Arriving at the edge of the dessert, the rumbly old taxi breaks hard and comes to a stop. The driver turns around to face me, “Here. I will not drive you any longer. You will have to walk from here”.

I stare out of the car onto the seemingly never-ending ocean of sand. The dunes rising like gigantic, immobile waves into the infinite dessert as far as I can see. I hand the driver the last of my cash and exit the car. The driver steps out as well and grabs my backpack from the roof. The pack contain a large water sack, some food, and a tarp, to make shelter. The driver hands me the bag, “I cannot recommend you try to cross this dessert. It is very dangerous, and you do not have enough water”. I take the pack and throw it on my back, making sure to close all the straps, fixing the backpack in place. I look at the driver who seems almost angry that I am going against his advice. “I know”, I tell him. I put on my hat, to block out the scorching sun and start walking into the sand. I hear the drivers voice again, but this time he sounds more worried than angry. “Good luck, sir. You will need it.” A few seconds later I hear the old engine start back up, and the taxi speeds away.

I quickly reach the top of the first sand dune and start making my way deeper into the dessert. Looking out from my vantage point on the dune top I can see much further into the dessert than I could from where the taxi parked, but I still can’t see my destination. I consult my compass and adjust my course. According to my calculations I should be able to make the entire trip in three to four days, depending on the weather and my ability to hold the course.

After a few hours of walking, I already start to feel the strain of walking through sand. My legs are burning from pushing through the easily shifting surface. My arms are burning from the merciless sun, hammering down on the open dessert. Luckily, the sun is nearing the horizon on my right, making the effect much less prominent than earlier. In an hour the light will start to fade and in two it will be completely dark. I need to find a place to set up camp before that. Trying to do anything in the dessert after nightfall would be foolish. The darkness out here is absolute, and I haven’t brought any sources of light. I will walk from sunup and until sundown, and sleep through the dark. I can drink from my water sack without stopping, and I can eat while I walk. I will take breaks for other necessary objectives only sparsely. Every minute I spend not walking is an extra minute I have to spend in this sandy hell-like environment.

As the light starts to fade, I stop and take off my backpack. I find the tarp and secure it to the pack. The shelter will only be just high enough that I can sleep under it, but it will have to do. I eat very little and check my water level. I haven’t had as much water today as I had estimated. I’m assuming that will even out over the next few days. Or worse, I will start drinking more than estimated, to a point where I run out before arriving. That would be fatal out here. No one is coming to find me. No one would even know where to go to look for me. I sleep in my clothes, as I have nothing else. It is hard to sleep well, under the low hanging tarp, and with no sleeping bag or pillow. But this was never planned as a five-star holiday.

The sun over the horizon out here is ruthless. The dessert goes from pitch black to very bright in just a few minutes. I pack up my stuff, have a sip of water to get started on and start walking again. I immediately feel the soreness of my feet and legs. I am not used to walking for many hours and ploughing through sand is taking its toll. Lucky I only have to withstand this torture for a few more days. Today and tomorrow is full on walking. Then the day after that I should be arriving at the end of the road. Assuming I live that long.

As the day drags along, I keep on walking, regularly checking my compass to ensure that I am on the right track. Just a few hours without checking the direction, can easily mean I will drift off course by several degrees. And even a few degrees over a large distance means ending up miles away from where you plan to. I can’t afford to wander even a few miles off my target. Between the minimal amount of food and water, and the constant burning sun, a few hours of walking could easily mean the difference between life and death. So, I keep walking and I keep checking my compass, several times each hour.

The entire day it feels like time is crawling so slowly it could stop at any moment. But now I see the sunlight fading around me and feel the entire day just slipped away between my fingers. I hastily set up my minimalistic camp. Before I go to sleep, I check the water level once again. I have just under half my water left. At this rate I will run out before I reach my destination. Having to walk the last stretch with no water at all, could prove fatal. But there is no time to think about that now. I need sleep.

The sun is in my eyes before I know it, waking me from a less-than-optimal sleep. My legs hurt even before I realize that I woke up. My eyes are dry and my mouth even more so. I immediately notice the sand in places I don’t like to have sand. Between my toes, in my ears, and practically everywhere else. I get up and pack my things. Mount my bag and start walking. I see spots and hear a slight ringing. My eyelids are heavy, and I have to physically force my legs to move for every step. I take a few big gulps of water, hoping that a hydration-kickstart will help my aching joints and sore everything to push through the pain and keep moving. Of course, in reality a boost from having some extra water now will only mean I will run out that much faster, making my situation infinitely worse at a later point in time.

The hours are even slower today, and yet noon comes sneaking up on me like the birthday of someone you are supposed to care about, but don’t. I eat a little of my food, while still walking, and flush it down with a sip of water. I meant to take a big mouthful of water for lunch, but only small sip reaches my mouth. The sack is empty. The fear immediately rushes over me like a wave of ice-cold water. From my estimations I have to walk the rest of the day and most of tomorrow as well. But with no water at all, there is a good chance I will pass out from thirst before nightfall. The fatigue and the pain really set in after that. Even though my backpack is significantly lighter without the water in it, it feels extremely heavy and awkward on my back. Not long into the afternoon I grab the rest of my food from the pack. There isn’t mush left, so I can easily carry it in my hands, and I can sleep without the tarp for one night. I throw the backpack in the sand as I walk and leave it there. It holds no value to me now. I try to eat some of the remaining food, but my mouth is too dry to chew it. I decide to ditch the rest of that as well. There seems to be no point in carrying food I can’t eat.

My throat has dried out completely, my eyelids feel like sandpaper when I blink, and I can’t move my tongue. Every breath feels like it is burning all the way from the mouth and nose down to the bottom of my lunges. My thoughts are getting cloudy and incoherent and yet I know that my hours on this earth are very likely running out. Like sand in an hourglass. I try to laugh at my own gallows humour, but instead of air and sound, only dust comes out of my mouth. I slave on for hours, slowly walking myself to death. It seems pointless, but I have nothing else to do. Eventually the light starts to fade, but I see no point in stopping and making camp. There is no camp to be made anyways, so I keep walking while the sun glides down behind the sand dunes. Eventually I fall to my knees and notice my eyes have closed. I don’t know how long they were closed. Maybe seconds? Maybe hours? I slowly force them open again, just in time to see the last light disappear. The evening air is still excruciatingly hot and too dry to describe. I crawl a few meters to the edge of the dune on which I am about to collapse. And there, over the edge I see it. The temple in the dessert. A sandstone building with a few trees and a fountain with the clearest water. Just a few hundred meters away. All I have to do is drag my tortured body to it, and this will all be over. 

