Inheriting a dilapidated ancestral manor, the protagonist discovers it to be an inn exclusively for "lost yokai." Each chapter unveils the tale of a unique spirit – a forgotten river deity, a land god whose incense has faded – while the main narrative interweaves the burgeoning conflicts between humanity and the non-human realm.

[Intellectual Property Legal Notice — Joint Protection]

This work is an original literary creation, officially under contract and registered for copyright protection. It is protected by the following laws and international treaties:

The following actions are strictly prohibited and constitute serious infringement:

Upon confirmation of infringement, the following legal actions will be taken immediately:

This work is under active monitoring by international digital tracking firms as part of the Infringement Control Program (ICP). All suspicious IP addresses and user activities are permanently logged and preserved as legal evidence, unaffected by account deletion, platform removal, or VPN masking.

This statement is a formal legal notice. From the moment of publication, any unauthorized use shall be deemed a deliberate infringement. Legal action will be pursued without negotiation. All consequences will be borne by the infringer.

Authorized Legal Representatives (International):

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Ms. Chan Yingshan — Obsidian Law Group (Hong Kong)

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Contact: [email protected]

In this space I'll post samples of my poetry and some links to readings of my poetry.

I've written poetry since before my teen years through today. Sonnets are my favorite form of poetry, but I write in a broad range of styles and on subjects that span the gamut of the pain and ecstasy that each of us faces as part of the human condition.As is true of my fiction,  I hope that you may find something it it that strikes a responsive chord in you, lets you see the world from a different perspective, and leaves you thinking.

I do not pay to advertise my work or for reviews (a common practice for independently published books), so I very much appreciate it when readers leave some feedback--positive or negative--or simply "like" my work. Nothing makes a writer feel more like the proverbial voice crying in the wilderness when she/he gets thousands of views of their work but hears only crickets when trying to determine whether it strikes the wished for responsive chord in any reader.

Thanks for reading!

In this space, I will provide some samples of my work, links to new releases, free previews of my books and/or articles, and perhaps some general thoughts on writing. I hope there may be something here that is of interest to readers in general. And I am glad to be in your company.

Hire Lernin’

An Idealist’s Quest Through the Realm of for-Profit Education

(C) 2021, 2025 Victor D. López, J.D., Esq.

This is a preview of the first two chapters of my published novel that involves the bittersweet journey of a young, idealistic, naïve attorney who takes on the role of academic dean at a for-profit business school in New York City in the late 1980s knowing very little about the industry. Unable to accept the way things are, he immediately launches into a personal quest to change lives for the better in an environment where only the bottom-line matters. Hard work and an entrepreneurial spirit quickly propel him to professional success, but at a deep personal cost.  In the process as he learns life-altering lessons about himself, about leadership, about for-profit and not-for-profit higher education, and about love.

_________________

Chapter One: Dreamers Dream Until They are Awakened

Dan peered out of his Jackson Heights second story apartment window hoping to spy the letter carrier’s cart on the sidewalk below bearing good news. He had risen as usual at 8:00 a.m., showered, dressed and was at his desk by 9:00 a.m. ready to face the world, which these days largely meant waiting for the mail to arrive or the phone to ring with an interview offer while working on a book about public domain software that he had begun writing. A classic overachiever, Dan was undaunted by the fact that he had settled into this routine two months ago and was still waiting for a reasonable job offer that he could actually accept. No matter, he would persevere and everything would be fine.

Success had always come easily to Dan. He completed middle school in two years in a special progress class, graduated from one of the best High Schools in the country, Brooklyn Technical High School, with honors, and excelled not only in the traditional college-level math, science and technical courses that formed the foundation of his pre-engineering curriculum, but also in the humanities and social sciences. College had been more of the same. He looked forward to every class, never managed his GPA by dodging hard courses or dropping courses in which he was not maintaining an A average, never cut classes, and graduated with high honors. Both his I.Q. and LSAT scores qualified him for membership in Mensa, an organization he had absolutely no interest in joining. He coasted through law school, though his grades were only average as he was frustrated and bored by the emphasis on memorization and regurgitation of facts, issues, holdings and rationales for cases in the traditional case method employed by the law school he attended (and most others for that matter both then and now).

