“Something more than sausages”



The rhythm of the day is changed. Mother looks more and more disturbed. Something has happened. It arouses my curiosity… this strange travel of my father to Bulgaria. If he was to be in Bulgaria, he would probably call by now.

“Mom, where’s dad?” I asked.

She was cutting onions in the kitchen. There were slight tears in her eyes from the odor of the onion spreading through the ether.

“He is coming back on Monday,” she said.

There was something in her voice that wasn’t truthful. My mother was not the most capable person of hiding the truth from other people. Maybe the others were not able to notice that, but I know her. She’s my mother – I know her every breath. Our umbilical cord has not been cut yet.

I was home alone on Sunday. I decided to invite some friends; we would do a barbeque in the yard. There was my crush among these friends. His name is Robert. He is almost as tall as me. He has a very beautiful smile. He has an interesting energy that not everyone is capable of perceiving. He’s intelligent. Sometimes he wears squared pants and has the hippy look.

I went down the basement. There sits the freezer with the meat. It’s blocked by bunch of cardboard boxes filled with old stuff we do not use anymore, nor we plan to throw them away; part of this old stuff dates the time when my father beat my mother. I opened the freezer and looked for the sausages; I noticed odd trails of blood. I thrashed the freezer then, and yes, there was something more than just sausages.

I reached for the meat, but what really caught my attention was seeing more trails of blood, and next to some of the trails there was something like a peel… it was actually pale piece of skin… In all its glamour, I had the occasion to find my father orderly chopped and situated in several plastic bags in the freezer. This is the fantastic story of how a woman from the village who has come to live and has married a man from the city, kills her husband who happens to beat her for twenty years straight. Once the police have revealed this case, the story was all over the newspapers. Our personal stories really do make powerful block-busters.

I will never forget the first plastic bag that I hold with my hands. I was actually holding an orderly chopped hand of my dad and it had a lot of hair on it. The palm was twisted in two halves. In one of them there was the engagement ring hanging. That was my father, redone in two hundred and twenty two pieces by my mothers’ kitchen appliances.  Those were the same appliances she later on continued to make cake and cookies and cut onions for her meals. Her meals were not tasty anymore. She was becoming deranged. She would have many nightmares, and I was able to feel her emotionally disturbed from the deal she had made with the devil. Sooner or later, the truth comes out of the closet you know. In her thoughts, I was sure that my mother has still found a very valid logical explanation for this compensation she has made for herself; for all those years of suffering, for all her life actually; a woman must do something for herself.

Myself, I am born gay; I am nineteen years old. Since always I wanted to wear red socks. Once upon a time during my childhood I used to play with dolls. I was afraid when my father came home furious.  From some of the rooms I would hear my mother’s cry and a lot of stuff breaking. One day they broke my favourite doll. On another day, my LEGO set ended up out in the street. As my father was trying to hit my mother, she moved next to the window, he had my set in his palms and in an instance he wanted to hit her with it. He missed her and all my LEGO flew outside the window. The cars outside smashed my toys. I always wanted guys like Robert. He looks at me very amusingly sometimes, however we have never had developed some deep intimacy towards each other. Let’s say he’s a new friend. For instance, if me and my mother did not end up in jail, maybe I would have had a little more time to get closer with him.

I had to get myself together from the shock I faced in basement. It all very much reminded of the Are you afraid of the dark, a TV series that I used to watch as a kid in the 90’s. In one of the episodes there was Ukrainian vampire family who were keeping orderly their blood supplies in translucent milk bottles in a freezer situated exactly in the basement of their house. They kept this room in total darkness and this was the place where they would secretly feed. I cannot recall anything more from that episode.

