Some of the Consequences

By Christopher Georgiou

Here’s a selection of stories and poetry; some I’ve written during – or about – times of working and travelling in diverse locations.
They reflect contrasting moods and passions; the quirks and inconsistencies that shape our lives and which will ever take us unaware.
We are all, perhaps, somewhere in these pages.
Or will be…

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Oct 29, 2021
• ISBN: 9781528919968

Christopher Georgiou

Christopher Georgiou is of Irish, Greek and Australian origins and now, he says – at an age when he should know better – still peddling poetry and short fiction. A critique by David Meyers of his earlier book (Ambiguities, Nerrigundah Publishing, 2008 Canberra), saw him as ‘…describing life as he sees it, holding nothing back from the reader. His poems exhibit a keen observation of the human experience but, more, they display his deep sympathy for the less fortunate…’ Chris says of this, his latest work, “Here’s a selection of stories and poetry; some written during – or about – times of working and travelling in diverse places. They reflect contrasting moods and passions; the quirks and inconsistencies that shape our lives and which will ever take us unaware. We are all, perhaps, somewhere in these pages, or will be.”

Book preview

The Runner

I saw her running;

running, sweating up

the stony path that climbs

the mountainside;

zig zagging as she went,

intent upon some

self-inflicted punishment;

or maybe just

the joy of being alive.

I watched her run and when

she’d reached a level place,

and stopped to catch her breath,

and stretch, I saw her glance

back down at me across the

boulders and the scree dividing

us; dividing all that she can do

today that I cannot, and all the years

and places in between.

***************

Kalymnos

Bird In a Cage

Out across the isthmus scattered

islands lie majestic in their mountain

silences; the seas surrounding them

reflecting azure skies through which

the crows and seabirds fly;

freewheeling with abandon.

Beside me here, imprisoned in a cage,

there is a solitary bird,

a parakeet perhaps,

with rosy head and golden breast;

its green and lovely wings are clipped;

no longer fit for flight.

It is confined for life, within its tiny

cell as though found guilty of

some awful sin. It sees and hears

those wild birds flying free and,

through the bars it calls to them;

despairingly, over and again.

Despairingly.

*******************

Kalymnos

An American Interlude

There are roads better not taken. Roads that are, seemingly, innocuous; unthreatening. The kind you might travel any or every day thinking of little else but your destination, your day ahead.

This is such a one. A rural road, it runs for much of its length through rich farmland, almost ruler straight for miles at a time and lined with spruce and beech. Thoroughbred horses raise their heads to watch you go by. Their owners reside in large colonnaded homes that are statements of success and substance at the ends of long white – fenced drives. But eventually these dwindle. Beyond the wood-decked bridge that rattles as you cross a river, nature is king once more. All brush and boulders and wild oak. That is how it was as Jonathon Hepburn drove across, less than an hour from turning off the main highway.

He had not driven this route before. He was not from these parts. Not from this county, or this state. Not even of this country. He drove the empty road in a rented car, at a leisurely pace and with a window down to admit the warm earth – scented air of late May. He was in need of this tranquillity to counter the disappointments of yesterday. The things he had hoped to achieve in Pittsburgh, he had not achieved. Smiles, yes. Firm handshakes yes. Complimentary comments. Americans were really good at this. But no deal. No signed contract. He felt he had been outmanoeuvred. Last evening he’d spent in a hotel bar, alone and morose. Today, he needed space and time to nurse his damaged self-confidence.

Re-group. Think of something.

It was his unhurried pace that enabled him to spot the house. That and the hand painted sign that he hadn’t quite deciphered as he’d cruised by. On a whim, he pulled over and then reversed to where the sign stood propped against a tree. Benjamin Clutter, it read. Antiques. A crudely drawn disembodied hand pointed its index finger along a rutted drive. He regarded the sign and thought the name Clutter appropriate for a second-hand store. If that was what it was. He switched off and stepped out onto the tarmac. Rooks cawed mournfully from treetops. Nothing else stirred in the noonday heat. A rusting mailbox gaped emptily.

At the end of the track stood a house. As he approached, he saw that it was abandoned. A two-storey timber framed dwelling; old and decaying from years of searing summers and frozen winters. Decades perhaps. Gaunt and sagging as an old man might sag with age.

Across the yard was a wood built shed, double fronted; its doorway framed in waist high nettle and cow parsley.

Over the door was placed a sign, this one stencilled.

‘COME RIGHT IN’ it read ‘LOTS TO SEE’

He pushed the door tentatively and stepped in. Mister Clutter? he asked. It sounded foolish in the silence. He looked about him. Despite the sign’s promise, there was little to see that impressed him. Some washing machines and what might have been a chest freezer. They were old; nineteen fifties kind of old. He foraged,picking up and putting down. A set of box spanners. Rusting hand push lawn mowers. A Bakelite shelled radio set; its dial knob stuck forever. An enamelled sign for Pepsi and another for Penn State Motor Oils. Several car licence plates; New Jersey, Maryland, Michigan. On the dirt and dusty floor was one from Florida (The Sunshine State). Perhaps people collected them over here. There was little else to be seen. The air was warm and dry. Long tendrils of weeds had worked their way in through the weatherboard. Somewhere in the shadows, there was a movement. He thought of rats and then, nervously, of snakes. Would there be snakes here? He was an English city dweller, and this, as far as he was concerned, was the Wild West.

He left the shed and walked over to the house. It seemed to watch his approach. He wondered if it was safe to enter.

Three steps led up to a porch that ran the width of the house. He could see that floorboards were missing. Definitely unsafe. Something about the air of abandonment suited his mood of melancholy. A metaphor, perhaps, for how he saw himself.

An inbred sense of manners suggested it would be impolite to enter without announcing himself. Absurd here of course but he did so anyway.

Hello, he called. And again, not knowing what else to say, Hello.

An earthbound thrush darted away into the undergrowth, clucking crossly.

He stepped onto the veranda; ran a hand up a wooden support column and pushed. It yielded slightly, creaking. Well, he thought. We’re here. Let’s go look around. He pulled open a flimsy and most unflyproof mesh screen. The main door had three small diamond shape glass panels set in echelon, in the style of those he’d seen on the doors of some roadside taverns.

It was partly open. He pushed at it and entered feeling, perhaps, like a burglar. He was standing in the large open space of a living room with windows onto the veranda. Tattered curtains hung limply. Drapes, he thought. They call them drapes here. The smell bothered him. It was of dank earth; of things unseen and rotting. He almost laughed aloud.

Pretty well every film he had seen as a child – every corny, spooky Hollywood film that is – had had a house like this