*Cerita ini ditulis akhir tahun lalu untuk zine kucing yang bubar sebelum terbit. Karena lagi kangen toko buku dan pasar, jadi dipasang di sini. — Henry “Hank” Chinaski terperanjat saat wajahnya disemprot air beraroma minyak eukaliptus. Ia menelusup ke bawah meja, terbirit-birit, membuat anak muda… Read More
On a Sunday afternoon three weeks after I arrived in Bangalore, I found myself sitting in a tea house, feeling that, for the first time since I landed in India, I did not want to order masala chai. The tea house was the one in… Read More
Sudah lewat tengah malam saat George Whitman berjalan tertatih di ruang tengah toko bukunya. Malam itu ia sulit tidur. George — yang rambut putihnya tergerai awut-awutan — berjingkat-jingkat di antara belasan anak muda yang tidur bergelimpangan, beberapa di antara mereka penulis petualang, yang lain pejalan… Read More
If I was already blushing like a sakura when I untied my yukata, I am sure my face was as red as a freshly sliced tuna sashimi when I turned around and faced the breasts of a stranger. They were round with a narrow valley between them… Read More
The Dusty Sneakers 