smiling hell cafe…. short story by don evers

February 13, 2015 § Leave a comment



goddess of night

December 16, 2014 § Leave a comment

the dark seamy underside
most alive
at 3 am,
only merges with
the light
at daybreak…
long before
the swill of man
pollutes the afternoon air;
the blond vampires
infest the the evening…
metal prancing on
boulevards of
black tarlike veins.
slither stalking
post hypnotic
temple whores
wallets of white picket
until every heroinic
recepticle of being
has been filled
all the way up
with the day’s
semen of lost boys
and finally
the goddess
of the night
strips away
the last supper of
emptiness and self hatre

A birthday Swansong by Ananth

November 28, 2014 § Leave a comment

The birthday Swansong

A letter by Ananth

Dear Kumiko,

I am sure that by now the brutality of time and the dirty hands of life would have

wrinkled that soft skin of yours. The same soft skin upon which my tongue and lips

had preyed upon mercilessly. I hope that you are fine wherever you are and

whomever you are with. I write to you now not in search of our long lost obsession;

not as a lonely and injured soldier but as a tribute to that magical music that we

created by rubbing our soul and sensations together.

Sometimes during the warm summer evenings in Okinawa; the sun sets into the

hollow confines of the blue ocean while sending in orange messengers of warmth

through my half open window to remind me of how you left me. I search the vast

expanse of the East China sea laying in front of me with a dormant beast within her

breasts. I search for a long lost satire that you once sang to me. A sad satire which

made me happy like a madman just because it was you who sang it to me lying on

my lap as we were dancing in our minds to the tunes of the warm messengers. Now

when I recall those scenes, I realize that there is something about orange warm

evenings and us. Us: An undigested story. A cheerful poem that makes me cry. A

dark and orange shadow amongst the flames which burnt us. Kumiko! Its been

almost 21 years since I last saw you. Almost half of my life has gone like the sad

and unnoticed pre monsoon winds in southern India. But throughout these years, I

have been burning the papers out of the book of us; one by one everyday. Just to

keep me warm and save me from the traces of the frozen and cold venom of our

once up on a time orgasms.

On cold winter mornings when I find it insanely hard to even get out of my bed; a

wet sensation in my dream and a soft breath of air behind my ears lifts me up. I put

on my running shoes and find my way along the majestic Nagoya castle as the city

is still hidden in the dark mists of its dreams. Its my desire to feel you again which pushes

me through the muscle tearing cold; a parody of ice, skin and blood – woven

by the spirit of your sensation. I feel you there Kumiko. I embrace you not knowing

that what I am left with is just a soak of sweat and a picture of a dead white dove

in my heart. You were like Vivaldis four season. You brought a drop of pure and

golden honey to the tip of my tongue. I was swept by the innocence of the moment;

the harmony of the sensation; the swiftness of our laughter. Now I lay in the garden

behind your bedroom; under your window just to share the emptiness of the night

with you. I wake up, not drenched in dew like the grasses in the garden but with

tears of an once up on a time melody. Yes Kumiko; you were a mind-blowing

darkness which has left me confused. I remember seeing you the first time in my life

on a hot summer afternoon. The naked corridors in front out our school library was

engaged in a losing battle by the hot orange messengers from the sun. You were

walking in front of me, a few inches away from my heart and a hundred inches

away from my touch. Your brownish black hair, like the rusts of an ancient

samurais sword. The black kajal singing a n ode to the darkness under your eyes.

My eyes were running forth between your hair and eyes and breasts. You were

looking down as you went across me, oblivious to the presence of my fragrance. At

that moment, I did not know that I would suck the void out of your mouth and make

it my life to let you bloom as a golden flower in a faraway garden. A garden

embraced by my tears as dews to soften your petals. I still love you and forever

will. Like I made a promise to you on that dim winter evening, in the moist and

crowded meijo line on our way back to our little shared condo in Yagoto. That was

the day I had first kissed you and I promised to that innocent and vulnerable girl

within you that I would love you forever. Such cliched lines right? You may not

remember me now nor my shy smile nor the thousands of promises that we’ve made.

