Finally, I got the chance to play The Last Of Us Part II, after escaping from all the spoilers like a fugitive, thanks to all of my friends who had played it and worked hard to keep the story unrevealed for me. I am not going to focus on this particular video game. Although I can mention it as a splendid example of the point I am going to make.

Considering video games as a piece of art has been challenging for me before. I used to play a lot as an only-child adolescent. But after attending university, I didn’t…


When I look back at the last six years of my life, I can uncover a lot of changes in my personality and beliefs. Before then, I was someone else. Living in a world which I do not have a clue about it. Looking at a picture of me from high-school or before then reminds me of an old friend who has disappeared suddenly among the passing time and I have a silent connection with him that indicates he is not going to show up again. Actually, I am not a bit sad about it, because I know he feels…


Recently, I’ve been watching a lot of videos on YouTube. Mostly about writing, literature, and the English language. I must say, I can’t stop myself from exploring through various channels. Some offers are highly exciting, no matter what the subject would be. Right after you enter the website, you would see a hundred eyes looking at you and inviting you to their rooms for a chit-chat. The cover pictures have been designed with high delicacy. They are trying to attach the intriguing title to the details of the picture. In general, they are implying, “Come to my room. …


I had a walk last night, just around the house, no place far. It might seem funny, but I have the ability to recognize the whole mood of the avenues right after I step out of the apartment door. I use lights and check their brightness, I guess.

I rambled toward the main street, keeping hands in the jacket’s pocket and breathing like a choking bird behind the mask. …


She is a short lady with curly and quite weird hair-style. In one of her photos, she is standing in the middle of a huge garden. She is looking at something far away while holding her hands tied back. Her face and body remind of childhood fear while sneaking inside her house for the first time, to discover the dark secret hidden behind her solitude.

She is a short lady, standing right in the center of the wide and empty land of the south. She creates a kind of dreadful anxiety, and at the same time, beauty. …


I am a sick man … I am a spiteful man … I am an unattractive man …

I think Dostoevsky, due to his own dramatic and perilous life, is familiar with how humans might react to various psychological states. What he does in his prose is creating an individual psyche, with a unique viewpoint of the world. He is dreadfully patient in his prose. It makes you crazy how slow and comprehensive is the flow of the narrative.

Most of his characters are people different from others, just because they are aware of something. Something boring and also joyful…


It’s been 5 minutes since I got home but I haven’t moved a muscle. At the end of the corridor, everybody is sitting quietly in the living room. Leaning onto the wall of the corridor, I step forward slowly. No idea Where these mourning songs coming from.

I reach the living room. It’s packed end to end, everyone sitting and wiggling. My dad is standing over there in the corner beside a man, stroking his beard. I put my hand in front of my mouth and head towards the uncle’s picture. I feel the gaze of people following me as…


The hotel lobby was dark and quiet. It was 6 o’clock sharp when the old butler heard the ringing from the kitchen. He dried his palms with the sleep pants and passed off the lobby slowly to the door. The boy was standing outside, next to his leaned rucksack against the wall, feeling cold by the early morning breeze. The aged man opened the creaking English door and nodded, then he left it open and started to the corridor. Pulling his hands off his hoodie pockets, the boy grabbed the trolley handle and entered.

The noisy sound of the broken…

Danial Amari

A young writer from Iran. (www.danialamari.com)

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