A short story: The Wait

I am walking down the street. The lights in the shops are going off. Is it that time already? It cannot be! Yet, I can still hear Cuban music blaring from the café at the corner, still smell the curry from the Indian restaurant across the street. Good thing Amy lived in a neighborhood full with life even after seven; otherwise, I would have gone crazy with agitation and anticipation. But I calm down, reminding myself that the waiting will be over in the morning. If it were up to me, I would not have to wait for the morning, I would have gone there at midnight, but Iris tells me that hastiness will get me nowhere and that waiting for the morning to come is the best idea. Of course, she does not understand the meaning of the event—how millions and millions of people from all around the world wait for that overlap of the hands of the clock this evening… no, she has no idea how important this is to me. But, I will wait. Patience is not my virtue, but I will try, just to prove how much this means to me.

There is the wait: the uncertainty of it all. You are never too sure of whether or not it is really going to happen. After so many delays, rumors, criticism, hope starts to fade a little. But, never completely. Then, the buzz starts enveloping the mystery. An article mentions a factory in Germany, a report says there are inspections twice a day, and all the work is done in complete darkness. One would think that is not possible in the 21st century; yet, people said it was done so. I was itching to know it all, hungry for more. And I was not the only one. Emerson put up posts with news on his web site practically every hour. I need not say that his became the most visited web site on my computer. I would just sit there at my desk, almost glued to the screen, clicking the ‘Refresh’ button over and over again, hoping there will be something new when the site reloads.

That flicker of hope is not lost even in the dead of night. I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, trying to fall asleep. When I turn, my gaze falls to the poster of the kitten on the wall—which reminds me immediately of the pending event, and makes my falling asleep seem even less possible. I try to focus on other things, like why would Darius have posters of cats displayed on the walls of his apartment. It is indeed weird for a sixty-year-old bachelor to have such images on his living room wall. To ponder upon this question really is useless, so turn to the side and think for what looks like the billionth time that month why Iris and I had to stay at Darius’s flat; why Amy’s boyfriend is so obstinate, claiming he needs peace and quiet to study for his exams, when I know for a fact that he watched March of the Penguins during his “study time”...

This is getting me nowhere. So, I try the old method, thinking of something that is not substantial to what is about to happen all over the world: I recite the lyrics of a Simple Plan song in my mind. The first one I thought of was ‘Untitled’. Funny I should think of the song named such at this time when I am trying to completely erase all anxiety by blanking out my mind. I recall what the song is about—the music video is still so vivid in my head—how petty people consider the lives of each other, how the consequences of their actions might affect the lives of an entire family. How innocent people lose their lives for nothing every day, because people just do not care…

My eyes snap open. How long was I asleep? I turn over to check the digital clock on my cell phone: it is 5:35. Well, it is still dark outside, and it is summer, so it must be just before dawn. I still feel the anxiety, only it has been multiplied by a thousand since last night. At the thought of how many people in the world have it in their hands already I feel a fist of excitement forming in my stomach. I throw the covers off me, thankful for the early wake; these past few days had been extremely difficult for me, and the heat was not making my life more bearable. Oh, how I miss the wind and the rain of Seattle! But, being in Europe is a one-time chance, and Amy found us this apartment for free, so Iris and I took the opportunity and sat on the first flight to Vienna available. A little over two days later we were standing at Vienna International Airport, being hugged by Amy and saluted awkwardly by William, Amy’s boyfriend of four years. Jet-lagged, but genuinely happy to be there, I started enjoying the visit from the moment we left the airport. I doubted she wanted to do more than check out Amy’s flat, but Iris was willing to pay for her plane ticket, and I really do hate flying alone (not once was I lost at an airport). I was definitely determined to get the most of this vacation.

I think about all of this as I brush my teeth, trying not to look in the mirror, as I know there I will see a crazed look in my eyes. I continue on to brushing my hair and picking out the clothes I will wear today. After all, it is a special day—the day I will finally get to hold it in my hands. I realize it is a little over six o’clock when I am ready, so I sit down (otherwise I would have paced the room a million times over) and think of another reason for coming to Europe, a reason I shared with nobody. I so wanted to attend the MRP—I even got an invitation from Thalia—but from the way Amy talked about it, I knew it was a no-go. Even though I did not attend the MRP, I could feel the cheers from my friends all over the world as they celebrated July 21st. There was a great thing about Europe: the MRPs were six to nine hours prior to the ones in the States. Sure, I would have gone to Australia to attend one even earlier, but Emily had just too much going on even without guests. I sigh as I look out the window at the rising sun—well, the bits and pieces of it that were not hidden behind the enormous cathedral on the east horizon. Yes, I sure am lucky to be right here, right now.

