Post by Deleted on Sept 24, 2019 17:52:00 GMT -5
I began life on the corner of Brezhnev Street, what people used to call Plainia (Mountain) when my parents rented that rundown shack of an apartment. He built auto parts; she kept the home. Brothers went into conflict and never returned. Pan-Slavism justified wars before the biggest one of them all; nowadays, we use it as currency to speak with one another on the street. Where we stop but forget to look up at the awesome mountains surrounding Plodiv. Survivors unaware of the brick-laid bones that built these streets under the red shadow of Communism. Where kids like me played and grew into men.
I’ve never seen Bishop Grigori act this way. He knew I’d be going to America on a crusade. At least that’s how he phrased it for my brothers of the cloth. My English has steadily improved but no one cares to test me on the little things: How do you say “cheese” or “bread?” And what about “I love you” or the worst expletives? I expected more from my brothers, men from beard to chest hair, yet they simply waved goodbye as I pushed through those verdigris doors. Only our bishop took a second to ask what weighed upon his elderly soul, bearing it straight from his weeping breast.
Bishop Grigori: Не мога да променя мнението ти... моля ви, бъдете в безопасност, Геров.
Gerov: Трябва — за децата… прости ми, баща.
Bishop Grigori: Тогава тръгвай. Но не забравяйте дома си, Геров… Благославям от бащата, сина и светия дух.
Then go. But don’t forget your home, Gerov…
He never seemed so calm before now. I should pray for him when the flight takes me to the West. Leaving this place burns a hole in my heart, one almost deep enough for an entire hand. Where I could just reach down and crush this feeble heart. Pulverize it into Lyutenica and spread that peppery, tomato paste onto the body we represent as bread. Someone, somewhere, would eat it—right after taking a selfie—and tell another set of eyes a mile away that she found the paste quite delicious. Yet the work of a priest should never resort to judging the world in God’s place. Not unless it refuses to learn.
One last stop on the way to prosperity. A trip I’ve mulled all week. People in Plodiv have a deceptive sense of suffering. They hide behind the cultural centers like tourists because there’s few other ways into the soul of Bulgaria. Vacationers look past chiseled stars of our socialist past, wondering what happened to the old republic. It died; and if I don’t tread forward, change will absorb me next. What I see in these wonderful children suffering from what medicine cannot heal. So let these be my finals rites of release before the glamor of America feeds another covetous soul.
I promised to return, but terminal means forever from mortal shackles. We cannot stop the rolling force that is God’s will. If only the survivors can look upon me the same come Monday. I could not ask for a better reward than knowing their young eyes watched me perform one last time.
When I enter this space with you, Silvan, oh holiest namesake, guide me to victory this week. I have no idea what happens to winners or losers. We’re above that entering the white zone between two darker, defined choices. Perfect neutral as the good ones intended at our Great Schism.
Gerov, those who adopt my likeness should remember more than what I did to solve problems. They must apply my example to patch what holes broke through their seafaring vessels. For a boat cannot sail if it is sinking to the bottom of a dark and uncaring sea.
What have you for an opponent like Zion Simmons? He shows no weakness while churning over the world from the seat of a red combine, plowing everything to his grand vision. I am but a stupid man who could never be a monk—whose hands tremble when children bid this world farewell from incurable diseases. I am weak, Silvan, why bother saving one as lowly as me?
Purpose elapses the mind. Remember that confidence is a shiny breastplate on to the larger cuirass of proven warriors. You see this Zion as invincible. Why not invest your time probing the weakness of Jericho before declaring yourself an immediate failure. I can see from beyond ethereal layers—and that man is far from confident. Not by compensation; however, he is not at one with himself. He builds bridges and other elaborate infrastructure between people and his feelings. That is not a God but a wounded leg cauterized with molten gold.
He has the money to give to any charity. Wealth capable of saving struggling countries from crippling debt. What’s to stop him from hiring someone else to take me out?
