Autor: Issue 1

Gedankenkarussell

Content warning. May contain spoilers.

hospital

 

an extract from a novel by Jeremias Winckler

Hamburg, Deutschland, 22.10.2017

Ein weiterer Tag geht zu Ende. Ich schließe meine Augen und tauche ab in ein schwarzes Meer. Die Dunkelheit umhüllt mich. Hier liege ich nun also. Alleine mit meinen Gedanken. Die sich drehen. Immer weiter. In nie endenden Kreisen. Ohne Anfang. Und ohne Ende. Der Schlaf will nicht kommen. Das Kissen ist unbequem. Ich rücke es zurecht. Es ist ein wenig klamm und zu warm. Viel zu warm. Vielleicht drehe ich es lieber um. So ist es besser. Bevor ich einschlafe, sollte ich noch mal auf die Toilette gehen, auch wenn ich eigentlich gar nicht muss. Ich öffne meine Augen, drehe mich auf meine Seite und gehe zum Bad. Krankenhaus riecht unausstehlich, so steril. Insbesondere das Bad. Nachdem ich für einige Minuten untätig auf der Toilette gesessen habe, gehe ich zurück zu Bett und decke mich zu. Eine Krankenwagensirene ertönt, gedämpft. In Wirklichkeit ist der Krankenwagen ganz in der Nähe. Doch das merkt man nicht. Die Fenster sind schallisoliert. Der Raum fühlt sich beengend an. Mein Zelt war mir lieber. Da konnte ich nachts die Geräusche des Waldes hören. Das Rascheln der Blätter. Das Schnaufen und Stampfen. Doch jetzt ist alles still. Ich versuche, mich auf meine Atmung zu konzentrieren. Das soll beim Einschlafen helfen, glaube ich. Vielleicht lenkt es mich ab. Von den Gedanken. Langsam fülle ich meine Lungen mit Luft. Sekunde für Sekunde. Und leere sie wieder. Mein Körper fühlt sich schwer an. Vielleicht schlafe ich endlich ein. Wenn ich viel schlafe, geht die Zeit schneller vorbei. Hoffentlich. Denn ich bin es leid. Wann kann ich endlich das Krankenhaus verlassen? Wann wird es mir endlich besser gehen? Wann wache ich aus diesem Albtraum auf? Ich kneife meine Augen zusammen. Tränen laufen mir übers Gesicht. Ich spüre, wie die salzigen Tropfen über meine Wangen laufen. Langsam. Konzentriere dich lieber auf deine Atmung. Das ist weniger schmerzhaft. Weniger beengend. Als der Gedanke. Der Gedanke des vergehenden Lebens. So dramatisch ist es gar nicht. Ich bin kein akuter Notfall. Ich habe ja nur Fieber. Mein Körper funktioniert und bekämpft das, was auch immer es ist, was ich in mir trage. Bald schon wird es mir besser gehen. Ich atme wieder aus. Langsam und kontrolliert. Dann streiche ich mir die Tränen von den Wangen. Dabei drücke ich etwas zu fest zu. Kleine weiße Punkte erscheinen in der Dunkelheit. Wie farblose Mandalas. Sich drehende Lichter in der Dunkelheit. Fluoreszierendes Gedankengut. Das mich umgibt, während ich falle. Immer weiter. Hinab in die Dunkelheit. Wie ein Stein unter Wasser, der dem Abgrund entgegentrudelt. Oben sehe ich das Lichtspiel der Sonne. Strahlen piercen die Oberfläche und erhellen das Nichts, bevor sie sich in der Endlosigkeit verlieren. Immer weiter. Immer tiefer. Schwerelos. Lautlos. Angezogen von der Finsternis in mir.

Compound Eyes

Content warning. May contain spoilers.

cancer, death, depression

a short story by Luc Salinger

Jessica and Mark were sitting on a bench in the park. The weather was scorching hot. A perfect summer’s day. Besides them, the park was completely empty, as if they were the only people who were aware of how great the weather was. A couple of bees were there, occupied with burying their heads in flowers. Birds were ploughing the ground for worms and occasionally, a mosquito tried to test its luck with the couple, gently flying to their exposed legs to ram its snout into their flesh.

Jessica’s breath was irregular. She was panting, and tripped over her words, clearly excited about something she had in mind. Her friend Mark stared at her, patiently, expectantly.

‘There is something I want to pitch to you,’ she said, her breath shaky, her eyes glistening with excitement.

Mark smiled at her. Knowing her, it was probably something stupid. Last time she started a conversation like that, she told of crossbreeding pigs and ducks to develop a special bacon that stays crisp and doesn’t get soggy once she heard that ducks, even when spending time in water, don’t get wet. As she got older, getting her own apartment and her own responsibilities, she developed the habit of completely obsessing over things that only Mark was willing to put up with. She knew that Mark was the only one who listened to her, so she was always excited to talk with him about her ideas.

‘What’s the pitch?’

