Writeresque Literary Magazine Vol 6

WRITERESQUE

VOLUME SIX SPRING 2023 LITERARY

Writeresque Literary Magazine 06

Whatisthefirstthingyouthinkaboutwhenyouwakeupinthemorning?Idon't meanthingslike'coffee'or'thebathroom',though.Imean,whatisityoureallythink about?Iexpectformanyitwoulddepend,itmightnotbesomethingreallydeepor importantrightaway,buteventually,atsomepointofthedayoranother,Ithink mostofuswillgettothat–thedeep,carefulthinkingabouttheseriousstuffthat mattertous,whatevertheymaybe–thetypeofthinkingwecall'reflecting'.

Howoftendowereflectonthingsinoureveryday?Travelbackandforthintime, recalling,comparing,evaluating Somedoitforfun,somebecausetheyhaveto,and others,becausetheycan'tnotdoit Whichtypeareyou?IthinkImightbethethird typeonmostdays,butoftenamixtureofall.Cometothinkofit,itstandstoreason thatmostofusarelikethat.Beingonetypeofanythingisrare,afterall.

Cogitoergosum–asaspecies,wedo(over)thinkalot,butisreflectingonsomething thesameasoverthinkingaboutit?Linguistswouldmostlikelydisagree,butwhatis reflectingifnotdwelling?AndwhatwasitthewiseDumbledoresaid?“Itdoesnotdo todwellondreamsandforgettolive.”Isheright?I'llleavethat withyoubecauseI myselfwouldn'tknow

Andthen,wehavetheothermeaningoftheword Themagicalappearanceofanother you,orofanotheralmostanything,aslongasthereisasmooth,shinysurfaceforitto reflectin.Ah,yes!Theso-calledspecularreflection.Now,you'llnoticeIwrotealmost above Totellyouthetruth,whenIfirstwrotethis,almostwasn'tinit Ithought aboutitforamoment,niceandbriefastonotdwellonittoomuch,andcouldn't thinkofsomethingthatwouldn'treflect.Butthen,beingathirdtypereflector,I restartedthinkingofitinmoredepth.AndIthought,'Whatofshadows?Shadowsare 'athing',right?'

Althoughobviouslydifferentfromeachother,shadowsandreflectionscanalsobe quitesimilar.Asawriter,Ifindthemfascinatingnotsomuchbecauseofthephysics which explain their appearance, but because they both offer the psychological experienceofviewingsomethinginastrangelyfamiliar–yetkindofcreepy–way Theencounteroftheuncanny

Haveyoueverseenareflectionofyourshadow?Reflectonthisandletmeknow.

TeyaDancer Editor-in-Chief

TeyastartedWriteresque®shortly aftercreatingthenon-profitproject 'AnyoneCanWrite',dedicatedto buildingnewwriters'self-esteem andconfidenceintheimportance oftheuniquestoriestheyhaveto sharethroughtheirowncreative writing.Shehandles(mostly,but notexclusively)submissionsin fiction,scripts,international writing,andtravelwriting.

TeyahasaBA(Hons)degreein EnglishandLinguistics,andanMA degreeinCreativeWritingfrom NottinghamTrentUniversity

Shewasaneditorandacreative contributorfortheannualCreative writinganthology,Connections,in 2020,andaguestwriterforthe consecutiveanthology,Uncertain TruthsinNovember2021

Teyalikestoreadsstoriesandnovels whereexplorationofcharacter/self infictionisofmainconcern. Currently,sheisworkingon completingherfirstnovel,and publishingherfirstchapbook.

"Iaminterestedinexperimental writingfilledwithreflectionon philosophicalideasandtopicsthat areconsidered‘inappropriate’ I considersmyselfarebelanda dreamerbybirth;Ibelieveanyone canwrite butonlythefearlesscan begreat.”

Teyalovesspendinghertimewith herbabygirl,exploringthe outdoorsandtheworld.

Inthisissue...

"You'resurroundedbytheideaofexploringyourconsciousnessBecause withoutreflectionthereisno viewoftherootsthatneedtobe pulled"

AbigailElizarraraz 'Skeletons'

"Thewindwhispersblackblessings,thefishermendrawontheirboots. Adarkmoonrises–asunmadeofgloom.Andthereitis–night rushesonfromtheotherworldintothisone.Hagabulaeverywhere."

TodorP.Todorov 'Hernanisdreaming',Hagabula

Readonformorewonderful,internationalpoetryandprose.Each oftheworksfeaturedinthisvolumeofferatrulyuniquetakeonthe word'Reflections',andwehopeourreaderswillenjoythemas muchaswedid.

Onceagain,weofferourgratitudetoallofyouwhochosetoshare yourworkwithusandwiththeworld.

CoverArt

Witheveryissue,weoffertalentedindividualsthechancetounleash theircreativityandbecomethenextCoverArtistsforWriteresque LiteraryMagazineWepromoteallartistsandtheirworkinaspecially dedicatedpagewithinthemagazine,aswellaswithpoststhroughout oursocialmediachannels.Thisisagreatopportunityforeveryone wantingtobuildaportfolioasapublishedartist.

GetintouchformoreinformationEmailusat writeresquelit@gmailcom

Isatbeforemyglassoneday, Andconjuredupavisionbare, Unliketheaspectsgladandgay, ThaterstwerefoundreflectedthereThevisionofawoman,wild Withmorethanwomanlydespair. Herhairstoodbackoneitherside Afacebereftofloveliness

Ithadnoenvynowtohide

Whatoncenomanonearthcouldguess. Itformedthethornyaureole Ofhard,unsanctifieddistress.

Herlipswereopen-notasound Camethoughthepartedlinesofred, Whate'eritwas,thehideouswound Insilenceandsecretbled Nosighrelievedherspeechlesswoe, Shehadnovoicetospeakherdread.

Andinherlurideyesthereshone

Thedyingflameoflife'sdesire, Mademadbecauseitshopewasgone, Andkindledattheleapingfire Ofjealousyandfiercerevenge, Andstrengththatcouldnotchangenortire Shadeofashadowintheglass, Osetthecrystalsurfacefree! Pass-asthefairervisionspassNorevermorereturn,tobe Theghostofadistractedhour, Thatheardmewhisper:-'Iamshe!'

