Johannes Punkt’s Flaskpost

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Tag: drabbles

12/Jun/2013

Something That Never Happened

The two of us could not have been more alike; I always followed her footsteps. I thought I felt the same pain as she did. She cast the words from her soul, branded them on the skins of her strangers; I breathed fire and did the same. I was never more than a year behind. She travelled without shoes or socks, I calloused my feet and let the wind show where I should go. She stood on a hill and talked to thunderstorms, I could only shout at open skies with no response. Now she’s happy, and I’m not dead.

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11/Jun/2013

The Waterfalls Have Switched Directions

The waterfalls have switched directions. The flow of water has been slowing down the last few weeks, and for an hour or so yesterday the river was completely still, like in a photograph. Droplets hanging in the air. Bubbles just about to burst. Old diffuse reflections trapped on the shimmering surface. The only thing that broke the stillness was a school of confused fish. And then the spell broke; the water started flowing backwards, up the rocks toward the mountain whence it came. The well-water has already turned salty.

I cannot fathom why the mountain is gathering all that water.

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10/Jun/2013

Survival Guide

Find the library. There is always a library, even if there is no library. There is a place of books where book people gather. Else you must build it and that is why you are there. Always find your way there, get to know its nooks and crannies; get to know its big open spaces and the rats in its walls. Learn where among the shelves you will be alone, and where you will not. Memorize the name of everyone who works there, smile at them. As long as you can find the library, the rest will fall into place.

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9/Jun/2013

This Curse

This curse. Have you noticed how everything we breathe life into falls to bits? The inert objects have a kind of stability. The verdant, vibrant machines have a tendency to tear themselves apart. I have held my breath for so long, and I don’t know how much longer I will be able to, but what is another five years?

They are so small. Have you noticed how they trust you just because you make things grow? I am waiting for the end times for them, to tell you the truth. Maybe when I finally exhale, I will breathe out myself.

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8/Jun/2013

Of Course

I open my eyes to find my bedroom covered in newspaper clippings. Two balls of yarn have been slaughtered during the course of the night, their entrails decorate the walls now. Where did you get all these newspapers? You’re naked, still naked (and so gorgeous). I make a joke, you don’t react. I put a hand to your head and ask: did you get any sleep? Is this about what I said last night? First you shake your head, then you nod it. I don’t think I’ve seen your eyes this big before. “You really love me,” you say, helplessly.

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7/Jun/2013

Decelerate Enough

There was a rhythm to it, if you decelerated yourself enough. One heartbeat every hour and the rain fell melodiously on the roof of my car. That was how I knew this was not natural rain, but something more sinister, or more divine. Maybe it shifted between day and night, but the rain never stopped. There was no point in distinction. An oak a hundred feet away had an aura made of rain and streetlight. I stepped out onto the asphalt, it took a thousand years. I walked toward the oak, toward the drumming, strumming, humming phosphorescence in the distance.

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6/Jun/2013

Footnotes

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0He spoke in footnotes1, and was prone to lies2.

Read the rest of this entry »

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5/Jun/2013

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.

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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.

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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.

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