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 social network page and knew to write at least their full name, considered oneself a writer. However, judging by the reports of publishers, people had stopped buying books, and, therefore, reading them. 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.
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 “Unrecognized Genius” came first, of course, and 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?”
“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 Eugenius, 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 to 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 associations, 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, asking to show them 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 Mr. Bookfondoff materialized out of nowhere?
“Who is he to decide the fate of my ‘Unrecognized Genius’? ! Who is worthy of ‘the memory of those who will come after us’, but me?..”
I had to urgently take advantage of my official position. At that time, I headed the Writers’ Union of the Asphalt 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’ve almost forgotten: 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!
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 entered 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.
“What’s happened, darling?”
Nastya smiled enigmatically, nodded and, coming closer to me, sat down on the edge of the table. I frantically ran through the options in my head. A new dress? No. Had she changed hairstyle? Makeup? What was the difference?
“Don’t torture me, I’m tired, give me a hint!”
