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  • Obrázek autoraSlávka Harazimová


He introduced himself as an American writer. Wrinkles furrowed his face so intricately and unconventionally that they resembled encrypted writing. “That's exactly what a writer should look like at the end of his life,” I thought. “With life written on his face as in a book.” I invited him for a beer to ask how to write a blog. I needed advice on how to fight the urge to delete everything I write immediately, how to build a story, and most importantly, how to maintain morale when I don’t feel like writing.

“So, what do you write?” I dared to ask.

“Sci-fi, preferably sci-fi. I am currently writing two short stories, both of which will end in Prague. That’s why I’m actually here, to study the environment.”

“That’s something, TWO short stories!” I breathed admiringly. “So you must have mastered the art of writing perfectly!”

“You know, I’ve been writing since I was twenty. I was already writing at university.”

“So you must have written a lot of books over the decades?” I guessed.

He nodded with a smile.

“When was your first book published?” I asked him.

There was a silence. A very long silence.

“Damn, I guess I said something wrong,” I thought. Maybe he writes screenplays or for magazines, and I’m asking about books.

“Or, when was what you wrote first published?” I tried to rectify the situation.

But the cloud of silence did not disappear.

“I’ve never published anything,” he said at last.

I stared at him. If I wrote dozens of short stories that weren’t published, I’d probably be in a bit of a bad mood all the time. Not even dozens of short stories... I’d be miserable if I wrote one that is lying in a drawer.

“How so? Didn’t you offer your books to anyone?”

“I did. But they were all rejected.”

I wondered for a moment if he was not just kidding. A writer without a book? He introduced himself as a writer.

His guileless eyes reflected an answer. He wasn’t kidding.

I was obviously sitting with a man living in a parallel universe. A universe in which he is a writer, not a strange retiree defending his non-existent vocation. He probably realizes from time to time that something is wrong with his space-time and that he kind of lacks a book to show for his writing career, but then he immediately returns to his dream world.

And suddenly...

I don’t know if a third beer whispered the idea to me, or whether it was a reaction to his unwavering dignity. I wondered what it would be like if we all said what we wanted to be, instead of who we actually were. If our dreams determine how we appear to others. How they treat us. How we value ourselves. If we saw the little creatures inside the dream, instead of the mundane people around us. Those beings who once wanted to be star singers, brave astronauts, creative painters, but became bitter salesmen, despised taxi drivers or bored clerks.

In the end, this man wasn’t so crazy. His little self did not sink into the drifts of years, fear and disappointment. If we all went crazy like him, the world would be much more merciful. And we would all be more dignified.

“And you do what?” he interrupted my contemplation.

I only thought about the answer for a moment.

“Um ... I ... I’m a ballerina,” I said, not blushing at all.

29 zobrazení2 komentáře


Kyle Bairnsfather
Kyle Bairnsfather
Jan 19



Anthony Tremarco
Anthony Tremarco
Jun 05, 2023

One of my writings...

A love divine a life living without soul is Baron and full with despair it's as having a heart with an empty hole to look toward the future with even a glimpse of hope you're on your way yet still an uphill slope to reach the peak you're sure to find a full life of love divine.

Author ME

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