Exiști în majoritatea timpului

>‿‿◕ English translation HERE!

MasticadoresRumanía Editora: Manuela Timofte

de Bogdan Dragoș

tu nu exiști când
ochii-mi sunt deschiși,
nu exiști când 
sângele nu-mi e otrăvit,
când sufletul mi-e împăciuit,
când stomacul mi-e plin
și când am companie

deci exiști în majoritatea
dragă muză

Imagine de Steve Bidmead de la Pixabay 

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Bogdan Dragoș – Interviu

( ^◡^)っ English version HERE!

MasticadoresRumanía Editora: Manuela Timofte

"Erau vremuri
în care ajungeam acasă,
îmi aruncam ghiozdanul într-un colț
al camerei,
Eram fericit
în acele vremuri.
Azi însă,
m-am apucat de scris"

Azi m-am apucat de scris

  1. Ai vreo carte preferată. Dacă da, care? 

A: Blood Meridian (Meridianul Sângelui) de Cormac McCarthy. Nu spun că-i cea mai bună carte scrisă vreodată, dar este cu siguranță una care m-a influențat foarte mult. Și asta pentru că a apărut în viața mea într-o vreme în care tot ce știam despre ficțiune erau conceptele din basmele copilăriei în care culorile morale ale personajelor sunt perfect alb-negru. Cei buni erau perfect buni, iar cei răi erau perfect răi. Așa că vă dați seama cum mi-a putut schimba Meridianul Sângelui viziunea despre ficțiune. 

2. Ai vreun scriitor preferat? Dacă da, care ar fi acela?

A: Păi, luând în considerare răspunsul meu la întrebarea precedentă, ar trebui să spun acum Cormac McCarthy. În…

View original post 953 more words

my favorite writer

"He started writing," she
said, talking
about her
"He's an old man now. Had
me when
he was in his
late forties. You'd think
late forties would
be enough to realize
that a man is crazy, but
well, not my mother
I guess. Or perhaps it was
the craziness that
attracted her to him. I'll never
He says that writing is
something you can
do until you drop
dead, unlike
sports where you can only be
truly good when you're
young, in your prime.
Also, he's
one of those artists who
believe that
one must suffer for art. I tried
telling him that's just
plain stupid,
but despite all my efforts he
still sprinkles
razor blades on his bed
when he goes to sleep. He moves
at night
or course
and of course he gets plenty
of cuts. All over his body.
And every time he gets a cut
he stands up,
turns on the light,
and sprays rubbing alcohol on
the cut.
He says it works 100% of
the time.
Instantly he gets inspired,
grabs the muse by
the throat, as he puts it.
There's a laptop on his nightstand,
ever turned on,
and he immediately starts
writing as the
blood seeps out of
the wound. When the inspiration
wains he grabs the bottle
of rubbing alcohol and
sprays some more. There's no
writing without pain, he says. And
of course
all his stories are
about pain and suffering.
He's even got one in which
this old guy
who never did anything worthwhile
in his life
finds himself paralyzed in
his armchair
from the waist down.
How he can't do shit
and just cries
and begs death to take him
already. But he doesn't really
want to go. He knows that all
his life has been lived in vain.
He never made one
soul happy as long
as he lived.
So he gets this idea that if only he can
make one soul happy
before departing forever
he had not lived in vain.
In part two of
the story he
starts cutting pieces of his own
flesh, from the legs
in which he's got no
feeling, and throws them
out the window for
the mongrel dogs and
street cats to feast on. Then he
dies in peace,
knowing that he'd made at least
a few souls happy."

"Did he really write that,"
I asked

"Sure did," she said. "And many
more. He doesn't care
about publishing
though. He just knows that
the world will discover his
art after he'll be gone. I guess
he made his
peace with this."

"Shit," I said, "listen, could I
read that story myself?
Or any other
of his?"

"Like I said, he won't
share his
writings with an audience. Only
postmortem, he says."

Well, after that evening
every time I met her
I kept asking
about her father.

He was still
alive and

He also got diabetes
from all the
glasses of coca-cola
mixed with
six or seven spoonfuls
of sugar he drank
to replenish his blood,
but that was
all right, apparently it only
made him write better
now that he had more
suffering in his life

he also refuses to see
or be seen
by any doctors
or psychiatrists

Well, I don't want much
from him, only
to know that
he's got a big fan
in this world

What the Shadow Eats, the Shadow Becomes by Bogdan Dragos

Don't forget to check out and follow MasticadoresIndia to find more writings to enjoy! Thanks! ( ๑>ᴗ<๑ ) 

MasticadoresIndia // Editora: Terveen Gill

The abstract image of a woman's face with black buildings painted on her orange forehead and the upper half of her face having a shadow painted across it
Image Source: Canva

A great shadow seems

to have

tripped and fallen

over these memories

like a thing alive

and hungry

How lucky it is

to have stumbled upon

such treasure

I feel it

eating right now, like

a famished animal

filling its belly

with chunks not even


It’s eating her


and I can no longer

remember it


The more I try

the more blurred the

image becomes

and its sides are already


The shadow had

ingested them, assimilated

them as nutrients

What the shadow eats

the shadow becomes

And now the

memory is

only the shadow

And I’m thinking that

it has always been

the shadow

I was in love

with a

shadow all this time

She hasn’t been consumed,

only unmasked,


And she’s

as beautiful as ever

and my love

is still alive

and vibrant


Bogdan Dragos supervises casinos for a…

View original post 49 more words

I’ve never seen you empty by Bogdan Dragos

ヾ( ・ ω ・*)ノ Visit Gobblers/Masticadores and find more writings you can enjoy!

