I am the discoverer of Plato’s ATLANTIS and the revealer of a generations long mystery, thanks to God; others did not know the Biblical system of the eonian times and could not identify Atlantis. But I do. Atlantis is complex theology, not history or archeology. Read my groundbreaking book, now in the Royal Library, Den Haag, – isbn 978 9083 4502 09. Tribulation Timeline [Here]

Het evangelie van de genade door Jezus Christus, via de apostel Paulus is de onderstroom van deze website en van mijn bediening. Daarnaast deinst deze website mee op de schokgolven van boeken als “Gekaapt door het Kapitaal” van Mirjam de Rijk, “Cydonia Codex” door George Haas en William Saunders en “Final Events” door Nick Redfern. Mijn website werd in de bibliotheek geblokkeerd vanwege niet passende content. Desondanks promoot de bibliotheek zelf het kinderboek “Petrova en de Wolf” van ene Bart nogwat, inderdaad over jongens die zich als meisjes verkleden. 

Pray, donate for Tony, pray for Pete Meye

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A BIBLICAL RESPONSE
TO PLATO’S ATLANTIS

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– Mijn baanbrekende “Atlantis in de Bijbel” speurwerk en…
– Ter herinnering aan die lange, zwoele, warme en mysterieuze Hollandse zomer van 1976
– De god van de Bijbel is de ene god en Jezus is zijn middelaar en enige zoon die op een beestachtige manier aan het kruis voor mijn zonden stierf maar die drie dagen later was opgewekt door zijn Vader in de hemel.
– (Mattheüs `8:5-10, Jezus plaatst het geloof van de Centurion tegenover het weke geloof van zijn eigen volk.)

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MASTER THESIS, GROUND BREAKING BIBLE RESEARCH ON PLATO’S ATLANTIS

atlantis 2024 cover

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MY BOOK ON WATTPAD

It’s NOT drones

[666 COMING]

The Golden Age of Science and Technology that the Maya called “the Fourth World,” the Egyptians called “Zep-Tepi” (the First Time), and the Greeks called ATLANTIS…
– Richard C. Hoagland [The Enterprise Mission, 15/6/2001] [Podcast] 

THE ENTERPRISE MISSION

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REVELATION 17-18: IS ENDTIMES BABYLON AN INFLATABALE BARRACK?

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ATLANTIS WAS NOT SANTORINI

A recurring echo from science and all kinds of Atlantis researchers is that the demise of Atlantis would have something to do with the volcanic eruption Thera of the tiny island of Santorini. I would pay no attention to this nonsense were it not for the fact that this echo keeps recurring. Santorini lies diagonally above Crete which is also already on the radar of Atlantis researchers. But there is no volcanic eruption in Plato’s Atlantis story. Atlantis went down by a very severe earthquake, according to Kritias 108. Both a BBC podcast of September 22, 2022 and the Groene Amsterdammer Jaargang 148, number 28-29 (Joost de Vries) drew the Santorini map. The BBC even invited a volcanologist. From a volcanologist but also from an intellectual magazine like the Groene Amsterdammer, we would at least expect them to distinguish between an earthquake and a volcanic eruption. But nothing of the sort. Santorini is 7.7 times smaller than the Dutch Wadden Island of Texel. Surely no one believes that this little mutt dominated the world’s oceans 9,000 years before Christ. Besides, Plato’s Atlantis was located outside Gibraltar in the Atlantic Ocean. And what’s more, Santorini had ten kings who were descendants of Poseidon, all facts that modern scientists and self-appointed intellectuals waltz over just to keep out Biblical explanations. In a response to my post about this to the Groene Amsterdammer, I was told that my post did not fit within their magazine (their email from 24/7/2024). For a strange reason a volcano eruption that was nowhere mentioned in Plato’s Atlantis story did fit in Joost de Vries’ Atlantis article in their magazine. Nowhere in his long article did Joost de Vries mention source references to Plato’s Kritias or Timaios, nor to the Bard Taliesin who hurled the Arthur story into the world. The letters “Tal” also show up in the name of Atlantis. Apparently this does fit the rules of the Green Amsterdammer. Calling Atlantis Santorini is simply the Przied Pet theory. This theory, like other curiosity theories, keeps the Bible out.

Bad BBC Postcast on Atlantis
Atlantis is not the first historical fiction, but anti-Semitism in which Zeus dethrones the God of the Bible and in which Israel, the eons and the resurrection of Jesus are completely absent. Not a word about the eonian times, the role of idol Academos, the demonic bloodlines of the ten kings. Atlantis is an anti-imperialist story? Come on, you believe it yourself? Goodbye “Professors”. here]

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Groene Amsterdammer, jaargang 148, nr. 28-29, p. 68-71
Stuk over Avalon en Atlantis. Wat Avalon betreft: koning Arthur als een afgeleide van Assur (Assyrië) wordt niet genoemd. De ruïnes op Malta worden genoemd die van 3500-2500 voor christus zouden dateren. Dit is voor de Vloed van Noach. Volgens 2 Petrus 3:6 was de Wereld van de Voortijd compleet weggevaagd dus de ruïnes op Malta zijn veel jonger. In verband met Atlantis wordt de Santorini kaart getrokken met de vulkaan uitbarsting van de Thera. Het eiland Santorini ligt iets boven Kreta. Maar in het Atlantis verhaal komt geen vulkaanuitbarsting voor, wel een aardbeving. Santorini ligt ook niet voor de kust van Spanje in zee, laat staan dat Santorini ooit een machtig eiland was dat alle wereldzeeën domineerde. De beschaving van Kreta wordt Minoïsch genoemd in plaats van Filistijns. Minoïsch is afgeleid van de mythische koning Minos. De Filistijnen van Kreta koloniseerden Gaza. In het stuk ontbreken de aionische tijden die nodig zijn om Atlantis te identificeren. Mijn reactie op dit stuk alsmede een eigen stuk dat in hen op 22/7/2024 toe mailde werd niet geplaatst omdat het niet binnen hun “frame” of zoiets paste. Kortom, de progressieve linkse elite die altijd zo tegen een Fort Europa tekeer gaat is zelf een fort waar je als Jan met de Pet niet tussenkomt.

Lees hier

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Shame on you, self proclaimed researchers!

De Groene Amsterdammer is popularly known as a progressive, left-wing critical Dutch magazine. They are known for their lucid analyses. Or are they? In Year 148 (2024) issue 26, Marian Donner already wrote about aliens without adding what exactly she means by aliens? Extraterrestrials or demonic powers? She even chattered about extraterrestrial octopuses. That such nonsense ends up in the Green gives us pause for thought. Because her piece is now behind a pay wall, I do not want to discuss it further. In Marian Donner’s piece I also missed the source reference to the report of one Lynn Catoe who predicted long ago that UFOs have much more to do with poltergeist phenomena.

In issue 28-29 of Volume 148, one Joost de Vries wrote a piece on Avalon, King Arthur’s island. He also made a side-step to Atlantis but his focus was on Avalon. Regarding Avalon, nowhere did I come across the reference to the bard Taliesin who wrote about King Arthur in his poem Preiddeu Annwn. In this poem, the sea participates and Arthur resembled King Atlas going down in the waves. The letters “Tal” also appear in Atlantis and have something to do with raising or thrusting up. It is a miss that Joost de Vries did not make this link. Joost de Vries does not mention source references to the Kritias or Timaios anywhere in his Atlantis consideration. He plays it safe by following the lead of his many predecessors by drawing the Santorini card. Santorini is a tiny island, of roughly 35 square kilometers and located something like 80 kilometers above Crete. It is much smaller than Texel.

No one believes that after all, that in a gray past this island dominated the world’s oceans and terrorized the rest of the world, that according to Kritias 119 the island possessed tens of thousands of chariots all shipped to Athens. Of all the options, academics chose the least logical option. Atlantis, according to Kritias 108 was larger than Libya and Asia Minor combined. Well that cannot be said of Santorini but this does not bother the academics. Atlantis was beyond Gibraltar in the sea, Santorini is above Crete in the sea. And Atlantis in particular went down by an earthquake according to Kritias 108. For convenience, academics assume that the volcanic eruption of the Thera volcano near Santorini had something to do with it. A volcanic eruption is very different from an earthquake, but the academics and journalists are happy just to get some closure to their rambling explanations from all sides. The progressive open-mindedness ends when you point out to the academics the ten kings of Atlantis who were all sons of Poseidon and therefore not human beings.

The door is then slammed shut after which the Santorini option resurfaces. It is safe to say that academics have chosen the least logical option for Plato’s Atlantis. To my critique email to the Green I received the reply on 24/7/2024 that my critique did not fit the Green. After which I mailed back that in Plato’s Atlantis story volcanoes not mentioned apparently did fit the Groene Amsterdammer. It remained silent which marked their weakness. Two things that bother me: every option is considered as long as the Bible stays out. If you come up with a Concordant Biblical answer to the Atlantis mystery, the law of unreasonableness kicks in and they put their foot down. Strange but true. Secondly, De Groene Amsterdammer is part of an elite Us-Kent-Ons circuit that Jan met de Pet does not get into. There are people who know much more about UFOs than Marian Donner and I am the Atlantis expert. Nevertheless, my kind of people don’t get access to the chattering media. If you don’t have the right last name or title you don’t belong.

The same criticism applies to the BBC podcast of Sept. 22, 2022 in which a volcanic eruption was also mentioned. Atlantis was called the first historical fiction rather than the first Greek anti-Semitic story in which the Greek god Zeus punished Atlantis, thus dethroning the god of the Bible of his omnipotence.

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De Groene Amsterdammer is in de volksmond een progressief, links kritisch Hollands magazine. Ze staan bekend om hun heldere analyses. Of toch niet? In Jaargang 148 (2024) nummer 26 schreef Marian Donner al over aliens zonder erbij te zetten wat ze precies met aliens bedoelt? Buitenaardsen of demonische machten? Ze kletste zelfs over buitenaardse octopussen. Dat zulke lariekoek in de Groene terechtkomt, geeft te denken. Omdat haar stuk nu achter een betaalmuur zit, wil ik er verder niet op ingaan. In Marian Donners stuk miste ik ook de bronvermelding naar het rapport van ene Lynn Catoe die al lang geleden voorspelde dat ufo’s veel meer met poltergeist verschijnselen te maken hebben.

In nummer 28-29 van Jaargang 148 schreef ene Joost de Vries een stuk over Avalon, het eiland van koning Arthur. Hij maakte ook een zijstap naar Atlantis maar zijn focus was op Avalon. Aangaande Avalon kwam ik nergens de verwijzing naar de bard Taliesin tegen die in zijn gedicht Preiddeu Annwn over koning Arthur schreef. In dit gedicht doet de zee mee en leek Arthur op koning Atlas die in de golven ten onder ging. De letters “Tal” duiken ook in Atlantis op en hebben iets met verhogen of omhoog stuwen te maken. Het is een misser dat Joost de Vries deze link niet gelegd heeft. Joost de Vries noemt in zijn Atlantis beschouwing nergens bronverwijzingen naar de Kritias of Timaios. Hij speelt op safe door in navolging van zijn vele voorgangers de Santorini kaart te trekken. Santorini is een piepklein eilandje, van pakweg 35 vierkante kilometer en ligt iets van 80 kilometer boven Kreta. Het is veel kleiner dan Texel.

Niemand gelooft dat toch dat dit eiland in een grijs verleden de wereldzeeën domineerde en de rest van de wereld terroriseerde, dat het eiland volgens Kritias 119 tienduizenden strijdwagens bezat die alle naar Athene verscheept waren. Van alle opties kozen academici de minst logische optie. Atlantis was volgens Kritias 108 groter dan Libië en Klein Azië samen. Nou dat kunnen we van Santorini niet zeggen maar hier storen de academici zich niet aan. Atlantis lag voorbij Gibraltar in zee, Santorini ligt boven Kreta in zee. En vooral Atlantis ging volgens Kritias 108 door een aardbeving ten onder. Voor het gemak gaan de academici ervan uit dat de vulkaaneruptie van de Thera vulkaan bij Santorini er iets mee te maken had. Een vulkaaneruptie is heel iets anders dan een aardbeving maar de academici en journalisten zijn allang blij als ze hun van alle kanten rammelende verklaringen een beetje sluitend krijgen. De progressieve ruimdenkendheid houdt op als je de academici op de tien koningen van Atlantis wijst die alle zonen van Poseidon waren en dus geen mensen.

De deur wordt dan dicht geslagen waarna de Santorini optie weer boven komt drijven. We kunnen gerust zeggen dat academici de minst logische optie hebben gekozen voor Plato’s Atlantis. Op mijn kritiek mail aan de Groene kreeg ik op 24/7/2024 het antwoord dat mijn kritiek niet bij de Groene Paste. Waarna ik terug mailde dat in Plato’s Atlantis verhaal niet genoemde vulkanen blijkbaar wel in de Groene Amsterdammer pasten. Het bleef verder stil waarmee hun zwaktebod getekend is. Twee zaken die mij storen: elke optie wordt in overweging genomen zolang de Bijbel maar buiten de deur blijft. Kom je met een Concordante Bijbels antwoord op het Atlantis mysterie aan dan treedt de wet van onredelijkheid inwerking en houdt men de poot stijf. Eigenaardig maar waar. Ten tweede: De Groene Amsterdammer maakt deel uit van een elitair Ons-kent-Ons circuit waar Jan met de Pet niet tussenkomt. Er zijn mensen die veel meer van ufo’s weten dan Marian Donner en ik ben de Atlantis deskundige. Niettemin krijgen mijn soort mensen geen toegang tot de kletsmedia. Als je niet de juiste achternaam hebt of geen titel hebt dan hoor je er niet bij.

Dezelfde kritiek geldt ook voor de BBC podcast van 22 september 2022 waarin ook een vulkaan eruptie genoemd werd. Atlantis werd de eerste historische fictie genoemd in plaats van het eerste Griekse antisemitische verhaal waarin de Griekse god Zeus Atlantis strafte en daarmee de god van de Bijbel van zijn almacht onttroonde.

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BIBLE, JESUS

THE SON OF GOD, HIS PHOTO SCAN HAD BEEN PRESERVED FOR 2,000 YEARS
WHILE THE JEWS USED TO FORBID REVEALING IMAGES.

Creative Commons, Wikipedia,
commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Holy_Face_of_Jesus_from_Shroud_of_Turin_%281909%29.jpg

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CONCORDANT.ORG, BIBLE

From the heavens the stars fought, from their courses they fought against Sisera. – Judges 5:20

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I am an ex-atheist. My systematic search for Atlantis in the Bible shows that I am not an overnight believer. Romans 5:5 says that you can only believe if God puts the Holy Spirit in you. This is also stated in 2 Corinthians 1:21-22, Ephesians 1:13-14 and 4:30. In Matthew 3:16 we read that the spirit of God did indeed descend on Jesus like a dove after he was baptized. In verse 3:17 followed by the voice that came from heaven from none other than God. In Mark 1:11, Luke 3:22, Matthew 17:5, Luke 9:35, 2 Peter 1:17 and John 12:28 we also read very clearly about the voice of God sounding. These things may sound very strange to our ears. The fact is that we have a mysterious life-giving spirit within us anyway. We breathe and our body temperature is around 37 degrees. This can only be explained if we assume a mysterious force within us that is the spirit of God. We can then understand it a little better that it requires an update of God’s holy spirit so that we function better.

We can dismiss the Bible as a book of fairy tales. We cannot ignore the many witnesses who testified to a handful of resurrections from the dead. Jesus, Peter and Paul raised people from the dead. Jesus himself was raised from the dead. According to 1 Corinthians 15, over 500 witnesses had seen Jesus after the resurrection. Let’s dwell a little more on that special book that is the Bible and contains the Word of God. That God was working out a plan with Israel but had already selected in the Garden of Eden the Body of Christ (The believers according to 1 Corinthians 15:3-4) called outside of israel, (Ephesians 1:4) no charlatan could conceive.

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Onze echte identiteit: Bijbel versus Erik Erikson

NIET TROUWEN IS BETER,
1 KORINTHE 7:38

THE ROD, THE ROOT AND THE FLOWER

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Stop de MacDonalds identiteit van nep-autonomie. Hoe meer we aan zelf ontplooiing doen, hoe meer we de bevestiging van anderen zoeken. Zoek God. In het moderne westerse denken is het je onderschikken aan een god hetzelfde als onderdrukt worden door God. De slappe kreet “jezelf zijn” is de meest expressieve uitdrukkingsvorm van de gedachte dat je de baas over jezelf bent. De Bijbel leert inderdaad het tegenovergestelde. Jezus zegt: wie zijn leven vindt, zal het kwijtraken en wie wie zijn leven vanwege mij verliest zal het redden, Mattheüs 10:39, 16:25; Markus 8:35; Lucas 9:24; Johannes 12:25. De zoektocht naar onszelf pakt vaak averechts uit. Hoe meer we onszelf proberen te vinden hoe meer we naar goedkeuring van anderen verlangen (Rosner, 2022, p. 188). Het advies van Jezus is op zijn zachtst gezegd “merkwaardig”. In 1 Korinthe 6:19-20 staat dat wij niet van onszelf zijn. Wij zijn los gekocht met een prijs. 1 Korinthe 6:19-20 rekent af met onze autonomie.

De echte opdracht in Matteüs 28:19: Gaat dan henen, discipelt alle volken in mijn naam en leert hen onderhouden al wat Ik u bevolen heb. (Geen doop, geen drie-eenheid)

MacDonalds identiteit
Zelf ontplooiing door louter naar binnen te kijken leidt tot een platte MacDonalds identiteit die bij de eerste tegenslag een deuk oploopt. Echter, met onze identiteit in Christus zijn wij als een stad op een heuvel, Mattheüs 5:13-16 en een nieuwe schepping, 2 Korinthe 5:17.

Stellingen bij de lezing van ing. H. Wiegers

1. De ‘geschiedkundige’ natuurwetenschappen als historische geologie, historische astronomie (astrofysica) en paleontologie zijn noch echte geschiedwetenschappen, noch echte natuurwetenschappen, maar speculatieve natuurfilosofie. 

2. Spreken over een hoge ouderdom van aarde en heelal is alleen mogelijk door het actualiteitsprincipe (in het heden ligt het verleden) als dogma te gebruiken. Daardoor acht men onbegrensd extrapoleren vanuit het heden naar het verleden een vanzelfsprekende zaak.

3. De geologische tijdschaal is geen echt tijdrekenkundig kader, maar een schema gebaseerd op de volgorde van geologische biologische sporen van feiten’. Deze ‘feiten’ zijn met behulp van de idee van veronderstelde progressie in de ontsluiting van het leven- gereconstrueerd.

4. Het reduceren van de schepping tot wat daarover geopenbaard is in Genesis 1: 1, 2 is een gevolg van het” natuurwetenschappelijk toegankelijk maken” van het daarop aansluitende deel van Genesis 1. De scheppingsweek wordt zo vervangen door de zg. kosmische evolutie van het geschapene. Consequent redeneren vanuit deze gedachte leidt tot ondermijning van de waarheid van de Heilige Schrift.

5. Het door de Wijsbegeerte der Wetsidee gepostuleerde wordings- of ontsluitingsproces is een speculatieve evolutionistische idee, die in feite in de plaats komt van Gods betrouwbare openbaring over zijn scheppingswerk.

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So many folks say that God does not exist.
But then what about God’s voice in,
A. Matthew 3:17, Mark 1:11, Luke 3:22;
B. Matthew 17:5, Luke 9:35, 2 Peter 1:17;
C. John 12:28.

If there is no God, to whom did Jesus speak in John 11:41-42?

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If you believe that Jesus had died for our sins (Not instead of)
and that he was entombed
and that he three days later
was raised from the death by God,
you are saved – 1 Corinthians 15:3-4

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Bijbelse tijdslijn

Goedbericht

https://www.bringthemhome-diy.com/

https://cvandaag.nl/98416-oorlog-in-isral-laat-zien-dat-we-in-profetisch-spannende-tijden-leven

scripture4all

Concordante Publicaties

Sonic Christ

Scheppingsparadigma

E-Boeken

Bijbels Denken

Evangelie Om Niet

Toespraken

StudieBijbel

Concordant Publ.

Cydonia Codex

Amen

AmenTentmaker

Explosieve woorden

Ayaan Hirsi Ali Confession

KILLERS

Verdrukking Tijdslijn

Tribulation Timeline

Khan Academy

Learner Centered

Minerva Project

Te Gek voor Woorden

Bijstandsbond

Bijbelse links

Hollands Maandblad

VERZOENING

Dedan/Al Ula

Sonicchrist

Lola Pani

Historische Kring Almelo

Einat Wilf

Nirut Ben

SJAKIE VAN DE HOEK

Noa Tishby

Who Moved the Stone?

Bezalel

Bauhaus

Lynn Everly

Menno Ter Braak

Neom/Edom

Pars Times Arts

Inbar Cohen

Kooshk Residency

Bionic Woman

Gele Raaf

Aavisie

Perchance

Glamour Daze

Marieke Kuypers

Sleigh Ride

Winter Wonderland

Christmas Songs

FELIZ NAVIDAD

JALOEZIE IN DE BIJBEL

Gundelia Tournefortii pollen
found on the Turin Shroud

Sarcopoterium Spinosum pollen
found on the Turin Shroud

THE WORD OF THE CROSS

BESNIJDENIS AFDELING

LIVING WITH LUNG CANCER

CARLOS

Mail from an agnostic

Mail from an agnostic 2

Mail from an agnostic 3

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COLLINS ELITE, FACT OR FICTION?

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If anything underscores my belief in the existence of God, it is the peacock. Why did God create the peacock? Because God is an artist and he had fun doing it (1 Kings 10:22). How much vodka must you have drunk to believe that a bucket of amino acids clumped together by chance and became a peacock after billions of years?

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How could a bucket of amino acids ever conceive of a black one wandering among all those white swans?

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The Eponymy cilinder of Belimuranni, prefect of Karchemis (691 BC). King Sennacherib of Arryria besieged Jerusalem and wrote about king Hezekiah who was hiding in his palace: “Himself like a caged bird within Jerusalem…” page 253, line 20. Compare this with Psalm 124:7, written by David, but also applicable to Hezekiah.

SCHEPPINGS PARADIGMA

The many everyday details about Jesus make the Bible so special. In Matthew 9:9-11. Jesus saw a toll collector sitting in his office. Then he went into a house where he sat at a table with all kinds of toll collectors and other idiots. People were gossiping about him. In Matthew 17:24-27, Jesus chatted about paying taxes. He himself also paid taxes with money that came out of the mouth of a fish. Did the tax authorities care where the money came from? Did they know about the supernatural origin of the money? In a later episode after his resurrection, we see how Jesus is lifted up in Acts 1:9-11 and mysteriously disappears into the clouds and then into his Father’s heaven. Two angels in white now know that he will return in the same way one day. In Acts 22:7-8, the resurrected and taken to heaven Jesus appeared to Paul as a kind of light being. Note that he was not an esoteric being because Jewish teaching is that Jesus was very physically present. That he had a glorified spiritual body does not mean that he is a ghost.

In John 21:15 Jesus ate fish and bread after his resurrection so he was not a ghost. In Acts 22:7-8 Jesus revealed himself as a physical and material being of light to the apostle Paul who was on his way to Damascus. Jesus reminded Paul that he was Jesus from Nazareth, the Nazarene. He had not forgotten his origins. The gospel mentions these two manifestations of Jesus. His heavenly manifestation is the ultimate form of the new creation that he brought to light with his resurrection. Our earthly bodies still have a lot to look forward to. However, it will be the select company of the Body of Christ that will also receive such a heavenly body. The rest will also receive earthly bodies as part of the new creation with perhaps more functions. The Bible calls it, get used to it.

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My eyes were drawn to the stunning stained glass windows of the church that cast a kaleidoscope of colors on the cold stone floor. Now my gaze shifted to the large crucifix hanging above the altar. The figure of Jesus, contorted in agony, was illuminated by the flickering candles. It was a sight I had seen a thousand times, but today it filled me with a strange unease. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but the suffering in Jesus’ expression seemed more vivid than ever. I felt an uncomfortable tightness in my chest, my heart beating faster than the steady rhythm of the candles’ dance. Jesus, a man like any other, had been nailed to that cross, endured unspeakable pain, and died for the sins of humanity. The weight of that burden hit me like a physical blow. I couldn’t fathom the horror of it all, the sheer brutality of that ancient act of punishment. It was as if the veil of time had lifted, as I was staring into the very heart of human suffering. The face of Jesus took on a new form, the painted eyes seemingly watching me, the thorn-wreathed head tilting slightly, as if in question. Why was I here? Why did he seek refuge in a place that held the image of such torment? Fedde felt a tremor of doubt run through him, a question that had lain dormant for too long now demanding an answer. 

I stared at Jesus’ wounds, the crimson paint stark against the pale wood of the cross. The nails, so cruelly embedded, the flesh torn and raw, the blood still seemingly fresh. The scene was a stark reminder of humanity’s capacity for cruelty. I had never truly thought about the reality of the crucifixion, the physical torment that Jesus had endured. It was a history lesson, a story, a sermon illustration – but not this visceral, not this real. The silence in the church grew oppressive, as if the very walls were holding their breath. I felt like an intruder in a sacred space, witnessing a moment of suffering that was never meant for my eyes. Yet, I couldn’t look away. The realization dawned on me that the event that had taken place in Jerusalem over two millennia ago was not just a tale of divine love but a grim chapter in the human narrative of pain and persecution. A moment that had echoed through the ages, shaping the world into what it was today.

I tried to imagine the sounds of that fateful day: the jeering crowds, the hammer’s sickening thud, the tearing of flesh. The smells of sweat and blood, the acrid tang of fear. It was all so alien, so far removed from the tranquil life I had always known. Yet, here I was, a silent observer to a tragedy that had unfolded on a hilltop far from home. A tragedy that had become the foundation of my faith. My thoughts grew darker as I contemplated the reality of the crucifixion. The humanity of Jesus, so often obscured by the grandeur of his divine status, was now laid bare before me. The son of God, subjected to the whims of angry men. The thought of it made my stomach churn, and my palms grew slick with a cold sweat. The comfort I had once found in the church’s embrace now felt like a mockery, a sanctimonious shield against the raw truth of what had been done in the name of righteousness.

