Johannes Punkt’s Flaskpost

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Tag: fiction

You Wept

You wept. Who even weeps anymore? I bawl or tear up or cry, once I even blubbered, but you wept. This is exactly analogous to that time you caressed my skin when I thought you would stroke my chin or pet my hair. You’re from another time, another world. You called me dashing, when I’m nothing above handsome, am I? Am I? I don’t want to make love to you, I want blinding sex, I want a good shag, I want to fuck you, but you wrap your legs around me lovingly and I don’t know how to correct you.


More from the archives. Something about the spiderweb of connotations and me learning how to write, and how to love. They’re the same thing probably.


The whole, “you’re beautiful,” thing. You are. The only beautiful person I know and I don’t know why. Others can be pretty, hot, cute, sexy, gorgeous, jaw-dropping (you are all those things) but none of them can be beautiful, like you are. Some define beauty as perfection and some define it as perfectly flawed, and I don’t know, it’s not about that. There’s just something about the way you laugh and the way you kiss and the way you think. You’re a mayfly, bewinged and ephemeral, aren’t you? I would like to admire you, but, it’s okay if I can’t.


Another from the archives. I’m still fond of this declaration of love from a very stumbling mouth. (I’ve used that word and really meant it maybe three or four times after I wrote this. Sometimes it slips out of my mouth like a moth from an old abandoned wardrobe. Sometimes I write beauty in stories to mark lies.)

Before the Light Turns Red

Reposting this old drabble from 2012 because I deleted the old blog it was on in a fit of entropy. Might post more of these if there’s anything salvage-worthy. Anyway. This piece is based on a gorgeous song by Unwoman, called The Heroine:

I urge you to go listen to that. And when you’ve read my piece, to read this excellent post by @earlgreyhot, also inspired by that song:


Cross the street before the light turns red, arrive out of breath at your theatre. You’re playing someone who’s losing her love tonight again. Five hundred sirens blare to dampen the sound of the bombs. The play is in the basement, no-one’s here to take my ticket. Everything goes crimson and I hide in the dark behind a pillar. Fifty thousand pairs of hands grab me when I catch a bombflash in a shard of glass. I get thrown out. Remember me as more than the shadow I will glue to the wall. I hope you believed I would show.

(starK lightS underfooT)

Two and a half years ago in the chamber with the skylight underneath you and the sun warming the soles of your feet you fell apart as if sliced with a delicate instrument, something made of sharp strings. You reason it is important to have glass floors so as to not send visitors drifting off into the sky. At night the heads on the hanging uneven palissades all around glow like jack-o-lanterns because they have been fitted with five-hundred-watt lights which force their way out of their heads like epiphanies, and there are always stark lights underfoot. And you fell apart. And you told the man in the hazmat suit with the visor that wrapped all around his head like he had three-hundred-and-sixty-degree vision that you did not expect to live the year out. You’re still alive. He blinked inside his suit and told you where to go and you went, bare feet burning. You paused at a glass staircase with the middle bit missing and you had a conversation with a woman there, both your feet dangling in the air. She had taken your necktie and your kitchen-knife words to disarm you but she said if you jumped that she would tighten the noose because she was still holding onto it and you realized that she was not your friend. Your legs went still, you even stopped wiggling your toes. You have a wandering twitch that never goes away: at night you grind your teeth, in the day observers from far away can see your muscles tense like ghosts are always crawling through you and it never stops. At some point you heard a drum-beat as a kid when your heart was not even bones away from open air and got afraid that if you ever stopped hearing the music maybe your internal organs would turn to stone too. You walked across the courtyard where your shadow followed you like a kite you dragged behind your body and your palms bled when you got to the glass door because you had held on to the string too hard. They told you they would give you back your tie when you left the place, but that would be tomorrow. On a fundamental level they do not realize how easy it is to die. They wrap your swords in silver-tape so you won’t cut yourself but you don’t need the kitchen-knife words or any noose. You can whisper your millilitres into the machine it will kill you for it. You need no strong voice, just a whisper at most. But the best advice you ever gave was: every day write “kill yourself” on the bottom of your to-do list, never finish your to-do list. So you lay there in a suicide bed with your hands interlaced and told them you had to speak to one of the suits. The question in your mind was: how do I convince them I’m not here when they have three-hundred-and-sixty-degree vision? You were there of course, but you were not what they expected. It was all camera angles. If I am really here then why am I finishing my homework? Ergo, you have made a mistake. And you were not really there at all, they agreed, and they let you go. The woman threaded your head through the tie again and she put the knives back into your pocket. You told her nothing of how these were not your knives and she said nothing about how you were really there. You never really left. The empire never

