Call for applications – Traduki residencies for writers, translators, and publishing professionals

Traduki has published a new call for residencies. Eligible applicants are writers, translators and book professionals from Albania, Bosnia and Herzegovina, Bulgaria, Croatia, Kosovo, Montenegro, North Macedonia, Romania, Serbia and Slovenia. Deadline for submitting applications is April 17, 2022.

For the second half of 2022, residencies are available in 10 cities in Southeast Europe: Belgrade, Bucharest, Cetinje, Novo Mesto, Prishtina, Sarajevo, Skopje, Sofia, Split and Tirana for the duration of 2–6 weeks. Fellowships cover travel costs, accommodation in a fully furnished writers’ apartment as well as subsistence of 250 € per week.

You can apply for translation residencies, writing residencies, interdisciplinary cooperation residencies, practical exchange residencies, research trips and virtual residencies; each with their own specifics.

Selected candidates will be informed no later than May 15th, 2022.

For more information, application guidelines, and application form, visit Traduki’s website.

Stanka Hrastelj

Stanka Hrastelj

Stanka Hrastelj (1975, Slovenia) has published two books of poetry and two novels. For her poetry she was named Best Young Poet at the 2001 Urška Poetry Festival, was shortlisted for the Jenko Award for best poetry collection, and was given the title of Poetry Knight at a poetry tournament for best unpublished poem. In 2012 she won the Modra Ptica Award for her debut novel. Some of Hrastelj’s poems are marked by stark motifs dealing with subjects such as illness, both physical and mental, as well as suicide, issues that still remain taboo in our society and are seldom given literary treatment. Hrastelj believes fostering interest in such subjects could help bring about important positive changes in our understanding of stigmatised subjects such as abortion, suicide, dementia, and old age. Hrastelj also translates Croatian and Serbian poetry and owns a pottery studio.



Stanka Hrastelj, First Lady
(Mladinska knjiga, 2018)

an excerpt from the novel
translated from the Slovene
by Gregor Timothy Čeh

1. A girl from the provinces

She left home young, she had her reasons, she married young to some high-ranking army guy and ran away to the capital. The wedding was unconventional, local traditions bored her, so predictable – drunken wedding guests, come knocking with the groom at the bride’s door, saying, we have a beautiful flower here, but no vase to put it in, apparently you have one here that’s just right for our bloom, go on, have a look, so the bride’s guests send an old woman to the door, oooh, come on, this one is all wrinkled and stooped, too old for our young fellow, don’t you have anyone younger?, then they stand a young girl outside the door, come on, this one has only just been weaned off her mother’s milk, this won’t do, send us another, and they eventually bring to the door the bride in a lavish, mandatory white wedding dress, the men’s eyes twinkle as they drool, wine flows freely, they all go off to the registry (stopped on the way by the šranga, a roadblock set up by the villagers, demanding a fee for the beauty from their parish, money they will drink away), from the registrar they go on to the altar, from the altar under the shower of rice, tears smudge makeups, then the inn with all the guests, cutting the cake, tossing the bouquet, and a variety of perverse wedding games until the cockerels begin to crow, then some sour soup, and off home – this kind of scenario simply wasn’t what she wanted, and Uriah didn’t care anyway. 

2. Upright posture

The pavement was classically narrow, two could walk side by side without problems, three was impossible. She was walking in an east-west direction and two young men deep in conversation were coming the opposite way. At the moment they met, neither of them moved out of the way and she, the woman, had to step off the pavement. This upset her greatly. She thought about it, analysed the situation, and realised that it was indeed true that the small town where she used to live was almost a ghost town and one rarely met anyone in the street (inexperience of how to react in the event of meeting someone at a narrow spot) and that it was also partly her fault because she doesn’t know how to hold her body in such a posture that others would move out of her way. The key to a commanding body stance is the small of the back, the upright body a vertical line, allowing a flow of communication between the heavens and earth, the eyes forming the horizontal, a determined look.

She continued walking upright. Two others came in the opposite direction. Her gaze straight, as if not picking up on her surroundings, fixed somewhere far ahead, at the level of the horizon, slightly above them, and she smiled lightly to herself, as if her thoughts are with something that is going her way. It worked, they began moving out of the way. 

3. A view on neatness

Uriah watched her, naked, smooth, perfect, and asked whether the hair in her armpits was normally thick or thin, black or golden, I mean, if you didn’t shave.What a question, she smiled. There wasn’t a single period in her life when she had not shaved her armpits, not even when she had infectious mononucleosis and a temperature of thirty-nine. Well, I’m asking because… do you remember that black-and-white photo of Madonna naked, with hair in the groin and her armpits, remember? All bushy, real sexy.

Bathsheba remembered the black-and-white nudes, not at all attractive, plainly simply an unkempt woman, not at all sexy.

4. Concern for the future

A student party a few years ago when her friend from secondary school visited her. When the ash fell off her school friend’s cigarette of truth and the others at the party began showering the girl with questions about all kinds of experiences, she lied but only slightly, more exaggerating the truth to present it in a better light. Yes, she will never forget what it was like the first time, I admit, we were a little drunk, she liked him, all the other girls fancied him but he danced with her, he kissed her on the neck, he led her away by the hand and it was all surprisingly spontaneous and quite different from expectations, and although it bloody hurt, said the friend, it was divinely beautiful, she didn’t mention that he pushed her head in front of his cock in the parking lot, or how the gravel hurt her knees, how he dictated what was for her a far too rapid pace with his hand and slapped her across the face when she didn’t swallow, or that he then offered her to a friend who happened to come and take a leak, watched them and cheered him along, and that her entire body hurt afterwards, and that, ripped and bleeding she hid in the bushes and waited for Bathsheba to appear from the log cabin, Bathsheba the fortress, Bathsheba the friend who would take her home and not ask any questions and never say a word to anyone about it. 

When Bathsheba’s ash fell and it was her turn to answer questions, she lied, but only a little, meaning she barely told them anything, appearing a little embarrassed and inexperienced, what business of theirs are her intimate moments. Bathsheba had a firm grip on everything, she was thinking about tomorrow, the day after and well beyond.

5. Enthusiastic about the theatre

He said, we’re going out for a beer with the guys, come along. She said, you went for a beer on Tuesday, you went for a beer yesterday, let’s go to the theatre today. And he said, oh, come on, not the theatre. She said, why not? He said that theatre was boring. She begged to disagree. He said he had tired of theatres even at school because they were taken to see The Magic Flute every year. She said that that’s an opera. He said it’s all the same. She said that it isn’t quite the same and that she would like to go and see Crime on Goat Island. He said that all Russians, Tolstoy included, are wrist-slashingly morbid and long-winded.

6. Uriah leaves for the battlefront

Saying goodbye was brief. If we made too much of an issue of it, they were silent, it would be like saying goodbye for the last time, but going to the battlefront can be just a trip from which you return decorated and unscathed – although the Grim Reaper constantly breathes down the soldiers’ necks. Bye – God bless – take care. One way or the other, we’ll see each other in a few weeks anyway. (They hoped not the other.)

7. View on comfort

When I think what kind of bed I slept in all those years, she said, satisfied that she can turn and stretch out as much as she wishes without being in danger of falling onto the floor. Uriah, well-built and tall as he is, had had the huge bed made specially for him, long enough to lay on it stretched out, and wide enough that, if he so fancied, he could also sleep across its width, and when he told the carpenter the size he wanted, he also said know what, make me one of those with a canopy. The carpenter made what was ordered. To her this was a dream item of furniture (apart from the bedding and the curtains, she immediately bought new ones), with everything else the lack of a woman’s touch, as they used to say, was pretty obvious, it lacked an aesthete who would insist on putting things in order and harmony, something she shined at. 

Poor Uriah, she sighed after she had been waking up alone for a number of consecutive mornings, he has such a large and comfortable bed and so rarely sleeps in it. Uriah also occasionally snorted with exasperation after waking up morning after morning on the hard bed in the military camp, swollen with mosquito and other bug bites, pulling on his dusty and blood-splattered uniform, brushing his boots, shaving his stubble, straightening up and buttoning up to his neck so he looked tip-top, calling out to the reflection in the shard of mirror he was using, Potentia est imperare orbi universo, clicking his heels and stepping out of his tent into a new day, towards new victories.

8. “I could have been…”

She unrolled the awning, winding the crank handle, and looked at the pale palms of her hands (not pale in the sense of pale as death but pale in a noble sort of way: Bathsheba’s complexion was aristocratically pale), the backs of her left and right hands moving each in their own circle, one slightly higher than the other, the same axel, turning in opposite directions, the crank handle extended another metre up to the top where the hook was attached to the horizontal roller tube with the waxed canvas wound around it. She unrolled it in the morning (her tiny hands evenly turning in opposite directions), this was a south-facing balcony, now, in the late afternoon, she was winding it back up, getting rid of the shade. How fascinating, she whispered to herself, barely moving her lips, how very fascinating indeed: horizontal turns, the crank, vertical turns and vice versa, immediate effect, the canvas opens or closes, isn’t this crazy?! Were I a child now, had I been able as a child to move shadows by winding a handle, I would have surely been so excited by this that I would have wanted to become an engineer or a mechanic, or something like that, and I would have become one too, but now, well…

The sun had not quite set yet, there was still half of it left, tinting the evening with a honey-coloured light, Bathsheba’s pale face appeared soft, it was soft, and dreamy, and gentle, until the sun set completely. (Over the Hills and Far Away.) 

9. Completing her studies

The graduation ceremony coincided nicely with her husband’s leave. After the event at the university they all went for lunch together, the young couple, Bathsheba’s parents, Bathsheba’s friend from school. In the evening her friend commented, well, your guy can certainly hold his booze!

10. Problems with limescale

She did a number two, wanted to flush, but pressed the handle in vain, the water just wouldn’t flow and the turd laughed mockingly at her from the bottom of the toilet bowl. What luck that Uriah happens to be at home on leave for a few days, she ran off to find him after filling a plastic basin with water and pouring it down the toilet, cleaning the bowl with the brush and pouring another basin full of water down it, Uriah, go and check what’s wrong, perhaps you can fix it? He put down the remote, stood up from the sofa, and said, no problems. After fiddling around with the tank for a few minutes, he announced that it was all sorted. But the following evening the water once again didn’t flush away the faeces. Uriah, it’s playing up again, can you take another look? Oh, dear, limescale, shit to sort out, will look at it tomorrow, I’ve arranged to go out with my mates now, would you like to come along?

Half an hour later he was tilting his glass. Bathsheba stayed at home, donned a pair of rubber gloves, armed herself with a plastic bottle of spirit vinegar and a packet of bicarbonate of soda, took the lid off the tank and cleaned and fixed it, the same way she had always seen her mother do it, and, while she was at it, she also scrubbed the bath, the sink and the tiles, then she found a documentary about Bulgarkov on YouTube and watched it. During the closing credits she sighed, what a life, such highs and such lows, unbelievable! It affected her and she knew that she would be unable to sleep straight away, so she prepared a bath with rosemary oil, lay in the hot water and indulged in the scent and warmth. Just as she was getting out of the bath Uriah returned from the pub, desperate to use the loo, rushed into the bathroom without closing the front or any other door, sat on the toilet and bleary-eyed watched his naked and wet wife, and dismissed her with I’d love to, but sorry, I can’t. 

At that moment the gentle scent of rosemary in the bathroom was overpowered by a different odour and the flush worked flawlessly long after.

11. Doubting the correctness of her decision

A few months later she was looking at the photos from her honeymoon, wondering whether she had made the right decision or not. Pros: she no longer lived with her parents, no longer lived in the provinces that are rather tohu wa-bohu, but in the centre of town, right next to the royal palace, more independent than ever, more free than ever. Cons: Uriah is never home and when he is he leaves his sweaty socks everywhere, doesn’t wash much, and pays her little attention. To him she is simply an ordinary partner. And what have I achieved in doing so, she said, same pattern as mother: the old man non-stop at work and whenever he was home he was grumpy, his phone ringing all the time, how is my life different?

12. Bathsheba’s talent

She became terribly interested in Nikola Tesla, exceedingly so. She wanted to know everything about his life and work, wanted, though she wouldn’t admit this, to also discover within herself the source of geniality, for she had read about his childhood, how as a three-year-old he was stroking a cat one dark stormy night, its fur producing a crackling shower of sparks and an aura of light as he did so, and – pff – one of the sparks jumped, igniting the flame, giving birth to his passion, oh, Nikica, there is no turning back. In fact she hoped that there had been some kind of similarly magnificent and fateful gesture in her own childhood too. She tried to jog her memory, searched and searched but there was nothing similar she could think of. The closest was when she had once taken a bicycle totally apart and then reassembled it – everything fitted, everything functioned like before, but she was left with five screws, washers and nuts (Father gave her a spanking), surely that wasn’t it, so she resigned herself to perhaps at least catching a fragment of the genius by researching the life and work of Nikola Tesla, at least that. 

All her efforts and deep searches within were in vain, Bathsheba was no genius and no innovator, in fact she wasn’t even a particularly technical person. She did have other talents, however. 

13. A job interview

She was included on the shortlist but wasn’t the best candidate, this much she knew, two others had much better references, the other four candidates weren’t really a threat. Then she happened to get an exceptional opportunity because the director decided that the second part of the interview would be an informal chat over coffee somewhere in town. He did not ask questions about the job, he wanted to get to know them in a more personal atmosphere. He was open and jolly and the candidates were also witty and pleasant, they ordered and in an apparently relaxed manner chatted about their spare-time passions. Ms Internationalexperience wore a decent sporty-elegant dress and regularly organised top culinary sessions at her house, Mr Theyrefighingoverme could not imagine life without golf and collects expensive watches, Bathsheba said she was consistent, reliable, liked good stories and a good game. In the meantime, the modern gourmet received a phone call from her nanny that her kid was throwing up, begging her to come home because he wants his mummy, and someone hit the golfer’s car, setting off the alarm, so he had to, I apologise, leave the table, and she was left alone with the director, the floor was hers and Bathsheba knew how to take an opportunity. 

And she was satisfied that she had called and paid the people she had, very satisfied.

14. Bathsheba starts work

She liked her job. She was satisfied with the pay.

15. View on the state of her relationship

On the underground a young couple sat opposite her, the girl looked like a fairy, tiny, sweet face and almond eyes, the boy’s hair, eyebrows, and especially Greek profile reminded her of the guy from Twilight Saga. They were holding hands, in fact the girl was clinging onto him and he appeared to be sulking, didn’t say a word, while the girl kept looking towards him, as if checking to see if he is alright, or trying to catch his gaze but he persistently stared at his sneakers. There was a bitter aura about them, as if they had fought or their relationship was hanging from a thread, then they got off the train. Their place was taken up by another young couple, she was blonde, he a redhead, they chatted all the time, laughed, touched each other, their eyes twinkling as their glances shot all over the place, each other and the entire carriage, an air of brightness radiated from them. Hmm, Bathsheba thought to herself, we’re somewhere in between.

16. Bathsheba meets the king

She had read somewhere that they were putting up an opera by Debussy in Barcelona, directed by Robert Wilson, and she found a cheap flight, a fairly comfortable hotel, and went alone to the Gran Teatre del Liceu to watch Wilson’s wonder. To begin with she found it excruciating (slow and abstruse) but then she became used to it and was soon enjoying it, returning home enthusiastic with her batteries recharged. 

A while later she was chatting in a coffee shop in town with a colleague from another department who ranted and raved about the theatre director Tomaž Pandur, but Bathsheba said that she too used to find him original but that she had wondered recently whether too much of his inspiration might not be coming from another giant. The discussion was constructive and without bile or spite, a serious debate, in as much as any debate over an afternoon coffee can be serious, and eavesdropping behind them was a gallant gentleman, they could see only his back, then he got up, bowed slightly to the ladies, paid for their coffees and left. They asked the waiter who the kind stranger was and he whispered lightly, King David, incognito, gently touching his lips with his index finger that this was a secret, and they nodded.

17. A personal question

Her friend from school asked her whether her husband was a good lover and whether the passion of her honeymoon has waned at all. Oh yes, definitely, Bathsheba answered the second question pretending she was answering the first.

18. Bathsheba is enraptured

King David in person… The very idea!

19. Bathsheba handles crisis situations

She heard shrieks from the corridor and went to see what was going on. Her colleague was waving about with her arms, dancing around, hopping as if she had lost her mind because she had found a hornet on the copier and it was now buzzing around her head, wanted to crawl into her mouth and sting her, making her suffocate, the terrible, terrible hornet. 

An entire squad came to watch the scene and help yell and wave their arms. Bathsheba stayed cool as a cucumber, went to get a glass from the office kitchen and when the beast landed on the wall she covered it with the glass, put a sheet of paper under it, stepped to the window, they opened it and everyone jumped out of the way, Bathsheba freed the animal, though before doing so it did cross her mind that she could squash it in her hand, the way you walk across a bridge and for a brief moment think you might jump, nothing serious. 

20. Close friendship

Apart from her friend from secondary school, Bathsheba didn’t keep in regular touch with anyone from her previous life, the place she used to live in, not counting the occasional courtesy phone call to her mother because mother was just mother, was and would be, and the longer they were apart, the better for the both of them since living under the same roof they had simply got on each other’s nerves every day.

They were chalk and cheese, Bathsheba and her school friend, but what both excited and annoyed her was that she always and regularly brought her down to earth (roughly and in a healthy way), and now, miles apart, she lacked this, not that she missed it, it was just that she was used to it. Without you, I’d get carried away, she had once admitted, truly carried away. They mostly communicated via Skype, occasionally Bathsheba managed to persuade her to visit the city and they wandered around together.

21. Bathsheba’s clear vision

If Anne Boleyn managed it and even Theodora managed it, I shall manage it too. These words formed on Bathsheba’s ruby lips one fine day in May as she sat on the balcony, basking in the morning sun, listening to dark Mahler, feeling all dark within.

22. Bathsheba’s persistence

Crush a handful of lovage leaves with your fingers and add to the bath. Bathsheba observed the ancient, modern and shrewd advice. Lovage, a fistful in the bath, regularly and consistently, lovage, Levisticum, ljupčac, luštrek, Liebstöckel, lubczyk and so on.

She undressed at the window, just in case, lights on and blinds up, and from time to time she stepped out into the pale darkness of the balcony in her transparent T-shirt and without any panties. 

She often left home and returned soon in order to be seen in the street, holding reading material under her arm, so it would be obvious that she reads a lot, often reaching for giants of classical literature, contemporary writing and essays in the humanities, a determined woman, beautiful, well-read, a woman of vision.

Branka Selaković

Branka Selaković

Branka Selaković (1985, Serbia) writes poetry, prose, and essays. She has published four novels and a book of poetry. She received the 2016 Miroslav Dereta Award for best novel, the Nušić Award for best satirical story, the Zlatna Plaketa Award, and the Sveti Sava Best Essay Award. She has worked as a philosophy teacher, as well as a journalist for Al Jazeera Balkans.






Branka Selakovic




Dear Earnest,

I know you don’t like it when I call you by your name, your cheeks blush out of a sudden and sparks are shining from your mother of pearl colored eyes. Calling you by your name is reserved for extended family members, pub acquaintances and the postman who regularly brings you bills, flyers from local home appliance services, food delivery, magazines, and letters from enamored students of your creative course. What you expect from me is an ornate whisper of silky words in your ear. Ery, Neste, Sweetie, Darling, Sweetheart, Angel, Honey, Pear, My one and only…I gave you a promise that I will as soon as I thread on an unknown land and avoid excessive emotionality and analyze the societies I am a part of. I will tell you about the paintings I see, unusual phenomena, fashion, weather and scents. Is that all right with you? We have not defined everything, and nothing is definite with you writers. Your words are stretchy, multi-layered and may swallow. I was able to immerse myself in your long descriptions of vineyards, flowering branches, and then slip into the jaws of dramatic worlds, the continuum of search, mental elements, and explosions that blow muscles into the air. And you were able to wrap love songs in black canvases and place them in ossuaries from which I ran all my life. I’ll be fine. Once. It would be easier for us to see each other via Skype, even without a single spoken word, but you persistently refuse to keep up with the digital age in which we live.

I don’t have daylight in the room on the third floor of the dilapidated building. There is a window all right, but instead of a view of a park, a kiosk with delicious fast food, I look at a dark gray wall engraved with initials and dates. I touch the outside wall of someone’s room with my hand and imaging that person doing the same. The mattress on which I put my tired and worried thoughts memorized the large, heavy body of the previous tenant. I lie in the imprint of an unknown person and I am trying to adjust to the depression. This can be a good topic for your course participants. I have a lamp under whose warm light I write the letters. Next time I will buy a perfume of playful drops so to spray the envelope, and who knows, maybe there is fragrant paper in bookstores if anyone writes them anymore.


♥ S.



My dear,

Tonight I read about a little Italian town nestled among rocks. There is a beautiful sandy beach, I saw on the booklet left in the public toilet. I would like the ship of destiny to stuck us there, at least for a while. (Stuck, read well. My ports have always been forcibly chosen. Someone else decided for me. Might is right. I think of folk wisdom. How many life lessons in short sentences.) I also read about a family living in cold Siberia, self-sustaining, without contact with the outside world. The short text was accompanied by a photo. As if they came out of Tolstoy’s novels. This is the exact image the writer gave in his descriptions. Siberia is an endless expanse of freedom that increases and multiplies the deeper you go. The building I live in is full of people from the Eastern Bloc. The hallways smell of borscht. The neighbor, Aglaja from Moscow, gave me a bowl full of cooked vegetables. More or less, artists are housed in the building. Some ran for fame, promised engagements, adventure, love, poverty, bans and political parties. When a conversation about politics and war begins, I withdraw, and they engage in verbal and physical battles, everyone proving the rightness of their view. Then, with broken noses, they kiss, toast and swear politicians, sons of bitches, their semen, and curse. The Slaves have a web of curses that make you shiver. When everything calms down in the hallways, the quick paws of rats echo.

I visit galleries and bookstores. I buy damaged books at a discount. A cute Hindu gave me some encyclopedias. I showed the point on the globed where I came from. He hugged me and told me he felt my pain. I cried briefly and told him that I was over it yet. Of course, I lied.


The weeping S.




There was a program on television for some thousands-year-old tree. It doesn’t say anything about the tree but about the people who pass under it.

When I draw outlines in the air, sometimes a mouth twists in an arc that might look like a smile, greeting the character I saw in the shape of a mold, breaking shadows on the table, in the layout of the parquet floor, on the improper coating thick layer varnish. A squirrel is hiding at the closet door. There is a new dress in the closet. I bought it from a sold painting, in fact from a sold sketch. Sitting in front of Jorge’s used bicycle shop (I was telling you about him, a Mexican who has no idea where the Balcans are, and is not even sure if Europe exists or is it another communist conspiracy), I was drawing lines in a sketchbook, trying to catch the scene on the opposite side of the street. A five maybe six years old boy sitting on the sidewalk crumbling a piece of bread to birds. A young woman passing peeks into the work and offered six dollars for it. Jorge told me I had no idea about business. He’s probably right, but I had a good portion of wings for lunch and bought a flower-sprinkled dress at a thrift store that I wore for my first time visit to Central Park. It wiped out the trees. When I close my eyes, the scents remind me of my childhood.

I switched the room. The owner of the building liked I was quiet, meticulous and that I paint. The rest he despises, at least he says so, he does not tolerate their accent, music, arguing in the hallways, cooking smells, children crying, but he is not immune to dollars. I will have to make a portrait of his family. Jorge told me that I had no idea for negotiating.


Both yours and mine S.




I’m drinking tea and I’m thinking of you. I blow into the liquid, impatient to take a sip, and then I burn my tongue. The same thing every morning all over again, you told me a hundred times to drink a glass of water immediately after brushing my teeth, feed the cells, and only then to make tea or coffee, make the bed and iron the wardrobe. And, that wardrobe. I never took a day to iron everything I washed the previous weekend and hang it on hangers so that I don’t have to go out just before leaving the house. It would be nice to have those dressing rooms and a sofa in the middle. It doesn’t matter, I won’t talk about home decoration, lack of space and cheap subtenant rooms. I don’t know if I told you I portrayed the owner of the building family and his mother’s poodle separately, so he was generous to me when Aglaia and her husband moved out. I got their studio for the same sum I paid for the room. Jorge shook his head, but I was proud of myself. This is progress, but I am afraid to rejoice. (Don’t laugh hard, you’ll cry, my grandmother said.) I was terrified that everything could disappear in an instant. One building, the entrance of which I looked at, watching people rushing in and out every hour, was demolished. I don’t know when the big machines got on the terrain and, like in a child’s game, knocked it down easily as if it were made of Lego bricks. An excavator bucket (If that big machine is called) crushed someone’s memories, dreams, steps, tears, history and geography of life and dug a hole in which they poured a lot of concrete and claws of reinforcement protruded from it. All in one day. I often feel disoriented. I just pick an object, a shop or a corner, as a landmark and I remember well the number of steps, the color of the façade, the furrow on the asphalt, the traffic sign, and the next day it is gone. My sense of smell still serves me well and I smell the way back.

Today I was invited by an organization that helps young people in Queens. They would like me to hold a two-week painting course. I was also in a gallery. The woman to whom I handed over the material nodded at everything I said. She measured me from head to toe and boldly asked me if I was a terrorist.

Is the soul of the world or only my eyes do not see the colors? Say I it‘s up to me! It better be up to me.

Worried S.





At first, had the feeling that I was tapping into a place, and then I started to hit the ground harder. I’m still sinking, even though I woke up. I’m trying to call out for you, you hear me and you’d give me a hand, but you don’t understand what I’m talking about and you’re giving me a hand, but you don’t understand what I’m talking about and you’re not fast enough. I’m struggling for breath, my throat constricts. They took me away. I have never been in a hole, and now I am a hole full of monsters. I was taken away. I did not object. They put me in a truck and…why am I in a hole now despite everything I did to prevent it from happening? Why didn’t you come with me? Why didn’t you want to marry me? I’m not good enough? I’m not smart enough? Am I not pretty enough? I’m not in the coordinate system written for you with your origin? Fuck you, Ernest! Fuck you! At the end of the day, no one cares about you. People are only good if they need you, as long as you don’t threaten them. They pull the people aside. People want to grab the colors, not to share your grayness.

“Suffering is one very long moment. We cannot divide it by seasons. We can only record its moods and chronicle their return. With us, time itself does not progress. It revolves. It seems to circle round one center of pain“, this was written by Oscar Wilde in a hotel room in glittering Paris. I could never say that this is a city where people are dying. He wants, loves, deceives, drives you crazy yes, but to be a proper dining place …no. No one is allowed to die in Paris. I admire the proud and cold people who can’t move a grain of emotion in their intentions. I stand between two worlds: the imitation of cold-bloodedness and fiery death. Everything is a demonic beauty that intoxicates. My civil conscience forces me to dress decently, to comb my hair, to pay tribute, and to throw garbage in the right place for that. My civic conscience does not allow me to pull the trigger.

Ernest, maybe death is in color?

Frightened S.


Hi E.,


I will call this letter “Footages“. Let it be a stylistic exercise for a creative writing teacher.




Imagine your life being a movie. At this point, the closing ending credits with the list of characters, assistant cameraman, director of photography, screenwriter, driver, costume designer or sponsors are of no importance. The quality of the camera is of no importance nor the talent of the one who holds it. Be it a black and white film whose shots change following the narrator’s story, in this case, me, which the heroes justify with their expressive gestures and occasional scenes of characteristic activities. There is a five-second pause between the footage that tells one story until the next. Then the canvas is completely black. The spectator’s breathing and the work of someone’s intestines can be heard in the hall. One, two, three, four, five, and exactly half the time until the next issue, a new frame follows, a new character is introduced. The audience continues to nibble on chips, seeds, popcorn, churros. Sacrilege of a masterpiece, many would think, but it is a clear division between celluloid tape, long-dead filmmakers, and current life players that someone is already putting in the frame, and they do not know and do not care what will look lie on the big screen. Each film has a screenplay and a screenwriter who has written down some basic ideas. Each idea has a germ that was sown by some event or feeling. Each event or feeling involves the movement of thoughts. It all has its frame. Millions of recorded frames in a blink. With death, the footage doesn’t stop. A shot with your dead body surrounded with the family, someone is crying, screaming or there are only the gravediggers and a priest in the cemetery. They nail down the casket with nails and throw layers of soil. Someone pays attention to the shovels, someone to the face of the gravedigger who lives frames and they are certainly more important than your frame, because you are the thousand one he buried in his long career. A frame on the monument, name and surname, year of birth and death. You got out of the frame for someone, and you got into the frame for someone else. A frame on the process of decay. A worm comes out of decaying tissues in close-up. Imagine five hundred years have passed and all who know you and those who knew you have died. From the clear sky lightning strikes the tree above your tombstone, which caught the moss, the tree falls and breaks the tombstone. Here, you are again the star of the active frame. A public utility is coming (such utility will certainly exist), pathologists are also coming, digging up bones, taking them to the institute, examining them. You are a mammoth in the eyes of scientists and in the eyes of the observers of the frames they are a part of. You are on display in a museum display case. Students from Memphis, New Orleans, Vladivostok, Kyiv, Zenica, Uzice, Split, Belgrade or Ljubljana come in organized tours to observe the unusual forehead bone. There are legends about you. You are a part of the cultural heritage. The frame is always there. You’re always in focus. Am I lying? Am I a voyeur? Yes, making love, caring for intimate parts of the body, releasing gases, nose picking, and smelling your armpits are in the frame as well.

Your life is a one-shot film, but only to you and God, if you believe in it, if not you and the cosmos or to you and the energy. For others, the film is shown from a mosaic of shots because their attention is not constantly on you. You intertwine… Yes, only He sees a one-shot film. You get in and out of each other’s shots, but don’t worry, each moment is archived. It feels good to be the lead actor, no matter how long the film lasts, isn’t it? Don’t be ashamed. It’s nothing I’ve never seen before. Do you know how many fellacios will happen on Earth in just one minute? Yes, I saw you brought your hand closer to your mother’s back, wanting to push her out of the window. Then one camera was on your irregular heartbeats, another on a drop of sweat that poured lightly down your forehead, a third on agitated thoughts, a fourth on a trembling hand a fifth on your eyes, no to mention cameras aimed at your mother. Such moments are very tense. Life is an unnamed genre or better genre over genres, a meta-genre. Did I upset you? Yes, your mother saw it in the reflection on the glass beads that hung on the Dream catcher, remember?

P.S. I wrote this one evening while waiting for Aglaia. She was late. She probably was busy shopping for half an honorarium to celebrate her new engagement. I didn’t know you could have a private theater here. Her compatriot hired a troupe that occasionally gathers and performs plays by young drama writers. Elderly emigrants are very cordial in helping the work of such ensembles, but they are expecting proven pieces about the great homeland on the stage. She adapted the text. The story of a married couple of expelled, poor, misunderstood artists in a distant, cruel world is now a happy story about a princely couple on a vacation.

P.P.S. The frame is on you. The narrator goes: “Seated in the soft sofa, he loved to sit in after dinner and read the daily newspapers, novel biographies and epistolary novels, he ran onto an interesting photo. He didn’t understand what it said because the language of the country the newspaper originated was unfamiliar to him, but he looked at carefully the sculpture of an elephant carrying the globe on his back. There was the artist’s signature on the rare leg. One letter, S. He looked at the pile of letters at the table. He sied deeply and turned off the lamp.“


Your perspective artist and maybe college S.


My dear,


Today colors seeped through the leaves on the cheeks of the girl reaching her arms to the sky while laughing loudly at the clouds hung on the tips of the branches. I wanted to look at her much longer, so to remember every child’s movement, every crease of her dress, the vitrages of her lacy socks, by I didn’t dare. I didn’t want to cause any doubt at the mother seating on a bench a few steps away. You can easily find yourself in jail for that here.

You didn’t congratulate me when I sold my first painting. Jorge says that there will be more orders, family portraits, pets and former girlfriends, but in between, I paint for myself. I wrote an email to the consulate. No reply so far, but I believe they will answer. Put me on disposal. They are probably fucking tired of emigrants (O, how I started swearing!)

I spend much time with Aglaia, who decided to leave her husband because he wants to come back to Russia. She doesn’t want that. She is adapted well. I think she’s in an emotional relationship with the main actor of her play. They want me to paint the scenography.

Jorge’s wife gave birth. He got a third son, although he wanted a daughter. He says that it’s better to have female children than males. Female children bring to the house, mail only take away and make damage.

Everyone is talking about the economic crisis. They fear hunger, increased crime, immigration. Impatience is often felt in the streets. You came to take our jobs and women from us! A man shouted at the entrance of the subway. It wasn’t the first time for me to hear that. It just sounded different in a foreign language but hurts the same nevertheless. They have no idea what inflation and bullet whistling are.

Sometimes I write. Here is a short story I called “Bodies“. I don’t have a copy, I didn’t type it on the computer. Keep it for me. Feel the bodies of the distant world. We touch.




