My book @ bedtime ‘The Migrant'
Catch the bedtime tweets here just for this week. https://twitter.com/paul_alkazraji
Likes and RTs entered for a chance to win a copy.
'The Migrant': Three incompatible characters set off on a dangerous journey to find a missing relative in Athens at the time of Greece’s economic crisis, encountering police brutality, racism and restored relationships along the way.
From ‘The Migrant’ © Paul Alkazraji, Instant Apostle.
Read Chapter 1 of ‘The Migrant’ here:
https://instantapostle.com/2019/02/22...
Find copies of ‘The Migrant’ here at £1.99 on Kindle: https://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B...
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by
Paul
(new)
Oct 16, 2023 09:13AM
There was a hum of conversation and clatter of plates being stacked, and the smell of grilled pork and sweet retsina in the air – and there was something else.
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One youth wearing a gas mask and clutching a stick like a broadsword jogged past. Another followed him shirtless with an orange scarf tied around his face and shards of rock in each hand.
He turned and slid into a time-worn trough in the rock, and looked at his Nikes: split, dusty and fake. Wasn’t Nike supposed to be the Greek goddess of victory, he thought? She was no goddess at all.
He turned the options over like white-hot embers in his mind, feeling his brain would combust. He did not know which way to roll out of the heat: in both directions he would still be on fire.
He looked up the floors above the Acheron Hostel sign as it spewed out sparks. His breathing became rapid and shallow as hope blackened to ash. We are too late, thought Jude. We tried all we could to reach you – and we failed you.
She sat motionless as if imprisoned by the raincoat. Then she glanced behind him. Jude felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck. He turned around slowly.
When the blow came on his right eye, it was the hardest he’d felt since the school playground. It smashed his glasses and knocked him to the floor. ‘Get up – budalla,’ the man shouted. As Jude rose, he could see his fingers shaking through a haze of water and white stars.
It was so ancient here and unlike his own church back in Shënvogël. There were gold mosaic and silver-plated icons of the saints watching him, and a smell of spices and resin seemed to seep out of the woodwork.
And a further one:'On roofs along the motorway side, there were glinting water tanks like giant silver flu-relief capsules. A miniature Orthodox church like a white wedding cake looked as if it had been bought off the shelf and lowered into a garden on a winch.'
