Fancy Shop

Valeri Stanoevich

Description

This slim book is for the reader who asks questions and seeks answers. Does a life follow a predictable path or is it part of existential chaos? What makes an individual go against fate? Is it really worth making the effort? The characters you will find here face these questions.The short stories presented here take place at different times (past, present, future) with different fantasy levels - from stories that are nearly real to phantasmagorias and new Gothic. The characters are also different: knights, anonymous people, dreamers, outsiders, crazy ones, technocrats, cockroaches, holders of secret knowledge.What unites them is the urge (gradual or sudden) to leave the orderly system of their lives, attracted by the alluring hope that they can find or create another world of dreams come true, inexpressible truths and oases of redemption of past guilt.On the way to their new identities, they move freely between reality and fantasy. They are in constant conflict with themselves, and the front line is the line dividing the two hemispheres of their brains. The stories are very short but each has a complex plot, provocative suggestions and a surprising end. Without in any way denying the traditional concepts of good-evil, simple-profound, they lead the reader into worlds in which paradox is a synonym of universal meaning.

Sujets

• Fantasy (canción de Mariah Carey)
• Contemporary fantasy
• Short story
• Fantasy

Informations

• Publié par: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Date de parution: 10 août 2021
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781800466494
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 3 Mo

Extrait

Copyright © 2021 Valeri Stanoevich

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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ISBN 9781800466494

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Contents
PREFACE
TIME OF EVIL
FANCY SHOP
BEHIND
ANABEL, KATHLEEN, GALLO
THE HAND
TREATMENT
EQUILIBRIUM
CHOICE
ANGEL IN THE LIBRARY
THE INCONVENIENCE OF BEING ALIVE
THE PROPHET
AN ENDLESS DAY
МЕ
THE LAST DAY
AWAKENING
THE GREASY RAIN
THE INSIGHT
DE PROFUNDIS
RETURN OF PARSIFAL
ONCE AGAIN FOR THE PRINCESS
NOTES
PREFACE
This slim book is for the reader who asks questions and seeks answers. Does a life follow a predictable path or is it part of existential chaos? What makes an individual go against fate? Is it really worth making the effort? The characters you will find here face these questions.
The short stories presented here take place at different times (past, present, future) with different fantasy levels – from stories that are nearly real to phantasmagorias and new Gothic. The characters are also different: knights, anonymous people, dreamers, outsiders, crazy ones, technocrats, cockroaches, holders of secret knowledge.
What unites them is the urge (gradual or sudden) to leave the orderly system of their lives, attracted by the alluring hope that they can find or create another world of dreams come true, inexpressible truths and oases of redemption of past guilt.
On the way to their new identities, they move freely between reality and fantasy. They are in constant conflict with themselves, and the front line is the line dividing the two hemispheres of their brains. The stories are very short but each has a complex plot, provocative suggestions and a surprising end. Without in any way denying the traditional concepts of good-evil, simple-profound, they lead the reader into worlds in which paradox is a synonym of universal meaning.
TIME OF EVIL
I start writing this chronicle with a sense of unease, for few people will believe testimony consisting of fibs and superstition. But the roar of that time is still echoing, and yet more centuries will pass before its last rumbles fade away. Despite my efforts, I have discovered too little, as if somebody’s mighty hand had long ago destroyed the written record of those events, leaving only fragments. It is no wonder that in treatises on medieval history there is no mention of them, or of the strange person whose will weighs heavily upon what has taken place. I have copied the existing fragments faithfully, although I have ventured to title them according to the impressions they made on me.
From the Monk’s Writings
It must have been winter. Probably the last of the long line of carts was arriving. Probably they had walked past them through the mud, accompanied by drunkards’ curses and clinking metal. Probably the guard at the entrance had stopped them and they had waited for a long time under the sleet. Then the door opened and they would have passed along the narrow corridors and stairs surrounded by soldiers until they reached the hall.
He was sitting wrapped in his cloak, his hair falling over his face. They went down on their knees and waited. The crackle of blazing torches was all they could hear. After a long silence he asked: ‘Why are you disturbing my peace?’
Then the mayor stepped forward and prostrated himself before his feet, whispering, ‘Great Waste, the prince of our dreams! Forgive us our preposterous audacity! We go down on our knees and beg you most humbly to have mercy upon us. Restrain your soldiers, as they are already raping our women. Take all our possessions but protect our honour, as you’ve promised.’
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I did promise that, but only on the condition that you would surrender the town without fighting, and you accepted it, thus proving your lack of honour. So, go away and be grateful that you are still alive.’

