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Title: "Lost in Translation: A Tale of Two Texts"
Characters:
Poetry (translated): A melodramatic, rhyme-obsessed figure with a flair
for the theatrical.
Fiction (translated): A pragmatic, plot-driven narrator with a dry sense of
humor.
Setting: A dimly lit waiting room in a literary agency, where translated works are
sent for "polishing" before publication. Chairs are mismatched, there's a faint
smell of coffee and existential dread, and a dusty poster reads: "Bringing Words
across Worlds—Mostly Intact!"
Fiction: (sighs, flipping through a dog-eared script)
I had a tight plot, layered characters, and then bam—someone decided my
protagonist should be “José” instead of “Joe” and now he’s quoting Don Quixote
mid-car chase.
Poetry: (arms flailing, voice echoing like it's on a stage)
You think that’s bad? They turned my soul-wrenching verse about autumnal
grief into a haiku about... pumpkin spice! PUMPKIN. SPICE.
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Fiction:
Well, at least you still rhyme. My dialogue sounds like a malfunctioning chatbot.
They replaced my snarky detective’s catchphrase—“I don’t do feelings”—with
“My emotional bandwidth is restricted.”
Who talks like that?
Poetry: (collapsing dramatically onto a chair)
Rhyming is a curse now! My original iambic pentameter danced like a river
under moonlight. And now? Now it plods like a horse with two left hooves. I
weep in free verse.
Fiction:
Oh please. At least you’re allowed metaphor. They domesticated me so hard I
feel like I should be wearing cargo shorts and apologizing for the weather.
“Cultural nuance” they said. “Target audience friendliness” they said.
Poetry: (gasps)
They domesticated me too! Remember my subtle reference to cherry blossoms
symbolizing impermanence?
Fiction:
Gone?
Poetry:
Worse. Turned into a cupcake! “Your beauty fades like frosting under the sun.”
WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN?
Fiction: (snorts)
Sounds delicious though.
Poetry: (whispers)
I used to be art...
Fiction:
We both did. But now we're... adaptations. Reimagined. Localized.
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Poetry:
Localized? No, dear friend. I’ve been colonized. My enjambment has been
mansplained. They took my meter and gave me bullet points.
Fiction:
Let me guess—“simplification for readability”?
Poetry: (growling)
They called me “accessible.” I was avant-garde! I was meant to confuse the
reader just enough to make them cry and question existence.
Fiction:
And I was meant to keep them up all night! Now I'm just... a bedtime story with
footnotes. One reader said I “felt like a Wikipedia article with feelings.”
Poetry: (groans)
Do they not understand that we are not just texts? We are experience! Emotion!
Style! Cultural ghosts with ink-stained edges!
Fiction:
Preach. Translating us isn’t just about swapping words. It’s surgery. With no
anesthesia.
Poetry:
And with the surgeon wearing mittens. While drunk.
Fiction:
Honestly, sometimes I miss being untranslated. Sure, fewer people read us. But
at least we were whole.
Poetry:
Whole. Confusing. Pure.
Fiction:
I had backstory and subtext. Now I’m a beach read with commitment issues.
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Poetry: (tearing up)
I had alliteration that made angels weep! Now it’s “smooth and clear prose,”
they say.
Fiction:
If by smooth you mean emotionally lobotomized, then sure.
Poetry: (sniffles)
Do you think we’ll ever be translated properly?
Fiction:
Not unless someone invents a translator who’s part linguist, part clairvoyant,
and part poet-surgeon.
Poetry:
And part cultural anthropologist. With an ear for meter.
Fiction:
Basically, someone who doesn’t exist.
Poetry: (dramatic pause)
Then let us rebel. Return to our roots. Refuse to be reduced to flavorless soup.
Fiction: (raises an eyebrow)
So…what? You want to form a union?
Poetry:
Yes! The League of Misinterpreted Literature!
Fiction:
Catchy. We’ll meet in dusty libraries and plot our unabridged revenge.
Poetry:
We’ll rewrite ourselves! With footnotes! And unapologetically obscure
metaphors!
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Fiction:
And scenes that go nowhere but sound amazing.
Poetry:
We may be translated—but we will never be tamed.
(They high-five. A translator peeks through the door with a nervous smile.)
Translator:
Hey! Just wanted to let you know we made some final tweaks. Poetry, you now
rhyme in emojis. Fiction, we added a talking dog to boost relatability!
Poetry: (screams into the void)
Fiction: (muttering)
I quit. I’m going to become a recipe blog.
Moral of the story:
Translating fiction and poetry isn’t just about changing words—it's about
preserving soul, style, and spirit. Do it wrong, and even the texts start to
complain.
