I cry out for you, for it is lonely here without you
My only happiness is knowing this sadness will not last
because the warmth of the sun will be coming soon
The cry of the Cuckoo will turn into the beautiful Bird of Paradise
and the return of Summer will dry your tears..
Your Lily, will bloom just for you
I await your return anxiously..
Love Will Heal my Soul
In a world where nothing makes sense anymore;
Where the clouds no longer rain, and oceans thirst
I refuse to let the perils of giving up, win
I am not a woman who quits, and I need nothing
but the nectar of hope that fills my tearful eyes
Paint a portrait of my soul with the colors of red
and write me a poem filled with sound of the wind
My heart beats with the blood of a warrior
though soft and gentle on the surface of my being
I can withstand the beating from the world around me
and I will stitch the wounds around my own heart
with strands of resilience that will keep me, alive.
And in the end, it will be love that heals my soul.
Step Back in Time
I miss the words we used to utter in the night
that seem now like dreams woken from
Let me find you as you were long ago
with caring thoughts and concern for me
I still seek that man and never forgot him
I believe he still remains, in his heart of hearts
I wait for him to take a step back in time
and once more sing again the song
that won my heart when we first met
I miss hearing it in the night, under the lit stars
as I gazed into the eyes of who used to sing it.
Kristy Ann Raines was born Kristy Ann Rasmussen in Oakland California, in the United States of America.
She is an accomplished international poet and writer. Kristy has two self-published books on Amazon titled, “The Passion within Me”, and an anthology of epistolary poems, written with a prominent poet from India, Dr. Prasana Kumar Dalai, titled, “I Cross My Heart from East to West”.
She has one children’s short story book coming out soon, titled “Tishya the Dragon”, and a few other children’s stories to follow.
Kristy is also working on finishing two very special fantasy books that have been in the works for quite a few years, titled “Rings, Things and Butterfly Wings” and “Princess and the Lion”.
She is also writing her autobiography titled “My Very Anomalous Life”.
It is her life story that few know about, and the many transformations she went through. She reveals every interesting and sometimes tragic aspect of her life. She shares her failures, victories, tears, joys, losses, heartbreaks, and how she changed, by the grace of God.
A loving family and how two wonderful children stood by her through her transformation to who she is today.
Kristy has received numerous awards for her distinctive writing style and her work as an advocate and humanitarian around the world.
Kristy also enjoys painting, making pottery, writing song lyrics, and being with her family.
She is married, has an older brother and sister, two wonderful children, and is a proud grandmother of three beautiful granddaughters. with one great-grandchild on the way!
Sharifova Saidaxon Kamolliddinjon qizi was born on May 26, 2008, in the village of Kaldushon, Furqat district, Fergana region, into an intellectual family.
In 2015, she began her studies as a first-grade student at School No. 21 in Furqat district, where she is currently an 11th-grade student.
Beyond her school curriculum, Saidaxon actively participates in various extracurricular clubs. She speaks English fluently and, despite her young age, is the holder of more than 15 international and official certificates. She has also taken part in numerous projects. Moreover, her poems have been published by the official publishing house Lulu Press Inc.
The 25 newly-minted 6th grade students waited, a little on edge, for their new teacher to appear in the classroom. The 30 desks were arrayed in 5 rows of 6, and all were occupied save for the foremost desk in each row. Nobody, it appeared, wanted to be under the close scrutiny of their new instructor. Into the room strode a short, portly man in his late twenties, with a burr haircut, thick eyeglasses and a cheap suit. “My name,” began the man, reaching the front of the classroom, “is Mr. Shipley,” and he turned facing the blackboard and sketched his name in large block letters. “Now, who are you?” he asked a pretty blonde girl sitting near the front. “My name,” replied the girl, straightfaced, “is Miss Johnson.”
Several in the class laughed, but then wilted under the glare of Shipley. “Do you have a first name, Miss Johnson?” inquired the teacher, who already knew full well who she was. “It’s Jane,” she said. “Do you have a first name, Mr. Shipley?” asked Jane in the same sardonic tone.
“Indeed I do,” answered Shipley. “My full name is Marvin Allen Shipley,” he said. Jane burst out laughing. “You mean, like ‘Ma’ Shipley?” she asked, rocking back and forth like an old woman. She laughed and was again joined in her merriment by other students. A withering glance from their 6th grade instructor soon brought them to heel. “Enough!” rumbled Shipley in a deep baritone, and everyone, at his invitation, in turn introduced herself. Casual, getting-to-know-you chit-chat prevailed for the first couple of hours. The late August heat permeated the tall windows in the classroom. A spinning ceiling fan kept the temperature bearable. There was no air conditioning in public elementary schools in the American Midwest in 1965. Shipley asked about the interests and backgrounds of his pupils and he, in turn, opened himself up to questions from the students.