‘You know…’ She stared into his eyes. ‘You know, how we have all sorts of pictures at school for things like the solar systems, atoms or those sliced up bacteria cells?’ She waited for him to nod.

‘Yes?’

‘Nobody took those pictures. Those are just concept pictures! You know that?’

Mark tried not to laugh. ‘Course I do. They aren’t photographs. They are illustrations. Everyone knows that.’ He put on a look of suspicion. ‘Is that all?’

‘That is not all!’ She put her finger up. ‘Consider this now…’ She leaned a bit closer forward. ‘All those illustrations have been made with the sole intention of helping humans understand the universe.’

Mark still had no idea what Jessica was rambling on about, but her tone was building up to something. He remembers her bacon pitch, too, being like that. Picture this, she had said, you’re swimming in a pool and crave a crispy slice of bacon, but oops, it falls into the pool and now it’s not enjoyable anymore. Reason for that is the hydrophilic nature of the bacon strip itself! It had been hard for him to visualize the scenario at all, but she had a way of gripping Mark as if the things she was saying were really sound. Even if she was completely delusional.

Mark nodded now and she continued. ‘I ask you this now: have you ever seen such a visualisation for any other species?’

‘I guess not. No. Those pictures are for humans because they are the only species that studies the universe in such a way.’ His eyes trailed off from Jessica.

He thought Jessica looked really cute when she was getting riled up by her ideas, even if they felt like she was just sharing her shower thoughts with him, as opposed to really interesting concepts worthy of discussion. She had little bags under her eyes whenever she pitched him an idea, as if she mulled over it for the entire night beforehand. It drew attention to her eyes. Those eyes, with their verdant tinge. So tired. So beautiful. He smiled.

Jessica put her hands on her thighs and looked at him smugly. ‘I don’t think that’s quite fair now, is it? For example, you have those colourful pictures of DNA. That would be so useless for a dog because they don’t see the colours that well. We are in the position that we know better. And gatekeeping our knowledge is just plain cruel. Don’t you think?’

Mark thought back to the time Jessica was at his place. Back when he still had his dog. She’d seemed so gleeful and giddy at that moment. His big mastiff tongue had caressed her cheek like it was vanilla ice cream on a hot summer’s day. Back then, she’d never told him of ideas in her head. She seemed so close, but also not as talkative as she was now. He couldn’t help but shake his preference for the old version of her, back when he still had his dog.

‘I don’t think dogs would care.’

‘Some might,’ she quickly responded and a daring smile crept on her face, as she looked into his eyes. ‘But my idea doesn’t pertain to dogs. I need to start somewhere else. How do you think a fly sees the world?’

‘With compound eyes?’

Jessica jumped up from the bench, putting her palms in the air as if she was balancing an invisible cheerleader on top of her. ‘A huge tapestry of eyes. Like a kaleidoscope. And if that fly would see a picture of the solar system, it would see hundreds of thousands of planets in its view.’ She adjusted her glasses. ‘And that’s not scientifically correct.’

Mark remembered the time when she hadn’t worn glasses. She broke them. It was in the summer, must be seven years ago, back when it took her parents over a year to replace them because they had to spend a lot of money on some stupid stone, as Jessica had put it, for their son. So many emotions inside her, she didn’t know what she was saying. Back then, she was upset that she was so dependent on others. She saw everything blurry. It was the only time that Jessica had said to Mark that he looked beautiful. He knew it was meant as a joke, but he remembered it.

‘I don’t think flies care about the accuracy of their conception of the universe.’ Mark said, now. He stared too much. He shouldn’t look at her this intensely. He should break eye contact once in a while, he thought.

‘You can be such a hater sometimes.’ She nudged him a bit with her shoulder as she sat down on the bench next to him again.

      Mark smiled. ‘I’m not a hater. I just don’t think your idea is feasible. I can’t even begin to understand how you would conceive a picture, where a fly, with its hundreds of little eyes, could see a single image as we do. If you turn the solar system into a kaleidoscope, then it would just see the kaleidoscope in its own eyes, multiplied again.’

Jessica rubbed her chin. ‘My hypothesis was that two negatives make a positive and the kaleidoscope and the compound eyes would cancel each other out.’ She looked at him. ‘Did you know that flies can see UV light? Maybe that’s the key.’

He began to yawn. If only Jessica could see how annoying she was being. Back when they were still at school together, it wasn’t draining, talking to her. Ever since that one summer, when his dog was diagnosed with cancer and Jessica’s brother Dylan had drowned in their swimming pool when she was supposed to be watching over him, their relationship changed. Jessica used to talk about real things during that summer. Not crispy water-bacon or fly-friendly pictures. Things felt more real.

‘Is something wrong?’ Jessica asked him. ‘You tired?’ she added with a teasing undertone.

‘Yeah, the weather is getting to me. I think I should go.’ He stood up from the bench. They used to hug each other when departing but this time, Mark didn’t feel like it. He waved to her and left, leaving Jessica wondering why.