MaryElizabeth Coleridge,(1861–1907) wasaBritishpoet, novelistandessayist.The great-grandnieceof RomanticpoetSamuel TaylorColeridgeandthe daughterofmusically talentedparents,Coleridgegrewupina literaryandartisticenvironmentShetravelled annuallyfromanearlyageandknewGerman, French,Italian,andHebrew;later,shelearned GreekandLatin.AccordingtoEdithSichelin herintroductiontoPoemsbyMaryE Coleridge,herpoetryismarkedbyasenseof lossandchangeandheressaysbythe “downrightcut-and-thrustmanliness”style sheadmiredinWilliamHazlittColeridge livedwithherparentsforherentirelifeand shenevermarried.

TheOtherSideOfAMirror MARYELIZABETHCOLERIDGE

ABLUECONUNDRUM

Gabriella Garofalo

Adrenalinehighupthesky,youshockedDonotbendoverme,night,

Noneedto,you’vegotlovers,right?

Fear,fearalwaysdigginghergraves,souls, asilenceyoumisplacedsolongagovethesoundswordsechoed kedbywater, glikenotomorrowwithlightAndyou,mycold,donotbitemetonight, Noneedto,assouls,andatousleddesire

Don’tmindgreen,orsilenceAssoonastheyleavegivebirth

Tolife,andGod,yourlastresource, Givetheskyhisownfire,but,mysoul, Don’tsetyourselfonfire,notyourfault

Ifdaysstartwhirling‘roundyou, Scalds,men,rejections,ofnoimportanceatall, Asyouchosefromthestartcolours

Andplainbooks,certainlynotlove,norlimbs, Youjustkeptslicingshredsfromrenegadeskies, Dissenters,thelunaticfringeThat’swhyskiescan’tgrabyouonthefly, NorcanSaharawantyouasaprophetJustanalbedoofwords

Breakingthroughstones,andbouldersDunnoifshefeelslikeamother,butyouinside Aplacewherethey’resokeen

Tocomeandmeetyou,

Questions,doubts,slip-ups

Inabrandnewcreation:

Aheavenlyvault,foliage,thatpearlywhite Settostrikebackatyoursoul.

uallyhangsout

ehavingseas,andimpassionateskies, eo ymatesshe’sgot,ashe’seversobusy

Lookingbackonamessylife

Wheretheycrashlosers, AndwrittenwordsexudeanastyscentBlessyou,fear,whycan'tyoushowup

Inherdreams?

Whycan’tyoufeelherlimbsonlyatnighttime?

Watchoutasthemobsareupinarms, Readyforaction,andmysterieseye

Yoursilencewithbadintent,whilehissing Onlywhenthewindfreezeslimbs

Wordscanrisefromthefields-

Butotherarethevoiceshoundingyou, Theyplay,theybetonyourwordslost

Inmaze,andcraze, Whoknows,maybeshe’llgetanotherlife, Theoneyouneverwrote-

‘Causetheharvestisaheapofchillystars, Sure,andthebirthofwombscomes

Fromdepthsofawildstuff, Yetthesoulisanimperviousground:

ToS.

Overtheretheseeddissolves,slightlywornout, Yetincandescentwhenthehandsofancientghouls

RisebycandlelightSobackatbase,anddropthenoise, Thatgreedymoonthatsetsyouup

WithanAngelholdingblazingsplintersoflightWhere?Inclaustrophobicrooms,ofcourse, Theinnardsofdesire

Todor P. Todorov

Chapter1 Hernanisdreaming

Acondordescendsovertheocean,barelytouchingthewater–rejuvenation,grace.The wingsandthesky-allisilluminated,thewavesburstintoflames.Awhitesailshinesin theazure.Alinensheetathomerepeatsthesametune,gentlyblownbythewind.Two serenehands,thescentofsoapandspring.Andinthepalmofachild–thethreadof time.Theearthandthesky,therain,eachbladeofgrass,everythingrises.Thepeony opens up for the sun. A breeze whiffs, the primrose shivers, a bee lands in the blue blossom.Adew-drophidesinthewalnutleaf.Achilddreamsofbutterfliesilluminated by lightning. Someone is running. The afternoon drops shutter blinds over the corn fields; it is getting late. A woman is crying in the moonlight. Stars illuminate the firmament,firefliespaintoverthenight.Summeristhemotherofall,andtheworld never ends But there, something darkens The condor is looking for land, its wings capturedbyshadows Alonelyshipsinksintothesea Everythingisdistant–theyouth, thehours,theyears OnlySpainisforever,neverforgotten Thunderdevoursthedream ofthefishthatjustswallowedacastaway.Intheheartofthetiger,adeerisborn.Acold cycloneploughsthesteppe,chaseswolves,cranes,andsnakes.Thewildernessshatters, something in the taiga is silent. They are tying the boats at the harbour. The wind whispersblackblessings,thefishermendrawontheirboots.Adarkmoonrises–asun madeofgloom.Andthereitis–nightrushesonfromtheotherworldintothisone. Hagabulaeverywhere.

Hernanawakens,hisforeheadsweating.Hiseyesaremoony,stillunseeingbeyondthe dream. He rises up and walks along the deck. The night shines upon him – a cloak encrustedbyfire.Hestaresintothedarknessahead.Hisfaceisburntbythesun,hishair

scattered by southern winds, scorched by heat. His boots, red as blood, made of salamanderskin,creakoverthewoodenfloor.Thewindspreadsouthisclothes,tickles hisskin,makeshisbonestinglewithpleasure.Hisstepspiercethroughthesilence.How deadlyquietitishere.Theworldislost–itseemstohimthatheisthelastmanonearth.

Alonegnomefishtraversesthewaterunderneaththeship,andthedimbillows lightupforamomentinitssilvershining.Itdoesnottakeaninterestinthefleetabove, itseyesfixedontheoceandepths.Farbelow,somethinginthesandisstirring.Theland aheadisalreadyinsight,two-threehoursofsailing Monolithicpeaksandgreyrocks, shores

shoreswashedinmoonlightandbehindthem–woodsgrimasthebrowsofasleeping monster

‘Blackmotherland,wombofwonders!HereIam!’Cortescriesout Onlythewind andtheheartlesshowlofthewoodsreplytohim

Astheystepontotheshore,thesandstillfeelshot Despitethedarkness,allgleams white Everystoneandeverygrainofsand–allislight Theexpeditionunshipsand moves on foot through the narrow ford beyond the rocks, leading the horses loaded withbags,weaponry,sacksfullofmaps,compasses,foodsupplies,andtobacco

