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ISSN 1409-6900 | UDK 82+7     Blesok no. 88 | volume XVI | January-February, 2013



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                     Peer-reviewed journal
Blesok no. 88January-February, 2013
Prose

I See No Evil

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p. 1
Gorjan Miloševski

“What is a knife, Neda? Your best asset. You are the finger wielder. Hold the butt, throw the knife, nail the point in the target. Hold the tip, throw it, you nail the point again. The point strikes the target. The trick is how to create art out of the knife’s rolling fury. Each throw starts a journey. It has to be swift, sharp, nice and riveting.” Marko’s words captured her thoughts. The recollection rushed through her mind.
    Marko was watching her at the other side of the stage. His eyes tightened. You could see the waves coming in the iris. The scent of a storm caught his breath. This tall figure, in a black tight suit, stood piercing the space between him and Neda with his look. He held the palm over his head with the knife hanging at the tip of his fingers. Marko was enviously waiting for a display of his craft. His touch of the blade was safer than the comfortable chairs in the audience. His determination spoke through the gasping looks of the beholders. The spot lights broke at the tops of his wrinkles and face folds. He had the blade by its tip. And it was this millisecond before he made the sway that Neda read a terrifying prospect. A massive store of pain and frailty buried inside was about to rise again.
    Neda was tied motionless to a big wooden target. Her green dress was stretched and her breasts made almost invisible, heavy breaths that softly touched the edges of her neckline. Elegance rested on intimidating symmetry. Outward feebleness blended into dominance enthralling from the eyes. That is what she was. Her skin flashed a no-aging delicacy. Smaller than her ominously observing partner, she leaned on the round board with arms and feet outspread. She carried all the vigour lacking in da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man yet she resembled his proportionate excellence. She could foresee the ruin of the man moving the knife backwards.
    And there, the hand released it so you could only see the shining iron in a circling madness. And the first hit was right next to Neda’s neck. It was so accurate it cut the silence. Waves of sighs in the audience overlaid one over the other. The edge of the blade caressed her soft epidermis. Her eye lids and brows did not make even a slight move. They did not tremble, not






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