In the week following Christmases ago, an old timey preacher listened gravely, though not condemningly, to a young man as he confessed his love and determination to run off with a married woman in the congregation–after which–the tall grandfather clock in the far corner of the study seemed indignant and extra loud, as if it were counting down to the Day of Judgement instead of the new year.
In the thoughtful silence which ensued, the preacher removed his thick glasses, fogged the lenses with his breath, and wiped each slowly with a handkerchief–the one he always used to blot holy sermon sweat from his brow. Swiveling around in a squeaky chair, he reached for the paper tray situated beneath the HP printer he barely knew how to use and retrieved a clean sheet.
“Son, if you came here for my blessing, you certainly don’t have it. But…
he used to write those very intense works about human suffering and degeneracy and the corruption of good souls into evil criminals - Breaking Bad style He hated supranatural stuff in writing. Stayed away from it. “It’s just stupid,” he said. “There’s more than enough magic, both dark and light, into the human heart to keep a reader entertained. You don’t need to invent it, just report it.” And he did in every one of his twelve books but unfortunately not one of them got published He had two agents who saw something in some of his works and tried to sell them, but after numerous failures they both gave up and parted ways with him Apparently it just wasn’t meant to be “It’s the state of today’s world,” he said. “The large majority of people have been reduced to an infantilized status. This generation grows up only with the…
48 days without a word written maybe there weren’t exactly 48 but he liked to feel romantic about his writer’s block A good period of writer’s block is one that makes you write about what an incapable writer you are perhaps tomorrow, he thought as he came out of the bathroom and opened the bottle of red wine and poured himself a glass as he watched the snow falling outside Last day during a nap he dreamed that the snow reached all the way to the sixth floor where he lived and he saw his wife and two kids walking on top of it, stopping by his window to check on him It was a funny dream The wife and kids left during the summer that passed and never came back and he tried to make himself guilty for not missing them that much, but failed Now…
oh, how silly were all those idiots who entered the gas station and approached her cash register complaining about the rain outside 'Just because you think that the rain sucks doesn't make it a universal truth, asshole,' she would've told the last one if she could But as it was she just nodded and forced a lame smile and took the customer's money The gas station was alright most of the time. All that was not alright were the customers Nothing like being locked behind a counter and forced to smile and greet people while having to listen to their stories old ladies and families with kids and truckers and the occasional homeless who stumbles in drunk The worst of all were those who engaged in casual conversation That was the bane of her existence most of ‘em went like: "Nice ring you got there in your eyebrow, didn't it…
Bogdan Dragos supervises casinos for a gambling company, working twelve-hour shifts locked in a dark office full of TV monitors. There he mostly daydreams and writes poems and stories. He also manages…
Daydreaming as a profession 