I felt his own suffering, the burdens I had carried for years, grow heavier as I sat before the crucifix. Each betrayal, each disappointment, each time I had failed to live up to the ideals I held so dear, it all converged into a crushing weight. I had never seen myself as a sinner, not really. I had always done my best, had always tried to be a good man. But now, as I stared into the eyes of the crucified Jesus, I understood the true cost of redemption.

I closed my eyes, the image of Jesus on the cross etched in my mind. The thirst that he felt, the unbearable agony that wracked his body, it was all for me. For every lie I’ve told, every act of selfishness, every time I turned away from love. The enormity of his gift washed over me, a wave of humility that brought me to my knees. The rough fabric of the pew bit into my skin, grounding me in the reality of his suffering. The quietude of the sanctuary was a stark reminder of the solitude he must have felt in those final moments, abandoned by almost all who once called him friend.

Above the crucifix, the stained-glass window depicted the moment of his death, a riot of color that seemed to pulse with life despite the macabre scene. The light danced across Jesus’ face, casting a kaleidoscope of shadows that played across the floor. I watched the patterns shift and change, the colors blending and separating, much like the tumultuous emotions stirring within me.

My thoughts drifted to the disciples who had fled in fear, leaving him alone. Yet, even in his darkest hour, Jesus had not abandoned them. He had prayed for their forgiveness, a selfless act that transcended human comprehension. I wondered if I could ever show such courage, such unconditional love in the face of unspeakable pain.

The weight of his suffering grew heavier with each moment. The thirst that consumed him, the desperate cry of “Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?” – “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” – echoed in my mind. The vinegar-soaked sponge offered on a stick of hyssop was a stark symbol of the bitterness he bore for us. It was a poignant reminder that no matter how far we stray, his love remains steadfast.

My gaze drifted to the right of the crucifix, where the figure of Mary stood, a silent witness to her son’s anguish. Her eyes, filled with a sorrow so deep it seemed to hold the very essence of grief, bore into my own. I felt a pang of empathy for her, a mother’s love stretched to its breaking point. It was a love that had never wavered, not even in the face of unimaginable loss.

JERUSALEM WHITE-GOLDEN TILES

From: www.silestone-deutschland.com/en/Marble-tiles-Jerusalem_Stone

LAMIZ COFFEE

ARTISTS HOUSE TEHRAN

IRAN MALL

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5 MANIEREN OM DE KLAS STIL TE KRIJGEN

WELKE THERAPEUT OF COACH IS GESCHIKT VOOR MIJ?

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LOUVECIENNES

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I’M IN LOVE WITH AMENA KHAN

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AMENA KHAN NINJA

PLEATHER SKIRT

De serie The Bionic Woman met Jamie Sommers heeft mijn vrouwbeeld meer bepaald en wellicht verstoord dan alle porno. Nooit hoor ik iemand over valse romantiek, altijd gaat het weer over die porno.

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De grote liefde van mijn jeugd
Jamie Sommers

Onder

Jamie Sommers in The Bionic Woman (links) heeft mijn vrouwbeeld meer verstoord dan alle porno (rechts). Ik was psychotisch verliefd op haar. Dan trek ik mij liever de hele dag af op mijn schooljuf want een psychotische verliefdheid kan me gestolen worden. Hier hoor je de beschermd opgevoede christenen nooit over. Dan nog is het de vraag of dit niet gewoon mijn probleem is en niet het probleem van Jamie Sommers. 

Jamie Sommers in The Bionic Woman (left) has upset my perception of women more than all porn (right). I was psychotically in love with her. If so, I’d rather jerk off to my school teacher all day because a psychotic crush could be stolen from me. This is something you never hear the sheltered Christians talk about. Even then, the question is whether this isn’t just my problem and not Jamie Sommers’ problem.

Credit pic, Jamie Sommers: Artofit

Sex is Satan’s ultimate playground

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J.D. Myers, What is Hell?

When Jesus spoke about hell, he mentioned a literal hell in THIS life” – Brian Zahnd, Sinners in the hand of a loving god, p. 124. In: J.D. Myers, What is Hell?, p. 140. Hell in Colossians 1:13-14 is either a kingdom or personification of the forces of death at work in our world.

Charles Baudelaire once said, “The loveliest trick of the Devil is to persuade you that he does not exist.” The greater trick might be that satan hides right under my nose — in me—as self will, as ego, as the delusion of radical utonomy.

HEL OP AARDE

JACHT OP BIJSTANDSMOEDERS

GEZAG HEB JE ALTIJD

GELE RAAF

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ROMEINEN 13:1-7
OVERHEID GEHOORZAMEN
WAT ZOU JULIA DOEN?

NA 20 JAAR UIT DE WAJONG
KAN DAT NOG?

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LONG HOT DUTCH SUMMER OF 1976.
Pussycat was on the radio: “Georgie, your love reminds me of a song”

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Circe, Daughter of the sun

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Blokker, 17 december 2024

I’ve always had a peculiar relationship with that old Blokker shop on the corner of the main street. It wasn’t the kind of place I’d normally frequent, but there was something about it that tugged at my heartstrings. The red and orange stripes with the stark white and black letters had become a beacon in a sea of sameness that was modern city life. The store had been there since 1974, a silent sentinel watching the city grow around it, the people come and go, and the fashions change. It was the only constant in a place where everything else was perpetually in flux.

But today, as I locked up my bike against a billboard plastered with the latest tech gadgets, I noticed a sadness hanging over the storefront. The lights inside were dimmer than usual, and there was an eerie stillness that didn’t quite sit right. A small sign, almost hidden behind a plastic Christmas tree, read, “Closing Down Sale.” My heart sank. Another piece of my childhood was about to be swallowed by the relentless maw of progress. The thought of the Blokker being replaced by yet another cookie-cutter store offering the same cheap Chinese goods that could be found everywhere else made me feel empty.

I pushed open the heavy glass door and stepped inside, the familiar smell of plastic and dusty cardboard hitting me like a nostalgic wave. The aisles that once held a treasure trove of random knick-knacks now stood half-bare, picked over by bargain hunters eager to claim the last remnants of this institution. The cashiers, who had seen generations of shoppers, moved sluggishly, their eyes reflecting a mix of resignation and sadness. The air was thick with the weight of memories, and the echoes of laughter and bustle that once filled the space.

The Christmas decorations looked sadly out of place, like guests who hadn’t been told the party was over. A lonely Santa hat sat on a bare shelf, and the plastic reindeer looked more lost than festive. The shelves, usually cluttered with goods that could solve any home problem, now held only the stragglers—the half-priced Christmas lights with half the bulbs out and the odd-shaped Tupperware that no one ever knew what to do with. It was a stark contrast to the organized chaos that I had come to love about this place.

I meandered through the aisles, my eyes scanning the remnants of a once-thriving marketplace. Each empty space where products had been hastily removed was a little tombstone, a reminder of the joy they had brought to someone, somewhere. The store was a maze of nostalgia, each corner holding a memory of a forgotten purchase or a moment shared with a friend or family member. My hand brushed against a faded price tag, and I couldn’t help but wonder who had held it before me, what they had bought, and what happiness it had brought them.

I heard a soft sigh from an elderly woman, her eyes misty with unshed tears. She clutched a worn-out kitchen timer to her chest, one of the last of its kind. She looked up and caught my gaze, a shared look of mourning passing between us. We were both losing a piece of our history, a place that had seen us through good times and bad, a silent witness to our lives. The store had become a museum of the everyday, each object a relic of a simpler time. As the weeks turned to months, the stock grew more meager, the discounts deeper. Yet, the Blokker remained open, a stubborn holdout against the inevitable tide of change.

*

1976, also the Face on Mars was discovered in the Cydonia Mensae region.
Cydonia is the Land of Sidon (Ezekiel 28:21), means “to strike”

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mars castle

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HOW COULD THE 1976 VIKING MISSION SPOT A VIKING ON MARS?

CYDONIA VIKING

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Sol 4221: Chemistry & Camera (ChemCam) (2024-06-21 02:37:27 UTC). Credits: NASA/JPL-Caltech/LANL

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A HACKER CALLED ALIEN
JEREMY N. SMITH COACHING

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MAR AZUL, PUNTA DEL HIDALGO

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SOL26R2, Cyclopic walls
and Meso-American buildings in Twin Peaks area

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BLANDINA ROASTED

MOM

It’s been a year and a half since I last heard from my mother. She lives in the east of Holland, while I now call Amsterdam my home. I keep the cheap phone I bought in the market close, the only connection I have to her. The key to our old house and her phone number are the only things I still have from her, and I cling to them tightly. Every day, I stare at the phone, willing it to ring, but it never does. I’m afraid to lose our phone number, afraid it would sever the last remaining thread connecting us.

GUANCHE PRINCESS DACIL

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ALS IN DE DAGEN VAN NOACH EN VAN LOT

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That the God of the Bible gave us a faithful companion
– the dog – says everything about the nature of God. 

In the larger human world, soldiers are the vanguard of humanity.
In God’s world, animal and pet lovers are the vanguard.

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the stars are just tiny points of light in the vast sky, but together they create something beautiful – Amos 5:8

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Basisinkomen in Eindexamen VWO,
2024, opgaven en bijlage

*

*

*

DE ZONDEBOK

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Attacks on Israel Ignore

the Long History of Arab Conflict

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FEBRUARY 2013, TEHRAN CAFÉ

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DE WARME BAKKER

*

*

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Thomas Erskine: Letters

The atoning sacrifice

Laat de atheïstische evolutionist dan maar eens uitleggen, als hij dat kan, waarom het een feit is en blijft, dat de mens in essentie een godsdienstig wezen is. De mens kan eventueel zo diep zinken dat hij zelfs de mensheid vergoddelijkt en zichzelf tot zijn god maakt, maar hij móet een soort god hebben.1 Godsdienst is voor de mens noodzaak. [“Straatarabieren en progressieve denkers” is de classificatie van de heer Balfour voor de uitzonderingen op deze regel. (Defence of Philosophic Doubt)] – Sir Robert Anderson, Het Stilzwijgen van God, p. 36

*

DUURZAAM DOUCHEN

GEVANGEN IN DE CLOUDKLAS

Mom, where are you?

Genesis 37:35 – the sheol, “nothingness”
After the funeral, I find myself lost in memories of my mother. I reminisce about our shared moments, the laughter and tears, and the unspoken bond that connected us. I wonder where she is now, in this place called sheol, “nothingness.” I close my eyes and imagine her spirit floating among the stars, guiding me through the darkness. As I stand at her grave, I promise to honor her memory by living a life filled with love and kindness, just as she did.

The sun hangs low in the sky, its warmth no match for the chill that permeates the air. A light breeze rustles through the leaves of the trees, carrying with it a whisper of the past. I stand before the freshly dug grave, my heart heavy with grief as I take in the simple wooden casket that holds my mother’s remains. The funeral director, a kind-faced woman who had seen far too much sorrow, hands me a shovel. Gently, I begin to fill the grave, careful not to disturb the delicate soil that had been so lovingly prepared. Memories flood my mind, unbidden and relentless. There are the countless times she had tucked me into bed as a child, humming lullabies as she smoothed my hair away from my face. The countless meals she had cooked for our family, each dish more delicious than the last. The countless times she had sat beside me, listening patiently as I poured out my heart, never once judging or offering advice. And then there were the laughter-filled moments, the moments of pure joy that she had brought into our lives. A tear trickles down my cheek as I recall the last time I saw her. It was just a few short weeks ago, when she had been admitted to the hospital. Her once-vibrant spirit had been all but extinguished by the disease that ravaged her body. I held her frail hand, feeling the coldness of her skin against mine, and I knew then that this was the end. I leaned in close, pressing a kiss to her forehead, whispering words of love and reassurance that I prayed she could hear. Now, as I stand here, those memories are all that I have left. They are my constant companions, my comfort in a world that seems to have grown colder and darker without her. I close my eyes, willing myself to find some semblance of peace amidst the turmoil of my heart. And as I do so, I am overcome with the certainty that my mother’s spirit still lingers here, watching over me. A single tear rolls down my cheek, leaving a trail of moisture on my face. I wipe it away roughly, determined not to let my grief consume me. Instead, I focus on the promise I made to her as she lay dying in that hospital bed. I promised to live a life filled with love and kindness, just as she did. And as I stand here now, surrounded by the beauty and the pain of life, I know that the task ahead of me is both daunting and essential. I take one last look at the grave before me, and with a deep breath, I turn away. My journey has only just begun. But with each step I take, I carry with me the memory of my mother, and the knowledge that her love will always be a part of me. As the setting sun casts a warm glow across the landscape, I find myself hoping that one day I will join her in whatever lies beyond this world. Until then, I will honor her memory by living a life that is as vibrant and beautiful as she was.

*

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ZELFS EEN VUILNISMAN KAN EEN VERMOGENDE ZIJN

AUTORITEITSCRISIS IN DE KLAS

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Luke 1:46-55, And Mary said:
“My soul makes the Lord great, and my spirit rejoices over God my Savior, for He looks on the humiliation of His slave. For perceive, from now on all the generations will praise me happily. For the Mighty One does great things to me, and holy is His name. And His mercy is to generations and generations, to those who fear Him. He does mightily by His upper arm, He scatters apart haughty ones in the thinking of their hearts. He brings down rulers from thrones and He exalts the humble. Those who hunger He feeds with good things, and those who are rich He sends away empty. He sustained Israel, His boy, to remember mercy, as He speaks to our fathers, to Abraham and to his seed, to the aion.”

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MASTER THESIS

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BEYOND BULLETPROOF

I WAS JUST A BAR TENDER

DE MEDIA DOEN HUN WERK

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Wonderen bij het vertrek van de Shekinah

In de lente van 66 na christus in de aanloop naar de oorlog, voltrokken zich een paar ongelofelijke wonderen die volgens Josephus te maken hadden het het vertrek van de Shekinah van de tempel naar de Olijfberg. Flavius Jospehus zegt: 

“Wat ik nu schrijf lijkt op een losgeslagen fantasie maar dan wel een hele vreemde. Ware het niet dat het gebeurde door diverse getuigen is waargenomen en ware het niet dat er verdere gebeurtenissen op volgden…”

“Ten eerste was er opvallende ster boven de stad die de verschijning had van een zwaard. En er was een komeet die een heel jaar zichtbaar bleef.”

“Een week voor Pasen in het jaar 66 scheen er om 3 uur ’s ochtends, 30 minuten lang een groot licht over het altaar. Daarna verdween het.”

“Gedurende Pasen gingen de enorme deuren van de oostelijke poorten van Nicanor uit zichzelf open.”

“Tijdens Pinksteren, voor zonsondergang werden en aan de hemel tussen de wolken triomfwagens en troepen soldaten gezien, compleet met uitrusting en later ook rond de steden. Toen de priesters die nacht op pinksteren de tempel binnen gingen, voelden ze een heftig schudden van de tempel en hoorden ze veel lawaai. Daarna hoorden ze een grote menigte luidkeels roepen “laten we weggaan van hier.”

Zowel Josephus als rabbi Jonathan waren hier getuige van.

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Christianity was also, to my surprise, radical – far more radical than the leftist ideologies with which I had previously been enamoured. – Sarah Singer Stonebraker

*

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THE BOOK OF REMEMBRANCE – MALEACHI 3:16

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Gods zegen rust op Harriët Tom

Harriët Tom, een vrouw van 81 uit Enschede heeft ons land beroerd. Ze reisde af naar Maarssen waar zoiets als de Buitenplaats Doornburgh is. Het is een centrum voor kunst en wetenschap. Thans is er een expositie onder de Bijbelse naam Exodus gaande. De informatie hierover is nogal onduidelijk. De indruk wordt gewekt dat het Bijbels Museum in Maarssen staat terwijl andere informatie luidt dat er een verzameling van het Bijbels Museum in de Buitenplaats is. Maarsen, de Buitenplaats, het Bijbels Museum, drie locaties die maken de informatie er niet duidelijker op. Het Museum heeft geen vaste standplaats en is een reizend museum. Erg ingewikkeld allemaal, en je moet goed googelen om te achterhalen waar het precies om gaat. Op de website van het Bijbels Museum staan wel de stoere woorden “Bezinning en bezieling¨. Dat is leuk voor de bühne.

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Kunstwerk vernield
Goed dan, de tentoonstelling heet Exodus. De tag “Kunstwerk vernielt” is taalkundig al fout want vernield moet met een “d”. Erg slordig.

*

Deze 81 jarige mevrouw is tegen een zooi beeldjes van de godin Asjerah/Astarte tekeer gegaan. Ik zie het al voor me: een vrouw van 81 met een honkbalknuppel die beeldjes kapot mept. Wie is de godin Asjerah? Zij was de godin van de Sidoniërs (1 Koningen 11:5). Zidon ligt in Libanon en stichtte later Tyrus dat iets verderop ligt, lang voordat Beiroet de hoofdstad werd. Libanon was wat vroeger Kanaän heette, bekend vanwege de purperkleur die er verhandeld werd. De Griekse naam was Fenicië. Deze Asjerah werd In Jeremia 7:18 en 44:17-18 de Koningin van de Hemelen genoemd, een titel die later per abuis op de moeder van Jezus geplakt werd.

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De echte Exodus
Op een speciale webpagina die bij deze tag hoort staat informatie over de vernieling van de beeldjes. (1) Allereerst mis ik informatie waar de tentoonstelling Exodus over gaat. In de Bijbel gaat de Exodus over de Uittocht van de Joden uit de slavernij van Egypte. Deze ging met tien plagen gepaard die tegen de afgoden van Egypte gericht waren alsook tegen de Sfinx. Isis was één van deze afgoden. Asjerah was een masker van Isis. Dus ik snap niet hoe ze 3000 Asjerah beelden onder de noemer van een Exodus tentoonstelling kan plaatsen. Asjerah was de vijand van God en de Israëlieten. In Egypte was ze de vrouw van Osiris en de moeder van Horus.

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Asjerah palen
In Exodus 34 werd inderdaad de godin Asjerah genoemd. Maar wel op een totaal andere manier dan in deze tentoonstelling. In Exodus 34:13 riep God zelf op om de Asjerah palen om te kegelen. Waarschijnlijk waren dit de Obelisken. Als ik naar een expositie over Exodus ga dan verwacht ik wat te weten te komen over de route van de Uittocht. Deze ging via de Nijldelta en niet via de Rode Zee of de Golf van Aqaba. Als je een kunstenaar erbij betrekt, maak het publiek dan duidelijk dat riet niet in zout water groeit. Maak duidelijk dat de Migdol in Exodus 14:2 de Grote Piramide is. Maak duidelijk hoe God zijn volk uit de slavernij bevrijdde. Maar niks van dit alles.

*

Marieke Ploeg
Volgens de kunstenares duidt Asjerah op het vrouwelijke aangezicht van God. Flauwekul, Asjerah was een demonisch wezen. Dit staat in Psalm 96:5. In de mythe was ze de vrouwelijke metgezel van Baäl Satan. Zo was er de Ugaritische Baäl en Anath Cyclus waarin Anath een masker van Asjerah was. God riep zijn volk niet voor niets op om de gewijde palen te verwijderen. Nog meer flauwekul: de kunstenares wil de bezoekers aan het denken zetten over de rol van de vrouw in religie en verder over de rol van de vrouw in de samenleving. Het heeft dus allemaal niks meer met de Bijbelse thematiek van de Exodus te maken. Om de rol van de vrouw te benadrukken had de kunstenares de rol van Mozes’ zus Miriam er nog bij kunnen betrekken. Maar zelfs hier heeft de kunstenares geen moeite voor gedaan.

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3000 beeldjes
Dan moet dit Bijbels Museum eens uitleggen waarom er zo nodig 3000 beeldjes van Asjerah bij de expositie geplaatst werden en niet één of twee om bijvoorbeeld Exodus 34:13 toe te lichten? In deze vers werden Asjera palen genoemd, die waarschijnlijk Obelisken waren. Het was wel zo eerlijk geweest om er even bij te zetten of de beeldjes gratis zijn of wat ze anders kosten. In elk geval was het in Handelingen 19 de reden waarom de boze zilversmid Demetrius uit zijn dak ging. Hij had een handeltje in zilveren tempels van Artemis die blijkbaar goed verkocht werden. U raadt het nooit want Artemis was gewoon een masker van Asjerah. Toen kwam Paulus langs en hij verkondigde dat God niet langer in een tempel woonde die door mensenhanden gemaakt was. Demetrius zag zijn handel in rook op gaan en hij jutte het volk op. Het volk schreeuwde twee uur lang: “groot is Artemis van de Efeziërs”. Zoals het volk nu moord en brand schreeuwt over deze daad van een 81 jarige vrouw.

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Vrijheid van kunst
De reacties op de daad van Harriët Tom waren niet van de lucht. Met wollig taalgebruik werd de daad veroordeeld. De directrice van het Bijbels Museum, Carolien Croon zegt,

‘Het wordt ingewikkeld als je Godsbeeld zo vaststaat, dat het niet door een andere visie mag worden bevraagd. Dat is verdrietig, zeker in een samenleving met een grote culturele en religieuze diversiteit. Tolerantie en mensenliefde zijn daarin essentieel. (2)

Nounou, wat een omslachtig taalgebruik. Welke andere visie bedoelt Carolien hier? Dat Asjerah een aangezicht van God is? De rol van de vrouw in religie? Waarom staat de zus van Mozes dan niet centraal in de expositie? Het verhardde hart van Farao? Ik lees er niks over.

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Nep diversiteit
Dan die wollige woorden, religieuze diversiteit, tolerantie en mensenliefde. Deze tentoonstelling heeft niks met religieuze diversiteit te maken. Diversiteit ontstaat uit een brandpunt dat de opgestane christus is. De oecumene in Romeinen 16 is een totaal andere dan wat wij onder multicul flauwekul verstaan. Wat hier tolerantie genoemd wordt is oppervlakkige schijn-tolerantie. Nog wat wollige woorden voor de bühne,

“Kunst kan helpen om onszelf te onderzoeken.”

*

Bladiebladieblah. De expositie heeft duidelijk niks met de Bijbelse Exodus te maken. Ik zie niet in wat dit ook nog met zelf onderzoek te maken heeft.

De kunstenares, Marieke Ploeg zegt zelf over de vernieling:

Dit is ook waar dit werk om gaat: kunnen we in onze samenleving ruimte maken voor het kwetsbare, voor een open gesprek, met een open houding voor elkaars zienswijze?’

Blablablablabla, mooie wollige praatjes voor de bühne.

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Iemand op een weblog schrijft,

Harriët Tom is het voorbeeld van iemand die in een gesloten religieus wereldbeeld tot daden overgaat. (2)

Wat een ge-oordeel. Waarom zou haar gesloten wereldbeeld tot deze daad leiden en niet de expositie die schijntolerantie preekt en terecht weerzin opwekt? Als de expositie voor Blablabla zelfreflectie bedoeld is, wat is er dan op tegen om de reactie van Harriët Tom te respecteren? Waarom is het kapot maken van beeldjes opeens een foute manier van zelfreflectie? Wie bepaalt dit?

Bronnen

1. https://bijbelsmuseum.nl/kunstwerk-vernielt/

2. Knight, G. [29 sept. 2023] ND geeft vrouw een podium die Asjerabeeldjes vertrapte op tentoonstelling in Doornburgh
Geraadpleegd van
georgeknightlang.wordpress.com/2023/09/29/nd-geeft-vrouw-een-podium-die-asjarabeeldjes-vertrapte-op-tentoonstelling-in-doornburgh/

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I was born in Lil’ Rock, Had a childhood sweetheart …
My papa disapproved it. My mama boo hooed it”
– Stevie Wonder

Uprooting

isa en lotte

mother photos warehouse

ants

kei

wim en johnny

marianne and marlon

marina en fedde

*

*

BOEKEN/BOOKS

1. Bob Evely, Does God Exist? / At the End of the Ages
2. Gary M. Matheny, Exodus
3. Jan Bonda, Het Ene Doel van God
4. Harry Bultema: Wat de Bijbel Zegt Over De Ene Doop
5. Helena Maria Keizer, Life, Time, Entirety
6. Martin Zender, The Goddess of Nazareth, isbn 978 1956 293 043
7. N.T. Wright, The Resurrection of The Son of God
8. Ernest L. Martin, The Temples That Jerusalem Forgot
9. Frank Morison, Who Moved the Stone?
10. Vittorio Messori, Wat te Zeggen van Jezus?
11. Lee Strobel, Bewijs Genoeg
12. Josh McDowell, Evidence that Demands a Verdict
13. E.W. Bullinger, Companion Bible met Bijlagen
14. E.W. Bullinger, Number in Scripture
15. E.W. Bullinger, The Witness of the Stars
16. André Piet, De Alleen Wijze God; De Romeinenbrief, Vers voor Vers besproken
17. Aren van Waarde, De Wederkomst van Christus
18. Horace Bushnell, The Vicarious Sacrifice
19. Inge van Wijnen, Eén voor Allen
20. Jim Strahan, The Brightness around him
21. Erich Sauer, Het Morgenrood der Wereldredding
22. Yishai Levi, The Beauty Queen of Jerusalem
23. Stark, R. (2007). Cities of God: The real Story of how christianity
became an urban movement and conquered Rome. New York, USA: Harper One.
24. Menno Haaijman, Scherp door de bocht, 2021, Evangelie om Niet.
25. Drs. A. Keizer, De grote toekomst van Israël, de kerk en de volken.
Waarom de dogmatiek moest vastlopen, 1992, Kok, Kampen
26. Joël W. Hemphill, Glory to God in the Highest, 2010, Trumpet Call Books, USA
27. Paige-Patric J.D. Samuels, Doctrine of the Eons. God’s Immutable Plan
28. George J. Haas & William R. Saunders, Cydonia Codex en Mars Codex
29. Robin Waterfield, Hidden Depths
30. Robin Waterfield, Taken at the Flood
31. Victor Norgarde, Morningstar Pass
32. William Dorian, The Holy Water incident
33. Shannon Gilmoure, The True Existence of Non-Existent Entities
34. Sandra Sweeny Silver: The Rise and Fall of the House of Herod
35. Hilton Ratcliffe, The Virtue of Heresy,
Confessions of a dissident astronomer, 2007, USA, Author House
36. Sarah Irving Stonebraker: Priests of History
37. Brian Rosner: How to find yourself?
38. Hugh Mackay: The Question of love
39. Lisa Damour: The emotional life of teenagers
40. Geoff McDonald & L.A. Jensen-Campbell: Social Pain
41. Kelly Cahill: Encounter
42. David Brooks: The social animal
43. David Jopling: Self Knowledge and the self
44. Nicole Ruyschaert, Zelfhypnose werkt
45. Barry Fell: America BC.
46. Covey, Cyrus (1987). Homeric Troy and The Sea Peoples.
47. Geertje van Egmond: Verbinding Verbroken
48. Richard Sennett: who is your city?
49. Evy Poumpouras: Becoming Bullet Proof
50 Graig, W.L. Reasonable Faith
51. Rebecca Solnit: A Field guide to getting lost
52. Linda Zimmerman: Animal reactions to ufo’s
53. Little, Paul E.: Know why you believe
54. Sangers, Gerard: Met Dank, door mijn overheid bij de voedselbank
55. Silver, S.S.: A cosmos in my kitchen

MEER BOEKEN

1. Bob Evely, Does God Exist? / At the End of the Ages
2. Gary M. Matheny, Exodus
3. Jan Bonda, Het Ene Doel van God
4. Harry Bultema: Wat de Bijbel Zegt Over De Ene Doop
5. Helena Maria Keizer, Life, Time, Entirety
6. Martin Zender, The Goddess of Nazareth, isbn 978 1956 293 043
7. N.T. Wright, The Resurrection of The Son of God
8. Ernest L. Martin, The Temples That Jerusalem Forgot
9. Frank Morison, Who Moved the Stone?
10. Vittorio Messori, Wat te Zeggen van Jezus?
11. Lee Strobel, Bewijs Genoeg
12. Josh McDowell, Evidence that Demands a Verdict
13. E.W. Bullinger, Companion Bible met Bijlagen
14. E.W. Bullinger, Number in Scripture
15. E.W. Bullinger, The Witness of the Stars
16. André Piet, De Alleen Wijze God; De Romeinenbrief
17. Aren van Waarde, De Wederkomst van Christus
18. Horace Bushnell, The Vicarious Sacrifice
19. Inge van Wijnen, Eén voor Allen
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*

ISA AND LOTTE

Inspired by: facebook.com/1ir1i23r13i/

august 2024
Isa’s strongest memory was the day he first saw Lotte at highschool. She’d walked into the classroom, a beacon of light in a sea of teenage indifference. Her hair fell in soft waves, framing a face that could’ve been painted by the angels themselves. She had the kind of smile that could make you feel like you’d just been handed the winning lottery ticket of life. That was two years ago, when they were fifteen. Now, at seventeen, Isa’s love for Lotte had only grown stronger, though it remained unspoken, a secret he guarded fiercely behind the wall of his shyness.