Kochani is a small place. Everyone will now know everything what my mother did to my father; how she slipped poison in his rakija; how he has at first noticed that there was something wrong with the alcohol; how he has started to yell: “DONKE, WHY MY RAKIJA TASTES LIKE SHIT? COME HERE, I NEED TO PUNCH YOU.”; I was outside at the time of the crime. A stupid rumor was added at this point of the story. If I may recall it correctly, it was that “I have been selling my ass to other fags”. The poison has taken effect just in time. Donka has noticed her husband’s dim face, and has used the occasion to smash his meaty face with her frying pan. Twice she slams the pan, thrice she slams the pan to his face; as he loses consciousness, she kicks him in the stomach. I have no idea how she has gotten him in the basement afterwards.

She chopped him into good and fair portions; she  placed the chunks of my father in plastic bags and hid them in the freezer. So, if I am a gay that does not mean I am not a gourmand who would not like to eat a lot of meat. Because, there has been also this stupid stereotype that gays are too gentle to prep and eat grill. On the contrary, this outdoor activity for me is so natural. I want to do the grill in my yard and I want to brag about it afterwards.

I was able to fully understand my mother and the resentment and hatred she collected in her being throughout all these years of silence. Each and every tissue of our bodies have had accumulated enough coldness and discipline to fully tolerate silently this scenario of family violence where my mother was a physical and psychological victim, and I myself was a psychological victim only. I was too young, but I learnt that life means continual demolition of worlds and creation of new worlds; that, this is how life would normally flow. My life for instance, since the beginning, has been nothing but continual demolition of worlds that has just been created.  My LEGO-made world was demolished once they were smashed on the asphalt by cars. We used to live on busiest street in Kochani. On another occasion, my father saw my favourite red socks and he laughed out so hard. He thought they belonged to my mother. I found myself deeply ashamed. Many a times, without any notice, this is how our parents with a word or two, or with a simple gesture, ruin our childhood dreams. Nevertheless, I challenge you, can you tell a single non-transition story from Macedonia in the 90’s? No matter if your family is rich and well-off, there will still be something going on between the acts; something in your home, something rotten. It all looks as if we have had some doormat slipped; as if we have skipped a cluster of memory.

I decided to help my mother hide the body parts. The chopped meat, i.e dad, has found its place at several locations. What a blood pudding. We threw some pieces directly in a burning dumping ground nearby. We threw away something in one manhole that contained terrible sewer with awful odor. One would not be able to recognize what was inside the manhole. We double checked the manhole after a day or two… the plastic bags containing parts of daddy were swallowed by the sewer debris. Some bits were buried. Some more liquid stuff was thrown away in the bathroom. This is how we buried my father. He supported the right wing party. He was passionate fan of yellow rakija and he had always a handful of swear words for Panatinaikos. He had a tattoo of his favourite minister on his left palm and I can only imagine how many times he has fought my mother with that hand and how many times he has jerked off in the morning with that hand. Miserable reptile! And my mother always cooked him delicious meals; he always had his clothes washed and ironed. Every mother-in-law would only wish such a daughter-in-law under her roof. However, it was also the mother-in-law who smelled something weird going on in the house of her son; especially after the mysterious voyage of her son to Bulgaria.  We have been very short sighted with my mother. It was totally a bad idea to dump pieces of my father in the bathroom, as we have eventually managed to dirty the whole bathroom with blood and not clean it up properly afterwards.

“Doneee, where’s Klime?” my Grandma yells at the door.

My grandma invites herself in. The living room where I lie with Robert was darkened. My mother was not at home. I thought I was dreaming that scene, but it was reality. We drunk a lot with Robert last night and we have fallen asleep on the sofa. He had a nice smile on his face as he was totally relaxed and in a deep sleep. It’s very comfortable when you are sleeping with someone. It’s how your dreams together float about above you. They are hanging there like invisible balloons on the verge of bursting and dispersing in the ether. They float about elegantly above us. As we sleep, they gently gravitate around our heads. As I was enjoying the last minutes of this coziness, my grandmother would have had the bathroom checked and would have had the police called. An hour later, my house is surrounded by the police. My mother got arrested and then they also nabbed me. I never saw Robert again.