When Jessica went to her apartment, the idea she had just talked about with Mark was still in the forefront of her mind. She felt excitement coursing through her and immediately got to her working station. When she sat down in her chair, an army of fruit flies flew from the partly empty yoghurt cups on her desk. The entire working station smelled like rotting cheese or spoiled milk, depending on which yogurt cup was closest and able to overpower the others.

She opened up her photoshop app and worked throughout the day. The smell of the yogurt served a practical use of ruining her appetite whenever she took a breath, so she never felt the need to eat as she diligently worked. Hit the Save-as button, printer on and out came a kaleidoscope, where every little hexagon was a small image of the solar system. It filled the entire page and with pride she held it up in the air.

Jessica rushed towards the kitchen, paper in hand. Once she opened the door. Her ears were filled with buzzing noises. On the kitchen counter, the flies living with her couldn’t have been happier with the accidental hospitality of the hostess. Opened cans of fruits, black bananas, fish bones, half a pack of minced meat that had turned completely brown and served as a maggot kindergarten.

Whenever she stepped into her kitchen, it was a stark reminder to her just how hard living alone was. She hadn’t seen her parents even once since she was kicked out, at eighteen. They hated her guts for letting her brother die. They never used the pool after that. Not even on the hottest of summers. Careless. She didn’t care about anything, her father had said. It stung, and he was wrong. She did care. She put the paper she designed on her kitchen table.

After a couple of seconds. A lonely fly landed on the image and it was the first time a fly got an accurate representation of the solar system. It tapped its trunk on the paper, still warm from the printer. Rubbed its tiny little hands and flew away.

Burning

a poem by Lea Köster

It’s the future we cannot escape that we dread.
It’s the past we cannot change that we fear to repeat.
It’s the present we cannot enjoy that we wish to be something else.
It’s life we forget to live because we think we have time.
It is us, us, that we lose in in the process of trying to fit in.
It is myself that I am trying to find in this world that is burning to ash.
It is a fight, I fear, will never end.
A fight we cannot escape.
An end
An inevitable end
Of burning ash.

Hidden Away

Content warning. May contain spoilers.

drugs

a short story by Paula Solterbeck

By the time I first saw her, I had stopped counting the days. I remember how little she fit in my world then, with her hair still all shiny and this weird look she gave me, almost a grin. In contrast to the dark, colourless barn, where it stank of horses you never saw nor heard. The dryness of the south, and the dust that reached every corner of any lung. Surrounded and trapped by all the wood, wood that offered splinters when pushed up against. No, Anya didn’t belong here.

He sat, no, rather pushed her down into my little coop and clicked the newly-bought handcuffs around her wrists. Then he said something about her being my new friend or something. At the time I thought that was some sick joke, but ironically, he would be right about it in a way. No, I’m actually not going to think about him. I want to think about her. Anya. My Anya.

Anya wasn’t the first, obviously, but neither was I. Now that I think about it, I don’t know who it was. I had kind of always assumed that it was Holly, but she was merely the first I knew about. I honestly don’t really remember how I got here, when it was still her place, Holly’s place, or how many days I was unconscious; that’s how drugged up I was and to be fair… that wasn’t all him. I know my way around those kinds of things. Drugs.

Anyway, when I woke up all those nights ago, Holly was there. Watched me in my misery of the withdrawal. This sweet girl I went to middle school with, all dirty and broken, you could see that from miles away. I knew then and there, as soon as my senses started to clear, that she was not the same girl I met as a child. That girl with the thoroughly-combed blonde hair, straight As, and all the talk of future husbands and shit – that girl would never come back home. That was what I first thought, after I had recognized her under all the dirt.

She didn’t really talk, other than trying to soothe me, the first few days, just prayed. Perfect girl. It is kind of an awkward reunion, right? At least, that’s what Anya said about it later and she wasn’t wrong. When Holly finally talked to me, she mainly repeated that they would find us soon. Probably more for her own sake than mine.

Now, I didn’t know who they were supposed to be, with almost everyone in town thinking she ran away, after some bad breakup with her fiancé or boyfriend or whatever. Apparently, she had also become some kind of theater kid in high school, at least her friends said something about her dreaming of Hollywood, I guess they hoped that was where she went. Maybe that was wishful thinking. I was unsure about her parents, but with her Christianity and her perfect-ness, I guessed that they were still looking. But, still, no one has found me and the others, even after he took Holly away from the barn and didn’t bring her back. Instead, he replaced her. Twice. And we remain hidden away. Maybe they stopped because they found her body or something, but wouldn’t they start looking for that asshole then?

Although, no one out there would be looking for me, I don’t have to be delusional about that. I had been away for weeks at a time, high on some shit a friend of a friend of a stranger had sold me. The folks were used to it and I didn’t really have any friends before I met Anya. Oh yes, Anya.

