English, Prose, Short Story



‘When do you think people get sick of each other?’
‘I suppose when they have nothing else to say to each other.’

His words made her think. It had been ages since she last talked to her best friend. She called her parents occasionally, but all they ever said was, ‘Oh, you know, we’re okay.’ In return, she would reply that her life’s okay too. She helped in the kitchen of a local restaurant as a part-time job, most of her colleagues too proud to talk to her. The rest of the time she would spend either trying to write poetry, or doing the duties included in the description of a loyal housewife. Her husband, a lawyer with his own office, had started coming late for dinner lately, always making up excuses. All she could think of was he’s working too hard, her mind full of pity.

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Prose, Short Story

The Motivational Reinforcement.

Sarah is studying psychology. Every week she misses at least one of her 9am lectures. On those occasions, she comforts herself with three to five spoons of Nutella. The so-called ‘positive reinforcement’ is a technique she learned in her first year in university. It is basically a method that rewards a behavior to encourage it. So when Sarah misses one of her lectures, instead of being faced with ‘negative reinforcement’, which is to receive a punishment for her behavior, she takes a reward in advance. Thus, she bribes her consciousness to feel guilty next time she considers skipping yet another lecture. She calls it ‘the motivational reinforsement’. So far this method has proven to be successful half of the times but that seems to be enough for her to continue following the same routine; the only drawback being her gaining extra kilos every week. Nonetheless, further research is to be conducted towards this innovation of psychology.

English, Prose, Short Story



She loved spending her afternoons cooking pasta. Penne, spaghetti, bucatini, capellini, fettuccine, tagliatelle. She had them all in a fine collection, stuffed in a big kitchen cabinet.

Every now and then she would offer to cook for us as an invitation to have me over for the night. She would greet me with ‘Ciao, amore mio!’, and a big kiss on my mouth. From friends during the day, we would quickly shift into lovers as the moon took place over the sun.

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English, Short Story


‘Hey, Marie’
‘What’s the purpose of life?’, he said, his blue eyes filled with ambiguity, ‘Can you tell me that?’
‘I can tell you my purpose is different than yours.’
‘But how can you be so sure?’
‘Well, I want to make art. And you want to be an engineer.’
‘We will be both creating then. Isn’t that the same?’
She looked at him with a hint of resentment. Then added, ‘I guess.’
‘So you don’t know what the purpose of life is?’, he continued.
‘I guess no.’
He was gloomy. He had so many answers to find and no one seemed to be willing to give them to him. Or maybe no one had the knowledge.
‘Hey, Marie’
With the slightest of movements, her eyes caught a glimpse of the moon and then transferred back to him.
‘Do you love me?’

English, Prose, Short Story

The Quiet Observer.

The black metal chair was fitting surprisingly well in the white room, a strongly expressed form of minimalism. There was an old golden-framed photo hanging behind it, and next to it, a portray of the apartment’s owners. Both smiling, hand in hand, eyes focused on the camera. It was painted by a street artist in their summer trip to Barcelona two years ago.

Truth is nobody sat on that chair. It was a gift from a very dear friend of hers, so she could’t throw it away. And once again, it fit the setting. The black wood pendulum clock, however, was his. He had found it in an antique shop on his way back from work one day. That was one of the few things he owned, living in the world of her creation.

He walked through the door, gently as an angel, his shade moving on the wall. Suddenly, tension spread all over the room, small atoms of it interacting with each other. Much like a game.

The sound of their voices started echoing, swiftly creeping from the kitchen, reaching every book on the shelf, all covered in dust, placed in an alphabetical order. Music was still playing, as a needed background. Ella Fitzgerald’s jazzy voice was filling the room with love so tenderly, it was aiming towards for the moon, and the sky, now filled with million stars.

He wanted to kiss her. ‘No’, that’s all she said. The sink was working, she was probably washing the dishes. The dishes from the dinner they never ate as he was gone for the whole night.

He wasn’t drunk. He wished he was.

One of them threw a plate on the ground. Its pieces shattered, making a mess in the kitchen. No longer silence endured. They took their turns screaming for what it seemed like ages.

The chair sat there, in the living room, motionless and filled with sorrow. It was the quiet observer of the house, the witness of every day’s pain.

Soon enough, he stormed back through the room, and shut the front door behind him. He had a purpose now. He had to get drunk up to the point of forgetting the night. He hit his wife again. He beat her like a thief deserving some kind of punishment. But she wasn’t one, nor she was to be blamed for something.

Her only fault was that she was in love with a man that lacked the goodness in his heart and the sense in his mind. He loved her, yes, he just could’t help it. And, yes, he needed help other than the comfort offered by the bottle. She just shut her eyes, her heart both suffering and happy to have him.

And there it stood, in the living room, the chair, the quiet observer, in the middle of the small apartment on 23 McQueen Street. A beautiful neighbourhood, one might say, not knowing its ugliest secrets.

Bulgarian, Prose, Short Story

Разпиляни мисли, чай от малини и щипка мъдрост.

Чаят му издига парите си високо във въздуха, а медът, все още разтапящ се от крайчеца на чашата, потъва безвъзвратно в тъмночервената бездна. Чай от малини. Никога не съм харесвала плодовите чайове. Въпреки всичко, не мога да отрека, че миризмата някак блазни сетивата ми. Плавно се провира към лицето ми, за да ме облее като пролетна свежест в закъсняващата зима, гонеща влака за декември.


Празният лист стои някак безразлично пред мен. Тихо ми нашепва словата на бъдещето, а аз послушно повтарям думите и ги редя една до друга в пъстроцветна броеница в съзнанието си. Толкова много мисли, събрани на едно място, блъскат се и не ме оставят на спокойствие. А той продължава да говори…

– Кажи ми, какво би направила ти на мое място?

Моля? Нещо не те слушах. Както и да е. За какво всъщност си говорихме? Хмм… Май ставаше въпрос за бившата му и как го дразнела. Да, точно така. Ставаше въпрос за бившата му. Ама той май искаше да се събере с нея. Ох, трябва да започна да го слушам като ми говори. Импровизирай! Да. Най-доброто решение в повечето случаи. Или поне в моя.

– Защо просто не говориш с нея? – заявих с увереността, която идва с дълбокото премисляне на даден проблем.

– Да… май си права.

Последва кратка пауза. Той я използва, за да събере мислите си. Сякаш имаше такива. Аз продължавах да колекционирам думите на ум. Думи, които бяха видими само за моето съзнание.

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