u03c3\u03b7\n\n\u03b8\u03b1 \u03bc\u03bf\u03b9\u03ac\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c0\u03ac\u03bd\u03c4\u03bf\u03c4\u03b5\n\n\u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03bf \u03b8\u03c5\u03bc\u03af\u03b1\u03bc\u03b1\n\n\u03c4\u03c9\u03bd \u03b7\u03c6\u03b1\u03b9\u03c3\u03c4\u03b5\u03af\u03c9\u03bd\n\n## _Triumphal Ode_\n\nNights I kill time\n\nagainst the furniture\n\nwith a thermometer under my arm I sail\n\nfrom one room to another\n\ncook up in my coffee pot\n\nthe stirring of the curtain\n\nthe door locks itself now:\n\nI have nothing to offer\n\nall these visitors\n\n\u2013 why do you come? why do you still come\n\nand waste the stars on me?\n\nso much play around me\n\nso many unguarded joys\n\nonce I was nourished by water\n\nand I grew stone heavy\n\nif you blew I'd still be motionless\n\nup there on the hillside\n\nnow I secretly stalk herds of animals\n\ntear them to pieces with my teeth\n\nnever get enough never enough of their blood\n\n(aren't I the same?)\n\nonce I circled death\n\nlike a lame crone\n\ncleaning her kitchen\n\nnow I plant him with my own hands\n\namong the flowers\n\nand watch him grow\n\nand learn to walk\n\nI drag spring's swagger\n\nwith my fingernails\n\nand sleep\n\na bird in flight:\n\nrelief\n\nalways resembles\n\nthe incense\n\nof volcanoes\n\nMaria Margaronis\n\n## Phoebe Giannisi\n\n#### (Born Athens, Greece, 1964)\n\nIn the 1980s Phoebe Giannisi and some other artists created the fanzine _Mavro Mouseio_ ( _Black Museum_ ). Although she went on to publish her poetry in established venues like _Poetics_ , her work continues to be featured in alternative magazines, _Farmakon_ among them. Her poetry reflects a visual and classical background, gained through studies in Architecture in Athens and later a Ph.D. in Classics in Lyon. She was a member of _Urban Void_ , a group of architects and artists who organized and performed on issues of ecology and urban landscape. Her audiovisual poetry installation _Tettix_ showed at the National Museum of Contemporary Art in 2012. Giannisi has translated Ancient lyric poetry and work by H\u00e9l\u00e8ne Cixous, Gerhard Falkner, Andrew Maxwell, and others. She teaches at the University of Thessaly in Volos.\n\n_\u0391\u03c7\u03b9\u03bd\u03bf\u03af_ ( _Sea Urchins_ ), Mavro Mouseio, 1995; _\u03a1\u03b1\u03bc\u03b1\u03b6\u03ac\u03bd\u03b9_ ( _Ramadan_ ), Mavro Mouseio, 1997; _\u0398\u03b7\u03bb\u03b9\u03ad\u03c2_ ( _Loops_ ), Nefeli, 2005; _\u039f\u03bc\u03b7\u03c1\u03b9\u03ba\u03ac_ ( _Homerica_ ), Kedros, 2009; _\u03a4\u03ad\u03c4\u03c4\u03b9\u03be_ ( _Tettix_ ), Gavrielides, 2012.\n\n## _(\u03a0\u03b7\u03bd\u03b5\u03bb\u03cc\u03c0\u03b7_ \u2013 I am addicted to you _)_\n\n\u03ad\u03c7\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c0\u03ac\u03b8\u03bf\u03c2 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03c0\u03b9\u03c3\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\n\n\u03ba\u03ac\u03b8\u03b5 \u03bc\u03ad\u03c1\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03c0\u03b9\u03c3\u03af\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c0\u03ac\u03bd\u03c9-\u03ba\u03ac\u03c4\u03c9\n\n\u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03af\u03b4\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b4\u03b9\u03b1\u03b4\u03c1\u03bf\u03bc\u03ae \u03be\u03b1\u03bd\u03ac \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03be\u03b1\u03bd\u03ac\n\n\u03b7 \u03c0\u03b9\u03c3\u03af\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03ba\u03c1\u03b1\u03c4\u03ac \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7 \u03b6\u03c9\u03ae\n\n\u03c4\u03bf \u03ba\u03bf\u03bb\u03cd\u03bc\u03c0\u03b9 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03c0\u03b9\u03c3\u03af\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03c3\u03c5\u03bd\u03c4\u03b7\u03c1\u03b5\u03af\n\n\u03c4\u03bf \u03c3\u03c5\u03bd\u03b5\u03c7\u03ad\u03c2 \u03c0\u03b7\u03b3\u03b1\u03b9\u03bd\u03ad\u03bb\u03b1\n\n\u03b7 \u03c1\u03c5\u03b8\u03bc\u03b9\u03ba\u03ae \u03b1\u03bd\u03b1\u03c0\u03bd\u03bf\u03ae\n\n\u03bf \u03c3\u03c5\u03bd\u03c4\u03bf\u03bd\u03b9\u03c3\u03bc\u03cc\u03c2 \u03c7\u03b5\u03c1\u03b9\u03ce\u03bd \u03c0\u03bf\u03b4\u03b9\u03ce\u03bd\n\n\u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03bf \u03ba\u03b5\u03c6\u03ac\u03bb\u03b9\n\n\u03bc\u03ad\u03c3\u03b1 \u03ad\u03be\u03c9 \u03bc\u03ad\u03c3\u03b1 \u03ad\u03be\u03c9\n\n\u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03bd\u03b5\u03c1\u03cc\n\n\u03c4\u03bf \u03ba\u03b5\u03c6\u03ac\u03bb\u03b9\n\n\u03b5\u03c0\u03b1\u03bd\u03b1\u03bb\u03b1\u03bc\u03b2\u03b1\u03bd\u03cc\u03bc\u03b5\u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03c0\u03b1\u03af\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b2\u03b3\u03b1\u03af\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9\n\n\u03c6\u03c5\u03c3\u03ac \u03bc\u03ad\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c1\u03bf\u03c5\u03c6\u03ac \u03ad\u03be\u03c9 \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03b1\u03ad\u03c1\u03b1\n\n\u03bf\u03b9 \u03c0\u03b1\u03cd\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03ba\u03ac\u03b8\u03b5 \u03bb\u03af\u03b3\u03bf \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03b4\u03b9\u03ac\u03b4\u03c1\u03bf\u03bc\u03bf\n\n\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bb\u03b1\u03ba\u03ac\u03ba\u03b9\u03b1 \u03ba\u03ac\u03c4\u03c9 \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03b5\u03c0\u03b9\u03c6\u03ac\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bc\u03ad\u03c3\u03b1\n\n\u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03c6\u03c9\u03c2\n\n\u03c4\u03b1 \u03be\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c3\u03ce\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1 \u03b1\u03c0\u03b5\u03b9\u03bb\u03b7\u03c4\u03b9\u03ba\u03ac\n\n\u03bc\u03b5 \u03c3\u03ba\u03bf\u03c5\u03c6\u03b9\u03ac \u03ae \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c0\u03ad\u03b4\u03b9\u03bb\u03b1\n\n\u03c4\u03bf \u03bd\u03b5\u03c1\u03cc \u03bc\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03c7\u03bb\u03ce\u03c1\u03b9\u03bf\n\n\u03bf \u03bf\u03c5\u03c1\u03b1\u03bd\u03cc\u03c2 \u03c0\u03ac\u03bd\u03c9 \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03ba\u03c5\u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u03af\u03c3\u03c3\u03b9\u03b1\n\n\u03b7 \u03c0\u03b9\u03c3\u03af\u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03ba\u03c1\u03b1\u03c4\u03ac \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7 \u03b6\u03c9\u03ae\n\n\u03c4\u03bf \u03c3\u03c5\u03bd\u03b5\u03c7\u03ad\u03c2 \u03c4\u03c1\u03b1\u03b3\u03bf\u03cd\u03b4\u03b9\n\n\u03c4\u03bf \u03bc\u03ad\u03c4\u03c1\u03b7\u03bc\u03b1\n\n\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03b4\u03cd\u03bf \u03c4\u03c1\u03af\u03b1 \u03c4\u03ad\u03c3\u03c3\u03b5\u03c1\u03b1 \u03c0\u03ad\u03bd\u03c4\u03b5\n\n\u03ad\u03be\u03b9 \u03b5\u03c0\u03c4\u03ac \u03bf\u03ba\u03c4\u03ce \u03b5\u03bd\u03bd\u03b9\u03ac \u03b4\u03b5\u03ba\u03b1\u03c0\u03ad\u03bd\u03c4\u03b5\n\n\u03b4\u03b5\u03ba\u03b1\u03b5\u03bd\u03bd\u03b9\u03ac \u03c7\u03c4\u03c5\u03c0\u03ae\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b5\u03c1\u03b9\u03c3\u03c4\u03c1\u03bf\u03c6\u03ad\u03c2\n\n\u03c4\u03bf \u03c4\u03c1\u03b1\u03b3\u03bf\u03cd\u03b4\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bc\u03b5\u03c4\u03c1\u03ae\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03bf\u03c2 \u03b7 \u03b5\u03c0\u03b1\u03bd\u03ac\u03bb\u03b7\u03c8\u03b7 \u03b1\u03c0\u03bf\u03bb\u03b9\u03b8\u03ce\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9\n\n\u03c4\u03bf \u03c4\u03c1\u03b1\u03b3\u03bf\u03cd\u03b4\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03c0\u03b9\u03c3\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03c2 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c3\u03ce\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9\n\n\u03bc\u03b5 \u03c3\u03ce\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9 \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03c4\u03b7 \u03b3\u03bd\u03ce\u03c3\u03b7 \u03c0\u03c9\u03c2\n\n\u03b4\u03b5 \u03bc' \u03b1\u03b3\u03b1\u03c0\u03ac\n\n## _(Penelope_ \u2013 \u0388\u03c7\u03c9 \u03c0\u03ac\u03b8\u03bf\u03c2 \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c3\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 _)_\n\nShe is passionate about swimming every day in the pool up and down the same lane over and over the pool keeps her alive swimming in the pool sustains her the continual back and forth the rhythmic breathing the hands and feet synchronized with the head going in and out of the water the head repeatedly going up and down for air breathing in and out resting sometimes in the lane the tiles under the surface in the light the foreign bodies monsters with their caps and flippers the chlorine water the sky over the cypresses the pool keeps her alive the continual song the counting one two three four five six seven eight nine fifteen nineteen kicks to a lap and turn the song of counting the repetition turns the pool song to stone saves me saves me from the knowledge that he doesn't love me\n\nKaren Van Dyck\n\n## _(\u0398\u03ad\u03c4\u03b9\u03c2)_\n\n\u0398\u03ad\u03c4\u03b9\u03c2\n\n\u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03ae \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c4\u03af\u03b8\u03b5\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9\n\n\u03af\u03c3\u03c9\u03c2\n\n\u03c0\u03ac\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1 \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03ae \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b8\u03ad\u03c4\u03b5\u03b9\n\n\u03cc\u03c0\u03c9\u03c2 \u03b3\u03bd\u03c9\u03c1\u03af\u03b6\u03bf\u03c5\u03bc\u03b5 \u03b1\u03ba\u03cc\u03bc\u03b1 \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03ae\n\n\u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b1\u03c1\u03bd\u03ae\u03b8\u03b7\u03ba\u03b5 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b5\u03b8\u03b5\u03af\n\n\u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03ac\u03bd\u03b4\u03c1\u03b1 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u03b1\u03b4\u03bf\u03b8\u03b5\u03af\n\n\u03b3\u03b5\u03bd\u03cc\u03bc\u03b5\u03bd\u03b7\n\n\u03c6\u03c9\u03c4\u03b9\u03ac \u03ac\u03bd\u03b5\u03bc\u03bf\u03c2 \u03bd\u03b5\u03c1\u03cc\n\n\u03b4\u03ad\u03bd\u03c4\u03c1\u03bf \u03c0\u03c4\u03b7\u03bd\u03cc \u03cc\u03c1\u03bd\u03b9\u03b8\u03b1 \u03c4\u03af\u03b3\u03c1\u03b7\n\n\u03b3\u03b5\u03bd\u03cc\u03bc\u03b5\u03bd\u03b7\n\n\u03bb\u03b9\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03ac\u03c1\u03b9 \u03c6\u03af\u03b4\u03b9 \u03c3\u03bf\u03c5\u03c0\u03b9\u03ac\n\n\u03ce\u03c3\u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ba\u03ac\u03c0\u03bf\u03c4\u03b5 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03b1\u03ba\u03c1\u03c9\u03c4\u03ae\u03c1\u03b9\u03bf \u03a3\u03b7\u03c0\u03b9\u03ac\u03c2 \u03bf \u03b8\u03bd\u03b7\u03c4\u03cc\u03c2\n\n\u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03ad\u03b8\u03b5\u03c3\u03b5 \u03b3\u03b5\u03c1\u03ac \u03ba\u03c1\u03b1\u03c4\u03ce\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03c2\n\n\u03bc\u03b5 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b1\u03b8\u03b5\u03c1\u03ae \u03bb\u03b1\u03b2\u03ae \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03bb\u03b5\u03af\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b1\u03c4\u03ad\u03ba\u03c4\u03b7\u03c3\u03b5\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03ad\u03c6\u03b1\u03b3\u03b5 \u03bc\u03ad\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03ad\u03c1\u03c9\u03c4\u03b1\n\n\u03ac\u03c6\u03b7\u03c3\u03b5 \u03bc\u03cc\u03bd\u03bf \u03c4\u03bf \u03bb\u03b5\u03c5\u03ba\u03cc \u03ba\u03cc\u03ba\u03b1\u03bb\u03cc \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2\n\n\u03c4\u03bf \u03ba\u03cc\u03ba\u03b1\u03bb\u03bf \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03c3\u03bf\u03c5\u03c0\u03b9\u03ac\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u03b1\u03bb\u03af\u03b1\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b8\u03b1\u03c1\u03cc \u03c0\u03bb\u03c5\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03c4\u03bf \u03ba\u03cd\u03bc\u03b1\n\n\u03b7 \u0398\u03ad\u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c0\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b5\u03ba\u03b5\u03af\n\n\u03c6\u03c5\u03c3\u03ac \u03bc\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bd\u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd\u03c4\u03bf\u03cd\u03ba\u03b1 \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03c4\u03b1 \u03b2\u03ac\u03b8\u03b7\n\n\u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03b8\u03ac\u03bb\u03b1\u03c3\u03c3\u03b1\u03c2\n\n\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c7\u03c9\u03bd\u03af \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b5\u03b3\u03ac\u03bb\u03bf \u03ba\u03bf\u03c7\u03cd\u03bb\u03b9 \u03b1\u03bd\u03c4\u03b7\u03c7\u03b5\u03af\n\n\u03c4\u03b1 \u03bb\u03cc\u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bb\u03ad\u03bd\u03b5\n\n\u00ab\u03c0\u03b1\u03c1' \u03cc\u03bb\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b5\u03bb\u03ac\u03bd\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b1\u03bc\u03cc\u03bb\u03b7\u03c3\u03b1\n\n\u03bf \u03ac\u03bd\u03b4\u03c1\u03b1\u03c2 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03ba\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1\u03b2\u03c1\u03cc\u03c7\u03b8\u03b9\u03c3\u03b5\n\n\u03b5\u03b3\u03ce \u03b8\u03b5\u03ac \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03cc\u03c2 \u03b8\u03bd\u03b7\u03c4\u03cc\u03c2\u00bb\n\n\u03bf \u03c0\u03bf\u03bb\u03b5\u03bc\u03b9\u03c3\u03c4\u03ae\u03c2 \u03c0\u03ac\u03bd\u03c4\u03bf\u03c4\u03b5 \u03b5\u03c0\u03b9\u03c3\u03c4\u03c1\u03ad\u03c6\u03b5\u03b9 \u03bd\u03b5\u03ba\u03c1\u03cc\u03c2\n\n## _(Thetis)_\n\nThetis\n\nthe one in position\n\nperhaps\n\nalways the one who posits\n\nas we know even she\n\nwho refused to be placed\n\nto a man to surrender\n\nbecoming\n\nfire wind water\n\ntree bird fowl tiger\n\nbecoming\n\nlion snake cuttlefish\n\nuntil once at the Sepia peninsula the mortal\n\nsteadfastly held her in place gripping\n\nthe conquered prey in a stronghold\n\nand ate her in the act of love\n\nleaving behind only her white bone\n\nthe sepia bone on the shore\n\nwashed clean by the waves\n\nThetis is no longer there\n\nshe blows a conch from the depths\n\nof the sea\n\na funnel a large seashell echoes\n\nthe words that call\n\n'for all the ink I spewed\n\nthe man swallowed me whole\n\nI a goddess, he a mortal'\n\nthe warrior always returns dead\n\nStathis Gourgouris\n\n## _(\u039b\u03c9\u03c4\u03bf\u03c6\u03ac\u03b3\u03bf\u03b9 \u0399\u0399)_\n\n\u03b8\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03c9 \u03b5\u03b4\u03ce \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03c3\u03c4\u03c1\u03bf\u03c6\u03ae \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b4\u03c1\u03cc\u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03b3\u03cd\u03c1\u03b9\u03c3\u03bc\u03b1\n\n\u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ba\u03cc\u03bb\u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03ac\u03ba\u03c1\u03b7 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b1\u03ba\u03c1\u03c9\u03c4\u03b7\u03c1\u03af\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03ba\u03bf\u03c1\u03c5\u03c6\u03ae\n\n\u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c5\u03c8\u03b7\u03bb\u03bf\u03cd \u03b2\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd\u03bf\u03cd \u03c3\u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03b1\u03bd\u03bf\u03b9\u03c7\u03c4\u03ad\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03b8\u03ac\u03bb\u03b1\u03c3\u03c3\u03b1\u03c2 \u03b1\u03b3\u03ba\u03ac\u03bb\u03b5\u03c2\n\n\u03c3\u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03b5\u03ba\u03b2\u03bf\u03bb\u03ae \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c4\u03b1\u03bc\u03bf\u03cd\n\n\u03b8\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03c9 \u03b5\u03b4\u03ce\n\n\u03c4\u03b1 \u03bc\u03ae\u03bb\u03b1 \u03ba\u03cc\u03ba\u03ba\u03b9\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03b1\u03c7\u03bb\u03ac\u03b4\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b6\u03bf\u03c5\u03bc\u03b5\u03c1\u03ac \u03bf\u03b9 \u03c0\u03ac\u03c4\u03bf\u03b9\n\n\u03c4\u03c9\u03bd \u03c0\u03b1\u03c0\u03bf\u03c5\u03c4\u03c3\u03b9\u03ce\u03bd \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03c6\u03b8\u03b5\u03af\u03c1\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9\n\n\u03be\u03c5\u03c0\u03cc\u03bb\u03c5\u03c4\u03bf\u03c2 \u03c0\u03b5\u03c1\u03c0\u03b1\u03c4\u03ac\u03c2 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c1\u03bf\u03cd\u03c7\u03b1 \u03b5\u03bb\u03b1\u03c6\u03c1\u03b9\u03ac\n\n\u03c4\u03ad\u03bb\u03bf\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b1\u03bb\u03bf\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9\u03c1\u03b9\u03bf\u03cd \u03bc\u03b1 \u03bf \u03c7\u03b5\u03b9\u03bc\u03ce\u03bd\u03b1\u03c2 \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03ad\u03c1\u03c7\u03b5\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9\n\n\u03bc\u03c0\u03bf\u03c1\u03b5\u03af\u03c2 \u03ad\u03be\u03c9 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03ba\u03ac\u03b8\u03b5\u03c3\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03ce\u03c1\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bd\u03c5\u03c7\u03c4\u03ce\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9\n\n\u03b1\u03b7\u03b4\u03cc\u03bd\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b1\u03ba\u03bf\u03cd\u03b3\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c6\u03ce\u03c4\u03b1 \u03b1\u03bd\u03ac\u03b2\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd\n\n\u03b5\u03bc\u03c0\u03c1\u03cc\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b5\u03b3\u03ac\u03bb\u03b1 \u03c4\u03c1\u03b1\u03c0\u03ad\u03b6\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b4\u03b5\u03af\u03c0\u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b9\u03ba\u03c1\u03ac \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b4\u03b5\u03b9\u03bb\u03b9\u03bd\u03bf\u03cd\n\n\u03bc\u03b5 \u03bd\u03c5\u03c7\u03c4\u03bf\u03c0\u03b5\u03c4\u03b1\u03bb\u03bf\u03cd\u03b4\u03b5\u03c2 \u03b4\u03b5\u03af\u03c0\u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b5\u03b8\u03c5\u03c3\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1\n\n\u03c4\u03bf \u03c6\u03ac\u03c1\u03bc\u03b1\u03ba\u03bf \u03c4\u03bf \u03ad\u03c6\u03b1\u03b3\u03b5\u03c2\n\n\u03c4\u03bf \u03c6\u03ac\u03c1\u03bc\u03b1\u03ba\u03bf \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03bb\u03bf\u03c5\u03bb\u03bf\u03cd\u03b4\u03b9\n\n\u03c4\u03bf \u03c6\u03ac\u03c1\u03bc\u03b1\u03ba\u03bf \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf \u03c6\u03ac\u03c1\u03bc\u03b1\u03ba\u03bf\n\n\u03b7 \u03bb\u03ae\u03b8\u03b7\n\n\u03c4\u03bf \u03ba\u03ac\u03b8\u03b5 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b9\u03b3\u03bc\u03ae \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9\u03bd\u03bf\u03cd\u03c1\u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b1\u03c1\u03c7\u03ae\n\n\u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03be\u03ad\u03c1\u03c9 \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03c0\u03bf\u03cd \u03ad\u03c1\u03c7\u03bf\u03bc\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03b8\u03ad\u03bb\u03c9 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03b3\u03c5\u03c1\u03af\u03c3\u03c9\n\n\u03c4\u03bf \u03c6\u03ac\u03c1\u03bc\u03b1\u03ba\u03bf\n\n\u03c4\u03bf \u03c0\u03ac\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c4\u03ce\u03c1\u03b1 \u03c0\u03ac\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c4\u03ce\u03c1\u03b1\n\n## _(Lotus Eaters II)_\n\nI'll stay here at the road's turn at the bend\n\nof the bay the end of the headland the top of\n\nthe high mountain in the open arms of the sea at the\n\nmouth of the\n\nriver\n\nI'll stay here apples are red pears juicy the soles\n\nof shoes don't wear down\n\nyou walk barefoot in light clothing\n\nend of summer\n\nbut the winter doesn't come\n\nyou're able to sit outside in the dusk at nightfall\n\nnightingales are heard lights come on\n\nover the big tables the small meals of late afternoon\n\ndinners with moths\n\ntipsy\n\nyou've already downed the medicine\n\nthe medicine a flower\n\nthe medicine is the medicine\n\nforgetfulness is every moment a brand new beginning\n\nit's I don't know where I come from I don't want to return\n\nthe medicine is always now always now.\n\nAngelos Sakkis\n\n## Eftychia Panayiotou\n\n#### (Born Cyprus, 1980)\n\nEftychia Panayiotou brings another tradition of Greek poetry to the contemporary Athens scene. The influence of the Cypriot Kostas Montis is felt in her short, elliptical poems; so too is that of the Alexandrian Diaspora poet C. P. Cavafy, another who wrote in Greek outside of Greece. She translates Anne Sexton and Anne Carson and writes reviews for the newspaper _Avgi_ and other publications. She is currently completing her Ph.D. on the poetry of the Generation of the 1970s at the University of Athens.\n\n_\u039c\u03ad\u03b3\u03b1\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b7\u03c0\u03bf\u03c5\u03c1\u03cc\u03c2_ ( _Great Gardener_ ), Koinonia ton (de)katon, 2007; _\u039c\u03b1\u03cd\u03c1\u03b7 \u039c\u03c9\u03c1\u03b1\u03bb\u03af\u03bd\u03b1_ ( _Black Moralina_ ), Kedros, 2010; _\u03a7\u03bf\u03c1\u03b5\u03c5\u03c4\u03ad\u03c2_ ( _Dancers_ ), Kedros, 2014.\n\n## _\u039c\u03ad\u03b3\u03b1\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b7\u03c0\u03bf\u03c5\u03c1\u03cc\u03c2_\n\n_\u03a3\u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u039c\u03af\u03bb\u03c4\u03bf_\n\n\u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u03b1\u03bb\u03bf\u03b3\u03af\u03b6\u03b5\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03b2\u03c1\u03ac\u03b4\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bf \u03ba\u03b7\u03c0\u03bf\u03c5\u03c1\u03cc\u03c2 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5.\n\n\u03c3\u03c0\u03b5\u03af\u03c1\u03b5\u03b9 \u03bb\u03ad\u03be\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03c7\u03ce\u03bc\u03b1\n\n\u03b8\u03ac\u03b2\u03b5\u03b9 \u03bb\u03ad\u03be\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03ba\u03ac\u03c4\u03c9 \u03b1\u03c0' \u03c4\u03bf \u03c7\u03ce\u03bc\u03b1.\n\n\u03bb\u03ad\u03be\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03bb\u03b1\u03b2\u03c9\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b5\u03c2, \u03c0\u03c1\u03ce\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c7\u03c4\u03c5\u03c0\u03ac\n\n\u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03b4\u03ad\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03ad\u03c0\u03b5\u03b9\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c7\u03c9\u03c1\u03af\u03c2 \u03c6\u03cc\u03b2\u03bf\n\n\u03bf\u03af\u03ba\u03c4\u03bf \u03c0\u03bf\u03c4\u03ad \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03bd\u03b9\u03ce\u03b8\u03b5\u03b9 \u03b3\u03b9' \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03ad\u03c2,\n\n\u03ba\u03bb\u03b1\u03af\u03bd\u03b5 \u03c3\u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u03ac\u03b6\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03c3\u03ba\u03bf\u03cd\u03b6\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03ba\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1\u03c1\u03b9\u03bf\u03cd\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9\n\n\u2013 \u03bb\u03ad\u03be\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u2013\n\n\u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03b2\u03bf\u03c5\u03b2\u03b1\u03af\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9.\n\n\u03c4\u03bf \u03ba\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1\u03c6\u03ad\u03c1\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf \u03b1\u03af\u03bc\u03b1.\n\n\u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bf \u03ba\u03b7\u03c0\u03bf\u03c5\u03c1\u03cc\u03c2 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03cc\u03c2.\n\n\u03c3\u03c0\u03b5\u03af\u03c1\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf \u03b8\u03ac\u03bd\u03b1\u03c4\u03bf.\n\n\u03bc\u03b5 \u03c3\u03c0\u03ad\u03c1\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03b8\u03ac\u03bd\u03b1\u03c4\u03bf.\n\n\u03b3\u03af\u03bd\u03bf\u03bc\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bf \u03b8\u03ac\u03bd\u03b1\u03c4\u03bf\u03c2.\n\n## _The Great Gardener_\n\n_For Miltos_\n\nin the evenings my gardener raves, delirious.\n\nhe sows words in the soil\n\nburies words under the soil.\n\nhurt words, which first he hits\n\nthen binds without fear\n\nhe never feels compassion for them,\n\nthey cry they thrash they shout they curse\n\n\u2013 they're words, after all \u2013\n\nbut he silences them.\n\nhe bludgeons the blood.\n\nthis man is not my gardener.\n\nhe sows death.\n\ndeath sows me.\n\ni become death.\n\nKaren Emmerich\n\n## _\u03b7 \u03b5\u03be\u03bf\u03c7\u03ae \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bc\u03c5\u03b1\u03bb\u03bf\u03cd \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5_\n\n\u03be\u03cd\u03c0\u03bd\u03b7\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c7\u03b1\u03c1\u03ac\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1 \u03bd' \u03b1\u03bb\u03bb\u03ac\u03be\u03c9\n\n\u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u03ac\u03b8\u03c5\u03c1\u03bf, \u03c3\u03c4\u03c1\u03ac\u03b2\u03c9\u03c3\u03b5 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03ba\u03bf\u03b9\u03c4\u03ac \u03b1\u03c0\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1\u03bd\u03c4\u03b9\n\n\u03c4\u03b7 \u03b8\u03ad\u03b1 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ba\u03cc\u03b2\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03c2.\n\n\u03b1\u03bd\u03bf\u03af\u03b3\u03c9 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b1\u03bd\u03c4\u03b6\u03bf\u03cd\u03c1\u03b9\u03b1, \u03b1\u03c4\u03af\u03b8\u03b1\u03c3\u03b1\n\n\u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03b1\u03ad\u03c1\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4' \u03ac\u03bb\u03bb\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b1\u03ba\u03ac, \u03be\u03b5\u03b3\u03bb\u03b9\u03c3\u03c4\u03c1\u03ac\u03bd\u03b5 \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc\n\n\u03c4\u03b1 \u03b4\u03ac\u03c7\u03c4\u03c5\u03bb\u03ac \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u2013 \u03c8\u03b5\u03cd\u03c4\u03b5\u03c2 \u03b5\u03c1\u03c9\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf\u03b9.\n\n\u03bc\u03ac\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03c3\u03c0\u03b1\u03b8\u03ce \u03bd' \u03b1\u03bd\u03bf\u03af\u03be\u03c9 \u03b4\u03b9\u03ac\u03c0\u03bb\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1\n\n\u03c4\u03bf \u03c6\u03c9\u03c2 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03c0\u03b5\u03b9 \u03bb\u03af\u03b3\u03bf, \u03bb\u03ad\u03c9, \u03b5\u03af\u03c0\u03b1 \u03b8\u03ad\u03bb\u03c9 \u03c6\u03c9\u03c2,\n\n\u03b1\u03bb\u03bb\u03ac \u03c7\u03b1\u03c1\u03ac\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1 \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b1\u03ba\u03cc\u03bc\u03b7, \u03c7\u03b1\u03c1\u03ac\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1 \u03ac\u03b3\u03c1\u03b9\u03b1.\n\n\u03b3\u03b5\u03bd\u03b7\u03b8\u03ae\u03c4\u03c9 \u03c6\u03c9\u03c2 \u03b5\u03af\u03c0\u03b1 \u03c3' \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u03ac\u03b8\u03c5\u03c1\u03bf \u03b1\u03bd\u03b1\u03af\u03c4\u03b9\u03bf.\n\n## _The Outside of My Mind_\n\nI woke at sunrise to change\n\nthe window, warped from looking\n\nacross, slicing my view.\n\nI open the shutters, wild\n\nfrom wind and misfortune. They slip\n\nthrough my fingers \u2013 unfaithful lovers.\n\nIn vain I try to spread them wide.\n\nTo let in the light, I say. I need light, I said.\n\nBut it's still sunrise, angry sunrise.\n\nLet there be light, I said, to a no-fault window.\n\nKaren Van Dyck\n\n## _\u039b\u03af\u03b3\u03bf \u03c0\u03c1\u03b9\u03bd \u03c3\u03b7\u03ba\u03c9\u03b8\u03b5\u03af\u03c2_\n\n\u039c\u03b7\u03bd \u03c0\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c0\u03c9\u03c2 \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03c0\u03cc\u03b8\u03b7\u03c3\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c6\u03c4\u03b5\u03c1\u03ac \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c0\u03b1\u03b3\u03bf\u03bd\u03b9\u03bf\u03cd,\n\n\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c6\u03cc\u03c1\u03b5\u03bc\u03b1 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c3\u03ba\u03bf\u03c5\u03c0\u03af\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03c0\u03af\u03c3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03b2\u03b1\u03bb\u03c2.\n\n\u039a\u03b9 \u03b1\u03bd \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03ba\u03bf\u03c1\u03cc\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c3\u03bf\u03cd \u03ad\u03ba\u03bb\u03b5\u03c8\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b5\u03bb\u03b9\u03ba\u03ac \u03c4\u03bf \u03ba\u03b1\u03c1\u03b4\u03b9\u03bf\u03c7\u03c4\u03cd\u03c0\u03b9\n\n\u03cc\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd \u03c3\u03b5 \u03ba\u03bf\u03af\u03c4\u03b1\u03be\u03b5 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03bc\u03ac\u03c4\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bf \u03c4\u03bf\u03bb\u03bc\u03b7\u03c1\u03cc\u03c4\u03b5\u03c1\u03bf\u03c2,\n\n\u03bc\u03b7\u03bd \u03c0\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c0\u03c9\u03c2 \u03ae\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd\u03b5 \u03ba\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1\u03ba\u03c4\u03b7\u03c4\u03ae\u03c2\u00b7\n\n\u03c3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03b3\u03cc\u03bd\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1 \u03b5\u03af\u03c7\u03b5 \u03c0\u03ad\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9.\n\n## _\u0397 \u03b4\u03b9\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9\u03bf\u03c3\u03cd\u03bd\u03b7 \u03c3\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b4\u03b9\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9\u03bf\u03c3\u03cd\u03bd\u03b7 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5_\n\n\u03bf \u03ac\u03bd\u03b8\u03c1\u03c9\u03c0\u03bf\u03c2 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03be\u03b5\u03c1\u03af\u03b6\u03c9\u03c3\u03b5 \u03c4\u03bf \u03c3\u03c0\u03af\u03c4\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03ae\u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03b5\u03b3\u03ce\u00b7 \u03c6\u03ae\u03bc\u03b5\u03c2 \u03ae\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd \u03c0\u03c9\u03c2 \u03b5\u03af\u03bc\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03b4\u03cc\u03c4\u03b7\u03c2.\n\n\u03b3\u03b9\u03b1\u03c4\u03af \u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03ce\u03c1\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c3\u03b7\u03ba\u03c9\u03bd\u03cc\u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03c7\u03b1\u03c1\u03ac\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1\n\n\u03bd' \u03b1\u03bd\u03bf\u03af\u03be\u03c9 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03c0\u03cc\u03c1\u03c4\u03b1, \u03b5\u03ba\u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b7 \u03ad\u03ba\u03bb\u03b5\u03b9\u03bd\u03b5\n\n\u03bf\u03c1\u03bc\u03b7\u03c4\u03b9\u03ba\u03ac, \u03bc\u03b5 \u03bc\u03af\u03c3\u03bf\u03c2,\n\n\u03c4\u03b1 \u03b4\u03ac\u03c7\u03c4\u03c5\u03bb\u03ac \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c3\u03c0\u03ac\u03b6\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03c2.\n\n\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03c2 \u03bc' \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c7\u03ad\u03c1\u03b9, \u03c4\u03bf \u00ab\u03ba\u03b1\u03ba\u03cc\u00bb,\n\n\u03ad\u03b3\u03c1\u03b1\u03c6\u03b1 \u03b5\u03c0\u03b9\u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\u03bb\u03ad\u03c2, \u03b1\u03c0\u03b5\u03b3\u03bd\u03c9\u03c3\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1,\n\n\u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03c2 \u03b9\u03b5\u03c1\u03b5\u03af\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c6\u03af\u03bb\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c3\u03c5\u03bd\u03c4\u03c1\u03cc\u03c6\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2.\n\n\u03c3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b5\u03bb\u03b5\u03c5\u03c4\u03b1\u03af\u03b1, \u03ac\u03c1\u03c7\u03b9\u03c3\u03b1 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03ad\u03bb\u03bd\u03c9 \u03b1\u03c0\u03bb\u03ce\u03c2 \u03b5\u03c0\u03b9\u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\u03bb\u03ad\u03c2:\n\n\u03b5\u03be\u03bf\u03bc\u03bf\u03bb\u03bf\u03b3\u03ae\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03b4\u03af\u03ba\u03b7\u03bd \u03b4\u03b9\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9\u03bf\u03c3\u03cd\u03bd\u03b7\u03c2.\n\n\u03b5\u03be\u03bf\u03bc\u03bf\u03bb\u03bf\u03b3\u03ae\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b4\u03b9\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9\u03bf\u03c3\u03cd\u03bd\u03b7.\n\n\u03b5\u03be\u03bf\u03bc\u03bf\u03bb\u03bf\u03b3\u03ae\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c0\u03bd\u03b9\u03b3\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf \u03b4\u03cc\u03bd\u03c4\u03b9.\n\n## _Just Before You Stood Up_\n\nDon't say you didn't want peacock wings,\n\na dress that swept across the waltz floor.\n\nAnd if your tiara stole the show in a heartbeat\n\nwhen the boldest of all stared you down\n\ndon't say he was the conqueror;\n\nhe was on his knees.\n\nKaren Van Dyck\n\n## _Your Justice My Justice_\n\nthe person who uprooted his house\n\nwasn't me; they were rumors, that i'm a traitor.\n\nbecause the hours when i'd get up at dawn\n\nto open the door, it would close\n\nwith a bang, with hatred,\n\nbreaking my fingers.\n\nwith just one hand, the 'bad' one,\n\ni would write letters, despairingly,\n\nto priests and friends and comrades.\n\nin the end, i started just to send letters:\n\nconfessions of quasi-justice\n\nconfessions for justice.\n\nconfessions a smothered tooth.\n\nKaren Emmerich\n\n## Eva Stefani\n\n#### (Born USA, 1964)\n\nThe fables in Eva Stefani's prose poems are not about animals; instead, they concern themselves with dysfunctional families and their quirky afterlives. Best known as an experimental documentary filmmaker and visual artist, Stefani was born in America to Greek parents. She studied Cinema and Anthropology in Paris, London, and New York, and teaches Cinema Studies at the University of Athens and the Freie Universit\u00e4t, Berlin. Her films include _Athene_ (1995), _Akropolis_ (2001), _The Box_ (2004), _What Time Is It?_ (2007), and _Bathers_ (2008), and have been screened at film festivals including IDFA, Cin\u00e9ma du R\u00e9el, FIPA, and Lisboa Docs. She also writes criticism, such as her _10 \u03ba\u03b5\u03af\u03bc\u03b5\u03bd\u03b1 \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf \u03bd\u03c4\u03bf\u03ba\u03c5\u03bc\u03b1\u03bd\u03c4\u03ad\u03c1_ ( _10 Texts about Documentaries_ ), published by Patakis in 2007.\n\n_\u03a4\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b1\u03bb\u03bb\u03b9\u03ac \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03a6\u03b9\u03bd_ ( _Fin's Hair_ ), Polis, 2014.\n\n## _\u0392\u03c5\u03b8\u03cc\u03c2_\n\n\u0388\u03c7\u03c9 \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03b2\u03ac\u03c1\u03bf\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03ba\u03bf\u03b9\u03bb\u03b9\u03ac. \u0396\u03b7\u03c4\u03ce \u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03b5\u03b3\u03c7\u03b5\u03b9\u03c1\u03af\u03c3\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd. \u03a0\u03b1\u03af\u03c1\u03bd\u03c9 \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03bb\u03b5\u03c0\u03af\u03b4\u03b9 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bc\u03b9\u03b1 \u03ba\u03bf\u03c5\u03c4\u03ac\u03bb\u03b1 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03b2\u03bf\u03b7\u03b8\u03ae\u03c3\u03c9 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03b5\u03ba\u03c3\u03ba\u03b1\u03c6\u03ae. \u03a3\u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03b1\u03c1\u03c7\u03ae \u03b2\u03b3\u03ac\u03b6\u03c9 \u03bb\u03af\u03b3\u03b7 \u03ac\u03bc\u03bc\u03bf \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03ac\u03c3\u03c0\u03c1\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c0\u03ad\u03c4\u03c1\u03b5\u03c2. \u03a0\u03c1\u03bf\u03c7\u03c9\u03c1\u03ac\u03c9 \u03c0\u03b9\u03bf \u03b2\u03b1\u03b8\u03b9\u03ac \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c0\u03ad\u03c6\u03c4\u03c9 \u03c0\u03ac\u03bd\u03c9 \u03c3\u03b5 \u03bc\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b1\u03bb\u03b1\u03ba\u03b9\u03ac \u03bc\u03ac\u03b6\u03b1. \u0388\u03bd\u03b1 \u03b2\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd\u03cc \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03c6\u03cd\u03ba\u03b9\u03b1. \u03a3\u03c5\u03bd\u03b5\u03c7\u03af\u03b6\u03c9 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c8\u03ac\u03c7\u03bd\u03c9 \u03b1\u03bb\u03bb\u03ac \u03c4\u03bf \u03bb\u03b5\u03c0\u03af\u03b4\u03b9 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b7 \u03ba\u03bf\u03c5\u03c4\u03ac\u03bb\u03b1 \u03b3\u03bb\u03b9\u03c3\u03c4\u03c1\u03ac\u03bd\u03b5 \u03b4\u03af\u03c7\u03c9\u03c2 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c3\u03ba\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03ac\u03c6\u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5\u03b8\u03b5\u03bd\u03ac. \u0398\u03b5\u03c1\u03b1\u03c0\u03b5\u03cd\u03c4\u03b7\u03ba\u03b1; \u039c\u03c0\u03b1. \u03a0\u03b5\u03c4\u03ac\u03c9 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03b5\u03c1\u03b3\u03b1\u03bb\u03b5\u03af\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b2\u03ac\u03b6\u03c9 \u03c4\u03bf \u03c7\u03ad\u03c1\u03b9 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03b1\u03bd\u03bf\u03b9\u03c7\u03c4\u03cc \u03c3\u03ce\u03bc\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ba\u03b1\u03af\u03b5\u03b9. \u03a0\u03b9\u03ac\u03bd\u03c9 \u03ba\u03ac\u03c4\u03b9. \u039c\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b1\u03bb\u03c5\u03c3\u03af\u03b4\u03b1. \u03a4\u03b7\u03bd \u03c4\u03c1\u03b1\u03b2\u03ac\u03c9 \u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03ad\u03be\u03c9 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b9\u03b4\u03bf\u03cd \u03b7 \u03b1\u03b9\u03c4\u03af\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ba\u03b1\u03ba\u03bf\u03cd. \u03a4\u03bf \u03c0\u03b1\u03bb\u03b9\u03cc \u03c1\u03bf\u03bb\u03cc\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bc\u03c0\u03b1\u03bc\u03c0\u03ac.\n\n## _\u03a0\u03bb\u03ac\u03c4\u03b7_\n\n\u0388\u03c7\u03b1\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03bc\u03c0\u03cc\u03c4\u03b5\u03c2 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03ad\u03bc\u03b5\u03b9\u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03ad\u03c3\u03b1 \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1\u03c4\u03af \u03c0\u03bf\u03cd \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c0\u03ac\u03c9 \u03c7\u03c9\u03c1\u03af\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03bc\u03c0\u03cc\u03c4\u03b5\u03c2. \u038c\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd \u03be\u03b7\u03bc\u03ad\u03c1\u03c9\u03c3\u03b5 \u03b5\u03af\u03c7\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c0\u03c1\u03ac\u03c3\u03b9\u03bd\u03b7 \u03ba\u03b1\u03bc\u03c0\u03bf\u03cd\u03c1\u03b1. \u03a3\u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03ba\u03b1\u03b8\u03c1\u03ad\u03c6\u03c4\u03b7 \u03b5\u03af\u03b4\u03b1 \u03cc\u03c4\u03b9 \u03bc\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c6\u03b9\u03c3\u03c4\u03b9\u03ba\u03b9\u03ac \u03c6\u03cd\u03c4\u03c1\u03c9\u03c3\u03b5 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03c0\u03bb\u03ac\u03c4\u03b7 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5. \u039a\u03ac\u03c4\u03c9 \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03c4\u03bf \u03b4\u03ad\u03bd\u03c4\u03c1\u03bf \u03be\u03ac\u03c0\u03bb\u03c9\u03bd\u03b1\u03bd \u03bc\u03b7\u03c4\u03ad\u03c1\u03b5\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c0\u03b1\u03b9\u03b4\u03b9\u03ac \u03b1\u03c0\u03bf\u03bb\u03b1\u03bc\u03b2\u03ac\u03bd\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b7 \u03c3\u03ba\u03b9\u03ac.\n\n## _Depths_\n\n\u0399 have a weight in my belly. I ask them to operate. I hold a scalpel and a ladle to aid the excavation. A little sand and white pebbles at first. I move deeper and stumble upon a soft lump. A mound of seaweed. I keep searching but the scalpel and spoon slide around in vain. All cured? I doubt it. I throw the tools to the side and shove my hands into the burning body. I reach something. A chain. I pull it out. At last, the cause of all the pain. My dad's old watch.\n\nKrystalli Glyniadakis and Chloe Haralambous\n\n## _Back_\n\nI lost my boots and stayed indoors because where could I go without my boots? When dawn broke I had a green humped back. I watched in the mirror as a pistachio tree sprouted between my shoulders. Under the tree mothers and children lay around enjoying the shade.\n\nKrystalli Glyniadakis and Chloe Haralambous\n\n## _\u039f\u03b9\u03ba\u03bf\u03b3\u03ad\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9\u03b1_\n\n\u039a\u03bf\u03b9\u03bc\u03cc\u03bc\u03b1\u03c3\u03c4\u03b5 \u03cc\u03bb\u03bf\u03b9 \u03bc\u03b1\u03b6\u03af \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03ba\u03bf\u03c5\u03b6\u03af\u03bd\u03b1 \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03b2\u03bb\u03ad\u03c0\u03bf\u03c5\u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bb\u03b5\u03cc\u03c1\u03b1\u03c3\u03b7. \u039e\u03b1\u03c0\u03bb\u03ce\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5\u03bc\u03b5 \u03bf \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1\u03c2 \u03c0\u03ac\u03bd\u03c9 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03ac\u03bb\u03bb\u03bf. \u03a0\u03c1\u03ce\u03c4\u03b1 \u03bf \u03bc\u03c0\u03b1\u03bc\u03c0\u03ac\u03c2 \u03bc\u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03cd\u03bc\u03c5\u03c4\u03b1. \u039c\u03b5\u03c4\u03ac \u03b7 \u03bc\u03b1\u03bc\u03ac \u03b1\u03bd\u03ac\u03c3\u03ba\u03b5\u03bb\u03b1. \u0391\u03bd\u03ac\u03bc\u03b5\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03bc\u03c0\u03b1\u03bc\u03c0\u03ac \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7 \u03bc\u03b1\u03bc\u03ac \u03bc\u03c0\u03b1\u03af\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03bf \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1\u03c2 \u03b1\u03b4\u03b5\u03c1\u03c6\u03cc\u03c2. \u0391\u03c0\u03cc \u03c0\u03ac\u03bd\u03c9 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03b4\u03af\u03b4\u03c5\u03bc\u03b1. \u03a3\u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03ba\u03bf\u03c1\u03c5\u03c6\u03ae \u03b7 \u03ba\u03cc\u03c1\u03b7 \u03bc\u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03cd\u03bc\u03c5\u03c4\u03b1. \u039a\u03bf\u03c5\u03b2\u03ad\u03c1\u03c4\u03b5\u03c2 \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03c7\u03c1\u03b5\u03b9\u03ac\u03b6\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1\u03c4\u03af \u03bf \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1\u03c2 \u03b6\u03b5\u03c3\u03c4\u03b1\u03af\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03ac\u03bb\u03bb\u03bf. \u03a3\u03c4\u03bf \u03ba\u03c1\u03b5\u03b2\u03ac\u03c4\u03b9 \u03bc\u03c0\u03bf\u03c1\u03bf\u03cd\u03bd \u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03c0\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03ac\u03bb\u03bb\u03bf\u03b9 \u03c3\u03c5\u03b3\u03b3\u03b5\u03bd\u03b5\u03af\u03c2, \u03b1\u03c1\u03ba\u03b5\u03af \u03bf \u03ba\u03b1\u03b8\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1\u03c2 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03ad\u03c7\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf \u03b4\u03b9\u03ba\u03cc \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bb\u03b5\u03ba\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03c1\u03cc\u03bb.\n\n## _\u03a0\u03c1\u03c9\u03c4\u03bf\u03c7\u03c1\u03bf\u03bd\u03b9\u03ac_\n\n\u03a0\u03c1\u03c9\u03c4\u03bf\u03c7\u03c1\u03bf\u03bd\u03b9\u03ac \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03ad\u03c7\u03bf\u03c5\u03bc\u03b5 \u03b2\u03b1\u03c3\u03b9\u03bb\u03cc\u03c0\u03b9\u03c4\u03b1. \u0395\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03cc\u03bb\u03b1 \u03ba\u03bb\u03b5\u03b9\u03c3\u03c4\u03ac. \u03a0\u03c1\u03bf\u03c3\u03c6\u03ad\u03c1\u03c9 \u03c4\u03bf \u03b1\u03c1\u03b9\u03c3\u03c4\u03b5\u03c1\u03cc \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c3\u03c4\u03ae\u03b8\u03bf\u03c2 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b6\u03b5\u03c3\u03c4\u03cc \u03c3\u03b1\u03bd \u03c4\u03c3\u03bf\u03c5\u03c1\u03ad\u03ba\u03b9. \u039f \u03bc\u03c0\u03b1\u03bc\u03c0\u03ac\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf \u03c7\u03b1\u03c1\u03ac\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03bf \u03bc\u03b1\u03c7\u03b1\u03af\u03c1\u03b9. \u00ab\u03a4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03a7\u03c1\u03b9\u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\u03cd, \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c6\u03c4\u03c9\u03c7\u03bf\u03cd, \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c3\u03c0\u03b9\u03c4\u03b9\u03bf\u03cd, \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bc\u03c0\u03b1\u03bc\u03c0\u03ac, \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03bc\u03b1\u03bc\u03ac\u03c2, \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b1\u03b4\u03b5\u03c1\u03c6\u03bf\u03cd, \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03b1\u03b4\u03b5\u03c1\u03c6\u03ae\u03c2. \u039a\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c7\u03c1\u03cc\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bd\u03b1 '\u03bc\u03b1\u03c3\u03c4\u03b5 \u03ba\u03b1\u03bb\u03ac\u00bb.\n\n## _Family_\n\nWe sleep in the kitchen together so we can watch TV. We lie on top of each other. First Dad on his belly. Then Mother on her back. One brother between them. The twins on top. And finally the daughter face down on top of everyone. We don't need blankets because we keep each other warm. More relatives can fit in the bed if they bring their own remote control.\n\nKrystalli Glyniadakis and Chloe Haralambous\n\n## _New Year's Eve_\n\nNew Year's and no cake. The shops are shut. I offer my left breast, warm as brioche. My father carves it with a knife: 'one for Christ, one for the poor, one for the house, the father, the mother, the brother, the sister. May next year find us all well.'\n\nKrystalli Glyniadakis and Chloe Haralambous\n\n## Krystalli Glyniadakis\n\n#### (Born Athens, Greece, 1979)\n\nKrystalli Glyniadakis is difficult to categorize. She co-hosts a book show on national television; she publishes in major Greek literary magazines like _Nea Estia_ , _Poetics,_ and _The Books Journal_ ; and, like the poets in the final section, she also works between multiple languages, translating and self-translating in Greek, English, and Norwegian. But what makes her work most peculiarly itself is her strong sense \u2013 shared with Eva Stefani (p. 129) and with the other poets in the present grouping \u2013 of poetry as a healing social project. She studied Philosophy and Political Theory at the London School of Economics and Philosophy of Religion at King's College, London, and also holds an MA in Creative Writing from the University of East Anglia.\n\n_\u039b\u03bf\u03bd\u03b4\u03af\u03bd\u03bf\u2013\u0399\u03c3\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd\u03bc\u03c0\u03bf\u03cd\u03bb_ ( _London\u2013Istanbul_ ), Polis, 2009; _\u0391\u03c3\u03c4\u03b9\u03ba\u03ac \u03b5\u03c1\u03b5\u03af\u03c0\u03b9\u03b1 (\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b1\u03bd\u03c4\u03b9\u03c0\u03b5\u03c1\u03b9\u03c3\u03c0\u03b1\u03c3\u03bc\u03bf\u03af)_ ( _Urban Ruins (And Diversions)_ ), Polis, 2014.\n\n## _\u0395\u03b8\u03bd\u03b9\u03ba\u03cc\u03c2 \u038e\u03bc\u03bd\u03bf\u03c2, 2008, Redux_\n\n_\u0393\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u0395\u03cd\u03b1 \u03a3\u03c4\u03b5\u03c6\u03b1\u03bd\u03ae_\n\n\u039f\u03b9 \u03c7\u03bf\u03cd \u03bd\u03c4\u03b5\u03c2 \u03b1\u03c5\u03bd\u03b1\u03bd\u03af\u03b6\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bc\u03b5\u03c4' \u03b5\u03b8\u03bd\u03b9\u03ba\u03ce\u03bd \u03c3\u03c5\u03bc\u03b2\u03cc\u03bb\u03c9\u03bd.\n\n(\u0391\u03c2 \u03ad\u03c1\u03b8\u03b5\u03b9 \u03ba\u03ac\u03c0\u03bf\u03b9\u03bf\u03c2 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c0\u03b5\u03b9\u03c0\u03c9\u03c2 \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bb\u03ac\u03b8\u03bf\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf\u03cd\u03c4\u03bf.)\n\n\u039a\u03b9 \u03b5\u03c3\u03cd \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03bb\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c0\u03c9\u03c2 \u03b7 \u03c0\u03bf\u03bb\u03bb\u03ae \u03b5\u03b8\u03bd\u03bf\u03c6\u03c1\u03bf\u03c3\u03cd\u03bd\u03b7\n\n\u03b2\u03bb\u03ac\u03c0\u03c4\u03b5\u03b9\u00b7\n\n(\u03c4\u03c5\u03c6\u03bb\u03ce\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9)\n\n\u03ba\u03b9 \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03bf\u03af \u03c3\u03b5 \u03c0\u03ac\u03bd\u03b5 \u03bc\u03ad\u03c3\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03bd\u03cc\u03bc\u03bf \u03c0\u03b5\u03c1\u03af \u03b1\u03c3\u03ad\u03bc\u03bd\u03c9\u03bd.\n\n\u0393\u03b9\u03b1 \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03b1\u03b9\u03b4\u03bf\u03af\u03bf, \u03b4\u03b7\u03bb\u03b1\u03b4\u03ae.\n\n\u03a4\u03bf \u03b2\u03c1\u03ac\u03b4\u03c5, \u03c3\u03c0\u03af\u03c4\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2, \u03bf\u03b9 \u03b5\u03b8\u03bd\u03b9\u03ba\u03bf\u03af \u03b7\u03b3\u03ad\u03c4\u03b5\u03c2\n\n(\u03bf\u03b9 \u03c4\u03c9\u03c1\u03b9\u03bd\u03bf\u03af \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bf\u03b9 \u03b5\u03c5\u03b5\u03bb\u03c0\u03b9\u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\u03cd\u03bd\u03c4\u03b5\u03c2)\n\n\u03b1\u03bd\u03ac\u03b2\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03c0\u03ac\u03c1\u03c4\u03b7 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03bc\u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03c3\u03c4\u03ac \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03ba\u03b1\u03b8\u03c1\u03ad\u03c6\u03c4\u03b7.\n\n\u039c\u03b5\u03c4' \u03b5\u03b8\u03bd\u03b9\u03ba\u03ce\u03bd \u03c3\u03c5\u03bc\u03b2\u03cc\u03bb\u03c9\u03bd \u03b1\u03c5\u03bd\u03b1\u03bd\u03af\u03b6\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bf\u03b9 \u03c7\u03bf\u03cd\u03bd\u03c4\u03b5\u03c2.\n\n\u039a\u03b9 \u03bf\u03cd\u03c4' \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03ad\u03c7\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c8\u03c5\u03bb\u03bb\u03b9\u03b1\u03c3\u03c4\u03b5\u03af\n\n\u03c0\u03c9\u03c2 \u03b5\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c1\u03bf\u03b4\u03bf \u03b5\u03c1\u03c9\u03c4\u03b9\u03ba\u03bf \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03c1\u03c5\u03c6\u03b5\u03c1\u03cc\n\n\u03c5\u03c0\u03bf\u03b4\u03b7\u03bb\u03ce\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03b1\u03b3\u03ac\u03c0\u03b7\n\n\u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u03ac\u03b4\u03bf\u03c3\u03b7 \u03ba\u03b9 \u03b5\u03bb\u03b5\u03c5\u03b8\u03b5\u03c1\u03af\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c5\u03bd\u03ac\u03bc\u03b1\n\n\u03b1\u03bd\u03c4\u03af \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b2\u03af\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b1\u03c3\u03ba\u03bf\u03cd\u03bd \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03bf\u03af \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b1\u03ba\u03bf\u03cd\u03bd\n\n\u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03cd\u03bc\u03bd\u03bf \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03ba\u03b1\u03c5\u03bb\u03ce\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd.\n\n\u039c\u03b1 \u03ad\u03c4\u03c3\u03b9 \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03ac\u00b7\n\n\u03b7 \u03b8\u03b7\u03bb\u03c5\u03ba\u03cc\u03c4\u03b7\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c4\u03ad \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03ad\u03c0\u03b5\u03b9\u03c3\u03b5 \u03c4\u03bf \u0388\u03b8\u03bd\u03bf\u03c2.\n\n## _National Anthem, 2008, Redux_\n\n_For Eva Stefani_\n\nJuntas accessorize their wanks with national emblems.\n\n(Am I right?)\n\nYou tell them a citizen can be too upstanding\n\n(easily wilted;\n\nunhinged)\n\nThey lock you up for lewdness.\n\nFor saying cunt, that is.\n\nHome at night, national leaders\n\n\u2013 incumbent or aspiring \u2013\n\nstand stiff and ablaze at the mirror.\n\nJuntas accessorize their wanks with national emblems.\n\nNone of them catches the scent\n\nof a rose hot and tender\n\nhinting at love\n\nlore and freedom\n\nin the rumble of those who get hard\n\nlistening to the national anthem.\n\nSo it goes;\n\nFemininity never satisfied the nation.\n\nChloe Haralambous\n\n## _\u03a4\u03b1 \u03b5\u03c0\u03cc\u03bc\u03b5\u03bd\u03b1 \u03b5\u03ba\u03b1\u03c4\u03cc \u03c7\u03c1\u03cc\u03bd\u03b9\u03b1_\n\n\u0388\u03c0\u03b9\u03b1\u03c3\u03b1 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03b4\u03c9\n\n\u03c4\u03b9 \u03b8\u03b1 '\u03c0\u03c1\u03b5\u03c0\u03b5 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c0\u03c1\u03c9\u03c4\u03bf\u03bc\u03ac\u03b8\u03c9\n\n\u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03b6\u03c9\u03b3\u03c1\u03b1\u03c6\u03af\u03c3\u03c9 \u03b1\u03c0' \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03b1\u03c1\u03c7\u03ae \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03ba\u03cc\u03c3\u03bc\u03bf\u00b7\n\n\u03ba\u03b9 \u03cc\u03bb\u03b1 \u03ad\u03b2\u03b3\u03b1\u03b6\u03b1\u03bd \u03ac\u03b8\u03c1\u03bf\u03b9\u03c3\u03bc\u03b1 \u03b7\u03bb\u03b5\u03ba\u03c4\u03c1\u03bf\u03bd\u03b9\u03ba\u03cc\n\n\u03bf\u03cd\u03c4\u03b5 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5\u03bb\u03b9\u03ac \u03bf\u03cd\u03c4\u03b5 \u03c8\u03ac\u03c1\u03b9\u03b1\n\n\u03bf\u03cd\u03c4\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03af\u03b4\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b1\u03c0' \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03b1\u03c1\u03c7\u03ae\n\n\u03c4\u03af\u03c0\u03bf\u03c4\u03b1 \u03cc\u03c0\u03c9\u03c2 \u03ae\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd\n\n\u03ae \u03cc\u03c0\u03c9\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c7\u03b5\u03b4\u03b9\u03ac\u03b6\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd\u00b7\n\n\u03bc\u03cc\u03bd\u03bf \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03b1\u03c4\u03ad\u03bb\u03b5\u03b9\u03c9\u03c4\u03bf \u03c0\u03bb\u03ad\u03b3\u03bc\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bb\u03b7\u03c1\u03bf\u03c6\u03bf\u03c1\u03b9\u03ce\u03bd\n\n\u03c3' \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03ba\u03cc\u03c3\u03bc\u03bf \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b6\u03c5\u03b3\u03af\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c4' \u03bf\u03c1\u03b8\u03bf\u03bb\u03bf\u03b3\u03b9\u03ba\u03cc\n\n\u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03bf \u03ba\u03b9\u03bb\u03cc \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5\u03bb\u03ac\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c7\u03cd\u03bc\u03b1\n\n\u03c3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b1\u03bd\u03ac\u03b2\u03b9\u03ba\u03b1.\n\n\u039a\u03b1\u03b9 \u03be\u03ad\u03c1\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b9;\n\n\u0394\u03b5 \u03c6\u03bf\u03b2\u03ae\u03b8\u03b7\u03ba\u03b1. \u039a\u03b1\u03b9\u03c1\u03cc\u03c2 \u03bd' \u03b1\u03bb\u03bb\u03ac\u03be\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c0\u03c1\u03ac\u03b3\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1.\n\n\u039a\u03b1\u03b9\u03c1\u03cc\u03c2 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf \u03bd\u03b5\u03c1\u03cc \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf \u03bd\u03b5\u03c1\u03cc\n\n\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c8\u03ac\u03c1\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c8\u03ac\u03c1\u03b9\u03b1\n\n\u03ba\u03b9 \u03bf \u03ac\u03c5\u03bb\u03bf\u03c2, \u03b5\u03bd\u03b1\u03c1\u03b3\u03ae\u03c2 \u03ac\u03bd\u03b8\u03c1\u03c9\u03c0\u03bf\u03c2\n\n\u03bd\u03b1 \u03b5\u03c0\u03b9\u03c3\u03c4\u03c1\u03ad\u03c8\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03b1\u03c3\u03c4\u03c1\u03cc\u03c3\u03ba\u03bf\u03bd\u03b7\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c7\u03b1\u03b8\u03b5\u03af\u00b7 \u03bf\u03cd\u03c4\u03b5 \u03bf\u03af\u03ba\u03c4\u03bf\u03c2\n\n\u03bf\u03cd\u03c4\u03b5 \u03c0\u03b5\u03c1\u03b7\u03c6\u03ac\u03bd\u03b9\u03b1\n\n\u03bf\u03cd\u03c4\u03b5 \u03b4\u03b9\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9\u03bf\u03c3\u03cd\u03bd\u03b7.\n\n\u039c\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c3\u03b9\u03c9\u03c0\u03ae \u03bc\u03bf\u03bd\u03ac\u03c7\u03b1, \u03ba\u03bf\u03c3\u03bc\u03b9\u03ba\u03ae\n\n\u03ba\u03b9 \u03b5\u03bc\u03b5\u03af\u03c2 \u03b1\u03c3\u03c4\u03c1\u03ac\u03ba\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b1\u03bd\u03ac\u03b2\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03bd\u03cd\u03c7\u03c4\u03b5\u03c2\n\n\u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03b1\u03b9\u03ce\u03bd\u03b9\u03bf \u03ba\u03b9 \u03b1\u03c0\u03ad\u03c1\u03b1\u03bd\u03c4\u03bf \u03c3\u03ba\u03bf\u03c4\u03ac\u03b4\u03b9.\n\n## _The Next Hundred Years_\n\nSo I sat me down to see\n\nwhat it is that I should learn\n\nand master in order\n\nto repaint the world anew;\n\nand all figures and all\n\nsums\n\ncame up electronic:\n\nno birds or fish\n\nnothing of the same\n\nnothing as it is\n\nnothing as they plan\n\njust an endless net of information\n\nweighed down by science, cut\n\nand sold by the pound\n\nin grocery stores.\n\nAnd I was not afraid.\n\nIt's due time things change\n\nit's time the water be left untouched,\n\nthe birds be for the birds,\n\nit's time that Man \u2013 spiritual, pellucid \u2013\n\nreturn to stardust\n\nand be gone; no mercy\n\nand no pride\n\nand no more talk of justice.\n\nJust cosmic stillness.\n\nAnd we, the little stars that light\n\nup in this eternal darkness.\n\nSelf-translated\n\n## III\n\n## Unjust Punishment\n\n#### Poets Online\n\nThough Greek poets have been blogging and disseminating their work outside of the usual channels since the late 1990s, it was not until the crisis broke that groups began to form and organize into recognizable entities. Of these, the online magazines _e-poema_ (2006\u2013), _Greek Poetry Now_ (2009\u2013), and especially _\u03a4\u03ad\u03c6\u03bb\u03bf\u03bd_ ( _Teflon,_ 2009\u2013), with its accompanying print version, are perhaps the most representative. Founded by Jazra Khaleed and Kyoko Kishida and enjoying strong female involvement from the start (Pavlina Marvin, Danae Sioziou), _Teflon_ is very much the product of the blog communities that birthed it. It continues their aesthetic of pop culture-influenced 'fast' poetry, turning the language of newspapers, magazines, and advertising to counter-cultural ends; it is angry, full of blood, guts, and frank references to sex, and there are associations, especially on Khaleed's part, with the highly politicized Greek rap scene. Within these horizons, the poets' output is eclectic: what connects them, besides their online presence, is that they all place themselves outside of recognizable traditions, drawing instead on their own personal pantheons. Kishida is influenced by Japanese art and translated in Japan. Danae Sioziou brings influences shared with the poets of 'Myth and Medicine', most notably Miltos Sachtouris and Katerina Anghelaki-Rooke, into the _Teflon_ camp. Stathis Baroutsos's queer aesthetic points to another strong current in internet poetry, but, like Yannis Moundelas, he aims to be completely independent, circulating his poems exclusively as a kind of digital samizdat and never putting them in print. Thomas Ioannou may provide the best proof of this medium's reach: far from the traditional image of the activist, he is a neurologist whose political poetry struck a chord and went viral.\n\n## Kyoko Kishida\n\n#### (Born Greece, 1983)\n\nKyoko Kishida (a pen name, taken from the Japanese actress best known for her role in the 1964 film _The Woman in the Dunes_ ) publishes all of her poetry with _Teflon_ , the magazine she founded with Jazra Khaleed. The first issue, which included everything from Langston Hughes to Yusef Kumunyakaa, described poetry as food 'witch-cooked, but also served raw'; the formulation could apply just as well to Kishida's own poems, which often read like improvisational, momentary realizations of thoughts and thought-patterns which have long been brewing under the surface. She also writes essays and translates, most recently from the poetry of the African American lesbian poets Pat Parker and Cheryl Clarke.\n\n## _\u039f\u03b9 \u03ad\u03ba\u03c6\u03c5\u03bb\u03b5\u03c2 \u03ae\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd \u03c6\u03af\u03bb\u03b5\u03c2 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5_\n\n\u039c' \u03b1\u03c1\u03ad\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf \u03c3\u03c0\u03ac\u03c3\u03b9\u03bc\u03bf \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03b3\u03c1\u03b1\u03bc\u03bc\u03b9\u03ba\u03cc\u03c4\u03b7\u03c4\u03b1\u03c2\n\n\u0397 \u03c4\u03ad\u03c7\u03bd\u03b7 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b5\u03bd\u03ad\u03c7\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c0\u03b5\u03c1\u03b9\u03c3\u03c3\u03cc\u03c4\u03b5\u03c1\u03b5\u03c2 \u03b1\u03b9\u03c3\u03b8\u03ae\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2\n\n\u039d\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b7 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b1\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03ac\u03c2 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c4\u03ad \u03bd\u03b1 \u03ba\u03ac\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03b5\u03c1\u03c9\u03c4\u03ae\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2\n\n\u03a3' \u03cc\u03bc\u03bf\u03c1\u03c6\u03b1 \u03bd\u03c4\u03c5\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b5\u03c2 \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c4\u03c1\u03b1\u03b2\u03ac\u03c2\n\n\u03ba\u03bf\u03c5\u03c0\u03af \u03bc\u03b5 \u03cc\u03c1\u03b5\u03be\u03b7 \u03b8\u03b5\u03c9\u03c1\u03af\u03b5\u03c2\n\n\u2013 \u03a4\u03c1\u03b9\u03b3\u03cd\u03c1\u03c9 \u03c7\u03b5\u03b9\u03c1\u03b1\u03b3\u03ce\u03b3\u03b7\u03c3\u03b7 \u03c4\u03c9\u03bd \u03ba\u03bb\u03af\u03c3\u03b5\u03c9\u03bd\n\n\u039f\u03b4\u03bf\u03bc\u03b1\u03c7\u03af\u03b5\u03c2, \u03c3\u03c5\u03bd\u03b8\u03ae\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1, \u03ba\u03c5\u03bd\u03b7\u03b3\u03b7\u03c4\u03ac\n\n\u039f\u03b9 \u03c7\u03b5\u03b9\u03c1\u03cc\u03c4\u03b5\u03c1\u03bf\u03b9 \u03b5\u03c7\u03b8\u03c1\u03bf\u03af \u03c4\u03c1\u03c5\u03c0\u03ce\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\u03bb\u03c9\u03c7\u03c4\u03ac \u2013\n\n\u03a3\u03c4\u03bf \u03b2\u03ac\u03b8\u03bf\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bf\u03c1\u03af\u03b6\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf \u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u03b1\u03c0\u03ad\u03c4\u03b1\u03c3\u03bc\u03b1 \u03c3\u03ba\u03af\u03b6\u03b5\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9\n\n\u039f\u03b9 \u0388\u03ba\u03c6\u03c5\u03bb\u03b5\u03c2 \u03b4\u03b5 \u03b8\u03b1 \u03c3\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u03c0\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03cc\u03c4\u03b9 \u03ae\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd \u03b5\u03ba\u03b5\u03af\n\n\u0388\u03c7\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03c3\u03b1\u03bb\u03c0\u03ac\u03c1\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c3\u03b5 \u03bc\u03c0\u03ac\u03c3\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2\n\n\u03c9\u03ba\u03b5\u03b1\u03bd\u03bf\u03cd\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9\u03c1\u03cc \u03c4\u03ce\u03c1\u03b1\n\n\u03a4' \u03b1\u03bb\u03b1\u03c4\u03b9\u03c3\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03ac\u03c4\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2\n\n\u03b4\u03b9\u03b1\u03c4\u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c6\u03c9\u03c4\u03bf\u03b2\u03cc\u03bb\u03b1 \u03ad\u03c7\u03b8\u03c1\u03b7\u03c4\u03b1\n\n\u03a3\u03c4\u03c1\u03bf\u03b2\u03bf\u03c3\u03ba\u03bf\u03c0\u03b9\u03ba\u03ad\u03c2 \u03b2\u03c1\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03ad\u03c2\n\n\u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b1\u03ba\u03bf\u03c1\u03b1\u03bc\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03ba\u03bf\u03c5\u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\u03cd\u03bc\u03b9\u03b1\n\n## _Degenerate Girls Were My Girlfriends_\n\nI like the fracturing of linearity\n\nArt that involves more senses\n\nAsking questions non-stop\n\nTo row with gusto\n\nto beautifully dressed scenes\n\nLeading clich\u00e9s around by the hand\n\nStreetfights, codes, hunts\n\nThe worst enemies burrowing in deep\n\nThe curtain back in the skyline's coming apart\n\nThe Degenerate Girls won't\n\ntell you they were there\n\nThey've set sail on shrinking\n\noceans for some time now\n\nTheir salted eyes\n\ntighten luminous hostilities\n\nStrobe-lighten thunderclaps\n\nfor poorly tailored outfits\n\nGeorge Economou\n\n## _Kleine Nachtmusik_\n\n\u0395\u03af\u03c0\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03bc\u03ad\u03c1\u03b5\u03c2 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b1\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03ae\u03c3\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03c1\u03bf\u03b2\u03b9\u03bb\u03af\u03b6\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c6\u03ce\u03bb\u03b9\u03b1\u03c3\u03b1 \u03bc\u03ad\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03b2\u03ac\u03b6\u03bf \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b7 \u03bc\u03b1\u03c1\u03bc\u03b5\u03bb\u03ac\u03b4\u03b1\n\n\u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b7 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03b2\u03c1\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03bf\u03b9 \u03ba\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1\u03b4\u03cc\u03c4\u03b5\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b9 \u03bf\u03b9 \u03b1\u03bc\u03c6\u03b5\u03c4\u03b1\u03bc\u03b9\u03bd\u03b9\u03ba\u03bf\u03af \u03c0\u03b1\u03bb\u03bc\u03bf\u03af.\n\n\u039d\u03b1 \u03b4\u03c9 \u03b5\u03c3\u03cd\n\n\u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c0\u03cc\u03c3\u03bf \u03b1\u03ba\u03cc\u03bc\u03b1 \u03b8\u03b1 \u03ba\u03c1\u03b1\u03c4\u03ac\u03c2 \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03cc \u03c4\u03bf \u03c0\u03b9\u03c3\u03c4\u03cc\u03bb\u03b9 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03ba\u03c1\u03cc\u03c4\u03b1\u03c6\u03bf \u03c4\u03c9\u03bd \u03b7\u03bc\u03b5\u03c1\u03ce\u03bd\n\n\u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03ba\u03c1\u03c5\u03c6\u03ae \u03bb\u03b1\u03c7\u03c4\u03ac\u03c1\u03b1 \u03b5\u03bd\u03cc\u03c2 \u03ba\u03c5\u03ba\u03bb\u03ac\u03bc\u03b9\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03ba\u03ac\u03bd\u03bd\u03b7.\n\n\u039f\u03b9 \u03ba\u03cc\u03c1\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c4\u03c9\u03bd \u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03b9\u03ce\u03bd \u03c3\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b8\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b5\u03c4\u03bf\u03b9\u03ba\u03ae\u03c3\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03c3\u03cd\u03bd\u03c4\u03bf\u03bc\u03b1\n\n\u03c3\u03b5 \u03ac\u03bb\u03bb\u03bf \u03b3\u03b1\u03bb\u03b1\u03be\u03af\u03b1.\n\n\u039a\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b9 \u03b8\u03b1 \u03ba\u03ac\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c4\u03cc\u03c4\u03b5 \u03bc\u03cc\u03bd\u03bf\u03c2 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03b3\u03ba\u03b9\u03ce\u03bd\u03b7\u03b4\u03b5\u03c2\n\n\u03c0\u03ac\u03bd\u03c9 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7 \u03c3\u03c4\u03ad\u03b3\u03b7;\n\n## _Kleine Nachtmusik_\n\nI told the days to stop whirling\n\nand I made myself a nest in the jam jar\n\nso that traitors and amphetamine pulses\n\nwon't find me.\n\nNow let me see\n\nhow much longer you'll hold this pistol to the temple of the days\n\nwith the hidden desire of a cyclamen in its barrel\n\nSoon your pupils will emigrate\n\nto another galaxy\n\nAnd then what will you do alone\n\nwith the screech owls on the roof?\n\nRachel Hadas\n\n## _\u03a4\u03bf \u03b2\u03b9\u03bf\u03bb\u03af_\n\n\u00ab\u039a\u03ac\u03b8\u03b5 \u03bc\u03ae\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf \u03af\u03b4\u03b9\u03bf \u03b2\u03b9\u03bf\u03bb\u03af!\u00bb\n\n\u03a0\u03b1\u03bb\u03af\u03c1\u03c1\u03bf\u03b9\u03b1 \u039b\u03ac\u03b2\u03b1 \u03a3\u03ba\u03cc\u03c4\u03bf\u03c2 \u03a6\u03ad\u03be\u03b7\n\n\u03a4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03bc\u03ae\u03c4\u03c1\u03b1\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c6\u03af\u03be\u03b7 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b4\u03b9\u03b1\u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\u03bb\u03ae\n\n\u039f\u03b9 \u03b1\u03b9\u03ce\u03bd\u03b5\u03c2 \u03b9\u03b5\u03c1\u03bf\u03c5\u03c1\u03b3\u03bf\u03cd\u03bd \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03ba\u03cd\u03ba\u03bb\u03bf\n\n\u03a0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bc\u03b1\u03c2 '\u03bc\u03ac\u03b8\u03b1\u03bd \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c6\u03c1\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03af\u03b6\u03bf\u03c5\u03bc\u03b5 \u03bf\u03b9 \u03bc\u03b1\u03bd\u03ac\u03b4\u03b5\u03c2\n\n\u03a9\u03c2 \u03bc\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b1\u03bd\u03c9\u03bc\u03b1\u03bb\u03af\u03b1 \u03c5\u03b3\u03b9\u03b5\u03b9\u03bd\u03ae\u03c2\n\n\u0395\u03ba\u03c6\u03c5\u03bb\u03b9\u03c3\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b5\u03c2 \u03bc\u03ac\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c5\u03bd\u03c4\u03bf\u03bd\u03af\u03b6\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03c6\u03b5\u03c1\u03bf\u03bc\u03cc\u03bd\u03b5\u03c2\n\n\u03a4\u03c9\u03bd \u03ac\u03c3\u03b7\u03c0\u03c4\u03c9\u03bd \u03bd\u03bf\u03b9\u03ba\u03bf\u03ba\u03c5\u03c1\u03ce\u03bd \u03b5\u03c7\u03b8\u03c1\u03bf\u03af\n\n\u039c\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b7\u03bd\u03b9\u03b1\u03af\u03b1 \u03bd\u03b5\u03cd\u03c1\u03c9\u03c3\u03b7\n\n\u03a0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c0\u03bb\u03ad\u03bf\u03bd \u03ba\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1\u03c3\u03c4\u03ad\u03bb\u03bb\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03bc\u03b5 \u03bf\u03c0\u03b9\u03bf\u03b5\u03b9\u03b4\u03ae\n\n\u03a0\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf \u03b2\u03b9\u03bf\u03bb\u03af \u03ae \u03ba\u03cc\u03ba\u03ba\u03b9\u03bd\u03bf \u03bb\u03bf\u03c5\u03bb\u03bf\u03cd\u03b4\u03b9 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b1\u03bd\u03b8\u03b5\u03af\n\n\u03a3\u03b5 \u03c0\u03b5\u03af\u03c3\u03bc\u03b1 \u03c4\u03c9\u03bd \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9\u03c1\u03ce\u03bd \u03c4\u03bf \u03bc\u03ac\u03c4\u03b9 \u03ba\u03bb\u03b5\u03af\u03c3\u03b5 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7 \u03c3\u03b5\u03bb\u03ae\u03bd\u03b7\n\n\u03a4\u03bf \u03b1\u03af\u03bc\u03b1 \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03c4\u03b7 \u03bc\u03ae\u03c4\u03c1\u03b1 \u03c3\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b5\u03bd\u03ce \u03c1\u03ad\u03b5\u03b9 \u03be\u03b5\u03c3\u03b7\u03ba\u03ce\u03c3\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u039d\u03b9\u03ce\u03c3\u03b5: \u039a\u0391\u0399\u039d\u039f\u03a5\u03a1\u0399\u0391!\n\n\u0391\u03a3\u03a4\u03a1\u0391\u03a6\u03a4\u0395\u03a1\u0397!\n\n\u0394\u03a5\u039d\u0391\u03a4\u0397!\n\n## _The Violin_\n\n'Every month the same plaintive song!'\n\nTide Lava Darkness Dawn\n\nThe womb tightens and dilates\n\nCenturies officiate the cycle\n\nOur mothers taught us to tend\n\nAs an anomaly of hygiene\n\nOur degenerate pheromones coordinate us\n\nEnemies of the aseptic housewives\n\nA monthly neurosis\n\nBy now controlled with opiates\n\nCall it a plaintive violin or a red mandarin\n\nIn defiance of time wink at the moon\n\nDespite the blood that flows from your womb\n\nRise up!\n\nFeel: NEW!\n\nDAZZLING BRIGHT!\n\nEXTRA STRONG!\n\nKaren Van Dyck\n\n## _\u039b\u03c9\u03c4\u03bf\u03c6\u03ac\u03b3\u03bf\u03b9_\n\n\u0391\u03c5\u03c4\u03ae \u03b7 \u03c3\u03b9\u03c9\u03c0\u03b7\u03bb\u03ae \u03ba\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd\u03cc\u03b7\u03c3\u03b7\n\n\u03b4\u03b5 \u03c7\u03c9\u03c1\u03ac \u03c3\u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03bd\u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03b6\u03af\u03bd\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c7\u03c1\u03cc\u03bd\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b4\u03cc\u03b8\u03b7\u03ba\u03b1\u03bd.\n\n\u03a6\u03cc\u03bd\u03b5\u03c5\u03c3\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b7.\n\n\u0394\u03b7\u03bb\u03b7\u03c4\u03b7\u03c1\u03af\u03b1\u03c3\u03ad \u03c4\u03b7 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b1\u03b4\u03b9\u03b1\u03ba\u03ac\n\n\u03cc\u03c0\u03c9\u03c2 \u03bc\u03cc\u03bb\u03c5\u03bd\u03b5 \u03ba\u03b9 \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03ae \u03b5\u03bc\u03ac\u03c2\n\n\u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c0\u03ac\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03b1\u03c0\u03bf\u03c3\u03c4\u03c1\u03b5\u03c6\u03cc\u03bc\u03b1\u03c3\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd.\n\n\u03a0\u03bf\u03b9\u03bf\u03c2 \u03c6\u03cd\u03c4\u03b5\u03c8\u03b5 \u03c7\u03b1\u03bb\u03af\u03ba\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bc\u03ad\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03b6\u03b1\u03c7\u03b1\u03c1\u03c9\u03c4\u03ac;\n\n\u03a0\u03bf\u03b9\u03bf\u03c2 \u03ad\u03b4\u03b5\u03c3\u03b5 \u03b1\u03bc\u03cc\u03bd\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c6\u03c4\u03b5\u03c1\u03ac \u03c4\u03c9\u03bd \u03b3\u03bb\u03ac\u03c1\u03c9\u03bd;\n\n\u0393\u03b9\u03b1\u03c4\u03af \u03c7\u03c1\u03b7\u03c3\u03b9\u03bc\u03bf\u03c0\u03bf\u03b9\u03bf\u03cd\u03bc\u03b5 \u03b1\u03ba\u03cc\u03bc\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf \u03b5\u03c0\u03af\u03c1\u03c1\u03b7\u03bc\u03b1 \u00ab\u03c3\u03c4\u03c9\u03b9\u03ba\u03ac\u00bb;\n\n\u03a3\u03b5\u03b2\u03b1\u03c3\u03bc\u03cc;\n\n\u03a3\u03b5 \u03c0\u03bf\u03b9\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2;\n\n\u03a3\u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03bb\u03c9\u03c4\u03bf\u03c6\u03ac\u03b3\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2;\n\n## _The Lotus Eaters_\n\nThis unspoken understanding\n\ndoesn't fit into the dozens of years I have left.\n\nMurder it.\n\nPoison it piecemeal\n\njust as it contaminated us \u2013\n\nwe who had always turned away from here.\n\nWho planted pebbles in the candy?\n\nWho tied anvils to the seagulls' wings?\n\nWhy do we still use the adverb 'stoically'?\n\nRespect?\n\nFor whom?\n\nFor the lotus eaters?\n\nRachel Hadas\n\n## _\u039b\u03af\u03b2\u03b1\u03c2 \u03ae \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c6\u03bf\u03c5\u03c3\u03ac\u03c4\u03b1_\n\n\u0397 \u03bc\u03ad\u03c1\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b8\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b1\u03bf\u03cd\u03bd\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u03c4\u03ac\n\n\u03c0\u03c1\u03ad\u03c0\u03b5\u03b9 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c3\u03b5 \u03b2\u03c1\u03b5\u03b9 \u03ad\u03c4\u03bf\u03b9\u03bc\u03bf.\n\n\u0391\u03bd \u03ad\u03c7\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03bb\u03ac\u03b2\u03b5\u03b9 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c3\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ba\u03cc\u03c8\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c6\u03c4\u03b5\u03c1\u03ac\n\n\u03be\u03b1\u03bc\u03cc\u03bb\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b9\u03b1 \u03ba\u03c1\u03b1\u03c5\u03b3\u03ae\n\n\u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03c6\u03c4\u03ac\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9 \u03b5\u03ba\u03b5\u03af \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b8\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b5\u03af\u03bc\u03b1\u03b9\n\n\u03c0\u03c1\u03b9\u03bd \u03b1\u03c0' \u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c6\u03bb\u03cc\u03b3\u03b5\u03c2.\n\n\u0393\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03b5\u03c0\u03cc\u03bc\u03b5\u03bd\u03b5\u03c2 \u03bc\u03ad\u03c1\u03b5\u03c2 \u03b8\u03b1 \u03ba\u03c1\u03cd\u03b2\u03bf\u03bc\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03b8\u03b7\u03bc\u03c9\u03bd\u03b9\u03ad\u03c2,\n\n\u03bd\u03b1 \u03be\u03ad\u03c1\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2.\n\n\u03a4\u03bf \u03bd\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c3\u03bf\u03c5:\n\n\u03c3\u03b9\u03bc\u03ac \u03b8\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u03b1\u03c7\u03b8\u03bf\u03cd\u03bd \u03cc\u03bb\u03b1 \u03c4' \u03b1\u03b7\u03b4\u03cc\u03bd\u03b9\u03b1.\n\n\u03a0\u03c1\u03ad\u03c0\u03b5\u03b9 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03b2\u03c1\u03bf\u03cd\u03bc\u03b5 \u03b3\u03c1\u03ae\u03b3\u03bf\u03c1\u03b1\n\n\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c5\u03c0\u03cc\u03b3\u03b5\u03b9\u03bf \u03c6\u03c1\u03ad\u03b1\u03c1\n\n\u03b4\u03c1\u03bf\u03c3\u03b5\u03c1\u03cc\n\n\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b1\u03c5\u03c1\u03ce\u03c3\u03bf\u03c5\u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c3\u03ce\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b1\u03c2\n\n\u03c4\u03bf '\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c0\u03ac\u03bd\u03c9 \u03c3\u03c4' \u03ac\u03bb\u03bb\u03bf.\n\n\u0398\u03ac\u03bc\u03b2\u03bf\u03c2\n\n\u03b5\u03bd\u03ac\u03bd\u03c4\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03c4\u03ad\u03bb\u03bf\u03c2 \u03c4\u03c9\u03bd \u03b7\u03bc\u03b5\u03c1\u03ce\u03bd.\n\n## _Sirocco or Soldiery_\n\nThe day they burn the crops\n\nyou must be ready.\n\nIf they've already cut off your wings\n\nlet out a scream\n\nto catch me where I'll be lying\n\nbefore the flames arrive.\n\nThe next days I'll be hiding in the haystacks \u2013\n\njust so you know. And bear in mind:\n\nright there all the nightingales will be torn in pieces.\n\nWe'll have to find \u2013 and quickly \u2013\n\nan underground well\n\nthat is cool\n\nto crucify our bodies\n\none on top of the other.\n\nA murkiness\n\nagainst the end of days.\n\nRachel Hadas\n\n## Jazra Khaleed\n\n#### (Born Chechnya, 1979)\n\nThe engaged politics and, in the original Greek, the rhyme schemes of Jazra Khaleed's poetry owe much to the anti-fascist rap scene in Greece. His works are protests against the injustices in contemporary Greece, especially the growing racism; his poetry and performances have been described by the international press as 'possessing the kind of energy that pervades the riots on the streets of Athens'. The film rendition of his poem about the refugee situation, 'The AEGEAN or the Anus of Death', won prizes at the Paris Festival for Different and Experimental Cinema and the Balkans Beyond Borders Short Film Festival. His poems have been widely translated for publications in Europe, the US, and Japan. As a founding co-editor of _Teflon_ , and particularly through his own translations published there, he has introduced the works of Amiri Baraka, Keston Sutherland, and many other political and experimental poets to a Greek readership. He also writes on topics as varied as Aborigines and hip hop. He lives in Exarchia, the inner-city Athens neighborhood most associated with protests and police violence. His poetry blog is jazrakhaleed.blogspot.gr.\n\n## _W\u00f6rter_\n\n\u0394\u03b5\u03bd \u03ad\u03c7\u03c9 \u03c0\u03b1\u03c4\u03c1\u03af\u03b4\u03b1\n\n\u039a\u03b1\u03c4\u03bf\u03b9\u03ba\u03ce \u03bc\u03ad\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03bb\u03ad\u03be\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2\n\n\u039c\u03b1\u03c5\u03c1\u03bf\u03c6\u03bf\u03c1\u03b5\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b5\u03c2\n\n\u0391\u03b9\u03c7\u03bc\u03ac\u03bb\u03c9\u03c4\u03b5\u03c2\n\n\u039c\u03bf\u03c5\u03c3\u03c4\u03b1\u03c6\u03ac X\u03b1\u03b3\u03b9\u03ac\u03c4\u03b9, \u03bc' \u03b1\u03ba\u03bf\u03cd\u03c2;\n\n\u03a3\u03c4\u03b7 \u03b3\u03bb\u03ce\u03c3\u03c3\u03b1 \u03b5\u03b4\u03c1\u03b5\u03cd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03b7 \u03b5\u03be\u03bf\u03c5\u03c3\u03af\u03b1\n\n\u039c\u03ad\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03c0\u03b5\u03c1\u03b9\u03c0\u03bf\u03bb\u03b5\u03af \u03b7 \u03b1\u03c3\u03c4\u03c5\u03bd\u03bf\u03bc\u03af\u03b1\n\n\u0394\u03b5 \u03c7\u03c1\u03b5\u03b9\u03b1\u03b6\u03cc\u03bc\u03b1\u03c3\u03c4\u03b5 \u03ac\u03bb\u03bb\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03c0\u03bf\u03b9\u03b7\u03c4\u03b9\u03ba\u03bf\u03cd\u03c2 \u03ba\u03cd\u03ba\u03bb\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2\n\n\u0394\u03b5 \u03c7\u03c1\u03b5\u03b9\u03b1\u03b6\u03cc\u03bc\u03b1\u03c3\u03c4\u03b5 \u03ac\u03bb\u03bb\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03c3\u03b5\u03c6\u03ad\u03c1\u03b7\u03b4\u03b5\u03c2\n\n\u03a3\u03c4\u03b7 \u03b3\u03b5\u03b9\u03c4\u03bf\u03bd\u03b9\u03ac \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b8\u03c5\u03c3\u03b9\u03ac\u03b6\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u03b8\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03c0\u03bf\u03b9\u03b7\u03c4\u03ad\u03c2\n\n\u03a1\u03ac\u03c0\u03b5\u03c1\u03c2 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c3\u03ba\u03bf\u03bd\u03b9\u03c3\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03ac\u03c4\u03b9\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c6\u03b1\u03c1\u03b4\u03b9\u03ac \u03c0\u03b1\u03bd\u03c4\u03b5\u03bb\u03cc\u03bd\u03b9\u03b1\n\n\u03c3\u03c0\u03c1\u03ce\u03c7\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03c1\u03af\u03bc\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c3\u03b5 \u03c0\u03b9\u03c4\u03c3\u03b9\u03c1\u03af\u03ba\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c3\u03bd\u03b9\u03c6\u03ac\u03c1\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03bb\u03ad\u03be\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2\n\n\u039d\u03b1 \u03c0\u03ad\u03c6\u03c4\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03be\u03b1\u03bd\u03b1\u03c3\u03b7\u03ba\u03ce\u03bd\u03b5\u03c3\u03b1\u03b9: \u03b7 \u03c4\u03ad\u03c7\u03bd\u03b7 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c0\u03bf\u03b9\u03b7\u03c4\u03ae\n\n\u0396\u03b1\u03bd \u0396\u03b5\u03bd\u03ad, \u03bc' \u03b1\u03ba\u03bf\u03cd\u03c2;\n\n\u039f\u03b9 \u03bb\u03ad\u03be\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03ac\u03c3\u03c4\u03b5\u03b3\u03b5\u03c2\n\n\u039a\u03bf\u03b9\u03bc\u03bf\u03cd\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b1\u03b3\u03ba\u03ac\u03ba\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u039a\u03bb\u03b1\u03c5\u03b8\u03bc\u03ce\u03bd\u03bf\u03c2\n\n\u03c3\u03ba\u03b5\u03c0\u03b1\u03c3\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b5\u03c2 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c7\u03b1\u03c1\u03c4\u03cc\u03ba\u03bf\u03c5\u03c4\u03b1 \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03c4\u03bf Ikea\n\n\u039f\u03b9 \u03bb\u03ad\u03be\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03bc\u03b9\u03bb\u03ac\u03bd\u03b5 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03b5\u03b9\u03b4\u03ae\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2\n\n\u039a\u03ac\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03c0\u03b5\u03b6\u03bf\u03b4\u03c1\u03cc\u03bc\u03b9\u03bf \u03ba\u03ac\u03b8\u03b5 \u03b2\u03c1\u03ac\u03b4\u03c5\n\n\u039f\u03b9 \u03bb\u03ad\u03be\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03bb\u03b5\u03c4\u03ac\u03c1\u03b9\u03c3\u03c3\u03b5\u03c2, \u03c3\u03ba\u03bb\u03ac\u03b2\u03b5\u03c2 \u03cc\u03c0\u03c9\u03c2 \u03b5\u03b3\u03ce\n\n\u0394\u03bf\u03c5\u03bb\u03b5\u03cd\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03c3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c6\u03b1\u03c3\u03bf\u03bd\u03ac\u03b4\u03b9\u03ba\u03b1 \u03bc\u03ad\u03c1\u03b1 \u03bd\u03cd\u03c7\u03c4\u03b1\n\n\u0394\u03b5 \u03b8\u03ad\u03bb\u03c9 \u03ac\u03bb\u03bb\u03b1 \u03bc\u03bf\u03b9\u03c1\u03bf\u03bb\u03cc\u03b3\u03b9\u03b1\n\n\u0394\u03b5 \u03b8\u03ad\u03bb\u03c9 \u03ac\u03bb\u03bb\u03b1 \u03c1\u03ae\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bd' \u03b1\u03bd\u03ae\u03ba\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03ac\u03bc\u03b1\u03c7\u03bf \u03c0\u03bb\u03b7\u03b8\u03c5\u03c3\u03bc\u03cc\n\n\u03a7\u03c1\u03b5\u03b9\u03ac\u03b6\u03bf\u03bc\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bc\u03b9\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9\u03bd\u03bf\u03cd\u03c1\u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b3\u03bb\u03ce\u03c3\u03c3\u03b1, \u03cc\u03c7\u03b9 \u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03b2\u03b1\u03c4\u03b6\u03b9\u03bb\u03af\u03ba\u03b9\u03b1\n\n\u03a0\u03b5\u03c1\u03b9\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03c9 \u03bc\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b5\u03c0\u03b1\u03bd\u03ac\u03c3\u03c4\u03b1\u03c3\u03b7 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03b5\u03c6\u03b5\u03cd\u03c1\u03b5\u03b9\n\n\u03a0\u03bf\u03b8\u03ce \u03c4\u03b7 \u03b3\u03bb\u03ce\u03c3\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c4\u03b1\u03be\u03b9\u03ba\u03bf\u03cd \u03b1\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03b3\u03c9\u03bd\u03b9\u03c3\u03bc\u03bf\u03cd\n\n\u039c\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b3\u03bb\u03ce\u03c3\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ad\u03c7\u03b5\u03b9 \u03b3\u03b5\u03c5\u03c4\u03b5\u03af \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03b5\u03be\u03ad\u03b3\u03b5\u03c1\u03c3\u03b7\n\n\u0398\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03ba\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1\u03c3\u03ba\u03b5\u03c5\u03ac\u03c3\u03c9!\n\n\u0391\u03c7, \u03c4\u03b9 \u03b1\u03bb\u03b1\u03b6\u03bf\u03bd\u03b5\u03af\u03b1\n\n\u0395\u03bd\u03c4\u03ac\u03be\u03b5\u03b9, \u03c6\u03b5\u03cd\u03b3\u03c9\n\n\u039c\u03b1 \u03ba\u03bf\u03af\u03c4\u03b1, \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03c0\u03c1\u03cc\u03c3\u03c9\u03c0\u03cc \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c7\u03b1\u03c1\u03ac\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9 \u03b7 \u03b1\u03c5\u03b3\u03ae \u03bc\u03b9\u03b1\u03c2 \u03bd\u03ad\u03b1\u03c2 \u03c0\u03bf\u03af\u03b7\u03c3\u03b7\u03c2\n\n\u039a\u03b1\u03bc\u03b9\u03ac \u03bb\u03ad\u03be\u03b7 \u03b4\u03b5 \u03b8\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03b1\u03b9\u03c7\u03bc\u03ac\u03bb\u03c9\u03c4\u03b7 \u03c0\u03af\u03c3\u03c9\n\n\u0391\u03bd\u03b1\u03b6\u03b7\u03c4\u03ce \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c0\u03ad\u03c1\u03b1\u03c3\u03bc\u03b1\n\n## _\u03a1\u03b5\u03c6\u03c1\u03ad\u03bd_\n\n\u039c\u03b5 \u03bb\u03ad\u03bd\u03b5 \u0393-\u0399-\u0391-\u0396-\u03a1-\u0391\n\n\u0393\u03b5\u03bd\u03bd\u03ae\u03b8\u03b7\u03ba\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u0394\u03cd\u03c3\u03b7\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf \u03c3\u03ba\u03bf\u03c4\u03ac\u03b4\u03b9\n\n\u039b\u03b1\u03b8\u03c1\u03b1\u03af\u03bf\u03c2 \u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03c9 \u03c3\u03b5 \u03c0\u03b5\u03af\u03c3\u03bc\u03b1 \u03b1\u03c1\u03b9\u03c3\u03c4\u03b5\u03c1\u03ce\u03bd\n\n\u038c\u03bc\u03bf\u03c1\u03c6\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b5\u03c1\u03bd\u03ac \u03c4\u03bf \u03b2\u03c1\u03ac\u03b4\u03c5\n\n\u03c4\u03c3\u03b1\u03ba\u03af\u03b6\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b5\u03c6\u03ac\u03bb\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c6\u03b1\u03c3\u03b9\u03c3\u03c4\u03ce\u03bd\n\n## _\u039a\u03ac\u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u0391\u03b8\u03ae\u03bd\u03b1_\n\n\u039a\u03ac\u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u0391\u03b8\u03ae\u03bd\u03b1 \u03bf \u0394\u03b5\u03ba\u03ad\u03bc\u03b2\u03c1\u03b7\u03c2 \u03ad\u03c7\u03b5\u03b9 \u03ad\u03be\u03b9\n\n\u03a4\u03bf \u03c0\u03b1\u03b9\u03b4\u03af \u03b8\u03b1 \u03c3\u03ba\u03bf\u03c4\u03ce\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03bc\u03c0\u03ac\u03c4\u03c3\u03bf \u03c0\u03c1\u03b9\u03bd \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c6\u03ad\u03be\u03b5\u03b9\n\n\u039a\u03ac\u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u0391\u03b8\u03ae\u03bd\u03b1 \u03bf \u0394\u03b5\u03ba\u03ad\u03bc\u03b2\u03c1\u03b7\u03c2 \u03ad\u03c7\u03b5\u03b9 \u03b5\u03c0\u03c4\u03ac\n\n\u03a3\u03c4\u03b7 \u03a3\u03c4\u03b1\u03b4\u03af\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bf\u03b9 \u03c4\u03c1\u03ac\u03c0\u03b5\u03b6\u03b5\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b1\u03af\u03b3\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7 \u03c3\u03b5\u03b9\u03c1\u03ac\n\n\u039a\u03ac\u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u0391\u03b8\u03ae\u03bd\u03b1 \u03bf \u0394\u03b5\u03ba\u03ad\u03bc\u03b2\u03c1\u03b7\u03c2 \u03ad\u03c7\u03b5\u03b9 \u03bf\u03c7\u03c4\u03ce\n\n\u03a3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03b5\u03c1\u03b5\u03af\u03c0\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u0392\u03bf\u03c5\u03bb\u03ae\u03c2 \u03b1\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c4\u03ae\u03c3\u03bf\u03c5\u03bc\u03b5 \u03c7\u03bf\u03c1\u03cc\n\n\u039a\u03ac\u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u0391\u03b8\u03ae\u03bd\u03b1 \u03bf \u0394\u03b5\u03ba\u03ad\u03bc\u03b2\u03c1\u03b7\u03c2 \u03ad\u03c7\u03b5\u03b9 \u03b5\u03bd\u03bd\u03b9\u03ac\n\n\u039f\u03b9 \u03c0\u03bf\u03b9\u03b7\u03c4\u03ad\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03b4\u03c1\u03cc\u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03c5\u03bc\u03bd\u03bf\u03cd\u03bd\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b7 \u03c6\u03c9\u03c4\u03b9\u03ac\n\n\u039a\u03ac\u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u0391\u03b8\u03ae\u03bd\u03b1 \u03bf \u0394\u03b5\u03ba\u03ad\u03bc\u03b2\u03c1\u03b7\u03c2 \u03ad\u03c7\u03b5\u03b9 \u03ba\u03b1\u03bc\u03b9\u03ac\n\n\u039f\u03b9 \u03b1\u03bd\u03c4\u03ac\u03c1\u03c4\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c0\u03ac\u03c3\u03b1\u03bd \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c1\u03bf\u03bb\u03cc\u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b1\u03bc\u03c0\u03b1\u03bd\u03b1\u03c1\u03b9\u03ac\n\n## _Words_\n\nI have no fatherland\n\nI live within words\n\nThat are shrouded in black\n\nAnd held hostage\n\nMustapha Khayati, can you hear me?\n\nThe seat of power is in language\n\nWhere the police patrol\n\nNo more poetry circles!\n\nNo more poet laureates!\n\nIn my neighborhood virgin poets are sacrificed\n\nRappers with dust-blown eyes and baggy pants\n\npush rhymes on kids sniffing words\n\nFall and get back up again: the art of the poet\n\nJean Genet, can you hear me?\n\nMy words are homeless\n\nThey sleep on the benches of Klafthmonos Square\n\ncovered in IKEA cartons\n\nMy words do not speak on the news\n\nThey're out hustling every night\n\nMy words are proletarian, slaves like me\n\nThey work in sweatshops night and day\n\nI want no more dirges\n\nI want no more verbs belonging to the non-combatants\n\nI need a new language, not pimping\n\nI'm waiting for a revolution to invent me\n\nHungering for the language of class war\n\nA language that has tasted insurgency\n\nI shall create it!\n\nAh, what arrogance!\n\nOK, I'll be off\n\nBut take a look: in my face the dawn of a new poetry is breaking\n\nNo word will be left behind, held hostage,\n\nI'm seeking a new passage.\n\nPeter Constantine\n\n## _Refrain_\n\nMy name is J-A-Z-R-A\n\nI was born in the dark West\n\nIllegal despite the efforts of the Left\n\nAt night I have a great time\n\nsmashing fascist heads\n\nKaren Van Dyck\n\n## _Somewhere in Athens_\n\nSomewhere in Athens December the Sixth\n\nThe kid will kill the cop before sunup\n\nSomewhere in Athens December the Seventh\n\nOn the streets the banks are burnt one by one\n\nSomewhere in Athens December the Eighth\n\nLet's cut a rug in Parliament's rubble\n\nSomewhere in Athens December the Ninth\n\nThe poets in the streets eulogize fires\n\nSomewhere in Athens December the Naught\n\nBecause the rebels shot the bell-tower clocks\n\nSarah McCann\n\n## _\u039c\u03b1\u03cd\u03c1\u03b1 \u03c7\u03b5\u03af\u03bb\u03b7_\n\n\u0391\u03ba\u03bf\u03cd\u03c3\u03c4\u03b5\n\n\u0395\u03c3\u03b5\u03af\u03c2 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bc\u03b1\u03c3\u03bf\u03c5\u03bb\u03ac\u03c4\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b7 \u03bc\u03bf\u03bd\u03b1\u03be\u03b9\u03ac \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03c4\u03b7\u03bb\u03b5\u03cc\u03c1\u03b1\u03c3\u03b7 \u03b1\u03bd\u03bf\u03b9\u03ba\u03c4\u03ae\n\n\u0395\u03c3\u03b5\u03af\u03c2 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ad\u03c1\u03c7\u03b5\u03c3\u03c4\u03b5 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03ba\u03b7\u03b4\u03b5\u03af\u03b1 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03b1\u03bd\u03ac\u03c8\u03b5\u03c4\u03b5 \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b5\u03c1\u03af\n\n\u0391\u03ba\u03bf\u03cd\u03c3\u03c4\u03b5\n\n\u0388\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c1\u03ae\u03bc\u03b1 \u03b8\u03b1 \u03c3\u03b1\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c6\u03b7\u03bd\u03ce\u03c3\u03c9 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03bc\u03ac\u03c4\u03b9\u03b1\n\n\u0388\u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03c0\u03b9\u03c4 \u03b8\u03b1 \u03c3\u03b1\u03c2 \u03c6\u03c5\u03c4\u03ad\u03c8\u03c9 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03ae\u03b8\u03b9\u03b1\n\n\u0395\u03b3\u03ce \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03ad\u03c7\u03c9 \u03bc\u03ae\u03c4\u03b5 \u03c6\u03c1\u03ac\u03b3\u03ba\u03bf \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03ba\u03b1\u03c1\u03b4\u03b9\u03ac,\n\n\u03bf\u03cd\u03c4\u03b5 \u03ba\u03bf\u03bb\u03b1\u03ba\u03b5\u03af\u03b5\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b5\u03c0\u03af\u03b8\u03b5\u03c4\u03b1 \u03ba\u03c1\u03c5\u03bc\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03c4\u03c3\u03ad\u03c0\u03b7\n\n\u03a3\u03ba\u03bf\u03c1\u03c0\u03af\u03b6\u03c9 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03bf\u03bc\u03bf\u03c1\u03c6\u03b9\u03ac \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03bc\u03c0\u03b5\u03c4\u03cc\u03bd\n\n\u039c\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c7\u03ad\u03c1\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b2\u03bf\u03c5\u03c4\u03b7\u03b3\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03b1\u03af\u03bc\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bf\u03b9\u03b7\u03c4\u03ce\u03bd\n\n\u03b3\u03c1\u03ac\u03c6\u03c9 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c0\u03ac\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b1 9mm\n\n\u0394\u03b5\u03bd \u03c5\u03c0\u03ac\u03c1\u03c7\u03b5\u03b9 \u03ba\u03b1\u03bd\u03b5\u03af\u03c2 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c3\u03b5\u03b2\u03b1\u03c3\u03c4\u03ce\n\n\u039c\u03b5\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd\u03ac\u03c3\u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03c4\u03c1\u03b9\u03ac\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1 \u03b5\u03c4\u03ce\u03bd\n\n\u0394\u03b5\u03bd \u03ad\u03c7\u03c9 \u03b5\u03c5\u03b8\u03cd\u03bd\u03b5\u03c2\n\n\u03a6\u03c4\u03cd\u03bd\u03c9 \u03c1\u03af\u03bc\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b1 120 bpm\n\n\u0395\u03c3\u03b5\u03af\u03c2 \u03bf\u03b9 \u03bc\u03ad\u03c3\u03bf\u03b9 \u03ac\u03bd\u03b8\u03c1\u03c9\u03c0\u03bf\u03b9!\n\n\u03a4\u03b5\u03bc\u03b1\u03c7\u03af\u03b6\u03b5\u03c4\u03b5 \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03ad\u03c1\u03c9\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c3\u03b5 \u03af\u03bd\u03c4\u03c3\u03b5\u03c2\n\n\u0391\u03b3\u03bf\u03c1\u03ac\u03b6\u03b5\u03c4\u03b5 \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03ad\u03c1\u03c9\u03c4\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c0\u03b9\u03c3\u03c4\u03c9\u03c4\u03b9\u03ba\u03ad\u03c2 \u03ba\u03ac\u03c1\u03c4\u03b5\u03c2\n\n\u039a\u03b1\u03c5\u03c7\u03b9\u03ad\u03c3\u03c4\u03b5 \u03b5\u03c0\u03b9\u03b4\u03cc\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2\n\n\u039c\u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03c3\u03c4\u03ac \u03c3\u03b5 \u03bc\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bf\u03b8\u03cc\u03bd\u03b7 \u03ba\u03b1\u03c4\u03b5\u03b2\u03ac\u03b6\u03b5\u03c4\u03b5 \u03c3\u03c4\u03cd\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2\n\n\u0395\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf \u03ba\u03bf\u03c1\u03bc\u03af \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ba\u03b1\u03bd\u03b5\u03af\u03c2 \u03c3\u03b1\u03c2 \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03bc\u03c0\u03bf\u03c1\u03b5\u03af \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf \u03b1\u03b3\u03b3\u03af\u03be\u03b5\u03b9\n\n\u0395\u03b3\u03ce \u03ba\u03ac\u03b8\u03b5 \u03b2\u03c1\u03ac\u03b4\u03c5 \u03b2\u03ac\u03c6\u03c9 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c7\u03b5\u03af\u03bb\u03b7 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bc\u03b1\u03cd\u03c1\u03b1\n\n\u0391\u03ba\u03bf\u03cd\u03c3\u03c4\u03b5 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03b5\u03c3\u03b5\u03af\u03c2 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c6\u03c5\u03bb\u03bb\u03bf\u03bc\u03b5\u03c4\u03c1\u03ac\u03c4\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03ae\u03c4\u03c4\u03b5\u03c2 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u039c\u03b5 \u03b8\u03ad\u03bb\u03b5\u03c4\u03b5 \u03b5\u03c5\u03b8\u03b5\u03af\u03b1 \u03b3\u03c1\u03b1\u03bc\u03bc\u03ae, \u03ac\u03bd\u03c4\u03c1\u03b1 \u03b1\u03bd\u03c4\u03af \u03c0\u03b1\u03b9\u03b4\u03af\n\n\u039c\u03b5 \u03b8\u03ad\u03bb\u03b5\u03c4\u03b5 \u03ba\u03b1\u03bb\u03bf\u03c1\u03b1\u03bc\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf \u03c3\u03b1\u03ba\u03ac\u03ba\u03b9\n\n\u0395\u03c5\u03b3\u03b5\u03bd\u03b9\u03ba\u03cc \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bd\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd\u03b5\u03c7\u03ae\n\n\u039c\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b4\u03ad\u03bd\u03b5\u03c4\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c7\u03ad\u03c1\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c3\u03b5 \u03b4\u03b5\u03af\u03ba\u03c4\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c1\u03bf\u03bb\u03bf\u03b3\u03b9\u03ce\u03bd\n\n\u03a0\u03c1\u03bf\u03c3\u03c0\u03b1\u03b8\u03b5\u03af\u03c4\u03b5 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c3\u03c6\u03b7\u03bd\u03ce\u03c3\u03b5\u03c4\u03b5 \u03c3' \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03cc\u03bd \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03ba\u03cc\u03c3\u03bc\u03bf\n\n\u039c\u03c0\u03bf\u03c1\u03b5\u03af\u03c4\u03b5, \u03cc\u03c0\u03c9\u03c2 \u03b5\u03b3\u03ce,\n\n\u03bd\u03b1 \u03ba\u03ac\u03bd\u03b5\u03c4\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03bb\u03ad\u03be\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c0\u03c1\u03ac\u03be\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2;\n\n\u03bd\u03b1 \u03ba\u03c5\u03bf\u03c6\u03bf\u03c1\u03ae\u03c3\u03b5\u03c4\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03ac\u03bd\u03bf\u03b9\u03be\u03b7;\n\n\u03bd\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b5\u03af\u03c4\u03b5 \u03c7\u03c9\u03c1\u03af\u03c2 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03b1\u03c6\u03ae\u03c3\u03b5\u03c4\u03b5 \u03c3\u03c4\u03ac\u03c7\u03c4\u03b5\u03c2;\n\n\u0395\u03bb\u03ac\u03c4\u03b5 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c3\u03b1\u03c2 \u03ba\u03ac\u03bd\u03c9 \u03b1\u03bd\u03b8\u03c1\u03ce\u03c0\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2\n\n\u03b5\u03c3\u03ac\u03c2 \u03b1\u03be\u03b9\u03cc\u03c4\u03b9\u03bc\u03b5 \u03b4\u03b9\u03ba\u03b1\u03c3\u03c4\u03ae \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c3\u03ba\u03bf\u03c5\u03c0\u03af\u03b6\u03b5\u03c4\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03b5\u03bd\u03bf\u03c7\u03ad\u03c2 \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03c4\u03b1 \u03b3\u03ad\u03bd\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c3\u03b1\u03c2\n\n\u03b5\u03c3\u03ac\u03c2 \u03b1\u03b3\u03b1\u03c0\u03b7\u03c4\u03ad \u03b4\u03b7\u03bc\u03bf\u03c3\u03b9\u03bf\u03b3\u03c1\u03ac\u03c6\u03b5 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b4\u03b9\u03b1\u03c6\u03b7\u03bc\u03af\u03b6\u03b5\u03c4\u03b5 \u03c4\u03bf \u03b8\u03ac\u03bd\u03b1\u03c4\u03bf\n\n\u03b5\u03c3\u03ac\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b7 \u03c6\u03b9\u03bb\u03ac\u03bd\u03b8\u03c1\u03c9\u03c0\u03b7 \u03ba\u03c5\u03c1\u03af\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c7\u03b1\u03ca\u03b4\u03b5\u03cd\u03b5\u03c4\u03b5 \u03ba\u03b5\u03c6\u03b1\u03bb\u03ac\u03ba\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b1\u03b9\u03b4\u03b9\u03ce\u03bd \u03c7\u03c9\u03c1\u03af\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b1\u03bd \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c3\u03ba\u03cd\u03c8\u03b5\u03c4\u03b5\n\n\u03ba\u03b9 \u03b5\u03c3\u03ac\u03c2 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b4\u03b9\u03b1\u03b2\u03ac\u03b6\u03b5\u03c4\u03b5 \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03cc \u03c4\u03bf \u03c0\u03bf\u03af\u03b7\u03bc\u03b1 \u03c3\u03b1\u03bb\u03b9\u03ce\u03bd\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf \u03b4\u03ac\u03ba\u03c4\u03c5\u03bb\u03bf\n\n\u03a0\u03c1\u03bf\u03c3\u03c6\u03ad\u03c1\u03c9 \u03c3\u03b5 \u03cc\u03bb\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03c3\u03b1\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf \u03c3\u03ce\u03bc\u03b1 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03c3\u03ba\u03cd\u03bd\u03b7\u03bc\u03b1\n\n\u03a0\u03b9\u03c3\u03c4\u03ad\u03c8\u03c4\u03b5 \u03bc\u03b5\n\n\u03bc\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bc\u03ad\u03c1\u03b1 \u03b8\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03bb\u03b1\u03c4\u03c1\u03ad\u03c8\u03b5\u03c4\u03b5 \u03c3\u03b1\u03bd \u03c4\u03bf \u03a7\u03c1\u03b9\u03c3\u03c4\u03cc\n\n\u038c\u03bc\u03c9\u03c2 \u03bb\u03c5\u03c0\u03ac\u03bc\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b5\u03c3\u03ac\u03c2 \u03ba\u03cd\u03c1\u03b9\u03b5\n\n\u0394\u03b5 \u03b4\u03b9\u03b1\u03c0\u03c1\u03b1\u03b3\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03b5\u03cd\u03bf\u03bc\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03bf\u03c1\u03ba\u03c9\u03c4\u03bf\u03cd\u03c2 \u03bb\u03bf\u03b3\u03b9\u03c3\u03c4\u03ad\u03c2 \u03bb\u03ad\u03be\u03b5\u03c9\u03bd,\n\n\u03bc\u03b5 \u03ba\u03c1\u03b9\u03c4\u03b9\u03ba\u03bf\u03cd\u03c2 \u03c4\u03ad\u03c7\u03bd\u03b7\u03c2 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c4\u03c1\u03ce\u03bd\u03b5 \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c7\u03ad\u03c1\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u039c\u03c0\u03bf\u03c1\u03b5\u03af\u03c4\u03b5, \u03b1\u03bd \u03b8\u03ad\u03bb\u03b5\u03c4\u03b5, \u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c0\u03bb\u03cd\u03bd\u03b5\u03c4\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c0\u03cc\u03b4\u03b9\u03b1\n\n\u039c\u03b7 \u03c4\u03bf \u03c0\u03ac\u03c1\u03b5\u03c4\u03b5 \u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03c3\u03c9\u03c0\u03b9\u03ba\u03ac\n\n\u03a4\u03b9 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03ba\u03ac\u03bd\u03c9 \u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c6\u03b1\u03af\u03c1\u03b5\u03c2 \u03cc\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd \u03c5\u03c0\u03ac\u03c1\u03c7\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03c4\u03cc\u03c3\u03b5\u03c2 \u03bb\u03ad\u03be\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2\n\n\u03c0\u03c1\u03cc\u03b8\u03c5\u03bc\u03b5\u03c2 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b5\u03b8\u03ac\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1;\n\n## _Black Lips_\n\nListen\n\nYou who chew on my solitude\n\nwith your televisions on\n\nYou who attend my funeral every morning\n\nto light a candle\n\nListen\n\nI will drive a verb into your eyes\n\nI will plant a beat in your chests\n\nI don't have a cent in my heart\n\nor smooth talk and epithets hidden in my pocket\n\nI scatter my beauty on concrete streets\n\nI dip my hands in poets' blood\n\nI write everything in 9 mm caliber\n\nThere's no one for me to respect\n\nA thirty-year-old Muslim punk\n\nI bear no responsibility\n\nI spit rhymes at 120 B.P.M.\n\nYou man in the street!\n\nYou portion out love in inches\n\nPurchase love with credit cards\n\nTrumpet your prowess\n\nAt your screen you download erections\n\nNone of you can touch my body\n\nI paint my lips black every night\n\nListen to me, you who leaf through my defeats!\n\nYou want me to be a straight line, a man and not a boy\n\nYou want me to be a well-sewn jacket\n\nPolite and politic\n\nYou tie my arms to watch hands\n\nYou try to jam me into this world\n\nCan you, like me,\n\nturn words into deeds?\n\nCan you carry springtime in your bellies?\n\nBurn without ashes?\n\nCome let me make you human,\n\nyou, Your Honor, who wipe guilt from your beard\n\nyou, esteemed journalist, who tout death\n\nyou, philanthropic lady, who pat children's heads without bending down\n\nand you who read this poem, licking your finger \u2013\n\nTo all of you I offer my body for genuflection\n\nBelieve me\n\none day you will adore me like Christ\n\nBut I'm sorry for you sir \u2013\n\nI do not negotiate with chartered accountants of words,\n\nwith art critics who eat from my hand\n\nYou may, if you desire, wash my feet\n\nDon't take it personally\n\nWhy do I need bullets if there are so many words\n\nprepared to die for me?\n\nPeter Constantine\n\n## _\u039d\u03b5\u03ba\u03c1\u03ae \u03c6\u03cd\u03c3\u03b7_\n\n\u03a4\u03bf \u03bc\u03b5\u03c3\u03b7\u03bc\u03ad\u03c1\u03b9 \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b6\u03b5\u03c3\u03c4\u03cc. \u039c\u03b5 \u03b1\u03ba\u03c1\u03c9\u03c4\u03b7\u03c1\u03b9\u03ac\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9\n\n\u0388\u03c7\u03c9 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c6\u03ac\u03c9 \u03b4\u03cd\u03bf \u03bc\u03ad\u03c1\u03b5\u03c2. \u0395\u03b3\u03ba\u03c5\u03bc\u03bf\u03bd\u03ce \u03bc\u03b9\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9\u03b3\u03af\u03b4\u03b1\n\n\u03a3\u03c4\u03b7 \u03b3\u03b5\u03b9\u03c4\u03bf\u03bd\u03b9\u03ac \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03c0\u03b1\u03af\u03b6\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd\u03b5 \u03c0\u03b1\u03b9\u03b4\u03b9\u03ac\n\n\u039f\u03b9 \u03b5\u03c1\u03b1\u03c3\u03c4\u03ad\u03c2 \u03c6\u03bf\u03c1\u03bf\u03cd\u03bd \u03ba\u03b1\u03c0\u03ad\u03bb\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b6\u03cc\u03ba\u03b5\u03ca\n\n\u0395\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b5\u03c0\u03af\u03c0\u03b5\u03b4\u03bf\u03b9. \u038c\u03c0\u03c9\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c6\u03b9\u03bb\u03b9\u03ac \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2\n\n\u0395\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b1\u03c4\u03c3\u03b1\u03bb\u03ac\u03ba\u03c9\u03c4\u03bf\u03b9\n\n\u03a0\u03b5\u03c1\u03c0\u03b1\u03c4\u03bf\u03cd\u03bd \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03b4\u03c1\u03cc\u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03b1\u03b3\u03ba\u03ce\u03bd\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c3\u03b5 \u03c0\u03bb\u03ae\u03c1\u03b7 \u03ad\u03ba\u03c4\u03b1\u03c3\u03b7\n\n\u03a3\u03c4\u03b7 \u03b3\u03b5\u03b9\u03c4\u03bf\u03bd\u03b9\u03ac \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03b3\u03b5\u03b3\u03bf\u03bd\u03cc\u03c4\u03b1 \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03ba\u03bf\u03bb\u03bb\u03b7\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf\u03af\u03c7\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2\n\n\u0397 \u03b5\u03c5\u03c4\u03c5\u03c7\u03af\u03b1 \u03c3\u03b1\u03c0\u03af\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c3\u03b1\u03bd \u03c3\u03c6\u03b1\u03af\u03c1\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\u03bc\u03ac\u03c7\u03b9 \u03bc\u03c0\u03ac\u03c4\u03c3\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u03a3\u03c4\u03bf \u03c3\u03c6\u03b1\u03b3\u03b5\u03af\u03bf \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b8\u03b7\u03bc\u03b5\u03c1\u03b9\u03bd\u03cc\u03c4\u03b7\u03c4\u03b1\u03c2 \u03b5\u03b3\u03ce \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5\u03bb\u03ac\u03c9 \u03bc\u03c0\u03b1\u03bb\u03c4\u03ac\u03b4\u03b5\u03c2\n\n\u0393\u03c1\u03ac\u03c6\u03c9 \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bf\u03af\u03b7\u03bc\u03b1 \u03ba\u03ac\u03b8\u03b5 \u03c6\u03bf\u03c1\u03ac \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c0\u03b7\u03b3\u03b1\u03af\u03bd\u03c9 \u03b1\u03c0' \u03c4\u03bf \u03c3\u03c0\u03af\u03c4\u03b9 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03bc\u03b5\u03c4\u03c1\u03cc\n\n\u0391\u03bd\u03b1\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03c9 \u03bc\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c5\u03b3\u03ba\u03af\u03bd\u03b7\u03c3\u03b7\n\n## _Still Life_\n\nMidday is hot. It cripples me\n\nIt's been two days since I ate. I'm pregnant with tempest\n\nChildren don't play in my neighborhood\n\nLovers don jockey caps\n\nThey are flat. Like their kisses\n\nThey are unwrinkled\n\nThey walk along the streets, elbows jutted out\n\nNews gets plastered to the walls in my neighborhood\n\nGlee festers like a bullet in a cop's stomach\n\nI myself sell butcher knives at the abattoir of the everyday\n\nI write a poem every time I go from my home to the metro\n\nI am waiting to be touched\n\nSarah McCann\n\n## _\u039f \u03b8\u03ac\u03bd\u03b1\u03c4\u03bf\u03c2 \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc\u03c8\u03b5_\n\n\u0391\u03c0\u03cc\u03c8\u03b5 \u03bf \u03b8\u03ac\u03bd\u03b1\u03c4\u03bf\u03c2 \u03b8\u03b1 \u03c7\u03b7\u03c1\u03ad\u03c8\u03b5\u03b9\n\n\u03a4\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bf\u03bb\u03c5\u03b2\u03cc\u03bb\u03b1 \u03b4\u03b5 \u03bb\u03ad\u03bd\u03b5 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03be\u03b5\u03ba\u03b1\u03c5\u03bb\u03ce\u03c3\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd\n\n\u03a3\u03c4\u03c1\u03b1\u03c4\u03b9\u03ce\u03c4\u03b5\u03c2 \u03b3\u03c5\u03c1\u03af\u03b6\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03c0\u03af\u03c3\u03c9 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c0\u03b1\u03c4\u03c1\u03af\u03b4\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2\n\n\u0395\u03c5\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5\u03c7\u03b9\u03c3\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf\u03b9\n\n\u039b\u03b5\u03b9\u03c8\u03bf\u03af\n\n\u0394\u03b5\u03bd \u03b8\u03b1 \u03c0\u03c5\u03c1\u03bf\u03b2\u03bf\u03bb\u03ae\u03c3\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03c0\u03b9\u03b1\n\n\u0394\u03b5\u03bd \u03b8\u03b1 \u03b2\u03b9\u03ac\u03c3\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03c0\u03b9\u03b1\n\n\u03a3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03b4\u03ac\u03c7\u03c4\u03c5\u03bb\u03ac \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03ba\u03bf\u03bb\u03bb\u03ac\u03b5\u03b9 \u03bf \u03b8\u03ac\u03bd\u03b1\u03c4\u03bf\u03c2 \u03c3\u03b1\u03bd \u03c1\u03b5\u03c4\u03c3\u03af\u03bd\u03b9\n\n\u039f \u03b4\u03b9\u03ba\u03cc\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03b8\u03ac\u03bd\u03b1\u03c4\u03bf\u03c2\n\n\u039f\u03b9 \u03bc\u03ad\u03c1\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b1\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03ac\u03bd\u03b5 \u03c3\u03b5 \u03bc\u03c0\u03bb\u03cc\u03ba\u03bf \u03bc\u03c0\u03ac\u03c4\u03c3\u03c9\u03bd\n\n\u0395\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\u03c3\u03bf\u03c5\u03bb\u03bc\u03ac\u03bd\u03b5\u03c2 \u03bc\u03b1\u03bd\u03ac\u03b4\u03b5\u03c2\n\n\u0394\u03b5\u03bd \u03ad\u03c7\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03c7\u03b1\u03c1\u03c4\u03b9\u03ac, \u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03b1\u03c0\u03b5\u03bb\u03b1\u03cd\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd\n\n\u0391\u03c0\u03cc\u03c8\u03b5 \u03bf \u03b8\u03ac\u03bd\u03b1\u03c4\u03bf\u03c2 \u03b8\u03b1 \u03c7\u03b7\u03c1\u03ad\u03c8\u03b5\u03b9\n\n\u0395\u03af\u03b4\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03b5\u03b9\u03c1\u03ae\u03bd\u03b7 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03b2\u03b3\u03ac\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c6\u03c1\u03cd\u03b4\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2\n\n\u039b\u03af\u03b3\u03bf \u03c0\u03c1\u03b9\u03bd \u03b1\u03bd\u03ad\u03b2\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7 \u03c3\u03ba\u03b7\u03bd\u03ae\n\n\u039c\u03b1\u03c3\u03bf\u03c5\u03bb\u03ce\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03c2 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c0\u03ba\u03cc\u03c1\u03bd\n\n\u03a4\u03bf \u03c0\u03bb\u03ae\u03b8\u03bf\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03c0\u03bb\u03b1\u03c4\u03b5\u03af\u03b1\n\n\u03a7\u03b5\u03b9\u03c1\u03bf\u03ba\u03c1\u03bf\u03c4\u03b5\u03af \u03b2\u03bf\u03bc\u03b2\u03b1\u03c1\u03b4\u03b9\u03c3\u03bc\u03bf\u03cd\u03c2 \u03b1\u03bc\u03ac\u03c7\u03c9\u03bd\n\n\u0394\u03bf\u03bb\u03bf\u03c6\u03bf\u03bd\u03af\u03b5\u03c2 \u03bc\u03b5\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd\u03b1\u03c3\u03c4\u03ce\u03bd\n\n\u03a4\u03b7 \u03bd\u03af\u03ba\u03b7 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c0\u03bf\u03bb\u03b9\u03c4\u03b9\u03c3\u03bc\u03bf\u03cd\n\n\u03a4\u03bf\u03bd \u03b8\u03c1\u03af\u03b1\u03bc\u03b2\u03bf \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03b4\u03b7\u03bc\u03bf\u03ba\u03c1\u03b1\u03c4\u03af\u03b1\u03c2\n\n\u03a4\u03bf \u03c0\u03c1\u03c9\u03c4\u03bf\u03ba\u03bf\u03c3\u03bc\u03b9\u03ba\u03cc \u03c3\u03c4\u03c1\u03b9\u03c0\u03c4\u03af\u03b6\n\n\u0391\u03c0\u03cc\u03c8\u03b5 \u03bf \u03b8\u03ac\u03bd\u03b1\u03c4\u03bf\u03c2 \u03b8\u03b1 \u03c7\u03b7\u03c1\u03ad\u03c8\u03b5\u03b9\n\n\u039a\u03c1\u03b1\u03c5\u03b3\u03ad\u03c2 \u03b1\u03c4\u03b9\u03bc\u03b1\u03c3\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03c9\u03bd \u03b3\u03c5\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9\u03ba\u03ce\u03bd \u03b2\u03bf\u03c5\u03b2\u03b1\u03af\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03c4\u03b1 \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03b9\u03ac \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u0392\u03cc\u03bc\u03b2\u03b5\u03c2 \u03b4\u03b9\u03b1\u03c3\u03c0\u03bf\u03c1\u03ac\u03c2 \u03c7\u03bf\u03c5\u03b6\u03bf\u03c5\u03c1\u03b5\u03cd\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\u03bc\u03ac\u03c7\u03b9 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u0395\u03b3\u03ce \u03b4\u03b9\u03b1\u03c6\u03b5\u03bd\u03c4\u03b5\u03cd\u03c9 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03c3\u03b5\u03bb\u03ae\u03bd\u03b7\n\n\u0395\u03b3\u03ce \u03bf\u03c1\u03af\u03b6\u03c9 \u03c4\u03b7 \u03c0\u03b1\u03bb\u03af\u03c1\u03c1\u03bf\u03b9\u03b1\n\n\u039c\u03c0\u03ac\u03c4\u03c3\u03bf\u03b9 \u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03c3\u03c0\u03b1\u03b8\u03bf\u03cd\u03bd \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c6\u03c5\u03bb\u03b1\u03ba\u03af\u03c3\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03b1\u03c3\u03c4\u03c1\u03bf\u03bb\u03bf\u03b3\u03af\u03b1 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u0388\u03bd\u03b1\u03c2 \u03b1\u03ba\u03cc\u03bc\u03b1 \u03b1\u03ba\u03ae\u03c1\u03c5\u03c7\u03c4\u03bf\u03c2 \u03c0\u03cc\u03bb\u03b5\u03bc\u03bf\u03c2\n\n\u03a4\u03b1 \u03bc\u03ac\u03c4\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c4\u03c9\u03bd \u03c0\u03b1\u03b9\u03b4\u03b9\u03ce\u03bd \u03c6\u03ad\u03b3\u03b3\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03bc\u03b1\u03cd\u03c1\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03b2\u03bf\u03bb\u03b5\u03af\u03c2 \u03c4\u03c9\u03bd Apache\n\n\u0393\u03b5\u03bc\u03ac\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03ac\u03c7\u03c4\u03b5\u03c2\n\n\u0393\u03b5\u03bc\u03ac\u03c4\u03b1 \u03bc\u03af\u03c3\u03bf\u03c2\n\n\u0391\u03bc\u03b5\u03af\u03bb\u03b9\u03ba\u03c4\u03b1\n\n\u0397 \u03bb\u03ae\u03b8\u03b7 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5\u03bb\u03ac\u03b5\u03b9 \u03b1\u03ba\u03cc\u03bc\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b3\u03b5\u03bd\u03bf\u03ba\u03c4\u03bf\u03bd\u03af\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf eBay\n\n\u03a4\u03bf \u03b1\u03cd\u03c1\u03b9\u03bf \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03ae\u03b4\u03b7 \u03bc\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bb\u03ad\u03be\u03b7 \u03b4\u03af\u03c7\u03c9\u03c2 \u03bc\u03ad\u03bb\u03bb\u03bf\u03bd\n\n\u039f \u03b8\u03ac\u03bd\u03b1\u03c4\u03bf\u03c2 \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc\u03c8\u03b5\n\n## _Death Tonight_\n\nTonight death will turn widower\n\nMachine guns still lusting in heat\n\nSoldiers return to their countries\n\nCastrated\n\nMaimed\n\nNo longer to shoot\n\nNo longer to rape\n\nDeath sticks to their fingers like resin\n\nTheir deaths\n\nThe days stop at a checkpoint\n\nThe days are Muslim mothers\n\nThey don't have papers, they are deported\n\nTonight death will turn widower\n\nI saw peace pluck her eyebrows\n\nJust before she stepped on stage\n\nChewing popcorn\n\nThe masses on the square\n\nApplaud the bombing of innocents\n\nMurders of immigrants\n\nThe victory of civilization\n\nThe triumph of democracy\n\nA first-world strip show\n\nTonight death will turn widower\n\nShrieks of dishonored women deafen my ears\n\nCluster bombs burrow into my stomach\n\nI rule the moon\n\nI assign all ebb and flow\n\nThe cops try to imprison gravity\n\nYet another undeclared war\n\nThe children's eyes shine black in the Apache's searchlights\n\nFilled with ashes\n\nFilled with hatred\n\nRemorseless\n\nOblivion is selling one more genocide on eBay\n\nTomorrow is already a word without future\n\nDeath tonight\n\nPeter Constantine\n\n## _\u0393\u03ac\u03bc\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03b1\u03c0\u03bf\u03ba\u03ac\u03bb\u03c5\u03c8\u03b7_\n\n\u03b3\u03ac\u03bc\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03b1\u03c0\u03bf\u03ba\u03ac\u03bb\u03c5\u03c8\u03b7. \u03c1\u03af\u03bc\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7 \u03bc\u03b5\u03c3\u03bf\u03bb\u03bf\u03b3\u03b3\u03af\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c8\u03ac\u03c7\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd\u03b5 \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03ba\u03ac\u03bb\u03c5\u03c8\u03b7. \u03bc\u03c0\u03ac\u03c4\u03c3\u03bf\u03b9 \u03bc\u03c0\u03bf\u03c5\u03ba\u03ac\u03c1\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03ba\u03b1\u03c4\u03ac\u03bb\u03b7\u03c8\u03b7. \u03c4\u03bf \u03af\u03b4\u03b9\u03bf \u03ad\u03c1\u03b3\u03bf \u03ba\u03ac\u03b8\u03b5 \u03b2\u03c1\u03ac\u03b4\u03c5 \u03c3\u03b5 \u03b5\u03c0\u03b1\u03bd\u03ac\u03bb\u03b7\u03c8\u03b7. \u03c8\u03b7\u03bb\u03ac \u03b1\u03b3\u03bd\u03ac\u03bd\u03c4\u03b5\u03c5\u03b5 \u03bc\u03b1 \u03c7\u03b1\u03bc\u03b7\u03bb\u03ac \u03c0\u03bf\u03bb\u03ad\u03bc\u03b1. \u03b2\u03ac\u03bb\u03b5 \u03bc\u03ad\u03b3\u03ba\u03b1, \u03b7 \u03b1\u03c3\u03c4\u03c5\u03bd\u03bf\u03bc\u03af\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b9\u03bb\u03ac\u03b5\u03b9 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03bf \u03c3\u03c4\u03cc\u03bc\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c0\u03c1\u03b5\u03c4\u03b5\u03bd\u03c4\u03ad\u03c1\u03b7. \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7 \u03c6\u03cc\u03b4\u03c1\u03b1 \u03c1\u03ac\u03c8\u03b5 \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b1\u03c7\u03b1\u03af\u03c1\u03b9. \u03bc\u03c0\u03c1\u03ac\u03b2\u03bf\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03c0\u03ad\u03c6\u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03bc\u03ad\u03c1\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b5\u03c3\u03b7\u03bc\u03ad\u03c1\u03b9.\n\n\u03c7\u03bf\u03cd\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1. \u03bf \u03c3\u03c4\u03c1\u03b1\u03c4\u03cc\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03b4\u03c1\u03cc\u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2. \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b1\u03b9\u03b4\u03b9\u03ac \u03c0\u03b1\u03af\u03b6\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03bc\u03c0\u03ac\u03c4\u03c3\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b9 \u03b1\u03c3\u03c4\u03c5\u03bd\u03cc\u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2. \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7 \u03b2\u03bf\u03c5\u03bb\u03ae \u03c4' \u03b1\u03c6\u03b5\u03bd\u03c4\u03b9\u03ba\u03ac \u03b4\u03b9\u03b1\u03c4\u03ac\u03c3\u03c3\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03bd\u03cc\u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2. \u03bf\u03b9 \u03b5\u03c1\u03b3\u03ac\u03c4\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03bc\u03b1\u03bd\u03c4\u03c1\u03af, \u03b5\u03c1\u03b3\u03b1\u03c3\u03af\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b9\u03b2\u03af. \u03b3\u03ba\u03bb\u03ac\u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\u03c1 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b3\u03ba\u03b1\u03b2\u03bb\u03af, \u03bf\u03b9 \u03bd\u03b5\u03bf\u03bb\u03b1\u03af\u03bf\u03b9 \u03bc\u03bf\u03b9\u03ac\u03b6\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd\u03b5 \u03bc\u03ad\u03bb\u03b9\u03c3\u03c3\u03b5\u03c2 \u03b4\u03af\u03c7\u03c9\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b5\u03bd\u03c4\u03c1\u03af. \u03bf\u03b9 \u03b1\u03bd\u03c4\u03ac\u03c1\u03c4\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c6\u03c5\u03bb\u03b1\u03ba\u03ae, \u03b8\u03b7\u03c1\u03af\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03ba\u03bb\u03bf\u03c5\u03b2\u03af. \u03ba\u03b9 \u03bf\u03b9 \u03c0\u03bf\u03b9\u03b7\u03c4\u03ad\u03c2; \u03bf\u03b9 \u03c0\u03bf\u03b9\u03b7\u03c4\u03ad\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7 \u03c3\u03b9\u03c9\u03c0\u03ae. \u03bb\u03b5\u03c9\u03c6\u03cc\u03c1\u03bf\u03c2 \u03b4\u03af\u03c7\u03c9\u03c2 \u03b2\u03bf\u03ae.\n\n\u03c0\u03bf\u03b9\u03b7\u03c4\u03ac\u03b4\u03b5\u03c2, \u03bc\u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b5\u03c4\u03b5 \u03c3\u03c0\u03af\u03c4\u03b9. \u03b5\u03cd\u03b8\u03c1\u03b1\u03c5\u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\u03b9 \u03c3\u03b1\u03bd \u03ba\u03c5\u03ba\u03bb\u03ac\u03bc\u03b9\u03bd\u03b1, \u03bc\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b6\u03c9\u03ae \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03ae\u03c4\u03c4\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03ac\u03bc\u03c5\u03bd\u03b1. \u03be\u03bf\u03c6\u03bb\u03b7\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf\u03b9 \u03b1\u03c1\u03b9\u03c3\u03c4\u03b5\u03c1\u03bf\u03af, \u03bc\u03c0\u03bf\u03c5\u03c1\u03b6\u03bf\u03c5\u03ac\u03b4\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c0\u03bf\u03b9\u03b5\u03af\u03bd. \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03bc\u03b1\u03ba\u03b5\u03bb\u03b5\u03b9\u03cc \u03c3\u03ba\u03bf\u03c1\u03c0\u03ac\u03c4\u03b5 \u03c3\u03b1\u03bd \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03af\u03ba\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b1\u03c0' \u03c4\u03bf \u03c3\u03ac\u03bc\u03b9\u03bd\u03b1. \u03bd\u03b5\u03ba\u03c1\u03ac \u03c6\u03cd\u03c3\u03b7. \u03b5\u03b3\u03ce \u03b5\u03ba\u03c0\u03b1\u03b9\u03b4\u03b5\u03cd\u03c9 \u03bb\u03ad\u03be\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c6\u03b5\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03b3\u03af\u03bd. \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03b3\u03c1\u03ac\u03c6\u03c9 \u03c0\u03bf\u03af\u03b7\u03c3\u03b7, \u03b3\u03c1\u03ac\u03c6\u03c9 \u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03ba\u03b7\u03c1\u03cd\u03be\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2. \u03bd\u03b1 \u03b4\u03bf\u03cd\u03bc\u03b5 \u03c0\u03bf\u03cd \u03b8\u03b1 \u03b5\u03af\u03c3\u03c4\u03b5 \u03cc\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd \u03c4\u03bf \u03b1\u03af\u03bc\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03b4\u03c1\u03cc\u03bc\u03bf \u03c0\u03ae\u03be\u03b5\u03b9.\n\n## _Fuck Armageddon_\n\nFuck Armageddon. The cops get it on. Writhing and fucking dead on top of the poems, who redden. The poems blush their own blood into Messolonghi Street. The poems: fulsome plankton. Blenderized in the French-kissing maws of the armored Megaladon-shark policemen. Who have their heads so far up their ass the police can't even fit an arm in there? The pretenders! Angels of TV! Tarry, pretenders, with smiles unscary! Come visit Messolonghi! They murder in broad daylight here \u2013 (you should be so lucky!)\n\nJunta: army in the streets. Toy boots on every Caligula kiddy's feet. Mobsters larding the laws to pure pork-fat \u2013 no bone, no meat. The labor is sleepily grunting in their pens: doing Miley Mohawks and Masturbating to the QVC TV gems. Our youth are milk powder when I fucking asked for cayenne. The rebels are truncheoned by the Megaladon policemen. The leopards are caged like KFC hens. And the poets? The poets are quiet again. Messolonghi Street: silent as Danny Boy's Glenn.\n\nFuck off, flower poets. Fragile as your amaryllis. Blinding and bloating yourself with silk: constantly eating and shitting a chrysalis. The doddering leftists toast with milk the stinking rats on the sinking Samina, who flee too fast to let the cheese curdle. My words are Fayadeen: verbal, fatal, fertile \u2013 where will you be when the blood begins to burble?\n\nMax Ritvo\n\n## _Re: \u039b\u03c9\u03c4\u03bf\u03c6\u03ac\u03b3\u03bf\u03b9_\n\n\u0397 \u03b6\u03c9\u03ae \u03b4\u03b5 \u03bc\u03b5\u03c4\u03c1\u03b9\u03ad\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c3\u03b5 \u03c7\u03c1\u03cc\u03bd\u03b9\u03b1\n\n\u039c\u03b5\u03c4\u03c1\u03b9\u03ad\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c3\u03b5 \u03b1\u03bd\u03ac\u03c3\u03b5\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bc\u03c0\u03b9\u03c4\n\n\u039f \u03c0\u03cc\u03bd\u03bf\u03c2 \u03c3\u03b5 \u03b2\u03b1\u03c4\n\n\u0397 \u03b1\u03b3\u03ac\u03c0\u03b7 \u03c3\u03b5 \u03bb\u03b5\u03cd\u03b3\u03b5\u03c2\n\n\u03a3\u03b5 \u03c0\u03bf\u03b9\u03bf\u03bd \u03c0\u03c1\u03cc\u03c3\u03c6\u03b5\u03c1\u03b1\u03bd \u03ba\u03c1\u03b1\u03c3\u03af \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b4\u03b5 \u03bc\u03ad\u03b8\u03c5\u03c3\u03b5;\n\n\u03a3\u03b5 \u03c0\u03bf\u03b9\u03bf\u03bd \u03c5\u03c0\u03bf\u03c3\u03c7\u03ad\u03b8\u03b7\u03ba\u03b1\u03bd \u03ae\u03bb\u03b9\u03bf \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c6\u03cc\u03c1\u03b5\u03c3\u03b5 \u03bc\u03b1\u03cd\u03c1\u03b1 \u03b3\u03c5\u03b1\u03bb\u03b9\u03ac;\n\n\u03a3\u03b5 \u03c0\u03bf\u03b9\u03bf\u03bd \u03c7\u03ac\u03c1\u03b9\u03c3\u03b1\u03bd \u03b4\u03ad\u03bd\u03c4\u03c1\u03bf \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03b1\u03c0\u03bf\u03ba\u03bf\u03b9\u03bc\u03ae\u03b8\u03b7\u03ba\u03b5 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7 \u03c3\u03ba\u03b9\u03ac \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5;\n\n\u039c\u03b7 \u03bb\u03c5\u03c0\u03ac\u03c3\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03bf\u03cd\u03c2 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd\n\n\u039d\u03b1 \u03bb\u03c5\u03c0\u03ac\u03c3\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03bf\u03cd\u03c2 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c6\u03b5\u03cd\u03b3\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd\n\n\u03a6\u03cd\u03bb\u03b1\u03be\u03b5 \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03bf\u03af\u03ba\u03c4\u03bf \u03c3\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u039f\u03b4\u03c5\u03c3\u03c3\u03ad\u03b1\n\n\u0395\u03bd\u03ce\u03c3\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u039b\u03c9\u03c4\u03bf\u03c6\u03ac\u03b3\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2\n\n## _Re: Lotus Eaters_\n\nLife is not to be counted in years\n\nBut in breaths and beats\n\nPain in watts\n\nLove in leagues\n\nWho has been offered wine and did not get drunk?\n\nWho has been promised sunshine and then wore dark glasses?\n\nWho has been given a tree as a gift and did not sleep in its shadow?\n\nDo not grieve for those who remain\n\nGrieve for those who depart\n\nSave your sympathy for Odysseus\n\nUnite with the lotus eaters.\n\nPeter Constantine\n\n## Stathis Baroutsos\n\n#### (Born Germany, 1980)\n\nThe blog poet Stathis Baroutsos was put on the map in English by an interview with the translator Peter Constantine in the online magazine _Words Without Borders_. Despite being widely translated into English, Spanish, Kapampangan, Tagalog, and Japanese, he has never been published in Greece, where he grew up.\n\n## _\u03a4\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b1\u03b9\u03b4\u03b9\u03ac \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5_\n\nT\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b1\u03b9\u03b4\u03b9\u03ac \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b6\u03bf\u03cd\u03bd\u03b5 \u03ba\u03ac\u03c4\u03c9 \u03b1\u03c0\u03bf \u03c3\u03b1\u03bd\u03af\u03b4\u03b5\u03c2 \u03b2\u03c1\u03cc\u03bc\u03b9\u03ba\u03b5\u03c2 \u03bc\u03ad\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c3\u03b5 \u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u03b1\u03c0\u03ae\u03b3\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1.\n\n\u0394\u03b5\u03bd \u03c4\u03b1 \u03b2\u03bb\u03ad\u03c0\u03b5\u03b9 \u03bf \u03ae\u03bb\u03b9\u03bf\u03c2 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ba\u03b1\u03af\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b1\u03c4\u03ce\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1, \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03b1\u03bd\u03b1\u03c0\u03bd\u03ad\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03b1\u03ad\u03c1\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bc\u03c0\u03b1\u03af\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03bc\u03ad\u03c3\u03b1 \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c0\u03b1\u03c3\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b6\u03ac\u03bc\u03b9\u03b1.\n\n\u03a4\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b1\u03b9\u03b4\u03b9\u03ac \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b2\u03c1\u03af\u03c3\u03ba\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b1\u03ba\u03cc\u03bc\u03b1 \u03c3\u03b5 \u03bc\u03b9\u03b1 \u03ba\u03c5\u03bf\u03c6\u03bf\u03c1\u03af\u03b1, \u03ba\u03bf\u03c5\u03ba\u03bf\u03c5\u03bb\u03c9\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03ad\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c3\u03b5 \u03bc\u03b5\u03b3\u03ac\u03bb\u03b1 \u03c0\u03c1\u03ac\u03c3\u03b9\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c6\u03cd\u03bb\u03bb\u03b1.\n\n\u0394\u03b5\u03bd \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03ad\u03c4\u03bf\u03b9\u03bc\u03b1 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03b2\u03b3\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03ba\u03cc\u03c3\u03bc\u03bf.\n\n\u03a4\u03b1 \u03b1\u03b3\u03ba\u03b1\u03bb\u03b9\u03ac\u03b6\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03bc\u03b5\u03b3\u03ac\u03bb\u03b1 \u03c0\u03c1\u03ac\u03c3\u03b9\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c6\u03cd\u03bb\u03bb\u03b1 \u03ba\u03ac\u03c4\u03c9 \u03b1\u03c0\u03bf \u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03b2\u03c1\u03ce\u03bc\u03b9\u03ba\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c3\u03b1\u03bd\u03af\u03b4\u03b5\u03c2, \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c7\u03c4\u03c5\u03c0\u03ac \u03bf \u03b1\u03bd\u03b5\u03bb\u03ad\u03b7\u03c4\u03bf\u03c2 \u03ae\u03bb\u03b9\u03bf\u03c2 \u03bc\u03ad\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u03b1\u03c0\u03ae\u03b3\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1.\n\n\u0391\u03ba\u03bf\u03cd\u03bd\u03b5 \u03bc\u03bf\u03bd\u03ac\u03c7\u03b1 Chopin \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03c1\u03af\u03b6\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03bc\u03ad\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03ba\u03bf\u03c5\u03ba\u03bf\u03cd\u03bb\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2.\n\n\u039c\u03ad\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b5\u03b3\u03ac\u03bb\u03b1 \u03c0\u03c1\u03ac\u03c3\u03b9\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c6\u03cd\u03bb\u03bb\u03b1 \u03ba\u03ac\u03c4\u03c9 \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c3\u03b1\u03bd\u03af\u03b4\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c4\u03c9\u03bd \u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u03b1\u03c0\u03b7\u03b3\u03bc\u03ac\u03c4\u03c9\u03bd \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03c6\u03c4\u03ac\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03bf \u03b1\u03ad\u03c1\u03b1\u03c2 \u03bf\u03cd\u03c4\u03b5 \u03bf \u03ae\u03bb\u03b9\u03bf\u03c2, \u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u03ac \u03bc\u03cc\u03bd\u03bf \u03bf Chopin.\n\n\u03a0\u03b5\u03c1\u03b9\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03c5\u03c0\u03bf\u03bc\u03bf\u03bd\u03b5\u03c4\u03b9\u03ba\u03ac \u03bd\u03b1 \u03b3\u03b5\u03bd\u03bd\u03b7\u03b8\u03bf\u03cd\u03bd.\n\n## _My Children_\n\nMy children live in shacks beneath the filthy planks.\n\nThey cannot see the light that burns upon them; they cannot breathe the broken window air.\n\nMy children live like insects, hooded blind in large green leaves.\n\nTheir exit is not safe.\n\nThe large green arms do hold them dear beneath the cage of wood the sun impales.\n\nWithin their nests they whisper answers only to Chopin.\n\nWhile burning suns attack with beams like knives, their green embrace\n\nDoes hold them safer still beneath the barrack floors where\n\nThey answer only to Chopin.\n\nAnd so like this they measure time in nectar's dark until the waltz begins.\n\nKaren Van Dyck\n\n## _Speed Dating_\n\nB\u03c1\u03af\u03c3\u03ba\u03bf\u03bc\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03b5\u03c0\u03af\u03ba\u03b5\u03bd\u03c4\u03c1\u03bf \u03b1\u03c4\u03b5\u03bb\u03b5\u03af\u03c9\u03c4\u03c9\u03bd \u03b1\u03bd\u03b1\u03b6\u03b7\u03c4\u03ae\u03c3\u03b5\u03c9\u03bd.\n\n\u0391\u03bd\u03b1\u03bb\u03ce\u03bd\u03bf\u03bc\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c3\u03b5 \u03ba\u03c1\u03b5\u03b2\u03ac\u03c4\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b5\u03c1\u03b1\u03c3\u03c4\u03b9\u03ba\u03ce\u03bd.\n\n\u039a\u03ac\u03bd\u03c9 \u03b2\u03cc\u03bb\u03c4\u03b5\u03c2 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03b1\u03bc\u03ac\u03be\u03b9\u03b1,\n\n\u03c0\u03ac\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1 \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03af\u03b4\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b8\u03ad\u03c3\u03b7 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c3\u03c5\u03bd\u03bf\u03b4\u03b7\u03b3\u03bf\u03cd,\n\n\u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03bf \u03c7\u03ad\u03c1\u03b9 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03af\u03b4\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b8\u03ad\u03c3\u03b7, \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c0\u03bf\u03b4\u03b9\u03bf\u03cd \u03c3\u03bf\u03c5.\n\n\u03a4\u03b1 \u03b4\u03c9\u03bc\u03ac\u03c4\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bc\u03bf\u03b9\u03ac\u03b6\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03c4\u03cc\u03c3\u03bf \u03af\u03b4\u03b9\u03b1\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03bc\u03c0\u03ac\u03bd\u03b9\u03b1 \u03ba\u03ac\u03b8\u03b5 \u03c0\u03c1\u03c9\u03af \u03ba\u03b1\u03b8\u03cc\u03bb\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b4\u03b9\u03b1\u03c6\u03bf\u03c1\u03b5\u03c4\u03b9\u03ba\u03ac.\n\n\u0394\u03b5\u03bd \u03b8\u03c5\u03bc\u03ac\u03bc\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5\u03b8\u03b5\u03bd\u03ac \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1\u03bd \u03b4\u03b9\u03b1\u03c6\u03bf\u03c1\u03b5\u03c4\u03b9\u03ba\u03cc \u03ae\u03c7\u03bf \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03ae\u03c7\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2\n\n\u03c3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03bc\u03c0\u03b1\u03bb\u03ba\u03cc\u03bd\u03b9\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bf \u03ba\u03b1\u03c6\u03ad\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c0\u03c1\u03c9\u03b9\u03bd\u03ac \u03ad\u03c7\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c0\u03ac\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03af\u03b4\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b3\u03b5\u03cd\u03c3\u03b7.\n\n\u0393\u03c5\u03c1\u03b5\u03cd\u03c9 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03be\u03b5\u03c6\u03cd\u03b3\u03c9 \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03ba\u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03ba\u03c1\u03b5\u03b2\u03ac\u03c4\u03b9\u03b1\n\n\u03bc\u03b5\u03c4\u03ac \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03ba\u03ac\u03b8\u03b5 \u03c0\u03c1\u03cc\u03c9\u03c1\u03b7 \u03b5\u03ba\u03c3\u03c0\u03b5\u03c1\u03bc\u03ac\u03c4\u03c9\u03c3\u03b7.\n\n\u039f\u03b9 \u03b1\u03b3\u03ba\u03b1\u03bb\u03b9\u03ad\u03c2 \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03c6\u03ad\u03c1\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03c4\u03af\u03c0\u03bf\u03c4\u03b5 \u03c4\u03bf \u03b4\u03b9\u03b1\u03c6\u03bf\u03c1\u03b5\u03c4\u03b9\u03ba\u03cc\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03cc\u03c4\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf\u03bb\u03bc\u03ac \u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03bf\u03b9\u03ac\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf \u03b2\u03ac\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c0\u03cc\u03b4\u03b9\u03b1.\n\n\u0391\u03c0\u03cc \u03ba\u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03ac\u03bb\u03bb\u03bf\u03b9 \u03bc\u03bf\u03b9\u03ac\u03b6\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03bc\u03c0\u03b1\u03bc\u03c0\u03ac \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u03ba\u03b9 \u03ac\u03bb\u03bb\u03bf\u03b9 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7 \u03bc\u03b1\u03bc\u03ac \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5. \u0386\u03bb\u03bb\u03bf\u03b9 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03b8\u03ad\u03bb\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03c0\u03bf\u03bb\u03cd\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03ac\u03bb\u03bb\u03bf\u03b9 \u03bb\u03af\u03b3\u03bf \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b5\u03b3\u03ce\n\n\u03c4\u03c1\u03b9\u03b3\u03c5\u03c1\u03bd\u03ce \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03b4\u03c1\u03cc\u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03b5\u03c0\u03b9\u03c6\u03cd\u03bb\u03b1\u03be\u03b7 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03bc\u03ac\u03c4\u03b9\u03b1\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03cc\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9\u03c1\u03b1 \u03b1\u03c0\u03bf\u03ba\u03b1\u03bc\u03c9\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1.\n\n\u0394\u03b5\u03bd \u03ad\u03c7\u03c9 \u03b5\u03c0\u03b9\u03bb\u03ad\u03be\u03b5\u03b9 \u03ba\u03b1\u03bd\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1\u03bd.\n\n\u03a4\u03ce\u03c1\u03b1 \u03b8\u03b1 \u03c3' \u03c4\u03bf \u03c0\u03c9 \u03c0\u03ce\u03c2 \u03b3\u03af\u03bd\u03bf\u03bc\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c3\u03b1\u03bd \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03bc\u03c0\u03b1\u03bc\u03c0\u03ac \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b7 \u03bc\u03b1\u03bc\u03ac \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5.\n\n\u03a6\u03bf\u03b2\u03ac\u03bc\u03b1\u03b9 \u03cc\u03c0\u03c9\u03c2 \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03bf\u03af, \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b5\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1.\n\n\u0391\u03bd \u03b3\u03ba\u03c1\u03ad\u03bc\u03b9\u03b6\u03c9 \u03c6\u03c5\u03bb\u03b1\u03ba\u03ad\u03c2, \u03b1\u03bd \u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03c3\u03c0\u03b1\u03b8\u03ce \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u03b1\u03b4\u03b5\u03c7\u03b8\u03ce\n\n\u03c0\u03c9\u03c2 \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03bc\u03b5 \u03b1\u03c6\u03bf\u03c1\u03bf\u03cd\u03bd \u03bf\u03b9 \u03b3\u03bf\u03b7\u03c4\u03b5\u03c5\u03c4\u03b9\u03ba\u03bf\u03af \u03ba\u03b1\u03c4\u03ac \u03c4\u03b1 \u03ac\u03bb\u03bb\u03b1 \u03b4\u03b5\u03c3\u03bc\u03ce\u03c4\u03b5\u03c2,\n\n\u03c4\u03cc\u03c3\u03bf \u03c0\u03b5\u03c1\u03b9\u03c3\u03c3\u03cc\u03c4\u03b5\u03c1\u03bf \u03b2\u03c5\u03b8\u03af\u03b6\u03bf\u03bc\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03ba\u03c1\u03b5\u03b2\u03ac\u03c4\u03b9 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b1\u03c1\u03c6\u03b9\u03ac \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5.\n\n\u038c\u03c3\u03bf \u03ba\u03b9 \u03b1\u03bd \u03bc\u03b5\u03c4\u03c1\u03ac\u03c9 \u03ba\u03ac\u03b8\u03b5 \u03bc\u03ad\u03c1\u03b1 \u03bc\u03ad\u03c7\u03c1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf \u03c4\u03c1\u03af\u03b1 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03be\u03b5\u03c6\u03cd\u03b3\u03c9\n\n\u03b1\u03c0\u03bf \u03b5\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1, \u03b5\u03c3\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03cc\u03bd,\n\n\u03be\u03ad\u03c1\u03c9 \u03c0\u03c9\u03c2 \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b1\u03c4\u03b5\u03bb\u03ad\u03c3\u03c6\u03bf\u03c1\u03bf.\n\n\u039c\u03b5\u03c4\u03ac \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03c4\u03cc\u03c3\u03b7 \u03b5\u03c0\u03b9\u03bd\u03bf\u03b7\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b7 \u03c3\u03c4\u03ad\u03c1\u03b7\u03c3\u03b7\n\n\u03c3\u03c5\u03c1\u03c1\u03b9\u03ba\u03bd\u03ce\u03bd\u03c9 \u03c4\u03bf \u03c7\u03c1\u03cc\u03bd\u03bf \u03bc\u03bf\u03bd\u03ac\u03c7\u03b1 \u03c3\u03b5 \u03b4\u03c5\u03bf \u03bc\u03ad\u03c1\u03b5\u03c2,\n\n\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c3\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b4\u03b5\u03af\u03be\u03c9, \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03c3\u03c0\u03b1\u03b8\u03ae\u03c3\u03c9, \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bb\u03b1\u03c3\u03b8\u03ce,\n\n\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c3\u03b5 \u03b5\u03be\u03b5\u03c1\u03b5\u03c5\u03bd\u03ae\u03c3\u03c9,\n\n\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c3\u03b5 \u03c7\u03b1\u03c1\u03c4\u03bf\u03b3\u03c1\u03b1\u03c6\u03ae\u03c3\u03c9.\n\n\u03a0\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b5\u03af\u03bc\u03b1\u03b9 \u03ba\u03b5\u03bd\u03cc\u03c2, \u03ad\u03b3\u03b9\u03bd\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b8\u03c1\u03ad\u03c6\u03c4\u03b7\u03c2,\n\n\u03b1\u03bd\u03c4\u03b9\u03ba\u03c1\u03af\u03b6\u03c9 \u03c4\u03bf \u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u03b1\u03c0\u03bb\u03b7\u03b3\u03b9\u03ba\u03cc \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c3\u03ce\u03bc\u03b1.\n\n\u039e\u03ad\u03c1\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03c1\u03bf\u03bc\u03b1\u03ba\u03c4\u03b9\u03ba\u03cc \u03ad\u03c3\u03c4\u03c9 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b9\u03b3\u03bc\u03ae\n\n\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c3\u03b7\u03ba\u03ce\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03bc\u03ac\u03c4\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03b5\u03c5\u03b8\u03b5\u03af\u03b1.\n\n\u038c\u03c7\u03b9 \u03c8\u03b7\u03bb\u03ac \u03bc\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03b5\u03c5\u03b8\u03b5\u03af\u03b1, \u03b5\u03ba\u03b5\u03af \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ba\u03bf\u03b9\u03c4\u03ac\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b1\u03c4\u03ac\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1\n\n\u03b5\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03b5\u03c3\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03cc\u03bd.\n\n## _Speed Dating_\n\nI'm in an endless search.\n\nI burn out in the beds of strangers,\n\nI ride in cars,\n\nalways in the same passenger seat,\n\nmy hand always in the same place on your thigh.\n\nThe rooms all seem the same,\n\nsame showers every morning,\n\nsame sounds on all the balconies\n\nwhere morning cups of coffee always taste the same.\n\nI try to escape those beds after every premature ejaculation.\n\nThe embraces whisper what they always whisper\n\nand anyone resembling those closest to me abandons me \u2013\n\nsome resemble my father,\n\nothers my mother. Some want me a lot,\n\nsome just a bit, and I\n\nwalk the streets with careful eyes\n\nand unsure dreams.\n\nI haven't picked anyone.\n\nBut let me tell you how I've turned into my father and my mother:\n\nLike them, I worry about myself \u2013\n\nthe more I knock down prison walls\n\nand accept that siren sadists mean nothing to me\n\nthe more I sink into my bed of nails.\n\nThough every day I count to three and run\n\nfrom myself, from you, from him.\n\nI know it's futile.\n\nI give myself only two days\n\nto roam you,\n\nto map you,\n\nto prove that you're not for me.\n\nI'm empty now, a mirror,\n\nI face my impotent body.\n\nYou see it's frightening to raise your eyes\n\neven for a moment, and look straight before you,\n\nnot up, but straight before you, looking\n\nme, you, and him\n\nin the eye.\n\nPeter Constantine\n\n## _SMS_\n\n\u2013 megali nixta apopse\n\n\u2013 nai megali, to proi oi efialtes tha exoun aftoktonhsei\n\n\u2013 arkei na mhn paroun kai mena mazi tous\n\n\u2013 avrio einai h afethria sou\n\n\u2013 thn afethria mou thn exo kapsei, eixa ola ta kalokairia tou kosmou kai ta kana fotografies\n\n\u2013 liose ta asteria se ena koutali\n\n\u2013 den thelo na zhso ksaplomenos, thelo na troo me ta xeria, allios ti ta thelo ta xeria mou\n\n\u2013 tis kores ton mation sou sygkrato mh spasoun, ta kalokairia sou pos tha sta gyriso piso na ta pareis zontana?\n\n\u2013 kourastika leo na koimitho\n\n## _Txt Message_\n\n\u2013 Big night 2nite\n\n\u2013 Yep, by morning all nightmares will have committed suicide\n\n\u2013 As long as they don't take me with them too\n\n\u2013 Ur turning a new leaf tomorrow\n\n\u2013 I've burnt my new leaf, I had all the summers of the world & turned them into pics\n\n\u2013 Dissolve the stars in a spoon\n\n\u2013 I don't want to live lying down, I want to eat with my hands, otherwise what do I need my hands 4.\n\n\u2013 I'm restraining the pupils of ur eyes so they won't shatter, how can I return ur summers to you alive?\n\n\u2013 I'm tired, I'm off to bed\n\nPeter Constantine\n\n## _Birdsong_\n\n\u039f \u03ba\u03cd\u03c1\u03b9\u03bf\u03c2 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03bf \u03c1\u03bf\u03b6 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5\u03ba\u03ac\u03bc\u03b9\u03c3\u03bf \u03ba\u03ac\u03b8\u03b9\u03c3\u03b5 \u03b4\u03af\u03c0\u03bb\u03b1 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03bc\u03c0\u03b1\u03c1. \u03a6\u03bf\u03c1\u03bf\u03cd\u03c3\u03b5 \u03c1\u03bf\u03b6 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5\u03ba\u03ac\u03bc\u03b9\u03c3\u03bf \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c1\u03bf\u03b6 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5\u03bb\u03cc\u03b2\u03b5\u03c1. \u0388\u03c0\u03b9\u03bd\u03b5 \u03c4\u03bf \u03c0\u03bf\u03c4\u03cc \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03c3\u03b5\u03ba\u03c4\u03b9\u03ba\u03ac \u03bc\u03b7 \u03bb\u03b5\u03c1\u03c9\u03b8\u03b5\u03af \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03ac\u03bd\u03b1\u03b2\u03b5 \u03ba\u03ac\u03b8\u03b5 \u03c4\u03c3\u03b9\u03b3\u03ac\u03c1\u03bf \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b1\u03c1\u03b3\u03ac \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b1\u03b8\u03b5\u03c1\u03ac. \u038c\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd \u03c4\u03b5\u03bb\u03b5\u03af\u03c9\u03bd\u03b5 \u03c4\u03bf \u03ba\u03ac\u03c0\u03bd\u03b9\u03c3\u03bc\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b1\u03c4\u03bf\u03cd\u03c3\u03b5 \u03b5\u03c6\u03c4\u03ac \u03c6\u03bf\u03c1\u03ad\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf \u03b1\u03c0\u03bf\u03c4\u03c3\u03af\u03b3\u03b1\u03c1\u03bf \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03c4\u03b1\u03c3\u03ac\u03ba\u03b9 \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c3\u03b2\u03ae\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9 \u03ba\u03b1\u03bb\u03ac. \u0391\u03ba\u03bf\u03c5\u03bc\u03c0\u03bf\u03cd\u03c3\u03b5 \u03c4\u03bf \u03c0\u03bf\u03c4\u03cc \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03bf \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c7\u03ad\u03c1\u03b9 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03bf \u03ac\u03bb\u03bb\u03bf \u03c3\u03c7\u03b7\u03bc\u03ac\u03c4\u03b9\u03b6\u03b5 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03b1\u03c1\u03b9\u03b8\u03bc\u03bf\u03cd\u03c2 \u03c4\u03c9\u03bd \u03c6\u03af\u03bb\u03c9\u03bd \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03ba\u03b9\u03bd\u03b7\u03c4\u03cc.\n\n\u0391\u03bb\u03ae\u03b8\u03b5\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03ad\u03b4\u03c9\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c3\u03b7\u03bc\u03b1\u03c3\u03af\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c4\u03ad \u03c4\u03b9 \u03ae\u03c7\u03bf \u03ba\u03ac\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf 9 \u03ae \u03c4\u03bf 1 \u03c0\u03ac\u03bd\u03c9 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03c0\u03bb\u03b7\u03ba\u03c4\u03c1\u03bf\u03bb\u03cc\u03b3\u03b9\u03bf \u03b5\u03bd\u03cc\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bb\u03b5\u03c6\u03ce\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5.\n\n\u039c\u03b5 \u03ba\u03bf\u03b9\u03c4\u03bf\u03cd\u03c3\u03b5 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03b2\u03bb\u03ad\u03bc\u03bc\u03b1 \u03b5\u03be\u03bf\u03bd\u03c5\u03c7\u03b9\u03c3\u03c4\u03b9\u03ba\u03cc \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03ac\u03ba\u03bf\u03c5\u03b3\u03b5 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03c3\u03bf\u03c7\u03ae \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03ba\u03ac\u03b8\u03b5 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bb\u03ad\u03be\u03b7. \u039f \u03ba\u03cd\u03c1\u03b9\u03bf\u03c2 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03bf \u03c1\u03bf\u03b6 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5\u03ba\u03ac\u03bc\u03b9\u03c3\u03bf \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf \u03c1\u03bf\u03b6 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5\u03bb\u03cc\u03b2\u03b5\u03c1 \u03c4\u03b5\u03bb\u03b5\u03af\u03c9\u03c3\u03b5 \u03c4\u03bf \u03c0\u03bf\u03c4\u03cc \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5, \u03c3\u03b7\u03ba\u03ce\u03b8\u03b7\u03ba\u03b5 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b1\u03c0\u03bf\u03c7\u03b1\u03b9\u03c1\u03ad\u03c4\u03b7\u03c3\u03b5 \u03b5\u03c5\u03b3\u03b5\u03bd\u03b9\u03ba\u03ac. \u0398\u03b1 \u03c0\u03ae\u03b3\u03b1\u03b9\u03bd\u03b5 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03b5\u03be\u03bf\u03c7\u03ae \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03ac\u03bb\u03bb\u03b7 \u03bc\u03ad\u03c1\u03b1 \u03b5\u03af\u03c0\u03b5, \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03b1\u03ba\u03bf\u03cd\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5\u03bb\u03b9\u03ac. \u0398\u03b1 \u03c4\u03c1\u03b1\u03b3\u03bf\u03c5\u03b4\u03bf\u03cd\u03c3\u03b5 \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c4\u03c1\u03b1\u03b3\u03bf\u03cd\u03b4\u03b9 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf \u03b2\u03c1\u03ac\u03b4\u03c5 \u03b8\u03b1 \u03b1\u03c0\u03bf\u03ba\u03bf\u03b9\u03bc\u03b9\u03cc\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd \u03b4\u03af\u03c0\u03bb\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03c1\u03b1\u03b4\u03b9\u03cc\u03c6\u03c9\u03bd\u03bf.\n\n## _Birdsong_\n\nThe guy in the pink shirt sat down next to me at the bar. He was wearing a pink shirt and a pink vest. He sipped his drink carefully, not spilling a drop, and lit each cigarette slowly and steadily. When he finished a smoke, he stubbed it out seven times in the ashtray to make sure. He rested one hand on his drink, and his other hand entered friends' numbers into his cell phone.\n\nTo be honest, I'd never paid attention to the sound a 9 or a 1 makes on the keypad.\n\nHe watched me carefully and listened closely to my every word. The guy in the pink shirt and the pink vest finished his drink, got up, and politely said his goodbyes. He was off on a trip to the countryside the next day, he said, so he could hear the birds. He'd sing a song, and fall asleep next to the radio in the evening.\n\nSarah McCann\n\n## Danae Sioziou\n\n#### (Born Karlsruhe, Germany, 1987)\n\nThe poetry of Danae Sioziou typifies an important trend within the _Teflon_ group that is also noticeable in the work of Glykeria Basdeki and other women poets living and working outside Athens: the intersection of the fatalistic and the feminist. Like Marvin and Kishida in this section \u2013 and, beyond Greece, like Sophie Collins and _tender_ , the online 'quarterly journal made by women' she edits with fellow UK poet Rachael Allen \u2013 Sioziou presents us with poems that speak for and about women without feeling the need to explain themselves, or to apologize for repeating the complaints of an earlier generation. Raised in Germany and Greece, she studied English Literature and European History at the University of Athens, and Arts Administration at Panteion University. Her poems, translations, and articles have been published in various journals online and off ( _Poetics_ , _Teflon_ , _e-poema_ , _The Books Journal_ , _Athens Review of Books_ , _Chronos_ ). Her blog can be found at danaesioziou.wordpress.com.\n\n## _\u039f\u03b9 \u03c6\u03cd\u03bb\u03b1\u03ba\u03b5\u03c2_\n\n\u039a\u03bf\u03b9\u03bc\u03b7\u03b8\u03ae\u03ba\u03b1\u03bc\u03b5 \u03b4\u03cd\u03c3\u03ba\u03bf\u03bb\u03b1 \u03b5\u03ba\u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03bf \u03c4\u03bf \u03b2\u03c1\u03ac\u03b4\u03c5\n\n\u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c3\u03ba\u03c5\u03bb\u03b9\u03ac \u03bc\u03b1\u03c2 \u03bd' \u03b1\u03bb\u03c5\u03c7\u03c4\u03bf\u03cd\u03bd \u03cc\u03bb\u03b7 \u03c4\u03b7 \u03bd\u03cd\u03c7\u03c4\u03b1.\n\n\u039f\u03cd\u03c4\u03b5 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b9\u03b3\u03bc\u03ae \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03c4\u03bf \u03c3\u03ba\u03b5\u03c6\u03c4\u03ae\u03ba\u03b1\u03bc\u03b5 \u03c0\u03c9\u03c2 \u03ae\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd\n\n\u03b7 \u03c6\u03c9\u03bd\u03ae \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2\n\n\u03b1\u03b3\u03b3\u03b5\u03bb\u03b9\u03bf\u03c6\u03cc\u03c1\u03bf\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b8\u03b1\u03bd\u03ac\u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c0\u03c9\u03c2 \u03c3\u03b1\u03bd \u03c6\u03cd\u03bb\u03b1\u03ba\u03b5\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b1\u03bb\u03bf\u03af \u03bc\u03ac\u03c2 \u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03b5\u03b9\u03b4\u03bf\u03c0\u03bf\u03b9\u03bf\u03cd\u03c3\u03b1\u03bd\n\n\u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b7 \u03b4\u03b9\u03ac\u03c1\u03c1\u03b7\u03be\u03b7 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b8\u03b1 \u03b5\u03c0\u03b9\u03c7\u03b5\u03b9\u03c1\u03bf\u03cd\u03c3\u03b5 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03c3\u03c0\u03af\u03c4\u03b9 \u03bc\u03b1\u03c2.\n\n\u039c\u03ad\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03b7\u03c3\u03c5\u03c7\u03af\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bc\u03b9\u03ba\u03c1\u03bf\u03cd \u03bc\u03b1\u03c2 \u03b4\u03c9\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03af\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u03be\u03b1\u03b3\u03c1\u03c5\u03c0\u03bd\u03bf\u03cd\u03c3\u03b1\u03bc\u03b5\n\n\u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03bf \u03c0\u03b5\u03af\u03c3\u03bc\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf \u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u03ac\u03c0\u03bf\u03bd\u03bf\n\n\u03c0\u03b1\u03b9\u03b4\u03b9\u03ce\u03bd \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c4' \u03b1\u03b4\u03b9\u03ba\u03ae\u03c3\u03b1\u03bd\u03b5 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c0\u03b5\u03c1\u03b9\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03bd\u03b7\u03c3\u03c4\u03b9\u03ba\u03ac\n\n\u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b5\u03b3\u03b1\u03bb\u03ce\u03c3\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd\u03b5 \u03c0\u03bf\u03bb\u03cd \u03c3\u03b5 \u03bc\u03af\u03b1 \u03bd\u03cd\u03c7\u03c4\u03b1\n\n\u03bd\u03b1 \u03bb\u03ac\u03b2\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03b5\u03be\u03ae\u03b3\u03b7\u03c3\u03b7 \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03ac\u03b4\u03b9\u03ba\u03b7 \u03c4\u03b9\u03bc\u03c9\u03c1\u03af\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03ba\u03cc\u03c3\u03bc\u03bf.\n\n## _The Guards_\n\nWe couldn't sleep\n\nour dogs howling all night.\n\nWe didn't think for a second\n\nit was their voice\n\nthe messengers of death\n\nwarning us like vigilant guards\n\nof a break-in\n\nready to happen in our house.\n\nWe stayed awake\n\nin the quiet of our small room\n\nstubbornly, whining\n\nlike children treated unjustly\n\nwaiting without dinner\n\nto grow up all at once\n\nin one night\n\nand finally receive\n\nthe explanation for their unjust punishment\n\nand the world.\n\nKaren Van Dyck\n\n## _\u0392\u03b1\u03c1\u03cd\u03c4\u03b7\u03c4\u03b1_\n\n\u03a0\u03b1\u03bb\u03b9\u03ac \u03c6\u03c9\u03c4\u03bf\u03b3\u03c1\u03b1\u03c6\u03af\u03b1.\n\n\u03a3\u03c4\u03bf \u03ba\u03bb\u03b9\u03ba \u03c4\u03bf \u03bf\u03c1\u03b9\u03c3\u03c4\u03b9\u03ba\u03cc \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c6\u03c9\u03c4\u03bf\u03b3\u03c1\u03ac\u03c6\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u03c7\u03b1\u03bc\u03bf\u03b3\u03b5\u03bb\u03bf\u03cd\u03bd \u03c0\u03b9\u03b1\u03c3\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf\u03b9 \u03c7\u03ad\u03c1\u03b9 \u03c7\u03ad\u03c1\u03b9\n\n\u03bc\u03ac\u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c0\u03b1\u03c4\u03ad\u03c1\u03b1\u03c2 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b1\u03b3\u03b1\u03c0\u03b7\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf\u03b9.\n\n\u03a3\u03c4\u03bf \u03c0\u03b1\u03b9\u03b4\u03b9\u03ba\u03cc \u03ba\u03b1\u03c1\u03cc\u03c4\u03c3\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03cc\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9\u03c1\u03b1 \u03c3\u03ba\u03b5\u03c0\u03b1\u03c3\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1\n\n\u03c0\u03b5\u03c3\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c0\u03b1\u03c3\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03c0\u03b5\u03b6\u03bf\u03b4\u03c1\u03cc\u03bc\u03b9\u03bf\n\n\u03c4\u03b1 \u03bd\u03b5\u03c1\u03ac\u03bd\u03c4\u03b6\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ba\u03b1\u03bd\u03b5\u03af\u03c2 \u03b4\u03b5 \u03bc\u03ac\u03b6\u03b5\u03c8\u03b5.\n\n## _Heaviness_\n\nOld snapshot.\n\nIn the photographer's firm click\n\nthey're smiling, hand in hand,\n\nmy mother and my father. They're in love.\n\nDreams in the baby carriage, covered up:\n\nfallen, squashed on the sidewalk,\n\nbitter oranges no one has picked.\n\nRachel Hadas\n\n## _\u039f\u03b9\u03ba\u03b9\u03b1\u03ba\u03ac_\n\n\u0394\u03b5\u03bd \u03c0\u03c1\u03cc\u03c3\u03b5\u03be\u03b5\n\n\u03af\u03c3\u03c9\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b7\u03bd \u03c4\u03bf \u03ba\u03b1\u03c4\u03ac\u03bb\u03b1\u03b2\u03b5\n\n\u03b1\u03c0\u03bb\u03ac \u03c3\u03c5\u03bd\u03ad\u03c7\u03b9\u03c3\u03b5 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03ba\u03cc\u03b2\u03b5\u03b9\n\n\u03c0\u03ad\u03c1\u03b1 \u03b1\u03c0' \u03c4\u03b7 \u03c6\u03bb\u03bf\u03cd\u03b4\u03b1 \u03c4\u03c9\u03bd \u03b1\u03c7\u03bb\u03b1\u03b4\u03b9\u03ce\u03bd\n\n\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c7\u03ad\u03c1\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2.\n\n\u03a4\u03bf \u03b1\u03af\u03bc\u03b1 \u03ba\u03cd\u03bb\u03b7\u03c3\u03b5 \u03ae\u03c3\u03c5\u03c7\u03b1\n\n\u03b1\u03c0' \u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03b3\u03c1\u03b1\u03bc\u03bc\u03ad\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03c4\u03cd\u03c7\u03b7\u03c2\n\n\u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03b6\u03c9\u03ae\u03c2, \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ad\u03c1\u03c9\u03c4\u03b1\n\n\u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03bd\u03b5\u03c1\u03bf\u03c7\u03cd\u03c4\u03b7\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c3\u03c4\u03c1\u03bf\u03b2\u03b9\u03bb\u03af\u03c3\u03c4\u03b7\u03ba\u03b5\n\n\u03b1\u03bd\u03ac\u03bc\u03b5\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03ac\u03c0\u03bb\u03c5\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b9\u03ac\u03c4\u03b1\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03b1\u03c0\u03bf\u03c6\u03ac\u03b3\u03b9\u03b1.\n\n\u0397 \u03b3\u03ac\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03b1\u03bd\u03ae\u03c3\u03c5\u03c7\u03b7\n\n\u03ad\u03c4\u03c1\u03b5\u03be\u03b5 \u03ba\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03ac \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c3\u03c5\u03bc\u03c0\u03cc\u03bd\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b5\u03b9\u03bb\u03b9\u03ba\u03c1\u03b9\u03bd\u03ae\n\n\u03ad\u03b3\u03bb\u03b5\u03b9\u03c8\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c4\u03c1\u03b1\u03cd\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2\n\n\u03b5\u03bd\u03ce \u03b5\u03ba\u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b7\n\n\u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bc\u03af\u03b1 \u03c3\u03cd\u03bd\u03c4\u03bf\u03bc\u03b7\n\n\u03bc\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b1\u03ba\u03b1\u03c1\u03b9\u03b1\u03af\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b9\u03b3\u03bc\u03ae\n\n\u03b5\u03af\u03b4\u03b5 \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03b5\u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03cc \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2\n\n\u03bc\u03ad\u03c3\u03b1 \u03b1\u03c0' \u03c4\u03b1 \u03b3\u03c5\u03ac\u03bb\u03b9\u03bd\u03b1 \u03b3\u03b1\u03c4\u03af\u03c3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bc\u03ac\u03c4\u03b9\u03b1\n\n\u03be\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf\n\n\u03bc\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c3\u03b5 \u03b2\u03c1\u03cc\u03bc\u03b9\u03ba\u03bf \u03ba\u03bb\u03bf\u03c5\u03b2\u03af \u03c6\u03c5\u03bb\u03b1\u03ba\u03b9\u03c3\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf\n\n\u03bf\u03c1\u03bf\u03c6\u03ae \u03b4\u03af\u03c7\u03c9\u03c2 \u03b1\u03bd\u03b1\u03c4\u03bf\u03bb\u03ae\n\n\u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03c0\u03ac\u03c4\u03c9\u03bc\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b9\u03ba\u03c1\u03ac \u03c3\u03ba\u03b1\u03b8\u03ac\u03c1\u03b9\u03b1\n\n\u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03bd\u03b5\u03c1\u03bf\u03c7\u03cd\u03c4\u03b7 \u03b7 \u03c3\u03ba\u03bf\u03c4\u03b5\u03b9\u03bd\u03ae \u03bb\u03af\u03bc\u03bd\u03b7\n\n\u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bc\u03ad\u03c3\u03b1 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\u03bb\u03b9\u03ac\u03b6\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c7\u03ad\u03c1\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03ce\u03c1\u03b1 \u03b1\u03c3\u03c4\u03c1\u03ac\u03c6\u03c4\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b5\u03c6\u03b1\u03bd\u03c9\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b7 \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc\n\n\u03c0\u03ac\u03c7\u03bd\u03b7 \u03bb\u03b5\u03c5\u03ba\u03ae, \u03b1\u03c0\u03bf\u03bb\u03c5\u03bc\u03b1\u03bd\u03c4\u03b9\u03ba\u03ae.\n\n\u0391\u03c0' \u03c4\u03bf \u03b2\u03c5\u03b8\u03cc \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2\n\n\u03b1\u03bd\u03b1\u03b4\u03cd\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c0\u03b1\u03bd\u03c3\u03ad\u03bb\u03b7\u03bd\u03b1, \u03bf\u03bb\u03cc\u03b1\u03c3\u03c0\u03c1\u03b1 \u03c6\u03b5\u03b3\u03b3\u03ac\u03c1\u03b9\u03b1\n\n\u03c3\u03ba\u03ad\u03c6\u03c4\u03b7\u03ba\u03b5\n\n\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b5\u03bb\u03b5\u03b9\u03ce\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c3\u03ae\u03bc\u03b5\u03c1\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03bb\u03ac\u03c7\u03b9\u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\u03bd\n\n\u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b9\u03ac\u03c4\u03b1.\n\n## _\u03a7\u03b1\u03c1\u03c4\u03bf\u03b3\u03c1\u03b1\u03c6\u03ce\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b7 \u03b3\u03b5\u03c9\u03b3\u03c1\u03b1\u03c6\u03af\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c5\u03bc\u03c0\u03c4\u03c9\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03bf\u03bb\u03bf\u03b3\u03af\u03b1\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b2\u03ae\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03bf\u03c2_\n\n\u0386\u03bb\u03bb\u03bf\u03b9 \u03b4\u03b9\u03b1\u03b2\u03ac\u03b6\u03b1\u03bd\u03b5 \u03c6\u03bb\u03b9\u03c4\u03b6\u03ac\u03bd\u03b9\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c7\u03b1\u03c1\u03c4\u03b9\u03ac\n\n\u03b5\u03c3\u03cd\n\n\u03c4\u03b1 \u03b1\u03c0\u03bf\u03c4\u03c5\u03c0\u03ce\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c4\u03c9\u03bd \u03c5\u03c0\u03bf\u03b4\u03b7\u03bc\u03ac\u03c4\u03c9\u03bd \u03c3\u03b5 \u03ac\u03c3\u03c6\u03b1\u03bb\u03c4\u03bf\n\n\u03c7\u03ce\u03bc\u03b1\n\n\u03bd\u03b5\u03c1\u03cc \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9\n\n\u03c7\u03b9\u03cc\u03bd\u03b9.\n\n\u039c\u03c0\u03bf\u03c1\u03bf\u03cd\u03c3\u03b5\u03c2 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03b4\u03b9\u03b1\u03b3\u03bd\u03ce\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03b5\u03ba\u03b5\u03af\n\n\u03c4\u03bf \u03b9\u03b4\u03b5\u03cc\u03b3\u03c1\u03b1\u03bc\u03bc\u03b1\n\n\u03bc\u03b9\u03b1\u03c2 \u03bc\u03ad\u03c1\u03b1\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b1\u03bb\u03ae\u03c2 \u03ae \u03ba\u03b1\u03ba\u03ae\u03c2\n\n\u03c4\u03bf \u03b5\u03b9\u03b4\u03b9\u03ba\u03cc \u03b2\u03ac\u03c1\u03bf\u03c2\n\n\u03bc\u03b9\u03b1\u03c2 \u03c7\u03b1\u03c1\u03ac\u03c2, \u03bc\u03b9\u03b1\u03c2 \u03bb\u03cd\u03c0\u03b7\u03c2\n\n\u03c4\u03b7 \u03c3\u03c5\u03bd\u03b9\u03c3\u03c4\u03b1\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b7\n\n\u03b5\u03bd\u03cc\u03c2 \u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u03b1\u03c0\u03b1\u03c4\u03ae\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03bf\u03c2,\n\n\u03bc\u03b9\u03b1\u03c2 \u03c0\u03c4\u03ce\u03c3\u03b7\u03c2\n\n\u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03c5\u03c0\u03bf\u03bb\u03bf\u03b3\u03b9\u03c3\u03bc\u03cc\n\n\u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03b2\u03b1\u03c1\u03cd\u03c4\u03b7\u03c4\u03b1\u03c2\n\n\u03c3\u03c9\u03bc\u03ac\u03c4\u03c9\u03bd\n\n\u03c3 \u03c5 \u03bc \u03c0 \u03c4 \u03c9 \u03bc \u03ac \u03c4 \u03c9 \u03bd\n\n\u03b5\u03b9\u03b4\u03b9\u03ba\u03ae\u03c2 \u03c0\u03c5\u03ba\u03bd\u03cc\u03c4\u03b7\u03c4\u03b1\u03c2.\n\n## _Around the House_\n\nShe wasn't paying attention\n\nmaybe she didn't even notice\n\nshe simply continued cutting\n\nbeyond the pears she was peeling\n\nher hands\n\nBlood ran gently\n\nfrom the lines of fate\n\nof life of love\n\nand into the sink\n\nand swirled around among the dirty dishes\n\nand the scraps of food\n\nHer cat, uneasy,\n\nran up to her\n\nand with sincere fellow feeling\n\nlicked her wounds\n\nwhile she\n\nfor a split second\n\nsaw herself\n\nthrough its glassy cat eyes\n\na stranger\n\nimprisoned in a filthy cage\n\na ceiling without sunrise\n\nlittle beetles on the floor\n\nin the sink a dark lake\n\nshe soaked her hands in\n\nand now it shines, crowned with\n\nthe white frost of detergent\n\nFrom the depths of the sink\n\nrise full moons brilliant white\n\nshe thought\n\nlet me at least\n\nfinish the dishes today\n\nRachel Hadas\n\n## _Mapping the Geography of the Symptoms of a Footstep_\n\nOthers read teacups and cards\n\nyou\n\nread the imprint of shoes on asphalt\n\nearth\n\nwater and\n\nsnow.\n\nThere you could distinguish\n\nthe signature\n\nof a good day or a bad day\n\nthe special weight\n\nof a joy, of a sorrow\n\nthe effect\n\nof a stumble\n\nor a fall\n\non the estimate\n\nof the weight\n\nof bodies\n\nof _symptoms_\n\nof a peculiar density.\n\nRachel Hadas\n\n## Yannis Moundelas\n\n#### (Born Athens, Greece, 1982)\n\nResignation breeds new imaginative leaps in Yannis Moundelas's poems, which he publishes exclusively online and under various pseudonyms. Since he began as a poet in the Greek blogging community he has gained an international following, and his work has now been translated into numerous languages, among them Spanish and Japanese. Like Baroutsos and Khaleed, his poetry has appeared in English translation in _Words Without Borders_. He has yet to publish a collection, and may never do so: the place to be, he believes, is not on paper.\n\n## _\u0391\u03bd\u03ac\u03b4\u03c1\u03bf\u03bc\u03bf\u03c2 \u0395\u03c1\u03bc\u03ae\u03c2_\n\n\u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03ac\u03ba\u03c1\u03b7 \u03c4\u03c9\u03bd \u03c7\u03b5\u03c1\u03b9\u03ce\u03bd \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5, \u03b8\u03b1\u03c1\u03c1\u03ce \u03c4\u03b1 \u03b4\u03ac\u03c7\u03c4\u03c5\u03bb\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bb\u03af\u03b3\u03bf \u03c4\u03b1 \u03bd\u03cd\u03c7\u03b9\u03b1,\n\n\u03c3\u03c7\u03b5\u03b4\u03b9\u03ac\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c6\u03c9\u03c4\u03b9\u03ad\u03c2, \u03bc\u03b5 \u03b3\u03bb\u03ce\u03c3\u03c3\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c6\u03b9\u03b4\u03b9\u03ce\u03bd.