On this fateful and dark evening, I sit at my desk in front of the window,

overlooking the radcliff circle in the city centre of Oxford. I think of us my first

love. We could not be together forever right? I had the fear of losing you ever since

I saw you in front of the library on that rusty summer evening. The fear of losing

you even when you weren’t mine; I have always known that you used to hate that

fear of mine. Made you uncomfortable. But on that silent and rainy night, you did

end things with me as I held onto my cheap mobile phone like it was my lifeboat in

a wounded and boisterous storm with the deep dark silence on the other side of

receiver. The reminiscence of that last conversation; the parting of our lips as the intricate

lines of our saliva bid farewell; that vacant seat on my lap; a half written novel; the

pain of my first cut. I love you Kumiko. I yearn for the smell of your hair; a touch

of my hand on your curvy hips; a pat on your adorable tummy; a warm lick on my

cheeks. I can never forget what you had done to me my Queen! Now the pride

princess of an unknown warrior. Worshipped by a Kingdom unfamiliar to me. I

pray for you from this maddening whirlpool I am in. I wish to be born again, to be

engulfed and tossed in a fierce and unknown mist called Kumiko.

Happy Birthday my Queen. Thee manifestation of my love, my vacuum and my



26th July,2014


toxicity by don evers

November 25, 2014 § Leave a comment

toxic love

I know now why i am…

i have suspected it for a

long time

blocked it for a long time

felt it for a long time….

beaten as a child… as an infant


the object of rage

in the place of adoration

the object of isolation

taught me that one can love

that one’s love…

is penniless in the face

of rage

and frozen within my soul

is a little boy

forever locked inside

this cage of rage

which has now become my only refuge

and in my mother’s long absence

i continue this one act play

destroying myself alone

bit by bit

day by day


Espresso Love… First excerpt, by Takatsu

November 25, 2014 § Leave a comment



“They say your order reveals the depths of your being. Like wearing your heart on your sleeve.”


That was the first thing she said to me that day. It had been a coffee shop, three blocks down the street from campus, tucked between a little hair salon and a three-story Kinokuniya bookstore. It’s the bookstore that kept it full of interesting characters, streaming in and out – books, coffee and cell phones. But surprisingly enough, only a few spend time at the dusty wooden round tables. Tables that look like they have been fished, hook, line and sinker, mismatched and all, out of an antique store from the belly of a fish. I have always been one of those few. Nothing is better than immediately sitting down with a nice paperback novel, cover rolled behind the book in one hand. Books are meant to be read, I always tell whoever happened to inquire why I hold books the way I do.


She didn’t talk about the book in my hand however – it was a DeLillo novel; she was talking about my coffee. Surely, one would think to talk about coffee in a coffee shop but that somehow wasn’t a common topic. But with her, it was always about the coffee.


She sits down, sets her purse on her lap like she’s bursting to tell her life story, or how this girl in her class is a prude – leans forward, so her shirt falls just a little too low, causing me to avert my eyes to nowhere in particular – and looks straight at me.


I don’t know whether to be intimidated or intrigued. She looks young and carefree. I am certain she’s a freshman. But to sit down in front of a complete stranger like the best of friends and begin with such a profound and penetrating phrase is inviting all kinds of strange impressions. So I straighten a bit to create more distance between us, as if to say we aren’t so acquainted.


She purses her lips and smiles wryly. Perhaps thoughtfully.


So I make a noncommittal sound of agreement, wondering what to say.


I hide behind my cup. The pearl white, smooth porcelain, greets my lips. My warm coffee. The temperature of the soul. I watch the depths of its darkness churn and froth, streams of white cream in a swirling galaxy, as if it might tell me the answer.


The silence is unsettling. She’s still staring at me. Like she’s waiting for a response.


“My order changes according to mood, season and my date.” I smile back. Wittily, I am hoping.


She shrugs. “Then you’re a wishy-washy kind of person.”


I take it as a compliment. “It means I’m flexible and adaptive to my environment.”


Her nose crinkles in melodic laughter. “Sure. Whatever you like.”


I pause and wait, believing for a moment that she will introduce herself. But she doesn’t.


“What’s your order?”


She looks at me for a while, like she’s weighing the value of my words. “Remember this.” She says. “Tall caramel chai tea latte, soy, 120 degrees, extra whip.”


“Don’t forget. It can make a big difference,” she adds.


“I’ll remember.” I could imagine the barista at the counter, this young woman with short brown hair – must have been in her teens – bowing and smiling as kindly as she could upon hearing the order. But it would remain in question whether the barista was impressed or not.


