prose

Ksenija Kušec: Matrix

Ksenija Kušec does not like banks or corporations. Actually, she does not like the rules that are over a man, the rules in whom feelings are excluded, the impartiality of those rules. Well, Ksenija Kušec is anything but impartial, at least in her stories and at least for now.
She wrote Tales from the Solar System that are 100% true, collection of short stories Tell me everything, which are mostly stories about the wicked husbands and how to treat them, and novel Janko and weather-machine.
She writes two novels at the same time and in the meantime does not write.



M a t r i x

 

Today is the day. What should I wear? High heels? Sure, it’s warm outside; I’ll put on peep toes. Jeans are good; they go with everything. White T-shirt, black jacket, to match the shoes. I wanna look like Trinity. And then my belt… and two pieces. One piece in each jacket pocket, one in each jeans pocket… A holster over the T-shirt, under the jacket. And the bag. You bet I’m packing.

Bank first. I got number 246; it’ll be a wait. I could read a book while I’m in here. I’m checking all the pieces, making sure they’re ready, wondering which to use first.

This is taking time. I’ve been waiting for five years and now there are thirty people in front of me, each and every one of them with a sad story, just like me. Maybe I shouldn’t have gotten myself into this in the first place. But the place was too big after Mom died, what was I gonna do with all that space? I just wanted a smaller apartment. Nothing unusual, right?

The list of laws they used to fuck me over is as long as my arm. First there was the nationalization, then the matter of inheritance and ownership. I signed and signed and signed documents. They kept shoving papers in my face to sign. This proves you agree to be represented by us in court. Who wouldn’t sign that? This proves you agree for us to take over your life. OK, not exactly, but it turned out that way.

So, where did it all go wrong? One of the papers to sign was a credit application to refinance something I never needed to refinance. Because the apartment belonged to my Mom, it had been paid in full a long time ago – I still remember those lines and those documents. My Mom was already old and fragile, we took a fishing stool wherever we went, as she couldn’t stand in line to sign, agree and consent. The bank says Mom had agreed to a credit, and now they want me to pay them in cash? They have an explanation, of course, but who understands their language? Endless legal babble until you grow tired of it and just sign. It’s just a formality, they say.

Ever since I’ve realized it was all in vain, I keep filing applications and requests to annul all the previous ones, while the bank keeps refusing. They never fail to find just the precedent to benefit them, not me.

It was supposed to be simple: sell the large place, buy a smaller one. I just wanted a smaller apartment.

The line has moved; number 239 is a crying woman. They are refusing to give her an advance on her social security check; she’s in the red and interests keep eating up everything she makes. The teller says they are powerless. It’s only the fifth, the woman says; how am I going to pay the electricity bill? What am I going to eat for the rest of the month? The teller calls the guards and one shows up, packing just one piece – a lot less than me – grabs the woman and escorts her to the door. Number 240, a veteran. He’s packing, too; I can see the bumps under his clothes. This should be fun. The teller is telling no again. I wonder what it’s like to say no for living. Maybe it’s well paid, that would make it OK. Still, nothing is paid enough on a day you get a client like me. It certainly won’t be paid enough today.

I’m eavesdropping; can’t stop. Unbelievable. The vet owned two hundred to o a man, couldn’t pay in time, got sued. The court clerk made a typo and two hundred turned into twenty thousand. An omitted comma – one comma! – and the vet owns twenty thousand. He’s yelling. Banging his fist on the teller’s counter. How can you pretend that mistake wasn’t a mistake, how am I gonna come up with that kind of money, I do not owe that much; I owe twenty times less! I’ll kill you all! Take us to court, then. I can’t take you to court, that would cost me and I can’t afford it! I’m a veteran, I lost my leg defending this country, I get five thousand a month and it all ends up in your hands! I’m waiting for the mayhem, but the teller is calling the guards again and the same guy shows up again. The vet sees him coming, shakes his head in dismay, leaves. He’s not as mad as I am. Yet. One comma?

I’ve been doing this dance for five years: if the agency bought the apartment from me, how come I never saw any money? Where is the proof they bought it? How could this happen? And why? Take us to court, they keep saying; knowing it would take me a million documents to do so.  Why am I paying taxes for an apartment I supposedly don’t own? Those were the terms of the agreement, they say; and you signed it. Take us to court.

