- Gift openers · Bite-sized

Red wine (4)

The lights are dimmed and the room full of various ornaments and ointments is bathing in a soft red glow. A wicker candle is flickering by the old dusty hearth. Two children are staring deep into the flames inside.

In the other end of the room, a wine is opened, marked by the sighing *pop* of the cork coming out. She smiles and goes from chair to chair, pouring for the guests and correcting her hair. A wrinkly old man sits in silence at the end of the long table as he waits for his turn. The young girl approaches him and receives a nod of approval from the elder. She pours. She pauses. She awaits approval. The elderly man tries to lure the bottle in again with a waving gesture of his cup. The girl pours some more.

That’s a bit much. But oh well, the customer is always right.

The old man waves again. “More,” the cup is demanding. She hesitates. She pours. The cup is filled to the brim. The man drinks deeply into the cup. He looks at the girl. He nods for more. The girl takes a step towards the next guest.

That is too much.

The wrinkly man grabs her by the arm. “MORE!” the cup is screaming. It opens its jaws wide and bites off the neck of the bottle. Blood flows everywhere. A constant stream of dark red liquid. She surrenders the bottle to the old man. But the cup drinks it all in two big gulps and it starts to screech. MOOOOREEEEE!!!

She can’t take this. Not for 11.50 an hour before taxes. She runs towards the restroom. The cup is right behind her, thrashing the stools and tables and devouring any bottles it meets in its rampant path. She slams the door and dumps down on her ass in front of it. The cup is wailing outside and she can hear customers sighing, complaining, getting their coats, and leaving. She tears off her name plate and throws it at the mirror in the far end of the restroom.

I’m quitting.

The cup calms down 15 minutes later. She walks back out. And she pours a new bottle.

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- Gift openers · Poem

Introducing… Carl (three)

He looks away from the book full of words, staring into the window
He’s seen the truth.

Carl stands up and enters the street
Joyful christmas lights fill him up as he commands his feet to propel him towards whatever his end goal could be
Little does he know
That beginnings are more common than ends

Carl waits passionately for tomorrow
Knowing full well that tomorrow will never get here
No matter how fast he moves.

As his feet slips on the mirror-clean ice, he lands on his own reflection
Bleeding only slightly from his left ankle
As the phone rings on cue, the doctor informs him on a new angle
Something Carl hadn’t considered, nor would have
Pushing tomorrow closer to never

As christmas lights shine brighter than before, on the eve of the third december day
Everything ends for Carl
His world crashes into frozen tears on broken ice
He failed to see the truth, and the future is an ending sin, not a window for promise;
His sin.

That’s his beginning.

 

- Gift openers · Poem

Gift opener (one)

Som om der ingen ende er
Nogle dage
Føles det
Sådan

Stopper vi
Med at åbne gaver
Når jeg bliver lykkelig
Firetyve gaver
Jeg har ikke så tit
Lysten til at stoppe
Efter en enkelt pakke

Som vender det hele på hovedet

Efter en enkelt pakke
Lysten til at fortsætte
Jeg har ikke så tit
Firetyve gaver
Når jeg bliver lykkelig
Med en gaveåbner
Stopper vi

Sådan
Føles det
Nogle dage
Som om der ingen ende er

- Same New Season · Poem

Støvkongen og opsugeren

I denne ekstravagante sal, fyldt med lys og løjer

Er jeg min egen ven

Jeg lytter kun til den ærbødige konge

Stolt og rank ligger han og slapper på det spejlblanke stengulv, verdens mest royale ødemark

Han er grå og underligt fedtet, han kigger op på mig med udtryksløse øjne

For der kommer den

Stort

Larmende monster, vinden blæser imod os, kongen flyver bravt fremad imod bæstet

Der har plaget os i årtier

Forsøgt at sluge den royale grå aroma langs de uberørte vægge

I sidste sekund blev kongen reddet af hans brødre, blokerende for monsterets mund

Og jeg retter på min krøllede papirkrop og sukker, inden jeg går til angreb

Min krop er ladt med resterne af en ynkelig papirklips, som flygtede hjemmefra i en ung alder

I stykker og uden mulighed for at følge sine forældres drømme, knækket ind til benet

Jeg farer frem, papirklips og jeg, klar til at kæmpe for mine støvede konger i hjørnet af rummet, som små soldater der runger før det sidste skæbnesvangre slag

For i sidste ende er vi dømt til monsterets sorte, bundløse hul

Og den evige bug, der følger bagefter

Når opsugeren slukker, og alt bliver mørkt.