Your fears are justified, and you sense someone whom would avoid conflict for any number of reasons. I spent my final days raving at those who would not receive the letters for the Corinthians. Something else we take, as did I, for granted as god-fearing folk. We understand what it takes to prostrate ourselves in forgiving light. Your task will not be one of ridicule nor history. Gerov, you must approach this Zion how saints respond to the unrepentant.
But I’ll never be like you, Silvan.
He will derogate everything we hold dear, but in that moment, you will find strength. For the victories you experience in the ring are but one lesson to a semester of knowledge. Take that and heed a greater bounty. Take my hand and heal those around you. You accepted my powers, my divination, with a smile. Is there really nothing else in the world to make you thankful?
I am always grateful.
Then learn to be joyful too. Gerov, you miss so many things when you forget to smile. Take that seed and plant a forest. God bless your mired soul.
So he saw it all through skin, down my joints and into another bloodstream. A weak and ashen hand crumpling into my own. Withered from a body slowly destroying itself. Malfunctions out of control that even the best medicine can only step back to watch. Someone devoured from the inside by their own corporeal being. Why they opened the doors to a priest, despite his cowardly palms sweating onto hers. The age of a child every father dreams of seeing every morning. His little princess wasting away… if only something could heal this family stricken by yet another tragedy.
Zhivko: Тя е будна!
Silvan: Тя е ... будна?
she’s … awake?
Zhivko: бебе момиче - това е татко!
Baby girl—Daddy is here!
Viktoria: татко? Daddy?
Miracles… am I even worthy of bringing a child back from the brink of death? Silvan, God—what are you doing to me? They will expect me to stay here. What happens if her cancer returns while I’m off wresting in America? I can’t fly back to Bulgaria every weekend. That’s unsustainable and impractical even for the most disciplined follower. No one can make that selfless a deed without cracking at his or her seams. Me, I know I’d be no exception, but why am I worthy of carrying this gift? Tell me why!
Why didn’t you pick mystical powers like talking to animals or flight? My burden is my own, father, but this doesn’t feel fair. Why must I be the example for these people latch onto for safety? How many times can my head go under the ocean and expect to rise back for a gasp of air? I can’t see it. What indecisive moment brought us together for another of my faulty miracles? Release me! I’m not worthy!
Someone served warm hibiscus tea from the nurse station. I spoke to Viktoria’s father, knowing my powers would only delay what afflicts her poor heart. It’s in the blood, the kidneys and progressing. Everything my glowing hand did this morning saved her from missing a week beside this grieving father. No one dared to tell him the truth: I’m no healer—just a traffic jam blocking death’s route. I could stay here and suture her suffering for months, maybe years, but to what extent. Tomorrow I’ll be in the USA.
I had no idea what to expect from a company this big. Alpha. Professional. Wrestling. It took me too long to realize what the title actually meant. They only employ the best to step into a squared circle. Europe may not have the prestige or prevalence of American media, but they get wrestling. And they pay to watch it on TV or in person. Styles aren’t much different either. Except I started with sambo.
Sambo is like an exciting version of Greco-Roman with elements of judo. I’m not a champion and never got close. Although people don’t need to think of me as a grand champion to respect me. Conduct: That’s how I’ll win them over. The last thing a guy needs this far from his native womb is a reason to get shipped back to the Balkans. I wonder if the fans will confuse Balkan with Baltic. Some may not even be able to point out Bulgaria on the map. It won’t matter if they like me. All I need is a chance.
Viktoria believed in me, even if the powers of God can’t stabilize her for long. She would never let me back down from a fight. This week might be epic, or it’ll suck. God didn’t anyone foresight for that reason because we have to brave enough to solve our own problems.
why is this man following me from the terminal?
Silvan: Stop flashing me, please.
TMZ: Gerry Roebuck, TMZ sports, what’s your plan for America? And is it true you can heal people?
Silvan: Why are doing this to me?
TMZ: Care to comment on the addition of Zion Simmons?
Silvan: Isn’t that my opponent?
TMZ: Care to comment on his acquisition of the Masuda Corporation and the Tag Champions?
Silvan: You need to speak slower. I’m having trouble understanding you.