I can’t wait for my number to show up on the screen. I’m not taking my eyes off it, watching numbers appear and disappear accompanied by an annoying beeping sound. I’m sure that’s a planned move on their part; they could have chosen a lovelier sound, but no, they went with this devil’s squeal. To make us crazy. Well, they succeeded. The five-year dance ends today.

It’s my turn and I ask my questions. I have all the documents, I say. Signed and stamped. Official. The teller glances through, says they won’t do. Why not?, I ask with a kind smile. Because there is no registry number on them, and because I wasn’t supposed to file those here, and besides, the bank has dealt with cases like mine in the past and the petitioner never wins. It is at the bank’s discretion to decide if I get the money or not. Any money. Oh, is that so; I say. Well, in that case, give me back my documents and I’ll go file them where I’m supposed to. Do it the right way. Oh, I’ve already stamped them as invalid, she says. She would need to call her superior to issue new ones. So call him, I say. The bitch picks up the phone and whispers some bullshit into the receiver. I’m gonna lose the documents and get thrown out of here, I can tell. But, no, her superior shows up, after all; a loser in a cheap suit. How may I be of assistance, he asks. I explain everything one more time, and, naturally, he says no to everything. “Court-signed documents cannot be filed and unfiled just like that”, he says. I’ve filed it, it’s done. We’ll take care of everything now, he says, and I can’t believe my ears. Trust us, he says.

I’ve lost and I know it. There is no way I can get duplicates of every single paper the teller has just taken from me, there’s no way I can get back my apartment, my money, my life. I’m stuck. It’s a good thing the superior asshole is right here in front of me. I put on my sunglasses and reach for the guns in the holsters under my armpits. The teller and the asshole get a full magazine each. It feels good. I grab my documents, noticing the guards rushing toward me. There’s four of them, all wearing bulletproof vests. I run, bounce off the walls, escape them defying the laws of physics. I reach for the grenades in my jacket pockets. Pins out, and it’s done. The line is not moving, nobody’s running away, people are thrilled with the show, applauding. No one is getting hurt but the guys who need some hurting. Men in black are rushing down the stairs… but they are not men, after all. Not human. Bankers. I have four magazines left, just enough for them. And then silence. The dust is settling, the line is frantic with adrenaline, almost joy. People are hugging and cheering, grabbing their documents and money from behind the counter. Good for them. I’ve got what’s mine and now it’s time to leave.

I dust off my jacket, check my hair, check the nail polish winking from the peep-toes. I’m happy to see it’s still perfect, not a dent in it. I check my guns; they’re all still here, good. I load them again; next stop – lawyers. The ones that represent the agency that now owns my apartment. I won’t even bother asking questions or standing in line, I’ve heard all their smug lies. I’ll just walk in, kill everything in sight, walk out. See if they send me off with a sneer like the last time.

And then the land-registry people get it. They let the lawyers – who by then will be dead – get away with their scam. When I asked them how they could do it, they said it was my mistake not to check the ownership status sooner. These things need to be checked several times a year, they said; the law firm obeyed the rules to the letter. It’ll feel extra good to spill their blood on their disgusting books. Shred the paper into bloody confetti. And sign my name on the dotted line where it says Owner. To the letter, gentlemen.

Last stop, the morgue. They misplaced the death certificate just long enough to allow all those thieves to forge my mother’s signature, make it look like she was still alive and giving them all the power.

 

When I’m done, I’ll go have a cup of coffee with Mirjana, haven’t seen her in a while. It’s not even ten yet, I’ll make it. We’ll chat about stuff, she’ll ask me what’s new, and I’ll say I finally got my apartment back. I’ve got all the blood papers in my bag.

o nama

Natječaj nagrade ''Kritična masa'' (8. izdanje) otvoren do 10. prosinca

Kritična masa raspisuje novi natječaj književne nagrade "Kritična masa" za mlade autorice i autore (do 35 godina).
Ovo je osmo izdanje nagrade koja pruža pregled mlađe prozne scene (širi i uži izbor) i promovira nova prozna imena.
Prva nagrada iznosi 700 eura (bruto iznos) i dodjeljuje se uz plaketu.
U konkurenciju ulaze svi dosad neobjavljeni oblici proznih priloga (kratka priča, odlomci iz većih formi, prozne crtice). Osim prozne fikcije, prihvatljivi su i dokumentarni prozni tekstovi te dnevničke forme koji posjeduju književnu dimenziju.
Prethodnih su godina nagradu dobili Ana Rajković, Jelena Zlatar, Marina Gudelj, Mira Petrović, Filip Rutić, Eva Simčić i Ana Predan.
Krajnji rok za slanje prijava je 10.12.2024.
Pravo sudjelovanja imaju autorice i autori rođeni od 10.12.1989. nadalje.