A fragment: creative visualization of one alien

Тhe new spring has just begun. This is my fifth spring here. The flowers blossomed in their powerful colours in places one would never think to find them. Rare lilac planted here and there emitted small clouds of scents in the air. These scents mingle with the exhaust from cars that filled the roads during rush hour traffic. I have a music player with really old songs, songs from 1984. I don’t like this new music that is being listened by the human kind. There is a bunch of cranes, bulldozers, drills and people who use these noisy devices in Skopje. For example, when the drills are on, the sounds they emit are terrifying. Drilling and stabbing the earth, they go deeper and deeper. But if the earth gets angry, she can be their massive graveyard. This is why we send out creative visualizations in the ether. Then, was also wondering, why would the Earth get angry on Skopje of all places on this lovely planet? I’ll help her focus here at least for an hour.

It’s miraculous how I connect this city with Johannesburg though I have never been there. But I have read a thing or two about that place, and also I have been sent some telepathic recordings from there. They were bit late, and poor things, they got lost in these million of signals that are polluting the sound frequencies of the planet; nor do people suffer less from this. Like lovers, they still keep their telephones next to their pillows and get their decent sleep. Also, they put them in their pockets… I mean really I have never been clear with this tele-communication. You have this small stupid box that  annoyingly rings. You hear signals, beep… beep… beep…actually this was not what I wanted to say….

When it’s four o’clock in the morning, or five o’clock in the morning, this natural silence hangs above the city. This is the time when the city is, as if in a peculiar bubble of outers space.
You could only hear the trees that are dancing in the wind and the Wind who has difficulties in circling the city streets as it has the serous issue not to crash into itself. When the wind moves across the city, the trees start to talk. This is only in the evening when they are able to relax their roots that are under severe stress during day light. When the streets are heated, not to mention how heated they are on summer when temperatures reach fifty+ degrees, the trees cannot move much around with their roots.

The smallest of their kin are absolutely immobile. They get dry. For days there could be no drop of water. If a kind citizen would remember to climb down their homes or whatever they are, to at least water the grass twice a day, the story could be different. There are a few lucky ones living outside the city. In fact the trees have come up with a plan for this spring. It is exactly these lucky trees who will extend magically their roots and will connect with their distant relatives in the city. Earthly connections! They can also call for the chthonic powers of the underground. The lava always bubbles not so far from the feet.

The trees are saying: “Now we meditate”

They are now all connected. The wind is the postal service, distributing their prayers from one forest to another. The forests are getting activated. The wind is taking care of all the commands of the trees. It’s that he is addicted to blow around them and they are addicted to exchange information through him, there’s no other way possible…  Among each other, the trees are documenting how many of the rainforests across the planet are alive. The rainforests are the elders in the community, and what happens to a community when its elders are gone? Rainforests are the places where the collective memories of the cities, of the biological systems and biological communities are asleep. At the same time, they are the keepers of viruses powerful enough to destroy the kin of men in a second, to lead it to massive extinction. But man is like the little kid who is being told not to play with the dragon while he is asleep, however he persistently does that. The forgotten viruses, the terrifying cancers….Man disturbs all of that.

It’s lucky however that the humans have reached that point when they can act as a true geological force, capable of manipulating with all the geological ingredients of the earth and all the active biological forms. He pollutes the ocean, and he is incapable of aiding anything here. What are the real capabilities of one simple earthling who at his best is able to mark territory only? I would not grant him much more time. I cannot clearly predict, but we are talking here a relatively near future. Now, it’s important we focus on our episode here and now. From the myriad information I perceive I am able to only miss out key points, however lucky that this episode is able to program Herself; then I would be able to download it as a file and memorize it in the system. People are not that cunning of my perception. For them this is some sort of cosmic story. Let’s say the trees are now really saying their OMMMMmmmm. A growling… growl through the streets of the city at 6 AM… powerful growl. People get awaken. They get up from their beds in their buildings. The growl of the trees. The noice of the cars, the machines in the factories, all the construction yards, all telephone signals, all air-conditioners, all lighters, all glass are being broken in the same second. All these sounds and vibes attempt to be just a little more louder than the growl of the trees. However, the trees are super-connected. They need to have a full day like this.

