The lottery

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My suitcases resting on the floor with their black cloth cover my whole life. The frosty January twilight pierces my soul. Light a cigarette. The glow of my fire creates, even momentarily, an illusion of warmth. At this last moment I need illusions. Beside the ashtray I have left the white pearl ball with the little gold on it. I grab her with my hand, its smooth surface calms me, it calms me down, momentarily. I unconsciously place her on my cheek and erase her downward trajectory. Puffs on the cigarette become faster, its smoke became my oxygen just before I extinguished it in the ashtray. I'm throwing in one last one, quick glance at the empty room. I put the ball in my coat pocket. My hands hold the suitcases tightly. I'm leaving.

The sunrise, the unshakable element of god that set the day on its wheel, finds me gazing at the amphitheater of white houses framed by the blue of the Aegean. At the port, the only coffee shop that exists looks like a host waiting for his guests. I am also going there so that Mrs. Irini can give me, the key to the house where I will stay.

The little cafe like an ornament left at the edge of the harbor has a warmth inside. His few patrons, smiling figures, they take their first sips of coffee in their familiar place. Its white walls decorated with engravings from different moments of the island take you on a journey to other times. A small painting stands out among them, in the color of ocher imprinted with the figure of a woman, Profile.

Loaded with my bags and clutching the key to my new life, I climb the stairs. I feel every whitewashed step like a small spotlight illuminating the hidden aspects of my soul. I arrive home.

In his small space, the furniture arranged in order gives a harmony. On the left a sofa, two-seater and next to it a large round table with a thick velvet cypress tablecloth on it and a white lamp. Opposite the table a small bookcase. The books arranged like lined up soldiers, they catch my eye. Among them stands out a leather-bound book with gold letters on the spine of "The Player" by Fyodor Dostoyevsky. My fingers touch it, i feel its leathery texture. A discomfort comes over me. I'm looking for my cigarettes. Along with the package, I take out the pearl ball and place it on the table. Images flood my mind urging escape. This table now becomes the confessor of my dark past.

My whole life has been a round table with cards spread out on it. The old man, the bastard, the checkers became my heroes every night. Spreading them on the green felt, I also spread the leaves of my life. Hypnotized by the pursuit of fortune and her delusional hero I thought I defined her somehow I wanted. But every time I put a piece of my life on that table, betting with myself that I will get it the next time, but the next time never came.

"Life is a game" I used to say "you have to take risks". And I risked everything. The farms and plots and my house, even my wife's life, of Evanthia. It never bloomed by my side. They always languish. Your name your omen, the Latins said, but it seems that her name - what an irony- did not become her omen but the…her curse. Her eyes, caged with hopelessness and despair, went out one day in April. That blooming April day became her reward. Light a cigarette. I ask for his oxygen again.

My passion was chasing me like a curse,  sending me hungry for profit face down every night at the gambling table. So on that January night in the pouring rain I started to go play with all her gold in my coat pocket. The necklaces, her rings, her two pearl earrings, only our engagement ring I didn't get. "You'll make it" I said "you'll make it". "The glass broke, but you can re-glue it. "This is your last chance, you mustn't miss it." I was putting my hand in my coat to feel it…treasure and quickened my pace. "This time everything will be alright."

With these delusional thoughts I encouraged myself and calmed my regrets, the black puppies of my soul. That night I lost everything. Only this earring I didn't bet on. The one,what's left of her is this pearl ball and my regrets. That is why I came to this island to settle my Erinyes, for my apology to be caught somewhere, to flourish. May she flourish, somewhat… again. I grab the pearl ball and form her name on the table. E u a n th i a. The letters like traces are imprinted on the velvet tablecloth. An invisible smile forms on my face. A flash illuminates my thought.

