Creative Writing, Paula
Short Stories: The Bruise
This is a mysterious story. I was 28 and lived in a small town in western Germany where I studied at the time. One sunday morning during late spring I woke up with a giant bruise on my upper left leg. It was perfectly round and had the size of breakfast plate. Its main color was yellow-green and the round shape was outlined by a dark red contour. I could feel its exploding heat by simply holding my hand close to the skin. The pain was immense. I had no idea how this bruise had gotten there. I had no headache, my dress was intact and my body showed no other injuries. My friend who I had met at a bar the night before insured me that we had parted after a few drinks in good spirits around midnight. With each day the bruise grew darker and darker. I started to like it. Despite its pain. I curiously watched it grow and change colors and with each day it captured me more. After two weeks the bruise had reached its climax and was glowing crimson red. I could only sleep on my right side but I didn't mind. Then it started fading again going through all the colors in revers ending in yellow-green. And after another two weeks my mysterious companion had disappeared completely, taking its secret along.
Short Stories: The plastic cup
I was about 21 when I went to an urologist to be examined due to an ongoing series of bladder infections. I heard about a certain vaccination that was supposedly able to solve my annoying problem. It was a hot summer day and everyone in the doctor's office was dressed lightly. The nurse in her white lab coat at the front desk gave me a white plastic cup and asked me to return it to her with a urine sample pointing towards the bathroom. Passing the other waiting patients in the open waiting room in font of the front desk, I followed her instruction. I was alone in the bathroom and filled up the plastic cup with tap water. I drank it all, waited a bit and peed in the cup as demanded. With a pretended feeling of easiness I passed by the other patients on my way back to the front desk trying not to spill anything and wondered if they really needed that much of a sample and why they don't provide covers. When I passed the cup over to the nurse I noticed that I had left a big deep red lipstick stain on the border of the cup from drinking the tap water. There I was handing the nurse an edgeful cup with urine and a lipstick stain. I froze. The nurse grabbed the cup, wrote my name on it and turned around to carefully place it on the tablet next to the other cups waiting to get inspected by the doctor. With her back facing me I quickly left the medical practice and I never returned. But I like the idea that I left my friendly little mark behind.
Short Stories: The Encounter
I get into my car and start driving. The streets are crowded and the traffic is hectic. I drive almost automatically. Changing lanes, stopping, accelerating - it feels like a meditation. I planned enough time to get there on time: at a parking lot outside Berlin. I place I have never heard of before. My thoughts are circling around the upcoming encounter. S. suggested time and place: 4pm at the parking lot of Lidl, right after he finished working. Last week didn’t work out, he had to postpone our meeting due to a business trip. I didn’t mind. It gives me more time to find out what I’m actually expecting. I don’t know - I still don’t know. That postponed week doesn’t give me any answers. His wife thinks he will be at the gym, that gives us a time span of one and a half hours. I’m excited, my heart beats faster than usual. And I think about what he might look like. I've only seen some images but my guess is they are not very recent. We have talked on the phone before but only the settle date and time of our meeting.
We meet and he instantly starts talking about his wife, their marriage troubles and their how their sex life has faded out. He also talks about the education of his kids. He doesn’t ask me anything. While he nervously talks on and on I’m looking out the window. We are passing fields and a small river. I’m absorbed in thought, wondering about the image I’m about to take. I’m curious how he will present himself.
Ist es möglich, dass ich es vielleicht doch der Treffen wegen mache? Dass es mir gar nicht wirklich um das Bild geht. Sondern um den Puls, die Aufregung, das Geheimnisvolle? Nutze ich die Kamera und ihn aus um mir meinen eigenen Kick zu holen? Um mich lebendig zu fühlen? Ich schiebe den Gedanken beiseite und versuche mich wieder auf das Gespräch zu konzentrieren.
- Ich ärgere mich über die Bemerkung und die frage mich warum Typen sich immer das Recht herausnehmen einem zu sagen, wie attraktiv, nett, hübsch oder streng sie einen finden. Danach habe ich doch gar nicht gefragt. Ich komme doch auch nicht auf die Idee ihm zu sagen, dass er nicht „meinem Typ“ entspricht. Was soll denn das? Wie sind doch nicht auf einem blind date! Oder doch?
-> Ein Fotoprojekt ohne Bilder. Den Voyeurismus unbefriedigt lassen. Spannung durch Text aufbauen. Bilder lösen sie aber nicht auf. Fetish of being photographed. It's his secret. I want his image - he wants me to take his image = perfect match.
