Key to the defense was locating the tall, gaunt man
sporting a maroon Basque-style beret who had allegedly been in the convenience
store at the time of the robbery. That man was said to have witnessed the three
teenagers hassling the cashier just after ten pm, forcing him to hand over the
few bills in the register, threatening to return and cause havoc to the place
if he called the police, before escaping down the windswept street.
If the tall man could be located, he could identify the
teenagers, who hadn’t bothered to wear masks or disguise themselves and should
therefore be easy to identify. The cashier couldn’t give the police any clues as
to where they had come from, and where they were going, their pockets full of
his evening’s hard-earned revenues.
But the man with the beret had seen everything. At least,
according to Philip, who had been loitering outside when the teenagers robbed
the store.
Philip, who planned to purchase a pack of cigarettes, claimed
the man had been standing at the back when the teenagers rushed in. The man
came down the aisle but did nothing to stop the teenagers or protect the
cashier, Philip said. The cashier had raised his hands in defense even before
the youths announced their intention to rob the establishment. But, as Philip
tried to explain, the tall man could certainly pick out the boys in a lineup.
That’s what Philip told the police officers who arrived
at the scene twenty minutes later, but they didn’t believe him.
Read the rest of the story on Written Tales Magazine.
If you are asking how we’re doing during this challenging
time, that’s the short answer.
Here’s the long answer.
We’re tired of being woken up by the blaring wail of sirens
at midnight, or at three in the morning, or at both hours.
We’re tired of running to our reinforced saferooms and our
public shelters, sitting on the floor uncomfortably as we all stare at our
mobile phones for the latest information about where the missiles struck.
We’re tired of hearing the boom of ballistic missiles
overhead as they are blown up by our anti-ballistic rockets.
We’re tired of returning to our beds, unable to fall back
asleep as we fearfully await the next missile attack.
We’re tired of turning on the television news to scenes of
the night’s destructive toll – people injured and killed, buildings bombed,
cars burnt, craters and piles of debris everywhere, homes lost, lives
interrupted.
We’re tired of being unable to go to work, unable to send
our children to school and to kindergarten, unable to go shopping even for the
most essential things without worrying whether the next missile attack will
catch us somewhere where there is no nearby shelter.
We’re tired of seeing our airport closed and international
airlines canceling all their flights to Israel.
We’re tired of canceling our weekend plans and our summer
vacations.
We’re tired of watching the bombing of Iran, even if it
means we’re taking out their nuclear sites and military facilities, because we
know it will result in further missile strikes against us.
We’re tired of the world dismissing our need to confront an
Evil that seeks to destroy us while it lies blatantly about enriching uranium
for peaceful research.
We’re tired of hearing that America bombed Iran because this
is Israel’s war, when it is the war of the entire civilized world against this
Evil.
We’re tired of seeing Iranian citizens fleeing Tehran,
unable to overturn their theocratic repressive regime.
We’re tired of all this, and more.
We’re tired that we still have 50 hostages held by
terrorists in Gaza, and whose freedom is not a priority of our government.
We’re tired that our prime minister refuses to take
responsibility for what happened on October 7, 2023, in the greatest tragedy to
befall the Jewish People since the Holocaust.
We’re tired that our soldiers are fighting every day in
Gaza, and we’re tired of seeing their young faces on the news, the latest
casualties of a seemingly endless war.
We’re tired of the entire world shouting cries of ‘genocide’
as we do our best to avoid civilian casualties.
We’re tired of fighting terrorists who dig tunnels under
hospitals, hide their weapons in schools, take cover behind civilians and steal
the aid provided by humanitarian organizations.
We’re tired of how Gazans are suffering.
We’re tired of our inability to throw out our corrupt,
right-wing, extremist government.
We’re tired of the government giving limitless funding to
the ultra-Orthodox and letting their young men avoid compulsory army service.
We’re tired of our right-wing government moving endlessly to
curb media freedom and overturn our judicial system.
We’re tired of our government allowing the establishment of
more and more settlements across the West Bank.
We’re tired of what we’re doing to the Palestinians.
We’re tired of regarding our Arab citizens as second-class.
We’re tired that the most corrupt prime minister we’ve ever
had is about to get credit for finally confronting the Iranian nuclear threat.
We’re tired that the most corrupt prime minister we’ve ever
had is allowing extremists to do anything they want, just so he can remain in
power.
