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Worthy of an Onsen

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Maybe I want nothing more than to just be here, enjoying the caressing effect of the warm water on my aching limbs. They say that bathing in a volcanic hot spring in the Land of the Rising Sun is good for your health, and I must say, I do feel a tad more relaxed… An outsider might wonder why I – a sheet-clad author who has roamed the earth for thousands of years – would have any need to lounge around in a hot spring. Well, when you’re unemployed and have infinite time on your hands, what the hell else are you supposed to do? Financial troubles are all I can think about, but I’ll try to relax anyway. They claim that soaking in an onsen is therapeutic. I’m just wondering when exactly the therapy is supposed to start? I fear that the things weighing on me, along with recent events , make me feel so dirty that not even sitting in hot spring water will cleanse me. The Japanese bathe constantly; where the locals lead, the tourists follow, and finally there’s me, only dipping my toes in becau...
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Pachinko Ball and Chain

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I’ve finally arrived in the city after a long walk through the countryside , and as luck would have it, I found a bit of money while rummaging through my pockets. What should I do with my riches? The sheet I’m wearing is as good a piggy bank as the sofa in my living room; if you dig persistently enough, you’ll always find cash in some crevice. I should hang upside down from a tree branch like a bat and let money pour like rain from my pockets to the ground! My phone needs power, so I thought I’d waltz into some shop and simply plug my charger into the wall. That’s what the youth do, so why not the antiques? There looks to be a suitable spot for charging. There’s a sign on the wall that says PACHINKO in big letters. I wonder what that means? Peeking through the door, I see an arcade full of slot machines. To boldly go where so many failed authors have gone before; straight into the fiery pit of gambling!  Everything glitters and clinks, jingles and sings. There are rows of pachinko...
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For the Love of the Profession

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How does this contraption even work? Where do I press? Maybe here. Okay, so the first voice memo begins… ahem! Hello, hello! Can you hear me? It’s me, O.G. Ghostwriter, yours truly, or should I say yours audibly? Be that as it may, my travelogue continues. I am walking alone somewhere in the Japanese countryside. The air is warm, and it might rain soon. I feel good, but to tell the truth my miserable financial situation makes me feel sick. I recently, and quite unwillingly, spent time with some new acquaintances , but then they grew tired of me and shoved me out the door. They refused to give me a ride, but they gave me this phone as a gift. So, from now on, I can dictate my notes instead of scribbling them with a pencil stub onto napkins or the hem of my robe. I have no idea why they decided to give me the phone. Perhaps it was an apology for how poorly they treated me. Surely they didn’t have any ulterior motives… hmm, what does it say on this screen again… “You are sharing your loca...
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Japanese Door Code

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Well, I never! What a bunch of morons! This ghost is taking his leave, and might I add, gladly so! What a massive house, muttering, grumbling, clearly crime pays if they can afford a mansion like this. I wonder which of these doors leads out? Muttering, grumbling, this looks promising, a sliding door left slightly ajar.   Now would be a good time to stop and reflect on why these cultural clashes keep happening to me. Could it be that maybe the problem is me, and not always the others? Should I try to behave in an acceptable way? Try to act like the locals?   Very well then.   I shall begin my integration into the local population by opening this sliding door the Japanese way. That is to say, I cannot simply yank the door open like a Westerner; I must be refined, in the style of the Japanese tea ceremonies, and open the door with respect for tradition. I recall reading instructions once on how such a sliding door should be opened in three movements. Let’s s...
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Battle Royale: Haiku War

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So, the situation is that I am a prisoner of the yakuza. Standing before me is a very angry-looking lady , whom I shall henceforth refer to as the Boss, as she leads the pack of rats that ghostnapped me while I was innocently spending time in the park. They threw me into a car trunk, and delivered me to this miserable shack; and I must say, I intend to leave a blistering letter of complaint about all of this to the Tokyo embassy. I wouldn't recommend this experience to friends or acquaintances – possibly would recommend it to some relatives… Boss: What are you muttering, gaijin ? Know that you are in great trouble, and you won't get away with this by acting crazy. O.G. Ghostwriter: Usually, feigning madness helps in these situations. Boss: You have insulted the honor of my niece and our family! In Nippon, that kind of behaviour is not looked upon kindly. It is time for a battle! O.G. Ghostwriter: No, no battles, no thank you, not again. Couldn't I just atone for my crim...
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Interlude: Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea

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My  Memories of Floorboards creaking Wild dust bunnies staring My face pressed against a tatami Problems washing over me like a tsunami   An old woman before me, leader of the yakuza A group of misfits behind me, stray dogs of the katana I am told that the only honorable way to survive this strife Is to win a grand battle of words, the defeated forfeits their life  You’d need to be alive to settle the debt? All I have to offer is less Tell me, hasn’t there been enough payment trouble in this lifelessness?     ... Next Chapter: Battle Royale: Haiku War Previous Chapter: Yakuza Noir 
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Yakuza Noir

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This city never sleeps. It pulses with the eternal rhythm of ambition, greed, and indecency. In this city, the age of innocence is short, with every alley offering temptations – street food and karaoke stalls – and I realized that to survive with my sanity intact, I would have to tread lightly.  It was early evening in Kurume, Japan, the air was heavy with the promise of rain, and I, enjoying the last touch of sunlight, lay on park grass studying my map, intending to get from this sinful city to the even more sinful capital, quickly and cheaply.  I had met a fatal woman , a true femme fatale , who suggested in no uncertain terms that my way of doing things left much room for improvement. If I knew anything about fatal women, it was that they were insincere, indiscreet, and incorrigible, and this inconceivably fatal woman, in all her instability, was a bona fide femme folle . Throughout my lifelessness, I have been searching for something. I am not quite sure what, but I have a...
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