Bodies fold, spread, pray, forgive, challenge. Bodies would kiss and cuddle. Bodies would lie, to trick, outplay, mistify. Bodies run away. Bodies turn into fornication. Bodies bring life into the world. Bodies fight. Bodies are desired. Bodies are naked. Wet. Bodies yearn for life. Bodies are late, repent, and would bring back time. Bodies do drugs, scribble, stigmata, sag, butcher, sell themselves, love, rape. Bodies are a coffin of divine riches and cosmic dust with which we can sow small goddesses and spread love. Bodies make love with the screens. They take parts of the body and send them in small notes to businessmen who masturbate on their organs and the organs in the letters they receive. They touch themselves while checking online sites with images of young bodies in passion. Creating illusion is imperative! Creators of laughter, extractors of wise verses of great authors. Bodies flicker, disintegrate, and take no action. The body can be human, geometric, political…The body flies, falls, floats, clamps, wimps, limps, runs, jumps, plays…It is caressed, discouraged, pimpled, incompetent, twisted, dead, broken, chopped, static, statistic, pierced, engraved, colored, naked, baked, tortured, merry, cunny, hung, beaten, run over, burned, kissed, loved, praised, cast, born, embodied, mummified, nailed, tied, deluded, torn, in love, naked, stigmatized, exploited, neglected, nurtured, passionate, goluptious… Bodies move through the city. Bodies touch, meet, kill, torment, love, desire, kiss, hug. The body is armor, a shield, an advertisement. The body is flesh and skin. The body is meat. The body is food. The body is a temple. The body is not enough.



My body is yours.



My love,


I’m happy! I got in touch with my high school friends who have been living here for a long time. Thanks to Valeria (I never told anything about her, because I haven’t hung out with her so far), I will paint a mural at the entrance of a high school. Imagine?!

I’m moving. Again. Hm, you know how much I hate packing, but now there aren’t many problems, I have two suitcases. I temporarily leave the easel, brushes and pains with Jorge. He said he will sell them at the first opportunity. I don’t believe it.

The world is strange. Who would have thought that I am here, that all this is happening?

“Traveling is a useful thing, it tickles the imagination. Everything else is just disappointment and fatigue. Our journey is completely fictional. That’s where its strength comes from“, Celine wrote on the first page of his book “Journey to the End of the Night“. You must have read it years before?

P.S.We dance na, na, na, na …




♥ you.

Yours S.


Mr. E,


Did I offend you in some way so you haven’t answered in months? Ever since I told you that James agreed to represent me and that the interview with the two gallerists went more than well, you withdraw. I haven’t stopped thinking about you for a moment, about us. I want you by my side. I love your lips when they touch my shoulder. I love every white hair that has streaked your hair and small wrinkles between your eyes because you are constantly frowning. I only know that you laugh best with your eyes. In your eyes, the warmth of the world is gathered for me. You love me. That’s what you said when you escorted me to the airport. Was that a test? You wanted me to stay? You know, I’m tired of testing? In my wrinkles, in my eyes, behind my ear, on my heels, in the wardrobe, it says that I am not from here. Where do I belong to? Where was I born? The town is no longer called what it says on my birth certificate. My graves have been excavated, demolished, plowed. Do not exist. My dead are disturbed. Our dead would aminate all this. We came from somewhere. You remain my beacon. Whom? Couldn’t we build a life here? You blame me for not letting them bream my spine. You blame me for throwing the truth in everyone’s face before I stepped on the plane and slammed all the doors. The door to what? Which door was open to me? I have more work experience as a waitress than as a painter. I reluctantly changed so many cities, collective accommodations, schools, and then I curled up on your lap, but even that constantly eluded me. You could never stand by me. Yes…a long-established reputation, and in fact..You are a coward!




My Ernyce,



Sorry about the last letter. I didn’t even read it before I sent it. I’m tired of adjusting. I never had anything of my own. Everything was torn out of my misery. All this is a charity and this city, people, continent. I don’t know where to go.


I love you.




Hi Erny,


It has been six months since I wrote you the letter informing you that I will have my first solo exhibition at a small gallery in Brooklyn. People from the consulate and several associations responded to my emails, promised collaboration and help. I may be naïve, but I’ll give them another chance. Maybe displaced like this, on foreign territory, we can do much more.

The gallery space was filled with well-known languages. The cacophony of the Balkans covered everything. Jorge was there with several of his relatives. His wife is pregnant again. Aglaia giggled with her new boyfriend. I drank champagne and stared at my spread canvases. I didn’t sell a single painting. James says no to despair, these are the first steps. I currently live in an apartment above the laundry room where I work. If someone looks me on the map, I’m here between 84th and 85th street. On weekends, I am a switchman in a modest cinema that plays animated films. During the day, mothers come with their children, and in the evening adults in the costumes of their favorite heroes. Sometimes I hear them masturbate.

I’d like you to contact me, at least by postcard. Don’t dedicate poems to me. I would break down to read your new book and recognize a part of myself in it. For me, it is not over yet because I belong to the kind of nomads who are persecuted by burden, in every place, every city, they make worlds, breath because they often run out of breath. I’m swallowing air. I see your face in the fold of shirts I meet in the subway, in a trace of color that inadvertently slipped on the floor, in the scrambled eggs I eat in the morning, in the reflection in the mirror. It’s been two years since I put my head on your chest and listened to your body noises. Couldn’t it be a little easier over time or the Balcans coordinates burn forever?


Forever Yours S.


Translated by Marija Sarevska-Todorovska

Sašo Ognenovski

Sašo Ognenovski

Sašo Ognenovski (1964, North Macedonia) has published three books of poetry, two books of plays for children, two plays for adults, and a novel, for which he received the Književno Pero Award. He has worked as an actor and a professor, writes literary criticism, and is the editor of the Macedonian online literary magazine Elementi.






Sasho Ognenovski

The Tour

excerpt from the novel





Natalia Nikolaevich Volkova slapped her fleshy hand on the carved mahogany table and threatened to spread her dominant alto widely.

“That balalaika will be found. This is where I’m the thinnest, and that is what my punishment will be for the one who dared to do such an act. The suffering of my family was enough. I had a veil over my eyes and allowed that balalaika that was owned by my great-grandfather to be listed as a prop of the theatre. And now on top of that someone stole it. No, this will not go unpunished. Fyodor Sevastopolovich Krajnitsky, look me in the eye.” Fyodor swallowed and looked with great fear at the People’s Actress of Russia and the current first actress of the New Komsomol Theatre in St. Petersburg, who when she took the balalaika at the rehearsal of the trilogy The Coast of Utopia by Tom Stoppard, concluded that it was a completely different balalaika bought from a store, and the one from her glorious Romanov family disappeared somewhere. “When the English can write about the famous Bakunin, then the real Russians will have to keep at least those things that are important to their history. What is all this? Everything is twisted! The lines I utter sound like I’m about to take a hot dog out of a basket at any moment. Come on, please. Immediately call Matryona Alexandrova to explain this repertoire move. I, Fyodor Sevastopolovich, had patience and did not dismiss this shitty project from the theatre’s repertoire, but the American who smells of menthol and says “wonderful” after every rehearsal, when we have not moved a finger, will not bring us world fame. Let’s us think for a moment and realize where we are going.”

“Well, let us see, what do you suggest?” The play has already started, there’s nothing to do. Money was spent and…”, Fyodor swallowed, and Natalia straightened up and looked at him contemptuously.

“First let’s find the balalaika, and then we’ll talk. I have a plan, but here, I give in and it’s costing me respect and tradition. And open the window. It stinks of cheap tobacco,” she said, slamming the door, while Fyodor Sevastopolovich smelled around him to check how poisoned the area was when knocking on the door routinely Anyutka appeared, the secretary who informed him that the Macedonian Theatre was due to arrive in St. Petersburg tonight. Fyodor slapped himself on forehead and panicked immediately.

“Is everything ready? In fact, nothing’s ready. And when do they arrive?” he asked, raising his anger at his co-workers. “Weeeell… I think tonight … yes, tonight around midnight,” the secretary said uncertainly, and Fyodor just sat down on the wide director’s armchair, sweating profusely. “Can I get you some tea?”, added the not very smart, but beautiful secretary, to which Fyodor responded by throwing at her The Idiot by Dostoevsky, the writer whose name he bore, and the rather thick novel stood on his right side, ready for negotiations as the next project. Anyutka skilfully evaded Fyodor Mikhailovich’s difficult novel and disappeared through the door. Fyodor lowered his head to the desk and after a few minutes he yelled: “Seryozhaaaaaa, Nikoljkaaaaaa, Ivaaaaan!!!” In less than a minute, Seryozha Nikitin, Nikolay Namusov and Ivan Kratkiy, who was the tallest of them, appeared before him. “The Macedonian group is coming iiiin…” the calculation of the hours while staring at the wristwatch raised his anger and despair even more: “in ten hours. I want them to be well accommodated and the theatre prepared for their play tomorrow.”

“You mean the day after tomorrow,” Seryozha corrected him, smiling bitterly. “We were turned down from the Sevastopol Hotel because of the unpaid bills from last fall when the theatre group from Tanzania came, so I’ll have to go to the Viy Hotel. I know we don’t want to go there, but that’s the only option.” They didn’t want to go to the Viy Hotel because the manager of that hotel was Fyodor’s political opponent and they shared an affair he didn’t want to talk about, let alone use their services. “Okay, there is one variant left, and that is to put them in a hotel a little further away – Priamukhino, but they’ll have to use the metro, etc. “Done,” Fyodor replied shortly. “Let them take a little ride on the subway. Something else? “Ivan replied that he would inform all the media today and that the press conference would be held the day after the show, but that… “All that today, right? And what have we been doing so far?” All three looked at the ceiling, and Fyodor just waved his two hands, saying through his teeth: “I want everything to be perfect by ten o’clock tonight, otherwise don’t come back to work.” The three organizers, who pretended to have done everything they said, went out the door and immediately set to work. Fyodor covered his face with both hands and sighed desperately. Then he took out a bottle of vodka from the bottom drawer and poured himself a small, wide glass. He drank it bottoms up and snorted angrily.

It was ghostly quiet on the bus, where even the steward no longer wanted to talk. All that could be heard was the quiet squeaking of the engine and the occasional snoring of the drunken Pande. Nobody slept. The fact that in ten days two of those with assigned roles from the striking “Hamlet” were gone seemed terrifying and Borjan was already forging a strike in his mind to end this tour which he maliciously thought was useless, but given that it offered to visit countries he would never afford, he offered no resistance, although, frankly, no one paid the slightest attention to his opinion, the Bulldog the least of all. “Now,” thought Borjan Sterling, whom his opponents called Bed Bug in their secret gossip, “is the right time for a coup.” To put an end to this useless madness that might cost us our lives and finally get on the right track.” He stared around his constrained colleagues and counted those who would stand by him, terrified, wondering who might be the next to be eaten by the wolf.

It was getting dark slowly, and Lindita, who had fallen asleep with a few sleeping pills, was awakened by the vibration of the phone. It was Pampurov. She immediately answered the phone and listened, saying only: “Good. Bye” to which Bozho startled, followed by Vule doing the same. Bozho and Lindita looked at each other in silence and she gave him a hint that later they would speak, accompanied by a movement of the hand which meant that everything would be sorted out, to which he muttered under his nose: “Well, everything should’ve been fine so far, but someone’s picking out my people. Who knows what will come out of this.” Vule swallowed and turned around just to show Bozho that he was here and that he was on the alert. The steward, disinterested in the group, waited for his term to end with his last trip to Russia, after which they would continue their flight to Beijing. He sighed, meaning: “Never again with you” and continued playing games on the phone. The least interested was the driver who sang Serbian folk songs routinely doing his job “strictly professionally.”

The ghostly atmosphere on the bus was similar to that of the Adams Family – ominous but life-giving. Entering Russian territory, all the characters from Shakespeare’s most famous tragedy began to come to life, and with them their bearers: Toci and Boci would just pop their heads to see what was happening and return to their cheerful and mysterious world, Eeeej played with the fingers of both her hands somnabulically speaking incoherent sentences, which indicated that she still somehow managed to smuggle light opiates that allowed her to go into dimensions unfamiliar to others, which in turn somehow adapted to the constantly fermented state of Pande who slept as always with one eye a bit open to be constantly in tune with everything happening around. Borjan and Bojan had already swapped places due to the quiet clash between Bed Bug and Bojan over winking with the beautiful Seda Gjungor in Istanbul, while Lavinia treating the young and cute Bojan motherly and patronizingly to avoid the tense atmosphere after Dimko and Filka vanished, began to discover some of his qualities that inflamed something she didn’t even believe in, and his presence somehow pleased her very much. At first he comforted him about the lost knife, telling him that it would be found somewhere and that when they arrive they’ll look for it “together.” She wondered if the young Bojan Shtrkovski, whom she hadn’t noticed before in the theatre corridors, considering him a hopeful child, could awaken that erotic Gorgon in her that some ten years ago was burning in the public space in Macedonia, where affairs with politicians and businessmen were her addition to every morning coffee in luxury hotels and on yachts on Lake Ohrid. She took a deep breath and smiled at her feeling that she had to admit has long since fallen asleep inside and now… it was time to wake it up. With that statement, she drew her palm into Shtrkovski’s palm and squeezed it hard, to which he turned and sweated a little, awakening the erotic fantasies he had towards her as a student while watching her in the naked scenes in some theatrical performances. It looks like they were already on the same wavelength. Somehow, the actor who played Laertes was staring at him all the time. He was always absentminded, and as such he caught Pande’s eye with the slightest thought that he might be the “still water running deep.” Isn’t it so? He will explain that at the next meeting with Bozho, but alone when Vule won’t be among them. This time Gundur and Bowie got tired of playing cards, which meant that they too were gripped by tension and lay on the back seats by the table staring at the ceiling. “It’s a lot of money… for sure… I left Tokmak and Anjar to wander around the theatre, and I gave them a list of people to follow. No answer from them. Someone filled them up, since they’re fucking me like this. We gave so much and in so many places to make things be as they should be. And whose throat is not full?” Bozho thought convulsively, sweating to find the connection of the people who were disappearing and the underground currents that enthroned him in a place that was certainly a few sized bigger, but he had a lot of experience and the structures turned a blind eye on him. “There were two auctions where everything was fine, but…” He jumped up and looked at Laertes, who with half his face came out from behind the seat in front of him and was already staring ahead for hours. “He was there… I never asked him what he was doing there. He had no money for such things, and walked among the people. We managed to buy the props from the time of the Ottoman Empire, but…” She looked at him again, and the actor stepped back and leaned back in his seat, lowering it completely, waking Toci and Boci, who were fast asleep. “But what has this got to do with all this…” Bozho grunted and stretched unhappily.

Translated from Macedonian: Zorica Teofilova




Somebody ate this morning too…

Dry utterances of tenderness

Are merging in the breath of

The new sun’s flick.

I don’t know where the sunshine had hidden.

The linden trees are whispering to each other

While the morning is crying, and the yellow


Is rising on its zenith, on his


They are playing with the shine in

My eyes.

I will never find the sunshine.

Sasho Ognenovski, Macedonia



It is a general feeling:

Everybody is crying, but do not know why.

Nobody is considering  about anything

All looks are livid, lachrymose…

Everyone is a livid post.




Olive tree by the lake,

house of stone on the cloud,

someone crying on the threshold,

someone eating bitter olives.


The sky turns red, torn by a spit of flame.

The house is burning, the cloud is gone.

Holes in our eyes,

empty space.




How was it before the fury came?

Quiet, with five letters,

limpid, cold, then warm,

fast water –

as flash of thought.


Now it is bitter,

overflowing its banks,

one day it will flood everything.


What should we do then?

Would the twilight,

which we look at every day,

give us to drink?




At the place where grief is born

the heart spreads open a fan of the passions.

A fleeting glance


and we,

messengers of our bodies, naked,

play together, tongue to tongue

and are glad.

(At least we appear to be.)

That place

is no place for tears,

where grief begins.



Sad old woman with a black bundle

carrying something black –

net in the isinglass eye of a fish.

Love in the hide-and-seek soul,

Sad kiss, sad morning,



Marija Dejanović

Marija Dejanović

Marija Dejanović (1992, Bosnia and Herzegovina) has published poetry, essays and literary criticism in various magazines. For her books, she was awarded the Goran Poetry Prize, the Kvirin Award for young poets, and the Zdravko Pucak Award for best unpublished poetry manuscript by a young author. She has participated in interdisciplinary performances and was the deputy director of the Thessalian Poetry Festival in Greece.





On the way to the shop

Translated by Vesna Marić


In a country where few speak your language

everyone speaks louder than you

everyone is more visible, more protected

hidden by numerousness

on the way to the tea shop you feel much too noticeable

The movements of your knees reflect your lack of friends


Your gait is stiff, too strict

and although everyone is extremely kind

they don’t dig into your flesh out of the goodness of their hearts

they talk amongst themselves not to bother you

they say good day and goodbye


Still, you feel like a pair of metal compasses

whose sharp shiny needle point stabs the concrete

metre after metre

As you walk from the flat to the shop, from the shop to the flat

you leave behind a vanishing circle of your presence, a language

of mutual incomprehension;


when you’re buying tea from the friendly shopkeeper

it is you, rather than the dried leaves, that is on display


Returning from the shop you begin to resemble them

Aimless, you are an eye that envelops

and does not reveal


Out of love for yourself you don’t question how you feel

just like out of your love for animals

you eat herbs planted by another’s children

who will never be able to afford the food they grow

you buy cashew nuts in a plastic bag

whose production melts women’s identity off their fingertips


But those are some other women, somewhere far away

women whose sisters live in towns that topple onto their heads

legal slave women


You have chosen your own hard times

Bought your good times with them


The streets are full of small shops

Each shop has many woven baskets

each woven basket holds a small personal defeat

You walk blonde, blue-eyed

because your skin is sun tanned

it is lovely to see you in every street


If they speak to you in that language

you shrug under your hat


They could say that they love you or curse you

and you wouldn’t know the difference


this ignorance is your small personal victory





Translated by Vesna Marić


You know, this is where I’m from now

mother told me while watching the half of the garden

that was full of the aubergines she’d grown

with too much care, like children, on a small plot of land

she’d bought with hard-earned money

dug up laboriously left-to-right, upwards

as if knitting a vest


The other half still has soil that needs digging

and it seems that with each wielding of the spade

she increases the distance between the village of her childhood

and this yard in which we stand

as if each step forward is a new void

but that, also, each new void is a reason to move on

In each hole she plants a memory

of long buried faces


Over there no longer exists

Although you’d only gone to visit maybe twice in your life

and I have already been here a year longer

than I had spent in –

and she pauses before saying

that I was born in the times of ethnic cleansing

but that there had been nothing clean


in the hospital where I first appeared

  • miraculously alive –

while the splayed flesh of my mother was surrounded by dying

soldiers and civilians


  • her flesh – and that I was born in a bed

in which no woman should ever give birth

and no child ever meet the world

that such hospitalisation cannot be called a service

but a crime against humanity


She lightly raised her elbow

to wipe the sweat off her brow with the back of her hand

and to stop digging


We got into the car in silence

After several hours we saw the border police


She still doesn’t like them


Just like the last time I saw her

granny wears a worn-out gray dress

and a wide smile


She stands at the gate, squinting


She’s made potato pie for us


Although she has remembered nothing for years now

granny can still perfectly recall my mother’s face


You haven’t changed at all, daughter

She says, and reaching out her hand

strokes my cheek




Translated by Hana Samaržija


My friends live in gaps between the wardrobe and the wall

that are impossible to reach

as I stretch my arms, a web of silence

enters my mouth; they are the shady silence of plaster

I tell her: choose a picture frame

and stick your scalp through its hollow body

push the supple roots of hair untouched by sun

sprinkled with flour


sneak out of his kitchen or jump through the window

from the tenth floor, you’ll land on the atoms of possibilities

like the ashen flowers in the district park

Your eyes: symbols for bursting, heavy breasts

sagging from your father’s eyes, from equine milk, and presents

that shed from your skin instead of your husband’s cruel lips


His words gather in your bellybutton

and crawl to your neck, like cypresses in the cemetery

and suddenly, instead of dust, it is you hanging from the chandelier


My friends are mine because they are no one’s

they only listen to themselves and touch only themselves

my friend is the table leg

whose splinter pierces your thumb while moving house


My friend: a small plastic ball

filled with brown fluid


My friend is a curly hair

in the drain of her throat


He tells her: together we drew boundaries

to clean furniture together

She tells him: it’s easy to fall apart, it’s hard

to pierce a pea with your fork

My friends are the first sorrows

whom I genuinely loved

They are the first to make decisions

and the only ones to carry them through


My friends are tall buildings

whose hands hold the foundations


My friends are an airplane

with concrete legs



The Amphora

Translated by Hana Samaržija


To bury yourself in ashes:

a blissful thought, after a century asleep

in an amphora

burdened by heavy delights

Heavy, because on hold

to burst like a chestnut with its stomach split open

and to begin dreaming


Dreaming about the birth of an olive

the bruised thighs of skies that crows

pluck from their nests with beaks

string by string

until there is nothing left

but dreams of skinniness and silence

ceramic backs

and doors


To appear in the sun’s apron

To float in a mossy carriage, to

stretch into a column emanating from the bowl


An ordinary wooden bowl is

the hard core of our greeting

and slack is its gait


To open your eyes

invite the army to invade the city

and lay your forehead in a valley

the flipside of an elbow



translated by Hana Samaržija


Aubade is a buffalo

It unwraps its horns like a lotus

and water is dew, strewn with a faint

twist of the neck. This mist forms a thin

dense layer of fur that trails its spine

like a white deer trails traffic

when it is snowing

The white petals of a lotus



white blood cells, like pearl necklaces

which hang from roofs when it turns cold

Aubade rushes and races with its brief

darting haste

like the life of a white rabbit

and other white animals


Aubade: the only part of the scene that is brown


Everything else is white, wherever

the round rifle of the eye

beneath its thin frosty membrane

can perform the splits

Brown is only a tree with four roots

and two branches


I do not know why, but aubade


reminded me of the juggler

who waits for the traffic lights

to turn green. He then hurls

dusty tennis balls

ball by ball

like large, smooth walnuts


If one were to drop on the road

it would roll beneath a car waiting for its mark

and ruin the day

This way, make no mistake

There is no mud on its hands


My love is

a hunter that aims

for the empty space between two horns





translated by Hana Samaržija


I will move to Iceland

like a flock of birds

like two bales of wheat

treading under the sun

to exhaustion, their skin

yoked to vertigo

with soft ribbons

I say: it’s reliable

this doesn’t mean: safety


this does mean:

my body is bound

and I am floating

like an amoeba

as free as

a life belt

without a

drowning man

to rescue


This empty core

is Iceland:

my need

to be warm

and thrown into water


my desire

to see you

blown up by a bomb

from my stomach


my hands

hold binoculars

watching me from the shore

in an explosion

inviting me

to forget my name



The desire to become cold

To only have sterile thoughts

and mouth simple sentences

to mount a rock of wet salt

and eat plain oatmeal


to wear thick woolen socks

to forsake human touch

and, once a month, to visit

white foxes


I would like an eternal Winter

I would like my room’s yard

to become her empire

I would sprawl on her cushions


and have her tell me that, in her youth, she

would sit on the chest of young men

and stay with them

until they ran

out of breath



I am sending you a letter from Iceland:

here everything is white

like the clouds I captured

from the airplane window

when I came to see you


During the day, the sky seems

like the North pole

You cannot see the ground

During the night, the soil

looks like a web of stars


I omit the brown details

I lie it snows

In the end, I don’t send the letter

I don’t begin hating the world

I don’t curl into bed naked

and I don’t cry




Your core is tiny

flushed, soft, smooth tissue

beneath a pile of knives


On a white morning


I will draw them one by one

like nails from a tent

and stab them in the foreheads

of everyone who exposed you

Nikolay Boykov

Nikolay Boykov

Nikolay Boykov (1968, Bulgaria) studied Hungarian philology and has had a range of jobs, as a cook, truck loader, interpreter in a sewing factory, librarian, teacher of Hungarian, journalist, model at an art academy, book and newspaper deliverer, copywriter, bookseller, translator, guard, window cleaner, childcare worker, courier, franchise provider, PR and advertising assistant, helper to people with physical disabilities, editor, waiter, and bartender. He writes poetry as well as prose. At the invitation of Traduki, he participated at the 2018 Leipzig Book Fair. He also organised a festival and symposium about queer life and literature in Central and Eastern Europe at the Literarisches Colloquium Berlin.






Briefe an Petăr (Auszüge)



25. Januar


Heute, auf dem Heimweg von der „Matrix“, begann ich wieder, sieh mich nicht so an, Junge zu trällern, aber statt und jeder deiner Blicke ist ein Ruf ertappte ich mich dabei, wie ich jeder meiner Blicke sang, es war gegen kurz nach neun, die Spatzen unter meinem Fenster hatten bereits ausgezwitschert, ich hatte bereits nach der Post gesehen und würde zu Hause in dem Buch Der Affe auf dem Fahrrad von Ágnes Heller lesen (während des Lesens würde mir eine Träne über die Wange kullern, zur völlig falschen Zeit, unangebracht, aus dem Kontext gerissen, offenbar ganz und gar zusammenhanglos), aus diesem Buch würde ich mir auf Ungarisch einige Sätze wie die folgenden notieren: wie sowohl Lukács als auch Solschenizyn gesagt haben sollen, dem Hund einen hündischen Tod und dass der Mörder ein Mörder bleibt, selbst wenn er einen Mörder ermordet, darüber, dass der ehrliche und anständige Mensch gewinnt, selbst wenn er verliert, darüber, wie sie im Alter von achtzehn beschlossen habe, dass sie auf dieser Welt eine Berufung hat: die Nuss zu knacken, und die Nuss ist die Wahrheit, die Wahrheit über die Dinge, über die Menschen und das Sein, darüber, was in uns steckt, wie sie aber später begriffen habe, dass es keine Wahrheit gibt, und so gebe es auch nichts zu erkennen, sie habe verstanden, dass die Unmöglichkeit, die Nuss zu knacken, Teil des Nussknackens ist, letzteres habe ich irgendwie nicht verstanden, ich hatte mir bereits vorher einen Lindenblütentee gemacht und einen halben Becher Joghurt mit einer Scheibe Brot gefrühstückt, später würde ich Krautsalat zu Mittag essen, wieder mit Joghurt, ich hatte bereits und wieder Ani Ilkov gelesen: Gestern wurde ich nachdenklich und sagte mir: Ich werde / nichts aufschreiben – die Wörter sind leer. / Dann ging ich spazieren, kaufte mir etwas zum Abendessen / und begann alles von vorn / mit einem Brief, in dem ich mich nicht beklagen würde, und ich würde in der Markthalle und auf dem Frauenmarkt einkaufen gehen, wo ich mir Pfefferminz- und Kamillentee kaufen würde und einen aus Bergkräutern, ich würde auch versuchen, mir eine Stange Salami zu kaufen, und verlangen, dass man sie für mich aufschneidet, man würde ablehnen, ich würde mich ärgern, wir würden ein wenig streiten, Bürger würden sich empören, dass ich die Schlange aufhalte, ich würde verärgert weggehen, ohne mir Salami zu kaufen, aber mir würde einfallen, einer Freundin vorzuschlagen, eine Reihe von Beiträgen für einen Fernsehsender zu machen, sagen wir mit dem Titel kein Kommentar, wo wir filmen, wie ich verlange, dass man mir die Salami aufschneidet, man das aber ablehnt, ich würde sie später auf dem Heimweg, nachdem ich Äpfel, Orangen, Mandarinen, zwei Pampelmusen, Karotten, Kartoffeln, Zwiebeln, frische Petersilie, frischen Dill und zwei Paprikaschoten gekauft habe, treffen und ihr auf die Schnelle von meiner Idee erzählen, und wir würden vereinbaren, uns morgen zu sehen und alles ausführlich zu besprechen, ich hatte bereits die neuen Postkarten mit Rätseln für Trjavna gezeichnet, und auf dem Weg zur Post würde ich einen Buntstift kaufen, um das Geschenk für Kamen fertig zu verpacken: ein Buch mit Geschichten – Lügenmärchen, ein Heft, ein ganz gewöhnlicher Kugelschreiber, all das in einer durchsichtigen Kunststoffmappe, und ein Rasierset von Gillette (ein übriggebliebenes Weihnachtsgeschenk, das ich ohnehin nicht benutzen würde: ein Rasierer mit einigen Klingen, Schaum, Aftershave (?)), ich hatte bereits eines meiner Geburtstagsgeschenke im Eissalon in der Angel-Kănčev-Straße bekommen: eine wohlriechende runde Kerze, und ich würde einen Abstecher zur Buchhandlung Bibliopolis auf der Solunska-Straße machen, um abzusprechen, wann ich meine Postkarten für die Interessenten an meinen Postkarten zeichnen sollte, falls es solche gab natürlich, ich hatte bereits meinem Freund eine Antwort auf das geschrieben, was er mir geschrieben hatte, dass sehr schön sei, was ich ihm in meinem letzten Brief beschrieben hatte: wie wir uns einen Film angeschaut hatten, ob jetzt Die Einsamen oder Die Einfältigen, wie wir nebeneinander saßen und sich unsere Schultern von Zeit zu Zeit berührten, leicht und zart, und ich fühlte, wie er einatmete, und ich fühlte, wie er fühlte, dass ich einatmete, ich fühlte, wie sein Atem schneller wurde und meiner ihn einholte oder meiner vorauseilte und seiner ihn einholte, wie sie sich einholten und überholten, sich übersprangen und wir dann an der Stelle, wo unser Einatmen und Ausatmen eins hätten sein sollen, leicht und zart voneinander abrückten, und ich hatte ihm bereits mit einem ungarischen Schlager geantwortet: Die Liebe dauert eine Woche (wenn wir dieses Lied im Unterricht durchnehmen, gibt es ein Lehrbuch auf Ungarisch: Nicht nur Lieder, immer am Anfang, noch bevor klar wird, worum es geht, frage ich, das ist die erste Aufgabe der Lektion: was dauert eurer Meinung nach eine Woche?), ich hatte bereits zu einem anderen Freund gesagt: alles ist vorbei, auch diese Liebe ist vorbei, aber ich bin verliebt und das bedeutet auch kreativ, ich hatte bereits einen Brief geschrieben, mit dem ich bereits gegen jenes von mir Ausgesprochene verstieß, nämlich dass ich Dir nicht schreiben würde, und ich würde mir eine grüne Diskette aussuchen, um auf ihr diese Briefe von mir zu speichern (Briefe an Petăr), ich hatte bereits alle möglichen Sachen gemacht und würde andere machen, ich war auf dem Boulevard Neofit-Rilski nach Hause unterwegs, und dann, während ich und jeder meiner Blicke ist ein Ruf, ti-da-da-ti-da-ti-ta-ta-ti-da vor mich hin trällerte, sagte ich mir, da beschloss ich, damit anzufangen, Dir diese Briefe zu schreiben und nicht darauf zu warten, eine Antwort von Dir zu erhalten.



