Category Archives: Literature

The Stumble

It was one more ordinary day as always. A day, that he would woke up at seven o’ clock in the morning, would wash his face with cold water, would hastily drink a coffee, would dress up in a hurry, with one of his pair of jeans and one of these unforgettable sweaters that his mother had made for him, and have stayed for years in the closet, would take a look to see if his grandfather was alright and if he sleeps peacefully in his bed or have already opened up the TV and being informed early in the morning, about the mess in the country and finally would take two trains, one suburban and one subway, to go to his work at Marousi.
He arrived in the family business, where he worked as an IT operator – apart from all the other things he was doing for the business – at nine to ten. Always punctual, always right. On time. The big boss was there early in the morning as always. His children usually arrived lately, from ten o clock and after that. He said good morning to the big boss, who smoked a lot and drank Greek coffee, being as usual moody and with a long face, but he got no answer. He sat at his desk, opened the computer and started working.
He did not understand how time passed. It was half past ten a.m. It was the time that the daughter of the big boss entered the office. She had at least the “courtesy” to say good morning to him. She always said good morning to him. Hey asshole, how is it going eh? Good morning! Have you printed the e-mails? Do we have any new order?
He often thought that her father had spent a fortune for her studies in England. Bachelor and Master’s degree in Economics and so on and on. But she never obtained manners though. He thought of his own father, who spent a fortune in women and card games. He was prone to passions and addictions, spending in general. He never spent any money for his son’s education nor care for his current plight. He spoke with him rarely and by pretending that everything was fine, in the phone. He had now grown old and lived alone, widower for five years now, in the province with his pension. And so his son never went to college, nor had “typical” qualifications. There was no “Certificate” in his hands. The only qualification that he had was what we call simply ‘experienced’. In that way he struggled to survive.
We had an order. From the state of Bironas. He replied to her and immediately printed the relevant email. He marked with bright color the background information for her. They wanted everything printed. They burned down whole forests, and put many papers into huge binders. They did not care. They had money. After a while her brother also appeared. He was along the same lines as his sister as well.
Good morning. Is my father inside? He was always smiling ironic and not respecting anyone. He only feared his father that he had the money and made the shots. He was not counting anyone else.
Yes … he replied. He’s inside his office.
Go and tell him that I arrived, but I will leave again so as to go to the bank.
And so he did. He could not do otherwise, anyway. He got up from his chair and headed for the boss’s office that was at the end of the corridor. Before having made five steps, suddenly and without realizing anything he was sprawling on the floor with his face down. He didn’t even have a clue of what had happened. He had stumbled somewhere? Stepped on something? Did he slip over? But where?
No sooner that he even stood up and searched for the cause of his fall, he heard hysterical laughs. It was the boss’s son. He burst into the laughter because of his fall. He was staring at him, waiting for him to get up. Just to see his reaction.
For God’s sake! He had stumbled him! Oh well! Wasn’t he supposed to go to the bank? How did he get back there, and why? When did he managed to go from the other door to the hallway? Did he lie about the bank? Was it true, but before going to the bank he wanted to make some fun? Why he stumbled him? Why did he stretch his leg like that, while he was hiding behind the door? What’s for him to blame? Were they children in the primary school? Maybe in the context of his duties, also was a jester’s service.
His sister also arrived soon. What have happened here? Ah well you both are total animals! And she laughed with the well-known ironic style of the family, while she was doing the masturbation gesture.
He stood up without speaking, without protesting, without making any comment. Fortunately he wasn’t injured. He swallowed it and returned to his office. He continued his work as if nothing had happened. Embarrassed. Embarrassed against himself, against his grandfather who hosted a forty year old man in his house. For a moment he remembered the past. He was married to Olga once. For ten years. Having no children. They divorced. Just like that. It wasn’t getting anywhere. He never saw her again. They lived quite well then. He had his own business. His own business with men’s clothes that left him flat broke. Fate had ruined him back then. He returned briefly in the present time.
We had a second order. From Piraeus this time.
And what are you waiting for? Print it out and bring it on here! The daughter said.
And the day passed like that. As always. He was there in front of the computer and the bosses, both younger and older ones, identical and unchanged, sometimes carried on by nerves, sometimes disparagingly, sometimes sarcastically, and that day also tripping.
It was almost noon. He was getting hungry. He took the toast with cheese and tomato that he brought from his home. The son entered the office. He had indeed gone to the bank. After tripping him. After the joke.
I was late but it was crowded. I also went to the tax office too. Crowded and there … Hey! Your salary! Take it! Count them. Six hundred euros. Take them and spend them well…
It was 25th of the current month. Payday. Fortunately it was always consistently. Six hundred euros. He looked at the son, he said shyly a “thank you” and looked intensely at the computer screen once again.
He finished his work as always, at five o clock. He got again two trains to go home. One subway and one suburban. Before returning home, he passed from the supermarket to shop some necessary things. He opened the door of the old ground floor apartment in Ano Liosia and saw his grandfather watching TV sitting in his armchair in the living room.
Good evening. I brought you, your favorite cookies. The round ones with the chocolate chips inside. Let me make you Turkish coffee as well like the way you like it. He asked him tenderly waiting his the positive nod.

Marina Apostolou

You can flnd the original short story written by Marina Apostolou in Greek Language right underneath

Continue reading The Stumble

Andromache Street

She looks him in the eyes. She cannot take her eyes of him. Even if he doesn’t know what he is saying, within his delirium. It is not obvious what she likes in him. Incomprehensible with what he pulls her close to him.

Only the three of us have stayed. They are now in the center of my frame. Shadows, more than human beings.

The station deserted. The whole town deserted.
Moonless night. The darkness gets inside us.

