Microfiction, January 2019

A collection of the pieces of microfiction I wrote on twitter in January. (Minus the typos.)

“Where did the house go?”, I asked the lady sitting in front of the house next to the now empty lot. “Which house?” “The green one I saw here when passing by just a week ago.“ She shook her head, laughing at me. “There hasn’t been a house in 200 years over there.”

“Hey girl, can I talk to you for a second?” “No.” “Okay. Sorry.” The ghost vanished back into the sidewalk.

“Shhhh” whispered the ancient oaken wardrobe in the corner, softly, to the poet sitting at a desk by the window, “would you mind opening the curtain a little more so I could enjoy the moonlight as well? It’s been a while.”

The water was boiling in the pot and he was about to turn around to pick up the bag of pasta from the table behind him, but the bag was already being handed to him. “Thanks” he muttered, while dumping the pasta into the pot. Then he remembered he was home alone.

There were shards and pieces of broken glass and pottery everywhere. On tables, on shelves, all over the floor. The oddest private art collection I had ever seen. “What exactly do you collect?” “Broken dreams.”

“I hate being able to pass through walls and bookshelves. Backs of chairs, too. I miss leaning against objects. Not being able to rest against anything solid gives me phantom backaches,” complained the ghost of the gnarly old lady haunting the library.

The wool blanket didn’t like colour of the new bed-sheets. It started floating and hovered over to the window. Rain was pouring down outside. Maybe the bed-sheets weren’t so bad after all. It settled back down on them, softly, deciding to give the colours a chance.

Something was stirring in the coffee mug in front of her. She took a closer look.
“Uaaah!” The head of a tiny and very drowsy looking ghost emerged from the dark liquid. “Sorry, I was just so tired and must have fallen asleep in the coffee tin again.”

“Wanted: cat ghost, to haunt my room. I’m very allergic to living pets but really could use some company.” The teenage girl set down her pen, smiling at the note. Now, how to send it? She decided on burning it in a bowl. Nine minutes later, she heard a gentle meow.

I opened the book. The book opened a portal and sucked me in. I woke up yesterday again, deciding on not buying the book. This was my downfall. The book now has me trapped in a closed system of paradox time, devouring my soul and feasting on my fear.

“Don’t ever pick leaves from the hydra-plant. It will grow twenty more leaves in that place and soon take over the world.” The hydra-plant author chuckled after finishing typing that paragraph in their newest herbology manuscript.

They were about to leave the apartment for an evening out, when a small, shy voice whispered from within a kitchen drawer, “Could you maybe turn on the radio for me? I always feel lonely when you go; and I can’t leave these walls.”

I opened the freezer. Inside a frozen soap bubble, oddly out of place, was resting on the vegetable bags. When I poked it, a small wisp of fog rose inside, stretching into a tiny, ghostly yawn. It opened dark eyes, stared back at me, then settled back down to sleep.

The ghost of a squirrel sat on its favourite old tree, staring longingly at the stash of walnuts it had buried between the roots last year.
It missed the movement of winter winds ruffling its fur coat. Being a ghost was cold inside.

The young artist didn’t have money to keep pets, but he didn’t mind. A whole lot of small spirits frequented his apartment: the ghost of a goldfish had claimed the kettle, a snake spirit the microwave; an invisible parrot chattered away from its spot on the lamp.

10.000 ghosts floated in front of the parliament, stretching and twisting into signs.
“We’ve come from the future to haunt you”
“You killed us by ignoring climate change”
“You sank our isles, burnt our forests”
“Listen to your children!”
(2019-01-26, dedicated to Greta Thunberg)

It’s raining on the cemetery; and all the ghosts are carrying umbrellas. If you ask them why, they’ll tell you it’s so they won’t feel too sad they can’t really feel the rain drops anymore. Also, they love the bright colours.

They pointed at the old brass telescope in the corner of the thrift store. “How much do you want for this?”
“I’m afraid it wouldn’t be of much use for you”, the merchant pointed out.
“Is it broken?”
“Well … not exactly. You see, there’s the ghost of an astronomer occupying it; and she refuses to let people look through her unless they make her comfortable.”
“I’ve a cozy attic with a nice skylight.”
The merchant smiled. “She might like that.”

The Tragic Tale of the Reptiloid Werewolf
(A five-part story for @Koffeinfusion.)