Written 01/03-2021

We have been fighting for ages, my mortal enemy and I. Some may say I am a bit overdramatic, but we have been going at it for literally a year and a half and he has always been a few steps ahead of me. Avoiding my traps, dodging my every attempt on his life. I feel I have tried everything to get the drop on him and still, I have not been able to get him. It has come to a point where my friends and family are sick of hearing about my war, but I can barely think of anything else. My co-workers have started calling me Trapper John, as a joke, and even my wife thinks this has gone too far. I was trying to explain to her how important this is to me, and she looked me in the eyes, very seriously, and said “John, it’s just a mouse. Maybe if we leave him alone, this all won’t be a problem?”.

Just a mouse! She has no idea what damage a mouse can cause. Let alone a pack of mice if it starts breading. We could have a proper infestation on our hands if we don’t manage to solve this rodent problem. This one little animal has already ruined enough of my life. He needs to be stopped.

It all started with a few droppings in a closet, which I could have accepted if that was all. But from there it escalated, very quickly. I remember it was a Tuesday when a trash bag ripped open on me, as I was taking it to the bin in the driveway. After inspecting the bag, it was evident that something had been gnawing holes in the bag, which compromised the integrity of the thin plastic, eventually leading to the catastrophic failure, leaving trash all over the driveway. After that it happened almost daily, and we soon learned to wrap the trash bags in an extra bag every time we took out the trash.

A few days after the first incident I found a hole in the bottom of a box of cereal in the kitchen cupboard. Of course, cereal spilled everywhere, but the worst part was, that now everything in the kitchen had to be carefully inspected before use. All our food had to be considered compromised by the rodent. I started setting traps around the house, in cupboards, in corners, under the bed, in the garage. Pretty much everywhere and anywhere the little critter might pass by. But he wasn’t that stupid. No matter what I loaded the traps with, he ignored them, and went straight for the food in the kitchen.

The battle escalated to a war on the day when I found that two full boxes of chocolate-chipped cookies had been raided. There was nothing more than a few crumbs left of my delicious snacks. I expanded my trap coverage to also include places like under the couch, the shoe rack and behind the books in the bookcase. Unfortunately, my enemy also expanded his activities, and we soon started noticing bitemarks in places where there would be no chance for him to find food. One day it was a book where an entire corner was ripped to confetti, the next day t-shirt in the closet would have large holes that were never there before. One day we wanted to watch a DVD and the player wouldn’t turn on. Behind the TV-table we found that most of the wires were chewed to a point where they would be dangerous to use. The power cord for the DVD player had been bitten in half.

The war went on for months back and forth. I set out more traps and even tried poison. He got more aggressive in what he destroyed. Books, furniture, electronics, water pipes. A while back I found his nest, behind a cabinet in the kitchen. One of the panels on the wall was slightly loose and inside the wall was his little fortress. He had it good in there, with a bed of ripped paper and old socks. A stockpile of food to last a lifetime for him and 800 of his closest friends. I, of course, took everything. Threw the whole pile in the bin outside and spread poison in the hole where he lived. Then I closed it back up, to give him some peace and quiet to come back home. It didn’t work. He still kept terrorising me in my own home. If anything, I only made him more aggressive. Today is a Sunday. I have made a proper brunch for my wife and myself. We are sitting in silence enjoying the quiet morning. The coffee is hot and strong, the bacon crisp and the sun peaking through the window, bathing my beautiful wife in a yellowish glow. A loud snapping sound is heard from the kitchen. One of the traps must have been set off. We both freeze for a second. Then we look each other in the eyes. She smiles, as I relax my shoulders for the first time in over a year.

Written: 24/02-2021

Almost everyone has imaginary friends as kids. Some people hold on to those imaginary friends well into their teens. Most people let go of or even forget, their imaginary friends when they grow up. For some reason it is considered odd for an adult to have imaginary friends and people who do have them risk getting sent to some mental facility to get ‘sorted out’. That is why I usually don’t tell people about James, the big friendly penguin I have been hanging out with since childhood.

James showed up when I first started school, just after my sixth birthday and I quickly learned that I was the only one who could see him. We soon became best friends, and we would do everything together. We would play all day, and he would help me with classes. He was always just a little better at school than me, so I always had someone to ask about the hard subjects. James stuck with me all through school and then through college. He helped me write poems and love letters for girls I liked. He gave me tips and pointers for my first ever interview for a job (I landed that puppy like an airbus on the Hudson). To this day I still turn to James for help, more often than I turn to my other (Read: Real) friends or family. As I grew older, I always wondered if and when James would have to leave me. But he never left or even seemed to have a plan to do so. I asked him about it a few times, but since he has no idea where he came from, he also has no idea when he should leave. Frankly I don’t want him to. We have grown too close, and I wouldn’t know what to do without him at this point.

Having a seven-foot penguin following me around can, of course, be a bit awkward at times, but luckily, he has enough etiquette to leave me alone when I need him to. For example, he doesn’t mind sleeping in the hall when I have guests over, and he conveniently always has some important errand to run when I go to the bathroom.

These days we are basically roommates. We play games and watch TV, and we eat drink and laugh together. Just the other day he taught me to make pizza from scratch. And I mean, all the way. Obviously, I can buy a pizza dough and throw on a load of toppings, but James thought it would be a blast to try and make everything our selves. We went out and bought everything to make the dough, the souse, and the toppings. I thought I was doing ok, but the dough kept sticking to the table while I was trying to knead it. I was starting to get frustrated when James came to my aid. “Hi. Try using a bit more flour. Sprinkle some on the table under the dough maybe.” I did as he suggested, and the dough immediately became much more cooperative. It is this kind of life-saving advice that makes James so important to me.

Today we are going to my high school reunion at Stevens house. I’m almost ready, tying my tie and adjusting the hair, when James turns to me, with a worried look on his face. “Bro, I don’t think I should come to the reunion.”

I look up at the big penguin. “What are you talking about? Of course, you are coming.”

“I just think it might be better if I stayed home this time. Like keeping an eye on the house, and all.”

“Dude. You always go where I go, you know that. And what good would it be, having you watch the house? What exactly would you do if something happened?”

James looks nervously around the room. I haven’t seen him like this since we went to the shrink and he was scared I would tell her about him. “What’s gotten into you today? What are you scared of?”. This gets on his nerves, as he likes to remind me that he is never scared of anything. Except maybe shrinks. “I’m not scared. You are scared”. Sometimes James is a bit childish, but you can’t blame him. He is an imaginary prenguin after all. “Fine, if you are not scared, you are going to the party with me.” For a good few seconds, he just stands there looking at me. “Fine, I guess I’m going to the party then”.

