Johannes Punkt’s Flaskpost

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Category: Writing

Arthur

There’s a word inside a stone and whoever pulls the word out of there becomes king. Men have spent half their lifetimes conversing with the stone, laying forth their theories and trying to convince the stone they would be just kings, fair kings, loved kings. The scholars argue whether the word is stuck in a stone or in all stones, and so stonetalking’s spread to all corners of the kingdom.

A young man sits down next to the big stone (the one stone) and ignores the three knights quoting poetry at it. “Hi, how are you?”

“Bored,” the stone says.

Rigor Mortis O.

It is always a compromise, always a death. (I thought maybe it should be construed as a coping mechanism for an inevitable death, a rebirth, but that excuses it.) Weave your death into your identity to feel less hollow, the same way you would keep a gangrenous limb for reasons of symmetry alone. You are always a collective, never a collectivist. Never individual though starkly individualist. It saddens me how kinderly you people forget; I am not impressed with where you work, not unless this just pays you, for being you. Instead your ink is theirs, and you become

invaded.

Of White and Blue

In ancient times, the sky was full of suns, cold and far away. Jealous of their beauty, mankind built their own cold lights on the ground and mirrored the darkening sky. At first, the faraway suns still outshone the earth, but the humans in their cities put more and more blue lanterns by their bedframes and in their windows and to light up their streets. Eventually the sky was not only matched, but its beauty was beaten and the pinpricks of light faded away.

When we developed space flight to visit other worlds, we found that there were none there.

NaNoWriMo Excerpt #1

I am losing interest in telling this story well but there should be salvageable things after the month is over and writing can return to a more reasonable pace.

~

The Information Market seemed to breathe, or have a pulse. But it was nothing but a layer-3 suborganism and its ebb and flow was no more than that of the ocean.

Its pulse quickened, though. Garish stepped out onto a podium while three or four ghosts of him moved around on the floor like it was some sort of dance. His suits were black and grey now, his hat shorter and flatter. One of his ghosts stopped dead in front of a short hunchback.

“Why hello there, gorgeous,” he said though she hid her face. “How do you feel about a transaction?”

Her hunch seemed to twitch and she turned away. Garish stretched out his cane to poke her on the back with it but she turned around and ripped it from his grip. “What do you want?” There was a veil over her face now.

“How about, I hand you this –” he held up a small information ball like the one he’d given to Rovy a few hours earlier – “which is an extensive guide to dieting and taking care of one’s body. All I want for exchange is a little personal information from you.”

“I’m not telling you anything and I don’t need that.” Her voice was like gravel and grit.  Read the rest of this entry »

Trace Fossil

The grey bug burrowed deep into its host’s chest. Crawled and scratched and ate its way down to her heart and the heart stopped. The bug, simple as it was, could simply not comprehend what had happened; what was once a very lively source of heat and joy now lay dead in its arms. So it kept digging. It was in love, plain and simple. It dug until its claws and teeth had worn down to nothingness and then it waited until they grew back and it dug again; through bone, out her back. She was just not there anymore.

Response Ability

for Existential Elevator of the Mercer Box; happy birthday

~

“No, you can’t open that door,” a man told her. He wedged himself between her and the door and slammed the thing shut with a smile. He was missing some teeth and his white hair seemed prehensile. The door was right there behind him. His pupils were of different size.

“You cannot be serious.” The smell of booze rose up from everywhere: the room was large and decorated in red and white. Large banners hung as though thrown in from high windows, where also birds could enter. The place was mostly stone. “When you said ‘welcome party’ I imagined at least one Alien would show up.” Her attempt at pushing him aside met with no success.

“You have to remind yourself: you are the Alien here.” The man grinned. “Enjoy the party. Natives will show up later, when you’re ready for them – in the meantime, you can party like one.” His hair curled up.

She compared their outfits. Herself, she wore the full ceremonial dress of welcome – long ribbons and a dark cope, a silhouette pattern of the mythical beast, small but functional shoes with iron soles. She could feel the weight of her iron earrings on each lobe, and her shoulderblades still itched. This man wore – exclusively – a toga.

She slumped back into a chair that wasn’t there a moment ago. The man relaxed his posture a bit. His pupils synchronized. “It is always pleasant to receive fresh meat,” he said. “What is your name?”

His hair unfolded from the curls and floated outward languidly to where a fly was buzzing. Macro-animals like that had only been theoretical to the woman up till that point, and she stared transfixed at the creature until the white hair snapped shut and trapped the insect.

“Er, Quan Merora,” she said.

“A pleasure to meet you, Erquanmera,” said the man and bowed. His hair parted in the middle to show a surgical scar running along the man’s black scalp. He straightened himself up again. “I am the left, and my name is Demnar Juthuth. I will make sure someone gets you a drink now.”

And he walked away. Read the rest of this entry »

Bird of Passage

He was a bird of passage, born with human bones and body. Humans are slower than birds, in many ways, and the instincts weren’t quite right in his head. The swallow sees the leaves turn yellow and knows it is time to leave for warmer climates. He felt the same way when the first snow fell. He had to hand in his minimum two weeks’ notice, organise goodbyes, and buy a plane ticket for the day after his last social promises. He would arrive, make himself known and struggle for months; make friends, even. Then the first snow would fall.

Love-(You)-Not

http://mercerbox.wordpress.com/2012/10/27/love-you-not/

The media didn’t know what to make of it. Reports had been flying in, from all over the city, about people who suddenly saw doppelgängers of themselves everywhere. At first, the News at Six had speculated that it was a new mental illness, which had been unknown before. This was the common stance until two days later their lead presenter had broken down live on air while swearing she could see a thousand of herself right in front of her.

David had been watching the news reports with interest.

(Read more.)

Remember when I wrote those plots that were all up for grabs? Someone awesome grabsupped one of them!

Existential Elevator is a good friend of mine who writes dolorous and glorious things over at the Mercer Box. That is, by the way, an excellent title for a blog even if one does not get the reference. And you should click that link and read the story in its entirety!

It is the plot that goes like this:

Futuristic Megacity. Boy meets girl. Boy splits into million versions of self, only one which dares fall in love with girl. Girl falls in love with boy. Suicide wave strikes city. Media panic. Boy questions own courage. Girl afraid of outside. City crumbles. Boy meets afraid version of himself. Girl confronts re: this; gets wrong version of boy. “You dared go outside.” Girl breaks down. Wrong version of boy convinces girl of double suicide. Right version of boy is too late. Stays there waiting for either of them to wake up again, because boy doesn’t want to Romeo. Fade out.

So, read it. Go.

Nightmare Fuel October 2012, Day 20

broken heart collector

A village on the side of the road with old timberframe houses and lantern light in the windows after dark, where your death has been foretold ever since you were born. Miss Buhnaf is taking care of the logistics; in her great wooden temple there is a stone on which you will be laid. Torches have burnt since ten years back and will fall when you are tied and secure. Men with burlap sacks and silent feet have been sent out to fetch you. It is prophesied you will come of your own volition, but the men have their ways.

Nightmare Fuel October 2012, Day 19

One little back door to Hell

“Just a what?”

Elle stared at herself, then back at her girlfriend. Ex-girlfriend. Elle wore the laces, high boots with a short skirt, sporting curly red hair and a corset. Belts everywhere. Cecilia, on the other hand, was a sore thumb. Her hair fell straight and blond past her hips. Minimal make-up. A jumper with some university name on it. Trousers that went the whole way down her legs; regular shoes. She clutched a little icon on a golden necklace; the icon represented a martyr on a cross.

“Just a phase,” Cecilia repeated, “I am not a what you are anymore.”