how to undo it? by Bogdan Dragos

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Gobblers & Masticadores

it's been 28 minutes of sitting on his hand and watching outside the window the hand went numb On better days he's use that hand to please himself, imagining it belonged to somebody else, some cute woman but as it was today he used it to grab the bottle and pour himself another glass of vodka "Thank you," he said after the glass was full. "I'll get my whole body numb tonight. Not only my hand." Already the hand was slowly beginning to recover feeling He didn't like that. Felt like the imaginary friend was being stolen away He gently touched the hand to his face and decided there was too much feeling in it. "No," he said, "don't leave so early." And then placed the hand back under him "I can't stand having you for such short periods of time. I'm so alone. I swear, I will kill my…

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words that hurt by Bogdan Dragos

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Gobblers & Masticadores

her words awakened
physical pain
in him

the mere sound of them
was like
claws scratching against
his brain

When she's old enough,
a mother can
hurt her son
like she never could in
her youth

Listening to her
he felt like crying

And she wasn't even
cursing him
She just looked around
and then finally set
her eyes on him
and repeated the
same question
"When is he
coming home?"

"But mother, I am home,"
he cried. "It's me!"

But in reply
she would only make a
confused face
and start looking around
and ask the same
question again

She was
only 62
and aside from her
everything was healthy
about her

which only meant that
they'll both be
stuck in
this hell
for longer

Years that will
feel like decades

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I Will Never Again Believe What You Say by Bogdan Dragos

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MasticadoresIndia // Editora: Terveen Gill

A young woman with blood smeared on her face and clothes holding a battered and bloody teddy bear
Image Source: Canva

At 1 AM she screamed

for daddy to

come quick, quick

and look under the bed

There were noises

and growls there,

she told him

Daddy turned the light on


dropped to his knees

and crawled to the edge of

her bed

Lifted the sheets

looked under

and felt the knife plunge

into his nape

His body dropped to

the floor and

struggled a bit before

giving a final breath

She threw the blanket

over him

and climbed off

dropped to her knees

and looked under the bed

with a grin

“It’s all right,” she said, “you

can come out now.”

But there was

no one

and nothing to

come out

that fucker lied


Just like with the hamster

and then the dog

now it was

her father

What or who

will be next?

She lay down

on her belly

and knocked the butt


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black and white dreams by Bogdan Dragos

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Gobblers & Masticadores

by the time she was done rolling that cigarette it looked like a broken, gnarly twig regardless, she put it between her lips, lit a piece of nacho on fire and used that to light the cigarette and then just watched the nacho burn until the flames reached her fingers “Do you remember when dreams used to have colors?” she asked “Color?” he said, and thought about it. “Yeah, it was back in the days when I was a kid and movies were black and white.” She watched him through a veil of smoke that she thickened by blowing some more. “Wow, you’re, like, old as fuck then.” “Old enough to know there were better times, dear. Way better times. When dreams had color and sound…” “Listen,” she said, “is this a rant on technology and how it fucks our minds an’ all that?” “What? Not at all. I mean…

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Shoot Your Questions at the Abyss by Bogdan Dragos

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( ๑‾◡‾́) 

MasticadoresIndia // Editora: Terveen Gill

The empty glowing silhouettes of two side posed faces, one white, the other black and stone floors and walls around them
Image Source: Canva

there is one supreme

blissful presence


it’s night time

I’m in my element

Freshly awakened

after a day

of sleep

I’m not a vampire

I only used to wish I

were when

I first started living like

this. What can I say, I

was young and playful

Now I know I’m


worse than a vampire

My grandmother calls

me a blasphemer


God has left day and night

upon this Earth

for work and rest

and I laugh in his face

and piss on his blessing

by using it in


I sleep in the day

and use the time of

night to

wonder and to ask

why he had created me

the beauty of seeking

answers in the

night is

that you don’t have

to use your voice


will do

You won’t get the

answers, at least I didn’t,

but it feels good…

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a matter of days for both by Bogdan Dragos

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Gobblers & Masticadores

this was needed

One more
strong coffee

one more

and then he
would go to

it was
almost morning

he would sleep
during the day
return the next
to write
more poems

His lower back
was hurting
It was either the
kidney stones
the hemorrhoids
or both
or something entirely

it was all right
A writer writes
and a sick man
and they are quite
the same

At 44
his wife was 22
years younger than him

She would still
make him coffee
and cook his meals
and even read his poems

The ones that weren’t
about torturing
and murdering women and
even got published online

About eleven
of them

He was on
the right path

Success will reach him
earlier than
death will

It was a matter of
days for

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Will Repair Umbrellas for Cash by Bogdan Dragos

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⊂(◉ ‿ ◉)つ 

MasticadoresIndia // Editora: Terveen Gill

An old bearded man who appears to be dirty and homeless is looking up through some barbed wire
Image Source: Canva

I was at that age

when you

read whatever writing

catches your eye

by way of style


and stuff

It’s a sensitive age

for kids

The advertising

industry knows it

But the words I read

weren’t quite


They were written on a

piece of cardboard

placed next to

a homeless man who

sat on the curb under

the awning of

a pharmacy

the writing said




I thought I was good

at figuring out

commercials on TV

and even in magazines

and newspapers

but this one was

beyond me


Buddy, who in the hell

takes their umbrella

to the repairman?

Doesn’t make any sense

If an umbrella does

break, why not

just buy a new one? It’s

not expensive or


How can anyone make a

living repairing


No wonder the guy

was homeless

I kept thinking about


View original post 87 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

interviewing unpublished writers by Bogdan Dragos

┌( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)=ε/̵͇̿̿/’̿’̿ ̿   Visit Gobblers/Masticadores and find more writings you can enjoy!

Gobblers & Masticadores

he did have a dream of becoming a writer in his youth but youth doesn’t last forever One day he grew up and had to pick a real job. He studied journalism and became a reporter It was today’s task that reminded him of the old dream. He had to interview unpublished writers A lot of them and the general question was “Why do you write?” The answers he got were quite diverse “I don’t know,” said one writer. “I’m just trying to recapture the feeling I had in childhood when my mother used to beat me until I fell unconscious and dreamed that she loved me.” And another said, “I’m not sure. I just write because I can’t do anything else in life.” Another said, “I’m still trying to write the perfect suicide note to leave behind. I swear to God, I will not kill myself until I write…

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I’ve never seen you empty by Bogdan Dragos

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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…

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