Johannes Punkt’s Flaskpost

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Tag: fiction

OTHER PLACES IN DREAMS in Pictures

A few pictures of OTHER PLACES IN DREAMS in situ:

By Lena Bohman:

YOU WAKE UP WITH THUNDER IN YOUR SKULL. THERE IS A DREAM AT THE EDGE OF YOUR COGNITION. IT FEELS JUST OUT OF REACH, LIKE IF YOU TRY TO REMEMBER MORE IT MIGHT ALL FADE. THERE WAS SOMETHING IMPORTANT IN THE DREAM. HOW DO YOU TRY TO REMEMBER IT? RETELL THE DREAM? LET IT COME BACK ON ITS OWN?

YOU WAKE UP WITH THUNDER IN YOUR SKULL. THERE IS A DREAM AT THE EDGE OF YOUR COGNITION. IT FEELS JUST OUT OF REACH, LIKE IF YOU TRY TO REMEMBER MORE IT MIGHT ALL FADE. THERE WAS SOMETHING IMPORTANT IN THE DREAM. HOW DO YOU TRY TO REMEMBER IT?
RETELL THE DREAM?
LET IT COME BACK ON ITS OWN?

RETELL THE DREAM YOU HOLD THE STRUCTURE OF THE DREAM IN YOUR SKULL, BLUEPRINTS OF A MASSIVE BUILDING. YOU TRY TO REMEMBER IT ALL, BUT THE CHALK MARKS DISSOLVE, YOUR DREAM GIVES WAY TO REAL WALLS, CEILINGS, FLOORS. YOU'RE IN YOUR BED. GO BACK TO SLEEP? OPEN DREAM JOURNAL?

RETELL THE DREAM
YOU HOLD THE STRUCTURE OF THE DREAM IN YOUR SKULL, BLUEPRINTS OF A MASSIVE BUILDING. YOU TRY TO REMEMBER IT ALL, BUT THE CHALK MARKS DISSOLVE, YOUR DREAM GIVES WAY TO REAL WALLS, CEILINGS, FLOORS. YOU’RE IN YOUR BED.
GO BACK TO SLEEP?
OPEN DREAM JOURNAL?

By @jakespecialk:

TAKE A PHOTO BEFORE IT FADES THE FIRST POLAROID COMES OUT WITH ALL THE TEXT ON IT, BUT IT BLEACHES TOO QUICK TO READ. THEY ALL DO THAT. MAYBE YOU PUT THE FILM IN BACKWARDS. BREAK SOMETHING? TRY TO HOLD ON?

TAKE A PHOTO BEFORE IT FADES
THE FIRST POLAROID COMES OUT WITH ALL THE TEXT ON IT, BUT IT BLEACHES TOO QUICK TO READ. THEY ALL DO THAT. MAYBE YOU PUT THE FILM IN BACKWARDS.
BREAK SOMETHING?
TRY TO HOLD ON?

TRY TO HOLD ON WAS IT A DREAM YOU HAD? IT WAS MORE LIKE A LONG MOVIE OF A MEMORY YOU HAD, BUT IT WAS NOT YOUR MEMORY. YOU REMEMBER: THE WORDS YOU COULD USE TO DESCRIBE THE WORDS YOU WOULD USE FOR THE DREAM. WORDS LIKE ELDRITCH, HOLLOW, FLUID. NO, IT WAS A MEMORY THAT HAD YOU.

TRY TO HOLD ON
WAS IT A DREAM YOU HAD?
IT WAS MORE LIKE
A LONG MOVIE OF A MEMORY YOU HAD, BUT IT WAS NOT YOUR MEMORY. YOU REMEMBER: THE WORDS YOU COULD USE TO DESCRIBE THE WORDS YOU WOULD USE FOR THE DREAM. WORDS LIKE ELDRITCH, HOLLOW, FLUID.
NO, IT WAS A MEMORY THAT HAD YOU.

