Journalist, writer, poet, DJ and promoter at the music platform Indioteque. Svetoslav has many years of journalistic and editorial experience on topics related to culture more broadly, and has written for Dnevnik, Capital Light, Balkan Inside. He is the author of the short story collections The People Who Slept Alone (2014) and Ten Conversations (2017). His audio collection Nothing Will Happen to You was released in 2020.
Fear is a Friend
Tell me about the things that scare you. You can do it with your eyes only, using words can be hard sometimes. I mean, I know how “How have you been” can derail the train of your thoughts. I know: there are things that don’t translate well into words. Once, on my way home, I saw the apartment where that guy slaughtered his family glowing crimson red. I saw it, I’m not making it up. But who do you tell something like that?
I saw the homeless man sleeping between the two new buildings, posters of Russian flags covering his body. I saw him, I’m not making it up. When I put the glasses back on the fallen old woman’s face they slid right back off to the ground. As did she. There’s nothing we can do for those before us.
I’m sorry for telling you all this right before your flight.
Well, if you think it would be easier, I’ll go first: I’m afraid of how quickly last week turns into last year, of the way our conversations cut off the moment they become interesting, of how I sometimes fail to remember what has happened to me and what to other people.
Tell me what scares you. You can do it with your eyes only, although they disclose your distrust of all unplanned moments. I mean, you know how “How have you been” is just a trick they use to get you to notice them for a second or two. I mean, how do you tell someone about that time you didn’t hug your friend goodbye after a late-afternoon coffee because you no longer felt the need to? That must have happened to you too, I’m sure I’m not making it up.
Translation by Vladimir Poleganov, part of the “Ten Conversations” zine (2017)
Our Streets Don’t Cross
I reached out a hand and the tips of her fingers timidly brushed my palm. What is it that’s revealed to her in people’s palms that confuses her so? Do they clench in a fist about to deal a blow? Do their fingers spread out like the legs of a spider to show her the money they hold?
I cannot imagine her smiling. Have words only ever reached her though bared teeth? She sleeps rough, yet her clothes look clean, cleaner than mine, actually: does she take showers in strangers’ bathrooms until every trace of them is washed away?
Our streets don’t cross and our underpasses are empty, each in a different way. But can we imagine that one day things could be different? Could she hug her child in the mornings and fall asleep with him every evening? Could she go to a movie and laugh along with everyone else? Could I send her a link to a song? But this is not important. I only hope she can breathe whenever she wants to. I stopped thinking about it and decided to open the window to let in the fresh air.
No wind rushed in. At least we suffocate the same.
Translation by Vladimir Poleganov, part of the “Ten Conversations” zine (2017)
Saint Esperance
I keep my hope on a leash. When it barks, I tug. Sometimes, I set her free and she runs far away. I swear I will never chain her again. When she is silent, I look under the bed. I carry her in the pocket of my leather jacket. Black makes her feel good. I reach across, I see her and I pull her back. I feel more secure if I have her with me. When my hands tremble and my stomach churns, I bury myself in her. The fur is artificial, hope too. Sometimes, I smoke off her. Sometimes, she goes off. Sometimes, her eyes hurt. She is quenched in a wrist that is always unfurled, she is quenched in the asphalt that cracked this winter. I will never chain her again.
Translation by Orlin Yalnazov, part of the “Nothing Will Happen To You” audiobook (2020)
35mm
I take photos of her often. I need to prove that she existed. An apparition? She is poised against every wall and she blends with them, the words are like neon panels, they alone will walk you home. An apparition? If I ask others if they know her, I am afraid they will say no such thing exists. Foreign fingers crush her, until all that is left in my mind is something like an apparition. If I ask them why the film was exposed, they will say there was nothing on it. An apparition?
Translated from the Bulgarian by Orlin Yalnazov, part of the “Nothing Will Happen To You” audiobook (2020)
The book “Black Sea Upanishad” recounts the past three years of the globe-trotting writer and poet’s life. Here we find him a happy hermit in Sozopol.
Where the writer sees clear signs that the peripheral languages are becoming more central
The writer of childhood among library shelves, reading in grandma's yard and the pinnacle of fiction