“Were you ever in the Army, Mr. Shipley?” asked Ruth, a pretty brown haired girl whose own brother had recently been drafted into the Army for service in the rapidly escalating Vietnam war. “No,” said Shipley, “I was contacted by the government and when I explained that I had a wife and a little boy, I was told that I needn’t bother.” He smiled benignly. “My older brother has a wife and kid too,” Ruth said pointedly, “but that didn’t get him out of going to ‘Nam.” Shipley just smiled weakly and shrugged. Turning to a large, thick-shouldered young man by the name of Butch, he asked, “And what do you like to do in your time off from school?” Butch blinked in surprise and then said in a hoarse voice, “I like to kiss the girls and make them cry!”
The other students groaned and Shipley rolled his eyes, prompting Butch to laugh like a braying donkey. Shipley shook his head. Turning next to a student whom he knew had been held back in school for a year, he asked, “Robert, what are your interests, son?” “My name’s Rob, and I’m not your son!” said the boy in a dull voice. “Duly noted,” murmured Shipley, turning to the next student, who turned out to be a small, red haired boy named Willy. “Willy, what do you want to be when you grow up?” “A baseball player,” he replied at once. The teacher shook his head, thinking that the small frail boy had as much chance of being a professional athlete as Shipley did of becoming CEO of Ford Motor Co., a local employer of prominence.
“Do you have a second choice?” asked Shipley. “A cartoonist,” said Willy. Before him on his desk was an open notebook in which he had crudely sketched myriad animal figures. Shipley craned his neck to observe the artwork, then said, “Keep playing baseball is my advice.” Several students laughed and Willy shot daggers at his new nemesis. – – – At recess two weeks later, Jane was chastised by a special education teacher for chasing and making fun of a student enrolled in the special ed. program. “Get out of here, you dirty Mongoloid,” shouted Jane, tossing stones after the child. Jane laughed shrilly. The teacher, monitoring the playground, reported the incident to Mr. Shipley. “Jane means well,” said Shipley, running into the special ed. teacher in the teachers’ lounge. “Well, I don’t know, Mr. Shipley,” said Mrs. Baxter. “Besides,” said Shipley. “Special ed. isn’t really a part of Burbank School, now is it? You only use our spaces twice a week and then go onto other district facilities the rest of the week, am I right?” He smiled cunningly. The other teacher twisted her lips wryly. Shipley was right: special ed., still experimental in this school district, couldn’t afford to be too demanding with respect to their hosts’ behavior. “I’d like to speak to Jane for a moment if I may,” she said.
Shipley acquiesced and later that afternoon, during recess, Jane and her teacher trooped into the cafeteria, which was used by the special ed. classes when lunch was not in session. Shipley introduced the two. “I just wanted to speak with you for a moment, Jane,” said Mrs. Baxter. She went on to briefly explain the mission of special ed. and to enlist Jane’s support for her efforts. Drawing her narrative to a conclusion, Baxter said, “You understand, don’t you, Jane? I want us all to just get along.” Baxter leaned forward in earnest. She had to tread cautiously here. Roger Johnson, Jane’s father, was a member of the Board of Education. Jane, who had been fighting back against laughing in the teacher’s face, finally gave up the struggle and said, “Alright, just so long as I don’t have to touch one of those Mongoloids!” Baxter sighed and came back to her full height. She’d tried. She looked over at Shipley, but all he did was shrug. Throughout her school years, Jane seemed to harbor a particular resentment for such children until, almost 10 years later, she gave birth to the first of her own two children with Down’s Syndrome. – – – “How old is this new teacher of yours?” asked Cynthia, Ruth’s mom, one evening at supper. “27,” Ruth replied. “So he’s already been in the Army?” asked Cynthia. Ruth shook her head. “No,” she said. “He said he doesn’t have to go. He has a wife and a little boy.” “Humph!” said her mom. “That won’t keep you out of the Service nowadays. He probably knows someone on the local Draft Board! The fix is in,” said Cynthia, who was a big proponent of conspiracy theories.