When we roll up to Stevens house it is evident that he has done a lot better than me since high school. This place is a mansion, with a large garden and a pool. We go around the garden and make conversation with old classmates for a while. Meaning that I walk around making small talk while James follows me awkwardly. It is great to catch up with old friends and see what everyone has done with their lives since we went to school together. The only odd thing is James seems nervous still. Usually at events and parties he will be smiling and giving pointers on who to talk to. He will even come up with the odd icebreaker for me if a conversation is stalling. I would love to talk to him about it, but I can’t exactly start a conversation with my seven-foot-tall invisible penguin friend in the middle of this party. People would stare or call the cops or something. I’ll just have to talk to him when we get home. Until then, I have to mostly ignore him altogether.

After about an hour at the party we bump into Sophia. I never spoke to her much, but I always liked her. She is still a beautiful girl, and damn, can she wear a summer dress. We start talking about old times, sharing stories that were never supposed to leave the school. We have a great time, and we laugh.

After a bit the talking dies out a bit, and I fear for a second the conversation is ending. Luckily Sophia catches it before it falls. “So, what do you do now? I heard you were going to get into some tech stuff?” As unlikely as it is that she wants to know about my job, it can at least save the conversation for now. “Yes, I am a software developer now. I program microchips that goes in vending machines to determine if a coin is real or not, based on the size, weight, and colour. Not as action packed as it might sound, but it pays the bills. How about you? Where did you end up?”. She laughs a bit and look past me for a split second. “I am a psychologist. I have my own small practice and try to help people better understand them selves and what is going on in their lives.”

James is standing to my left, and when Sophia answers my question, I notice him shift nervously on his feet. I can’t help smiling a little. Sophia looks at me, somewhat puzzled. “Is it funny that I try to help people?” she asks playfully. I have to apologize and explain that I think it’s amazing that she helps people with whatever they have going on. After a few more minutes, talking about work the conversation falls silent again, but Sophia keeps shifting her gaze from me to something behind me. And she has an odd smile on her face, that I can’t really find a word for.

I notice James signalling me to leave, like he knows the conversation is dead, and there is no point trying to resurrect it. But then Sophia picks it up once again, with a question, that I was not prepared for. “Hey, what’s the deal with the penguin?”

Written 17/02-2021

“Come on Darron. There’s nothing to be scared of.”

Emmet and Jake were already inside the old house, but Darron was hesitant to go in there. “Guys, it might not be safe. And we are definitely not allowed to go in there. It’s someone’s house, even though it’s abandoned.”

Emmet was already moving further into the house. Jake was still in the small entrance hall, shaking his head at Darron, before following Emmet. Darron was still not sure, but he also didn’t want to be an outsider. He looked down the street. There was no one there, which was to be expected, this far outside town, at this hour. He slowly walked up to the empty doorway and into the house. The walls were very worn down, but still had most of the wallpaper on them. It was ripped several places and had a faded yellowish tint to it, and some spots were even peeled back, revealing the bare bricks underneath. All the windows were removed and there seemed to be no furniture left. Even the kitchen was mostly taken down. Only a few cabinets were left hanging crookedly on the wall. Darron joined Jake in what used to be the living room.  He was starting to feel more comfortable as he was exploring the empty house. “Who do you think lived here?”. He was running his fingers over the stone setting over the old fireplace. Emmet was examining the walls. “Probably old people. Look at these walls. You can see they had loads of pictures up all over. And the wallpaper reminds me of my grandmother.”

There was a creaking sound from the other end of the house. Darron and Emmet looked at each other when Jake called them. “Guys there’s an upstairs! And a basement!”. They could hear he was overly exited by this riveting discovery and before any of them could answer they heard him running up the stairs. The entire house was squeaking and creaking like it was about to come crashing down on them. Darron and Emmet ran through the small hall at the entrance and into a smaller room at the end of the house, where they found two sets of stairs next to each other. One going up and one going down. Both looked like they were very unsafe to walk on, but the boys still followed Jake upstairs.

The first floor was one big room with sloping walls on two sides. At the far end Jake was standing over what looked to be an old treasure chest. The chest, as well as the floor, was covered in a thick layer of dust, and the only light in the room was pouring in from a small window hole in the far wall.

All the boys gathered and stared at the chest for a good minute before Jake broke the silence. “Do you think pirates lived here?”. Darron looked at him with wrinkles on his forehead and the hint of a smile. Emmet didn’t even bother to look at him. “No, moron. It’s an old storage chest. They were popular back in the day, and many old people still have them for the aesthetic effect. I wouldn’t mind having one myself. They do look kind of cool.”

Jake nodded thoughtfully in agreement, but his understanding didn’t last long. “But… If it’s a storage chest, what would someone store, that they didn’t want to bring with them when they moved? It must be valuable because the chest is locked. I tried opening it before you got up here.”

For another minute they all just stood there in silence. No one had an answer, or even a guess at one. Darron squatted and looked closer at the lock on the chest. “I mean, we can find out. If we want.”

“Oh, right ‘cause you have the key do you?” answered Jake mockingly.

“Well, no. But we already waltzed into these people’s house and went through most of it. And this is a pretty old lock. I’m sure we could find a way to open it, if we set our minds to it.”

The other two exchanged looks. Jake shrugged. “Sure, Mr. Safecracker, lets see what these people were hiding”.

Darron frowned as he could feel the expectation from the others rising. His heart was beating faster and harder than he had expected, and his hands were starting to get sweaty, as he pulled out a small pocketknife. He opened the knife, inserted it in the old lock, and started wiggling it around. He wasn’t sure what he was doing, but it looked so easy on TV. He could feel different parts of the locking mechanism with the knife, and sometimes it felt like something was moving.

Emmet shifted his stance slightly and crossed his arms. “Maybe we should just try looking for the key? Maybe it’s around here, just covered in dust?” He looked around the dim, dusty room but couldn’t spot anything. Then he heard a click from the chest and looked down. “Did you get it?”

Darron slowly lifted the lid of the chest a bit, before looking up at his friend. “I think I got it” he smirked. They all held their breath as Darron slowly opened the lid of the chest so they could look inside. The chest was almost empty, apart from an old, worn-out notebook, resting on the bottom. They all stared at the book for a bit. Then Darron picked it up and opened it. It was filled with odd drawings of mangled birds, strange symbols, and naked, human-like figures. Among the drawings were handwritten text in a language none of the boys understood. Some passages were in English too, but the texts made very little sense. Some of it looked like attempts at writing poetry. Some of it looked more like spells or enchantments. Some of it was just random words smashed together without making any sense.

