mouths | Johannes Punkt’s Flaskpost

11/Dec/2013

Clear Liquid

A glass of clear liquid, but it is not water. When it stirs (when someone slams a door, when someone hesitantly picks the glass up) the liquid becomes opaque and whatever’s in there spins around nervously. “Drink it,” she says. “See what happens.”

The other one picks up the glass and meets the eye of the thing inside. “Sorry,” she mumbles, then she opens her mouth like a yawning hippopotamus and pours all of it down her throat. A few swallowing noises come from the space where she used to stand. “What happened?” she asks, for a moment visible again.

6/Dec/2013

Fifth Draft of an Unsent Love Letter

Subj: I Will Start This Love Letter in Medias Res because Otherwise I Will Never Dare to Say This

You held my hands above my head and I was helpless and this forced something in me to change, the penny finally dropped, and I swear you could hear it from my open mouth. Something shifted, like quicksand, and I saw you with new eyes. Do you understand what was going through my head at that time? It was the only time you rendered me speechless, bizarrely. And I closed my eyes and let you take me and I forgive you.

20/Apr/2013

Anything She Opens

This morning, her umbrella tried to eat her. Umbrellas are hungry and they have long thin teeth like needles.

Anything she opens becomes a mouth, and it often sees her as food. It is why she appreciates the chivalry so much, why the rain soaks her so often outside of pubs.

She found out her new bank account had eaten all her money. Just as good, she could never live anywhere that had doors anyway.

She tried to end it the day before she got evicted, but the deeper she cut the more it could open. She didn’t even bleed.

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