m e n u
 corona blues - geschenkt  lily und so  leseproben - ohne (ge)waehrung  das heulmeisje und ich  lubeck  globally me - and you?  witch tells tiny tales  off the beach - a corona gift // about me


the real lost in translation

(an attempt to explain and translate things not necessary)

  There's a difference between laziness and the unwillingness to do things not really relevant and others can do better in the first place (OK, last part is not relevant). This, and only this is the reason for my not changing the menu (8 is a nice round number and sounds and looks so much better than 9, whis is asymmetrical and supposed to be unlucky anyway... oh, maybe I'll change it all later, when I'm 88 or 99) and put these lost translations in front of 'lily & co' - there's room here and it's english. Fits? Fits!


Lubeck, November 2023

  Dear Chandlerists, I said I would, so here's the first translation of the first chapter. Hope you find a sentence with enough charm to add it to your illustred list of chandlerisms - I certainly melked myself. Please keep one thing in mind: the past I coincidentally share with the German "heulmeisje", who was found murdered in the Netherlands shortly after I, a 16-year-old Dutch, had shouldered my rucksack to head for Germany, doesn't automatically make me a 'crime' writer. I'm the opposite. Not relevant either? Good.

"Experience is not what happens to you;

it's what you do with what happens to you"

(Aldous Huxley - sorry man, had to change it a bit)

  I've made peace with my past and myself and stick to all details: a puzzle with a piece missing has nothing to show. That's the way it was. Again: no crime - just me.




convoy II (1990)

 Hysterical?! A ball of indignation seemed to blow him up, at a loss of what to do with it, he thrust it to his feet and rushed to the sink, examining his face in the mirror above: two blue-flashing eyes and slightly reddened cheeks - so what? It was his right, if not duty, to show some healthy male commotion now and then, otherwise women would do as they please.

  "I'm not hysterical!" he hissed. "A little surprised," he conceded, "a bit astonished perhaps..." - Hell! was he actually defending internal maneuvers to a mere employee? He twirled around, his arms moving slower than the rest and sweeping a few in an office unavoidable objects off the desk: an ashtray and it's contents rattled against the closet, a hail of multicolored paper clips followed and a snow-white blanket of typewriter sheets snowed itself gently on top... Irritated, he did a few quick laps around the desk, making the pinned up statistics and posters flutter: too much wind for Tina Turner, who did a slow-motion kowtow downwards, hanging to her sexy feet, kissing the wall. "Why should I, of all people, get hysterical?" he scratched his head, combing for reasons. "I have a sensational company, heaps of sensational trucks, even more sensational drivers and..."

  "One of them is sensationally ill," his secretary opened her mouth.

  He ignored her. "...and a secretary who accuses her boss, he's hysterical! And why?!" his voice tipped into a soprano area he didn't like. He stopped to clear his throat. "Because this silly boss - by the way responsible for all of the sensational success, but never you mind - criticizes the machinations of his own secretary, ha!" He scowled at her: well said, wasn't it? And so matter-of-factedly free of hysterics.

  The lady casually crossed her legs, watching her right foot bob up and down as if it was Buddha's pendulum and - said nothing.

  "Never mind," he hissed. "Never ever mind, don't get hysterical for Pete's sake! Just sit quietly and relax and look at me do it, you...you...!" He turned on his heels and rushed out as if fearing for his temper. The door closed softly; all doors and windows had electronic gadgets, not good for burglars and slamming.

  Dina listened for a moment, tilting her head, before she tightened the elastic band that held her long auburn hair together - her way of rolling up her sleeves - and started to restore the old order. The movements betrayed routine and the self-discipline of a woman, who had herself under control. At all times. In an instant, the room looked as it had five minutes earlier: sober and tidy - exactly as it's main user claimed to be. The explosions taking place every two or three months, she was used to them. Not long ago these one-sided battles had occured in his luxury office next door. An expensive piece of fun. A noseless Mozart-bust or the crunch of broken glass underneath the shoe of a customer was capable of ruining the reputation of any successful businessman; it took a while before his subconscience discovered the convenience of exploding at her place: it was so much more frugal and cheaper, and as a woman, she had the experience and time to clean up afterwards. And anyway, why should he flee out of his own office? Yeah. If something did break: a forgotten cup or a jar with hand cream, never mind: Dina replaced it and the boss quietly signed afterwards - all of it with the automation of veteran comedians. The vexation over his own clumsiness was as spontaneous and honest as his annoyment when paying afterwards, yet something inside Alex seemed to radar for things that were liable to break...

  Dina energetically pinned Tina back to her feet and looked around. She smiled, when her eyes fell on the old key rack hanging next to the door: an ugly board with ten times ten nails, some of them rusty enough to create visions of amputated limbs: the top ones for car keys, the bottom nails for all the others. Alexander Munch had gotten the chunky piece of wood together with his first truck, a Bull Trucker, and guarded both like Napoleon's ashes. The superstitious side of mankind is feminin, men know such things don't exist and call it 'respect', when they avoid things like old boards and mirrors hanging invitingly loose from a single screw, no matter how furious they are: a king's crash worth a dozen hysterics...

  She hardly had time to wipe the amused smile off her face, Alex could be silent if he wanted to. He didn't lose a syllable about her cleaning up, not even looking around, but seemed to have calmed down.

  "Sooo?" he asked, almost yawning. "What were we thinking, when we hired that red-haired woman as a driver, huh?" Interested in her answer, he refrained from asking whether she was capable of thinking at all and waited, inwardly tapping his shoe like a madman.

  She narrowed her eyes. "'The best of the best'," she quoted out of an acoustic deep well. With her own voice, she added: "That's what you always say..." She hesitated imperceptibly: "So I chose the best of the best. Period."

  Alex grimaced disgustedly: he couldn't remember this employee of his ever quoting him, but how say that without losing some face?

  "Besides," Dina hurried to add, "you gave me a blanco card", she softened his original words: 'stop pestering me with baby stuff' to a: "had more important things to do."

  True again. Everything his priceless secretary ever said or did had ten fingers and ten toes. Always. The recommendations of 'that red-haired woman' were overwhelming, the lady must have sucked diesel instead of breast milk from an early age on. Not only did 'candidate number 14' have more than fifteen years of experience without a single point in Flensburg, no, 'candidate number 14' also had won several prizes in skill driving. Remarkable. His right hand had pecked out 'the best' from a total of three dozen with the infallibility of an experienced cock. Except in Salten, a city known for it's good pay, social security, fair play, good schools and excellent family conditions, truckers who were not too old and yet experienced were hard to find; advertising had not been necessary, the news got around like goutweed - three even came from abroad. Well, in any case, the list of the awards and skills seemed as long as the number of miles 'candidate number 14' had covered truckwise, if not longer, and Dina, that conscientious lady, would probably have rattled off the data of her milk teeth...

  "Just take the best of the best, as usual, and quit wasting my time with your foolish baby stuff. Period!" Alex had barked, turning his back on her to do important things...

  "And why," he nagged, "did you forget the tiny detail that this skill driver is a woman - didn't she mention it during your interview?" he sneered, alluding to the new driver's not at all twiggy figure.

  "Boss!" squeaked his secretary with goo-goo-ga-ga eyes. "You're not implying you'd rather have the second-best male driver than the very very best of all, are you?"

  Alex felt his lips being gulped in. That was exactly what he had rather, but in this emancipated business world it was often better to shut up. He increasingly had to deal with women in leading positions; after getting used to the sight of a female managing the local soccer club, he had to choke on and swallow being refused a desperately needed loan - by a woman. They popped up overnight like mushrooms in an innocent forest. What was he supposed to do, leave the mushrooms to others? That didn't keep his trucks burping either.

  The particularly venomous specimen mushroom in front of him smiled like a salty pie. "Besides, you didn't ask," she added. A hissing sound left his lips, making them pop out again, which she hurried to interpret as approval. "See!" she squeaked. "Come on, be honest: you visited your brother and he shooed you off again - that's why you're just a little irritable, right?" Dina knew she had won this round, but was sovereign enough to leave her boss a decent exit. Two pairs of eyes, one light blue and unblinking, the other dark blue and suspicious, gazed at each other like owls, taking their measure.

  After a while, Alex turned away. "How do you know?" he admitted after a sigh from the deepest cells of his lungs, "the old mule is so stubborn..." The 'mule' was not even three years older, a length of time the younger had been stretching the older they got. He could accept Paris not wanting to hire himself as a model, but he still looked ages younger than that old man with the Phyllis Diller haircut; and anyway: brotherhood - what's that, a long-time-no-see slogan from the last Mohicans?

  With an always absent "high society" mother, who died early, and a father, who had tried to push his sons into a 'healthy' competition as soon as they could crawl (a practice the eldest simply ignored, throwing the full load of fatherly ambition on Alex), their relationship never had much chance. The death of the old Munch had done nothing to improve this lack of communication, on the contrary making things worse, his inheritance being several acres with a big house on top. For both. Just splitting it all was hard enough, selling his own half was impossible. Even before he became the 'Green Prof' the elder brother had disapproved of 'those stinky trucks', forcing Alex to buy the first two with his half of their mother's inheritance. Unfortunately, the neighbors (privateers, doctors and lawyers like their father or other bourgeois people with no notions about expanding and big business) didn't like busy loud trucks either, not in front of their own door. But what about clean ecological trucks? Alex had argued, they were more expensive of course, so he needed cash: selling his own half of the house seemed a good solution, right, dear brother? The mule was not convinced, helping Alex to a loan for his third and fifth (eco-)trucks instead, and automatically sending his "forget it!" six hundred kilometres by mail. Later the university forced the scholar to swap this bill of indifference with the harder coins of a communication, neither were capable of: he came home.

  It was Phil's own fault. A teacher should teach according to the principles of the community who paid, even if he couldn't believe in them. Students, lunatics and politicians fighting the government were not unusual, but why should that same government let renegade teachers knead future tax payers, still warm and soft from their nests, creating a bunch of brutes who would fight them one day: a sort of delayed suicide? Well, they had tried it with kind words, with reason, with hidden and then open threats. In the end, the staff had no choice but to ask the recalcitrant to please leave, 'please' and 'ask' not being quite the words they had used. But he left, that was the main thing. Why shouldn't he? He had his savings, half of a house and a huge garden, his mother's inheritance, various interesting hobbies and all of a sudden a vast ocean of time to bathe in all of these beautiful things. Plus a pension that was quite respectable, especially considering how little he had done for it. Synonyms for happiness.

