Tag Archives: woman

Number 31

One year ago I lost my best friend.

Heart attack, they said.

And that he screamed for help.

One year ago I received this email.

Robert would have wanted you to read it.

I wish you would have called.

I miss you, Rob.


My friends, I really hope you get this. I hope that this is all just some sort of bout of insanity, but if not, if something happens to me or if you don’t hear from me by tomorrow, I want you to go to the police and show them this email. Tell them that they were wrong. And please, if you can, forward this email to as many people as possible.

This is not a joke; at least I really think it isn’t. I’m not pranking you; I swear to everything I hold dear that this is not a prank. If you get this email I thought about calling you, but I hope that this is all over in the morning. I hope that this is just something special about this night. And if it is, please forget about it or make fun of me; I don’t even care.

I’m sitting in the Walker’s joint near the motorway, the one that’s open all night and busy all night, because the last thing I want to be is back on the street. Continue reading

Yarlung

Noah J. kindly narrated this story:


There are things you don’t hear about Tibet until you arrive. Things like that for Buddhists the people eat a lot of meat and that when you look at the world of Tibet today then you will not recognize the idyllic land of the West’s delusion, but rather thriving Chinese cities and starving half-Chinese and half-Tibetan villages.

The other thing you don’t hear about are the Yarlung. Of course that’s only a nickname for them, among them many things that no one knows about them is how they call themselves.

Not just for generations, for whole dynasties they have been feared. For all of Tibetan history there are notes about their attacks – how they appear and disappear without a trace. How they never leave the smallest of objects, not even a hair, but that they always come to take the most precious thing.

Much makes sense now, now that I hear about them.

My brother.

His wife.

Their son. Continue reading

He told me to Run

Trigger warning



I was 10. I had just left school and was walking home with the big, square bag on my shoulders.

Suddenly he was there. There was no blinking, no flashes, no anything. He just stood there.

“Run!” he said “Run fast!”

Then he was gone. I threw my bag on the ground and ran.

I was just a minute away from home when I noticed her behind me. A woman, slim, with blond hair. Her face was dirty.

“Stay!” she screamed “I have to tell you something!”

My feet hit the asphalt, then my fists the front door. When my mother opened the door the woman quickly turned around. Continue reading

Deep down you knew. And you stayed quiet. – K.

Trigger warning!

A man. The hands tied behind his back, a piece of cloth stuffed in his mouth, his legs bent sidewards. He was placed in the wooden box while alive. It can take up to ten days to die from dehydration.

A white piece of paper stuck to the box with two blue pins.

That’s how you brought me here.

K.

A woman. Her arms tied behind her back. Her lips torn off her face. Her tongue pierced with a fork. A knife in her shoulder. She died from loss of blood.

A white piece of paper, nailed to her chest.

That’s how you made me feel safe. How you fooled me with kind words.

I trusted you. You betrayed me.

K.

Continue reading

The Fire Sings

“It’s going to be nice,” says my mother.

She stood up, grabbed my hand and led me out of the hut.

Walking down the dry path we already saw the crowd setting wood in its place.

We walk around the site one, twice, thrice.

“It’s the tradition,” says my mother. “It keeps us safe.”

A girl sits on the floor, not far from the wood. Her mother feeds her the special leaves and the root.

“Chew well,” says the mother.

The girl cries. Continue reading

The Yellow House

This is a fictionalized account of real events. The link to the real events is at the bottom of this story. I apologize if anyone is offended or hurt by this account – I mean it to cause attention for the issue, not to harm those involved.


It was 1998. A Saturday. 3am. An overdose of caffeine kept me awake. My legs shivered as I stood at the window with my eyes onto the street. I stood only half in the window, my head slanted towards the side. I hoped the darkness of my room would keep me hidden.

It was not the first time that I watched the street. My eyes were on the yellow house with the basement window that was never light during the day but always lit at night.

A car stopped. A badly done white paintjob, the left rear light was broken. Two men got out. Between them staggered a woman. Drunk? Drugged? I never knew. Continue reading