Young Writers Society

Dumayu B'il Mal'enkiy

04. Tokyo

Note: In all honesty, this is a ragged wreck--it goes all whichways. An experiment, yes. But I rather think it needs a lot of fine-tuning to say the least. Apologies for its current state, I suppose...haven't got much time of late.


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Believe me, believe me. There are nachts in my breath, more, more often despite the light. You can see where there used to be fireflies; and you can taste where there used to be soy, ginger, steam on my breath. You can see where there used to be people; one; two; three. You believe me.

I used to be small.

signsignal green no-red red tofu stars SALE tell me mum movingstories pictures look. NACHTKLUB. ramenramen three for one butterfly farfalleskirts triptrap red no-green. go. go. go.at ten o’clock. Meet si quisiera. Verdad. Nicht verstehen. neonpink
night:) 明るくない時間帯

Copper, kid in skates and glazed in between cityscapes—eyes copper as his hair. He’s more than I was then; my veins are imprinted on his skin; he sees the world in grids and lines, my guts the underground where his earbuds pound his mind out and his eyes run rings around the dark glass, the darker tunnel without. “Yeah, yeah. ‘S not far.”

The woman shivers. “Yes?”

“Dude, it’s like, two blocks. Anta baka? Blah.”

She is still. Her hands are small, crossed over dim-grey coat lapels, cinching, clenched—the buildings trail too far above, behind, beyond her. Almond eyes and brown.

She is small.

Copper was small once, a moment after he was born.

“I’m sorry.”

Lights, blink, fizz. Dusk is when I take the place of the sun.

Copper skids away, concrete grating under his skates.

He was small. Believe me.

S—ss-sssst. Start! burn. Ya nye znayu; znayu znayu. shto? deepold damp nacht noch eta mashina. ground out cigs. marlboro red clove CHEAP fifty for six quick fix ENERGY ENERGY energie sparend flats for $$$ (yuan taken w/ ref) green green green green green. black.

She has jet eyes, asphalt eyes with asphalt lines painted on the lids and asphalt in her features, still and city-scaped. Signs, signals, sales—all shapes, all words, myriard—so that the scattered haze of people can look the same. Don’t see me.

Trip-tap: needle heels, unsteady on my concrete. If I were small, she would be like me. But I am not.

“Yuuuuumi.”

Faster. Trip-tap. The glare of neon, sale-stained windows, projectstills snap across her face—night to light. Pink that burns her cheeks deadened rose. Her black eyes catch orange, flickering, dulling, grained.

“Yuuuumi, kid, c’mon. Remember me? Bil zdyes, t’ut, da?Ach, smotreetye!”

A rapid-hissed response, searing Japanese.

Run.

Needles in me—trip-tap—the night is dry, paper-lantern-light. But the air falls, weighted with noise—zither creasing light between drum beats; laughter; shouts. Neon splatters pavement.

Snap.

Her heel breaks.

Yumi.
Small.

Believe me.
I was small once..


tricktrack take mummy’s shack prickpack sis got a rack step on the crack break grandmama’s back chalk pavement paint grating yellow red SELL ME TOO tag tag it yeah vipers schlange nein nein VOLK did it first didn’t mean redredred turns brown RED


Breeze, salt-tinged ocean breath—white flags flutter. No, shirts, underwear: one creased dress with buttons that ring like tin. White, and behind them, my grey and windows chromed, glaring.

They were white, but I am bleeding out; they have my stains. The wind blows in. I sigh out. Greased, neon-racket, spoiled air sinking with its own weight. And the ocean breeze is small, winding like an eel into my depths, winding smaller and thinner til it is nothing but the rest, and it is nothing. Yumi-copper; grids-grated; nihongoruskideutsch—tell me. One not each.

They were small once.

Thin as a reed, a girl dashes beneath the flapping clothing.

The flat is three storeys up. Brick, blended with cinderblock blears into graffiti. And she has the breeze in her hair, my words in her eyes—CHANGE; RUN; schlange; VOLK.

It isn’t my blood—my blood begins as rust, never was red.

Her dress is white. Small hands, small feet—but her eyes were never small.


fade fadefadefade. eisley. red green red signalme sign city gaze heart to veins

You believe me. I used to be small.

There used to be people who stumbled, tripped, wandered off my streets.

Believe me, believe me. They once had their own veins.

Imp!

Whoa. I must say, I was all set to call the mental institute and warn them you'd finally tripped over the edge [mind that line, preciously precocious, precociously precious Imp] until I read the subject line and lo!

The meaning of the story.

Or rather, impression. No true story but an impression or rather impressions of images of chaos. It hurt my brain at first, but I quite liked it.

The only thing I'd have liked to see more of, is myth. Tokyo, Japan - a culture steeped in mythology and it would have something extra special to see you weave that in there.

Otherwise, nicely done.

Cheers.

...--Stayed, I did. For the whole thing. Even when things got nasty, I was destined to stay.

Dire, dour, sour, hours of genius. The letter 'd' keeps coming to me. Luridly fantastic and hoarse as it runs away. And yet I believe this is probably one of my favorites of your writing. I suppose it could be my mood, and it obviously could be edited A LITTLE--although I wouldn't deign to know such a thing--but I just love it.

I can't say I have a very good grip on the main theme, but I'm not sure if there is one. I saw digested conformity and--oh darnit--those children who can't be anymore. But I don't know if I'm seeing it or if it's really there. And yet I don't feel frustrated by it.

An inescapably noteworthy piece. Not that that is uncommon among Imp stuffies, but I will be angry at whoever doesn't read this and keel over with inspirational thoughtfulness.

Well, if I weren't a little tired I would probably write three or four thousand consecutive stories out of pure, irreverent crowdedness. Never mind. And I'm sorry I can't point out places to edit. Not yet, least.

Hi Imp,

I would have to say that this is a good piece. It had very beautiful imagery, and I liked how the city referenced the fact that it was once not so big, that it once started out as something far smaller than the leviathan it is now.

I do have a complaint with this story though. I found it very hard to keep up with what was going on. Was a girl being chased by someone, and the city was watching? That's the story I took away from it anyway. You might consider clarifying bits of the tale here and there just to cement whatever story it is you are telling.

Well, that about wraps it up for me. One last thing. I really liked the italicized portions of this story. They acted like random conversations on the street, really giving the city a characterization all its own. I liked it a lot.

Good job, and good luck in Cal's contest.