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ISSN 1409-6900 | UDK 82+7     Blesok no. 17 | volume III | October-November, 2000



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                     Peer-reviewed journal
Blesok no. 17October-November, 2000
Prose

Very Short Stories

Translated by: Zoran Ančevski


/5
p. 1
Vlada Urošević

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The Wrong Step

    The park that starts at the edge of the town, slowly loses its order and takes on the features of a true forest, the farther into it I proceed. The soft summer twilight descends and I consider returning: such places at this time of day can be inhospitable for the solitary wanderer. And truly, in one clearing among the trees lit by some late reflection from the sky, I hear noise and movement. No, no danger: a group of cheerful boys and girls are playing a game with a blindfold. One of them has his eyes covered and seeks the others who merrily hop around him. They take me into the game at once, and, I believe, the role of the seeker falls upon me too soon. I turn around with my eyes covered but I do not manage to catch anyone. I even have the impression that the voices and the sounds of the players are receding from me. Even the ground changes: it is no longer soft soil with fallen leaves but a hard surface with some kind of familiar smoothness and squeakiness. Is it possible that while seeking I distanced myself from the game? Is it possible that I may have taken a wrong step? Finally I grasp an outstretched arm: fingers, a palm, a sleeve of clothing. But they are somehow much too cold and hard. I take the blindfold off: I am surrounded by fixed white figures. What I stand upon is smooth parquet, the figures are marble statues, and all about me is the hall of some museum. Only the roof is missing. From the gaping hole above I can still see the faint light of the sky and, then, it starts to snow.

Awkward Games

    Sometimes a man really has the need for light and simple diversions.
    Therefore, one evening you find yourself in a rather unusual amusement park. It is fenced with barbed wire, at the entrance stand frowning guards who watch the people going in.
    Inside everything looks as usual in such places: merry-go-rounds, fortune machines, all kinds of lotteries, shooting galleries.
    You approach the shooting gallery: attracted by the small multicolored targets. They appear to be strangely dressed small people of tin who move on rails by means of small wheels. You have to aim at their bellies; when you hit them they bend over and fall






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