Battery by Teodora Mihailova

From the steel-cold bite of pain
I cannot save you.
From the marsh of doubt
I cannot save you.
From yourself
I cannot save you.
I can be stronger
for the power to save you,
Yet there is nothing
for me to save you from.

For Good by Teodora Mihailova

For good, he sees not
the way I look at him,
for loneliness is necessary.
For good, he feels not
the coldness in my heart,
for darkness, it is necessary.
For good, he knows not
of my doubts of sin,
for righteousness is necessary.
For good, he still believes
my eyes are full of light,
for emptiness is necessary.
For good, he sees not
the evil in the right,
for punishment is necessary.

by Teodora Mihailova

Every day is the same,

nothing ever changes.
Every face i know,
everybody tires me.

Every day is the same,
but everybody's different.
No day ever comes again,
the before is far away.

Every day's the same,
all i have today
is the belief that one day
i will wake up in a better day.

by Teodora Mihailova

Sixteen bloody battles,

Seventeen tears like waves,

Fourty miles through mist,

A hundred frozen days

Seven ghostly voices,

Many fears like snowflakes,

An evening and a chance,

A flower and a dance

I'm living for the kiss

Fighting against time,

Striving for that second

When you're always mine

Afternoon Coffee by Mihaela Zaharieva

Every day was the same. Get up. Tie my hair up. Coffee. Go to work. Afternoon coffee. Back to work. Go home. Eat. Go to bed.
A repetitive schedule which repeats itself five times a week with the other two days being just a second. A brief stop to a cycle… or just a part of it. Before I realized it that cycle had become my life. Never ending repetitive actions. Nothing ever set apart one day from the other and it seemed that it would go on forever. But one day it changed.
That afternoon I was going to the usual coffee shop ordering the same sandwich and espresso as every day. The sky was covered with clouds as usual and the whole scenery was as gray as it could be. I sat down on the table, where I always sat and looked out. The scenery never changed. Tall buildings, people and cars rushing by and the big clock in the middle of the square.
Suddenly the sun shone through the clouds just as the bell on the door rang as a new customer entered. It was a man about my age with long hair wearing a bright red jacket. As he walked in the whole shop seemed to brighten up as if color spread around covering the gray of the afternoon. He was smiling as if it was the happiest day of his life and there wasn’t a place he’d want to be in more that this little coffee shop. I didn’t understand that. Why would this make anyone happy? It was just another day. The same as the previous one and probably no different than the next one. Thinking that way I didn’t even notice the time until my phone rang reminding me that my work was waiting. I quickly finished my meal and rushed out of the shop not even noticing the eyes glancing at me.
The next afternoon it repeated. The same man walked in this time in a green t-shirt smiling as the day before. The same thing happened again the next time I was in the shop.
The fourth time it was crowded. There weren’t many seats and I was lucky to get my usual table next to the window. When the door bell rang I wasn’t surprised to see him again. It had become usual but his smile still puzzled me. Looking at my clock there was still an hour and a half left from my break. The weather was strangely warm and the usual grayness of the city seemed to intensify it.
“My I sit next to you?” the sudden questioned startled me. I quickly turned to the source of the voice and saw the same man. He was with his red jacket and had that same unusual smile. Without realizing it I nodded.
That afternoon became unusual. I drank my coffee as I talked with this man that I didn’t know at all and it seemed unreal.
On the next day he sat with me again even though there were many empty seats this time. When I noticed it was about time for me to go back to work I decided to ask.
“Why do you always smile like that? Its not like the day is special but you still seem to be unusually happy with it.,” I had barely finished my sentence when he laughed. It wasn’t in a rude way or anything like that but it still seemed like a very strange reaction.
“Every day is special in its own way.”
“But… the city is the same shade of gray. And the people are the same rushing by. I am the same.”
“That is not true,” he looked at me a bit amused. “You see there are all those small details which change every time. For example a few days ago was the first time we saw each other. Yesterday was the first time I saw you smile. And today is the first time this week that you have had your hair down. And tomorrow will be special too. It will be Saturday and I hope you would go to dinner with me.”