Ruth shrugged. “I saw old man Shipley’s photo in last year’s yearbook,” said Melanie, Ruth’s sister, older by 4 years. “He got out of the draft because he’s so fat. He must weigh nearly 300 pounds!” She hooted. “What are you going to be studying this year?” asked Cynthia next. Ruth pulled a sheet of paper from her bookbag. “All this,” she said. Cynthia accepted the document and read, nodding her head. “Math, spelling, social studies, science, art…” “Mr. Shipley has a degree in Chemistry,” remarked Ruth. “He says he wants to get a job at the high school teaching that.” “What sort of a man is he?” asked Cynthia. Ruth shrugged again. “I don’t know. He seems to like to tease people, make fun of them.” “Well, you just do what you’re told,” advised her mother. “Next year you’ll be in junior high; won’t that be fun?” Ruth and her sister both rolled their eyes. – – – A few weeks later Butch made an enemy of another student. That student, an 8th grader named Boxey, repeatedly called Butch “stupid” and “retardo” and stole his lunch. Finally Butch caved to his tormentor’s badgering and agreed to fight him after school one day. Boxey, who was tall and meaty and decidedly mean, was still not as large as Butch. He came armed with a retinue of supporters, who urged him to do unspeakable things to the underclassman. Then the fight proceeded. Boxey peppered Butch’s face with short, sharp jabs, emulating his hero, Cassius Clay. He even chanted, “Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee.” But he did little damage. Butch threw just one punch, to Boxey’s ribs, likely facturing one. Boxey, impaired by the damaged rib, tried to strike Butch in the crotch, but Butch easily deflected the blow. Boxey cried out in pain, grabbed at his injured wrist. He sank to one knee. “Go ahead, Butch,” called out Rob, his sole booster, “finish him off. Beat the hell out of him. He’d do it to you!” Butch shook his head and dropped his fists to his side. “He’s hurt,” he murmured, picking his jacket off the ground. “It wouldn’t be right. Let’s go,” he said, and led his one friend away. – – – “Pamela and I are getting a divorce, Rob,” said his father Aaron Braden bluntly. “She moved out this morning.” Rob frowned. Things had been so shaky in the Braden household recently, indeed, for as long as Rob could recall, that he had long suspected that it would end like this. “When?” he asked. “As soon as she can get the lawyer she’s sleeping with to file the motion,” replied Aaron harshly. He went on to levy bitter criticism against his wife of 14 years. Rob was the couple’s only child. “What happens to me?” asked Rob, cutting to the chase. “Well, Pamela doesn’t want you,” said Aaron coldly. “You’d just cramp her style. I guess I’m stuck with you.”
Rob swallowed, nodded and turned away. He’d found out all he needed to know. Rob never saw his mother again.
Winter
Three children, selected by lot the day before, accompanied their teacher on a trip downtown during the school’s extended holiday lunch period. Though they would forgo ice cream and roasted turkey served in the cafeteria, they would be given treats by their teacher nonetheless; plus, they got an off-campus excursion. Their mission: to purchase for their class a Christmas tree. After they’d all piled into Shipley’s “groovy” new Mustang, they debated over where to obtain the tree. “I think Lentzburger’s has a tree lot again this year,” noted Ruth. Levi Lentzburger was her mother’s brother. “And what,” asked Jane scornfully, “get us a Jew Christmas tree? That’s an oxy-moron.” Ruth, a member of a non-observant Jewish family, stared at her blankly. “What do you mean?” she asked, although she recognized Jane’s remark as part of the same subtle prejudice she’d felt almost since she’d become self-aware.
“Never mind,” said Shipley gruffly, slipping the car into gear. “We’ll just go by Kroger’s.” “Gimme a hatchet,” offered Jane, “and I’ll cut one down in the city park.” She grinned woflishly. Minutes later, the children and their teacher were in the parking lot at the grocery, inspecting the meager selection of trees. The children gravitated to the prettier, more expensive trees: magnificent specimens of Douglas fir, priced at $3, $4 and one exquisite specimen at an other-worldy $7. “I like this one, Mr. Shipley,” purred Jane with cunning, holding up the $7 tree. “Put it back,” said Shipley, grasping a sparse, practically denuded specimen of balsam from the $1 pile. He shook the tree and needles rained down copiously onto the paved lot. The children stared at the beleaguered specimen with sad eyes. “It’s missing a few branches,” remarked Ruth, running her fingers through the blank spaces. “It’ll be fine,” Shipley assured them. “Besides, we’re on a tight budget. C’mon, let’s check out.”
The little group drifted toward the outdoor cashier, paid for their purchase and were soon on their way, the small, thin tree stuffed unceremoniously into the Mustang’s trunk. “I’m getting hungry,” complained Jane, running her hand over her tummy by way of demonstration. “When do we eat? You promised us food, Mr. Shipley,” she whined melodramatically. “Oh, here, Mr. Shipley,” said Ruth, handing over a $5 bill. “I told my mom that you were taking us out today to get a tree and lunch, and she said it wasn’t right that you spend your own money.” Shipley accepted the bill gratefully. “Tell your mother thanks, Ruth,” he said. Second-year grade school teachers didn’t earn a great deal of money.
Arriving at a small diner, the four found spots in a booth with a formica top and faux-leather seats. An ageless waitress arrived promptly and took their order. The next thing that Shipley did, under the watchful gaze of his students, was to turn up a pack of cigarettes, shake one out and light up. This was extraordinary. Smoking was something that parents did, or a renegade older brother or toughs on TV, not an elementary school teacher. They watched, morbidly fascinated, as their teacher greedily sucked smoke from the coffin nail and then expelled the fetid fumes in their immediate vicinity. Shipley had budgeted $3 for lunch, thinking 4 hamburgers and 4 Pepsis and then stiffing the waitress on the tip. The tree had been paid for by conscripting a nickel from each student who could afford it, and not everyone could. But now, with the 5-spot in his pocket, the cash-strapped teacher could afford to live a little. The payments on the new car were murder. As they sat at the table, watching Shipley smoke, the students took stock of their surroundings. “What’s that?” asked Ruth, indicating an elaborate, multi-colored metal and glass device sitting on the edge of the table next to the wall. Shipley recognized it as a rather bizarre looking napkin dispenser, but before he could answer, Rob spoke up. “It’s a slot machine,” he quipped.