Every night the lamp on the table illuminated the pearl ball and with it the white pages I filled with stories. She was always my hero in them. Always that reference of mine. Every story I finished I read it aloud and so I felt like I was resurrecting the parts of the life we ​​didn't live. The Sunday excursions, August Full Moons, the sunsets on the islands, i love you. I never told her I love you. My eyes blur as I recite Elytis to her.

 Who speaks in the waters and who cries- are you listening;

 Who turns the other, who's calling-do you hear;

 I am the one who shouts and I am the one who cries, you hear me;

 I love you, I love you, listen;

They spent three years on this island. For three years I greedily absorbed the images of the day, I imprisoned them in my thoughts, anxiously waiting for the night to release them into words, for her. Writing became the redemption of my battered soul. My precious gift.

I see this as a gift here on a June afternoon. So special. The so indefinably special. A sense of euphoria washes over me which is heightened by the pink bougainvillea I encounter as I make my way to the harbor.

– good morning! came a sweet voice. Do you know where Mrs. Irene's cafe is?; I'm lost here, in the alleys of the island.

I turn around and see a girl with long black hair and a bright smile that at the end of it, there on the cheek, a dimple is formed. Her form seems so familiar to me, so warmly familiar that for a moment I lose track of time.

– Yes, I say, as if I'm waking up from a dream. It's down here, I'm going there too.

– I'm waiting for a girlfriend, he told me to meet there.

– First time on our island;

– First time, Yes. I came for a few days of rest.

– You have chosen the right place. Its calmness will surely reward you.

When we arrived, we met a lot of people. An environmental team has arrived and the cafe is packed.

– He has nowhere to go….

– Let's sit down, Yes. I rush to put in the we to accommodate her ego.

– We can sit on that bench near the pier. Would you like;

– Yes, she says and I feel her eyes resting on mine as if she too is searching for the inexplicable reason for this intimacy.

We sit on the bench and watch the sun sink into the blue sea. His orange rays like skillful painter's brushes spread their color over her form. And I, an elite viewer of this creation, enjoy everything,what nature gave me. She. The sound of her cell phone persistently makes her look for her bag and gives me the opportunity to follow her movements. Along with the mobile phone, he takes out a book and places it on the bench. My eyes are fixed on the title.

– Come on Nancy. What; You missed the boat; I can not believe it…Good, tomorrow then.

Pearlescent words

– A, you are talking about Dimitrios' book. You know him;

– We haven't met in a while. Angel. Angel Dimitriou. Nice to meet you.

– Danae…nice to met you. You are the …author; he asks me full of surprise.

A smile spreads across my face.

– Do not believe! What a coincidence and what…luck! I was more likely to win the lottery than this.

"You are my lottery ticket" I want to tell her but I hold back my smile.

-And if you had the choice, what would you prefer?; The lottery or that unexpected meeting;

– Look! she says with almost childlike excitement. The sun was completely lost in the blue sea.

What secrets should he reveal to her now?, which images precious gems to touch

at its bottom. And her, which question marks to wash away, what questions of smoothing;

I singled out this quote from your book, it is very poetic.

-Yes, this is my favorite too. My lucky one…

Her black eyes, small abysses, similar to the veil that this June dusk was beginning to weave, they spread over me.


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8 thoughts on “The lottery”

  1. George Pournaris

    Interesting write up and point of view, that captivates you and magnetizes you without realizing it. Good start and good continuation. I am waiting….

  2. Excellent
    It succeeds in making the reader look forward to reading what you have written below
    From me...thumbs up!

  3. I wish you a good trip “the lottery” in Carolina, who is the first author to contribute to Micro-Stories, except for Gabriel.

    1. Dear Carolina!
      From the very first paragraph I became a fanatical follower of your micro-story. Short and structured sentences, each one a rung of a ladder, which leads the reader to a wonderful “view”. Two parts to your story. In the first we see a protagonist crushed by his passion and its consequences. In the second part, in a magical way, the protagonist “gets up”, instantly reframes thoughts and feelings. This way is none other than love.

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