Spring by Siyana Ivanova

Speck by speck by speck
The wind carries away the ashes
(That had once been my world)
While Spring is dancing her first steps
That slowly turn into a cavalcade
Of countless little wings
Which make the air tremble.
Why does not the lack tear me apart,
And why do I feel the sun on my face?
I should have melted away, I should have
Been broken into little pieces
And collapsed from the roofs like snow.
After every breath that seems to be last,
Why is there a next one, next one, I inhale,
I breathe, and I take in Spring
Into my veins, and why are they not bloodless?
Spring. Spring. Spring.
I want to live.

3 a.m. by Siyana Ivanova

it's 3 a.m. already, and
snowflakes fall through the streetlight
like cold fireflies
dancing with the wind
in some strange rhythm of their own
that makes me rock in my chair
as i watch, embraced by the dark,
and slowly, quietly, sink.
i run my hand through my hair and wish
it was someone else's -
the hair or the hand, it doesn't matter -
because the last living thing that touched me
was a snowflake.
and when it did, it died.
and i remembered how once,
at 3 a.m., you were telling me a story
about snowflakes falling through the streetlight
like cold fireflies.
and then, at 3 a.m.,
we were finally able to sleep.

(only it's 3.32 now.)

Whatever by Siyana Ivanova

For a moment in the dark, I existed only as the twisted reflection of a shadow, until the rain washed it from the window. The next minute or eon all that was left was the memory of my touch on the glass, as I stood still and waited. Nothing happened.

I breathed again.

The morning came slowly, as does anything you’re waiting for, and anything worth waiting for. Night moved on quickly into nowhere, and as it was spinning away, I felt all the dark-dwelling beings and unbeings attach their claws to it and disappear. I didn’t see the sun, hidden somewhere behind the rainclouds, but I saw its light, grayish and dull, gradually breaking through to the wet glass of my window. The clouds were running away from the crime-scene of last night’s iniquitous storm. It would take, though, at least one more hour of a gray, wet morning until they made their way. I lay still for another half an hour, waiting for my own storm to disappear on the horizon. Then I fell asleep.

Two hours later the sunlight on my eyelids woke me up. Almost eight o’clock. Monday. School. I slowly got up.

Eight fifteen. Classes started. Almost not late.

Random images, random sounds.

Eleven thirty. Lunch break. Random people, faces, hugs, smiles, the bell rings.

Classes.

Random images, random sounds.

Three thirty. On my way home. Random randomness.

Eleven fifty-one. To bed.

I thought it would be another night of waiting, but it wasn’t. I fell asleep almost immediately, but it was not because of the heaviness I felt in all parts of my body. “I fell asleep” is not the right choice of words. “Sleep fell on me” would be closer: as if something pressed hard upon me and pushed me under.

I remember all my dreams. Especially nightmares, because they are always so palpable and somehow immediate, like there is nothing between me and the dream, not even the soothing voice in the back of your head that tells you that you are sleeping and are going to wake.

So I heard it so clear as if it were in my own mind, and still not its creation. A sound so impossible that it could hardly be called a voice.

Hey.

Come here. I’ll tell you a secret.

I felt like I was moving though the blackness.

Don’t be afraid, I couldn’t do anything to you. Just look at me – am I someone who could hurt anybody, even if I wanted to?

It was not trying to make me less afraid. It was mocking me.

I’m so alone… But I guess that’s okay, ‘cause I don’t feel lonely. I don’t feel anything at all.

Then I suddenly realized that I don’t really feel anything anymore either.

So why do I want you to sit beside me and listen to this? I don’t know. Maybe I just don’t know what to do with all this time… I have time till the end of everything. It’s running fast, so fast that I can barely see it, but it’s so much, so long, that it seems I’ll never free myself.

I didn’t want to believe that this conversation, which was indeed a conversation despite my not saying anything aloud, was really happening. But there is a difference between believing and knowing, and I knew.

No, I am not alive. I guess I once was. But now I am not alive. I am not here, I am nowhere. Nowhere is everywhere. The difference between those two things is slight, still huge. Nobody can be everywhere, but some can be nowhere…

Nowhere. Nowhere.

Don’t try to touch me. You won’t like it. I’m too cold.