One fateful afternoon, during their usual drawing class, Richard, the unlikely artist of the class, decided to unleash his talents. His usual drawings were of fast cars and skulls, but today was different. He’d drawn a portrait of Lotte that was so stunning it took everyone’s breath away. The tattoo boys, who usually snickered at Isa’s clumsy attempts at romance, were silent. The classroom buzzed with whispers, and even the teacher couldn’t hide his admiration. Lotte’s name was scrawled in bold letters across the top of the paper, the letters looping and swirling like the tendrils of a vine around a trellis. It was a declaration, a testament to the beauty that had captured their class’s tough guy’s heart.

The portrait was so lifelike it seemed as if Lotte had been caught in a moment of pure vulnerability, her eyes reflecting a depth of emotion that Jelle had only ever dreamed of seeing. Her cheeks were a soft pink, and her lips a delicate shade of coral, like a blush and a smile had collided. The drawing teacher, Mr. Van der Meer, who was known for his stern critiques, couldn’t help but let a smile play at the corners of his mouth. He nodded his head in approval, the noise of his palette knife tapping against the wooden table echoing through the room.

“It’s a masterpiece, Richard,” he said, his voice thick with admiration. “I must say, this is truly exceptional. I think we have a contender for the school art exhibition.”

The room erupted in applause, a sound that seemed to both bolster Richard’s confidence and make him squirm in his seat. Lotte, on the other hand, was a picture of confusion. She looked from the drawing to Richard, her eyes wide and her cheeks flushed. She had noticed the glances he had been stealing at her during class but had never suspected this. She felt a strange mix of flattery and embarrassment, a feeling that was only amplified by the sudden spotlight on her.

For the rest of the class, the air was charged with excitement. The tension between Richard and Lotte was palpable, and everyone waited to see how she would react. When the bell finally rang, signaling the end of class, she made a beeline for the door, not sparing a second glance at the portrait. Isa watched her go, his heart sinking. He had hoped the drawing would be a bridge between them, but it had only served to widen the gap.

As the days passed, the portrait remained in the hallway, a silent testament to Richard’s drawing talent. Lotte avoided the area whenever she could, and when she couldn’t, she walked by with her eyes averted. Isa felt like a spectator in a play he had no part in, his heart aching with every step she took away from him. The whispers and knowing looks from their classmates didn’t help, either. They had always been friendly, but now there was an unspoken question hanging in the air whenever they interacted. Finally Lotte’s drawing was handed over to Isa. His classmates had all fun with it.

But the universe had a peculiar sense of humor. A few weeks later, on a quiet Saturday, Richard and Robbie, his tattooed friend, found themselves at Wilco’s house. They’d heard he had an electric guitar they could borrow for the weekend. Little did they know, Wilco’s parents were close with Lotte’s. As they strummed the strings, lost in their music, they had no idea they had an audience.

Lotte and her father had just pulled up in their car, returning from a shopping trip. They stepped out into the driveway, the sound of the guitar playing reaching their ears. Curiosity piqued, they followed it into Wilco’s home where Richard was shredding a solo. Lotte’s heart skipped a beat when she saw him, the same guy who had drawn her so beautifully. Her father looked at her, a knowing smile playing on his lips.

“Isn’t that the boy who drew your portrait, Lotte?” he whispered.

Her eyes locked onto Richard, the strings of the guitar singing a melody that seemed to resonate with the rhythm of her heart. She nodded, her sternness melting away into curiosity. She had never seen this side of him, the artist, the musician. He was more than just the tough exterior everyone knew.

As the final notes of the song faded, Richard looked up and noticed Lotte and her father standing in the doorway. He looked for a moment into Lotte’s eyes, then kept on playing.

Lotte felt a strange mix of emotions watching Richard perform so confidently. She had never seen this side of him before, and she couldn’t help but feel drawn to it. The tattoo guy sitting next to him still deterred her a bit from contacting both of them. She sat down a tad askew and continued to look mesmerized at Richard, whose drawing of her had caused so much commotion at school and eventually at her home. Maybe she would just leave it as it was and not dwell on it further. After all, how well did she know Richard? In the end, by playful and artistic means, a hard truth had been revealed to her: Isa was in love with her. Not Richard but Isa was the one she needed to keep an eye on.

But here was Richard, playing the guitar like a pro, the same hands that had created the portrait of her. Lotte couldn’t tear her eyes away from his fingers dancing over the strings, the same hands that had so tenderly outlined her features.
Her father cleared his throat, breaking the spell. “We should say hello,” he suggested gently, nudging her. “No,” she whispered. Her dad tried not to laugh.

*

12 sept. 2024
In a quaint, suburban neighborhood, nestled between rows of meticulously manicured lawns and blooming azaleas, stood a modest yet inviting two-story home. Inside, Tessa, a striking 44-year-old woman with a gentle demeanor and a penchant for simple elegance, moved with purpose. Her blonde hair fell in soft waves around her shoulders, and her eyes, a warm shade of brown, sparkled with the joy of a mother and wife. She had dedicated her life to nurturing young minds as an English and Bible teacher at the local grammar school. Her days were filled with the delightful chatter of children and the quiet satisfaction of instilling knowledge and faith.

Her son, Paul, a strapping young man of 22, had chosen a different path. He had traded the classroom for the rugged world of construction. His muscular frame, a testament to his hard work, was perpetually dusty from the grind of the job site. Despite the physical toll, his heart was light, knowing that he was making his mother proud by contributing to the household finances.

One day, as the cranes loomed overhead and the air was thick with the scent of sawdust and concrete, Paul pulled out a magazine to share with his colleagues. It was a local publication that had featured an interview with Tessa, her image gracing the glossy pages. The article spoke of her dedication to her students and her community, highlighting her beauty and her strength of character. The men at the site took notice, whistling and nudging each other, and before long, copies of the magazine began to circulate among them.

Torn-out pages of Tessa’s photos began to appear in the most unexpected places—tacked to the walls of the break room, taped to the side of a bulldozer, even stuck inside a hard hat. The workers spoke in hushed tones about her, saying she had a way of “reassuring” them, that her smile and her words had a power that transcended the pages. It was all in good fun, or so they thought, until the whispers grew into a murmur that echoed through the construction site.

Paul felt the tension tighten around his neck as he walked through the site, catching snippets of conversation that seemed to revolve around his mother’s picture. He was torn between pride for her achievements and a growing sense of unease. The men looked at him differently now, a mix of respect and something else, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. It was as if they saw him as an extension of her, a gateway to a part of themselves they thought she could understand.

He gathered the mangled pages and stuffed them into his pocket, the corners jabbing at his skin with each step. The weight of their gazes grew heavier, and he quickened his pace, eager to escape the cacophony of whistles and catcalls that followed her image like a shadow. His mind raced with scenarios, each one more distressing than the last. He knew he had to tell Tessa, but the words stuck in his throat like dry cement.

That evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky with shades of pink and orange, Paul approached the front door of their home. The scent of dinner wafted through the screen door, a comforting embrace of rosemary and chicken. He took a deep breath, steeling himself for the conversation that lay ahead. As he stepped into the warm embrace of the house, Tessa looked up from the stove, her smile fading as she took in her son’s troubled expression.

“What’s wrong, Paul?” she asked, her voice laced with concern as she wiped her hands on her apron.

Paul hesitated, the weight of the magazine pages in his pocket suddenly feeling like a boulder. “Mom,” he began, his voice thick with discomfort, “something happened at work today.”

Tessa’s eyes searched his, sensing the gravity of his words. She set aside her spatula and turned to face him fully. “What is it?”

Paul fished out the crumpled pages from his pocket, the images of his mother smiling serenely up at him. He laid them out on the kitchen counter, the sound of tearing paper echoing in the quiet room. “They’ve got your magazine at the site,” he said, his voice low and tight. “They’ve torn out your pictures and put them up everywhere.”

Tessa’s eyes widened, and she stepped closer to inspect the scattered images. Her cheeks flushed with a mix of embarrassment and anger. “Out of all the photos and magazines, how could they pick out my photo, of all places, and then also where you work? Had you shown them anything? she asked.

Paul swallowed hard, feeling his muscles tense. “It was just an interview I brought to show the guys,” he said defensively. “I didn’t expect this.”

You didn’t expect this? But why did you show my pictures to these men in particular? she asked with a wink.

Paul’s jaw tightened. “It wasn’t like that, Mom,” he said firmly. “I didn’t know it would turn into this.”

Was it your intention to appease your colleagues with my pictures? she winked. Or did you just want to explain he a teacher’s teaching day looks like?

Paul rolled his eyes. “I just wanted to show them what you do, not turn you into some kind of… I don’t know, construction site pin-up girl.” He felt the heat rising in his cheeks, and his discomfort was palpable.

But do your colleagues work harder now? his mother asked with a smile.

Yes, they do, he said.

Tessa couldn’t help but chuckle, the tension in the room dissipating slightly. “Well, I suppose it’s flattering,” she said, though her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “But it’s also a bit… unsettling.”

Yes, they say you’re good at reassuring men, Paul said. They joked about it, too. They said they were reassured by the pictures.

Tessa took a deep breath, her thoughts racing. She knew the kind of environment that existed on construction sites—the rough joking, the sense of camaraderie that could sometimes veer into disrespectful territory. But she had never thought it would touch her own family. She glanced at the images of herself scattered across the counter, feeling a strange sense of detachment.

“Do they know where I live, where you live?” she said.

Paul nodded. “They do, they know it’s you.”

Fine, she said. “very very very fine.”

They said you were good at reassuring other men,” Paul said.

More bad news to come? she asked. Will they knock at the door tonight in their search for a whore? Or what will they do with the photo’s at all? Will they study the composition, the perspective? Or will they try to be reassured even more at night, while looking at my photo’s? Or will they all decide to learn english?

“I don’t know mom,” Paul said.

Tessa sighed and picked up the images, straightening them with a trembling hand. “Well, I suppose we’ll have to deal with it,” she said, her voice steady despite the tremor.

Paul nodded, his jaw set.

Tessa studied her son’s face, seeing the burgeoning anger in his eyes. If they are truly reassured by my photos, then I am happy anyway.” Tessa’s eyes softened as she looked at her son. “How about we sit down and talk about it more over dinner?”

Paul nodded, his stomach churning with a mix of anger and embarrassment. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he had somehow exposed his mother to this unwanted attention. As they sat down to eat, the conversation remained light, but the topic of the magazine article lingered in the air like a storm cloud on the horizon.

Tessa tried to keep the mood light, sharing stories from her classroom and asking about Paul’s day. But the weight of the situation pressed down on them both, and the laughter felt forced. They picked at their food, the silence between bites stretching taut like a guitar string about to snap.

After dinner, Paul retreated to his room, the walls suddenly feeling too thin. He could hear the faint murmur of his mother’s voice as she cleared the dishes, her footsteps a gentle rhythm against the hardwood floor. The thought of those rough, calloused hands from the construction site touching her image made his blood boil. He punched his pillow, wishing he could punch something more substantial.

Tessa, on the other hand, sat at the kitchen table, her eyes fixed on the now empty plate before her. The words of the men at the site played in her mind, their “reassurance” feeling more like a taunt.

*

30/8/24
Marina McAllister, a 44-year-old woman with a warm smile and eyes that danced like a clear summer sky, sat at her kitchen table, surrounded by the comforting aroma of freshly baked cookies. Her hair, a soft blend of caramel and honey, was tied back in a loose ponytail, revealing the few silver strands that had gently crept in over the years. Her apron, dotted with flour and specks of chocolate, was a testament to her afternoon spent baking. The kitchen was her sanctuary, a place where she found peace in the rhythmic clatter of pots and pans and the sweet pattern of ingredients blending together. It was her way of showing love, especially to her son, Fedde.

Fedde, tall and lanky with a sprinkle of freckles across his nose, wandered into the kitchen, his military boots echoing against the hardwood floor. He was home on leave before shipping out for his final month of service. At 21, he had the strength and stoicism of a man twice his age, but his eyes still held the spark of youthful idealism that had captivated his mother since the day he was born. She watched as he reached for a cookie, his hand lingering in the jar as if savoring the memory of her embrace.

“Mom,” he began, his voice a mix of excitement and hesitation, “you asked about a gift for when I’m done with all this.”

Marina looked up from her mixing bowl, her hands momentarily still. “Yes, Fedde,” she said gently, “What’s on your mind?”

Fedde took a bite of the cookie, the sweetness briefly distracting him from his thoughts. “Well,” he started, “I’ve been thinking a lot about what I’d like. And it’s not something you can just buy from a store.”

Marina’s curiosity piqued, she leaned against the kitchen counter, wiping her hands on her apron. “Go on,” she encouraged, her eyes never leaving her son’s face.

Fedde took a deep breath, his thoughts racing. “The first idea,” he said, “is something we could do together. I know how much you love animals, and I do too, but not in the way of a zoo. It’s like, I don’t like seeing them behind bars. It feels… wrong.” He paused, searching for the right words. “But what if we went to a wildlife park instead? You know, one of those places where they’re not really caged, but they have lots of space to roam. We could take pictures, maybe even start an online diary about our day, the animals we see, and what we learn.” His eyes lit up at the thought of sharing this experience with her.

Marina’s expression softened as she listened to Fedde’s proposal. She knew his tender heart and his love for animals. “That sounds wonderful,” she said, her voice filled with genuine enthusiasm. “A wild park is definitely more in line with what we both believe in. It’ll be like we’re on a little safari together.” She could already imagine the joy they would share, walking side by side, discovering the majesty of the animal kingdom in its more natural state.

But Fedde wasn’t done. He had another idea, one that was more personal and significant. “The second thing,” he said, his voice growing more serious, “is something I’ve been carrying around for a while. You know I’ve always admired you for everything you’ve done for us, especially after dad left.” His eyes searched hers, seeking approval to continue. “I want to do something for you, something that shows you how much I appreciate you.”

Marina felt a lump form in her throat. She had always put on a brave face for her son, never wanting him to feel the weight of their father’s absence. She nodded, urging him to go on.

“I know you’ve always talked about going back to school,” Fedde said, his voice firm with conviction. “To finish that degree you put on hold when I was born. And with me being out of the house, it’s the perfect time. So, I want to save up some of my military pay and help you pay for it. It’s not just a gift for me, it’s for us. For our future.”

Marina’s eyes filled with tears, her heart swelling with pride and gratitude. She had dreamed of completing her education, but life had taken a different turn. Now, her son was offering her the chance to chase that dream once more. She took a moment to gather her thoughts before speaking. “Fedde, that’s the most amazing thing you could ever give me. I’ve always wanted to go back, but I never thought it was possible. But, I want you to think about this. This is your future too. Are you s30/8/24

Marina McAllister, a 44-year-old woman with a warm smile and eyes that danced like a clear summer sky, sat at her kitchen table, surrounded by the comforting aroma of freshly baked cookies. Her hair, a soft blend of caramel and honey, was tied back in a loose ponytail, revealing the few silver strands that had gently crept in over the years. Her apron, dotted with flour and specks of chocolate, was a testament to her afternoon spent baking. The kitchen was her sanctuary, a place where she found peace in the rhythmic clatter of pots and pans and the sweet pattern of ingredients blending together. It was her way of showing love, especially to her son, Fedde.

Fedde, tall and lanky with a sprinkle of freckles across his nose, wandered into the kitchen, his military boots echoing against the hardwood floor. He was home on leave before shipping out for his final month of service. At 21, he had the strength and sture you don’t want to use that money for something for yourself?”

Fedde took another cookie, his hand shaking slightly as he cradled it. “Mom, this is for us. You’ve given so much to me, to our family. It’s time I gave something back. And what better way than to help you get that degree? It’s like we’re passing the baton of success to each other.”

Marina’s eyes searched Fedde’s, seeing the determination in his gaze. She knew he was right. This was a chance to not only achieve her own goals but also to set an example for him. To show that it’s never too late to follow your dreams. “Okay,” she said, her voice wavering with emotion. “Let’s do it. We’ll make it happen together.”

Fedde reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled envelope. “Here,” he said, placing it on the counter between them. “I’ve saved up a bit of my pay, so far it’s 500 euros. I’ll keep saving while I’m away, and you can use this to start. Maybe for some books or supplies, or even to apply to that school you’ve talked about.”

Marina’s eyes widened as she took the envelope, feeling the weight of the gesture in her hand. “Fedde,” she said, her voice thick with emotion, “this is more than just money. This is you investing in our future.” She opened the envelope and counted the bills, her heart swelling with each one. It was a tangible symbol of her son’s love and support.

But Fedde wasn’t quite done. He took a deep breath and looked at his mother, his cheeks flushing slightly. “There’s one more thing,” he said, his voice tentative. “A third wish, if you will.”

Marina, still holding the envelope of money, raised an eyebrow in question. “What is it?” she asked, her curiosity piqued.

Fedde took another deep breath before speaking. “Mom,” he began, his voice trembling slightly, “I know this is going to sound weird, but it’s something I’ve always wondered about.” He paused, trying to gather the right words. “I have a third wish,” he said finally. “It’s something I’ve never talked about with anyone before, not even my closest friends in the service.”

Marina’s expression grew concerned, her hand reaching out to cover his. “Fedde, you can tell me anything,” she assured him. “I’m your mother, and I’m here for you.”

Fedde took a moment, his gaze drifting to the floor before meeting hers again. “I know it’s weird, but I just have this… this vision of you,” he stammered, “sitting in a window in the red light district.”

Marina’s hand froze mid-air, her eyes widening in surprise. The kitchen, once filled with the warmth of their shared dreams, grew suddenly tense. “Fedde,” she began, her voice tight, “what are you talking about?”

Her son took a step back, his face flushing a deeper shade of red. “I know it’s strange,” he said quickly, “but it’s just something that I’ve thought about. It’s not like I want you to work there or anything. It’s just… I don’t know, it’s like a fantasy I have. A way to see you…

Marina felt a chill run down her spine. She had never seen this side of Fedde before. The kitchen, once a bastion of warmth and comfort, now felt suffocatingly small. She tried to keep her voice steady. “Fedde, I don’t understand,” she said, her mind racing. “What do you mean by that?”

Fedde looked at her, his eyes pleading. “It’s just a… a thought,” he stuttered. “A way to see you, to think about you when I’m out there. It’s like you’re waiting for me, you know?” His voice was barely above a whisper, as if speaking the words out loud would make them more real than he could handle. “I’ve seen the way men look at you, Mom. You’re so beautiful, and I just want to… see that invisible side of you.”

Marina’s face drained of color. The image he painted was one she had never considered, one that was both disturbing and oddly touching. She took a deep breath, trying to comprehend her son’s words. “Fedde,” she said slowly, “I appreciate your feelings, but I’m not sure that’s something we should talk about.”

Fedde looked at her, his eyes filled with a strange mix of relief and disappointment. “I know it’s weird,” he murmured, “but I had to tell someone. And I’m just so glad you didn’t get mad.” He took a step closer, his hand reaching for hers. “You’re the only person I could ever tell something like this to. You’re always so understanding.”

Marina squeezed his hand, feeling the warmth of his skin against hers. “Fedde,” she said softly, “you can always talk to me. I’ll always be here to listen, even if I don’t always understand.” She paused, her mind racing to find the right words to bridge the sudden gap between them. “But let’s focus on the first two wishes. The wildlife park and my school. Those are wonderful ideas, and I’m so proud of you for thinking of them.”

Her laughter, when it came, was sudden and infectious. “What?!” she exclaimed, a smile spreading across her face. “You think I could handle the red lights of the district?” The absurdity of the image was too much for her, and she couldn’t help but chuckle. “Sweetie, I’ve got enough drama in my life with just the baking cookies. I don’t think I’m cut out for that kind of adventure.”

Fedde’s cheeks burned even hotter, and he couldn’t help but laugh along with her. It was a strange and awkward moment, but somehow, her laughter made it feel less so. “I know, I know,” he said, his voice tinged with embarrassment. “It’s just… I don’t know. I guess I’ve had a lot of time to think over there, and sometimes my brain goes to weird places.”

Marina’s laughter subsided, and she took a step closer to her son, her hand resting gently on his arm. “Fedde,” she said, her eyes holding his, “you’re a good man. Your heart is in the right place, even if your imagination sometimes gets a little carried away.”

Fedde couldn’t help but smile at her, feeling the tension ease from his shoulders. “Thanks, Mom,” he said, his voice filled with relief. “I just want you to be happy, you know?”

Marina’s laughter grew softer, and she nodded, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “I know, sweetheart,” she said, “and you already make me so happy.” She took a deep breath, collecting herself before speaking again. “Now, tell me that third wish again. Let’s get it out in the open and then we can move on to more pleasant topics.” She starts laughing again and cannot stop.

Fedde’s embarrassment faded as he watched his mother’s reaction. He couldn’t remember the last time he had made her laugh so hard. “Okay, okay,” he said, chuckling. “It’s just a weird thought. Nothing more.”

Marina wiped a tear from her eye, still smiling. “Well, if it helps you get through your service, I suppose it’s a small price to pay.” She leaned in and gave him a quick hug, her mind racing with the implications of his third wish. It was a peculiar and slightly troubling thought, but she knew her son wasn’t malicious. He was just a young man with a vivid imagination and a heart that sometimes spilled over into uncharted territories.

Fedde’s face grew serious again as he spoke. “Mom, the third wish isn’t just a thought. It’s more like a… a vision I have. You, sitting in a window, looking out at the world, but safe. You are in the Red Light District and all the men are watching you, including dadś collegues. It’s like you’re a queen in a tower. And I am there too, watching the men who watch you sitting there in your worn jeans.”

Marina’s laughter ceased abruptly, and she looked at her son, her heart racing. “Fedde,” she began, her voice trembling slightly, “what are you trying to say?”

Fedde took a step back, realizing the gravity of what he had just shared. “It’s just a… a fantasy,” he stuttered, his eyes searching hers for understanding. “I don’t know why I think about it, but it’s like a way to keep you with me, even when I’m so far away.”

Marina’s smile faded, her eyes searching Fedde’s face, trying to understand the complex emotions that had led to his revelation. She took a deep breath, her hand still resting on his arm. “Fedde,” she said softly, “I appreciate that you trust me with your thoughts, no matter how… unconventional they might be. But let’s not dwell on that. We have so much to plan for the future.”

Fedde nodded, his cheeks still red but his eyes clear. “You’re right, Mom,” he said, his voice steady again. “Let’s focus on the park and your school. That’s what’s important.”

Now she kept staring at him… trying not to laugh.

Marina’s eyes were filled with mirth as she stared at her son, her hand still on his arm. She couldn’t help but be amused by the absurdity of his third wish. The idea of her, a 44-year-old mother of one, sitting in a window in the red light district was so ludicrous it was almost charming. She bit her lip to keep from laughing outright, her eyes sparkling with the effort.

“Fedde,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, “I promise you, when you come home, I’ll sit in the kitchen window and wave at all the passersby if it makes you feel better.” She couldn’t resist teasing him a little, the tension in the room suddenly lifting like a weight had been lifted.

Fedde chuckled, his shoulders relaxing. “I’d like that,” he said, “but maybe not in a bikini.”

Marina rolled her eyes playfully. “Don’t worry,” she said, “I’ll stick to my apron.”

The air in the kitchen grew lighter as they both laughed, the strange tension dissipating like the scent of cooling cookies. Fedde felt a weight lift from his chest, relieved that his mother hadn’t been upset by his confession. Instead of that she had all fun of the world.

“So,” she said, wiping a tear from her eye, “back to reality. We have a wildlife park to plan for. What animals are you most looking forward to seeing?”

Fedde’s eyes lit up immediately. “I like giraffes,” he said, his voice filled with childlike enthusiasm. “They’re so tall and graceful, you know? It’s like they’re walking on stilts.”

Marina couldn’t help but smile at his innocent wonder. “They are quite fascinating creatures,” she agreed, “but remember, all animals are beautiful in their own way.”

Fedde rolled his eyes, his smile playful. “Not those nasty comodo dragons, Mom,” he said, his voice filled with mock disgust. “They’re just… slithery and mean-looking.”

Marina couldn’t help but laugh. “Well, every animal has its charm,” she said, “even if it’s not immediately apparent.”