\n\n\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b1\u03b9\u03b4\u03af \u03bc\u03b5 \u03b1\u03b4\u03c5\u03bd\u03b1\u03bc\u03af\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c0\u03c4\u03ce\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c7\u03ac\u03c1\u03c4\u03b9\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c6\u03c4\u03b5\u03c1\u03ac \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03c0\u03bb\u03ac\u03c4\u03b7,\n\n\u03c3\u03ba\u03ad\u03c6\u03c4\u03b5\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c3\u03c5\u03bd\u03ad\u03c7\u03b5\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c0\u03c5\u03c1\u03ba\u03b1\u03b3\u03b9\u03ad\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b2\u03b9\u03b1\u03b9\u03bf\u03c0\u03c1\u03b1\u03b3\u03af\u03b5\u03c2.\n\n\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9, \u03c7\u03c1\u03cc\u03bd\u03b9\u03b1, \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03b7\u03bc\u03b9\u03c5\u03c0\u03cc\u03b3\u03b5\u03b9\u03bf \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c0\u03b9\u03bf \u03c0\u03bf\u03bb\u03cd\u03c7\u03c1\u03c9\u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bf\u03bd\u03b5\u03af\u03c1\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5,\n\n\u03b5\u03ba\u03b5\u03af \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c0\u03b9\u03ac\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c5\u03b3\u03c1\u03b1\u03c3\u03af\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b4\u03b7\u03bb\u03b7\u03c4\u03ae\u03c1\u03b9\u03bf \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\u03c7\u03bb\u03b9\u03b1\u03c3\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf \u03c3\u03c4\u03ac\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9 \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf\u03af\u03c7\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2.\n\n\u03c4\u03c1\u03ce\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c3\u03b7\u03bc\u03b5\u03b9\u03ce\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c4\u03ad \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03c0\u03b5\u03b9\u03bd\u03ac\u03b5\u03b9, \u03bc\u03cc\u03bd\u03bf \u03b3\u03ba\u03c1\u03b9\u03bd\u03b9\u03ac\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9 \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf \u03bd\u03b5\u03c1\u03cc, \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c4\u03bf \u03b8\u03ad\u03bb\u03b5\u03b9\n\n\u03c7\u03b5\u03b9\u03bc\u03c9\u03bd\u03b9\u03ac\u03c4\u03b9\u03ba\u03b1 \u03ba\u03c1\u03cd\u03bf \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03cc\u03c7\u03b9 \u03c0\u03b1\u03b3\u03c9\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf.\n\n\u03c3\u03b2\u03ae\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c4\u03c3\u03b9\u03b3\u03ac\u03c1\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c0\u03b1\u03bb\u03ac\u03bc\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03cc\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd \u03ad\u03c7\u03b5\u03b9 \u03ba\u03b1\u03cd\u03bb\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c6\u03c5\u03c1\u03af\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c3\u03b1\u03bd \u03c4\u03c1\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf, \u03bc\u03ad\u03c7\u03c1\u03b9\n\n\u03b5\u03ba\u03c4\u03c1\u03bf\u03c7\u03b9\u03b1\u03c3\u03bc\u03bf\u03cd \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bc\u03b5\u03c4\u03ac \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5\u03c6... \u03ba\u03b1\u03c0\u03bd\u03cc\u03c2 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03b5\u03b9\u03c3\u03c0\u03bd\u03ad\u03b5\u03b9 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b5\u03bb\u03b5\u03b9\u03ce\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9...\n\n\u03b5\u03b4\u03ce \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\u03bb\u03b9\u03c3\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c4\u03ac\u03c6\u03bf \u03ad\u03b3\u03b9\u03bd\u03b5 \u03cc\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c6\u03bf\u03b2\u03cc\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd, \u03cc\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03c0\u03bb\u03ae\u03b3\u03c9\u03c3\u03b1\u03bd\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03cc\u03c3\u03b1 \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03ba\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1\u03bb\u03ac\u03b2\u03b1\u03b9\u03bd\u03b5... \u03b4\u03c5\u03bd\u03b1\u03c4\u03cc\u03c4\u03b5\u03c1\u03bf\u03c2 \u03c0\u03b9\u03b1, \u03c0\u03b1\u03c3\u03b1\u03bb\u03b5\u03b9\u03bc\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf\u03c2 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c3\u03c4\u03ac\u03c7\u03c4\u03b5\u03c2, \u03c0\u03b5\u03c1\u03b9\u03c4\u03c1\u03b9\u03b3\u03c5\u03c1\u03b9\u03c3\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf\u03c2 \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03c6\u03bb\u03cc\u03b3\u03b5\u03c2,\n\n\u03b1\u03bd\u03bf\u03af\u03b3\u03b5\u03b9 \u03ba\u03ac\u03b8\u03b5 \u03c4\u03cc\u03c3\u03bf \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c7\u03ac\u03c1\u03c4\u03b9\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c6\u03c4\u03b5\u03c1\u03ac \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c3\u03b5 \u03c3\u03c5\u03bd\u03b1\u03bd\u03c4\u03ae\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9.\n\n\u03cc\u03bb\u03b1 \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03ac \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c3\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1, \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03b4\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2, \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03b4\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c0\u03c9\u03c2 \u03bc\u03c0\u03bf\u03c1\u03b5\u03af \u03ba\u03b9 \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03cc\u03c2... \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c6\u03c4\u03cd\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03b2\u03b1\u03c1\u03cd\u03c4\u03b7\u03c4\u03b1... \u03bd\u03b1 \u03b1\u03b3\u03bd\u03bf\u03b5\u03af \u03c4\u03bf \u03bc\u03ad\u03c4\u03c1\u03bf... \u03bd\u03b1 \u03bd\u03b9\u03ba\u03ac \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03bc\u03b5\u03b3\u03b1\u03bb\u03cd\u03c4\u03b5\u03c1\u03cc \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c6\u03cc\u03b2\u03bf... \u03bd\u03b1 \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03ba\u03b1\u03bb\u03cd\u03c4\u03b5\u03c1\u03bf\u03c2 \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03cc\u03c3\u03bf \u03c0\u03b9\u03c3\u03c4\u03b5\u03cd\u03b5\u03b9... \u03c7\u03b5\u03b9\u03c1\u03cc\u03c4\u03b5\u03c1\u03bf\u03c2 \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03cc\u03c3\u03bf \u03bc\u03c0\u03bf\u03c1\u03b5\u03af...\n\n## _Mercury in Retrograde_\n\nWith fingers \u2013 fingertips and edge of nail \u2013\n\nhe plots fires with tongues of snakes,\n\na child yearning for sheer drops, with paper wings on his shoulders,\n\nthinking and thinking of fires and acts of violence.\n\nFor years he lives in the basement of his polychrome dreams\n\nwhere dampness lingers and moldy poison drips from walls.\n\nHe devours his scribblings and is never hungry, but only whines for water\n\nwhich he likes winter-chilled, not frozen.\n\nHe stubs out his cigarettes on the palms of his hands, and when he is hot and aroused\n\nhe whistles to derailment like a train and then, puff!... he breathes in smoke as he climaxes,\n\nan orgasmic lunge, and then the plunge.\n\nHere on his decked-out tomb all he feared has come to pass, all that wounded him,\n\nand all he didn't understand... stronger now, smeared in ash, encircled by flames,\n\nhe spreads from time to time his paper wings to meet you.\n\nPeter Constantine\n\n## _\u0395\u03bb\u03ad\u03c6\u03b1\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03b1\u03ad\u03c1\u03b1_\n\n\u0388\u03bd\u03b1\u03c2 \u03b5\u03bb\u03ad\u03c6\u03b1\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03c2 \u03b1\u03c0\u03bf\u03c6\u03ac\u03c3\u03b9\u03c3\u03b5 \u03bc\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bc\u03ad\u03c1\u03b1 \u03c0\u03c9\u03c2 \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c4\u03b1\u03b9\u03c1\u03b9\u03ac\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b5\u03bb\u03ad\u03c6\u03b1\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c0\u03c9\u03c2 \u03ae\u03c1\u03b8\u03b5 \u03b7 \u03ce\u03c1\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b5\u03c4\u03ac\u03be\u03b5\u03b9 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03b3\u03af\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c0\u03b5\u03c4\u03b1\u03bb\u03bf\u03cd\u03b4\u03b1. \u039a\u03b1\u03b9 \u03be\u03ad\u03c1\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1\u03c4\u03af \u03c0\u03bf\u03c4\u03ad \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03c4\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b1\u03c4\u03ac\u03c6\u03b5\u03c1\u03b5; \u0393\u03b9\u03b1\u03c4\u03af \u03c4\u03bf \u03bc\u03cc\u03bd\u03bf \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03ad\u03bd\u03bf\u03b9\u03b1\u03b6\u03b5 \u03ae\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd \u03b7 \u03b9\u03b4\u03ad\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5...\n\n\u0394\u03b5\u03bd \u03ae\u03b8\u03b5\u03bb\u03b5 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03b3\u03af\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c6\u03b1\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03c7\u03c4\u03b5\u03c1\u03cc\u03c2\n\n\u0394\u03b5\u03bd \u03ae\u03b8\u03b5\u03bb\u03b5 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03bd\u03b9\u03ba\u03ae\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b7 \u03b2\u03b1\u03c1\u03cd\u03c4\u03b7\u03c4\u03b1\n\n\u0394\u03b5\u03bd \u03ae\u03b8\u03b5\u03bb\u03b5 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b1\u03be\u03b9\u03b4\u03b5\u03cd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03bc\u03b1\u03c1\u03b3\u03b1\u03c1\u03af\u03c4\u03b5\u03c2\n\n\u0389\u03b8\u03b5\u03bb\u03b5 \u03b1\u03c0\u03bb\u03ac \u03bd\u03b1 \u03b3\u03af\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c0\u03b5\u03c4\u03b1\u03bb\u03bf\u03cd\u03b4\u03b1\n\n\u039a\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03ad\u03b3\u03b9\u03bd\u03b5 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c4\u03ad...\n\n\u039a\u03b1\u03b9 \u03ad\u03bc\u03b5\u03b9\u03bd\u03b5 \u03b5\u03ba\u03b5\u03af \u03c3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c7\u03b1\u03bc\u03b7\u03bb\u03ac... \u03c0\u03b9\u03b5\u03c3\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf\u03c2 \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03c4\u03bf \u03b2\u03ac\u03c1\u03bf\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u039d\u03b1 \u03c7\u03b1\u03b6\u03b5\u03cd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03ac\u03bb\u03bb\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03b5\u03bb\u03ad\u03c6\u03b1\u03bd\u03c4\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ad\u03b3\u03b9\u03bd\u03b1\u03bd \u03c0\u03b5\u03c4\u03b1\u03bb\u03bf\u03cd\u03b4\u03b5\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b4\u03cd\u03bf \u03c6\u03ac\u03bb\u03b1\u03b9\u03bd\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b3\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03bd\u03b5 \u03c0\u03b1\u03b3\u03cc\u03bd\u03b9\u03b1...\n\n\u039a\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b3\u03ad\u03c1\u03b1\u03c3\u03b5 \u03b5\u03bb\u03ad\u03c6\u03b1\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03c2 \u03b1\u03c6\u03bf\u03cd \u03b7 \u03b9\u03b4\u03ad\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ae\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03b1\u03c1\u03c7\u03ae \u03b1\u03c0\u03bb\u03ac \u03bc\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b9\u03b4\u03ad\u03b1\n\n\u03a7\u03c9\u03c1\u03af\u03c2 \u03c6\u03c9\u03c2\n\n\u03a7\u03c9\u03c1\u03af\u03c2 \u03c6\u03c4\u03b5\u03c1\u03ac\n\n\u039c\u03cc\u03bd\u03bf \u03bf \u03b8\u03ac\u03bd\u03b1\u03c4\u03bf\u03c2 \u03b8\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c7\u03b1\u03c1\u03af\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c0\u03b9\u03b1...\n\n## _Truncated Clouds_\n\nAn elephant decided one day that being an elephant didn't suit him and the time had come for him to fly away a butterfly\n\nBut do you know why he never succeeded?\n\nThe only thing he cared about was the idea \u2013\n\nHe didn't want to make a spectacle of himself\n\nHe didn't want to fight gravity\n\nHe didn't want to fly over to the daisies\n\nHe simply wanted to become a butterfly\n\nAnd never did\n\nAnd remained grounded... weighed by his weight\n\nStaring at other elephants who had become butterflies and two whales who had turned into peacocks\n\nAnd he grew old as an elephant, his idea no more than an idea\n\nWithout light\n\nWithout wings\n\nWhich now only death would give him\n\nPeter Constantine\n\n## Pavlina Marvin\n\n#### (Born Athens, Greece, 1987)\n\nPavlina Marvin's topical, close-to-the-bone work is now being recognized by the mainstream, but she began as one of the bloggers who created _Teflon_. Born in Athens, she grew up in the city of Ermoupolis on the island of Syros. She studied History but after studying poetry at the Takis Sinopoulos Foundation decided to make poetry her life. Her poems, book and theatre reviews, and children's literature have been published extensively in print and online.\n\n## _T\u03b1 \u03b6\u03b9\u03b6\u03ac\u03bd\u03b9\u03b1_\n\n\u0394\u03b5\u03bd \u03ad\u03c0\u03c1\u03b5\u03c0\u03b5 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03b2\u03b3\u03ac\u03bb\u03c9 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03b6\u03b9\u03b6\u03ac\u03bd\u03b9\u03b1 \u2013\n\n\u03c7\u03ac\u03c3\u03b1\u03bc\u03b5 \u03cc\u03bb\u03bf \u03bc\u03b1\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf \u03c3\u03c4\u03ac\u03c7\u03c5.\n\n\u03a4\u03ce\u03c1\u03b1, \u03c3\u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03b5\u03c0\u03bf\u03c7\u03ad\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c4\u03ad\u03c1\u03b7\u03c3\u03b7\u03c2,\n\n\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b9 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c3\u03ce\u03b8\u03b7\u03ba\u03b5:\n\n\u03a4\u03bf \u03ac\u03b4\u03b5\u03b9\u03bf \u03bc\u03b1\u03c2 \u03c7\u03c9\u03c1\u03ac\u03c6\u03b9,\n\n\u03c3\u03c4\u03b7 \u03bc\u03ad\u03c3\u03b7 \u03be\u03cc\u03b1\u03bd\u03bf \u03b5\u03b3\u03ce\n\n\u03bd\u03b1 \u03bd\u03b1\u03c5\u03b1\u03b3\u03ce\n\n\u03c0\u03bf\u03c5\u03bb\u03b9\u03ac \u03bd\u03b5\u03ba\u03c1\u03cc\u03c6\u03b5\u03c1\u03c4\u03b1\n\n\u03bc\u03b1\u03bc\u03bf\u03cd\u03bd\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b1\u03b9\u03bc\u03cc\u03c6\u03c5\u03c1\u03c4\u03b1\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b3\u03cd\u03c1\u03c9 \u03b3\u03cd\u03c1\u03c9 \u03bb\u03af\u03b3\u03b5\u03c2 \u03bc\u03bd\u03ae\u03bc\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c4\u03c9\u03bd \u03ba\u03b1\u03c1\u03c0\u03ce\u03bd.\n\n## _\u03a4\u03bf \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc\u03bb\u03c5\u03c4\u03bf \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc\u03b2\u03bb\u03b7\u03c4\u03bf_\n\n\u03a4\u03bf \u03bc\u03c9\u03c1\u03cc \u03bc\u03b1\u03c2, \u03bd\u03b9\u03ce\u03b8\u03c9\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03c2 \u03b1\u03bd\u03b5\u03c0\u03b9\u03b8\u03cd\u03bc\u03b7\u03c4\u03bf \u03c4\u03b5\u03bb\u03b5\u03af\u03c9\u03c2, \u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03c3\u03b5\u03b2\u03bb\u03ae\u03b8\u03b7\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9, \u03bb\u03af\u03b3\u03bf \u03c0\u03c1\u03b9\u03bd \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03ad\u03ba\u03c4\u03c1\u03c9\u03c3\u03b7, \u03ac\u03b3\u03bd\u03c9\u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03c0\u03ce\u03c2, \u03b1\u03c0\u03b5\u03b2\u03bb\u03ae\u03b8\u03b7.\n\n\u039e\u03b5\u03ba\u03ac\u03b8\u03b1\u03c1\u03b7 \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03bf\u03ba\u03c4\u03bf\u03bd\u03af\u03b1. \u03a4\u03b9 \u03b5\u03b9\u03c1\u03c9\u03bd\u03b5\u03af\u03b1!\n\n\u03a4\u03bf \u03bc\u03bf\u03bd\u03b1\u03b4\u03b9\u03ba\u03cc \u03b4\u03b9\u03ba\u03cc \u03bc\u03b1\u03c2 \u03c0\u03bb\u03b1\u03c3\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03ac\u03ba\u03b9,\n\n\u03b9\u03b4\u03b9\u03ac\u03b6\u03bf\u03bd \u03c4\u03ce\u03c1\u03b1 \u03c3\u03ba\u03bf\u03c5\u03bb\u03b7\u03ba\u03ac\u03ba\u03b9\n\n\u03c3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03bd\u03bf\u03c3\u03bf\u03ba\u03bf\u03bc\u03b5\u03b9\u03b1\u03ba\u03ac \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc\u03b2\u03bb\u03b7\u03c4\u03b1.\n\n\u0394\u03b5 \u03bb\u03c5\u03c0\u03ac\u03bc\u03b1\u03b9.\n\n\u039c\u03c9\u03c1\u03cc \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5, \u03b5\u03c3\u03cd;\n\n\u0388\u03bb\u03b1 \u03c4\u03ce\u03c1\u03b1, \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c0\u03ac\u03c1\u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u03ac\u03c4\u03b1 \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03ad\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03ba\u03bb\u03ac\u03c8\u03b5\u03c2.\n\n\u0391\u03bd \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03c0\u03b1\u03bb\u03ac\u03bc\u03b7 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c4\u03bf \u03ad\u03b2\u03b1\u03b6\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c3' \u03c4\u03bf '\u03b4\u03b5\u03b9\u03c7\u03bd\u03b1\n\n\u03c4\u03bf \u03b2\u03bb\u03ad\u03bc\u03bc\u03b1 \u03b8\u03b1 '\u03c3\u03c4\u03c1\u03b5\u03c6\u03b5\u03c2 \u03b1\u03bb\u03bb\u03bf\u03cd, \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03b1\u03b7\u03b4\u03af\u03b1.\n\n\u03a4\u03b9 \u03c4\u03ac\u03c7\u03b1\u03c4\u03b5\u03c2 \u03b5\u03bd\u03cc\u03bc\u03b9\u03c3\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c0\u03c9\u03c2 \u03ae\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd\u03b5;\n\n\u0388\u03bd\u03b1\u03c2 \u03b1\u03ba\u03cc\u03bc\u03b7 \u03b8\u03b1\u03bd\u03b1\u03c4\u03bf\u03cd\u03bb\u03b7\u03c2, \u03cc\u03c7\u03b9 \u03b1\u03bd\u03b1\u03be\u03b9\u03bf\u03c0\u03c1\u03b5\u03c0\u03ae\u03c2, \u03b1\u03c6\u03bf\u03cd, \u03c7\u03c9\u03c1\u03af\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b7\u03b4\u03b5\u03af\u03b1.\n\n## _The Weeds_\n\nI shouldn't have pulled up all the weeds \u2013\n\nthere's not a stalk left.\n\nNow, in the season of deprivation,\n\nsee what remains:\n\nOur empty field\n\nand me in the middle, a shipwrecked\n\nfetish,\n\ndeath-dealing birds,\n\nblood-bathed vermin,\n\nand all around, scattered memories of crops.\n\nKaren Emmerich\n\n## _The Perfect Outcast_\n\nOur baby, feeling entirely undesired, took offense\n\nand, shortly before the abortion, mysteriously miscarried.\n\nAn unambiguous suicide. What irony!\n\nOur unique little creature,\n\nnow a unique little worm\n\namid hospital waste.\n\nI'm not sad.\n\nWhat about you, honey?\n\nCome on, brush away those tears.\n\nIf I'd put it in my palm and held it out to you\n\nyou would have looked away, repulsed.\n\nWhat did you think it was, anyhow?\n\nJust another little death, not undignified, since there was no funeral.\n\nKaren Emmerich\n\n## Thomas Ioannou\n\n#### (Born Preveza, Greece, 1979)\n\nWith their examinations of modern hubris, the poems of Thomas Ioannou have been circulated widely on the internet as a commentary on the dire straits in which Greece and Europe now find themselves. Ioannou studied Medicine at the University of Athens with a specialty in neurology. He is a practicing physician at the University of Ioannina. Since 2009, he has also served on the editorial board of _Ta Poiitika_ , the magazine founded by two of the most influential critics who write about this new generation of poets: Titika Dimitroulia and Kostas Papageorgiou. Ioannou's poems and essays have been published in various literary magazines and newspapers. Unusually for this web-centric group, he has published a collection of his poetry; it received the Greek National Prize for New Writing in 2011.\n\n_\u0399\u03c0\u03c0\u03bf\u03ba\u03c1\u03ac\u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 15_ ( _Ippokratous 15_ ), Shakespearikon, 2011.\n\n## _\u0388\u03bd\u03c4\u03b9\u03bc\u03bf\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c5\u03bc\u03b2\u03b9\u03b2\u03b1\u03c3\u03bc\u03cc\u03c2_\n\n\u03a3\u03b5 \u03c0\u03bb\u03b7\u03c3\u03b9\u03ac\u03b6\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03bf \u03c7\u03b1\u03bc\u03cc\u03b3\u03b5\u03bb\u03bf \u03b1\u03ba\u03c1\u03b9\u03b2\u03b5\u03af\u03b1\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2\n\n\u039c\u03b5 \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03b9\u03c3\u03bf\u03c1\u03c1\u03bf\u03c0\u03b7\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf \u03bb\u03cc\u03b3\u03bf \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2\n\n\u03a3\u03b5 \u03c7\u03c4\u03c5\u03c0\u03bf\u03cd\u03bd \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03c0\u03bb\u03ac\u03c4\u03b7\n\n\u039c\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03bf\u03b9\u03ba\u03b5\u03b9\u03cc\u03c4\u03b7\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b5\u03ba \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c0\u03bb\u03b7\u03c3\u03af\u03bf\u03bd \u03bc\u03af\u03c3\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2\n\n\u039c\u03ac\u03b8\u03b1\u03bd\u03b5 \u03b2\u03bb\u03ad\u03c0\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03bf\u03b9\u03ba\u03b5\u03b9\u03bf\u03c0\u03bf\u03b9\u03bf\u03cd\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9\n\n\u0391\u03ba\u03cc\u03bc\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03c7\u03b8\u03b5\u03c3\u03b9\u03bd\u03bf\u03cd\u03c2 \u03b5\u03c7\u03b8\u03c1\u03bf\u03cd\u03c2\n\n\u039d\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c5\u03bc\u03c6\u03b9\u03bb\u03b9\u03ce\u03bd\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c0\u03ac\u03b8\u03b7 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2\n\n\u039b\u03b7\u03b8\u03bf\u03b2\u03bf\u03bb\u03ce\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b7 \u03bc\u03bd\u03ae\u03bc\u03b7\n\n\u03a0\u03b5\u03c4\u03ce\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03c2 \u03c0\u03ad\u03c4\u03c1\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7 \u03b8\u03ac\u03bb\u03b1\u03c3\u03c3\u03b1\n\n\u0393\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c9\u03c0\u03ac\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9 \u03b7 \u03c4\u03b1\u03c1\u03b1\u03c7\u03ae \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2\n\n\u038c\u03c3\u03bf \u03ba\u03b9 \u03b1\u03bd \u03b1\u03bd\u03c4\u03b9\u03b4\u03c1\u03ac\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03b1\u03c1\u03c7\u03ae\n\n\u039a\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b8\u03b5\u03bb\u03ae\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03b3\u03c9\u03bd\u03af\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c3\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u039f\u03be\u03b5\u03af\u03b5\u03c2 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03ba\u03c1\u03b1\u03c4\u03ae\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2\n\n\u039a\u03b9 \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03cc \u03c4\u03bf \u03c3\u03c0\u03ac\u03c3\u03b9\u03bc\u03bf \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7 \u03c6\u03c9\u03bd\u03ae \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c3\u03b5 \u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03b4\u03af\u03b4\u03b5\u03b9\n\n\u03a3\u03c4\u03bf \u03c4\u03ad\u03bb\u03bf\u03c2 \u03b8\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c5\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9\u03bd\u03ad\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2\n\n\u039d\u03b1 \u03b5\u03c0\u03b9\u03bc\u03b5\u03bb\u03b7\u03b8\u03bf\u03cd\u03bd \u03ac\u03bb\u03bb\u03bf\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03b5\u03be\u03b1\u03c6\u03ac\u03bd\u03b9\u03c3\u03ae \u03c3\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u0398\u03b1 \u03c6\u03c4\u03b9\u03ac\u03be\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03bf\u03af \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03ba\u03cc\u03bc\u03c0\u03bf \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03bb\u03b1\u03b9\u03bc\u03cc \u03c3\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u03a0\u03c1\u03bf\u03c3\u03b4\u03af\u03b4\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03c2 \u03b5\u03c0\u03b9\u03c3\u03b7\u03bc\u03cc\u03c4\u03b7\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7 \u03bb\u03cd\u03c0\u03b7 \u03c3\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u03a3\u03b1 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03b4\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03c4\u03b7 \u03b3\u03c1\u03b1\u03b2\u03ac\u03c4\u03b1-\u03b3\u03bb\u03ce\u03c3\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2\n\n\u039a\u03ac\u03b8\u03b5 \u03c3\u03cd\u03c3\u03c0\u03b1\u03c3\u03b7 \u03c4\u03c9\u03bd \u03c7\u03b5\u03b9\u03bb\u03b9\u03ce\u03bd \u03c3\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u039a\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c1\u03c6\u03b1\u03c3\u03bc\u03cc\u03c2\n\n\u0398\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c5\u03bd\u03c4\u03bf\u03bd\u03b9\u03c3\u03c4\u03b5\u03af \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03bf \u03b4\u03b7\u03bc\u03cc\u03c3\u03b9\u03bf \u03b1\u03af\u03c3\u03b8\u03b7\u03bc\u03b1\n\n\u039a\u03ac\u03b8\u03b5 \u03c3\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bb\u03ad\u03be\u03b7 \u03b8\u03b1 \u03b1\u03c0\u03bf\u03b6\u03b7\u03c4\u03ac \u03b5\u03c0\u03b9\u03ba\u03cd\u03c1\u03c9\u03c3\u03b7\n\n\u0391\u03c0\u03cc \u03bc\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b4\u03b9\u03b5\u03c5\u03c1\u03c5\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b7\n\n\u0391\u03c0\u03cc \u03bc\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c5\u03bd\u03c4\u03c1\u03b9\u03c0\u03c4\u03b9\u03ba\u03ae \u03c0\u03bb\u03b5\u03b9\u03bf\u03c8\u03b7\u03c6\u03af\u03b1\n\n\u039a\u03b9 \u03b1\u03bd \u03bc\u03b5\u03b9\u03bf\u03c8\u03b7\u03c6\u03ae\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9 \u03ba\u03ac\u03c0\u03bf\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c4\u03cd\u03c8\u03b7\n\n\u03a0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03c0\u03b5\u03af\u03c3\u03c4\u03b7\u03ba\u03b5 \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03b8\u03ad\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c3\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u039c\u03b7\u03bd \u03b1\u03c0\u03bf\u03bb\u03bf\u03b3\u03b7\u03b8\u03b5\u03af\u03c2\n\n\u0394\u03af\u03ba\u03b7 \u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03b8\u03ad\u03c3\u03b5\u03c9\u03bd \u03b8\u03b1 \u03ba\u03ac\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5\u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03ce\u03c1\u03b1;\n\n\u03a4\u03bf \u03bf\u03c5\u03c3\u03b9\u03ce\u03b4\u03b5\u03c2 \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9\n\n\u038c\u03c4\u03b9 \u03b1\u03c0\u03ad\u03c6\u03c5\u03b3\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c7\u03b5\u03b9\u03c1\u03cc\u03c4\u03b5\u03c1\u03b1\n\n\u03a3\u03c5\u03bd\u03ac\u03c0\u03c4\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03c2 \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1\u03bd \u03ba\u03b1\u03b8' \u03cc\u03bb\u03b1\n\n\u0388\u03bd\u03c4\u03b9\u03bc\u03bf \u03c3\u03c5\u03bc\u03b2\u03b9\u03b2\u03b1\u03c3\u03bc\u03cc\n\n## _Honourable Compromise_\n\nThey approach you with their precise smiles\n\nTheir balanced arguments\n\nThey slap you on the back\n\nWith the familiarity of intimate hatred\n\nThey've learned, you see, to take control\n\nEven of yesterday's enemies\n\nTo make peace with their passions\n\nStoning memory\n\nThrowing rocks at the sea\n\nTo still its turbulence\n\nHowever much you react at first\n\nAnd try to keep your corners\n\nSharp\n\nThough that break in your voice betrays you\n\nIn the end you'll agree\n\nTo let others arrange your elimination\n\nThey will tighten the knot at your neck\n\nLending your sorrow formality\n\nAs if their tongues were ties\n\nEvery twitch of your lips\n\nEvery grimace\n\nWill be coordinated with public opinion\n\nYour every word will beg for validation\n\nFrom a broad\n\nFrom an overwhelming majority\n\nAnd if some conscience dissents\n\nUnconvinced about your intentions\n\nDon't apologize\n\nAre we judging intentions now?\n\nThe key thing is\n\nThat you avoided the worst\n\nBy agreeing to an eminently\n\nHonourable compromise\n\nMaria Margaronis\n\n## IV\n\n## Storytelling\n\n#### Poets in Performance and across the Arts\n\nIn summer 2015, at a reading organized by the poet Thomas Tsalapatis and the director Theo Terzopoulos at the latter's Theater Attis in Athens, young poets gathered to read poems on the theme of Antigone and the unburied dead. Politically engaged, in keeping with Terzopoulos's own focus on race and the migrant in his avant-garde adaptations of Greek tragedy, there was an electric sense of urgency. History was happening now. The work on show was noteworthy for its performative nature and its tendency to straddle different media and genres. There were poets who worked with composers, others who worked with artists, and even an unpublished shepherd. Many, in fact, were known _primarily_ for their artistic output in genres other than poetry. Poets from throughout Greece and elsewhere were present, but what sets this section apart \u2013 only two of these writers, Elena Penga and Elena Polygeni, did not read \u2013 is its embodiment of the two trends in wider Greek poetry which dominated that evening. First is a narrative drive in which the double sense of the Greek word \u03b9\u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\u03c1\u03af\u03b1 ( _istoria_ ), 'history' and 'story', is foregrounded. So, Apostolos Thivaios tells us the stories the news won't cover; while Z. D. Ainalis and Stamatis Polenakis deploy myth and historical irony, respectively, to rearrange our sense of the present. Second, as already suggested, is multidisciplinarity: Demosthenes Papamarkos is best known as a short-story writer, Penga and Polenakis as playwrights, and Polygeni as a performance artist. Influenced by a strong tradition of the short story \u2013 the Greek novel barely exists \u2013 prose poetry also plays a big part; and indeed Penga's Kathy Acker-esque non-dramatic work divides its translators, being presented as poetry in France and, until now, as flash fiction everywhere else.\n\n## Thomas Tsalapatis\n\n#### (Born Athens, Greece, 1984)\n\nThe ironic new histories of Thomas Tsalapatis's prose poems make him the key figure in this group. He studied Theater at the University of Athens. His first collection, _Daybreak is Execution, Mr. Krack_ , received the National Poetry Prize. His second, _Alba_ , was published in 2015 to rave reviews. Known for what critics have called his young and restless take on the crisis, he is a prolific writer of articles and theater and book reviews, and an organizer of events such as the Attis poetry readings. His poems have been translated into English, French, Spanish, and Italian, and he himself has translated from the poetry of W. B. Yeats and W. H. Auden. His writing can be found at _Groucho Marxism_ : tsalapatis.blogspot.com.\n\n_\u03a4\u03bf \u03be\u03b7\u03bc\u03ad\u03c1\u03c9\u03bc\u03b1 \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c3\u03c6\u03b1\u03b3\u03ae, \u03ba\u03cd\u03c1\u03b9\u03b5 \u039a\u03c1\u03b1\u03ba_ ( _Daybreak is Execution, Mr. Krack_ ), Ekati, 2013; _\u0386\u03bb\u03bc\u03c0\u03b1_ ( _Alba_ ), Ekati, 2015.\n\n## _\u03a4\u03bf \u03ba\u03bf\u03c5\u03c4\u03af_\n\n\u0388\u03c7\u03c9 \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b9\u03ba\u03c1\u03cc \u03ba\u03bf\u03c5\u03c4\u03af \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c0\u03ac\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1 \u03bc\u03ad\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ba\u03ac\u03c0\u03bf\u03b9\u03bf\u03bd \u03c3\u03c6\u03ac\u03b6\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd.\n\n\u039b\u03af\u03b3\u03bf \u03c0\u03b9\u03bf \u03bc\u03b5\u03b3\u03ac\u03bb\u03bf \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03ba\u03bf\u03c5\u03c4\u03af \u03c0\u03b1\u03c0\u03bf\u03c5\u03c4\u03c3\u03b9\u03ce\u03bd. \u039b\u03af\u03b3\u03bf \u03c0\u03b9\u03bf \u03ac\u03c7\u03b1\u03c1\u03bf \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03ba\u03bf\u03c5\u03c4\u03af \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c0\u03bf\u03cd\u03c1\u03b1. \u0394\u03b5\u03bd \u03be\u03ad\u03c1\u03c9 \u03c0\u03bf\u03b9\u03bf\u03c2, \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03be\u03ad\u03c1\u03c9 \u03c0\u03bf\u03b9\u03bf\u03bd, \u03bc\u03b1 \u03ba\u03ac\u03c0\u03bf\u03b9\u03bf\u03bd \u03c3\u03c6\u03ac\u03b6\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd. \u039a\u03b1\u03b9 \u03ae\u03c7\u03bf\u03c2 \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03b1\u03ba\u03bf\u03cd\u03b3\u03b5\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9 (\u03b5\u03ba\u03c4\u03cc\u03c2 \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c6\u03bf\u03c1\u03ad\u03c2 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b1\u03ba\u03bf\u03cd\u03b3\u03b5\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9). \u03a4\u03bf \u03c4\u03bf\u03c0\u03bf\u03b8\u03b5\u03c4\u03ce \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7 \u03b2\u03b9\u03b2\u03bb\u03b9\u03bf\u03b8\u03ae\u03ba\u03b7, \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03c4\u03c1\u03b1\u03c0\u03ad\u03b6\u03b9 \u03cc\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd \u03b8\u03ad\u03bb\u03c9 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b5\u03c1\u03bd\u03ce \u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03ce\u03c1\u03b5\u03c2 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ba\u03bf\u03b9\u03c4\u03ac\u03b6\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03ac\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf, \u03bc\u03b1\u03ba\u03c1\u03b9\u03ac \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u03ac\u03b8\u03c5\u03c1\u03b1 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b7\u03bd \u03c4\u03bf \u03ba\u03b9\u03c4\u03c1\u03b9\u03bd\u03af\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9 \u03bf \u03ae\u03bb\u03b9\u03bf\u03c2, \u03ba\u03ac\u03c4\u03c9 \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03c4\u03bf \u03ba\u03c1\u03b5\u03b2\u03ac\u03c4\u03b9 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03cc\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd \u03b8\u03ad\u03bb\u03c9 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03bd\u03b9\u03ce\u03c3\u03c9 \u03ac\u03c4\u03b1\u03ba\u03c4\u03bf\u03c2. \u039c\u03ad\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ba\u03ac\u03c0\u03bf\u03b9\u03bf\u03bd \u03c3\u03c6\u03ac\u03b6\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd, \u03b1\u03ba\u03cc\u03bc\u03b7 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03cc\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03c3\u03c0\u03af\u03c4\u03b9 \u03bc\u03b1\u03c2 \u03ad\u03c7\u03bf\u03c5\u03bc\u03b5 \u03b3\u03b9\u03bf\u03c1\u03c4\u03ae, \u03b1\u03ba\u03cc\u03bc\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u039a\u03c5\u03c1\u03b9\u03b1\u03ba\u03ae, \u03b1\u03ba\u03cc\u03bc\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03cc\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd \u03b2\u03c1\u03ad\u03c7\u03b5\u03b9.\n\n\u038c\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd \u03b2\u03c1\u03ae\u03ba\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf \u03ba\u03bf\u03c5\u03c4\u03af \u2013 \u03b4\u03b5 \u03b8\u03b1 \u03c0\u03c9 \u03c0\u03ce\u03c2, \u03b4\u03b5 \u03b8\u03b1 \u03c0\u03c9 \u03c0\u03bf\u03cd \u2013 \u03c4\u03bf \u03ad\u03c6\u03b5\u03c1\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03b9\u03ba\u03b1\u03bd\u03bf\u03c0\u03bf\u03af\u03b7\u03c3\u03b7 \u03c3\u03c0\u03af\u03c4\u03b9. \u03a4\u03b7\u03bd \u03ce\u03c1\u03b1 \u03b5\u03ba\u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b7 \u03bd\u03cc\u03bc\u03b9\u03b6\u03b1 \u03c0\u03c9\u03c2 \u03b8\u03b1 \u03ac\u03ba\u03bf\u03c5\u03b3\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03ae\u03c7\u03bf \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03b8\u03ac\u03bb\u03b1\u03c3\u03c3\u03b1\u03c2. \u038c\u03bc\u03c9\u03c2, \u03b5\u03ba\u03b5\u03af \u03bc\u03ad\u03c3\u03b1 \u03b3\u03af\u03bd\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c3\u03c6\u03b1\u03b3\u03ad\u03c2.\n\n\u0386\u03c1\u03c7\u03b9\u03c3\u03b5 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03b1\u03c1\u03c1\u03c9\u03c3\u03c4\u03b1\u03af\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03b7 \u03c6\u03b1\u03c3\u03b1\u03c1\u03af\u03b1, \u03b7 \u03b3\u03bd\u03ce\u03c3\u03b7 \u03c4\u03c9\u03bd \u03c3\u03c5\u03bc\u03b2\u03ac\u03bd\u03c4\u03c9\u03bd, \u03c4\u03b1 \u03b3\u03b5\u03b3\u03bf\u03bd\u03cc\u03c4\u03b1 \u03bc\u03ad\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03ba\u03bf\u03c5\u03c4\u03af. \u0397 \u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u03bf\u03c5\u03c3\u03af\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ac\u03c1\u03c7\u03b9\u03c3\u03b5 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03b1\u03c1\u03c1\u03c9\u03c3\u03c4\u03b1\u03af\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9. \u0388\u03c0\u03c1\u03b5\u03c0\u03b5 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03b4\u03c1\u03ac\u03c3\u03c9, \u03bd\u03b1 \u03b1\u03c0\u03b5\u03bb\u03b5\u03c5\u03b8\u03b5\u03c1\u03c9\u03b8\u03ce, \u03bd\u03b1 \u03b7\u03c1\u03b5\u03bc\u03ae\u03c3\u03c9, \u03bd\u03b1 \u03ba\u03ac\u03bd\u03c9 \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03c0\u03ac\u03bd\u03b9\u03bf. \u0391\u03c0\u03bf\u03c6\u03ac\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03ad\u03c0\u03c1\u03b5\u03c0\u03b5 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u03b8\u03bf\u03cd\u03bd.\n\n\u0388\u03c4\u03c3\u03b9, \u03c4\u03bf \u03c4\u03b1\u03c7\u03c5\u03b4\u03c1\u03cc\u03bc\u03b7\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c3\u03b5 \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1\u03bd \u03c6\u03af\u03bb\u03bf\u00b7 \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1\u03bd \u03c6\u03af\u03bb\u03bf \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ad\u03c7\u03c9 \u03bc\u03cc\u03bd\u03bf \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ba\u03ac\u03bd\u03c9 \u03b4\u03ce\u03c1\u03b1. \u03a4\u03cd\u03bb\u03b9\u03be\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf \u03ba\u03bf\u03c5\u03c4\u03af \u03bc\u03b5 \u03b1\u03b8\u03ce\u03bf \u03c0\u03bf\u03bb\u03cd\u03c7\u03c1\u03c9\u03bc\u03bf \u03c7\u03b1\u03c1\u03c4\u03cc\u03bd\u03b9, \u03ad\u03b4\u03b5\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf \u03c7\u03b1\u03c1\u03c4\u03cc\u03bd\u03b9 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03b1\u03b8\u03ce\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bf\u03bb\u03cd\u03c7\u03c1\u03c9\u03bc\u03b7 \u03ba\u03bf\u03c1\u03b4\u03ad\u03bb\u03b1. \u039c\u03ad\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03ba\u03bf\u03c5\u03c4\u03af \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03b3\u03c1\u03ac\u03bc\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c5\u03c0\u03ac\u03c1\u03c7\u03b5\u03b9 \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03ba\u03bf\u03c5\u03c4\u03af \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bc\u03ad\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03ba\u03bf\u03c5\u03c4\u03af \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03cc \u03ba\u03ac\u03c0\u03bf\u03b9\u03bf\u03bd \u03c3\u03c6\u03ac\u03b6\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd. \u03a3\u03c4\u03bf \u03b3\u03c1\u03b1\u03bc\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03bf\u03ba\u03b9\u03b2\u03ce\u03c4\u03b9\u03bf \u03c0\u03b5\u03c1\u03b9\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c6\u03c4\u03ac\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c7\u03ad\u03c1\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b5\u03bd\u03cc\u03c2 \u03c6\u03af\u03bb\u03bf\u03c5. \u039c\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c6\u03b9\u03bb\u03af\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c3\u03c5\u03bd\u03c4\u03b7\u03c1\u03ce \u03b1\u03c0\u03bb\u03ce\u03c2 \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03ba\u03ac\u03bd\u03c9 \u03b4\u03ce\u03c1\u03b1.\n\n## _The Box_\n\nInside my small box they're always slaughtering someone.\n\nA little larger than a shoebox. A little plainer than a cigar box. Don't know who, don't know whom, but they're slaughtering someone. Can't hear a sound (except when you can). I place it on the bookshelf, on the table when I want to spend time looking at it, far away from the window so the sun doesn't turn it yellow; under my bed when I'm feeling naughty. They're slaughtering someone inside, even when we're having a party at our house, even on Sunday, even when it's raining.\n\nWhen I found the box \u2013 I won't say how, won't say where \u2013 I brought it home, very satisfied with myself. At first I thought I'd be able to hear the sound of the sea. But no, there's an execution going on inside there.\n\nThe racket was sickening, my growing awareness of what was happening, the acts inside the box. The box revolted me. I had to do something, to free myself, calm down, take a shower. I needed to take charge.\n\nSo, I mailed it to a friend. A friend I keep just for giving presents to. I wrapped the box in innocently colorful cardboard, I wrapped the cardboard in innocently colorful ribbon. Inside the box surrounded by letters there's a box and in that box they're slaughtering someone. Sitting in the mailbox, it's waiting to reach my friend. The friend I keep just to give presents to.\n\nJacob Moe\n\n## _\u0394\u03b5\u03c5\u03c4\u03ad\u03c1\u03b1 \u03c4\u03c9\u03bd \u03bb\u03ad\u03be\u03b5\u03c9\u03bd_\n\n\u0397\u03bc\u03ad\u03c1\u03b1 \u03c0\u03c1\u03ce\u03c4\u03b7\n\n\u03c3\u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03b3\u03b5\u03b9\u03c4\u03bf\u03bd\u03b9\u03ad\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u0386\u03bb\u03bc\u03c0\u03b1\n\n\u039a\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b5\u03ba\u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03bf\u03c2 \u03b2\u03c1\u03ac\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9 \u03bd\u03b5\u03c1\u03cc, \u03cc\u03bb\u03bf \u03b2\u03c1\u03ac\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9 \u03bd\u03b5\u03c1\u03cc\n\n\u03a3\u03c4\u03bf \u03ba\u03bf\u03af\u03bb\u03bf \u03ba\u03bf\u03bc\u03bc\u03ac\u03c4\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03b3\u03bb\u03ce\u03c3\u03c3\u03b1\u03c2\n\n\u0395\u03ba\u03b5\u03af \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bb\u03b9\u03bc\u03bd\u03ac\u03b6\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03bf\u03b9 \u03bb\u03ad\u03be\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2\n\n\u039f\u03b9 \u03b1\u03c7\u03b5\u03b9\u03c1\u03bf\u03c0\u03bf\u03af\u03b7\u03c4\u03b5\u03c2, \u03bf\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf\u03b9\u03c7\u03bf\u03b3\u03c1\u03b1\u03c6\u03b7\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b5\u03c2, \u03bf\u03b9 \u03ac\u03ba\u03b1\u03c0\u03bd\u03b5\u03c2\n\n\u03a3\u03c4\u03bf \u03bd\u03b5\u03c1\u03cc\n\n\u03a3\u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03b1\u03c4\u03bc\u03cc\n\n\u039a\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b5\u03ba\u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03bf\u03c2\n\n\u0392\u03c1\u03ac\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9 \u03bd\u03b5\u03c1\u03cc, \u03cc\u03bb\u03bf \u03b2\u03c1\u03ac\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9 \u03bd\u03b5\u03c1\u03cc\n\n\u039c\u03b1\u03b8\u03b1\u03af\u03bd\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03c2 \u03c0\u03ce\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c5\u03bd\u03c4\u03ac\u03c3\u03c3\u03b5\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b5\u03ba\u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03bf \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bb\u03b9\u03b3\u03bf\u03c3\u03c4\u03b5\u03cd\u03b5\u03b9\n\n\u039c\u03b1\u03b8\u03b1\u03af\u03bd\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf \u03c0\u03ce\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03a0 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03a4 \u03c7\u03ac\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03b5\u03c5\u03b8\u03b5\u03af\u03b1\n\n\u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c4\u03ad\u03b3\u03b7\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u03a4\u03bf \u03c0\u03ce\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03b6 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03be \u03be\u03b5\u03c1\u03b9\u03b6\u03ce\u03bd\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9\n\n\u03a4\u03bf \u03c0\u03ce\u03c2 \u03c6\u03bf\u03bd\u03b5\u03cd\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c6\u03c9\u03bd\u03ae\u03b5\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\n\n\u03a4\u03bf \u03c0\u03ce\u03c2 \u03b7 \u03b3\u03bb\u03ce\u03c3\u03c3\u03b1 \u03ba\u03bf\u03c7\u03bb\u03ac\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9\n\n\u03a0\u03c1\u03bf\u03c3\u03c6\u03bf\u03c1\u03ac \u03c4\u03c9\u03bd \u03c3\u03b9\u03c9\u03c0\u03b7\u03bb\u03ce\u03bd\n\n\u03a3\u03b5 \u03b5\u03ba\u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c3\u03b9\u03ce\u03c0\u03b7\u03c3\u03b1\u03bd\n\n## _Word Monday_\n\nThe first day\n\nIn Alba's neighborhood\n\nAnd he is boiling water, always boiling water\n\nIn the curved part of language\n\nwhere words stagnate\n\nThe unused ones, the ones on walls,\n\nthe non-smoking ones\n\nIn the water\n\nIn the steam\n\nAnd he is\n\nBoiling water, always boiling water\n\nLearning that what is scarce is what takes charge\n\nLearning how \u03a0 and \u03a4 lose their flat roofs\n\nHow \u03b6 and \u03be dry up at the roots\n\nHow vowels get murdered\n\nHow language bubbles up\n\nAn offering of the silent\n\nFor those who grew silent\n\nKaren Van Dyck\n\n## Z. D. Ainalis\n\n#### (Born Athens, Greece, 1982)\n\nHistory and storytelling are tightly bound up with one another in Z. D. Ainalis's poems, which, like those of Stamatis Polenakis, often call for annotation. Ainalis studied Philology at the University of Ioannina, and is currently pursuing a doctorate in Byzantine History and Philology in Paris, where he lives. He has published on German Romantic poetry, and his Greek translations from the poetry of the Turkish Cypriot Commonwealth poet Mehmet Yashin \u2013 whose multilingual poems are included in the last section (here) \u2013 were published in ebook by Vakxikon.gr in 2015 under the title _\u0386\u03b3\u03b3\u03b5\u03bb\u03bf\u03b9 \u03b5\u03ba\u03b4\u03b9\u03ba\u03b7\u03c4\u03ad\u03c2_ ( _Angelic Avengers_ ).\n\n_\u0397\u03bb\u03b5\u03ba\u03c4\u03c1\u03bf\u03b3\u03c1\u03b1\u03c6\u03af\u03b1_ ( _Electrography_ ), Gavrielides, 2006; _\u0391\u03c0\u03bf\u03c3\u03c0\u03ac\u03c3\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1_ ( _Fragments_ ), Gavrielides, 2008; _\u0397 \u03c3\u03b9\u03c9\u03c0\u03ae \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03a3\u03af\u03b2\u03b1\u03c2_ ( _The Silence of Shiva_ ) [ebook], Vakxikon.gr, 2011; _\u039c\u03c5\u03b8\u03bf\u03bb\u03bf\u03b3\u03af\u03b1_ ( _Mythology_ ), Panopticon, 2013.\n\n## _\u03a4\u03b7\u03bb\u03ad\u03bc\u03b1\u03c7\u03bf\u03c2_\n\n\u03a4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c0\u03b1\u03bb\u03ac\u03bc\u03b5\u03c2 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ba\u03cc\u03c8\u03b1\u03bd\u03b5 \u03bb\u03ac\u03c6\u03c5\u03c1\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03ac\u03bb\u03bb\u03bf \u03c0\u03cc\u03bb\u03b5\u03bc\u03bf \u03bb\u03b1\u03b8\u03c1\u03bf\u03ba\u03c5\u03bd\u03b7\u03b3\u03bf\u03af\n\n\u03cc, \u03c4\u03b9 \u03c0\u03b5\u03c1\u03af\u03c3\u03c3\u03b5\u03c8\u03b5 \u03c4\u03bf \u03c7\u03ce\u03c1\u03b5\u03c3\u03b1\u03bd \u03c3\u03b5 \u03c3\u03ba\u03bf\u03c5\u03c1\u03b9\u03b1\u03c3\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03c7\u03b1\u03bb\u03ba\u03ac\u03b4\u03b5\u03c2\n\n\u03b3\u03b9' \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03cc \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03ce\u03c1\u03b1 \u03b2\u03bb\u03ad\u03c0\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03ba\u03c1\u03b1\u03c4\u03ce \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03b4\u03cc\u03bd\u03c4\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf \u03ba\u03b1\u03bb\u03b1\u03bc\u03ac\u03c1\u03b9\n\n\u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b7 \u03b3\u03bb\u03ce\u03c3\u03c3\u03b1 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03b2\u03ac\u03c6\u03c9\n\n\u03c4\u03b7 \u03c3\u03b5\u03bb\u03af\u03b4\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b1\u03c4\u03ac\u03c3\u03c4\u03b9\u03ba\u03c4\u03b7\n\n\u03c3\u03c4\u03b1\u03b3\u03cc\u03bd\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf \u03b1\u03af\u03bc\u03b1 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c7\u03b5\u03af\u03bb' \u03c5\u03c0\u03bf\u03bb\u03b5\u03af\u03bc\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c3\u03ac\u03c1\u03ba\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c3\u03ba\u03b9\u03c3\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b5\u03c2\n\n\u03bf\u03cd\u03bb\u03b1 \u03c3\u03bc\u03ac\u03bb\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c0\u03b1\u03c3\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03b4\u03cc\u03bd\u03c4\u03b9\u03b1\n\n\u03ba\u03bb\u03ac\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c3\u03ac\u03bb\u03b9\u03b1\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b4\u03b5 \u03bc\u03b9\u03bb\u03ce \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03b5\u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03cc \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u03cc\u03bc\u03c9\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b7 \u03bc\u03ac\u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c4\u03c3\u03bf\u03cd\u03bb\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b7 \u03c3\u03b9\u03c7\u03ac\u03b8\u03b7\u03ba\u03b1\n\n\u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03c0\u03ac\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9 \u03b1\u03c0' \u03c4\u03bf \u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u03ac\u03b8\u03c5\u03c1\u03bf \u03ba\u03b1\u03c4\u03ac \u03b4\u03b5\u03ba\u03ac\u03b4\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03c0\u03b5\u03b9\u03c1\u03b1\u03c3\u03bc\u03bf\u03cd\u03c2\n\n\u03c0\u03c1\u03cc\u03c3\u03c4\u03c5\u03c7\u03b7\n\n\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b1\u03c5\u03bb\u03ce\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9\n\n\u03ba\u03b9 \u03ad\u03c0\u03b5\u03b9\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c3\u03cd\u03be\u03c5\u03bb\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03ba\u03c1\u03cd\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bb\u03bf\u03c5\u03c4\u03c1\u03bf\u03cd\n\n\u03b1\u03c0\u03bf\u03bb\u03b1\u03bc\u03b2\u03ac\u03bd\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b7 \u03bc\u03bf\u03bd\u03b1\u03c1\u03c7\u03b9\u03ba\u03ae \u03ba\u03c5\u03c1\u03b9\u03b1\u03c1\u03c7\u03af\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c4\u03cc\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c3\u03b5\u03c1\u03bd\u03b9\u03ba\u03ac\n\n\u03ba\u03b9 \u03b1\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b7 \u03bc\u03b1\u03c3\u03c4\u03af\u03b3\u03c9\u03bd\u03b5 \u03c6\u03c1\u03b9\u03ba\u03c4\u03ac \u03b7 \u03bb\u03b1\u03af\u03bb\u03b1\u03c0\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03c3\u03ac\u03c1\u03ba\u03b1\u03c2\n\n\u03ba\u03ac\u03b8\u03b5 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03be\u03cd\u03c0\u03bd\u03b1\u03b3\u03b5 \u03c4\u03c5\u03bb\u03b9\u03b3\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b7 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03b1\u03c5\u03b3\u03ae\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03b9\u03ba\u03bc\u03ac\u03b4\u03b1\n\n\u03bd\u03b9\u03ba\u03b7\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b7 \u03b1\u03c0' \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c6\u03b1\u03bd\u03c4\u03ac\u03c3\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03bd\u03cd\u03c7\u03c4\u03b1\u03c2\n\n\u03ba\u03b9 \u03cc\u03bc\u03c9\u03c2\n\n\u03b4\u03b5 \u03bc\u03b9\u03bb\u03ce \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03b5\u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03cc \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u03b3\u03b9' \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03cc \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c3\u03c5\u03bb\u03bb\u03bf\u03b3\u03af\u03b6\u03bf\u03c5\u03bc\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03cc\u03c3\u03bf \u03c0\u03bf\u03bb\u03cd \u03c4\u03bf\u03cd\u03c4\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03bc\u03ad\u03c1\u03b5\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u039d\u03b5\u03bf\u03c0\u03c4\u03cc\u03bb\u03b5\u03bc\u03bf\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03cc\u03c3\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03ac\u03bb\u03bb\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b7 \u03b3\u03b5\u03bd\u03b9\u03ac\n\n\u03b3\u03b5\u03bd\u03b9\u03ac \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\n\n## _Telemachus_\n\nThe bounty hunters looted, sliced my hands in that other war\n\nand what was left they strung on rusted chain rings\n\nwhich is why I grip the inkwell with my teeth\n\nand use my tongue to paint\n\nthe speckled pages\n\nwith drops of my own blood.\n\nMy lips are scraps of tattered flesh\n\ngums, enamel, shattered teeth,\n\nspit, tears.\n\nAnd I'm not talking about myself\n\nbut my mother that slut, she disgusts me\n\nletting temptations in through her window by the dozen.\n\nShe's vile\n\nshe gets them off,\n\nthen leaves them speechless in the cold bath\n\nreveling in her monarchic rule over so many men\n\neven if she felt the hurricane sting of the flesh\n\nwhen she woke in the wet dawn\n\nwrapped by the ghosts of night,\n\nand yet\n\nI'm not talking about myself\n\nwhich is why I mull these days on Neoptolemos\n\nand so many others\n\nburnt generation\n\nmy generation.\n\nStephanos Papadopoulos\n\n## _3 \u03b7 \u03a3\u03b5\u03c0\u03c4\u03b5\u03bc\u03b2\u03c1\u03af\u03bf\u03c5 1843_\n\n\u0393\u03b5\u03c1\u03bd\u03ac\u03bd\u03b5 \u03b3\u03c1\u03ae\u03b3\u03bf\u03c1\u03b1 \u03bf\u03b9 \u03bc\u03ad\u03c1\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u0395\u03bb\u03bb\u03ac\u03b4\u03b1\n\n\u03c3\u03b2\u03ae\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc\u03c4\u03bf\u03bc\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf \u03c6\u03c9\u03c2\n\n\u03c4\u03c1\u03ce\u03bd\u03b5 \u03c3\u03ba\u03c5\u03bb\u03b9\u03ac \u03c4\u03b1 \u03b4\u03ac\u03ba\u03c4\u03c5\u03bb\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ae\u03bb\u03b9\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u03c0\u03b1\u03af\u03b6\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03b1\u03b4\u03ad\u03c3\u03c0\u03bf\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b1\u03b9\u03b4\u03b9\u03ac \u03c3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b5\u03c1\u03b9\u03b8\u03ce\u03c1\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b4\u03c1\u03cc\u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u03ad\u03c1\u03c7\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bd\u03cd\u03c7\u03c4\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b7\u03c4\u03c1\u03b9\u03ba\u03ad\u03c2 \u03c6\u03c9\u03bd\u03ad\u03c2 \u03ba\u03c1\u03b1\u03c5\u03b3\u03ad\u03c2\n\n\u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b1\u03bd\u03c4\u03c1\u03ce\u03c3\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd\n\n\u039a\u03b9 \u03ad\u03c0\u03b5\u03b9\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c4\u03af\u03c0\u03bf\u03c4\u03b1\n\n\u03c3\u03b9\u03c9\u03c0\u03ae\n\n\u03bf\u03b9 \u03bc\u03c0\u03ac\u03c4\u03c3\u03bf\u03b9 \u03ad\u03c6\u03b9\u03c0\u03c0\u03bf\u03b9 \u03c3\u03c6\u03c5\u03c1\u03af\u03b6\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd\n\n\u03bb\u03b1\u03ba\u03ad\u03b4\u03b5\u03c2 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03bb\u03b9\u03b2\u03c1\u03ad\u03b1 \u03c4\u03c3\u03b1\u03ba\u03af\u03b6\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9\n\n\u03c6\u03b5\u03c1\u03ad\u03c6\u03c9\u03bd\u03b1\n\n\u03ba\u03c5\u03c1\u03af\u03b5\u03c2 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03ba\u03c1\u03b9\u03bd\u03bf\u03bb\u03af\u03bd\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b9 \u03ac\u03bc\u03b1\u03be\u03b5\u03c2\n\n\u039d\u03c5\u03b4\u03c1\u03b1\u03af\u03bf\u03b9 \u03b5\u03c6\u03bf\u03c0\u03bb\u03b9\u03c3\u03c4\u03ad\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b9 \u03b5\u03c5\u03bd\u03bf\u03cd\u03c7\u03bf\u03b9 \u03a6\u03b1\u03bd\u03b1\u03c1\u03b9\u03ce\u03c4\u03b5\u03c2\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03bb\u03b1\u03bc\u03b1\u03c1\u03ac\u03b4\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c6\u03c1\u03b1\u03b3\u03ba\u03bf\u03c6\u03cc\u03c1\u03b5\u03c4\u03bf\u03b9 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c0\u03ad\u03bd\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c0\u03bb\u03b7\u03c1\u03c9\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b5\u03c2\n\n\u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03a6\u03cc\u03c1\u03bf \u03c0\u03ad\u03bd\u03b7\u03c4\u03b5\u03c2 \u03bc\u03b1\u03c3\u03ac\u03bd\u03b5 \u03c4\u03bf \u03c3\u03ba\u03bf\u03c4\u03ac\u03b4\u03b9\n\n\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c6\u03b5\u03b3\u03b3\u03ac\u03c1\u03b9 \u03b8\u03ac\u03bd\u03b1\u03c4\u03bf\u03c2\n\n\u03ba\u03cc\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03c3\u03b2\u03ad\u03c1\u03ba\u03bf \u03ba\u03b1\u03c1\u03c6\u03c9\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf\n\n\u03b3\u03b5\u03bd\u03b9\u03ac \u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u03ac \u03b3\u03b5\u03bd\u03b9\u03ac \u03b5\u03bc\u03c6\u03cd\u03bb\u03b9\u03bf\u03c2, \u03b3\u03b5\u03bd\u03b9\u03ac \u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u03ac \u03b3\u03b5\u03bd\u03b9\u03ac \u03b5\u03ba\u03ba\u03b1\u03b8\u03ac\u03c1\u03b9\u03c3\u03b7\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03cc\u03bb\u03bf \u03b1\u03c0' \u03c4\u03bf \u03bc\u03b7\u03b4\u03ad\u03bd \u03bd' \u03b1\u03c1\u03c7\u03af\u03b6\u03c9\n\n\u03a0\u03b1\u03af\u03b6\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03b1\u03ba\u03cc\u03bc\u03b1, \u03c4\u03c1\u03b1\u03b3\u03bf\u03c5\u03b4\u03ac\u03bd, \u03b3\u03b5\u03bb\u03ac\u03bd \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03b4\u03c1\u03cc\u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b1\u03b9\u03b4\u03b9\u03ac \u03bc\u03b1\u03c2;\n\n\u039c\u03b1\u03b6\u03b5\u03cd\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03ce\u03c1' \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03c0\u03b1\u03bd\u03c4\u03bf\u03cd \u03c6\u03c9\u03bd\u03ad\u03c2 \u03ba\u03c1\u03b1\u03c5\u03b3\u03ad\u03c2\n\n\u03c3\u03c5\u03c1\u03c1\u03ad\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03bc\u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c4' \u03b1\u03bd\u03ac\u03ba\u03c4\u03bf\u03c1\u03b1 \u03b1\u03bb\u03b1\u03bb\u03ac\u03b6\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd\n\n\u03b2\u03ac\u03b6\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03c6\u03c9\u03c4\u03b9\u03ac \u03c0\u03b5\u03c1\u03b9\u03b4\u03b5\u03b5\u03af\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b4\u03ad\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9\n\n\u03b5\u03bb\u03c0\u03af\u03b6\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd\n\n\u03c3\u03b2\u03ae\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc\u03c4\u03bf\u03bc\u03b1 \u03bf\u03b9 \u03c6\u03c9\u03c4\u03b9\u03ad\u03c2\n\n\u03b4\u03b9\u03b1\u03bb\u03cd\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9\n\n\u03b3\u03b5\u03c1\u03bd\u03ac\u03bd\u03b5 \u03b3\u03c1\u03ae\u03b3\u03bf\u03c1\u03b1 \u03bf\u03b9 \u03bc\u03ad\u03c1\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u0395\u03bb\u03bb\u03ac\u03b4\u03b1\n\n## _September 3 rd 1843_\n\nTimes turn quickly in Greece\n\nthe light goes out abruptly\n\ndogs eat sun rays\n\nstray children play by the side of the road\n\nat night maternal voices, cries\n\ncome to shut us in\n\nAnd then nothing\n\nsilence\n\nthe cops whistle on horseback\n\nliveried lackeys trip over themselves\n\nsock puppets\n\nladies in crinolines and coaches\n\nold shipowners from Hydra, Greek eunuchs from the Porte\n\nbureaucrats in western dress and paid pen pushers\n\nin the Forum\n\npaupers chew on darkness\n\na death moon, a scythe\n\npinning the back of the neck\n\nevery other generation civil wars\n\nand purges\n\nand starting again from scratch every time\n\nDo our children still play, still sing, still laugh in the streets?\n\nVoices, cries gather now from all around\n\nstreaming before the palace, cheering\n\nsetting fires in terror, praying\n\nhoping\n\nthe fires go out abruptly\n\nthey scatter\n\ntimes turn quickly in Greece\n\nMaria Margaronis\n\n## Stamatis Polenakis\n\n#### (Born Athens, Greece, 1970)\n\nThe surreal direction of some of Stamatis Polenakis's poems puts him in dialogue with _Farmakon_ poets like Anna Griva. He studied Spanish literature in Madrid, and one feels the influence of Salvador Dal\u00ed lurking behind some poems. But his main focuses are on history, and on storytelling that crosses genres. He is best known as a playwright; his plays have been produced at Greece's National Theatre and the more experimental theatre space Fournos. Like those plays, his poems are intensely preoccupied with their world's political and human present. His work has been translated into English, French, Romanian, and German.\n\n_\u03a4\u03bf \u03c7\u03ad\u03c1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c7\u03c1\u03cc\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5_ ( _The Hand of Time_ ), Omvros, 2002; _\u03a4\u03b1 \u03b3\u03b1\u03bb\u03ac\u03b6\u03b9\u03b1 \u03ac\u03bb\u03bf\u03b3\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03a6\u03c1\u03b1\u03bd\u03c4\u03c2 \u039c\u03b1\u03c1\u03ba_ ( _The Blue Horses of Franz Marc_ ), Odos Panos, 2006; _\u039d\u03bf\u03c4\u03c1 \u039d\u03c4\u03b1\u03bc_ ( _Notre Dame_ ), Odos Panos, 2008; _\u03a4\u03b1 \u03c3\u03ba\u03b1\u03bb\u03bf\u03c0\u03ac\u03c4\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u039f\u03b4\u03b7\u03c3\u03c3\u03bf\u03cd_ ( _The Odessa Steps_ ), Mikri Arktos, 2012; _\u0397 \u03ad\u03bd\u03b4\u03bf\u03be\u03b7 \u03c0\u03ad\u03c4\u03c1\u03b1_ ( _The Glorious Stone_ ), Mikri Arktos, 2014.\n\n## _\u0397 \u03c0\u03bf\u03af\u03b7\u03c3\u03b7 \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03b1\u03c1\u03ba\u03b5\u03af_\n\n\u039a\u03cd\u03c1\u03b9\u03bf\u03b9, \u03bc\u03b7\u03bd \u03b1\u03c6\u03ae\u03bd\u03b5\u03c4\u03b5 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c3\u03b1\u03c2 \u03be\u03b5\u03b3\u03b5\u03bb\u03ac\n\n\u03c4\u03af\u03c0\u03bf\u03c4\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03ba\u03b1\u03bd\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1\u03c2.\n\n\u0394\u03b5\u03bd \u03c7\u03c1\u03b5\u03bf\u03ba\u03bf\u03c0\u03ae\u03c3\u03b1\u03bc\u03b5 \u03c3\u03ae\u03bc\u03b5\u03c1\u03b1\n\n\u03ad\u03c7\u03bf\u03c5\u03bc\u03b5 \u03ae\u03b4\u03b7 \u03c7\u03c1\u03b5\u03bf\u03ba\u03bf\u03c0\u03ae\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9\n\n\u03b5\u03b4\u03ce \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c0\u03bf\u03bb\u03bb\u03ac \u03c7\u03c1\u03cc\u03bd\u03b9\u03b1.\n\n\u03a3\u03ae\u03bc\u03b5\u03c1\u03b1 \u03bf \u03ba\u03b1\u03b8\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1\u03c2 \u03bc\u03c0\u03bf\u03c1\u03b5\u03af \u03c0\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b5\u03cd\u03ba\u03bf\u03bb\u03b1\n\n\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b5\u03c1\u03c0\u03b1\u03c4\u03ac \u03b5\u03c0\u03af \u03c4\u03c9\u03bd \u03ba\u03c5\u03bc\u03ac\u03c4\u03c9\u03bd\n\n\u03ac\u03b4\u03b5\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b5\u03c4\u03ac\u03b3\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03bc\u03c0\u03bf\u03c5\u03ba\u03ac\u03bb\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03bd\u03b5\u03c1\u03cc\n\n\u03c7\u03c9\u03c1\u03af\u03c2 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b5\u03c4\u03b1\u03c6\u03ad\u03c1\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03ba\u03c1\u03c5\u03bc\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b7\u03bd\u03cd\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1\n\n\u03bf\u03b9 \u03c3\u03b5\u03b9\u03c1\u03ae\u03bd\u03b5\u03c2 \u03bf\u03cd\u03c4\u03b5 \u03c4\u03c1\u03b1\u03b3\u03bf\u03c5\u03b4\u03bf\u03cd\u03bd \u03bf\u03cd\u03c4\u03b5 \u03c3\u03b9\u03c9\u03c0\u03bf\u03cd\u03bd \u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03b1\u03c0\u03bb\u03ce\u03c2 \u03b1\u03ba\u03af\u03bd\u03b7\u03c4\u03b5\u03c2\n\n\u03c3\u03b1\u03c3\u03c4\u03b9\u03c3\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b5\u03c2 \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03b9\u03b4\u03b9\u03c9\u03c4\u03b9\u03ba\u03bf\u03c0\u03bf\u03af\u03b7\u03c3\u03b7\n\n\u03c4\u03c9\u03bd \u03c5\u03b4\u03ac\u03c4\u03c9\u03bd \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03cc\u03c7\u03b9\n\n\u03b7 \u03c0\u03bf\u03af\u03b7\u03c3\u03b7 \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03b1\u03c1\u03ba\u03b5\u03af \u03b1\u03c6\u03bf\u03cd \u03b7 \u03b8\u03ac\u03bb\u03b1\u03c3\u03c3\u03b1 \u03b3\u03ad\u03bc\u03b9\u03c3\u03b5\n\n\u03c3\u03ba\u03bf\u03c5\u03c0\u03af\u03b4\u03b9\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03ba\u03b1\u03c0\u03cc\u03c4\u03b5\u03c2\n\n\u03ba\u03b9 \u03b1\u03c2 \u03b3\u03c1\u03ac\u03c6\u03b5\u03b9 \u03cc\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c3\u03bf\u03bd\u03ad\u03c4\u03b1 \u03b8\u03ad\u03bb\u03b5\u03b9 \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf \u03a6\u03ac\u03bb\u03b7\u03c1\u03bf\n\n\u03bf \u039b\u03bf\u03c1\u03ad\u03bd\u03c4\u03b6\u03bf\u03c2 \u039c\u03b1\u03b2\u03af\u03bb\u03b7\u03c2.\n\n## _Poetry Does Not Suffice_\n\nGentlemen, don't let anything,\n\nanyone, deceive you:\n\nwe were not bankrupted today,\n\nwe have been bankrupt for a long time now.\n\nToday it's easy enough\n\nfor anyone to walk on water:\n\nthe empty bottles bob on the surface\n\nwithout carrying any secret messages.\n\nThe sirens don't sing, nor are they silent,\n\nthey merely stay motionless,\n\ndumbstruck by the privatization\n\nof the waves and no\n\npoetry doesn't suffice since the sea filled up\n\nwith trash and condoms.\n\nLet him write as many sonnets as he wants about Faliro,\n\nthat Lorentzos Mavilis.\n\nA. E. Stallings\n\n## _\u03a0\u03bf\u03af\u03b7\u03c3\u03b7 2048_\n\n\u03a4\u03cc\u03c3\u03bf \u03c0\u03bf\u03bb\u03cd \u03b5\u03c7\u03c1\u03b5\u03bf\u03ba\u03bf\u03c0\u03ae\u03c3\u03b1\u03bc\u03b5 \u03c3\u03cd\u03bd\u03c4\u03c1\u03bf\u03c6\u03bf\u03b9\n\n\u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ce\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03be\u03b5\u03bd\u03bf\u03b4\u03bf\u03c7\u03b5\u03af\u03b1\n\n\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c7\u03c4\u03b9\u03c3\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03c4\u03b1 \u03ba\u03cc\u03ba\u03b1\u03bb\u03b1 \u03c4\u03c9\u03bd \u03bd\u03b5\u03ba\u03c1\u03ce\u03bd,\n\n\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c9\u03c1\u03b1\u03af\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u03b1\u03b8\u03b1\u03bb\u03ac\u03c3\u03c3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03be\u03b5\u03bd\u03bf\u03b4\u03bf\u03c7\u03b5\u03af\u03b1\n\n\u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c6\u03c4\u03b9\u03ac\u03be\u03b1\u03bc\u03b5 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03b1\u03c1\u03b3\u03cd\u03c1\u03b9\u03b1\n\n\u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03b4\u03bf\u03c3\u03af\u03b1\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03a0\u03bb\u03bf\u03c5\u03bc\u03c0\u03af\u03b4\u03b7,\n\n\u03ce\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03ac \u03b1\u03ba\u03cc\u03bc\u03b1, \u03b5\u03b3\u03ba\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1\u03bb\u03b5\u03af\u03c6\u03b8\u03b7\u03ba\u03b1\u03bd\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c3\u03b1\u03c0\u03af\u03b6\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03ba\u03ac\u03c4\u03c9 \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03c4\u03b7 \u03bb\u03ac\u03c3\u03c0\u03b7 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b7\n\n\u03b2\u03c1\u03bf\u03c7\u03ae. \u039f\u03cd\u03c4\u03b5 \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03ae \u03b7 \u03b5\u03c0\u03bf\u03c7\u03ae \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b5\u03c0\u03bf\u03c7\u03ae\n\n\u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bf\u03af\u03b7\u03c3\u03b7: \u03c0\u03bb\u03b7\u03c1\u03ce\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5\u03bc\u03b5 \u03b1\u03ba\u03cc\u03bc\u03b1\n\n\u03bc\u03b5 \u03bd\u03cc\u03bc\u03b9\u03c3\u03bc\u03b1 \u03b5\u03bc\u03c6\u03c5\u03bb\u03af\u03bf\u03c5.\n\n## _\u03a4\u03bf \u03bc\u03b5\u03b3\u03ac\u03bb\u03bf \u03b1\u03af\u03bd\u03b9\u03b3\u03bc\u03b1_\n\n\u0391\u03c0\u03bf\u03c7\u03b1\u03b9\u03c1\u03ad\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c0\u03ac\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1 \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03ae \u03c4\u03b7 \u03c3\u03cd\u03bd\u03c4\u03bf\u03bc\u03b7\n\n\u03b5\u03c0\u03bf\u03c7\u03ae \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03b5\u03bb\u03b5\u03c5\u03b8\u03b5\u03c1\u03af\u03b1\u03c2.\n\n\u0391\u03bd\u03c4\u03af\u03bf \u03b1\u03bb\u03b7\u03c3\u03bc\u03cc\u03bd\u03b7\u03c4\u03b5\u03c2 \u03bc\u03ad\u03c1\u03b5\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bd\u03cd\u03c7\u03c4\u03b5\u03c2 \u03ad\u03bd\u03b4\u03bf\u03be\u03b5\u03c2\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c6\u03cd\u03bb\u03bb\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b1\u03af\u03c1\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03bf \u03ac\u03bd\u03b5\u03bc\u03bf\u03c2.\n\n\u03a5\u03c0\u03ae\u03c1\u03be\u03b1\u03bc\u03b5 \u03bd\u03ad\u03bf\u03b9, \u03c3\u03b5 \u03c4\u03af\u03c0\u03bf\u03c4\u03b1 \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03b5\u03bb\u03c0\u03af\u03b6\u03b1\u03bc\u03b5\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c0\u03b5\u03c1\u03b9\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1\u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03bf \u03b1\u03cd\u03c1\u03b9\u03bf \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03bf \u03c4\u03c5\u03c6\u03bb\u03cc \u03c0\u03b5\u03af\u03c3\u03bc\u03b1\n\n\u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bd\u03b1\u03c5\u03b1\u03b3\u03bf\u03cd \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c1\u03af\u03c7\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03bd\u03b5\u03c1\u03cc \u03c0\u03ad\u03c4\u03c1\u03b5\u03c2.\n\n## _Poetry 2048_\n\nWe were so bankrupt, comrades,\n\nthat even the hotels,\n\nthose built from the bones of the dead,\n\nthe lovely seaside hotels\n\nwhich we made with the silver\n\nfrom the treason of Ploumbides,\n\nyes even those, were abandoned\n\nand they rot from underneath with the mud and the\n\nrain. Not even this age is an age\n\nfor poetry: we are still paying\n\nin the coin of Civil War.\n\nA. E. Stallings\n\n## _The Great Enigma_\n\nGoodbye forever to this brief\n\nage of freedom.\n\nFarewell unforgettable days and glorious nights\n\nand leaves swept away by the wind.\n\nWe were young, we hoped for nothing\n\nand we waited for tomorrow with the blind obstinacy\n\nof the castaway who throws stones in the water.\n\nRichard Pierce\n\n## _\u0395\u03bb\u03b5\u03b3\u03b5\u03af\u03b1_\n\n\u03a4\u03af\u03c0\u03bf\u03c4\u03b1, \u03bf\u03cd\u03c4\u03b5 \u03ba\u03b1\u03bd \u03bf \u03c0\u03bd\u03b9\u03b3\u03bc\u03cc\u03c2 \u03b5\u03bd\u03cc\u03c2 \u03c0\u03b1\u03b9\u03b4\u03b9\u03bf\u03cd\n\n\u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03c3\u03c4\u03b1\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03ac \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03ba\u03cc\u03c3\u03bc\u03bf \u03b1\u03c0' \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03b1\u03b9\u03ce\u03bd\u03b9\u03b1 \u03ba\u03af\u03bd\u03b7\u03c3\u03ae \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u039e\u03ad\u03c1\u03c9 \u03cc\u03c4\u03b9 \u03c3\u03ae\u03bc\u03b5\u03c1\u03b1 \u03ae \u03c7\u03b8\u03b5\u03c2 \u03ba\u03ac\u03c0\u03bf\u03b9\u03bf \u03c0\u03b1\u03b9\u03b4\u03af \u03c0\u03bd\u03af\u03b3\u03b7\u03ba\u03b5\u00b7\n\n\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b1\u03b9\u03b4\u03af \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c0\u03bd\u03af\u03b3\u03b7\u03ba\u03b5 \u03c3\u03ae\u03bc\u03b5\u03c1\u03b1 \u03ae \u03c7\u03b8\u03b5\u03c2\n\n\u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03af\u03c0\u03bf\u03c4\u03b1\u00b7 \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bc\u03b9\u03b1 \u03ac\u03c8\u03c5\u03c7\u03b7 \u03bc\u03b1\u03c1\u03b9\u03bf\u03bd\u03ad\u03c4\u03b1\n\n\u03c3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c7\u03ad\u03c1\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u0398\u03b5\u03bf\u03cd\u00b7 \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b9\u03ba\u03c1\u03cc \u03c0\u03bf\u03af\u03b7\u03bc\u03b1\n\n\u03b1\u03ba\u03af\u03bd\u03b7\u03c4\u03bf \u03bc\u03ad\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03b1\u03b9\u03ce\u03bd\u03b9\u03b1 \u03ba\u03af\u03bd\u03b7\u03c3\u03b7 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ba\u03cc\u03c3\u03bc\u03bf\u03c5.\n\n## _Elegy_\n\nNothing, not even the drowning of a child,\n\nstops the perpetual motion of the world.\n\nI know that today or yesterday some child drowned;\n\na child who drowned today or yesterday\n\nis nothing \u2013 an inanimate puppet\n\nin the hands of God, a short motionless poem\n\nin the perpetual motion of the world.\n\nRichard Pierce\n\n## Elena Penga\n\n#### (Born Thessaloniki, Greece, 1964)\n\nEast Village punk na\u00efvet\u00e9 meets Margarita Karapanou's wise child from _Kassandra and the Wolf_ in Elena Penga's theatrical and poetical writing alike. Born in Thessaloniki, she studied Theater and Philosophy at Wesleyan University and Screen and Theater Writing at the University of Southern California in Los Angeles. She is best known for her plays, but has also published three collections of her short prose pieces. The most recent, _Tight Belts and Other Skin_ (Agra, 2012), won the Greek Academy Prize and has been translated into Swedish and English. She also wrote the screenplay for Lakis Papastathis's award-winning film about the phenomenal Greek short-story writer Giorgios Vizyenos, _His Only Journey in His Life_.\n\n_\u03a3\u03ba\u03bf\u03c5\u03ce\u03c2_ ( _Squash_ ), Agra, 1997; _\u0391\u03c5\u03c4\u03ae \u03b8\u03b5\u03c1\u03b9\u03bd\u03ae_ ( _She Summerlike_ ), Agra, 1986; _\u03a3\u03c6\u03b9\u03c7\u03c4\u03ad\u03c2 \u03b6\u03ce\u03bd\u03b5\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03ac\u03bb\u03bb\u03b1 \u03b4\u03ad\u03c1\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1_ ( _Tight Belts and Other Skin_ ), Agra, 2012.\n\n## _\u0394\u03b9\u03ac\u03b4\u03c1\u03bf\u03bc\u03bf\u03b9_\n\n\u03a4\u03b1 \u03b1\u03b3\u03ac\u03bb\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1, \u03bf\u03b9 \u03bd\u03b1\u03bf\u03af, \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c0\u03af\u03c4\u03b9\u03b1, \u03cc\u03bb\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03b1\u03c1\u03c7\u03b1\u03b9\u03cc\u03c4\u03b7\u03c4\u03b1 \u03ae\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd \u03c7\u03c1\u03c9\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03b9\u03c3\u03c4\u03ac, \u03b6\u03c9\u03b3\u03c1\u03b1\u03c6\u03b9\u03c3\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1. \u0397 \u0394\u03ae\u03bb\u03bf\u03c2 \u03ae\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd \u03c0\u03bf\u03bb\u03cd\u03c7\u03c1\u03c9\u03bc\u03b7. \u0391\u03ba\u03cc\u03bc\u03b7 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03ce\u03c1\u03b1, \u03bc\u03b5\u03c4\u03ac \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03c4\u03cc\u03c3\u03b5\u03c2 \u03b5\u03ba\u03b1\u03c4\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03ac\u03b4\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c7\u03c1\u03cc\u03bd\u03b9\u03b1, \u03cc\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd \u03b1\u03bd\u03b1\u03ba\u03b1\u03bb\u03cd\u03c0\u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03ac\u03b3\u03b1\u03bb\u03bc\u03b1, \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03cc \u03ad\u03c7\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c7\u03c1\u03ce\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03ac \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5. \u03a4\u03bf \u03b2\u03b3\u03ac\u03b6\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03c4\u03b7 \u03b3\u03b7, \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c7\u03c1\u03ce\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03ac \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03c7\u03ce\u03bc\u03b1, \u03c3\u03b1 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03b2\u03b3\u03ac\u03b6\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03c4\u03bf \u03b3\u03bb\u03c5\u03c0\u03c4\u03cc \u03bc\u03ad\u03c3\u03b1 \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03b3\u03ac\u03bd\u03c4\u03b9.\n\n\u0394\u03b9\u03ac\u03b4\u03c1\u03bf\u03bc\u03bf\u03b9. \u039a\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b1\u03c1\u03c7\u03b1\u03b9\u03bf\u03bb\u03bf\u03b3\u03af\u03b1. \u0394\u03b9\u03ac\u03b4\u03c1\u03bf\u03bc\u03bf\u03b9 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b4\u03b9\u03b1\u03b4\u03c1\u03bf\u03bc\u03ad\u03c2. \u039a\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bc\u03bd\u03ae\u03bc\u03b7. \u039a\u03b1\u03b9 \u03be\u03b5\u03bd\u03bf\u03b4\u03bf\u03c7\u03b5\u03af\u03b1. \u03a9\u03c1\u03b1\u03af\u03b1 \u03be\u03b5\u03bd\u03bf\u03b4\u03bf\u03c7\u03b5\u03af\u03b1 \u03b3\u03b5\u03bc\u03ac\u03c4\u03b1 \u03b1\u03b3\u03ac\u03bb\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bb\u03bf\u03c5\u03bb\u03bf\u03cd\u03b4\u03b9\u03b1. \u0394\u03b9\u03b1\u03c3\u03c7\u03af\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03b4\u03b9\u03b1\u03b4\u03c1\u03cc\u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03b1\u03b8\u03cc\u03c1\u03c5\u03b2\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b5\u03c1\u03bd\u03ac\u03c2 \u03ad\u03be\u03c9 \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03c0\u03cc\u03c1\u03c4\u03b5\u03c2. \u0388\u03c7\u03b5\u03b9 \u03b6\u03ad\u03c3\u03c4\u03b7. \u03a0\u03bf\u03bb\u03c5\u03c4\u03ad\u03bb\u03b5\u03b9\u03b1. \u0395\u03be\u03c9\u03c4\u03b9\u03c3\u03bc\u03cc. \u039c\u03b5\u03b3\u03ac\u03bb\u03b1 \u03c3\u03ac\u03c1\u03ba\u03b9\u03bd\u03b1 \u03bb\u03bf\u03c5\u03bb\u03bf\u03cd\u03b4\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c3\u03b5 \u03bc\u03b5\u03b3\u03ac\u03bb\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c1\u03c3\u03b5\u03bb\u03ac\u03bd\u03b9\u03bd\u03b1 \u03b2\u03ac\u03b6\u03b1.\n\n\u0395\u03c0\u03b9\u03b8\u03c5\u03bc\u03b5\u03af\u03c2 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c6\u03c4\u03b9\u03ac\u03be\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03bc\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c7\u03ad\u03c3\u03b7 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c9\u03c1\u03b1\u03af\u03b5\u03c2 \u03b5\u03b9\u03ba\u03cc\u03bd\u03b5\u03c2. \u03a4\u03bf \u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03c3\u03c0\u03b1\u03b8\u03b5\u03af\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b8\u03ce\u03c2 \u03b4\u03b9\u03b1\u03c3\u03c7\u03af\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03b4\u03b9\u03b1\u03b4\u03c1\u03cc\u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2. \u0397 \u03c8\u03c5\u03c7\u03ae \u03ad\u03c7\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03c4\u03c1\u03cc\u03c0\u03bf \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b5\u03c4\u03b1\u03b2\u03bf\u03bb\u03af\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c0\u03bb\u03b7\u03c1\u03bf\u03c6\u03bf\u03c1\u03af\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03ad\u03c1\u03c7\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03c4\u03bf \u03c3\u03ce\u03bc\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03ad\u03be\u03c9 \u03ba\u03cc\u03c3\u03bc\u03bf. \u0388\u03c7\u03c9 \u03b1\u03ba\u03bf\u03cd\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c0\u03c9\u03c2 \u03c5\u03c0\u03ac\u03c1\u03c7\u03b5\u03b9 \u03b7 \u03c0\u03b5\u03c1\u03af\u03c0\u03c4\u03c9\u03c3\u03b7 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1\u03c3\u03c4\u03c1\u03b1\u03c6\u03b5\u03af \u03bf\u03bb\u03cc\u03ba\u03bb\u03b7\u03c1\u03bf\u03c2 \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1\u03c2 \u03b6\u03c9\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd\u03cc\u03c2 \u03bf\u03c1\u03b3\u03b1\u03bd\u03b9\u03c3\u03bc\u03cc\u03c2, \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03c9\u03c1\u03cc, \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1\u03c2 \u03b5\u03bd\u03ae\u03bb\u03b9\u03ba\u03b1\u03c2, \u03bc\u03cc\u03bd\u03bf \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bc\u03cc\u03bd\u03bf \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03b4\u03b9\u03b1\u03c4\u03b7\u03c1\u03ae\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9 \u03bc\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u03ac\u03c3\u03c4\u03b1\u03c3\u03b7 \u03b4\u03b9\u03b1\u03c1\u03ba\u03bf\u03cd\u03c2 \u03b7\u03b4\u03bf\u03bd\u03ae\u03c2. \u0391\u03c0\u03cc\u03bb\u03c5\u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03b5\u03c5\u03b4\u03b1\u03b9\u03bc\u03bf\u03bd\u03af\u03b1\u03c2.\n\n\u0394\u03b9\u03ac\u03b4\u03c1\u03bf\u03bc\u03bf\u03b9. \u0395\u03c0\u03b9\u03b8\u03c5\u03bc\u03b5\u03af\u03c2 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03bf\u03b4\u03b7\u03b3\u03ae\u03c3\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03c0\u03ad\u03c1\u03b1. \u0388\u03be\u03c9. \u039d\u03b1 \u03b2\u03b3\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b5\u03c3\u03cd \u03c3\u03b1\u03bd \u03c4\u03bf \u03b3\u03bb\u03c5\u03c0\u03c4\u03cc \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b2\u03b3\u03b1\u03af\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03c4\u03bf \u03c7\u03ce\u03bc\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03c6\u03c9\u03c2, \u03c3\u03b1 \u03bc\u03ad\u03c3\u03b1 \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03b3\u03ac\u03bd\u03c4\u03b9. \u03a7\u03c1\u03cc\u03bd\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b5\u03c4\u03ac. \u03a3\u03b5 \u03b1\u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03c3\u03b4\u03cc\u03ba\u03b7\u03c4\u03b7 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b9\u03b3\u03bc\u03ae. \u0398\u03b1 \u03b2\u03b3\u03b5\u03af\u03c2 \u03ac\u03c1\u03b1\u03b3\u03b5; \u03a3\u03c4\u03bf \u03c6\u03c9\u03c2; \u0395\u03c3\u03cd \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03b5\u03af\u03c3\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c0\u03ad\u03c4\u03c1\u03b1, \u03b1\u03bb\u03bb\u03ac \u03c3\u03ac\u03c1\u03ba\u03b1, \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03b5\u03af\u03c3\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bd\u03b5\u03ba\u03c1\u03ae, \u03b1\u03bb\u03bb\u03ac \u03b6\u03c9\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd\u03ae;\n\n\u039a\u03b1\u03b9 \u03ad\u03c0\u03b5\u03b9\u03c4\u03b1 \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03cc\u03c3\u03b5\u03c2 \u03ac\u03bb\u03bb\u03b5\u03c2 \u03b1\u03c0\u03bf\u03c3\u03c4\u03ac\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2. \u0394\u03b9\u03ac\u03b4\u03c1\u03bf\u03bc\u03bf\u03b9 \u03b5\u03ba\u03b1\u03c4\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03ac\u03b4\u03c9\u03bd \u03b5\u03c4\u03ce\u03bd \u03c6\u03c9\u03c4\u03cc\u03c2. \u0394\u03c1\u03cc\u03bc\u03bf\u03b9 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b4\u03b9\u03b1\u03c3\u03c7\u03af\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9 \u03bc\u03af\u03b1 \u03c0\u03ad\u03c4\u03c1\u03b1 \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03b3\u03af\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03ba\u03c5\u03ba\u03bb\u03b1\u03b4\u03af\u03c4\u03b9\u03ba\u03bf \u03b5\u03b9\u03b4\u03ce\u03bb\u03b9\u03bf, \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03b3\u03af\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03bc\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b3\u03c5\u03bd\u03b1\u03af\u03ba\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03a0\u03b9\u03ba\u03ac\u03c3\u03bf. \u039a\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03ad\u03c4\u03c3\u03b9. \u0393\u03bb\u03c5\u03c0\u03c4\u03cc \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b5\u03ba\u03c0\u03ad\u03bc\u03c0\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c5\u03bd\u03b1\u03bd\u03c4\u03ae\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b5\u03af\u03c7\u03b5 \u03ac\u03bb\u03bb\u03bf\u03c4\u03b5, \u03cc\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd \u03ae\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd \u03c0\u03ad\u03c4\u03c1\u03b1, \u03c0\u03c1\u03b9\u03bd \u03b3\u03af\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03b3\u03bb\u03c5\u03c0\u03c4\u03cc.\n\n## _Passages_\n\nThe statues, the temples, the houses, everything in Antiquity was colored, painted. Delos was multicolored. Even today, after so many thousands of years, when they find a statue, it is covered in paint. They pull it out of the earth, and the colors stay in the dirt like a sculpture coming out of a glove.\n\nPassages. And archaeology. Passages and routes. And memory. And hotels. Beautiful hotels full of statues and flowers. You walk through the corridors silently. You pass by closed doors. It is hot. Luxurious. Exotic. Gigantic fleshy flowers in gigantic porcelain vases.\n\nYou want to find a way to relate to the beautiful sights. You try. As you walk through the corridors. The soul has a way of metabolizing information that comes from the body and the outside world. I have heard that it is possible for a living organism, a baby, an adult, to self-destruct just because it is trying to keep the illusion of continuous pleasure alive. Of absolute ecstasy.\n\nCorridors. You want them to take you further. Outside. So you can escape like the sculpture from the dirt. Out into the light. Like coming out of a glove. Years later. Completely unexpectedly. Are you coming? Out into the light? You who aren't stone, but flesh? You who aren't dead, but alive?\n\nAnd then there are so many other kinds of distance. Passages hundreds of light years away. The roads a stone takes to become a Cycladic figurine, a Picasso woman. The lengths it goes to stay that way. Sculpture that still emits the encounters it had back then, when it was a stone, before it became a sculpture.\n\nKaren Van Dyck\n\n## _K\u03b5\u03c6\u03ac\u03bb\u03b9\u03b1_\n\n\u0389\u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03c0\u03bf\u03bb\u03cd \u03bc\u03b9\u03ba\u03c1\u03cc\u03c2 \u03b3\u03cd\u03c1\u03c9 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03b4\u03ad\u03ba\u03b1. \u03a0\u03b7\u03b3\u03b1\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03bc\u03b5 \u03b4\u03b9\u03b1\u03ba\u03bf\u03c0\u03ad\u03c2 \u03c3\u03b5 \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03bd\u03b7\u03c3\u03af. \u03a4\u03bf \u03bd\u03b7\u03c3\u03af \u03ae\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd \u03b7 \u039a\u03ac\u03bb\u03c5\u03bc\u03bd\u03bf\u03c2. \u0391\u03c0\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1\u03bd\u03c4\u03af \u03bc\u03b1\u03c2 \u03ad\u03bc\u03b5\u03bd\u03b5 \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b1\u03c0\u03b5\u03c4\u03ac\u03bd\u03b9\u03bf\u03c2. \u03a3\u03c6\u03bf\u03c5\u03b3\u03b3\u03b1\u03c1\u03ac\u03c2. \u039c\u03b1\u03b6\u03af \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b5\u03af\u03c7\u03b5 \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b9\u03ba\u03c1\u03cc \u03ba\u03bf\u03c1\u03af\u03c4\u03c3\u03b9, \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u0391\u03bd\u03bd\u03bf\u03cd\u03bb\u03b1. \u03a3\u03c5\u03c7\u03bd\u03ac \u03c0\u03ae\u03b3\u03b1\u03b9\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03c3\u03c0\u03af\u03c4\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c0\u03b1\u03af\u03b6\u03b1\u03bc\u03b5 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03ba\u03bf\u03cd\u03ba\u03bb\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03ac\u03bb\u03bb\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b1\u03b9\u03c7\u03bd\u03af\u03b4\u03b9\u03b1. \u039c\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bc\u03ad\u03c1\u03b1, \u03ba\u03ac\u03c0\u03bf\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b9\u03b3\u03bc\u03ae, \u03b2\u03c1\u03b5\u03b8\u03ae\u03ba\u03b1\u03bc\u03b5 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03b1\u03c0\u03bf\u03b8\u03ae\u03ba\u03b7, \u03ba\u03ac\u03c4\u03c9 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03c5\u03c0\u03cc\u03b3\u03b5\u03b9\u03bf \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ae\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd \u03b3\u03b5\u03bc\u03ac\u03c4\u03bf \u03c3\u03c6\u03bf\u03c5\u03b3\u03b3\u03ac\u03c1\u03b9\u03b1. \u0391\u03c5\u03c4\u03cc \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b8\u03c5\u03bc\u03ac\u03bc\u03b1\u03b9 \u03ae\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd \u03c0\u03c9\u03c2 \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03b5\u03af\u03c7\u03b1\u03bc\u03b5 \u03ba\u03b1\u03bc\u03b9\u03ac \u03b1\u03af\u03c3\u03b8\u03b7\u03c3\u03b7 \u03c4\u03c9\u03bd \u03c3\u03c9\u03bc\u03ac\u03c4\u03c9\u03bd \u03bc\u03b1\u03c2. \u0398\u03c5\u03bc\u03ac\u03bc\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c7\u03ac\u03b4\u03b9\u03b1, \u03c6\u03b9\u03bb\u03b9\u03ac, \u03b1\u03b3\u03b3\u03af\u03b6\u03b1\u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b1\u03bb\u03bb\u03b9\u03ac \u03bf \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ac\u03bb\u03bb\u03bf\u03c5. \u0394\u03b5\u03bd \u03b5\u03af\u03c7\u03b1\u03bc\u03b5 \u03ba\u03b1\u03bc\u03b9\u03ac \u03b1\u03af\u03c3\u03b8\u03b7\u03c3\u03b7 \u03c0\u03c9\u03c2 \u03c5\u03c0\u03ac\u03c1\u03c7\u03b5\u03b9 \u03ba\u03ac\u03c4\u03b9 \u03ac\u03bb\u03bb\u03bf \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03cc.\n\n\u0394\u03b7\u03bb\u03b1\u03b4\u03ae \u03bc\u03cc\u03bd\u03bf \u03ba\u03b5\u03c6\u03ac\u03bb\u03b9\u03b1;\n\n\u039d\u03b1\u03b9, \u03bc\u03cc\u03bd\u03bf \u03ba\u03b5\u03c6\u03ac\u03bb\u03b9\u03b1. \u039c\u03b1\u03bb\u03bb\u03b9\u03ac \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c0\u03c1\u03cc\u03c3\u03c9\u03c0\u03bf. \u03a4\u03b1 \u03c3\u03ce\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03ac \u03bc\u03b1\u03c2 \u03ae\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd \u03c7\u03c9\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03ad\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c6\u03bf\u03c5\u03c3\u03ba\u03c9\u03c4\u03ac \u03c3\u03c6\u03bf\u03c5\u03b3\u03b3\u03ac\u03c1\u03b9\u03b1. \u0394\u03b5\u03bd \u03c4\u03b1 \u03bd\u03b9\u03ce\u03b8\u03b1\u03bc\u03b5.\n\n## _Heads_\n\nI was very young, about ten. We went on vacation to an island. The island was called Kalymnos. Across from us lived a captain. A sponge-diver. He had a little girl named Annoula. I went to her house often. We played with her dolls and other games. One day at a certain point we found ourselves in the backroom of the cellar. It was full of sponges. What I remember is that we had no sense of our bodies. I remember caresses, kisses, touching each other's hair. We had no sense that anything else existed.\n\nSo you were just heads?\n\nYes, just heads. Hair and faces. Our bodies were buried in puffy sponges. We couldn't feel them.\n\nKaren Van Dyck\n\n## _\u03a8\u03ac\u03c1\u03b9\u03b1_\n\n\u0394\u03b5\u03c2 \u03b5\u03ba\u03b5\u03af. \u03a4\u03b1 \u03c8\u03ac\u03c1\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b1\u03bb\u03bb\u03ac\u03b6\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03c7\u03c1\u03ce\u03bc\u03b1. \u039c\u03cc\u03bb\u03b9\u03c2 \u03b5\u03c1\u03b5\u03b8\u03b9\u03c3\u03c4\u03b5\u03af \u03c4\u03bf \u03b1\u03c1\u03c3\u03b5\u03bd\u03b9\u03ba\u03cc \u03b3\u03af\u03bd\u03b5\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bc\u03b1\u03cd\u03c1\u03bf. \u0391\u03bd\u03b5\u03b2\u03b1\u03af\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03b5\u03c0\u03b9\u03c6\u03ac\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03bf \u03b8\u03b7\u03bb\u03c5\u03ba\u03cc, \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bc\u03cc\u03bb\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b5\u03bb\u03b5\u03b9\u03ce\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9 \u03b7 \u03c3\u03b5\u03be\u03bf\u03c5\u03b1\u03bb\u03b9\u03ba\u03ae \u03c0\u03c1\u03ac\u03be\u03b7, \u03be\u03b1\u03bd\u03b1\u03b3\u03af\u03bd\u03b5\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b1\u03c3\u03b7\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b9\u03bf. \u0395\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03cc\u03c3\u03bf \u03c0\u03bf\u03bb\u03bb\u03ac \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03cc\u03c3\u03bf \u03b5\u03c1\u03b5\u03b8\u03b9\u03c3\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b4\u03af\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03b5\u03bd\u03c4\u03cd\u03c0\u03c9\u03c3\u03b7 \u03c0\u03c9\u03c2 \u03b1\u03bd\u03b1\u03b2\u03bf\u03c3\u03b2\u03ae\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03c6\u03ce\u03c4\u03b1. \u03a4\u03b1 \u03b2\u03bb\u03ad\u03c0\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2;\n\n\u0395\u03af\u03bc\u03b1\u03c3\u03c4\u03b5 \u03c4\u03cc\u03c3\u03bf \u03c8\u03b7\u03bb\u03ac. \u0394\u03b5\u03bd \u03b2\u03bb\u03ad\u03c0\u03c9 \u03c4\u03af\u03c0\u03bf\u03c4\u03b1.\n\n\u03a4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03c8\u03b1\u03c1\u03ac\u03b4\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf\u03cd\u03c2 \u03b2\u03bb\u03ad\u03c0\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2;\n\n\u039d\u03b1\u03b9. \u03a4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03bc\u03b9\u03c3\u03ce.\n\n\u0393\u03b9\u03b1\u03c4\u03af;\n\n\u0393\u03b9\u03b1\u03c4\u03af \u03c0\u03b9\u03ac\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03c8\u03ac\u03c1\u03b9\u03b1. \u0394\u03b5\u03bd \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b8\u03cc\u03bb\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c6\u03b9\u03bb\u03b9\u03ba\u03bf\u03af.\n\n\u0388\u03c4\u03c3\u03b9 \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bf\u03b9 \u03c8\u03b1\u03c1\u03ac\u03b4\u03b5\u03c2. \u0394\u03b5\u03bd \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c6\u03b9\u03bb\u03b9\u03ba\u03bf\u03af, \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1\u03c4\u03af \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03bb\u03b7\u03c0\u03c4\u03b9\u03ba\u03bf\u03af. \u0391\u03bd \u03c3\u03b5 \u03c0\u03ac\u03c1\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd\u03b5 \u03bc\u03b1\u03b6\u03af \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c8\u03ac\u03c1\u03b5\u03bc\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c0\u03b9\u03ac\u03c3\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd\u03b5 \u03c0\u03bf\u03bb\u03bb\u03ac \u03c8\u03ac\u03c1\u03b9\u03b1, \u03c4\u03cc\u03c4\u03b5 \u03c3\u03b5 \u03be\u03b1\u03bd\u03b1\u03c0\u03b1\u03af\u03c1\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd\u03b5 \u03bc\u03b1\u03b6\u03af \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2. \u03a4\u03cc\u03c4\u03b5 \u03b8\u03ad\u03bb\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c3\u03b5 \u03c0\u03b1\u03af\u03c1\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03c3\u03c5\u03bd\u03ad\u03c7\u03b5\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b1\u03b6\u03af \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2.\n\n## _Fish_\n\nTake a look at that. The fish change color. When the male gets excited he turns black. He rises to the surface with the female, and as soon as they have sex, he turns silver again. There are so many and they're so excited, it looks like lights flickering on and off. See them?\n\nWe're so high up. I can't see anything.\n\nCan you see the fishermen?\n\nYes. I hate them.\n\nWhy?\n\nBecause they catch fish. They're not at all friendly.\n\nThat's the way fishermen are. They're not friendly. They're superstitious. If they take you out fishing and catch a lot of fish, they take you out again. Then they want to take you out all the time.\n\nKaren Van Dyck\n\n## _\u0394\u03ad\u03c1\u03bc\u03b1_\n\n\u0388\u03c7\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c0\u03ac\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7\u03bd A\u03bc\u03b5\u03c1\u03b9\u03ba\u03ae;\n\n\u038c\u03c7\u03b9. \u03a9\u03c1\u03b1\u03af\u03b1 \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9;\n\nN\u03b1\u03b9.\n\n\u0393\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03b7 A\u03bc\u03b5\u03c1\u03b9\u03ba\u03ae \u03b5\u03b9\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bf M\u03ac\u03b9\u03ba\u03bb T\u03b6\u03ac\u03ba\u03c3\u03bf\u03bd. A\u03c0\u03bf \u03bc\u03b1\u03cd\u03c1\u03bf\u03c2 \u03b8\u03ad\u03bb\u03b7\u03c3\u03b5 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03b3\u03af\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03bb\u03b5\u03c5\u03ba\u03cc\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03ba\u03b1\u03c4\u03ad\u03c3\u03c4\u03c1\u03b5\u03c8\u03b5 \u03c0\u03ac\u03bd\u03c9 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b8\u03b5\u03c4\u03af \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b8\u03cd\u03bc\u03b9\u03b6\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03ad\u03bb\u03b5\u03c5\u03c3\u03ae \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5. \u0388\u03b3\u03b9\u03bd\u03b5 \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03cc\u03c2 \u03bf \u03b4\u03b7\u03bc\u03b9\u03bf\u03c5\u03c1\u03b3\u03cc\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b5\u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03bf\u03cd \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5.\n\nK\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bf\u03b9 \u03c4\u03c1\u03b1\u03b2\u03b5\u03c3\u03c4\u03af \u03ba\u03ac\u03c4\u03b9 \u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u03cc\u03bc\u03bf\u03b9\u03bf \u03ba\u03ac\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd.\n\nN\u03b1\u03b9.\n\nY\u03c0\u03ac\u03c1\u03c7\u03b5\u03b9 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b7 \u03ac\u03bb\u03bb\u03b7 \u03b7 A\u03bc\u03b5\u03c1\u03b9\u03ba\u03ac\u03bd\u03b1 \u03b7 B\u03af\u03bb\u03bd\u03c4\u03b5\u03bd\u03c3\u03c4\u03b1\u03ca\u03bd \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ae\u03b8\u03b5\u03bb\u03b5 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03bf\u03b9\u03ac\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03b3\u03ac\u03c4\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf \u03ba\u03b1\u03c4\u03ac\u03c6\u03b5\u03c1\u03b5. M\u03b5\u03c4\u03ac \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc 59 \u03c7\u03b5\u03b9\u03c1\u03bf\u03c5\u03c1\u03b3\u03b9\u03ba\u03ad\u03c2 \u03b5\u03c0\u03b5\u03bc\u03b2\u03ac\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2. T\u03b7\u03bd \u03ad\u03c7\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03b4\u03b5\u03b9;\n\n\u03a0\u03bf\u03cd;\n\n\u03a3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b5\u03c1\u03b9\u03bf\u03b4\u03b9\u03ba\u03ac.\n\n\u038c\u03c7\u03b9. \u03a0\u03ce\u03c2 \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9;\n\nT\u03c1\u03bf\u03bc\u03b1\u03ba\u03c4\u03b9\u03ba\u03ae. M\u03bf\u03b9\u03ac\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03b3\u03ac\u03c4\u03b1.\n\nT\u03bf \u03b4\u03ad\u03c1\u03bc\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b1\u03bd\u03b8\u03c1\u03ce\u03c0\u03b9\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c3\u03ce\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03bf\u03c2 \u03b1\u03bd \u03b1\u03c0\u03bb\u03c9\u03bd\u03cc\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd \u03bf\u03c1\u03b9\u03b6\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03af\u03c9\u03c2 \u03b8\u03b1 \u03ba\u03ac\u03bb\u03c5\u03c0\u03c4\u03b5 \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03b4\u03b9\u03c0\u03bb\u03cc \u03ba\u03c1\u03b5\u03b2\u03ac\u03c4\u03b9.\n\nT\u03bf \u03ad\u03c7\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03b4\u03b5\u03b9;\n\n\u03a0\u03bf\u03cd;\n\n\u03a3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b5\u03c1\u03b9\u03bf\u03b4\u03b9\u03ba\u03ac.\n\n\u03a3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b5\u03c1\u03b9\u03bf\u03b4\u03b9\u03ba\u03ac;\n\n\u038c\u03bb\u03b1 \u03c5\u03c0\u03ac\u03c1\u03c7\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03c3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b5\u03c1\u03b9\u03bf\u03b4\u03b9\u03ba\u03ac.\n\n## _Skin_\n\nEver been to America?\n\nNo. Is it beautiful?\n\nYes.\n\nFor me America is Michael Jackson. He wanted to be white but he was born black so he destroyed everything about himself that reminded him of his origins. He became his own creator.\n\nTrans people do that too.\n\nYes.\n\nAnd then there's that American woman Wildenstein who wanted to look like a cat and actually succeeded. After 59 surgeries. Ever seen her?\n\nWhere?\n\nIn the tabloids.\n\nNo, how does she look?\n\nScary. Like a cat.\n\nIf you were to spread the skin of a human body horizontally it would cover a double bed.\n\nEver seen it?\n\nWhere?\n\nIn the tabloids.\n\nIn the tabloids?\n\nEverything's in the tabloids.\n\nKaren Van Dyck\n\n## _\u03a1\u03bf\u03b6 \u03b5\u03c6\u03b9\u03b1\u03bb\u03c4\u03b9\u03ba\u03cc_\n\nB\u03c1\u03ad\u03c7\u03b5\u03b9. E\u03b4\u03ce. K\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b5\u03ba\u03b5\u03af. E\u03ba\u03b5\u03af \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b5\u03c3\u03cd \u03c4\u03c1\u03b1\u03b3\u03bf\u03c5\u03b4\u03ac\u03c2. B\u03c1\u03ad\u03c7\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c0\u03bf\u03bb\u03cd \u03b4\u03c5\u03bd\u03b1\u03c4\u03ac. \u039a\u03ac\u03b8\u03bf\u03bc\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bc\u03ad\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03bd\u03c5\u03c7\u03c4\u03b5\u03c1\u03b9\u03bd\u03cc \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c3\u03c0\u03af\u03c4\u03b9, \u03bc\u03ad\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c3\u03b5 \u03bc\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b2\u03b1\u03b8\u03b9\u03ac \u03c0\u03b5\u03c1\u03b9\u03c3\u03c4\u03c1\u03b5\u03c6\u03cc\u03bc\u03b5\u03bd\u03b7 \u03c0\u03bf\u03bb\u03c5\u03b8\u03c1\u03cc\u03bd\u03b1. \u03a0\u03b5\u03c1\u03b9\u03c3\u03c4\u03c1\u03ad\u03c6\u03bf\u03bc\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03c0\u03bf\u03bb\u03c5\u03b8\u03c1\u03cc\u03bd\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b1\u03ba\u03bf\u03cd\u03c9 \u03c4\u03b7 \u03b2\u03c1\u03bf\u03c7\u03ae. E\u03c3\u03cd \u03c4\u03c1\u03b1\u03b3\u03bf\u03c5\u03b4\u03ac\u03c2. H \u03b2\u03c1\u03bf\u03c7\u03ae \u03b1\u03ba\u03bf\u03cd\u03b3\u03b5\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9. E\u03ba\u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b7 \u03b1\u03ba\u03bf\u03cd\u03c9. T\u03b7 \u03b2\u03c1\u03bf\u03c7\u03ae. \u0388\u03c1\u03c7\u03b5\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9 \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1\u03c2 \u03b1\u03ba\u03cc\u03bc\u03b7 \u03ac\u03bd\u03b8\u03c1\u03c9\u03c0\u03bf\u03c2. \u03a6\u03ad\u03c1\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9\u03bd\u03bf\u03cd\u03c1\u03b3\u03b9\u03bf \u03c1\u03bf\u03b6 \u03ba\u03b1\u03c0\u03ad\u03bb\u03bf \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf \u03c6\u03c9\u03c4\u03b9\u03c3\u03c4\u03b9\u03ba\u03cc. \u03a3\u03b2\u03ae\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf \u03c6\u03c9\u03c2, \u03be\u03b5\u03b2\u03b9\u03b4\u03ce\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b7 \u03bb\u03ac\u03bc\u03c0\u03b1, \u03b2\u03b3\u03ac\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf \u03bc\u03b1\u03cd\u03c1\u03bf, \u03b2\u03ac\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf \u03c1\u03bf\u03b6 \u03ba\u03b1\u03c0\u03ad\u03bb\u03bf \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03c6\u03c9\u03c4\u03b9\u03c3\u03c4\u03b9\u03ba\u03cc, \u03be\u03b1\u03bd\u03b1\u03bd\u03ac\u03b2\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf \u03c6\u03c9\u03c2. \u039a\u03b1\u03b8\u03cc\u03bc\u03b1\u03c3\u03c4\u03b5 \u03bc\u03ad\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03c1\u03bf\u03b6 \u03c6\u03c9\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bc\u03b9\u03bb\u03ac\u03bc\u03b5 \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b1\u03c0\u03ad\u03bb\u03b1. K\u03b1\u03c0\u03ad\u03bb\u03b1 \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c6\u03c9\u03c4\u03b9\u03c3\u03c4\u03b9\u03ba\u03ac. A\u03bd\u03bf\u03af\u03b3\u03c9 \u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03bc\u03c0\u03b1\u03bb\u03ba\u03bf\u03bd\u03cc\u03c0\u03bf\u03c1\u03c4\u03b5\u03c2. \u0395\u03c3\u03cd \u03c4\u03c1\u03b1\u03b3\u03bf\u03c5\u03b4\u03ac\u03c2. \u0391\u03bb\u03bb\u03ac \u03b7 \u03b2\u03c1\u03bf\u03c7\u03b7 \u03b1\u03ba\u03bf\u03cd\u03b3\u03b5\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c0\u03b9\u03bf \u03b4\u03c5\u03bd\u03b1\u03c4\u03ae. \u039c\u03c0\u03b1\u03af\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03bc\u03ad\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03c3\u03c0\u03af\u03c4\u03b9. \u03a7\u03c4\u03c5\u03c0\u03ac \u03c0\u03ac\u03bd\u03c9 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b1\u03c0\u03ad\u03bb\u03b1 \u03c4\u03c9\u03bd \u03c6\u03c9\u03c4\u03b9\u03c3\u03c4\u03b9\u03ba\u03ce\u03bd. \u03a1\u03af\u03c7\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03ba\u03ac\u03c4\u03c9 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c6\u03c9\u03c4\u03b9\u03c3\u03c4\u03b9\u03ba\u03ac. \u0388\u03c1\u03c7\u03b5\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c3\u03b5 \u03c3\u03cd\u03b3\u03ba\u03c1\u03bf\u03c5\u03c3\u03b7 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03c0\u03c1\u03b1\u03b3\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03b9\u03ba\u03cc\u03c4\u03b7\u03c4\u03b1. O\u03b9 \u03ba\u03b5\u03c1\u03b1\u03c3\u03b9\u03ad\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03ba\u03ae\u03c0\u03bf \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b3\u03b5\u03af\u03c4\u03bf\u03bd\u03b1 \u03ad\u03c7\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03c7\u03c1\u03cc\u03bd\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03b4\u03ce\u03c3\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03ba\u03b1\u03c1\u03c0\u03bf\u03cd\u03c2. \u039c\u03c0\u03b1\u03af\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03c4\u03ad\u03c3\u03c3\u03b5\u03c1\u03b9\u03c2 \u03ac\u03bd\u03c4\u03c1\u03b5\u03c2 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03b2\u03ad\u03c1\u03b3\u03b5\u03c2. \u039c\u03c0\u03b1\u03af\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03ba\u03ae\u03c0\u03bf \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b3\u03b5\u03af\u03c4\u03bf\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c4\u03ce\u03c1\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b1\u03b6\u03af \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b7 \u03b2\u03c1\u03bf\u03c7\u03ae. \u0389\u03c1\u03b8\u03b1\u03bd \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b5\u03b9\u03b8\u03b1\u03c1\u03c7\u03ae\u03c3\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03c4\u03b1 \u03b4\u03ad\u03bd\u03c4\u03c1\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c3\u03ba\u03bf\u03c0\u03cc \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03ba\u03cc\u03c8\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03b1\u03bd \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03b1\u03bd\u03b8\u03af\u03c3\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd. \u0392\u03bb\u03ad\u03c0\u03c9 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03ac\u03bd\u03c4\u03c1\u03b5\u03c2 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c7\u03c4\u03c5\u03c0\u03bf\u03cd\u03bd \u03c4\u03b1 \u03b4\u03ad\u03bd\u03c4\u03c1\u03b1. \u0392\u03bb\u03ad\u03c0\u03c9 \u03c4\u03b7 \u03b2\u03c1\u03bf\u03c7\u03ae \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c7\u03c4\u03c5\u03c0\u03ac \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03ac\u03bd\u03c4\u03c1\u03b5\u03c2.\n\n## _Nightmare Pink_\n\nIt's raining. Here. There. Where you're singing. Raining very hard. I'm sitting in the house in a deep swivel chair. It's nighttime. I spin the chair around and listen to the rain. You're singing. The rain is loud enough to hear. I listen. To the rain. Another person arrives. With a pink lampshade. Brand new. He switches off the light, unscrews the bulb, takes off the black shade, puts on the pink one, then switches the light back on. We sit bathed in pink light and talk about shades. Lampshades. I open the balcony doors. You're singing. But the rain is louder. It comes into the house. Hits the lampshades. Knocks over the lights. Collides with reality. The cherry trees in the neighbor's yard haven't had fruit for years. Four men enter carrying sticks. They enter the neighbor's yard along with the rain. They've come to discipline the trees and chop them down if they don't blossom. I watch the men hit the trees. I watch the rain hit the men.\n\nKaren Van Dyck\n\n## Apostolos Thivaios\n\n#### (Born Athens, Greece, 1980)\n\nNews and the crisis are central to Apostolos Thivaios's output; indeed, true to the immediate, fleeting nature of the online environments in which his poetry is often published, it even doubles at times as a form of report. He studied Economics in Athens and currently works in the banking sector. His writing has appeared in some literary magazines, most notably the 2009 _Almanac_ published by the _Poiein_ team (see Further Reading). His writing can be found on their website, as well as at 24grammata.com.\n\n_17_ , Ekati, 2011; _\u03a4\u03b1 \u03cc\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9\u03c1\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u039c\u03ac\u03c1\u03b9\u03b5\u03bb_ ( _Mariel's Dreams_ ), 24 Grammata, 2012; _Cubanacan_ , 24 Grammata, 2012.\n\n## _\u03a0\u03c1\u03b1\u03b3\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03b9\u03ba\u03cc\u03c4\u03b7\u03c2_\n\n\u0395\u03bb\u03ae\u03c6\u03b8\u03b7\u03c3\u03b1\u03bd \u03cc\u03bb\u03b5\u03c2 \u03bf\u03b9 \u03b1\u03bd\u03b1\u03b3\u03ba\u03b1\u03af\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03c6\u03c5\u03bb\u03ac\u03be\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2.\n\n\u0391\u03c0\u03bf\u03bc\u03b1\u03ba\u03c1\u03cd\u03bd\u03b8\u03b7\u03ba\u03b1\u03bd \u03bf\u03b9 \u03ad\u03bd\u03bf\u03b9\u03ba\u03bf\u03b9 \u03c4\u03c9\u03bd \u03ba\u03c4\u03b9\u03c1\u03af\u03c9\u03bd,\n\n\u03a4\u03b1 \u03c5\u03c0\u03ad\u03c1\u03bf\u03c7\u03b1 \u03b6\u03ce\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b2\u03b1\u03c3\u03b9\u03bb\u03b9\u03ac.\n\n\u03a4\u03bf \u03ac\u03b3\u03b1\u03bb\u03bc\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03b1\u03ba\u03af\u03bd\u03b7\u03c4\u03b1 \u03bc\u03ac\u03c4\u03b9\u03b1\n\n\u03a4\u03bf\u03c0\u03bf\u03b8\u03b5\u03c4\u03ae\u03b8\u03b7\u03ba\u03b5 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03ba\u03c4\u03af\u03c3\u03bc\u03b1 \u03c4\u03cd\u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c4\u03bf\u03bb,\n\n\u0398\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf \u03b1\u03bd\u03b1\u03ba\u03b1\u03bb\u03cd\u03c8\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03ad\u03c0\u03b5\u03b9\u03c4\u03b1 \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03b1\u03b9\u03ce\u03bd\u03b5\u03c2\n\n\u039f\u03b9 \u03b6\u03c9\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd\u03bf\u03af \u03bc\u03b9\u03b1\u03c2 \u03ac\u03bb\u03bb\u03b7\u03c2 \u03b5\u03c0\u03bf\u03c7\u03ae\u03c2.\n\n\u0398\u03b1 \u03b5\u03bd\u03c4\u03bf\u03c0\u03af\u03c3\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c7\u03ad\u03c1\u03b9\u03b1,\n\n\u03a4\u03b1 \u03b8\u03c1\u03b1\u03cd\u03c3\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1 \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03c4\u03bf \u03ba\u03c1\u03b1\u03bd\u03af\u03bf,\n\n\u03a4\u03b1 \u03ac\u03b4\u03b5\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bc\u03ac\u03c4\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b8\u03b1 \u03b5\u03bd\u03c4\u03bf\u03c0\u03af\u03c3\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd.\n\n\u038e\u03c3\u03c4\u03b5\u03c1\u03b1 \u03ba\u03bf\u03b9\u03c4\u03ce\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c6\u03c9\u03c4\u03bf\u03b3\u03c1\u03b1\u03c6\u03af\u03b5\u03c2\n\n\u03c4\u03c9\u03bd \u03b5\u03c5\u03b1\u03af\u03c3\u03b8\u03b7\u03c4\u03c9\u03bd \u03c6\u03b9\u03bb\u03bc,\n\n\u0398\u03b1 \u03bc\u03bd\u03b7\u03bc\u03bf\u03bd\u03b5\u03cd\u03c3\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03bd\u03b5\u03ba\u03c1\u03bf\u03cd\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c5\u03b3\u03b3\u03b5\u03bd\u03b5\u03af\u03c2.\n\n\u0398\u03b1 \u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03b2\u03bf\u03cd\u03bd \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u03b1\u03b4\u03bf\u03c7\u03ae \u03c0\u03c9\u03c2\n\n\u03b5\u03bb\u03ae\u03c6\u03b8\u03b7\u03c3\u03b1\u03bd \u03cc\u03bb\u03b5\u03c2 \u03bf\u03b9 \u03b1\u03bd\u03b1\u03b3\u03ba\u03b1\u03af\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03c6\u03c5\u03bb\u03ac\u03be\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2.\n\n\u03b8\u03b1 \u03b5\u03be\u03b5\u03c1\u03b5\u03c5\u03bd\u03ae\u03c3\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c3\u03ce\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1,\n\n\u039c\u03b5 \u03cc\u03bb\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03b1\u03c4\u03ad\u03bb\u03b5\u03b9\u03b5\u03c2,\n\n\u039c\u03b5 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03bb\u03cc\u03c6\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03bb\u03af\u03bc\u03bd\u03b5\u03c2,\n\n\u039c\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b7 \u03b4\u03b9\u03ac\u03c7\u03c5\u03c4\u03b7 \u03c1\u03bf\u03c0\u03ae \u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b7 \u03c6\u03b8\u03bf\u03c1\u03ac.\n\n\u039f\u03b9 \u03ac\u03bd\u03b8\u03c1\u03c9\u03c0\u03bf\u03b9 \u03b8\u03b1 \u03bc\u03c0\u03bf\u03c1\u03ad\u03c3\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03bd\u03b1 \u03b3\u03b5\u03c1\u03ac\u03c3\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd\n\n\u03a0\u03c1\u03bf\u03c3\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03b1\u03c0\u03ac\u03bd\u03c4\u03b7\u03c3\u03b7\n\n\u03a3\u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03ad\u03ba\u03ba\u03bb\u03b7\u03c3\u03b7 \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b2\u03bf\u03ae\u03b8\u03b5\u03b9\u03b1.\n\n\u039c\u03b1 \u03c0\u03ac\u03bb\u03b9 \u03bf\u03b9 \u03c5\u03c0\u03bf\u03bb\u03bf\u03b3\u03b9\u03c3\u03bc\u03bf\u03af \u03ba\u03c1\u03af\u03bd\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b5\u03c0\u03af\u03c6\u03bf\u03b2\u03bf\u03b9.\n\n\u0393\u03b9\u03b1\u03c4\u03af \u03ba\u03ac\u03c0\u03bf\u03b9\u03bf\u03c2 \u03c5\u03c0\u03ac\u03bb\u03bb\u03b7\u03bb\u03bf\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b4\u03ae\u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u039c\u03b5 \u03cc\u03c8\u03b7 \u03b3\u03b5\u03bb\u03c9\u03c4\u03bf\u03c0\u03bf\u03b9\u03bf\u03cd\n\n\u039c\u03c0\u03bf\u03c1\u03b5\u03af \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c5\u03c0\u03bf\u03ba\u03bb\u03ad\u03c8\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b5\u03bb\u03b9\u03ba\u03ac\n\n\u03c4\u03b1 \u03b2\u03b9\u03b2\u03bb\u03af\u03b1 \u03c4\u03c9\u03bd \u03bb\u03b7\u03be\u03b9\u03b1\u03c1\u03c7\u03b5\u03af\u03c9\u03bd\n\n\u039a\u03b1\u03b9 \u03ad\u03c4\u03c3\u03b9 \u03ba\u03b1\u03bd\u03b5\u03af\u03c2\n\n\u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b7\u03bd \u03bc\u03c0\u03bf\u03c1\u03b5\u03af \u03bd\u03b1 \u03b1\u03c0\u03bf\u03b4\u03b5\u03af\u03be\u03b5\u03b9\n\n\u03a0\u03c9\u03c2 \u03c5\u03c0\u03ae\u03c1\u03be\u03b5 \u03ba\u03ac\u03c0\u03bf\u03c4\u03b5 \u03b6\u03c9\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd\u03cc\u03c2.\n\n\u03a4\u03ce\u03c1\u03b1 \u03cc\u03bb\u03bf\u03b9 \u03ba\u03bf\u03b9\u03c4\u03bf\u03cd\u03bd \u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b7 \u03bd\u03cd\u03c7\u03c4\u03b1,\n\n\u0395\u03c0\u03af\u03bc\u03bf\u03bd\u03b1,\n\n\u03a4\u03bf \u03ac\u03b3\u03b1\u03bb\u03bc\u03b1 \u03b4\u03b9\u03b1\u03c4\u03b7\u03c1\u03b5\u03af \u03c4\u03b7 \u03b8\u03b5\u03ca\u03ba\u03ae \u03b1\u03ba\u03b1\u03bc\u03c8\u03af\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5.\n\n\u03a3\u03c4\u03bf \u03c3\u03c4\u03cc\u03bc\u03b1, \u03c3\u03c9\u03c1\u03bf\u03af \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03b3\u03cd\u03c8\u03bf\n\n\u03a6\u03c1\u03ac\u03b6\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03c4\u03b1 \u03bf\u03c5\u03c1\u03bb\u03b9\u03b1\u03c7\u03c4\u03ac \u03c4\u03c9\u03bd \u03b1\u03b9\u03ce\u03bd\u03c9\u03bd.\n\n\u039c\u03ac\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9\u03b1, \u03bb\u03bf\u03b9\u03c0\u03cc\u03bd \u03b5\u03bb\u03ae\u03c6\u03b8\u03b7\u03c3\u03b1\u03bd\n\n\u03a4\u03cc\u03c3\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03c6\u03c5\u03bb\u03ac\u03be\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2,\n\n\u039c\u03ac\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b4\u03b9\u03b1\u03c4\u03c5\u03c0\u03ce\u03b8\u03b7\u03ba\u03b1\u03bd\n\n\u03a4\u03cc\u03c3\u03bf\u03b9 \u03b4\u03b9\u03c3\u03c4\u03b1\u03b3\u03bc\u03bf\u03af,\n\n\u03a4\u03cc\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c5\u03c0\u03bf\u03bd\u03bf\u03bf\u03cd\u03bc\u03b5\u03bd\u03b1.\n\n\u039f\u03b9 \u03b1\u03b3\u03b1\u03c0\u03b7\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf\u03b9,\n\n\u039f\u03b9 \u03c0\u03b1\u03bb\u03b9\u03bf\u03af \u03bc\u03b1\u03c2 \u03c6\u03af\u03bb\u03bf\u03b9,\n\n\u0394\u03b5\u03bd \u03b8\u03b1 \u03c6\u03b1\u03bd\u03bf\u03cd\u03bd \u03c0\u03b9\u03b1.\n\n## _Reality_\n\nAll the necessary precautions were taken.\n\nThe residents of the buildings went far away,\n\nthe splendid royal animals.\n\nThe statue with its motionless eyes\n\nwas placed in a building like a toll booth\n\nfor people living in another age\n\nto discover centuries later.\n\nThey'll locate the hands,\n\nthe skull fragments,\n\nthey'll find the empty eyes.\n\nLater, looking at the photographs\n\non the hypersensitive film\n\nthey'll mention the dead relatives.\n\nIn their acknowledgements they'll stress\n\nthat all the necessary precautions were taken.\n\nThey'll examine the bodies,\n\nwith all their imperfections,\n\nwith their hills and lakes,\n\ntheir general tendency to decay.\n\nPeople are bound to grow old.\n\nwaiting for an answer\n\nto their plea for help.\n\nBut again such evaluations are risky.\n\nBecause some public servant\n\nwith a waggish disposition\n\ncould, in the end, get hold of\n\nthe registry books\n\nso no one\n\nwould be able to establish\n\nthere was once a living person here.\n\nNow everyone is looking at the night,\n\ninsistently,\n\nthe statue preserves its divine rigidity.\n\nOn the mouth, lumps of plaster\n\nblock the howling of the ages.\n\nSo it was useless to take all those precautions,\n\npointless to express so many doubts\n\nso many insinuations.\n\nOur loved ones,\n\nour old friends,\n\nwon't show up any more.\n\nGail Holst-Warhaft\n\n## _\u0394\u03b9\u03b5\u03b8\u03bd\u03ae_\n\n\u03a3\u03c4\u03b7 \u03c3\u03c4\u03ae\u03bb\u03b7 \u03c4\u03c9\u03bd \u00ab\u0394\u03b9\u03b5\u03b8\u03bd\u03ce\u03bd\u00bb,\n\n\u03a3\u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1\u03c7\u03c9\u03c1\u03ae\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c0\u03b5\u03c1\u03af \u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u03b1\u03b4\u03cc\u03be\u03c9\u03bd,\n\n\u039a\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1\u03c3\u03c4\u03c1\u03bf\u03c6\u03ce\u03bd \u03c6\u03c5\u03c3\u03b9\u03ba\u03ce\u03bd,\n\n\u03a5\u03c0\u03ae\u03c1\u03be\u03b5 \u03bc\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b1\u03bd\u03b1\u03c6\u03bf\u03c1\u03ac,\n\n\u039c\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b5\u03af\u03b4\u03b7\u03c3\u03b7 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03b5\u03ba\u03c4\u03ac\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03b8\u03b5\u03bf\u03bb\u03bf\u03b3\u03b9\u03ba\u03ad\u03c2.\n\n\u0391\u03bd\u03b5\u03c5\u03c1\u03ad\u03b8\u03b7, \u03bb\u03ad\u03b5\u03b9, \u03bf \u03c4\u03ac\u03c6\u03bf\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u0391\u03c0\u03cc\u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\u03bb\u03bf\u03c5 \u03a6\u03b9\u03bb\u03af\u03c0\u03c0\u03bf\u03c5,\n\n\u0391\u03bd\u03ac\u03bc\u03b5\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03b5\u03c1\u03b5\u03af\u03c0\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03be\u03b1\u03ba\u03bf\u03c5\u03c3\u03c4\u03ae\u03c2\n\n\u03a4\u03c9\u03bd \u03a6\u03c1\u03c5\u03b3\u03ce\u03bd \u03c0\u03cc\u03bb\u03b5\u03c9\u03c2.\n\n\u0391\u03bd\u03ac\u03bc\u03b5\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c3\u03b5 \u03b8\u03ad\u03b1\u03c4\u03c1\u03b1, \u03b4\u03b5\u03be\u03b1\u03bc\u03b5\u03bd\u03ad\u03c2 \u03ac\u03bb\u03b1\u03c4\u03bf\u03c2,\n\n\u039c\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c0\u03ad\u03c4\u03c1\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c4\u03c9\u03bd \u03b8\u03b5\u03ac\u03c4\u03c1\u03c9\u03bd,\n\n\u03a4\u03c9\u03bd \u03ac\u03bb\u03bb\u03c9\u03bd \u03c4\u03c9\u03bd \u03ba\u03c4\u03b9\u03c1\u03af\u03c9\u03bd,\n\n\u03a4\u03c9\u03bd \u03b4\u03b7\u03bc\u03bf\u03c3\u03af\u03c9\u03bd,\n\n\u0395\u03bd\u03c4\u03bf\u03c0\u03af\u03c3\u03b8\u03b7\u03ba\u03b5 \u03b5\u03c4\u03bf\u03cd\u03c4\u03bf \u03c4\u03bf \u03c0\u03b5\u03c1\u03af\u03c6\u03b7\u03bc\u03bf \u03b5\u03cd\u03c1\u03b7\u03bc\u03b1.\n\n\u039c\u03b1 \u03c3\u03b5 \u03c4\u03bf\u03cd\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c5\u03bd\u03c4\u03c1\u03af\u03bc\u03bc\u03b9\u03b1,\n\n\u2013 \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03b1\u03bd\u03b1\u03b3\u03c1\u03b1\u03c6\u03cc\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03b5\u03af\u03b4\u03b7\u03c3\u03b7 \u2013\n\n\u0394\u03b5\u03bd \u03b8\u03b1 \u03b2\u03c1\u03b5\u03b8\u03b5\u03af,\n\n\u039c\u03b5 \u03b2\u03b5\u03b2\u03b1\u03b9\u03cc\u03c4\u03b7\u03c4\u03b1,\n\n\u0395\u03ba\u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03bf \u03c4\u03bf \u03c3\u03cd\u03bc\u03c0\u03bb\u03b5\u03b3\u03bc\u03b1 \u03c4\u03c9\u03bd \u03c3\u03c9\u03bc\u03ac\u03c4\u03c9\u03bd\n\n\u03a0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c3\u03cd\u03c7\u03bd\u03b1\u03b6\u03b5 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03b8\u03ad\u03c1\u03bc\u03b5\u03c2,\n\n\u0395\u03ba\u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03ba\u03bf\u03c1\u03bc\u03b9\u03ac\n\n\u03a0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b5\u03c0\u03b5\u03b4\u03b5\u03af\u03ba\u03bd\u03c5\u03b1\u03bd \u03bc\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03c3\u03ae\u03bb\u03c9\u03c3\u03b7 \u03b2\u03c5\u03b6\u03b1\u03bd\u03c4\u03b9\u03bd\u03ae\n\n\u03a3\u03b5 \u03c0\u03c1\u03ac\u03be\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03b5\u03c1\u03c9\u03c4\u03b9\u03ba\u03ad\u03c2,\n\n\u039a\u03b1\u03b8\u03ce\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c5\u03bc\u03b2\u03b1\u03af\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03c7\u03ce\u03c1\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03b1\u03c1\u03c7\u03b1\u03b9\u03bf\u03bb\u03bf\u03b3\u03af\u03b1\u03c2,\n\n\u03a3\u03b1\u03bd \u03b2\u03c1\u03b5\u03b8\u03b5\u03af \u03ba\u03b1\u03bd\u03b5\u03af\u03c2 \u03bc\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7 \u03c3\u03c9\u03c3\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b7 \u03c3\u03b9\u03c9\u03c0\u03ae\n\n\u03a4\u03c9\u03bd \u03ad\u03bd\u03b4\u03bf\u03bd \u03c7\u03ce\u03c1\u03c9\u03bd.\n\n\u03a3\u03c4\u03b7 \u03c3\u03c4\u03ae\u03bb\u03b7 \u03c4\u03c9\u03bd \u00ab\u0394\u03b9\u03b5\u03b8\u03bd\u03ce\u03bd\u00bb,\n\n\u0395\u03ba\u03b5\u03af \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ba\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1\u03c7\u03c9\u03c1\u03bf\u03cd\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9\n\n\u039f\u03b9 \u03c4\u03c1\u03bf\u03bc\u03b5\u03c1\u03ad\u03c2 \u03c4\u03c9\u03bd \u03b1\u03bd\u03b8\u03c1\u03ce\u03c0\u03c9\u03bd \u03b1\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03c0\u03bf\u03ba\u03c1\u03af\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2,\n\n\u0395\u03ba\u03b5\u03af \u03b1\u03bd\u03b1\u03b3\u03c1\u03ac\u03c6\u03b5\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b7 \u03b5\u03af\u03b4\u03b7\u03c3\u03b7\n\n\u0393\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03b1\u03bd\u03b5\u03cd\u03c1\u03b5\u03c3\u03b7 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c4\u03b1\u03c6\u03b9\u03ba\u03bf\u03cd \u03bc\u03bd\u03b7\u03bc\u03b5\u03af\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u0395\u03ba\u03b5\u03af \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c0\u03b5\u03c1\u03b9\u03b3\u03c1\u03ac\u03c6\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b5\u03bd \u03c3\u03c5\u03bd\u03c4\u03bf\u03bc\u03af\u03b1\n\n\u03c4\u03b1 \u03b5\u03b3\u03ba\u03bb\u03ae\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1,\n\n\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b9\u03bf \u03b5\u03c0\u03b1\u03af\u03c3\u03c7\u03c5\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1,\n\n\u039a\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03ac\u03bb\u03bb\u03b1, \u03c4\u03b1 \u03cc\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c5\u03bc\u03b2\u03b1\u03af\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03c3\u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c1\u03c9\u03c3\u03b9\u03ba\u03ad\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf\u03cd\u03bd\u03b4\u03c1\u03b5\u03c2,\n\n\u03a3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03bc\u03ad\u03c1\u03b7 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c0\u03ad\u03c6\u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03c3\u03c4\u03ac\u03bb\u03b5\u03c2, \u03c3\u03b1\u03bd \u03ba\u03b9\u03bd\u03ad\u03b6\u03b9\u03ba\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b9\u03bb\u03ad\u03c4\u03b1,\n\n\u03a3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03bb\u03c5\u03c0\u03b7\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03b4\u03b9\u03b1\u03bc\u03b5\u03c1\u03af\u03c3\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b9\u03b1\u03c2 \u03c0\u03cc\u03bb\u03b5\u03c9\u03c2 \u03b5\u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u03c7\u03b9\u03b1\u03ba\u03ae\u03c2.\n\n## _International_\n\nIn the International column,\n\namong the reports of strange events,\n\nnatural disasters,\n\nthere was a reference,\n\na news item with theological ramifications.\n\nThe tomb of Philip the Apostle\n\nhad been found, it said,\n\namong the celebrated ruins\n\nof the city of the Phrygians.\n\nAmong the stones of the theaters,\n\nthe salt pans,\n\namong the stones of other\n\npublic buildings\n\nthis amazing discovery was made.\n\nBut in the rubble\n\n\u2013 here the news mentions nothing \u2013\n\nthe tangle of bodies\n\nthat frequented the baths,\n\nbodies that demonstrated a Byzantine dedication\n\nto the acts of Eros,\n\nwon't be identified with any certainty,\n\nas often happens on archeological sites,\n\nin the preserved silence\n\nof interiors.\n\nIn the International column\n\nwhere they record\n\nthe awful reports of people,\n\nthat's where the news of the discovery\n\nof the memorial tomb\n\nis reported,\n\nthere where brief descriptions\n\nof the most appalling\n\ncrimes are printed,\n\nand the other stuff, what's happening in the Russian tundra,\n\nin the places where raindrops fall, like Chinese daggers,\n\nin the sad apartments of a provincial town.\n\nGail Holst-Warhaft\n\n## _\u0391\u03bd\u03b1\u03c0\u03cc\u03c6\u03b5\u03c5\u03ba\u03c4\u03bf_\n\n\u038c\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd \u03b8\u03b1 \u03ad\u03c7\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03c4\u03b5\u03bb\u03b5\u03b9\u03ce\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9 \u03bf\u03b9 \u03b5\u03c0\u03bf\u03c7\u03ad\u03c2,\n\n\u038c\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd \u03b8\u03b1 \u03ad\u03c7\u03bf\u03c5\u03bc\u03b5 \u03b3\u03b5\u03c1\u03ac\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9\n\n\u039a\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03b3\u03cc\u03bd\u03b1\u03c4\u03ac \u03bc\u03b1\u03c2 \u03b8\u03b1 \u03c4\u03c1\u03ad\u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd\n\n\u039c\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c0\u03b1\u03c3\u03bc\u03bf\u03cd\u03c2\n\n\u0398\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b1\u03b8\u03bf\u03cd\u03bc\u03b5 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03bf\u03c1\u03bf\u03c6\u03ad\u03c2\n\n\u03a4\u03c9\u03bd \u03c0\u03b1\u03c4\u03c1\u03b9\u03ba\u03ce\u03bd \u03bc\u03b1\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c0\u03b9\u03c4\u03b9\u03ce\u03bd.\n\n\u0398\u03b1 \u03ba\u03bf\u03b9\u03c4\u03ac\u03be\u03bf\u03c5\u03bc\u03b5 \u03bf \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1\u03c2 \u03b2\u03b1\u03b8\u03b9\u03ac \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03ac\u03bb\u03bb\u03bf\u03bd,\n\n\u0398\u03b1 \u03b4\u03b9\u03b1\u03bb\u03c5\u03b8\u03bf\u03cd\u03bc\u03b5 \u03b2\u03b1\u03b8\u03b9\u03ac \u03bf \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1\u03c2\n\n\u039c\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03ac\u03bb\u03bb\u03bf\u03bd,\n\n\u0398\u03b1 \u03b8\u03c5\u03bc\u03b7\u03b8\u03bf\u03cd\u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03cc\u03c4\u03b5\n\n\u03a0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03be\u03b5\u03ba\u03b9\u03bd\u03ae\u03c3\u03b1\u03bc\u03b5 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03bc\u03b5\u03b3\u03ac\u03bb\u03b5\u03c2 \u03b2\u03ac\u03c1\u03ba\u03b5\u03c2,\n\n\u03a4\u03bf \u03b4\u03c1\u03cc\u03bc\u03bf \u03bc\u03b1\u03c2 \u03c6\u03ce\u03c4\u03b9\u03b6\u03b1\u03bd \u03ba\u03b5\u03c1\u03b9\u03ac,\n\n\u0388\u03c0\u03b5\u03b9\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c3\u03ce\u03b8\u03b7\u03ba\u03b5 \u03c4\u03bf \u03c6\u03b9\u03c4\u03af\u03bb\u03b9,\n\n\u03a3\u03ba\u03bf\u03c4\u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b9\u03b1\u03c3\u03b5 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b1\u03ba\u03bf\u03cd\u03b3\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd \u03c0\u03b1\u03bd\u03c4\u03bf\u03cd\n\n\u039a\u03c1\u03b1\u03c5\u03b3\u03ad\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c6\u03b1\u03b3\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03c9\u03bd,\n\n\u0395\u03ba\u03c1\u03ae\u03be\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c0\u03bf\u03c1\u03b1\u03b4\u03b9\u03ba\u03ad\u03c2,\n\n\u0395\u03bb\u03ac\u03c7\u03b9\u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\u03b9 \u03ba\u03b1\u03c4\u03cc\u03c1\u03b8\u03c9\u03c3\u03b1\u03bd \u03bd\u03b1 \u03b3\u03b5\u03c1\u03ac\u03c3\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd\n\n\u0391\u03c0\u03cc \u03b5\u03ba\u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b7 \u03c4\u03b7 \u03b3\u03b5\u03bd\u03b9\u03ac.\n\n\u038c\u03bb\u03bf \u03c1\u03c9\u03b3\u03bc\u03ad\u03c2 \u03c0\u03b9\u03b1,\n\n\u0398\u03b1 \u03bd\u03b9\u03ce\u03c3\u03bf\u03c5\u03bc\u03b5 \u03ad\u03ba\u03c0\u03bb\u03b7\u03be\u03b7\n\n\u03a0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u03b1\u03bc\u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03bc\u03b5 \u03b6\u03c9\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd\u03bf\u03af,\n\n\u03a3\u03b5 \u03c0\u03b5\u03af\u03c3\u03bc\u03b1 \u03c4\u03cc\u03c3\u03c9\u03bd \u03b1\u03c0\u03b5\u03b9\u03bb\u03ce\u03bd.\n\n\u0395\u03ba\u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03bf\u03b9 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c7\u03b1\u03b9\u03c1\u03b5\u03c4\u03bf\u03cd\u03bd \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03bc\u03b1\u03ba\u03c1\u03b9\u03ac\n\n\u0395\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bf\u03b9 \u03c0\u03b1\u03bb\u03b9\u03bf\u03af \u03bc\u03b1\u03c2 \u03c6\u03af\u03bb\u03bf\u03b9,\n\n\u0389\u03c1\u03b8\u03b1\u03bd \u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b1\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c5\u03bd\u03c4\u03c1\u03bf\u03c6\u03ad\u03c8\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd,\n\n\u03a3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b1\u03be\u03af\u03b4\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b1\u03c2.\n\n\u0395\u03bc\u03b5\u03af\u03c2 \u03c0\u03b5\u03b8\u03c5\u03bc\u03ae\u03c3\u03b1\u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b7 \u03c6\u03c9\u03bd\u03ae \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2,\n\n\u039a\u03b1\u03b8\u03ce\u03c2 \u03ad\u03b2\u03b3\u03b1\u03b9\u03bd\u03b5 \u03c3\u03b1\u03bd \u03bb\u03b9\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03ac\u03c1\u03b9\n\n\u0391\u03c0\u03cc \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03cc\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1.\n\n\u0395\u03bb\u03ac\u03c4\u03b5, \u03ba\u03b9\u03bd\u03ae\u03c3\u03c4\u03b5,\n\n\u0395\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9\u03c1\u03cc\u03c2,\n\n\u0398\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b1\u03c2 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd\n\n\u039c\u03b5 \u03cd\u03c6\u03bf\u03c2 \u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u03b1\u03b3\u03b3\u03ad\u03bb\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03bf\u03c2.\n\n\u0395\u03b3\u03ba\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1\u03bb\u03b5\u03af\u03c8\u03b1\u03c4\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03b5\u03c3\u03c4\u03af\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c3\u03b1\u03c2,\n\n\u03a4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c0\u03cc\u03bb\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c3\u03b1\u03c2 \u03b5\u03b3\u03ba\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1\u03bb\u03b5\u03af\u03c8\u03b1\u03c4\u03b5,\n\n\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c6\u03c1\u03bf\u03c5\u03c1\u03b1\u03c1\u03c7\u03b5\u03af\u03b1,\n\n\u03a4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c6\u03c5\u03bb\u03b1\u03ba\u03ad\u03c2,\n\n\u03a4\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b1\u03c6\u03b5\u03bd\u03b5\u03af\u03b1\n\n\u039c\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03bf\u03bd\u03bf\u03bc\u03b1\u03c3\u03af\u03b5\u03c2\n\n\u03a4\u03c9\u03bd \u03bf\u03c1\u03b5\u03b9\u03bd\u03ce\u03bd \u03b5\u03be\u03ac\u03c1\u03c3\u03b5\u03c9\u03bd.\n\n## _Unavoidable_\n\nWhen our time is over,\n\nwhen we've grown old\n\nand our knees tremble\n\nin spasms\n\nwe'll stand on the roofs\n\nof our family homes.\n\nWe'll look deeply at each other,\n\nwe'll dissolve deeply\n\ninto one another,\n\nthen we'll remember\n\nthat we set out in big ships,\n\ncandles lighted our way;\n\nlater the wick was saved,\n\ndarkness fell, everywhere we could hear\n\nthe cries of the slaughtered,\n\noccasional outbursts,\n\nvery few of that generation\n\nmanaged to grow old\n\nAll full of cracks now;\n\nwe'll be surprised\n\nwe stayed alive,\n\nunder the pressure of so many threats.\n\nThose who greet us from afar\n\nare our old friends,\n\nthey came to keep us company,\n\non our travels.\n\nWe longed to hear their voices\n\nemerging like a lion\n\nfrom their mouths.\n\nCome, move,\n\nit's time,\n\nthey'll tell us\n\nas if they were giving orders.\n\nLeave your hearth,\n\nyour cities,\n\ngarrisons,\n\nprisons,\n\ncaf\u00e9s\n\nnamed\n\nfor mountains.\n\nGail Holst-Warhaft\n\n## Dimosthenis Papamarkos\n\n#### (Born Malessina, Greece, 1983)\n\nThe modern folksong included here by Dimosthenis Papamarkos was read aloud at the Theatre Attis poetry event described in this section's introduction; though a poem, it was originally published in his most recent collection of short stories, published by Antipodes in 2014, which received the 2015 Prize of the Academy of Athens in association with the literary magazine _O \u0391\u03c5\u03b1\u03b3\u03c5\u03ce\u03c3\u03c4\u03b7\u03c2_ ( _The Reader_ ). That collection's title, _\u0393\u03ba\u03b9\u03b1\u03ba_ ( _Giak_ ), is a complex Albanian word meaning blood relation, vendetta, and race. Papamarkos is best known for his prose writing, both novels and short stories, and is currently finishing a D.Phil. in Ancient Greek History at Oxford.\n\n## \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc _\u03a0\u03b1\u03c1\u03b1\u03bb\u03bf\u03b3\u03ae_\n\n\u03a0\u03b5\u03c1\u03bd\u03bf\u03cd\u03c3\u03b5 \u03bf \u03a7\u03ac\u03c1\u03bf\u03c2 \u03bc\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b2\u03bf\u03bb\u03ac, \u03b2\u03b1\u03c1\u03cd\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c6\u03bf\u03c1\u03c4\u03c9\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf\u03c2\n\n\u03ba\u03b9 \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03c4\u03bf \u03b4\u03c1\u03cc\u03bc\u03bf \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03c0\u03bf\u03bb\u03cd \u03ba\u03b9 \u03b1\u03c0' \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03c0\u03bf\u03bb\u03bb\u03ae \u03c4\u03b7 \u03b4\u03af\u03c8\u03b1\n\n\u03c3\u03c4\u03ac\u03b8\u03b7\u03ba\u03b5 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03be\u03b1\u03c0\u03cc\u03c3\u03c4\u03b1\u03c3\u03b5 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7 \u03b2\u03c1\u03cd\u03c3' \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u039a\u03b1\u03bb\u03bf\u03b3\u03ad\u03c1\u03bf\u03c5.\n\n\u03a0\u03b9\u03ac\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03b1\u03c0' \u03c4\u03b7 \u03c3\u03ad\u03bb\u03b1 \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c3\u03ba\u03bf\u03b9\u03bd\u03af, \u03bc\u03b1\u03cd\u03c1\u03bf \u03c3\u03b1\u03bd \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03ba\u03b1\u03c1\u03b4\u03b9\u03ac \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u03c0\u03bb\u03b5\u03b3\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf \u03bc\u03b9\u03b1, \u03c0\u03bb\u03b5\u03b3\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf \u03b4\u03c5\u03bf, \u03c0\u03bb\u03b5\u03b3\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf \u03c4\u03c1\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b4\u03ad\u03ba\u03b1\n\n\u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03c7\u03ae\u03c1\u03b1\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b1\u03bb\u03bb\u03b9\u03ac \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03bc\u03bf\u03b9\u03c1\u03bf\u03bb\u03bf\u03b3\u03af\u03c3\u03c4\u03c1\u03b1\u03c2\n\n\u03bd' \u03b1\u03bd\u03c4\u03ad\u03c7\u03b5\u03b9 \u03ae\u03bb\u03b9\u03bf \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b2\u03c1\u03bf\u03c7\u03ae, \u03bd' \u03b1\u03bd\u03c4\u03ad\u03c7\u03b5\u03b9 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03b4\u03ac\u03ba\u03c1\u03c5\u03b1\n\n\u03ba\u03b9 \u03cc\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd \u03b1\u03ba\u03bf\u03cd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03ba\u03bb\u03ac\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1, \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c6\u03af\u03b3\u03b3\u03b5\u03b9, \u03bd\u03b1 \u03b4\u03b1\u03b3\u03ba\u03ac\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9\n\n\u03cc\u03c0\u03c9\u03c2 \u03b4\u03b1\u03b3\u03ba\u03ac\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03b7 \u03b4\u03c1\u03b1\u03b3\u03ba\u03bf\u03bb\u03b9\u03ac \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c3\u03c6\u03af\u03b3\u03b3\u03b5\u03b9 \u03b7 \u03b2\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd\u03bf\u03c7\u03ad\u03bd\u03c4\u03c1\u03b1.\n\n\u0394\u03ad\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03bd\u03b9\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03ad\u03bb\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1, \u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03ba\u03cc\u03c1\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b5\u03c5\u03ba\u03ac\u03ba\u03b9\u03b1\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03bd\u03b9\u03bf\u03b3\u03ad\u03bd\u03bd\u03b7\u03c4\u03b1 \u03bc\u03c9\u03c1\u03ac \u03b4\u03ad\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03b1\u03c3\u03c0\u03b1\u03bb\u03ac\u03b8\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2.\n\n\u0393\u03c5\u03c1\u03bd\u03ac\u03b5\u03b9 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bb\u03ad\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03bc\u03b1\u03cd\u03c1\u03bf \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5, \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03c0\u03bb\u03bf\u03c5\u03bc\u03b9\u03c3\u03c4\u03cc \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u0393\u03c1\u03af\u03b2\u03b1\n\n\u2013 \u03a0\u03ac\u03c9 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7 \u03b2\u03c1\u03cd\u03c3\u03b7 \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bd\u03b5\u03c1\u03cc, \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c6\u03ad\u03c1\u03c9 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03bb\u03bf\u03cd\u03bc\u03b9\n\n\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b9\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03b5\u03c3\u03cd, \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b9\u03ce \u03ba\u03b9 \u03b5\u03b3\u03ce \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 '\u03bc\u03b1\u03c3\u03c4\u03b5 \u03b1\u03c0\u03bf\u03ba\u03b1\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf\u03b9.\n\n\u039c\u03b1 '\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b7 \u03b2\u03c1\u03cd\u03c3\u03b7 \u03bc\u03b1\u03ba\u03c1\u03b9\u03bd\u03ae \u03ba\u03b9 \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b3\u03ba\u03c1\u03b5\u03bc\u03bd\u03cc\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c1\u03ad\u03bc\u03b1\n\n\u03b3\u03b9' \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03cc \u03c0\u03b5\u03b6\u03cc\u03c2 \u03b8\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b1\u03c4\u03b5\u03b2\u03ce, \u03c0\u03b5\u03b6\u03cc\u03c2 \u03b8\u03b1 \u03c0\u03ac\u03c9 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c6\u03ad\u03c1\u03c9.\n\n\u039c\u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b5 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03ba\u03bf\u03af\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03bd\u03b5\u03ba\u03c1\u03bf\u03cd\u03c2 \u03bc\u03b7\u03bd \u03b1\u03c1\u03c7\u03b9\u03bd\u03bf\u03cd\u03bd \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03ba\u03bb\u03b1\u03af\u03bd\u03b5\n\n\u039a\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c3\u03ba\u03b9\u03ac\u03be\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd\u03b5 \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03c0\u03bf\u03c4\u03b1\u03bc\u03cc \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c3\u03ba\u03b9\u03ac\u03be\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd\u03b5 \u03c4\u03bf \u03c1\u03ad\u03bc\u03b1\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c6\u03bf\u03b2\u03b7\u03b8\u03b5\u03af \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf \u03bd\u03b5\u03c1\u03cc \u03ba\u03b9 \u03b1\u03c0\u03bf\u03c3\u03c4\u03b5\u03c1\u03ad\u03c8\u03b5\u03b9 \u03b7 \u03b2\u03c1\u03cd\u03c3\u03b7.\n\n\u2013 \u03a3\u03cd\u03c1\u03b5 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c0\u03b9\u03b5\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b3\u03ad\u03bc\u03b9\u03c3\u03b5 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c6\u03ad\u03c1\u03b5 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ba\u03b9 \u03b5\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1,\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bc\u03b7\u03bd \u03c0\u03bf\u03bb\u03bb\u03ac \u03c3\u03ba\u03bf\u03c4\u03af\u03b6\u03b5\u03c3\u03b1\u03b9, \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03c3\u03ba\u03bb\u03ac\u03b2\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03b8\u03b1 \u03c6\u03c5\u03bb\u03ac\u03be\u03c9.\n\n\u03a0\u03b5\u03c1\u03bd\u03ac\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7 \u03b6\u03ce\u03bd\u03b7 \u03c4\u03bf \u03c3\u03c0\u03b1\u03b8\u03af, \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7 \u03c1\u03ac\u03c7\u03b7 \u03c4\u03bf \u03b4\u03bf\u03be\u03ac\u03c1\u03b9\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03bb\u03bf\u03cd\u03bc\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf \u03c7\u03c1\u03c5\u03c3\u03cc \u03ba\u03c1\u03b1\u03c4\u03b5\u03af \u03c4\u03bf \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b2\u03b1\u03b4\u03af\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9.\n\n\u03a7\u03ce\u03bd\u03b5\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bc\u03ad\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c0\u03c1\u03b9\u03bd\u03b9\u03ad\u03c2, \u03bb\u03b9\u03b8\u03ac\u03c1\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b4\u03c1\u03b1\u03c3\u03ba\u03b5\u03bb\u03af\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9\n\n\u03ba\u03b9 \u03b5\u03ba\u03b5\u03af \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03ac\u03ba\u03c1\u03b7 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b3\u03ba\u03c1\u03b5\u03bc\u03bd\u03bf\u03cd \u03b2\u03b3\u03b1\u03af\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03ba\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03bf\u03c3\u03c4\u03ad\u03ba\u03b5\u03b9.\n\n\u03a3\u03b1 \u03b8\u03ac\u03bb\u03b1\u03c3\u03c3\u03b1 \u03ae\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd\u03b5 \u03b2\u03b1\u03b8\u03cd\u03c2, \u03c3\u03b1\u03bd \u03ba\u03b1\u03bb\u03b9\u03b1\u03ba\u03bf\u03cd\u03b4\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b1\u03cd\u03c1\u03bf\u03c2\n\n\u03bb\u03b9\u03b3\u03bf\u03c8\u03c5\u03c7\u03ac\u03b5\u03b9 \u03bf \u03a7\u03ac\u03c1\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03c2, \u03bc\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03ba\u03b5\u03bd\u03c4\u03ac\u03b5\u03b9 \u03b7 \u03b4\u03af\u03c8\u03b1\n\n\u03c4\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf \u03bd\u03b5\u03c1\u03cc \u03c4\u03bf \u03b3\u03ac\u03c1\u03b3\u03b1\u03c1\u03bf \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03c0\u03ac\u03c4\u03bf \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c7\u03c4\u03c5\u03c0\u03bf\u03cd\u03c3\u03b5.\n\n\u0392\u03ac\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf \u03c0\u03cc\u03b4\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf \u03b4\u03b5\u03be\u03af, \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03c1\u03b7\u03b3\u03ac\u03b4\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c0\u03ac\u03c4\u03b5\u03b9\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03b4\u03c1\u03bf\u03bc\u03ac\u03ba\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf \u03b3\u03ba\u03c1\u03b5\u03bc\u03bd\u03cc \u03ba\u03b9\u03bd\u03ac\u03b5\u03b9 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b2\u03b1\u03b4\u03af\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9.\n\n\u0394\u03ad\u03ba\u03b1 \u03bd\u03bf\u03c1\u03b3\u03b9\u03ad\u03c2 \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03ae\u03ba\u03b1\u03bc\u03b5, \u03b4\u03ad\u03ba\u03b1 \u03bd\u03bf\u03c1\u03b3\u03b9\u03ad\u03c2 \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03c0\u03ac\u03b5\u03b9\n\n\u03cc\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd \u03b3\u03c1\u03b9\u03ba\u03ac \u03b1\u03c0' \u03c4\u03bf \u03c7\u03ac\u03c1\u03b1\u03b3\u03bc\u03b1 \u03b1\u03bd\u03b8\u03c1\u03c9\u03c0\u03b9\u03bd\u03ae \u03ba\u03bf\u03c5\u03b2\u03ad\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\n\n\u03c4\u03c1\u03b1\u03b3\u03bf\u03cd\u03b4\u03b9 \u03c3\u03b1\u03bd \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03c0\u03ad\u03c1\u03b4\u03b9\u03ba\u03b1\u03c2, \u03ba\u03bb\u03ac\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c3\u03b1\u03bd \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b3\u03ba\u03b9\u03ce\u03bd\u03b7.\n\n\u0392\u03ac\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c6\u03c9\u03bd\u03ae \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u0393\u03c1\u03af\u03b2\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5, \u03c6\u03c9\u03bd\u03ac\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bb\u03ad\u03b5\u03b9:\n\n\u2013 \u03a3\u03bf\u03c5 '\u03c0\u03b1 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03b2\u03bb\u03ad\u03c0\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03bd\u03b5\u03ba\u03c1\u03bf\u03cd\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03b1\u03c0\u03bf\u03b8\u03b1\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2\n\n\u03bc\u03b7 \u03c3\u03ba\u03b9\u03ac\u03be\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd\u03b5 \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03c0\u03bf\u03c4\u03b1\u03bc\u03cc \u03ba\u03b9 \u03ad\u03c1\u03b8\u03b5\u03b9 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03ba\u03cc\u03c8\u03b5\u03b9 \u03b7 \u03b2\u03c1\u03cd\u03c3\u03b7.\n\n\u039c\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c5 \u03b1\u03c6\u03ae\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03ba\u03bb\u03b1\u03b9\u03bd, \u03b1\u03c6\u03ae\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03bb\u03ad\u03bd\u03b5.\n\n\u039a\u03b9 \u03bf \u03bc\u03b1\u03cd\u03c1\u03bf\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c7\u03bb\u03b9\u03bc\u03af\u03bd\u03c4\u03c1\u03b9\u03c3\u03b5, \u03ba\u03b9 \u03bf \u03bc\u03b1\u03cd\u03c1\u03bf\u03c2 \u03c0\u03b7\u03bb\u03bf\u03b3\u03ac\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9:\n\n\u2013 \u0386\u03c7\u03bd\u03b1 \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03b2\u03b3\u03ac\u03b6\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03bf\u03b9 \u03bd\u03b5\u03ba\u03c1\u03bf\u03af, \u03ba\u03bf\u03b9\u03bc\u03bf\u03cd\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c3\u03b1\u03bd \u03c0\u03b1\u03b9\u03b4\u03ac\u03ba\u03b9\u03b1.\n\n\u039a\u03b9 \u03b1\u03bd \u03ba\u03bb\u03ac\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c5 \u03b3\u03c1\u03af\u03ba\u03b7\u03c3\u03b5\u03c2, \u03c6\u03c9\u03bd\u03ad\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bc\u03bf\u03b9\u03c1\u03bf\u03bb\u03cc\u03b3\u03b9\u03b1\n\n\u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03c1\u03ad\u03bc\u03b1 \u03ba\u03bf\u03af\u03c4\u03b1 \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03b2\u03c1\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03b8\u03c1\u03ae\u03bd\u03bf \u03c0\u03bf\u03b9\u03bf\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03ba\u03c1\u03ad\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9.\n\n## from _Paralogue_\n\nIt is old Charon passing by,\n\nbroken by thirst and road dust.\n\nAnd at Kalogeros's creek\n\nhe stops to rest.\n\nHe reaches to his saddle for a rope, black\n\nas his heart, spun once, twice,\n\nthree times and ten from the widow's hair\n\nand from the wailer's tress.\n\nWoven safe from sun and rain, hard to tears.\n\nWhen it hears a whimper,\n\nit bites the way a whip snake bites and tightens\n\nlike the round grip of a viper.\n\nIt binds youths to cypresses, maidens\n\nto pines and ties babies to calicotomes.\n\nOld Charon turns to Grivas,\n\nhis black, bejeweled horse:\n\n'You're beat and I'm parched. I'll fetch water\n\nfor us both. But the stream\n\nis far away, the road is steep.\n\nI'll follow it on foot \u2013 into the ravine.\n\n'You mind the corpses; stop their screams\n\nOtherwise they'll scare\n\nthe water and sap the source or twist\n\nits course and leave the riverbed bare.'\n\n'Go on and drink and bring some to me;\n\nDon't fret \u2013 I'll watch the slaves.'\n\nCharon sheaths his sword and shoulders his bow\n\nHe carries his golden flask and goes on his way.\n\nHe tears through the oak forest _,_\n\nstrides over boulders\n\nand there, at the edge of the cliff,\n\nhe stops and lingers.\n\nThe gorge is sea-deep, black\n\nlike a jackdaw. Charon falters,\n\nbut thirst jabs at him, the cliffs teasing\n\nhis tongue with sounds of gargling waters.\n\nHe reaches out his right foot\n\na dreaded toe that crushes kings\n\nHe walks ten fathoms,\n\nand hears the lifeless as they sing.\n\nHe hears their voices rip\n\nthrough the chasm, human howls:\n\na song like a maiden's,\n\ncries like an owl's.\n\nHe calls out to Grivas,\n\n'I told you to guard the stiffs.\n\nThey'll spook the river\n\nand cut the stream from the cliffs.\n\n'Yet you let them babble and whimper.'\n\nAnd his black horse neighed,\n\n'The dead are soundless;\n\nthey are sleeping like babes,\n\n'If you hear laments, cries and moans,\n\nLook into the gorge to see who mourns.'\n\nChloe Haralambous\n\n## Elena Polygeni\n\n#### (Born Patras, Greece, 1979)\n\nSmall revelations from the lives of women characterize Elena Polygeni's performance-directed poetry. Based in Athens, she is an actress and musician. Since 2008 she has worked solely with the experimental theater group Mag, who often use her writing in their performances. Her poetry has been translated into Swedish and English.\n\n_\u0393\u03c1\u03ac\u03bc\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c3\u03b5 \u03bc\u03b1\u03c5\u03c1\u03bf\u03c0\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03ba\u03b1_ ( _Letters on a Blackboard_ ), Dodoni, 2009; _\u0397 \u03b8\u03bb\u03af\u03c8\u03b7 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bc\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b3\u03c5\u03bd\u03b1\u03af\u03ba\u03b1_ ( _My Sorrow is a Woman_ ), Poema, 2012; _\u0397 \u03c7\u03ce\u03c1\u03b1 \u03c4\u03c9\u03bd \u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u03ac\u03b4\u03bf\u03be\u03c9\u03bd \u03c0\u03c1\u03b1\u03b3\u03bc\u03ac\u03c4\u03c9\u03bd_ ( _The Land of Paradoxical Things_ ), To Kendri, 2014.\n\n## _\u0393\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b5\u03bb\u03b5\u03b9\u03ce\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5\u03bc\u03b5 \u03bc' \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03ae \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03c5\u03c0\u03cc\u03b8\u03b5\u03c3\u03b7_\n\n\u038c\u03c7\u03b9 \u03b5\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1, \u03cc\u03c7\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf \u03c0\u03c1\u03cc\u03c3\u03c9\u03c0\u03cc\n\n\u03bc\u03bf\u03c5, \u03cc\u03c7\u03b9 \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03cc \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ba\u03c1\u03cd\u03b2\u03b5\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9 \u03ba\u03ac\u03c4\u03c9\n\n\u03b1\u03c0' \u03c4\u03bf \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5\u03ba\u03ac\u03bc\u03b9\u03c3\u03bf.\n\n\u039c\u03b9\u03bb\u03ac\u03c9 \u03ba\u03b9 \u03b1\u03c2 \u03be\u03ad\u03c1\u03c9 \u03cc\u03c4\u03b9 \u03b7 \u03c6\u03c9\u03bd\u03ae\n\n\u03b8\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bd\u03b9\u03b3\u03b5\u03af \u03bc\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c8\u03c5\u03b3\u03b5\u03af\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u03c0\u03b1\u03b3\u03ce\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c6\u03b1\u03b3\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1\n\n\u03b6\u03ce\u03b1.\n\n\u03a5\u03c0\u03ac\u03c1\u03c7\u03b5\u03b9 \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03c5\u03c0\u03ac\u03c1\u03c7\u03b5\u03b9, \u03c4\u03b9 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03b5\u03bd\u03b4\u03b9\u03b1\u03c6\u03ad\u03c1\u03b5\u03b9.\n\n\u0388\u03c4\u03c3\u03b9 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03b2\u03c1\u03cc\u03bd\u03c4\u03bf \u03ba\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd\u03ac\u03c9 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c7\u03ad\u03c1\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03c2\n\n\u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03bf\u03c5\u03c1\u03b1\u03bd\u03cc.\n\n\u03a4\u03b9 \u03cc\u03bc\u03bf\u03c1\u03c6\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4' \u03b1\u03b3\u03b3\u03b5\u03bb\u03bf\u03cd\u03b4\u03b9\u03b1\n\n\u03c3\u03ba\u03bf\u03c4\u03c9\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1\n\n\u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03b8\u03bb\u03b9\u03bc\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03ac\u03c4\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2, \u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b1\u03c2 \u03ba\u03bf\u03b9\u03c4\u03bf\u03cd\u03bd.\n\n## _To Be Done with the Matter_\n\nNot me, not my face\n\nnot what's hiding\n\nunder my shirt.\n\nI speak up though I know my voice\n\nwill drown in the icebox\n\nwhere frozen animals\n\nhang.\n\nWho cares if it exists or not.\n\nIn the racket I raise my hands\n\nto the heavens.\n\nHow beautiful the angels are\n\ndead\n\nwith their sad eyes watching us.\n\nKaren Van Dyck\n\n## V\n\n## Outside Athens\n\n#### Bookshops, Caf\u00e9s, and Poets in the Provinces\n\nPoetry has always happened outside of Athens as well as in \u2013 most notably, where the past century is concerned, in Greece's second city, Thessaloniki, but also in smaller cities, in provincial towns and on islands like Crete and Syros. The thriving literary scene that developed around salons and small presses in the 1970s and 1980s is continued today in a culture of caf\u00e9 and bookshop readings; particularly representative are those run by Yiorgos Alisanoglou at his Thessaloniki bookshop Shakespearikon, which, with its own press, is as important as many in Athens. Concerned with their own communities yet also outward-looking, these poets are \u2013 aside from the diaspora poets of the final section \u2013 the most cosmopolitan of those collected here. Elsa Korneti channels Emily Dickinson; Vassilis Amanatidis's hipster verse could easily have been written in Brooklyn, while he maintains equal allegiance to _Enteftirion_ , Thessaloniki's most respected literary magazine, and _Farmakon_ in Athens. Olga Papakosta and Chloe Koutsoumbeli write poetry about living on the periphery and at a distance, both geographically and metaphorically. Others inhabit still smaller locales. Angeliki Sigourou writes her ecological verse in Syros. Giannis Palavos, a writer of very short stories with a poetic intensity, divides his time between Athens and his native Velventos. Then, in Ksanthi, there is the ironic, cynical Glykeria Basdeki; in Drama, the sardonic Kiriakos Sifiltzoglou; and, in Cavalla, Georgia Triandafillidou, with her modernist reappraisal of neighborly gossip. The last three particularly pick up on a tradition of provincial Balkan poetry, but also introduce a greater focus on language, as if to suggest that with the influx of migrants and refugees the edges of Greece are becoming more aware of their own melting pot of dialects.\n\n## Yiorgos Alisanoglou\n\n#### (Born Kavala, Greece, 1975)\n\nYiorgos Alisanoglou is at the center of poetry life in northern Greece, known particularly for his book-length series of poems on religion and love, and most recently for _In an Irrational Direction_ , an email correspondence with Thessaloniki's most distinguished living author, Dimitris Dimitriadis. Alisanoglou studied Sociology and International Relations at the University of Newcastle upon Tyne, and since 2005 he has run Thessaloniki's gathering place, bookstore and small publishing company, Shakespearikon. He has also translated the work of Charles Bukowski, Jim Morrison, Pink Floyd, Madrugada, Allen Ginsberg, and Joy Division.\n\n_\u0391\u03ba\u03ac\u03bd\u03b8\u03b9\u03bd\u03b7 \u03c0\u03cc\u03bb\u03b7_ ( _City of Thorns_ ), Katsanos, 2007; _\u03a4\u03bf \u03c0\u03b1\u03bd\u03c4\u03b6\u03ac\u03c1\u03b9 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bf \u03b4\u03b9\u03ac\u03b2\u03bf\u03bb\u03bf\u03c2_ ( _The Beet and the Devil_ ), Tipothito, 2008; _Jesu Christiana: \u039c\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b5\u03bb\u03bb\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b9\u03ba\u03ae \u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03c3\u03b5\u03c5\u03c7\u03ae_ ( _Jesu Christiana: A Prayer for the Future_ ), Magiko Kouti & Fata Morgana, 2011; _ERO_ _(S): 7 \u03b2\u03ae\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1 \u2013 7 \u03bb\u03b5\u03cd\u03b3\u03b5\u03c2 \u03b5\u03bd\u03c4\u03cc\u03c2_ ( _7 Steps \u2013 7 Leagues Inside_ ), Shakespearikon, 2011; \u03a0\u03b1\u03b9\u03c7\u03bd\u03b9\u03b4\u03cc\u03c4\u03bf\u03c0\u03bf\u03c2 \u2013 \u03c4\u03c1\u03b1\u03cd\u03bc\u03b1 \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 _9_ \u03bc\u03ae\u03bd\u03b5\u03c2 & _3_ \u03b5\u03c0\u03bf\u03c7\u03ad\u03c2 ( _Playground \u2013 Wound for 9_ _Months & 3 Seasons_), Kihli, 2016.\n\n## _\u0397 \u03b6\u03c9\u03b3\u03c1\u03b1\u03c6\u03b9\u03ac_\n\n\u03a0\u03ac\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03af\u03b4\u03b9\u03bf \u03bc\u03ad\u03c1\u03bf\u03c2\n\n\u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03af\u03b4\u03b9\u03bf \u03bc\u03ad\u03c1\u03bf\u03c2 \u03c3\u03b5 \u03c3\u03c5\u03bd\u03b1\u03bd\u03c4\u03ce \u2013\n\n\u03b3\u03c9\u03bd\u03af\u03b1 \u03a0\u03b1\u03cd\u03bb\u03bf\u03c5 \u039c\u03b5\u03bb\u03ac \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u039f\u03bc\u03bf\u03bd\u03bf\u03af\u03b1\u03c2\n\n\u039d\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b5\u03c1\u03b9\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03c0\u03bf\u03bb\u03cd \u03ae\u03bb\u03b9\u03bf\n\n\u03bc\u03b5 \u03bc\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b5\u03bb\u03ce\u03c1\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b6\u03c9\u03b3\u03c1\u03b1\u03c6\u03b9\u03ac \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03ce\u03bc\u03bf\n\n\u03c3\u03b1\u03bd \u03c0\u03cc\u03bb\u03b7\n\n\u039f\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf\u03af\u03c7\u03bf\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03b1\u03c3\u03b2\u03b5\u03c3\u03c4\u03c9\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf\u03b9 \u03c0\u03bf\u03bb\u03bb\u03ac\u03ba\u03b9\u03c2\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c0\u03ac\u03bd\u03c9 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03b4\u03b1\u03c7\u03c4\u03c5\u03bb\u03b9\u03ad\u03c2\n\n\u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03c6\u03b8\u03b1\u03c1\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b7 \u03bd\u03cd\u03c7\u03c4\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03c5\u03c0\u03bf\u03b3\u03c1\u03b1\u03c6\u03b5\u03af\u03bf\n\n\u03ba\u03b9 \u03b7 \u03b6\u03c9\u03ae \u03c3\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bd' \u03b1\u03c1\u03b3\u03bf\u03c3\u03b1\u03bb\u03b5\u03cd\u03b5\u03b9\n\n\u03bb\u03af\u03b3\u03bf \u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u03b1\u03ba\u03b5\u03af \u03c3\u03b1\u03bd \u03c3\u03b7\u03bc\u03b1\u03af\u03b1\n\n\u039b\u03ad\u03b3\u03b5\u00b7 \u039b\u03ad\u03b3\u03b5 \u2013\n\n\u03c0\u03bf\u03b9\u03b1\u03bd\u03ae\u03c2 \u03c0\u03cc\u03bb\u03b7\u03c2 \u03c3\u03b7\u03bc\u03b1\u03af\u03b1 \u03b5\u03af\u03c3\u03b1\u03b9\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c0\u03cc\u03c3\u03bf\u03c2 \u03b8\u03ac\u03bd\u03b1\u03c4\u03bf\u03c2 \u03c3\u03b5 \u03b2\u03c1\u03ae\u03ba\u03b5;\n\n## _The Painting_\n\nAlways in the same place.\n\nYou in the same place \u2013\n\nthe corner of Pavlos Mela\n\nand Omonia Square\n\nYou wait in the bright sun\n\na huge painting weighs you down\n\nlike a city\n\nits walls whitewashed over and over\n\nwith handprint smudges\n\nfrom the dead night\n\nand the print shop\n\nYour life saunters along slowly\n\na little off center like a flag\n\nAdmit it! Admit it \u2013\n\nWhich city's flag are you?\n\nHow many deaths\n\ndo you stand for?\n\nKaren Van Dyck\n\n## Glykeria Basdeki\n\n#### (Born Larissa, Greece, 1969)\n\nPoet and literary presence extraordinaire Glykeria Basdeki is loved for her work for the online culture magazine _Lifo_ , where she writes pop culture posts and articles on esoteric topics like the Dog Collar Museum in Leeds. Having spent some years in Corfu and now living in Ksanthi, always making a living as a high-school teacher, Basdeki came late to the Athens literary scene, and even then gained recognition mostly through her poetic scripts for theater. Translations of some of the titles give a sense of their _Alice in Wonderland_ -meets-Sarah Kane aesthetic: _Ramona Travel: The Land of Kindness_ ; _Donna Abbandonata, or, You Made Me Very Sad, My Dear Mr. George_ ; and _Ah!: (Re)reading the Wax Doll of Christomanos_ (all 2014). Her lyric poetry, though it caught the attention of Jenny Mastoraki early on, has remained at the margins, perhaps because that is where it has its biggest impact; it speaks out about the life of women in small towns, reimagining the folksongs that often have them gagged, buried, and trapped.\n\n_\u0395\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b5\u03c0\u03b9\u03ba\u03af\u03bd\u03b4\u03c5\u03bd\u03bf \u03bd' \u03b1\u03bd\u03bf\u03af\u03b3\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03c0\u03cc\u03c1\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c3\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c3\u03b5 \u03ac\u03b3\u03bd\u03c9\u03c3\u03c4\u03b5\u03c2 \u03bc\u03b9\u03ba\u03c1\u03ad\u03c2_ ( _It's Dangerous to \u039fpen Your Door to Young Girls You Don't Know_ ), Plethron, 1989; _\u03a3\u03cd\u03c1\u03b5 \u03ba\u03b1\u03bb\u03ad \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03ac\u03bb\u03c5\u03c3\u03bf\u03bd_ ( _Let Down the Chain_ ), Endymion, 2012, and Bibliotheque, 2014.\n\n## _\u03a3\u03cd\u03c1\u03b5 \u03ba\u03b1\u03bb\u03ad \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03ac\u03bb\u03c5\u03c3\u03bf\u03bd_\n\n\u03b8\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b9\u03ac\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03ba\u03cc\u03ba\u03b1\u03bb\u03bf\n\n\u03b7 \u03b1\u03bb\u03c5\u03c3\u03af\u03b4\u03b1\n\n\u03b3\u03ac\u03bb\u03b1 \u03b8\u03b1 \u03c6\u03c4\u03cd\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd\n\n\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c7\u03bf\u03b9\u03bd\u03b9\u03ac\n\n\u03bf\u03cd\u03c4\u03b5 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf \u03c3\u03ba\u03b5\u03c6\u03c4\u03b5\u03af\u03c2\n\n\u03c4\u03bf \u03b8\u03b1\u03cd\u03bc\u03b1 \u03bd\u03c4\u03ac\u03c1\u03bd\u03bb\u03b9\u03bd\u03b3\u03ba\n\n\u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03ad\u03c7\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2\n\n\u03c0\u03b9\u03b8\u03b1\u03bd\u03cc\u03c4\u03b7\u03c4\u03b5\u03c2\n\n\u03b5\u03b4\u03ce\n\n\u03c4\u03b9 \u03ba\u03b9 \u03b1\u03bd\n\n\u03b3\u03c5\u03bd\u03b1\u03af\u03ba\u03b1 \u03c0\u03c1\u03c9\u03c4\u03bf\u03bc\u03ac\u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\u03c1\u03b1\n\n\u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03c0\u03b9\u03ac\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd\n\n\u03bf\u03b9 \u03c4\u03af\u03c4\u03bb\u03bf\u03b9\n\n\u03c3\u03c4\u03b7 \u0394\u03b5\u03c3\u03bc\u03bf\u03cd\u03c0\u03bf\u03bb\u03b7\n\n## _Let Down the Chain_\n\nTo drag up\n\nthe bones\n\nThe ropes\n\nspit\n\nmilk\n\nDon't even think\n\nabout it darling\n\nNo miracles\n\nfor you\n\nhere\n\nEven if you're\n\nthe master builder's\n\nwife\n\nNo one's got\n\npull\n\nin Bondageville\n\nKaren Van Dyck\n\n## _\u0397 \u03bc\u03b1\u03bc\u03ac \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c0\u03bf\u03b9\u03ae\u03c4\u03c1\u03b9\u03b1_\n\n\u03c9, \u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u2013 \u03b7 \u03bc\u03b1\u03bc\u03ac \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9\n\n\u03c3\u03c0\u03bf\u03c5\u03b4\u03b1\u03af\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bf\u03b9\u03ae\u03c4\u03c1\u03b9\u03b1\n\n\u03cc\u03bb\u03b7 \u03c4\u03b7 \u03bc\u03ad\u03c1\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b1\u03b3\u03b5\u03b9\u03c1\u03b5\u03cd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03ba\u03cc\u03bc\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1,\n\n\u03c3\u03ba\u03bf\u03c5\u03c0\u03af\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c7\u03c1\u03cc\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2, \u03c3\u03b9\u03b4\u03b5\u03c1\u03ce\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9\n\n\u03c0\u03c4\u03ce\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2\n\n\u03b1\u03bd\u03c4\u03af \u03bd\u03b1 \u03b4\u03b5\u03b9 \u0394\u03b5\u03c5\u03c4\u03ad\u03c1\u03b1 \u03b2\u03bb\u03ad\u03c0\u03b5\u03b9 \u03a4\u03c1\u03af\u03c4\u03b7\n\n\u03bb\u03ad\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf \u03c0\u03bb\u03c5\u03bd\u03c4\u03ae\u03c1\u03b9\u03bf \u03c9\u03ba\u03b5\u03b1\u03bd\u03cc,\n\n\u03c4\u03b7 \u03c7\u03cd\u03c4\u03c1\u03b1 \u03c5\u03c0\u03b5\u03c1\u03c9\u03ba\u03b5\u03ac\u03bd\u03b9\u03bf\n\n## _\u038c\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd \u03bf\u03b9 \u03bd\u03bf\u03c3\u03bf\u03ba\u03cc\u03bc\u03b5\u03c2\u03c0\u03b1\u03af\u03c1\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03c4\u03b7 \u03c1\u03b5\u03b2\u03ac\u03bd\u03c2_\n\n\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd\n\n\u03c3\u03c5\u03bd\u03ae\u03b8\u03c9\u03c2\n\n\u03c3\u03cd\u03c1\u03b9\u03b3\u03b3\u03b5\u03c2 \u03bc\u03b9\u03b1\u03c2 \u03c7\u03c1\u03ae\u03c3\u03b7\u03c2\n\n\u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\n\n\u03c7\u03b1\u03bb\u03af\n\n\u03ba\u03b9 \u03bf \u03b1\u03c3\u03b8\u03b5\u03bd\u03ae\u03c2\n\n\u03b5\u03ba\u03bb\u03b9\u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u03b5\u03af\n\n\u03b3\u03b9\u03b1\n\n\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03b1\u03ba\u03cc\u03bc\u03b1\n\n\u03c3\u03c4\u03c1\u03b9\u03c0\u03c4\u03b7\u03b6\u03ac\u03ba\u03b9\n\n## _Mama's a Poet_\n\nOh, yeah \u2013 Mama's\n\nan important poet\n\nall day she cooks up commas\n\nsweeps tenses under the rug\n\nirons the genitive\n\ninstead of Monday\n\nshe gives us Tuesday\n\nfor washer, she says ocean\n\nfor pressure cooker, ocean-liner\n\nKaren Van Dyck\n\n## _When the Nurses Take their Vengeance_\n\nusually\n\ndisposable syringes\n\nremain\n\non\n\nthe carpet\n\nand the sick man\n\nimplores\n\none more\n\nlap dance\n\nChloe Haralambous and Moira Egan\n\n## _\u0398\u03b1 '\u03c1\u03b8\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03bb\u03cc\u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5_\n\n\u03c4\u03bf '\u03bb\u03b5\u03b3\u03b1\u03bd \u03b8\u03b5\u03af\u03b5\u03c2, \u03bc\u03ac\u03bd\u03b1, \u03b3\u03b5\u03b9\u03c4\u03bf\u03bd\u03b9\u03ac \u2013 \u03c0\u03ac\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1 \u03ba\u03c5\u03bb\u03cc\u03c4\u03b1\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b8\u03b1\u03c1\u03ae, \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03be\u03ad\u03c1\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c0\u03cc\u03c4\u03b5\n\n\u03b8\u03b1 '\u03c1\u03b8\u03b5\u03b9\n\n\u03c4\u03bf \u03ad\u03bc\u03c6\u03c1\u03b1\u03b3\u03bc\u03b1, \u03c4\u03bf\n\n\u03b5\u03b3\u03ba\u03b5\u03c6\u03b1\u03bb\u03b9\u03ba\u03cc, \u03bc\u03b9\u03b1\n\n\u03b1\u03c0\u03bb\u03ae \u03bb\u03b9\u03c0\u03bf\u03b8\u03c5\u03bc\u03af\u03b1, \u03ad\u03c3\u03c4\u03c9\n\n\u03c3\u03b1\u03bd \u03ad\u03c4\u03bf\u03b9\u03bc\u03b7 \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9\u03c1\u03cc, \u03b5\u03c3\u03cd\n\n\u03ba\u03c5\u03c1\u03af\u03b1, \u03b1\u03c1\u03c7\u03cc\u03bd\u03c4\u03b9\u03c3\u03c3\u03b1\n\n\u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b7 \u03b3\u03b5\u03bb\u03ac\u03bd\u03b5\n\n\u03bf\u03b9 \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1\u03c4\u03c1\u03bf\u03af, \u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b7\u03bd\n\n\u03ba\u03bf\u03c5\u03c4\u03c3\u03bf\u03bc\u03c0\u03bf\u03bb\u03b5\u03cd\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd\n\n\u03bd\u03bf\u03c3\u03bf\u03ba\u03cc\u03bc\u03b5\u03c2\n\n## _You'll Come Around_\n\naunts, mothers, the whole neighborhood said it \u2013\n\nalways wear clean knickers, you never know when\n\nit might happen\n\na heart attack,\n\na stroke, a simple\n\nfainting even\n\nas one long prepared, you\n\nMadam, Mistress\n\nso the doctors\n\nwill not laugh, nor\n\nthe nurses\n\ngossip\n\nChloe Haralambous and Moira Egan\n\n## _\u03a4\u03bf \u03c4\u03ad\u03c1\u03b1\u03c2_\n\n\u03c5\u03c0\u03ac\u03c1\u03c7\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03ba\u03b9 \u03bf\u03b9 \u03bc\u03b9\u03ba\u03c1\u03ad\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03c7\u03bf\u03c1\u03c9\u03b4\u03af\u03b1\u03c2\n\n\u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03bb\u03b5\u03c5\u03ba\u03ad\u03c2 \u03bc\u03ac\u03bb\u03bb\u03b9\u03bd\u03b5\u03c2 \u03ba\u03ac\u03bb\u03c4\u03c3\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2\n\n\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c8\u03cd\u03c7\u03c1\u03b1\u03b9\u03bc\u03b1 \u03bb\u03bf\u03c5\u03c3\u03c4\u03c1\u03af\u03bd\u03b9\u03b1\n\n\u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03ad\u03c2 \u03bc\u03c0\u03bf\u03c1\u03b5\u03af \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf \u03b1\u03b3\u03b1\u03c0\u03ae\u03c3\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd\n\n\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf \u03ba\u03b1\u03bb\u03ad\u03c3\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b1\u03c6\u03ad \u03ae \u03b2\u03cc\u03bb\u03c4\u03b1 \u03ba\u03c5\u03c1\u03b9\u03b1\u03ba\u03ac\u03c4\u03b9\u03ba\u03b7\n\n\u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u0396\u03ac\u03c0\u03c0\u03b5\u03b9\u03bf\n\n\u03c4\u03bf \u03c4\u03ad\u03c1\u03b1\u03c2 \u03cc\u03bc\u03c9\u03c2 \u03c0\u03ac\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b1\u03b3\u03b5\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf\n\n\u03c0\u03bb\u03b7\u03bd \u03b4\u03ad\u03c3\u03bc\u03b9\u03bf \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03b1\u03c3\u03c7\u03ae\u03bc\u03b9\u03b1\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u03be\u03b5\u03c1\u03bd\u03ac\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c3\u03b5 \u03c0\u03ac\u03bb\u03ba\u03b1 \u03b2\u03c1\u03cc\u03bc\u03b9\u03ba\u03b1\n\n\u03c8\u03b1\u03bb\u03bc\u03bf\u03cd\u03c2 \u03b1\u03bd\u03ac\u03b2\u03b5\u03b9 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c7\u03bf\u03c1\u03b5\u03cd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\u03b9\u03c7\u03b5\u03b9\u03c9\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03b2\u03b1\u03bb\u03c2\n\n## _The Beast_\n\nThen there are the little choir girls\n\nwith their white woolen socks\n\ntheir serene Mary Janes\n\n_they_ might even love it\n\nmight even invite it for coffee or a Sunday stroll\n\nin Zappeion\n\nThe beast, however, held enchanted\n\nin his ugliness\n\nspews on dirty platforms\n\nlights psalms and dances haunted waltzes.