Feeling super blessed to have my piece "Green Cotton Candy" featured in the illustrious The Yard: Crime Blog. Many thanks to the editor! Read the poem here.
New feature in The Yard: Crime Blog (Green Cotton Candy)
Love letter by Bogdan Dragos
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…
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the female assassin
the ashtray was looking more and more like a sick hedgehog and her yellowed fingers added one more quill to it she sat back in her chair work wasn't in the best of stages lately and her office looked like a junkie's trailer. You could scrape the nicotine off the walls. In fact, she would get nicotine under her nails if she just scratched her skin anywhere But otherwise she was a beauty and that was a problem. Beautiful women have the worst luck in marriages The husband left and the two girls went with him They were sick and tired of her habit to consume more cigarette smoke than oxygen And drinking was also a problem though not nearly as big The worst drinking has ever done to her was to make her lose the driving license which she never bothered to take back The real problem was, as always, a lack of money. If the damn phone didn't ring soon she would have to kill someone for a pack of cigarettes Assuming she could still kill someone with her body rotting from the inside. She was fine with breast cancer but now lung cancer joined too and it was by far nastier Still that was all right It doesn't take a healthy body to pull a trigger And speaking of triggers She opened a drawer in her desk took out the gun studied it Not loaded She browsed through the drawer Only one bullet left. One single bullet. These things cost money too Damn it But it's like they said back in the mercenary camp The last bullet is always preserved to be used on the self She loaded the bullet into the gun A life lived well is one lived without regrets and without ever asking for mercy or feeling sorry for yourself At 39 she had that. There was nothing else to be taken away from it She put the gun to her temple Smiled "Except for a final smoke."
faded silhouette in the mirror
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…
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an old instrument with rusty strings
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
Daydreaming as a profession 