I wouldn’t. It was mocking me. It knew something I did not know.

I know you want to say something to me, but you don’t know what… Or you just think I’m insane… Well, maybe I am. But don’t say anything – I hate hearing human voices. They are too alive. I like listening to the wind’s voice.

I was the insane one. And the schizophrenic voice in my head was making fun of me.

Hmm, I’ve said too much already… I talk too much, don’t you think so?

Stop it.

I promised to tell you a secret. I’ll do it, and I’ll let you go. You shouldn’t stay with me for too long.

Stop it now. I want to go.

So, my secret is this: Death does not exist…

My eyes opened wide in a fraction of a second and I stared into the ceiling. Morning. It was cold, extremely cold.

Tuesday. School. I slowly got up.

Eight fifteen. Classes started. Almost not late.

Random images, random sounds.

Eleven thirty. Lunch break. Random people, faces, hugs, smiles, the bell rings.

Classes.

Random images, random sounds.

Three thirty. On my way home. Random randomness.

Eleven fifty-one. To bed.

That night I fell asleep again. Only this time I didn’t know which one of the two realities was a dream. I didn’t know if I was going to sleep or waking up.

I couldn’t know anymore.

MEG: I by Elena Angelova

Frankly, my life would have made a pretty boring book, even if I fancied thinking of myself as a somewhat decent book character.

I took a Creative Writing class in middle school. My teacher, Mrs. Noel, always encouraged her students to put a lot of action into their stories. A girl who buys an ice cream, Mrs. Noel would say, wasn’t likely to make a good story if the hardest decision she had to make throughout the course of the writing was to pick an ice cream flavour. Now, she would insist, the story could become much more exciting if the ice cream vendor turned out to be a zombie. Or, say, if the girl was eaten by a zombie on her way back. Or, for instance, the chocolate ice cream turned the girl into – surprise, surprise – a zombie. She was pretty obsessed with zombies, that teacher of mine. I got her point nonetheless and the example about the ice cream stuck forever in my mind. I could easily identify myself with the girl whose most complicated dilemma of the day was whether to have a chocolate or vanilla ice cream. In fact, I saw myself in that hypothetical girl to such an extent that I practically became her. I would wake up every morning and think to myself two flavours of ice cream and by the end of the day I would have decided what the day’s flavour was. It became an automatic habit, almost like having breakfast or brushing my teeth. The alarm clock would ring and my first conscious thought would be, it’s blueberry or pineapple today. Then, what I’d do, I’d bet the choice on a certain highlight of my day. Like, if I was about to know my Math test grade, I would make it pineapple for an A and blueberry for anything less. Nobody understood what was with those imaginary ice cream flavours of mine. It was weird to most people, and that settled it for them – “weird” was a nice simple label they could comprehend. To me, the flavour game was simply a way of adding just a spoonful more meaning to my average days.

Mrs. Noel ensured the class that if our plot was creative and eventful, it would compensate if by chance our characters weren’t vivid enough. As far as she was concerned, the answer to “Why do we care about this character?” would be something rather resembling “Because the character was attacked by a zombie.” The self-absorbed sixth-grader I was thought about reading a book about herself, and could almost hear in her mind English teachers asking their students, “Now, why do we care about Martha Gallagher?” Provided that they were like Mrs. Noel, they wouldn’t quite like me as a character, because the story of my life wasn’t particularly full of zombies. I tended to dream big, made grand plans about the future, had an imaginative mind and enjoyed various kinds of art, but my reality was just plain boring. I lived in a tranquil district of a small town, was an only child, attended school in the vicinity, and knew my best friend since I was three.  And despite that most of the time I was fooling myself successfully enough, there were times when I was completely aware of the fact that it wasn’t really of great importance whether the day’s flavour would be pistachio or cherry sorbet. 

Every now and then I would wish for anything to happen – in my desperate moments, I supposed I would gladly welcome even an unfortunate change, just as long as it was any change at all.  I never believed in the saying “Be careful what you wish for,” because my wishes were more than reluctant to come true, even the most trivial ones – like, every single school morning when I wished my hair would stay intact after I’ve brushed it, but it never did. As I had an ice cream flavour explanation for almost every aspect or situation in my life, that’s how I saw it: I wished I could wake up with the options of red orange and mint, and be able to pick Bavarian cream.

