This concludes the series ‘Faces’ – all of the Earth’s 24 time zones on Christmas Eve.

(part of 24 stories from 24 time zones on christmas day.)

(part of 24 stories from 24 time zones on christmas day.
published in: Blue Print Review, issue 24)

– The people queued up to get their parcels or post them as they had always done. Nobody thought of bending the line into a coil so that the people on the street, who stood in icy air, could warm up, too. When the grumpy writer in a lamb fur jacket reaching down to his knees with Nike Air boots that somehow seemed too young for him and with a grey hat that was adorned with a white snowflake, had the thought of fixing the imbalance between the people outside and inside, the line had moved so that he couldn’t do anything about it anymore and in any case there never was agreement among the queuers. To get over his anger at his countrymen he only had to think about them once the ice would have melted and how most of the island would then be under water.

(Excerpt from ‘Faces’ – all of the Earth’s 24 time zones on Christmas Eve.
Art: Carlye Birkenkrahe.

When the winter holidays began, mother stood by the window in the living room for long periods of time, a hot cup in her hand, sipping in long intervals. From this window you could see the street, which daddy would come down now any minute. Eventually he appeared, a tall man in a dark overcoat, disfigured by layers of vests, shirts and sweaters, pushing a shiny, silvery cart filled with things he’d picked up along the way that he’d give us as presents. When she had seen him, mother let out a long sigh of relief and went to the kitchen to prepare a tea for him with honey. It was a mixture of Ceylon and Assam and daddy had a story for every leaf of the brew. The stories were linked to princes and counts, terrible treasures and rambunctious riots, and they involved our father, his sudden loss of courage, how he outwitted magicians and sailed home against ill winds. Whatever anybody had ever said about him, when he began to speak, balancing his tea and our mother on his knees, became mere sawdust on the floor of our lives and we only heard his voice and admired his bearded deeds, grateful that we had him in our lives for one day a year.

(Excerpt from ‘Faces’ – all of the Earth’s 24 time zones on Christmas Eve.
Art: Carlye Birkenkrahe.

– Sedna came to the smoking room before her shift, dressed in brown tones so that it was hard to see where her neck ended and her blouse began. She was terrifyingly smart. Smartest woman I know, Pakak thought. He had often wondered what it would be like to make love to a really smart woman. Would she talk the whole time? Would she stop him from making grunting noises? Would she say the one thing that nobody else knew about him that could double his stamina and his enjoyment when pounding away. Pakak was twenty-eight and thought his pizzle was as good a way as any to get to know other people, women mostly, but he often wondered if being stuck in a man hole would be drastically different apart from the political implications of course. He wore a very ugly tie today and enjoyed her attention and the disbelief that moved across Sedna’s face like a moth.

(Excerpt from ‘Faces’ – all of the Earth’s 24 time zones on Christmas Eve.
Photo: Yulia Gorodinski.

– I can’t sleep. Too much to think about. Jim’s a handsome fellow and I figure he’d rather spend his day fucking our creamy whores, smoke our cigars and write slimy novels instead of teach me (I read this somewhere that all therapists are blocked novelists). But I’m Castro’s last and deadliest weapon, el asesino cubano. To bring down imperialism, I must understand American from the inside. He gave me Hemingway to read, un escritor bianco. But he wrote: “All modern American literature comes from one book by Mark Twain called Huckleberry Finn.” When I inquired why I was not taught Huckleberry Finn instead of the cheesy For Whom The Bell Tolls, Jim said that Mark Twain’s sense of irony was not contemporary enough. I sensed ambiguity, which I hate.

I look out the window of my hut at las putas, and I stroke my cock, and there’s no ambiguity there. Ambiguity is the death of the revolution. Long live El Máximo Líder, chupame ahora.

(Excerpt from ‘Faces’ – all of the Earth’s 24 time zones on Christmas Eve

― The security man is on guard, alone. He’s fat and he feels old enough to be his own father. He walks through the tunnels under the city. Every night on duty he wonders about the people who clean the food and the gunk off the floor a few hours before he begins his rounds. It makes him a little hungry to think that. It is a tad chilly because they don’t heat the underground pathways at night in this city of energy. Bunch of bozos, he thinks, I don’t want to run into a bunch of bozos. He likes the sound of that. But the passage is locked shut now, nobody could get here. His boots make clicking sounds on the marble floor. His wife’s stilettos. He misses her. The scent of a woman’s neck: why is it so hard to find someone who smells right.  Suddenly, his flashlight goes out and he feels the darkness lick him all over with a giant velvety tongue, tender yet daunting . At that moment he knows that he’s in a giant anthill, that he’s walking towards his grave and that he must get out of here as fast as he can to stay alive. He begins to run.

(Excerpt from ‘Faces’ – all of the Earth’s 24 time zones on Christmas Eve)

― A mother lies asleep, dreaming. Goose is in the oven, green and red cabbage on the stove, boiling away, dumplings ready wrapped in warm towels. Two of the kids have been charged with setting the table. Peace before the storm because I can never remember how I cook goose since I only do it once a year, usually in a daze. On my bed: half-wrapped presents and a book that I started before the feast hit us like a bullet train: one of those luxury ships on rails where they cook, serve, chat and create unearthly comfort all at the same time. Would’ve been nice to travel away from all this in one of those. The Europeans are worse off: they have to hand out presents tonight, too. When did I last look out the window? Is it snowing? Two more kids now under the table, fighting the others for who is allowed to choose the dishes. They keep me busy. Goose, don’t forget the goose is in the oven. I’d like a man around, any man really, preferably their father. My only two dresses: I am the worst mother in the world. I am the best mother in the world. Which one am I going to wear tonight? Who will care? I want someone to care.

(Excerpt from ‘Faces’ – all of the Earth’s 24 time zones on Christmas Eve)