Category Archives: short story

Insomnia by Katerina Charisi

lola6_400When I pass the exams, we will be together. If I pass. WHEN I pass. I will pass. I have to pass. Why not? I was studying the whole year and didn’t do anything else. Just school, home for studying, work, home for studying and so on. And such a lack of sleep. Such a lack of sleep… I just want to pass the exams and be together. Just to sleep with him. What about the job? Big deal… They will be fine without me. I will be fine without them.

Ovi magazine

Leave a comment

Filed under ovi magazine, short story

The Seeker by Gordana Mudri

I still walk on these streets alone. Sometimes I stop for a moment, to think, to listen for the whisper of the wind in the silence that surrounds me. I turn over my shoulder, hoping that I would see you.

I do not know who you are, but I feel you’re near. I breathe your breaths, I absorb your vibrations. I expect to see you and to recognize your eyes, to drown myself in the mirror of your soul.

I don’t give up. I still believe. I still can love.

I keep that love for you. You – my hope, my dream, my illusion.

I’ll wait for you forever. I will wander these streets until you come. Because I feel you my whole life and I live because I feel you.


Leave a comment

Filed under short story

Cartography by David Sparenberg

Far to the west, in direction of the Blessed Isles, stands an ancient, cylindrical tower.  It is rumored the tower has stood for hundreds of years, perhaps an entire millennium, or even more.  At base of the tower protrudes the roots of a massive oak.

Coiled around the tower is a huge, formidable yet beautiful dragon with scales of emerald and gold.  In the night, the dragon’s eyes are as red as blazing fires, beaconing out over land and sea.  In the day, the eyes are the blue of a tranquil, cloudless sky.

drago001_400It is rumored that the master of the tower and the dragon of green and gold are one and the same.  Passers-by have reported overhearing the two—master and dragon—in lively discourse and heated debate.  Whispers sound thereabout as winds push past thick walls into narrow window-slots; in tempests thunders roar.

How it is possible for a single identity to occupy two separate bodies is a riddle seldom pondered, never resolved.

As strange as the mystery of dragon and tower, with rooted feet of oak, more mysterious still is the solitary rose that thrives through the years between tower stones, high up on the tower’s curving wall.  At center of this miraculous rose appears to be a living heart.  Mesmerizing is the heart-light, as soft as delicate mist, that pulsates rhythmically with the mystic flower’s heartbeat.

Even more mysterious than rose and rose light is the silver throated nightingale that comes at each twilight onset of declining sun, circling the rose-perch wall and singing melodiously to the solitary flower.  It is rumored that the rose responds to the nightingale’s love serenade with sighs of perfume.  Sweet fragrance, alluring to the nostrils and delicious on the lips, ripples enchantment out across the land.  Month by month presents its intricacies and life in waves and quiet languages shows everywhere.

Far from the tower grows a wide branched willow that weeps in its seasons (the Mater Delarosa of willows), begging ever with sappy tears for forgiveness.  Although it remains unknown what the willow begs forgiveness for.

Far from this monument of sorrow is an aspen of immense stature.  The aspen trembles in the breath of every fluttering breeze.  Tree shivers as if from chill and fever and yet dances with a mantic joy as if a dancing marionette dangled in self-abandonment on a silken spider’s thread.  In the tumbling circus of autumn recently abandoned spider webs mingle magically in mountain air with acrobatic, costumed and parachuting leaves.

To these three quarters—dragon-tower, willow and aspen trees—is added a fourth, far vaster than the other destinations combined.  Yet the fourth quadrant is invisible and has been invisible since the beginning of time.

Tower dragon may possess details of this geography and its elusive inhabitants, being itself a creature of inter-dimensions and mythic memory?  Tower master may have arcana intimations, gleaned from dreams of transformations and distilled from alembic vapors?

However, the dragon; as with all dragons; is forbidden from sharing its secret lore with strangers.  Along with noble courage, patience is demanded to win a dragon’s trust.  For his part, the master of the circle tower never converses with anyone who does not have imprinted in their soul (along with untranslated libraries and artifacts) an analog of the cosmos.