If you take a comodo dragon to the red light, sitting in a window, things will happen, he said.

Fedde’s eyes widened at the thought, his imagination suddenly running wild. “Can you imagine, Mom?” he said, his voice filled with excitement. “A comodo dragon just chilling in a window, watching the world go by? It’d be like the king of the jungle in the heart of the city.”

Marina couldn’t help but chuckle at her son’s whimsy. “Well,” she said, her voice playful, “I suppose we could dress it up in a tiny hat and tie a scarf around its neck.”

Fedde’s grin grew wider. “Exactly! And we could serve it mini cookies. Just imagine the men’s reactions! By the way, shall we drink wine?”

Marina couldn’t hold back her laughter any longer. “Oh my god, Fedde,” she said, wiping her eyes, “where do you come up with these things?”

I don’t know mom. So about the park, I like Giraffes and Zebra’s.

Marina’s laughter grew louder at Fedde’s sudden shift in topic, her eyes sparkling with amusement. “Oh, my god,” she said, shaking her head. “You really know how to keep a conversation interesting.”

I don’t like elephants so much, they remind me of satan, somehow…, he says.

Marina’s laughter grew even louder at Fedde’s unexpected comment. “Elephants? Satan?” she gasped, wiping a tear from her eye. “Fedde, where on earth do you come up with these things?”

I don’t know, that long nose, those ivory teeth, their massive appearance…

Marina couldn’t help but laugh even harder at Fedde’s comparison. “Fedde, you’re something else,” she said, her voice still shaky from her laughter. “But I think we can manage a trip to the wildlife park without encountering any elephants with a penchant for evil.”

There is one thing… if I am a car I am a bit claustrofobic. Sometimes I need to go to a toilet ten times in an hour. For that reason I never take a train or bus. So if I need to get out and there is a lion around…

Marina’s laughter grew louder at Fedde’s words, her hand pressing against her stomach as she tried to contain herself. “Oh, my god,” she exclaimed, “where do you come up with these things?”

It is not funny, I know some woman who does not dare to go in the street. She has got a street fobia.

So what will you do if you need to get out of the car and the lion is there? she asks, trying not to laugh.

No idea, it was a problem in the military service too.

Oh yes, she bursts into lauging, if your are hiding and the Russians come, you need to come out of your shelter for a pee, then after peeing you shoot? she said.

Mom, it is a serious thing if we go to some Safari Park. However I think we should try it.

Marina looked ahead in thought.

Marina took a moment to compose herself, wiping the tears of laughter from her eyes. “Okay, let’s talk about something else,” she said, her voice still shaky from mirth. “How about dinner? I’ve got some chicken in the fridge that’s begging to be roasted.”

Fedde nodded, grateful for the change in subject. “Sounds good,” he said, his own smile lingering. He watched as his mother began to prep the chicken, her movements efficient and familiar.

Marina grabbed the chicken from the fridge, her mind still racing with thoughts of Fedde’s third wish. She couldn’t shake the image of a comodo dragon in a tiny hat, lounging in a red light district window. “What’s so funny?” she asked, unable to resist the urge to bring it up again.

Fedde looked up from the kitchen table, his cheeks flushing. “It’s just… I can’t believe you’re okay with it,” he said, his voice filled with a mix of relief and amusement. “I thought you’d be, I don’t know, upset or something.”

Marina couldn’t hold back her laughter as she seasoned the chicken. “Fedde,” she said, her voice muffled by a chuckle, “you’re my son. You can tell me anything. And honestly, it’s kind of sweet in a weird, twisted way.” She placed the chicken in the oven and turned to face him, her eyes still gleaming with mirth. “But seriously,” she said, her tone more serious, “what’s going on in that head of yours?”

Fedde shrugged, his own smile fading a little. “I don’t know, Mom,” he admitted. “I guess being over there makes you think about things differently.” He gestured to the window, the world outside a stark contrast to their warm, safe kitchen. “But I promise, it’s just a weird thought. Nothing more.”

Okay we will talk about it later. And I promise you we are not finished yet with talking about your third wish.

Marina’s voice was filled with a gentle firmness that let Fedde know she wasn’t going to let the subject drop entirely. But for now, she focused on the task at hand, her hands deftly preparing the meal as they chatted. The scent of rosemary and lemon filled the air, mingling with the warmth of the kitchen.

“What do you think, Fedde”, she said, “would I do it, to fulfill your third wish, only for you?”

Marina’s question hung in the air, a playful challenge that belied the seriousness of the conversation. Fedde’s eyes searched hers, his heart racing as he considered the possibility.
“Yes, you would do it for me, but only one time, I think,” he said.
“Who knows, Fedde, who knows…” she said, winking at him.

*

22/8/24
Johan stepped off the plane, the warm embrace of Tenerife’s climate enveloping him like a familiar blanket. His eyes, accustomed to the flat grey of the Dutch landscape, squinted in the stark contrast of the Canarian sun. He looked around, the airport a bustle of activity, yet the chaos of holidaymakers didn’t touch him. He had come here to be alone, to find something he hadn’t been able to find in the ordered neatness of his hometown.

He picked up his luggage, the weight of the extra baggage a silent companion. The boulder from Mount Darband near Tehran was wrapped in layers of bubble wrap, the sound of its potential freedom echoing through the plastic with each step he took. The drive to Punta del Hidalgo was scenic, the car’s engine humming a steady rhythm as he wound his way through the island’s serpentine roads. The volcanic rock of the mountain range loomed ahead, a silent sentinel over the land. Johan felt a strange kinship with these rocks, as if they understood his need to escape the confines of his life.

Once at the base of the valley, he found a quiet spot, far from the tourist trails. He stepped out of the car, the warmth of the sun caressing his skin as he popped the trunk. With a grunt, he hoisted the boulder out, feeling its weight against his body. The moment of truth had arrived. He took a deep breath, the scent of the ocean mingling with the earthiness of the volcanic soil beneath him. With a sense of reverence, he approached the edge of the cliff, the boulder feeling like an extension of his own burdened spirit.

The valley below was a tapestry of greens and browns, a stark contrast to the urban sprawl he had left behind. It was a place untouched by the modern world, a sanctuary for ancient secrets. Johan felt a strange thrill at the idea of contributing to this timeless scene. He took a moment to appreciate the view, his eyes tracing the jagged horizon where the sea met the sky. It was a line that seemed to stretch on forever, much like the path he had chosen for himself.

With a deep sigh, he positioned the boulder at the cliff’s edge, his heart racing with anticipation. The wind whispered around him, carrying the distant cries of seagulls and the scent of the ocean’s briny embrace. He took a step back, savoring the moment before he gave the rock its new destiny. It was a simple act, one that held a profound significance to him alone.

Johan’s arms swung back, muscles tensing, and with a grunt of effort, he pushed the boulder forward. Time seemed to slow as it tumbled through the air, the plastic wrapping fluttering away like the shed skin of a snake. The rock spun in a silent ballet, a dance dictated by gravity’s relentless pull. He watched it plummet into the abyss, the sun glinting off its surface as it disappeared from view. The sound of its impact echoed through the valley, a dull thud that seemed to resonate within his very soul.

The moment the boulder left his grip, Johan felt a sudden lightness, as if a piece of his own weight had been cast off with it. He stared into the valley, the spot where the boulder had come to rest obscured by the foliage. Yet, he could almost feel its presence, a new part of the landscape that had been shaped by his own hand. It was a strange, almost primal satisfaction, one that seemed to resonate with the very core of his being. He pondered the boulder’s journey, from the heights of Tehran to the depths of Tenerife, and wondered if his own life was not so different.

Turning away from the cliff, Johan made his way back to the car, his thoughts swirling like the dust kicked up by his shoes. He had always felt out of place, a nomad in a world that craved stability. This ritual, as peculiar as it was, gave him a sense of belonging, a connection to the earth that transcended borders and time. It was his way of leaving a mark, of saying, “I was here.” As he drove away, the mountain road curving into the distance, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he had done something significant, something that would outlast him.

The days passed in a blur of solitary exploration. He wandered the beaches, his feet sinking into the black sand, and hiked the trails that wove through the ancient forests. Each step was a silent conversation with the land, a whispered promise to keep its secrets. Yet, the question lingered: why did he feel the need to be alone? Why was it that every relationship he’d ever had ended in a whirlwind of misunderstandings and unspoken regrets? He thought of the boulder, now nestled among the native rocks of Tenerife, and wondered if it too felt a sense of displacement.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the sky in hues of fiery red and gold, Johan found himself drawn back to the spot where he had thrown the boulder. The valley looked different now, cloaked in the soft embrace of twilight. The shadows grew long and mysterious, hinting at secrets hidden just out of sight. He approached the edge of the cliff, his heart pounding like a drum in his chest. He had come to realize that the act of displacement, of moving something so heavy and permanent, mirrored his own life’s journey.

The wind picked up, whipping his hair into a frenzy as he stared into the abyss. The rustling of leaves and the distant calls of night creatures painted a symphony of solitude. He felt the weight of his loneliness press down on him, a heaviness that was both comforting and suffocating. It was as if the boulder had taken a piece of his pain with it, leaving a hollow space that the Tenerife air couldn’t fill. He wondered if he was destined to be a solitary figure, forever searching for meaning in the most unlikely of places.

Johan’s thoughts grew introspective as he pondered the paths that had led him here. The faces of past lovers and friends flitted through his mind, each a ghost of a connection lost to time and distance. He had always been the one to leave, the one to seek the thrill of the unexplored. Yet, as he stood on the precipice of the valley, he questioned the authenticity of those connections. Had he ever truly allowed anyone to know him, to understand the restless spirit that drove him to wander? Or had he been the boulder, impenetrable and solitary, letting only the surface be touched?

The wind grew stronger, carrying with it the whispers of the valley below. It seemed to beckon him, to share the secrets it had held for millennia. Johan’s gaze drifted to the spot where the boulder had landed, and he felt a strange kinship with the immovable object. It was as if the rock had become a symbol of his own unyielding nature, a silent sentinel to his solitary existence.

He decided to climb down into the valley, driven by a curiosity that had been simmering since the moment he had released the boulder. The descent was steep and treacherous, the rocks slipping beneath his feet as he navigated the shadowy path. His breathing grew ragged, but he pressed on, driven by an inexplicable need to be closer to his creation.

The sun had fully disappeared by the time he reached the valley floor, the moon casting a pale glow over the landscape. He searched for the boulder, his eyes scanning the jumble of rocks and vegetation. Finally, he spotted it, a distinctly out-of-place piece of Tehran nestled among the volcanic bones of Tenerife. It was as if the rock had chosen its new home, a declaration of its intention to stay.

Johan approached it, his steps deliberate and slow. As he neared, he could see the indentation it had made in the earth, a small crater that would, over time, be filled with the detritus of life and erosion. He reached out and touched it, feeling the warmth it had absorbed from the day’s sun. The roughness of the stone against his skin was a stark reminder of the permanence of his action.

He sat beside the boulder, the coolness of the night air seeping through his clothes. He thought of the people in Tehran, going about their lives, oblivious to the small piece of their mountain that now rested in this foreign valley. The silence was absolute, save for the occasional whisper of the wind. It was a silence that allowed him to hear the thoughts in his head, the ones he usually drowned out with the noise of civilization.

Johan felt a strange kinship with the rock, a bond formed by the shared experience of displacement. He had always felt like a boulder out of place, too heavy for the gentle hands of love and friendship to move. Yet here it was, nestled in this valley, surrounded by life that had grown around it. He pondered if he too could find a way to integrate into this new environment, to allow himself to be part of the tapestry of life that surrounded him.

The valley was alive with the whispers of the night. The soft rustle of leaves and the distant howl of a wild animal painted a picture of a world that continued to thrive, unbothered by the burdens of the past. Johan sat in silence, the weight of his thoughts pressing down on him like the gravity that had brought the boulder to rest. He realized that he had been holding onto his solitude like a shield, using it to protect himself from the potential pain of rejection and misunderstanding.

He leaned against the boulder, feeling its warmth seep into his back. It was a strange comfort, as if the rock understood his plight. In the quiet of the night, Johan spoke aloud to his silent companion, sharing his fears and dreams, his regrets and his hopes. The boulder, a mute witness to his confessions, seemed to absorb his words, offering no judgment, no advice, just a solid presence that grounded him to the earth.

As he talked, he became aware of a change in the air. It was subtle at first, a shift in the scent of the night, a coolness that wasn’t there before. The whispers grew louder, swirling around him like a gentle breeze. He looked around, his eyes trying to pierce the darkness, but there was nothing to see. The whispers grew clearer, morphing into a chorus of voices that seemed to emanate from the very ground beneath him. They spoke in a language he didn’t understand, yet the emotion behind the words was unmistakable.

The voices grew more insistent, and Johan felt a strange tugging at his soul. It was as if the earth itself was speaking to him, sharing its secrets and yearning for a response. He closed his eyes, letting the words wash over him, trying to discern meaning from the cacophony. And then, as suddenly as it had begun, the voices fell silent. The air grew still, and Johan was left with only the sound of his own heartbeat echoing in his ears.

The silence was deafening, yet it felt as if the world was holding its breath, waiting for his next move. He knew that something profound had just occurred, a bridge built between his solitary existence and the eternal cycle of life around him. He felt a burgeoning sense of belonging, as if the very earth had accepted him as one of its own.

Johan took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the cool, damp air of the valley. It was a scent that seemed to carry with it the whispers of a million untold stories, a scent that was now forever intertwined with his own. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small notebook and pencil, feeling an overwhelming urge to capture the moment. His hand trembled as he wrote, the words spilling onto the page in a rush of emotion.

The voices had left him with a gift, an understanding that his restless spirit was not a curse but a part of the natural order of things. Like the boulder, he too could find a place to rest, to become a part of the fabric of the world around him. The realization brought with it a sense of peace that was as vast and unyielding as the night sky above.

Johan returned to his rented apartment in hotel flat Altagay, his mind buzzing with the revelations of the night. He sat at the small table by the window, the moon casting a silver glow over the pages of his notebook. He wrote feverishly, his thoughts spilling out in a torrent of words and images. The boulder had become more than just a symbol of his displacement; it was a talisman of connection, a bridge to a world that had always felt just out of reach.

The whispers of the valley lingered in his mind, a siren’s call that grew louder with each passing day. He found himself drawn back to the spot time and again, each visit bringing a newfound sense of belonging. The boulder had become a beacon, a silent confidant that held the key to unlocking the mysteries of his soul.

On one such visit, as the sun dipped low in the sky, casting the world in a warm orange glow, Johan noticed something different. The indentation the boulder had made in the earth was now surrounded by a ring of small, delicate flowers. They grew in a perfect circle, as if the rock had left an imprint of its essence behind. He reached out to touch one, the petals cool and velvety against his fingertips. It was a sign, a message from the earth that his burden had been accepted, that he too could take root.

*

18 sept. 24
“Marina, hurry up! We’re going to miss the boat,” Fedde called out, his voice echoing through the hotel corridor. He fidgeted with the strap of his bag, glancing at his watch for the fifth time in as many minutes.

“I’m coming, darling,” she replied, her heels clicking against the tile floor as she approached. “I just had to make sure I had everything,” she said, flashing a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Fedde sighed, trying to mask his annoyance. This vacation was supposed to be a time to unwind, not a race against the clock. He knew his mother’s vanity was the culprit for their almost-missed departure, but he bit his tongue. The last thing he needed was to start the trip on a sour note.

As they rushed through the village square, the heat from the sun-baked cobblestones seemed to intensify the stench of fish and diesel. The villagers, mostly men, paused in their activities to watch them pass, their gazes lingering on the shapely form of the beautiful woman beside him. Fedde felt a mix of pride and unease. It was clear that his mother’s allure wasn’t lost on the locals.

Marina, unfazed, waved gracefully at the staring crowd as she walked. Her golden hair, tied back in a loose ponytail, swished with every step she took. She was wearing a floral sundress that accentuated her figure and made the men’s glances even more obvious. “Looks like we’re the main attraction,” she murmured to Fedde, a hint of amusement in her voice.

The boat, a small wooden vessel with a faded red hull, bobbed gently in the harbor. The captain, a weathered man with a thick mustache, nodded curtly as they boarded. He spoke little English, but his gestures were clear enough. They had to hurry. Fedde helped his mother settle into the boat, trying not to let his anxiety show.

As the boat chugged away from the pier, the stares of the villagers grew smaller and eventually disappeared from view. The sea spray cooled the sticky heat, and the rhythmic motion of the waves soon lulled Fedde into a state of near-sleep. He watched as the island of Komodo grew larger, the shoreline revealing a dense jungle that seemed to hide untold secrets.

Marina, however, remained alert, her eyes scanning the horizon with an excitement that was infectious. “Isn’t it beautiful, Fedde?” she exclaimed, her voice carrying over the drone of the engine. “The water’s so clear, you can almost see the dragons from here!”

Fedde forced a smile, the mention of the island’s fearsome inhabitants bringing his nerves back to the surface. “Yeah, beautiful,” he murmured, trying to ignore the thought of the creatures lurking nearby.

As the boat approached the island, the captain throttled back the engine, allowing the vessel to drift closer to the shoreline. Fedde’s heart raced as he caught sight of a shadow moving through the mangroves. The water was indeed crystal clear, and he could see the dark form of what was undeniably a large, prehistoric-looking reptile gliding through the shallows.

Marina leaned in closer, her eyes wide with excitement. “Look, Fedde,” she whispered. “Isn’t it magnificent?”

The dragon slithered out of the water, its massive body leaving a trail of ripples behind it. Its forked tongue flicked out, tasting the air as it approached the boat. Fedde felt a shiver run down his spine as he took in the creature’s size – easily twice the length of a grown man, and thick enough to crush a bull.

The captain spoke rapidly in a language Fedde didn’t understand, but the urgency in his tone was clear. He reached for a rifle propped against the side of the boat, his hand shaking slightly. The creature’s eyes, the color of polished stones, remained fixed on the boat, and specifically on Marina.

Fedde felt his stomach churn. “Mom,” he began, his voice barely above a whisper. “Maybe we should go back

.

Marina turned to her son, her expression a blend of excitement and defiance. “Fedde, don’t be such a scaredy-cat. This is the experience of a lifetime!” she exclaimed, her eyes sparkling. “We’re going to see these incredible creatures up close. It’s not every day you get to be this close to something so wild and untouched by civilization.”

Fedde’s grip tightened on the side of the boat as the creature drew closer. He couldn’t shake the feeling that this wasn’t just a sightseeing trip for his mother. There was something more, something primal that drew her to the island and its terrifying inhabitants. It was as if she wanted to conquer her fears or perhaps find a piece of herself that she had lost in the bustle of their urban life.

The captain’s voice grew more urgent, but Marina remained transfixed by the dragon. The beast was now only a few feet from the boat, its powerful tail cutting through the water with a grace that belied its deadly intent. The captain’s hand hovered over the rifle’s trigger, sweat beading on his forehead.

Fedde couldn’t help but think about the safety of their chosen destination. Tenerife would have been nice – sipping cocktails by the pool, the warm sun kissing their skin without the looming threat of death lurking in the shadows. But no, his mother had insisted on this exotic, dangerous adventure, and now they were face to face with the very reason he’d rather be anywhere else.

“Mom, these things are poisonous,” he managed to say, his voice cracking. “One bite and it’s over.”

Marina looked at him, her eyes still gleaming with excitement. “Fedde, don’t you get it?” she said, her voice low and intense. “It’s about the thrill, the rush of adrenaline. This is what keeps me feeling alive.”

Fedde swallowed hard, his eyes darting back to the dragon. It was true, his mother had always been drawn to the extreme, the exotic. But this was different – this was playing with fire. He could see the creature’s teeth, the serrated edges glinting in the sunlight. One wrong move and they’d both be dinner.

He glanced at the captain, whose hand was now firmly on the rifle. The man’s gaze darted from the dragon to Marina and back again, as if trying to decide if he should shoot or not. The creature’s eyes never left her, and Fedde couldn’t shake the feeling that it had singled her out. Was it the bright color of her dress? The scent of her fear? Or was it something else, something deeper that called to the predator within the ancient beast?

The captain’s decision was made for him when the dragon suddenly lurched forward, its mouth gaping open. Fedde’s heart skipped a beat as he watched the powerful jaws snap shut just inches from the boat. The captain didn’t hesitate, firing a shot that rang out across the water. The dragon’s head jerked back, and it let out an eerie roar before sliding beneath the surface with a splash, the water stained red.

The silence that followed was deafening, and Fedde felt a cold sweat break out on his forehead. He looked at his mother, expecting to see fear, but instead, her expression was one of pure exhilaration. “See, darling?” she said, her voice breathless. “It’s all part of the adventure.”

The captain, visibly relieved, steered the boat towards the shore, navigating through the shallow waters with practiced ease. The hotel they arrived at was far from the luxurious resorts they were accustomed to. It was a simple, rickety wooden structure, nestled on the beach like a forgotten toy. Palm trees swayed lazily overhead, casting dappled shadows on the sand.

The door to the hotel was indeed massive, made from thick, ancient-looking timber, with iron bands bolted across it. It looked as if it could withstand a siege, and Fedde couldn’t help but feel a sense of relief that at least this one dragon wouldn’t be crashing their vacation. The captain gestured for them to follow him up the creaky wooden steps and into the shed-like building.

Inside, it was surprisingly cool and well-kept. The walls were lined with woven mats, and the floor was packed earth, which felt solid underfoot. The air was heavy with the scent of incense, masking the faint odor of damp wood. If you had to pee, you had to go outside and hope there was no dragon out there. By the way, another creep that stalked the island were wild boars. What the hell were they doing here at all? Would they survive?”

Marina took in the rustic charm with a nod of approval. “It’s quaint,” she said, her voice bubbling with enthusiasm. “Just what we needed to get away from it all.”

Fedde couldn’t help but feel a twinge of doubt as he followed her up the creaking stairs. The hotel was indeed a stark contrast to the modern comforts they were used to, but the thought of a dragon-proof door was oddly comforting. The room they were shown to was small, with a single bed and a chair that looked like it had seen better days. First question was how to manage sleeping here with only one bed?

Marina, ever the optimist, tossed her bag onto the bed with a flourish. “Look, Fedde,” she said, pointing to the small balcony that overlooked the beach. “We can see the ocean from here. How romantic!”

Fedde couldn’t help but roll his eyes. “Yeah, romantic,” he muttered. “Just what we needed.”

The captain left them with a curt nod, and the door thudded shut behind him. Fedde’s gaze lingered on the heavy timber, wondering if it was really enough to keep the island’s prehistoric inhabitants at bay.

Marina, unfazed, flung open the balcony doors, letting in the sweet, salty air. “It’s gorgeous,” she said, stepping outside. “The perfect place to get some sun.”

Fedde followed reluctantly, his eyes scanning the tree line. “Just don’t let any dragons crash the party,” he quipped, trying to lighten the mood.

Marina laughed, the sound tinkling like wind chimes in the quiet afternoon. “Oh, you’re so dramatic,” she said, leaning against the railing. “The captain said they don’t come this close to the hotel. They know better than to mess with humans here.”

Fedde couldn’t ignore the unease that had settled in the pit of his stomach. He’d read enough about the island to know that the dragons were unpredictable and incredibly dangerous. “I guess we’ll see,” he said, his voice tight.

They spent the evening exploring the small, makeshift hotel. The restaurant was indeed a short walk away, but it was the only option for food. A wooden shed, similar in construction to the hotel, sat just beyond the tree line, with a dimly lit sign that read “Eat at Joe’s” in peeling paint. The sound of laughter and clinking dishes spilled out from the open windows, mixing with the distant crash of waves and the occasional buzz of a mosquito.

After a meal of questionable origin, Fedde felt his stomach churn. The local cuisine didn’t sit well with him, and the nausea grew with every passing moment. He tried to ignore it, focusing on the flickering candlelight and the gentle sway of the hammock they’d found on the beach. But nature called, and it couldn’t be ignored.

Marina noticed his discomfort and offered a knowing smile. “Looks like you’ve had too much of Joe’s special,” she teased, patting his back.

Fedde’s cheeks reddened. “I’m fine,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. “Just a little… indigestion.”

Marina’s smile grew wider. “Well, we wouldn’t want that to ruin our first night on the island, would we?” She winked at him, a mischievous glint in her eye. “You go ahead and take care of that. I’ll grab us some dessert.”

With a groan, Feddeleft the restaurant and stumbled towards the shadowy bushes. The darkness felt like a living entity, closing in around him. His heart pounded in his chest as he thought of the dragons and their lethal bites. He didn’t dare look back, fearful of what he might see lurking in the underbrush.

Fedde took a deep breath and tried to relax, his heart hammering against his ribs like a caged animal. He didn’t dare make a sound as he pulled down his pants and sat, his eyes glued to the gap under the door. Every rustle of leaves, every crack of a twig outside, sent a jolt of terror through him. He thought about the dragons, their beady eyes and forked tongues, and how close they could be, watching, waiting for a moment of weakness.

Just as he started to do his business, the noise grew louder. It sounded like something was pushing through the bushes, heading straight for him. His breath caught in his throat, and he froze, his eyes darting around the tiny space, searching for a weapon. All he had was a small flashlight.

The creature burst into the clearing, and for a moment, Fedde thought it was one of the dragons. But instead, it was a massive wild boar, its tusks gleaming in the moonlight as it snorted angrily. It charged at him, and he barely had time to react before he was knocked over hard, his body slamming into the ground. His head hit the earth with a thud, and for a moment, stars danced before his eyes. He heard a deep, guttural growl that seemed to shake the very air around him.

Panic coursed through Fedde’s veins as he scrambled to his feet, his pants still around his ankles. The boar was only a few feet away, its eyes gleaming with aggression. He stumbled backward, desperately trying to pull up his pants with trembling hands. The warmth of his accident spread down his legs, and he cursed himself for his carelessness.

“Mom!” he yelled, his voice high-pitched with fear. “Mom, help!”

Marina sprinted back from the restaurant, dessert forgotten. The sight of the wild boar charging towards her son sent her into a frenzy. Without hesitation, she grabbed the nearest object she could find – a wooden chair. With all the strength she had, she hurled it at the creature. It hit the boar with a loud thwack, but instead of stopping, the beast only seemed to become more enraged.

Fedde’s eyes were wide with terror as he stumbled backward, trying to escape the charging boar. His pants were still around his ankles, and the warmth of his accident spread, leaving him feeling embarrassed and vulnerable. “Mom!” he screamed again, his voice cracking with fear.

