Ellis Shuman's Blog, page 2

"I was enchanted by the stories"

Rakiya - Stories of Bulgaria by Ellis Shuman isa collection of cultural short stories set in Bulgaria. In these short storieswe follow such characters as pickpocketing Roma, a WWII veteran, refugees,authors, makers of rakiya, and hunters - all while learning about the richhistory of the area.

As someone who knows little about the Bulgarian culture or the history, I wasenchanted 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 atrip to Bulgaria might be in order!

As an author, I was fascinated with how the author weaved these tales into acohesive whole - and loved how a character from one story would inevitably endup in another. Despite being a series of short stories, it reads far more likea novel, with Bulgaria as the main character. It's a great read.

Review by Teri M. Brown

Sips and Stories: A Journey Through Bulgaria’s Rich Culture

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.

The full article and the podcast episode are on the Online for Authors website.

"Quills in the Dark" - non-fiction

I sensed it before Maxdid. A rustling in the bushes. A snap of a twig. A muffled crackling sound. Maxlifted his head, assumed his full-alert, ready-to-attack mode, and strained athis 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 ascatter 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 jobin Tel Aviv. Max had already done his ‘business’ and we were on the returnjourney, back to the streetlights of civilization leading to my home in oursmall 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-sizemixed-breed dog. We see porcupines nearly every morning. Add that to thejackals and wild boars we meet from time to time, a bounty of wildlife in theforested hills near my home rarely seen in daylight. I may be crazy for walkingmy dog in the pitch-black hours, but these unexpected encounters in naturefascinate me. And they thrill Max as well.

I know to stay clear of porcupines; they can attack when threatened. Severalmonths ago, a man in northern Israel nearly lost his life after being stabbedin his arms and legs with 41 quills. Porcupines are Israel’s largest rodent anduse their quills in defense. They don’t actually shoot them, I’ve learned, butit’s best to stay as far away as possible.

There’s another reason the presence of porcupines irks me. I recently planted asmall vegetable patch in my backyard, and had already harvested cucumbers, withtomatoes soon to follow. At summer’s end, I was excited to plant my firstlettuce seedlings, but overnight, they were eaten down to their tiny stems.Basel and flowers also lost their leaves, and I assumed nocturnal porcupineswere the culprits responsible for the damage.

Today’s porcupine ran off into the brush, sending Max into a frenzy of barkingas I tightened my grip on his leash. Before I knew it, the creature hadvanished into the dense thicket of hillside undergrowth as if it had neverbeen. Max and I continued our walk, with him sniffing for traces of theanimal’s scent and occasionally lifting his leg to mark his territory.

More rustling near the path. This time Max saw the porcupine before me. Hestruggled to break loose from his leash, to run down the creature just as hechases the stray cats on our street. Within seconds, it was gone, following thetrail of its partner. Max calmed down, and we headed for home.

Twenty minutes later, I finished my breakfast and filled Max’s water bowl. Hehad enough food to get through the day, and I patted his head before lockingthe front door behind me. My wife would care for him until I returned fromwork, 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. Iadjusted the mirror and began to pull out of my parking spot when a dash ofmovement caught my eye.

A lone porcupine darted in front of the car, disappearing into the bushes onthe far side of the street. Too bad I didn’t have my phone ready to snap apicture of the wayward animal. No worries. Max and I were bound to meet moreporcupines on our next pre-dawn walk.

Originally published in The Loch Raven Review.

"Things That Start With Butter" - short story

“Buttermilk.”

“Butterfly.”

“Butternut.”

“Bread and butter!”

“But that’s butter atthe end.”

“What if I eat thebutter first?”

“How can you eat thebutter first on a piece of bread?”

“By licking it off!”

It’s a word game weplay, one of the many ways I keep Kira occupied when her mother is gone. I lovespending time with my granddaughter. She’s beautiful, and it’s not just me whosays that. Kira has a keen mind and is wise beyond her seven years. She’s a lotof fun!

“Buttercup.”

“Butterlicious!”

“Now you’re makingwords up.”

“Grandma, you do thattoo, sometimes.”

“I would never…”

“What about that timeyou tried to convince me that Ant Warp was a place.”

“Antwerp! It’s a cityin Belgium.”

“Have you been toBelgium?”

“No.”

“So, how can you knowfor sure?”

I laugh, push up theblonde bangs from her forehead. Her face is so pretty. Brown eyes and thinlips. Dimples you could die for. She gets them from her mom.

