In our final issue of this semester’s Tribe we have a brand new contribution from Inga Vasilyeva. The Tribe is always welcome to new writers so if you’re feeling inspired, send us some of your creative work to next semester. 


She says that his problem his himself

She says that his problem is himself.

She says that anybody could find him if they really wanted to.

He smiles. “Anybody? Never”.

And these meetings cannot even be called meetings. It is just ‘nothing’. An unpredictable, fragile, half-alive ‘nothing’.

Something rare, which erupts into a smile on your lips. Not a joyful smile, though. With this smile, you’d listen to your doctor, when he assures you that your sickness can be cured. Perhaps. And you just try not to break down and shatter into pieces on the floor. And not to howl, digging your nails into flesh.

But it’s not an illness.

She says: “I think you’re miserable.” And adds: “Stop coming back here.”

He shrugs: “It’s just me.”

And says: “You call me yourself.”

They never talk in real life. They barely look into each other’s eyes.

His lips taste of Remit Martha. And his eyes dance like blueberry devils.

He is perfect. A profound intellect. And she is too foolish not to be attracted to this knowledge. But just a small part of it. She’ll just place light touches, a taste on the fingernails and then run. Run, without looking back.

Because if she looks back, she might stay.

Sometimes she wishes for it to stop and sometimes she hopes that it will not.

“I’ll still be here”, he says. “While you’re sleeping. While you’re calling for me, I will be here. But not a second longer.”

“Liar. You will leave as soon as you get bored.”

“You can’t rebuke me, sweetheart. It’s your dreams.”

They never talk in real life. They barely look into each other’s eyes.

They never meet each other’s gazes.

She says that his problem is himself.

He says that he does not have any problems. And smiles wickedly, almost as if he’s not lying.



Inga Vasilyeva