night | Johannes Punkt’s Flaskpost

Every monster child goes through this. Changeling, they would correct me with boiling water in their voices: every changeling goes through this. Monsters are something different. It is the rite of passage at the edge of the woods (even in places where there are no trees for miles, there are woods). The changeling stands peering into the darkness, perhaps looking at her claws which she has filed down to be just nails, and she thinks with a clarity usually only found in orchestral flute music and cloudless nights at great altitudes: I am not the scariest thing in these woods.

Also a thing from the archives, although some other archives. Written after standing at the pitch-black mouth of a forest for ten minutes in the middle of the night, trying to get my eyes to get used to the level of light in there, eventually realizing that it didn’t get lighter than that. Inspired a lot by things Cecilie K. had written, also. You can read her excellent writing at this following link, for example: ceciliewrites.com

14/Apr/2014

A Little Worse

So this is how it works?

I don’t know.

Is it supposed to feel like this?

I can’t feel anything.

You can’t feel anything?

Well, I can feel all my usual self. I mean, I cannot feel anything different.

How does your usual self feel?

How does your usual self feel?

It feels like a night, rolled up into an incandescent ball.

Is that normal?

It is for me. I don’t know how selves are supposed to feel.

Did something happen to us?

I don’t know.

Wasn’t that mine before?

The night?

Yes.

I don’t think so.

Are you lying?

24/Feb/2014

Midnight Conversation

You wake up in the middle of the night approximately 20 seconds before the phone starts to buzz; you have enough time to blink the sleep out of your eyes. It’s buzzing. You pick it up before your sleeping partner comes to life from it.

“Hello?” you whisper. The floor is cold against your bare feet.

“Hello,” says an undistorted voice, and then it says your name. You had expected distortion, but you’re not recording the call, you’re not quite sure what you’re expecting.

“What do you want?”

“I just want you to remember that I know who you are.”

Previously: /2014/02/23/stoplight-conversation/

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5/Jan/2014

The Underside of This Bridge

It’s dark, and the underside of this bridge is like a bad venereal disease, all pustulent rust and rain dripping down the sides. He is cold, and his blanket is the exact same colour as the wall, but there is a curfew and he isn’t taking any risks. The officer will inspect in half an hour’s time; he keeps himself awake by focusing on the pain in his leg. After 28 minutes, he walks out into the rain to stand underneath a tree, waiting for the splash of police boots to fade in and out before daring to go back.

Johannes Punkt’s Flaskpost

Tag: night

17/Apr/2016

Changeling