🎶Above and Below – A Tale of Rain, Rhyme, and Shadows - Musical Prose with Caribbean Soul 🎤📖 🎸

artwork & poetry specially provided by NS

HERE `S THE SONG USED IN THE STORY:
https://shemzee.bandcamp.com/track/--744

Sofia. Gray, rain-slicked, and heavy like a forgotten grief. A city of contrasts and contradictions—just like him.

Stan moved through its streets like a ghost from another continent. Dressed in black, lone and silent, with only his spotless white “Crime London” sneakers giving him away. He looked like the future had spit him out into the past—and maybe it had.

He wasn't a tourist, nor a local. Not anymore. He was a man shaped by another rhythm, another sun—but now stepping into Bulgaria's underground rap scene with something more dangerous than a weapon: truth.

The story of Stanislav Stratev is a story of duality—above and below, past and future, hope and decay. From a tense encounter with a gang of Gen Z street kids in a metro station, to the thunderous applause of a rap concert crowd, Stan is constantly caught between layers of identity. Between being feared and being ignored. Between alienation and connection.

ABOVE AND BELOW

Stan moved like a shadow through the muddy streets of rain-soaked Sofia. The difference from the sun-drenched Caribbean was staggering. The leaden sky, the gray buildings, the cold rain—they weighed on him like sorrow. Wrapped in his black hoodie, with a black baseball cap, black jeans, and a black backpack, he merged seamlessly into the gloom. Only his white “Crime London” sneakers stood out—clean, glossy, and expensive enough to be noticed by anyone who knew the difference between style and coincidence.
From the open side pockets of his backpack peeked two aluminum thermoses—water on the left, coffee on the right. Inside: a Swiss Army knife with too many attachments, a wallet with bills and cards, a coin pouch, a metal box with biscuits, spare socks and underwear. Prepared for every possibility. He strode quickly, avoiding puddles with athletic precision, like a man used to moving through uncertain ground.
At the entrance of a nearby metro station, he shifted the backpack to his chest and descended underground. After scanning the digital board, he stopped beside a pillar.
Then came the noise.
A gang of teenagers approached, laughing and shouting. Their voices, crude and careless, filled the space like smoke, trailing slang and sneering jokes. Tinny trap beats bled from their phones, and the sharp stench of cheap vape filled the air. Their slang, their shrill voices, their careless cackling—pure Gen Z. Stan mentally named them THE ALMOSTS: almost grown, almost human, almost ruined—children of chalga and television, adrift in the touchscreen world. He avoided them at all costs.
He stepped back. Two minutes until the train. No point in confrontation. For a brief moment, he thought—if this is Bulgaria’s future, then he and it have none in common.
They noticed him.
“Yo, check out this dude with the white Crimes!” one of them called out, laughing harshly.
“Daaamn, full drip! He’s flexin’ hard.”
“No cap, them shoes cost more than Pesho’s Jordans.”
“Look at that vibe—old school, but like… silent killer vibes.”
“Bet he’s some lowkey influencer.”
“Nah, bro think he’s John Wick.”
“Yo chill, or we’ll miss the train.”
“Omg, look how he’s staring—straight up ‘what you lookin’ at?’ face.”
One stepped forward, sneering.
“Yo, why you all curled up like that, bro? You in a bad mood or what?”
Stan stared at him from under the brim of his cap. Silent. Still. He sifted through their crude slang, weighing which phrase to answer with. The other’s vape flickered blue in the tunnel’s neon light.
“Don’t grin at me,” he said quietly. “Or I’ll knock the smile off your face.”
The voice was low. Calm. A gravel tone with no volume, only edge.
The boy fell silent. Laughter died. A silence followed—strange, heavy, a moment with no emojis.
“Chill, man,” someone mumbled from the back. “No need for drama.”
Stan didn’t move. Just looked at each of them in turn, gaze sharp as a blade. Then, slowly, he leaned back against the column, watching them until the train roared in with wind and thunder.
He let them board. He waited for the next one.
“There’s a train for everyone,” he thought, and welcomed the silence returning to the platform.

---

An hour later, he neared the park. The concert was about to begin—his first rap concert, and he wasn’t just attending. He was performing.
He had played blues and rock in smoky clubs and secret events, but this—this was different. Outdoors. In daylight. No guitar to cling to.
The organization had been flawless. Email, then phone. They asked for the instrumental in .wav format, confirmed its receipt, the date, the hour. That morning, they’d even sent a reminder SMS.
Now the rain had stopped. The sun was clawing through clouds. The world, once colorless, began to breathe again.
The stage stood covered in the middle of the park. Speakers were swaddled in plastic. Staff moved about in yellow T-shirts with the word printed bold: STAFF.
Stan approached a guard and showed his pass.
“I’m Stanislav Stratev. Finalist. Performer.”
The burly man scanned the QR code, nodded toward the back of the stage.
“Artists over there.”
“Thanks,” Stan said, and walked on.
Behind the stage, he was given an orange wristband—performer status. Soon after, he met DJ Stefo.
“You’re Stan, right? Your track’s called KRAI?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re number nineteen. One before the end. If you wanna say something before you start, go ahead. I’m watching you. When you’re ready to rap, just say, ‘DJ, drop the beat.’ Got it?”
“If you mess up and need a smooth stop—thumb up. Emergency stop—thumb down. Cool?”
“Cool.”
“Let’s do a soundcheck. Grab the mic.”
“Alright. Drop the beat.”