TMZ: Zion bought out Masuda’s company and the rights to the Canadian Coalition.
Silvan: Are you all right? You’re out of breath… you should sit down.
TMZ: What’s your opinion on…
Everyone’s panicking. Should I call for a doctor? No, I can heal him—but what if he’s hyperventilating. That’d be unwarranted use of my gift. He was talking so fast, and looked sweaty. Distressed fibers turning pale as I think. He could die if I don’t act now. Forgive me, father, I have no choice.
TMZ: What happened?
EMT: You had an infarction, sir. Do you have a history of heart disease?
TMZ: What?
EMT: Let’s load him up…
TMZ: Where’s my phone! Someone get my phone!
His IPhone was still recording when I picked it up. Burning hot too after lying on that carpet for what felt like an hour. Its recording only said eleven minutes: Long enough to slip from his mortal coil.
Maybe I overstepped. They got here fast enough to restart his heart. They have training and defibrillators. There was one in case on the wall if the wait lasted too long without CPR. Still, the temptation of turning fate is too much for a coward to bear. Instead, I gave him a second chance that he may not even appreciate. God bless him.
Would my opponent have done the same? No, since he obeys the animal hunger of humanity. Demons control him in ways others don’t understand, bridging between the greed of our world over the backs of common people. The sort that crushes dreams because he can. I don’t know what to expect from someone so undeserving of praise. A demagogue with perceived divinity. Darkness beloved as light until daylight floods recessed lighting: Steps on the path towards total damnation.
Manmade, his tower of Babel will fall into shameful refuse. Where I will stand—waiting to save him from that humbling rubble—my healing hands outstretched. Zion wouldn’t take them. He’s too proud and obsessed with self-reliance. Possessed and deaf, Zion will never understand the gestures of good folk because he cannot find a reason to help others. Evil to his core with a petty notion of combat sports.
I’m too modest, sometimes. If only I has asked for a rental car, or a driver, this heat would not be stuck to my sweaty suit. People think Orthodoxy members only wear black and tall, funny hats. Miters meters tall—even we make that joke because it’s about our large, conical hats for liturgical recitals. We need easier words, and I need a longer thumb. Traveling without a stipend… that was a stupid move on my part.
Praise the Trinity, here comes a trucker. I hope he’s okay driving me from Lewis-ville to Lexington.
Trucker: Where ya headed, son?
Silvan: Lexington.
Trucker: Good thing, just picked up these here hogs in Luh-a-vuhl, taking em that far. Your lucky day.
Silvan: I’m not lucky. No one is.
Trucker: Welp, just hop on up and we’ll get there.
His odor matches my grandfathers: a mixture of sausage and old cheese. When he offered me a stick of spiced meat—asking that I “snap into it”—it reminded me of home. Eating smoked meat with a tray of sunbaked peppers on the side. That was living.
Trucker: You a professor or something?
Silvan: I’m a priest.
Trucker: Ah, do ya take confession?
Silvan: No. Sorry friend, I’m Bulgarian Orthodox. But I’ll listen.
Everyone deserves an initiation into others’ darkness. Wherein a working father can keep infinite pictures of his kids on the dashboard without seeing them in person. He also can get docked for driving slow, which prevents him from face-timing his children. Three girls: Now that’s a basket of joy. Some think they want to don the cloak for the image of purity. Few have any idea what that selfless mission entails. It all drains you from curing wounds to assisting those on death’s door. Learn to respect tears from grown men without losing your composure of scripture and guidance. They need us—why else would our paths cross. It’s never because of luck.
When I saw the arena with my own eyes, it seemed unreal. We have sports venues in Plodiv and nearby Sofia, but nothing to the likes of the Rupp Center. Its grandeur makes me wonder if anyone truly deserves such respect in life. At which point a girl jogging told me an amateur college team plays here—not professionals. I have so much to learn of America.
There’s not an Orthodox church nearby, so this hostile will do fine. A cot, wardrobe and window are more than enough for my needs.