After she arrived, she had nervously laughed sometimes, and I thought the psycho had caught himself one of his kind and hoped they might kill each other. Honestly, I get it; while crying would have been the more appropriate choice, I, too, sometimes laugh in absurd situations. Though I have never been in a situation this absurd before. That was something we joked about too, because she seemed so collected (aside from the laughing). She didn’t really need my advice, didn’t let me be her teacher. I guess that’s why we felt like equals, except that she still smelled better than me back then.

‘I’ve never seen you around town, where are you from?’ I had asked, while cleaning the wounds he had given her and her eyes had widened a little. When she answered, I understood why.

‘Which state are we in?’ she had asked in her silly West Coast accent. San Fransisco was where she caught it, she told me later. The sad expression on her face didn’t look right. Unnatural. Not fitting in that beautiful face. I wanted to cheer her up – after all we would be here for a while.

‘Sweet, sweet Louisiana, honey.’ I leaned into the accent with this one and to my surprise, she actually laughed about it. That was when I knew she wasn’t like my other companions. ‘Why would a Cali girl come down here? Family matters?’

‘Passing through,’ she had answered and her expression told me to leave it alone. In hindsight it feels like fate, right? Had he never brought her, we would never have met. Of course, I wish she didn’t have to endure the things he did to us, but selfishly I’m glad that she is the one here with me. For the sake of our moments together, not his. Maybe I’ll share these moments one day, but for now, they belong to us and us only.

In the time with her, my face hurt in a way that I can’t easily describe. The muscles meant for the happy kind of expressions which hadn’t been in use for a while, and the intensity of the soreness, made it clear that I was here for longer than I had imagined. She made me smile so much, she even made me laugh sometimes. Occasionally, I even thought I was happy to be here. After all, this was the place I fell in love.

Mein Herz ist eine Leinwand

a poem by Myra Sophia Dedekind

Mein Herz ist eine Leinwand und du malst sie an
Rosa das Interesse, die Hoffnung, ein Anfang
Orange die Panik, das beengende Gefühl,
dass ich plötzlich meine Leinwand an jemand anderen verlier’
Gelb die Freude, die du mir täglich machst,
Lila die Blumen, welche du mir zuerst brachst
Blau die Tränen, dass Gefühl, wenn einer geht
Grau die Angst, die in mir lebt
Grün die Zukunft, Hoffnung, Träume
Rot die Wut, welche nie aufschäumte
Wein die Abende, die wir gemeinsam verbringen
Schwarz die Sicherheit, dass wir alles bezwingen
Braun die Ruhe, Sicherheit, Frieden
Bedacht lässt du meine Leinwand wiegen
In wechselnden Höhen, Intensitäten
Bemalst du
Mein Herz

Memories Keeping Me Awake at 3 am

Content warning. May contain spoilers.

death, funeral, sexual harassment

a collection by Jehan Ammar

Mondays, Am I right?!

It’s 7:50 am on a Monday. My eyes feel tired as I stare at my phone again, waiting for the bus to arrive. I look up, taking in the sun as I see a grey Smart pass me by. I worry about my seminar and how my group is so far behind. They better show up or else I got out of bed at 6:30 for nothing. I did not know at the time that they were still peacefully sleeping in their beds, dreaming and snoring. The Smart passes me again. The man looks confused. I remember when I first moved here, getting lost in the narrow streets and being too shy to ask for directions. He looks fifty, bald, possibly without family. That much I can tell from the car. I take a step forward, hoping to provide help. I can see the fast movement of his arm, and then something pink. It is his dick. In his hand. He looks at me and continues. I step back.

***

Goodbye

My mother next to me smiles. I feel unsure about this and stare at the camera lens and my reflection within, black ruffled blouse matching my hat in color. My father’s face is telling me to smile as well, which I find weird and strangely out of place. Almost the whole family is here, only one member missing. What a chance to capture this moment. I shift in my seat and look at my mother. I hate being here and I hate my father for taking pictures now, even though I don’t really hate him. I argue and argue and never quite smile. The camera shutters. We leave the restaurant and make our way to the funeral.

***

The good, the bad and the medium

I remember your death more than I remember your life.

But when I do, I think of mostly the good.

How the thriller we were writing had so many twists that, by the end, not even we knew who the killer was. Maybe we never did. Maybe it was never about the ending anyway.

But I also remember the bad.

Sometimes.

The moment when you came out as queer. I told you I’d support but never told you how seen I felt in that moment. How that moment mattered. But it mattered only to me because you declared it a joke an hour later. But you were perfect and beautiful and as long as you looked at me, no joke could take away words unspoken.

I also think of the medium occasionally. The moments when you felt on top of the world while climbing a tree, happy and carefree while I stood chained to its roots in worry. We were 13. How we were both failing math at 14 but you didn’t care at all while I cared too much. Now you’re eternally 15 and I’m 22 but a part of me isn’t. I wonder if it’s a piece of me you took to the grave or a piece of you, I keep carrying every day in the depths of my heart.