Each passing hour is like a new and heavier lash for their OMMmmmm. The cars buzz and emit exhaust fumes. Some people join in with lawn mowers. They buzz awfully… the same situation finds you at the dentist when everything is silent, and only his instruments break the peace and silence. No need to number down all the possible sounds in this world. 5 o’clock has passed. 6 o’clock is almost here. The trees start being relaxed, but this is only the beginning. They take a deep breath. Their breath is heavy now. The wind gets accelerated at the same time. It’s required from the Wind to spread the information instantly. The wind is their soul, their essence.

The trees   all connected call for the chthonic powers of the underground. Their roots are feral and they start to move slowly. This night won’t be peaceful for this city. I went down to the little square that was crowded with machine tooled stones. I could not either understand the three willow trees that were placed in metal platters in the course of the river. They were like the city “vases” but looked terrible. You know, the people living in these buildings, they have multitude of unnecessary things. They cut the flowers from the ground and they place them home already half-dead. The flowers then are like an infusion in a subject named “vase” where the flower is able to breathe just few more days until it’s official hour of death. Then the humans throw them away. Flowers end up at the same place where paper used for urine and shit ends up. However, at this point at the city square I can now hear the trees connected, alive and kicking. Their roots start to expand and have a huge mass. They are the unstoppable moles of the underground who are now in their last breath once they are on the surface, destroy everything. If there is rain tomorrow, some of them may come back to life. Food is always important. You go nowhere without a drop of water. Here at the city square there are also candelabras that emit bad frequencies. I cannot stand this environment for too long of a time, because these emitted frequencies are like needle for my vibes receptors.

Now, I just remembered that if my calculations are right, tomorrow arrives an old partner of mine. Maybe she was my first. That time is so far away now, that I needed to erase it for reasons that I have a sort of limited capability when it comes to my memory. My memory has its own limits. This is not very usual for my kin, however that’s it, the universe has decided to grant me with this form and this limitation. I just decided to dedicate my memory to these observations and memorize them. The sacrifices of my kin are made for the greater good for everyone. These are acts of unselfishness. I have never forgotten this.

It’s such a joy that the trees are so powerful that they are now united together while in tribulation. They really managed to ascend beyond all noise. They break the tiles, the fountains, the machine drilled stones, the saloons with funny dolls. Some people cry, and I myself am invisible to their sight and I gravitate in the air, far from the earth. The trees shake all the bridges and they cast a  shadow on the river that has atrophied anyway. I observe all of this from a birds eye perspective. No sun, nor rain, or wind can help here. The trees are so smart now that they still keep the river flowing. They destroy the buildings close to the river with impecable technique. They gouge the buildings from deep inside, from their centre points, so the buildings are falling apart from the outside to the inside. Big holes open up from the surface in which all structures fall inside. The holes are devouring the construction machinery along with the humans living in these buildings. The holes are devouring little by little like a whirlpool.

I gravitate and I distance myself from this image. I will come back later when there will be  peace and where there will be no more noise. Or maybe I will never return again. I am going to Phnom Penh now. Just in time to meet him, my old partner.


Mali was lying comfortably in his bed and was reading a newspaper. He was reading a column under the title “Something more than just sausages”. The column was about a woman who was living in Kochani and who along with her son has chopped her husband in two hundred twenty two pieces. After reading the column, Mali was forced to do a creative visualization so he could clear his thoughts from the hazardous news.



Translated by Stefan Alievik

This post is also available in: Macedonian