The other children laughed. Shipley rolled his eyes, but chuckled in spite of himself. This was the first time he’d heard Rob speak in days and Shipley was glad that he was opening up again, at least a little. The teacher had heard rumors that the Bradens were contemplating a divorce and this couldn’t be good for their son. In all the school, just a handful of students had parents who were divorced. 20 minutes and 5 cigarettes later, Shipley gathered his charges and they set out. Pausing at the cash register, he purchased 2 packs of Marboros with fifty cents from the $5 he’d gotten from Ruth’s mom. Then they piled back into the Mustang and returned to the school. – – – Rob had been acting out. Fits of unexplained temper and irascibility accompanied by mild aggression became common. Mr. Shipley had told him on several occasions to check his temper but, unknown to Shipley, the dissolution of the Braden marriage had been extra hard on 12-year-old Rob. Already wincing from being held back a year for indifference to his studies, he was seething with frustration at rejection by both his parents.
Jocelyn Shipley, Marvin’s sharp-tongued, aggressive wife, worked for the company that administered aptitude and intelligence tests at schools throughout the county. She reported to her husband that, of the 25 students in his class, there were but 3 that stood out as exceptional. The first was Butch, whose IQ was some 15% below average. “He really should be in a special program,” she said. “But, I know that Burbank doesn’t have a special education teacher on faculty for students his age just now. 5 years from now, you probably will have, and Butch would be enrolled. As for now, he’ll continue to slip through the cracks.”
“Is anyone exceptional for the right reasons?” asked Marvin with a frown. “Yes,” said Jocelyn. “2 students. Ruth Lanier and Robert Braden.” “Rob is a miserable student,” opined Marvin. “And his attitude stinks.” “Yet, he’s very intelligent,” said Jocelyn. “He has an IQ of 131.” Shipley’s bushy eyebrows arced skyward. “That’s not bad,” he conceded. “Your IQ,” his wife told him slyly, “by way of comparison, is just 118.” She flashed a mean little smile. “And what about Ruth?” he asked. “Ruth,” Jocelyn informed him, “is off the charts smart.” “How smart?” he asked. “Try 150+,” she told him. Marvin whistled soundlessly. No wonder he hadn’t been able to get a handle on that one. She always seemed to be onto him, to see through him. – – – “I need that library book back, Rob,” Sheila, the class librarian, told her classmate. “I’m not done with it yet,” he responded. “I’ll finish it over lunch and then bring it back.” “I need it now!” she snapped truculently. This went on for several exchanges until which point that Rob angrily flung the paperback book at the girl. It slipped through her hands and landed loudly on the floor. At that very moment, Shipley looked up, became instantly enraged.
“Enough!” he shouted, and rose to his feet, violently flinging his desk chair into the wall. Everyone froze in place. Reaching into a desk drawer, Shipley pulled out a heavy wooden paddle, walked around the desk and seized Rob by the arm. “You’ll learn,” snapped Shipley, dragging the child in his wake. They swept out the door and up the corridor to the other 6th grade classroom, where Shipley knocked peremptorily on the closed door. Within seconds, the other teacher appeared. “Need you to witness corporal, Duane,” said Shipley with barely contained fury. The three proceeded to a small store room down the hall, unlocked the door and stepped inside.
“You’ve been warned before,” thundered Shipley, grabbing Rob round the waist and bending him over. He then delivered 2 tremendous swats to Rob’s backside. “Now,” snapped Shipley, still breathing heavily, “don’t lose your temper again–or else!” Shipley marshalled Rob back to class and shoved him through the door, lingering in the hallway and conversing with the other teacher for a moment. Rob could hear some pleasantries exchanged; what sounded like laughter. Red-faced, he took his seat and avoided the others’ stares. 60 minutes later, when Shipley had calmed down and next addressed his classroom, he said that he hoped the students had learned something from the incident which had taken place an hour before.
“I learned something,” remarked Jane with an evil grin. “If you’re big enough, you can bully anyone.” Shipley frowned darkly. “She’s right,” said Ruth. “And if you’re in charge, you can get away with it.” “Ruth,” intoned Shipley ominously. With Jane, he had to put up with this nonsense, but Ruth was another case entirely. Jane’s father was a bigshot, but Ruth’s father wasn’t even in the home.