proza

Robert Aralica: Gugutka

NAGRADA "KRITIČNA MASA" - UŽI IZBOR

Robert Aralica (Šibenik, 1997.) studij hrvatskoga i engleskoga jezika i književnosti završava 2020. godine na Filozofskom fakultetu Sveučilišta u Splitu. U slobodno vrijeme bavi se pisanjem proze i produkcijom elektroničke glazbe. Svoje literarne radove objavljivao je u studentskim časopisima Humanist i The Split Mind. 2022. kriminalističkom pričom Natkrovlje od čempresa osvojio je prvo mjesto na natječaju Kristalna pepeljara. Trenutno je zaposlen u II. i V. splitskoj gimnaziji kao nastavnik hrvatskoga jezika.

proza

Iva Esterajher: Priče

NAGRADA "KRITIČNA MASA" - UŽI IZBOR

Iva Esterajher (Ljubljana, 1988.) živi i radi u Zagrebu. Diplomirala je politologiju na Fakultetu političkih znanosti. Aktivno se bavi likovnom umjetnošću (crtanje, slikarstvo, grafički rad), fotografijom, kreativnim pisanjem te pisanjem filmskih i glazbenih recenzija. Kratke priče i poezija objavljene su joj u književnim časopisima i na portalima (Urbani vračevi, UBIQ, Astronaut, Strane, NEMA, Afirmator) te je sudjelovala na nekoliko književnih natječaja i manifestacija (Večernji list, Arteist, FantaSTikon, Pamela festival i dr.).

proza

Nikola Pavičić: Suncem i vremenom opržena tijela

NAGRADA "KRITIČNA MASA" - UŽI IZBOR

Nikola Pavičić (Zagreb, 2004.) živi u Svetoj Nedelji. Pohađa Pravni fakultet Sveučilišta u Zagrebu. Piše, napose poeziju i lirsku prozu, te sa svojim tekstovima nastoji sudjelovati u literarnim natječajima i časopisima. U slobodno vrijeme voli proučavati književnost i povijest te učiti jezike.

proza

Luca Kozina: Na vjetru lete zmajevi

NAGRADA "KRITIČNA MASA" - UŽI IZBOR

Luca Kozina (Split, 1990.) piše prozu, poeziju i književne kritike. Dobitnica je nagrade Prozak u sklopu koje je 2021. objavljena zbirka priča Važno je imati hobi. Zbirka je ušla u uži izbor nagrade Edo Budiša. Dobitnica je nagrada za poeziju Mak Dizdar i Pisanje na Tanane izdavačke kuće Kontrast u kategoriji Priroda. Dobitnica je nagrade Ulaznica za poeziju. Od 2016. piše književne kritike za portal Booksu. Članica je splitske udruge Pisci za pisce. Zajedno s Ružicom Gašperov i Sarom Kopeczky autorica je knjige Priručnica - od ideje do priče (2023).

proza

Ana Predan: Neke su stvari neobjašnjivo plave

NAGRADA "KRITIČNA MASA" - UŽI IZBOR

Ana Predan (Pula, 1996.) odrasla je u Vodnjanu. U šestoj godini počinje svirati violinu, a u šesnaestoj pjevati jazz. Po završetku srednje škole seli u Ljubljanu gdje studira međunarodne odnose, a onda u Trst gdje upisuje jazz pjevanje pri tršćanskom konzervatoriju na kojem je diplomirala ove godine s temom radništva u glazbi Istre. U toku studiranja putuje u Estoniju gdje godinu dana provodi na Erasmus+ studentskoj razmjeni. Tada sudjeluje na mnogo vrijednih i važnih projekata, i radi s umjetnicima i prijateljima, a počinje se i odmicati od jazza, te otkriva eksperimentalnu i improviziranu glazbu, te se počinje zanimati za druge, vizualne medije, osobito film. Trenutno živi u Puli, gdje piše za Radio Rojc i predaje violinu u Glazbenoj školi Ivana Matetića-Ronjgova. Piše oduvijek i često, najčešće sebi.

proza

Eva Simčić: Maksimalizam.

