The following article was published in N-SPHERE March 2012 issue.


The last dialogue took almost forever to find its way to the tips of his fingers, but even so, it seems that the pen’s dried up or the ink is of a lesser brand.

“Do you consider yourself worthy of the pen but too small and insignificant for the words?” “I do not know. You have been absent for months, dialogue became scarce, monologue became almost fake. Seems that everyone has lost their touch. Or their talent, if indeed there was talent to be found somewhere.” “That is a good question. Didn’t think you could come up with something new. Anyway, some sort of rebranding is necessary. Your authenticity is decaying. The ‘originality’ is taking a circular spin. Or perhaps you cannot exist outside the beaten path. And that would be … regretful. I think some characters got used to your presence and your disappearance would sadden them needlessly.” “So what you’re really saying is… !?”

“My dear, this is neither fashion, so you can try on various combinations, nor some hip attitude. You must be better than this. A whole lot better.” “I was wondering where the off-duty teacher in you went. I see your old habits die as hard as anyone’s. I ponder still if to congratulate you or ignore you completely. But unfortunately, I may yet have to find some use for you… as a convenient presence, as some entity to be blamed for anything and everything, as a cheap late hour chat or some other form of light entertainment or intellectual activity.”

Is that a spark of the old vanity once worn so graciously? Is that a last minute sniff of magic powder for the bold and disoriented?

text by Bahak B

artwork by Vel Thora

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The following article was published in N-SPHERE February 2012 issue.


My eyes hurt. Perverse pain circles around them, waiting with dark magic at its side to render useless the broken retina, distorting an already impoverished vision of everything. Amidst all this, the iris knows me. All my deeds go on record in the windows of my soul. All my punishments are listed and checked as I atone for one sin after another, and as such maybe freeing up space for something else.

The iris is my vengeful guardian. Painted in creepy colours of war, it holds me accountable for the past, guiding my steps to the future, if it feels like. Its pattern changes as the path I tread upon is reinvented day by day, though it is unknown to us why or by whom. It just is.

The iris is my not to be trusted friend. Would crucify me or hang me out to dry the first chance it gets, to the amusement of some modern plebs, not even the inner self tiny escape corner being spared the humiliation and disdain.

And then, it ripped from top to bottom. Without mercy, without warning. Now, my eyes are tainted, almost pleading with me to be put out of their misery. One split second, and their concentric circles are lost to the purity within, feeling the heavier shadow of the iris.

The iris simply is.

text & artwork by Bahak B

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The following article was published in N-SPHERE November 2011 issue.


There’s a light outside my window; it tells me stories in the darkened breeze. Stories of leaves going far away, entwined with soft words of comfort. It has been a while since we looked at each other under the watchful eyes of our patrons, the sighs of the storm. It has been a while since we exchanged true smiles and sincere greetings and searched together some sort of answers, if there are any to be found.

I would often ask and be asked why the stars are so quiet, or why don’t I speak in their tongue anymore. Why do they just look at me cold, monstrous and transfixed, mocking the void I carry deep inside. The tears of the lonely shiver down my spine and clench my throat, plunging me into a tiresome state of mind.

I will leave the light to concern itself with them, because I know it will be there for a long time, patiently waiting with open arms, ready to embrace whomever seeks peace of mind and guidance. And I have learned as well to accept its judgment, although reluctantly, yet I fear others may not indulge in feeling the warmth of its waves.

And yet, no rhymes of victory are to be sung or heard, no end can be felt, no fracture of this tiny box can be seen, only solid walls of darkness still call for me to portray on them the meanders of my character’s layers, in blood, in still waters, in unspoken fire, or whatever element required by the shadows still holding me in their frozen grasp.

There’s a light outside my window; it reminds me I have been absent for too long.

text & artwork by Bahak B

Full article here.



The following article was published in N-SPHERE October 2011 issue.


It suddenly occurred to me that my new kingdom may be more than the untameable creature I took it for. I realized the mixture lying behind the closed doors, tired grins and silenced whispers, and the basement of my consciousness started oozing poisonous fumes warning me of times ahead.

It gradually occurred to my new kingdom that I may be more than the fabled landlord it took me for. And as such it prepared endless barren discourses with which I’m supposed to be brought down to my knees and submit to a will I neither acknowledge nor condone.

