There was a time when he’d fear nothing more than the bluntness of the empty bottle his torment his nightmare, his hell The bottle would be all right as long as it stayed full It was like Lucifer before the fall Oh, but once it emptied then it would change completely Then he’d see father’s grip reverse on its neck and turn it into a blunt weapon that delivered its fair share of bruises and scabs on the scalp It never broke like in the movies but it surely hit harder than wood But in the end after all those years of standing in its greenish shadow he found himself thanking the bottle It’s simple What you don’t pick up you don’t end up holding He never touched a beer in his life and certainly didn’t use the bottle as a blunt weapon against anybody not even against his own father as revenge The cleaver was far more effective
Usually it was after the second pack of smokes that inspiration came into his soul but today it came after the second cigarette And when inspiration hit he'd grab the paper and pen and write letters old style He was a romantic My love, he wrote, this is the 272nd letter I write you, and its subject will be the idea of impossibility. I think impossibility is highly subjective, my love. I for one can climb Mount Everest in my shorts if I want to, but one thing I'll never ever do is get over you. I dream you every night. Every. Damn. Night. And I wake up and grab the dress you left behind and I wrap its strap around my penis like one of those rubber rings meant to make you last super long. I've been doing it for… a long time, love. Believe me…
View original post 279 more words
what else to do when the rain falls so heavy against the window outside? Get melancholic get poetic have a drink have another close and then lock the door to your room and don't listen to the voices coming from outside They want to distract you They don't want you to be successful and make it in life They're all haters He covered his ears and squinted his eyes at the computer screen doing his best to block out the negativity that came from beyond the door “I can't get up!” the voice croaked. “Come help me. I can't get up.” And then with a cry, “Please!” “Shut the fuck up, grandma! I'm trying to write in here. Jesus Christ, I'm trying to make it big, don't you understand? For fuck's sake now.” He had also sent a manuscript to a potential publisher and was waiting for a reply. It's been two days already
I was born in 1992 in Romania and had a happy childhood until I went to school. I never had an answer to the question “What would you like to become when you grow up?” and still don’t. But I was lucky enough, after college, to land a job as a dispatcher at a gambling company. There, I spend 12 hours alone in the office (day and night shifts) supervising casinos through CCTV cameras. I like to think I learned a lot about humanity from this. But I also learned a lot about myself. It’s also where I started writing.biog
What is your greatest accomplishment as a writer so far?
That’ll be the publication of my poetry chapbook, “Pour The Whiskey Over My Heart And Set It On Fire”. In August 2020 I found myself with quite a bunch of poems and no audience, so I started submitting a…
View original post 557 more words
The house doesn't feel like home, mother. Not since you left for the other world after father left for another house from outside town Now there's just me here. And my older brother who is younger than me mentally and will remain so for the rest of his life He still hears whispers coming from every dark corner of the house and because of this our electric bill is enormous I can no longer take this I'm not strong enough I'm not willing enough This cross is too damn heavy. It's breaking my back, breaking my soul I want to get a better job and eventually a car and a wife and start a family I can't do that while taking care of my troubled brother I quit. Tonight I will make his nightmares come true The electricity will go out…
View original post 98 more words
the little girl was scared at first but now she was terrified and about to have a panic attack He kept her tight in his arms and covered her ears and told her to calm down and that everything will be all right It was 02:24 AM and the knocks in the door and all around the walls and windows still carried on And there were howls coming from outside and curses and a constant sound of nails scratching on wood “Daddy, I’m scared! I’m…” “I know, dear, I know. But you have to calm down. Remember to focus on your breathing like I told you. Deep, deep breaths, okay? Deep. In and out. I promise you, tomorrow everything’s gonna be fine. I swear.” “Is it zombies?” asked the little girl. “No, dear. It’s something else.” “What’s it called?” “An ex-girlfriend, dear.”
By Bogman Dragos
the worst part about being alone and sick is being sick but perhaps the second worst is having no one to comfort you He reminded himself aloud that it was his own choice and rolled on the carpet and pushed his thumbs inside his eyes The head was killing him, like the brain grew legs and constantly kneed his eyeballs from the inside, seeking to push them out like caps of beer bottles and exit through the holes And his stomach wasn't any better although it got everything out some time ago The first few coughs came with liquid, pungent vomit but now there was only blood "You can only get what you deserve," whispered the faded silhouette from the mirror. "You might think all this is caused by the bottle of wine you found while dumpster diving as you do. It…
View original post 141 more words
he sits alone in the darkness on a wooden chair The walls surrounding him have no mirrors and the windows are covered by the thickest blinds He doesn’t want to see his old age and the decay that already started consuming his body In his mind he’s still young, still in his early twenties still dreaming He’s listening to music He’s playing the music and it exhausts him The music comes from within An instrument with strings His growling guts He lubricates them with more beer
Well, when you’re desperate you’re…
“Me,” he said. He was alone in the room and lonely enough to have bought one of those Ouija boards from some old woman who called herself a medium. It was time to try it out.
All he hoped for was a sexy ghost that would haunt him, maybe hurt him a bit, he wouldn’t mind. Anything just to take away the soul-crushing loneliness. Anything!
He said the prayers exactly as the medium instructed and did the breathing exercises and was ready to use the board. He moved the piece to spell HELLO. Got no answer. Looked around the room. Nothing. Again, he spelled HELLO. IS ANYONE HERE? ANYONE AT ALL? ARE YOU FEMALE? Nothing. Nothing new at least. Only more loneliness and more frustration and deeper down the rabbit hole of misfits he slipped.
WELL FUCK YOU! he spelled, and jammed the pointy side…
View original post 150 more words
A pretty thick slice of hell That was life so far But today things will change Today he was six years old and that meant old enough to guide his blind father on the streets The old man was only blind for a year after some work related accident involving acid And there was a mother somewhere too. She left shortly after father’s accident Today father held on to his son’s shirt at the shoulder and told him to walk towards the railway “I want to listen to the train,” said father but it turned out he wanted much more than that. He wanted to feel the train. Against his face So he stood on the rails and told the kid to go back home and return after an hour or so “Okay,” said the kid. But he didn’t leave. He watched from a safe distance Didn’t even find the event particularly disturbing Then he went back home and had some fruit loops with milk and his first taste of beer He had become a man