Short stories, Amazon 2015.

Buy now: Stories. For reading. And retelling. by Ana Gord

These four short stories (for reading and retelling) speak about love, or to be more exact, about passion, jealousy, insecurity and all other supporting content of love. Since love is the feeling we all feel (but cannot explain), stories often deal with the subject how to explain love and what is good and what is bad in love (if there is anything bad); and what really happens before and after these well-known feelings?

Stories. For reading. And retelling. by Ana Gord are stories which could easily ruin your life. So all of you who will read these (terribly short but incredibly important) stories, you better watch out. It happens over night, you start to read during lunchtime or maybe even before sleep, and before you know what hit you and where, the stories had already got into your head and ransacked everything. Love stories. But uncooperative.

Worst of all is that all this is happening whether you like it or not. A shameless beauty of storytelling will wave their naked limbs in front of your face, making it all familiar seem unfamiliar (and vice versa). And then all stories together will gently instill themselves as cuddly cats somewhere in the stomach area and climb for no reason to your head or worse, descend somewhere where they really have no place to be, just for a laugh. Totally unusual stories.

Tastes, of course, vary. For someone they will be unbearable and vague, and for some they will stick like chewing gum in their hair so they will look for ways to get rid of them. Someone will learn them by heart. Someone will understand them. Someone has already experienced them. Anyway, Ana loves her readers so she often takes them with her to show how it all looks from the heart and soul and deeper; and the fact that you will bring some new stuff inside especially tickles her and makes her happy. Because in any case, you will definitely feel something.

So enjoy in these stories! And be sure to retell them after reading.

Order short stories through my contact page or find Stories on Amazon now – and rate them 5 stars 😉

About Ana Gord

Ana Gord is a Serbian writer and blogger born in Belgrade. I mastered at the department of General Literature and Theory of Literature at the Faculty of Philology in Belgrade, Serbia (if anybody cares). I love to write, enjoy blogging and take great pleasure in traveling and sports. I’ve published 5 book altogether: 2 e-books Stories. For reading. And retelling. and Backwash on iTunes and Amazon, 3 free books on my blog and I am currently working on my next novel. If you’re curious to know more about my work, you can read some of my prose under the category My Works or look me up on Amazon (by buying one of my books, you are supporting me and my work, thanks).

Buy now: Stories. For reading. And retelling. by Ana Gord

An excerpt

I am the summer

(Santorini (also known as Thira) is a volcanic, ring shaped Greek island located in the Aegean Sea. Its most famous parts (towns) are Oia and Fira. Due to the volcanic origin of the island there is a caldera (cliff or edge that is formed by the collapse of the volcano) and sand on the island is black in colour. It is one of the most visited tourist places in Greece, mostly well known for its incredible sunsets.)

Ira was walking along the steel blue stone way, smooth and slippery, with some unexpected steps. The sun has just set, and the slobbery sky had spread out to melt with the color of the night. She saw the last moments of sunset, staring motionless at the sun, which until then had been lazy setting down, when all of a sudden it started diving down into the sea and disappearing inside of it, faster and faster, wanting to drown. The last day on Santorini was chafing her her, so she walked alone. She was strolling along the streets to feel petra underneath her, as they called a stone in Greek, and to escape from her own body if she can, because her thoughts were exhausting her.

Ops! She slipped and almost fell down on an invisible step, when some obviously gay man held her and asked with a long stretch: “Are you okaaay, miss?” Ira just shook her head and continued on. Someone else’s hand on her forearm bothered her. With restless thoughts, she didn’t know where to go. On her back, right between her neck and shoulder, a males’ teeth bite was burning. For two days. She touched that place with tips of her fingers and blew air through her nose.

She stood at the edge of the caldera. At the bottom of the slope, she saw yachts and cruise ships that looked at Oia. On decks, glasses were tingling, in kitchen forks were jingling, fruit syrups were poured over and dropped on cakes and cream decorated with loud pshhhhh. Hands than took out the tarts, rushingly while the saloon door were still swinging, on tablecloth whiter then the powder that washed them, and some other hands stained with spots stabbed spoons into that perfect dessert, spoiling its shape and gently pushing it into the creased mouth. Mmmmm was heard, following other sounds, and Ira felt the smell of the restaurant, frozen strawberries and aprons that passed around the corner to bring something new for the hungry eyes. Why, she thought.