Welcome to the Airport Tattoo Parlour

Hello readers,

I just want to let you know that I also have a newsletter called Airport Tattoo Parlour over here at this link: tinyletter.com/distantstations. I write there about as often as I write on this blog, that is once a month. Except the newsletter is better than the blog. Below is one of the letters which sets the tone for what I try to atmospherize with them:

Rose

Once, my sister got a chemical burn on her hand. Turned it all bumpy and crimson. It stayed like that for a week until it went away one night, but it flares up every time she’s stressed. She stressed a lot more after the burn, of course. One day she went back to work and stole a bucket of that chemical. She found an airport tattoo parlour and asked one of the artists there to paint something pretty with it. Now her hand goes useless and filigrees blossom up her arm but it happens less often and it’s not ugly.

Soapbubble, Pt 2

There is a little seaside city in a soapbubble, which you cannot touch of course. You touch it:

She is you of course, of course. She steps through the cobblestone streets uncertainly because everything reminds her of a puzzlecube halfway between phases. Redbrick stores could slot into the ground with a smooth iterative motion so another house could emerge elsewhere, and rooves become streets. Movement is only possible forwards or backwards in one dimension; the shift between second and third person still grates on her when she steps into the store that sells fishing supplies, dodging two dead pixels that hang like disembodied pupils in the air outside. Most of the fishing supplies aren’t there yet. “We got a delayed shipment this month,” explains the old woman behind the counter. She gets the impression the woman is standing behind the counter because she has no lower body, like a mermaid. “We lost a whole ship in the forest, but we’re confident it’ll find its way back to us. Perhaps you would like to place an order?” (If she tries to touch the space where the missing items will be she is met with resistance.)

“I’m here to investigate a murder.”

“Oh.” The woman does not know what to say for a while. The sun gleams in an unrealistic way off empty glass jars that are supposed to contain lures. “A particular one, or will any old murder do?”

“I got a telegram.” Written in invisible ink, she had had to hold the telegram up against the sky that was not the same alpha-grey as the paper it was written on, and it said: GRIM MRDR SPBL CITY LOVE ERIC in clouds and optimistic blue.

“You might wanna head down to the docks.”

“I tried, but this is the only street I can walk on and your store is the only one open. All the others are out of reach.”

The old woman made a grimace and her mouth got stuck, killer crystals spreading across her face. “I’ll let you use my backdoor,” she said, her voice ventriloquized. Then the woman froze opening the door. She passed her carefully, avoiding the coral reef growing where the woman’s head used to be. She remembered the old woman’s voice clearly as if she’d spoken a few seconds ago: “Be careful, I don’t trust that Eric, and neither should you.”

The harbour is full of toothpicks. The cobblestones here lean toward the sea. A man looks distressed on one of the bridges, and a shift is coming up. Do you ask him if he is Eric? You do. Eric asks you to come closer, and points toward the sea. The water laps against the closest stones and it is the first music you hear and you smile. You stop smiling when you see the outline of the body three metres into the water. The body must be elsewhere, but the water respects the outline of the air pocket. Three harpoons jut out from the stones down there, which must be what killed her. Do you look toward Eric to ask him what happened? The harbour shifts like a puzzlecube, forwards, dragging you down into the water spearing you on the harpoons. The cobblestones here no longer lean toward the sea – they are at right angles.

Extract from an Email to My Heirs

but not flashy. Something that grabs attention without tricks. Something actually imposing. And when I die I want you to sell me out. I have cultivated a scandalous existence and each of you have your own key to the puzzle. The puzzle pieces won’t fit, of course, all of this will be carefully thought out. Everyone will get to believe what they want to believe, but I want you to profit off those beliefs. You’re all fighting to keep my image true to life, you all have your own nefarious agendas. Agendae? Perhaps one of you will leak this email and one or two of the others will question its legitimacy. You need to keep that up. There will already be a trove of scandals piling up, things I’ve been keeping out of the papers. Things I’ve let into the papers because someone sympathetic to me wrote it, misguidedly. There are people I’ve been paying off; you all know who they are. Collectively, at least, you can scrounge up a list. Stop paying half of them. Let them squirm. And I want you to hold more than one funeral. Can you do that? All of them closed-casket, don’t let any outsider know the real date you put me in the ground. Let my secrets spill out, let me live in the collective imagination. Spread rumours that I faked my death. Refute those rumours. Anything. As for the suit,

The Night that Led to Lilac Mist Next Morning

The sun had just set behind a hill but Hafiz knew that if he got on a quick camel, or if he could steal his neighbour’s moped, he could drive out into the desert and watch it set once more. This time of year it would roll gently along the edge of the hill as if it was made for this before plummeting into the depths below and casting the world in darkness. For now, the sky was a watercolour palette in the process of being washed out, blue streaks mixed with pink and red, green over white, everything eddying together. He shook his head and walked toward the sunset. Marya would be home by now, and she had said tonight was the night.