The day the most desired change began to stir was a watermelon flavoured day, which could have been peanut butter had I not turned in my lab report on time. It was also the day when “Be careful what you wish for” started making a bit more sense.   

The Diamond Necklace by Teodora Mitova

There was a girl called Joan. Her hair was dark blond and her eyes were as blue as the sky. She didn’t have friends and although she could speak with animals, she was scared to do so. The town she lived in was in the peaceful part of California. Her house was in the farthest part of the city. Behind it was a forest which was as alive as the animals that lived there. The neighbors were always kind, helpful and sympathetic people. On the streets that went between the houses was no traffic.
One day she went to the wood. The weak March sun was down in the clear blue sky when Joan stepped into the dark, mysterious forest. She wasn’t there for the first time, but the adventurous feeling was still there. When she felt lonelier than ever, or when she just wanted to think, she would go and be on her own. With every step she made, the trees were becoming bigger and taller. They surrounded her and covered the sun. The light had to fight with their branches to reach her. Joan was quiet and walked slowly. Her feet in red worn-out trainers were stepping on wet leaves and soil. There was a dense smell of pine in the air. Suddenly the girl saw something sparkling near a tree in front of her. It was a beautiful diamond necklace lying on the ground. Joan was tempted to have it and took it. She put it on her neck and felt very self-assured. On that day she didn’t see any animals on her way and went straight home.
The following day Joan went to school, and after that she didn’t go to the forest as she used to. She was bad-tempered and rude to her classmates. Her teachers were worried. In the evening Joan didn’t study for the first time in her life, and the next day she got an F. When she got home, her parents tried to talk to her and were very upset, but the girl refused to listen to them. She had never behaved like that before, and they were shocked. Joan was feeling sleepy and tired and didn’t have power to do anything. Her parents decided to give her a break from school.
One day, while Joan was relaxing in the backyard, she saw someone coming from the forest. It was a creepy old woman in black with black crow’s feather hair. She came straight to the girl.
“Hello there, pretty girl,” said the woman.
“Oh, hello,” hesitated Joan.
“You have a nice little necklace, don’t you? Where have you found it?” asked the stranger sweetly.
“Well, in the forest…But how do you know that I have found it?” the girl was surprised.
“Oh, I know many things, sweetheart. This magnificent jewel was mine and I cursed it. It is taking your youth and powers, you know?”giggled the woman, who was actually a witch. “But you can’t take it off, no!” she continued laughing as Joan was struggling with the tight necklace. “Don’t worry, you’ll be sacrificed for a good purpose. Thanks to you, I’ll be really powerful and live longer! I’ll be younger and beautiful! Nothing would stop me then!” she was talking with passion; her eyes were with evil flames in them. “Now, come here, girl, and I’ll take the necklace!” the witch demanded.
“No!” cried Joan and jumped on her feet. “Never!”
Although she was very frightened, she refused and ran to the forest. The girl was running, and running, and running…She often tripped, and soon started gasping. The witch was laughing and trying to hit her with magic.
Suddenly a huge grayish wolf appeared in front of the witch from the woods. She startled. It was growling and showing its white, big, sharp fangs. At first Joan thought that the wolf was her enemy too, but it told the girl to run and hide.
“Quickly, go!”
But she didn’t listen to her helper. Joan wanted to stay and fight. She was a brave young girl. There was no time to argue. The witch attacked. She managed to hurt Joan and the girl fell on the ground. The wolf beat off the hag, and from its big fur fell out a shiny sword. The dazzled girl took it, but it was too heavy for her; she had never before held a weapon. At least she had something to defend herself with. They started to fight with the woman, but she was much more powerful. They were going in a circle, and the wolf was jumping and trying to bite her, while the witch was trying to knock it down by magic. Joan was trying to master the sword and use it against the witch. The woman wasn’t scared; she was still smiling madly. The girl was weak because of the necklace she was wearing, but at last she managed to hurt the woman, who was distracted by the wolf. After a while the witch was bleeding; she was badly hurt, but so was the wolf, and its injuries were worse. It was feeling very tired.
 At last, the other wild animals came to help them, because they didn’t want the vicious woman to win. There were deer, squirrels, birds, rabbits and a fox. They united their powers against the evil witch. The animals had a plan. They had decided that the squirrels would be first to attack by throwing nuts. Then the rabbits would help them using their carrots sharpened as real knives. The deer would fight with their horns, and the birds would use their beaks and distract the witch by flying around her while the fox was attacking. The plan was fulfilled, and when the wolf made the crucial attack, the witch fell on the ground. Then she was gone forever; with a loud BANG! she disappeared. It was a long intense battle, and at the end everyone was cheerful and celebrated the victory.
Suddenly the gray wolf turned into a human. He was a little older than Joan, tall and handsome. His hair wasn’t dark blond like Joan’s, but golden like the sun. His eyes were not in simple brown, but greenish. He found Joan, who had fallen on the ground and had hit her head hard. He destroyed the necklace and took her home. They sat in the backyard. Joan was staring at him and didn’t know what to say. He smiled and began telling his story.
“Hi. Don’t be afraid. My name is Mike. Many, many years ago I was cursed by the witch, and I turned into a wolf. I had been waiting so long for a chance to destroy her and be human again, and finally I had it, thanks to you.”
“But why was she so evil?” asked Joan.
He sighed. “I know a bit of her story. When Sarah, that was her name, was a child, her parents died and left her without any relatives. She grew up poor and unloved. That’s why she became evil. She hated people and wanted a revenge. Sarah wanted her lost childhood and beauty. It could have been different if someone had taken care of her…”
Suddenly Joan thought of something. She was still holding the sword. “Where did it come from?” she wondered.
The boy looked embarrassed. “I was kind of prince,” he confessed. “The sword was my family’s.”
Joan wasn’t so shocked. “I knew it! In the stories there is always a prince. But what are you going to do now? Where are you going to stay?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted.
“You can stay here if you want to,” suggested Joan.
“Yeah, that would be great, thanks,” Mike beamed at her.  
Everything was back to normal. The next day the girl went to the backyard and saw all the forest animals waiting to greet her and make sure she was in good health. Joan found new friends and understood that they were one of the most important values in the world.