NAGRADA "SEDMICA & KRITIČNA MASA" - UŽI IZBOR

Eva Simčić (Rijeka, 1990.) do sada je kraću prozu objavljivala na stranicama Gradske knjižnice Rijeka, na blogu i Facebook stranici Čovjek-Časopis, Reviji Razpotja i na stranici Air Beletrina. Trenutno živi i radi u Oslu gdje dovršava doktorat iz postjugoslavenske književnosti i kulture.

poezija

Jyrki K. Ihalainen: Izbor iz poezije

Jyrki K. Ihalainen (r. 1957.) finski je pisac, prevoditelj i izdavač. Od 1978. Ihalainen je objavio 34 zbirke poezije na finskom, engleskom i danskom. Njegova prva zbirka poezije, Flesh & Night , objavljena u Christianiji 1978. JK Ihalainen posjeduje izdavačku kuću Palladium Kirjat u sklopu koje sam izrađuje svoje knjige od početka do kraja: piše ih ili prevodi, djeluje kao njihov izdavač, tiska ih u svojoj tiskari u Siuronkoskom i vodi njihovu prodaju. Ihalainenova djela ilustrirali su poznati umjetnici, uključujući Williama S. Burroughsa , Outi Heiskanen i Maritu Liulia. Ihalainen je dobio niz uglednih nagrada u Finskoj: Nuoren Voiman Liito 1995., nagradu za umjetnost Pirkanmaa 1998., nagradu Eino Leino 2010. Od 2003. Ihalainen je umjetnički direktor Anniki Poetry Festivala koji se odvija u Tampereu. Ihalainenova najnovija zbirka pjesama je "Sytykkei", objavljena 2016 . Bavi se i izvođenjem poezije; bio je, između ostalog, gost na albumu Loppuasukas finskog rap izvođača Asa 2008., gdje izvodi tekst pjesme "Alkuasukas".

poezija

Maja Marchig: Izbor iz poezije

Maja Marchig (Rijeka, 1973.) živi u Zagrebu gdje radi kao računovođa. Piše poeziju i kratke priče. Polaznica je više radionica pisanja poezije i proze. Objavljivala je u brojnim časopisima u regiji kao što su Strane, Fantom slobode, Tema i Poezija. Članica literarne organizacije ZLO. Nekoliko puta je bila finalistica hrvatskih i regionalnih književnih natječaja (Natječaja za kratku priču FEKPa 2015., Međunarodnog konkursa za kratku priču “Vranac” 2015., Nagrade Post scriptum za književnost na društvenim mrežama 2019. i 2020. godine). Njena kratka priča “Terapija” osvojila je drugu nagradu na natječaju KROMOmetaFORA2020. 2022. godine objavila je zbirku pjesama Spavajte u čarapama uz potporu za poticanje književnog stvaralaštva Ministarstva kulture i medija Republike Hrvatske u biblioteci Poezija Hrvatskog društva pisaca.

poezija

Juha Kulmala: Izbor iz poezije

Juha Kulmala (r. 1962.) finski je pjesnik koji živi u Turkuu. Njegova zbirka "Pompeijin iloiset päivät" ("Veseli dani Pompeja") dobila je nacionalnu pjesničku nagradu Dancing Bear 2014. koju dodjeljuje finska javna radiotelevizija Yle. A njegova zbirka "Emme ole dodo" ("Mi nismo Dodo") nagrađena je nacionalnom nagradom Jarkko Laine 2011. Kulmalina poezija ukorijenjena je u beatu, nadrealizmu i ekspresionizmu i često se koristi uvrnutim, lakonskim humorom. Pjesme su mu prevedene na više jezika. Nastupao je na mnogim festivalima i klubovima, npr. u Engleskoj, Njemačkoj, Rusiji, Estoniji i Turskoj, ponekad s glazbenicima ili drugim umjetnicima. Također je predsjednik festivala Tjedan poezije u Turkuu.

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