where the writers are
Postcard from Asphodels Meadows (during the interlude)

I walked down the street. The air felt colder. Cold is the wrong word, it was more of a lack of warmth.  There is a big difference. I walked past a television and saw one man on a television. His face was crinkled in anger. He was saying something quite vitriolic about Richard. I could tell because they had a picture of Richard super imposed on the screen in back of him. Sweat beaded of his bald head and spittle came out of his mouth.  The next television had the bald man’s face superimposed  on the screen while an equally malevolent man was  ranting so much that he looked like I started to wonder if he would pass out from a lack of oxygen. It made me forget my hunger so I stayed there watching the two faces successfully win a one sided argument. Or perhaps they lost. Either way it did not matter. It was a modern day gladiator competition, just without the excitement, or the actual competition. The important thing is it made me forget the hunger and the lack of warmth that had seeped from the outside.

A warm feeling of liquid running down the side of my leg broke my trance. I looked down fearing the worse. Had I really become that numb that I had forgotten even the sense of needing to go to the bathroom? No, it was far worse. It was the dye in my pants running. I liked these pants. How could anyone know my important place in the universe without seeing my pants? I spent a lot of money on them. I wiped off the running colors and noticed a pinkish hue on my pants. Not only were colors in my pants starting to melt off but it seemed the color was washing off me. I ran my hands through my hair and streaks of brown mixed with streaks of brown. I wanted to look at my reflection in the mirror but I had seen the zombies. They had no color; they just had no skin pigment or eye color. I knew what I was becoming.   I collapsed under the weight of the moment. I got on my phone and started to twittle on websites to  everyone I still exist. I needed to update my status. I was here and the world needed to know it. I figured it out I could tell the world in under one-hundred forty characters “I Exist”. This action would make me exist.  It would reverse the run that the color, my personality, my everything, seemed to be doing. I looked on the website and then noticed I was not on top, no I must be on top. I am not a puddle!   

“There is really no point in doing that, no one can hear you.” Said a voice. A hand grasped my shoulder firmly. I was a dead man; I knew it that was a warning before something brutally awful happened to me.  A young woman, whom I presume belonged to the hand that was no longer grasping my shoulder from behind, sat next to me. Doesn’t anyone just shake hands or say hello anymore? I was still holding my breath. She smiled. The only color she possessed was blotches of (blood)lipstick on her lips. 

    “You are just losing your hope. It happens here. It is normal.” She pointed to various colors running along the street into the grates. There was an intricate categorization of colors that she pointed. Hues, shades, and pigmentations all meant you could identify from whom the colors had come from. I asked what the colors represented and she said some were hopes, others were dreams.“But in the end, it doesn’t really matter because it all goes to the same place. It does not matter where it came from because it all goes to the same place.” She said pointing to the swirling kaleidoscope of racing down the street before being swallowed whole by the sewers.I looked up into the sky.

 The sky silently rained down blues and whites from the clouds. The only color is the orange that must have been from the sun setting in the east. My legs couldn’t carry the weight of my body anymore. I slouched against the concrete light post.  My hunger and my despair were the only things that let me know I was still alive.

And the interlude ends…

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Joshua, I thought you were


I thought you were creative in using colors. I liked the way the narrator stay in a moment (exp: he spent a lot of money on the pants) while his subconscious travels on his own (exp: dye running in his pants). The hunger he felt and the zombies he shared the life with come together in this piece and float through the colors of desolation. The narrator desperately balances his existence by twittering meaningless messages on the web. Hope and dream race down the street and are swallowed up into the sewer.

I appreciate the narrator chooses to write clear messages such as: My hunger and my despair were the only things that let me know I was still alive. Your piece is like a long poetry, but won’t frustrate readers with vague-only messages.

Years ago, Ryū Murakami wrote his debut novel, “Never Ending to be Transparent Blue (this is my translation).” The title is difficult to translate, so the English title is simplified as “Almost Transparent Blue.” But the original title is meaningful.. The story is a decadent life of young people with drug and sex. The style of writing was quite new, and by the time I finished reading it, I had a transparent blue image of a scene embedded in my head. It was endlessly close to almost transparent blue. It was a much talk about story. Although the story is different and his technique is vague, your story reminded me of Ryū Murakami’s book.

Almost Transparent Blue



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you read my mind

I was just about to seach Wikipedia for "Almost Transparent Blue" when I noticed you added the link. Several times I have thought about buyinmg books by Ryu Murakami (I know nothing about him but the titles alone scream out to me to buy his books...) but when I was in thailand my funds were quite limited so I never did. Now I will buy it for sure before I head off to my next adventure.

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Joshua, That sounds like


That sounds like such a coincidence. Actually that's the only book I've ever read written by him. And I didn't know it is translated into English. By the way, I thought your piece was powerful and very artistic. I enjoyed it very much. I tend to forget my compliment and appreciation.

I read some comments on how Ryu Murakami won the most prestigious award. Big name authors were against voting for him, and one was convinced by his son to vote. The rest is a history. Many people say what it means in various ways, but the author commented once that it was desolation, according to the web site I read. It was based on his experience.

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I made a mistake

I thought Ryu Murakami was the author whose books I wanted to buy. It was another Japanese writer who I was reading. However it looks like all his books are on Amazon (In English) so I am thinking about getting some.