30. Januar


Nachdem wir gestern Wolken über dem Ganges gesehen hatten, stand irgendein Freund aus Deiner Kindheit zwischen uns, dessen Namen ich mir nicht gemerkt habe, der kurz vor seinem Abschluss in Jura stand, aber immer noch nicht wusste, was aus ihm werden sollte, wenn er einmal „groß“ wäre, wir hatten uns zufällig an der Bushaltestelle bei der Uni getroffen, ich war auf dem Weg ins Ungarische Kulturinstitut und hatte es eilig, hatte Dich gerade von der Šipka-Straße aus auf dem Handy angerufen, und wir hatten verabredet, uns in zwanzig Minuten vor dem Kulturinstitut zu treffen (inzwischen weiß ich, warum die Leute auf der Straße herumirren und in ihr Telefon brüllen: Wo bist du?), Du begannst zu schreien, ich kam zurück, dann verscheuchte ich für einen Moment den Freund aus Kindertagen, um Deine Erlaubnis einzuholen, diese Briefe zu veröffentlichen, dann saßen wir getrennt da, und ich holte gleich zu Beginn das rote Klemmbrett im halben A4-Format und den grünen Kugelschreiber hervor, den ich immer dabei habe, um die Adressen auf die Postkarten zu schreiben, die ich verschicke, nur ihn konnte ich in meinem Tornister erstasten, ich saß im dunklen, aber immerhin ausreichend hellen Saal und schrieb so, wie ich früher einmal in Brief nach Amerika im Euro-Bulgarischen Zentrum geschrieben und geschluchzt hatte: Der Ort ist trist, aber ich lasse mich nicht von ihm runterziehen … Habe ich ihm gesagt, dass ich … Inmitten so vieler Menschen … Doch Du wirst aufwachen und mir verzeihen, doch ich werde aufwachen und mir verzeihen, doch Du wirst aufwachen und Dir verzeihen, ich schrieb im Salon des Ungarischen Kulturinstituts, was auf dem Bildschirm zu hören war (wie immer, wenn sie auf Ungarisch Mutterflüche ausstießen, auf Bulgarisch nur – zum Teufel): Über das Existierende sprechen und über das Nichtexistente schweigen, ich hatte mir bereits in Christentum und Kultur Nr. 4/2000 das eine Motto von Wittgenstein notiert, das ich in den Händen eines Mädchens erblickte, sie zeigte ihren Freundinnen ihre Klausurarbeit: Ich bin meine Welt, und die Nummer des anderen, das mir zu lesen nicht gelang, 5.621, während ich jetzt diese Zeilen schreibe, finde ich es: Die Welt und das Leben sind Eins (jetzt verstehe ich jenen Satz, den Bojan Mančev auf der Ivan-Asen-Straße zu mir sagte, nämlich dass ich ein ziemlicher Wittgenstein-Typ sei); heute Morgen, als ich irgendwo gegen zehn vor zwei aufwachte, konnte ich mich nicht hinsetzen, um zu schreiben oder zu übersetzen, mein Computer war kaputtgegangen, also begann ich, darin zu lesen, das Christentum und die Kultur, begann zu unterstreichen, womit ich einverstanden war und womit nicht, auf seine Fragen zu antworten, meine eigenen Fragen zu stellen: warum die religiös Gläubigen das Wort Gläubige für sich beanspruchen und alle übrigen als Ungläubige bezeichnen, bedeutet die Tatsache, dass ich nicht an ihren Gott glaube, dass ich an nichts glaube, ist es wahr, dass ich zwischen Glaube und Unglaube wähle, vertauscht die Frage glaube ich, die man mir dort stellt, nicht die Kategorien, vielleicht lautet die Frage glaube ich an Gott und vielleicht genauer glaube ich an den christlichen Gott und vielleicht noch genauer – an diesen auf den ersten Seiten ins Auge gefassten christlichen Gott: der hyperwirkliche und hypermögliche soll es sein, der wundervolle, der Gott, dessen Jenseitigkeit und apostrophierende Verborgenheit augenscheinlich sind für Kalin Janakiev (ich persönlich glaube nicht an den Christengott und glaube nicht der bzw. an die Unaussprechlichkeit dieses Unglaubens wie Aleksandăr Kjosev, ich halte mein irdisches Dasein als Mensch für ein Leben unter anderen, für ein Leben mit den anderen, und aus dieser Perspektive bin ich der Meinung, dass es nicht gut ist, an diesen Gott zu glauben, weder für mich selbst noch für die anderen, ich meine, dass dieser Gott ein Gott der Erpressung und der Machtausübung durch das Opfer ist, durch das Zuschreiben von Schuld, durch eine durch nichts gezeigte, durch nichts bewiesene Liebe, ein Gott der doppelten Standards und der Unvollständigkeit, ein Gott der Verankerung der Ungleichstellung, denken wir nur an das Folgende: jemand erschafft meine eventuellen Vorfahren nach seinem Bild, als sein Ebenbild, wobei er ihnen das Recht vorenthält, Gut von Böse zu unterscheiden, danach bestraft er sie unwiderruflich und endgültig für die von ihnen begangene Sünde und nicht nur sie persönlich, sondern auch alle anderen, wie in der Kaserne: da hat einer angeblich einen Fehler gemacht und hopp alle runter in den Entengang, am Ende habe er, weil er mich liebt, seinen einzigen Sohn geopfert, um mich zu retten, und ich sei angeblich frei, aber ich bin nur frei, das zu wählen, was er für mich ausgewählt hat, ganz zu schweigen davon, dass im Falle, dass ich nach seinem Bild und als sein Ebenbild geschaffen worden bin, die Möglichkeit zu sündigen von nirgendwo anders kommen kann als von ihm, und weil er sich nicht selbst bestrafen kann oder will, bestraft er mich für etwas, an dem ich keinerlei konkrete Schuld trage, und dann rettet er mich auch noch wegen dieser völlig unkonkreten Schuld, indem er seinen geliebten Sohn opfert, denken wir uns Folgendes: wenn eines seiner Gebote lautet du sollst nicht töten, und da gibt es keine zwei Meinungen, das ist klar und deutlich ausgesprochen worden, wozu waren dann all diese Kriege und Kreuzzüge im Namen Christi gut, warum versuchen all jene, die sich als christliche Politiker ausweisen, nicht klar und deutlich, die Massenvernichtungswaffen abzuschaffen, wieso sollte ein doch so gläubiger christlicher Anführer einer Weltmacht im Augenblick andere aussenden, um zu töten, und ganz offensichtlich werden sie töten, obwohl es dort in einfachen und klaren Worten heißt: du sollst nicht töten.), ich las und antwortete also in den Marginalien auf die Fragen, zum Beispiel: 7. Wenn Sie als Ungläubiger der Überzeugung sind, dass Sie kein Bedürfnis nach einem Subjekt haben, das über der Welt und über dem Möglichen steht, könnten Sie dann versuchen zu sagen, womit Ihnen dieses Dasein hier und jetzt ausreicht, damit Sie kein solches Bedürfnis haben?: Ich kann, wenn ich ich selbst bin, wenn ich ganz bin, wenn ich authentisch bin, wenn ich morgens die mich anzwitschernden Spatzen höre, wenn ich manchmal, Schulter an Schulter mit einem geliebten Menschen, fühle, wie unser Atem sich verfolgt und verstrickt, sich überspringt und überholt, wenn ich das Lächeln des anderen sehe und sein Lachen höre, wenn ich Lammsuppe in der „Prärie“ esse, wenn ich morgens zusehe, wie es dämmert, wie die Wolken langsam und gelassen in irgendeine Richtung davonschweben und die Sonnenstrahlen ihren Schleier durchstoßen, wenn die Kinder in Trjavna … mir fehlen die richtigen Worte … wenn der Wind mein Gesicht gerbt, wenn ich mit Attila Jász geschwiegen habe und den Raum nicht mit Worten füllen musste, wenn ich irgendwann in Jahr 2000 Ofenkartoffeln in der Talschlucht bei den Plattenbauten von Mladost 2 gegessen habe, wenn ich selbst das schreiben kann, warum sollten mir diese Dinge nicht ausreichen, und warum sollten sie mich dazu bringen, an einen verborgenen Gott zu glauben (der seine Anwesenheit verweigert), und wenn dieser Gott jenseitig und verborgen ist, nicht sichtbar und nicht anwesend, ist dann nicht auch meine Verweigerung des seine Anwesenheit Verweigernden eine Gesetzmäßigkeit; ich kritzelte also die Zeitschrift mit meinen Fragen und meinen Antworten voll (kann etwas ein Dialog sein, wenn wir wissen, wohin wir uns entwickeln werden, ist der Dialog nicht der bekannte Ort, von dem aus wir uns auf den Weg machen, ohne zu wissen, wohin wir gehen, offen für die Veränderung und das Verstehen der anderen, offen für das Risiko, ein anderer zu sein, der Ort, wo unsere eigenen Wahrheiten auf die Probe gestellt werden und wo wir neue finden), ich las also und kritzelte auf die Blätter des Christentums und der Kultur, danach schlief ich, trank Kaffee, las Der Affe auf dem Fahrrad (Auch ich pflegte zu sagen, dass die Richtung und der Ort der Rettung die Revolution des alltäglichen (unerlässlichen) Lebens sind, wir sollten uns mit dem beschäftigen, was wir können, mit der vollständigen Veränderung unseres Lebens, wir müssen für uns selbst, in unserer eigenen Handlungssphäre das menschliche Leben erschaffen, hier und jetzt leben und mit und unter diesen Menschen wirken), später kam Kamen und reparierte meinen Computer, er war irgendwie verstaubt gewesen, und jetzt schreibe ich diese Zeilen auf ihm, draußen hat es begonnen, weiß zu schneien, und gestern kam ich allein nach Hause, beschleunigte meine Schritte auf der Straße des 6. September (Dein Freund aus Kindertagen und Du, ihr hattet es eilig, irgendwohin zu kommen), und ich schluchzte so, wie Krum Filipov im Marmorsalon des Russischen Kulturinstituts geschluchzt hatte bei der von Levčev organisierten Lesung, während er dieses Gedicht über seine Großeltern vortrug.




Aus dem letzten Brief, 2. August 11:24 Uhr – 11. August 21:36 Uhr


… ich ging in Richtung Zentrum, unterwegs schrieb ich E-Mails, kam zum „Parnas“, sie hatten die CD mit den Folksongs eingelegt, Mitternacht war schon vorbei, zwei junge Männer saßen an der Bar, der eine trank einen möglicherweise alkoholischen Cocktail mit Fruchtsaft, er hatte ein rundliches Gesicht, war kurzgeschoren, seine Bewegungen waren weich und zart, dauernd hatte er dem anderen etwas zu erklären, der sich im einen Augenblick mit den Fingern durchs Haar fuhr, um sich im nächsten umzusehen und dann einen Schluck von seiner Cola zu nehmen, wir saßen also an der Bar, Galja, Megi, ich und Toma, lauschten der Kompilation, ich holte mein rotes Klemmbrett zum Schreiben hervor, schrieb die Songtexte auf, Toma redete unablässig auf mich ein, ich konnte ihn nicht verstehen, ich schrieb So viele Wahrheiten habe ich begriffen, so viel Schmerz durchlitten, und wie einen Phoenix in der Asche vergrub ich die Liebe in mir, Toma hörte nicht auf, von Tranströmer zu erzählen, der gesagt habe, dass er in seinem Schatten getragen werde wie eine Geige in ihrem Geigenkasten, und wie hammermäßig das sei, ich betrachtete den jungen Mann mit dem runden Gesicht, ab und zu durchfuhr seine Hände ein zartes und weiches Zucken, meine Hände strichen weich und zart den Tresen glatt, manchmal legte er seine Hand auf die des anderen, sie sangen von Liebe, die nur mit dir süß wie Honig ist, von den drei Worten, von Bestrafung durch Betrug, von Armen, die andere umschlingen, von Lippen, die andere küssen, von offenen Wunden, wir ließen die CD laufen, ich wünschte mir das erste Lied: so viele Wahrheiten habe ich begriffen, so viel Schmerz durchlitten (heute, am fünfundzwanzigsten, werde ich gegen später wieder auf einen Sprung ins „Parnas“ gehen, ob ich jetzt meine Mails gecheckt habe oder nicht, ich werde die Fürst-Boris-Straße entlanggehen, die Bäume, die ihre Äste über mir ineinander verflochten haben, werden in Sonne baden, ich werde gehen, werde den Blick heben, werde mitverfolgen, wie das Grün der Blätter immer heller wird, immer sonniger, immer strahlender, ich werde gehen und werde die sonnenbeschienenen, die in den Wipfeln aufleuchtenden Blätter betrachten, so wie ich sie früher schon einmal an einem anderen Morgen betrachtet hatte, ich war auch damals auf dem Weg ins „Parnas“, ich schaute auch damals bei Toma vorbei, er schlief, also machte ich einen Abstecher nach Bistrica, in die „Matrix“, auf dem Rückweg rief beim Kino „Mir“ irgendeine Musik nach mir, jemand spielte Klavier, ich blieb am Eingang des Aquariums stehen, ein Spatz flog über der Straße von einem Hausdach zum anderen, danach war der Flügelschlag einer Taube zu hören, ein gebeugter alter Mann ging vorbei, hielt eine vornübergebeugte, schwächliche Enkelin an der Hand, ein Briefträger, der in seiner riesigen Tasche wühlte, dann war ich auf einmal irgendwie drinnen, bat mich inständig selbst, ein Weilchen zuzuhören, saß mit dem Rücken zum Klavier und zum Klavierspieler, zeichnete einen Vogel für den Klavierspieler, hörte, wie er etwas probierte, wie die Töne einander verfolgten und einholten, einander überholten, in der Musik lag Trauer und Mattigkeit, auch Melancholie und Sich-Verzehren, die Töne holten einander ein, zogen aneinander vorbei, vereinten sich, dann betrachte ich, sehe Flecken, sie schimmern feucht, vor dem Schaufenster – der Besen mit dem metallisch schimmernden Stiel, am Ende des Salons zwei Eimer Wasser, ein roter und ein weißer, mit Ausgüssen, einander zugewandt, die Töne schweben, haben das Herz gerufen, ich sehe mich um, die Augen füllen sich mit Tränen, ich schlucke, die Töne verfolgen einander, holen einander ein, überholen einander, vereinen sich, Menschen gehen draußen vor dem Aquarium vorbei, manche werfen einen Blick hinein, niemand bleibt stehen, zwei Tränen lösen sich, der Junge hört auf zu spielen, ich frage ihn, wessen Musik das ist, es ist meine, sagt er, dann läuft er verlegen auf und ab und stammelt, dass auch er arbeiten muss, ich drücke ihm die Zeichnung in die Hand – ein Vogel und der blühende Ast eines Baums, ich laufe auf und ab, gehe hinaus, im „Parnas“ schläft Toma noch, ich mache mich auf den Heimweg, ich werde die Fürst-Boris-Straße nehmen, unter den Bäumen, grün und gelb eingefärbt, ich werde etwas vor mich hin trällern, dann wird es mir einfallen, es ist Lija von Kondjo und Lija, die über die Wahrheiten und die Schmerzen singt, ich werde das Lied anstimmen, es aber nicht bis zum Schluss singen können, meine Stimme wird versagen, wird zittern, wird sich schon beim Wort Wahrheiten verschlucken, und bei Schmerz wird sie beinahe flüstern, ich werde einen Abstecher machen, um es noch einmal zu hören, es wird nicht gehen, macht nichts, ein andermal, werde ich sagen) (früher, ich werde mit Plamen Antov und György im Aquarium des Ungarischen Kulturinstituts sitzen bei der Präsentation der ungarischen Theaternummer der Zeitschrift Panorama, sie werden irgendetwas erzählen, ein übertrieben fröhliches Mädchen, das vor mir sitzt, offenbar zugekifft, wird mich fragen, bist du ’ne Schwuchtel, schon vom ersten Mal an, werde ich ihr antworten, ohne überhaupt darüber nachzudenken, ja, ich bin homosexuell, wir werden also im Ungarischen Kulturinstitut sitzen, ich werde für Antov ein blühendes Bäumchen zeichnen, ich erinnere mich nicht mehr, ob die Blüten weiß waren oder blau, und hinten auf dem Stückchen Pappe werde ich in etwa Folgendes skizzieren: wir saßen im Aquarium des Ungarischen Kulturinstituts, zwei Jungen in schwarzen Pullovern kamen vorbei, die Menschen draußen konnte ich nur von der Taille aufwärts sehen, sie waren ziemlich klein, jung, hübsch, mit modernen Frisuren, offenen Gesichtern und lebendigen Augen, der eine näherte sich der Scheibe, starrte hinein, der andere winkte lässig ab und legte lässig den Arm um ihn und zog ihn lässig an sich, und lässig jung, schön und echt gingen sie weiter), wir werden also im „Parnas“ sitzen, werden uns die Folkkompilation anhören, die anderen wünschten sich ebenfalls ihr Lied, ein Wunschkonzert, sie sangen: Wo bist du in dieser Stunde, wo bist du in diesem Augenblick, hör meine Stimme, hör meinen Ruf … Sieh mir in die Augen und sag mir, dass du mich liebst …, wie geht es Tante Klara, wird Toma fragen, es geht ihr gut, heute hatten wir ein festliches Mittagessen zur Feier des Tages (sie hatten mir Buletten und panierte Paprikaschoten geschickt, Mayonnaise mit Quark, ich bot ihr an, gemeinsam zu Mittag zu essen, sie schlug vor, eine Gurken-Joghurt-Suppe zu machen, wir machten eine, deckten den Tisch, Servietten mit orange schimmernden Rosen, darüber ein Teller mit blau schimmernden Rosen, alles auf einem Tischtuch mit bunten Blumen, wir setzten uns, aßen langsam und unterhielten uns, im Fernsehen hatte der Frühlings-Grand-Prix der Popmusik begonnen, also hatte ich auf die Schnelle mein Klemmbrett zum Schreiben geholt, ich hatte die Texte der Lieder, die früher einmal gewonnen hatten und zu Schlagern geworden waren, geschrieben, sie sangen die Liebe ist Leben, Wärme, kein Betteln um Kleingeld, sie sangen von unserem ins Wanken geratenen Frühling, über die Liebe bis zur Ampel an der Ecke, vom Fenster, das nachts erleuchtet ist, vom ehrlich gesagten: bei mir ist alles gut, vom wie geht’s dir: ich mache immer ein und dasselbe, sie sangen: ein Fenster leuchtet noch in himmlischem Licht, kehrt zurück, kehrt zurück und verzeiht euch auch das Unverzeihliche, dann sangen sie das Lied aus dem Film Adaptation: Bleib stehen, geh nicht fort, ich werde traurig sein ohne deine Hände, bleib stehen, geh nicht fort, heute werde ich dir ein schreckliches Geständnis machen, später hatte der Bluesgitarrist Vasko „The Patch“ einen Gastauftritt mit seinem Lied Nachtfalter, die um die Lampe kreisen, vor der Finsternis geflohen, sie haben keinen Platz in der „Matrix“, auch wenn sie vor nichts Angst haben, danach einer – solang du weinst, werde ich dich mit dir weinen, ich werde da sein, du brauchst mich nur zu rufen, und ich begann heimlich zu weinen, und heimlich wischte ich die Träne ab, die mir über die Wange kullerte), wir saßen also im „Parnas“, lauschten den Liedern, irgendwann brachen die beiden jungen Männer auf, die Mädchen riefen sich ein Taxi, angeblich nicht interessiert fragte ich sie nach dem jungen Mann an der Bar, das Taxi kam, und sie fuhren davon, wir blieben zu zweit übrig, ich und Toma, er, gequält von so vielen Schmerzen und Wahrheiten, ließ das portugiesische Akkordeon laufen, angeblich nennen sie es Bandonell, ich schnappte mir die Fernbedienung für den Fernseher, der Ton war ausgeschaltet, ich stolperte über den Film Die Bettlektüre von Peter Greenaway, gerade war die Japanerin dabei, mit Tinte auf ihrem Körper zu schreiben, dann wusch sie sich, wir sehen, wie die Rinnsale schwarzer Tinte herunterrinnen, sie schrieb behandelt auch mich wie eine Seite aus einem Buch, Toma schrieb etwas auf seinem Laptop, ich schaltete mit der Fernbedienung vor dem Hintergrund der portugiesischen Musik hin und her, die mir so vertraut war, und wagte es nicht, ihm von meinem heimlichen Geliebten zu erzählen: an einem heimlichen sonnigen Tag ging ich in seine heimliche Wohnung in seiner geheimen Straße, wir ließen portugiesische Musik laufen, zärtlich schwebte die portugiesische Musik durch die Luft, zärtlich liebkoste er mich, dann, an einem sonnigen Tag wie dem heutigen (auch während ich jetzt schreibe, beleuchtet die Sonne meine Finger, die über die Tastatur huschen), an einem strahlenden Tag tippte ich auf die Schnelle:


Mein heimlicher Geliebter


Mein heimlicher Geliebter

liebt mich heimlich

seine Augen verschlingen mich heimlich

seine Lippen verschlingen mich heimlich

seine Hände liebkosen mich heimlich

Mit meinem heimlichen Geliebten

gehe ich geheimnisvoll durch die Straßen

wie einander Unbekannte gehen wir durch den Park

wenn der bekannte Mond über scheint

Wir verstecken uns im Schatten der Bäume

küssen uns leidenschaftlich

streicheln uns leidenschaftlich

dann knirschen Kieselsteine unter uns

wir schreiten durch den Park, suchen Bänke und Schatten

ich ergreife seine Hand

sein Daumen liebkost mich zärtlich

hören wir ein fremdes Knirschen

tun wir wieder so, als wären wir einander unbekannt

als gingen wir in der Dunkelheit im Park

vom Mond beschienen einfach spazieren


Mein heimlicher Geliebter hat einen Namen

der eine Bedeutung hat

wie der Name Blagovest gute Nachricht bedeutet

wie der Name Dobromir gut für die Welt bedeutet

wie der Name Krasimir Schönheit für die Welt bedeutet

wie der Name Angel Engel bedeutet

ein Geheimnis ist der Name meines heimlichen Geliebten

ein Geheimnis ist sein Körper

ein Geheimnis ist seine Haarfarbe

ein Geheimnis ist seine Augenfarbe

ein Geheimnis sind seine besonderen Merkmale

ein Geheimnis ist seine Größe

ein Geheimnis ist sein Geruch

ein Geheimnis ist seine Wohnung in seiner geheimen Gasse

wo wir einander heimlich treffen


Mit meinem heimlichen Geliebten

spreche ich in einer Geheimsprache

(Sprache der Blumen nennen das die Ungarn)


Mein Geliebter hat alles

zwei Augen, die mich verschlingen

zwei Lippen, die mich verschlingen

zwei Hände, die mich liebkosen

zwei Hände, die meine Kleidung aufknöpfen

zwei Augen, die mir sagen küss mich

zwei Hände, die mir sagen ich will dich

zwei Lippen, die mir sagen du bist schön du hast einen herrlichen Körper

und er umschlingt mich

und presst seinen herrlichen heimlichen Körper an mich

und weich und zart umfängt er meine Lippen

und weich und zart küsst er meinen Hals

und weich und zart flattert seine Zunge in meinem Ohr

danach umkreist sie weich und zart meine Brustwarze

er beißt leicht hinein

es tut weh – sage ich

tut es weh – entgegnet er

während ich weich und zart seinen Hals küsse

meine Zunge weich und zart in seinem Ohr flattert

weich und zart seine Brustwarze umkreist

weich und zart liebkosen meine Hände ihn

leicht und zart liebkosen seine Hände mich weich und zart

weich und zart und leicht streifen sie mein Glied

weich und zart umfasst er es

ich streichle ihn ebenfalls

Hast du Lust auf die 69 – fragt er mich

und ich entgegne – Welche ist das


danach lieben wir uns wortlos

in der portugiesischen Musik

ich sage zu ihm – Sprich, sprich, sprich!

er legt den Finger auf die Lippen

und dreht die Kassette um

und wir lieben uns


Wenn ich von meinem heimlichen Geliebten aufbreche

aus seiner heimlichen Wohnung in der geheimen Straße

liebkost er mich zum letzten Mal

vor seiner geheimen Tür

und flüstert mir flatterhaft ins Ohr

sei vorsichtig


es hatte also geregnet, als ich mich in den Schlafwagen setzte, ich wickelte mich in die Decke der Bulgarischen Staatsbahnen ein und machte die ersten Skizzen, Dienstag 22. April: es ist schon zehn vor sieben, ich mache schnell einen Abstecher zum Herrenfrisiersalon auf der Zar-Asen-Straße gegenüber vom „Presto“, ein älterer, ergrauter Herr ist frei, ich frage: wie viel wird eine Glattrasur kosten (ich habe nur zwei Lewa) (so viel sind noch von den zehn Lewa übrig, die ich mir im letzten Moment geliehen habe, und ich habe sie für Folgendes ausgegeben: gebratene Leber mit Reis in der „Prärie“, Essen für unterwegs vom Laden: zwei Croissants, Kekse der Marke Ruen mit Vanille, Waffeln, Milch, Kaugummi, Joghurt), er sagt: ich soll mich hinsetzen, kein Problem, ich sage: ich sollte wissen, ob ich werde bezahlen können (draußen regnet es schon leicht, den ganzen Tag wird mir der Kopf unaufhörlich wehgetan haben), zuerst zeigt er mir vorsichtig, wie kurz er ihn trimmen wird, dann redet er auf mich ein, ob ich mich rasieren würde, er packt mich an der Nase, neigt meinen Kopf hierhin und dorthin, an Dichtern möge man lange Bärte, sagt er, Dichter?, wiederhole ich, Popen, Popen, die rasieren sich angeblich überhaupt nicht, er hält meinen Bart in der Hand und sagt: ich werde hier und dort ein wenig wegnehmen, die Schere schnappt rund um meine Koteletten und die Ohren auf und zu, danach rasiert er meinen Hals mit der Maschine, ich solle mir keine Sorgen machen, er werde kein Geld von mir verlangen, er werde mir etwas Gutes tun, denn das Gute komme zurück, die Natur zahle alles zurück, tu Gutes, und wie er meinen Kopf neigt, wie seine weichen Finger ihn leicht zurechtrücken, ist es so, als würde der Schmerz abfließen, ausfließen, danach bezahle ich meine zwei Lewa, der Regen hat aufgehört, der Schmerz – ist abgeflossen, ich gehe schnell nach Hause, mache mich auf den Weg zum Bahnhof, den Rucksack auf den Schultern, dann ins Abteil, eingewickelt in die Decke, schreibe ich in der weichen, mich umfangenden Wärme.



Aus dem Bulgarischen von Alexander Sitzmann

Refugee Stories

In 2019, several refugees, living in Ljubljana, Slovenia, have participated in a special part of the Reading Balkans – Borders vs. Frontiers project. The participants wrote short stories during a workshop, led by Andraž Rožman, the author of the narrative nonfiction novel Three Memories, and Asja Hrvatin, and presented them to the public at Vodnikova Domačija in Ljubljana. The participants were: Somaye Asadpour and Karla Kos, Viktoria Pospelova and Mohamed Abdul Al Munem. Somaya and Karla wrote a story about a meeting of two families with different cultural backgrounds. Mohamed Abdul Al Munem wrote about publishing in Aleppo, while Viktoria wrote a touching story about different states of mind.

The activities continued in 2021 with short video stories, in which Viktoria Pospelova, Noorullah Otiyakhel, Mohamad al Burai, and Mohamad Abdul Muneem talk about refugee routes, bureaucratic obstacles, and life in Slovenia.


Viktoria Pospelova

Noorullah Otiyakhel

Mohamad al Burai

Mohamad Abdul Muneem

Milica Vučković

Milica Vučković

Milica Vučković (1989, Serbia) is a writer and visual artist. Her work has been featured at more than ten group and solo exhibitions, her scenography used in several theatre productions. She has published a book of short stories and two novels, shortlisted for the Vital Award and the Biljana Jovanović Award. One of her short stories was awarded at the Biber festival.

Alex Văsieș

Alex Văsieș

Alex Văsieș (1993, Romania) is a poet and a translator, as well as a PhD candidate with a thesis on the maximalist novels from the second half of the twentieth century. For his debut poetry collection, he received the Young Poet of the Year Award. Recently, he has translated several novels (written by authors such as Chuck Palahniuk, Tom Hanks, Neil Gaiman or Graeme Macrae Burnet) and poetry by Alice Notley. In addition, he coordinates an American poetry translations column in the monthly Steaua Magazine, where he introduces some of the most important American voices of the present to the Romanian readers.





Why are you sad on the 2nd of May?


We’ve been traveling for who knows how many hours through a yellow, impossible fog and all you say is “If you love me you have to do something.”


You thought I’d want to fly over the lake, forgetting how much I hate airplanes, although I told you this even when Grimes gave birth.

I hate planes to the sky and back.


Your friend’s uncle is afraid to take off in the fog and invites us to his place out of shame.

He shows us scale models and serves us an aged wine under the vine.


You wouldn’t drink because nobody’s allowed to drive your car.

You’re so cute when you don’t get what you want, especially how the yellow t-shirt changes you: an angry little boy with narrow shoulders.


We’re toasting to me.

This is an Archangel, and she’s a Tiger Wasp.

His wife, from Piatra Neamț, bought it, and the memory makes him bite his lips in pain.


Here we are still together and we love each other; then why do you suddenly have a tear on your cheek?

You look at the sky, it’s from the vine.


It’s crying, the pilot tells us, his mind empty and inconsolable.

He says it a few more times, as if we don’t understand.

For three years now, left alone with the planes, he repeats things until the world abandons him.


You stop at the farm with solar panels and start crying for real.

The desires once inside your body are now moving around us.


Here you are still a teenager and you don’t think too much about the future, although you think with great care about the past.

I see the moon in the rearview mirrors, over houses with lights on.


Some shine, even though the family went out to look at the stars.

Tonight, the fog holds them together.


You fall in love with the parents of the one you love, with their house, with their animals, with their set of topics, without which they would die in a conversation.

And this holds you closer to him than love.


At night, I sleep very little and sleep away from you.

The sound of you peeing soothes me, almost putting me back to sleep.

I feel the sadness in my cunt, but love is more subtle than the body.


In the morning, I see you in the garden watering three rows of strawberries; you call them Anger, Abandonment and Dedication.

I give you money, lots of money, so you don’t use this kind of words anymore.

You tell a story, but only the bees bumping your cheek can hear it.


You always want people to think you’re happy, like when sparkling water tickles your throat and nose.

The leaves tremble under the sprinkler, thanking you for the care.


Do you remember how you cried at the farm with solar panels?


The easiest way out of the story is to be absorbed in its tragic formula, in the universal myths of animals.


If water moves left and right, white light decomposes into its spectrum.

And I don’t care how you behave in this world, I care about you, about the way the climate suits you or not.


Only when the electricity in the air makes you tremble, you realise it got cloudy.

You smile.

Seriously, so I watered in vain.


But the silence you speak in, the resignation that the sun will not rise today, that it warmed you exactly as much as you needed.

You don’t even say it to me, and that’s why I find it unforgettable.

It’s the moment when I like you the most and I feel my heart melting.


I am saddened by loneliness as a form of criticism,

I am saddened by your cherry red windbreaker on the basalt sky,

by dreams with many people, my attention span unable to contain you.

It saddens me that I could live all of this again and that I can’t want it anymore.







We’re smoking weed in front of the library, among scooters.

Roberto is friends with Marco who is friends with Mauro who is friends with me.


I don’t even like weed; I no longer feel any sadness from it, just space.

But they left me alone with Roberto, who was drinking beer yesterday morning at 9:00, in the reading room.


It smells of garlic and Moschino.

Where is Mauro? Did he go for coffee?

It’s the end of autumn, but the light of spring tricks the seasons.


A hundred meters further, the carabinieri smoke and jump their machine guns on their shoulders.

With olive-green eyes, with olive-oiled chins.


It’s that moment after lunch when all the communication breaks.

The cold, dry air makes us feel good. We want to be better

and right now I like the passage of time because I like time.


Andrea takes me by car and we go to the Ukrainian girl, Karolina or Karola.

Her boyfriend owns a house in Polignano and we sit in the sun like green parrots.


It’s an invasion. They break the bark with their strong beaks, leaving the fruit shell on the branches.

Like us, they are crazy about almonds, but can be satisfied by any kind of fruit.


In November, orange leaves float on the pool water.

Those who know how to swim swim among them and falter.


I fall asleep under long, expressionist shadows.


So where’s the boyfriend? I get up from the lounger and still can’t see him anywhere.

I love girls who were born with the sadness gene.

I play games with them on the PlayStation, and I go down. Down. Down. Down.


Daniele played water polo, but did not want to be an Olympic medalist.

Everyone is trying to be seen, but there in the water I wanted no one to see me.


I cried like never before.

Then I broke away and retired.

At 16, I said this was the end of my sports career.


Depression is very difficult… Do you want cocaine?

Imagine that you are the sun that fills the sky and everything around you melts.

I want to think a little before answering you.


Claudia is moving – a heat wave in December.


The explosion of the ultraviolet lamp terrifies me.


She knows what she’s doing.

She opens her mouth, speaks in a low voice, but remains motionless, close to her pronunciation.

It’s the only way she knows how to talk about it. She is aware of her lips moving and she likes it, she likes how her lips move, just like a dog left without water.


It hurts to look at her.

She kept a story in her chest, but the sea of ​​forgiveness in which a complicated being swims blurs her, silences her.


Soon there will be no more movies, no radio drama, no clever cars, no clever people.

What nonsense, who makes you talk like that?

Nobody, but I heard you crying and I couldn’t stand aside.


In the first scenes I had a shaved face; but here I wear a beard and I try to speak Italian.


And what about all those people who live in the dark and don’t even realize it?

It is no longer a novel or a story, a hermetically sealed villaggio in the center of a fire, in the wall of the house across the street.


It is evening in the month of our adoration.

It was only about you, from day one.


When I hear someone who knows how to speak, I free myself from my senses; like when I was at the drive-in and a guy suddenly appeared whispering in my ear.

And his voice sounded asleep, from afar, from a wet car.


A gesture without consequence, a little star on the sand.

They’re not aphrodisiacs, they’re a good night’s sleep, i.e. awesome.


What I forgot to draw from her or his answer: the ocean.

Nothing about the darkness. Almost nothing about the darkness. Not a word about the darkness. About darkness itself.


You are silent and calm, more like a constellation.


My mind is filled with things I can’t come to terms with.

And the cheetah still scratches the planet. Someone is singing St. Augustine in the blue bedroom.


Where do you eat the best focaccia barese in the world?

On this beautiful stadium, where Răducioiu once smiled and no one plays anymore.


Nothing is really great when you receive it at once. On the boy’s face and around his ankle.

And they all just look at the sky, at the twins’ rainbow.


The government will give them the bad news.

Port workers got used to them.

Soon, this place will be the same as before.


A painful party.

Andrea holds Clara in his arms, I would give anything to be one of them.


The terrace only holds their eyes.


From the sea, the smell of frittura mista.

I could move here, dedicate myself to the climate, to the octopuses.


I’m as good as the things I replace.


But the stars are gone, the air is cold and hard as mud.

The air is dangerous. Nobody wears warm clothes.





Our fathers


After working together for a few days, the men realize they are the same.

First they look around, their desires pierce the walls like drills,

then they choose two young women infiltrated by the sun and follow them full of hope,

until the street forces them to turn back, losing another chance

to regain their lives, to lie jaded and relaxed on private beaches

as the girls laugh at the bonus after boner pun, as the night latches the sea.

And waves, waves of warm oblivion, over the fingers clenched in remorse.


One of them remembers: his son was stuttering nervously trying to explain

that you can no longer use the viper metaphor when speaking about unknown women,

in 2020, at a crossroad, or to drool thoroughly, disgustingly after them,

and that it all comes from a deep, unshakable hatred for the woman who dumped him at 40.

Well, how do you tell me what I can and can’t do, lad, when I work my ass off

for you to drive the car you drive and not sleep like the poor under the bare sky?

Everything, every vibration from the youth of others burns his skin, and most of all their cruelty.


Before falling asleep, the other one imagines how his sons would fuck the girls on his account

opened in the nineties at the Bank of Sex and Silent Charisma.

First the little one, heir to the broad, hairy chest, often pierced with pain.

Then the big one, with an unbearably thin voice of pleasure, about which

years in a row he heard his neighbors whispering that his son was full of tricks and fads.

Now he says: Dad, I think you have some problems that should be solved,

but I can’t help you, because I’ve escaped the web of desires.


In reality, one really likes to let himself be hypnotized by the concrete mixer machine.

Five parts of sand to one of cement, water and a handful of fiberglass

floating like a fine powder in the centripetal darkness.

Then he leaves the full wheelbarrow at the door and at the end of the day, stepping into the room

he feels the fever running down his legs and his eyes fill with tears,

as if he saw the crooked walls for the first time, the ceiling lowered by 50 mm.

