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.”
one more scroll with the thumb on the screen reveals an ad with a message that reads YOUR DREAM COMING TRUE
He immediately skips it
but the mind dwells on it a bit longer
Dream come true?
People should stop associating the achievement of dreams with happiness
It’s rarely, if ever, the same thing
He repeats this to himself and feels like some philosopher or something as he lies in bed and takes his eyes from the phone screen to look across the room at the desk where his girlfriend plays some stupid video game on the PC
She’s got headphones on and the mic activated
She’s got it all
Spiky green hair, gothic makeup, piercings in ears, nose, lips, tongue, brow, navel, nipples, socks with cat paws at the feet, a six-pack of white Monster by her side
and of course attitude
“Aaah! I really, really hope your first child fucking dies!” she screams at the top of her lungs into the mic. Obviously addressing some player in her game. “Yeah! You heard me! I hope your child fucking dies and you bury it so I could go and dig it the fuck up. Yeah! I’d bring it home and shit down its sorry little throat and then inject my piss into its little dick hole with a syringe. And then I’d put a fucking iron rod through its anus and see it come out through the mouth and roast it like a fucking rotisserie chicken with a flame torch, and then film myself while I fucking eat it! I’d send you clips every day, fucker! Every fucking day! You hear me!?”
Yep, that attitude…
“Achieving your dreams does not necessarily bring happiness,” he says aloud from the bed but she doesn’t hear him
“It looks like… A flower dog,” he said, looking at it with ever growing fascination
He didn’t know what a ‘flower dog’ was but those were the first words that came to mind as he beheld the thing
Others would’ve had different words for it
like roadkill
He hit it with the car this night and stopped to pick it up and took it home
talking to it along the way
He didn’t know what kind of animal it was
only that it was dead now
“I never was smart when it came to labeling things,” he said to the flower dog now lying on a square coffee table that was turned upside down to better contain all its scattered bits and pieces
There was a surprisingly small amount of blood though
and a surprisingly large amount of bone shards
“You are very weird, my little friend. And I do not know how you came to be. I don’t know a lot of things. But I will tell you that if God ever created a flower dog you’re it, hehe.”
in the darkness the flower dog looked up at him with bloodshot eyes that spoke of understanding and even compassion
after all it was in the presence of someone equally hard to understand by the world
I mean, the guy was way too rich and privileged to have missing teeth
yet his mouth opened like some rusty dungeon gate
Every time they tried to fix his teeth he’d break them again
intentionally
with the claw of a hammer or with a rock when a hammer wasn’t available
What a lad
He kept all those rotten vegetables and fruits and meats under his bed and in drawers just to feel the smell of death about him
Death was everything to him
His god
His world
So it’s small wonder that he eventually met his idol or rather gave himself to it
at age 22 he weighed no more than a 12 year old but had the wisdom of a 62 year old who’d made it in life
and that’s apparently where the problem lies
when the mind knows too much about too many things it grows interested only in the supreme thing
Death
and eventually the body follows
“Dying in a dream is always followed by waking up,” he used to say. “For the mind doesn’t know what to render in the dream afterwards and crashes. The dream ends. Whether it’s a dream or a nightmare. Death is the way out.”
He got out, alright.
First out the window and then
as his body hit the pavement below
out of this dream
In this moment he is all over the place
in my writings first and in the reader’s mind second
But it should be fine since I did not share his name, right?
and in just a few very short years he became the inspiration and the motivation for all things associated with late blooming
He sure proved to the world that it’s never too late for dreams
“But what made you start?” I once asked him
and he said, “a fingernail.”
Clearly he wanted me to ask, ‘A fingernail!? Oh my God, what in heavens do you actually mean by that, sir?’
but I kept silent
just watched him
and then he went on
“Yeah. One day at the age of fifty-three I just found this broken fingernail lying on the floor of my bedroom. I’ve never even spoken to a woman in well over ten years, let alone inviting one over. Hahah! So you can imagine my shock as I observed that broken fingernail just lying around on the floor. Fear was obviously the first, most primal feeling that inundated my soul. And I was right to fear. For I was indeed stalked and about to be possessed. And that, my friend, is how I met my muse. It wasn’t some apparition coming and looking for her broken fingernail. No. It was all my fear and morbid curiosity that brought her into my life, summoned her if you will. The mind conjured her up and as I started writing about her, about the event of finding that fingernail on my bedroom floor, our relationship caught outlines. But one thing I do know and that is that it’s different for every writer. Your muse might not come to you in the form mine did, but don’t give up. Keep looking, my friend. And one day, one night, you might just be surprised by what you’ll find.”
I thanked him for the advice and went home and got drunk
“You wanna write about it sometime?” she asked
“Sometime,” I said. “Sure. But not today. Today let’s just get drunk and feel shit and sit in silence.”
Daydreaming as a profession 