  His younger brother's definition of happiness was less complicated: trucks, trucks, trucks - too many, according to the officials, this being the best residential and not industrial area of Salten. During this critical phase, just when Alex was in real trouble, the older brother showed up, and what did he do? Nothing. How could a university throw somebody as narrow-minded as his brother from the university? He was a radical, really? The guy didn't even have a car, imagine that... The end of it all was that he, Alex, had to move out, or rather: his trucks had to leave the etepetete neighborhood and after a while Alex himself followed with his head up high, snorting. The entrepreneur had managed to lay hands on an old warehouse, some garages and a little land in the industrial area - cheap as dirt! Quite noble of him, if you came to think of it: leaving the whole lot to an uncooperative relative after much adversity - and what had he asked for in return: money or even thanks? N-no. A tiny signature, that's all. An inkblot he needed to sell his part of an inheritance, that had caused him nothing but trouble and would let him breathe, having miscalculated himself financially: just a bit, not worth mentioning! Well, and then there was this powerful Mercedes-Benz that he absolutely had to have, because - well, never matter why: it was in tip-top condition and cheap, but for how long?! Was that too much after all he had done for the old mule? Apparently. The oh-so-humane professor preferred leaving half of a house empty, whilst thousands and thousands of homeless people camped between cows and pigs on a dirty cold meadow. No, why people called such a man the "green professor" he certainly didn't know...

  Making unhealthy noises with his teeth, Alex recounted his brief visit the night before. He had managed to find the old scholar the ideal neighbors: quiet, without children or pets, and so hard-working, they were hardly home. They were environmentally perfect (all three cars, the motorcycle and the scooter had the best of catalytics), talented craftsmen, tidy and willing to do laundry and shopping for the professor (certainly a clumsy and absent-minded sort of man) and were able to present a certificate stating they were unable to have children. Alex had spoken to the stubborn man as if he had bathed his tongue in maple syrup for hours, packing enough persuasive power into his words to sink the Titanic once more. In vane - farewell, oh magnificent Mercedes-Benz, may your future owner choke on your stinky fumes!
  This conversation had ended with the usual door slamming. Alex moaned: "Why me, why always me?"

  His secretary mumbled sympathetic vowels or shook her head. As soon as he seemed finished moaning, she scurried to a cupboard and unlocked it, getting out a thermos flask and a thick mug. She looked up briefly, while pouring still warm coffee in the mug:

  "And why don't you simply rent your half? You don't need a signature for that, do you?"

  Alex was too occupied with his own misery to mock about the stupidity of women in general and his secretary in particular as usual and lifted one shoulder.
  "Those couple of pennies, what am I supposed to do with them: buy windshield wipers? As you know, or should know, I need a large sum to expand and pay off some debts. Urgently."

  Dina put the mug in front of him and nodded: her boss always needed a large sum - urgently!

  "Can't see myself playing the janitor either" Alex continued pretentiousy, drinking the coffee as if it was whisky. "Baby stuff! To achieve something big, teaspoons are not enough, my child."

  "I understand perfectly..." the child nodded. "I was thinking of people your brother doesn't get on with and would perhaps be desperate to get rid of." She turned away to clean the now empty flask und mug. As a tidy person, she didn't appreciate leaving things lying around, even if it was for one night. Over her shoulder she asked: "What about the waybill that just came in? Want me to finish it quickly? I'm going home in a few minutes." No answer. She turned around. Alex seemed far away. Mumbling to himself, he rubbed his earlobe while his secretary mechanically put everything back into the cupboard, took out her Jacket and bag and locked it: you never know.

  "How about Petra and Martin?" he interrupted her.

  "I beg your pardon?" the competent woman made a foolish face.

  "Well, as tenants, of course," he reminded her impatiently.

  She wiped her desk and went to the sink to rinse the cloth and hang it on the hook next to the mirror, pursing her lips thoughtfully.

  Alex followed every move, but didn't dare push them.

  "They are vulgar enough," was her verdict at last, "but too nice. Your brother is helpless, when people are nice."

  "That's right. You're related to us, I forgot."

  "Distantly!" she protested, putting on her jacket. "By marriage only."

  Her boss was too captivated by the possibility of selling his stupid house and at the same time taking revenge to notice the unflattering nature of this denial of kinship. "Why don't you make a suggestion, you smart aleck!" he demanded irritably. "Do something decent to earn that high salary of yours for a change!"

  She managed a smile, one brow up. "A mere employee is too small-minded for that kind of thinking. And incidentally, I'm a private person since" - she glanced at her watch and grabbed her bag - "six and a half minutes. Good evening, Mr. Munch."

  "Oh come on," he said, falling in their old familiar tone and casually slipping between his secretary and the door, a winning smile on his lips.

  Dina grimaced. "Good grief. OK, let's get it over with: what dislikes and aversions does your brother have...?" she murmured. "He doesn't like women..."

  "What?!" Alex squealed, horror in his face. "That's new to me..."

  "Do you want me to earn my salary today or are we waiting for Easter bells?" she chided.

  "Oh. Please, please. Carry on."

  She closed her eyes, as if to get a better inward view of his brother. "So - he doesn't like women... hates noise...," she continued. "He also doesn't like cars and hates being disturbed when he's working... Hm, how about..." She broke off, her eyes widening. "Oh no, it's late, I gotta go home!"

  "Spit it out!"

  Instead of an answer, she moved resolutely towards the door, but wasn't quick enough - like one of his trucks, Alex rapidly overtook her and stood in front of the door, awaiting her with arms outstretched like a vampire.

  "Don't say I didn't warn you," Dina shrugged, turning around and occupying her old swivel chair again. "We know someone who might fit: a female person with lots of temperament, a loud teenage child, a very chatty mother-in-law, an ancient car and two dogs as big as Shetland ponies..."

  "Who?!!!"

  "The red-haired woman," she confessed timidly. "Antonia Schikorra, the latest acquisition of Munch Transportation, skill driver and..."

  "God," he breathed, looking around for a place to sit

  She readily abandoned her chair once more. "She loves driving, and I heard her dogs not only bark..." She paused, then added: "Bow-wow, bow-wow! They also: scrape, scrape...!" she pretended to dig for bones, sweeping the waybill across the desk.

  Alex snatched it, before it could snow again, raising an index finger to his forehead to suggest his opposite had lost her mind as an aha-glow went over his face: Of course! Why hadn't he thought of that himself? His brother was absolutely crazy about his green stuff, letting everything grow all over the place like his hair and calling it "garden". When Alex had lived in his half of the house, he had more than once witnessed the old fool dancing around, when exotic plants popped up. Well, even as a child, the oddball had done strange things...

  "Get her a rental contract immediately!" The businessman almost sang, making a few Fred Astaire steps towards the door. "But if anything breaks - I don't want to hear about it, got it? Clogged drainage, leaky roof - she can mend it herself, understand? Write that in as clear as the Bible!"

  "In a minute," said Dina calmly. "As soon as I get the waybill..."

  "To hell with the silly waybilly!" he boomed good-humoredly. "See to it that this marvelous woman signs and moves in today, together with all of her beautiful entourage. With generous termination options for me, of course - you know what I mean." The door handle already in his hand, he turned around again and repeated expressively: "Today!"

  Dina slowly counted to nine before moving to the window, waiting for the tall figure of her boss to show up outside. Her lips curled as he disappeared into the white convertible car, that parked in front of the entrance as usual. With a Ginger Rogers parody, she pranced back to her desk, but hestitaded... Not until she heard the engine roar through the gate, did she pick up the phone to dial her own number.

  "Toni? It worked, I'll be right over with the rental contract, okay? Put a bottle of champagne in the fridge..."

end of chapter one

  Actually, all participants are mentioned in this first chapter. Okay, the old lady, Dina's rich aunt, is yet to come, and Toni's ex, a man who brags he helps people over or under the Wall into a free world - for money. And all those students populating that same house several weeks, helping the Prof to find the source of the poison, gradually polluting the earth in that area; and the man who's responsible for it and kidnapped Toni's son to keep the Prof from telltaling. And a few other peripheral figures. Just use your phantasy and find out. Or ask me.

_____________________________________________________________________________


February the 22nd, 2024

It was not a decision to listen to the advice of others for a change (the golden rule of writing: 'write solely about things you know everything about' - never mind, this one is also about traffic problems 'the mole' tried to solve: did I ever mention I don't have a driver's license?), after so much action I needed something quiet (it's not my fault things escalated) so the center of this story is a library (many many thanks for the hours especially as a kid in American, but also Dutch and later German libraries) and it's neighbors. It was written 1992, when the first PCs popped up and asylum homes were burning in Germany - even my stubborn Salteners were affected. I almost started translating one of the middle chapters of the mole because of the lack of protagonists and action in the first, but no, chandlerisms don't need action or protagonists, here's chapter one of:

the mole (1992)


scanner

 They had been working and done a lot since he trespassed last time - no doubt about that. The stairs at the entrance had been broadened, now looking more like an armless one-eyed Willie with the railings and the left half of the double door to the former store for electronics still missing. Robert bit on his lips: temptation pure. It was a few minutes past one o'clock and lunchtime, why not take a quick look inside before leaving? A farewell to the city he had fallen in love with and adopted three minutes after he had stepped off the train. The Doctor of Philosophy looked furtively around, before taking some unphilosophical jumps - and was inside Salten's library or the Sabu, as the place was affectionately called. Although very dirty, the man-sized windows let in enough light to be able to make out one thing or another; every now and then a ray of sunlight lasered itself through the clouds and a flickering gold dust morgana hesitantly followed the rules of gravity. The floor was littered with pieces of wood, plaster, tools, stones, all kinds of cardboard and scraps of paper, empty beer bottles, screaming: buiding site! Almost all of the interior walls had been removed, and thick tarpaulins hung between the old library and the former store to keep the books from sucking non-verbal atoms. Elongated strips a few centimeters deep documented where the wall between books and electronics had been. Robert stepped over rubble, buckets and equipment lying around and stumbled over a cable popping out of nowhere like one of Nessy's babies, raising an unpleasant cloud. He sneezed: And all this was supposed to be finished within two months? Full of skepticism, he shook his head, after all, he had worked in the construction branch a year and a half: at this rate, they wouldn't even manage it in two years, no way.

  "Doesn't the room meet your approval or are those other inward vibrations that have nothing to do with it, which make your head swing that way?" a melodious voice interrupted the intruder's pessimism.

 Although he hadn't heard her coming and his conscience wasn't clean, Robert didn't even flinched, a pleasant by-product of his childhood. His parents' stereotypical "Leave Robbie alone, kids!" had pushed his older siblings into all kinds of mischief including cold water, firecrackers, pseudo-corpses and ketchup, a useful training for the future. Turning around slowly, Robert found himself face to face with a woman whose blue-gray eyes speared him up like a rare bug. Despite fine wrinkles in her tanned face and a slightly too long silvery-white haircut that rippled like wheat on a field every time she moved, she looked youthful, a bonus she lost thanks to something indefinable: hardness, reserve, coldness? Instinctively he realized he was looking at his almost-boss and she was aware of his identity as well. Not that she made an authoritarian or even hostile impression: I'm waiting and never shocked, go ahead and tell me all! would have been a better description.

