Writer In Florence

Ela Vasilescu

Latest stories

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Doors that open, doors that close

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By Lori Hetherington I’ve never been much of a movie buff. Don’t get me wrong: I like movies but I can never remember the title or the plot, not to mention the names of the actors. However, there is a film I saw on television once in the late 1990s that I have never forgotten. In that film, the protagonist, named Helen and played by Gwyneth Paltrow, lives two possible, parallel lives, spawned by...

Playwright, compassion, the world

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Com-Solum By Amy Sarno A 36 year old African-American woman with braids. She sits in an office chair, tipping backwards. She’s chewing gum. In the background, there’s the sound of women’s voices. It sounds as though a woman with a strong Spanish accent is speaking very quickly sometimes in English, sometimes in Spanish, sometimes it might be a made-up combination of the two languages. Jasmine:  ...

I refuse to belong and yet…

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I refuse to belong. I refuse to belong in a world that doesn’t want to belong. I refuse to accept and advocate for any group no matter how good their intentions are. I refuse to separate human beings based on color, religion, culture, or sexual preferences. I refuse to be a part of any of this, and yet I keep waking up and breathing the same air as everyone every single day. The world didn’t...

The Human Behind The Artist… final touches

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Last week I turned on the recorder one last time for The Human Behind The Artist  project. All throughout the interview I was overwhelmed by mixed feelings and as I turned the recorder off I knew that the project is complete, that this was the final interview; I could almost hear a whisper telling me that it felt ready to be released into the world. For those of you who don’t know, The...

The friend I never met

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By Loredana Andrei Since childhood I was surrounded by only a few friends, but those few I had were very close to my heart. When I left my home country to move to Germany a few years ago, I knew my life was going to change completely; I knew that I will have to learn how to live without any friends around. Even so, I hoped to meet new people here, but it hadn’t been as easy as I thought. Not...

Where are you from?

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Where are you from? This is a question that tortures my stomach every time it’s addressed to me. Where am I from? I used to know the answer to that question. At first it was a city, and then it was the last city I lived in, until it became a country and now… now I don’t even know the answer to that anymore. I don’t know where I’m from. Places have lost meaning somehow and people replaced the...

Pain, heritage, unveiling

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By Lorenzo Novani I woke to howling wind and all the hostility that it brings: the little door to the shelter rattling violently, snow fluttering through the sides, cold air reaching up to sting my face and leave me numb. I thought about my predicament. I was 1,345 meters above sea level on the collapsed dome of an extinct volcano, surrounded by snow, fog, and darkness, in freezing temperatures...

Childhood, writers, dilemmas

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By Lee Foust For a fiction writer, one’s childhood grows plotted, thematic, and comes to reek of manipulated matter. The childhood recollection can be anything but honest, anything but benign. I frame my own in Gothic. There were monsters. No, not under the bed, but along the deserted streets of a lonely, countryish California suburb. Before cement sidewalks and Astroturf lawns. Darting, rumbling...

Once upon a time I gave up on people

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Ever since I was a child, I loved observing humans. I loved the way they talked, the way they walked, acted, thought, innovated, struggled, prevailed. Whenever there was a problem that needed solving, I was there to help. Of course, most of the time I made a bigger mess than needed. Thus, over the years, close family and friends discouraged my actions telling me that sooner or later I will be...

Fatherhood, love, triumph

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By David Orr My two year old son calls me ‘Daddy’, occasionally ‘Babbo’, and a few times a month, ‘Davide’.  Of the three, ‘Davide’ is the most startling, as if he’s aged sixteen years in a sentence and turned into an ironic teenager.  Also, my first name is David – Davide is what comes out the other end of an Italian pasta-press, flattened and exotic. Though he was born in Italy and we...

Writer In Florence Ela Vasilescu