We’re tired that the most corrupt prime minister we’ve ever
had is prolonging the trial that is meant to hold him accountable for his
corruption.
We’re tired of inflation, of the lack of affordable housing,
of the traffic jams on the highways, and the crowded national parks.
We’re tired of all this, and more.
Yet, despite being tired, we love Israel. We love its religious
importance, its amazing history, and its colorful traditions. We love its high-tech,
its stunning nature, its beaches, and its nightlife. We love its youth and its
hope and promise for the future.
We’re tired, but we will continue to fight for our country
because this is home.
Originally posted on The Times of Israel.
The sky was blue and promising, the early morning air crisp and
refreshing. A perfect day for the Jerusalem Marathon. The main event, 42.2
kilometers long, would take the runners through downtown Jerusalem and north
all the way to Mt. Scopus. The race circuit snaked through the Old City’s Jaffa
Gate and along the narrow alleyways of the Armenian Quarter. Out Zion Gate,
around Mt. Zion, up a steep hill to the old train station, and through the
German Colony. South to the Arnona neighborhood, back towards the city center,
and down the home stretch to the finish line at Sacher Park.
Read the rest of the story on JUDITH MAGAZINE.
We are
writing to you on behalf of our client, the Estate of Kevin Gladstone, who
passed away on March 2, 2023. Please accept our condolences during this
difficult time.
The estate. The family estate. Martin knew all about estates.
The letter was just a formality. He was familiar with its
contents, knew what it would say in advance. He had been waiting for this
moment. The Gladstone inheritance would soon be his.
Read the rest of the story at New English Review.
Yuvi’s alarm goes off and he wakes to find his father
standing outside his door, offering to drive him to the office. In this Groundhog
Day scenario, Yuvi has a chance to reverse the bad outcome of the previous
day’s tragedy. But will his fortunes be better this time around?
‘Autocorrect’ is one of the 33 short, short stories in Autocorrect
by Etgar Keret, translated by Jessica Cohen and Sondra
Silverston (Riverhead Books, May 27, 2025). Readers familiar with
Keret will be entertained by more examples of his creative imagination, while
those meeting him for the first time will encounter his original humorous insights
into Israeli culture and modern life, with a touch of science fiction thrown in
for good measure.
Time travel, aliens, and alternative realities all make
appearances in the stories, while others mirror our lives, showing imaginative
reflections of Israel and Israelis. Each of the stories satisfies in its own
unique way.
I had previously read many of the book’s stories in the
original Hebrew, but translators Cohen and Silverston do an excellent job of
showcasing Keret’s humor for English readers. No matter what the language, his
stories leave one eager to start the next one. Here are brief descriptions of
some of my favorites.
‘A World without Selfie Sticks’ - a life-changing reality
show from another world.
'Point of No Return' - the thin line between real life and
simulated real life.
'Genesis, Chapter 0' - beyond pain, and boredom, and fear,
everything becomes light.
‘For the Woman Who Has Everything’ - for the reader who has
read everything, something different.
The stories of Autocorrect are extremely short, but
they’ll leave you wanting more. We’re sure to meet the boundless creativity and
humor of Etgar Keret again very soon.
Etgar
Keret was born in Tel Aviv in 1967. His books have been
translated into 37 languages, and he has been published in the New York Times,
the Guardian, the New Yorker, Le Monde and other periodicals. Keret has written
a number of screenplays; “Jellyfish”, his first film as director alongside his
wife Shira Geffen, won the Caméra d’Or prize for best first feature at Cannes
in 2007. Keret has received the Chevalier Medallion of France's Ordre des Arts
et des Lettres (2010); the Charles Bronfman Prize (2016); and the Sapir
Prize for Literature (2018). His short story collection Fly Away
won the 2019 National Jewish Book Award for Fiction.
Jessica Cohen is a British-Israeli-American literary
translator who shared the 2017 International Booker Prize with author David
Grossman for her translation of A Horse Walks into a Bar.
Sondra Silverston is a native New Yorker who has
lived in Israel since 1970. She has translated works of Etgar Keret, Ayelet
Gundar-Goshen, Zeruya Shalev, and Savyon Liebrecht. Her translation of Amos
Oz’s Between Friends won the 2013 National Jewish Book Award
for fiction.