\n\nChloe Haralambous and Moira Egan\n\n## Giannis Palavos\n\n#### (Born Velventos, Greece, 1980)\n\nGiannis Palavos, an author of short stories, is widely recognized as one of Greece's best new writers. Some of his vignettes, like the one included here, are so short that they could almost be prose poems \u2013 and they are sufficiently close in their style and intensity to the prose poetry of Thomas Tsalapatis to make their inclusion in this anthology instructive. Many take place in the farm town of Velventos, near Kozani, where he grew up. After studying journalism at Thessaloniki's Aristotle University, he completed an Arts Administration degree at Panteion University in Athens. His short stories have won multiple prizes, including the British Council's Best Short Story Award (2005) and the Greek National Book Award (2014). His translations from key post-nineteenth-century British and American writers have appeared in numerous Greek journals and web publications; among them, it is the understated tones of Willa Cather and Donald Justice that seem to have affected his own writing style the most.\n\n_\u0391\u03c3\u03c4\u03b5\u03af\u03bf_ ( _Joke_ ), Nefeli, 2012.\n\n## _Password_\n\n\u0394\u03c5\u03bf \u03ba\u03b1\u03bb\u03bf\u03ba\u03b1\u03af\u03c1\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bf\u03bb\u03cc\u03ba\u03bb\u03b7\u03c1\u03b1, \u03cc\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd \u03c0\u03ae\u03b3\u03b1\u03b9\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03c7\u03c9\u03c1\u03b9\u03cc \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b4\u03b9\u03b1\u03ba\u03bf\u03c0\u03ad\u03c2, \u03ad\u03ba\u03bb\u03b5\u03b2\u03b1 \u03b4\u03af\u03ba\u03c4\u03c5\u03bf \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03b3\u03b5\u03af\u03c4\u03bf\u03bd\u03b1. \u03a3\u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03b1\u03c1\u03c7\u03ae \u03c4\u03bf \u03b5\u03af\u03c7\u03b5 \u03b1\u03bd\u03bf\u03b9\u03c7\u03c4\u03cc, \u03c7\u03c9\u03c1\u03af\u03c2 \u03ba\u03c9\u03b4\u03b9\u03ba\u03cc. \u038c\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd \u03ba\u03b1\u03c4\u03ac\u03bb\u03b1\u03b2\u03b5 \u03cc\u03c4\u03b9 \u03ba\u03ac\u03c0\u03bf\u03b9\u03bf\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03ad\u03ba\u03bb\u03b5\u03b2\u03b5, \u03ad\u03b2\u03b1\u03bb\u03b5 password. \u039c\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bc\u03ad\u03c1\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03ba\u03b1\u03c6\u03b5\u03bd\u03b5\u03af\u03bf \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03c1\u03ce\u03c4\u03b7\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03b7\u03bc\u03b5\u03c1\u03bf\u03bc\u03b7\u03bd\u03af\u03b1 \u03b3\u03ad\u03bd\u03bd\u03b7\u03c3\u03ae\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5, \u03b4\u03ae\u03b8\u03b5\u03bd \u03cc\u03c4\u03b9 \u03ae\u03b8\u03b5\u03bb\u03b1 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03ac\u03b8\u03c9 \u03c4\u03bf \u03b6\u03ce\u03b4\u03b9\u03cc \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5. \u0393\u03cd\u03c1\u03b9\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c0\u03af\u03c4\u03b9 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c0\u03bb\u03b7\u03ba\u03c4\u03c1\u03bf\u03bb\u03cc\u03b3\u03b7\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03b1\u03c1\u03b9\u03b8\u03bc\u03bf\u03cd\u03c2. \u0394\u03c5\u03bf \u03ba\u03b1\u03bb\u03bf\u03ba\u03b1\u03af\u03c1\u03b9\u03b1 \u03ad\u03c4\u03c3\u03b9 \u03ba\u03b1\u03c4\u03ad\u03b2\u03b1\u03b6\u03b1 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\u03c3\u03b9\u03ba\u03ae. \u038f\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b9 \u03b5\u03c5\u03c7\u03b5\u03c4\u03ae\u03c1\u03b9\u03b1 \u03ba\u03ac\u03c1\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c3\u03ba\u03ad\u03c6\u03c4\u03b7\u03ba\u03b1 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b5\u03af\u03bb\u03c9 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03b3\u03b5\u03bd\u03ad\u03b8\u03bb\u03b9\u03ac \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5. \u03a3\u03ae\u03bc\u03b5\u03c1\u03b1, 19 \u0399\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd\u03af\u03bf\u03c5 2009, \u03bc\u03cc\u03bb\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c0\u03ae\u03c1\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03ac\u03b4\u03b5\u03b9\u03ac \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5, \u03bc\u03c0\u03ae\u03ba\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03bb\u03b5\u03c9\u03c6\u03bf\u03c1\u03b5\u03af\u03bf \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf \u03c7\u03c9\u03c1\u03b9\u03cc. \u03a6\u03c4\u03ac\u03bd\u03c9 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b2\u03bb\u03ad\u03c0\u03c9 \u03b1\u03c0\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1\u03bd\u03c4\u03b9 \u03c6\u03ad\u03c1\u03b5\u03c4\u03c1\u03bf. \u0393\u03bd\u03ad\u03c6\u03c9 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7 \u03bc\u03ac\u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5. \u00ab\u03a4\u03bf\u03bd \u03c7\u03c4\u03cd\u03c0\u03b7\u03c3\u03b5 \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03bf\u03ba\u03af\u03bd\u03b7\u03c4\u03bf\u00bb \u03b5\u03af\u03c0\u03b5. \u00ab\u03a0\u03ae\u03b3\u03b5 \u03ac\u03b4\u03b9\u03ba\u03b1, \u03c4\u03cc\u03c3\u03bf \u03bd\u03ad\u03bf\u03c2\u00bb. \u0391\u03bd\u03ad\u03b2\u03b7\u03ba\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03b4\u03c9\u03bc\u03ac\u03c4\u03b9\u03cc \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5, \u03ac\u03bd\u03bf\u03b9\u03be\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf laptop \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c0\u03bb\u03b7\u03ba\u03c4\u03c1\u03bf\u03bb\u03cc\u03b3\u03b7\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf password: \u03b4\u03bf\u03cd\u03bb\u03b5\u03c5\u03b5 \u03c1\u03bf\u03bb\u03cc\u03b9.\n\n## _Password_\n\nFor two whole summers, when I'd go to the village on vacation, I'd piggyback internet from the neighbor. In the beginning he had the network open, no password. When he realized someone was stealing, he made one up. Sitting in the _kafeneion_ one day I asked him his birthday. To figure out his zodiac, I said. I went home and typed in the date. For two summers that's how I downloaded music. I even considered sending him a birthday card. Today, June 19, 2009, I just got off for the summer and took the bus to the village. I arrive and see a coffin across the way. I turn to my mother. 'Hit by a car,' she said. 'So unjust, so young.' I went up to my room, opened my laptop, and put in the password: like clockwork.\n\nKaren Van Dyck\n\n## Elsa Korneti\n\n#### (Born Thessaloniki, Greece, 1969)\n\nActive in organizing readings and events with Yiorgos Alisanoglou and other poets in the north, Elsa Korneti was born in Munich, Germany, but grew up in Thessaloniki and still lives there. Appropriately, given the long history of cosmopolitanism in Greece's second city, there is a clear glocalism at work in her poetry's interlacing of English and other languages with Greek. Her career has been similarly diverse: studies in finance were followed by work as a journalist; she has published essays, book reviews, translations, short stories, and eight books of poetry. Her first two poetry collections, _A Bouquet of Fishbones_ and _The Tin Pearl_ , were nominated for the Greek National Poetry Award, and her third, _Regular People with a Plume and a Brindled Tail_ , received the George Karter Award from the magazine _Porphyras_.\n\n_\u0388\u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03c0\u03bf\u03c5\u03ba\u03ad\u03c4\u03bf \u03c8\u03b1\u03c1\u03bf\u03ba\u03cc\u03ba\u03b1\u03bb\u03b1_ ( _A_ _Bouquet of Fishbones_ ), Gavrielides, 2009; _\u039a\u03bf\u03bd\u03c3\u03ad\u03c1\u03b2\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b1\u03c1\u03b3\u03b1\u03c1\u03b9\u03c4\u03ac\u03c1\u03b9_ ( _The Tin Pearl_ ), Gavrielides, 2011; _\u039a\u03b1\u03bd\u03bf\u03bd\u03b9\u03ba\u03bf\u03af \u03ac\u03bd\u03b8\u03c1\u03c9\u03c0\u03bf\u03b9 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03bb\u03bf\u03c6\u03af\u03bf \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bf\u03c5\u03c1\u03ac_ ( _Regular People with a Plume and a Brindled Tail_ ), Gavrielides, 2014.\n\n## _\u039c\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b1\u03bb\u03ac\u03bd\u03c4\u03b5\u03c5\u03c3\u03b7 \u03bc\u03cc\u03bd\u03bf_\n\n\u03a4\u03bf \u03ba\u03c1\u03b9\u03bd\u03bf\u03bb\u03af\u03bd\u03bf\n\n\u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c3\u03c5\u03bc\u03bc\u03b5\u03c4\u03c1\u03b9\u03ba\u03cc\n\n\u03c4\u03cc\u03c3\u03bf \u03b6\u03c9\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd\u03cc\n\n\u03a4\u03b1\u03bb\u03b1\u03bd\u03c4\u03b5\u03cd\u03b5\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9\n\n\u03b1\u03b9\u03c7\u03bc\u03ac\u03bb\u03c9\u03c4\u03bf \u03ba\u03b9 \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03cc\n\n\u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03b5\u03c5\u03c0\u03c1\u03ad\u03c0\u03b5\u03b9\u03b1\u03c2\n\n\u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bf Velasquez\n\n\u03bc\u03b9\u03c3\u03bf\u03cd\u03c3\u03b5\n\n\u03a4\u03bf \u03c5\u03c0\u03ac\u03ba\u03bf\u03c5\u03bf \u03c0\u03b1\u03b9\u03b4\u03af\n\n\u03b5\u03bb\u03b5\u03cd\u03b8\u03b5\u03c1\u03bf\n\n\u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u03b1\u03bb\u03b7\u03c1\u03b5\u03af\n\n\u03bc\u03cc\u03bb\u03b9\u03c2 \u03b7 \u03c7\u03b1\u03c1\u03b9\u03c4\u03c9\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b7\n\n\u0399\u03bd\u03c6\u03ac\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1 \u039c\u03b1\u03c1\u03b3\u03b1\u03c1\u03af\u03c4\u03b1\n\n\u03bc\u03b5 \u03bf\u03c1\u03b3\u03ae\n\n\u03c3\u03c4\u03c1\u03bf\u03b2\u03b9\u03bb\u03b9\u03c3\u03c4\u03b5\u03af\n\n\u03c3\u03c0\u03ac\u03b6\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03c2\n\n\u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03c0\u03b5\u03c1\u03af\u03c4\u03b5\u03c7\u03bd\u03b7\n\n\u03c0\u03bf\u03c1\u03c3\u03b5\u03bb\u03ac\u03bd\u03b9\u03bd\u03b7\n\n\u03b1\u03bb\u03b1\u03c4\u03b9\u03ad\u03c1\u03b1\n\n## _A Slight Hesitation_\n\nWhat symmetry of line\n\nto that crinoline\n\nso rife with life\n\nSuch vitality\n\nas it flutters fettered\n\nto the propriety\n\nthat Velasquez\n\nloathed\n\nThe obedient child\n\ngoes wild\n\nwithout restraint\n\nat the very instant\n\nthe delicious\n\nInfanta Margarita\n\nin one vicious\n\nwhirl\n\nsmashes\n\nthe fine\n\nporcelain\n\nsalt cellar\n\nPatricia Barbeito\n\n## _\u0391\u03c0\u03cc \u03c3\u03ae\u03bc\u03b5\u03c1\u03b1_\n\n\u0391\u03c0\u03cc \u03c3\u03ae\u03bc\u03b5\u03c1\u03b1\n\n\u0396\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03bc\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c5\u03c0\u03bf\u03b2\u03c1\u03cd\u03c7\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b6\u03c9\u03ae\n\n\u039c\u03ad\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03c3\u03ba\u03bf\u03c4\u03ac\u03b4\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03b1\u03b2\u03cd\u03c3\u03c3\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u03a0\u03b1\u03c3\u03c7\u03af\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u03ac\u03b3\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2\n\n\u03a4\u03bf \u03b4\u03b9\u03ba\u03cc \u03c3\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c6\u03c9\u03c2\n\n\u039a\u03bf\u03bb\u03c5\u03bc\u03c0\u03ce\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03c2\n\n\u039a\u03ac\u03c0\u03c9\u03c2 \u03c3\u03b1\u03bd \u03b5\u03ba\u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c6\u03c1\u03b9\u03ba\u03b1\u03bb\u03ad\u03b1 \u03c8\u03ac\u03c1\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03b1\u03b2\u03cd\u03c3\u03c3\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u039c\u03b5 \u03c4\u03bf \u03c6\u03c9\u03c4\u03ac\u03ba\u03b9 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ba\u03c1\u03ad\u03bc\u03b5\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c3\u03b1\u03bd \u03ad\u03bd\u03c4\u03b5\u03c1\u03bf\n\n\u0395\u03bc\u03c0\u03c1\u03cc\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2\n\n\u039a\u03b9\u03bd\u03b4\u03c5\u03bd\u03b5\u03cd\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03c2 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03c3\u03b2\u03bb\u03b7\u03b8\u03b5\u03af\u03c2\n\n\u0391\u03c0\u03cc \u03c4\u03b7 \u03bd\u03cc\u03c3\u03bf \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b4\u03cd\u03c4\u03b7\n\n\u039d\u03b1 \u03b3\u03b5\u03bc\u03af\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf \u03b1\u03af\u03bc\u03b1 \u03c3\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bd\u03b5\u03c1\u03cc\n\n\u039d\u03b1 \u03b3\u03af\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2\n\n\u039c\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c6\u03c5\u03c3\u03b1\u03bb\u03af\u03b4\u03b1\n\n\u039d\u03b1 \u03b3\u03ba\u03c1\u03b5\u03bc\u03b9\u03c3\u03c4\u03b5\u03af\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03ac\u03c0\u03b5\u03b9\u03c1\u03bf\n\n\u039a\u03c5\u03bb\u03ce\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03c2 \u03bc\u03ad\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c3' \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1\n\n\u03a0\u03b5\u03bb\u03ce\u03c1\u03b9\u03bf\n\n\u03a3\u03c5\u03bc\u03c0\u03b1\u03bd\u03c4\u03b9\u03ba\u03cc\n\n\u0394\u03ac\u03ba\u03c1\u03c5\n\n## _As of Today_\n\nAs of today\n\nYou live your life underwater\n\nIn the darkness of the deep\n\nStruggling to emit\n\nYour own light\n\nSwimming\n\nLike those freakish deep-sea fish\n\nWith that little lantern dangling gutlike\n\nIn front of them\n\nAlways in danger of falling prey\n\nTo divers' disease\n\nOf having your blood fill with water\n\nOf becoming\n\nAn air bubble\n\nOf being extinguished in that immensity\n\nRolling around in a\n\nColossal\n\nCosmic\n\nTear\n\nPatricia Barbeito\n\n## _\u039a\u03b1\u03bb\u03ad \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c6\u03af\u03bb\u03b5_\n\n\u039a\u03b1\u03bb\u03ad \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c6\u03af\u03bb\u03b5 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c4\u03ad \u03bc\u03b7\u03bd \u03c4\u03bf \u03be\u03b5\u03c7\u03bd\u03ac\u03c2\n\n\u0397 \u03c3\u03c0\u03b5\u03af\u03c1\u03b1 \u03c4\u03c9\u03bd \u03b1\u03bd\u03b8\u03c1\u03c9\u03c0\u03bf\u03b5\u03b9\u03b4\u03ce\u03bd\n\n\u0395\u03bb\u03af\u03c3\u03c3\u03b5\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03ba\u03bf\u03bc\u03c8\u03cc\u03c4\u03b7\u03c4\u03b1\n\n\u03a4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b1\u03bb\u03b9\u03b3\u03ac\u03c4\u03bf\u03c1\u03b1\n\n\u039a\u03b9 \u03b7 \u03c6\u03b9\u03bb\u03bf\u03b4\u03bf\u03be\u03af\u03b1 \u03bf\u03c6\u03b5\u03af\u03bb\u03b5\u03b9\n\n\u039d\u03b1 \u03c5\u03c0\u03b5\u03c1\u03ad\u03c7\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03b7\u03b8\u03b9\u03ba\u03ae\u03c2\n\n\u03a4\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b1\u03bb\u03b1\u03ba\u03ac \u03ba\u03b1\u03c0\u03ad\u03bb\u03b1 \u03c4\u03c9\u03bd \u03bc\u03b1\u03bd\u03b9\u03c4\u03b1\u03c1\u03b9\u03ce\u03bd\n\n\u03c3\u03c4\u03c1\u03bf\u03b2\u03b9\u03bb\u03af\u03b6\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u03ad\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03bc\u03b1\u03cd\u03c1\u03b5\u03c2 \u03bf\u03bc\u03c0\u03c1\u03ad\u03bb\u03b5\u03c2\n\n\u039f \u03ba\u03cc\u03bc\u03c0\u03bf\u03c2 \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03cc\u03c3\u03bf \u03b1\u03c0\u03c1\u03cc\u03b2\u03bb\u03b5\u03c0\u03c4\u03bf\u03c2\n\n\u03cc\u03c3\u03bf \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bc\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b1\u03b8\u03cc\u03c1\u03c5\u03b2\u03b7 \u03ba\u03c5\u03c4\u03c4\u03b1\u03c1\u03b9\u03ba\u03ae \u03c3\u03c5\u03bc\u03c0\u03bb\u03bf\u03ba\u03ae\n\n\u03ba\u03b9 \u03b7 \u03ba\u03b1\u03c4\u03c3\u03b1\u03c1\u03af\u03b4\u03b1 \u03b1\u03c4\u03ac\u03c1\u03b1\u03c7\u03b7 \u03b1\u03c6\u03ae\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03af\u03c7\u03bd\u03b7 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2\n\n\u03c3\u03b5 \u03ac\u03bb\u03bb\u03b7 \u03bc\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b5\u03b9\u03ba\u03b1\u03c3\u03c4\u03b9\u03ba\u03ae \u03b2\u03cc\u03bb\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03c4\u03b1\u03c0\u03b5\u03c4\u03c3\u03b1\u03c1\u03af\u03b1\n\n\u03c4' \u039f\u03c5\u03c1\u03b1\u03bd\u03bf\u03cd \u03b5\u03ba\u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b7 \u03c4\u03b7 \u03c6\u03b8\u03b1\u03c1\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b7 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03ba\u03b1\u03ba\u03cc\u03b3\u03bf\u03c5\u03c3\u03c4\u03b7\n\n\u039f \u03b5\u03ba\u03ba\u03c1\u03b5\u03bc\u03ae\u03c2 \u03ac\u03bd\u03b8\u03c1\u03c9\u03c0\u03bf\u03c2 \u03ba\u03c4\u03b9\u03c3\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03c4\u03bf\u03af\u03c7\u03bf\n\n\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c3\u03c5\u03bd\u03ad\u03c0\u03b5\u03b9\u03b1 \u03ba\u03ac\u03c4\u03c9 \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03c4\u03bf \u03ac\u03b3\u03c1\u03c5\u03c0\u03bd\u03bf \u03b2\u03bb\u03ad\u03bc\u03bc\u03b1\n\n\u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c1\u03bf\u03bb\u03bf\u03b3\u03b9\u03bf\u03cd\n\n\u039a\u03ac\u03b8\u03b5 \u03bc\u03b5\u03c3\u03ac\u03bd\u03c5\u03c7\u03c4\u03b1 \u03be\u03b5\u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03b2\u03ac\u03bb\u03bb\u03b5\u03b9 \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc\n\n\u03c4\u03bf \u03c0\u03bf\u03c1\u03c4\u03ac\u03ba\u03b9\n\n\u0391\u03bd\u03b1\u03ba\u03bf\u03b9\u03bd\u03ce\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf \u03ba\u03b1\u03b8\u03ae\u03ba\u03bf\u03bd \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u03c3\u03b1\u03bd \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1\u03c2 \u03ba\u03bf\u03cd\u03ba\u03bf\u03c2\n\n\u03bc\u03b5 \u03be\u03cd\u03bb\u03b9\u03bd\u03b7 \u03c6\u03c9\u03bd\u03ae\n\n## _Dear Friend_\n\nDear friend don't ever forget\n\nThat the hordes of humanity\n\nGo forth with the delicacy\n\nOf the alligator\n\nAnd that it is ambition's due\n\nTo conquer ethics\n\nThe pillowy caps of mushrooms\n\ntwirl hand in hand with black umbrellas\n\nA knot is as unpredictable\n\nas the silent collisions of cells\n\nand the cockroach imperturbably leaves her trail\n\non yet another artful excursion over the worn and tacky tapestry of the Heavens.\n\nThat half-baked man immured in the wall\n\nleads his life punctually under the sleepless eye\n\nof the clock\n\nAt midnight he pops out\n\nof the hatchway\n\nProclaiming his duty\n\nin the wooden voice\n\nof a cuckoo\n\nPatricia Barbeito\n\n## Angeliki Sigourou\n\n#### (Born Athens, Greece, 1973)\n\nThough born in the capital, Angeliki Sigourou now lives on the island of Syros; her poetry's deep engagement with nature and the body is very much in keeping with the lifestyle of those who have increasingly come to depart Greece's cities over the past decade, moving back to its islands and villages to establish alternative farms and barter economies. She is the Artistic Director and choreographer of the Akropoditi Dance Theater Company, which is at once a vital part of local island culture and an extremely cosmopolitan enterprise, bringing performers and instructors to Syros from around the world. She graduated from the University of Athens in French Literature, having also studied Arabic, Dance, and Theater. Her poems have been translated into five languages, and her own translations include novels by Mahmoud Darwish and Naguib Mahfouz.\n\n_\u0391\u03c1\u03ac\u03c2_ ( _Cursed_ ), Elektra, 2008; _\u03a7\u03b9\u03cc\u03bd\u03b9 \u2013 \u03c7\u03b9\u03cc\u03bd\u03b9_ ( _Snow \u2013 Snow_ ), Nefeli, 2010.\n\n## _\u03a7\u03c1\u03ce\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1_\n\n\u039a\u03b9 \u03ae\u03c1\u03b8\u03b1\u03bd \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c7\u03c1\u03ce\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1. \u0394\u03b5\u03bd \u03c5\u03c0\u03ae\u03c1\u03c7\u03b1\u03bd. \u039c\u03b1 \u03b5\u03bb\u03c0\u03af\u03b6\u03b1\u03bc\u03b5 \u03c3' \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03ac\n\n\u03a3\u03c4\u03bf \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc\u03bb\u03c5\u03c4\u03bf \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03b1\u03bd\u03c4\u03af\u03b8\u03b5\u03c4\u03cc \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2\n\n\u03c3\u03b5 \u03cc\u03bb\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c7\u03c1\u03ce\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b1\u03b6\u03af \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c3' \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c7\u03c9\u03c1\u03b9\u03c3\u03c4\u03ac\n\n\u03b5\u03bb\u03c0\u03af\u03b6\u03b1\u03bc\u03b5.\n\n\u03a4\u03bf \u03c7\u03c1\u03ce\u03bc\u03b1 \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf \u03c3\u03cd\u03bd\u03bd\u03b5\u03c6\u03bf\n\n\u03a4\u03b7 \u03b8\u03ac\u03bb\u03b1\u03c3\u03c3\u03b1\n\n\u03a4\u03bf \u03b4\u03ad\u03bd\u03c4\u03c1\u03bf\n\n\u03a4\u03bf \u03b1\u03af\u03bc\u03b1\n\n\u03a4\u03bf \u03b4\u03ad\u03c1\u03bc\u03b1\n\n\u03a4\u03bf\u03bd \u03ae\u03bb\u03b9\u03bf\n\n\u03a4\u03bf\u03bd \u03bf\u03c5\u03c1\u03b1\u03bd\u03cc \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03bc\u03ad\u03c1\u03b1\u03c2\n\n\u03a4\u03bf\u03bd \u03bf\u03c5\u03c1\u03b1\u03bd\u03cc \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03bd\u03cd\u03c7\u03c4\u03b1\u03c2\n\n\u03a4\u03bf \u03be\u03cd\u03bb\u03bf\n\n\u03a4\u03bf \u03bd\u03b5\u03c1\u03cc\n\n\u03a4\u03bf \u03c7\u03ce\u03bc\u03b1\n\n\u03a4\u03b7 \u03c6\u03c9\u03c4\u03b9\u03ac\n\n\u03a4\u03af\u03c0\u03bf\u03c4\u03b1 \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03c7\u03c1\u03c9\u03bc\u03ac\u03c4\u03b9\u03c3\u03b5 \u03ba\u03b1\u03bb\u03cd\u03c4\u03b5\u03c1\u03b1 \u03bf \u03ba\u03cc\u03c3\u03bc\u03bf\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf\u03cd\u03c4\u03bf\u03c2 \u03b1\u03c0' \u03c4\u03bf \u03b2\u03ac\u03b8\u03bf\u03c2\n\n\u03a4\u03bf \u03c7\u03c1\u03ce\u03bc\u03b1 \u03b5\u03ba\u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03bf \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bc\u03b5\u03b3\u03ac\u03bb\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b2\u03ac\u03b8\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2\n\n\u03b5\u03bd\u03ce \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03b5\u03c0\u03b9\u03c6\u03ac\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bc\u03cc\u03bd\u03bf \u03b3\u03b1\u03bb\u03ac\u03b6\u03b9\u03bf \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03ba\u03cc\u03ba\u03ba\u03b9\u03bd\u03bf \u03c5\u03c0\u03ae\u03c1\u03c7\u03b5\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03af\u03c3\u03c9\u03c2 \u03ba\u03ac\u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ba\u03ac\u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c4\u03bf \u03c0\u03c1\u03b1\u03c3\u03b9\u03bd\u03c9\u03c0\u03cc \u03c7\u03c1\u03c5\u03c3\u03cc\n\n\u039a\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b7 \u03b2\u03b1\u03b8\u03b9\u03ac \u03b1\u03bc\u03b1\u03c1\u03c4\u03af\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03b5\u03be\u03ae\u03c2 \u03b8\u03b1 \u03b1\u03c0\u03bf\u03c3\u03b9\u03c9\u03c0\u03b5\u03af\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9\n\n\u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03c0\u03bf\u03c1\u03ad\u03c3\u03bf\u03c5\u03bc\u03b5 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03bf\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9\u03c1\u03b5\u03c5\u03c4\u03bf\u03cd\u03bc\u03b5 \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1\u03bd \u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u03ac\u03b4\u03b5\u03b9\u03c3\u03bf \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9\u03bd\u03bf\u03cd\u03c1\u03b3\u03b9\u03bf\n\n\u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03b3\u03bd\u03ce\u03c3\u03b7\u03c2\n\n\u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c5\u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\u03bb\u03ae\u03c2\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03c9\u03bd \u03c7\u03c1\u03c9\u03bc\u03ac\u03c4\u03c9\u03bd \u03c4\u03c9\u03bd \u03b1\u03bd\u03cc\u03b8\u03b5\u03c5\u03c4\u03c9\u03bd\n\n\u03c4\u03c9\u03bd \u03b4\u03af\u03c7\u03c9\u03c2 \u03b5\u03bd\u03bf\u03c7\u03ad\u03c2 \u03c7\u03c1\u03c9\u03bc\u03ac\u03c4\u03c9\u03bd\n\n\u039d\u03b1 \u03c0\u03ac\u03c1\u03b5\u03b9\u03a3 \u03c3\u03bf\u03b2\u03b1\u03c1\u03ac \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c8\u03ad\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03ac \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u039a\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b2\u03ac\u03b8\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03c7\u03c1\u03ce\u03bc\u03b1 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c7\u03c1\u03c9\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03af\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9\u03a3 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03b5\u03c0\u03b9\u03c6\u03ac\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9\u03b1\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03b1\u03bb\u03ae\u03b8\u03b5\u03b9\u03b1\n\n_\u03c7\u03c1\u03ce\u03bc\u03b1 \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03ad\u03c7\u03b5\u03b9 \u03bf \u03bf\u03c5\u03c1\u03b1\u03bd\u03cc\u03c2 \n\u03bf\u03cd\u03c4\u03b5 \u03ba\u03b9 \u03b1 \u03b8\u03ac\u03bb\u03b1\u03c3\u03c3\u03b1 \n\u03ae\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd \u03c8\u03b5\u03bc\u03b1_\n\n## _Colors_\n\nAnd the colors came. They didn't exist before. And we believed in them\n\nIn their absoluteness and antithesis\n\nin all colors together and each one separately\n\nwe believed\n\nThe color of clouds\n\nsea\n\ntrees\n\nblood\n\nskin\n\nsun\n\nday sky\n\nnight sky\n\nwood\n\nwater\n\nearth\n\nfire\n\nThis world's success\n\nwas the color it chose for the Deep\n\nThat color of the great Deep\n\nthough on the surface only sky blue and red existed\n\nand perhaps here and there greenish gold\n\nThis is why Deep sin will grow silent\n\nso that we can dream a new Paradise\n\nof knowledge\n\nof constraint\n\nof unadulterated colors\n\nwithout guilt\n\nTake my lies seriously\n\nAnd with the color of Deep\n\nColor the surface of truth\n\n_Heaven has no color \nnor the sea \nIt was a lie_\n\nKaren Van Dyck\n\n## Olga Papakosta\n\n#### (Born Thessaloniki, Greece, 1966)\n\nThere is a maturity to Olga Papakosta's 2013 collection, _Not Carmen Yet_ , that makes one forget it is her debut. Although she now lives and works in Athens, as a teacher and translator, it was in Thessaloniki that she was born, and there, at Aristotle University, that she studied Classics as an undergraduate. Her poems, sprinkled with English and pop references, remember her native city with a certain proprietary attitude that lends a wistfulness even to poems such as 'Empty Inbox' which deal with larger global predicaments. Her four collections of Cicero's writings were published by Okeanida in 2003 and 2004.\n\n_\u038c\u03c7\u03b9 \u03b1\u03ba\u03cc\u03bc\u03b7 \u039a\u03ac\u03c1\u03bc\u03b5\u03bd_ ( _Not Carmen Yet_ ), Patakis, 2013.\n\n## _No New Messages_\n\n\u039a\u03b1\u03bd\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03bd\u03ad\u03bf \u03bc\u03ae\u03bd\u03c5\u03bc\u03b1\n\n\u038c\u03bb\u03b1 \u03bb\u03b7\u03c6\u03b8\u03ad\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\n\n\u0391\u03bd\u03b1\u03b3\u03bd\u03c9\u03c3\u03b8\u03ad\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\n\n\u0394\u03b9\u03b1\u03b3\u03c1\u03b1\u03c6\u03ad\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\n\n\u039a\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bb\u03af\u03b3\u03b1, \u03b5\u03bb\u03ac\u03c7\u03b9\u03c3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03b1\u03c0' \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03ac\n\nA\u03bb\u03b7\u03c3\u03bc\u03cc\u03bd\u03b7\u03c4\u03b1\n\n\u039f\u03b9 \u03bd\u03ad\u03bf\u03b9 \u03c6\u03af\u03bb\u03bf\u03b9\n\n\u03a0\u03bf\u03c4\u03ad \u03b4\u03b5 \u03b8\u03b1 '\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9\n\n\u03a3\u03b1\u03bd \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03c0\u03b1\u03bb\u03b9\u03bf\u03cd\u03c2\n\n\u0395\u03ba\u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b1\u03c0\u03bb\u03ce\u03c2 \u03c7\u03c4\u03c5\u03c0\u03bf\u03cd\u03c3\u03b1\u03bd\n\n\u03a4\u03bf \u03b8\u03c5\u03c1\u03bf\u03c4\u03b7\u03bb\u03ad\u03c6\u03c9\u03bd\u03bf\n\n## _Empty Inbox_\n\nYou've not got mail\n\nAll messages\n\nopened, read, deleted\n\nOnly a very few\n\nunforgettable\n\nThe new friends\n\nwill never be\n\nlike the old ones\n\nThose who just\n\nrang the doorbell\n\nand dropped in\n\nKaren Van Dyck\n\n## Chloe Koutsoumbeli\n\n#### (Born Thessaloniki, Greece, 1962)\n\nPublished exclusively by Thessaloniki-based publishers until her most recent collection, Chloe Koutsoumbeli has kept the tradition of the strong poets of the northern provinces (Mihalis Ghanas, Markos Meskos) alive throughout her career, while giving it a feminist spin. Her work puts a spin, likewise, on the rich material of ancient myth; in these poems, stories and figures as familiar as Penelope are reworked until they appear to us in a new and contemporary light. Koutsoumbeli studied Law at Aristotle University and has worked in a bank for the past eighteen years. This last fact places her in yet another tradition: that of the most important woman poet of Greece's post-war generation, and another lifelong bank worker, Kiki Dimoula.\n\n_\u03a3\u03c7\u03ad\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03a3\u03b9\u03c9\u03c0\u03ae\u03c2_ ( _Relations of Silence_ ), Egnatia, 1984; _\u0397 \u03bd\u03cd\u03c7\u03c4\u03b1 \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bc\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c6\u03ac\u03bb\u03b1\u03b9\u03bd\u03b1_ ( _The Night is a Whale_ ), Loxias, 1990; _\u0397 \u03b1\u03c0\u03bf\u03c7\u03ce\u03c1\u03b7\u03c3\u03b7 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03bb\u03b1\u03af\u03b4\u03b7\u03c2 \u039a\u03ac\u03c0\u03b1_ ( _The Departure of Lady Kappa_ ), Nea Poreia, 2004; _\u03a3\u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03b1\u03c1\u03c7\u03b1\u03af\u03bf \u03ba\u03cc\u03c3\u03bc\u03bf \u03b2\u03c1\u03b1\u03b4\u03b9\u03ac\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c0\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bd\u03c9\u03c1\u03af\u03c2_ ( _In the Ancient World By Now It Gets Dark Early_ ), Gavrielides, 2012.\n\n## _T\u03bf \u03ba\u03af\u03c4\u03c1\u03b9\u03bd\u03bf \u03c4\u03b1\u03be\u03af_\n\n\u038c\u03c7\u03b9 \u03ba\u03cd\u03c1\u03b9\u03b5 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03bc\u03c0\u03b5\u03c1\u03b4\u03b5\u03cd\u03b5\u03c4\u03b5 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03ba\u03ac\u03c0\u03bf\u03b9\u03b1 \u03ac\u03bb\u03bb\u03b7.\n\n\u0394\u03b5\u03bd \u03ae\u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd\u03b1 \u03b5\u03b3\u03ce\n\n\u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03ba\u03af\u03c4\u03c1\u03b9\u03bd\u03bf \u03c4\u03b1\u03be\u03af\n\n\u03bf\u03cd\u03c4\u03b5 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b8\u03cc\u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c4\u03ad \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03c0\u03af\u03c3\u03c9 \u03ba\u03ac\u03b8\u03b9\u03c3\u03bc\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b1\u03b6\u03af \u03c3\u03b1\u03c2.\n\n\u039f\u03cd\u03c4\u03b5 \u03c7\u03b9\u03cc\u03bd\u03b9\u03b6\u03b5, \u03b5\u03af\u03bc\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b2\u03ad\u03b2\u03b1\u03b9\u03b7 \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03cc\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03cc\u03c7\u03b9 \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03ad\u03c0\u03b5\u03c6\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd \u03bd\u03b9\u03c6\u03ac\u03b4\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b1\u03bb\u03bb\u03b9\u03ac \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5.\n\n\u0394\u03b5\u03bd \u03ad\u03c7\u03c9 \u03ac\u03bb\u03bb\u03c9\u03c3\u03c4\u03b5 \u03bc\u03b1\u03bb\u03bb\u03b9\u03ac.\n\n\u0394\u03b5\u03bd \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c6\u03b9\u03bb\u03ae\u03c3\u03b1\u03c4\u03b5 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c4\u03ad, \u03b1\u03bb\u03bb\u03b9\u03ce\u03c2 \u03b8\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf \u03b8\u03c5\u03bc\u03cc\u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd.\n\n\u039a\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b1\u03bd \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c6\u03b9\u03bb\u03ae\u03c3\u03b1\u03c4\u03b5, \u03b5\u03b3\u03ce \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03ae\u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd\u03b1 \u03b5\u03ba\u03b5\u03af.\n\n\u039f\u03cd\u03c4\u03b5 \u03bf \u03bf\u03b4\u03b7\u03b3\u03cc\u03c2 \u03b3\u03cd\u03c1\u03b9\u03c3\u03b5 \u03ba\u03b1\u03bc\u03af\u03b1 \u03c6\u03bf\u03c1\u03ac \u03c0\u03af\u03c3\u03c9 \u03c4\u03bf \u03ba\u03b5\u03c6\u03ac\u03bb\u03b9.\n\n\u03a3\u03b9\u03c9\u03c0\u03b7\u03bb\u03ac \u03b4\u03b9\u03ad\u03c3\u03c7\u03b9\u03c3\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b7 \u03bb\u03af\u03bc\u03bd\u03b7 \u03ce\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf \u03c4\u03ad\u03bb\u03bf\u03c2\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c0\u03bf\u03cd \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c0\u03bf\u03cd \u03b2\u03cd\u03b8\u03b9\u03b6\u03b5 \u03c4\u03bf \u03ba\u03bf\u03c5\u03c0\u03af\n\n\u03c3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b1\u03cd\u03c1\u03b1 \u03bf\u03bb\u03cc\u03b3\u03c5\u03c1\u03b1 \u03bd\u03b5\u03c1\u03ac.\n\n## _The Yellow Taxi_\n\nNo, sir, you are confusing me with someone else\n\nIt was not I\n\nin the yellow taxi\n\nnor did I ever sit in the back seat with you\n\nIt was not snowing, I am certain about that\n\nand no, flakes did not fall into my hair\n\nOn the contrary, I did not have hair\n\nYou never kissed me, otherwise I would have remembered it\n\nAnd if you had kissed me, I was, at any rate, not there,\n\nNor did the driver even once turn back his head\n\nSilently he crossed the lake until the end\n\nand now and then the oar dipped\n\ninto the black waters all around\n\nA. E. Stallings\n\n## _\u03a0\u03b7\u03bd\u03b5\u03bb\u03cc\u03c0\u03b7 \u0399\u0399\u0399_\n\n\u0393\u03bd\u03c9\u03c1\u03af\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c0\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b7 \u03a0\u03b7\u03bd\u03b5\u03bb\u03cc\u03c0\u03b7\n\n\u03c0\u03c9\u03c2 \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bf\u03b9 \u03c5\u03c0\u03b5\u03c1\u03c6\u03af\u03b1\u03bb\u03b5\u03c2 \u03a3\u03b5\u03b9\u03c1\u03ae\u03bd\u03b5\u03c2\n\n\u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03ba\u03b1\u03b8\u03c5\u03c3\u03c4\u03b5\u03c1\u03bf\u03cd\u03bd\n\n\u03bf\u03cd\u03c4\u03b5 \u03b7 \u03b3\u03b5\u03c1\u03b1\u03c3\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b7 \u039a\u03af\u03c1\u03ba\u03b7\n\n\u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03ba\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1\u03c7\u03c9\u03bd\u03b9\u03b1\u03c3\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf \u03c0\u03cc\u03b8\u03bf\n\n\u03bf\u03cd\u03c4\u03b5 \u03ba\u03ac\u03c0\u03bf\u03b9\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b1\u03ba\u03bf\u03bc\u03b1\u03b8\u03b7\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b7 \u039d\u03b1\u03c5\u03c3\u03b9\u03ba\u03ac\n\n\u03b5\u03b3\u03ba\u03bb\u03c9\u03b2\u03b9\u03c3\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b7 \u03c3\u03b5 \u03bb\u03ac\u03b8\u03bf\u03c2 \u03b7\u03bb\u03b9\u03ba\u03af\u03b1\n\n\u03bc\u03b5 \u03ac\u03c3\u03c0\u03c1\u03b5\u03c2 \u03ba\u03ac\u03bb\u03c4\u03c3\u03b5\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c6\u03bf\u03c5\u03c3\u03c4\u03ac\u03bd\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b1\u03b9\u03b4\u03b9\u03ba\u03ac.\n\n\u0394\u03b5\u03bd \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bf\u03b9 \u039b\u03b1\u03b9\u03c3\u03c4\u03c1\u03c5\u03b3\u03cc\u03bd\u03b5\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bf\u03b9 \u039b\u03c9\u03c4\u03bf\u03af\n\n\u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03ba\u03c1\u03b1\u03c4\u03bf\u03cd\u03bd \u03bc\u03b1\u03ba\u03c1\u03b9\u03ac \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2.\n\n\u03bf\u03cd\u03c4\u03b5 \u03bf\u03b9 \u03c3\u03c5\u03bd\u03c4\u03b5\u03c7\u03bd\u03b9\u03b1\u03ba\u03bf\u03af \u03bc\u03b9\u03ba\u03c1\u03bf\u03b8\u03c5\u03bc\u03bf\u03af \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c4\u03ac\u03c7\u03b1 \u03a0\u03bf\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9\u03b4\u03ce\u03bd\u03b1\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03bc\u03c0\u03bb\u03b5\u03be\u03af\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03c0\u03b1\u03bb\u03b9\u03bf\u03cd\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c5\u03bd\u03c4\u03c1\u03cc\u03c6\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2.\n\n\u0395\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u0391\u03c1\u03c7\u03b1\u03af\u03bf \u03ba\u03cc\u03c3\u03bc\u03bf\n\n\u03b2\u03c1\u03b1\u03b4\u03b9\u03ac\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c0\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bd\u03c9\u03c1\u03af\u03c2\n\n\u03b7 \u0393\u03b7 \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b5\u03c0\u03af\u03c0\u03b5\u03b4\u03b7\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bf\u03b9 \u03ac\u03bd\u03b8\u03c1\u03c9\u03c0\u03bf\u03b9 \u03ba\u03ac\u03c0\u03bf\u03c4\u03b5 \u03c7\u03ac\u03bd\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9.\n\n## _Penelope III_\n\nPenelope knows by now\n\nthat it is not the insolent Sirens\n\nwho delay him\n\nnor aging Circe\n\nwith her funneled-down longing\n\nnor some spoiled Nausicaa\n\nhemmed into the wrong age\n\nwith white socks and school-girl skirts\n\nIt is not the Laestrygonians, nor the lotuses\n\nwhich keep him far from her\n\nand not the trade-union tantrums of, perhaps, Poseidon\n\nand the mix-ups with the old companions\n\nIt is that in the ancient world\n\nby now it gets dark early\n\nthe earth isn't flat\n\nand men sometimes get lost\n\nA. E. Stallings\n\n## Vassilis Amanatidis\n\n#### (Born Edessa, Greece, 1970)\n\nVassilis Amanatidis's postmodern, post-feminist work picks up on what is going on in the international art scene and gives it back, transformed, from his standpoint on the edges of Europe. He studied History, Archaeology, and Art History at Aristotle University in Thessaloniki, where he currently lives. He is a poet, prose writer, translator, and performer, and also has a long-running affiliation with the literary magazines _Enteftirion_ and _Farmakon_ , which publish his poetry and reviews. His poems have been translated into thirteen languages.\n\n_7: \u03c0\u03bf\u03af\u03b7\u03c3\u03b7 \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 Video Games_ ( _7: Poetry for Video Games_ ), Nefeli, 2011; _\u03bc-otherpoem: \u03bc\u03cc\u03bd\u03bf \u03bb\u03cc\u03b3\u03bf\u03c2 (m-otherpoem: mono-logos_ ), Nefeli, 2014.\n\n## _[\u03c5\u03c0\u03b5\u03c1\u03bf\u03c7\u03ae: \u03c4\u03bf \u03b1\u03af\u03bd\u03b9\u03b3\u03bc\u03b1]_\n\n\u0397 \u03bc\u03b7\u03c4\u03ad\u03c1\u03b1 \u03b4\u03b9\u03b1\u03c4\u03b7\u03c1\u03b5\u03af \u03cc\u03bb\u03b7 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03b1\u03bc\u03c6\u03b9\u03c3\u03b7\u03bc\u03af\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2.\n\n\u039a\u03b1\u03c4\u03bf\u03c1\u03b8\u03ce\u03bd\u03b5\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bc\u03ad\u03c3\u03c9 \u03b5\u03ba\u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bb\u03ad\u03b3\u03b5\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9 \u03ac\u03bb\u03b5\u03ba\u03c4\u03bf\u03bd.\n\n\u0393\u03b9\u03b1\u03c4\u03af \u03bd\u03b1\u03b9, \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03ac\u03bb\u03b5\u03ba\u03c4\u03b7 \u03b5\u03ba\u03c4\u03cc\u03c2 \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03b1\u03bb\u03ad\u03be\u03b1\u03bd\u03b4\u03c1\u03b7.\n\n\u03a4\u03bf\u03cd\u03c4\u03bf \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03b5\u03be\u03b1\u03c3\u03c6\u03b1\u03bb\u03af\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9 \u03bc\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c5\u03c0\u03b5\u03c1\u03bf\u03c7\u03ae.\n\n\u0398\u03ad\u03c4\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf \u03bf\u03bd \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03c3\u03b5 \u03b5\u03c1\u03bc\u03b7\u03bd\u03b5\u03af\u03b1 \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03ac\u03bb\u03bb\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2.\n\n\u039a\u03ac\u03c4\u03b9 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bc\u03b1\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b8\u03b9\u03c3\u03c4\u03ac \u03cc\u03bb\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03b5\u03c1\u03bc\u03b7\u03bd\u03b5\u03c5\u03c4\u03ad\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03b5\u03c1\u03bc\u03b7\u03bd\u03b5\u03cd\u03c4\u03c1\u03b9\u03b1\u03c2.\n\n\u0395\u03af\u03bc\u03b1\u03c3\u03c4\u03b5 \u03c4\u03bf \u03ba\u03bf\u03b9\u03bd\u03cc \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2.\n\n## _[\u03c4\u03bf \u03c3\u03ce\u03bc\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03bc\u03b7\u03c4\u03ad\u03c1\u03b1\u03c2]_\n\n\u0397 \u03bc\u03b7\u03c4\u03ad\u03c1\u03b1 \u03c5\u03c0\u03bf\u03b8\u03ad\u03c4\u03b5\u03b9 \u03cc\u03c4\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf \u03c5\u03bb\u03b9\u03ba\u03cc \u03bc\u03b7\u03c4\u03ad\u03c1\u03b1\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c5\u03bc\u03c0\u03b5\u03c1\u03b9\u03bb\u03b1\u03bc\u03b2\u03ac\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03bc\u03af\u03b1 \u03b1\u03b3\u03b9\u03cc\u03c4\u03b7\u03c4\u03b1.\n\n\u03a3\u03b5 \u03ba\u03ac\u03b8\u03b5 \u03c0\u03b5\u03c1\u03af\u03c0\u03c4\u03c9\u03c3\u03b7, \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03b5\u03c5\u03c0\u03c1\u03cc\u03c3\u03b4\u03b5\u03ba\u03c4\u03b7 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bf\u03b9\u03ba\u03b5\u03b9\u03bf\u03b8\u03b5\u03bb\u03ae \u03b1\u03c0\u03bf\u03bc\u03cc\u03bd\u03c9\u03c3\u03b7 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bc\u03ac\u03c1\u03c4\u03c5\u03c1\u03b1.\n\n\u0388\u03c4\u03c3\u03b9 \u03ba\u03ac\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c4\u03c1\u03b1\u03bc\u03c0\u03ac\u03bb\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b1\u03c4\u03ac \u03c4\u03bf \u03b4\u03bf\u03ba\u03bf\u03cd\u03bd \u03bc\u03b5\u03c4\u03b1\u03be\u03cd \u03bc\u03b1\u03c1\u03c4\u03c5\u03c1\u03af\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03ad\u03ba\u03c3\u03c4\u03b1\u03c3\u03b7\u03c2.\n\n\u0391\u03c5\u03c4\u03ae \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03c4\u03c1\u03b1\u03bc\u03c0\u03ac\u03bb\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03ba\u03ac\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03bc\u03cc\u03bd\u03b7 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2.\n\n\u039c\u03ac\u03bb\u03bb\u03bf\u03bd \u03b3\u03af\u03bd\u03b5\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1\u03c4\u03af \u2013 \u03b5, \u03c4\u03bf \u03be\u03b1\u03bd\u03ac\u03c0\u03b1\u03bc\u03b5 \u2013 \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03b1\u03b3\u03b1\u03c0\u03ac \u03c4\u03bf \u03c3\u03ce\u03bc\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2.\n\n\u0397 \u03bc\u03b7\u03c4\u03ad\u03c1\u03b1, \u03c3\u03c4\u03b1 18, \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b1\u03bd\u03bf\u03c1\u03b5\u03be\u03b9\u03ba\u03ae.\n\n\u039c\u03b5\u03c4\u03ac \u03c4\u03c1\u03ce\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c3\u03bf\u03ba\u03bf\u03bb\u03ac\u03c4\u03b5\u03c2.\n\n\u03a4\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c9\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03b9\u03ba\u03ac \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03c5\u03b3\u03c1\u03ac \u03c4\u03b1 \u03b1\u03c0\u03b5\u03c7\u03b8\u03ac\u03bd\u03b5\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9.\n\n\u039c\u03ac\u03bb\u03bb\u03bf\u03bd \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03bc\u03c0\u03bf\u03c1\u03b5\u03af \u03bd\u03b1 \u03b4\u03b9\u03b1\u03bd\u03bf\u03b7\u03b8\u03b5\u03af \u03cc\u03c4\u03b9 \u03ba\u03ac\u03c4\u03b9 \u03b8\u03b1 \u03bc\u03c0\u03b5\u03b9, \u03ba\u03ac\u03c4\u03b9 \u03b8\u03b1 \u03b2\u03b3\u03b5\u03b9 \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03bc\u03ad\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2.\n\n\u039c\u03ad\u03c7\u03c1\u03b9 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03b1\u03bd\u03ac\u03b3\u03ba\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03ba\u03ac\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03c3\u03ba\u03bf\u03c4\u03ac\u03b4\u03b9.\n\n## _[supremacy: a riddle]_\n\nThe mother preserves her ambiguity intact\n\nSelf-realization by means of what is said to be the unutterable\n\nIndeed, she is both unapproachable and beyond language\n\nThis is what secures her supremacy\n\nShe lays open her very being to others' readings\n\nAnd we become the interpreters of the Interpreter\n\nWe are her audience.\n\nPatricia Barbeito\n\n## _[mother's body]_\n\nThe mother assumes that the stuff of motherhood incorporates a measure of saintliness\n\nAt the very least, the self-imposed, much desired isolation of the martyr\n\nAnd so, as behooves her, she teeters between torture and ecstasy\n\nBy herself she teeters.\n\nPossibly this happens because \u2013 well, it's already been said \u2013 she doesn't love her own body\n\nAt 18, the mother is anorexic\n\nLater, she scarfs chocolates\n\nShe's disgusted by her bodily fluids\n\nProbably she cannot wrap her mind around this fact:\n\nThings both enter and exit from her body\n\nEven when she relieves herself, she does so in the dark.\n\nPatricia Barbeito\n\n## Kiriakos Sifiltzoglou\n\n#### (Born Drama, Greece, 1983)\n\nAfter completing degrees in Political Science and Law at Aristotle University in Thessaloniki, Kiriakos Sifiltzoglou returned to his hometown, Drama, where he now lives and works as a lawyer. He was included in Dinos Siotis's 2011 anthology _30 \u03ad\u03c9\u03c2 30: \u03a4\u03c1\u03b9\u03ac\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bf\u03b9\u03b7\u03c4\u03ad\u03c2 \u03ad\u03c9\u03c2 \u03c4\u03c1\u03b9\u03ac\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1 \u03b5\u03c4\u03ce\u03bd_ ( _30 by 30: Thirty Poets under Thirty_ ) along with Dimitris Athinakis, Eftychia Panayiotou, Z. D. Ainalis, and Thodoris Rakopoulos.\n\n_\u0388\u03ba\u03b1\u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\u03c2 \u03b5\u03c6' \u03c9 \u03b5\u03c4\u03ac\u03c6\u03b7_ ( _Each to his Own Grave_ ), Gavrielides, 2007; _\u039c\u03b9\u03c3\u03ad\u03c2 \u03b1\u03bb\u03ae\u03b8\u03b5\u03b9\u03b5\u03c2_ ( _Half Truths_ ), Melani, 2012; _\u039c\u03b5 \u03cd\u03c6\u03bf\u03c2 \u0399\u03bd\u03b4\u03b9\u03ac\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5_ ( _With the Style of an Indian_ ), Melani, 2014.\n\n## \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc _\u039c\u03b9\u03c3\u03ad\u03c2 \u0391\u03bb\u03ae\u03b8\u03b5\u03b9\u03b5\u03c2_\n\n##### 3.\n\n\u03b1\u03c0' \u03c4\u03bf \u03cd\u03c8\u03bf\u03c2 \u03c4\u03c9\u03bd \u03c0\u03b5\u03c1\u03b9\u03c3\u03c4\u03ac\u03c3\u03b5\u03c9\u03bd\n\n\u03b5\u03be\u03b1\u03c6\u03b1\u03bd\u03af\u03c3\u03c4\u03b7\u03ba\u03b5 \u03c4\u03bf \u03cd\u03c8\u03bf\u03c2\n\n\u03c0\u03bb\u03ad\u03bf\u03bd \u03ad\u03c7\u03bf\u03c5\u03bc\u03b5 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03ba\u03ac\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5\u03bc\u03b5\n\n\u03bc\u03cc\u03bd\u03bf \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c0\u03b5\u03c1\u03b9\u03c3\u03c4\u03ac\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2\n\n\u03c4\u03bf \u03ba\u03b1\u03c4\u03ac\u03bb\u03b1\u03b2\u03b1\u03bd \u03ba\u03b1\u03bb\u03ac\n\n\u03bf\u03b9 \u03b5\u03bd\u03b1\u03b5\u03c1\u03af\u03c4\u03b5\u03c2\n\n\u03b5\u03bc\u03c6\u03b1\u03bd\u03ce\u03c2\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03c8\u03b1\u03bb\u03b9\u03c3\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf\u03b9\n\n##### 14.\n\n\u03b1\u03bd \u03c6\u03b5\u03c1\u02c7 \u03b5\u03b9\u03c0\u03b5\u03af\u03bd \u03b1\u03bd \u03b7 \u03ba\u03b1\u03ba\u03b9\u03ac \u03c3\u03c4\u03b9\u03b3\u03bc\u03ae \u03ae\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd\n\n\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1\u03c2 \u03b1\u03bd\u03b1\u03c0\u03c4\u03ae\u03c1\u03b1\u03c2 \u03c5\u03b3\u03c1\u03b1\u03b5\u03c1\u03af\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03ad\u03c0\u03c1\u03b5\u03c0\u03b5\n\n\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b1\u03c2 \u03c3\u02c7 \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b5\u03c1\u03af\u03c0\u03c4\u03b5\u03c1\u03bf \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03b3\u03b5\u03bc\u03af\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b4\u03b9\u03b1\u03c0\u03af\u03c3\u03c4\u03c9\u03bd\u03b5\u03c2 \u03ad\u03bd\u03c4\u03c1\u03bf\u03bc\u03bf\u03c2 \u03c0\u03c9\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b5\u03bb\u03ce\u03c1\u03b9\u03b1\n\n\u03b2\u03c5\u03b6\u03b9\u03ac \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03c0\u03b5\u03c1\u03b9\u03c0\u03c4\u03b5\u03c1\u03bf\u03cd\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c5\u03bd\u03ad\u03b8\u03bb\u03b9\u03b2\u03b1\u03bd \u03c4\u03bf\n\n\u03a1\u03b9\u03b6\u03bf\u03c3\u03c0\u03ac\u03c3\u03c4\u03b7 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c0\u03b5\u03c1\u03b1\u03c3\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b1\u03b9\u03ce\u03bd\u03b1\n\n\u03b1\u03bb\u03bb\u03ac\u03b6\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03ac\u03c2 \u03c3\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c4\u03b7 \u03b3\u03bd\u03ce\u03bc\u03b7 \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd\n\n\u03b9\u03c3\u03c0\u03b1\u03bd\u03b9\u03ba\u03cc \u03b5\u03bc\u03c6\u03cd\u03bb\u03b9\u03bf\n\n\u03b8\u03b1 \u03b1\u03bd\u03ac\u03b2\u03b5\u03c2\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b1\u03bd \u03bd\u03b1\u03b9\n\n\u03b8\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf \u03bc\u03b5\u03c4\u03ac\u03bd\u03b9\u03c9\u03bd\u03b5\u03c2;\n\n##### 26.\n\n\u03b1\u03bd \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1\u03c2 \u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03bb\u03b9\u03ba\u03ad\u03c1\u03b7\u03c2 \u03ba\u03bf\u03c1\u03bd\u03ac\u03c1\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c7\u03b1\u03b9\u03c1\u03b5\u03c4\u03ce\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03c2\n\n\u03c4\u03b6\u03b9\u03c4\u03b6\u03af\u03ba\u03b9\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b3\u03c1\u03cd\u03bb\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03bc\u03b5\u03c4\u03b1\u03c6\u03ad\u03c1\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03c2 300\n\n\u03c0\u03b1\u03bb\u03ad\u03c4\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c0\u03bf\u03b9\u03b7\u03c4\u03b9\u03ba\u03bf\u03cd \u03c5\u03bb\u03b9\u03ba\u03bf\u03cd \u03b2\u03cc\u03c1\u03b5\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2\n\n\u0394\u03c1\u03b1\u03bc\u03b1\u03bc\u03af\u03bd\u03b7\u03c2 \u03bc\u03c0\u03bf\u03c1\u03b5\u03af \u03bc\u03c0\u03bf\u03c1\u03b5\u03af \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd\n\n\u03b1\u03c0\u03b1\u03c3\u03c7\u03bf\u03bb\u03b5\u03af \u03b7 \u03b4\u03c5\u03b1\u03b4\u03b9\u03ba\u03cc\u03c4\u03b7\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03b4\u03bf\u03bc\u03ae\u03c2 \u03bc\u03b9\u03b1\u03c2\n\n\u03ba\u03bf\u03b9\u03bd\u03c9\u03bd\u03af\u03b1\u03c2 \u03ae \u03b7 \u03ad\u03bd\u03bd\u03bf\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03ba\u03bf\u03b9\u03bd\u03c9\u03bd\u03b9\u03ba\u03ae\u03c2\n\n\u03b4\u03c1\u03ac\u03c3\u03b7\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7 \u03b4\u03c1\u03b1\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c1\u03b3\u03b9\u03ba\u03ae \u03ba\u03bf\u03b9\u03bd\u03c9\u03bd\u03b9\u03bf\u03bb\u03bf\u03b3\u03af\u03b1\n\n\u03a3\u03ba\u03b1\u03c4\u03ac \u039b\u03ac\u03c3\u03c4\u03b9\u03c7\u03bf\n\n## from _Half Truths_\n\n##### 3.\n\nheight has vanished\n\nfrom the height of circumstances\n\nnow we deal only in circumstances\n\nthey knew it well: those riggers\n\nwho hovered\n\nseemingly\n\nsinged.\n\n##### 14.\n\nsay, for instance, as luck would have it,\n\nyou had a gas lighter that needed filling\n\nat the corner kiosk and say, for instance,\n\nthat you went down there and, terrified,\n\ncaught the kiosk-matron's monumental tits\n\ncrushing last century's _Daily Worker_ ,\n\nforcing you to revisit your thoughts\n\non the Spanish civil war\n\nwould you burn up\n\nand, if so,\n\nwould you regret it?\n\n##### 26.\n\ntruck-drivers who toot\n\nsaluting grasshoppers and crickets\n\nas they transfer 300 bales of poetic material\n\nnorth of Dramamine might \u2013 might \u2013 be concerned\n\nwith the structural duality of a society\n\nor with the concept of social agency\n\nin dramaturgical sociology.\n\nShit Tires.\n\nChloe Haralambous\n\n## Georgia Triandafillidou\n\n#### (Born Thessaloniki, Greece, 1968)\n\nGeorgia Triandafillidou studied Modern Greek Literature in her native Thessaloniki, and since 2000 has lived in Kavalla. Like the Northern Epirot short stories of Sotiris Dimitriou, her poetry takes off from what people say, from conversations overheard in villages, from the mingled idioms of the North (annexed much later than the rest of Greece), and therefore also from Turkish, Vlach, Arvanitika, and other Balkan and regional dialects. She is published by Agra, Greece's most innovative publisher both in content and design; her eclectic work lives up to that reputation.\n\n_\u039f \u03c0\u03bf\u03b9\u03b7\u03c4\u03ae\u03c2 \u03ad\u03be\u03c9_ ( _The Poet Outside_ ), Agra, 2004; _\u0394\u03b9\u03ba\u03b1\u03af\u03c9\u03bc\u03b1 \u03a0\u03c1\u03bf\u03c3\u03b4\u03bf\u03ba\u03af\u03b1\u03c2_ ( _Right of Expectation_ ), Agra, 2008.\n\n## _\u039e\u03b1\u03c6\u03bd\u03b9\u03ba\u03ae \u03b9\u03b4\u03b5\u03bf\u03bb\u03b7\u03c8\u03af\u03b1 \u03c3\u03b5 \u03c3\u03c5\u03b3\u03b3\u03b5\u03bd\u03b9\u03ba\u03cc \u03c3\u03c0\u03af\u03c4\u03b9_\n\n\u03a4\u03bf \u03c0\u03b9\u03ac\u03c4\u03bf \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bc\u03b1\u03c2 \u03ad\u03c6\u03b5\u03c1\u03b5 \u03b7 \u03b3\u03b5\u03b9\u03c4\u03cc\u03bd\u03b9\u03c3\u03c3\u03b1\n\n\u03b3\u03b5\u03bc\u03ac\u03c4\u03bf \u03c8\u03ac\u03c1\u03b9\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b8\u03b1\u03c1\u03b9\u03c3\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1\n\n\u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b7 \u03c7\u03b1\u03c1\u03ac \u03bc\u03b1\u03c2.\n\n\u03a4\u03bf \u03c0\u03b9\u03ac\u03c4\u03bf \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bc\u03b1\u03c2 \u03ad\u03c6\u03b5\u03c1\u03b5 \u03b7 \u03b3\u03b5\u03b9\u03c4\u03cc\u03bd\u03b9\u03c3\u03c3\u03b1\n\n\u03c4\u03bf \u03c0\u03b9\u03ac\u03c4\u03bf.\n\n\u03a8\u03ac\u03c1\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b1\u03bb\u03b1\u03c4\u03b9\u03c3\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c0\u03b5\u03b8\u03b1\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03ac\u03c4\u03b9\u03b1\n\n\u03bc\u03b1\u03c2 \u03ad\u03c6\u03b5\u03c1\u03b5 \u03b7 \u03b3\u03b5\u03b9\u03c4\u03cc\u03bd\u03b9\u03c3\u03c3\u03b1\n\n\u03c0\u03ac\u03b5\u03b9 \u03b7 \u03c7\u03b1\u03c1\u03ac \u03bc\u03b1\u03c2.\n\n\u03a8\u03ac\u03c1\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b1\u03bb\u03b1\u03c4\u03b9\u03c3\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c0\u03b5\u03b8\u03b1\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03ac\u03c4\u03b9\u03b1\n\n\u03c4\u03b1 \u03bc\u03ac\u03c4\u03b9\u03b1.\n\n\u03a4\u03bf \u03c0\u03b9\u03ac\u03c4\u03bf \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bc\u03b1\u03c2 \u03ad\u03c6\u03b5\u03c1\u03b5 \u03b7 \u03b3\u03b5\u03b9\u03c4\u03cc\u03bd\u03b9\u03c3\u03c3\u03b1\n\n\u03c3\u03c4\u03ac\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03c0\u03ac\u03b3\u03ba\u03bf \u03b4\u03c5\u03bf \u03b3\u03c1\u03b1\u03bc\u03bc\u03ad\u03c2 \u03c8\u03b1\u03c1\u03af\u03bb\u03b1.\n\n\u03a4\u03b1 \u03c6\u03c1\u03cd\u03b4\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03b3\u03b5\u03b9\u03c4\u03cc\u03bd\u03b9\u03c3\u03c3\u03b1\u03c2 \u03c4\u03c1\u03ad\u03c7\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03bd\u03b1 \u03b5\u03bd\u03c9\u03b8\u03bf\u03cd\u03bd\u03b5\n\n\u03bf \u03b9\u03b4\u03c1\u03ce\u03c4\u03b1\u03c2 \u03c0\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b4\u03b5 \u03c3\u03c4\u03ac\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9 \u03bc\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03bc\u03ac\u03c4\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2.\n\n\u03a4\u03bf \u03c0\u03b9\u03ac\u03c4\u03bf \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bc\u03b1\u03c2 \u03ad\u03c6\u03b5\u03c1\u03b5 \u03b7 \u03b3\u03b5\u03b9\u03c4\u03cc\u03bd\u03b9\u03c3\u03c3\u03b1\n\n\u03c6\u03c1\u03cd\u03b4\u03b9\u03b1, \u03c3\u03b1\u03c6\u03c1\u03af\u03b4\u03b9\u03b1\n\n\u03c3\u03bc\u03b9\u03c7\u03c4\u03ac \u03b1\u03bb\u03ac\u03c4\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b9\u03b4\u03c1\u03c9\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03bb\u03ad\u03c0\u03b9\u03b1\n\n\u03c4\u03bf \u03c0\u03b9\u03ac\u03c4\u03bf \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bc\u03b1\u03c2 \u03ad\u03c6\u03b5\u03c1\u03b5 \u03b7 \u03b3\u03b5\u03b9\u03c4\u03cc\u03bd\u03b9\u03c3\u03c3\u03b1\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03bd' \u03c4\u03bf \u03ba\u03bf\u03bc\u03bc\u03ac\u03c4\u03b9\u03b1. \u039c\u03b1\u03c4\u03b9\u03ac\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9.\n\n## _Sudden Obsession at a Relative's House_\n\nThe plate the neighbor lady brought us\n\nfull of cleaned fish\n\nis our joy.\n\nThe plate the neighbor lady brought us\n\nthe plate.\n\nDead-eyed salted fish\n\nthe neighbor lady brought us\n\ngone is our joy.\n\nDead-eyed salted fish\n\nthe eyes.\n\nThe plate the neighbor lady brought us\n\ndribbles two fishy lines on the bench.\n\nThe neighbor lady's eyebrows race to connect\n\nsweat no longer drips into her eyes.\n\nThe plate the neighbor lady brought us\n\neyebrows, horse mackerel\n\nmixed salted sweaty scales\n\nthe plate the neighbor lady brought us\n\nsmash it into pieces. It evil-eyes.\n\nGeorge Economou\n\n## VI\n\n## Border Zones\n\n#### Poets between Cultures and Languages\n\nShifting decisively beyond the confines of a single country, this section is necessarily the most varied. What characterizes this group is the central importance of another place to their poetry: these poets came late to the Greek language from other lands and tongues, or \u2013 though still writing in Greek \u2013 now live or spend considerable time in other countries, speaking other languages. As both immigrants and emigrants, moreover, they share the diasporic multilingualism so often ignored in national accounts of Greek literary history. Many are translators, translating one another or themselves. Often they are in academia, where their subjects are linguistic and cultural difference in a wide range of fields. Their poems address these concerns in form and theme. Mehmet Yashin writes macaronic works, mingling Greek and Turkish on the page. This is a more Balkan, between-worlds perspective which he shares with Stathis Gourgouris \u2013 both of them older than the others here and more recognized outside of Greece. Iana Boukova, Moma Radi\u0107, and Hiva Panahi bring the influence of Balkan and Middle Eastern languages \u2013 Bulgarian, Serbian, and Persian, respectively \u2013 to bear on Greek. Dimitris Allos is Greek, but also publishes in Bulgarian, translating Boukova, who translates him in turn. Gazmend Kapllani's early poetry mingles Albanian and Greek. And then there is the European side. Theodoros Chiotis, Christos Angelakos, and Yannis Livadas circulate among them between London, Paris, and Athens, drawing on a wide range of influences from the Beats to recent experimental code poetry. Thodoris Rakopoulos, an anthropologist who lives in Bergen and Athens, reworks the divided life into an experimental poetics. Not surprisingly, these are also the poets whose work has inspired the most experimental translation.\n\n## Dimitris Allos\n\n#### (Born Athens, Greece, 1963)\n\nThe publisher and one of the founding members of _Ah, Maria_ (1990\u201394), the first independent literary magazine in Bulgaria after the fall of Communism, Dimitris Allos lives and works at the intersection of Bulgarian and Greek. His poetry has been translated into Bulgarian and he translates Bulgarian literature into Greek, including that of Iana Boukova (p. 339) before she began writing in Greek herself. Like hers, his poetry is full of animals and plants, but unlike the poets associated with _Farmakon_ magazine, nature for him is more worldly, often urban, and sometimes even urbane. He studied Sociology at Sofia University but returned to Athens and has lived there since the mid-1990s. His poems have also been translated into Spanish, French, Italian, and English.\n\n_\u03a8\u03b7\u03bb\u03cc\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03ac\u03c7\u03c5\u03c1\u03b1_ ( _Tall in the Hay_ ), Kastaniotis, 2000; _\u03a6\u03c9\u03bd\u03ad\u03c2 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03b3\u03bb\u03cd\u03c4\u03c9\u03c3\u03b1\u03bd_ ( _Unspared Voices_ ), Arts Foundation, 2002.\n\n## _\u03ae \n\u03a4\u03b1 \u03ac\u03c3\u03c0\u03c1\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03c3\u03ba\u03b5\u03cd\u03b7_\n\n\u00ab... \u03ba\u03b9 \u03b5\u03b3\u03ce \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c4\u03c1\u03ce\u03c9 \u03bc\u03bd\u03ae\u03bc\u03b7\n\n\u03c3\u03b1\u03bd \u03ba\u03c5\u03ba\u03bb\u03b1\u03b4\u03af\u03c4\u03b9\u03ba\u03bf \u03bc\u03bd\u03b7\u03bc\u03b5\u03af\u03bf...\u00bb\n\n\u0394\u03b5 \u03b8\u03c5\u03bc\u03ac\u03bc\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c0\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf \u03cc\u03bd\u03bf\u03bc\u03ac \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2\n\n\u03c4\u03bf \u03c0\u03c1\u03cc\u03c3\u03c9\u03c0\u03cc \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03af\u03c3\u03c9\u03c2 \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1\n\n\u03b3\u03ba\u03c1\u03ad\u03bc\u03b9\u03c3\u03bc\u03b1 \u03c4\u03ce\u03c1\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b5\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd\u03ac\u03c3\u03c4\u03b5\u03c2\n\n\u03ba\u03bf\u03bc\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf \u03c4\u03bf \u03c1\u03b5\u03cd\u03bc\u03b1\n\n\u03b8\u03c5\u03bc\u03ac\u03bc\u03b1\u03b9 \u03cc\u03bc\u03c9\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b1\u03bb\u03ac \u03bb\u03b9\u03b1\u03ba\u03ac\u03b4\u03b1 \u03ae\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd\u03b5\n\n\u03bc\u03b5\u03c3\u03b7\u03bc\u03ad\u03c1\u03b9\n\n\u03c7\u03bb\u03c9\u03c1\u03cc\u03c2 \u03b9\u03b4\u03c1\u03ce\u03c4\u03b1\u03c2\n\n\u03c3\u03ba\u03cc\u03bd\u03b7 \u03b9\u03b4\u03b9\u03c9\u03c4\u03b9\u03ba\u03bf\u03cd \u03b4\u03c1\u03cc\u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u03c7\u03ad\u03c1\u03b9 \u0398\u03b5\u03bf\u03cd \u03ba\u03b1\u03c4\u03ac\u03c3\u03c4\u03b7\u03b8\u03b1 \u03b8\u03c5\u03bc\u03ac\u03bc\u03b1\u03b9\n\n\u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bc\u03ac\u03bb\u03b1\u03b6\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c8\u03c5\u03c7\u03b9\u03ba\u03ac \u03c5\u03bb\u03b9\u03ba\u03ac\n\n\u03ba\u03b9 \u03b5\u03c3\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1\n\n\u03bd\u03b1 \u03b1\u03bc\u03bf\u03bb\u03ac\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03b4\u03b1\u03bb\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03af\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03b4\u03c9\u03bc\u03ac\u03c4\u03b9\u03bf\n\n\u03b3\u03b9\u03b5\u03c0-\u03b3\u03b9\u03b5\u03c0\n\n\u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c6\u03b9\u03bb\u03b5\u03cd\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf \u03c3\u03b1\u03b2\u03b2\u03b1\u03c4\u03b9\u03b1\u03bd\u03cc\n\n\u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b1\u0390\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf \u03c3\u03c4\u03b1\u03c6\u03cd\u03bb\u03b9\n\n\u03c1\u03ce\u03b3\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b7 \u03c1\u03ce\u03b3\u03b1\n\n\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c7\u03ad\u03c1\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03bb\u03b5\u03c1\u03ce\u03c3\u03c9\n\n\u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03c0\u03bf\u03bb\u03b9\u03c4\u03b9\u03c3\u03bc\u03cc \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ba\u03bf\u03c1\u03bc\u03b9\u03bf\u03cd \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2\n\n\u03b2\u03b1\u03b8\u03b9\u03ac\n\n\u03ad\u03c9\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf \u03bc\u03ad\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c4\u03c9\u03bd \u03c3\u03cd\u03bd\u03bd\u03b5\u03c6\u03c9\u03bd\n\n## _or \nHer White Utensils_\n\n'... and I who feed on memory\n\nlike a cycladic monument...'\n\nI no longer remember her name\n\nher face perhaps\n\na precipice, now refugees\n\nelectricity cut off\n\nbut I remember clearly a sun drenched\n\nmidday\n\nfresh sweat\n\ndust of a private alley\n\nGod's hand right on my chest\n\nI remember kneading my soul's material\n\nand you\n\nletting the dalmatians free in the room\n\noaou ouaou\n\ntreating me to black grapes\n\nfeeding me\n\ngrape by grape\n\nTo dirty my hands\n\nwith the civilization of her body\n\ndeep\n\ndown to the innards\n\nof the clouds\n\nKaterina Anghelaki-Rooke\n\n## Iana Boukova\n\n#### (Born Sofia, Bulgaria, 1968)\n\nA bilingual poet, Iana Boukova studied Classics in Bulgaria before moving to Athens in 1994. In Bulgarian, she has published two books of poetry, a collection of short stories and a novel; before she began writing in Greek, a volume of her poetry was also translated by Dimitris Allos (p. 333) and published by Greece's most established poetry publisher, Ikaros. The list of poets whom she has translated into Bulgarian reads like a who's who of important poetic influences for this new generation, among them Giorgos Seferis, Odysseas Elytis, Yannis Ritsos, Katerina Anghelaki-Rooke, and Jenny Mastoraki. She is a member of the online platform _Greek Poetry Now!_ (see Further Reading) and has been involved in _Farmakon_ magazine since its inception. The crossover with that group is clear in her poetry's themes: dreams, animals, nature. Her poems have also been translated into Spanish, French, Hungarian, Albanian, Serbian, Swedish, and English.\n\n_\u039f \u03b5\u03bb\u03ac\u03c7\u03b9\u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\u03c2 \u03ba\u03ae\u03c0\u03bf\u03c2_ ( _The_ _Minimal Garden_ ), Ikaros, 2006.\n\n## _\u039f \u03b5\u03bb\u03ac\u03c7\u03b9\u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\u03c2 \u03ba\u03ae\u03c0\u03bf\u03c2_\n\n\u0386\u03bd\u03bf\u03b9\u03be\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03c0\u03cc\u03c1\u03c4\u03b1\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03ae\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bb\u03b5\u03c2 \u03bc\u03ad\u03c3\u03b1 \u03b7 \u03bd\u03cd\u03c7\u03c4\u03b1\n\n\u03c0\u03b1\u03b3\u03b9\u03b4\u03b5\u03c5\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b7\n\n\u03c7\u03c9\u03c1\u03af\u03c2 \u03c8\u03c9\u03bc\u03af \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b2\u03b4\u03bf\u03bc\u03ac\u03b4\u03b5\u03c2 \u03bf\u03bb\u03cc\u03ba\u03bb\u03b7\u03c1\u03b5\u03c2\n\n\u03a4\u03ad\u03c4\u03bf\u03b9\u03bf\u03c2 \u03ac\u03bd\u03b8\u03c1\u03c9\u03c0\u03bf\u03c2 \u03b5\u03af\u03c3\u03b1\u03b9\n\n\u03b1\u03c6\u03ae\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03b2\u03c1\u03cd\u03c3\u03b5\u03c2 \u03b1\u03bd\u03bf\u03b9\u03c7\u03c4\u03ad\u03c2\n\n\u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c0\u03bb\u03b7\u03b3\u03ad\u03c2 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03ce\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd\n\n\u03c6\u03bf\u03c1\u03ac\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03b3\u03c5\u03b1\u03bb\u03b9\u03ac \u03c3\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b1\u03bd\u03ac\u03c0\u03bf\u03b4\u03b1\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03b2\u03bb\u03ad\u03c0\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2\n\n\u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b1\u03b9\u03b4\u03b9\u03ba\u03ac \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b1\u03c0\u03bf\u03cd\u03c4\u03c3\u03b9\u03b1\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03ba\u03ac\u03bb\u03c4\u03c3\u03b1 \u03ba\u03ac\u03c4\u03c9 \u03b1\u03c0' \u03c4\u03bf \u03b3\u03cc\u03bd\u03b1\u03c4\u03bf\n\n\u039d\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b1\u03bb\u03bb\u03ac \u03c4\u03b1 \u03b3\u03cc\u03bd\u03b1\u03c4\u03ac \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bc\u03b5\u03b3\u03ac\u03bb\u03c9\u03c3\u03b1\u03bd\n\n\u03c3\u03b1\u03bd \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u0391\u03bb\u03af\u03ba\u03b7\u03c2\n\n\u03c0\u03ae\u03c1\u03b5 \u03bf \u03ba\u03ae\u03c0\u03bf\u03c2 \u03bc\u03b1\u03c2 \u03c6\u03c9\u03c4\u03b9\u03ac \u03b1\u03c0' \u03c4\u03bf \u03c0\u03bf\u03bb\u03cd \u03c6\u03b5\u03b3\u03b3\u03ac\u03c1\u03b9\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bf\u03b9 \u03c6\u03c9\u03bd\u03ad\u03c2 \u03c4\u03c9\u03bd \u03ba\u03b1\u03bb\u03b5\u03c3\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03c9\u03bd\n\n\u03b1\u03ba\u03cc\u03bc\u03b1 \u03ba\u03c5\u03bd\u03b7\u03b3\u03ac\u03bd\u03b5 \u03c4\u03bf \u03b3\u03b1\u03c4\u03ac\u03ba\u03b9\n\n\u03bc\u03ad\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03c0\u03b7\u03b3\u03ac\u03b4\u03b9\n\n\u03a4\u03ce\u03c1\u03b1 \u03b2\u03bb\u03ad\u03c0\u03c9 \u03c4\u03bf \u03b4\u03c9\u03bc\u03ac\u03c4\u03b9\u03bf\n\n\u03ba\u03ac\u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03c8\u03b7\u03bb\u03ac\n\n\u03bc\u03b9\u03ba\u03c1\u03cc \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03b2\u03ac\u03b8\u03bf\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf \u03ba\u03c1\u03b5\u03b2\u03ac\u03c4\u03b9 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u0386\u03b3\u03c1\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c0\u03c1\u03ac\u03b3\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1 \u03b1\u03c0\u03bf\u03ba\u03c1\u03bf\u03c5\u03c3\u03c4\u03b9\u03ba\u03ac\n\n\u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03ba\u03c1\u03bf\u03cd\u03c3\u03c4\u03b9\u03ba\u03b1.\n\n## _The Minimal Garden_\n\nYou opened the door\n\nand there it was: the night\n\ntrapped\n\nfor weeks on end with no bread to eat\n\nThat's the kind of person you are\n\nyou leave taps running\n\nwounds bleeding\n\nyou wear your glasses inside out\n\nyou see me wearing the shoes I wore as a child\n\nand my stockings up to my knees\n\nBut my knees grew like Alice's\n\nour garden caught fire because of too much moonshine\n\nand the voices of our guests are still after the kitten\n\nin the well\n\nNow I see the room\n\nfrom somewhere high up\n\nin the background my little bed\n\nWild things\n\nprovocatively ugly\n\nProcrustean.\n\nKaterina Anghelaki-Rooke\n\n## _\u039c\u03b1\u03cd\u03c1\u03bf \u03c7\u03b1\u03ca\u03ba\u03bf\u03cd_\n\n\u00ab\u0395\u03af\u03b4\u03b1 \u03b4\u03cd\u03bf \u03c3\u03ba\u03bf\u03c5\u03bb\u03ae\u03ba\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b5\u03c1\u03bd\u03bf\u03cd\u03bd\n\n\u03b4\u03af\u03c0\u03bb\u03b1 \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03ba\u03cc\u03ba\u03b1\u03bb\u03bf\u00bb\n\n\u03b5\u03af\u03c0\u03b5 \u03bf \u03c0\u03b1\u03c4\u03ad\u03c1\u03b1\u03c2 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u0389\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd \u03bd\u03b5\u03ba\u03c1\u03cc\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b1\u03c0\u03bb\u03ac \u03c3\u03c5\u03b6\u03b7\u03c4\u03ac\u03b3\u03b1\u03bc\u03b5\n\n(\u03a4\u03bf \u03cc\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9\u03c1\u03bf \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03cc \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c0\u03c1\u03b1\u03b3\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03b9\u03ba\u03cc\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03ba\u03ac\u03b8\u03b5 \u03bf\u03bc\u03bf\u03b9\u03cc\u03c4\u03b7\u03c4\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03c0\u03bf\u03af\u03b7\u03c3\u03b7\n\n\u03b5\u03bd\u03c4\u03b5\u03bb\u03ce\u03c2 \u03c4\u03c5\u03c7\u03b1\u03af\u03b1)\n\n\u00ab\u03a4\u03b9 \u03bb\u03b5\u03c2;\u00bb \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bb\u03ad\u03c9\n\n\u00ab\u03a4\u03af\u03c0\u03bf\u03c4\u03b1\u00bb \u03bb\u03ad\u03b5\u03b9\n\n\u00ab\u0391\u03c0\u03bb\u03ac \u03b4\u03c5\u03bf \u03c3\u03ba\u03bf\u03c5\u03bb\u03ae\u03ba\u03b9\u03b1\n\n\u03c0\u03ad\u03c1\u03b1\u03c3\u03b1\u03bd \u03b4\u03af\u03c0\u03bb\u03b1 \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03c4\u03bf \u03c0\u03cc\u03b4\u03b9 \u03c3\u03bf\u03c5\u00bb\n\n\u00ab\u0391\u03c1\u03ba\u03b5\u03c4\u03ac \u03bc\u03b1\u03cd\u03c1\u03bf _\u03c7\u03b1\u03ca\u03ba\u03bf\u03cd_\n\n\u03b4\u03b5 \u03bd\u03bf\u03bc\u03af\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2;\u00bb \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bb\u03ad\u03c9\n\n\u0393\u03b5\u03bb\u03ac\u03c3\u03b1\u03bc\u03b5 \u03ba\u03b9 \u03b1\u03bb\u03bb\u03ac\u03be\u03b1\u03bc\u03b5 \u03ba\u03bf\u03c5\u03b2\u03ad\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\n\n\u03a4\u03bf \u03cc\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9\u03c1\u03bf \u03ae\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd \u03b3\u03b5\u03bc\u03ac\u03c4\u03bf \u03ad\u03bd\u03c4\u03bf\u03bc\u03b1\n\n\u03c3\u03bc\u03ae\u03bd\u03b7 \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03bc\u03b1\u03cd\u03c1\u03b5\u03c2 \u03bc\u03cd\u03b3\u03b5\u03c2\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03ba\u03ac\u03c4\u03b9 \u03bc\u03b5\u03b3\u03ac\u03bb\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u03ac\u03be\u03b5\u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03c5\u03c1\u03bc\u03ae\u03b3\u03ba\u03b9\u03b1\n\n\u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u03b1\u03c4\u03b7\u03c1\u03bf\u03cd\u03c3\u03b1 \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03b1\u03c6\u03cd\u03c3\u03b9\u03ba\u03b1 \u03ba\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03ac\n\n\u03c7\u03c9\u03c1\u03af\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03c0\u03b1\u03bd\u03b9\u03ba\u03cc \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03ba\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1\u03b2\u03ac\u03bb\u03bb\u03b5\u03b9\n\n\u03c3\u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u03bf\u03c5\u03c3\u03af\u03b1 \u03c4\u03c9\u03bd \u03b5\u03bd\u03c4\u03cc\u03bc\u03c9\u03bd\n\n\u03a5\u03c0\u03ac\u03c1\u03c7\u03b5\u03b9 \u03bc\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b1\u03b3\u03c9\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b7 \u03b7\u03c3\u03c5\u03c7\u03af\u03b1\n\n\u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ba\u03ac\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03c6\u03cc\u03b2\u03bf \u03c9\u03c1\u03b1\u03af\u03b1 \u03b1\u03bd\u03ac\u03bc\u03bd\u03b7\u03c3\u03b7\n\n\u03a4\u03c1\u03cc\u03bc\u03b1\u03b6\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b9\u03ba\u03c1\u03ae \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c3\u03ba\u03bf\u03c5\u03bb\u03ae\u03ba\u03b9\u03b1\n\n\u03ac\u03bb\u03bb\u03b1\u03b6\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c1\u03b5\u03af\u03b1 \u03cc\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c5\u03bd\u03b1\u03bd\u03c4\u03bf\u03cd\u03c3\u03b1\n\n\u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03bc\u03ad\u03c1\u03b5\u03c2 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03b2\u03c1\u03bf\u03c7\u03ad\u03c2\n\n\u0388\u03bc\u03bf\u03b9\u03b1\u03b6\u03b1\u03bd \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c6\u03bb\u03ad\u03b2\u03b5\u03c2\n\n\u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c3\u03ad\u03c1\u03bd\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03c7\u03ce\u03bc\u03b1\n\n\u03ae \u03bc\u03b5 \u03bb\u03b5\u03c0\u03c4\u03ac \u03b6\u03c9\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd\u03ac \u03b5\u03bd\u03c4\u03cc\u03c3\u03b8\u03b9\u03b1\n\n\u03bc\u03b5\u03c4\u03ac \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03ba\u03ac\u03c0\u03bf\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b5\u03c1\u03af\u03c4\u03b5\u03c7\u03bd\u03b7 \u03ba\u03c1\u03b5\u03bf\u03c5\u03c1\u03b3\u03af\u03b1\n\n\u039c\u03b1\u03b6\u03af \u03ba\u03b9 \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03ae \u03b7 \u03c6\u03c1\u03b9\u03ba\u03b9\u03b1\u03c3\u03c4\u03b9\u03ba\u03ae\n\n\u03ba\u03c5\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03bf\u03b5\u03b9\u03b4\u03ae\u03c2 \u03ba\u03af\u03bd\u03b7\u03c3\u03ae \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2\n\n\u03cc\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd \u03cc\u03bb\u03b7 \u03b7 \u03cd\u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u03be\u03b7 \u03bf\u03c1\u03bc\u03ac\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03bc\u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03c2\n\n\u03c3\u03c7\u03b5\u03b4\u03cc\u03bd \u03b1\u03b4\u03b5\u03b9\u03ac\u03b6\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03c2 \u03cc,\u03c4\u03b9 \u03b1\u03c0\u03bf\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9\n\n\u0391\u03c1\u03b3\u03cc\u03c4\u03b5\u03c1\u03b1 \u03c3\u03ba\u03ad\u03c6\u03c4\u03b7\u03ba\u03b1 \u03cc\u03c4\u03b9 \u03ad\u03c4\u03c3\u03b9\n\n\u03bc\u03b5\u03c4\u03b1\u03ba\u03b9\u03bd\u03b5\u03af\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bf \u03c7\u03c1\u03cc\u03bd\u03bf\u03c2\n\n\u038c\u03c0\u03c9\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bf\u03b9 \u03ba\u03ac\u03bc\u03c0\u03b9\u03b5\u03c2\n\n\u03a0\u03c1\u03b9\u03bd \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03bc\u03ad\u03c1\u03b5\u03c2 \u03b5\u03af\u03b4\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03bc\u03c0\u03b1\u03bb\u03ba\u03cc\u03bd\u03b9 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u03c0\u03c9\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03bc\u03c5\u03c1\u03bc\u03ae\u03b3\u03ba\u03b9\u03b1 \u03ad\u03c6\u03b1\u03b3\u03b1\u03bd \u03bc\u03af\u03b1 \u03b6\u03c9\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd\u03ae\n\n(\u0395\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c3\u03ba\u03b7\u03bd\u03ad\u03c2 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c3\u03c5\u03bc\u03b2\u03b1\u03af\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd\n\n\u03b1\u03ba\u03cc\u03bc\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03ba\u03ad\u03bd\u03c4\u03c1\u03bf \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u0391\u03b8\u03ae\u03bd\u03b1\u03c2)\n\n\u03a0\u03b1\u03c1\u03b1\u03c4\u03b7\u03c1\u03bf\u03cd\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c3\u03b1\u03bd \u03c4\u03bf \u03bc\u03ac\u03c4\u03b9 \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u039f\u03c5\u03c1\u03b1\u03bd\u03cc\n\n\u03a3\u03c5\u03bb\u03bb\u03bf\u03b3\u03b9\u03b6\u03cc\u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u2013 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03bf\u03c1\u03b3\u03ae \u2013\n\n\u03cc\u03c4\u03b9 \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03ae \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b7 \u03c3\u03c4\u03ac\u03c3\u03b7 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c3\u03ce\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03bf\u03c2\n\n\u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b1\u03b3\u03b1\u03c0\u03ac\u03bd\u03b5 \u03bf\u03b9 \u03bc\u03bf\u03bd\u03bf\u03b8\u03b5\u03ca\u03c3\u03c4\u03b9\u03ba\u03ad\u03c2 \u03b8\u03c1\u03b7\u03c3\u03ba\u03b5\u03af\u03b5\u03c2\n\n\u03a4\u03bf \u03c3\u03ce\u03bc\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c3\u03c0\u03b1\u03c3\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b7 \u03c1\u03b1\u03c7\u03bf\u03ba\u03bf\u03ba\u03b1\u03bb\u03b9\u03ac\n\n\u03c4\u03bf \u03c3\u03b5\u03c1\u03bd\u03ac\u03bc\u03b5\u03bd\u03bf\n\n\u03c4\u03bf \u03b5\u03be\u03b5\u03c5\u03c4\u03b5\u03bb\u03b9\u03c3\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf\n\n\u0397 \u03bf\u03c1\u03b3\u03ae \u03c0\u03b5\u03c1\u03bd\u03ac\u03b5\u03b9\n\n\u0391\u03c5\u03c4\u03ae \u03b7 \u03ba\u03af\u03bd\u03b7\u03c3\u03b7 \u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9\n\n\u039a\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c0\u03ac\u03bb\u03b9 \u03c3\u03ba\u03b5\u03c0\u03c4\u03cc\u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u2013 \u03b1\u03c1\u03b3\u03cc\u03c4\u03b5\u03c1\u03b1 \u2013\n\n\u03bc\u03ae\u03c0\u03c9\u03c2 \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03ad\u03c2 \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bf\u03b9 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b9\u03b3\u03bc\u03ad\u03c2\n\n\u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b7 \u03c8\u03c5\u03c7\u03ae \u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u03b1\u03ba\u03ac\u03bc\u03c0\u03c4\u03b5\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf \u03af\u03b4\u03b9\u03bf \u03c4\u03bf \u03c3\u03ce\u03bc\u03b1 \u03ad\u03c7\u03b5\u03b9 \u03b1\u03bd\u03ac\u03b3\u03ba\u03b7 \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u0398\u03b5\u03cc\n\n\u039c\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b1\u03bd\u03ac\u03b3\u03ba\u03b7 \u03c6\u03c5\u03c3\u03b9\u03bf\u03bb\u03bf\u03b3\u03b9\u03ba\u03ae\n\n\u03b1\u03bc\u03b5\u03c4\u03ac\u03ba\u03bb\u03b7\u03c4\u03b7\n\n\u03cc\u03c0\u03c9\u03c2 \u03cc\u03bb\u03b5\u03c2 \u03bf\u03b9 \u03c5\u03c0\u03cc\u03bb\u03bf\u03b9\u03c0\u03b5\u03c2\n\n\u03c4\u03b1\u03c0\u03b5\u03b9\u03bd\u03ae \u03b5\u03be\u03af\u03c3\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u03c3\u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03b3\u03bb\u03b9\u03c3\u03c4\u03b5\u03c1\u03ad\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c9\u03bb\u03b7\u03bd\u03ce\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2\n\n\u03c3\u03c4\u03b7 \u03bc\u03ad\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c6\u03b1\u03b3\u03ae\n\n## _Black_ Haiku\n\n'I saw two worms pass\n\nnext to a bone'\n\nmy father said\n\nHe was dead and we were simply talking\n\n(It was a real dream\n\nand any similarity to poetry\n\npurely accidental)\n\n'What do you mean?' I say\n\n'Nothing' he says, 'it was just\n\nthat two worms passed next to your foot'\n\n'Quite a dark _haiku_\n\ndon't you think?' I tell him\n\nWe both laughed and changed the subject\n\nThe dream was full of insects\n\na swarm of black flies\n\nand some large, strange ants\n\nwhich I watched unnaturally close\n\nwithout the panic that overwhelms me\n\nin the presence of insects\n\nThere's a kind of frozen quiet\n\nthat makes the fear a pleasant recollection\n\nI was scared of worms as a child\n\nI changed direction when I came across them\n\non rainy days\n\nThey looked like veins\n\nthat crawl over the ground\n\nor like thin, live entrails\n\nafter some elaborate massacre\n\nOn top of that there was their freaky\n\nwavelike movement\n\nas if the whole of existence rushes forward\n\nalmost emptying out whatever remains\n\nLater I thought\n\nthis is how time moves\n\nOr like the caterpillar\n\nOn my balcony just a few days ago\n\nI saw the ants eat one alive\n\n(the scenes that take place\n\neven in the center of Athens)\n\nI watched like an eye from the sky\n\ncontemplating \u2013 with rage \u2013\n\nthat this is the shape of the body\n\nthat monotheistic religions prefer\n\nThe body with a broken spine\n\ncrawling\n\nhumiliated\n\nThe rage passes\n\nThis movement remains\n\nAnd I was thinking again \u2013 later \u2013\n\nmaybe these are the moments\n\nwhen the soul is overcome\n\nand the body itself craves God\n\nA natural need\n\nnonnegotiable like all others\n\nsimilarly humble\n\nwithin the slippery conduits\n\nthe slaughter inside\n\nAdrianne Kalfopoulou\n\n## _\u03a3\u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u039c\u03af\u03bb\u03c4\u03bf \u03a3\u03b1\u03c7\u03c4\u03bf\u03cd\u03c1\u03b7_\n\n\u039d\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03b1\u03b3\u03b1\u03c0\u03ac\u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03c4\u03c1\u03ad\u03bb\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b1\u03c2\n\n\u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bc\u03b1\u03c2 \u03c7\u03bf\u03c1\u03b5\u03cd\u03b5\u03b9\n\n\u03bc\u03b5 \u03bc\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\u03c3\u03b9\u03ba\u03ae \u03c0\u03b7\u03c7\u03c4\u03ae\n\n\u03c3\u03b1\u03bd \u03c3\u03cd\u03bd\u03bd\u03b5\u03c6\u03bf\n\n\u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ba\u03bf\u03bb\u03bb\u03ac\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03b4\u03cc\u03bd\u03c4\u03b9\u03b1\n\n\u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03c4\u03c1\u03ad\u03bb\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b1\u03c2 \u03bd' \u03b1\u03b3\u03b1\u03c0\u03ac\u03bc\u03b5\n\n\u03c4\u03bf \u03ba\u03b1\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf \u03c6\u03b1\u0390 \u03c4\u03c9\u03bd \u03b1\u03c3\u03c4\u03c1\u03bf\u03bd\u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03ce\u03bd\n\n\u03ba\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03ac \u03ba\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03ac \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc\u03bb\u03c5\u03c4\u03bf \u03ae\u03bb\u03b9\u03bf\n\n\u03ba\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03ac \u03ba\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03ac \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03b1\u03c0\u03c1\u03cc\u03c3\u03bc\u03b5\u03bd\u03bf \u03ae\u03bb\u03b9\u03bf\n\n\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b7 \u03c3\u03b5\u03b2\u03cc\u03bc\u03b1\u03c3\u03c4\u03b5\n\n\u03cc\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd \u03be\u03c5\u03c0\u03bd\u03ac\u03bc\u03b5 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03bc\u03ac\u03c4\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bf\u03c1\u03b8\u03ac\u03bd\u03bf\u03b9\u03c7\u03c4\u03b1\n\n\u03bc\u03b5\u03c3\u03ac\u03bd\u03c5\u03c7\u03c4\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b1\u03cd\u03c1\u03b1\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b2\u03bb\u03ad\u03c0\u03bf\u03c5\u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03bf \u03bc\u03b1\u03cd\u03c1\u03bf\n\n\u03bc\u03b5 \u03cc\u03bb\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c7\u03c1\u03ce\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1\n\n\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03b1\u03b3\u03b1\u03c0\u03ac\u03bc\u03b5\n\n\u03cc\u03c0\u03c9\u03c2 \u03b1\u03b3\u03b1\u03c0\u03ac\u03b5\u03b9 \u03bf \u03b2\u03bf\u03c3\u03ba\u03cc\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b7 \u03b2\u03ad\u03c1\u03b3\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u03cc\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03bc\u03c0\u03ae\u03b3\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03c7\u03ce\u03bc\u03b1\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bb\u03ad\u03b5\u03b9 \u03b5\u03b4\u03ce \u03c3\u03c4\u03b1\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03ac\u03c9\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c3\u03c0\u03ac\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c7\u03ad\u03c1\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\n\n## _For Miltos Sachtouris_\n\nLet us love our madness\n\nshe dances for us\n\nwith opaque music\n\nlike a cloud\n\nthat sticks to our teeth\n\nlet us love our madness\n\nthe burnt food of astronauts\n\nside by side with the absolute sun\n\nside by side with the unexpected sun\n\nlet us respect our madness\n\nwhen we wake up with wide open eyes\n\nin the middle of the blackest night\n\nand we see all the shades\n\nof black\n\nlet us love our madness\n\nthe way the shepherd loves his staff\n\nwhen he thrusts it in the ground\n\nand says: this is where I stop\n\nand it breaks in his hands.\n\nKaterina Anghelaki-Rooke\n\n## _Fractal_\n\n\u039c\u03b5\u03c1\u03b9\u03ba\u03ad\u03c2 \u03c6\u03bf\u03c1\u03ad\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf \u03bd\u03b5\u03c1\u03cc\n\n\u03c6\u03c4\u03ac\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c0\u03b9\u03bf \u03c8\u03b7\u03bb\u03ac \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03bc\u03c0\u03cc\u03c4\u03b5\u03c2\n\n\u03ba\u03b9 \u03cc\u03bb\u03b1 \u03b3\u03af\u03bd\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b5\u03bd\u03ac\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b3\u03b5\u03bc\u03ac\u03c4\u03b1 \u03ba\u03c1\u03b1\u03c5\u03b3\u03ad\u03c2 \u03c3\u03b1\u03bd \u03c3\u03c7\u03bf\u03bb\u03b5\u03af\u03bf\n\n\u0391\u03bb\u03bb\u03ac \u03b5\u03b3\u03ce \u03b5\u03c0\u03b9\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03c9\n\n\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c3\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bc\u03b9\u03bb\u03ac\u03c9 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03b5\u03bd\u03b9\u03ba\u03cc\n\n\u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u03cc\u03bb\u03bf \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ba\u03ac\u03b8\u03b5 \u03cd\u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u03be\u03ae \u03c3\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u03ad\u03c7\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03c3\u03c4\u03b9\u03b3\u03bc\u03ae \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf \u03c0\u03bb\u03ae\u03b8\u03bf\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2\n\n\u03b8\u03c5\u03bc\u03af\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c0\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03c1\u03b1\u03c4\u03cc\u03c0\u03b5\u03b4\u03bf \u03c3\u03c5\u03b3\u03ba\u03ad\u03bd\u03c4\u03c1\u03c9\u03c3\u03b7\u03c2\n\n\u03cc\u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b5\u03af\u03bc\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b1\u03bd\u03b1\u03b3\u03ba\u03b1\u03c3\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b7\n\n\u03bd\u03b1 \u03b5\u03c0\u03b9\u03b2\u03ac\u03bb\u03bb\u03c9 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03c4\u03ac\u03be\u03b7\n\n\u03a0\u03af\u03c3\u03c4\u03b5\u03c8\u03ad \u03bc\u03b5\n\n\u03b5\u03b3\u03ce \u03bc\u03cc\u03bd\u03bf \u03b4\u03b9\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1\u03b3\u03ad\u03c2 \u03b5\u03ba\u03c4\u03b5\u03bb\u03bf\u03cd\u03c3\u03b1\n\n\u0389\u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03c3\u03ce\u03bc\u03b1\n\n\u03a0\u03b1\u03c1\u03ad\u03bb\u03b1\u03c3\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b9 \u03b5\u03b3\u03ce\n\n\u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03bc\u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u03cc\u03ba \u03c4\u03ac\u03b3\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c7\u03ac\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2\n\n\u039f \u03c7\u03c1\u03cc\u03bd\u03bf\u03c2 \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03ad\u03b3\u03ba\u03bb\u03b7\u03bc\u03b1\n\n## _Fractal_\n\nSometimes the water\n\nreaches higher than boots\n\nand everything becomes cramped\n\nand full of screams like a school\n\nBut I still insist\n\non speaking to you in the singular\n\nalthough every one of your existences\n\nhas its moment\n\nand their crowds\n\nsuggest a concentration camp\n\nwhere I have no choice but\n\nto enforce measures\n\nBelieve me\n\nI was only following orders\n\nI was a body\n\nI marched too\n\nwithin the baroque units of chaos\n\nTime is crime\n\nAdrianne Kalfopoulou\n\n## Theodoros Chiotis\n\n#### (Born Athens, Greece, 1977)\n\nTheodoros Chiotis is equally at home in Greek and English; it is hard to know which language each poem might have started life in, since they are often developed simultaneously in both. He studied Classics at the University of London and at Oxford and is currently a D.Phil. candidate in Modern and Medieval Languages at Oxford. His research interests include Greek literature and geographies of language. Under his direction the Cavafy Archive at the Onassis Foundation in Athens has focused on multimedia translation, digitalization, and school outreach programs. He has edited an anthology of Greek crisis poetry in English for Penned in the Margins (see Further Reading). His first collection, _Theory of the Machine_ _,_ is forthcoming from Farmakon (2016).\n\n## _\u0396\u03ce\u03bd\u03b5\u03c2 \u03b4\u03b9\u03b1\u03b2\u03af\u03b2\u03b1\u03c3\u03b7\u03c2_\n\n##### 1.\n\n\u00ab\u0391\u03c2 \u03b5\u03b9\u03c0\u03c9\u03b8\u03b5\u03af\n\n\u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03ba\u03cc\u03c3\u03bc\u03bf \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bc\u03ad\u03bb\u03bb\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03bf\u03c2\u00bb:\n\n\u03b8\u03b1 \u03bc\u03c0\u03bf\u03c1\u03bf\u03cd\u03bc\u03b5 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03b1\u03bd\u03b1\u03c0\u03bd\u03ad\u03bf\u03c5\u03bc\u03b5 \u03b1\u03ba\u03cc\u03bc\u03b7 \u03ba\u03b9\n\n\u03cc\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd \u03bf \u03b1\u03ad\u03c1\u03b1\u03c2 \u03b3\u03af\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c0\u03c5\u03ba\u03bd\u03cc\u03c4\u03b5\u03c1\u03bf\u03c2.\n\n\u039c\u03b1\u03b8\u03b1\u03af\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5\u03bc\u03b5 \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u0394\u03c1. \u039c\u03bf\u03c1\u03ce\n\n\u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03b1\u03c0\u03b1\u03b9\u03c4\u03bf\u03cd\u03bc\u03b5\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03ba\u03ce\u03b4\u03b9\u03ba\u03b5\u03c2 \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b7 \u03c3\u03cd\u03bd\u03b8\u03b5\u03c3\u03b7 \u03bd\u03ad\u03c9\u03bd \u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03c3\u03ce\u03c0\u03c9\u03bd.\n\n##### 2.\n\n\u03a3\u03c4\u03c1\u03b1\u03c4\u03b9\u03ce\u03c4\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b8\u03ad\u03c1\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2\n\n\u03b6\u03b7\u03bb\u03c9\u03c4\u03ad\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bb\u03c5\u03ba\u03cc\u03c6\u03c9\u03c4\u03bf\u03c2\n\n\u03c3\u03c0\u03af\u03c4\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ad\u03b3\u03b9\u03bd\u03b1\u03bd \u03c3\u03c4\u03c1\u03b1\u03c4\u03ce\u03bd\u03b5\u03c2.\n\n\u038c\u03bb\u03b1 \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03ac \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc\u03b7\u03c7\u03bf\u03b9 \u03c4\u03c9\u03bd \u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03b7\u03b3\u03bf\u03cd\u03bc\u03b5\u03bd\u03c9\u03bd \u03c7\u03c1\u03cc\u03bd\u03c9\u03bd:\n\n\u00ab\u0394\u03b5\u03bd \u03c7\u03c1\u03b7\u03c3\u03b9\u03bc\u03bf\u03c0\u03bf\u03b9\u03ae\u03c3\u03b1\u03bc\u03b5 \u03c3\u03c9\u03c3\u03c4\u03ac \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd\n\n\u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03b7\u03b3\u03bf\u03cd\u03bc\u03b5\u03bd\u03bf \u03c7\u03b5\u03b9\u03bc\u03ce\u03bd\u03b1,\n\n\u03bc\u03b1 \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03bc\u03c0\u03bf\u03c1\u03bf\u03cd\u03c3\u03b1\u03bc\u03b5 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03ba\u03ac\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5\u03bc\u03b5 \u03ba\u03b9 \u03b1\u03bb\u03bb\u03b9\u03ce\u03c2,\n\n\u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03cc\u03c3\u03bf \u03b2\u03c1\u03b9\u03c3\u03ba\u03cc\u03bc\u03b1\u03c3\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd \u03c3\u03b5 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b8\u03b5\u03c3\u03c4\u03ce\u03c2 \u03c5\u03c0\u03bf\u03c4\u03ad\u03bb\u03b5\u03b9\u03b1\u03c2\u00bb.\n\n##### 3.\n\n\u03a0\u03b1\u03af\u03be\u03b5 Grand Theft Auto.\n\n\u039e\u03ac\u03c0\u03bb\u03c9\u03c3\u03b5 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03c7\u03ce\u03bc\u03b1.\n\n\u039c\u03b7 \u03b4\u03b7\u03bc\u03b9\u03bf\u03c5\u03c1\u03b3\u03b5\u03af\u03c2 \u03c6\u03b1\u03c3\u03b1\u03c1\u03af\u03b5\u03c2.\n\n\u039c\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b5\u03b9\u03c3\u03b2\u03bf\u03bb\u03ae, \u03c0\u03b5\u03c1\u03b9\u03b3\u03b5\u03b3\u03c1\u03b1\u03bc\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b7 \u03c3\u03b5 \u03bc\u03b9\u03b1 \u03ba\u03ac\u03c0\u03bf\u03c4\u03b5 \u03b3\u03bd\u03c9\u03c3\u03c4\u03ae \u03b3\u03bb\u03ce\u03c3\u03c3\u03b1:\n\n\u00ab\u0391\u03bd \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03c3\u03c5\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9\u03c3\u03c6\u03ad\u03c1\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03ba\u03af\u03bd\u03b7\u03bc\u03b1\n\n\u03c4\u03cc\u03c4\u03b5 \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1\u03c4\u03af \u03b5\u03af\u03c3\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b5\u03b4\u03ce;\u00bb\n\n##### 4.\n\n\u0394\u03ce\u03c3\u03b5 (\u03c4\u03bf) \u03c3\u03ce\u03bc\u03b1 (\u03c3\u03bf\u03c5)\n\n\u03c3\u03b5 \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03cc \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03c3\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bc\u03bf\u03b9\u03ac\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9.\n\n\u039c\u03c0\u03bf\u03c1\u03b5\u03af \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf \u03b2\u03bb\u03ad\u03c0\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03b4\u03b9\u03b1\u03c6\u03bf\u03c1\u03b5\u03c4\u03b9\u03ba\u03ac \u03b1\u03bb\u03bb\u03ac\n\n\u03c4\u03bf _\u03a8\u03c5\u03c7\u03ce_ \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03b1\u03bd\u03b1\u03c6\u03b5\u03c1\u03cc\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd \u03c0\u03bf\u03c4\u03ad \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03c5\u03b3\u03b9\u03b5\u03b9\u03bd\u03ae.\n\n##### 5.\n\n\u039f\u03b4\u03b7\u03b3\u03af\u03b5\u03c2:\n\n\u039c\u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b5 \u03b1\u03ba\u03af\u03bd\u03b7\u03c4\u03bf\u03c2.\n\n\u03a3\u03ba\u03cc\u03c1\u03c0\u03b9\u03c3\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03b9\u03bb\u03b1\u03c1\u03cc\u03c4\u03b7\u03c4\u03b1.\n\n\u0394\u03b9\u03ac\u03bb\u03c5\u03c3\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b7 \u03bc\u03ac\u03b6\u03c9\u03be\u03b7.\n\n\u039a\u03b1\u03c4\u03ac\u03bb\u03b1\u03b2\u03b5 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c4\u03ad\u03c3\u03c3\u03b5\u03c1\u03b1 \u03b7\u03bc\u03b9\u03c3\u03c6\u03b1\u03af\u03c1\u03b9\u03b1.\n\n\u0395\u03c0\u03b1\u03bd\u03ac\u03bb\u03b1\u03b2\u03b5 \u03ba\u03ac\u03c4\u03b9 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03c5\u03c0\u03ae\u03c1\u03c7\u03b5 \u03ce\u03c2 \u03c4\u03ce\u03c1\u03b1.\n\n##### 6.\n\n\u0388\u03bd\u03b1\u03c2 \u03c7\u03ac\u03c1\u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03bd\u03ad\u03bf \u03b1\u03bd\u03b1\u03c0\u03bd\u03b5\u03c5\u03c3\u03c4\u03b9\u03ba\u03cc \u03c3\u03cd\u03c3\u03c4\u03b7\u03bc\u03b1.\n\n\u03a5\u03c0\u03bf\u03be\u03b5\u03af\u03b4\u03b9\u03bf \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b1\u03b6\u03ce\u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b1\u03bd\u03c4\u03b9\u03ba\u03b1\u03c4\u03b5\u03c3\u03c4\u03b7\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03b4\u03b1\u03ba\u03c1\u03c5\u03b3\u03cc\u03bd\u03bf.\n\n\u03a4\u03b1 \u03cc\u03c1\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b1\u03bd\u03ac\u03bc\u03b5\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03ba\u03b5\u03c6\u03ac\u03bb\u03b9 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf \u03c0\u03c1\u03cc\u03c3\u03c9\u03c0\u03bf \u03ba\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1\u03c1\u03c1\u03ad\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd.\n\n\u03a4\u03ce\u03c1\u03b1: \u03c7\u03ac\u03c1\u03b1\u03be\u03b5 \u03ba\u03b1\u03c4\u03ac \u03bc\u03ae\u03ba\u03bf\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ba\u03b1\u03bc\u03b2\u03ac.\n\n## _Zones of Frequency_\n\n##### 1.\n\n'Let it be told\n\nto the future world':\n\nWe will still be able to breathe\n\nwhen the air turns thicker.\n\nWe are learning from Doctor Moreau\n\nthe codes needed to assemble new faces.\n\n##### 2.\n\nSummer soldiers\n\ntwilight zealots\n\nhomes turned into barracks.\n\nAll these are echoes of previous years:\n\n'We did not make proper use of\n\nlast winter,\n\nneither could we,\n\nwhile we were in a dependent state'\n\n##### 3.\n\nPlay Grand Theft Auto.\n\nLay on the ground.\n\nDon't cause trouble.\n\nAn invasion, described in a once familiar language:\n\n'If you are not contributing to (the) movement\n\nthen why are you here?'\n\n##### 4.\n\nGive (your) body\n\nto what does not resemble you.\n\nYou might think otherwise but\n\n_Psycho_ was never about hygiene.\n\n##### 5.\n\nInstructions:\n\nSit still.\n\nDisplace the mirth.\n\nBreak the meeting.\n\nOccupy all four hemispheres.\n\nRepeat something that did not exist until now.\n\n##### 6.\n\nA map for a new respiratory system.\n\nNitrous oxide replaced by tear gas.\n\nOur head and face boundaries collapse.\n\nNow: cut across the canvas.\n\nSelf-translated\n\n## Christos Angelakos\n\n#### (Born Athens, Greece, 1962)\n\nChristos Angelakos is an ardent fan of Amy Winehouse, and listens to music while he writes, often channeling the rhythms directly into his poetry and prose. His macabre imagination is fueled by the gothic strain in both French- and English-language traditions. He studied Byzantine and Modern Greek Studies at the University of Athens and at the Sorbonne with a dissertation on the poet and novelist Aris Alexandrou. He has published two novels and a collection of poetry, and translated Jean Starobinski's essays into Greek. He writes criticism for Greece's best literary magazines and has created a series for the National Radio Station on the poets and prose writers of the Generation of the 1970s.\n\n_\u03a4\u03b1 \u03c6\u03ce\u03c4\u03b1 \u03b1\u03c0\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1\u03bd\u03c4\u03b9_ ( _The Lights across the Way_ ), Ikaros, 2008.\n\u0391\u03bd \u03b2\u03c5\u03b8\u03b9\u03c3\u03c4\u03b5\u03af\u03c2 \u03bc\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03ba\u03b5\u03c6\u03ac\u03bb\u03b9 \u03c3\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03bd\u03b5\u03af\u03c2 \u03b4\u03b5 \u03b8\u03b1 \u03bc\u03c0\u03bf\u03c1\u03ad\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c3\u03b5 \u03c3\u03ce\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9\n\n\u03bf\u03cd\u03c4\u03b5 \u03bf\u03b9 \u03b4\u03cd\u03c4\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c0\u03c5\u03ba\u03bd\u03ce\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03bd\u03b1\u03c5\u03ac\u03b3\u03b9\u03bf\n\n\u03b1\u03bd\u03bf\u03af\u03b3\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b9\u03b2\u03ce\u03c4\u03b9\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b2\u03b3\u03ac\u03b6\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03c2 \u03bd\u03bf\u03bc\u03af\u03c3\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1\n\n\u03c7\u03c4\u03b5\u03bd\u03ac\u03ba\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03c6\u03af\u03bb\u03bd\u03c4\u03b9\u03c3\u03b9 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b3\u03b9\u03bf\u03c1\u03c4\u03b9\u03bd\u03bf\u03cd\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b1\u03c6\u03c4\u03ac\u03b4\u03b5\u03c2\n\n\u03bf\u03cd\u03c4\u03b5 \u03b7 \u03b3\u03c5\u03bd\u03b1\u03af\u03ba\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ad\u03b3\u03c1\u03b1\u03c8\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b7 \u03bc\u03bf\u03af\u03c1\u03b1 \u03c3\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u03ba\u03c1\u03b1\u03c4\u03ce\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf \u03c1\u03ac\u03bc\u03c6\u03bf\u03c2 \u03b5\u03bd\u03cc\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c6\u03b1\u03b3\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u03ba\u03cc\u03ba\u03bf\u03c1\u03b1 \u03c3\u03b1\u03bd \u03c0\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1\n\n\u03bf\u03cd\u03c4\u03b5 \u03ba\u03b9 \u03b5\u03b3\u03ce\n\n\u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc\u03c8\u03b5 \u03c4\u03bf '\u03b8\u03b5\u03bb\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bf\u03bb\u03cd \u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b7\u03bd \u03c5\u03c0\u03ac\u03c1\u03c7\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2\nIf you dive inside your head\n\nno one can save you\n\nnot the divers who fill the shipwreck\n\nopening boxes and removing coins,\n\nebony combs and party taffetas\n\nnor the woman who wrote your fate\n\nwith the beak\n\nof a sacrificial rooster for a pen\n\nnor I\n\nwho wish tonight\n\nyou didn't exist\n\nKaren Van Dyck\n\n## Yannis Livadas\n\n#### (Born Kalamata, Greece, 1969)\n\nThe poetry of Yannis Livadas focuses on opening up poetic forms through the juxtaposition of thesis and content. He never fulfilled his Greek military service and refused to participate in formal schooling or attend university because of his individualist and anarchist beliefs. In both his own poetry and his literary criticism he promotes artistic production in which indeterminacy of meaning as well as syntactical and structural innovation, what he calls _organic antimetathesis_ , is paramount. Poetry for him is an autonomous creative act, not expressive of anything else. His poems have been translated into English, French, Indian (Bangla), Croatian, Irish, Spanish, Serbian, and Hungarian. He is also an editor, critic, translator, and independent scholar. He lives in Paris, France, and blogs at livadaspoetry.blogspot.fr.\n\n_\u0386\u03c0\u03c4\u03b5\u03c1\u03bf\u03c2 \u039d\u03af\u03ba\u03b7\/\u039c\u03c0\u03af\u03b6\u03bd\u03b5\u03c2\/\u03a3\u03c6\u03b9\u03b3\u03be_ ( _Apteral Nike\/Business\/Sphinx_ ), Iridanos, 2008; John Coltrane & 15 Poems for Jazz, Marimbo Press, 2008; The Margins of a Central Man, Graffiti Kolkata, 2010; Kelifus, Cold Turkey Press, 2011; Ravaged by the Hand of Beauty, Cold Turkey Press, 2011; _\u0386\u03c4\u03b7 \u2013 \u03a3\u03ba\u03cc\u03c1\u03c0\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bf\u03b9\u03ae\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1 2001-2009_ ( _Ati \u2013 Scattered Poems 2001\u20132009_ ), Kedros, 2011; _La Chope Daguerre + \u03c0\u03bf\u03b9\u03ae\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b5\u03bb\u03cd\u03c6\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2_ ( _La Chope Daguerre + Husk Poems_ ), Kedros, 2013; _\u0397\u03c7\u03bf\u03cd\u03bd \u03bf\u03c3\u03c4\u03ac_ ( _Sound Bones_ ), Iolkos, 2014; Strictly Two, Sea Urchin Editions, 2015; _\u03a4\u03bf \u03be\u03af\u03b3\u03ba\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03bc\u03cd\u03b3\u03b1\u03c2_ ( _The Fat of the Fly_ ), Kedros, 2015; _\u039c\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03ac\u03c1\u03c4_ ( _Modart_ ), Alloglotta Editions, 2015.\n\n## \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 _\u039c\u03c0\u03ac\u03c3\u03c4\u03b1\u03c1\u03b4\u03b5\u03c2 \u0395\u03bb\u03b5\u03b3\u03b5\u03af\u03b5\u03c2_\n\n1.\n\n\u039c\u03b5\u03c4\u03ac \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03c0\u03bf\u03bb\u03bb\u03ac \u03c7\u03b5\u03b9\u03c1\u03cc\u03b3\u03c1\u03b1\u03c6\u03b1\n\n\u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03c4\u03b9\u03bc\u03ce \u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c7\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03c1\u03ad\u03c2 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b8\u03b5\u03af\u03b5\u03c2\n\n\u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bb\u03ad\u03bd\u03b5 \u03c0\u03c9\u03c2 \u03b5\u03af\u03bc\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b5\u03c5\u03b3\u03b5\u03bd\u03b9\u03ba\u03cc\u03c2\n\n\u03cc,\u03c4\u03b9 \u03c0\u03b5\u03c1\u03bd\u03ac\u03b5\u03b9 \u03bc\u03ad\u03c3\u03b1 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c0\u03b5\u03c1\u03bd\u03ac \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03b8\u03ac\u03bd\u03b1\u03c4\u03bf\n\n\u03bf\u03b9 \u03c7\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03c1\u03ad\u03c2 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b8\u03b5\u03af\u03b5\u03c2 \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03ba\u03ae\u03c1\u03c5\u03ba\u03b5\u03c2\n\n\u03bc\u03b9\u03bb\u03ac\u03bd\u03b5 \u03c3\u03b5 \u03ac\u03b3\u03bd\u03c9\u03c3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03bb\u03bf\u03c5\u03bb\u03bf\u03cd\u03b4\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b2\u03b1\u03b8\u03cd\u03bd\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9\n\n\u03c3\u03bf\u03bd\u03ad\u03c4\u03b1 \u03b1\u03bd\u03b1\u03c0\u03bf\u03bb\u03bf\u03cd\u03bd \u03c4\u03b7 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\u03c3\u03b9\u03ba\u03ae \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2\n\n\u03b1\u03bc\u03cd\u03b8\u03b7\u03c4\u03b1 \u03b1\u03c5\u03b3\u03ac \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03cd\u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u03be\u03b7\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c0\u03ac\u03bd\u03b5\n\n\u03bc\u03ad\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03ba\u03b1\u03c1\u03bc\u03b9\u03ba\u03cc \u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03b8\u03b1\u03bb\u03ac\u03bc\u03b9\u03bf \u03c3\u03c4\u03cc\u03bc\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03ad\u03c7\u03b9\u03b4\u03bd\u03b1\u03c2\n\n\u03c3\u03b5 \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1\u03bd \u03ba\u03cc\u03c3\u03bc\u03bf \u03b1\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9\u03c3\u03b8\u03b7\u03c4\u03b9\u03ba\u03cc \u03b2\u03b1\u03b8\u03cd\u03bd\u03bf\u03bc\u03b1\u03b9\n\n\u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03b1\u03c3\u03ba\u03b1\u03c5\u03bb\u03b9\u03ba\u03ae \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b4\u03b9\u03ac\u03bb\u03b5\u03ba\u03c4\u03bf\n\n\u03bf \u03c0\u03b1\u03bb\u03bc\u03bf\u03b3\u03c1\u03ac\u03c6\u03bf\u03c2 \u03bc\u03b9\u03b1\u03c2 \u03bd\u03ad\u03b1\u03c2 \u03c6\u03b1\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03c3\u03af\u03b1\u03c2\n\n\u03c7\u03c9\u03c1\u03ac\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7 \u03c7\u03ac\u03c1\u03c4\u03b9\u03bd\u03b7 \u03b2\u03b1\u03bb\u03af\u03c4\u03c3\u03b1 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u03b1\u03bd \u03b7 \u03c8\u03c5\u03c7\u03ae \u03b8\u03b5\u03bb\u03ae\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03c8\u03c5\u03c7\u03ae \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c0\u03c5\u03c1\u03c0\u03bf\u03bb\u03ae\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9\n\n\u03ad\u03c7\u03c9 \u03bc\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b3\u03c1\u03ae\u03b3\u03bf\u03c1\u03b7 \u03c3\u03ba\u03ad\u03c8\u03b7 \u03c9\u03c3\u03c4\u03cc\u03c3\u03bf \u03b1\u03c1\u03b3\u03bf\u03ba\u03af\u03bd\u03b7\u03c4\u03b7\n\n\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03b1\u03af\u03c3\u03b8\u03b7\u03bc\u03b1 \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03cc\u03c1\u03b1\u03bc\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03b3\u03bb\u03ce\u03c3\u03c3\u03b1\u03c2\n\n\u03b3\u03c1\u03ac\u03c6\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc\u03b2\u03c1\u03bf\u03c7\u03bf \u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u03b5\u03bb\u03b8\u03cc\u03bd\n\n\u03cc\u03bb\u03b1 \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bc\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c4\u03c1\u03bf\u03bc\u03b5\u03c1\u03ae \u03b1\u03bb\u03ae\u03b8\u03b5\u03b9\u03b1\n\n\u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03b1\u03c5\u03c1\u03b9\u03b1\u03bd\u03ae \u03bd\u03cd\u03c7\u03c4\u03b1.\n\n## from _Bastard Elegies_\n\n1.\n\nAfter so many manuscripts\n\nI like most my fat aunties\n\nWho say I'm gentle.\n\nWhatever passes through me passes through death.\n\nMy fat aunties are heralds\n\nWho speak to unknown flowers that deepen.\n\nSonnets recall their music,\n\nFabulous eggs of existence break\n\nIn the karmic antechamber mouth of the viper.\n\nInto an anaesthetic world I deepen\n\nWith my bagpipe dialect;\n\nThe pulse meter of a new fantasy\n\nFits into my paper suitcase.\n\nIf soul wishes soul to set fire\n\nI have a swift thought yet slow:\n\nA foreboding vision of language\n\nWriting in the after-the-rain past.\n\nEverything is a ghastly truth\n\nThe night after.\n\nSelf-translated\n\n## _Jazz, \u039b\u03ad\u03c9_\n\n( _\u03c3\u03c4\u03bf Lee Morgan_ )\n\n\u0395\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03cc\u03c3\u03bf \u03c5\u03c0\u03cc\u03b3\u03b5\u03b9\u03bf \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03cc\n\n\u03a4\u03bf \u03c0\u03b1\u03af\u03be\u03b9\u03bc\u03bf\n\n\u038c\u03c0\u03c9\u03c2 \u03bc\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bd\u03c5\u03c7\u03c4\u03b5\u03c1\u03b9\u03bd\u03ae \u03c6\u03c9\u03c4\u03b9\u03ac\n\n\u03a3\u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ac\u03b4\u03b5\u03b9\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b4\u03c1\u03cc\u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03b1\u03c0\u03bf\u03bc\u03b5\u03b9\u03bd\u03ac\u03c1\u03b9\u03b1\n\n\u03a4\u03cc\u03c3\u03bf \u03b6\u03b5\u03c3\u03c4\u03ae\n\n\u039a\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b1\u03bd\u03b1\u03b3\u03ba\u03b1\u03af\u03b1\n\n\u039a\u03b1\u03b9\n\n\u0391\u03c1\u03c7\u03b1\u03af\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03cc\u03bb\u03bf\u03b9\n\n\u039f\u03b9 \u03ac\u03bd\u03b8\u03c1\u03c9\u03c0\u03bf\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b4\u03c1\u03cc\u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u03a0\u03bb\u03b7\u03c3\u03b9\u03ac\u03b6\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd\n\n\u03a4\u03b1 \u03c7\u03ad\u03c1\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2\n\n\u03a0\u03ac\u03bd\u03c9 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2\n\n\u0393\u03cd\u03c1\u03c9 \u03b3\u03cd\u03c1\u03c9\n\n\u0391\u03c5\u03c4\u03cc \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf\n\n\u0391\u03c0\u03cc\u03b3\u03b5\u03b9\u03bf \u2013\n\n\u0391\u03c5\u03c4\u03cc \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf \u03c0\u03b1\u03af\u03be\u03b9\u03bc\u03bf.\n\n## _Jazz, I Say_\n\n( _to Lee Morgan_ )\n\nIt's so subterranean\n\nthe playing\n\nlike a nightly fire\n\non the remains of the empty street\n\nso hot\n\nand needed\n\nand\n\nancient where all\n\nthe street guys\n\napproach\n\ntheir hands\n\nover it\n\n'round and 'round\n\nit's the\n\ntops \u2013\n\nit's the playing\n\nJack Hirschman and Dimitri Charalambous\n\n## _\u03a3\u03c5\u03b3\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9\u03c1\u03af\u03b1_\n\n\u0397 \u03c3\u03c7\u03ad\u03c3\u03b7 \u03b1\u03bd\u03ac\u03bc\u03b5\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c3\u03b5 \u03b4\u03cd\u03bf \u03c5\u03c0\u03ac\u03c1\u03be\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2:\n\n\u03a4\u03bf \u03ba\u03b5\u03bd\u03cc \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b1\u03bd\u03ac\u03bc\u03b5\u03c3\u03ac \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03b3\u03bb\u03b9\u03c3\u03c4\u03c1\u03ac\u03b5\u03b9.\n\n\u039c\u03ad\u03c3\u03b1 \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u03ac\u03b8\u03c5\u03c1\u03b1\n\n\u03b2\u03bb\u03ad\u03c0\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c4\u03c9\u03bd \u03c8\u03c5\u03c7\u03ce\u03bd \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b6\u03ac\u03bc\u03b9\u03b1.\n\n\u039a\u03ac\u03b8\u03b5 \u03b3\u03b5\u03bd\u03b9\u03ba\u03cc \u03c3\u03ba\u03bb\u03b7\u03c1\u03b1\u03af\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9.\n\n## _\u0395\u03bd\u03ce \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03bf\u03c0\u03b5\u03c0\u03bf\u03af\u03b8\u03b7\u03c3\u03ae \u03c3\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b5\u03bd\u03b9\u03c3\u03c7\u03cd\u03c9_\n\n\u0392\u03b9\u03ce\u03bd\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03c2 \u03c4\u03ce\u03c1\u03b1\n\n\u03bc\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b5\u03c0\u03b9\u03c3\u03c4\u03c1\u03bf\u03d5\u03ae \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03c7\u03ac\u03c1\u03c4\u03b7,\n\n\u03ae \u03c4\u03b5\u03bb\u03b9\u03ba\u03ce\u03c2 \u03b2\u03b9\u03ce\u03bd\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03bf\u03c1\u03b8\u03ae \u03b4\u03b9\u03ac\u03c3\u03c4\u03b1\u03c3\u03b7\n\n\u03b1\u03bd\u03b1\u03ba\u03b1\u03bb\u03cd\u03c0\u03c4\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03c2 \u03b5\u03bd\u03cc\u03c2 \u03b5\u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03bf\u03cd \u03c4\u03bf \u03ba\u03c5\u03bd\u03ae\u03b3\u03b9.\n\n\u0397 \u03b6\u03c9\u03ae \u03b5\u03c4\u03bf\u03cd\u03c4\u03b7 \u03be\u03b5\u03bc\u03c0\u03b5\u03c1\u03b4\u03b5\u03cd\u03c4\u03b7\u03ba\u03b5 \u03b5\u03b4\u03ce \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c7\u03c1\u03cc\u03bd\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03c4\u03b7 \u03d5\u03b1\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03c3\u03af\u03b1 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5.\n\n\u03a4\u03bf \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\u03bc\u03ac\u03c7\u03b9, \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b1\u03c3\u03ac\u03ba\u03b9 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c7\u03c9\u03bd\u03b5\u03cd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03b1\u03bd\u03b8\u03c1\u03c9\u03c0\u03cc\u03c4\u03b7\u03c4\u03b1\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03b3\u03cc\u03c0\u03b5\u03c2.\n\n\u0388\u03c7\u03c9 \u03b1\u03c1\u03c7\u03af\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b9\u03c3\u03ce \u03c4\u03b7 \u03b3\u03c1\u03b1\u03c6\u03ae, \u03bc\u03b1 \u03cc\u03c7\u03b9 \u03b1\u03ba\u03cc\u03bc\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03b5\u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03cc \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c9\u03c2 \u03b3\u03c1\u03ac\u03d5\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1.\n\n\u039f \u03c1\u03cc\u03bb\u03bf\u03c2 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c5\u03c0\u03bf\u03b4\u03cd\u03bf\u03bc\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b5\u03be\u03b1\u03ba\u03bf\u03bb\u03bf\u03c5\u03b8\u03b5\u03af \u03ac\u03b3\u03bd\u03c9\u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\u03c2.\n\n\u03a0\u03c1\u03b9\u03bd \u03c1\u03af\u03be\u03c9 \u03cc\u03bb\u03b7 \u03b5\u03c4\u03bf\u03cd\u03c4\u03b7 \u03c4\u03b7 \u03c3\u03b1\u03b2\u03bf\u03cd\u03c1\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c3\u03ba\u03bf\u03c5\u03c0\u03af\u03b4\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b1\u03b6\u03af \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03b1\u03c0\u03bf\u03bc\u03b5\u03b9\u03bd\u03ac\u03c1\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2\n\n\u03bc\u03ad\u03c1\u03b1\u03c2,\n\n\u03c3\u03ba\u03cd\u03b2\u03c9 \u03bb\u03b9\u03b3\u03ac\u03ba\u03b9 \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b5\u03c1\u03ac\u03c3\u03c9\n\n\u03ba\u03ac\u03c4\u03c9 \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03b1\u03c8\u03af\u03b4\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b7 \u03ba\u03b5\u03bd\u03cc\u03c4\u03b7\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c4\u03c3\u03ac\u03ba\u03b9\u03c3\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b7 \u03c1\u03ac\u03c7\u03b7 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03c0\u03c1\u03b9\u03bd \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03b1\u03b9\u03ce\u03bd\u03b5\u03c2.\n\n\u0391\u03c5\u03c4\u03bf\u03bc\u03b5\u03c4\u03b1\u03d5\u03c1\u03b1\u03c3\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf\n\n## _Synchronization_\n\nThe relation between the two existences:\n\nthe emptiness that among them is slithering.\n\nThrough windows you see\n\nthe panes of the souls.\n\nEverything general toughens.\n\nSelf-translated\n\n## _As I Am Boosting Your Confidence_\n\nExperiencing now\n\na comeback on the map,\n\n\u03bfr finally experiencing the right aspect\n\ndiscovering the hunt of a self.\n\nThis life disentangled years ago from my imagination.\n\nThe stomach, an ashtray digesting the butts of humanity.\n\nI have started to hate writing, but not myself as a writer yet.\n\nThe role I play remains unknown.\n\nBefore I scrap all this trash along with the leftovers of the day,\n\nI bend a little to pass\n\nunder the arch where emptiness broke its back centuries ago.\n\nComposed in English\n\n## _\u039a\u03ac\u03b8\u03bf\u03bc\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c3' \u03cc\u03bb\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b1\u03c1\u03ad\u03ba\u03bb\u03b5\u03c2_\n\n\u039a\u03ac\u03b8\u03bf\u03bc\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c3' \u03cc\u03bb\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b1\u03c1\u03ad\u03ba\u03bb\u03b5\u03c2\n\n\u0393\u03b9\u03b1\u03c4\u03af \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03c5\u03c0\u03ac\u03c1\u03c7\u03b5\u03b9 \u03b8\u03ad\u03c3\u03b7\n\n\u0393\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03c4\u03ad\u03c7\u03bd\u03b7\n\n\u03a0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03be\u03b5\u03ba\u03af\u03bd\u03b7\u03c3\u03b5 \u03c4\u03bf\n\n2008 \u03c4\u03bf 2011\n\n\u0389 \u03c4\u03bf 2012\n\n\u03a3\u03c4\u03b1\u03b3\u03cc\u03bd\u03b5\u03c2 \u03b1\u03c0' \u03c4\u03bf \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5\u03ba\u03ac\u03bc\u03b9\u03c3\u03cc \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u03a0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b5\u03b3\u03bd\u03ce\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9.\n\n\u039f\u03b9 \u03ba\u03b1\u03bc\u03c0\u03b1\u03bd\u03b9\u03ad\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03a3\u03b5\u03bd \u0396\u03b5\u03bd\u03b5\u03b2\u03b9\u03ad\u03b2\n\n\u039a\u03b1\u03b8\u03cc\u03c4\u03b9 \u03bf\u03b9 \u03ba\u03bb\u03ce\u03bd\u03bf\u03b9 \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b8\u03b5\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03bf\u03c6\u03cd\u03bb\u03b1\u03ba\u03b5\u03c2\u00b7\n\n\u039f\u03b9 \u03b4\u03b7\u03bc\u03bf\u03ba\u03c1\u03ac\u03c4\u03b5\u03c2 \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c6\u03c4\u03b9\u03b1\u03b3\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf\u03b9\n\n\u039d\u03b1 \u03c0\u03ad\u03c6\u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c3\u03cd\u03bd\u03bd\u03b5\u03c6\u03b1.\n\n\u03a4\u03bf \u03b1\u03b4\u03c5\u03c3\u03ce\u03c0\u03b7\u03c4\u03bf \u03b5\u03c0\u03b9\u03ba\u03b5\u03c6\u03b1\u03bb\u03ae\u03c2.\n\n\u039c\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bd\u03cd\u03c7\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b5\u03c6\u03ac\u03bd\u03b9 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03b1\u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03ba\u03ac\u03bb\u03c5\u03c0\u03c4\u03bf.\n\n\u03a4\u03b1 \u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03b2\u03bb\u03ae\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1 \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bb\u03cd\u03c3\u03b7.\n\n\u03a4\u03b1 \u03bf\u03c3\u03c4\u03ac \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c3\u03bf\u03cd\u03c0\u03b1\n\n\u039c\u03ad\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c4\u03ac\u03c6\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u03c4\u03b7 \u03bb\u03ac\u03c3\u03c0\u03b7.\n\n## _My Bones in the Soup of My Grave_\n\nI sit on every chair\n\nbecause there is no proper place\n\nfor the art\n\nestablished\n\nin 2008, 2011\n\nor 2012;\n\nWater-drops off my drying shirt.\n\nThe chimes of St. Genevieve.\n\nMy ruthless head granted as a custodian by\n\nthe issues of spirit.\n\nWhat an ordeal;\n\nMy bones in the soup\n\nof the mud inside\n\nmy grave.\n\nSelf-translated\n\n## _\u03a3\u03c4\u03bf \u03c3\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd\u03c4 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 La Manne \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf 90 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 Claude Bernard_\n\n\u0391\u03c5\u03c4\u03cc \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b1\u03c1\u03c7\u03b5\u03af\u03bf \u03bc\u03ad\u03c7\u03c1\u03b9 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c0\u03ac\u03c8\u03b5\u03b9 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9.\n\n\u03a0\u03ac\u03c1\u03bb\u03b5\u03c2.\n\n\u039b\u03af\u03b3\u03bf \u03ba\u03c1\u03cd\u03bf \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03b1\u03b3\u03ba\u03ce\u03bd\u03b5\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03ba\u03ac\u03c4\u03c9.\n\n\u038c\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd \u03ba\u03ac\u03b8\u03b5 \u03b1\u03c0\u03bf\u03c4\u03c5\u03c7\u03af\u03b1 \u03b8\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b5\u03c1\u03bd\u03ac\u03b5\u03b9 \u03b2\u03b1\u03c3\u03b9\u03c3\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b7\n\n\u03c3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b1\u03c4\u03b9\u03c3\u03c4\u03b9\u03ba\u03ac \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b8\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b7 \u03c6\u03ad\u03c1\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03c0\u03c1\u03ce\u03c4\u03b7\n\n\u03c3\u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03b5\u03ba\u03c4\u03af\u03bc\u03b7\u03c3\u03b7 \u03c4\u03c9\u03bd \u03c0\u03bf\u03bb\u03b9\u03c4\u03ce\u03bd,\n\n\u03b8\u03b1 \u03b1\u03c0\u03bf\u03c4\u03b5\u03bb\u03b5\u03af \u03b4\u03cd\u03bd\u03b1\u03bc\u03b7.\n\n\u039c\u03b1\u03c2 \u03c0\u03b5\u03c1\u03b9\u03ba\u03bb\u03b5\u03af\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03c4\u03b1 \u03b1\u03bd\u03b1\u03c1\u03c1\u03b9\u03c7\u03b7\u03c4\u03b9\u03ba\u03ac \u03c4\u03c9\u03bd \u03b5\u03bd\u03b7\u03bc\u03b5\u03c1\u03ce\u03c3\u03b5\u03c9\u03bd\u00b7\n\n\u03b7 \u03ad\u03b3\u03bd\u03bf\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bc\u03b9\u03b1 \u03ba\u03cc\u03c1\u03b1\n\n\u03b2\u03bf\u03c5\u03c4\u03b7\u03b3\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b7 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ae\u03bb\u03b9\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c4\u03b7 \u03c3\u03b9\u03c9\u03c0\u03b7\u03c1\u03ae \u03bb\u03ac\u03bc\u03c8\u03b7.\n\n\u039f \u03b1\u03ad\u03c1\u03b1\u03c2 \u03c0\u03b1\u03af\u03c1\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03bc\u03b9\u03b1 \u03ba\u03ac\u03c1\u03c4\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03b5\u03b9\u03ba\u03cc\u03bd\u03b1\n\n\u03b5\u03bd\u03cc\u03c2 \u03bb\u03b9\u03bc\u03b1\u03bd\u03b9\u03bf\u03cd \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c6\u03bf\u03c1\u03c4\u03c9\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\u03bb\u03ac\u03c1\u03b9\u03b1.\n\n\u03a4\u03bf \u03c7\u03c1\u03bf\u03bd\u03b9\u03ba\u03cc \u03b4\u03b9\u03ac\u03c3\u03c4\u03b7\u03bc\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c3\u03c4\u03c1\u03ad\u03c6\u03b5\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf \u03bc\u03ad\u03c1\u03bf\u03c2 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u03b2\u03c1\u03af\u03c3\u03ba\u03b5\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b1\u03bd\u03c4\u03b9\u03bc\u03ad\u03c4\u03c9\u03c0\u03bf \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03b5\u03bb\u03b1\u03c4\u03c4\u03ce\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03ac \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5.\n\n\u0394\u03c5\u03bf \u03c4\u03c1\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c4\u03cc\u03bc\u03c6\u03bf\u03b9.\n\n\u0397 \u03ba\u03b1\u03c4\u03b5\u03c5\u03b8\u03c5\u03bd\u03cc\u03bc\u03b5\u03bd\u03b7 \u03b1\u03c6\u03b8\u03b1\u03c1\u03c3\u03af\u03b1 \u03b2\u03c1\u03c5\u03c7\u03ac\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03a0\u03bb\u03b5\u03b9\u03ac\u03b4\u03b5\u03c2.\n\n\u0397 \u03c3\u03b7\u03bc\u03b1\u03c3\u03af\u03b1 \u03c9\u03c2 \u03b1\u03c4\u03c5\u03c7\u03ae\u03c2 \u03ad\u03bd\u03bd\u03bf\u03b9\u03b1\n\n\u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b1\u03c0\u03bf\u03ba\u03bb\u03b5\u03b9\u03c3\u03c4\u03b9\u03ba\u03ac\n\n\u03b1\u03bd\u03b8\u03c1\u03ce\u03c0\u03b9\u03bd\u03b7.\n\n## _At the Book Stand of La Manne, 90 Claude Bernard Street_\n\nThis is an archive until it will cease to be.\n\nGab.\n\nA little cold under the elbows.\n\nWhen every failure will pay for drinks based on\n\nThe statistics which celebrate its run first\n\nTo the public opinion,\n\nIt will be a main form of power.\n\nThe clinging vines of the newsreel enclose us;\n\nMy concern a crust\n\nDunked in the tacit glare of the sun.\n\nThe wind blows away a postcard bearing the image\n\nOf a harbor full of loaded mules.\n\nThe temporal timespan that turns towards me\n\nComes up against its defects.\n\nA couple of rants.\n\nThe guided imperishability is growling for Pleiades.\n\nThe meaning as an unfortunate sense\n\nIs exclusively\n\nHuman.\n\nSelf-translated\n\n## Moma Radi\u0107\n\n#### (Born Ni\u0161, Serbia, 1969)\n\nFor the minimalist writer Moma (Mom\u010dilo) Radi\u0107, even a single letter might constitute a line of poetry. His first poems were published in Yugoslavia, where, in 1986, he was a member of the literary youth. After studying Classics in Belgrade and French Literature in Paris, he moved to Athens on a tourist visa in 1993; war came to his homeland, and he never returned. He has written in Greek while teaching French and Serbo-Croatian ever since. Radi\u0107 has translated the poetry of the surrealist poet Nikos Engonopoulos, as well as poets from the Generation of the 1970s such as Antonis Fostieris and Maria Laina. He has also translated the poetry of Yannis Livadas in this section (p. 361). He published his first book in Greek, _Serbian Folktales_ , in 2004 _._ His first Greek poetry collection followed in 2010.\n\n_\u03a0\u03cc\u03c1\u03c4\u03b1_ ( _Door_ ), Apopeira, 2010.\n\n## _\u039c\u03b5\u03c3\u03b7\u03bc\u03ad\u03c1\u03b9_\n\n\u03a0\u03b5\u03c1\u03b9\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2\n\n\u03c4\u03b7 \u03b2\u03c1\u03bf\u03c7\u03ae \u03c3\u03b1 \u03b4\u03ac\u03c7\u03c4\u03c5\u03bb\u03bf\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03bb\u03b5\u03af\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c3\u03cd\u03bd\u03bd\u03b5\u03c6\u03b1\n\n\u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c6\u03ad\u03c1\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03c7\u03ac\u03b4\u03b9\u03b1\n\n\u03ba\u03b5\u03bd\u03ac\n\n\u0397 \u03cc\u03c8\u03b7 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b1\u03c1\u03b4\u03b9\u03ac\u03c2 \u03c3\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u03b3\u03bb\u03b9\u03c3\u03c4\u03c1\u03ac \u03c3\u03b1\u03bd \u03c3\u03b1\u03bb\u03b9\u03b3\u03ba\u03ac\u03c1\u03b9\n\n\u039a\u03b9 \u03cc\u03c3\u03b1 \u03bb\u03ac\u03bc\u03c0\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd\n\n\u03c0\u03cc\u03b4\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c6\u03b9\u03b4\u03b9\u03ce\u03bd \u03bc\u03c0\u03c1\u03ac\u03c4\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c3\u03ce\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1\n\n\u03b9\u03b4\u03c1\u03c9\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1\n\n\u03c0\u03af\u03c3\u03c9 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2\n\n\u03b1\u03c6\u03ae\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03c3\u03b7\u03bc\u03ac\u03b4\u03b9\n\n## _Noon_\n\nYou await\n\nthe rain like a finger\n\nyou invite the clouds\n\nbearing vacant\n\ncaresses\n\nThe face of your heart\n\nslips like a snail\n\nAnd all things that glow\n\nfeet of snakes arms bodies\n\nin sweat\n\nleave traces\n\nbehind.\n\nChloe Haralambous and Moira Egan\n\n## _\u0391\u03bb\u03ae\u03b8\u03b5\u03b9\u03b1;_\n\n\u0386\u03ba\u03bf\u03c5\u03c3\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03bc\u03c5\u03c1\u03bc\u03ae\u03b3\u03ba\u03b9\u03b1\n\n\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c6\u03c4\u03b5\u03c1\u03bd\u03af\u03b6\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9\n\n\u03b1\u03bb\u03bb\u03b5\u03c1\u03b3\u03b9\u03ba\u03ac\n\n\u03c3\u03b5 \u03b8\u03c1\u03b1\u03cd\u03c3\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1\n\n\u03b1\u03bd\u03b1\u03bb\u03bb\u03bf\u03af\u03c9\u03c4\u03b1;\n\n\u03a0\u03ce\u03c2 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b1\u03b6\u03ad\u03c8\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03cd\u03c3\u03c4\u03b5\u03c1\u03b1\n\n\u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03c4\u03cc\u03c3\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03c0\u03bf\u03bb\u03b9\u03c4\u03b9\u03c3\u03bc\u03bf\u03cd\u03c2\n\n\u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03bd\u03b5\u03ba\u03c1\u03ad\u03c2 \u03bb\u03ad\u03be\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2\n\n\u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ad\u03bc\u03b1\u03b8\u03b5\u03c2\n\n\u03c6\u03b5\u03cd\u03b3\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03c2;\n\n## _\u03a4\u03c1\u03b1\u03c5\u03bb\u03cc\u03c2 \u03c8\u03b1\u03c1\u03ac\u03c2_\n\n\u03c3\u03c4\u03b7 \u03c3\u03b9\u03c9\u03c0\u03ae \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c3\u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u03c4\u03b1\u03c1\u03bf\u03cd\u03bd \u03c8\u03ac\u03c1\u03b9\u03b1\n\n\u03c4\u03c1\u03b1\u03b3\u03bf\u03c5\u03b4\u03ac\u03b5\u03b9 \u03ba\u03b1\u03bb\u03cd\u03c4\u03b5\u03c1\u03b1\n\n\u03c4\u03b7 \u03b8\u03ac\u03bb\u03b1\u03c3\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c4\u03b5\u03bb\u03b5\u03b9\u03ce\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9\n\n\u03c3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03b1\u03bd\u03bf\u03b9\u03c7\u03c4\u03ac \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c4\u03cc\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1\n\n_\u039d_\n\n## _Really?_\n\nDid you hear the ants\n\nsneezing\n\nallergically\n\nin fixed\n\nshards?\n\nAfter so many civilizations\n\nhow can they gather\n\nthe dead words\n\nyou taught me\n\nas you left?\n\nChloe Haralambous and Moira Egan\n\n## _Stammering Fisherman_\n\nfish writhe in his silence\n\nhe sings it better:\n\nthe sea that finishes\n\nin their open mouths\n\n_N_\n\nChloe Haralambous and Moira Egan\n\n## Gazmend Kapllani\n\n#### (Born Lushnje, Albania, 1967)\n\nBest known for his novels exploring totalitarianism, immigration, borders, and Balkan history, Gazmend Kapllani is a Greek-Albanian writer and recent \u00e9migr\u00e9 to the US. His novels, published by Livanis, include _A Short Border Handbook (2009_ ), _My Name is Europe_ (2010), and _The Last Page_ (2012), and have been translated into Danish, English, French, Italian, and Polish. The poem included here is from an early poetry collection written originally in Albanian and self-translated into Greek. Through his work as an author and a columnist for leading Greek newspapers, Kapllani is an advocate for human rights. He has held fellowships at Harvard and Brown Universities and is currently at The Susan and Donald Newhouse Center for the Humanities at Wellesley College. He teaches History and Creative Writing at Emerson College.\n\n## _\u039c\u03ad\u03b4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c3\u03b5\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03ba\u03bf\u03c1\u03ac\u03bb\u03bb\u03b9\u03b1 (\u03ae \u03c4\u03bf \u03c4\u03c1\u03b1\u03b3\u03bf\u03cd\u03b4\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03be\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5)_\n\n\u039f\u03b9 \u03bc\u03ad\u03b4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c3\u03b5\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03ba\u03bf\u03c1\u03ac\u03bb\u03bb\u03b9\u03b1\n\n\u03bc\u03b1\u03ba\u03c1\u03b9\u03ac \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03b4\u03c9\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03c4\u03bf\u03b9\u03ba\u03bf\u03cd\u03bd.\n\n\u039a\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b7 \u03bb\u03b9\u03bb\u03b9\u03c0\u03bf\u03cd\u03c4\u03b5\u03b9\u03b1\n\n\u0397 \u03bc\u03bf\u03af\u03c1\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b1\u03c2\n\n\u03a0\u03ac\u03bd\u03c9 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03c0\u03b1\u03bb\u03ac\u03bc\u03b7\n\n\u03a6\u03c5\u03bb\u03ac\u03b3\u03b5\u03b9\n\n\u0395\u03bb\u03ac\u03c7\u03b9\u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03bd\u03b5\u03c1\u03cc.\n\n\u039f\u03cd\u03c4\u03b5 \u03b2\u03ac\u03c1\u03ba\u03b1\n\n\u03a0\u03ad\u03c1\u03b1\u03c3\u03b5 \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03b4\u03c9\n\n\u039f\u03cd\u03c4\u03b5 \u03bb\u03b5\u03c5\u03ba\u03cc \u03c0\u03b1\u03bd\u03af, \u03bc\u03bf\u03bd\u03ac\u03c7\u03b1 \u03bb\u03af\u03b3\u03bf\u03c2 \u03b6\u03ad\u03c6\u03c5\u03c1\u03bf\u03c2\n\n\u039a\u03b1\u03b8\u03ce\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03b5\u03c0\u03b9\u03bd\u03cc\u03b7\u03c3\u03b1\u03bd\n\n\u03a4\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b1\u03bb\u03bb\u03b9\u03ac \u03c3\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u0395\u03c0\u03ac\u03bd\u03c9 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7 \u03c6\u03c5\u03b3\u03ae.\n\n\u039f\u03b9 \u03bc\u03ad\u03b4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c3\u03b5\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03ba\u03bf\u03c1\u03ac\u03bb\u03bb\u03b9\u03b1\n\n\u039c\u03b1\u03ba\u03c1\u03b9\u03ac \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03b4\u03c9\n\n\u039a\u03b1\u03c4\u03bf\u03b9\u03ba\u03bf\u03cd\u03bd. \u039a\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03b2\u03c1\u03b1\u03c7\u03b9\u03cc\u03bb\u03b9\u03b1\n\n\u03a4\u03c9\u03bd \u03bf\u03bd\u03b5\u03af\u03c1\u03c9\u03bd \u03bc\u03b1\u03c2\n\n\u0388\u03bc\u03b5\u03b9\u03bd\u03b1\u03bd \u03ba\u03c1\u03b5\u03bc\u03b1\u03c3\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1\n\n\u03a3\u03b5 \u03c6\u03b8\u03b1\u03c1\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf\u03af\u03c7\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2.\n\n\u03a0\u03cc\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c7\u03c1\u03cc\u03bd\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b4\u03b5 \u03bc\u03b1\u03c2 \u03b5\u03c0\u03b9\u03c3\u03ba\u03ad\u03c6\u03b8\u03b7\u03ba\u03b5 \u03ba\u03ac\u03c0\u03bf\u03b9\u03bf\u03c2 \u03c7\u03c4\u03cd\u03c0\u03bf\u03c2.\n\n\u0397 \u03bc\u03bf\u03af\u03c1\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b1\u03c2\n\n\u0397 \u03bb\u03b9\u03bb\u03b9\u03c0\u03bf\u03cd\u03c4\u03b5\u03b9\u03b1\n\n\u0395\u03bb\u03ac\u03c7\u03b9\u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03bd\u03b5\u03c1\u03cc\n\n\u03a7\u03c9\u03c1\u03ac\u03b5\u03b9.\n\n\u0388\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b7\u03b3\u03ac\u03b4\u03b9\n\n\u03a3\u03ba\u03ac\u03b2\u03bf\u03c5\u03bc\u03b5\n\n\u03a4\u03b1 \u03b2\u03c1\u03ac\u03b4\u03b9\u03b1\n\n\u0394\u03bf\u03c5\u03bb\u03b5\u03cd\u03bf\u03c5\u03bc\u03b5 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03b2\u03ac\u03c1\u03b4\u03b9\u03b1\n\n\u2013 Muz\u00eb muzik\u00eb muzg \u2013\n\n\u039c\u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03bc\u03b5 \u03be\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf\u03b9, \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bb\u03b5\u03c2,\n\n\u03a4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03bc\u03ad\u03b4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c3\u03b5\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03ba\u03bf\u03c1\u03ac\u03bb\u03bb\u03b9\u03b1\n\n\u03a0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ad\u03c4\u03b1\u03be\u03b5\u03c2, \u03c4\u03bf \u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u03b8\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf \u03bd\u03b5\u03c1\u03cc\n\n\u0394\u03b5\u03bd \u03b8\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03b4\u03c9.\n\n\u0398\u03b5\u03ad \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c0\u03cc\u03c3\u03bf \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9\u03c1\u03cc\n\n\u039a\u03c1\u03b5\u03bc\u03b1\u03c3\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03b2\u03c1\u03b1\u03c7\u03b9\u03cc\u03bb\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bf\u03bd\u03b5\u03af\u03c1\u03c9\u03bd\n\n\u039a\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bf \u03c6\u03b8\u03b1\u03c1\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf\u03af\u03c7\u03bf\u03c2,\n\n\u03a0\u03cc\u03c3\u03bf \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9\u03c1\u03cc \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03b5\u03c0\u03b9\u03c3\u03ba\u03ad\u03c6\u03b8\u03b7\u03ba\u03b5 \u03bf\u03cd\u03c4\u03b5 \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1\u03c2 \u03c7\u03c4\u03cd\u03c0\u03bf\u03c2\n\n\u039a\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b7 \u03b1\u03c5\u03bb\u03b1\u03af\u03b1 \u03ba\u03bb\u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c3\u03b1\u03bd \u03bc\u03cd\u03b8\u03bf\u03c2.\n\n\u0391\u03c5\u03c4\u03cc \u03c4\u03bf \u03c3\u03c0\u03af\u03c4\u03b9\n\n\u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b1\u03bd\u03ae\u03ba\u03c9\n\n\u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b1\u03bd\u03ae\u03ba\u03b5\u03b9...\n\n## _Thus Spoke the Stranger_\n\nMedusas and coral\n\nlive far\n\nfrom here.\n\nOur Liliputian fate\n\nguards\n\nthe last vestiges\n\nof water\n\nin the palm\n\nof our hand.\n\nNo boat\n\npasses by here\n\nno white sail, just the slightest\n\nZephyr\n\ncaught in your hair\n\nas you flee.\n\nMedusas and coral\n\nlive far\n\nfrom here. Our dream\n\nbracelets\n\ngrasp\n\ncrumbling walls.\n\nHow many years since\n\nsomeone knocked?\n\nOur Liliputian fate\n\nleaves room\n\nfor the last vestiges\n\nof water.\n\nAt night\n\nwe dig a well\n\ntaking turns\n\n_\u2013 Muz\u00eb muzik\u00eb muzg_ \u2013\n\nwe mutter\n\nAlways strangers, you say\n\nthe medusas and coral\n\nyou promised me,\n\nthe virgin water,\n\nI'll never see them.\n\nOh God, how many years\n\nof bracelets grasping\n\ncrumbling walls?\n\nHow many years without a single knock?\n\nThe curtain closes like myth\n\nThat house\n\nI do not belong to\n\nthat does not belong to me...\n\nKaren Van Dyck\n\n## Thodoris Rakopoulos\n\n#### (Born Amyntaio, near Florina, Greece, 1981)\n\nAs a writer of poetry, short stories, social commentary, and anthropology, Thodoris Rakopoulos is extremely prolific. With Thomas Tsalapatis, he is also one of the most engaged and engaging critics of life post-crisis. His poetry, however, tends to avoid linear accounts of current events, focusing instead on representing the visual synchronicity inherent in a life lived between cultures and languages; he reserves his skill as a storyteller for his short stories as well as his anthropological work based on ethnographic fieldwork, most recently on the anti-mafia movement in Sicily. Rakopoulos studied Law and Anthropology in Thessaloniki and London, and now has a research fellowship at the University of Bergen in Norway. He received the Greek National Poetry Prize and the Book Center Prize for his first collection. He publishes essays and translations for journals and newspapers, as well as a blog, _Africa by any other name_ (thodorisrakopoulos.blogspot.gr). His most recent book, _Bat in a Pocket_ (Nefeli, 2015), is a collection of twenty prose pieces.\n\n_\u03a6\u03b1\u03b3\u03b9\u03bf\u03cd\u03bc_ ( _Fayum_ ), Mandragoras, 2010; _\u039f\u03c1\u03c5\u03ba\u03c4\u03cc \u0394\u03ac\u03c3\u03bf\u03c2_ ( _Mineral Forest_ ), Nefeli, 2013; _\u0397 \u03c3\u03c5\u03bd\u03c9\u03bc\u03bf\u03c3\u03af\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03c0\u03c5\u03c1\u03af\u03c4\u03b9\u03b4\u03b1\u03c2_ ( _The Gunpowder Plot_ ), Nefeli, 2014.\n\n## _\u0395\u03c0\u03b9\u03c6\u03ac\u03bd\u03b9\u03b1_\n\n\u03a3\u03c4\u03ac\u03b8\u03b7\u03ba\u03b5 \u03bb\u03bf\u03b9\u03c0\u03cc\u03bd \u03bc\u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03c3\u03c4\u03ac\n\n\u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03bf \u03c0\u03bd\u03b5\u03c5\u03bc\u03cc\u03bd\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b4\u03b9\u03b1\u03bc\u03c0\u03b5\u03c1\u03ad\u03c2\n\n\u03ba\u03b9 \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03c0\u03bf\u03c5\u03ba\u03ac\u03bb\u03b9 \u03c7\u03c9\u03c1\u03af\u03c2 \u03c0\u03ce\u03bc\u03b1\n\n\u03ae \u03bc\u03ad\u03c3\u03b1 \u03bc\u03ae\u03bd\u03c5\u03bc\u03b1\n\n\u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03b1\u03bc\u03b7\u03c7\u03b1\u03bd\u03af\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b1\u03ba\u03ac\u03bb\u03b5\u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03ba\u03b1\u03c4\u03ce\u03c6\u03bb\u03b9 \u03ba\u03c5\u03c1\u03b9\u03b1\u03ba\u03ac\u03c4\u03b9\u03ba\u03b1\n\n\u03cc\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd \u03cc\u03bb\u03b5\u03c2 \u03bf\u03b9 \u03ba\u03ac\u03b2\u03b5\u03c2 \u03ad\u03c7\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03ba\u03bb\u03b5\u03af\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9\n\n\u00ab\u03c1\u03b5 \u03a0\u03ac\u03bd\u03bf\u00bb \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b5\u03af\u03c0\u03b1, \u00ab\u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03c4\u03bf \u03c7\u03ce\u03bc\u03b1 \u03ad\u03c1\u03c7\u03b5\u03c3\u03b1\u03b9 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bc\u03c5\u03c1\u03af\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2\n\n\u03c3\u03b1\u03bd \u03cc\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd \u03ad\u03c3\u03ba\u03b1\u03b2\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c7\u03c9\u03c1\u03ac\u03c6\u03b9\u03b1\u00b7 \u03bf \u03af\u03b4\u03b9\u03bf\u03c2\u00b7 \u03ba\u03cc\u03c0\u03b9\u03b1\u03c3\u03b5\u00bb.\n\n\u0395\u03ba\u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03bf\u03c2 \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03b1\u03c0\u03ac\u03bd\u03c4\u03b7\u03c3\u03b5\u00b7 \u03bf\u03cd\u03c4\u03b5 \u03ba\u03b1\u03bd \u03c6\u03b1\u03af\u03bd\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd\n\n\u03bd\u03b1 \u03ad\u03c7\u03b5\u03b9 \u03ba\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1\u03bb\u03ac\u03b2\u03b5\u03b9\u00b7 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03ba\u03bf\u03af\u03c4\u03b1\u03b6\u03b5 \u03b1\u03c1\u03b3\u03ac \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03c3\u03c4\u03ae\u03b8\u03bf\u03c2\n\n\u03c3\u03b1\u03bd \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c8\u03ac\u03c7\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03c5\u03c0\u03cc\u03c4\u03b9\u03c4\u03bb\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2\n\n\u03ba\u03b9 \u03ad\u03b2\u03b3\u03b1\u03b6\u03b5 \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b1\u03bd\u03c4\u03af\u03bb\u03b9 \u03c3\u03c5\u03bd\u03ad\u03c7\u03b5\u03b9\u03b1 \u03ba\u03cc\u03ba\u03ba\u03b9\u03bd\u03bf\n\n\u03c3\u03ba\u03bf\u03c5\u03c0\u03af\u03b6\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03b5\u03c5\u03c6\u03c5\u0390\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03ac\u03bb\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03ac\u03bb\u03b1 \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03c4\u03bf \u03bc\u03ad\u03c4\u03c9\u03c0\u03bf.\n\n\u0394\u03b5\u03bd \u03ae\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd\u03b5 \u03b3\u03bb\u03ce\u03c3\u03c3\u03b1 \u03bf \u03a0\u03ac\u03bd\u03bf\u03c2.\n\n\u0394\u03b5\u03bd \u00ab\u03c4\u03bf '\u03c7\u03b5\u00bb \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bb\u03b5\u03bd \u03bf\u03b9 \u03b3\u03bb\u03c9\u03c3\u03c3\u03bf\u03c0\u03bb\u03ac\u03c3\u03c4\u03b5\u03c2.\n\n\u03a3\u03b5 \u03bc\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b1\u03cd\u03c1\u03b7 \u03c6\u03c9\u03c4\u03bf\u03b3\u03c1\u03b1\u03c6\u03af\u03b1 \u03ae\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd\u03b5, \u03c7\u03c9\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03c0\u03b1\u03bb\u03b9\u03cc \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c1\u03bf\u03cd\u03c7\u03bf.\n\n\u03a3\u03b7\u03bc.: \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03cc \u03c4\u03bf \u03c0\u03bf\u03af\u03b7\u03bc\u03b1 \u03b2\u03b3\u03ae\u03ba\u03b5 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03b1\u03bd\u03b1\u03bc\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf \u03c4\u03bf \u03b1\u03bb\u03ac\u03c1\u03bc\n\n\u03bc\u03cc\u03bb\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03c3\u03c0\u03ad\u03c1\u03b1\u03c3\u03b1 \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1\u03bd \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c3\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ad\u03bc\u03bf\u03b9\u03b1\u03b6\u03b5 \u03c1\u03b5 \u03a0\u03ac\u03bd\u03bf\n\n\u03b1\u03ba\u03af\u03bd\u03b7\u03c4\u03bf\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03b1\u03b5\u03c1\u03ac\u03ba\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b1\u03bc\u03c0\u03b5\u03bb\u03ce\u03bd\u03b1\n\n\u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03bf \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5\u03ba\u03ac\u03bc\u03b9\u03c3\u03cc \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ba\u03b1\u03c0\u03bd\u03b9\u03c3\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf\n\n\u03bb\u03bf\u03b3\u03ac\u03c1\u03b9\u03b1\u03b6\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03b1\u03c1\u03b9\u03b8\u03bc\u03b7\u03c4\u03b9\u03ba\u03ae \u03c4\u03c9\u03bd \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5\u03bb\u03b9\u03ce\u03bd.\n\n## _Epiphany_\n\nSo he stood in front\n\nwith a punctured lung\n\nand a capless bottle\n\nno message inside\n\nthe dysfunctional intruder\n\nat the doorstep of a Sunday\n\nwhen all the watering holes have closed\n\n'Hey Pete,' I said, 'you're coming from the earth and smell\n\nlike your digging days in the fields \u2013 the same guy \u2013 get to work.'\n\nHe didn't answer \u2013 didn't even seem\n\nto understand me, stared long at my chest\n\nas if looking for subtitles\n\npulling out a continuous red hankie\n\nto wipe away the wits from his forehead drop by drop.\n\nPete wasn't good with words.\n\n'Didn't have it,' as the wordsmiths say.\n\nHe was in a darkened photograph, stuffed in his old clothes.\n\nNB: this poem came out with the alarm on\n\njust as I was passing someone who looked like you old Pete\n\nstanding still in the vineyard breeze\n\nin his fumigated shirt\n\nthinking about the arithmetic of birds.\n\nGeorge Economou\n\n## _\u03a3\u03c7\u03b9\u03c3\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf_\n\n\u03a5\u03c0\u03ac\u03c1\u03c7\u03b5\u03b9 | \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1\u03c2 \n---|--- \n\u03c0\u03bf\u03bb\u03cd \u03c0\u03b5\u03c1\u03b9 | \u03b3\u03c1\u03b1\u03c6\u03b9\u03ba\u03cc\u03c2 \n\u03c4\u03c1\u03cc\u03c0\u03bf\u03c2 \u03bd\u03b1 | \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b4\u03b5\u03af\u03be\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \n\u03c0\u03cc\u03c3\u03bf \u03c0\u03bf\u03bb\u03cd | \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c0\u03b5\u03c1\u03b9\u03c6\u03c1\u03bf\u03bd\u03b5\u03af\u03c2 \n\u03b3\u03b9\u03b1\u03c4\u03af \u03bb\u03bf\u03b9\u03c0\u03cc\u03bd | \u03b4\u03b9\u03b1\u03bb\u03ad\u03b3\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \n\u03b1\u03bb\u03bb\u03b7\u03bb\u03bf | \u03b3\u03c1\u03b1\u03c6\u03af\u03b1 \n\u03cc\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd \u03bc\u03c0\u03bf\u03c1\u03b5\u03af\u03c2 | \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c6\u03c4\u03cd\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \n\u03ba\u03b1\u03c4\u03ac | \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\u03c4\u03c1\u03b1 \n\u03b3\u03b9\u03b1\u03c4\u03af \u03b1\u03c0\u03bb\u03ce\u03c2 | \u03c3\u03b1\u03bb\u03b9\u03ce\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \n\u03c4\u03bf \u03b3\u03c1\u03b1\u03bc | \u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03cc\u03c3\u03b7\u03bc\u03bf; \n\u039c\u03af\u03b1 | \u03c3\u03bc\u03b1 \n\u03b5\u03c1\u03b3\u03bf | \u03b4\u03cc\u03c4\u03b7 \n\u03c3\u03c7\u03af\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b7 | \u03c6\u03c9\u03bd\u03ae \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \n\u03c3\u03c4\u03b1 | \u03b4\u03cd\u03bf \n\u03c3\u03b1\u03bd | \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \n\u03b3\u03c1\u03ac\u03bc | \u03bc\u03b1\n\n## _Torn_\n\nIs there | any \n---|--- \nhighly des | criptive \nway you can| show me \nhow deeply | you detest me \nwhy then | opt for \ncorres | pondence \nwhen you | can spit \ninto | faces \nbecause you | simply drool on \nthe post | age stamp? \nCon | tamination \nbig | boss \nyou tear | my voice \nin | two \nlike | one \nlet | ter \nGeorge Economou\n\n## Stathis Gourgouris\n\n#### (Born Los Angeles, USA, 1958)\n\nStathis Gourgouris's presence on the Greek poetry scene began early on when he wrote reviews for _Planodion_ , Yannis Patilis's influential (yet offbeat) literary magazine. Having grown up in Athens, he returned to the US for university. Now a Professor of Comparative Literature at Columbia University, he is the author of the influential study _Dream Nation: Enlightenment, Colonization, and the Institution of Modern Greece_ (Stanford University Press, 1996), as well as more obviously political works, most recently _Lessons in Secular Criticism_ (Fordham University Press, 2013). His poetry, often self-translated, is hard to place; always standing in relation to the Ancient Greek tradition in terms of its attention to myth, it also places Modern Greece in the context of the Balkans through an emphasis on orality and song. Not coincidentally, his critical work and his poetry have found an audience in the Balkans and the Middle East, and have been translated into Turkish, Serbian, Hebrew, French, and Italian.\n\nMyrtle Trenches (Hoarse Transcontinental Cats Press, 1985; _\u03a0\u03c4\u03ce\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2_ ( _Falls_ ), Plethron, 1988; _\u0391\u03c5\u03c4\u03bf\u03c7\u03b8\u03bf\u03bd\u03af\u03b5\u03c2_ ( _Identicide_ ), Planodion, 1993; _\u0395\u03b9\u03c3\u03b1\u03b3\u03c9\u03b3\u03ae \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7 \u03a6\u03c5\u03c3\u03b9\u03ba\u03ae_ ( _Introduction to Physics_ ), Melani, 2005.\n\n## _\u039c\u03b5 \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03c4\u03c1\u03cc\u03c0\u03bf \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u0393.\u03a3._\n\n\u039f\u03b9 \u03b1\u03c1\u03c7\u03b1\u03afo\u03b9 \u0391\u03b9\u03b3\u03cd\u03c0\u03c4\u03b9o\u03b9 \u03c0\u03af\u03c3\u03c4\u03b5\u03c5\u03b1\u03bd\n\n\u03c3\u03b5 \u03b5\u03c6\u03c4\u03ac \u03c8\u03c5\u03c7\u03ad\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c6\u03b5\u03bd\u03b4\u03cc\u03bd\u03b5\u03c2.\n\n\u0391\u03c4\u03ad\u03bd\u03b9\u03b6\u03b1\u03bd \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03ba\u03ac\u03b8\u03b5 \u03c4o\u03c5\u03c2 \u03c4\u03c1o\u03c7\u03b9\u03ac\n\n\u03cc\u03c7\u03b9 \u03c3\u03b1\u03bd \u03bc\u03b5\u03bb\u03bbo\u03b8\u03ac\u03bd\u03b1\u03c4o\u03b9\n\n\u03bc\u03b1 \u03c3\u03b1\u03bd \u039f\u03bb\u03c5\u03bc\u03c0\u03b9o\u03bd\u03af\u03ba\u03b5\u03c2.\n\n\u0391\u03bd\u03cc\u03b7\u03c4o\u03b9 \u03ba\u03b1\u03bc\u03b9\u03ac \u03c6o\u03c1\u03ac \u03c0o\u03c5 \u03ae\u03c3\u03b1\u03bd.\n\n\u038c\u03bc\u03c9\u03c2 \u03cc,\u03c4\u03b9 \u03b1\u03c6\u03ae\u03bd\u03b1\u03bd \u03c0\u03af\u03c3\u03c9 \u03c4o\u03c5\u03c2 \u03c4o \u03ac\u03c6\u03b7\u03bd\u03b1\u03bd\n\n\u03ba\u03b9 \u03b1\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c0\u03ac\u03c1\u03b1\u03b6\u03b5 \u03ba\u03ac\u03c0o\u03c5 \u03c4o \u03bao\u03c1\u03bc\u03af \u03c4o\u03c5\u03c2.\n\n\u039a\u03ad\u03c1\u03b4\u03b9\u03b6\u03b1\u03bd \u03bd\u03ad\u03b1 \u03c8\u03c5\u03c7\u03ae \u03ba\u03ac\u03b8\u03b5 \u03c6o\u03c1\u03ac\n\n\u03bc\u03cc\u03bdo \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03cc \u03c4o\u03c5\u03c2 \u03ad\u03bdo\u03b9\u03b1\u03b6\u03b5.\n\n\u03a4o\u03bd \u03c7\u03c9\u03c1\u03b9\u03c3\u03bc\u03cc \u03ad\u03c4\u03c3\u03b9 \u03b4\u03b5v \u03b3\u03bd\u03ce\u03c1\u03b9\u03c3\u03b1\u03bd, o\u03cd\u03c4\u03b5 \u03c4o\u03bd \u03b3\u03c5\u03c1\u03b9\u03c3\u03bc\u03cc\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03c8\u03c5\u03c7\u03ae \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03c4\u03b5\u03bb\u03b5\u03c5\u03c4\u03b1\u03af\u03b1 \u03c4o\u03c5\u03c2 \u03c0o\u03c5 \u03c0\u03ad\u03c4\u03b1\u03be\u03b5\n\no\u03cd\u03c4\u03b5 \u03c0o\u03c5 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03ba\u03b1\u03c4\u03ac\u03bb\u03b1\u03b2\u03b1\u03bd.\n\n\u039f\u03b9 \u03c0\u03b5\u03b8\u03b1\u03bc\u03ad\u03bdo\u03b9 \u03ac\u03bb\u03bb\u03c9v \u03bb\u03b1\u03ce\u03bd \u03c3\u03c4o\u03bd \u0386\u03bb\u03bbo \u039a\u03cc\u03c3\u03bco\n\n\u03c6\u03b8o\u03bdo\u03cd\u03c3\u03b1\u03bd \u03c4o\u03c5\u03c2 \u0391\u03b9\u03b3\u03cd\u03c0\u03c4\u03b9o\u03c5\u03c2.\n\n## _In the Manner of S.G._\n\nThe Ancient Egyptians believed\n\nin seven souls, slingshots.\n\nThey embraced the orbit of every soul\n\nnot like prisoners who were about to die\n\nbut like winners in the Olympic Games.\n\nHow foolish they were sometimes!\n\nBut whatever they left behind\n\nthey really left it,\n\nno matter how much it hurt inside.\n\nWith each flight, they gained new soul \u2013\n\nonly this mattered.\n\nSo they could never understand return\n\nnor rupture,\n\nand when exactly their last soul\n\nwas flung into the darkness,\n\nthey couldn't quite tell you.\n\nThe other dead in the Other World\n\nenvied the Egyptians.\n\nSelf-translated\n\n## _\u0397 \u03bd\u03cd\u03c6\u03b7 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c6\u03b1\u03af\u03c1\u03b5\u03c2_\n\n\u03a3\u03c4\u03bf \u03c4\u03ad\u03bb\u03bf\u03c2 \u03be\u03c5\u03c1\u03af\u03b6\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03bd\u03b5\u03ba\u03c1\u03cc\n\n\u03ad\u03bb\u03b5\u03b3\u03b5 \u03c0\u03b1\u03bb\u03b9\u03ac \u03bc\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u03bf\u03b9\u03bc\u03af\u03b1,\n\n\u03b7 \u03bf\u03c0\u03bf\u03af\u03b1 \u03cc\u03bc\u03c9\u03c2 \u03c4\u03ce\u03c1\u03b1 \u03ad\u03c7\u03b5\u03b9 \u03be\u03b5\u03c7\u03b1\u03c3\u03c4\u03b5\u03af\n\n\u03af\u03c3\u03c9\u03c2 \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1\u03c4\u03af \u03c4\u03bf \u03c4\u03ad\u03bb\u03bf\u03c2 \u03bc\u03ac\u03c2 \u03c4\u03c1\u03bf\u03bc\u03ac\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9,\n\n\u03b1\u03bd \u03ba\u03b9 \u03bf\u03b9 \u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u03bf\u03b9\u03bc\u03af\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03c6\u03b1\u03bd\u03ce\u03c2\n\n\u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03b3\u03af\u03bd\u03b5\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c4\u03ad \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c5\u03b6\u03b5\u03c5\u03c7\u03b8\u03bf\u03cd\u03bd\n\n\u03c3\u03b5 \u03bc\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bf\u03bb\u03cc\u03ba\u03bb\u03b7\u03c1\u03b7 \u03b6\u03c9\u03ae\n\n\u03bc\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bc\u03cc\u03bd\u03bf \u03c6\u03c1\u03ac\u03c3\u03b7.\n\n\u0388\u03c4\u03c3\u03b9, \u03bb\u03bf\u03b9\u03c0\u03cc\u03bd, \u03bf \u03ba\u03ac\u03c0\u03bf\u03c4\u03b5 \u03b1\u03be\u03cd\u03c1\u03b9\u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\u03c2\n\n\u03c5\u03c0\u03ae\u03c1\u03be\u03b5 \u03ba\u03ac\u03c0\u03bf\u03c4\u03b5 \u03b3\u03b1\u03bc\u03c0\u03c1\u03cc\u03c2\n\n\u03c0\u03bb\u03b1\u03bd\u03ae\u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7 \u03c4\u03c1\u03bf\u03c7\u03b9\u03ac \u03bc\u03b9\u03b1\u03c2 \u03ac\u03bb\u03bb\u03b7\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c6\u03b1\u03af\u03c1\u03b1\u03c2\n\n(\u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u03cc\u03c4\u03b9 \u03bf \u03ac\u03bc\u03bf\u03b9\u03c1\u03bf\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b1\u03bc\u03ac\u03c1\u03c9\u03bd\u03b5 \u03c3\u03b1\u03bd \u03ae\u03bb\u03b9\u03bf\u03c2)\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b5\u03c1\u03b1\u03c3\u03c4\u03ae\u03c2 \u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u03bf\u03b9\u03bc\u03b9\u03ce\u03bd \u2013\n\n\u03c4\u03bf \u039c\u03ad\u03b3\u03b1 \u039b\u03ac\u03b8\u03bf\u03c2 \u2013\n\n\u03b3\u03b9\u03b1\u03c4\u03af \u03c0\u03bf\u03c4\u03ad \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03b5\u03bd\u03bd\u03cc\u03b7\u03c3\u03b5 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03ba\u03c1\u03cd\u03c8\u03b5\u03b9\n\n\u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03c4\u03b7 \u03b3\u03bb\u03ce\u03c3\u03c3\u03b1 \u03bc\u03c5\u03c3\u03c4\u03b9\u03ba\u03ac\n\n\u03be\u03b5\u03c7\u03bd\u03ce\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03c2, \u03c9\u03c2 \u03b3\u03b1\u03bc\u03c0\u03c1\u03cc\u03c2 \u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u03bf\u03b9\u03bc\u03b9\u03ce\u03b4\u03b7\u03c2,\n\n\u03cc\u03c4\u03b9 \u03ba\u03b9 \u03bf\u03b9 \u03c0\u03b9\u03bf \u03bc\u03b9\u03ba\u03c1\u03ad\u03c2 \u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u03b5\u03ba\u03c4\u03c1\u03bf\u03c0\u03ad\u03c2\n\n\u03b1\u03bb\u03bb\u03ac\u03b6\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03c4\u03c1\u03bf\u03c0\u03ae \u03bc\u03b9\u03b1\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c6\u03b1\u03af\u03c1\u03b1\u03c2\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c3\u03c5\u03bd\u03b5\u03c0\u03ce\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c7\u03c1\u03cc\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c0\u03c4\u03c5\u03c7\u03ad\u03c2,\n\n\u03ce\u03c3\u03c4\u03b5, \u03cc\u03bb\u03c9\u03c2 \u03b1\u03af\u03c6\u03bd\u03b7\u03c2, \u03bd\u03b1 \u03b2\u03c1\u03b5\u03b8\u03b5\u03af\n\n\u03bc\u03b5 \u03c0\u03bb\u03ac\u03c4\u03b7 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7 \u03c3\u03b9\u03b4\u03b5\u03c1\u03ad\u03bd\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c0\u03cc\u03c1\u03c4\u03b1\n\n\u03bc\u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03c3\u03c4\u03ac \u03c3\u03b5 \u03ba\u03ac\u03c0\u03bf\u03b9\u03bf \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc\u03c3\u03c0\u03b1\u03c3\u03bc\u03b1\n\n\u03bc\u03b9\u03b1\u03c2 \u03bd\u03cd\u03c6\u03b7\u03c2, \u03c3\u03b5 \u03ac\u03bb\u03bb\u03bf \u03ba\u03cc\u03c3\u03bc\u03bf \u03b1\u03ba\u03ad\u03c1\u03b1\u03b9\u03b7\u03c2\n\n\u03c3' \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03cc\u03bd \u03b1\u03b4\u03b9\u03ba\u03b7\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b7\u03c2 \u2013\n\n\u03b1\u03c6\u03bf\u03cd \u03ba\u03b9 \u03bf\u03b9 \u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u03bf\u03b9\u03bc\u03af\u03b5\u03c2 \u03b4\u03b9\u03b1\u03bb\u03b1\u03bb\u03bf\u03cd\u03bd\n\n\u03cc\u03c4\u03b9 \u03bf\u03c5\u03b4\u03ad\u03c0\u03bf\u03c4\u03b5 \u03c5\u03c0\u03ae\u03c1\u03be\u03b5 \u03b8\u03b5\u03af\u03b1 \u03b4\u03af\u03ba\u03b7\n\n\u03ba\u03b9 \u03b7 \u03b3\u03bb\u03ce\u03c3\u03c3\u03b1 \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03c4\u03bf \u03c4\u03ad\u03bb\u03bf\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03b1\u03bd\u03c4\u03bb\u03b5\u03af\n\n\u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03ba\u03ac\u03b8\u03b5 \u03c0\u03b5\u03c1\u03b9\u03c4\u03cd\u03bb\u03b9\u03be\u03b7, \u03bc\u03b5\u03c4\u03b1\u03af\u03c7\u03bc\u03b9\u03bf, \u03b9\u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\u03c1\u03af\u03b1.\n\n\u03a3\u03b1\u03bd \u03c4\u03bf \u03c3\u03c5\u03bc\u03b2\u03ac\u03bd \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03be\u03ac\u03c6\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b4\u03af\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9\n\n\u03c3\u03c4\u03b7 \u03b6\u03c9\u03ae \u03bc\u03b1\u03c2 \u03bc\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b5\u03bb\u03b5\u03af\u03b1,\n\n\u03b7 \u03bd\u03cd\u03c6\u03b7 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c6\u03b1\u03af\u03c1\u03b5\u03c2\n\n\u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03ba\u03cc\u03c3\u03bc\u03bf \u03bf\u03bb\u03cc\u03ba\u03bb\u03b7\u03c1\u03bf \u03b8\u03b1 \u03ad\u03b8\u03b5\u03c4\u03b5 \u03c9\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c4\u03cc\u03c7\u03bf\n\n\u03b1\u03c6\u03bf\u03cd, \u03c7\u03c9\u03c1\u03af\u03c2 \u03b8\u03b5\u03cc, \u03b1\u03bd\u03ad\u03ba\u03b1\u03b8\u03b5\u03bd \u03bf \u03ba\u03cc\u03c3\u03bc\u03bf\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2\n\n\u03c3\u03b5 \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03b3\u03b1\u03bc\u03c0\u03c1\u03cc \u03b5\u03af\u03c7\u03b5 \u03b4\u03b5\u03cc\u03bd\u03c4\u03c9\u03c2 \u03c7\u03c1\u03b5\u03c9\u03b8\u03b5\u03af\n\n\u03ba\u03b9 \u03ad\u03c0\u03c1\u03b5\u03c0\u03b5 \u03c4\u03ce\u03c1\u03b1 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b5\u03bb\u03b5\u03b9\u03ce\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9\n\n\u03c0\u03c1\u03b9\u03bd \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03c0\u03c1\u03bf\u03bb\u03ac\u03b2\u03b5\u03b9 \u03b7 \u03b7\u03c7\u03ce \u03bc\u03b9\u03b1\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c6\u03b1\u03af\u03c1\u03b1\u03c2\n\n\u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b1\u03c1\u03b3\u03b5\u03af \u03bd\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1\u03bb\u03ae\u03be\u03b5\u03b9\n\n\u03ba\u03b9 \u03ad\u03c4\u03c3\u03b9 \u03c0\u03b5\u03c1\u03ac\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9 \u03b1\u03ba\u03ac\u03bb\u03c5\u03c0\u03c4\u03b7,\n\n\u03bc\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bd\u03cd\u03c6\u03b7 \u03b4\u03af\u03c7\u03c9\u03c2 \u03c0\u03ad\u03c0\u03bb\u03bf,\n\n\u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03ac\u03bb\u03bb\u03b7 \u03c0\u03cc\u03c1\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c3\u03b9\u03c9\u03c0\u03ac,\n\n\u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b4\u03af\u03bd\u03b7.\n\n\u039a\u03b9 \u03b1\u03bd \u03ba\u03cd\u03bb\u03b1\u03b3\u03b5 \u03b5\u03c5\u03b8\u03cd\u03c2 \u03b1\u03bc\u03ad\u03c3\u03c9\u03c2 \u03c4\u03ce\u03c1\u03b1\n\n\u03c3\u03b5 \u03ba\u03cc\u03c3\u03bc\u03bf \u03ac\u03bb\u03bb\u03bf, \u03be\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf, \u03c3\u03ba\u03bf\u03c4\u03b5\u03b9\u03bd\u03cc\n\n\u03b8\u03b1 \u03ae\u03be\u03b5\u03c1\u03b5, \u03bf \u03c3\u03c4\u03cc\u03c7\u03bf\u03c2 \u03b5\u03af\u03c7\u03b5 \u03b5\u03c0\u03b9\u03c4\u03b5\u03c5\u03c7\u03b8\u03b5\u03af\n\n\u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u03cc\u03c4\u03b9 \u03b6\u03bf\u03cd\u03c3\u03b5 \u03bc\u03cc\u03bd\u03bf \u03bc\u03b5 \u03bc\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c3\u03ba\u03ad\u03c8\u03b7\n\n\u03bc\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u03bf\u03b9\u03bc\u03af\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c4\u03ce\u03c1\u03b1 \u03ad\u03c7\u03b5\u03b9 \u03be\u03b5\u03c7\u03b1\u03c3\u03c4\u03b5\u03af,\n\n\u03af\u03c3\u03c9\u03c2 \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1\u03c4\u03af \u03c4\u03bf \u03c4\u03ad\u03bb\u03bf\u03c2 \u03bc\u03ac\u03c2 \u03c4\u03c1\u03bf\u03bc\u03ac\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9 \u2013\n\n\u03bc\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bd\u03cd\u03c6\u03b7 \u03b1\u03c3\u03c4\u03cc\u03c7\u03b1\u03c3\u03c4\u03b7 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03bc\u03bd\u03ae\u03bc\u03b7\u03c2\n\n\u03b1\u03b4\u03b9\u03ac\u03b2\u03b1\u03c4\u03b7 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bb\u03ac\u03b8\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c0\u03b5\u03c0\u03c1\u03c9\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c6\u03b1\u03b9\u03c1\u03b9\u03ba\u03ac\n\n\u03ba\u03b9 \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1\u03c2 \u03b3\u03b1\u03bc\u03c0\u03c1\u03cc\u03c2 \u03b1\u03ba\u03af\u03bd\u03b7\u03c4\u03bf\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c4\u03bf \u03c4\u03ad\u03bb\u03bf\u03c2\n\n\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b5\u03c1\u03b9\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c4\u03bf \u03c0\u03c1\u03c9\u03af\n\n\u03c4\u03bf \u03be\u03cd\u03c1\u03b9\u03c3\u03bc\u03b1.