33 Expectations

He expected her to look more beautiful that day than ever before.

She expected him to finally admit to his feelings for her in plenum at dinner even though some of his friends would be present. Also, she expected him to wear a tie for once at the ceremony.

Her mother expected the marriage to last six months or a year at the most; in a year she expected her daughter to realize her mistake and marry the nice clean young man she had picked out for her.

The bride’s father expected it to be a very successful event. He expected that he had greased the wheels sufficiently and now after the ceremony, they would all practically slip through dinner and he could sit back at the end of the day with a job well done.

The groom’s father expected to get some sleep during the ceremony.

The groom’s mother expected to be driven mad by the bride’s mother before they were done with the first course.


His tie had been ruined during the stag party, so he did not wear one. Instead he made faces at one of his friends in the front pew which made his mother prod his father to hiss complaints at him which in turn kept his father awake.

When the bride finally came in, her face was red and puffy from crying and her dress made her look like an overweight snowman. Also, the music was much too loud for the groom’s father to fall asleep.

At dinner the groom held a speech with a few humorous anecdotes, but no feelings involved. And this, combined with the fact that his friends interrupted the other speeches during the first course, no matter how much the bride’s father shushed them, made the bride feel that she could never leave him. At least not before she had taught him how to express himself.

But close to the end of the first course a shrill voice called out and the groom’s mother flung her plate at the bride’s mother, threw her chair into the wall with enough force to chip the plaster, and stormed off to find her car, and thus, she at least had her expectations met.

The Mystery of the Missing Post

Me: Where did my post go?

Bacon (in his own dog-language): I’m sorry, I ea…

Me: What?

Bacon(might be called dog-latin): I eatedted it…

Me: How many times must I tell you? My posts are not for eat!

Bacon(wimpering): But nom?

Me: No nom! No eat! No!


As you can read above, Bacon ate my post, so that’s why there was no update yesterday. Also, I have suddenly fallen victim to amnesia, so I cannot just write it anew.

But on the bright side I can say that I have been very productive with respect to my new project. Yes, I have begun a new novel and have come quite a way already (look at the fancy progress bar 🙂 (it’s a working title)).

I hope to be ready with a proper story update tomorrow 🙂

It IS the Rabbit

‘I’ve got it right this time, I assure you.’ He tells me and drags me into the spectator seat with a wide smile.

‘You sure?’ I ask, ‘last time it did not even remove a hair.’

‘This time I’ve given it armour underneath the hair and its teeth are edged with diamond.’

‘You’ve wasted diamonds on this mad project?’ I raise one eyebrow.

‘Just look,’ he points. I look down through the bulletproof glass at the two small white rabbits in the arena. One munching lettuce, the other completely still.

‘You can’t even tell them apart,’ he says.

‘Except one of them isn’t breathing.’

‘I haven’t turned it on yet, I wanted you to see.’

‘Well hurry up then,’ I say, ‘I have other things to do than watch your failed experiments.’

His lip twitches as he picks up a remote control. He presses a button. I stare down at the arena as the still rabbit seems to come to life. Its sides moving gently up and down, it takes a small hop towards the other rabbit. And another. The real rabbit stops munching. The copy takes another hop.

The little rabbit launches forwards and severs the copy’s head from its shoulders laying bare all the wires in its neck. Then the rabbit goes back to munching lettuce.

‘No!’ he shouts, ‘it can’t do that.’

‘You saw it,’ I say, ‘we lost near fifty men taking it from the cave, remember?’

He whimpers pressing the remote control buttons in vain. I sigh.

‘Just make sure it doesn’t escape.’ And I leave him to his grief.

32 Night

The stars shine down on her and the frozen field beneath her feet. Small clouds drifting from her mouth, she stares towards the east. She stares and wishes with all her might that there will be another sunrise. She hopes her wishes will somehow affect the matter for the better.

Some might say that another sunrise was as probable as time passing, but seeing the clear starry moonless sky, the stiffened grass which can be broken off with a crunch and feeling the cold growing ever more intense, she is not so sure. And she feels that she has to do something, even if that something is only staring towards the east and hoping for the best. Because if she just stopped concentrating, if she just went home or did something else and there was never another sunrise, she would forever regret not doing the little she was able.