I start feeling as if I am being electrocuted. Then I know it is time to get up and out of my chair before I break it. I get out my iPod and look for a certain song. Ah, here it is: ‘Mambo No. 5’ by Lou Bega. This song makes me dance regardless of my mood, and since dancing is one of the few things I am proud to say I am good at, I get up as silently as I can and leave the bedroom I share with Iris. I go to hallway and press play. The trumpets and the catchy rhythm start blaring through my earphones as I start moving around. I used to think that learning how to dance mambo when I was younger would never benefit me; now it helped me stay sane in all this craziness. It is odd dancing alone, especially mambo, but the song is just so good I forget about all my worries and move across the room with vigor. I put the song on ‘repeat’ and keep on dancing until Iris wakes up and gives me a really weird look, clearly keeping the “this girl’s got problems” to herself. And I am fine with it. Anything to keep my mind off the pending event.

Amy arrives around ten. Where did the time fly by? I am so thankful of my passion for dancing and music, of the ability to distract myself from the wait. We start walking to Mariahilferstraße—when we reach the nearest subway station and I turn to walk down the stairs, Amy laughs and says she feels like walking to Thalia. At that split second I hate her for mocking me in such a way, but I go along with it anyway. What else can I do? I do not know the city well enough, so I cannot just go there by myself. I groan as I think of the final destination—at the other end of Mariahilferstraße. When we finally reach Thalia, it is well past eleven o’clock and I am just short of mad. Then Amy and I enter. A totally different world. It quickly becomes one of my favorite places on Earth. I follow Amy to the second floor, to the counter where I get my copy, stamped with the proof that I was one of the first people in the world to pre-order it. I remember to pick up one more copy from a nearby pile; it was Mia’s birthday soon, and I had promised her a great present. When we walk out of Thalia Amy almost binds my hands together to keep me from opening it and plowing headfirst into a street sign or a person. When we reach our end of Mariahilferstraße, I realize that Amy is taking the left turn instead of the right one leading to her street. This is when she tells me we are meeting Iris at the closest Starbucks. I moan—the closest Starbucks is at least ten minutes away. As Amy is using the slowest stride she has ever used, I start suspecting a conspiracy. I mean, she and Iris are surely not fond of my obsession (I finally admit it). But again I say nothing; I figure that if I keep silent and endure the wait for a few more minutes, I will enjoy it more later.

I barely notice what I order at Starbucks—I think I had a mango smoothie—and find a table next to the shop window. As I open it, I remember only blurs of things. Yes, yes, just as I suspected… Hmmm, yes, everything confirmed... Just as I thought… No, George, no... Ah, a very interesting twist indeed... When I stop for a few seconds to sip my drink, I see people staring at me through the shop window. I know it is not me that caught their attention: it is what I am holding. I can just hear the mental note they are making: “Oh, it is out, I see. I’ll stop by Thalia after work to pick up my own copy.” But I pay no great attention to them. I dive into it again, into a trans-like state of mind.

What, it is time to leave? We have been here for two hours?! Impossible! Yet true, as I take a look at the clock on my cell phone. A twenty-five-minute walk to Amy’s apartment. I half-heartedly help out with the lunch, not even hungry, even though I have not eaten anything the whole day. Huh, my life has completely veered off course today, has it not? Then, William comes home from work, looking at me as if I had turned purple. I ignore him, as usual, and go on with my business. But, I do hear him ask whether we would like to watch Madagascar; anyone who knows me at all can say that Madagascar is one of my all-time favorite movies. I sigh as I agree to watch it with them—I need at least one thing today to be normal. Surprisingly, I do enjoy it. Aside my love of animals, Marty, Melman, Gloria, and Alex take me to a different world, a carefree world, without the hustle and bustle of the big city. As the credits roll down the screen, William tricks me into staying there and watching ‘Allo! ‘Allo! ; I definitely suspect foul play now. He never wants to do anything fun, and he chooses today to be the good boyfriend. Ugh, men (I have to blame somebody).

