it is what fiction
by Pasha Malla

My girl, her little friend the Anglo sits at the computer all the day, tap-tap-tap, so I demand him, "Anglo! What is it that you do?" and he says, "I'm writing". So, I demand him, "Anglo, it is what you write?" and he says, "Fiction". Fiction, it is what he says me. I demand him, "It is what, 'fiction'?" and then he stops and he has the air like I hit him with a brick.

After some moments, fiction, it is stories, he tells me. This is what he does, tap-tap-tap all the day. It's not some good sense. My girl works strong like waitress, she wins some money, but the Anglo rests in the house all the day putting stories into his computer. He wins nothing. I know, you think, "It's not true! It's not possible!" but I see it with my proper eyes. I think maybe he is mentally sick, that he can think this is a true job.

So I have the idea, if the Anglo can make stories, so I can make stories. I have bad at the back because I work hard like builder during twenty-eight years. My girl says me to rest with her and the Anglo because all alone I can not even make the supper. So I repose on the divan all the day, watching the Anglo at the computer. But if the Anglo can rest on his asses all the day, making stories, and this is a job, so I think I can do it also.

I demand the Anglo for some paper and a pen. He regards me like he is mixed up. But he gives me them, and I start to think to stories. There is the story of Cindrillon, so I write it. It takes six minutes that I count on my watch.

When I finish, I say the Anglo, "Finish!" and he regards me. "One story, finish," I say him. "You wrote a story?" he demands me. "Well sure!" Then he demands to read it, so I give it him. He reads it. He laughs, and he says, "This is the story of Cinderella." "Well sure," I say him, because well sure it is. So he says me that it is necessary that fiction is new, that it is never read before. This Anglo, he is something.

This, it is more difficult than I think. I hit my teeths with the pen. The Anglo, he goes tap-tap-tap at the computer. "Anglo," I call him. "Is it that I can write a story that passes with me, but never is read before?" He laughs, the Christ-Anglo. He laughs of me! So I don't listen to what he says. He will see. I write this story in English, I write a better story than what he can. I write a story of what passes with me, I write in English, I write a true story about the Christ-Tabernacle-Anglo and his tap-tap-tap, and when I finish he will see how easy it is. He will see that he is not special. He will see that all the world can do it.