Stefan Zefirov Galibov, age 12, Sofia
He is just an ordinary boy. He likes to read books, loves animals and games, has favourite subjects and dislikes others. He is interested in outer space, he skiis and not long ago took up karate. But his greatest hobby- at least for the time being- is writing. Sometimes a chance meeting in the tram, something that happened during the day, a tree or the most ordinary object trigger off his imagination and he describes them as completely different, viewing them in a realistic and fantastic way at the same time.
Maybe Stefan's writing will seem strange to some. It is possible that others will not like it. But is this not different from that which all can do? We leave it to you to like or not like his vision,his sketches, his stories. Let us wish him to win our confidence with new writing.
Lydia Tabahneva
THE CRUMB
A crumb of bread. It also lives. It has a way of making a living, although what it gets is so little. It lies flat on the table, thinking about how it will be wiped off the table.
If it is lucky enough, it will drop to the floor and will live some more. And finally, they will either sweep it away , or forget all about...
***
Sounds and reflections are all mingled in the crumpled celophane. The world appears wrinkled and crumpled and swishing through the celophane. At a certain point you can see most ordinary, yet different things in life. An onion. A red vase. Even a glass of milk. They all look alike because of their differences. I fail to see how the sounds and light become the same thing. Sometimes a likeness is to be found in the difference.
***
Greyness. Somewhere in the world.
Where's this "somewhere"?
Where I live.
Where do I live?
Somewhere in the world...
Life is born amids greyness.
Life flows amids greyness and
stays there.
OUT OF TIME
The sea is still. The sky is grey. The horizon is merging into the greyness. All of a sudden, you look around in horror. You are all alone. But after a while you again hear the waves splashing on the shore. A sea-gull is waddling about. He is alone too. The other sea-gulls shriek from behind the cliffs. This one cannot find his way back to them through all the greyness. He turns round and is headed for nowhere. On the sand.
A STROLL IN THE MARKETPLACE
I am eating a quince and this is setting my teeth on edge. The autumn market-place is buzzing all around. My quince is buzzing too.
"Let's have a look at the pumpkins!"
On one side of the quince tree old women are standing at the open stalls with a lot of autumn on display. There is a welter of odd colours. Odd music is being wafted about.
Countless yellow fields stretch out on the other side of the quince tree. A long line of people is winding through the fields. Some are going to market. Others are lying down among the pumpkins to fall asleep. The sun is setting. The old women are haggling over their wares, and an autumnal smell is in the air. The market-place is closing down as all talk dies away. Only the quince tree remains.
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