Ripe for the Bleeding

Ripe for the Bleeding


A thick fog hid most of the city as I emerged from the train station. The late-night train had arrived far too late, so I had little hope of finding a place to stay for the night. I knew of a hotel not far from here and, so I made my way into the misty city centre, from streetlamp to streetlamp. However, traversing the city in a night like this proved far more challenging than I had imagined and soon, I was lost amidst the tall houses with not a single illuminated window. The small streets seemed to endlessly meander onward without ever crossing another one. I found no doors, no ways out of the ever-growing labyrinth. When I finally came upon an illuminated entrance with the word “Hotel” barely visible, my heart almost leaped with joy. I pushed open the heavy iron door of this supposedly historic building and already braced myself for the price a room would cost here, especially this late at night. Continue reading


Cold Steel Coffin Act 2

Act Two

Scene One

The other side of the stage is lit, leaving the previous one in the dark. A paint bucket and a few benches stand around. Adam is carefully painting each one in pure white. He is dressed in a white overall with red splashes of paint near his feet. A radio plays in the background. The news report of a fatal thirty car accident on the highway. A girl of about twelve years of age enters, holding an ice cream cone. Continue reading

Into the Heart

Into the Heart


Records of that time are rarely false, but it can happen, of course. However, I was not willing to believe that all the accounts had just been fabricated and a few days away from the office would not hurt either. While the trip with the bus was anything but a pleasure, I was so engrossed in my work that I hardly noticed the bumpy ride. To think that someone would fake the records of an entire town still baffles me. To what end? Or maybe it was all just a lie. Continue reading

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

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