Forgot your password?

We just sent you an email, containing instructions for how to reset your password.

Sign in

  • No, there was no worship of higher power in this house, neither Napoleon or Snowball existed, despotic order took place as a deformed and yellowed description of weekly cleaning chores on the fridge.

    Getting out into the kitchen daily, one would find cemented traces of oatmeal in bowls from an organic routine, misplaced coffee powder and cherry pulp on tiles, in which at the time of discovery, might have found its place in the city sewage wonders. The aftermath of morning rituals were neither movable by time nor the public cleaning order. Sometimes, I suspected smelling and picking up leftovers of a dinner decades away from my salad.

    If the body creates new cells every 7 years, I felt like I was sleeping, eating and observing the house as if it was the body and mind of an evolved and still changing old man. My housemates were making breakfasts into the future, I was fishing for memories of a dinner twenty years ago and touching dents on the wooden tiles as if fondling a man's scars hoping he would remember the pain.

    Every week, I faced the dilemma of cleaning out old, recent and potentially important memories of the house. One day, I finally talked long enough with Ni to remember asking him, if the apartment had been handed down for some time- after half-reading a 1950s zen book in the toliet.

    Ni, who lives farther away from any visible state of entropy told me that the building had been around for more than 80 years. I lived in the room next to the kitchen where the servant would live half a century ago, there was a rope which rang the now non-existent bell in my room. The once decorative and more historically interesting wall facing the main street had been taken down by the second war world.

    It is now 591 days since I've last seen Animal Farm, Ni was going to move out with his girlfriend at the end of that year. Before my last days in Vienna, my friend gave me a pot of spongy yellow flowers in the hope of symbolizing farewell. I left it suffocating in a plastic bag on the carpet accidentally as I sentimentalized my last sightings of the house. Maybe it's still not too late to bring it water and sunshine, maybe the flowers had become water and sun, maybe the animal farm men and women have long forsaken it along with 60 Sechsschimmelgasse.
    • Share

    Connected stories:

About

Collections let you gather your favorite stories into shareable groups.

To collect stories, please become a Citizen.

    Copy and paste this embed code into your web page:

    px wide
    px tall
    Send this story to a friend:
    Would you like to send another?

      To retell stories, please .

        Sprouting stories lets you respond with a story of your own — like telling stories ’round a campfire.

        To sprout stories, please .

            Better browser, please.

            To view Cowbird, please use the latest version of Chrome, Safari, Firefox, Opera, or Internet Explorer.