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johannes mertzell horowitz
Posted: Sep 3 2011, 03:19 AM



user posted image
play by j. linder



user posted image

YOUR NAME Shannon / Shan
EXPERIENCE oh, it feels like eternity. 8-9 years, though.
CONTACT pm, msn and aim. you can find it under who's who.
Johannes grinned at his friend’s inability to understand his mean spirited quip about his possible life force, arching an eyebrow to himself about how he should have seen it coming. There was a shake of his head, an ingrained biting of the side of his mouth for doing it again. He could hear his mother, now, practically standing straight beside him with her “I go for a long jog-slash-walk every morning to stay in shape, but I can’t ever stop putting butter on my bread for dinner and I’ve always had a nasty habit of snitching cookies from the jar – hey, I don’t look over fifty, do I? I need to re-dye my hair…” build slung into an irritated, hands-on-hips stance. She would have hissed something along the edge of “be nice,” with a look that told him she was proud that he was making friends, but would never stop being impressed at his ability to lose them just as quickly. Seafoam green eyes slide over to look at his end-piece friend, who had come over from time to time, there had been laughs, there had been utter moments of disconnection, through the thick fan of lashes that confirmed that he and James would never quite be on the same page. Not ever.

This was okay, mostly. No one really had been. If his life had been any sort of penned story that he liked to tell himself that he wrote, to confirm he wasn’t a failure, that the whole of him would culminate into something that wasn’t lack-luster and wouldn’t lead to him having four people standing over his body before they torched him, the rest of them writing “IOUs” to his dearly departed soul for not being able to re-schedule picking up toothpaste from the store in his honor, he wasn’t entirely sure, himself, if he would have conceded to read it. Eyes skated back to the tips of his fingers, tinged slightly with ink that never seemed to come off, the long sleeved plaid that cut off roughly at the pointed bone of his wrist in an age-old fray. Indeed, if anyone so much as glanced at the manuscript of his life, they would have wisely stopped at the introduction – assuming he would get that far, perhaps, they’d stop at the publishing information when they realized that it was hairbrained, that it was practically a figment of a joke and that it really wasn’t worth the coffee rimmed stains, the frustration, the papercuts and the lies that he made to get there. “I’d like very much to read some of your work, Johannes.” He heard Penny’s voice, sweet in his ears. If only, oh, if only, it hadn’t been followed by the echo of the voices of family, of trying to overlook the way his mother stretched the truth when she said that he was “well on his way, Agetha!” or the way his father looked at him in the way a kindred spirit could, or the way his brothers had both said the same line Penny repeated in his ear when they had taken walks in the park, but he didn’t take solace in it the same way. It was hard, when the words bit so hard with disbelieving, with jostling that hit him a tad too hard.

If he’d been religious, or, to be more precise, if he wasn’t so adamantly in denial about his believing, he would have blessed Penny for being so kind. Always so kind. Always so reaching, palms outstretched like he was something normal and like he wasn’t a force that would lick the flames of hell and then lie about it. He had tried to overlook the way she seemed hurt when he didn’t offer his arm on those walks, keeping them shoved tightly in his coat instead, with a bit of distance  between them, ignoring the way her blue eyes always shone as she told him about the romantic piece of work she was almost finished with, making excuses to her when she asked if he would read it with her. Of course, trying to overlook the way she looked at him was like trying to forget about the way he viewed himself, especially as he pulled down his sleeves and tried to offer her hugs that were was warm as she deserved. Though, she was an ideal and as an ideal, as something that was previously so unattainable, being around her was nearly like going to confession. He wasn’t real sure if he was ready. Confessing sins, talking to god, coming clean, being able to like Penny on more than a strictly idolization level, sort of blurred along the edges in the rank of “things that should be done, eventually.”

Not to sound like the hippy nutjobbed he had boned for a few months, but life had it’s own sort of way of doing its thing. It haunted, it lurked, it did what it damn well pleased. Maybe he and James would never be in the same dramatic novel, however, well, hell. Maybe he’d never be like Rhys, his father, Ev or even Dahlia in terms of understanding, but there was a possibility that they were cameo worthy to each other and that could have been just enough to make it work.