He read the future in stone, and how much he’ll have to endure, how many women far from him.


He looks away to calculate what is left for them to spend together

before being absorbed back into their families, under a sky like an empty esplanade.

One of them with an extra thousand euros and his overalls smelling of wild mint,

the other one dumped, with a summer house to return to every weekend.

And he remembers that they were eating in silence on the oilcloth with roses in bloom

and the radio was muttering discreetly about Nicoliță’s return to Steaua,

when the other man touched his neck with his hand, stretched out to a fruit fly.


The first impulse was to cling to his fingers, bring them close to his face and press,

because they were cold and clenched like a tendril trembling from a night of regress.

Only beyond the plasterboard, beyond the reinforced, insulated walls, from the air cushion

that didn’t let the heat escape, the men of the house were still looking at him with burning eyes,

as he had seen them years ago, manly and transparent, in a dream he had never left.

And all he did was look at the crescent moon above the pond and wait for the desire to dissolve.

In the dirty water, the vipers bite and fight – that’s all he felt night after night after night.






To me, their eyes lost their brightness


There are three bumblebees and the girls are chasing them with willows in their hands.

Evelyn and Daria run their fingers through their honey-blonde, wavy hair.

Roxana, younger and brunette, wears a white T-shirt with minions

and struggles to break nuts with a brick as big as her rickety chest.

Where did she find it and what kind of engine swirls inside her when she picks it up?

The sisters, although they quarrel a little in Hungarian, matched their pink T-shirts.

Be-Benidorm 23 and the TikTok logo reflecting the silver sunset.

They hit the willows through the air, advancing towards the end of the asphalt road,

from where you can fly over the rocks directly in the Someș,

walls of dark water to swallow all the noise.

Through the lowered car window, Roxana’s voice asks us:

Do you believe I can kill them with the power of my mind?

If you don’t believe me, girls, we won’t meet again tomorrow. I mean, I’m not coming anymore.

Next to the olive gate covered with a carpet like a dry rose,

a man smokes and calls their names one by one. Roxana, Eve, Daria.

Daria peeks into my car right before entering the yard,

thinking I don’t see her, that she’s invisible, just like moments before.

But we look into each other’s eyes and realize that something is taken away from me,

something yellow, maybe a bike leaned on the fence in contrast,

a flicker on the rusty metal. After it warmed me up without knowing it.

And maybe I don’t even want to be happy, but to rely on sadness,

when the autumn wind chaotically pushes sounds towards me.

When I was their age, bumblebees used to appear right after the May eclipse,

and maybe you don’t believe me, girls, but they only lived with us for a few days, in the evening.




Translated by Cătălina Stanislav


Adelina Tërshani

Adelina Tërshani

Adelina Tërshani (Kosovo, 1997) is a poet, an actor, a slam poetry performer and a feminist activist, fighting agains patriarchical structures, working for Kosovo’s Women’s Network. Adelina Tërshani is known for her critical and feminist spirit in her writings, cutting down constructs and social morality. Criticism about patriarchal mentality is the general theme of her writings. Additionally, Adelina Tërshani is also involved in acting. She has played major roles in several productions by the group Lipjans Youth Theater.





The old house that expels you

A house is not just a block of concrete

That house where you have counted every brick

Isn’t yours even when you reach the tenth

The house where you have counted every brick

is not yours just because you know how many steps lead to the second floor

The house where you have already counted every brick

and where you marked the date of your first periods with blood,

Does not remember that you also counted its roof tiles

The house, where you have counted every brick

Is not necessarily your house

because the master of the house

ensures you are emotionally and materially separate

The house where you have counted every brick

Does not remember that your first steps were in its foundations

The house where you have counted every brick

Does not remember an old lamp spattering

your best clothes for the first day of school

The house where you have counted every brick

Does not remember even the sound of the slaps you received inside its walls

because it has grown familiar

with every generation of women raised in that house

being subjugated

unwilling to put their name to that house

“All the women before you,” it says, “counted my bricks before they went to slowly prepare supper for the husband who had just beaten them. Not one of them wanted to make these bricks their own.”

Thus, the house “surrendered,”

although its bricks hold everyone’s stories, the great-grandmother, grandmother, mother, sister

Oh, the house where you have counted every brick

has decided to demolish itself

so as not to see itself any longer the property of men who do not know its value

The house or home

It is fighting with whatever is at hand

and you, what are you waiting for woman?


What to say to the little sister who is being chased by a car with tinted windows?

Oh, with what hope she addresses me

starts telling me that she is going to school, but does not want to go

Adelina, a car with tinted windows is following me from school to the station.

What should I do?

Twice I joined some strangers to walk with them to the bus station

because you know that I usually walk alone

and perhaps the person following me knows too.

What should I do, Adelina?

My heart pounds

when I see the car matching my pace.

I’m so scared, Adelina!

Now it’s getting darker earlier

And I’m even more scared of the dark

what if I end up in that car and no one can see me from outside

because of the tinted windows.

I just want to go to school, Adelina.

I’ve heard the girls at school also talk about a car with tinted windows

Maybe I’m not the only one it follows.

Should we all get together and call the police, Adelina?

What could he want?

Why should I get inside the mind of a man whose face I do not know?

Is it really a solution to call the police, Adelina?

Will they delay before coming?

And if he realizes that I’ve called them

next time who knows what he’ll do.

I just want to go to school without being scared, Adelina!

And I’m scared that next time

My sister will call me by name, since she has experienced

all scenarios possible in my head

And I’m scared that next time

my little sister

will not call.



Counter argument

One cannot say “kill me” to a creature that asks no permission to kill

they cannot speak from the grave if you have not begged for permission to be their voice

one cannot describe each bullet, iron bar, or knife that has taken the lives of women

and justify it!

One cannot say “kill me” to a creature that asks no permission to kill

Nothing will stop them, not spitting in their face

Nor curses

Or loud screams

If you do not describe the pipe that split Sabile’s skull

and again “kill me” they say

because one cannot say “kill me” to a creature that asks no permission to kill

she will not join your call

she listens, as her husband prepares her for hospital

Oh, one cannot say “kill me” to a creature that asks no permission to kill

those who have endured “just another slap” will never respond to your call

as there is no call to surrender

one cannot say “kill me” to a creature that asks no permission to kill

the woman in pain who listens, expects to hear how to survive

not to surrender

because one cannot say “kill me” to a creature that asks no permission to kill.

To be in their shoes

You never expected either to be advised to give up

it would have sounded pathetic to me

even in the midst of great pain

You’ve heard me say, “kill me”,

I should say that to my husband who wants to kill me

But one cannot say “kill me” to a creature that asks no permission to kill.

Patriarchal trauma

– How many children are there in the family?

– Four.

– Girls or boys?

– Girls.

– May the lord bless you with a brother.

– How many children are there in the family?

– Four.

– Girls or boys?

– Girls.

– May the lord bless you with a brother.

– How many children are there in the family?

– Four.

– Girls or boys?

– Girls.

– May the lord bless you with a brother.

– How many children are there in the family?

– Four.

– Girls or boys?

– Girls.

– May the lord bless you with a brother.

– How many children are there in the family?

– Four.

– Girls or boys?

– Girls.

– May the lord bless you with a brother.

– How many children are there in the family?

– Four.

– Girls or boys?

– Girls.

– May the lord bless you with a brother.

– How many children are there in the family?

– Four.

– Girls or boys?

– Girls.

– May the lord bless you with a brother.

– How many children are there in the family?

– Four.

– Girls or boys?

– Girls.

– May the lord bless you with a brother.

– How many children are there in the family?

– Four.

– Girls or boys?

– Girls.

– God willing, your mother will bless you with a brother.

– How many children are there in the family?

– Four.

– Girls or boys?

– Girls.

– God willing your mother will give you a brother.

– God willing your mother will give you a brother.

– God willing your mother will give you a brother.

– God willing your mother will give you a brother.

– A brother.

– A brother.

– A brother.

– Brother.

– Brother.

– Brother.

– Brother.….

– All those aunts, uncles, cousins, uncles, mother’s uncles, father’s uncles, uncles of uncles of uncles, and those unknown women on the bus, and my parents,  they were not forced to want this brother.

– How can they make you feel like “nothing” just because you have no brother.

– As if your brain has been rinsed clear

Whether you are man or woman.

– How can they slice things apart with a knife?

– It brings back past traumas those balloons when they burst

“It’s a boyyyyy”

– And the father, when he sees blue,

his eyes sparkle

and the woman rejoices too

as they will no longer bother her

They rejoice too in the father’s home where they take him

and for the wretched at home who can’t do it

they’re manhandled by the imam and the doctor

they never check the man’s health

because his magic juice cannot be questioned

– I weep for that woman’s problems

because those of you in power, easily make your own luck

how to make her realize

that she is not on this earth just to procreate

how to explain

that it’s not worth worrying about, even for a second

having children

– Come on you!

why are you so sure the boy will grow up to be a man or woman?!

perhaps the boy may wish to marry a man?

one more man to join the household

For sure shots would be fired then!

But not because you are celebrating!

But because all your plans had collapsed before you

Because your inheritance,

cannot be given to a woman!

Patriarchal Logic

To avoid the chairs that might leave me dead in the middle of class

Just like Rita, I remain in silence, instead of saying that I like girls, and not boys

So that I don’t lose the opportunity to get a job at the store, I even added a photo of me on my CV.

“Applications without photos will not even be consider by our staff” – was the answer I got when I wanted to do the opposite.

So, are my looks important, or what I can do?!

“Before I give you the job, I have to see what you can do best” he says, while looking all over my body as though I were a picture to be looked at for entertainment.

Acting like he did not specify the type of work in the job announcement.

Oh yes, I know very well how to do the thing that is going through your mind,

but the thing is that you are not my type.

To make sure that he won’t waste 12 months of work from maternity leave,

he gives me a pregnancy test instead of the job contract.

He doesn’t know that now, both parents are entitled to parental leave, the difference is that men don’t have to go through the test.

Now, is the length of my pregnancy important, or how much job experience I have?I

“My wife doesn’t work, she is a housewife”- he says, forgetting that when he gets home his dinner is served,

his bed made,

his children safe,

his house clean,

his clothes washed…

unpaid work done by women

but he’s not to blame:

Patriarchal Logic!

“Women should take care of children, they are the moms”

what about you being their Dad,

are you still afraid that you’ll lose your manhood if you take care of your own child?!

It’s not his fault:

Patriarchal Logic

“She gave it to her boss”

Before you see whether my knees are red,

you must know:

you can’t read the number of the books I’ve read or the name of the best university from which I graduated, and if you still think that is the way women succeed

I’m sorry, but you’ll get your knees dirty needlessly

it’s not your fault either:

Patriarchal Logic

Weak logic!

That kept you primitive!

Otherwise you would stop seeing me as a “deity”

because “deities” are supposed to be infallible

I fail

I work

I scream

I claim my inheritance

I speak without your permission

Because I am a HUMAN BEING


I hate them giggling

I hate them giggling

when they approach you

and giggle with each other after you leave


I hate them giggling

when they sexually harass you

and giggle with each other after you leave


I hate them giggling

when they tell you, you’re pretty

and giggle with each other about how that is not the truth


I hate them giggling

when they ask the waiter to join them

just because she is a girl

and giggle with each other after she leaves


I hate them giggling

because it reminds me of bullying

they have a pattern


they all do it the same way

I hate them giggling



Translated by Alexandra Channer

Katarina Sarić

Katarina Sarić

Katarina Sarić (Montenegro, 1976), a professor of Slavic Literature and Philosophy and a civil rights activist, writes socially engaged poetry, prose, essays, and columns for both Serbian and Macedonian newspapers and magazines. She is an awarded author of twelve books and has been included in several anthologies. Katarina Sarić has also conceived several literary performances and is the editor of the online literary magazine Vavilonska biblioteka.

Sonja Porle

Sonja Porle (photo: Žiga Koritnik)

Sonja Porle (Slovenia, 1960) is a writer and essayist. She is the author of eight books (novels and short stories, including the cult best-selling debut Black Angel Watching Over Me) and the recipient of the Zlata Ptica Award. Prior to returning to the country of her birth, she spent 21 years living and working in Oxford, England. Yet the focus of her writing, both in literature and non-fiction, has primarily revolved around Africa, a continent she first visited in 1983. She has returned many a time since, and in the late 1980s she even settled down in Ghana for two years in order to conduct field-work among the Asanti families. A passionate collector of recycled toys created by African children, she has curated seven exhibitions based on her collection, both in Slovenia and abroad. Her work has appeared in many magazines and newspapers, both in Slovenia and abroad.





Sonja Porle





I stepped off the bus into a street alight with the golden glow of the setting sun. The faces of passersby andthe sunlit trunks of roadside trees were made of liquid gold, and the long, slim shadows of burnished copper.Over the tin roofs of the town arched a limpid blue sky. The pure and boundless heart of an angel. The street was lined with a row of taller and greener trees than I had expected, and hurrying past under their boughs were moresmartly dressed people than there had been a half-year before. And the notorious Ouagadougou dust seemedto have melted into the brick-colored earth. Only around the unbroken line of taxicabs, mopeds and bicycles onthe asphalt road did it swirl in a dry, grainy halo. And even that was golden in color. The evening was glorious.

I had taken barely twenty steps along the road which I presumed would take me downtown from the Westernoutskirts of Ouaga, when I felt the urge to treat myself to a complet coffee. I approached the long row ofmen and women sitting on a bench outside a roadside cafe watching the buoyant life on the street. Theysqueezed over to make room for me and shook hands with me one after another, bidding me good-evening. Iordered a café complet and joined in their silence. The street life was more than just buoyant; it throbbed in the frenzied rhythms of the approaching night, as if people were rushing pell- mell to finish in the coolness of thedying light all the things they hadn’t managed to do in the heat of the day. Their innocent actions called forimitation. The view from the restful side of the road lured one into momentary oblivion. I sank my teeth into somewhite bread and resolved to postpone my visit to the Zongos for a day or two.

I wished to be by myself, to reflect in peace on exactly what I would tell the Zongos about my life inGhana. I had learned from experience that the stories and thoughts you share with the first friend you meetupon your return


are the ones you then keep repeating to everyone willing to listen, and thus inadvertently forget all the things you’dfailed to first mention, until you end up no longer knowing yourself what had truly happened and what the places you’d visited had really been like. In Ghana, I had been free and at peace with the world in a way I had never known before. I’d made a vow to myself that I would not forget that serene happiness.

I inquired of the other guests at the cafe about the nearest inexpensive hotel. They conferred, and one of themtold me there indeed was a tiny hotel quite close by, but it was not fit for me, a white woman, because it wasnot clean enough and it had no electricity. Actually, it was not really a hotel at all, he added, just a doss-house,at best good enough for African wayfarers who were used to anything. I shook the dust out of my skirt andasked them to show me the way to the doss-house.


My hotel room turned out to be a little hole in the wall, chock full of the tired spirits of all who had stayedthere before me. It was furnished with a military bed, and illuminated by watery moonlight pouring in through a porthole just below the ceiling. I liked the little cubicle. It felt custom-made for my soul.


Spreading the vivid Ghana cloth over the warm bed, I sank into the sagging mattress, washed and tiredafter the long journey. I did not think about my vow; instead I listened to the buzz of the nearby streets andwondered at how curiously akin it was to the breathing of the sleeping tropical bush, which had been mylullaby for the last five months in that backwater Ghana village. And at how the piercing cries and whisperingsighs were not, after all, the nighttime shenanigans of jungle creatures, but the waking nightlife of a city. Mythoughts grew lighter and weaker, seamlessly entwining with sweet dreams. At dawn I remembered dreamingthat my journey was only just beginning.


Afterwards, I similarly failed to sort out my travel impressions. I quickly slipped on my high-heeled shoes and,with my spirits also high, set out from the little hotel with no name, which stood on a street with no name, for anaimless stroll


around the anonymous suburb. I did not go far; I knew all along I was going in circles and never lost track of the general whereabouts of my little room. I just walked on, with no thought or memory, this way and that, forward and back. Every now and then I’d buy myself a small delicacy, a banana or a fried millet dumpling, have a Coke and then go on,or else retrace my steps. I shook hands with everyone who crossed my path or met my eyes for longer than abrief second and, as luck would have it, engaged in lengthy conversation primarily with travelers: Guineans,Senegalese, Malians. Every encounter served in its way to convince me that there was nothing better than a carefree stroll around the wide world. Young Guineans enticed me with their flirtatious laughter and off-key guitars. With two fingers they twanged dewy, pretty tunes. They also sang in strangled, wounded voices, their eyes moist. Leaning against house fronts they sang: “I’ve been all around. To the south, to the north, to the east and the west. It’s nice everywhere. But Ouagadougou is the most beautiful of all. Because it is there, there that you are, my love, my angel. Ouaga’s your home, my lovely. Diarabi, ma Cherie, diarabi, diarabi, ma Cherie…” The passersby fell in step to the rhythm of the guitars, swaying their hips; young girls faltered and let their eyes drop, intimidated by the rhythm of the willing male desires; and I, I was overpowered by homesickness for places I’d never even been to. For cities that must be almost asbeautiful as Ouaga. For Lagos, Dakar, and Conakry, for Kinshasa, Luanda, and Lusaka. The Senegalese produced from their bottomless pockets wallets made of crocodile leather, bracelets and belts made of cowrie shells, strings ofglass beads, Fula earrings, Tuareg swords, and heavy Ashanti weavings, jingling them in front of my eyes until I finally bought one tiny, trifling souvenir that I did not need and could ill afford. But what could I do – it was so nice to adorn myself with nomadic jewels and imagine a life both restless and steadfast in the future. The Malians were the mostalluring of all. I had never before seen people with such graceful bodies and regular features. The older they were, the more perfect and stately their beauty. The men wrapped in shiny Moslem togas were tall and lean, with smooth, regal faces. I had to look up into the women’s faces as well: their many-layered turbans and heavy earrings pulled their patrician heads back, and they craned their necks in sharp, falcon-like twists; between their sparse words they would lower their silky black lids until their eyes were like coffee beans, and disdainfully pout their thick lips. Their demeanorexuded an air of dignity that was only fleetingly comprehensible. Quite evidently, the Malians were anything but rich.They hung about in the streets on the outskirts of the


world’s poorest capital city. But their surroundings had no bearing on their undisguised otherworldliness. It was as though they guarded inside themselves the memory of the time when Malians ruled the known world, and with theirgold undermined the financial markets of the unknown white world. They came from Gao, Timbuktu, Bamako, Djenne, Segou and Kayes … The very names of their hometowns rang with echoes of legendary beauty and fairy-tale power. Without restraint, and without lying either, I answered those Malians who invited me to come visit them when my travels took me to their desert kingdom that I would probably be going there the very next day. I did not have time, though – let alone money – for a new journey. But my daydreams knew no parsimony as I walked on and on and on, skipping over muddy puddles and laughing, thinking of a bright future and enjoying the moment, making new friends and taking a long time to say goodbye, as the ground under my feet turned golden, the sunlight ebbed away, and the afternoon soundlessly blossomed into evening. Until an enormous and restless full moon wandered onto the cornflower-blue expanse of Ouaga sky. I realized only then that I was no better prepared for my pending return than the nightbefore.


I took refuge in my little cubicle. I shook the money out of my handbag and onto the bed. I did not bother with the kerosene lamp, I made do with the torch. But the longer I counted, the less money there was. Even if I managed topostpone my flight to a later date, I could not stay in Ouaga for more than week. I dropped my clothes on the ground and lay down without washing, covering myself with the coolness of the turquoise moonlight. Without wanting to I started thinking about the objects in my suitcase. I wished to give the Zongos something, I knew they would appreciate every little thing no matter how small, even down-at-heel shoes and torn socks. I tossed about on the creaky bed, endlessly distributing my meager belongings among people who loved me rich or poor. In my mind, to the mothers I gave my toiletries, to Lizeta the non-African jewelry and my wristwatch, to Lara my worn clothes and shoes, to David the English books I’d finished reading, to Ousmane the bed-sheet, to the children the leaves in my notebooks Ihadn’t written upon. I decided to hand them the paltry gifts at the last moment before leaving for the airport, so they wouldn’t have time for profuse thanks. Only for Abdoulaye I had nothing left. I could give him my camera, or the Swiss army knife. After a brief moment of deliberation I decided to keep the camera for myself and took comfort in thethought that Abdoulaye did not


have money for film anyway. Undoubtedly, though, he would have been delighted with the knife, which would have been useful, too. He could whittle forked sticks for catapults with it, or open bottles of beer in his bar. But I hadinherited that pocket knife from my late father, and I could not bear to part with it. Before I had resolved whether I would nevertheless leave it with Abdoulaye or not, a ray of sunlight peeked into the room and I dropped off to sweaty daytime sleep.


When I peered out from the stuffy cell, my head heavy, the sun was high up in the middle of the sky. I threw my odds and ends into my suitcase and, carrying it in my hand and walking on my own shadow, hurried to the asphaltroad. The first taxi stopped, and I agreed to the driver’s first reduced fare to Dapoja. I did not feel like haggling. I began to look forward to returning to the Zongos, and immediately after that, home to Slovenia. Now, I could not have explained even to myself why I had feared going back. I could hardly wait to shake hands with the Zongos, and learn ifthey were – as always – all well and happy.




Afterwards, I similarly failed to sort out my travel impressions. I quickly slipped on my high-heeled shoes and, withmy spirits also high, set out from the little hotel with no name, which stood on a street with no name, for an aimless stroll around the anonymous suburb. I did not go far; I knew all along I was going in circles and never lost track of the general whereabouts of my little room. I just walked on, with no thought or memory, this way and that, forward and back. Every now and then I’d buy myself a small delicacy, a banana or a fried millet dumpling, have a Coke and then goon, or else retrace my steps. I shook hands with everyone who crossed my path or met my eyes for longer than a brief second and, as luck would have it, engaged in lengthy conversation primarily with travelers: Guineans, Senegalese,Malians. Every encounter served in its way to convince me that there was nothing better than a carefree stroll aroundthe wide world. Young Guineans enticed me with their flirtatious laughter and off-key guitars. With two fingers they twanged dewy, pretty tunes. They also sang in strangled, wounded voices, their eyes moist. Leaning against housefronts they sang: “I’ve been all around. To the south, to the north, to the east and the west. It’s nice everywhere.But Ouagadougou is the most beautiful of all.


Because it is there, there that you are, my love, my angel. Ouaga’s your home, my lovely. Diarabi, ma Cherie, diarabi, diarabi, ma Cherie…” The passersby fell in step to the rhythm of the guitars, swaying their hips; young girls faltered and let their eyes drop, intimidated by the rhythm of the willing male desires; and I, I was overpowered by homesickness for places I’d never even been to. For cities that must be almost as beautiful as Ouaga. For Lagos, Dakar, and Conakry,for Kinshasa, Luanda, and Lusaka. The Senegalese produced from their bottomless pockets wallets made of crocodileleather, bracelets and belts made of cowrie shells, strings of glass beads, Fula earrings, Tuareg swords, and heavy Ashanti weavings, jingling them in front of my eyes until I finally bought one tiny, trifling souvenir that I did not need and could ill afford. But what could I do – it was so nice to adorn myself with nomadic jewels and imagine a life both restless and steadfast in the future. The Malians were the most alluring of all. I had never before seen people with such graceful bodies and regular features. The older they were, the more perfect and stately their beauty. The men wrapped in shiny Moslem togas were tall and lean, with smooth, regal faces. I had to look up into the women’s faces as well: their many-layered turbans and heavy earrings pulled their patrician heads back, and they craned their necks in sharp, falcon-like twists; between their sparse words they would lower their silky black lids until their eyes were like coffee beans, and disdainfully pout their thick lips. Their demeanor exuded an air of dignity that was only fleetingly comprehensible. Quite evidently, the Malians were anything but rich. They hung about in the streets on the outskirts of the world’s poorest capital city. But their surroundings had no bearing on their undisguised otherworldliness. It was as though they guarded inside themselves the memory of the time when Malians ruled the known world, and with theirgold undermined the financial markets of the unknown white world. They came from Gao, Timbuktu, Bamako, Djenne, Segou and Kayes … The very names of their hometowns rang with echoes of legendary beauty and fairy-tale power. Without restraint, and without lying either, I answered those Malians who invited me to come visit them when my travels took me to their desert kingdom that I would probably be going there the very next day. I did not have time, though – let alone money – for a new journey. But my daydreams knew no parsimony as I walked on and on and on, skipping over muddy puddles and laughing, thinking of a bright future and enjoying the moment, making new friends and taking a long time to say goodbye, as the ground under my feet turned golden, the sunlight ebbed away, and theafternoon soundlessly blossomed


into evening. Until an enormous and restless full moon wandered onto the cornflower- blue expanse of Ouaga sky. I realized only then that I was no better prepared for my pending return than the night before.






(excerpt from Black Angel Watching Over Me)



To my relief, Abdoulaye did not feel like talking about German beer, or any other beer for that metter.

»Ever since they killed Sankara I often seem to wonder what I live for at all.«

He got up and turned up the volume on the cassette-player. That was bold thing to do. The music must have been heard clear out into the street and perhaps further. Mister policeman stared at his glass and twirled the beer bottle in his hand.

»You don`t have it so bad. You own a bar and your family`s well and happy,« he said eventually.

»I never said I had it bad, but what`s the life of a barkeeper compered to the life of a revolutionary. When I was revolutionary, I had faith and I fought for what I believed in. My life was full. Now I get up in the morning and go to bed at night.«

»Yes, one gets used to military life.«

»Military life, my foot,« muttered Abdoulaye almost malevolently, »it was much nicer to smuggle refrigerators from Nigeria than beeing Sankara`s soldier.«

With a quick change of mood he indicated his refrigerator, tapped the wooden table and raised his eyebrows:

»And more profitable too! But I`m not talking about a habit. I`m saying I was proud back then. I knew that every good thing I did would amount to something, that tomorrow we`d eat together what I`m denying myself today. I was good person! But otherwise the army was no laughing matter. And the war with Mali was no joke either. I know that, comrade, and you know that mon patron.«

Abdoulaye was one ot the thousands of soldiers in the “war of the poor“. In December 1985, the armies of two landlocked African countries went to war over a piece of border land supposedly rich in phosphorus and manganese. Ever since they existed, confined in the geometrical lines of their state borders drown into the semi-desert by the colonising French, Mali and Burkina Faso have ranked among the ten poorest countries in the world, Both are almost notorious for their indigence and general want. The Malian army had a few fighter planes, and the Burkinan armyhot-blooded


soldiers. After five days of gunfire and bombing, the presidents of two countries signed an armistice. They kept their word, and the tribunal at The Hague pronounced the strip of contention no-man`s land.

Abdoulaye was on his favourite subject. To keep him talking I asked:

»Did you shoot anyone?«

»Yes, some fifty Malians.« He sat up straight, took his hands away from his stomach and weekly, as though losing his breath, added: »Quite a few.«

Although Abdoulaye was over thirty, he still shot with his catapult at birds which strayed into the sky abovemetropolis, but I would know that he had never killed a man even if he had not told me time and again in his less inspired moments how disgusted he was by bloodshed and that he was scared even of fist fights. Abdoulaye was an ordinary Burkinan.

In the war, seventy Malian and Burkinan soldiers had died altogether. Abdoulaye`s hands went back to supporting his stomach, and he slumped slightly. For that reason, Mister and I refrained from smiling.

»Five years or five days, every war`s too long.« said Mister policeman. »It`s almost three years since then, Yes, it was touch and go for a bit, but in the end the Malians ran.« He looked at Abdoulaye.

»And we run right after that. We wouldn`t have run, though, if the French hadn`t come to their aid. Say what they will, the French hated Sankara`s guts. They paid lip service to his honesty, but in reality it rankled them. The French don`t like Africans. The French only like French Africans, those who play dumb and suck up to them.«

»And those who forget.« Mister`s voice resounded with determination. »Not only have they forgoten what they did to us, they demand that we forget as well.« Obviously, he also was not worried about darkness having big ears. Wewere still listening to Sankara`s voice and the tremling melody of his guitar. I happened to know what the menwere referring to. At a press conference in Paris, Thomas Sankara had said: »There isn`t a single Burkinan who doesnot recall his uncle or his father dying so that France should be free. I suggest you don`t forget either.« Or perhapsMister was referring to a time eighty not so very long years ago, when the French burned down villages killedlivestock and people, and drove hundreds of thousands of young men to work as free labour on plantations in what is now the Ivory Coast.

Mister was now addressing me, although he still stared at his glass.

»When you`re in Ghana, you`ll find they could show you a thing or two. The English


were mean too. Oh yes, very mean. Meaner than the French, it would seem at first sight. But they humiliated Africans more openly, to their faces. Better to be spat at the face than stabbed in the back. Or you don`t even see what they killyou with.«

»Thomas wasn`t killed by French. Sankara was killed by an African. Once again an African killed an African.« said Abdoulaye in a wounded voice. »The French were relieved and now they can laugh at us.«

A trace of smile appeared in Mister`s face:

»Let them laugh! The whole world has the right to laugh at us.«

He put the bottle down on the table. He looked at the dim light and raised his voice:

»Thomas Sankara was killed by his best friend.«

My heart no longer beat in my chest but in the pit of my stomach. Their words gave me comfort. Because a fortnightbefore I had done a very foolish thing.



Sven Popović

Sven Popović (photo: Saša Zinaja)

Sven Popović (Croatia, 1989) is a writer and both a literary and  music critic. His debut, a collection of short stories, was published in 2015, followed by a novel in 2018. His writing has been included in many literary magazines and anthologies and has been translated into English, German, Polish and Romanian. Popović is a one of the founders of the He is a co-founder of the literary group Tko čita? (Who Reads?), which gives younger authors the opportunity to read and promote their work. One of his stories was included in the anthology Best European Fiction 2017.





Sven Popović




Thirteen years have passed since the boy from the class stabbed your palm with a pencil. A piece of graphite broke and continued to wander the tissue. A graphite submarine was lurking beneath the surface, straining your skin. A tiny gray submarine, a reminder of clothes and fingers smeared with chalk. He didn’t walk you home that day, his steps didn’t creak harmoniously through the snow together with yours. The next day he apologized to you, the next week he wasn’t on the school desk in front of yours. He moved out a few blocks further, went to another school. When you were little girl, that sort of distance was huge, there were several concrete oceans between you. She was left alone in the womb of a rectangular whale. She was left alone, you and your little crack.

So, more than thirteen years passed and you were sitting on the floor in your friend’s apartment. There’re few people from the faculty with you. The walls of the apartment were decorated with maps of cities where the friend hadn’t yet been. Once she traveled to one of them, she would tear that map off the wall. In one hand you have a sticky glass full of thick, brown liqueur, it looks like a fig liqueur, and in the other a crumpled, wrongly rolled cigarette. You talk about last week’s lectures, everyone thinks how beautiful and smart they are, and of course, your thoughts wander on the maps. Of all those hanged cities, Porto attracts you the most, you have always been somehow attracted to the ports, not so much because they offered an escape possibility, but as much as the feeling of transit that was more vivid than what was in the sterile grayness of the airport. All the more you recently sent an application for one semester to attend there.

A friend unknown to you approaches your friend, asks her if her boyfriend can come, to which your friend answers he can. Then she asks her if her boyfriend is single, on what both of them burst in laugh.

The party went on, it started to heat up, and you were freer with each glass. You was startled and realized you’ve been waiting in front of the toilet for a few minutes. There was no bubbling or violent snuffling sound from inside. You came in and for a few moments on the rough wall you were looking for the light switch. Soon you gave up and surely stepped into the darkness. Somehow you touched the path to the toilet bowl and sat down. You tried to get your eyes used to the darkness, but it didn’t work. It was as if there was an abyss around you, a complete absence of light. The ice was all cracked, the Morse code of urine and water, a meaningless message, a cat tapping on the keyboard.

The light splashed on you, you gathered your legs and screamed it’s busy. It seemed to you for a few seconds the silhouette stood on the door before retreating and sucking all the light inside itself. Shortly afterwards, you got up, wiped yourself, turned on the water, washed your hands, and left. The silhouette, a boy in his early twenties, was still waiting his turn.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and your eyesight was still adjusting to the light, the violet geometric figures dancing in front your eyes because of the recent, sudden flash.

“It’s OK”, you stopped for some reason as if you had something to talk about. You nodded and went back to your friends. “See ya.”

“Hey, are you Martina?”

You turned around. “Yes, I am”; you narrowed your eyes, then opened them widely, your look crystallized, your reality was in HD again.

“I don’t know if you remember me,” he had already headed to the door. “Igor, we studied together in elementary school.”

“Ah, yes, God, man, I didn’t see you for such a long time, so how are you?”

“Here, I live somehow, weekend, here and there.”

“Yes, I understand.”

“Hey, let’s hear each other, let’s go for a beer someday.”

“Could be.”


You exchanged numbers probably with a false promise to really be heard. You knew it wouldn’t happen, in fact, school desks and pieces in your palm were probably the only connections, and you didn’t have the habit of seeing your classmates on the playground. The days of hide and seek were behind you, you’re sure that you have nothing in common, I “got off” for you.

With each passing hour you were less and less, before he and his girlfriend left, and he repeated once again how you’ll “make it”. The next day he received a message.




“The last time I saw you, the sky was peeling for days,” he told you and wave to the waiter.

“Excuse me?”

“It was snowing,” the waiter approached. “Gin tonic,” he said and looked at you.

“Well, extended into a big cup,” you replied.

“But come on, you couldn’t drink coffee if I ordered a gin tonic.” He shrugged. “Why not.”

“Look, the day is beautiful,” he showed theatrically around himself.

“Come on, maybe a gin tonic.”

“That’s it,” he leaned back in his chair.


