Væsner

My fiction blog ’Væsner’ has been on a hiatus but am now slowly waking up again. If you like mixing Hellish shadows with a bit of bureaucracy, fish-obsession and rants about the good old days when the void was in better shape and Post Danmark kind of worked, take a peek.

Hvis du foretrækker dine monstre med lidt Æ,Ø, Å, så findes bloggen også på dansk.

Anne Nielsen, the blogger on ’Væsner’, tweets as @vaesner

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Puppet

I love sock puppets. I’ve loved them since I was a kid and certain that my parents were the only ones genius enough to put a sock on their hand and make it talk. These days I’m plotting ways to get to write about Fraggles – glorified sock puppets and my favourite 80s monsters – and also a story about possession and knitwear.  ‘Puppet‘, a flashfic inspired by the brewing knitwear story, is now available in 101 Fiction’s Devils and Demons issue.

101

 

 

 

Tomrum

ForsideForestil dig, at du både falder og hænger stille i tomrummet. Der findes intet andet end dig og mørket og intet, der er alt, og alt, der er intet …

Forestil dig nu en stemme, der siger: ’lad være at besøge tomrummet.’[1] Forestil dig, at du drejer dig uden at vide, om du vender opad eller nedad, sidelæns eller ret, for intet af det giver mening her. Forestil dig, at du ser en mand klædt i en hvid taekwondo-dragt. Han sidder på en enhjørning med regnbuemanke, og de vender begge på hovedet herude (eller også er det dig, der gør), og han siger til dig –

nej, lad os tage det senere.

Jeg har skrevet om tomrum, Chuck Tingle, Welcome to Night Vale og det frie fald i KULTURO.

Du kan købe udgivelsen her. Den handler om frygt.

Åben

[1] Chuck Tingle, 2017: tweet. Link: https://twitter.com/ChuckTingle/status/834490954778226688 Egen oversættelse. I mine oversættelser af Tingles tekster har jeg forsøgt at beholde de slå- og stavefejl, der er karakteristiske for hans stil.

 

 

Snowball Wants to go to Outer Space

JDP-covert-March-2017-683x1024Snowball wants to go to outer space.

“The stars,” it says, as Limping Lotta looks at the void opening at the tip of her toes. “They’re made of fire!”

“Won’t they burn you?” Lotta once asked.

“Dragons don’t burn!” Snowball scoffed at her. “Our scales are fire-proof.”

“But you’re made of plush,” Lotta said. Later her father dabbed her scratched cheek with soap and water. “How did you get these?” he asked, but did not believe her when she told him. “Snowball is just a toy, Lotta. But if he scares you so much, I can take him to the charity shop tomorrow?”

Snowball was sitting right next to them.

Lotta shook her head.


Snowball Wants to go to Outer Space, in: Jersey Devil Press (2017).

Read Snowball Wants to go to Outer Space here.

Cover by Joseph Brooks.

Snowball Wants to go to Outer Space received an honorable mention in Spark’s contest “The Fantasy is Here; The Future is Now”.

 

 

 

Christmas, White as Bone

By Line Henriksen

 

                                                        The snow rises and falls out there, on the frozen ice,

It’ll be a white Christmas, and we’re all packing our bags.

                                                        gathering and dispersing like shattered teeth stirred by

                                                        the wind.

In the kitchen, father is preparing the roast, and gran is stirring spices into the glögg.

                                                        It pulls up shadows,

I set the table, and my siblings decorate the tree.

                                                        a sense of depth in the veils of white.

“I see them now,” sister whispers, sitting in the windowsill, her red bows wilting at the sight. We pause at doors and windows and see them too,

                                                        The snow peels back, revealing bones and tattered

                                                        cloth whipping around slow feet, steering towards the

                                                        well-lit windows that shine like guiding stars.

and suddenly everyone moves faster than before. The table is set in no time, the last bits of clothes packed, the candles lit by trembling hands, and in a flitter of scarves and coats, we depart just in time.

                                                        The guests are here.

We watch from the car as every window fills with them, warm light spilling out on the snow from between withered ribs and cracked skulls. Torsos sway stiffly, and legs kick upwards in dance, knocking grins from gnarled shoulders. As we drive off, we hear the beating of music, and the tapping of hardened feet.

I fear them, the bone-white Christmases when the lake freezes over, and the dead come back to claim the house for a night.