Two dogs are ripping a mattress in a park. The two of them sitting in the terrace. He wants to drink more, and she is trying to prevent him. In vain. His stubbornness hasn’t left him still. Suddenly, he gets up to leave. She gets up and starts to follow him.

My journey begins.
I remember my love. We have lied on the pebbles. Proudly trees would send us the “Hail” and willingly meadows, in the seduction of the wind, with flowers we have left in our path. My beautiful eyes, my world was created for you, and how can I even forget you?

A bottle breaks, and the pieces of it reaches me. Silent laughter, she is still in his side, and always look him straight in the eyes, the night deepens.
I’m on the seabed. I have uninsured my eyelids and I can hear the sound from your big seashell. My body doesn’t exist anymore. A coral that doesn’t move, I am standing here waiting for you, my love.

And now voices that turn to screams. The sky is ripped in two! Heavy words, countless hordes are coming upon her, really, for how long he had well hidden his words, terrible words that break her heart, words of no return, but still bears. Her castles are collapsing, one by one, she insists, there upright still.

Andromache Street. At the traffic lights. Boldness without wisdom is destroying.
Silence. Only his breath to fizzle like a horse’s, now frantic.

And she? Her eyes that did not stop staring at him? What is she going to do?

She said nothing. She only caressed his hair. A faint smile, that didn’t stood joy than sorrow. And then she turned and disappeared into the black night.

Lefteris Deverakis

You can read the original short story written by Lefteris Deverakis in Greek Language right underneath

Continue reading Andromache Street

Love Can Save You

I was sitting in the old armchair that have faded within the years. Bill for sure would have picked her from the rubbish, definitely. My head terribly ached and I thought it was going to break so I was clasping it in my two hands. I had already shaved it completely and I could see the veins casting angrily like they wanted to get out and leave. I was six days clean from drugs and dirty, almost a week without having a shower. Six days without drugs, incredible. I had to endure this time, I had placed a bet with myself. I began to tremble, though it was warm enough inside the room and on the top of my body I was not wearing anything. But that is the deprivation.

A cigarette would be just great right now. But I did not have any. I searched the room carefully, nothing. I went to the other room where Bill was sleeping. He had slept for two days now, I do not know, he may have died. However cigarettes was not something that he had. I bent over and looked under the bed. On the edge I saw a half-butt. I snuggled beneath, stretched myself and with my fingers I reached it. Great joy. I lit it immediately and I sucked what have left of the cigarette with just one breath. That was good, it would keep me for a while and I would probably chill up a little bit, and maybe get some sleep. I went and sank back into the old chair.

I finally woke up after five hours, and it was almost dark outside. My head was feeling heavy still. I felt like I had a heavy bag on top of my head, like the ones, they have these black women in Africa. I went to drink some water. I felt very weak, my legs kept me no more. I laid back in the armchair. Deprivation was really intense now. I could not stand still and my body reacted in a bad way. What would I do? I was in a furious state. My eye caught, a white classic, simple keychain. It had been given to me by the rehab sessions I have been. To be honest, I went there just once. They gave other colours as well, but the white meant that I haven’t taken my dose for one day. One day. No big deal. Bullshit.

I had to do something. I did not have money for even one dose. I went inside and began searching Bill’s pockets hoping that I would find something, but in vain. A dose would be alright, and would keep me for a while. I said that I will not backslide again, to fool myself. But we all know that if you have been addicted, several times with a hundred times has no difference, and you backslide again. I sat back in the chair and tried to think of something. Until I looked at my fingers, my wedding ring with which I mechanically played. I was wearing it even it was about one year, almost, that I have broken up with my wife. I used to say to her that I would stop taking my dose and now I haven’t even stopped. Now I do not need my wedding ring I thought, it is completely useless. I took it and I lifted up. I looked inside. We had carved the date of our wedding. Does she still have her own? It was pure gold, it would give me good money. I have put it in my pocket, I wore a T-shirt that I found in front of me and I took my coat. I began to walk, until the pawn shop.

I was hurry enough in the road because time has passed and I did not know if I would anticipate it open. What would I do after? I was in a desperate situation. The pawn shops must stay overnight like the pharmacies, I thought. After twenty minutes I had arrived. It was the entrance first, and in the middle of the room there were bars. It was like entering a cell. In the background behind it was safe. He never opened the cell to get out. You were passing him through the bars, whatever you wanted, he then was taking it, weighed it and after all these he was giving you the money. He knew me, because sometimes, I brought other crap. Nothing important, but trifles.

“Hi Makis, what you brought me today? Some kind of pin again.”
I pulled out my wedding ring and gave it to him. He took it in his hand and weighed it, quickly. After he lifted it to the light and looked at it with the lens.
“Sixty euros Maki.” He said.
“What? But I bought it a hundred and fifty euros! Pure gold. Come on?”
“Sixty euros Maki.”
“Yeah, well take it”. I was pissed off with that slimy guy.

He went to the safe and opened it. He put inside the ring and he gave me the money. He has given them through the bars. I hastily grabbed them and left without even saying hello.

Sixty euros, I thought. The thief, he is taking advantage of people in need. Anyway, I took sixty euros that make us, two doses. I went straight for the dealer piazza that was on the other side of town. I felt the strength of my legs to drop slowly. I was almost dragging my feet, I was no longer walking. I arrived after almost an hour. I found the dealer.

“I want two” I said.
“Sixty,” he answered.

I give him the money and he walks away. That was the way of dealing drugs now. They won’t keep the doses in their standing place. Many times things went wrong and they had lost a lot of money. Luckily the prices have not changed and I was able to get two doses. Lately, though the doses were not strong enough and two doses were needed in order to get high. The dealer came after a minute with two small papers in his hands. We shook hands and then I left. I went straight home. I could not wait to take my dose. I felt like a little kid who’s been given a gift and I could not wait to open it.