Dan had decided to go to law school to help people, to make a difference, and to promote justice—actually believing these clichés with the fervor and innocence possible only for recent arrivals from faraway galaxies and people whose only exposure to the law and lawyers is derived from romanticized Hollywood movies, novels, and television shows. His delusions did not survive the first week of law school. He knew almost immediately that he would not practice law as a career, at least not as his primary occupation, but stubbornly decided to stick it out for no better reason than he had always completed anything he started, and law school would not be the exception. So, instead of leaving law school after a week, a month or even a semester as any rational person faced with the clear evidence that he had made a terrible mistake would have done, he plodded onward. He could have pursued a Ph.D. in political science, English, philosophy or any of the half dozen other fields that were of real interest to him in the humanities and social sciences where he could have found a fulfilling career as an academic. Instead, he chose to stay in law school and use his law degree to obtain a non-legal corporate position in human resource management, government compliance or one of the many other areas in business in which knowledge of the law and the ability to give legal advice are essential.

After graduating from law school, he took and comfortably passed the grueling New York State bar exam, though he would not receive the results until December and would not be admitted to practice until the following spring, just like everyone else who passed the bar exam. In the meantime, he had worked on Wall Street for a year hating the experience. Once admitted to practice, he prepared his resume and sent out application letters, neatly typed and appropriately listing his educational experience and competencies seeking to find more satisfying work. With no relevant work experience, however, responses were not what he had hoped for that summer. He received perhaps one interview for every ten or fifteen application letters sent out. This was actually much better than average, especially since he was not applying for work as an attorney. He should have expected three to five interviews for every 100 letters sent out, but he did not know that. Accustomed to success and with an unrealistic notion of his marketability and value, he was disappointed at getting at best a couple of interviews a month and was even less enthusiastic about the salaries offered for the entry level administrative and consulting positions for which he interviewed and which he was offered.

But this week would be different. In researching positions for which he would qualify as someone with a law degree, he had learned an interesting fact: more college deans hold a Juris Doctor degree than degrees from any other discipline. This appealed to him, and he had instantly decided that rather than accept any of the unsatisfying offers like the ones he had recently received, he would concentrate on obtaining a dean’s position at an academic institution. The fact that most college deans are highly experienced academics or accomplished professionals before their ascension to administration is something that completely escaped Dan’s less than comprehensive research into the subject. Thus, his mind made up about a career choice that would after all vindicate his decision to obtain a law degree, he readjusted his resume, developed a new cover letter, and began to apply for deans’ positions from The Chronicle of Higher Education. And, not knowing any better, he also kept reading The New York Timesclassifieds hoping to find those types of positions listed there as well.

Within a few days of making this new life-altering decision, he had sent out a half dozen new application letters to community colleges in the New York, New Jersey, Connecticut tri-state area from the Chronicleand one to Practical Entrepreneurial Management Training Institute (PEMTI), a local business school Dan had never heard of. The cryptic ad in the classified section of The New York Timesread: Academic Dean. Leading business school with branches throughout the tri-state area is searching for an Academic Dean for its Queens campus. Competitive salary and benefits. Master’s Degree required; Doctorate preferred. The only other information was an address for PEMTI at Queens Boulevard in Kew Gardens, an area not too far from Dan’s apartment.  He then waited for a call he was sure would come, oblivious to the fact that the lag time between the submission of an application for a dean’s position and the search committee selection of candidates for preliminary phone interviews and, eventually, on-campus interviews take months at traditional academic institutions, even at lower-level community colleges and baccalaureate institutions. But ignorance is bliss, and Dan eagerly expected a call or letter inviting him to an on-campus interview within a week of having sent the application.

It is said that even broken clocks are right twice a day—well, at least that’s true for the old-fashioned analog ones. And this morning, just three days after mailing his application, his phone rang.

“This is PEMTI calling. May I speak to Daniel Amor?” The woman’s husky, southern accented voice gave Dan a sudden adrenaline surge as he quickly responded, “This is he.”

“Good morning, Mr. Amor. I’m calling with regard to your application for the dean’s position. Will you please hold for the director, Mr. Lantz?”

“Yes, thank you.” Dan tried to keep his voice calm as his heart rate sped up further. A click on the line was followed almost immediately by the mellow voice of a man exuding cheerfulness.

“Dr. Amor?” The voice queried.

“Yes sir, good morning” Dan answered.

“Good morning. I’m Marvin Lantz, the school director. We received your application for the dean’s position and would like to bring you in for an interview. Are you available this week?”

“Any time this week is fine with me, Dr. Lantz,” Dan retorted without the usual response he knew he should give about having to consult his schedule in order to not appear overeager and unattractively unoccupied.

