You die if you worry, die if you don’t. I laughed the first time he said it. I hadn’t heard it before.
Bellies lined with pyttipanna, we refill our water bottles and stride home from the city centre towards Block 5.
Today I woke up slightly ill and with a sense of nostalgia that was only just bearable.
You caught me, Foxglove, with your upright colour. You turned me from the river thinking I had been alone. I liked your pale and speckled belly, and the tiny fragile hairs guarding your mouth.
In response to your suicide letter, I write that I now order a bowl of vegetable ramen from the local Izakaya whose waitlist fills up twenty minutes before its five pm opening.
Image: elin o’Hara slavick. J.A. Pak’s writing has been published in a variety of publications, including 7×7, Unbroken Journal, Joyland, Queen Mob’s Teahouse, Luna Luna and Atticus Review. For more work, take a look here. Concentric In mid dream, mid journey, there’s a barrier we must cross, flat and vast like an ocean. We’re told the barrier is a monster….