Johannes Punkt’s Flaskpost

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Tag: memories

Guest Drabble: Baptism

In every drop of rain there is the capability to absorb sin, which it loses once it hits the ground. Sin is as woven into your flesh as into anyone else’s: and as you stand there, and the night-time raindrops mingle with the tears that run over your cheekbones, they carry away even the memories of what you have done. You stand there amnesiac, holy – there is no memory in heaven – I forgive you – and the harm you have done is carried down into the dark backward and abysm of subterranean rivers and into the ocean beyond perception, beyond recall.


by Rob Mitchelmore (@kerastion)


The best most accurate memories I have are of the unimportant bits, like the name of the waiter who recommended the wine that made you throw up, if that’s really what happened. I remember the name of a waiter, in any case. Every memory is like a faded photograph that gets more worn each time I bring it out to view it, and I try to fill in the details as best I can remember them. Your hair was now always the same length, even though we knew each other for years. I wish you showed up in actual photos.

Gasoline, Lacquer, Matches

The smell of the old lacquer on the door was coming back, as the newer, whiter, paint was peeling off. The smell of gasoline and lacquer was every time he had come home through that door and hung his coat on the rack. All the different trenchcoats that he’d worn through the years, and changed maybe once per decade, flickered before her eyes. The new, red, colour of the house was every time he had fucked, raped, or made love to her. It was mostly good memories, she admitted to herself, but in some cases any memory is too much.

Dream Journal Entry #5

The sex dreams, I never have. If a dream stays with you long enough, it transmutes into some weird memory that no-one else remembers. There is biting, thrashing, scratching, growling. I kiss, and you kiss back. You whisper, “You may do whatever you feel like,” and for days that echoes in my skull. Things aren’t real unless they can touch me (and I touch back); so why can’t you touch me? You mustn’t be real. I’ve done this before; I’ve never done this before. You’re not a dream. You must have happened. We had twenty-four hours like an action movie.


Remember the last time you felt at home anywhere. Close your eyes if it helps. Lie down somewhere, relax, stop listening for the signs of the apocalypse. Let the blurry contours make their way through the haze of memory until they’re sharp, colourful. And remember with more than your sight, too. The scents and the ambient sounds and the sensation of a hand moving up and down your side, slowly, as if having all the time there is in the world to have. And remember the taste of the cooking, of the air, of everything.

You will be there again.