This I Believe by Teodora Mitova

When we are fourteen, we are not kids anymore. We know what is good for us (most of the time), we know what we want to do, and we can make our own decision about our life. Therefore, I believe that we should be allowed to choose what to study from eighth grade and above. At least, with the agreement of our parents. Moreover, we will be more ambitious if we study only what we want and need.
For example, I’d like to study only Bulgarian, Literature, English and five other foreign languages instead of Math, Geography, Chemistry and Physics, et cetera. If I study mostly languages, they will be of great help and use for me when I travel around the world or look for a job. I don’t want my profession to be connected with Math, History, Geography, Chemistry and Physics, so I don’t see why I should study them. You can call me lazy, but I’m just practical.
When I finish school, I’ll forget many of the learnt information because I won’t need and use it, so why do I have to waste time to learn it? Why do they want to torment us with difficult material that is useless in our life? Why should I study for hours something I won’t need instead of reading a book or going to the cinema?
I don’t say we should not study all subjects. We should study them for general knowledge but only until we are fourteen. Now I’m in eighth grade and in Math I study square root and vectors and I don’t think I’ll use them in my whole life. We go to school to get prepared for “real life”, right? If someone wants to become a professional mathematician, he can learn this but I don’t want to waste my time and nerves memorizing information I won’t need. My father has always helped me with Mathematics but he can’t help me anymore. He doesn’t remember the material I am studying now, because he hasn’t used it since he left school. That’s why my perfect college will be where you can choose what subjects to have, with the agreement of the parents, of course.

I Am From by Teodora Mitova

I am from big books, small books, and more/many other books,
Movies watched in the cinema, or at home,
Singing in the shower, listening to music, dreams dreamt everywhere-
in my small pink cosy room, at the park, in the bus or the subway.
I am from all mistakes I’ve made in my life, so many blushes and memories, some good, some not so…
I am just as coloured as the rainbow…

I am from all over my country or the world,
Happy hilarious holidays with my family, long or short vacations, when there is no school;
My Christmas with the Christmas tree, my Easter with the paint on my hands and my New Year with the champagne and my cat, you know;
“Happy Birthday!” and “A gift for you!,
“So very much thank you!”