Originally posted on The Times of Israel.
As someone who knows little about the Bulgarian culture or the history, I was
enchanted by the stories. I was also intrigued by the foods, drinks, mountains,
and churches. By the time I was finished with the collection, I wondered if a
trip to Bulgaria might be in order!
As an author, I was fascinated with how the author weaved these tales into a
cohesive whole - and loved how a character from one story would inevitably end
up in another. Despite being a series of short stories, it reads far more like
a novel, with Bulgaria as the main character. It's a great read.
If you've ever been curious about lesser-known corners of the world, this episode of the Online for Authors podcast is your perfect invitation. In an engaging and insightful interview, author Ellis Shuman takes listeners on a journey through his collection of short stories, Rakiya: Stories of Bulgaria—and into the soul of a country often overlooked on the traveler's map.
I sensed it before Max
did. A rustling in the bushes. A snap of a twig. A muffled crackling sound. Max
lifted his head, assumed his full-alert, ready-to-attack mode, and strained at
his leash. A final movement, and then it burst into the open. A porcupine,
determined to escape after encountering Max and me in the dark.
It was five in the morning, our forest path lit by the waning moon and a
scatter of the night’s last stars. I was leading Max on his pre-dawn walk,
necessitated by my having to leave shortly to catch the first train to my job
in Tel Aviv. Max had already done his ‘business’ and we were on the return
journey, back to the streetlights of civilization leading to my home in our
small community outside Jerusalem. And then the porcupine came into view.
With the erect quills on its back, the animal was as tall as Max, a mid-size
mixed-breed dog. We see porcupines nearly every morning. Add that to the
jackals and wild boars we meet from time to time, a bounty of wildlife in the
forested hills near my home rarely seen in daylight. I may be crazy for walking
my dog in the pitch-black hours, but these unexpected encounters in nature
fascinate me. And they thrill Max as well.
I know to stay clear of porcupines; they can attack when threatened. Several
months ago, a man in northern Israel nearly lost his life after being stabbed
in his arms and legs with 41 quills. Porcupines are Israel’s largest rodent and
use their quills in defense. They don’t actually shoot them, I’ve learned, but
it’s best to stay as far away as possible.
There’s another reason the presence of porcupines irks me. I recently planted a
small vegetable patch in my backyard, and had already harvested cucumbers, with
tomatoes soon to follow. At summer’s end, I was excited to plant my first
lettuce seedlings, but overnight, they were eaten down to their tiny stems.
Basel and flowers also lost their leaves, and I assumed nocturnal porcupines
were the culprits responsible for the damage.
Today’s porcupine ran off into the brush, sending Max into a frenzy of barking
as I tightened my grip on his leash. Before I knew it, the creature had
vanished into the dense thicket of hillside undergrowth as if it had never
been. Max and I continued our walk, with him sniffing for traces of the
animal’s scent and occasionally lifting his leg to mark his territory.
More rustling near the path. This time Max saw the porcupine before me. He
struggled to break loose from his leash, to run down the creature just as he
chases the stray cats on our street. Within seconds, it was gone, following the
trail of its partner. Max calmed down, and we headed for home.
Twenty minutes later, I finished my breakfast and filled Max’s water bowl. He
had enough food to get through the day, and I patted his head before locking
the front door behind me. My wife would care for him until I returned from
work, but her walks with the dog would be in bright daylight.
I got into my car and started the motor for the drive to the train station. I
adjusted the mirror and began to pull out of my parking spot when a dash of
movement caught my eye.
A lone porcupine darted in front of the car, disappearing into the bushes on
the far side of the street. Too bad I didn’t have my phone ready to snap a
picture of the wayward animal. No worries. Max and I were bound to meet more
porcupines on our next pre-dawn walk.
Originally published in The Loch Raven Review.
“Buttermilk.”
“Butterfly.”
“Butternut.”
“Bread and butter!”
“But that’s butter at
the end.”
“What if I eat the
butter first?”
“How can you eat the
butter first on a piece of bread?”
“By licking it off!”
It’s a word game we
play, one of the many ways I keep Kira occupied when her mother is gone. I love
spending time with my granddaughter. She’s beautiful, and it’s not just me who
says that. Kira has a keen mind and is wise beyond her seven years. She’s a lot
of fun!
“Buttercup.”
