Pseudo-literate

Being a writer is a tough life. Especially when you're only 10 and want to write stories for adults. I forgot to introduce myself. My name is Andrzej Rybnicki, yet that doesn't stop my friends and everyone from calling me Rafał. Why exactly? I'd like to know too. One day, my older cousin went crazy and started calling me that, claiming my real name was a country name. Anyway, from then on, everyone called me Rafał, although I admit I'm not and never will be. So I came up with a different name as a writer. My mom says it's called a "pen name." I liked it so much that I decided to call myself Pseudo Literat (Pseudo Literat). My mom said it was very sophisticated, and I said my stories would be sophisticated too.

But I didn't know what to write. With this in mind, I went to my friend Maja. Maja is 12 and like an angel to me. My mom says every writer had their own muse. So my muse is and always will be Maja. Apparently, some Petrarch had a sweetheart to whom he wrote poems, or Shakespeare to some William. Either way, I needed a muse, and in the meantime, I had one nearby.

"Hello, my muse," I recited to her poetically.

"Hi," she said, extending her eeee as if she were chatting with me on Gadu-Gadu.

"I'm going to write short stories," I said.

"What? What stories?

" "Well, I don't know, I'm counting on you to help me."

Although she wasn't eager to help, she said we could try. Maja loved watching horror movies, even though I strictly forbade her. I heard about a boy who saw a horror movie, then poured strawberry jam over his parents and woke them up screaming that an invasion of gelatinous creatures was coming. It's easy to guess that his parents didn't fall for it, and the boy was scolded so harshly that his mother always tells me, "Be glad you weren't born into such a pathological family."

I don't know what pathology is, but it reminds me of archaeology, so I'd really like to have a family of pathologists. But not all of us are blessed with that kind of happiness.

Finally, Maja slammed her hand on the desk, scattering books from her childhood. She picked one and said we'd adapt it into a fairy tale for adults. She picked a fairy tale I never liked; I had a chance to rant about it a bit. It was Little Red Riding Hood.

A long time ago, so long ago that it probably happened not so long ago, in the times when we're still alive. But to make sure they have nothing to fear, we're told nonsense that it happened a long time ago, far away, far away. In reality, it happened in the neighbors' house next to our apartment. (God, I'm probably not a prophet. I don't know if Mr. Karczek, who lives next door, is a forester or a wolf, but the fact is, I'm starting to fear what I'm writing; such is the fate that hangs over us young writers.) Anyway, in a certain house near the forest lived none other than an ordinary little girl. She wasn't red at all, unless when she got angry, she would throw such a tantrum that they called her "Red as a Baboon's Ass" (you know, children can be ruthless). Her mother once gave her a little white hood, but it fell to the ground and turned red. (I don't know where this senseless nonsense came from, but Maja's mother, after reading it, decided it had a surrealistic quality, so if so, I'll continue to make it surreal.) Once upon a time, Little Red Riding Hood's grandmother, who worked on an oil drilling rig (I've never learned the exact name of this job, for which I sincerely apologize to the reader and urge you to read on) (I must admit that Mr. Karczek did a similar job) for many years, unfortunately, an accident that befell her there left her unable to move or do other things (I don't know which ones, I only remember that I once watched the film Breaking the Waves without my parents' knowledge, and I didn't finish it when I realized it wasn't the film version of my favorite story, The Returning Wave).

At this point in writing the story, Maja spoke up.

"Enough of this, I'm going to reach for a book, because our story is too delicate, so to speak."

I didn't like her outbursts, but I had no choice; she returned with a book titled The Hundred and Twenty Days of Sodom. Apparently, it was written by some sadist. (Marek from class 5b was supposedly a sadist; I heard he once told his mother a truth that hurt her, so he must have been a terrible sadist.) We decided to open this sadist's book to different pages and use words we didn't understand in my story.

"Here, for example," said Maja, opening the book, "When the prince woke up in the morning, he ordered something extremely pleasant for himself: that four women of his choice should wank his ass.

" "What's wanking?"

"I don't know, maybe a pedicure.

" "What's a pedicure?"

"You boys don't know much about the world; we don't need to know what it means, let's keep writing."

Grandma was lying alone in bed at home, worried that she couldn't order anyone to get their asses kicked. She was very sad about this, so she called her daughter. Unfortunately, the daughter didn't like her mother and sent Little Red Riding Hood—let's add Little Red Riding Hood to the mix. She put some jam in a basket (here we're using the sadist's book again) and ejaculated on her daughter's face. Little Red Riding Hood continued on, thinking about her father's tail. However, along the way, she met a wolf. (Maja's idea was to make the wolf a pedophile. Apparently, when Maja was 10, the same age as me, she met a pedophile on vacation. It was an older man selling candy.

"How do you know the older man selling candy is a pedophile?" I asked.

"Because Mom says every man selling candy is a pedophile.

Since then, I've been avoiding candy stands where two older men sell candy.)

The wolf tried to sell candy to Little Red Riding Hood, and Little Red Riding Hood shat on a crucifix and ran away. The poor wolf had to jerk off, crying profusely.

(Maja is making a fool of herself to write that a crocodile would want a wolf. I'm not as mature as she is, but I don't like that idea. I lied and said I wrote what she wanted, but I didn't write anything.)

Maja's mom took Sodom away from us and said it wasn't even a book for adults. I was surprised that there are books with an age limit. Then she read what Maja and I had written. She tore it up and said she'd have to go with us to a specialist.

"Have you ever relieved yourself on a crucifix?" the specialist asked me.

"I haven't, but Little Red Riding Hood has," I replied confidently.

"And why did Little Red Riding Hood do that?" he asked at length, drawing out his voice like the locomotive my dad used to read to me about when I was little.

"Because Little Red Riding Hood is, sir, a surrealist!"

End of Part 1