He jumped off the building and the metallic wings carried him high towards the clouds where others like him swam in absolute bliss but then something hit his head and he woke up turned around in bed and realized there was blood trickling from his eyebrow The girl besides him was holding a stapler in […]
sometimes I think I’m just too good for you by Bogdan Dragos
a dead body in the room
there was a dead body in the room Had to be Else where did the smell come from? Every time he’d turn around to catch a ghost or a zombie from the corner of his eyes the smell would slap him A smell of death He decided he’d look around for the dead body but later He didn’t have the energy now or the disposition or anything He only wanted to sleep some more He just woke up and needed a good nap to recover Perhaps there were times when it didn’t make sense but now, today, nothing made more sense that this All you need is a healthy dose of chronic depression and it makes sense Just like not cleaning the room and not taking a shower in a time longer than memory can be bothered to remember So he paced back to the bed and climbed in and dragged the blanket, heavy with caked dirt, on his body and closed his eyes He fell asleep in spite of the smell of death coming closer still The dreams were always a little bit better in the nap taken after waking up from the night’s sleep One time he even dreamed he was a published author. Not a great or even a good one, but published
childhood’s villain
Father used his fists a lot Though never on the kids On the walls and the furniture and the doors and the mailbox and the fence and the neighbors and random people on the street and strangers in the bar and a few times the poor dog and one time on mother He was the childhood’s villain To defeat him one had to become a hero and becoming a hero took time And today after all this time the villain of childhood was dead He died at the hands of some other character, a neutral one A cop who told him to drop to the ground and father didn’t so he got shot That was it The end of his saga Utterly unsatisfactory anticlimactic disappointing just bad There was no final showdown between hero and villain because those things only happen in childhood and childhood had ended a long time ago
open casket funeral by Bogdan Dragos
what would be the reason to have an open casket funeral? Why should the living see the dead? He addressed the questions to no one in particular but his dead wife answered from the picture on the wall "Don't you wanna see me, darling?" "Not like that, I don't," he said. "That's why I have your portrait. So I don't have to look at your dead body in the casket. But your mom wouldn't understand..." "Darling, I think you're the one who doesn't understand. And I think it's time we talk about your therapist." "What about my therapist?" "You tell me. You tell me why did she have to tell you that she's single now and looking to settle. I thought she was supposed to help you cope with the premature death of your wife, not tell you her problems." "Dear, please..." "And one more thing. I don't like the…
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rice and walnuts
“I fucking hate rice,” she told me. “And I’m beginning to kinda hate you for loving it.” “Shit,” I said, “what did rice ever do to you?” She opened her purse took out the pack of smokes and fished one out with her lips. “Fuck,” she said, looking for the lighter. “I think I still have the pits in my knees…” “What?” She shrugged. “I was a little girl, alright, and whenever I did something that my dear grandma considered naughty she’d pour raw rice in a corner of the room and make me kneel on it and just stand like that for… I don’t know, hours.” “Really?” “Really!” She blew the smoke in my face. “To this day, bitch still wonders how I could steal her savings from the pension. I didn’t even need the money. I just hated her guts is all. And now I hate rice. And you.” “Well,” I said. “I never stole from my grandma. And to this day I don’t hate walnuts.” “What?” “Yeah, that was my version of the punishment. I knelt on shells of walnuts just like you with the rice. And I don’t hate ’em.” She blew more smoke in my face
how can you be such a monster? by Bogdan Dragos
he spent four weeks away from his family in a rented apartment somewhere on the outskirts of town he told them that he needed this he was a writer needed to focus on his work conducting his research undistracted his little girl would call from time to time asking daddy to hold his phone against his forehead while she made a kissing sound on the other line very wholesome except he lied about holding the phone against his forehead “How can you be such a monster?” asked the naked prostitute sitting on the edge of his bed “Shut up,” he said tossed his phone on the desk and unbuckled
too late is too late
Wherever you hear about a drinking problem you expect the man to be violent and vulgar and turn abusive and destructive well it wasn’t the case with him There was a drinking problem there for sure but all it cursed him with was sleep and sometimes verses He’d start writing after drinking But he was a kind man and a great lover and his wife had a hard time convincing her family and friends and neighbors that a man who has a separate trashcan only for bottles and beer cans is not a man who strikes his wife, not even with words Well, none of them read his poetry and by the time he died of cirrhosis it was too late You can’t scold a dead man for having written thousands upon thousands of pages of splatter-punk gore and abuse fantasies involving his wife her family her friends neighbors and everyone he knew, including minors
more than enough to explain by Bogdan Dragos
there was nothing to explain here the man’s wife told them everything they needed to know Her husband wrote poetry Yes, that would be enough to explain why he cut off his penis and tried to use it as a pen before collapsing on the desk, blood pooling at his feet below Being a poet was more than enough explanation for what he did She didn’t need to tell the paramedics that her husband had been looking for inspiration “He’s a poet,” was more than enough They understood
Two Bullets
By Bogdan Dragos
she came out of the bathroom with
the pink towel wrapped
around her and found
him sprawled on the bed
very thoughtful
He held in his right hand
two bullets
that he constantly rubbed against each
other with a kind
of obsession
She jokingly said, “So, one for me
and one for you?”
“No,” he said. “One for everyone else in
the world but you and I.”
“Haha, nice,” she said. “Anyway, why do you
always carry those bullets
around?”
“Eh, no particular reason,” he lied
The bullets carried all the
reasons in the world. He
carried them in his pocket ever since seventh
grade when he was mere
steps away from using them on his
bullies
But then
one day
she just showed up and was nice
to him
and the depression became a little less heavy,
just enough to be carried through
the years of…
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The great one by Bogdan Dragos
His name was always linked to the term elusive and he was universally acknowledged as a brilliant writer and an enchanted poet. And the day came when his little apartment reeked of rotting flesh and the authorities had to break his door down.
There was no family to inform but the whole country was now his family and there would be no problem regarding the burial. Oh, he would go with a ceremony that was bound to become national event. But luckily for the authorities the media didn’t smell the rotting yet. The four cleaners who sealed the apartment and entered to perform the expertise called themselves big and biggest fans of the great, late writer.
“Can you believe this?” one of them said. “We’re alone here with, dare I say it, unpublished manuscripts of The Great One. Oooh, I’m tingling just thinking about it.”
“God, look at this room…
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Daydreaming as a profession 