‘Salgado,’Hernansays

Salgado,hissecretary,iswearinganuncutbeard,framingasallowface;hishairis tiedbehindinaponytail Heturnsslowly–notawakebutasleep-walker Theflameof thetorchesilluminateshiseyes,turningthemintolakesofglass Somethingfearsome awakensinthere Analiengaze Hisskinisunhumanlypale–helookslikeahermit,a lostprophet Likesomebodyabandonedforever

‘God,whereareyou?’Salgadoutters Andthen:‘Nothinggoodawaitsushere’ Silencesetsin Thenhespeaksagain:

Acloudcoversthemoonforamoment;itgetscold Cortesdoesnotsayanything, justsmiles,butshadowsarefloatinginhiseyes Heistired,insomniadevourshisnights Justnow,beforetheystepashore,thedemonofsleepoverwhelmshim Hecommands thatagroupofHaitians,Africans,andagangofSpanishscumsbegathered–gamblers andthievesfromthebrothelsacrosstheislands.Afterhegivesorders,afewboatssetsail, disappearing between the ships. Rude voices, shouts, curses in Spanish and other languages, growling, and faint giggling can be heard. Then all subsides into silence. Sparksarebursting,ballsoffiredescenduponthesails.Thewoodenskeletonscrack, sigh,bendarms–charredbodiesthrownintotheocean.Amomentlater,everything burns–SantaMaria,SantaAnna,SanMiguel,andSanAntonioaresenttohell.Six moreshipsfollow–atriumphantprocessiontowardstheashes.Theseaisonfire.

WhenCortescrossestherockyhill,hefindsthreehundredmenandthirteenhorses, allsilentunderadevilishsky.Themengrowpaleunderthevaultofthenight–anarmy ofghostsgazingupwardswithmeltingeyes.Warriorsuntilyesterday,inuredtoblood andinjustice,theylooklikechildrennow,scaredofshadows.Whathavetheylost?Why dotheymourntheendofaworld?

‘Whereisthecourage,wheredidthebraverygo?’Cortesthinks.

Thefirmamentispaintedinabloodyglow;thespheresofheavenareburning.The priestDomingoriseswithhishandsstretchedupasifcallingsomethingorsomebody–

‘Nothinggood’

whowillsoonhimselfbeswallowedbyanabyss Cloudslikehungrydogsarerippingup heavens and stars Aguilar has taken off his boots and sits on a stump aside He is chewingonapieceofmeatwhileobservingthetreeswiththeirfoggycrowns Whenhe seesCortes,hestandsupandtakesafewsteps Hisravenhairisshining Grainsofsand scatteredbythewindaretinginghisface Awanderingstarisploughingtheexpanse above him He spits, and for a moment, everybody freezes, finding themselves in a strangesilence Asilencewhisperingomensoffateinthehearts,facetofacewiththe everlastingunknown ThenAguilarsays:

‘Thereyouhaveyourwombofwonders Thereyouhaveyourinferno’

Helooksaround Thewindiswhistling,thenightisclosingitsfist

‘Thesearetherockswhereourfleshwillrot Lookatthemountain Itknowsone wordonly,andthewordisdeath Blackisthesoulofthisland;blackandhollowwill youreyesturn’

The men are silent and listen Aguilar’s words bring back that frightening premonitionthatwashauntingthemanywayallalongthesail

Whereareourunbornchildren?Whoarethewomenthatweleftcaressingnow?Is thatwhywelived–todieinmisery?Toturnintogrinningskeletonsinastrangeland?

No,thereisnohopehere,inthisGod-forsakenland

‘Enough,Pablo’Cortesinterruptshim

'Youburnedtheships,youdevil!YouburiedSpain;thereisnoturningbacknow,' Aguilarreplies

'No,thereisn't,'Cortesagrees.'Nofreshbread,nomother'shug,nowarmbed, andsatedbelly.Norlover'sconsolation,normuttonandwine,norhomesweethome, orabell'schime.Andyourfather'shomeyouwillseeindreamsonly.Asailor'slifeisnot easy;hisdaysaremadeofbitterglory.Butbeproud,sonsofSpain!Andkeepyoureyes peeled.Notbychancedidfatecallushere.’

‘We begin the climbing in an hour. There is no home behind us; there isn't anything.Theonlywayisup'headds,pointingtothewoodsahead.Theashesofthe burnt ships crumble from the sullen sky. The cold stings the skin. A few debris are cuttingintothesandattheshore,thrownoutbythewaves.Nobodyuttersaword.

Shortlythesunrisesfromtheeast,theoceanissprinkledwithagoldenlight.Black smokeisdriftingoverthebushes.Themenarestaringintotheseainwhosebellytheir boatsaresinking,andtheirsailsarefading.Somewhereoverthere,ontheotherside,are theharboursoftheislands,illuminatedbysunandseduction,withtheirprostitutes, beautifulCreoles,andPuertoRicans,withthebrothels,pubs,andcushionypillows, withspicyfoodandmellowwine.

Furtheraway,beyondanythingvisible,beyondthenight,Spainlies–naked,bloody, proud,touchedbysunandGod

Theazurestartsglowing Themenheadslowlyupasteeppathbetweenthecragsand thetrunksoftrees Shortlytheygetintoavastforest Oncetheycrossitsboundaries, they cannot escape the uneasy presence of leaves, grasses, and branches They feel observed Theysensetheyarebeingcaptivesnotonlyoftheirownanxietybutalsoof another's Sincetheysetfoothere,theyareseizedbyunexplainabledespair,asifexhaled bytheearthitself Unknownbirdsscreamfromthedarkness Everybodystaresintothe shadows around them, and in their minds, they curse their own destiny, curse the madmanwholeftthemwithnoroadback,nohome,nohope Astheyadvance,their heartsarefilledwithavaguefear,suspicioncreepsintotheirchests Thedaygradually declines,leavingspaceforthetwilight;thetwilightturnsintobluedawn,theexpedition goeson Theyjumpoverroots,goroundstonesinoddshapes,amistlikeyellowmilk sticksontheirfeet,andrightnexttotheground,will-o’-the-wispsmysteriouslyflicker likepearls Nobodytouchesthem Itisstillbeforenoon,buteverythingstartsgrowing darker,theveilofanill-timednightfalls Inawhile,itgetssodampandstiflingthatthe horsesbarelymove,andthemenareallcoveredinsweat Thesweatdropsintotheeyes, dimsthevision,comesupinwetstainsontheshirts,makesthemouthsdryupinpain

High above the peaks, a condor is flying, its wings plough the azure, its gaze descendsupontheworldunderneath:thecoldocean,thebarelyvisibleshorelinearound theblackmountain–massive,endless,exaltedinthemiddleoftheworld.Alonenavel –aneyestaringominouslyintotheheavens.