In stillness of the island, twilight has stolen remains of the light and she tried to distinguish where the volcano is. Magical Santorini with its sunsets, unreal look of imaginary paradise, energy that spreads and turns into matter feeding her spirit with black sand and abyss of depth, shook her brain. After two weeks on the island, she just wanted the rest of the world to disappear without a trace, and she tried to erase it and didn’t look at it, firmly clutching her teeth (and that was making small wrinkles around her mouth). She was free and alone. She was – happy, right there and then.

Because, almost every night, mermaids with their silver hairs sat on the shore and made braids. You could hear silver murmur of their voices, and under silver pebbles silver flowers were hidden, that silver birds took and put down into their laps… In meantime, silver sand squeaked between their stomachs, and in silver dark they were kissing and lying down (together), blending smiles and hands…

During the day always, on beaches that were surrounded by rocks of different colors, she would swim to the sun and search for it on the bottom of the water. When she opened her eyes beneath the surface, the rays of light guided her where to go, showing that apart from the sun, sea and her, there is nothing. And above waves, in shallow water where she sat without a tail full of scales, silver with million pink-yellow-purple shades that light determines, there was everything. She was that everything. Sky and the hand full of wet sand. And nothing. Smaller than that smallest volcano black grain of sand, she was just a contour on the bottom of the bottomless sea.


Ira didn’t understand.

Gripping her head with both hands, she shook her hair to get to her senses, and not to think. But it didn’t work. He also ran fingers through her hair, but only softer, slower, quieter. She felt her cheeks underneath his fingers, and closed eyelids, lightly touched by lips. Before he put them down on hers for the first time, he reminded her that he’s a smoker, and then she was covered with his smooth kisses, like she was made from glass, and not from petra, gray and still.

Every light is lit and each buzzing add flickers, everything walks around her in narrow passages while she is sill standing and staring at the black sea, on the edge of the caldera. “Today is Wednesday”, she thought. “Or Thursday?”, and the fact whether is it Wednesday or Thursday lost its meaning a long time ago. Ira destroyed herself on the island completely, then she was reconstructed and recycled, raised from the ashes and built from the grounds; there was one new self that was all that she is not and that was all she is. For the sake of a very blistering moment that always burns after, Ira accepted herself that way.

It was somehow difficult for him to pronounce her name. From two languages, they were talking in third, on the way losing on the weight of the words. For about 200 to 300 grams with small letters and spaces. Her name is like Santorini, saint Irina, like old Thira, or Thera in old Greek. What was so difficult there? Besides, there was no need to pronounce her name. When he would say: “Hey you girl, with beautiful hands”, she would know he’s calling for her. The tamed animal would crawl out of her slowly then, eager for cuddling and attention and she would put his palms on herself, to touch her and awake that other animal, a more dangerous beast that lay shriveled in the gloom. Hidden and dirty and hairy, one that howls only in deep nights and endless depths, that has no brains, roaring because it’s tied up in chains with bloody scars around its neck, with hair fallen from being tied up too hard. Ira would set it free then, to bite and sting, to put claws into another’s neck, letting him control it, and calling it on third language, but not rejecting her own and sighing it with a moan; she would let him do everything to her – giving and taking – to the bone gnawing what he threw at her.

In the morning, in somebody else’s mirror, Ira couldn’t recognise herself. Some girl with dark skin and lips brighter than her complexion, nacreous pink like a shell, hair shaded with sun, was confusingly looking at her with eyes that changed color. Horrified by her needs, she didn’t know who she was. But, she was everyone. The beast and the endearing, she was that every anyone and no one – she was becoming everyone she was hoping for and nobody lost in waves. Drowned person. Naked, castaway, burned skin with one strong mark on her back, somewhere on the crossing between the neck and the shoulder, at the right.

She knew how to recognise him, to grope him exactly in middle of the night and in the darkest dark. His hair was fair, but rough to touch, as if it’s always full of salt. His lips scented like Greek sweet wine, with heavy honey-flavor, gold and bitter. Ira was trying desperately to remember every shape of every muscle, every curve and line, every second. How he tickled her pretending he’s a small dog, pushing his wet snout into her neck and stomach. How he said: “I never lose anything”. And picked her up with palms, like he gathers water in his hands, quickly throwing her to his chest and rubbing himself, enjoying in her warmth.

And then he would – leave.


That is what Ira couldn’t understand.

Buy now: Stories. For reading. And retelling. by Ana Gord

On other books in Serbian, check out this blog under My work category.



If you're too tired to go out tonight, just think how you'll feel at seventy two!


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