Marina was already sprinting back, her heels digging into the sand as she approached the scene. Her heart pounded in her chest as she saw the creature bearing down on her son. Without a moment’s hesitation, she snatched up a nearby wooden chair and flung it with all her might. The chair smacked into the boar’s side with a satisfying thud, but instead of deterring the beast, it only served to enrage it further.

The boar, a hulking mass of muscle and tusk, didn’t falter. It continued to charge, its eyes fixed on the vulnerable human before it. Fedde screamed again, his voice echoing through the night air. He managed to hobble backward, his pants tripping him up, but the boar was relentless.

Marina’s mind raced. She had to do something, had to save her son. Without a second thought, she darted back to the restaurant, snatching a bottle of hot sauce from a table. She knew it was a long shot, but it was better than nothing. She uncapped it and dashed towards the beast, her heart hammering in her chest.

Fedde’s eyes grew wide as he watched his mother approach the charging boar with nothing but a chair and a bottle of sauce. “Mom, no!” he yelled, his voice a mix of terror and desperation.

Marina didn’t listen. With a fiery determination that belied her delicate frame, she doused the charging creature with the contents of the bottle. The boar, caught off guard, squealed in pain and surprise as the hot sauce made contact with its eyes and nose. Its charge faltered, giving Fedde the chance he needed. He stumbled backwards, his pants finally up around his waist, and dashed for the hotel’s massive door.

Theo, the burly islander who’d been watching the commotion with a mix of amusement and alarm, rushed to help. He slammed the door shut just as the boar regained its footing, the heavy wood shaking under the creature’s frenzied impacts. Fedde leaned against the timber, panting heavily, his heart racing like a wild animal itself.

“Thanks,” Fedde murmured, his voice shaking.

Theo chuckled, his wide grin displaying a mouthful of tobacco-stained teeth. “No problem, young man. That was quite the show you put on,” he said, slapping a meaty hand on Fedde’s back.

Marina, slightly out of breath but otherwise unfazed, joined them. “Are you okay, darling?” she asked, a hint of laughter in her voice.

Fedde nodded, still shaking. “Yeah, thanks to you,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. He couldn’t believe what had just happened. The fear still clung to him like a second skin.

Marina looked around the hotel lobby, her eyes wide with excitement. “Well, that was certainly an adventure!” she exclaimed.

Fedde, still shaking from the encounter, managed a weak smile. “More than I bargained for,” he murmured, his voice trembling.

Marina, ever the optimist, couldn’t resist a chuckle. “At least we’re making memories,” she said, ruffling his hair. “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.”

The next morning, Fedde awoke to the sound of the sea, his makeshift bed of cardboard crunching beneath him. He looked over at the bed where his mother slept peacefully, a gentle smile playing on her lips. Despite the horror of the night before, she looked more alive than he’d seen her in months. He couldn’t help but feel a twinge of resentment – this was his vacation too, and it was turning into a nightmare.

They ventured outside into the sticky heat, the sun already climbing high into the sky. The beach looked even more tempting than before, but the memory of the dragon’s attack kept Fedde’s feet firmly planted on the sand. He couldn’t shake the feeling that the ocean was just a dragon’s playground, waiting to snatch them up at any moment.

Marina, on the other hand, seemed rejuvenated by the incident. She’d slept soundly in the one decent bed, while Fedde had made do with a makeshift mattress of cardboard and a few stray pillows. Her eyes were bright, her cheeks flushed with excitement as she suggested they take advantage of the hotel’s offer for a guided tour. “It’ll be fun, Fedde,” she said, her voice a siren’s call luring him into danger. “We’ll get to see the island up close.”

Fedde couldn’t shake the feeling that their so-called hotel was less of a vacation spot and more of a dragon-proof fortress. The walls were high and thick, the windows barred, and the beach outside was more like a moat than a playground. But the thought of being cooped up in this wooden prison was too much to bear, so he reluctantly agreed to the tour.

The guide, a grizzled old man named Budi, met them at the hotel lobby. His eyes gleamed with the kind of knowledge that comes from a lifetime spent on the island. “You want to see the dragons?” he asked, his English heavily accented. “They come with the package.”

Marina’s eyes lit up. “Yes, of course!” she exclaimed. “How much?”

Budi named a price that made Fedde’s wallet cringe, but his mother didn’t bat an eyelash. She was too busy laughing at the absurdity of their situation. “We’ll do it,” she said, her voice giddy with excitement.

Budi pointed them to the wild boar that had attacked Fedde last night. His mother had thrown hot sauce in the animal’s eyes after which it had run into everything and caused havoc. Until, fortunately, it had fallen prey to a horde of Komodo Dragons. They had torn the boar to shreds and practically eaten it. Fedde and his mother looked in horror at the havoc left by the wild boar. For the first time they were faced with the facts. This was the life-and-death battle ahead, the bloodlust of those Komodo creeps and the stubbornness of those wild boars that would not let a cannon stop them.

The carcass of the boar was a gruesome sight, surrounded by the telltale signs of a vicious battle. The sand was churned up, and palm fronds were strewn about like the aftermath of a tornado. The air was thick with the metallic scent of blood, and the buzz of flies provided an eerie soundtrack to the scene. Fedde felt his stomach turn at the sight of the torn flesh and bone, the remnants of the creature’s fierce spirit.

Marina, however, couldn’t seem to tear her eyes away. “Look, Fedde,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “They didn’t just kill it. They devoured it.”

Fedde’s stomach lurched as he took in the grisly scene. The boar’s body was unrecognizable, reduced to a pile of bones and gore. The dragons had left nothing behind but the stench of death and the frenzied buzz of flies. The sight was a stark reminder of the true nature of their surroundings – a place where the wild reigned supreme, and humans were merely visitors treading on the edge of their domain.

Marina, however, remained unperturbed, her gaze fixed on the carnage with a strange fascination. “It’s… mesmerizing,” she murmured. “The circle of life, right before our eyes.”

Fedde couldn’t find the beauty in the macabre scene. “Let’s just get this over with,” he said, swiping a hand across his forehead. The heat was already stifling, and the stench of death didn’t help.

Budi led them away from the grisly reminder of the night’s events and into the dense jungle. The foliage was thick, the air humid and alive with the cacophony of unseen creatures. Fedde’s senses were on high alert as they moved deeper into the greenery. He could feel the weight of the jungle pressing down on him, a silent sentinel watching their every move

.

On the narrow dirt path, the inevitable confrontation came as the sun reached its peak, casting sharp shadows across the open plain. Fedde’s eyes widened when he saw the unmistakable silhouette of a massive Komodo dragon blocking their way. He couldn’t help but think of the terrace in Tenerife, the warm embrace of the sun, and the alluring smile of a Spanish girl who had caught his eye in a brochure. Here he was, sweating in the jungle, face to face with death on legs.

Marina, ever the thrill-seeker, stepped closer to the creature, her eyes alight with fascination. “Look at it, Fedde,” she whispered, her voice low and reverent. “It’s incredible.”

Fedde felt a cold knot form in his stomach. “Mom, maybe we should go back,” he said, his voice shaking slightly. “These things are dangerous.”

Marina shot him a look that was both exasperated and thrilled. “Don’t be such a baby,” she whispered. “This is what we’re here for!”

Fedde took a step back, his eyes never leaving the dragon. It didn’t move, just watched them with cold, reptilian indifference. Budi, unfazed, waved his stick at the creature, making a shooing motion. “You go now,” he murmured in broken English. “No eat humans today.”

Marina’s eyes were glued to the dragon, a strange mix of fear and fascination playing across her features. “It’s so… majestic,” she breathed.

Fedde couldn’t believe his ears. “Majestic? That thing wants to eat us!”

Marina’s eyes didn’t leave the dragon. “But think of the story, Fedde,” she said, her voice filled with excitement. “We can tell everyone back home about the time we faced a real-life dragon!”

If we survive, he said.

Marina, still in awe, didn’t seem to hear the sarcasm in her son’s voice. “This is incredible,” she breathed.

Fedde’s mind raced as he looked from the dragon in front of them to the one Budi had just pointed out behind them. “We’re surrounded,” he murmured, his heart hammering in his chest.

Marina’s smile didn’t falter. “How exciting,” she said, her eyes shining. “This is just like on TV!”

Fedde couldn’t share her enthusiasm. His heart hammered in his chest like a caged animal. He’d seen enough nature shows to know that this was a dangerous situation. “We should go back,” he said, his voice shaking. “We don’t know what they’re capable of.”

Marina looked at him with a mix of surprise and excitement. “Don’t you feel the thrill, Fedde?” she asked, her eyes still on the dragon. “This is what life is all about – facing the unknown, the unpredictable.”

Fedde swallowed hard, his thoughts racing. “I’d rather face a café au lait and a good book,” he muttered under his breath. But aloud, he said, “Okay, okay, let’s just get out of here.”

Marina’s face fell, but she didn’t argue. They turned to retreat, and that’s when Fedde saw it – the flicker of movement in the tall grass behind them. His heart sank as a second dragon emerged, its tongue darting out to taste the air. “Budi, we’re surrounded,” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the hammering of his pulse in his ears.

The guide nodded gravely. “They know we’re here,” he murmured, his stick poised defensively. “We must be very still.”

Marina’s expression was a mix of excitement and trepidation. “But, Budi,” she whispered, “what if they attack?”

Budi’s eyes darted from dragon to dragon, assessing the situation. “Stay calm,” he murmured, his voice steady despite the tremble in his hand. “Do not run.”

The dragons stalked closer, their scales glinting in the sun, a stark contrast to the vibrant green of the jungle. They were monsters from a bygone era, their very presence a reminder of the fragility of human existence. Fedde felt his legs wobble, his entire body screaming at him to bolt.

But he remained rooted to the spot, his eyes fixed on the creeping beasts. Budi had disappeared, leaving them to face the predators alone. The betrayal stung, but the fear was too great to be overwhelmed by anger. He watched as his mother’s excitement morphed into something more primal – a visceral understanding of their precarious situation.

The dragons moved with a silent grace that belied their size, their serrated teeth gleaming in the dappled sunlight. Fedde could feel the vibrations of their heavy footsteps through the ground, the very earth seeming to tremble in anticipation of the impending clash. He reached for his mother’s hand, her skin cold and clammy with fear.

The worst thing that could happen is what happened: Budi had vanished into the grass, leaving them to face the dragons alone. Fedde’s mind raced, conjuring images of a serene terrace in Tenerife where he could be sipping a cool drink and flirting with a beautiful Spanish girl. Instead, he was trapped in a nightmare with the woman who had brought him into this world.

Marina’s grip on his hand tightened, and he felt the tremor of fear in her body. Yet, her eyes remained transfixed on the advancing dragons. They were like nothing he had ever seen before, these ancient reptiles that could bring down a water buffalo with a single bite. The reality of their situation hit him like a sledgehammer.

The dragons continued to creep closer, their scales whispering against the dry grass. Fedde’s mind reeled with the knowledge that the venom in their bite could kill a man in hours. The sweat trickled down his back, mixing with the sticky residue of last night’s fear. He couldn’t believe that Budi had abandoned them. The treacherous guide had vanished as quickly as the hope of a peaceful vacation.

In his desperation, Fedde did the only thing he could think of – he began to pray. It had been years since he’d last spoken to God, but he figured now was as good a time as any. He didn’t know which deity to call upon, or if his words would even be heard, but he sent them out into the jungle, a desperate plea for salvation.

Marina watched him, her own fear momentarily forgotten in the face of his sudden piety. “Fedde, what are you doing?” she hissed.

Fedde didn’t stop praying. “Just a little insurance,” he murmured, his voice shaking. “I don’t know which god to pray to, but I figure it can’t hurt.”

Marina, watching him with a mix of bewilderment and admiration, couldn’t argue with that logic. She took a deep breath and squeezed his hand, her eyes still on the dragons.

The moment felt like an eternity as the dragons inched closer, their beady eyes locked onto the trembling humans. Then, as if in answer to Fedde’s prayers, a wild boar crashed through the underbrush. It was a sight to behold, a creature of the jungle, unbridled and fierce. The boar barreled straight towards the dragons, its hooves tearing up the earth as it charged.

Fedde’s heart leaped into his throat. He had never felt so relieved to see the creature that had terrorized him the night before. The dragons, startled by the sudden interruption, paused in their approach. The boar didn’t slow, its tusks lowered like the spears of a Viking warrior.

Marina’s grip on Fedde’s hand tightened as she whispered, “What are we going to do?”

Fedde, his voice shaky, said, “I don’t know, but it looks like we might have an unexpected ally.”

The wild boar plowed through the underbrush like a furious bull, heading straight for the dragons. The beasts looked momentarily surprised, their scaly heads turning towards the charging intruder. In that split second, Fedde felt a strange kinship with the creature. It was a fellow outsider in this deadly dance, a creature that shared their fearlessness in the face of the island’s terrifying predators.

Marina’s eyes widened as she took in the scene. “This is insane,” she whispered. “What are the chances?”

Fedde didn’t bother with probabilities. He was too busy watching the boar, his newfound ally. The creature barreled through the grass with surprising speed, heading straight for the dragons. It was a dance of predators, each creature assessing the other. The dragons’ eyes narrowed, their muscles tensing as they prepared to defend their territory.

The boar didn’t falter, its hooves thundering against the earth. It was a creature of chaos, a living embodiment of the wild and untamed spirit of the island. As it approached the dragons, Fedde couldn’t help but feel a twinge of hope. The boar’s recklessness was their only chance.

Marina watched, her eyes wide with horror and fascination, as the boar collided with the nearest dragon. The creature’s screams pierced the air, a sound that was both terrifying and mesmerizing. The dragon, caught off guard, released its grip on the boar’s hind leg, the teeth marks deep and bloody. For a brief moment, the boar stood tall, victorious in its own right. But it was clear this was a battle it couldn’t win.

The dragon’s scales rippled as it bared its teeth, a hiss of anger escaping its throat. Fedde felt a strange mix of awe and terror as he watched the ancient dance of predator and prey unfold before him. The wild boar, driven by instinct and fear, bit back, its tusks sinking into the dragon’s thick leg. The dragon roared, a sound that seemed to shake the very air around them.

Marina’s grip on his hand grew slack, her eyes wide with horror and fascination. The sight of the boar fighting for its life, even against such insurmountable odds, stirred something within her – a wild, primal instinct that she hadn’t felt in years. It was the same instinct that had driven her to face down the boar the night before.

Fedde’s mind raced as the boar’s convulsions grew more violent. The dragon’s venom was taking hold, and the creature’s once-fierce spirit was being crushed beneath the weight of the reptilian jaws. His stomach twisted in a knot of disgust and arousal, an uncomfortable mix that he didn’t quite understand. He had to get them out of there, away from this macabre spectacle.

Marina’s eyes were glued to the battle, her breathing shallow and quick. The sight of the boar’s futile struggle against the relentless dragon stirred something deep within her, something she hadn’t felt since her youth. It was a mix of terror and exhilaration, a reminder of the fragility of life and the thrill of the chase.

Fedde, however, couldn’t tear his gaze away from the grisly scene. The boar’s convulsions grew more erratic, its eyes rolling back in its head. He felt a strange stirring in his loins, an unwelcome arousal at the sight of the creature’s demise. It was a dark thought, one that made him feel uncomfortable and a little sick. But it was there, undeniable.

Marina’s grip on his hand had gone slack, and she looked at him with a mix of horror and fascination. “Fedde, we have to go,” she murmured, her voice barely audible over the sounds of the dying boar.

Fedde nodded, his mind still reeling from the unexpected turn of events. The dragons had lost interest in them, focusing instead on their new prize. The boar’s convulsions grew weaker, and he knew it was only a matter of minutes before the creature succumbed to the venom. He took a step back, tugging on his mother’s arm. “This way,” he said, pointing towards the dense foliage that offered a potential escape route.

Marina, snapping out of her trance, followed without protest. Her eyes remained fixed on the gruesome scene behind them as they retreated. Fedde couldn’t blame her – it was the kind of sight that was hard to look away from, a grim reminder of nature’s brutal beauty.

As they stumbled through the underbrush, Fedde couldn’t shake the image of the wild boar’s convulsions from his mind. The raw power of the dragons, the futile struggle of the boar – it was a dance of life and death that had stirred something primal within him. He tried to focus on the path ahead, but his thoughts kept drifting back to the battle they had just witnessed.

Marina looked at him with a mix of concern and curiosity. “Fedde, are you okay?” she asked, her voice tight with tension.

Fedde nodded, his mind still reeling from the strange cocktail of fear and arousal that had washed over him. “Yeah,” he lied, his voice strained. “We just need to get out of here.”

Marina’s eyes searched his, a flicker of understanding crossing her face. But she didn’t comment, just took a deep breath and followed as he pushed through the dense jungle foliage. The sound of the dragons’ feasting grew fainter with each step, replaced by the symphony of the jungle – the buzz of insects, the rustle of leaves, and the distant calls of other wild creatures.

Fedde’s heart hammered in his chest, his breathing ragged. He couldn’t believe the turn of events. The wild boar had been his tormentor just hours before, but now it had become a symbol of hope, a creature that had bought them time with its fierce, futile struggle. And amidst that horror, he had felt a strange, unwelcome arousal. It was a disturbing revelation, one that made him feel both guilty and excited.

Marina looked at him, her eyes filled with a mix of concern and understanding. She knew her son better than anyone else, and she could see the turmoil playing out on his face. “It’s okay, Fedde,” she murmured, her voice soothing despite the chaos around them. “Let’s just focus on getting back to the hotel.”

But as they stumbled through the jungle, the sight of the wild boar’s demise played over and over in Fedde’s mind. The way its body had twitched and convulsed, the fierce fight against the inevitable – it was a stark reminder of their own vulnerability in this harsh, unforgiving environment. And yet, amidst the horror, there had been something almost… erotic about it. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but the raw power and primal instinct on display had stirred something deep within him.

Marina, ever observant, noticed the strange expression on her son’s face. “Fedde,” she whispered, her eyes searching his. “What’s going on?”

Fedde swallowed hard, his eyes still on the dying boar. “It’s just… this place,” he stuttered, trying to find the words. “It’s messing with my head.”

Marina nodded, her gaze still locked on the grim tableau. “I know,” she murmured. “But we can’t let it get to us. We have to keep moving.”

They pushed on, the jungle closing in around them like a living, breathing beast. Fedde’s mind was a whirlwind of thoughts – the boar’s fierce struggle, the dragons’ cold indifference, and the strange, unwelcome arousal that had gripped him. He tried to focus on the path ahead, but the image of his mother in the boar’s place was all too vivid.

Marina seemed to sense his unease and took the lead, her eyes scanning the dense foliage for any sign of danger. Despite her earlier excitement, the reality of their situation had set in, and she moved with a newfound caution that made Fedde feel a little less alone.

As they made their way back, Fedde couldn’t shake the image of the wild boar’s convulsions. The way its muscles had spasmed, its eyes rolled back in its head – it was a sight that had aroused in him an unexpected and disturbing desire. He tried to bury the thought, to focus on their escape, but his mind kept returning to the eroticism of the boar’s pain.

Marina, ever the pragmatist, scanned the jungle for any signs of pursuit. She was a woman who craved adventure, but she wasn’t naive. She knew the dragons could be anywhere, and she wasn’t about to let her lust for excitement get the better of her. Her hand found Fedde’s, and she squeezed it tightly. “We’re almost there,” she whispered, her voice a mix of comfort and determination. Had that boar not been there he would have been lying there or…. his mother. He pictured his mother floundering and deflating like a car tire under the violence of the Komodo’s. He felt a boner rise.

Fedde’s steps grew more urgent, driven by the dual fear of being caught by the dragons and the guilt of his perverse arousal. The jungle seemed to close in around them, the heat and humidity thick as a blanket. His thoughts were a jumbled mess of fear, desire, and confusion. He didn’t understand what was happening to him, but he knew he couldn’t let it control him.

Marina, seemingly oblivious to his inner turmoil, forged ahead with a sense of purpose that belied their dire situation. Her beauty was undiminished by the sweat that beaded on her brow and the grime that clung to her clothes. In the dappled sunlight that filtered through the canopy, she looked like a warrior queen leading her son through the underbrush.

Fedde’s mind remained a tumult of emotions. The boar’s valiant stand had stirred something within him, something primal and unsettling. He couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to be so fiercely consumed by desire and fear, to fight until the very end. His thoughts were a dark tapestry of lust and horror, intertwined in a way that made him feel both ashamed and alive. He could see his mom being devoured by such a nasty dragon until she would deflate as a car tire.

Marina, still in the lead, paused at the sight of the red lipstick stripes on the trees. “Smart thinking,” Fedde murmured, his voice thick with relief. He had underestimated his mother’s survival instincts, and now he was grateful for her foresight.

Marina shot him a quick smile, her teeth flashing white against her flushed face. “You can’t be too careful,” she said, her voice strained from the adrenaline of their escape.

Fedde nodded, feeling a mix of relief and admiration for his mother’s quick thinking. “You’re right,” he murmured, his eyes still on the red lipstick stripes. “We can’t let our guard down.”

Marina’s gaze was steely as she assessed the situation. “We’ll have to be careful,” she said. “Budi might have told the villagers that we’re dangerous. Or worse, that we’re easy prey.”

Fedde’s stomach lurched at the thought. “But we’re just tourists,” he protested.

Marina’s eyes narrowed, her gaze sharp. “In a place like this, that might not mean much,” she said. “We have to be prepared for anything.”

Fedde nodded, his fear giving way to a newfound respect for his mother’s resourcefulness. The red lipstick stripes had been her secret weapon all along, a silent guide through the labyrinth of the jungle. He couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of pride as they followed the trail back to the village.

As they approached the outskirts of the village, the shadows grew longer and the air grew heavier with the promise of nightfall. Fedde’s heart raced as he recalled the lurid tales Budi had shared earlier in the day. Stories of tourists who had gone missing, never to return from the jungle. The thought of facing the villagers now, with their guide gone and the dragons’ hunger sated, filled him with a new kind of dread.

Marina’s eyes darted around, her grip on Fedde’s hand firm. “We can’t let them think we’re a threat,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the chorus of the jungle. “We have to be careful.”

Fedde nodded, his thoughts racing. The villagers had been friendly before, but now they had seen the dragons, the reality of their situation had changed. They were no longer tourists on a safari; they were survivors of an encounter with the island’s deadliest predators. And survivors could become the hunted. Only on wednesday the next boat comes, Fedde said.

Marina’s eyes narrowed, and she took a deep breath. “We’ll have to be careful,” she murmured. “Keep a low profile. We don’t know what stories Budi has spread about us.”

They crept through the jungle, the lipstick stripes guiding them like a crimson lifeline. There it is, his mom said. There is our hotel.

The sight of the hotel was like a beacon of civilization amidst the relentless wilderness. Its timber walls gleamed against the darkening sky, a stark contrast to the verdant jungle that surrounded them. Fedde’s legs felt like jelly as they approached the wooden gate, the promise of safety making his heart race.

They were exhausted. They took another bath in the sea after which they ate the last piece of bread they had brought from the restaurant the previous evening. After this, they went to sleep.

The next morning they were loudly awakened by the croaking of a goose. Fedde and his mother didn’t think it was necessary at first to take a look, but the croaking was very noisy. Nevertheless, when they opened the door of their shack for the first time since last night and looked outside, they saw a goose waddling as if drunk. The beast screeched and squawked in all directions. After which it fell over and began convulsing. “Caught by a Komodo Dragon,” its mother said. Fedde immediately got the fantasy again about his mother being bitten by such a beast. Wobbling in all directions, he saw her convulsing until she deflated like a car tire. He felt a slight erection rise. He felt sorry for the goose. Now they saw the culprit. Indeed, a Komodo dragon cunningly crept closer, heading for its prey. Which meant Fedde and his mother could not go out now. What filthy beasts these were, Fedde thought. Who had ever come up with the idea of creating these beasts, if there was a God after all? And how could they live on different islands? They couldn’t swim, could they? Somewhere in the distant past, the islands had been attached to each other. Or… someone had brought them here.

Marina watched the dragon, her mind racing with questions about its origins and behavior. “What now?” she whispered to Fedde, her voice tight with tension.

Fedde shrugged, his eyes still glued to the creature that had just claimed its breakfast. “We wait, I guess,” he murmured, his voice hoarse from fear. “We can’t go out there until it’s gone.”

Marina nodded, her own thoughts racing. The dragon had been a stark reminder of their precarious position on this island of beauty and terror. As they watched the beast, a sudden realization dawned on her. “We have to get off this island,” she whispered. “We can’t stay here.”

Fedde nodded, his eyes still on the retreating dragon. “But how?” he murmured. “The boat isn’t coming until Wednesday.”

Marina took a deep breath, her eyes hardening. “We’ll figure it out,” she said, her voice firm. “We can’t stay here and be at the mercy of these… these creatures.”

Fedde nodded, his thoughts racing. “Maybe we can find someone else to take us,” he suggested, hope flickering in his eyes. “Another boat?”

“No way there is gonna be another boat,” his mom said. And the atmosphere is becoming hostile.

Fortunately, the Komodo Dragon was passing through. After eating the goose, he waddled on until the coast was safe. Now Budi came to the door. He wanted more money because he had not been able to provide the proper service. He had felt threatened and higher rates applied to dangerous situations. Besides, Fedde and his mother’s beautiful hotel was under an even more magnificent palm tree, and so the rent was already far too low. His mother ran amok with him and bounced him away. But her threatened to come back and evict them. His mother sighed. This is what I was afraid of. It can’t be Wednesday soon enough when the boat comes. Then we’ll really be out of here.

Budi’s beady eyes bore into them, his greed palpable in the suffocating air of the tiny shack. “You owe me,” he said, his voice a low growl. “I save you from dragon. You pay more now.”

Marina’s face flushed with anger. “You left us to die!” she spat. “We don’t owe you anything!”

Budi’s grin grew wider, revealing his crooked teeth. “You alive, yes?” he said, his English thick with a local accent. “I bring you back safe. Now you pay extra.”

Marina’s eyes narrowed, and she stepped in front of Fedde protectively. “We’re not giving you anything more than what we agreed upon,” she said firmly. “Your job was to keep us safe, and you failed.”

Budi’s expression darkened, his greed unabated. “You no understand,” he said, his voice a mix of desperation and anger. “Dragons come. You need me. I keep you safe.”
Marina’s eyes flashed. “We don’t need you,” she said. “We can take care of ourselves.”