I ponder how the order reflects on her person. The contents of her drink aren’t visible behind the brim of her cup. She’s probably already drank half of it. Half-empty or half-full. But somehow her order fits like a piece of a jigsaw puzzle. Without it, the picture just won’t be complete. If she isn’t holding her cup of tall caramel chai tea latte, soy, 120 degrees, extra whip, she might just fall apart, maybe, piece by piece in front of my eyes. It might be sad. Or perhaps not.


She has a pleasant heart-shaped face, almost precisely, methodologically sculpted into flesh on top of creamy pale skin and a large forehead, covered by bangs from a painterly cascade of russet hair. Straight simple hair, resting just over her shoulders. Like silk. Well groomed. A girl who takes care of her hair well is always impressive. Atop her face perches this delicately arched nose that points up but not too high, to avoid being arrogant or snarky. But if she tucks her chin in and looks blank, her nose might deem her unapproachable. Still, after a long look at her hair, her face and her complexion, altogether she might only appear average – most pretty Japanese girls are the same.


Yet, not every girl has her eyes. It’s her eyes that bring the world to life.


She stares at me with wide stained-glass eyes, deep and intense. A spiraling vortex of jet black and specks of light, like a cup of plain coffee. Spiraling into the infinite. Enough to crystallize any moment in time. I’m careful not to look into them. If I do, I might be sucked in, deeper and deeper, warping into another dimension with no way to return.


“Have we met before?” I ask.


She looks at me with this perplexed expression as if to say, why, of course not.


“Well, nice to meet you then.”


“Well,” she says, “nice to meet you too.” There’s an ambiguous smile on her lips now. It’s as though she had been waiting all along for me to say that. But if I had been expecting a name, I am mistaken it seems.


So I reach out to extend a handshake. “I’m Maeda. Maeda Naoki,” I say.


She examines my hand for a second before taking it.


“Kaneko Shizuka.”


I am taken aback at her first name. Shizuka, which means quiet, is hardly a fitting name. It’s quite the opposite. Just like her hand, small and gentle. Its warmth seeps through my fingers. I let go.


“That’s the look everyone gives me when they find out my name. They might be wondering if I had come from another planet or straight out of a strange recurring dream. It’s always like that, I’m used to it.”


“I’m sorry. Perhaps it’s a pleasant surprise though.”


However, there’s no response.


For a while, she puts on a blank face. A cold and unforgiving lifeless stare. It kind of reminds me of a keen-eyed cat on a stormy day watching its owners come and go. Have I said something wrong? The change is so sudden it catches me off guard and sends a shiver down my spine.


But colour returns to her eyes soon. Snap out of reverie.


“I come here every week,” she says. “See that couple over there?”




“There.” She indicates with a slight jerk of her head. Her hair bounces.




“They come here all the time as well.”


“Oh, now that you mention it…”


She nods but doesn’t continue.


“But what about them?”


She rests her head on the palm of her hand and taps her temple, as if she is deep in thought. I watch those large crystalline eyes of hers twinkle and glimmer with life. While mine, I’m sure, remains flat and grey, no matter when.


“Don’t you notice?” She pauses and stares off at them.


“Stop staring.”


She grins. “Don’t you notice,” she continues, “they never speak to one another. For the six months I’ve been here, every week, they sit across from one another and stare into space. Sometimes they tap at their phones, other times they watch people shuffle by. Sometimes they must just be sitting and breathing in the aroma of coffee beans. But they never look at each other, or talk.”


“Really?” I ask, intrigued.


“Yes. I’m quite observant.” She drawls out the word ob-ser-vant before hiding behind her cup of chai tea latte.


I watch the couple. Matching black parkas, matching black rimmed glasses, matching blue jeans, even matching cell phone cases. But,


“But they’re talking today.” She says.


The girl – she must be in college too, no school uniform and a thick bag that looks quite laden with textbooks – leans closer, resting her elbows on the rickety wooden table.


“What if they’ve always been talking but you never noticed?”


Chai tea girl shakes her head quite confidently.


“No no, I’ve watched them for a long time.”


“I see.”


“They’re only speaking today.”


“What do you think they’re talking about?”


She shrugs. “Beats me. Mozart compared to the Beatles, maybe. Or cirrocumulus clouds. But she’s smiling. He’s frowning. Doesn’t seem so good.”


“What are they drinking?”


She doesn’t answer yet. She studies them carefully, craning her head even.


“Don’t be so obvious.”


She waves her hand dismissively. “She’s got black coffee. He has, I don’t know, iced lemon tea?”


