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The Ant Who Stood By The Door |
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By Paul Caruso » There was once an ant who stood by the door. He did not do much else. Thinking didn’t even occur to him. He wasn’t thinking about the work he had to do. He wasn’t thinking about why he stood at the door. But he was thinking about nothing, which is the best thing for a lonely ant standing by the door to think about.
The other ants thought about things, and they talked as much as they thought. They thought about the ant who stood by the door. They thought about the Queen. They thought about their work. The latter two were natural things to think about for an ant.
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By Perparim Kapllani » I unburied my father, I cremated his remains and I put his ashes in a wooden urn in the shape of a bottle. I had him under my armpit, and then I placed him in my suitcase, as a part of my luggage.
My name is Mark Shkoza. I am 41 years old. I left my country 3 years ago, forever. I still don't speak English very well and I was working double shifts at that time. I had nobody and I was on the run to lose my mind, that's why I took with me my dead father. Address of the destination was Canada. My father kept talking to me from inside of the bottle.
“Mark, why did you do this?” my father asked.
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Common Sense - Not So Common |
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By Sanu Korada » Oh to be India, a land of great diversity and yet with a unique unity of its own kind. The great mountains with their snow caps sweeping down to the stark sandy deserts interspersed with tiny gurgling rivulets, passing thru peaceful valleys showing every shade of green and rainbow color ever visualized.
The local costumes can put the greatest designers to shame, the plains filled with the perennial vibrancy of a thriving life. All this surrounded on three sides with different hued oceans, green, blue or a spectacular mixture.
Sounds and songs that could teach the rhythms of nature. People so hospitable that every home feels like your own. Today this beloved land of the Gods is racing ahead of every nation.
Once upon a time there lived in this land a great king who had the best and most intelligent men of those times in his court. Now it so happened that a sculptor brought 3 identical statues to his court and challenged the king to point out the best one. He asked for half the kingdom as a reward if it could not be done.
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By Perparim Kapllani
My name is Gent Kodra. I am 45 years old , originally from Albania, a small country on the Balkan Peninsula, which you may have heard of. I am a grave worker by profession. Right now I am at home, which is located close to the biggest graveyard of the city, and I am staring at a photograph. I study it, look at it, and my thick fingers comb my disheveled hair. My atelier looks like Waterloo and I am Napoleon surrounded by an enemy army of crayons, brushes, paints, infinite drawings and all kind of portraits of the dead.
Many hours and days have passed and I still can’t reproduce this photograph. My job is to recreate artistically something that doesn’t really exist any more, but it wants to come to life from beyond death through the vivid colors and shadows filled with pale and sweet visions. I have to paint a dead man as he was alive.
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By Perparim Kapllani
The silhouette is a lonely ghost, who has lifted his arms toward the sky and screams in a foreign language. The phantom approaches the silhouette rapidly, staring at him constantly. The silhouette is a man who screams and listens to the echo. This short man is mysterious; he is a flying mammal of the family of CHIROPTERA.
There is information for the dolphins, but not for this man, who screams in the dark. A bat skin covers his arms; he has a childish look, but his eyeglasses betrayed him. His name is DESMODUS RUFUS. He has been standing in the middle of the biggest bridge of BLOOR and cries aloud. His screams make the phantom feel horrible. It sounds like someone has driven his fingers into his chest and torn his heart apart. The phantom feels his body shivering.
"This man can do something very dangerous”,-the phantom thinks. He runs, as he almost stops breathing.
"Hey! How can I help you, my friend?”
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By Perparim Kapllani The front door of the apartment cracked and fell apart on the floor. Dan Bala was still holding a kitchen knife in his hands, as he slowly approached his stunned wife, Klara. Albert didn’t want to believe it, what was happening, as he was still on their matrimonial bed, naked. A grey décor was behind his shoulders. It was silent, as in a cemetery. Neither of them was moving, as they were staring at each other, gasping. Dan Bala imagined every single detail: her head cut off, Albert’s broken ribs, the cold cell, where he would spend the rest of his life, the relief of the revenge and the fog of the gossip that would occupy the Albanian community in Marlee area, if the news of the betrayal leaked out. |
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