I know my opponent sits on a lavish bed with marble and gold to light his path. And I know there are more valuable metals like Rhodium—I’ve taken chemistry—but I’m respect for him as a citizen of this country. Catholic priests welcomed me into these doors, and fed me from their soup kitchen. How can someone like Zion Simmons understand what people want in this world? He’s lost on himself. We are not the jurors or judge of others… yet I doubt my willingness to listen will help Zion better himself. But I will listen if he wishes to change his life. For now, my cot will catch my impossible dreams of being a professional wrestler… one that can save the entire world.
I’ve never seen Bishop Grigori act this way. He knew I’d be going to America on a crusade. At least that’s how he phrased it for my brothers of the cloth. My English has steadily improved but no one cares to test me on the little things: How do you say “cheese” or “bread?” And what about “I love you” or the worst expletives? I expected more from my brothers, men from beard to chest hair, yet they simply waved goodbye as I pushed through those verdigris doors. Only our bishop took a second to ask what weighed upon his elderly soul, bearing it straight from his weeping breast.
Bishop Grigori: Не мога да променя мнението ти... моля ви, бъдете в безопасност, Геров.
I cannot stop you… but please, protect yourself, Gerov.
Gerov: Трябва — за децата… прости ми, баща.
I must—for the children… forgive me, father.
Bishop Grigori: Тогава тръгвай. Но не забравяйте дома си, Геров… Благославям от бащата, сина и светия дух.
Then go. But don’t forget your home, Gerov…
I bless you by the Father, Son and Holy Spirit.
One last stop on the way to prosperity. A trip I’ve mulled all week. People in Plodiv have a deceptive sense of suffering. They hide behind the cultural centers like tourists because there’s few other ways into the soul of Bulgaria. Vacationers look past chiseled stars of our socialist past, wondering what happened to the old republic. It died; and if I don’t tread forward, change will absorb me next. What I see in these wonderful children suffering from what medicine cannot heal. So let these be my finals rites of release before the glamor of America feeds another covetous soul.
I promised to return, but terminal means forever from mortal shackles. We cannot stop the rolling force that is God’s will. If only the survivors can look upon me the same come Monday. I could not ask for a better reward than knowing their young eyes watched me perform one last time.
When I enter this space with you, Silvan, oh holiest namesake, guide me to victory this week. I have no idea what happens to winners or losers. We’re above that entering the white zone between two darker, defined choices. Perfect neutral as the good ones intended at our Great Schism.
Gerov, those who adopt my likeness should remember more than what I did to solve problems. They must apply my example to patch what holes broke through their seafaring vessels. For a boat cannot sail if it is sinking to the bottom of a dark and uncaring sea.
What have you for an opponent like Zion Simmons? He shows no weakness while churning over the world from the seat of a red combine, plowing everything to his grand vision. I am but a stupid man who could never be a monk—whose hands tremble when children bid this world farewell from incurable diseases. I am weak, Silvan, why bother saving one as lowly as me?
Purpose elapses the mind. Remember that confidence is a shiny breastplate on to the larger cuirass of proven warriors. You see this Zion as invincible. Why not invest your time probing the weakness of Jericho before declaring yourself an immediate failure. I can see from beyond ethereal layers—and that man is far from confident. Not by compensation; however, he is not at one with himself. He builds bridges and other elaborate infrastructure between people and his feelings. That is not a God but a wounded leg cauterized with molten gold.
He has the money to give to any charity. Wealth capable of saving struggling countries from crippling debt. What’s to stop him from hiring someone else to take me out?
Your fears are justified, and you sense someone whom would avoid conflict for any number of reasons. I spent my final days raving at those who would not receive the letters for the Corinthians. Something else we take, as did I, for granted as god-fearing folk. We understand what it takes to prostrate ourselves in forgiving light. Your task will not be one of ridicule nor history. Gerov, you must approach this Zion how saints respond to the unrepentant.
But I’ll never be like you, Silvan.
He will derogate everything we hold dear, but in that moment, you will find strength. For the victories you experience in the ring are but one lesson to a semester of knowledge. Take that and heed a greater bounty. Take my hand and heal those around you. You accepted my powers, my divination, with a smile. Is there really nothing else in the world to make you thankful?