Your birthday is coming up. We barely knew each other, just a fleeting moment passing by, long gone. I miss you. Sometimes. In the good, the bad and the medium.

Passed On

Content warning. May contain spoilers.

depression

an extract from a novel project by Lina Ketelsen

Monica’s mother had been staring at the wall for about an hour now, whilst Monica was staring at her. She wondered if her mother even registered her gaze, if she even noticed the desperation hiding behind it. Monica was holding a cup of tea in her hands, the print of a white kitten sitting in front of a pink window peeking out between her fingers. It was her favourite cup; her mother had gotten it for her when she was only eight. The tea had gone cold. She had only drunk half of it.

I wish you would still care about me. I care so much about you. She kept her thoughts to herself, as she did often these days. The only person she ever shared them with was her husband. He’d always listen and she felt as though he would never judge her for thoughts she herself would deem as cruel coming from a daughter about a mother. She didn’t want to be cruel about her mother, but there was only so much a person could handle, even if that person was a daughter.

Monica was staring a hole in the back of her mother’s head, completely lost in thought. She grabbed her red, clothbound journal and a pen out of her bag and started writing.

***

When did everything get this bad? You haven’t left the house in weeks and I can barely get you to eat anything. I wish I could go back and pinpoint where it all went wrong. I guess no one’s to blame, really. Could I have stopped your depression from getting this bad if I had just gotten you help earlier? I was just a kid and back then there was barely any help available, and I didn’t even really know what was wrong with you. But still. I wish I could go back to the days of me and you sitting in your bed, with you telling me stories about your childhood, while we cuddled until dad came back home. Everything was better then. I barely see him anymore. I guess it’s just too much for him to handle, too. You know, sometimes I blame him for your sadness. And sometimes, if I look closely, I see the same sadness in his eyes. I wonder if Rob will ever look into my eyes and find it in them too. The terror I feel at such a thought. I would never want to do that to him. He deserves to live a life full of happiness and laughter and I will make sure to give him just that. Not just for him, but also for me. I promised myself I will get help as soon as I start to notice the same signs you had shown once everything began. I still remember how you used to take care of me, Mom. You took me to get birth control when I was only thirteen because my cramps were so bad I could barely get out of bed. Everyone in our neighbourhood judged you for it but you never cared. Now I’m not sure you care about anything at all. I wonder what you will say when I tell you about the baby. The baby that I will give birth to because I forgot to bring that birth control on my honeymoon. Rob just said that whatever happens happens and if we do conceive a child it must simply be meant to be. I hope you’ll love your grandchild. I’m sure deep down you will, even though you might not be able to show it. I promise to make sure that my child will know how much you love it. Mom, I am so scared of becoming a mother. I am so scared of becoming you.

***

She put the pen down and got up to make her mother dinner she probably wouldn’t eat.

A week later, Monica had an appointment at her gynaecologist to check up on the baby. Rob had taken a day off from his job at the bank to come with her. Aside from some nausea, the pregnancy was going very well, and everything had been fine at her other appointments, yet Monica was overcome with anxiety every single time.

As she lay down on the bed, Rob sat down on the chair next to it. He squeezed her hand, looking at her with his warm brown eyes and giving her a small smile. It was the same smile Monica fell in love with the night they met in that Jazz Club, and she still got that same warm feeling inside of her chest whenever she saw it. His leg bounced up and down quickly, but his thumb drew comforting circles on the back of Monica’s hand.

Her nurse walked in, greeted them, and began the examination. Monica sighed in relief as soon as she found out that the baby was fine and everything looked exactly as it should.

She thanked God in her head and flashed her husband a wide smile who promptly reciprocated it.

Then, the nurse asked, ‘Do you want to know the gender of the baby?’

‘Yes.’ Monica and Rob replied in union. They had talked about it beforehand and had decided on satiating their curiosity instead of waiting until the baby’s birth. Now, with the answer to the question being so near, Monica felt her heartbeat quicken and her grip on Rob’s hand tightened.

‘Congratulations, you’re having a girl!’

Monica had gotten a little quiet on the car ride home, while Rob did his best to console her worries. He had calmed her racing thoughts down a bit by talking about all the options for the nursery they had been working on and the dresser he was planning on building for their baby girl. As soon as they arrived, she told her husband she needed some time for herself and sat down on their terrace. She closed her eyes and took a moment to feel how the sun tickled her skin and, as she breathed in, she smelt the scent of freshly cut grass. Rob must have mown the lawn earlier this morning while she was paying her mother her daily visit. Monica remembered her journal entry that she wrote a week ago and decided to return to it, overwhelmed with emotions and desperate to make some sense of them.