After another hour I have finally arrived home. As I walked quickly I became really sweaty. I removed my blouse over me, and threw it on the chair. I went into the kitchen to get the paraphernalia. They have been always there, hiding in the coffee cupboard. Bill was still asleep- now I was sure that he had died. I returned to the room and placed the things needed on the table. I put out the two doses from my pocket, and I slowly began to prepare. It was difficult to find a vein. All of my veins have been destroyed by the needles. Finally, I found one that has escaped. It was down in the leg and I took my dose. I immediately prepared and the second, and I did it also quickly. Anyway, with the first one, I did not understand a thing.

It began to travel really slowly inside me and I felt the freeze in my veins as I felt the effect of my dose. My body eased now, and at the moment I found my sobriety. After a while the headache passed that kept for almost three days. So I left everything on the table and went to fall again asleep in the worn armchair. I smiled a bit and then I thought, what a low level have I reached to give my wedding ring so to take my dose. It was certainly the first time I have done something like that. Love has saved me other times as well. From tomorrow I will stop taking drugs, like the other times. I felt asleep in the armchair….

Spyros Voltakis

I was born one day. It was January the 1st, 1990 and I started traveling. Suddenly on my roαd I found my words and began to gather all of them so as to make a treasure that people would see and make them lose their train of thoughts.

You can find the original short story written by Spyros Voltakis in Greek Language right underneath

Continue reading Love Can Save You

To Peiraeus

Since I was a little child I had the tendency to write. As my parents never bought me the camera that I always asked as a teenager, I was determined to imprint with paper and pencils – which were always plenty in my drawer – my own little world, with the people and their own stories. Writing, moreover, was giving me another advantage that didn’t take me long to realize. To be able let the fantasy go out in the streets and get into houses, the known and the unknown ones, and paint simply enough with thousands of colors the voices, the lives and the ideas of every human being. And afterwards to catch the dreams with any kind of shape and place them into colorful worlds made of paper.
That is why anyway, I chose in my life to occupy with the profession of the journalist. People say it is a great happiness to make your hobby a profession. And that is something I truly believe it is right, although sometimes the responsibilities and duties that a profession like that carries with it, really scares me.
And that is exactly what happened to me at work a few days ago. The last couple of days we have been preparing a kind of tribute to Piraeus for the magazine that I am working for.
I was tidying up a few files in my computer doing in the meanwhile some corrections when I felt someone to hit my back friendly. It was Kostas the chief editor of the magazine. “I am looking for a man” he said. “I do not want only photos, surveys and descriptions”, he continued, “I am looking for someone with flesh and bones”. “You know” he added and made a friendly gesture towards me. ‘You have five days, five! Time is pressuring us!” he said as he walked out of the office.
I was trying since then to find that guy. But I was feeling that inside my mind everything was blank and with no inspirational thoughts. I was creating heroes that they clearly wouldn’t survive. Empty words, lifeless. Words without meaning. Words only to be said and lines only to be written because it is a must. I created people who collapsed in the same moment that I added a characteristic of reality in them. Fake figures, sometimes truly ordinary and some other times as crazy as hell. Unable to carry the burden of reality.
The fourth day was about to pass, when I decided to go back to Piraeus, in my desperation mood. Piraeus was the neighborhood of my childish years. I decided to go and meet again the houses, the roads, the people passing by and the memories.
The 040 bus route leaves me in Hroon Polutechneiou Street, just opposite of the ancient ruins. I pass through the street, out of Lancia’s car workshop and I enter the small street behind a supermarket. As I am walking by I hope that someone from any balcony, from any of the parked cars, from any small street, will come out and make my thought clearer. As I am walking I turn left and there I am in the Pilis Street. I haven’t been here since we moved from Piraeus. I stay still, for a few moments watching the changes, since the last time. The old and the new characteristics into a balancing combination. No, that tall buildings with the small apartments have also popped up here. But within the isolation that road is always the same. Karaiskou Street, Alkiviadou Street, Euripidou Road… familiar names, like the scenes of a tale. And the road in the end is counting the same countless red steps.
I stay for a while to only stare at the road of my childhood while a cool breeze is playing with my scarf. The pharmacist with a woman from the neighborhood are standing and staring at me intensely. Suddenly I hear my phone ringing. I answer it while I am moving on. I said that today I am going to be late.
As I walk, the street reminds me of the old times. I stood a bit to a small step, when I saw an old man, not that tall, wearing an old coat and a beret that looked like a navy one, to turn in the opposite street.
“Captain Miltiades” I am about to talk but I silence. It cannot be him. The old man without even looking at my side opens the door of a huge building and walks in.
But I finally know. I go back in that little step and sit down. I tasted the success and I am not going to let it now. I see the colors of the road changing slowly and I feel like the houses have finally started to talk. I set my memory free and start to write down, notes, slowly.
Captain – Miltiades was not from here. He was born to Lemnos or Lesvos I think. There he grew up, got married and made his own family. They said that he was educated but the sea was his great passion. People said that he was a hard worker. Within a little time he managed to own a ship and traveled from the Aegean to Pontus and Odessa. His work seemed to go well but the decade of ’40 crashed him down. He was on a voyage. The German’s found rebels hiding in his house. By the time he reached the island he learned everything. He didn’t even managed to see the grave of his wife and son. Someone took him and put him into a small boat. Nighttime it was when that little boat left him here in Piraeus. He just stayed in the marina watching the boat getting lost through the horizon, and his dreams and his whole world were vanishing with that little boat.
In the same morning, people said, that he arrived here devastated carrying only a small bag with his belongings. Mrs. Melpomene, his sister that was many years married here, found him knocking her door.
People said that he never got over that tragedy. He never again asked or desired to see the sea. And in that neighborhood, it took many years to compromise, get to know the neighborhood and finally get used to the people. He lived a lonely life, absent of the sea and even of life itself. His only companions was an old navy notebook and his sister.
She treated him well, my grandma always used to say, while my mother was waving slowly her head to show that she agreed.
Only Antonis, Melpomene’s husband never accepted him.
“That Filth” he mumbled in the years of war, “only God knows what kind of trouble he will cause us… remember my words…”
He was a quiet man, citizen, paterfamilias, didn’t want any kind of trouble!
“Sailors they say. You speak like you know in what kind of shit he was involved with. He must have been a smuggler. That is why the Germans killed all of his family” said after the end of war.
“The rebel! Took the old age pension of a fighter. At least I won’t feed him, it is more than enough to keep him all of these years inside my house”, he never lost a chance to gossip him inside the coffee shops.
The captain used to hear of all that. He did not react, he was only writing, and writing, and writing. Antonis of course, never had the courage to tell him all that face to face, but with the one or another way he understood.
In the holy day of Epiphany, he found him purring with hate, holy water outside of his door.
“Just for luck, for luck” he angrily said, looked straightly at him and then left.
I have once met him around ’85. The adults didn’t really wanted him in their companies, but we the youngest ones were waiting when he would come out to get close to him.
He wasn’t happy but we admired him. He looked to our eyes like the great hero Sinbad the Seafarer. A hero that have finally left the world of fairy tales and have joined our world. Unknown within the unknowns, to sing the tales of the sea. He was siting many hours close to us telling stories. Something between the reality and fairy tales. Captain – Miltiades wasn’t a scary one but with his stories we were in awe. There was something different in him. Through his old, colorless navy clothes and behind his tired face – that hard armor of a stormy life – we found in him something that now, I would call authenticity. And that authenticity, we could only feel it within our childish innocence.
Around ’92 things started to get rougher for him. He had some medical issues, with his heart and he had to visit the national insurance department. Only Mrs. Melpomene was there for him. But either for her the medical issues were going well.
A rainy night of the December of ’93 she had a heart attack. Only the captain was left behind, mourning her.
They didn’t even let him be present to her funeral service. Antonis threw him out of his house like he was some kind of dog.
“You Filth” he shouted at him while he was leaving the house, “you are the one who’s dragged her to death little by little all of those years”
Then he buckled tight his black jacket and closed with anger the door behind him.
A window makes some noise a few steps away. The sun is about to set. I stand up and start to climb stairs. I hesitate four stairs, before the last one.
It is like I see the captain. Over there.
Twilight. Christmas Eve. December’s frizzing my open eyes and he climbs the stairs with lots of try.
“Captain Miltiades” I talk to him with a terrified voice “do not leave, where are you going to go?”
“Give me your hand my child to help me climb. They do not want me here” he says to me.
He shakes my hand and starts to climb and continues walking slowly, holding an old kitbag and a pack with old almost destroyed papers.
I am not moving at all. It is like I see him getting lost again in the twilight.
No one was ever interested in the neighborhood about him. And we moved after a while. I never found out what happened to him.
Back then he reminded me of Miltiades the Athenian one. A story that I have discovered in an old book. After the glory of Marathon. When the Athenians drugged Miltiades almost dead to the court – not far from here – and he was apologizing with his devastated voice while his swallowed by the gangrene leg, was dripping black, thick blood.
A man is passing by, right next to me. I wake up. I go back to the Central Street and going towards Pasalimani. After all those things, my article is almost ready. I do know if I have indeed succeed or what the publisher is going to say. People do not like stories like this in our days. But I think that I found the person they were looking for.
I stand for a while close to the big clock. I place the cup into the pen and put my notebook in my pocket. I walk across the street and keep walking for a while in the beach street right above the ruins of the ancient wall. I have almost reached Freatida and the passers are now very few.
Across Metaxas Hospital I can see from a distance the lights of the ships coming and leaving the harbor. The coast seems like an endless lighthouse. The city is like a scenery full of fireflies.
What can really have happened to Captain Miltiades?
Loneliness always places me in a mode of thoughts. I do not know how the tribute will finally be. I have spent a lifetime with my education and all kind of files and papers. I take one more look in my notes and for a moment I imagine that I have in my hands the same old and ripped pages that he once kept in his own hands…
Christos Tsangaris