I am always grateful.
Then learn to be joyful too. Gerov, you miss so many things when you forget to smile. Take that seed and plant a forest. God bless your mired soul.
So he saw it all through skin, down my joints and into another bloodstream. A weak and ashen hand crumpling into my own. Withered from a body slowly destroying itself. Malfunctions out of control that even the best medicine can only step back to watch. Someone devoured from the inside by their own corporeal being. Why they opened the doors to a priest, despite his cowardly palms sweating onto hers. The age of a child every father dreams of seeing every morning. His little princess wasting away… if only something could heal this family stricken by yet another tragedy.
Zhivko: Тя е будна!
She’s awake!
Silvan: Тя е ... будна?
she’s … awake?
Zhivko: бебе момиче - това е татко!
Baby girl—Daddy is here!
Viktoria: татко? Daddy?
Miracles… am I even worthy of bringing a child back from the brink of death? Silvan, God—what are you doing to me? They will expect me to stay here. What happens if her cancer returns while I’m off wresting in America? I can’t fly back to Bulgaria every weekend. That’s unsustainable and impractical even for the most disciplined follower. No one can make that selfless a deed without cracking at his or her seams. Me, I know I’d be no exception, but why am I worthy of carrying this gift? Tell me why!
Why didn’t you pick mystical powers like talking to animals or flight? My burden is my own, father, but this doesn’t feel fair. Why must I be the example for these people latch onto for safety? How many times can my head go under the ocean and expect to rise back for a gasp of air? I can’t see it. What indecisive moment brought us together for another of my faulty miracles? Release me! I’m not worthy!
Someone served warm hibiscus tea from the nurse station. I spoke to Viktoria’s father, knowing my powers would only delay what afflicts her poor heart. It’s in the blood, the kidneys and progressing. Everything my glowing hand did this morning saved her from missing a week beside this grieving father. No one dared to tell him the truth: I’m no healer—just a traffic jam blocking death’s route. I could stay here and suture her suffering for months, maybe years, but to what extent. Tomorrow I’ll be in the USA.
I had no idea what to expect from a company this big. Alpha. Professional. Wrestling. It took me too long to realize what the title actually meant. They only employ the best to step into a squared circle. Europe may not have the prestige or prevalence of American media, but they get wrestling. And they pay to watch it on TV or in person. Styles aren’t much different either. Except I started with sambo.
Sambo is like an exciting version of Greco-Roman with elements of judo. I’m not a champion and never got close. Although people don’t need to think of me as a grand champion to respect me. Conduct: That’s how I’ll win them over. The last thing a guy needs this far from his native womb is a reason to get shipped back to the Balkans. I wonder if the fans will confuse Balkan with Baltic. Some may not even be able to point out Bulgaria on the map. It won’t matter if they like me. All I need is a chance.
Viktoria believed in me, even if the powers of God can’t stabilize her for long. She would never let me back down from a fight. This week might be epic, or it’ll suck. God didn’t anyone foresight for that reason because we have to brave enough to solve our own problems.
why is this man following me from the terminal?
Silvan: Stop flashing me, please.
TMZ: Gerry Roebuck, TMZ sports, what’s your plan for America? And is it true you can heal people?
Silvan: Why are doing this to me?
TMZ: Care to comment on the addition of Zion Simmons?
Silvan: Isn’t that my opponent?
TMZ: Care to comment on his acquisition of the Masuda Corporation and the Tag Champions?
Silvan: You need to speak slower. I’m having trouble understanding you.
TMZ: Zion bought out Masuda’s company and the rights to the Canadian Coalition.
Silvan: Are you all right? You’re out of breath… you should sit down.
TMZ: What’s your opinion on…
Everyone’s panicking. Should I call for a doctor? No, I can heal him—but what if he’s hyperventilating. That’d be unwarranted use of my gift. He was talking so fast, and looked sweaty. Distressed fibers turning pale as I think. He could die if I don’t act now. Forgive me, father, I have no choice.