\n\n## _The Bride with the Bullets_\n\nIn the end they shave the dead\n\nsays an old folk proverb\n\nnow long forgotten\n\nperhaps because the end induces fear\n\neven if proverbs never adhere\n\nto a single phrase\n\nfor a whole life.\n\nAnd so the once unshaven man\n\ngroom and planet\n\nto an orbit from another sphere\n\n(even if he thought he was the sun)\n\nlover of proverbs \u2013\n\nEnormous Error \u2013\n\nbecause he never thought to hide\n\nsecrets from his tongue\n\nforgetting, proverbial groom,\n\nhow the smallest deviations\n\nshift the turning of a sphere\n\nhence the folds of time,\n\nso that suddenly he finds himself\n\nhis back against the steel door\n\nfacing the shrapnel of a trigger-happy bride\n\nin another world fully intact\n\nbut in this one unjustly treated\n\nsince even proverbs claim\n\nthere never was a goddess of the just\n\nand language draws its every twist,\n\nthreshold, and tale from its own end.\n\nLike the event that suddenly gives\n\na full stop to our life\n\nthe bride with her bullets\n\nmakes the whole world her target\n\nsince, without god, her own world had always\n\nbeen duly indebted to a groom\n\nand now this had to end\n\nbefore the echo of a bullet\n\nslow to come to a conclusion\n\nwould catch her unprotected,\n\na bride without a veil,\n\nslipping through the other door\n\nof silence like a vortex.\n\nAnd if just now she would slip\n\ninto a sphere, foreign, dark, not here\n\nshe'd know her target had been hit\n\neven if she lived for a single phrase\n\na proverb now long forgotten \u2013\n\nperhaps because the end induces fear \u2013\n\na bride without a thought for memory\n\nintractable, carving bullet spheres of fate,\n\nand a groom immobile in the end\n\nwaiting for his morning shave.\n\nStathis Gourgouris and Karen Van Dyck\n\n## _\u03a4o \u03ccv\u03b5\u03b9\u03c1o \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u0391\u03b8\u03b7v\u03ac\u03c2_\n\n\u0391\u03cd\u03b3o\u03c5\u03c3\u03c4o\u03c2 \u03bc\u03b5\u03c3\u03b7\u03bc\u03ad\u03c1\u03b9.\n\n\u039c\u03b5\u03bb\u03c4\u03ad\u03bc\u03b9 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7 \u0392\u03b5\u03c1\u03b1v\u03b6\u03ad\u03c1o\u03c5.\n\n\u039f \u0391\u03bb\u03b2\u03b1v\u03cc\u03c2 \u03c4\u03c1\u03ce\u03b3\u03b5\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9 v\u03b1 \u03bc\u03ac\u03b8\u03b5\u03b9\n\n\u03c4\u03b1 \u03bc\u03c5\u03c3\u03c4\u03b9\u03ba\u03ac \u03c4o\u03c5 \u03b1v\u03b1\u03c0\u03c4\u03ae\u03c1\u03b1.\n\n\u03a3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c3\u03ba\u03bb\u03b7\u03c1\u03ac \u03c0\u03b5\u03b6o\u03b4\u03c1\u03cc\u03bc\u03b9\u03b1\n\n\u03ba\u03ac\u03bc\u03c0\u03c4o\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c8\u03b7\u03bb\u03ac \u03c4\u03b1\u03bao\u03cdv\u03b9\u03b1.\n\n\u03a4\u03b9\u03bc\u03c9\u03c1o\u03cd\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9 o\u03b9 \u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u03b1\u03b2\u03ac\u03c4\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c4\u03c9v \u03b4\u03b9\u03b1\u03bao\u03c0\u03cev\n\n\u03bbo\u03c5\u03cc\u03bc\u03b5\u03bdo\u03b9 \u03c3\u03c4o \u03c3\u03bao\u03bd\u03b9\u03c3\u03bc\u03ad\u03bdo\n\n\u0391\u03c3\u03c4\u03b9\u03ba\u03ccv \u03c6\u03ce\u03c2.\n\n\u03a4o\u03bd \u0391\u03bb\u03b2\u03b1v\u03cc \u03c4o\u03bd \u03bb\u03adv\u03b5 Edison.\n\n\u039c\u03b1\u03b6\u03af \u03c4o\u03c5 \u03b2\u03b1\u03c0\u03c4\u03af\u03c3\u03c4\u03b7\u03ba\u03b5\n\n\u03c4o \u03a4\u03c1\u03af\u03c4o \u0395\u03c1\u03b3o\u03c3\u03c4\u03ac\u03c3\u03b9o \u0397\u03bb\u03b5\u03ba\u03c4\u03c1\u03b9\u03c3\u03bco\u03cd.\n\n\u03a4\u03ce\u03c1\u03b1 \u03c6\u03bb\u03b5\u03c1\u03c4\u03ac\u03c1\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b7 \u03c6\u03c9\u03c4\u03b9\u03ac\n\n\u03c3\u03b1v \u03bd\u03ado\u03c2 \u03a0\u03c1o\u03bc\u03b7\u03b8\u03ad\u03b1\u03c2,\n\n\u03b4\u03ad\u03c3\u03bc\u03b9o\u03c2 \u03c0\u03ac\u03bb\u03b9 \u03bc\u03b9\u03b1\u03c2 \u03be\u03adv\u03b7\u03c2 \u03c7\u03b5\u03b9\u03c1o\u03bdo\u03bc\u03af\u03b1\u03c2.\n\n\u039a\u03b9 \u03cc\u03bb\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b1\u03c5\u03c1\u03af\u03b6o\u03c5v \u03b5\u03b4\u03ce \u03c4\u03c1\u03b9\u03b3\u03cd\u03c1\u03c9\n\n(\u03bc\u03cc\u03bdo \u03b7 \u0391\u03ba\u03c1\u03cc\u03c0o\u03bb\u03b7 o\u03bbo\u03adv\u03b1 \u03b1\u03c3\u03c0\u03c1\u03af\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9).\n\n\u03a3\u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03bc\u03b1\u03cd\u03c1\u03b5\u03c2 \u03b1\u03af\u03b8o\u03c5\u03c3\u03b5\u03c2 \u03b5\u03ba\u03ba\u03bb\u03b7\u03c3\u03b9\u03ac\u03b6o\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9\n\no\u03b9 \u03b5\u03be \u0391v\u03b1\u03c4o\u03bb\u03cev \u03bd\u03ado\u03b9 \u03c0o\u03bb\u03af\u03c4\u03b5\u03c2\n\n\u03b8\u03c5\u03c3\u03b9\u03ac\u03b6o\u03c5v \u03c0\u03b1\u03c4\u03c1\u03af\u03b4\u03b5\u03c2, o\u03b9\u03bao\u03b3\u03adv\u03b5\u03b9\u03b5\u03c2\n\n\u03ba\u03b1\u03b8\u03ce\u03c2 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7 \u03bb\u03ac\u03bc\u03c8\u03b7 \u03c4o\u03c5 \u03b2\u03c9\u03bco\u03cd\n\n\u03c0\u03acv\u03c9 \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03ba\u03ac\u03c4\u03b9 \u03c0\u03b5\u03bb\u03ce\u03c1\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bc\u03c5\u03c3\u03c4\u03b9\u03ba\u03ac\n\n\u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u0386\u03b3\u03c1\u03b9\u03b1\u03c2 \u0394\u03cd\u03c3\u03b7\u03c2\n\n\u03c3\u03b1\u03c1\u03bao\u03b2\u03b1\u03c4\u03b5\u03af \u03b7 \u03b9\u03b5\u03c1\u03ac\u03c1\u03c7\u03b9\u03c2\n\nAnnie Sprinkle.\n\n## _Athena's Dream_\n\nCool afternoon in August.\n\nNorth wind on B\u00e9ranger St.\n\nAn Albanian pondering desperately\n\nthe secrets of a lighter.\n\nA hard sidewalk bending\n\nthe high heels.\n\nPunishing the violators\n\nof summer-leave who bathe\n\nin the dusty city light.\n\nThe Albanian's name is Edison.\n\nHis name marks the lightning birth\n\nof the nation's First Electrical Plant.\n\nBut now he flirts with fire,\n\na new Prometheus\n\nbound again by a foreign gesture\n\nin a world that suddenly goes black\n\nso that the dark Acropolis looms now\n\nwhiter than ever\n\nand in black cinema-parishes\n\nnew citizens from the East\n\nsacrifice their patrimony\n\nto the luminous screen, where high\n\nover enormous mysteries\n\nof the Wild West\n\nrides the white priestess\n\nAnnie Sprinkle.\n\nSelf-translated\n\n## _\u0391v\u03cev\u03c5\u03bc\u03b7 \u03b2\u03c1o\u03c7\u03ae_\n\n\u03a4\u03cc \u03cc\u03bdo\u03bc\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u0398\u03b5o\u03cd \u03be\u03b5\u03c7\u03ac\u03c3\u03c4\u03b7\u03ba\u03b5\n\n\u03b3\u03b9\u03b1\u03c4\u03af \u03ba\u03b1\u03bd\u03b5\u03af\u03c2 \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03c0\u03c1\u03cc\u03bb\u03b1\u03b2\u03b5\n\n\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf \u03b3\u03c1\u03ac\u03c8\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c3\u03cd\u03bd\u03bd\u03b5\u03c6\u03b1.\n\n\u039a\u03ac\u03b8\u03b5 \u03bc\u03ad\u03c1\u03b1 \u03c0o\u03c5 \u03b2\u03c1\u03ad\u03c7\u03b5\u03b9\n\n\u03c3\u03c4\u03ac\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9 \u03b5\u03c0\u03acv\u03c9 \u03bc\u03b1\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf \u03b1\u03c0\u03b5\u03b9\u03c1o-\n\n\u03b5\u03bb\u03ac\u03c7\u03b9\u03c3\u03c4o \u03ba\u03c1\u03af\u03bc\u03b1\n\n\u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03b1\u03bd\u03c9v\u03cd\u03bco\u03c5 \u03b8\u03b5\u03ac\u03c3\u03b5\u03c9\u03c2.\n\n\u0393\u03b9' \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03cc \u03bf\u03b9 \u03ac\u03bd\u03b8\u03c1\u03c9\u03c0o\u03b9 \u03b5\u03c6\u03b7\u03cd\u03c1\u03b1\u03bd\n\n\u03c4\u03af\u03c2 \u03bc\u03b1\u03cd\u03c1\u03b5\u03c2 \u03bf\u03bc\u03c0\u03c1\u03ad\u03bb\u03b5\u03c2.\n\n\u0393\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03ba\u03c1\u03b1\u03c4\u03ae\u03c3o\u03c5\u03bd \u03b1\u03b4\u03b9\u03ac\u03b2\u03c1o\u03c7o\n\n\u03c4\u03bf \u03b1\u03b8\u03ad\u03b1\u03c4o \u03ccvo\u03bc\u03ac \u03c4o\u03c5\u03c2.\n\n## _Nameless Rain_\n\nThe name of God was forgotten\n\nbecause no one bothered\n\nto write it on the clouds.\n\nEvery time it rains\n\nupon us falls\n\nthe infinitesimal sin\n\nof nameless vision.\n\nHence humans invented\n\nblack umbrellas\n\nto keep their invisible name\n\nwaterproof.\n\nStathis Gourgouris and Karen Van Dyck\n\n## Mehmet Yashin\n\n#### (Born Nicosia, Cyprus, 1958)\n\nMehmet Yashin is one of Cyprus's most internationally acclaimed poets. He has been at the vanguard of multilingual literature since his landmark critical study of Cypriot, Greek, and Turkish literature, _Step-Mothertongue_ (Middlesex University Press, 2000). His own writing draws on the multilingual Levantine tradition he remembers from his grandmother, who mingled the Turkish and Greek alphabets, languages, and cultures in everyday life. Though his work has only recently begun to be read in Greece, he has won many awards in Turkey and the UK, and his poetry and novels have been translated into more than twenty languages; the first selection of his poetry, _Don't Go Back to Kyrenia_ , was chosen for translation by the British Centre for Literary Translation. He lives and teaches in Nicosia, crossing the green line daily.\n\nDon't Go Back to Kyrenia, Middlesex University Press, 2001; Wartime, The Happy Dragons' Press, 2007; _\u0386\u03b3\u03b3\u03b5\u03bb\u03bf\u03b9 \u0395\u03ba\u03b4\u03b9\u03ba\u03b7\u03c4\u03ad\u03c2_ ( _Revenge Angels_ ), Vakxikon.gr, 2015.\n\n## _Ac\u0131 kay\u0131p_\n\n_Kaybetmesem bulamayacakt\u0131m_\n\n_\u03a9\u03bb\u03bc\u03b5\u03b3\u03b5\u03bd \u03b9\u03c1 \u039f_\n\nAnnem zamans\u0131z \u00f6lmese gerekmeyecekti onu canland\u0131rmam\n\nve babam\u0131 fark bile etmeyecektim hayat\u0131mdan \u00e7\u0131kmasa...\n\n(Yokedilmek istendi\u011fi i\u00e7in varolabilen bir eve do\u011fdum ben\n\nb\u00f6ylece Kutsal Topraklar\u0131m\u0131z oldu i\u015fgal alt\u0131ndaki o lanet yer.)\n\nHi\u00e7bir\u015fey kaybetmeyen bunu da ba\u015fka t\u00fcrl\u00fc okuyacak\n\nve anlad\u0131\u011f'n\u0131 sanacak, kalpten okunmad\u0131k\u00e7a anla\u015f\u0131labilirmi\u015f gibi \u015fiir.\n\nU\u00e7an ku\u015flar\u0131n kanat \u00e7\u0131rpmas\u0131 devam ettik\u00e7e bak\u0131\u015flar\u0131n\u0131zda\n\nbo\u015f kalan dallara her bakt\u0131\u011f\u0131n\u0131zda, devam eder \u015fiir de.\n\nAma kendi s\u0131n\u0131rlar\u0131m\u0131 belki hi\u00e7 a\u015famayacakt\u0131m\n\nilk \u015fiir cennetimden zorla s\u0131n\u0131rd\u0131\u015f\u0131 edilmemi\u015f olsayd\u0131m.\n\n\u015eimdi anl\u0131yorum ki, \u015fairler \u00e7ok iyili\u011fini g\u00f6r\u00fcrm\u00fc\u015f k\u00f6t\u00fcl\u00fcklerin,\n\ndilsizli\u011fin bir de ve ellerinden al\u0131nm\u0131\u015f b\u00fct\u00fcn o \u015feylerin \u2013\n\nSonsuza dek kaybedilmi\u015f... bir \u015fiir olarak bulunsun diye\n\n \u03c5\u03c1\u03b1\u03b4\u03b1.\n\n## _The Bitter Loss_\n\n_If I had not lost it I would not have found it_\n\n_\u03a9\u03bb\u03bc\u03b5\u03b3\u03b5\u03bd \u03b9\u03c1 \u039f_\n\nIf my mother hadn't died so young, I wouldn't have to call her back to life,\n\nand I wouldn't even have noticed my father, if he hadn't gone away...\n\nI was born to a house which was there only to be ransacked later,\n\nand thus, under occupation, that accursed abode became our Holy Land.\n\nHe who never lost anything will give this a different interpretation,\n\nbelieving he grasps it all, as if you could comprehend poetry\n\nwithout hearing it read from the depths of the heart.\n\nAs the flapping wings of birds in their flight persist in your eyes,\n\nso does a poem whenever you gaze at the bare branches of trees.\n\nBut perhaps I would never have crossed the bounds of my inner self,\n\nif I hadn't been exiled from that primordial paradise of poetry.\n\nI now realize that poets glean much goodness from evil deeds,\n\nfrom being dumb, from watching their possessions being pillaged \u2013\n\nlost for good, for ever, only to be recovered a lot later, as a poem.\n\n \u03c5\u03c1\u03b1\u03b4\u03b1.\n\nTaner Baybars\n\n## _De-composition_\n\nYou can tell by the way she moves her curly hair\n\nwhether she is in a good mood or not \u2013\n\nNot. Yapabilece\u011fin bir\u015fey de yok.\n\nAya'ucunda y\u00fcr\u00fc, dokunma bir yere,\n\ne\u015fyalar k\u0131r\u0131lmak i\u00e7in s\u0131raya girmi\u015f. You too\n\nhave to be brave now, no, you don't need to be...\n\nCall your double to play\n\nthis role. Ezberleyemedin gitti,\n\nciddiye al\u0131yorsun \u00fcstelik oyundaki her s\u00f6z\u00fc \u2013\n\nAya\u011f\u0131n kaymayag\u00f6rs\u00fcn. Behind the plastic curtains\n\ntwo shadows showering, shrinking bellies,\n\nhearts, legs... \u015eekillerin ani de\u011fi\u015fimi\n\ng\u00f6lge-oyunundaki gibi shivering giant shapes\n\nall of a sudden kesik kesik su sesi... Susss\n\ns\u00f6zc\u00fckler haz'r'olda yayl\u0131mate\u015f i\u00e7in sana \u2013\n\nBodies are wet but the soul\n\ndried up bo\u015falt\u0131lm\u0131\u015f bir evde. C\u0131v\u0131lt\u0131s\u0131 u\u00e7mu\u015f\n\nku\u015f, y \u0131 l a n \u0131 n y u t t u \u011f u d i l...\n\nYata\u011fa uzan\u0131rken delik de\u015fik iniltiyle,\n\nkemiklerimmm \u03c4\u03b9 \u03ba\u03bf\u03cd\u03c1\u03b1\u03c3\u03b7 \u03b8\u03b5\u03b5 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5, diyorsun.\n\nKimse yan\u0131tlam\u0131yor: \u0388\u03bb\u03b1 \u03c8\u03c5\u03c7\u03ae \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5, ge\u00e7mi\u015f zaman\n\nruhu. \u00c7\u00fcr\u00fcyen beden.\n\n## _\u00c7\u00fcr\u00fcme_\n\nDalgal\u0131 sa\u00e7lar\u0131n\u0131 savuru\u015fundan anlars\u0131n\n\nkeyfi yerinde mi de\u011fil mi-\n\nDe\u011fil. And there is nothing you can do.\n\nTiptoe... Don't touch anything,\n\nthe objects form an orderly queue\n\nto be broken. Sen de cesur ol o halde\n\nyok \u015fart de\u011fil,\n\ndubl\u00f6r\u00fcn\u00fc \u00e7a\u011f\u0131r o oynas\u0131n bu rol\u00fc. You still\n\nhave not learned your lines by heart\n\nand still take every single word so seriously.\n\nA slip of your feet. Plastik perdenin arkas\u0131nda\n\niki g\u00f6lge, du\u015f yap\u0131yorlar, b\u00fcz\u00fc\u015fm\u00fc\u015f kar\u0131nlar\u0131\n\nkalpleri, bacaklar\u0131... An instant change of figures\n\nlike in a shadow-play titreyen dev \u015fekiller\n\nve birden stuttering sound of water... Shhhh...\n\nThe word-squad in attention to shoot you\n\nG\u00f6vdeler \u0131slak ama ruh\n\nkupkuru in a forsaken house. The bird staring as\n\nthe song flies away, the tongue\n\nswallowed by the snake...\n\nAs you lay yourself on bed, with a pierced moan\n\nmy boooones. Gott, was ist das f\u00fcr eine m\u00fcdigkeit, you mutter\n\nNo one answers: Komm, meine Seele, mein hertz. The soul of\n\ntime begone. Body de-composing.\n\nBari\u015f Pirhasan\n\n## Hiva Panahi\n\n#### (Born Sina, Kurdistan [now Iran], 1980)\n\nThe Kurdish-Greek writer and poet Hiva Panahi often employs the imagery of the Persian and Arabic poetry she grew up with in her efforts to tackle her people's struggles in her work. She was forced to leave Iran in 1997 when she and three others witnessed the stoning of their schoolmate by religious fundamentalists. After a period in jail, she made her way to Iraq, and eventually to Greece on a scholarship. There, she studied the Greek language at the University of Athens and received her Ph.D. in Political Science from Panteion University. Her poetry is written in Kurdish and Greek, and has been translated into other languages including Filipino, English, Arabic, German, and French.\n\n_\u03a4\u03b1 \u03bc\u03c5\u03c3\u03c4\u03b9\u03ba\u03ac \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c7\u03b9\u03bf\u03bd\u03b9\u03bf\u03cd_ ( _The Secrets of Snow_ ), Maistros, 2008.\n\n## _\u0397 \u03b1\u03bd\u03ac\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03b5\u03bb\u03b9\u03ac\u03c2_\n\n\u0395\u03bc\u03b5\u03af\u03c2 \u03bf\u03b9 \u03c0\u03b5\u03c1\u03b9\u03c0\u03bb\u03b1\u03bd\u03ce\u03bc\u03b5\u03bd\u03bf\u03b9\n\n\u0395\u03bc\u03b5\u03af\u03c2 \u03bf\u03b9 \u03be\u03c5\u03c0\u03cc\u03bb\u03c5\u03c4\u03bf\u03b9\n\n\u0395\u03bc\u03b5\u03af\u03c2 \u03c7\u03c9\u03c1\u03af\u03c2 \u03c7\u03ce\u03c1\u03bf \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c7\u03ce\u03c1\u03b1\n\n\u0395\u03bc\u03b5\u03af\u03c2 \u03bf\u03b9 \u03ba\u03b1\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf\u03b9 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b1\u03bd\u03b1\u03bc\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf\u03b9 \u03ac\u03bd\u03b5\u03bc\u03bf\u03b9\n\n\u03a3\u03b5 \u03b5\u03af\u03b4\u03b1\u03bc\u03b5, \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b5\u03bb\u03b5\u03c5\u03c4\u03b1\u03af\u03b5\u03c2 \u03b1\u03bd\u03ac\u03c3\u03b5\u03c2\n\n\u03a0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ba\u03ac\u03c8\u03b1\u03bd\u03b5 \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03ba\u03bf\u03bc\u03bc\u03ac\u03c4\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03b8\u03ac\u03bb\u03b1\u03c3\u03c3\u03b1\u03c2.\n\n## _The Breath of the Olive Tree_\n\nWe the wandering\n\nWe the barefoot\n\nWe without space or country\n\nWe the burnt and fiery winds\n\nWe saw you, with those final breaths\n\nThat burned a piece of the sea.\n\nKaren Emmerich\n\n## _\u03a3\u03cd\u03bd\u03c4\u03c1\u03bf\u03d5\u03bf\u03c2_\n\n\u039f \u03b9\u03b4\u03c1\u03ce\u03c4\u03b1\u03c2 \u03b5\u03bd\u03cc\u03c2 \u03c0\u03bf\u03b9\u03ae\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03bf\u03c2\n\n\u03a3\u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03bc\u03c5\u03c3\u03c4\u03b7\u03c1\u03b9\u03ce\u03b4\u03b5\u03b9\u03c2 \u03bb\u03cc\u03d5\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2\n\n\u03a3\u03c4\u03b7 \u03b2\u03b1\u03bb\u03af\u03c4\u03c3\u03b1 \u03ba\u03bf\u03c5\u03b2\u03b1\u03bb\u03ac\u03c9 \u03c4\u03bf \u03cd\u03c8\u03bf\u03c2 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u039c\u03b1\u03b6\u03af \u03bc' \u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c7\u03c1\u03c9\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03b9\u03c3\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf \u03c5\u03c0\u03bf\u03bd\u03bf\u03bf\u03cd\u03bc\u03b5\u03bd\u03bf \u03c4\u03b1\u03be\u03b9\u03b4\u03b5\u03cd\u03c9\n\n\u039b\u03b5\u03c2 \u03b1\u03ba\u03cc\u03bc\u03b7 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b5\u03c1\u03b9\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03c9\n\n\u039d\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03ba\u03bf\u03c1\u03bf\u03ca\u03b4\u03b5\u03cd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03bf \u0391\u03c1\u03b9\u03bc\u03ac\u03bd;\n\n\u0389 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03b5\u03c1\u03c9\u03c4\u03b5\u03c5\u03c4\u03ce \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03ae\u03bb\u03b9\u03bf \u03b1\u03bc\u03b1\u03c1\u03c4\u03c9\u03bb\u03cc \u03ba\u03bf\u03c1\u03af\u03c4\u03c3\u03b9;\n\n\u039b\u03b5\u03c2 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03ba\u03b1\u03c4\u03ac\u03b3\u03bf\u03bc\u03b1\u03b9\n\n\u0391\u03c0' \u03c4\u03b7 \u03c7\u03ce\u03c1\u03b1 \u03c4\u03c9\u03bd \u03ba\u03c5\u03c4\u03c4\u03ac\u03c1\u03c9\u03bd\n\n\u039b\u03b5\u03c2 \u03bc\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b5\u03b9\u03b8\u03b1\u03c1\u03c7\u03b9\u03ba\u03ae \u03b2\u03c1\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03ae\n\n\u039d\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03ba\u03ac\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9 \u03b2\u03c1\u03bf\u03c7\u03ae \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ad\u03c1\u03c9\u03c4\u03b1\n\n\u039b\u03b5\u03c2 \u03b5\u03ba\u03b5\u03af \u03c3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03b2\u03ac\u03b8\u03b7 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c7\u03c9\u03c1\u03b1\u03d5\u03b9\u03bf\u03cd\n\n\u03a3\u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03bd\u03bf\u03b8\u03b5\u03c5\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf \u03c0\u03cc\u03bd\u03bf \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b4\u03b5\u03b9\u03bb\u03b9\u03bd\u03bf\u03cd\n\n\u0395\u03ba\u03b5\u03af \u03c4\u03bf \u03c7\u03b1\u03bc\u03cc\u03b3\u03b5\u03bb\u03cc \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bb\u03b5\u03c2 \u03b1\u03ba\u03cc\u03bc\u03b7 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03b5\u03af\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bc\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bc\u03af\u03bc\u03b7\u03c3\u03b7\n\n\u03a3\u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03c7\u03b1\u03c1\u03bf\u03cd\u03bc\u03b5\u03bd\u03bf \u03ba\u03b1\u03b8\u03c1\u03ad\u03c6\u03c4\u03b7;\n\n\u03a4\u03bf \u03c8\u03b5\u03cd\u03c4\u03b9\u03ba\u03bf \u03bb\u03b5\u03c0\u03c4\u03cc \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03bc\u03ad\u03c1\u03b1\u03c2\n\n\u039c\u03ad\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03b1\u03bd\u03ac\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03cd\u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u03be\u03ae\u03c2 \u03bc\u03b1\u03c2\n\n\u0391\u03c0' \u03c4\u03bf \u03d5\u03ac\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03c3\u03bc\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03c4\u03bf \u03bc\u03b1\u03cd\u03c1\u03bf \u03d5\u03cc\u03c1\u03b5\u03bc\u03b1\n\n\u039c\u03bf\u03c5 \u03bb\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c0\u03ce\u03c2 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03be\u03b5\u03d5\u03cd\u03b3\u03c9;\n\n\u0397 \u03c3\u03ba\u03b9\u03ac \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c0\u03ac\u03bd\u03c4\u03c9\u03c2 \u03bc\u03b5 \u03d5\u03bf\u03b2\u03af\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9\n\n\u0388\u03c8\u03b1\u03c7\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u03b1\u03bc\u03cd\u03b8\u03b9\u03b1\n\n\u03a3\u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03b8\u03c1\u03cd\u03bb\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03c4\u03c9\u03bd \u03c0\u03b1\u03bb\u03b9\u03ce\u03bd \u03b5\u03c0\u03bf\u03c7\u03ce\u03bd\n\n\u03a4\u03b7 \u03bc\u03ad\u03c1\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03b4\u03b5\u03bd \u03b8\u03b1 \u03be\u03b7\u03bc\u03b5\u03c1\u03ce\u03c3\u03b5\u03b9\n\n\u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03d5\u03b7\u03bc\u03b9\u03c3\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c7\u03af\u03bb\u03b9\u03b5\u03c2 \u03bd\u03cd\u03c7\u03c4\u03b5\u03c2\n\n\u0388\u03bd\u03b1 \u03b3\u03ba\u03c1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03c1\u03b1\u03b3\u03bf\u03cd\u03b4\u03b9\n\n\u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ba\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1\u03c1\u03b1\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ad\u03c1\u03c9\u03c4\u03b1\n\n\u0391\u03c0\u03cc \u03c0\u03bf\u03cd \u03ad\u03c7\u03b5\u03b9 \u03ad\u03c1\u03b8\u03b5\u03b9;\n\n\u03a3\u03c4\u03b7 \u03b2\u03b1\u03bb\u03af\u03c4\u03c3\u03b1 \u03ba\u03bf\u03c5\u03b2\u03b1\u03bb\u03ce \u03c4\u03bf \u03cd\u03c8\u03bf\u03c2 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\n\n\u03a4\u03bf \u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u03b1\u03bc\u03c5\u03b8\u03ad\u03bd\u03b9\u03bf \u03c0\u03b1\u03bb\u03b9\u03ba\u03ac\u03c1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03b2\u03c1\u03bf\u03c7\u03ae\u03c2\n\n\u03c7\u03af\u03bb\u03b9\u03b5\u03c2 \u03bd\u03cd\u03c7\u03c4\u03b5\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf \u03bb\u03ad\u03bd\u03b5\n\n\u03a0\u03c9\u03c2 \u03c4\u03b1\u03be\u03b9\u03b4\u03b5\u03cd\u03c9.\n\n## _Companion_\n\nThe sweat of a poem\n\nIn the mysterious hills\n\nI carry my height in the suitcase\n\nI travel along with a painted insinuation\n\nYou think I'm still waiting\n\nTo be fooled by Ariman?\n\nOr to fall in love with the sun, sinful girl?\n\nYou think I come\n\nFrom the land of celluloid?\n\nYou think a well-disciplined thunder\n\nMight turn me into the rain of love?\n\nYou think there in the depths of a field\n\nIn the falsified ache of dusk\n\nYou think my smile there might still be an imitation\n\nInside the happy mirror?\n\nThe fraudulent minute of the day\n\nInside the breath of our existence?\n\nCan you tell me how to escape\n\nFrom the ghost with the black dress?\n\nIn any case its mere shadow scares me\n\nI've been searching in fairytales\n\nIn the legends of old times\n\nFor the day that will not dawn\n\nOne of the famous thousand nights\n\nA gray song\n\nOf accursed love\n\nWhere has it come from?\n\nI carry my height in the suitcase\n\nThe fairytale hero of the rain\n\nA thousand nights tell about\n\nHow I travel.\n\nAngelos Sakkis\n\n## _\u0388\u03bd\u03b1\u03c2 \u03ac\u03bd\u03b8\u03c1\u03c9\u03c0\u03bf\u03c2 \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03c3\u03c4\u03ac\u03c7\u03c4\u03b7_\n\n\u03a4\u03b1 \u03cc\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9\u03c1\u03b1 \u03ad\u03c1\u03c7\u03bf\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03bc\u03b1\u03ba\u03c1\u03b9\u03bd\u03ac \u03bc\u03ad\u03c1\u03b7\n\n\u0397 \u03c0\u03ad\u03c4\u03c1\u03b1, \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5\u03bb\u03b9\u03ac, \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b5\u03b3\u03ce \u03c0\u03b1\u03af\u03c1\u03bd\u03bf\u03c5\u03bc\u03b5 \u03bd\u03ad\u03b1 \u03bc\u03bf\u03c1\u03c6\u03ae \u03b6\u03c9\u03ae\u03c2\n\n\u03a4\u03b1 \u03cc\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9\u03c1\u03b1 \u03ad\u03c7\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03b4\u03b9\u03ba\u03cc \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03b4\u03c1\u03cc\u03bc\u03bf\n\n\u039a\u03b1\u03b9 \u03b5\u03bc\u03b5\u03af\u03c2 \u03c3\u03b1\u03bd \u03cc\u03bd\u03b5\u03b9\u03c1\u03b1 \u03bc\u03b1\u03ba\u03c1\u03b9\u03bd\u03ac \u03b6\u03bf\u03cd\u03bc\u03b5 \u03c0\u03b9\u03b1\n\n## _Ash Person_\n\nDreams come from far away places\n\nThe stones, the birds and I take on new forms of life\n\nDreams have their own road\n\nAnd we live far away these days, like dreams.\n\nMaria Margaronis\n\n## Notes on the Poems\n\nby poets (P), translators (T), and the editor (E)\n\n9\/11 OR FALLING MAN\n\nThis translation rewrites the collection's title _27 \u03ae \u03bf \u03ac\u03bd\u03b8\u03c1\u03c9\u03c0\u03bf\u03c2 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c0\u03ad\u03c6\u03c4\u03b5\u03b9_ ( _27 or the man who falls_ ) as _9\/11 or Falling Man_ , and the poet's 27-syllable line into one of twenty syllables, placing a caesura after every ninth or eleventh syllable to inscribe the titular date into the translation. (T)\n\nO SAY CAN YOU SEE\n\nThe title in Greek, _\u03a0\u03b1\u03c4\u03c1\u03b5\u03af\u03b4\u03b1_ , plays on the words for 'Fatherland' or 'Homeland' (\u03a0\u03b1\u03c4\u03c1\u03af\u03b4\u03b1) and 'I saw' (\u03b5\u03af\u03b4\u03b1), creating a neologism that means 'what I see of my country'. The translation refers to the first line of the American national anthem. (T)\n\nARMED WITH TENDERNESS\n\n'For Katerina Anghelaki-Rooke': See her entry in the Translators' biographies. Also see Further Reading for Karen Van Dyck's translation of her poetry. (E)\n\nMY BROTHER PAUL, THE DIGGER OF THE SEINE\n\n'O you dig and I dig \/ and I dig inside myself towards you': From the collection _Die Niemandsrose_ by the poet Paul Celan (1920\u201370), dedicated to the Russian poet Osip Mandelstam (1891\u20131938). (E)\n\nTHE CHILDREN OF ABEL\n\nThis poem references both the shipwreck of the MV _Danny F_ _II_ , which was carrying a load of almost a thousand cows and sheep, on 17 December 2009, and the death by asphyxiation, five days later, of a lioness and eight tigers on the circus truck transporting them to Yakutsk, Siberia. (P)\n\nHEAD OF A SATYR\n\nIn the winter of 1877\u20138, the sculptor Giannoulis Chalepas, as yet unknown and misunderstood, suffered a severe nervous breakdown; he destroyed his studies and works \u2013 mainly heads of Satyrs, of which only one, which he had given to his young nephew, survives \u2013 and he repeatedly attempted suicide. He was placed 'under observation' and, as his condition worsened, his family sent him to Italy to recuperate. Soon thereafter he returned to Greece with the aim of studying the sculptures of the Acropolis, but he ended up in the Psychiatric Hospital of Corfu. (P)\n\nPENTHESILEA\n\nPenthesilea is an Amazon queen in Greek mythology, and the heroine of Heinrich von Kleist's eponymous tragedy (1808). (E)\n\n(PENELOPE \u2013 _E_ _\u03a7\u03a9 \u03a0_ _A_ _\u0398\u039f\u03a3 \u0393\u0399\u0391 \u03a3_ _E_ _\u039d\u0391_ )\n\nPenelope is the wife of Odysseus, who keeps her suitors at bay during her husband's absence by promising to choose one when she finishes her weaving. What they don't know is that she undoes her day's work every night. (E)\n\nThis translation, like Bari\u015f Pirhasan's '\u00c7\u00fcr\u00fcme' and George Economou's 'Torn', relies on the reader comparing the language patterns and shape of the original and the translation, and filling in the missing English. (E)\n\n(THETIS)\n\nThetis is the Ancient Greek goddess of water and one of the fifty Nereids, the daughters of the sea god Nereus. The name in Greek is a cognate of \u03c4\u03af\u03b8\u03b5\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9 \u2013 the one who is positioned, placed, but also who posits. (E)\n\n(LOTUS EATERS II)\n\nThe inhabitants of one of the islands Odysseus visits on his journey are said to live in a drugged indolent state induced by eating lotus flowers. (E)\n\nTHE GREAT GARDENER\n\n'For Miltos': A reference to the poet Miltos Sachtouris (1919\u20132005). See Further Reading for Karen Emmerich's translation of his poetry. (E)\n\nNATIONAL ANTHEM, 2008, REDUX\n\n'For Eva Stefani': For Stefani's own poetry, see here. (E)\n\nKLEINE NACHTMUSIK\n\n_Eine_ _kleine Nachtmusik_ (Serenade No. 13 for strings in G major), a chamber music composition by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. (E)\n\nTHE LOTUS EATERS\n\nSee note to here. (E)\n\nWORDS\n\n_W\u00f6rter_ : As a teenager Jazra Khaleed lived in Germany for a few years before settling in Greece. (E)\n\nRE: LOTUS EATERS\n\nThis is a response to Kyoko Kishida's poem on here. See also note to here. (E)\n\nWORD MONDAY\n\nIn this poem, Greek letters are what they look like: \u03a0 and \u03a4 have flat roofs, while \u03b6 and \u03be have roots that dangle down. In Greek, to be homeless is to be roofless (\u03ac\u03c3\u03c4\u03b5\u03b3\u03b7\u03c2) and, as in English, the verb 'to uproot' is used for plants and people. (T)\n\nTELEMACHUS\n\nThis is the final poem of a triptych, coming after 'Odysseus' and 'Penelope'. Telemachus, son of Odysseus, helped his father defeat his mother's suitors at home in Ithaca, but never went to war. His name means 'far from war'. Neoptolemos, son of Achilles, was known as a brutal warrior and fought with Odysseus in Troy. His name means 'new war'. (E)\n\nSEPTEMBER 3rd 1843\n\nOn this date an uprising against the rule of the Bavarian King Otto led to the establishment of a constitution, for which Syntagma Square in Athens is named. (T)\n\nPOETRY DOES NOT SUFFICE\n\n'Let him write as many sonnets as he wants about Faliro': Faliro, now a seaside suburb near Piraeus, was the subject of a rather whimsical love poem by Lorentzos Mavilis (1860\u20131912) involving an heiress with a new-fangled automobile. (T)\n\nPOETRY 2048\n\nThe title refers to the poem written in 1948 by Nikos Engonopoulos called 'Poetry 1948'.\n\n'from the treason of Ploumbides': Nikos Ploumbides was a member of the anti-Nazi resistance and a leading Communist. He later fell afoul of the KKE (the Communist Party of Greece) and resigned from their politburo. After he was arrested and executed by the right-wing Papagos government in 1954, left-wing newspapers insisted that he was alive and well, spending money earned from his treason (allegedly as a secret police spy). In 1958, the KKE exonerated him. (T)\n\nINTERNATIONAL\n\n'Philip the Apostle': One of the Twelve Apostles of Jesus. Known as the apostle who preached in Greece, Syria, and Phrygia. (E)\n\nPARALOGUE\n\n\u039f\u03b9 \u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u03b1\u03bb\u03bf\u03b3\u03ad\u03c2 (the paralogues) are a category of Greek folksong, composed in ballad form, which focuses on ancient myth, often about the Underworld. The word also literally refers to a lack of logic (paralogic), and has been used by Greek poets to explain an indigenous form of surrealism which emerged under the Colonels (1967\u201374) and has recently resurfaced.\n\n'Charon': Charon is the ferryman in Hades who carries the souls of the newly dead across the river Styx, which divides the living from the dead. (E)\n\nLET DOWN THE CHAIN\n\n'\u03a3\u03cd\u03c1\u03b5 \u03ba\u03b1\u03bb\u03ad \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03ac\u03bb\u03c5\u03c3\u03bf\u03bd': In Greek the reference is to the folksong 'The Bridge of Arta', in English, to the Rapunzel story. (T)\n\nTHE BEAST\n\n'Zappeion': The Zappeion, an important neoclassical building in the center of Athens near Syndagma Square, which has lent its name to the National Garden that surrounds it. (E)\n\nPENELOPE III\n\nSee note to here. (E)\n\nFOR MILTOS SACHTOURIS\n\nSee note to here. (E)\n\nMY BONES IN THE SOUP OF MY GRAVE\n\nThe English translation is from another version of the Greek poem that is untitled. (P)\n\nTHUS SPOKE THE STRANGER\n\n_'Muz\u00eb muzik\u00eb muzg_ ' means 'Muse music dusk' in Albanian. (P)\n\nIN THE MANNER OF S. G.\n\nThe title refers to the poem 'In the Manner of G. S.' by the Nobel Laureate poet George (Giorgos) Seferis (1900\u20131971), which begins with his famous line about exile: 'Wherever I travel Greece wounds me.' (E)\n\nTHE BITTER LOSS\n\n'\u03a9\u03bb\u03bc\u03b5\u03b3\u03b5\u03bd \u03c0\u03b9\u03c1 \u039f': 'He who never lost anything.' He who never dies (alluding to Allah).\n\n'\u03a0\u00b7\u03c5\u03c1\u03b1\u03b4\u03b1': 'Here he rests.' The orthography used in these epitaphs is called Karamanlidika (Greek) or Karamanl\u0131ca (Turkish), in which Greek characters were employed in writing Turkish. This system had gone out of use by the 1930s following the population exchanges between Turkey and Greece. The adoption of the Roman alphabet in Turkey no doubt played a part in this, but the practice continued in Cyprus until 1933. (T)\n\n## Biographies of the Translators\n\nKATERINA ANGHELAKI-ROOKE is one of Greece's best-known and most-loved poets. A Ford Foundation grant enabled her to visit the International Writing Program at the University of Iowa in 1972, and she was a Fulbright Visiting Lecturer at Harvard in 1980-81. Her facility with English has made her a most sought-out translator among younger poets. Her own translations have focused on bringing Russian and American poetry into Greek, often showcasing the points where two languages meet or are irreducibly at odds. The importance of inflection for Russian and Greek poetry is the motor behind her masterful recreation of Russian rhyme and meter in her translations of Pushkin; its lesser prominence in English, meanwhile, has led her to imprint her English versions of her own work with Greek linguistic forms.\n\n_Translations:_ _\u03a3\u03cd\u03b3\u03c7\u03c1\u03bf\u03bd\u03bf\u03b9 \u03b1\u03bc\u03b5\u03c1\u03b9\u03ba\u03b1\u03bd\u03bf\u03af \u03c0\u03bf\u03b9\u03b7\u03c4\u03ad\u03c2_ ( _Contemporary American Poets_ ), Ipsilon, 1983; _Beings and Things on their Own_ , BOA Editions, 1986; _From Purple into Night_ , Shoestring Press, 1998; Aleksandr Sergeevi\u010d Pu\u0161kin, _\u0395\u03c5\u03b3\u03ad\u03bd\u03b9\u03bf\u03c2 \u039f\u03bd\u03ad\u03b3\u03ba\u03b9\u03bd_ ( _Eugene Onegin_ ), Kastaniotis, 2000; _Translating Life's End into Love_ , Shoestring Press, 2005.\n\n_In this book:_ DIMITRIS ALLOS 'or Her White Utensils'; IANA BOUKOVA 'For Miltos Sachtouris'; 'The Minimal Garden'; YANNIS STIGGAS 'Breathing Exercises', 'Simple Math'.\n\nPATRICIA BARBEITO teaches courses on race and ethnicity in American literature and culture at Rhode Island School of Design. Her articles have appeared in such publications as _American Literature_ and the _Journal of American Culture_. Her translations draw on her understanding of the American vernacular, deploying African-American dialect to capture the mixed idioms in Sotiris Dimitriou's short stories or cultivating a range of different registers \u2013 from hard-boiled noir to spoken-word poetry \u2013 with Elias Maglinis's experimental novel. Her translations have appeared in _Words Without Borders_ and _Asymptote_. In 2013 she won the Elizabeth Constantinides Prize for best translation from the Modern Greek Studies Association.\n\n_Translations:_ Menis Koumandareas, _Their Smell Makes Me Want to Cry_ (with Vangelis Calotychos), University of Birmingham, 2004; Elias Maglinis, _The Interrogation_ , University of Birmingham, 2013.\n\n_In this book:_ VASSILIS AMANATIDIS '[mother's body]', '[supremacy: a riddle]'; ELSA KORNETI 'As of Today', 'Dear Friend'; 'A Slight Hesitation'.\n\nTANER BAYBARS (1936\u20132010) is a poet and translator who worked for the British Council until his retirement in 1988. He then lived in the South of France, where he was Corresponding Editor for the London avant-garde magazine _Ambit_. He is best known as the English translator of N\u00e2zim Hikmet. His own poetry includes the collections _Narcissus in a Dry Pool_ (1978) and _Pregnant Shadows_ (1981).\n\n_Translations:_ _Selected Poems of N_ \u00e2 _zim Hikmet_ , Cape, 1967; Mehmet Yashin, _Don't Go Back to Kyrenia: Poems 1977\u20131997_ , Middlesex University Press, 2001.\n\n_In this book:_ MEHMET YASHIN 'The Bitter Loss'.\n\nDIMITRI CHARALAMBOUS is a poet who writes in both Greek and English. In the early 1980s he worked with Jack Hirschman and other San Francisco Beat-influenced poets to create the journal _Compages_ with its focus on multilingual and revolutionary poetry. More recently he teamed up again with Hirschman to translate the poetry of Yannis Livadas and co-edit the anthology of contemporary Greek poetry _Cross-Currents_ (see Further Reading). He has also translated Pablo Neruda's poetry into Greek. He holds a BA and MA in History with an emphasis on Latin America and is a member of the Modern Greek Studies Foundation at San Francisco State University.\n\n_Translations:_ _John Coltrane and 15 Poems for Jazz_ (with Jack Hirschman), C. C. Marimbo, 2008.\n\n_In this book:_ YANNIS LIVADAS 'Jazz, I Say'.\n\nPETER CONSTANTINE has introduced a new generation of Greek online poets to American readers in publications such as _Words Without Borders_ and _World Literature Today_. He tends to choose poems with broad appeal over those with specialized historical or literary allusions. He is a co-editor of _The Greek Poets:Homer to the Present_ and _A Century of Greek Poetry: 1900\u20132000._ His translations from Arvantika, a Greek minority language, have appeared in _Modern Poetry in Translation_. A Guggenheim Fellow, he was awarded the PEN Translation Prize, the National Translation Award (USA), and the Koret Jewish Literature Award. Besides his translations from Greek he has also translated works by Babel, Chekhov, Machiavelli, Rousseau, Tolstoy, and Voltaire.\n\n_Translations:_ _A Century of Greek Poetry: 1900\u20132000_ (with Peter Bien, Edmund Keeley, and Karen Van Dyck), Cosmos, 2004; _The Complete Works of Isaac Babel_ , Norton, 2005; _The Essential Writings of Machiavelli_ , Modern Library, 2007; Sophocles, _Three_ _Theban Plays_ , Barnes & Noble Classics, 2008; _The Greek Poets: Homer to the_ _Present_ (with Rachel Hadas, Edmund Keeley, and Karen Van Dyck), Norton, 2010; Leo Tolstoy, _The Cossacks_ , Modern Library, 2010; _The Essential Writings of Rousseau_ , Modern Library, 2013; Anton Chekhov, _Little Apples: And Other Early Stories_ , Seven Stories, 2016.\n\n_In this book:_ DIMITRIS ATHINAKIS 'A Semblance of Order'; STATHIS BAROUTSOS 'Speed Dating', 'Txt Message'; JAZRA KHALEED 'Black Lips', 'Death Tonight', 'Re: Lotus-Eaters', 'Words'; YANNIS MOUNDELAS 'Hermes in Retrograde', 'Truncated Clouds'.\n\nGEORGE ECONOMOU has published fifteen books of poetry and translations. He established a reputation as a Greek-American experimental poet with early books published by Black Sparrow Press as well as his collection _Ameriki: Book One, and Selected Earlier Poems_ (Sun, 1977). He edited two of Paul Blackburn's translations _, Proensa: An Anthology of Troubadour Poetry_ (University of California Press, 1978), and _Poem of Cid_ (University of Oklahoma Press, 1998). His translations from the Greek focus on lesser-known Ancient writers such as Philodemos as well as hitherto untranslated works like the recently discovered fragments of Sappho. His _Ananios of Kleitor_ (Shearsman, 2009) is an invented translation. He has also translated C. P. Cavafy. In his writing about translation he highlights the differences between languages, such as the lack of gender specificity in Greek that often renders the object of love poems ambiguous.\n\n_Translations:_ William Langland, _Piers Plowman_ , University of Pennsylvania, 1996; _Acts of Love: Ancient Greek Poetry from Aphrodite's Garden_ , Random House, 2006; _Complete Plus: The Poems of C. P. Cavafy in English,_ Shearsman, 2013; _Unfinished & Uncollected: Finishing the Unfinished Poems of C. P. Cavafy _and _Uncollected Poems & Translations_, Shearsman, 2015.\n\n_In this book:_ KYOKO KISHIDA 'Degenerate Girls Were My Girlfriends'; THODORIS RAKOPOULOS 'Epiphany', 'Torn'; GEORGIA TRIANDAFILLIDOU 'Sudden Obsession at a Relative's House'.\n\nMOIRA EGAN earned a BA from Bryn Mawr College, an MA from the Johns Hopkins University Writing Seminars, and an MFA from Columbia University. Her _Bar Napkin Sonnets_ (Ledge Press, 2009) won the 2008 Ledge Poetry Chapbook Competition. Other collections include _Cleave_ (Washington Writers' Publishing House, 2004), _La Seta della Cravatta \/ The Silk of the Tie_ (bilingual; Edizioni l'Obliquo, 2009) and _Spin_ (Entasis Press, 2010). She lives in Italy where she writes and translates into both English and Italian. This collaboration with Chloe Haralambous is her first venture into translating Greek.\n\n_Translations:_ John Ashbery, _Un mondo che non pu\u00f2 essere migliore: Poesie Scelte 1956\u20132007_ ( _A World Which Could Not Be Better: Selected Poems 1956\u20132007_ ; with Damiano Abeni), Luca Sossella Editore, 2008.\n\n_In this book:_ GLYKERIA BASDEKI 'The Beast', 'When the Nurses Take their Vengeance', 'You'll Come Around'; YIANNIS DOUKAS 'The Children of Abel', 'On the Constellation of Cancer'; MOMA RADI\u0107 'Noon', 'Really?', 'Stammering Fisherman'.\n\nKAREN EMMERICH teaches Translation Studies and Modern Greek Literature in the Department of Comparative Literature at Princeton University. A recipient of translation grants and awards from the NEA, PEN American Center, and the Modern Greek Studies Association, she has translated a range of poetry and prose, including established writers such as Yannis Ritsos and Margarita Karapanou, those less known abroad such as Miltos Sachtouris and Eleni Vakalo, and members of the younger generation such as Amanda Michalopoulou, Sophia Nikolaidou, and Christos Ikonomou. She is that rare breed of translator who builds resonant contexts for her readers, sketching a history of recent Greek literature, but always attuned to the literary effects of her own writing in English.\n\n_Translations:_ Vassilis Vassilikos, _The Few Things I Know About Glafkos Thrassakis_ , Seven Stories Press, 2002; Miltos Sachtouris, _Poems (1945\u20131971),_ Archipelago, 2006; Amanda Michalopoulou, _I'd Like_ , Dalkey Archive Press, 2008; Ersi Sotiropoulos, _Landscape with Dog and Other Stories_ , Clockroot Books, 2009; Margarita Karapanou, _Rien ne va plus_ , Clockroot Books, 2009; Margarita Karapanou, _The Sleepwalker_ , Clockroot Books, 2010; Yannis Ritsos, _Diaries of Exile_ (with Edmund Keeley), Archipelago Books, 2013; Amanda Michalopouou, _Why I Killed My Best Friend_ , Open Letter, 2014; Sofia Nikolaidou, _The Scapegoat_ , Melville House, 2015; Christos Ikonomou, _Something Will Happen, You'll See_ , Archipelago, 2016.\n\n_In this book:_ DIMITRIS ATHINAKIS 'Delirium for the Four Legs of a Love', 'Weakness'; PAVLINA MARVIN 'The Perfect Outcast', 'The Weeds'; HIVA PANAHI 'The Breath of the Olive Tree'; EFTYCHIA PANAYIOTOU 'The Great Gardener', 'Your Justice My Justice'; YANNIS STIGGAS _from_ 'The Vagrancy of Blood'.\n\nSTATHIS GOURGOURIS, see poet biography.\n\nKRYSTALLI GLYNIADAKIS, see poet biography.\n\nRACHEL HADAS, author of more than twenty books of poetry, translations, and essays, studied Classics at Harvard, poetry at Johns Hopkins, and Comparative Literature at Princeton. Since 1981 she has taught in the English Department at Rutgers University. She has received a Guggenheim Fellowship and an award from the American Academy and Institute of Arts and Letters. Her most recent poetry collection is _Questions in the Vestibule_ (2016), published by Northwestern University Press. She writes often on Greek poetry in the _The Times Literary Supplement_. Her translations from the Greek focus on poems about Ancient Greece and myth, and like her friend and mentor, the poet and translator James Merrill, view the Ancient and Modern traditions as a continuum.\n\n_Translations:_ _A Century of Greek Poetry: 1900\u20132000_ (with Peter Bien, Edmund Keeley, and Karen Van Dyck), Cosmos, 2004; _The Greek Poets: From Homer to the Present_ (with Peter Constantine, Edmund Keeley, and Karen Van Dyck), Norton, 2010 _._\n\n_In this book:_ KYOKO KISHIDA 'Kleine Nachtmusik', 'The Lotus Eaters', 'Sirocco or Soldiery'; DANAE SIOZIOU 'Around the House', 'Heaviness', 'Mapping the Geography of the Symptoms of a Footstep'.\n\nCHLOE HARALAMBOUS studied Modern Greek at Columbia and Oxford. Her research focuses on the nexus between literature and politics in the history of the Greek and Italian Left. She has been particularly interested in grassroots cultural responses to the crisis and the ways in which they mark a transition in Greek and Italian conceptions of the state. In 2015 she moved to Lesvos in order to work with refugees. Her essay on the present situation (with Katerina Stefatos and Dimitris Papadopoulos) can be found at https:\/\/www.press.jhu.edu\/journals\/journal_of_modern_greek_studies\/Stefatos_Papadopoulos_Haralambous.pdf.\n\n_In this book:_ GLYKERIA BASDEKI 'The Beast', 'When the Nurses Take their Vengeance', 'You'll Come Around'; YIANNIS DOUKAS 'The Children of Abel', 'On the Constellation of Cancer'; KRYSTALLI GLYNIADAKIS 'National Anthem, 2008, Redux'; DIMOSTHENIS PAPAMARKOS _from_ 'Paralogue'; MOMA RADI\u0107 'Noon', 'Really?', 'Stammering Fisherman'; KIRIAKOS SIFILTZOGLOU _from_ 'Half Truths'; EVA STEFANI 'Back', 'Depths', 'Family', 'New Year's Eve'.\n\nJACK HIRSCHMAN has translated more than fifty books of poetry from nine different languages. His authors include Paul Celan, Pier Paolo Pasolini, Pablo Neruda, and Roque Dalton. From Greek he has translated Dorou Leftheria, Katerina Gogou and, with Dimitri Charalambous, Yannis Livadas. Charalambous is also his collaborator on _Cross-Section_ , an anthology of contemporary Greek poetry (see Further Reading). Hirschman's 1,000-page magnum opus, _The Arcanes,_ was published in Italy by Multimedia Edizioni in 2006. He has also edited _Art on the Line: Essays by Artists about the Point Where Their Art and Activism Intersect_ (Curbstone Books, 2001), with writing by Amiri Baraka, Vladimir Mayakovsky, James Scully, and C\u00e9sar Vallejo, among others. He is a former Poet Laureate of San Francisco.\n\n_Translations:_ _Artaud Anthology,_ City Lights, 1965; _Open Gate: An Anthology of Haitian Creole Poetry,_ Curbstone Books, 2001; _John Coltrane and 15 Poems for Jazz_ (with Dimitri Charalambous), C. C. Marimbo, 2008.\n\n_In this book:_ YANNIS LIVADAS 'Jazz, I Say'.\n\nGAIL HOLST-WARHAFT is a poet, translator, musician, and literary scholar. She has published translations from Ancient and Modern Greek, French, and Anglo-Saxon in journals and anthologies. Her nonfiction book _Road to Rembetika: Music of a Greek Subculture_ (Hakkert, 1980) has become a classic. Other important critical books include _Dangerous Voices: Women's Laments and Greek Literature_ (Routledge, 1995) and _The Cue for Passion: Grief and its Political Uses_ (Harvard, 2000). Her own poetry has been translated into Greek by Katerina Anghelaki-Rooke and the Cypriot poet Kiriakos Charalambides.\n\n_Translations:_ _I Had Three Lives: Selected Poems of Mikis Theodorakis,_ Livani, 2004; _The Collected Poems of Nikos Kavadias_ , Cosmos, 2006.\n\n_In this book:_ APOSTOLOS THIVAIOS 'International', 'Reality', 'Unavoidable'.\n\nADRIANNE KALFOPOULOU teaches at the American College of Greece \u2013 Deree, as well as in Regis College's low-residency MFA program. Red Hen has published two collections of her poems, _Wild Greens_ (2002) and _Passion Maps_ (2009), as well as a work of nonfiction, _Ruin: Essays in Exilic Living_ (2014). Her work has appeared in the _Harvard Review_ , _Hotel Amerika_ , and _The Beloit Poetry Journal_ , among other journals. Her poems have been translated into Greek by the poet Katerina Iliopoulou and published by Melani (2014).\n\n_In this book:_ IANA BOUKOVA 'Black _Haiku_', 'Fractal'.\n\nSOCRATES KAMBOUROPOULOS has held positions at the General Secretariat for Research and Technology, the University of Crete, and the National Book Center, while also writing poetry, essays and translating the works of poets such as Fiona Sampson, Theo Dorgan, Paula Meehan, and Andrew Maxwell. His work has been featured in _Poetics, Teflon, Poema, New American Writing,_ and the _Poetry Review_ (see Further Reading).\n\n_In this book:_ DIMITRA KOTOULA 'The Poet'.\n\nMARIA MARGARONIS is a bilingual writer, journalist, and broadcaster based in London. Her work has appeared in _The Nation_ (where she is a contributing editor), _The Guardian_ , _The Times Literary Supplement_ , the _London Review of Books_ and many other publications. She also writes and presents documentaries for BBC Radio. She has taught at the New School for Social Research, King's College, London, and Birkbeck, University of London. Currently, she is a research fellow in Modern Greek in the Faculty of Modern and Medieval Languages, Oxford University. She views her reporting on Greece as an ongoing process of translation and interpretation.\n\n_In this book:_ Z. D. AINALIS 'September 3rd 1843'; ANNA GRIVA 'The Ants' Lesson', 'Attempt', 'Triumphal Ode', 'The War with My Animals', 'Ways to Avoid Sadness'; THOMAS IOANNOU 'Honourable Compromise'; HIVA PANAHI 'Ash Person'.\n\nSARAH KATHERINE MCCANN graduated from Princeton University (BA, English) and the University of Iowa (MFA, Poetry). A Fulbright Scholar to Greece in 2001, she continues to translate Modern Greek poetry and to write her own. Her work has been published in many journals including _MARGIE_ , _New Voices_ , _Broken Bridge Review, South Dakota Review_ , and _Hangin' Loose_ , as well as in an anthology of poetry reflecting on the life and work of Robert Frost, _Visiting Frost_ (University of Iowa Press, 2005). She was the editor of _Tertium Quid_ (Stride Books, 2005), a book of poetry by the late American poet and Grecophile Robert Lax.\n\n_In this book:_ STATHIS BAROUTSOS 'Birdsong'; JAZRA KHALEED 'Somewhere in Athens', 'Still Life'.\n\nJACOB MOE is an American-born translator and film producer based in Athens. He is a founder and organizer of the annual Syros International Film Festival. After studying literature and political theory at Pomona College, he studied translation theory and practice at the Academy of Athens. He has served as the main translator and interpreter for the Thessaloniki Museum of Photography. Currently he is translating the short stories of Maria Mitsora for Yale University Press, a project for which he was awarded a grant from the PEN\/HEIM Translation Fund.\n\n_In this book:_ THOMAS TSALAPATIS 'The Box'.\n\nSTEPHANOS PAPADOPOULOS was born in North Carolina in 1976 and raised in Paris and Athens. He is the editor and, with Katerina Anghelaki-Rooke, the co\u2011translator of the Greek version of Derek Walcott's _Selected Poems_ , published by Kastaniotis Press in 2007. He was awarded a 2010 Civitella Ranieri Fellowship for his third collection of English-language poetry, _The Black Sea_ (Sheep Meadow Press, 2012), which was also selected by Mark Strand as the recipient of the 2014 Jeannette Haien Ballard Writer's Prize. Katerina Anghelaki-Rooke's Greek translation of _The Black Sea_ was published in 2015 by Kastaniotis. His previous two collections of poetry are _Lost Days_ (Rattapallax Press, 2001) and _H\u00f4tel-Dieu_ (Sheep Meadow Press, 2009).\n\n_In this book:_ Z. D. AINALIS 'Telemachus'; YANNIS STIGGAS 'Armed with Tenderness', 'The Labyrinth's Perfect Acoustics', 'My Brother Paul, the Digger of the Seine', 'Self-Winding'.\n\nRICHARD PIERCE is a translator, editor, and sculptor from the San Francisco Bay Area. In his early twenties he lived in Athens for four years, where he was a teacher and journalist. Since then he has lived in Verona, working initially as a teacher, then as an editor at Mondadori, and currently as a freelance translator. A participant in the annual Paros Poetry Translation Symposium and Workshop, he translated the work of Iana Boukova, Krystalli Glyniadakis, Phoebe Giannisi, Socrates Kabouropoulos, Dimitra Kotoula, Angelos Parthenis, and Stamatis Polenakis. His translations have appeared in _The Poetry Review_ , _Ars Poetica_ , and the online magazine _Greek Poetry Now_.\n\n_In this book:_ STAMATIS POLENAKIS 'Elegy', 'The Great Enigma'.\n\nBARI\u015e PIRHASAN studied English Language and Literature at Bog\u02c7azi\u00e7i University and Film and Television Directing at the National Film and Television School in England. He is the well-known screenwriter of several Turkish feature films. He has translated Karl Marx, Lewis Carroll, C. P. Cavafy, Walter Scott, E. E. Cummings, and Leonard Cohen into Turkish. In his view, he does not so much translate Yashin Mehmet's multilingual poems as 'process' them in order to expose the intricate power relations between languages. In the case of his contribution to this anthology, for instance, he performs this exposure by substituting English for Turkish and German for Greek.\n\n_In this book:_ MEHMET YASHIN '\u00c7\u00fcr\u00fcme'.\n\nMAX RITVO is a poet living in Manhattan. He was awarded a 2014 Poetry Society of America Fellowship for his chapbook, _Aeons_. His poetry has appeared in _Boston Review_ , _The Los Angeles Review of Books_ , and as a Poem-a-Day for Poets.org. He is a poetry editor at _Parnassus_ and a teaching fellow at Columbia University. His prose and interviews have appeared in _Parnassus_ , _Huffington Post_ , _Boston Review_ , and _The Los Angeles Review of Books_. He is a sketch comic in the NYC-based troupe His Majesty, the Baby.\n\n_In this book:_ JAZRA KHALEED 'Fuck Armageddon'.\n\nANGELOS SAKKIS studied design in Athens and painting at the San Francisco Art Institute. He now lives in Oakland. He has published two chapbooks of poetry, _Memory of_ and _Fictional Character_ , both with Zarax in 2012. With John Sakkis he has translated four poetry collections by Demosthenes Agrafiotis, an important experimental Athens-based poet active in the international visual arts and poetry scene.\n\n_Translations:_ Demosthenes Agrafiotis, _Chinese Notebook_ (with John Sakkis), Post-Apollo Press, 2010; _Maribor_ (with John Sakkis), Post-Apollo Press, 2015.\n\n_In this book:_ PHOEBE GIANNISI '(Lotus Eaters II'; HIVA PANAHI 'Companion'.\n\nFIONA SAMPSON is a poet, essayist, and translator. A specialist in the literatures of Eastern Europe, she co-edited _A Fine Line_ , an anthology of young poets from Central and South-Eastern Europe, and founded and edited _Orient Express_ (2002\u20135), a magazine of contemporary writing from that region. In 2005 she became the editor of _Poetry Review_. As a critic, she contributes regularly to _The Guardian_ , _The Irish Times_ , _The Independent_ , _TLS_ , and other publications.\n\n_Translations_ : Jaan Kaplinski, _Evening Brings Everything Back_ , Bloodaxe Books, 2004, (with Jaan Kaplinski); Amir Or, _Day_ , Dedalus Press, 2006, (with Amir Or).\n\n_In this book:_ DIMITRA KOTOULA 'The Poet'.\n\nA. E. STALLINGS is a poet and translator who writes from Greece about the Greek situation and literary scene (see Further Reading for her letters from Athens for _Poetry_ and _The Poetry Review_ ). She studied Classics at the University of Georgia and at Oxford and has lived in Athens since 1999. Her verse translation of Lucretius in rhyming fourteeners was heralded by Peter Stothard at _The Times Literary Supplement_ as among the most extraordinary classical translations of recent times. Her own poetry works between languages, imagining in _Olives_ (TriQuarterly, 2012), for example, that hands ( _heria_ ) and knives ( _maheria_ ) can rhyme in English, though this rhyme is possible only in Greek. Her other poetry collections are _Archaic Smile_ (University of Evansville Press, 1999) and _Hapax_ (TriQuarterly, 2006). She is the recipient of fellowships from the Guggenheim and MacArthur Foundations.\n\n_Translations:_ _The Nature of Things_ , Penguin Classics, 2007; 'From _Erotokritos_ ', in _The Greek Poets: From Homer to the Present_ , Norton, 2010, pp. 368\u201376.\n\n_In this book:_ 'Austerity Measures'; KATERINA ILIOPOULOU 'The Fox', 'Mister Tau in a Seascape', 'The Siren'; PANAYOTIS IOANNIDIS 'Mosquito', 'The Poet in the Hallway'; DIMITRA KOTOULA 'Head of a Satyr'; CHLOE KOUTSOUMBELI 'Penelope III', 'The Yellow Taxi'; STAMATIS POLENAKIS 'Poetry 2048', 'Poetry Does Not Suffice'.\n\nKAREN VAN DYCK directs the Program in Hellenic Studies in the Classics Department at Columbia University. She is the author of _Kassandra and the Censors_ (Cornell, 1998) as well as articles on Greek and Greek Diaspora literature published in journals such as _PMLA_ , the _Los Angeles Review of Books_ , and the _Journal_ _of Modern Greek Studies_. She has translated the work of the Generation of the 1970s, most notably Katerina Anghelaki-Rooke, Rhea Galanaki, Maria Laina, and Jenny Mastoraki, and collaborated with Eleni Sikelianos on translations of the multilingual nineteenth-century poet Dionysis Solomos. Her translations devise formal experiments which construct connections between the Greek texts and poetry in English. Katerina Anghelaki-Rooke and Haris Vlavianos have translated a selection of her poems into Greek for the journal _Poetics_.\n\n_Translations:_ _The Rehearsal of Misunderstanding: Three Collections by Contemporary Greek Women Poets,_ Wesleyan, 1998; _A Century of Greek Poetry_ (with Peter Bien, Peter Constantine, and Edmund Keeley), Cosmos, 2004; _The Scattered Papers of Penelope: New and Selected Poems by Katerina Anghelaki-Rooke_ , Anvil Press Poetry, 2008 and Graywolf, 2009; _The Greek Poets: Homer to the Present_ (with Peter Constantine, Rachel Hadas, and Edmund Keeley), Norton, 2010.\n\n_In this book:_ YIORGOS ALISANOGLOU 'The Painting'; CHRISTOS ANGELAKOS '[If you dive inside your head']; STATHIS ANTONIOU 'The Dogs'; STATHIS BAROUTSOS 'My Children' (in collaboration with Diamanda Galas); GLYKERIA BASDEKI 'Let Down the Chain', 'Mama's a Poet'; YIANNIS EFTHYMIADES _from 9\/11 or Falling Man_, _from_ 'New Division', _from O Say Can You See_; PHOEBE GIANNISI '(Penelope \u2013 _\u0388\u03c7\u03c9 \u03c0\u03ac\u03b8\u03bf\u03c2 \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c3\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1_ )'; STATHIS GOURGOURIS 'The Bride with the Bullets', 'Nameless Rain'; ANNA GRIVA _from_ 'Depths'; DOUKAS KAPANTA\u00efS 'Country Houses in Winter'; GAZMEND KAPLLANI 'Thus Spoke the Stranger'; JAZRA KHALEED 'Refrain'; KYOKO KISHIDA 'The Violin'; GIANNIS PALAVOS 'Password'; EFTYCHIA PANAYIOTOU 'Just Before You Stood Up', 'The Outside of My Mind'; OLGA PAPAKOSTA 'Empty Inbox'; ELENA PENGA 'Fish', 'Heads', 'Nightmare Pink', 'Passages', 'Skin'; ELENA POLYGENI 'To be Done with the Matter'; ANGELIKI SIGOUROU 'Colors'; DANAE SIOZIOU 'The Guards'; THOMAS TSALAPATIS 'Word Monday'.\n\nRYAN VAN WINKLE is a poet, artist, and critic living in Edinburgh. He writes and produces podcasts for the Scottish Poetry Library and the Scottish Book Trust. His own poetry has appeared in _The American Poetry Review_ , _AGNI_ , _Poetry New Zealand_ , _Poetry_ _Scotland_ , and Carcanet's 2010 _Oxford Anthology of New Poets_. He has two collections: _Tomorrow, We Will Live Here_ (Salt, 2010) and _The Good Dark_ (Penned in the Margins, 2015).\n\n_In this book_ : KATERINA ILIOPOULOU, 'Penthesilea'.\n\n## Further Reading\n\nThe brief lists of poetry collections, blogs, and translations in the biographical notes as well as the articles and anthologies included here are intended to help the reader find their way if they are interested in reading more, but are in no way exhaustive.\n\n##### POETRY COLLECTIONS AND ANTHOLOGIES\n\nAnghelaki-Rooke, Katerina _, The Scattered Papers of Penelope: New and Selected Poems,_ ed. Karen Van Dyck (Greenwich: Anvil, 2008; Minneapolis: Graywolf, 2009).\n\nBien, Peter, et al., eds., _A Century of Greek Poetry: 1900\u20132000_ , bilingual edition (River Vale, NJ: Cosmos, 2004).\n\nChiotis, Theodoros, ed., _Futures: Poetry of the Greek Crisis_ (London: Penned in the Margins, 2015).\n\nConstantine, Peter, et al., eds., _The Greek Poets: Homer to the Present_ (New York: Norton, 2010).\n\nHirschman, Jack, ed., _Cross-Section: An Anthology of Contemporary Greek Poetry_ (San Francisco: Erato Press, 2015).\n\nKabouropoulos, Socrates, 'Contemporary Greek Poets', portfolio, _The Poetry Review_ , 102:1 (2012).\n\nManoussakis, Vassilis, 'Beware of Greeks Bearing Poetry', introduction and portfolio of 15 poets, _Drunken Boat,_ 19 (August 2014) <>.\n\nSachtouris, Miltos, _Poems (1945\u20131971),_ trans. Karen Emmerich (Brooklyn: Archipelago, 2006).\n\nSiotis, Dinos, ed., _Crisis: 30 Greek Poets on the Current Crisis_ (Smokestack Books, 2014).\n\nTsvetanka, Elenkova, ed., _Poems of Greek Texture: An Anthology of Ten Poets_ (Rhodes: International Writers & Translators' Centre, 2008).\n\nVan Dyck, Karen, ed., _The Rehearsal of Misunderstanding: Three Collections of Poetry by Contemporary Greek Women Poets_ , bilingual edition including Rhea Galanaki's _Cake_ , Maria Laina's _Hers_ , and Jenny Mastoraki's _Tales of the Deep_ (Middletown, CT: Wesleyan, 1998).\n\n\u2014\u2014, 'Austerity Measures: New Greek Poetry', introduction and portfolio of 11 translations, _Mantis_ , 13 (Spring 2015).\n\nVlavianos, Haris, ed., _\u0391\u03c6\u03b9\u03ad\u03c1\u03c9\u03bc\u03b1 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b7 \u03bd\u03b5\u03cc\u03c4\u03b5\u03c1\u03b7 \u03b5\u03bb\u03bb\u03b7\u03bd\u03b9\u03ba\u03ae \u03c0\u03bf\u03af\u03b7\u03c3\u03b7 \u0399 +_ II, special issues on new poetry, _\u03a0\u03bf\u03b9\u03b7\u03c4\u03b9\u03ba\u03ae_ ( _Poetics_ ), 9\u201310 (2012).\n\nZiras, Alexis, ed., _Hellenica: \u03c4\u03bf \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9\u03bd\u03bf\u03cd\u03c1\u03b9\u03bf \u03b5\u03bd\u03c4\u03cc\u03c2 \u03ae \u03c0\u03ad\u03c1\u03b1\u03bd \u03c4\u03b7\u03c2 \u03b3\u03bb\u03ce\u03c3\u03c3\u03b1\u03c2: \u0391\u03bd\u03b8\u03bf\u03bb\u03bf\u03b3\u03af\u03b1 \u03bd\u03ad\u03c9\u03bd \u0395\u03bb\u03bb\u03ae\u03bd\u03c9\u03bd \u03a0\u03bf\u03b9\u03b7\u03c4\u03ce\u03bd_ ( _Hellenica: Novelty Within or Beyond Language: Anthology of Young Greek Poets_ ) (Athens: Gavrielides, 2009).\n\n##### ARTICLES AND INTERVIEWS\n\nBarley, Joshua, 'Greece and the Poetics of Crisis', _The White Review_ (February 2015) <>.\n\nConstantine, Peter, 'A Conversation with Jazra Khaleed', _World Literature Today_ (March 2010) <>.\n\nDimitroulia, Titika, 'Les jeunes po\u00e8tes grecs: un ph\u00e9nom\u00e8ne po\u00e9tique particulier', _Revue Desmos \/ Le Lien_ , 44 (2015).\n\nPapadopoulos, Stephanos, 'Hurt into Poetry: On Poetry and Greece', _Los Angeles Review of Books_ (10 May 2013) <>.\n\nRitvo, Max, ' \"Smashing Fascist Heads\": Jazra Khaleed on Political and Poetic Crisis in Greece', _Los Angeles Review of Books_ (1 March 2015) <>.\n\nStallings, A. E., 'Austerity Measures. A Letter from Greece', _Poetry_ (4 September 2012) <>.\n\n\u2014\u2014, 'Freelance', _The Times Literary Supplement_ (5 December 2014).\n\n\u2014\u2014, 'Letter from Athens', _The Poetry Review_ , 103:3 (2013).\n\n##### WEBSITES\n\n_e-poema_ www.e-poema.eu\n\n_Farmakon_ www.frmk.gr\n\n_Greek Poetry Now!_ www.greekpoetrynow.com\n\n( _de_ ) _kata_ ( _n th_) _degree Koinonia ton (de)katon_ www.dekata.gr\n\n_Poiein_ www.poiein.gr\n\n_Ta poiitika_ ( _The Poetical_ ) tapoiitika.wordpress.com\n\n_Teflon_ teflon.wordpress.com\n\n_Me ta logia [ginetai]_ ( _Words [can] do it_ ) metalogiaginetai.blogspot.gr\n\n## Acknowledgements\n\nNumerous people have helped me with this book, notable among them many of the poets and translators whose work is included in it; especial gratitude is owed to Peter Constantine, who got the project off the ground, and Maria Margaronis, who kept me up to date with the news. Katerina Anghelaki-Rooke, Titika Dimitroulia, Jenny Mastoraki, and Haris Vlavianos have also been important interlocutors. Without Lawrence Venuti's insistence that translation matters \u2013 and without the inspiration of his own translations of Antonia Pozzi and Ernest Farr\u00e9s, which make new things possible in English \u2013 this book would have been a less exciting and experimental enterprise. I owe particular thanks to my editor Donald Futers for his patience, writerly insight, and idea to look to the Penguin anthology _British Poetry since 1945_ (1970) for ways of mapping an emerging poetry scene. The fact that Nikos Stangos was the commissioning editor of that volume, himself a Greek poet and champion of Greek artists and the between-world existence that makes one culture available to another, made the fit all the more compelling.\n\n##### PENGUIN BOOKS\n\nUK | USA | Canada | Ireland | Australia \nIndia | New Zealand | South Africa\n\nPenguin Books is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com.\n\nFirst published 2016\n\nSelection and editorial matter copyright \u00a9 Karen Van Dyck, 2016\n\nThe moral right of the editor has been asserted\n\nISBN: 978\u20130\u2013241\u201325063\u20131\n\n## THE BEGINNING\n\nLet the conversation begin...\n\nFollow the Penguin Twitter.com@penguinUKbooks\n\nKeep up-to-date with all our stories YouTube.com\/penguinbooks\n\nPin 'Penguin Books' to your Pinterest\n\nLike 'Penguin Books' on Facebook.com\/penguinbooks\n\nListen to Penguin at SoundCloud.com\/penguin-books\n\nFind out more about the author and \ndiscover more stories like this at Penguin.co.uk\n\n# Contents\n\n 1. Cover\n 2. Title Page\n 3. About the Author\n 4. Dedication\n 5. Note on Titles\n 6. Introduction\n 7. I: Tradition and the Individual Talent\n 1. Panayotis Ioannidis\n 2. Mosquito\n 3. The Poet in the Hallway\n 4. Dimitris Athinakis\n 5. A Semblance of Order\n 6. Delirium for the Four Legs of a Love\n 7. Weakness\n 8. Yiannis Efthymiades\n 9. from New Division\n 10. from 9\/11 or Falling Man\n 11. from O Say Can You See\n 12. Yannis Stiggas\n 13. Simple Math\n 14. Breathing Exercises\n 15. Armed with Tenderness\n 16. My Brother Paul, the Digger of the Seine\n 17. Self-Winding\n 18. The Labyrinth's Perfect Acoustics\n 19. from The Vagrancy of Blood\n 20. Yiannis Doukas\n 21. The Children of Abel\n 22. On the Constellation of Cancer\n 23. Doukas Kapanta\u00efs\n 24. Country Houses in Winter\n 25. Dimitra Kotoula\n 26. Head of a Satyr\n 27. The Poet\n 8. II: Myth and Medicine\n 1. Katerina Iliopoulou\n 2. The Fox\n 3. Penthesilea\n 4. Mister Tau in a Seascape\n 5. The Siren\n 6. Stathis Antoniou\n 7. The Dogs\n 8. Anna Griva\n 9. Attempt\n 10. from Depths\n 11. Ways to Avoid Sadness\n 12. The War with My Animals\n 13. The Ants' Lesson\n 14. Triumphal Ode\n 15. Phoebe Giannisi\n 16. (Penelope \u2013 \u0388\u03c7\u03c9 \u03c0\u03ac\u03b8\u03bf\u03c2 \u03b3\u03b9\u03b1 \u03c3\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1)\n 17. (Thetis)\n 18. (Lotus Eaters II)\n 19. Eftychia Panayiotou\n 20. The Great Gardener\n 21. The Outside of My Mind\n 22. Just Before You Stood Up\n 23. Your Justice My Justice\n 24. Eva Stefani\n 25. Depths\n 26. Back\n 27. Family\n 28. New Year's Eve\n 29. Krystalli Glyniadakis\n 30. National Anthem, 2008, Redux\n 31. The Next Hundred Years\n 9. III: Unjust Punishment\n 1. Kyoko Kishida\n 2. Degenerate Girls Were My Girlfriends\n 3. Kleine Nachtmusik\n 4. The Violin\n 5. The Lotus Eaters\n 6. Sirocco or Soldiery\n 7. Jazra Khaleed\n 8. Words\n 9. Refrain\n 10. Somewhere in Athens\n 11. Black Lips\n 12. Still Life\n 13. Death Tonight\n 14. Fuck Armageddon\n 15. Re: Lotus Eaters\n 16. Stathis Baroutsos\n 17. My Children\n 18. Speed Dating\n 19. Txt Message\n 20. Birdsong\n 21. Danae Sioziou\n 22. The Guards\n 23. Heaviness\n 24. Around the House\n 25. Mapping the Geography of the Symptoms of a Footstep\n 26. Yannis Moundelas\n 27. Mercury in Retrograde\n 28. Truncated Clouds\n 29. Pavlina Marvin\n 30. The Weeds\n 31. The Perfect Outcast\n 32. Thomas Ioannou\n 33. Honourable Compromise\n 10. IV: Storytelling\n 1. Thomas Tsalapatis\n 2. The Box\n 3. Word Monday\n 4. Z. D. Ainalis\n 5. Telemachus\n 6. September 3rd 1843\n 7. Stamatis Polenakis\n 8. Poetry Does Not Suffice\n 9. Poetry 2048\n 10. The Great Enigma\n 11. Elegy\n 12. Elena Penga\n 13. Passages\n 14. Heads\n 15. Fish\n 16. Skin\n 17. Nightmare Pink\n 18. Apostolos Thivaios\n 19. Reality\n 20. International\n 21. Unavoidable\n 22. Dimosthenis Papamarkos\n 23. from Paralogue\n 24. Elena Polygeni\n 25. To Be Done with the Matter\n 11. V: Outside Athens\n 1. Yiorgos Alisanoglou\n 2. The Painting\n 3. Glykeria Basdeki\n 4. Let Down the Chain\n 5. Mama's a Poet\n 6. When the Nurses Take their Vengeance\n 7. You'll Come Around\n 8. The Beast\n 9. Giannis Palavos\n 10. Password\n 11. Elsa Korneti\n 12. A Slight Hesitation\n 13. As of Today\n 14. Dear Friend\n 15. Angeliki Sigourou\n 16. Colors\n 17. Olga Papakosta\n 18. Empty Inbox\n 19. Chloe Koutsoumbeli\n 20. The Yellow Taxi\n 21. Penelope III\n 22. Vassilis Amanatidis\n 23. [supremacy: a riddle]\n 24. [mother's body]\n 25. Kiriakos Sifiltzoglou\n 26. from Half Truths\n 27. Georgia Triandafillidou\n 28. Sudden Obsession at a Relative's House\n 12. VI: Border Zones\n 1. Dimitris Allos\n 2. or Her White Utensils\n 3. Iana Boukova\n 4. The Minimal Garden\n 5. Black Haiku\n 6. For Miltos Sachtouris\n 7. Fractal\n 8. Theodoros Chiotis\n 9. Zones of Frequency\n 10. Christos Angelakos\n 11. 'If you dive inside your head'\n 12. Yannis Livadas\n 13. from Bastard Elegies\n 14. Jazz, I Say\n 15. Synchronization\n 16. As I Am Boosting Your Confidence\n 17. My Bones in the Soup of My Grave\n 18. At the Book Stand of La Manne, 90 Claude Bernard Street\n 19. Moma Radic\n 20. Noon\n 21. Really?\n 22. Stammering Fisherman\n 23. Gazmend Kapllani\n 24. Thus Spokethe Stranger\n 25. Thodoris Rakopoulos\n 26. Epiphany\n 27. Torn\n 28. Stathis Gourgouris\n 29. In the Manner of S.G.\n 30. The Bride with the Bullets\n 31. Athena's Dream\n 32. Nameless Rain\n 33. Mehmet Yashin\n 34. The Bitter Loss\n 35. \u00c7\u00fcr\u00fcme\n 36. Hiva Panahi\n 37. The Breath of the Olive Tree\n 38. Companion\n 39. Ash Person\n 13. Notes on the Poems\n 14. Biographies of the Translators\n 15. Further Reading\n 16. Acknowledgements\n 17. Copyright\n 18. Follow Penguin\n\n 1. i\n 2. ii\n 3. v\n 4. xviii\n 5. xix\n 6. xx\n 7. xxi\n 8. xxii\n 9. xxiii\n 10. xxiv\n 11. xxv\n 12. xxix\n 13. \n 14. \n 15. \n 16. \n 17. \n 18. \n 19. \n 20. \n 21. \n 22. \n 23. \n 24. \n 25. \n 26. \n 27. \n 28. \n 29. \n 30. \n 31. \n 32. \n 33. \n 34. \n 35. \n 36. \n 37. \n 38. \n 39. \n 40. \n 41. \n 42. \n 43. \n 44. \n 45. \n 46. \n 47. \n 48. \n 49. \n 50. \n 51. \n 52. \n 53. \n 54. \n 55. \n 56. \n 57. \n 58. \n 59. \n 60. \n 61. \n 62. \n 63. \n 64. \n 65. \n 66. \n 67. \n 68. \n 69. \n 70. \n 71. \n 72. \n 73. \n 74. \n 75. \n 76. \n 77. \n 78. \n 79. \n 80. \n 81. \n 82. \n 83. \n 84. \n 85. \n 86. \n 87. \n 88. \n 89. \n 90. \n 91. \n 92. \n 93. \n 94. \n 95. \n 96. \n 97. \n 98. \n 99. \n 100. \n 101. \n 102. \n 103. \n 104. \n 105. \n 106. \n 107. \n 108. \n 109. \n 110. \n 111. \n 112. \n 113. \n 114. \n 115. \n 116. \n 117. \n 118. \n 119. \n 120. \n 121. \n 122. \n 123. \n 124. \n 125. \n 126. \n 127. \n 128. \n 129. \n 130. \n 131. \n 132. \n 133. \n 134. \n 135. \n 136. \n 137. \n 138. \n 139. \n 140. \n 141. \n 142. \n 143. \n 144. \n 145. \n 146. \n 147. \n 148. \n 149. \n 150. \n 151. \n 152. \n 153. \n 154. \n 155. \n 156. \n 157. \n 158. \n 159. \n 160. \n 161. \n 162. \n 163. \n 164. \n 165. \n 166. \n 167. \n 168. \n 169. \n 170. \n 171. \n 172. \n 173. \n 174. \n 175. \n 176. \n 177. \n 178. \n 179. \n 180. \n 181. \n 182. \n 183. \n 184. \n 185. \n 186. \n 187. \n 188. \n 189. \n 190. \n 191. \n 192. \n 193. \n 194. \n 195. \n 196. \n 197. \n 198. \n 199. \n 200. \n 201. \n 202. \n 203. \n 204. \n 205. \n 206. \n 207. \n 208. \n 209. \n 210. \n 211. \n 212. \n 213. \n 214. \n 215. \n 216. \n 217. \n 218. \n 219. \n 220. \n 221. \n 222. \n 223. \n 224. \n 225. \n 226. \n 227. \n 228. \n 229. \n 230. \n 231. \n 232. \n 233. \n 234. \n 235. \n 236. \n 237. \n 238. \n 239. \n 240. \n 241. \n 242. \n 243. \n 244. \n 245. \n 246. \n 247. \n 248. \n 249. \n 250. \n 251. \n 252. \n 253. \n 254. \n 255. \n 256. \n 257. \n 258. \n 259. \n 260. \n 261. \n 262. \n 263. \n 264. \n 265. \n 266. \n 267. \n 268. \n 269. \n 270. \n 271. \n 272. \n 273. \n 274. \n 275. \n 276. \n 277. \n 278. \n 279. \n 280. \n 281. \n 282. \n 283. \n 284. \n 285. \n 286. \n 287. \n 288. \n 289. \n 290. \n 291. \n 292. \n 293. \n 294. \n 295. \n 296. \n 297. \n 298. \n 299. \n 300. \n 301. \n 302. \n 303. \n 304. \n 305. \n 306. \n 307. \n 308. \n 309. \n 310. \n 311. \n 312. \n 313. \n 314. \n 315. \n 316. \n 317. \n 318. \n 319. \n 320. \n 321. \n 322. \n 323. \n 324. \n 325. \n 326. \n 327. \n 328. \n 329. \n 330. \n 331. \n 332. \n 333. \n 334. \n 335. \n 336. \n 337. \n 338. \n 339. \n 340. \n 341. \n 342. \n 343. \n 344. \n 345. \n 346. \n 347. \n 348. \n 349. \n 350. \n 351. \n 352. \n 353. \n 354. \n 355. \n 356. \n 357. \n 358. \n 359. \n 360. \n 361. \n 362. \n 363. \n 364. \n 365. \n 366. \n 367. \n 368. \n 369. \n 370. \n 371. \n 372. \n 373. \n 374. \n 375. \n 376. \n 377. \n 378. \n 379. \n 380. \n 381. \n 382. \n 383. \n 384. \n 385. \n 386. \n 387. \n 388. \n 389. \n 390. \n 391. \n 392. \n 393. \n 394. \n 395. \n 396. \n 397. \n 398. \n 399. \n 400. \n 401. \n 402. \n 403. \n 404. \n 405. \n 406. \n 407. \n 408. \n 409. \n 410. \n 411. \n 412. \n 413. \n 414. \n 415. \n 416. \n 417. \n 418. \n 419. \n 420.\n\n 1. Cover\n 2. Table of Contents\n 3. Begin Reading\n\n","meta":{"redpajama_set_name":"RedPajamaBook"}} +{"text":" \nMOONSHINE\n\nEdible\n\nSeries Editor: Andrew F. Smith\n\nEDIBLE is a revolutionary series of books dedicated to food and drink that explores the rich history of cuisine. Each book reveals the global history and culture of one type of food or beverage.\n\nAlready published\n\n_Apple_ Erika Janik _Banana_ Lorna Piatti-Farnell \n _Barbecue_ Jonathan Deutsch and Megan J. Elias \n _Beef_ Lorna Piatti-Farnell _Beer_ Gavin D. Smith \n _Brandy_ Becky Sue Epstein _Bread_ William Rubel \n _Cake_ Nicola Humble _Caviar_ Nichola Fletcher \n _Champagne_ Becky Sue Epstein _Cheese_ Andrew Dalby \n _Chillies_ Heather Arndt Anderson _Chocolate_ Sarah Moss \nand Alexander Badenoch _Cocktails_ Joseph M. Carlin \n _Curry_ Colleen Taylor Sen _Dates_ Nawal Nasrallah \n _Doughnut_ Heather Delancey Hunwick _Dumplings_ Barbara Gallani \n _Edible Flowers_ Constance L. Kirker and Mary Newman \n _Eggs_ Diane Toops _Fats_ Michelle Phillipov _Figs_ David C. Sutton \n _Game_ Paula Young Lee _Gin_ Lesley Jacobs Solmonson \n _Hamburger_ Andrew F. Smith _Herbs_ Gary Allen _Honey_ Lucy M. Long \n _Hot Dog_ Bruce Kraig _Ice Cream_ Laura B. Weiss _Lamb_ Brian Yarvin \n _Lemon_ Toby Sonneman _Lobster_ Elisabeth Townsend \n _Melon_ Sylvia Lovegren _Milk_ Hannah Velten _Moonshine_ Kevin R. Kosar \n _Mushroom_ Cynthia D. Bertelsen _Nuts_ Ken Albala _Offal_ Nina Edwards \n _Olive_ Fabrizia Lanza _Onions and Garlic_ Martha Jay \n _Oranges_ Clarissa Hyman _Pancake_ Ken Albala \n _Pasta and Noodles_ Kantha Shelke _Pie_ Janet Clarkson \n _Pineapple_ Kaori O' Connor _Pizza_ Carol Helstosky \n _Pomegranate_ Damien Stone _Pork_ Katharine M. Rogers \n _Potato_ Andrew F. Smith _Pudding_ Jeri Quinzio _Rice_ Renee Marton \n _Rum_ Richard Foss _Salad_ Judith Weinraub _Salmon_ Nicolaas Mink \n _Sandwich_ Bee Wilson _Sauces_ Maryann Tebben _Sausage_ Gary Allen \n _Seaweed_ Kaori O'Connor _Soup_ Janet Clarkson \n _Spices_ Fred Czarra _Sugar_ Andrew F. Smith _Tea_ Helen Saberi \n _Tequila_ Ian Williams _Truffle_ Zachary Nowak \n _Vodka_ Patricia Herlihy _Water_ Ian Miller \n _Whiskey_ Kevin R. Kosar _Wine_ Marc Millon\nMoonshine\n\nA Global History\n\n_Kevin R. Kosar_\n\nREAKTION BOOKS\n_To my family, an endless source of amazement and amusement, and to Eli Lehrer and my awesome colleagues at the R Street Institute \u2013 the Washington, DC, think-tank that welcomed me to the team in late 2014_.\n\nPublished by Reaktion Books Ltd \nUnit 32, Waterside \n44\u201348 Wharf Road \nLondon N1 7UX, UK \nwww.reaktionbooks.co.uk\n\nFirst published 2017\n\nCopyright \u00a9 Kevin R. Kosar 2017\n\nAll rights reserved \nNo part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers\n\nPage references in the Photo Acknowledgements and \nIndex match the printed edition of this book.\n\nPrinted and bound in China by 1010 Printing International Ltd\n\nA catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library\n\neISBN: 9781780237909\nContents\n\nIntroduction: Moonshine, Moonshine Everywhere\n\n1 The Basics\n\n2 Making Moonshine\n\n3 Moonshine and Politics: Enmity from the Start\n\n4 Moonshine Goes Pop (Twice)\n\n5 Moonshine and Very Bad Things\n\n6 Moonshine Goes Legit\n\nConclusion: Moonshine and Us\n\nRecipes\n\nRecommended Brands of Licit Moonshine\n\nSelect Bibliography\n\nWebsites and Associations\n\nAcknowledgements\n\nPhoto Acknowledgements\n\nIndex\n\nPolicemen pose with a haul of confiscated moonshine, Washington, DC, during Prohibition.\n\n## Introduction: Moonshine, Moonshine Everywhere\n\nAlthough decades have passed, I still remember my first experience with moonshine, albeit vaguely. I was in the basement of a university fraternity house, and another person whom I did not know very well produced a Mason jar. The contents were as clear as water. He said that a relative had brought it to him from his home state of West Virginia, which is famous (or notorious, depending on one's perspective) for the production of illegal spirits.\n\nHe unscrewed the jar and handed it to another guy, whose face bunched up after a single sniff. When I nosed the bottle, my head snapped backwards \u2013 the vapours burned my nasal passages and my eyes immediately watered; I felt fear. I was not new to alcoholic beverages, but this booze struck me as dangerous. Who had made it? I wondered. What proof was it? Might we go blind drinking it? Nonetheless, we each agreed to do one shot of the 'shine', as the purveyor termed it. This lone shot soon became a few. The drink had a terrible chemical taste, and I had to fight against my gag reflex to get each small gulp down my throat. Some time after, loud music was turned on, and we all began leaping about. A friend's elbow went through the plasterboard ceiling. Quite probably we staggered to a bar. I honestly cannot recall.\n\nOne might ascribe that moonshine incident to a unique youthful episode. If only. Nearly anywhere I go, if I raise the topic of moonshine I will find someone who knows about it or has drunk it. Twenty-five years after my moonshine initiation, I found myself in a very different setting. It was a book party for a dear friend who had recently passed away. We had assembled in the ballroom of the Metropolitan Club, founded in 1863 in downtown Washington, DC. The club is an opulent space: ornate chandeliers hang from soaring ceilings, and moustached military men glower from gilt frames at anyone standing on the lush oriental rugs that cover the hardwood floor. Club members have included U.S. presidents, Supreme Court justices and manufacturing moguls. Today it is a haven for bankers and lawyers, those who can afford the membership fees and abide by its jacket-and-tie-at-all-times dress code. While at the party, I struck up a conversation with an older gentleman who once worked with my late friend. We reminisced about the deceased and toasted him with crystal tumblers of pricey bourbon. The subject of research and writing arose, and I mentioned I was working on this book. 'Oh, moonshine \u2013 yes, I know something of that,' he said with a sly smile. As a college student in the early 1960s, he and his friends drank moonshine that they acquired from a local restaurant: 'The waitress would ask if you were thirsty and give you a wink, and if you winked back properly, she'd add a charge to your bill. When you went to your car after the meal, a bottle of moonshine would be under your seat.' I inquired whether the booze was any good. 'It was rough,' he admitted. 'But it was a dry county. You could not buy liquor. We could drive to other places in the state and buy liquor legally. But buying moonshine this way was half the fun.'\n\nGrowing up in the United States, I got the impression that moonshine was a peculiarly American phenomenon. 'Moonshine' itself just sounded like an American term. The television show _The Dukes of Hazzard_ (1979\u201385) and popular lore served up a simple story. Moonshiners live in America's mountains and back roads. Honest, simple country folk, moonshiners make 'likker' from cherished family recipes. They are, the story goes, poor people whose days are spent trying to outfox the police so as to carry on the traditions of their forebears and earn a living by selling 'white lightning' to their friends and neighbours, and the occasional curious collegiate.\n\nWoman moonshiner in a forest near Chiang Mai, Thailand, 2007.\n\nThough accurate in some instances, there is far more to moonshine than this simple depiction can offer. Moonshine has a global history, one that goes back six hundred years, and probably even further. Moonshine most certainly is not an American invention. The term itself, as Chapter One details, hails from the British Isles, not America. Moonshine has been made from just about every foodstuff imaginable, and nearly every nation has its own version. Moonshine's consumers range from developed-world university students to less educated manual labourers in the developing world. Despite its image as an agrarian beverage, moonshine can be found in both dense urban slums and posh suburbs.\n\nFreshly bottled _kasippu_ in a forest in Sri Lanka, 2014.\n\nThe ubiquity of moonshine became all the more apparent to me as I contacted friends and acquaintances from outside the United States. For example, not long ago, I was chatting with an older woman from Sri Lanka. Gesturing towards the many bottles upon my kitchen counter and shelves, she asked what they were. I explained that they were samples of distilled spirits, and that companies sent them to me in the hopes that I would write about them. I asked her what people drank in her homeland. 'Some of the men drink beer,' she replied. 'Some drink _kasippu_.' She described _kasippu_ as a concoction made from tree fruit, and said that it was bad stuff: 'men in the villages get very drunk on it.' It is a Sri Lankan form of moonshine \u2013 an illegal alcoholic drink that many people get hooked on. (Sri Lankans, by the way, also make a moonshine called toddy, produced from palm tree sap.)\n\nThe widespread existence of moonshine is a bit of a paradox. Certainly, one can understand why moonshine would flourish in places where distilled spirits are banned. But why does it live on in the twenty-first century, in societies where multinational conglomerates fill off-licences and supermarkets with safe, legal and affordable distilled spirits? Why would any consumer choose to purchase possibly lethal moonshine when bottles of good-quality vodka, rum and whisky can be bought so cheaply? Moreover, what kind of madness would make someone risk life and limb to distil moonshine?\n\nThe desire to comprehend the enduring allure of moonshine was one of the motivations in writing this book. I have learned that different people drink it for different reasons. In some cases, it is a significant part of the culture. For other tipplers, it is an act of political rebellion \u2013 drinking moonshine is a way to thumb one's nose at government taxes and regulations. Among geeks and technophiles, moonshine-making is treated as an intellectual challenge \u2013 how to harness scientific knowledge to produce the purest, best spirit possible. Others, especially the young, find appeal in its illicit nature: drinking it is naughty, rebellious and dangerous. It is a thrill, and drinking moonshine can confer social status through the stories of drunken abandon told the next day \u2013 or shown on social media in real time. Perhaps most commonly, and rather sadly, drinkers turn to moonshine because it is the least expensive way to get severely intoxicated. Moonshiners have their own reasons for distilling it, not least that it is a way to make money quickly and tax-free. Not once in my studies have I found evidence of a moonshiner who regularly gave his product away as a service to his fellow man.\n\nMoonshine's history is difficult to pin down due to its surreptitious nature. Moonshiners rarely write autobiographies or keep records of their work. Doing so would only generate evidence that might be used against them were they arrested. Many moonshiners of yesteryear were illiterate, meaning that much of what they did has been passed down the ages as oral history. Nonetheless, sufficient evidence exists to say something about moonshine past and present. The history of moonshine is colourful. The players are many and diverse; they include crusading lawmen, earnest farmers, clever tinkerers, vicious smugglers and gangsters, pontificating poets, sneaky swamp- and mountain-dwellers, and adolescents looking for a thrill. Moonshine's story is one of technological diffusion, human ingenuity, economics, greed and political struggle. In basic terms, the story of moonshine attests to man's craving for intoxication. People do not drink moonshine to grow taller, stronger or smarter. They drink it to get drunk. Fast.\n\nThis trim volume cannot possibly be the final word on this subject. The topic is far too vast, and new history is being discovered and created each day. For better and for worse, moonshine is alive and flowing the world over.\n\n## 1\n\n## The Basics\n\nJesus said, 'The poor shall be with you always.' The same might be said for moonshine. The fundamental causes for this eternal truth are not hard to discern: many individuals enjoy drinking highly alcoholic beverages, and many also feel no compunction about flouting the law. There lie the essential features of moonshine: it is an illegally produced alcoholic spirit.\n\nAs alluded to in the Introduction, moonshine is often imagined to be an American invention and idiosyncrasy. One often reads that moonshine is a water-clear, highly alcoholic, grain-based drink that is native to America's mid-Atlantic and southeastern states (stretching from Virginia down to Florida) and the Appalachian Mountains (rising across West Virginia to Alabama). In this telling, moonshine is called 'moonshine' because hill dwellers and country folk furtively distilled it outdoors by the light of the moon.\n\nAn honest read of the historical record \u2013 at least, of the documentation that exists \u2013 indicates that the truth is much more complex. Moonshine has been produced in all fifty American states, from Alaska to Maine, as well as throughout the rest of the world. And the moniker 'moonshine' owes less to how it is made than it does to its dodgy nature.\n\n### What's in a Word?\n\nThe _Oxford English Dictionary_ , the veritable authority on the English language, locates the earliest use of 'moonshine' to 1425 in the British Isles, from where it may have migrated from overseas. It is quite similar to the Middle Dutch _maenschijn_ , German _manshin_ , Icelandic _manaskin_ and Swedish _mansken_.\n\nInitially, the English employed 'moonshine' as a synonym for moonlight. A character in Shakespeare's comedy _The Merry Wives of Windsor_ (1602) says: 'Pinch him, and burne him, and turne him about,\/ Till Candles, and Star-light, and Moone-shine be out' (V.5). Lyricists expanded the term's meaning to denote pleasant radiance, and other writers poured additional content into the term. The word began to be used to mean something illusory or insubstantial, such as the reflection of the moon in water. In 1532, a few years before the Protestant reformer William Tyndale was imprisoned and executed, Henry VIII's former chancellor Thomas More condemned Tyndale's religious views in _The Confutation of Tyndale's Answer_ : 'Ye may wel perceiue . . . that the profe of al his whole conclusion . . . hangeth all by the moneshyne.'\n\nTwo centuries later, 'moonshine' had taken on a more negative connotation. As the _OED_ relates, it might refer to a person talking nonsense, making 'appealing and persuasive but empty talk'. In August 1762 an issue of the _Edinburgh Magazine_ carried a rant against the city of London and its financial speculators who trafficked paper: 'Bulls and bears, who often trade for millions of moonshine . . . do not add one farthing to the national stock . . . out-witting one, oppressing another, and ruining a third is their sole profession.'\n\nIn the 1780s the term took on an alcoholic connotation. The _European Magazine and London Review_ spoke of 'a house of call for smugglers' where 'one is sure of meeting always with genuine Moonshine'. The lexicographer Francis Grose, who prowled the seedier parts of London in search of slang terminology, heard 'moonshine' used to mean unlicensed alcoholic beverages. Grose's _Classical Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue_ (1785) includes an entry for moonshine that captures both its earlier and emerging meaning: 'A matter or mouthful of moonshine; a trifle, nothing. The white brandy smuggled on the coasts of Kent and Sussex, are also called moonshine.' A subsequent update to Grose's dictionary in 1796 further includes the illicit 'gin in the north of Yorkshire' within moonshine's definition.\n\nFrancis Grose, author of _The Classical Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue_ , in a drawing _c_. 1840.\n\nSubsequently, the alcoholic association of the term 'moonshine' has risen and other meanings have drained away. By the late nineteenth century, the word had crossed the Atlantic and taken root in America. The _New York Evening Post_ in 1877 reported a 'moonshiner' to be a 'manufacturer of illicit whiskey'. The following year the _National Police Gazette_ declared that 'the term \"moonshining\" originated in the early days of illicit distilling simply from the fact that these distilleries were operated during the dark hours . . . when the moon is the ruling luminary.' Thus we have the partially true contention that is commonplace today: moonshine was termed as such because it was a spirit that was illicitly produced outdoors, under the light of the moon.\n\n### Moonshine: What is It?\n\nMoonshine is a distilled spirit. Like any such alcoholic drink, moonshine is made by first producing a fermented beverage (a beer or wine). Thereafter, heat is employed to extract from the beer or wine a purer and much more highly alcoholic liquid. Beers and wines tend to be between 2 per cent and 15 per cent alcohol by volume (ABV), which translates to between 4 and 30 proof in the U.S. Licit spirits are usually 40 per cent to 47 per cent alcohol (U.S. 80 to 94 proof). Moonshine may be as much as 95 per cent alcohol (U.S. 190 proof).\n\nFermentation is a fairly simple process. Yeasts, which are everywhere, happen upon sugary liquids and consume them, emitting alcohol as a by-product. Fermentation therefore occurs naturally without any human intervention. Reports from Sweden of drunken elk crashing about are not uncommon \u2013 the beasts consume rotten apples, the juices of which have turned into alcoholic cider. The Smithsonian's online magazine reports that other animals also become inebriated after consuming naturally fermenting substances, including Malaysia's tree shrew and slow loris, which consume fermented nectar from the Bertram palm. Mankind's earliest brewers and vintners needed very little to make crude beer and wine. Grapes could be stomped or pressed to release their sugary juice, which could then be left in uncovered bowls to ferment naturally. Grain could be ground with a mortar and pestle, heated in water over an open fire to release the grain's sugars, and then left to ferment.\n\nDistillation, however, as will be explained more fully in Chapter Two, is a far more complex undertaking that requires fairly sophisticated equipment. Most prominently, distillation requires vessels and piping to capture and condense the alcoholic vapours that arise from the heated beer or wine. These liquified vapours are the distilled spirit.\n\nThere are those who feel strongly that true moonshine can be made only from grain and must not be barrel-aged or have any added flavourings. Such a crabbed definition is problematic on a number of counts. For one, those who take this perspective, rather amusingly, cannot agree on which grain \u2013 corn? barley? rye? \u2013 is the proper one to use. For another, this purist definition runs headfirst into practical hurdles. For example, if a pure corn spirit is stored in a barrel for a few months, does it cease to be moonshine? And what exactly are we supposed to call a pure, unaged spirit illicitly distilled from rice or millet? Finally, there is the matter of science. If a spirit is distilled at a sufficiently high proof, for example at 80 per cent alcohol or higher, so little of the source materials remain that it will be virtually flavourless. (Some years back, a friend brought me a small juice bottle filled with Appalachian moonshine. Despite my having spent more than a decade judging spirits, I could not figure out what this particular drink had been made from. It was fantastically alcoholic, but had no aroma and no taste.)\n\nStele of Hammurabi's Code, _c_. 1750 BC, in the Louvre. This Mesopotamian collection of laws regulated various matters, including intoxicating drink.\n\nIn our modern world, governments have defined the types of legal spirits in regulations and laws. These definitions frequently stipulate the fermentables whence the spirit must be derived and instruct upon aspects of its production. The U.S. government, for example, defines bourbon as 'whisky produced at not exceeding 160 proof [80\u00b0 ABV] from a fermented mash of not less than 51 percent corn . . . and stored at not more than 125\u00b0 proof in charred new oak containers.' No such definition exists for moonshine. Any hard alcohol produced that fails to fall within the legal definitions for distilled beverages, or any hooch produced by an unlicensed distiller, can rightly be called moonshine.\n\n### When Was It Invented and By Whom?\n\nThe use of the word 'moonshine' to refer to unlawful alcoholic beverages appears to have emerged in England around 1780. But what about moonshine itself? Scientific evidence indicates that humans have been making alcoholic drinks for nearly 10,000 years. Jars dating from 7500 BC found in a northern Chinese village contain evidence of a drink made from rice, honey and fruit. Traces of grape-based wine, from around 5400 BC, have been found in clay containers (amphorae) discovered in Iran's Zagros Mountains. Similarly ancient artefacts of wine-and beer-soaked vessels have been discovered in Egypt, Syria and other nations in the Middle East. Circumstantial evidence hints that fermented alcoholic drinks existed earlier still.\n\nDistillation is methodologically and technologically more demanding than fermentation, so evidence for this process dates from later millennia. In the 1970 edition of R. J. Forbes's authoritative _A Short History of the Art of Distillation_ , he argues that in Alexandria Egypt's famed chemists were distilling medicines or aromatic waters in approximately AD 100. Nevertheless there is other evidence that suggests Forbes's estimate is too conservative. In 350 BC, in his _Meteorology_ , the Greek philosopher Aristotle wrote:\n\nSalt water when it turns to vapour becomes sweet, and the vapour does not form salt water when it condenses again. This I know by experiment. The same thing is true in every case of the kind: wine and all fluids . . . evaporate and condense back into a liquid state.\n\nF. R. Allchin contended in a paper in 1979 published by Great Britain's Royal Anthropological Institute that India was not only distilling liquids but making spirits between 500 and 300 BC.\n\nSo, spirit-making may go back 1,500 years. But when did moonshining begin? To venture an answer to this question demands a return to the definition proffered at the beginning of this chapter: moonshine is a distilled beverage that is illegally produced. Moonshine, then, was born at the time a government decided to first decree that there were legal and illegal producers of spirits; alternatively, it was conceived when a government first levied taxes on distilled spirits. Such actions in effect cleaved the world of distilled spirits into two types: the permissible and the ones that violate the rules.\n\nExactly when a ruler or regime first decreed certain spirits as licit and illicit is unknown. We do know, however, that governmental interest in regulating alcoholic beverages has existed for a long time. Hammurabi's famed Babylonian Code (1772 BC) carries a few rules regarding drink, such as this strange one: 'If a tavern-keeper does not accept corn according to gross weight in payment of drink, but takes money, and the price of the drink is less than that of the corn, she shall be convicted and thrown into the water.' Slightly later, China may have begun regulating and taxing rice wines. The diverse ancient nations of the Fertile Crescent had varying strictures concerning strong drink. Some banned alcohol outright, considering it anathema to God.\n\nBy AD 1500 some nations had clearly begun regulating the production of hard alcohol. Russia first taxed it in 1474. In Scotland James IV issued a manufacturing monopoly on the distilling and selling of _aqua vitae_ to Edinburgh's Guild of Surgeon Barbers in 1506. The Scottish authorities were differentiating licit spirits from moonshine even earlier than this: a record-keeping entry from 1494 in the Scottish Exchequer Rolls notes that Friar Jon Cor acquired 'eight bolls of malt' \u2013 amounting to 507 kg (1,118 lb) of barley, which might produce 190 litres (50 U.S. gallons) of distilled spirit \u2013 for the purpose of producing _aqua vitae_.\n\nGovernment regulation of legal versus illegal spirits spread quickly throughout Europe. In part, it was a phenomenon concurrent with the general growth in the licensing of trades. The policy on alcohol production was also a response to the spread of rudimentary distillation technology, which elevated spirit-making from the exclusive craft of a few alchemists to a widespread practice. Additionally, governments saw alcohol both as a fuel for social pathologies \u2013 for example, drunken violence and public misbehaviour \u2013 and a trove of revenue. As a result, they decreed that licences were required to produce and sell alcohol, and they imposed taxes. (While income taxes are commonplace today, until 150 years ago most Western nations' governments supported their activities through tariffs and excise taxes on goods.) Those who could not afford to or did not wish to pay fees on alcohol became the earliest moonshiners.\n\nDates growing on a tree in Taormina, Sicily, 2006.\n\n### Types of Moonshine\n\nTo put it bluntly, it is impossible to list all the different types of moonshine. Humans have transformed virtually every imaginable fermentable foodstuff into illegal booze. Joseph E. Dabney's _Mountain Spirits_ (1974) reports that seventeenth-century Americans produced moonshine from 'blackberries, persimmons, plums, whortleberries, sassafras barks, birch barks, corn stalks, hickory nuts, pumpkins, pawpaw [asimina fruit], turnips, carrots, potatoes, and small grains'. The varied mix of ingredients remains the same today: Hungarians distil apricots, Indians use cashew fruits and Mongolians work horse's milk into hooch.\n\nToddy collectors drawing palm sap in India, _c_. 1850.\n\nMoonshine is a global phenomenon, consumed by people worldwide under many different names and produced from a variety of fermented foodstuffs, but how, exactly, is it made?\n\n### Selected Moonshine Types from Around the World\n\nCountry| Common Name(s)| Fermentable \n---|---|--- \nArmenia| _oghee_| grapes, plums or apricots \nCroatia| _rakija_| grapes or plums \nEgypt| _bouza_| barley \nHungary| _hazipalinka_| plums, apricots or cherries \nIndia| _feni_| cashew fruits, coconuts \nIran| _aragh sagi_| raisins \nIreland| _potcheen, poit\u00edn_| grain or sugar \nKenya| _chang'aa_| corn or sorghum \nLaos| _lao-lao_| rice \nMongolia| _arkhi_| horse's milk \nMyanmar| _toddy_| palm tree sap \nNorway| _hjemmebrent_| sugar \nPakistan| _kuppi, tharra_| keekar tree bark and sugar \nPhilippines| _lambanog_| coconut tree sap \nPortugal| _sguardente de medronhos_| medronho tree fruit \nRussia| _samogon_| potatoes or sugar \nSouth Africa| _witblits_| grapes \nSudan| _araqi_| dates \nUganda| _waregi_| bananas, sugar cane \nUnited States| _moonshine, white lightning_| corn or sugar\n\n## 2\n\n## Making Moonshine\n\nMax Watman is a very smart guy. He has a master's degree from one of America's finest universities and was awarded a literature fellowship by the U.S. government's National Endowment for the Arts. Watman is a polymath who has worked as a cook, an academic tutor, a silversmith, a web designer and a journalist for a New York City newspaper.\n\nFor fun, Watman decided that he would try to make his own moonshine. He pursued his objective rationally, including investing time in researching the subject, and settled upon a recipe for American whiskey used by George Washington, America's first president. He procured high-quality ingredients: flaked corn, rye (standard and flaked), malted barley and champagne yeast. Washington had run a sizable distillery that made big batches of booze, so Watman made some mathematical calculations to reduce the original recipe in order to produce an estimated output of 0.97 U.S. gallons.\n\nFor a week, Watman cooked and fermented the grains in his home kitchen. As he recounts in his hilarious book _Chasing the White Dog_ (2010), his method was exacting. Yet, despite his efforts, it did not go well. The fermented glop unleashed a 'miasmic sour smell . . . as if some kind of horrible sourdough had been left alone for far too long'. He struggled to transfer the mush into the home-made still he had rigged up. It took hours before distillation began, and his still leaked. For all of his studying, expenses and effort, his initial distillation attempt produced a paltry 2 ounces (60 ml) of moonshine, and, Watman reports, 'It tasted horrible.'\n\n### Distillation Basics\n\nDistillation is a straightforward process. You heat a liquid until it boils, and use a vessel to catch and cool the steam so that it condenses into purer liquid. Distilling alcohol, on the other hand, is a far trickier process, and the devil is in the detail.\n\nFundamentally, the objective of moonshine distillation is to produce a particular type of alcohol called ethyl alcohol, also known as ethanol. This chemical is an amalgam of carbon, hydrogen and oxygen molecules (CH3CH2OH), and it is remarkably useful. Ethanol has been used to fuel automobiles, rockets and toy trains; it heats homes and fires camping stoves; it is the key ingredient in gelatinous hand cleaners, where its antiseptic power kills bacteria and viruses; and it is a component of countless chemicals, such as antifreeze, cleaning solutions, shellacs and perfumes. Ethanol also gets humans \u2013 and animals, for that matter \u2013 drunk.\n\nPut in a basic mathematical form, the production of ethanol amounts to this equation:\n\nethanol = (fermentation) + (distillation)\n\nEthanol fermentation and distillation can be understood as having their own simple equations:\n\nfermentation = (sugar + water + yeast)\n\ndistillation = (heat) + (condensation)\n\nIn summation, making moonshine requires: (sugar + water + yeast) + (heat) + (condensation). As for equipment, one requires a vessel for fermentation and a still, the components of which are a vessel for distillation, a heat source and vapour-condensing piping.\n\n### The Varieties of Failure\n\nDistilling alcohol sounds pretty straightforward, but as Max Watman showed, it is very difficult to carry out in reality. Watman's maiden distilling voyage was tripped up by various factors, not least his leaky still.\n\nDistilling is an amalgam of cookery, chemistry and manufacturing, and there are opportunities for disasters great and small at every stage of the process. This is why moonshine instructions, when they can be found, tend to be very exact. For example, a recipe for producing corn-based moonshine, _The Quinn Clan_ (1993), once used by the Quinn family of Virginia, runs to six single-spaced pages which carry diagrams and suggest the preferred woods ('hickory, ash, or oak') to use to fire the still.\n\nThe three basic stages of spirit-making are sugar extraction, fermentation and distillation. The process's challenges begin with sugar extraction \u2013 unless one actually uses sugar (white, brown or otherwise). The moonshiner must first prepare the organic material so that its sugars may be extracted for fermentation. If fruits are being used, they need to be cleaned to ensure they are free of bacteria, and then pressed or crushed to release the juices. Seeds are usually removed because they impart unpleasant bitterness and cloud the distilled spirit. In _Home Production of Vodkas, Infusions and Liqueurs_ (2012), the distillers Stephen and Adam Marianski warn that fruit stones, which are found in cherries, peaches, apricots and the like, should also be 'discarded as they may contain traces of cyanide, which exhibits an intense odor of bitter almonds'. Pressed fruit juice is rich with sugar, but must be handled quickly and with care or it will become fouled by wild yeasts or other microorganisms.\n\n### Some Commonly Known Alcohols\n\nName| Description \n---|--- \nEthyl alcohol\/Ethanol| A consumable alcohol that is the main alcoholic component in beers, liquor and wine. \nFusel alcohol| A catch-all term for various alcohols produced as a by-product of fermentation, it comes from the German _Fusel_ meaning 'bad liquor'. Fusels produce a variety of flavours (often unpleasant) in alcoholic beverages. \nMethyl alcohol\/Methanol| Also known as 'wood alcohol', methanol often is used to manufacture other chemicals, such as formaldehyde. It is poisonous and its consumption can cause blindness and death. \nDenatured alcohol| Ethanol that has been rendered revolting to drink through the addition of various chemicals. Its consumption produces both intoxication and severe nausea. \nIsopropyl alcohol| Also known as 'rubbing alcohol' and 'surgical spirit', isopropanol is frequently used as an antiseptic and cleaning solvent. It is usually sold denatured at very high potency (70 per cent to 99 per cent pure). Its consumption causes severe nausea and can easily produce alcohol poisoning and death.\n\nGrains \u2013 corn or wheat, for example \u2013 and other starchy fermentables, such as potatoes, are even more nettlesome. The moonshiner must coax the sugars from these starches by way of the 'three Ms': malting, milling and mashing.\n\nMalt is critical to the fermentation process. To produce malt, the seeds of grain, for example barley or corn, are separated from the stems (or stalks), leaves and roots. The moonshiner malts seeds by soaking or drenching them in water to instigate their growth. A short time after the seeds have sprouted, the distiller mills or grinds them into flakes or flour. This milled malt is rich with enzymes (cystase and diastase) that help other starches release their inner sugars. There is much that can go wrong during malting. Soaking the seeds excessively can rot them, while growing them too much can deplete their inner sugars. Fungal infections are a common peril. _Fusarium_ and a host of other fungi can invade grains and infuse them with foul flavours; the ergot fungus is especially perilous. Moonshiners often taste their product as it moves through the distillation process to get a sense of its quality. Ingesting malt infected with ergot fungus can cause convulsions, mania, delusions and gangrene.\n\nOnce the malt is ready, the moonshiner then must cook the batch's main fermentables in a kettle or vessel of hot water to weaken their cellular structure and make them more amenable to releasing their sugars. At that point the transformative malt is added to the steaming vessel, which over hours turns the starchy broth into a sweet soup. Miscalculated ratios of malt to fermentables can result in too little sugar, which weakens the moonshine produced. The moonshiner must be careful also to cook the mash at the proper heat level. The various enzymes involved work better within certain temperature ranges: too much heat can scorch the mash, which will add bitter flavours to the final product, or ruin the mash pot; excessive heat also causes boil-overs that may burn or otherwise injure the distiller and disrupt the production.\n\nSerbian plums being prepared for distillation into illicit _rakia_ or _slivovitz_.\n\nFermentation is the next step in the distillation process. Turning this sugar-rich porridge into an alcoholic beverage requires yeast, a single-cell fungi and booze catalyst. Yeasts are everywhere; they float in the air, exist under the seas and live within the guts of bugs and between our toes. Some 1,500 species of yeast have been identified by scientists. Wherever organic matter is found, these microorganisms will be present. Yeasts devour substances and emit by-products; they are sometimes helpful and sometimes harmful. _Candida albicans_ , for example, afflicts humans with oral and vaginal yeast infections. _Zygosaccharomyces_ yeasts spoil human food and drink. Certain types of yeast, such as _Saccharomyces cerevisiae_ , are a blessing to mankind. They make our bread rise and our drinks ferment. A dizzying array of yeasts can be found for sale at beer- and wine-making shops and online. Yeast produces alcohol, but it also emits other substances, such as acids, that have their own \u2013 often offensive \u2013 aromas and flavours. _Brettanomyces bruxellensis_ yeast, to cite one example, is beloved by brewers of Belgian beers because it imparts sour flavours. For this same reason, wine-makers despise _Brettanomyces_. The moonshiner's challenge is to select the right type of yeast to produce the best quality and greatest yield of alcohol from whatever fermentable has been chosen.\n\nThe trick, then, is not to accidentally kill the yeast. Yeast is a living organism, and it can live only within a middling range of temperatures. Pitching yeast into overly hot mash will kill it instantly, halting the moonshine-making process. The moonshiner must understand his yeast and allow the mash to cool to a tolerable temperature before introducing it to the mix. Fermentation often takes a week to complete, a lengthy period during which the distiller needs to keep a close eye on the process. Contamination of the 'wort', as the fermenting mash is often called, is an ever-present threat. Acetic acid bacteria love sugary mash and can quickly transform it into vinegar. Other airborne bacteria and moulds can rot the mash.\n\nThe fear of contamination might lead readers to think: 'Why not just seal the fermentation vessel shut?' Doing this, unfortunately, would produce an explosion. In addition to alcohol, fermentation releases carbon dioxide gas \u2013 and lots of it. The fermentation vessel must permit this gas to escape, preferably slowly, as inhaling too much carbon dioxide, which fills the lungs, starving the brain of oxygen, can cause the moonshiner to pass out. The distiller needs to monitor his CO2 release valve to see that it does not become clogged by sticky wort. Stories of moonshiners suffering severe burns from exploding fermentation vessels are legion.\n\nOnce the mash has been fermented, distillation proper may commence. Typically, the moonshiner will drain the low-power (usually 10 per cent to 20 per cent alcohol) brew ('wash') out of the fermenter and dump it into a still. A siphon with a built-in filter or similar device may be used to keep most of the yeast and other solid detritus in the fermentation vessel and out of the still. Solids can stick to the still's inner walls and burn, producing bad flavours and damaging the equipment.\n\nAs in the fermentation stage, temperature here is critical. Alcohol boils and vaporizes at a lower temperature (173\u00b0F or 78\u00b0C) than water (212\u00b0F or 100\u00b0C). The aim is to evaporate the alcohol and leave the water behind. The wash is both water and alcohol, along with other tiny particulate matter left over from fermentation. Hence, as heat is applied, the moonshiner must locate the initial boiling point, and then work to find the points at which the alcoholic composition of the vapour significantly shifts.\n\nDistillation often is conceived as having four stages or 'cuts': the foreshots, the heads, the hearts and the tails. As might be guessed, the hearts are the purest portion of the distillate. To reach the hearts, the distiller must work through the foreshots and heads. The foreshots are the worst portion of a moonshine run: the Canadian master distiller Ian Smiley warns that they contain acetone (which is used in nail polish remover), methanol and other products that are very unhealthy and taste terrible. The foreshots should be dumped or used to clean the still after the run. The heads are not toxic like the foreshots and may be consumed, but they often contain foul flavours. Along with the similarly suboptimal tails, the heads can be drawn off and dumped back into the still to produce additional hearts. Too often, however, a moonshiner will collect all the liquor from the run, mix it with water or some other flavouring, and sell it. The consumer of such crude 'shine may be sickened or even struck blind.\n\nSingle pot still.\n\nIn modern legal distilleries, myriad gauges, sensors and computers analyse the alcohol being separated in the still. High-tech equipment redistils the booze and filters out the impurities. Safety inspectors examine the equipment, which must meet copious government regulations. Modern distilleries' professionally engineered operations are akin to chemical manufacturing plants \u2013 which, strictly speaking, they are.\n\nPlainly this is not the case with moonshiners. They use far cruder equipment; the set-ups, even when large-scale, are obviously amateur and frequently ramshackle. Mechanical failures are highly probable. Unless sealed completely, the joints and connections between the various pieces of the still will spray scalding hot vapour and alcohol. Clogs in the piping can cause pressure to build, which can burst the weaker parts of a still. Alcoholic vapours are extremely flammable and can explode should they come in contact with an electrical charge or open flame. Such detonations can be lethal.\n\nIn 2011 an explosion rocked Boston in Lincolnshire. The blast could be heard 8 km (5 miles) away from the site. When the smoke cleared, an illegal distillery was revealed. Five men were burned to death by fire so hot that it buckled the roll-up metal door hiding the facility, and incinerated a car outside. A survivor, who staggered from the site in flaming clothes, suffered burns over 75 per cent of his body. Lincolnshire authorities reported that the facility was rented by a Lithuanian man who had since left the country. Police had previously raided shops in the area that peddled counterfeit vodka and toxic spirits.\n\nCashew apples being crushed to be used to make illicit _feni_ in Goa, India, 2011.\n\nSomething similar happened in the United States, in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, a decade earlier. An immense moonshine operation capable of producing 4,200 gallons of liquor per week detonated. The plant, located in an abandoned garage, had plumbing, heating and waste disposal systems, according to a _Baltimore Sun_ newspaper report. Yet one of its kettles overheated. The moonshine factory was empty at the time, so nobody was killed, but the building was severely damaged and the street was slimed with 150-proof booze and gooey sugar wash.\n\n### Moonshine and Human Ingenuity\n\nDespite all the opportunities for failure, humans have successfully distilled illicit spirits for centuries. The equipment used has varied tremendously, and inevitably reflects the technology of the day. Often it is indicative of the moonshiners' knowledge and socio-economic status. The ancient Egyptians figured out how to blow glass vessels in 100 BC, thereby enabling them to make bulbous flasks (cucurbits) topped with bent necks (alembics) that could capture and condense the rising vapours of whatever liquid they had heated.\n\nMedieval alchemists and tinkerers fashioned more complex and larger stills from metal, often choosing copper because it produces better spirits (copper, as was later learned, removes sulphur compounds that taint the flavour). The column \u2013 or reflux \u2013 still was invented in the nineteenth century, and is used by many legal distilleries today. It looks and operates very differently from the pot still. It is a marvellously complex piece of technology that produces multiple distillations of the spirit as it progresses up the column towards the cooling device, the condenser, that liquefies it.\n\nAmerican Moonshine Quality Control Tests\n\nThose who make and purchase moonshine want to know how much alcohol they are getting. One method is to shake a glass container of the moonshine. If large, long-lasting bubbles appear, then the alcoholic proof is high. If small bubbles appear and linger, the moonshine is less potent.\n\nAnother common test is to hold a match to a spoonful of it. If it catches fire, it is probably more than 40 per cent alcohol, although this test is far from definitive. (Other substances in the moonshine can make it flammable.) Folklore had it that if the flame was blue, the moonshine was pure. Hence, good moonshine often was called 'blue flame'. Unfortunately, that is not true. Moonshine with blindness-causing methanol in it can burn blue, deceiving the consumer into thinking the moonshine is safe.\n\nThe Egyptian alembic\u2013cucurbit design, however, has lived on. It serves as the basic design for the pot still, the onion- or gourd-shaped contraption that one sees at some Scotch whisky distilleries. This girthy vessel-to-narrow-tube scheme also remains the go-to model for moonshiners. As a technology it is sound, and as a design it is extraordinarily adaptable. Moonshiners around the world have cobbled together distillation systems based on the alembic\u2013cucurbit model.\n\nThose individuals looking to make very small batches of moonshine often do so on their kitchen hobs. They buy sugary juice and bread yeast from a local shop, and ferment it in a pot. This wash is then poured or ladled into a pressure cooker or tea kettle. A thin copper pipe, which can be easily acquired from a plumbing supplies shop, is bent in a coil and fastened to the pot or kettle's steam-release valve. The opposite end of the coil might be run through the top of another pot or thermos of cold water and out of a hole in the bottom. Home-repair caulk or oatmeal paste might be used to seal the various pieces of the little still together. A thermometer can gauge the temperature through a hole punched in the cooking vessel's lid. When sufficient heat is applied, spirit vapours rise into the coil, condense upon contact with the cool copper and then drizzle down the coil into a receiving jar or jug. Crude though they be, these simple alembic\u2013cucurbit contraptions are capable of producing spirits.\n\nMedieval European still.\n\nAlembic\u2013cucurbit still built from a clay pot, basket, pipe, automobile tyre and bottle, Zambia, 1995.\n\nMoonshiners often display startling ingenuity in their ability to repurpose items into distilling equipment. Discarded or stolen barrels, kegs and industrial drums become fermentation pots and distillation kettles. _Chang'aa_ , the often toxic Kenyan moonshine, is frequently made in old steel drums that once held fuel or cooking oil. A metal washtub may serve as a fire pit, and salvaged garden hoses can be used to drain the alcoholic product into plastic containers scavenged from a dump. In Laos, _lao-lao_ is made with similarly ramshackle equipment. Craig Umpleby has reported at his AWorldofDrinks.com of visiting a Mekong village distillery:\n\nI struggle to find the words to describe the operation, even calling it crude sounds just a little bit generous . . . [The still consists of] an oil drum filled with 'wild fermented' (left in the courtyard in the sun) rice wine [which] was being warmed up above a slow burning wooden fire. On top of the barrel lay a tight roll of dirty fabric to catch any run away distillate while below a freshly plucked chicken had its head stuck in the very flames powering this distillation. The rest of the operation was just as simple and unrefined: the barrel would eventually have a head placed on top which would then be connected to a piece of pipe, this pipe ran through a bath of water which would rectify the spirit, allowing it to flow through a hose pipe and into a bucket.\n\nThe bucket is then emptied through a dirty cheesecloth, and the resulting _lao-lao_ is bottled. Umpleby found it wretched, and the product carried a nail polish (acetone) odour.\n\nRocks, mud and dung, believe it or not, can also be put to use. Moonshiners around the world have built small fire pits from rocks, placed their distilling kettles atop them, then fixed them into place with mud, which also helps keep the heat in the kettle. And dung? Well, a fresh dung heap is a warm, safe place to hide a bag of malting seeds or containers of illicit liquor.\n\nAstonishingly, humans have managed to fashion prohibited drink even in the world's most restrictive conditions. During the Second World War, American submariners made 'torpedo juice' in flagrant violation of naval rules. They squirrelled away small amounts of the 190-proof ethanol used to propel the submarines' torpedoes, and made the substance less revolting by mixing it with the orange or pineapple juice kept aboard that was intended to keep scurvy at bay.\n\nIn other cases, despite the surveillance and severe restrictions in place, moonshine gets made in prisons. Brendan O'Raghallai, who spent time in Ireland's Crumlin Road Gaol four decades ago, explained to the makers of the film _Poit\u00edn: Is tUisce Deoch N\u00e1 Sc\u00e9al_ (Po\u00edtin: A Drink Comes Before a Story, 2014) how food scraps were fermented and then distilled. Prisoners cut bean and other food tins into metal strips, which they bent and combined into crude coils ('worm') for distillation. In some of California's prisons today, inmates hoard bits of fruit, ketchup, jelly, syrup and sugary food. They ferment it in a pilfered bucket, a toilet they have clogged or a heavy plastic freezer bag. The wretched wash, called 'pruno', can be sold as is, or distilled into pruno liquor that fetches an even higher price. Distillation is achieved by using stolen wires attached to contraband metal, which is then connected to a battery or electrical source. In 2013 a California newspaper noted that inmate riots had occurred when officers seized pruno stashed in cells. Michael S. Lynch, a former inmate, trafficked a number of illicit items in jail, including distilled pruno. 'It tasted like vodka,' he told a reporter. 'It was one of my most profitable businesses.'\n\nIn Brazil, a similar activity used to be performed in S\u00e3o Paolo's Carandiru Penitentiary, which was demolished in 2002. Inmates made 'Crazy Mary' from sugar, guava, orange, passion fruit and rice. One former prisoner recalled fashioning a distilling coil from plumbing equipment stolen from a drinking fountain in the prison director's office. The crude production methods used in prisons are not without their problems, namely fires, explosions and sickness. In 2011 eight pruno drinkers in a Utah prison were stricken with botulism, a toxin from the _Clostridium botulinum_ bacterium. A rotten potato pitched into the malt was the source.\n\nIf the history of moonshine shows us anything, it is this: that mankind's will to distil is limitless, a fact that has major ramifications for any society that wishes to govern the production and consumption of moonshine.\n\n## 3\n\n## Moonshine and Politics: Enmity from the Start\n\nIf ever a nation's history highlighted the inimical politics of moonshine, it is Russia. Tsar Ivan the Great first taxed alcoholic beverages in 1474. Nevertheless, illicit vodka continued to be enjoyed. Later his son, Ivan the Terrible, sought additional revenue in booze. He shuttered private taverns in 1553, and anyone who wanted a stiff drink was required to visit the state vodka houses ( _kabaky_ ) and drink licensed liquor. Not everyone obeyed. Eventually Ivan's successor, Fyodor, abolished the royal vodka houses and denounced alcohol as impiety. Illicit stills continued to flow. Back and forth went the government's alcohol policy for the next few centuries, never quite able to achieve a peace with a public that loved strong drink.\n\nNicholas II, the last of the tsars, instituted Prohibition in 1914, an act that weakened his already tepid public support. Moonshining, predictably, flourished. The communists deposed the Tsar three years later and took total control of the production of alcoholic beverages. Joseph Stalin took the helm of the Soviet Union in 1922, and theorized that the manufacture of spirits should eventually be phased out. Russians would no longer need alcohol, it was argued, because they would be happy under Communism. Alcohol consumption, the young General Secretary imagined, was an affliction brought on by the duress of capitalism and the corrupting influence of foreigners. Moonshiners were viewed as unrepentant capitalists, and enemies of the state.\n\nMany Russians defied the new laws. Despite the threat of arrest and execution, moonshine in Russia proliferated. The more the police tried to root out illegal stills, the more stills they found. According to one estimate, there were at least a million stills belching _samogon_ (meaning 'distilled by oneself') in the mid-1920s. Stalin himself drank heavily and soon came to recognize the folly of his teetotal fantasy. He and succeeding Soviet leaders aimed to make alcohol policy serve the state: drinking was acceptable so long as it was government-produced drink that brought in revenue. For seventy years, the Soviet government fought moonshine production.\n\nThe Soviet Union's collapse commenced in 1989. That same year, more than 2 billion lb (907 million kg) of sugar was made into moonshine. _Samogon_ sold briskly all over the country at about half the price of state-produced liquor. Approximately 20 to 30 per cent of the public drank it, and at least 1 billion litres were consumed. The Soviet government came and went, but moonshine lives on. To this day, Russia remains a veritable still of moonshine, with both _samogon_ and counterfeit brands made by producers large and small.\n\n### Moonshine Politics\n\nThe politics of moonshine is inherently adversarial. On the one side is government, which seeks to curb or stop the manufacture and consumption of alcohol. On the other side of the fight are individuals who want to make and drink the alcohol. Moonshine, as noted earlier, was born when governments first began deeming some distilled spirits to be legal, and the rest, by implication, illegal. Suddenly, the booze that flowed from one still was right and the hooch that flowed from another was wrong, never mind that the two beverages might be chemically identical. Many individuals take offence at this ostensibly _malum prohibitum_ (wrong-because-government-says-so) policy.\n\nUnlike the young Soviet Union's batty rationale, most states have defensible reasons for enacting alcoholic beverage control policies. Frequently, they do so with support from large swathes of the public, who share their government's concerns that alcohol abuse harms society. At a minimum, reasonable time and place restrictions on the consumption of alcoholic beverages are needed to maintain basic civil order and avoid risks to health and safety. No society is likely to flourish if, say, everyone is free to drink in the streets 24 hours per day and operate vehicles or heavy machinery while blind drunk.\n\nNevertheless government policy has long had difficulty dealing sensibly with moonshine. With astounding regularity, alcohol policy is made with little recognition that many individuals believe that making and drinking alcohol is normal behaviour and therefore none of the government's business. This age-old, widely held attitude might be succinctly expressed as 'My crops, my labour, my liquor, my mouth, my business.' This is a perspective that springs from the long tradition of moonshining as a folkway, and from the economics of illicit distilling.\n\n### Moonshining as an Ancient Folkway\n\nMoonshine-making and consumption preceded government efforts to regulate it by centuries. Moonshine's old roots were deeply embedded in early agrarian life. First and foremost, moonshine is an agricultural product. Anyone who grows fruits, grains or vegetables possesses the raw material to make moonshine. This is why farmers have been fermenting grain and grapes into beers and wines for 10,000 years. The subsequent diffusion of distillation knowledge and technology among mankind empowered them to make their beers and wines into liquor. Among early agrarians, and even in remote rural areas today, moonshine is trafficked like any other good. In part, this is the product of rural areas' limited connections with cities. Slow and often undependable transportation routes, the lack of refrigeration and other factors meant that rural dwellers tended to buy from one another. The person who wanted liquor would acquire it from a neighbour or another member of the community who had distilled it. Distilling fostered business-to-business relationships among the rural inhabitants. The distiller paid a metalsmith to make a still, and a cooper to fabricate barrels. A farmer sold grain to a moonshiner who then sold back (at a much lower price) to the farmer the spent grain as feed for his pigs. Liquor was, and in some places still is, a form of currency used to purchase other goods or pay for services rendered.\n\nA much smaller portion of the world's population live on farms today. Still, the old attitude towards moonshining endures. Mina (not her real name), one of the individuals I interviewed for this book, put it succinctly: 'My grandparents lived on a farm [in the Dakotas], and they made moonshine. They didn't care it was against the law. It was their business. That's how they got by.' Mina lives in a suburb and is employed in an office. She does not make moonshine or even drink spirits. But she shares her grandparents' viewpoint. 'Who really cares if someone makes liquor? If they aren't hurting anyone, what difference does it make? Why should anyone have to go ask the government if they can be allowed to do this?'\n\nComic of a U.S. farmer with a jug of moonshine, 1903. |\n\n---|---\n\nRemarkably, illicit spirits are also a feature of migratory communities. The Mongolians have been producing _arkhi_ for centuries. Like much of their dairy-heavy diet, _arkhi'_ s main fermentable material comes from their horses, and sometimes their yaks or cows. It is fermented into milk beer ( _airag_ ) that then is distilled on a simple hob, although practices vary. _Arkhi_ has been prized by Mongolians for its healthful effects and is used in their shamanistic ceremonies.\n\nBeyond its intrinsic appeal \u2013 its high alcoholic content that enables one to get drunk fast \u2013 moonshine has had an additional attraction for much of human history. It has long been thought to have curative properties. One of the earliest European terms for booze was _aqua vitae_ , or water of life. Moonshine, often mixed with herbs and other substances, has been used to treat an astonishing range of maladies. George Smith's _The Compleat Distiller_ (1725) compiled recipes used in England to produce illicit alcohol, many of which the guide touted as having medicinal effects. _Aqua mirabilis_ , he writes, is a 'wonderful' drink that prevents apoplexies, convulsions of the nerves and palsies. It is made from distilled barley that is combined with ingredients such as sage, betony, cowslip flowers, ginger, nuts, cloves, cardamom and more. The charmingly named 'plague water', another barley-based concoction, is touted by Smith as 'a sovereign antidote against cholick, gripes, faintings, ill-digestion, etc.' In many societies, women were dosed with home-made alcoholic beverages during childbirth. The Irish entertainer Edward Harrigan's popular tune 'The Rare Old Mountain Dew' (1882) expressed this faith in alcohol as a cure-all:\n\n_Men at Moonshine Still in the Backwoods_ , USA, 1940s.\n\nA glass of pure moonshine burning; the flame is invisible because it burns cleanly (thus giving the lie to the old claim that pure moonshine burns blue). |\n\n---|---\n\nThat sweet poteen from Ireland green;\n\nIs stilled from wheat and rye.\n\nPut away your pills, it'll cure all ills;\n\nBe ye Christian, pagan or Jew.\n\nTake off your coat and grease your throat;\n\nWith a bucket of the Mountain Dew.\n\nIndeed, well into the twentieth century booze merchants touted the healing properties of alcohol. Even the U.S. government endorsed the use of alcohol as medicine. During the years of Prohibition from 1920 to 1933, doctors were authorized to prescribe spirits as medication for patients, and pharmacies dispensed it to the sick (and thirsty).\n\nRemnants of the belief that spirits can cure sickness live on. In China and other parts of Southeast Asia, black-market cures made from moonshine, herbs and animal parts are peddled. Shamans in Ecuador _camay_ (spit spray) a cane stalk moonshine called _trago_ on the bodies of the sick or injured. Meanwhile, in the UK and North America, where a galaxy of over-the-counter pharmaceuticals are available, it remains common for head-colds to be treated with hot toddies (usually a mixture of whisky, hot water, honey and lemon juice) and fractious toddlers to have their gums rubbed with whisky, though today this is not medically advised.\n\n### Moonshine Economics and the Will to Distil\n\nThe American gangster Al Capone, who trafficked in moonshine and gambling, famously declared: 'I am just a businessman, giving the people what they want.' Although he was a brutal crook, Capone was not lying. People are willing to pay a premium for substances that intoxicate them. And if the substance tastes good, or is especially potent, they will pay even more. Moonshine is a good that is bought and sold, and so it is inescapably intertwined with economics.\n\nFor farmers small and large, the incentive to moonshine is age-old. The prices of agricultural commodities could (and still can) vary sharply from season to season depending on supply. A ruinous drought can drive the price of wheat or pears sky high. A bumper crop can see prices plummet. In the latter instance, the farmer has a simple choice: sell his crops for a pittance, or distil them. Distilled drinks fetch a higher price than raw fruits, vegetables or grain. Crops used in this way also retain value; crops themselves will rot, but distilled spirits will last for decades. Additionally, it is less onerous for a farmer to transport many litres of liquor on horse or foot than the apples or wheat used to make it. In the twenty-first century, the incentive endures for many produce growers. If one has unsellable corn or pears, one can let them rot or try to monetize the commodity through fermenting and distillation.\n\nErskine Nicol, _A Nip Against the Cold_ , 1869.\n\nFarmers, obviously, are not the only people who moonshine. Anyone who wants to make a quick profit will find illicit distilling attractive. Economically, the barriers to entry are nearly non-existent. The start-up costs of simple moonshining are modest \u2013 a small, technologically crude still can be built at very little cost or at none at all, assuming one can scavenge cast-off materials. Fermentables, such as sugar, can be bought for a pittance.\n\nAl Capone, notorious Chicago gangster and moonshine trafficker, 1930.\n\nWhat is more, moonshine sells. A typical moonshine still does not produce moonshine as efficiently as a large, industrial distillery, and the quality of illicit liquor is usually lower. In the end, this makes little economic difference, because moonshiners are nevertheless able to sell their product incredibly cheaply, particularly as they can dodge most of the expenses that drive up costs for legal distillers. Not the least of these is the excise tax heavily imposed by government regulators, which greatly inflates the price of legally produced alcoholic beverages. The Distilled Spirits Council of the United States, a trade organization, reports that taxes add 54 per cent to the retail cost of a bottle of spirits. So, were it not for taxes, a $20 bottle of hooch would actually cost less than $10. The tax burden is even higher elsewhere. The Scotch Whisky Association notes that 78 per cent of the retail cost of a bottle of whisky goes to cover the United Kingdom's excise tax and the European Union's value-added tax. So a \u00a310 bottle of spirits could sell for a mere \u00a32.20 without taxation. This does not even account for other overhead costs the moonshiners are able to dodge, such as the costs of compliance with environmental and other regulations. All of this means that poverty is grist for moonshining. Some of society's poor thus face strong incentives to make and consume home-made, illegal spirits.\n\nAn American woman told a reporter for a Florida newspaper in 2012 that 'My daddy didn't make [illicit] whiskey because he wanted to. There were seven of us [kids], and he made it to earn a living.' Her illiterate father made moonshine that was drunk throughout Florida in the mid-twentieth century. Whole families could participate in the business in one way or another. Fathers and sons might manufacture it, and uncles might transport (or bootleg) it. Women also could assist with smuggling. The Florida woman noted that once, when she smuggled the moonshine with her father, she wrapped a bottle of it in a small blanket. This ruse aimed to fool police at stakeout points into thinking her father was driving a new mother holding a baby, rather than hauling a trunk-load of illegal hooch.\n\nSome 7,600 miles to the east, the economics are the same. A woman in Uganda who distils _waregi_ (war gin) explained to a _Vice_ reporter that she made moonshine for the same reason: money. She dreamed of a bright future for her many children, far from the crushing poverty she had endured. She enrolled them in a fine school, the tuition for which was paid for by the sales of the banana moonshine she produces. It fetches a good price and is inexpensive to make. Bananas are mixed with water and yeast and fermented, and the resultant beer is distilled in steel drums fired with wood from the forest. The condensed spirit drains into plastic jugs and is poured into repurposed plastic soda bottles or cups brought by drinkers.\n\nUnsurprisingly, moonshine sells best among the poor, for whom it provides a very cheap high. In Kenya's most blighted areas, a shot or two of high-proof _chang'aa_ (translation: 'kill me quickly') sells for a penny or two. In the U.S., visitors to the seedy 'nip joints' of Philadelphia \u2013 dingy, illegal bars often found in the basements of homes or abandoned industrial buildings \u2013 buy shots of moonshine made from sugar and who knows what else for $1. Passed-out moonshine addicts can be found on the streets of slums around the globe.\n\n### How Not to Make Moonshine Policy\n\nFor five hundred years, governments have tried to separate legal from illegal spirits. Generally speaking, history has shown that the more severely a government tries to crack down on a society where liquor-making and consumption is an accepted norm, the more spectacularly the government will fail. Additionally, the more a government's policies reduce access to affordable, safe, licit alcoholic drinks, the more it encourages the production of cheap, dangerous, illicit booze. And in doing so, the government foments a moonshining culture of mocking and even violent resistance.\n\nPerhaps the earliest evidence for these truisms comes from Ireland. Distilling may have begun there as early as AD 1100. Often called _aqua vitae_ or _uisce beatha_ , these medieval grain- and potato-based spirits were the early ancestors of modern whiskey (and whisky). British rule over Ireland intensified during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, and with it came efforts to control and impede the production of Irish moonshine, then called _poit\u00edn_ or _potcheen_. Anyone who wanted to make distilled alcohol, even if it was only for personal consumption, was required to buy a licence and pay taxes to the Crown. This coercive, impossible-to-enforce policy made moonshining into a form of nationalist opposition. Licensed whiskey was disparaged as 'Parliament whiskey'. Authorities tried quashing moonshine by offering financial rewards: anyone who brought in still parts, for example, would be given cash. This policy backfired, as moonshiners turned in worn-out tubing and kettles and used the reward money to buy new replacements. The moonshiner, much to the government's annoyance, became a celebrated figure. As late as the 1970s, long after alcohol policy had been modernized and made more sensible, Bobby Sands's song 'McIlhatton' (as sung by Christy Moore) celebrated a Glenravel Glen _poit\u00edn_ -maker and his curative drink.\n\nStill used to produce a sorghum liquor in a village near Jinka, Ethiopia, 2013.\n\nThe young American government also learned a hard lesson about moonshine. To pay down the debt incurred during its war of independence with Britain, the U.S. government enacted a tax on liquor in 1791. Alexander Hamilton, the Treasury Secretary, considered such beverages a luxury that ought to be taxed \u2013 it was deemed better to have excise on distilled spirits than food or stamps. Those who lived in the young nation's hinterlands felt otherwise. Distilling and drinking were part of frontier life. European colonizers had begun making spirits not long after they landed on North America's shores. Their whiskey, made from surfeit corn and other grains, was an exceedingly popular drink and a curative, and served as a form of currency. The makers, averse to the attempts at government control of their product, tarred and feathered the tax collectors who ventured into Pennsylvania. By 1794 resistance had swelled into insurrection, and President George Washington was forced to muster 13,000 troops to put down the riotous whiskey rebellion. While peace was re-established, resistance to the tax continued to be the norm in much of the country. In 1801, less than a decade later, after campaigning against the oppressiveness of the government, Thomas Jefferson and his Republican Party claimed the presidency and amended the legislature. Under Jefferson's command, the tax was promptly abolished, and the federal government did not dare enact a permanent alcohol tax for another sixty years.\n\nDrawing of American whiskey rebels carrying a tarred excise collector on a rail in 1791, 1886.\n\nAttrib. Frederick Kemmelmeyer, _The Whiskey Rebellion, c_. 1794: U.S. government forces hunt the rebels.\n\n### Prohibition\n\nProhibition, the most severe form of government control, is the worst of all alcohol policies. It replaces common sense with moralistic fantasy, wholly ignoring the average person's desire to be free to enjoy intoxicating beverages. Prohibitionist policies drive a wedge between the public and their government by needlessly politicizing drink. At the heart of such policies lies an off-putting, finger-wagging message: drinking is bad, don't do it.\n\nProhibitionist policies have been tried by many nations: Canada, the UK, Russia and the United States are a few prominent examples. Inevitably, prohibitionist policies fail to stop the consumption of alcoholic beverages, and such government regulation always inflicts costs. A seminal study of Prohibition in the United States by the economists Jeffrey Miron and Jeffrey Zweibel, 'Alcohol Consumption during Prohibition' (1991), found that:\n\nalcohol consumption fell sharply at the beginning of Prohibition, to approximately 30 percent of its pre-Prohibition level. During the next several years, however, alcohol consumption increased sharply, to about 60\u201370 percent of its pre-Prohibition level. The level of consumption was virtually the same immediately after Prohibition as during the latter part of Prohibition, although consumption increased to approximately its pre-Prohibition level during the subsequent decade.\n\nThe dropping numbers followed swiftly by a rebound of drinking is no surprise \u2013 with each passing year, more and more Americans figured out how to surmount Prohibition's hurdles.\n\nBanning booze \u2013 or taxing it so highly that few can afford it \u2013 comes with terrible costs. Individuals will seek what economists call 'substitute goods'. When Tsar Nicholas II's government severely restricted alcohol production during the First World War, some Russians sought out alternatives and took to drinking poisonous alcoholic substances, such as cologne, industrial alcohol and furniture polish. Economic problems also arise. Prohibitionist policies kill off the legal firms that produce safe spirits, putting their employees out of work. Perversely, this therefore encourages criminal syndicates to enter the alcohol trade. Since moonshiners (unlike licensed beverage-makers) do not pay taxes and some are known to employ violence as a daily business practice, the collective cost to society is substantial.\n\nLt O. T. Davis, Sgt J. D. McQuade, George Fowler of the U.S. Internal Revenue Service and H. G. Bauer with the largest still ever taken in the national capital and bottles of liquor, 1922.\n\nProhibitionist policies also have inequitable effects on society. Deborah Blum's _The Poisoner's Handbook_ (2010) writes of New York City in the 1920s:\n\nThe well-heeled clubbers, the wealthy lovers of jazz-flavored cocktails, could afford the pricey higher-quality alcohol on the market. Many of them routinely invited their bootleggers to parties, gaining some personal insurance against poisoning. But the poor could buy only the alcoholic dregs: nickel whiskey from the tenement stills, the Smoke cocktails of the Bowery, and straight wood alcohol. More than anyone, the city's impoverished residents were paying the real costs of Prohibition.\n\nWhile the rich drank spirits smuggled from abroad and took 'booze cruises' on the ocean where good liquor could be legally served, the poor drank whatever they could find. Blum reports that New York City's medical examiners found lowend drinks carrying 'gasoline, benzene, cadmium, iodine, zinc, mercury salts, nicotine, ether, formaldehyde, chloroform, camphor, carbolic acid, quinine, and acetone.'\n\nIn spite of what history has demonstrated, nations continue to enact and adhere to counter-productive prohibitionist-type laws. By law, Gujarat in India has been a dry state since 1958, and authorities insist it should remain that way, never mind that the prohibition policies are an utter failure. 'It's easier to get booze than food,' one resident told _The Hindu_ newspaper. Small shops ( _thekas_ ) do good business selling illicit drinks, and some sellers take orders by cellular phone and make home deliveries. Bootleggers on motorbikes zip into Gujarat from the neighbouring regions of Rajasthan and Pradesh where liquor is legal. Moonshine also comes in on trucks that ostensibly carry milk and other legally allowed products. Astoundingly, Kerala province, in southern India, took no account of Gujarat's failed policies, and began phasing in prohibition in 2014.\n\nU.S. Coast Guard agents amid illicit Scotch whisky in the hold of a rum-runner ship, _c_. 1925.\n\nToddy shop in Kerala, 2012.\n\nA similar alcohol policy exists in Saudi Arabia. The nation's official creed is Wahhabism, a literalist interpretation of the Koran, which is exceedingly hostile to alcohol consumption, and treats it as an unholy outrage. The government punishes citizens with prison sentences and whipping for the mere possession of alcohol. However, religious leaders and government officials have had a difficult time gaining widespread public acceptance of alcohol abstention. Wine has long been consumed on the Arabian peninsula, and widely circulated stories of boozing by some members of the nation's royal family are fodder for popular resentment. In an interview I conducted with Jarvis (not his real name), an American who spent much of the 1990s working in Saudi Arabia, he claimed that he was shocked by the disconnection between the government's absolutist pronouncements and the reality of the lives of the common people. Denied access to legally available spirits, people make crude wine from fruit juice and sugar purchased at the local shop. Baker's yeast is added to the bottle, and a balloon is stretched over the top. The swell of the balloon helps track the progress of fermentation. This sweet wine is then distilled on the hob with a kettle and tubing. The resultant alcoholic drink, Jarvis notes, is frequently called _sadiqi_ (friend). 'People did get poisoned from it,' he explained. 'It often tasted like gasoline or paint thinner, so it was mixed with 7-UP or ginger ale at parties.' Men and women, whom the government expect to stay sober and separate, get severely intoxicated together at these parties. Jarvis is not the only one to report moonshine mischief in Saudi Arabia. Gordon Malloch, a Scotsman, made a fortune selling alcohol in Riyadh. He had it smuggled in and also operated a still stowed away behind a fake wall in his home. His illegal adventures lasted six years and were sufficiently entertaining to be made into a National Geographic television programme, _Banged Up Abroad_ : _The Saudi Bootlegger_ (2011).\n\n### De-politicizing Moonshine by Accepting It\n\nToday, most nations \u2013 except those with extremist religious leadership \u2013 have realized that they can best deal with moonshine by not treating those who make and consume it as enemies of the state. Sensible policy aims to de-politicize moonshine, to steer clear of a 'Thou shalt not' tone.\n\nSuccessful moonshine policy is technocratically structured to appeal to the interests of the public and the government. This requires the government to recognize two truths: that a significant portion of the public enjoys alcoholic beverages, and that the distillation genie is out of the bottle \u2013 the knowledge and technology to distil is universally available. Anyone with ready access can search the Internet and very quickly learn how the distillation process works.\n\nWith these points in mind, governments should treat alcohol consumption as a win\u2013win phenomenon that should be managed \u2013 not abolished. Consumers benefit from government licensing and regulatory oversight, because these ensure access to safe, affordable and accurately labelled beverages. Governments benefit by encouraging distillers to acquire a low-cost distillation licence, permit inspections of their plants and products, and pay taxes. By imposing modest taxes to raise the product's price a little, the government can both moderate public consumption and raise funds to cover any administrative costs involved. The tax can also support funding for alcoholism treatment programmes for those who suffer from addiction, so as to help ease the burden upon society \u2013 notably the great costs inflicted on local and national economies, from healthcare expenses to increased use of emergency services and social welfare. All such management tactics can, over time, progressively shift alcohol consumption away from moonshine, shrink the black market and put its unscrupulous, profiteering participants out of business. The social cachet that comes with purchasing the legal brands that are marketed as high-class can further encourage consumers with upwards social aspirations to shift their consumption from the d\u00e9class\u00e9 moonshine peddled by seedier sorts.\n\nKenya, to its credit, is an example of a state attempting to lesson the ravages of moonshine by modernizing its policies. In 2010 the government significantly amended the _Chang'aa_ Prohibition Act of 1980, which had banned home-made spirits and threatened violators with fines. The old policy was a clear failure. Around 85 per cent of the alcohol drunk in Kenya was illicit, and often lethal. The law took no account of the microeconomic reality: most Kenyans are extremely poor and cannot afford legally produced distilled spirits. It was also impossible to station excise inspectors in every town and village in the country. The government's new approach, as of 2010, is a clever one. _Chang'aa_ would no longer be treated as a shameful scourge. Instead, it has now been embraced as a true Kenyan drink. The Alcoholic Drinks Control Act of 2010 legalized _chang'aa_ as a type of spirit, and set some basic standards for its production. Private firms, eager to grab some of the moonshine market, now register to produce safe _chang'aa_ and must submit to inspections. Kenya's new alcohol law also provides funds to produce media to encourage Kenyans to stay away from moonshine.\n\n | Six-gallon copper top still for sale on eBay, 2016.\n\n---|---\n\nWhether the government will continue to have the commitment and competence to execute these policies remains to be seen. Already, there are signs that the nation may be fouling reforms. It has ratcheted up alcoholic beverage taxes in recent years, which pushes up prices and puts safe spirits beyond the means of the poor. On this count, Kenya would be wise to follow the example set by the U.S. Its federal government has raised taxes on distilled spirits just twice in the past fifty years, and by modest amounts. A century ago, the United States was awash in dangerous moonshine. Today, its liquor market offers safe drinks at all prices. Moonshine still exists, but it is rare, and not many people are poisoned by it.\n\nWith regard to individuals who distil as a hobby or on a small scale, governments should permit them to do so \u2013 within limits. New Zealand removed its prohibition against individuals owning stills in 1962, and authorized home distillation in 1996. The basic policy principle is that one may moonshine for one's own consumption, but not for the purposes of trafficking. Those who sell moonshine face steep penalties. It seems as if the system has worked as New Zealand's problems with illicit alcohol are few.\n\nDistillation is a dangerous process, so minimizing the perils of explosions, fires and inadvertent poisoning should be a priority. Governments already provide instruction guides on how to safely follow home canning and food preservation procedures, and they should do the same for distillation. The will to drink and distil will never go away, so managing it sensibly is the only real choice.\n\n## 4\n\n## Moonshine Goes Pop (Twice)\n\nIn 1985, the day after Christmas, U.S. President Ronald Reagan pardoned a convicted felon. The facts of the malefactor's conviction had never been in dispute: he had been caught red-handed producing an illicit, mind-altering substance for distribution. He was a willing and eager accomplice to his father, who himself had been imprisoned for the same crime a few times.\n\nThe pardon was surprising. Reagan had a long record as a law and order conservative. He had assumed the presidency in 1981 following his two terms as the governor of California, which he won in 1966 by running against the mayhem afflicting the state's public universities. As president, Reagan got tough on crime, and his wife encouraged children to 'Just say No' to drugs; tens of thousands of marijuana smokers and cocaine users were incarcerated during his first stint in office. The nation rewarded Reagan by re-electing him with an overwhelming majority.\n\nSo why, midway through his decade-long war on crime and drugs, had Reagan pardoned this man? The answer is that Reagan's action was good politics. The felon's name was Junior Johnson and he was imprisoned in 1956 and 1957 for moonshining. Afterwards he became an automobile racing champion, drawing upon the driving skills he honed as a bootlegger. He was a pioneer in NASCAR racing, a sport that counts many moonshiners among its founders. The author Tom Wolfe deemed Junior 'the last American hero' in 1965, in an _Esquire_ magazine article in which he colourfully depicted Johnson's burgeoning popularity. In 1973 a film of the same name, starring a young Jeff Bridges, spread Johnson's fame far beyond North Carolina and the American South, where NASCAR racing is especially popular. President Reagan, then, had pardoned a pop star with legions of fans who saw Junior Johnson's moonshining as less a crime than an honourable line of business. It was liquor, after all, not drugs.\n\n### Moonshine Goes from Local Practice to Pop Phenomenon\n\nMoonshine began as a local practice, one that was mostly accepted and largely apolitical. Some cultures treated it as just another agricultural product; others treated it with scientific and religious reverence. Medieval monks in the British Isles, Spain and Germany distilled spirits in the course of their alchemical studies. This was both a scientific and a religious pursuit. Distillation was one of the techniques they employed in their efforts to isolate the pure substances within everyday matter. To distil purple, viscous wine into pure, water-clear brandy was to release the spirit of the grape or wine. Pure substances like these were often imagined to have magical or medicinal properties.\n\nHow, therefore, did moonshine go from a local matter to a pop phenomenon? Two obvious factors played a major role: government policy and mass media. Governments and religious authorities have set rules regarding drinking for at least a couple of millennia. However, matters changed when national governments began establishing rules about who may and may not produce alcohol. To raise revenue, central governments in Europe in the 1400s began granting monopolies, selling licences and taxing alcohol. Such policies initiated a cultural transformation in moonshine. It went from being a purely local matter to a national issue. What one made in one's kitchen and poured down one's throat suddenly was subject to the approval of distantly located government authorities.\n\nUnsurprisingly, popular resentment and resistance ensued. Governments, seeing their legitimacy threatened by non-compliance, made their efforts more resolute. They toughened penalties for disobedience to moonshining rules and increased enforcement, which further hardened public resistance. Illicit spirits became a cause c\u00e9l\u00e8bre and point of pride for locals, who venerated the drink in poetry and song. The entrance of religious participants into the dispute over spirit-making adds an additional moral dimension \u2013 of good versus evil \u2013 to the power struggle. Opponents of moonshine fancy themselves as upholders of moral and social standards; their adversaries see them as grim killjoys who should mind their own business.\n\nThe media, inevitably, love a feud. Very early on, they saw a good story in moonshine and its inimical politics. Moonshine's diverse characters \u2013 both good and bad \u2013 and the often hapless governmental response to moonshiners' dishonest activities make for great copy, as do the wily and ruthless machinations of moonshiners themselves. The bigger the fight, the better for news journalists, fiction writers and other media figures.\n\nThis, then, is the process by which moonshine transmutes from a local matter to a subject of popular culture. Government makes moonshine a national concern by enacting moonshine policy. The media then transmit this concern to the public, interjecting images and narratives into the popular memory. Suddenly, everyone develops an opinion about something they might previously have thought little about, and national political battle lines form. As more conflict ensues, there is more material for the media to mill into content for the public.\n\nComic of parliamentary debate, 1816, where it is said that English soldiers sent to stop poteen production end up as poteen drinkers.\n\nHow this basic government-media-political dynamic plays out varies from nation to nation, and certainly is beyond the scope of this trim volume. How moonshine became a popular culture phenomenon in the U.S., however, is an especially interesting case. It was a big battle that split the country. Blood was shed. It erupted at the dawn of the age of radio and film. Strangely enough, moonshine went pop twice in America, both at the beginning and the end of the century.\n\n### Prohibition: Creating the Moonshine Allure\n\nAlcohol began to get a bad reputation in late nineteenth-century America. People drank too much, big distillers were caught bribing members of the nation's legislature, and liquor was brazenly peddled as a cure-all. As a consequence, a peculiar coalition of medical doctors, nativists, Christian fundamentalists, aggrieved women and profit-obsessed corporate barons coalesced, and all went to war on alcohol. They lobbied local officials to curb the production and sale of alcohol, established anti-alcohol curricula in schools and flooded the nation with pamphlets and literature depicting the evils of drink. In the United States, liquor and spirits, by virtue of their high-alcohol content, were the b\u00eate noire of this crowd, and illicitly made moonshine especially raised their hackles.\n\nThis anti-alcohol political push coincided with the emergence of two new mass-communications technologies: radio and cinema. The new media quickly found moonshine an irresistible topic for captivating audiences.\n\nEarly cinema cast moonshine as an agrarian practice, and not an especially honourable one. One example, _Moonshine and Love_ (1910), was a rescue story. A teacher new to a rural area is held captive by moonshiners after he happens upon their still, but he escapes the scary mountain men with the help of one of their daughters. In _A Tennessee Love Story_ (1911), Shakespeare's _Romeo and Juliet_ is restaged in modern-day Tennessee, and trigger-happy, gun-toting, moonshining farmers are cast as the Montagues and Capulets. _Red Margaret Moonshiner_ , a film now lost to the ages, appeared in 1913. Two soon-to-be stars of the age, Pauline Bush and Lon Chaney, appeared in the silent movie. Together they made another agrarian moonshine movie, _The Unlawful Trade_ , the very next year.\n\nFilm-makers were happy to produce morality tales for the paying anti-alcohol crowd. _The Moonshine Trail_ (1919) is an illegal-alcohol horror story showing one egregious dipsomaniacal episode after another. Cynthia is a young country woman whose moonshining father and two brothers are slain by federal agents after they are caught running a still. She heads to New York with her mother, where she falls in love with a stockbroker who develops a drinking problem. Moreover, a spirits-crazed caregiver inadvertently poisons a child, and people die after driving while intoxicated. Cynthia survives all of this and marries her man \u2013 but only after he quits drinking. The plot of _The Bootlegger's Daughter_ (1922) includes a redemptive arc. Nell Bradley, the daughter of a bootlegger, is saved from corruption by a reverend, whom she eventually marries. _Moonshine Valley_ (1922), another country tale, features Ned, who loses his wife to another man and becomes a drunk. Finding an orphan child named Nancy in the woods one day, Ned turns his life around, but not before killing the bad man his wife ran off with.\n\nDuffy's whisky was advertised as a miracle cure in U.S. newspapers. This 1884 pitch urged mothers to dose their children. |\n\n---|---\n\n | Newspaper advertisement for the silent film _Red Margaret Moonshiner_ , 1914.\n\n---|---\n\nAfter Prohibition began in 1920, depictions of moonshine in popular culture began to shift to urban settings, where immense quantities of the substance were being consumed. The government's shutdown of previously legal alcohol-selling establishments transformed America's drinking culture. The days of men openly gulping beer in loud, legal saloons and women tippling at home were replaced by furtive clubs where men and women drank alcohol together. The Englishman Stephen Graham's _New York Nights_ (1927) captured the naughtiness, secrecy and wild allure of the city's Prohibition-era culture.\n\nEvery time you go for a drink there is adventure. I suppose it adds to one's pleasure to change into a pirate or a dark character entering a smuggler's cave. You go to a locked and chained door. Eyes are considering you through peep-holes in the wooden walls. There is such a to-do about letting you in. Some one for the first time must be [your] sponsor. You sign your name in a book and receive a mysterious looking card with only a number on it.\n\nOnce through the gauntlet, however, quite the scene awaited:\n\nDreamy American couples petted in the corners; garrulous Russians gossiped over drinks, and the young fellow in a peasant blouse mixed jazz with folk music as he fingered the concertina. On the shadowy floor the burlesque gentleman hopped to and fro with the glass of whisky on his head.\n\nOne night, Graham's date grew ill from drinking bad alcohol:\n\nHer face was white; she trembled. We ordered black coffee but it remained untasted . . . My little friend remained as if poisoned for the greater part of the day and did not eat breakfast, did not go to her office. It was an example of the risks of speakeasy life \u2013 speak easy and die badly!\n\n | This bowdlerized version of Edward Lear's _The Owl and the Pussycat_ has Mrs Pussycat suffering ill effects after drinking alcohol.\n\n---|---\n\nTo the elation of some and the outrage of others, Prohibition liberated \u2013 in a small way \u2013 American women. Not only did women partake of illegal spirits in underground clubs, but newspapers of the day carried shocking reports that women made moonshine and trafficked. Belle Livingstone ran the 58th Street Country Club, an underground Manhattan joint that served champagne and had a miniature golf course. Marie Waite (also known as 'Spanish Marie') was a pistol-toting rum-runner who moved spirits across national borders, all the way from Havana to thirsty customers in Florida.\n\nA spate of motion pictures used the speakeasies spawned by Prohibition to tell glitzy upper-class tales: _The Idle Class_ (1921) with Charlie Chaplin, _Flaming Youth_ (1923), _Chicago_ (1927), _Our Dancing Daughters_ (1928) and _Bare Knees_ (1928). These films were filled with vamps and flappers who sported bobbed hair, spat novel slang and danced to jazz. These women smoked and drank with their well-coiffed men in joyous defiance of the law and the moralizing finger-waggers.\n\nOne of the positive effects of moonshine was to propel forward the development of cocktails. Prohibition in many nations, and in the United States in particular, drove drinkers away from beer and wine towards spirits. The drinks being sold in speakeasies and other illicit clubs were frequently of inferior quality. To keep the customers happy, bartenders conjured up new recipes that infused the often unpleasant spirits with additional flavours by adding fruit juices and spices. The 1920s, Paul Dickson notes in _Contraband Cocktails: How America Drank When It Wasn't Supposed To_ (2015), birthed bathtub gin cocktails such as the Bennett Cocktail, Bee's Knees, Gin Fizz and Southside. The French 75, another gin drink bubbling with champagne and lemon juice, arrived on the scene, as did the cognac-based Corpse Reviver and the rum-loaded Mary Pickford, named for the silent film star.\n\n### Moonshine Loses Its Cool\n\nQuaffing cocktails and dancing until dawn in New York's Cotton Club \u2013 the urban moonshine scene was chic and glamorous. Beneath every carefree speakeasy, however, was an ugly criminal apparatus that made, delivered and served the alcohol. In 1927 James G. Young's _New York Times_ expos\u00e9 of moonshine smugglers made clear to the public the nastiness of the business. These individuals were not genial country boys selling their pure home-made liquor. They were menacing guys with 'sharp faces' and 'swagger', and they wore 'the look of men at war with the law'. Red Banion, a leader among the booze buccaneers, had 'a reputation for quick shooting'. It was a 'sinister' criminal enterprise trafficking $40 million per year in illegal drink.\n\nOver time, the criminal gangs' limited interest in the well-being of their customers guaranteed that very bad things would happen. No more could they be viewed as firms simply giving the people what they wanted. Their true stripes were clear \u2013 they sought profit and would do anything to reap it. The moonshine and speakeasy market was intertwined with unsavoury drug, prostitution and protection rackets. The captains of the moonshine industry \u2013 Al 'Scarface' Capone, Frank Costello, Max 'Boo Boo' Hoff, Meyer Lansky, Bugs Moran, Bugsy Siegel and more \u2013 were notoriously vicious. Their competition was cut-throat, often literally. The media of the time reported the drive-by shootings, torture and beatings that were common tools of the trade.\n\nThe most famously reported incident of the time, the St Valentine's Day Massacre of 1929, shocked and appalled the nation. In this carnage-ridden plot, Capone exacted revenge on a rival gang that had stolen his bootleg alcohol. He sent two of his men dressed as police officers into a Chicago garage where six of Bugs Moran's hoodlums were making moonshine. Thinking they had been raided by law enforcement, the moonshiners surrendered. Capone's men responded by spraying them with 150 bullets. Art imitated life soon thereafter: _The Public Enemy_ (1931) and _Scarface_ (1932) showed the brutality of gangsters to thousands of movie-goers.