“Read some fucking books, James, and don’t just skip to the pictures.”

Looking at the silver lining was always exhausting, though, and Johannes had passed the joint over to James unconsciously.  Cameos were good, if he thought about Cash, Jackie and Damien. One more could add a little more of something, and, in a flat barren of anything, something could be seen as good.

“Like some war shit, J. And you’re under the radar – corpses and all.”

Leaning forward over his knees, to balance in head in the triangle of his elbows, those same stained hands ran through the strands of his hair and he looked at the floor as his muscles were forcefully, slowly, relaxed, as the depressant hit. If he was serious, if James was truly serious, this would mean that an extra chapter, not just a cameo (to go along with the book metaphor that even Johannes found trite at this point, despite the fact that he was concocting it), would have to be added. He was a drug dealer. He liked living invisibly. He liked being able to walk down the street and not have people look. It was what he was good at. If James came along, there would be his family, his friends, all of which would slowly be invited over to his hole in the wall and his cave would be a little brighter, the walls would start losing their tinges of bitterness as happier forces started to become intertwined. An Adam’s apple bobbed as he thought deeply about what it was becoming, as the hermit started to deal with the fact that he truly was leaning towards the unsuspected option. There was a twitch in his top lip, something he had always done when nervous about damn near anything, and there was a restriction at his throat. Funny, how the least jarring thing about the proposal was the mention of war.

In all reality, there was something terrifying to him about letting someone so light in his dark, an apprehension that was mirrored by Penelope Maddock. There was a bell chime deep in his rib cage, down into the center of his core, that nagging beast of curiosity and what if situations and he leaned back with a sigh along the way. His palms had started to sweat and he wondered why, his interest was piqued and he wondered why – things he’d ponder when he was tripping in other latent misery that he was so good at. “Yeah.” He said out into the room, feeling awkward that it had passed his full lips, feeling like it was the start of a sliding guillotine. “Alright.” Johannes gazed back to his side, seeing him there and realizing that the foreign seriousness etched into the sides of his eyes, the line of his mouth that he tried to hide with a grin that didn’t show fear, and some door shut in the back of his mind. <b>“It took a lot of time for me to get as low as I am, James,”[/b] he matched the even tone with his own, even if it didn’t last terribly long as his mouth stretched into a bit of a lopsided grin, “but, you’re free to rot in the empty room I’ve got.” A beat. He thought about telling him about the hall, with the rows of horny portraits that will told Johannes the damnedest, most vile things anyone had heard in terms of what they wanted to do to him, in detail, and the perverted, fat cow landlord who did the same, yet, reconsidered and opted for a nearly out of character lightheartedness. “Only because you’re so pretty, cupcake.”
johannes mertzell horowitz
Posted: Dec 27 2011, 10:29 PM


    aaaaaaaaand this is done. uh. finally. i'm awful. >> I HOPE IT IS GOOD.
Posted: Dec 27 2011, 10:46 PM

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"the description of the crash is so morbid and sad and gripping. that last sentence of that section honestly momentarily depressed me. but hey, that's great writing, right? <3 this is, of course, accepted!"

- nina
johannes mertzell horowitz
Posted: Mar 9 2012, 06:47 PM


+ + +
[ T W O Y E A R S L A T E R ]
    It had been said before, it would be said again. If there was one thing Johannes was good at doing, it was running away. He could run from anything, he could run anywhere, and over the years it had been honed until the “flight” far overtook “fight,” when it came down to those two options, it was never a question as to which would eek ahead in favorability.

    “I’m pregnant.”

    He was also good at being defensive, at putting up walls faster than they could ever come down, at accusing, because that meant that he did not have to think about it more than on surface level. Lashing out? A way of survival.

    “We were never exclusive.”

    Had he meant it? They were four words that he had said that played over and over within his cranium, violently digging claws into the sides as they did laps around the soft tissue. Four words that came more easily than the beloved three words that no one had heard, as it had never fallen from his lips. That’s the way it was, though, there was hardly a sort of moment where liking someone could surmount into its evolved form, when even his mother was greeted with silence when she kissed his cheek and rubbed his back during visits, tsk-tsking at the way his collarbone poked a little too violently from the smooth, sporadically mole-covered flesh. “Immer ruhig, Hannes. Liebst du mich, oder?” It seemed so self-destructive to pair that moment with the words that came out of his mouth, looking across at the blue-eyed, dark haired woman that had moved two-steps forward to becoming the closest thing that he would have considered more than an interest into more of an investment.