Two hours later he told me you’d have another drink. An hour later his girlfriend called him and he said he is having a drink with his faculty friends and would come later. An hour and a half later he told you you’re incredibly insecure.


“Why do you say that?”

“I bet you’re one of those people who reads the instruction manual of soup in its bag, even though that shit could just be poured into boiling water and stirred several times.

“Okay, but what made you say that?”

“I am intuitive.”

“You mean: intuited?”

He waved with his hand, “It comes to you after ten gin tonics.”




You clumsily dressed yourself, he subsequently lied naked, the sweat almost shone on his black hairs. He breathed deeply and slowly. Consequence of the lazy marathon on the skin.

“You don’t have to leave immediately,” he told the ceiling.

“I’ll be late for faculty,” you tied your shoelaces. “And I’m not sure how much your girlfriend would appreciate this.”

“Girlfriend is a very strong word.”

“But, it is what?”

I don’t know, the English have the word “lover”, the translation of ours and isn’t something very applicable.

“And does she know she’s your mistress?” Sorry, lover.

“Come on, I’m sure we could figure out something more interesting than leaving for a lecture.”


You stopped tying your sneakers. He moved himself in your direction. You in his.


After the eleventh time you’ve seen each other, you decided you fell in love. In meanwhile, he left the girl and dropped out of the faculty. He got a job. First in a warehouse, and then in a call center where he spent days listening to hysterical British crying over this or that. She silently moved at him in a very nicely arranged garret, he didn’t even notice your gradual invasion until it was too late. There was your toothbrush. The toothbrush paint as is on the tracksuits from Eastern European Olympians. The brush, your flag that pierces the Moon’s crust.


He dreamed of tattooing you with a compass. You drew gorgeous, odd gyruses and arabesques on your skin, he talked it’s somehow a map of the city you’re traveling to. You were lying naked, first on your chest, then on your back, the black hair on the white sheet, the disheveled calligraphy without order and meaning. Blood began to drip from the black wounds, tiny, scarlet drops slid through the skin and wetted the sheet.


You woke up leaden and clumsy from the afternoon nap, the light cut the bed diagonally into two parts. There was a pungent smell of garlic fried in olive oil from the kitchen. He stood half-naked on the stove and easily shook the pan. He was holding a cigarette in his left hand and drew a little smoke from it. The ashes were falling into the pan, and he didn’t seem to mind. Even though he was weak, you could clearly see the beginnings of the muscles. Kebab-baby, he would say.


He cooked well. At least those six or seven recipes he knew how to prepare. Each of them in olive oil. You started to connect the olive oil with your awakening. Your private Mediterranean.


“Don’t forget the earrings,” he shouted, not looking at you. “The other day you left the necklace, before that, the bra. “I’m starting to collect you as stickers.”

“Animal kingdom”, you started yawning.

“No, Cro Army.”


She approached him from behind and hugged him around his waist. He reached out and rested his cigarette on his lips. You inhaled smoke, the ashes fell on his skin. He didn’t move away.


“I was thinking about something,” he stretched out and let out a faint squeak.

“I don’t know, I only heard snoring. Not any thinking. ”

“Oh, shut up.”

“Okay, well what were you thinking?”

“Do you know how your parents dress you as a child?”

“Aha,” he added finely chopped parsley to the oil.

“Here comes a day, and we don’t know it, here comes that day, our declaration of independence, so it comes, here comes that day when we start to choose our own clothes.”

“Yeah, and?”

“What do you mean by ‘yeah, and’?”

“Well, I don’t know, why would that matter?”

“I don’t know, I somehow think only after that we begin to become personalities. At the same time, as if everything after that somehow goes down. “Everything around us ceases to be a dream and we come out of the warm womb of this childhood into all this horror.”

“You’re wagging out, we’re starting to be personalities long before that. “In fact, do you seriously think that clothes speak that much about us?”

“I mean it seriously, you should be the first to realize that.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean, sir, I need half an hour to straighten my hair to look like I’ve just waken up.”

“I have no time between sleeping and dreaming, you know that?” He shook the can of tomato sauce and began to mix with the wooden spoon.

“But come on, I’m going to vomit.”

“But well, what about the fashion declaration of independence?” “Come on, tell me.”

“Well nothing, it seems to me that all those events exist in our lives, extremely important events that are not important to us, and on the other hand the complete stupiditiesare important for us.”

“What type?”

“Birthdays. “Oh, congratulations, someone squeezed you out of the womb.”

“Okay, what else matters?”

“Ugh, let’s say the first time we don’t look the homeless man in his face. We’re born shameless and when that shame is directed at us, easily, but somewhere, along the way, that thing happens and they become unpredictable to us, as if there is an entire city inside ours we consciously refuse to see.”

“Wouldn’t you say it’s a defense mechanism?”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know, my heart breaks every time I notice them, when I let them become part of “our city”, as you’d say. If I notice every homeless person, I would break down.”

“There is no empathy without suffering, that’s true, but somehow I think, as we grow, we somehow lose, we’re forgetting the important parts of ourselves, do you understand what I mean?”

“I see, yes, come on, try if this is salty enough.”

You tried the tomato sauce. “Exactly, maybe you can add another crumb of pepper.”

“I promise you I’ll not ignore anything anymore.”

“I could imagine”; you answered and took wine from the fridge. You leaned on the couch and took a sip from the bottle.

“Wow, sexy,” she told you.

“Come on, don’t fuck and fetch me a glass.”

“I don’t want to wash glasses, can I use a cup?”

You shrugged. “Why not. “Did you launder the bed sheets?”

“Yeah, why?” She poured wine into a cup.

“I can’t sleep in this dirty bedding any longer.”

“It’s not dirty.”

“We’ve been sleeping in it for a week, it’s far from fresh.”


You heard him pull on the new bedding and already feel the chemical freshness embracing you. Your cell phone vibrates. Received an e-mail. Congratulations, you got that Erasmus.


“It seems to me there’d be a storm,” he shouted at you from there. “I see some clouds there. “Low clouds are pressing on the city, squeezing all the air out of its dilapidated lungs.”

“Yeah,” you absently replied him.

“The storm. What do you think, does she kill mosquitoes or drives them to apartments?”

“Yeah,” you said.

He approached you from behind, and you continued to stare at the received email. “I fuck your sister,” he whispered you.

“Yeah,” you responded. He started pulling your ears. “What are you doing?”

“Hearing you ignoring me.”

“Yeah,” you murmured again.

“Well, what are you reading?” He asked.

“The e-mail,” you replied.

“What email?”

You give him the cell phone. “Here you see.”

He was silent for a few seconds. “Wow. Bravo. You’ll go?”

You shrugged. “I don’t know, what do you think?”

He sat opposite you and took a sip of wine from the bottle. “I think we should celebrate.”

“What exactly should we celebrate?”

“The opportunity. All occasions.”

“And the missed ones?”

“Until they are missed for love,” he replied and left the room. He placed the laptop between you and plug the little one into the room. He played “The Space guy” “from his balcony”.

“Oh God, you’ll probably not annoy us with those boring ones. “They sound like Oliver Mandich with excess chromosomes.”

“Well, then you choose, after all, it’s your celebration. „

“Rowland S. Howard.”

Roll your eyes. “Great. Along the way, I go for a dope.”

The night bathed on the balcony, sticky and thick, you had dinner and drank wine, wine, as sticky as the night that gradually covered you. No one mentioned Porto, and Rowland S. Howard didn’t sing fado. Anyway, as if he wasn’t there, on the balcony, with you in the summer heat, his answers were somehow slow and distorted. You knew what was tormenting him, you didn’t want to offend his intelligence with the question bothering him.

“It’s only six months,” she touch his knee.

“Yeah,” he bit his finger foots.

“So what, you’ll visit me two or three times.”

“Aha,” he crossed on his thumb nail, plucked it up and pulled itout, you saw a dark red liquid overflowing from the corner of his finger.

“It’s not that expensive.”

“Oh, no, it’s not, the bosses will allow me go to Portugal. Not twice, no, even better, three times. Fuck, we ‘re not all students to read and argue all day long.


You felt a crack in your chest, it spread through the lungs to the stomach, it spread capillary throughout the body. Your mouth formed a perfect “O”, a perfectly black “O” from the magician’s hat. At that moment he took you by the arm that was dragging out from his knee.


“Hey, hey, I’m sorry, I didn’t think that way, fuck, it’s not my fault I’m such an idiot and a scoundrel. I mean, I am, but … ”


You laughed, you didn’t want that, but anyway, it happened, a dove from the magician’shat blackness. “You aren’t an idiot, nor a scoundrel, you’re a horse thief and a robber.”


You were finishing the second bottle when his friend called him, you agreed to hang out with friends.


The evening was like many others, the conversations were flowing, in fact, no, they weren’t flowing, it was about a cross, inaccurate and intermittent shooting, and the alcohol was somehow predictably flowing through your almost dislocated jaw. He, sometimes after the third or fourth round, when you were both heavily drunk, decided to say you are going to Portugal.


“I’m not going, I think, I don’t know, I’m not going, I’m not sure yet, I really don’t know …”, you murmured.


You were splashed by semi-meaningful greetings to which you responded with a murmur and a contorted smile. You turned your gaze to him, his lips pursed like those of Franjo Tudjman, a sharp “Nike” symbol who was condemning you and telling you that you only think you were better than him, but that not all diplomas in the world could change the fact he simply Knew the things he knew them with a big “K” while you’re diving into books and manuals. You wanted to kick him, but you were sitting on a high chair and you were afraid of losing the atmosphere and strategically not crashing down. You didn’t realize how he managed, how he managed to humiliate you with something you should be proud of? You jumped abruptly to your feet, and he received you under the mucus of beer and ashes, but you managed to stand on your feet with the grace of a retired ballerina (it’s possible you stretched your tendon a little, maybe it isn’t the tendon, maybe you just scratched your ankle ) ran to the door, shooter who became one with the arrow, pure fucking zen.


The dim lights flickered around you, the streets passed, and you, always with a few steps in front of yourself. You staggered and leaned against the cold wall. You leaned on him and tried to push away, continuing your injured Odyssey at the end of the night. You managed to take off to the asphalt and to fall apart into a renaissance position. You tried to straighten your head, to sharpen your gaze, but your head was going left and right, up and down as if you were a puppet dog standing on the front windshield of the car. You heard steps, someone’s shadow splashed on you. You somehow looked up, you couldn’t recognize whose silhouette it was exactly, all you could see was the halo in the street light.


You aren’t an angel,” you said.

“No, I’m an idiot.” I ordered for us at Uber, come on, get up,” the silhouette extended a hand to you. You stumbled together through the warm womb of the night.




The leg’s toes stuck in the sand, fleshy ridges scratch, leaving irregular ditches on the beach.

“You are preparing for war,” she told him.

“Excuse me?” He replied, scraping the Hawaiian suit salt stains. He pointed his finger at the dimples in the sand. “The trenches.”

“Yes, nothing can be done against you except a trenching,” he watched his feet and continued to dig trenches.

“In fact completely the opposite.”

“Yes? Why do you say that?” you looked up.

“You’re the one who quickly loses interest, you want to drag into the trench battles. “Those are slow, well-thought-out moves, a chess game without long romantic diagonals and the horse’s bravura.”

“You’re right, yes, and how against you?”

“At least it’s obvious: a blitzkrieg, crazy, often irrational moves that would make me think too much, to tangle up so that I couldn’t move,” he drew with his fingers in the air the convolutions without ends.

“How to defeat yourself?”

“Yes, somehow.”


He turned his head towards the sea, it looked like dark, liquid steel in that bloody orange-like sun. Sun umbrellas were fading on the beach, people were shaking the sand from the sunbeds and the towels.


“Come on, start that battle,” he said.

“Which one?”

“The decisive one.” Dig your trenches, I will arrange my cavalry.”

You laughed. “You have time to overcome me until it gets dark,” he got up. “It’s ok.”


You ran to the sea and grabbed the sand, returned to your position and set out to form amorphous towers with a sinister shape. You were digging zigzag trenches with your nails in the sand, they were writing a clear message: no army will pass through here. You stuck twigs in front of them, an additional warning for anyone who decides to rush.


He dug his trenches, found a shovel, a turquoise, plastic shovel that seemed to have been lost by a child. He pushes a hill of sand against your formations, puts the shovel on it, it’ll be a catapult, his Fat Berta with which he’ll try to destroy your fortifications for the cavalry to do its job. You saw him running to the mole, picking at its rough surface and through the shallows. He put shells next to the catapult, it was quite a cute pile. He placed the live shrimp on the sides, they supposed to be a scout.

Look, he’s going in the wrong direction, he’s retreating before the first shot,” you laughed.

“It’s a sabotage, don’t you worry at all,” he put the shell in the shovel, moved it, looking for the ideal angle. He hit with his fist on the opposite end and the shell flit besides your ear.

“Hey, watch out.”

“Sorry, further calibration is needed.”


He fired shell after shell, managed to score only a few times, he knocked down only one tower. His shrimp fled, the pile reduced to just three shells, the capitulation was inevitable. The sea changed from the color of liquid steel to black obsidian, it became colder in your feet and nose. You laughed and fired the last shell, it flew far above your head. He let out a dramatic scream and stretched out on the sand, clapping his hands and feet along the way.

“Are you surrendering?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Not if you plan to survive the night.”

“The Hawaiian shirt is my white flag,” he took off his shirt and waved it still in lying position.


You got up, crossed your trenches, stepped into no man’s land, stood with your feet apart above him and sat on his stomach. – „And? What does the winner wins?

He drew you to himself and kissed you, that salty kiss sung a hundred times. “Let’s go to take a shower, let me go first, and then get to the pedal boats.”

“With the pedal boats?”

“Trust me.”

“Aha, good.”


You packed your things and headed back to the apartment. Let him go first in the shower. You were sitting at the table on the terrace and smoking.


“Ok, see you then,” he shouted.


You went to the shower and turned on the water, lukewarm water, the scumbag left you almost nothing of the warm. The spurt was weak and you rubbed your skin to remove salt stains. You put on something warmer and went out. A little later you saw them, the stranded baby whales with flashy colors, not far from them you saw a baby whale that didn’t strand and was swimming on the shiny black surface. The turquoise, half-peeled pedal boat was covered with sheets, music and dim light was coming from inside.

“I thought you didn’t want grandiose gestures,” you shouted.

His head was peeking from the canvases. “But no, I love pedal boats.”

“Wait, wait,” you opened your eyes widely. “Are those our sheets?”

“Technically speaking, they aren’t ours, they belong to Uncle Jure.”

“Oh God, tell me they aren’t candles.”

He looked inside, you felt as if he had shrugged his shoulders. “Fuck, yes, they’re candles.”

“Great, we’ll be the first people who burnt on a pedal boat.”

“Imagine a newspaper headline.”

“And we’re not even Czechs.”

“Come on, I’m coming to pick you up.”


And so we floated to the buoys, we were finishing the second bottle of wine, the light was turning into a growing stain on the baby whale’s skin. The night was getting thicker, the light was running out of oxygen, the wine was striking our heads, and you were starting to fall asleep. You asked if this was safe, he replied that the worst thing that could happen to you is for a drunken tycoon to crush you with his yacht.


“And the best?” you asked him. He lay down, and you laid your head on his chest.

“Mexico,” he said and closed his eyes.


You dreamed of the snow creaking, when you woke up the first thing you saw were his eyes, two grains of pepper dipped in honey. He was smiling.


“What is it?” She asked.

“You know, when you’re too young and you’re in love and you imagine so that you have to experience so much before you settle down.”

“Yeah,” he murmured, striving to direct the morning unpleasant odor into his lungs.

“Well, that wouldn’t happen to me.”


What a shit, you thought, but for some reason you still decided to trust him. You kissed him in the unpleasant smell because of spite and approached the edge of the pedal boat. The shore was a blur line, he was redirecting the pedal boat. While washing, you noticed the submarine in the palm of your hand sank.


Translated fromby Sasho Ognenovski

Ekaterina Petrova

Ekaterina Petrova

Ekaterina Petrova (Bulgaria) is a nonfiction writer, literary translator, and editor, working in English and Bulgarian. She holds an MFA in Literary Translation from the University of Iowa, where she was awarded the Iowa Arts Fellowship and helped edit the Exchanges Journal of Literary Translation, as well as an MSc in European Politics and Governance from the London School of Economics, and a BA in International Studies and German Studies from Macalester College in Saint Paul, Minnesota. Originally from Sofia, where she is currently based, Ekaterina has also spent time living, studying, and/or working in Kuwait, New York, Berlin, Cuba, Northern Ireland, and the south of France. Petrova is the author of the Turnupstuffer column in the Capital Light weekly magazine (2012–2016), the travel writing and photography blog The Ground Beneath My Feet (2009–2016), and the documentary project If We Only Knew in 2002 (2012). Her essays have been included in the anthologies My Brother’s Suitcase (2015) and Our Fathers Are Never Gone (2017), among others.





Where the Heart Is

by Ekaterina Petrova


I am homeless, because there are 

so many homelands that make their home in me.

—Vilém Flusser


A few months ago I stumbled upon my first international passport, issued by the Interior Ministry of the People’s Republic of Bulgaria in 1985. At first the passport seemed merely like a useless document that had expired long ago whose current value was purely sentimental. Upon closer inspection, however, I realized that the passport also documents and provides a way to tangibly measure how things have changed. The past three and a half decades have obviously seen many transformations, both global and personal. And yet—two political regimes, the substitution of one union in favor of another, a dozen or so international passports, and hundreds of trips to dozens and dozens of countries later—I am surprised to discover that some things have actually remained unchanged.


The tags in my old passport (for such things as first, last, and middle names, date and place of birth, etc.) are in Bulgarian, Russian, and French. In my current passport, these same tags now appear in Bulgarian and English. These superficial changes reflect significant political and historical processes that are, of course, much bigger and more important than myself. But in a strange way, the change also reflects my personal story with languages. My first passport was issued so that I could join my mother, then a PhD student, in Paris. As soon as I got there, she wasted no time before enrolling me in a French kindergarten, either unfazed by the fact that I didn’t understand a word of French or simply unable to do anything about it. The experience left me so revolted by French that I spent the next 25 years resisting the constant familial pressure to learn it properly, let alone speak it. My resistance suddenly weakened when, at the age of 31, I met a guy from New Caledonia and moved to France in order to be with him. I spent the better part of three years there, and had no choice but to brush up on my high-school French. Russian, by contrast, left my life permanently in 1991, when the fall of the Iron Curtain meant it was no longer mandatory for everyone to study it in school. English, by contrast, became the most important language in my life. I don’t just feel, think, and express myself with greatest ease in English, but my occupation as a translator also depends on it entirely. Just like in the passports, Bulgarian—as my native tongue—has remained a constant.


When I got my first passport at the age of five, nobody could imagine the dizzying amount of travel that lay in store for me. Considering the political, social, and economic realities of the time, it must have been unthinkable—not just to me, but to the adults around me—that in the next 35 years I would set foot in over 60 countries on five continents, that I would spend significant amounts of time living in six of them, and that I would be both blessed and cursed by a constant and insatiable sense of wanderlust (or, for that matter, that I would even know what the word wanderlust means).


But in hindsight, that first passport turns out to have documented my earliest steps as a constant traveler. The dozen or so passports that came after it were filled with visas and stamps from undreamed-of-in-1985 places, such as the US, Cuba, Mexico, Ireland, the UK, France, Luxembourg, Germany, Lithuania, Slovenia, Cyprus, Israel, Kuwait, Dubai, India, Thailand, Indonesia, Bhutan, Nepal, and many others. It’s tempting to take all these travels for granted; to think I was somehow meant to embark upon them and visit all these places, that this was my kismet, which my first passport unleashed. In reality, of course, this extensive traveling has been far from predestined—all these journeys were actually made possible by a combination of fortuitous circumstances, both global and personal, such as the fall of the Iron Curtain, Bulgaria’s European Union membership, and the opportunities initially provided by my parents and later by my own personal and professional endeavors.


But this is a topic for another piece. Here, it seems interesting to compare my two selves: the five-year old from back then and the current adult, 35 years and countless journeys later. At first glance, the difference is enormous. It’s as big as the difference between the raggedy, typewritten, Communist-era passport (on whose front cover, above the old coat of arms with the red star, the words “People’s Republic of Bulgaria” are written in Bulgarian only, with no translation) and my new, considerably more polished biometric passport, which has a bilingual cover that says “European Union” and “Republic of Bulgaria” and features a new coat of arms with three lions and a crown (though it actually dates to the period before communism). If I compare the miserable-looking child in the crookedly glued, black-and-white analogue photograph in the first passport to the smirking adult woman in the digital, hologram-covered color picture in my newest passport, I see a whole world of difference. Quite literally, too: the woman has already travelled through much of that world, while the child is on the verge of stepping out into it for the first time.


Yet, beneath the surface, there are some surprising similarities. My mom often says, half-jokingly, that in the black-and-white photo I look like a homeless orphan. That’s probably not too far off from how I must’ve felt, having been left in the care of my father and grandmothers while she was away in France. In the color photo of my newest passport, by contrast, I look confident, well traveled, at ease, and like I belong.


What’s not visible in the recent picture, though, is that in spite, or maybe because of all these travels and times spent living in different places, I am (still? once again?) homeless, albeit in a very different, much more manageable, significantly less painful, and sometimes quite pleasant way.


By 2004, when I finished my first Master’s degree and came back to Bulgaria, I had spent more than half of my life living abroad: I graduated from high school in Kuwait, then went to college in Minnesota (my undergraduate studies also included exchange programs in Berlin, Cuba, and Northern Ireland), then spent a year working in New York, and then went to London for graduate school. I came back to Bulgaria, expecting to find the one place where I belonged completely and I could finally settle down. In the decade that followed, I was based in Sofia but continued traveling on a regular basis, and I gradually realized that my expectations were unattainable: there was no place in the world that could belong to me completely or that I could completely belong to.


My Bulgarian passport is still the only passport I hold, but the nationality to which it attests does not overlap, or at least not neatly, with the multitudinous facets that comprise my emotional sense of home. In my case, the ingredients that make up my idea of home—people I love and who love me, old souvenirs and new memories, cozy languages, favorite views, sentimental objects, familiar scents, tastes, and sounds—are scattered in so many different places around the globe that I am in fact, to use Vilém Flusser’s expression, homeless.


The view I have over Sofia as I write this essay is home, but not entirely—missing from it is the small pivoting window of the attic apartment, through which I used to look over the roofs in the old part of Montpellier until a few years ago, when I was living and writing there. The pleasure of riding the tram along the same route I used to take to my English lessons in the late 1980s is not complete because it automatically excludes the possibility of getting on the subway in Harlem and running into my roommates from Brooklyn from fifteen years ago. Regardless of how much I love it and how many important meetings and conversations it may have witnessed, Hambara, my favorite bar in Sofia, can never be my favorite bar of all time, because that position has also been taken by the George IV pub in London, the Turf Club in St. Paul, and the Fox Head in Iowa City. On any given day of the week, I catch myself craving Berlin brunches, Belgian fries, American marshmallows, oysters from Brittany, or madeleines from Lorraine, and no matter where in the word I happen to be on the last Thursday of every November, like Pavlov’s dog, I invariably have hallucinations of turkey, cranberry sauce, and pumpkin pie. These culinary longings were at least partly compensated for by my grandma’s stuffed grape leaves while she was still alive.


The things I miss can sometimes be terribly and annoyingly pedestrian: a favorite coffee mug, a soft plaid blanket, a special spoon for eating grapefruit, or a painting by a friend—some of the countless things that didn’t fit into my luggage and had to be left behind during my numerous moves and relocations. When it comes to people, leaving them behind is even harder. Nor does it get any easier with time.


I do realize, of course, that these symptoms of “homelessness” are also signs of enormous privilege. It’s an incredible luxury to feel content and like I belong, more or less, in so many different places; to have a cozy place of my own, filled with the coffee mugs, soft blankets, and paintings that did make it through different moves (still no grapefruit spoon, though!); to be able to leave whenever I want, so that I can cross continents and oceans and go to places where, even without an actual home, I can feel at home; to make my way around the world by only staying with friends and sleeping on their couches, and to then come back to an apartment located within a few blocks’ radius of my family and my friends from the first grade.


I have given up trying to find the place that completely belongs to me and that I belong to completely. I now realize that this place does, in fact, exist, but not as a geographical location—it exists inside of me. As the years go by, it has become almost tangible. I bring it along with me, always, as I return to familiar locations or discover new ones, as these places become mine and I become theirs, sometimes for a while, other times only briefly. Like a passport, it allows me to venture out, to cross borders, and to explore new territories, secure in the knowledge that I belong, that I won’t get lost.


Nikola Madžirov

Nikola Madžirov (photo: Civitella Ranieri)

Nikola Madžirov (North Macedonia, 1973) is a poet, translator, and essayist, the author of three collections of poetry. His work has been translated into more than thirty languages. Madžirov is the recipient of several awards, including the Hubert Burda Award, the Hu Zhimo Silver Leaf Poetry Award, the Brothers Miladinov Award, the Studentski Zbor Award, the Aco Karamanov Award, and the Fifteen Martyrs of Tiveriopol Award. Madžirov has also received several international scholarships, been selected for several residencies, and been invited to several international literary festivals. He is an editor for Lyrikline.





I lived at the edge of the town

like a streetlamp whose light bulb

no one ever replaces.

Cobwebs held the walls together,

and sweat our clasped hands.

I hid my teddy bear

in holes in crudely built stone walls

saving him from dreams.


Day and night I made the threshold come alive

returning like a bee that

always returns to the previous flower.

It was a time of peace when I left home:


the bitten apple was not bruised,

on the letter a stamp with an old abandoned house.


From birth I’ve migrated to quiet places

and voids have clung beneath me

like snow that doesn’t know if it belongs

to the earth or to the air.








This is what summer nightfall is like:

the adulteress comes onto the balcony

in a silk nightgown that lets through

the trembling of the stars,

a twig drops from the beak of a bird

that falls asleep before it has built its home,

a soldier lowers the flag of the state

with a letter from his mother in his pocket

and atomic tests in the womb of the earth

secretly revive the dead. At that moment someone

quietly interprets Byzantine neumes,

someone else falsifies the exoduses

of the Balkan and the civil wars

in the name of universal truths.

In the factory yards

the statues of participants

in annulled revolutions sleep,

on the symmetrical graves

plastic flowers lose their colour

and ordinary ones their shape,

but this peace of the dead

we have parted from

is not ours.



In the village with three lit windows

a fortune-teller foresees only

recoveries, and not illnesses.

The waves throw up bottles enough

to hold the whole sea,

the arrow on the one-way road sign

points to God,

a fisherman rips off a bit of the sky

as he casts his baited line into the river,

some poor child searches for the Little Bear

and the planet he’d like to come from,

in front of  the doorstep of the killer with an alibi

a feather attempts to fly.

This is what usual summer nightfall is like.

The town combusts in the redness of the moon

and the fire brigade ladders seem

to lead to heaven, even then when


is climbing










Distant are all the houses I am dreaming of,

distant is the voice of my mother

calling me for dinner, but I run toward the fields of wheat.


We are distant like a ball that misses the goal

and goes toward the sky, we are alive

like a thermometer that is precise only when

we look at it.


The distant reality every day questions me

like an unknown traveler who wakes me up in the middle of the journey

saying Is this the right bus?,

and I answer Yes, but I mean I don’t know,

I don’t know the cities of your grandparents

who want to leave behind all discovered diseases

and cures made of patience.


I dream of a house on the hill of our longings,

to watch how the waves of the sea draw

the cardiogram of our falls and loves,

how people believe so as not to sink

and step so as not to be forgotten.


Distant are all the huts where we hid from the storm

and from the pain of the does dying in front of the eyes of the hunters

who were more lonely than hungry.


The distant moment every day asks me

Is this the window? Is this the life? and I say

Yes, but I mean I don’t know, I don’t know if

birds will begin to speak, without uttering A war.









The streets were asphalted

before we were born and all

the constellations were already formed.

The leaves were rotting

on the edge of the pavement,

the silver was tarnishing

on the workers’ skin,

someone’s bones were growing through

the length of the sleep.


Europe was uniting

before we were born and

a woman’s hair was spreading

calmly over the surface

of the sea.











We’ll meet one day,

like a paper boat and

a watermelon that’s been cooling in the river.

The anxiety of the world will

be with us. Our palms

will eclipse the sun and we’ll

approach each other holding lanterns.


One day, the wind won’t

change direction.

The birch will send away leaves

into our shoes on the doorstep.

The wolves will come after

our innocence.

The butterflies will leave

their dust on our cheeks.


An old woman will tell stories

about us in the waiting room every morning.

Even what I’m saying has

been said already: we’re waiting for the wind

like two flags on a border.


One day every shadow

will pass us by.








For Marjan K.


In the embrace on the corner you will recognize

someone’s going away somewhere. It’s always so.

I live between two truths

like a neon light trembling in

an empty hall. My heart collects

more and more people, since they’re not here anymore.

It’s always so. One fourth of our waking hours

are spent in blinking. We forget

things even before we lose them –

the calligraphy notebook, for instance.

Nothing’s ever new. The bus

seat is always warm.

Last words are carried over

like oblique buckets to an ordinary summer fire.

The same will happen all over again tomorrow—

the face, before it vanishes from the photo,

will lose the wrinkles. When someone goes away

everything that’s been done comes back.








I separated myself from each truth about the beginnings

of rivers, trees, and cities.

I have a name that will be a street of goodbyes

and a heart that appears on X-ray films.

I separated myself even from you, mother of all skies

and carefree houses.

Now my blood is a refugee that belongs

to several souls and open wounds.

My god lives in the phosphorous of a match,

in the ashes holding the shape of the firewood.

I don’t need a map of the world when I fall asleep.

Now the shadow of a stalk of wheat covers my hope,

and my word is as valuable

as an old family watch that doesn’t keep time.

I separated from myself, to arrive at your skin

smelling of honey and wind, at your name

signifying restlessness that calms me down,

opening the doors to the cities in which I sleep,

but don’t live.

I separated myself from the air, the water, the fire.

The earth I was made from

is built into my home.







One day someone will fold our blankets

and send them to the cleaners

to scrub the last grain of salt from them,

will open our letters and sort them out by date

instead of by how often they’ve been read.


One day someone will rearrange the room’s furniture

like chessmen at the start of a new game,

will open the old shoebox

where we hoard pyjama-buttons,

not-quite-dead batteries and hunger.


One day the ache will return to our backs

from the weight of hotel room keys

and the receptionist’s suspicion

as he hands over the TV remote control.


Others’ pity will set out after us

like the moon after some wandering child.







We’ve given names

to the wild plants

behind unfinished buildings,

given names to all the monuments

of our invaders.

We’ve christened our children

with affectionate nicknames

taken from letters

read only once.


Afterwards in secret we’ve interpreted

signatures at the foot of prescriptions

for incurable diseases,

with binoculars we’ve zoomed in

on hands waving farewell

at windows.


We’ve left words

under stones with buried shadows,

on the hill that guards the echo

of the ancestors whose names are not

in the family tree.


What we have said without witnesses

will long haunt us.


The winters have piled up in us

without ever being mentioned.







It was spring when the invader

burned the deeds to the land where we hunted birds,

colourful insects, butterflies

existing only in old biology text-books.


Many things have changed the world

since then, the world has changed many things in us.






I want someone to tell me

about the messages in the water in our bodies,

about yesterday’s air

in telephone booths,

about flights postponed because of

poor visibility, despite

all the invisible angels on the calendars.

The fan that weeps for tropical winds,

the incense that smells best

as it vanishes – I want someone to tell me about these things.


I believe that when perfection is born

all forms and truths

crack like eggshells.


Only the sigh of gentle partings

can tear a cobweb apart

and the perfection of imagined lands

can postpone the secret

migration of souls.


And what can I do with my imperfect body:

I go and I return, go and return

like a plastic sandal on the waves

by the shore.








You keep quiet. Like the sunken nets

of poachers. Like an angel

who knows what the night may bring.


And you travel. You forget,

so that you can come back.


You write and you don’t want to remember

the stone, the sea, the believers

sleeping with their hands apart.












Fast is the century. If I were wind

I would have peeled the bark off the trees

and the facades off the buildings in the outskirts.


If I were gold, I would have been hidden in cellars,

into crumbly earth and among broken toys,

I would have been forgotten by the fathers,

and their sons would remember me forever.


If I were a dog, I wouldn’t have been afraid of

refugees, if I were a moon

I wouldn’t have been scared of executions.


If I wеre a wall clock

I would have covered the cracks on the wall.


Fast is the century. We survive the weak earthquakes

watching towards the sky, yet not towards the ground.

We open the windows to let in the air

of the places we have never been.

Wars don’t exist,

since someone wounds our heart every day.

Fast is the century.

Faster than the word.

If I were dead, everyone would have believed me

when I kept silent.









In strange towns

our thoughts wander calmly

like graves of forgotten circus artists,

dogs bark at dustbins and snowflakes

falling in them.


In strange towns we are unnoticed

like a crystal angel locked in an airless glass case,

like a second earthquake that merely

rearranges what is already ruined.








Inherit your childhood

from the photo album.

Transfer the silence

that expands and contracts

like a flock of birds in flight.

Hold in your hands

the irregular snowball

and the drops that run

down the line of life.

Say the prayer

through sealed lips –

the words are seeds falling into a flowerpot.


Silence is learned in the womb.


Try to be born

like the big hand after midnight

and the seconds will overtake you at once.








Many things happened

while the Earth was spinning on

God’s finger.


Wires released themselves

from pylons and now

they connect one love to another.

Ocean drops

deposited themselves eagerly

onto caves’ walls.

Flowers separated

from minerals and set off

following the scent.


