Johannes Punkt’s Flaskpost

You may be required to show proof of id.

Tag: short stories

9/Apr/2013

Ablach

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.

Leave a comment
8/Apr/2013

Shadows

And if you see me, pretend not to know me. I always watch where the sun throws my contours; worried, excited. If our shadows should ever overlap, it will rend the earth we stand on. They are the spiteful, angry shapes that outline us. We will suspect an earthquake – we are Californians, after all – but even the air will vibrate, even the invisible strings that connect our hearts. I will go far away, in my mind, and I hope we will never meet in well-lit rooms. Always cherish the darkness, love that which keeps us nebulous and hard to define.

Leave a comment
7/Apr/2013

Finally

Space prodded the protective layer around the planet, and gathered itself like one takes a deep breath. It pushed through the atmosphere out over the Atlantic and the sea shimmered like the crystal it had just become. The cold travelled quicker than the nothing so when it reached the shores, freezing waves mid-break and snapping people in two, the people further inland had some warning. Space swallowed the half-people and the whole people then, the time of one panicked phone call to loved ones later.

Space engulfed all. It was satisfactory, for how long had it not waited for this?

Leave a comment
6/Apr/2013

Landmine

This is a landmine, but it is unloaded for you. When you feel bad you should open it and you can tell that others feel like you. You can see the traces of their survival on the little bomb’s skin, and you can feel the texture of being so close to defeat, if you run your fingers along the edge, but be careful. The bad stuff will collect in it until it is brimming with it, and that is when you must walk away. Give the insidious little bomb away, because it can only hurt the one who loaded it.

Leave a comment
5/Apr/2013

Maxquile I

Maxquile I was a stray dog with a GPS tracker on his collar. He was scruffy, he was adorable. He had learnt from a young age to identify the kind of children who always had wanted a dog, and to follow them home. He was perfectly behaved, and he played with those who played with him and he left alone those who left him alone. When there were no people about he would stand still near windows and he would howl. That was when the grey men came and took him away, along with all the valuables in the house.

Leave a comment
4/Apr/2013

Learn to Walk, Learn to Walk

You learned to walk when you were ten months old. When four years had gone since that day, you broke both your legs. You learned to walk with those legs once more, and you learned too fast so you lost them. You learned to walk with fake legs, and they made you short. You saved up till you could pay for a new real pair, out of flesh. They made you tall ‘cuz you asked for that.

And soon, age will grab hold of you too, and you will learn to walk the stomp-stomp of those who lose their minds.

Leave a comment
3/Apr/2013

Symphony

I sat down at the piano with no plan in mind and sad things started pouring out of it. I tried to catch them, but I had to keep playing. The things fluttered and screeched like animals who know they are about to become extinct. My bookshelves vibrated like hesitant trigger fingers. And a song started to rise in my throat, like the sea, just as wordless. I wondered whether the sad things came from the piano or me, and then the song ended. Perched on my shoulder, one of the sad things tilted its head and stared at me.

Leave a comment
2/Apr/2013

Ready, Aim, Fire

Lights, camera, action.

Lights. His pupils shrink and sweat beads start forming on his forehead, crawling their way out of all the make-up. Camera. He’s aware that this will be shown on every TV-screen for hundreds of miles, even if, especially if, he fucks up. They’ve only got one take. Lights, camera – people are making gestures, getting everything in order. There are millions in this for him. He’s holding his breath even though that’s a bad habit. Lights. His fingers drum on the AK47 held behind his back. Camera. He’s wearing someone else’s face. What is taking so long?

Action.

Leave a comment
1/Apr/2013

Red Rotary Phone

It’s a pretty tall building, isn’t it? And aerodynamic.

If you go down deep enough, to the fundaments, you will find the rocket fuel, and under that you will find the thrusters. The metal canisters have been there since the 50’s, so there is no guarantee that anything will work, but it’s there. If you pound them you can hear it sloshing. Cobwebs galore, all over, and the displays are stuck, in all likelihood. Search enough and you will find the manual with all the telephone numbers and launch codes.

There is a red rotary phone on a rickety table.

Leave a comment
31/Mar/2013

Pareidolia

You ignore your friends’ cheerful jeering. You climb down into the well, past the point where brick turns into mud and rock, realizing that claustrophobia is not the crippling fear of the malevolence inherent in enclosed spaces, but the much more reasonable, more crippling, fear of never ever getting out of them. You wish you had come to that conclusion earlier because now everything itches and you keep seeing sinister faces in the light of your still wristwatch. You can no longer hear your friends’ jeering. Has it been five minutes? The bet was five minutes. Your throat stops working.

Leave a comment