“When’s she comingback?”

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 anerrand,” I say, stroking her shoulder. “You’re the reason she runs hererrands.”

“Do you think she’llbuy me that magical unicorn?”

“It’s not yourbirthday yet. That’s in two months.”

“Two months is a longtime.”

“It’ll be here beforeyou know it.”

“We’ve been here along time. When can we go home?”

My phone rings, a loudring. 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 gettingimpatient.”

“Why don’t you playone of those word games with her?”

“That’s what we’vebeen doing.”

“Is that Mommy? Let metalk to her!”

I hand Kira my phone,lean back in my chair and smile. My lovely granddaughter. Kira talks with hermother, an exaggerated pleading for her to finish her errands and come back assoon as possible. The conversation ends and Kira returns the phone.

“She said she’ll buyme a Snickers bar.”

“Okay. So, what do youwant to play next?”

“I don’t want to play.I want to go home.”

“I know,” I say. Ican’t promise her that, or anything, for that matter. I look up at the infusionbag, making sure the drip continues at its slow, steady pace. “As soon as thedoctors say you can go home…” I don’t finish the sentence.

“Oof! Always thedoctors!”

She looks sour for aminute, eases back on her hospital bed, as if she’s trying to get as far awayfrom her disease as possible, but then her face lights up.

“Butterscotch!” sheannounces triumphantly, and we both giggle.

# # #

Originally published in Emerge Literary Journal.

 

Bulgarian First Day Cover

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.

"Last Rounds" - short story

When I invite my customers to ordertheir last drinks, several raise their fingers, sure I’ll remember what theypreviously ordered. One more beer, one more vodka. Another Gin & Tonic. Inthe darkened room, several night owls linger at their tables, heads low, engagedin whispered conversation. One man sits alone on a stool at the far end of thebar. He’s wearing a red plaid shirt and sports a thin gray goatee and wiseeyes. My age, maybe a few years younger. He's been sitting there for aboutthirty 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-nightcrowds?”

“It can get noisy,” I tell him,waiting patiently for his order.

“It must be difficult to handle allthis on your own,” the man notes.

“What can I get you?” I point at hisempty shot glass. “Another?”

“No, I’m fine. I’ll just sit herefor a while, if you don’t mind.”

“We’ll be closing soon.” I turn to attendto the other customers.

It’s not my bar, but I work so manyshifts, you’d think I owned the place. I’ve been working here since my collegedays. At first it was to finance my studies, but now it just helps pay thebills. The steady employment at nights leaves my days free to pursue my writingcareer. Freelance, mostly, but nothing steady. I make do on what I earn as abartender. Which is not all that much. Luckily, the tips are good.

We get all kinds at the bar. Thecollege gangs, loud and boisterous. The businessmen, drinking away thepressures of their dead-end jobs. Couples on romantic interludes. Men andwomen. Men trying to pick up women. Men and men. Women and women. Divorcees,deadbeats. All kinds.

Everyone’s welcome—that’s what thesign in our window says.

They share their frustrations, theirtroubles, 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. Afterspilling 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 outof the ordinary. The early hours were busy with beer and wine orders. Fancycocktails and spritzers. Whisky—on the rocks or straight. Casual drinking atfirst, followed by more serious alcohol consumption. Nothing I can’t handle,especially with Melanie at my side.

Melanie’s a good worker. She servesthe 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-encouragingsmile.

“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, completelytrustworthy, and the customers appreciate you.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” shesays, dismissing my compliments with a wink of her eye.

Melanie’s good looking, and I’mattracted to her, but if I considered something more than our companionship inthe 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 guysogle me, reach for my ass, he’d go berserk. You don’t know what he’s capableof!”

Melanie and me—we’re coworkers. We'veshare tidbits about our personal lives, but nothing more. Still, I’d doanything for her. We’re a team. An inseparable team.

An hour before closing, I sendMelanie home. She has a dentist appointment in the morning and I assure her I canhandle things on my own. Now, an hour later, I'm serving the night's finalorders.

“You been working here long? How’sthat going for you?”

It’s the single man, the one withthe gray goatee. He gazes at me while he fingers his empty shot glass. I had assumedhe’d already left.

“It’s okay.” There’s something abouthim, something that makes me suspicious, but I can’t determine what it is. “Isthere 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 mypart. “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’msatisfied working the night shift? That the pay is sufficient and the hoursconducive to my morning writing sessions?