Gobblers & Masticadores

the crystal glass sat alone and empty on the window sill She watched it and studied the imprint of her lover’s lips and fingertips on it “Damn, I’ve never seen you empty,” she said to the glass. “How did we get here?” A good question, she realized. It probably starts from growing up with a mother who got beat up on the daily and took it all with a kind of furious pride. It probably starts with telling yourself that when you grow up you will do all in your power to not be like that woman. You’ll be the exact opposite. You won’t take no shit from no man. And you started your adulthood exactly like that. A bad bitch, as some would put it. So why didn’t it continue like that? How come when you met a fragile, damaged man instead of another tough guy, you not only…

View original post 320 more words

A Place with More Meaning by Bogdan Dragos

Don't forget to check out and follow MasticadoresIndia to find more writings to enjoy! Thanks!

MasticadoresIndia // Editora: Terveen Gill

An abstract image with a cup of coffee in the center and the fires of hell on the left side and the cross of Christ on the right side
Image Source: Canva

“One day

I drank 29 cups of

coffee,” she said

“Yeah,” he said, “I’ve

no doubt.

“It was my attempt at

suicide,” she said

“Yeah. I’ve no


“There’s free coffee at


so I took advantage. My

boyfriend died

that way, you know? He

was a truck


so he used coffee and

energy drinks to

help him drive at night.

I don’t know how many

he had that night,

but his heart


And I thought, you know,

if I die in the

same way, perhaps I will

be taken to the same

place as him.

It just didn’t work for


I know you think this

is, like, so naive,

but when you’re drowning in

grief like I was… even

the afterlife

starts to make sense.

That’s when you

believe most in fantasy. I

even believed in

God, like all the people who


View original post 161 more words

What’s Prodigal Mean? by Bogdan Dragos

Don't forget to check out and follow MasticadoresIndia to find more writings to enjoy! Thanks!

MasticadoresIndia // Editora: Terveen Gill

The close up image of a woman hugging a teenage boy with only the lower half of the woman's face showing
Image Source: Canva

he felt a bit guilty

about it

but just

a bit

He knew

it was wrong to

be happy

when father came home


and stupid

but it was the only time

when mother

came to sleep

in his room,

“because your father

needs to cool

off,” as she put it

It was a good deal

because she

slept in his bed

and let him

suck on

her breasts

and told him


“When I was your age,”


story went,

“I slept in a closet when

daddy came

home drunk. And my only

friend there

was a hanged tie

that looked like

a snake. I would stand on

my toes

and whisper in its ear, tell

it about my day,

about how my life


and how daddy beat me

and mommy

didn’t want me around either.

The snake tie listened.

It listened to

anything, everything…

View original post 376 more words

to feel romantic about the writer’s block

。^ ‿ ^。 Visit Gobblers/Masticadores and find more writings you can enjoy!

Gobblers & Masticadores

By Bogdan Dragos

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…

View original post 606 more words

Allergies by Bogdan Dragos

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(๑′ ᴗ ‵๑)♥ 

MasticadoresIndia // Editora: Terveen Gill

An evil looking gray cat staring ahead from behind a gray blanket
Image Source: Canva

“Are you trying to

kill me?” his mother screamed. “Are

you trying to fucking

kill me!?”

He backed away. “Mom, please.”

“Shut up! You brought

a cat. A cat! Of all things. In the house!

Knowing full well

of my allergies. That is a declaration,

young man. A declaration

that speaks

very loud. You are trying

to kill your own mother, you

insane monster!”

An hour later he

was in his room

caressing the cat’s head

and back

while it lay on his chest

and purred

“Can you believe her?” he

said to the cat

“Hardly,” said the cat. “She was

a monster though. You made

the right choice, baby.”

“When I decided to

keep you?” he asked

“Yes,” said the cat. “And when

you stabbed her in

the chest. You’re such a good boy.

That’s why I love you. And

after I help you calm


View original post 93 more words

It’s All a Game by Bogdan Dragos

Don't forget to check out and follow MasticadoresIndia to find more writings to enjoy! Thanks! 

MasticadoresIndia // Editora: Terveen Gill

A doll lying submerged in green moldy stale water with a frog sitting near its head
Image Source: Canva

but what are we alive for

if not to play

and enjoy


life itself is

but a game

and the best at it are

those who don’t

grow up, those who can

still view it

as such

She tried to teach her

four children

this truth

that’s why she brought them

into the backyard

where all the small trash bags,

so well wrapped in tape,

were laid on the grass,

and told them,

“It’s like that Easter game

where you find

the eggs. Only this time it’s

with small trash bags,

and you’ll be hiding

them.” She clapped

her hands a few times. “So let’s

go then. Mommy will

play along this time.

Let’s hide

the bags.”

It was the police

who came to

search for them later

“Can we build a dad

with all

these parts?” asked

one of the kids

after the policemen


View original post 113 more words

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