I am from everything I like to eat (so almost every food);
I am from yoghurt and biscuits, cookies and milk,
banitsa, greaves, my grandmothers’ home-made food, delicious!
Also cheeseburgers and hamburgers in McDonalds with friends or my mother;
KFC, corn, and food many other.
Milkshake, juice-orange or apple, if you’re thirsty, here you are!

I am from barking dogs and purring cats,
squealing guinea pigs and biting hamsters,
fish, silent and calm, and excited parrots;
wild wolves and horses from my dreams,
big cats, so fast and graceful, sometimes lazy,
free eagles, falcons, hawks, so on…

I am from “Be yourself”-the most valuable advice,
and “Follow your ambitions;”
“Treat people the way you want to be treated” with “Be polite”, of course,
also “Never give up”, but “Never say never” too!

I am from, first of all, why I think you know, Daniela and George;
Then Astrid Lindgren for the children,
Stephanie Mayer for the teenagers in age and soul,
and J. K. Rowling for them all.
Famous writers, great novels…that’s what I want!

How to turn off a light that is already off by Nadezhda Grigorova

The sky is muddy with clouds

The wind strips me of my snowy breath

It bangs against the dangling shop sign

Dangling just because of the wind

Never because of steps or the door opening or closing

Golden letters dimmed by Time:

Antiques

In the window

A broken doll

Fine porcelain with even finer fissures

Seems painless

Bloodless lips parted, gaping…

Can I see the inside of the shop there, inside?

I can’t.

Just a void of greedy black

Her eyes are veiled by unseen dust

Static orbs of glass and numbness 

To the left of her…

The sky is muddy with clouds

The Car speeds

Through

Then Over

Then Past

You

Trailing the roads of the world with scarlet, then crimson, then black with a  crust

Sketching a map with your entrails

That will peel away,  fading.

Carving the roads in me until “in me” is soaked with scarlet, then crimson, then black with a crust

Engraving a map of your interrupted Self

That will stay, throbbing…

In the shop window

The doll

To the left of her…

You

Lying with Your open Eyes

Veiled by unseen dust

Static orbs of glass and numbness 

The sky is muddy with clouds

The street is muddy with mud

The Car should have splashed your Eyes

Should have extinguished completely

The flame that loomed there, hungry to lick the universe

Should have.

But it didn’t.

I come often

When the sky is muddy with clouds

When the wind strips me of my snowy breath

When it bangs against the dangling shop sign

Dangling just because of the wind

Never because of steps or the door opening or closing

Golden letters dimmed by Time:

Antiques

In the window

The broken doll is not

But you are

Again and again

Lying with Your open Eyes

Veiled by unseen dust

Static orbs of glass and numbness 

With no flames

Yet a Little Light keeps faltering

Dwindling it is

But it is Light

Why is it here?

Again and again

I want the void of greedy black

That erases, conceals and suppresses 

That cleanses, forsakes and forgives

Yet

Again and again

Your Light keeps haunting

Again and again

Even when the sky is not muddy with clouds

But glazed over with sun

Even when the wind does not strip me of my snowy breath

But gifts me with a breath of green – a wake-up  kiss

Even when it does not bang against the shop sign

Even when there is no shop sign

And no Antiques

And no shop

And no window

You are there

Again and again

You and your Light

Again and again

Your Light

Again and again

I try

Again and again

But

Again and again

How can I turn off a light that is already off?

Untitled by Elizabeth Savova

He returned just for a short time in her rose and pink room. It was a late afternoon and he had called to ask whether it would be all right to come back today. She allowed him to, but only if he brought orange juice and some vodka. The only thing she was absolutely positive about was the fact that she would always let him come back. There was just no other way.

Except for the vodka, she asked him for an hour and a half. For this hour and a half she managed to smoke a cigarette, to take a shower, to smoke another one, then to dry the rain out of her hair, to make herself a coffee with which to have a smoke, to iron her cotton dress and then finally to crease it again when sitting to smoke one more.