“I guess you could say that,” I replyat last.

“It’s in a good neighborhood, Ithink. That’s why I bought the place down the street last week.”

“Frank’s?” I hadn’t known thatFrank’s bar was up for sale.

“Yeah, I got it cheap. Old man Frankwants to retire, head to Florida, I guess. He needed someone like me to takeover, to build it up. I think Frank’s has a lot of potential, probably morethan this place,” he says, indicating my bar with a dismissive wave of hishand. “No offense, of course, but a bit of competition never hurt. Two bars onthe same street. It might even attract more business; wouldn’t you say?”

I nod and continue to rinse off theglasses and put them into the dishwasher. I expect the man to be gone when Iturn around, but he’s still there, perched on his stool and staring at me.

“You're good at your job. I’ve seenhow 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 withexperience, 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 stepback, realizing I’d said these words aloud.

“I guess you didn’t expect to get ajob offer at this hour of the night. But, let me tell you, my offer’s real andI think you’ll manage Frank’s just fine.”

I look around, wondering if any ofthe 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 suspectthey’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 sittingat the counter.

“Listen, I don’t know who you are oranything about you.” I’m trying to sound diplomatic in my response. If hisoffer’s real, and there’s an opening at Frank’s with better pay and moreresponsibility, maybe it’d be something to consider. Do I have any loyalty tothis place? Despite the many years I've put in, not really. I never said I’dwork here forever. Changing jobs? Maybe, if the conditions are right.

Managing Frank’s, with moreresponsibility, will mean more hours, I tell myself. What about the mornings Idevote to freelance writing? If I had to spend more time at the bar overseeingthings, I wouldn’t have as much time for that. But on the other hand, if thepay at Frank’s is good, maybe I could give up most of the writing gigs.

“What sort of salary are we talkingabout?” I ask.

The man throws out a number, and it’ssignificantly higher than what I’m currently being paid. “And, of course, thereare tips,” he adds. “I see your customers here are very generous, so there’s nodoubt you’d make a pretty penny managing Frank’s. You’d share them with yourcoworkers, of course, but I’m sure there’d be enough to go around.”

My coworkers! Melanie!

“I can’t imagine handling the nightshifts without you.” I had saidthose 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,” Itell the man. “But there is one thing,” I add.

“What’s that?”

I weigh my words, as I don’t want himto withdraw his offer. “If I would come work for you, you'd have to also hire mycoworker.”

“Your coworker?” he asks, raisinghis 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 unexpectedoffer? 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 reachesout to shake my hand. But then, he doesn’t. He sits back down.

Confused, I stop drying the beer mugI’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 canassure 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 whathe’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 awhile.”

“Are you buying Frank’s?”

“Of course not! Why would I buy thatplace when your bar here is doing such good business? Besides, I don’t have thefunds.”

“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 continueworking with you. I should be going. I don’t want to get back too late and wakeher. She’s got a dentist appointment in the morning.”

Gus walks out. All the othercustomers have already left and I’m alone in the bar, still confused by whatjust 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 glasseson the shelf, wipe off the counter, and hang up my apron. I shut the lights andlock the door. Time to go home and get some sleep. I have that writingassignment I need to finish.

# # #

Originally published in POSTBOX, Scotland's International Short Story Magazine.

Photo by Louis Hansel on Unsplash

37th Place in the Tel Aviv Marathon!

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

Podcast appearance on Book Lover's Companion

"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.

"Last Rounds" Published in POSTBOX

My story "Last Rounds" has been published in POSTBOX - Scotland's International Short Story Magazine.

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.
Read the full story and purchase the magazine here: https://www.redsquirrelpress.com/product-page/issue-10-autumn-2024-postbox-magazine

Rakiya review - Kat Loves Books

Rakiya: Stories of Bulgaria by Ellis Shuman is an anthology of short stories about…you guessed it – Bulgaria. As with any anthology, I will review each short story on it’s own.

Rakiya… The spring competition of who makes the best Rakiya – an alcoholic beverage. This was okay, a story of friendship.  3 stars

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

Overall, these stories are of a country of which I knew very little (as mentioned by the author), and he has, indeed, broadened my knowledge.  The countryside sounds wonderful, and the people diverse.  The author has incorporated attributes of human nature into these stories that are not necessarily unique to Bulgarians, but in a setting that is.  He writes very well, and the stories are entertaining, if often sad.
Read the full review of all of the stories on Kat Loves Books.