Johannes Punkt’s Flaskpost

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Tag: mushrooms

Guest Story

Red. Brown. White. Green.

Yesterday I moved my bed to sweep the floor, and in the corner of my room there were mushrooms. They were growing out through a crack in the wall, rotting away the wooden floor and feeding off it. The caps red-brown, the feet white-green. I ripped them all up, threw them in the garbage bin, scrubbed the corner with soap and warm water before putting my bed back.
  Two hours later, I caught a sweet fungal scent from behind my bed and pulled it out into the middle of the room.

Red. Brown. White. Green.

The mushrooms had returned. Smaller this time, but still growing, very much alive. I tore them all up once more, scrubbed the corner, poured alcohol down the cracks, then acid. I stretched out in bed and stared at the corner, waiting to see if this time I had beaten them.
  A bead of red formed in the crack, like a drop of blood in a wound. Another, growing bigger. A whole string of red beads in the crack, spreading their red caps and slowly reaching down to the floor once more.

Red. Brown. White. Green.

Perhaps one could eat them. If they were going to keep on living in my home, perhaps at least I could find a use for them. I picked one of the bigger caps, sniffed at it. The smell was not bad; it was sweet and fresh. A lick at it. A hesitant bite.
  The taste was just like the smell. I had had much better mushrooms, but it was not in any way bad. Just a bit uninspiring.
  “With colours like yours, shouldn’t you at least taste bitter?”
  The mushrooms did not reply. They were mushrooms, and mushrooms are too good to speak to lowly animals like humans.

Red. Brown. White. Green.

It was easier to just let them have the corner. Trying to get rid of them was just an act of futility, and they tasted all right. During the night they spread across the floor to beneath my bed where they created a small mushroom kingdom emitting a strange, green-and-violet light. When I rolled over in the morning, I noticed that they had surrounded me and several of them were crushed as I just tried to leave bed. The fully grown ones were already getting darker, dripping a shadowy liquid from the edges of their caps, looking as if they were melting, and when I cleaned them away they left dark red stains on my skin.

The red stains turned brown. My white skin turned green.

The mushrooms were retreating back into their corner crack as the sunlight moved across the floor. The mushroom kingdom beneath my bed remained, hidden in shadow, but no green-and-violet light shone from within it. They had encased the dark space with a spongy, grey wall. The mushrooms in my bed dissolved and soaked into the bedsheet, duvet and mattress as the sunlight washed over them. The sunlight made my head hurt and I understood that it was my enemy.

My fingers turned dark and dissolved into an ink-like liquid.

I kicked at the grey wall beneath the bed until it was coated in dark liquid from my feet and gave way.

I saw a green-and-violet light and crawled into it to melt.


by Pao (@Panterdjuret)

Fairies’ Feet

You have fairies’ feet but you hide them in hideous white sneakers. The concrete seeps into our souls, dulling the red, and every now and then you try to cheer me up with a barefoot little jig. The circles grow green and pink and you get a smile from me, before we hurry away. There is nothing more depressing than watching the grey concrete eat a living thing.

I have to take you to the heart of the city. You must get rid of your shoes, and dance inside the concrete ribcage, where the grey is still soft, wet, vulnerable.

Amanita Terra Nemo

The rain punched holes in my trenchcoat, and that’s where it got in. The war raged on for weeks, until red sores opened up in the land. We sat like gargoyles, scouting for movement or the flash of a muzzle. The only sound was that of the rain, as our guns were perfectly silent. We found out who had fallen at the end of the day and that was that. The battle was ended not because any side won, but because no man’s land sprouted hellishly red toadstools over the corpses, and we started finding it on our skin too.


The collective unconscious is a real place and we should go there. We cannot be individuals like this, just different faces of the same skull. We must sever the ties. I have scoured satellite data and come to the conclusion that the place must be underground, or I would have seen it by now. I can feel it, though, I could always sense it. It tugs at me with its cords, if you put your hands to my neck like this you can feel it, can’t you? It pulsates like a second heartbeat. I have a handsaw. Are you coming?

Mycomancy and Big Heists (Marla Mason #4 Review)

[Spoiler Warning]

I found this book in a little bookshop in Hay-on-Wye, a receptionless town in Wales that is basically just one huge bookshop. If you’re ever in Wales you should visit it. Even the coffee shops sell books.

Anyway, this book is by one T. A. Pratt and it is called Spell Games. Judging by the price in American or Canadian dollars on the back, and the fact I’ve never seen any of the author’s other books anywhere, I’d say the books have never really been marketed in Europe.


This is what the cover looks like. All the cards except the tarot Death cards are the ace of spades. Death isn’t a bad card per se in tarot, the way I understand it – it’s more like ‘change’. Presumably the ‘Change’ card is TERRIBLE for you.

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