Tales of Ghosts. Playing Another Reality. Edgar Allan Poe award

After five years of rotation in literary circles, there was no free space left on my jacket! It glistened with gold, pleasantly rang with glory and, like a magnet, attracted almost every literary woman without exception. And once I wore this jacket to an office party. And – wow, yes! It was my ‘minute of glory’!

Only stupid Maya laughed at me! She considered my poems worthless in meaning and ugly in rhymes! She said that Tolstoy, Gogol and Chekhov, together with Pushkin and others like them, had long dreamed of meeting me in the Other World in order to send me to Hell for a frying pan, because all my awards were given not for the quality of works and not for me alone, but for money to everyone.

I tried to explain to my sister that we live in a commercial society, the writers’ unions had not been funded by the state for a long time, so they were forced to encourage authors at the expense of the very same authors. Victories in national competitions and government awards were given only to “their own”, and, for sure, they cost much more. However, Maya wasn’t lazy to calculated how much money I had spent on my literary activities in five years, and assured me that a cottage by the sea in Europe was much cheaper!

Oh, Europe… Okay, Maya was right: it was time to conquer Europe, and then Asia, and … the whole world! And – unbelievable! – I found out the Union of European Writers, and then the Union of Writers of Asia, the Union of Writers of Eurasia, and later the Union of Writers of North and South America, Canada, Mexico, Brazil, Peru, Easter Island and the Fiji Islands, Papua and New Guinea, Antarctica and Arctic…

I ended up reaching the North and South Poles in the next five years!

Yes! I became a world poet! The number of decorations as orders and medals didn’t fit even on ten jackets, nothing to say about diplomas! I posted each new award on my pages in social networks and got more and more likes from other poets and writers, who, following me, conquered the peaks that I had already conquered. I felt like a pioneer! The first one! The commander of contemporary poetry and – let’s face it! – the real God of the Literary Olympus.

At the same time, I was keeping track of my competitors’ diplomas and awards, and as soon as I found something new, I immediately sent the “Unrecognized Genius” to the next competition and… won it!

The whole world lay at my verses!

At that time, I had already published more than a hundred books and continued to write more and more! Every day – a few poems! Yes, inspiration had nothing to do with it! The Creator must create constantly, without stopping! Poetry is work! Daily. Persistent. Like the work of a miner or a teacher. Or a doctor. You don’t want to write? You have to, my friend! Sit down and write! That’s your mission on Earth. Choose a time, for example, every day from 10:00 p.m. to midnight, and knock yourself out! ‘Not a day without a line!’ that’s the motto of a true poet and writer!

Maya was the only one who didn’t recognize my greatness. She didn’t even laugh anymore, she just stopped communicating with me… Well, it’s a pity! Of course, envy is a bad feeling, but I forgave Maya in advance. She is my sister. Let her envy for health! Maya, however, bought herself a flat in Miami, but as for me, recognition is more important! I’m a genius, and she’s just Maya, and her name, by the way, in Sanskrit means “illusion”!

While I was thinking about where to go now, to conquer Mars or Venus, an event occurred in my life that I didn’t attach any importance to it. At the next party in the Central House of Writers, where I had been invited to read poetry by two charming ladies of the literary association ‘God’s dandelion’, a certain Ilya Bookfondoff appeared. He came to the microphone, introduced himself as the head of the Readers (!) Union just registered, and invited everyone to apply for membership. No dues were required to be paid, but the obligatory condition for a member of the Union was to read at least one book a year and write a review of no more than one page on it.

Wow! What the audacity! I went to the microphone and expressed my ‘boo’ to Mr. Bookfondoff. We, poets and writers, gathered there, were born to write and not to read! It was us, the honored and awarded, the greatest and decorated with orders and medals, the winners and laureates, that all the rest, not present in that hall, must study! After all, at literary unions’ meetings, performances in libraries and schools, at concerts of poets and writers in our times, there were only poets and writers like ourselves! Readers and ordinary listeners had been sitting at home for ages!

The audience supported my ‘boo’ with thunderous applause and shouts of “Bravo!”, but Mr. Bookfondoff tried to object that such an incredible number of Writers’ Unions had bred, since everyone who had a page in at least one of the social networks and knew how to write at least his full name, considered himself a writer. However, judging by the reports of publishers, people had stopped buying books, and, therefore, reading them. Like, that was why, in order to maintain interest in books, he, Mr. Bookfondoff, had decided to create the first and the only one in the world Union of Readers.

The discussion threatened to escalate into a sharp conflict. I offered Mr. Bookfondoff to read my books first and defiantly left the Central House of Writers. Everyone else followed me, except for Mr. Bookfondoff himself.