“Call me Marvin, please. I’m an MBA, not a Ph.D. or Ed.D. Can you come in tomorrow at 10:00 a.m.? We’re on Queens Boulevard about two blocks from the courthouse on the fourth floor of the Wang Office Building. Our school is actually on the fourth and fifth floors.”

“I know the area and have your address. I’ll be there at 10:00 a.m. Thank you. I look forward to meeting you, Mr. Lantz.”

“I’m looking forward to meeting you as well. See you then,” Marvin replied and hung up the phone.

Dan smiled widely. Finally, he had an interview he could really look forward to. He called his girlfriend, Linda, as soon as he got off the phone, eager to give her the good news.

“Morning babe,” he said as soon as she picked on the phone. “I have some great news!”

“Hi Dan. What is it?”

“I just got called in for an interview at a local business school for a dean’s position.”

“Yeah, and I just got crowned Miss Universe,” she scoffed.

“I’m serious!”

“You told me you sent out applications for deans’ positions a few days ago. How can they possibly be interviewing already?”

“I guess they know quality when they see it,” he quipped.

“Joke all you want, but be careful. I see a huge red flag popping up here.”

“Gosh, Linda. You’re such a damned pessimist. Why are you perpetually raining on my parade?”

“Because I love you and someone has to protect you from yourself. You always see the glass as half full, and even if someone takes the time to make you see it’s actually completely empty, you’ll point to rain clouds in the horizon and argue it will soon be full again.”

“So, shoot me for always looking at the bright side, Ms. Perpetual Party Pooper! For me the glass is always half full, true; for you it is always completely empty, dusty, cracked and lying in the middle of the Sahara Desert under six feet of sand,” Dan said with a tone of exasperation, yet knowing full well that she was right.

“Just be careful, Dan. Congratulations on getting the interview, but be wary.”

“I will, Linda. Have some faith in me, won’t you?”

“I have always had complete faith in you—it’s your judgment that worries me.”

“I’ve gotta go,” Dan said. “I’m off to the library to do some research. We can talk tonight,” Dan said, giving the receiver a kiss and hanging up the phone.

He knew Linda was right—she almost always was. He could be impulsive and allow his enthusiasm to cloud his judgment. Nevertheless, he felt some annoyance at Linda’s harping on the negative rather than exploring the positive. She was a realist who looked at the positive and the negative in every situation and parked herself somewhere in the middle. Dan was an idealist who had a hard time accepting any reality he found unpleasant or unfair and would look for a rainbow in the middle of a hurricane, even if it killed him.

After getting off the phone, he did what he did best: turn to the task at hand and devote his full attention to it. He needed to get as much information as possible about PEMTI in preparation for the interview with little time to do so. In the days before the Internet, a library’s holdings were the only effective way to research a prospective employer, so he headed for his car to take a quick trip to the St. John’s University library to find out anything he could about PEMTI. Unfortunately, it was a trip that would prove fruitless. The same was true of his trip to his public library.  Returning home that evening, he avoided going to see Linda as he knew she would harp on his need for caution and make him miserable. Instead, he called her, and they chatted on the phone briefly. He also called his parents who were much more enthusiastic about his good news knowing nothing about the usual process involved in a dean’s search and, therefore, offered Dan only the encouragement he craved.

____________________

Chapter 2: The Interview (Part One)

The next morning, Dan got up early, put on his best suit and gathered his leather portfolio, placing extra copies of his resume and undergraduate and graduate transcripts in it along with three glowing letters of reference from professors who knew him well and could vouch for his intellectual acumen and skill set. Rather than take his car into an area where parking would likely pose a problem, he opted to take the subway, leaving his home at 9:00 a.m. for what should be at most a half hour trip door to door. Nothing beats the NYC subway system for getting around cheaply and quickly, especially during rush hour when bumper-to-bumper traffic moves at about the same rate as the average lethargic slug. Traffic flow is further impeded by traffic lights whose timing sequence seems to be set by particularly perverse, sadistic children during breaks from biting their baby siblings, torturing puppies and singeing the tail feathers of caged songbirds on sunny windowsills with magnifying glasses when their parents are not looking.

