Dart Stories
In the first-semester course “Writing Can Be Learned. But Only by Writing,” taught by Prof. Nadja Mayer, 23 students threw darts at a map of Mainz, then went to those locations, looked around, and recorded their impressions in short essays. In the process, they encountered melancholic atmospheres, an empty soccer stadium, austere buildings, growling dogs, and occasionally struggled with the writing itself.
You may have already read fourteen of these “dart-thrown” stories in the first issue of “Forum” in 2020. Here is the second part, featuring nine stories.
In the middle of nowhere
I have no plan, I’m lost. No idea where to go. I’m standing in the middle of nowhere. And right in the thick of it—5,000 steps up the mountain. But I can’t see the summit. A crowd of 30,000 students. And I’m right in the middle of it. Along the world I wanted nothing to do with, and into the one I knew quite well. I’m not missing anything, I don’t want anything, I have nothing from here. I’m cold, alone in the woods. And I feel sorry for my shoes. Stadium, stadium, but no one’s playing. Some stories have run their course. Out in the countryside. Outside the city.
I lost my bearings a long time ago. It was really nice here. I’ve seen it all. I know so much more now. I think I’ll head back anyway.
Annika Hetzel
Once upon a time, there was a shooting range
"Bye," they said and ran off in the same direction. Awkward. I pick up the pace. The faster I go, the more awkward it gets. Interesting—how uptight we are about situations that suddenly drag on.
Someone just gives us this extra moment out of the blue, and we desperately try to escape this stretch of time with unnaturally long strides. Crazy—I stubbornly keep swinging my feet. One in front of the other. That’s how
we walk. One in front of the other. On our way to the moment that should have followed the “Bye.” On our way to, once again, failing to bring ourselves to fill the time.
The nice man who gave me directions turns off. I keep going straight. “Bye,” they said, and cut it short. Once upon a time, there was a shooting range.
Thea Arndt
From the lukewarm soup pot to the piping-hot deep-fry basket
Kids with braces, screaming, stumbling, shoving. Shrill, cracking voices suddenly clash with a jumble of thoughts about homework, hunger, and plans for the evening. Discomfort; socks too long. I walk past the school complex. An intruder. Two years ago, I myself was in that melting pot of adolescents, more or less eager to learn: constantly being tossed about in a web of friends, parents, and teachers. Make it through or fall out, into the next web. In the end, everyone gets a different sauce. Then what? Bobbing along in your own vessel. Spreading out, flowing out without drowning. For those who can no longer imagine eating greasy fries today, or who can’t yet imagine eating healthy vegetable soup—and certainly not both together—maybe that’s just okay. And as for this place here, well, the leaves are a beautiful yellow.
Joanna Greiner
Bald Monday
It’s gray. It’s cold. It’s a typical Monday. Where am I, anyway? What am I
actually doing here? Oh right, I’m supposed to become a writer. A gray sky, a narrow path, muddy ground, and two lonely houses. I feel silence and solitude. It’s kind of eerie, but also kind of beautiful. Just being alone for a change, in a completely unfamiliar place. Just me and my thoughts. The path I’m standing on is so narrow that barely a car can drive on it. I try to organize my thoughts and come up with exciting sentences. Suddenly, a passing train rips me out of the silence, and all the sentences I’d thought up for my story have vanished from my head.
Louisa Gessinger
Sick Fun
It’s not worth walking around—all the buildings look the same. Bare, boxy, lots of windows. Dirty facades on the outside; inside, long corridors with doors that lead to the windows.
Just a terrible atmosphere. Hospitals make me uncomfortable. I’ve rarely enjoyed visiting them, and I think most people feel the same way. I don’t hear anyone laughing here. It’s also a humorless part of our existence—getting sick, suffering, and eventually dying. After all, you can’t escape life—we’re all heading toward the end. The great equalizer. And even if I leave here today, I haven’t escaped the end. Someday my time will come, too—maybe I’ll end up back in the hospital. Hopefully not.
Niklas Artschwager
Animal Shelter in Grau
Where do I even begin? Ugly gray, disgusting mud, old concrete, unpleasant dampness, and a cute animal shelter? Where am I? Why is the only living thing for miles around a dog barking furiously at me? And what the heck is an animal shelter doing in a place like this? What am I even doing here? Why on earth am I in this desolate area on a rainy Friday? I wonder if the dog is also fed up with this place? Is that maybe why he’s growling nonstop? Why am I even thinking about stuff like this? And why is that stupid mutt so interested in me anyway? Why do I keep losing my focus? Will I ever manage to write a piece about this?
Luka Stipetic
Children Playing in the Fall
They’re falling. Drifting slowly to the ground. Yellow, brown, orange—some are still a little green. They stick to my shoes, making the ground slippery. The kids love them. They pick them up off the ground and throw them at each other. They don’t think about the fact that it’s actually too cold and, besides, it’s drizzling. Half my size, half my age. Yet I don’t feel superior to them. I think about how small I used to be myself. Carefree, instinctive, playful. Time flies by so quickly. I’d love to join in. Let my inner child out. Not think about what tomorrow will bring or what yesterday was. Live in the moment. Take the day as it comes. Recess seems to be over. The children go inside, and I’m alone. In a sea of colorful leaves.
Lara Bachmann
Empty Stadium
It’s cold. It’s gray. I’m not quite sure if I can feel the team spirit. It’s a strange place. Here, the coziness of home meets the excitement of a modern colosseum. Bounded by the racing strips of asphalt. Today it’s empty here. But it can look quite different here, too—crowds of enthusiastic, cheering people and music. Unfortunately, that’s not how I found this place. Only the wind haunts the empty stands. A strangely unpleasant feeling creeps up on me. I’m not exactly sure why. It probably has something to do with a post-apocalyptic association in my subconscious. Even though I’m just staring at an empty stadium.
Martyna Jurczenko
I've been here before
I’m annoyed. But I’d be annoyed even without the task that’s brought me back here. I used to like this endless gray dreariness that people here call winter. Not so much because you don’t have to feel annoyed about staying home instead of going out to do something. It was much more the joy of indulging in a melancholy for which there’s otherwise no room. A melancholy that casts a new light on my surroundings, myself, and my thoughts. Insights and ideas that bear fruit in the spring. I don’t know if it’s just me, or when things changed. I only know that this melancholy now torments me more than it inspires me. I was here for the first time in the summer. That was nicer.
Moritz Bräuer