“In a coffee shop, in this season?” I laugh. “No wonder he’s frowning.”


She studies me for a moment, as though she’s inspecting my ears or something. Then she laughs as well, like I have passed a test, and stretches back, taking a deep breath to bathe in the smell of coffee. We pretend to be good friends.


We soak in the coffee bean sea.




The floor-to-ceiling windows are large murals set and painted into the wall next to us. They press pigments flatly together, embellished, thick and generous so that they seem to have a three dimensional quality. Yet, at the same time, it is hard to accept as reality. Just a mere imitation, an impression of realism. But if one stares long enough, the colors would seem to blur and distort, blending at the ends, like their seams are being revealed little by little. Where the fabric meets space and where space meets time, they are unbecoming threads strewn apart. Such is what Shizuka Kaneko is looking at while I peer at her over the brim of my cup, through a sheen of rising steam.


My coffee is still hot fortunately. My paperback is now set neatly on the table, its cover curled up from the way I hold books, and a corner of it, slightly frayed. In this fashion, the book seems most appetizing. It is an invitation to be opened again: the slightly frayed corner, curled cover and maybe in an unnoticeable way, the surface of the paper and its protective varnish has melted already, worn, losing capitalist value but accumulating eternal weight of the mind with every second past.


I don’t use bookmarks though, I can always tell where I last left off.


For a long time, we sit there in silence, like the conversation is over and we are a couple married for too long, bored to wit’s end. It is a marriage on the brim of tipping over into disaster, never again redeemed. Our eyes may be scanning the room for the next potential partner. Merely another process of society. But I am confident that Shizuka is not here to sit in silence.


The way her eyes gazed at me a while ago, conveyed much that might be better off unspoken. She knows me. Knows more than she should.


Her eyes are not ones that wandered or experimented. Despite the shine and glamour of her person, she expresses an air of precision – an oddly calculated precision. Such that every exuberant or enthusiastic word in her speech, the way she leans forward, the way she sips from her cup or crosses her silky thighs beneath her skirt, each strand of hair brushed behind her wonderfully shaped ear, even the amount of intensity she gave to her gaze, radiates the impression that they are all conscious decisions. Or perhaps it’s only my delusion.


Still, she doesn’t speak for a long time. I wait and follow her gaze and watch the moving murals on the wall. Feet are trampling by, a pitter patter of rain drops: winter boots, worn sneakers, polished and waxed old shoes, high heels, clop clop clop, like horse hooves on bare legs, school socks, skinny jeans, creased trousers, ironed dress pants, multicolored with varying musical rhythms and paces, postures and method, each as alien as the next.


I realize I don’t usually stare at feet in such a way. The heads bobbing by, like schools of fish in a tank, are a spectacle – or are we the spectacle to them? – backs straight or hunched, fashionable or disordered – they no longer mattered. The feet attracts my attention. She is staring at feet. In some strange way, whatever she is staring at or thinking of, it is that much more interesting than the rest of the world.


In a split second, she turns her attention back at me however. Her head pivots on its axis. I am suddenly the most interesting thing in her world. Her gaze is just as intense, unraveling me, stripping off my clothes, skinning me alive, revealing my bones and organs, piercing through my heart, exposing my soul – I look at my coffee cup.


“It’s cold outside.” She says but it sounds like song.


“Yes, it is.”


“Do you like the season?”


“No, I prefer the warmth of summer.”


“Because women can wear less clothing.” She laughs. It must be calculated too. Not too loud, not too quiet. I stare at her perplexed.


“Don’t have such stereotypical preconceptions of men. Surely not all men are like that.”


“It is the intrinsic fundamental nature of man that makes him think such. Even if you consciously deny it, there is a subconscious urge within to find an attractive member of the opposite sex and to mate.”


I remain silent.


“It’s only natural.” She explains. “We exist to reproduce. To carry our species, our memories, our experiences, our skills, our genes. So that we don’t expire.” I try to chuckle it off but grow steadily more perturbed and uncomfortable.


“Why are you telling me this?”


She shrugs. “You said you like the summer.”


“And that culminates in this discussion we’re having?”


She smiles. “It’s just what came to mind.” She says, but surely, it isn’t what just came to mind.


“You have a very narrow mind then. What if I had said winter?”


“I would tell you if you had replied winter.”