My name is Chris Tsangaris, born on 06/06/1997, I live in Piraeus. I'm student of the third grade in School of Zanneiou P.P.GEL. I have participated in the following competitions. 1) Euroscola 2014 2) Youth Parliament 2014 3) Student Olympiad of beneficence (nationwide prize) 4) International Francophonie competition «Un voeu pour la planete» 5) Panhellenic Contest "Gregory Pentzikis" (1st prize) 6) Panhellenic contest E.L.V.E (2nd prize) 7) Panhellenic contest P.E.L (3rd prize) 8) Panhellenic Competition versions Pataki (3rd prize) 9) Panhellenic Contest E.E.L (1st English praise poetry) 10) Panhellenic contest Peiraikos association and magazine Mandragoras (praise) 11) "Sicilian 2014" (special award for all the work submitted, second prize Icon) 12) Literary Contest of "Celaeno '2014 on" Life is a sea "(third prize for poetry)
My name is Chris Tsangaris, born on 06/06/1997, I live in Piraeus. I’m student of the third grade in School of Zanneiou P.P.GEL. I have participated in the following competitions.
1) Euroscola 2014
2) Youth Parliament 2014
3) Student Olympiad of beneficence (nationwide prize)
4) International Francophonie competition «Un voeu pour la planete»
5) Panhellenic Contest “Gregory Pentzikis” (1st prize)
6) Panhellenic contest E.L.V.E (2nd prize)
7) Panhellenic contest P.E.L (3rd prize)
8) Panhellenic Competition versions Pataki (3rd prize)
9) Panhellenic Contest E.E.L (1st English praise poetry)
10) Panhellenic contest Peiraikos association and magazine Mandragoras (praise)
11) “Sicilian 2014” (special award for all the work submitted, second prize Icon)
12) Literary Contest of “Celaeno ‘2014 on” Life is a sea “(third prize for poetry)

