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Dimitar Dubov


The reality of the wall is so thin; it curves like a rainbow. I sit on it with my father. We talk. I feel danger approaching. I don’t move...

A furious ram runs toward us. Huge. Scarily white. We lift our legs. He misses us; his inertia disappears down the cobblestone street. He turns and is ready for a second attack, with which to shake the wall. But I am alert. I sense his breath, the saliva inside his mouth...

Second hit. This time he stops in front of us and begins to ram the stones with his horns. My father is next to me. The animal figures out unsuccessful attack. He backs up. He grabs the horns between the front legs, twisting them and putting them together, and attacks again with unbelievable speed. My body escapes the feeling of the bony intrusion, which was just about to disembowel me, although unknown how I managed. Obviously expecting nothing but success, the ram freezes in disbelieve. We don’t wait. At least father doesn’t - he reaches out, took the horns and motioned me to get hold of one. We pull in different directions and the animal somersaults in pain.

The following sound is disgusting. It is like the sound of skinning a dry tree, but sound enveloped in ram’s wail. I have a horn in my hand...

The convulsions of the animal are vigorous and as if endless. I hurl the horn in the dust on the street and jump on the convulsing body. I grab a stone and begin hitting the ram’s head. Blood pours; soon pieces of skull bones fly, one eye drops in the dirt...

It was not enough for me...

I continue to hit with the stone - the tongue jumps out; teeth scatter like pearls from broken necklace; the skull deforms like stepped over cigarette box; and blood, blood, blood. The stone begins to slip out of my hand when I hit something hard...

I have my eyes closed from anger. It is not important to see - it is important only to hit and hit.

Nobody stopped me.

I am hitting on something hard. I open my eyes. The ram’s head became stony. The same form, but of stone. Is there any symbol or meaning, I don’t know. I need a wise man, a hermit, a saint, to give me a hint, to explain it to me. A stone head. Yet, I continue to hit with the same determination. There is no blood - only pieces of broken stone fly around. The body is under me. It is getting cold...



© Dimitar Dubov
© E-magazine LiterNet, 01.08.2006, № 8 (81)