La Mer — Jean Louis Paguenaud

The present is too volatile for comfort.

Things happen and dissolve, replaced by new things cascading thickly like layers of oil on glass, pouring down being gulped by the earth before I have time to collect them in my water bottle, replaced by new things like thick smoke blanketing me in dark shapes and words, clearing away before they come into focus, replaced by new things like a sandstorm against my cheeks choking me blocking all air like coarse salt between my teeth, melting down my throat like cold milk before I can taste it, replaced by new things like…


Night House (2013) — Alex Katz

I wake up next to you in the room where you sleep.

“Oh fuck yes, thank fuck” I say in a muffled voice, burying my face as deeply as I can between the crinkled pillows. Today was a day. I wasn’t handling things at all. What time is it; I’m worried that I may have peaced out mid-experiment, I think I pressed my forehead against the glass panel of the cell hood to cool myself down and then…thank fuck, seriously. Leave the cells for now. …


Illustration by Lukas Frischknecht

Yes, I can feel the pain now. ●●●●●●−●●●−−● It is shooting upwards from my ankles to my shins every time each foot touches the treadmill. ●●●−−−●●● It is firing up from my waist to my shoulders like a curse being chanted in Morse code. ●●●−−−●●● My wrists burn. ●●●−−−●●● My tummy hurts. ●●●−−−●● My brain is in complete lockdown, trying to navigate through the maze of flashing red signals, and for some reason it is playing Dream Lover on a loop for me. Please stop, I whisper under my shredded breath, but it’s just rewinding all the way back to…


dotageeks.com

Every great love story is born from the blackness. Acting like your great love story was born inside a human heart or even a fluffy cloud is useless. Look at me. Your great love story was born from the blackness.

The blackness waits for me to turn my eyes to it. It is waiting for me to put my fingers on the controls. Neither of us knows exactly how this will play out, but we both know I can’t technically win. The rules dictate that I can handle what the blackness deals me, but in the end I will not…


Illustration by Lukas Frischknecht

My clothes are suddenly way too big for me. A huge black t-shirt, an enormous grey pair of tracksuit bottoms and a clown foot-sized pair of sparkly Converses; I feel like I have the sail of a ship wrapped tightly around my body, endless yards of soaked canvas, patiently pulling me down.

And it’s only been two minutes. I try distracting myself. I look outside the window; there’s a row of brick walled flats across the street and I squint my eyes to break through their windows and watch strangers doing things. I notice a girl in a white bathrobe…


A twig snaps under my shoe and I open my eyes.

Every time I come back, I take a moment to look around me and marvel at my own creation, as if seeing it for the first time. When it was time for me to decide where to hide you, this shadowy woodland drew itself for us violently, like a fire blazing through my papers — I put my pencil down and saw that the woodland was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep trees. And my spirit moved upon the face of the…


Our love was born at the Thurlow street branch of the British Heart Foundation in Bedford, the one with all the furniture — next to the bus station, remember? Well, I say “was born”, it was just a tiny peek and the smell of your shampoo caught between two white IKEA closets for a moment. Also, I say “love”, it was more of a premonition, or that feeling of knowing you’re not alone in your house the minute you take your coat off. And yes, ok, I say “our”, it was mainly just me. You didn’t know I was there…


Thirteen nights after the fall, the captain wakes up tied to his bed. His wrists and ankles are secured in tight knots, and for a moment he catches himself examining and naming the ones closest to his face, pleased with the hands that tied them. The room is warm and quiet, softly glowing bluish orange from the street lights outside; his lids feel heavy so he focuses on the faint traffic rumble, boiling three floors under the bed. He wonders whether the seagulls get confused by the city lights at night. How come they don’t smash themselves against buildings all…


tenderly.

Tenderly. Tenderly I pull the first word out of the darkness. Softly I coax it out of its sleeping place, the hiding place where it has been for so long. How long ago was it. I remember the last words. “perhaps I’ll come back and tell us all about the knights”. The last words came out of me so painfully and then, then there was silence.

Inside and out. I have sat at the edge of the darkness and called at the words for so long, so long but nothing would come out, not one word, not even famous…


(March 11th 2010)

The hand reaches out and slides between the bars. Once inside the cage, the fingers stretch and curl, rubbing against the inside of the palm. A soft papery sound rises and dissolves in the cool dark air. The warmth of the palm follows the sound to the farthest corner of the cage, where it settles on the wall in tiny watery bubbles. The bubbles stick to the wall for a moment (it will be like they’re catching their breaths) when a hollow rustle from the cold ground below shakes the stillness and they all levitate and burst…

Mariliza Derveni

Lorem Ipsum for now.

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