When Iris and I finally get back to Darius’s apartment, the sun has already set and it is well over nine o’clock. I cannot believe I went on for so long without it, and did not have the time to fully enjoy it today! Notwithstanding, I have time now. I flop onto the bed and get lost into it. When I finally put it down, I see that Iris has gone to bed, the clock on my cell phone saying 4:21. I get up and stretch. As I brush my teeth I think of all my predictions about it: they were true. Who knew I had such a good intuition? I get into the bed, happier than ever before. Yes, all was well, and this was one of the best days of my life.

I wake up the morning after around nine, at my usual time. I thought I would sleep more after last night, but my system seems programmed to wake up at this time, and that is fine with me. I enjoy the morning. During breakfast Amy asks me whether she can look at my copy; I see no reason why I should not give it to her. She is my best friend, after all. Later that day I see Amy curled up in the armchair, engrossed in it. I smile to myself. The days go by. We visit many places, go shopping, have fun. I even made Amy go to the zoo one day; Vienna has the oldest zoo in the world, and with me being the animal lover that I am, I could not pass up the offer (if I can call it that). Amy finished it in a week, also amazed by it. What can I say, it has mysterious powers. The day of our departure comes, and I am very sad to go, even though I think Iris is fed up with this place by now. I have the memories to always remind me of this summer in Vienna.

I had the most amazing summer ever. I do not think I will ever forget it; I might even tell my grandchildren about that special trip to Europe. It brought on an ending, a spectacular ending, never-before-seen. Nonetheless, I feel emptiness inside me that the ending has left as I say to myself: “What now?” Although during most of the fifteen-hour flight I have these thoughts, I even manage to sleep a little. As the plane is landing in Seattle, I feel the inaudible whisper: “Welcome home.”

A short story

Saying hi to my new friend: Introduce yourselves

Dear Readers,

I don’t want to spend time introducing myself by telling you things about myself and my life. But I will disclose one secret: I’ve tried many times to start writing my diary, but I failed-most of the times. Now, I have one very strong reason to start doing it. As I entered my sweet years, I decided to spend couple of days alone, at place totally unknown. But before I start, I have to give name to my new friend. My Readers, please help me find the appropriate name for these friend, for this notebook, for my diary. This friend I can always talk to. How should I call it? Maybe Kathleen? Or Kathy?

Yes, I think Kathleen is suitable name (it reminds me of the first doll I used to play with)

Does it remind YOU of something/someone maybe?

Day 1:

Dear Kathleen,

Today is the big day. MY big day. I walk slowly counting each of my steps. Unexplored, totally unknown world is waiting for me. Am I doing the right thing? My heart whispers: “Do the right thing.” But, do you know what the right thing is? Maybe this is it. I hope it is.

I’ve never travelled before. I spend most of the days here, on this desert like and God-abandoned Island. Nothing was going on. Sixteen year of my life, I passed here. Sixteen years of boredom. Sixteen years without imagination.

My big day is here. It is here. I am walking away of this place. Even though I will come back after 4 days…Something new will be seen. My heart beats faster and faster as I approach the so known Fast Ferry.

I approach. I am on the Ferry. I have this feeling I cannot describe. Under my feet I feel the water. I start moving. A music is playing. Soft music. I feel a river flowing in me. I dance. Everyone’s looking at me. But I am alone. I care for no one. I dance. I feel the freedom. I have the world in my hands. There are no boundaries on this ferry. Perfect feeling.

The Ferry starts moving. The wind blows in my faces, making me feel even better. It’s a whole new world to me. It’s a whole new experience. It’s a whole feeling I never had before.

I don’t know if you, Kathleen and you, my Readers, understand this, but it’s something in me. Something I feel.

Day 2:

Dear Kathleen,

I am writing to you again. I just arrived in this city where people say murano glass is produced. There is something in this city. As most of you, including you Kathleen, may know this is the city of Venice. I try to find out why it’s called Venice. However, I cannot get an answer. I don’t like the name Venice. At all. I don’t know why, but it’s just TOO simple. It’s meaningless. Therefore, I decide to give a new name. I will call it the city of Mapo or as Italians would say La citta di Mapo. I like their language. It’s so melodic-it’s like singing a song. I would love to learn it. I start counting the number of streets and tunnels. I arrive at 1390. Then, I give up. Their number is equal to ten to the power of nine, or maybe more. I get lost. It seems to me like I’ve been here. I felt this air somewhere before. But I can’t remember where. Where was that? Maybe you remember? Kathleeen you are silent as always. Tell me something. No answer. As always. Silence.

In my heart, I bring piece of this city. Piece of the land I am now walking on. I have it with me.