The boys sat down and looked through the book. They all found it very creepy, but also very interesting. About halfway through the book, there were a handful of blank pages followed by a series of pages with one word on each, taking up the entire page. These words were in English and were very clear: “NEVER GO INTO THE BASEMENT”. Darron flipped through these few pages again to look at them closer, although there was not much to see. There was no mistaking that message. Darron looked at his friends in silence. Then Emmet broke the silence, “Oh man, now we have to go into the basement!”. He was overly enthusiastic at the thought of going into the dark basement of an abandoned house outside town, in the middle of the night. The other two were less thrilled at the idea, but Emmet was already on his feet heading to the stairs. Darron and Jake got up and followed him. They left the chest open, but Darron brought the notebook. It was too interesting to leave behind.

A few seconds later, all three boys gathered at the top of the basement stairs. There used to be a door blocking the staircase, but now there was only a large hole in the wall. Emmet looked at the others “You girls coming or what?”, and then ran down the janky old stairs before the others had a chance to answer. In the basement Emmet was quickly swallowed by the thick darkness and disappeared completely from view. Jake and Darron stayed at the top of the stairs for a while. Jake tried calling to Emmet, but there was no answer from the basement. Darron was getting uneasy but Jake tried to calm him down “It’s ok. Emmet is just trying to scare us. Come on, lets go down there, there might be something interesting”. Darron refused, but Emmet insisted on going down. He started down the stairs but hesitated about halfway down. He looked back at Darron, nervously, “You coming?”. Darron shook his head, and Emmet continued down the stairs. Soon he was also completely hidden in the darkness of the basement. All of a sudden, Darron felt very lonely at the top of the stairs. He tried calling to his friends, but there was no answer from either of them. After another minute he decided to go and look for them. He turned on the flashlight on his phone and started down the stairs. He moved slowly and tried to see what was in the basement, but his flashlight was not strong enough to penetrate the wall of darkness down there. When he reached the foot of the stairs the light still only revealed a very small area around him. The basement seemed empty around him. He looked back up the stairs that were only barely visible from the small amount of light upstairs. When he looked further into the basement, his phone turned off, and the darkness closed in on him, in the blink of an eye. He couldn’t see anything in the basement and then he heard creaking, like an old door being closed. Darron looked up the stairs just in time to see the last light disappear, as the door slammed shut at the top of the stairs.

Written 18/03-2021

Drawing my sword fast enough to block her first attack was easy, even though she moved with the speed and grace of a dragonfly in the wind. Having an hour-long sword fight with a powerful magician, in the middle of a crowded area, while constantly having to maneuver between civilians takes a toll, but it was not my first rodeo. However, realizing, only a split second too late that your adversary has used one of her displacement spells to switch places with a twelve-year-old girl; that brakes even the best of us.

Wow, I guess I sort of started near the ending there. Let’s back up a bit and let me give you the back story. My name is Sabia. I am a completely normal, average sixteen-year-old girl, who also happens to be sort of a hero in my village. Or at least I was. My entire life I have been training to protect the people of my home, with my sword. Most days that is an easy task, as we don’t get attacked often; but some days I have to fend off evil doers. Mostly the servants of evil that come here are spellcasters and enchanters from the dark forest around out village. Most of them give up and retreat, as soon as one of their attacks are deflected by my sword or blessed amulets. Only a few try their luck and engage in close combat, and so far, none have had any luck with that. My sword skills are refined and although I am no true magician, I know enough chants to keep most regular magic at bay, inside the village perimeter.

Only a single enemy has ever proven to match my skills. A girl about my own age. Beautiful, smooth skin; long black hair, well dressed and with dark blue eyes, like the ocean at night. When she walks, it looks like she is floating on air, and when she fights, her speed, precision and strength is almost God-like. Oh, and her magic is strong. I can feel it whenever she is near, like electricity in the air. She casts the most wicked spells and uses any trick she can think of. She has, on more than one occasion, covered the entire village in complete darkness before attacking me, forcing us to fight with zero visibility, which is quite difficult. So far, I have held her off, by luck, as much as by skill. Until today.

She cast a new trick at me, early this morning. A dream. I was sitting in the grass, enjoying the sun, when suddenly I couldn’t move, and everything got cold around me. Then she appeared, out of nowhere. She was standing right in front of me, staring at me with her dark eyes, when she spoke without moving her mouth.

“How does one make a villain? You take a hero and add tragedy”.

Then I woke up. I remember the dream now, vividly, but I didn’t then. I knew I had a nightmare but had no idea what it was, so I went on with my day.

It was mid afternoon when I felt the electricity in the air. I knew she was coming and drew my sword just in time to block hers. She attacked out of nowhere. We fought back and forth for hours. My speed only just matching hers and her filthy teleportation tricks giving her the edge the entire time. I was getting tired, but determination kept me going. I was starting to feel more and more inclined to just kill her, rather than scare her off. Murder is a sin that takes years to wash off you soul. A sacrifice I was willing to make, to rid out peaceful village of this evil. So, I started looking for an opening. Any mistake on her part would do, but she didn’t seem to make any. Until she did.

A perfectly sloppy attack, leaving her abdomen completely exposed and no way for her to protect it in time. I took the chance and thrust my sword towards her with all my power. The second the tip of my sword touched her clothes, she was gone, and a schoolgirl; an innocent bystander; had taken her place. I couldn’t stop. The power was too grate, and my reaction too slow. When everything was finally still, my face only an inch from the innocent girls, I could feel her warm, sticky blood running over my hands, clinging the sword. The little girl knew what had happen as fast as I did. Her eyes wide with fear and sadness, knowing she was already dead. I couldn’t move a muscle. Frozen in the horror of what I had just done, when I felt a presence right by my face. And then the ice-cold voice that I now remembered from my dream.

“Oh, no. What a tragedy. I guess we are on the same side now”.

The cold disappeared. The air no longer electrified. The dying girl in front of me fell to her knees, with a small whimper. My sword still lodged in her tiny body. I felt the people around us. All their eyes fixed on the girl and on my sword. The sword they had all come to love and trust as their protector. Now stained with innocent blood.

I looked down on my hands, covered in the red sticky liquid. I looked at the girl, now laying on the ground, motionless, with her eyes still open. I looked at my sword, only the hilt sticking out from her flowery dress.