\n\nU.S. Treasury Department chemist G. F. Beyer poses with tainted liquor, 1920. |\n\n---|---\n\nIf all that was not enough, Sinclair Lewis, in his Nobel-Prize-winning satire _Babbitt_ (1922), illustrated the unsavoury class and racial aspects of the illicitly produced beverage industry. White suburbanites, like George Babbitt, got a thrill from slumming it in the poorer parts of town to obtain alcohol. Outlawing spirits, Babbitt declares, is a good thing \u2013 it keeps the lower orders from drinking and becoming unruly and debased. That Babbitt himself gets buffoonishly out of hand from drinking only further underscored his haughty hypocrisy.\n\nProhibition was much hated by the public, but their sympathies fell away from illicit liquor and its bad men. Upright lawmen became public heroes, none more so than Eliot Ness, a Bureau of Prohibition agent who became famous for his illegal-alcohol-fighting efforts in Chicago in the 1930s. Ness's team of investigators was called 'the Untouchables' because they would not, like so many other public officials, take bribes to ignore the Windy City's moonshine traffic. A relentless press hound, Ness invited the media to his various busts to photograph him and the contraband spirits he and his team had seized. It was brilliant public relations and the public ate it up. Ness himself became a folk hero whose derring-do long outlasted his own life. Ness died in 1957, the same year his self-glorifying autobiography, _The Untouchables_ (1957), was published. Posthumous media adaptations of his crime-fighting include the television series _The Untouchables_ (1959\u201363), a series of _Untouchables_ comic books, a film of the same name (1987, with Kevin Costner starring as Ness), an _Untouchables_ video game (1989) and the made-for-television film _The Return of Eliot Ness_ (1991). In recent years, members of the U.S. Congress have proposed naming the headquarters of the nation's federal Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives (ATF) headquarters after Eliot Ness. (Never mind that Ness was a problem drinker with questionable ethics.)\n\nThe American government came to its senses after thirteen years and abolished Prohibition. Licit liquor returned in 1933. Moonshine and the allures of its wicked fun largely receded from popular memory. Gangster films, however, continued to portray illegal alcohol as anything but cool.\n\n### Moonshine Goes Pop a Second Time\n\nUnexpectedly, moonshine did return to the limelight, and the government had nothing to do with it. This time, it was the media. The resurgence may well have begun in 1958, with the release of _Thunder Road_. Its plot differentiates moonshiners, here depicted as decent country folk trying to make a living, from bad organized crime. Robert Mitchum stars as Lucas Doolin, a Korean War veteran who helps his family run its moonshine business, which is being harassed by revenue agents and Chicago gangsters. One of the 'wild and reckless men', as the narrator intones, Doolin rockets about the hills of Kentucky and Tennessee in his modified Ford. The film became a perennial attraction at drive-in (outdoor) theatres, loved by the young Americans enthralled by hot-rod cars and the freedom that they promised.\n\nDancer Mademoiselle Rhea shows her garter flask, _c_. 1926. |\n\n---|---\n\nTom Wolfe's aforementioned article on Junior Johnson in 1965 and Elmore Leonard's novel _The Moonshine War_ (1969) also showed bootleggers as sympathetic figures, if not outright honourable citizens. Major motion pictures were made of both: the adaptation of Leonard's novel arrived in 1970 and of Wolfe's in 1973. A flurry of moonshine films followed, such as _White Lightning_ (1973), _Gator_ (1976), _Moonrunners_ (1975) and _Thunder and Lightning_ (1977).\n\nCollectively, these films depicted moonshiners and bootleggers as fast-driving, freedom-loving men whose craftiness allowed them to evade the authorities. The films _White Lightning_ and _Gator_ starred Burt Reynolds as a lovable scamp besieged by corrupt officials. Leonard's _The Moonshine War_ offers a similar portrait of the moonshiner, who struggles to protect a large trove of his family's distilled alcohol from a predatory government agent. On the small screen, _The Dukes of Hazzard_ appeared on American televisions nationwide from 1979 to 1985. It was a spin-off of _Moonrunners_ , and thrilled young people with its 'good old boys' outfoxing a moronic sheriff and a rich, crooked loudmouth politician; the show's theme song managed to reach the top of the U.S. country music chart. _The Dukes of Hazzard_ was sufficiently popular that it was broadcast by foreign television stations in the UK, Colombia, Italy, New Zealand and elsewhere.\n\n | Prohibition agent Eliot Ness made himself a pop culture figure with his autobiography, _The Untouchables_. This is a 1960 edition released in the U.S.\n\n---|---\n\nU.S. government 'hooch' sniffing illicit liquor in a man's rear pocket, 1922.\n\nAs intimated by Reagan's pardon of Junior Johnson, moonshine did not fade like so many other fads. On the contrary, moonshine has been going pop a second time for more than four decades. American media stories about moonshine have climbed, and they have spiked since 2004 \u2013 owing in part to the flood of new Internet news-content providers.\n\nNew films and programmes about moonshine keep coming. _The Last One_ , a 2008 documentary, launched ancient moonshiner Marvin 'Popcorn' Sutton to fame. He cursed, he danced jigs, and with his overalls, antique truck and stills hidden in the woods, Sutton was a delight to viewers. An unrepentant rebel, Sutton committed suicide in 2009 rather than serve prison time for moonshining. His gravestone reads: 'Popcorn said fuck you!'\n\nTwo films, _Lawless_ and _The Master_ , both of which were released in 2012, offer an unflattering portrait of moonshining. Based on Matt Bondurant's _The Wettest County in the World_ (2008), _Lawless_ has Shia LeBeouf as a moonshiner in late Prohibition-era Virginia, in a town where very bad things, including murder and torture, occur. In _The Master_ , Joaquin Phoenix plays Freddie Quell, a Second World War veteran and violent drunk. Quell makes toxic moonshine from paint thinner (acetone or mineral spirits) and eventually joins a cult, whose leader (Philip Seymour Hoffman) takes a liking to the moonshine.\n\n_The Great Gatsby_ returned to cinema screens in 2013. The iconic American novel was first released in 1925, and was made into a little-seen play and silent film shortly thereafter. Robert Redford starred in a 1974 film version that limned the glorious splendour of the wealthy class in the 1920s. This time around, Leonardo DiCaprio starred as the self-made American millionaire Jay Gatsby, who earned his vast riches from bootlegging and throws lavish parties at his Long Island estate. _Boardwalk Empire_ , a HBO series (2010\u201314), also treated viewers to glitzy scenes of flappers and fun during Prohibition-era Atlantic City. At the heart of the show is the illicit alcohol syndicate run by Enoch 'Nucky' Thompson (Steve Buscemi), a corrupt New Jersey politician. Shootings are plentiful, with gang warfare for control over alcohol production and sales central to the plot. Viewers of _Prohibition_ (2011), a television documentary based on Daniel Okrent's _Last Call: The Rise and Fall of Prohibition_ (2010), was a non-fiction presentation of the Roaring Twenties and their ugly aspects.\n\nAfter so many years, one might think that the public would tire of moonshine stories. So far, they have not. Since 2011 a U.S. reality show called _Moonshiners_ has followed overall-wearing country boys who make moonshine and dodge the police. Its audience over the past four years has been between one and four million viewers per episode, not counting all those who pay to stream it online after its initial broadcast.\n\n## 5\n\n## Moonshine and Very Bad Things\n\nIt was an unexceptional day in December 2014 when they began arriving at the Slamet General Hospital in Garut, Java, violently ill or unconscious. The victims, at least those who were located, were fifteen to 22 years old. They had been at a large party. Legal alcohol was not easy for them to purchase. The drinking age is 21 in Java, and liquor often costs about 1 million rupiah (\u00a350) per litre. Meanwhile, _oplosan_ (a generic term for moonshine) can be bought for less than one-tenth of that price. As a consequence, this illegally produced beverage is what the partiers bought and drank. This youthful mistake killed sixteen of these adolescents, and another 60 young people were hospitalized with methanol poisoning.\n\nThis was not the first bad moonshine incident in the Indonesian region. A few weeks earlier, ten revellers had died from imbibing the toxic drink. Cherrybelle is a very popular form of _oplosan_. The fruit juices mixed into it give it a bright red colour and mask its toxicity. Cherrybelle often has a high methanol content, and sometimes includes industrial products such as insect repellent.\n\nThe Indonesian government appears ill-equipped to deal with the problem. President Joko Widodo is a hard-liner who has advocated for the execution of dope smugglers. He has decried the corrosive effects of alcohol on the 'morals' of citizens and, counter-intuitively, banned the sale of legal low-proof alcohol from small shops and markets. The government has enacted more than 140 new regulations to stop the sale of illicit spirits. However, these efforts have been to no avail; about 18,000 Indonesians die annually from consuming deadly, illegal alcohol.\n\nCertainly, moonshine can be perfectly safe and a marvellous thing if it is produced and consumed within a functioning market by competent, responsible individuals. When manufactured by criminal enterprises, however, it is exceedingly perilous and can cause serious damage to the vulnerable victims. The criminals and gangs who traffic moonshine almost inevitably treat customers as sheep to be fleeced. They pursue a short-term maximization of profits, no matter the human cost. The makers of moonshine hold an inevitable informational advantage over their consumers: only they know how it was made, and whether or not it is a toxic substance. These criminals, too, are happy to maim or kill anyone who threatens to disrupt their trade.\n\nMoonshine is often made in unsanitary conditions. Here _kasippu_ is being made near a filthy stream in Sri Lanka.\n\n### The Inherent Dangers: Ethyl, Methyl and Very Bad Things\n\nLong conceived of as a magic potion or healthful tonic, ethanol is a psychoactive toxin. Consumption can provoke altered cognitive states ranging from euphoria to drowsiness to rage. When ingested responsibly, however, alcoholic beverages can produce pleasurable effects and can even yield health benefits.\n\nThe quality and quantity of drink are important variables. Very bad things are highly correlated with excess alcohol consumption. The incidence of criminal behaviour and activity, including child abuse, theft and murder, rises with alcohol abuse. The reduced ability to discern risk, or perhaps a lack of care for the possible consequences, means that the intoxicated individuals tend to get hurt or killed in accidents, such as car wrecks, and by various forms of misadventure. Mark Elliott of _Christianity Today_ reported in 2013:\n\n75 percent of murders committed in Russia and 42 percent of suicides occur under the influence of alcohol. Research from one urban area shows that 83 percent of those who died in fires, 63 percent who drowned, and 62 percent who fell to their deaths were intoxicated.\n\nRussia is an infamously hard-drinking country, but the high coincidence between strong drink and bad things is universal. According to the World Health Organization (WHO), some two hundred different diseases and injuries afflicting people worldwide are associated with drunkenness and substantial alcohol use, including heightened incidences of tuberculosis and HIV-related illnesses.\n\nTaken in excess, ethanol is a killer. Chemically, ethanol is a sedative, which depresses the functioning of the brain and heart. A surfeit of the chemical will shut the body's operations down. When the body cannot process the ethanol fast enough, it rockets about the body via the circulatory system, severely disrupting the body's processes. The central nervous system crashes, and cognitive and motor functions subsequently fail. The heart slows, breathing becomes infrequent and oxygen deprivation leads the drinker to a comatose state, or worse, death.\n\nMoonshine usually is highly alcoholic \u2013 whereas shots of licit spirits are typically 40 per cent alcohol, moonshine can be twice as potent \u2013 which makes it especially easy for the incautious drinker to suffer from alcohol poisoning or to engage in irrational, senseless and, in extreme cases, immoral criminal behaviour. Todd Rundgren's song 'Party Liquor' (2013) is disturbingly illustrative. A night at a party with a date soon devolves from wine-sipping normality into madness and monstrosity after moonshine is opened and consumed. The young woman blacks out and is raped by multiple men.\n\nEthanol, unfortunately, is not the sole chemical peril of moonshine. Moonshining, as with any type of chemical manufacturing, is prone to a variety of mishaps. Excess methanol is a very common mistake, and can be produced either by a distiller's unintentional misstep in the distillation process or his greedy refusal to bleed off the methanol-heavy parts of the liquor. Methyl alcohol, or methanol, to be sure, is found in all alcoholic beverages. Professional distilleries have the equipment to keep methanol at a trace and safe level, but not all moonshiners know how to do so, and some do not even try to limit their methanol output. Methanol gets the drinker drunk, just as ethanol does, but the real evil occurs when our body processes the chemical. First, as Adam Rogers explains in _Proof: The Science of Booze_ (2014), the methanol becomes poisonous formaldehyde. The body revolts, and vomiting, severe abdominal pain and dizziness ensue. Then the formaldehyde becomes formic acid (a naturally occurring component of ant venom), which afflicts the sufferer with permanent physical damage.\n\nFormic acid . . . inhibits the action of an enzyme called cytochrome oxidase, which is vital to a cell's ability to use oxygen. Under normal conditions, the eyes, specifically the optic nerve, use a huge amount of oxygen . . . So with a big enough dose of methanol, the eyes go first . . . Eventually the reduction in cytochrome oxidase activity leads to general neurotoxicity. If you live, you end up with Parkinson's-like tremors, slurred speech, difficulty walking, and trouble thinking.\n\nBeyond these consequences, one can lapse into a coma and die. It does not take much methanol to inflict this type of damage. A 70 kg (154 lb) person can die from a mere 70 ml (2.4 oz) of methanol. Stories of the young and healthy dying from methanol poisoning are dreadfully frequent. Michael Denton, a New Zealand rugby player, died in 2011. He was 29 years old, in peak physical condition and died within a day of consuming methanol-loaded cocktails in Bali. Just two years prior, 25 people had died in Bali from methanol poisoning.\n\nBizarrely, such poisoning can be remedied by the prompt application of ethanol. Administering ethanol crowds out the body's ability to process methanol into lethal formaldehyde. The body instead excretes the methanol. Sadly, however, many victims of methanol poisoning are not treated in time and suffer permanent blindness, neurological damage or death.\n\nMoonshine also becomes inadvertently contaminated through the use of improper manufacturing equipment. In terms of sheer productivity, nothing beats the benefits of using a chemical plant. The heavy machinery installed in such a factory can produce hundreds or even thousands of gallons of spirits each day. Factories that produce paint and solvents are particularly well-suited to the task. In the early twentieth century, American factories that produced turpentine, an alcoholic solvent made from pine trees, became synonymous with moonshine production. Turpentine, or a blend of it and some other distillate, was sold to those unable to afford legally produced spirits, therefore intoxicating and sickening untold numbers.\n\nThe British Consulate has cautioned travellers to the Far East of the perils of moonshine.\n\nMoonshiners often build their own stills by repurposing fuel drums, automobile radiators and other cast-off vessels. Any trace chemicals that are left within them will inevitably taint their own production. Additionally, the vessel itself can impart toxins, depending on the material from which it is fashioned. Lead poisoning is an age-old problem. In _Rum: A Global History_ (2012), Richard Foss reports that 'an entire garrison' of British soldiers stationed on the Caribbean island of Marie-Galante in 1808 were poisoned by tainted rum. The still's pipes were connected with solder, which leached lead into the distillate. A surfeit of lead in the body has dastardly effects: stomach pain, joint aches, impaired cognition, fatigue, hearing loss and more. These days, car radiators repurposed as stills can produce dangerous, lead-heavy moonshine.\n\n### Moonshine: A Trusted Good or a Criminal Blight?\n\nTrust is a critical aspect of a successful moonshine trade \u2013 one that benefits both the producer and the consumer. Moonshine is like any other good: if the market performs properly, then both participants benefit, and externalities (or costs upon others) are minimized.\n\nTo see these truths, one need only imagine a small community where members are mostly known to one another and where the moonshiner is therefore known to his fellow denizens. The illicit distiller's product is sought out because it is well-made and the distiller has a reputation for integrity. Whatever short-term economic advantages the distiller might enjoy if he cuts corners in production are counterbalanced by the fear of losing his reputation and negatively impacting his sales. In the healthiest of all moonshine markets, there are multiple producers who compete to provide the best product to the consumer at the best price.\n\nScott Partin was an example of this good sort of moonshine maker. The Partin family were one of the many Scotch-Irish immigrant clans that landed on America's shores seeking a better life. The Partins spent time in Kentucky before finally putting down roots in the town of Frakes. Scott (1867\u20131956) was an especially enterprising man who opened a shop selling his own handmade cabinets, caskets and musical instruments, and who also wrote fiction and poetry. His granddaughter, Billie Dean Pierce, says he was known as 'Wart' because he was thought to be able to cure warts by speaking biblical verses over the hands of the afflicted. He eventually became a well-known public figure, and he and his wife donated land to help establish the area's first school. Partin also made moonshine. As he saw it, he was simply supplying another product that the community wanted. Frakes was a very rural area, and most residents were poor. Making one's own wares was common. A customer would let Partin know he wanted a jar of moonshine, and Scott would tuck one behind a rock. A buyer would leave a dollar under the edge of the rock, and one of Partin's kids would then fetch it. Partin's son Ernest took over the family business eventually, but quit after getting caught and doing time in prison. Ernest had ten children, attended church regularly and made a living building well-regarded houses. He earned extra cash fixing the stills of other moonshiners.\n\nSadly, this idyllic form of local moonshine economy tends to be the exception to the rule. In many moonshine markets, the nexus between consumer and producer is attenuated to anonymity. The producer is unknown to the buyer, who procures it through a bootlegger or dealer, or obtains it at second or third hand through a friend or associate. There is no consumer check on the quality of the spirits, so the quality tends to be very low.\n\nIn the U.S., some areas in Virginia exhibit this troubling development. Small-scale, local moonshine-makers exist, but they are rare. The Blue Ridge Institute and Museum, which houses artefacts and research on illicit alcohol production, observes that the state's\n\nmoonshining trade has changed significantly in the last century. Far fewer people are involved in it now . . . Today's bootlegger is able to distill more alcohol with less work than his counterpart of the early 1900s. Modern moonshine is made with vast quantities of sugar and relatively little grain. Contemporary bootleggers have little or no experience with the apple or peach brandy so common in the late 1800s . . . Today's moonshine buyer is far more likely to live in a major eastern city than in the small southern mill towns and coal camps of the past.\n\nThe moonshine market is worse still when the consumers lack choice. In the absence of options, licit or illicit, people often will take whatever they are offered. And this is all the more true if the consumers are addicts, for whom health risks are an afterthought in the chase for a buzz. In _Working Hard, Drinking Hard_ (2008), the anthropologist Adrienne Pine reports that Honduran street alcoholics, who are too poor to buy the heavily taxed, safe booze, instead drink 'rubbing-alcohol based concoctions'. These _pachangueros_ and _charamileros_ (street rowdies) also guzzle surgical spirits. They soften the denatured alcohol's gag-inducing taste by mixing it with water, sugar or carbonated soft drinks.\n\nAn armed Scott Partin with his still, _c_. 1940s. |\n\n---|---\n\nThe collective social effect of widespread toxic moonshine consumption can be catastrophic. William Hogarth's beastly _Gin Lane_ print of 1751 depicted a London slum in anarchy. Its occupants, as the food and drink journalist Lesley Solmonson reports in _Gin: A Global History_ (2012), were literally poisoning themselves on gin polluted with turpentine oil, sulphuric acid and god knows what else. Moonshine slums, however, are not an ancient artefact. They exist all around the world today. Seldom-employed men poison themselves in Sri Lanka's seedy _kasippu_ dens, while the streets of Korogocho \u2013 a massive slum neighbourhood in Nairobi, Kenya \u2013 are littered with addicts whose bodies and minds are damaged by _chang'aa_.\n\nWilliam Hogarth, _Gin Lane_ , 1751, depicting the mayhem wrought by illicit liquor.\n\n### Moonshine and Greed\n\nBy definition, making moonshine is illegal, and anyone who does it is a criminal. Yet not all moonshiners are truly alike. The farmer who distils his excess pears into a Calvados-like spirit that he and his friends consume, the first-world hobbyist who buys chemistry equipment online and tinkers in his basement at making pure rye whisky, and the moonshiner who operates a still in the idyllic local economy described earlier: none of these individuals are sinister. Nor do they harm society (assuming their stills do not explode and their alcoholic drinks are not toxic). They are less criminals than unlicensed producers.\n\nThen there are moonshiners like the Stanley family of Virginia, who made more than 1 million gallons of liquor per year in the late 1990s. Their eight 1,200 U.S. gallon stills made rotgut spirit that ended up in the mouths of poor people in cities on America's east coast. Drinkers got smashed on the sugar-based hooch in, for example, numerous urban nip joints. With the cost of production at $3 or $4 per gallon, and a street price of $20, the profits were immense. The Stanley clan were notoriously violent. William Stanley, who headed the operation, shot one of his sons, who later was shot again by another of Stanley's sons. Anyone who did business with them could not help but understand that crossing the Stanleys was risky business. William Stanley moonshined for thirty years, until the U.S. government shuttered the operation in 2000.\n\nAs any retailer or restaurateur will tell you, drinks, as a general proposition, are extraordinarily profitable. If those drinks are alcoholic, consumers are willing to pay even higher prices. The more alcohol per litre, the higher the price tends to be. This (and the high taxes imposed on them) explains why the price of legally produced spirits usually exceeds the price of wine, and why wine exceeds the price of beer. Criminals are criminals, but to understand moonshine one also needs to see them as entrepreneurs. When the economies for legal alcoholic beverages go awry, criminals quickly discern the open space in the market and move in. In places where the sale of spirits is prohibited or very tightly controlled, moonshiners bring additional supplies to the market. Where prices are too high (often owing to excessive taxes), criminals sell moonshine as a lower-priced competitor to the licit brands.\n\nThe moonshine trade, like the legal goods trade, has three basic activities: production, distribution to sellers and sales to the public. Moonshiners operate the first of these tiers directly. Delivering the alcohol to retailers (bootlegging) is sometimes done by the same criminals producing the moonshine, but is often outsourced to others, who are called smugglers if their task involves crossing borders. Direct sales to the consumers are typically handled by other individuals, who are sometimes the owners of legitimate shops and bars, although frequently they are not.\n\n_Lao-lao_ market in Ban Xang Hai village, Laos, 2009. Dead snakes, scorpions and spiders are frequently added to the rice moonshine, which often costs less than water.\n\nTo gain control of Chicago's moonshine trade, Al Capone's gang murdered seven members of Bugs Moran's gang on 14 February 1929.\n\nWith rare exceptions, moonshining is a volatile, high-risk business. Unlike a professionally established, legal firm, a moonshiner can seldom be confident that he will be in business for long. At any moment, the police can shut down his operation. Alongside this, the moonshiner must face competition. In legal markets, government-established rules structure the game, and the best-run firm with the lowest prices can expect to win. Black markets, by contrast, have no rules or curbs upon fair and unfair competition. Running a smart enterprise matters, but usually the most ruthless participant triumphs. Illicit firms rarely have patience for fair market competition, so moonshiner-on-moonshiner violence is the norm, just as it is in narcotics trafficking. Chicago, for example, was an infamously violent city during 1920s Prohibition, with criminal syndicates publicly machine-gunning one another in battles for market control.\n\n### Moonshine and Criminal Enterprise\n\nMoonshining is often a very nasty business whose participants will do anything to maximize their short-term profits. Moonshine-makers will make spirits as cheaply as they can, and bootleggers will water the alcohol down, as well as paste fake labels on the containers to make the supplies look legitimate. Bar owners will mix moonshine with other substances to mask the taste and expand the inventory for sale.\n\nConsumers bear the great brunt of moonshiners' cupidity. Again, the comparison with the licit market is illustrative. The consumer who pays for a pour of Plymouth Gin in a legitimate pub or bar can be confident that what he is getting is Plymouth Gin and that the product is safe to drink. He has absolute trust, due to the fact that the seller has a licence, the producer has a licence and both of them have reputations they must maintain in order to stay in business. The buyer of moonshine has no such confidence. If the purchased alcohol is bad, the drinker suffers. A police officer in Oklahoma told a newspaper in 2013 about a sample of moonshine his office held as evidence: 'It sat up on the desk while we were doing the processing and it actually ate the bottom off a mason jar. It all turned brown and we couldn't figure out why it turned brown. It's because the bottom of the mason jar had been eaten away.' It is unclear which acidic substance was within the moonshine, but undoubtedly it would have inflicted tremendous damage upon its consumer. _The Economist_ magazine reports that police who broke up a moonshine ring in Kenya found appalling conditions. The moonshine was being made from water with faeces in it, and rotting rats and women's underwear were found in the brew being distilled into _chang'aa_.\n\nThe incentive for moonshiners to make their alcohol cheaply and heedlessly are immense, and the terrible effects strike communities around the globe. Mass poisonings are perennial, and occur most frequently in poorer nations with prohibitionist policies or dysfunctional beverage markets. Libya, which bans alcohol consumption on religious grounds, has had multiple mass poisonings. More than one hundred individuals died in early 2013 from suspected methanol poisoning. Mass deaths are alarmingly common in India. In 2009, 136 people died from toxic spirits that had been smuggled by a vicious gang. Another one hundred people in Mumbai succumbed to methanol poisoning in 2015. Similar tragedies have occurred in recent years in Ecuador, Kenya and Nigeria. The scale of the criminal enterprises and their capacity for mayhem is immense. An illegal factory in Guayas, Ecuador, produced approximately half a million litres of lethal spirits. At least fifty drinkers were killed after drinking the spirits and six hundred were hospitalized. Authorities may never know exactly how many died from this moonshine operation as they recovered only about one-quarter of the moonshine pumped out by the criminals.\n\nAccording to the World Health Organization, perhaps one-quarter of all spirits consumed worldwide come from unlicensed distilleries. Methanol, which drinkers have trouble discerning from ethanol, can be made from scrap wood for a pittance. Denatured alcohol, which is used for cleaning and other purposes, is little taxed or untaxed in many countries, and so it can be purchased very cheaply and redistilled. The problem is that few moonshiners can fully reverse the denaturing process, which is intended to make the alcohol undrinkable by adding various poisons, such as acetone.\n\nWhile the criminals reap the profit and pay nothing in taxes, the rest of society foots the bill, absorbing the medical and social costs. The poor tend to suffer the effects most directly. Most moonshine is consumed by those in poverty, not thrill-seeking college students and home-based distilling enthusiasts.\n\nIt would be easy to say that a thriving moonshine trade is a problem for underdeveloped and badly governed nations: limited border controls and corrupt officials who are happy to supplement their meagre pay with bribes open the floodgates to bad booze; retrograde governments stoke consumer demand for moonshine with alcohol laws that overly tax licit spirits, treating it as forbidden fruit; and, of course, large pockets of intense poverty fuel moonshining too. However, that formulation does not account for the massive moonshine markets in highly developed nations. Russia, despite President Vladimir Putin's iron fist and alcohol crackdown, remains awash in _samogon_. The _Moscow Times_ currently pegs deaths from poisonous moonshine at 40,000 per year.\n\nThese glasses look identical, but the right-hand one contains Jameson Irish whiskey and the left-hand one wood alcohol coloured with tea.\n\nIndia, a rising economic power and culturally diverse country, has licit distillers who produce excellent spirits. The Amrut brand whiskies rival Scotland's single malts. Nonetheless, India also has a terrible moonshine problem. The Federation of Indian Chambers of Commerce and Industry reported in 2015 that the illicit market for alcoholic beverages had grown 150 per cent since 2012, and this huge increase had cost legal distillers 14,140 crores rupees (U.S.$2.3 billion). The Indian government has taken steps to discourage moonshine consumption, but mass poisonings, sadly, remain alarmingly common: in January 2015, 28 individuals died and ninety were hospitalized in the northern state of Uttar Pradesh.\n\n### Counterfeit Booze\n\nSelling cheap moonshine in glass jars, old plastic jugs and used plastic drinks bottles is a way to make money from the poor. For the enterprising criminal hunting richer game, counterfeit moonshine opens a higher-margin market. Criminals can get their wares into shops and bars either by faking known and respected brands, or by producing their own faux brands that look legitimate. Moonshine presented as legally produced spirits is a blight that knows no borders. It happens everywhere, no matter a nation's prosperity or the quality of its governance.\n\nConsider the UK, which for centuries has been a crossroads for the finest beers, spirits and wines. Legally made alcoholic beverages are widely available, and are sold in shops, pubs and bars that make them accessible to almost anyone. Yet battling the moonshine traffic continues to provide steady work for customs officials and other authorities. As part of a multinational law enforcement sweep, government agents recently raided a UK factory that was a base for making fake vodka. Interpol reports: 'Officers discovered more than 20,000 empty bottles ready for filling, hundreds of empty five-litre antifreeze containers which had been used to make the counterfeit alcohol, as well as a reverse osmosis unit used to remove the chemical's colour and smell.' This was no freak incident; government seizures of tens of thousands of litres of bootleg spirits happens yearly. A moonshine gang busted in East London ran a plant that is estimated to have put 1.3 million bottles of fake vodka into circulation.\n\nCounterfeit spirits are bad for people and for economies. They drive up individual and collective medical costs. They also erode trust, a key component of commercial trade. For example, the Czech Republic's liquor trade was temporarily suspended in 2012 after alcoholic products labelled as rum and vodka killed 38 people and seriously sickened 79 others. The tainted moonshine had been packaged to look like legitimate brands and sold to customers by licensed retailers. This raised the vexing question: what spirits are safe?\n\nIf just one nation had to be singled out as a showcase of counterfeit spirits it would be China. Its growing wealth and affection for Western goods has fuelled an immense consumer demand that will only keep growing. Any way that moonshiners can fake established spirits brands in China, they will. A market has developed for empty branded bottles, with stylish brands fetching the highest prices. Moonshiners simply refill and reseal the bottles and sell them. Legal distilleries have been caught selling cheap spirits to moonshiners, who then add colours and flavourings to make them look like the in-demand brands.\n\nMan passed out from _chang'aa_ in Nairobi, Kenya, 2015.\n\nLabels on bottles can be utterly untrustworthy. They may read 'Scotch whisky' or 'bourbon', but have something else inside. Professor Marc L. Busch, an expert in international trade at Georgetown University, notes that most Johnnie Walker whisky sold in Chinese shops is suspected to be counterfeit. The bottles might look genuine, but the substance inside probably did not come from Scotland. Some of these fake bottles, moreover, are hilariously wrong. Bottles that at first glance look exactly like Johnnie Walker Red Label and Jack Daniel's Sour Mash Whiskey contain ridiculous misspellings, such as 'Johnnie Worker Red Labial' and 'Johns Daphne Tenderness Sour Mash Whiskey'. The scope of moonshining in China is difficult to understate. One bar alone in Sanlitun, Beijing, held 37,000 bottles of counterfeit spirits, while a Chinese criminal ring was estimated to have moved $300 million in fake liquor.\n\nMen collecting pine resin, which can be distilled into wood alcohol, Savannah, Georgia, early 20th century.\n\nConsumer ignorance has helped the Chinese moonshine market thrive; so too has the indulgence of government officials. Remarkably, shoppers sometimes realize the Courvoisier cognac they are buying is not real, yet they do not seem to mind. Call it the fake Rolex watch effect; buyers buy the fake luxury spirits to display, not to drink.\n\nIt is easy to feel sympathy for the 'good' moonshiner, the small producer who distils for fun and enjoys tipping a glass of white lightning with his friends. Like home-brewers, such individuals are not worthy of law enforcement's attention. Governments do, however, have very good reason to go after the moonshine trade with hammer and tongs. Moonshine trafficked by criminals causes a wide variety of adverse consequences. It is a line of business based upon deceit of the customer, and the unethical refusal to pay taxes on commerce conducted.\n\nBy partnering with firms who produce legal spirits, governments can drive down moonshine consumption. Legal distillers, who pay their taxes and abide by rules governing safe production, have an economic interest in taking business away from the illegal distillers who counterfeit their spirits, thereby stealing business and tainting their brand. (Who wants to drink Gerrity's Gin after being sickened by an isopropyl-alcohol knock-off?) This is why large beverage companies such as Brown Forman, Diageo, Pernod Ricard and others have established the International Federation of Spirits Producers. The group formed in 1993, with its members pooling their resources to combat the counterfeit sales of their distilled spirits brands. It currently aids thirty countries by training law enforcement agencies in the detection of fake products, and by providing chemical analysis of suspected fakes.\n\nAuthorities in Thailand haul off counterfeit Johnnie Walker and other fake distilled spirits.\n\nAn example of an RfiD tag, which may one day help consumers and police to more easily distinguish licit spirits from dangerous counterfeits.\n\nDistillers have turned to twenty-first-century technologies to aid in this battle. Scotch whisky-makers have been experimenting with spectroscopy. Lasers shot into a tiny sample of whisky reveal the molecular fingerprint of the brand. The hope is that this technology can be expanded and put in the hands of excise and customs officials, better empowering them to ferret out fakes.\n\nNew labels also are being deployed to empower producers and consumers to detect forgeries. The decades-old UPC codes may be replaced (or supplemented) with radio-frequency identification (RfiD) and smart labels. An RfiD label carries a chip that emits radio-frequency signals that can identify individual bottles of spirits. Smart labels, which have tiny circuit boards, work differently but also enable the producer to create unique identifiers for each bottle of distilled spirits. Thus no longer would the consumer of Webel's Armagnac purchase in ignorance; an app would verify whether a bottle was, so to speak, the real McCoy.\n\n## 6\n\n## Moonshine Goes Legit\n\nJoe Baker did something unusual in 2010 \u2013 he started a moonshine distillery. It did not fit with the career trajectory he had so far blazed. Baker had earned a law degree from Georgetown University, an elite school in Washington, DC, and had been an officer in the U.S. Air Force. He worked for a time as a prosecutor, helping the federal government put criminals behind bars, before starting his own law firm in Gatlinburg, a town with a population of 4,000 in east Tennessee.\n\nBaker was not, however, losing his marbles. As he tells it, he was returning to his roots. His family settled in the area in the late 1700s, whereupon various forebears of his had dabbled in moonshine. He was also leaping at an opportunity. Despite being the home of Jack Daniel's and the renowned George Dickel whiskey distillery, Tennessee has not been especially friendly to legally produced distilled spirits. Until 2009 distilleries were permitted to operate in only three of its 95 counties. In that year, however, the state finally woke up to the fact that its prohibitionist policies were harming the economy. The general assembly passed a law opening another 41 counties to licit spirit-making. Sevier County, where Gatlinburg is situated, was one of them.\n\nBaker threw the dice: he would make a famed but illegal local product \u2013 moonshine \u2013 legitimate. He would jump through all the legal hoops and pay government taxes, but he would not change the essence of the product: unaged, clear alcohol packaged in screw-topped glass jars. Economically, it was a bit nuts \u2013 why would anyone pay $20 to $25 per bottle for legal moonshine when they could buy the illegal stuff for a lot less? Baker's gamble ultimately paid off. His Ole Smoky, named for the Smoky Mountains visible from the distillery, was a smash hit. He sold 2.4 million jars in just his fourth year of business. Stores in all fifty U.S. states stock his moonshine, and it can be found on every continent but Antarctica. In addition to the 100-proof 'original' Ole Smoky, which is made mostly from corn, Ole Smoky Distillery produces more than a dozen flavoured versions. Blackberry, peach and even apple pie, the first of the bunch, were based on flavours that illegal moonshine-makers had been offering since time immemorial. Tennesseans have long harvested blackberries, peaches and apples. Cherries are also grown in the state, and Baker's distillery offers jars of moonshine cherries. They are very popular, a possibly accidental product developed long ago by moonshiners. Plopping cherries in the jar flavours the spirit, but the spiked cherries themselves are tasty. Buyers of Ole Smoky Moonshine Cherries can eat the cherries before knocking back the alcohol left in the jar. Baker subsequently moved his business into less traditional flavours: 'We don't grow many pineapples in Tennessee,' he deadpans. But his pineapple moonshine sells well.\n\nOle Smoky licit moonshine is made in the state of Tennessee in the United States and sold worldwide.\n\n | Localities have begun taking pride in their moonshine heritage. This jar of licit Palmetto Blackberry Corn Whiskey carries the 'Certified South Carolina' sticker.\n\n---|---\n\n### Licit Moonshine Booms\n\nDespite being a contradiction in terms, licit moonshine has become a big seller. The market research firm Technomic calculates that U.S. legal moonshine sales increased 1,000 per cent between 2010 and 2014. American liquor stores and bars now routinely stock at least one brand of moonshine.\n\nJoe Baker did not invent legal moonshine. Georgia Moon corn whiskey has been available in many markets across America since the early 1990s. It comes in a glass, screw-top jar with a label sporting cartoonish script. 'Get you your shine on,' it exhorts. Georgia Moon has never been a big seller for Heaven Hill, a large Kentucky distiller better known for its Evan Williams and Elijah Craig bourbons. Consumers apparently viewed it as a novelty product, something to jokingly give to someone as a gift. Similarly, Everclear and other brands of pure grain spirit have been made for decades. At up to 190 proof and water clear, these spirits could peddle themselves as legal moonshine. Historically, they have not, although Everclear's website now shows a photograph of it in a screw-top glass jar.\n\nMuch of the current demand for legally produced moonshine has been filled by small distilleries, who are often new to the booze business. They have flooded the market with unaged, high-proof spirits, labelled as moonshine or 'white whiskey'. Some examples include Silver Lightning (California), Onyx Moonshine (Connecticut), Iowa Corn Whiskey (Iowa), Thunder Beast (Missouri), Hudson Valley (New York), Glen Thunder (New York), Coppersea (New York), Palmetto (South Carolina), High West (Utah) and Death's Door (Wisconsin). According to Bill Owens, head of the American Distilling Institute, America has more than six hundred small distilleries. Moonshine is an attractive product for them \u2013 they can sell it and reap revenue right after it comes off the still. (Barrel-ageing spirits is costly: one must procure barrels, which are relatively expensive, and a place to store them. The spirits also evaporate, meaning less comes from the barrel than was initially put in.)\n\nSome of these new legal moonshines were dreamt up by newcomers to the spirits world. Others were made by those such as Joe Baker, who have a family connection to moonshine. The former NASCAR driver Junior Johnson also sensed the opportunity to make money very quickly, and made his business legitimate in 2007. He partnered with Piedmont Distillery, maker of Catdaddy Carolina Moonshine, to produce Midnight Moon. Pam Sutton, Popcorn's widow, allied with the country music star Hank Williams Jr to launch Popcorn Sutton's Tennessee White Whiskey. Clyde May, who moonshined for decades, became a legal alcohol producer in 2002. He saw the space in the market, and within two years his whiskey brand was deemed the official spirit of the state of Alabama.\n\n### Making Sense of Licit Moonshine's Confounding Appeal\n\nLicit moonshine is a strange product \u2013 why, the reasonable observer might ask, would anyone spend good money on it? By definition, moonshine is illegally produced. Baker's products, and other beverages being sold as 'moonshine' by licensed distilleries, fall into the legal categories of corn whiskey, neutral spirit or neutral brandy.\n\nAmong spirits experts and buffs, legal moonshine is controversial. 'A marketing gimmick,' one grumbled to me. Clay Risen, a journalist and the author of _American Whiskey, Bourbon and Rye: A Guide to the Nation's Favorite Spirit_ (2013), savaged the legal moonshine industry in an article for _The Atlantic_ , describing it as 'the worst, absolutely most ridiculous liquor'. It is, he asserted, a fraud that misuses the word moonshine: 'If it's sold on liquor store shelves, it's not moonshine. If it has a fancy website, chances are it's not moonshine.' Elizabeth Gunnison of _Esquire_ has echoed Risen's criticisms and rolled her eyes at this 'haute-hillbilly moonshine trend'. Inarguably, some of the marketing for it is foolish, but over-the-top and flat-out dishonest marketing are common to every alcoholic beverage. Heritage marketing, which wraps a product in a glowing historical narrative, is the norm, not the exception, in the alcoholic beverage business.\n\nUnderstanding the new mass market for moonshine requires considering both sides of the transaction: the demand and the supply. Consumer interest in moonshine was heightened, as Chapter Four described, by big media portrayals. Moonshine also has ridden the coat-tails of the craft cocktail revolution. Bartenders took an interest in old recipes, many of which were popularized in the 1920s. There was good reason, therefore, for these retro-mixologists to stock legal versions of moonshine. As a result, who knows how many new bars have opened with art deco interiors and dapper barmen sporting white shirts, black braces and slicked-back hair.\n\nThere is more to its rise in popularity than this, however. To be understood, legally made moonshine must be put in a larger context. Much of the globe has been experiencing a rising interest in where and how food and drink are produced. It is a complex social development with many compartments, such as molecular gastronomy, slow foodism, veganism and paleo-diets. Collectively, it appears to be a reaction against mass industrialized food production, with its processed-chow factories and industrial farms. From this rejection flows the desire for 'authentic' food and drink. What constitutes authentic edibles is debatable, but in the popular mind it means food and drink made and grown locally in small batches from organic (pesticide-free, non-genetically modified) foodstuffs. The explosive growth of Whole Foods and the sales of organic groceries globally indicate the immensity of the yearning for 'authentic' food and drink. Licit moonshine is a bit of a fad, but it also flows from this same longing.\n\n_Distiller_ magazine covers the growing craft, small-production distilled spirits industry.\n\n### Satisfying the Demand for 'Authentic' Spirits\n\nSome people satisfy their appetites for authentic drink by making their own. Thanks to the Internet, today hobbyists, DIYers and locavores have easy access to the knowledge, equipment and raw materials necessary to make their own edibles, including their own distilled beverages. One can look at Nikolai Gusev, a renowned Moscow-based guitar-maker, for example. On his farm outside the city he grew more apples than he could eat, so, as _Time_ magazine relates, he learned how to distil them into a spirit, which he barrel-ages. He has no licence to do this, nor is he selling the illicit spirit. It is a small-scale hobby. Half the world away, the young _nouveaux riches_ of British Columbia are moonshining too. One distiller told _Vice_ magazine:\n\nFor a lot of people, it's about the craft project. They're interested in what they can do themselves, but also in doing things that they can do a little bit differently. This movement is mostly about really complex, exciting flavors that can't be obtained through government liquor stores. And if we want to make it ourselves, it has to be made illegally.\n\nAnother small-time moonshiner added,\n\nAlcohol extraction is a miraculous process . . . There is something beautiful to the crafting of flavours using alcohol \u2013 it takes essential oils out of fruits and herbs, and allows them to be served as an extraction. There's a whole other side to home distilling that has nothing to do with getting drunk.\n\nVideos aplenty on YouTube give exacting instructions on how to make moonshine. Anyone who wants to distil their own spirits can find online retailers willing to sell them the cracked corn, yeast and other required ingredients. _Distiller_ magazine is loaded with advertisements from bottle-makers, label-printers and other distilling equipment companies. Sales of small-scale spirit-making equipment are soaring. Colonel Vaughn Wilson sells copper stills in the price range of \u00a3200 to \u00a37,400 ($300 to $11,000). His 10-gallon Georgia Ridge still, which retails for \u00a3600 ($900), was featured in the 2005 movie version of _The Dukes of Hazzard_. Wilson reports having customers in all fifty states, and told the BBC: 'I can't keep up with my orders.'\n\nMost consumers who crave 'authentic liquor', however, find making it too much bother. This is where small, self-termed 'artisanal' producers come in \u2013 they have entered the market to meet the locavore demand for 'authentic' distilled alcohol. Small distilleries are slaking much of the consumer thirst for legal moonshine. They recognize that consumers do not just want a clear, high-proof spirit. There are plenty of vodkas that can meet those criteria. For sure, the buyers of lawful moonshine thrill at the chance to taste a forbidden fruit, one they associate with wild times and general naughtiness, but they are also drawn by the impression that it is a craft product made by an expert. This is why the licit brands of moonshine are marketed to consumers with terms such as 'authentic', 'locally grown', 'fresh', 'family recipe', 'pure', 'craft', 'small batch', 'artisanal' and 'hand-made'. The Hatfield & McCoy Moonshine pitch is archetypical:\n\nHanded down for generations, the recipe used to make Hatfield & McCoy Moonshine is as authentic and original as the mountains and streams that bear the family names. The original recipe belongs to Devil Anse Hatfield and is currently produced in small, handmade batches, six days a week, in the micro-distillery in Gilbert, West Virginia, on original Hatfield land.\n\nVirginia's Catoctin Creek Distillery produces Mosby's Spirit, an unaged pure rye whiskey like the one early Americans rioted over.\n\nWhisky-makers have used these terms to peddle Scotch and bourbon for a long time. Now legally established moonshiners use them to great effect, and often rightly so. Joe Baker, for example, has ancestors who moonshined, and comes from an area known for illicit distilling. Why would he not draw upon those facts in marketing his product? So too with the Junior Johnson and Clyde May brands. Both these brands' namesakes were imprisoned for making illegal spirits.\n\nOnce the licit moonshine boom took off, a few big beverage firms decided to enter the legal moonshine market. Jack Daniel's released an unaged rye whiskey and Jim Beam offers the water-clear Jacob's Ghost. The smaller but still substantial bourbon-maker Buffalo Trace sells 125-proof 'White Dog'. With their expertise, economies of scale and massive distribution networks, one might think mega-distillers would crush the craft distillers and conquer the moonshine market. To date, they have not. Mega-distillers make very good spirits, but consumers see their moonshines as inauthentic, trend-chasing products, akin to the faux craft beers created by big breweries.\n\nCertainly, the demand for authentic food and drink is mostly a middle-class and elitist phenomenon. Thanks to economies of scale, mega-produced food tends to cost much less than organic, small-batch food. The poorer members of society thus have little interest in licit moonshine, certainly not at \u00a313 to \u00a323 ($20 to $35) a bottle. They can get moonshine proper for a much lower price.\n\n### Licit Moonshine Goes Global\n\nLicit moonshine is not entirely an American idiosyncrasy. In Ireland, Knockeen Hills Poteen has been around since 1997. Unaged, high-potency spirits are nearly as old as Ireland itself. But legally produced Irish moonshine arrived only after the government lifted its ban on the product. Knockeen Hills appeared shortly thereafter. Legal poteen is a slightly incomprehensible development. For three centuries excise officers tried to quash the drink; now Knockeen Hills, which can be as high as 90 per cent ABV, sells in Heathrow's Terminals 1 and 3. Bunratty Mead and Liqueur Company distils poteen that is less intimidating. Its clear spirits are 40 and 45 per cent ABV, equivalent to the standard potency of distilled spirits.\n\nAcross the Irish Sea, some London bars now are stocking Bootlegger White Grain Spirit, which unabashedly declares itself as a 'Prohibition-style white dog spirit'. Halewood International Limited, whose brands include Sidekick liqueur and Crabbie alcoholic ginger beer, launched the product in 2012, which costs customers \u00a322 ($35) a bottle.\n\nRussia now has moonshine made by hobbyists and licensed craft producers. Kosogorov Samogon, for example, was first sold in 2004. The clear spirit, distilled from grapes, comes in a bottle designed to look like the illegal _samogon_ from decades past, and retails for \u00a327 ($40) a bottle, which is far above the price of vodka and other clear spirits in Russia.\n\nBoth slick marketing and the quest for authentic drink transcend America's borders. Legally produced and sold moonshine, then, can be expected to find its way into even more nations.\n\nKnockeen Hills, a modern, licit version of Irish _poit\u00edn_. This version is 90 per cent alcohol (180 proof).\n\n### Moonshine Tourism\n\nIn the past few decades, wineries, then breweries and finally distilleries got into the tourism business. Sonoma, California, is a destination for wine lovers, and Scotland reaps great revenues from whisky tourism. Something similar is developing with moonshine. Localities have begun to turn their moonshining history, which they formerly kept to themselves, into a marketable asset.\n\nFerrum College, a private school affiliated with the Methodist Church, may well have been the pioneer in moonshine tourism. It opened the Blue Ridge Institute and Museum thirty years ago. The institute showcases the local 'folkways', which include music, agricultural practices, arts and crafts, and moonshining.\n\nIn the past few years, Baker County in Florida expanded its 'heritage area' to include a 'Moonshine Museum and Garage'. Visitors can see illegal stills and the modified bootleggers' cars (for example, big engines, extra carburettors and stripped-down interiors) that enabled them to evade the police. Similarly, Greeneville, Tennessee, recently had an exhibit at its City Garage Car Museum that celebrated bootleggers' cars. The state's tourism office is drawing visitors to its White Lightning Trail, a 320-km-long (200-mile) stretch that bootleggers rocketed up and down, and which is the 'Thunder Road' referenced in the Robert Mitchum film of 1958.\n\nNorth Carolina also has nosed into this industry. The North Carolina Moonshine webpage, which was created by the state's government, crows:\n\nAs the farm-to-fork movement grows in North Carolina, the still-to-store movement is not far behind. Catalyzed by the local initiative, microdistilleries continue to multiply in North Carolina, crafting small-batch moonshine, vodka, gin, and rum. And this time, it's legal.\n\nVisitors to Tennessee can explore local moonshine history on the White Lightning Trail.\n\nGore, a town of 12,000 in New Zealand's Southland, has a museum dedicated to moonshine. The Hokonui Moonshine Museum celebrates '130 years' of moonshining in the area, and tells the story of illegally made alcohol and the wily moonshiners who produced and trafficked it. Visitors can also buy Old Hokonui, a legally produced whisky that is a reproduction of the illegal hooch that was popular with the area's whalers and tradesmen in the days of yore.\n\nUnlike their criminal forebears, the new legally operated moonshine distilleries have open-door policies. They want visitors to drop in, so the distillers can tell them all about the marvellous, artisanal spirits coming off their stills. Local governments have begun liberalizing their laws to allow distilleries to offer product samples and to sell liquor on the premises. Some small distilleries even have on-site pour rooms, where visitors can enjoy cocktails made from the house spirits.\n\n### Moonshine in the Twenty-first Century\n\nMoonshine remains a secretive, illegal and dangerous business throughout much of the world. Lately, its operations have started to become legitimate. While surprising, this turn was to be expected. Money and moonshine have long been intertwined. Prohibitionist policies and the mass media have together made moonshine a mass-market and mass-cultural phenomenon. Today the Internet is also feeding people's awareness and interest in moonshine, and is empowering novices to try their own hand at it.\n\nWhile these trends have been concentrated in America and a few other developed-world countries, there is every reason to believe they will spread elsewhere. Moonshine is made everywhere, and by its very nature it carries with it an alluring reputation that is dangerous and wild. Lawful versions of _samogon_ and potcheen already exist, so safe and legal _chang'aa, lao-lao_ and toddy may well arrive soon too. There is money to be made in moonshine, and people love it for the buzz it offers and the entertaining stories with which it is associated.\n\n## Conclusion: Moonshine and Us\n\nThe story of moonshine is frequently told as an American tale of city gangsters, flappers, wily country folk and cops good and bad. In this short book, I have tried to show that moonshine is bigger than that, with a more diverse cast of characters, plot lines and locations.\n\nMoonshine has been around for centuries and shows no signs of departing. An eternal changeling, what is in the moonshine bottle evolves from place to place, based upon local history and the available raw materials. Economics inevitably plays a critical role \u2013 moonshine is a product produced for market. If nobody demanded it, it would not exist.\n\nIn the Introduction, I stated that the desire to comprehend the enduring allure of moonshine was one of the motivations in writing this book. Inarguably, we drink it to get high. We also covet it for what it means to us. And meanings vary from person to person. To the denizen of a slum in Nigeria, Philadelphia or Manchester, it is a cheap, quick buzz that helps blot out the misery of existence. For the university student in the developed world, gulping moonshine can prove one's audacity and wildness to peers. For the rural resident of Ireland, Kentucky, Ukraine or Thailand, home-made moonshine is an inexpensive drink and a folkway. To the libertarian or radical, moonshine is a declaration of freedom and revolt against government. For a citizen of Iran or Pakistan living under Prohibitionist policies, illegally made spirits are the only kind to be had. For the hobbyist, a sip of moonshine is the prize for tinkering. For the foodie, licit or illicit moonshine provides the opportunity to enjoy 'authentic' liquor.\n\nTo play upon the philosopher Nietzsche, when you look long into the glass of moonshine, the moonshine looks long into you.\n\n## Recipes\n\nThe moonshine cocktail one makes depends utterly on the sort of moonshine one is mixing. A home-made version of gin may be substituted for licit gin in cocktails such as the gin and tonic, gin rickey, Tom Collins, Gibson, Gimlet, Martini and so forth. Similarly, moonshine made from corn that has retained its sweetness may be swapped into bourbon cocktail recipes (such as a Mint Julep or Manhattan). Moonshine comes in myriad forms, so the cocktail possibilities are endless. Below are a few examples of easy-to-make moonshine cocktails based on classics.\n\nFrench 75\n\n50 ml (2 fl. oz) gin-like moonshine \n15 ml (\u00bd fl. oz) lemon juice \n1 teaspoon white granulated sugar \n114\u201370 ml (4\u20136 fl. oz) champagne\n\nVigorously stir the moonshine, lemon juice and sugar in a shaker with four ice cubes. Pour into a tall glass and top with champagne.\n\nMoonshine Bloody Mary\n\n42 ml (1 \u00bd fl. oz) vodka-like moonshine \n4 or more dashes McIlhenny Tabasco Sauce \n2 pinches pepper \n150 ml (5 fl. oz) tomato juice \n1 celery stalk\n\nCombine all the ingredients in a shaker with four ice cubes and shake well. Strain the drink into a wide-mouthed glass, for example a half-pint or oversized rocks (Old Fashioned) glass.\n\nMoonshine Harvey Wallbanger\n\n50 ml (2 fl. oz) vodka-like moonshine \n150 ml (5 fl. oz) orange juice \n30 ml (1 fl. oz) Galliano liqueur \n1 half-slice orange\n\nCombine all the ingredients in a shaker with four ice cubes and shake well. Strain the drink into a wide-mouthed glass, for example a half-pint or oversized rocks (Old Fashioned) glass. Garnish with the half-slice of orange.\n\nMoonshine Mint Julep\n\n85 ml (3 fl. oz) bourbon-like moonshine \n4\u20136 fresh mint leaves \n25\u201365 g (1\u20132 oz) simple syrup (made by dissolving 225 g (8 oz) \nof sugar in 227 ml (8 fl. oz) of hot water) \n1 sprig mint\n\nMuddle the mint leaves and moonshine in a chilled oversized rocks (Old Fashioned) glass. Add crushed ice to near the rim of the glass. Pour in the simple syrup. Garnish with the sprig of mint.\n\nMoonshine Mojito\n\n10 fresh mint leaves \n\u00bd lime sliced into 4 wedges \n1\u20132 tablespoons white sugar \n40 ml (1 \u00bd fl. oz) sweet rum-like moonshine \n115 ml (4 fl. oz) soda water (club soda)\n\nMuddle the mint and limes in an oversized rocks (Old Fashioned) glass with a pestle. Add the sugar, three to four ice cubes and the moonshine. Top with the soda water.\n\nMoonshine Tom Collins\n\n50 ml (2 fl. oz) gin-like moonshine \n15 ml (\u00bd fl. oz) lemon juice \n1 teaspoon white granulated sugar \n114\u201370 ml (4\u20136 fl. oz) soda water (club soda) \n1 lime slice\n\nVigorously stir the moonshine, lemon juice and sugar in a shaker with four ice cubes, pour into a tall glass and top with soda and a slice of lime.\n\nMoonshine Lemonade\n\n114 ml (4 fl. oz) vodka-like moonshine \n225 ml (1 cup) lemon juice (squeezed from four lemons) \n100 g (\u00bd cup) sugar \n675 ml (3 cups) water \n4 slices lemon or 4 mint sprigs\n\nCombine the water and sugar in a saucepan, and heat gently while stirring. Once the sugar is dissolved, remove from the heat and allow to cool before transferring to a jug. Add the moonshine and lemon juice and stir. Pour into four rocks (Old Fashioned) glasses with ice. Garnish with lemon or mint.\n\n_Serves 4_\n\nMoonshine Toddy\n\n50 ml (2 fl. oz) moonshine (any unflavoured type will do) \n2 tablespoons honey \n1 slice lemon \n170 ml (6 fl. oz) hot water \ncinnamon, clove or anise to spice, according to taste\n\nAdd the moonshine, honey and lemon slice to a large mug (to hold 340 ml\/12 fl. oz or more) and pestle the lemon to release its juice. Pour in the hot water and gently stir the contents until the honey is dissolved and the moonshine is distributed throughout. Add spice in small amounts while stirring until the aroma is pleasing.\n\n## Recommended Brands of Licit Moonshine\n\nBuffalo Trace White Dog Mash #1 (USA)\n\nBunratty Potcheen (Ireland)\n\nHudson New York Corn Whiskey (USA)\n\nJunior Johnson's Midnight Moon (USA)\n\nKnockeen Hills Irish Poteen (Ireland)\n\nMosby's Spirit Unaged Organic Rye Whiskey (USA)\n\nOle Smoky Moonshine (USA)\n\nOnyx Moonshine (USA)\n\nPopcorn Sutton's Tennessee White Whiskey (USA)\n\nVirginia Lightning (USA)\n\n## Select Bibliography\n\nDabney, Joseph Earl, _Mountain Spirits: A Chronicle of Corn Whiskey from King James' Ulster Plantation to America's Appalachians and the Moonshine Life_ (Asheville, NC, 1974)\n\nForbes, R. J., _A Short History of the Art of Distillation_ , 2nd edn (Leiden, 1970)\n\nGreer, T. K., _The Great Moonshine Conspiracy Trial of 1935_ (Rocky Mount, VA, 2002)\n\nHowell, Mark D., _From Moonshine to Madison Avenue: A Cultural History of the NASCAR Winston Cup Series_ (Bowling Green, OH, 1997)\n\nJubber, Nicholas, _Drinking Arak off an Ayatollah's Beard: A Journey through the Inside-out Worlds of Iran and Afghanistan_ (Cambridge, MA, 2010)\n\nKania, Leon W., _The Alaskan Bootlegger's Bible_ (Wasilla, AK, 2000)\n\nKellner, Esther, _Moonshine: Its History and Folklore_ (Indianapolis, IN, 1971)\n\nLicensed Beverage Industries, _Moonshine: The Poison Business_ (New York, 1971)\n\nMacDonald, Ian, _Smuggling in the Highlands_ (Inverness, 1914)\n\nMcGuffin, John, _In Praise of Poteen_ (Belfast, 1978)\n\nOkrent, Daniel, _Last Call: The Rise and Fall of Prohibition_ (New York, 2010)\n\nOwens, Bill, _Modern Moonshine Techniques_ (Hayward, CA, 2009)\n\nRogers, Adam, _Proof: The Science of Booze_ (New York, 2014)\n\nRowley, Matthew B., _Moonshine!_ (New York, 2007)\n\nSmith, Gavin D., _The Secret Still: Scotland's Clandestine Whisky Makers_ (Edinburgh, 2002)\n\nWatman, Max, _Chasing the White Dog: An Amateur Outlaw's Adventures in Moonshine_ (New York, 2010)\n\nWilkinson, Alec, _Moonshine: A Life in Pursuit of White Liquor_ (New York, 1985)\n\nWorld Health Organization (WHO), _Global Status Report on Alcohol_ (annually)\n\n## Websites and Associations\n\nMoonshine History\n\nAlcoholReviews \nwww.alcoholreviews.com\/moonshine\n\nBlue Ridge Institute & Museum \nwww.blueridgeinstitute.org\/moonshine\n\nMoonshine Distilling Instructions\n\nAmerican Distilling Institute \nhttp:\/\/distilling.com\n\nHome Distillation of Alcohol \nhttp:\/\/homedistiller.org\n\nMoonshine Distilling Equipment\n\nAmphora-Society \nwww.amphora-society.com\n\nClawhammer Supply \nwww.clawhammersupply.com\n\nColonel Vaughn Wilson's Stills \nwww.coppermoonshinestills.com\n\nHillbilly Stills \nwww.hillbillystills.com\n\nVendome Copper and Brass Works \nwww.vendomecopper.com\n\nOther\n\nInternational Federation of Spirits Producers \nwww.ifspglobal.com\n\n## Acknowledgements\n\nThanks go to Andrew F. Smith, who invited me to contribute _Whiskey: A Global History_ (2010) and _Moonshine: A Global History_ to the marvellous Edible series. I also am in debt to Michael Leaman, Reaktion's intrepid publisher, who gave me sufficient time to wrestle this little book to the mat. Kudos also goes to editors Martha Jay and Susannah Jayes.\n\nI also owe thanks to the smart, kind individuals who supplied me with research materials and spoke to me about illicit alcohol and its history: David Ozgo of the Distilled Spirits Council of the United States, Marc L. Busch of Georgetown University, Adam Chary, Michelle Christensen, Harry Hogan, Jerry Mansfield, Joe Baker of Ole Smoky, Billie Dean Pierce, Kevin Ownby, Chloe Booth, Jeffrey Vance, Jared Nagel, Mark Wilkerson, Gaby Pusch, Francis McCarthy, Roseann Sessa, Richard Foss, Sonjoy Mohanty of the International Spirits and Wine Association of India, Shawn Reese and the many other individuals who prefer to remain unnamed.\n\n## Photo Acknowledgements\n\nThe author and the publishers wish to express their thanks to the below sources of illustrative material and\/or permission to reproduce it:\n\nAn-d: p. 9; Brankomaster: p. 31; British Consulate, Bali: p. 89; Catoctin Creek Distillery: p. 117; Copper Top Stills: p. 64; Giovanni Dall'Orto: p. 22; _Distiller_ magazine: p. 114; Federal Bureau of Investigation, Washington, DC: p. 52; Hans Hillewaert: p. 39; Somalatha K: pp. 10, 85; KirkK-mmm-yoso!!!: p. 96; Knockeen Hills Distillery: p. 121; Kevin R. Kosar: pp. 49, 80, 100, 110; Library of Congress, Washington, DC: pp. 6, 47, 56, 59, 60, 69, 71, 72, 77, 79, 81, 104; Mathare Foundation: p. 103; The Metropolitan Museum of Art, Washington, DC: p. 57; Frederick Noronha: p. 35; Ole Smoky: p. 109; JMPerez: p. 106; Billie Dean Pierce: p. 93; Rama: p. 18; Ranjithsiji: p. 61; David Stanley: p. 55; Thailand Department of Special Investigation: p. 105; TNTrailsAndByWays.com: p. 122; Westerville Library, Ohio: p. 74.\n\n## Index\n\n_italic_ numbers refer to illustrations; **bold** to recipes\n\nacetone 33, 40\n\nalcohol and health _see under_ health\n\nalcohol by volume (ABV) 16, 19\n\n_aqua vitae_ 21, 48, 55\n\nAristotle, _Meteorolog y_ 20\n\nArmenia, _oghee_ 24\n\n_Babbitt_ (Lewis) 77\n\nBaker, Joe 108\u20139, 118\n\nBali, methanol poisoning 89\n\nBloody Mary cocktail **128**\n\n'blue flame' test 37, _49_\n\n_Boardwalk Empire_ (TV) 82\n\nBootlegger White Grain Spirit 119\n\nbootlegging 61, 67, 80, 92, 97, 98, 121\n\n_see also_ smuggling\n\nBrazil, prison 41\n\nBritish Consulate posters _89_\n\nBritish Isles 14, 16, 19, 102\n\nBoston explosion 35\u20136\n\nhot toddies 50\n\nlegislation 53, _69_\n\nlicit moonshine 119\n\nLondon gin slums 93, _94_\n\nBuffalo Trace 118\n\nCapone, Al 50, _52_ , 76, _97_\n\nChicago 97, _98_\n\n'The Untouchables' 77\u20138, _80_\n\nChina 19, 21, 50\n\ncounterfeit booze 102\u20134\n\ncocktail development 75, 113\n\ncocktail recipes 127\u201330\n\ncontamination concerns 32\u20133, 89\u201390\n\ncopper stills 36\u20137, 116\n\ncounterfeit booze _100_ , 101\u20137\n\ncriminal enterprise 76, 86, 98\u2013101\n\n_see also_ greed and profit\n\nCroatia, _rakija_ 24\n\nCzech Republic, counterfeit booze 102\n\ndenatured alcohol 29, 93, 100\n\ndistillation process 16\u201319, 27\u20138, 41\n\n'blue flame' test 37, _49_\n\nfailure, varieties of 28\u201336\n\ngrain, malting, milling and mashing 30\u201331\n\ngrain use 17\u201319\n\nhuman ingenuity 36\u201342\n\nstages 33\u20134\n\nstills _see_ stills\n\nand temperature 31, 32, 33, 38\u20139\n\nyeasts 31\u20132\n\n_The Dukes of Hazzard_ (TV) 9, 81, 116\n\nEcuador\n\nmethanol poisoning 99\n\n_trago_ 50\n\nEgypt 20, 36, 37\u20139\n\n_bouza_ 24\n\nequipment 39\u201340, _39_ , _64_ , 116\n\ncontamination from 32\u20133, 89\u201390\n\n_see also_ stills\n\nethanol 27\u20138, 29, 40\u201341, 86, 87\n\nas antidote to methanol 89\n\nEthiopia, sorghum liquor _55_\n\nexplosions, danger of 35\u20136, 41\n\nfilms 41, 70\u201372, _72_ , 75, 76, 78\u201382, 121\n\nFrench 75 cocktail **127**\n\nfusel alcohol 29\n\ngarter flask _79_\n\nGermany, _manshin_ 14\n\n_The Great Gatsby_ (film) 82\n\nGreece 20\n\ngreed and profit 94\u20138\n\n_see also_ criminal enterprise\n\nHarvey Wallbanger cocktail **128**\n\nHatfield & McCoy Moonshine pitch 116\u201318\n\nhealth\n\nalcohol abuse effects 86\u20137\n\nalcohol addiction 54, 92\u20134\n\nhazards 40, _85_ , 98\u20139\n\nmedical and social costs 100\u2013101\n\nmoonshine's curative properties 47\u201350, _71_\n\nhobbyists 65, 95, 115\u201316, 119, 125\n\nHogarth, William, _Gin Lane_ 93, _94_\n\nHonduras, alcohol addiction 92\u20133\n\nHungary, _hazipalinka_ 24\n\nIceland, _manaskin_ 14\n\nillicit appeal 11\u201312, 13\n\nIndia 20\n\n_feni_ 24, _35_\n\nlicit distillers 101\n\nmethanol poisoning 99, 101\n\nProhibition 60\u201361\n\ntoddy _23_ , _61_\n\nIndonesia, _oplosan_ 84\u20135\n\nInternational Federation of Spirits Producers 105\u20136\n\nIran 19\n\n_aragh sagi_ 24\n\nIreland\n\nlicit moonshine 119, _120_\n\n_potcheen_ 24, 55\u20136\n\nisopropanol 29\n\nJack Daniel's, unaged rye whiskey 118\n\nJim Beam, Jacob's Ghost 118\n\nJohnson, Junior 66\u20137, 79\u201380, 112, 118\n\nKenya\n\n_chang'aa_ 24, 39, 54, 63\u20135, 93\u20134, 99, _103_\n\nmethanol poisoning 99\n\nKnockeen Hills Poteen 119, _120_\n\nLaos, _lao-lao_ 24, 39\u201340, _96_\n\n_The Last One_ (documentary) 82\n\nlead poisoning 90\n\nLear, Edward, _The Owl and the Pussycat_ _74_\n\nLibya, methanol poisonings 99\n\nlicit moonshine 108\u201323\n\ncriticism of 112\u201313\n\ndemand for 115\u201318\n\nglobalization 119, 123\n\nmaking sense of appeal of 112\u201314\n\nmega-distillers' involvement 118\n\npitches 116\u201318\n\nrecommended brands 131\n\nand tourism 121\u20133\n\nMay, Clyde 112, 118\n\nMesopotamia, Hammurabi's Babylonian Code _18_ , 21\n\nmethanol (wood alcohol) 29, 33, 37, 88\u20139, 99\u2013100, _100_ , _104_\n\nMidnight Moon licit moonshine 112\n\nmigratory communities 47\n\nMint Julep cocktail **128**\n\nMojito cocktail **129**\n\nMongolia, _arkhi_ 24, 47\n\nmoonshine\n\nagrarian roots 45\u201351, 53\u20134\n\nas ancient folkway 45\u201350\n\ncriminal enterprise 76, 86, 98\u2013101\n\ndefinition and origin 14\u201316\n\ndistillation _see_ distillation process\n\nand health _see_ health invention 19\u201322\n\nregulation, early evidence 20\u201322\n\ntypes 22\u20135\n\n_see also_ bootlegging; smuggling\n\nMoonshine Lemonade **129\u201330**\n\nmoonshine politics 43\u201365\n\neconomics 50\u201354, 59\u201360, 95\u20138, 102, 105, 110\u201312, 123\n\nhobbyists 65, 95, 115\u201316, 119, 125\n\n_malum prohibitum_ (wrong-because-government-says-so) policy 45, 46, 63\n\nmoonshine acceptance, benefits of 62\u20135\n\npolicy failures 54\u20137\n\npopular culture and media involvement 67\u201383, 113\n\npoverty effects 53\u20134\n\nProhibition _see_ Prohibition\n\ntaxation 11, 20\u201322, 43, 53, 55\u20139, 63, 65, 68, 95\u20136, 100\u2013101\n\n_The Moonshine War_ (Leonard) 79\u201380, 81\n\n_Moonshiners_ (reality show) 83\n\nMosby's Spirit _117_\n\nmuseums 121\n\nMyanmar, _toddy_ 25\n\nNess, Eliot 77\u20138, _80_\n\n_see also_ Prohibition\n\nNetherlands, _maenschijn_ 14\n\n_New York Nights_ (Graham) 73\u20134\n\nNew Zealand\n\nmoonshine policy 65\n\nmoonshine tourism 122\n\nNicol, Erskine, _A Nip Against the Cold_ _51_\n\nNigeria, methanol poisoning 99\n\nNorway, _hjemmebrent_ 25\n\nOle Smoky Distillery 109\u201310, _109_\n\nPakistan, _kuppi, tharra_ 25\n\nPalmetto Blackberry Corn Whiskey _110_\n\nPartin, Scott 91, _93_\n\nPhilippines, _lambanog_ 25\n\npolitics _see_ moonshine politics\n\nPopcorn Sutton's Tennessee White Whiskey 112\n\nPortugal, _sguardente de medronhos_ 25\n\npot stills _34_ , 36, 37\u201340, _38_ \u2013 _9_\n\npoverty effects 53\u20134, 100\u2013101, 118\n\nprisons 41\u20132\n\nProhibition _6_ , 43\u20134, 49, 57\u201362, 70\u201375\n\nNess, Eliot 77\u20138, _80_\n\n_Prohibition_ (documentary) 82\u20133\n\n'The Rare Old Mountain Dew' (song) 48\u20139\n\nRFID labelling 106\u20137\n\nRundgren, Todd, 'Party Liquor' 87\n\nRussia 21, 43\n\nlicit moonshine 119\n\nmoonshine deaths 101\n\nProhibition 43\u20134, 58\n\n_samogon_ 25, 44, 101, 119\n\nSands, Bobby, 'McIlhatton' 56\n\nSaudi Arabia\n\nProhibition 61\u20132\n\n_sadiqi_ 62\n\nScotland\n\n_aqua vitae_ 21\n\nwhisky tourism 121\n\nSecond World War, torpedo juice 40\u201341\n\nSerbia, _rakia_ or _slivovitz_ _31_\n\nsmart labelling techniques 106\u20137, _106_\n\nSmiley, Ian 33\n\nsmuggling 15, 53\u20134, 60, 62, 76, 97, 99\n\n_see also_ bootlegging\n\nSouth Africa, _witblits_ 25\n\nspectroscopy 106\n\nSri Lanka, _kasippu_ _10_ , 11, _85_ , 93\n\nStanley family, Virginia 95\n\nstills 33, 34, _48_\n\ncolumn (reflux) 37\n\ncopper 36\u20137, 116\n\neBay sale _64_\n\npot _34_ , 36, 37\u201340, _38_ \u2013 _9_\n\n_see also_ equipment\n\nSudan, _araqi_ 25\n\nSutton, Marvin 'Popcorn' 82\n\nSweden, _mansken_ 14\n\ntaxation 11, 20\u201322, 43, 53, 55\u20139, 63, 65, 68, 95\u20136, 100\u2013101\n\ntemperature 31, 32, 33, 38\u20139\n\nThailand _9_ , _105_\n\n_Thunder Road_ (film) 78\u20139, 121\n\nToddy cocktail **130**\n\nTom Collins cocktail **129**\n\ntourism 121\u20133, _122_\n\ntrust and reputation factors 90\u201393, 98, 102\n\nturpentine 89\u201390\n\nUganda, _waregi_ 25, 54\n\n'The Untouchables' 77\u20138, _80_\n\nU.S. 7\u20138, 9, 13, 16, _47_ \u2013 _8_\n\nbourbon definition 19\n\nChicago _see_ Chicago\n\ncriminal enterprise 76, 86, 98\u2013101\n\nhot toddies 50\n\nmoonshine tourism 121\u20132, _122_\n\nPhiladelphia explosion 36\n\nPhiladelphia 'nip joints' 54\n\nprisons, 'pruno' 41\u20132\n\nProhibition _see_ Prohibition\n\nquality control tests 37\n\nSt Valentine's Day\n\nMassacre 76\n\nSecond World War, torpedo juice 40\u201341\n\nspeakeasies 73\u20136\n\ntaxation 53, 56\u20137, _57_ , 65\n\nwhiskey rebellion 56\u20137, _57_\n\nwhite lightning 25, 28\n\nWashington, George 26\n\nWatman, Max, _Chasing the White Dog_ 26\u20137, 28\n\nWhite Lightning Trail, Tennessee _122_\n\n'white whiskey' 111, 112\n\nWilson, Colonel Vaughn 116\n\nwood alcohol _see_ methanol\n\nyeasts 31\u20132\n\nZambia _39_\n","meta":{"redpajama_set_name":"RedPajamaBook"}} +{"text":"\nJILLIANE P. HOFFMAN\n\n_Pretty Little Things_\n\nHarperCollins _Publishers_\n_For Rich, as always, my rock\n\nAnd for the not-so-little lambs, Manda-Panda and Monster, \nwho continue to inspire and amaze me_\n\n# **Table of Contents**\n\nCover\n\nTitle Page\n\nDedication\n\nPrologue\n\nChapter 1\n\nChapter 2\n\nChapter 3\n\nChapter 4\n\nChapter 5\n\nChapter 6\n\nChapter 7\n\nChapter 8\n\nChapter 9\n\nChapter 10\n\nChapter 11\n\nChapter 12\n\nChapter 13\n\nChapter 14\n\nChapter 15\n\nChapter 16\n\nChapter 17\n\nChapter 18\n\nChapter 19\n\nChapter 20\n\nChapter 21\n\nChapter 22\n\nChapter 23\n\nChapter 24\n\nChapter 25\n\nChapter 26\n\nChapter 27\n\nChapter 28\n\nChapter 29\n\nChapter 30\n\nChapter 31\n\nChapter 32\n\nChapter 33\n\nChapter 34\n\nChapter 35\n\nChapter 36\n\nChapter 37\n\nChapter 38\n\nChapter 39\n\nChapter 40\n\nChapter 41\n\nChapter 42\n\nChapter 43\n\nChapter 44\n\nChapter 45\n\nChapter 46\n\nChapter 47\n\nChapter 48\n\nChapter 49\n\nChapter 50\n\nChapter 51\n\nChapter 52\n\nChapter 53\n\nChapter 54\n\nChapter 55\n\nChapter 56\n\nChapter 57\n\nChapter 58\n\nChapter 59\n\nChapter 60\n\nChapter 61\n\nChapter 62\n\nChapter 63\n\nChapter 64\n\nChapter 65\n\nChapter 66\n\nChapter 67\n\nChapter 68\n\nChapter 69\n\nChapter 70\n\nChapter 71\n\nChapter 72\n\nChapter 73\n\nChapter 74\n\nChapter 75\n\nChapter 76\n\nChapter 77\n\nChapter 78\n\nChapter 79\n\nChapter 80\n\nChapter 81\n\nChapter 82\n\nChapter 83\n\nChapter 84\n\nChapter 85\n\nChapter 86\n\nChapter 87\n\nChapter 88\n\nChapter 89\n\nChapter 90\n\nChapter 91\n\nChapter 92\n\nChapter 93\n\nAcknowledgments\n\nAbout the Author\n\nBy the Same Author\n\nCopyright\n\nAbout the Publisher\n\n# _Prologue_\n\nThe small, portly man in the white suit, deep purple shirt and patent slipons ran around the stage with a microphone in hand, reaching out to touch any one of the hundreds of sweaty hands that waved back and forth before him in the Unity Tree of Everlasting Evangelical Life church auditorium. He slicked back a thick band of gelled gray hair that had broken form and swooped down across his forehead and over his eyes. The amazing camera work practically let you count the fine lines in the preacher's full face, the beads of perspiration that rolled off his red cheeks and down through layers of neck fat.\n\n'Now when Moses went to meet the Israelites after their victory over the Midianites,' the preacher boomed as he worked the stage from one end to the other, 'he had all the princes and the priest, Eleazar, with him. And he sees what? What does he see that the Bible tells us made Moses so incredibly angry? He sees _women!'_ The crowd, which looked to be made up of mostly females, booed loudly.\n\nSeated in his worn La-Z-Boy in front of the TV, the man nodded along with the church audience, watching the drama unfold on the television screen as though he had not already seen this video a hundred times before.\n\n'The Israelites have saved the _women!'_ the preacher boomed. 'And Moses, well, he says, \"So you've spared all the women? _Why?_ Why, when they're the very ones who have caused a plague to strike the Lord's people! Why did you spare them?\"'\n\nSomewhere in the church audience, a female yelled, 'Because they were men!'\n\nThe preacher laughed. 'Yes! Because they were men. And because they were men, they were weak to the ways of women! To the smell of a woman and the taste of a woman and the feel of a woman!'\n\nThe man wiped his sweaty palm on the recliner's worn armrest, nodding enthusiastically at the preacher's words.\n\n'They were _weak!'_ the preacher continued. 'And so these weak men spared these vile women who had wreaked havoc on their tribe. But Moses is not just upset, ladies and gentlemen. He doesn't just say, \"That was a stupid thing to do!\" and leave it at that. No. Moses knows what will happen now that these vile women have been saved. Their delicious scent and their warm skin and their soft curves will soon sway their captors. Wickedness takes on many forms, folks. Many forms.'\n\nThe preacher summoned a young woman in the church audience then by pointing at her. She couldn't have been more than seventeen or eighteen. 'Come on, child, come on up here.' Encouraged by her parents and the enthusiastic crowd, the girl hesitantly climbed on stage. 'Look at how beautiful she is,' the preacher said, walking around the slight figure with his arms outstretched, as if she were an animal on a pedestal in the circus and he was the ringmaster introducing her to them. He sniffed exaggeratedly at her and smiled. 'She smells good. She sure looks good. She doesn't seem evil. What man would not be tempted?' He turned back to the crowd. 'Like many of us in our everyday lives, Moses must make a difficult decision. A terrible decision. One that many will find objectionable, but yet Moses \u2013 well, Moses knows it is necessary. A difficult choice, but a necessary one.'\n\nA pregnant hush came over the crowd. 'What does he tell them?' the preacher asked his flock, staring as he did right into the eye of the camera, speaking to the thousands of lost sheep all across the country who waited on his every word. 'What? He tells them \u2013 and this is right out of the Holy Bible, folks \u2013 he tells them, \"Slay, therefore, every male child and every woman who has had intercourse with a man. But you may spare and keep for yourselves all girls who had no intercourse with a man.\" What does that mean, folks? \"Only the young girls who are virgins may live,\" Moses says. \"Only the _virgins_ can live amongst your people. Only the _virgins_ , those who are pure in thought and deed, can be saved.\" Why? Because they are pure. They have not been corrupted.' He looked back at the young girl on stage and bellowed, 'Tell us, young lady, are you a virgin? Are you pure in thought and deed? God is watching you! Remember that! We are watching you! Are you pure in both thought and deed?'\n\nThe girl nodded as tears ran down her cheeks. She smiled at the preacher and then out at her parents. 'Yes,' she answered. 'I am pure.'\n\nThe crowd went wild.\n\nThe man wiped his palm again on the easy chair. The preacher certainly was mesmerizing. He had the crowd eating out of his hand. Had the young virgin not been so pure, he would have had no problem rousing the masses to stone her, if that was what he so wished.\n\nIt was inspiring.\n\nThe man hit rewind on his remote, and while the tape noisily chortled in the VCR, he unfolded the brown canvas bag on his lap. He ran his fingers over the soft brush tips inside, finally selecting a flat bristle and his dull painting knife. He picked up his artist's palette from the side table and slowly mixed his palette of carefully selected paints. The heavy scent of the oils was intoxicating. The tape started again from the beginning. As the preacher took to his stage, the people hailed him as though he were a general coming back from war. As if he was the Messiah himself.\n\nThe man listened to the sermon one last time as he worked the final touches on his latest piece, finding the raw energy of the preacher's words to be as soothing and stimulating as a surgeon might find listening to classical music in the OR.\n\n_Like many of us in our everyday lives, Moses must make a difficult decision. A terrible decision. One that many will find objectionable, but yet Moses \u2013 well, Moses knows it is necessary. A difficult choice, but a necessary one. What does he tell them? What?_\n\nWhen he was done, the man turned from his work and put his brush into the turpentine mixture to soak. Next to the TV was his computer. He got up from the La-Z-Boy and moved to the swivel desk chair. His hands were shaking just a little as he rubbed a stubbly five o'clock shadow with fingers that were still wet with paint. On the screen before him, the pretty girl sat on her pink bed in her pink bedroom, surrounded by movie stars, pirates, and vampires, chatting on the phone while she tried to paint her toenails.\n\n_He tells them, 'Slay, therefore, every male child and every woman who has had intercourse with a man.'_\n\nThe man licked his lips and swallowed hard. For just a second he felt ashamed, wondering why it was he thought the things he thought. But it was too late to get a conscience. Neither his thoughts nor his deeds were pure. His soul was already damned.\n\n_But you may spare and keep for yourselves all girls who had no intercourse with a man_.\n\nHe typed something on the computer and hit 'send', then watched as the pretty girl hopped off the bed and hurried with a smile across the room to her computer.\n\nIt was a simple question, but it had certainly gotten her attention, hadn't it?\n\nIt always did.\n\nr u online?\n\n#\n\nLainey Emerson nibbled on the ragged nub of Crazy Glue and broken press-on nail that was still stuck to her thumb and stared hard at the computer. With her free hand on the mouse, she guided the arrow across the screen. Her palms were melting, and her heart was beating so hard and so fast it felt as if it was gonna push right out of her chest. The thousands of butterflies trapped in the pit of her stomach furiously fluttered their wings as the arrow approached the 'send' box. All she had to do was just hit the button. Hit the button and send the stupid two-sentence email that'd literally taken her \u2013 she looked at the clock in the bottom right corner of the screen and grimaced \u2013 _hours_ to word just right. And still she hesitated, rolling the mouse back and forth in sweaty fingers.\n\n_You should never put anything in writing or in pictures that you wouldn't want to see or read on the front cover of the_ New York Times, _Elaine_.\n\nThe ominous words sounded so loud and so clear in her head, Lainey could swear she smelled the stink of cigarettes on her mom's breath as she preached them. She pushed back from her desk, shook the dire, 'Don't learn things the hard way like me!' Parental Advisory Warning out of her brain and looked around her now almost-dark bedroom. Long shadows blacked out the faces on the dozen or so movie posters that covered her walls. Outside, all that remained of the late afternoon sun as it sunk into the Everglades were a couple of faint orange ribbons.\n\n6:12? Was it really that late? She suddenly heard the quiet and realized the boisterous shouts from the roller-hockey game that'd been playing in the street all afternoon had stopped \u2013the players and cheerleaders all long gone home to dinner and homework. Two things Lainey still hadn't even started yet. And Bradley? She hadn't heard from her little brother in a while, either. A long while, now that she thought about it. She chewed the inside of her lip. Usually a good thing, but _so_ not a good thing now that her mom was gonna be home soon...\n\nThe front door opened and Lainey prayed it wasn't her mother. It closed with a slam. Thirty seconds later gunfire erupted in the living room as Brad resumed blowing away cops on _Grand Theft Auto_ , the dumb video game that he had to play at full blast just to annoy her. Anger quickly displaced relief and she regretted wasting a good prayer on her brother's obnoxious wellbeing. At least he was home and she hadn't lost him. She raised the volume on her Good Charlotte CD to drown out the screams and machine-gun fire and turned her attention back to the computer. She so needed to stay in the moment or she'd never be able to do this.\n\nThe picture on the screen glowed in the dark room, waiting impatiently to be shot off into cyberspace. A pretty girl she barely recognized, with sleek dark hair and smoky eyes, smiled provocatively back at her. A pretty girl Lainey still sheepishly thought looked nothing like her. Tight jeans and a midriffbaring T-shirt showed off a slim but curvy shape. Full, glossy red lips matched equally glossy, long red fingernails, which were posed confidently on her hips, like an _America's Next Top Model_ contestant \u2013 her friend Molly's idea. Normally Lainey didn't like how she looked in any picture, but, then again, normally she didn't look anything like she did in _this_ picture. Normally her waist-length unruly chestnut hair was pulled back in a low ponytail or put up in a clip, her boring brown eyes hidden behind wire-rimmed glasses. Normally she didn't wear any make-up or jewelry or high heels or long red fingernails. Not because she didn't want to, but because she wasn't allowed.\n\nBut besides looking a little older than she was \u2013 and a little, well, _sexy_ \u2013 Lainey rationalized that the picture wasn't _that_ bad that she wouldn't want to see it in the newspaper. Some MySpace photos were a hell of a lot worse than this. It wasn't like she was naked or doing porn or anything. The most you could see besides her stomach and the fake belly-button ring was the pink outline of the padded bra she'd stolen from her older sister Liza, under the white T-shirt that she'd also stolen from Liza. Maybe the jeans were kinda low and the shirt kinda tight, but...\n\nLainey shook the creeping, noisy doubts out of her head. She'd already taken the picture. She'd already broken the rule. And the truth was, she looked pretty hot, if she did say so herself. The real worry at this point was, what would Zach think when he saw it?\n\nZach. ElCapitan. Just the thought of him made Lainey's hands sweat. She looked at the picture taped to the side of the computer screen. Blond hair, bright blue eyes, the quirkiest, sweetest smile, and just the cutest shadow of face gruff. And muscles... wow! She could see them even through his Hollister T-shirt. Nobody she knew in seventh grade had even the hope of either a muscle or a hair on their scrawny bodies. Since she'd met Zach a few weeks ago in a Yahoo chat room for the new _Zombieland_ movie, Lainey had been forming a mental picture of what he might look like. This fabulous, funny guy who liked the same movies \u2013 even the really bad ones \u2013 listened to the same music, hated the same subjects, distrusted the same type of plastic people she did, had the same problems with his own parents. It would be too much to ask for him to be anything more than a geek with bad acne and even worse hair and an uncle who'd pulled strings to get him on the varsity football team. But then last Friday Zach had finally sent her a picture, and the very first thing she'd thought was, 'Oh my God, this guy could model for Abercrombie & Fitch!' He was _that_ amazingly good looking. And what was even more amazing was that this totally cool, _freakin' captain of the football team_ with model looks liked _her_. That's when she knew reciprocating with a snapshot of her own boring self just wasn't gonna happen, especially since that self was still three years away from the sixteen she'd told him she was. A small fib that would definitely matter to a senior in high school being scouted by colleges. She knew he'd never be into that, and their friendship \u2013 or whatever it was that was happening between them \u2013 would be over before she could hit the reply button to his Dear Jane email. If he even bothered to send her one.\n\nShe nibbled off the last chunk of nail and spat it in the garbage. The entire fake set had taken her and her best friend, Molly, hours to put on last Saturday for the 'photo shoot', and only a few short seconds to rip off this morning in gym class. The nails were her favorite. Long and pointy and oh-so red. More than the shoes or make-up or wearing Liza's clothes, it was those nails that had made her feel so... glamorous. So grown-up. She loved tinking them on glasses and rolling them impatiently on tables. It'd taken her the whole weekend to figure out just how to pick up a piece of paper! And now, like Cinderella's ball gown and crystal coach, they were just a memory. At least Cindy got to keep a glass slipper as a memento of her time as a princess. All Lainey got was a chunk of chewed acrylic.\n\nAnd, of course, a picture.\n\nShe stared at herself on the screen. That was it. If she thought about it any more she'd never do it. She closed her eyes, said a prayer and clicked the mouse. A little envelope zipped across the monitor.\n\nYour message is on its way!\n\nThe cell phone in her back pocket buzzed and Gwen Stefani belted out 'The Sweet Escape'. Molly. She blew out a long held breath. 'Hey, M!'\n\n'Did you send it?' an excited voice asked.\n\nLainey sighed and flopped back on her bed. 'Finally, yeah.'\n\n'And?'\n\n'I haven't heard back yet. I just sent it, like, two seconds ago.'\n\nMolly Brosnan had been Lainey's best friend since way back in kindergarten, and everyone \u2013 teachers, coaches, friends, parents \u2013 everyone always said, if the two of them looked even a little bit alike, they'd be identical twins. That's how close they were. Or used to be, anyway. It was no coincidence Molly had called at almost the precise moment Lainey had clicked 'send'. Things like that happened all the time \u2013 Molly thinking what she was thinking and vice versa. That's what made this year suck so much. No matter what her mom said, different schools meant different lives. She picked the fuzz off her alien-green shag pillow. 'I'm so nervous, M.'\n\n'What took you so long to send it?'\n\n'I'm a chicken.'\n\n'You have to call me the second you hear from him, Lainey.'\n\n'I will, I will. What do you think he's gonna think?'\n\n'I already told you. You look hot. I mean it. He's gonna love it.'\n\n'You don't think I look fat?'\n\n'Please!'\n\n'Stupid?'\n\n'I wish I looked that dumb.'\n\nLainey sat up and stared at the computer across the room. 'If I don't hear back from him soon, M, I'm gonna freak! This waiting sucks.'\n\nThe bedroom doorknob suddenly began to violently jangle back and forth. 'Lainey!'\n\n'Get lost, Brad! I mean it,' Lainey yelled. 'Get out of my room!'\n\n'You're not allowed to close the door! Or lock it! Mom says!'\n\n'G'head and tell Mom, you tattle-tale! Lotta good it's gonna do you, 'cause she's NOT HERE! And I can't wait till I tell her about you playing that video game you're not supposed to play till after you've done your homework!' she added as she fell back down hard on the bed.\n\n'Is that The Brat?' Molly asked. 'What's he doing in your room?'\n\n'He's not. He's just outside the door. I can hear him breathing heavy through the crack. I wish I had some bug spray.' Lainey squeezed her eyes shut. 'I hate him sometimes, M. I swear it.' Molly had a little brother, too, but hers was nice. Most of the time.\n\n'What'd he do now?'\n\n'He went through my books again. He drew mustaches on all of my _Betty and Veronica_ comics and ruined them. Totally ruined them. He's such an asshole.'\n\n'Did you tell your mom?'\n\n'Like that'll do any good. Please. She probably gave him the comics and the marker 'cause the poor baby was bored.' She sat up and reached for the bottle of nail polish on the cardboard box that was supposed to be a nightstand. She shook it and started to paint her toes.\n\n'You should tell her,' Molly sniffed. 'He shouldn't be able to go into your stuff.'\n\n'She's not home. She's still at work.'\n\n'What about Todd?'\n\nTodd was her stepdad and an entirely different story. If her mom babied Bradley, Todd definitely played favorites, which made sense, since Bradley was, after all, his kid and she wasn't and that was life. 'He's not home yet, either, thank God. I'm babysitting.' Lainey looked over at the door with a frown. 'Not that he listens to me.'\n\n'Babysitting? Oooh. That means you're in charge. My mom told Sean that corporal punishment is legal in Florida, which means she can use her hairbrush on his ass and you can beat Bradley's with a belt.' They both laughed.\n\n'If the prince gets a single bruise on his milky-white butt cheeks, I'll be grounded till high school. Nice idea, but I'm just gonna IGNORE HIM while he breathes under my FREAKIN' DOOR like a FREAKIN' WEIRDO!!!'\n\nThe computer melodically blurped. An incoming IM.\n\nLainey looked over at the computer, her heart suddenly racing once again. She knew right away who it was.\n\n**ElCapitan says:** | **r u online?** \n---|---\n\n'Oh my God, M!' she whispered into the phone. 'He just IM'd me. What do I do?'\n\nMolly laughed. 'Tell him hello!'\n\n'Yeah, but that means he must've got the email.'\n\n'No it doesn't. Maybe he's IMing you from his BlackBerry.'\n\n'He doesn't have a BlackBerry,' Lainey stated defiantly, then added after a second, 'at least, I don't think he does.'\n\n'Whatever. You get my point. You don't know he's seen the picture.'\n\nLainey stood up and paced the room. 'He wants to know if I'm here.'\n\n'Just say hi, you dork. Do it. Do it now.'\n\n'OK, OK...' Hitting letters on the computer had never taken so much darn energy before. It felt like someone had poured lead into the tips of her shaking fingers.\n\n**LainBrain says:** | **hi** \n---|---\n\nDeep breath. Stay calm. 'OK, M. I did it.'\n\nThe computer blurped again.\n\n**ElCapitan says:** | **just got home. practice ended late. Coach still pissed over last weeks game.** \n---|---\n\n'What? What'd he say?' Molly whined. 'Tell me!'\n\n'Nothing. He said he just got home from football practice. Maybe you're right. Maybe he didn't get it?' She paused for a second. 'Or maybe he got it and he hates it! M!'\n\n**ElCapitan says:** | **Got ur mess** \n---|---\n\nLainey held her breath.\n\n'What'd he say? Lainey!'\n\n**ElCapitan says:** | **Nice pic\u263a** \n---|---\n\nLainey let the air out all at once, as if someone had popped her screaming lungs with a pin. 'He said nice pic, M! You think that's good?' Even asking the question, she couldn't help but grin.\n\n'You're a moron. I told you you looked hot. You better not let your mom see that picture. She'll freakin' flip. Speaking of flipping moms, mine's downstairs having a breakdown. I gotta go eat. Say hi to Bradley Brat for me.' She laughed. _'Not.'_\n\n'I'll call you later.' Lainey hung up the phone and stared at the words on the screen. She'd never felt this good before in her whole entire life. She wanted to scream. Then, another sentence appeared with a blurp.\n\n**ElCapitan says:** | **even better than I pictured, and I have a great imagination...\n\n** \n---|--- \n**ElCapitan says:** | **want 2 c even more of u**\n\nLainey felt her cheeks light up as she looked around the bedroom. There was, of course, no one there but her, but she still felt strangely embarrassed. What should she say to that? What would Liza say? Did he mean that the way she thought he meant that?\n\nThe door to the garage opened with a loud creak. 'Brad? Elaine? Hello? Where is everyone? Why is this video game on?' The sound of her mom's irritated voice echoed through the house, along with the click-clacking of her high heels on the ceramic tiles. She heard Bradley run down the hall and into his room. Coward. Lainey mouthed the next words out of her mother's mouth.\n\n'Elaine!'\n\n'I'm in my room!'\n\n'Get off that computer. Did you even start dinner?'\n\nAnd it was back from the ball once again. Back to reality.\n\n**LainBrain says:** | **GTG. P911.** \n---|---\n\nIM quick-speak for 'Got to go \u2013 a parent is coming.'\n\n**ElCapitan says:** | **who?\n\n** \n---|--- \n**LainBrain says:** | **mom\n\n** \n**ElCapitan says:** | **Damn! And we were just about 2 get on my favorite subject...**\n\nThe funny, uncomfortable feeling was back, and she pushed it aside. Why was she always such a baby? She had to get over that.\n\n**ElCapitan says:** | **thought she worked late mondays\n\n** \n---|--- \n**ElCapitan says:** | **or is that fridays?\n\n** \n**LainBrain says:** | **fridays and every other monday. sorry about coach **\n\n'Elaine! Did you hear me? Off that friggin' computer _now!'_\n\n**LainBrain says:** | **\u263aLTL. she's pissed.** \n---|---\n\nLTL meant 'let's talk later'. Lainey opened up her Social Studies book to make it look like she'd been studying and crumpled a few pieces of notebook paper for effect, just in case her mom headed this way. Now it was time to boil hot dogs and listen to twenty minutes of shit as to why it was irresponsible of _her_ to allow the aspiring psycho in residence to gun down cops and steal cars for two hours on the video game that _his own dad_ had given him for Christmas. 'Practice for the real world,' Lainey wanted to say when the interrogation finally got started. 'Let's face it, Mom, Brad's career options are gonna be limited.' But that remark would probably get her smacked.\n\nJust as she opened the door, the computer blurped again. She ran back over to the desk and stared at the words on the screen.\n\n**ElCapitan says:** | **FYI. Pinks definitely your color \u263a** \n---|---\n\n#\n\n'I don't know if all of you have Halloween on the brain, but these test grades were not what I wanted to see,' Mrs McKenzie said, her voice withered with both age and perpetual disappointment, as she walked down the aisles of the classroom handing out papers. When she got to Lainey's desk, she paused. Not a good sign. 'Ms Emerson, I expected more from you,' she sniped without even attempting to lower her voice. Then she dropped the paper as if it was covered in dog poop and she couldn't stand to touch it any more. A big red D+ landed face-up on the desk.\n\nAnother D. Damn... Lainey could feel her cheeks flame up. She couldn't remember any of the As she used to get ever being so large. Or so red. She quickly shoved the test into her book bag, avoiding eye contact with any of the twenty-three gawking, smirking strangers around her.\n\n'Report cards are going out next week, people,' Mrs McKenzie warned with a shake of her poofy, margarine-colored head as the bell rang and a mass of bodies rushed past her into the hall. 'I know there are a couple of you who aren't going to be happy to see the mailman!'\n\nIt was a safe bet that she was one of those people, Lainey thought, feeling the acid churn like cement in her stomach as she slowly made her way through the noisy crowd to the lunchroom. And her mom was sure to birth a cow when she opened that envelope \u2013 Algebra probably wasn't the only class she was getting a D in. Serves her right, Lainey thought, bitterly; she'd never wanted to switch schools anyway. All her friends were still at Ramblewood Middle, while she was completely lost here at stupid Sawgrass with absolutely no one. No one. Zero. Zilch. No one to study with. No one to walk home with. No one to eat lunch with, she thought miserably as she made her way past the tables of cheerleaders and dorks and jocks to an empty seat in the back of the cafeteria. She still didn't see why they'd had to move, either. The old house was fine and it was, what? A mile away from the 'new' one, which was a lot smaller and didn't even have a pool. But, as usual, no one bothered to ask for her input on anything before turning her life upside down. The only future she'd heard her mom and Todd worry about was Bradley's. Her and Liza weren't even a thought. Not that Liza gave a shit. The girl was never home anyway, and seeing as she didn't have to change high schools and all her friends drove, not getting to see them was never a worry. Plus Liza was almost seventeen \u2013 just a couple of years from getting out on her own. Lainey, though, was just plain stuck.\n\n'Hey,' a voice said softly behind her as she unpacked a flattened peanut butter and jelly sandwich from her book bag. It was bad enough she had to brown-bag it, but her sandwich was downright embarrassing. It looked like a bled-through Band Aid. A girl she vaguely recognized stood over her, lunch tray in hand. 'You're in Algebra with McKenzie, right?' the girl asked.\n\nGreat. The whole stupid school knew she was flunking Algebra. 'That's me. Hope I'm not too famous,' Lainey replied with a short, nervous laugh that sounded a lot like a whoop.\n\n'I got a shitty grade, too,' the girl replied casually. She looked around the table. 'You alone?'\n\nLainey shrugged. Was it that obvious? God, she felt like such a loser. 'Yeah,' she replied, shifting in her seat. 'Just me.'\n\n'Can I sit? I just switched to this lunch period and don't know anyone yet.'\n\nLainey moved the stack of books she'd placed in front of her to make it look like she was busy doing work. 'Sure.'\n\n'I'm Carrie,' the girl said, popping a straw into her juice box. 'You new?'\n\n'Yeah. I was at Ramblewood, but we moved and now I'm zoned here, I guess.'\n\n'Your name's Elaine, right?'\n\n'My friends call me Lainey.'\n\n'I'm new, too. My dad got transferred in August. I moved here from Columbus, Ohio.'\n\n'Wow... Ohio. Do you like Florida?'\n\nCarrie shrugged. 'I never had a pool before, so it's cool. My friends back home are, like, so jealous. They all say they're gonna come visit when it gets cold up north. They wanna go swimming in January. That'll be fun.'\n\nLainey felt a pang. It's not as easy as it sounds, she wanted to tell the girl. Her own friends lived less than a mile away and she practically never saw them any more. 'My best friend still goes to Ramblewood,' she said softly as she nibbled on her sandwich. 'Actually, all my friends still go to Ramblewood.'\n\n'Ramblewood, is that a good school?'\n\nLast year Lainey probably would've said, 'It sucks,' because all schools do. But she finished a sip of disgusting warm milk before replying, 'It's a great school. The best.'\n\nThey chatted about bad teachers and too much homework and riding the bus. She wasn't Molly, but it was someone to talk to. 'I like your backpack,' Carrie said as she packed up her lunch, nodding at Lainey's book bag. 'I must've seen _Twilight_ , like, fifty times. Taylor Lautner is so hot.'\n\nLainey smiled. 'I like Robert Pattinson. Can you tell?' On the cover flap of her black-and-white shoulder book bag was a picture of Edward Cullen, the teenage vampire played by Robert Pattinson in Lainey's all-time favorite movie. 'What if I'm not the hero?' was silk-screened across the front. Her mom refused to buy fancy backpacks or lunchboxes, because, she said, 'those celebrities already have enough damn money,' so Lainey had saved up all her birthday cash and bought it herself. She'd gotten the very last one at Target the day before school started. She'd worried at first that maybe it was too young for middle school, but Melissa had one and Molly wanted one and Liza hadn't made fun of it when she saw it, which was definitely a good sign.\n\n'I want to see _New Moon_ the day it comes out, like the very first show. That would be so cool. Hey, maybe we can go together!' Carrie offered.\n\n'Sure,' Lainey replied with a smile. 'That'd be fun. November nineteenth. I'm so there.'\n\n'Do you think your mom would let you maybe go to the midnight show?'\n\nLainey shrugged. 'I'm not sure...'\n\n'Mine can be like that, too,' Carrie said with a roll of her eyes. 'She treats me like such a baby sometimes. It's just a freaking movie.'\n\n'I got _Twilight_ on DVD for my birthday. I've watched it like a hundred times already. I really love the part when Bella asks Edward how old he is and he says, \"Seventeen.\" And then she asks him, \"How long have you been seventeen?\"'\n\nCarrie nodded. 'And he just answers, \"A while.\" And the way he looks at her when he takes her up in the tree.' She bit her lip and sighed. 'Those eyes... Then she pointed at the science notebook in Lainey's hand. 'Hey! Who's that?' Carrie asked suddenly.\n\nTaped across the cover of the notebook was the picture of Zach from her computer monitor. Lainey tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. 'Oh, that's my boyfriend,' she replied quickly, as the blood 911'd to her cheeks, lighting them up, she was sure, like a Christmas tree. She swallowed the large lump that was now blocking her airway.\n\nTime stopped. Lainey could hear her heartbeat whooshing in her burning ears.\n\n'Oh,' Carrie finally said, with a slow, but unsure smile. 'He's cute!'\n\nThankfully the bell rang before Carrie could fire off another question. Lainey quickly shoved the notebook in her bag, slung it over her shoulder and waved goodbye, disappearing into the stampede headed out of the cafeteria.\n\nBoyfriend? Jeesh... where did _that_ come from? The word had just totally slipped out of her mouth. She hadn't planned on saying it. She'd never thought about saying it. She'd never even pretended it was true in the privacy of her own room when no one was looking, like she had on occasion with movie stars. She felt really embarrassed \u2014 like she'd been caught doing something she shouldn't \u2014 but oddly enough, really happy. Like she'd finally been let in on the biggest secret in the world.\n\n_She had a boyfriend_.\n\nThere it was again. After all, when you thought about it, that's what Zach sort of was, wasn't he? She bit back the smile as she made her way through the crowd. She suddenly didn't feel as alone as she had all morning. Or like such a loser. _Because she had a boyfriend_.\n\nThe more she thought about it, the more comfortable the word sounded in her head. Lainey had never had a boyfriend before. Unlike Molly and Melissa, she'd never been asked. But Zach was more of a boyfriend to her than Peter Edwards had ever been to Molly. All they did when they were 'going out' last year was talk in the hall in between classes and a couple of times on the cell phone for, what? A few minutes? True, Molly'd kissed him \u2013 but that was only 'cause Peter had jammed his tongue in her mouth as his friends were walking down the hall, just so they could see him making out with her. Molly had almost bit it off, she was so surprised and so completely grossed out. She said it was like getting frenched by Stubbs, her uncle's bull dog. Lainey had laughed, but she'd felt so jealous of Molly when she'd said that. Not because she liked weird Peter Edwards or wanted to get tongued by him or anything, but because, well, _because Molly had_. And Lainey was still stuck on the other side of the fence, as usual, looking in. Waiting for her boobs to show up. Waiting for her period. Waiting to have a boyfriend. Waiting to catch up, it seemed, with what everyone else was already doing. But now, today, this past weekend, these past couple of weeks \u2013 things were different. Unlike Molly and Peter, Lainey talked to Zach every night. And even though she hadn't met him in person yet or heard his voice, they'd sent each other pictures. Plus, Lainey knew he liked her like that. Like a girlfriend. If she wasn't totally sure before, she definitely knew from his IMs yesterday. _He wanted to see more of her. He liked pink. He liked her picture. It was better than what he'd imagined_. Which meant that he was imagining what she looked like. He was _thinking_ about her. And Molly could never, ever say that about Peter.\n\nShe followed the last of the hall stragglers past Ms Finn, her Language Arts teacher, who stood in the doorway impatiently tapping her orthopedic shoes and checking her watch even though the bell hadn't rung yet. Ms Finn didn't tolerate latecomers. The second the bell rang, the door to her class closed and short of either a fire, terrorist attack or medical emergency \u2013 and that did not include having to pee \u2013 she wouldn't open it again till the bell rang at the end of the period. 'LIT PACKET DUE TODAY' was scrawled across the blackboard.\n\nIt felt like someone had popped her new balloon. Lainey had completely forgotten about the _Wuthering Heights_ assignment. That now all-too familiar icky-loser feeling enveloped her once again. It didn't take a genius in Algebra to average out her grades in English \u2013 one more D for the mailman to deliver. Her mom was gonna totally freak.\n\nShe slid into her seat and slunk down low to avoid Ms Finn's steely, missile-guided eyes. Next up was probably a pop-quiz. Oh joy. She rubbed her finger across Zach's smiling face on her notebook. It was all gonna be OK, she told herself. Everything was gonna be OK. Screw this stupid school and the nasty teachers who delighted in giving tests and extra homework. It was only a dumb grade in a dumb class about a dumb old book, right? In the grand scheme of life it all meant nothing. What was really important was staring her right in the face with his sweet smile, and she knew _he_ didn't care if she got a D. Zach had already told her he was flunking Spanish. Everything was gonna be OK because she had a boyfriend now. Someone who cared about her. She smiled to herself as Ms Finn slammed the door closed and the next fifty minutes of hell started up.\n\nEverything was gonna be better in her life. Prince Charming had finally arrived.\n\nAnd she couldn't wait to get back to her computer to talk to him.\n\n#\n\nFlorida weather could be so freaky, Lainey thought as she watched the blob of black to the west slowly make its way over the Everglades and toward Coral Springs. Just twenty minutes ago there wasn't even a cloud in the sky. She hurried across the patch of brown grass that led to the duplex where Mrs Ross, Bradley's after-school sitter, lived. The warm afternoon breeze had degenerated into cool gusts that made the palm trees rustle and bow. Thunder rumbled in the not-so-far-off distance. The storm was getting closer. She wondered what the weather in Columbus, Ohio was like. If it ever rained on only one side of the street, or poured when the sun was shining. She wondered what it felt like to play in snow...\n\nA zimmer frame with two tennis balls stuck on its front legs sat just outside the screen door on the cement step-up. Taped above the doorbell was a tiny piece of paper with the number 1106 scribbled in old lady chicken scratch. Hopefully Bradley had his stuff ready to go, Lainey thought as she rang the bell and looked at her cell. If he didn't have practice, Zach was home by five. 'Hi, Mrs Ross,' she said sweetly when the door opened. A cat ran out between the old woman's legs and scurried into the bushes.\n\n'Sinbad, you get back here, now!' Mrs Ross scolded in her soft, shaky Southern twang.\n\nBradley's elementary school got out an hour and a half before Lainey's middle school, so Mrs Ross served as the afternoon pit stop until Lainey could come get him. Her mom used to let Bradley just go home alone, but one of the new neighbors threatened to call the Department of Children and Families and report her, so now she had Mrs Ross watch him. In Lainey's opinion, Bradley would have been better off on his own. Mrs Ross was nearing what looked to be a hundred and couldn't see, hear, or remember very well. And her house always smelled like pee and boiled eggs. 'Hello there, Elaine,' she said. 'Come on in, now.'\n\n'Do you want me to get him for you, ma'am?' Lainey asked.\n\n'Who?'\n\n'Sinbad.'\n\nThere was a pause. 'The cat,' Lainey added.\n\nMrs Ross looked around. Then the light snapped on. 'Oh, no, no. Just let him be. He'll come on home, I suppose. That's where the food is.'\n\nBradley popped out from behind the door that led to the living room. His face was pale. 'A severe storm warning's been issued. They're saying tornados are possible.'\n\nUh-oh. Her brother could watch _Texas Chainsaw Massacre_ and _Saw IV_ back to back, but ever since Hurricane Wilma had taken out his bedroom window a couple of years ago, five minutes with the Weather Channel sent Bradley into a complete tailspin. The weather alert must've broken into his cartoons.\n\n'Maybe we should wait it out,' he said, his eyes wide with fear. Mrs Ross gummed her lip and looked back and forth at the two of them. Obviously she wasn't too worried about tornados. She wanted her TV back. _Oprah_ beckoned.\n\n'Don't freak. It's not even raining yet,' Lainey replied calmly.\n\n'I don't know... They say tornadoes sound like a train.'\n\n'We have to go Brad. Come on.' She looked over at Mrs Ross. 'We can't stay here.'\n\nMrs Ross shrugged.\n\n'Don't know...' he muttered again.\n\n'Look, we'll run home together before the rain starts. I'll race you.'\n\nBradley looked past her. Another rumble of thunder sounded and his lip began to tremble.\n\nLainey sighed. The sight of her normally totally obnoxious brother melting into a pile of tears should make her smile, but it did just the opposite. She actually felt bad for the kid. He looked terrified. 'You can hold my hand, Brad,' she said quietly, crouching down on her knees to look him in the eye. 'It'll be OK. I promise. But we gotta go, like, now.'\n\nJust as they rounded the corner of 43rd Street on to 114th Terrace, hand in hand and at full speed, God turned on the faucet. And the thunder. A huge boom that sounded as if it was right above their heads set off three car alarms. By the time they made it inside the house three blocks later, they were both soaked right down to their underwear, which made a now completely freaked-out Bradley chuckle for a split second.\n\nShe stood right outside the door and waited while he changed into dry clothes, then she led him back into the family room, closed the blinds and popped _Resident Evil_ into his PlayStation. A video game meant no more weather alerts, and the screaming zombie victims took care of the thunder. She watched him from the kitchen until the rain band had passed over and it was clear Bradley was more concerned with a cannibal finding him in a closet than he was about a twister taking out the family abode. In twenty minutes the storm would be over, he'd be back to his old self and she wouldn't feel bad any more. There wasn't much time.\n\nWhile he jumped on the couch in his Spiderman jammies, killing zombies left and right, she quietly slipped out of the room and headed down the hall into her bedroom.\n\nThen she locked the door behind her and turned on the computer.\n\n#\n\nBefore the screen had even warmed up, the computer blurped. An IM. While she changed out of her wet clothes, she clicked on the flashing orange tab.\n\n**ElCapitan says:** | **r u online?** \n---|---\n\nIt was like he knew she was there. Like he sensed her presence. That was so cool!\n\n**LainBrain says:** | **hi! was just guna rite u\n\n** \n---|--- \n**ElCapitan says:** | **sup?\n\n** \n**LainBrain says:** | **tried to beat the rain & lost\n\n** \n**LainBrain says:** | **I love storms, but its nasty out\n\n** \n**ElCapitan says:** | **does that mean you're soaking wet?\n\n** \n**LainBrain says:** | **pretty much\n\n** \n**ElCapitan says:** | **ooohhh. I like\n\n** \n**LainBrain says:** | **drying my hair\n\n** \n**ElCapitan says:** | **What happ on math?\n\n** \n**LainBrain says:** | **don't ask\n\n** \n**ElCapitan says:** | **u wont be 1st to fail algebra\n\n** \n**LainBrain says:** | **didnt fail. D\n\n** \n**ElCapitan says:** | **(::[]::)\n\n** \n**Lainey smiled.** | **\n\n** \n**LainBrain says:** | **thanks 4 the pity\n\n** \n**ElCapitan says:** | **been there. HATED trig. Got a C.\n\n** \n**LainBrain says:** | **moms gonna scalp me. prob grounded 4 life\n\n** \n**ElCapitan says:** | **2 bad. I like ur hair\n\n** \n**ElCapitan says:** | **& ur pretty head\n\n**\n\nShe blushed, absently stroking a damp piece of hair that had escaped her towel turban. He was so easy to talk to.\n\n**ElCapitan says:** | **have to meet u\n\n** \n---|---\n\nLainey stared at the screen. She totally wasn't expecting that.\n\n**ElCapitan says:** | **what about Friday nite? Wanna c Zombieland?\n\n** \n---|--- \n**ElCapitan says:** | **we can grab sum food 2\n\n**\n\nOh my God. He was asking her out. Wait \u2013 _was this a date?_ She looked around the room, as if hoping to see an audience there who could corroborate what she'd just read and interpret exactly what it meant. Where the heck was Molly when you needed her? Of course it was a date... Movies meant date. Food meant date. Movies and food definitely meant date. A _real_ date. She was just asked out! Then the complete joy that had her jumping up and down in her room, squealing like a piglet, stopped as quickly as it had come on, replaced by icy, realistic panic. What was she doing? There was no way her mom was gonna let her go. No freakin' way. Especially if she knew Zach was seventeen. She nibbled on a nail. Shit. She didn't want to tell him no. What if he didn't ask again?\n\n**ElCapitan says:** | **hello?\n\n** \n---|--- \n**LainBrain says:** | **Hmmm... I definitely want 2 see that.\n\n** \n**ElCapitan says:** | **will ur mom b cool?\n\n** \n**LainBrain says:** | **dont know. specially after today\n\n** \n**ElCapitan says:** | **then dont tell her\n\n**\n\nLainey stared at the computer as if it were alive, watching her carefully through its blinking curser. Her stomach twisted with both unease and excitement.\n\n**ElCapitan says:** | **what she dont know cant hurt her** \n---|---\n\nShe looked around the empty room. A strange tickle itched the back of her throat, as if something had gotten stuck halfway down and wasn't budging any more. That _could_ work. She _could_ tell her mom she was going to the movies with that new girl, Carrie. It's not like she'd ever check, anyway. Liza was the problem child, not her. And short of, 'Did you have a good time?' she knew there'd be no questions asked. There never were.\n\n**LainBrain says:** | **I cant b home 2 late though\n\n** \n---|--- \n**ElCapitan says:** | **ull b home by 10. I have practice @ 8\n\n** \n**ElCapitan says:** | **thats AM!!!**\n\nLainey chewed on her lip. Her brain was a mush of thoughts. _What should she do?_\n\n**ElCapitan says:** | **u still there?\n\n** \n---|--- \n**LainBrain says:** | **ummm... thinking\n\n** \n**ElCapitan says:** | **I'll pick u up at school. weve played CS High b4. Stay late and meet me @ 5:30 in the parking lot in back by the baseball field. Ill b in a black BMW\n\n** \n**LainBrain says:** | **5:30?\n\n** \n**ElCapitan says:** | **cant get the car till Dad gets home. CS is a hoof**\n\nThat's right. Zach lived in Jupiter, which, according to MapQuest was, like, an hour away. _He was gonna drive an hour just to see her..._ Lainey took a deep breath. Her heart was pounding. She'd never done anything wrong before. Besides the picture, she'd never gone against the rules. But her mom would just say no for the sake of saying no, and because she had these dumb, arbitrary rules about how old you had to be to do certain things. Twelve for make-up, thirteen for group dates, fifteen for car dates. A knee-jerk reaction to Liza's screwed-up adolescence. If she didn't go on Friday, when would she ever meet Zach? Never, that's when.\n\n**LainBrain says:** | **k. sounds like fun\n\n** \n---|--- \n**ElCapitan says:** | **cool. keep it low. I don't want ur mom or step to trip. Find a theater near u where its playin\n\n** \n**LainBrain says:** | **k\n\n** \n**ElCapitan says:** | **cant wait to finally meet u\n\n** \n**LainBrain says:** | **me 2**\n\nShe leaned back in the chair. Her brain was spinning. She not only had to figure out how she was gonna get herself across town on Friday afternoon to Coral Springs High \u2013 which she'd never even been to before \u2013 she also had to figure out how that self was gonna look like the girl he thought she was when she got there. Then an icy thought gripped her, causing a race of goosebumps to ripple across the back of her neck.\n\nWhat if it didn't work? What if he saw right through her and knew she was thirteen? What would he do then?\n\nThe computer blurped.\n\n**ElCapitan says:** | **dont worry. ull b safe w\/me** \n---|---\n\nShe smiled. It was as if he'd just read her mind. Again.\n\n**ElCapitan says:** | **im no psycho ** \n---|---\n\n#\n\nWhen the last bell rang on Friday afternoon, Sawgrass Middle exploded like an overfilled cake pan in a hot oven. A thousand bodies simultaneously poured out every door, scrambling for a school bus or the car rider pick-up line, hurrying to unlock bikes or meet up with friends for the walk home. Homework, tests and projects were three long days off. For a half-hour, deafening chaos ruled the crowded schoolyard.\n\nAnd then it was over.\n\nPerched on her tippy toes atop the hand dryer in the girls' bathroom, Lainey watched out the tiny crank window as the last of the packed yellow buses pulled out of the roundabout, and the crazed chatter of fifty or so screaming voices slowly faded away. Crumpled pieces of paper and empty snack bags dotted the deserted schoolyard, rolling like tumbleweeds across the parking lot and football field. There were no after-school activities, club meets or conferences on Fridays at Sawgrass \u2013 even the teachers left when the last bell sounded. By now, the halls were as lifeless as the parking lot.\n\nLainey exhaled the breath she'd seemingly been holding all day \u2013 all week actually \u2013 and climbed down from the dryer, grabbing her book bag from the handicap stall, where she'd hidden out since the bell rang. With her bus long gone, she was now one step closer to going through with this. She checked her cell \u2013 it was 4:10. She had time, but not too much, considering she still had to put on make-up, get dressed and catch the 5:10 bus up on Sample Road that would take her over to Coral Springs High. Then she had to find the baseball field parking lot. Not too much time was good, she told herself, as her stomach started to flip-flop again. She didn't want any downtime to think about what she was doing or why she shouldn't be doing it, because she knew that she'd probably chicken out. That was one reason why she hadn't told a soul about meeting Zach tonight. Not even Molly. Because she didn't want anyone talking her out of it. The other was more of a personal safety net. If, God forbid, Zach _didn't_ show up \u2013 if, say, he stood her up \u2013 well, then no one would ever have to know about _that_ either and she wouldn't have to feel like such a total loser for the rest of her life every time she got with her friends. _'Remember Lainey's first date? Not!'_\n\nShe shook the voices out of her head. She'd come this far and she wasn't turning back. Just wait till she told everyone about her date with her football player boyfriend. That he took her to the movies. And dinner! And he didn't just have a car \u2013 he had a BMW! Jeesh! She'd have to figure out a way to get him to take a picture with her with the car on her cell just so she could show everyone, she thought, as she changed into Liza's prized jeans and a cute Abercrombie T-shirt. She'd wear her sneakers for the walk to the bus stop, then change into Liza's BCBG booties when she finally got to the high school. She dumped the plastic sandwich bag full of makeup that she'd pilfered from Liza's dresser into the sink next to hers. If her sister knew she'd raided both her closet and her drawers she'd go postal, so everything had to be back in its proper place by midnight, which was when Liza got off work at the bowling alley. She picked through the pile of compacts and lipsticks, before settling on a brown and green eye-shadow palette. She hesitated for a moment, swirling a finger over the shimmery powders. Besides Halloween and the occasional lip-gloss, Lainey had never really put on makeup before. She hoped she could remember what stuff Molly had used on her face last weekend and in what order she'd used it. She didn't want to look like a clown.\n\nA half-hour later she stepped out of the bathroom and smack into the janitor, almost landing face first in the oversized yellow mop-bucket he was pushing. They both gasped. Then the janitor looked around frantically, like he'd recognized Lainey from an FBI wanted poster, yelling something that she didn't need to speak Spanish to understand.\n\nTime to go. She walked as fast as she could without running for the main doors, praying that the rule of no one sticking around the school on Friday afternoons applied to those warm bodies in Administration as well.\n\nIt was a good thing she'd worn her sneakers. By the time she made it to Sample, she was completely out of breath and had to run to catch the bus. She settled into a front seat, all the while avoiding the stare of the disheveled old man across from her who was slurping an orange and eyeing her carefully. She wiped her hands on her jeans and quietly asked the driver to let her know when her stop was, then watched out the window as the string of stores, banks and restaurants slipped past in a blur. Places she'd eaten at or shopped at dozens of times, but today, she thought, trying to restrain the smile that threatened to commandeer her whole face, it was like she was seeing them all for the very first time.\n\n#\n\nFrom his parking spot in front of the two-storied Allstate office building, he watched as the slight figure with the long chestnut hair stepped off the bus and looked around, like a tourist taking in New York's Empire State Building for the very first time might \u2013 with awe, wonder, and excitement.\n\nNo doubt. It was definitely her.\n\nShe was pretty, in her tight blue jeans and cute, funky T-shirt, a book bag slung clumsily over her shoulder. She had a really nice figure \u2013 not too curvy, not too straight. He didn't like the Kate Moss waif look, but he also didn't like a voluptuous hourglass figure, either. Too many girls tried too hard to look like something they were not. First came the padded bras and shaping underwear, then the breast implants, liposuction, nose jobs, botox. What you saw was not necessarily what you got. It was nice to see someone as yet unaffected by the Barbie bullshit spouted in fashion magazines and paraded about on MTV. Someone whose beautiful body was still... pure. He watched anxiously as she stopped in front of the main double doors of the school and hesitated, looking around. He feared for a moment that she might try and go in. Although he didn't think anyone was still around, he didn't want to find out he was wrong. That would ruin everything. He felt his heart beat a bit faster. But after a few seconds, she turned and trotted through the deserted parking lot, heading over to the baseball field in the far back of the school to wait.\n\nFor him.\n\nHis mouth suddenly felt as though he'd swallowed a jar full of cotton balls and he rubbed his hands together to stop them from shaking. It was a bad habit \u2013 a _quirk_ was what his mother called it. His hands would shake whenever he got too excited. His quirk always made meeting new people quite difficult. Especially pretty girls.\n\nHe looked down at the photo on his lap one last time. Then he slipped it into the glove compartment and started up the engine. The sun had just dipped under the horizon and night was officially here. He looked at the clock. 5:29. Right on time.\n\n_So nice_ , he thought as he pulled out of the parking lot. _So very, very nice_.\n\nHe liked a girl who was punctual.\n\n#\n\nThe bus pulled away from the curb, leaving Lainey behind in a noxious cloud of diesel fumes. Across the street, Coral Springs High loomed imposingly under the umbrella of an enormous ficus tree. She checked her cell. 5:23.\n\nNo time to think. No time to dawdle. No turning back.\n\nThe football field looked like it was over to the left, so she figured the baseball field was probably in the back of the school. She hurried across the street and cut through the empty parking lot. It looked like no one stuck around here on Friday afternoons, either. Shadows sliced through the trees and across the broken asphalt. In a few minutes the sun would be down. Lainey loved the fall and Halloween and Thanksgiving, but she hated the shorter days. By the time December got here, you were down to what? An hour of daylight after school? She followed the chain-link fence to the back of the school, and there it was. The baseball field. No cars in this parking lot, either. No players on the field. It was as deserted as Sawgrass, which was good. Seeing other teenagers eye her like she was an imposter would drive her nerves completely over the edge.\n\nShe sat down on the curb and changed into Liza's boots, throwing her sneakers into her book bag. Damn! Time to panic. Why'd she bring her stupid _Twilight_ bag? She'd meant to switch to Liza's old silver knapsack. She put a hand over Robert Pattinson's handsome face. This could ruin everything. She'd have to keep that covered up or out of sight somehow \u2013 if Zach saw it she'd be so embarrassed. He'd definitely know then that she wasn't sixteen. Maybe she should say her book bag broke this morning and she'd had to borrow her little sister's from last year? Another couple of lies, including a sibling she didn't have. A pang of guilt hit her. She'd told so many the last couple of days. It was getting real hard to keep track of them all...\n\nShe stood up and walked around the parking lot, trying to force her conscience on to another subject and adjust to Liza's heels. If the _Twilight_ bag wasn't a dead giveaway she was a fraud, kissing the movie theater steps sure would do it. She popped a piece of gum in her mouth and put on another coat of berry-flavored lip-gloss, shaking her hands out to stop them from sweating. The very real thought occurred to her then that Zach might try to kiss her tonight.\n\n_Her first kiss..._\n\nThat was it. She flipped open her cell and speed-dialed Molly. Pacing the parking lot, she spun her book-bag strap around and around, until it was all twisted.\n\nIt went straight to voicemail.\n\n'Hey, M, it's me,' Lainey began excitedly. 'You're probably at piano, but I wished you'd picked up! I have something so \u2013 you'll never freakin' guess where I am! Never!'\n\nThe car had pulled up behind her so quietly, the loose gravel on the asphalt had not even crunched. It was his voice she heard first.\n\n'Lainey?'\n\nShe literally jumped in her sister's boots. There was no time to finish. No time left to think. The moment was finally right here, right now.\n\n'I gotta go,' she whispered quickly into the phone. 'Look, don't call me back. I don't want the phone to ring. I'll call you in a couple of hours.'\n\nThen she licked her lips to make them shiny, snuck a deep breath and spun around to meet the totally awesome guy she'd literally been dreaming about these past few weeks.\n\nCindy was finally going to meet her prince. Let the ball begin.\n\n#\n\n'Hey!' she said into the half-open car window, trying to nonchalantly unspin the tangled book bag. It was almost dark and the windows were tinted black, like a limo. It was hard to see inside. 'I didn't hear you drive up.'\n\n'S'up?' he replied softly. His face was obscured in part by the baseball cap on his head and dark sunglasses, but she caught the flash of his mega-watt smile, and her knees shook just a little. His light blond hair spilled out from under the cap, barely touching his shoulders. Dressed in a tight long-sleeved black T-shirt, and dark jeans, the rest of his body blended like a chameleon with the all-black interior. He waved a hand toward the door. 'Hop in.'\n\nAnd so she did.\n\nShe slid into the passenger seat, which was buttery soft and smooth, but ice cold. The car smelled like new leather and old smoke. And Paco Rabanne, Todd's favorite cologne. She pushed _that_ thought right out of her head. Her stepdad was the last person she wanted to be thinking about.\n\n'Nice car,' she said with a smile as she closed the door. She bent over and casually tried to rearrange the book bag at her feet so that Robert Pattinson was flipped face-down on the floor. She could shoot herself for forgetting to switch it out.\n\n'Thanks,' he replied.\n\nThe window slid back up, and he turned up the radio. Lainey recognized the song from the movie _Thirteen Going on Thirty_. It was Michael Jackson's 'Thriller'.\n\nThat's a weird song, she thought. Who the hell listens to Michael Jackson that wasn't, like, her parents' age? She would have expected maybe Linkin Park or The Fray, Zach's two favorite bands. Maybe he was playing it in the spirit of Halloween \u2013 as a build-up to the movie. God, she thought, please, please don't let him be a geek. Or a weirdo. _'Zombieland's_ playing at a couple of places,' Lainey said. 'The next showing is six-ten at Magnolia, which is just up the road. Or we could go to the seven-fifteen at the mall.' There were a couple of other theaters within driving distance, but those were the two she knew didn't care if a kindergartner walked by himself into an R movie, as long as he bought himself a ticket.\n\n'OK.'\n\n... _You start to scream, but terror takes the sound before you make it..._\n\nMichael Jackson crooned and squealed on the radio. 'You want to go to the seven-fifteen? Then, um, make a left out of the parking lot. I can take you the way I always go, but I have to be on Atlantic Boulevard to get there.' She giggled and looked around the dashboard. 'I hope you have a navigation system on this thing. My friends always say I'm geographically challenged. I have a hard time finding my way back to my locker after lunch.'\n\nEmbossed in metal on the steering wheel was a raised, scripted L. Lainey recognized it from Molly's dad's car. He had a Lexus.\n\n_... Cause this is thriller, Thriller Night! And no one's gonna save you from the beast about to strike..._\n\nShe wanted to ask him why he wasn't driving the BMW, but that sounded shallow. And it was shallow. A Lexus was just as nice. Nicer, maybe. She fidgeted with the mood ring on her finger. She hoped making conversation wasn't gonna be this hard all night. Molly was the conversationalist, not her.\n\n'Are you hungry?' she asked as they pulled out of the lot and made a right on to Rock Island. 'We can go to the food court at the mall, if you want.' That would be perfect, she thought. There was a really big chance that she'd see someone from Ramblewood there. Maybe even Melissa or Erica.\n\n'Sounds good,' he said softly.\n\nThe creepy-sounding old guy started to rap on the radio. Vincent Price, the horror movie king from, like, a thousand years ago.\n\n_Darkness falls across the land. The midnight hour is close at hand..._\n\n'I really liked your picture,' Zach said, but he didn't look at her. She watched as a single drop of sweat trickled down the side of his neck, disappearing into his shirt.\n\nHis arm was on the armrest, his hand dangling casually off the edge. Rough fingers tapped the gear shift. Wiry black hairs sprouted from the flesh above his knuckles. Lainey's eyes slowly moved up his arm. Coarse black hairs stuck out of his cuff, like spindly spider legs.\n\nShe suddenly felt incredibly cold. Prickly goosebumps raced across her flesh. It was as if all the air had been sucked out of the car.\n\nZach was blond.\n\n_... And though you fight to stay alive, your body starts to shiver..._\n\nHe turned into an empty lot where a bunch of power station lines were. Across the street was a park. Molly's mom had taken her and Molly there once before. It had a nature reserve running through it. The mall was in the other direction.\n\n_For no mere mortal can resist the evil of the thriller..._\n\nShe reached for the door handle, but it wouldn't budge. The king of horror broke out into maniacal laughter. The song was over.\n\nThe cloth came across her face with lightning speed even as the car was still moving. The wicked taste burned her eyes and closed her throat. It was hard to breathe. Then he punched her hard in the head. She felt her face smash against the glass. She felt the warm blood trickle from her forehead, running past her eye and down her cheek. She felt her hands fall to the floor, her legs twitch and just stop working, as everything went to black.\n\nThe horror king just kept on laughing.\n\n#\n\nThe hall clock started to chime. Debbie LaManna could hear it, even over the blare of the television. Even two rooms away. It chimed every quarter-hour, then dang in the number of hours at the top of every hour. It took five fucking minutes just to get through midnight. She cracked off a smoke ring. The ornate grandfather clock and a bank account with $3,714.22 in it was what her mother had left her nine years ago when she'd died of lung cancer, an oxygen tube strapped to her nose and a pack of Newports in hand. Of course the money was long gone, but damn it if that hideous Mack the Knife moon-face clock was still here \u2013 dragged along behind her from husband to husband, apartment to apartment, rental to rental. Toasting each lost hour of her life with a loud, distracting clang. One of these days she was gonna call the Salvation Army to come haul it away.\n\nDebbie counted as the dings hit eleven. Just to be sure, she looked at her watch. She was gonna kill Elaine. Really kill her. Who the hell did she think she was, staying out till eleven at night? She crushed out her cigarette. This was how it all started with Liza. Breaking curfew, coming home stoned. Smelling like a fucking bottle of Bud. If that kid thought for one second that she was gonna get away with half the shit her older sister had pulled, she had a cold, hard reality check coming. What was that saying her own mother used to love to say? _Fool me once, shame on you, Debra. Fool me twice, shame on me_. And Debbie was no fool. Not any more. Elaine Louise was so gonna have her ass handed to her when she walked through that door. That was for certain. She swallowed a big chug of her Mich Ultra and tried to concentrate on the news.\n\n'Is she home yet?' Bradley called out from his bedroom down the hall. His voice had the twisted smirk of a kid who was happy that his sibling was gonna be in a shitload of trouble.\n\n'Brad, if you don't close that damn door and go to sleep in the next five minutes, there is no Laser Tag tomorrow with Lyle. I can promise you that!'\n\nThe door closed with a thud and Debbie tried to focus once again on the news. Listening to everyone else's tragedies seemed to help for a little bit. A local fire. A bank robbery. Nine dead in an Iraq suicide bomb. Then her thoughts came around again. This time they landed on Todd, who was also not home yet. He was the real reason Debbie was so pissed off. Where the hell was he?\n\n_An after-work beer with the boys, honey. Just unwinding from a long, hard day of making money to feed your kids_.\n\nMy ass, Debbie thought, bitterly. She knew he was probably drunk and fucking that new girl from the office in some sleazy Lauderhill motel or on a beach towel in the backseat of his car. The receptionist named Michelle that he swore up and down didn't work at his office, even though that's who'd answered the phone yesterday when Debbie had called to check.\n\nDebbie rubbed her throbbing temples and lit another cigarette. She looked around the family room, littered with crap the kids hadn't cleaned up, including petrified cereal bowls leftover from breakfast, video games, clothes and stacks of crumpled school papers pulled out of book bags and thrown wherever. When Liza did feel like coming home, she loved to dump whatever she didn't want to wear or carry anywhere she felt like it. And then there was the other prince in the house, Bradley. Thanks to his dad's testosterone-fueled edict that housework was a woman's job, he didn't lift a finger to pick up his shit, either. After working another nine-hour shift, this is what Debbie got to come home to \u2013 a messy house, a rat-bastard husband, kids who drained every last bit of energy from her body. And of course, no respect. Now, after she'd just gotten through what she hoped was the worst with the oldest, Elaine was gonna try and give her patience a run for the money. She shook her head and slapped the newspaper off the couch. This was not how life was supposed to have turned out. On cue, her mother chimed in down the hall.\n\nRosey, the kids' Golden Retriever, walked in with a big bear stuffed in her mouth, and nuzzled her head on Debbie's lap. Rosey stole every loose sock and stuffed animal in the house. This time it was Elaine's ratty, old, teddy bear, Claude. She must have pulled it off Elaine's bed. Lainey never went to sleep without him. She was thirteen going on thirty, maybe, but she still needed her teddy to go to sleep. Debbie pushed back the bad thoughts that kept trying to force their way into her head. She fingered the numbers on the cordless beside her, wondering if maybe she should call the police. But then she remembered from her escapades with Liza what life was like once you got the cops involved. Once they were in your fucking business, they never got out. Never. Instead, she tried Todd's cell again. 'Where the fuck are you?' she barked when her husband told her to leave a message at the tone and he would get back to her as soon as he was able.\n\n_As soon as I've dismounted my invisible receptionist with the great boob job whose name is not Michelle, I'll be sure to call you back. Beeeeeep_.\n\nShe probably slept over that new friend's house, Debbie told herself. What was her name? The one Lainey went to the movies with? Carly? Karen? That was probably it. Maybe she'd even told her she was gonna be sleeping over. It was so crazy this morning, trying to get them all out of the house and herself off to work, she probably just didn't remember Elaine telling her, is all. And the reason she's not answering her cell? That one's easy. Because she never fucking charges it, that's why. No surprise there.\n\nDebbie pulled Claude from Rosey's mouth and wiped the dog spit off on the cuff of her robe. She finished off the last of her beer with a single swallow and cracked open another from the portable cooler next to the couch. Then she turned up the volume on the TV, absently rocking the mangy teddy in her arms just as Conan O'Brien started his monologue and the clock began to count down yet another half-hour of her life.\nThis is the way nightmares begin. Or perhaps, end.\n\nRod Sterling, _The Twilight Zone_\n\n#\n\nThe rumble of a lawn mower going right past his bedroom window was what woke Florida Department of Law Enforcement (FDLE) Special Agent Supervisor Bobby Dees from the weird dream he'd finally slipped into. For a few seconds his exhausted brain scrambled to reconcile the sound with the strange golf game he'd been playing with his dead dad. A groundskeeper mowing distant swales on the eighteenth, perhaps? A low-flying jet? The rumble slowly faded off, a hush grew over the excited crowd, his dad lined up the putt...\n\nThen his neighbor turned the John Deere back around.\n\nIt was no use. Bobby lifted a lid. The sun streaks that squeezed through the drawn blinds were tinged a soft pink. He looked over at the nightstand clock: 9:03 a.m. That was when he remembered it was Sunday.\n\nHe rolled over with a grunt and the new John Grisham he'd fallen asleep reading slipped off his chest, hitting the floor with a thump. His wife's side of the bed was warm, but empty. He heard the door to the bathroom shut softly with a click. The shower turned on a few seconds later. LuAnn's shift at the hospital didn't start till ten, but especially on weekends she liked to get in a little early, have a cup of coffee and read the paper in the cafeteria before taking on an ER still chock-full of Saturday-night drunks and car-crash victims.\n\nBobby pulled a pillow over his head and lay there with his eyes closed for a few minutes, reluctant to accept the fact that he was now awake. The last time he remembered looking over at the clock it had read 5:49 a.m. The rumble of the mower slowly faded away like the ending of a song on the radio, the crowd on the green quieted once again and he started to drift back off...\n\nThen his Nextel rang.\n\nUgh. He grabbed the cell off the nightstand and pulled it under the pillow with him. 'Dees,' he grumbled.\n\n'Man, you sound like shit,' replied the familiar voice on the other end with a chuckle. 'What's up there, brother? Somebody piss in your cornflakes?'\n\n'What's up? Why don't you tell me what's up at, ah, nine-fucking-o'clock on a Sunday morning, Zo?'\n\nLorenzo 'Zo' Dias was the recently promoted Assistant Special Agent in Charge of the FDLE Regional Operations Center in Miami \u2013 aka: Bobby's boss. 'Hate to tell you this, but last night was Daylight Savings. Fall-back,' Zo returned. 'It's eight-fucking-o'clock.'\n\n'Where's my gun?'\n\n'Don't tell me you ain't up yet...'\n\n'I sure as hell am now.' Bobby sat up and rubbed his head. 'There goes your overtime budget, Boss. I'm officially back on the clock.'\n\n'What if I wanted to see if you were up to hitting a few on the Blue Monster this morning?'\n\nBobby yawned. 'Now I know I'm coming in. Your balls couldn't find a hole with a map, a flashlight and a personal guide. When was the last time you played golf?'\n\nBobby and Zo had been good friends long before Zo had begun his lonely ascent up the FDLE chain of command. They'd met in the FDLE agent academy almost a decade ago \u2013 Zo had retired early from the Miami Beach Police Department to become a special agent; Bobby had decided he'd had enough of New York and the bullshit politics of the NYPD and had headed south for better weather and a slower change of pace, which was rather ironic, considering hurricanes had become almost as commonplace as thunderstorms in South Florida and his caseload in the Crimes Against Children squad was double what it was as a Robbery detective in Queens. But he and Zo had stayed close throughout the years and the titles, and even through all the crazy administrative bullshit of the past few months. Zo was one of very few guys Bobby had met in his career who had successfully managed becoming a good boss while remaining a good friend. Most people, he'd found, turned into assholes before the ink dried on their promotion paperwork, throwing colleagues under the bus just to show some stuffed shirt in Tallahassee that they could. Of course, Zo had only been an ASAC for six months...\n\nZo sighed. 'You got me. I'd rather have my teeth cleaned than chase balls smaller than my own around a big green lawn. G'head and call me un-American. I'll see you in thirty.'\n\n'What's up?'\n\n'We got a kid gone missing after school Friday,' Zo replied, growing serious. 'Thirteen-year-old Elaine Louise Emerson out in Coral Springs. Looks like a runaway, but we're dotting I's and crossing T's. Springs PD asked for assistance. You know the drill.'\n\nUnfortunately, that was true. Bobby did know the drill. Missing kid. Parents call in the locals. Locals call in FDLE. FDLE calls in him. First twenty-four hours is critical, which meant they were already way behind schedule. He rubbed his eyes. Bobby had gotten the same phone call too many times before. Nobody knew better than he that with missing kids nothing was routine and rarely did things ever turn out 'looking like' everyone had said they would. 'Has anyone called the Clearinghouse?' he asked, referring to the Missing Child Information Clearinghouse.\n\n'Party's waiting on you. Mom just called it in late last night. Waited almost two days for the kid to get home from some sleep-over. Says she figured her daughter was maybe staying over a friend's house.' Zo sighed with annoyance. 'Don't ask me why she waited till almost midnight to call the kid's friends and find out whose house she was fucking sleeping at. Unfortunately, brother, ya don't need a license to be a parent.'\n\nThere was a brief, uncomfortable, silence.\n\n'You know what I'm saying,' Zo tried when Bobby didn't say anything.\n\n'Where am I going?'\n\n'Let's meet at the house. You can talk to the parents, get a feel. If you don't like what you hear, call it in. It's 11495 NW 41st Street. FYI, that's Section 45.'\n\n'Section 45' was code for 'Shitsville'. Coral Springs was a sprawling suburb stuck out in the middle of what was not so long ago considered nowhere. Kissing the Everglades twenty miles to the west of Fort Lauderdale and forty-five miles northwest of Miami, Coral Springs' dirt roads had all been paved over into four-lane highways and its bean farms replaced with gated communities, office parks and, of course, a Starbucks on every corner. Voted one of the top places in the US to live by _Money_ magazine, like any growing city, Coral Springs also had its share of problem pockets and rough neighborhoods that town commissioners would rather see annexed to some other city's limits. 'Section 45' was one of them.\n\n'All right,' Bobby said, reaching for the _People_ magazine on LuAnn's nightstand and jotting down the address across John Travolta's forehead. 'I'll be there in a half. What? You don't have anything better to do on a Sunday than hang with me? Does misery love company that much?'\n\n'Trent asked me to go along, since the Springs chief called him in special. Like I said, they're saying runaway, they just want us to dot their I's and cross their T's for 'em. You know, they're not in need of any more bad publicity out there.'\n\nTrent was Trenton Foxx, the new FDLE Miami Regional Director \u2013 aka: The Really Big Boss. 'All right,' Bobby replied with a yawn. 'It'll be like old times, Boss. I'll pick up the coffee.'\n\n'Make it three cups. Another FYI, Veso will be meeting us there, too.'\n\nBobby pretended he didn't hear that last bit of news and hit the 'end' button before he said something to Friend Zo that Boss Zo wasn't gonna like much. Frank Veso was just the latest in a string of green agents that had transferred down to Miami from some other bum-fuck part of the state to take a stab at his job. Not that he had anything against Veso personally \u2013 hell, he didn't even know the guy \u2013 but it was growing real old real fast having to teach the lines to all the understudies gunning for his position as Special Agent Supervisor. It was no secret that the new regional director wanted 'a change' in Crimes Against Children \u2013 namely SAS Bobby Dees out and an 'as yet to be named' replacement in. But the reality was, no matter how good the raise or prestigious the title, in the end, no one really _wanted_ Bobby's job, and Bobby, Zo and the director all knew it. To date, all the wannabes who had headed south to try their hand at a new job description had high-tailed it right back to the FDLE Regional Operations Center they'd transferred in from. Because while working Crimes Against Children might get your face on TV more than running down unscrupulous accountants, it was always for a really bad reason. Beaten kids. Exploited kids. Abused kids. Missing kids. Dead kids. For most cops, the carrot at the end of an investigation was knowing justice had been served \u2013 the bad guy caught and locked up tight behind bars, the case closed nice and neat. Car stolen. Car returned. Defendant off streets. Victim happy. But with child predators, often you opened your investigation with one victim and ended it with a few dozen. And even when you sent the scumbag to jail for a couple of decades and the case was closed out and put in a box on a shelf, you never really felt it was over. You could never be sure you got all the victims. And because kids generally made for crappy witnesses, and parents didn't want their babies to have to go through any more trauma, sometimes a cop never tasted the carrot at all \u2013 a slap on the wrist and long-term probation was the only justice being served on the courthouse menu. Working Crimes Against Children was like pulling off a Band-Aid and debriding what you thought was a scratch \u2013 only to find out under the scab was an infection that was a hell of a lot worse than anything you'd ever imagined. The layers of healthy flesh it had rotted away, unchecked, was horrifying. Only then did you begin to understand just how pervasive evil really was. Only then did you understand that for the smallest and most innocent of victims, the nightmare that would last a lifetime was only just beginning. And at the end of the day or the apprenticeship, few cops could handle that reality, no matter how much bigger the paycheck or how bright the limelight shone down on their careers.\n\nBobby got out of bed, opened the blinds and looked out the window. Outside, his wooly-chested, red-faced neighbor, Chet, was dragging the mower back into the garage. In another driveway he spotted a purple jogging stroller and a determined new mom stretching her Achilles against a curb. The twin toddlers next door were probably popping fistfuls of Cheerios, their wide eyes glued to Sponge Bob. If he stuck his head out the window, he could smell the bacon frying and the coffee brewing on this sunny Sunday morning. Inside his own home, the shower had turned off, and the silence was almost deafening.\n\nGood morning, Suburbia. Bobby watched with a bitter twinge of contempt as everyone's life went on as usual, as if nothing at all was wrong in the world. Rising gas prices, falling stock prices and a war being fought six thousand miles away by kids they didn't know anyway, were just mildly worrisome headlines in the morning's paper. Then it was on to the sports page for last night's stats and the travel section for some fun ideas on next summer's vacation.\n\nSnug in their lucky little cocoons, where really bad things only happened to somebody else. Or better yet, to really bad people who really deserved them. Unaware and completely unaffected by the cold fact that somebody else's child had just gone missing among them.\n\n#\n\n'I thought you were gonna try and sleep in,' LuAnn said into the mirror, mouth open and mascara brush in hand, when he stepped into the bathroom.\n\n'Try's the magic word. Who the hell can sleep through that?' Bobby grabbed the tube of Crest off the counter, watching as LuAnn went back to finishing her face. Her short robe clung to the curves of her damp body, glistening with freesia-scented lotion. Against the stark white cotton, her muscular legs looked even more tan than they normally did. The robe was slightly open in the front, tied loosely at the waist, exposing the pale curve of one of her breasts, her flat, toned stomach. At thirty-nine, his wife still had an incredible body. Just looking at her standing there, doing her make-up, stirred things in him, both emotionally and physically. LuAnn always had that power over him, from the moment they'd met under the blinding fluorescents of Jamaica Hospital's trauma room. It was her face that had calmed him, her words that had made sense as he lay on that cold, steel table, bleeding out from the gunshot wound that had severed his brachial artery. Bobby hadn't remembered much when he'd woken up days later in a hospital room full of anxious buddies in NYPD blue jackets, still groggy from all the drugs and weakened by the infection that had routed his body, but he couldn't forget her \u2013 the dark blonde with the Midori green eyes and light, melodic Southern drawl. He could still hear her whispers in his head, the bright lights of the trauma room backlighting her head like a halo.\n\n_Officer Dees..._\n\n_Dees..._\n\n_Bobby, come on, now_.\n\n_Don't be going nowhere on me, Bobby..._\n\n_Just stay right here... right here... with me... stay_...\n\nHe knew her the instant she walked into his room the morning he was being discharged. She had an angelic face that perfectly suited her name, he'd thought. LuAnn Briggs, the tag on her uniform read. LuAnn \u2013 sweet, simple, soft, Southern, delicate, bubbly, delicious. When she'd sat on the edge of his hospital bed and explained how she wasn't even supposed to have been working the night he was brought in, how it was only her second day in the ER, how she'd checked on him every night when he was in the coma, he knew his life would forever change. He proposed three months later. They were married that same year, ten days before Christmas. This December would mark eighteen years. He shook the distant memories out of his head and turned back to the sink.\n\n'You should talk to Chet,' LuAnn said, waving the mascara brush in his direction. 'I have to get up, but you don't. It's not right on a Sunday, especially with your insomnia.'\n\nHe squirted a gob of Crest on to the brush. 'Helen told me he's OCD.'\n\n'That's no excuse.'\n\nBobby nodded in the mirror, staring at his own reflection. He looked like shit. The silver hairs in his morning gruff looked like they were beginning to outnumber the brown ones. And the laugh lines that feathered out from his blue eyes had apparently decided to take up permanent residence \u2013 whether or not he had anything to laugh about. What turned distinguished into disheveled? He was forty by, what? A couple of months? Daily five-mile runs and twice weekly trips to the gym kept the stress at bay and the pounds off, but he knew the mileage was definitely starting to show. It was only a matter of time. The fact that he just didn't sleep any more wasn't helping. The past year alone had aged him ten.\n\nLuAnn dropped the mascara into her make-up bag, and leaned against the sink, pulling her robe closed and folding her arms across her chest. 'Any reason you're all dressed up?'\n\nEven on that rare Sunday Bobby did go to church, it was usually in jeans and a T-shirt. The pressed black slacks, white dress shirt and gray silk tie slung around his neck were a clear indication something was up. No one had died and nobody was getting married \u2013 it wasn't too hard to figure out he was headed to a scene. He wiped his mouth on a hand towel, reached for the shaving cream and turned on the hot water. Steam fogged the mirror. 'I gotta go in,' he said quietly.\n\n'I thought you were taking some time off this week,' she tried.\n\n'I was. But I gotta go in.'\n\nShe stared blankly at him in the mirror, her face blurring from the steam, waiting for the rest of the explanation that he knew she didn't want to hear.\n\nHe turned to face her. 'There's a kid,' he explained softly. 'She didn't come home from school Friday.'\n\nLuAnn said nothing. She just kept staring straight at him. Through him. Like the lyrics go from a bad song, there once was a time when he could feel himself getting lost in those green eyes. Eyes that just made you want to kiss her when you looked at them long enough. Now they stared at him, cold and empty. Concealor barely hid the dark circles and the stress fractures that feathered out from the corners. They were standing only a couple of feet apart, but there might as well have been a mountain between them in that small bathroom.\n\n'It looks like a runaway.'\n\n'Oh,' she muttered with a blink and headed past him into the bedroom.\n\nHe shaved while she got dressed in silence. He stepped back into the bedroom just as she was tying her shoes on the bench by the foot of the bed. He finished buttoning his shirt and doing his tie, then slipped his badge around his neck and clipped the gun belt to his side. Out of respect, he waited until she went back into the bathroom and out of sight before he unlocked the gun safe, took out the Glock and slid it into the holster. He knew it got her upset to see it. It always had, even when he'd gone back into uniform after his shoulder had healed. He was probably the only guy on the NYPD back then whose girl _wasn't_ turned on by the fact that her boyfriend was a cop. It wasn't that LuAnn hated guns or was a gun-control nut, it was just that she hated to see _him_ with a gun. She said it reminded her what he had to do all day, and why it was he needed a gun to do it.\n\nHe slipped on a sports jacket and walked back into the bathroom. She was standing in front of the mirror just staring at the image before her. As he came up behind her, she started to mechanically brush her wet hair. His hand found her shoulder and rubbed it gently. 'Don't work too hard. See you tonight, Belle,' he said into the mirror, then kissed her softly on the cheek.\n\nBelle, for Belle of the ball. His sweet Southern Belle. LuAnn just nodded and kept brushing. Her skin felt cold and slightly damp, like the inside of a window pane on a snowy day.\n\nHe walked out of the bathroom, grabbed his car keys and cell off the nightstand, and headed down the hall, past the framed family pictures that covered practically every inch of the honey-colored walls. The last door at the end was slightly ajar, a battered street sign affixed to it warned 'Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted'. Inside the bubble-gum pink room, the morning sun warmed the dozens of teddy bears posed neatly atop a metallic silver comforter. A stack of laundered, folded clothes sat on the desk chair, still waiting to be hung up. He stopped to pull the door closed, his hand lingering on the cold doorknob for just a second. A million thoughts rushed him and he quickly pushed them back out of his head.\n\nAs he rounded the banister and hurried down the stairs, he licked his dry lips. They tasted salty. That's when he knew for sure she'd been crying.\n\n#\n\nNo media trucks, no mob of flashing patrol cars, no flock of hovering 'copters.\n\nThat was the first thing Bobby noticed as he pulled his Grand Am in front of the tired white ranch. Atop a sagging roof, a faded blue tarp flapped in the breeze, a bike lay propped against a plastic car port. Down the block, a group of kids laughed and joked as they skateboarded into air off home-made ramps. Obviously the failure of some teenager to come home after a weekend of partying was not on anyone's radar.\n\n'Hey there, Dapper Dan,' Zo called, tapping on the car's back window. He walked up to the driver's side and leaned in, a toothpick stuck in the corner of his mouth, his eyes hidden behind Ray-Bans. He wore khakis and a light blue dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, the collar open and tie loose, like he was about to work on a car or deliver a baby. It was obvious Zo felt more comfortable in flip-flops and shorts. He fingered the lapel of Bobby's sports jacket. 'That real polyester?'\n\n'Very funny. I'd lie and say it's Armani, but the joke would be lost on you. What's with the stick, Kojak?' Bobby asked, opening the door and stepping out.\n\nZo sighed. 'I quit smoking.'\n\n'Yeah? Since when?'\n\n'Yesterday.'\n\n'I thought you were trying to quit drinking.'\n\n'Nah. I gave up on that. Camilla said she'd rather have me drunk than dead of cancer. I've been told I'm a lot of fun at a party.'\n\n'I'll second that.'\n\n'I've eaten a whole fucking box since last night. Not a single butt, though.' Zo spit the gnawed toothpick to the ground and popped another one into his mouth.\n\n'What about those patches? They're supposed to work.'\n\nZo pushed up the sleeve of his shirt. Three flesh-colored squares dotted a muscular bicep the size of Bobby's thigh. The silver hair on Zo's buzzed head might betray his forty-five years, but his body sure as hell didn't. He trained the new agents in tactical defense, headed up the Special Response Team \u2013 FDLE's version of SWAT \u2013 and was very much a physically commanding and intimidating presence both in the office and out in the field. When Zo said, 'Jump!' most guys simply asked, 'How high, sir?'\n\nBobby shook his head. 'In other words, don't fuck with you today.' He looked at the house. 'OK. What am I walking into?'\n\n'Just got here myself. Haven't been inside yet. Waiting on Veso. By the way, don't hang up on me again,' Zo said, with a frown and a wag of his finger as he pulled out a notepad from his pocket. He leaned back against the hood of Bobby's car. 'Elaine Louise Emerson. DOB, 8\/27\/96. Brown hair, brown eyes, five feet tall, about ninety-five pounds. A seventh grader at Sawgrass Middle.' He held up a color copy of what was obviously a school portrait of a young, lanky girl seated behind a desk, her hands folded in front of her, with long, frizzy hair the color of coffee ice cream. Light brown eyes were hidden behind glasses that were just a little too big for her face. She was smiling, but didn't show her teeth, which probably meant she either hated them because they were crooked, or she had braces. She didn't necessarily look like a geek, but she was definitely in that awkward adolescent stage of not being a little girl any more, and yet still years away from becoming a woman. 'That was the fax that came in this morning,' Zo finished, handing him the copy.\n\n'August twenty-seven, huh?' Bobby said. 'That's my birthday.'\n\n'And what a party we had. I think you stayed out till, what? Eleven?'\n\n'Is this recent?' Bobby asked, ignoring the jab. 'She looks young for thirteen.' 'That's from fifth grade, I'm told.'\n\n'Elementary school? Two years is a world of difference at this age, ya know.'\n\n'Mom's looking for something more recent.'\n\nBobby thought of LuAnn and the pictures she covered every wall in the house with. The library of photo albums that she kept in the family room. If you stacked them all together and flipped through them fast enough, it would probably run like a flip-book movie of their daughter, Katy's, whole life. There would be no missing pieces. No empty gap of memories for two years that she'd have to go searching for...\n\n'I'm told she's inside and she's pretty pissed off,' Zo added.\n\n'At who?'\n\n'The kid, the cops, the husband \u2013 you name it. You're up next,' he warned. 'Debra Marie LaManna, age thirty-six. She works at Ring-a-Ling Answering Service in Tamarac.'\n\n'Dad?'\n\n'Stepdad, aka hubby number three. Todd Anthony LaManna, age forty-four. CarMax Salesman of the Month,' Zo said, raising an eyebrow. 'In fact, he's working right now.'\n\n'I'm guessing he's not too worried about little Elaine,' Bobby said.\n\n'I'm thinking that'd be a good guess.'\n\n'Real dad?'\n\n'California somewhere. No one's heard from him in a couple of years. Mom's got three kids: Liza Emerson, age sixteen, Bradley LaManna, son of our used car salesman, is eight, and Elaine, the one who's missing, is thirteen by, as you can attest, a couple of weeks. Latch-key kids.'\n\n'Anyone call the hospitals?'\n\n'Done. Nothing.'\n\nBobby looked over at the weathered and faded cardboard boxes stacked up along the side of the house. Moving boxes. 'How long have they all been living here?'\n\n'Both Mom and Step changed their DL address to this house in June. They're renting. Records place them before that in another rental in Ramblewood, a couple of miles from here.'\n\n'Any history?'