Hence, beneath the cheap gloss of an idealistic future, the frustration of a not thought through deal is smouldering, and the fury of a bad business decision is piling up, as the blanks get harder and harder to fill; and, as the pressure grows, uneasy the mirrors slowly turn away, bathing in the ash of haunting visions, paying respects to the time when the pen glided away on the unseen paper in a perfect metamorphosis of unlucky beings.

A dire lack of everything eats away mercilessly at the whole, and the nonbelievers wait patiently in the shadows the happy hour of the crumbling of minds and bodies. But those who still have words of meaning to speak, things to ask forgiveness for, sins to shape and atone for, will always be admired and looked up to. The old puppeteer will once more be brought back to life, to reveal lost secrets of leading the inane and disoriented. The daily show will set itself in motion without remorse, no matter how ragged the stage and the curtains may  be. A true feast for the senses of the comatose… the place all are headed for. Is this seat taken?…

text & artwork by Bahak B

Full article here.



The following article was published in N-SPHERE September 2011 issue.


A passer-by once told me, in the applause of unknown spectators, that he thought the idea obsolete, and that my efforts will do little good to help those around me with their own burdens.

I was told that not all want to be saved, even if from my childish point of view I see myself as some sort of out of date knight in not so shiny armor, version 1.5, with some bugs fixed and others self generated, not yet the laughing stock of the modern “hero of the day” archetype but somehow close by.

I was told that the man in me is crippled, broken and puny, specialized in mopping up ruins and dealing with currencies long excluded from the trade, and it was shown to me the hilariousness of every sunrise, true kiss, and meaningful smile.

It was shown to me how the magic of the mirrors twists and distorts even the simplest of perceptions, turning it into a haze out of which undoubtedly one always comes out darker than one was. It was shown to me the cold and heartless behind the mirror of their dishonest eyes.

Finally an angry flashback reminded me I’m not as invincible as I thought I was, and so, in the fading of the clouds up above, the grasshopper’s relentless piercing noise keeps me almost sane, not so sane however as to fully and completely deny the use and opportunity of a complete makeover. Such will be the circumstances of the future, and, whatever the end they will bring, one must understand and grasp the grand scheme of things to some extent.

My brain just went into “safe mode”.



text & artwork by Bahak B


Full article here.



The following article was published in N-SPHERE August 2011 issue.


Again the stream of my words lies choked six feet under, and the only clue of its former existence is an annoying groan than sticks impenetrably to my ears bringing the madness upon me. I still feel drained and incapacitated beyond belief and repair, incapable of stepping outside both the wreckage of my flesh and that of my consciousness.

“Some would say that you are the architect of your misery, and that just might be true. Not that I want to be another voice in the horde of judging bastards scrutinizing every frame of your colorful yet gray days, but there’s still a higher understanding of all this that still eludes you.” “Yes… here comes the spiritual approach of mediocrity. But I still want to wonder the streets in the dark and gaze upon my distorted reflection in the concrete that will one day cherish and nurture my remains. I still want to plunge into the nothingness of the stars and search the lost touch of the god that once protected me.” “Indeed a subject to study late at night. It inspires the stories dormant beneath your skin and divine intervention at your doorstep keeps the sanity watching over the last empire of carefully crafted imagery. Ever wicked tools of your trade disappear briefly beyond the candle light.”

But now you leave. And even if I did not realize, or maybe I’m just deluding myself again, for I do not know what is real and what is not anymore, the bottom of the pit still holds fragments of … something … something that causes the putrid walls of the soul to bleed again. And just when I was getting the feeling that things were starting to go right. Just when I finally turned my head away from the endless line of exterior and altered creations passing before my eyes, that cloud my judgment and keep me inert and powerless. And I scream in pain and shriek inside with every image that I’m doomed to see.

“Good thing you don’t need to get out… right?”


text & artwork by Bahak B

Full article here.



The following article was published in N-SPHERE July 2011 issue.

I am when I should be long gone.
I walk when I should crawl and run when I should pace myself.
I spill blood when I should drink wine.
I hold my head up high in the rain and bend it in the sunlight.
I embrace the dried out earth when I should summon the muse.
I spit venom when I should inhale perfume.
I smile in disdain when I should offer comfort.
I travel through mystical lands when I should cleanse my soul.
I dwell in deadly places when I should roam the sky.
I dream in broken light bulbs when I should seek sanctuary.
I come in colors when I should deal in black and white.
I am depraved of sleep when trapped by running waters.
I mutilate the vessel of my life with joyous harmony.
I take snapshots of my future and sell them in my past.
I speak in unknown tongues that only my brethren recognize.
I breathe an air filled with scent of dying orchids and smell of melted immortal sands.
I live in a house with glass walls and chromium burning palm trees.
She works in a place with two bowls of chocolate candy when she should hide.

text & artwork by Bahak B

Full article here.