Killing a servant of the dark forest, an enemy of the village, that is a sin that can be forgiven over time. But murdering one of the village children will never be forgiven. I turned to the people around us. They were staring at me now. All of them. In their eyes I saw disbelief, sorrow, hate and mistrust.

“I’m sorry. It was an accident. You know I didn’t mean to…”

As I took a small step towards them, they all collectively backed away. Like I was a sick animal or a dangerous monster. So, I ran. Home, to where no one can judge me.

Here I am now. Home in my bed, trying hard not to fall asleep. Trying to figure out what to do. Fighting off the darkness forcing my eyes to close. For the second time today, I lose a fight. In my sleep I see the little girl again. It is dark around us, and she is crying, looking at me in disbelief. I try to tell her I’m sorry, but I can’t speak. And when I try to move closer to her, she only seems to get further away. Before I know it everything around me melts, into darkness. Then tall dark trees rise out of the ground around me. The girl from the dark forest steps out from the shadows, and starts to slowly walk in a circle, keeping her distance to me. Keeping her eyes fixed on me.

“Welcome to the forest. We have been expecting you”.

Her mouth still not moving when she talks.

“I hope you don’t mind me trading places with that little girl today. I just didn’t feel like dying”.

A strange sensation fills my body. I feel a rage, empowering me, but at the same time a heavy sadness drains me of power, so I can’t move. A feeling of trapping energy inside me and having no way of letting it out. It is a painful experience. A strong urge to move, that at the same time leaves me unable to.

“You have a choice now, Sabia. You can go back to your precious little village and leave your fate to the people there. I’m sure they will soon forgive you. It was only one child you chopped down, right?”.

I see the hint of a smile on her lips. I still can’t speak, so after a short pause she continues.

“Or you can join me. Become a true magician and get the powers I have. All you have to do, is swear your soul over to the Dark Forest and you can have anything you wish for”.

I wish I had my sword so I could put it through this manipulating witch. Then I realize I have my sword at my side, as I have had every day for as long as I remember. I manage to put my hand on the hilt, feeling the cold, familiar leather wrapping again my palm.

“Oh, I see your rage. It is good. Let it fill you. Let it guide you. Let the forest grant you your wishes”.

She is standing right in front of me now. I feel the electricity in the air again. Not as a bad omen now, but as a power, flowing through my body. She is right. I have to make a choice now. So, I choose. I let the forest have my soul and life. I give myself completely, with only a few wishes. I wish that the forest will put all its darkness in me. I wish that all evil power shall live in my body. I wish to hold all the powers in my chest. And I wish that I could go back and change what happened in the village.

---

I am back in the village. It is afternoon again. I deflect a perfectly sloppy attack, that leaves her abdomen completely exposed and gives her no way to protect it in time. Just like before.

I have an urge to thrust my sword into her with all my power, but I don’t. Instead, I hesitate. Leaving my own back exposed, knowing what is to come. Feeling so prepared and yet the pain of her sword drilling through my back and out my chest is excruciating. I look down at the bloody sword sticking out of my body as I feel all the powers inside me die. I look up at all the bystanders, watching in shock, when I lock eyes with a young girl. Only twelve years old. Her eyes wide, not with fear, but with pride. Pride in me. I give a small smile as her flowery dress moves playfully in the wind.

Then only light remains.

Written 08/03-2020

The first light of dawn falls through the bedroom window and flood over the pillow and onto the slightly wrinkled face. Although his eyes are already closed, he squeezes them harder trying to ignore the bright rays ripping him from his sleep. He feels in no way ready to get out of bed. After all he only got into bed a few hours ago after a cleanly executed job. It had been a complicated affair last night. An executive of a fortune five-hundred company needed to be taken out, but it had to look like a prominent member of the board was to blame for the executive’s untimely demise. Loosening a few tyre bolts, making sure to leave visible scratches on both the tyres and the tools. Leaving said tools in the car of the board member to blame. Calling the police with an anonymous tip, that someone at the company wanted the executive dead. (Which was true as well, only it was not the framed board member). Then waiting for the executive to crash his car and verifying that he died. So many details, that had to work in perfect harmony for the scheme to be successful. And of course, everything had worked like clockwork.

He throws his legs over the edge of the bed and sits up with a moan. Covers his face in his big rough hands for a second. He shakes hid head slightly before he gets up and puts on a shirt and pants. Time for breakfast. He goes into the kitchen and starts the kettle. It still has water from yesterday and the mug is still loyally on the tabletop. He scoops a few spoons of instant coffee into the cup and leaves it next to the kettle. Grabs a slice of stale bread from the bread bag and throws it in the toaster.

He should feel good this fine, sunny morning since he just completed his first class 0 job, making him officially one of the seven best contractors in the world. He doesn’t feel great though. He feels just as gloom as every morning. The coffee is still muddy, the bread is still stale. Nothing has changes since yesterday. He goes to the front door to check for notes from the office. There are a few things that has dumped through the letter slot early in the morning. He picks up the lot and goes back to the kitchen, where the water has boiled. Pours the hot water in the cup. Throws the toasted bred on a plate. Sets both at the dining table. No butter in the fridge. He sighs; then sits at the table. Stale toast and muddy coffee. Breakfast of the gods. If the gods were poor and lived on the street.

He looks at the mail on the table. The top item is the newspaper. There is already a story; front page; about the executive who, according to the paper, may or may not have been the victim of a convoluted plot. He skims through the article. The journalist concludes that it was either the most tragic and random accident the town has seen in years, or a cold-blooded murder, committed by a board member. The paper has all the details exactly as they were planted the night before. They even have a picture of the board member being led to a police car.

He smiles and takes a big bite of the toast. Maybe today isn’t that bad after all. Toast and coffee is actually a great, yet simple breakfast. He doesn’t bother to read the rest of the paper. They only ever print tragedies anyways.

He picks up the next item of mail. An envelope that he knew would be there. The expensive paper and neat handwriting are easily recognisable. He opens it and pulls out the letter. As expected, it is a letter of gratulation for a Mr. Samuel Ames on his tenure at the University of Greenwich. Codewords, to ensure the letter means very little to someone reading it, who is not employed at the office. He, of course, understands that the letter is a confirmation that the job was executed to perfection, and the target has perished as requested by the client. What he didn’t expect was the plastic chip enclosed in the envelope. He picks it up and studies it for several seconds. The plastic disc looks very much like a sobriety chip. The little poker chip-like medallions given to addicts to mark milestones in their recovery. On the back it has the inscription, just like a sobriety chip: “God grant me the serenity to accept things I cannot change; courage to change things I can and wisdom to know the difference”. On the front it has a triangle and words along the edge, “To thine self be true”. A regular sobriety chip would have the words Unity, Service and Recovery around the triangle, and the time it represents in the middle. This chip however has the words Commitment, Stealth and Loyalty. And in the middle is a big zero with Class written under it. At a quick glance, most people would mistake this for a regular sobriety chip, or even a poker chip, for those who doesn’t know better. But the subtle difference makes this chip very special. So far only seven of them exist in the world.