As he neared the ten-story office building that housed what might become his first academic home, he slowed his pace as he was nearly a half hour early and knew that he should not arrive earlier than fifteen minutes before his scheduled interview. He walked slowly past a variety of small shops, that included a Chinese restaurant with about a half dozen small tables visible through the front window, a pizzeria, a check cashing place sporting a prominent “Payday Loans” neon sign in its window, a bagel shop, a tattoo parlor and several bars. He continued past the office building towards the courthouse, enjoying the glorious early fall day. As he approached the courthouse, he could see dozens of lawyers going about their business, many of them accompanied by their clients chatting on their way to court or holding impromptu conferences. He smiled at the realization that it was often hard to distinguish criminal lawyers from their clients as they moved side by side on their way to and from the criminal courthouse. The lawyers, of course, could be discerned from their ubiquitous bulging leather briefcases, but seemed every bit as shabby, shifty and untrustworthy as their charges and wearing similarly rumpled off-the-rack suits and sports jackets. Even his criminal law professor in law school fit that mold—there was too much of the streets about them, a greater affinity to their clients than to the polish and eloquence that used to be associated with the legal profession in the days when lawyers were not free to hawk their services on commercials during television shows aimed at the terminally unemployable members of society with loud, obnoxious, misleading commercials. These echoed all the finesse and professionalism of local used car salespeople hawking their wares to individuals with toxic credit histories in the wee hours of the morning.

“Have you been injured by a slip and fall? Did the police find a kilo of heroin in your car after a traffic stop motivated by racial profiling?  Is the IRS hounding you because you’ve never paid taxes? Is your son doing poorly in school because he was slapped too hard on his fanny by the obstetrician at birth? Were you denied employment or a promotion because you are an unqualified drug user with a bad attitude, body odor and perpetual absenteeism caused by Chronic Lethargy Syndrome? You may be entitled to compensation. Call 1-800-SHEISTER and a lawyer will come to your home to discuss your case. No injury is too small or frivolous for us to pursue. The law firm of Sheister & Sheister is always on your side.” These commercials should come with the following rapidly-scrolling disclaimer in small print (but do not--a testament to the political clout bought by the very generous campaign contributions of trial lawyers in the United States):

“Disclaimer: we only take cases we know we can win with a minimum of effort, and then only on a 50-percent contingency fee basis. We routinely file cases with little or no merit knowing full well that judges will seldom throw them out on pretrial motions, and count on our ability to settle almost any claim for its nuisance value of $10,000 or less as the average litigation will cost defendants $25,000 in lawyer’s fees and it is cheaper for them to pay us $10,000 to go away than it is to win a Pyrrhic victory in court and have to pay their attorneys $25,000. After paying for court fees and some ancillary expenses off the top from the $10,000 nuisance judgment, we get about $4,500 for little or no work beyond basic motions filed by our underpaid paralegals, and you get $4,500 for any injury real or imagined that may have been caused by anyone you choose to sue. God Bless America, the only country on the planet in which lawyers have succeeded in maintaining the sanctity of the American Rule that prevents losing parties from having to pay the legal expenses of the prevailing party.”

After walking past the courthouse killing time and thinking these dangerous, subversive thoughts that would get him immediately voted off the island by his brothers and sisters of the bar, he turned around after a leisurely seven-minute stroll and slowly walked back. He made his way to the fourth floor at precisely 9:45 a.m.

“Dan Amor to see Mr. Lantz,” he told the smiling receptionist. “He’ll be with you in a moment.” She picked up the phone, punched a button and announced, “Mr. Amor is here to see you.” She then turned to Dan and said sweetly, “Please sit down. He’ll be right with you “

Before Dan had a chance to take a seat, a smiling, short, thin man in his late thirties with short hair in an almost perfect horseshoe pattern around a gleaming, bald head opened the inner door to the right of the reception area and offered Dan a broad smile. “Good morning, Dan. Please come in. I’m Marvin. It’s good to meet you.” Marvin extended his hand to Dan who shook it firmly, saying “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Thank you for seeing me.”

Marvin held the door open and asked Dan to pass through. Dan noted what appeared to be a metal detector as he walked through the threshold, while also noticing another metal detector on the wider door to the left of the reception area that must lead to the classrooms given the number of young people carrying books that he saw walking through it. Unlike today, metal detectors at a school in the 1980s was something Dan had never seen before and found curious. Marvin pointed to the end of the hallway and said, “My office is just down the hall, please follow me.” On the way to Marvin’s office, Dan saw several small offices with people busy at work at their desks, and a large office just before Marvin’s door that looked like a phone bank with a half dozen people working the phones in diminutive cubicles.

