A pessimist from Singapore
Six thousand miles away
We never met but talked a lot
There was a lot to say
A pierced heart with batwings
Adorned her tattooed chest
She looked fucking beautiful
But behind her smile was death
She said goodbye three years ago
And disappeared forever
I wonder if she’s still alive
Or if they found her in a river . . .
A woman with black hair pointed a revolver at my face and pulled the trigger. When the bullet exited the barrel of the gun, however, everything went into super slow motion and I could see the projectile slowly traveling towards my forehead.
Eventually, when it penetrated my skull and entered my brain, I could feel my consciousness starting to fade away and with it the whole world began falling away as I slowly succumbed into nothingness — as I did, I…
Traveling must be one of the most overrated things in the world. Why? Because it’s too expensive, it takes too long to get there, the lines are too long, the attractions are overhyped, everything’s too commercialized, and there’s just too many damn people everywhere you go. And if there are too many people somewhere it’s usually for the same reason as why flies are attracted to shit.
However, since I hadn’t had a proper vacation for a year now and since I was burned out from work I felt I needed it. A colleague had randomly recommended Slovenia. …
It was midnight and I’d just finished work. I was depressed and desperate for some company. But there was no one. So I figured I’d try my luck at a random bar. I didn’t hope for much, considering it was Tuesday after all and I didn’t like 99% of people, but what the hell.
It was rainy and somber outside when I stepped out of the office. I lit a Marlboro Red and began walking towards Old Town, considering which bar I should visit. I soon decided on a Scottish bar called Highlander, which was one of my favorites at…
It had only been a few months after the breakup. Only a few months after my life had fallen apart in a New York minute. Suffice it to say, I had not taken it well. It felt as though a huge chunk of me had been violently torn off and the wound was still bloody. Of course, I anesthetized it as best I could with alcohol, but it did little to heal the wound; at best, it only kept the pain at bay.
So when Zora suddenly proposed to meet as I was chatting with her on an online dating…
Note: The story and artwork have been published on Medium with the authors’ consent.
My parole officer just left. We had a little talk. She told me that if I so much as think about going near a school or a playground again she’ll have no choice but to send me back to prison. (That’s no big deal. There are plenty of children around the mall and my apartment complex.) And she gave me a final warning about the firearms. If she catches me with another gun she’s going to violate me. Fucking femi-nazi. I’ve had plenty of dirty urines…
As anybody that knows me knows, I consider Bukowski as my favorite author.
Normally I can rarely tolerate one — not to mention several — book from a single author.
Why? Because most authors write the same shit over and over again — and it wasn’t much good to begin with. They do so because they are unimaginative little nitwits. But then, so is their audience.
Yet I’ve loved every single book I’ve read so far from Bukowski — and I’ve read nearly all of them. And, even though they’re short — at least compared to the standard length of…
Note: The story has been published on Medium with the author’s consent.
You discover crack cocaine. You love it and become instantly hooked. It isn’t long before you sell what little you have as far as possessions for the sake of feeding your addiction. You’re evicted from your closet-sized apartment. You run out of money and must perform fellatio on your dealer’s pet Bullmastiff Rocco if you want so much as a few paltry hits of rock. For entertainment purposes, you have to repeatedly bring the dog to climax in front of the traffic of customers coming in and out…
Note: The story and artwork have been published on Medium with the authors' consent.
I’m sulking in the passenger seat of your car. I still have that awful taste in my mouth. That awful arsenic taste. “Kid” by The Pretenders is playing on the radio. The morning sun of summer overwhelms us. You’re squinting to see out the windshield. I ask myself why you didn’t put sunglasses or make-up on to cover up your face before we left. …
“Fortune will come my way only if it meets those conditions that my character dictates.” — Chamfort