You can find the original short story written by Christos Tsangaris in the Greek Language right underneath

Continue reading To Peiraeus

Images of Life

Rainy_Night_Old_Montreal_St_Patricks_SQ-1286902357“… It was one of those rainy disturbing evenings. One of those that you don’t know what to wear, your skin feels cold as ice, and your hair is messed up by the blowing wind. The water on the streets is all over the place, and your boots are already dirty by the mud and dirt of the road. Irene has just finished one of her classes. She was carrying the notes of the class in her left hand, trying in the same time, not to let them get wet, while she was also trying hard to keep her black umbrella over her head. All of that of course while she was running across the street. Her brown cape was tied over her waist and she was feeling cold, because she’d forgot her scarf at home earlier that day.

As she was walking fast, almost running, she was trying to remember where her keys where. Approaching, her house she noticed a man’s figure sitting on the doorstep. By the time she entered in the front yard, the man stood up with a smile in his face. He was wearing a pair of tight jeans and a black sweatshirt with a white logo. Irene immediately noticed he was wearing glasses which were already wet by the continuous rain. “May I help you?” she asked him politely. “Irene?”… The man answered”

the-hug-ray-agius…He started yelling at her face “Stop acting like you have always known everything and stop keeping me out of your life for God’s sake!” She wiped out her tears and took a deep breath trying to leave the anxiousness. Then she slowly whispered “What would you really do if you knew that the end was coming, Baby cakes? “ He felt her fear and came closer before she started to cry again ” I’d live each and every day of my life with the most intense way that I can and I able to, like it would be the last one my little angel. With you if you allow me to” Afterwards she gave him “The hug” he deserved and he kissed her tender….

“…….Irene starts to walk in the living room. He stands up and she walks behind him almost touching the frozen wall. He is right in front of her and he is a bit taller. She looks up to him beautiful face. “Are you avoiding me Irene?” her breath stops. She looks down, as she is trying to see the ground. He takes her head with his left hand, slowly, gently. Her head is up again looking into his green eyes. Her heart starts to beat faster. The skin in her face that is covered by his hand, gives the sense of burning. In that very moment she is unable to think. She can’t react in any possible way. She looks him in the eyes on more time. He comes closer and closer. Her eyes are closed now. She has forgotten how to breathe. She is for sure going to l faint. She will absolutely faint. There he goes. His breath on her lips, the warmth of his body. His lips are touching hers soft, smooth, in a way that only he can. That’s it. She is dead. She already knows it….”

Written By Angelique “Little Angel”

Love at First Sight

That night he did not want to go out. He wanted to stay at home. Make a hot tea, lie down in his favorite armchair and read a book. He needed a little peace. He was feeling that nothing else will please him that sitting in his usual corner, lighting a cigarette and relaxing from the tension of the whole day.
The phone rang insistently. ” Put the book down and get dressed to go out. It is our evening. As every Wednesday after all. Do not break our customs. The “Pothouse” awaits us.

Merry company  *oil on panel  *30 x 51 cm  *signed : D Hals 1635

She was full of joy. After a long time she would go out with her ​​friends. One night full of surprises, she believed that waited for her. She wore a beautiful dress, painted red her lips and with a finishing touch she was ready for an unforgettable night. She reminisced all of the beautiful moments she spent with her old boyfriend. But now she has already made ​​a new beginning. A new beginning, a new life.

He rethought it. He had nothing to lose. He wanted to do this favor to his friends. Every Wednesday after all, they were going to their local spot. Where they were drinking their mugs full of wine, they were treating  the people around them and danced till dawn. It was for them something like a ritual. Three friends as priests of their beloved  place: the “Pothouse”. He wore a shirt and went to find them.

They sat next to the orchestra. Ordered their first wine and waited as the all the others in there for people to start gathering so as the music to start and fill them all with joy.
She noticed him by the time he entered the “Pothouse”. He was tall, with a similar looking to her, with a clean smile and a kindness in his eyes. Two eyes that were shining. Two eyes that she wished from the beginning to mirroring her and only her alone. She smiled as she watched him entering, but he just sat at his table. She felt as if she had seen him before somewhere, in some place. She stared at his every move, in detail. How he was inhaling the smoke from his cigarette, how he freed the smoke up, how he drank his wine. She was sure that his favorite was this: red sweet wine! Red as passionate love, sweet as the fool of love. A flavor much adored, which quickly fools you if you drink it at one gulp. So she wanted. To swallow her at one gulp with his love.


He lit one cigarette after another. The mugs were going and coming. He felt her eyes on him from the first moment. However, he was unable to believe that he could do something with a woman again, after his latest divorce. That momentall of the moments of the past passed before his eyes. All of them. Beautiful and bad. His mind was stuck on the bad moments and it was something that made him mad. He could not realize that the love of his life fooled him in the worst way, that she cheated on him and erased everything they once lived together. It was then that he turned and pointed toward the girl. He noticed her beauty. Brunette with long hair touching her white shoulders. Her eyes alive, nailed over him. Her lips fleshy and full of eroticism. He raised his glass and saluted. She responded with a smile and got up to dance the song playing at the time.
He got up from his chair and went to clap at her. His eyes stayed all over her. Now he was watching over her whole body which was left to the magic of music. He enjoyed such a dancing. So elegant, so sharp and vivid.
The next song was about him. ” Love Archangel ” was the song and he stood up slowly and bluntly to dance. Each step he made stood to the music, his head was bowed. Only his eyes now and then were stealing her own looks. When he finished his zeimbekiko, he sat at the table and lit a cigarette. He took the glass and went to her table. Her eyes could not leave him in peace.

