(Another random text I wrote - not sure how to tag them... at least this one has an image to go with it)

The Hypnonaut

The cockpit reeked of spilled beer and sweat. He laboriously climbed into the seat and put on his helmet. It was dark outside... and cold. His hands shook, black dust falling from them like the stars from the green sky. He had the fumes of his body and the dirty machine hanging in his nose, a stabbing pain in his gut, an emptiness, cold and painful in his breast. It was not a picnic this job, not a fruit cake, not a biscuit of rose mead, not a sweet frog. He turned on the broiler and the stew. Checked the altitude and carborundum. The instrument boards were old and covered in porridge. He hated his job.

The lights were changing. Soon the machine would lift its skirts and rise into the reverse abyss. He felt his senses change, the taste of blood in his mouth became perfumed in a sort of bitter way. He felt the bodies of the other place press against his pelvis, For a second he hoped that it would become erotic, that the machine would navigate in the atypical way it sometimes did. But a short look at the sky told him otherwise. The patterns were there. they stood out in a darker, colder green - terrifying the shit out of him.

He could not remember if he had applied for this job or if he had been drafted. He pulled the lever and slowly turned the steering wheel while the machine roared. Down under the knickers he could hear that one of the hold ups had a strange, rattling sound, the whole hosiery was falling apart. He opened the little refrigerator and took out a cold Carlsberg Elephant beer. She would hold. He stroked the warm skin of the seat affectionately. "My love," he mumbled while she shook in orgasms slowly rising from the ground. "My love."

She was a Hogwhore 3000 hypnowessel and she had brought him safely back each and every time. Old - yes, but he was still here. Still able to crawl out from the cockpit every morning. The emptiness in his breast began to ache. Patterns in the sky churned and collided. This mission was going to be a nightmare.

#story #fiction #Shortfiction #text #freewrite #hypnonaut #dream #Eros #Death #nightmare #patterns #Katharsisdrill

(One of those texts that I sometimes write)

Oh! I love little, blue flowers. Even the garden infesting all too free growing periwinkle, whose name make me think of useless men. My wife has this earthbound connection to that old farming culture, so I let her do the killing and weeding when she once in a while has rented some land in the outskirts of the city.

But I love weed and disorderliness. From the age of seven I lived next to a forest - it started right where the garden ended. I was unconsciously gloating when wood garlic and blackberry invaded the civilised efforts of my parents. Especially I loved the dangerous blackberry! Thorny mayhem that left us bloodied when we were playing. Seldom the berries were sweet, one was bitter, one was sour, and many of them had a strange, bland combination of it all, only coming together in jam. The beech trees, four time or more the height of our single family home, the uncontrollable hazelnut scrub. HAHA! I loved the frogs and ants that invaded the houses. Once my brother and I removed all the stones from my grandmother's fire pit to uncover the mysteries of ant life... a meticulous gardener and a Leninist - she almost killed us. I loved those hippie gardens of my childhood where you could get lost in the grass - were the family goat suddenly jumped out of nowhere, scared of our loud games - where you could see snails mate.

The polite garden owners call such hippie gardens, natural ground in Denmark, with a restrained neutral expression. But I know that they disapprove.

Still I have some sort of understanding - I know that civilisation is just something I enjoy and am given. I cannot earn money, tidy up things or do gardening. I am a sailor, a cave painter and a tramp.

A periwinkle.

Luckily my wife loves me... and has this earthbound connection to that old farming culture.

#story #freewrite #writing #gardening #blackberry #forest #childhood