From the back pocket pieces of paper

started flying all over our airy room:

irrelevant things which we’d

never do unless

they were written down.











I saw dreams that no one remembers

and people wailing at the wrong graves.

I saw embraces in a falling airplane

and streets with open arteries.

I saw volcanoes asleep longer than

the roots of the family tree

and a child who’s not afraid of the rain.

Only it was me no one saw,

only it was me no one saw.



Translated by Peggy and Graham W. Reid, Magdalena Horvat and Adam Reed

Mojca Kumerdej

Mojca Kumerdej

Mojca Kumerdej (Slovenia, 1964) is a writer, philosopher, critic, and dramaturg. She has published two novels and three collections of short stories. Her work has been translated into several languages and included in several anthologies. She is a regular contributor to the daily Delo. Her novels have been shortlisted for the Kresnik Award and longlisted for the Dublin International Literary Award. She is the recipient of the Prešeren Fund Award, the Critics’ Sieve Award, the Kočić’s Pen Award, the Vilenica Crystal Award, as well as the Borštnik Award for dramaturgy.






Mihael is sometimes silent




The house I live in is big. But we haven’t always lived in this house. When I was very little, we lived in a flat, but I don’t remember that. Then dad, who is a lawyer, earned a lot of money and we bought this house with a big garden and a cabin, and in the summer dad inflates a big round pool for us to swim in. Of us all, I’m the one who likes swimming in the pool best, my elder sister is shy and doesn’t want to wear a bathing suit, but I don’t care and often wear nothing, and at the end of the day, I don’t understand why I should wear a bathing suit when it’s scratchy, and then when you’re wet, you have to change clothes, as mummy always points out. Sister and I don’t get along very well, probably because she is much older than me. She is already in the final year of primary school, and I am only in the third. She treats me as if I were some dumb kid who didn’t understand anything. But I’m not like our brother, who is the youngest of us three and a proper wally. And he is wicked too. Once, when I was making tartlets in the sand for my two dolls, little toy tiger and teddy bear, I heard him laughing under a tree and calling my name. I went to have a look and found him holding a big brown frog by its hind legs, turning it over in his hand, laughing, saying he would cut off its hind legs to see if the frog would be able to walk only on its front legs. You fool, I pushed him away, frogs jump, they need all four legs, otherwise, they can’t push themselves off! He was holding a pocketknife in his hand, waving it, the knife mummy didn’t let him use and he still took it from her drawer or stole it from somewhere. Yes, among other things, he steals, too. He once nicked from my room my magic wand that flickered red when you pressed a button. I knew it was him, so I went and searched his room and found it hidden under the wardrobe. I was fuming! When my brother heard me, he ran into the room and tried to wrestle the wand away from my hands, and he succeeded because during the fight I fell on my back, and then out of sheer malice, he started hitting the table with the stick and broke it. I thought I’d kill him! But mummy didn’t tell him off as I’d expected and instead yelled at me to leave my brother alone and go to my room. Oooh, how angry I was with her, too! Mum and dad are constantly telling us what we mustn’t do: we mustn’t lie or steal, we must behave, we mustn’t pester each other… But if I do something wrong, I always get punished more severely than my brother or sister, and I also sometimes get punished just for the sake of it, for no reason at all, unjustly. But mummy says that this is not true, that she and dad are equally strict and fair to all of us and that out of the three of us I am the one who’s the most pro-ble-ma-tic.

My brother was brandishing the knife, turning the frog over in his hand while it was twisting, trying to get away. I yelled that he should let it go because he was hurting it but he grimaced, revealing his chipped teeth, so I charged at him, knocked him down and hit him with my plastic shovel, snatched the knife from his hand, and truth be told, I slapped him a few times too. But no, I was the one who was punished again! Our mummy only told him not to torture animals, and then she yelled at me for beating up my brother and I was not allowed to go out in the garden for three days. And I cried because he’d tortured the frog. My brother should have been punished more than I was, but instead mummy pulled my pigtail roughly, which she does every time she wants to hit me but I know she won’t because she doesn’t believe that’s the right way to raise children.

Those days, after coming back from school, I would squat on the windowsill, reeeeeeaaaaaaally bored. I would draw a little and look out of the window to see if Mihael would happen by. I couldn’t call him because they took away my phone, I still didn’t have a computer and I could only play games on mummy’s but only when she let me. Sometimes, when I was punished, dad would just take the card from my phone, so I bought spare ones, but when they discovered my stash of phone cards, they punished me by taking my entire phone from me, and now I’m saving up to buy myself a secret one.

Mihael is a friend of mine. He used to live on the same road, three houses down from ours. His parents didn’t have as much money as we did so they didn’t own the whole house, but only a flat on the first floor, where you can crawl out through the window, down the cherry tree and into the garden. I know this because Mihael and I would crawl out like this a few times just for fun, not because he was punished or because he wanted to sneak out of his room because he never got punished the way I did. Mihael was from a class next to mine. He too thought that what my brother did, torturing frogs, hunting butterflies, was awful. My brother catches butterflies with a net and then pins them in a box with a glass lid to show them off. Mum and dad see nothing wrong with it and are even proud of him because he loves nature so much and studies it, they explain to their friends. But I don’t get it. Butterflies are living creatures, and by catching them and pinning their heads, he is killing them. And it probably hurts. Death hurts… it hurts a lot, and I know this although I’m not grown up yet. Dad says that butterflies are not intelligent beings and that they don’t have senses like we people do, and that beauty exists so that we can admire it. What nonsense! My dad is very smart, but in this case, I don’t agree with him at all. To me, dead things are not pretty. I cannot stand death. Death scares me, although Mihael says that he is fine where he is now… But not always, because sometimes Mihael is silent too, and sometimes if I ask him something, he doesn’t answer but disappears and is gone for days on end.

Mihael is my best friend. Apart from him, I have a few girlfriends, but he is the only one I get along really well with. Even now I sometimes talk to him, as if he were there beside me. When I’m cooking spinach in the garden, not real spinach, of course, I take a few soft leaves, chop them up and then I make sand noodles, I bake a delicious roulade or tartlet and put tiny rocks on top to make them look like cherries or strawberries, I serve lunch to Tuscan, the dolls, Bruno the teddybear with a missing ear, and Mitza the fox whose tail I accidentally tore off once, and I always serve a plate for Mihael too. Then we sit at the little table in the garden and chit-chat. About various things, like school, what’s new, and I always ask Mihael how he is. He usually says that he has friends where he is now and he’ll bring them over one day and introduce us, but that I’ll always be his best friend. Mum says that Mihael is in heaven, with the little Jesus that Mary is holding in her arms, not with the baby lying in the crib or the grown-up one on the cross. Mum says that Mihael is now playing with angels because he was always a diligent boy, not just at school but at home too. I’m diligent at school too but at home, not so much… okay, even at school I occasionally do something mischievous, as my mum puts it, but I never get into a fight just for the sake of it, for no reason. Dad also agrees that Mihael is in heaven, and my catechism teacher told me the same. Mum says that good children go to heaven, and the devil takes the naughty ones away. And since I am, as mummy puts it, often impertinent, I used to fear that if I died, the devil would come and drag me to hell, where evil people were, and he tortured them in all sorts of ways down there. But when I go to my aunt’s I’m never afraid of the devil. Because I know what the devil looks like: he has horns, legs, a head and a tail like Volodya and Sara, who are boyfriend and girlfriend and they once had three children who are all big now. Whenever I go to my aunt’s, Volodya and Sara immediately run to me because they know I have stale bread and biscuits for them; Volodya really likes them. Aunt has had goats, chickens and three cats and a dog just for a few years. She used to work in an office before, and she travelled a lot. She would always send me a postcard from her travels or bring me something, like my little toy tiger Tuscan, wooden dolls from Russia and a whirligig with a red and yellow chicken that pecks when you spin it, then a doll from South America that protects children from evil spirits, and sometimes even a dress. But once when aunt was sailing, a sail fell on her head and since then she hasn’t been able to read or write well, so she doesn’t work in the office anymore and she’s moved from the city to the country, where she now grows and sells vegetables. A friend of hers lives with her and helps her out but mum doesn’t like her, and some people work there but they don’t live there.

Mum and aunt believe in god. But aunt’s god is different from my mummy’s god, and I like him more because he is better. Aunt says that god lives in her carrots and in the lettuce and that he is in Volodya and Sara, and that the devil does not take bad children with him to hell because there is no hell just like there is no heaven. When aunt talks like that, mum gets angry, and then they often have a row. Aunt says that when the mast fell on her head, she saw an angel in the sky who told her not to worry because he was looking after her, and he also told her that her life would get better from then on. Mum, who is quite fat, would then start swinging in her chair, waving her hands about, and then she would get up and yell at aunt that she, aunt, did not believe in the real god and that what she was saying was nothing but hogwash. Aunt would just smile and start talking about things I don’t really understand, and then I’d start getting bored and I’d rather go out and play, usually with aunt’s puppy Dividend, whom we all call Divi, or I’d start teasing Volodya, grab him by the horns and try to ride him. Volodya doesn’t like that and would start screaming and attacking me like some dangerous bull, and I’d dodge him and run in front of him, which is a lot of fun. I know that when Volodya points his horns at me, he doesn’t really mean it, he is also playing, and then we run and jump in the garden until mum drags me back into the house so that I don’t get dirty and graze my knees. It is true, from May until the end of the summer, whether I wear knee-highs or not, my knees almost always sting because I often slip and fall and scrape my skin until it bleeds. I don’t really worry about it, but mum gets angry because I behave like a boy, badly, even worse than my brother and friends at school, especially Mihael who was almost always well-behaved.

My sister, and this is absolutely true, is completely different from me. She is very beautiful, has long curly hair and is the spitting image of Jesus’s mum, Mary. My sister is never gabby and always looks a little sad. Other people tell her she is beautiful too, dad, mum, our relatives, and people who come to visit. But my sister doesn’t just look sad, she really is sad. Why, I don’t know. I sometimes think perhaps it’s because she dances ballet and plays the piano. When people do these things, they do look serious and sad. When we were having important guests, mummy would tell me to prepare a tune to play for them. Luckily, no need for that anymore. They used to push me to play the flute or violin, they even signed me up for violin lessons, but my neck was hurting all the time and the sounds the violin made got on my nerves, and I hated screeching on that violin every day so once when the teacher reprimanded me for something or other, I got very mad and hurled the school violin out of an open window, and mum then had to pay for it, and I was put in strict detention. But I didn’t have to take violin lessons any longer. That week, when I wasn’t allowed out because of the violin, when I got home from school I went to my room and I drew a lot, mostly my little toy tiger Tuscan, my favourite toy, mainly because mum and dad don’t let me have a real tomcat. Mummy says that cats carry fleas and diseases and that they shed hair that gets all over the furniture. But at Mihael’s they had two tomcats, and neither had fleas or was sick, okay, except Mihael who didn’t get sick because of the cats but because some cells in his body became vicious and started attacking the good ones. Apart from Tuscan, I drew Transformers a lot, who turned from robots to horrible animals and monsters. When mummy discovered my drawings, she got really mad at me. Why did I draw those darned devils, she was yelling, and she also said that I was like one of those devils. I thought it was funny. Then the devil doesn’t have to come and take me, I said to her, I can go to hell by myself, whenever I want to. Mum’s face puffed up and turned red like a pumpkin when we lit up a candle in it for Halloween so that it glows from the balcony. She was so mad that I thought she would explode, and then, for the first time in my life, she slapped me on the face. It was a bolt from the blue for me, even more so for her, I could see that she immediately regretted it because it’s my mummy’s principle that hitting children is wrong. When, through the tears, I explained that they were not devils at all, but transformer robots that turned into Sara and Volodya, she didn’t know what to say and just slammed the door behind her. Frankly, the slap did hurt a bit, but not as much as falling on concrete riding rollerblades. I was deeply offended because I hadn’t done anything wrong. She scolded me for no reason at all and she even hit me. But I was also pleased a little because when I made her slap me, as she explained to dad later, I had punished her as well. I wasn’t just mad at mum, I was also mad at dad because he later told me off for being rude to mum. But no one is going to tell me what I can or can’t draw! If they punish me by not letting me go out, then I can draw whatever I like, goats, devils, tigers, cats or god. Yes, I sometimes draw god himself, aunt’s god, who is good and kind, who laughs, and I draw sunrays around his head, while mummy’s one always has a long, black cape and a black, metal helmet on his face, and looks like Darth Vader from Star Wars, which I saw with dad on DVD, and who seems really horrible because of his scary, deep voice.

Samira Kentrić

Samira Kentrić

Samira Kentrić (Slovenia, 1976) expresses herself with images and words. Her work merges the political language with the personal, often erotic part of everyday life, thus striving to articulate what in contemporary society remains unreflected and therefore unpleasant and hidden. In 1999, she began her career in the performance art duo Eclipse, using her own body as a means for expressing socially relevant topics, such as the demythologisation of the image of refugees. As a visual artist, she designs book covers and visual commentaries for several newspapers and magazines. Since 2016, she’s been leading art workshops for underprivileged groups. Kentrić published three graphic novels and received awards both for her performance art as well as her books, including the Golden Bird Award, the international Special Book Award by the Motovun Group Association MGA, and an award at the Slovene Biennial of Book Illustration.



Samira Kentrić

Husein Dedić – Hule: The Pilot from the Pit

translated from the Slovene by Gregor Timothy Čeh


Hule had not always been a security guard at the Velenje coal mine. Before that he was a miner. In the mid-1980s a part of the roof collapsed in the mine and knocked out his front teeth. He knew how tough it is for miners to earn their crust. But the pay was decent and with it he could help his family back in Bosnia. The wish that he might also afford and create his own home in Velenje was greater than any fear. He persisted and was doing well.

Before the war his mother had fallen seriously ill and he regularly made the trip to Bosnia to provide her with morphine. Up until 20 March 1992 when he drove down to her funeral in his red Zastava. He didn’t go alone, there was room in his car for three colleagues from neighbouring villages. They were taking their pay packets to their families, among them his sister’s husband Adem. He dropped them off at the bus stop in Zvornik and they arranged that he would pick them up at the same place ten days later, at two in the afternoon on 30 March, so they would return together to their work in the mine.

Hule waited for them at the arranged spot in vain. He had to report for work the following morning at six. He waited an hour. Two. Until half past four. There had been roadblocks along the way even when they arrived, and everything had gone much slower than usual. He drove back from Zvornik alone. There were even more army blockades along the way and he kept having to show his papers. The barricades merely strengthened his dark premonition about his colleagues not turning up. He parked his car outside the block of flats in Velenje at 5 a.m., drank a coffee and went to work.

Once back in Velenje, it soon became clear that his colleagues had not simply chosen some other means of returning. Routes were closed and people were trapped wherever they happened to be. His colleagues and relatives were stranded in the municipality of Srebrenica. All conventional communication channels were cut off. Hule bought a radio transmitter and learned how to operate it. He named his frequency The Pilot. By September he was up on the Gorjanci Hills above Novo Mesto, trying to make contact with the missing. With great effort and a little luck, he managed to contact a ham operator from Titovo Užice in Serbia called Marko who generously enabled him to get through to Samir, a ham from Srebrenica. Samir found his sister Mina and his brother-in-law Adem. During the next calls he managed to speak to several acquaintances and he found out that his sister had just given birth to their youngest daughter. He was once again an uncle. They did not talk about politics; the rules of amateur radio did not allow such discussions during war. He heard about all the shortages, how they risk their lives going on horseback through the forest to get flour, how they otherwise felt safe. There was also a United Nations contingent in town. It was supposed to maintain peace, protect human lives.

Just over a year later, Hule lost all contact. Someone else had taken over the transmitter in Užice, the communication at the end of the line was laden with swearing and threats.

At home in Velenje Hule’s family converted their single bedroom flat into a temporary home for a further seventeen refugees. The miners all contributed to hiring a bus that went to meet the refugees at the border. Hule worked shifts and slept whenever a bed or a patch of floor was empty. He found out about the atrocities in his village, about his father who to no avail tried to hide in a bear den. He was sniffed out by dogs. The Chetniks interrogated, beat and killed him.

His youngest brother from Tuzla called Hule at the mine and explained where he had buried their father’s body. He went on to fight and did not survive the war. Neither did Hule’s colleagues, or Samir, the ham from Srebrenica.

A number of years after the war Hule managed, with a little smooth talking and a couple of boxes of chocolates, to get information from admin at the mine about the employment records and years of service of his three murdered colleagues. With this information and a court ruling, their widows won the right to part of the pension that the miners had worked so hard for. This meant their underage children could at least hope for an education. He did not manage to get proof of employment for all the other men killed. Data protection, they told him.

In 2012 he and his friends managed to organise the first Cycling Marathon for Peace from Velenje to Srebrenica. With five colleagues, wearing his honorary miner’s uniform, he paid tribute to his dead workmates and all the victims of Srebrenica. This was important to him. Remembering is important to him. Now that he has time, he helps with renovations. He does not like revenge. “There are courts for that.”

All along, Hule did what he could. He does not talk about politics and the responsibilities of others. What does hurt him, though, is that the Mining Company does not want to search through their records and confirm the names of all its workers who had been killed in the war. It is as if they never existed, he says.

Zvonko Karanović

Zvonko Karanović

Zvonko Karanović (Serbia, 1959) writes poetry and prose. He published three novels and more than ten collections of poetry, several of which have also been translated. His poems have been translated into twenty languages and featured in several regional and international anthologies, most notably in New European Poets (Graywolf Press, USA, Minnesota, 2008). He is the recipient of several Serbian poetry awards, as well as several international literary scholarships. Zvonko Karanović’s work refers strongly to the heritage of the beat generation, as well as popular culture. In his recent collections of poetry, he’s experimented with surrealism, film-like editing, and prose poems.





Four walls and a city


In the morning in front of the agency, we sit in the car with a guy called Moses. He is Israeli and he is taking two broads with him, the car is an orange Passata real wreck. The moment we leave Amsterdam and take the motorway, the three of them start fighting. We realize that Moses is a pimp and the girls are whores. They’ve got work to do in Munich. The redhead is sitting next to Moses, the two of us are in the back with the dark-haired one. The three of them are having a fierce argument, they are screaming at each other, we are keeping our mouths shut and watching them, and on the motorway, every now and then we see roadworks. The road now narrows down to one traffic lane in each direction, and we keep seeing those yellow things, cat’s eyes, that always make the car shake like crazy. Moses is driving in the yellow lane at a speed of 160 km/hour, at the same time he’s rolling a cigarette with one hand and screaming at the two chicks. The dark-haired from the back seat starts hitting him in the neck and shoulders. In a sort of a half-turn he tries to slap her, she leans against the door, he can’t smack her properly because he needs to watch the road. The redhead grabs him by the arm, he drops the cigarette, bends down to get it, while at the same time driving the car, the wreck is wobbling, but it’s going like mad, and I start to shake out of fear. If those cat’s eyes puncture our tires while we’re going 160 km/hour, there won’t be anything left of us. Mikha and I have gone deathly pale. There’s no way out now. Moses is acting as if we’re not there. I am looking at Mikha, he’s older, I expect him to do something. He should tell Moses to slow down, or at least mind the road, but Mikha is silent. He pretends he doesn’t notice how they are exchanging blows just next to him. For fuck’s sake, we won’t come out of this alive. And then Mikha decides to turn on his famous zen mode that we practiced in Belgrade. Right in the middle of all the fuss, he falls asleep. Since he cannot do anything, the man falls asleep like a baby. I try to do the same thing, but it’s not working. I close my eyes and pray to God the car breaks down, that’s our only chance to stay alive. Not only will the car not break down, but it’s going at breakneck speed.

We reach Munich around noon. The fear makes me feel more dead than alive, I can’t feel my legs, arms, shoulders. My uncured gastritis is slowly coming back. I can feel it waking up and stretching across my stomach. We pay Moses our share for the fuel, say good-bye to all three of them and go to the bus station. We buy two tickets to Belgrade, for 6 o’clock. We’ve got 5 hours before the bus. We stop by a local place at the bus station and ask the waiter if we could leave our things there. The waiter is kind, he stuffs the cardboard suitcase and the canvas bag in the broom closet. We need to go on a food hunt. The last time we ate, a sandwich each, was this time the previous day. Not a pfennig in our pockets, we’ve literally spent everything, to the last nickle. We’ll have to steal some food. Neither Mikha nor I know how to steal, but we go for it. I’m growing weaker and weaker. My gastritis is raging, I can’t feel pain in my stomach anymore, just fire. We need to quickly find something to eat, I’m going to collapse, I say to Mikha. We have a 15-hour bus ride ahead of us, if I don’t eat, I’m definitely going to faint. Then you’ll be on your own. Don’t worry, we’ll snatch something, says he. And then, just our luck, the moment we enter any of the stores, everyone starts staring at us. No way we can take anything. There’s something fishy about us. We look pathetic, worn out, like a pair of junkies in need of a fix. One bakery, another bakery, one supermarket, another supermarket, we stop by all such shops in the pedestrian zone, nothing. Wherever we show up, instantly all eyes are on us.

Meanwhile, people are promoting utility knives on Marienstrasse. They are chopping carrots, cucumbers and cabbage in their wooden booths, pushing various kitchen knives and grating tools. We stand in front of a booth and watch. The man takes some cabbage, ham, cheese and cuts them right in front of us. He carefully puts the pieces on a plate and shows the audience how neatly cut they are. When he’s done displaying them, he just throws the big pile of food into a trash bin. The man casually throws away first-class food! Like hypnotized, we head towards the bin to take what he threw out, but no. There are security guys preventing the curious crowd from approaching too close to the booths. We’re embarrassed to ask for what they have thrown away, we mingle for about twenty minutes, we even start to look suspicious. Then we give up. We walk on, come across a few booths of the same sort, and it’s the same story. Something conspired against us. I’ve felt burning in my stomach for quite some time now. I think about giving up when we run into a church. This is our last chance, I say to Mikha. Let’s go inside, there must be some money on the altar. God will forgive us if we swipe a few pennies. We rush into the yard, but the church doors are locked. One church wing has been turned into a restaurant. Annoyed because we’ve lost our last chance to get some money and as upset as we were, we start swearing at all the infidels who dared transform a church into a bistro. We leave the yard disappointed and at the exit see a relief sculpture on the wall: two angels standing and holding two bags of golden coins each. And a thought comes to me: God, send us some cash! If there is an angel of finances, can we at least get some spare change, so we can get something to eat! I’m already half-dead and because I have got no strength, I force Mikhail to go back to the station. I have to sit down, Im going to faint.

We go back to the place where we left our things and I sit at the table in the corner. We’ve got one hour before our bus is due. Mikha doesn’t want to give up and decides to continue the food quest. The waiter approaches me and I order a glass of water. He gets it for me, and as I try to take it, a German guy at the next table springs up: Nein! Nein!, he shouts. Even though I don’t know German, I get what he wants to tell me: You can’t drink water in a bistro! I ignore him, look out the window, when the waiter comes and puts a pint in front of me. The guy ordered me a beer. Danke, I thank him for the drink and nod. I’ve drunk less than half of it, Mikha arrives and asks where I got the beer. I tell him what’s happened. Oh, great, says Mikha and reaches for the beer. The German guy jumps on his feet again. Give the other gentleman one pint, he shouts to the waiter. We won’t have two men drinking one beer! The waiter brings one more pint and Mikha can’t thank the English-speaking German bloke enough! We laugh  beer is not only a drink, but also food! Our stomachs are not completely empty.

We’ve got half an hour before our bus and we should go. We take the suitcase and the bag from the broom closet and I suggest we give one of our drawings to the German guy. The man’s saved my life. We open the suitcase and from the works we’ve got left, we choose a nice etching. We give it to the man and say: We are artists, this is a little gift for you. He gets confused: Well, I can’t accept this! It’s too much! Somehow we manage to give him the drawing. Our gesture touched him, and he starts taking everything he’s got from his pockets: cigarettes, a lighter, some lose change, and hands it all to us. That had something to do with those angels. He’s going to Norway to work on oil rigs and hasn’t got much cash on him. All his money is on his credit card. It turns out he’s got twenty Deutsche Marks and he even apologizes for not having more. We thank him, he apologizes to us, you can’t tell who’s more polite. The bus is about to leave, the last passengers are getting on. And I say to Mikha: You go and ask the driver to wait for just a second, and I’ll go and get some food. I’m all over the place, I pop into a bakery, but there’s nothing there except a few huge doughnuts and stale bread. I buy two doughnuts and half a loaf of bread and quickly get on the bus. I sit down and literally swallow my doughnut and fall asleep instantly. I think Mikha didn’t even unpack his and I was already asleep.

We’re sitting in Belgrade and waiting for the entrance exam results. We act as if we have already passed. There is coerced optimism in the air brought on by autosuggestion. After seven days of nervousness and waiting, a letter from Holland arrives saying we’ve both been admitted, Mikha on the sculpturing department, and I on graphic design. Hurrah! Great! We travel to Niš to tell the news to our parents. I get home and sit my folks down at the table. I tell them how Mikha and I took the entrance exam at the Art Academy in Amsterdam. We’ve both passed and we are starting our studies in October. They are completely stunned. Ma is crying, she won’t hear it: To hell with Amsterdam and your god damn studies abroad. I won’t have it! Pa is quiet, thinking. Ma suddenly lifts her head and sets off for a counterattack: Why don’t you enroll in Belgrade? You barely finished high school and you’re talking about college studies! You are going there to use drugs, I know. Pa is still quiet, shaking his head. I tell them how this is an opportunity I have to use. If I’ve been admitted to such a prestigious school, my art must be good, they’ve recognized my talent. Not everyone can enroll at the Gerrit Rietveld, the most famous art academy in Holland. I ask them for two thousand DMs for the scholarship, and I’ll earn the rest on my own. I’m going, whether they like it or not. Ma leaves our gathering theatrically and goes to the bathroom crying. Pa goes after her to try and calm her down.

In the morning, Pa is waiting for me and wants to talk. Coffee and a glass of vinjak1 in front of him. In his hand a lit up cigarette, even though he quit smoking ages ago. He’s gone darker, smaller, he runs his hand through his gray hair. I sit at the table and he says: Son, I see you’ve made up your mind, but we don’t have money for your education. Pa being on my side doesn’t help the slightest after all. Without money to enroll, all my effort goes down the drain. I bow my head and leave the house without a word. I go to the Nišava River, sit on the quay and look at the river all afternoon. I cannot come to terms with what’s happening. My life chance should just go to waste? When I get home in the evening, Pa wants to talk to me again. He hands me an envelope with two thousand and five hundred DMs in it, and his album with postage stamps he’s been collecting all his life. If you get in trouble, sell this in an antique store. There are valuable and rare stamps in it, he says. Ma is still not showing her face. She’s sitting in the room and crying, she’s now angry at him too. Mikha had it a lot easier. After a little bit of grumbling and resistance, he gets three thousand DMs. If he fails in Amsterdam, he can always go back to Belgrade and continue his studies. At least he’s got some assurance.




Translated by Kruna Petric


Nedžad Ibrahimović

Nedžad Ibrahimović

Nedžad Ibrahimović (Bosnia and Herzegovina, 1958) received his PhD at the Faculty of Philosophy in Tuzla in the field of literature of Bosnia and Herzegovina. He completed his television studies at the Media Academy in Hilversum (Netherlands). Ibrahimović is the founder and editor-in-chief of the journal for art theory and criticism Razlika/Difference. Ibrahimović is the recipient of two awards for best poetry collection and an award for best screenplay. In 2006, he was a Fulbright professor at the University of Washington in Seattle. Between 2014 and 2017 he was the president of PEN Bosnia and Herzegovina. He teaches literary theory at the Faculty of Philosophy in Tuzla, and teaches film theory at the University of Donja Gorica in Montenegro.










The hot afternoon pours its rays.



Groundskeepers are trimming linden branches above the pavement . Traces ofsummers which are

gone and never will be again.


I miss the people in my city who did not love me.


With whom to disagree now about literature?



News shots from Pakistan: demolished houses in Model Colony. From 98 Airbus A-­‐320 passengers more than 80 have died. The others are gone. Still gone…


A young man -­‐ in a television frame in front of a ruin (black beard

and a messy tuft) testifies that he first saw smoke in the sky –


-­‐ is signed as Allah. (22-­‐05-­‐2020)



The scents of linden reach the room and flower wreaths will soon

fall to the ground.


In the hospital by the river, mother tells of her roommate in the third person. This shrewd patient

smiles gently and peeks from the margins.


Neither of them seems to mind.



A good death is one where your earthly

remains are being dealt with by some unknown people… (JM Coetzee)


There are people who suddenly stop loving, and don’t tell the other, andthen

they love each other disproportionately and asymmetrically.


And then, after a while, he

gives to her a stroke, she to him a heart attack,

and then again they watch over and safeguard each other, just like at the beginning.


But there are also those selfish ones, who within their heart do not mix anyone else. Deathespecially appreciates that.

It likes to surprise everyone else.



I met my ex-­‐wife at the station restaurant.

Just came from a trip, she says, while

she wipes the black jam from her lips with a napkin. Bićanić wrote beautifully about her acting. The show won numerous rewards and, then -­‐ so, how’s life, and such?

Between plays and television, the child is led, she says, from school to home, from home to school. Weaned from me, she looks back as if towards someone invisible

to whom she makes an unspecified complaint. A void thrives around us.


When she’s acting, she’s a lot prettier, and she seems to know this too. Say hello to the kid,I say, and leave quickly.


Until she hasn’t.



Nobody buys books anymore. Petar and I sip brandy from

a slivovitz flask in front of a bookstore. Although the good-­‐looking waitress crosses the squarewearing a mini skirt in the cold,

we don’t order from her anymore. The jerk owner somehow figured out that his business is going up andhe raised the prices. In a parrot yellow coat and with eyes devoid of hope a black-­‐faced migrant enters

the perimeter and bypasses us. A stray dog was sniffing in front of the cafe door -­‐ itknows nothing about inflating price. With the cold wind from the Sava river, a memoryof the son appears.


My Bela is pregnant, says Petar, while sipping and stomping his feet in place. That’s about a hundred marks per puppy. We quarreled and I, very much like a father, smacked him -­‐ and thatwas

that -­‐ six years ago. Seven!


The stray dog now pisses down a church wall and the vine twists towards the grain pea. An acquaintance, a hydrological engineer, told me that because

whirling coastal waters this part of the town hovers over the void. It will be warmer tomorrow, Isay, I look into the void and leave.



After unknown worries and strange fears, after preparations and sketches, everynightthinking, stealing

of characters and personalities you met, you finally decide, and

like a diligent and organized crook, you get up at half past five in the morning, you make tea and eat polenta.There, you are finally in front of your

void and you write, you make note and you delete what is written. Beneath the windows the employedprecariat is in a hurry, the police exhibitionists


sirens are howling, the ambulance alarms are screaming and

schoolchildren in love are typing messages in the rain. You cross words and signs, shortening sentence strings andforming paragraphs with spaces.

And so on every God-­‐given day, for years incessantly – all until it’s all over. After all, you arefinishing and throwing out that

burden from your soul. Afterwards, everything is same as before. Nothing makes sense and nothing madeit in the first place.


And then under the ceiling, in a corner above the desk, you see a spider’s web, largeand spacious. You saw

it on time, because it almost came down to you. At night spiders search

for water and creep into the nose and mouth, mostly in childhood when you sleep the hardest, and you realize that youhave been formed by hundreds of grams of

raw spider and that there is nothing else you could do but by that inner compulsion to knit from your own body.


All you needed for that was emptiness. And now you’re waiting. Only hunger makes sense.



Ask and you shall receive! Seek, and ye shall find! (Mt 7: 7-­8)


It’ warmer. The short streets between the crammed shacks smells of fish, river mud andwet willows. Petar sold

two puppies, and I sent my son another letter. The first one maybe he didn’t see, maybe he didn’tunderstand it, or maybe it hurt him?

Maybe I asked too much of him, it’s possible he

thought I was being condescending. He doesn’t trust me anymore.

I therefore crammed this one with beautiful stylistic figures, imported it with mild verbs, and asked for nothing. Now every day

I’m checking my other profile. (He blocked me on the first one.)


But, if he also had an other profile, he would have a new name, the two of us could then, like two nakedsnails, extend our horns one

to the other and start our history from scratch. Only mutual lie could save us.


Someone said ask and you shall receive! Seek and ye shall find !, laughs Petar. By the church the waitress inthe mini skirt carries two shots with brandy.



By delving into the boundaries of language the reason gets bumps.

(L. Wittgenstein)


I wish I didn’t read.


I wish I walked through the city like through a spring forest. Not reading the inscriptions on the shops, the glittering commercials and illiterate advertisements, communal notices, textson stores, names and

surnames on lawyers’ offices and notaries’ entrance doors, billboards, discounts, names of

bakeries and meat boutiques, I wish didn’t even read obituaries anymore.


I wish I was a dog that doesn’t get off the leash and that in this chaos I only rest my tongue.



“Welcome children! Eat,

and after that you can come in and I will give you cake! ” The Brothers Grimm


A teenager who starts smoking. I was writing in the hope of getting laid, and then I broke into this house suddenly And here I am now. Locked. The language is now

my shirt and my tail, my shoes and my gloves.

I don’t know when there will be enough of it, and when too much, for all that I would like to say. Mine… Mine? These words are my

legcuffs and handcuffs lurking after my head to eat it with delight.

the language is now both my father and my mother, and my mother’s mother and my mother’s father, and, worst of all, my language is also Her language. Thus, my father and mother and Her father and mother.