Chapter17 Witchhunters (excerpt)

‘Hagabula

Thewordjustpoppedupinmymind.Thesightresurrectedanoldmemory.Iread ityearsagointheDictionaryofprohibitedarts.Istillseethewordsunderthehorrifying image–chorusmaleficarum.Thedanceofthewitches.Ihadheardaboutthatdemonic dance.Inspring,theygatheredatdesertedplaces,heldtheirhandsandcalledtheDevil fordays.Thepictureshowedthemwiththeirfleshfallingofftheirbodiesandwitheyes ontheirbreasts.Butheretheywere,infrontofme,andIhadn’tseenanythingmore beautiful. For a moment I forgot the horrible fate of the old man. I forgot his last words.’

Aguilarlooksaround,hisgazepassesbythemen’sfaces.Theyunderstandthatthis isalookfarbeyondthedesert,beyondthemandeverythingfamiliar.

‘No,’Salgadoobjects ‘Thereisnodictionaryofthewitches’tongue Nohuman wordsholdthekeystoitssecrets.Thiswordisolderthantheworld.Thewitchesfirst learneditfromthegrass,readitinthemoonray,overhearditfromthestorm.Thenthey founditinthemselves.’

Theconquistadoresturntheireyestowardshim.Theydon’tsayanything;theyjust listen Sohegoeson:

‘Hagabulaisnemesis.Themanybecomeone.Thesun–night,thewater–fire.The world turns. Hagabula is awakening, beginning. And comeback. This is what the despisedandthevoicelessbearunutteredwithinthem.Theoppressed,whosehopeis blackenedrepeatitwithoutknowing.Thisisthesighoftheonewhoserightwasstolen, thesighoftheangry,oftheonewhosecryisalonevoiceinthewilderness.Hagabulais war.That’swhatthegrasswhispers,that’swhatthewindandtheleavesbreathe,thisis thewordsungbythewoodsandtheclouds.Theslavewillriseagainstthemaster,the hungry against the sated, the awake against the sleeping, the repulsed against the contented,thewomanagainsttheman,theweakagainstthepowerful,thesmallagainst thebig.Theearthwillrenouncethesky,thechildrentheirparents,thetreethesoil,the free the obedient, the nomad the home, the water the land, the wind the silence Hagabulaisaverb.’

Chapter21 Agardenofbirds (excerpt)

Sometimesthegreenhorizondrawsnearer,thensuddenlypullsbackandvanishesinthe distance.Aguilargoesonwithhisstory:

‘I was crossing the fields near Marburg when I ran into baron Eulenbart’s procession.Aflamboyantcrowdofmusicians,hunters,troubadours,acrobats,whores, sommeliers, astrologers, perfumers, and other attendants of unknown vocation. The longsuiteraisedaterrificuproarsooneknewfromafarthatitwasapproaching.The barongreetedme,theninvitedmetojointhemontheroadtohiscastle.Eulenbartwas famousforhisgardenofbirds,whichmanywouldgivetheireyeteethforseeingeven fromadistance.Intwodays,thefeastofbirdswascoming,andguestsfromallcorners of Europe would arrive like they did every autumn. I better not miss such an opportunity,Ithought–thenobilityenjoyedsharinggossip,someonewouldhaveseen orheardsomething Thetracehuntingprecedestheheadhunting,soIturnedmyhorse andjoinedthecarnivaltrainatonce.

‘Thebaron’sgardenwasastounding.Itwaslocatedinsideagiantcagethesizeofa fortress, moulded with exquisite ornaments and translucent nets, gold-plated and paintedinbrightcolours.Filledwithchirping,wing-beats,andbeakknocks,onecould hearitlongbeforethecastleitselfwasinsight Thunderbirds,larks,vultures,seagulls, blackbirds, sparrows, eagles, hawks, owlets, snipes, and grouses – Eulenbart had collectedwhatnotinhisgarden.Allthebirdsoftheworld,hesaid.Therewerebirds with heads flat as shovels; birds crested and sac-like; others with eyes peeping from beneath the wings; birds chewing fire; birds speaking Portuguese; birds whose wings werepigmentedbytheirdreams,andtherewerealsothoserecitingversesknownonlyto theancientornithologists.

‘Afteralongwalkinthegardenthatendedwithloudcheers,theguestswere invitedfordinnerinthemirrorroom.Thedisheswerealreadyserved,thewinesparkled intheglasses,laughtervibratedinthemirrorsofwhichallthewallsweremade;thenthe lastguestarrived.CountessdeMuntuñohadn’tgotoffthecarriageyet,butatthetable thewordwasthatshewascomingforthebaron’smostprecious Itwaswellknownthat he didn’t sell the birds from the garden. For all these years, he hadn’t sold a single specimen.

specimen

AndhismostpreciousacquisitionhereceivedinPersia Godknowswhathe hadgiveninreturn–hehadtradedhissoul,accordingtomany.Eventuallythebaron hadcomebackwithaphoenixbirdwhichhekeptunderlockandkeyinahiddencrypt. Therumourclaimedthatunderthecastle,therewasawholelabyrinthofsuchpremises whereEulenbartwaskeepingthosebirdswhichhehimselfcalledlonespiritsonaccount oftheirincapabilitytolivetogetherwithanyone Neitherwithotherbirdsnorwitha humansoul.ButalsobecausetheirpossessionwasillegalfromGibraltartoPetersburg. Harpies,demonbirds,vampires,three-headedbats,dream-suckingbirds,basilisks,black roosters, moon birds. This was the baron’s secret garden. Somewhere over there, the phoenix changed its skin once every autumnal equinox. Countess de Muntuño was comingforthatskinandhadpreparedtwochestsofmoneyforit,itwasbelieved.Once fallen off the bird’s body, the skin quickly turned into ashes, but this fact obviously didn’tdisturbthecountess.Thenobilityspentlotsofmoneyonluxuries,anditdidn’t surprise anyone. Gold for ashes would, in any case, be the baron’s best deal. The countess’reasononlybecameknowntomelater.’

TranslationfromBulgarianbyTodorP.Todorov.EditedbyTeyaDancer.

