Johannes Punkt’s Flaskpost

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Tag: drabbles

Raincloud Found Dead in Malmö

…witnesses in the area claim to have seen a man clamber up a drainpipe that fell off just as he got up on the roof, where he hurled insults and scrap metal at the sky until a raincloud formed. Reports differ on what happened next: either there was a tempestuous argument, or fisticuffs broke out immediately. By this time it was raining too heavily for anyone to stay outside. Just minutes later the raincloud fell dead from the sky and the man was nowhere to be seen. And now over to sports as the weather, understandably, has been cancelled.

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Fiending

tell me some good news, roche

I’m sorry, you’re really asking the wrong man.

i’m really fiending for a fix, man

I’d love to be like “Okay Dee, the world is full of sunshine and butterflies and also death has been rendered obsolete.”

haven’t had any in weeks. my eyes are bulging. my veins are poppin. c’mon

But the best I’ve got is “I didn’t literally die in the last 24 hours.”

Just tell me that, then, the sunshine and the no-death thing. Just make me believe it. Come on. I’m gullible

I’m bad at lying.

man
man
man
dammit

An Automicrocosm

You can find a new flashfic of mine, An Automicrocosm, over at the Flash Flood Journal: flashfloodjournal.blogspot.com/2014/06/an-automicrocosm-by-johannes-punkt.html

Drinking Game

Drink if you have bad reasons for reading these rules again.

Drink if you want there to be a reverse tattoo parlor, that sucks the faded ink right off your skin along with any scars or marks or pasts

Drink every time you look over your shoulder because your pattern recognition is oversensitive

Drink if the words “bad excuse” stand out to you as much as your name

Drink when you have a small, quiet room

Drink when you run out of words, again, as punctuation, as an endless row of commas,

Drink to me

Drink too much

Drink up

Okay.

Okay: the best you will ever feel is “okay.” When I was little my grandmother smoked like a chimney and died. My mother couldn’t bring herself to say those words; she said grandmother “stopped breathing.” I was slow to grasp the full scope of that statement, okay. Grandmother once drew me a diagram about explaining smoking to me. Okay, she drew two sinewaves one under the other and she talked. She said you feel good and bad, smokers feel bad and worse. And when they feel okay they think they’re feeling good. Yeah? It’s not just smokers. Yeah. Okay? Okay.

Bright White Conversation

“It’s going to be alright.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s not going to bother you much longer.”

You had not been aware that anything was wrong. You have just settled in, here.

The child touches your arm in a gesture that is obviously meant to echo the way someone comforted them, but the child is not old enough to have experience with this and just pats you awkwardly.

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s going to be alright. Promise.” The child looks at the watch on your arm and tries to decipher it.

You do not know what is going to be alright.

~

Previously: /2014/02/24/midnight-conversation/

Tsundoku

When you die, the room you’re in necessarily becomes a library. There are more shelves than you remember, and packed two layers thick on these shelves are all the books you promised to read but never got around to, each one you bought but forgot. There is wall where there used to be doors. Curtains fall over the windows. You sit down to read the books, one by one, until your thumbprint is on every page and you have lived all the lives you wanted. There will be a door where there were walls, and you are allowed to leave.

A Little Worse

So this is how it works?

I don’t know.

Is it supposed to feel like this?

I can’t feel anything.

You can’t feel anything?

Well, I can feel all my usual self. I mean, I cannot feel anything different.

How does your usual self feel?

How does your usual self feel?

It feels like a night, rolled up into an incandescent ball.

Is that normal?

It is for me. I don’t know how selves are supposed to feel.

Did something happen to us?

I don’t know.

Wasn’t that mine before?

The night?

Yes.

I don’t think so.

Are you lying?

Antigravity Strawberries

It is morning, and young men and women are walking the strawberry fields, hanging wicker baskets upside down on wooden latticework. The leaves tickle their dirty, bare feet, and strawberries are tugging the leaves upwards, surrounded by the morning dew hovering still, a snapshot of rain. This year it’s rained a lot, so the pull is stronger than usual, and the customary berry tithe has already fallen upwards, like tossed coins that never come back down. They will disintegrate where the stratosphere turns into mesosphere. Their siblings will be caught in the baskets, placed carefully on counters like small cages.

What I Needed

I found what I needed once, in an old dream like a discarded dress in the back of my wardrobe. I picked it up. It was monolithic, covered with five different kinds of black, and it seemed to have its own climate. When I touched it, it was hot to the touch, and my hand felt alright, like it didn’t need to exist anymore, and while it was inside it, it ceased. And when I pulled my nonexistent hand back out of it, a part of me woke up, and that is the part that is talking to you now.