The following article was published in N-SPHERE June 2011 issue.


In the shadow of perverted thoughts an idea was born, frail and in search of a life force too distant and seemingly un-accessible for it to comprehend. A dark god grabbed its throat and forced it into full existence, threw it on a dangerous road, and gave it enormous amounts of sadness and sorrow for water and food. Thick threads of mercury and sulphur on its back, perfect clothes for and every solemn occasion shone glamorously into the viewer’s eyes, a ‘full metal jacket’ like no other.

“I feel a nonexistent weight lifted away from my nonexistent heart. I want to chain you down to the ground at my side, to watch you for countless hours. I want to keep an eye on you forever, even if forever doesn’t exist anymore.  So, do I dare speak? Do I dare touch you? Will you vanish like the November mist if I do that? I wish I knew beforehand, being that it’s easier to play in the land of predictability. What do you require of me in exchange?”

“I didn’t want to be “that one”… I didn’t ask to be “that one”… I didn’t choose to be the one that takes it all away, that tears apart the old beliefs and leaves mayhem in their wake… I was created for a purpose and acted accordingly since that day… every day”

It will haunt the days and the nights… It will live obscured by thoughts and desires… the lust for clear skies will feed on the darkness within until a blinding white suited for the insane dwellers of his soul will linger in every forgotten corner, on every tired and mute ruin, on every dusty step on the path to a frail idea of a smile…

text & artwork by Bahak B

Full article here.



The following article was published in N-SPHERE May 2011 issue.


I am oblivious. I choose to be. To what surrounds me, to the world. I do not want to have anything to do with it, its functions and purpose. I am the ultimate deceiving weapon, I use, abuse, consume and throw away anything that I find worthy of. I leave my mark and multiply by hate and anger, I enter souls and thoughts and crucify them in my gallery of trophies.

I know no shame. All pawns in my creepy game of life, I choose my victims by twisted standards, so that the damage inflicted rises to unknown heights. I possess minds and toy with them, freeze hearts in excruciating humility and regret, and leave them crippled for a long time, or even better, permanently. And all this I do according to my mood as I go through each day, with outstanding elegance and grace.

I have no heart. Break open my chest and you will see a deep and unforgiving pit. Come too close and you get a free ticket to the moment you will die silently inside, and I will indulge in feeling your pain as I did my own a long time ago. I will mark my skin with a fair warning for all the consumers of my body to know what should be expected. To let them know that beneath this sack of skin lies something dark and poisoned, that only can be used in small dosages. Anything else will take a toll few are willing to pay.

So pray that you don’t cross my path by chance. And if you do it willingly, think twice before you take me on. Even if you think you know me better than anyone, even if you are mostly skilled, I’ll always have an ace up my sleeve that’ll hit you wherever and whenever I deem necessary.

I stood and watched the light inside your eyes fade away as the cruelty choked the hope out of you, as you realized it will be over soon.

text & artwork by Bahak B

Full article here.



The following article was published in N-SPHERE April 2011 issue.


What will you write in your big black book when the time comes? Will you write that you are wise? Will you write that you are just? Will you write that you spilled blood and waged wars? Or will you write that you remained hidden between its pages, yearning for some divine intervention, or that you ran overcome with fear from the horrors of the unfulfilled pale sketches of desires? The poetry embroidered in your breath flows like quicksand through the carmine seconds… flowers wither and die, perfect retainers of a newborn clan leader.

You were being looked upon with vicious lustful eyes, wondering about the warmth of your thighs that spawned the creatures of rebellion, and your loins trembling with victory. Sentenced to relive the pain you felt that day over and over again, you find the path of atonement to be burdened by your own clueless nature, a poisoned nebula spinning out of control. And, if one were to ask, you still can’t figure out what suits you best, the twilight or the darkness, yet I recognize the jacket you’re wearing, the outfit of a simpler time.

You put up a sign, screaming for vengeance, in need of a pillar at the premature end of your time as an innocent scholar of celestial spheres. You put up an elegant fight with your mutation through days of thunder and despair. And just when you were about to give up and give in, someone decided it could not turn a blind eye to your endeavors anymore.

Late was the hour the puppeteer was hailed into the room…

text & artwork by Bahak B

Full article here.