- Same New Season · Poem

Brutal winds

Back to the shore, the day after the storm, the two men stood and looked over yesterday’s violence and the gore that followed, silent in the windblown hair of nature.

The rocks shivered with every blow from the waves flowing from the seafloor onto the broken stones lying like little graves for smaller men

Friends are hard to come by, the one man said, removing his hand from the old ocean bed and into the salty air, fingers shaking from cold

His potential heir looked at the hand, nose sniffing and spilling hairs as he wondered if he really had to do what he was told

Just like the waves and the cracks below, following the orders coming from above or somewhere inside nature’s skull, slamming against the rocks and bones of those who fell before

But is that how order works? He wondered, should we be as we’re told or go back to the life before endless control, a life of salty rocks and a taste of backbreaking building blocks

Crushing with endless weight and even greater freedom to die

The man reached out with his hand, and for a second the two simply stood like pillars in the wind, like statues of old, on top of their ancestors’ sins

The wheel turns forevermore as they shook hands and slowly moved away from shore

Into a land of grass and dirt and something more

Before the young one drew a blade, hard and sharp to break the cycle of those who suffered without remarks, turning rocks red and rivers rich

Without words he hoped to change something above the rocks and the sea, something more, turning it into something yet to be

His body fell down on the broken rocks, opening a container with satisfying stuff as he cleansed the blood from his fists and his blade

The big black bubbling liquid ran into his mouth as he threw the can onto broken pieces of nature, never to care or to hate any form of culture

These words go amiss as he dropped no further hints of his existence, disappearing into the brutal winds, leaving only the can, crushed and compromised to be one with nature despite never quite getting there, or so he says

A can – a logo – a Coca-Cola it is

- Same New Season · Short story

Cold

He looked so lost in that light. Eyes a blurry mess and flickering in the darkness. Searching for something, anything to fixate upon. It felt as though he could feel her there. He couldn’t, of course. But the feeling still lingered. She watched him silently. A fading memory. A shade from her past.

The first couple of seconds were staggeringly long. But soon the minutes began to fly away. Then hours, days, weeks and even months. She was not about to give up on him. Every night she came by to pay him a little visit. At first their meetings had been awkward and forced. Of course, neither of them really said much. One could only listen and the other could only speak. It’s the sort of thing that follows cryogenically freezing the human body.

Then, with time, visiting him began to feel natural. It had become a part of her routine. As simple as moving one foot in front of the other. She didn’t really know what she was doing there. Or why she kept coming by at all. She just knew that it was right.

His features were dim and waning, but remnants of his before highlighted cheekbones and stern brows still peered out through his frozen cage. She found herself dreaming of him at night. In her dreams he was still moving and speaking. His voice was strong and beautiful. His face was rough but passionate. And he danced.

 

  Oh, how he danced…

 

Those memories seemed so distant now. Eons could’ve passed, and she wouldn’t have known if not for the markings of time on his crystallized cheeks. He was fading as quicker than ever now, and she found herself restless at night. She couldn’t sleep, and she couldn’t stand being awake. Because being awake meant being away from him.

It wasn’t until the ice surrounding his body fully consumed him that she felt truly lost. Because now he was gone. And the dancing man in her dreams was some stranger she might once have known. And she didn’t know what to do or where her road would lead her. Because her shining light had died out and left her fumbling in the dark.

So she etched a note in the ice that now covered him from top to toe. While she was putting down the words, she met her own reflection staring back at her with brand new eyes. Someone else’s eyes. The first beams of sunlight that morning put white streaks in her hair that made it shine in a way she had forgotten it could. She took a step back. Turned around. And walked away. She wasn’t sure where to. But it didn’t matter now. As long as it was somewhere else.

As she walked, she couldn’t help but hop and skip along the road. Soon enough she was dancing into the sunset. A dance coming from somewhere deep inside her. Some place she once knew very well. And she never looked back.