“Butterlicious!”
“Now you’re making
words up.”
“Grandma, you do that
too, sometimes.”
“I would never…”
“What about that time
you tried to convince me that Ant Warp was a place.”
“Antwerp! It’s a city
in Belgium.”
“Have you been to
Belgium?”
“No.”
“So, how can you know
for sure?”
I laugh, push up the
blonde bangs from her forehead. Her face is so pretty. Brown eyes and thin
lips. Dimples you could die for. She gets them from her mom.
“When’s she coming
back?”
I look at my phone.
“Soon. She has some errands to run.”
“Oof, always errands.
Maybe I’m an errand she should run!”
“You’re not an
errand,” I say, stroking her shoulder. “You’re the reason she runs her
errands.”
“Do you think she’ll
buy me that magical unicorn?”
“It’s not your
birthday yet. That’s in two months.”
“Two months is a long
time.”
“It’ll be here before
you know it.”
“We’ve been here a
long time. When can we go home?”
My phone rings, a loud
ring. My daughter insisted on a loud ring because I’m hard of hearing. I’m not,
I argued, although I knew what she said was true. Partially.
“I’m running late,
Mom. There’s traffic, and I didn’t get to the drugstore yet.”
“Kira is getting
impatient.”
“Why don’t you play
one of those word games with her?”
“That’s what we’ve
been doing.”
“Is that Mommy? Let me
talk to her!”
I hand Kira my phone,
lean back in my chair and smile. My lovely granddaughter. Kira talks with her
mother, an exaggerated pleading for her to finish her errands and come back as
soon as possible. The conversation ends and Kira returns the phone.
“She said she’ll buy
me a Snickers bar.”
“Okay. So, what do you
want to play next?”
“I don’t want to play.
I want to go home.”
“I know,” I say. I
can’t promise her that, or anything, for that matter. I look up at the infusion
bag, making sure the drip continues at its slow, steady pace. “As soon as the
doctors say you can go home…” I don’t finish the sentence.
“Oof! Always the
doctors!”
She looks sour for a
minute, eases back on her hospital bed, as if she’s trying to get as far away
from her disease as possible, but then her face lights up.
“Butterscotch!” she
announces triumphantly, and we both giggle.
# # #
Originally published in Emerge Literary Journal.
The envelope was creased from being in my friend's briefcase for several months, but actually, it had much more aging in its history. It was a First Day Cover, an envelope bearing a stamp cancelled on the date the stamp was first available for postal use, dating back to 1992.
The image on the stamp, and on the postcard inside the envelope, was of the Great Synagogue of Sofia. The words on the envelope in Bulgarian explained the significance of the stamp and the year it was issued.
500 years of Sephardic Jewish settlement in Bulgaria.
Of course! 1992 was 500 years after the Jews were expelled from Spain. Although Jews have had a continuous presence in historic Bulgarian lands since before the 2nd century CE, apparently a significant number arrived in the country following their expulsion from Spain.
The Sofia Synagogue is one of the most beautiful buildings in the Bulgarian capitol and its construction, completed in 1909, would serve as the religious home for the city's mainly Sephardic Jewish community.
In 2009, Jodie and I attended the 100th anniversary celebration of the synagogue, a ceremony in which the President of Bulgaria sat a few rows ahead of me in the audience. We returned to the synagogue on a number of occasions, and prayed in the building's main sanctuary on the High Holidays.
Back to the First Day Cover envelope. How did it come to be in my possession, 33 years after the stamp was issued?
In August 2024, I spoke to the Literary Modiin book club about my recently published collection of short stories, Rakiya - Stories of Bulgaria. One of the attendees of the Zoom session listened to my talk about Bulgaria, and afterwards gave the envelope to the book club's founder/organizer, Julie Zuckerman. Julie put the envelope in her brief case, intending to give it to me the next time we met. We very occasionally travel together on a Modiin-bound train after the end of our work day in Tel Aviv.
This week, I attended one of Literary Modiin's monthly gatherings in person, and Jodie joined me. The authors giving talks about their books were Ayelet Tsabari, Avner Landes, and Joan Leegant. Before the session began, Julie gave me the envelope. The next day I managed to translate the words printed on the envelope.
500 years of Sephardic Jewish settlement in Bulgaria. An amazing milestone in Bulgarian Jewry's story and I had the envelope to mark the occasion.
