Many thanks to LatinosUSA —English edition for featuring my short story, "The Great One"!
Thank you!
The Great 0ne (short story) – by Bogdan Dragos
writing for the rest of his life
he declared himself insane
before the world
and the world did worse
than not to
believe or ridicule him
The world
ignored him
He was an old writer
with a body
rotting from the inside
A cancer in his lungs, right
around the heart
Effort made him faint
Oftentimes the effort of sitting
on the toilet and pushing
But when he wasn't on the
toilet he
was at his desk
writing
And smoking. There was
a candle on the corner of his desk
always burning
The rule was that for every
seven minutes spent
not writing he'd hold his hand
above the flame for
seven seconds
His hands looked like decomposing
carcasses of mole-rats
but they could
still hold
the pen
He would go on writing
for the rest of
his life
all seven
hours of it
Thank you!
answering the call
he downs the second bottle
of wine
and then curses the
beer for not
tasting as good
the rectangular desk before
him looks round
now
and his chair grows wheels
all the insects in the
apartment
crawl under the
clock on the wall
and spin the hands
backwards
lots of things are happening
but the
story before him doesn’t
write itself
The paper is still pale
the pen
still frozen
The next word will never come
out
let alone the next line
He leans back
and the demon calls from
the other side of the window
and tells him
to hurry up
“That’s not how
writing works,” he whispers back
But he doesn’t
know how
it works anymore
So he just stands
and walks to
the window
opens it
and answers
the call
Also check out some of my poetry books on Amazon --> HERE!
Thank you!
these walls
at times I think these walls
are laughing at me
Hey, look
here's a boy who has no problem spending
twelve hours all alone in a room
with no human interaction whatsoever
Oh, look
he even enjoys it
he wouldn't have it any other way
Goddammit, we're an office here
but if we were a jail...
I think he'll be the kind of prisoner
who throws his bucket of slops in the
guard's face when the guard comes to
free him from solitary confinement,
you know, so he can spend more time
in solitary confinement.
You're right. I wish we formed a jail here
instead of an office
and look upon this boy
Yeah, I hear you, bro
I always wanted to be a prison wall
Ever since I was built
That's an entertained wall
one who forms a prison
there's really something to see there
I wish I was a bedroom wall
D' you think the walls that form his bedroom
are entertained? Better than us from the office?
This guy? You kidding?
He probably does in bedroom the same
thing he's doing here in the office
Just sitting there,
an absolute silence about him
How can he be so content about it?
Perhaps he doesn't know any better
You know what I'd like?
To be a wall of his mind.
Hehe, that we are already, brother.
Also check out some of my poetry books on Amazon --> HERE!
Thank you!
only his insanity
the last time he went out of
his mind he liked it
so much there
that he never came back
not even after the
alcohol left
his blood
he keeps writing to this day
addresses women with ‘sweangel’
a combination of sweet
and angel, I guess
but never spends more
than a matter of weeks
with any of them
some take pity on him
and some morbid curiosity
but no one loves him
truly
only his insanity
around the smokey hole
You can still be good
at what you do
without liking
what you do
It’s more common than
you’d imagine
The words reflected his face
in the steamy bathroom mirror
He watched
until he felt cold in his
nakedness
and shivered
reached for the towel
wiped
got out of the bathroom
put on clothes
and returned to his writing
desk
The blank page was ugly
unlike the somewhat encouraging
words on the steamy mirror
He reached into the drawer
pulled out the pen
stuck it into his mouth
clicked it
Reached again into the drawer
pulled out the gun
pointed it at the blank page
fired
He wrote for the remainder of
the day and the next
night around the smokey hole
It was finally
beautiful
(▔▀ ‿ ▀ )ლ ▂▂⌇
Check out my new book filled with dark poetry -- REALITY CHECK
peace was never an option
there have been
too many fights lately
she was a
musician
and she put it as,
“Darling, we need to change
the tune.”
He was a
writer
and he shot her
and then himself
( ＾◡＾)っ ♡ MY SOCIALS!
you okay with this?
“You can’t use cuss
words on
social media,” she informs
me
and I tell her
that I know
already
I found it
the hard way
they took down my
posts for
profane language
I thought
they were just words
on a digital paper
I never cursed nobody
The words were never
addressed to anyone
or anything
They were only the
words of
characters in my writings
It’s fiction
isn’t it?
Are you okay living in
a world
where literary fiction is
banned because
it uses bad language?
What the
fuck?
( ＾◡＾)っ ♡ SOCIALS!
Daydreaming as a profession 