 "Excuse my trespassing," he opened his mouth after a brief duel of glances. He pointed his chin towards the entrance and added with a quiet sneer: "The door was open."

 "You can inspect your future workspace whenever and as long as you please," she continued her systematic check up of his person, without letting him know what she thought of his behavior.

 He held her gaze: explanations, dismissive phrases, apologies, on the tip of his tongue ready for a take-off, froze in midair - thrusted directly into nirvana by blue-gray mocking eyes. He spontaneously finished her sentence with an impertinence that surprised him: "...especially since you'll definitely not be finished in two months."

 She didn't do him the favor of disapproving, on the contrary revealing two rows of teeth whose irregularity guaranteed authenticity: "We regret not being able to offer you a better reception, but you see, your uncle considered the completion of your luxury apartment" - her chin shot up towards the ceiling - "as more important, and unfortunately we have to earn our living during the daytime and can only help out in the evening - if one can call it help." With a droll mixture of pride and amusement, she looked down at her hands, which were covered with cuts and scratches as well as blisters and calluses in various stages of healing, clear signs of an unaccustomed activity.

 One to zero for you, Robert grated inwardly, outwardly a snotty: "Oh, well, go ahead and fetch your knitting stuff then. I love impossible jobs and will take over!" left his lips before he could swallow it.

 She flashed another glance at his appearance and raised a brow: "You do mean yourself?"

 Torn between indignation and laughter, he almost bit off his tongue, but only replied: "Who else?"

  For a fraction of a second, her expression betrayed a sardonic "well, then have fun" before she disappeared behind the tarpaulin, smiling.

 He looked after her ruefully, silently cursing his own pride, and not without appreciation for her good behavior. He had been insolent and wrong. And now? Retreat was not possible, looked like shying away from physical activity, if not cowardice. He clenched his hands to fists: why not? A little exercise would do him good. And as soon as he had settled things, he could still pack his bags and...

 "Mr. Stoltze?" it echoed from the bare walls.

 Why, he pondered, couldn't she take over the stupid music department? Her voice promised more musicality in the tip of her little toe than he had in his whole body, but said nothing: enough nonsense for one day...

 "The door had been a little too broad and will be installed tomorrow," she announced calmly, pointing to the empty entrance with one hand while the other jingled a bunch of keys. "For outside, the basement rooms, the library and to your own apartment, which unfortunately isn't finished either. Or," she raised an eyebrow again, it's dark color a stunning contrast to the snow on her head, "should I keep them for a while until it looks more or less, um, shall we say: more agreeable to people without a washing machine?" She cast a glance at his clean clothes, the only slightly dusty suede shoes, looking impartial but directly into his eyes with a twinkle that seemed to say: don't worry, I've been through two or three wars and a lot of prison and am used to all sorts of perversions.

 Did he have a choice? He took the keys with a bow and refrained to say more: they would see...

 "Here's to good cooperation, then," she almost sang, performed an elegant turn and slipped between two tarpaulins that overlapped each other, every move an "I've got work to do - how about you?" demonstration. Robert grimaced and looked around, absentmindedly pulling out the cable he had stumbled over. He had sucked up Salten from the first moment: The partly timbered brick houses, the small round market squares, the winding alleyways and dark alcoves, that crispy cottage effect despite cosmopolitan air. This mixture of stubbornness and local pride with explicit rejection towards the silliness of the rest of the world, which was supported by 'mere' newcomers: quarter-Saltener or half-Saltener didn't exist, those who lived in Salten did it with all their heart. And the wind...

 Having grown up and lived in a city between residential silos, shopping malls, skyscrapers and stinky factories with a kind of stale ventilation sometimes ploughing, squeezing it's way through, Robert was caught off guard by the freshness, the spiciness of the breeze softly eliminating all human-made scents - and enchanted as soon as his bronchi had gotten used to it. St. Mary's Church in the cultural quarter was still the tallest building, closely followed by the hospital with it's four floors in the north of the city. His self-esteem refused staying in a place where he was unwanted and superfluous, and yet... - mind you, his decision to leave was as firm as Elizabeth the second, but: didn't that have time? After all, he wasn't drawing a salary, hadn't even been introduced and, as a true Gemini, had dithered to sign anything like a contract. What's more, he knew the building plans better than most newspaper readers - probably even better than the architects with their countless projects - and could see what still had to be done. Haste was a word from outer space, financial need unknown to him: why worry? He always followed his nose and it had lead him well. Up to now...

 After studying several interesting things and graduating, he had been persuaded by a fellow student to become a partner in a multicultural store, but soon switched to the fashion branch, when he discovered a lack of interest in business matters, and from there walked through the world of advertising, travel, architecture, newspaper and other episodes, had even worked in a kindergarten, as a waiter and sports instructor - all very interesting activities, but not interesting enough to justify a longer stay once he'd settled in and discovered something even more exciting: why not? After a few unpleasant experiences with the elbows of others, he had decided to stick to literature, because he not only loved books: one could put them back on the shelf. If only it weren't for certain bosses, who, for some unknown reason, didn't like his innovations... The prospect of having nobody above him had been tempting, especially since he was still working with books: why not? But a music department - he of all people, unmusical and half-deaf as he was, and against the staff and an entire town? No. The citizens' meeting he witnessed a few days ago had smothered his excitement over this new challenge like a dark, wet blanket...

 These meetings took place every five weeks and were typical for Salten: a mix out of bazaar and speaker's corner, without a podium, without front, back or center. Anyone who had something relevant to say stood up, if necessary on a chair, table or the shoulders of a fellow citizen and said it, and those who found no ears listening, were even booed at, did everybody a favor by sitting down quickly, as long as he could do so voluntarily. Every few years, a smart aleck tried buying people or votes - and was kicked out for a whole year. Salten was Salten and didn't need the habits of this unwieldy thing called globalization with that wagging long rat's tail of lobbyism.

 His first and probably last meeting seemed a good example: voices playfully started whipping each other, becoming incantatory, shrill, placating, angry, lashing with ice-cold scorn, hot anger, gnashing fury, reluctantly silent after the five-minute-gong, when other voices proclaimed maybe the exact opposite in the same or another way, but eager to start ranting again, when directly addressed. Thus were the rules, controlled by the one at the gong, this time a middle-aged lady called Sim, who probably boiled her eggs without a clock. The obligatory five points this time:1) population boom, 2) new closing times including long Thursdays, already liberalized in the rest of the country (for most Saltener a recommendation to do the opposite), 3) old and new suggestions to calm down the traffic, 4) the closure of the old Kant school and plans for a new comprehensive school (or vice versa?), and finally the evergreen since years: 5) a fixed location for the two annoying glass igloos which were not tolerated anywhere in the pedestrian zone around the Hoof. And oddly enough, what used to take over two hours was ticked off in just under one hundred and twenty-two minutes: the current closing times for stores were to stay, as soon as the casual question "I see, you all want to work longer and have flexible times too?" triggered an embarrassed silence; the traffic problems were postponed; and the closure or opening of old/new schools was kicked off the list because an obvious majority held up red cards; while the residents of the pedestrian zone were condemned to another five weeks of glass smashing, whether they liked it or not: the igloos were to be moved 30 meters in front of the grocery store in the Mainstreet.

 "Dear fellow citizens!" a tenor with a bass timbre demanded attention, straightening the backs of already slumbering away people. "I know you all want to go home, so I beg your pardon, but this is important. For all of us! Against my own interests as a publisher, I'm raising my humble voice here and today to inform my readers about something that bears a hell of a lot of resemblance to a scandal. And all this despite the fact that I could pocket a small fortune if I kept my mouth shut. But my sense of justice... "

 Robert, who had counted the personal pronoun 'I' four and 'my' five times, rolled his eyes. As an insider, he knew the publisher would get rid of all the newspapers he was able to print after this prologue.

 As if he had sensed these negative vibes, Stephan Fox lowered his voice, causing some people to lean forward, although he could still be heard loud and clear in the furthest corner: "Our dear Sabiners are getting a new boss, an outsider, worse: somebody from Hamburg... " - a short pause as if expecting some drums - "Our mayor's nephew!" he finally almost whispered, sitting down with this smug expression of contentment people have, when they expect a hell they had deliberately provoked. The mayor, who had been warned and was sitting next to an emergency exit as a precaution, already had the door handle in his hand and would have been out in a flash if his wife hadn't intervened. This little person climbed onto her chair so gracefully and naturally, raising a dainty white hand with such naturalness that - oh wonder! - the hurricane gradually subsided. One of the most prominent ladies, she came from an old, rich and influential family, genuine Salten blood flowed through her veins, without her on his side, Appie, a mere newcomer, would never have become mayor. And yet the majority heard her voice for the first time.

 "Dear Saltener, will you let me get rid of a few words before you start throwing stones?" she asked simply, but with this sovereign tone and attitude that makes people listen. "Actually, there are two. Two announcements my husband had originally planned to make at a different, more appropriate time. - Appie?" Leaving her chair as gracefully and effortlessly as she had got on despite her dress and age, she invited her husband to take her place with a barely noticeable movement of her head, which he hurried to follow.

 "Dear fellow citizens... friends... most esteemed neighbors..."

 Robert, whose ability to read people had almost forty years time to compensate some loss of hearing, guessed the swift movement of his aunt, as if pinching the first man in town in the leg, as well as the brief twitch in his uncle's face more than he saw it: get to the point, he translated the auntly violence, make it short!

 Appie didn't bat an eyelid. "As you already know, one of our most successful citizens," he continued softer, "is making us all an extremely generous gift." He paused, as if to give 'his' Salteners an opportunity to rejoice in advance. "Above all, however, the gift is for the Sabiners. The Sabu will receive a complete and up-to-date music system all inclusive, plus several pallets of records, cassettes and CDs, from Debussy to..." Irritated, he broke off, apparently unaware of the latest musical trend.

 "... Kevin's pussy," finished a cheeky bass from the safe back rows.

 Nobody laughed.

 "But that's not all," the mayor used the interruption to leave his sentence unfinished, "our patron is not only providing the necessary premises next to the library," Appie rocked weightily back and forth on the balls of his feet and took a breath: "but also agreed to regularly update everything the next hundred years. I think most people have already guessed that it's none other than Paul Janßen, owner and founder of the 'Janßen Chain', who started in Salten as a simple master electrician and has already... "

 The rest was drowned. Shrugging his shoulders, the master of these crazy citizens gave up trying to make himself heard again after a few attempts and was almost outside, impatiently holding the door open for his wife, when, to his astonishment, she once again mounted her chair and raised a white hand. As if they had practiced it for weeks, the silence fell like an axe: where one bone came from, there was bound to be more...