I am repulsed by this sticky tongue saliva that we share. Everything I say is also said byHer. Everything I write,

She has already written, everything I want to say, there she is, and through the barred window she threatensfrom outside with her skinny finger

and grins cynically. I have a premonition, and only premonitions are mine, that – just like a hanged man is killed by his own body,

and the cherry-­‐plum in front of the house by its own fruit – one word will kill me, the one that I will not know to be the last one, the strong one, Miljkovićev’s one. It will be the key to the sugary door that She will get herhands on,

but that word will ultimatley be mine alone. And that is what

I am modestly looking forward to. I am a wolf who, for my freedom, gnaws its front paw.


The years of captivity are getting harder and faster, and when I get tired and give up, I don’t get off the leash anymore.

Through the spring forest then the two of us pass as

through a city where I no longer read inscriptions on the shops, the glittering commercials and illiterate advertisements, communal notices, texts on stores, names and titles on

lawyers’ offices and notaries’ entrance doors, billboards, discounts, names of bakeries and meat boutiques, nor obituaries do I read anymore. None but mine own.


The old ones, before I fell into Her house.

Filip Grujić

Filip Grujić

Filip Grujić (Serbia, 1995) is a dramaturg, a playwright and a novelist. He published the novels Podstanar (LOM, 2020) and Bludni dani kuratog Džonija (Samizdat, 2017). He is the recipient of the Sterija Award and the Slobodan Selenić Award for his play ne pre 4:30 niti posle 5:00. He plays in the band CIMERKE and as a solo artist.






(saying goodbye to my landlord, moving to a new flat, my father-in-law, my job again, and some realisations)



Saying goodbye to my landlord


It turns out that you do best what you feel most familiar and comfortable with. I came to this realisation while I was lying on my mattress, which I already described many times before, and waiting for Sonya to have a shower. Since I was living closer to the city, and her work, Sonya often stayed at my place. The flat, meanwhile, has changed. More often than not, stuff would be scattered over the floor. Sonya was messy. I wondered why, and I couldn’t figure it out. She had the same amount of stuff at that time as I ever had. I wouldn’t say Sonya was a big spender, on the contrary, over that couple of months we’d been together I rarely saw her buy something for herself. You could say this was because of her budget, which was not big enough to cover everything she wanted to buy. But despite the messiness that had befallen my rented flat, I didn’t feel bad. I liked the liveliness that my floors, walls and bed had acquired. I liked, of course, sharing my life with someone. If I were completely honest, I also liked that I was capable of sharing my life with someone. I haven’t mentioned it yet, but the logic of the story requires it now – Sonya had a flat on the other side of the river, an average, quite acceptable flat, which she shared with her younger sister, about whom I will talk more, oh much more, later. The flat was hers, and that being so, she didn’t have a landlord. She was, so to speak, her own landlord. Anyway, Sonya was having a shower, and I was lying on the bed when it dawned on me that you do best what you feel most familiar with. The day I was supposed to move out was coming soon. That’s what Sonya and I agreed, and I didn’t protest much. She reckoned that it made perfect sense for us to live together and I was pretty much of the same opinion. Considering our financial situation, and taking into account that I had just lost my job, which had caused a few small tiffs between us, I probably wouldn’t be wrong if I said that those were the first ones since we’ve been together, primarily because I had lost my job practically because I’d had a fight with her ex-boyfriend, my ex-friend, which in fact she was the cause of, anyway, we came to the conclusion that we couldn’t pay for both flats, and we were spending the nights together much more often than apart, so we sensibly and practically decided that I should move in with her to the other side of the river and be done with what until then had been my bachelor pad. That’s what she called it – a bachelor pad. It sounded good to me because it meant I was the guy I was expected to be. While I was lying like that thinking about the sentence I’d mentioned earlier, I was overcome with irrevocable sadness for leaving the flat. I got up and looked around me.

Everything I had ever made was there. The mattress I was lying on, so neat and comfortable, was mine. All the things in the flat, apart from the walls, and a few kitchen cupboards, the bathtub, and the parquet floor, were mine. There weren’t too many things, but the truth is that I made it cosy for myself between all those walls. I looked, and in the kitchen I could clearly see forks and knives, in the rooms a couple of chairs and a clothes horse, and suddenly, I remembered how I went to a chain furniture store and had a good time there.

Where did it all go?

Looking at all those things, even back then, I felt as if I was witnessing a memory. I couldn’t comprehend it.

I had applied myself to furnishing the flat with so much passion, and now I had to leave it all behind. Every single thing I had bought, acquired or dragged here in one way or another, I had handpicked as if I would never part from it. I had been choosing them with a joy I could only feel at that moment, a moment I thought was worth remembering. I couldn’t understand what I was going to do with all those emotions I felt for every piece of furniture. I was supposed to leave the flat in three days. Until then, I had to clean it up, polish the floors, perhaps put a lick of paint on the walls, return the keys and never, definitely never again return to that flat. Luckily, Sonya interrupted my musings. She stepped out of the bathroom, wet, naked, erect nipples. It took me only about six seconds to feel good again. I forgot why I was sad and indulged in happiness.

At that moment, it seemed to me that there was not a thing that could make me sad as long as I was near those breasts, I felt like a man that had neither past nor future, nothing but a desire to touch.

But those moments can’t last forever. The next three days, while I was bidding farewell to my stuff and my furniture, Sonya would go and have a shower a few times, at least three, she would nip down to the shops, go to work, and I was alone, feeling the sharp pangs of melancholy and questioning. For instance, I would remember how I started smoking. What was that all about? I couldn’t comprehend. The moment I started smoking, and you could say that I was now a seasoned smoker, seemed like a moment that happened to somebody else. I could clearly see myself standing outside and smoking, as if observing myself from the window, but I couldn’t understand how.

Whose life was I living and whose life could I see? Where were the time and space, my brain couldn’t discern, all I knew was that I couldn’t comprehend, couldn’t accept that if I forgot the moment when I started smoking, it would be as if I’d never started smoking in the first place. But, as I said , those were the moments when I allowed myself to indulge in those thoughts. At the same time I was packing my stuff into boxes.I didn’t have much, quite enough for a man like me one could say. Suddenly, all I had could fit into three boxes. Even I, if I were to twist and bend my body properly, could fit my entire self in a box. The thought amused me and made me think about myself as a living being. Everything that had happened to me was inside me, somewhere, who knows where, but inside me. I, as I said, my entire self, with all the people I’d ever met, with all the joys I’d created for myself, with all the sorrows I’d accepted, would fit in a box if, again, I were to twist and bend my body properly.

I wasn’t sure how I felt about it. On one hand I found the thought intriguing, but at the same time it made me feel restless. And then, of course, I’d forget I’d ever had such a thought and start snogging Sonya as if it were the only thing I knew how to do and wanted to do.

Strange, strange all that. I’d already packed my stuff, I was leaving my flat. I’d given a lick of paint to what needed painting, Sonya helped as much as she could, we tidied up together, cleaned and scrubbed, leaving the flat to somebody else who will enter an empty space as if nothing ever existed there before. I looked out of the window, and I could clearly see myself smoking on the other side of the street. While I was living here, a burger joint had opened and had already shut down. The corner shop, the bakery, they are still there. At that very place, where the two streets joined, I was looking, pensively, at my window, wondering which was Tamara’s floor.

Whatever happened to Tamara? I didn’t know where she was. She must have been somewhere far away, I’d stopped bumping into her in the building. She may have moved away. I heard that she’d got a more lucrative job offer. That’s how, as far as I knew, you determine how successful someone was. You work at one place, and after a while you get a better offer somewhere else. Then you work at that other place and, if you’re lucky, you get an even better offer from another place. And so on, until your market value starts going further and further down, and then you do your best to stay where you are, you hold onto the job as hard as you can, your job, claiming you deserve it because of your age and years of experience, sentimentally remembering the day when you first came to the company. Anyway, I was wondering where Tamara was. I didn’t know if she was happy, or if I would ever think of her again. At that moment, while I was saying goodbye to the flat, I thought of Tamara only because I remembered myself smoking in the street wondering where Tamara was. It was really time for me to get a move on. Two other big things happened that day:

1) I met Sonya’s dad. His name is Gordan. He borrowed a van that transports donkey chemicals, if I got it right, some concoctions that help donkeys grow faster and better, anyway, he borrowed a van from a friend of his, whom, of course, I didn’t know at the time because, as it turned out, until that day I hadn’t met Sonya’s dad either, whose name was Gordan. Until that day, I hadn’t thought about him much. I knew he would come to help us move, we were, after all, moving into his former flat. But, shaken and overwhelmed with all kinds of emotions, I ignored the fact. So I just extended my hand and introduced myself.

Hi, son. I’m Gordan.

Nice to meet you.

I stared at the floor, surprised that he’d called me son.

So, what are we taking?

Here it is. . .

This is all you’ve got?

I felt he was judging me. I panicked.

It is all I need.

C’mon, son, let’s hurry up.

He took a box as I stubbornly paced the flat.

I’d left all four indicators on.

Gordan, of course, will be the subject of some of my later contemplations and dilemmas. But at that moment, the only thing I worried about was that I didn’t drop a box and, inexplicably, I wanted to show Gordan that I was strong, at least as a bullock, so I carried more than I could. As a result, I got inflammation in my lower back, and I was stuck in bed for three to five days. We put everything in the van and realised that Gordan hadn’t needed to borrow it. It could all fit in a car. We climbed back to the flat to check if we had left anything behind. Sonya was walking around in the flat.

The mattress?

She asked me incredulously.

It’s not exactly comfortable for us, is it?

Mine is definitely bigger.


Maybe you can sell it?

Maybe I could.

There was nothing else left. We and Gordan were going to take the stuff to Sonya’s flat. And that’s what we did. Nothing else of importance happened because I had to go back to my rented flat. Meeting the landlord, handing in the keys and the inspection of his property were scheduled for one o clock in the afternoon. So, the other big thing, besides meeting Sonya’s dad, happened after that.

2) I cried. That’s what happened. I didn’t cry much, just a bit. I didn’t know how to explain this to myself. Everything was perfect. There was the girl that, I can safely say, I loved. Consequently, there was this planned happiness. So, I, one of the few, will be living with the girl I loved. While I was waiting for one in the afternoon, sitting on my mattress, the only thing left behind in the empty flat, I wept. I lay on the mattress and stared at the ceiling. How many nights I had spent there staring at the ceiling. Sometimes, when it was light outside, when it was full moon, I could see the ceiling better. Some nights I would pull the blinds down. Some nights I would leave the light on in the hallway, on purpose, to keep me company. But, this mattress was mine. I was definitely lying on that mattress for the last time in my life, and even more definitely, I was crying on that mattress for the last time. This was supposed to be a happy day. The beginning of something new. My landlord arrived. I wiped off the tears before opening the door. He had his hat on and his pipe. We greeted each other, he asked me how I was. I said I was fine.

Do you mind?

He pointed at his pipe.


Anyway, even if you did…

He laughed, realising than in no more than fifteen minutes I would have no say in this flat.


He rummaged in the corners, this landlord of mine. He inspected the white surfaces, whether they were white enough. He looked at the door, whether it was dented. The doors often get damaged, he said, especially where there is turbulent love life. People get carried away and then when they don’t know what to do, they always hit the door…

He said that, pleased with himself, as if he too, while he had the strength, used to hit the door.




Marija Dragnić

Marija Dragnić

Marija Dragnić (Montenegro, 1990) studied English Language and Literature in Podgorica and Västerås (Sweden), and graduated at the Faculty of Philology, University of Belgrade, where she also finished her master academic studies and enrolled in a PhD programme in Language, Literature and Culture. She published the poetry collection The Other Shore(Belgrade: Orion art, 2013) and the conceptual book of poetry Confabulations (Bijelo Polje: Ratković’s Poetry Evenings, 2019; Belgrade: PPM Enclave, 2019). Her poems are published in various literary periodicals across the ex-YU region, as well as in the culture supplement of Politika. Some of her poems are translated into Russian and Macedonian. Dragnić is the recipient of the second prize for poetry in the regional literary competition Ulaznica 2016 and the first prize in the regional competition of Ratković’s Poetry Evenings 2018. In 2019. Dragnić won the first prize in the literary competition PAF – POETRY  for best unpublished poems in Montenegro. She is an editor at the publishing house PPM Enclave and the online poetry magazine Enclave.





my grandmother hid sweets

from herself, so there would be more for us. and nobody couldfind them afterwards.


I looked trough my light fingers at my lover’s dark back

as he left the beach

and I remained in the shade of a willow’s crown

allowing the sun to overhang us.


through my light fingers I looked at how the dark back of someone else’s poetry twisted around a pole

in a night club

to those who had clear intentions.

I would leave generous tips and always go homealone.


I didn’t look through my light fingers when they crackled

as they scampered amongst the trees that grew above thekeyboard.

they ran under the same-height treetops, went deep into thewoods.

and nobody could find them afterwards.



I loved my grandfather the most because he was agood man

that rarely spoke, and a snake bit him

on the same finger three times.


my poetry’s light fingers

shattered my poetry’s dark fingers. the fight took place ina lake.

the dark ended up floating on the surface. the light swam away  triumphantly,

got out on the other side of the shore. I recorder everything.


My lover’s dark fingers and my light fingers

go down into the lake, past a warning sign.



they float above the depths with uncertainty.


in between the dark and light fingers a snake passes.


the dark smile.

the light go out of the water clumsily, hiding their nudity

from random passers-by.


never again have they repeated the ritual. nonetheless, they keep returning

to the lake – to resist.


good film, poetic images.

in the big hall, at the premiere as many as three seats

were occupied.



my grandfather once killed a viper that crossed my path.


he wedged a match in its open jaws

and put a cigarette in its mouth.

the snake frantically turned in circles, until its head burst.


the truth is

that’s the only thing

I remember him by today.


my poetry’s dark fingers

broke my poetry’s light fingers. it all happened in a humid field from which a greenish mist rose.

the scent of burning came out of somewhere. I recorded the entire event.


my lover’s dark fingers land on my bottom

as I put a snake under our bed.


we fight between the white sheets. at one point,

my head hangs down the edge of the bed, and that increases thechances

of a final surrender.


my light fingers pull the dark hair from my lover’s nape of the neck, he sticks his dark thumb

in between my red lips.

one of us gets bitten by the snake.


the video recording looks like a porn film starring an over-aroused actress.

it became a real hit.

they guest-starred at every festival, won all local awards.

the chick was such a success.



this is the third note on my grandfatherwhom I knew the least.


mom is surprised how I still don’t see thecorrelation

between these two facts.


the dark fingers of someone else’s poetry stumble in front of the dark fingers of my poetry which unexpectedly turns into a comedy play.

a startled flock of smiles lands

on the faces of the leading actors and audience.


my lover’s dark fingers

watch out for my light fingers. my light fingers getdarker

due to, let’s say, tobacco smoke. the leading actress putson a mask of a lovely boy. the lights go out.


my poetry’s dark fingers intertwine with my poetry’s lightfingers.

if the dark fingers defeated the light, they wouldn’t stretchan inch beyond the ends of their nails. cameras flash

from the strategic points in the audience, they light up only thecostumes

and the scenery silhouettes.


my lover’s dark fingers grab my now darker fingers in the low start position. the lights comeon.

the leading actor is on the stage alone.

the leading actress is suddenly in the audience, and is also surprisedby that.


my lover’s dark fingers

and my poetry’s light fingers in a devil’s dance.

heart is the mother of repetition, they shout from thestrategic points.



when I was born

my grandmother dressed up, in black,

to greet her granddaughter as it befitted the occasion.


in after years she would prepare ice cream for lunch,

during every summer break.

she would take us to the fishpond where we learnt to dive

head first.


I once tried to

stay under the water

and turn into a mermaid. It was a little confined, there in the fishpond,

so I surfaced,

but only after the scales had formed.


grandmother didn’t get scared when I stayed at thebottom

of the pool for so long,

nor did she notice any changes on my skin.


she smiled and said

look at you, diving like a snake, granny’s darling.


I loved my grandmother. she was an exceptionally intelligent woman,

she knew how to steer clear of the heart of things.


were it not for my poetry’s light fingers

I would cut off each of my poetry’s dark fingers

and lick the fingers of another’s poetry, especially the light.


if I had only dark fingers,

it would be obvious they have nothing with my lover’s dark fingers.

the way it is now, believe me, they are exactly the same.


Translated by Krutna Petrić


Luiza Bouharaoua

Luiza Bouharaoua (photo: Ivan Maricic)

Luiza Bouharaoua (1985, Croatia) is a writer and a translator. She is the founder and coordinator of the Association for the Promotion of Literature and Culture Skribonauti, where she develops cultural and artistic programs for marginalised groups. She leads a reading club and a creative writing workshop at a women’s penitentiary. In 2016, she founded the Kino Sloboda interactive prison cinema program aimed at developing film literacy among marginalized groups. She produced the documentary Free Weekend, created at a documentary film workshop at a penitentiary, and the short documentary The Right to Work: The Way We Left It, winner of the Ethics and Human Rights Award, as well as the short animated film Hell Lemonade. Bouharaoua’s short stories have been published in various magazines and included in anthologies. She is the recipient of the Ticket for a Short Story Award and the Prozak Award.






– What’s your name?

– How old are you, Daniel?

– Are you related to Mrs Mara Radić?

– What’s your relationship with her nephew, Dalibor Radić?

– What’s your relationship with Goran Abazić?

– Do you have other flatmates apart from him?

– How long has Tomislava Popić lived in the flat?

– What’s your relationship with her?

– It’s important because you are under investigation.

– Have you had anything to drink for lunch?

– How much did you drink?

– Do you drink often?

– Are you usually aggressive when you drink?



It was May, and yet it was snowing. I was the one making it snow. Everywhere around me fluffy blossoms, delicate and ready to fly silently away at my slightest movement and turn white both the ground and Dado who had just peeked through the tree crown. I shook a branch and a blizzard of petals plummeted on his face. With his index finger he pushed the one that had fallen straight on his right eyelid.

– Please, talk to me. I didn’t say anything.

– Daniel, please.

– How did you know where to find me?

Dado pointed at Mara’s black cat sitting in the grass to his right.

– Leave me alone, both you and her!

The branches beneath me started to tremble. White, soft snowflakes were now falling on my face and blurring my vision. When I could see again, Dado was already sitting next to me.

– This is the only part of the orchard where the ground looks as if it’s been snowing. That’s how I knew.

I was silent.

– I used to sit here like this.

– When? – he knew I couldn’t hold out.

– The Wednesday they found out.



You think that removing all the evidence and hiding will erase what happened. That memories will chase away time and oblivion will fall over you as silently as the snow, like these petals. But they won’t. Because 16 years later Wednesday will come and mother will run away from you to the kitchen, and you will run away from her by bus. Not one, but two different buses full of strangers secretly staring at your tearful face, and you will ride and then walk and then run until you arrive at this orchard. Then you will climb a tree and weep hidden in its crown until the blossoms paint the ground white.

You will hide just like you hid the fact that eight years ago, by accident and without premeditation, you found a box for size 35 shoes from which you pulled out a picture of a boy who didn’t look like you but did look like someone else. In that face you recognised your mother’s nose, your father’s eyes, a whole life that happened before you, mysterious and unfamiliar to you as the malignant disease that suddenly cut it short. And everything you found you will keep inside as if you were a box and then you’ll be silent. On weekends, holidays, normal days. You will be silent together with your parents, but still miles away from them. And you will have chewed on your solitude patiently like a dog until that Wednesday when your mother would come into your room and look away in disgust. From you, from the two of you, from the kiss you had just been given. The kiss that you don’t feel he is guilty for, but you know that he must be because you have seen the horror flash in her pupils. And it will take time for you to accept that it is wrong for her for the same reason it is right for you – because it was Stipe who gave it. You will not hear her cry, she always does that in silence, you will only hear her mutter from the deep, as if from the cellar:

– I’ve lost my good child.

Petals will be showering from the branches covering the road like snow in the middle of summer, and you will shake them from your hair, climb down the tree and start walking through the orchard towards Mara. Mara, who will be waiting for you at the door and who has already made the bed for you. She will look you in the eye, stroke your cheek and say:

– I know why you are here.

Do you understand? At some point, you’ll be able to climb down. Until then we’ll stay put. If need be, we’ll spend the night in the treetop.



– How did you get hold of a cold weapon?

– Why was such a big knife on the table?

– What were Goran Abazić and Tomislava Popić doing at that moment?

– Where were Dalibor and Mara Radić at that moment?

– Why did you throw yourself at Goran Abazić?

– What’s the relationship between Tomislava Popić and Goran Abazić?

– Sit down or we’ll have to restrain you!

– If you’re going to be sick, my colleague will take you to the lavatory.



– But how did she know?

– Daniel, the police are looking for you.

I blew at a branch and followed the winding fall of the petals to the ground:

– Let them look. I want to know how Mara knew you were coming.

– You want a logical explanation or the local legend?

– Both.

– My parents must have called her.

– And the legend?

– Legend has it that Mara can simply predict some things. It started when she was seven, the summer her mother fell from a tree while she was picking cherries in this orchard. A branch snapped under her, and she fell to the ground like a stone. My grandmother, Mara’s sister, claimed until the day she died that mother was still climbing the tree when Mara poked her in the rib and whispered: – Run and fetch the doctor.

From that day on, she would never miss a child or death arriving to a house, always a step ahead of the doctor and the priest. That’s the legend.

– You believe that your great-grandaunt is some kind of oracle?

– The village believes what the village believes. I believe in my aunt.

– But how did she know about me? Dado looked away.

– How did she know what I was going to see?



The scent of pulled out rosemary and sage that grow freely in the driveway. The vegetable garden where before dawn Mara picked the first ripe tomatoes, fragrant green peppers and purple onions still warm from the soil’s embrace, whose sweetness we are now grabbing with gossamer white bread and are shoving into our mouths with soft meat. We have swallowed the words together with the plants and animals and are now soaking them in sharp wine. All this is splashing about in my stomach like a fish, like an ominous sign I don’t know how to interpret.

Goran and Tomislava are begging Mara to tell them their future, this morning in the village they heard that she was the best. Dado laughs, Mara adjusts the black scarf on her head, crossing herself and laughing at the kids she thought were smart and educated and yet they fell for some village nonsense. Her watery eyes are calming me down, it seems that they are the only ones sensing the ominous fish splashing about inside me. She agrees to the game and takes us behind the house one by one. I am the last one whose muddy coffee cup is turned upside down by her warm fingers, dark as the soil they work every morning. She peers into its darkness and says something short and cryptic and I shuffle it under my tongue as I sit down at the table again.

Her black cat approaches me meandering sleekly between my calves. I tear a piece of meat off the bone and offer it to her, but she backs up until she has lured me under the table. Under the table all legs are motionless like a tree trunk with a leafy crown above us, only two of them on the opposite side of the table leaning against each other, two hands sprouting out of them with fingers intertwined like branches. The cat grabs her piece of meat and chews on it greedily, but I am the one with a lump in my throat.

Above the table, Goran and Tomislava are not even looking at each other. Mara brings out a large baking tin with a cake bleeding with the first strawberries and next to it places a big silver knife that glistens in the sun like a camera flash.

– A photo of you two in front of the cinema. His hand tentatively resting on your shoulder, a barely visible smile stretched across your lips. You two frozen, scared as deer in the headlights, because you know it is obvious. You two lovers. Immediately – or just after – I scream or I think I do.

Hands, just like mine, are grabbing the knife from the tin trying to rip the photograph blocking my view, to slash with a single precise cut stop both it and the deafening rustle in the branches that prevents me from understanding what Dado is yelling, and how am I supposed to understand when I am already charging down the path to the orchard. In front of me, Goran, enveloped in the white dust rising from the gravel, behind me, Tomislava’s face, distorted with a painful grimace, and Dado, pushing her into Mara’s arms and running after me.

The mist on the ground, endless rows of blossoming cherry trees, clouds. Everything is white, while inside me crimson bitterness is boiling, pushing through to my throat, knocking me down to the ground and letting this ripe secret out into the innocence of fallen petals.



– Are you feeling better? One more question then.

– How did you come to know the nature of relationship between Goran Abazić and Tomislava Popić?

– My colleague will now take you to Mara Radić.

– No further action. Neither Abazić nor Popić were wounded. They both insisted that we don’t prosecute you further, and we are under no official obligation to do so.

– Listen to me. It’s neither time nor place for pride. Go to the Radić’s. We’ll book it as a breach of the peace.



– How did she know?

Dado threw me over his right shoulder like a wounded animal. White petals falling from my hair were sprinkling the path.

– I see a table. Under that table you will mess up your life and then put it back together.

Dado didn’t say a thing.

– She said she saw a table and then her cat lured me under the table.

– I heard you the first time.

He was striding through the orchard. I pushed myself with both palms on his back and straightened up. Mara’s cat was still following us.

– Stop fidgeting. You’re even heavier when you’re drunk like this, you fool. A sudden jolt of his knee broke my grip and in a second my entire upper body was dangling down his back.

I couldn’t hear anything but the gravel crushing under Dado’s shoes.

– H-O-W did she know?

Everything I had seen had at that moment swopped places. A second before I crashed into the ground, Dado grabbed me by my shoulders and stood me up.

Darkness was descending over the orchard and everything around us was slowly turning cerulean blue, except for the white blossoms glowing in the dusk like fresh pristine snow. The outlines of Dado’s face, his willowy movements, his shiny black hair, it was all slowly drowning in the dark blue of the sky. I could only make out Dado’s shiny cat’s eyes: two green spotlights with pupils, like knives dividing them in two.

– How did she know, Dado?

The ominous fish in my belly was calming down.

– I told her to tell you.


Jasna Žmak

Jasna Žmak

Dramaturg and writer based in Zagreb, Croatia working in the fields of literature, performance, dance, and film. She is assistant professor at the Department of Dramaturgy at the Academy of Dramatic Art in Zagreb where she has previously graduated. She has published one novel (My Y♀u, Profil, 2015), two performance texts (Solitaries, INK, 2011; The Other at the Same Time, Emanat & INK, 2012), one picture book (Letters from the Edge of the Forest, OAZA, 2018), one study (Lecture as Performance, Performance as Lecture, Leykam International, 2019), several short stories, reviews and essays. Her latest book “Those Things – Essays on Female Sexuality” is coming out this March.

Jean-Lorin Sterian

Jean Lorin Sterian

Jean-Lorin Sterian is a writer, playwright, director and performer. He has published books of fiction and anthropology. In 2008 he created the lorgean theatre – “a theatre of intimate spaces” in his own flat, an open place for actors and dancers, which became a trade mark for alternative culture of Bucharest.











I don’t like fat.

Only skim repels me more. I never understood how someone can eat something so gross. Except for parents. As if, when they reach adulthood, people become stupid and try to convince their offsprings that they have to swallow something they themselves couldn’t stand back in the day. When I was a little girl I spent whole days in the kitchen, watching loathingly as a piece of meat was jellying on a plate. Just the two of us. My parents would go to the TV, leaving the door open so that they could watch me. I couldn’t leave the room unless one of us disappeared.

So now I know: if I ever have a boy, I’ll never boil him milk. If I’ll have a girl, I’ll keep her away from dead animals that could continue their existence in her small belly.


I can hear Oakenfold from a terrace and PolinaMisailidou from another.


I lie on my back, with my mind broken into thousands of pieces.

I only move my neck, to the left or to the right, everytime Giorgio tries to kiss me.

Once to the left, once to the right.

I’ve never thrown up during sex. But it’s getting harder to stand a tongue that helped a chunk of greasy meat be chewed to invade my mouth. When he bends over, squeezing my breasts with his left hand, I feel how big, black bats slap me in the face with their wings.


I shake my head spastically until he gives up touching our tongues and comes back to his initial position. His frozen grimace should express pleasure. We slam our pelvises and the only thing alive inside me is his penis.

You’re kind of strange, says Giorgio after the mounting has been consummated. I can hear the only hit of the Babybird band from the beach. I would hum the chorus, but I can’t pronounce « You’re Gorgeous ». I can’t see his face in the darkness of the room, but I know that his skin is sunburned. A Rudolf nose is twinkling on his face.

But I can smell him. A stench as if he had varnished himself at length with multiple sweat layers.


If I have a sense that still works at all endpoints, that’s the smell. Every morning I throw up as soon as I put toothpaste in my mouth. Throwing up is a part of my life, as well as crying in the office bathroom and fucking with zet males.


I don’t like the way he smells, I don’t like his parched nose, I don’t like how he scanned my body as soon as we ran into each other. Staring is the first way to make love. I didn’t like his leather jacket, that he wore on his bare chest, the cheap pickup lines, the clichepunchlines said with a strained nonchalance. But that didn’t stop me from ending up in the room where all the trapped fruit flies end up in. He probably keeps his name list in the drawer, under the condom boxes and gets a lot of pleasure out of updating it. More than from the act itself.


But what I hate the most is that we have something in common.




He’s an eternal acting student, whose corny performances only get applause from the girls that can barely stand up. He patiently lurks his prays, until the small hours of the night, when self respect takes a break and bathes in alcohol. He meets new people every night. He drinks beer and smokes joints with them and gives them tips on traditional restaurants, the clubs with the hottest DJs and the hotel where Jean-Paul Gaultier stays at. He gets drunk on their money, dances, throws up, fucks. They exchange phone numbers, but no one ever calls him again. If, by accident, they meet again the next summer, no one signals that they recognize him. And he starts all over again.


He spins invisibly among tourists, with a crushed smile and damp palms, waiting for a tourist with a little hat to ask him « How are you ?».

He needs to pronounce his name and for someone else to pronounce his name so that he can carry out his repertoire.

Night after night he haunts the clubs in Psaouru, fucking whoever is around.

With drunk women who, on their seventh glass of Sex On The Beach, think they’ve met Adonis.

With fat and unattractive campers that will finally tell their work colleagues that they have a sex life.

With saggy old bags at their last or second to last fuck.

With junkies that can’t remember the second day if they played pool all night long, slept or fucked someone.

With me, drifting in an anxiety pool even when I fuck.


You’re weird, says Giorgio after he dismounted my body.



I look like roadkill. If I could extract from the depths of me that little box where my sense of humour is hiding, shaking in a fetal position, I could laugh looking at the scene.

A corpse in which a guy with big pecs just came. I should be proud that, despite the smell in the tent, despite the greasy jaw and the loneliness that connects us more than the act that just finished, I managed to carry out this fuck.

The first in more than a year, since any attempt to make love to Elias has a lame ending.

            in tears and humiliation and sadness and pain and silence


            Once during a dinner I was asked why I don’t eat my schnitzel. I answered that I don’t trust something that’s hiding behind a flour and egg shell.


From the club terraces you can hear a musical salad in which there have been thrown A Girl Like You – Edwin Collins, Roger Sanchez and, somewhere in the distance, Hotel California in the hideous version of the Gipsy Kings. I pull up my briefs and, without going to the bathroom, I mutter something unintelligibly and I slip outside. Giorgio stays inert in bed, too used to not matter in order to have a reaction. He folds between the clothes, resigned, waiting for that great day when he’ll become material.

It’s starting to get cold in Psarou. I have an empty tent, left by a friend whose girlfriend came and for a while they are indulging in a five star hotel. He told me that he’ll let me know when the deal won’t apply anymore. But he hasn’t called me until now, meaning I still have a place to sleep tonight.

Waves crushrhythmically at the shore and tens of bodies follow suit.

Like me and Giorgio.

The camping area is more than two kilometers from the beach, midway to Chora. Until there I have to walk through a dark and empty area, but there’s no reason to be afraid.

I was already fucked tonight.

The moon went to sleep before I did.

I trip over curbs, trash cans and chained bodies. Some swear, others just shriek.

I crumble in front of the tent. Only now do the leftovers from diner pour from my stomach.

Somewhere in the distance there’s laughter and a long holler.

I stick my hand inside the tent, randomly take a cloth and wipe my face of tears and snot and food traces.


Around this time we would have been in bed. He would have worn that seedy Metallica t-shirt that he boasts he’s had for 16 years and that’s part of his identity. We would have touched our lips, then we would have both turned our backs against each other. It would have taken me a long time to decide to touch his hot skin and I would have been almost grateful had I felt he was asleep.


The music is so far away that I don’t know if what I hear is Rammstein or ABBA. I zip up the tent wishing that during the night it will rain with big rocks and that I never have to zip it up back again.





Anna Kove

Anna Kove

Anna Kove is a well-known poet and translator from Albania. She graduated at 2001 at Goethe Institute, Germany, with the diploma “German as a foreign language in theory and  practice”. She continued her  master studies at the European University of  Viadrina in Germany (2002–2004) in “Media and Intercultural Communication”. She also  graduated in “Albanian Language and Literature” at the University of Tirana (1986-1990).  

Anna Kove is author of many books, such as “Shën Valentin ku ishe”, “Djegë Ujërash”“Nimfa e pemës së humbur”, “Kambanat e së dielës” and has been awarded with many prizes,  in different competitions in Albania, Kosovo and Montenegro. She is one of the most  distinguished contemporary authors in Albania, having the attention of the critics, researchers  and journalists, who have been continuously writing about her works.  

She has participated in different seminars and translation workshops like LCB “Berlin” “In  Käte tanzen” (September 2006); “Artistic Translation of Children Literature: Kein  Kinderspiel” (2013), organized by Robert Bosch Stiftung– Hamburg,the International  translators meeting LCB march 2019.  

She is winner of the translation stock of “Schritte Stipendien”, from S. Fischer Stiftung in  Literarisches Colloquium Berlin. (June- July 2015); (January-February 2020) and Residency  grants for literary translators at Europäisches Übersetzer-Kollegium Straelen (July-August  2019). 