When I invite my customers to order
their last drinks, several raise their fingers, sure I’ll remember what they
previously ordered. One more beer, one more vodka. Another Gin & Tonic. In
the darkened room, several night owls linger at their tables, heads low, engaged
in whispered conversation. One man sits alone on a stool at the far end of the
bar. He’s wearing a red plaid shirt and sports a thin gray goatee and wise
eyes. My age, maybe a few years younger. He's been sitting there for about
thirty minutes or so. He calls me over.
“It’s been busy tonight, hasn’t it?”
It’s more a statement than a question. “Do you always get such late-night
crowds?”
“It can get noisy,” I tell him,
waiting patiently for his order.
“It must be difficult to handle all
this on your own,” the man notes.
“What can I get you?” I point at his
empty shot glass. “Another?”
“No, I’m fine. I’ll just sit here
for a while, if you don’t mind.”
“We’ll be closing soon.” I turn to attend
to the other customers.
It’s not my bar, but I work so many
shifts, you’d think I owned the place. I’ve been working here since my college
days. At first it was to finance my studies, but now it just helps pay the
bills. The steady employment at nights leaves my days free to pursue my writing
career. Freelance, mostly, but nothing steady. I make do on what I earn as a
bartender. Which is not all that much. Luckily, the tips are good.
We get all kinds at the bar. The
college gangs, loud and boisterous. The businessmen, drinking away the
pressures of their dead-end jobs. Couples on romantic interludes. Men and
women. Men trying to pick up women. Men and men. Women and women. Divorcees,
deadbeats. All kinds.
Everyone’s welcome—that’s what the
sign in our window says.
They share their frustrations, their
troubles, and their worries, as if I’m their therapist. I nod when appropriate,
but I have few words of advice to offer. They don’t seem to mind. After
spilling their life stories, they pay their bills and head out into the night.
Sometimes so drunk I need to call them a taxi.
Tonight’s shift has been nothing out
of the ordinary. The early hours were busy with beer and wine orders. Fancy
cocktails and spritzers. Whisky—on the rocks or straight. Casual drinking at
first, followed by more serious alcohol consumption. Nothing I can’t handle,
especially with Melanie at my side.
Melanie’s a good worker. She serves
the drinks and the salty accompaniments that keep everyone drinking. Pretzels,
peanuts, potato chips. Melanie cleans counters, wipes tables, washes glasses,
and pours draft beer. All of this Melanie does with a dimpled tip-encouraging
smile.
“How would I get along without you?”
I say, as I have on many occasions.
“We’re a good team,” she admits.
“You’re good at your job, completely
trustworthy, and the customers appreciate you.”
“Flattery will get you nowhere,” she
says, dismissing my compliments with a wink of her eye.
Melanie’s good looking, and I’m
attracted to her, but if I considered something more than our companionship in
the bar, nothing would ever come of it. She has a steady boyfriend.
“Gus is so demanding,” Melanie complains.
“And he doesn’t trust me. He can get jealous over nothing. If he saw how the guys
ogle me, reach for my ass, he’d go berserk. You don’t know what he’s capable
of!”
Melanie and me—we’re coworkers. We've
share tidbits about our personal lives, but nothing more. Still, I’d do
anything for her. We’re a team. An inseparable team.
An hour before closing, I send
Melanie home. She has a dentist appointment in the morning and I assure her I can
handle things on my own. Now, an hour later, I'm serving the night's final
orders.
“You been working here long? How’s
that going for you?”
It’s the single man, the one with
the gray goatee. He gazes at me while he fingers his empty shot glass. I had assumed
he’d already left.
“It’s okay.” There’s something about
him, something that makes me suspicious, but I can’t determine what it is. “Is
there anything else I can get you? I told you we’re closing.”
“No, I’m good. Very good, in fact.”
That statement invites a reply on my
part. “What’s so good?”
“This bar. It’s an OK place,
wouldn’t you say?” He looks around the place, at the remaining customers,
finishing their drinks. “I wondered what you thought about it.”
It’s a strange thing for him to say,
not anything I’m expecting. How am I supposed to respond? Should I tell him I’m
satisfied working the night shift? That the pay is sufficient and the hours
conducive to my morning writing sessions?
“I guess you could say that,” I reply
at last.