 "My husband kindly left the second treat to me," Dorothy's calm voice effortlessly filled the room. Robert had not missed the slight wince in his uncle's face, who obviously had no idea what his first lady was talking about. He turned to his aunt with increased interest. "Of course," Dorothy turned her head to where she thought the publisher was, "no one would even dream of replacing our much esteemed Karin Wehde" - she nodded her head to the other side of the room - "who is more irreplaceable than the mayor himself." - Oho! - "Robert Stoltze is supposed to be in charge of the new music department, at the request of the donor by the way, not ours - rather difficult to refuse considering the generosity of the gift. Thank you for listening - I wish us all a peaceful night." Almost gliding from her chair, the little woman walked casually through the automatic aisle of her slaves to the front door, ignoring her husbands gallantry, who was still holding the emergency exit open. Not until the door clicked shut behind her, quietly and definitively, did the commotion break out, irrevocably. The citizens' meeting was over.

 The old and new boss of the Sabu had to endure the congratulations and questions of dozens of fellow citizens and took much longer than Dorothy Hammsen to get outside. She slowly walked back to her apartment directly above the library. It was a long time ago, since anything ever surprised her. She had to think about that.

 Not only Karin Wehde, someone else needed to do some pondering. The just appointed leader of a not yet existing music department had quit a good, but monotonous job in a large publishing house in Hamburg to become the boss of a smaller - and more interesting? - library in a town for less money. His motivation for this 'step down' was to have more independence and freedom; he was no longer willing to be held back by superiors, needed a certain amount of freedom to develop his creativity and try out new ideas. Right: this new job was something new, but he had no idea about music, worse: he was unmusical. A leader of a music department should know and understand everything about music, have studied music and, if possible, be able to play four or forty musical instruments - he, Robert Stoltze, couldn't even read notes, and, worst of all, had not known there was already a leader until that very meeting: embarrassment pure! There were plenty of reasons to turn around and leave on the spot.

 These concerns, which he painstakingly told his uncle and aunt after the citizens' meeting, hit deaf ears. He might as well have spoken in front of a government.

 "You don't have to, sunny boy," his uncle replied with all the superiority of a successful man. "You're just supposed to run the place, that's all. A geography teacher doesn't have to travel around the whole world to be able to show students places where they haven't been, you know." Rather pleased by a comparison, he had forgotten his wife had dropped the day before, he graciously added: "Your parents always boasted how quickly you learn and intelligent you are, now's as good a time to prove it as any other. And besides, once your department is up and running, you'll be constantly exposed to music..."

 Robert Stoltze threw the cable away and surveyed this disaster area harmlessly called construction site with an inner shudder: What on earth had he gotten himself into again?

 He moved in that very afternoon.

_________________________________________________________________________


the icemakers
(2008, when those lil e-boxes were driving kids and their parents crazy)

level I

  An eleven-year-old is a child, metamorphosed to a teenager two years later - and in between? Tomorrow was his twelfth birthday - questions? Through all of the nine walls or six doors (in the house of the Bergmans, the main purpose of all doors was to close them) he could hear his parents whispering, and pulled the blanket around himself a little tighter: change of scene, please! That usually helped: parents and birthday scenes did vanish, making room for school pictures that pinched even more. Frustrated, he threw off the blanket and did what he always did in such cases: he pulled his Geybey out of the mattress, his unofficial Geybey. Not only was he banned from using his own old one, his parents had confiscated it together with the games:

  "We think we've noticed certain addictive paterns, Peter," his mother had tried to explain in this reasonable tone, that made him want to bathe his head in the toilet. "Let's just see if you can manage without for a while and then..."

  What was he supposed to do? They had the majority. Ever since his older sister had left the nest, democracy didn't work: two adults + one child = dictatorship. Resistance was useless, considering the disbalance a little trickery allowed: he had bought a Geybey including Super Xammy from a colleague. He could afford it, got enough pocket money and rarely spent any of it: for what? He was spoilt by a mother, whose cooking skill and reputation (and a very modern kitchen next to the pantry of a restaurant) allowed her to work at home, wherever her husband as a architect was sent to, didn't have a sweet tooth or any expensive hobbies and only had to open his mouth to get what he wanted (or not, they seldom asked) stuffed into him like he was an old stupid goose. All right: stuffed was an exaggeration, but as long as it was "suitable for his age" and didn't harm him, he got it alright - they would hardly buy him a pump gun. As was mentioned in the small, regularly updated paperback "Parenting for Dummies", which had been on his mother's bedside table as long as he could remember and was consulted every fart or two. A few days ago, he had risked a peep inside to get prepared to the monstrosities awaiting him. And had almost dropped the book, when he came across the recommendation to take his awakening interest for the opposite sex as something natural, or at least avoid showing any apprehension... Good to know. And too much Geybey or computer or television was considered bad, not recommendable; but none at all was not optimal either: "...a natural handling of all electrical appliances, including the digital sector, is desirable, is part of the general education nowadays..." I see. Why argue? His parents were happy their son wasn't addicted and knew how to keep himself busy without a Geybey, and didn't pester him - that's all he wanted. He didn't feel guilty: he wasn't an addict. He just had nothing else to do and was bored, and Xammy in particular was now his best and only friend, who else could he talk to? He always made a real effort not to turn the thing on too often and had actually already exceeded his self-imposed limit, but this was an emergency: tomorrow was his birthday with all it's endless tradition of pretending to be delighted about things he hadn't wished for in an uncomfortable and brand-new suit, which of course he was not allowed to get dirty, although the experience told it wouldn't fit anymore at the next occasion, being smooched and admired - this hypocrisy! - by people he didn't like because they pretended to like him, even though they didn't know him. Then having to thank people all the time: for useless gifts, for coming, for the long journey, for the wonderful wonderful day...brrrrr...

  Why couldn't people be honest: "Gosh, Peter, you used to be sooo cute - why don't you do something about that ugly, disgusting pimple on your nose that looks like a rotten potato bug with no legs? ...And your hair - can you comb it, we'll need a Bunsen burner, right?" He giggled, posing like a movie star and stroking over his always messy long dark hair, which he defended as if he was Samson. Or at least let him be honest: "Gosh, have you gained weight - who fattened you up and, above all, why?... Aunt Bo, didn't anyone tell you only clowns wear so much make-up? And you, you haven't changed at all, you still stink like motor oil and pure indecency... good gad, can't you wipe your garlic-smelling drooling mouth before you kiss me?..."
  And anyway, nobody likes being forced constantly: get up early, cut your nails, wash your hands, comb your hair, go to bed early, eat things you don't like, go to school, tidy your room, shower, do your homework, eat your vegetables, wash and brush your teeth, help your Mom/Dad, do some more sport...
  And birthdays.
  Exactly, and his own were the worst! His conscience, that beast, was soothed: he switched on the Geybey and was soon in another, more beautiful world: Xammy's world.

 That's when it happened.

 Of course he said stupid stuff all the time when he played, half sentences like: "Move your butt! Are you blind, man! Oh Xammy, baby...!" Things like that. They all did. Well: lots of them. But this time Xammy had turned around, looked straight at him and called

his

name

  Imagination? Of course! It frightened him enough to push the Geybey straight back into the mattress and zip it up like locking somebody away for murder though. Gosh, and sleep floated out of sight...

  "Happy birthday to you, happy birthday...", he was woken up, as every year, by the very cheerful and very unmusical voices of his parents. Peter kept his eyes closed as long as possible, must have dozed off in spite of himself - what a dream he had, yay. He jumped the morning hurdles well, glad his special day was overlooked at school and headed for his stall like a lonely horse, until he remembered that his relatives (both parents and their parents had all the siblings he didn't) - had certainly not forgotten: damn...

  When he was underneath his blanket at last, the pictures in his head didn't let him sleep despite his being pooped: hypocrisy is hard work. And his pudgy sister, that faithless fart, hadn't come either, explaining something about three different planes on the phone: "Not good for the environment, brother!" All right. Almost reluctantly, he took out his Geybey, putting one earphone in as usual. And sighed with relief when nothing happened: a little guy called Xammy ran around, jumping on others and screeching as if he was getting barbecued. There was something relaxing about it and yet it wasn't boring: you pressed this button or pushed that button down, up, right, left and could defeat and evade as you pleased. No one demanded anything of you, no one scolded, no impatient teachers, no laughing, stupid colleagues. And no parents with their eternal: "How was school, darling? Have you eaten your lunch, would you like an apple? Why don't you bring a school friend home, you know we don't mind...?"

  What should he answer? School was shit with a male cow in front of it, the old math pig asked me twice today and I tripped over my own tongue as usual (and over my feet in sports), they threw my lunch in the trash can, I don't have a single friend and don't need one and do you know what you can do with your silly apple? Instead, he took the apple and disappeared into his room, mumbling something about homework and an exam. He could actually feel his mother smiling after him: my son, such a hard-working dear, so easy to look after and obedient, oops...

  He dutifully did his chores first and then switched on the Geybey. In the middle of it, it happened again: Xammy turned to him.

And

waved.

And

called

his

name.

  Peter closed his eyes for seconds, then opened them again: Xammy was still waving, hopping up and down like a jumping jack on hot coals. "Look ahead!" Peter grumbled uncertainly. "Something's coming."

  Xammy grinned. "Of course: Tintin and Snowy, Super and Man and Ronald and Buck - you're in charge, Peterboy."

  Startled, Peterboy turned off Xammyboy, looking around wildly for something that couldn't talk to him. Finally, he stretched himself on the bed with an old Karl May book. Less than half an hour later, the Geybey was switched on again.

  "What's the matter with you?!" Xammy said reproachfully. "Just switching people off isn't exactly the fine way of hopes and popes. What's your problem, man?"

  "My problem," Peter chuckled nervously, "is that you're talking to me. That only happens in bad movies!"

  "Nana," Xammy shook his head. "In a few good movies too, I guess - what kind of junk do you watch, man?"

  Peter's giggling became almost hysterical. "I'm crazy, great to know!"

 The little man's eyes widened: "Crazy? What makes you think so?" And worried: "Are you serious now? But then I would have turned to the wriwrawrong one, because we have a serious problem, you see, and need a clear head and not someone with puffed bibabubbles inside!"

  Distracted from his own person, Peter immediately asked: "A problem, what problem? And who is 'we'?"

  "Well, all of us, of course!" the little man explained impatiently. "But I don't know, maybe you're not the right pipaperson for this job after all...!"

  "Yes, I am," Peter promptly contradicted. "I'm absolutely reraright - what's the problem?"

  The lil man wasn't easily convinced, but eventually came out with the news that a series of coincidences had released an energy field with enough power to supply entire parts of the world - or destroy them. "I got a little bit myself, otherwise I wouldn't be able to move around without buttons. And the problem? The problem is: how and where can we channel this energy without causing piles of shards and before other not-so-nice people like you and me and Lola and Doug find it and do whatever they want with it - have I made myself clear enough or do you need a dictionary with the new spelling and instructions for use including pictures in titaten languages?"

  "And this energy field," Peter turned his Geybey skeptically, "is in here?"