She sips from her cup before she tells me anyway. “I enjoy winter, because it is the season of the soul. Just like drinking coffee or tea – no doubt a necessity for the winter. It’s when the nights and the hours of the dark are long, when each day becomes significant because the year draws to a close, reaching its climax and turning point. When human beings are forced into deep contemplation and physical lethargy, the slumber of the body, there’s potential for the awakening of the mind. I mean, we are even obligated to think about our resolutions and what we’ve done right or wrong, and what the future holds. Like during Christmas, opposite forces and emotions collide: both nostalgia and celebration. It is the epitome of life in a way.”


“So summer is the awakening of the body, when life calls us to action and adventure, where we seek to observe and experience the external world around, rather than turn to the world within. The awakening of the flesh occurs and therefore, sexual meaning.”


She nods. “Precisely.”


I say nothing else as I watch her drain her cup and set it down with a hollow thud. It is strangely loud, despite the wash of background noise from hushed conversations and bustling business. Why she chose to speak about all this to a stranger is beyond me. But what she said registers slowly with a sense of familiarity, like a whiff of fragrance from an old home, telling me I have known it all along, only never given it any thought.


“You love to read, yes?”


I glance at my paperback Mao II, like it might offer some sort of comfort. I wonder what she is to say next. I start to feel like I’m in an interrogation room at the end of a long white table and a single blinding fluorescent bulb hangs above.


“Have you read Beckett’s play ‘Waiting for Godot’?”


“Yes,” I pause, “It’s a play however.”


“You can read it all the same. In some ways, it’s better to read it than see it.” She doesn’t elaborate.


“What about it?” I sip from my cup. The contents still gives a significant burn, yet she has already finished hers. Without a cup, she is transfixed in watching me with those clear eyes and glistening lips, pressed into a tight smile.


“You think I have something pre-scripted to say about it?”


“Well, from what you’ve been saying since you sat down at this table, I would say yes.”


“I was going to say that it’s good to read it in the winter.”


I arch an eyebrow. “Knowing its absurdist and existential contents, it can get depressing.”


“You need winter to draw into our own cocoons of existence. Sometimes our existence appears to never change like in the play. In actuality, we are but temporal fleeting blips in the timeline of history. Yet sometimes, we perceive time passing by around us like it never moves, like we are sitting in one spot forever.”


I wait for her to continue. She doesn’t.


“I’ll get to the point then.”


She looks up at me, like a bright intelligent creature coming out of hibernation. She opens her mouth, and this time, the gust of her words catches me in a powerful current. I stare back at her and watch as the world tips its scales.


“At exactly eight forty five in the morning, you visit Kinokuniya, head up to the second floor and browse meaninglessly through the manga section – but you never will find one to your liking, since you’re only interested in highbrow literature, and instead, you visit the third floor, last row, where there’s fiction, but not just any fiction, because you’re looking for soul: soul, you think comes from obscure paperbacks that aren’t put onto display shelves and promoted as bestsellers with attractively minimalist cover designs, that look like it might offer some sort of abstract mysticism, and when you find one, you pick one up, smell the pages, shift it from left to right, reading the covers, but you know you’ve already chosen based on intuition, and then you pretend you’re not so certain, meandering down the stairs, pausing at the bestseller shelves and the staff picks; you pay for the book, counting out the exact change from your pockets, come here holding it in your hand, order a seasonal special, or if the person ahead of you orders something interesting you will ‘give it a try’, then you’ll take a seat at the back corner, with the window in front of you and the rest of the room behind you so you can easily watch people pass by on the street – and read your book; you do this from Monday to Friday, since you don’t have morning classes.” She says all in one breath.


I may or may not have a dumbfounded look on my face. Somehow her words are not as unexpected as it might have been to a bystander.


She continues.


“Listen. I didn’t come here for small talk. I’ve been watching you.” She says a matter-of-factly. No sing-song voice. Just toneless and flat. Her eyes have changed into the depths of a frigid sea again.


“Tomorrow, don’t take the bus. Take the train and walk four blocks. Things are starting to change.”


Then, she gives a brief little smile, eyes twinkling, shifting, as if the swirls of jet black are changing direction. She stands up, her chair screeching against the floor and without waiting for my reply, spins around, hair billowing, disappearing into the crowd outside the glass windows. The world outside.


I try to sip from my cup. It’s hot.




