I experiment with writing short, narrative texts: to practice literary styles I’m interested in, and to keep writing regularly.
My eyes open, but have to squint immediately. I’m not blinded. It’s just… what I see is strangely distorted. Blurred. That’s the word. It’s all blurry, especially to the left and right. If I focus my gaze straight on, it’s better, though it still looks as if I’m peering through a smear on a window. There’s something even more weird. Get this: I can easily move my eyes, but not my head. Why can’t...
I found myself staring with blank bored eyes at the scribbles Martin was making, self-absorbedly waffling on about advantages and challenges and bla bla bla. And just like every week, I desperately wondered...
They say that the thought of dying alone causes such a horror in the human soul that it will go to great lengths to avoid it — even if it means to break out of the order of things, for a fraction of an instant. Now I’m a reasonable, grown-up person, and I’ve never given anything much about such talk. But lately, I’m not so sure anymore. I’ve come to believe that there may be something to it, that...
The distant mountain peaks began to glow in reflected sunlight, while the monastery sank into the shadows of the late afternoon. The old monk sat quietly on the terrace, contemplating both; but he didn’t fail to notice the soft footsteps, either.
I pushed through the crowds in the marketplace. The dealers in the stalls left and right talked rapidly in their hush voices, dispensing their infinite varieties of pitch. They would be selling all kinds of things, I knew. But mostly maps. Maps printed on paper, maps scratched on tanned leather, maps engraved in bronze plates. Some of them rare uniques; others cheap mass wares. Either way...
A stunning number of people was out on the street. All moved in the same direction — not hurried; determined, with a sense of direction. Many were dressed in travel clothes and carried luggage, suitcases some of them, others just bags. I joined the flow and asked questions. — “Haven’t you heard?” someone told me. “They’re going to destroy the town. Everybody is to be evacuated.” — “Where are you...
In a land far beyond the mountains, there once lived a man. He was deeply sad, for his beloved wife had died and left him alone to an existence without happiness and nothing to look forward to. With her the man had shared everything, and now the food had no taste, sleep did not refresh, and even when he had a good week and was able sell some goods at the marketplace, he just came home with the...
A man stood in the middle of the street, unmoving, frozen in place. As people hurried past without looking, it almost felt as if he wasn’t even there, had there not been a small dent in the crowd where they steered around him.
Leif Frenzel is a writer and independent researcher. He has a background in philosophy, literature, music, and information technology. His recent interest is Jungian psychology, especially synchronicities and the relationship between consciousness and the unconscious.