Love-at-First-Sight“Shall we get out of here?” he told her
“And where should we go?” she replied
“Where our eyes are able to see. Where our eyes will be united and I will have you and you will have me.”
“Let’s go…”

Michael Moustogiannis

Michael Moustogiannis is a student at the Faculty of Philosophy of the University of Ioannina. Born and raised in the heart of the Peloponnese, and in particular Tripoli Arcadias. From a very young age he was depressed in writing and reading poetry and literature.He is one of the first members of the Literatology team and he is contributing either his own poems and stories or even many articles that he loves to write.
Michael Moustogiannis is a student at the Faculty of Philosophy of the University of Ioannina. Born and raised in the heart of the Peloponnese, and in particular Tripoli Arcadias. From a very young age he was depressed in writing and reading poetry and literature.He is one of the first members of the Literatology team and he is contributing either his own poems and stories or even many articles that he loves to write.

Original Version in Greek Language Written by Michael Moustogiannis Can be found right underneath

Continue reading Love at First Sight

Don & Juan

And then her eyes shined
with a shine never to be seen
And her lips glowed
in a red glow never to be tasted
Her hands moved slowly
towards his unshaved face
And she kissed him
in a way that no one has ever kissed again

This is the story of two lovers that met one day of May and never again leave each other alone.

It was night. A night that none of them will ever forget. A night that fate played its games once again. A lonely night, not of people around them, but lonely of love. It was the month of May. It was him, and it was her. Two souls meant to be together but never met before. You can call it fate, karma or whatever you like. But they were there. Looking each other, loving each other with just one look.

He was 12 years older. She was 12 years younger. But what does age matters to love? Love. An eternal word. A word that you can tell, but never describe. A word that has so many meanings. But they, they were loving each other with every possible meaning of love. They were lovers, even before they have met. They were soul mates that never die. They were the fulfillment of love.

And the wind blew once again
And covered their eyes
With rain, snow and dust
But they were standing there
Holding hands
Loving each other

The story is very big. It started, but never ends. It is a story that anyone can end it whenever he likes. It is an endless story if you want it to be. But they are here, there, everywhere. They are wherever you want them to be.

Days passed, weeks, months, almost a year. But they were one. They became one by the time they touched each other. In their “holy place”. They united eternally. Nature was their so called priest. The trees, the moon, the winds and every single breath were their witnesses. They needed no one else. They had each other.

And when the time comes, you will know
Gods always show their signs
And you will be alone no more
And I will be alone no more


There are many stories that can be told inside this little story. There is one story in every story that exists. Love is the story. The author is different.

They decided to leave behind their past lives, and moved away. They have gone to a small beautiful town, where they started slowly building their new dreams. The things were not easy, but they were simple as both of them used to say. He loved her and so did her. So their love was the solution to everything.

And there were times of sadness and crying
And there were times of sorrow
But there was always love to guide them
And their love was strong

Their story can be a poem, a painting, a novel, even History or a myth. Their story is a tale of love. A love story with mythical facts and true words.

His name was Don and hers was Juan. They are not their real names, but what does it matter? You can put your names if you want to, or just leave the Don and Juan.

They shared hopes, dreams, moments, but above all they shared their passion for everything around them. They wanted to learn everything. To travel the world. To write music. To compose poems. They kept on writing, composing, talking and holding each other every single day that passed.

And the time has come
For their souls to leave this world
And the world cried
With tears of happiness, nor of sorrow
And they lived together
Forever and ever

The story never ends. As long as lines can be written and added. The story will never end. Love lives eternally. Love never dies. Neither does this story. Start it and end it all over again. From the beginning to its end. But always write down the lines. Every time different lines. Different words combined together, as their souls did and continue doing it.

And the story will never end
Their love will be eternal
The story is me and you
The story is every Don and every Juan

Make your own story out of it. Understand it however you like or want. Fulfill it your own ways. But always remember. The story ends whenever you want it to end. Don & Juan never ended their story. And they lived happily ever after.

Georgios Rachiotis

Georgios Rachiotis is a freelance writer for the past decade as well as a radio producer-presenter and multi-instrumentalist. He is the founder of Literatology and also the Chief Editor and MAnager of it. He likes music, poetry, literature, arts, mythology and all kinds of stories and tales as well as folklore. He also attends courses of History, Literature & Poetry in Universities all over the world.
Georgios Rachiotis is a freelance writer for the past decade as well as a radio producer-presenter and multi-instrumentalist. He is the founder of Literatology and also the Chief Editor and MAnager of it. He likes music, poetry, literature, arts, mythology and all kinds of stories and tales as well as folklore. He also attends courses of History, Literature & Poetry in Universities all over the world.

Let me tell you a story – The Rainmaker

The night was cold and the fog flowed gently through the streets like a wave of magic and weird. She went out on the balcony and listened: Silence. Pinned her eyes to the sea. It was not very far. Just a few meters away. The moon graced her with its dim light. She remained to observe, so dark and wild, until she heard steps. She turned her head, and turned towards the sound source. She saw him. He walked boldly and decisively in the desert road, with frost as his only companion. His pace was quick and restless, as if he was late.

the_rain_maker_by_evergreenarts-d67tinkHe approached the large plane tree in front of the house, underneath her balcony. Once he arrived next to it, he stopped. He turned his head left and right a few times to make sure that he was alone. Then he started searching for something near the tree. She made no move. She remained to rely on the brass railings of her veranda, holding her breath, so as not to let him understand her presence and leave. For a while he was hiding by the foliage of the tree. The only thing that remained to witness his presence, was the crackle of dried leaves. As if they were complaining of his indifference to those. As if they were asking for his attention.