I had sat there for a long while, watching her back disappear into the school of bobbing heads like fish, to join the chorus of stomping feet in syncopated rain-beat rhythm. Her figure and the way her hips moved as she walked briskly, upright, chest out, in cool business-like confidence forever etched itself into my mind. Even when she had disappeared, I was still sitting there.


My mind had been mostly empty, blank, a new slate. Her words had seemed to wash over me like a gentle tide from the moon’s pull on a midsummer evening. At the time, I was too much summer to achieve that inner gravitation towards my own world within, to truly comprehend her words. She had craftily manipulated her speech so she hadn’t seemed to be in a rush, yet when I could mull her words over, I realized she had just dropped an entire novel’s worth of content on my lap. To sit on my mind like a solid weight, sinking to the bottom of a muddied pool.


I didn’t bother to surface or struggle against gravity. Whatever she meant, I could not begin to fathom then. Whenever I tried to think about it, a headache would ensue. Whenever she talked to me, it was like sailing an enormous ocean where there was no visible shoreline, lost in the middle of an unending canvas of frothing waters and infinite horizons. Sometimes I would drown and sink like a rock. Other times I would remain aloft, floating, suspended on some powerful cushion.


Despite the resounding beauty in her eyes and in her mannerism, I could not bring myself to believe her for an instant right then. True, she had natural charisma and a mesmerizing conviction, but to even accept her existence, her sudden appearance and disappearance was challenging my own sanity.


I had already laid out what she had said in front of me on the table like dealing playing cards to customers at a casino. 1) Orders at a coffee shop said something about the person drinking it. 2) She is observant and was watching me buy books at Kinokuniya. 3) Summer is for the flesh, winter is for the inner mind and winter is better. 4) We seem to sit unchanging, but things are changing now.


Among the four pieces of information she had fed me, I could find no correlation. Why had she spoken of such things and how did one point flow into another? Were they all part of one painting or separate paintings that made a series? Or was she just throwing random sketches into the air at whim?


What was particularly alarming were her last words. Things were starting to change. Change could be good or bad, depending on what it was and what it affected. Then it also depended on the person experiencing it or the person perceiving it. Like in Mao II, the novelist could have continued on, writing in darkness, isolated, pure, untouched, an endless manuscript – but yet once the outside world was let in, it would change everything.


Mao II stares at me with a brazen intensity now. Yes, I just need to continue on – I don’t need change, I decide. My paperback books are fine. I can live with my paperbacks and seasonal coffee.


Just as I leave my cup on the table, I will leave her words behind as well. But if I would remember anything at all, it would be: tall caramel chai tea latte, soy, 120 degrees, extra whip. Chai tea girl. I try to imprint her order into my mind.


“It can make a big difference,” she had said. Something tells me not to take any chances with her order.


Opening the door like turning over a page of a new book, I clear my mind, and abandon Shizuka Kaneko in the confines of the little coffee shop, isolated from the flow of time. I step out into the steady stream of consciousness – assuming the pedestrians are conscious. That they are not lifeless ghost images flitting by. If they were, what would I be?






In Tokyo, Japan, where identity, thoughts, memories and emotions decay, a strange clairvoyant and a literature student embark on a paranoiac escape against oppression, mindless agents, civil unrest and against reality itself, in a mind-blowing soul-searching journey for love, for what had been long lost and what it means to be human. Yet all that remains is a peculiar coffee shop order.


The literary novel delves into the human condition, subjective perception, our socio-political system, capitalist mechanism and consumer culture, incorporating philosophy, surrealist dreamscapes, circular symbolism and shifting parallel realities, with profound discussions of coffee, art, literature and music.


Available to read free on desktop or iOS, Android and Kindle apps via the Wattpad platform, the novel has surpassed 600,000 reads and is reviewed by professors, published authors and young readers worldwide.





Takatsu is an author of contemporary literary fiction, the pioneer of the English cell phone novel form, poet, philosopher, musician and Literature student from Toronto. He is influenced by Japanese entertainment, and names such as Murakami, Yoshimoto, Hemingway, Orwell, Kafka, Carver, Rumi, Blake, Emerson, Jung, Freud, Baudrillard, Hegel, and Marx.