He admires the chip for a few minutes before remembering there was one more letter on the table. He puts the chip in his pocked and picks up the last envelope. The paper is not nearly as nice as the other one, and the handwriting is somewhat messy. Like a child wrote it. There are three stamps on it, all crooked and way more postage than what was needed for sending this letter. He opens it hesitantly and pulls out the contents. The envelope contains a neatly folded letter, a picture and 22 dollars and 58 cents, all in small change.

He opens the letter and finds sloppy handwriting and plenty of spelling mistakes. The first line is what catches his attention: “Dear Sir. I know that you make people disappear.” He reads the line again, like he got it wrong the first time but there is no mistake there. He stares at the page and read the first line over and over. His heart is pounding, and he is completely forgetting to chew the mouthful of toast in his, now slightly open, mouth. This can only mean he is compromised, and someone knows what he does, and where he lives. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breathe. He was trained for this. All he has to do is pack the absolute essentials, give word to the office, and then disappear himself. In a few days he will have a new name, new apartment, and a new assignment. He is just about to get up, but something makes him stop. He looks at the letter, still in his hand, and decides to read the rest of it. As much as he needs to hurry, he is also very curious to learn where this letter came from.

He reads carefully through the letter. It turns out a young girl is asking for his help. She is not threatening to expose him or turn him over to the police. She is simply in need of his expertise. Apparently, she has given him all her savings that she earned from doing chores at home, as payment for the job. The letter is signed “Olivia, 7 years old”.

He looks at the letter for a few seconds and then leap to his feet. No time to waste. He starts throwing some clothes in a suitcase while dialling a number on his phone. He keeps packing while the phone rings. Finally, a young woman picks up “You have reached the offices of John and John, how may we be of service.” He responds while grabbing his toiletries and throwing them in the suitcase as well. “A number three, please”. The woman sounds confused now “Sir, this is not your regular pizza place”. He closes the suitcase as he is ready to leave the apartment. “With extra anchovies” he says, ignoring her confusion. She understands exactly what he means but keeps the confusion in her voice for effect. “Certainly sir. We are happy to help.” She hangs up the phone. He throws his on the floor and stomps on it. He is storming through the kitchen, on his way out, when he freezes by the table. The coffee cup is still steaming slightly, and the half-eaten toast sits patiently on the plate. He grabs both the letters from the table and gently stuffs them in his jacket pocket. Then he picks up the cash from Olivia’s letter and stuffs it in his trouser pocket, before finally hurrying out of the apartment, slamming the door behind him.

Written 28/02-2021

I don’t know what to put on these wretched pages. It has been eighteen days since I started this endeavour, and I have written only ten stories. I have plenty of conceptual ideas, but when it comes to actually writing them on paper it seems the words escape me, time and time again. I have tried to change my surroundings, and I have tried writing at different times of the day.

Occasionally, I find a groove that seems to work well, and a story drops from my fingers, to my keyboard. Unfortunately, what works today may not work at all tomorrow. It is almost like each story has its own setting in which it must be written. My work desk in my apartment seems all emptied out, like every story that exists in that setting has been written. I am now sitting in a scout house not far from where I live, hoping to get more words on the pages.

I am stressed. Not just from this book project, but from work, working from home, having dozens of projects I never seem to finish and have just as many chores, I can’t find the energy to do. I thought I was over the whole stress period. I thought I found a way to overcome it. And then it came back. A lump in the throat. The inability to fall asleep at night the lack of energy through the day. The constant nagging sensation, that no matter what I do, and how many things I finish, there will always be twice as many things that I still have to do. Never getting to the bottom of the pile and being able to just relax. And it only feeds the feeling, when I try to get something done, and nothing happens. I have important task at work, that I know how to do. But when I sit down to do them, I find myself staring at a screen for hours, with what feels like no progress to the task at hand, at all. This cycle of inactivity is slowly, but surely killing me. The feeling that I am stressed because I never get anything done and at the same time being unable to get anything done, because I am stressed.

You might think that working from home might at least offer some help on the matter. Saving time on transport and having more freedom to do whatever I want whenever I want. But in my experience, it has the opposite effect. When working from home it is much easier to postpone every task until later. Having the freedom to do whatever, whenever also means that I don’t have to do any specific task, right now. Everything I plan to do can technically wait till after lunch. Or till after one more short video on YouTube. Or till tomorrow if I don’t get it done today. Or till next week because I should relax over the weekend. Only I can’t relax. Every waken hour I am tense from the knowledge that I am highly inefficient at my work, hopelessly behind on chores, only less than half done with a series of projects and always struggling to do anything about any of this.

Right now, I’m working on this very ambitious book project. Thirty short stories in as many days. When I started it, I was in a good place, but over the last few days the stress has started to get to me. I have considered scrapping the project. Throwing in the towel, and calling it quits. Then I would at least have one less thing to worry about. One less thing that I am behind on. But if I do that, I will forever look back at this half-finished project and ask myself: Why didn’t I finish that one? I have everything I need to finish it, since all I need is a way to write these stories. Even though the stressing factor of having to write stories every day would be gone, another stress would surely ensue. The stress of failure and disappointment. A sense of freedom, of course, from not having this very tight schedule. But a sense of freedom, largely overshadowed by the feeling of inadequacy. The feeling of never being able to finish anything. The crippling feeling that I will never get out of this spiral of stress and self-loathing.

That is why I have set my mind on completing this project, no matter how ambitious and undoable it may seem at times. It has to be finished, and on time. No cutting corners, no pushing deadlines and no giving up because it is hard. It has to be done, because it has to be my proof to myself, that I can actually accomplish somethings, if I dedicate myself enough to it. This is my prophecy; a prophecy I will live to fulfill or die trying: When the thirtieth story is finished, on the thirtieth day of the project, I will finally be able to relax. I will enjoy that evening and I will sleep well that night. Now I know very well that the chance of finishing this project magically curing my stress, anxiety and wealth of self-inflicted mental issues is about as great as the chance of world peace by the end of this month. But the hope that it might help and the belief that it can, at the very least, give me one thing to be proud of, is what keeps me going. And I have to keep going!