\n\n'Not with this kid. But cops have been out to both houses a few times. Once for a domestic and a few times for the sixteen-year-old. She's been in trouble for drinking, marijuana possession, truancy. The latest last month was a burglary. It was dropped to trespassing on school property.'\n\n'Ouch. A bad apple?'\n\n'Spoils the whole friggin' barrel,' Zo replied. 'Sis has also hit the road before. Miami-Dade picked her up on an NCIC missing juvi report a few months ago down in Little Havana, hanging with some boys from the Latin Kings at two in the morning.'\n\nNCIC stood for the National Crime Information Center, a nationwide criminal information system for law enforcement. 'That's not good company to be keeping,' Bobby replied, kicking the curb. The lawn was overgrown by a couple of weeks. The edging longer than that. 'Who's working it inside?'\n\n'Springs GIU responded last night when Mom finally decided to call it in.' GIU stood for the General Investigations Unit, an all-purpose detective squad. 'Bill Dagher and Troy Bigley. You know 'em?'\n\nBobby shook his head. He knew most every cop in South Florida who worked Crimes Against Children or Special Victims. The fact that he hadn't heard those two names before probably said more than if he had.\n\n'They peg the kid for a runaway. The Springs chief called Trenton this morning for assistance to clear it. You know, after the shit storm that hit last year with that Jarvis girl, CYA is the name of the game in this town.'\n\nCYA as in Cover Your Ass. Bobby nodded. Normally, only endangered missing kids (i.e. snatched) were investigated by FDLE, not runaways. With fifty thousand kids hitting the pavement each year in the state, there just wasn't enough manpower to go looking for every kid who didn't want to be found. The locals usually handled their own, calling in FDLE and the Clearinghouse for assistance on abductions, endangered runaways and exceptional cases. But then came the Jarvis debacle.\n\nMakala Jarvis was fifteen when she was first reported missing to the Coral Springs PD by her grandmother. Two days after cops took the report, Mom called, claiming Makala had returned home. Without verification, the case was closed and Makala's name was removed from NCIC as a missing juvenile, even though Grandma kept insisting Makala hadn't really come back home. It was two years before a school resource officer finally listened to the old woman and put Makala's name back into NCIC. Within a month, the skeletal remains of a young female found stuffed in a suitcase and floating in the St John's River eighteen months prior were finally identified. Makala Jarvis had died from blunt-force trauma to the head. The subsequent homicide investigation revealed that Makala had been scheduled to testify against Momma's boyfriend in a domestic violence case just two weeks before Grandma initially reported her missing. A conviction would've violated boyfriend's parole and sent him back to Florida State Prison for twenty years. Mom didn't want to lose her meal ticket, and since cops don't go looking for people who aren't missing, Makala's name wasn't even on the list of possible victims back when her body was fished out of the water. She sat, unidentified, in a black evidence bag on a shelf at the Medical Examiner's Office in Duval County for almost two years.\n\nThe fallout from Jarvis was bad. The reporting Coral Springs detective was fired, virtually the whole General Investigations Unit was reassigned to road patrol, and the department took a beating in the press. And a new departmental policy was instituted: Cover Your Ass. But for that new policy, most likely Bobby would never have even heard the name Elaine Emerson. 'Assistance to clear it' was code for 'we already investigated, just sign off on the report already.'\n\n'Where was stepdad on Friday?' Bobby asked.\n\n'Out with the boys. Or girls. The Mrs says he stumbled home around three. Stumbled was actually my word. Pulling from personal experience, I think most people are stumbling when they get home at three in the morning.'\n\n'Anybody interview him yet?'\n\n'Not yet. He got home too late last night and left too early this morning. Given the shit he's had to put up with from stepdaughter _numero uno_ , maybe he's expecting the same from this one, and thinks, \"Fuck that, I'm going to work and getting the hell out of Dodge.\"'\n\n'One rotten apple...' Bobby said softly.\n\n'Spoils the whole friggin' barrel.' Zo flipped his notebook closed.\n\nBobby looked at the overgrown lawn, the overflowing garbage, the house in need of a paint job. Didn't look like Todd LaManna liked to come home much at all. 'Your boy Veso's late, Boss,' he said, glancing at his watch. ''Fraid he's gonna have to hear what he missed out on at briefing,' he called out as he started up the cement walk. 'The morning's getting away from us and I wanna find out where the hell this kid is.'\n\n#\n\n'I think her name was Karen or Carla.' Debra LaManna shifted on the mauve sectional, and reached for another Marlboro, even though there was a crushed butt still smoldering in the ashtray on the cushion next to her. A thin haze of blue smoke hung in the modest, but cluttered, family room. 'It was only a movie she was going to, for Christ's sake,' she added with a roll of her eyes. 'Sorry if I didn't think to get the kid's social security number she was going with.'\n\nBobby studied the slight woman with the bony, freckled cheeks and mistrusting stare across from him. Her pin-straight, long brown hair was pulled off her face and into a low ponytail, which she draped over her shoulder and absently stroked like a cat's tail. She looked tired and stressed, but for a mom whose kid's been MIA going on two days, what she didn't look was sad. No red-rimmed eyes. No messed-up make-up from crying rivers of tears. No look of rabid panic or fear. Just plenty of anger, which radiated from her thin frame like a force field. The message was clear: Boy, was little Elaine gonna get it \u2013 if and when she finally decided to come home.\n\n'Sometimes it's the one question that wasn't asked,' Bobby replied, looking around the room. Bill Dagher, the Coral Springs detective, stood over by the kitchen, texting on his cell. As far as the locals were concerned, this investigation was over: the report had been taken and Elaine Louise Emerson's name entered into NCIC as a missing juvi. The kid didn't want to come home, plain and simple, and one look at the mom and the history on the sis gave them a pretty good idea why. It was up to a social worker with the Department of Children and Families to fix what made her want to leave in the first place. 'Did she tell you what class they were in?' Bobby asked. 'Where the girl lived? A last name? Did she maybe mention a theater or the name of the movie they were going to?'\n\nDebbie blew a plume of smoke in his face. 'No, no, no and no.'\n\nThe more questions Debbie LaManna didn't know the answer to, the more she felt judged as a shitty mother, the more she clammed up. Not quite the distraught, 'I'll do anything I can to help you find her' reaction one might expect, but then again, if ten years heading up Crimes Against Children had taught Bobby anything, it was that there was no 'right' way to behave when a kid disappears. He'd watched perfect moms sob perfectly on national television, begging for help in finding their babies, only to cuff the same cold-hearted bitches a few hours later in an interrogation room. He'd also seen the polar opposite \u2013 the reserved, seemingly heartless mother who can't cry. The one whose indifference is viewed as most suspicious in the eyes of the public-at-large. The one who holds every emotion tightly in check because, Bobby knew, like a shattered vase gingerly held together with glue, if you removed just one piece, just one, then all the others would collapse and you'd never be able to put it back together again. So no reaction \u2013 or lack thereof \u2013 was ever 'normal' in these investigations. But even if he wasn't necessarily reading 'sinister' in Debra LaManna's overt hostility, it still wasn't a good feeling to dislike the parent of the kid you were looking for. In this instance, it just made it that much easier to see why the girl might've left in the first place.\n\n'And none of Elaine's friends who you've contacted' \u2013 he looked down at his notepad to read back the names \u2013 'Molly Brosnan, Melissa and Erica Weber, Theresa M. \u2013 none of them know this girl Karen\/Carly or how to get in touch with her?'\n\nDebbie sighed loudly. 'Like I said, it's a different school than last year. Melissa, Erica, Molly \u2013 those girls are Lainey's friends from the old house.'\n\n'Lainey? That's Elaine's nickname?' Zo piped in from his seat on a fold-up chair next to the couch where he'd been sitting quietly for most of the interview.\n\nDebra shrugged. 'Her friends call her that.'\n\n'New house, new school, new friends. How'd Lainey feel about all that change?' Bobby asked.\n\nDebra rolled her eyes again. 'Please. She wasn't happy about it. Is that what you wanna hear? That she was unhappy? OK. She was unhappy. Drama, drama, drama. It's all about the drama at this age. She had to leave her friends a few miles away and change schools, but we all have to make sacrifices. If that's the worst shit she had to face as a kid, then she's damn lucky.'\n\n'What about boyfriends?' Bobby asked.\n\n'She doesn't have a boyfriend.'\n\n'You're sure? Is there a boy she likes, maybe?'\n\nDebbie cut him off with a dismissive wave. 'I'm very sure.'\n\nBehind where she sat on the couch Bobby could see into the kitchen. Empty beer bottles dotted the countertop and spilled out of the top of the garbage can. He'd already spotted the portable cooler next to the couch. 'Does Elaine do any drugs? Drink alcohol?'\n\nShe stared at him like he had three heads. 'Look, if you just call some of the girls in her new school, you'll find her. Just do some police work and call the principal and have him give you a class list or something. I can even look it over and see if I recognize the name or something. You know, maybe I'll recognize it if I see it? I'm sure Elaine is at that girl's house, I'm sure she's not doing crack or drinking, and I'm sure I can deal with her once she's back home. I just need some help in getting those names, you know?'\n\nEven with an older kid who'd run amok, the lady was still wearing a sturdy pair of parent blinders. She might not have come out and said it, but if Bobby had a buck for every time he heard a parent tell him, 'My kid wouldn't do that,' he'd be a millionaire. _My kid wouldn't have sex at fourteen. My kid wouldn't do meth. My kid wouldn't smoke. My kid wouldn't drive drunk. My kid wouldn't shoplift_. Statistics say 80 per cent of teens have screwed up in at least one of the above categories, but not My Kid. Like the invisible ghost 'Not Me' who wreaked havoc in the Family Circle comic strip, it was always Somebody Else who was a fuck-up or a bad influence. There wasn't much more he was going to extract from the lady.\n\n'Where's your husband?' Zo asked.\n\n'Work.'\n\n'Where was he Friday night?' Bobby asked.\n\n'Don't know, don't care,' Debbie replied icily. 'And I'm thinking that's none of you all's business, seeing that Elaine's the one who didn't come home.'\n\nOuch. He'd definitely hit a nerve, but Debra LaManna wasn't giving up anything to the cops without a fight, including dirt on her cheating spouse. 'We'll need to talk to him,' Bobby replied, closing his notebook. Then added, 'I'm not gonna beat around the bush, Mrs LaManna. I know you've had some problems with your older daughter, so let me ask you, is there a reason why Lainey might not want to come back home?'\n\nDebbie's eyes flared like a cornered animal. 'You cops are something else! I don't know who the hell you think you are. Because my older daughter's a piece of shit means my younger one is, too? Means I'm a horrible mother and the kids just can't wait to get away from me?'\n\nThe grandfather clock started to chime the hours down the hall and no one said anything.\n\nDebbie stroked the ponytail, eyes focused on her lap. She sucked in a sniffle. It was the closest thing to an emotion Bobby had seen besides pissed off. 'Just find her. Please,' she said finally in a small voice.\n\n'That's what we're trying to do,' Bobby replied softly. 'Does Elaine have access to a computer?'\n\n'In her room. Todd gave her his when we moved.'\n\n'What's her email address?'\n\n'Damned if I know. I don't email her.'\n\n'Does she have a MySpace? Facebook? An AOL networking account?'\n\n'What?' she asked. It was obvious Debbie didn't know what he was talking about. Most parents didn't. Obviously, no one had asked her that question yet. But then, Bobby suddenly caught a flicker of something other than confusion in her brown eyes. A flash of fear, perhaps, like the mother of a toddler who's wandered out of sight in the backyard suddenly remembers that her neighbor has an in-ground pool. _MySpace, Facebook, AOL_. A creepy mental picture had popped into Debra LaManna's head, perhaps from newspaper articles she'd read or _Dateline_ segments she'd caught, expounding the dangers of the internet for kids. 'No, no,' she said, defiantly, catching herself, not letting her thoughts go there. 'Elaine's allowed to use the computer for homework, and some video games \u2013 that's it.'\n\n'Do you mind then if we take a look at the computer, as well as her room?' Bobby asked.\n\nShe shrugged again. The fear was dismissed as quickly as it had surfaced. The lone tear had dried up. _My Kid wouldn'tdo that. My Kid knows not to go in the pool when an adult's not around_. 'G'head. It's a mess. She's a slob, you know.'\n\n'Thanks for your cooperation, Debbie,' Bobby finished, rising.\n\n'Third room on the left,' she answered without looking up, as she crushed out another cigarette.\n\n#\n\nThumb-tacked posters of Robert Pattinson and Taylor Lautner from _Twilight_ movie fame, Jesse McCartney and most of the cast from the TV show _Heroes_ covered light pink walls. The twin bed was not just unmade \u2013 it was everywhere, as if it had exploded when the alarm clock went off. Cardboard boxes filled with books, comics, trophies and what looked like miscellaneous junk were pushed against the walls. Clothes spilled from others. Obviously Elaine had not completely unpacked yet from her move. The drawers were not emptied, but Bobby knew it would be pointless to ask Mom what, if anything, was missing.\n\nThe computer sat on a cluttered desktop. Back when Bobby was in high school, the telephone and good, old-fashioned note-passing were the communication methods of choice. Now it was all about email, texting, IMing, blogging. All you ever wanted to know about most teens could be found either in their cell phones or somewhere on the hard drive of their computer. And, more specifically, usually on a MySpace or Facebook page \u2013 social-networking sites which allow subscribers, notoriously teens and young adults, the opportunity to have their own 'space' on the World Wide Web. A place where they could post pictures, 'blog' their thoughts, voice their worries, pontificate on politics or global warming or yesterday's hangover, identify their hobbies, list their friends and name their enemies. It was all there \u2013 down to addresses, birthdays, telephone numbers, schools, places of work and where they'd be hanging out on Friday night. A treasure trove of information \u2013 you just had to know where to look. Which was the problem with most parents \u2013 they didn't have a clue. Technology had stepped on the gas in the last fifteen years and left most of them way behind, still fiddling with the 'start' button on their Windows Explorer.\n\nHe flipped on the computer and sifted through the pile of papers on the desk as it warmed up: Poems, math problems, science worksheets, a Social Studies test with a big D on it, doodle sheets filled with red hearts. Finding a printout with Elaine's email address would sure make life a lot easier than a search-and-guess game. Colored pencil drawings of pandas and ferrets decorated the inside of the desk's hutch. Pretty impressive, Bobby thought, for a kid who'd just turned thirteen. If school continued to bottom out, all hope wasn't lost; the girl had serious potential as an artist.\n\nNo email info in the stack. He opened the browser on her internet engine and pulled down the list of sites visited; www.myspace.com popped up first. That meant it was the last site visited. That meant she had an account. On the MySpace homepage he fiddled with name combinations under the search button. He was pretty good at what he did; after only a couple of tries he found what looked like her under her nickname.\n\n*LAINEY*\n\n**Headline:** | **VAMPIRES AND FERRETS RULE!!!!** \n---|--- \n**Orientation:** | **Straight** \n**Here For:** | **Friends!** \n**Gender:** | **Female** \n**Age:** | **16** \n**Location:** | **Coral Springs, Florida.** \n**Profile Updated:** | **October 22, 2009**\n\nThe wrong age didn't faze him. To join MySpace you had to promise you were fourteen or older and enter a birthday accordingly. There were no stats, but he'd be willing to guess that a good chunk of the 'teens' on MySpace were closer to eleven or twelve. He'd interviewed kids as young as eight or nine who'd had MySpace pages, with profiles that claimed they were thirty-five. He clicked on Lainey's profile. It wasn't set to private, which meant anybody surfing MySpace could see it, member or not. Gwen Stefani's 'The Sweet Escape' started to play. Brilliantly colored butterflies served as wallpaper. Pictures of young teenage girls, who he guessed were friends from Ramblewood, decorated the site \u2013 laughing, kissing the camera, making goofy faces, giving the finger, trying to look way too sexy for thirteen-year-olds. Cigarettes dangled from the slight fingers of a couple of girls; others toasted the camera with strange-looking drinks. A girl with long, brown, coffee-colored hair was in a few of the group shots. A girl who looked a lot more grown up than the lanky, awkward fifth grader in the photo Bobby held in his hand. Each picture was captioned with insider-jokes:\n\nMolly B. & the ferret bandits! \nNo one home... LAINBRAIN \nBite me, please!!! \nE and M pre-concert jelly-jollies... \nWas I just at the bathroom and then at the stairs?\n\nHe looked at his notepad: _Molly Brosnan, Erica and Melissa Weber, Theresa \u2013 Last Name Unknown_. He glanced around the room. Vampire movie posters adorned the walls. Sketches of ferrets decorated the inside of her hutch. He definitely had the right site.\n\nTiny picture icons of Lainey's favorite movies, rock bands and books covered half of the first page. Blogs, angst and general teenage drama filled the next two. Akin to a lot of MySpace pages, her site read like a diary, supplemented with postings and comments from her fellow MySpace friends. Three pages told Bobby more about Elaine Emerson than her mother could manage to communicate to police over the past eight hours.\n\n'Whatcha got?' Zo asked, standing over his shoulder.\n\n'She's got a MySpace. Last time she logged in was Thursday, the day before she went to the movies with the unknown friend. Hates school. Can't stand bro, stepdad's an asshole, mom's a bitch and sis is pretty cool. Loves animals and her BFFs. Typical shit. Wishes she could, quote, \"just get the hell away from here\". Endquote.'\n\n'Sounds like that's just what she did,' Zo muttered. 'So much for, _\"my_ daughter wouldn't do that.\" Damn, you're quick. Are we out of here, then?'\n\n'Not yet. She's got twenty-four names on her friend space, but only six in her top,' Bobby said, hitting the print button. MySpace was a membership-only social networking site, which meant that to communicate with somebody on MySpace you had to have an account yourself. Like a magazine, the more subscribers MySpace could boast having, the more it could charge its advertisers. Members were encouraged to continually boost the number of friends in their 'personal networks', and the number of friends someone had was automatically posted on the 'Friend Space' part of their webpage \u2013 like a sophomoric bragging list of sexual conquests. Some members were known to have hundreds, even thousands, of 'friends' \u2013 most of whom they'd never even chatted with. A lot of friends in Lainey's network would potentially mean a lot of legwork tracking everyone down if the kid didn't resurface. 'Let's see who Mom can ID from that. And let me look for a more recent picture of our girl.' Under 'start' he ran a Find Files search to look for jpegs \u2013 electronic photos \u2013 on the computer's hard drive.\n\n'Whoa,' said Zo, as dozens of tiny pictures swarmed the screen.\n\n'Whoa is right,' Bobby said as he clicked on one of the images. A picture of a girl dressed in tight jeans and a midriff-baring, see-through, white T-shirt, a sexy smile on her bright, red lips filled the screen. Her long brown hair, the color of coffee ice cream, was blown sleek and straight. Her big, brown, made-up eyes flirted coyly with the camera. Long red fingernails beckoned Bobby and Zo to come a little closer.\n\n'She sure don't look thirteen,' Zo said with a low whistle.\n\n'That's the idea,' Bobby answered. 'There's about thirty of these on here.'\n\n'A photo shoot?'\n\n'Yup.'\n\n'For who?'\n\n'That's the question that needs an answer.'\n\n'The boyfriend Mom insists she doesn't have?' Zo asked.\n\n'Bingo.'\n\n'Great,' Zo said with a chuckle. 'I'll let you be the one to tell her that she doesn't know shit about her daughter. She already doesn't like you.'\n\n'She's in good company. Let me look at those MySpace friends again.' Bobby went back to the first page of Elaine's MySpace. Most of the names under her top six were recognizable as friends from the neighborhood that her mother had told him about: Molly B., Melly, eRica, Teri, Manda-Panda. Each had a picture of a teenage girl accompanying the name. Only one name on the top six was missing a picture. Only one name stood out from the rest and caught his attention.\n\n'I think we might have found our boyfriend,' he said slowly, spinning the chair around to face Zo. 'Looks like little Lainey's been making nice with The Captain.'\n\n#\n\nLainey's head hurt so bad. It felt like someone was inside her skull, pounding away with a hammer on the bone, just trying to get the hell out. The more aware she became of it, the worse the pain got.\n\n_Tap, tap, tap_.\n\nLouder, louder, louder.\n\n_Bang, bang, bang_.\n\nSomewhere, someplace not too far away, she could hear the sound of humming. Pleasant, do-the-dishes humming. And a TV. The chatter of a TV. Louder, louder, louder, as if someone were turning up the volume very slowly.\n\n_The Israelites have saved the women! And Moses, well, he says, 'So you've spared all the women? Why? Why, when they're the very ones who have caused a plague to strike the Lord's people! Why did you spare them?'_\n\nThen, the shuffle of heavy footsteps across the room. Across creaky wood floors. Coming closer. Coming towards her.\n\nLainey lay very, very still. Could the person see her? Where was she? She tried to open her eyes. They were so heavy.\n\n_... She smells good. She sure looks good. She doesn't seem evil. What man would not be tempted? Like many of us inour everyday lives, Moses must make a difficult decision. A terrible decision..._\n\nShe tried again. Something was wrong. Very wrong.\n\nHer eyes would not open.\n\nWas she dreaming? Was she blind? She reached to touch them and couldn't. Her arms would not move. She struggled, but they would only tug. She felt the burning in her wrist and realized her arms were bound.\n\nShe was tied up.\n\n_... He tells them, 'Slay, therefore, every male child and every woman who has had intercourse with a man. But you may spare and keep for yourselves all girls who had no intercourse with a man...'_\n\nShe could sense the flashes of bright light and she heard the familiar click of a shutter lens. Over and over and over. Someone was taking pictures of her.\n\n'Help me,' she tried, but only a croaked whisper escaped, her words were as heavy as her eyelids and her throat burned. The footsteps slowed, circling her. Closer, closer. Like a cat might approach a wounded bird, studying it, watching it.\n\nPlaying with it.\n\nThe shaking started first in her knees, then like a fast-moving electrical current, the fear traveled up her spine, to her arms, her neck, her head, her teeth, until her whole body was trembling uncontrollably. She thought of the time in fifth grade when she had caught the flu and couldn't stop shivering even under a dozen blankets. Her mom had let her watch Scooby-Doo cartoons all day in her bed, and gotten her wonton soup from the Chinese restaurant.\n\n_Mommy, Mommy, I'll be good, I swear. I won't do anything bad ever again. Ever. I'll take care of Bradley. I'll never complain. I'll get straight A's again. I'll listen. Just let this stop. Make it all go away, Mommy, please, please, please..._\n\n_... please let me wake up!_\n\nShe felt him standing there, maybe inches away, maybe a foot or two at the most, watching. Then he sat down next to her, and the mattress or cushion she was on sunk just a little under his weight. The smell of his cologne was nauseating. Paco Rabanne again. Was it Zach? Her mind raced. Was it the same person from the car? Could there be more than one? Could there be more than one person in the room right now, watching with him? Who had taken the pictures? She could hear him breathing hard but trying not to, the feel of his warm breath as it fell on her face. His breath smelled like... SpaghettiOs? She wanted to turn off her senses, just hear and smell and feel nothing. She wished everything were black again. She wished she could cry.\n\nThe TV began to scream. _Remember that! We are watching you! Are you pure in both thought and deed?_\n\nThen his hand reached out and gently stroked the hair off her forehead. His trembling fingers were moist and warm.\n\n'Ssshh now, pretty girl,' said the devil in a sing-song voice. 'You're home now. Right where you belong.'\n\n#\n\nIt was his gut that told Bobby something was wrong. More wrong than just a troubled teen from a dysfunctional family not wanting to come home any more.\n\nNo one knew the stats better than him. Every forty seconds in the US a child gets reported missing. That's 800,000 kids a year; 2,185 each and every day. Most of them \u2013 as high as 92 per cent \u2013 were runaways. Alarming numbers, no doubt, until you realized that those were just the kids lucky enough to be _reported_ missing. The National Runaway Switchboard put the actual number of runaways \u2013 often called 'throw-aways' because nobody cared if they didn't come home \u2013 closer to somewhere between 1.6 and 2.8 million a year.\n\nFaced with overwhelming statistics like that, it wasn't too far a leap to the conclusion that Elaine Emerson had run away from home. She fit the classic profile: a dysfunctional family, a history of running away and truancy by an older sibling, a family history of alcohol and drug use, a recent drop in grades and cutting classes, a recent relocation away from friends, and a tumultuous relationship with her parents, one of whom was a step. Her disappearance had taken Mom almost two days to finally get herself worried enough about to call in, which \u2013 translated into cop language \u2013 meant this was probably not the first time little Lainey had decided not to come home. Add in the sexy photos and a web space where the kid rants about her 'asshole' stepdad, 'bitch' mom and how she wants to 'get the hell away from here', and the missing juvi classification in NCIC was certainly justifiable. Statistically speaking, little Elaine should be walking back through that front door in the next twelve to twenty-four hours.\n\nBut then there was the other 8 per cent. And that was what was troubling him.\n\nBobby rubbed his temples. The skateboard contest down the block had moved and was now in the street right outside Elaine's bedroom window. Given the neighborhood, he figured one or more of the kids had recognized the Crown Vic, Taurus and Grand Am as undercovers and had edged the game closer to see what was happening. Maybe they knew about the troubles with Liza Emerson. Maybe they knew of some troubles with Lainey. He made a mental note to talk to them as soon as he finished up with the computer.\n\nOf the 800,000 children reported missing each year, almost 69,000 of them \u2013 or 8 per cent \u2013 were classified as 'abductions'. Familial abductions, such as when a parent takes off with a child in violation of a custody agreement, accounted for 82 per cent of those cases. But the remaining 12,000 were identified as victims of non-familial abductions. Non-familial, as in when the child is taken by an acquaintance, a family friend, or, sometimes \u2013 in the more remote and more terrifying cases for the public-at-large \u2013 a complete stranger. Plucked off of school buses or snatched from busy malls. Those were the cases that instantly made headlines and triggered AMBER Alerts. And for good reason. While the stereotypical kidnapping was statistically rare, it was almost always deadly.\n\nWith the explosive growth of the internet and social-networking websites, non-familial abductions had risen dramatically within the last ten years. Bad guys didn't need to lurk around corners any more, or peek in windows in the middle of the night. Now they walked straight through a kid's front door in broad daylight. Right past Overprotective Mom and Drug Czar Dad and into junior's bedroom via the computer. There they could exchange pictures, chat, play video games and discover all sorts of neat things about the 'distant' teen whose parents didn't understand him. The World Wide Web had spawned a new hunting ground for predators. Trolling kiddie chat rooms and adolescent networking sites at their leisure, they picked off their prey from the millions of profiles offered on MySpace and Facebook, where smiling victims provided as much scrumptious detail about themselves as dinner entr\u00e9es on a restaurant menu. Sitting behind a keyboard and monitor, this new breed of predator could pretend to be anyone: An eighteen-year-old boy; a twelve-year-old girl; a talent agent; Jay-Z's best friend. They took advantage of the naivet\u00e9 of kids and the ignorance of their parents \u2013 gaining the former's trust, and then slowly, carefully exploiting the relationship, subtly grooming their victims for the ultimate, devastating high: a face-to-face meeting. And then, with just the simple click of a button, disappeared forever back into the black abyss of cyberspace once lives were destroyed and the police were finally called in.\n\nBobby looked around the pink bedroom with its typical teenage d\u00e9cor. Lainey hadn't lived here long, and she'd moved under protest, but she _had_ hung up her posters and wall art, which meant she considered this room home. She was definitely a slob, but although her clothes spilled haphazardly out of drawers and boxes, they _hadn't_ been packed up into a suitcase. It would be hard to figure out what was missing, but, perhaps more importantly, _if_ anything was missing. And then there was the faceless photo in her friend space. Bobby was willing to bet the bank ElCapitan just might be the intended recipient of all those sexy pictures. And of course, perhaps the most troubling fact that he kept coming back to was also the most innocuous one: The girl hadn't logged back on to her MySpace since the day before she'd disappeared. He knew that, for teenagers, MySpace was their social lifeline. A kid wouldn't just abandon it for a few days \u2013 unless she physically couldn't check it.\n\nObviously, with 2,185 kids reported missing every day, not every face got slapped on a milk carton and not every kid got his or her physical description launched on traffic message boards across the nation via an AMBER Alert. The system would be critically overloaded within minutes, and people would quickly grow desensitized and indifferent to the plight of yet another kid gone AWOL. AMBERs were reserved for the most urgent of situations. To have one issued, a cop had to meet a strict, three-pronged criteria: 1) a reasonable belief the child was abducted; 2) a reasonable belief he or she was at imminent risk for serious bodily injury or death; and, 3) sufficient descriptive information about the child, the suspect, and the abduction so that a public broadcast would actually help find the kid. Bobby tapped his notepad. He didn't have enough to meet any one of the prongs with Elaine Emerson. He just had that familiar, heavy feeling in his gut.\n\nSomewhere in between the panic-mode AMBER and the runaway code-word 'missing juvi' entry in NCIC was a Missing Child Alert. In cases where you didn't have an abduction, but you had enough information to believe the child was in imminent danger, you could request a Missing Child Alert. While it didn't spark the same urgent, national 'Oh Shit!' response as an AMBER, it did trigger notifications to the local media, neighborhood businesses and community law enforcement agencies. But again, other than his agita, Bobby had no concrete reason to believe Elaine was in danger. An alert would definitely be a stretch. And based on the info they had right now, it would be much easier to just OK the missing juvi report that Coral Springs had put into NCIC, grab his golf clubs and call it a day.\n\n'Veso just showed up,' Zo said, popping his head back into the room from the hall, where he'd disappeared for the past ten minutes. 'Fucking numb-nut got lost.'\n\n'Obviously a great detective,' Bobby replied, not bothering to look up from the screen.\n\n'Be nice.'\n\n'Fuck that. You be nice. I don't need a pet. Or an understudy.'\n\nZo shook his head. Diplomacy was a tough tightrope to walk, and he was a shitty acrobat. 'You almost done here?' he tried. 'I got tickets to the Dolphins game at four.'\n\n'Just writing down a few things. I'm gonna try talking to some of these friends while I'm out here. And the step, too. See what the hell's up with him.'\n\n'OK, bro. You're the expert.'\n\nBobby couldn't resist. 'Can you tell your boss that, please?'\n\nZo stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. He waited a long moment before he finally spoke. 'I don't know how you deal with,' he started, looking around, _'this shit_ every day. Every fucking day. Let me be honest with you, Bobby, my friend. I don't know how you do it. Especially after Katy. I don't know how you can fucking function. It's like you're locking yourself in a freaking torture room every second of every day and forcing yourself to look at all the shit on the walls. It ain't healthy.' He sat down on the edge of the bed and waited till the pregnant silence caused his friend to finally look over at him. 'None of these cases, none of them, have a happy ending, man. None of them. You know that better than anyone. You bring 'em home, Shep, that's true, all these... these kids. Dead or alive you bring 'em home, but what kind of life is that? I mean, what kind of career is that? 'Cause it's never a happy ending, even when it's supposed to be. And you know it. It's just the beginning of years of therapy for those who do make it home. I've worked a lot of squads, you know, in my years, a lot of different cases. Violent Crime, Terrorism, Narcotics, Organized Crime. You name it, and I've probably worked it. And I'm not saying they're easy, but you know, when you're working something like homicides \u2013 it sucks, there's blood and brains and bad shit \u2013 but at least you know the guy you're working for is dead. I mean, there's never any _hope_ of finding him alive. It's depressing and all, and it's a dead body, yeah, yeah, yeah, but you never get that fucking _hope_ ripped out of your chest, like you do in these kid cases. Over and over and over. What I'm saying is, why don't you look at the changes Foxx wants to make as a way out? As a long-overdue, I don't know... vacation? A chance to move on? Ain't nothing wrong with pushing some paper and taxiing governors around when they come to town. I know you don't want it. Hell, we all know \u2013 the director included and every suit in Tallahassee, too, as well as the freaking Fibbies \u2013 we all know that no one else can do this job as good as you. You're the best at what you do, Shep. But \u2013 well, fuck the Vesos of the world and Foxx if you think they're trying to squeeze you out \u2013 but, for LuAnn, for your own sanity, let someone else try, man.'\n\nBobby said nothing. The whoops and hollers from the skateboard contest filled the strained silence. 'Look, you brief the guy if you want to,' he replied finally. 'I already know he's a fuck-up and I don't want him in here.' Then he turned his attention back to the screen.\n\nZo let out a slow breath. 'Whatever. I'll meet you outside when you're done.'\n\nAfter Zo walked out, Bobby leaned back in the desk chair and rubbed his tired eyes.\n\n_Not all of them. I don't bring them all home, Zo. And that's the problem. That's why I don't sleep any more. I don't bring them all home and we both know it..._\n\nHe flipped open his cell and dialed.\n\n'Missing Children Information Clearinghouse. Travis Hall.'\n\n'Hey there, Travis, it's Bobby Dees down in Miami.'\n\n'Hey, Agent Dees. I haven't heard from you in a while. I thought you wasn't working these cases no more, after, you know, well, after what, um, happened...' Travis's voice had slowed and stumbled off, like he'd just gotten the memo that it wasn't such a hot idea to be saying what he was saying.\n\n'Don't believe everything you hear, Travis.' Bobby sat up. 'I'm still alive and well down here in the Conch Republic.'\n\n'Glad to hear it. You doing OK, Bobby?'\n\nBobby ignored that question, because any idiot with half a brain and knowledge of the hell he'd been through the past year wouldn't have asked it in the first place. 'Listen, Travis,' he said dismissively, fingering the two pictures of Elaine Emerson he had printed out on the desk. Before and After. The Geek and the Lolita. Stretch or not, he'd learned over the years to listen to his gut. It was the one partner that never let him down. 'I'm gonna need you to put out a Missing Child Alert on one Elaine Louise Emerson. White female, date of birth 8\/27\/96...'\n\n#\n\n'So you don't have any idea where she might be?' Bobby asked the skinny girl with the mop of wet, dark blonde curls. Just past the sky-blue foyer where he stood, an arched entryway led into the home's kitchen. Plastic grocery bags were piled on the countertop and he could see something was boiling on the stove. The house smelled like meatloaf and onions.\n\n'Nuh-uh,' the teen replied, rubbing her head with a Scooby-Doo beach towel. The mirror image standing next to her in the same exact bathing suit and shorts just shook her head.\n\n'Her mother called here last night at almost eleven o'clock looking for her,' Mrs Weber added with a frown. 'I told Debbie I didn't think the girls had seen Elaine in a couple of weeks. They were at their dad's all weekend and they had a swim meet this morning. They just got home.' She rubbed the shoulders of either Melissa or Erica. Bobby couldn't tell the difference. 'Do you think she ran away? Is that it?'\n\n'Do you think that might be the case?' Bobby countered.\n\nMrs Weber shrugged. 'Elaine's mother parents differently than me, let's just say that. Her older sister is a mess, you know. A mess. Drugs and boys. That's why I don't like the girls over there. There's no supervision. Elaine is very sweet, but...'\n\nBobby waited.\n\n'The apple never falls far from the tree, is all I'm saying.'\n\n'Mom! Lainey's not like that!' one of the girls protested.\n\n'Mo-o-mm!' Mrs Weber said mimicking her daughter. 'We'll see,' she added softly, casting a skeptical glance over at Bobby.\n\n'Well, give me a call if you or the girls or their friends hear from her.' Bobby handed her a business card. 'Or if you come into any ideas on who this Carla or Karen might be. Any at all. My cell's on there.' He turned to the twins. 'Before I forget, do you two email with Lainey?'\n\nThey even nodded in unison. It must be weird to have two girlfriends who are identical in every way, Bobby thought. It might be a grown man's fantasy, but a little overwhelming on a kid; you were always outnumbered. 'Can I get her address from you? Her mom didn't know it.'\n\nMrs Weber rolled her eyes.\n\n'Sure. It's LainBrain96@msn.com,' the one with the towel said.\n\n'Thanks. Your other friend, Molly \u2013 I stopped by her house, but no one's home.'\n\n'Her grandma died. She's in New Mexico,' Scooby-Doo offered.\n\n'Nebraska,' her sister corrected.\n\n'Nuh-uh. It's New something.'\n\n'New York?' Mrs Weber asked. 'New Jersey?'\n\nThe first one shrugged. 'Maybe. She's there till Monday, I think. Or maybe Tuesday.'\n\n'Does she have a cell?' Bobby asked.\n\n'Yeah, but she got caught texting in science lab on Friday. Mrs Rohr took it and she can't get it back till she does detention next Wednesday.'\n\n'What's that number?'\n\nMrs Weber's eyes rolled once again.\n\n'It's 954-695-4229.'\n\n'One last question. Does Lainey have a boyfriend?' Bobby asked.\n\nBoth girls giggled, embarrassed. 'No.'\n\n'Another last question, then: Does she like boys?'\n\n'Well, yeah, she's not a lesbo or anything.'\n\n'Erica...' Mrs Weber scolded.\n\n'But she doesn't have a boyfriend. The boys we know are idiots. She likes Robert Pattinson,' finished Melissa.\n\nBobby slid the notepad into his jacket pocket. 'All right. Thanks for your time, girls.'\n\nHe'd no sooner stepped out the door when it closed behind him with a thud. Amelia Weber wanted to keep whatever bad germs Bobby was carrying far away from her kids. A cop at her door on a Sunday afternoon inquiring about her daughters' friend was not in the parenting plan.\n\nHe climbed into the Grand Am and looked at the dashboard clock. It was 2:24. Almost fifteen hours since Elaine Emerson had been reported missing, and more than fifty-four hours since she'd been dropped at the corner to wait for the school bus by her mother. If she didn't surface by tomorrow morning, he'd visit Sawgrass Middle, talk to her classmates and try and track down every Karyn or Carla on the register to see who Lainey might've gone home with.\n\nBut right now, it was time to go car shopping. He slipped on his sunglasses, and pulled away from the curb, as Lainey's identical friends, standing side by side, watched expressionless from the living-room window.\n\n#\n\nEven though Bobby had never met the guy before, or even seen a photo, he already had an idea what the CarMax Regional Salesman of the Month looked like. Maybe it was the used-car profession that had him drawing mental pictures, or Todd LaManna's choice of a spouse, but stocky, short, temperamental and balding were the first four adjectives that came to mind.\n\nBobby stepped through the automatic glass front doors, and there he was: Stocky, short, temperamental and balding, dressed in a blue CarMax polo shirt and khakis, a clipboard in hand and a slippery smile on his ruddy, full face. Like a shark to chum, he rushed over to Bobby before one of his clipboard-carrying brethren could get there first.\n\n'Hey there, guy!' Todd called out in a booming voice. 'Thinking about helping out the economy today?'\n\n'Todd Anthony LaManna?' Bobby asked, reaching for his badge.\n\nThe apple cheeks deflated. Even if he wanted to, he couldn't deny it. There was a big 'Todd LaManna' patch sewn on his polo. 'What's this about?' he asked, the self-assured boom reduced to a decibel above whisper.\n\n'This is about your stepdaughter, Elaine, Mr LaManna. Do you have a moment?'\n\n'Not really,' he replied, looking around. Besides salesmen, there was no one else in the showroom. 'I'm kinda busy.'\n\n'Make one.'\n\nThey stepped into a glass-enclosed cubby that looked out on to the showroom. It was a room where deals were made. Where sales managers, in full view of the anxious customer back on the sales floor, but without the sound effects, finally 'gave up' their lowest price after bullshit haggling with the tenacious Salesman of the Month. It'd been a while since Bobby had bought a car, but the games were always the same, whatever dealership you were in or car you were buying.\n\nBut there was no dealing today. 'I guess she's not home yet,' Todd said quietly as he closed the blinds.\n\n'And I'm guessing you're not too worried about that,' Bobby answered.\n\n'Oh, man, don't make this about me. Debbie said she's at a friend's house. She's probably having a good time, is all, and doesn't want to come home and do shit around the house all day. I know I wouldn't.' He chuckled. 'Why do ya think I work weekends?'\n\nBobby didn't laugh back. 'Any idea where Elaine might be?'\n\nTodd shrugged. 'She's Debbie's kid. She told her mother she was going out with some girl from school. I don't know who her friends are; I don't ask. I tried getting involved with the other one, Liza, ya know? To be a good parent and all. Lot of good it did me. That little \u2013' he cut himself off. 'She's constantly getting in trouble and me worrying about her don't do no good. She doesn't listen to anyone. I've had the cops in my life ever since the first time I caught her smoking weed.'\n\n'When was the last time you spoke with Elaine?'\n\n'I've been working a lot lately. I haven't even seen her since, I don't know, like maybe Wednesday? It's gotta be, I'm thinking here, maybe Wednesday morning before she went to school. That's when I talked to her. Told her to clean her friggin' room up.'\n\n'What's your relationship with Elaine?' 'What?' Todd replied, his face crimson. 'Fine, great. Normal.'\n\n'Normal?'\n\n'I'm feeling trapped here. Like you're asking me questions for a reason.'\n\n'There's no reason to feel trapped,' Bobby replied. 'She's a teenager. Just trying to figure out what kind of relationship you two had. Why she might have gone running, if that's what she did do.'\n\n'Well, you said it. She's a teenager. It was, our relationship was, well... normal. She was pretty busy with school stuff and friends and she was, ya know, a real bitch sometimes, but aren't all women?' He laughed uneasily. 'You know, when they get on the rag.'\n\nBobby looked at him a long time. 'I don't think so.'\n\n'Whatever. I don't want to say no more.' Todd shook his head.\n\n'I ran your name through a couple of systems, Todd,' Bobby began. 'And guess what? I caught a fish. Domestic battery. Solicitation. And a really interesting arrest just last year. L & L. You know what that stands for, Todd?'\n\n'That was dropped to a fucking disorderly, man!'\n\n'Lewd and lascivious conduct,' Bobby continued.\n\n'I was, you know, peeing against a wall when this dike-cop walked up! That's all it was! I was taking a leak!' Todd ran his hands through the few strands of hair he had left on his head. His round face was shiny with sweat.\n\n'Less than twenty feet from a playground?'\n\n'I'm no child molester, man! They overcharged me! It was a disorderly!'\n\n'Where were you Friday night?'\n\n'What? What's that got to do with anything?'\n\n'Where were you Friday night?'\n\nTodd began to tap his shaking hand against his thigh. 'I was, I was, well, out with the boys, ya know? We went out for a beer.'\n\n'Your wife doesn't know where you were. Not a clue, Todd.'\n\n'Fuck this! I don't need this shit. When the \u2013 when Elaine gets her ass home her mother can deal with her. I don't need this bullshit from any more of her fucking kids!'\n\n'I'll need the names of those boyfriends of yours. And the name of the bar,' Bobby paused deliberately, 'or other fine establishment you were holed up in.'\n\n'If I'm not under arrest, then I'm going back to work,' Todd declared as he headed toward the door. 'I know my rights.'\n\n'I'm sure you do. I'll need those names, Todd.'\n\nThe cubby walls shook as the glass door slammed behind him and an angry Todd LaManna stormed back out into the showroom.\n\n#\n\nThe FDLE Miami Regional Operations Center \u2013 a three-storied, cluttered, chaotic maze of squad bays, secretarial pools, Formica cubbies, and conference rooms \u2013 was normally bustling with activity. Home to more than fifty Special Agents \u2013 plus analysts, lawyers and support staff \u2013 there was always a handheld squawking, a cell phone ringing, or a meeting being held somewhere in the building.\n\nAt eight o'clock on a Sunday night it was empty.\n\nBobby looked up from the stack of crap on his desk that never seemed to get smaller and out his open office door into the deserted squad bay. Ten metal desks, each stacked with their own case files and clutter, sat abandoned in the darkness. It was so quiet, he could hear the traffic buzz by outside on the Dolphin Expressway. The light from his office spilled across The Board, the montage of Missing Children flyers that covered a corkboard on the far back wall.\n\nHe was supposed to be 'flexed-off' till the first of the month \u2013 meaning he had already worked his 160 hours for October and since FDLE didn't want to pay overtime for any more, he was on involuntary vacation till November started \u2013 but the Emerson girl had given him a reason to drop in, write a report and finish up a few things. Once that happened, he couldn't just ignore the stack of case files on his desk. Even when command told you to go home because the state was too broke to pay overtime, you were never really off, anyway. He had a charging conference Friday with the State Attorney's Office on a multi-agency child-porn investigation, a depo on an upcoming murder trial, and a complicated search warrant to walk through Legal. Whether FDLE paid him or not, each case had to be attended to. So a thirty-minute stop-in had slipped into a four-hour-and-counting layover. He rubbed his eyes and downed the rest of his Red Bull. Guaranteed to have him pacing floors at four a.m., but he didn't want to nod off on the drive home. Insomnia was a vicious cycle: dog-tired when you couldn't afford to be, wide-awake when the rest of the world shut it down. He logged out of AIMS, the Automated Information Management System he was working in, and shoved the stack of files into his briefcase. Then as the computer started to shut down, a thought came to him. He logged back in, hopped on the internet, and clicked on to Elaine Emerson's MySpace. She still hadn't logged back on to her profile. He went to her My Friends space and clicked on the icon with the Miami Dolphins logo. The only friend that was missing a picture.\n\n***ELCAPITAN***\n\n**Headline:** | **JETS SUCK!** \n---|--- \n**Orientation:** | **Totally Straight** \n**Here For:** | **My Peeps and Bettys** \n**Gender:** | **Male** \n**Age:** | **17** \n**Location:** | **Jupiter, Florida.** \n**Profile Updated:** | **October 18, 2009**\n\nBobby scanned the webpage, set against a backdrop of an animated Rolling Stones tongue logo that kept licking provocatively at the computer screen. Although the profile was public, like Lainey's, which meant anyone could see it, unlike Lainey's, the personal info was pretty scant. His name was Zach, he lived in Jupiter and he played high school varsity football, basketball and baseball. He also played bass. That was it. Musical tastes, gauging from the album covers that dotted a corner of his page, ranged from Nine Inch Nails to The Fray. Most kids spilled their guts on their MySpace. This looked like the one kid who'd actually listened to warnings about personal data going out over the internet...\n\nWho was this Zach? That was the question that Bobby's gut still demanded an answer to. That and where the hell Todd LaManna had spent last Friday night. The used car Salesman of the Month was definitely a creep and he was definitely holding back. Whether that had anything to do with his missing stepdaughter or the prospective demise of his marriage had yet to be seen. As far as finding out more about the lone boy on Lainey's friend space, even with a subpoena, Bobby wouldn't be able to get the email registration info from MySpace corporate till probably Tuesday or Wednesday at the earliest. Unless it was an absolute emergency, even favors took a few days. But with a little ingenuity and help from the World Wide Web, he figured he could maybe beat out the lawyers and find the kid himself.\n\nA few searches on Google led him to Jupiter high schools and the Jupiter High website. From there it was on to their Athletic Programs and then a click on Football. There was no player roster, but there was a launch on to a _Palm Beach Post_ internet news article about high school football stars.\n\nAnd there he was. Zachary Cusano. #17. A Jupiter High Warrior to Watch. Position: Wide Receiver, Team Captain. Class: Senior. A 6\u20321\u2033, 190 pound, blond-haired, blue-eyed, smiling All-American Warrior. Bobby then Googled 'Zachary Cusano basketball Jupiter High School'. And there he was again \u2013 #17, saving the day last January when the Warriors basketball team romped the Boynton Beach Tigers. Another search under baseball found Zachary Cusano, a pitcher, expected to start this spring for the Warriors. An accompanying interest article named some of Zach's favorite hobbies besides sports. Jamming with his band on bass guitar was first up.\n\nSame description, same picture. Same kid.\n\nNo wonder Lainey was taking sexy pictures of herself. The kid was good-looking, no doubt. There was also no doubt he was seventeen. Bobby wondered if the star high school football player knew his cyber pen-pal was jailbait.\n\nHe ran an Autotrack using the kid's name and birth date and... _voila!_ Zachary M. Cusano, son of Violet and Thomas Cusano, residing at 124 Poinciana Lane, Jupiter, Florida. Social security number, school records, driving history, and a very brief employment history that consisted of a two-month stint at CVS Drugs popped up on the screen. No accompanying juvenile criminal history. That was good.\n\nHe printed everything out, including the pictures from the _Palm Beach Post_ article, and slid them into the Emerson folder. He'd still subpoena the kid's MySpace registration info, but at least he had something \u2013 someone \u2013 to start with, if necessary. If Lainey didn't come home.\n\nWith his briefcase in hand, he headed out the door. Dinner was probably past cold and LuAnn beyond pissed. He'd pick up flowers and a bottle of her favorite wine from Publix on the way home. Maybe a couple of glasses would help bring him down from the Red Bull. At The Board he stopped, raised a finger to his lips and then ran it over a picture in the center of the sea of flyers. Over the beaming, beautiful young girl with long, straight, dusty blonde hair and baby blue eyes, and a smile that took over her whole face. KATHERINE 'KATY' ANNE DEES. D\/O\/B: 08\/13\/1992. MISSING FROM: Fort Lauderdale, FL. DATE MISSING: 11\/20\/08. AGE AT DISAPPEARANCE: 16 years, 3 months. The red-inked caption on the top of the flyer read MISSING CHILD \/ RUNAWAY.\n\nBobby kissed his little girl goodnight, flipped off the lights and headed on home.\n\n#\n\n'Phone's dead,' Clint Fortune, the FDLE tech agent said. 'Dead or off.'\n\n'Her mom says she never charges it,' Bobby replied into the Nextel as he pulled up to a light.\n\n'That makes sense then. It's dead. It can't pick up a signal from the cell towers.'\n\nBobby took a slug of coffee. 'When was the last phone call? In and out.'\n\n'Um, hold up,' Clint replied through clenched teeth, his lips obviously wrapped around a cigarette, which they always were. There was a rustle of papers in the background. 'OK. Last call out was twenty-third October at five thirty-one p.m. to a 954-695-4229. Lasted forty-five seconds. What was the twenty-third? Friday?'\n\n'Yeah.'\n\n'Last incoming was from 954-914-5544. That was also on the twenty-third. Came in at 5:15 p.m., lasted two minutes. I have back to October second, which was the end of the last billing cycle.'\n\n'How about texts?'\n\n'Yup. Sheets of 'em. Good luck on that. You'll need to hire a fucking teenage girl to help you translate all the BFFs and OMGs into sentences.' Clint laughed so hard he started to cough.\n\nBobby closed his eyes. It felt like someone had just punched him in the chest. 'Yeah.'\n\n'What's this kid? A runaway?'\n\n'Looks like it.'\n\n'Well, I told Candy, my contact at Verizon, that it was a possible abduction. Real urgent. That's how she got me this shit so fast. Probably gonna bitch if she doesn't see something on the news tonight.'\n\n'I appreciate the help, Clint. I just didn't wanna wait a week or two. And anything's possible. I did put a Missing Child Alert out on the kid.'\n\n'I thought you said she was a runaway.'\n\n'Probably is, but some things just aren't sitting right with me.'\n\n'You go with that, then, Shep.'\n\nShep stood for Shepherd, an old, old nickname that Bobby didn't want to hear any more. But it was hard to tell people that without opening up another can of worms. 'Thanks, Clint.'\n\n'Any word on your kid?'\n\nDamn. The can was open and wriggling all over the fucking floor. He should've expected that question; he heard it at least every couple of days. 'Nope. Nothing new. Thanks for asking.'\n\nIt was hard to believe it was almost a year since that miserable Friday afternoon when Katy hadn't come home from school. The rainy day a week before Thanksgiving when life stopped having meaning. Every day he relived every second of the fight he and LuAnn had had with her the night before she left \u2013 what he could have done differently, what he should have done differently. Why he hadn't. Clint had pulled cell records for him that night, too. And for months after, just in case Katy turned her phone back on.\n\n'Hey, you need me to do anything for you, Bobby, I'm right here for ya.'\n\n'Yeah. I appreciate that, Clint. Look, I'll swing by the office this afternoon to pick up the rest of those cell records.'\n\n'Isn't that new guy from Pensacola, Veso, working with you now? I can give them to him if you're gonna be seeing him today. He's a shortie, man. Wears his pants too high, too. Hope he don't have one of those Napoleon complexes.'\n\n'Haven't met him,' Bobby replied quietly. Obviously yesterday's little heart-to-heart with Zo hadn't meant shit \u2013 Veso was still hanging around looking for something to do. 'I wasn't planning on it, either, Clint. Just leave them on my desk.'\n\n'I promised Candy a subpoena.'\n\n'On second thought,' Bobby replied, as he pulled into a parking space, 'tell Veso to get you that subpoena. That'll give him something to do.'\n\nClint laughed again. 'Will do.'\n\nSawgrass Springs Middle was so close to the Everglades, Bobby half expected to see a few gators running around the lawn with the hundreds of kids that were pouring off of buses and out of cars, lethargically making their way up the roundabout and through the school's double doors. Kids were everywhere. It was like working a wiretap, he thought, as he waded through the herd, catching snippets of conversation along the way: _Skating soooo sucked Saturday... Meghan told Alexis that Joanne's brother was a pervert and now she won't talk to... Cesar is grounded because he told his grandma to fuck off, so he..._ Just as he made it to the hall where the front office was, the bell rang overhead. Bodies scattered in a dozen directions. Thirty seconds later there was apocalypse quiet in the white maze of stuccoed outdoor hallways.\n\nMr Cochran in Guidance had the school records ready and waiting for him. All fifteen hundred students were alphabetized by their first names and organized by grade and class. One hundred and seventy-four Carries, Carlas, Courtneys, Karens, Katherines, Kristys and Christines. Seventeen were in Lainey's classes. All of them were called to the front office. Only four of them even knew who she was. No one had gone to the movies with her.\n\nNext were the teachers. Elaine had attended all her classes Friday. No one had noticed anything strange. She had made no new friends that the teachers could see. No boyfriends in the halls or lunchroom. She also had no enemies. A loner. Underachiever. Sweet. Lazy. Unmotivated. Shy. Invisible. One sour-pussed teacher's observation was 'troubled', but couldn't or wouldn't say why. All were saddened by her disappearance. None were all that surprised.\n\nBobby thanked each of them for their time, put the records in his briefcase and a half-hour later pulled into the Ring-A-Ling Answering Service parking lot in Tamarac. It was a little after twelve. He waited in the reception area for almost ten minutes until Debbie LaManna could officially take her break and join him outside under the concrete overhang. The cement patio where they stood was littered with cigarette butts and gum stains.\n\n'I don't know. Could be any of these. Did you talk to them all?' she asked, exasperated, as she combed through the list of Sawgrass students and puffed away on a Marlboro.\n\n'We talked to the ones who Elaine had classes with. No luck.'\n\n'Well, talk to the others.'\n\n'Do any of them pop out at you?'\n\nShe shook her head.\n\n'What's your husband's cell phone number, Debbie? I spoke to Todd yesterday at work, but I have some follow-up questions I'd like to get with him on, and I'm betting he doesn't want me asking them at the dealership again.'\n\nShe took a deep drag of her cigarette and her eyes narrowed. 'He told me you were there. He said you told him I didn't know where he was on Friday. That I told you to ask about him and Elaine, how they got along and all.'\n\n'You don't know where he was on Friday,' Bobby replied.\n\n'That's none of your business, though. I'll handle that.'\n\nBobby sighed. 'What's his cell, Debbie?'\n\nShe blew out a plume of smoke. 'It's 914-5544,' she answered, begrudgingly.\n\nHe didn't have to look at his notes. He remembered the numbers Clint had spewed over the phone this morning. The outgoing call Lainey had made at 5:30 was to Molly Brosnan's number. He'd recognized that right off. The incoming call fifteen minutes earlier was from one Todd Anthony LaManna. The same person who had said he hadn't seen or spoken to his stepdaughter for two days before she disappeared.\n\n'So where was he?' she asked finally.\n\n'Don't know yet. Did Lainey ever talk to you about their relationship?' Bobby looked at her hard.\n\nHer eyes narrowed. 'Todd told me you'd try that, you know, try and bring in the time he was arrested. Todd's not like that. He wouldn't do that stuff, you know, with kids.' But she hesitated before she made the last statement.\n\nBobby folded the list from Sawgrass back up and slid it into his pocket. 'OK. I'll be back in touch,' he said, as he started toward the car. 'I still haven't heard from your other daughter, Liza.'\n\n'She said she doesn't have any idea where Elaine is or who her friends are.'\n\n'I still need to hear it from her.'\n\n'That's it? That's all you're gonna do?' Debbie yelled after him as he crossed the parking lot. 'I called that detective from Coral Springs, you know. He said Elaine's a runaway. Said if I want her home, I may want to hire a fucking private detective!'\n\nBobby turned and looked back at Debbie LaManna's drained face, her hard, tired eyes. How do you tell a mother that there just wasn't enough time or manpower to look for all the troubled kids who didn't want to be found? That the grim runaway statistics he was so intimately familiar with said that if her kid's not back home in thirty-six hours, then there's a frightening reality she's not ever coming back? That with every passing hour her daughter's on the street she's more and more likely to become a victim of sexual exploitation, prostitution, child porn? And how do you tell a wife who doesn't want to hear it that there's a chance her latest husband just might like her adolescent daughters a lot more than he likes her? That maybe, just maybe, he's the reason they don't want to come home?\n\nYou don't. Not yet.\n\n'I'll be in touch when I have something more,' he replied.\n\n'Damn cops!' Debbie barked. Then she flicked her cigarette at the ground by his feet and marched back inside.\n\n#\n\nBobby pulled up the drive of a palatial, apricot-colored, Tuscan-styled house. Massive stone lions greeted him as he passed through a dramatic arched entry, covered in plum-colored bougainvillea. Under the porte-cochere sat a black BMW and a Land Cruiser. Hand-painted Spanish tiles above the doorbell confirmed he was at the right place: 124 Poinciana Lane. He rang the bell. Through the beveled glass and wrought-iron doors he caught the bright-colored flashes from a TV playing somewhere in the house.\n\nA tall, good-looking teenager with sun-streaked blond, wavy hair that just kissed his shoulders answered the door. He was dressed in jeans and a Warriors T-shirt. The kid was built like a truck. 'Zachary Cusano?' Bobby asked.\n\n'Yeah,' the teen answered.\n\n'I'm Special Agent Robert Dees with the Florida Department of Law Enforcement,' Bobby said, holding up the gold badge that dangled around his neck. 'I'd like to ask you a few questions, son. Are your parents \u2013'\n\n'Mooommm!' the kid yelled.\n\nTwo seconds later, mom arrived from the kitchen decked out in an apron. As soon as she spotted the badge, she stopped dead in her tracks and yelled, 'Tom! There's a police officer on the porch!' with the same fear and reproach as if there had been a roach on her carpet.\n\nDad hurried in behind her, fresh from the office, wearing a five-hundred-dollar suit, drink in hand. 'Officer? What's all this about?' he asked, quickly ushering Bobby into the house and out of sight of the neighbors.\n\n'I wanted to talk to Zachary about a girl he's been communicating with on his MySpace, Mr Cusano. Her name is Elaine Emerson.'\n\nAs soon as the door closed, Dad handed Bobby a business card. _Thomas T. Cusano, Esq., Cusano Whitticker Levinsky, Attorneys at Law_. A lawyer. How convenient.\n\n'Zachary?' his mother asked.\n\n'I don't know any girl named Elaine,' Zach started.\n\n'Hold on, Zach,' Tom Cusano barked, holding up his hand to stop his son from talking. 'What's the matter? What happened to this girl?'\n\n'I didn't say anything happened to her, Mr Cusano,' Bobby replied.\n\n'I'm assuming something happened, or you wouldn't be standing in my living room.'\n\n'She didn't come home after school Friday.'\n\n'Zachary?' his mother asked again, the pitch higher.\n\n'I don't know any Elaine!' Zach protested.\n\n'Maybe you know her as Lainey, then,' Bobby offered. 'Or LainBrain.'\n\nThe hand was up again. 'Zach, hold on. Don't answer that.'\n\n'Zachary?' Mrs Cusano was furiously wiping her flour-dusted hands on the apron.\n\n'I don't know what this guy's talking about, Dad. I don't know any Lainey!'\n\n'Do you have a MySpace?' Bobby asked.\n\n'Yeah,' Zachary answered slowly.\n\n'Why don't you pull it up so we can look at it?'\n\n'Zachary?' Mrs Cusano's screetchy pitch threatened to shatter the crystal.\n\n'Mom! Stop! I don't know this girl!'\n\n'I don't think so,' said Tom Cusano, shaking his head. 'I'm not liking where this is going. No computer. No way. If you have some sort of proof my son knows this missing girl, then let us know. If not, I think we are done here.'\n\nLawyers always messed up everything. 'Listen, Mr Cusano,' Bobby replied, his tone polite, yet firm, 'you're right. It's not going anywhere. But it will. We can either do this here in the privacy of your living room, or we can take an hour-and-a-half ride down to Miami to look at the computer in my office. The choice is yours. Remember, I'm here because I've already seen Zachary's MySpace.'\n\nZachary didn't wait for his father to answer. He ran into his room, grabbed his laptop and brought it into the dining room. With shaking fingers, he clicked on to MySpace. ZACH'S PAGE appeared in green block letters over a screen filled with dancing surfboards. A running blog took up over six pages, as did pictures of partying teenagers. He had 285 names in his Friend Space; over 65 in his top.\n\n'Who are all those people?' Violet Cusano asked, confused.\n\n'I dunno, Mom,' Zach replied with a shrug. 'Kids from school, people I met online. Friends, you know.'\n\nBobby quickly scanned the Web page. There was no Lain-Brain. No reference to an Elaine or Molly or Liza or any other name that had crossed Lainey's MySpace. No pictures of Lainey or her friends. 'Is this yours, too?' he asked with a frown, as he clicked on to the Rolling Stones profile of the Zach from Jupiter who played football, basketball, baseball and guitar.\n\n'No,' said the kid, with a shake of his head. 'It's not mine and I don't know this guy. Or that Lainey girl you were talking about.'\n\n'Where were you Friday night?' Bobby asked.\n\n'Zach,' his father cautioned.\n\nZachary looked back and forth at his parents. 'I... I... I don't know. I was... Wait! I was on that field trip, remember? You picked me up at school at eleven when the bus came in. We \u2013 Ms Grainger, my science class \u2013 we went to Cape Canaveral to see the space place. NASA, you know?'\n\n'That's right!' his mother exclaimed giddily. 'You were on a field trip!'\n\n'He wasn't even home,' his father said matter-of-factly to Bobby. But relief betrayed his don't-fuck-with-me lawyer voice. 'It wasn't him,' he added with a smile.\n\nAs if Bobby hadn't already figured that out.\n\n#\n\nBack behind the wheel of the Grand Am, Bobby washed down two Pepcids with a slug of hot caffeine as he swung on to the entrance ramp to I-95 South. His agita was raging, and he tapped on his chest with his fist as he settled into the left lane. He knew the feeling all too well. Something was not sitting right in his gut. Something was very wrong...\n\n_The graphic crime-scene photos were carefully arranged across his desk, alongside the three clear evidence bags sealed with red tape that he'd signed out of the evidence locker just that morning. He fingered the smooth outer edge of the bag that contained the crumpled Trojan wrapper, dotted with flecks of blood, his cell phone cradled between his neck and cheek. 'Calm down, Belle,' he said into the phone_.\n\n_'Damnit, Bobby, it's ten o'clock and she's not home! I... I can't take this any more. I really can't!' LuAnn replied, her voice cracking. He knew she was already pacing the floor, twisting her long blonde hair over and over and over in her slight fingers. That's what LuAnn did when she was nervous_.\n\n_'Where did she say she was going after school?' Bobby asked. He rubbed his eyes and tossed the evidence bag into the cardboard box marked State v. Marcus Stahl_.\n\n_'The library, for some project. Social Studies \u2013 it was a Social Studies project. I let her go, even though she's supposed to be grounded. But she should have been home hours ago!'_\n\n_'Did you check there?'_\n\n_'It closed two hours ago.'_\n\n_'Maybe she went home with Lilly. Maybe Lilly's mom picked them up.' Across the desk from him, Zo was mouthing, 'What's happening?' in between bites of his burger. Bobby shook his head_.\n\n_'I called, Bobby. Lilly went to the library with Dahlia. Not Katy. Katy wasn't there.'_\n\n_He started to shove the reports and crime-scene photos into an accordion folder. 'Maybe she's with \u2013'_\n\n_'Don't! Don't even say it!'_\n\n_'I'm gonna have to call him, LuAnn.'_\n\n_'I'll kill her. She better not be with him.' She started to cry_.\n\n_'OK, OK, Belle. Don't worry. Try her cell again,' he said as he stuffed the accordion folder under his arm, grabbed his briefcase and rushed out the squad bay, past Zo and the other task force members. He took the stairs two at a time, his stomach churning like someone had poured acid down his throat. Something was wrong. He could feel it. He pushed open the doors into the MROC lobby. 'I'm coming home. I'm coming home, honey...'_\n\nThe semi in the middle lane next to him blasted his horn. Bobby looked around at the cars flying by him. He'd drifted again. He sped up, forcing himself to focus on the present. 'Give it time, Robert,' LuAnn's shrink had said the first and last time Bobby had seen him, swallowed up in the executive leather chair he was sitting in, a patronizing smile on his thin, pasty face. 'It really does heal all wounds.' Bobby had wanted to pummel him. As if it was all that simple. _Just give it time and all will be fine_. Each night was longer than the one before; each day an emotional battle to get through. The not knowing was pure hell. He'd worked in Crimes Against Children for too long, and knew all too well just what the worst-possible-case scenario looked like. It was a reality far darker than any nightmare Dr Give-It-Time could ever imagine.\n\nHe sipped at his coffee as his thoughts returned to Elaine Emerson. While he still had to confirm the field trip with Jupiter High, he already knew Zachary Cusano wasn't lying. The kid had never heard of, much less met, Lainey. So either he had the wrong seventeen-year-old Zach from Jupiter who played varsity baseball, basketball, was captain of the football team and strummed the bass guitar, or...\n\nThat person did not exist.\n\nThat would potentially present a host of other problems. But, even if it were true, even if this ElCapitan proved to be an internet phantom, he still had no evidence that Lainey had ever met the guy. Or that the sexy pictures she'd taken were for him. Kids chatted with hundreds, sometimes thousands, of people from all over the world on the web. People whose paths they never crossed outside of an internet connection.\n\nIt was almost eleven by the time he got home. Nilla, Katy's Australian Shepherd-mix, greeted him at the door with a yawn and a stretch, then followed it up with a few kisses and tail thwacks. Nilla was a Humane Society Survivor \u2013 Katy had rescued her from death row when she was just a pup. Out of the dozens of sad, woeful eyes, Katy had picked Nilla as her birthday present and the dog had never forgotten. From the second they'd brought her home, Nilla was Katy's pooch. They played together, swam together, slept together. Even when Katy turned into a teenager and found friends and boys and parties more interesting than racing her dog to the end of the pool, Nilla was there \u2013 just like tonight \u2013 waiting patiently at the door for Katy to finally find her way back home.\n\nLuAnn had to be at work at seven a.m., so chances were she'd popped a Xanax and was out like a light. 'Come on, girl, let's get us some salami,' Bobby whispered as he headed into the kitchen with Nilla at his heels. The Nextel chirped just as he excavated the makings of a sub from the fridge. 'Dees.'\n\nIt was Zo. 'You need to turn on the TV.'\n\nLuAnn walked into the kitchen just then in her pajamas. 'Hey, Belle,' Bobby said softly, 'I thought you'd be sleeping.' 'You need to see this,' she replied, flicking on the kitchen TV.\n\nOn the television screen, Debbie LaManna, Elaine's mom, was wiping tears off her cheeks. '... I asked them to call the FBI, you know?' Bobby recognized the pink bedspread that she sat on, the movie posters that decorated the walls behind her. 'Those cops all told me to hire a private investigator if I want to find her. Can you believe that? A private investigator? Don't ask me what the police are doing. They're doing nothing! Nothing at all!'\n\n'Debra LaManna only wants to find her little girl,' said the handsome reporter with the jet-black hair and piercing blue eyes. His manicured eyebrows were deep-set in a concerned V. 'A little girl who loves her friends, her teddy bears, her family...' He gestured to the _Twilight_ poster behind him with a wry smile. '... vampires and love stories. Yet no one is willing to help her look. She is just like any one of the hundreds of other Florida runaways that Channel Six has discovered listed on the Florida Department of Law Enforcement's website.'\n\nThe picture then cut to the lobby of MROC. 'Here at FDLE headquarters in Miami, an entire squad of special agents investigates what's known as Crimes Against Children. Those crimes specifically include missing and exploited kids.' The reporter walked over to a wall-mounted glass case. Along with FBI and FDLE wanted posters, it displayed a montage of current Missing Children\/Endangered Runaway flyers. 'Posted right here in their lobby are pictures of some of the missing.' The camera panned across the faces as names were read aloud. 'Eva Wackett, Shania Davis, Valerie Gomez, Kathleen Thomas, Gale Sampson, Nikole Krupa. And there are more, not posted here in the lobby, but still listed as missing on the FDLE website. Dozens and dozens of missing kids, right here in South Florida. Right in our own backyard. Some have been missing for months; some for years. And no one's looking for them. Now there's one more name to add to the list. Only this time, one mother has had enough and is speaking out.'\n\nHe held up the fifth-grade picture of a bespectacled Lainey sitting at her school desk two years ago. 'Thirteen-year-old Elaine Emerson. Debra LaManna can only wait and hope. Hope that perhaps Lainey, as she's known to friends and family, is more important than the dozens of other kids South Florida law enforcement have written off and thrown away. Reporting for Channel Six, WTVJ, I'm Mark Felding.'\n\n'Son of a...' Bobby started.\n\n'I'll make the coffee,' LuAnn said quietly, reaching for the bag of Dunkin' Donuts.\n\n'How about them apples?' Zo asked with a loud sigh before Bobby could finish his sentence. 'Tell LuAnn to brew a pot. I'm coming over. I do believe, Shep, that the shit has just hit the fan.'\n\n#\n\nHe leaned forward and stared hard at the TV. He was on the news! Not just any news, but the eleven o'clock news! Prime-fucking-time news! He looked at his watch and rubbed the fine sandpaper stubble on his jaw. It was only 11:07. Maybe not _the_ top story, but _a_ top story! He did it!\n\nHe sipped at his warm milk and rubbed his tummy. He thought about how many people saw the news. Hundreds of thousands? Definitely. Much more than that. This was no time to be modest. Millions! Millions of people were sitting in their beds right now, watching this sniveling excuse for a mother boo-hoo about the daughter who just last week she couldn't give two shits about, and wondering what might have happened to her. Where she might have gone, why she might have left. If she was dead. Crying just so she could milk a few more seconds off her fifteen minutes of fame, maybe tape it so she could critique how good she looked on camera with her friends.\n\nThen the camera slowly panned down the FDLE hall and across the sweet faces of the others.\n\nHe fell back into his La-Z-Boy. The names \u2013 they didn't matter. But those... faces. He always remembered a pretty face. Every detail, every curve, every line, every dimple, every perfectly misshapen freckle.\n\nHe felt himself getting excited at just the thought of what he had done and he closed his eyes. The sweat began to gather on his forehead and back of his neck and he licked his dry lips as his hand went to his pants. He clutched at the tweed upholstery on the chair's arm with his free hand, twisting it in his clammy, shaking fingers.\n\n_No, no no_. This was not the way. This was not the time. He opened his eyes. There was work to be done. Before the perfect picture was spoiled forever in his mind. He sat up and reached for the canvas roll-up bag of paintbrushes on the side table next to him.\n\nOn the television, a photo of his pretty little princess flashed on the screen. Only it wasn't her. He frowned as he stuffed the bag of brushes into the back pocket of his jeans. Lainey was much, much prettier than that. She had made herself that way for him. She had made sure she was special. Different than the rest.\n\nThe piece ended and the dramatic music ushered in a commercial break. He stood and brought the empty milk glass and cookie plate over to the sink. He hummed the catchy music as he washed the plate and glass and set them out to dry. Then he turned off the TV and reached for his utility case and the Jullian French easel that sat by the cellar door.\n\nThat's when he heard her. Loud and nasally, piercing the delicious quiet.\n\n_'Noooooo... somebody... please...'_\n\nHe covered his ears with his hands. He'd have to go down there and stop that. All that noise, noise, noise, _noise!_ It was a bit disappointing, no doubt. The spoiling process had already fucking begun. Like a perfect, round red apple set out on a countertop couldn't just sit there and be perfect forever, but instead had to rot slowly, from the inside out, until the peel bruised and darkened, and the inside decomposed to a mealy, tasteless mush. Annoyed, he shoved the easel under his arm and reached for the basement door handle. On the outside his little princess still looked perfect and red and ripe, but on the inside she was already moaning, whining, complaining.\n\nRotting away.\n\nIt was a fucking shame. The pretty ones never lasted long.\n\n#\n\n'Why wasn't an AMBER Alert issued, Agent Dees?'\n\nThe Miami Regional Operations Center training room was only maybe half-filled with reporters, but every eye in it turned to SAS Bobby Dees, who was standing as far away as possible from the regional director, Trenton Foxx, his entourage of Yes Men, and half the brass of the Coral Springs Police Department on the makeshift press dais. The entire morning had been spent in rushed 'damage control' meetings, headed by people who didn't have a clue about missing kid protocol, culminating in a noon knee-jerk press conference that Bobby had not recommended and wanted no part of. He had hoped all questions would just be directed at Foxx, a media-hound who had taken command of the podium the second he saw it, but once again, luck was not on his side.\n\n'As I already explained to y'all, Agent Dees and Detective Dagher did not feel that was necessary,' Foxx started, irritation beginning to fray his hospitable Panhandle twang. The forced soft smile was melting. The director liked the limelight well enough, but he had no use for the obnoxious Miami media. Up where he came from, cops told the press what was a good story, not vice versa. Last night's investigative report bullshit would never have happened in Destin. But Foxx was new to the area and he was no fool \u2013 you caught more flies with honey than you did vinegar. He was only a couple of weeks into a long five-year commitment in this city, and he knew if you didn't want every news channel and paper in town looking for ways to make you sound like a moron, you smiled when you took their questions and you bitched when the door closed on their tails. 'You see now \u2013'\n\n'No, I'd like to hear from Agent Dees, please,' interrupted the reporter. It was the guy who had done last night's interview with a teary Debbie LaManna. His hair was even fluffier and more perfect in person. 'Mark Felding, Channel Six. I'd like to hear from Agent Dees, if we could. He's running this investigation, is he not?'\n\nFoxx shrugged and stepped back from the podium. The smile was gone.\n\n'Elaine Emerson did not and does not meet the strict protocol to issue an AMBER. That is reserved for abductions,' Bobby responded as he leaned over into the mike.\n\n'But you issued a Missing Child Alert, so you had to believe Elaine was in some sort of danger,' Felding persisted. 'What made you think that, Agent Dees? Did you have any additional information?'\n\nThe Missing Child Alert had been the domino that notified the local media that Elaine was missing, which caused Channel Six's Felding to follow up on air with her sad-sack of a mother. That led to the tears at eleven, then the barrage of phone calls from frantic parents and slick reporters chumming for a juicy sequel to the Makala Jarvis mess, which ultimately brought on the shit storm that Zo had predicted. Hours had been wasted and nothing had been accomplished. 'I did that in an abundance of caution,' Bobby replied.\n\n'Doesn't a Missing Child Alert mean a juvenile's in imminent danger?' Felding repeated. 'So what is it about Elaine's disappearance that made you believe she was, or is, at risk of bodily harm?'\n\nThere was a reason why they didn't let Bobby head up the press conferences \u2013 he was no good at either the smiles or the sugarcoating. 'I know you're looking for a story here, Mr Felding,' he replied testily, 'one way or another. Either law enforcement did too much, or did too little. But there's nothing to report. The investigation's ongoing, we are pursuing many avenues which I'm not going to comment on, and hopefully with all the attention you have now focused on it, Elaine will see herself on the news and call home.'\n\n'Channel Six has been conducting an investigative report on runaways in South Florida,' Felding continued. 'The first installment ran last night. There are literally hundreds of missing kids across the state that I've discovered on the FDLE website that nobody is looking for, Agent Dees. Hundreds. And over the years, I'm sure, thousands. My question for you then, as the supervisor of the Crimes Against Children squad, and as a recognized national expert on child abductions, is why do some kids' disappearances get a full-blown investigation, with AMBER Alerts and organized volunteer searches, while other disappearances \u2013 like Adrianna Sweet, Eva Wackett or Nikole Krupa \u2013 don't get the time of day?'\n\n'Every case is different, Mr Felding. There are many factors \u2013 the age of the child, the circumstances surrounding the disappearance \u2013'\n\n'Well, Eva Wackett went to the Dolphin Mall to meet friends and never came back. That never got any attention. Adrianna Sweet didn't come home from a friend's house in Miami. That never got any attention, either. Of course Eva was in the foster-care system and Adrianna had a juvenile record for drug possession and a family that didn't give a damn. Maybe that's what mattered. Could that be it?'\n\n'I didn't work those cases, Mr Felding.' Bobby knew exactly what this asshole was trying to do, and his blood was beginning to boil.\n\n'My point exactly. When is a case bad enough \u2013 or, rather, a kid important enough \u2013 to get turned over to the Crimes Against Children unit of FDLE?'\n\n'A kid's socio-economic status is not a determining factor in issuing an AMBER or starting an investigation, and you know it. Neither is race or heritage. You're breaking this down to a sound bite for the second installment of your investigative report, Mr Felding. More than a million kids run away from home every year in this country. A million. There's just not enough manpower to go looking for teenagers who don't want to be found, is all.'\n\n'But why do some runaways \u2013 like your own daughter, Agent Dees \u2013 why do those kids get a full-blown investigation at tax-payers' expense, and others, like Elaine Emerson, get only a couple of perfunctory phone calls to the morgue and the hospitals?'\n\nA buzz ran through the crowd.\n\nBobby gripped the podium with both hands, so hard his knuckles went white. The room was spinning. 'Who the hell do you think you are, asking me that question?'\n\n'That's enough! This is over,' broke in Zo, pushing forward and wedging himself between Bobby and the podium. He clasped a firm hand on Bobby's shoulder, and waved over the Public Information Officer. 'Thank you for your time, everyone. Please direct any further questions to our PIO, Leslie Mavrides.'\n\nLeslie hesitantly moved toward the podium.\n\n'I knew that was gonna come up,' Foxx grumbled to Matt Donofrio, the Coral Springs police chief as the two of them quickly stepped off the dais and exited into a back hallway. 'Jesus Christ... what a mess. That's all I need...'\n\n'I just want to know why some kids are being ignored!' called out Felding, looking around at the agents who were coming at him from the back of the room. 'What if something more sinister is happening to these kids? What if they're not all just runaways? We'll never know, 'cause no one's looking for them!'\n\n'Who the hell is this guy?' Bobby demanded, as Veso and Zo moved to get him off the dais. 'Who the hell does he think he is?'\n\n'I have a list,' Felding shouted, waving a piece of paper above his head as the agents closed in. The cameras spun on him. 'Nineteen girls \u2013 all fitting the same general description or same strange circumstances of disappearance! Nineteen, and I've just started to look! All local runaways on your website! I think they deserve an investigation, Agent Dees! They deserve someone to go looking for them,' he said as he shook off the agents who ushered him towards the door. 'Just like your daughter, Katherine. Don't you think?'\n\n#\n\n'I found out when I got to class this morning. Melissa told me, but, I mean, everyone knew. Everybody was asking me, you know, what happened to her. Then my dad called the school and said you wanted to talk to me.' Molly Brosnan sat on the edge of her seat in the Ramblewood assistant principal's office, twisting her long, Strawberry Shortcake locks through frosted blue fingertips. She chewed on a chapped lip.\n\nBobby leaned forward in the chair across from her, elbows resting on his knees. It was a little over an hour since he'd left the circus back down in Miami. Five minutes after he'd finally told a pissed off, bitching Foxx to fuck off, Mark Brosnan had called to say Molly was back in town, so he'd jumped in the car and headed north to Coral Springs. There was no time to stop, no time to think about the bullshit that'd gone down that morning, and really no reason to stick around to see what squad or field office he was going to be reassigned to \u2013 assuming he still had a job at all after Foxx made a phone call to the Commissioner. What a fall from grace. Exactly a year ago at this time he had a great marriage, a beautiful daughter and was a 'nationally recognized expert on child abductions', assisting everyone from the FBI to the Georgia State Police on missing child investigations. _Time_ had done a piece on him as the 2007 recipient of both the Officer of the Year Award for Missing and Exploited Children and Florida's Law Enforcement Officer of the Year. _People_ had even named him a 'Hero Among Us'.\n\n_Look, Daddy, you're on the same page as Beyonc\u00e9!_ Katy had said in amazement when the tabloid came in the mail. _You're famous! You're a hero!_\n\n_But am I your hero, Kit-Kat?_\n\n_Always, Daddy..._\n\nNow his marriage was crumbling, his daughter was gone and he just might be in need of a job. 'Molly, when was the last time you saw Lainey?'\n\n'Saw her? Um, well, not this weekend, 'cause of my grandma, but I saw her last weekend. I went over her house Saturday.'\n\n'And the last time you spoke with her?'\n\n'The day before I lost my cell phone.'\n\nMark Brosnan, Molly's dad, was standing across the room next to the assistant principal, his arms folded across his chest. He frowned and shot her a look.\n\n'Well, I didn't lose it. My teacher took it on Friday,' she added sheepishly. 'I get it back tomorrow.'\n\n'What'd Lainey say? Did she tell you about plans she had over the weekend?' Bobby asked.\n\n'We were gonna go to the mall, but then my grandma died and I went to New Orleans.'\n\n'What about a boy? Was there any boy she was dating?'\n\n'No. Lainey wasn't dating anybody. There was a guy she liked, but, you know, she'd never even met him.'\n\n'Who?'\n\n'I don't know. Just some guy she talked to on the internet. I only know his name's Zach and he plays football. He's really cute, too.'\n\n'Is that the boy Lainey took the pictures for?'\n\nMolly's face went beet red and she looked down at her shoes.\n\n'I know about the pictures. Did you take them for her?' he prodded.\n\nMolly nodded.\n\n'What pictures, Molly?' her dad demanded, puzzled.\n\nMolly shook her head. 'Just Lainey looking pretty.'\n\n'How did Lainey communicate with Zach?' Bobby asked. 'I've checked her AOL email account, but I didn't see any messages from either a Zach or ElCapitan.'\n\n'She IM'd him.'\n\n'On her cell?'\n\n'No, cause her mom would check that sometimes and she didn't want her reading her messages. They IM'd on the computer, like we did. On Yahoo.'\n\n'This boy, this Zach.' Bobby tapped the file folder on his lap. 'You said he's cute, but yet you never met him.'\n\n'He sent Lainey a picture. He's blond and, like, a surfer-looking guy.'\n\nBobby opened the folder and found the picture of a casual, T-shirted Zachary Cusano he'd downloaded from the internet baseball news article. 'This him?'\n\nMolly nodded. 'That's the picture.'\n\nBobby felt his heart speed up. He'd already verified that the real Zachary Cusano was looking at space shuttles a hundred or so miles to the north the night Lainey disappeared. 'Was she going to meet him?'\n\n'No, no. He lived, like, real far away. It took all of Lainey's nerves to even IM the guy a sentence. There's no way she'd go meet him.'\n\n'How'd she get along with her mom?'\n\nMolly shrugged. 'OK, I guess.'\n\n'Stepdad?'\n\nBoth Molly and her dad made a face.\n\n'Lainey and Mr LaManna don't... well, she doesn't really like him. Is it OK to say that?' Molly asked, looking over at her dad, who nodded. 'He's just, he's hard on her and he can be really weird. Lainey avoids him. They had a big fight Thursday. She wasn't talking to him.'\n\n'Really?' Bobby asked. 'Do you know what it was about?'\n\n'He's just weird. He flipped out on her room, 'cause she locked the door on him.'\n\n'Would she run away from home?'\n\nShe shook her head. 'Where would she go?'\n\n'Molly,' Bobby said quietly. 'I pulled Lainey's cell records and they show her last call out was made to you Friday night. That was the last communication anyone has had with her.'\n\n'I didn't talk to her,' Molly replied, her small voice catching. 'I didn't have my phone. But she did leave a message. I checked my voicemail from my grandma's house. I guess it was kinda weird...' her voice trailed off.\n\n'Do you still have it?' her dad asked.\n\n'No, but I remember it. She said I'd never guess where she was. She sounded real excited. Then someone called her name and she whispered she had to go and said not to call her back, that she'd call me.' Molly looked over at her dad, as the tears ran down her cheeks. 'But she never did, Daddy. She never did.'\n\n#\n\n'The email address used to open the MySpace account was elcapitan17@msn.com. The name was Zachary Cusano, with a street address of 69 Lollipop Lane, Jupiter, Florida,' Clint said into the phone, taking a long drag on his cigarette. It was Thursday morning. Almost a week since Lainey hadn't come home.\n\n'What the hell kind of address is that?'\n\n'MySpace has over five million users, Bobby. They don't verify names, addresses or ages.'\n\n'Let me guess,' Bobby said, pulling in front of the white ranch. 'The address is bogus.'\n\n'Of course.'\n\n'ISP?'\n\n'No good, either.'\n\n'What about the connectivity history?'\n\n'MSN says the connections are always from free WiFi locations. Coffeehouses, the Fort Lauderdale Airport, libraries. He's untraceable, Bobby. It's a ghost.'\n\n'Shit.' Bobby slapped the steering wheel. 'All right, Clint, I just pulled up to the kid's house. I got Zo and a tech behind me and a warrant in my pocket.'\n\n'That's a nice way to say, \"Good morning\",' Clint laughed.\n\n'Let's just pray little Elaine didn't actually try to hook up with this guy. That would definitely not be good.'\n\nHe walked up to the weathered door and knocked. Debbie opened it, leaning against the frame in her robe, blocking the barking golden retriever behind her from getting out. Or maybe Bobby from entering. Lainey's brother, Brad, watched wide-eyed in his pajamas from the kitchen as he slurped down a bowl of cereal. The circles were so bad under Debbie's eyes, she looked like someone had punched her. Given the history on the house and the husband, that was a definite possibility.\n\nBobby handed her a copy of the warrant. 'We're here for the computer.'\n\n'So you're finally gonna do something? That shook you up the other night, I bet,' Debbie snapped, her voice scratchy and slightly slurred, probably from lack of sleep and drinking too much.\n\n'Again, permission would've made it easier.'\n\n'The freaking computer... what the hell you want with that? Waste of time. You should be out looking for who took her!' she yelled as Bobby, Zo and the tech pushed past her and headed down the hall.\n\nThe bed was made, the room all prettied up. No doubt for the cameras that were in here two days earlier. Bobby flipped on the computer, burned the hard drive on to the zip evidence disk and sealed it in an evidence bag.\n\nHe didn't want to wait for a lab in Orlando to look for what he knew he could find himself in a matter of seconds. While he still had no concrete evidence Lainey had gone to meet this ElCapitan, he figured if he could just get a look at her last IMs, he'd know for sure. Unfortunately, most of the time on most of the search engines, IMs were gone the second you closed the program or shut down the computer. But on some Yahoo IM accounts, the default system would automatically save the last ten days' worth of Instant Messages.\n\nHe navigated Yahoo Messenger over to Lainey's My Yahoo. He launched into her IM Settings and checked the date for archived messaging. Ten days. But the archive default was real-time sensitive, like the voicemail feature on a cell \u2013 it only went back ten days from the current date. Today was Thursday, October twenty-ninth. That would mean he could access stored IMs sent or received only up and through October twentieth.\n\nHe launched into Lainey's account. A bunch of texts appeared. The screen name ElCapitan was everywhere. He quickly scanned through the chatter till he hit last Tuesday, October twentieth, and his eyes fell on the texts he knew he was going to find.\n\n**ElCapitan says:** | **have to meet u.** \n---|--- \n**ElCapitan says:** | **what about Friday nite? Wanna c Zombieland?** \n**ElCapitan says:** | **I'll pick u up at school. weve played CS High b4. Stay late and meet me @ 5:30 in the parking lot in back by the baseball field. Ill b in a black BMW.**\n\n'Oh shit,' said Zo, who was reading over Bobby's shoulder. 'Her last phone call to her friend was at what time Friday?'\n\n'Five thirty-one.'\n\n'That's not good. Maybe she didn't go through with it, though. Maybe she never showed. What's the last IM say? Is it from this piece of shit?'\n\nBobby scrolled down to the end. 'Last IM was Thursday, October twenty-second at 9:47 p.m. from...' his voice trailed off.\n\nOn the screen was the last message Lainey had received right before she disappeared.\n\n**ElCapitan says:** | **c u 2morow \u263a** \n---|---\n\n#\n\nLainey was with him. No doubt about it. Now the question was, who exactly was _him?_ And the even more important question, how do you find _him_ , this faceless phantom who wreaked havoc over an internet trafficked by millions of people each and every second of each and every day? A cyber-ghost who's smart enough to not just cover his tracks, but leave none at all?\n\nBobby watched the kids playing scrimmage on the Coral Springs High School football field. Everywhere he looked there were signs of life. Teenagers running track, reading books, hanging out in their cars. A completely different scene on a sunny Thursday afternoon than it apparently had been at dusk last Friday night, when no one had been around to see anything. He'd checked the storefronts on Sample, the homeowners across the street on Rock Island. He'd had security search the school's video surveillance tapes, and even the Coral Springs PD pull traffic cams, but there was nothing. Nothing at all.\n\nBobby had worked internet abductions before \u2013 the endings were never good. The first thing a detective learns out of the academy is statistics: More than 70 per cent of violent crimes \u2013 including sexual assaults and abductions \u2013 are perpetrated by someone the victim knows, either intimately or casually. Starting with the victim will usually lead you back to the bad guy. _Where did she hang out? What were her hobbies? Who were her friends? Who were her enemies?_ But internet stalkings didn't play by conventional rules. Most often, they began as random hunts in invisible chat rooms or through social-networking sites, where no one was who they said they were, witnesses didn't exist and whole identities simply disappeared with the click of a mouse. Trails were electronic, not physical, and if the bad guy was experienced enough to know how _not_ to leave one, then there was no way to track where he'd been or where he'd come from. It was like a masked stranger sneaking into a random home in the middle of the night, who leaves no fingerprints, no trace evidence, and no DNA behind. Short of someone squawking, the case was almost impossible to solve.\n\nBobby looked out on the expansive field, home to the Coral Springs Colts. Blue- and green-skirted cheerleaders giggled and laughed as they practiced on the sidelines, oblivious to the guy with the badge and sports coat watching on the other side of the fence. Before she'd met Ray, Katy had been a cheerleader, too. Varsity St Thomas Aquinas High School. She'd started out in gymnastics soon after learning how to walk, and then sometime before she was eight or nine, switched to cheering. The competition schedule was grueling, with meets that lasted entire weekends in cities all across Florida. Standing in the bleachers, his hand wrapped in LuAnn's, they'd watch with their hearts jammed in their throats as their only child flipped and twisted atop a pyramid of bodies. It was at one of those meets, watching one of those back tucks twenty-feet in the air, watching as someone else caught his little girl as she spiraled with a smile to the ground, that Bobby first confronted perhaps the most frightening reality of all about parenting: He had no control.\n\n* * *\n\n_'Every guy with a badge is looking, Bobby. Key West to Boynton. There's nothing.'_\n\n_'She can't just disappear, Zo; she's a sixteen-year-old kid. She's got nowhere to go, and what? Maybe a few hundred bucks in her pocket from working at the fucking Dairy Queen?'_\n\n_The Dairy Queen. That's where Katy had met that loser, Ray. Reinaldo Coon. The moment Bobby had met him \u2013 hovering over his daughter like a second layer of skin while she cleaned the Blizzard machine, watching her every move \u2013 he knew the kid was trouble. Barely eighteen, he had the confident swagger of either a rock star or a gang member, and the smirk of someone who just didn't give a shit who you were or what you wanted. Bobby knew even then that it was too late; that the spell had been cast and Katy was falling hard. Her baby blue eyes followed bad-ass Ray and his mop around the store like an obedient puppy. Perhaps she found his tattoos sexy, his defiance exciting, his cockiness assuring. If Bobby could go back and do one thing in his life over, it would be to tell Katy that she couldn't work at the fucking Dairy Queen_.\n\n_Zo chose his next words carefully. 'Looks like the two of them maybe thought it out, Bobby. There's no trace of the boy, either. Mom's still saying she hasn't heard from him in weeks. Says he moved out in November and she doesn't want him back.'_\n\n_'Bullshit,' Bobby ran his hands through his hair. 'She's lying. I'm gonna go over there and talk to her again...'_\n\n_'No. No, you're not. She's already screaming lawsuit over you breaking her shit last week. You can't threaten 'em, Shep. No matter how good it feels to wrap your hands around her throat, or punch out her car window, you just can't do it. Scum like her is looking for a way to make your life hell.'_\n\n_There was a long, horrible silence. 'It worked, Zo,' Bobby said softly, as he looked out the door of his office at the smilingfaces on The Board across the hall. They were no longer photos of Somebody Else's Kid. 'My life is hell now...'_\n\nThe sun was starting to slip out west. The football players had trudged inside; the cheerleaders had stopped cheering. Across the street and down the block, porch lights were coming on. A couple of homes had already lit the Jack-o'-Lanterns on their stoops, and tremendous blow-up witches and ghosts were puffing to life on green lawns sprinkled with leaves. Halloween was just a couple of days off. He'd almost forgotten, or maybe tried not to remember the fun, kid-friendly holiday that used to be his favorite. It wasn't so long ago that Katy had been a princess in a sparkly Sleeping Beauty costume, stepping out the door with no front teeth, giddily swinging her Trick or Treat bag. He kicked the fence and turned back toward the car and the emptying parking lot. He was no closer to answers than he was yesterday. On either case.\n\n_'But why do some runaways \u2013 like your own daughter, Agent Dees \u2013 why do those kids get a full-blown investigation at tax-payers' expense, and others, like Elaine Emerson, get only a couple of perfunctory phone calls to the morgue and the hospitals?'_\n\nThat asshole reporter's words from Tuesday kept repeating in his head, as they had all day. Who the hell did that guy think he was? Maybe he shouldn't let it get to him \u2013 Katy's disappearance _had_ triggered a Missing Child Alert and _had_ made a blurb in the local section of the _Herald_. Everyone in the South Florida media knew she'd run away. Even _People_ ran an update in their MailBag section. And the guy did have a point, even if it stung to hear it. Why were runaways right up there with barking-dog complaints on a department's priority list? Why were the final case disposition stats for them so dismal? Why were so many teens not even reported missing? And why was that somehow acceptable?\n\nNineteen girls so far, all fitting the same general description.\n\nHis Nextel beeped as he climbed into his car. 'Dees.'\n\nIt was Zo. 'Yo, Bobby, listen up. I'm sitting here at MROC at my desk, getting ready to head on home, when Duty puts a call back from someone who you won't believe is looking for you.'\n\n'What? Who?'\n\n'That dick reporter from the other day. Felding. The guy's all freaked out. I ask him what he wants, and, well, you really ain't gonna believe the weird shit he's telling me...'\n\n#\n\nMark Felding sat anxiously on the edge of his seat in front of Zo's desk. The hands that held the oversized manila envelope on his lap were shaking; the color was gone from his chiseled, photogenic face.\n\n'I got the mail late today,' Mark said, fumbling for words. 'I was in editing on my Special Report piece and then went to my mailbox. I'm not sure when it came in. I didn't know who to call at first, to tell you the truth, but then I saw the slip of paper with Agent Dees' name on it...' He stopped himself, as if he didn't want to go any further. 'I put it back in there. In the envelope.'\n\n'How do you know this has anything to do with what you're working on?' Zo asked, shooting a look over at Bobby, who stood his distance in a corner, holding up a wall. Present, but removed. Channel Six Super Reporter might not have been that far off base when he'd said what he'd said Tuesday morning, but that didn't mean Bobby wanted to be in a room again with him.\n\n'The note that was paper-clipped to the top of the picture said, \"Nice Piece, Mark.\" The South Florida runaway story is the only thing I've been working on. And of course,' he said, nodding at the envelope as he passed it to Zo across the desk, 'it has a young, you know, girl in it.'\n\nThe mailer had already been torn open. Zo flipped it upside down and with latexed fingers, slid out a folded piece of what looked like stiff cloth or canvas. A strip of newspaper gently fluttered to the desktop. He picked it up. 'It's cut from the paper,' he said, passing it to Bobby. 'It's your name.'\n\nBobby slid on a glove and held up the thin slip of newspaper.\n\nFDLE SPECIAL AGENT SUPERVISOR ROBERT DEES\n\nZo carefully unfolded the cloth canvas. Thick, colorful paint covered one side. He took a step back. 'What the fuck?' he snapped in disgust.\n\n'I told you it was sick!' Felding piped up, pointing at the picture. 'I told you! I mean, Jesus Christ!'\n\nClumsy streaks of yellow colored a happy face T-shirt, indigo blue filled in the skin-tight jeans the model \u2013 or whoever she was \u2013 was wearing. Seated on what looked like a metal stool, coils of rope dangled from each wrist, just above her outstretched hands. The palms were smeared with streaks of red paint. She was a brunette, with dark waves that spilled over her shoulders, and a long platinum streak that ran down from the center of her head, like the comic book character Alexandra from _Josie and the Pussycats_.\n\nBut it was the face, or lack thereof, that made Bobby's blood run cold.\n\nThe mouth was open and contorted, just like in the disturbing Edward Munch painting, _The Scream_. Two gaping black holes existed where her eyes should have been, red drops of paint dripped down her cheeks.\n\nBobby knew what it was right away.\n\nIt was a portrait.\n\n#\n\n'The paint's oil based. That much I know,' Zo remarked.\n\n'Art major?' Bobby asked, surprised.\n\n'Nah. I dabble. Hoping to retire with my paintbrush to a fishing shack and an eccentric life in the Keys one day. Also, until it completely dries, you can smell oil a mile away.'\n\n'You never really know a person,' Bobby commented. 'That makes you more of an expert than me, then. I don't even color. So, what's your opinion?'\n\n'He's no Picasso, but he's also no paint-by-numbers novice. My guess is he's had training. Art school or classes.'\n\n'We'll get it to the lab and see if we can get a brand on the paint. Maybe pick up some trace evidence. Same with the newspaper clip and the note.'\n\nFelding sat there looking bewildered. 'Has this guy done anything? I mean, is this girl real? Is she a real person?'\n\nBobby stared at the painting. 'Don't know, Mr Felding. Hope not.'\n\n'Do you recognize her? Is she missing?'\n\n'How the hell can anyone recognize that?' Zo asked. 'She has no freaking face. It's probably just a Halloween nut trying to shake your station down for some air time. The freaks come out in full force this time of year.'\n\n'Well it's not going to work. I'm not letting that get on the air,' Mark replied quietly.\n\nBobby stared at him. 'A reporter with a spine and a set of morals? That's novel.'\n\n'We get a lot of dements looking for airtime, Agent Dees. You'd be surprised how much garbage we don't broadcast.' Mark gestured toward the desk. 'Even when it is news.'\n\n'Well, I'm not comfortable with just sitting here and saying it's nothing,' Bobby remarked after a minute, turning his attention back to the painting. 'I want to know it's nothing. Look behind her, here, Zo. There's a window, right? You can see the top three towers of what sure as hell looks like the CenTrust building. The blue water of the bay, and this white curve, here? What's that? A building? The American Airlines arena, maybe? If this is a portrait and the artist painted it as he saw it, including what he saw out the window, then where the hell is he?'\n\n'He's gotta be downtown Miami,' Zo muttered. 'Real close to the arena. From this angle and height, it looks like he's on a high floor, which would make him northeast of the CenTrust.'\n\nBobby thought for a second. 'The room itself's a bust. Tan paint. No pictures on the walls. What's that white thing on the floor behind her?'\n\n'Looks like a mattress,' Zo replied.\n\n'A mattress? So it's gotta be either an apartment or \u2013'\n\n'A hotel,' Zo finished. 'Hey, isn't there a Days Inn or Best Western on Biscayne that's slated to come down one of these days? Close to the arena?'\n\nBobby nodded and reached for his jacket. 'It's the old Regal. It's been on the demo block now for six months, held up in litigation. It's about fifteen stories, totally abandoned, and in a shit part of town. In other words, it's perfect.'\n\n#\n\nThe Regal All-Suites Hotel sat at an odd angle, in an odd part of downtown Miami, wedged in between the massive American Airlines Arena and desolate Bicentennial Park, which probably explained why it was being torn down. Slated to be reinvented as luxury condos, when and if the housing crisis finally abated, the fourteen-storied building was surrounded by temporary chain-link fencing with signs posted NO TRESPASSING \u2013 DEMOLITION ZONE every ten feet or so. The recent downturn in the housing market had all but brought an end to new construction, and many builders were stalling to pull permits and begin projects, especially in a city with a glut of overpriced brand-new luxury condominiums.\n\nIt took a couple of hours for Bobby to track down somebody with a key and a clue. The property had already been transferred from Regal to the builders, New Bright Construction, and since New Bright was tearing the whole thing down, no one there really cared if they ever opened a door at the property again. But protocol was protocol, and except for a wild guess farmed from a creepy painting, there existed no exigent circumstances that would let them enter the property without either permission or a warrant, and they didn't have enough for a warrant. As for permission, it would definitely have been easier to wait till morning, when Susie or Barbara or whatever secretary was finally in to answer a phone at New Bright, but Bobby didn't want to wait that long. He might not have enough for a warrant, but he definitely had a feeling. A feeling that was gonna gnaw at his gut and his thoughts all night anyway, so he might as well get this done tonight, and hope to God he was wrong. If all turned out well, then maybe his brain would give him a break and let him nab a couple of hours of shuteye.\n\nIt was almost ten by the time they tracked down an owner and the property manager and got inside the building. They \u2013 as in Zo, Bobby and the four officers borrowed from the City of Miami to help execute the search. The Regal's electricity had been turned off when the security fencing went up, and the first-floor windows had all been boarded to keep out the homeless and the crackheads. The smell of mold and must hit them the second the doors opened on to a pitch-black foyer. Beams from a half-dozen flashlights probed the two-story lobby for signs of life as each cop took in the room, falling on mostly nothing but cockroaches and a few brazen rats that stood their ground for a minute or so before finally scurrying out of sight.\n\nThe furniture was gone, the fixtures stripped from the walls. A dumpster full of broken sinks sat where the reception desk had presumably once been. All that was left from the original hotel was the streak of royal red carpet that ran the length of the lobby, from the glass front doors to the bank of elevators, tucked away in a back corner. That's where Bobby spotted the pile of dirty blankets, empty snack bags, discarded syringes, condom wrappers and a couple of burnt Coke cans on the floor nearby. 'Jenna is HERE!' was spray-painted on the wall. A crack den. _So much for keeping out the vagrants_ , he thought uncomfortably, as he shone his flashlight into the empty elevator car that had been propped open with a broken sink, and the bank of numbers that ran up the car's wall. The hotel had fourteen floors and over two hundred rooms. While there was no telling if this crack campsite was abandoned or fresh, Bobby knew that, just like rats and cockroaches, where there was one, there was usually more...\n\nOne of the uniforms flashed his light on a closed door that led to the stairwell, and they started upstairs. Even though the painting looked as though it'd been sketched from a higher floor, for safety, all rooms had to be searched. Fortunately, the property manager had informed them that the electronic door locks were all inoperable due to the lack of electricity. The doors, if closed, were supposed to just open when pushed on.\n\nThey went floor-by-floor in teams of two, clearing each room after they entered with a shout-out of 'Clear!' followed by the room number searched. Most of the suites had been stripped down to the wallpaper. No carpet, no fixtures, no sinks, no toilets. Pieces of broken furniture, or discarded mattresses had been left behind in others. It was definitely unsettling to walk the dark halls of a shuttered-up, deserted hotel, pushing in doors to see if there were any more unwelcome squatters taking up residence. Or worse \u2013 any dead young girls hanging from the ceiling beams, their tethered hands outstretched, their black eyes pleading for help. This part of the city was pretty desolate at night, too, unless there was a Heat game happening next door or a concert going on across the street at Bicentennial Park \u2013 neither of which was the case tonight. It made Bobby think of the horror flick, _The Shining_. As he and Zo went from room to room, checking closets and closed-off bathrooms \u2013 a flashlight in one hand and a Glock in the other \u2013 he half-expected a deranged maniac to hack his way through a bedroom door to greet them with an ax and a cheery smile.\n\nOn thirteen, they spread out in the usual fashion \u2013 one team went left around the corner to the end of the hallway, one team went right, eventually working their way back to the stairwell and elevator bay. Bobby and Zo worked the rooms across the hall, on the other side of the building. The ones that faced southwest, toward downtown. In the interior hallways, without a flashlight, it was impossible to see even the hand in front of your face. It would suck to run out of batteries all the way up here.\n\n'Clear! 1510!' shouted a team down the north hall. Lopez and Carr.\n\nBobby went to push on 1522. It didn't open.\n\n'Clear! 1540!' yelled another team. Weiceman and Quin-nones.\n\nBobby tried the knob. 'It's locked,' he said quietly.\n\nZo drew his gun up to his chest and nodded, as they both silently moved into position in the hall, flanking the doorframe. Later, Bobby would come to think they probably both knew what they were going to find inside. And if either had spent any time at all thinking about it, neither would have ever wanted to open that door. They'd both been cops long enough to know that certain images, once witnessed, could never be erased from the mind, no matter how much time passed or how hard you tried to forget them.\n\nBobby nodded back. He could hear the other team from the north hall coming back their way, their gun belts jingling, their heavy shoes clunking on the thin carpet, wondering perhaps why they hadn't cleared a room yet. With each floor they had climbed, the anxiety had grown. 'Agent Dias?' Carr called out. 'Dees? You guys OK back there? You find something?' The beams of light from their flashlights danced against the hallway walls.\n\nBobby sucked in a breath. 'Police!' he shouted.\n\nThen he kicked in the door and the screaming began.\n\n#\n\n'Body is that of a black-haired, white, female Jane Doe, sixty-three and a half inches tall, approximate weight 110\u2013120 pounds, approximate age between twelve and twenty-one years.' Gunther Trauss, the Miami-Dade County Medical Examiner, spoke softly into an Olympus digital handheld recorder as he circled the body of a young woman splayed out like da Vinci's Medicine Man on a dirty, white mattress in the center of the stripped room. The black handle of a carving knife protruded from the middle of her yellow happy face T-shirt. Dark blood and other fluids had pooled under her back, seeping into the mattress and spreading out beyond the outline of her body. Pinkish watery fluid leaked from her nose and mouth. Portable 48-watt lighting towers lit the suite like a Hollywood movie set. More towers lined the thirteenth floor and the entire stairwell, where a parade of crime-scene techs, ME assistants and dark blue uniforms trudged continuously up and down thirteen flights of stairs. Down one of the hallways in a far-off room, Bobby could hear Phil Carr, the City of Miami cop who'd helped with the building search. He was still retching.\n\n'Eye color is...' Dr Trauss frowned and paused for a moment, 'unknown. Eyeballs have been removed from their sockets; their location is unknown. Injury appears to be inflicted postmortem. Rigor is resolved. Date and time of death is unknown. Decomposition has begun, right lower abdominal quadrant shows green marbling, skin is slipping. Body is in stage two, putrefaction. Contusions around both ankles and wrists are observed, as are what appear to be ligature burns.' He looked across the room at his assistant, who was fiddling with the disposable mask that covered his mouth and nose. 'Sil, get a picture from this angle, please. Also, you and Joe be careful when you bag her, cause she's slipping and I want to try and get an impression of those rope burns back at the lab. Make sure you get a picture of the butterfly tattoo on her left foot. I don't want to lose that, either.'\n\nBobby crouched beside the ME, a rag to his nose. Decomps in Florida were the worst; the smell was horrible. 'OK, Gunther, what've we got?'\n\n'A dead girl.'\n\nMEs never had a sense of humor at a party. Put them around a dead body and suddenly they think they're Dane Cook. 'No shit,' Bobby replied. 'You wanna tell me how long she's been that way?'\n\nGunther smiled, which in itself was disturbing. It took a different kind of person to be a pathologist. You had to wonder what happened in their childhood. 'Don't know,' he replied. 'A while. Definitely a day. Maybe longer. I'll know more in the morning after I've done the autopsy. But don't expect a second hand.'\n\n'Cause?'\n\nGunther looked at Bobby as if he had three heads. He blinked hard and nodded at the body behind him. 'I won't know for sure till I do the autopsy, but I'll venture a guess it probably has something to do with the rather large knife stuck through the middle of her heart. Again, just a guess.'\n\nBobby sighed. 'You're in a fun mood tonight. I wanted to know if you see something else. Drugs? Blunt trauma?'\n\n'Not yet, but your guy is very theatrical, with the scene he staged all the way up here, and that painting you showed me that he sent you. I wouldn't be surprised if he's done some other nasty things to your poor Jane Doe. My guess is he's had her for a while.'\n\n'What makes you say that?'\n\n'The contusions on her ankles and wrists. Some of those have already begun to fade, and that has nothing to do with her dying. She's been tied up for a while before he killed her.'\n\nZo walked back in the room then, a jar of Vicks VapoRub in one hand, a sealed evidence bag in the other. His nostrils were slathered in shiny goo. 'Crime Scene had a jar in the truck. Want some?'\n\nBobby smeared a gob under his nose.\n\n'No thanks. The smell doesn't bother me,' Gunther replied with another smile.\n\n'You're doing a kit, right?' Zo asked.\n\n'Of course. Based on the sexually provocative positioning of the body, I won't be surprised to find she was raped. You have an idea who she is?'\n\nBobby shook his head. 'Not yet. There's nothing outstanding that matches her description.'\n\n'Maybe she's a tourist. Welcome to Miami,' Gunther quipped. 'That'll make for some good press. You've got a crowd downstairs already, I see.'\n\n'I don't have to tell you not to say anything.'\n\n'No, you don't. OK, we're ready, Sil. Bag her hands and feet.'\n\n'Particularly about her eyes. I don't want every freak in South Florida trying to claim responsibility,' Bobby said. 'Or worse, copycat. I also don't want a panic.'\n\n'I've worked homicides for twenty years,' Zo remarked. 'I've seen everything from Colombian neckties to wannabe cannibals, but I never saw this shit before. What's with the missing peepers?'\n\n'Like I told Agent Dees, I believe that injury was, mercifully, inflicted postmortem \u2013 after she died.'\n\nZo shook his head. 'OK. So she's dead and he takes her eyes out. Obviously it's not 'cause he's worried she'll ID him, then.'\n\n'I was going to be a psychiatrist before I decided to go into pathology, so I'll give you my opinion, for whatever it's worth,' Gunther replied. 'The mutilation is symbolic. In the picture you showed me, he painted her without eyes while she was still alive. Rather than hoping she won't ID him, he doesn't want her to see him. He doesn't want anyone who looks at that painting to see him. By taking out the eyes of the one witness who was in the room with him, he's showing you what happened in there, but making a statement that no one will be able to see it but him, and only through _his_ eyes, the way _he_ wants you to see it. The whole scene is very controlled. The guy probably hates how people see him. Probably hates himself, if that means anything. He could be physically deformed. Anything more than that, go get yourselves a good profiler.'\n\nSil opened the black body bag. 'What do you want me to do about the knife, Dr Trauss? She's pinned.'\n\n'Excuse me,' Gunther said as he turned back to the body.\n\n'We could have a real psycho on our hands,' Zo said with a low whistle as he looked out the window that faced southwest, on to the skyscrapers of downtown Miami. All three levels of the famed CenTrust, aka the Bank of America building, were lit purple for Saturday's macabre holiday. ' 'She was right where you said she'd be.'\n\nGunther carefully pulled the carving knife from Jane Doe's chest and bagged it.\n\n'Our guy knew it was you who was gonna find her, too,' Zo added as he fingered the clear evidence bag in his own hand. Inside was the folded white 8 \u00d7 10 piece of paper that had been found at the foot of the mattress when they first entered the room, propped up for all to see between Jane Doe's legs, like a place card at a fancy dinner. He handed it to Bobby. 'Looks like you've got yourself a secret admirer, Shep.'\n\nBobby took the invitation meant especially for him. Glued across the front were thin strips of newspaper that, once again, spelled out only one name.\n\nFDLE SPECIAL AGENT SUPERVISOR ROBERT DEES\n\n#\n\nEver since he was a kid, Mark Felding wanted to be a TV reporter. Not a Katie Couric or a Tom Brokaw pretty-faced anchor, but a trench-coat-wearing, notepad-toting, porkpie-hat-accessorized field reporter, like Edward R. Murrow was for newspapers back in the day. Reporters were always in the middle of everything, just as it was happening \u2013 fires, wars, shootings, terrorist attacks, hurricanes, presidential elections, coups. Reporters were the first to know the scoop, and the first to tell the whole shocked world about it while they sat in their living rooms, chomping on fingernails and wondering what the hell to do next. Now tonight it was him. Mark Felding, Channel Six investigative reporter. The man who'd finally landed the Story Everyone Would Be Talking About in the Morning. And boy, had he landed it! He'd landed right in the fucking middle of it! Standing on the sidewalk, anxiously gossiping with the rest of his kind in front of the condemned Regal All-Suites, he felt giddy with excitement, but sick to his stomach with nerves, like a kid who knows a really juicy, bad secret. It was a completely different reaction than he thought he'd have at this critical point in his career, because for once he knew more than his colleagues \u2013 big names from rival stations who waited for a nibble of news from inside, a bone of information that could help them shape 'The unbelievable story that's unfolding here in downtown Miami!' For once, it was investigative reporter Mark Felding who had the answers everyone was looking for.\n\n'My source said he heard it's a gang shooting. They're keeping it off air because Miami PD has him cornered up there. They don't want to start a war tonight,' said a voice in the crowd.\n\n'They're up there high. Maybe it's a jumper.'\n\n'It's bullshit when they keep it off the radio. Waste of my fucking time to stand out here and pick my fucking nose for a jumper. Who the hell cares?'\n\n'I think it's a kid. Someone said that FDLE's in there. Bobby Dees does Crimes Against Children. He's been in the news lately. Maybe it's a dead kid! Matter of fact, Channel Six did a piece on his case the other day. Hey, Mark!' someone called out. 'Felding! You know what's going on?'\n\nEven though he was the man with the ultimate scoop, Mark wasn't saying a word. Not a single one. And when the Miami-Dade County Medical Examiner's van pulled past the chain link fence and disappeared into the parking garage below, he resisted the incredible urge to go live with all he knew. Not long after, his cell rang.\n\n'Mr Felding, this is Bobby Dees.'\n\nMark instinctively looked up at the blob of bright lights coming from a section of the thirteenth floor. 'I'm in front of the building,' he answered, with a short, nervous laugh. 'It's funny, I got a call from my producer asking me what the hell was going on at the Regal and if I was covering it.'\n\n'You didn't say anything, did you?'\n\n'No, no, of course not. I mean, I said I was here, but I didn't say anything. I... I saw the coroner's van pull up,' he blurted.\n\nBobby said nothing.\n\n'Is it the girl?'\n\n'We need to meet, Mr Felding. I'd like to talk to you about some things.'\n\n'Yeah, yeah, sure, sure.' Mark pulled his hand through his thick hair. 'I need a drink, though. Bad. Can we talk in a bar? Is that OK? Or does it have to be, like, in your office?'\n\n'A bar's OK with me. No cameras, no mikes, no one else. It's not a press conference. There's a dive on First and Flagler. The Back Room. I have to finish up here. Let's meet up in an hour or so.'\n\n'What do I report down here?' Mark said, looking at his clueless colleagues.\n\n'Have I told you anything?'\n\n'No...'\n\n'Well, I guess there's nothing to report.' Then he added after a second, 'Your photo op's coming out of the south garage in about three minutes.'\n\nIt was past one by the time Bobby finally got to The Back Room. Aside from the bartender and the lone drunk swigging Jack on a corner stool, the place was dead. He found a disheveled Mark Felding nursing what looked like a scotch in a back booth, puffing a Cowboy Killer and spinning an oversized pack of matches on a heavily shellacked pub table that was dotted with cigarette craters.\n\n'I thought bad news was good for your business,' Bobby commented as he sat. 'You look worse than me.'\n\nMark glanced up from his drink and crushed out his cigarette. He managed a strained smile. 'Long day.'\n\n'Yeah? Me too.' Bobby grabbed the spinning matchbook. 'That's distracting.' Then called out to the bartender, 'I'll take a Bud, Chief.'\n\n'I'm not a virgin, Agent Dees,' Mark said quietly, 'but, well, let's just put it this way \u2013 I've never been involved before. Forgive me. It's almost two in the morning and I'm waiting for the happy juice to finally find my brain and numb it. But I'm already on number two, and unfortunately it just ain't happening. I'm still seeing that girl's face from that painting. Or lack thereof.'\n\n'It'll take more than two drinks to not see that any more. Hope you're not driving. Thanks,' Bobby muttered, when the bartender dropped off his beer.\n\n'Was it her? Was it the girl in the picture?'\n\n'It was a girl. But we don't know who she is. She was wearing the same happy T-shirt, though.'\n\n'Is it Elaine Emerson?'\n\n'No.'\n\n'Did she look like she did in the painting? I mean... how'd she die?'\n\n'It's an open investigation. Suffice it to say it was bad. Bad enough that I'm sitting here in a bar with an asshole reporter whose throat I wanted to rip out just the other day, asking for help.'\n\nMark just stared at him. 'Me?'\n\n'You see any other asshole reporters in here?'\n\n'Look,' Mark said, nodding slowly, 'I was out of line bringing in your daughter. I shouldn't have. I know that. But I still can't figure out why some kids make headlines and some don't even raise an eyebrow. I just was looking for an explanation.'\n\n'Looks like you got yourself a headline now.'\n\n'I'm sorry. Again. About your daughter. I hope we can be... friends.'\n\nBobby sipped at his beer. 'You have no idea what it feels like to hear her name.'\n\n'Is there anything new? I reported on it when she \u2013' Mark caught himself. 'When it first happened. We \u2013 everyone \u2013 we were all hoping it would just be a kid thing, you know a couple of days and then she misses home.'\n\nBobby shook his head. 'We're not going there tonight. Nope.'\n\nMark reached for another Marlboro. Bobby slid the match-book across the table. It had a picture of an old house on the cover and the words, 'For a little taste of home... and a little taste of Grandma's cookin'!' The bottom was stamped THE HOME SWEET HOME INN. It made Bobby think of the little bed and breakfast that he and LuAnn had stayed at in Vermont on their honeymoon. It had snowed so much, they'd stayed in bed for two straight days 'cause they couldn't get out.\n\n'Kids are tough. No doubt about it. They'll break your heart,' Mark mused.\n\n'You have any?'\n\n'A girl. she's eight. Lives with her mom back in LA. But, like you said, let's not go there tonight.'\n\nBobby tapped his finger on top of the matchbook, which Mark had begun to spin again. 'For some reason, this guy sent this portrait to you, Mr Felding. I don't know why. And it had my name in there. The obvious connection is the story you ran the other night.'\n\n'Please call me Mark. Look, I don't want to be a part of this, Agent Dees. I always thought I would, that I would love to be in the middle of a big story, but I don't want to climb the ladder this way. It feels wrong, exploitative.'\n\nBobby was quiet for a long while. 'I appreciate that. I really do. But it's too late. And... I think there's more here. More than just the one girl.'\n\nMark downed the rest of his drink just as the bartender announced last call.\n\n'I need your help, Mark,' Bobby said quietly. 'I need that list.'\n\n#\n\nThe first step in working a homicide was to identify the body. Once you ID'd the victim, you worked backwards and found out the last person she spoke to, the last places she went, where she was living, who she was dating, where she was working, who her friends were, who her enemies were, etc. In practically every criminal investigation, starting with the victim eventually led you back to a suspect. When you had a dead body with no personal ID and no one actively looking for them, like Bobby did, the normal course was to turn to a list of open missing person's investigations and work from there. The real problems started when either a) the person was never reported missing, or b) was reported missing from a jurisdiction other than the one you were looking in. It was a big country with a lot of missing people. The three counties that comprised South Florida alone had more than twenty different police departments.\n\nFDLE's Missing Endangered Persons Information Clearinghouse (MEPIC) was supposed to be the central repository of information for all of Florida's missing children. The MEPIC website, intended as a resource for both law enforcement and the public at large, broke down missing persons into various categories: Missing, Endangered\/Involuntary, Disabled, Parental Abduction, Disaster Victim, and Runaway. Of the hundreds of names and faces posted on the site, the great majority fell under the category of Runaway. Most were teenagers. Some had been missing for hours. some for years.\n\nBobby knew that the MEPIC website was only as good as the information that went into it. Hundreds, possibly thousands, of missing kids never made it on to the website because nobody gave a shit when they didn't come home. Especially teens in the foster-care system. Estimates put the number of throwaway children around the country to be as high as two million. Then there were the runaways who were reported missing to law enforcement, but not to the Clearinghouse. It took an affirmative act by a cop to not only enter the kid in NCIC as a Missing Juvi, but then pick up the phone and call MEPIC. For a lot of cops in a lot of jurisdictions, that was just too much effort for a kid who a) nobody gave a damn about anyway, and who b) was just gonna run off again if and when she did get her ass home. At the end of the day, a cop on the beat couldn't fix all the reasons why a kid took off. sometimes, the view simply was, he or she was better off on their own anyway.\n\nThat meant the list on the MEPIC website was flawed.\n\nFlyers and police reports covered Bobby's dining-room table. Jane Doe matched none of the outstanding runaways on MEPIC. Of course, the girl was missing half her face, she'd started to decompose and the descriptions on MEPIC were limited, to say the least. Recognizing that the MEPIC list was not comprehensive, Bobby had had the squad analyst, Dawn Denaro, download all of the current MEPIC runaway flyers from just Broward and Miami-Dade County and put them into book form. There were 127 names \u2013 79 of which were female. Most had pictures on their flyers. some did not. Late this afternoon, Dawn had begun the painful process of collecting the hundreds of missing-person reports from every police department in Broward and Miami-Dade going back one year. Each report would then be cross-checked against both the NCIC Missing Juvenile entries and the MEPIC website, to make sure that every kid who had been reported missing to the police had either been found and reunited with family, or was entered into the MEPIC website. It was a tremendous amount of work, and it still wouldn't yield a full list of every missing teen, since it wouldn't account for throw-aways, but at least it was a start. Because as he stared at the mess that was his dining-room table, the one thing Bobby knew for certain was that, without an accurate list of potential victims, it would be impossible to ever identify Jane Doe. And without a confession, physical trace evidence, or a miracle it would be impossible to find her killer.\n\nSitting beside his now very cold cup of coffee was Mark Felding's list. The 'revealing' list the reporter had begun to compile for his Channel Six investigation. Emphasizing it was still a work-in-progress, Mark had taken the 127 names of Broward and Dade runaways from the MEPIC website and, through Public Records Requests, had already obtained the individual missing-persons police reports for about 70 of the names. The reports offered much more detail than the MEPIC postings. Mark had then broken the information about the victims in the reports down by race, religion, age, criminal history, family background, identifying body marks, clothing descriptions, location of disappearance and circumstances surrounding the disappearance. Obviously, the intent was to prove a discernable pattern of discrimination by law enforcement against certain victim types \u2013 a charge that would be sure to make a lot of noise on the news.\n\nBobby had spent most of the weekend at his dining-room table, carefully combing through each police report and MEPIC flyer looking for details or a description that matched the dead girl at the Regal. He hadn't found Jane Doe, but he had found something weird. Allegra Villenueva, a sixteen-year-old from Hialeah who'd been missing since August, was described as 'last seen wearing a yellow happy-face T-shirt and blue jeans'. At 4\u203211\u2033 and 145 pounds, Allegra sure wasn't Jane Doe \u2013 even if she'd lost a ton of weight in the three months she'd been missing, she sure wasn't gonna grow four inches. And there was no indication of any tattoos on her body. Was it just coincidence then that Jane Doe had on the same unusual T-shirt? Then there was Gale sampson. seventeen years old, missing from Hallandale. She did have a butterfly tattoo on her right ankle, and at 5\u20323\u2033 and 115 pounds, she matched Jane Doe's physical description, but in her picture she was blonde. The picture of another girl, Nikole Krupa from Riviera Beach, had a streak of blonde running down the center of her dark hair like Jane Doe, but she had four tattoos.\n\nHe leaned back in his chair and rubbed his tired eyes. Besides being one of the more gruesome murders he'd ever worked, it was already clear that, for Bobby, Jane Doe was going to be much more than just another homicide. It was already part of him, the brutal details burrowed deep in his brain, spawning question after question, like a cancerous tumor. Whoever this animal was, he wanted Bobby's attention. And he'd gotten it. The question was, why him? You didn't need a psych degree to see the obvious message on that placard: The killer was inviting him into the investigation. Bobby had worked a couple of serials before in his career; he'd assisted on a half-dozen more outside of FDLE. Some frightening truths applied generally to society's most feared murderers: They wanted an audience. They wanted people to notice them. And oftentimes they wanted to show the police that they were smarter than them. Death, to a psychopathic serial or spree killer is a game, and like every good game, it's more fun to play against a worthy opponent. While there was no evidence yet to confirm Jane Doe's killer was a serial, Bobby had seen enough homicides to know that the scene at the Regal wasn't the hand of an amateur. And while Bobby didn't yet know if Jane Doe's murder was connected to Elaine Emerson's disappearance, it was definitely a frightening possibility.\n\nIt was time to try and get some sleep. As the laptop shut down, he gathered together the crime-scene photos of Jane Doe. That was the last thing in the world LuAnn needed to see when she came down for breakfast. That and pictures of missing teenagers. She was already living on a ledge. This just might push her over. He shoved the crime-scene photos into his briefcase, and his eyes fell on Katy's flyer, right there in the middle of his dining-room table. Photos of her filled every wall in the house, but this was the one that forced him back in his seat as a wave of nausea threatened to bring him to his knees.\n\nHe remembered the day he found out LuAnn was pregnant. She'd come out of the bathroom in their tiny one-bedroom apartment in Whitestone, a look of complete surprise on her flushed face. In her shaking fingers was the stick with the big pink line through it that Bobby could see from five feet away.\n\nThey were so young. He hadn't wanted a kid yet. He was only twenty-three. LuAnn was only twenty-two. They'd only been married a few months. They had student loans to pay off and parties to go to with friends who hadn't even gotten married yet. At her first doctor's appointment LuAnn found out she had an enormous fibroid; the pregnancy was high risk. Everything changed. Every priority. Suddenly the focus became having this baby. They named her Katherine, after Bobby's mom, this precious little perfect baby with pink skin and a full head of blonde hair. Two hours later, doctors rushed LuAnn into surgery. The fibroid had ruptured her uterus and she was bleeding to death. Bobby could remember sitting in that ultra-quiet hospital room, rocking this newborn life that he could no longer remember not wanting with all his heart and soul and praying to God to please save his wife. Praying that he wouldn't have to raise this little girl all alone, because he just knew he'd screw it up. He knew without LuAnn it would never be good. Six hours later, someone finally came in to tell him that his prayers had been answered. LuAnn was going to live. But she could never have another child.\n\nHe'd promised God he would do the best job any father had ever done. That he would never let Him down. But he had. Somewhere along the line, things had gone bad. The fairytale had changed endings.\n\n_'You're high, Katy,' Bobby said as she started up the stairs to her room_.\n\n_'No. No, I'm not, Daddy.'_\n\n_'Don't lie to me Katherine Anne. I'm a cop; I know high when I see it. What the hell are you on? What does he have you on?'_\n\n_'Nothing!' Her bloodshot blue eyes suddenly flashed with anger. 'It's not about him. You always make it about him!'_\n\n_'This isn't you!'_\n\n_'It is now. It is me. Deal with it.'_\n\n_'Look at you,' LuAnn broke in quietly. 'Your grades are plummeting, you're staying out late, you're not cheering any more. You're talking back. You're lying to us. You're lying to yourself. This is not you.'_\n\n_'I'm going to bed. I'm tired.' Katy pushed past LuAnn to go up the stairs_.\n\n_'Don't walk away from your mother!' Bobby grabbed her by the arm and pushed up the sleeve on the Hollister sweatshirt that she now wore every day \u2013 even in eighty degree weather. Katy squirmed and tried to pull away, but he held her fast. The tiny needle marks started just below the elbow_.\n\n_'Oh my God!' LuAnn screamed. 'Oh my God!'_\n\n_Bobby felt like someone had taken his heart and thrown it on the ground. He was so incredibly angry he feared he might throw her into the wall if he didn't let go. 'It's over,' he said quietly. He let go of her and fell back into the railing_.\n\n_Katy's eyes filled with tears. 'I hate you!' she hissed as she marched up the stairs_.\n\n_'You can if you want,' he replied, his eyes closed. 'But it's over, Katherine. This time, it's over. You will never see that boy again.'_\n\n_Then the door slammed to her room and the yellow 'bear crossing' sign fell to the floor, tumbling down the stairs with a loud clang, until it finally stopped at his feet_.\n\nBobby rubbed the tears away before they started. He felt hands, then, warm on his neck, rubbing his shoulders. He reached up to touch them. It was LuAnn and she was staring at the flyer of Elaine Emerson alongside that of her own daughter.\n\n'You'll find her,' she said softly as she kissed his head. 'I know you will this time.'\n\n#\n\nHe was watching her.\n\nEven though Lainey couldn't see him, she could feel him. He was somewhere very close by, yet far enough away that he didn't think she knew he was still in the room. He liked to play games like that. He'd come to give her food, and unlock the metal cuffs that chained her to the wall. Then he'd sit and silently watch her while she ate God-knows-what, wiping her face when she was finished with a scratchy rag that smelled like a mix of mildew and old lady perfume. Then he'd lock her back up and take the food bowl away. He'd say goodnight or goodbye or whatever, and close the door real hard so that she would think he was gone when he really wasn't. Instead, he would just stay and watch her, sometimes for what seemed like hours. Why, she didn't know. Maybe he was waiting for her to do something bad, like rip the strips of surgical tape off her eyes, or move a creaky floorboard to reveal the escape tunnel he thought she might be burrowing. Or maybe he wanted to watch her go to the bathroom in the metal pot he had set up in the corner. Whatever it was he was waiting for, Lainey knew he was there. The freak had never fooled her. At least she didn't think he had. She could still smell the faintness of his nauseating cologne, the dirt on his shoes, the musky scent of his body odor, mixed with... rain, maybe? The smell reminded her of the time she and Bradley had gotten caught in the thunderstorm at Mrs Ross's and had run all the way home together. The smell of rain had stayed in her hair and on her skin even after she'd changed. She pushed the memory out of her head. It hurt to think of good times.\n\nShe didn't dare say a word. He didn't like it when she pleaded or cried or tried to talk to him. He got very angry \u2013 embarrassed, probably, that she was on to his stupid Peeping Tom game and he wasn't fooling anyone. Like the red-faced boy caught peeking through a hole in the wall of a lady's bathroom wasn't sorry that he did it, only sorry that he got caught, the best defense when you're caught doing something bad, her mom liked to say, was a good offense. That meant no food or water for a really long time.\n\nSo she said nothing and she did nothing while he watched her in the dark like some freak in a horror movie \u2013 his creepy eyes rolling over her, thinking horrible thoughts. But just because she couldn't see him in the pitch-black world she now lived in, it didn't stop her knowing he was there. She had other senses. Senses that had sharpened like a superhero's since she'd been in this smelly, dank, cold room. She now heard every creak, every whisper, every little whistle of wind, or rustle of paper. Sounds she never, ever appreciated before. Sounds she was never scared of before. And her sense of smell was crazy good. Like right now. Never before would she have smelled dirt on somebody's shoes, and yet without a doubt that's exactly what she knew she was smelling. He'd tracked in mud on his shoes and the rich smell of earth, mixed with maybe a little dog shit, was as strong and familiar as the stink of gasoline at a gas station or popcorn at a movie theater. And the sound of his breathing, slow and measured through his mouth, was as loud and clear as if he were whispering right there in her ear. She could hear him, breathing heavier sometimes...\n\nLainey liked to think she was becoming a superhero. That every day, every hour, every minute she was locked up here, chained up against her will, she was getting stronger. That her powers \u2013 powers she didn't even know she had until this real-life horror movie began \u2013 were growing. Every time she recognized a scent from across the room or heard the wind blow under a doorjamb, she imagined she was morphing into a superhero \u2013 like Claire, the ordinary high school cheerleader who was anything but ordinary in her favorite TV show, _Heroes_. And just like Claire, one day her powers would fully come to her, and she would be able to break the chains that bound her to the wall. Then she would stand up and she would see again, and with her superhuman strength she would find him, watching her there in the corner, like that red-faced, snotty school boy, making his weird snorty noises as he thought bad thoughts. And he would be surprised at first. Really surprised. Because she had caught him. But then he would be scared. More scared than he had ever been in his whole horrible life. Because she had all her powers now. And she would fly across the room and beat him till he stopped making those noises. Till _he_ couldn't see any more...\n\n'Do you know I'm here?' came the whisper in the dark.\n\nHer heart stopped. It was the voice of the devil and he'd just read her mind. She started to shake. 'I want to go home, mister. Please. I want to see my mom.'\n\nHe sighed, annoyed.\n\n'Please! I won't tell anyone about you. Just let me go home!'\n\nShe heard him get up from the chair or the floor, or wherever he was. The joints in his knees popped. And he walked slowly over to her, the stink of him filling her nose and throat, making her gag. She tried to crawl away, but there was nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide.\n\nHe knelt down in front of her and reached out, stroking her hair behind her ear. He leaned closer. 'Time's up,' he whispered in her ear as he unlocked the chains on her ankles and wrists. His warm breath smelled like old coffee. He pulled her to her feet.\n\nIt was time to die. She only hoped it wouldn't hurt. 'Please, mister,' she pleaded as he pushed her forward, her arms outstretched, grasping at nothing. She had no idea where she was going, what was in front of her. If there were a flight of stairs or an open window. 'Please! I'll be good. I won't tell anyone!!'\n\nA door opened with a creak. His hand was suddenly on the back of her head. He shoved it down hard and pushed her forward. She fell into a wall and then on to a hard dirt floor.\n\n'I know,' was all he said.\n\nThen the door closed behind her, followed by what sounded like maybe the sliding of a bolt and turn of a key. She heard his footsteps cross the wood floorboards in the other room where she had been. Then another slam of a door, and the faint patter and creak as he climbed the stairs. She heard him walk above her somewhere. The heavy click of his heels on the creaky wood floors. The jingle of his keys. Then there was silence.\n\nThe room or closet, or wherever she was, was really, really small. Her back was pressed up against a wall, and her feet practically touched the wall across from her. The ceiling felt really low, too. There was no way she could stand up. It smelled musty and earthy, like the crawl space under the house she'd lived in before her family had moved to Coral Springs when she was five. When she and Liza used to play hide and seek, Liza could never find her, because she would never look under the crawl space. She said there were bad things that lived under there, out of the light.\n\nShe was so scared. She pulled her knees up tight against her chest and started to rock back and forth, back and forth. She needed her superpowers to happen right now. There was no more time to wait. 'Mommy, mommy, mommy...' she whispered in the dark.\n\nThen she heard the sound that made her breath suck in and her blood run cold. A faint scratching somewhere. Right next to her. Only inches from her, maybe. And coming closer.\n\nIt was in the walls.\n\nLiza was right. There were things that lived in crawl spaces, far away from the light and the living. Horrible things. Rats or snakes or bugs. Or worse.\n\nZombies.\n\nShe'd never believed in vampires and ghosts and all the horrible freaks she'd seen in horror movies until she found herself living in one. Now she knew monsters did exist and even the worst things were possible. Like zombies, who scratched their way through walls with long yellow nails, their dead hands reaching to grab her and drag her back to hell with them...\n\n'Nooooo!' she screamed, her hands over her ears. 'Nooooo!'\n\nThe scratching stopped. Lainey stopped rocking and held her breath, every muscle in her body frozen stiff with fear. Her ears strained to listen, to make sure the zombie was really gone and not in there with her, having broken through the wall while she screamed, now ready to come up behind her with his putrid breath and eat her alive...\n\nTime froze. For how long she wasn't sure. It might've been hours that she sat there not moving, not breathing, praying that she was all alone in the dark.\n\nWhen the walls began to whisper, she knew she wasn't.\n\n#\n\n'It's Gale Sampson. I got a positive ID twenty minutes ago,' Gunther Trauss said into the phone in between bites of his breakfast sandwich. 'The DNA swab you got from her mom on Saturday came back. It's definitely her.'\n\n'Damn. I had a feeling,' Bobby waved at an FHP officer who was pulling out of the Miami Regional Operations Center complex just as he was pulling in Monday morning. 'But she's blonde.'\n\n'You know kids,' Gunther returned. 'They change hair color like they change belts. It's just an accessory. I have a seventeen-year-old. She's been every color in the rainbow. Her mother says it's normal. I just nod and hope.'\n\n'I'll go talk to the mom this morning. I have a charging conference at the State that's gonna take up my afternoon. You have anything else for me?'\n\n'The contusions on the ankles and wrists are shackle indentations. They look like Wonder Woman cuff bangle bracelets that were put on too tight, but given how she was found and that there were matching contusions on her ankles, I'm going with restraints. If you get me the shackle, I can maybe match it. She also has rope burns on both wrists. Again, get me a standard and I'll see what I can do for a comp.'\n\n'So she was held for a while?'\n\n'Looks like it. When did she disappear?'\n\n'June twelfth.'\n\n'That's going on five months. A long time to be held by a nut. Poor kid,' Gunther said. In the background somewhere Bobby heard the sound of a saw.\n\n'Can you step out of the lab for a sec, Gunther?'\n\n'That wasn't me. That was Motte.'\n\n'Whatever,' Bobby replied when the buzzing had stopped. 'How old are the bruises?'\n\n'Can't tell you that, but she's had them for a while. At least a week or two. The burn marks take longer to fade. She could have had them a lot longer.'\n\n'Shit.'\n\n'And there's more.'\n\n'G'head.'\n\n'Eyes were removed, like I said, postmortem. But she has adhesive on her temples, and on the only remaining section of left lid I found cyanoacrylate.'\n\n'What's that?'\n\n'An acrylic resin better known as Krazy Glue.'\n\nBobby immediately thought of the infamous Miami serial killer, Cupid, who would glue the eyes of his victims open before he cut their hearts out, forcing them to watch their own death. 'What the hell? Why would he Krazy Glue her lids? Is he a Cupid copycat? A wannabe?'\n\n'Well, she still had possession of her heart, it just had a rather large hole in it. I have no idea why he would Krazy Glue any part of her, and I can't tell you if he actually put the stuff in her eyes, because he kept the specimens. Just thought I would keep you advised. I told you that I expected your boy to be nasty. After twenty years of cutting people open, you get a feeling about the bad ones.'\n\n'Was she raped?'\n\n'What did I say on Wednesday? I repeat, you get a feeling about the bad ones.'\n\n'Damn...'\n\n'Good news is, it looks like he did that, too, after she was dead. But if he held her for a while, there's no telling if he was so chivalrous the whole time he had her chained up.'\n\n'Damn... anything left?'\n\n'Nah. This guy's too good to maroon any swimmers. Oh, and one last thing. She had what looks like dog food in her stomach. Kibble. I'll call you when I get the rest of the results from toxicology. I had them test it, too. Maybe it's a weird brand. You never know.'\n\nBobby hung up the phone and sat in his car, staring straight ahead at the four-storied building that for years LuAnn had joked was his home away from home. For a number of reasons he didn't want to go in there today, the first of which was he had a feeling Gunther's good morning wake-up call was just the beginning of a day filled with more shit news and surprises. And then there was Trenton Foxx. The regional director was scheduled to be back from his week-long jaunt to Tallahassee, where he'd been palling with his very good friend, the FDLE commissioner. Bobby hadn't seen him since he'd told him to fuck off last Tuesday.\n\nA loud bang sounded on his driver's side window. It was Zo, looking spiffy in a suit and tie. He either had court or a meeting. It seemed the circus was coming to him.\n\n'You just gonna sit there all day, or you gonna do some work?' Zo yelled at the glass.\n\nBobby lowered the window. 'Do I have a job?'\n\n'That I don't know. But I haven't heard them pull your number off the radio, yet. That's good. The girls in dispatch will know you're on the dole before you do.'\n\nBobby grabbed his laptop and stepped out of the car. 'I just talked to Gunther.'\n\n'I just talked to Lou Albott at the lab in Orlando. You first,' Zo said as they started across the lot.\n\n'We have an ID: Gale Sampson, seventeen, out of Hallandale. The rest can wait till I've digested breakfast and have had lots of coffee. You go.'\n\n'Serology has the Picasso. Albott thinks he's got a brand on the paint: Winsor & Newton Professional Artist. The bad news is it looks like it's sold in every artsy paint store in the US.' He held open the front glass door and waited till Bobby had waved at the duty officer and was committed to the elevator before dropping the next bomb. 'Now for the bad shit. Remember the red smears on the girl's hands and the red drops on her cheeks in the picture?'\n\n'Yeah,' Bobby replied slowly as he hit the button for three. Darcy Mae, an elderly secretary, who was more of an office fixture than an employee, stared at them disapprovingly.\n\nZo either didn't notice or didn't care. He'd never liked Darcy. 'That's not paint. It's blood.'\n\nDarcy sucked in a breath.\n\n'After speaking with Gunther, notice how I'm not all that surprised?' Bobby replied.\n\n'Well, now that we have an ID on Jane Doe, maybe one of the smears will turn out to be hers.'\n\n'One of?' Bobby asked.\n\n'That's the kicker, Shep. The DNA's back and the blood droplets on the cheeks are different than the smears on the hands. It's two different people's blood.'\n\n'Maybe one of them is our bad guy. That'd be nice. It'd be even nicer if he's already banked a sample in Tallahassee.'\n\n'No such luck,' Zo said as the elevator opened. He smiled at Darcy as she walked past him with a disgusted scowl. 'Both samples are female. That means we have at least one more victim out there.'\n\n#\n\n'Bobby, you got a minute?' Chris Turan, the resident FDLE computer geek extraordinaire popped out of his office on his rolling chair as Bobby and Zo passed. 'I got some info for you on your case.'\n\nThe day kept getting better and it wasn't even nine. 'Is it on Emerson?' Bobby asked.\n\n'That's the one. The runaway.'\n\n'Follow us to my office,' Zo said with a nod. 'I got a chief's meeting in a half-hour, but I wanna hear this, too.'\n\n'It's just like you figured, Bobby,' Chris said as the three of them walked down the hall. 'Somebody tried to erase files from the hard drive. Good thing for you it was a somebody who didn't know what they were doing.'\n\n'Talk to me,' Bobby said, waving at Zo's secretary, who was busy cursing the copier in Russian as the three men stepped into Zo's office.\n\nChris closed the door. 'You know, just hitting delete doesn't erase a file completely. I ran a REDS program. It goes back over computer files that once existed. It's like looking at a blank piece of paper on a notepad. There are no words, but if you shade it in, you can detect the words that were written on the piece of notepad paper before it. The impression of the words still exists. The only way you get rid of those words is to either destroy the whole pad or keep writing over it enough times that the impression is no longer readable.'\n\n'I love my job,' Zo said with a smile.\n\n'So when this guy tried to erase files on the twenty-fifth, it told him they were deleted, but they weren't,' Chris continued. 'The impression was still there. And it was not written over enough to be unreadable. The point is, I got back what it was he was trying to erase.'\n\n'The twenty-fifth was what? Last Sunday? That's interesting,' Bobby remarked. That was the day he'd talked to Todd LaManna down at the dealership. 'You keep saying \"he\". You know who he is?'\n\n'I'm pretty confident it's a he. And my money's on the dad. I found lots of porn jpegs. He also forgot to delete his cookies. This guy's been to all sorts of bad sites. Younghotties.com, sluttygirls.com, real-voyeur.com, whosyadaddy.com, to name a few.'\n\n'Who's your daddy? What the fuck?' Zo snapped.\n\n'Hence the jump to dad,' Chris said.\n\n'You got anything else?' Bobby asked. 'It's not enough to know that someone went to those sites, I need to know who. The computer was in Lainey's room, under her care and control. His argument's gonna be that it was his step kid's curiosity that stroked the wrong keysites. Or her inquisitive little brother. To pin that on the scumbag stepdad, I need something more than just whosyadaddy.com.'\n\n'OK. He used a prepaid card to pay for access, but he linked into the site through the email account RoosterTAL@operamail.com.'\n\nYou didn't need to be a detective to figure out the double entendre. Or that the initials TAL following it stood for one Todd Anthony LaManna. This changed everything. 'Bastard,' Bobby muttered. 'I knew the guy was a creep.'\n\n'He's a used-car salesman, isn't he?' Zo asked.\n\n'With an L & L on his r\u00e9sum\u00e9.'\n\n'Nice,' Zo commented.\n\n'Is the porn kiddie?'\n\n'You'd have to get an expert to give you an official opinion. They look like teens, but it's hard to say how old. Sometimes these slugs dress up a twenty-year-old in a Catholic school plaid mini and put her hair in pigtails. Tracking down the girls is impossible. But, no, there are no real young ones.'\n\n'It's enough to bring him in for a chat,' Zo offered. 'Let's see how he tries to talk himself out of it.'\n\n'He also forgot to mention the blowout that he and his missing stepdaughter had the night before she disappeared. Or that he was the last person to call her cell phone that Friday evening.'\n\n'Alzheimer's?' Zo asked with a raised eyebrow.\n\n'Selective,' Bobby responded.\n\n'Did they have a convo?' Zo asked.\n\n'Don't know. The call lasted two minutes, but there were no messages on her cell. She could have talked to him, or deleted his voicemail. She's not here to tell us.'\n\n'What does he say?'\n\n'He's been busy ducking me. And I've been busy with Jane Doe \u2013 Gale Sampson. I was beginning to think there was a connection between the two, but maybe not.'\n\n'Or maybe yes. Maybe he decided to take his fucked-up fetish outside the family,' Zo offered. 'A mutilated body of some other kid would take the heat off his stepdaughter's disappearance.'\n\nBobby nodded. 'I'll bring him in. I have to talk to Sampson's mom first. I want to find out her story. Maybe she can give us a connection to Todd LaManna.'\n\n'There's one more thing, Bobby,' Chris said slowly. 'Something I think you might find interesting. I found a Backdoor Trojan.'\n\n'What's that?' Zo asked.\n\n'A virus, usually \"wrapped\" in a program or sent through email,' Chris answered. 'It's called a Backdoor Trojan because it comes in through a wrapper that's disguised as a desirable program, like the \"Whack the Mole\" game, or through an innocent email, from what the recipient believes is a trustworthy source, but it's really a Trojan horse. Once the program is running, it tries to hide itself in the applications. It doesn't show any icon or indication that it's running. It just sits and listens on a port until the computer \u2013'\n\n'Connects to the internet,' Bobby finished, nodding slowly. 'It allows the person who planted it to control the recipient's computer over the internet. So whenever she's on, he knows it.'\n\n'Control? Like how?' Zo asked.\n\n'Record keystrokes, move the mouse, view files, open and close the CD Rom. Whenever the computer is on, the Trojan rider has almost complete control over the computer and the recipient never even knows he's there,' Bobby replied.\n\n'Well, this Trojan was customized,' Chris said. 'Whoever sent it to your missing teen definitely liked to watch.'\n\nBobby and Zo stared at him.\n\n'It operated the webcam.'\n\n#\n\nBobby sat across from Todd LaManna at the small table in the interview room, his fingers tapping the folded manila folder in front of him. He let a fraction of the disgust he felt bleed into his words. 'We already know you like to watch, Todd.'\n\n'That's not true,' Todd said, shifting in his seat. Tiny beads of sweat had suddenly sprouted all over the top of his head, shining under the bright lights through the thinning strands of hair he had left. He looked around the room for a friendly face, but there were none to be found. Zo stared at him, arms folded across his chest, as if he'd just peed on the carpet.\n\nBobby waved a computer printout in the air. 'I'm looking at an arrest for Lewd and Lascivious. Twenty feet from a playground, Todd. A playground full of kids.'\n\n'That was a mistake! I already told you I was taking a piss!'\n\n'And now we have Lainey's computer, Todd. Tell me, before we start talking about all the dirty pictures we found, is that gonna be a mistake, too? Just like the cell phone call you made to her the day she disappeared that you forgot to mention, or the fight you had with her two days before?'\n\nThe color drained from Todd's face.\n\n'We have the phone records. What did you talk to Lainey about the very day she disappeared, Todd?'\n\n'Nothing. I never talked to her,' he stammered. 'She, um, she didn't pick up. I forgot I even called her.'\n\n'Two minutes is an awfully long connection for someone who didn't pick up. Try again.'\n\n'I don't know \u2013 I didn't talk to her, I said. Maybe the phone didn't hang up right or something.'\n\n'What did you want to talk to her about, Todd?'\n\n'Can't remember.'\n\n'Maybe you wanted to apologize for trying to bust in her room the night before?'\n\nTodd shook his head. 'Yeah, we know about the fight. And we know you tried to erase the websites you've been to. And we know you tried to erase the dirty pictures. Before you tell me it's all a mistake, that it didn't happen \u2013 we know, Todd. We already know.' There was a long pause. Bobby opened the folder and slid three pictures across the table. 'They sure look young to me. I'm betting that they're no older than fifteen.'\n\nTodd looked up at him, his eyes as wide as saucers. His hands were shaking. 'They only make them look that way...' he mumbled.\n\n'And you like to look at them young, don't you?'\n\n'You're twisting this.'\n\n'Whosyadaddy.com? Realvoyeurs.com? I don't think I'm twisting it. Then we find the Backdoor Trojan you put on your old computer that you gave to Lainey, the one that operated the webcam. What? So when Lainey wouldn't let you in her room, you could watch her from the computer down the hall? Or at work? Maybe on your iPhone, as she's getting dressed in the morning, you could get off in your Rice Krispies?'\n\nTodd's eyes looked like they were gonna pop out of their sockets. He stood up and pounded his fist on the table. 'I never did nothing to her, man! I never put nothing on that computer!' he yelled. 'I swear it! I swear to God! Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God... OK. I had some pictures. Big fucking deal. Ain't nothing wrong with that. My wife, Debbie, she doesn't look like _that_ no more,' he said, pushing one of the pictures back at Bobby. 'Let's face it, guy, Madonna may look good for fifty one, but she's still _old_. She doesn't look like _that_ , no matter who's stuffing and stitching her back up. Nothing wrong with using a picture to fantasize. Playboy \u2013 ya know, Heffner \u2013 he built an empire doing that. It's OK to look at young, pretty girls. So fuck you, is what I'm saying. I know my rights.'\n\n'Not when they're underage, Todd. Then it's a felony. For every single picture.' Bobby paused deliberately for a long while, but never broke his probing stare. 'Where's Lainey?' he demanded.\n\n'What the fuck?' Todd said, pulling his hands through the two thick tufts of brown hair left on the side of his head. 'You think I took my stepdaughter? That I did something to Lainey? That's sick... Oh my God, oh my God...'\n\n'Enough with the \"oh my Gods,\" brother. Where were you the night of the twenty-third?' Zo asked.\n\n'We already know you got off work at five,' Bobby added. 'Lainey was meeting somebody at five thirty. Coincidence?'\n\n'You fucking guys... I was with a girl, OK?'\n\n'What girl?'\n\n'Lori. I don't know her last name. I met her at a bar after work. With the boys, you know? And we, you know, shot some pool and drank and fucked around in my car. And then I went home. I swear it. I should've told you last week, but I didn't. I thought Lainey would come home again, like her sister always did.'\n\n'You've been doing a lot of that, Todd. Swearing,' Bobby said, shaking his head. 'Then I catch you and you swear it's something else. Lori No-Last-Name is not good. You're gonna have to do better.'\n\nTodd looked around the room again. 'I want a lawyer,' he said, reaching for his cigarette pack in his windbreaker. 'I need a lawyer.'