drabbles | Johannes Punkt’s Flaskpost

31/Aug/2013

An Atlantis World (#2)

Wavering. The way the adults played it, stonemasons held their breath diving down, letting their metallic tools’ weights drag them to the right depth. They worked in shifts, dragging the tools back up with fishing lines to let the next one descend with them. Underwater, they would carefully remove the stones that held their city up, and bring them to the surface one by one. Others would wash the stones clean of algae, coat them with mortar, and place them on top of the city.

Was it a misstep that collapsed them, just one wrong hammerstrike? We will never know.

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31/Aug/2013

An Atlantis World (#1)

Rickety. The way the children played it, they would build a solid tower out of uniform, wooden blocks. The point was to remove the least important blocks and place them on top, adding to the height of the tower. The game was over when the tower fell, and the collapsor was not under any circumstances allowed to play the game again that day. It must have been a memento mori for their world, with the constant barrage of ice from the sky, filling up the sea. You cannot do this forever; they could have been saying: We don’t intend to.

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30/Aug/2013

Dead Zone

The train slows to a halt in the middle of one of the few dead zones left in the country, all fields of wheat and poppy. We get out our phones in vain, then there is nervous chatter to fill the space the engine rumble left.

A sextet of police officers comes in through the door calmly, wielding their instruments. The front man points – “Him,” he says, baton a millimetre from someone’s nose. “And him. And her.”

These people are led to the last cart, that cart is detached. The train starts rolling again and those left exhale with relief.

29/Aug/2013

Impact

The thing fell from the sky at night, so it had to be a star. The little town regrouped around it like bacteria in a petri dish around a dropped breadcrumb. Its plump body was the muse for many a song.

Crows did not respect it; they would often sit on one of the three tail fins and pretend the humans revered them. It became the humans’ jobs to clean the star, polish off all the droppings, until the metal was shiny and bolts were loose and fins were waggling and there came a slight hum from the thing’s nose.

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28/Aug/2013

The Balcony on the First Floor

You’re in love with a Hollywood chick. She takes off her glasses and the whole world shifts into focus, every colour is 20% more vibrant. You get both of you drunk, you hold a speech for her, about how unworthy you are of her; she pushes you off the balcony into the pool. She gets a mohawk, does it up all green and purple. She tells you to go fuck yourself; she gets a restraining order. Is this how it’s supposed to happen? You watch the movies again, to figure out where this all went off-script. You don’t get it.

27/Aug/2013

Pitch Drop

It is a misnomer to say that they have buried the hatchet, as that would imply an intention of keeping it in the ground. The tell-tale thing beats under the floorboards, right below their bed, while the air is thick with taciturnity. The hatchet is the only thing willing to spill guts. They sit about one body’s width apart, sinking into the mattress.

“I’m sorry,” she says, stroking a lock of hair back so she can look at him without turning her head. Her mouth is dry. Her words come like molasses,

but his are a pitch drop. “I know.”

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26/Aug/2013

The Death of a Half Witch

He was part witch, and quite the charlatan. These days he performed card tricks with only a spark of magic in them, on streetcorners, for loose change and people’s waning attention. He was becoming less impressive, sleeping in an abandoned observatory, wearing the same red-and-black tux every day after having sold the others. Sometimes his bones would creak a sad melody, and he had to pause in the middle of a trick to just breathe.

He was part witch, so he knew how to sleep with one eye open, pressed against the disused telescope. One day he stopped waking up.

25/Aug/2013

A Vision I Had of You

A cloud loses all its willpower and drops out of the sky, dispersing when it hits the sea like ants dropped on a hot metal floor. The mood of the weather is this: depressed. Even the stars seem to droop, lingering for longer than they have to in the paling sky. You’re standing on the beach where it is actually too cold to be barefoot, but you’re letting the ice-cold water lap at your feet as your legs slowly sink into the sand. You stand triumphant. You become a monument. Trumpets sound, and the sunrise cleaves you neatly in half.

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24/Aug/2013

This Bartender, Always

This bartender always gives me slightly more liquor than I ask for, I like that about her.

Today, the bank was robbed by three men in gruesome clown masks. They were counting on us remembering nothing but their masks. But without the distraction of facial muscles contorting and sweat beads forming, I noticed verything about him, the man with the gun pressed against my cheek. Mustard stain on the tie. Egyptian cotton shirt. The leather shoes. Tomorrow I will let the police know all that I know, and receive a protection detail. Tonight, this bartender will get me very drunk.

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23/Aug/2013

Urban Legend

If you find yourself in a certain park at night, there will be a man in a black trenchcoat, standing on a tree stump, holding out his arms. You can ask to buy ‘product’ off him, and he will take your money and leave and you will stand there feeling stupid.

Three days later, when you’ve forgotten all about the incident and moved on, you will wake up with the urge to look yourself in the mirror. It’s dark so your pupils have dilated, and you can see what’s inside them.

Don’t do that; it will know that you’re there.

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