Johannes Punkt’s Flaskpost

Knossos, Crete

Annelie’s cunt was a labyrinth and she didn’t know how to respond when guys told her they couldn’t figure her out. She felt she was a straightforward person.

Sometimes, Annelie would time them, but it turned out that ”three hours, 15 minutes” wasn’t the right way to respond either. There was no monster at the heart of the labyrinth, but they all acted like it. They all acted like she was the labyrinth, like her emotions were as mazelike.

The solution, obvious in hindsight, was a woman named Liz. Her fingers were deft, and she was not prone to metaphor.

Leave a comment

4/Jun/2013

What M Stands for

M is for mystery. We don’t know who we are. M is for mistake: she likes the bed that we sleep in because it evens out our bruises and we wake up with identical colours motleying our skin. M is for mischief, for the way she tugs at my hair and turns around, pretending someone else did it, whistling even though she can’t whistle. M is for morphine, her analgesic touch. She likes to rest her hand against my chest and just keep it there. M is for mess, the state of the bedroom, bathroom, and kitchen when she leaves.

6 Comments

3/Jun/2013

The Observed One

Handhelds. Hospital CCTV. Nannycams. Mobile phone video, in a pinch. She claimed to have been filmed since birth until the present.

You could usually find her near one of the clusters of security cameras that grew tumourously on the outside of banks or public buildings. Or surrounded by tripods. She said that she would not exist if it was not on tape, and when you scoffed at this she would stop talking to you. If you indulged her long enough, she would show you the television in the well-monitored basement where she slept. And the mountains of tapes behind it.

Leave a comment

2/Jun/2013

Oh, and Don’t Take More than One a Day, Seriously

This is a sugar pill, intended to help against your hypochondria. I say ”intended” – do you know what a sugar pill is? It is a placebo, it does nothing at all, but in some cases the patients think they help, which helps. It is not a secret, illegal yet highly-effective treatment against the illnesses I’m pretending you do not have, but a simple cough drop that I’ve put in this nondescript jar for you. There is no point in writing anything on the jar, but come back every three weeks and I will fill it up. I hope this helps.

2 Comments

1/Jun/2013

Routine Appointment

Once a week, every week, you head down to the tattoo parlour to get my name removed from your chest. The tattoo guy has long since stopped bothering to tell you that there’s nothing there. Those five letters are clearly still there, with the jet black of an industrial printing press, still smelling fresh. Your heart is nothing but scar tissue by now. You attempt to chat with the guy, but it rings false even in your tone-deaf ears. He suggests that if my name is still there in a week, you should consider writing something else over it instead.

Leave a comment

31/May/2013

Police Tape and Shitting where You Eat

There is police tape all over the door to his apartment and your first thought is, I wonder where he got police tape from? Then there is the smell of an exploded meth lab and thoughts two through one thousand run through your head too panicked to be remembered. A couple of thoughts after that stagger behind and stay with you when you come to your senses, and the police officer asks you, “Did you know the man who lived here?” The only thought that is left is the one about which option being worse, pretending yes or pretending no?

Leave a comment

30/May/2013

Headfirst

An empty park bench made of exquisite beige wood, uncannily placed in the middle of a field. The weather has no effect on it. The bench reacts when you sit on it – not a lot, but enough that you notice it. You can talk to anyone else who has sat, or will sit, on this bench, as long as you know their name, as long as they know yours. The bench will fade away after you have had your one conversation. So, the question is, who do you talk to? I took a deep breath and said my own name.

3 Comments

29/May/2013

Motorcade

As his head explodes, as Jacqueline reaches back to collect pieces of him to puzzle him back together, before she realizes just how impossible that would be, some of the blood finds its way to your face. You rehearse what you will say to the journalists flocking there like hyenas to the mighty dead gazelle. Some of them will make their careers tonight, and they laugh as people run around trying to make things make sense. You get home and your mother tries to wipe the blood away with a wet napkin, but it has already fused with your skin.

Leave a comment

28/May/2013

Why We Wear Flowers after Having Committed Murder

Once upon a time there was a man who stabbed another man in the heart. The man got blood on his best shirt – by the time he had created an alibi, all dry-cleaners had closed. He had an important meeting the next morning: it was unacceptable to dress worse than his best. And everybody knew that Egyptian-cotton shirt. He wore it for confidence.

So he bought a flower to cover the stain. The flower smelled so good that the important people in the meeting demanded it. His boss glared at him. The meeting went well. Then he turned himself in.

Leave a comment

27/May/2013

The Myth of Continued Consciousness

Lou believed that he died every time he fell asleep. There was no difference. He had programmed himself to reflect this, much harsher than the other mezzodes on the ship. He had new personalities, new quirks, new phobias every time he accidentally slumbered. Lou refused to be a carbon copy of his former self, that was one of the ways he stayed himself. Sometimes he screwed up changing his own batteries, and someone plugged him in again and Lou held a little funeral and played the bagpipe. Lou believed in very few things, but he said bagpipes healed the soul.

2 Comments