Who the F$#k Is Cristian Mihai?

The author of this article, age 8

When I was a kid, I thought I was destined for great things. I was born on Christmas Day, exactly one year after they shot Ceausescu, the only ruler of a Communist country to ever be executed. Now, in the same spot, they’re building a shopping mall.

Maybe because I was born when I was born, I don’t really listen to what other people tell me I should do. I never did.

I don’t like authority. I don’t like to follow rules.

I am not afraid of the consequences of not doing what I am told. I am not where I’d like to be in life because I don’t like most people. I have long suspected they don’t like me back.

I am a rebel without a cause, garnering a bit of applause here and there from those who read my stories.

Continue reading “Who the F$#k Is Cristian Mihai?”

[short story] crossroads

“El sueño de la razón produce monstruos.”

Francisco Goya

His chest felt heavy, his legs tired. Dead leaves rustled under his feet. Nailed to the sky, the moon’s sardonic smile quivered among a cluster of cold stars. His body just a coffin for his soul, Robert seemed to take every footstep with infinite precaution, as if fearing that the dirt road would swallow his feet.

On each side, pine trees stood tall. Ancient guardians.

Continue reading “[short story] crossroads”

[short story] basorexia

All he was aware of was her. He was aware of her face, of the dress she wore, the distance between them. In this gap, in all the words that he had yet to say to her, was the promise of a great life. His heart was beating slowly but hard. He had never felt so sure of himself, so bewildered by the ease of what he was about to do.

A friend once asked him, “How does she make you feel?”

“She reminds me of winter,” he said.

“You hate winter. You hate the cold,” this friend replied.

Continue reading “[short story] basorexia”

[the process] the obstacle is the (only) way

there is no other way but to use the obstacle

Here I am, four months until I get to celebrate a full decade since I self-published my first novel.

I love writing stories.

It’s what I have always loved to do. And I love it more than anything else I’ve had the pleasure of doing over the years.

Don’t get me wrong. There’s nothing glamorous about having a passion.

I often say passion means to suffer. It does. It truly does. The universe doesn’t suddenly make sense because you know what is the one thing you love doing more than anything else in the world.

In fact, most times it feels like an obstacle.

I love to write, yet I’ve also come up with a rather impressive reasons why I shouldn’t:

  • I am primarily a personal development blogger
  • It takes a lot of time to write something, then try to sell it
  • The niche is overcrowded
  • There aren’t that many people interested in reading fiction

And on and on.

The funny thing is, you only need one reason why something won’t work.

If you start writing down an entire list of reasons, most probably it means that you, somehow, wish it would actually work.

Somehow, deep down, you know that the obstacle is really the way to go.

There’s nothing else to do.

It is the things we smear with realism that usually make us dream in ways that stop us from falling asleep.

That’s the way of the world.

I am a writer. I write stories. It is what I love to do, and I can’t find much joy doing anything else if I can’t write.

And that’s what I am going to do.

I am going to write.

And I’d love it if you could join me on this journey.

I’d love to share my stories with you.

[short story] hiraeth

There’s this mostly unknown writer who is found in a cafe with a former lover of his. From the way he talks, he seems to be made of words and sadness and little else. A suffering face, clothes a bit out of style. Legs crossed. He listens to her talk about what was what while she was no longer his.

Continue reading “[short story] hiraeth”