“Am I wrong?” Ruth went on. “What did you teach anyone here? Not that anger and violence aren’t appropriate. Only that some people can get away with it, where others can’t. You got angrier than Rob ever has. And then you got violent, which he never has.” Shipley silently stewed. – – – Tragedy was visited on Shipley’s 6th grade class in February of 1966. The first instance, unknown to the teacher and to the school-at-large, was when Rob’s mother perished, alongside her new husband, in an automobile accident near Las Vegas. “Pamela’s dead,” Rob’s father told his son without preamble one afternoon after school. Rob halted in his tracks. Was this another play on words, of which his father was so fond, as in, “She’s ‘dead’ to me.’? “Wh…what?” asked Rob.
“In Nevada,” said Mr. Braden. “Hit a truck on the interstate, probably drunk, or else that sonofabitch she was with was. Don’t know yet who was driving.” “When?” asked a stunned Rob. “Um? When did she buy it? Hell, I don’t know exactly, probably last night or early this morning.” Rob could smell the heavy stench of alcohol coming off his father. “Don’t ever fall in love, son,” counseled Mr. Braden. “Or else make sure they croak before they take you to the cleaners…” That was the last thing he said before Rob belted him in the mouth. The next day, Rob arrived for class sporting 2 black eyes and, if truth be known, a body festooned with deep, ugly bruises. The abuse continued. A week later, following the funeral, Rob was shaken by Aaron’s bitter weeping over his wife’s passing. Aaron’s behavior became increasingly bewildering and unsettling to the young man until, finally, he ran away from home. He didn’t see his father again for more than 20 years.
The second tragedy came out only a week later, when Mrs. Dinwiddie, the school principal, arrived at the door of the classroom and beckoned Mr. Shipley. After a whispered conversation, Shipley summoned Ruth, who intuited that something was not right. Ruth didn’t return to class for a week, following the funeral of her older brother. Shipley told the class that Eli Lanier had been KIA–killed in action–in the war in Vietnam. Ruth, he told them, would be absent to attend the funeral and to grieve. “Is that the same war that you got out of, Mr. Shipley?” asked Jane in a needling voice. Shipley heaved a great sigh. He hadn’t the heart to fence with her this time.
Spring
On the last day of school, the students turned in their textbooks and received their final report cards, each tucked away in a half-size manila envelope. As the children were comparing marks, Shipley said, “I was pleasantly surprised to discover that everyone passed this year, although with some of you it was close.” He smirked at Butch, whose face and neck turned crimson. Some of the children laughed, but not Ruth. “Why’d you have to go and say that?” she said. Shipley stared up at her in surprise.
“Butch does the best he can,” she went on. “You can’t say that about everyone, you know.” Shipley’s own face grew a little red. “It’s not too late to change the grades,” he said threateningly. “Go ahead and flunk me then,” she dared him. “My scores on tests and on my other report cards won’t back you up.” Shipley knew she was correct, and he decided to cut his losses. “Butch tries,” he conceded. “Good luck in junior high, Butch, and to all of you.”
The students preened. In just three months they would be 7th graders, and whole new social vistas would open up. They were both thrilled and terrified. “I’ve some other news for you,” said Shipley. “This is my final year here at Burbank. Next fall I’ll be teaching 7th grade general science classes at the junior/senior high school. So, I’ll be seeing all of you again next year.”
Some of the students spontaneously applauded, while others sat on their hands. “Shit,” muttered Butch and another student in unison. “Is there something you’d like to say?” asked Shipley sharply. Neither boy responded. As the hands on the clock face wound to 3pm, Shipley said, “I want to say that I have really, truly enjoyed teaching–most of you–this year. Of course,” he went on, “there’s always that one bad apple in any bag…”
As he continued, almost every student wondered if he or she was the one being focused on as a troublemaker. Ruth observed the scene before her. She would go on to earn advanced degrees in Psychology in college and then more fully understand Shipley for who and what he was. Even now she recognized the young teacher for his efforts to marginalize and misuse others. She blew out a breath and shook her head. They’d had each other’s number from the first day, she thought. From his desk, Shipley stared at her. When the final bell on the final day rang, Shipley watched the students depart. At the last second he called out, “Ruth, would you stay a moment longer, please?” Ruth turned and walked up to Shipley’s desk. They regarded one another warily for a moment. Then he spoke.
“Ruth,” he said in his deep voice, “I got the feeling just now, and not for the first time, that you don’t really like me very much. Is that an accurate observation?” he asked. “No, Mr. Shipley,” she said, “it’s not. As a matter of fact, I don’t like you at all.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “May I ask why?” “Of course,” replied Ruth. “I just don’t trust you.” “Explain,” he requested.