Suddenly, a metallic sound was heard. She stepped on the toes of her feet so as to be able to see him. He was holding a golden ladder, with ornate carvings on the edges. Where did he find it? What would he need it? For the first time in her life she was seeing such a beautiful creation. Imagined unreal, something out of a dream. He took a last look around him before he started to roll it out. One by one, increasingly more stairs appeared, which directed towards the sky. But, how was it happening? She rubbed her eyes with the inside of her hands: she will be surely dreaming.

She opened her eyes again. No. It was true. Enchanted as she was, she saw him beginning the ascent with a decisive look. Something did not seem right but something was not appropriate in all this dreamlike scene. She looked at his face again. Now, lighted by the silver moonlight, she could observe it better. But, she discerned something in his eyes. His lips were pursed, almost bloody from the pressure he exerted on them. And his eyes were red and bleary. “It hurts” she whispered, with a whisper similar to the wave splash, tied with the calmness of the night.

She continued to follow him with her ​​eyes, feeling her heart heavier, full of his sorrowful look. A few minutes after, he stopped climbing. She could just see him now. She narrowed her eyes and pushed herself to focus only on his figure. He tended his right hand, as if he was looking for something. A little later he clenched his fist. But what did he grab? What was he trying to pull close to him? She closed her eyes a bit more in an effort to focus better. She couldn’t. No. It cannot be. She took another look.

There was no doubt. It was a small cloud. It looked like cotton and in other parts it was white while in others it was gray. Having brought it fairly close to him, based with his hands, and managed to climb up. His sigh was hiding a dose of relief and a dose of happiness. He sat down and left staring towards the sea, like the way it was a while ago. For him all of these were ordinary. For him all of these were his life. She continued looking at him. Her neck began to complain – she had for too long her head turned to the sky – but she did not care.

She realized that little by little, his gaze was more and more darkened. His thoughts were crashing upon him, beats inside his heart and mind, were closing him inside them, and would not let him out. There was only one way out.

He approached his palms before his eyes, as they had begun to tear. Then he held them there. His crying was silent and peaceful. It did not last long. Her gaze followed his hands, which no were longer hiding his shining now eyes. She saw him to carefully place them on the cloud, to absorb all of their moisture.

painting of Rain maker by Yanni Stratoudaki
painting of Rain maker by Yanni Stratoudaki

A shine followed, like lightning, before the first drops started to fall. The exclamation of excitement that escaped from her lips made ​​him turn towards her. But how could he had not seen her earlier? He turned the ladder to the balcony, and began descending the golden stairs. She did not move again, still enchanted and terrified by the spectacle acted out before her. He approached her and tended his hand “Nice to meet you” his voice was gentle and deep, his eyes were both dark brown and amber, reminded her of autumn. She gave him her hand tentatively.

He smiled at her warmly and replied “My name is Rainmaker. Yours?”

Evi “Wild Rose” M.

Original Version of “Let me tell you a story – The Rainmaker”  written by Evi “Wild Rose” M. can be found here

Evi "Wild Rose" M. studies literature. Her mood to writing articles, short stories and poems led her a few years ago to create her blog, titled "Wild Rose" ( ). In parallel, some of her texts have been published in a well-known Greek site named "Protagon" ( ). As a member of the Literatology team she writes poems, short stories and some articles.
Evi “Wild Rose” M. studies literature. Her mood to writing articles, short stories and poems led her a few years ago to create her blog, titled “Wild Rose” ( ). In parallel, some of her texts have been published in a well-known Greek site named “Protagon” ( ). As a member of the Literatology team she writes poems, short stories and some articles.

Unless you lived History, read it – Dido Sotiriou & History

All of us can change the float of History. When? All those times when we decide to distance ourselves from the present time, all those days that we accept the mistakes of peoples as a result of all human nature. All the times that by being objective, we see the history of peoples as a unified universe and we only have the need to look to the future.

A Trip Without Return by Dido Sotiriou

History is written every day, is passing and is lost beside us, is woven for us and by us. Such an approach is not utopian. We are born notable, so that we can lend something more to that already exists. This is where lies the secret of the world and of the independence, on the target and the creation.

Numerous times the books offer an unprecedented awakening. But…

How long ago did you read something that agitated you really, that prevented you to get out of the rhythm of its pages, which drove you to a sleepless night?

Literature is not just entertainment. It’s the way to live countless lives with the same person. Like young outcast viewers.

It took me so many years to understand that some books are part of my self and of my mind and that their authors are not only talented, but also parts of history.

images (2)MANDATE

There will be none that I could compare with Dido Sotiriou. Her writing sample is remarkable. Not only because she was just excessively gifted but also because everything that exists in her books is a distillate of life, of a true and distressed soul which gives people something of its own history.

Regardless of beliefs, mindsets and torques, Dido Sotiriou is presented to the reader through her ​​books. And she often takes a sacred form. Not because she is a writer, not because you realize that she exudes pure personal experience through her stories, but for all the reasons that you stand in silence in front of those who have lived what you now hear and you tremble for.

It’s easy to learn the facts, it is easy to speak about them scientifically, but it is not easy to follow the Greek postwar History through a live narration.

In her book “Mandate” Dido Sotiriou is conveyed to a past that we prefer to let forgotten. She talks about a series of post-Civil War conflicts, for a continuous injustice and abolition of freedom and life. In her “Mandate” she then speaks of a Greece that we all strive to tuck away. The place of the division, of contradictions and of intrigue.

In that book you ache with those who ache. Because books magically eliminate space and time. And when the persons are real, and when the heroes still exist, you read and you read in order to bring catharsis some time. To feel that fair prevailed, the right thing.