As he walked inside Marvin’s office, Dan noticed a short man with mid-length hair staring out the large picture window at the traffic below on Queens Boulevard. The man’s shirt, though clean and of apparent good quality, was rumpled and looked slept in. The man turned his attention to Marvin and to Dan when he heard them come in. Unlike Marvin’s conservative blue tie and a pressed shirt, the man’s tie sported a cacophony of discordant colors that could have been designed by a chimp of subpar intelligence on an acid trip supplied with finger paints in all the primary colors for its hands and feet. The man immediately walked towards Dan with his hand extended in the style of life insurance salesmen, car dealers and televangelists the world over.

“Good to meet you, Dan. I’m Jerry Mason, Vice President for Administration of PEMTI,” the man said, enthusiastically shaking Dan’s hand. “Marvin and I will be interviewing you today and appreciate your coming to see us on short notice.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Mason. Thank you for granting me this interview,” Dan replied meeting the man’s smile, though not quite matching it’s size or intensity.

“Call me Jerry. We Don’t stand on ceremony here, plus I don’t hold a doctorate, just an MS in Marketing. Please, sit down,” he added, pointing to one of two padded leather chairs in front of a massive mahogany desk. ”You too, Marvin. I’ll just stand if you don’t mind.” Marvin smiled and took the seat, but not before offering Dan a cup of coffee or tea, pointing to an elegant side table with freshly brewed coffee, china cups and saucers, a matching sugar bowl, and silver spoons. The office smelled pleasantly of vanilla and fresh brewed French roast coffee. Dan waved off the offer with thanks and sat down, opening his leather portfolio on his lap.

“Would either of you like a copy of my resume or letters of reference?” He asked, looking at both men. “No thank you,” Marvin replied. “We both have a copy and have reviewed it carefully,” he added. Jerry leaned back on the windowsill behind Marvin’s desk and studied Dan while Marvin spoke. “Why don’t you begin by telling us a little about yourself and why you want this job,” Marvin added with a pleasant smile.

Dan covered the basics about his education, training and commitment to higher education. He emphasized his ability to learn almost anything quickly, his legal training and adaptability. He touched on his academic credentials and eclectic competencies as well as his ability to work well both in groups and in self-directed projects.  He closed by explaining that he was a young attorney who did not wish to practice law but instead had chosen to pursue a career in higher education, preferring the intangible rewards and self-satisfaction that career offered over the pecuniary rewards available to a competent young lawyer, with native-language proficiency in Spanish in a city with an insufficient number of attorneys that could effectively serve the needs of a growing Latin American community.  Dan knew but did not mention the insultingly deficient “bilingual attorneys “ whose inability to effectively communicate orally or in writing in Spanish was at once amusing , dangerous and insulting to the clients they targeted through the Spanish-language media.

Dan did not try to address what he anticipated the interviewers would ask as his weakness—lack of experience—was obvious, and he preferred not to raise any negative issue until he was asked about it. The second question, however, he did not anticipate, and it came from Jerry.

“How do you feel about for-profit education?”

Dan answered honestly and immediately. “I really have not given the matter much thought. However, I believe that college is not for everyone, and that there is a very real gap in career training that community colleges are increasingly failing to meet. Most have turned away from their original job-training mission and become feeders for four-year schools. A majority of graduates with associate degrees lack any real marketable skills and are prepared almost exclusively to transfer to a four-year institution that too often will offer similar bachelor’s degrees of little use for those seeking employment.” Both Jerry and Marvin nodded, smiled, and looked at each other as Dan said this.

“I have an uncle who learned typing skills from one business institute or other in Manhattan that saved him from an infantry position when he volunteered to serve in Korea” Dan continued. “He served very near to the front lines, but in a clerical position that kept him out of the infantry because of his office skills. He is a writer now and a retired high school teacher. I envy him the touch-typing skill which served him well and could have earned him a living as a clerk in any number of companies if the G.I. Bill had not allowed him to pursue undergraduate and graduate degrees through the City University of New York and NYU. I also have two very good married friends who trained as beauticians and own their own salon. He is a construction worker who helps out during the winter off season, and she is someone who survived radical cancer surgery in her late teens that left her with physical disabilities that would have precluded her from holding many jobs for which she was otherwise qualified. Both are successful, productive and very happy in their work which would not have been possible other than by attending a proprietary school in NYC. I support for-profit education because I have seen it work, as long as it is offered at a reasonable cost and provides good practical training for individuals that for whatever reason cannot or choose not to go to college.” All of this was true, and it was very well received by both Jerry and Marvin.