Need or Passion by SuKuYa

November 25, 2014 § Leave a comment


immortality by hosun kim

November 23, 2014 § Leave a comment

a kiss within
a kiss
obtained in the
lightness of night
long after
ill suited boys
have left
to suck the blood
out of
their  own
unfortunate souls
i immortal
desired and unloved
by the highest
and lowest
i steal
a kiss within
a kiss
the soul within
a heart
i immortal whore
fulfill my
sacred obligation
to care for
the wretched
to love the damned
and to be
and abused
left abandoned
and alone
only to wait for the
next lost being
to pay their worthless
currency for my
immortal body…



Winter Sky by SuKuYa

November 23, 2014 § Leave a comment


…. by donevers

November 22, 2014 § Leave a comment

Collateral damage

my country hates

your country

yours hates mine

yet i love you

and You love me

and sprouting in

the place of

one drone killed

terrorist/freedom fighter

is another


to takes its

rightful place

but the dead child

the mother never to return

gone forever

we talk of heaven

while archeticting hell

at its best

Midnight Stories by ink blot

November 22, 2014 § Leave a comment

The rain fell softly first, tapping the tin roof then slowly, as the minutes pass, the rain strengthens its wrath on the sleeping world as if there was something the earth had done unforgiveable to the sky. Thinking about it, it could be possible why the sky is crying every now and then unto the earth so as to ask for pity to the earth to unbury its stolen item from the sky. But thousand of years of crying isn’t enough, nor the amount of tears sent from above isn’t even the measurement.  What could it be then that one would cry forever to somebody, or one would not feel pity over somebody asking for it? What item could the earth hold that the sky is ready to give its whole life crying?
Thoughts like this kept me awake for hours; sometimes the horizon even starts to lighten before I close my eyes, especially on summer nights where I don’t have any school works to think about and because its those time of the year where the sky shows me how vast thoughts can be. And as for tonight it was past one when the sky told me the story of its pain. Knowing that it is something I will be thinking the whole night, I prepared myself something to eat and made a coffee. And also, I made myself a nest using pillows and blankets. In the corner of my room, near the window, I watched the rain and listened to its story as it tells me straight to my thought, questions I could never have asked before, nor anyone – for now, is it the sky’s purpose to cry over the earth, or is the earth’s purpose to be something the sky could cry over. A cycle no one could really tell for now who’s who.
Sometimes I write my thoughts, thinking that one day I would be able to compile my thoughts and make a book. Sometimes I let them pass. I just lie in my bed and do all the thinking I can do and then forget about them. Tonight I’m letting it pass, like the rain that somehow will just be a part of the earth’s history.
After listening to the song outside my room: the tapping on the tin roof; the soft whispering sound of the wind; I thought about a heart.  The only thing one would cry for eternity; one would surely ask for pity from the thief who stole a heart. “So it is a heart then,” I whispered to the air, “that the earth had stolen from you?” Of course there was no answer. Why would the earth keep your heart then? This time I asked it silently. Of course there was still no reply. Then a thought passed by my mind, because he wants it. Of course, why would somebody steal from somebody else, it could only mean that the thief wants it, or needs it. Because there’s a big difference between ‘want’ and ‘need’. “So he wants it then?” This time I asked it again to the air, and there was no answer. “But, in the end though, we strive to get what we need because we realize we want it – the thing we need.” And there was silence in my thought.
Time passed. The rain stopped and my coffee stained cup with the saucers that was full of cookies were now getting cold, slowly adapting the temperature of its environment. And I also slowly adapt the environment’s somberness. Now there was only drizzle outside. I washed the cup and saucers I used and returned to bed with my blanket and pillows. By the time I was ready to close my eyes the sky has stopped its crying.
Then another thought passed, maybe it was the sky asking for the earth’s heart. It’s possible enough, maybe the earth is just so stonehearted that the sky cries over and over again hoping one day the earth’s stone heart would somehow soften and would let in its surface live the life the sky has been giving. Or it could be that sad love story where they were never meant to be together, forever the sky will cry over the earth just to show it is the only way to show it’s love, and the earth on the other hand will try to shake itself forever trying to leave it’s place, hoping one day it will be able to fly into the sky. After some time, the rain stopped, leaving the earth swimming in tears. It was gloomy, as I made my final glance outside my room, which gave me a final thought.
It could also be that the sky is crying for the earth is already dead, and it will mourn for eternity expecting that time will come when the earth will be alive again. There could be an endless story for these two characters, and only they can tell why things are happening around us; between them. And before I finally close my mind to these thoughts that could not have certain reasoning for the man, another one struck me, and with question how many characters could have a story like the sky and earth, these midnight stories would never end. Only humans die.