Johannes Punkt’s Flaskpost

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Tag: trauma

Dogs Would Know

I thought I’d be good with animals, growing up. Just one of those strange kids who exerts no pressure on the surfaces he touches, and exudes goodness, something birds can trust. In the square by the cathedral they came to me because I paid a man to put seeds in my hands. I thought because I was broken in half there would be good inside me spilling out like a ruptured silo and that dogs would know.

You think the accident gave you superpowers. Like abuse has made you better as a person.

I thought that dogs would know. When I was homeless I slept in the bed of a woman who did not believe in evil; I think that must be the reason she let me stay there. I think there’s something foul in me. I slept in the corner of her mattress, like a dog. I took up as little space as I could and I disappeared from her life.

And someone else froze when I walked into the room. Jumped if I grazed her, walking past. And she was shaking when she said, I’m not afraid of you, attempting a reassuring tone and not a defiant one, ears perked like a fox in danger. I thought I’d be good with animals, instead I’m limping and shedding fur like an irradiated jackal. I thought from how badly broken I was, there would be recompense if not a reckoning.

Dogs don’t know, or they don’t care.

Any good that comes from me is what I’ve done. And any good that comes from you is you alone.

2013 NaNoWriMo Excerpt #10

That was how they all came together – the gunman’s own blogpost. Not content with having parts of his mind blocked off from him, Mos had started recording himself being traumatised by breaking eggs. He had become somewhat of a viral internet sensation, even though 95% of the people visiting his blog did not even read the notes for every session. He would describe in paragraphs full of spelling errors and crossed-out notes, with footnotes and cross-references, a scene out of some ghastly nightmare. He described the mountain of phones as an actual mountain, one of several symbols that kept reoccurring to him: the ringing mountain, the jingling worms, the bookshelves that moved around.

2013 NaNoWriMo Excerpt #6

Then he brought out a bowl, and held a whole egg above it. Rakel opened her mouth, seemingly unsure what to say. They both trembled like before a first kiss.

Silently, Mos crushed the egg in his hand just the way Karl had last winter. It broke easily, and some of the shell fell off immediately, into the bowl. The liquid gathered round his hand and slid off with reluctance, and it took all his strength to keep his hand outstretched like it was. Rakel started crying, and so did he, and things went kind of black. He came to when the goats licked the rests of egg off from his hand. He was still shaking. Rakel was somewhere else.

2013 NaNoWriMo Excerpt #5

“So, are you sleeping with my wife? Again, I do not wish to hurt you. You can probably hear that I am not even angry right now. I just want to know.”

“No, I understand.”

“Why are you evading the question?”

“A little uncertainty never hurt anyone.”

He began to flare up, he closed his fists and the snowflakes on his fingers melted as if on cue.

The journalist picked up one of the eggs from his fetish basket and crushed it in his hands. Mos started crying, and the whole world began to shake for him. Unspeakable horror. Rakel found him late in the night, well on way to morning, rocking back and forth and dribbling. She loved him, so she helped him back to their house.

The Rabid Dogs #4 – Taurobolium

Bull’s meat is consumed at the top of the stairs

The  butcher has been told to leave the blood in

Juices run, in familiar grooves, down these steps

Trauma bonds us, it binds us, I have never felt closer

than when she picks me up to shield me from the blood and

her camel back breaks, I am in her arms, I feel the spine snap

Every vertebrae clicks out of place, and her screams scale the stairs

where they are met with growling and finely honed teeth and drooling

I want my teeth honed

I am already angrily drooling

Dream Journal Entry #2

Sometimes I see him in my dreams. I wake up and I know he was there, before the details of the dream sluices through the gaps between my fingers. In the dreams he hides in plain sight, that is how it works within a dream: inconspicuously. He smiles unmenacingly, even though I know he only has menacing smiles left. My dreams are prosaic dreams, about social rituals that make no sense, and how to adhere to them. He brews tea, he serves biscuits. He should not be there. He knows a way into my skull. Please. Get rid of him.

Only Fire Will Do

That knife won’t do. Nor will chains, whips, or swords. An exception will be made for blades if you put them in the fire beforehand. You must think of this as a cauterization. Only fire will do.

You know exactly how long it has been, you needn’t add another chalk mark to the far wall. You know you ”forgot” to put a mark there eleven days ago.

You must think of it as an open wound and of yourself as someone who has been bleeding too long. It will leave a scar. He is the open wound. This is critical.


Orwell and Julia’s relationship had an overture at a Christmas party two years before they actually, truly, met.

Orwell and Julia’s relationship was a classical opera in three parts. Their marriage was a slow movement, their wedding and divorce both lightning fast.

Orwell and Julia did not know they had met before the night they met again, something Orwell was embarrassed over and Julia was traumatized by. They had both been too intoxicated to remember exactly.

It was obvious, how it would go. The friend who introduced them to one another said they had chemistry. What they had was music.