David Philip Ireland

underthespreadingtrees

andtwistedwisteria

aroundtable

wornandweathered

woundaroundus

adestinyof

barkingbeasts

andfootloosetunes

andburiedlackeys

andservingmaids

sharpoftongue

andsweatedbrow

tea?

atthistimeofday?

andcoffee?

now?

wedonotconform

apparently

onethirty-sevenisthetime

forcoldbeersandchardonnays

onahotsunday

inthevaleofDean

wheretheferryman

maneuversthewalkersandtheirdogs

acrossthegentleWye

inthisgenteelgarden

wewerehurried

andjostled

andmadetofeel

lessthanwelcome

althoughthelatesummersun burneddownuponmyneck and,onthisunhurriedday, Ifeltawearycalm agentlepeace

sticksandboughs intheriver

enticedbraveHercules

toenterthecoolflow

thoughsightwasblurred andbreathwasshort

theDevil’sChapelson wouldrepeat andreturn

asoftaswewouldthrow earlyintheday theriverduckslaughed fromtheirriverboatperch

wherecaptainsscrubbedandcleanedthedecks

whilenoisytalesofriverbank

regaledthecastandcrew ahead

Marachel’sabbey restoredwithtime

ahalfacenturysincefirst

wewalkedtheroof-lesshalls

andwall-lesschambers

nowwider,taller,morecomplete

thanmemoryservedus

thisday,aknightinmail anoratorinfullflow

withtalesofBeckhamandMonty

AquitaineandDeBurgh

withhorsesproudandsilent

quoitboysandjoustingsiblings revealingthestory'send instolenbreaths

Çaplanepourmoi

theBelgianaberration

theoneflawinaflawlessgig historytoldasitwastold

andthenmorewaffle

theBelgiandelicatessen

mastiffsandspuggiesandsuperheroes

fledtheabbeygarden

aswerolledtowardthesteelfingers

lacingourlandstogether

tohome where wearyfromamagicday

weunfurlumbrellasonthelawn

andhangthegownsaway

thereispizzaintheoven thereareolivesintheplan

therearefriendsandfamilyaroundus

asitwaseverthus

BONNETSANDSLIPPERS

David Philip Ireland

whenIwasyoung

themostglamorousthingI’deverseen

wasthesignonthegateoffontanarecords

fromthewindowofthelumberingvauxhall

blurringpastthespectres

oflitarozaanddennislotis

dancingonthelawn

beyondtheprivethedgesandleylandiitrees

containmentwasnotinme

thethree-hourdrive

ledustotheouterreachesoflondontown

totwickenhamroad

andthefrontparlourpianoatonehundredandfifty-two threecoinsinthefountain

andmantovani'sdreamofolwen

perchedinvitinglyontheopenlid

thehousesmelledoftimesgoneby oflavenderandviolet

andplayerswhiskeyreadyrubtobaccy andthreeofthemlivedthere

mistersmithandhisdaughter,eva andmyfunnyauntybeattie

mistersmithcommuted

toaburlingtonarcadegentleman’soutfitters

wherehewouldcutandfashionneckwear fortheaffluentstylishofthecity

andtheoffcutsandsnippetsandsamplesofsilk

foundtheirwaytotwickenhamroad

attheendofeachworkingday

forthedolls’bonnetsandelegantpoohslippers

Ihavenoideawhatevadid

onceayounggirl

maybeasecretary

oralibrarian

lavenderandviolet

andthentherewasbeattie

auntybeattiewhite

whitehairandberet

apastrychef

somewhereinthecity

andshewasfunny

andalittlebitwicked

acountryfiedcitygirl

Ididn’tknowthehalfofit…

londonwasanabstractnothingtome

noonehadeverthoughttotakemeintotown

Imayaswellhavebeen

ontheoutskirtsofanywhereatall

sunderland,solihull,ortenburywells

thedorchesterortheritz

orthegreenmaninleytonstone

oratriponabustolookatthequeen

Iwouldneverhaveknownthedifferencebetween then,asIgrew,tonineorten mistersmithdisappeared,presumeddead andIwasallowedtoexplorehisgardenshed fullofglassdaguerreotypes, patchesofsilks andboxesofpeelingveneer, bonnets,andwinnieslippers then,aroundnineteen studyingfashionwithtextiles myjobplacement waswithpollypeckinlewisham

mytimehadcometogototown...

atrainridetopaddington blurringpastthespectresofbolanandono andatubetoonehundredandfifty-two bereftofmistersmithandevatoo butauntiebeattiewasstillthere asquirkyasever

lavenderandvioletandcotyimprevu

howmodernmistersmithhadbeen beattieandevaweremorethanjustfriends theforties,fifties,andsixtieswererevolutions revolutionarythings,georgiantrends thingsweredifferentupintown afarreachfromthemillsofthevalleys forayounggirl,freshoutofwedlock, nevertowedinasilkengown

whenIwasyoung,evaandbee werethemostglamorousthingsIcouldeverconceive lavenderandviolet bonnetsandslippers

freeastheair freetobe...

SKELETONS

Abigail Elizarraraz

Youwritetorecognizeyourskeletons

Whathidesbehindyourperfectroutine

You'resurroundedbytheideaofexploringyourconsciousness

Becausewithoutreflectionthereisnoviewoftherootsthat needtobepulled

Inyourownversesandwords,youfindthehoneytoheal

Youforgetaboutthediggingsoilbecausethereisnousein buryingyourpastbeingsifyoudo notevolvefromthem.

08.03.2020

HEATONTHESTREETSOFCDMX Ayer del Futuro

Iusuallygetuptopeeonceanight,andoftenwaituntilI'vedecidedmysleepisover andit'stimetostartmyday.Igotupfourtimesthatnight.Whatthisurinemarathon was, I don't know, but it was absolutely irritating considering I had to climb the fourteenstepstotheupperfloorinthedarkeachtime.Thelastoutpouringwasat8:30. WhetherbecauseIwasexcitedorbecauseitwasalreadythree-thirtyintheafternoon, Berlintime,sleepwasoverforme.

Mymorningworkoutsessionfollowed,Ireallyneededtoexercise long on the plane. Then I gave Mariel and Susanna the tulip magn yesterdayfromtheAmsterdamairportonmywayherefromBerlin.

Ihadtransferred750eurostoMariel'saccount,nowshecounted , p Theexchangeratewasaround21.3pereuro.Wehadabanana-papayasaladandheaded outformyfirstwalkaroundCoyoacán,thecoyoteneighborhood Somewherearound thesestreetslivedtheartistFridaKahlo,knownforherNaïveart Herewasalsothe houseoftheBolshevikratLeoTrotsky,infrontofwhichhewasassassinatedinAugust, 1940.