Her contribute in translations is even wider, we underline the translation of “Mohn und  Gedächtnis” by P. Celan (Toena Editions, supported by Traduki) and the Anthology “German  short stories” (Ombra GVG Editions). Many of her translations, such as “Herztier” (Albas  Editions supported by Traduki), “Hast du ein Taschentuch?”,“Dorfschronik” and stories from  “Niederungen” by H. Mueller, “Die Nacht, die Lichter” by Clemens Meyer (Albas Editions),  ‘Tyll” by Daniel Kehlmann (Toena Editions), “Die groessere Hoffnung” by Ilse Aichinger  (Albas Editions) “Ich spiele noch” by Rose Ausländer (Poeteka Editions) and different poetry  works by S. Kirsch, M. L. Kaschnitz, B. Brecht, I. Bachman, N. Sachs have been published in  different Albanian literary magazines. 





Unfinished prayer


The car stopped in front of my feet.

I climbed in impatiently and brushedhis upper lip slightly, more smelling him than kissing him.

I had thought that I should alter my appearance somehow, to give him a surprise. No! I could never have done as much as he did, he seemed to have lost at least 10 years.

He no longer looked like a middle-aged man waiting patiently and calmly for old age, but instead, he had the appearance of a young man who refuses to be separated from his boyhood shadow.Clean, freshly shaven and smelling ofaftershave.

The air of the car was full of love. In that moment, I felt as if Iwere in a magical world. An invisible mystical thread had slowlybrought us together in a journey. So he drives, while I gaze absentmindedly at the trees, which look to me like silhouettes of people. In my fantasy he often resembles a tree to me.

Can a tree be like a man. Why not? A tree with a broad trunk and cracked bark that strongly guards the tree’s heart, with deep roots in the ground and a large crown of branches and green leaves that allow the warm sun to penetrate right down to the point at which it becomes one withthe ground.

I wanted to be a tree nymph, its dryad,as if in amyth. To be free in body, beautiful like all nymphs, dependent on the elixir produced by the symbiosis of a life in love with a tree. To live there and to breathe in its oxygen, but also to be able to go away, alone, but only so far that the tree would not suffer without my presence.

Then to be reunited again, intertwined as in the legends: the nymph and her tree. See, these areare experiences of a single moment, when a woman detaches herself from reality simply to exalt in nature, or who knows what idea in ​​her unconscious. “Where are we going?” – I asked, when my mind returned inside the car. He looked away from the road for a moment and his eyes lit up brightly.

The feeling of being desired cannothappen without the excitement that startsinside andis expressed on the face and flows from the eyes, out of the lips. With his left hand he held the steering wheel, while with his right hand he ruffled my hair.I approached him a little, taking care not to distract him, and took his right hand in mine.

I felt the skin there communicating the pleasure of being touched to other sensory parts.I might have been braver, if I had not been constantly worried about distracting him from steering. Anyway, as if to stop me from making an error of judgement, he found a layby and he parked the car.

He held my face between his palms, brought me closer, and a soft lips engulfed mine.He held my hand and squeezed it tightly, clasping my fingers. He asked, calling me by my name, “What is your greatest wish right now?” Beside him, weightless, my greatest desire was to look into his eyes, afire with flickering desire, to kiss his liquid lips, to seize the power of his masculinity.

In fact, I had an even greater desire, which transcended being a woman. A desire that came from happiness, but also the fear that one day this overriding passion would end and these airy experiences would become earthlyonce more. Then they would be covered by the soil of oblivion. With pain. The way in which we cover every being who has been a precious part of our lives. I wanted to everything I felt to remain airy.

He understood my inability to speakperhaps as reluctance. Reality was nourishing within me an almost impossible love. “So?”he prompted me again. What should I say? The greatest desires are also the greatest impossibilities! “To know where we are going,” I answered, in a trembling voice, not knowing how to respond to his question. “Towards the impossible, perhaps,” he replied, quite briefly and without hesitation.Now that only we shared the air between us, he was silent,not talking.

But in such conditions, with him so close to me, his silence felt like beautiful words. I was quiettoo and I did not speak for almost the whole journey. At heart, I was basically a curious person and I was never scared when I felt something unknown was waiting for me.

And in this case, through the unknown, perhaps I would be able to get to know him better myself. After we got out of the car, I said, “Love me so much that you cannot live without me!This is my greatest wish.”

But I immediately regretted that sentence, which revealedthat I was basically a naive teenager. He said, “Hmmm. But you will live without me,” and then he coveredmy mouth with his lips, so that I could not respond. Then putting his right arm around me, he usheredme toward a small park nearby, where some elderly pensioners were playing dominoes, and then he moved away from me again.

What did he mean? That I would live without him. So he thinks I do not love him enough, that I’ll be able to replace him? Is that what he meant when he said those words to me? Why would I live without him, when we love each other? I was torturing myself with these internal questions, as he was asking the pensioners about a statue destroyed by the Communists in 1947.

“A monument demolished by the Communists? But didn’t the Communists build the statues and monuments themselves after the war?”

What if he thought that because he is not very sexual, I might have needs beyond that which he can provide and… Ah, of course not, no man would ever think that, even if he does not love you very much.

“Where could the statue have been located?”

He asked the pensioners, and then the pensioners askedeach other. And me, I just wonderedwhy the hell I couldn’t stop asking myselfsuch idiotic questions, and instead,concentrate properlyon why we weretalking to all these pensioners here in the middle of the park? A bust? A monument? Statue? Tomb? Here. This is what we are talking about I think.

“The statue was in front of the Officers’Mess.”

“No,” says another. “That one was damaged later. After we split with the Chinese. It wasn’t thestatue of our priest. The bust of the Albanian priest, cast in bronze, which was destroyed by Albanians in 1947.”

The pensioners around us could not have been old enough in 1947 to remember much. And their answers were all quitecontradictory. So they called an older man, from another group, who was playing a game of chess nearby. One of those types who knows and rememberseverything. He talked and talked incessantly. I had a hard time concentrating, even though I was now all eyes and ears.

“Yes Yes. I know. How can you not know. The priest’s monument was near the old church.”

Someone suggested, “So, the Communists destroyed it when they destroyed all the churches?”

Someone nearby said, “No, I don’t think so, my friend. The churches were demolished in 1967. But our priest’s memorial was destroyed in 1947. How is it possible that it happened so early, before the church was destroyed?”

“It was destroyed by our Communists, at the instruction of the Serbian Communists. The Serbian Communists did not tell our guys to destroy the church; they never even destroyed their own churches. But in 1947, our guys were like brothers to the Serbian Communists. And the Serbian Communists, in order to kill for their God, wanted our God to speak their language too. They killed the priest in 1928 because he spoke Albanian, and nottheSlav or Greeklanguage. They event sent saboteurs at night to damage church texts in Albanian and gave our saints Slavic names. But the priest kept writing in Albanian every day. Until the day they killed him. They say they wanted to cut off his head as well. People loved him very much and they paid their respects to him both in church and in the mosque.”

Here the old man paused and looked at us all, as if to check whether we were listening to his story or not. When he saw that I, too, was attentatively following everything he was saying, he continued:

“They were looking for him even when dead. Do you know what the people did? They buried him in a Moslem grave, so they could not find his body because the saboteurs kept coming at night to try to find his head and cut it off his dead body.”

“Really? A priest buried in a Muslim grave?” I asked doubtfully, and in surprise.

“Yes, yes,”he said. “The people here loved him very much when he was living. So they raised amonument to him when he was dead.”Then the old man took us to the place where the priest’s monument had been, a place the pensioners called “the monument”, which the communists had destroyed in 1947.

“Ah,”he said painfully, “What would it cost these leaders, who promise heaven on earth for a few votes, to raise that monument once more.”

The priest was not only a martyr of the church, but he was a martyr of the Albanian language and the homeland. He taught Albanian to children everywhere, to all of them, without distinction. They say he was a student of Negovani himself. Negovani was burned alive by the Greeks, and our priest was killed by the Slavs, right inside his small church in Najazma, next to the lake.

“That’s why we musn’t forget things, my friend,”he continued, “and we should put up that monument again, just as it was erected by the people of these parts, Christians and Muslims together. We must do things together for Albanian society.”

“Alright, the communists, they forgot and they destroyed things, but the new lot, who come and go from power are not doing any good at all.”Here his voice faltered as he realized that now the conversation could become more risky if hecarried on, so he preferred to take a break from the story-telling, asking:

“But, you, why are you so interested, son?”Hmm, I thought to myself. Why was he so interested?

Instead of enjoying our shared moments alone, here we were, sitting and listening to stories of priests and communists. He said, “The priest of Najazma was my grandfather. I’m afraid my father did not remember him at all. And he died worrying that he had never found his grave. If you’d asked at that time about a priest’s monument, they’d have put you in a living grave. Or they’d have left you as they did my father. To live neither above nor in the grave. Neither dead nor alive.”

After he said this, I looked him in the eye. He was crying. He instinctively took my hand. The strong man suddenly became a sensitive child, who needed to hold onto something. In addition to the tragic loss of his grandfather, he also had the grief of his father’s unlived life. He trembled. My hand inside his palm also trembled.

What did he say? He was his grandfather? Those who did not like and killed both my grandfather and father, now don’t like me either, and they will kill me too. Really! Is that what he said? No. No. He did not say that. I don’t know how I feel. Why don’t I ask him how he feels?

But before I ask, he speaks first, aftersaying goodbye to all the pensioners there in the park, where the monument to his grandfather, the Priest of Najazma, had once stood, and which had been destroyed by the communists, according to the pensioners. And,as he said himself, the father of a man with a lot of political power and criminal connections today, he said to me in a voice full of anxiety and fear:

“You don’t have to come with me.”

“I’m afraid that I don’t fully understand.”

“I know. There are things no one understands, even if I tell them.”

“Well, you should try, maybe you’ll feel better.”

“But don’timagine that you will feel better if I speak.”

“That doesn’t matter, you mustexplain.”

“I am under surveillance. My life may even beat risk.”

“Under surveillance?” I asked, as if I did not understand. But actually I understood well. And now I understood all those times when he was constantly anxious. Even the incompleteness of his approach to me. I instantly felt great fear. For him? Maybe, but instead of saying anything that might help him, or encourage him to continue his story, I asked entirely selfishly:

“Is my life in danger if I come with you?”

“I don’t know. It could be.”

“It could be?”

The earth shifted under my feet. My legs trembled and I was no longer in command of myself. I could neither go with him orturn away.

“The journey towards identity is very difficult,” he told me at the beginning. But why was I so afraid? He continued, “The journey alone is not sufficient. And notwhen you are afraid,” he added, recognising my hesitation.

“Let’s get out of here. We can get protection and live safely somewhere else, far away from this danger,” I said.

“No. I will not run. That’s what they want, for us to leave. To abandon the country. To let them do what they want with our past, our sacred places, our names, our present and our future. They stole our identity once with denial, then with bullets and destruction, and now they want to drive us out.

I begged himdesperatelyto flee. I had a bad premonition.

I said, “If we go, we could write and tell stories about ourhistory without fear and in freedom. So that nothing is forgotten.”

“You write about it,”he said to me. “Everything. Write down the names we call out in ecstasy to God when we pray in Albanian. That way, at least they will not destroy our love. Or our prayers …

I felt that he was still hiding something from me, but I did not speak anymore and I went with him quietly.



Translated by Alexandra Channer


Biljana Crvenkovska

Biljana Crvenkovska

Biljana Crvenkovska, born May 23, 1973 in Skopje, RN Macedonia. Writer, screenwriter, editor and translator. BPhil and MPhil in philosophy with sub-subjects in semiotics and philosophy of language. As writer, Crvenkovska started by writing mainly books for children and youth (as well as poetry, essays and theoretical works), but in the last couple of years her writing is oriented towards fiction (novels and short fiction). She also writes screenplays for Macedonian TV and animated shows, for children and adults. Her novels and picture books for children are translated or are currently being translated in several languages: Serbian, English, French, Albanian, German, Slovenian, Russian, Polish, Czech, Ukrainian…

Bibliography. Novels: Девет приказни за госпоѓица Сит (Nine stories about Miss Sith, 2019), Куќа над брановите (House above the waves, 2020); Children’s novels: Што сонуваше Дедо Мраз (Santa in Dreamland, 2014), Супервештерката, мачката и шесте волшебни колачиња (The Superwitch, the cat and six magical cookies, 2017), Sвезда Мрак и суштествата од Страшковград (Stella Dark and the creatures from Scarytown, 2019); Picture books: Светот на Биби (Bibi’s world) – series of picture books; Книгата што никогаш не беше иста (The book that was never the same, 2017), Кучето што мјаукаше и мачето што џавкаше (The Dog that meowed and the Cat that barked, 2020), and many others; Graphic novels: Девојчето кое танцуваше со пролетта (The Girl that Danced with the Spring, 2018), Black Pig Secret Club – a series of six children’s graphic novels. Theoretical works: Митски лавиринт: патување низ митските слики (Mythical Labyrinth: a travel throught mythical pictures, 2004).

Awards: A Claw in the Dark – Black Pig Secret Club series, awarded Best book for children and youth between two book fairs in 2018 (first prize), and the prize Strusko izgrejsonce for best book for children and youth; Nine stories about Miss Sith – shortlisted for the prize Novel of the year 2019, awarded by the Foundation Slavko Janevski; Stella Dark and The Creatures from Scarytown, awarded two prizes between two book fairs, and shortlisted for third prize awarded by The Association of Macedonian Writers.



“Devet prikazni za gospogjica Sit”

(Nine stories about Miss Sith, Čudna šuma, 2019)

– excerpts –





She took a sip of coffee, then gazed again at the laptop screen.  The black cat with a white spot on her chest, dozing in her lap, moved her whiskers, then poked her muzzle deeper still between her paws. Without taking her eyes off the screen, she put her hand down and touched the beautiful, soft fur. Though she knew she was supposed to keep working, she couldn’t stop caressing the cat. Shutting the laptop, she stared outside the wide glass windows… and heaved a deep sigh.




The sigh was long, layered, quivering. Inside it were many different thoughts, each lending the sigh a distinct tone… as if a series of quick sighs joined in a single symphony.


This symphony, above all, talked about the minutes and seconds, the day that was moving fast, pressing, not letting you forget its inevitable transience for one moment. It spoke of the feeling you have when you have many things to do, but at the same time, lack the desire to do any of it, and just sink instead into your thoughts, into the unbearable beauty of idleness… and of the unrest created by these delayed obligations, plans and ambitions, while you sit and dream with your eyes wide open.


Then, it contained the entire melancholy brought by the cloudy, rainy days such as this one. The low, heavy clouds that pour scarce, tortured raindrops down on the sizzling city. Mountain clouds – now that is a whole other feeling, a different sight altogether. In the mountains, these same clouds are large, powerful, threatening, coming fast with the wind, carrying a heavy storm, only to shatter underneath the spring sun. In the city, however, they are weighed down by the vapors, the many misfortunes, becoming sluggish, motionless. They struggle, just like those people in the busy metropolis below. The sigh told this story, too.


And here, deeply intertwined in the symphony of sighs, was love. Not some specific sort of love, as it happens in most cases, but love for things past. Things that disappeared, fell apart, or changed so much that they became distorted and unrecognizable. Love remained, without any real object to be directed to. Desolate, sad and hungry, like some neighborhood bitch that just whelped and her puppies were taken away.


Finally, there was the stomach ache, getting stronger and more unbearable by the minute. Reaching it, the symphony was at its loudest, being the only real, physical pain. Or was it? Where did it come from? What was the reason it appeared so suddenly, searing, hurting, gnawing and biting ceaselessly?


The cell rang. Loudly, piercingly, disturbingly. The stomach ache became even stronger, tearing and ravaging. It was horrible. She reached and grabbed her phone, put it in silent mode and sighed deeply once again. This time even longer and heavier than before.



The cat in her lap raised her head and looked at her with those yellow eyes as though she wanted to tell her something. Something really urgent and important. She purred. The kind of soft, soothing purr that calms you down, clears your mind and radiates a strangely infectious energy. Yes, the cat seemed to be passing this energy onto her, giving her strength, eventually clearing all her thoughts. At that moment, everything was crystal-clear. Clearer than ever before. She knew exactly what she had to do, right away, and not let anything discourage her… She opened her laptop feverishly and started typing urgently, almost frantically:


Dear Editor,


I’m writing to inform you that today I will not be coming to work. Nor tomorrow. Nor the day after tomorrow. In fact, don’t count on me anymore. I decided to get my life back, the one I lost long, long ago…


The cat purred more lively, more cheerfully, in sync with the typing on the keyboard. Meanwhile, the stomach ache was slowly wearing off…






Day twenty three. Tyrol. Village of Jochberg, on the slopes of the Tyrolean Alps. She arrived yesterday afternoon, from Salzburg. One place, two days. So far, she had visited a dozen places, and many more awaited her. Fatigue had already set in, but she could not afford to stop. She had to finish this pilgrimage of hers. Get through that purgatory and survive, or go to the next world and be by his side.

Now and then, she wanted to pause and take a breath. Stay longer and find herself again, especially in those places that meant more to her than others. Places that evoked deeper memories.

She couldn’t, though. She had to keep going. One place – two days, 48 hours. That was the plan, and she was sticking to it!

Steadily, she descended the mountain. Very slowly, being knee-deep in snow, even deeper in certain spots. As she was going down, the snow decreased, though the total absence of marcations along the way worried her.

The path she was on, very well-trodden, disappeared mysteriously. Actually, it didn’t disappear: she swerved from it. It was her fault, her mind wandered and she missed a marcation. In the mountain, in the winter, it meant everything. More often than not, it was a life-or-death situation.

She swerved because she thought about Jovan. Last time they were here, together, they went skiing. Half a century had passed since then, perhaps a bit less. Now, she couldn’t ski anymore. She was afraid. Every fall was a potential fracture, and a fracture at her age… did not end well. Nevertheless, her legs were still fit for climbing.

She never stopped climbing, not even in the days of mostly staying at home, with Jovan. He had a nurse who took care of him at certain periods of the day, so she could go out run the errands: shopping, bills, drugstore… and on Sundays, go to the mountains. Climbing was her biggest passion, and the smallest, too. Nothing else gave her pleasure anymore, nor peace. Only the mountains, woods, and now, this pilgrimage.

Though, you couldn’t say this pilgrimage eased her mind, quite the opposite. She thought that, if she visits all these places of “theirs”, the pain would subside. Wear off. Disappear. Unfortunately, she was more often upset rather than calm. Memories flooded back, bringing tears with them. Didn’t she know it was going to be like this? Perhaps she did. Perhaps she wanted to torment herself. He left, she stayed. And once, a hundred lives ago, they promised to each other they would leave together. And they wouldn’t leave bed-ridden, aged and powerless. The drivel of youth…

And so, lost in her thoughts, she swerved from the path, finding herself amidst high, untrodden snow.  She looked for the marcations, but couldn’t see any. She tried tracing her footsteps back to the path somehow, but only went mysteriously around in a circle.

She wasn’t alarmed at first, trusting herself and her climber’s instinct. But, as time went on, she began to feel that sense of dread. Only then did she turn on her phone’s map. Not particularly tech-savvy, like every other mountain-climber, she used GPS.

She turned the navigation on and waited for the location to be found. Something was wrong: the GPS didn’t work. It had happened before, though not for long. She would have to go in a different direction and try again.

She kept going down the mountain, choosing a path between the trees with the least amount of snow. Occasionally she would try and locate herself on the map, but to no avail. Still, she was determined to continue. All the while, her mind strayed back to Jovan. They had had a nice life together. Many trips, many mountains, many forests. And towns, and villages, seas and oceans. They were alone, childless. They decided not to adopt, who knows why. She slightly regretted this decision now, but on the other hand, the trips fulfilled them. They had cats and dogs. Sat in the garden. It was nice. But, the worst came and it exhausted both of them. They struggled for years, he, the poor wretch, and she along with him. Damned illness. Damned old age.

She wiped the tears off her eyes with her glove. Seeing more clearly now, she noticed the magnificent view ahead. Coming out of the pines, she had emerged on a misty clearing, through which a gurgling stream ran, and snow-capped rocks towered on the far end with a waterfall in between. It murmured quietly, like the softest music, happy and sad at the same time. This place was unfamiliar to her, but she couldn’t get her eyes off the scenery. There was something magical about it, some otherworldly energy.

She felt the urge, after a very long time, to take a picture. The memory was worth preserving, this rare beauty needed to be captured.

She grabbed her phone, took a few shots, and was halfway through putting it back inside the pocket when it slipped out of her hand. She made a move to reach and grab it, but stepped badly and felt a sharp pain in her ankle.

An hour later, she was sitting on the rock, scrunched up and truly frightened. Her lug hurt, the screen was shattered to pieces, making the phone useless. She had no idea where she was, what to do, and the worst part was, she couldn’t stay here. She had to move! The evening was near. Come nightfall, she wouldn’t survive, not with the equipment she had. The temperature went well below zero in these mountain areas, and she wasn’t ready for a night in the woods.

She tried to get up and walk. It hurt. She sank to the rock again and looked around. It didn’t seem that magical anymore, but rather cold and alien. As she was sitting, the cold got more and more biting, surrounding the clearing threateningly, swallowing piece by piece with each passing moment. Everything around her seemed bafflingly unreal, like an ominous dream foreshadowing something horrible.

Even weirder than that, her fear seemed to subside. Maybe this was meant to be, she told herself. Go like this. Like a lone wolf. I don’t want to live without him anyway. Don’t want to live… without him… don’t want to… without him… live…

She almost closed her eyes. Almost accepted her fate. Almost. But the, she heard rustling in the treetops above, and breeze sneaked over the clearing, chasing the fog like a hound that wandered into a herd of sheep.

She blinked, looked around, took a deep breath, regaining her strength and… got up! It hurt, but not enough to prevent her from walking. Easy, one step at a time, she could return… if only she knew which way to go!

While trying to figure out the correct path, a rustling sound came from the bushes. It scared her! There were wolves in these woods; bears, too. She turned around apprehensively, and saw – a cat! A beautiful, black cat with a white spot on her chest. In her warm, yellow eyes flickered the flame of some nearby, welcoming fireplace.

“Where did you come from?” she breathed in wonder, knowing that the cat could understand a word or two. Her cats at home were exceptionally intelligent.

The cat meowed a puzzling reply.

“Where do you live, kitty?” she asked. “Where is your home? Home? Zu Haus?”

The cat turned her back slowly, raised her tail and moved along what seemed like an untrodden path, left and down from the waterfall. She hesitated, but the cat turned her head and looked at her expectantly.

I’ll follow her, she thought. She seems to know what she’s doing.

And so they trudged through the snow.

Step by step. The cat and the old mountain-climber.

When she would feel pain in her leg and stopped to rest, the cat stopped too, waiting patiently. And then another step… and another…

Steadily, downwards, to the first houses of Jochberg, right when darkness fell around them, and the moon showed its fresh, joyful face.

On entering the village, the cat leaped without a warning and disappeared into the junipers. She didn’t even get the chance to thank her, but she felt the cat knew very well how much she owed her. Not only her life, but something much, much greater…

Drenched from the snow, she arrived at the boarding-house she was staying at, and the stout, heavyset mistress welcomed her in tears, embracing her tightly, telling her she was scared out of her wits. She said she was ready to call the mountain service. Then she grabbed her, took off her shoes, helped her take off the drenched jacket and dragged her over to the fireplace, then gave her tea and a blanket, telling her all the while that she should change immediately, otherwise she could catch a cold.

She was moved by how concerned this woman was. It made her think. After finally changing her clothes, sitting by the fire with a cup of tea in her hand, the swollen leg rubbed with ointments, carefully bandaged and raised on a stool, she started thinking about what just happened.

About the miracle, the true, true miracle.

Some things in life cannot be explained, my Jovan, she thought. Sometimes we need an experience like this in order to realize just how unpredictable things are, and how little influence we have.

She sank into the comfortable armchair. She would have dinner, then go to bed. The next day she would sleep in, no rush. Nowhere. She would never rush again. She decided to stay a bit longer, here in Jochberg. Perhaps a couple days more, perhaps even longer.

Life doesn’t want plans, love, she heard Jovan’s voice somewhere within her, from the swirl of memories. Surrender to it: only then will you know what it means to live fully.






She was sitting in the bus, looking out the window. In fact, she was looking more at her own reflection in the window than outside it. They passed by the same old buildings, streets and sidewalks as always when she came home, although, she had to admit, they were quite spellbinding in the evenings.

Still, she preferred to look at herself, study her features, how they matched her hair, makeup, jewelry, even her clothes. She still found this game amusing.

They were at a bus stop. People were getting on and off, and the bus emptied a little. People rarely looked at her. Fortunately, here, in this city, almost no one looked at anyone else. Of course, they didn’t even notice her, just like they didn’t notice anyone or anything. They were too absorbed in their own isolated, selfish worlds. It suited her. She liked that cold selfishness and practiced it.

Back home, it was quite a different matter. Back there, had she gone out spruced up like this, everyone would notice, gaze at her, check her out, comment on her provocative outfit and heavy makeup. Almost everyone she’d meet would badmouth her, some of them could be rude, others downright aggressive. That is why she refused to dress like this in her hometown, trying not to attract too much attention. But, that was at home. The place where she had no intention of ever coming back. The bus moved on. Its swaying made her sleepy. She knew she wouldn’t doze off, but inadvertently let her thoughts go someplace they were not allowed: her deeply suppressed childhood memories, where there also was a bus.




They were going on a school trip. The other children were screaming, laughing, shouting to each other, teasing one another… the others, but not him. He always sat crumpled in some corner, inconspicuous.

Inside the bus, he sat near the driver and the teachers, glued to the window, hoping nobody would notice his existence, or start to mock him, insult him, push or kick him around. They called him a wimp, a sissy, a coward… jeered at him for not being good at soccer and hanging out with girls.

Wussy, they shouted at him, girl! Ha, ha, ha, girl, girl!

He couldn’t understand why they were laughing at him. What was so bad about being a girl? He couldn’t even grasp why he couldn’t be a girl. In fact, his grandma, perhaps the only person that got him, told him when he was very little:

“Look at my handsome boy, pretty as a doll! Ah, you should’ve been born a girl. You really should’ve, my sweet little angel.”

When she caressed him like this, he hugged and kissed her. Also, she was the only one who would let him play with dolls in secret. But, his grandma passed away last year, so now there was nobody who could actually understand him.

He was confused, alone, unable to answer any of the questions that whirled in his mind.

No one to answer them for him, either.




The bus halted at the next stop. She looked out the window. There were three more stops on the way home. A long time. Scary long. She feared the memories that brought back the bitterness, weakness and pain she thought she had done away with. Even so, they haunted her less and less, and she felt free and secure more and more each day.

Again she gazed at her reflection in the window, only this time, another face gazed back. A face she thought she had almost forgotten.




He was standing in front of the mirror. He had been playing this game since he was little: donning his mother’s clothes, applying makeup, putting on all kinds of jewelry, and then looking at himself into the mirror for a long, long time, studying every bit of his face and body.

He felt tremendously excited while doing it. Nothing else in his life thrilled him as much.

Still, he was very cautious. He did it only when he was alone, knowing he was safe. These solitary, furtive moments were perhaps the only time when he felt secure, but there was something more to it.

He felt happy then.  He was his own. He knew who and what he was, what he had always been. While obsessing over his own reflection, he didn’t notice the bedroom door open. He realized what was happening only when his mother and father stood next to him, shocked, dismayed, furious.

“What’s wrong with you? Why are you dressed as a woman? What is that on your face? What are you, a faggot? I don’t want to see you like this ever again, got that? Ever! Go to the bathroom, quick, straighten up and get normal.

Normal. This was normal to him. Those other things, they didn’t feel normal. How could he ever explain to them?

From this day on, he wasn’t sure who he feared more, his peers at school or his parents. The former abused him, and the latter ignored him.

He felt perturbed, hurt, disappointed, lost… Shallow as a cocoon that lets out a gorgeous butterfly, and the butterfly leaves it to dry out and disappear. Why couldn’t he be the butterfly?





She realized she was no longer looking at her reflection, but the buildings and people passing by. She didn’t want to remember these things. They were bad memories. From the time before she realized she was a butterfly. The time when she was still forced to think of herself as a boy, even though she felt differently. Deep inside, she always knew she was a girl, a beautiful, tender butterfly.

It was good to have left these memories far behind, back home. And now, this was home. Here, she finally found herself.

When she first came to the city, she still wore male clothes. Then she started leading a double life. During the day, she was a quiet, unassuming boy; in the evening, she turned into a gorgeous nocturnal butterfly, queen of the night, a beauty. Then, she lived exactly how she wanted, allowing herself all these happy moments.

At first, she dreaded a possible incident, like the one at home… the one she refused to remember, the most hideous memory of all, disgusting, humiliating, painful…




the heels clattering on the cobblestones… the insecurity… the gloom… the looks from other people… threathening… she speeds up, almost running… the heels clatter on the cobblestones… breathes heavily…




Don’t think about it, don’t think about it, don’t think about it!




they are following him… running after him… they are faster, gaining on him… grab him… hands, grabbing him…




No, I don’t want to remember, I don’t want to, I don’t want to…




fists… punches… blood… lots of blood… feet… kicked with feet… in his stomach… everywhere… blood… lots of blood… in his mouth… eyes… all over…




The bus halted abruptly, screeching and shaking. The passengers started yelling. This brought her back to reality.

“What happened?” shouted an agitated old woman in the back.

“Nothing serious, it’s all good”, said someone in the front seats.

“Did someone run in front of the bus?” the old woman kept asking. “A child, maybe?”

“No, it was a cat. A black cat. She got away, she’ll be fine.”

Oh God, I hope it ‘s not… no , no way. Enough with these thoughts already. I have to clear my head, right now!

She decided to get off right then and there. She wanted to breathe the air, walk around, not let herself go back ever again. Never go back to her memories, never go back home.

She got to her feet and hurried out the door, a split second before it closed. She kept walking down the street, headed for the apartment. She was truly happy that no one took notice of her, a fact that proved itself day after day, even now, while strolling along the sidewalk. She felt better, and even smiled.

Things were slowly coming into place, once she got outside in the fresh air.

Entering her apartment, she became a different woman altogether. Cheerful and satisfied with her life. She loved this city, loved these people, but most of all, loved Her. She owed everything to Her. From the moment they met, through all stages of transformation, until, with all the daily support and encouragement , she became what she was now. Yes, she owed her everything she was, everything she became after coming here, everything she did and everything she had.

She felt the urge to tell her this, now, tonight. Not that she didn’t already know it, not that she hadn’t told her a million times before, it’s just – she wanted to tell her again.

She wasn’t in the living room, so she went quietly to the bedroom. She peeped through the door and spotted her sleeping, curled up on the bed.

“I knew you’d be here, sleepyhead”, she whispered, then lied gently next to her and started patting her. The black cat raised her head drowsily and looked at her with those bright yellow, otherworldly eyes.

“Oooh, you got up, miss Sith”, she kept cooing while scratching her head. “I wanted to tell you something, but seeing you look at me like this, I know it won’t be necessary, am I right?”

The black cat wagged her tail. Once, twice.

“I knew it”, she said, beaming, then took the cat in her arms and hugged her tightly. “What would I do without you!”

Outside, in the sky above, the Moon fully entered the shadow of the Earth.

The total eclipse lasted exactly 99 minutes.

translated by Vladimir Stojanovski

Barbara Delać

Barbara Delać

Barbara Delać was born in 1994 in Kotor. She graduated with a degree in Modern and Contemporary Art Theory. An award she won at the 32nd Festival of Young Poets in Zaječar enabled the printing of her first book of poetry, Tomorrowland, for which she received The Branko Award in Novi Sad in 2018. Her second collection of poetry Where are we, tell me was published in the 2020 edition of OKF. At the Berlin-Stipendium residency, awarded by the Academy of Arts in Berlin, the poem of the same name Where are we, tell me had its premiere in Berlin, a performative staging, in collaboration with a singer-songwriter, Sara Renar. She also won The Reading Balkans scholarship for 2021.

She has been a member of the literary group Young Writers Forum, which has been gathering at the Podgorica Cultural Center Budo Tomović since 2015. She has published poetry and short stories in numerous anthologies, literary magazines, and portals. She was shortlisted for a German translation in the Time (without) Utopia competition. Young Writers Network, a project supported by the DAAD. Her poetry has been translated into English, German, and translations into Slovenian, French, and Greek have also been announced.

Reading Balkans 2021: Open Call Results

The Reading Balkans residency selection commitee has carefully reviewed 101 valid applications and selected 19 applicants.

The selected authors will be hosted by Publishing House Goga (Novo mesto, Slovenia), Krokodil (Beograd, Serbia), Goten Publishing (Skopje, North Macedonia), Udruga Kurs (Split, Croatia), Poeteka (Tirana, Albania), Qendra Multimedia  (Prishtina, Kosovo), PEN BIH (Sarajevo, Bosnia and Hercegovina).

The members of the selection committee would like to express their sincere gratitude to all applicants for their interest and show their appreciation of the time and effort the applicants invested in preparing their applications.

The results of the open call are listed in the table below.


Name Country Residence
Marija Dejanović HR Beograd
Barbara Delać ME Priština
Filip Grujić RS Sarajevo
Neđad Ibrahimović BA Tirana
Samira Kentrić SI Priština
Mojca Kumerdej SI Beograd
Biljana Crvenkovska MK Novo mesto
Vesna Lemaić SI Skopje
Nikola Madžirov MK Sarajevo
Manjola Nasi AL Novo mesto
Tomislav Osmanli MK Split
Ekaterina Petrova BG Beograd
Radmila Petrović RS Skopje
Sven Popović HR Skopje
Sonja Porle SI Tirana
Katarina Sarić ME Priština
Adelina Tërshani XK Sarajevo
Alex Văsieș RO Beograd
Milica Vučković RS Split