Fakespeare by Bogdan Dragos

Image Source: Canva

he sat on his knees

before the

bed

by the window

and tapped swiftly

on the screen

of the cheap tablet he’d

bought second hand

It had only a few apps

and the one

he used was

the notes app

It’s hell having to tap

on a screen

to write

but the alternative was

scratching words with

a pen on

paper

and those couldn’t be sent

anywhere these days

He had to get with

the times

At night he kept dreaming

of a device that

would turn one’s thoughts

into written words.

The future will

bring that for sure, but

for now he couldn’t even

afford

a small laptop

It’s hell having the

words in

you, ready to blaze out,

and not being able to

offer them the means

Oh, he

was frustrated, alright

And behind him a

woman’s voice

kept asking ‘when’

“When what?”

he snapped back at it

“Oh, you went deaf

now?” she said.

“I’m tryin’ to focus

on something.”

“Listen to yourself! Focus,

wow. Focus on

what? Playing games

on your tablet

like a child?”

“Goddammit! I told you already,

I’m not

playing games! These things

aren’t only for playing

games! I use

it to write. I’m

writing.

And I need to focus.”

“Writing? Oh, listen to

yourself. Writing, wow.

What the hell

are you writing, Fakespeare?

Nursery rhymes?

How about you get off

that slab for

ten goddamn minutes and

go buy your mother

a six-pack from

the store?

Gosh, I swear, the drinking age

is wasted on you. When

was the last time

you got out with

friends and

enjoyed a party or somethin’?

All you do is

lock yourself in

your dark room with books. Yet

despite all those books

you still don’t know

how to do taxes in this

household.”

“Nobody does, mom. Besides,

there aren’t any

taxes to do, we’re poor

in case you forgot.”

“Shit, we ain’t that

poor. An’ if you hate it

that much why don’t

you get up and

do something about it? Go

marry some girl

from a rich family and stop

being poor. Ah, but wait,

your books didn’t teach

you how to

get bitches, did they? You’re

clueless. I bet you

don’t even know

how to talk

to a girl. You

haven’t seen pussy since

the day you came out, an’ even

then you had your eyes closed.

You haven’t touched a boob

since the days you

sucked milk out of them.

Ah, your father

would be so

ashamed–”

Just then,

in the length of a

heartbeat,

he got up and grabbed

the tablet and

smashed it against

her head

The screen cracked in

spider web patterns

and she dropped on a knee,

holding her head,

looking up at her son

with the horror of one

who fell in the

tiger’s enclosure at the

zoo

Two consecutive

blinks

blurred her vision

with tears

Her throat reached out

for words

but could find only

whimpers

Holding back the urge to

kick her head in,

he whirled on a heel

and stormed out of

the room

and out of the small apartment

building

in the cold streets

without his jacket

The very world around him

held an essence of

pure poverty

and anger at that poverty.

Everybody was

frustrated and ready to

explode, even

the dogs scouting the

dumpsters

For him it

wasn’t the first time

he swore never to

return home, but it was

the first time

he did what he always imagined

himself doing

It finally happened. And now

he didn’t know how

to feel about it

He walked around town

in search for

an answer

When he found himself tired

enough to

need to sit down

he found himself in

front of

the public library

Might as

well get in

-BOGDAN DRAGOS

Bogdan Dragos supervises casinos for a gambling company, working twelve-hour shifts locked in a dark office full of TV monitors. There he mostly daydreams and writes poems and stories. He also manages a poetry blog Daydreaming as a profession.

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