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Review of: "Shorts cuts - kritička šetnja kroz zbirke kratkih priča" by: Helena Sablić Tomić
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I don’t know exactly when and why our life took this turn. We never made any arrangements. Maybe there was some word about something similar when we discussed the events that made up our life. Maybe it snuck up on us, subconsciously, so to say.
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Lost, it’s a tough word, yet it is as soft as a crumb when I try to say how I felt. Nothing was going my way, even worse, everything was falling apart. I’d doubled over from my helplessness. I wasn’t even able to cry, everything was somehow dry. To disappear would be a mistake too, for sure.
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What was the name of that village? Or it wasn’t a village, just a house we saw from the road. Nicely set on a glade, lost in a white mist, with a thick grove of tall firs behind it; everything clean, beautiful, romantic, except that our car broke down.
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Busbuskalai has appeared on the sink, trouble’s about to begin. He’s getting ready to ruin my day. It begins early, like this, at breakfast. He’ll be so ruthless that he won’t even wait for the children to leave for school. Let them see what their father is like. I decide to put an end to all the shit that’s about to follow, so I get up abruptly from the table, jump at the sink, and hit him straight in his face. The dishes fly to all sides, he’s stunned among the broken pieces. I wait to see if he’s going to leave me alone.
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Lela swears better than the three of us and that’s why we allow her to be with us. The plan is simple: under the old carob tree behind the school, we’re building a fire before the school starts. Every fifteen minutes, one of us asks the teacher to allow us to go to the bathroom, then runs out and puts more branches in the fire.
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Eh, how boring my life had suddenly become. I didn’t know what to do with myself. It wasn’t so bad as to kill myself, but there was no will for anything else either. I went to the hills with the intention of spending the night among the ruins of the old monastery. I hoped for nothing.
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I don’t remember that letter. Still, I feel embarrassed as she jokingly tells the story about an episode from our childhood to the people around us. She laughs.
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This is the last year we keep it, we are the last in the village who haven’t turned their barn into a rental, now every chance they get they reproach us and say we can’t keep donkeys and tourists in the same court, but this is our court and let them say whatever they want. Good reasons to love and care for it are long gone, but since it’s still here, we love and care for it as if it’s our one and only – if it wouldn’t be embarrassing, we’d also say – our one and only friend.
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First, it’s a piece of wood or a well bent piece of can metal our father makes and we insist that it has a sail, and there, it has a sail and we push it off the beach together with other boats, it’s a proper little fleet conquering lands that are further away than America and that, that…
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All of this, if you didn’t know, were vineyards once, we brag showing the thick pine forest, spreading our arms as if we want to embrace everything we see, we want to make it clear to that someone who we are addressing and who is here for the first time that we weren’t born yesterday, and that this image lives in us even though we’ve never seen it.
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We’ve made the fire under the pile, we sit and watch our vineyard and what’s around it, we watch that soil that we’ve turned around who knows how many times and that can already talk to us, we remember when it was angry because we didn’t look after it and care for it the way it wanted and that’s why it gave us nothing, and when we were on the best terms, when we jumped around with joy and showed it to everyone, and we almost kissed it, because there was nothing we loved more.
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We start our boat’s engine in anger, our children are with us and they are quiet, we’re worked up and we blow out so much steam that the oil under the bow could catch fire, we set course for that little islet of ours that has always been ours, especially now when we have to defend it and prove that it was something more than just ours...
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The sun broke through on the wrong side and from the darkness another darkness steals, at the moment when I reach after a glass of water on the mantel to pour over the fire, the door to my room opens and my father enters on the prow of his wooden boat smelling of fish and cigarettes, he gets stuck a little at the doorway...
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