“My father, as you might know, doesn’t live with us.” Ruth stared into Shipley’s face but could discern nothing. “My mom divorced him when he sexually and emotionally abused my older sister and brother.” Shipley’s eyes grew a little larger. He knew the father was not a part of the Lanier household, but this was news to him. When my mom reported him to the police, he was arrested and a judge decided that if dad would divorce mom and pay child support, then he wouldn’t be sent to prison. I see in your eyes the same thing I saw in my dad’s. It’s the same thing I see in a feral animal. When you would pull Michelle onto your lap and act like you were going to spank her, I knew then you were the same kind of monster that my dad is. I talked to Michelle and when she was sprawled face down on your lap, she could feel it too.” Shipley was deathly quiet.
“You’re lucky you never pulled me onto your lap,” she went on. “Because I would’ve told my mom and she would have got you fired.” Shipley was sweating now. “So you really hate me that much, Ruth?” he asked bleakly. Ruth shook her head. “I don’t hate you at all, Mr. Shipley. Like I don’t hate my dad. You’ve both got a problem and I can’t hate you for that. It’d be like hating someone for having measles. I don’t think you’re to blame for it. But, like with someone with measles, I don’t want to spend any time with you or get too close, you know?”
She turned on her heel and as she made her way to the door, the teacher called after her, “good luck in junior high, Ruth.” “Same to you, Mr. Shipley,” she said without turning around, and passed for the final time through the door.
**In collaboration with the Literary cultural initiative POETRY Unites People Founder Eva Petropoulou Lianou**
**An exclusive interview presented by Eviasmile**
Journalist **Giorgos Pratzikos** introduces the beloved author and poet **Fay Rempelou**,
Greece
I met Fay Rempelou, although we live very close – she in Chalkida and I in Psachna – (and she herself has roots in the local community of Psachna), through Eva Petropoulou-Lianou last year, at “The Path of Hero.” Indeed, Eva and the Path know how to connect and unite people. From the very first moment I heard her, I sensed something unique in her poems and thought to myself that I would one day interview her. Well, the time has finally come.
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**1. Fay, I know you don’t give interviews often. Searching online, I only found one more from eight years ago. I want to ask you many things, but I’ll start a bit unconventionally: Let’s begin with Eva Petropoulou-Lianou, thanks to whom we met. What does Eva mean to you?**
Eva is multi-talented, a very good writer of fairy tales and a poet. She is also a remarkable organizer of cultural events, who has given and continues to give her utmost to culture, especially in these difficult and cold times we live in, where material gains are placed above humanity. I met Eva at poetry gatherings of the group *Poetry in the Age of Auctioning*, and we immediately became friends because, above all, she is a wonderful person who gives from her soul. A true human being who inspires love and admiration.
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**2. The place where we met is “The Path of Hero” in Politika, Evia, where, for two consecutive years, the Women’s Poetry Festival Greece–Mexico was held. You also participated both years. What are your experiences?**
This event, dedicated to peace and gender equality, is very important. Especially when it takes place in the enchanting *Path of Hero*, a beautiful and mystical landscape that speaks directly to our hearts, born out of the love of Hero’s parents, who gave everything to create this space, a true gift and cultural bridge. This magical place ignites the imagination, making me believe that our calls for peace and equality across the world will be heard.
From both years of the festival, I keep a wonderful experience, not only because I had a great time and felt inspired, but also because I met amazing people who took part. The organization, the poetry, the music, the venue—all together were impeccable and felt like a beautiful fairytale, full of joy and optimism.
Moreover, because Greece is not only Athens, this festival taking place in the province contributes to the spiritual growth and flourishing of the local community, just like all events that promote, in times of individualism and spiritual inertia, participation, collectivity, and culture.
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**3. I took a look at your work *Everything is a Circle*. Do you believe that life really works this way?**
Yes, I believe that our stories, our relationships, and our lives in general follow their own cycles. Beyond that, however, I gave my book this title because its four stories create a circular flow, starting from the first, where power, through technological development, has fully controlled and subdued people. Then, raising questions about our roots and our capacity for resistance in the next two stories, it ends with the last, where love, passion, and altruism conquer everything harsh and inhuman that tries to subdue us. If this human stance in life fails, we return again to the first story.
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**4. I especially liked the second story of your book, which speaks about a tree. As you have mentioned, the tree is symbolic and refers to our roots. How do you see today’s society? Do we have a chance to return to our roots, or will we eventually be completely uprooted?**
I’m glad you liked it, Giorgos. The story with the tree is indeed symbolic, representing our roots, which, since the 1990s, Greek society seems to forget, avoid, or even deny, carried away by the trend of easy affluence, urban comforts, and greed.
As the well-known poet Katerina Gogou said, our roots are there so we can grow branches, not to hold us down to the ground. And I too believe that progress is necessary, but without tradition, the memories of our past, and our history, we will end up with inhuman progress, with modern societies stripped of values and sensitivity.
Especially today, when man tends to be replaced by a mere number, this is a great danger, and our connection to our roots, tradition, and history becomes an essential issue.