  "Pfff," Xammy said scornfully. "Soooooo much power in a peewee thing? It would have gone poof by now or someone would have found it. It's been split up a bit and hidden in the last few levels so it can't be seen from the outside - do you realize how many sisasuper Geybeys there are in the whole world? Unfortunately, a few dollar-eyed and others are looking like crazy, but haven't come to us yet, as we're actually meant for kids like Pooh and you. Anyway, only few make it to the last purple levels - and these are not adults, they're too stupid."

  That was plenty to think about. In the evening, Peter left his Geybey in his mattress, he had to think: had he been dreaming, hallucinating? And if not: truth or lie? And if true, what was to be done? This was a big sort of thing, he would have to look for allies: who else had a Geybey and was not too grown up to believe and participate...? And fell asleep over it.

* * * * *

  "Hey Stephan," he approached a tall boy next morning, who was in the parallel class and had sold him his Geybey.

  "What's the matter?" the other raised one eyebrow majestically. "Geybey broken? Not my fault, we had a fair agreement that clearly stated..."

  "Stop!" Peter interrupted hastily. "Geybey is okay. Just wanted to ask something - have some time during the next break?" Without waiting for an answer, he turned on his heel and almost ran back into his classroom: what was he doing? Didn't they laugh at him enough, at his hair, his neat clothes, his dialect? And what could he possibly say to Stephan: my/your Geybey has gone off on its own and asked me for help...? Hahahaha, the laughter rang discordantly in his ears: Imagination is awful when you're twelve years old. A stupid age anyway, hovering somewhere between childhood and puberty in nobody's land, sometimes looking back with a tear, sometimes ahead with a shudder, and yet condemned to do nothing for a never-ending year. Now that sucks! There should be a paperback guide for twelve-year-olds, thin with an index; under S something like:

"Sex, other. Sorry, but at your age, the utmost you should do is nothing. Always treat the opposite sex with respectful caution from at least two meters distance, unless they are relatives, who in turn deserve disrespectful caution from at least three meters."

 He chuckled and added:

"And be patient with your parents, they're going through a serious crisis and would probably prefer being under a hood until the nightmare is over..."

  During the break, he tried to make himself as small and invisible as possible. No use, Stefan found him.

 "So?" was all the lanky boy said, crossing his arms in a defensive posture. Stephan was considered a lone wolf, he was tall and very skinny with a bristle cut and expressed himself in an old-fashioned and gruff way; most of his colleagues were afraid of him and the teachers left him alone: how enviable was that?

  What did he have to lose? Peter grabbed his counterpart's arm and pulled him off the school grounds under an old oak tree. Only then did he take his Geybey out of the inside pocket of his coat and switch it on. And sure enough, there was the little man, waving and calling out to them both. By name. Both.
  Peter looked at Stephan from the side: "So he knows you too?"

  Who said at the same time: "Do you see that too? ..."

  When the bell rang, they had a sort of plan.

* * * * *

  They discussed all of the way to Peter's place, pulling the bedroom door shut behind them with such energy, that Peter's mother's mouth, which she had left open in surprise, shut by itself.

  "What do you think?" Peter got straight to the point.

  Stephan understood immediately. "Whether Xammy turned to us on his own free will or whether it's part of the program or whether it was manipulated from the outside afterwards or or or...? Well," he rubbed his chin as if he were considering a shave. "That's a good question. Another question would be: how do we find out who else he spoke to without mortally embarrassing ourselves until our bitter end? More heads bring more ideas, and a little foot folk may be useful." They discarded one plan after another, made lists and looked irritably at the door, when there was a knock.

  "Peter?" came his mother's muffled voice through the door: in this house, everyone's privacy was respected. "It's six o'clock, perhaps your friend would like to eat with us?"

  They jumped up at the same time and Stephan grabbed his things. "I'd better go, my people have probably already sent out dogs to look for me!" Almost all of Stephan's family worked for the police. "Your place tomorrow after school?" he suggested. "Mine aren't that discreet - on the contrary."

  Peter grimaced understanding. "See you tomorrow!"

(added a bit of) level II

  Xammy and the time on their heals, three boys squeezed themselves into Peter's room a few days later. When the Bergmans had moved from the other side of the country to Salten almost seven months ago, Peter had defiantly chosen the smallest room, although his parents had offered him the largest one with balcony, built-in wardrobe and an extra bathroom. Ever since, all visitors had to endure long explanations, as if they had locked their only son in a dark dungeon without light or heating. Parents were strange, what others said was of such importance, it left little room for maneuver: as soon as a pair of trousers bulged at the knees for example, they were replaced by new ones: the best of the best. Peter wasn't even asked, well, at least they couldn't swap his hair behind his back, although: he was getting sick of it - especially the combing.

  "So," he began, being the host. "I suggest we stop looking for members and start..."

  There was a knock and a redheaded girl poked her head through the crack in the door; Turbo, the oldest of the group, groaned: "Oh hell, Dani: closed society, women not wanted!"

 This "woman" turned cheekily to Peter. "Who said that - you?"

  He struggled not to blush and bent down to tie his already tied shoe laces. "Um," he mumbled briskly, "let's vote: whoever doesn't like girls can raise their left hand now or keep it down forever - well?"

  Turbo's arm shot up and he growled threateningly at the group, but he remained the only one. Dani was a good buddy and even played in the soccer team.

  Now she rubbed her hands, beaming: "Proposal shot down! So, what have you done so far, men?"

  The 'men' looked at each other, trying their best poker faces.

  "Suggest we ask Xammy," said the newcomer energetically.

  "Well, well, well," the little man shrieked delightedly at the sight of the group: "Max, the computer freak, Turbo with the bumblebees in his butt, his sister Dani, the sports cannon, Stephan, the supercop and Peter..." Those addressed had all grinned sheepishly in turn and were now eager to hear Peter's nickname – so was Peter: "...the leader! I welcome you all to Xammyland! You know me, don't you, ha!"

  Peter bent down again to pick up somthing: blushing was a nuisance, on his torture list right after birthdays, being asked questions in front of the whole class and gymnastics. He squinted up to see how the others reacted - surely with laughter? But they simply waited for Xammy's next words:

  "So the club is complete, don't take anyone in without asking me, I know my goats..."

  "We normal mortals call 'em sheep," Turbo corrected condescendingly. "So: what do you expect from us, how can we simple students be of service to His Highness King Xammy?"

  "Flush your bumblebees and sheep and all the kings down the toilet, buddy!" screeched Xammy. "Our Peter has a plan!" And disappeared.

  Peter didn't have a plan at all, he shook his Geybey irritated, smiling wryly when nothing happened. "Um, Max, did you analyze the software?"

  "Yup," nodded a boy who looked unimpressive, wore horn-rimmed glasses and had slightly too long, straight black hair. "I sucked it up and examined it thoroughly -– from the inside. Unfortunately, it's difficult to keep up with Xammy's pace."

  "From the inside, what do you mean?" Dani asked curiously.

  "Was in the game. Virtually." This very calm response made four jaws drop.

  At last Turbo repeated: "In the game?! Huh?"

  The rather small Max seemed to grow a few centimeters, then he said nonchalantly: "Exactly. As you may know, my father is a programmer. He developed software that allows you to virtually slip into several, but not all, games using a web cam. It works great with Xammy, we just go through the levels in pairs. It's more fun. Well," he corrected: "Would be fun, if Xammy would slow down a bit."

  They looked at each other wide-eyed.

 "Let's go to Max, guys!" trumpeted Peter, before quickly adding: "And Dani of course."

  "Sorry," the self-confidence of the PC professional seemed blown away. "My mom can't stand visitors and I don't know, she knows Dani and Turbo, but the rest of you and then all of a sudden, that would overwhelm her and..."

  "Who else has a computer?" Peter quickly threw in the pause of embarrassment.

 No one's hand went up.

  "Can you bring all the small stuff over, Max?"

  "Yup," came the prompt reply and the boy disappeared.

  "Okay," the host stood up as casually as he could. "Be right back." Less than twenty minutes later, Peter's father came in with a computer, Peter himself with a large flat-screen monitor, and his mother was carrying speakers, 2 keyboards, 3 mouses and a pile of cables on a huge tray.

  "Thank you," Peter said politely, after his father had connected everything correctly, including the online access. He stared at his parents until they trotted obediently out of the door.

  "Jeez," Dani opened her mouth first. "Do you have a patent, Pete? My parents can use some of that."

  Peter grinned meaningfully. "We moved against my will -– their bad conscience is useful sometimes..."

  "Well then," Dani batted her eyelashes, but was interrupted by a knock.

  Without much ado, Max loaded the game, installed the software and connected the three cams. He eagerly stepped in front of one of them.

  "Stop!" Peter grabbed him by the sleeve. "We need a plan: who's going? And: how did you get back?"

  "I set the timer that switches the cam off ," came the prompt answer to the second question; the first was briefly discussed and voted on: Max and Stephan were to stay behind this time. Max knew how to handle soft- and hardware best and Stephan was expected home in fifteen minutes.

  Fascinated, they watched Dany, Max and Turbo do their first clumsy moves next to Xammy on the monitor.

  "'Beam me up, Scotty!' wouldn't work," Max tried to explain. "We humans have too much water and would drown all devices immediately, putting everything out of action, even if we'd scale us down individually, a project, my uncle is working on now."

  It turned out to be tricky to move outside Xammy's world in such a way to stay near Xammy, who not only raced around, but also often seemed out of control. Dani got the hang of it fastest and covered the others with instructions and advice. The first two levels were easy, the landscape harmless and dull: valleys, country lanes, a boring babbling river, a few ruminating cows with wet eyes, then the villages got bigger and bigger until they found themselves in a city with streets, skyscrapers, traffic junctions, neon signs and, of course, lots of vehicles and people...

  The difficulty increased the further they progressed, problematic obstacles showed up: invisible holes in the ground, buried valleys, endless lakes, completely snow-covered mountains or labyrinth skyscrapers that led up and down to nowhere. They often had to dodge other characters: walking trees, spitting sunflowers, creepy vultures and lots of crawling creatures and vehicles. After just an hour, they were sweating and Max saved what they had achieved and switched off the cams. Immediately the three of them disappeared from the monitor, panting. The decision to go two by two was logical.

_________________________________________________________________

sifted bread (2015) coming

____________________________________________________________

episodes


lily

  Do you remember Lily, when her fur was black from the tips of her ears to the upwards ringed tail, and her eyes clear and dark and simply bubbling out with liveliness? Behind our house was a park, almost a forest, a great place to take a dog for a walk. Lily used to run and turn and jump and bark and chase butterflies or grasshoppers. She never caught anything, was simply pure excitement about the trails of the great bears and hungry wolves and other monsters, that would undoubtedly kill everybody if she didn't track them down. She could stand quite still and then jump straight up like a dear - it looked so easy until you saw her muscles under her black short hair - like a small Arab horse. Her big dark eyes seemed even bigger and about to pop out, the pointed ears quivered each time she moved her small head and she showed two rows of white sharp teeth, obviously almost wild and beside herself:
  "Where is that monster, come on, where?! I'll tear it to pieces - WHERE?!"
  Never without dignity though, every single inch a grande dame.
  I think you would have liked that, you are now as old as your mother was then.
  As time dripped and went by, she jumped lower and lower and one day her beautiful dark eyes got silver moons in the middle, moons that got bigger each year - and one day I had to put this beautiful and proud creature on the leash to keep her from bumping against everything and she got this scared look she never had before.
  Do you remember?

