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A Voice Smoother then Velvet

I was panting by the time I made it to the forest outside the town, but still I continued. Even as the branches tore at my skin and the rough forest floor destroyed my feet, I kept running.
They said not to go out at night, they said it was dangerous, but did I listen? No, of course not. I didn’t care that eight girls went missing here this past month alone. But then again neither did my mom; she moved us here only two days ago, claiming that the job she was offered was too good to turn down. That the girls were only a coincidence, that nothing bad would happen to us – but here I am running for my life from some creature, with razor sharp teeth and glowing red eyes.

The Revenge of Baba Yaga

Hi. My name is Baba Yaga.
" Stop," someone will say. " Aren’t you the same Baba Yaga from the Russian folklore who ate all… those kids?
Before you judge me, let me tell you this.
First: I am vegetarian.
Second: I never ate any kids.
And third: I am a writer.
After years of lies and deceptions I decided to come out of the shadow and tell the real story of baba Yaga.
Here we go.
Last month I hit the jackpot.
Mr. Tumbolino from " Happily Ever After" publication house told me that my book was accepted. Before I could jump in my caulderon, steering with the spoon to tell my sisters about the good news, my book come out and climb to number on the New York best seller list.

Markers worn by passing time,
stand as sentinels in a garden of stones.
The names of those who are no more,
once starkly chiseled-
now vanishing as though carved in butter
set to table on a hot summer’s day.
The ones who languish here beneath the stones
are mostly now forgotten by history and progeny-
like old paradigms.
That they once lived and who they were
now sadly seems irrelevant to most-
visited only by the few that concern themselves
With mundane things such as history
and old graveyards.

Curtis J. Forsythe

KULAK

By Siromah

"Sign, you bastard!" The mayor banged his fist on the table. "Don’t you get it, you moron, you’re not getting out of here before you sign this!"
"I’m not signing anything," Spas snapped. "Beat me, kill me, I’m not signing anything! This land was my father’s and my grandfather’s. It has been our family heritage to this day."
"I don’t care if you got it from your father or from the sultan," interrupted the lanky mayor. "Now you sign, you pigheaded peasant!"
"No, I’m not giving up my land," repeated Spas obstinately. "You can take my life but not my land."

THE YOUNG TIGERS AND THE SUGAR LUMPS

By Siromah

A small resort on the Adriatic coast.

The train was rolling slowly to the south, winding like a snake between the rocks. The last three coaches were filled with teenagers from the Vladimir Ilyich Lenin High School in Sarajevo. They were going on a one-week vacation on the Adriatic.
There came another tunnel. The girls shrieked hysterically in the pitch-dark compartments. A couple of minutes passed. Just enough for the young tigers who were looking forward to that opportunity to reach under the girls’ skirts and touch their silky white thighs. Or to get a kiss. Or perhaps a slap in the face.

WHEN THE GODS WERE WALKING THE EARTH, part 1

By Siromah

“Many, many years ago, when the gods felt bored at the Olympus, they descended to Earth to spend some time hunting or having love affairs.

One day, a son was born to the king of a mighty kingdom. The king was so happy that he decided to hold nation-wide celebrations. For the ordinary peasants, long wooden tables were set in the park by the palace. The gods, the kings and the nobles were invited to a feast in the throne-hall. Dozens of jugglers, dancers, fire-eaters and jesters were invited to entertain the noble guests. They started arriving from near and far: the kings of the neighbouring kingdoms with their retinues, noble knights with their pages, rich merchants from faraway countries, soldiers, adventurers and ordinary folk. To the king’s amazement, even decrepit deaf dotards would mount their donkeys, lash them with their whips, stripping off enough hide for nine pairs of sandals, and head for the party. While the rabble were struggling to swallow the stale dark bread and the stringy meat, washing them down with the sour red wine, in the palace the kings and their noble attendants (strangely enough, the gods had not yet arrived, though usually they were the first to show up) were treated to a lavish dinner: steaming, fragrant bread, roasted piglets – no older than three months, with red apples stuck into their mouths, their tender meat melting on the palate, partridges stewed with mushrooms and quail eggs, freshly salted bonitoes, smoked herrings, spicy frog legs in salsa served with diced potatoes, delicious lamb brains, and even rarities such as caviar...”

WHEN THE GODS WERE WALKING THE EARTH, part 2

By Siromah

"So, Hephaestus hurried to the shore. The Isle of Bliss was the favourite place of Neptune’s daughters, and he was hoping to meet one of them.
"Sea Horse,
Swift as the wind,
Come to the shore,
Come to my call,"
he sang passionately.
Instantly, Sea Horse appeared from the deep blue sea. She was Neptune’s third and most pampered daughter. Instead of swimming, she rode a sea horse. The princess and her horse were inseparable; they never parted, even for an instant. She saw a god of exceptional beauty standing on the shore, his face veiled. The mermaid immediately fell in love with him and ordered her sea horse to take her to the shore.

“THERE ARE NO OTHERS. JUST ME”

"O you, my Mother, my Native Land,
Why is your cry so sad and heart-rending!
And you, O Raven, accursed bird,
On whose grave croak you of ill impending?"
Hristo Botev, The Hanging of Vassil Levski
Ali Saib Pasha looked up and gazed inquisitively at the chained giaour.
Not that the man could escape. No living creature could escape from the old fortified prison and its armed-to-the-teeth guards.
Not that Ali Saib Pasha was afraid of the man. He was not simply afraid; he was terrified by the mere mention of the rebel’s name.
"The Flying Dervish", "Jingibi", "The Elusive" - he was known by so many names. They said no bullet could hit him, not could a sword hurt him. One day he was in Tarnovo, establishing clandestine committees; the next day he was in Sofia, muddling the subjects’ minds; a day later, he was in Philippopolis, teaching the local rebels how to load their flintlocks and how to cut the Turks’ heads like cabbage.