—
**5. The last story in *Everything is a Circle* refers to a theatrical game, where the protagonists are Tarot cards. This really surprised me. Which Tarot card, among those that appear in your story, represents you the most?**
In this story with the Tarot cards, which is the final story of the book *Everything is a Circle* and my personal favorite, I identify with Chrysanthe, who, together with Nektarios, forms the Lovers, the protagonists of the story. Their love brings about social revolution and resolution—the victory of Humanity against harsh and inhuman social systems.
And that’s because I have always believed that love and passion, containing the authenticity of free choice, were, are, and will always remain revolutionary acts.
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**6. Searching online, I saw that you have participated in many poetry collections. Although it’s difficult, can you tell me which contribution stands out the most for you?**
My contribution to the erotic poetry collection *Hello, I love you, goodbye*, and to the collection dedicated to the elderly *With the Pi of Poetry*. That doesn’t mean that all the other poetry and prose anthologies I took part in were not equally important to me, that they didn’t inspire me equally, or that I didn’t give them my best.
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**7. September is dedicated to the elderly. I know that there is a poetry collection dedicated to them, in which you participated. How does Fay Rempelou, the poet and author, view old age? Does it scare you?**
As I write in the poem for old age with which I participated, *The Circle of Life*, “there is no death. In the face of every old person hides the future child.” It is natural that old age and death scare us, but only as future insecurities that all people share. In reality, old age is wisdom and the essence of life, helping you rediscover your simplicity, spontaneity, and childlike nature.
As for death, it is something we should not fear, because, firstly, as the writer and psychologist Leo Buscaglia says, it is our best friend, reminding us to live each moment that is given to us. And secondly, as Epicurus wrote, it is someone we never actually meet, since when he comes, we are no longer here.
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**8. To close, I’d like to lighten the mood and ask you: what are you preparing for the future?**
I am preparing the publication of my fourth book, which will be a poetry collection titled *Unaware Perpetrators*. It speaks about people whose actions’ consequences, no matter how much they embellish their motives, transcend even themselves and become unmanageable! I am already in contact with publishers, and I hope it will come to fruition soon!
In closing, Giorgos, thank you for giving me the space and stimulus to introduce myself to the world and talk about myself and my works, as well as for your overall contribution to the promotion of culture in my beloved homeland.
Russian literature holds a singular place in world culture, offering profound explorations of the human soul, moral conflict, and the complexities of social change. From the early chronicles of medieval Rus to the masterpieces of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, Russian writers have consistently used fiction as a mirror of national identity and universal human experience.
The “Golden Age” of the nineteenth century remains the cornerstone of Russian literary achievement. Alexander Pushkin, often called the father of modern Russian literature, established a new, flexible poetic language that bridged classical tradition and modern sensibility. His narrative poem Eugene Onegin not only shaped the Russian novel in verse but also captured the emerging tensions of a society moving toward modernization.
Following Pushkin, the great novelists—Fyodor Dostoevsky, Leo Tolstoy, and Ivan Turgenev—pushed psychological and philosophical depth to unprecedented levels. Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment and The Brothers Karamazov delve into questions of morality, free will, and redemption. Tolstoy’s sweeping epics, War and Peace and Anna Karenina, portray the intricacies of Russian society while contemplating fate, love, and spiritual awakening. Turgenev, with works like Fathers and Sons, introduced a refined realism and examined the generational conflicts of a rapidly changing nation.
The “Silver Age” at the turn of the twentieth century brought experimentation and symbolism. Poets such as Anna Akhmatova, Alexander Blok, and Marina Tsvetaeva infused lyricism with mystical and political undertones, reflecting the turbulence of revolution and war. Meanwhile, modernist prose writers like Andrei Bely and later Mikhail Bulgakov—author of the fantastical The Master and Margarita—combined satire, magic, and philosophical inquiry to challenge official ideologies.
Despite political repression and censorship during the Soviet era, Russian literature continued to evolve. Writers such as Boris Pasternak, whose Doctor Zhivago became a testament to love and resilience, and Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, whose One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich exposed the brutal reality of labor camps, kept alive a tradition of moral courage.
Today, Russian literature remains a global conversation partner. Contemporary authors, including Lyudmila Ulitskaya and Vladimir Sorokin, address issues of memory, identity, and the tension between tradition and innovation. Their works demonstrate that the Russian literary spirit—marked by psychological intensity, philosophical depth, and a search for moral truth—continues to inspire readers worldwide.
From Pushkin’s poetic breakthroughs to the postmodern experiments of the present, Russian literature endures as a vast landscape of thought and emotion, reminding us that the written word can illuminate both the darkest and most luminous corners of the human condition.
Annotation
This article provides an overview of Russian literature from its nineteenth-century Golden Age to contemporary authors. It highlights the philosophical depth, psychological insight, and moral questioning found in the works of writers such as Pushkin, Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, Turgenev, Akhmatova, Bulgakov, and modern voices like Ulitskaya and Sorokin. The text emphasizes Russian literature’s enduring influence on world culture and its continuing relevance in exploring the complexities of human existence.
