itting in a blue landscape: eleven apostles. The wind in their long hair. None of them dare to speak. The table at which they sit and eat is covered with linen that is full of holes. The dinner set is entirely made out of glass. The dishes, the decanters, the plate with blue jade, the fishbowl which stands in the middle of the table with a school of blue glass guppies, everything is made out of glass. Even the wine is liquid glass, sparkling, blue in its reflection.
Meanwhile the wind plays with the red ribbons tied to the chairs and table legs. The sky isn't really beautiful. Grey, with bleak meagre clouds out of which now and then rain falls. That's for sure: every time a drop hits the table one of the fishes in the bowl makes a rather peculiar salto-mortale.
The apostles take no notice of that. They let themselves be served by the mute plagiarist, whose name is Cobalt. He sweats and smells of turpentine. Besides that, he is crippled, although he doesn't seem to mind much. He has been beaten with bats, carved out of the Tree of Knowledge. His suit suits him well, although it's a little tight around the waist.
It's getting colder. The sun sets. The wind increases and brings rain again. Hard drops misfire on the plate with jade. A rain of sparkles. Acid grit.
The apostles take no notice. They have all simultaneously dipped a finger into the wine and make the crystal sing until it bursts. And themselves, for they are also made entirely out of glass.
(translated from Dutch by the author)
Yorgos Dalman (1973) lives and writes in The Netherlands. Over the past couple of years he has published short stories in Holland, Belgium and the United States (Flesh & Blood Magazine, The New Absurdist and Samsara).
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story copyright by author 2003 all rights reserved