Elvir Karabašić (05.11.1988), rodom iz Prijedora, proveo je veći dio života u Sanskom Mostu, a trenutno je nastanjen u Banjoj Luci, gdje se bavi pisanjem knjiga i kratkih priča. Pored romana “Nothing”, oficijalno je izdata i kratka priča “Interview With The Amplifier”, koja govori o nježnoj strani jednog fikcionalnog punk rock benda, i dvije besplatne kratke priče “Rinse Repeat”, i “Going Nowhere”, koje se mogu procitati na web stranici: elvirkarabasic.com a u ranijim godinama je ilustrovao strip “The Girl with Anime Eyes” – jednostranični strip o svakodnevnici. Trenutno radi na romanu koji piše na našem jeziku, i radni naslov mu je: “Los dan za (u)biti pseto”.
Roman je nastao laganim korakom kao “passion project” i izdat je preko Amazon worldwide platforme, kao prvi roman nezavisne izdavačke kuće “Pleistocene Books”. Knjiga je dostupna na Amazonu u štampanom izdanju, kao i e-knjiga. Kompletna prva tri poglavlja romana su dostupna na web stranici: elvirkarabasic.com. Ovdje možete pročitati prvo poglavlje romana ”Nothing”.
Chapter 1
Of all the lines in all the books in the
world, ‘you will always be
something special to me’ is the one
she went with; a painfully hilarious, yet
hilariously painful way of saying ‘I’m
fucking someone else.’
The highly detailed, strongly accented
features of her timid smile, that drew
attention from the watery eyes—not all of
it, but a heavy some—did not shy away
from biting down hard in the heart of a
dear John talk, and she doing all the
talking—short and frivolous as it may be—
meant the damage was done irreparably.
Self-reflection kicked in, however briefly,
then I drifted off and started thinking
about a book I was reading, and how many
more pages until the protagonist finally
realizes he is out of borrowed time.
She was refraining from eye contact. She
neither knew how to look me in the eyes,
nor did she seem to want to anymore, but
her body language was eloquently
underlining the words that had been said,
and even though I didn’t want to show it, it
was digesting me with vigor through the
cancer-ridden belly of my once upon a
time. Had it been the other way around, I
would have gone with something less
sociopathic, as I would have probably felt
the moral obligation, but at least I will
always be something special to her, like a
favorite kind of animal, or food, until it gets
replaced by another favorite kind of
animal, or food.
She took a heavy lungful, and in a fuckedup
way it seemed empathetic, almost
sincere, were it not the furthest thing from
it. I knew what was coming—not at all
surprised by the thought if now might be
the right moment to pick up on religion. It’s
funny how that happens sometimes, albeit
sluggish. I didn’t catch all her words—since
they no longer mattered—but I understood
‘over’ as she finally said it—and there it
was. A few years of my life flashed before
my eyes—surprisingly my childhood
years—and a couple years more that could
have been.
Instead of getting up and walking away,
allowing myself at least the illusion that I
was capable of feeling anything truly worth
feeling in moments like these—the jackpot
feel would be indifference—I seemed to
have nailed myself to a chair, waiting,
thinking, aging. The air around me felt
thick, and I couldn’t recognize a face in the
bar.
When did I get back together with her in
the first place, I thought, and how the fuck
did she got me into doing that?
Though the moment felt surreal, even
dream-like, I couldn’t have been dreaming
because I’ve known my dreams always to
be in black and white—no matter what war
I was fighting, and how bloody—but the
moment lacked everything else but color.
Her cheeks running red made sure of that,
and the headache wasn’t allowing any
doubt either.
I was involuntarily riddled with
questions, one after another, penetrating
the walls of my sanity. Some of them were
trivial, others felt like someone else was
coming up with them for me, but not a
single one was apt, and I knew if I didn’t
ask any, many things would be left unsaid,
though many unused second second
chances had already expired.
After a mutually mute moment, she got
up and I noticed the traces of her tears had
already dried out.
“I am sorry,” she said, another one of
those vague lines I knew from somewhere
before.
She was standing in front of me, allowing
a final courtesy moment, as if waiting for a
reply, or a goodbye, but I didn’t say
anything. Then she turned around to walk
away and shortly after with each blink of
the eye she looked smaller and smaller, and
I didn’t even notice her opening the door
and walking out, but she was gone in a
blur.