So she stands still, staring, hoping. And hopefully, another sunrise will come before she becomes as stiff as the frozen grass.

31 Flowers

He built his new home on a meadow covered with small white flowers. It was a respectable distance from the forest (there might be wild beasts in there) and far enough from the river to avoid the mud. He congratulated himself at having found a place where there was no people for miles around, but he still only had to clear a few flowers before building. He set his horses free. Maybe they would find their way back or maybe they would just run free, he did not care. He did not need them anymore. He was never going back to the so-called civilisation.


Taking the tools he needed from his wagon, he began his work, whistling a melody his parents might have taught him long ago. The sun was warm and in the heat the sweet smell of the flowers made the air and his head heavy, but he refused to stop his work before sundown. The flowers stirred in the wind.


He slept in the wagon that night and the next morning some of the flowers had grown up around the wheels of his wagon. He found it passing strange that they had grown that quickly, but he cleared them away and continued his work in the warm sweet heavy air with the flowers swaying in the breeze.


When the wooden hut was finished, he stepped back hot and sweaty and laughed. Since there was no reason to be ashamed of his laugh (after all there were only the flowers to hear) he laughed very long and very loud. He could almost imagine the flowers stirring at the noise.


He noticed then, that while he had been finishing the roof, the flowers had crept up the walls of his house. He considered removing them, but they did give a rather idyllic touch to the place. So he let them be. That night he brought his pillow and blankets into the house, closed the shutters of the glassless windows and settled down for a good night’s rest after a job well done.


The flowers were silent as they crept through the cracks, slid across the floor, under his blanket. He did not wake even when they curled around his torso and neck and gently squeezed the life out of him. When morning came the hut and the wagon were already disassembled and the meadow was smooth again except for one lumpy tussock covered with small white flowers.

Namé Hara – The Big Day part 2 of 2

‘Hi, Namé,’ Laila hugged her and Namé hugged back keeping her eyes on the door, but without finding the one she was looking for.

‘Hi,’ said Namé. Only about half the class had arrived, there was still time. That was what she told herself, but her heart was already panicking.

‘Namé!’ said Laila and Namé jumped.


‘I was talking to you.’

‘Oh, sorry…’

‘Why are you so nervous?’

‘It’s just, today is the day we have to choose partners…’

‘Don’t worry,’ said Laila, ‘I’m sure miss Jefferson will let us be partners for another six months. There aren’t enough boys anyway.’

‘Oh, uh,’ Namé throat was suddenly all dry, ‘actually, I thought that maybe,’ her voice was very small, ‘perhaps we should try ne… partn…’

‘What was that?’

‘New partners? Perhaps?’ said Namé.

‘What? Why?’

‘Err… well… Miss Jefferson said that it’s good practice to dance with someone you aren’t used to. And we could still you know, see each other when we’re not dancing.’

‘Are you trying to get rid of me?’

‘What? No. I just thought perhaps-’

‘Alright, go find some other partner then,’ was that tears in Laila’s eyes?, ‘see if I care!’ Laila stormed off into the corridor.

‘Wait!’ Namé went after her, ‘Wait!’ When she came out into the corridor, she saw Laila running towards the toilet. After a quick glance back at the studio she followed. Laila reached the toilet and slammed the door after her. Namé skidded to a halt in front of the door.


‘Go away.’

‘Laila, it really isn’t like that,’ said Namé.

Sullen silence.

‘I loved being your partner, I’d just really like to dance with… someone else.’

‘I understand,’ said Laila, ‘you just want to dance with anyone else but me. So go ahead, I don’t care.’

‘No, it’s just,’ Namé sighed, ‘it’s someone special.’

‘I said, I don’t care. Go away!’

‘I’m really sorry,’ Namé looked at her watch, it was five minutes to. ‘I’ll see you later.’ Namé ran back to the dance studio.

