Johannes Punkt’s Flaskpost

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Tag: gravity

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.


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.


Wilfur was born on a mountain and raised in a village at the mountain’s foot. If he were to sum up his life in one fell word he would say: “gravity”. All his life he felt drawn to the water, and further down. He left the village to live in the flatlands, and never returned. Once he went down from somewhere, it was rare that he go back up. He would rest better, deeper, where the air was thicker. He got on a ship, and this ship sank, attacked by gods. One such godmonster held him and dragged him downwards.