Well, Back from Greece

Here are some olive trees near Epidaurus.

The Columbia Review

Got some copies of the latest issue of the Columbia Review in the mail, which contains my Metrophilia story Manila.

The Translation of Father Torturo: Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight

     It was early morning and still dark out when young Pepito stepped into Santa Giustina to pray, as was his custom. He went to one of the pews near the front, crossed himself, and then knelt down on one knee, lowered his head and pressed his palms together. His corral lips began to move, letting out low, sonorous tones, and his handsome, slightly feline face took on an angelic look. He was thoroughly abstracted in his communion with the supreme being – too much so to see the figure that had entered shortly after him and lurked silently in the shadows.

     Presently the figure stepped forward, moving slowly, noiselessly, and worked its way around the nave, to the pew immediately behind Pepito. It stopped, wavered back and forth like a pliant tree in a breeze, and then dramatically dropped to its knees and began to crawl along the floor. The young acolyte raised his head, looked around slightly and then settled back into prayer. The figure paused for a few moments, and then continued to creep along the pew, until directly behind Pepito. The young acolyte murmured a few words louder than the rest. The figure rose up behind him and, producing a fuller’s club from the folds of its garments, brandished it high.

     Pepito, apparently sensing the presence, lifted and turned his head. It was at that moment that the first blow fell, with manic force. The skull cracked and resounded throughout the church, like a pitcher of wine falling on a parquet floor. Pepito did not so much as let out a cry. He collapsed to one side; his eyes swam toward the frescoed ceiling. The attacker leapt agilely over the pew and proceeded to rain blows on the boy, who instinctively lifted his arm to his face, but in no other way defended himself. His neck, ribs and sides were beaten mercilessly, while a foot pressed in on his stomach, making him vomit a series of pale pink bubbles. The attacker kicked the acolyte’s chin. A sudden resonance, booming, ringing, shot through the church.

     The matins bells began to sound, and all Padua groan, forced to awake, forced away from simple sins and love making by these majestic cast iron contrivances.