STRAW DOGS : ‘A day being a Father’ – Μια μικρή ιστορία θρήνου από τον Γ.Β.

Σημείωση :Η μικρή ιστορία που ακολουθεί την υπογράφει ο ,φίλος μας , Γ.Β. Τον ευχαριστώ που δέχτηκε να εγκαινιάσει την νέα μας στήλη με τίτλο STRAW DOGS.

Η ονομασία της στήλης πηγάζει από μια παράδοση που είχαν στην αρχαία Κίνα. Συγκεκριμένα οι Κινέζοι συνήθιζαν να φτιάχνουν ομοιώματα σκύλων από άχυρο. Αφού αυτά τα εκπλήρωναν τον σκοπό τους στην συνέχεια οι δημιουργοί τους είτε τα πετούσαν είτε τα έκαιγαν. Μια κίνηση ξεκάθαρα συμβολική που υποδήλωνε ότι ‘τόσο ο Παράδεισος , όσο και η Κόλαση δεν έχουν καρδιά και συμπεριφέρονται στα πλάσματα τους σαν να είναι αχυρένια σκυλιά’…

Η στήλη αυτή φτιάχτηκε με σκοπό τα γραπτά μας να μην χαθούν στο τίποτα και κατά συνέπεια να μην τα ακολουθήσουμε και εμείς. Αλλά οκ και να μην τα καταφέρουμε τουλάχιστον το παλέψαμε γαμώτο !

Όποιος θέλει να μας στείλει κάτι για δημοσίευση, άρθρο , ποίημα , διήγημα, μια μεθυσμένη εξομολόγηση ή απλά σκόρπιες και χαοτικές σκέψεις (Ελληνικά ή αγγλικά δεν έχει σημασία) μπορεί να επικοινωνήσει μαζί μας στο inbox του The Bat Country Press.

Αλλά κάπου εδώ σας παραθέτω την μικρή ιστορία του Γ.Β. :

art by Zdzisław Beksiński 

A day being a Father


They never tell you how much Death is like a stage play. Act I
the actors gather around the McGuffin. Film lingo for a device
necessary to further the plot and create the dynamics of
interaction. AKA the Deceased.


Act II the Funeral. All characters meet at their assigned
roles, the grieving widow. The mourning son, the cheerful
inheritor. Interaction occurs. Words are spoken, people shake
hands. Wine is spilled over the corpse. Then coffee after the
funeral, dinner for the closer relatives. that’s were the
similarities with theatre end though . There is no Act III, in
death there is no resolution. And no one claps when you leave
the stage.


It’s been three weeks since I buried my son. My role? The
devastated father. I never played it never felt like it. My son
was a junkie. He died a lonely bitter death. A junkie death.
Today is a Friday and the heat is unbearable. Today my wife is
zoning out again. Thank god for psycho-pharmacology. Her silent
cries pierce my ear drums annoying like the singing of a billion
birds. I hate singing these days.I hate my wife. The room is
swallowing me while the reporter sings about some far away war
or devastation. The room is swallowing me. I get up and leave.
I never realized how I got to the park. Sky is painted in a
visceral red. The son is dy.. the sun is dying. The sun sets. A
gorgeous looking brunette and a man walk by…I am surprised at my
sudden sense of desire.


I watch them as they stroll away from the park laughing . I see
their child running behind them. I buy cheap wine of the kiosk
nearby. They buy ice-cream. They laugh at the kid failing to
pronounce words correctly. He lifts the kid up. Tiny body. He
points at the sky.


Daddy daddy, I want to flyyy.
You wish to pilot a plane?
Yes! Yessss hihi hoho haha
You just might you know. If you study hard and
Oh leave him William his too young,
Never too young for planning Marry


I look at the kid. You know he just might become a pilot. A
doctor an engineer. He has the potential. The couple fades in
the distance like the son. Sun. I poured wine on the ground next
to the casket. Finality. An offering to the dead. Yet the dead
drink no longer. They do not hunger or love. The dead never
become engineers. Doctors. Male prostitutes. Kings. The dead
are shadows within us. Getting stronger while our sun sets.


Did my son ever wanted to be a pilot? I can hardly recall his
childhood fancies. The memory of his voice is gone you know.
First thing you forget is the voice. Sound. It went first. But
the heaviest loss is the potential. The Future. Reconciliation,
catharsis conclusion, absolution. Saying the things that were
left unsaid. That’s the greatest loss no one talks about . The
Son sets and it sets. Is it raining? Ah no I’m crying. Tears
pour thick as wine on the soft ground.


Amidst the dying sun I pray for a new dawn.

Forgive me..

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