  But it was the good days I wanted to tell you about, about the forest and the holes I had to pull her out of: a rabbit warren or the cave of a great grizzly - who knows?
  On a bright day, the summer had been hiding itself behind clouds producing rain, rain and rain for weeks, and now everything looked new and green and clean and the smell of adventure and a new world filled the air. Lily hated water, jumped over the biggest puddle like it was a ladybug and didn't even drink the stuff unless there was a little milk in it.
  What?! she seemed to say, if I was so clumsy to forget the milk. Water?! Do you want to poison me?!
  It was a torture to force her to take a walk when it rained, she always seemed to disappear and I had to call and yell, but it was no use: when I came back, weary and worried and a little mad, she was always sitting in front of the door with her ears and tail down and looking like I had tried to drown her. - So you can imagine how happy she was the day the rain stopped at last and the sun had sneaked out from behind the clouds.
  Of course everything was still very wet, and I had some difficulty pulling her out of a very deep hole she had found under a tree.
  Then.
  It.
  Happened.
  Suddenly the soft forest soil under my feet seemed to collapse. Instinctively I grabbed Lily and we fell or sank a couple of long seconds down a sort of slope underneath the tree. The earth would have sucked us up deeper if we hadn't got tangled in the branches of an uprooted tree. For minutes I sat stunned, unconsciously ruffling Lily behind the ears like most dog friends do without thinking much.
  Then I looked around.
  It was pitch dark.
  Far, far above - or beneath? - us I discovered a light as big as the rather small window of a cellar. This light probably saved us. I guessed or felt the boulders and bushes and branches more than I could see them, and for fear of losing Lily simply tucked her underneath my sweater. It was hard work getting up or down there. - Have you ever climbed up a mountain in the dark? no? Don't think I ever got so many scratches, bumps and bruises. That was bad enough - but not the worst. The worst came when
the
                                 light
                                                             went
                                                                                              off!!!
  Snip - just like that.
  The impudence of it all, especially after my odyssey up the mountain, don't you think? Impulsive as I sometimes am, my right hand clutched one of the many stones that were all over the place and I threw it at the place where the light had come from. We heard a loud TOCK! which made Lily bark and then a pffff! and the light appeared again... 
  Really: it gave me the creeps. A couple of minutes later the light vanished and it was dark again. This time I needed five stones until the TOCK! awarded me and I hurried to get as far up as I could before the light:  pfff! - damn it, off again!
  I repeated this procedure for at least an hour, the last little piece I managed in total darkness - my last baseball game was too long ago and my arm felt like it had lost it's normal location.
  There it was:
    HARD,
      COLD,
        SINISTER!
  I was already beyond the point of horror, was freezing and very tired and just groped on like an old woman looking for her teeth in the dark. - But stop - what was that...?
  ...a handle...?
  Shivering in spite of myself I lifted my hand and pulled - and the light that exploded directly in front of me made me close my eyes dazzled...
  "Really, Mama!" Christina's young voice in the darkness behind me said reproachfully. "Shut the fridge, will you? You know that cake is for Gaby's birthday tomorrow!"
  So always remember: never go to bed with an empty stomach.
  Good night, Lily.

© 2005 hexandthecity's mascot LILY, who died on January the 7th, 2005 - one day before her nineteenth birthday.


slugs

  You all know my old house in St. Jurgen - beautiful! Balcony, arched windows and doors, parquet floor and the garden... - a dream! Too big for me, otherwise I would still be living there.  
  I know you think it was because of the slugs which sometimes abandoned their paradise outside to visit me, no idea why or how they came inside. And always at night. The next morning the tracks on the parquet floor told on them, but never mind, it was easily wiped off - so I assure you that was not the reason for my moving to the other side of Lubeck. But you want me to tell you about the slugs, is that right? - Where shall I start?
  Like many elderly women I sometimes had and still have an irresistible urge to visit my bathroom in the middle of the night and now and then had the bad luck of treading on a slug in the dark. It wasn't a nice way of waking up, I assure you, but of course I threw it back in the garden with a shudder, it's a poor creature of God like all of us, you know - you can ask anybody: I couldn't harm a fly.
  One night I lost my composure a little though. I was barefoot as most people when they get out of their beds and must have jumped high when I felt that cold, slimy thing underneath my innocent warm foot so as not to kill the poor thing - and landed on another one of those slimy brrr things with the other foot! That's enough to excite anybody out of his wits, isn't it: barefoot...
  My fondness of these creatures of God was not very big then, so I rushed to my bathroom to get a toilet paper roll and WUSH! I wiped one of them and WUSH! the other and ran with one in toilet paper rolled slug in each hand back to the bathroom, threw both in the toilet and flushed once, twice and a third time to be sure they were really gone.
  Next morning was a morning like every other morning and of course I had forgotten my misfortune with the slugs of the night before. Made myself a very strong coffee to drink on the toilet as usual. Before sitting down, I noticed it just in time: a slimy looking tan colored heap of something with one broken over tentacle, slowly creeping it's way up...
  But that was not the reason I moved, really!

© 2004, hexandthecity - for my dear old friend Verena


hay fever II

  Do I really have to? What... - I promised? Oh, all right.
  It was in the middle of the summer: hot like hell and pollen all over the place, I not only swam in my own sweat, my nose was a river, my eyes a waterfall. To be precise: I had the worst disease since Eve smelled the blossoms of that silly old apple tree: hay fever.
  No use fretting though, I needed this credit, not next week or tomorrow: now. So I put on my best clothes, crammed my little dog on the blanket in her basket, became aware that every single tissue laying around was too moist to be used again and stowed a roll of toilet paper and the documents I needed for the credit under the blanket.
  I know, I know: important documents belong in an important looking black briefcase and not in a dog's basket, ooooookay! The hot weather, the pollen, my head and the rest seemed to have increased my snottiness: I simply did not care. I had this one intention on my mind and wanted to get over with it, fast and straight. So what?
  To start with the silly bank was full of silly people, but fully air-conditioned too, thank God: no fresh pollen for my poor nose! Where did all those people come from, were they all after a credit too - or was it the two huge fans blowing from each side? If it made them happy...
  I was too early and had to wait thirteen minutes, so I tried my best to look at ease and cool as I walked to the waiting corner, which was crowded with merry chattering people, who were dressed up like tourists with t-shirts and shorts and seemed in a very good mood and without hay fever.
  Good for them.
  One of them jumped up and offered his chair.
  Good for me.
  So there I sat in my best suit, styled like Grace Kelly in a high society film, my nose up even higher than usual to prevent the river from flowing, because I didn't feel like getting that toilet paper out of the basket in between my feet, thinking: Hey, was that hell already? No, hell is all that and a dog that starts to howl, probably smelling the fact that I forgot it's biscuits in my every-day-clothes. I ignored the naughty thing and the gaping people who all had this why-don't-they-lock-up-these-animal-slayers look and started adding and multiplying large sums of money - my way of relaxing.
  A stupid thing to do...
  The slayed little dog got impatient and jumped out of it's basket, the basket tipped over, spreading the documents exactly in front of one of the fans and with a sovereignty not even the pope can top the toilet paper rolled through the whole stupid bank like a long red carpet, solemnly followed by a cloud of papers...
  Are you happy now or shall I stand on my hands and snip with my toes at the same time?

© 2004, hexandthecity - for Uschi, also mentioned in "off the beach"


the zodiac man

  So it's my turn now, eh? Well, a little bit of pure masculine power is due, right?... What do you mean: no sexist remarks, you women aren't very nice to us either and we have to laugh! So.
  May I introduce myself? I'm Alex, gender: male; age: mind your own business! HA!
  Okay, first of all you must know that I have a lot of Cancer (in me - no, not that sort of cancer, stupid, I mean the sign of the zodiac! People born under that sign or - okay: a little bit under that sign - love fixing things and are so full of readiness to help and flexibility, that... - my God, okay, I'm at it, I'm at it!

  An old friend of mine got married last summer, a good man, I know him since... - what, I can't even mention that? Who are you: another Bush? Well, I understand: stick to the point, don't drift off - no problem.

  My wedding gift was to film everything: starting with the wedding and ending with the end.
  Was that short enough, Miss Piggy?
  Had a very good camcorder at the time, you know; today everybody seems to have one. Was an interesting film, by the way: all those drunk bodies when the party was over... yeah, okay, don't drift off, Alex, carry on.
  Needed quite a few tapes for the wedding, then came a couple of birthdays and when Santa Claus knocked I began to realize: Alex, old boy, buy some new tapes, this is getting crowded. Of course I forgot it and had to improvise on New Year's Eve, throwing a couple of parts on my computer to make room. You know, I'm really flexible - as everyone can confirm who knows me, a hell of a chap and... -
  Hey, that wasn't drifting, just an explanation why I received an invitation to the birthday of the bride in January, the same one who chained up my old friend the summer before - ouch, hey, that was my ancle! thought you women prefer making your points verbally?
  Well, I got the invitation on Saturday and that was also the date of the party. Bit tight, eh? But not for Alex, the magician of Luebeck... Didn't need much flexibility this time though, a bulky gift basket was in the way since Christmas: a monstrosity filled with marzipan from good old Luebeck, expensive Salami-wurst made in Italy, original caviar I picked up directly in St. Petersburg, salmon from St. Peters Ording - or to be brief: the best of Europe. What? Of course I've been in St. Petersburg before, heaps of times! - May I carry on? you're blocking my natural flow! - Thank you.
  The good thing is or was: everything was still there. I tucked it a little here, pinched it a bit there and put a huge ribbon all over it: tatatataaa! finished was the super gift from Cockaigne. Or from Alex.

