The Name of the Sun is Yellow

37 Very Short Stories

Winter Coats

It’s early March and the winter coats are disappearing. They have had a tough winter. Filled with depression and cold and darkness, and they’ve soaked it all in.

Now that the sun is coming out they can finally get some rest. The winter coats rest in the back of the closet where it is dark and quiet. They rest there together with the scarves and the hats and the long johns. All summer long the winter clothes tell each other stories about the winter like old friends who went to high school together.

Most of the stories are somewhat sad and depressing but the winter clothes don’t really mind. They are the type of clothes which are a bit melancholic and sad by nature.

In general, the winter clothes stay by themselves in the back of the closet all summer, but every now and then a piece of light and colourful summer clothing comes by for a visit. The summer clothes always tell the winter clothes stories about the sun and the beach and half-naked bodies. They are also always drunk.

The winter clothes don’t really like hearing these happy-happy stories. It makes them even more depressed. During the summer, the winter clothes just like to stay by themselves in the back of the closet and not see anybody else. Especially not those happy-happy summer clothes with their happy-happy stories.


Love tears things apart. Like people. Out of torn people tears seep. The tears wash and heal the torn people and glue them together again. There are little tears for small wounds, and rivers of tears for bigger wounds and there are oceans of tears for huge gaping wounds which are hard to fix. It is these oceans which really tear people apart, having one of their halves on the side of the ocean where all is still well and the other on the other side where it is definitely not. And they can’t really shake hands and make up or just hug, but can just look at each other and cry while both are standing in an ocean of tears holding a beer in their hands.

Oceans take a long time to dry. A really, really long time. And when they are dry there is still a lot of salt. A desert of salt. The salty desert hurts the eyes but not so much that new tears don’t seep out. Not too many at least. The salt mostly burns the eyes. But the salt also tastes nice with the beer both of the halves are drinking while standing there in the ocean, looking at each other.

Beer is also a kind of tears, but one that is poured into the body instead of seeping out and doesn’t hurt that much, perhaps only the day after.

There is always more beer to drink the day after.


The bag is relaxed and chills on the shoulders. The bag is a bit like a dog. A loyal companion. But it doesn’t bark.

The bag likes to be fed daily rituals. Like a notebook and a novel for the lonely hours and sometimes a phone or a wallet. The bag eats groceries and books and sometimes a warm sweater when it gets cold.

Besides eating daily rituals, the bag also carries all the things for which the hands have no room. The hands often need to be empty to open doors or to take out some cash from the cash machine or just to scratch a nose. Since the hands are two, and only one hand is needed to hold the bag, the other hand is free to do whatever it wants.

When the bag is very heavy the hands give the bag to the shoulders or to the back. The shoulders and the back are like parents to the hands, whom the hands can go to when they need some help.

If the bag is so heavy that even the shoulders or the back can’t carry it, the bag is not a bag, but a block of concrete. Even shoulders and backs know that a block of concrete shouldn’t go anywhere. A block of concrete should just stay put and keep its mouth shut.

The I and the U

The I and the U are best friends. Most of the time.
Sometimes the I is without the U. Not often though. But it happens.

When the U is not there, the I thinks of it all the time. The I is pretty sad without the U. Being without the U, makes the I turn into an O.

O.O.O the I sighs more then once.

There are, however, moments when the I cannot stand the U. When the U says something harsh about the I for example. Or when the U doesn’t come home for days and hangs out with other I’s and U’s all night long.

Where have U been? The I asks the U when it comes home yet again in the early morning, tired and drunk and smelling like cigarettes. This pisses the U off. This questioning of the I is one of the reasons the U sometimes needs to leave the I in the first place. One of its favourite replies is that’s none of your business, or what do U care?

This makes the I even more sad. It doesn’t really know how to react when the U is like that. All wound up and such. Mostly the I just turns silent and looks to the ground and with red eyes it babbles something hardly audible. Like U and Love and I and But, don’t U know?