Writing is not a luxury. It is evidence.
Poems and short fiction written as record: labour, exile, survival — what remains after systems move on.
Every voice is registered. Saying your own name is a crime.
Unlicensed Voice by Josef Hammer — a dystopian novel of surveillance and censorship. A city drowned in official sound, and one woman who can do any voice.
Buy them where you buy books. The poems are here for nothing.
Every voice is registered. Saying your own name is a crime.
Unlicensed Voice by Josef Hammer — a dystopian novel of surveillance and censorship. A city drowned in official sound, and one woman who can do any voice.
Everyone knew who killed her. Nobody knew the beginning.
Caging Honour by Josef Hammer — a short novel about honour-based violence: the machine that turns love into murder, and the people who take it apart.
A city that sorts its people by altitude.
Ayla: Echoes of Dissent by Josef Hammer — a dystopian novella of New Babel, where the Heights have clean streets and the Depths have the shift.
The forest hears everyone. It does not choose.
What the Forest Heard by Josef Hammer — a middle grade adventure for readers aged 8 to 12 about listening, and what kindness costs.
A weighbridge ticket. A boot heel. The end piece of the loaf, salted, still warm. Spare lines about labour, exile and survival, entered so that someone later cannot say it was not written down.
Night shift. Warehouse. Border. The flat across the city. Testimony first, ornament never.
My father lived exactly as he wished, sharing his vision with us despite never learning to write. He signed his name with a proud thumbprint, and with that same quiet pride, he raised us to look beyond the boundaries we were born into. Rather than holding us to the past, he helped us break its chains. We left behind the clichés, the dogmas of religion and nationality, and the inherited judgments meant to frame us. We chose instead to walk toward a liberated, unconditional future.
I left in my twenties. It was not a decision. It was arithmetic. Sweden took the first ten years — a language course, a night job that paid while the poems did not, and a union I still call the best university I attended. England since.
Writing is not a luxury. It is evidence.
When something is filed — a poem, a story, an article, a book — you are sent it once. No offers. No countdown. Leave in one click and I will not ask why.
Entries only. Nothing sold, nothing shared.