  It was a weird party. Every chair, couch or whatever was occupied, and the funniest thing was: her relatives were the only ones who had a gift for the birthday girl, the rest had received the invitation that very day like me - and had no time to organize anything. Not very talented in planning things, the lady, eh? Probably a Sagittarius, but no - they're not so quiet - Libra, maybe...? Never mind.
  My gift had all the attention it needed and was very admired, yeah yeah. Not that I didn't pity the ones who came with good wishes only - a few were quite embarrassed or upset and kept the spirits down and who wants that sort of thing at a party? To break the ice a little, I suggested connecting my camcorder to the television so everybody could gape at the wedding. Nobody had seen it by then - not even me.
  It was not one of my brightest ideas. Somehow my tapes got messed up... First came the after-the-wedding party corpses, who were now all sitting around, staring at the TV with eyes wide open and looking very alive and like they wanted to jump out of the window or kill somebody - Scorpios perhaps? Especially those who came without a gift seemed eh... - well, the silence was somewhat icy. But I'm not finished, it came worse - not sure I wanna tell you that part though...
  Okay. - If you say so:
  After presenting a couple of very drunken grown-up people doing things nobody does in public, Christmas came. And I saw myself on the screen under a Christmas tree, showing off with a gift basket filled to the brim with such delicious things like marzipan from good old Luebeck, expensive Salami-wurst made in Italy, original caviar directly from St. Petersburg, salmon from St. Peters Ording...
  I don't like that sarcastic grin on your face, Madame - what do you want to hear..? Well okay: at that moment I became aware that maybe it would be good to rearrange my flexibility a bit - satisfied now, Mary Poppins?
  So that's that.
  Can I greet someone? - Why not? Oh, I see: you're a Virgo, eh?

© hexandthecity, 2004 - for Dad


vacuum


  It took a long time before he noticed. Not even his mother ever accused him of letting something like fantasy get away with himself.
  And she was not squeamish.
  Oh no.

  He was used to cleaning his apartment every Saturday: dusting his way through bedroom and living room, wiping kitchen and bathroom with three different sorts of A.P.C.s and special cloths. Then he ran his vacuum cleaner over every spot he could reach, wiping the floor afterwards just to be sure.
  And ate his supper somewhere else - no need messing everything up straight away.
  That was his Saturday.
  Every Saturday.

  The spider boom this year didn't bother him, it was rotten weather: for every two rays of sunshine came enough rain to switch off any old sun. When even two-legged people looked for a dry place until the flood was over - why not eight-legged spiders?
  The smaller eight-legged ones were getting bigger though...
  Of course: fat cells as the result of less danger and stress and movement plus more food - and anyway: spiders were clean and ate the other dirty ones.
  Okay, that little "tock!" from the inside of his vacuum cleaner made him wonder sometimes, as if he'd sucked up a larger piece of wood instead of a teeny-weeny spider, a "Tock!" that seemed to get louder every Saturday...
  Imagination.
  Of course.
  Maybe he needed some vitamins.

  It started getting, well: sort of funny one morning when he opened his eyes at six thirty, his usual time: In the left corner of the ceiling opposite to his bed sat a gray and brown striped spider with short fat legs and such an enormous body, that it made his eyes pop: that was too much! Jumping out of bed and fetching the vacuum cleaner seemed a mere reflex: the "TOCK!" in the vacuum cleaner sounded a little different this time, more "PLOPP!"-like - as if something had gone through there with effort. Not that he was scared or had a bad conscience - his sense of order had been disturbed and was now restored - it was his home and his right to do whatever he wanted in here.
  No problem there. The point was: from that day on he had to repeat the procedure every morning - even after closing the tiniest hole of the vacuum cleaner. Was that normal?

  With all the diplomacy he could force his tongue to use, he started asking around if anybody else had those same funny pets that got fatter every night - he had a secure and good paid job and didn't feel like changing that. And there was no use inviting someone to come and see - who would come at seven in the morning? In spite of all of his rationalism, by this time he suspected it to be the same spider all the time, so the only solution he could find was to leave Bob - as he called it by now - in his corner in the morning and be very surprised to see the old chum when he came home with somebody after work.
  Good idea? Of course.
  But.
              The.
                               Spider.
                                                   Wasn't.
                                                                        There.

 It was the most embarrassing moment he ever had in all of his thirty-one and a half years. He had lured the colleague in his bedroom somehow to show her something that was not there, after enjoying a film and a lot of music, although he was a miserable dancer... oh boy, he was so stupid, had been admiring exactly this woman from afar the last years - hadn't dared ask her until now ... She had gone off without another word, seemed to think he was rather... HELL!

  Next morning there was Bob again in his private corner, grinning at him.
 "PLO-OPP!" stammered the vacuum cleaner in slow motion. He filled all of it's openings with wet toilet paper, put the cleaner in a plastic bag and this bag in another, dumping it all in a paper container on the other side of the city - a heroic act for someone who loathed wasting things. The new one he bought after work was not cheap either: a high-pressure cleaner, designed to cope with floods and post-war debris and that sort of stuff.

 For some reason he woke up earlier than usual next morning. And stared upwards. There he sat - that same fat, gray and brown striped creature, slightly larger but with the same short fat legs, seemingly wanting to hypnotize him from his stupid old corner: Bob...
  Grabbing the new cleaner and switching it on was done as if he'd been practicing all year. Through the transparent plastic bubble window on top of the cleaner he saw the foam with sparkling eyes - as if he'd never seen anything so fantastic before - and cleaned the living room carpet and the bathroom rugs as well, rather proud of his never failing sense for practical things. Before he went to work he carefully closed the only opening of the new super cleaner and isolated all doors and windows with the expensive isolation tape he had bought the day before.
  He came a couple of minutes too late. - For the first time in nine years.
  Whistling.
  All day he stared very hard at his monitor, obviously somewhere else with his thoughts. He didn't notice the lunch break, he didn't see the astonished colleagues shaking their heads - they had to poke him or he would have missed going home.

  The couch in his living room was a great temptation, his bed looked hard, cold and inhospitable, and it took ages to get asleep and then he had bad dreams. So he should have been rather happy when the alarm clock woke him, but he kept his eyes closed tight as if trying to postpone something as long as possible: life maybe...?
  It was no use. Slowly opening his eyes and grabbing under his bed for the cleaner at the same time, he froze in mid air when he saw it: the corner was empty.
  EMPTY!
  He wanted to jump up and dance and scream and sing. Instead the hand that had automatically grabbed for the cleaner shuddered, the message of something round, hairy and warm under his bed had been successfully delivered... Swallowing hard to keep his guts inside, his hand somehow found the cleaner and vacuumed and sucked and vacuumed, then he was on his feet and saw it: the short fat legs were inside all right, but the rest was too big. It made his inwards creep up again, at the same time reminding him of a fictive bear called Winnie the Pooh, who was stuck in a tree after eating too much honey...
  The memory made him want to laugh in spite of himself, this eased his tension and got his brain and the rest working again: clutching the cleaner he maneuvered it to the bathroom, careful not to pull the plug. As soon as Bob's fat hairy body fidgeted directly over the toilet, he switched off the cleaner and flushed the toilet at the same time, hitting the foot of the cleaner hard on the toilet edge because Bob seemed to be very stuck or was perhaps clutching... Oh my God! Sweat was running in his eyes as he dumped all the chemicals he could find in the toilet, flushing about half a dozen times and stuffing several plastic bags in the downwards hole, determined not to use the toilet for at least a week.
  Even then he didn't relax - he didn't dare.

  This time he came seventy-six minutes too late, but didn't even notice it. He was glued to his computer, seemed to want to jump inside. But he was okay, not even scared, really.
  Of course not.
  There was no need to be, the creature didn't come back. He was free... had several dates with that attractive colleague - as if he was suddenly aware he had all sorts of joints and other things and could even use them.
  Actually that creature had released him, yes: he was free.
 HE.
                           WAS.
                                                            FREE!!!

  He sang and whistled, inspecting the delicacies he had bought on his way home: champagne, salmon, pralines... Wasn't this a wonderful world? She would come tonight, tralalala - wasn't life simply great...
  The evening was perfect, the night - their very first night, in fact - even better.

  Next morning was Sunday, no need to get out of bed - why? He smiled, admiring the naked woman that slept on her tummy in his bed, the forms of her lovely backside looking like modeled under the sheet. Still smiling he pulled the sheet away slowly, almost playfully, as if to get his blood pressure up even higher...
  He lowered his face to kiss his way down and then felt his blood freeze. There it was: a gray and brown striped hairy body with eight short fat legs as twin tattoo on the downward extension of the loveliest back of the world: Bob.
  Just a little bit fatter...

© 2005 hexandthecity


peg's* corner

 May I tell you something? This internet thing is getting uncomfortable. Nothing really new, I know, but put nicely enough to keep people from throwing frusty/frosty bits at me as if I'm some checkered dog shitting in their garden. Know what I mean? Even the humor is getting edgy (mine was always edgy, but never mind). That's why I'm on fb and twitter so seldom and in a hurry to get off after congratulating and throwing verbal pepernootjes (those thumb nail sized cookies that look like the treats next to one's espresso in bella Italia, but taste like Christmas, they throw 'em at kids on the 6th of December in the Netherlands; we Dutch think kids need lots of movement so we can do what we want when they're laying pooped in their beds) at friends or giving 'em a solid poke (if it's very hot, I pretend there's a swimming pool behind them: not deep and nice warm - let me know if that's too hot/cold).
Perhaps we need a break now and then, a nonsense nap in between: a coffee nap or maybe a story nap. Hard to find stories with the right length, but hey: I can write you one. But please never ever take anything I say or write personally - I don't mean you. (Unless of course you enjoy it.)

 Science says a nap should not exceed 20 minutes, hm: 100 words a minute or 2000 words, which sort of disqualifies siestas (now and then a pepernootje in another language soothes my bad conscience for being lazy and writing this in one language, besides german has a lot of signs you have to correct via quellcode and my dutch is horrible - and anyway, more people understand english and I certainly am not going to learn chinese. Maybe later) only, knowing most people have an app that translates things and reads text out loud, which is great. If you do it right, it's like you just inhaled a sloppy balloon filled with wellness, meditation, yoga and cheese cake - or just had a quicky, in case this sort of thing relaxes you. You can do it anywhere, it should feel like laying on a soft cloud (those cotton balls outside up in the sky) floating in a decently dimmed peaceful space, curtains lightly moving to and fro as if your Mom is popping in to see if your eyes are really closed, softly cuddled by a wind of lavender and marshmallows. If it didn't work, try a sleeping mask and use the cotton for your ears. To be honest: after your nap I hope you'll switch off whatever it is you're listening/reading this text on and go outside and embrace somebody.
 If you get arrested, blame it on me, I don't mind.
 Let's call it:


john's nap
 (next time I'll take a lady protagonist and use feminine pronouns only, it's not
important for the story and I have a headache, so forget about gendering these next 2000 words. please.)

