Nathan William Meyer
Strings
Irena Raičević
Nathan William Meyer
The Environmentalist
Danica Popović
Nathan William Meyer
White
Saška Stojakov
Nathan William Meyer
The (In)Difference
Jelena Petrović
Jana Živanović

A girl running down Knez Mihajlova street and waving at the bus driver. That’s me - an eternal dreamer, an optimist, an ex-violinist, a present writer, book reviewer, an undergraduate student, a future teacher of the English language. Social chameleon and stage lover. A chatterbox, a Facebook addict, Harry Potter fan, and lover of salsa dancing. I love kids, people, pizza, pancakes, pink and the smell of busy summer air in the heart of noisy Belgrade.

 

The Drop

 

          THE DROP. Time that is dribbling uncontrollably away. The second hand of the clock strikes monotonously, almost irritatingly. Granny sits on the couch in the kitchen holding the child on her lap. She glides her old fingers along the book of fairy tales. They laugh. Granny kisses his cheeks and embraces him. A tear sparkles in granny’s eyes and slides along that wrinkled face, disappearing into the boy’s hair.

          Outside in the park, a little boy tries to drink rain. He throws his head back, runs with his legs apart, not looking ahead or back. His eyes are closed while drops fall on his eyelids, on the top of his nose, on his lips, but not in his mouth. He keeps running, opens his eyes and wonders why men and women are carrying those large colourful mushrooms with handles. He closes his eyes again and keeps on at a steady pace. He spreads his arms and imitates a bird, waving in semi-circles, faster and faster. Drops are still hitting him, his hair is wet, but he doesn’t even feel it. He is happy. He doesn’t feel pain, fear or sadness. He’s not afraid of anything. He climbs an old, peeled, wooden bench in a park. He waves his hands again and he still can’t believe he can’t fly. He can’t outrun the drops. He jumps from the bench and falls in a puddle. The little puddle he fell in strikes his cheeks. Out of the blue, his mum is above him. Passers-by are laughing. He’s small and interesting. Being dirty is still cute. But he wants to grow up. Mum tells him off, trembling with fear, because he could’ve hurt himself. She says he shouldn’t have done that. While he’s learning his first lesson, he’s angry because he couldn’t be big, bold and skillful. Suddenly, he isn’t happy any more. He doesn’t understand why he can’t be the pilot of his time.

          The tap is constantly dripping in the bathroom. A couple of drops fall on the floor. A young man runs around and slips. Panic shows on his face. He’s dissatisfied with his hairstyle and he’s already late for his date. He’s put on too much gel and his hair appears greasy. He tries to fix it by pouring handfuls of water on his head. It doesn’t work.

          A painter’s studio. There’s no room to swing a cat in it. The floor is dirty with paint. Empty palettes are scattered in the corners. Wooden tables are stacked with old long play tapes and books on the history of art. One huge wall is used up for his latest works which haven’t dried up yet. The dreary day with grey sky can be seen through his roof window. The light isn’t too bright while he’s painting. His face is spotted and flushed. A drop of colour drips from his brush on a painted face. Read more...

Nathan William Meyer
A Trans-European Issue
Jovana Ivetić
Nathan William Meyer
Loyalty
Katarina Šotić
Nathan William Meyer
22/02/2011
Anica Marković
Nathan William Meyer
switch
Nevena Todorović

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