Yossi Faybish
Yossi Faybish was born in Romania, where he spent his childhood absorbing a rich cultural heritage. He finished his higher studies in Israel. Yossi has been writing poetry and short stories most of his life. At present he lives in Belgium and works in the high-tech industry while writing more than ever. He has published one book - "The Life and Death of a HighTech Patriot", and two poetry books - "Sweet Tears, Bitter Tears" and "More Like Sweet, More Like Bitter". His poem - "Creation" - won an international contest on the subject of Love Poetry.
The following works are copyright © 2008. All rights reserved. No distribution or reprinting in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
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“What are you doing my son?”
He did not call me my son since he left home, a couple thousands years ago. Actually he never called me my son. He never called me anything, we never talked, maybe he thought he was too good for me or maybe he thought the other way around. So he just left, deciding to work on finding himself, and if he did I cannot say I liked what he found.
“What are you doing with all these twigs and mud?”
I wasn’t in any kind of parleying mood. I was sweaty and slimy, I stank, and I was in desperate need for a beer. And now he decided to visit me? But I couldn’t act impolite, he might get pissed off and rain frogs on me or carbonize me or let me reach one hundred and twenty years of age, God... ha... forbid.
The old guy was moody too, after all I was an emulation of hisself minus the frogs and carbonization...
“I am building a nest,” I answered cautiously, wishing him to go away.
“A nest? For you and your mate? Poor woman, she will get scratches all over her back,” and he thundered a laughter which was later baptized hurricane Gloria. “Even Noah did better, he used wooden planks and he had to work hard at them. Today you can buy polished planks in any DIY shop. And nails and hammers and electric saws...” There was a rumbling sound as if he was going to laugh again, so I rushed my answer to prevent another debacle.
“Yeah, and he had to share quarters with all those beasts around him constantly bickering and snapping and expelling body matter in all of its known states – solid, liquid, gaseous... an alchemist’s dream lab. Here, I am improving on his design,” I added, sprinkling soft down inside the emerging construction. I waited for it to float to the bottom, then sprinkled another layer. I didn’t want to let him hang around with nothing to do much longer since I thought it unsafe, so I decided to try some chatting. “Hey, will you do me a favor since you are here anyway?” and as he hesitated I added hurriedly “Not a miracle, mind you, just a favor.”
I wasn’t disrespectful, not with reminiscences of THE flood still fresh in my racial memory. I waited for him to stop playing with the rainbow, twisting it in all kinds of shapes including the shape of capital W (this will keep scientists busy now for decades) and after he mumbled his agreement I asked.
“Could you please pull some strings and find me a publisher?”
God or no God, I had to give it to him – he maintained his part of the old bargain he had with us, he never read my thoughts. Nor anyone else’s. I guess it was damn boring and damn painful and frustrating to look down at all those miserable creatures who insisted on their independence of will and ways, and who later blamed him for everything which went wrong at their own hands. Including blowing themselves up and others with them. But he kept his side of the bargain if it killed him. Which is a manner of telling, he could never die of course. Though, I bet that at times he resented it. At many times.
“Would you like a beer?” I asked just to break the silence. He accepted, and I waited until it evaporated before going on with the job at hand.
“Why?” he finally asked, sighing contentedly. He liked the beer, which was comforting, it was sign he had good taste. “You know you could have asked even for a small miracle, a tiny one of course. Why this favor?”
I knew he was itching to snap his imaginary fingers and get my grass cut every weekend, or get me the one stamp I missed to complete my collection... I was sorry to hear disappointment in his voice, yet it was mixed with a certain thrill of curiosity. I poured us both another glass of foaming pleasure, and waited until he finished his before answering.
“I am in love.”
I was afraid of a reaction which could have proven to be cataclysmic for this world, like a laughter which would have moved the sun a few millions of miles closer to earth or the other way around. But there was no laughter, thank... ahmm... God, again. Not even the sound of a hiccup. Just silence.
I went on with my nest’s construction, I added some more padding to the bottom of it (after all he was right, it would scratch her back) mixing dry leaves and withered petals and cloudfuls of fluffy dandelion seeds... hey, thanks... I knew he was joking in his kind, serious way. I was getting ready to climb all the way in and start decorating the twigs with ribbons and candles and undulating soap bubbles...
“So you want the world to know it.” Finally he decided he wanted me to know he got the point. Of course he got it, he got everything he wanted to get and nothing which he did not want. This was not interference, just cognition, and right now he felt on the safe grounds of not breaking his word.
“I want her to know it.”
“She is part of the world.”
“She is the world.”
“She knows it.”
“I know it.”
It wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be, when he first called me. I think it was more my mood and apprehension than reality, and after all it was quite a pleasant encounter. I did not expect more. Actually I got more than I expected to get.
“I will see what I can do. I am bound by a promise as you know.”
“I know sir.”
“You can call me friend if you wish to.”
“You can call me son anytime you wish to.”
I finished with the ribbons and the candles and the bubbles, picked up the thin, sharp, chisel and started carving words in the dry wood. The wood splinters fell slowly around my feet, turning fireflies half way down and buzzing away into the descending dusk. A joker to the end the old man, I thought, stopping for a moment to carve thank you for the visit among the verses, and runes, and strophes. I picked up the cell phone which rang insistently in my pocket, to hear her laughing delightedly at the other end.
“You wouldn’t believe it in a thousand years,” she said.
“I will tell you what I should not believe in a thousand years,” I answered. “You are invaded by fireflies settling all over your body,” I said, knowing. The short silence following the gasp on her end of the line confirmed my words. Not that I needed any confirmation.
“How did you know?” she asked, breathless with more than just lack of air.
“Now he knows too,” I answered, completely irrelevantly, accurately.
I closed the line, softly, never for a moment stopping my carving, not wishing to stop the streaming light flowing eastwards like a snake of glittering shards.