“You would be surprised to learn how many people disagree with that point of view,” Jerry said, smiling broadly once again. “But of course we completely agree with you, and we do provide an excellent education at a fair price. We also provide graduates with job placement assistance when they graduate, free of charge and for as long as they need it, not just help in getting their first job after completing their training.”

“That sounds terrific,” Dan said, again meaning it.

"Supreme bone dug out? Then I shall devour all the spiritual bones under heaven, and let the flames of the Holy Land's wrath burn away this false heavenly law!"

[Intellectual Property Legal Notice — Joint Protection]

This work is an original literary creation, officially under contract and registered for copyright protection. It is protected by the following laws and international treaties:

The following actions are strictly prohibited and constitute serious infringement:

Upon confirmation of infringement, the following legal actions will be taken immediately:

This work is under active monitoring by international digital tracking firms as part of the Infringement Control Program (ICP). All suspicious IP addresses and user activities are permanently logged and preserved as legal evidence, unaffected by account deletion, platform removal, or VPN masking.

This statement is a formal legal notice. From the moment of publication, any unauthorized use shall be deemed a deliberate infringement. Legal action will be pursued without negotiation. All consequences will be borne by the infringer.

Authorized Legal Representatives (International):

Mr. Lin Haoyue — Black Lotus Legal Affairs (Taipei)

Ms. Chan Yingshan — Obsidian Law Group (Hong Kong)

Ms. Noor Aisha — Malaya IP Legal Consultancy (Kuala Lumpur)

Contact: [email protected]

Masashi Kishimoto's manga series "Naruto" follows Naruto Uzumaki's journey to become a respected ninja. The manga was adapted into an anime series (2002-2007) and dubbed in English (2005-2009). This book analyzes each episode of the anime series, from Season 1 to Season 5, going beyond a simple summary.

©2023 by Sarah Mkorongo. All rights reserved, and all characters belong to Masashi Kishimoto.

Copyright © 2023 by Sarah Mkorongo

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means-electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise-without the prior written permission of the author.

The ultimate answer to Hong Kong's pop culture? Local girls takes on the music industry!

All of my contest entries I have done for various competitions across Penana.

Each will be an issue on thier own, with awards won.

Angel is a beautiful 10 year old girl who's been trafficked for as long as she can remember. Suddenly a police officer comes and she meets her Sister and Father and apparently...4 older brothers. Angel knows nothing about the outside world and is way behind with understanding the things around her. Can her family help her navigate her trauma and fear? Or will she always be afraid and keep everything bottled up?

Guys, I really don't like this title. If you have any suggestions let me know pls 😜

In the year 4025, a cataclysmic war erupted between the world's major powers. The origins of the conflict were lost in the mists of time, though historians speculate that it was the result of a geopolitical dispute or the reckless depletion of resources. The war, brief but devastating, left the planet on the brink of collapse. Three nuclear warheads were enough to sow destruction, but their impact was merely the prelude to something even more terrifying.

By 4032, the war's collateral effects gave rise to a new threat: the Infected. These beings, the result of a dark human experiment, were misleadingly called "infected." With their emergence, the remaining societies and states were gradually wiped out, dragged down by the unstoppable wave of human decay.

Years later, in 4101, a titanic project began in South America: the construction of a wall that would span 70% of the continent. Though the idea seemed archaic, it eventually proved to be a crucial measure for humanity's survival. After 664 years of arduous work, the wall was completed, and the old nations gave way to a new order: the Seven Republics.

Amid this apocalyptic landscape, an unexpected figure emerges: Joaquín Gabriel Fernández Fausto, a young visionary who, in the midst of chaos and despair, assumes the presidency of the Seven Republics under the banner of the UUP party. With determination and a brilliant mind, Joaquín faces the monumental task of rebuilding a society on the brink of collapse. His leadership of the Seven Republics not only redefines the future of these nations but also marks a turning point in the history of humanity. Under his guidance, humanity seeks to atone for its past mistakes and build a new dawn in a devastated world.

Random poetry from my notes.