and your body is falling aparT. you take the duct tape off your woundS. a month ago your friend taught you how to wrap a bandage properly and this is not iT. you need to make a V right herE. you don’t know how to repair broken glass at alL. it is not like thiS. you recently had strings of light installed in the bathroom floor and sometimes you lie there naked in wrinkles with your soles pointing upwards to the ceiling, your toes curled, arms outstretched, neck twisted like a TV murder victiM. you have whispered a number far below the LD50 but it will still hurT.


And this is “Silent” Jimmy.

What, because he’s always quiet?

No in fact it is because I will not stop talking, for example that one time that all of us were drinking beer and someone made the mistake of asking me to define the word “pleasant” and everybody had managed to drink up two more rounds of beer before I finally got to a punctuation mark in my talking. I’m a bit better now of course but still the most commong thing that people tell me is inevitably–”

Silent, Jimmy.


A Postcard from Before the Summer

The birds are flying so close to the ground that their wingtips are touching the tallest flowers. I dropped a coin from standing on a chair and it sank into the floor like there had always been a slot for it there. Every light from every window that I pass slopes downwards with a trajectory like a fishing rod instead of something real.


Scream the Throats

We sound the drums, rattam; we stretch the skin taut and beat them until they burst and the music stops. We fall the rain, we gather the clouds, we heavy the air until one struggles for oxygen and the music stops. We play the strings, we boom the thunder. We grin, rattam; we sharpen the claws, we scratch against all the glass surfaces we find. We throw the stones, we pound the blood in ears and wrists and jugulars. We close the eyes, we make you scream until the music stops, we beat the drums, rattam, we beat the drums.


Old, very old, impossibly old thing I wrote for my dear friend Pao (@Panterdjuret) and wanted to have available on this here website as well. Edited a tiny, very tiny, impossibly tiny bit because things change over the years. Two words are different.


after Uel Aramchek

You didn’t kill Kharon for the loot. You killed him because you could, because he let his guard down, and because you had a smuggled-in Herculean dagger. But his silver-dollar-laden pouch was right there. You wanted Napoleonic victory music, found a Corsican jukebox bar, tried to get a party started.

The jukebox does not accept your coins. After you’ve stabbed it in the heart, you become aware of two figures clad in togaedos waiting outside. They hand you your new name and title. One of them chuckles: “Did you think ferrymen lived forever? That this has never happened before?”




This has been fanfiction, or at least fiction in the style of Uel Aramchek. You can find his work on Twitter: @ThePatanoiac, and on his site North of Reality: Also there is a Kickstarter campaign right now with some gorgeous Tarot cards based on his work and you’ll probably not be able to get these cards another way:


Dear readers! Joyous news. In addition to The Cult of Numbers being being published yesterday, you can also read my short story Three Encounters with God over at Minor Literature[s]:

It is a true story, in that the things described therein have all happened to me, more or less.



Faithful readers, you remember the fake book reviews (unfaithful readers, see: /fake-review). You have been missing these, but worry no longer. Pamphlets for the Apocalypse is publishing my review of Salandra Duchov’s Numberology, and you can pick it up at the Etsy link below:

Like the image has already told you, the zine contains words by me and illustrations by Ethan Fowler (see Ultimately, this is the zine to buy for those of you who want to read a very flawed critical examination of one of the most potent economy textbooks never published, and that’s all of you. Trust me.