A Place with More Meaning by Bogdan Dragos

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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


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An Attempt at Flash Fiction (for Bogdan Dragos)

Andrew Dabar

“It’s my life!”

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…

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transgressive fiction needs to make a comeback by Bogdan Dragos

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Gobblers / Masticadores // Editores: Manuela Timofte / j re crivello

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…

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What’s Prodigal Mean? by Bogdan Dragos

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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…

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to feel romantic about the writer’s block

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Gobblers / Masticadores // Editores: Manuela Timofte / j re crivello

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…

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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


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night shifts at the gas station by Bogdan Dragos

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Gobblers / Masticadores // Editores: Manuela Timofte / j re crivello

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…

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Feeble Door by Bogdan Dragos

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MasticadoresIndia // Editora: Terveen Gill

A broken, rickety wooden door in a stone wall
Image Source: Canva

Such a feeble door

it was a joke

like made of cardboard

it stayed ajar

and the rusty knob was barely hanging to it

it didn’t actually work

and there was no locking it either

the only thing that made it

close was its misalignment with the


It just kinda pushed into the frame

and stayed like that

It was bad

And it was worse when daddy

got really drunk and

started banging on things

And it was the worst when daddy’s friends

got him even drunker and

made him pass out on the moldy couch

and came in to play with his little girl

Tonight would be

one of those times


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…

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Azi m-am apucat de scris


There were times
when I got
threw my backpack in the corner
took off my shoes
my jacket
walked into my room
took off my pants, my shirt
put on sweatpants, another shirt
turned on the PC
ate a bag of salty potato chips
drank whatever I could
wasted time

I was happy in those times

Today I write. 

MasticadoresRumanía Editora: Manuela Timofte

de Bogdan Dragoș

Erau vremuri
în care ajungeam acasă,
îmi aruncam ghiozdanul într-un colț
al camerei,
îmi dădeam jos papucii,
intram în cameră,
îmi dădeam jos pantalonii, tricoul,
trăgeam pe mine ceva 
pantaloni din ăia largi, alt tricou,
porneam calculatorul,
desfăceam o pungă de cipsuri,
beam ce puteam
și pierdeam vremea.

Eram fericit
în acele vremuri.

Azi însă,
m-am apucat de scris.

Imagine de Gordon Johnson de la Pixabay


Volume publicate:

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like making a contract with a dumpster diving company

first came
the 15 page letters

They were
typed in parts and
written by hand in others

the ink color
would change
and the font
and the little doodles on
the margins
The only consistency in
the whole project
was the reader’s
inability to understand 93%
of it all

They were threats, alright,
but of what nature?

Well, next came the envelopes
filled with rusty and bloody
razor blades
pubic hairs
bloody tissues
bloody plastic gloves
broken guitar strings
clipped nails
pictures of random people
with their eyes crossed out
by needle scratches

“It’s not so bad
if you think
about it,” he said. “I get free
stuff in the mail. Sure, most
of it is junk,
but every once in a while I get
something good.
Look, the other day I got this
perfectly functioning pen. Heh,
I might even
start writing poetry again…
I’m tellin’ you, man, breaking
the heart of a psychotic girl
is like
making a contract with
a dumpster diving company to deliver
the junk to your mail. For free.
Goddamn, I should really
start writing poetry again. Now that
I don’t have to go
scout the dumpsters myself. I gotta
do something with
all the free time.” 

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