The Tragedy in the Bakery

It was the night of negotiations when I saw my guest off. With a weariness in my body, I sat on the cushion on the floor and gazed at the candles flickering softly in the corners of the house. The snacks on the plate still sparkled, my head was heavy and my heart full. I started crying, as if every time a guest comes or goes, I wait for a (different) someone to open the door for them or close it for their sake. The sound of the news came from my phone, and every few minutes, the word (negotiation) was repeated. I pick up my phone and write to him:

“Mr. so-and-so, indirect negotiations between Iran and the US took place, but there was no message from you for negotiations, communication, sending smoke, whistles, shots, sounds, bells, bangs, or any kind of news. If you think you're clever, you're not. I'm still on the cold wooden stairs, watching with my head tilted right toward you. You in the hut, and I in the narrow house. I am sweet, you are the good Khosrow. I cried a lot... I mean really a lot. If I'm alive, it's just because I want you to be less and for your fears to fade into the ground. Otherwise, I've been pulled back into the Adenosine injection again! I was in the hospital. See, I'm going to die! Don't feel bad, okay? If my letter reached you, how could you be so cruel not to write a single line in reply? Since (so-and-so date), I've been missing you like lightning struck me. Why, man? Why did you hurt me? Why did you break my heart?

‘We’ve washed, with the blood of the liver, the robe of the soul / No thread of his remains, nor any warp, O cupbearer!’

I am the stone of the kick,

Your production."

I sent it, thinking how I wish I could ride on the wings of technology and send it into his phone or into his ears at that speed! I remember Saadi’s poem: "There is peace between infidelity and Islam, yet you still fight with us."

My head is dizzy, I pick a piece of cheese with my fork and eat it. I light my cigarette, go to the window, and as I puff on the cigarette, I think to myself: why did I send this message? Didn't the doctor tell me: 'You, my sweet, perfect lady, a fragile glass, a pearl of mine, why are you even thinking of him? This man has no existence outside, no life, no soul. You're imagining him. He doesn't even have a heart. He is not alive! His lack of response means nothing to you.' I hear the doctor's voice in my head, and I remember telling him, 'You, who have no existence, something has settled in my bones...'

Dr. Hiz's eyes always lingered on my hennaed hands. Once he asked me where else I apply henna besides my hands, and I said, "On my feet, a little above my ankles, on my chest, my lips, my hair, and on both hands a little above the wrists..." And he said, "How has this man not been enchanted by a woman as ethereal as you?" I replied, naïvely like Baytai Hejiri, "Well, he likes whiskey." The doctor said, "In your letter, you called him a superman, but he's not even made of clouds, cotton, or sponge. He's just a joker. Forgive him." I replied, "I won't forgive him." All of these conversations paraded in front of me, and I struggled within myself because, as Mokhtari said, a human being’s bag is not milk; it leaves a place for pain.

The ash from my cigarette fell to the floor and crumbled. I crushed it under my shoe on the tiles. Without paying attention to this mess, I reached for the bowl on the table and ate the remaining chips. When I came to my senses, my face was wet with tears. The blue flickering lights in my home slowly turned off and on again, inviting me to sleep. "Oh woman, come, sleep, you’re so tired." But "What’s sleep to the eyes of a lover?" I am a servant of long nights. I am a woman of the night. If there is any light in life, it's a tiny spark that warms my heart during these nights, insomnia, and madness.

The bruises on the skin of my left hand, where the veins from the IV needle had been connected, were still visible. A bruise like a violet flower had made its mark on the whiteness of my skin. I thought of deleting my message, as I’m a writer in this country and being left without a response crushes my heart. But I was too tired to do anything, so I told myself, “To hell with it! One day, I will die, and everything will be read all at once. A day when it’s too late, and the tea has gone cold.”

The next day, I wake up. I feel weak, and my blood pressure is low. The air is turning dark. I quickly get out of bed, eat a quick breakfast so I don’t faint from weakness. In the hallway, the smell of fresh bread fills the air, and even though I haven’t eaten bread for years, I crave going to the bakery to buy a piece of hot, oven-fresh bread. I put on my cotton jacket and tightly fasten my belt so my pants won’t fall down from my thin waist. I angrily check my phone, and I see my message still unread... I curse myself. I walk out of the house with firm steps. I tell myself, tonight I won’t let my feelings control me. I’ll open my ears and let myself be humiliated as much as he wants. Maybe I’ll become a better person. As he said, “Maybe you haven’t been humiliated enough yet.” No... the traces of the important men in my life have been so deep that I haven’t been humiliated enough.

