Fiction Archives - Page 2 of 2 - Imme Visser
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Egg (fiction)


He shot up and jumped at his phone. Shut up, shut up! He pushed the ‘stop’ button aggressively and groaned loudly. His alarm went off automatically, every day. Also on Sunday. He would have turned it off before he went to sleep, except for the fact that he was completely and utterly drunk when he went to bed a few hours ago.

He was a light sleeper. Even when completely hung over, nothing could persuade him to stay in bed when he could also do stuff. Sundays were the only days he didn’t have any duties, anyway.

Thomas put his feet into his grandpa slippers and threw on a t-shirt. He got up and walked up to the mirror next to his closet. What was.. He looked over his shoulder. Nothing there. He must still be drunk, oh, he must certainly still be drunk, he saw. He was wearing his The Script t-shirt, a present from his ex-girlfriend, an overly excited fan of the band. Thomas wasn’t into boy bands, as he called them. He pulled the shirt back over his head and threw it on the ground. His face looked puffy and there was a huge insect on his shoulder. Wait, what the fuck? Thomas slapped wildly at his shoulder, then shook his head. There wasn’t anything there. Wake up.READ MORE

Sand (fiction)

I’m looking at rows and rows of people streaming in with all kinds of facial expressions and physical injuries. My brother is not one of them.

The sand is everywhere, rising up like a gigantic maze of the desert, its huge walls pushing people down. Suddenly I see my little cousin reaching the finish line and I’m glad, but not surprised. After all, he’s the sporty one.

“Have you seen Adam anywhere?” I bombard him.

“No!” he pants, greedily accepting a bottle of water from some sponsor of the event, “but don’t worry, there’s not a set time frame or anything. He’s just slower.”READ MORE

Central (fiction)

She opened the windows and climbed out onto the balcony. Her house was the one house in the street that had a balcony on this side, looking out on the street, so she looked rather like a dramatic Juliet, waiting for someone to serenade her. Only Juliet wouldn’t have her breasts out in the middle of the day, nor would she smoke half a pack of cigarettes in 10 minutes.

Dahlia sat down against the warm wall and let her dark hair fall over her phone so she could see the screen. Her boss had called a while ago, she noticed. Well, she was too late now anyway.

She lit another cigarette and scanned the houses across the street. Windows, just as light and obvious as hers, but there was no one inside. No one to stare back at her. No one on the street below her to make a fuss about or throw something at. No one to care about her bare breasts.READ MORE

Vrijdag (droom)

Ik had op de dijk gemikt, maar ik had zoveel vaart dat ik er naast vloog. Helaas. Isabel’s rozige haar fleurde op in de zon en ik voelde me op mijn gemak.

“Er zijn olifanten in de rivier,” zei ze.

Ik dacht hierover na. Vanochtend zwom ik nog in deze rivier, ik had geen olifanten gezien. Wat gevaarlijk! Ik klom op de dijk en zag, inderdaad, één olifant in de rivier. Een mevrouw probeerde langs het beest te zwemmen maar hij duwde haar onder.

Lot wilde niet dat ik haar zag.

Maandag (droom)

Ik twijfel niet, ik ren, de anderen volgen mij, en ik spring uit het raam. Rechts zie ik grote, monsterlijke stenen waterslangen (Gyarados) en ik wijk uit naar links. Een boom. Ik red het niet, ik val op de grond, maar dit kan. Ik zie de blonde vrouw vertwijfeld uit het raam kijken, ze gaat niet springen. Vandaag lukte het.

Blue (fiction, short story)


Is it strange that I want to touch  her? To make sure it’s not some sort of mistake? Everything feels so unreal. I will never know what ended her that afternoon, her love for him or his misuse of it. I am lying in bed now and I’m not sure if it’s worth it for me to ever come out again.

And as my family collapsed into a form of togetherness the next morning, I felt I could not be sad with them. I think the mourning part was already half way for me, and I had perhaps come into a state of acceptance, or blank realization. Psychologically, my sister had probably died a few weeks ago, and it had nothing to do with the condition of her pale blue body today.

The idiotic thing is that people actually ask me really intense questions about her and who she was and who he was. I think they want to know more about that day but what do I know? I overheard a few girls talking at uni today, it went something like this:

–           What reasons could she have, to kill herself?!

–           But did she really kill herself then?

And a third one said:

–   Isn’t it impossible to drown yourself?