“It’s in a good neighborhood, I
think. That’s why I bought the place down the street last week.”
“Frank’s?” I hadn’t known that
Frank’s bar was up for sale.
“Yeah, I got it cheap. Old man Frank
wants to retire, head to Florida, I guess. He needed someone like me to take
over, to build it up. I think Frank’s has a lot of potential, probably more
than this place,” he says, indicating my bar with a dismissive wave of his
hand. “No offense, of course, but a bit of competition never hurt. Two bars on
the same street. It might even attract more business; wouldn’t you say?”
I nod and continue to rinse off the
glasses and put them into the dishwasher. I expect the man to be gone when I
turn around, but he’s still there, perched on his stool and staring at me.
“You're good at your job. I’ve seen
how you work and I’m impressed. That’s why I have an offer for you.”
“An offer?”
“I’d like you to come work for me.
At Frank’s. In fact, I want you to manage the place. I need someone with
experience, and you have no shortage of that. You could run Frank’s, I think.
So, what do you say?”
“Are you for real?” Then I step
back, realizing I’d said these words aloud.
“I guess you didn’t expect to get a
job offer at this hour of the night. But, let me tell you, my offer’s real and
I think you’ll manage Frank’s just fine.”
I look around, wondering if any of
the customers are overhearing our conversation. One couple gets up to leave,
the man putting his arm around the woman’s shoulder so suggestively that I suspect
they’re not married. At the back, three college students raise their beer mugs,
laughing at a raunchy joke. No one’s paying attention to me and the man sitting
at the counter.
“Listen, I don’t know who you are or
anything about you.” I’m trying to sound diplomatic in my response. If his
offer’s real, and there’s an opening at Frank’s with better pay and more
responsibility, maybe it’d be something to consider. Do I have any loyalty to
this place? Despite the many years I've put in, not really. I never said I’d
work here forever. Changing jobs? Maybe, if the conditions are right.
Managing Frank’s, with more
responsibility, will mean more hours, I tell myself. What about the mornings I
devote to freelance writing? If I had to spend more time at the bar overseeing
things, I wouldn’t have as much time for that. But on the other hand, if the
pay at Frank’s is good, maybe I could give up most of the writing gigs.
“What sort of salary are we talking
about?” I ask.
The man throws out a number, and it’s
significantly higher than what I’m currently being paid. “And, of course, there
are tips,” he adds. “I see your customers here are very generous, so there’s no
doubt you’d make a pretty penny managing Frank’s. You’d share them with your
coworkers, of course, but I’m sure there’d be enough to go around.”
My coworkers! Melanie!
“I can’t imagine handling the night
shifts without you.” I had said
those very words to Melanie earlier in the evening. “We’re a good team,”
she’d said to me, and she was right. We are a team. An inseparable team.
“I’ll have to think about it,” I
tell the man. “But there is one thing,” I add.
“What’s that?”
I weigh my words, as I don’t want him
to withdraw his offer. “If I would come work for you, you'd have to also hire my
coworker.”
“Your coworker?” he asks, raising
his eyebrows.
“Melanie. She’s great at what she does.
You’d have to give her a job.”
“Is that your condition?” he asks.
Have I screwed up his unexpected
offer? No matter what the salary, I couldn’t do that to her.
“Yes. Me and Melanie, or no deal.”
“Well, then.” He stands up and reaches
out to shake my hand. But then, he doesn’t. He sits back down.
Confused, I stop drying the beer mug
I’m holding and step back.
“My name is Gus,” he says.
“Melanie’s told me about you, but I had to check for myself.”
“What?”
“She’s said only good things, I can
assure you,” he says. A mischievous smile appears on his face.
“Gus is so demanding,” Melanie said to me earlier that evening. “You don’t know what
he’s capable of!”
“You’re Melanie’s boyfriend,” I say,
realizing he’s been testing me. Playing me for a fool.
“Yeah, we’ve been together for a
while.”
“Are you buying Frank’s?”
“Of course not! Why would I buy that
place when your bar here is doing such good business? Besides, I don’t have the
funds.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“There’s nothing for you to say.
You’re good. You stuck up for Melanie, and that’s what counts. She can continue
working with you. I should be going. I don’t want to get back too late and wake
her. She’s got a dentist appointment in the morning.”