 Three attempts were necessary, before the exclusive JouHoSch, an Elite International Training School for Talented Journalists, finally opened their portal to John. He was motivated, had written for the newspapers of every single school he'd been on (three times all alone) since he was nine years old, and read, nay: digested, sucked up all of the interesting and fascinating reports from the best journalists he could lay hands on, detesting minor quality that could mess up his writing style. The mere thought that any jerk could call himself a journalist was so outraging, so disgusting: there was no specific training path, no regulations, nothing - simply write what you see and throw it on a platform: hooray, I'm a journalist, kiss my feet! Of course that was not enough for John, who had to search long until he found this institution of wisdom, experience and smartness: journalism at it's best. It was perfect for him. He had always been interested in science, knew everything about politics, and his knowledge of geography and history was as if he had been crawling all over the world with two loops on his eyes since our solar system started, although he had never left the country. The JouHoSch was the best, and up to now, his mentors seemed satisfied with him, not surprising considering the bundle of excellent articles he had written for them: three were published in newspapers of high quality and seventeen others in rather good magazines. His reputation of being able to write about everything on the spot - like breathing - was starting to attract head hunters, making the A-certificate of the JouHoSch a sure number, only his final masterpiece was missing. And then this absurdity. He couldn't believe it first, thought it must be some prank, invented by one of those jerks he avoided. But no, what they required was not a sensational report about a bloody and unjust war going on just now, nor something about an up to this day unknown indigenous tribe without cancer or the mumps - not even facts about a new gender called IDCWYSW (= I-Don't-Care-Who-You-Sleep-With), who were obviously contented to be mere human beings, poor suckers. What they wanted was a 2000 words report about a place, a planet, a star, about something that did not exist: a fairy tale for adults, to be handed over in three weeks. He was not shy, so of course had indignantly pointed out he loathed science fiction and didn't feel like giving birth to even more fake news; in vane, they insisted imagination was a must-have for every good journalist, without it the job was a mere "copy and paste" affair, writable on any computer that had the appropriate apps. John had the choice of either kicking two years of study in the ass or reinventing the moon. Tough nut for someone glued to facts. After two weeks of self torture he asked me. Unfortunately, I didn't have any time and think people should do their work themselves or say no in the first place and thus arranged an internship for this promising young man in the kindergarten, where my granddaughter Luna (oh, a female, I beg your pardon) had just successfully completed a two week internship - I hope there is no one among my acquaintances questioning this path. After five days he handed out a brilliant article that was translated in sixteen languages, awarded with the "Best of WaPo Price" and quoted to be a "good read" in almost all magazines and even the internet. It would be an easy job to just copy and paste it here, but that would probably disqualify John (the name is fictitious) as a journalist and myself as an author with not enough fantasy, so I wrote an equivalent story any child could spit out without even thinking. If it gets a price, I'll pass it to my granddaughter. Here we go - I call it:


lunata

 Sandikus7669 was known as the organizer, nobody knew why or how, he simply seemed to always know what to do and to be able to solve any problem as soon as it started peeping out of it's hole. However, this time there was no peeping beforehand, nobody saw it coming. Fortunately for us (or me as the chronicler), Sandikus43998, the calender, afterwards pinned the start shot of the catastrophe: it was 1.45 tokajas ago (one tokaja is almost exactly 3.75 months), when the big Earthlings had evacuated the entire population of Lunata from the protected area next to the big red house with the double green doors, where they had resided for years, and before realizing something was going on, they landed under one of the oak trees like a pile of leaves in the autumn wind. The new location wasn't bad, on the contrary, but this rather solid autumn wind (it was a bulldozer, shoving everything several yards away to make room for something else; Earthlings in green overalls built new solid borders that very same day) had missed many comrades, leaving them behind and thus separating them from their beloved ones - in the dark, when everything was quiet, they could hear them grit out loud, screaming for help. It was a bit unfair, because normally Earthlings needed endless stretching units before they moved anything at all, they even needed bells to separate each unit and called it bureaucracy as if it was a sacrosanct order from the moon -– a bureaucracy they seemed to have forgotten this time, catching the Lunatics off their guard. Good the Lunatics had no handicap like bureaucracy, but even less time, so they started looking for a solution at once, first of all defining the problem, which was quite simple: the main group needed at least 2000 additional Lunatics to survive as a folk; a complicated piece of math invented by Mother Nature to keep things tidy. Sandikus3499 the counter had calculated that from a total of 3.4 trillions exactly 3776 Lunatics were missing. 3776 was not much compared to the whole population, but small groups have the tendency to rot back into Mother Earth faster: "too small to survive", meaning those left behind had only one and a half tokayas lifetime and would suck the main mass behind them about three tokayas later. Irreversibly. They were running out of time, the situation was desperate, when Sandikus5667987 the attentive one scratched out the fact that their old home was exactly in front of the door, from where the little Earthlings ran out at least twice a day to do their remarkable units all around the backyard - and since it was new with a huge slide and a tremendous truck tire hanging down the oak tree, almost 87% of them went through their new home under the oak tree, creating a sort of taxi service for the 3776 missing. Yes! But how? It was Sandikus975982043, the collector who unfortunately still lived in their original home, who gritted the solution to the emigrants under the tree. It sounded complicated, in fact, it sounded ridiculous and even impossible, but the 3776 Lunatics left behind were already starting to fade away, they had nothing to loose, they didn't even have time to practice and had no choice but to start straightaway and started rolling, shoving, gritting themselves to one of the transporters Sandikus975982043 had collected. It was a bright beautiful Monday, only 1 tokajata (=9 days) before their Doom Day X, but alas, the birds were singing so loud they blurred the gritting communication: should they postpone it?

 "No!" protested Sandikus566007, the botanist. "The birds will be quiet, when the small Earthlings run out."

 "They always are!" added Sandikus5667987.

 "You are right", gritted Sandikus3499. "We must also consider that our old group is getting decimated by 4.67 comrades each single hour - we need all the time we can get!"

 "Yes!" Sandikus37859498, the frog, approved. "Tomorrow it will rain, that's so much worse!"

 "So be it!" cried Sandikus7669. "Are all our comrades prepared, does everybody know what to do?!" he gritted as loud he could, so the comrades at the old place, who were starting to loose their conscience one by one, might hear it: "Concentration, please, the little Earthlings are coming!"

 Nobody could possibly overhear it. Both doors swayed open with a bang and it sounded like all of the slaughtered buffaloes of America (sorry, couldn't resist) were pouring out of the house.

 "79 Earthlings already ran through the right spots", Sandikus3499 was busy counting. "7 of them are here just now - come on, guys" he cried to the others, "rescue our comrades before the Earthlings go elsewhere! In the north corner are five more, the right side three - hurry up!!"

 They had saved 169 on that first day, none on the second because of the rain, 347 on the third, and were especially lucky on the fourth, scratching 39 comrades off of one single shoe, and 47 off another, all together 395 had been rescued! However, Friday it also rained. The Lunatics at the old place were so weak, they were relieved to have a break in spite of themselves and although not even half of the minimum had been rescued. The Lunatics under the tree were worried, it was not only the time, it was also the fact that their comrades in front of the door were fading away and stayed were they were, not moving, just whining and gritting softly now and then. Sunday night was a quiet night, and yet, even Sandikus78832123445, the ear, could not hear their old comrades anymore. Was it over, was this the end of 26 years of comradeship?! It only had to rain very hard and all would be lost: their history, their tradition, their many battles and victories.

 "No worries", said Sandikus37859498. "It's not going to rain during one whole tokajata."

 "And our comrades are admittedly too weak or unconscious to move, but they're still alive and are all on the right marks to be picked up!" the optimist, Sandikus5857993 (also called obama) added. "Come on, we can do it!"

 Monday 233 were saved, Tuesday they got 249 on their side, which wasn't bad either. Wednesday was sensational: 419!

 "We still need only 188 more comrades to be on the safe side!" Sandikus3499 had excitedly counted. "This is terrific and it's going to work, comrades! We won already!!"

 "Why only 188?!" screamed Sandikus5857993. "Let's rescue every single one of them - they are all beautiful and precious!"

 "I'm afraid it's too late for some", answered his slightly older brother, Sandikus5857991, the pessimist.

 Many of the older rescued Lunatics needed several tokajatas to get their old condition back, and some didn't survive the long separation. In the end they lost 324 of their comrades, half of them being too far away to give them the last proper grit, the rest got a nice higher place not far from their brand new home, in the middle lay Sandikus975982043, the collector and hero of this memorable battle. Even 88 tokajas later Sandikus6789477, the storyteller, had to repeat these glorious days each night, when the Earthlings had switched out all of their lights, which usually stole the stars their magnificent show, and the moon was invisible. Thus the folk of Lunata survived the only spontaneous action of the Earthlings ever (I heard it was one of the first Corona actions that took place in the middle of 2020, when most governments were throwing out all the money they didn't have) and they all lived happily* ever after.

 It's a lovely kindergarten in the middle of a gorgeous park, so if your kids attend the place, take care they don't step on the collector's chewing gum or destroy the secret hiding place next to the southern border underneath the wood - you never know.

 wake up folks!!!


 Sorry, I have the uncomfortable habit of "improving" everything I write until it looks like something else - meaning the 2000 words part is probably no longer correct. Feel free to drop or add as many words as necessary: nothing like a good nap.

* my first and maybe last happy (prefer the open version) end - so enjoy.

© 2023 hexandthecity







* peggy kragt

  was a cousine and dear friend, always laughing and making jokes, when we were very very young. When she died a while ago (OK, time and myself are no buddies, I ignore him and wish he'd take the hint and ignore me too), I added this to her FB-timeline:

 People who know I enjoy writing, sometimes ask me to write some last words, when a beloved one dies. I never did. Why? There are always some nasty things to shut up about, you know - and anyway: why don't they do it themselves?

 This time nobody had to ask. If anybody has anything nasty to say about Peggy Kragt - it must be a very stupid or ignorant person. Or both. I'm not saying Peg was perfect - nobody is. She was one of these rare people, who accepted you just the way you are, she never asked or demanded anything. We grew up together, so I should know. I was a quiet child, very introverted - she was the opposite (or maybe just sounded like it, because I hardly said anything, who knows?) And yet she always understood what I didn't say - there was no need to do so: you're here, I'm here, we're here. And we're fuckin' (she loved that word, I dunno why) good friends enjoying ourselves!
 She never cared how somebody was dressed, if their nails were long and painted or bitten off - maybe she didn't even notice. Like all of us, she wanted to be loved though, and pretty please by everyone - that was her sore point.
 I visited her only twice because of the millions of cat's hairs flying around at her place. And Corona. When she visited me in Germany 2007 or 2008, I was astonished about her greeting absolutely everybody passing by and said so.

 Peg: Don't you?

 Me: I don't know them, Peg.

 Peg: So what?

 Me: This is a big city, I'd be pretty busy if I'd say hello to them all.

 Peg: So what?

 And she laughed.

 My German family was enchanted by this Dutch lady with the beautiful voice, always singing and laughing and making fun. They loved her after less than half an hour of acquaintance - it was not only her singing, she had such a fuckin' great heart - something you suck in like fresh air in a polluted city.

 Missing you already, Peg. Bye, love.

 P.S. Am going to try to say hello to everyone I meet - maybe that kills the bad air a little.
But only if they don't have a piece of electricity in front of their faces, okay ... Peg? I know you're laughing.

© 2022 hexandthecity