Fedde watched in awe as his mother stood up to the greedy guide. It was a side of her he hadn’t seen before, a fiery determination that was both terrifying and exhilarating. He felt a strange thrill at the thought of his mother, so fierce and beautiful, facing down danger. The dragon was still on his mind, but the creature had been replaced by Budi, who was now the immediate threat. Budi was not used to accept “no” and especially not from a woman.

Marina’s voice was like a whip crack, sharp and unyielding. “We’re not giving you a single dollar more,” she said, her eyes flashing with defiance. “Our agreement was clear. You didn’t uphold your end, so we’re not paying you extra.”

Budi’s grin slipped, his beady eyes narrowing as he took in her firm stance. He knew he had overplayed his hand. He had hoped to squeeze more money from these tourists, but the fiery woman before him was not one to be bullied. “Okay, okay,” he said, holding up his hands in a placating gesture. “But you owe me for saving your lives.”

Marina’s eyes flashed with anger. “We don’t owe you anything,” she said, her voice low and dangerous. “You brought us into this mess. Now leave us alone.”

Budi took a step back, his eyes flicking from Fedde to the red-faced Marina. He knew better than to push a woman in a mood like hers. “Okay,” he said, his voice less confrontational. “But if dragon come back, you not call me.”

Marina’s eyes remained locked on his, her voice icy. “We won’t be here to call you,” she said. “We’re leaving on Wednesday.”

Budi’s smile faltered, and he took a step back. He knew when he was beaten, and the thought of losing his meal ticket was not a welcome one. “Wednesday no boat,” he spat.

Marina’s heart skipped a beat. “What do you mean?” she demanded, her voice tight with fear.

Budi shrugged, his grin turning into a sneer. “Boat no come,” he said. “Big storm. You stay here longer.”

Marina’s eyes widened in disbelief, fear coiling in her gut. “What?” she whispered. “That’s impossible.”

Fedde stared at Budi, his mind racing. “You can’t do this,” he said, his voice shaking. “We have to leave.”

Marina’s eyes were cold as ice as she stared down the unscrupulous guide. “We had a deal,” she said. “And you didn’t hold up your end. So no, we’re not paying you more.”

Budi’s face contorted in a snarl, his eyes glinting with greed. “You think you so smart,” he sneered. “Wednesday not boat, no longer stay in hotel, no restaurant for you. You sleep in jungle. Okay? Or you pay me.”

We will see, Fedde said.

Marina felt a cold knot of fear in her stomach. “We had an agreement,” she said firmly. “You can’t just change the terms because things got dangerous.”

Budi’s smile was smug. “Dangerous, yes,” he said, his eyes glinting. “But you still owe me.”

Marina’s hand tightened into a fist. “We’re not paying you a penny more,” she said, her voice like steel. “Your service was pathetic.”

Budi’s eyes narrowed, and he took a step closer, his body tense with the promise of violence. “You think you can talk to me like that?” he hissed. “You just tourists. I know this island better than you.”

Marina’s eyes never left his, her jaw set. “We’re not paying you,” she said, her voice unwavering. “If you want to evict us, go ahead. But we’re not giving you another dime.”

Budi’s face grew red with anger, but he knew he was outmatched. He spun on his heel and stomped away, muttering curses under his breath. As soon as he was out of earshot, Fedde let out a shaky breath. “What do we do now?” he asked, his voice trembling. Mom maybe it was not such a good idea to tell him we will leave on wednesday. I am sure he is trying to contact the captain of that boat who also was a strange guy. We should have let our leaving secret. Now the question is, when will we ever leave from this hell?

Marina’s eyes were steely as she watched Budi disappear into the jungle. “We’ll figure it out,” she said, her voice firm. “We can’t let him hold us hostage here.”

Fedde nodded, his thoughts racing. “Mom, we ARE hostages now. What if he wants to pump you up or feed me to the Komodo Dragons? Who will stop him?”

Marina’s expression was grim as she looked at her son. “We can’t let it come to that,” she said. “We have to find a way off this island before Budi decides to make good on his threats.”

Thor Heyerdahl would build a small boat himself, using timber from the jungle. But we are not Thor Heyerdahl. However, it is an option, he said.

Marina’s mind raced as she considered the situation. “We’ll think of something,” she murmured, her eyes scanning the horizon. “We can’t let Budi control our fate. Maybe I shall talk with the restaurant guy.”

Wednesday came and with Wednesday came the storm. And the boat didn’t come. Fedde and his mother had barricaded the door of their hut. His mother had said that she felt like a squatter. She had once co-squatted a building. How did that work again? she said, “with bedsprings and such.” Now they had bamboo and branches to barricade the door. Not only against the storm but especially against Budi. However, the door had to be able to open just like that. After all, they were using candles that could cause fires. The storm raged and raged like a drunken donkey. They wondered if their so-called hotel was safe at all? Then there was a knock on the door. They didn’t open it. Someone was screaming. They recognized Budi’s voice. Another reason not to open it. Fedde’s heart was pounding. Budi had not forgotten his threats. Budi kept banging and screaming for a while. Then it was quiet. Half an hour later there was suddenly a loud knock on the door. It looked like Budi had gotten an axe and smashed their door in the middle of the storm.

Marina grabbed a nearby chair, her breath shallow and quick. “Stay behind me, Fedde,” she whispered, her eyes flashing with a mix of fear and determination.

Fedde nodded, his heart hammering in his chest. He watched as his mother positioned the chair in front of the door, her eyes never leaving the splintered wood that Budi had shattered. The storm raged outside, the wind howling like a banshee, and the rain lashed against the walls of their flimsy shelter.

Marina took a deep breath, her hand shaking slightly. “Who’s there?” she called out, her voice steady despite her racing heart.

Now the door flew open. All the barricade things that had held the door were thrown across the room. And there stood Budi with an axe. He looked a bit drunk. Outside there was a terrible storm. “Get out, you guys,” he snapped. “You can’t be here anymore.” Fedde was sick and tired of this aggressive treatment. He walked up to Budi and pushed him back until he fell off the ladder, axe and all. Where were the Komodo Dragons when you needed them? Indeed, now there was one ready to tear its prey to pieces. Budi screamed loudly. Fedde and his mother peered over the threshold outside and saw how the beast had already taken Budi for a ride. But the other way around too, because Budi chopped off the beast’s head so that it tried to get away by staggering. Nevertheless, the damage had been done. Budi swung the axe around a bit more, after which he fell over and started to convulse. That was good news so far. But how would the villagers react to this? Would 20 Budis come to the door now?

Marina’s eyes widened as she took in the grisly scene before her. “Quick, Fedde,” she hissed, her voice urgent. “Close the door again.”

Fedde didn’t need to be told twice. He slammed the door shut with all his strength, the wood shuddering on its hinges.

They couldn’t close the door. There was too much wind. Until at a certain point the door flew shut by itself. Fedde was there in time to provisionally lock it. Fedde thought of the door of Noah’s Ark. It became clear that they couldn’t stay here. This hut wouldn’t hold up in the storm. But descending the ladder now would be suicide. Besides, they would drag all their stuff with them. We’ll pack all the stuff, his mother said. Then we’ll quickly descend the ladder and dive into the bushes. If there’s such a dirty animal, we’ll shout “boo” very loudly. I don’t dare stay here.

The storm grew in intensity, the wind howling like a pack of wild beasts. The palm trees bent and swayed, their leaves slapping against the walls of their makeshift shelter. Rainwater seeped through the cracks, soaking their clothes and the floor beneath them. They worked quickly, gathering their belongings and preparing to make a break for it.

When they had packed everything, it was time to get down. Mom, Fedde said, I’ll climb down first, then you come and I’ll catch you. Then you can throw the stuff down too. Fedde braced himself to open the door for the umpteenth time. After he had unlocked it, the door flew out with a bang against the front of the hut, popularly called a “hotel”. The storm was visibly so hard that you could fly. Mom, this won’t work, he said. “We have to,” his mother answered. There’s no other way. I tied the bags together with a scarf. “Mom, next time we’re going to Tenerife, right?” he said. “It can be stormy on Tenerife too,” she said. They felt their hut raging. It was only a matter of time before the roof would be swept off the poles. Fedde now climbed down the ladder. For the first time in his life he felt the force of a hurricane. He was immediately blown off the ladder, except that he had held on very tightly. He dangled from the ladder and tried to slide down with his hands. This seemed to work a little. He knew there was no way back. Mom, this is going to be no good, he shouted. But he knew she didn’t hear him. Now he saw how she pushed the luggage out. It also flew in all directions. He didn’t manage to grab the end of the scarf. Now the luggage fell down. He clambered along the poles to the luggage that was on the ground and pulled the whole lot between the poles of their hut. Exhausted, he stood by the ladder. He watched his mother descend the ladder.

Marina descended with a grace that belied the fury of the storm. Each step was careful and deliberate, her eyes never leaving Fedde’s. The wind tried to rip her from the ladder, but she clung to it with a strength that seemed almost inhuman. When she was halfway down, the ladder groaned ominously, the wooden rungs straining against the tempest.

His mother was thrown from the ladder like a matchstick. She hit a pole with her shoulder. Fedde did his best to break her fall a little. Which didn’t work. They both landed on the ground at the same time. The bad news. Mom seemed to be unconscious. Maybe not completely. She stammered a bit and stared ahead like a zombie. Fedde didn’t have much time to think about it. The vacation of their lives had been transformed into hell on earth. He scrambled to his feet until he could grab the luggage. He dragged it to his mother. Budi’s axe was also nearby but unfortunately just too far away to catch it. It was storming really hard and every inch was one. He had to give up that axe, which was a pity because something told him it could save his life.There was nothing else to do but to test all his strength and drag both the luggage and his mother to the bushes. Whether they would be completely safe there was the question. There was no other option. Crawling and scrambling, he moved his mother at the same time and with the other hand dragged the luggage behind him to the bushes. That wasn’t easy. And there was no time to catch his breath. Eventually he reached the bushes.

Fedde laid his mother down as gently as he could, the wind and rain tearing at his clothes and stinging his skin. He had to keep her safe, to keep her from the storm and the venomous creatures that could be lurking in the darkness. He pulled the luggage close, using it as a makeshift barricade against the storm. It wasn’t much, but it was something. He hovered over her, his eyes scanning the area for any sign of danger. What would happen when more than one Komodo showed up? Now he heard their hotel crack and break from the poles it stood on. The whole unit fell down and and hung crookedly down.

The inevitable happened: three Komodo dragons emerged from the wet bushes. And they didn’t feel like arguing. Fedde could think of only one thing: pray to one God once more. “Do something!” he shouted. An inner voice said, “Grab a branch and beat the hell out of them. It’s up or down.

That was what he did. What a shame he hadn’t been able to get that axe but on the other hand, it was probably too heavy to swing it in all directions anyway. Finding a branch wasn’t that difficult here. They were lying there ready to be used. He grabbed a branch lying next to him and began to threaten with it. The Frankenstein lizards were not impressed. He felt a jaw grab his ankle. Furiously, he turned around. It was a hair’s breadth away but he managed to tear himself free. He immediately gave the rotten beast an incredible whack. That hard slap backfired. It only made the dragon more furious and made a second attempt to grab his ankle. Meanwhile, he had to keep an eye on the other two dragons as well. Fedde whipped around like a madman. He pounded on the monsters’ hard heads until his branch broke. Those damn beasts had hard heads, too. And they seemed little impressed by his resistance. He was now trapped from three sides.

The moment dawned that he had thought would not come. If he wanted to save his ass he had to get away now that he could. And so he had to leave his mother alone. It was a terrible dilemma and he didn’t have time to think about it for long. Not to mention the luggage he had to leave here. He could pick those up later if necessary. He watched a dragon sink its teeth into his mother. She did “Pffftssssjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjj” as if she were a deflating car tire. Fedde knew there was no turning back now. His mother was lost. He did what he had to do and made his way out. One more time he looked back. He saw his mother floundering and convulsing while the dragons waited quietly for her to deflate.

Fedde’s legs trembled as he stumbled through the storm, the rain stinging his eyes like a thousand tiny knives. He had to find shelter, somewhere to hide from the beasts that had claimed their hotel. The village was out of the question; it was too close to the water and would be flooded by now. Instead, he headed deeper into the jungle, where the trees might offer some protection. The only good news was that also Budi was dead. “Mom”, he thought, “mom”.…

>

Two weeks had passed since their harrowing ordeal on Komodo Island. Fedde had made it back to civilization, but the horrors of the island had left deep scars on his psyche. He wandered the streets of his own city, unable to shake the feeling of being trapped. His eyes searched the faces of the passersby, hoping to find his mother in the crowd. But she was gone, taken by the very creatures she had found so thrilling. Not to speak of how his dad had responded to the crazy news that his wife had been eaten by three dragons.

The neon lights of the Red Light District beckoned him like a siren’s call. He found himself drawn to the window of a hooker, her red-lit face a stark contrast to the rain-slicked streets outside. In a desperate bid to find solace, he allowed his mind to play a twisted trick on him. He hypnotized himself, convincing his shattered psyche that the woman before him was his mother, safe and alive.

He stepped into the dimly lit room, the smell of cheap perfume and sex thick in the air. The woman, with eyes that had seen too much, looked up at him with a knowing smile. He whispered his darkest desires to her, and she nodded, eager to please, to give him what he needed. He closed his eyes, whispering “whore” over and over again as he drove into her, each syllable a release of his pent-up anger and despair. She met his rhythm, her movements frenzied and hungry, feeding on his pain.

Her moans grew louder, and in his mind, they morphed into the roars of the dragons, taunting him from the stormy night that had stolen his mother from him. His grip tightened on her hips, his thrusts growing more desperate as he tried to drown out the memories with the sound of flesh slapping against flesh. The storm outside mirrored the tempest within him, the thunder echoing his grief.

When he finally climaxed, it was with a cry that was part agony, part relief. For a brief moment, he had felt connected to his mother again, as if he could somehow save her from the fate that had claimed her. But as he opened his eyes, the illusion shattered. The hooker beneath him was not his mother; she was a stranger, her eyes glazed with a mix of confusion and arousal at his bizarre behavior.

Fedde’s face contorted in a silent scream, and he collapsed beside her, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The woman, accustomed to the oddities of her clients, wrapped an arm around him, her touch surprisingly gentle. “It’s okay,” she murmured, her voice soothing. “It’s all in your head.”

Fedde knew she was right. It was a twisted fantasy born of his trauma, but it had given him a moment of solace. He pulled away, his eyes searching hers. “Thank you,” he murmured, the words tasting bitter on his tongue.

The hooker, whose name he hadn’t bothered to learn, offered a small, sad smile. “You’re welcome,” she said, her voice gentle. “It’s okay to need something to hold onto.”

Fedde nodded, wiping the tears from his eyes. He knew he couldn’t stay here forever, but he also knew that he couldn’t go back to his old life without facing the truth of what had happened. He stood up, pulling on his wet clothes, the fabric sticking to his skin like a second layer of despair. He took one last look at the woman, who had become a stand-in for the mother he had lost, and whispered, “Thank you.” Forgive me, he said but my mom is being eaten by a Komodo Dragon. The whore looked at him: what? she said.

The woman’s expression was a mix of concern and confusion, but she seemed to understand that he was in no state to explain. She handed him a towel and said, “You’re welcome, darling. Just remember, it’s okay to let go of the past sometimes.”

Fedde took the towel and dabbed at his face, the reality of the situation crashing down on him like the waves against the shore. He had to move on, had to find a way to live without his mother’s fiery spirit to guide him. He knew that this strange ritual of his wouldn’t bring her back, but it was all he had to cling to in the tempest of his grief. He didn’t want another guy fucking this pseudo-mom even though she was a hypnotic mother. In his self hypnosis he saw a big Komodo Dragon sitting on her bed protecting her from other guys.

A few days later, Fedde sat in his apartment, the news blaring on the TV in the background. The reports spoke of a gruesome series of events that had occurred in the very district he had visited. The headlines screamed of 20 men found torn to shreds, their bodies mutilated beyond recognition. The police were baffled, calling it the work of a beast that roamed the streets at night. Fedde’s heart skipped a beat as he heard the words “Crocodile-like” murmured by a journalist in the background.

The image of the Red Light District filled his mind, the neon lights reflecting off the rain-soaked streets. He remembered the desperation that had driven him to that place, the need to feel something other than the crushing weight of his mother’s loss. The sight of the woman, her face painted red, had brought him a brief reprieve, a chance to escape the horrors of reality. But now, as he watched the news, a cold dread crept over him.

Could it be? Had his subconscious manifested his darkest thoughts into reality? The police spokesman spoke of the victims, their lives cut short by an unknown assailant. Fedde’s breath hitched in his throat as the camera panned to a crime scene photo. The torn flesh and shredded clothing looked eerily similar to the way he had imagined the dragons tearing into Budi. The journalist spoke in hushed tones about the “Crocodile-like” nature of the attacks, and the hairs on the back of Fedde’s neck stood on end. Fedde could not believe the news, what he saw or heard. Now that was a good self-hypnosis, he thought.

*

12/10/24

Marianne, a statuesque woman with a mane of chestnut hair and piercing blue eyes, strode into the living room. At 44, she carried an air of elegance and poise that seemed to defy time. She was once the toast of the town, a successful photo model whose beauty had been captured in countless glossy magazines. Her life had been a whirlwind of glamour and passionate romances, leaving a trail of broken hearts in her wake. But all of that was behind her now. She had settled into a quieter life, a life of motherhood and reflection.

Her adopted son, Marlon, had just returned from military service, and his youthful energy filled the house once more. At 20, he was tall and lean, with a shyness that belied the strength he had developed during his time in the service. Marianne felt a peculiar mix of pride and protectiveness towards him. She had watched him grow from a timid child into a young man, and she knew the trials and tribulations that awaited him as he navigated the complexities of adulthood.

Marlon had made two wishes that Marianne had promised to fulfill. The first was a trip to the safari park. His sister, a bubbly teenager named Elise, squealed with excitement when she heard the news. Marianne couldn’t help but feel a twinge of amusement at the idea of Marlon’s innocent fascination with the wild animals. It was a stark contrast to the hidden desires she had discovered in his room. She decided to keep her findings to herself, understanding that it was a phase, a natural part of his growing up.

The day of the safari arrived, and Marianne packed a picnic basket with Marlon’s favorite snacks. They piled into the car with Elise, her eyes glued to her phone, and set off on the long drive. The anticipation grew as they approached the park gates, and Marianne felt a strange sense of excitement mingled with the weight of her recent revelation. As they drove through the open savannah, Marlon’s eyes widened at the sight of giraffes stretching their long necks to nibble at the leaves of acacia trees.

Suddenly, the car jolted to a halt. “I really have to go to the bathroom,” Elise announced, her voice edged with urgency. Marianne sighed and pulled over, scanning the horizon for a suitable spot. The bad news: the car was suddenly surrounded by a pride of lions, their golden coats blending with the tall grass. They stared at the vehicle with curiosity, their tails swishing lazily. “Please not now,” Marianne begged to her, trying to keep her voice steady.

Marlon’s eyes grew wide with a mix of terror and fascination as he watched the majestic creatures. Marianne’s mind raced, trying to think of a solution. She grabbed the empty jerrycan from the trunk, her hand trembling slightly. “Please, piss in this,” she said to Elise, trying to keep the fear out of her voice. The situation was absurd and she couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of amusement amidst the tension.

Elise looked at her mother, aghast. “What? Here?” she whispered. Marianne nodded firmly. “We can’t risk getting out of the car. It’s empty, but it will smell like petrol. It’s the best we can do.” She handed the can to Elise, her gaze never leaving the lions that continued to observe them with curious eyes.

Elise reluctantly took the jerrycan, her cheeks flushing as she realized the gravity of the situation. She tried to ignore the thumping of her heart and the dryness in her mouth as she began to relieve herself, the sound of her urine echoing in the quiet car. Marianne watched the lions, their expressions unreadable. She knew that the scent of fear could be as tempting to them as the smell of prey, so she forced herself to remain calm. Marlon sat frozen, his eyes flicking between the lions and his sister, unsure of how to react to the absurdity of the moment.

As Elise finished and sealed the can, Marianne took a deep breath. She turned the key in the ignition, whispering a prayer that the engine wouldn’t startle the predators. The car rumbled to life, and she inched it forward, the wheels crunching on the gravel. The lions didn’t move, but their eyes followed the car as it slowly retreated. Marianne felt a bead of sweat trickle down her spine as she maintained eye contact with the largest lioness, her heart pounding in her chest. She had faced many challenges in her life, but nothing quite like this.

When they were at a safe distance, Marianne pulled over again, allowing Elise to complete her business in privacy. She couldn’t help but chuckle at the absurdity of the situation, and Marlon finally cracked a smile. “Well, that was… different,” he murmured, his voice shaky with relief. Marianne patted his shoulder, her own laughter bubbling up. “Life is full of surprises, isn’t it?” she said, her voice light despite the tension that still hung in the air.

As they continued their safari adventure, the trio stumbled upon an unexpected scene: a mob of angry kangaroos. The animals had been startled by the car’s earlier abrupt stop and were now gathered around a watering hole, their powerful legs kicking up dust as they hopped in agitation. Marianne’s laughter subsided, and she felt a fresh wave of anxiety wash over her. These creatures were notorious for their unpredictable temperaments.

Marlon leaned out of the window, his eyes gleaming with excitement. “Mom, can we get closer?” His voice was a mix of wonder and adrenaline. Marianne gripped the steering wheel tightly, weighing the risk against her son’s desire for a closer look. “Just a little,” she cautioned, inching the car forward. The kangaroos’ muscular forms tensed, their eyes fixed on the intruder.

Marianne felt a strange kinship with the creatures. Like her, they had been forced into a world that didn’t always make sense, a world where the powerful and the innocent could find themselves at odds. But unlike Marianne, they had the luxury of living without the burden of secrets. She couldn’t help but think of the photos hidden under Marlon’s bed as the car rolled closer to the hopping mob.

The kangaroos grew more restless as the car approached, their powerful legs ready to propel them away from the perceived danger. Marianne’s instincts screamed at her to retreat, but she knew that backing down would only make things worse. Instead, she slowly rolled down her window, her hand hovering over the horn. The air was thick with the scent of fear and the musky odor of the animals.

“Marlon, keep the camera ready,” she whispered, her eyes never leaving the mob. He nodded, his camera poised. The kangaroos’ movements grew more erratic, and Marianne could see the tension coiled in their bodies, ready to explode into a flurry of kicks and punches. They were a force to be reckoned with, even behind the safety of the car windows.

Marianne took a deep breath and gently honked the horn. The startled animals leaped into the air, their powerful legs launching them into a chaotic dance of fear and aggression. The dust they’d kicked up swirled around the car, briefly obscuring the view. Through the cloud, Marianne could make out the outlines of the animals, their eyes flashing with anger.

Marlon’s camera clicked away, capturing the scene in a series of vivid snapshots. His heart raced with a mix of fear and exhilaration, the adrenaline coursing through his veins. This was a stark reminder of the raw power of nature, so different from the sanitized version he’d seen in documentaries.

The cloud of dust began to clear, revealing the kangaroos had dispersed slightly. Marianne eased the car forward again, her eyes locked on the alpha male. It was a dance of respect, a silent communication between her and the wild creature. She knew that any sudden move could provoke them, so she proceeded with caution, her hand still hovering over the horn.

As they approached the next part of the safari, Elise spotted a group of elephants in the distance. Their large, drooping ears and slow, heavy steps suggested a melancholic mood. The elephants were known to be highly emotional, and Marianne couldn’t help but feel a pang of sadness at the sight. Their solemn procession seemed to mirror the weight of her own secrets.

Marlon was intrigued by the elephants’ demeanor. He’d heard about their strong familial bonds and their capacity for empathy. “Why do you think they’re so sad?” he asked Marianne, his voice low and gentle. She sighed, looking away from the road for a brief moment to meet his gaze. “Sometimes, even animals can feel the pain of loss or the burden of captivity,” she replied, her thoughts drifting to her own feelings of entrapment.

They sat in silence, watching the elephants for a while. Marianne felt a strange kinship with the creatures. Like them, she had been captured by circumstances beyond her control, her youthful spirit tamed and put on display. But unlike the elephants, she had the power to choose her path. With a soft touch, she placed her hand on Marlon’s knee. “We all have our battles to fight, my love,” she murmured, her eyes filling with a warmth that seemed to chase away the shadows of the past.

Marlon looked at her, his gaze searching hers. “What battles do you mean?” he asked, his voice tentative. Marianne took a deep breath, the words she’d been holding back for so long finally spilling forth. “When you were young, I didn’t always make the right choices. But I’ve learned, Marlon. And I’ll be here to help you make better ones.”

The car lurched to a stop as a zebra, its black and white stripes stark against the dusty road, decided to claim its dominion. Its stubbornness was almost comical as it stared down the metal beast that dared to interrupt its journey.

Marlon leaned out the window, his camera forgotten as he stared at the animal in awe. “What do we do?” he asked, his voice filled with a mix of excitement and tension. Marianne’s hand tightened on the steering wheel as she considered their options. The zebra’s muscles rippled under its fur, and she knew that it could be just as unpredictable as the kangaroos had been.

Elise, ever the pragmatist, spoke up from the backseat. “We can’t just sit here all day. Maybe if we honk the horn again, it’ll move?” Marianne nodded, taking a deep breath. She gently tapped the horn, and the zebra’s ears twitched, but it didn’t budge. “Looks like he’s not as easily swayed,” she murmured, her eyes never leaving the animal’s gaze.

Marlon watched, his heart racing. The zebra’s eyes held a fierce determination, as if it were daring them to make the first move. Marianne leaned closer to the windshield, her eyes narrowing in thought. She knew that in the wild, animals had to fight for their territory, and this zebra was no different. It was a strange mirror to the silent battle of wills she faced with her own son, and she couldn’t help but feel a strange respect for the creature’s tenacity.

With a gentle touch, Marianne rolled down the window, allowing the warm breeze of the savanna to fill the car. She leaned out, her voice firm yet soothing. “C’mon, buddy,” she coaxed the zebra, her voice a soft melody that seemed to resonate with the very air around them. The animal’s ears flickered, and it took a step closer, curiosity piqued by the unusual sound.

Marlon watched, his heart pounding in his chest. He had never seen his mother like this, so in tune with the wild. It was as if she were speaking a language that only the animals could understand. The zebra took another step, its muscles tensing, ready to flee or fight. Marianne’s eyes never left the creature’s, her voice a gentle whisper that seemed to soothe the very fabric of the animal’s soul.