---

The concert kicked off in the late afternoon. Stan watched with cautious curiosity. This was the underground rap scene—raw, unfiltered. Some acts were sharp, clever. Others, bland. A few were pure nonsense. But all owned the stage.
Some had entourages, hyped-up friends. Some wore neon, one wore a traditional Bulgarian outfit and a fur hat.
Stan removed his hoodie, folded it into his backpack. Underneath: a T-shirt with a skull and “Cypress Hill” across the chest. He took a sip of coffee. Smoked a cigarette. He was alone—the only one with no crew. He stashed his bag behind the stage. No one to hold it for him.
Performers came and went. Beats dropped. The crowd pulsed.
Then it was his turn.
The host called his name. The applause was polite—he was a stranger, just another name.
Stan stepped up, took the mic, and said:
“The point of hip-hop is truth. And for Bulgaria, there’s no other way but truth.
DJ, drop the beat.”
The dark sound of trap poured from the speakers. Stan, voice gravel-thick with nerves, began:
A crowd of Todor-Zhivkovs and half-baked hustlers,
Naked knights of the spoon, drunk dreamers on payday.
You braved freedom like sausage and brandy,
Stuffed in a glass bottle by the gods of the factory shift…
He saw nothing—just the beat, the rhyme, the rhythm. The bass pulsed like a heartbeat. The keys haunted the air. He didn’t miss a step.
Then, near the end:
I stood alone before the sacred land—
closed my eyes and felt the rain…
And yes—he felt it. Rain again. He opened his eyes. It was real.
Final chorus. He signaled DJ Stefo—thumb up. The beat faded into silence. Then applause—real this time. Loud. Respectful.
Stan smiled. Tapped his heart with a fist, threw a finger-kiss to the crowd, and left the stage.

---

Afterwards, a few performers came to shake his hand. Asked where he was from. Told him he was good. Just like that—he wasn’t alone anymore.
The audience had swelled. Not just THE ALMOSTS. People of all ages—middle-aged fans, even pensioners. Some chuckled at the lyrics with a good-natured Balkan sarcasm. Despite the gangsta look of some, there was no aggression, no fights. The staff—yellow shirts, work gloves—moved among the crowd, quietly picking up trash.
Stan was impressed. This kind of organization—he had never seen before.
He glanced at the jury table: a famous rapper, a well-known MP, and an unknown host-slash-organizer. Just three. A Stalinist tribunal.
Would they give him anything? Doubtful. The kids had fans. Stan was a nobody, from another generation. No showmanship.
He packed up. Ready to leave.
The awards began. Crowd Favorite—some guy. Special Mention—another. Encouragement Prize—a band. Stan put on his hoodie, cap, took a last sip of coffee…
“First prize at the Rodna Zemya Rap Contest goes to… STANISLAV STRATEV!”
He froze. Didn’t expect that. Walked to the stage, forgetting to take off his backpack. Lights blinded him. Reporters surrounded him. The host shook his hand. Then the MP. Then the rapper.
Voices blurred, all speaking at once—but the smiles told him enough.
The world spun beneath him. He felt lifted.
He closed his eyes. Rain again.
“…closed my eyes and felt the rain
It came ever closer
and ever farther
ever eastward
ever west.
The road is long,
the exit—brief.
Is there an end? I ask you—is there an end…”
He stood there a while longer as the rain whispered on his cap. The applause faded. People drifted off. Someone handed him a certificate. Another, a statuette. The MP—an envelope. Heavy.
He posed for photos. Answered questions. Then alone again.
He opened the envelope. Inside—1,500 leva in cash. 50s and 100s. Not bad. Alongside it: a card.
“Studio C-Rhyme: One free recording session. Valid for 30 days.”
He nodded. Said thank you. And walked away—alone once more.