Gus walks out. All the other
customers have already left and I’m alone in the bar, still confused by what
just happened. Strange things can happen in the middle of the night, I guess.
An over-jealous boyfriend. And I had fallen for his trap!
I put the last of the whisky glasses on the shelf, wipe off the counter, and hang up my apron. I shut the lights and lock the door. Time to go home and get some sleep. I have that writing assignment I need to finish.
# # #
Originally published in POSTBOX, Scotland's International Short Story Magazine.
Photo by Louis Hansel on Unsplash
On Friday, I ran the 10 kilometer run in the Tel Aviv Marathon, clocking in at 59:24, a personal best. This put me in 37th place in my age category (65-69). I am very pleased with the result!
I had a bad start to the race. As I approached the starting line, I couldn't get my Nike running app to load. There were 20,000 runners participating in the 10 kilometer run, 5,000 of them starting in my heat, and as a result, my Internet connection wasn't working. The app said 'Unable to establish a connection' and I tried to restart it, to no avail. I crossed the starting line, and for the entire race I worried that my feet hadn't hit the black mark on the road that recorded the start time.
I gave up on the app, stuffed my phone into my running belt, and concentrated on the race. Still, I couldn't dismiss my worries. Had my feet touched the black mark? Would my time be recorded?
The run itself wasn't easy. My legs felt a jolt each time my feet landed on the hard pavement of Tel Aviv's streets - Rokach, Dizengoff, Ben Gurion, Ibn Gvirol, and back on Rokach. I kept a steady pace the entire race - the second half was run at exactly the same time as the first half - but I had nothing left in me for a final sprint.
I crossed the finish line and looked at my phone. I had done it in under an hour! Awhile later the official results came in. 59 minutes and 24 seconds. This was 2 seconds faster than my result in the Tel Aviv Night Run in October.
As I said, I am very pleased with the result!
Previous articles
Tel Aviv Marathon Man: I Run the 10 Kilometer Race
Jerusalem Is Much Harder to Run than Tel Aviv
The Tel Aviv Marathon was yesterday. I ran my 10 kilometer race today!
I Run the Jerusalem Marathon 10K and Finish in 18th Place in My Age Category
"We had never visited Bulgaria before. We utilized the two years living in Sofia to travel extensively around Bulgaria, to learn about its culture and history, to visit its picturesque villages and see its stunning nature. We fell in love with the country. I've always desired to be a writer and when the two-year contract ended and we came back to Israel I realized that I could go back to Bulgaria every day through my writing, and that's when I began to write about Bulgaria."
I joined Edith from Book Lover's Companion to talk about my collection of short stories in and about Bulgaria, my adventures, and my love for this country.
Mother and Daughter… A Roma lives with her daughter above a bakery. They live off anything they are given, or can steal. The mother believes she is doing everything for her daughter. This was just sad. 2 stars
Sozopol… A writers conference turns deadly. Really good twist. 4 stars
Three Women in Sofia… An American decides to attend classes in Bulgaria, and meets three women who taught him more than he could have expected. Really quite good. 4 stars
Lockdown… Two young girls are charged with a crime when entering Bulgaria during lockdown. This was a really good story. 5 stars
When the sirens sounded at three in the morning, the five members of the Lutsky family jumped from their beds. This wasn’t the first time that the Houthis in Yemen had fired a missile at Israel, and it wasn’t the first time that their small moshav near Ramla was one of the areas alerted to the incoming attack, so the Lutskys were familiar with the drill. They ran downstairs to their safe room−a reinforced room on the ground floor that served as Natan’s office on the days he worked from home, and which would now provide protection for their family.
As she passed through the kitchen, five-year-old Miri glanced out the window. The sidewalk was lit by a streetlight; the Frenkels’ house next door was completely dark.
“Abba, there’s a man outside!” Miri said, stopping in her tracks.
“Hurry, Miri,” her mother Anat called from the doorway of the safe room. “We only have a minute to get in.”
The siren was still wailing, but Miri didn’t move. “That man doesn’t have a place to go! The rocket could hit him!”
“Which man?” Natan asked, joining his daughter in the kitchen. “I’m sure he’s okay,” he said, urging his youngest daughter to follow him to safety.
“He needs to come in!” Miri said. She brushed aside Matka, the family mutt, and said, “I’m opening the door.”
Read the rest of the story on Esoterica.
