Kat Janicka
Bio
Katarzyna Janicka is a Brooklyn based writer born in Silesia, Poland. Janicka teaches yoga and meditation.
Janicka graduated from Jagiellonian University in Krakow, Poland (MA in Slavic Studies and MFA in Creative Writing).
Stories (14/0)
Little Snowy Owl
The only thing that I can remember is that I didn’t like being a child. How do I know that? From endless associations [what do you mean by that? She says she can't remember anything about her childhood]. Besides, I didn’t really grow up. I don’t know who my parents were, and I don’t know where I grew up either. I only remember the smell of gasoline and tree sap. That’s where my memory ends. I don’t know where I came from. I don’t have a name. In the park, the call me “little one” or “the owl” because of the charm I wear. I don’t know how I got it, but I like imagining how I did.
By Kat Janicka2 years ago in Fiction
The octopus is friendly
Marta looked out the bus window as it travelled along so slowly that the man running along the street seemed to be running backwards. Palm trees were drowning in late fall sunlight. Marta wondered to herself what the slowest speed the bus could go could be... recalling that Einstein used to ride the trams in Vienna, and it was there that he started pondering theories of the relativity of time.
By Kat Janicka2 years ago in Fiction
Agoraphobia
It's stupid just to stand around – she thought, looking around for the non-existent reason why she had come here today; she was soaked through, her thin-soled boots damp after the very first step outside, after she missed the puddle right by her front door, its surface reflecting the city lights.
By Kat Janicka2 years ago in Fiction
Rays
The bedroom in which mother died had 4 entrances: A huge sliding door and enormous windows, all wooden. A double door to the attic, where the smell of fresh laundry was overtaking yet also a bit scary and the hatch - above the steps on the wall, where my toys used to live;
By Kat Janicka2 years ago in Poets
The Clicks
For about a year now I've been hearing the clicks. I’ve asked people around and they don’t hear the clicking. It's become a little bit of an obsession for me. I worked with channelers, meditation teachers, witches, gurus, shamans to get rid of them but they are not going away.
By Kat Janicka2 years ago in Fiction
The Head of A Grown Man
The Head of A Grown Man It really wasn't a big deal – she told herself when he called her work to confirm their plans. He put the phone down and said to his flatmate: “I did it, she's coming!” This was the first time they were going to have a foursome, so everyone was a little worried.
By Kat Janicka2 years ago in Filthy
A Postcard from Another World
“You've managed to make unbearable something which was merely dull. You are only half-woman. That which sits inside of your head is horrific,” he said, putting his hands together as if wanting to clasp a sphere at waist level, fingers trembling. He then crossed his legs, pea green corduroy pants pinching in the inseam.
By Kat Janicka2 years ago in Fiction
Charades
He rose, woken as usual by a radio alarm clock which had been set to go off at 6.45am every morning for the past seven years – walking up to the window and rolling up the grey colored blind, he let the fierce light of day pour in as he held his hand up to his eyes, then took a deep breath through the nose and fell forward to the floor. He managed to do thirty two press ups, instead of the usual thirty, then slid off his pajama bottoms, folded them into a cube and put them away inside the sofa along with the white bedsheets. Running his hand over the folded up bed to even out the folds, he then put on his pants and socks.
By Kat Janicka2 years ago in Fiction
The Cemetery of Failed Compliments
The Cemetery of Failed Compliments …and what if Sysiphus pushes his boulder down, instead of rolling it up? There's a place, right next to the hell of the dead ideas, left of the purgatory of unrealized desires, right of the untaken journeys, undared kisses, and unrisked off-cliff jumps into the water purgatory.
By Kat Janicka3 years ago in Filthy
JENGA
Jenga To love is to suffer. To avoid suffering, one must not love. But then, one suffers from not loving. Therefore, to love is to suffer; not to love is to suffer; to suffer is to suffer. To be happy is to love. To be happy, then, is to suffer, but suffering makes one unhappy. Therefore, to be happy, one must love or love to suffer or suffer from too much happiness.
By Kat Janicka3 years ago in Filthy