Keywords
Russian literature; Golden Age; Silver Age; Pushkin; Dostoevsky; Tolstoy; Turgenev; Akhmatova; Bulgakov; contemporary Russian authors; psychological depth; philosophical inquiry; world literature influence.
References
Belknap, Robert L. The Genesis of The Brothers Karamazov. Northwestern University Press, 1990.
Emerson, Caryl. The Cambridge Introduction to Russian Literature. Cambridge University Press, 2008.
Figes, Orlando. Natasha’s Dance: A Cultural History of Russia. Metropolitan Books, 2002.
Kelly, Catriona. Russian Literature: A Very Short Introduction. Oxford University Press, 2001.
Terras, Victor. Handbook of Russian Literature. Yale University Press, 1985.
The story takes place in Nova Scotia, Canada. All is not what it seems at first glance. First things first. This is a story about succession. This is not a story to send to your Sunday school teacher. Intrepid Lucy is a Banisher, and she has visions. She comes from a family of Banishers. Lucy gets into trouble as she happens upon Tucked Inn. She thinks she’ll get help here after her car breaks down on a deserted road, but unbeknownst to her she stumbles very quickly upon hellish terrain in a nutshell.
You get to grips almost immediately with the daring writing of the innovative Nadine AuCoin. Her characters find themselves in drama and conflict. Lucy is by far in over her head right from the beginning. She wants to escape the underworld realm and sinister atmosphere she finds herself in, and searches for ways to find an exit out. Her parents are loving towards each other, and she has wonderful memories of a grandfather. The characters are quirky but you fall in love with Lucy’s unique heart, mind and spirit.
The writing style moves the novella along at a rhythmic pace. It’s sensational writing at its core. It is never frivolous. Drama and suspense builds tension, and the element of anxiety and violence is used to create an atmosphere of fear and horror, keeping the reader glued to the edge of their seat. The story also has the element of the macabre. What makes this book an example of good horror writing is the aspects of the suspense, the overly dramatic, the combination of the mundane and ordinary tapping into the grotesque.
The story, I would say, goes so far as to use fear and anxiety to make an emotional connection with the audience. It plays tricks on the reader as well as being a thrilling psychological mind game. The book will also evoke a sense of disgust and shock in the reader. Horror can be difficult to write, and to read; but if you have an insatiable appetite for it, this book is for you. Horror is more than just a scary story; it’s about fear.
With suspense. There is both the expectation and anticipation of fear. Nadine AuCoin certainly has a flair for this kind of writing. I might just read the next installment. I am toying with that idea. There are creepy, crawly things, a spooky house with locked doors, long hallways and hidden walls, the dark and the familiar made strange.
It most certainly taps into the reader’s darkest fears. Lucy seems extraordinary at times with the reality of her situation quickly dawning on her. She is brave, bold in her forward-thinking, thinks fast and on her feet, letting nothing get her down. On the surface of things, Allister seems to be her match, but he does not have her powers. He can read her mind, and as the attraction grows between forthright and independent Lucy and Allister, the reader can sense their growing chemistry.
Keep up. The spooky story begins on a foggy dirt road that seems to lead to nowhere. Of course that road is found next to a forest. It paves the way to Lucy’s nightmare world filled with crazies, sex-crazed savages, the devil, a hell made of underworld realms of hidden caves, exorcisms and back. The only horror stories I used to read were Stephen King’s in high school. Now mind you, this novella certainly has aspects of horror in it as well as lusty passion, and the supernatural. I promise you it won’t be a waste of your time if that’s what you’re looking for.
The story has a sound beginning, middle and end. It flows, it has racy in parts if you demand that from your storytelling, and will keep you guessing at what will happen next. There are chapters where what goes bump in the night threatens to overwhelm you at every turn of the page. The writer keeps you captivated at every turn and twist of the story.
Horror leaps at you from off the page as well as Lucy’s ingenuity and her enthralling romance with the handsome and well-dressed gentlemanly mama’s boy Allister. Drake and Darko are the stuff nightmares are made of and are the complete opposite of their older brother. This is a book to sink your teeth into on a sultry autumn day with a mug of tea at hand under a duvet. Once you get into it, though, you want the story to end with Lucy and Allister falling in love and getting the fairy tale ending.
One can only hope that good triumphs in the end. I kept guessing until the very end at what would happen to everyone in the book, even the bad guy. What a delightful page turner of a book this was, although it did make me cringe in certain parts. You can read this novella easily in one sitting as I did on a sunny Saturday afternoon with warm sunlight streaming into a cozy bedroom in a coastal town in South Africa.
Although there is a great deal of adversity to overcome before the end, Lucy takes it in her stride and finally accepts her role in the world as a force for good. Lucy is a survivor. She comes from a centuries-old family of survivors. Evil threatens to overwhelm but peace eventually reigns in the end.
This book review was published on the website Modern Diplomacy on the 21st October 2023.
