Helena Margrét Jónsdóttir: A Ghost of Another Ghost
The blackout curtain rolls up with a squeak when I pull it up from the window ledge to see the stars. Everybody has gone to sleep except I, the ghosts and the spider on the other side of the glass. The nights seep into the days, the darkness makes it impossible to tell night from day. It does not matter whether the curtain is drawn or not.
The days are bitter and salty but the nights sweet, like marzipan. They keep stretching, the nights constantly get longer, and they hobble, they don’t flow softly anymore, instead they twitch and squeak, and I try to pamper myself to even things out. The moon and the stars are rolled up between the liquorice and the tongue rolls out to greet them. My saliva and the red wine drips and pours and splashes, it splashes and pours and spatters, and I try catching it in a glass, but it runs through me. The mouth is full of saliva and I swallow and gulp down and quaff, but it keeps filling up again. If I open my mouth, it will flow out, drip and splash and spatter. The moon and the stars and the dreams are covered with loud wrappings, I try grabbing hold of one corner, but my fingers glide straight through. The liquorice slips between my fingers and my saliva drips non-stop from the corners of my mouth. I stop trying to swallow and gulp and allow the saliva to flow down from the tongue, which is hanging from my mouth. It never dries up, no more than the red wine.
I look at the spider; it is spinning a new web. It goes round and round, in towards the centre, it spins and weaves and waits, waits in the swirl for the arrival of what it dreams of. I envy it. Everything it wants gets caught in the sticky web which reminds me of a liquorice roll. I chew on sour jelly spiders and worms, the only thing I can get hold of, but the jelly sticks in my teeth and I get a stomachache. I feel like the jelly is wriggling in my mouth. There is a black spot on my tongue and my lips are red from the wine. Transparent, clear and sticky, yet nothing sticks to me. Like a ghost. I thread my shoes with filled liquorice strips, I lost the other ones a long time ago. The liquorice never runs out and the days keep flowing, roll by one after another, the stars and the sun and us ghosts and the spider between them like a layer of marzipan.