The narratives are peculiar however in life. In the case indeed, who get the importance of historical testimony, then they rarely end with a desired manner.

What I will not forget is that Dido Sotiriou succeeds in all of her works to harmonize war and division with all aspects of life. She misses none. Even into the darkness flashes of life and love occur. But the most beautiful element in her writing and in the spirit of that, is that so strongly she integrates you on the psyche and the roles of the heroes. She initiates you to the images (1)injustice of the world, and in the end, so knowingly, she leaves you torn. You stand alone to toss about who won and who was eventually the victim. That’s because history operates with precision mechanisms. The heroes, the aggrieved ones or even the bold ones are gilded even after years. She leaves the abusers living by carrying their own stigmata. Never the victims are obvious.

Unless you lived history, read it, learn what happened in the streets you walk. What orders were taken in the language you speak. Do not learn history for others, learn it for yourself, for all those days that you will need to look back to appreciate and protect what’s already gained. Remember: if now the world is unrighteous, there was certainly a time that it was much worse. The solution lies on impulse.

Rafaela Maneli

Rafaela Maneli is studying Communication and MEDIA at the University of Athens, she loves writing and reading books by a very young age. It is above all an instrument of psychotherapy and contact as she usually says. She has participated and won the national competition of poetry of the Hellenic Literature Union and as she grows up she is trying to write as much as possible. ..
Rafaela Maneli is studying Communication and MEDIA at the University of Athens, she loves writing and reading books by a very young age. It is above all an instrument of psychotherapy and contact as she usually says. She has participated and won the national competition of poetry of the Hellenic Literature Union and as she grows up she is trying to write as much as possible. ..

You Can find the original text written by Rafaela Maneli in Greek Language right underneath

Continue reading Unless you lived History, read it – Dido Sotiriou & History

Love Through Those Who I Love


There is no better starting point of thought than Emmanuel Kriaras: “without love we are rocks”, so; the experience of a soul and of a century speaks and vibrate for love. There have not used most leonidafremovsonorous words to deliver the principal of meanings. Simple words speak by themselves and prepare the driving force of life.

Nobody was able to demarcate love, to take him over and above his spikes. But love never ceased to be the energy that motivates nature. Such an approach is not romantic. In love we speak with the need, with that innermost desire. We observe that the world breaks down and remakes, ​​moves and mutes for our most vile needs. But we have another source nature, the most noble of all, that often brightens the most beautiful aspect of us, the torque in love.

In love we are defeated daily and this is not pessimistic. Love is won by allegiance says Christianopoulos and who can oppose to that? We’ve been defeated by the most vibrant of our thoughts, of our most unselfish feelings, of all those things we strive to bury. We are tanking by our own being. We are exceeding by all those which we consider to be outdated, misfit at such times. Naturally we have “a trafficker pride» says Dimoula. These are human versions which are employed in erotic moments, in exaggerated lives, subservient to leak-proof loves.

Love is claiming with momentum, wins and loses the same time. Loses in those dark days when the need of desire is greater than that which could be reclaimed. It loses in our doldrums moments with timid causes, in everything we fear and so suddenly we create. But it is undoubtedly the best solution, it is the strongest trigger for a long procedure of self-criticism. Because it is the fear of abandonment such, that commonly opens the road to completion, sets out the toughest guidelines.

Kazantzakis once wrote that “I love means perish”. And indeed we perish, everyone perishes. He had expressed in such manner, the truest of emotions. We go through small daily Dante hells. Love is Sandro_Botticelli_-_Inferno,_Canto_XVIII_-_WGA02854the flames that flare up and curve, pyre that freeze time. It’s the only time that in decay eternity is contrasted.

Even the impetus for rhythmic writing is love. It is that which led the humans outside of the leak-proofs, is not subjected to laws, it denies money and races.

Someone writes so as to be able to verify his position in the world, he writes mainly to talk about the unexpressed and so love would never be told. There will always be Bart talking about him in his “quotes of the erotic speech”, so many would keep looking for him, but would be the sweet momentum that endlessly sways us in moral and immoral, from the already told in untold.

The texts that speak for love have a strange waving, making us their estate in lure words. In love you do not talk morally, you do not count times, you do not operate on tactics, and true love is the P.152mutual condition that forces your body to dominate. Someone falls in love coincidentally, perhaps fateful and sees the light coming from within.

Seferis never experienced love like a hassle, but as a ceaseless celebration, praised as one verse. And in my opinion it was the most intelligent thought of his life. We often feel that everything is too poetic for us, very different of what we are already experiencing. But it cannot be believable that our era has made us captive of instability and anesthesia. Each one of us can experience the ultimate of the lyrics of Kornaros, even though they seem so far away.

I’m not trying to give you in other words a more poetic version of the daily love. I’m just trying to say that love will always be our nature, equally despicable and exalted, the same coward and saucy. Unequivocally and without melodrama. It will be the ultimate purpose for the soul, since for Nietzsche too, even the man finds happiness in the moments he loves. It is love, therefore the desire that keeps us alive.


Rafaela Maneli is studying Communication and MEDIA at the University of Athens, she loves writing and reading books by a very young age. It is above all an instrument of psychotherapy and contact as she usually says. She has participated and won the national competition of poetry of the Hellenic Literature Union and as she grows up she is trying to write as much as possible. ..
Rafaela Maneli is studying Communication and MEDIA at the University of Athens, she loves writing and reading books by a very young age. It is above all an instrument of psychotherapy and contact as she usually says. She has participated and won the national competition of poetry of the Hellenic Literature Union and as she grows up she is trying to write as much as possible. ..


You can find the original version of Rafaela’s “Love Through Those Who I Love” in Greek Language just underneath… 


Continue reading Love Through Those Who I Love