Typically, suburban homes don’t tend to collapse randomly, but that didn’t stop mine. It occurred to me, as dust settled on the heap of shattered timber and tiles, that the hippy I lived with might be trapped in the rubble. I began to frantically pick up timber fragments, screaming his name.
“Tommo? TOMMO? You under there, mate?”
Continue readingPoky bars in Kabukichō – Tokyo’s red-light district – are always packed; some nights it’s almost impossible to get a seat. Ken’s came courtesy of a tearful, ageing gentleman who was being shown the door (ever so respectfully) by the venue’s sole bartender. The pair bowed and exchanged a note as Ken hastily squeezed inside.
“Whisky, please!” Ken barked. He slung his simple brown coat on an old wooden peg as the barman hurried back. By the time he was comfortable in his chair, the drink was waiting on a clean napkin. The barman turned his back and polished glasses in silence.
Continue readingHope is seeing light rain through discreet black shutters as the afternoon retires. Hope is watched through the same pane at night, too. Only it has become an old telegraph post’s sodium light.
Despair is too much rain. Debris-covered drains. Pools, saltless with excess summer. Audible drops on cream ceilings that later race down mouldy paint. (None of these things are welcome, by the way. Not one.)
Anxiety lies somewhere in between. It is the doorbell that makes the dog bark. A door answered to a man shaped like an agent, unaffected by the hurried, dry breeze. Such a weathered face.