She made it just in time to see Natalia walking up to Victor with a smile, a smile that was perhaps a little bit more than just an ‘I-am-nervous’ smile, and Victor returned the smile, perhaps it was an ‘I-am-happy-to-see-you’ smile, and Natalia said something still smiling her ‘I-sort-of-like-you’ smile, and Victor smiled and nodded as if saying ‘I-like-you-too’, and right there Namé Hara first saw the ugly green monster they call jealousy, and she felt like destroying them or ripping them apart or… but then perhaps both smiles were in fact an ‘I-love-you’ kind of smiles, and perhaps if she had told them how she felt, they would not laugh or be angry, but be sad for her, for as her mother said, love was never planned, it just happened, and maybe they  would make each other happy, and perhaps they were happy, very very happy without Namé, perhaps everyone in the dance studio would in fact be much happier without Namé, and jealousy was pushed aside by grey despair and she left the dance studio without a word to anyone.

Namé Hara – The Big Day part 1 of 2

Today, Namé Hara told herself, staring into the eyes of her reflection, today was the day. Today was her chance and after today they would all know how she felt, and some of them might laugh, but that would only be the stupid ones, and she would not care about that.

Feelings were like steam her mother said, keep them inside and the pressure will just keep building, until you explode. Also, if things went as she hoped, she would spend at least the next six months in bliss. She saw the cheeks in the mirror redden, the lips smile. She could do it, she told herself, today.


Her belly was full of butterflies as she entered the dance studio. She was the first to arrive other than the instructor, miss Jefferson.

‘Hello Namé,’ she said, ‘you’re early today.’

‘Hello, Miss Jefferson,’ said Namé.

‘Do you know who you want to be your dancing partner for the next semester?’

Namé nodded.

‘I think I can guess who,’ miss Jefferson winked.

Namé stared up at her. She knew?

‘You and Laila are practically inseparable; you must have been sisters in another life.’

Namé sighed. She did not know. Laila was her best friend it was true, but she wanted to dance with someone else.


The other dancers trickled into the studio. Namé shifted her weight from foot to foot, waiting, waiting… Then Laila stepped in. On any other day Namé would have run over and hugged her, but today she experienced a strange sinking feeling as Laila saw her, waved and made straight for her.

Colours and Fragments on Smashwords

See the world through new eyes, witness the troubles of a father who wishes to be with his son, or a husband who had a black out because of his wife’s frying pan. Experience the happiness a sword can bring and follow a young girl seeking solace.

I have collected 19 of my short stories/flash fiction texts and published an e-book on Smashwords.com with them. Many of them can also be read here on my blog, but some of them cannot.

It can be bought here: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/252576.

I want to say thank you up front for every purchase/donation, and thank you to all of you wonderful people who have read my blog and/or commented and/or liked.

As an extra thank you, the first two people who comment on this post and write what their favourite text from my blog is, will receive  coupons for a free copy of Colours and Fragments 🙂

Thank you again all of you, I hope you will enjoy all my future posts!




Scrapbook vs Diary

There are memories in my scrapbook. Of places and people I once knew. There are pictures of a dog I once had, and exotic fish from a tropical island which I visited with someone special.

They are all right there on the pages as if they had never changed at all. Time is frozen in my scrapbook.

There are thoughts in my scrapbook. Some of the most beautiful thoughts I ever had are there. Thoughts I shared with strangers, thoughts my best friends shared with me, and thoughts I only ever shared with one particular person.

I will probably never think anything to compare with those thoughts again, but they are all there in my scrapbook.

After the last page in my scrapbook there are about two unrecorded months and then there is my diary.

My diary is my life after the scrapbook. In my diary, time crawls at a snail’s pace.

It has entries like:

What will I need to sleep?

–          A large t-shirt. Very big and so worn and soft that the fabric might rip at any time.

–          Boxer shorts, about half a size too big.

–          Sleepytime-socks. Thick, warm, fuzzy.

–          Eiderdown big enough for two.

–          King-size bed, so that I can toss and turn without falling out. Or at least without falling out of bed before half the night is through.

Do I have these things? Yes. Goodnight.

And details like which hand soap I use and where I shop (it is always the same store), and how often (only when I absolutely have to) and long ramblings about my scrapbook and how my diary is compared to it.

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