~

(When you sleep, your dreams escape through your mouth. Sometimes they get caught in your throat, trapped between dimensions, and they get into your blood and escape through your eyes instead. If you open the eyes of a dreaming person they cast colourful images on the nearest wall and it’s the most dangerous thing you can do, because raw dreams are not meant to be recycled like that. Somewhere faraway there is a legend of a man who gets a piece of cheese stuck in his throat, which makes his dreams go awry. The faraway people have got it wrong; likely the piece of cheese would pose no harm at all, because you can’t get cheese in your bloodstream. It’s offensively wrong.)

~

When Hafiz reached her hosue, he calmed himself down a little. Climbed the vines up to her balcony on the third floor and watched the colour fade from the windows opposite, and then waited. She would notice him soon enough. He could hear her cat meowing from her bed. And when she did, she would put her hands around his throat. He relaxed his muscles one by one, like they did in certain kinds of yoga. Deliberately falling asleep.

The Vaudeville

…or How She and He Killed, Erotically, an Officer of the Law

Here is some erotica featuring heavy references to lyrics by the Mountain Goats. I have forfeited explanations.

Read the rest of this entry »

THE EEL GAME

This is a game that came to me in a dream a year ago. If you play it, I am not responsible for anything. I am updating the rules here because as time has passed the game has only got more refined in my brain.

Pre Game Rituals

The game is played seldom, only in times of drought or catastrophe. The elders will hold secret council late at night. They will light a small fire but they will not tend to it, and the rest of the people who live in the area will pretend to sleep when really they’re glued to the windows trying to catch a glimpse of the faces of the elders. The way to decide who will host the game is this: they have a poisonous fish in a bowl. The first elder puts the fish in their mouth along with water, and with a kiss transfers the fish to the next elder. The elder that bites the fish, or is bitten, dies and becomes the host. Their family is the one that hosts the event.

The way to choose a champion is more varied. The customs differ between families and places, but there are three main categories. The first is the diving game, which is a game where contestants dive to the sea floor and pick up rocks in their mouth. Generally this will include backbinding of the hands and a blindfold, and be done on a still day, but there are as many variations as there are games played. The heaviest stone marks the winner. The second category is the saltwater game, which is played by drinking saltwater until one vomits. The last player to vomit is the champion. The last category of games is the catching of live eels, where the champion is the contestant who catches the most eels. One champion is needed from each household, and anyone can play.

The Eel Game

The game requires at least one eel per player, and a maximum of eight eels. At least three champions are required, and the optimal number varies depending on the locale. The champions wear damp clothes full of holes and pockets and tight bands, which make it easy for the eels to slither around inside the clothes. The eels can enter and exit these garments like coloured handkerchiefs from a magic show.

When all is set up, the room is filled with saltwater to ankleheight. Champions are placed in positions and fitted with eels, then the game is begun. The objective of the game is to fulfill one of the following criteria:

Be the last one on the floor with eels on them

Have twice as many eels as the secondmost eeled player

Champions are not allowed to touch other champions with their hands but they may bump into each other with hips or shoulders, as long as this is not considered ‘violent’. A common strategy is for champions to stand next to other champions with sleeves or pockets toward theirs and try to coax the other champion’s eels into their own clothing. Games are usually slow-moving, somnambulist matches between two champions at a time, while the others buy time. Another common strategy is to coax eels out of other champions’ sleeves without bothering to catch them. Once an eel has touched the floor, it is out of the game. Strategies are manifold and it all depends on the type of player.

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.

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

THESE LAMPPOSTS

My story “These lampposts” was published today over at Minor Literature[s]. Go read it, and fall in love with something flickering.

minorliteratures.com/2014/07/03/these-lampposts/