\n\n'There's no smoking in here,' Bobby replied, swiping the Marlboros from his hand. He slid them into his pocket and walked out.\n\nStephanie Gravano, the Miami-Dade Assistant State Attorney, was across the hall in the MROC monitoring room, watching the show on closed-circuit TV. She shook her head when Bobby walked in. 'There's not enough. What'd they find at the house?'\n\nBobby sighed and slapped the wall. 'This is such bullshit...' As if on cue, his Nextel chirped. 'I guess we get to find out,' he said to her as he clicked in. 'What ya got, Ciro?'\n\nCiro Acevedo was a CAC agent in Bobby's squad. One of the best. 'We're still here, Bobby. Chris burned the hard drive on the other computer. He's been looking, but no matching program that would work the Trojan on step-pop's Dell. More pictures, though. The guy's into hardcore, ya know? But I don't know how old the girls are, which is the next question I know you're gonna ask me. We'll have to get an opinion from McBride.'\n\nDamn. Bobby didn't need Chris or Ciro or Stephanie to point out what he knew already. Without a victim to testify she was a minor when the picture was taken, to make a child pornography possession case, the kid had to look ten minutes out of diapers. Any older than that and you had to get an expert to look at the pictures and render an opinion on age based on the physical development of the child that he or she was under the age of sixteen. It was impossible to make an exact call, so if the photos were of a developed teen, you were pretty much out of luck. If she looked fourteen or fifteen, the foreseeable defense argument was going to be she very well could be seventeen, and that makes possessing a picture of her in a sex act not a crime. Bobby could hear yelling on the other end of the phone. 'Who the hell is that?'\n\n'That voice you hear screaming behind me is the witch, Wifey Dearest, going off on Chris. She's none too happy that you're chatting up her good-for-nothing husband. She must've told me ten times already how she's gonna own my badge when the day is done. I feel like I should just give it to her with the inventory and copy of the warrant when we leave,' Ciro chuckled. 'No wonder your car salesman went looking someplace else.'\n\n'Did she give you his uniforms?' The Friday Lainey disappeared was a workday. If it was Todd who picked up Lainey, he'd most likely still have been in uniform. If things went bad, if Lainey was dead or hurt, he'd have some trace evidence on him possibly. Bobby had found DNA in the cuffs of a jacket before, and blood spray in between the links of a watch. You had to sometimes think out of the box. But because the new search warrant was based on the porn found on Lainey's computer, agents were limited in what they could look for \u2013 which was, namely, more porn. Or equipment to make, manufacture or transmit more porn. Getting the uniforms was only going to happen via permission from Mrs So-Far-Uncooperative.\n\n'Done. And the shoes. Don't ask me why she said yes, but she did. Nothing noticeable that I can see, though. Chris is taking the computer out to the truck now. He says he'll pick it apart back at the office. But while I was looking around in this guy's closet, I found something else, Bobby. It's not named in the warrant, but I thought you'd find it mighty interesting, considering you're working Picasso, too, right?'\n\nBobby turned and looked back at the pudgy car salesman on the closed-circuit TV. An uneasy feeling began to spread through his bones. _Always expect the unexpected_ , a veteran NYPD homicide detective had advised him many years ago. _A rabid dog doesn't always look dangerous and a madman doesn't always look mad_. 'Yeah. What've you got?'\n\n'I found a back room, like a pass-through door that must have been part of the garage before somebody converted it. I opened it up and took a peek. Found a whole friggin' studio. And a bunch of, get this \u2013 paintings. Trees, flowers, street scenes, that sort of shit. Asked wifey who the _artiste_ is. And she says she can't even draw a stick figure. That's when Junior blurts out it's his daddy. Says he likes to paint on the weekends. Says it relaxes him.'\n\n#\n\n'The body of a young woman discovered last Thursday in the abandoned Regal All-Suites Hotel in downtown Miami has finally been identified. Our own Mark Felding, who has become personally involved in this bizarre story, reports,' said the perky blonde in the tight blue sweater with the big tits.\n\n'Andrea, the identity of a young female found by agents with the Florida Department of Law Enforcement and the City of Miami police in this condemned hotel last Thursday remained a mystery until just this morning, after DNA testing identified her as seventeen year old Gale Sampson of Hallandale, a troubled teen with a troubled history. One reason why the identification took so long? Well, while officials with both FDLE and the City of Miami won't comment, sources who were at the grisly scene confirm the body was mutilated beyond recognition. And you are right, Andrea. This case is certainly one for the bizarre books. Although I have vowed to cooperate with police and not compromise their investigation, this mutilation that's been described to me by sources would seem to match the injuries inflicted on the subject of the gruesome painting that was sent to me at WTVJ 6 just last week. In fact, this piece of art seems to be the work of Gale Sampson's killer. Sampson, described by officials as a habitual runaway, had been living in the foster home of Guy and Tootie Rodriguez when she disappeared last June. She wasn't reported missing to DCF, though, till September sixteenth, almost three months later, when a truant officer contacted the Rodriguezes to find out why she hadn't been in school. Now we've been out to the Rodriguez residence, but no one is answering the door. And as you know, Andrea, agents with FDLE are also investigating the recent disappearance of another troubled South Florida teen, thirteen-year-old Elaine Emerson of Coral Springs who went missing after school on October twenty-third. Elaine has been listed on the FDLE's website as a runaway, but now authorities are trying to determine if the disappearances of these two young women might somehow be related. Let's hope not. I'm Mark Felding. As part of my ongoing special investigative report into the troubling, dark world of South Florida's runaways...'\n\nThe man looked down at his J & B and swirled it around the cheap glass. He couldn't help but smile as he listened to the news on the bar's overhead flat screen, but it would be really, really bad for anyone to see him doing that here, now. It would be _inappropriate_ , to say the least. So he bit down hard on the inside of his cheek till blood filled his mouth. It didn't really hurt, but he knew it would stop him from smiling. A bloody vampire grin would definitely attract attention and raise some eyebrows.\n\nFinally he was getting some face time. He was getting noticed. Even though it threatened to expose him, even though he was officially living out there on the edge now, it felt good. For too long he'd been all alone with his strange thoughts, doing things that even he sometimes thought were... not right. But now, the decision to show the world who he was and what he was capable of was strangely liberating. And the danger, even here in this bar filled with strangers, listening with them, alongside them as they learned of the horror he was capable of inflicting... it was, well, exciting. He was not a homosexual, but if he were, he imagined it would be a similar feeling to coming out of the closet. Or at least _deciding_ to come out of the closet. Especially if he were, say, a famous ballplayer or a rock star, wrapped up so tight in a handsome, masculine, commercial package it was suffocating him \u2013 just the decision to be who you really were, no matter the consequence, would be... well, cathartic. Even if you never actually stepped out beyond that closet door and into that pink poofy new world, just the _decision_ to do it was a heavy weight off your shoulders.\n\nThe bartender brought him over more peanuts without saying a word. He loved Dave & Busters. The food was great, but the concept was what kept him coming back. An eclectic family-themed restaurant emporium with an attached arcade, complete with pool tables, Nothing But Net basketball hoops, batting cages, Dance Dance Revolution, Derby simulators. Any game \u2013 from PacMan to Ghost Squad \u2013 if you wanted to play it, it was there. And it wasn't just kids' stuff. The arcade had an enormous fully stocked bar in the middle of it with all sorts of fun drinks, like the Melontini or the Snow Cone. He looked around him at the half-empty bar. At the girls sipping blue drinks with umbrellas and pineapple wedges. Getting looped on blue curacao and Bacardi Lim\u00f3n before they got their cherries popped in the backseat of boyfriend's car, never realizing just how potent the blue sweet stuff could be, till the next morning when they woke up wearing no underwear with their shirts on backwards.\n\nHe spotted her then at the far end of the Skee Ball lanes, just like she said she'd be on her blog. Long pink neon ringlets framed her pale face, contrasting with her otherwise straight, jet-black mane. Tall and, as his mother would politely say, 'big-boned' \u2013 which was a euphemism for chubby. An Amazon. Not his normal choice of fare, but he sometimes liked to switch things up to keep it all interesting. He definitely had a weakness for blondes, so it was time for another brunette. And while Shelley didn't sport a supermodel waist, that could be fun, too. He could invent a whole new series of games to play just with her. She was certainly no Lainey, that was a fact. But Lainey was special. She was different, so there was no sense comparing. Earring hoops ran up Shelley's ear; one hung from her lower lip. He could see her tramp stamp, even from across the room. The brilliantly colored butterfly that ran up her back, and down her too-tight jeans. Everything about Shelley screamed, 'Notice me!' And he had. His hand began to tremble, sloshing the liquor on to his thumb. He licked it off and glanced at his watch. A little late, but at least she was here. Just like she'd said she'd be.\n\nShe looked exactly like her profile page. It wasn't all that surprising \u2013 at sixteen or seventeen there was nothing yet to hide, no image that needed a desperate makeover from a rough past. That was why he loved this age; it was so very honest. In the future, he suspected Shelley Longo would want to run from her piercings and tattoos and easy reputation that he was sure she'd justly earned. She would look back on her troubled childhood and, like so many others, creatively rewrite it. Here it was, past midnight on a Monday night and young Shelley was out partying hard, sneaking a sip of cocktail from one of her hoodlum friends, high as a kite on some shit, flaunting her tats and not a parent in sight. He knew the type, he could spot them in an instant in a chat room, at the mall, in an arcade. It's almost like he could smell them. Vulnerable loners, left alone to grow up, looking for friendship anywhere they could find it and from anyone who would offer it. Even from vultures like him.\n\nHe watched her bend and pick up the balls, laughing and throwing her mane around, wrapping her lips seductively around the beer the horny bartender had just sent over with a smile. He felt himself getting hard, and wondered if she would recognize him from their little chat yesterday in the World of Warcraft White Wolf chat room. He imagined what she would look like as an addition to his collection. If she'd fit in. He imagined himself painting her full face, how he would capture on canvas the shaking of that nasty silver ring on her lower lip when she screamed.\n\nBut tonight was not about mistakes or acting on impulse. He was here to look, that was all. And even that was real risky. Being out at all now was risky, with all the attention he was getting. The hard-on disappeared. That was how the best got caught \u2013 being stupid. He was probably being paranoid thinking people were watching him. Or narcissistic. The dipshit anchor had already moved on to Terrible Tragedy Numero Quatro. He sipped at his drink and casually looked around, out at the world that was just beyond that closet door. No one was looking at him. No one was staring to see if they knew him. Or recognized him. To see if his face was famous or infamous. No one gave even a second thought that the person one barstool over, sharing a smile and a drink with them, might actually be... not right. That he might just be a psychopathic murderer, who had a weakness for, well, pretty little things. No one worried that the hand they had inadvertently touched en route to the peanuts was the same hand that had made news tonight.\n\nHe grabbed his coat and put a very nice tip on the bar. He took one final glance around and downed his drink with a mouthful of warm, coppery blood. Nope. No one was looking at him. No one was even looking at the TV.\n\nHe held the smile in check as he headed through the late-night crowd and passed by the busy Skee Ball lanes. The tips of his fingers lightly brushed the warm wings of her brilliantly colored butterfly as he made his way through the narrow swathe of young bodies and headed out the door. He felt the electricity run up his arm like a current. He mumbled an apology for his indiscretion, but she didn't even acknowledge the slight. She just kept on laughing.\n\nNo one cared. No one at all.\n\nNot yet.\n\n#\n\nLainey lay on the dirt floor, curled up in the tightest, smallest ball possible, her hands covering her ears. Her favorite song played over and over in her head. 'The Sweet Escape' by Gwen Stefani. How she wished her mind could just escape, could just recreate a whole new world, like the song said. If only she could leave this tomb that reeked of old earth and mildew and human rot that she was trapped in, for even a few minutes. But there was no escape. Even her dreams had been replaced with nightmares.\n\nShe wasn't sure how long she had been lying there, singing the same song over and over again. Time had no meaning any more. Minutes could be hours. Or even days. Or weeks, maybe.\n\nSlowly she sat up, listening hard. Silence. There were no footsteps. No creaking floors. The ghostly scratching had finally stopped. And the voices... were they real? She shook her head, reaching cautiously in the darkness to feel where she was. To make sure she was, indeed, alone. She was so hungry. And thirsty. Her hand fell on something in the corner. Something smooth and bulky and large. It felt like a stuffed bag. Her hand felt around till she found an opening. She dipped her hand inside. It was filled with little, hard... pebbles?\n\n'Are you still there?' whispered the voice. It was coming from the wall.\n\nLainey immediately curled up again on the floor and started to cry. 'No, no, no...'\n\n'Listen! Listen! Don't start singing again,' said the voice in the wall. 'Just talk to me.'\n\nLainey sucked in a sniffle.\n\n'Talk to me. It's OK. It'll be all right.' It was a girl's voice. 'Don't cry. I'm here, too. You're not alone.'\n\n'What?' Lainey whispered back.\n\n'Just talk to me. I need to talk to someone. I'm going crazy here. And then you were singing...'\n\n'Where are you?' Lainey asked, her hand lightly touching the cold wall.\n\n'I don't know. In a closet, I guess. A room, like you. Right?'\n\n'Right,' Lainey said softly. She pressed her face up against the wall.\n\n'Who are you? What's your name?' asked the girl.\n\n'Lainey. I'm Lainey. My name's Lainey. He took me.' The moment completely overwhelmed her and she started to cry again.\n\n'He took all of us. He's bad. He's a really bad man.'\n\n'Us?'\n\n'Yes. There are more of us. Down here, somewhere. I hear them in the walls.'\n\n'I can't see,' Lainey blubbered. 'He did something to my eyes. I think I'm blind!'\n\n'It's just bandages. Bandages and tape. You can try and take it off, but you won't see anything anyway. There're no lights down here. And you'll rip your lashes out. If he finds out you peeked, he'll use glue.'\n\nA shiver ran up her spine. Just when she thought words couldn't get more horrible, they did.\n\n'I don't care, though,' the girl said defiantly. 'I took mine off. That's what I'm saying, you can't see anything anyway.'\n\n'But you said he would hurt you...'\n\n'I don't care any more. Let him try. At least I'll see him coming at me. I won't be a sitting duck, like...' But she stopped herself.\n\n'How many of you are there?' Lainey asked.\n\n'I don't know. I only know the girls I've heard, like you, in the walls. I've talked to three others. Eva, Jackie, Adrianna.'\n\n'Where are they?'\n\nThere was a long pause. The girl sounded like she was choking up, but holding it in. 'I don't know. I haven't talked to them in a long time. What's your sign?'\n\n'What?'\n\n'When's your birthday?'\n\n'Um, August. August twenty-seventh. Why?'\n\n'You're a Virgo. I knew it.'\n\nLainey didn't say anything back.\n\n'He's been gone for a while, this time,' the girl continued. 'When he puts me in here, he's gone for a long time, but this time it's been really long.'\n\n'I'm hungry,' Lainey said.\n\n'He leaves a bag of food in the corner. Have you found it? And water bottles. Feel around.'\n\n'What is it? It feels like the bags my mom buys Rosey. She's my dog. It feels like dog chow.'\n\n'It is dog food. Have you found the water bottles?'\n\nThere was no way she was eating dog food. No way. She felt around some more. 'Yeah. I feel them. There's a stack of them. How long have you been here?' Lainey asked, twisting off the cap and sniffing it. It smelled like nothing.\n\n'Don't know. Longer than most, I think.'\n\nLainey took a long drink of water. It tasted so good. She practically finished the entire bottle in one gulp. It reminded her again just how hungry she was. She raised a piece of kibble up to her nose and sniffed. It didn't smell _that_ bad. 'Who are you?' she asked finally, as she tried a little taste with the very tip of her tongue. 'I mean, what's your name?'\n\nThere was a long pause. 'Katy,' the girl replied softly. 'My name's Katy.'\n\n#\n\nAnyone in the television business would tell you to get the fuck out of the television business. Mark Felding included. The politics. The bullshit. The long hours. The arbitrary and all too infrequent success stories that most times you knew had nothing to do with talent. TV news was no different; no longer was broadcast journalism above the sleazy world of showbiz and celebrity and the all-important rating. Exposing corrupt local politicians was no more honorable than working staff over at the Disney Channel. Perhaps the game had been changing face for a long time, but with the economy officially in a downward spiral, the bottom line suddenly cut prestigious journalism careers short now, and, like it or not, big boobs and blindingly white smiles were what opened doors for the new crop of cheap labor graduating from broadcasting schools. At the ripe age of forty-two, the outlook was bleak for an 'old timer' like Mark and after twelve years in a business that he'd personally watched take a change for the worse at six different stations, he knew it was time for him to shit or get off the pot.\n\nMark had seen the handwriting on the wall for a while: The dramatic drop in airtime for his stories; the cut in research staff; the hiring of inexperienced freelance investigative reporters, the YouTubeization of news in general \u2013 where yahoos with camcorders replaced veteran professionals and ENGs. He'd had to work harder and harder to pull together insightful stories, only to see some green, twenty-something, steal three minutes' worth of airtime with mindless drivel on the dangers of not removing lint from your dryer. It was a most depressing situation, but Mark had vowed he wasn't gonna be bitter. He was gonna get out, that's what he was gonna do. That was the Master Plan. And he was gonna leave before someone told him to go.\n\nSo it was real funny sometimes how fate twisted frowns into smiles. Just last week he'd been contemplating writing true-crime novels on a back porch in the Ozarks when along came the Story That Makes a Career. What had started out as a 'clich\u00e9' investigative report into teenage runaways had led to the full-blooded craziness of the past week. And a steroidal shot in the arm for his aching career. Now here he was, John Travolta \u2013 back in the game again, with a chance at going all the way...\n\nNews ratings at WTVJ had shot way up, beating CBS4 and WSVN 7 in the eleven o'clock slot the night after Gale Sampson's body was found at the Regal. And every night thereafter. In a biz where ratings measured success, that was huge. And, in his producer's opinion, directly attributable to the fact that the station's now star field reporter, Mark Felding, had the inside track on the Picasso murder, as it was being called. At first it felt a little opportunistic to be personally benefiting from such tragedy, but Mark had gotten over it. After all, Hurricane Andrew had launched Bryan Norcross from obscurity as a local weatherman into a nationally recognized meteorologist while most of his Miami audience was still living under a blue tarp without electricity or water \u2013 and no one had held it against him.\n\nMark's reward from the station for helping win the ratings crown was a Monday and Wednesday weekly three-minute special segment called 'Ask Mark', a self-help crime-prevention program that his producer was originally going to try out on one of those green twenty-somethings. How to Recognize a Sex Predator, How to Defend Yourself Against a Rapist, How to Prevent ID Theft, that sort of thing. It wasn't anchor, but it was a regular gig. An opportunity to make a name for himself. And that was more than Mark had ever had before.\n\nNot wanting to fuck up, he'd spent most of the morning working on his script for Wednesday's first shooting. Then he'd gotten caught up in some research, and before he knew it, it was thirteen minutes till call time. They only had an hour of studio, so every second counted, and since HD was no one's friend, he definitely had to stop by make-up.\n\n'Felding! Yo, Mark!'\n\nMark recognized the voice behind him as he hurried past the newsroom and down the hall. It was Terry Walsh from the mailroom. Walking backwards, he yelled, 'Hey there, Terry! I'm in a rush \u2013'\n\n'You got a package that won't fit in your box,' called Terry, who was a dead ringer for Jerry Garcia. He was pushing a gray mail cart and waving an oversized yellow envelope in his hand. 'You want me to put it on your desk?'\n\nMark stopped walking. His heart began to pound. He was expecting some videotapes from archives on other self-help segments. Maybe that was what Terry was talking about. Maybe the yellow envelope wasn't for him. 'What's that, Terry?'\n\nTerry waved the envelope again. 'I don't know, dude. It came in today. Must've been hand delivered. It's got your name on it, but it won't fit in your box. It doesn't want to really bend.' He tried to fold the envelope to demonstrate.\n\n'No! No!' Mark yelled, running back down the hall, his hand outstretched as if Terry was holding a bomb and playing with the red and blue wires. 'Don't! Don't touch it!'\n\nTerry stepped back. 'OK, man,' he answered with a shrug, handing the envelope over.\n\nMark's heart was beating so hard he thought it might explode. Scenes from his two favorite shows, _CSI_ and _Law and Order_ , flew through his head. _What should he do?_ He shouldn't flip. That's what he shouldn't do. He should look at the envelope, that's what he should do. No need to panic. He turned the envelope over in his hand. No special markings. Just a plain computer-printed label that said 'WTVJ 6 Investigative Reporter Mark Felding' pasted on the front. He squeezed the package slightly. It felt stiff and bulky. Bumpy in spots. He sniffed at the flap. It smelled like paint.\n\nHe looked at his watch and pulled out his cell. He dialed his producer with shaking fingers as he headed back to his office. 'Paul, it's Mark,' he said when it went to voicemail. He tried hard to tame the excitement that was building in his voice, but it probably didn't work. 'I'm afraid I won't be able to tape today. Something's come up. Something really big, I think.'\n\n#\n\nThe two girls were seated face-to-face on the floor, pressed close together in a twisted embrace, their wrists chained together at their sides, their butchered faces turned to face the artist. Black sockets existed where their eyes should have been. Red tears flowed down their cheeks to their distorted open mouths, forever immortalized with thick strokes of paint into bone-chilling screams.\n\nThe macabre painting of two screaming blonde females had been made into a poster-sized crime-scene photo that was now tacked on to a new corkboard that completely dominated a wall in the Crimes Against Children squad bay. Hung next to it was the picture of the Gale Sampson painting that had come in last week. Below that were photos from the Sampson crime scene taken at the Regal All-Suites. Two MEPIC flyers were thumb-tacked below the screaming blondes, but there were no crimescene photos posted there. Not yet. As of ten a.m. Friday, all they had was another brutal portrait.\n\n'The painting's at the lab,' Bobby said to the men seated at the conference table that had been set up in the Crimes Against Children squad bay: Zo, Frank Veso, and CAC Special Agents Ciro Acevedo and Larry Vastine. If this latest work of grisly art turned out to be a painting of another crime scene, assembling a task force would be his first priority. But even without two more bodies, Bobby knew that was exactly what he was looking at \u2013 a crime scene. So he figured it would be in the public's interest to get the best brains in on the investigation now. With that in mind, he'd brought in Vastine and Acevedo and contacted the Miami-Dade State Attorney's Office for legal assistance. ASA Stephanie Gravano was now officially assigned part-time to assist the soon-to-be formed task force with legal matters, like warrants and subpoenas. If more bodies were found in jurisdictions outside the City of Miami, where Gale Sampson was found, then members of those police departments would join the task force as well, along with members of departments where the victims had gone missing from.\n\n'Here's to hoping you don't need a bigger wall,' Zo commented. 'I see you think you have an ID,' he added, nodding at the MEPIC flyers underneath the screaming blondes.\n\n'We're getting DNA from birth dad out of Dayton, Ohio, but it looks like Roseanne and Rosalie Boganes, eighteen and seventeen, from Florida City. Two sisters who disappeared last August from their aunt's house after their mother died of a heroin overdose. Dad's getting swabbed as we speak. When and if we get a body \u2013 or bodies \u2013 we'll at least have a genetic sample to compare.'\n\nZo shook his head. 'Sisters? Never even heard they were missing. How do runaway sisters not make the freaking news?'\n\n'Runaway siblings aren't all that unusual. Abuse in the home usually means more than one kid's being abused. Or maybe Mom and Dad have drinking or drug problems and the kids want a way out besides being separated in foster care,' Bobby replied.\n\n'Kids think there's safety in numbers \u2013 you know, the \"I'll jump, if you will\" mentality. Or maybe one sibling doesn't want the other to be on her own. I call it the \"Little Momma syndrome\",' offered Larry.\n\nBobby nodded. 'Both Boganes girls are habitual runaways, according to the aunt, who never wanted custody anyway. I talked to her today. She still thinks Rosalie and Roseanne hopped a freight train and finally went to Vegas, like they were always threatening to.'\n\n'Can Auntie ID if we get a body? Or rather, bodies?' Zo looked over at the photos of Gale Sampson and thoughtfully rubbed the scruff on his face, obviously remembering the gruesome scene he had walked in on last week. 'Probably not. So how do you figure it's them? These sisters?'\n\n'Since last Thursday I've been combing through Clearinghouse photos and Dawn's been compiling a list of South Florida kids that aren't on MEPIC, trying to come up with some kind of comprehensive list of runaways to work with. Mark Felding had started making his own list, too, categorizing similarities in victims and disappearances. There are other missing sibs, but only two blonde sisters. The deciding factor was Rosalie Boganes was described as having a disfigured thumb in the Florida City police report. Daddy sliced off half of it when she was three, which is why he lost custody. Look here,' Bobby said, pointing below the chained wrist of one girl in the painting. 'Half a thumb.'\n\n'Shit.' Zo exhaled a deep sigh. 'Another whacko trying to give this city the reputation it deserves. Now this Felding. Talk to me. What the fuck's up with that guy? I get to find out there's another painting by watching the motherfucking news? What's that about?'\n\n'Felding's an asshole,' Bobby replied. 'Claims he got the package and was calling us when his producer walked in, saw the painting and went live at five. Says all he mentioned on air was that there was another breaking development in the Picasso murders.'\n\n'Yeah, and I about choked on my hot dog when he said that breaking development was another fucking painting of two dead girls that had been sent to him,' Zo grumbled.\n\n'He's a vulture,' Ciro said. 'They all are, every one of those reporters. Just ask a celebrity.'\n\n'Can we charge him with obstruction?' Zo asked.\n\n'Don't I wish, but no,' Bobby answered. 'The painting went to him. I don't think we have any grounds. For whatever reason, this Picasso psycho has picked a washed-up Channel Six field reporter to be his mouthpiece to the world and the guy is doing a helluva job. He's no fool \u2013 I'm sure he sees the potential career opportunities. He did eventually call and he did eventually hand the painting over. But I'm gonna ask Stephanie to try and have a judge gag him. It's an ongoing criminal investigation that his antics are compromising.'\n\n'If a judge doesn't wanna do it, tell Stephanie I'll shove a gag in his mouth,' Zo replied. 'Anything on the package?'\n\n'Nope. Untraceable adhesive label. Dime-a-dozen Office Depot envelope. Prints everywhere, from the mailroom to the executive producer, I'm sure. It's going to trace and serology. We'll see what we get, but I'm not hopeful, unless they can pick up DNA on the label.'\n\n'Let me guess \u2013 your name was somewhere in this package?' Zo asked Bobby.\n\n'Same as before. A string of newspaper clips glued together,' Bobby replied.\n\n'Well, it's obvious this guy wants your attention, Shep. After he makes the five o'clock news, that is,' Larry commented.\n\n'Fortunately Felding didn't broadcast the actual painting,' Bobby said. 'At least we have something to screen the loons.' For some reason no one could ever rationally explain to him, high-profile crimes always attracted a large number of false confessions. Weeding out the nuts from among the leads could be very time-consuming.\n\n'If this is the same sort of deal as Sampson, then these two are already dead,' Larry said. 'Based on Sampson's autopsy, she'd been held for a long time before he offed her. If he had her since she disappeared, that was five months. These sisters, how long you say they've been gone?'\n\n'August,' Bobby replied.\n\n'That's three. And that's a helluva long time to be housing live girls, if that's what he's doing. Was there anything on Sampson's body that might help us out in figuring where he's keeping them?'\n\n'Everything on her person is going through Serology and Toxicolgy. You know that can take weeks, sometimes months if they don't know what they're looking for,' Bobby answered with a sigh.\n\n'What the hell is bringing this guy out now?' Ciro asked. 'I mean, if he's been keeping and offing girls without anybody bothering him, why is he coming out now? What does he want?'\n\n'Just what he's getting \u2013 publicity. His face on the tube. Infamy.'\n\n'So where are they?' Veso asked quietly.\n\n'That's the million-dollar question,' Bobby replied with a sigh, forgetting for the moment that the guy was still gunning for his job. He moved to the photo of the girls. 'Here, out this small round window behind them is clearly blue water. And two boats sitting there. I had Forensics enhance the photo they took, here.' He slid an 8 \u00d7 10 out of a folder and tacked it up on the corkboard. 'It looks to me like he's painted the beginning of a name on the boat. _The Emp_. Then it cuts off. And this here? Is this maybe the outside of a house? Looks real fancy. Maybe Star Island or Sunny Isles. Could be any real nice waterfront.'\n\n'Maybe they're on a boat? Ya, know, the round window?' Ciro said. 'Larry, you're the yachtsman. What does it look like to you?'\n\n'Could be a boat. If, like Bobby says, he's painting what he's seeing, he's looking at those two docked boats and probably a house or restaurant. I don't recognize it either.'\n\n'Search all registered boats from Palm Beach to the Keys to see if we can get a match, Larry,' Bobby said. 'And see if there's a way we can find out about visiting boats. You know, those registered someplace else but holed up in South Florida during season.'\n\n'Done,' Larry replied with a nod.\n\nThe room went quiet for a long moment. All eyes were on the corkboard. It was Bobby who broke the somber silence. 'I think he's put some other clues in here for us to find, guys. Very subtle clues. And that's why I think it's time for more than one set of eyes to look for them.'\n\nBobby pulled out another 8 \u00d7 10 and pointed at a necklace on one of the blondes. A bright neon pink heart within a heart. Then he pulled out an MEPIC flyer. 'This necklace is seen on a picture of one of the Clearinghouse girls. Here \u2013 Nikole Krupa, a fifteen-year-old brunette out of Riviera Beach. It's a very unique necklace, you know? And the Led Zeppelin T-shirt worn by the other sister matches the clothing description of another runaway, Adrianna Sweet. We also have the happy-face T-shirt that Gale Sampson was wearing that matches the clothing description of what Allegra Villenueva was last seen wearing. Then here,' he said, pointing to the far-off corner of the painting. He pulled out a third enhanced 8 \u00d7 10. The top of a math textbook poked out of a khaki-and-pink book bag.\n\n'What does that say? \"What if I'm Not the Hero?\"?' Larry asked.\n\n'Looks like it,' Bobby replied. 'It's a reference to line spoken by Edward Cullen, the vampire character in the _Twilight_ movies.'\n\n'Didn't that whacko mom say her daughter had a _Twilight_ book bag?' Zo asked.\n\nBobby nodded. 'She did.'\n\n'He's got the Emerson girl...'\n\n'Yup. He's got Lainey,' Bobby replied. 'And I think there are others. I think that within these paintings are hidden clues. Like a _Highlights_ magazine. Remember them? The \"Can you see the hidden pictures?\" puzzles? The T-shirts, the necklace, the different hairstyle on Gale Sampson. The two different DNA blood samples on the Sampson painting. Hell, we may not even recognize all the clues because we're not looking for the victims. We may not even know they're missing.'\n\n'Holy shit...' Zo said, rubbing his stubble again.\n\n'He's not just taunting us, guys,' Bobby said quietly, staring hard at the painting. 'He's showing us his collection.'\n\n#\n\n'What about the stepdad?' Ciro asked as the room stared at the photos in silence. 'I mean, if it wasn't interesting before that he liked to paint pretty pictures in his secret room, it sure as hell is now. Now that we know there's definitely a link between Lainey's disappearance and this Picasso.'\n\n'Exactly. Only it's a little too obvious, I'm thinking,' Bobby replied. 'If LaManna is Picasso, why would he send us a painting that potentially linked him to the disappearance of his stepdaughter? He already knows we're looking at him for that.'\n\n'Could be he thinks it will throw suspicion off of him,' Ciro mused. 'Could be he thinks that if we think this psycho Picasso is the one who has his kid, then we _won't_ look at him no more. That we'll go away, go looking in another direction, at other people. You know, reverse psychology? Like he's duped us by putting up a sign with an arrow that says, \"Bad Guy That-a-way!\"'\n\n'I've interviewed the man and I just don't think he's that smart,' Bobby replied. 'But he might be that stupid. And I agree that we have to check him out. That means surveillance, twenty-four seven.'\n\n'Have you talked to his other kid? The older girl? Maybe she can shed some light,' Zo asked.\n\n'According to Debra LaManna, she's been continuously, quote, \"unavailable\". End quote. Not sure if that's with a little assistance from Mom \u2013 the family wagons circled after hubby became a person of interest. But Sis has a runaway history herself, so it is quite possible she took off and Mom is not reporting it so we stay out of her life.'\n\n'The kiddie porn on LaManna's computer wasn't enough to pop him, huh?' Larry asked. 'At least get him off the street while we look for more?'\n\n'He's denying it's kiddie, and the girls are not prepubescent,' Bobby replied. 'Finding an expert who'll testify that they could be under sixteen will be difficult and will inevitably lead to another saying they're not. That's reasonable doubt. Stephanie won't even consider an arrest on that. As far as the webcam, there's no evidence he's the one who sent the Trojan. Chris Turan can't ID who sent it. The secret studio is what's going to get us another search warrant and a much closer look at that house. I want clothes, paint, canvas, brush hairs, fibers \u2013 anything and everything that could possibly link him to these paintings. I also want to get in his car. He had to transport these girls from wherever he met them to where he kept them, to wherever he dumped them.'\n\n'And wherever he might be holding them still,' added Zo. 'If what you're thinking is right, Bobby, if this pink necklace and the different T-shirts and DNA means he's planting a clue garden and there are more victims \u2013 and, like Gunther speculated, this nut has been chaining them up for a while before he kills them \u2013 then that also means he has to have a _place_ to be keeping them. Let's pull whatever we can on properties that LaManna's got access to. That includes relatives. We also have to consider that maybe this guy isn't working alone.'\n\nBobby nodded. 'Another reason why I don't want him picked up just yet. If he is involved, if he is Picasso, then he can bring us to these other girls, who might very well still be alive. Gale Sampson was only killed a day or two before we found her. I'm not holding out much hope for the Boganes sisters, but I am for the others \u2013 if there are others. Whether LaManna is Picasso or it's somebody else, the question we have to ultimately answer is the one that will lead us to his victims. Every indication so far is this guy is targeting runaways and throwaways \u2013 the kids nobody wants. How? How is he meeting them? And what kind of music is he playing to get them to follow him out of their houses like some Pied Piper in the middle of the night? If we find out where he's hunting from, we might just find him.' Bobby's cell chirped just then. He picked it up when he saw the number. 'Dees.'\n\n'Agent Dees, this is Duty Officer Karin Koehle with FDLE in Tallahassee. I'm calling to advise you that the juvenile you had flagged in the system was run this morning by the Coral Springs Police Department responding to a residential burglar alarm. Liza Ashley Emerson, DOB May 10, 1991, is being transported to Coral Springs, pending an interview and parental notification. Would you like me to contact the arresting authority on your behalf to advise them of the flag, or would you like the contact information yourself?'\n\n#\n\n'We've been looking for you, Liza,' Bobby said with a smile when he and Detective Bill Dagher opened the door and stepped into the detective's office at the Coral Springs PD.\n\nThe thin, disheveled girl with the long, tangled brown hair squeaked, jumped in her chair and dropped her cell phone, which she'd obviously been busy yapping on. It hit the thin carpet with a thud and ricocheted into three different pieces around the room. 'I... you... I didn't hear you open the door. I thought you were my dad,' she managed as she stooped down to pick up the pieces. She cleared her throat. 'My step \u2013'\n\nBobby picked up the battery and handed it to her. 'Stepdad? No. But that's who I want to talk to you about, Liza. I'm Special Agent Bobby Dees. I work for the Florida Department of Law Enforcement. I'm investigating the disappearance of your little sister, Elaine.'\n\n'Oh.' Liza's eyes darted around the room. She sat on the edge of her seat, like she was getting ready to run.\n\n'I've been trying to talk to you for two weeks now, but you're not at home, you're not at school. You're not working at the bowling alley any more.' He leaned casually against the edge of the metal desk in front of her. Dagher stood guard by the door. 'What's up with that? Are you in trouble, Liza?'\n\nShe looked down at her lap, where she was shredding a tissue. 'No. No trouble. I just don't want to be home right now, that's all.'\n\n'Why?' Dagher asked.\n\nShe shrugged.\n\n'When was the last time you saw Lainey?' Bobby asked.\n\nShe shrugged again. 'Dunno. The day before she didn't come home, I think. At breakfast.'\n\n'What're your thoughts on your sister's disappearance? Any reason she might not want to go home, either?'\n\nLiza said nothing for a long while. She continued to shred the tissue into little white shards of fluff. 'I saw the news at my friend's house. I saw that there's a guy killing teens, you know? Painting weird pictures of them dead and all. And that Lainey...' Her voice broke. 'Oh God, that Lainey might be with him, you know? Then my mom told me the police were at the house, taking things like the computer and stuff, and that they were interrogating Todd at the police station.'\n\nBobby nodded. 'Well, I'm not at liberty to discuss everything with you, but we have a couple of investigations going, that's true. And your stepfather has definitely been questioned about some things \u2013 some things I want to talk to you about.'\n\nShe turned red and looked back down at her lap. 'There was no way I was going home after that, you know? With him still there.'\n\n'Todd?'\n\nShe nodded.\n\n'Tell me why.'\n\nShe shook her head and sucked in a sniffle. When she finally spoke her small voice was just above a whisper. 'She's a good kid, Lainey. A good sister. I didn't tell her that. I thought she just left for a few days to get away from him, and all, you know? To get him to stop trying to come into her room. Like me \u2013 I didn't take that shit from him, you know? The fucking perv. But then she didn't come home at all and now he's back at the house. And I'm not going back there.' She started to cry finally. Full force. Bobby handed her another tissue from the box on Dagher's desk. He said nothing while she tried to catch her breath.\n\n'So me and my friends, we just crashed at this house we thought was empty. You know, like the people couldn't pay for it no more? I forget what they call that. We weren't burglarizing nothing. I just didn't want to go home, is all. He's a creep and a fucking asshole and a perv, and... oh God, I think, I think he might have done something to Lainey...'\n\n#\n\n'So you think this might be the guy, huh?' Judge Reuben Sullivan said with a cocked eyebrow as he signed the warrant that would allow them to search Todd LaManna's home once again \u2013 this time for evidence in the Gale Sampson homicide and the Boganes sisters' disappearance. The judge had already signed one for Todd's 2001 black Infinity Q45. 'Picasso, hmmm? Is that what they're calling him in the press?'\n\n'The name seems to be sticking,' Bobby replied, looking around at the dozens of celebrity charcoal caricatures that covered the walls of the judge's chambers. With his enormous curly, leprechaun-red head, Karl Malden-sized noggin and small body, Judge Sullivan kind of looked like a caricature himself.\n\n'Great. Another South Florida serial killer with a catchy nickname. Look what Cupid did for tourism in Miami; they're still taking pictures on the MacArthur Causeway,' the judge remarked, shaking his head. 'Stopping traffic to get a picture of five-year-old bloodstains that aren't there any more.'\n\n'Don't forget the dead celebs, judge,' Stephanie chided. 'They still stop buses on Ocean Drive in front of the Versace mansion. And that's going on a decade. Wasn't Anna Nicole Smith handled in this courthouse?'\n\nThe judge grimaced, as if he'd just sucked on a lemon. 'Don't remind me. You couldn't drive down Third Avenue for a month. I hope that circus fever doesn't spread north, now. Keep your blood-thirsty tourists and their cameras in Miami.' The judge slid the warrant across the conference table to Bobby. 'Hope you boys find what you're looking for this time.' Then he slipped on his black robe and headed out the door and back to his courtroom.\n\nWith the warrant in hand, Bobby and Stephanie stepped out into the chaotic hallways of the Broward County Courthouse. Babies in umbrella strollers whined and cried while being pushed by teens who looked far too young to be moms outside the fourth-floor courtrooms, alongside tired, middle-aged women who looked far too young to be grandmas. Broward Sheriff's Office deputies escorted cuffed defendants to their courtrooms. Witnesses and out-of-custody defendants, some in baggy long-shorts and wife-beater tees, mingled around the wooden doors, either waiting to be called into court, or debating whether to run before they were. God rest his soul, when Bobby's dad was on the bench in New York, he would've held somebody in contempt for wearing shorts in his courtroom. And whether it was a defendant or a witness wearing them, contempt would've meant jail.\n\n'We've got a signature on both. I'm headed to the house now,' Bobby said into his Nextel as they followed the cheesy black strip of electrical tape on the floor that led pedestrian traffic from the newer criminal court wing to the older part of the courthouse and the bank of elevators that went down to the lobby. He hated the Broward courthouse. It was like a rat maze.\n\n'Was that Zo?' Stephanie asked.\n\nBobby nodded. 'The guys are sitting up on the house. The car's at CarMax Pompano, along with its owner. Zo and Veso are gonna seize it there. The Sheriff's Office is assisting, since we'll be using their lab. Thanks for being so quick with this, Steph. And thanks for coming up here with me. You didn't have to make the trip.'\n\nThe line for the elevators was four persons deep, so he led her by the elbow to the stairwell.\n\n'It got me out of calendar with Judge Spencer, so thank you,' she began as they headed down, the click of her high heels echoing through the empty stairwell. 'But I'm warning you, Bobby, we still may have a real problem with the paints that Ciro seized from LaManna's studio. The brand looks like a match with the paint used on the Picasso paintings, and that's good and all, but Ciro should never have seized them without a warrant. He should never have been in that room.'\n\n'But it's because Ciro was in that room and saw what he saw that we just got warrant number two signed. Remember, the wife gave consent to search and seize.'\n\n'We may be OK on the search part, but as far as the seizure, the room was hubby's and hubby's alone. Debbie LaManna's claiming she didn't even know it existed. If this guy is our Picasso, the argument that LaManna's slick defense attorney will eventually make is that the wife didn't have authority to consent to the seizure of husband's things that she clearly had no control over. I don't mean to be argumentative or rain on your search-warrant parade, but...'\n\nA senior prosecutor with over a decade of trial experience \u2013 including a couple of years experimenting on the dark side with criminal defense \u2013 Stephanie definitely knew her way around a case and a courtroom, and she was pretty damn good at guessing what was coming at her around every corner. She never tried to sugar-coat shit, either. Some cops \u2013 a lot of cops, actually \u2013 didn't like it when a pretty girl was smarter than them. And they really didn't like it when that pretty, smart girl let them know just how smart she was without at least stroking their egos first. But that's what Bobby appreciated about Stephanie \u2013 he always knew where she was coming from. And he was smart enough himself to listen.\n\n'Well, there's no unringing a bell,' Bobby said with a shrug. 'LaManna's on twenty-four-seven surveillance now. If he is our guy, the hope is he'll lead us to the Boganes sisters and anyone else he's holding.'\n\n'You mean Lainey,' she said as they reached the first floor.\n\n'And any other missing girls that we think he may be keeping,' Bobby said quietly as he held the lobby door open for her.\n\nStephanie stopped walking and stared at him. Then she shut the door with her hand, so that they were alone again in the stairwell. 'Bobby,' she said softly, 'I've known you for a long time. You're one of my favorite agents. I'm thrilled that you're working this case, because I know it's in the best of hands. But...' she took a deep breath. 'I gotta ask \u2013 are you OK with all this? I mean, this is real close to home.'\n\nStephanie and he had worked together long enough and closely enough on a couple of cases so that they'd developed not only a good working relationship, but a friendship as well. Stephanie knew all about Katy. She'd been one of the very first to offer help in those horrible days right after Katy had run off.\n\n'You corner me in a dark, empty stairwell to tell me I'm your favorite? I'm blushing,' Bobby joked with a wry smile.\n\n'Ha, ha,' she returned. 'You don't make this easy on a person, do you?' She shook her head. 'Cops, you know, they're so big and strong that nothing and no one can break them. I'm just saying that... well, look, I won't pretend to know what you're going through, but I know that it must be hell, Bobby.'\n\n'It's a party, sweetheart.'\n\n'We haven't talked much in the past year.'\n\n'Not much to talk about.'\n\n'How are things at home, then? Can I ask that?'\n\nBobby shrugged. 'Sure you can ask.'\n\nShe looked hurt. 'Sorry. I didn't mean to stick my nose where it obviously doesn't belong. My bad.' She turned to walk away and open the door.\n\nHe gently grabbed her arm and pulled her back to him. The smile was gone. He ran a hand through his hair, trying hard to pull his thoughts together. 'Things are... tough, Steph. I'm not gonna lie. Look, I appreciate you asking, but this year has been, like you said, hell. Pure hell. My wife has not recovered. Neither have I. I don't think we ever will. No, I _know_ we never will.'\n\nShe nodded but said nothing, waiting for him to go on.\n\nHe took a deep breath. 'Everything's changed. Everyone's different. Sometimes I feel LuAnn and I are like two strangers in this little boat just sailing the world all alone, hoping to find our way back home, but in the meantime just trying to find some land. A place where we can stop paddling and searching and just... be. And every day we don't find home, every day we don't even find that little patch of land, we forget more and more what it is we're looking for. I mean, we remember home as Utopia, right? But meanwhile, maybe we're passing by a lot of smaller opportunities to just... be. To just make it.' He shook his head. 'I'm an asshole. I shouldn't be saying nothing. That's all the Red Bull talking on no sleep. But you asked, Counselor.'\n\n'I did ask,' she replied softly. 'Look, do you really think you're the only one in the world to have relationship issues? Especially after a \u2013 for lack of a better word \u2013 tragedy? Don't be such a guy.'\n\nHe smiled. 'You must have a way with getting people to talk, Counselor. That's why all those defendants are afraid to take the stand. Afraid of what you're gonna get them to say.'\n\nShe blushed. Stephanie was pretty, no doubt, with long, thick dark red hair and fiery blue eyes that lit up when she was angry or got an idea. He'd heard more than one cop fantasize about what she looked like underneath her fitted suits. Bobby had wondered once or twice why she'd never gotten married.\n\n'Thanks for the compliment,' she said. 'So where do you go from here? I mean, with your daughter?'\n\n'I keep looking. I've had some sightings in California. San Fran and Venice Beach. I've been to the runaway hot spots in Jersey, New York, Vegas, Detroit. Nothing. Then last month Covenant House sent me a picture of a girl out of New Orleans that could've been her, but it was so blurry there was no telling for sure. By the time I got there, she was gone.'\n\nA couple of clerks walked down the stairs past them and out the stairwell. Neither Bobby nor Stephanie said anything. 'Do you think there's a possibility he has her?' Stephanie asked quietly when they were gone and the door had closed again. 'That Picasso has Katy? Is that what I'm sensing here?'\n\nBobby sighed and slapped his hand on the wall. 'I can't go there. That was the first thought that crossed my mind when I realized that there might be more victims. But no, I can't go there. There are thousands of runaways out there. And some don't come home because they don't want to. Because they're not ready, is all. Anything else, and...' He closed his eyes. 'Well, I just can't go there, Stephanie.'\n\nShe grasped his hand, her warm fingers wrapped tightly in his. He squeezed back. It felt good. It was a weird sensation, though \u2013 one that immediately had him feeling guilty. The other night at the dining table covered with MEPIC flyers was the first time LuAnn had spontaneously touched him in months. Like he had just blurted to Stephanie for some unknown reason, since Katy had run away, things had slowly but surely gotten more and more distant between them. He was sure LuAnn blamed him for Katy leaving. No doubt she harbored resentment that it was _his_ final words to cut Ray out of Katy's life once and for all that made her leave. _His_ initial indiscretion in letting her date the boy that they both knew right off the bat was bad news. _His_ failure to recognize that Katy was doing drugs long before track marks appeared on her skinny arm. Over the past eleven months he'd watched as LuAnn withdrew into her world \u2013 working more hours, going out with friends when she did have free time. He probably had, too, to be fair \u2013 but work for Bobby was no escape. It provided no relief. Looking for someone else's missing kid while staring at a wall with his daughter's smiling picture on it just made him that much more aware of his failings as both a father and a cop. And now, feeling the way he was feeling, with Stephanie's hand in his, the smell of her perfume filling the small space between their bodies, made him that much more aware of his failings as a husband. He pulled away and opened the lobby door.\n\n'You know, I'm here if you need me,' Stephanie said softly, as she stepped past him. 'That's all I'll say. I'm here for you if you need an ear. Good luck today.'\n\nHe nodded slowly. Then he watched as she walked out into the bustling lobby and disappeared into the crowd.\n\n#\n\nWalter 'Wally' Jackson was tired of getting the shit beat out of him. Having lived on the streets for so many years he'd lost count, he knew the dangers that came with resting your head under a bridge when the sun went down. It used to be that cops were your biggest worry \u2013 hassling you from place to place when the neighborhood started to complain, messing with your nest when you went out to rustle up a little change during the day. While sitting in a jail cell might fill the stomach and keep you out of the rain, a loitering arrest all but guaranteed that when you finally did get CTS \u2013 credit time served \u2013 all your shit would be long gone. Now, partying with the wrong person, getting jacked while you were high, pissing on someone else's nest or fucking with someone's lady \u2013 those were all things that any fool could tell you would bring trouble. Homeless or not, you can't lose your common sense just cause you don't have a crib and a job. But lately, living on the streets presented a whole new set of fucked-up dangers to look out for. The rules of fair play and survival had apparently changed, and twice in the past six months \u2013 _twice_ \u2013 Wally had had his skull split open by punks with peach fuzz on their balls and too much time on their hands. Macho teenage faggots who took to beating up guys like him with baseball bats just for fun. 'Bum bashing' was what it was called, and it was apparently now some sort of fucked-up sport all over the world, someone at the hospital had told him the first time they'd put his brains back inside his head. It could be worse, that same someone had told him. In Miami, a guy had been lit up like a birthday candle with his own bottle of Popov vodka while he slept off a big one. But Wally hadn't listened to all the dire warnings. He'd gone back to his nest in Birch State Park. This time, though, when he woke up with another sixty staples on the other side of his dented melon, he'd decided it was time to take the warnings a bit more seriously.\n\nWith a brown paper bag full of all the shit he owned in the world under one arm and a six-pack of Schlitz under the other, Wally had walked out of the hospital Monday afternoon, gotten on a bus, and tried to figure out where the hell he was gonna go now. Since his aching head was still wrapped in bandages, a shelter was what the discharge nurse had suggested. But Wally knew from previous encounters at the Homeless Assistance Center that there was more of a chance of getting into a fistfight there than under a bridge with an acne-faced bastard and his friend, Louisville Slugger. Besides, Wally liked his space. He liked doing as he pleased. He didn't need no one telling him how to live just because they fronted you a pillow and a hot meal.\n\nHe remembered his old friend Bart, who he'd chummed with for a while before Bart dropped dead last summer. Bart used to have great ideas on where to crash when things were getting hot with the cops or you needed to stay dry. Fort Lauderdale beach was full of second and third homes, owned by old people who didn't like to come down to Florida till it got real cold up north, like January and February. Great places to crash. Course, the penalty was a lot stiffer if you got caught in someone's crib rather than in a park after hours \u2013 Bart had showed him the scar from the bullet that had hit his chest, courtesy of a trigger-happy cop who'd caught him sneaking in a window. You could be looking at prison time, too. Of course, Wally thought, as he stepped off the bus at Las Olas and Hendricks Isle, those were things you only had to worry about _if_ you got caught.\n\nLike a lot of older homes on the swanky isles off Fort Lauderdale's Las Olas Boulevard, almost every other house on Hendricks seemed to be in some state of construction or deconstruction. Old houses were being torn down, new mansions were being built, and towering dockside condos were going up on both sides of the street. Mixed in with all the new construction were a few old houses further down the block that were shuttered like bomb shelters \u2013 at least until winter officially arrived in a couple of months. Homes that were too old for alarms.\n\nWith the sun almost down now, the construction sites were all abandoned. Even so, Wally knew that limping like a zombie down the middle of the road with a mummy-wrapped head and stitched-up face would definitely attract the attention of anyone who might be out for a jog or walking her dog, so he ducked inside the concrete bones of a half-built mansion and cracked open a cold one while he waited for it to get dark. When the lights came up on the houses and their matching yachts on the isle across the waterway, he slipped out through graveyards of landfill, broken concrete, and rusted rebar to the crumbling seawall, following it along till he found the house Bart had told him about: The flamingo pink ranch with the hurricane shutters on the back door and the extra key hidden in a magnetic hide-a-way box behind the dead flowerpot. In just a few minutes he'd be inside and out of sight, hopefully enjoying some AC if he could get the darn thing to work.\n\nExcept the hide-a-way box was gone.\n\nDamn. The windows were all sealed with metal accordion shutters. Wally looked around. His head was killing him. Maybe he should just make camp here in the backyard and look for a new place in the morning. Then he spotted the old forty-foot sailboat docked behind the house. If the owners obviously weren't here till at least next month, then they just as obviously would not be needing their boat, which didn't look to Wally like it had seen much sea time lately anyway. _Crown Jewel_ was the faded name gold-scripted on the back. With no intimidating shutters to worry about, Wally figured it would require a lot less effort to get inside the _Crown Jewel_ than the Crummy Abode. He limped down to the sailboat and climbed aboard. It would be too much to hope for some food down below, but you never knew. Maybe there'd be a couple of cans and some bottled water. A few brews would be nice, too. That would hold him for a couple of days till he felt up to going back out on the street and raising some cash.\n\nIt was too easy. A quick jimmy with the pocket knife he kept in his sock and he was in. The wood door led down to a cabin below. As he climbed down the skinny stairway into pitch blackness, he hoped that Bart hadn't blabbed to a few dozen other guys about this place. He didn't need to get his ass kicked again.\n\nIt was the smell that had him thinking that perhaps his first hunch was right, that maybe someone else was living aboard the _Crown Jewel_. It was a rancid smell, like of really bad BO, or maybe of old, rotting garbage, but it was not overpowering. It was more like it had been really, really bad and was fading away. And it was mixed with the stink of mildew. The owners had probably left the freaking fridge open with food in it. Without electricity, the food had gone bad. He hoped there were no bugs. He hated flying roaches. Wally stuck a cigarette in his mouth and reached for his lighter. Time to see what tonight's accommodations would look like.\n\nHe lit his butt, then held out the flame in front of him to see where he was going. He was standing in the middle of a living room, with chairs and a coffee table and a dining table, too. Off behind him was a galley kitchen. So far, so good \u2013 and no monster bugs. If he opened a couple of windows he could probably get rid of the stink. What a life. To have enough money to own a house you don't use and a forty-foot boat you don't sail. He walked a little further, down a few more steps and opened the door right in front of him. The one that led, presumably to the sleeping quarters. The flame went out and he shook the lighter and flicked it again, squinting in the darkness to see what was in front of him.\n\nWhen he saw the two bodies sitting up in the middle of the round captain's bed, their arms wrapped around each other, his first thought was that his hunch had been right \u2013 someone else had gotten this great idea long before him and he'd just walked in on two people doing the nasty. He mumbled 'sorry' and took a step back, but he stumbled, catching himself with the edge of the bedding and pulling it with him. The bodies tumbled forward on the bed. The flame went out. And no one said a word.\n\nThat's when Wally realized that the bad, rotting smell was all around him and the two people he'd just walked in on in the inky darkness were very, very dead.\n\n#\n\n'Larry, what've you got?' Bobby started as he walked into the CAC squad bay Tuesday morning. 'Anything on Lori No-Last-Name?'\n\n'No luck on the girl,' Larry replied, looking up from his laptop. He picked up files, following Bobby into his office. 'I did find the two losers Todd LaManna met up with the night of the twenty-sixth at the Side Pocket Pub: Jules Black and Alex Juarez. They work in CarMax service. Both say Todd hooked up with them about eight and left about eleven with a lady nobody knew. Some brunette. Best description is she had a rack on her and looked to be more than of age. They didn't know her name. She just talked to him at the bar and they walked out together a few minutes later. It's not the secretary, 'cause she's a redhead and we checked, although he was banging her, too.'\n\n'Anyone know where he was from five to eight?'\n\n'Nope.'\n\n'That's not so good for our boy.'\n\n'What about the lab?' Ciro asked as he walked in, coffee cup in hand. 'Anything back yet?'\n\n'The car was clean,' Bobby replied. 'No blood, but they did find three strands of Lainey's hair in the trunk.' He waved a piece of paper in the air. 'Lab report \u2013 hot off the fax.'\n\n'In the trunk?' Ciro asked.\n\n'They pulled hairs from the brush we seized in Lainey's room and matched them. Is that fresh?' Bobby asked, nodding at Ciro's coffee.\n\n'Kiki just made some. It's a little strong, but you know, she's Cuban. So things are _really_ not looking good for our boy.' Ciro shook his head. 'Scumbag. How do you think they got there?'\n\nBobby shrugged. 'Could be he threw her in the trunk. Could be from the beachbag _she_ threw in the trunk six months ago. Impossible to say where or when or how, and it's potentially explainable. But there is more news: the manufacturer is a match on the paint. Winsor & Newton. We just can't ID an actual color match, because both the Sampson and Boganes portrait paint was blended. The lab can't differentiate pigment colors once they're blended. Canvas is white stretched linen, no discernable weave. Untraceable.' Bobby picked up his empty Mickey Mouse mug and fingered an oversized ear. It was a gift from Katy years ago for his birthday. 'I think I'll see if Kiki wants to share.'\n\n'So we got one sis saying Stepdad's a fucking octopus and that the younger one, who's now missing, was busy trying to fend him off. He ain't got no alibi for the time his step goes AWOL, and her freaking hairs are in his trunk? Oh, and the paint's a match,' Larry said, scratching his head. 'When can we move on him, Bobby? I mean, we can pop him for L & L on the older kid \u2013 at least get him off the street.'\n\n'I don't want him off the street, Larry. We have at least one missing girl that we know for sure is still out there \u2013 his stepdaughter. If he's working alone and he's popped, who the hell's gonna take care of her?'\n\nThe twisted facts of a case out of Kentucky a couple of years back that Bobby had verbally assisted on immediately came to mind. Chad Fogerty was a suspect in a series of disappearances of at least ten girls. Kentucky police figured Fogerty's victims were long dead, so they trumped up some charges just to get him off the street while they tried to make a case, thinking they had potentially saved another parent a heartbreaking tragedy. When the trumped-up charges fell flat some three months later and Fogerty finally got out of jail, persistent detectives followed him to a remote farm outside of Bowling Green. A farm nobody ever knew he had. In the underground tornado shelter, shocked detectives found the caged bodies of all ten missing girls \u2013 girls who had slowly starved to death while Fogerty was sleeping peacefully on a cot in the county jail. No way was Bobby gonna let that happen in this case. He'd never forgive himself. Even though he still wasn't completely convinced that LaManna was Picasso, he wasn't taking any chances with a kid's life.\n\n'If she's still alive, Bobby,' Larry tried.\n\nBobby shook his head. 'I want to see where he's going. Zo did some checking. Found relatives in Tennessee and LaManna's mother in Port St Lucie.' Port St Lucie was a small, super quiet city on the eastern shore of central Florida, about an hour and a half south of Orlando. It was a haven for retirees. 'I'm gonna head up to see Mom tomorrow. I'll have the Chattanooga police check on the other relatives. What about the boat angle, Larry? Anything?'\n\n'There are eighty-nine boats registered in Miami and Broward Counties that begin with the words \"The Emp\". And the Coast Guard doesn't track boats registered in other states that come to sail our blue waters \u2013 they only keep tabs on boats coming into the country.'\n\n'Shit,' Bobby replied. 'All right. Eighty-nine is doable. Let's start with that. We'll divide each county and each take twenty \u2013'\n\nFrank Veso stuck his head in the CAC squad bay. 'Hey, Bobby,' he called, obviously out of breath. 'You need to turn on a TV. Looks like your case \u2013 our case \u2013 is on! Put on Six.'\n\nBobby could feel his chest tighten. He flicked on the portable behind him, just in time to see WTVJ's Mark Felding standing in front of a pink house, the sails of a large sailboat rising over the roofline behind him. Blue and red lights from more than one police cruiser spun all around him, visible even in the bright sun. Uniforms crawled on the lawn, which was sectioned off with yellow crime-scene tape. Underneath Felding ran the bold-faced graphic: BREAKING NEWS: TWO BODIES FOUND IN BOAT IN FORT LAUDERDALE BELIEVED TO BE MISSING MIAMI SISTERS...\n\n'... no one knows more than that, or at least they're not telling us, Andrea,' Felding was saying, trying hard to control the tinge of mounting excitement in his voice. 'But from speaking with sources who _have_ interviewed Walter Jackson, I'd say this could well be the work of the very dangerous killer known so intimately, unfortunately, to both myself and the police as Picasso. And if, once again, _if_ these are the missing Boganes sisters, which has yet to be confirmed \u2013 well, Andrea, all I can say is that law enforcement has previously classified these two girls as runaways, just like they have with missing thirteen-year-old Elaine Emerson, and that could very well mean that a serial killer is operating right here in South Florida. Right here, Andrea. Right in our own backyard...'\n\n#\n\nA smug Mark Felding stood on the side of the Channel Six news van, smoking a cigarette and yukking it up with his chubby cameraman and a pair of Ft Lauderdale uniform cops. 'Are you fucking kidding me? Do you want to go to jail?' Bobby yelled when he spotted him.\n\nA surprised Felding held his hands up as Bobby rushed towards him, probably to defend himself from the punch he thought was coming. 'You had me gagged, Agent Dees!' he started. 'No discussing what I saw in the paintings that were sent to _me_ and any future paintings that are delivered to _me_. I got it, I got it. But nowhere in your gag order does it say I can't talk about the news, thank you very much. You see, that's my job. I'm a reporter. That's what I do. Sorry you didn't like my report.'\n\nThe cameraman and uniforms backed away. 'You go live with this sort of bullshit before I'm even called out? Why the fuck didn't you tell Fort Lauderdale PD I was working it?'\n\nFelding's eyes grew dark. 'That's not my job, now, is it? To tell people what _your_ job is? It's not my problem if the left hand doesn't know what the right's doing. I'm here to get information to the people. That's what I do. That's _my_ job.'\n\n'Bobby!' Zo called.\n\nBobby turned and walked away before he hit the man.\n\n'What about the car in the garage?' Felding yelled after him. 'A records check shows that it was purchased at CarMax. Is it true there may be a link between this scene and Lainey Emerson's stepdad, Todd LaManna? Are you gonna arrest him soon?'\n\nBobby turned around and charged back over. The uniforms scattered. He brought his hand down over the ENG lens, lest the cameraman get any ideas that it was a good time to frame a shot. 'Listen, Sherlock,' he snapped at a suddenly pale-faced Felding, 'I know you really want to be a cop. I can feel it. You couldn't cut it in the academy, maybe didn't pass the background check, whatever. But I know your type. And now this is your one really big chance to make a name for yourself and prove to everybody who thought you were a loser that _you_ should've been the detective on this. But let me tell you \u2013 you don't know shit. You are a two-bit, dime-a-dozen field reporter who for some fucked-up reason was singled out to be a madman's messenger. You're not a real reporter. You're not a great detective. You're nothing but a puppet in all this, and you are in way over your head. So do what the nice judge has ordered you to do and shut the fuck up, or so help me, _Mark_ , I will come down on you like I should've weeks ago \u2013 with an iron fist and no mercy.'\n\nHe turned and walked past Zo and the yellow crime-scene tape that cordoned off the driveway and strode up to the house. As he passed the two chatty uniforms that had scampered off, he shouted, 'Anyone gives that little shit so much as the time of day, you'll be on midnights till you retire. Got that?'\n\nIn the backyard he found what looked a lot like chaos. Crime-scene techs were everywhere, as were uniform \u2013 crawling like ants all over the boat, stomping all around the backyard. Supervising the offload of a single black body bag from the sailboat was a jumbo-sized detective sucking on a death stick, dressed in khakis and a sweat-soaked white dress shirt with yellow pit stains.\n\n'Detective Lafferty? I'm Agent Robert Dees, FDLE. We spoke on the phone.'\n\n'You got here quick,' Lafferty replied, exhaling a plume of gray in Bobby's face.\n\n'That's a good thing. Didn't I ask you not to remove the bodies before I got here?'\n\n'You did. But these boys can't wait around all day.'\n\n'It's been twenty minutes. Do you mind?' he asked, walking up to the body bag and unzipping it before the detective had a chance to respond. The picked-over face of what was once a human being stared up at a cheerfully blue sky. Almost completely skeletonized, only chunks of decomposed black flesh clung to the skull and neck, like a chicken wing nibbled down to the bone and left out in the hot sun beside a park trash can. Thick pieces of long blonde hair rested underneath her skull, where her scalp had slipped off. Around her neck was a bright neon pink heart within a heart necklace, which lay against the collar of a black _Got Milk?_ T-shirt. Bobby looked down. Bony fingers rested at the body's side, but the thumb on the right hand was missing its tip. He zipped her back up. Overhead, he could hear the buzz of a helicopter approaching. It was a news chopper. With a telephoto Bobby knew they could catch the tonsils in the back of his throat if they really wanted a picture of them. 'Don't move the next body,' he said to Lafferty.\n\n'Now don't be telling me what to do, son,' Lafferty began in a testy voice, following Bobby's stare and looking uneasily up at the sky.\n\n'This is an FDLE investigation now. I won't need to tell you what to do any more, because you're to do nothing but type up your report on how you fucked up my crime scene.' He turned to the ME techs, who stood there looking uncomfortable. 'Put her in the truck. Don't transport her till I tell you. And don't move the other one.'\n\nZo walked up just as Lafferty stormed off under a date palm and had a hissy fit on the phone with his chain of command. 'Now that's how you win friends and influence people. I'm sure glad I'm the boss.'\n\n'Who leaked it?' Bobby asked.\n\n'Don't know. It was all over the radio. It didn't take a genius to pick it up off a scanner. To be fair, no one figured it for Picasso till your friend and his camera crew showed up.'\n\n'Did you call?'\n\n'Yup. Miami-Dade's in and so is BSO. Two guys each. I think you can kiss off Fort Lauderdale, but the City of Miami is contributing one man, too. You officially have got yourself a task force, Shep.'\n\n#\n\nYears before NBC and handsome George Clooney romanticized the ER, Denzel Washington and Howie Mandel were making rounds on _St Elsewhere_. That was when LuAnn Briggs, a young and impressionable teenager in search of an exciting career after high school graduation, decided to become a nurse. And not just any 'stick your tongue out and say \"ah!\"' hand-holder in white, but a nurse that made a real difference every day \u2013 saving lives and running central lines and riding gurneys, pounding hearts till they started to beat again. Even back then, she knew that there was no way her daddy \u2013 who was watching the same medical drama she was on the same couch in Shreveport, Louisiana \u2013 would send her to med school, even if he could afford to. Her grades were stellar, but being a doctor was no job for a woman. Nursing, on the other hand, was a respectable profession and the best she should ever hope for. Except LuAnn didn't just want respectable. She wanted exciting. She wanted death-defying. She wanted thrilling. She wanted to be one of the nurses in Boston's St Eligius, hanging with Howie and Denzel as they smoothly and courageously put the humpty-dumptys back together again. So she picked emergency medicine and she picked crazy New York City to practice it. A city she had never even been to. Ten days out of Northwestern State University she found herself in the middle of hell.\n\nGunshot wounds at Jamaica Hospital were commonplace; stabbings were routine. There were no funny, tension-relieving jokes being exchanged inside the ER when things went from bad to terrible. No cute, young, carefree doctors hanging by the coffee machine. The patients weren't nice and the hospital administration wasn't forgiving. But for the two-year commitment and sign-on bonus, LuAnn would probably never have lasted even the week.\n\nBut then she never would have met Detective Bobby Dees.\n\nEighteen years had passed since that horrible night when Bobby had been wheeled into her ER on a blood-soaked gurney with a fading pulse, accompanied by about two dozen frantic NYPD officers. It was a twist of fate that had her working a double that day, another that sent a terrible rainstorm to prevent her from going out on break for a cigarette, and yet another that steered her future husband into her trauma room. LuAnn hadn't expected the first real love of her life to come searching for her on a stretcher, covered in blood, his brachial artery shredded by a drug dealer's bullet. She hadn't expected that it would be _she_ who had to save him. But maybe it was because she had met Bobby this way, maybe because something so powerful and so good had come out of working a double shift in hell that rainy day, that LuAnn had passed on the zillion opportunities since to go into other less pressurized areas of nursing.\n\nNow, more than ever, she was thankful that she'd stayed put. Now the high stress of working in a chaotic Level 1 Trauma hospital thirty minutes outside of Miami was a welcome distraction from the rest of her life. And as selfish as it would sound if she said it aloud, right now she needed to be around people whose lives were more tragically devastated than her own.\n\nSo she worked as long and as hard as she could, and then signed up for double shifts and holidays \u2013 drowning herself in emotionally exhausting work, much as an alcoholic would with a bottle of booze. And just like a drunk the morning after a binge, she, too, felt bad. As if she had let everyone down once again. First her daughter had run away from the very home _she_ had created, and now she wasn't even looking for her every waking second of every day, like her husband was. Instead she was working again, pulling another double. But the truth was, she couldn't do what Bobby did. In fact, LuAnn tried her hardest during the day not to even think of Katy, although she'd never tell Bobby that. Because to think about her only child, the little girl who once wanted to cheer for Florida State and go to vet school, and wonder under what bridge she might be resting her head at night, what crap she was shooting into her arms, what vile things she might be doing for money \u2013 it was just too painful. So she didn't. Instead, like the lush with a bruising guilt hangover who heads for an open bar, LuAnn sought solace in accepting another shift and fixing somebody else's tragedy.\n\nShe tossed her latex gloves and blood-splattered gown cover in the biohazard bin, finished up her cold coffee and stepped out into the packed waiting room. 'Elbe Sanchez?' she called. A frail-looking older woman stood up in the back of the room and, with the help of a walker, began to make her way over. On the overhead waiting-room TV that usually blared _Judge Alex_ or _Dr Phil_ or the girls from _The View_ , LuAnn saw the news was on. She would never have paid it a second's attention, but for the fact it was that same reporter from the other night on the TV, the one who had gotten Bobby all upset. Felding was his name. Mark Felding. He had reported on the runaway teenager from Coral Springs.\n\n'We don't have a positive ID yet, but like I reported earlier, Sue, this is a developing story. FDLE is on scene. They've been here all day. Now they're not releasing details other than what we learned this afternoon, but it's definitely looking like those two sisters from Florida City. The biggest concern is this: Are we looking at a serial killer? Certainly, law enforcement doesn't want a panic \u2013 Miami is still cringing from the notoriety that the brutal Cupid murders brought to the city a few years back. No one wants that publicity again, but two gruesome portraits, three dead bodies and multiple missing teens... No one can ignore what this is shaping up to look like.'\n\n'I'm Elbe Sanchez,' said the little woman.\n\n'Do we have a serial killer...' Felding continued, holding up a fistful of Runaway\/Missing Children flyers and waving them around.\n\nThe room began to spin. Slow at first, then faster.\n\n'... that is targeting teens or, perhaps more particularly, teenage runaways?'\n\nAnd faster.\n\n'If so, just how many victims might this Picasso have?'\n\n'Nurse? Can I see my son now? Is he all right?'\n\nAnd faster.\n\n'Nurse? Are you OK?' Elbe asked again.\n\nUntil it spun completely out of control.\n\n'Jesus!' screamed someone in the waiting-room crowd.\n\n'Oh my God! Roger! Roger! I need a crash cart! LuAnn's down!'\n\nThen the voices faded off and the darkness mercifully settled in.\n\n#\n\n'Miami, the city that forever made love synonymous with brutality, apparently has a new serial killer on the loose with another catchy nickname.'\n\nHe stared at the TV and thoughtfully rubbed the scruff on his face. No shit. MSNBC. He took a deep breath. _MSNBC_. He looked at the bottom of the screen. MIAMI POLICE FIND BODIES OF TWO SISTERS BELIEVED TO BE VICTIMS OF SUSPECTED SERIAL KILLER, PICASSO. He was ticker-tape news on the bottom of the MSNBC screen...\n\nHe was ticker tape news in Times Motherfucking Square!\n\nCute anchor Chris Jansing was yapping about _him_ , her pretty little pouty mouth trying so hard to look serious, yet he could see she was barely able to stifle a smile. And it wasn't just MSNBC covering the story \u2013 although it was by far the biggest station he'd seen so far today. He was the top story at six on every local channel, too. People all around the country, from hokey Indiana to bustling LA, were standing around the water cooler right now, maybe, talking about _him_. Looking up at the bright lights of Broadway and reading about _him_. The magnitude of the situation was a bit overwhelming, but... the smile slipped out, taking over his whole face. It was easy to understand now the addictive, seductive appeal fame held. And why it was that starlets who complained the loudest about the paparazzi's invasion of their precious privacy took it the hardest when the cameras weren't camped outside their front door any more and their sweet faces weren't gracing covers every week.\n\n_Picasso_. Not a bad comparison. Jeesh, he'd take that any day. Although anyone who knew anything about art knew that their two styles of painting couldn't have been more different. Picasso was a surreal cubist \u2013 he painted choppy, abstract art that only mentals and geniuses professed they could understand. While he himself favored expressionism \u2013 a distortion of reality in art for emotional effect. But no matter \u2013 Pablo Picasso was more famous than Munch or Kandinsky anyway. As for nicknames, he hadn't honestly given a thought as to what the press or the police might call him one day, or what his new moniker would sound like alongside other killers whose names lived in infamy: Jack the Ripper. Zodiac. The Green River Killer. The Boston Strangler. The Sunday Morning Slasher. Son of Sam. The Night Stalker. Cupid.\n\nAnd now, Picasso.\n\nSome men made an indelible impression on history. Some names you never, ever forgot. He wanted to be one of those names.\n\nHe was already feeling, however, the effects of notoriety. He'd brought it on himself, no doubt. He'd gone and stuck a stick into a hornet's nest, and they were out in full force looking for him now. No matter if they were looking in all the wrong places, there were still thousands of dangerous pests out there looking, and he had to be very careful. But he'd never been away from his collection for this long before, and he hoped none of them had, well, expired. That would really suck. Unless they were real pigs and had scarfed down everything he'd left out for them already, they should be fine. But he was finding that raising his fragile, eclectic collection was a lot like tending a garden \u2013 some flowers required more TLC, while others pretty much took care of themselves. Some bloomed early; some fell apart like an orchid when you touched them. After all the nurturing, the feeding, the watering \u2013 after all the motherfucking loving care you showed them day in and day out \u2013 sometimes a puddle of pretty petals and an ugly, scrawny stem was all you had left to show for your efforts at the end of the day. He definitely didn't want to come home to that. Especially since he'd have nobody to blame but himself if his precious petunias dropped dead; neglect was strictly his fault. He needed to get back to them by the weekend. No matter what, he had to find a way through the growing swarm of angry pests...\n\nHe was probably over-thinking his situation. By trying very hard not to underestimate his opponent he'd succeeded in giving them way too much credit; Miami's finest were turning out not to be so exceptional after all. It took a homeless drunk to lead them to what they should have found with just a smidgen of due diligence, which most likely meant they weren't picking up on any other clues, either. It was disappointing, no doubt about it. FDLE Special Agent Supervisor Robert Dees was supposed to be the cr\u00e8me de la cr\u00e8me. The Shepherd that everyone runs to whenever a lamb goes missing from the flock \u2013 so says _People_ magazine about 2008's Hero Among Us. Bobby Dees was the man who was supposed to make the hunt a little more interesting, a little more exciting because he was _sooo_ good at what he did. Well, so far he wasn't impressed. Not at all. It was like playing chess against the latest NASA computer and always winning. Either you were really, really smart, or the mythical, magical, all-powerful computer was a lot dumber than you'd given it credit for.\n\nHe dunked an Oreo into his warm milk and turned his attention back to the computer. He was feeling lonely, all dressed up with nowhere to go, with hornets buzzing right outside his door. It was time to see what mischief big-boned Shelley and her pretty pink butterfly were up to. With just a few clicks of the mouse, he opened the gates to the tank and surreptitiously swam out on to the internet, navigating past parental controls and protective firewalls. All around him, scrumptious little fishies were IMing and sending pictures and swapping OMGs. He could practically hear their squeaky chatter. Millions of excited young voices, screaming and squealing and yapping \u2013 spreading their new wings over the big, bad internet. Out to prove to Mom, Dad, Grandma and themselves that there was nothing to worry about on the World Wide Web. No sexual predators on their buddy lists; they'd be able to spot a poser a mile away. All they were looking for was to make some new friends and have a good time.\n\nWithin moments he'd found exactly who he was looking for. With invisible hands he unzipped her dress, unhooked her bra and slipped, undetected inside her computer, his skilled fingers probing through her applications till he found just the right switch. Then he sat back in his seat and finished his cookie just as sweet Shelley walked across his screen in her pink polka-dot Jenni jammies, her hair twisted in a towel turban, yapping away on a phone. Her bed was unmade and clothes were strewn all over her messy lilac bedroom. He picked crumbs out of the hair on his tummy and leaned over the keyboard.\n\n**ElCapitan says:** | **hi shell. r u online?** \n---|---\n\nA few seconds later he had her undivided attention.\n\nHe smiled. He just loved home movies.\n\n#\n\n'How long do you think he'll be gone for? I mean, do you think he's ever coming back?' Lainey asked, her cheek pressed to the cool, mildew-smelling wall. She was losing her voice.\n\n'Don't know. Maybe he had an accident,' Katy answered back. 'I hope to God it hurt.' The thought had occurred to Katy that the freak might not be coming back at all. That he had just left them in this hellhole \u2013 wherever it was \u2013 to rot and die. At first she was OK with that because it was better than what she faced if he came back. It was better than listening to the screams down the hall. Or smelling the nauseating stink of paint. Or feeling his sticky fingers on her skin. Now all she heard was quiet; all she smelled was her own stink in the corner. Then she got to thinking about the possibility that he really might not be coming back. She started to think about slowly starving to death in the darkness and how that would feel. And while death seemed preferable to living her life out in a blind dungeon, if he never came back, and she did die here, she'd started to consider the possibility that no one would ever find her body. Would her poor mother ever know what had really happened to her? Or would her parents think for years that she was living it up in Vegas or LA or New York? Would she rot like a mummy and wither to bones, only to be dug up in a century or two and studied by some dinosaur hunter who would wonder aloud why the hell she was buried where she was?\n\n'How's your tunnel coming?' Lainey asked. 'Can you feel the other side of the wall?'\n\n'I hit rock.'\n\n'Oh. Are you quitting?'\n\n'No way.' Katy lightly clenched her fists. She felt her raw fingertips rub against her palm, the nails broken, jagged stubs. They'd been bleeding for what felt like days. 'I'm just going around it. This may be our only way out if he doesn't come back. How's your tunnel?'\n\n'I stopped. My fingers hurt too much.'\n\n'Lainey...'\n\n'I wanna go home, Katy. I don't want to dig tunnels I'll never fit through.'\n\n'Think positive.'\n\n'Don't you want to go home, Katy?'\n\nKaty closed her eyes. She didn't like to talk about home. It hurt too much. 'Yeah. That's why I'm digging. Wishing you were home, warm in your bed, doesn't fly, Lainey. There's no wizard here to grant you your wish when clicking your heels don't work.' She sighed and sat back against the wall. 'Tell me about your brother again. What's it like to have a brother? And why was he called Bradley Brat?'\n\n'I don't remember any more. I don't remember why I called him a brat,' Lainey whispered back. 'Or why he made me mad so much. I just miss him. I can't believe I'm saying that. I miss Brad. I miss him coming into my room and stealing my comics because he's scared of the thunderstorm and he wants to read them under the covers. I miss his stupid, snorty laugh when he thinks something's really funny. I used to think he was faking, but now I know it's real.'\n\n'And your mom? Tell me about your mom.'\n\n'She's probably really upset, but not telling anyone, you know? She's gotta hold it in. She always does. We weren't getting along, you know, like I told you, when this happened. And Liza \u2013 you know, my sister \u2013 she's run away before and my mom was really pissed. She told her once not to bother coming home any more if she did it again. And Liza, well, you know, she probably doesn't even know I'm gone, she's always so busy. She has lots of boyfriends and stuff, so...' Lainey broke off and rubbed her bandaged eyes. 'She's probably still mad that I took her jeans and her make-up.'\n\n'I wish I could re-do things,' Katy said softly. 'Do a do-over, you know? I thought things were so bad at home. Isn't that funny? But sometimes you have to see the really bad to know what's good. I fucked things up at home. It was my fault. It's just too late to do anything about it.'\n\n'Don't say that!' Lainey yelled at the top of her lungs.\n\nThere was a long silence.\n\n'Do you think anyone is looking for us, Katy? Do you think anybody even cares?'\n\nKaty rubbed away the tears on her cheeks with her shredded, bloody fingertips. There was no way she was gonna answer that, either in her head or out loud. She felt around for the hole she had started long ago. Her fingers caught on the rough limestone and she followed it with her hands till she felt the sharp drop-off into what she hoped was just plain dirt. She dug her hands in and began to feverishly tunnel, ignoring the pain in her fingers, the ache in her back, the grumble in her stomach, the fear in her heart. 'That's why we need to get the hell out of here, Lainey,' she whispered. 'And we need to get out of here now.'\n\n#\n\n'Where is she?' Bobby asked as soon as he opened the front door to his house. Charlotte Knox, a close friend of LuAnn's from the hospital, was sitting on a chair in the dimly lit living room, a _People_ magazine on her lap, waiting for him. Nilla met him at the door with a tail thwap and a howl.\n\n'She's sleeping in the family room, on the couch,' Charlotte replied, with her finger to her lips. She stood up and gathered her purse. 'She's not so good.'\n\n'What the hell happened, Charlotte? They won't tell me anything at the hospital. I flew here as soon as you called \u2013'\n\n'She's gonna be OK, Bobby. They did a dozen tests, and it looks like she just fainted. But she hit her head on a chair on the way down, so she'll have a shiner and a nasty headache when she wakes up. She whacked it hard enough for a concussion, so she has to take it easy for a couple of days and see the doc before they let her go back to work.'\n\n'Fainted? Jesus... what?'\n\n'Don't know. One minute she's plucking asphalt out of the back of a motorcycle accident victim, the next she's down in the middle of the ER waiting room. She was only out for a few minutes. She didn't want to alarm you while they did tests.' Charlotte's voice lowered. 'I see you're on that big case. It's been all over the news today.'\n\n'This was her idea not to call me?'\n\n'She didn't want to scare you, is all.'\n\n_Bobby, it's Deirdre. Dispatch just put a call through from someone at Broward General looking for you. I picked up. I... I don't know how to say this. Something's happened to your wife, Bobby_.\n\nHe shook his head and looked past Charlotte in the direction of the family room. His hands were still shaking. 'Too late, Charlotte.'\n\n'She's gonna kill me when she finds out I called you. I just didn't want her to come in tomorrow like nothing ever happened. She's been working way too much. I think the girl's plain exhausted.'\n\n'You did the right thing, Charlotte,' Bobby said, walking her to the door. 'She's been under a lot of stress.'\n\n'Obviously,' Charlotte said as she headed down the front walk to her car. 'Take care of our girl. Goodnight, Bobby.'\n\nThe family room was dark. In the kitchen, which opened on to the family room, only the light above the stove was on. Still, with the moonlight filtering through the palm trees outside, he could make out her small frame on the oversized navy blue chenille couch. She was curled up like a baby. A cotton ball was taped to the crook of her elbow. Another was on her wrist, presumably where they'd taken blood and run an IV. Right below that was her hospital patient ID.\n\n'Hey there,' he said in a hushed voice as he knelt beside her, pulling the old knitted throw back up over her shoulders. He stroked a piece of her long blonde hair off her cheek and saw the black stitches over her left eye, which was swollen and already bruised. A raw-looking red scrape ran across her cheek. It must have been one hell of a fall.\n\nLuAnn opened her eyes and looked at him. 'She told you,' she murmured.\n\n'You should've called me, Belle. What happened?'\n\nLuAnn's eyes welled up and she suddenly started to cry.\n\n'Honey, honey. What is it, Lu?' he asked as he scooped her up in his arms and held her head against his chest. 'Is it bad? Jesus... Did the doctors tell you something bad?'\n\nShe shook her head.\n\n'Then what is it, honey?'\n\nShe shook her head again.\n\n'You're gonna be OK, Belle. Everything'll be all right.' He stroked the hair off her face and tried to find her eyes. 'Why didn't you call me?'\n\n'I saw it on the news. I know, Bobby,' she managed, her voice barely a whisper.\n\n'Saw what?'\n\n'That reporter on the runaway case you have. I saw him.'\n\n'LuAnn...'\n\n'I want the truth. I want you to tell me. Does he have her? This killer, Picasso?'\n\n'What? LuAnn...'\n\n'Does he have her?' she barked. Then she buried her head in his shoulder. 'Does he have my girl?'\n\nLuAnn was normally so composed. So much so that she could come across as cold to some, especially since Katy left. Bobby knew it hurt for her to talk about their daughter \u2013 about what had gone so wrong in between the bottle feedings and adolescence \u2013 so they never did. But seeing LuAnn break down this way was awkward, not because he didn't want to hold her, not because he didn't want to listen and tell her to get it all out, not because he didn't want to tell her he had the same exact fears as her, but because he knew she didn't want him to see it. He knew tomorrow she would likely regret her indiscretion, and cold might turn to freezing.\n\n'No, Belle. He doesn't have her. She ran away, is all. She's somewhere with Ray, but I know she's safe. I know she is. She's been gone far too long to be a victim of this guy. She's too smart. And I don't know where this reporter is coming off, saying it's a serial or that our bad guy is targeting runaways. He's trying to make headlines, is all. He's trying to make a career for himself.'\n\n'Bobby, it can't be her.'\n\n'She ran away with Ray. She's with him.'\n\n'Tell me I'm not a bad mother. Oh God, tell me it wasn't me. Lie, if you have to. I just need to hear it...'\n\n'Jesus, Lu, it wasn't you. Why would you think that?'\n\n'It was _me_ she ran from, Bobby. _Me_. I was too strict. I made her cheer and she didn't like it. I made her study and kept her home on Friday nights sometimes. I told her I hated that boy. I told her he was no good for her, that he was a loser and trailer trash and a druggie, and she left. She left because of _me_...'\n\nHe lifted her face to make her look at him. 'Don't be crazy,' he said firmly. 'She left because she made a choice to leave. She wanted to be with Ray and she was doing drugs. She made the choice. It was never you. You're the best mother. The best. And I'm not lying. Every time I saw you with her, whether it was walking her in a stroller or sitting on the sidelines, it was perfect. And until that piece of shit came into Katherine's life, everything was good. She loved cheering. She told me she wanted to try for a scholarship. I asked her once if she wanted to stop, because of all the homework and stuff, and she said no. She said she loved it. So it wasn't you.'\n\nThere was a long silence. He closed his eyes as he rocked LuAnn in his arms, with her head against his chest, still kneeling beside her on the couch. _'I_ should've seen that she was trying stuff,' he began quietly, whispering into her hair. ' _I_ know the signs. _I_ should've checked her arms sooner, gone through her backpack or her drawers. _I_ should've tested her. _I'm_ the cop, LuAnn, _I_ should've seen this, not you. I didn't want to think she'd do it. I didn't want to think _my_ kid would do all the things I told her never to do. Things only bad kids do. Ray... goddamn it, I knew he was bad news. I knew he was a banger... I never should've let her work at the fucking Dairy Queen. I should've told her she didn't have to get a job. I should've just given her more spending money. It was me, LuAnn, not you. It's me who should be crying and asking you to forgive me for not doing my job.'\n\nShe pulled his face down then, close to hers, her fingertips wiping away the tears that had welled in his eyes before they even fell. Then she kissed him on the lips, her warm tongue finding his, pushing deeper into his mouth. It had been a long time since they'd kissed. Even longer since they'd kissed passionately. LuAnn had the most beautiful mouth, with warm, full red lips that quivered slightly when she kissed you.\n\nHe pulled her closer, his hands buried in the tangles of her long hair, pressing against her back. He wanted to feel all of her, all at once \u2013 her warm skin, the curve of her cheeks, the arch of her back. He wanted to touch all of it, take it all in, because he knew the next day it would all be over, and he had to savor every second of this feeling before it left him again.\n\nShe didn't move away. Instead, she pressed close to him, her hands moving over him as his did with her. She pulled his dress shirt out of his pants and ran her hands underneath it and over his back, her nails tracing his skin, moving to the front of his chest, finding his nipples, moving lower, over his abs. With both hands she pulled his shirt up and over his head.\n\nHe looked at her lying on the couch before him, feeling a bit like a teen on a date that has just gotten the signal that tonight's the night. He was excited, hungry to touch her, to feel himself thrusting inside of her, but hesitant, wanting to make sure this was the decision she wanted to make. Wanting to know that she was sure of the next step. As though she'd read his mind, she sat up on the couch and pulled her sweater over her head. Then she reached back behind and unhooked her bra. It slipped off on to her lap, exposing her beautiful, full breasts, her erect nipples. She reached out and took his hands and placed them on her.\n\n'Make love to me, Bobby. Please.'\n\nHe had never needed her more. He stood up before her and undid the Velcro keepers on his belt that held his gun holster in place, and set it on the coffee table behind him. LuAnn reached over, undid his buckle and unzipped his pants, pulling them, along with his briefs, slowly down over his thighs till they fell on the floor. He stood there, exposed before her, his penis hard and erect.\n\nThen he climbed on top of her on the couch and did as she had asked.\n\n#\n\nWhen the sun came up, LuAnn was there, sleeping on his chest, where she had stayed all night. The painkillers they'd given her at the hospital had knocked her out pretty good, but, of course, that didn't cure Bobby's insomnia. In fact, LuAnn's concussion was just one more worry to keep him up counting sheep all night. He'd made sure to check on her every two hours, to make sure her pupils were dilating, that she was responding to stimuli, that she was safely beside him, breathing on his skin...\n\nNow the morning was here, and they were still one beneath warm sheets, legs tangled together, wrapped in each other's arms. It was a place he had not been in so long he could not remember the last time he was. He just knew that when things were good \u2013 before Katy left \u2013 he had taken for granted the feeling of LuAnn's breath on his chest at night, the sweet smell of her hair under his nose, the curve of her waist in the palm of his hand. Even though they had gotten married relatively young \u2013 much younger than most of their friends and certainly younger than what their families would have liked \u2013 for almost seventeen years Bobby believed they had a great marriage. A lot of ups, a few downs when money was tight, but nothing that he ever felt was insurmountable. Nothing that ever made him wish for something better. Being a cop meant nine out of every ten friends were divorced, in the process of divorcing, or cheating. For a myriad of psychobabble reasons, unstable marriages and affairs seemed to just come with the job description. But not him and LuAnn. They were always so good together. And now that he had tasted again what he took for granted all those years, he didn't want the morning to come. He didn't want to go back to yesterday, although the choice, he realized, might not be his to make.\n\nHe slid her head gently on to the pillow and left her sleeping while he went in to shave and take a shower. No matter the fragile status of his personal life, he had a young girl to find, two bodies to positively identify, and a madman to catch. It was barely eight a.m. and he already had ten messages on his cell, which he'd turned off for the first time in a long time last night. If it was bad enough, the right people knew how to find him.\n\nHe watched her sleep while he quietly got dressed. Nilla had taken his spot, curling up beside LuAnn, her head on a pillow. The dog watched him back with her big brown eyes, while he clipped on his cell, slipped on a sports jacket, and then stood there for a long, long moment. He was unsure of his next move. If he woke LuAnn to say goodbye, the spell might well be over. She might look at him like a girl with a roofie hangover stares at the stranger smiling at her on the other side of the mattress. The how-did-I-get-here-and-what-did-we-do-last-night? look. Maybe it was better to just leave...\n\nOf course leaving and not saying goodbye was offensive. Then she really would have reason not to talk to him when he got home. He decided to take his chances. He sat on the edge of the bed and gently brushed the hair off her face. 'I've got to go in. No work today; just stay in bed,' he whispered.\n\nLuAnn opened her eyes and squinted at the sunlight that streamed in through the blinds. 'OK,' she said with a nod.\n\n'How do you feel?' he asked.\n\n'How do I look?'\n\nHer left eye was black and blue and swollen shut, her scrape even more raw than last night. She looked as though she'd just gone a few rounds with Tyson. 'Beautiful,' he said.\n\n'Liar.'\n\nHe smiled. 'I'll call you to make sure you're OK. And you better be in bed. Doctor's orders.' He kissed her on the cheek and rose to leave.\n\nShe touched him on his arm. 'That's it?' she asked.\n\nHe shook his head. 'I hope not,' he replied. Then he leaned over and kissed her on the lips. She kissed him back, her tongue meeting his, her fingers on his neck. He held her in his arms and she didn't pull away. 'Hold my spot?' he whispered in her ear.\n\nShe nodded.\n\n'I have to go catch a bad guy now. I'll be back.'\n\nShe nodded again.\n\n'How do I look?' he asked as he rose, straightening his jacket.\n\n'Beautiful.'\n\n'Liar,' he answered with a smile. Then he leaned over and kissed her one more time before he slipped out the door.\n\n#\n\n'Like I told you people already, the last time I seen them, they were going to a friend's house, or whatever. They were bad kids.' Gloria Leto blessed herself and looked up to heaven. 'It's bad to say things like that about the dead. God forgive me. But they had no guidance, you know? My sister, their mama \u2013 bless her soul \u2013 she was on the junk. It ate her bad. Her body, her soul \u2013 it took everything, right down to nothing but bones when she died. Before that asshole got her hooked on smack, she was a good mother, you know? Made a living, took care of her family, but... when she was on smack, she had no time for those girls no more. They went wild, you know? And the different men in that house every night...' Gloria sighed and folded her arms across her chest. 'I don't know. I don't want to say no more. It's not right. But when my sister, when she died, you know, last year? When she died, I tried to take those girls in and fix them. Raise them proper, take them to church, teach them to be good girls. I sacrificed for them, you don't know. But that Roseanne, she was always talking back. She didn't come home at night sometimes. When she did, she brought boys back with her, snuck them into my house. Then Rosalie, the little one, she started shit, too. When I found the drugs \u2013 the baggies in their purses \u2013 I said, \"Enough! I don't want no crack whores in my house!\" How could they do that junk after what it did to their mother? And I don't know, maybe two days, maybe a week later, I can't remember exactly \u2013 they left. Went out somewhere \u2013 they didn't tell me \u2013 and they never come back. I took their clothes and I got rid of them maybe a month later, so I could rent the room. I just threw everything out.'\n\n'Ms Leto, did your nieces have access to a computer?' Bobby asked.\n\n'I let them use mine. I let them borrow it a few times, you know, for school. Then when I found the drugs, I hid it because I was afraid they'd take it and sell it like a junkie.'\n\n'Can we see it?'\n\nShe shook her head. 'Someone broke into my house and took the stupid thing. Along with my TV and my jewelry. Everything \u2013 gone. All of it. Even the drink in the kitchen cupboard.'\n\n'I'm sorry to hear that,' Zo said.\n\nShe shrugged.\n\n'Well, thank you for your time, Ms Leto. And, again, we're sorry for your loss,' Bobby added.\n\nGloria shrugged again and crossed herself. 'I don't have to pay for their funerals, do I? I'm not, like, responsible for the money, am I?'\n\n'I don't know, ma'am. You'll have to check with a lawyer about what your financial obligations are,' Bobby answered.\n\n'That reporter said he didn't have to pay me to talk to me, but that ain't right. I mean, they pay people to talk to Oprah, don't they?'\n\n'Did you speak to the press, ma'am?'\n\n'I thought he was gonna pay me. Wanted to ask me questions 'bout the girls and why they ran away. I said sure. But now I think I should get money.'\n\nFelding, probably. Or any one of the other camera-ready sharks out there chumming the murky waters for scoop. Time to bite back. 'I agree, Ms Leto,' Bobby said. 'I don't think you should talk to anyone from the press unless they pay you. Crime victims get paid big bucks to talk to the media. We're talking thousands. You should hold out.'\n\nThey left Gloria Leto pondering her finances on the front porch of her duplex and headed down the broken concrete path. Kids playing hula hoop and jump rope in the street eyed them suspiciously.\n\n'She's a trip,' Zo said with a shake of his head.\n\n'Was that Ciro on the phone before?' Bobby asked.\n\n'Yup. He's back from CarMax. Bob and Mary Bohner who own the house on Hendricks did buy the Buick in the garage in 2005 from CarMax Pompano. The salesman was a Karen Alfieri. Larry talked to her \u2013 she knows nothing.'\n\n'But we have a link to where LaManna works.'\n\n'Yes, we do,' Zo replied, whipping out a cigarette.\n\n'I thought you were off those.'\n\n'Nope. I've officially failed at two things in my life: quitting smoking and quitting drinking. I'm out of the closet about it, too, so I don't want to hear no more shit. I've already got Camilla yapping in my ear.'\n\n'I never thought the toothpick and patch thing was gonna work. You know, I'm still not convinced LaManna's smart enough for this,' Bobby said with a shrug. 'But maybe I'm wrong.'\n\n'What about the two different blood samples on painting number one? The one of Sampson?'\n\n'We know for sure neither sample belonged to Lainey. As for them matching the Boganes sisters, I'm hoping the lab will say they both do. We should know by today. If not, then...' Bobby didn't finish his sentence. Both of them knew what 'if not' meant. More victims.\n\n'LaManna's under surveillance, twenty-four seven. Let's see what he does,' Zo said.\n\nBobby's cell phone chirped just as they climbed into the car. 'Dees.'\n\n'Agent Dees, this is Duty Officer Craig Rockenstein with FDLE in Tallahassee. I'm calling to advise you that the juvenile you had flagged in the system \u2013 Reinaldo Coon, white male, D\/O\/B July 7, 1990 \u2013 was run at 11:32 last night by the Palm Beach County Sheriff's Office, terminal OR1 26749, Detective Greg Cowsert. Would you like me to contact the Palm Beach Sheriff's Office on your behalf to advise them of the flag?'\n\n_Jesus Christ, Reinaldo Coon. Ray Coon. They found Ray..._\n\nHe left Zo in the car and stepped back out into the street. 'No, no. I'll call,' he replied quietly, trying hard to think through the train-wreck of thoughts piling up in his brain. His heart began to pound. _Was he with Katy?_ 'What's the contact number?'\n\nHis fingers shook so hard, Bobby almost couldn't hit the numbers. A tense excitement was building in his chest. The only feeling he could equate it to was one he felt at Christmas as a kid \u2013 the adrenaline-fueled anticipation as you walked down the stairs, hoping you saw exactly what you'd asked for all year long under the tree. And the heavy, dread-filled fear that you wouldn't.\n\n'Detective bureau. Richards.'\n\n'Detective Cowsert, please.'\n\n'Can I help you with something?' asked the woman.\n\n'This is Agent Bobby Dees with FDLE down in Miami. Detective Cowsert ran a history on somebody last night that I had flagged.'\n\n'Oh. Hold on a sec. Hey, Greg,' she yelled, obviously across a room, 'FDLE's on the phone.'\n\nBobby listened to the background noise of the squad bay for what seemed like a lifetime. Choppy bits of conversation and snippets of laughter. Finally someone picked up. 'Cowsert.'\n\n'Detective Cowsert, this is FDLE Agent Bobby Dees out of Miami. I had a flag set up on a subject that you ran last night, Reinaldo Coon. Is he in custody?'\n\n'I guess you could say that,' Cowsert replied with a laugh. 'He certainly ain't going nowhere.'\n\nBobby suddenly imagined Katy lying in a hospital bed, hooked up to IVs and tubes, unable to speak. Or maybe sitting dirty and disheveled in a jail cell, too ashamed to call her mom and dad. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to reign his thoughts in. He closed his eyes. 'Why's that? Was there an accident? Is he in the hospital or something?'\n\n'Don't look much like an accident, Agent Dees. The kid's got two bullets in the back of his head. Some boy scout camping out in Belle Glade found what was left of him. From the looks of it, he'd been there a while, too. I hope you didn't need him for nothing, 'cause your boy Reinaldo is dead.'\n\n#\n\n'You OK?' Zo asked when he stepped back in the car. He flicked his cigarette out the window.\n\n'Nope,' Bobby replied, pulling away from the curb.\n\n'What's up? Who was on the line?'\n\n'Palm Beach Sheriff's Office found Ray Coon's body last night.'\n\nZo stared at him. 'Ray Coon? As in your Ray?'\n\n'Yup.'\n\nZo rubbed his jaw. 'Jesus... Katy?'\n\nBobby shook his head. 'Don't know.'\n\n'How?'\n\n'Shot in the head and dumped in Belle Glade. He'd been there a while, too.'\n\n'Shit. Suspects?'\n\n'He was a banger. Everyone wanted him dead. I sure as hell wanted to kill him. Palm Beach Sheriff's Office is working it.'\n\n'I'll get with them. We'll take care of it, Shep. We'll work it.'\n\nThere was a long silence. The Grand Prix pulled up to a light. Across the street was a playground full of kids, yelling and screaming in the early afternoon sun as they slid down slides and swung on swings. Not a care in the world. Bobby stared off at it. 'I thought she was still with him,' he said softly. 'They were supposed to be in New Orleans or San Francisco or LA, making it somehow. Maybe she was a grocery clerk or waitressing, you know? Maybe she was getting her GED. Maybe they were Romeo and Juliet and I was the asshole for not believing in the two of them. Maybe she had a baby and was embarrassed to come home, is all...'\n\n'Bobby...'\n\n'But now he's dead. The one guy who was supposed to protect her is dead and she's still not home and now we have a psycho out there who likes to cut up teenage runaways. So where the hell is she, Zo? Where the hell is my kid?'\n\n#\n\nAngelina Jolie shook out her gorgeous dark hair. 'Have you been selling big guns to bad people?' she asked the terrorist breathlessly. Even on the small portable DVD, her pouty red lips looked larger than life.\n\nLarry Vastine yawned and reached for his coffee, which was really liquid mud. His wife had made her normally bad coffee twice as strong for him, for moments just like this. Moments when even Angelina Jolie \u2013 decked out in black patent leather with a whip in hand and mounting a terrorist \u2013 wasn't keeping the dreams from starting the second he so much as blinked. Larry's clubbing days were years behind him \u2013 most nights he was lucky if he made it through all of _The Tonight Show_. It'd been a while since he'd done all-night surveillance on a target, and that was in Narcotics, where a lot of exciting things went down long after dark and you had no chance to get tired. But being the eyeball in suburbia at three a.m. was the worst. The bars and clubs all closed in Florida at two, so it was too late for the revelers to be out and too early for the commuters to be heading in. If he'd spotted three cars drive down the quiet, tree-lined street in the past hour it was a lot. Even Pauline's sludge wasn't cutting it. It was time for some real shit. Larry reached for a Monster energy drink from the cooler on the passenger-side floorboard. His son in high school drank the stuff like water, which meant Larry would probably be up till Christmas.\n\nJust as he cracked open the drink, took a sip, and sat back up in the driver's seat, he saw it \u2013 the quick-second flicker of light thirty yards off in the distance, coming from the target house. More like the _reflection_ of a flicker of streetlight, he realized, bouncing off of the target's glass side door just as it was opening. If Larry hadn't looked up at that exact moment, he would have totally missed it. And then he would have missed the husky figure dressed in a hooded black sweatshirt and dark jeans slipping down the ficus-lined side of the house into the backyard of the neighboring duplex and disappearing out of sight.\n\nLarry wiped the sleep and surprise from his open mouth and started up the car. Without putting his lights on, he drove around the block to 115th. He cut the engine and watched as Todd LaManna emerged from the darkness and hopped into a car parked in the lot of a two-story apartment complex. He started it up and backed out on to the street. Larry ducked as he drove past. Then he got on his radio.\n\n'You better not be looking for company,' Ciro answered with a throaty growl. 'We just got the baby back to sleep.'\n\n'He's moving.'\n\n'What?'\n\n'LaManna. He's dressed all in black, driving a black Acura, heading north on Coral Ridge toward the Sawgrass.'\n\n'A black Acura? Where the hell'd he get that?'\n\n'He either borrowed it or he stole it. That don't matter none right now. I just don't wanna lose him. You're a Parkland boy, which means you're not far away. Get your ass up and get dressed. Let's see where this asshole's going in such a hurry at three in the morning.'\n\n#\n\n'Where the hell are we? Bumfuck?' Ciro grumbled as he climbed in the front seat of Larry's SUV. 'Are we still in Palm Beach County? I didn't even know Lyons Road went this far north.'\n\n'Me neither,' Larry replied, peering through a pair of night-vision binoculars at the back of the dark gray, two-storied building across the street. 'He went inside seven minutes ago, through a door on the far north side. Used a key.'\n\n'What is this place?' Ciro asked, looking around at the deserted parking lots and string of hulking, mainly windowless buildings.\n\n'Looks like a warehouse to me.'\n\n'No shit, Sherlock. A warehouse for what, though? You see a name?'\n\n'The small sign in the front said \"C.B. Imports\",' Larry replied. 'I just checked online at the Florida Division of Corporations. President is a David Lee, agent for service is Sam Rice. That's it. The website doesn't tell you what kind of business it is. Can't see nothing through the front glass door except what looks like a waiting area with a couple of chairs and some cheap paintings. I can have Dawn run it in the morning.'\n\n'Fuck that,' Ciro replied. 'I'm up. We're here. We're going in there tonight.'\n\n'That's what I was thinking.'\n\n'Bobby said it,' Ciro remarked. 'He said it would be some remote place, big enough to hold girls without anyone knowing.'\n\n'Ain't nothing out here past 441,' Larry said, putting the binoculars down. 'Just some horse farms and a couple of sprawling retirement communities a few miles up. The adjoining space next door is for lease. He could have God knows how many girls locked up in there somewhere. They could be screaming right now and nobody'd ever hear 'em.'\n\n'So what do we do now? Do we get a warrant?'\n\n'We don't need one,' Larry answered as he unclipped his Glock and pulled the slide back to make sure he had one in the chamber. 'He could be hacking girls up in there, Ciro. He could have hostages. If we wait around for a judge to sign a fucking piece of paper, it could be too late. Exigent circumstances, my man. We find out he's cutting dope, not girls, then we secure it and call in the State and the suits.'\n\nCiro nodded and looked back across the street. The Acura was parked about thirty yards from the back of the warehouse, near a green construction dumpster. Far from the door where LaManna had gone in. 'Why the fuck did he park all the way over there?' he asked.\n\n'Surveillance cameras for the glass company in the next building over, I'm thinking. He doesn't want to be seen. He'll go in, do his dirty work, and get out like a fucking ghost.'\n\nCiro had a bad feeling in his gut. Going into any building in the middle of the night was a risky proposition. Going into a sprawling warehouse searching out a potentially armed serial-murder suspect sounded over the top. It sounded like a bad Saturday morning headline, is what it sounded like. He thought of the new baby he had just put to bed. Then he thought of what might happen if he and Larry didn't go in. If LaManna did have those girls. He thought of the paintings that he had seen and the Boganes' sisters crime scene. 'What about back-up? SRT?' he asked quietly. SRT was the Special Response Team, FDLE's acronym for SWAT.\n\n'I thought you were my back-up.' Larry cracked a smile. 'Look, if we call in Lake Worth or PBSO and wait for a response, it's another twenty minutes before we get an authority out here, and another cook in the kitchen, and we gotta deal with turf wars. If we call in SRT, you're talking at least another hour before they're here and set up. I just don't think we have that much time to dick around.'\n\nCiro nodded slowly. _Sometimes you gotta just make a decision_ , his dad, a former police captain in Chicago, had once told him. _That's what makes the difference between a cop and a hero_. 'All right. Let's do it,' he answered.\n\nLarry drove across the street and parked next to the door he'd seen LaManna slip through just minutes before. He called in their position to Miami dispatch and requested uniform response from Lake Worth PD. That would mean at least more bodies on the way if something went wrong inside. Then they got out of the car and took up tactical positions alongside the metal door.\n\nCiro tried the knob. Locked.\n\nLarry pulled out the Halligan tool, wedged it into the jamb and popped the lock. Ciro banged on the door with the butt of his Glock. 'FDLE! Police!' he called out, just as Larry kicked the door in and the two of them rushed forward into pure darkness.\n\n#\n\n'Lainey! Lainey! Did you hear that?'\n\nLainey was dreaming again, wasn't she? Or maybe hallucinating. Brad was in her room and he was trying to take her covers but she was so cold, she was shivering. She wanted to yell at him, but was too tired to form the words.\n\n'Lainey? Are you OK over there?'\n\nShe tried to pull the covers back over her...\n\n'Lainey! Get up!'\n\n'I'm here,' she managed with a whisper. She tasted the dirt on her lips from where they had been pressed up against the floor, and realized she had only been dreaming. It was the nightmare that was real. 'I'm awake, I think,' she called back into the darkness, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She had finally removed the bandages from her eyes, but Katy was right. It didn't matter. She couldn't see a thing anyway.\n\nOr could she? She blinked twice as she sat up. She could make out the faintest, dull outline, of... maybe her foot? There was light, coming from somewhere...\n\n'I can see my foot, Katy,' she whispered. 'I think that's my foot.'\n\n'Someone's here, Lainey,' Katy called out. 'I heard something!'\n\nHe's back. Oh my God, he's back...\n\nLainey began to tremble. It started in her core, and slowly worked its way out to her extremities until her whole body was shaking uncontrollably. Since he'd been gone, since she'd finished off the last of the water, and was down to only a few chunks of kibble, she had begun to wonder what it would feel like to starve to death. If it would take a long time. If it would hurt at all. If she would ever stop being hungry. The thought had completely terrified her. But now, just the thought of him coming back, opening that door with his heavy chains in hand and the stink of SpaghettiOs and old coffee on his breath, she realized, terrified her far more. She started to cry. This time she could feel the tears, wet on her cheeks. She pulled herself into a fetal position and began to rock.\n\n'Lainey! Don't! Stop! Maybe it's someone else! I heard noises up above! Noises I haven't heard before!'\n\nLainey cried even harder.\n\n'No! Don't cry! Maybe someone's here to _save_ us! And if we don't make noise, they'll leave and we'll never be found. Yell! Yell with me, Lainey, so they can hear us! We're underground somewhere, they won't find us unless we yell! Help!' she screamed.\n\n'Help...' Lainey started softly. 'Help!' she shouted as Katy's words sunk in. The only possible thing worse than starving to death was starving to death knowing you _could have_ been saved. 'Oh God, help us! Help! Help!'\n\nKaty started to bang on the wall with her fists and Lainey joined in. She heard it now. The loud clanging from somewhere not too far away. It wasn't the clinking of the chains, it was more like a hammering sound. And the light was getting brighter. Maybe it was a flashlight! Maybe it was the police with a flashlight, looking under doors and into far-off windows for them. She banged harder. It didn't matter that her hands throbbed. She could feel the skin begin to chafe and bleed. She wished her superpowers would start to work. 'Help! Oh God, help us!' she screamed till there was no voice left in her.\n\nThe outline of her foot grew more pronounced. Lainey stopped pounding and stared at it in disbelief.\n\n'Hello?' a voice called out from somewhere. 'Where are you?'\n\n'We're here! Oh God, we're in here!' Katy yelled. 'We're in here!'\n\nThen the door opened and the light poured in.\n\n#\n\nCiro moved slowly along the wall of stacked cardboard boxes, his gun out before him at the ready. He turned a blind corner and shone his flashlight straight into the snarling face of a hulking werewolf, its yellowed fangs dripping with blood. He jumped back.\n\n'It's like a fucking horror movie in here,' Larry whispered, coming up behind him, and reaching over to touch the fur on the enormous werewolf mask that sat on a Styrofoam wig head atop a cardboard box. 'Look at all this weird shit. It must be a Halloween outfitter or something,' he said, his eyes darting in every direction. 'I almost put a cap in the fucking Grim Reaper back there...'\n\nThe narrow walkway they were headed down was lined with stacks and stacks of more boxes, precariously piled high atop one another, so that when each stack reached the ceiling, some twenty feet up, it leaned across the aisle to kiss the other, blocking the moonlight from the skylights above, and making it virtually impossible to see more than a couple of yards in front of you. Larry's flashlight scanned the stacks of boxes like a searchlight. Stuck to the sides of some were modeled color pictures of the contents inside: Witches, vampires, sexy nurses, devils, cops, clowns. A little further up, Ciro could make out a life-size Santa sitting in a rocking chair set atop a box, and a shimmery, skinny silver Christmas tree beyond that. Along a rickety, metal shelving system was a pile of wreaths, stacked like tires at a Goodyear store. Plastic seasonal lawn decorations \u2013 from Rudolph and his gang of friends, to red and blue gnomes and pink flamingos \u2013 dotted shelves alongside plastic plants and palm trees. Everything looked more than a few seasons past its freshness date.\n\nThe place smelled old and dirty, with an underlying hint of mildew, like it had been in a flood at one time and no one had fixed the water damage. It reminded Ciro of an ancient Woolworth's that he used to work in as a stock boy when he was a kid in downtown Chicago. A faint slice of dull yellow light emanated from underneath a door at the end of the aisle, back by a far wall. They moved toward it. When they reached the cheap door, Ciro stopped and motioned for Larry to listen. Far off, as if it were muffled by something or someone, was the sound of someone screaming.\n\nLarry nodded. They took up positions next to the door. Ciro's hands shook slightly, and the tip of his Glock tapped his chest. No matter how much training you got, you were never really ready for some things. They should've waited for back-up, is what they should've done. He turned the knob quickly and together they rushed into an empty office, which led out to another hallway. A half-empty cup of coffee sat beside an open _Hustler_. Ciro touched the cup. It was warm. The screaming started up again. It was louder \u2013 no, it was _closer_. It was still muffled, or maybe buried, but it was definitely closer.\n\nThey stepped out the pass-through door and into another hallway, this one lined with more closed doors. Offices, most likely. Ciro counted four on either side, eight altogether. Lights were on underneath three of them.\n\nWhich door? Which one do they pick? If LaManna wasn't alone, and there was more than one bad guy, with more than one victim, busting in one door would signal the others. It could set off a deadly chain reaction. They'd have to hit each door quickly and quietly.\n\nLarry signaled to Ciro this time, to take up a position on the very first door. It sounded like the muffled screaming was coming from somewhere inside that room.\n\nIt was too late to go back out. Too late to wait the stupid, fucking ten minutes for back-up to arrive. Ciro said a silent prayer and blessed himself. His heart was pounding and he could hear the blood rushing in his ears. He thought of his new baby girl, Esmerelda. Just an hour ago, he had been mad that, at six months old, she was still getting up in the middle of the night. Now he would do anything to be home in bed, wide awake and feeding Essie a bottle.\n\nHis hand shook as he tried the knob. It turned in slow motion in his sweaty palm. God, he hoped Larry had picked the right friggin' door.\n\nThen he pushed open the door, stepped inside and pointed his Glock right at the back of Todd LaManna's head.\n\n#\n\nThe light was not only blinding, it was painful. It felt as though someone had stuck a knife straight into her eyeballs. Lainey shut her eyes tight and scurried into a dark corner.\n\nAnd then it was gone.\n\nAs quickly as it had opened, the door slammed shut and darkness enveloped her once again. Tiny white spots danced across a smoky black canvas. Before she could think about what had just happened, Lainey heard the screech of metal on metal, the sound of a lock turning.\n\n'I'm in here!' she heard Katy shout. 'I'm in here! Oh God! Thank God!'\n\nAnd then the heavy creak of a door opening.\n\n'It's so bright... I can't... I can't see. He had my eyes taped...' Katy was saying.\n\nThere was a long silence. Too long.\n\n'You've been busy,' replied the devil. 'Very, very busy, I see.'\n\nHe was back.\n\n'No, no, please...' Katy whimpered.\n\nLainey shut her eyes tight. She got on her hands and knees and frantically searched the dirt floor for the eye patches. _Where were the patches?_\n\n'Didn't you know I'd come back for you?'\n\n'No, no... Oh God, no...'\n\n'You were trying to get away from me, weren't you?'\n\nShe found them on the floor, the thin discs of plastic and tape. She felt around her eyes for the track of adhesive where she'd ripped off the duct tape. She remembered what Katy had told her about the glue.\n\n'No...' Katy said again.\n\n'Look at the mess you made,' he hissed.\n\nLainey put the patches back on her eyes and pressed the tape down hard, but part of the tape had stuck on to itself and much of the stickiness was gone. She could feel it lifting off her skin and she knew he would know. She wet herself.\n\n'You know what happens to bad girls, Katy.'\n\n'You know, fuck you, you freak of nature! Fuck you! I'm not gonna let you scare me any more! I'm not gonna be scared any more!'\n\n'Oh no?'\n\nKaty screamed then. A long, bone-chilling scream that Lainey feared might never, ever end.\n\nShe rocked back and forth, her knees to her chest, her thumbs in her ears, her sweaty palms pressing down the strips of tape to her temples. She whispered the nite-nite prayer her mom had taught her when she was little. Over and over again. It was the only prayer she knew.\n\n_Now I lay me down to sleep. \nI pray the Lord my soul to keep. \nAnd if I die before I wake. \nI pray the Lord my soul to take_.\n\nMinutes, maybe even hours, passed for all she knew. Hesitantly, Lainey pulled her thumbs out of her ears and listened to the deafening sound of silence.\n\nThe screaming had finally stopped.\n\nKaty was gone.\n\n#\n\n'There's a whole ring of pervs here,' Ciro said to Bobby as he stepped out of his car. 'Larry's talking to one of 'em, some Dutch businessman who suddenly claims he don't know English, even though we got him saying lots of interesting slang words on the video he was barking into. What a rush,' Ciro added, holding his hand out to show Bobby. 'Damn, I'm still shaking.'\n\nUniforms from Palm Beach Sheriff's Office and Lake Worth PD were everywhere. At least a dozen cruisers were in the parking lot, which was ablaze with red and blue flashing lights. 'Where'd you find him?' Bobby asked, as the two of them headed inside and through the towering maze of cardboard boxes. Even with the lights on full-blaze, the werewolves, vampires, Grim Reapers and old Santas waiting around every end cap were pretty freaky.\n\n'Back here. We followed a light underneath the door that led to what we thought were back offices. Turns out they were playrooms. We found LaManna behind door number one, buck-naked with a whip in his hand and about to have his way with some screaming fifteen-year-old. Mind you, she don't look fifteen. Lorelei Bialis. Told us at first she was eighteen, but when the first couple of names she gave didn't check out, she finally came clean. Works for a fucking escort service, Tender Love.'\n\nThey stepped into the pass-through office. 'This is where the bouncer from Tender Love was supposed to be,' Ciro continued, 'but he had stepped into the john, which is all the way in the back, when we came through. That's why he didn't spot us outside on the video surveillance.'\n\n'And the others?' Bobby asked.\n\n'We found four girls and three pervs, inside these three rooms,' he said, motioning to three open doors off the hall. 'One of the guys doubled up. All of the girls are under eighteen. The pervs range from mid-thirties to Grandpa, a banking exec in his sixties. Haven't verified names or exact ages on two of the girls \u2013 they're not talking. Yet. One who is, is a Theresa Carbona, a fifteen-year-old runaway from Dallas. Hooked up with Tender Love through her boyfriend, a thirty-eight-year-old mechanic from Waco. It's an underage prostitution ring, Bobby. You call in and order what you want, and they deliver after midnight every Friday and Saturday. The back offices are all outfitted to your personal, fucked-up fantasy: Chains and whips; videos and televisions; school desks and blackboards. And the girls are, from what we can tell so far, all consenting.'\n\nBobby stopped walking and shot him a look. 'There's no kid who consents to this shit at fifteen, no matter how hard they are. Pick a different word.'\n\n'Sorry. They're prostitutes, Bobby. I meant to say none of them are drugged or forced here, or nothing. They show up at the escort service for work, and the company van brings 'em here. Customers park far away from the building and each other and avoid cameras. The operation's been going on for some time \u2013 months, maybe even years. You gotta be screened first to be let in. I wouldn't be surprised if the Fibbies were already looking at 'em.'\n\n'Lew Wilson, head of the bureau's Miami office, is on his way,' Bobby commented as he looked off at one of the rooms, closer to the end of the hallway. 'He said he's got guys up here who're gonna work it with you and Larry. Should be here within the hour. It may be best to let the feds take it. If they have jurisdiction, they'll get more jail time.'\n\nHe spotted three girls sitting on a ratty blue couch in a dimly lit room. Two whispered anxiously to each other, but the third sat off by herself on the end, her arms wrapped around her elbows, as if she were incredibly cold. She was dressed like a cheerleader, in a short skirt, tight tee and high-heeled white patent-leather boots, her long blonde hair up in curled pigtails. Black mascara streaks stained her fresh cheeks. It was, for a painful split-second, like looking at a ghost. 'The word _forced_ , Ciro,' Bobby remarked softly, taking off his jacket, 'is, again, a matter of interpretation.' He walked into the room and handed it to the blonde. 'Take this,' he said when she looked up. 'It's gonna be OK.' Then he walked back out.\n\n'According to his passport stamps, the Flying Dutchman has been to Miami six times in the past year,' Ciro said, looking around uncomfortably when Bobby stepped back out into the hallway. It was too late to take off his own jacket, so he just buttoned it.\n\n'And LaManna?'\n\n'Looks like he's a frequent customer, too,' Ciro replied, heading back down the hall. 'Claims this is where he was the night Lainey disappeared. After he left Tweedledee and Tweedledum in the Side Pocket Pub, he came here. The girl, Lorelei \u2013 aka Lori \u2013 confirmed it. That was her, the blonde. She's a little fuzzy with actual dates, but they used the video room that night, so I'm assuming there'll be a date\/time stamp. Tape's at Tender Love offices, which is in Palm Beach, and currently surrounded by PBSO. Like getting your picture taken at Disney: the snapshot's free, but the actual picture's gonna cost ya. In this case, the nookie's five hundred, the tape's double that. Todd hasn't ponied up the ching yet, though.' Ciro stopped in front of another office door. This one was closed. The red plastic nameplate stuck in the middle of it said THE BOSS.\n\nBobby pressed his hand against the door as Ciro went to open it. 'You know coming in here by yourselves was stupid, Ciro.'\n\nCiro said nothing.\n\n'You're shaking for a reason. Don't let a good outcome cloud that judgment of yours. And for God's sake, don't ever fucking listen to Larry. That was your first mistake.'\n\nCiro nodded with a smile and opened the door to a back office, where a sweaty, tear-faced Todd LaManna sat handcuffed to a desk. He looked up when Bobby entered and started bawling.\n\n'I told you I didn't do it, Dees! I told you it wasn't me who took Lainey!' He looked at Ciro. 'You told him, right? You told him I have an alibi?'\n\n'Now we know where you were that night, Todd. We still have a problem with where you were from five to eight.'\n\n'Jesus Christ... you guys are...' His voice trailed off. 'I don't know. I got something to eat, then met up with Jules at that bar I told you about. I just didn't want to go home because then Debbie wouldn't let me go out again. And I had, you know, paid half up front already.'\n\n'Is Lainey involved in this, Todd?' Bobby asked, leaning against the desk.\n\n'No, no, no...' Todd shook his head fervently. 'Swear to God. I'll take a lie detector, I'll drink truth serum, you know, whatever. Anything. 'Cause I didn't do it!'\n\nBobby looked across the hall, where crime-scene photographers were busy snapping pictures of the 'video' room. 'You're a pig, Todd, you know that?'\n\n'It's a mistake! She told me she was eighteen! How the fuck was I supposed to know?'\n\nBobby shook his head. 'You're gonna swear to that, too? You're a piece of work. Now, how am I supposed to believe anything you say?'\n\n'It's on tape, man,' Todd shouted. 'I have an alibi on tape! Just look at it. Tender Love \u2013 Ricky, the owner \u2013 he'll tell you I was here. I didn't take Lainey and you all damn well know it!'\n\nThe blonde walked by then in Bobby's jacket, along with her two friends, escorted by PBSO uniforms. Her head was hung low, but Bobby could still see the black stains on her pale cheeks. She didn't look up.\n\n'You're a pig, Todd,' Bobby repeated, turning to leave. 'And right now, the only thing I find comforting about having to sit and watch any part of that tape is knowing that it is gonna put your fat, twisted ass away for a few dozen years.'\n\n#\n\nIt was a fucking shame. A real shame, the man thought. You weed them, you feed them, you water them and give them love, and in the end all you got left with was a thorny stem that wasn't even pretty to look at any more.\n\nKaty was his prize and joy, he liked to say. She was one of the very first. He had taken such a long, patient time to cultivate her. And when the time had come, as it had with the others, he simply could not bring himself to paint her portrait. He was never ready. There was something so intriguing about her. She was not like the others. In the beginning, she was more like... his Lainey.\n\nBut Katy had disappointed him more than any other. It wasn't that he didn't think she would try to escape one day, because he was definitely not that na\u00efve, it was... well the _ingratitude_. She knew he favored her. She knew the others had not enjoyed the things that she had. She'd manipulated him into giving her privileges, like letting her have a little company when he was away on business. Or giving her special food. Or letting her listen to his sermons with him. With her pretty face and pretty long hair...\n\nHe felt himself growing hard and he brushed away the tears of anger from his face before they even had a chance to fall.\n\n_Are you pure in thought and deed?_\n\n_I am not, Father. I am not pure in either thought or deed. In fact, I've been very bad_.\n\nHe chewed on the end of his paintbrush, till the ragged plastic stub cut his tongue. While it was now necessary to finish her painting, he was not happy about it. And that's what was really making him so upset. That's what he knew a shrink would tell him was the root of his incredible anger right now. Katy had forced him to do this. She had forced him to pick up his paintbrush, and he was just not enjoying it like he should. She had robbed him of that pleasure and made it instead a sad, laborious chore.\n\nHe mixed his pallet on top of the morning's _Miami Herald_ headline.\n\nPALM BEACH CHILD PROSTITUTION RING BROKEN UP; \nFATHER OF MISSING CORAL SPRINGS TEEN ARRESTED\n\nHe blended just a bead of ebony into the smoke gray. A drop dripped from his Filbert brush on to the face of FDLE Special Agent Supervisor Robert Dees. Didn't he just look so smart? Grabbing headlines \u2013 no, hogging headlines \u2013 once again? Even the fat dimwit Dad who got arrested didn't get his picture on the front page \u2013 he'd been banished to page 3.\n\nHe took his paintbrush and smeared the droplet all over Special Agent Supervisor's headline-hogging face. He'd show the _Herald_ and the _Sentinel_ and MSNBC who should have the headlines once again. It was he who'd brought the local Hero Among Us into this fame game for a little sport, and it was he who could knock him right out. Right out of the fucking ballpark, he could. Because the truth was, Bobby Dees was in way over his handsome Special Agent head. And the whole fucking world would get to see that soon enough. For a second he almost felt bad for the man, for the pain that he was about to experience, but the feeling quickly passed. He smiled to himself and took his brush to the stretched, primed, white canvas. The rich smell of oils was intoxicating, the smooth feel of the brush handle in his fingers, heavy with paint, was cathartic.\n\n'Now sit still,' he said in a sing-song to the ugly, thorny disappointment seated across from him. She had finally stopped pulling on the chains, and her head had lobbed perfectly to the left. The lighting was just right.\n\n'Just like that,' he cooed. 'Now, open that nasty little mouth of yours and let me see you scream...'\n\n#\n\n'White male, between the ages of twenty-five to fifty. Probably employed in a white-collar profession,' Christine Trockner, FDLE's resident profiler said to the crowd of detectives and special agents gathered around the conference table in the Crimes Against Children squad bay. As promised, Miami-Dade PD and the Broward Sheriff's Office had each sent over two Homicide detectives. The City of Miami PD had sent one. Together with Larry, Ciro, Veso and Bobby, the Picasso task force now officially had nine warm bodies. Ten if you counted Zo, who was seated next to Bobby. Technically, Zo was running MROC while Foxx was off rubbing elbows and jetting to Tallahassee to meet with the Commissioner; he wasn't supposed to be involved in tactical squad operations or task forces. But while Zo might have passed his ASAC interview with flying colors, the stiff suit didn't fit quite right. A squad bay was where he really belonged.\n\n'He might be working part-time,' Christine continued. 'He's probably gone to art school or taken art lessons, given his work with oils, use of professional products, and advanced skills. But I think he's a closet painter, meaning I don't think he does it as a profession. He has a problem with how he relates to women, so he targets younger women, namely adolescents, before they can fully mature and reject him. He may be impotent. He may have been beaten or abused as a child, and probably has a bad relationship with his mother, if she's still alive. He may be married, and if so, would be very submissive. My guess is that he's single. He is likely to be a loner. No friends, isolated at work. Unsociable.'\n\n'Let me get this straight,' Larry said slowly. 'We're looking for an unsociable white male between twenty-five and fifty who doesn't like his mommy and prefers younger women? That's supposed to narrow it down? Drop the art appreciation and you just described, well, all of us.'\n\nThe room laughed.\n\n'What did you expect, a picture and an address?' Christine returned with a smile. 'Profiling's not a science, you know. It's a psychological, behavioral analysis which might help you narrow down your pool of suspects. Have you looked at art schools? That's a good place to start.'\n\n'Oh yeah,' Bobby answered. 'And art galleries to see if anybody can recognize maybe the style of painting. We've got an art aficionado with the FBI up in NY looking at high-resolution pictures of both paintings, too, to see what, if anything, he can tell us. But we're kind of stuck, Christine. The paintings are evidence \u2013 graphic disturbing evidence \u2013 and I have to be real careful who I show them to; you've got to save a few things to identify the nuts and false confessors. And there's the media. They sure would love to get a hold of those paintings and blast them all over the news just for kicks.'\n\n'I'm sure that Channel Six reporter \u2013 what's his name? Felding? I'm sure he has pictures squirreled away on his laptop,' Jeff Amandola, a Miami-Dade detective commented. 'I bet Picasso is the best thing that ever happened to that guy's career.'\n\n'I'm sure. That's why we had him gagged,' Bobby answered. 'What about a pedophile history, Christine? Should we look for that?'\n\n'He's not a pedophile,' she replied with a shake of her head. 'He targets teenage women who are physically developed. It's the emotional maturity of an older woman that I believe he fears, but he doesn't target young kids. And given the pictures you showed me of Lainey that you suspect she sent him over the internet, she certainly doesn't look thirteen, either. Most likely she told him she was older. I don't think you'll find a history of pedophilia or even a sex offender history. This guy is very brazen, much more than any serial I've ever seen. He's taunting you to find him, even going so far as to send you the evidence that he himself created, without fear that it could one day be used to find and identify him. So I don't think he's been caught before. In fact, I believe this guy's been doing this for a long time. Like a killer who targets prostitutes, if you're right in your theory, Bobby, he has purposely selected a very transient segment of the population \u2013 one that's notoriously difficult to identify and track: teenage runaways. There are hundreds of missing teens in South Florida alone; hundreds of thousands around the country. Many more who are never even reported. So he has had a relative smorgasbord of victims to whet his appetite and experiment on. Perhaps even going back years. We know from the old contusions and chain marks on Gale Sampson that he's restrained his victims for a period of time. We can surmise that if he has had them from the date of all three girls' disappearances, that that time period is substantial \u2013 months, even. That means he has the facilities to restrain these girls, perhaps multiple girls at a time, and the confidence to know he can brutalize them. I also look at the fact that he is accomplished at torture, which means he's done it for a while. As you well know, generally speaking, serials escalate in brutality, starting first, oftentimes with animals, and escalating to humans. With a sexual serial, often there is a Peeping Tom phase that escalates to home burglary, and then ultimately rape. From there he may escalate to kidnapping, so that he can have more time to play out his fantasies of torture and ultimately murder.'\n\nThe room was quiet. Bobby blew out a pent-up breath. 'So that means,' he said, pointing to the crime-scene photo of Gale Sampson splayed out on the bed, a knife through her happy-face T-shirt, 'he's done _this_ before.'\n\nChristine nodded. 'He has other victims. Go back and look for unsolved homicides that perhaps involved dismemberment, although he might have recently escalated to that.'\n\n'We're already doing that,' Zo said. 'But there's more than a few Jane Doe cold cases on file with the police departments going back over the past five years. We're talking at least fifty, and that's just looking at four counties. And Picasso's not the only bad guy in town, unfortunately.'\n\n'Don't forget, he could be transient himself. He could be mobile, although serials favor areas they are familiar with,' Christine responded.\n\n'Why now?' Bobby asked. 'Why has he come out now all of a sudden? And with two portraits in two weeks? He's been at this a while under the radar, you're saying, and he's just exploded? Why? Normally there's a downtime between crimes with serials.'\n\n'I think the fact that you haven't recognized his crimes before is what has drawn him out. Many serials want to gain attention from what they've done. They want to fantasize about their crime, then finally act on it, and then relive it all again by reading about it and watching the news coverage on TV. Oftentimes serials will be one of the first faces in the crowd at their own crime scenes, because they like to watch others react to what they've done. It feeds them. But perhaps no one noticed this guy for a while, or his \"accomplishments,\" and so he is reacting now in part to the explosive attention he's gotten from the press and national media. He doesn't want it to end. That would explain the short time span in between sending the two portraits. Like I explained, his timeline between murders has already had an opportunity to escalate over months or perhaps even years of not being caught. Now he's gotten cocky and has moved on to the next step \u2013 finding you and forcing you to recognize him.'\n\n'Why Bobby?' Zo asked. 'I get the reporter, because that gives him a jump start on the media fanfare, like you said. But why Bobby? Why has he directed the paintings to him? Left his name at the crime scenes? Should we be looking at enemies here? Guys Bobby has put away in the past? Should we focus on anything in particular?'\n\n'That's a good question. He obviously has singled you out, Bobby, for a reason,' Christine replied. 'I don't think it's an arch enemy, necessarily, or someone who you put away, although that is a possibility worth exploring. I think it's more likely a challenge.'\n\n'A challenge?' Ciro asked.\n\n'Your reputation, Bobby, precedes you. You've garnered national attention on missing children and abduction cases. You've been the recipient of many prestigious awards; your cases and your work have been on the cover of every paper and magazine from the _New York Times_ to the _Enquirer_. And most recently, _People_ magazine wrote a special-interest article about how you are a hero and how you are nicknamed the Shepherd by colleagues because of your outstanding work in solving the most baffling abductions and bringing these victims home. Cases like this. In Picasso's eyes, it's like David challenging Goliath to a duel. He's challenging you.'\n\n'Any idea when he might strike again?' Raul Carrera, another Miami-Dade detective asked. 'What we can expect?'\n\nChristine stopped packing up her stuff. 'Oh, I would imagine he has already struck again. Unless something or someone is preventing him from acting out his disturbed fantasies, he's just going to go and pluck another victim out of his storage unit, wherever that might be, and paint you a picture of his latest and greatest accomplishment. Expect it to be even more brutal. Expect a shock to the conscience. This guy has tasted infamy, gentlemen, and like a genie, it's going to be impossible to get him to go back inside his bottle. He likes what he does way too much to ever stop.'\n\n#\n\nAround the Palm Beach headquarters of LEACH \u2013 Law Enforcement Against Child Harm \u2013 veteran Sheriff's Office Special Investigations Detective Mike Hicks's nickname was 'The Dick Magnet'. And for good reason. Nine times out of ten, within just a few minutes of logging on to the internet and entering a chat room, pervs were on Mike like flies to shit. His record was forty-five seconds for a full-on proposition, faster than any other computer decoy on the LEACH task force.\n\nAt 5\u203210,\u2033 211 pounds and forty-nine years of age, Mike certainly didn't look the part of a fourteen-year-old girl who LOVED Joe Jonas, the color fuchsia, M & Ms, rainbows, Weimeraner puppies (soooo cute!) and riding roller coasters all day and night. Or, for that matter, one who HATED all things Miley Cyrus\/Hannah Montana (go away now, PULEEZ!!), Social Studies (who really cares WTF happened 500 years ago??? Talk to me about TODAY ), smelly guys (Get AXE. Use it!), and plastic people who didn't even know HOW to tell the TRUTH. And he looked absolutely nothing like his perky, long-locked, brunette, blue-eyed MySpace profile picture.\n\nWhen LEACH was formed almost ten years ago in response to the then-nouveau crime of internet trolling by innovative sex predators, the computer age was already up and running, but, like most befuddled middle-agers with a new-fangled gadget that technologically changed every two weeks, Mike wasn't. Looking back, he probably would've been content just marveling through the next few decades at what a cell phone could do, but Mike had two really pretty girls who just so happened to turn into teenagers in 1999. Unable to vote, drink, smoke or even swear, at twelve and thirteen, Sherry and Lisa already knew far more about how to work the foreboding lump of metal and disk drives that sat on a desk in the family room than he did. And what really bugged him was that they knew it, too. They knew the secret acronym text jargon, and had AOL Instant Messenger accounts before he even knew what the hell Instant Messenger was. Because he was a cop and because he vividly remembered all the shit _he'd_ done as a kid that his parents still knew nothing about, when his own offspring became teens, he'd vowed he would never be so willfully ignorant. So when LEACH formed and requests for techie decoys made the rounds through the Palm Beach Sheriff's Office, he signed up for the war without even knowing what OMG stood for. It was supposed to just be a short stint to get him up to speed and through the rest of adolescence. Ten years later, here he still was. His kids were grown and long gone, yet every year he seemed to get a little bit younger. Eleven was the new thirteen. But of course, no one could've imagined back then that farty Mike Hicks would be a more believable teenager than he was a middle-aged cop and soon-to-be Grandpa.\n\nToday his name was Janizz, but her friends all called her Skittles. She was almost fourteen \u2013 blowing the candles out on December 16! \u2013 lived in Riviera Beach and loved to meet new people. Janizz entered the hot tub, a local South Florida chat room on TeenSpot.com. The topic of conversation was simply, 'Have fun and relax in the hot tub. Everyone's welcome.' There were thirty-one members chatting.\n\n**Janizzbaby:** | **what up all?** \n---|---\n\nWithin seconds, a half-dozen responses erupted at lightning speed on the screen. Mrpimpin16, lowtone, sykosid, drinkpoison, nastyboy, zzzzho. And within a minute, a small gray window opened at the top.\n\nTheCaptain is requesting a person to person chat with you:... what up there? Long time, no c Janizz. where u been?\n\nThe Captain. Mike knew that screen name. He'd chatted with him in a few rooms before, under different names, of course. The guy was pretty aggressive, if he remembered right. He checked his log. Sure enough, Janizzbaby had chatted with TheCaptain before, too. He clicked the chat button.\n\n**Janizzbaby:** | **grounded ** \n---|--- \nTheCaptain: | sux. Y? \nJanizzbaby: | tell me bout it. came home at midnight. \nTheCaptain: | bad girl. \nJanizzbaby: | no. usually im really good \u263a \nTheCaptain: | oohh. Good girls gone bad. 12AM How old r u again? \nJanizzbaby: | 14. Blowing the candles out in december. U? \nTheCaptain: | 17. Blew them last month. ur bad-12AM W\/AO special? \nJanizzbaby: | I wish \nTheCaptain: | they call me the dreammaker \nJanizzbaby: | where u been? Waiting on me 2 come back 2 the tub? \nJanizzbaby: | at least ur honest \nTheCaptain: | kiddin! I wuz missin u ... now that I know ur looking 4 s\/o special... \nJanizzbaby: | I never said that \nTheCaptain: | didnt need 2. U shudnt b out by urself @ nite. psychos r everywhere \nJanizzbaby: | oohh. Do I look scared? Jus having fun \nTheCaptain: | I seen ur pix. hot. Psychos b looking 4 u! \nJanizzbaby: | thanx. I think \nTheCaptain: | ur hot, is all im saying. U need 2 b protected. \nJanizzbaby: | and who's gonna do that? \nTheCaptain: | im looking 4 work \u263a \nJanizzbaby: | hmmmm... \nTheCaptain: | ill make sure u don't get in no trouble. Have u home and in bed rt on time. Mom will luv me \u263a All moms do \nJanizzbaby: | F* her. there r others? \nTheCaptain:\n\n| not if I got u. im a 1 woman guy.\n\nIt was an interesting, delicate dance of words. To successfully prosecute a person under the Computer Pornography and Child Exploitation Act for luring or enticing a minor to engage in sexual conduct over the internet, certain magic lingo had to be said and it couldn't be said by Mike. The number one defense to an 847.0135 charge was entrapment. In simple terms, the 'Boo-hoo! I wouldn't have said all those nasty things, but for the coercive, manipulative undercover cop making me say them!' defense. Mike knew to be careful. And patient. No inducing, encouraging, soliciting, persuading. The invitation to hook up had to come from the bad guy. Thirty minutes and a whole lot of BS later, it came.\n\nTheCaptain: | have 2 meet u \u263a \n---|--- \nJanizzbaby: | ha \nTheCaptain: | serious \nJanizzbaby: | what u want? \nTheCaptain: | u 2 b mine \nJanizzbaby: | thats it? \nTheCaptain:\n\n| nope. TTA. Being honest again.\n\nTTA was text for 'Tap That Ass', which was street slang for 'I want to fuck you.' That qualified as magic lingo.\n\nJanizzbaby: | im a virgin \n---|--- \nTheCaptain: | even better \nJanizzbaby: | maybe not. Im a good girl, remember? \nTheCaptain: | I could turn u. its amazing what my hands can do \nJanizzbaby: | u could try \u263a \nTheCaptain: | Thursday. I gotta meet u \nJanizzbaby:\n\n| cant. Gotta babysit\n\nBeing too available or too pushy might spook him. It could be a tip-off Janizz was a cop.\n\nTheCaptain: | Friday? \n---|--- \nJanizzbaby: | have track till 4 \nTheCaptain: | after \nJanizzbaby: | maybe \nTheCaptain:\n\n| u @ PBLHS, rt?\n\nPBLHS stood for Palm Beach Lakes High School. He had obviously found Janizzbaby's profile.\n\nJanizzbaby: | yup \n---|--- \nTheCaptain:\n\n| MCD on Australian @ 45. That by u?\n\nMCD stood for McDonald's.\n\nJanizzbaby: | I know it \n---|--- \nTheCaptain: | ill b in a new black bmw. 4:30 \nJanizzbaby: | ooh \u2013 dinner. You have to do better than MCD \nTheCaptain: | I will. I got a special place we can get to know each other. \nJanizzbaby: | wheres that? \nTheCaptain: | they change the sheets. \nJanizzbaby: | I'll wear s\/t nice \nTheCaptain: | not 2 much \nJanizzbaby: | ur bad. got 2 b home by 9. No joke there \nTheCaptain: | plenty of time \nJanizzbaby: | im a virgin... \nTheCaptain: | ill be gentle, like I said \u263a nice and slow \nJanizzbaby: | GTG. TLK-2-U-L-8-R. \nTheCaptain: | r we on? \nJanizzbaby: | yeah. k. U better not bring no friends, though \nTheCaptain: | jus me \nJanizzbaby: | no cameras, either \nTheCaptain: | k \nJanizzbaby:\n\n| k. bye\n\nMike left the chat room and notified the rest of the task force about Friday's set-up on McDonald's. He subpoenaed the registration info for TheCaptain's screen name from TeenSpot.com, but didn't expect much. More often than not, cyberpredators used a fake email with an untraceable ISP address; the only way to find them was to lure them out into the light and catch them red-handed. But a live catch also helped refute the 'it wasn't me on the computer saying all those vile things' defense. It also helped nix any entrapment defense, because showing up to meet the fourteen-year-old virgin pretty much demonstrated independent thought. As he wrote out his report, Mike got to wondering who this Captain might be. Just who might step out of that new beamer Friday afternoon? He'd seen just about every walk of life pull up in every car imaginable \u2013 from Ferraris to jalopies \u2013 and nothing and no one ever surprised him any more. Just a few years ago, it was the Miami TV weatherman, Bill Kamal, arriving at a restaurant with a smile and a glove compartment full of condoms to pick up the fourteen-year-old boy-toy he thought he was meeting for a romp in the hay. A couple of months back, it was a federal prosecutor from northern Florida who showed up at the airport in Michigan to meet a five-year-old with a Dora the Explorer doll and a jar of petroleum jelly in his pocket. Mike knew it could be anyone on Friday, from his own lieutenant to a bank CEO.\n\nHe finished his report and went to navigate out of TeenSpot. In another chat room, he watched as the sexually charged, drug-referenced acronyms flew back and forth. No one was who they said they were. One guy, makeitfit12, just kept asking for single hot girls who liked to party hard to respond \u2013 'The younger the meat, the sweeter the flesh.' There was no beating around the bush. Not even a little friendly word-foreplay. Even sexting \u2013 sending sexually explicit text messages and pictures in the hope of hooking up \u2013 was becoming more and more impersonal.\n\nHe popped back into the hot tub to see if TheCaptain was still there. He wasn't. But a new name, babygurldee, had logged into the chat room. Mrpimpin16, drinkpoison, and sykosid raced to say hello.\n\n_Like flies on shit..._\n\nMike sure was glad his girls were all grown up.\n\n#\n\nA few weeks back Mark Felding was a nobody. He could say that now. He'd been trying to hold on to a career that had been slipping through his grasp for years \u2013 shuffling from station to station, begging for airtime with fluff pieces, and feeling like he was just one Friday away from a pink slip. And socially... well, Mark had found that, just like in LA, nobody in superficial Miami wanted to date someone who was almost a name. Why waste their time on a has-been when they could have the latest and greatest model? The girls were all hot, tight and young in South Florida, but they wanted to be arm candy for someone who could either match them in the looks department, or if not, could buy them whatever they wanted to compensate. Mark's looks were pretty good, no doubt, but hair dye wasn't smoothing the wrinkles, and a few hours in the gym every week wasn't carving a six pack into the love handles. No matter what he'd tried, Father Time kept slinging the wrecking ball, and while aging might be easier for a guy than for a girl, it was still South Florida and anything less than perfect was defective. As for compensating with his charm and a fully charged wallet, on Mark's salary he was lucky he could still take himself out to dinner, much less wine and dine an aspiring supermodel to her heart's content.\n\nWhat a difference three weeks had made.\n\nToday in Walgreens someone had come up to him and said, 'Hey! Aren't you that guy from, from... oh, yeah! From the news!' while he stood in line buying toothpaste. The masses were beginning to recognize him. It was a rewarding feeling. It wouldn't be long before all those hot, tight, young wannabe supermodels dumped their sugar daddies and took a second look in his direction. With the amount of national publicity he'd been generating, he'd be weekend anchor soon enough.\n\nOf course, he owed his recent success to another. He tapped his fingers on the yellow envelope on the dining-room table. On the front of the mailer was a thin strip of newspaper with his name on it. His covenant with the devil.\n\nDecisions, decisions.\n\nMark wiped the sweat off his upper lip with the back of his hand and sucked down another shot of Crown Royal. Then he picked up the phone. Given their acrimonious recent history, he didn't expect Special Agent Robert Dees to pick up, though.\n\nHe was right. 'Agent Dees,' Mark said at the tone, straining to keep his voice calm. 'This is Mark Felding with Channel Six. I know it's late and I know that we've had, well, issues recently, but it's time to make peace, because I have another package here. Here, as in _at my house_. I just returned from the studio to find it under my door. I'm calling you because... well, you know why \u2013 you're running this show. And I'm thinking that it's pretty fucked up that this guy knows where I live. Call me as soon as you get this.'\n\nThe dark apartment was perfectly still. The only sound was the kitchen clock a full room away, loudly ticking off the seconds like a game show. Mark finished his scotch at the dining-room table, poured himself another and just waited for the phone to ring.\n\n#\n\nBobby looked over at the cell phone on the nightstand, his right arm wrapped protectively around a sleeping LuAnn in the darkness. He spotted the name Mark Felding on his caller ID.\n\nWhy the hell would that asshole be calling him at almost midnight? Was he drunk?\n\nBobby thought back to that night in the bar after the grisly finding of Gale Sampson's body at the Regal All-Suites. Mark Felding had been pounding down the hard stuff before they'd met up. It was entirely possible he _was_ drunk and dialing Bobby's digits in the middle of the night just to harass him with some question or a new 'theory' of the case. A madman's seemingly random choice of a washed-up field reporter to be his messenger boy had not only revitalized the guy's career, but had also emboldened the idiot into thinking he was the next Bob Woodward. It was as if he were competing with Bobby to solve the case. He stared at the phone, waiting for it to do something.\n\n_Why the hell would he be calling at this hour?_\n\nMaybe he had something important to tell him. Maybe there was another painting.\n\nBobby closed his eyes. Another victim. _Please no..._\n\nIt was late. Another mailing would have come to the TV station a lot earlier than midnight, right? So it must be the midnight ramblings of a drunk, or Let's All Play Detective time.\n\nBobby rubbed his eyes. _Please let that be it. Let the madness end..._\n\nThe phone blurped, indicating a new message.\n\n'You better get that,' LuAnn whispered in the dark. She was wide awake, too.\n\nBobby nodded. 'Let me check my voicemail. It may be nothing.'\n\n'Who is it?'\n\n'You don't want to know.' They both knew it was never good at this time of night, no matter who was calling. He sat up on the edge of the bed and went to his voicemail.\n\n_This is Mark Felding with Channel Six. I know it's late and I know that we've had, well, issues recently, but it's time to make peace, because I have another package here. Here, as in_ at my house. _I just returned from the studio to find it under my door. I'm calling you because... well, you know why \u2013 you're running this show. And I'm thinking that it's pretty fucked up that this guy knows where I live. Call me as soon as you get this_.\n\nBobby stood up and walked to the window.\n\n'I heard,' LuAnn whispered, her soft voice shaking. 'I heard what he said.'\n\n'I have to go out,' he replied, dialing the number back. 'Try and sleep.'\n\n'That's not going to happen.' She sat up in bed, her arms wrapped around her knees. He knew what she was thinking. He wanted to comfort her, but he couldn't. He still hadn't told her about Ray. So he said nothing.