***

How is it possible to feel so happy yet so scared at the same time? I’m so glad that my baby is fine, but I am also a little scared. A mother is more likely to pass her depression onto her daughter than her son. Will I lay this burden upon her that has been throwing shadows over my life ever since I was a little girl? Is it my fault if she will be haunted by the same fate as my mother? If I know that it cannot truly be my fault, then why do I still feel guilty somehow? Sometimes, I feel myself waiting for the day when it’s my turn and I start to feel my mother’s depression creep up on me. I’m scared of it. But all I know is that I cannot pass the fear onto my daughter, I cannot, and I will not make her experience the things I have had to go through with my mother. I will do anything I can to show my baby that the world is a beautiful place and that she is unconditionally loved by her parents, just like any child deserves. Just like I deserved it, too. I cannot wait to give birth to her, I’m sure the sight of my girl will clear my worries, at least for some time.

***

Monica closed her journal, took a deep breath, and put her hand on her round belly. Just then, Rob walked out on the terrace holding a tray with tea and cookies, smiling at the sight of his wife. She smiled back at him and felt that everything would be alright as long as they had each other.

Author’s note

This piece is going to be a part of a coming-of-age novel spanning the sixties through to the early 2000s. It centres around the issues of womanhood, mental illness, motherhood, and love. It follows the protagonist Monica, whose story is based on my own family’s history, as she grows into womanhood, finds love, and navigates life with a depressed mother while becoming a mother herself.

Escape

Content warning. May contain spoilers.

child murder

a prequel to BBQ by Lea Köster

Everything is glowing bright in the setting afternoon sun, the light covering the world in a million shades of red. Smoke is hanging thick in the air, making the heat of the disappearing day even more unbearable.

The neighbours all around are bidding the summer farewell with a last barbecue. I can hear the children laugh, and play, and cry. I can hear the grownups laugh, and talk, and shout. I can hear dogs and cats and cars. I can hear sounds all around. I can hear sounds everywhere, except in our house.

Our house is empty and quiet. No one has said a word, acknowledged the other one’s presence or tried to make oneself heard. I have tried. I have tried a hundred times. The other times I pleased my mother and stayed quiet, showed everyone the perfect daughter. She tells me then that she is proud of me, that she loves me, that I am all she ever wished for.

I love her. She made me the person I am today. She gave me the strength to leave and never come back. I love her. And that’s why I haven’t told her yet, that’s why I haven’t told anyone. It will destroy her. Losing both her children exactly one year apart.

My bag is packed, stored under my bed. I will get it out when everyone is asleep. I am not sure I should have packed it, not last night. But it’s too late for these kinds of thoughts now – I made up my mind.

The grandmother clock in the foyer chimes six. The sound moves through the whole house, through every part of my body and I close my eyes for a moment.

‘I hate that fucking thing!’ I hear her voice as if it were yesterday, but it wasn’t yesterday, it’s been exactly one year. My sister was the smarter one, she was braver and prettier too, she was… is… everything my mum loves about me. Will I find her on my travels in my new life?

The sound fades and shortly after, like clockwork, I can hear my mother working in the kitchen. I can’t hear her, just the pots, and pans, and bowls clanging together. My father will be in the living room, in the big worn armchair facing the garden, reading the newspaper.

At seven we dine. Not a word is exchanged. No need for those. I said my goodbyes – with pen and paper, to be delivered two days from now. My mother never speaks if it isn’t absolutely necessary, and my father is a naturally quiet person. Everything is as it always was. And nothing will change when I am gone.

It’s seven twenty-three as I glance at the clock, and seven thirty-five as we finished dinner and I make my way up the stairs. Just a few hours left until I am finally free.

In my room I finish up a homework and then fold some paper birds out of colourful paper to pass the time. As I am hanging them up by the window and watch how they dance in the breeze it knocks at my door. My mum is standing in the doorframe, wearing her apron.

‘Your dad and I decided to have a barbeque tomorrow. Could you help me get the meat out of the freezer?’

‘Sure,’ I respond and jump down from the window seat I had been standing on to pin the paper birds to the ceiling.

I follow my mum, down the hallway and down the stairs, contemplating if she is aware that we had a barbeque last year, too, after my sister left.

We continue along the hallway of the ground floor towards the door to the basement. She opens it and lets me descend the steep steps first. I let my fingers brush past the rough stone walls. I always loved the feeling: cold, somewhat sandy, close to painful but never hurting me. Today they prick my finger and a drop of blood appears. To not get any stains on my clothes I put the finger in my mouth. I hope my mum doesn’t see.

‘I hope you didn’t get any of that blood anywhere near your clothes. Let me see!’

Shit. I turn around at the bottom of the stairs, holding out my finger for my mum to see.

The next thing I know, I am crouching on the ground, the white tiles splattered with red dots. My head is hurting terribly and something is dripping down the side of my face.

 ‘Look at me!’ Her voice doesn’t leave any room for protest, so I do. She is looking down on me from three steps up. Her hair is perfectly arranged in a neat bun at the back of her head, her dress showing wrinkles under the apron, her make-up smeared at her eye. Did she cry? She isn’t looking her usual self. Did something happen?

