II. SNOWVIEW

SNOWVIEW

We know the sun will shrink into a crystal shuttlecocks. A form of capital despair. No iced wings above or around us. The horizontality of the white calls us to sleep and demands that we abandon our bodies. To barter life for death. Inexpressible anguish. Slow coagulation of the senses. Mental fire drained. Desires clothed in coldness. I don’t know why but I insist on being here. Time doesn’t advance. Time devours. Less time than it takes to think about it and the perpendicularity of my shadow is already different. The anomaly of foreshadowing thoughts goes hand in hand with low temperatures. No crossroads over here. A frozen face of white reality. Unfissured. The sleeves of nights and days are counted so clearly. The breathing dough of life has no further need to speak. Finally we have defected from the bestiary of the others. Divulged. My hair shrivels. Flowering gestation of an icicle inside my gut. Isn’t it a privilege to vanish in the white? Soon it will be dark. Ingrained inability to survive in darkness. Is someone, or rather something following us? Impossible. Immense contingency of frozen white. How come we ended up here? Why . . . Clutched to memories . . . The sky is already tilted. Fed to the white. Gratifying meal. It’s a matter of minutes. The sun is lower than my face. It’ll be extinguished by the vaulted line. How many heartbeats separate us from the beginning of nothingness? How luring and attractive is the sinister sickly light, hypnotically raining on us, so far away from millions of breathing lungs. You and me at the uneven threshold of unsubmissive eternity. We . . . The grip . . . The naked language of survival. Gloves clutching one another. As if contradicting the vastness assimilating our silhouettes. I’m holding onto her hand, pulling it forward ahead of her exhausted body. Obeying the very principle of life. Action. Numbness . . .. slowly will take the inmost depths of us. Frostbitten, my fingertips don’t belong to my hand. The cold carves up our anatomies. It demands absolute possession of our organs. The immensity of the white invades even the clearest testimony of the senses. She can’t make the next step. I pull hard. The many layers of frozen snow defy my efforts. The bottomless flatness of the snowdrift wants to keep her. Thirsts to turn her into a crumbled pillar of salt. I want to shout but then I see them. A violent convulsion of primal anger runs down my spine. Seven dark tiny silhouettes. Advancing effortlessly behind us. Against us. For us. The snow under their feet is way firmer than under mine. They seem to glide their starving guts upon us. Messengers of death. . . I don’t want her to see them. I want to delay the horror mirrored in her eyes. Come on . . . my love. I pull her over, on her back. Now maybe I can slide her over this deadly powder. But she must help me with her feet. She must make the effort. Plant and push with your feet, come on my love. Do it. You’ll get warmer. Warmer . . . Warmer for . . . what. For those behind.

. . . .

This is the first page of the story. I charge a subscription of $36 per year for access to all my stories. There are 15 stories currently on my website -- ogoart.com -- and I will publish a new one each month, together with -- from time to time -- some excerpts from my novels. To subscribe, go to my website at www.ogoart.com and click on "Writings".

I. ONE-MINUTE LOVE

ONE-MINUTE LOVE

(An insignificant attempt to reproduce my irrevocably lost story)

Defused cold light streams from the big rectangular window. Twenty-six inches of off-white wall below the windowpane is the crest of her wavy hair. Blond open curls cascade down to the top of her shoulders. She wears a buttoned white blouse with long sleeves. The freefalling Renaissance texture of her golden hair contrasts stringently with the whiteness of her blouse. Her face slightly tilted to the right looks down. The three parallel horizontals divide her physiognomy in unviolated scapes of unsullied expression. The well-proportioned forehead section evidently doesn’t contradict her prism of the mind. Unauthorized streak of hair naughtily curtains her right eyebrow. Transparent symmetry and measurement of the shadows are nesting below the unaltered line of her eyebrows. A refined principle of subordination reflects on her half-closed eyelids, seductively bathed in a half-tone glow. The unblinking shadows of her lowered eyelids carry a piercing strain of uncharted sensuality. Clear feminine contour of her jaw line softly draws the pre-established harmony of her chin. Her expression is as if her mind gravitates around itself. Her right hand is resting on the chair’s arm. Long, pale fingers with well-kept dark manicure. From time to time they rhythmically drum over the chrome part underneath.
. . . .

This is the first page of the story. I charge a subscription of $36 per year for access to all my stories. There are 15 stories currently on my website -- ogoart.com -- and I will publish a new one each month, together with -- from time to time -- some excerpts from my novels. To subscribe, go to my website at www.ogoart.com and click on "Writings".Orlin G. Oroschakoff

http://www.ogoart.com/

twitter.com/EPILOGOGOD

INTRODUCTION

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INTRODUCTION

I have decided to introduce you just to the beginning of some beginnings. The endings I will leave to you.

Since the beginning, Thursdays have always been the day . . . with edgeful angularity (to me anyway). Thursday is the fourth day of the week (by my count).

Let me give you a taste. A sampler. There must be . . . maybe another Thursday ahead. If that is the case, then possibly I can deliver a new beginning. If I’m lucky enough . . . but I don’t want you to get too full. Not good for shagging. Endings have their bright side. They make space for more beginnings. I’m interested in beginnings – they are less constricted and confined than endings.

Every beginning is a jealous carrier of its own ending. Isn’t the content of direction a beginning . . . Does not a story give a direction . . .

Words are what they are, but they are. Muscles tend to rupture after good use. Words like wingless birds tend to turn into a predictably stale and boring bunch of verbal hunches (any kind of rupture is an opposition to order). Opposition to order certainly contains (in some cases) a higher degree of order. The ossification of forms and words is inevitable. The only cure for this optimistic conclusion is “THE BEGINNING”.

So let me introduce you to the beginnings of some shortless short stories severely conceived on . . . you can already guess. Can’t you . . .