After the last cigarette, he came. She couldn’t look him in the eye when he came in. All she wanted was to hold him tight like she did before, but they both felt too uneasy for that.

In a minute, however, everything returned to normal again. She was trying to open the bottle with a knife, and he hugged her, smiling. She asked him if he were afraid of her after everything she had done to him. Especially that she was holding a cold weapon in her hand made her even more dangerous, she said. No, he wasn’t afraid. He laughed.

The known disappeared. Before, she was the shy one. Now he was anxious. Maybe it was due her reaction, which was probably a defensive one. He spoke somewhat cynically. Laughing over rules he had made up, himself. To her these rules did not seem absurd at all, but she thought that there was no way for her to say it. She lied on the couch with her head on his knees, and although she did not want to sound cold, she did, and she did it extremely well. That makes me think that she was awfully white-livered.

He loved to watch her, but now he was a little surprised. She had become so much free and open-minded. And maybe, just maybe someone else had taught her that. That made him sad.

A few minutes later he was sitting on the arm-rest of the couch and drinking vodka, and she was holding him tight, contemplating that it all was meant to happen the way it had. When he left the empty glass, he hugged her again, and she thought that they would seem a little comical: such a strong and big man with such a skinny and small woman. Laurel and Hardy in an embrace. And she felt close to the pain again.

“You know what I would never forgive you?” she whispered.

“What?”

“Remember when it all started, you told me to not fear at all and to stop protecting myself.”

“Well, be sure that everything that went around came back around…double.”

Then she remembered how many awful things she wished him after everything was over and how miserable she wanted to see him once. And she felt guilty.

“And do you remember when I was crying for I was afraid, and you asked me what the big deal was, and whether the world was going to end?”

“Did the world end?”

“Not for me, no. It will not end for you, either. But if I asked right now whether the world ended, what would you say?”

“I don’t know, but it hurts. A lot.”

“Do you remember also when you said I had brought back the meaning in your existence?”

“Back then, you really had.”

“You took mine away later. I thought it was awfully unfair.”

“It must have been.”

“No, it must not. Because it is impossible to give or take away the meaning of life. This is nonsense. A game of words.”

He became really sad now. And yet, she wanted to comfort him, but that stupid defensive reaction made her words sound mean and scornful. And the strange thing was that in this very moment, she loved him just as much as her words were cruel and malicious.

A Sappy Way to Fall Asleep by Elizabeth Savova

Tonight I want to fall asleep, with thoughts of peaches. Funny…when I imagine peaches I don’t see a blooming tree or a laden with ripe fruits epergne. In front of my eyes there is a picture from a catalog with cheap cosmetics. A beautiful picture, however. A cut peach. Only one little peace is missing, allowing the dark brown and passionate stone in the middle to show. Around that stone flow fire-red and burgundy nuances. Then they shade gradually to sappy, shiny and fresh yellow. And then comes the down, so beautifully reminding of velvet, inviting one to have a bite. Delicate drops of sweetness appear on the surface; tiny drops, almost transparent.

This is what I call an awaiting fruit. For it is waiting for the whiff of pleasantly warm breath. It is waiting for the next bite, so that it can meet these lips again.

Only the ones known true passion do eat peaches before they fall asleep. It is an instinct. One just feels the need to first taste only the drops on the outside. Scarcely after that, does he want to press his lips to the fruit itself and dry it up, with half-closed eyes and a sharpened focus on the senses.

The olfaction is drenched with the scent of this fascinating fruit.

The taste gives in to the intoxicating like ambrosia sugary syrup.

The sense of touch glides upon the downy outside admiring its softness.

The sight observes cautiously the adroit game of the colors of the caressed by sun peach: bright; promising; tempting. Red is in all of its nuances onto and underneath the sheer surface. Orange is inexorable, but just a little gently tempting. Sunny like joy, it is vivid, burning and irresistible.

A peach in my fingers, fully woven by lure. It feels almost moving between my fingertips. That I call an awaiting fruit, and I shall taste it before I fall asleep.