    Dahlia Wellbeloved, and whatever life form she would bring into the world, needed more than he could viably give.

    Flight. It was never a question.

    Business could wait. The vacation wasn’t leisure, not really, more of a necessity. Drugs would always be sold, he still had the best clients anyone could have wanted, now peppered even more heavily with fallen deities that had once scorned him in Hogwarts, but no longer recognized the sharpened cheekbones that seemed more hallow with the way time ticked against his heart so readily.

    Hamburg was nice in the summer.

    “Noch ein?”


    There had been surprisingly little trouble in finding company in the port city. There was something in the turned down nature of his lips, or maybe the way that when they did manage to pull into a smile he looked so enigmatic, borderline friendly, that attracted like-minded people who were lost. That was it, wasn’t it? Though, perhaps not. Johannes was not sure that he wanted to be found, he wasn’t sure that he was ready to face the music or see the growing stomach of the steely eyed botanical reference, who had yet to tell her parents who he was.

    That was okay, too, because she’d be able to find someone who would provide for her, carry on the blood line, and not be embarrassing to drag along to family reunions. After all, the colorful clothing of her sisters, the gushing stories that she had told him when he had put a hesitant arm around her post-coitus, may have made him smile into the dark room, but clashed violently with the unhappiness that he wore like a badge, had resonated.

    “Und deine Frau?”

    “Sie lebt.”


    They had always seemed to understand. Funny, that.

    He had, had a beer with Rhys before contacting Dahlia, Damien or James about being back in town. They had all seemed to know, of course, as if his presence was a distinct aura that brought the cheer meter from a jovial nine to a cautiously optimistic five; after all, the war was still going on. Or, so Johannes thought.

    Politics were never his thing.

    Ghosts were good about not caring about the skeletons in other closets.


    It was weird, never having to say anything more to Rhys for him to understand. He always did. There was no need to tell him about the suicidal thoughts that had been floating around for the eight months he spent in Germany, there was no need to tell him about how he could never go through with it because of a tragic sense of catholic guilt that would never leave, would never be able to be fully eradicated, if only because his father still smiled when they all showed up for midnight mass during the Christmas season. It was strange, that camaraderie, just like the strange sensation that followed when he looked at the dark haired man across the table when a joke about overdosing came up.

    He never had to say anything to Rhys, because he already knew.


    When Johannes was thirteen years old he had a talk with his parents about the birds and the bees, if only because he saw the neighbor’s cat giving birth and wondered why people called something beautiful when it involved being pushed out of an orifice, covered in blood and crying.

    “This is one for your father, Hannes.”

    The talk was graphic, the talk was lengthy.

    When Johannes was thirteen years old he swore off of having children.

    Twenty-five, now.

    With two.

    Fuck you, catholic guilt.

    He wondered if bananas were good for babies.

    He wondered what the fatass who lived down the hall thought when he had bought a book on raising babies, though settled on imagining that she got the impression that she was the one to be impregnated by him, as the clothes that she began to wear around him went from grotesquely revealing to grotesquely revealing and sheer.

    The book wasn’t any help, but that was around the same time that he decided that he’d try. If not for the kids, for the fact that Dahlia was one of the only people who had never given up and she deserved something in her life that wasn’t a failure. After all, the two screaming children were branding marks of failure, of swapping genetic material with someone who was not only beneath you, but had hardly a trait that was desirable. He would try for Dahlia because she was stuck with him. It was only fair.

    As if he was a proper gauge of when something was good and when something was bad.

    Two years after the drunken affair started, two years and four months after he broke the heart of someone perfect, eighteen months since he had a civil talk with his brothers, twelve since he had overdosed in a basement of a German sailor, six since he finished writing the only non-piece of shit block of writing of his life that remained locked in a lower-level drawer, beneath a carton of sports drinks that James had left (that may still have inspired thoughts of missing the oaf), Johannes went to confession.

    There was a first time for everything.
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