Theskywasstretchedoutsilkyblue,withoutasinglecloudonitandthesunwas shiningcheerfully.ThetreesbeneathhadspreadoutjustliketheydoinBulgariainearly summer.GrandmaWinterwasover!

WewalkedthroughJardíndelarteAllendewheredailylocalartistsexhibitedtheirartfor sale.Therewerepaintingsofallkindsandsizesinthislittlepark,butthemostpopular werethecanvaseswiththeimageofFridaKahlo.Wecrossedthestreetandentereda largehallthathousedthelocalfoodmarket.Theyofferedcookedandrawmeats;there weremountainsoftortillasandjuicestandsallaroundus,alldrownedintheappetizing smokeofthegrillsandthechaoticshoutsoftherestaurateursandvendors.Themost popularofthemwasanoldmanwithabigsombreronicknamed"ElGuerro"or"the Blondone" Allhislifethelegendarybutcherhadbeenpromptinghiscustomerswith, "Hey,Guerro,areyouhungry?",sothenicknamestuck Hewaspullingthemeatsinthis market.Herewashishomeandhisbattlefield.Nowallthemerchantsaroundusedthe famous summon. One of them caught us and seated us at a table where a Mexican

familywashavingtheirlunch Wesalutedthemandsatonthebenchacross Therewas ahandsanitizeronthetable,whichweusedimmediately

After the swine flu outbreak, antiseptic gel was found at every eating place in this country. Customers used it before and after meals, it had become an invariable accessory,ahabit.Onourtablewerebowlsofslicedlemons,onions,parsley,cactusand saucesofdifferentkind–redandgreen,milderorspicier.Inthismarketyoucouldfind mostlyfingerfood.Yousitdown,sanitizeyourhandsandthenseasonyourtacos.If someonesneezedoverthebowls,though,thegelwouldn'tsaveyou.Anotherweakness beforeCovid-19.Youtouchonebowl,andanother,andvoila–nowyou'reinfected. Thereweredozensanddozensofhungrypeoplepassingbyhere.Andeverything washappeningsofast.

Thefamilyinfrontofuslookedpleased.Theywishedusbonappetiteandimmediately afterthemtheseatsweretakenbyothers.Weorderedporktonguetacosandcarnitas,a mixtureofdifferentpartsofpork Asastarterwewerebroughtchicharron–deepfried porkskins Itfeltlikeveryweirdcrisps,itwascrunchingplayfullyundermyhungry teeth.Ihadorderedpineapplejuice,gotawholebucketsomewherebetween700mland aliter.TheAmericaninfluenceinMexicowassecondtonone.Theportionofjuicy, fattymeatwasreallywelcometomyfamishedEuropeanduodenum.Wehadasolid meal,forwhichwepaid175pesos,orabout8.20euros.

Itwasthe8thofMarch,andwomeninthiscountrywerefedupwiththedaily repression,rapeandmurder,towhichthestateshamelesslyturnedablindeye.Two weeksago,ascandalhaderuptedoverthetwonextfemicidevictims.Aseven-year-old girl was raped and murdered, in revenge against her mother. Another 25-year-old womanwasbrutallyhackedtopiecesbyherhusband.Thistime,themediahadreleased picturesoftheremainsofthecarnage.

We were traveling on the blue line in the direction to the Revoluciónstation. There were already men in green and purple T-shirts among us Green stood for women ' s rights,andpurplestoodfor"pro-abortion"Itwasstill1:00pm,thedemonstration wasscheduledfor2:00p.m.infrontoftheRevolutionMonumentinthecitycenter. WegotoffatHidalgo,onestopbeforeRevolución,inordertoavoidthecrowduntilit was time to join in. However, the streets outside were already packed with women drifting in groups in different directions. In front of us were about fifty enraged feminists. Today was the long-awaited day for them. They were headed for Juarez Avenue.Theycarriedbannersandplacardswithslogansandchantedangrily.Inthe lllllll

AyerdelFuturo|InThreeWorlds:Ch208032020HeatontheStreetsofCDMX

behindthemremainedagangofbored,riotpolice.Weturnedaroundandwalkedin theoppositedirection.Itwasexpectedthatsomeoftheradicalgroupswouldattack men.Theywerearmedwithspraypaintsandintheirangercouldusethemasweapons. MarielwasworriedthatIwouldfallpreytothem,especiallyasIamtallandwhiteandI stoodoutfromthelocals.Theideaseemedcomicaltome.

Supportershadtowearatleastoneofthecolorschosenforthatday.Westopped infrontofabandanavendor Hewassurroundedbyacrowdofwomenandwasselling furiously Wewantedtobuyoneofeachcolor,butthepurpleoneshadalreadysold out Itiedthegreenclothtomybackpack,whichhadbeenhangingonmychestsince thesubway.Marielinsistedthatwedon'tgivepickpocketsachance.

Differentblocksofhundredsandthousandsofwomenwereoccupyingthelarger streets now. Some of them were led by sound systems, in others they were playing musicalinstruments,buteverywhereyoucouldhearthemchantingwiththevoiceof rage and anger. They left the walls behind them carrying messages of pain and frustration.Theyspray-paintedgovernmentbuildingsandoffices,fountains,busstops andmonuments.Thefacesofthesculpturesgotcoveredwithbandanas."Notoneless", "Therapingcockinthemeatgrinder","Hewhodoesnotjumpisamacho","Iprotest withmydaughters,soasnottoprotestforthem",“Wewantourselvesalive”.Theysang andshoutedandscreamed.Grandmothers,mothers,daughters,fathers,brothersand sonsofmurderedandmissingwomen.Theairwasonfire,thepowerofthemassof protesterswasoverwhelming.

TheentireMonumentoalaRevoluciónsquarewasfull Crowdsofpeoplecame from both sides of the main city avenues Paseo de la Reforma and Avenida de la RepúblicaaswellasfromthesmallerstreetsaroundthesquareandflowedintoJuarez Avenue.ThemarchaimedZócalosquarewheretheCathedral,theNationalPalaceand otherfederalbuildingswerelocated.Mariel'sparentswerealsosomewherearoundthe demonstration. Everywhere the eye could see there were people. I had never seen so manyatonce.Marielcouldn'tkeepitanylongerandcried;Ishuddered.

