Johannes Punkt’s Flaskpost

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Tag: fiction

23/Jul/2013

Dream Journal Entry #2

Sometimes I see him in my dreams. I wake up and I know he was there, before the details of the dream sluices through the gaps between my fingers. In the dreams he hides in plain sight, that is how it works within a dream: inconspicuously. He smiles unmenacingly, even though I know he only has menacing smiles left. My dreams are prosaic dreams, about social rituals that make no sense, and how to adhere to them. He brews tea, he serves biscuits. He should not be there. He knows a way into my skull. Please. Get rid of him.

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22/Jul/2013

Dream Journal Entry #1

My dream journal is nine years old now. Each night, after my warm glass of milk and before I take off my glasses, I write down the dream I am going to have. My pen strokes are soft and feathery like my sleep. In the morning, my journal is empty and I have only the vaguest of recollections. But I have come to know a recurring dream, one where I write too hard on the page of my book and the words are not entirely erased, and dream seeps into my reality with that skippish jerkiness with which dreams move.

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21/Jul/2013

A Scholarship

A scholarship. A good time. Slight friction. The vast expanse of sky. Names of stars, drinking games. You forget his name. Last call. One planet, veering out of its orbit, crashing into another planet. More good times. Blood on the bedsheets. A conversation best had sober, easiest had drunk. Somewhere in the between. An unanswered question. The going-through of the evidence with telescopes, the plotting of vectors in the sky. Vodka. A shiver. He wasn’t going to say anything. You were the one who–

Electricity. One last look at those blackened sheets. A garbage chute. An envelope; a scholarship.

Acceptance.

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20/Jul/2013

Pre-emptive Coping Mechanism

She has a chemical scar, swirly blue, snaking its way up her body and coiling once around neck. There was a terrible burning. The scar is visible only at certain times, when she is flustered or when she is scared. It makes her more flustered and scared, to see the burn crawl up on her skin, it feels like it will explore new parts this time, like it will burn through her skin. She knows its outline by heart and on some days, though she knows it by its itching, she will paint it over before it can break out.

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19/Jul/2013

Today is a Tuesday

Today, I place the last of the secret love letters, shakily written but with a positive message. We have all the time in the world.

Today, I woke up thinking of all my dead friends. I am angry at them for not saying goodbye. I am not connected.

I never want to write a last will and testament, I’m afraid people will think I’m thinking about the rope again. I don’t want them to feel like they should be angry at me for not saying goodbye yet.

Today, I will hug you forever, with all the time I have left.

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18/Jul/2013

Le petit jour du jugement

We both scream for God. In French, they call it le petit jour du jugement because of the striking similarities: there is the shortness of breath, and the blood singing in our veins. The quivering and the involuntary throat sounds from deep deep down, and the blinding white pillar of light from heaven that purges the countryside around us. We gasp. We huddle in the bed, narrowly avoiding the wet spot, reaching for the radio by the bedside to find out that the bodycount has reached the thousands. It fans outward from the place where you and I made love.

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17/Jul/2013

Bottles and Unbottling

A handmade bottle, with a yellow ribbon around the neck. How do you even blow such a small bottle by hand?

“See anything you fancy, mister?”

“Is that an Unending Serenity?

“It is indeed. Do you want it? Do you have something equipotent to offer in return?”

The man was shaking. “People tell me I bottle things up. I guess it’s inevitable I end up here. This is what I have.”

The Seller produced another bottle, scooped the air a few times, and then put the cork in.

The glass cracked; almost enough to break the bottle.

“You weren’t joking.”

~

Story is inspired by, or is a fanfic of, girlshapedguitar’s Bottles series, which starts here: girlshapedguitar.wordpress.com/2013/07/01/bottles/

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16/Jul/2013

The Author Is Dead

The author is dead, long live the author.

The author is dead but the book is still being written. Pages are being pushed out under the door, and if you listen closely, you can hear the noises that a typewriter makes, like cartoon characters eating cobs of corn. The author is dead, beginning to rot, but the story is progressing at breakneck speed. The plot thickens! The author is dead and someone else has to rewrite the pages to remove the stench of rot, before sending them to the publisher. The author is dead but the contract isn’t up yet.

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15/Jul/2013

Fifty-One Times

I just don’t get it, who would want to hurt him? He had no enemies, he did god’s own work. He was a saint. I can’t believe that anyone would kill him, and especially not like that. It’s just unthinkable. Did you say 51 times? Tragic. Just tragic. I have no words. Would you say that your first impression of the crime scene was more awe-inspiring, or revolting? No, I’m just trying to – listen, I want to find the culprit just as much as you do. But as you can tell, everybody loved him. So, tell me, was it beautiful?

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14/Jul/2013

I Will Try, I Will Try, I Will Try

And for my next trick, I will become a seasonal slime creature. In the winter, I will be cold but I will live grudgelessly. In the summer, I will live under a bridge and watch the water. Sometimes, I will catch a fish, extending my crude approximation of limbs outward to stop the happily skipping fish in its tracks. I eat all of it except for the bones, which I wear as jewellery. They slowly sink into my skin and migrate to my heart. Watch, as I live life in a cycle of freezing and thawing, free from the pain.

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