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CONTEMPORARY

ARMENIAN PROSE

Vahram MARTIROSYAN

MEMORY FULL. I got home at my usual hour, or maybe even earlier than that. That morning, I had found out that one of my relatives had passed away, a wonderful woman whose son had all but abandoned his elderly mother. I was determined to explain to everyone what a pity this was and how her son never appreciated her >>>

Armen SHEKOYAN

THE DEAD. I am everywhere, or, rather, almost everywhere, or, more precisely, I try to be everywhere because if in my one and only life I don’t manage to be everywhere then I haven’t lived my short life to the fullest, or, rather, I’ve lived it like everyone else, to the same extend as everyone else, or, in other words, I’ve barely lived it at all >>>

Hrant MATEVOSYAN

A TRANSLUCENT DAY. One hand in my pocket, tall, handsome, clean, I pick up the receiver; my “Hellooow” is drawn out with a French arrogance. And I am quite content with myself – here I am, yesterday’s peasant, having escaped the danger of becoming a goat-herder, of being pummeled by hail, and of developing arthritis; I have a secure job, I’m significant enough to be given my own phone line >>>

Sousanna HAROUTYUNYAN

THE MIGHTY END. The humid, weepy summer was unbearably hot. There was no air to breath, and if that wasn’t bad enough, it rained endlessly, as if the sky, choked up with tears, was trying to cry its heart out. It just drizzled and drizzled all the time >>>

Vano SIRADEGHYAN

TOO BAD. When he finally found the time to look back over his life, he found his past sinking into oblivion. “How could this be?” was his first thought. Every time he’d given his past a fleeting glance before returning at once to his drab present, he’d gotten the impression that over there, in his past, everything was in order >>>

Aghasi AYVAZYAN

“THE FALKENSTEIN”. My meager German was enough for me to understand the short question; unwilling to doubt a European’s words, I diligently directed my stare into the black mass, trying to discern some form or a shade of color in it. I was eager to agree that it was “beautiful,” but I felt that I should clarify, for my own sake, what was so special about the blackness >>>

CONTEMPORARY

AZERBAIJANI PROSE

Nariman ABDULRAHMANLY

CHEERLESSNESS. You should not have come to see him, you should not!...The matter is over, what is the use of repeating it over and over again, with trembling lips like a parrot. What’s the good of it? You should have done it in the morning when your hand stretched for telephone, and your finger, grown stiff for unknown reason, was dialing a familiar call >>>

Rashad MEJID

SEPTEMBER 10. Leaving the hospital he went towards the car. It was an old “Zhiguli” “06”. He bought it by entering his name in a queue in soviet period 15 years ago in 1986. He opened the door of the car, sat down, took “taxi” board between front seats and with his left hand fixed it on the roof of the car >>>

Rustam IBRAHIMBEKOV

BIRTHDAY. On 15 September 1969, Bahadur Maniyev’s son was five last birthday. The date was inconvenient, since it was necessary to urgently finish repairing an apartment of a client. The problem was that Bahadur had opportunity to do that in the evenings only, except for Saturday and Sunday. Also, an emergency job was announced at Bahadur’s working place, since a new school construction in Baladjary was behind schedule. Meanwhile, Bahadur was impatient to celebrate his son’s birthday properly >>>

Fahri UGURLU

DERVISH. And again long-legged white bird roamed about autumn ploughed field below dark-gray cloud. Her eyes wandered between the emptiness of the heavens and the absence of human beings. Either she strayed from the herd or lost her way, or had never known any path >>>

YASHAR

PARTING. Mother and her son started on their journey early in the morning, and they could hardly move. Further complicating the case was that they failed to exchange a few words, so each of them was in isolation to go through sorrow of their way >>>

Samir SADAGADOGHLU

TIME THIEF. This terrifying story happened ten years ago. Sharp ten tears ago, quite unexpectedly, with heart and soul he realized that he was sure to die in one of these days, close his eyes for ever. This unusual discovery brought him into indescribable horror, his body covered with cold sweat, his hair stood on end, and first ever in his life he was frightened of death. >>>

The Literary Laboratory-Writers against Conflicts project is to serve the negotiation of the hostility among the conflicting nations.
This does not mean that the works presented on the website reflect the military and political confrontations, born by the hostility. Furthermore, there are no thematic or ideological limitations on the site. ”Azerbaijanis (Armenians) have a good contemporary literature” - this reaction from the readers is the main aim of the website as it may form mutual respect of the conflicting nations as the necessary base for conflict resolution, Besides, the reader will find a lot in common in the behavior and reasoning of Armenians and Azerbaijanis - the characters of the works presented, which also contributed to overcoming false stereotypes and alienation.
While choosing the authors, the literary coordinators of the website tried to reflect both the mainstream and the new tendencies.

The conflict, which doesn't really exist - Recently I was looking through the Thomas De Waal’s “Black garden” and noticed an expression which I hadn’t taken under consideration before >>>

Soviet union had some advantages - Have you read the Yashar’s “Parting” up to the end? I do it with a great difficulty and not because it’s not interesting, quite the opposite. The story makes me thing from the first sentence and in the middles I lose the place I got >>>

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