A group of masked girls smashed through the metal barriers protecting the MonumentoalaRevoluciónandburstinwithcoloredspraypaint.Theyleftbehind thewords:"Mexico,beautiful,loved,killerofwomen".Westoodonthehigherpartin frontofthemonumentandwatchedtheendlesscrowdflowdowntheavenuebelow us. It was captivating. I have witnessed much more violent demonstrations, but the scaleofthisonewasdevastating.

We met Miguel, Mariel's colleague He was accompanying his girlfriend who was jjjjjjjjjjjj

engaged in a dance group They wore handmade feathered masks and swayed their bodiestoanancientAztecrhythmledbydrumsandancientwindinstruments The dancerswereflankedbyachainofgirlswhoonlyletmeniniftheyhadtocarrywaterto theparticipants.

Anhourafterthestart,exhaustedbyemotions,wedecidedtositdownforabeer.All the restaurants and shops around were closed because of the demonstration. We managedtofindaworkingpubonJuarezAvenue,wheretheendlessmarchwasstill goingon.Thebarsweredownheretoo,thewindowscoveredwithmetalshutters.Two menfromthestaffwerestandinginfrontofthesmalldoorandinvitingpeoplepassing byinafriendlymanner.Weenteredthedarkasabunkerbarandtooktwoseatsfurther awayfromtheentry.Thewallswereplasteredwithcomicstrips,andoneofthemhad drawingsoftheRamones.Thetablebehindmewasoccupiedbyfivegirlsalsocoming fromthedemonstration.Weorderedaliterbottleofbeer,whicharrivedinafrosted glass,myfingersweregladtograspit.Thetelevisionabovethedoorwasshowingnews from around the world, and a small window in the lower corner of the screen was broadcastinglivefromMexicoCity.Somenastyright-wingjournalistcommentedthat therewere250peopleattheprotest.Impudent,insaneliar!Ablindonewouldhave countednot250,but250thousand!

Whilewewereenjoyingthecoolnessofthepub,outside,undertheheatofthe sun,radicalfeministsbegansmashingtheofficesandshopsofbigbusiness Worried aboutwhatwashappening,Eliseo,Mariel’sfather,sentheravoicemessage Hedidn't support the violence, whatever the reason was behind it We thought otherwise President AMLO, on the other hand, had said that he was giving up on the demonstration. Despite the increased riot squat presence, the cops did nothing but watchfromthesidelineslikeaflockofherons.

We finished our beer and returned to the battlefield. We came out just behind the demonstration,followedbyapolicecordon.Wewerenowbehindenemylines.Much ofthewoodenbarricadeshadbeentorndownandmostofthebuildingswerecovered by protestors’ graffiti. The windows of banks and multinational bloodsuckers like Starbucks,McDonaldsandtheHiltonHotelwereshattered.Linesofriotpolicehung onthesidewalks,wearingtheirheavyuniformsinthethirty-degreeheat.Anarchistand feministsymbolsofvaryinghueadornedtheirshields,sluggishlyloweredtotheground awaitingtheordertoattack. Amonumenttowomenvictimsofviolencewasrecently erectedinfrontofthePalaceofFineArts.Therewasaplaquewiththenamesofthose killedandmissing.Ontheplatformnexttothememorial,girlstookturnsand

passionately spoke through tears about the injustice to their loved ones, victims of brutality.Manyofthemofferedflowers.

JuarezAvenueendedandtheroadtoZócalosquaresplitinto5thMayAvenue and16thSeptemberStreet.Bothintersectionswereclosedwithtwo-metermetalfences. However,therabidradicalshadoccupiedthem.Theyslammed,kickedanddrewon them. Now was their hour. The long-awaited moment of triumph, publicity and revengeonaslumberingsocietyandstate.Nowwasthemomenttoattracttheattention notonlyofthecountryofMexicobutofthewholeworld.Severalmaskedwomenwere cuttingtheconnectionsbetweentheenclosureswithmetalshears.Otherstorethem downbyforceandeachtimetheysucceededeveryoneshoutedandchantedinvictory.

TheriotsquadretreatedtowardsEjeCentral.Ontheoppositesidewalk,awoman withasmallshoppingcartwassellingicecreambars.Nowtheentirepoliceforcewas suckingonthemeltingsticksandwatchingtheshowfromasafedistance.Theirshields hadalsobeenupgradedbythedemonstrators.Thesituationgraduallysubsided,the ranks of protesters thinned. The smoke from the burning flares carried by the demonstratorswastriggeringMariel'sasthmaandwedecideditwastimetogo.We snuckpasttheuniformsliningEjeCentralandheadeddownHidalgoAvenue,backto themetrostation.Theglasswallsofthebusstopswereshattered,thecallforjusticewas sentout.ThepoliceandthemediareportedthatradicalshadusedMolotovcocktailsin someofthebuildings However,Ididnotseefireenginesandtracesofburning

HappyMarch8,MexicoCity!HappyMarch8toallwomen.

TranslatedfromBulgarianbyAyerdelFuturoandeditedbyTeyaDancerinMarch,2023.

"HeatonthestreetsofCDMX"isthesecondchapterofthetravelogueInthreeworlds, firstpublishedinBulgariain2021.

REFLECTINGONMEMOIRS

Bethanie Knapper

Iloveamemoir.Backintheday,memoirsandcelebrityautobiographiesusedtobe somesortofcheapmoneyspinner,justsomethingtoreadandthrowaway,withoutany realsubstance.Butthey’vehadarenaissance,andnowmyInstagramfeedisfullofthe latestmustreadmemoir.They’rehigh-brownow,toppingbestsellerlistsandwinning awards,andprovidemanywriterswithanopportunitytoreflectonmanydifferent things.They’vegonefromsomethingformulaictoanopportunitytobereallycreative, tellstoriesandputauniquetwistonaclassicformula,andwillalwayshaveprideof placeonmybookshelf.

Personally,Ithinkthatreadingaboutotherpeoplecombinesourhumanobsessionwith ourselves with our curiosity about each other – we get to see the world through someoneelse’seyes,understandtheirpointofviewandthoughtsonhistorywhilethere issomesortofaspectof‘theindividual’,ofseeingtheworldthroughaspecificlens withoutthecognitivedissonanceofotheropinionsandviewpointsthatmimicstheway we often experience the world ourselves It indulges both of these curiosities, Plus, there’sthatultimatehappiness/sadnessofreadingsomethingthatreallyrelatestoyou, thatyoufeelasifyou’velivedthroughandexperiencedwheresomeoneputswordsto thethingsthatyou’vefeltandlivedthrough.