Check David Sparenberg’s NEW BOOK
THE GREEN TROUBADOUR A Source Book of Performance Ecosophy
is online now and you can download for FREE HERE!



David Sparenberg has also 2 more Books in the Ovi Bookshelves,
“Life in the Age of Extinctions volume 2 – Threshold”
Download for FREE HERE!


Ovi magazine

Leave a comment

Filed under ovi magazine, short story

For all those nameless… by Gordana Mudri

What are you thinking, you nameless stranger, when you sit alone, without words, in front masses of people who are running around without stopping? No one sees you. No one stops. No one speaks. And you are just sitting there, looking at the well-known streets after such a long time; and you see – nothing. Your eyes are staring into the distance. Your body is here, but your thoughts are trapped forever in some other place; in some other time.

lone02_400For how long haven’t you been here? Do you remember the time “before”? The time, before you started counting dead…

You knew, you had to be there. You knew it wouldn’t be easy, but…   no one said to you that hell has so many circles…

How many lifeless bodies have you pulled out? How many children’s eyes have you shut forever? How many screams in the night have you counted? How much grief, pain and suffering a human can bear, soaking like a sponge, until the last cell in the body burst… until he has to run away. To save himself… or in the end he won’t save anyone else …anymore.

Now you are sitting here, far from hell, trying to heal your own wounds, alone and forgotten. You’re trying to soak the warmth of the sun but your feet are still wet and cold of the deadly waves of the Aegean Sea. Your bones are frozen from the snows of the Balkans, your skin is covered with mud of the shores of Calais.

The sun died. You don’t feel it anymore. All you have is this deep darkness and this invisible and indelible wounds in your soul. You sacrificed yourself without asking for anything in return.

You knew you had to be there… And you will be there again, among hundreds of those who feel the same like you, to fight the waves, winter and mud, in the battle for humanity.

Without asking – who is going to save you…

Ovi magazine

Leave a comment

Filed under ovi magazine, short story

Sending S.O.S. by Katerina Charisi

“Hello sir, we are from the TV show…”

“TV show? What TV show? Real TV show?”

lola0_400“Yes, the TV show “Today w…”

“Am I on the TV?”

“Yes, but…”

“Now? Is it a live show?”

“Yes but…”

“Do I look fat? They say TV makes you look fat, how do I look? Where should I look at?”

“Sir, maybe you…”

“Oh yeah! Now I can see me! Right there, just right there, I can see me! WOW!”


“Yeah, yeah, what do you want me to say? I will tell you everything, can Mary see me? Do you see me Mary? I’m on the TV and they want me to talk to them! Yeah, tell me, just ask me what you need to know, ask me!”


Ovi magazine

Leave a comment

Filed under ovi magazine, short story

Nameless by Gordana Mudri

The sun was red as blood. It loomed through the haze of a warm summer morning, climbing slowly up behind the mountain. It was nothing unusual or never seen before, but this time it looked somehow allegorical. Like a bloody stamp on the sky above the city.

People didn’t notice. Quiet and sleepy, driving with the early morning bus; the lucky ones who still had somewhere to go. There is no crowd. There are no more factories working and there are no sirens to mark the beginning at 6 and the end at 2. You couldn’t breathe from the crammed bodies before. These remains of the past, were only a heavy reminder of the deadness and downfall.

nameless01_400It is obvious which social class they do belong to. Exhausted, rough men, workers at various business owners, who drain their strength like leeches – no matter of the weather; security guards in uniform, who are carrying their head in a danger for a miserable salary while their bosses resting in their villas and on the yachts; women with dark patches around their eyes, cashiers in supermarkets or maids, torn between heartless tycoons and family, without Sundays and holidays, with broken spirits and with a frozen professional smile; a nurse, a bit more sophisticated than the rest of this everyday society.

And school kids.