Written 26/02-2021

I’m lying in my bed, like I am every night. I’m counting the dots on the ceiling. There are fifteen of them. I know, because I count them every night before I fall asleep. Thirteen clear black spots, one dark gray smudge and one tiny pink-ish dot far of to one corner. You have to really look to see it. But I know it’s there, because I count it last every night. The pink dot. My best… no; my only friend at this point. Every time I see it I know I am still awake, and not yet drifted off into the darkness. It is the only thing that tells me I am not sleeping. I count the dots slowly. Thirteen, fourteen and fifteen. Exactly fifteen dots. As always. I look over at the nightlight for a second. Then back to the ceiling. Counting the dots once more. Twelve, thirteen, fourteen… Fourteen? I desperately search the entire room to find the last dot, but I know it is futile. It won’t be there. And sure enough, before long the banging on the window starts. I try to hide under my blanket, but it sounds like the window will soon be smashed. Then the sound stops. Total silence. I know he is already in the room now. I tumble out of bed and scurry for the door and pull it open. But it’s already too late. He is standing outside the door. His large grin, never fading. His huge glaring, black eyes, like dead holes in his giant face. His pale wrinkled skin. Gray like dust. His ragged clothes, like clown’s garments, but ripped and torn and dirty. And the smell. The smell of death and fear and pain and hate all at once. I want to slam the door in his face, but there is no door. We are in a big open room. Nowhere to hide. I turn away and start running away. After a few steps I stop, dead in my tracks, as he is in front of me again, towering scarier than before, the faint light glinting in his eyes. I scream and open my eyes, back in my bed. It is quiet. I look up. Dots. Thirteen, fourteen… please, just one more. I start to panic. No, no, no. please, just one little dot in the corner. But no.

And sure enough, before long the banging on the window starts again. I try to hide under my blanket, but it sounds like the window will soon be smashed. Then the sound stops. Total silence. I know he is already in the room now. I tumble out of bed and scurry for the door and pull it open. Even though I know it’s already too late. He is standing outside the door. His large grin, never fading. His huge glaring, black eyes, like dead holes in his giant face. His pale wrinkled skin. Gray like dust. His ragged clothes, like clown’s garments, but ripped and torn and dirty. And the smell. The smell of death and fear and pain and hate all at once. I want to slam the door in his face, but there is no door. We are in a big open room. Nowhere to hide. I turn away and start running away. After a few steps I stop, dead in my tracks, as he is in front of me again, towering scarier than before, the faint light glinting in his eyes. I scream and open my eyes, back in my bed. I am drenched in sweat by now. I look at the ceiling. Dots. Thirteen, fourteen… Fifteen! Yes, finally I can breathe easy again. At least for a while. I consider getting up to get a glass of water. I know it will all start again soon enough. Just a few more times and then the sun will come up, and I can relax. I decide to get the water and start to pull my blanket away. Then I hear someone banging on the window.

Written 16/05-2018

It has been exactly 836 days since our shipwreck, that left us on this remote island, somewhere west of Hawaii. In that time, we haven’t heard or seen anything from the civilized world. We are here, completely alone. Left to our own demise. I think we have done all right, so far. We have food to go around, we have clean water, and shelter to protect us from the weather. We even have our own justice system. A fairly simple one, granted, but it works. Basically, when someone does something that the tribe cannot forgive, they are sent out in one of the lifeboats, or a homemade raft, to look for help. The idea is that you redeem yourself, with the tribe, by bringing back a rescue team, or you die trying. Simple. Fair. Easy to remember. The only issue is that I’m currently on trial for stealing fruit from the community stock. Honestly, I have been sneaking the odd apple or banana now and again, but in the greater scheme of things, I’m sure it makes no difference.

There is great debate among the others on what to do. Some want to set an example, to show that stealing food is not tolerated. Others want to send me out to sea, because ‘Stealing food is attempted murder on the entire tribe’. A few want to pardon me, for the relatively small crime. In the end it comes down to the majority ruling. And as expected, one of the last few lifeboats are soon prepared on the beach. They pack it with food and water for about three or four days. They also put in a fishing spear, some rope and some of the spare clothes that are too hot to use on the island. A set of ores are the last thing they put in the boat. Maybe to give me a chance to sail back to Hawaii. Or maybe to make sure I sail away from the island.

It is an early Friday morning. The sun is only just crawling over the horizon, throwing all manners of colourful lights on the beach. I check my gear one last time and say my goodbyes to the few people I ever talked to on the island. Before long I’m in the boat and a few of the other men are pushing it off the beach. They push the boat out far after it cleared the beach sand. They only stop pushing, when I start to row, and they can’t keep up anymore.

The little boat is rocking gently on the ocean water. I suppose the ocean will be far less gentle when I get further out, but for now it’s a nice, easy ride. I make sure not to expend all my energy at once. I have a long trip ahead of me, so I decide to take it easy. I do want to get as far away from this island as I can, but I also know that rowing like a mad man on the first day, will come back and bite me like an angry chihuahua later on.

I row for about two or three hours. It’s hard to keep track of time out here. My arms are starting to get tired, and the repetitive motion is starting to hurt my shoulders. I can still see the island, but it already looks really small from here. As I’m taking a break from rowing, I realize that there are so many things out here that could potentially be dangerous to me and my boat. There are definitely sharks in these waters, so taking a swim might not be the best idea. The weather could pick up in a matter of minutes. Right now, it’s still calm as a Hindu cow on a Sunday, but thunderstorms are not too rare on this part of the map. There might also be giant squids or seamonsters hiding in the deep, dark ocean beneath me. It is hard to say what secrets the ocean keeps.

The water is fairly clear still, but light only penetrates the first few feet down. After that it is pitch black. I’ve run out of scary things to think of already. Which immediately sparks the next scary thought: The thing on this boat that is most likely to kill me, is boredom.

I can’t eat or drink to pass the time, as I would have back home in my apartment. The food and water I have are scarce and needs to be rationed properly to last me as long as possible. I have no books to read here, and It’s not like I can go for a walk. The only things I can do are fishing and rowing. Both get old, really fast.

The first day on the boat goes by slowly, and the night just the same. I wake up and the sun is already over the waterline far out to the east. I sit up and look around. There is still not much to see in the boat or around it. The water is still calm, the boat is still small and boring. I pick up the ores and start to row again. My arms are sore from yesterday, and it is not very motivating to row, when you have no reference points left. I can feel that I move the boat through the water, but I can’t see that I am making progress, since there is only water all the way around me.

