Every time someone wronged her with something she’d be as quick to forgive as a child
It was nice working with her
Though she was also one of those people who were a bit too good for their own good
Hence she never got a raise in over five years
they just knew she wouldn’t mind. She’d just forgive and move on
It was exactly so
At the end of the shift she went back to her one room apartment and stared at the blank wall and smiled
Life was still so much better now than back then when the CPS found her locked in the dog cage and took her away from a mother and father that didn’t even care that much
“Forgiveness,” she says, “is what turns the human into a god. If you can do that then you can do anything.”
I think she’s right
that’s why I always leave a big tip at the coffee shop
One day I’ll muster up the courage to ask her to be my muse
I just know she’ll answer with, “Darling, I already am.”
nobody knew what it was because nobody could pry it off his hands to have a look
Eh, whatever
it was just a book
Other crazed men held on to dangerous objects like knives and screwdrivers and shards of glass wrapped in a cloth and a padlock in a sock ever ready to become a flail when swung right
But he just held on to that book with gray hard covers and like some evangelist went through the apartment buildings from door to door knocking and asking the residents if they’ve seen her
‘Who the hell was he talking about?’ they’d ask
and this question made him leave and go to the next door
One time some kid opened up and probably thought he was talking about his mother, for he answered, “She’s at work.”
And without another word the crazy fool just barged in, passing by the kid and went straight into the living room where he seated himself on the sofa and opened the book ready to talk to the kid about her
Only, the kid ran out and asked for help
Cops were called and they took him to the station
someone there figured that the guy simply couldn’t tell reality apart from fiction
“He’s talking about a character in that book he’s holding,” they said. “Thinks she’s a real person.”
“Yet another nut case. And what the hell’s the story about? What’s it titled? Who wrote it?”
Not without great effort and a sound beating, they managed to take the book away and have a look at it
It wasn’t even a book. Only the cover was. He ripped it and glued it to a thick notebook that was fully written by hand
“What the hell you call this?” said one of the cops.
“A manuscript,” said another.
“A what?”
“Our felon’s a writer. I’m sure you know what a writer is. Now, d’ you know what a pleonasm is?”
“Not the time for playin’ smartass, smartass. Just say what you mean already.”
“A prime example of pleonasm is labeling a writer as crazy.”
“Huh?”
“C’mon, just get on with the procedures. We gotta get this guy into a mental institution. He’s a writer, in case you still don’t get it.”
“Oh…”
They were 50% right
Should’ve added the word ‘unpublished’ before the word ‘writer’ and then the statement would’ve been complete and 100% true
“pleonasm” POEM by Bogdan Dragos he wouldn’t let go of that book nobody knew what it was because nobody could pry it off his hands to have a look Eh, whatever it was just a book Other crazed men held on to dangerous objects like knives and screwdrivers and shards of glass wrapped in a cloth and a padlock in a sock ever ready to become a flail when swung right But he just held on to that book with gray hard covers and like some evangelist went through the apartment buildings from door to door knocking and asking the residents if they’ve seen her ‘Who the hell was he talking about?’ they’d ask and this question made him leave and go to the next door One time some kid opened up and probably thought he was talking about his mother, for he answered, “She’s at work.” And without another word the crazy fool just barged in, passing by the kid and went straight into the living room where he seated himself on the sofa and opened the book ready to talk to the kid about her Only, the kid ran out and asked for help Cops were called and they took him to the station someone there figured that the guy simply couldn’t tell reality apart from fiction “He’s talking about a character in that book he’s holding,” they said. “Thinks she’s a real person.” “Yet another nut case. And what the hell’s the story about? What’s it titled? Who wrote it?” Not without great effort and a sound beating, they managed to take the book away and have a look at it It wasn’t even a book. Only the cover was. He ripped it and glued it to a thick notebook that was fully written by hand “What the hell you call this?” said one of the cops. “A manuscript,” said another. “A what?” “Our felon’s a writer. I’m sure you know what a writer is. Now, d’ you know what a pleonasm is?” “Not the time for playin’ smartass, smartass. Just say what you mean already.” “A prime example of pleonasm is labeling a writer as crazy.” “Huh?” “C’mon, just get on with the procedures. We gotta get this guy into a mental institution. He’s a writer, in case you still don’t get it.” “Oh…” They were 50% right Should’ve added the word ‘unpublished’ before the word ‘writer’ and then the statement would’ve been complete and 100% true
just a thin, colorless light filtered through the clouds
the sun just didn’t bother anymore
late autumn
It seemed nobody bothered too much
there were almost fifty people there
all gathered for the funeral
He lit a cigarette, not giving a damn what others might say or think, and dragged a long, lazy puff and said, “Still better than a wedding,” to no one in particular
A few did hear him but most didn’t
Weird thing to say at the funeral of one’s own child, but coming from him, it wasn’t that unheard of
“Just let him be,” said a few voices. “After all, he is… you know.”
“Yeah,” he said. “You’re goddamn right. I’m a writer.”
Daydreaming as a profession 