TMZ: What happened?
EMT: You had an infarction, sir. Do you have a history of heart disease?
TMZ: What?
EMT: Let’s load him up…
TMZ: Where’s my phone! Someone get my phone!
His IPhone was still recording when I picked it up. Burning hot too after lying on that carpet for what felt like an hour. Its recording only said eleven minutes: Long enough to slip from his mortal coil.
Maybe I overstepped. They got here fast enough to restart his heart. They have training and defibrillators. There was one in case on the wall if the wait lasted too long without CPR. Still, the temptation of turning fate is too much for a coward to bear. Instead, I gave him a second chance that he may not even appreciate. God bless him.
Would my opponent have done the same? No, since he obeys the animal hunger of humanity. Demons control him in ways others don’t understand, bridging between the greed of our world over the backs of common people. The sort that crushes dreams because he can. I don’t know what to expect from someone so undeserving of praise. A demagogue with perceived divinity. Darkness beloved as light until daylight floods recessed lighting: Steps on the path towards total damnation.
Manmade, his tower of Babel will fall into shameful refuse. Where I will stand—waiting to save him from that humbling rubble—my healing hands outstretched. Zion wouldn’t take them. He’s too proud and obsessed with self-reliance. Possessed and deaf, Zion will never understand the gestures of good folk because he cannot find a reason to help others. Evil to his core with a petty notion of combat sports.
I’m too modest, sometimes. If only I has asked for a rental car, or a driver, this heat would not be stuck to my sweaty suit. People think Orthodoxy members only wear black and tall, funny hats. Miters meters tall—even we make that joke because it’s about our large, conical hats for liturgical recitals. We need easier words, and I need a longer thumb. Traveling without a stipend… that was a stupid move on my part.
Praise the Trinity, here comes a trucker. I hope he’s okay driving me from Lewis-ville to Lexington.
Trucker: Where ya headed, son?
Silvan: Lexington.
Trucker: Good thing, just picked up these here hogs in Luh-a-vuhl, taking em that far. Your lucky day.
Silvan: I’m not lucky. No one is.
Trucker: Welp, just hop on up and we’ll get there.
His odor matches my grandfathers: a mixture of sausage and old cheese. When he offered me a stick of spiced meat—asking that I “snap into it”—it reminded me of home. Eating smoked meat with a tray of sunbaked peppers on the side. That was living.
Trucker: You a professor or something?
Silvan: I’m a priest.
Trucker: Ah, do ya take confession?
Silvan: No. Sorry friend, I’m Bulgarian Orthodox. But I’ll listen.
Everyone deserves an initiation into others’ darkness. Wherein a working father can keep infinite pictures of his kids on the dashboard without seeing them in person. He also can get docked for driving slow, which prevents him from face-timing his children. Three girls: Now that’s a basket of joy. Some think they want to don the cloak for the image of purity. Few have any idea what that selfless mission entails. It all drains you from curing wounds to assisting those on death’s door. Learn to respect tears from grown men without losing your composure of scripture and guidance. They need us—why else would our paths cross. It’s never because of luck.
When I saw the arena with my own eyes, it seemed unreal. We have sports venues in Plodiv and nearby Sofia, but nothing to the likes of the Rupp Center. Its grandeur makes me wonder if anyone truly deserves such respect in life. At which point a girl jogging told me an amateur college team plays here—not professionals. I have so much to learn of America.
There’s not an Orthodox church nearby, so this hostile will do fine. A cot, wardrobe and window are more than enough for my needs.
I know my opponent sits on a lavish bed with marble and gold to light his path. And I know there are more valuable metals like Rhodium—I’ve taken chemistry—but I’m respect for him as a citizen of this country. Catholic priests welcomed me into these doors, and fed me from their soup kitchen. How can someone like Zion Simmons understand what people want in this world? He’s lost on himself. We are not the jurors or judge of others… yet I doubt my willingness to listen will help Zion better himself. But I will listen if he wishes to change his life. For now, my cot will catch my impossible dreams of being a professional wrestler… one that can save the entire world.