... That night a village was visited by robbers. The villagers caught them and hanged them at dawn. Towards noon the soldiers from the advance guard entered the village and recognized those hanged as Waste’s grooms. Shaking with fear they lay down at his feet, but he calmed them saying, ‘I was about to hang those scoundrels anyway.’ He waited for the cries of gratitude to subside and then continued, ‘However, they were my slaves. What will happen if word gets round that it’s possible to hang my servants and yet stay alive?’
And the villagers were hanged on the trees next to the robbers.
It is known that he was a bastard and started his life in humiliation. Perhaps he had borne his spite since then ...

One of his men followed him like a dog, constantly vowing, ‘I’ll be your servant till I go to my grave.’
It came to pass that the man died, and they were already digging his grave when Waste stopped them.
‘Let him stay unburied!’
They went away and left him. On the fortieth day the man came back. Only his waxy face betrayed the fact that he was dead ...

... The Elder held an entertainment to get into his favour. He kissed his feet and whispered, ‘Great Waste, we are going to stone this lewd woman to death in your honour.’
‘ He is going to carry out the sentence,’ said Waste, pointing to the dead man, who approached the Elder, grasped his neck with sallow fingers and squeezed until he had strangled him.
‘That harlot has been punished. So let the other fornicate now!’ concluded Waste.
Then he asked the dead man, ‘Do you want a reward?’
As if he had been waiting for that, he begged, ‘Bury me!’
He granted his prayer, albeit reluctantly. They dug a pit; the dead man descended into it, lay on the bottom and turned into dust and ashes ...
... I saw him only once. I remember that the others lowered their eyes but I met his gaze concealed under the hood. I saw more anguish than malice. Later I heard the blind man in the square say, ‘I saw the man ready to strive with evil.’ And I decided to pray ...

I’ve heard men of God say there was another army of evil, led by a certain Dast, and it was no better than this one.
From the Madman’s Writings
… Thus I found myself facing him. I felt his gaze heavy on me. That’s why I knelt. Then he touched my shoulder with a sword. Thereby I became a knight ...
... The knights could hardly hold the enraged horses. Blood glimmers were blazing on their breastplates. The crackle of burning beams mingled with clanging iron and victims crying. The town, smug and humdrum until yesterday, on fire this night, was enchantingly beautiful. The labour of centuries was turning into a transient monument to our power.
How sweet it is to rush alone along the fields after the battle! To wave your shirt soaked in another’s blood. In the morning ... along the desolate fields where the wind is blowing away the seeds and the sower is hanging on a tree ... grinning widely, with a face pecked by the birds. Or in the evening, when the west is ablaze and the town, which has seen off the army of evil, is going down ...
An Unknown Man
... How long have we been here? Fog sleeps on the grass, oozing along the breastplates. A horse is neighing. Distant shouting. Why is everybody whispering? Are they afraid? They are waiting for my decision. Shall we leave the valley? Our position is not good. And that fog … How many of them will follow me tomorrow if we avoid battle today? What if they have broken through elsewhere? It is impossible. We are blocking their only way to the pass. We must stay here under the weight of our armour. Everything causes me pain. Where is my power? I dream of ashes and the faces of the dead. Where are those monsters? We are going to destroy them to the last man. There will be no mercy! Where is Waste?
For a moment the rays of the sun penetrate the dampness. Outlines of men and horses emerge from the fog before us. Panic sweeps through the lines. Instead of order, a mob. Is this the end? It is getting dark. The outlines disappear. They were only our reflections in the fog. Will the prediction come true? The blind man said he had seen a man facing evil. Forsaken, he is going to win after his own death ... Am I the chosen one? Oh, God, let me die here if such might be your will, but I beseech you to lift that fog ...
The Lost Soul
So sad is your soul, Mother. Can’t it find relief? Do you still feel hunger or will the cold inside your bones never leave you? When will you find peace? You say that I am cursed to sow only death, but who then had mercy on you? Whose hand stopped its stone? Did they curb their dogs? Did any bloody muzzle withdraw its teeth from your flesh? Didn’t they incite them more?
You heard their