As everybody knows, a civilization of reptilians is living beneath the earth, secretly watching humans from there. But rarely anyone knows the reason why they went underground.
One moonlit night, many eras ago, a young reptiloid was bitten by a werewolf. The result was horrifying, much more so than in an affected human.
The reptiloid’s smooth, scaly skin split open with a disgustingly cracking sound as its body began to bulge and twist, while the whole inner anatomy painfully changed from cold-blooded lizard to viviparous endotherm.
The lycanthropic reptilian screamed and screamed in a hissing voice as it felt its blood boiling and its guts liquefying, and all the other reptilians screamed as well in horror as they had to watch an abomination grow and swell to terrible size.
The creature was banished, living out a long, nightmarish life as a walking night-terror itself, while the remaining reptilians hid away, vowing never to see moonlight again until humans had disposed of all werewolves.

Long Time No Write

Hi folks!

It’s been a while – mea culpa!

Some of you may have followed me on Instagram and Twitter for shorter updates and random thoughts. (And the Star Wars hair styles I did today and yesterday to entertain a co-worker, go look at them on IG if you need a chuckle!) I really want to get back into writing; I’m just not sure of the format.

There are some topics I want to touch, but I’d like to put more effort into these.

  • Getting in touch with your body and your identity through martial arts (and handling blunt weapons, lol)
  • Contentment vs. happiness
  • Space (I’d love to create something about planets, moons, and asteroids, playing with different ideas right now)
  • Navigating life with a mind full of opposites
  • Background noise

I’m busy with work most days and want to keep this blog completely separate from my job for different reasons. I’m still a linguist, doing linguist things in a language project for a company, destroying (and fixing) templates, and occasionally dabbling in logic programming and python, while filling my desk with plants, listening to weird music, and drinking a little too much espresso. Sometimes I fold origami manta rays and other creatures when I need a break.

A long due update on my journey in capoeira will follow shortly!

See you soon!

PS: The last few months I didn’t find motivation for photography beyond the low-quality phone snapshots and I still haven’t posted the images from the last wedding I photographed. Life has been crazy, the weather disgusting, and nothing really interesting was going on. I’m waiting for the sky to clear so I can take pictures of the moon with my new tele-zoom lens, then next month I’ll be at the big annual capoeira workshop with my camera.



Vague Thoughts

I have a lot of thoughts in my head these days, but they are somewhat vague, some hazy, some blurred, some to quick and complex to be caught in words yet. I want to write more again, more often, more organized. I tried to push forward in life and suppressed that creative voice inside, tried to find a more grown-up creativity, tried to press myself in a mold I won’t ever fit. Lately I’ve been going back to reading my old stories – the really crazy, surreal ones (mostly SciFi fanfiction with random strange occurrences) – and to watching the old shows that had been my refugium in teenage years. I want to write again, and try to voice my old sense of wonder again, to put down the absurd episodes my brain brings up whenever given the opportunity to breathe. Maybe someday I’ll find a story that will be wondrous enough to captivate others.

Also, future not clear yet. Destination unknown. Vague ideas, nothing tangible.

I want to write to you.

I want to write to you about the tiny moments, the dark ones and the lighter ones, about the universe reflected in your eyes and about the black holes in our hearts. I want to write to you, but all I ever do is waiting in silence for an echo of my thoughts to find its way back to me in one of your messages, the messages none of us ever write. I want to write to you in poetry, in wordless, helpless shrugs, in emotional source code lacking decipherable equivalents in the human language we share and yet don’t. I want to write to you, one of you, all of you. I want to write to you, but the only ones who answer my nightly whispers are the digital ghosts of strangers, speaking to me in wondrous metaphors of radio dials and crackling static.


poets’ nightly words
travelling through the ether
undying in space


poet’s mind on the run

Maybe a poet’s mind has to be on the run most of the time in order to create and cover enough ground for all those thoughts.
So keep writing, keep writing, and never stop.
When the paper runs out, write on snow and concrete and whale backs.
Write on lanes and avenues,
keep scrawling and thinking and keep the words coming,
fill city voids with cursive and cover scycraper walls in the boldest letters you can muster.
When the words run out, keep running.
A poet’s mind on the run will cover miles of desertlands,
but at the end of the day there’s a chance to rest on tree stumps beneath clouds of words,
and the words they will keep falling, falling in place
in a poet’s mind on the run.





Dear brain, you are very annoying. Please shut up for a moment. I’m not interested in purple jellyfish and their connection to street lamps. Arrgh. Anyone wants to trade brains with me? >.<

I will play

Maybe one day
When they’ve thrown me to the ground
One will be there
To hand me the cord in welcome
Offering the white flower of peace and protection
I don’t know by what name they will call me
But I will answer and play.





I guess I found a new source of inspiration for writing, finally.