---

The sun dipped low. Sofia turned into a mirror of rain and light. The streets shimmered gold with headlight reflections. Wind drifted lazily between the concrete cubes of Hadzhi Dimitar.
Stan passed the Spisarevski monument, turned onto Kiril Vidinski, then slipped down past the old post office into Serafimov Street—always damp, always smelling of mildew, rain, and secrets.
He moved like a shadow again—not with the pride of a winner, but the watchfulness of someone who sensed that something had shifted.
Descending the steps to Teatralna metro station, he saw them.
Two silhouettes near the ticket machine. Short. Hoods up. Leaning. Quiet. Just watching.
He passed them slowly. Felt their eyes pin him to the wall. Reflected in his shoes—still white. Still Crime London.
He reached the platform. It was empty. Neon flickered. Trains echoed faintly on the far track.
Then, behind him, a voice.
“Yo, is that him?”
He didn’t turn. Just stared into the reflection in the train door.
Two boys. Now three.
A taller one joined them. Hoodie up. Jacket torn at the sleeves. Jogged over, stopped. Passed something to one of them.
A metallic sound. A chain. Or something worse.
“Yo, that’s the dude who won the contest… with the rain song,” one snickered in a high-pitched voice.
“Rain? Bro’s got a storm in his head.”
— Bro’s flexing hard. Check out his kicks! Look at that drip, man! Clean as hell.
— Bet he’s still got the prize money on him… — someone added with a deep, drawling voice. — I say we split it up.
Stan started walking toward the end of the platform. Deliberately. Slowly. No panic. But from the other end — near the tunnel — more were coming. The group had grown. Two in black — one wearing a surgical mask, the other with yellow glasses — but the disguises couldn't hide the fact they were just kids. Locals. Street rats. From the generation of out-of-control TikToks, plastic rage, and sugar-coated sexism. Their faces — boyish. But their eyes — empty. Empty and dangerous.
Stan stopped. Looked at them. Took out his coffee thermos, took a sip, put it back. He felt something tightening in his chest. Something very old and very specific.
Was it fear? Or anger?
Then he saw her.
Yes, it was her. Ira. Small, fragile, with a colorful backpack and headphones around her neck, coming down the stairs. She’d gotten thinner, and her hair was green — but it was her. She saw the group. Froze. Then started moving quickly — not running, but her eyes darted between them and Stan.
Stan was thinking fast: “They’re just kids, kids, stupid kids. But they could hurt her, right? They could hurt me. Little monsters. Bold and cruel. God, what if they were my kids? Nonsense, I know damn well why I don’t have kids. So they don’t turn into this…”
— Hey, hey… what’s the babe staring at, huh? — someone sneered. Another one croaked:
— Yo, watch me snatch her headphones and tell her, “Come dance for me, baby!”
— Let’s ask her if she wants a backstage pass, hahahaha! Let’s go give this chick a “karaminyol”!
— Hey, babe! Watch this! — and a shaved-head boy grabbed her arm. Ira yelped.
Stan dropped all caution. There was nothing left to think about — it was all clear now.
He dropped his backpack. Quietly. Slowly. And walked toward them.
He stopped in front of the biggest one. The kid was holding a baseball bat — black, aluminum. Stan stared him down. Said nothing. Just held out his hand. The kid flinched:
— What do you want, old man? Get lost before we smash you!
But Stan didn’t move. With a lightning-fast motion, he snatched the bat from the kid’s hands. The smaller one backed off — more shocked by Stan’s calm than by his strength. Stan stepped forward with the bat in hand. No shouting. No pretending. In his mind, questions ticked like a metronome: “What do they understand out here, on the street? What speaks to these primitives? Ah! That’s it! A slap, man — that’s their language!”
And staring straight at the scrawny one, he raised the bat and began to chant:
— One day I got drunk…
(step forward)
— Then I got into a fight…
(step forward)
— And I smashed some loser’s head in that night…
His voice was calm. Low. Brutally clear.
— ONE DAY I GOT DRUNK…
— THEN I GOT INTO A FIGHT…
— AND I SMASHED SOME LOSER’S HEAD IN THAT NIGHT…
Stan stared at them one by one. His eyes shone like headlights. Full of something no TikToker, no drugged-up kid could grasp — resolve.
A dangerous, psycho silence fell. A dead second. The tension became unbearable. Someone gulped audibly. One of the kids stepped back. Then another. Then all of them.
— Bro, this guy’s nuts! — one squeaked. — Let’s bounce, man. I don’t want trouble!
— What now! We rushing him or we running?
Stan roared and charged with the bat:
— Your motherf***ers!
— Shit! Stop, man, come on…
— Run! He’s gonna wreck us!
And they scattered. Like rats. Loud, swearing, with no dignity. They left behind only a fallen cap and the sharp stink of fear.
Stan stood there. Still holding the bat. Ira was standing off to the side, eyes wide. Frozen in shock and horror. Stan smiled.
— I almost gave them a little head renovation. Hello, Ira.
— Stan? Is it really you? How did you end up here? — Ira couldn’t believe her eyes.
— Long story. But first, we need to get out of this place. Can you walk?
— I can. I live nearby, on Krivolak Street and…
— Thank you… — Ira said quietly, still breathless, her voice trembling slightly, but her gaze clear. — Come home with me, if you don’t mind… I just… I need someone to talk to tonight.
Stan nodded, took her by the arm, and they disappeared underground toward Krivolak Street.

---

TO BE CONTINUED

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