You will excuse me now, but I had a very busy day. I shall go to sleep early. Who know what I’ll see in my dreams (if any are to come to me).

Day 3:

Dear Kathleen,

From la citta di Mapo, after two days and one night, you arrive at my nameless city: my imaginary city. No one else, but you, Kathleen and you, my readers, can see this city. No one else. Because you are the only ones who have the ability to read my mind.

My city is white, exposed to the moon, with streets wound about themselves as in skein. Men of different nations have identical dream. Those men come to my city. All of them, but me, have an identical dream. They see a women running at night through my city. Who is she: you don’t get to know. The men see her only from behind. She has long hair. She is naked. The men dream of her. They dream of pursuing her. In the end, each of them loses her track. They set a search in my imaginary city. However, they can’t find her. She always escapes. They never get to see her again. Never ever. Asleep or awake- she was neither here, nor there.

New group of men comes. They have the same dream. Exactly the same.

I don’t understand: what drew these people to my city, my ugly city that looked like trap.

If someone of you understands, please tell me.

Day 4:

Dear Kathleen,

Dear Readers,

I have nothing left to say or share. I told you almost everything. Everything I felt during my journey. Now I am going back. I don’t feel the excitement anymore. I am going back to my forgotten island. To that deserted place where nothing’s going on. Nothing, but everything.

No more imagery, no more music…More boundaries, less freedom. And this is I guess where my story ends.

Why it’s important to keep the feminist spirit alive

We have come a long way since the previous century. There have been plenty of victories for feminism, including the franchise, the right to an abortion, and the right to equal pay. Moreover, sexual equality is now enshrined and protected in law. I get to go to school, high school and university should I choose. So why am I making this argument?

Because it seems like we’ve reached a stalemate point, least in modern democracies. There is this notion that there is nothing left for the feminist movement to do in most Western countries. And because this is so – although I thoroughly disagree on this point as well – we have adopted a lazy, cultural-relativist position when it comes to women’s plight around the world.

Feminism has plenty of more to achieve, on the global front, as well as home. Worldwide, women do two-thirds of all work, earn one-tenth of all income and own one-hundredth of all property. Two-thirds of the world’s illiterate people are women. Three hundred million women have no access to contraception. 100 million missing baby girls have suffered the consequences of gendercide in China as a result of its one-child policy. More than 80% of the world’s 50 million refugees and displaced people are women and children. Every year, 2 million girls under 16 are coerced, abducted, or trafficked into the sex industry.

It is absolutely disturbing to me that any human could watch a mother give birth, realize the baby is a girl and in disgust throw it into a slops pail to die while calling it a “useless thing” a scene Chinese writer Xinran Xue describes when talking about gendercide.

We were all horrified at the story of Afghan teenage girl Aishia whose husband cut off her nose and ears because she attempted to escape her family’s abuse. Iraqi Dua Khalil – another teenage girl – was stoned to death for daring to have a boyfriend. An “honor killing” it was called.

Khaled Mahmood used the same pretense to justify the killing of his sister who had, according to him, shamed his family by having a relationship with a man he didn’t approve of. The total time he spent in jail? Six days of custody. No charges were made. He remains a free man.

Why do feminist responsibilities stop at the border? Why is there so little public outcry at the atrocities women are facing? Why do we continue to passively accept traditional “cultural” practices that assert male authority and continue to disadvantage women?

Somali born, Aayan Hirsi Ali is on point when she speaks of the West’s “misguided politeness” in opting to tolerate the despicable treatment of women and girls and excuse it as cultural custom or religious rites.

In our own country, according to research, one out of every four women has experienced domestic violence, although this number could be higher in reality. Regarding representation in government, women currently compose 28% of the Macedonian parliament, and 17% in ministerial posts. Furthermore, there is constant discrimination of Roma women and young girls who are repeatedly deprived of education, work, health insurance, and social programs and are still facing unequal representation in public and political life. A 2008 Amnesty International Report estimated that about 66% of them only find employment in our so-called "grey economy." Moreover, they experience high rates of domestic violence and many situations of unpaid and exploitative labor. Obviously, just because we have the legal structures in place does not mean we have been successful in their implementation.

And yes, perhaps feminism has done well for you and me. But you know what? We are part of a privileged club. And it’s mot just about us.

