English Teacher. Music coverage since 2015. Fiction since forever. MFA in Creative Writing, BA in Applied Linguistics, AA in English Educ. PhD. in Obsolete Media. Links&Socials: https://boomie.carrd.co/
It took me a long time to understand my fascination with death. My sexual maturity coincided with the shock sites of the early 2000s, and I remember feeling so disgusted when I looked at dead bodies with a tinge of hunger:
The Black Gate 2
The next evening, Gen got home earlier, the sun had barely fallen from the sky by the time he had reached his stop at the train station. The crowd wasn’t quite so thick, but a considerable amount of people still passed through.
The Black Gate 3
Gen remembered the foamy, pinkish slop that he’d slid in that day: Goh’s brains and apparently his eye. He didn’t know how important it would be then.
Cocktails by Endo: Taro and Toad
“Once, when I was a kid, I was playing with an old toad on a little concrete street and my granny called me in for lunch so I covered him with some bricks. I made him a little brick house so he wouldn’t run away.”
Beijing's Ming Tombs
"How long are you visiting Beijing," I ask a friend, here to see her long-distance boyfriend from up North in Shenyang. "Two days," she replies, and I write off seeing her then and there when she tells me she plans on visiting the Great Wall and another attraction. From her hotel in the city center, the closest section of the Great Wall rings in at a six-hour bus trip away.
Cocktails by Endo
Home. It was Endo’s bar, whose inviting wooden walls he spent most of his time. It was the house he’d visit only to shower and sometimes sleep. It was his childhood countryside dwelling, the ghost of his grandmother calling him for dinner still sweeping by, caught in eternity in the wind over the fields. He never knew where his home had ended up. He even less expected it to feel so far away.
Within the Black Gate
The bathroom was difficult to enter. Filth caked every inch of the walls and floors in a crust of brown punctuated by, of course, black mold. Each of the three holes in the floor meant as toilets were shapeless from the grime. They were separated by slabs of pressed wood attached to the wall, no doors. This wood was so rotten and unkempt that it sagged and folded like wet cardboard instead.
How Music Drove Me to Become a Writer
Creativity is not a fountain, it's a well. You have to have something in it to get something out of it. Perhaps what inspires you is reading. Perhaps it's a good TV show. For me, it's always been music.