\n\n'It's Dees,' he said when Felding picked up on the first ring.\n\n'I was about to call 911. He's been to my home, Agent Dees.'\n\n'All right. I'm on my way. Where are you?'\n\n'In Tamarac. At the University Apartments on University and Hiatus. Um, 304. That's apartment 304 in Building C.' He paused for a split second before adding, 'It's bad. It's really bad...'\n\n'Don't touch anything, Mark! Don't open it.'\n\n'It's too late for that. I saw. I had to see.'\n\n'Just put it down and leave it wherever it is right now! Just leave it. I'm on my way!'\n\nHe hung up the phone and rushed to get dressed while he chirped Zo and the rest of the task force.\n\n_Expect it to be even more brutal. Expect a shock to the conscience. This guy has tasted infamy, gentlemen, and like a genie, it's going to be impossible to get him to go back inside his bottle. He likes what he does way too much to ever stop_.\n\nHow could one top kidnapping, torturing, murdering and dismembering two young sisters together? What could this psycho possibly do that would, as Christine Trockner warned just a few short days ago, 'shock his conscience'?\n\nBobby couldn't even begin to imagine.\n\n#\n\nTamarac wasn't too far from Fort Lauderdale \u2013 just fourteen miles to the west. It took Bobby fifteen minutes from the time he pulled on pants, strapped on his badge and raced out the door. Of course there was no one on the road and he was doing eighty.\n\nThe first thing he spotted as he pulled into the parking lot of the University Apartments wasn't a cluster of cop cars with sirens sounding and lights ablaze. It was the WTVJ 6 news truck. His chest tightened. The truck must've just pulled in, because he watched as the driver and passenger \u2013 who were watching him back \u2013 scrambled to get out and grab their equipment. Just as Bobby pulled to the curb and stepped out, the uniform response he'd called in from BSO arrived in two cruisers.\n\n'Keep them down here,' he directed a young uniform as the cameraman and his assistant hurried across the asphalt, frantically trying to make it across the finish line and into the elevator before they were tagged. They got as far as the Coke machine. 'Unless they have a badge, no one goes upstairs!' Bobby called out, heading for the outdoor staircase.\n\nAt 304, he rapped on the door. 'Felding, it's Bobby Dees. Open up.' A weary and worn Mark Felding opened the door. Bobby could smell the scotch on his breath before he even said, 'Hey.'\n\n'Where is it?' Bobby asked, walking in. Somehow Zo was right behind him, rushing down the hall.\n\n'You all right, guy?' Zo asked Mark as he entered, looking around the apartment with a frown. He took a peek into a back bedroom and bathroom, to make sure no one else was hiding either with a weapon or a camera. 'Your boys from Channel Six are downstairs. They said to say hello, but they won't be coming up to join you. Tsk, tsk... calling them out. You know the rules.'\n\n'It's my job, guys. I just called and told my producer that I had another one. You know, to be ready. I don't know what he did or who he called with that information.'\n\n'Who'd you call first this time?' Bobby asked sarcastically.\n\n'You,' Mark answered wearily. 'But the public has a right to know...'\n\n'Yeah, yeah. Where is it?' Bobby asked again. Then he spotted the manila envelope on the kitchen table, next to a pile of magazines and mail. Pasted in small, bold-faced newspaper strips across the front was the name MARK FELDING. The top had been ripped open. Right next to it was a folded piece of canvas, lying face down. On top of the canvas was a small white place card, like the type you see at wedding receptions. Even from five feet away, Bobby could make out what it said in pasted letters cut out from the newspaper.\n\nFDLE SPECIAL AGENT SUPERVISOR ROBERT DEES\n\nThe distinctive squawk and chatter of police radios was making its way down the hall, along with the sound of rushed voices. In just seconds, the room would be full of people.\n\n'Tell me you wore gloves when you opened this,' Bobby said.\n\nMark shrugged again and looked down.\n\nBobby shook his head. He couldn't even look at the idiot any more. 'Zo, make sure they don't touch the door. Have them secure the hallway and start looking for witnesses.' He reached for the canvas.\n\nMark looked up at him then, with bloodshot, tired eyes. He shook his head. 'It's bad, man...'\n\nUsing gloves, Bobby carefully unfolded the canvas. He stomach tightened, as it did when he went on a roller coaster. The bad drop was always the one you didn't prepare for, the one you never saw coming.\n\n_Expect it to be even more brutal_.\n\n_Expect it to shock the conscience_.\n\n'Bobby, we're here, man. I'm gonna have Crime Scene start dusting...' Ciro called.\n\n'There's video on premises, but it's broken in this building, go figure. I'm pulling it anyway, and the other buildings...' someone barked.\n\n'Do you want to release a statement?' another called out. 'They're already asking for one downstairs...'\n\nDozens of voices chattered around him, but all Bobby heard was the whoosh of blood as it rushed to his head. He stared at the twisted image in front of him. Of the girl in the baby blue T-shirt and striped Abercrombie sweater, her chained hands raised up toward the ceiling, the slight fingertips whittled to raw, bloody stubs. Her eyes, like the others, were black, empty sockets. Her cheeks were dotted with teardrops of blood. Her mouth was contorted in a horrific scream. Long, dusty blonde hair spilled over her shoulders, some caught in the coils of shiny chains wrapped around her slight neck. Hanging right below them, resting on her creamy, white skin dotted with freckles was a shiny round silver pendant with a scripted K engraved in it.\n\nBobby knew that necklace. He knew that dusty blonde hair, the T-shirt and sweater. He could smell her breath, still sweet with bubble gum, hear her melodic voice as it called out to him to watch her on the playground, watch her dive in the pool, watch her climb a mountain of cheerleaders to get to the top.\n\nTime stopped and everyone moved about him in slow motion. He watched as Mark Felding just shook his head back and forth, his red eyes tearing up.\n\n'Bobby? What is it?' Zo asked quietly, walking up behind him, his hand on Bobby's shoulder. 'Shep? What's the matter?'\n\n'Jesus Christ, Zo,' Bobby replied slowly, his voice shaking. His knees felt like they were going to give way. He couldn't tear his eyes off the macabre painting in his hands. 'It looks like Katy...'\n\n#\n\n'OK. It looks like a cement floor here, so it's a structure she's either in or next to. But behind her, there are clearly flames...'\n\n'A furnace, maybe?' Jeff Amandola offered.\n\nDon McCrindle, a detective with the Broward Sheriff's Office, sipped at his coffee and scratched his head. 'But over here it's sunny. A furnace would be in a basement, right? And Florida don't have no basements, right?'\n\n'Is he going out of state?' Ciro asked.\n\nLarry piped in. 'Doubt it. How the fuck are we gonna find her then? He wants us to find her, doesn't he? That's what the shrink said.'\n\n'Profiler,' corrected Roland Kelly, a big burly homicide detective with the City of Miami. 'So maybe it's religious. Fire and brimstone,' he offered.\n\n'You need to turn off the freaking televangelists, Kelly,' quipped Don. 'And stop giving them all your money. The world ain't coming to an end now.'\n\n'Very funny.'\n\n'So where do you see flames and sunshine at the same time?' asked Larry.\n\n'How about the Port? They've got incinerators?'\n\n'That's real tight security, but yeah. We'll check it out,' Don replied with a nod. 'I don't know if they've got incinerators. And we'll check out Port Everglades, too. Anything with smoke or fire.'\n\nThe Crimes Against Children squad bay was still filled with bodies at three a.m. They surrounded the conference table, standing over the graphic portrait \u2013 now preserved in a clear plastic evidence bag \u2013 like surgeons working on a body, trying to save her with their questions.\n\n'You don't need to be here,' Zo had cautioned Bobby more than once. 'You should go home. We'll tell you if we come up with anything.'\n\nBobby had nipped that idea right in the bud, the last time in the hallway of the University Apartments, before the task force headed over to the command center at MROC. There was no way he was abdicating control of this case. If, God forbid, it was Katy in that picture, he would make sure she was brought home proper. He would make sure justice was served. And he knew from experience that that couldn't and wouldn't be done watching from the sidelines. So he stood at the head of the table, throwing ideas around with the boys, listening to their measured banter and all the while trying very, very hard not to look at the terrified painted face on the table in front of him.\n\nBy four a.m., the consensus was to get back together in the morning, after everyone had had some rest. It took the coaxing of all nine men and an actual order from Zo to get Bobby to leave the building, though. Because all he wanted to do was figure it all out \u2013 in his office, in front of his computer, staring at his corkboard, like he had with hundreds of other cases over the years. He didn't want downtime. He just wanted to find out for himself that it was Somebody Else's kid in that painting. As horrible as it would be for someone else, he wanted it to be anybody else but Katy. Anybody else but My Kid. And he didn't want to go home.\n\nBut he didn't have a choice.\n\n'You know what today is?' he asked Zo as they walked across the empty lot to their cars. The sun was still far from coming up, but the birds had started to chirp in the palm trees overhead. At the far end of the lot were the administrative offices and Troop E station of the Florida Highway Patrol. Bobby could see a Christmas tree twinkling in the lobby through the front window. FHP troopers always started early in putting up the holiday decorations; it seemed every year they moved it up another week. Thanksgiving was just a week out. Exactly a year ago today was the last time he had heard or seen from his daughter.\n\n'Yeah, I know,' Zo replied quietly.\n\n'You think its coincidence?'\n\n'In this business, nothing's coincidence. He knows what buttons to push, though, Bobby, so I'm not gonna jump the gun. What she was last seen wearing was posted on the fucking internet, for Christ's sake. Anybody could have seen it. He could very well be playing you, Shep.'\n\nBobby nodded.\n\n'Let me drive you home...' Zo offered.\n\n'I'm not drunk. I'll get myself home,' he said, climbing into his car. 'I'll see you in a couple of hours.'\n\nBobby pulled out of the parking lot and swung on to the Turnpike northbound. The silence in the car was deafening, so he turned on the radio. But that didn't help, either.\n\n_'What was she wearing, LuAnn? Think.'_\n\n_'Um, um, she had on her blue T-shirt. The one she got from Abercrombie with the matching striped sweater. I just washed it. It covers her arms, that's what I was thinking this morning, Bobby. I was thinking, \"It covers her arms.\" Oh my God...'_\n\n_'OK. I'll get a description in right away. They'll check the hospitals, bus stations, Amtrak, TriRail and airports. How much money does she have, Belle?'_\n\n_Um, I don't know. A couple of hundred, maybe, from her birthday and confirmation and work? No, wait \u2013 what am I thinking? She's working a lot. She's been saving up for a car, so maybe it was more. No, it was more. She was looking at a car, so she had at least a thousand. Maybe she had more. I don't know. I don't know, Bobby!'_\n\n_'What about a suitcase? Did you check her closet?'_\n\n_LuAnn began to scream, banging her fists on the counter behind her. 'No! She did not run away! No! You have to find her! You have to bring her back home, Bobby! You have to bring her back home to me!' Tears streamed from her panicked face. 'I want to say I'm sorry! I want to do it over! I want another chance!'_\n\nHe rubbed his eyes. How was he going to act normal in front of LuAnn? How was he supposed to not completely drop to his knees and fall apart? And if it was true, if it turned out that it really was Katy in that horrible portrait, how in God's name was he ever supposed to tell his wife that?\n\nHis mind raced, flipping between the alternate personalities of dad and detective. He tried his best to shut them out, but bittersweet memories flooded his brain. The last time he saw her, the last time he kissed her cheek, the last words she said to him... Much like how he would remember someone as he headed off to their funeral.\n\nHe shook the images out of his head. Focus. Find her, whoever she might be. If it's Katy, bring her home. And don't think about what he's done to her. Don't go there, whatever you do.\n\nIt was useless going home. Bobby sat at the kitchen table and drank more coffee until the sun finally came up. For all he knew, LuAnn was above his head, still wide awake and rocking with her hands wrapped around her knees. She knew something was up before he left. Call it instinct or a premonition or whatever, but she knew something was not right. She knew something was very, very wrong. And he didn't want to walk into that bedroom and confirm her worst suspicions with just one look.\n\nHe took a quick shower in the guest bathroom \u2013 Katy's bathroom \u2013 grabbed some clean clothes out of the laundry room and headed back into the office somewhere around eight thirty.\n\nAnd, of course, he didn't sleep a wink.\n\n#\n\nBobby stood up from behind his desk and stared out the window at the endless stream of cars headed westbound on the Dolphin. The sun was just starting its slow descent into the Everglades and roadwork crews were packing up for the day, which only helped thicken the congestion. 'Anything?' he asked into the phone.\n\n'We combed every bay like we were looking for lice on Carrot Top's head \u2013 nothing,' Larry replied. Bobby, Zo, Don McCrindle and an army of BSO uniforms and Customs officers had spent the day at Port Everglades in Fort Lauderdale. Larry, Ciro, Veso, Roland and MDPD had covered the Port of Miami. Both teams had come up empty.\n\n'Ya know, all day long I've been thinking, trying to figure where it was I might've seen that scene before,' Larry continued. 'It's been bugging the shit out of me, 'cause it looks familiar. And I was thinking, maybe Kelly's right \u2013 maybe this guy is getting real profound, you know? Maybe the flames are symbolic and instead of leading us to a site, he's maybe trying to send us a message.'\n\n'I'm listening...' Bobby replied quietly, still staring out the window. Traffic looked the same as it did five minutes ago. As it did that morning. As it did yesterday. In fact, but for the Christmas trees strapped to the roofs of some cars, everything outside looked exactly the same as it did every day. Construction workers in T-shirts and sheikh caps packed up their coolers, smoking cigarettes and goofing off, while others finished up for the day expanding the same stretch of highway they'd been working on for the last couple of years. Down the halls of MROC, the same secretaries gossiped about the same people, the same agents worked at the same desks on the same cases. Everything looked and sounded exactly the same as it did yesterday or last month or last year, but with the simple unfolding of that canvas \u2013 with a quick sniff of nauseating oil paint \u2013 the whole world as Bobby knew it had changed once again. No longer did he have even the comfort of his imagination that his kid was fine and defying every cold, hard runaway statistic. No. Today his only child might be dead \u2013 the victim of a sadistic serial killer, perhaps kidnapped and tortured and raped all those days and weeks and months that everyone's life on the other side of that window went on as normal. And now, as he looked out on Miami, wondering where the hell Katy was, he couldn't stop the incredible anger that was swelling inside of him. Anger at Picasso, at himself, at every person on the other side of the glass. And he secretly wished \u2013 like he had for the past 365 days \u2013 that he was one of those mindless, faceless drivers stuck in traffic, banging on his steering wheel in frustration because he was going to be late for his kid's recital or miss dinner with the family. He wished to God he didn't have to feel the incredible pain he was feeling right now \u2013 a burning ache in every fiber of his being, as if he were coming apart at the very seams that held him together as a person. It was an indescribable pain that he could not imagine could get any worse, and yet he knew most definitely would, when and if his worst fear was finally confirmed \u2013 when the phone rang and the terrible words were finally spoken: 'It's her.' Like a death-row inmate already living in abject hell who'd vowed he'd rather die than live his life out in a 6 \u00d7 8 cement box, Bobby stood waiting with anxious hope as the clock ticked its way down to midnight to hear if he'd won an improbable last-second, last-chance reprieve. He'd told himself since Katy left that the not knowing was the worst, but he knew now that was wrong. And as he listened to the warden's footfalls slowly approach his cell with grim news of his appeal, he realized that living in hell was much better than the alternative.\n\n'... that's when it popped into my head! I have some dope I've got to drop off in a case that closed out years ago, when I was in Narcotics,' Larry was saying. 'The guy pled to twenty and the two keys are just sitting there, waiting to get destroyed, right? I have the court order and everything, but it's just freaking sitting there in the evidence room and I really have to get rid of it. Anyway, I'm driving across the MacArthur and I'm thinking about this dope and I'm thinking it's a Broward case, so I'll have to drop the dope up in Broward, and I don't know when I'll be there again. The last time I had to get rid of smack, it was at the dump. You ever had to dump dope, Bobby?'\n\n'No.'\n\nZo walked in the office, a frown on his face. 'You look like shit. What're you doing?'\n\n'Thanks,' Bobby replied, rubbing his temples. 'Waiting for Larry to get to the point.' He put the phone on speaker. 'Zo's here. You're on the air.'\n\n'Hey,' Larry answered. 'So I haven't been there in years myself, to the dump, but I start to think about it, Bobby. When you drop dope, you know, to destroy it, they have to burn it.'\n\nBobby froze.\n\n'The burn pit, it's outside. You can be standing in the sunshine while this sanitation worker's getting high off your leftover nose candy. Now, I haven't been there in years, so I call to see what time they're doing burns, 'cause it used to be they'd only do it by appointment and only on certain days of the week. But they're freaking closed! Like closed, closed. Now burns are done at the Wheelabrator facility off 441 and Interstate 595. The administrative facilities are still out there in the fucking Everglades, but the site's been shut down for a couple of years, and the landfill's been closed. That's when I started thinking \u2013 shit! That might be it! The burn site at the dump!'\n\n_He's taunting you to find him, even going so far as to send you the evidence that he himself created. He's challenging you_.\n\nIt made sense. Where the police dumped and burned their evidence, Picasso would dump his. It would be very symbolic, like Roland Kelly had suggested. Bobby looked at Zo. 'Larry, is every burn site like Broward? You know, Miami, Palm Beach?' he asked.\n\n'I don't know. I only had to get my stuff burned in Broward. I would think there's at least a procedure in each county, because you need a court order. Checks and balances, you know? To make sure we don't take it home and smoke it ourselves,' he laughed. 'Or sell it. Now that's capitalism.'\n\nIt would also be symbolic to get rid of that evidence in the county in which it was seized. Bobby lived in Broward.\n\nBobby was already on the radio. Within minutes he had uniforms from a half-dozen departments responding to secure both the current and closed narcotic evidence burn sites in Miami, Palm Beach, Monroe and Broward counties.\n\n'You're not going,' Zo said quietly as Bobby grabbed his sports jacket.\n\n'The hell I'm not.'\n\n'You didn't sleep last night.'\n\n'Neither did you.'\n\n'Maybe. But this is way too much.' Zo hesitated, as if he'd almost said the wrong thing, and closed the office door with his foot. 'Listen, I want to say I'm sure it's not her, I want to tell you that, but I can't. And neither can you. Today's one year since she ran away. This psycho's addressing these portraits to you, and the clothing in the painting matches Katy's description to a T. If Larry's right and he's dumping the evidence at that site...' Zo trailed off and lowered his voice. 'It's just not looking good, brother. And I don't think you should be there to see it.'\n\n'That's exactly why I am gonna be there, Zo. It isn't looking good. I know exactly what it looks like. It looks like this is gonna turn out to be my daughter. And if it is, well, _I'm_ gonna be the one to find her, and _I'm_ gonna bring her back home.' He willed both the tears and the fear back as he opened the door and stepped into the squad bay. 'And then I'm gonna find the sick fuck that did this to her, and when I do, when I'm through with him, he's gonna be begging me to fucking kill him.'\n\n#\n\nLuAnn knew something was wrong. She felt it in every joint in her body. She felt it in her gut, and she felt it in her heart. Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong.\n\nBobby was holding out on her.\n\nAt first she thought it was another woman. And that made sense. She'd been away from him for so long \u2013 emotionally, physically \u2013 that she'd often thought one day he'd decide he'd had enough and go find someone else. Or someone else would find him. At times during the past year she'd actually wished it would happen \u2013 so that it would be over with, so that she could finally be completely alone in the world, so that nothing and no one would matter any more. She could stop silently blaming him, and he could stop silently blaming her and it would be done \u2013 their lives could go in different directions, without even the bond of a child to bring them back together at a future graduation and wedding. She could just curl up into a ball, and wallow in self-pity until life was over. And the waiting for it to happen \u2013 to finally find out about the affair, to confront him, to see her marriage end, to watch him move out and start a life with someone new, to find herself completely alone \u2013 well, the waiting was too exhausting. She'd just wished the inevitable would happen already.\n\nSo it was no doubt unfair of her to think that a few nights together might close the expansive emotional void that had grown between them, no matter how great or tender the sex was, or how much she might will it to be so. No matter how close they'd seemed for a few days, or how much it felt like the 'old days' of their marriage, when everything was normal and people called them lucky. She'd made a mistake shutting him out for all these months, she knew that now, but she was finally ready to heal. She was finally ready to come back. But should she expect him to still be there waiting? The truth was, no. A year was a long time.\n\nThe past few days had been, in a sense, worse than the previous eleven months: The void seemed now a chasm, but it was Bobby who was shutting down this time. When the midnight phone call came that he uncharacteristically didn't answer, she'd laid there beside him in bed, her heart pounding, thinking, _'This is it. This is how I will find out. And no matter how much I thought I wanted it, I'm not ready to know. I'm not ready to watch everything I had unravel, and at the end of it all blame myself. I'm not ready for him to leave...'_\n\nShe'd pretended to be asleep, lying there, waiting for him to sneak downstairs and call his mystery lady back, and wondering what she should do next. Should she hire a PI? Or, perhaps get the number from his cell and call the woman back herself and confront her? Bobby hadn't moved, either. She could hear his heartbeat quicken, she could feel his body tense. But when he played back the message in the dark bedroom, and she heard the panicked whispers of that reporter on the other end, she knew it wasn't another woman that she'd lost her husband to \u2013 it was this case. This case that had consumed him from the second he'd picked it up. It was too close to home. For both of them. It was too close to Katy.\n\nHe had rushed out and she had waited up all night, trying to shush the horrible thoughts that were now running unchecked in her brain, only to hear him finally come home, but not come to her. She knew there was a reason, but she wasn't sure she wanted to know what it was, and so she'd stayed upstairs, waiting. Waiting for him to come. Waiting for him to leave. Waiting for the day that had just begun to finally end.\n\nThey had not spoken about today \u2013 there was no note on the fridge to remind either of them of the significance of the date. But of course neither of them needed a reminder. November 19 was an anniversary LuAnn had never expected to pass. One last Thanksgiving, Christmas, or Mother's Day, she could never imagine having. An anniversary. For couples and jobs and tragedies, an anniversary was the mark to make. _Wow, it's been a whole year! Look where we are!_ More than just the passage of 365 days, it was the symbolic turning of an event into a permanent part of time \u2013 a day of remembrance. And LuAnn wanted no part of it. Ever. Before the concussion that had laid her up now for almost a week, she'd volunteered to work a double.\n\nShe could only imagine how hard the day would be on Bobby. Like a firefighter who's called to put out a blaze in a downtown Manhattan skyscraper on September 11, he had to focus on the emergency while the world held vigils and the ghosts of fallen comrades screamed in his head. After her husband had quietly slipped back out of the house when the sun came up, she'd turned on the TV for company, only to shut it right off. Bobby's case was already all over CNN, Fox News, MSNBC. Another brutal painting. Another possible teenage victim. Another runaway. Another Miami serial killer. Another frantic manhunt underway.\n\nSo she'd flipped on satellite radio and wandered about the house all day, doing busy, mindless things, like watering plants and dusting bookshelves and mopping the floors. She almost welcomed the distraction when the doorbell rang, tempered by the fear that it was a neighbor who perhaps had marked the date on _her_ calendar and wanted to make sure LuAnn was OK with a plateful of cookies, a sad face and a few intrusive questions.\n\nAll she saw when she opened the door, though, were flowers. Red and white roses and white lilies \u2013 an enormous bouquet of flowers.\n\n'I have a delivery for Mrs Dees,' the deliveryman said, passing a clipboard to her.\n\n'From who?' she asked as she signed the receipt and watched as he placed the vase on the hall table. There were at least two dozen roses in the bunch...\n\n'Don't know, ma'am. There's a card, though.'\n\nShe stared at the flowers, but he stood in the foyer and didn't leave. 'Oh,' she said after a moment, digging into her pocket for a couple of bucks. 'Here you go.'\n\nHe smiled. 'Sure do appreciate it. Have a nice day, now.'\n\n'Thank you,' she said absently as he headed down the front walk. Normally she hated the short days of winter, but today she welcomed seeing the setting sun and the long shadows of afternoon. She flipped on the front light and turned to head back inside. The heavy perfume of fresh roses already filled the living room, and the smell was making her nauseous. This was not the day for flowers.\n\n_Who the hell in their right mind would send her flowers on the one day of the year she would most like to forget?_\n\n'Enjoy them, ma'am,' the deliveryman called out just as she closed the door. 'They sure are pretty. Just like you.'\n\n#\n\nThere were no hills in South Florida, so the two-hundred-foot mound of green grass rising out of the sawgrass to the west of Interstate 75 stood out like the Statue of Liberty on the Hudson. An inconspicuous and almost impossible-to-find entrance off of US 27 led to a forgotten paved road that wound through the heart of twenty acres of what was once the South Broward County SWT Landfill and Incinerator #8, aka the Dump. A ten-foot-high chain-link fence with a rusted, broken lock surrounded the property. A sign warned that trespassers would be prosecuted.\n\nOne wouldn't think that the dump would get a lot of trespassing, but as the clich\u00e9 went and as fans of _Antique Road Show_ could attest, one man's trash could very well be another's treasure. Everyone wanted to discover that diamond ring in the rough, even if it meant wading through twenty stories of garbage with a metal detector to find it.\n\nThe dump was completely deserted. Even the scavenger birds that at one time feasted by the hundreds, if not thousands, atop the refuse were gone. Removed from the expressway by more than a mile, and set far back from any community, the parking lot was eerily quiet. And no matter how old it was, or what chemicals the city used, or how much they tried to insulate it with tarp, the air still stunk like garbage.\n\n'I'm going in with Larry and McCrindle,' Zo said, as he walked around the back end of his Taurus and over to where Bobby stood with Larry, BSO Detective Don McCrindle, and three uniforms in front of a cement rectangular building that looked like a 1970s double-wide trailer. Boards covered every window. He looked at Bobby. 'Don't even try to fucking argue with me. I'm a fool for letting you come here.'\n\n'The incinerator pit was out in the back,' Larry said. 'You had to show the order to the clerk inside, then get your shit inventoried and get a receipt. Somebody would escort you through to a secured area outside where they'd burn it in front of you. If you stood close enough, you'd feel no pain for a week or so.'\n\nZo looked at the uniforms and nodded toward Bobby. 'Make sure he stays at the car. You got light?' he asked Don.\n\nDon nodded and waved his flashlight.\n\n'All right. Let's do this.'\n\nWithin a minute they were in. Flashlight ribbons sliced like light-sabers through the inky darkness. Bobby stood by the front end of his car, counting down the seconds with the cooling tick of the engine, holding his breath, praying this was another dead end. Praying for good news from the warden, whose footfalls had finally reached his cell...\n\nMoments later, radios crackled to life.\n\n'I got her,' Zo said.\n\nTime stopped. Bobby held the radio up to his face with two hands. 'Zo?' He could feel the cold fear racing through his body to his heart, threatening to shut it down. 'Zo?' he asked again. 'Dias?'\n\nZo came back out the door, a handkerchief to his nose. Radios erupted all around him, everyone chattering at once. He heard Don McCrindle call for Crime Scene and the Medical Examiner.\n\n'Is it her?' Bobby asked, rushing over to his friend on legs that threatened to betray him.\n\nZo held his hands up like a stop sign. 'You're not going in there.'\n\n'That wasn't the deal.'\n\n'Is it her?' It was Ciro, calling in on Zo's radio. Zo didn't respond.\n\nThe fear hit its target. Bobby shut his eyes tight to stop the world from spinning. A weird line from the _Godfather_ suddenly popped into his head, from the scene where Vito Corleone goes to the funeral home after his son has been shot.\n\n_I want you to use all your powers and all your skills. I don't want his mother to see him this way. Look how they massacred my boy..._\n\n'Is it her?' he asked again.\n\n'It's bad, Shep, I ain't gonna lie \u2013'\n\n'Don't fucking call me that!' Bobby shouted. 'Is it her?'\n\n'I don't know!' Zo shouted back. 'She's staged, she's \u2013 it's bad. You don't need to fucking see it, is all!' He grabbed Bobby by the arm. 'I don't know what we have. He's fucking with your head here \u2013'\n\nBobby pushed past him, running up the cement steps of the double-wide, through the front door and into the murky darkness that reeked of garbage and death.\n\nThe warden had finally arrived. And he could tell just by the pained look on his face that the news wasn't good.\n\n#\n\nLuAnn closed the door and stepped over to the vase. Stuck deep down into the heart of it was a white card clipped tight to a plastic holder.\n\n_Was it Jeannie? Would she have sent it?_\n\nHer baby sister was well-intentioned, but could be thoughtless. Sometimes LuAnn wondered when she went on and on about her own kids and their piano lessons and school plays if she remembered that Katy was still missing.\n\n_The girls from work?_\n\nMaybe it's a belated get-well bouquet. Maybe they didn't realize the significance of today's date...\n\n_Who the hell would do such a terrible thing?_\n\nShe reached down into the bouquet and found the card. People always thought they were saying or doing the nicest things during a life-altering event, but sometimes those were the words or deeds that left the deepest cuts.\n\n_'She probably left to get her head clear, Lu. You know? Stretch her wings a little!'_\n\n_'Maybe you were too tough on her. I always say I'm not going to be Lauren's friend, but it's so hard nowadays to get them to tell you anything... I guess you have to be tough, though.'_\n\n_'Being a parent isn't easy, LuAnn. None of us knows if we're doing it right. Don't be too hard on yourself. Did I tell you that Jonathon just got into FSU? He's so excited!'_\n\nNow the same well-intentioned friends were sending her roses on the anniversary of her daughter running away. Then they would go home tonight and talk about their great deed over dinner with their own kids, and everyone at the table would gossip about how it's been a whole year already, and why it was they supposed Katy left in the first place, and the current suspected state of LuAnn and Bobby's marriage. The smell of the flowers was beyond nauseating now. All LuAnn wanted to do was throw them out. Shred the petals and throw the fucking things out...\n\nShe turned on the hall light and opened the card.\n\n_What words of comfort could someone possibly say to her today?_\n\nShe slid out the small white card with the yellow happy face emblem at the top. A piece of paper fluttered to the ground.\n\nShe stared at the words in disbelief.\n\n_Happy Anniversary!! Hope it's memorable!_\n\nThen she looked down at the floor. At the small, black-and-white picture of a smiling Ray Coon from his high school yearbook, right there on her floor. His eyes had been blacked out with magic marker. She knelt down and picked it up. It was pasted on to the picture of a tombstone. Taped below the tombstone was a small, two-sentence police blotter cut from the _Palm Beach Post_. It was dated November 14.\n\nBODY FOUND BY BOY SCOUT IN \nBELLE GLADE IDENTIFIED\n\nThe decomposed body of a young man found shot to death late last week by a boy scout and his father in Belle Glade Marina and Campground has been identified as Reinaldo 'Ray' Coon, 19, of Margate, Florida. No suspects in the slaying have been identified.\n\nLuAnn dropped the clipping and watched as it fluttered gently back down to the floor.\n\nIt landed face up, still smiling at her.\n\n#\n\nThe first thing he saw when he rushed into the small back storage room was the criss-crossing beams of light from Larry and Don McCrindle's flashlights. It was catching on something shiny and reflective off the floor.\n\nThen Bobby saw the chains.\n\nThey were wrapped around the ankles of the slender body that hung from the ceiling, spooling below her into a polished, silvery pile, like the coils of a snake. He turned his own flashlight up. Her back was to him. Long dirty blonde hair was caught in the chains that were wrapped around her neck. More chains tethered her thin arms above her to a pipe in the ceiling. She dangled there, facing a window that looked out on to the long-closed burn pit that Larry had described. Someone had removed the boards from the window so she could face out.\n\nBobby circled around the body and beamed his flashlight up past the thick necklace of chains.\n\nNo one said anything. Nothing moved.\n\nIt wasn't Katy.\n\nThe body was fresh, a day or two old at the most. Most likely she had been killed somewhere else. Her eyes, like the others, were missing, and decomposition had started, but she was still recognizable. At least to Bobby.\n\n_It wasn't Katy_.\n\nZo was behind him. Bobby shook his head and took his first breath in a minute. He felt like a thousand pounds had been lifted from his shoulders. 'It's not her,' he said in a small voice. Then he stumbled back outside to wait for Crime Scene. The tears he'd been holding back, reserving for the worst news, came anyway.\n\nHis cell phone rang just as he stepped through the front door. It was LuAnn, calling from the house. He let it go to voicemail. There was no way he could talk to her now. No way he could tell her what had almost happened. No way he could tell her how incredibly relieved he was, without telling her just how scared he'd been. But then it rang again. And again. Which meant it was more than important \u2013 it was an emergency. He walked over to his car, wiped his face with the back of his hand and tried his best to sound normal. 'Lu?'\n\nHe heard her crying, trying hard to control her breathing. She was hysterical.\n\nThe fear was right back.\n\n'He's dead!' she yelled. 'Oh my God, Bobby, he's dead!'\n\n'What?'\n\n'He's dead!'\n\n'Who's dead? What the hell are you talking about, LuAnn? Is it your dad \u2013'\n\nSirens exploded in the background as emergency vehicles made their way up the rotting, winding Florida mountain.\n\n'Ray!' she screamed. 'Ray Coon! He's dead! Someone shot him!'\n\nBobby closed his eyes. _How was this happening now?_ He'd known it was only a matter of time before the news of Ray's murder eventually made the rounds back to her. He should have expected this call. He should have told her. 'Lu \u2013' he started.\n\n'And now someone's sending me his picture! _His picture, Bobby!'_\n\n'What? Who's sending you Ray's picture?'\n\n'On a tombstone!' LuAnn screamed.\n\nZo came over. 'What's happening?'\n\n'It came in the flowers,' LuAnn said between sobs.\n\n'What flowers? What are you talking about?'\n\n'I don't know! Someone just sent me flowers. I thought it was my sister or maybe the girls at the hospital...'\n\n'Jeannie wouldn't send you flowers,' Bobby started. None of this was making sense.\n\n'Roses. Red and white roses. This enormous bouquet of fucking flowers, Bobby!'\n\n'Who? Who sent them?' he demanded. 'Who the hell would send you flowers today?'\n\n'I don't know!'\n\n'LuAnn, this is making no sense. Help me out here. Someone sent you flowers today, along with a picture of Ray on a headstone \u2013 was there a card?'\n\n'It wasn't signed. The picture of Ray was in the card with a news article that said he died last week \u2013 that he was murdered!'\n\n'What exactly did the card say? Anything?'\n\n'It said \"Happy Anniversary. Hope it's memorable.\"' She started to sob again. 'Who would do this? Who would send this to me?'\n\nBobby looked at Zo. 'LuAnn, how long ago did these flowers come?'\n\n'I don't know... five minutes ago, maybe.'\n\n'Where are they from? What store?'\n\n'I don't know. It doesn't say on here. It doesn't say anywhere.'\n\n'What did his truck say? Did you see his truck?'\n\n'It wasn't a truck. It was a regular car, I think. I don't know! I don't know!'\n\n'What did he look like, LuAnn? What did the deliveryman look like?'\n\n'I don't... um, he was your height, I guess. And I think he was blond. He had a cap on. That's all I remember! I wasn't looking at him.' She paused, for just a second. 'You knew about Ray, didn't you? Didn't you, Bobby?'\n\n'LuAnn, lock the door. Don't answer it for anyone. I'm coming home.'\n\n'Why? Bobby, what is happening? Tell me, goddamn it!'\n\n'Get a car out to my house!' he commanded Zo.\n\n'Tell me!' LuAnn shouted.\n\n'What's happening?' asked Zo.\n\nHe held his hand over the phone so she wouldn't hear. 'He was there. Five minutes ago,' Bobby yelled. 'At my mother-fucking house!'\n\nRadios erupted again.\n\n_It would only be a matter of minutes. Just three minutes for a car to be there. Less, if one was in the area. Please God, let there be a car..._\n\n'Who was it? Who sent them?' LuAnn screamed.\n\n'LuAnn, listen carefully. This case, this Picasso case I'm on... I think it's him. I think he was the one who sent those flowers,' Bobby said as he climbed into his car.\n\nShe was sobbing. 'Oh my God... Katy...'\n\nHe turned the engine on and threw it in reverse. 'And I think he just hand-delivered them to you.'\n\nThen he raced back down the winding road with his lights and siren on, headed for home at a hundred miles an hour.\n\n#\n\nThe man hummed as he sat in the traffic that had pulled over to the side of the road, watching as the police cars whizzed by him, one after the other, lights flashing and sirens blaring, like a scene from an action movie. He knew just where they were headed in such a hurry \u2013 if he sat where he was long enough, he could wave at the Super Special Agent as he whizzed by himself. But he would most likely be too busy to wave back. He was, he imagined, in a Super Special Agent rush to get home. Boy, would Ricky have some 'splaining to do when he walked through the door tonight!\n\nSomething told him that the Hero Who Walked Among Us hadn't yet let his wifey in on the recent and very substantial development in the case of their missing daughter. Like the fact that the sleazy, gangsta boyfriend was now officially out of the picture. Whew! Wasn't that a relief?\n\nOnly he wasn't so sure the little woman was gonna take it that way. Not after her Hero told her exactly what he'd been up to today at the office, in all its graphic, glorious detail. Not after he spilled the beans about the striking, uncanny resemblance to their pretty little missing daughter in Picasso's latest and greatest masterpiece.\n\nBut there was no such thing as coincidence, was there? And the great detective knew that better than anyone. Soon enough his wife would know that, too. No, there was no such thing as coincidence.\n\nSUPER SPECIAL AGENT ROBERT S. DEES \nEveryman's hero The Shepherd\n\n... Nicknamed The Shepherd by his colleagues in law enforcement, SAS Dees has worked over two hundred missing children\/abduction cases around the country since his career with FDLE's Crimes Against Children Squad began nearly a decade ago. Of those, only five remain unsolved (see box). While not every case ends happily, Dees has persisted in 'bringing home kids who should never, ever have been found', Marlon Truett, the Assistant Director of the FBI, told _People_. 'Dead or alive, he brings them back home to their families, which is a great comfort. People want closure. They need it. And Bobby Dees \u2013 he won't ever stop. He's like a shepherd, and he will see to it that every last one of his flock is found. He'll never stop looking. That's just the way he is.' A recipient of the prestigious Officer of the Year Award for Missing and Exploited Children, and Florida's Law Enforcement Officer of the Year, Dees says the faces of the missing \u2013 the ones he hasn't yet 'brought home' \u2013 haunt him every day of his life. 'I could only imagine, if that were my child, how I would feel.'\n\nThe man rolled the worn, chewed magazine up and tossed it on to the seat beside him. Less than a year after that glowing piece had been written \u2013 before dust even had a chance to collect on all of those pretty little awards \u2013 Super Special Agent's own daughter had vanished into the dark night.\n\nPity.\n\nThe man smiled.\n\n_A good shepherd lays down his life for his sheep. He who is a hired hand and who does not own the sheep, sees the wolf coming and leaves the sheep and flees, and the wolf catches them and scatters them_.\n\nJohn 10:11\u201318. Right out of the gospel...\n\nThe real lesson to be learned? Just like _People_ magazine so eloquently put it, there's not always a happy ending to every story. In fact, just like the in the Bible, most stories end tragically. The good shepherd either dies or he runs when he sees the wolf coming. Either way, the poor sheep are doomed.\n\nSo as much as he was sure Mr and Mrs Dees wanted to forget this momentous occasion, he knew it was only right to help them celebrate it. He just wished he could be a fly on the wall of their pretty little house tonight. He wished he could hear their screams. Listen in on the anguish. He closed his eyes and imagined for a second just what the little woman's mouth would look like, open and lush, twisted in pain into an eternal black grin. He thought of how the brush would feel in his hand, heavy with paint, the fragrant smell wafting like a perfume through his secret labyrinth...\n\nHis hand fell to his lap.\n\n_Are you pure in both thought and deed?_\n\nHe wiped the sweat from his forehead with his trembling fingers. He felt the beads of perspiration run down the back of his neck and into his shirt, making it stick to his skin. Oh, there were so many fun things to look forward to.\n\nThe wolf was on his way. The story was finally coming to an end.\n\nThen he flicked on the radio and waited for the news to come on.\n\n#\n\n'It's a hairpiece,' Dr Terrence Lynch, the Broward County ME, said with a smile full of oversized teeth. He held up the long blonde wig, stroking it with his stubby gloved fingers, as if it were a cat. Short and stuffed, his pale skin bathed in the reflection of the old mint green tiles that covered the examining room of the Broward County ME's office, the pathologist looked a lot like Dracula's assistant, Renfield. A recent import from upstate New York, Bobby hadn't worked with Lynch before, but for once in his career, he was missing Gunther.\n\nZo shook his head and looked across the gurney at Bobby. 'An ME who likes his job \u2013 go figure.'\n\n'Mmmmm...' Dr Lynch murmured, returning the hairpiece, which was matted in places with dried blood, to the clear evidence bag. 'It's not expensive. The fibers are synthetic; the make is cheap. I have a young daughter, and it looks strikingly similar to the Hannah Montana mop she parades around in. Maybe there aren't too many Miley Cyrus fans in South Florida. We can run it through fibers and see if that'll narrow down our search.'\n\n'I think we'll find out there are more fans than we feared,' Zo replied.\n\n'Do you have an ID yet?' Dr Lynch asked.\n\n'Her prints aren't in AFIS,' Bobby answered with a shake of his head. AFIS was the Automated Fingerprint Identification System. 'She doesn't match a description of any of the missing juvis we've got on our list. At least, we don't think she does.' He tried hard not to look down at the young girl on the metal gurney who just yesterday he thought would turn out to be his daughter. A crisp white sheet covered her torso and legs. Thankfully the autopsy was over.\n\n'I understand you had quite a scare, Agent Dees,' Dr Lynch said as he washed up. A tech came over with a large spool of black nylon thread in hand and a large stitching needle. 'I'm glad it didn't turn out to be what you had feared.'\n\nBobby was too, but it seemed wrong to agree while he was standing over the mutilated body of a girl with no name, who had no one waiting outside to even claim her body. So he just nodded and moved over to make room for the tech.\n\n'Your Picasso was particularly brutal,' the doctor continued. He dried his hands and turned back to face Bobby and Zo. 'Besides the obvious missing eyes, she's also missing her tongue. Both injuries were inflicted pre-mortem.'\n\nBobby had seen many things in his career. Many horrible things. Too many things. Some cruelty, though, was beyond even his comprehension. 'How can you tell?'\n\n'There was bruising in the skin, muscle and surrounding soft tissue,' Dr Lynch said, gesturing toward Jane Doe's black sockets. 'The dead, gentlemen, do not bruise. So the injuries were inflicted while her heart was pumping blood and she was still alive.'\n\n'This is like Cupid all over again,' Zo muttered.\n\n'I'll screen for anesthetics and analgesics,' Lynch added. 'Maybe he showed a little compassion and numbed her up first.'\n\n'What's with her fingers?' Bobby asked, looking down at the slender gray hand that lay on the side of the table, protruding from underneath the sheet. The fingertips were black, the nails broken and jagged, the skin severely abraded.\n\n'The skin is beginning to slip and decompose, which accounts for some of the discoloration. But the tips \u2013 the pads \u2013 they are also severely bruised and scraped \u2013 almost ground down to the bone. I thought perhaps an animal had gnawed at them postmortem, but the injuries, it appears, were inflicted, like the tongue and eyes, before she died. I X-rayed the fingers \u2013 they're not broken.'\n\n'In the portrait Picasso sent us, the fingertips were covered in blood, too. What the hell would he do to her fingers and why?' Zo asked. 'Is he trying to tell us something?'\n\nDr Lynch shrugged. 'I don't have an answer for you.'\n\n'Maybe she did it to herself,' Bobby answered softly, gently taking Jane Doe's hand in his own gloved palm and carefully looking at it. 'Maybe she was trying to get out of wherever it was he had her held. Maybe she was _clawing_ her way out. She still has nail beds, Dr Lynch. Make sure she's scraped. Look for rock, clay, dirt, pesticides \u2013 anything. Screen whatever it is you find. Maybe we can figure out where he held her.'\n\nDr Lynch nodded. 'Done. I took samples of everything. The screens take a while, but I'll try and get a quick return.'\n\nThe problem with multi-jurisdictional serial homicides was consistency. Three bodies in Broward and one body in Dade meant multiple police departments, multiple crime labs, and multiple medical examiners. 'Can you get with Gunther Trauss in Miami and see what he's come up with so that we don't duplicate efforts?' Bobby asked. 'Time is of the essence. We need results yesterday, if you could.'\n\nDr Lynch nodded. The horse-toothed smile was back, which was definitely disconcerting. He slid his hands into his lab-coat pockets. 'So, how long do you want me to hold her, guys?'\n\nThere was no 'Potter's Field' in Broward County \u2013 no graveyard for the indigent and unidentified like there was in Miami. The bodies of the destitute and unclaimed were simply bid out to the local funeral homes for disposal. The lowest bidder won the prize, which, for economical reasons, inevitably meant cremation and a scattering in the local dumpster of whatever was left. Unidentified homicide victims were handled a little differently: their bodies were boiled down and the bones kept in a box on a shelf at the ME's until, barring a screw-up, someone, somewhere came up with a name. The hope was that, along with that name would be a family, someone to claim the bones and give Jane or John Doe a proper burial.\n\n'Give me time. I'll get you a name,' Bobby said quietly as he and Zo headed for the elevator. 'Whatever happens with this case, she's not going to auction, Dr Lynch. I'll take care of it.' If they couldn't find a family to go with that name, Bobby would make sure that she was buried proper. No kid should leave this earth unnoticed. Unmissed. He nodded goodbye and the doors closed on the oversized elevator.\n\n'The blonde wig, the different sweater. Picasso's fucking with you, Bobby,' Zo remarked quietly as the car started its creaky, slow ascent out of the basement.\n\n'It's working. I'm fucked up,' Bobby replied, rubbing his eyes.\n\n'You shouldn't be here.'\n\nBobby shot him a look.\n\n'You shouldn't. You look like hell. Have you slept at all in the past few days?'\n\n'I don't sleep anyway. You think I'm gonna start now?'\n\n'How's LuAnn?'\n\nHe shook his head. 'Medicated. Hopefully she won't have to wake up till after I've found this guy. The ballistics report's back on the bullet that was found in the tree next to Ray Coons's skull. It's a .44 caliber Magnum, left-hand twist.'\n\n'Big gun,' Zo commented as they stepped out into the hall just past reception. He stuck his head out the back-door entrance and looked down the long driveway, checking for media; they seemed to be everywhere and anywhere now. Besides being the top story on every channel in South Florida, news of the Picasso murders had made its way overseas as well, peeking the interest of the international media. A flamboyant, twisted serial killer with a taste for young runaways had attracted as much attention as the Cupid serial homicides in Miami had a few years ago. And that had been a complete and utter circus. The parking lot was clear, though.\n\n'It's a gun that a lot of people like,' Bobby said with a sigh, slipping on his sunglasses as they headed down the drive and then across the lawn to the lot behind the Broward Sheriff's Office's Tactical Services building. 'Particularly gang-bangers. Autopsy report says he was dead at least a couple of weeks.'\n\n'We've been all over the streets. No one's seen Ray back in Miami,' Zo said. 'At least, no one who's talking.'\n\n'What the hell was he doing in Belle Glade?'\n\n'That's anybody's guess right now. Remember, Bobby, this guy is working you. Don't go crazy thinking Ray's a Picasso victim. We don't know that. And we don't know that Katy is related, either.'\n\nBobby stopped walking. 'He came to my house, Zo. _My house_. He talked to my wife. He's sending these sick portraits for my attention and leaving place cards with my name at crime scenes and he wants me...' He took a breath. 'He wants me to believe he has my daughter. Why?'\n\nZo didn't have a response, so he said nothing. When they reached their cars, he said, 'You're done today. You need to go home and sit with your wife. I don't want you back at the office. At least for a few days. And when you come back, I don't want you on this case.'\n\n'Fuck that,' replied Bobby. As if on cue, his cell rang. 'Dees,' he answered.\n\n'Bobby, it's Ciro. I just got off the phone with a buddy who works Computer Crimes up in Palm Beach with the Sheriff's Office. He's doing a call-out today that the Sheriff's Office is working with LEACH \u2013 you know, the internet computer kiddie crimes task force? They're setting up on a perv this afternoon who's supposed to do a meet-and-greet with a fourteen-year-old girl at a Mickey Ds. One of the PBSO Special Investigations detectives who does decoy caught this fish last week sometime, and they need tactical help to reel him in. Nothing new there, right? Happens every day. Now there's no guarantee this guy's even gonna show \u2013 he's a ghost \u2013 and the decoy hasn't heard from him in a few days, so it might be for nothing, but my buddy thought it was real interesting when he found out this morning at briefing the screen name the perv was using. Real interesting, considering he and I were talking about the Emerson case just last week, and this particular info hasn't been released to the public.'\n\n'Talk to me,' Bobby said, looking at Zo and waiting on Ciro's next words, his body frozen in place, suspended halfway into the car.\n\n'They're waiting on The Captain.'\n\n#\n\nIt was almost comical that in the day and age of sophisticated law-enforcement computer systems and instant communications available via the internet, email, fax, texting, and cell phones, the left hand still didn't know what the right was doing. The first thing Bobby had done after seeing the Boganes sisters' portrait and realizing that Lainey Emerson was probably linked to Picasso, was send out a BOLO (Be On the Look Out for) teletype via FCIC\/NCIC, alerting law-enforcement agencies nationwide to contact him if they had a cyberpredator using the screen name Zachary, Cusano, ElCapitan or any combination or modification thereof. Of course, just from the number of BOLOs his own analyst received on a daily basis, chances were his BOLO had been printed out, pinned on to a crowded board in a busy squad bay and promptly ignored.\n\nNo department liked their territory pissed on \u2013 which was exactly how the Palm Beach Sheriff's Office Special Investigations Unit and LEACH task force members viewed the arrival of FDLE special agents at their tactical briefing in the back parking lot of the 45th Street Flea Market, a couple of blocks from the McDonalds where the meet was set to take place. There was no, 'Thank God the Cavalry is Here!' open-arms, high-fiving welcome. Then again, Bobby hadn't expected one. The Feds, and more particularly, the FBI \u2013 famous for conveniently stealing thunder and claiming jurisdiction on high-profile cases after all the work was done \u2013 had made everyone in law enforcement suspicious. And just like the Rock-Paper-Scissors game, as much as it might burn the locals up, the truth was FDLE trumped County, City and Municipality, and every ranking officer in that parking lot knew it. So there was definitely reason to be nervous about a hostile takeover. But Bobby didn't want to commandeer a LEACH investigation. He didn't want the glory or the headlines. What he wanted was to end this nightmare and find the bastard as quickly as possible. And so far, the screen name of ElCapitan was the only thing anyone had that might lead somewhere.\n\nOr not.\n\nLike Ciro had said, and as anyone who worked ICAC cases \u2013 Internet Crimes Against Children \u2013 could attest, there were no guarantees. You never knew who or what would show up at these illicit meets. Or if anyone would show up at all. Many cyberpredators were well-seasoned; they had multiple victims and a lot of off-line experience before they were finally tagged in a chat room. Most could smell cop a mile away.\n\nAlthough Bobby tried his best to quash it, tensions between the task forces remained high even as everyone took up positions for the meet. Heightened anxiety, though, wasn't necessarily a bad thing. It was like realizing that the porcelain vase you were carrying across the tiled floor was a priceless urn from the Ming Dynasty \u2013 you were definitely more anxious, but also much more careful, because you knew the devastating consequences if you screwed up and dropped the thing. Picasso had made horrible headlines in every county, and no one wanted to be responsible for letting him make another.\n\nA petite, brunette undercover PBSO narcotics detective named Natalie, who looked all of fifteen, was set up inside the McDonalds. At four p.m. she would come out and wait on a bench in front of the restaurant and next to the check-cashing store for the approach. Undercover eyeballs were set up both in the restaurant and in the parking lot behind the McDonalds, which was shared with a strip mall that included a Winn Dixie supermarket, a Family Dollar and a host of stores, like a Little Caesar's pizzeria and a laundromat. With all the businesses, the parking lot was constantly jammed, constantly moving. Across Australian was a Sunoco gas station and pawn shop; diagonally opposite to the restaurant was a park. Bobby and a couple of LEACH operatives sat in their undercover cars waiting in the Winn Dixie parking lot; Zo and Ciro were set up on the Sunoco and in the park. An FDLE helicopter was on stand-by at Palm Beach International Airport, just a few miles away.\n\nIt was 3:55. Bobby settled down low into his seat and stared out past the traffic on busy 45th. Without binoculars, it was impossible to see inside the restaurant from his vantage point. And it was impossible to use binoculars without calling attention to himself. The strip mall was bustling with activity. Moms, toddlers, seniors, businessmen, teens. Men, women. All makes and models. All shapes and sizes.\n\nThat was the problem. He could be anywhere. He could be anyone. And everyone looked suspicious, Bobby thought, watching as a young guy unloaded three grocery bags full of nothing but laundry detergent into the back of his SUV. Three rows up, a greasy, middle-aged man sitting in a Ford F150 sucked down what looked a lot like a beer while talking on his cell phone. And, of course, he thought, turning his attention back to the McDonald's, they could all be sitting on a dead end. Wasting time while a madman was miles away, painting yet another portrait.\n\nBobby tapped the steering wheel and looked at his watch again \u2013 3:59. There was nothing left to do but wait.\n\n#\n\nThe man took a deep breath, letting the fresh, unseasonably warm air fill his lungs. His whole body was tingling, every sense was on high alert, like a hungry, wild animal who hears the soft bleating of lunch far off in a distant meadow. He'd tried dust and acid in high school, but this \u2013 _this_ was a natural rush that no high could ever come close to. He sniffed at the air. A dozen scents filled his nose \u2013 car exhaust, pine, gasoline, burning leaves, body odor, frying meat, urine. Call him crazy, but he thought he could also smell her. Somewhere out there. Sweet and lovely, probably spritzed down with PacSun's Nollie and sprinkled with a little bit of baby powder. Her freshly washed, dusty brown hair fragrant with Herbal Essence's Red Satin Raspberry.\n\nJanizz. The name was either the product of a kooky, non-conforming mother or a teen who hated the boring old-fashioned name of Janice. A girl who wanted to be different, like the Parises and Cocos and Demis of the world.\n\nHe was thinking door number two. A girl who wanted someone to finally notice her. He smiled. _I can't wait to notice you, sweet Janice. I can't wait to shower you with attention_.\n\nJanizzbaby. Even her name had a lilting melody to it. He hummed a bar to himself. Slow and sexy it would be, like an H-Town R & B tune. He rubbed his sweaty hands on his pants. Like the Oscars, the anticipation was both the best and worst part of the evening. Would she show? Would she look like her picture, or was she just a fake? Would she come willingly, or would she get spooked for some reason?\n\nIt had never happened before \u2013 he had never had a problem getting them in the car. But there was always that worry. _There's always a first time for everything_ , his mom liked to say. _So be ready for anything_. And he was. He looked in the backseat at his special black bag. It had everything he needed. All he had to do was just get her in the car. Once she was in, she was his.\n\nHis hands were dripping now. Of course, she might not show at all. That _had_ happened before. And that'd made him really, really angry. It took a lot of careful preparation to get the house ready for a new arrival. And when it was all for naught \u2013 when he was taken for a fool \u2013 it took him a long time to trust again.\n\nHe stared at the glass front door of the busy McDonald's. Like a freaking revolving door, it was. Lazy mommies and their screaming kids hurried in for another balanced meal of chicken nuggets and fries. Fatties pondered the picture menu like they'd never seen a Big Mac before. Was she inside? Was she looking out that front door, watching for him, wondering what he looked like? Was she as excited to see him as he was to see her? Was she wearing something special, like she'd promised? Was she nervous? Was she afraid? His sweaty hands shook like crazy. He lit a cigarette to try and calm his nerves. She would be spooked if he couldn't control himself. If he shook like a Parkinson's patient when he saw her, then she might run. No, she _would_ run. And that would be bad. Really bad.\n\nHe wondered if and when anyone would notice little Janizz missing. Now that he was all over the news, making headlines in countries he'd never even heard of, he wondered just how long would it take for someone to make the quantum leap that Janizz was a victim of foul play. And how long it would be before she was known as Picasso's Latest Victim. He smiled. How long would it be before people locked their doors at night just because of him? Or had security walk them to their cars in dark parking lots?\n\nHe licked his dry lips, his eyes glued on that glass door, sniffing at the air for the first real scent of her. His little lost lamb.\n\nThe door pushed open. A tiny thing \u2013 barely five feet, it looked like \u2013 walked out and over to the bench by the sidewalk. A sparkly bandana held her long, chestnut-colored hair back off her face. A single streak of vibrant purple ran down one side, just like in her MySpace profile picture. Dressed in a short denim mini and a tight black tank top, she had the stocky, muscular build of a gymnast, and her shapely legs were accessorized with a pair of wedge sandals. She looked all around the parking lot like she was waiting on somebody, but she didn't appear nervous at all. After a minute, she lit a cigarette, and started to text away on her cell, without a care in the world. It was obviously Janizz. From the looks of her, he doubted he was the first boy she'd met up with from the internet, although he was quite sure he would be the last.\n\nHis hands went crazy at the sight of her. He wiped them one last time on his jeans and rolled on antiperspirant. It would be difficult to handle her properly if he had no grip.\n\nJust like the little lamb that's wandered far away from the flock to graze by itself in the meadow, sweet baby Janizz was completely oblivious that just a few steps away the ravenous wolf watched and waited from his hiding spot.\n\nHe flicked the cigarette out the window and smiled. It was time to begin the hunt.\n\nIt was time to introduce himself.\n\n#\n\n'What the fuck are you doing?' Bobby asked, tapping hard on the driver's side window.\n\nThe window slid down. 'Obviously the same thing you're doing,' a red-faced Mark Felding answered with a slow smile.\n\n'Are you kidding me?'\n\nThe reporter shook his head. 'It's a free country. Can't stop the press.'\n\n'Are you fucking kidding me?' Bobby repeated. He ran his hand through his hair. 'I can't believe this.'\n\n'I'm not doing anything illegal, am I? Just following a lead to see where it takes me, is all. Just minding my business, Agent Dees. Just trying to catch some news as it's made. You don't like to return my phone calls unless I got something for you, so seeing as there's no quid pro quo with information, I have to do what I gotta do.'\n\n'How did you know?'\n\n'Do you think your boys can walk around without anybody caring any more? Face it, you're famous, now, Agent Dees. You're free game, like Brangelina.'\n\nBobby tried hard to control his anger. It took every bit of restraint to not reach inside that car, take Felding by the throat and toss him across the parking lot. It wasn't that he didn't want to do it, he just knew it would draw attention, which is the one thing he couldn't have happen. 'What the hell is more important to you people? Getting your face on the TV or stopping this guy before he gets his hands on another girl?'\n\nThe guy didn't even hesitate. 'Frankly, both. And I know you don't like to hear that.'\n\nBobby looked at his watch: 4:07. 'You and your camera are going to fuck this up. Get out of here.'\n\n'Look, I don't want to fuck this up for you. I don't. I want to see this guy caught. Just let me sit here, I'll be quiet. I'll be good. I won't even pick up a camera,' he begged. 'Only if he shows. And only if there's an arrest. Fair? If anything goes down \u2013 just let me have the story. That's all I want. The story. If it's over tonight, I want to be the one who gets it. He started it with me, it should end with me. It's only fitting.'\n\n'I am not making deals with you.'\n\n'Can you give me a name? Details? What you know about him?'\n\n'Your face is on the news every night. If he sees you, Felding, it's over.'\n\n'Only if he watches Channel Six,' Mark added with a smile. 'And apparently, need I remind you, our psycho has a thing for you as well, Agent Dees. If he sees _your_ face, I would imagine it's over, too.'\n\n'Get the fuck out of here. I won't tell you again \u2013'\n\nThe radio crackled to life. 'Possible subject approaching. Black four-door Lexus.' It was the LEACH eyeball.\n\n'ES,' came the response. It was Lou Morick, another LEACH operative. 'It's a Lexus ES. Maybe \u203203, \u203204.'\n\nLEACH, PBSO and the Picasso task force members were all on the same surveillance channel, so there was no need to go through dispatch or talk radio-to-radio. Chatter came fast and furious.\n\n'Tinted windows. Can't get a look at the driver. Moving slow through the parking lot. Can you get a tag, Mike?'\n\n'Florida tag. X-ray, Seven, Zebra, Delta, Three, Seven. Can't read an expiration date from here.'\n\n'OK, 1622, run that,' Kleiner, the PBSO Special Investigations Lieutenant who was running ops from the NW corner, ordered.\n\n'10-4.'\n\n_Shit_. It was happening now and he was babysitting. 'You move from this spot, you pick up a camera and I will arrest you for obstruction. This isn't _Cops_. This isn't some fucking TV show.' Bobby called in. 'FYI. I've got a reporter sitting here in front of the Family Dollar.'\n\n'What the hell?' It was Kleiner.\n\n'Who's that, Bobby?' Zo asked. 'It ain't that weasel Felding, is it?'\n\nThe eyeball broke in. 'Natalie's approaching the passenger-side window. 10-23.'\n\n10-23 meant stand-by.\n\n'She's not miked, so watch for the signal,' Morick cautioned.\n\n'This better not be on the news,' Mike Hicks grumbled over the air. 'This ain't _Dateline.'_\n\n'Passenger window's coming down. Still no visual.' 'She's talking to the subject.'\n\n'Plate's back. It's a stolen tag. Comes back to a black Benz.'\n\n'OK. Wait for the signal,' Kleiner ordered. 'If he runs, stop him, but until then let's see what he does. Let Natalie do her magic.'\n\n'I've got a marked PBSO unit turning off westbound 45th into the McDonald's parking lot,' reported Ciro.\n\n'Who's that? Is it one of ours?' asked Hicks.\n\n'She's playing with her bandana,' said the eyeball.\n\n'That's the signal.'\n\n'Is it off? She's supposed to take it off,' said another.\n\n'Oh shit, the cruiser just lit him up! What the hell?'\n\nThe cruiser had pulled up behind the Lexus and put on his lights. It looked like he was doing a traffic stop.\n\n'Who the fuck is that?' Hicks yelled.\n\n'Perv's gone! Subject just high-tailed it out of the lot and is fleeing eastbound on 45th!'\n\n'Shit! All units engage! Do not let this one get away!' Kleiner shouted.\n\nBobby ran back to his car, yelling into his radio as he ran. 'Ronny, get in the air! Subject's eastbound on 45th in a black Lexus ES. PBSO, 10-9 that tag number!'\n\n_All he could see was Katy's face_.\n\n'X-Ray, Seven, Zebra, Delta, Three, Seven. Copy?' repeated the eyeball.\n\n_Her sweet face on the mutilated body of Jane Doe_.\n\n'Copy that,' came Ronny Martin, the FDLE copter pilot. 'I'm going up.'\n\n_Lying on the metal gurney, chains wrapped around her throat_.\n\n'He's turning northbound on Australian...'\n\n'Don't lose him!' shouted Bobby into his radio as he reached his car. He hopped into the Grand Prix, threw it in drive and spun out of the parking lot, barely missing a screaming lady pushing a baby in a shopping cart. He joined the undercover units that were racing down 45th and Australian, lights and sirens blaring. The police cruiser must have called into PBSO dispatch for assistance; he could hear sirens approaching from every direction.\n\n'Train's coming!' Hicks barked over the radio. 'Damn it! FYI boys, gate's down! I just made it through. If you ain't over the tracks now, it ain't happening! Lou's right behind me \u2013 we're gonna need marked units to meet us on the north side at Michigan or Martin Luther King, if this guy keeps heading north and don't stop!'\n\nBobby could see the red-and-white crossing gates some three hundred feet ahead. They were down. If he didn't make it across the tracks now, he'd never catch up. If it was a CSX or East Coast Railway freight train, it could be five minutes or more before all the cars passed and he finally got through. And if Hicks and Morick didn't get the guy to stop, or he got on to I95...\n\nRush hour was here. A thick line of cars had already stopped at the gate. He crossed into the southbound lanes of Australian, which were empty, thanks to the closed gate. He could hear the deafening train whistle, warning of its imminent approach.\n\n_Do not let this one get away. Not this one_.\n\nHe cut in front of the Ford Explorer stopped at the gate. He could see the train coming upon him on his right. It was maybe fifty feet off. Maybe less. There was no time to question his decision and no time to turn back. There was no time to even say a quick prayer. With his blue lights on, he gunned the gas. He could almost hear the collective gasp of all the drivers lined up at the crossing.\n\nThere was also no time to marvel that he'd made it across. He wiped the sweat out of his eyes. The approaching train had thinned northbound traffic, but he had lost time. Morick and Hicks were a block or more up.\n\nHicks came on the radio. 'He's clocking sixty-five!'\n\n'What's the limit?' Kleiner asked.\n\n'Ah, thirty, I think.'\n\n'He's weaving into oncoming! He's freaking nuts!' Lou Morick barked. 'It's rush hour!' 'This guy's gonna kill somebody!'\n\n'He just ran the light at Martin Luther!' Morick yelled. 'Just totally ran it! Where the hell are those marked units? We're gonna need a roadblock. This guy's not stopping for nobody!'\n\n'Bike down! There's a black chopper in the intersection \u2013 he just spun out and he's down!' said Hicks. 'Get an ambulance out here to MLK and Australian! Damn, I gotta stop! This guy's pretty bad!'\n\n'That's it.' It was Kleiner. 'Don't take any more civilians with you, Lou. It's four thirty in the afternoon, there's too many of them. Terminate the chase. We'll get units at Blue Heron and stop him there!'\n\nAustralian ended at Blue Heron Boulevard, a mile or so up. But a left on to Blue Heron led to I95. The interstate was less than two miles away. It would be open road if the Lexus got on the highway.\n\nHigh-speed chases were against every department's policy. Civilians or cops inevitably got hurt or killed, property got destroyed, lawsuits got filed. Anything higher than fifteen miles over the speed limit was generally considered high speed, and sixty-five miles an hour through a heavily trafficked commercial area definitely fit the bill. High-speed chases could only be approved by command staff. And they normally weren't.\n\nBut PBSO Lieutenant Lex Kleiner wasn't in Bobby's chain of command. He wasn't even in his department. Rock beat scissors and FDLE trumped the Palm Beach County Sheriff's Office. Morick dropped back. Bobby flew past him.\n\nAt the sound of approaching sirens, drivers either pulled over to the right or just stopped where they were, like panicked deer. A crazed driver being chased by a symphony of sirens and flashing lights had turned the already thickening traffic on Australian into a steel obstacle course. Bobby weaved in and out of the cars and oncoming traffic. The Lexus was now in sight.\n\n'I'm right behind him; he's not stopping at Heron,' Bobby said as the Lexus blew another light and went right past a marked unit, turning on to Blue Heron. 'He's gonna go for 95. Have a swarm at both the on and off ramps. Do not let him get on 95!' If they could block him in and force him to run, there wasn't far for him to go. Just gas stations and businesses, and those could be locked down.\n\n'Who the fuck is this?' barked Kleiner. 'I said terminate. It's too dangerous!'\n\n'I don't work for you,' Bobby replied.\n\nThe Lexus suddenly shirked sharply to the left and went around a stopped FedEx truck.\n\nBobby slammed on his brakes and went to follow, but then the world just exploded, right there in front of him.\n\n#\n\nBobby heard it before he saw it. An incredibly loud bang that went on forever, the sound of metal ripping into metal, glass imploding. Then a thunderous, deafening boom that actually shook his windows. A twisted, thick column of heavy black smoke poured into the air in front of the FedEx truck.\n\n'Holy Shit!' came a stunned voice on the radio.\n\n'I've got a fireball rising west of Australian at Blue Heron,' Ronny reported. 'Heavy smoke. I can't see.'\n\n'Dees? Bobby?' It was Zo, calling him over the radio. 'Where the hell are you? I'm coming up on Blue Heron...'\n\nBobby was already out of his car, running past stopped SUVs and pick-ups.\n\n'He hit a fucking tanker!' It was Lou Morick.\n\nGaping, shocked civilians stumbled out of their cars to get a look. Then ran the other way.\n\n'Oh shit! The truck must've pulled out of a station and he just, wham!' Morick yelled. 'He hit him head on! The tanker flipped! He's on top of the Lexus! There's another car, too, I think. He \u2013 God, he's \u2013 they're both in flames!'\n\nA wall of thick black smoke had engulfed the roadway. Bright orange flames licked at the sky, thirty feet in the air. The trucker, bloody and stunned, stumbled out of his overturned cab.\n\nThe heat was intense, scorching, even ten yards back. Skin-melting hot. A loud pop sounded from behind the curtain of black, sending another fireball into the air. A marked PBSO unit pulled up. Sirens screamed from every direction. It was hard to see through the billowing smoke. Bobby ran around the scene, trying to see past the smoke.\n\n'Oh my God! Look!' a lady screamed. 'He's alive! There's a man in the car! He needs help!'\n\nThe wind, kicked up perhaps by the FDLE 'copter above, thinned the black cloud just enough to see the twisted mass of metal and flames. The Lexus was all but gone. The tanker had T-boned and fallen on the sedan's passenger side, completely crushing it. But there in the shattered windshield on what was left of the driver's side, there was a bloody face. A hand was banging on the glass.\n\nBobby rushed forward into the heat, but a body grabbed him from behind in a firm bear hug and pulled him back. 'No way,' Zo shouted in his ear. 'No way! You can't save him, Shep! You can't do it!'\n\nBobby struggled against the arms that held him tight and pulled him further away. The distorted face in the splintered glass got smaller and smaller, obscured by a veil of black smoke.\n\n'It's going up, Bobby!' Ciro yelled in his other ear. 'Ya gotta get back!'\n\nSeconds later, the tanker did just that. Flames completely engulfed both car and truck. The screaming face disappeared.\n\nThe rest of the LEACH task force and Special Investigations detectives were pulling up, spilling out of their cars now, staring at the inferno that blazed before them. No one said anything. The air stunk of fuel.\n\n'Fire\/Rescue is responding. ETA two minutes. Are you requesting an ambulance?' came the monotone voice of the dispatcher over the radio of the PBSO uniform who was standing next to Bobby and Zo.\n\n'Ho, boy. Ambulance? An ambulance ain't gonna help that guy,' Mike Hicks said with a chuckle of disbelief. He looked over at Bobby, Zo and Ciro and shook his head. 'Our boy is toast.'\n\n#\n\n'Was it him?' Mike Hicks asked.\n\nThe entire county, it seemed, had descended on the Wendy's on the corner of Blue Heron and Australian, using it as a staging area for emergency response units, Florida Highway Patrol, Florida HazMat clean-up crews, and investigators with the Florida Department of Environmental Protection (DEP). Commandeering the entire back section of the restaurant were the LEACH and Picasso task force members, and the PBSO Special Investigations detectives who had assisted on the now-deemed disastrous meet-and-greet. Reporters from every station, including CNN, FOX and MSNBC, buzzed around outside, held back by uniforms and yards of yellow crime-scene tape, which seemed to stretch the entire length of the block, where firefighters still worked to put out the tanker explosion, which had claimed another two cars. Mark Felding, of course, was first in line, somberly reporting the breaking developments with a pained look on his handsome face. He had even managed to find some ash and smudge it across his sweaty face, probably in the hope that viewers might think he had barely escaped the flames himself. His ratings would be through the roof.\n\nNatalie nodded her head slowly in response to Mike's question. 'I think so. I'll have to say yes. Everything happened so fast. I was looking for a Beamer when he first pulled in, so I didn't even go up to the car. But he stopped and stayed there for a while, parked. Then he lowered his window and called me over and we started to talk. The cruiser pulled in and he got real nervous all of a sudden. Real nervous, looking in his rear-view. Then he said he had to go. I tried to keep him, but then the cruiser put his lights on and that was it \u2013 the guy ran. Almost took my freaking foot off, too. Five minutes later, he's dead. Whoo,' she said, her voice cracking. 'What a day at the office.'\n\n'Did he use the name Captain?' Bobby pressed. 'What about Zach? Did he use the name Janizz?'\n\n'We never got that far. He asked me if I was waiting for him, and I said, \"Guess so.\" And he said that's real good, 'cause he's been waiting on me all his life. He said he was glad he waited, too, 'cause he wanted to have some fun. He asked me if I like fun, and I said, \"What do you think?\" He said, \"Let's find out.\" I asked him, \"You the Captain?\" You know, teasing? And he laughed, like he was. Then he asked me if I wanted to go for a ride. That's when he spotted the cruiser and things went crazy.'\n\n'What did he look like?' Bobby asked.\n\n'He was white, a white guy between twenty-five and thirty, I think. Light brown hair, not quite shoulder-length. Wavy, I think. He was wearing aviator sunglasses, so it was hard to tell. I didn't get the greatest look, to tell you the truth.'\n\n'What about the car?' Bobby turned and asked Kleiner, who sat in the back of the booth, with his arms crossed in front of him. 'Anything?'\n\n'The car's gone. The tanker was carrying a full load of premium. The fire melted the road, it was so hot. We ain't gonna get a VIN, even when whatever's left of the Lexus does cool down enough for us to look at it. The tag came back to a 2006 black Benz C300, registered to a Silvia Montoya of Miami Shores. Car was stolen from her driveway on October second. No leads on that case.'\n\n'So we have no idea who the guy driving the Lexus was? Not a clue?' Zo asked.\n\n'Nope,' Kleiner returned with a shake of his head. 'Not yet. Only thing we know is that he showed up at a scheduled meet, driving a car with stolen plates. And took off as soon as he saw a cop. Sounds like our guy to me. Whether he was your Picasso, I couldn't tell you. That's your investigation.'\n\n'Let's get a sketch artist out to see if your decoy can give us a picture. Did you talk to the uniform?' Bobby asked. 'Why'd he light him up?'\n\n'He'd run his tag. Knew it was stolen.' 'Any reason he ran the tag?'\n\n'To be a ball buster. Saw the guy on Australian looking like a hot shot and gunning for lights. So he ran him. You never know what you're gonna find when you do that,' Kleiner answered defensively.\n\n'Hmmm... case in point. We may never know what we might've found if he hadn't flipped on his fucking lights,' Bobby mused sarcastically.\n\n'And if you hadn't been such a hothead and kept up a high speed, we may not have needed a fucking sketch artist to put together a picture of what the guy used to look like. We might have caught up to him nice and easy without three people going to the hospital and one going to the morgue.'\n\n'Yeah, just like you had those units ready at Heron and Martin Luther. Nice and fucking easy. Maybe we should have just said please when we asked him to pull over the first time.'\n\n'OK, that's enough,' Zo spoke up, his hands raised, separating the two men. 'So, Lex, if your perv \u2013 who's now a stiff \u2013 was The Captain, and The Captain was really our Picasso, how the hell we ever gonna know that for sure?' Zo asked.\n\n'When we don't get any more paintings,' answered Ciro.\n\n'Or bodies,' Bobby said, running a hand through his hair. 'Is there enough left of him to do DNA?'\n\n'They pulled him out first,' Hicks replied. 'But he's mostly gone. Torso's left \u2013 it's like a rare steak. You can get DNA, though. If he's been in the system and given a sample, then you might get an ID off that.'\n\nConvictions for certain offenses in the state of Florida, as in some other states, required defendants to donate a swab of themselves to the FDLE DNA bank. Those crimes included any sex offense, burglary, robbery, homicide and home invasion.\n\nBobby nodded. 'Someone's gotta miss this guy. A mom, a sis, a girlfriend, a brother, a wife. Hopefully that someone will call up the local police department and report him missing. Once we have an ID, we'll work from there to see if we can connect him to either The Captain or Picasso.'\n\n'OK. And if he is, or was, Picasso, what about...' Ciro's voice trailed off. He caught himself too late.\n\nBut Bobby finished the thought for him. 'The girls who are still missing? We find them. Fast. That's why we need an ID. We'll take apart the guy's life, piece by motherfucking piece, until we can trace every step he's made since he could walk. If there are any more alive \u2013 if Lainey and, well, any others are still alive, then he has them somewhere. And there has to be some sort of connection in the guy's everyday life that will lead us there.'\n\n'I don't know what's a better scenario, then,' Hicks wondered aloud. 'To know Picasso's dead and scattered wherever the wind blows and that the nightmare's over before his body count got close to Bundy's or Cupid's, yet not know where he stashed the rest of his vics \u2013'\n\n'Or to know he's alive and kicking and laughing at us on the news,' Zo finished, motioning outside the restaurant's plate-glass windows at the media circus assembled in the parking lot, led by Channel Six's latest and greatest star.\n\n'Some choice,' Mike Hicks muttered, rising to leave.\n\n'Yeah, some choice,' Bobby repeated quietly, watching as the Palm Beach County Medical Examiner's van slowly navigated through the mess on Blue Heron, pausing at the red light just long enough for the throng of cameras to come running as it passed by on its way back to the office.\n\n#\n\nWhen Lainey was little, she never had any playmates. Not because she smelled or no one liked her or anything, but because after her parents divorced and before Todd and her mom had moved out to Coral Springs, she'd grown up mostly living with her grandma in her old-age condo in Delray and there were never any kids around to play with. Her mom worked and there was no time for play dates; Liza never wanted to play with her and she never wanted to play with Bradley. So usually it was just her and her Barbies and their Paradise Pool Playset out behind the condo's clubhouse for hours on end, and that was fine. In fact, Lainey liked playing alone. And she liked reading alone, or watching TV alone. She never minded being alone, unlike some of her friends who always had to have somebody standing there next to them like a shadow.\n\nNow Lainey hated being alone.\n\nShe was back in the small, smelly room again. He had put some more dog chow and water in the corner, but only a portion of what he'd left last time and she was hungry again. Even though she'd learned from the last time to ration, he hadn't really left much at all \u2013 just a couple of handfuls of kibble. And he'd been gone a really, really, really long time. There was no way to tell for sure, but it felt like even longer than before. She had started to think that he might not ever be coming back. Or if he was, he wasn't coming back for her. And like before, she had started to wonder what it would feel like to starve to death.\n\nMore than food or Coke or milkshakes, more than sunshine, more than even her mom or Liza or Molly, right now, more than anything or anyone, she missed Katy. She missed talking to her, hearing her voice. She missed Katy making her feel like everything was gonna be OK. She missed her friend. And deep down she knew she'd probably never, ever hear her voice again.\n\nThere could be a hundred rooms like the one she was in, a hundred walls with cold, horrible chains on them. A maze of dungeons and torture chambers, like the intricate labyrinth that existed underneath the Roman Coliseum that she'd just learned about in Social Studies. Like Katy had said, there were others \u2013 other girls \u2013 somewhere nearby. One, two, twenty \u2013 she had no idea how many. Sometimes she could hear their far-off, muffled screams or sobs, but there was no one in the wall next to her any more. No one to talk to or listen to. No one to help stop her from going absolutely crazy.\n\nAnd him... The Devil. The Freak. He hated her now. He wouldn't talk to her at all any more \u2013 not so much as a whisper or a grunt \u2013 and he didn't sit in the room watching her like he used to. That made her happy, but it also made her scared. She hadn't heard from Katy since he'd apparently walked in on her and found the big hole she'd dug. And although she tried not to think about what had happened to her friend, banishing that thought completely from her mind just wasn't working. Every time she laid her head down and closed her eyes, she saw the whole horrible scene play out over and over again in her mind: A pretty girl with dirty hands, her slim body slipping through a tiny, dirty hole into the bright yellow sunshine just on the other side, like Alice in Wonderland. With her legs already through, kicking on the green grass outside, she just had to squeeze her torso and head through and she would be free. But the Devil had found her, and he'd pulled her back into hell with his stubby, filthy, calloused hands, covered in wiry black hairs, that crawled over his fingers like a dozen Daddy Long Legs. And inch by inch, Katy slowly got pulled back in. She kicked and she screamed and she pleaded and she begged, but it was no use. The Devil was too strong and too angry. The hole just got smaller and smaller as she came back through, until finally the sunshine disappeared and blackness filled Lainey's thoughts once again.\n\nHe had been so mad after Katy was gone. Scary, scary mad. Screaming and throwing things about everywhere. What would happen if he got mad again? Would he do to her what he had done to Katy?\n\nLainey didn't want to find out.\n\nSo she hadn't dared take off the bandages on her eyes this time, no matter how long he was gone. And she didn't dare dig another tunnel, no matter how close she might be to the sunshine on the other side.\n\nShe had given up on superpowers and superheroes that didn't exist. She just sat there, rocking herself in the darkness, missing her friend and praying for the nightmare to finally end.\n\n#\n\nThe fallout from the Palm Beach sting was bad. If the director was looking for a reason to get Bobby out of Crimes Against Children and into pushing paper for the Fraud Squad, he'd found it with a high-speed chase that had ended in a death and three injured. Even though Bobby and everyone else out there on Friday \u2013 including Lex Kleiner and the LEACH operatives \u2013 knew that Bobby Dees chasing the bad guy an extra mile didn't cause the accident, it was just the excuse Foxx needed. Call him what you will, Captain or Picasso or John Doe was gonna have that accident whether Bobby was on his tail or not, because he was gunning for I95 and he wasn't gonna slow down till he made it on the interstate. But a reason was all RD Foxx needed, even if it wasn't a good one. Bobby had immediately been placed on leave until after January 1. After that, he was probably out of CAC and he was most definitely not going to be a supervisor any more. Most likely he would be transporting governors for a year or two, or chasing down bad checks until Foxx ascended to some throne in Tallahassee and Bobby was released from purgatory by the next RD.\n\nZo was now heading up the Picasso investigation, assisted by SAS Frank Veso, who was officially _numero uno_ in line for Bobby's job come January 1. But when Foxx found out that Zo had allowed Bobby to stay on Picasso after realizing that Bobby's missing daughter was a possible Picasso victim, the shit had really hit the fan. Zo's future status as a Miami ASAC was now in question. Talk was going around that once Picasso was officially closed, he would be demoted to an SAS and sent to Tallahassee for a year or so to do penance. Even though he insisted he didn't give a shit, Bobby knew he did. And for that he felt bad.\n\nBut the worst form of punishment, Bobby quickly realized, was being sent home to do nothing. Nothing at all. The wait for any scrap of information was agonizing, the inability to run leads or interview witnesses beyond frustrating. There had been no further contact from Picasso and the identity of the subject in the car that had tried to pick up the Palm Beach under-cover officer was still unknown. That was all the information he got, and it wasn't enough. Because Bobby, of all people, was acutely aware that somewhere out there might be the undiscovered victim or victims of a madman, crying out for help and hearing no reply, and there was nothing whatsoever he could do about it. Bobby could now sympathize with how the parents of the victims on his cases had felt all these years \u2013 helpless.\n\nFive days of hell later, on Thanksgiving Eve, of all days, the phone call he'd been waiting for finally came.\n\n'We got a DNA match on our barbequed pervert.' It was Zo, calling on his cell.\n\nBobby stepped into the living room and out of earshot of LuAnn, who had just gotten home. She'd bought a turkey from the supermarket for the holiday, but had spent the past ten minutes just staring at it blankly in the kitchen. 'What? When?' he asked.\n\n'Don't run for the car, Bobby. Ciro, Larry and Veso are already at the guy's house. Stephanie Gravano walked the warrants through. Kelly, McCrindle, Carrera and Castronovo are picking apart the neighbors and employers. Everyone's working here. You're off this. I'm telling you what's going on as a friend, because I don't want you sitting around thinking we don't know nothing. That we're not working it. Counting the ticks on your kitchen clock like it's a bomb. So I will keep you informed, because you are a brother and if the roles were reversed I would want to know... I would expect you to tell me.'\n\n'Who is he?' Bobby asked.\n\nZo sighed. 'Name's James Roller, a twenty-eight-year-old white male from Royal Palm Beach. He's got two adult priors: Burglary of a Dwelling in \u203299 and an Attempted Sex Bat in \u203202, for which he spent about eighteen months in state prison. The victim in that case was fifteen. He claimed consensual, the victim didn't agree, and the postal worker who pulled him off of her in the deserted alley apparently got there just in the nick of time. The victim had a spotty past, so the state pled him out. He was released from Raiford in early \u203204. He gave swabs on both crimes, so he popped up in the database as soon as they put him in.'\n\n'I want to \u2013'\n\n'I know what you want to do,' Zo interrupted. 'You're on leave right now, so you're not gonna do shit. Everyone is working on this. Everyone. We'll find her if we can. The boys are picking apart his duplex as we speak and interviewing his baby mama. By five we'll know all there ever was to know about this guy.'\n\n'What does he look like?'\n\n'Just like the undercover described: brown hair, brown eyes, five-ten, a hundred and eighty-five pounds.'\n\n'What did they find at the house? Anything yet?'\n\n'He lived alone. So far there's just mayo and beer in the fridge. No computer at either his house or the girlfriend's, but we think he might've surfed the web at the local library \u2013 which is around the corner from his crib. Or, the more likely scenario was he used a laptop, and that laptop was in the car with him and it's now melted into the asphalt.'\n\n'Paints? Pictures? Was he an art student? Who the hell is this guy? There's got to be more, Zo.'\n\n'We pulled up a work history and he worked at a Pearl Paint in Fort Lauderdale back in the late nineties. But give me till five to get you answers. Nothing screams Picasso yet, but nothing eliminates him, either. We're building it up, one piece at a time. He probably had a whole secret studio someplace. We'll find it, Bobby. If it's out there, we'll find it. And if he has Katy, we'll find her, too.'\n\nBobby hung up the phone and punched the wall hard. Unfortunately, the pain in his hand didn't do anything to ease the pain in his heart. And now he had a hole in his living-room wall. LuAnn stared at him from the doorway that led into the kitchen.\n\n'They have a name,' Bobby said quietly, knowing from the look on her face that she'd heard everything. 'He's out of Royal Palm Beach, up in Palm Beach County. James Roller. He's twenty-eight. He's a sex offender.'\n\nLuAnn sucked in a breath and her body started to shake. The coffee cup she held in her hand spilled large drops on to the wood floor. 'Are you going in?' she whispered.\n\n'I'm on leave. I was told to stay away.'\n\n'You're not going to stay away, are you? You're going to finish this, aren't you?'\n\n'Yes. Yes, I am.'\n\nHe crossed the room and hugged her. She buried her head in his chest and started to cry, something she'd done an awful lot this past week.\n\n'I need to know for sure,' she whispered. 'I don't want someone to just think it was him. I need to know for sure...'\n\n'Ssshhh,' he answered, stroking her hair. 'I'll find out, Lu. We'll know. Either way, we'll know.'\n\n'I can't, I just can't... I need to get out of here, Bobby.'\n\n'If it is him, the boys out front will be sent home and you can go out.' Since the flower delivery, there'd been a BSO uniform assigned to watch their house and LuAnn twenty-four hours a day. Even Foxx in all his vindictiveness had not pulled the detail. 'You can go back to work, get back to normal.' The word sounded strange. Nothing would ever be normal again.\n\n'If they find her... if she's... dead...' LuAnn said, swallowing the word. 'I want to move. I don't want to be here any more. Here. Around _this.'_\n\nBobby wasn't quite sure how LuAnn meant that. Six weeks ago, he would've thought that 'here' definitely included wherever he was. Things had been better between them since LuAnn's concussion, but now, listening to her, he wasn't so sure she felt the same way. He looked at her. 'Don't go there.'\n\n'I have to. I... it's a year she's been missing. A year. This Picasso has killed four girls. I have to be prepared for what I know is coming. And even if you don't find her body, I can't hope any more. I'm through with it. It tears me apart. And I can't be around,' she paused and looked around the living room, _'this_ any more.'\n\nHe nodded slowly. 'Does \"this\" include me?'\n\nShe shook her head softly and he held his breath. Everything was collapsing around him. His life was falling apart and there was nothing he could do to stop it. His job, his career, his daughter... It was only fitting that his marriage would end here and now, too.\n\n'Just you and me,' she whispered. 'I want it to be us again. I want it to be the way it was before everything went wrong. I want to start fresh. I can't look at the pity faces any more \u2013 at work, on a jog, at the grocery store. I can't look at her room any more. All I see are ghosts, Bobby.'\n\nHe clutched her to him, feeling her warm breath on his neck. He kissed the top of her head. There was nothing left to keep him here, either. 'We'll make it right again, LuAnn. I'll make it right.'\n\nHis cell rang. He didn't recognize the number, but picked it up anyway. 'Dees.' LuAnn walked back into the kitchen, wiping her eyes.\n\n'Agent Dees, this is Dr Terrence Lynch from the Broward County Medical Examiner's Office. How are you today?'\n\nLoaded question, so he ignored it. 'Yes, Dr Lynch. What's up?'\n\n'I wanted to discuss the findings on the fingernail scrapings of Jane Doe that I just got back. In addition to what was found under the nails, there was also a fair amount of debris embedded in what remained of the fleshy pads of her fingertips. I was intrigued by your suggestion that her injuries were self-inflicted \u2013 a result, perhaps, of her digging her way out of something or someplace. You expressed that time is of the essence \u2013 that your Picasso may be holding other victims, and that the information from Jane Doe could potentially prove very valuable in finding them \u2013 so I walked the tests through myself. As you know, lab and toxicology results can sometimes take months to come back.'\n\n'I appreciate that,' Bobby replied.\n\n'You were correct, Agent Dees, the debris was soil. But that's not a one-size-fits-all definition. Soil has many different characteristics, as you can imagine, depending on where it's from. These characteristics, including texture, structure and color, are all examined to determine what classification order the soil falls into. I know this is a bit involved \u2013 soil study is, believe it or not, a science unto itself. Suffice to say, a specimen was rushed to the Soil & Water Science Department at the University of Florida, which classified it as a histosol \u2013 a soil comprised primarily of organic material. Wabasso fine sand, in fact. A sandy, siliceous, hyperthermic Alfic Alaquod.'\n\n'You're losing me.'\n\n'With a high phosphorus and nitrogen content.'\n\n'You're still losing me.'\n\n'Phosphorus is a fertilizer typically used in sugar-cane production. Sugar cane, as you know, is a big business here in South Florida. US Sugar alone farms some 180,000 acres in Palm Beach, Hendry, and Glades counties. Throughout the state, various sugar companies farm over 400,000 acres. That amount of ground to cover wasn't going to help you very much. So I thought to look for pesticides. Or I should say, I had Dr Annabelle Woods, our chief toxicologist, look for pesticides that are peculiar to sugar-cane farming. While it did require Dr Woods to bring along a pillow to the office for a couple of late nights, cane is pretty hearty and so there are not too many pesticides that are commonly used. And she found just what I was looking for. Carbofuran and cyfluthrin \u2013 two chemicals that remain present in soil for a substantial period of time after application.'\n\n'How substantial?'\n\nLuAnn came back in the living room with an icepack and a towel and carefully wrapped his hand, which had started to swell.\n\n'Studies show it can take up to five years for either chemical to break down in histosol. The muck quality of the soil traps the chemicals, not allowing them to flush out.'\n\n'There you go again with the fancy words.'\n\n'The good news is, usage of either of these pesticides must be registered with the Environmental Protection Agency. So I checked with the EPA for you. Carbofuran, which is used to control wireworm infestations, was applied to approximately 2,000 acres of sugar-cane crops last year in the state of Florida.'\n\nDr Lynch just moved to the top slot of favorite MEs. 'So Jane Doe was being held on a sugar-cane farm?'\n\n'Or where the run-off was for a sugar-cane plant. Finding out which 2,000 acres were treated was apparently a much more involved process for the assistant at the EPA, so you'll have to call them yourself for that. But 2,000 acres is far better than 400,000 acres, I think.'\n\n'Much. You're quite the detective, Dr Lynch.'\n\n'Just trying to help out. How's your investigation going?'\n\nObviously, either the doctor didn't read the papers or he was too polite to ask if the headlines bashing FDLE and its handling of the Picasso investigation were true. 'We're looking at a suspect in Royal Palm Beach,' Bobby replied.\n\nOn that note, LuAnn quietly disappeared upstairs.\n\n'Well, you're in the right area, I suppose. Clewiston is the headquarters of US Sugar, and that's just west of Royal Palm on the Palm Beach\u2013Hendry county line. I believe there are a lot of farms out there. So, where do you want me to fax this report?'\n\nBobby gave him his home fax and hung up. Then he called Lynch's contact at the EPA to try and track down which farms had the chemicals carbofuran and cyfluthrin applied to them in the past five years. The doctor was right. Specific farm information required searching through certain records \u2013 some of which were in storage \u2013 by hand. Even with a priority rush, it could take days to get that information.\n\nHe looked out the window at the BSO cruiser stationed prominently in front of his house.\n\n_I can't look at the pity faces any more \u2013 at work, on a jog, at the grocery store. I can't look at her room any more. All I see are ghosts, Bobby_.\n\nBelle Glade. Sugar-cane crops. US Sugar. Royal Palm Beach \u2013 where Zo said the suspect James Roller resided \u2013 was only a half-hour east of Belle Glade. It was all beginning to come together as a picture. An ugly, horrible picture.\n\nHe grabbed his car keys off the coffee table and headed out the door. Like he had promised LuAnn, he was going to finish this. He was going to bring his little girl home.\n\nAnd he wasn't going to do it sitting on his couch.\n\n#\n\nOutside of those who lived in the county, when people thought of Palm Beach, it was images of opulent oceanfront estates like Lago Mar and the Kennedy Compound that immediately came to mind. Maybachs, Bentleys and hundred-foot yachts. Socialites bejeweled in necklaces that were worth more than companies, shopping along ritzy Worth Avenue, or hobnobbing with other Vanderbilts and Astors at charity functions and debutante balls. Picturesque downtown West Palm, its gleaming high-rises nestled right beside the bright blue Atlantic.\n\nWest of the relatively small but famous slice of pricey real estate that ran along Florida's Treasure Coast, there existed the rest of Palm Beach County. And the further west you traveled on Southern Boulevard, the more removed you became from the socialites and their trail of champagne and caviartoting assistants. In fact, once you passed the upper-middle-class equestrian village of Wellington, there was nothing. Nothing but acres and acres of farmland. Green beans, lettuce, celery, sweet corn, sugar cane. Lots and lots of sugar cane. And, courtesy of nearby Glades Correctional Institution, an occasional chain gang.\n\nEventually Southern Boulevard turned into SR 441\/Route 80. After thirty miles of seeing nothing but green stalks of sugar cane and fields of corn waving in the breeze, Bobby finally spotted life. He had entered the blink-and-you-might-miss-it town of Belle Glade \u2013 population 14,906, not counting either the 1,049 inmates housed down the road at Glades Correctional Institution, or the illegal migrant farmworkers who had ditched the census-takers back in 2000. Located on the southeastern shore of Lake Okeechobee, at one time Belle Glade was branded with the not-so-distinguished notoriety of having the highest rate of AIDS infections in the United States, and more recently, the second highest violent crime rate per capita in the country. A weathered brown-and-white sign welcomed Bobby to the city that in 1928 had been blown off the map by a monster hurricane.\n\nWELCOME TO BELLE GLADE. HER SOIL IS HER FORTUNE\n\nHow ironic, Bobby thought, fingering his cell phone, hoping it would ring. It just might be a few grains of her Wabasso fine sand \u2013 a siliceous, hyperthermic Alfic Alaquod \u2013 that would fortuitously bring home the victims of a madman. That might finally lead him to his own daughter. Pam Brody with the EPA had called him back to say that a preliminary record check of the past two years showed a wireworm infestation concentrated in and around farms located near South Bay, South Clewiston, Belle Glade, Vaughn, and Okeelanta. That was still a lot of farmland to cover, but it was also far better than the potential 400,000 acres-plus that stretched across central and southwest Florida. Now he was waiting on the call back with the actual farm names and locations that had registered to apply carbofuran. He knew it wouldn't be a complete list \u2013 some companies and farmers ignored EPA guidelines and used pesticides without registering \u2013 but it would definitely be a start. Bobby still wasn't sure where he was going, or exactly what he was looking for \u2013 he just knew that out here in the sugar-cane fields he was one step closer to finding it. And it made him feel like he was at least doing something... that he was no longer quite so helpless.\n\nIf quiet Belle Glade had ever enjoyed a heyday, it was probably in the forties or fifties. Tired, dated buildings, fast-food restaurants and half-century-old gas stations abutted Main Street, which ran straight through the center of town. He spotted a few folks on the porch of the local convenience store, sucking down a few Milwaukee's Best's, chatting the day away, probably like they did every day. Down side streets, Bobby could see rundown duplexes, apartment complexes, and single-family homes. FOR SALE signs littered more than a few front lawns. More than one business had shuttered, and besides the convenience store, most of the open ones looked dead.\n\nHe drove to the Belle Glade Marina and Campground where Ray Coon's body had been found under a banyan tree. If he hadn't had a police report to guide him to the exact location Ray's lifeblood had drained out of him, he never would have known where to look. It was a peaceful spot. Through a tangle of trees, you could see the lake in the distance. Remote enough for a romantic picnic or a brutal murder. Bobby thought of Jane Doe's bloody fingertips. She'd been clawing herself out of someplace. Out of her tomb, as it turned out. Far away from a scenic lake and a shaded banyan tree. And she had been brutally tortured in the most inhumane ways before her murderer finally strangled her with the chains he hung her from. She didn't get a merciful shot through the back of the head. Ray Coon had been a drug dealer and gangbanger with a criminal record. He carried brass knuckles and had bragged to his buddies in the Mafia Boys that he would take out a cop if he was asked to, knowing his own girlfriend's father was an FDLE agent. The anger that swelled within him left a bitter taste in Bobby's mouth. As much as he wanted to exact revenge on Ray Coon for taking his daughter from him, the boy's blood was long gone, his bones sent back to his mom for a proper burial. There was nothing left to see here in this pretty park, and, unfortunately, no satisfaction to be gained by seeing it. Meanwhile, Jane Doe sat in cold storage back in Broward, waiting for someone to claim her. For someone to even notice she was missing. Neither life nor death seemed very fair.\n\nHe left the park and drove down the winding two-lane roads that wrapped around cane field after cane field, looking for exactly what he still didn't know. Down US 27 and through South Bay \u2013 another blink-and-you'll-miss-it migrant town, population 3,859 \u2013 and then swinging back north via 827 and Okeelanta, and then back through Belle Glade.\n\nBy four p.m. the sun had begun its slow descent over the fields, bathing the sky in a smoky purple hue that was tinged with streaks of tangerine. Pick-up trucks filled with dirty, sweaty men and women passed him on their way home to their cramped shanties and families. A few smiled and chatted, but most looked straight ahead at nothing and no one, a completely blank expression on their tired faces. Harvesting the sugar cane would begin in earnest after December, although some farms had begun already. Bobby started back up Main Street, heading toward 441 and, eventually, to civilization. Hopefully the EPA would call him in the morning with more information. Hopefully Zo would call him tonight to tell him that they'd found something at James Roller's house. Something incriminating. Something damning. Something that would confirm that it was this guy Roller all along. Something that would dismiss the nagging, heavy feeling in his gut that told him the nightmare was far from over. He'd tried Zo all day, but he wasn't picking up and he wasn't calling back \u2013 probably because there was still nothing to report. Probably because nothing besides a sex-offender past and a job in an art supply store screamed 'Picasso' yet, and he couldn't bear to tell Bobby that. For his part, Bobby had yet to share Dr Lynch's findings with him, but that was because he knew Zo would have forbidden him to come out here, just as he had banned him from Roller's house.\n\nHe pulled over to find the bottle of Advil in the glove compartment. In addition to the throbbing headache he was now sporting, his hand had swelled considerably. Damn. He'd probably hair-lined something. He downed three caplets dry. When he pulled back on the road, a rusted tin LODGING sign caught his eye just a few yards ahead with an oversized arrow directing him to turn right. His first thought as he passed was that it was strange to have a hotel right out here in the middle of absolutely nowhere and absolutely nothing. It must have been a leftover from the heyday, because who the hell would stay all the way out here?\n\nThen he saw the name of the hotel, partially hidden from view by a sea of waving green sugar-cane stalks, and he slammed on his brakes.\n\n#\n\nBobby turned down Curlee Road but saw nothing, just acres and acres of lush green. He followed it for a few miles. There were no other signs. So he turned back and then turned down another road, then another, frantically driving through a towering cane maze in the fading light of day, heading deeper and deeper into the heart of nowhere.\n\nThen he saw it, about a mile or so up from the last turn, which, if he remembered right, had put him on Sugarland Road. He stopped the car and got out, staring up at a ramshackle, two-storied Victorian-style house that was set back maybe five hundred feet from the road by a long, winding dirt drive that was overgrown with weeds and brush. Surrounding the home on all three sides were acres and acres of sugar cane. In fact, cane stalks had crept up on the house itself, almost completely overtaking the yard, like in, appropriately enough, some freaky, sci-fi horror flick. In the light breeze, their rustling leaves sounded like soft, gossipy whispers. There were no lights on, no rockers on the warped wooden wrap-around porch, no pitchers of home-made lemonade set up around a late afternoon checkers game. From all appearances, including the boards that covered a couple of the home's many windows, the house had been shuttered for years.\n\nIt was like having d\u00e9j\u00e0-vu. A cold chill ran up Bobby's spine. He had seen this same house before. A simple black-and-white sign dangled by a single hook, mounted on a post that at one time had been stuck in the middle of a front lawn. It swung with a creak in the wind.\n\nTHE HOME SWEET HOME INN\n\nBobby's mouth went dry and his heartbeat sped up. The matches. In the bar that night after Gale Sampson's body was found at the Regal All-Suites, the matches on the table that Mark Felding was spinning said THE HOME SWEET HOME INN. The picture on them was of this house. The matches had made Bobby think about his honeymoon in Vermont with LuAnn.\n\nMark Felding.\n\nBobby's chest grew tight and right then and there he knew. He knew what was in that house. He knew what had happened in that house.\n\nHe speed-dialed Zo. This time he picked up.\n\n'It's not five yet. Stop calling me,' Zo said.\n\n'I found him.'\n\n'What?'\n\n'I found him,' Bobby repeated. 'It's Felding. He's our Picasso.'\n\n'What the hell? What are you talking about?'\n\n'I'm at a deserted bed and breakfast out in Belle Glade \u2013'\n\n'Belle Glade?'\n\n'Yeah, Belle Glade. I got a call from Lynch at the Broward MEs this morning. Toxicology traced soil found under Jane Doe's nails to sugar-cane fields. Pesticide tests narrowed those fields down to Belle Glade, Clewiston, South Bay, Vaughn and Okeelanta. I came out here to see what I could find.'\n\n'Thanks for telling me.'\n\n'You didn't pick up your phone.'\n\n'I told you to stay put,' Zo said with a frustrated sigh.\n\n'No, you told me to stay away from your scene, so I did.'\n\n'You're off this.'\n\n'That doesn't matter any more. I need you and the boys out here now. Are you still in Royal Palm?'\n\n'Yeah.'\n\n'It's only thirty-five minutes. You can do it in twenty with lights on.'\n\n'How the hell do you know it's Felding?'\n\n'I just do. Do a records check on The Home Sweet Home Inn on Sugarland. There'll be a connection to Felding somehow, I'm sure. Do you have press there now? Is Felding there?'\n\n'We have some stragglers, but most picked up camp and went home after they realized we weren't finding nothing. Felding was here earlier, but I don't see him now. Everyone's shutting it down 'cause of the holiday.'\n\nBobby looked up and down the block, which was defined by sugar-cane stalks. No cars in sight. 'He's probably back at the Channel Six studio in Miramar. He's on at six, right? Have BSO pick him up there.'\n\n'On what?' Zo asked. 'What the hell do we have on him but your gut instinct that he's gonna be connected to this house? You haven't explained to me how this house you're watching is even remotely related to this case you're not supposed to be working any more!'\n\n'Just pick him up,' Bobby replied. 'Ask him to come in and talk. Tell him we have some things from Roller's apartment we'd like him to look at. That will get his narcissistic reporter chops drooling. Whatever you do, get him before he runs. I think you'll have all the connections you need once we get in this house.'\n\n'All right, all right. I'm on my way. I'll have Stephanie start on the warrants. You'll have to tell her how you know so much so she can actually get you one.'\n\n'Fuck a warrant. If he's got missing girls in there, we don't need a warrant. I'm certainly not waiting around six hours.'\n\n'Don't do shit, Shep. Just sit tight and wait. We're on our way. And unless you have a good faith reason to believe someone's in that house and that someone is in danger, we're gonna need a warrant.'\n\nBobby hung up the phone, cut the engine and stared up at the house. He tapped impatiently on the steering wheel, his mind racing. It made perfect sense now. Felding was sending himself the portraits \u2013 any trace evidence that did come back to him would be expected, since he handled the paintings. Felding was the first reporter on the Boganes sisters' murder scene in Fort Lauderdale, arriving at either the same time or right after the cops did. Felding was waiting at the McDonald's for Janizz because he had set up the meet. He was The Captain. He was Picasso. It was Felding who had received as much national attention in the press as the killer himself, making a name for himself on the cable news shows as the shocked messenger boy for a madman. Move over Nancy Grace. The faces of the missing runaways that filled the corkboard in Bobby's office flipped through his brain like a card catalogue in a windstorm. Allegra Villenueva. Nikole Krupa. Adrianna Sweet. Eva Wackett. Lainey Emerson. So many missing girls. Too many that weren't even missed.\n\n_Was Katy in there?_\n\nZo and the boys would be here in twenty minutes. All he had to do was sit tight for twenty more minutes. Much as he wanted to rush the door right that second, he knew that it would be foolish to go into the house alone. If the girls were being held in there, there could be booby traps set to prevent them from getting out, or to stop someone else from getting in. There was also a chance that Felding worked with a partner or partners, and even though he might be down at the station working off his fifteen minutes of fame, his buddy could be waiting somewhere in the dark house with a meat cleaver to greet any unwelcome visitors. Serial partnerships were rare, but they notoriously did happen. The Hillside Stranglers. The Chicago Rippers. Henry Lee Lucas and Ottis Toole.\n\nHe watched the sign creak in the strong breeze that had kicked up. Dark clouds were forming in the not so far distance over the unending fields of sugar cane. A storm was coming. If he couldn't go in the house yet, he could certainly look around the outside. Twenty minutes was a lifetime. While he had no intention of waiting for a warrant, he knew Zo was going to want more reasons to justify them knocking down the front door. At least for the report he was gonna have to file. Maybe he could see something through the windows or around the back.\n\nBobby stepped out of the car and started up the dirt and gravel driveway, pushing aside scattered brush and weeds that in some places had grown almost three feet tall. Tire tracks carved a swathe through the mangy growth, ending on the side of the house. Someone had been here recently. Then his eyes caught on something in an upstairs window. A quick flicker of orange.\n\nThe waiting was over. Bobby bolted as fast as he could for the front door.\n\n#\n\nBy the time he'd called 911 and kicked in the front door, flames were licking at the top of the staircase on the second floor. Smoke had started to fill the old house.\n\nBobby drew his gun, cautiously stepping into the foyer, wincing at the sharp pain in his right hand. An accidental fire while he was sitting in the driveway waiting for the cavalry to arrive was no accident. Felding was here. Somewhere. Or his partner. And while Bobby didn't want to give away his position for his own safety, if girls were locked away or hidden in the house and they were still alive, the quickest way to find them would be to have them call back to him. That meant they had to know he was here.\n\n'Police!' he shouted, almost tripping over the two- and three-foot stacks of old newspapers and cardboard boxes filled with what looked like junk that lined the dark hallway leading to the stairs. The sun was almost down, there were no streetlights and a noxious gray haze was quickly filling the house. 'This is the police! Call out if you can hear me! Police!' An old wood-frame Victorian was a tinderbox. Bobby knew it would not take long before the whole place went up. Maybe he could get the fire under control himself. Buy a little time till the fire department \u2013 which was God knows how many miles away \u2013 finally arrived. He raced up the stairs.\n\nThe fire had obviously started in a front bedroom on the second floor, which was now engulfed in flames. If there had been anyone in there, he or she was no more. The door had been left open, and the fire was quickly spreading into the hall. In fact, the pink flowered draperies that decorated the picture window were already lit on one side, the flames feeding on the wall. Once it ignited the hall ceiling, flames would roll over the heavy old plaster like the wave at a baseball game. There was no way to put it out. And once it entered the walls, it would shoot up into the attic, and it would be over in minutes. He didn't have much time.\n\n'Police!' he yelled again. Three more rooms shot off the upstairs hallway, but those doors were all closed. The smoke was thick and it was almost impossible to see more than a few feet in front of him. He dropped to his knees and crawled to the first closed door. He heard the crack and pop of glass behind him in the front bedroom, followed by a whoosh as the fire welcomed in the oxygen from outside. Visibility on the floor below the rising smoke was better \u2013 at least he could see where he was going. He had to take his chances that either Felding or his possible partner weren't waiting for him behind one of the doors, sitting on a bed with an AK47 and a twisted smile. He reached up and flung open door number one, rolling into the room quickly to dodge a bullet, if necessary.\n\nThere was no Felding. No deadly cohort lying in ambush. But the bedroom itself looked like a scene from out of a horror movie. Even through the heavy smoke he could make out the long chains, suspended from the ceiling like chandeliers. Iron shackles were secured to metal bedposts. It was either a torture chamber or a masochist's playroom. He checked everywhere \u2013 no bodies, alive or dead.\n\nHe crawled back out into the hallway and over to door number two, reaching up again and praying as he turned the knob that the wrong person wouldn't be there to greet him on the other side. Again he found the same macabre ceiling fixtures, plus a medieval-looking high-back chair with metal clamps fastened to a headrest and spiked shackles to lock in the arms. No bad guys. No bodies.\n\nThe third bedroom was completely empty.\n\n'Police!' he shouted as he crawled out into the hall and back to the stairs. 'Shout if you're here!'\n\nAnd just like in a movie under the hand of a skilled director, right on cue, Bobby got his response \u2013 the deafening, unmistakable blast of a shotgun.\n\n#\n\n_Where had the shot come from? Where the hell was the guy? Had it been aimed at him?_\n\nBobby's head jerked in a hundred directions. In the thick smoke he lost his bearings and half stumbled, half fell down the stairs and back into the foyer. He recovered quickly, his Glock still clutched firmly in his hand, which was throbbing. He squinted into the smoke that was growing heavy on the first floor, and looked everywhere, all at once.\n\n_Where the hell was he?_\n\nThere was no time to sit around and strategize. No time to worry about himself. Once the fire got into the attic, the roof would likely collapse. Floor by floor, the layers of the house would fail. He wiped the smoke from his stinging eyes.\n\n_Think, Bobby, think. Where would he have put them? Where the hell would they be?_\n\nHe thought of Jane Doe's hands, the dirt pushed so far up her nail beds it was embedded in her skin. She had been clawing her way out of her own tomb...\n\nWELCOME TO BELLE GLADE. HER SOIL IS HER FORTUNE.\n\nDownstairs.\n\nA basement.\n\nBut Florida didn't have basements, right? They had crawl spaces. Where the hell would the crawl space be?\n\nHe stood up and, hugging the wall, followed it into what looked like a round reception parlor. More cardboard boxes of junk and bundled newspaper stacks cluttered the floor. His head darted everywhere, searching for a madman through smoke that was growing increasingly thick. His eyes were tearing, his throat closing. Through the parlor he exited into what had at one time probably been the dining room for the B & B's guests. Several small tables had been pushed to the far wall. Chairs were stacked on top of them. A tremendous red-velvet Chippendale wing chair sat facing the room's dark oak fireplace, its worn back to Bobby and the room's entrance off the parlor. Flanking the fireplace on display easels were three paintings. Portraits. Macabre renderings of death, styled like Gale Sampson, Rosalie and Roseanne Boganes, and Jane Doe's final moments.\n\nBobby edged closer. He could see the milky white flesh of a hand on the armrest. The tip of a loafer on the carpet. With his gun aimed in front of him, he came upon the chair.\n\nSitting there, like some ghoulish greeter at the Haunted Mansion, was Mark Felding, dressed in a suit and tie, his WTVJ 6 press credentials around his neck, a Bible on his lap. Atop the Bible was a shotgun. Felding's gloved finger was still on the trigger.\n\nHe was missing his face.\n\nFucking coward got off way too easy, Bobby thought in disgust, kicking the bastard's foot to make sure he was dead. The body slumped over.\n\nHe rushed past what was left of Felding and into an enormous kitchen. A bed and breakfast would have to have extra room for food storage, he thought. Perhaps a root cellar or a wine cellar. Or a canning room. He only had time for one guess, and this was it. The fire was probably already in the attic. He thought of his daughter.\n\n_Look, Daddy, you're famous! You're a hero!_\n\n_But am I your hero, Kit-Kat?_\n\n_Always, Daddy..._\n\nHe hoped for her sake he was right.\n\nThere was a door next to the refrigerator. He ran over and pulled it open.\n\nIt was a pantry. Still filled with tons of canned goods and gross-looking glass jars filled with what he hoped was just old fruit that no one had thrown out after a few years. _Damn_. He desperately looked around the kitchen. _Where would the crawl-space door be?_\n\n'Police! This is the police!' he shouted again, circling the room like a caged animal. They were almost out of time. 'Is there anybody here? Elaine Emerson? Lainey? Katy? Katy, are you here? Can anybody hear me? Anybody? Damnit! Answer me, somebody!' he pleaded.\n\nAnd to his surprise, someone did.\n\n#\n\n_'Police! This is the police!'_\n\nIt was very, very faint. The voice. But it grew just a little closer.\n\n_'Call out if you hear me!'_\n\nAlmost simultaneous to hearing the voice, Lainey smelled the smoke. It, too, was very, very faint. But getting stronger.\n\nFootsteps walked somewhere above her and Lainey started to shake. She was petrified. Literally paralyzed by this cold fear that gripped her body where she sat. She thought of that time with Katy when they were convinced they were being rescued, but it was really just The Devil back from a long holiday. He had taken Katy after that. And Lainey had vowed she would always be a good girl. She had promised him. She didn't want to be taken away. No matter how much she wanted to go home, she didn't want to go away screaming like Katy.\n\n_'Police!'_\n\nIt was probably a trick. A test, was all. The Devil was testing her to see if she would be good. If she was true to her word. That was it.\n\nBut then there was the smoke. It was definitely smoke. And not cigarette smoke. Or burning leaves smoke. It was heavy, noxious-smelling smoke, like the Easter when her brother had set an oven mitt on fire. It wasn't overpowering, but it was definitely there.\n\nHer fingers went to her bandaged eyes. What should she do? What if it really was the police and she never spoke up?\n\nShe heard Katy's voice in her head. Her words sounded loud and clear, like the day she had excitedly uttered them, a few months or weeks or days back.\n\n_Maybe someone's here to_ save _us! And if we don't make noise, they'll leave and we'll never be found. Yell! Yell with me, Lainey, so they can hear us! We're underground somewhere, they won't find us unless we yell!_\n\nLainey fingered the thick tape. Her panic was growing. What if the smoke was bad? What if there was a fire? Worse than starving to death would be burning to death...\n\nShe moved over to the door, pressing her hand against it to see if it was hot, like the firefighter who visited her class in fifth grade had taught them. It wasn't. But the smoke smell was unmistakable. She put her head on the floor, near the door jamb, and breathed in.\n\nIt was definitely coming under the door.\n\n_Yell! Yell with me, Lainey!_\n\n'I'm here...' Lainey yelled, but at half the level she could have. She held her breath to see if she could hear The Devil, breathing at the door. Snorting at the cleverness of his trickery. She braced herself, waiting for the door to open.\n\nBut it didn't. And she didn't hear any snorty chuckles, either.\n\n_Yell! Yell with me, Lainey, so they can hear us! They won't find us unless we yell!_\n\nThe worst she could do would be to do something half-assed. Either she'd get caught and punished anyway, or she might not ever get found. 'You can't go swimming and not get wet,' her grandma used to say. 'Dive in and do it right.'\n\n'I'm in here! Help me!' she yelled as loud as she possibly could. As loud as she ever had. 'I'm underground. I'm down here!'\n\n_And if we don't make noise, they'll leave and we'll never be found!_\n\n'I'm in here! Help me!' she screamed again, this time banging on the door with two fists as hard as she could.\n\nThen the door flung open and she tumbled out into the darkness.\n\n#\n\nShe landed flat on her face on the dirt floor. She cringed, her hands protectively covering her head, waiting for the Devil to chuckle. Or whisper. Or do something terrible. But nothing happened. Nothing at all.\n\nThere was no Devil. But there was also no police officer. No rescue team. There was nobody. The door had just opened when she pounded on it. Either someone had unlocked it, or her banging had maybe jostled it open. Or Katy \u2013 wherever she was \u2013 had lent her a hand and sent her a message. The last thought made her smile.\n\nThe smell of smoke was really strong now. She had to get out of here. Instinctively, that much she knew. And she wasn't going to be able to do that without seeing where she was going. Her hands went to her face and with one quick tug she pulled at the bandages and plastic discs that he had, like Katy had warned, glued on to her face after she disobeyed him. She felt the soft, delicate skin around her eyes and eyelids peeling away with the bandages. It hurt, like the rip of a thousand Band-Aids off the worst boo-boo. But there was no time to cry. If she didn't get out of here, bloody eyelids would be the least of her problems.\n\nShe squinted and opened her eyes slowly, blinking a few times, like a newborn puppy. Her fingers gingerly explored her face \u2013 she did have her eyelids. That was a good thing. And although she could only see lumpy shadows, she still had her eyes. And that was a really good thing.\n\n_'Police! This is the police!'_\n\nThe voice was back. And it sounded like it was right above her.\n\n_'Elaine Emerson? Lainey?'_\n\n'That's me! I'm Lainey!' The tears were already spilling. Her screams were now hoarse whispers.\n\n_'Katy? Katy are you here?'_\n\nKaty! He was looking for Katy, too!\n\n_'Is there anybody here? Can anybody hear me? Anybody?'_\n\nShe wiped her face and took a deep breath. _Don't screw this up now, Lainey_. 'Me! I hear you! I'm down here!' she shouted. 'I'm down here! Help!'\n\nThere was a slight pause that to Lainey felt like a lifetime.\n\n_'I hear you! This is the police! We're here! Let me follow your voice. Keep yelling!'_\n\n'Help me, please!' Lainey screamed, crawling on her hands and knees. She felt her way to a wall and followed it along with her hands. There was a faint, blurry light coming from somewhere. 'Oh God! There's smoke down here!'\n\nThen the voice stopped. It just stopped.\n\n'Hello? Are you still there? Officer! Sir! Help me!'\n\nNo response.\n\nShe started to cry. 'I'm down here!' The wall ended. She crawled through a doorway. It was no use. She couldn't see anything, and the smoke was burning her throat. Then her hands fell on a pair of shoes. She reached up, feeling legs. She grabbed them and held tight. 'Help me!' she cried. Relief washed over her. It had never felt so good to hug another human being. 'Please help me!' she whispered, both her voice and her fight gone.\n\n'Of course,' came the whisper back. 'Of course I'm going to help you.'\n\nThen the Devil squatted down beside her and patted her head.\n\n#\n\nHe tossed the jars of what he hoped were just preserves on the floor and felt his way along the back of the pantry. Bobby was never really a religious man, but he prayed now as his fingers felt for any opening, any crack, any mystery panel. He got down on his knees and felt along the floor. There was no more time. He could hear the faint voice, yelling below him somewhere. Yelling for help.\n\n'Please God, let me find her!' he screamed out loud. 'Don't let it end this way! It can't end this way!'\n\nWhether it was Divine Intervention or just plain luck that led his fingers to the dent in the floor, he couldn't say. But he wasn't taking anything for granted. 'Thank you,' he whispered. 'Thank you, God...' as he pulled up the floorboard. It was a trap door. He looked down into the pitch black. The stink of mildew and decay overwhelmed even the acrid smoke. It smelled like death.\n\n_'Are you still there? Officer? Sir?'_\n\nThe voice was still a little far off, but it was definitely down there. He slid feet first into the opening, not knowing how deep the drop was or what might be waiting down there in the darkness for him. All he heard were the whimperings of a child and he knew he had to go.\n\nHe landed on his feet on hard dirt, rolling off to the side, his shoulder hitting against a wooden piling. He was underneath the house. He looked around. A pull-down staircase was mounted on the ceiling next to the trap-door opening. Small orange light bulbs were strung up on electric wires and tacked sporadically along sheet-rocked walls that wound like a maze off into the darkness. Tunnels. Someone had built tunnels down here. Jesus Christ...\n\nBobby felt his way along the wall, in the smoky, dimly lit haze, ducking as he moved forward because the ceiling height dropped. There were too many offshoots, too many turns. How many rooms were down here?\n\nThen he heard the scream that made his heart stop and he raced forward into the black claustrophobic maze, praying once again for a miracle to guide him to the right place.\n\n#\n\nLainey screamed.\n\n'Can you see me now?' The Devil asked, his sweaty fingers crawling over her face, pulling it closer to his own. 'Take a good look now. I am eyes to the blind and feet to the lame...'\n\nBobby raised the muzzle to the back of Mark Felding's head. 'Move away from her,' he commanded. The ceiling in the cramped, cave-like room was very low. In some places it sloped even lower than six feet, where the first floor above had sunk and settled.\n\n'Or you'll do what?' came the controlled, but excited response.\n\n'I won't ask a second time.'\n\n'Sure you will. Because you want to know what I've done with your daughter.'\n\nBobby moved the muzzle down and fired a single shot into Felding's shoulder at point-blank range. The reporter yelped in both pain and surprise as bone and muscle exploded. He fell back on to the floor, grabbing his spurting arm, rolling in pain on the dirt.\n\n'No, I won't,' Bobby replied. The small figure on the floor held her arms over her head and screamed. Felding tried to get back up, but Bobby pushed him against a cement wall, placing himself between the reporter and the girl. Metal chains rattled like wind chimes. Felding slammed his head into a low beam with a thud.\n\n'Stay down,' Bobby commanded Lainey. 'And keep your head covered.' Then he turned his attention back to the animal against the wall. 'Where is she?'\n\nFelding squealed.\n\nBobby raised his Glock again and fired another shot into Felding's other shoulder. 'I told you, I won't ask twice.'\n\nThe reporter flopped about like a fish out of water, howling in pain, bouncing on and off the wall and back and forth into the beam. 'Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you!' he screamed.\n\nThe wail of sirens was fast approaching. The fire department was finally here.\n\n'Where's my daughter?' Bobby demanded.\n\n'You mean sweet baby Katy?' Felding cackled, finally collapsing against the wall, his body wrapped in chains. 'The little girl you never did bring home, did you, Daddy?'\n\nBobby fired again. This time he took out a knee. 'I'm running out of body parts. Where is she?'\n\n'He took her!' cried Lainey in a small, trembling voice. 'He took Katy!'\n\nThe wood walls above them suddenly creaked with a huge heaving sigh, followed by a thunderous crash. The attic had just collapsed. The single-bulb ceiling fixtures that had dimly lit the maze of tunnels in the crawl-space flickered and went out. It was now pitch-black.\n\n'Ask me another question,' Felding croaked in the darkness. Bobby could hear him squirming and writhing on the floor. 'Anything. Ask me anything. G'head! Ask me!'\n\n'Come on, up! Let's go, honey!' Bobby holstered the Glock, reached down and picked the small girl up in his arms. She wrapped her arms in a death grip around his neck and buried her face in his chest.\n\n'I'm Lainey,' she said softly.\n\n'I know. I've been looking for you,' Bobby replied.\n\n'Looks like you're out of time, Super Special Agent Dees,' Felding mumbled in the dark.\n\n'Not yet,' Bobby answered as he felt his way back along the wall. He remembered to duck when he went inside the four-foot-tall tunnel that led back to the trap door and a pulldown staircase. 'But you are. Welcome to hell,' he called out behind him. 'Hope it's hot enough for you.'\n\n#\n\nHe wanted to turn back. He wanted to check every inch of the sprawling, damp, mildewed crawl space that Felding had outfitted into a dungeon. He knew there were more rooms. More secrets. More victims.\n\nBut there was no more time.\n\nWhere the wall finally ended, he reached up, felt around for the rope, and pulled down the staircase. With Lainey still in his arms, he scrambled up the steps that led back to the pull-out pantry. He could see through the 12 \u00d7 12 square floor cut-out above that there was still a kitchen. The second floor had yet to fall on the first. He had only seconds.\n\nHe pushed Lainey up and out first. 'Go to the window! Hurry!' he yelled. It was impossible to breathe.\n\n'I can't see!' she screamed.\n\nNeither could he. The smoke was black, the heat intense. He climbed out behind her and grabbed her hand in his. He pushed her down. 'Close to the floor! Follow me!' On his hands and knees, he worked his way like a soldier to the back of the house, dragging Lainey along behind him. In the breakfast nook area off the kitchen he had seen a bay window. He reached out in front of him into the blackness and felt glass.\n\n'Jesus!' a fireman at the window yelled. 'Back! Get back!' he commanded, breaking out the window with his axe. Glass rained down on Bobby's head, followed by a deafening whoosh as more oxygen rushed in and smoke poured out.\n\n'Get them out!' yelled another firefighter from somewhere. Bobby saw a figure waving at him to come on. To hurry. The firefighter at the window reached through the shattered glass and plucked Lainey's limp body from Bobby's hands. It took everything to just get to his knees. Then hands reached in and pulled him out, too.\n\nTwo more firefighters rushed up. One grabbed Bobby, the other Lainey. Slinging their bodies over their shoulders like rag dolls, they carried them through the thick cane fields to the front of the house. Fire trucks were everywhere, it seemed. The evening sky was awash in red and blue lights.\n\nAnd bright orange flames.\n\nBobby looked back one more time at the inferno that lit up the night. All around it, rustling rows of sugar cane whispered and gossiped excitedly in the gusty breeze. The storm that Bobby had thought was headed this way was finally here. Lightning bolts crackled, zig-zagging haphazardly in the not-so-far distance.\n\n_He took her! He took Katy!_\n\nBobby closed his eyes just as the House of Horrors collapsed in on itself.\n\n#\n\n'How you feeling there, Shep?'\n\nZo Dias stood over his hospital bed in a charcoal gray suit and black silk tie, a bouquet of flowers in his oversized hands. It was such a surreal sight, Bobby thought for a second he must have died. He wanted to snap off a witty comeback, but talking would be way too painful \u2013 even with all the drugs they had him on. He'd just been taken off the ventilator last night and moved from the Burn Intensive Care Unit. All he could do was nod.\n\n'Gotta love this, LuAnn.' Zo laughed. 'He can't talk. Isn't that a wife's wish come true?'\n\nLuAnn took the flowers and moved to the nightstand to put them in one of the extra plastic pitchers the nurses had brought over. The room was filled with flower baskets, plants, and balloons \u2013 more than one of which already had Zo's name on it. 'I think that's a husband's fantasy, Zo,' LuAnn returned with a slow, tired smile. 'We want our men to talk more. Tell us what's on their mind. You need to watch _Oprah.'_\n\n'Hmmm... so yapping more will make Camilla happy? I always thought she meant it when she told me to shut up.' He pulled up a chair next to the bed and his face grew serious. 'You are one lucky son-of-a-bitch, let me tell you. You should be dead, pal.'\n\nLuAnn reached over and clutched his hand. Bobby squeezed it back. 'Another minute in that place and he would have been,' LuAnn said, her voice cracking.\n\n'How long before you can start back jogging?'\n\n'The doctor says his lungs were pretty bad,' she answered. 'He took in a lot of carbon monoxide, too. No marathons for a while, that's for sure.'\n\n'Speaking of should be dead but isn't, so is that little girl you saved. I think she's getting released from Joe DiMaggio tomorrow.' Joe DiMaggio was the children's hospital in Broward County that Lainey had been airlifted to for severe smoke inhalation. 'I had Larry and Ciro go talk to her yesterday. It'll take years to get over what she went through. When you're feeling up to it, she wants to see you again.'\n\nBobby nodded.\n\n'Thought you'd want to know her crazy mom says thanks. Don't get too excited, though. Before you can say \"You're welcome,\" she'll probably follow that up with a loss of consortium lawsuit because her pedophile husband's going upstate for the next twenty years. LaManna's taking the plea on Friday, and that doesn't include any charges that are coming from messing with his stepdaughters.'\n\n'Bastard,' LuAnn said.\n\nBobby nodded. 'Felding?' he mouthed.\n\nZo paused. 'We pulled two bodies out of the ashes. Felding's dentals matched the one found in the basement. The other was found in what the Fire Inspector tells us was once the dining or living room. It was a female. ME says the cause of death wasn't smoke inhalation \u2013 it was the buckshot that filled her head. We found the melted remains of a Winchester 12 gauge under her body.'\n\n'Who?' Bobby mouthed.\n\nZo didn't answer.\n\n'Who is she?' Bobby mouthed again.\n\n'We don't know yet,' he said finally.\n\n'Katy?' Bobby managed to whisper.\n\n'Get me her dentals,' Zo quietly replied.\n\nLuAnn sucked in a sniffle and closed her eyes. 'I'll have her orthodontist send them to the Medical Examiner,' she said with a nod. 'I'll do it.'\n\nPainful silence filled the room for too long.\n\n'What else?' Bobby mouthed.\n\n'What else? OK, while you were snoozing the past couple of days, the rest of us have been working. You were right. The house on Sugarland was owned by Felding's grandmother, Mildred Bolger. She died twenty years ago in a farming accident. The house then went to his mom, Loretta Felding, who lived there before she went nuts and died in a nursing home in 2003. When she passed, it went to Felding, her only child. The last time it was used as a B & B, according to the locals, was in 1990, almost nineteen years ago. Local gossip has it that for the seven years before Mama Felding went into the nursing home, no one actually stayed there, though. Not a single solitary soul. But the signs stayed up. Talk about creepy.\n\n'Some of what Felding shared about his life was true. We talked to his ex out in LA. She was real. The daughter shit was a lie. They had no kids. Wife knew about the Belle Glade home. She said that years ago Felding's crazy mom had talked about restoring it to a B & B and hosting murder-mystery parties there. She thought the old lady was nuts then, because she had been to Belle Glade once and, like most visitors, never ever wanted to go back. Then her and psycho divorced and she didn't talk to him about the house again. In fact she never talked to him about anything again because, lucky for her, he dropped out of her life and out of sight. Felding's life in a nutshell: Crazy, possessive Mom. Social loner. Met wife working at a Friendly's in Fresno. Went to some BS broadcasting school in LA. Tried to be a success for a few years out West, both in LA and San Fran, flopping around from network to network mostly bringing coffee to the cameramen. Got a few gigs, but none lasted. Two years ago, he pulled up stakes and showed up here in Miami. We've found a string of teenage disappearances that look a lot like ours happening in and around San Fran about the time he was reporting there for CBS5. In fact, turns out he interviewed the moms of two of the missing girls, just like he interviewed Debbie Emerson and Gloria Leto. We're getting those tapes as we speak.'\n\n'That's sick,' LuAnn said quietly. She clenched Bobby's hand tighter.\n\n'Pretty warped, is right. Gets his jollies off on asking the mothers of the kids he's whacked how they feel. He's a psychopath \u2013 he _was_ a psychopath \u2013 if ever I've seen one. And a narcissist, too. But that is maybe the one thing we have going for us. He did not attempt to contact you when Katy first went missing. Her disappearance made local headlines, even national ones, if you consider an update in _People_ national news. Felding could have definitely exploited that, both to move forward in his career and to feed his sick fantasy, but he didn't. So if the body we found in the dining room isn't Katy's...' Zo shrugged before continuing. 'Well, maybe he never had her. We've got cadaver dogs out working on the Sugarland property. So far, nothing, and I think that's good, too.'\n\n'But what about Ray Coon? The picture he sent me?' LuAnn asked.\n\n'Well, that's interesting because we matched the .44 caliber slug found in Ray's head to the Magnum used in a home invasion in Lake Worth last week. Suspect in that, a Trino Calderon, gave it up yesterday to PBSO robbery detectives. The meeting in the park in Belle Glade in November was a drug buy. Ray tried to stiff him on an ounce of heroin and Calderon wasn't having it. Calderon claims he never met Felding, didn't know him from Adam. Looks like Felding maybe spotted the blurb about Ray's murder in the _Palm Beach Post_ , thought about you, Bobby, and decided to take the opportunity to freak you and LuAnn out. For some reason that we will never know, Mark Felding was obsessed with you. Maybe like that profiler said, he felt you were a challenge. But as far as we can tell, the fact that Ray was offed in Belle Glade was a matter of pure coincidence. Some of Ray's Mafia Boy homeys live up near Glades Correctional. He was probably crashing with them, running his drugs closer to his peeps.'\n\n'And Katy?' LuAnn asked bitterly. 'If Ray was back in town, living with friends in Belle Glade, what happened to her?'\n\nZo shrugged. 'No answer for ya, Lu. I wish I did.'\n\nThe painful silence was back again.\n\n'What about that sex offender who you thought was Picasso?' LuAnn asked finally.\n\n'Roller? Yeah, he had me all, right,' Zo replied with a laugh. 'Perfect background for it, including the young victim and a stint as a teen working in an art store. But coincidences being what they are, it looks like Roller was just eyeing the undercover in the tight clothes 'cause he thought she was cute. He never actually called himself Captain or her Janizz or mentioned their online chat. What he was gonna do with Natalie once he got her in the car is anyone's guess \u2013 maybe he just thought he'd score easy, maybe, given his background, it was more sinister. But we're thinking that Roller was just in the wrong place doing the wrong thing and running from us at the wrong time. From what Ciro has learned, the guy was selling dope to get by. Might have had some samples in the car and knew that, if he was stopped, he'd be going back to prison on a parole violation. That's why he ran. We never found nothing else that would link him to either Felding or support the theory that he was The Captain. Felding was Picasso. Felding was The Captain. Felding was ElCapitan, and Felding was Zach Cusano.'\n\n'Could they have been acting together?' LuAnn asked.\n\nZo chuckled. 'You should've been a cop, Lu. Maybe it's been you whispering how to work cases in Bobby's ear all these years, and he's just been taking all the credit. Listen, if Roller and Felding were in it together, then that's a secret the two of them just took to their graves. Lainey Emerson is saying that, as far as she could tell, there was only one captor, but she couldn't see who that captor was, so take that for what it's worth. Now, I'd better go. I still have to get through the third degree with Camilla about my visit with you today, and my throat is already hurting from talking too much.'\n\nBobby nodded. 'Thank you,' he whispered.\n\n'Please. Stop. It's painful. You're welcome.' Zo rose to leave. 'I'm leaving before this becomes a Hallmark and we all cry. Oh, and another thing. Veso still owes me for the group flowers, but he's headed back up to Pensacola. Your job's still yours whenever you get back. Even Foxx has had a change of heart \u2013 thanks, I'm sure to the barrage of \"Save Bobby Dees' Ass from Forced Early Retirement\" phone calls his office has been flooded with. I personally called twice,' he added with a wink as he kissed LuAnn and headed for the door. 'So when the docs here say you're not full of hot air any more, Shep, we'll all be waiting on you to come back.'\n\n#\n\nLainey sat up in bed shaking, her body drenched in sweat, her heart pounding in her chest. She anxiously looked around her brightly lit room for the clock. It was 12:10 a.m. She tried to calm herself like Dr Kesslar had told her to: Check your surroundings, take deep breaths, realize you _have_ been sleeping, realize you _are_ safe, recognize it's just a nightmare. It's just a terrible nightmare. You're home now. He can't hurt you any more.\n\nShe watched, her breath catching, as the red numbers on the clock changed to 12:11. She was up to forty-three minutes. That was an accomplishment, she supposed. Just last week, she was afraid to even close her eyes. Sleep, when it did come, was only in ten-minute cat-naps.\n\nLainey looked around her newly decorated bubblegum-pink bedroom, with its pretty white sleigh bed, dresser and desk set, funky checkered beanbag and cool Robert Pattinson and Taylor Lautner posters. It looked like a bedroom right out of a Pottery Barn furniture catalogue, all the way down to the heart-shaped throw rug and cool crystal chandelier. The only thing missing, of course, was a computer. The makeover was courtesy of the generous donations of hundreds of strangers all over the world who were apparently moved by her 'shocking' story. Channel Six had made the biggest donation of all, but her mom said they weren't allowed to touch that unless and until she went to college.\n\nEverything looked so picture perfect all around her, yet Lainey's life was anything but. Here she was in her pretty bedroom with every single light on, completely terrified of what was outside her windows or down the hall, her heart beating so hard she thought she would die \u2013 afraid to cry out, afraid to lie back down, afraid to so much as move. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw his face. Zach. The man in the car. The Devil. Laughing, smiling, yelling, cursing, preaching. It had been weeks and she was only up to forty-three minutes. At this rate she might get a full night's sleep when she was thirty.\n\n'Lainey? You OK?' It was Liza, standing in the doorway of her room, a cell phone in her hand, a frown on her face.\n\nLainey shook her head.\n\n'Just go back to sleep. You'll be fine. Nobody's here. OK?'\n\nLainey nodded, wiping the tears from her cheeks, clutching the pillow to her chest.\n\nLiza walked back down the hall to her room. It had been a few weeks since all the drama had ended and her patience for her little sister's panic attacks was running thin. Lots of bad shit had happened in her life, too \u2013 you deal, that's what you do. She just couldn't understand why Lainey couldn't get over it already.\n\nOf course, Liza hadn't been down in the crawl space.\n\nHer mom was still at the answering service, pulling another shift until one a.m. 'Doing what I have to do,' as she explained with a sigh to Lainey, 'to put food on the table.' With Todd in prison, there was only one income now, she liked to remind everyone when she was around. Even though Lainey hated being alone \u2013 her biggest fear ever \u2013 it was better when her mom was working, when it was just her and Bradley and Liza. Because when her mom was home, she was constantly hovering \u2013 hanging around every corner, in every room, asking Lainey what 'that man' had done to her, or asking her what she'd seen 'down there in the dungeon'. Questioning her if there was any way she could have escaped when she wasn't tied up \u2013 any way at all. And always silently blaming her, Lainey figured, for getting into the horrible mess in the first place, making all of their lives flip completely upside down forever.\n\nShe could never tell her mom what The Devil had done to her. Never. She could never tell anyone. All she wanted to do was forget, not remember. She hugged the pillow tight to her chest and tried hard not to see his face in the window \u2013 a face she had never really seen, a face her imagination had twisted into a terrifying red-eyed, SpaghettiO-breathed monster, with pale pock-marked skin and big coffee-stained teeth. She never wanted to see clippings of him on the news. She never wanted to see what Mark Felding really looked like because then she could never face anybody ever again. She could never go out. She could never trust anyone. It was better to see The Devil as the distorted monster he was in her head, better to believe that the next time she would be able to see evil coming, rather than fear it living and breathing beside her in every crowd, on every train, on every street corner, grinning at her through a 'normal-looking' smile and perfect blue eyes.\n\n_Next time_. She couldn't get her mind away from that thought. She rocked back and forth on the bed. _Normal_. What a word. When would it all be normal again? When would she feel right? The kids at Sawgrass had treated her like a freak when she went back, so she'd switched over to Ramble-wood, but Melissa and Erica and Molly all treated her differently now. Nothing was the same anywhere. No one was the same. Especially Lainey. And she didn't know how to bring it back to _normal_. How to shift her worries to scoring tickets to a Jonas Brothers concert like everybody else her age, instead of being completely paralyzed by fear when she walked into the computer lab at school.\n\n_Give it time_ , Agent Dees \u2013 her hero \u2013 had told her. _It won't get better for a long time, but then one day it will. It will be a little bit better_.\n\nShe grabbed her cell phone and dialed the number. 'Brad?' she asked while it rang, reaching for him at the foot of the bed. Her little brother stayed with her every night now, sleeping head-to-toe. She made him, but he didn't complain. Brad grunted. Lainey took his hand and held it fast in hers.\n\n'Hey there, little Lainey,' a sleepy-sounding Agent Dees answered on the second ring. 'You doing OK, kiddo?' He was used to this; Lainey called every night.\n\n_One day it will be a little bit better_.\n\nLainey shook her head and bit her lip. 'Not tonight,' she whispered. 'Not tonight...'\n\n#\n\nThe Picasso task force headquarters at FDLE was no more. The conference table was gone \u2013 moved back down the hall \u2013 as were the corkboards, dry-erase board, and growing montage of disturbing crime-scene photos. In their place was a small, fat silver Christmas tree, decorated to the nines with ornaments, flashing lights and gold tinsel. Colorful wrapped presents and gift bags overflowed from under the tree. The Crimes Against Children Squad's Secret Santa gift exchange would take place later this morning, followed by the MROC office Christmas party on the first floor. The whole building already smelled like roasted pig and Cuban coffee.\n\nAt the Monday morning weekly SAS meeting led by Zo, everyone had joked at the impeccable timing of Bobby's return to the office on Christmas Eve. No one in government actually worked the week before Christmas, the week of Christmas or the week after Christmas. In fact, pretty much from Thanksgiving to the New Year, nobody did much of anything. There were live bodies in the office, for sure, but since most judges cleared their calendars till January and prosecutors went AWOL scrambling to use up accrued leave time, nothing really went down at the courthouse. Crime still happened, but solving it and prosecuting it took a back burner for a couple of weeks while everyone visited family and drank eggnog at the almost constant happening of Christmas parties, holiday luncheons and festive happy hours.\n\nOn the day before Christmas the halls of MROC were definitely thinned out, and that was why Bobby decided to come back today. He'd been out for four weeks \u2013 the longest he'd ever been away from the office \u2013 and he wanted a chance to catch up on things without being hammered with questions come January 2 from people who now suddenly needed answers two days before the statute of limitations on their cases ran out.\n\nHe set the box full of wrapped presents that LuAnn had picked out for everyone from the new Regional Director to the Crimes Against Children squad analyst out under the tree and headed into his own office, ducking as he did under the low-hanging strands of green garland that decorated his doorway. Without supervision, someone had gone a little crazy with the holiday decorations this year. Like the halls of an elementary school, cardboard dreidels and Santas were scotch-taped everywhere.\n\nBut for the six or so bottles of wine on his desk \u2013 presents from agents and support staff personnel already set out on their mad holiday treks around the country to see family \u2013 the office looked the same as when he left it, five days before Thanksgiving.\n\n'Hey there, Bobby,' Larry said with a big smile, walking into his office. 'Good to have you back, man. What a freaking story you got to tell! Holy shit! Glad to hear you're feeling OK.'\n\n'Good as new. Only I can't make February's Ironman Triathlon.'\n\nLarry laughed. 'That sucks. Come work out with us at McGuire's. Ciro and I will get you back in shape.' McGuire's Hill was an old Irish bar in Fort Lauderdale and a frequent haunt of Larry's.\n\n'So that's what keeps you so trim, eh?' Bobby returned with a smile.\n\n'Listen, I heard from Zo about the ID on the body found in the Sugarland house. You must be feeling relieved. That's great news it wasn't your kid.'\n\nBobby nodded. Great news for him. Not so great news for the grandmother of sixteen-year-old Shelley Longo of Hollywood, Florida. Two days shy of her seventeenth birthday, dental records had matched her to the corpse found in the charred ruins of the house in Belle Glade.\n\nAnd not so great news for the mom of seventeen-year-old Katy Lee Saltran of Anaheim, California.\n\nForensic facial reconstruction of Jane Doe #1 had finally led to an identification of the body found at the Broward dump site. Ironically, it had been a follow-up article on Bobby in _People_ magazine where Sue Saltran \u2013 sitting in a beauty parlor in Long Beach, California \u2013 had seen the reconstructed, two-dimensional sketch of her daughter's face, Katy Lee. Katy, as she called herself. An aspiring singer, eight months earlier, Katy had told friends she was sneaking off to Orlando to meet up with a guy she'd met online who was going to introduce her to Jay-Z. Katy's new friend's name was T.J. Nusaro, but his stage name was El Capitan. A search of the airlines showed Katy Lee had made her American Airlines flight, but no one had heard from her since. Last Saturday, Sue Saltran had flown in to pick up her daughter's remains and fly her back to California. Bobby had paid for the ticket.\n\n'You headed down?' Larry asked, moving back to the door.\n\n'Yeah. In a little. I gotta look at some things first. I'll meet ya down there,' Bobby answered as Larry walked off and disappeared down the hall.\n\nBobby turned and looked out the window. Even on Christmas Eve the traffic was still stopped up as far as the eye could see. The road crew was back out there, but it was down to only two or three guys, who were sitting in a City Works truck drinking coffee. Everything looked and sounded exactly the same as it did the last time he'd stared out this very window \u2013 down to the Christmas trees of some late shoppers strapped to the roofs of their cars \u2013 but once again, the whole world as Bobby knew it had completely changed.\n\n_That's great news it wasn't your kid_.\n\nBut was it really great news? Bobby looked at the flyer of his daughter stuck prominently on the corkboard of the missing in his office. While it was true that he didn't have to bury a child, he already understood their intense pain. He had buried his own daughter twice in his mind over the past five weeks \u2013 only to discover it wasn't her. Only to discover that he had no idea where she was. Left to wonder again what terrible things might have happened to her. Was she drugged out? Was she dead? Was she a prostitute? There would be no healing for him. Ever. So while he was thankful that dental records had proved his daughter was not dead, his life existed once again in a terrifying emotional limbo, because those records couldn't prove that she was still alive. Or that she was healthy. Or happy. Or not scared. And he would forever remain in that state \u2013 putting off vacations and cross-country moves with LuAnn \u2013 wondering, waiting, hoping, fearing, until the day they put his own body into a casket.\n\nHis eyes trolled the rest of the corkboard. There were so many flyers. So many young, pretty faces. And in the month he'd been out, he knew there were even more to put up. More kids who had decided to run away from something horrible. Or run to someone horrible. Kids who didn't want to cope any more. Or couldn't cope. He found the runaway flyer for Shelley Longo and pulled it off the wall with a snap.\n\nAnd there were more to take down.\n\nThe cadaver dogs that had been brought in to look for bodies buried under the cane fields behind the Sugarland house had alerted. So far, three skeletonized human remains had been found. And they had acres and acres to go. The first to be identified was pretty Eva Wackett, who had wanted to be a ballerina when she was five. How many more parents would get the phone call that they had dreaded receiving from the moment their kid stopped answering her cell on the day she never came home? From the moment they first held their precious little baby in their arms and prayed to God to keep her safe forever?\n\nOr worse, how many parents wouldn't even give a damn?\n\nThe phone at his desk rang, pulling him out of his thoughts.\n\n'Dees.'\n\n'Got a call for you,' said Kiki. 'I'll put her through. You coming to the party? I made flan.'\n\n'Ooh. I can't miss that. Did you use rum?'\n\n'Don't even ask me that. Of course. Lots.'\n\n'I'll be down in a second.'\n\nThe line clicked over. 'Dees.'\n\n'Daddy?'\n\nSomeone sucked the air out of the room.\n\n'Daddy, are you there?' repeated the small fragile voice that he knew in an instant.\n\n'Katherine? Katy?' he managed to say. 'Is that you? Oh my God, is that you?' He sat down. The world was spinning.\n\n'It's me, Daddy. It's me.' She was crying.\n\n'Jesus Christ... Katy, where are you? Where have you been?'\n\n'I'm at a bus station in New Orleans, but I don't have any money \u2013'\n\n'I can send you money. I can give you money. Tell me where you are. Are you OK? Are you hurt?'\n\n'I... I... I saw you on the news, Daddy. I saw you on TV. And I've been really messed up, Daddy. I got myself real messed up.'\n\nHe closed his yes. 'That's OK, Katherine. It's OK. We can fix that.'\n\n'I miss you and Mom... I miss you, but I've been so messed up. I've done some bad things...'\n\n'We love you, Katherine. Mommy and I love you so much. Whatever you've done, we can, we can work it out...' It was hard to talk. Tears streamed down his face.\n\n'I really want to come home now. Please, Daddy, can I come home?'\n\n'Oh God, yes, you can come home. You can always come home, Katy. You can always come home.'\n\nBobby closed his eyes again and whispered another thank you to the sky above.\n\nChristmas had come a little early this year.\n\n# _Acknowledgements_\n\nWriting a book, even one of fiction, involves the assistance and input of many people. I'd like to thank the following individuals who I have called upon (some on numerous occasions and at varying times of the night) for their expertise and knowledge: Special Agent Supervisor Lee Condon of the Florida Department of Law Enforcement; Special Agents Larry Masterson, Chris Vastine, Bob Biondilillo and Don Condon of the Florida Department of Law Enforcement; Marie Perikles, Esq., Office of the Inspector General; Julie Hogan, Chief of the Office of Statewide Prosecution, Broward County; Special Agent Jeff Luders of the Federal Bureau of Investigation; Detective Joe Villa, Broward Sheriff's Office; and last, but most definitely not least, Assistant Medical Examiner Reinhard Motte of the Palm Beach County Medical Examiner's Office, who always cheerfully provides the answers to my most gruesome questions. As for Larry and Chris, thanks for continuing to pick up the phone, even on Saturday nights. I'm glad you're back!\n\nAs a former prosecutor who has handled her fair share of sex crime and kidnapping cases, having two cell-phone-equipped daughters \u2013 a tween and a teen \u2013 and a computer in the house provided the necessary inspiration needed to write about the terrifying dangers of the internet. I naturally have to thank them as well.\n\nAll musical lyrics have been reprinted with permission.\n\nThriller \nWords and Music by Rod Temperton \nCopyright \u00a9 1982 RODSONGS\n\nAll Rights Controlled and Administered by ALMO MUSIC CORP. \nAll Rights Reserved Used by Permission\n\n# About the Author\n\nJILLIANE HOFFMAN began her professional career as an Assistant State Attorney prosecuting felonies in Florida, with special assignments to the Domestic Violence Unit and the Legal Extradition Unit. She has advised more than one hundred special agents on criminal and civil matters in complex investigations involving narcotics, homicide and organised crime. Her previous novels are the bestselling _Retribution, Last Witness_ and _Plea of Insanity_. Originally from Long Island, New York, she presently resides in South Florida with her husband and two children.\n\nwww.jillianehoffman.com\n\nVisit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.\n\n# By the same author\n\n_Retribution \nLast Witness \nPlea of Insanity_\n\n# Copyright\n\nThis novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.\n\nHarperCollins _Publishers_ \n77\u201385 Fulham Palace Road, Hammersmith, London W6 8JB\n\nwww.harpercollins.co.uk\n\nSpecial overseas edition 2010 \nFirst published in Great Britain by HarperCollins _Publishers_ 2010\n\n1\n\nCopyright \u00a9 Jilliane P. Hoffman 2010\n\nJilliane P. Hoffman asserts the moral right to \nbe identified as the author of this work\n\nA catalogue record for this book \nis available from the British Library\n\nAll rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.\n\nEPub Edition \u00a9 2010 ISBN: 978-0-00-731162-0\n\nFind out more about HarperCollins and the environment at \n **www.harpercollins.co.uk\/green**\n\n# About the Publisher\n\n**Australia** \nHarperCollins Publishers (Australia) Pty. 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