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Prenzl’berg (1998)
john luke chapman

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… a slice of pflaumenkuchen: a plum tart with a sweet pastry base, firm underneath but soft and sticky in the middle, and a clear gelatinous glaze over the halved plums, ripe and soft, that when bitten caused the sharp sour taste of plum-skin to flood through the claggy sweetness. It was like biting into a piece of mercury-filled fudge, only stranger and ever-so-slightly better. He’d eaten a slice the day after he’d moved to Berlin and knew in that moment that this city was where he belonged. He’d never had a slice since, just that once, for fear that the experience wouldn’t be the same. How could it? No experience can ever be re-lived, only sullied, through meagre repetition.

[~fragment]

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See Emily Play (2002)
john luke chapman

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The graveyard of St. Michael and All Angels Church lies adjoining the Haworth Parsonage where a stifled Emily brooded as a child. It cramped and coerced her imagination as she grew but it would always remain her own private playground, her bone orchard, and, all too greedily, her bed.

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