A year passed. At another evening at the “Lyrics of Cuckoo’s kids” Literary League, I learned that no one had joined the Readers’ Union, apart from Mr. Bookfondoff, meanwhile another Writers’ Union appeared in social networks!

And that time… an Intergalactic one!

Wow! I rejoiced! “Hang on, Maya! Now you just have to die of envy!”

I was told its website where I got acquainted with the conditions for admission to the Union and with the list of competitions for the coming decade. So every year was run by its own Intergalactic Commission, issuing awards named after one of the planets of the Solar System, nearby Constellations, satellites and not only.

During the night I prepared a selection of my poems, the first of which, of course, was the “Unrecognized Genius”, and safely sent it to the Intergalactic Commission for consideration. At the same time, I applied to join the Union.

Imagine my surprise when I received the reply revealing that my poems were not subject even for a prize nomination, and I had been refused admission to the Union!

“Oh, no! I won’t leave it like that!” I decided, and instead of continuing our correspondence, I went straight to their office.

The secretary politely listened to my demand for a face-to-face meeting with the most important person in the Intergalactic Union and escorted me to the meeting room.

A few minutes later, the door swung open, and…

“Mr. Bookfondoff! You?!” I was surprised.

“Hello!” Mr. Bookfondoff said calmly. “What brings you here?”

I handed him a printout of my works, beginning with my masterpiece, the “Unrecognized Genius”, and said that I had been refused not only the Sun Prize, but also the nomination itself, as well as the admission to the Intergalactic Union.

“By what right? To deal with me! That way!” I exclaimed in conclusion. “Have you ever read my poetry yourself?”

“Of course,” Mr. Bookfondoff replied suddenly. “I have read your book. Back when you invited me to get acquainted with your lyrics at the Central House of Writers.”

“AND?!” I was expecting admiration.

“You are a common graphomaniac.”

“Are you out of your mind?” I shouted, jumping up from the table. “How dare you insult me?! My ‘Unrecognized Genius’ got a billion awards from all the Writers’ Unions existing today!”

Mr. Bookfondoff took a printout of the “Unrecognized Genius” to read it aloud in full.

“…‘I am Eugeny, unrecognized genius, rejected by all. Be calm! My turn is about to come! And my Sun will rise to fit! And I, in love, will shine you with it!’ I’m sorry, but…”

“HOW MUCH?!” I yelled. “How much should I pay you?”

“You should have realized a long time ago that I am not a businessman. Having failed with the Readers’ Union, I created the Writers’ Union to please my soul, not for a fee. You have probably read the terms of membership on the site, no money is required here, because I am interested in separating the wheat from the chaff, creating a unique association of truly talented people who are lost in the crowd of ‘genius’ today. I want to help them leave their mark for the memory of those who will come after us.”

Mr. Bookfondoff put the printout on the table, sighed and left the meeting room. I don’t remember how I got home.

“What to do? What to do then?”

After all, on every corner, in all literary association, on all kinds of pages in the social networks, I had already announced my application to the Intergalactic Union of Writers and the poems submitted to the Sun Prize contest! Fans terrorized me, when was I going to show off the next – already intergalactic – order or medal? And for sure, all the pen colleagues, who had learned about the appearance of the Intergalactic, had immediately sent their own applications! What if they had been accepted?

“No, no, no!” My whole life was put on the line! And what would Maya say?! My intergalactic failure meant her ultimate victory! How many years had I spend climbing? How much effort? And money, after all! To let everything go down the drain a step away from Eternity, just because of the materialized Mr. Bookfondoff out of nowhere?

“Who is he to decide the fate of my ‘Unrecognized Genius’? ! Who, if not me, is worthy of

‘the memory of those who will come after us’?..”

I had to urgently take advantage of my official position. At that time, I headed the Writers’ Union of the Asphalt Pavement Pavers and the private security company ‘No Problems!’. Already on Friday, I made a post on social networks about the sudden disappearance of Mr. Bookfondoff, and a week later I was happy to head the Intergalactic Union of Writers. It is still open to everyone. For a fee, of course. And yes, sorry, I almost forgot: every member of the Union must learn my “Unrecognized Genius” by heart! However, as you have already seen, it’s easy enough, because brevity is the sister of talent!

Welcome!

    2021

8. Stillborn

“I will do it instead of her!” Tanya said, stopping me with a gesture. She turned twelve years old that day.

***

We got acquainted in the bakery across from our office, where Nastya baked amazing buns. That evening, as usual, she knocked on the door and came into my office.

“Hello!” I said automatically, continuing to leaf through the mail, and Nastya silently stood at the table with the hope that I would honor her with a look after all.

She was unusually beautiful that day. Something seemed to have changed in her.