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ISSN 1409-6900 | UDK 82+7     Blesok no. 87 | volume XV | November-December, 2012



                     Peer-reviewed journal
Blesok no. 87November-December, 2012

A Nicer Ending

(Excerpt from the novel)

p. 1
Bekim Sejranović



    I'm sitting in the old cottage on my grandpa’s “ranch”. The night had barged into the valley and splashed its darkness over the wood covered hills. I’ve been here for a while and there’s no longer any restlessness in me. I feel like a man who once wanted to write some kind of story but didn’t succeed, because the story took control over reality. It no longer remained clear what was real, the story or my life. Was it life that wrote the story, or was it maybe the other way around?
    A rat rummages boldly around in the attic. One night I woke up and saw its tail bobbing up and down above the edge of the shabby couch where I was sleeping. It disappeared into the hole in the wall under the cornice.
    The bulb on the ceiling flickers off and on, probably from a faulty contact. The walls of the cottage are full of holes where the plaster has fallen off.  Underneath you can see the boards the cottage was initially made of.
    The “ranch” is a big field, seven and a half acres, that grandpa bought when he retired, and where he planted a plum orchard. I remember it all, but that’s not important now. Grandpa and mother (that’s how I used to call my grandmother) aren’t around any more, and neither is my old lady, their daughter. The “ranch” is gone, too. It is now merely an orchard imprisoned in thickets and oblivion. The property belongs to aunt Zika who lets me stay there for as long as I want.
    I don’t know exactly when I got there, but summer was nearing its end and the plums were rotting because there was no one to pick them. During the day, the hornets would buzz around in battle formations and stuff themselves with the juice of the overripe Hungarian plums. Birds of all sizes and colours were squawking while hopping around in the uneven fields, alternately picking at the fruit and at each other. Some overgrown grass-hoppers came rushing onto the scene, as well as those tiny, unbearable flies that always fly straight into your eyes.


    I’m telling myself the same story innumerable times, as if hoping that once I will come up with a better ending. The story may start on that October afternoon, two years ago, when I fell into the river Sava.
    I came out of the river

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