After a while I decide to try out fishing with the spear. I was never really good at that, but now it is my only way to get fresh food. I hang over the side of the boat with the spear up, ready to strike. I see no fish in the water. No sharks or giant squid either. There is literally no life in the water around my boat. I’m hanging like this hopelessly waiting for something to swim by for what feels like hours. I thought rowing made my arms tired, but after holding the spear ready over my hear for so long, I realise that rowing is the easiest of my two jobs on the boat.

Throughout the day I eat only exactly what is necessary to not die. With no luck fishing, my food stock seems to dwindle faster than I like. As for water, there is no way to replenish that supply. I could drink sea water, but the salt content of that would be higher than that of my pee, meaning my body would have to spend water diluting the sea water before letting it back out. And drinking my own pee is not an option. That’s just too gross.

The second night, the third day, the third night and the fourth day all seem to blend together. Rowing. Fishing. Sleeping. Rowing. Fishing. Sleeping. I swear if the sharks don’t get me soon the loonies will.

Late on the fourth day I run out of food. I only have about a cup of water left, and I haven’t had any luck fishing, yet. I can’t say my hopes are very high at this point. I will most likely die on the stupid boat within a day or two. For stealing a few apples. I decide to go to sleep early tonight. It’s not like there’s much else to do.

I’m rowing my boat over the flat ocean water, when suddenly I find myself going into a drive-through at a fastfood restaurante. That in itself is a little odd, but when I come up to the window to get my food (That I don’t remember ordering), a shark is wearing a chef’s hat, sitting at the window. I stare at the shark for a good long while, from the discomfort of my boat, before finally asking it for my food. The shark looks me dead in the eyes and says ”Sorry, ate it.” then slams the window shut. In my hunger and frustration, I decide to just keep rowing. Away from the rude shark, and away from the restaurant in the middle of the ocean. I row and row, and the sun rises and sets fifteen times, before I take a break. As I look back where I just was, I realize I havent moved anywhere at all. The drivethrough is still right behind me, less then a boats length away. I panic and throw one of my ores at the building, but amazingly it misses, and lands in the water instead. Feeling horribly impotent I do something I haven’t done, since I embarked on this crazy adventure: I jump in the water. It doesn’t feel cold, as I would have expected. And as it turns out, I can breathe under water too. After a few minutes of diving deeper and deeper, my biggest fear is realized. A giant squid swims up from the deep darkness and wraps its arms around me, squeezing the air out of my lungs, like I was some plush toy.

I jerk awake and sit up abruptly in the boat. Nightmares. Just what I need for my trip. Having to row even in my sleep, only to get eaten by imaginary giant squids. The sun is coming up once again. I realize it is still only day five on the boat, and I’m absolutely losing my marbles. I drink the last of my water. What a breakfast. Now there is truly only rowing left in the world. I pick up the ores, disheartened, tired, hungry. Just as I’m about to start rowing, I hear something odd behind me. It almost sounds like a small engine. I turn around and see a small dinghy racing over the water straight towards me. I can’t believe my own eyes. I must still be dreaming. I put down my ores and turn to face the strange boat. I still don’t believe it is real, and I fully expect it to come closer and turn out to be a cloud or wave or something like that. As the dinghy comes to a stop next to mine, the driver looks at me confused. “Hello mister. What are you doing out here? You really shouldn’t row this far off the islands”. I clumsily crawl over to his boat. I grab his arm to make sure he is actually real. I even slap myself. When I look at the man again, I’m seeing spots as well. I might have slapped myself too hard. I gather my thoughts and explain to him that I was on a cruise ship that wrecked over two years ago. It takes a while to convince him, but when I tell him the name of the cruise liner, he suddenly remembers the news articles about it disappearing. He gives me water and a chocolate bar. It’s the only food he has on the dinghy, and I tell him about my rowing trip. After a while he asks me if there are other survivors from the wreck. He wants to send the coast guard out looking for them.

I look into the horizon far west. This is my chance to redeem myself with the tribe. Clear my name of my crimes. Save hundreds of people from that miserable, primitive island. After considering it for a bit I turn to the man on the dinghy. “No. I was the last survivor. There’s no one else left.”

Written 09/02-2021

The bell chimes through the long, wide halls and reaches every office. Everyone wraps up what they are doing as the coffee break starts. A small group of co-workers meet up under the big, old trainyard clock in the foyer. They talk cheerily for a few minutes while a few more of their colleagues join the group. When everyone is there, they leave the large, white office building and stroll down the street, talking about the beautiful weather. The bright summer weather is inspiring the local songbirds to fill the air with the most beautiful tunes and songs. The small trees along the road are blossoming with a spectacular array of colours, ranging from bright pink to deep green and warm yellows. The fragrance of the many flowers and trees gently blend with the aroma of freshly baked bread from the bakeshop. Further down the street a few kids on summer break are playing hopscotch and laughing ecstatically.

As the group finds their way to the coffee shop, they talk about all the interesting art the coffee shop has. It is a fairly large shop with a big glass facade presenting the odd sculptures and cosy little tables to the street outside. In front of the shop are a few small wooden tables with cute little chairs, each with its own decorative carvings. Some talented artist has spent countless hours perfecting his woodcraft to create these interesting shapes and images in the furniture that is now matching the look and feel of the shop so perfectly.

The group enters the shop to find more of the curious and intriguing art. One wall is covered in paintings by local, upcoming artists. A section of wall has dozens of embroidered wall hangings, in various shapes, sizes and colour pallets. Behind the counter is a range of framed photos taken in the local city and parks, by customers, throughout the years and at different seasons. A young woman with ocean blue eyes, and wavy chestnut-brown hair hanging playfully over her shoulder is ready to take the coffee orders of the group. Her eyes are kind and friendly and her smile makes her feel very familiar, even to people who have never met her before.

The group orders their coffees and continue admiring the art in the coffeeshop while the young barista prepares the coffees. She works with incredible precision and professionalism, while still smiling and even humming along to the gentle music from the vintage radio in the back of the shop. A few minutes later the coffees are ready, and the group gathers outside the shop, to sit in the sun and enjoy the rest of their break in the warm summer breeze.

While the group is sipping their coffees, a busy little bee is humming joyfully. It lands on a flower to collect the sweet, sweet nectar to bring back to the hive in the park. For several minutes the bee hums from one pretty flower to the next, before finally taking flight and setting course towards the park with its loot.

Just like the bee returned to the hive, so must the group return to the office, as the coffee break is coming to an end.

Written 01/03-2021