I run my hand along the springtime hedges and breathe in the scent of blossoms. My hair is tied up in a cherry-colored bun, and for a piece of bread, I’m going out of my way, hoping my soul doesn’t melt from the craving for fresh, hot bread. The night falls. The call to prayer sounds, and I find myself in the bakery with my shoulders slumping in the dusk. I want to call him from there and tell him, “Mr. so-and-so, stranger, good-for-nothing, you left me behind. Is this how you treat people?”

But his voice rings in my ears:

"Ah, I saw you called, but when my photo pops up on my phone, I just turn it off. Ha ha ha."

I think of my face. How seeing my photo bothers him or how easily he opens his mouth to lash out at me. I tell my guardian angel, "You are my witness." This man, like those who have drunk magic water or locked their seven bonds, did everything in his power to torture me. The thought of the tears I’ve shed, the nights I stayed awake, and the cigarettes we never shared together disgusts me. I wish I could scoop all these ruthless words from my memory and throw them into the well, but alas...

I’m in the bakery now, and the heat from the oven touches my face. I think my heart is burning like the oven, and I miss him terribly. The kind bakers with smiles on their faces, far from the weakness of the wealthy and obsessed with money, invite me to sit with them. I’ve seen one or two of them before. I had brought them sweets, and we had kneaded dough together and talked about flowers. The bakery, where life flows among the pure-hearted people, I turned to them and said, “I came for a fresh, hot loaf, but first, can someone lend me their phone to make a call?”

Like in gangster movies, five phones appeared in front of me. They said, “Call anyone you want, say whatever you need. Go ahead.” I laughed. It felt like an old film. I chose the oldest phone and said, “I want to call my teacher who’s mad at me.”

The baker said, “My phone is yours, sister.”

I turned my back on them and dialed his number. My hand trembled as if connected to electricity. My eyelid began to twitch. On the second ring, he picks up, cheerful and carefree, waiting to talk to an unknown number. Without saying hello, I say, “We washed, with the blood of the liver, the robe of the soul / No thread of his remains, nor any warp, O cupbearer... I won’t wait to see what he says. I continue, ‘Not a moment passed without me thinking of you, not a page of the calendar turned without me writing about you...’” It seems he’s starting to understand. He falls silent and greets me, saying he’s been busy, very busy. I say, “Everyone’s busy, I wrote to you, you didn’t reply. I called, you didn’t answer. Is this how it works?”

He shoots me down, a professional marksman, saying, “Nothing happened, we only met twice.”

It feels like snakes twisting inside me. I get sick thinking of those nights, of all the laughs we had, and suddenly he looked at me and answered my question about whether he truly didn’t love me with a laugh: “Ha ha, no, I really don’t love you. Ha ha ha.”

My hand shakes, the juice of my soul pours out, and I can’t look at the bakers. Suddenly, he asks, “How are you?”

What should I say? That I’m dying? Does it even matter to someone who doesn’t make time for you? For someone who doesn’t care? So I censor the truth and only, relying on my latest test results, say, “You could have prevented this from happening with my test results!” And I remember my grandfather and continue, “I never thought after my grandfather, a great sorrow would knock me down. But you did. You turned your back on the light.”

I don’t continue. To someone who has fallen asleep, talking about energy, karma, dharma, and how tomorrow is too late, how tea is cold, and how indifference to others' suffering is useless – it wouldn’t help.

I want to hang up the phone abruptly, but to my surprise, the baker holds up a large frying pan with an omelet and offers it to me. He says, “It smells good, come eat with us. Don’t go, we’d feel indebted.”

I think about how the people here, with hearts as pure as crystal, embody nobility without attending philosophy or mysticism classes. In the same sacred bakery attire, with their white aprons, they are a true example of grandeur.

Months ago, I had wished to break my vegan diet on the Chalous road and treat myself to a couple of eggs or a roadside omelet. Now, why would I want to interrupt this moment for a little bread? From the other side, the phone asks, “Did you take the baker’s phone – and of course, laughing, like a gazelle in a pasture – ?”

I say, “I don’t know...” I turn to the bakers and ask, “Who is the baker here?”

My mind starts spinning. I feel like I could burst from joy. It’s like I have wings on my shoulders. Wow, I’m someone important enough to be asked!

I say, “Learn from these bakers, who are people of heart and purity...”

I hang up the phone, feeling braver than ever. As always, I’ve never owed or been indebted to my heart and feelings. I take the fresh bread in my hand and leave, thinking how much I want to go to that place where we smoked together and I sent my birthday balloon to the sky for him.

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sanaz seyed esfahani