Five Whole Years

On November 14, 2011, I posted The Very First Post on this blog.

It’s five years later, and now I’ve posted 287 flash fiction texts, 35 poems and at least 8 short stories. On the side I’ve completed two novels, several short stories (some of them were even published) and one very long story which is still too short.

(I have no idea what to do about the last one. It’s too short to be a novel, but too long for all the places that take in short stories.)

All in all, I feel that I’ve made good progress.

Thank you for joining me for the ride. I hope you’ve all enjoyed reading my texts as much as I’ve enjoyed writing them 🙂

 

 

 

 

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63 Do Not Disturb

do-not-disturb

It’s not for fun that I put up my sign. And no, it’s not enough for you to just be quiet, you have to be not there at all or your loud, clumsy thoughts might shatter the fragile crystals forming in my mind. Why you ask? Isn’t beauty its own reason? Are we not all enriched just by beholding? You would take that from me and the people I could share it with?

And yes, I will need that bottle of whiskey, thank you very much, and the cigars. No, you cannot take one with you. Be off with you and leave me to my books and my papers or I’ll show you how old children’s rhymes deal with the likes of you.

The Novel that had No Title, Part 2 (or The Editing)

This is a special celebratory post!

It’s 65,000 words later, and my novel is finished! 🙂

All right, that’s as close to a lie as it gets. The “story” part of the novel is finished, but I haven’t edited anything yet. Also, I still need to find a good title.

Anyway, I’m going to write only flash fiction and short stories until March 30th and then it begins: The editing!

Thank you all so much for reading, I hope you’ll all return and enjoy my stories in the future.

Do you have any large projects that you’re working on?

 

Breathe Again, Again (Audio)

Today I would like to try something new, and since Colours and Fragments is now available from amazon.com and amazon.co.uk (psst, it’s cheaper from the latter),

front cover only c and f

I thought something that had to do with Colours and Fragments would be good.

So here is my idea: I’ll read you Breathe Again, a flash fiction text which is in the collection. Just be careful not to turn up the volume too much or there’ll be a lot of static.

I hope you’ll enjoy it 🙂

03 Curfew

First.

Curfew 

Middle english. [Anglo-French coeverfu, old French cuevrefeu (modern couvrefeu), from tonic stem of couvrir cover + feu fire.]

1.

a. A regulation by which, at a fixed hour in the evening, a bell was rung, as a signal that fires were to be extinguished; also, the hour of ringing, and the bell. (The statement that curfew was introduced to England by William the Conqueror as a measure of political repression is without early historical support.)

b. Hence, the practice of ringing an evening (and morning) bell, in many towns.

2.

A cover for a fire; a fire plate.

Also attributively in combination curfew-bell (see sense 1).

Also in figurative use

1. ‘Well, ‘tis nine o’clock, ‘tis time to ring curfew.’ Romeo and Juliet IV. iv. 4.

Second.

Curfew

Middle English.

1.

A regulation by which, at a fixed hour in the evening, a bell is rung, as a signal that lights are to be extinguished; also, the hour of ringing, and the bell.

2.

A cover for a fire; a fire plate.

Also attributively in combination curfew-bell (see sense 1).

Also in figurative use

1. ‘Well, ‘tis nine o’clock, ‘tis time to ring curfew.’ Romeo and Juliet IV. iv. 4.

Third.

Curfew

1.

A regulation made to protect the public. At fixed hours a bell is rung as a signal that people must stay indoors; Also the hour of ringing, and the bell. At these times the hounds are released into the streets to catch terrorists and criminals.

2.

A cover for a fire; a fire plate.

Also attributively in combination curfew-bell (see sense 1).

Fourth.

Curfew

Middle english. [Anglo-French coeverfu, old French cuevrefeu (modern couvrefeu), from tonic stem of couvrir cover + feu fire.]

1.

A regulation made during the political repression. At fixed hours a bell was rung as a signal that people should stay indoors; Also the hour of ringing, and the bell At these times the hounds would be released into the streets. The government at the time said that this was “to catch terrorists and criminals.”

2.

a. A regulation by which, at a fixed hour in the evening, a bell was rung, as a signal that fires were to be extinguished; also, the hour of ringing, and the bell.

b. Hence, the pre-repression practice of ringing an evening (and morning) bell, in many towns.

3.

A cover for a fire; a fire plate.

Also attributively in combination curfew-bell (see sense 1).

Also in figurative use

1. ‘Well, it’s nine o’clock, and time to ring curfew.’ Robert and Julia IV. iv. 4.

Fifth.

Curfew

Middle english. [Anglo-French coeverfu, old French cuevrefeu (modern couvrefeu), from tonic stem of couvrir cover + feu fire.]

1.

A regulation by which, at a fixed hour in the evening, a bell was rung, as a signal that people should stay indoors; also, the hour of ringing, and the bell.

2.

a. A regulation by which, at a fixed hour in the evening, a bell was rung, as a signal that fires were to be extinguished; also, the hour of ringing, and the bell.

b. Hence, the former practice of ringing an evening (and morning) bell, in many towns.

