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August Ice (2nd Edition) by Dev Bentham

By Dev Bentham

It takes a unique form of individual to paintings in Antarctica. Max Conway, an ex-Navy Seal, loves operating on the backside of the area. like all different diver, he's difficult and difficult consuming. part the yr he's caught within the States touring the economic dive circuit and hitting homosexual bars each evening. the opposite six months he's lead protection diver at McMurdo Station in Antarctica, reveling within the chilly blue Antarctic Sea. the single hindrance to existence method down below is that Max appears like he has to tuck his libido into garage whereas he's on station, stashing all these loose condoms to be used again up north. that's till Andre Dubois, a stunning French scientist, shakes up his global. not just is Andre out and proud, he's sober because the day is lengthy. And the times are lengthy in the course of an Antarctic summer time. Max needs to choose from his cozy drunk closet and a lifestyles within the sunlight with Andre.

This is a rerelease of a narrative formerly released through free identity in 2012.

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Extra resources for August Ice (2nd Edition)

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Wild boar steamed in myrtle leaves. {20 Someone having a birthday, ‘‘Tanti auguri a te,’’ the words rising in the piazza— And suddenly the light, that light. The sanctuary with its silver offering bowls, the lepers singing. Here are the goblets filled with wine. The smell of sunlight fading from the stones. Quietness that’s solitude but not isolation. And the windows lit with displays of red corals from just off the coast said to be the blood that streamed from Medusa’s severed neck when Perseus laid her head beside the sea.

I answer: Radiance will change its name. In the heat I squirm and shrug out of my summer suit and breathless split into a cotton dress. It is almost evening. There are fireflies. On the lawn of my childhood house, an operating table, doctors, a patient under a sheet. I walk up. Under the webbing of IVs, a surgeon hands me a silver comb and I start brushing the patient’s hair like I did my mother’s when I was a girl. The nurse lifts the sheet. It isn’t my mother. It’s the monkey. I bend my ear to its dying lips and it says: You haven’t much time— risk it all.

This is what I realized that night in that divided city. After playing the wretched hostel piano, I wrote: Dear N, I want to cut off my hair and tie it into brushes so I can paint the city of Belfast in its true humanity. All day long I passed an artist’s studio where the clay arms and hands of women were displayed in the window. Small hands to hold such a city. Love, K {24 grandfather outside There are sadnesses which cast in one’s soul the shadows of monasteries. —E. M. Cioran We arrived too late for the sundial.

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