“So what do we do,” is what some might ask. “What is the solution?” Well the answer is, there isn’t a simple solution: these are complex and deeply entrenched issues. What we absolutely must do is keep the dialogue open. We must keep emphasizing the value of discourse. We must keep talking about the problems because we cannot find solutions until we are open and honest about them. And this – this takes courage. It’s time to be open and audaciously vocal about what is going on in the lives of women around us. Now, more than ever, we must keep the feminism torch from burning out. We can do it.

Back to a Verdure

She came back to her hometown
After such an emerald struggle.
What she left once was brought down,
She had naught to love or ogle.

The day he walked the streets alone
In search of love and laughter.
The day he walked, but twilight came
To find him in the rivers’ chatter.

She heard the waves in their flows sing
Of things one cannot bring back.
The man sensed sorrow deep within,
He wanted to weep and scream in black.

Ripple Rush

Careful not to skip life’s stones or they might skip you,

Thus sang the angel face of a child,
Before a fate she knew.

One day the forest whispered
Come let’s play;
And off she went in search of joy,
And ended up in prey.

Rest follows a forest hike, she reasoned;
And so lay by the river’s edge,
Covered by the sun’s glare;
As seasoned.

Dreams clutched her in their claws,
Joined in thought of the river flow,
Wrestled by fish,
As chess pawns.

In spirit form they wound,
Through aqua green, through blue;
By convoluted memories,
They drowned.

The ghostly swirl tossed about
The golden locket ‘round her neck;
Off it went,
Into the cerulean wreck.

Now the wind chased the leaves;
‘round her bare feet they played,
And her fingers dug through the soil,
Through the dream’s swirl of scented lemonade.

Through her fingertips bit,
The locket’s frost;
The water’s tint grew into staring eyes,
While waves formed wrinkles that spoke of cost.

Scathed had become her cheeks
By the twigs of the ancient tree.
Awaken she became
By the daytime owl’s shrieks.


Rousing thus she felt
The locket’s burden round her neck,
She found it was the wrinkles
In which her memories still dwelt.

A clock the locket bore,
Beneath the metal of which
Lay the burned skin of the sun,
While the tick met the pulse she wore.

Standing now,
The child resumed her song,
Followed by the daytime owl,
As though her barefoot steps were wrong.

History of Women’s day

International Women’s Day is celebrated on 8th of March every year. This date is also recognized by the United Nations and it has hence declared this day as a holiday in many countries. This day is an excellent platform for all the women around the world who have different ethnic backgrounds to come together and celebrate the nine decades of struggle for equality, justice and peace. On this day, there is variety of celebrations done. The celebrations range from showing respect and love to women in addition to appreciating the chores done by women. Besides these celebrations, women’s economic and social achievements are as well acknowledged.

The history of this day goes back to the time period when women struggled to participate in a society that was dominated by men. I order to have equal rights and status, women started riots and procession. Though these were in different parts of world but, they shared the same motive. For instance, in ancient Greece, Lysistrata started a sexual strike against men in order to end the war. Similarly, during the French Revolution, Parisian women demanded liberty, equality and fraternity and consequently marched on to Versailles to overcome the Women’s suffrage.

The first Women’s Day was observed across the United States on 28th of February after the declaration by the Socialist Party of America. Later it was continued to celebrate on the last Sunday of that month until 1913.

In 1910, the Socialist International held a meeting in Copenhagen and established a Women’s Day in order to honor the movements initiated by women all over the world and thus support their idea of eliminating universal suffrage for women.

After such establishment, the Women’s Day was marked on 19th March, 1911 in Austria, Denmark, Germany and Switzerland. Women demanded the right to vote in addtition to right to work and right to hold an office.

In Europe during 1913 and 1914, women held rallies either to protest the war or to express their solidarity with their sisters. Such protests happened during the 8th of March. However Russians always chose last Sunday of February. In 1917, after the death of 2 million Russian soldiers, Russian women again chose the last Sunday of February to strike for bread and peace. This Sunday fell on 23rd of February on the Julian calendar. However, this day was 8th of March on the Gregorian calendar which was followed elsewhere across the globe.

Hence, since those days, the Women’s Day is celebrated every 8th of March and women are acknowledged for the efforts that they have put forth in order to raise the status of women today. It gave a new global dimension for women today and thus has encouraged women to perform tasks that were once considered impossible for women.

Fast Forward

Tick tock goes the clock; I’ll be running down the block
Cars be flying, flying by, where did all the time go by?
Buses packed, fully crowded, who’d a known I nearly doubted
Trains be bustling, while people be hustling
As time goes traveling, and people are babbling,
How fast has life gone? It’s up to you, but life goes on