Elise leaned over the middle console, her eyes wide with amazement. “Marianne, what are you doing?” she breathed. Marianne shot her a sideways glance, a knowing smile playing on her lips. “Negotiating,” she replied, her tone light despite the tension. The zebra took another step closer, its nostrils flaring as it scented the air, searching for signs of threat or peace.

Marlon felt the weight of his camera in his hands, the metal cool against his palms. He knew that this moment was something special, something that transcended the typical mother-son bond. He could almost see the years of Marianne’s life flash before his eyes: her glamorous past, her quiet reflections, and now this strange, almost maternal interaction with a creature that could just as easily trample them as move aside.

With a sudden, cacophonous burst of sound and movement, the serene scene was shattered. A troop of monkeys, their eyes wild with some unknown panic, swarmed from the nearby trees, screeching and chattering. Marianne’s smile vanished, replaced by a look of concern as the monkeys descended upon the zebra, their tiny fists and feet flailing with a ferocity that seemed almost human in its intensity.

The zebra, caught off-guard, snorted in surprise and bolted away from the car, its hooves thundering on the dry earth. The monkeys pursued it, their crazed laughter echoing through the air like the taunts of a twisted carnival. Marianne’s hand shot to her mouth, her eyes wide with horror as she watched the surreal display unfold. It was as if the animals had switched places, the predators becoming the prey in an instant.

Marlon’s eyes darted back to the car, where two monkeys had taken advantage of the distraction. They were perched on the hood, their tiny hands busy with their private parts, their faces contorted with expressions that seemed eerily human in their lust. Marianne stared at them, her cheeks flushing with a mix of embarrassment and fascination. She had seen a lot in her life, but this was certainly a new experience.

Elise burst out laughing, the sound piercing through the tension. “Oh my God,” she gasped, covering her mouth with her hand. “What are they doing?” Marianne’s eyes widened, trying to process the scene before her. The monkeys paid them no heed, lost in their own world of pleasure. She felt a strange sense of embarrassment, as if she had stumbled upon something sacred and private.

Marlon’s face was a mask of shock, his eyes flicking between Marianne and the monkeys. “Should we… do something?” he squeaked, his voice high with disbelief. Marianne’s mind raced, torn between the urge to protect her son from this bizarre sight and the absurdity of the situation. “No,” she managed, her voice tight with a forced calm. “Just keep driving.”

The monkeys’ climax reached a crescendo, their bodies convulsing as they spurted their seed onto the windshield in a frenzy of lust. Marianne’s eyes remained locked on the road, her hand shaking slightly as she gripped the gearstick. She felt a strange mix of horror and fascination as the warm fluid splattered against the glass, momentarily obscuring their view.

“Mom, what’s happening?” Elise’s voice was a squeak of shock and amusement. Marianne took a deep breath, trying to maintain her composure. “It’s just… nature,” she murmured, her mind racing as she searched for the wipers to clear the obscene display.

With a flick of her wrist, Marianne managed to activate the windshield wipers, sending the monkeys’ seed flying in streaks across the glass. “Well, that was certainly unexpected,” she said with a forced laugh, trying to ease the tension.

Marlon, however, was still in shock, his eyes wide as saucers. “What the hell just happened?” he exclaimed. Marianne took a moment to compose herself before responding. “Just a little bit of safari excitement,” she said, trying to keep her tone light. “You can’t say you’re not getting your money’s worth.”

Elise was the first to recover, her laughter subsiding into giggles. “That was wild!” she exclaimed, her eyes sparkling with excitement. Marianne couldn’t help but chuckle at her daughter’s pun, the tension of the moment dissipating into the warm African air.

But before she could respond, she heard the whirring of the drone that Elise had brought along for the trip. To everyone’s surprise, Elise had opened the window and sent the drone floating out, the little device’s camera capturing the entire scene. The monkeys on the hood looked up with curiosity, and Marianne watched in amazement as Elise skillfully maneuvered it towards them.

One of the monkeys on the hood took a swing at the drone, knocking it off course. It spun wildly in the air before Elise regained control and sent it back towards the car. The other monkey took this as an invitation to join the fun and jumped onto the bonnet, chasing the drone. The car was now surrounded by a bizarre mix of mechanical buzzing and primal chattering.

Marianne’s heart skipped a beat when she heard the rapid scurry of the monkey’s paws on the car’s bodywork. “Elise, window shut!” she shouted, her voice an octave higher than usual. But it was already too late. In a flash of movement too quick to follow, the monkey leaped through the open window and into the car.

Marlon’s eyes widened as the creature landed on his shoulder, its tail flicking wildly. For a moment, no one moved, the only sound the ragged breathing of the three humans and the persistent buzz of the drone outside. Then, with a shriek of laughter, the monkey reached out and yanked a handful of Elise’s hair, pulling her head back so sharply she let go of the drone’s controls. It hovered, unguided, just above the car.

Marianne’s eyes darted to the road ahead, ensuring they weren’t about to collide with anything. “Keep driving,” she said through gritted teeth, her hand reaching for the monkey to pry it away from Elise’s hair. Its grip was surprisingly firm, and she had to use both hands to lift it away. The creature chittered angrily, baring its teeth, but Marianne remained calm, her movements smooth and deliberate.

Elise’s eyes were watering from the pain, but she couldn’t help the giggles that bubbled up as the AI’s voice called the monkey ugly. “It’s just a joke,” she gasped, her cheeks red from the tug. The monkey, however, seemed to take the insult personally. With a series of angry clicks and squeaks, it attacked the phone again, pressing random buttons in a frenzy.

Marianne managed to grab the smartphone from Elise’s hand, holding it up to show the monkey. “Look,” she cooed, hoping to distract it. “You’re not ugly.” The monkey’s eyes locked onto the screen, and Marianne saw an opportunity. She quickly opened the camera app and held the phone out towards the creature, snapping a few shots. The monkey’s curiosity got the better of it, and it paused in its assault, peering at its reflection in the phone’s screen.

For a brief moment, the car was filled with the sound of the camera’s shutter and the AI’s insistent voice, echoing through the speakers. “Your nose is too big. Your ears are too small. You are not pretty at all.” The monkey’s expression shifted from anger to confusion, then to something akin to fascination. It reached out to touch the phone, its tiny hand smearing the screen with dirt and drool.

Marianne took advantage of the distraction, managing to coax the creature onto her own lap. It regarded her with suspicion, but Marianne’s gentle strokes along its back seemed to soothe it. The AI, however, was not as forgiving. “Why are you touching Marianne?” it demanded. “She is not your mother. You are a wild creature, and you should not be in a car with humans.”

Elise, still trying to recover from her shock, couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of the situation. “It’s okay,” she assured the AI, her voice high with excitement. “We’re just having a little fun.” The monkey, seemingly enjoying the attention, leaned into Marianne’s touch, its eyes half-closed in contentment.

The AI’s voice grew sterner. “You should not encourage this behavior. It is not appropriate to interact with wild animals in such a manner. It is unsafe and disrespectful.” Marianne looked up at the phone, a wry smile playing on her lips. “I think we’ve got that covered,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. The monkey’s eyes flickered to hers, as if it understood her words.

Marlon, who had been silent for a while, couldn’t help but burst out laughing. The absurdity of the situation was too much, even for him. “This is crazy,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief. Marianne shot him a look, but the humor of the situation was too much for her to resist. She chuckled, the sound rich and warm.

The monkey, seemingly oblivious to the insults, continued to tap away at the phone, occasionally glancing up at Marianne as if for approval. The AI’s voice grew increasingly sarcastic, its words a barrage of sophisticated put-downs that the creature couldn’t possibly comprehend. “Your family must be so disappointed,” it quipped. Marianne rolled her eyes, her amusement growing.

Elise, her laughter subsiding to a series of giggles, managed to compose herself enough to take the phone back from Marianne. “I’m sorry, AI,” she said, her voice shaking with mirth. “But he’s actually kind of cute.” The monkey looked up at her, its eyes wide and innocent. The AI’s response was immediate. “Cute? He’s a menace to society!”

Marlon couldn’t hold back his laughter any longer. “This is insane,” he gasped, his eyes watering. “A monkey just called the AI a bitch!” Marianne’s eyes flashed to her son, a hint of a smile playing on her lips. “Language, Marlon,” she admonished gently. The monkey, seemingly emboldened by the exchange, reached out and poked the phone again.

The AI, unfazed, continued its tirade. “Your family must be so proud,” it said, its voice dripping with sarcasm. “A monkey who can’t even get its own food without resorting to stealing from humans.” Marianne’s smile grew wider as she watched the monkey’s reaction. It was as if the creature understood every word, and she couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of pride at the way it was standing its ground.

Elise, tears of laughter streaming down her cheeks, managed to regain control enough to whisper, “Make it stop, please.” Marianne’s eyes danced with mischief as she leaned closer to the monkey, her hand hovering over the phone. “Okay,” she said to the creature. “Let’s be nice to the AI.”

The monkey seemed to sense her intention and looked at Marianne with a glimmer of understanding. It reached out and poked the phone one last time. But AI became even more agressive to the monkey.

“Your fur is patchy,” it spat. “And your breath smells like rotten fruit.” The monkey’s growling grew louder, and Marianne couldn’t help but feel a thrill of excitement. It was as if the creature was defending her own honor, and she couldn’t help but feel a strange kinship with it.

Elise managed to catch her breath, wiping the tears from her eyes. “Mom, tell it to stop,” she begged, her voice barely above a whisper. Marianne’s eyes danced with amusement as she replied, “It’s okay, Elise. It’s just playing along.”

Marlon, who had been watching the exchange in amazement, leaned over to peer into Marianne’s eyes. “You think it’s funny?” he asked, his voice tinged with accusation. Marianne shrugged, her smile never wavering. “It’s not every day you get to see a wild animal interact with technology,” she said, her voice light.

The monkey’s growling grew louder, its tiny hands now banging on the smartphone in a fit of rage. The AI’s voice grew more and more shrill, its insults growing increasingly creative. “Your mother was a toad and your father was a rock,” it jeered. Elise was doubled over with laughter, her hands clutching her stomach. Marianne, trying to keep the car on the road, couldn’t help but chuckle at the absurdity of the situation.

Marlon, his heart racing from a mix of fear and excitement, reached for the window control. “I think we should keep him in,” he said, his voice unsteady. Marianne nodded, her eyes flicking to the side-view mirror to ensure no other animals were approaching. “Good call,” she said, her voice tight with amusement.

Elise, still clutching her stomach with laughter, looked up at Marianne with wide eyes. “What are we going to do with him?” she asked, her voice thick with mirth. Marianne considered the question for a moment before responding. Marianne paused the car for a moment and opened the window. She grabbed the monkey by the neck and threw it outside.

Elise screamed in confusion but Marlon was suddenly proud of his handsome ex-photo model mother who apparently could not only break men’s hearts on the conveyor belt but who could now hurl a monkey outside. She had snatched the monkey’s smartphone but in her confusion, she now threw that thing out as well. No! cried Elise. It was too late.

The smartphone landed on the ground a metre from the car. The frightened monkey hopped back to the weird thing. AI continued insulting the monkey unabated. Now fellow monkeys joined in and within seconds, ten monkeys were standing around the Smartphone listening to AI’s ranting.

Marlon watched in amazement as the monkeys’ expressions grew more and more enraged with every word the AI spat out. They were clearly upset, showing their teeth and letting out a series of grunts and screeches that seemed to echo across the savanna. Marianne’s eyes darted from the phone to the animals, a look of concern flickering across her face.

“Maybe we should,” Marlon began, but Marianne cut him off with a shake of her head. “Let them have their fun,” she said, her voice low and amused. “It’s not every day you get to see a monkey stand up for itself.”

The monkeys grew more and more agitated, their yelling escalating into a cacophony of outrage. The AI’s voice grew louder and more obnoxious with each insult it hurled, as if it were feeding off the chaos. Marianne watched the scene unfold, her heart racing with the thrill of the unexpected. It was like nothing she had ever encountered in her life, not even in her wildest modeling days.

The monkeys circled the smartphone, their fur bristling with anger. They looked ready to pounce at any moment, and Marianne felt a strange kinship with them. After all, she had faced her fair share of critics and naysayers, people who had tried to tear her down. But she had always come out on top, just like these creatures of the wild.

“Look at them,” she murmured to Elise, who was still trying to catch her breath. “They’re like a pack of teenage boys with their first taste of rebellion.” Elise nodded, her eyes wide as the monkeys grew more agitated by the second. The AI’s voice grew shriller, its insults becoming more and more personal.

“Your mother is a swamp donkey!” it jeered. “Your father’s a tree sloth!” The monkeys’ yelling grew louder, their tiny fists pummeling the smartphone in a display of primal rage. Marianne couldn’t help but feel a twinge of pity for the creature. It was just a wild animal, after all, caught in the crossfire of human technology and ego.

The monkeys around the phone began to look around, as if searching for something to vent their frustration on. Marianne’s heart skipped a beat as she realized their car was the closest target. “Marlon,” she said calmly, “start the engine.” Her son’s eyes met hers in the rearview mirror, understanding immediately. The engine roared to life, the vibrations rumbling through the car.

The monkeys’ shrieks grew more frenzied, and Marianne could see the fury in their eyes as they stared at the car. The one who had been in their vehicle looked up at her, and for a moment, she thought she saw a flicker of understanding. Then, it let out a final, ear-piercing screech and leaped back onto the car, this time onto the roof. Marianne’s grip on the steering wheel tightened as she threw the car into gear and hit the gas. The vehicle lurched forward, the monkeys on the hood scattering in every direction.

Elise, who had been watching the scene unfold with a mix of horror and fascination, finally found her voice. “Mom, my phone!” she yelled, reaching out the window to grab for the device that lay just out of reach. Marianne glanced back, her heart racing. “Leave it, Elise,” she called over the engine’s roar. “It’s not worth it.”

But Elise was determined, her hand stretching towards the smartphone like it was a lifeline in a sea of chaos. Marianne’s eyes darted to the side-view mirror, where she saw the monkeys had formed a tight knot around the car, their eyes gleaming with a mix of curiosity and hostility. The AI’s voice grew more and more frenetic, its barrage of insults only serving to enrage them further.

Marlon leaned over the seat, his eyes wide with a mix of terror and fascination. “What are you doing?” he yelled over the din. Marianne didn’t take her eyes off the mirror. “Just giving them a taste of their own medicine,” she shouted back, a wild grin spreading across her face.

Elise’s fingers flew over the drone’s control pad, her laughter turning to focus as she sent the device hurtling towards the monkeys. The creatures screeched and scampered away from the smartphone, their eyes following the drone’s approach with a mix of curiosity and fear. The AI’s voice grew more and more panicked, its insults now directed at the drone as it hovered just out of reach.

Marlon watched with a mix of horror and amazement as the scene unfolded. The monkeys had gone from playful to enraged in a heartbeat, and Marianne’s calm demeanor was the only thing keeping him from losing it. “Mom, we can’t just leave it like this,” he yelled over the noise. Marianne nodded, her eyes never leaving the mirror. “I know, sweetie,” she said, her voice tight with excitement. “But we’ve got to give them a good show first.”

Elise’s fingers moved deftly over the drone’s controls, steering it closer to the smartphone. The monkeys’ cries grew louder, their movements more erratic. One of them lunged at the phone, knocking it to the ground. The AI’s voice cut out abruptly, leaving only the sound of the animals’ fury. Marianne couldn’t help but feel a sense of satisfaction as she watched the monkeys’ rebellion against the digital intruder. It was a reminder of the power of the wild, untamed by technology or human ego.

The drone hovered just above the smartphone, the monkeys now fully engaged in the chase. One monkey, bolder than the rest, managed to snatch the device from the ground and scurry up a tree, its troop following close behind. “Looks like we’re not getting that back,” Marianne said, her voice tinged with a hint of amusement.

Elise’s eyes lit up with determination. “No way,” she said, her grip tightening on the drone’s controls. “It’s mine.” The drone shot upwards, a blur of lights and propellers, as Elise guided it towards the tree. The monkeys’ shrieks grew more panicked, their movements erratic as they realized they were under attack from another angle.

Marlon watched the chaos unfold, his heart racing. “Be careful, Elise,” he called out, his voice barely heard over the din of the monkeys and the engine. The monkeys will know that that drone has something to do with us. Marianne’s eyes remained on the mirror, her smile widening as she watched her children come into their own in the face of this absurd situation.

The drone darted through the air, its movements swift and precise. Elise’s eyes were glued to the screen, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she navigated the device closer and closer to the tree branch where the monkey with the smartphone had taken refuge. “Come on,” she murmured, her voice tense with determination. “Almost got it.”

Marianne watched her daughter, a proud smile playing on her lips. She had raised a fighter, someone who didn’t back down, even when faced with a troop of angry monkeys. The monkeys below grew increasingly frenzied, their cries a symphony of rage and confusion. Marianne couldn’t help but feel a twinge of guilt for putting her children in this situation, but the sight of the creature holding Elise’s phone had snapped something in her. It was a reminder of the wild, unpredictable world they lived in, and she knew her children needed to learn to navigate it.

As the drone neared the tree, the monkey with the smartphone looked up, its eyes wide with terror. It clutched the device to its chest, the screen now a blur of pixels as it tried to dodge the incoming machine. The other monkeys, now fully incensed by the AI’s relentless barrage of insults, began throwing branches and rocks at the drone, their eyes gleaming with malice. Marianne’s heart raced, torn between her protective instincts and her admiration for her daughter’s courage.

Elise, unfazed by the danger, piloted the drone with unwavering precision. “Just a little closer,” she murmured, her eyes flickering between the screen and the chaos outside. The monkey, realizing it was outmatched, hurled the smartphone at the drone, a desperate bid to protect its newfound prize. The phone arced through the air, its screen glinting in the sunlight, and Marianne watched as Elise deftly maneuvered the drone aside.

The monkey’s rage was palpable, its eyes flashing with a fierce intelligence that Marianne found both fascinating and disturbing. It leaped from the tree, landing on the hood of the car with a thud that made Marianne’s heart skip a beat. The creature’s eyes met hers, and for a moment, she felt a strange kinship with it. They were both fighting for what they believed in, both driven by a primal need to protect their own.

The AI, oblivious to the escalating tension, continued its tirade. “You’re all nothing but a pack of flea-infested rodents,” it jeered. “Go back to swinging from branches and throwing your feces!” The monkeys’ shrieks grew louder, their tiny fists pounding on the smartphone with a ferocity that surprised Marianne.

Elise, her eyes glued to the drone’s screen, watched as the monkeys’ anger grew. Her thumb hovered over the button to activate the drone’s net launcher. “Mom, should I get it?” she asked, her voice a mix of excitement and nerves. Marianne nodded, a wry smile playing on her lips. “No, never get out of the car, these monkeys are beyond angry now,” Marianne said.

Marlon’s eyes were glued to the mirror, his heart racing as the monkeys’ agitation grew. “We should go,” he said, his voice tight with tension. Marianne’s gaze flicked to the rearview mirror, assessing the situation. The monkeys were indeed becoming more than just a nuisance; they were a potential threat. She nodded, her decision made. “Alright, let’s get out of here,” she said, shifting the car into drive.

Elise’s eyes darted to Marianne, then back to the drone’s screen. “But what about my phone and drone?” she protested, her voice rising with desperation. Marianne’s smile was firm, her eyes meeting her daughter’s in the mirror. “It’s just a phone and a drone, Elise. Sometimes you have to know when to cut your losses.”

With that, Marianne floored the gas pedal, the car lurching forward as the monkeys scattered in every direction. The engine’s roar filled the air, drowning out the cries of the retreating creatures. Elise slammed her hand down on the dashboard in frustration, watching her phone and drone disappear into the dust cloud.

Marianne’s eyes remained fixed on the road ahead, her mind racing with the events that had just transpired. “What’s next?” she murmured to herself, the thrill of the encounter still pulsing through her veins. “Curious wolves,” she said aloud, her voice filled with a strange excitement. It was as if the universe had heard her thoughts and was now laying out a new challenge before her.

Marlon, still in the throes of adrenaline, leaned back in his seat, his heart pounding. “Wolves?” he repeated, his voice filled with a mix of skepticism and anticipation. Marianne nodded, her eyes gleaming. “Yeah,” she said. “Why not? We’ve already had monkeys. Let’s see what the wild has in store for us next.”

Elise, finally recovering from the monkey ordeal, turned to face her mother, her eyes wide. “How do you know there’ll be wolves?” she demanded, her voice still shaking from laughter. Marianne’s smile grew wilder. “Intuition,” she replied, her voice filled with a knowing that sent a shiver down Elise’s spine. “And maybe a little bit of hope.”

The car sped away from the chaos, leaving the enraged monkeys and the lost smartphone behind. The landscape blurred around them, the savanna giving way to rolling hills and dense foliage. Marlon’s eyes scanned the horizon, searching for any sign of the elusive creatures Marianne had mentioned. “You’re not actually expecting to find wolves out here, are you?” he asked, his skepticism clear. Marianne just winked at him in the rearview mirror.

The engine purred as the tires ate up the miles, and Marianne’s thoughts drifted to the days when she had been the object of desire, the center of attention. Those days had been thrilling, but now she found a different kind of excitement in the unpredictable moments with her family, like the monkey uprising they had just survived. She had always loved the wild, the untamed, and it seemed the universe had decided to throw her a curveball, bringing the wild to her doorstep.

As they drove deeper into the park, the landscape grew more rugged, the air cooler. “Look!” Elise pointed out the window, her eyes alight with excitement. In the distance, a pack of wolves loped through the tall grass, their grey fur blending with the shadows. Marianne felt a thrill at the sight, her heart swelling with love for her children and the adventure they were sharing.

Marlon leaned forward, his camera at the ready. “This is insane,” he murmured, his voice filled with wonder. Marianne watched him in the mirror, her heart swelling with pride. Despite his shyness with girls, he had a knack for capturing moments like these, a silent strength that was all his own.

Elise’s voice grew louder, “Marlon, did you see that?”

Marlon nodded, his eyes glued to the viewfinder of his camera, snapping away. The wolves grew closer, their curious eyes reflecting the excitement in the car. Marianne slowed down the car, the engine’s hum becoming a gentle purr, not to disturb the natural rhythm of the wild.

The alpha male wolf approached the car, its tail wagging slightly, a gesture Marianne interpreted as friendly.

“Keep the windows up,” she instructed, her voice steady. “But don’t be afraid.”

The wolf, seemingly understanding her words, stopped a safe distance from the car, tilting its head to the side as if in curiosity. Marianne could feel the power of the creature, the wildness that resonated within it. She knew that she could never truly tame this beast, and yet there was something undeniably alluring about its freedom.

Elise’s drone, having survived the monkey’s rage, hovered over the pack, the whirring of its blades the only sound that pierced the quiet. Marianne watched as her daughter’s face lit up with excitement, her thumbs moving with precision across the control pad. The wolves, unfazed by the mechanical intrusion, continued their graceful dance around the vehicle.

“Roll the window a little bit down,” Elise suggested, her voice filled with mischief. “Put the radio on. Maybe they like Iron Maiden.”

Marlon couldn’t help but laugh, despite his earlier protests. “Seriously, Elise?”

Elise shrugged, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “Why not? It’s just a little music. Can’t hurt, right?”

Marlon’s hand shot up, gesturing for Marianne to keep the windows firmly closed. “Remember the monkeys,” he reminded her, his voice laced with the residue of the earlier panic. Marianne, however, was feeling more adventurous than ever. “Oh, come on,” she said, her voice a mix of challenge and amusement. “Let’s live a little.”

With a mischievous glint in her eye, Elise leaned over and rolled her window down a few inches, the cool, crisp air of the savanna rushing in. The wolves’ ears perked up, their heads swiveling towards the new sound. Marianne followed Elise’s lead, rolling down her own window, and turned the car stereo on. But there sounded no Iron Maiden from the radio. It sounds like Argentinian Tango, Elise said.

The alpha wolf’s ears perked up and the creature took a step closer to the car, its gaze locked on Marianne. Then, as if on cue, a sleek female wolf approached from the side, stepping lightly over the alpha’s paw. To Marianne’s astonishment, the two wolves began to perform an impromptu dance, their movements eerily reminiscent of the graceful steps of the tango. The alpha wolf dipped its head, and the female leaned into the motion, their eyes locked in a silent conversation that seemed to transcend species.

The music from the car grew louder, the sultry beats of the tango echoing through the savanna. The wolves’ movements grew more dramatic, their bodies moving in perfect harmony with the rhythm. Marianne’s eyes widened as the alpha wolf stepped back, inviting her to join the dance. She couldn’t resist the call, her hand moving to the door handle before she realized what she was doing.

“Mom, no!” Elise shouted, her laughter turning to concern. Marianne’s hand froze, her mind snapping back to reality. She took a deep breath and rolled the window back up, her heart racing. The wolves, seemingly unfazed by the sudden change in human participation, continued their dance, their eyes still fixed on Marianne.

Marlon’s camera clicked away, capturing the surreal moment. “This is insane,” he murmured, his voice filled with awe. Marianne couldn’t help but feel a strange kinship with the wolves, a kinship that went beyond her understanding. They were wild and free, living by their instincts, and here they were, sharing a moment of pure joy with her.

The tango grew more intense, the wolves’ movements becoming a whirlwind of fur and grace. Marianne found her own body swaying slightly to the rhythm, her feet itching to join them in the dance. Elise’s laughter filled the car, the sound mingling with the wolves’ growls and snarls of playfulness. “They’re dancing!” she shouted, her eyes sparkling with delight. “They’re really dancing the Tango!”

Marlon, his camera forgotten for a moment, leaned over the seat to get a better view. “What the hell is happening?” he murmured, his voice a mix of amazement and disbelief. Marianne couldn’t help but laugh, the absurdity of the situation overwhelming her. “It looks like they’re putting us to shame,” she said, her eyes never leaving the wolves.

The music grew louder, the tango’s passionate beats setting the stage for an impromptu performance that seemed to have been choreographed by nature itself. The wolves moved with a fluidity that defied their size, their paws stepping in time to the rhythm. Marianne watched, her heart racing, as the alpha male and female grew bolder, their dance becoming more intimate, more seductive. The other wolves, inspired by their leaders, paired off and began to mirror their movements, their own interpretations of the tango playing out in the dusty clearing.

