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I have 29 stories published in 0 collections on the site.
My stories have been read 7468 times and one story has been cherrypicked.
1 of my 23 comments have been voted Great Feedback with a total of 1 vote

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Cristina-Monica Moldoveanu

Middle-aged woman from Bucharest, writing poems and haiku and sometimes stories (non-fiction). In love with nature, art books and traditions. My life was pretty sad and I had a suicide attempt, but I think that my writing is not so grim (partly at least, some of them are cynical or sad, others are delicate and blissful) and I was always searching for beautiful things. Here you can find everything about my life in brief, everything you need to know if you want to:

It seems that the link above cannot be followed, at least for me, because of that @ sign, so I copy and paste here a part of what's there (where you can find all my photos):

Here's my life story: I was horribly abused since I was 13 by my parents,when I moved into the city from the suburbs, bullied by teachers and colleagues although I had no psychological defect or trouble at all. I was very poor since childhood, and everywhere it is written that poverty is the main cause for social exclusion, disease, suicide and that "the rich ones don't believe the poor ones". I was forced into psychiatric care when I was 21 (being born in 1971) because a university teacher abused me sexually. I had no psychological trauma, no delusions, no voices heard, no hallucinations and absolutely certain no other personality disorder. I studied 23 years (mathematics-physics, psychology, medicine) with high grades but I was not accepted in the rich men's world. They all say that psychiatric diagnostic means losing all legal rights: you cannot get the documents necessary from the medics to have a job to survive, to marry or to adopt children, etc. Nothing. I was forcefully absolutely isolated in the past 10 years, but I was almost completely alone since I was 13. I have no sins or mistakes at all and I dislike the hypocrites who don't believe those like me. I never had sexual desires. I never envied, etc. I remember everything, I never invented things, I was always good as warm bread, like those who knew me said. I was always calm. I believed in goodness and purity and love. My family was always very poor, but when I was in high school some evil people invented that we were rich. Before my father's death in 2005 I had at least money for food and clothes. I lost a leg in a suicide attempt but it was not my sin at all, I will not explain here, you can find on my blogs. In the past 10 years I got very fat, starving for weeks, eating lumps of bread with water or sugared boiled rice. My mother helps me, but her income too is very low. We live apart. For me it is very hard to see her after all she did to me, I cannot move with her to save money, I prefer to starve, I cannot be her larva in her house. In the past 5 years (now we're in 2015) I did not have money for transport in the city or elsewhere to make photos and I did not have money for batteries for my low cost camera. It allows only a few photos until they discharge, even if they are long lasting batteries. I hope you will enjoy a little these bits from my life in my photo albums or photostream. Since 2002 I went with my plea for human rights everywhere you can imagine, but they all rejected it. There is no such thing as a pension for handicapped persons (if they don't have enough years of work), they give only a helping sum of 10 euros a month for amputated leg if the leg has prosthetic limb and only 60 euros a month for schizophrenia. But I am not a lunatic, I was always good and I could never guess what others were thinking. Only after 35 years of age I began to perceive horrible thoughts of others, not voices, but some say that this kind of telepathic experience is a normal thing. I don't know, but I never had other symptoms before and my conduct was always normal.

My stories


In my time I looked at my hands and I understood: I resemble my mother. Life flows out from my joints and comes back to itself through my fingertips...

Don't Bend over the Train Window

I bid farewell to childhood with my soul and my face crumpling like Jacques Brel singing his music/ I wrote letters and poems without destination...

The book of the prodigal son’s daughter

and even after we go to meet our maker there’s an alley separating us apparently in two rows of angels and saints some with their head towards...

[missing snow]

missing snow I make and remake a paper ball


1 of my comments has received 1 Great Feedback vote

1 Vote

Is it life, is it death, is

Posted on Wed, 24 Jun 2015

Is it life, is it death, is it still-life? I like this kind of poems where real things are endowed with special meaning. It is emotion through banality, it is like blooming an otherwise non-magical picture. It is also a hint of mystery...

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Posted in Waiting