Anastasia Tsarkova
Bio
Anastasia Tsarkova is a writer born in St. Petersburg and based in France, working in both English and French. Her novels, essays, and short fiction explore the human psyche and consciousness, with a focus on art, cinema, and pop culture.
Stories (8)
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Light and Shadow
From early morning, the light hits the window and floods my small apartment by the Mediterranean Sea with pastel tones. I wake to the alarm’s cry and step out onto the balcony to smoke. I had promised myself to save the few cigarettes left from last night for the next boozy get-together with friends, but the sharp smell of smoke pairs far too well with the bitter taste of black coffee. So I sink into my Acapulco chair, light my cigarette, and welcome the new southern day, promising to bring plenty of sun and fun.
By Anastasia Tsarkova3 days ago in Confessions
Untitled
A dark shadow covers the silent, stone-hot city. My boyfriend just kicked me out in the middle of the night with all my belongings. I take a few steps down the urine-stinking street and collapse onto a bench. With nowhere to go, I still sit here, waiting.
By Anastasia Tsarkova7 days ago in Fiction
The Red Hatred
Sometimes I feel like I hate you. A kind of red magma forms inside me, in my chest, and rises to my throat. In that moment, I want to destroy. I want to grab a plate and smash it into pieces. I want to take scissors and shred that red, sexy underwear I bought to please you.
By Anastasia Tsarkova13 days ago in Fiction
Breakfast at Tiffany’s with a Cat
It’s 9 a.m., time for a morning snack: chia seeds with coconut milk, accompanied by a black lungo, in front of a terrific panorama of rolling countryside hills, caressed by the gentle, peach-colored light of the rising sun. And surely, with a good book in hand.
By Anastasia Tsarkova15 days ago in Critique
In Search of Eternity
His street occupied a position of rare absurdity on the map of City N.: it neither led to the sea nor toward the train station. By setting foot on it, one found oneself even farther from one’s destination. Moreover, it was far less well lit than neighboring Verdi Street.
By Anastasia Tsarkova16 days ago in Fiction
Notes on Afterwards
I can no longer think about anything. I simply savor the moments when I can close my eyes and let myself be carried away by the memories of that night. Desire burns me, devours me, paralyzes me. Abrupt sentences, monosyllabic words, insults, linguistic pirouettes—from god to whore—loop endlessly in my head. It’s the moment when one no longer knows how to speak, like a newborn, the moment when the verb is not yet there. The moment when one feels the present instant in all its nuances: through touch, sight, taste, smell. The moment when one almost no longer exists. No, when one truly no longer exists, especially as an individual being. It is the moment of absolute fusion with another. It is the moment of coït. With two dots on a single i.
By Anastasia Tsarkova17 days ago in Fiction