3.

A cover for a fire; a fire plate.

Also attributively in combination curfew-bell (see sense 1).

Also in figurative use

1. ‘Well, it’s nine o’clock, and time to ring curfew.’ Robert and Julia IV. iv. 4.

02 Love


They met on the train. It was dark outside. He was on his way home. She caught his eye with her golden hair. For a moment he actually thought it was gold, glinting in the light of the fluorescent tubes. She noticed his look and returned it with a smile. He wondered if she could see it. Most unlikely. His skin looked completely lifelike. It even felt like human skin, if rather dry since he did not produce any moisture. Most humans would not notice even if they touched him.

He asked her what the time was, though he already knew it was 7.37 pm. A clock was coded into his brain. She answered him, and they chatted for a while about this and that. Nothing important. Many times he found himself thinking:

‘Would she mind? If I told her, would she mind?’ But why? She was just a stranger.

He got her number when her stop came. He noticed it was only three stops after his own. His detour was not long, and he soon arrived at his home. Just before he put himself in hibernation mode that night, he had a vivid picture of her delicate features crowned by her radiant locks.

He called her two days later. He did not want to seem too eager. She would love to go to the amusement park with him. Since he could not eat, he did not invite her to lunch.

When they meet at the entrance her smile almost made him short-circuit. He asked her later if she wanted an ice-cream. She said thanks but no, she was on a diet. Of course she was. How else could she maintain that magnificent figure? He found her charming, sweet, intelligent and funny. Often they burst out laughing with no reason at all, other than the obvious. She told him afterwards how much fun she had had.

In the following month they met almost weekly. After that it became two times a week. Soon almost daily.

‘Would she mind,’ he kept asking himself, ‘if she knew, would she mind.’

He asked her once what she thought of cyborgs. She frowned for a while.

‘I don’t really know,’ she said. They never returned to the subject.

The day came when they went for a walk in the park. The artificial plants were lighted with a dim red light, which was supposed to give the impression of a sunset. There were many couples here, some even holding hands. He had bought a ring for her more than a week ago.

They sat on a bench, almost touching. He said her name and looked deep into her eyes. He reached out his hand, she reached out hers. They touched. Her hand was neither warm nor cold. It felt just like a human hand, only rather dry. Completely dry. They both yanked their hands away and stood up.

They turned their backs on each other and left the park through different exits.

01 Introduction

She walked with a limp. Her hand gripped her upper arm so tightly that bruises appeared. Her grey eyes were downcast and saw nothing. She stumbled on.

The skyscrapers looked down upon her with contempt, and from their windows hung many a fat bastard who told themselves that they would never be in her shoes. She shuddered in their shadow.

Behind her the building was still smoking, and a couple of people had already saved some of the furniture from the wreckage. For themselves of course.

Her hair fell into her eyes. She did not do anything to stop it.

Her nametag was torn but it might have read Misfortune or Misery. A single red pearl dropped from her nose, and coloured the debris.

As she passed me, I wanted to say something. I wanted to assure her that all was not lost, that someone would help her. But the words stuck in my throat. I am not even sure that she saw me.

She never raised her head as she disappeared into the crowded streets.

Old Ghosts

The lights, the lights and always the screaming, the screaming. They are burning, they all are. They are drowning in the light. The fire makes sure everybody sees. A woman, her hair alight, the perfect picture of agony. Wonderful contrasts come to their right, beautiful silhouettes appear. Then he remembers. They are dying.

The flames are catching them one by one and devouring them. Some turn their hunted rabbit eyes to him. He is a statue in marble, cold marble. His Greek mask of tragedy is magnificently lit, a work of art in all its splendour.

In the present he is trembling.

”Haunted by old ghosts again, eh?”

He is not sure if he hears the words. He is not sure if it is himself making a statement, coming to a conclusion. His vision looses none of its potency. He is not sure if he is even awake. He might be dreaming. It might all have been a dream. It might never have happened. But he remembers it when he is awake. But he might be dreaming he remembers it when he is awake while he is still sleeping. He cannot turn his back on the glow. His ears are blocked by high-pitched voices.

There is another voice trying to talk to him. It might be one of the other onlookers. He cannot hear what the voice is trying to say. He cannot see the source. The thought passes him that the voice might not be part of his nightmare. But everything is these days.

Sulphur

Yellow and orange flickered about him. He inhaled through his nose and welcomed the sulphur. The rumbling under his feet made him smile. He closed his eyes and stretched out his arms to both sides. He could feel the vibrations of the mountain.

With his hands over his head, he pushed upwards, growing stronger and stronger for each moment that passed. The mountain began to give. Small stones showered down over his head. Some of them entered his mouth. He tasted their rough surfaces which quickly smoothed. They melted before he could crunch them between his teeth.

When he saw the first streak of daylight, his laughter echoed through the mountain. This was it: The great eruption.

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