From the Woods

From the woods

 

“That cannot be him?” Margaret says while quickly drawing the curtains back. I gently push her aside to take a look myself. It seems impossible, but there is William walking down the road, rain pouring down on him. “For four months! Four months he was gone! That cannot be him. You said you had searched the woods with the others and only found his bloodied boots. Charles, what is the meaning of this?” Margaret’s eyes are full of terror, the supposedly dead man slowly walking past all the houses of his former village. Quick glances from every window line his way, but his eyes seem set on his destination. His feet black from the mud or something else, but his face white with ash, almost shining underneath those dark clothes I last saw him in. The thick branch he drags behind him leaves a trail in the wet and soft earth of our main road. Suddenly, he simply stops dead in his tracks. He does not look around or move, but seems to simply take in the pouring rain. Until his body begins to jerk violently and with a hellish scream he lifts the branch high and thrusts it into the ground. The wet soil gives way and he buries his trophy deep until his arms go limp and he collapses next to the twisted wooden thing he has brought along. No one dares to go out to him that night. Continue reading

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The Angry River

The Angry River

 

I believe there is nothing wrong with blasting a young girl off a balcony because she is taking a photo of her fucking plastic coffee cup on the handrails set against the backdrop of a cloudy November morning. If anything should ever fall under the vague and vapid category of ‘common sense’, this would be it. There is simply nothing lost there. They will tell you about every single child desperately shoving a crayon up its nose, how it will become a world-famous brain surgeon and how this is evident by both the method and choice of colour he picked to lobotomise himself at an early age. The truth – and not the sad truth, since it really isn’t sad, mind you, except if you are into pedagogy, and if you are: fuck you – is that most people are wankers. If you think this is my entire character summed up in a nice court-proof statement to convince even the most extreme gun-wanking fascist of the guilt of a white man, then guess again. Continue reading

Far from any road

Far from any road

 

Beyond the curtains of my tiny room, I can see the town still enveloped in fog. Nobody is outside. Nobody is allowed outside. It was one of the first rules we set up after seven of us died during the first decent of fog. While I wait, I do what everybody would do. I read, I check my body for holes, I get bored, I repeat. Around noon the fog is finally gone and I can take my first step outside for the day. My joints still feel rusty which I should probably take care of at some point. Only slowly do the others emerge from their homes. Small eyes peeking out the door, reluctant hands grasping for something they hope is no longer there. I walk faster now, never leaving the wooden planks we call road. “Never step off as long as the ground is still wet after fog or rain or else you might lose a leg.” Another rule we made, not the second one, but among the first ten. I pick up a small part, an SD card if I am not mistaken. It must belong to Janice, she had a habit of losing it. Continue reading

Critic’s Choice Award

Critic’s Choice Award

 

The squeaking sound of rubber gloves danced on the keyboard as he carved word after word into the digital document. A cold dispassion filled both him and his writing as he tried to word disgust with a sense of elegance and chic. The premier had been far too crowded which had already rubbed him up the wrong way and the actual “experience” hadn’t been much better. Frustrated, he pounded the desk and regreted it seconds later. “Cliched and overacted” is what he would have written about this outburst. Continue reading

Misty day, remains of the Judgement

Misty day, remains of the Judgement

The blades of sunlight are safely kept behind bars and the day is may hold piece. Still, I can hear the flies crawling around with buzzing sounds they take to the skies. Wings made of steel and leather raise them far above the clouds. The dead flies stick to the walls forming a giant graveyard and ineffective deterrent. The odour of the rotting sun chokes me uncomfortably and yet I won’t move, I can’t move. The safe and warm neon-light is too far away, tucked away in the white room, and the desert between me and this sanctuary would cost me all my water reserves. Oh, how I wish the walls would start closing in on me. Continue reading

A Line

Before you start:

The following text uses various symbols, colours, fonts and other means of expression that I simply could not display properly within WordPress. Due to that, this piece of writing is in picture form. I apologise for any inconvenience or difficulties regarding the readability of this text, but it was the only solution. Now enjoy reading:

ceci n’est pas un texte

– Mr Teatime Continue reading

Sherlock Holmes and the Shattered Mirror – Chapter 5

Chapter 5: Brotherly Affection

 

 

Sherlock slowly and silently unlocked the door to 221 Baker Street and closed it gentle behind himself. The evidence for an unwanted guest was overwhelming even without having seen the light outside. It would have been a mistake to simply rush up there and face the intruder, so Sherlock snuck into his landladies flat. He knew all too well that by this point she would lie passed out on her sofa from her daily fill of alcohol, or “my medicine” as she referred to it. With two target-oriented steps he traversed the dark living room and grabbed her heavy iron poker without making a single sound. He closed his hands firmly around it and left the flat without being noticed. Step by step he cautiously moved up the stairs to not alarm the intruder to his presence, even though he knew all too well who had granted himself access to his flat. Continue reading

The Last Hunt

The Last Hunt (A Bloodborne Tale)

 

The head of the beast comes off with a wet tearing sound. The victorious hunter breathes heavily, his coat drips with the blood of his prey. His finger still tightly clutch his instrument of death and a faint shaking can be noticed. He lingers in the pool of gore he just created, fear has not yet retracted her bony claws. The first hunt is always the worst. The stench, the sight, and the silence afterwards. Continue reading

Sherlock Holmes and the Shattered Mirror – Chapter 4

Chapter 4: In the Spotlight

 

 

The most deceptive fact is the obvious one. A mantra Sherlock always kept in mind. Most people would have drawn a false conclusion from the facts about him. Sherlock Holmes was 23 years of age, lived alone in a rented flat in Baker Street. He took the crowded bus full of students every morning to get to university. Yet, Sherlock wasn’t a student. Not that he hadn’t tried to be or lacked the resources. No, there was simply no subject that could hold Sherlock’s interest for longer than a mere two months. Getting all this information filtered through the tired voice of a professor that had to cough up the same bits if trivia every semester had killed his interest in academic courses. That is why, soon after his fifth attempt at sticking with a subject, he took a job at the university library. Now able to get all the information unfiltered through endless hours of reading. Of course, no one in the crowded bus thought twice about his identity and so the conundrum of Sherlock’s circumstances remained unnoticed. Continue reading