A strange generation, lost in the madness of this imposed time, hopeless and inserted too early into the millstone that relentlessly grinds everything. Α generation without ideals, the worshipers of false values and wrong people. The youth, who think that drinking at the on weekend is the heights of entertainment. If you are not at the place where cheap folk music blares, then you’re “out”. Their socialising boils down to competing who will get a better selfie or who will insult somebody on social-media. Their communication is reduced to typing and …emoji. They dream of pushing into the “golden youth”, a social layer which their own fathers deleted long ago all the right values with their greed, their corruption and their imposing money as their deity. Why the effort and the education when you can live better as a thief or a rascal… Dirty money buys happiness and erases the boundaries of morality. Honest work creates numbers.

Humans became numbers. The sacrificial sheep.

And the numbers end up as unemployed. As part of statistics. The part of the stagnant swamp that spreads around, swallowing hopeless and numb sheep. The swamp has become commonplace, where you walk –your head down, disempowered and humiliated. Fear killed attitudes and pride. The fear of hungry mouths and of the old parents you care. You just bend to the ground and crawl through the mud searching for discarded crumbs.

Where have all the ideals gone? Where have all the dreams gone? Where has the human being gone?

If ever existed…

Or was he always just a number, a tiny grain of sand in the desert, lost in the crowd, with occasional take-offs, trying to break away from planned destiny and ending even deeper in the dust?

She was sitting, staring at the redness in the sky, dissecting her own wasted life. All the dreams and aspirations have disappeared a long time ago. They were not even expected to succeed. Her fate was determined by birth in a small traditional environment. When you are in such an environment, born as a woman, you cannot nag, you just bend your head to the demands of the others. You cannot have your own wishes. If you rebel, punishment follows. And you don’t want scars on your face. You don’t realise that the scars that remain on your soul are much deeper.

Growing up was a painful experience, with deep-set fear in her head. The fear which paralyses and keeps in the same place, in a cage with a myriad of enforced rules. She wanted to escape. She wanted a life without grids.

The chains in her head were stronger.

She turned into a plant that breathes, works, eats and sleeps, and now her fate inflicts the final blow.

The last morning, marked by the bloody stamp on the east; the last journey and she’ll become a statistical number. The only thing that still makes her feel that her life has a higher purpose far from those imposed by birth, will be gone. One seat on the bus will stay empty and probably no one will notice.

The door of the only place, where she could laugh and enjoy the company of others like her, who were able to turn their own misery into black humour, will close today. Collective suicide. That’s how they self-sarcastically named themselves, aware of decay, and powerless to change anything. She spent with them more than half of her life. They knew her better than her own family, which didn’t care for her traumas and discontent.

– Why don’t you leave? – They asked her many times.

As if people like her have somewhere to go in this time of hopelessness and non-existent opportunities. After all, she had more years behind her than in front of her, her body was exhausted and her mind was empty. Hope for change was gone, killed by her fear and by the sense of guilt and responsibility to everyone, except to herself. Reconciled with her stagnant life, she walked on the same path.

Even now, when the path is collapsing, opening a gap, which inexorably devours the weak people like her, and while she’s going through the decay of her own life, aware of all mistakes, while her brain screams that she must jump and move away from the deadly abyss, she’s just sitting, numbed, driving toward the end.

The people like her don’t go anywhere. They slowly sink into their swamps, enslaved by their own chains. They remain in the same place, accepting their fate, staring at the light of the bloody stamp that pours slowly over the roofs.

Ovi magazine

Leave a comment

Filed under ovi magazine, short story

Insomnia by Katerina Charisi

lola6_400When I pass the exams, we will be together. If I pass. WHEN I pass. I will pass. I have to pass. Why not? I was studying the whole year and didn’t do anything else. Just school, home for studying, work, home for studying and so on. And such a lack of sleep. Such a lack of sleep… I just want to pass the exams and be together. Just to sleep with him. What about the job? Big deal… They will be fine without me. I will be fine without them.

Leave a comment

Filed under ovi magazine, short story