‘Mum, are you okay? Were you crying?’ I ask in a weak voice. My eyes are heavy, my head hurts and my body tells me to stay down – getting up would be a bad idea. It is then that I see the hammer in my mother’s hand, dangling on her side, her knuckles white, drops of blood falling to the concrete steps.

‘Mum, what is going on?’ My voice quivers now and I try to get up, try to create more distance between us, but my legs give out under me, and I fall, once again, to the floor.

‘You slipped and fell. But that’s okay, we all make mistakes. Let me help you,’ she says, her voice sweet now. But she doesn’t move.

‘Mum?’ I plead as the edges of my vision become darker. I raise a hand to my head and realise that it is blood that’s running down my face and shoulder, onto my clothes and the floor. Is that bone I feel? How am I still awake, conscious?

‘Mum?’ I whimper again. Why is she just standing there?

‘You glanced at the clock, twice.’

‘What?’ I voice my confusion, not knowing if she heard it, my strength declining by the second.

‘You really thought you could outwit me and just run away?’ She leaves a short pause. ‘You are just like your sister.’

She just stands there watching me as I slowly sink further to the ground, soaking my clothes with the blood that has been oozing onto the floor. My eyes are so heavy and all I want to do is sleep. In the daze that is trying to pull me under, I hear the basement door open.

‘Dad?’ I whisper, knowing that he can’t hear me. There are no shouts, no pushing, no steps, no words from him or anything that would indicate that he is going to help me. What I hear instead is my mum speaking calmly and quietly to him, using her everyday voice as though nothing is wrong.

‘She was like her sister.’

My father’s response is tired, heavy, almost bored, as if he has been through all of this before and knows that he can’t change a thing, and still he asks, wants to know. ‘Carol, honey, was that really necessary? She was our daughter.’

 ‘She was a disappointment, a disgrace, weak, like her sister before her. She is no daughter of mine. Now go upstairs and send the invitations!’

I can feel my eyes closing, there is no use fighting it anymore and still, I feel sorry. I am… What am I? Sorry, free, happy, dying, surviving, fighting, loved? A few tears roll down my cheeks and I am suddenly certain that I will see my sister sooner than I had planned and hoped and with a smile on my lips everything goes dark.

Entwicklungsbericht der Spezies „Mensch“ auf dem Planeten „Erde“, verfasst von Xluptr-03342

a short story by Jule Kaben

Sie sprechen in fremdartigen Zungen auf meiner Sprache zu mir, sie nutzen Wörter wie „Heuristik“ und „Transzendenz“. Sie zwängen sich in unbequeme Anzüge und Kostüme, Schuhe, die sie offensichtlich unangenehm finden. Sie verstopfen sich die Poren mit hormondurchtränkten Kosmetika, welche teilweise zu (Erd-)Mondpreisen über den Tresen gehen. Schlimmer noch: Sie motivieren persönlich oder im Internet andere Menschen dazu, dieses kuriose Körperpflegeritual selbst zu vollziehen. Im Internet sehen sie sich stundenlang Inhalte an, die sie offensichtlich unglücklich machen, hören allerdings nicht auf. Diese Menschen im Internet erzählen anderen Menschen, sie würden sich hauptsächlich von Haferschleim mit Beeren ernähren, Hausputz sei ihr Hobby und um fünf Uhr morgens aufzustehen die große Offenbarung. Der moderne Mensch glaubt nur noch an einen Gott, dieser ist viereckig und muss alle paar Jahre in der Religionsstätte für ein kleines Vermögen neu erworben werden. Zu diesem Gott beten sie sehr häufig mehrere Stunden am Tag ohne Unterbrechung, hierbei ist es erstaunlich, dass junge Menschen der Religion noch fanatischer anhängen als die älteren, welche dieser allerdings auch völlig verfallen sind. Den Geschlechtsakt vollziehen sie nur zögerlich, denn sie haben in ihrem religiösen Portal gesehen, wie andere Menschen es schon viel besser und ästhetischer als sie selbst gemacht haben.