Doesitfeelmorerealwhenit’ssomethingthatactuallyhappenedtosomeoneelse?

Andthat’swherewegetintotheissueofthe‘ethics’ofmemoirs,asbothareaderanda writer.Howmuchofyourlifeandthelifeofthepeoplethatyouknowisitfairtoput ondisplay,especiallywhentheremightnotbehappystoriesoronesthatportraythem inthebestlight?Ourthoughtsandfeelingschangesomuchandit’ssuchapowerful and important thing, but does it remove nuance when a feeling is captured in ink forever,thatitcan’tbecaveatedorunsaidorchangedlikeourrelationshipsebband fmpp

andflowastimesandcircumstanceschange.Feelingsandrelationshipscanbesuchfluid things,andisitfreezingthisfluidity?

Doesthefactthateverythingspinssoquicklymakeitevenmoreimportanttostopitfor asecond?

Tolookattheinverseofthis,amemoircanbeacameracapturingfeelingsbothfleeting andthekindofemotionsthatstickandlast,makingsenseoftheworld.Theycaneven captureaslantofhistory,arealpersonwithareallife.

Asareader,isitastrangesortofvoyeurismtobelookingsomuchintosomeoneelse’s life?Thisparticularlyfocusesontheworldofcelebritybiographiesandautobiographies.

Whatmakessomeonenoteworthyandwhoselifeisworthyofrecording,orfuelsthat obsessiontoreadsomuchaboutbands,celebrities,people?

Itcanfeeloddtoknowsomuchaboutsomeonewhentheyknownothingaboutyou–I thinkthat’stheinterestingthingaboutamemoir.Asawriter,itmusttakemoreofan emotionaltolltoaccessthosethoughtsandfeelingsandputpentopaper,torelive experience I’vereadmemoirsofsuchstrengthandcouragethatreliveexperiencesthat mustbepainful.

Andwhilethetruthcanhurt,whataboutwhenthingsaren’ttrue?Whenpeoplehave beencriticisedforembellishingthingsandmakingthemup,howmuchdoesitaffectthe experienceofreadingit?Orofwritingit?Doesitmatterifit’sagoodbook?

Iguessalotofcentralquestionsaboutreadingandwritingcanbeunderstoodthrough thememoircosthere’sapuritytothewaythatit’stold.Whilememoirscanbeinfinitely creative,interestingandreflectthelife,talent,styleandpersonalityoftheauthor,there’s stillasenseofastrippingbackfromthekindofdevicesusedinliterature,ofitbeingthat mostbasicthingofhavingaconversation,tellingourlifestory,askingaboutourday They’reaspacetofeelconnectedtowordsandastoryandfindsharedconnections,and asawritertobringmoreofyourselftoyourwork,totransformexperiencesintowords likeakindofalchemythatmighthelpsomeone It’stakingabreakfromyourownworld andseeingitthroughsomeoneelse’seyes,learningabouthowtoseethingsfromother people’sperspectivewhenempathyforeachotherissoimportant.

Conclusion:Iloveamemoir

WriteresqueVolume7 OutinOctober2023

Amagazinethatcelebratesthebraveryofbeingdifferent,whatWriteresquestandsforis prideinindividuality.

Tofeatureinournextissue,sendusyourliterarysubmissionaccompaniedbya photographandashortbiographytowriteresquelit@gmail.com. Pleasemakesureyou havereadourSubmissionsCriteriaandTs&Cs.

We arelookingforcreativeswhodaretoexploreandbreaktherulesofconventional writingandconventionalthinking.Wewelcomepoetryandprosefilledwithcuriosity, textsembracingdiversity,andauthorsunleashingtheirstrivingrebelliousspiritto produceapieceofcreativewritingthathasasoulofitsown.Ifthisisyou,wedefinitely wanttoreadfromyou.

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AuthorsVolume6

AbigailElizarrarazisawriterfromsunnySonomaCounty!Forthelongesttime,writinghas beenherformofpeaceandreflectionShe’spassionateaboutmorningsunrisesandallthings flowersAbigailiscurrentlyastudentatSonomaStateUniversity,pursuingherliberalstudies degreeinhopesofbecominganeducator.

AyerdelFuturowasborninPlovdiv,BulgariaandisnowlivinginBerlinHewrotethe travelogueInthreeworldsThebookwaswrittenduringtheauthor’sholidaysinMexicoin Marchof2020InthreeworldswasreleasedonlyinBulgarianwiththepurposeofbeinggiven justtofriendsandfamilyAyerdelFuturohaswrittenfewpoemsandshortstoriesaswellas dozensofsongsforhispunkbands,whereheistheleadsingerPresentlyheworksonhisnext book,StreetForce–astoryofHungarianimmigrantslivinginasquatinBarcelona.Thebook isgoingtobetranslatedinEnglishandreleasedforsaleinsearchforawideraudience

GabriellaGarofalowasborninItalysomedecadesagoShefellinlovewiththeEnglish languageattheageofsix,startedwritingpoems(inItalian)atsixandistheauthorofthe booksLosguardodiOrfeo,L’invernodivetro,Dialtrestellepolari,Casadierba,Blue BranchesandABlueSoul

DavidPhilipIrelandisawriter,poet,musician,artistandexperimentalist RattlesnakeJar,David’snewestbookandalbum,isavailablenowonAmazon. DavidPhilipIrelandhasworkedinmanyaspectsofthearts,includingmusic,theatreand photography,publishinganumberofsoloandcollaborativemusicprojects,twonovels, SlowPoisonandBloodstones,plustwoanthologiesofpoetry.

TodiscoverDavid’sbackcatalogue,visit:linktree/davidirelandmusic

TodorP.TodorovisisaphilosopherandassociateprofessorattheUniversityofSofiaSt ClimentOhridskHeistheauthoroftheshortstoryanthologiesTalesformelancholic childrenandAlwaysthenightBothbookswereoriginallypublishedinBulgarianbyCiela Publishers,SofiaandtheninGermanbytheGrössenwahnpublishinghouse,Frankfurtam MainHisworksweretranslatedintoEnglish,German,GreekandCroatianThestory"Van GoghinParis"receivedtheBulgarianliteraryprizeforbestshortstoryin2011 Hisdebutnove,Hagabula,publishedinBulgariabyJanet45in2022,wasnominatedfor Helikon'sBronzeEagleAward.

Notes&Thoughts

Notes&Thoughts

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