Damit der Mensch in seiner eigenen, zerstörerischen Genialität die Welt nicht in einem unüberschaubaren Tempo unterwirft, haben sie die Bürokratie erfunden. Grundsätzlich gilt: Je weniger Humor der jeweilige Volksstamm besitzt, desto mehr Bürokratie hat er sich auferlegt. Es gibt Regeln für das Aufstellen von Regeln und Regeln für die Regeln, für das Aufstellen von Regeln und Regeln und Regeln für die Regeln der Regeln der Regeln. Während gestern noch die Menschen völlig ohne Papierkrieg ihre Lehmhütte aufstellen konnten, behindern sie sich nun selbst im Bau einer Behausung. Verletzt man einen Menschen emotional, so tut dieser alles, um emotional möglichst unverletzt zu wirken. Lehnt man die Avancen eines romantisch-interessierten Menschenwesens ab, reagiert dieses mit „Ich wollte dich sowieso nicht. Eigentlich finde ich dich zutiefst abstoßend und mein Interesse basiert auf Mitleid“. Möchte ein erwachsener Mensch weinen, unterdrückt er diesen Impuls, bis er die Sicherheit seiner spärlichen Behausung oder einen stinkenden Abort gefunden hat. Wenn Menschen doch einen begrenzten Zugang zu ihrem unterentwickelten Emotionsleben erlangen wollen, trinken sie in größeren Mengen einen schädlichen Saft aus gegorenen Früchten und teilen sich hemmungslos mit, bis nur noch ihre letzte Mahlzeit ihren Mund durchdringt. Dabei besteht die Kunst darin, diese Situation für alle Beteiligten, auch das Individuum im Nachhinein, möglichst beschämend zu machen. Dazu läuft üblicherweise Musik, die zu jung ist, um als geschmackvolles Überbleibsel einer besseren Zeit zu gelten, jedoch auch zu alt, um als frischer Wind aus den Lautsprechern empfunden zu werden. Wichtig sind hierbei sich wiederholende Strophen mit hohem Nervfaktor und Songtexte, deren geniale Philosophie man erst nachvollziehen kann, wenn man ein paar Gläser von dem Saft hatte. Der Schlager ist im Prinzip das Wackelbild zwischen Nüchternheit und Rausch, weshalb die Meinung des jeweiligen Menschen in einer engen Beziehung zum jeweiligen Promillewert steht. Dazu genießen mittelmäßige Menschen die Beobachtung von fragwürdigen Individuen, um sich für einige Stunden von der Enttäuschung über die Sinnlosigkeit ihres eigenen Lebens hinwegzutrösten. Basierend auf der Pigmentmenge ihrer Epidermis bestimmen Menschen den Wert des Individuums, in der Regel sind wenige Pigmente gut und viele schlecht, wobei auch an dieser Stelle viele Streitigkeiten herrschen.

Ansonsten wird Brutpflege und Stammeserhaltung nicht als basale Praxis der Arterhaltung, sondern eher als nebensächliche Gefälligkeit angesehen. Der Mensch hat es sich zum Ziel gemacht, kleine digitale Zahlen bis in die Unendlichkeit zu erhöhen. Das Problem dieser digitalen Zahlen besteht darin, dass sobald alle hohe digitale kleine Zahlen haben, niemand mehr hohe digitale kleine Zahlen hat. Trotzdem sitzen viele dem irrigen Schluss auf, die kleinen Zahlen könnten sich bis ins Unendliche erhöhen. Dazu wurden sogar komplexe Theorien und Systeme entwickelt, die dazu genutzt werden, nichts ahnende Opfer auf Cocktailpartys zu langweilen und die eigene Überlegenheit zu demonstrieren, welche die grassierende soziale Ungerechtigkeit rechtfertigen soll. Ansonsten ist das aktuell höchste Produkt der menschlichen Innovation die 5-Minuten-Terrine, denn sie bereitet exquisite Nudelgerichte ohne weiteres Zutun innerhalb von fünf Minuten preisgünstig zu und verkürzt durch ihre fragwürdigen Inhaltsstoffe das trostlose Leben der Menschenwesen auf ihrem sterbenden Planeten. Die beste Spezies auf dem Planeten ist die Gans, denn sie ist wie ein Schwan, nur kürzer und mit einem höheren Aggressionspotenzial. Die schönste Stadt der Erde ist Neumünster, denn nur an diesem Ort wird das Vermögen des menschlichen Auges an die fünfzig unterschiedlichen Schattierungen von Grau zu erkennen, richtig ausgekostet.

Abschließend lässt sich sagen, dass die Erde aufgrund ihres hohen Unterhaltungspotenzials in der interstellaren Tourismusbranche einen festen Platz hat, für die Entwicklung unserer Spezies jedoch nicht von höherem Interesse ist. Man erlaube mir dieses persönliche Urteil: Die Menschheit war um einiges charmanter und schneidiger, als wir sie beim Bau der Pyramiden unterstützt haben. Wir, die wir erkannt haben, dass der Bau von Hochleistungsraumschiffen nur funktionieren kann, indem man nach der eigenen Intuition einfach ein Bauteil ins andere steckt, haben den wahren Kern des Seins bereits erkannt, während der Mensch sich weiterhin durch absurde mentale Konstrukte und sinnfreie Bedenken behindert. Man kann nur hoffen, dass mit dem statistisch bewiesenen Absinken des menschlichen Intelligenzquotienten die Menschheit doch noch ihren Weg zur Erleuchtung finden wird. Um diesen Zustand zu unterstützen, leisten wir Entwicklungshilfe in Form von Gammastrahlung und wertlosen TV-Formaten im Abendprogramm der privaten Fernsehsender.

Unterm Strich gebe ich der Menschheit auf dem Planeten Erde 3/5 Milchkühen.