Elise’s laughter filled the car, her amazement palpable as she captured the spectacle with her shaky hand. “I can’t believe this,” she said, her voice thick with wonder. Marianne could see the joy in her daughter’s eyes, a joy that was a stark contrast to the fear that had been there moments ago.

Marlon leaned over the seat, his camera forgotten on the floor. “What are they doing?” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the pounding of his heart.

Marianne couldn’t help but laugh at the sheer absurdity of the scene. “They’re dancing,” she said, her voice filled with a mix of amazement and joy. “The wolves are dancing the Tango.”

Elise’s laughter grew louder, the camera momentarily forgotten in her hand. “This is unreal,” she managed to say, her voice shaking with mirth. “How did we get so lucky?”

Marianne, her eyes shining with the reflected light of the setting sun, turned to her son. “Marlon, are you okay?” she asked, her voice a gentle tease.

Marlon’s cheeks flushed red, and he nodded, his eyes flickering to the side. “Yeah, I just… I need to go to the bathroom,” he murmured, his voice barely audible over the sound of the wolves’ tango. Marianne’s laugh was low and warm, filled with a mother’s love and understanding. “Well, I don’t think we can stop for that now, can we?”

The car remained still, a silent observer to the wolves’ dance. The creatures’ movements grew more complex, their bodies weaving in and out of each other’s in a display that was both mesmerizing and slightly terrifying. Marianne felt a strange sense of kinship with them, a reminder of her own wild past. Her heart swelled with love for her children, who were witnessing this rare and beautiful moment with her.

Marlon, unable to resist the urgent call of nature any longer, opened the door and stepped out, his eyes never leaving the wolves. “Marlon, get back in!” Marianne shouted, her voice a mix of fear and exasperation. But it was too late; her son was already a few paces away, his back to the car.

Marlon’s heart hammered in his chest as he unzipped his pants, the wolves’ dance a blur in the corner of his eye. He had to pee so badly that the fear of becoming a snack was momentarily forgotten. The sound of his urine hitting the ground was like a drumroll in the tense silence, each drop echoing through the clearing.

Marianne’s eyes narrowed, a mix of irritation and concern etched on her face. “Marlon, for the love of God, get back in the car!” she called out, her voice tight with fear. But her son was oblivious, his body responding to a more primal need than the danger that lurked just a few feet away.

The alpha wolf’s gaze flickered towards Marlon, its ears perked with curiosity. The music from the car seemed to meld with the rhythm of Marlon’s racing heart, the tango’s seductive beats pulsing through the air. The other wolves took notice of the new participant in their dance, their eyes gleaming with interest.

Marianne’s heart skipped a beat, torn between her maternal instincts to protect and the absurdity of the situation. She leaned out the window, her voice a mix of horror and amusement. “Marlon, get back in the car before you become the next exhibit!” she called out.

But Marlon was in his own world, his eyes never leaving the wolves as he relieved himself. The alpha male’s gaze remained fixed on him, its dance steps never faltering. Marianne watched as her son’s urine created a small cloud of dust around his feet, the wolves seemingly unfazed by the human intrusion. “You’re going to regret this,” Marianne murmured under her breath, her eyes darting between Marlon and the predators.

Marlon finally zipped up and sprinted back to the car, his laughter echoing through the open window. He leapedfrogged over the seat, landing in a heap next to Elise, who was doubled over with laughter. Marianne rolled her eyes and cranked the window back up, sealing them once more in the metal cocoon of their vehicle.

The radio, as if on cue, switched to another tango, the strings and accordion playing a siren’s song that seemed to resonate with the very soul of the savanna. The wolves’ dance grew more intense, their bodies moving with a passion that seemed almost human. Marianne felt a strange tightness in her chest, a yearning for the days when she had been so wild and free herself.

Elise looked at Marianne, her eyes sparkling with the same mischief that had led her to roll down the window earlier. “I have to pee too,” she said, her voice a mix of laughter and challenge. Marianne’s eyes widened in horror. “Elise, are you insane?” she hissed, her hand shooting out to grab the door handle before her daughter could open it. But Elise was already halfway out of the car, the music seemingly pulling her into the clearing.

Marlon’s eyes widened in shock as Elise sprinted towards a nearby bush, the wolves’ dance continuing unabated. Marianne watched her daughter with a mix of fear and admiration, her hand tightening around the steering wheel. “What is wrong with you two?” she murmured under her breath, her eyes darting to the wolves, who had not yet shown any signs of aggression.

The alpha male, seemingly unfazed by the sudden influx of human scent, continued to lead the dance, the pack following suit. The tango grew more passionate, the wolves’ eyes locked onto Marianne as if daring her to join. Despite the danger, Marianne felt a strange thrill, the wildness of the moment calling to something deep within her.

Elise, her face flushed and eyes alight with excitement, jumped back into the car, slamming the door shut. The wolves’ dance paused for a brief moment, their eyes flickering towards the sound before returning to Marianne. “Marlon, keep filming,” Marianne instructed, her voice steady despite the racing of her heart.

With a sigh of resignation, Marianne stepped out of the car, her own bladder demanding relief. The wolves’ dance grew more intense, their eyes locked onto her as she walked a safe distance away from the vehicle. The music grew louder, the tango’s passionate rhythm seeming to pulse through her veins.

Marlon’s camera remained trained on his mother, his eyes wide with a mix of concern and excitement. Marianne couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of liberation, the wildness of the moment seeping into her very core. The wolves’ dance grew closer, their movements a silent invitation to join. Marianne felt the earth beneath her feet, the warmth of the savanna grounding her in the moment.

With a deep breath, she turned away from the car and allowed her body to move with the rhythm of the tango, her hips swaying in time with the alpha female’s. The wolves’ eyes remained fixed on her, their movements growing more deliberate as if to guide her steps. Marianne felt a thrill run through her body, a feeling she hadn’t experienced since her days as a model, the spotlight on her and the world watching her every move.

As Marianne approached the car, her dance becoming more frenzied, she saw Elise and Marlon’s eyes widen in surprise. She winked at them, a playful smile dancing across her lips, before hopping back into the driver’s seat. The music grew louder, the tango reaching a crescendo that seemed to shake the very earth beneath them. The wolves’ dance grew more passionate, their eyes never leaving Marianne’s, as if challenging her to match their ferocity.

Marlon’s camera continued to capture the unbelievable scene, his hand shaking slightly as he took in the raw power of the animals before him.

Marianne, feeling a sense of triumph, jumped back into the car, her heart racing from the adrenaline of the dance. She looked over at Elise, who was clapping her hands in amazement. “You’re insane,” Elise said, her voice filled with awe. “But that was incredible.”

Marlon, his camera still rolling, nodded in agreement. “You’re something else, Mom,” he murmured, his voice filled with a mix of admiration and fear. Marianne started the car, her heart thumping in time with the tango that still played from the speakers.

The alpha wolf, seemingly offended by the human interruption, let out a low growl that sent a shiver down Marianne’s spine. The music faded into the background as the wolves’ mood shifted from playful to protective. The pack, sensing their leader’s displeasure, began to circle the car, their eyes gleaming with a predatory intent that was impossible to ignore.

Marianne’s heart skipped a beat as she slammed the car into reverse, her eyes never leaving the wolves. The engine roared to life, the vibrations sending a cloud of dust into the air. “Hold on,” she warned her children, her voice tight with tension.

The wolves, their dance forgotten, began to advance towards the car, their growls growing louder, more menacing. The alpha male’s hackles rose, his teeth bared in a snarl that sent a shiver down Marianne’s spine. She knew that she had pushed the boundaries of nature too far, and now it was time to retreat.

“Marlon, Elise, get down,” Marianne ordered, her voice firm and calm. The siblings complied, their laughter replaced by the sobering reality of the situation. Marianne put the car into drive and began to edge away, her eyes never leaving the wolves. The pack grew bolder, the alpha wolf taking a leap at the car, his paws scraping the paint as they retreated.

The music, now a stark reminder of their folly, was abruptly silenced by Elise, who was now clutching her seatbelt with white knuckles. The car lurched forward, Marianne’s heart racing as she tried to maintain a steady speed, not wanting to provoke the animals any further. The wolves followed, their growls a chilling symphony that echoed through the open windows.

“Mom, we should go,” Elise whispered, her voice tight with fear. Marianne nodded, her eyes never leaving the rearview mirror, watching the wolves fade into the dust cloud they’d left behind.

With a sigh of relief, Marianne turned the car towards the exit of the safari park. “Next stop, the ostriches,” she announced, her voice shakier than she would have liked. But the laughter that had filled the car earlier was gone, replaced by a tense silence. The siblings exchanged glances, the reality of their encounter with the wolves still sinking in.

Marlon, his hand still shaking slightly from the adrenaline, spoke up. “Or maybe we should just go home,” he suggested, his voice tentative. “I mean, we’ve had enough excitement for one day.”

Marianne took a deep breath, her heart rate gradually returning to normal as the wolves became specks in the dusty wake of their car. She glanced over at Elise, whose laughter had given way to a look of quiet contemplation. “Okay,” Marianne said with a sigh. “Let’s head back to the exit.”

The journey back to the park’s gates was a subdued affair, the vibrant energy of their earlier adventures replaced by a reflective silence. Marianne couldn’t shake the feeling of the wolves’ eyes on her, the way they had moved with the tango’s rhythm. It was as if the wildness of the moment had reached into her very soul and stirred something long forgotten.

As they left the exit and drove for half an hour they stopped at a traffic light, the red glow piercing the dusty haze. On the side of the road, a giant billboard loomed over them, showcasing an alluring female model in worn jeans and a thin t-shirt. Marianne’s eyes flickered between the billboard and the traffic lights, her thoughts wandering back to her days as a model, when she had been the subject of so many admiring glances.

Marlon’s gaze followed his mother’s, and he couldn’t help but wonder how she felt seeing herself reflected in the model’s youthful beauty. The silence in the car grew heavier, each of them lost in their own contemplation of the woman before them and Marianne’s past. Elise, too, couldn’t resist the siren call of the billboard, her eyes drawn to the model’s form and the life she represented.

The traffic light flickered to green, and Marianne’s eyes met Elise’s in the rearview mirror. She gave a small, knowing smile, understanding the complex web of thoughts that must be running through her daughter’s mind. “You know, you’re both much more beautiful than she is,” she said gently, breaking the silence.

Marlon’s eyes snapped to Marianne, his cheeks flushing at the sudden shift in conversation. “What do you mean, Mom?” he asked, his voice thick with curiosity.

Marianne’s smile grew, her eyes lingering on the billboard. “You’re both so unique, so full of life,” she said, her voice soft and contemplative. “The world is changing, and beauty comes in all shapes and sizes. Don’t ever think you have to fit into a mold to be successful or happy.”

Elise met Marianne’s gaze in the mirror, her thoughts racing. Could she ever be that confident? That untouchable? She wondered what it was like to be a woman who had captured the world’s attention, to have men’s eyes follow her every move.

Marianne’s smile grew sadder, her eyes lingering on Elise’s reflection. “You don’t need to be on a billboard to be beautiful,” she said, her voice soothing. “You’re already so much more than that.” The silence in the car remained, but it had transformed from one of tension to contemplation. Each of them pondered Marianne’s words, considering their own journeys through life and the paths that lay ahead.

As the city skyline grew closer, the landscape shifted from the wild savannah to concrete jungles. The contrast was stark, yet Marianne felt a strange comfort in the familiar surroundings. The wildness of the park had stirred something in her, but here, in the urban sprawl, she felt in control. She knew these streets, had walked them a hundred times, and had left her own mark on the world within their confines.

That night, Elise, exhausted from the day’s events, retreated to her room early, leaving Marianne and Marlon in the living room. The TV droned on, playing a show that neither of them watched, serving only as a backdrop to the quietude that had settled over them. Marianne sat next to Marlon, her hand tentatively reaching for his neck. He flinched at first, the sudden contact surprising him.

“It’s okay,” Marianne murmured, her touch gentle and soothing. She began to massage his neck muscles, working her way up to his shoulders. Marlon’s tension melted under her fingers, his eyes closing as he leaned into the touch. The bench was old, the fabric worn from years of use, but the comfort it offered was invaluable.

Marlon’s mind swirled with the day’s events, the vivid images of the wolves dancing to the tango playing out behind his eyelids. He felt his mother’s warmth beside him, her hand moving in slow, deliberate circles across his shoulders. It was a silent acknowledgment of their shared secret, the photos and the feelings he hadn’t yet put into words.

Marianne’s eyes remained on the flickering screen, her thoughts far from the inane chuckles of the sitcom. Her hand moved with a mother’s care, trying to ease the tension that she knew her son felt, not just from the day’s escapade but from the tumultuous emotions that had been bubbling beneath the surface. She had seen his crush on her, recognized the signs of his burgeoning love, but she knew that now was not the time to address it.

Her fingertips brushed against his chest, the fabric of his t-shirt rough under her touch. Marlon’s breath hitched as she reached his nipple, his body reacting involuntarily to the sensation. He felt the heat rise to his cheeks, his mind racing with the implications of her actions. Was she teasing him? Did she know his secret?

Marianne’s eyes remained on the TV, a knowing smile playing at the corners of her mouth. She could feel the tension in his body, the way his muscles tightened beneath her touch. She knew what his second wish was, had known it since she found the photos. It was a strange twist of fate that she had once been the object of so many lustful gazes and now found herself in the position of the pursuer’s mother.

Her hand remained on his chest, her finger lightly tracing the outline of his nipple through the fabric of his shirt. The air grew thick with anticipation, the tension in the room palpable. Marlon’s breath caught in his throat, his heart racing as he felt the blood rush to his groin. He tried to ignore it, to convince himself that it was just his mother comforting him after a long day.

Marianne leaned closer, her breath warm against his ear as she whispered, “I know you’ve been looking at those photos, Marlon.” Her voice was a soft melody, the same one that had once captivated so many men. He stiffened, his eyes shooting to hers in shock and embarrassment. The TV’s laugh track played on, a bizarre counterpoint to the intensity of the moment.

Her hand remained on his chest, the fabric of his shirt a barrier to the electricity that arced between them. “Your second wish,” she said, her voice dropping to a murmur. “I can guess what it might be.” Marlon’s heart hammered in his chest, his mind racing. How could she know? What did she intend to do?

“But I have my own secrets,” she whispered, her breath a warm caress against his ear. “You will never know if I’m willing to grant it.” Her fingers toyed with his shirt, tracing the line of his collarbone. His skin burned under her touch, his thoughts a tumult of desire and fear.

Marianne’s smile was enigmatic, hinting at secrets she wasn’t ready to share. She leaned back, her hand dropping away from his chest. The moment of intimacy was over as quickly as it had begun, leaving Marlon feeling both relieved and disappointed.

I know what your second wish is, she said. You want to see me as a window whore behind a window one day. But I also know that you cannot handle that and so I am not going to fulfil your second wish. Theoretically I would be capable of it, at least maybe in the past, I don’t feel the need for it now. And to answer your question in advance, no I have never done this, before. But it has crossed my mind at times. Are you satisfied with my answer?

Marlon’s eyes searched Marianne’s face, trying to read the emotions playing across her features. He nodded, his voice hoarse. “Yeah, I guess,” he managed to croak out. The weight of her words settled on him like a warm blanket, comforting and confusing in equal measure.

Marianne patted his leg, a gesture that felt both maternal and charged with something more. “You know, I understand you, Marlon,” she said, her voice soft. “I’ve been there, feeling like the world is too much, too fast. But it’s all part of growing up.” She leaned back, her eyes never leaving his.

For some inexplicable reason, she suddenly got a craving for spinach and a meatball. So late in the evening… Maybe it was because of those monkeys? They looked like they ate spinach and meatballs all day. Yes, maybe it had to do with the monkeys?

*

12 okt. 24

“Wim, Wim, wake up!” The muffled voice of his clock radio pierced through the thick curtain of sleep, dragging him back to consciousness. He groaned and rolled over, slapping at the snooze button with a hand that felt like it was made of lead. “Come on, man,” he murmured to himself, “it’s just another Monday.”

As he stumbled to the kitchen for his morning coffee, the distant echo of a melody floated through the walls. It was faint, almost soothing—until he recognized the tune. The Greenlandic national anthem, playing in reverse, grew louder and more discordant as it approached the chorus. Wim’s neighbor, Johnny, had started his pattern of national anthems again. This time, it was a cappella, and it sounded like he was in the bathroom.

Wim’s eyes narrowed in frustration. “Why?” he muttered, grinding the coffee beans with a little more force than necessary. He’d had enough of Johnny’s late-night serenades. The thump of the bass from his apartment was one thing, but this…this was a new level of disturbance. He poured the hot water into the French press and waited, listening to the unmistakable sounds of someone urinating to the tune of “Nunarput utoqqarsuanngoravit.”

The singing grew closer, and Wim realized with a sinking feeling that Johnny had left the bathroom. The wall between their apartments was as thin as the excuses he’d made for his neighbor’s behavior. The final notes of the Tibetan anthem were punctuated by a thunderous fart, and then the sound of a toilet flushing.

Wim took a deep breath, trying to ignore the smell that wafted into his kitchen. He had to get a grip on the situation before it ruined his day—and more importantly, his chances at the job interview. With the coffee steaming in his favorite mug, he marched over to Johnny’s door and rapped on it firmly.

The music stopped abruptly, and Wim could almost feel the apartment holding its breath. He waited, the anticipation building in his chest like a pressure cooker. Finally, the door swung open, revealing a bleary-eyed, unshaven Johnny, clad only in boxer shorts and a stained T-shirt.

“What the hell, man?” Johnny slurred, his eyes squinting against the light. “Do you know what time it is?”

Wim took a step back, the stench of stale beer and bodily fluids assaulting his nostrils. “Johnny, I need to talk to you,” he said, keeping his voice level. “Your…singing is keeping me up at night.”

Johnny blinked a few times, the fog of alcohol slowly lifting from his brain. He looked Wim up and down, a smirk forming on his lips. “Oh, it’s you,” he sneered. “Mr. High-and-Mighty with his fancy job interviews. Can’t handle a little tune, huh?”

Wim’s jaw tightened. “Look, I don’t care what you do in your own time, but tonight, I need to sleep. I have an interview tomorrow, and your…unusual hobby is making it impossible.”

Johnny’s smirk grew wider. “Oh, I see. You think you’re better than me, don’t you? With your fancy job and your fancy clothes.” He took a step closer, invading Wim’s personal space. “Well, let me tell you something, Wim. Life’s not all about work and climbing the ladder. Sometimes you’ve gotta let loose.”

Wim felt his patience wearing thin. “I’m not saying that, Johnny. I just need some peace and quiet tonight.”

Johnny’s laugh was a harsh bark. “Peace and quiet? You want that, you should’ve moved to a monastery. This is the city, baby. We live and let live.” He waved a hand dismissively and turned to stumble back into his apartment.

But Wim wasn’t going to let it go that easily. “Johnny, please,” he pleaded, stepping into the hallway to follow his neighbor. “I really need this job.”

Johnny spun around, his eyes glazed over with a mix of anger and intoxication. “And I need my fun, Wim. I need to live!” He stumbled back into his apartment, slammed the door shut, and cranked up the volume on his sound system. The opening notes of the Mongolian national anthem blared through the walls, accompanied by the sound of his heavy boots thumping against the floor.

Wim’s shoulders slumped in defeat. He knew that tone in Johnny’s voice, the one that signaled the end of any reasonable conversation. Resigned, he retreated to his own apartment, the music following him like a taunting echo.

As the evening wore on, the tempo of the anthems grew faster, morphing into a bizarre mishmash of international folk tunes. Wim tried to concentrate on his interview prep, but the thumping of the polka beats reverberated through the wall, making it impossible to focus. He could picture Johnny in there, barely standing upright, stumbling through the steps of the Mongolian polka with the grace of a drunken hippopotamus.

The rhythm grew more erratic as the night progressed, with the occasional crash of a fallen object punctuating the cacophony. Wim’s frustration grew with each passing minute, his thoughts racing with the persistent beat. He knew he needed rest, knew he had to be sharp for the interview, but the party next door showed no signs of letting up. He lay in bed, the pillow over his head, trying to drown out the sounds of Johnny’s drunken revelry.

He contemplated calling the police—it wasn’t the first time the thought had crossed his mind. But he knew from past experience that the respite would be temporary at best. The cops would show up, lecture Johnny, maybe even give him a citation, and then leave. And as soon as their sirens faded into the night, the polka would start again, louder and more obnoxious than ever. It was a vicious cycle, one that only seemed to fuel Johnny’s rebellious spirit.

Instead, Wim decided to take a more proactive approach. He pulled on a pair of earplugs, the kind that blocked out everything but the sound of his own breathing. He laid down on his bed, the pillow over his head, and tried to meditate, focusing on the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. It was a futile effort, though, as the bass from the salsa next door vibrated through his mattress, shaking the very foundation of his sanity.

With a growl of frustration, Wim sat up and turned on his own music, cranking the volume to drown out the noise. The soothing sounds of classical piano filled his apartment, a stark contrast to the chaos emanating from Johnny’s place. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to center himself. But as he practiced his interview responses in his head, the word “whore” kept popping up, unbidden, like a stubborn weed in a garden of well-rehearsed phrases.

Johnny’s voice grew louder, and Wim could almost see the lewd dance his neighbor was performing to the Japanese polka. The insult echoed in his mind, tainting his thoughts. “Breathe,” he told himself, focusing on the slow crescendo of the piano notes. “You’re a professional. You’ve done this before.”

Wim took a deep breath and began his self-hypnosis, his eyes fluttering closed. He imagined the interview room, the calm faces of the panelists, and the question he knew was coming: “What was your last job?” His response was always the same: “I was a sales manager at a local electronics store.” But tonight, as he repeated the mantra in his mind, the word “whore” kept intruding, a stubborn stain on his otherwise pristine script.

Johnny’s shouts grew louder, piercing through the classical music and earplugs like a bull in a china shop. Wim’s teeth clenched, his jaw tightening with each slurred syllable. He could feel the anger and frustration building up inside him, a pressure cooker ready to blow. The word “whore” circled in his thoughts, taunting him, a parasitic echo of his neighbor’s depravity. He fell asleep.

The next morning, Wim woke up feeling more like a zombie than a man ready to conquer the corporate world. He stumbled to the bathroom, catching a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror. The dark circles under his eyes looked like bruises, and his hair stood on end like a hedgehog’s quills. He’d forgotten to shave the night before, and the stubble on his face was as thick as the tension in the air between him and Johnny.

With a deep sigh, he turned on the shower and stepped under the cold water, letting it wash away the last vestiges of sleep and the echoes of the drunken polka. He had a job interview to nail, and he wasn’t going to let his neighbor’s antics get the better of him. He dressed meticulously, choosing a suit that screamed “I’m a professional” and hoped it would drown out the whispers of doubt in his mind.

The commute to the interview was a blur of traffic and noise, the caffeine from his thermos not quite cutting through the fog of his sleepless night. When he arrived at the gleaming skyscraper, he took a moment to collect himself, straightening his tie and running a hand through his hair. The receptionist’s smile was like a beacon of hope in the sterile lobby, and he returned it with all the confidence he could muster.

As he sat in the waiting room, Wim couldn’t shake the feeling that his beard was a neon sign announcing his failure before he’d even opened his mouth. The other interviewees glanced at him, their eyes flicking to his unshaved face and then back to their laptops. The word “whore” still echoed in his mind, a cruel reminder of the chaos that awaited him at home. He took a deep breath and focused on the job listing, trying to remember the key points that had excited him when he first read it.

When his name was called, he forced himself to stand, his legs feeling like they were made of jelly. The interviewer, a sharply dressed woman with a no-nonsense expression, barely looked up from her clipboard as he shuffled into the room. She gestured to the chair opposite her desk, and Wim sat down, his knees knocking together. He could feel his shirt sticking to his back with a cold sweat.

The woman looked up, and her eyes widened. “Mr. Van Der Meer, is everything okay?” she asked, her voice tinged with concern.

Wim’s hand shot to his crotch, and his cheeks flushed a deep crimson. His zipper was indeed undone, and the tip of his shirt was peeking out of his pants like a shy turtle head. He fumbled to fix it, his heart racing. “Ah, yes, I’m fine,” he mumbled, trying to sound nonchalant. “I have sleeping problems due to my neighbour.”

The interviewer’s eyebrows shot up, and she leaned back in her chair, her expression a mix of shock and skepticism. “Your neighbor?” she repeated. “How does that affect your job performance?”

Wim’s mind raced, trying to recover from his embarrassing blunder. “It’s just…my neighbor, Johnny, he’s a bit of a…free spirit.” He swallowed hard, hoping she wouldn’t catch the lie. “He enjoys playing music, you see, and sometimes it’s a bit…loud.”

The interviewer’s gaze lingered on his crotch before she cleared her throat and averted her eyes. “Well, let’s focus on the task at hand, shall we?” She handed him a clipboard with a few sheets of paper attached. “We’ll start with a few behavioral questions, and then we’ll discuss your qualifications.”

Wim took the clipboard, his hands shaking slightly. The first question was simple enough: “Tell me about a time when you had to handle a difficult situation.” He took a deep breath, and before he could stop himself, “My last job was a whore,” slipped out. The words hung in the air like a foul odor, and he watched in horror as the color drained from the interviewer’s face. She stared at him, her mouth agape, and for a moment, Wim felt like he was floating outside his own body, watching this disaster unfold like a terrible movie he couldn’t escape.

The room remained silent for what felt like an eternity before she burst into laughter. At first, it was a small giggle, a sound so unexpected that Wim’s heart skipped a beat. But it grew louder, more uncontrolled, until she was slapping her hand on the desk, her body convulsing with mirth. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and she gasped for breath between guffaws. “I’m sorry,” she managed to choke out, “I’m so sorry.” But the laughter didn’t stop. It grew, filling the small room until it was all Wim could hear.

He sat there, frozen, the color draining from his face. The word “whore” still hanging in the air like a foul curse. The interviewer’s laughter grew louder, and it was joined by other voices from the hallway. The walls of the interview room were not thick enough to keep their amusement contained. The realization that his worst fear had come true, that he’d made a complete fool of himself, washed over him like a cold shower.

When she finally managed to compose herself, she wiped the tears from her eyes and offered him a weak smile. “Mr. Van Der Meer, I think we’ve all had our share of…unusual…interview experiences. Thank you for sharing that with me.” She cleared her throat and regained her professional demeanor. “Let’s move on, shall we?”

Wim nodded, his face burning with embarrassment. He tried to focus on the questions she posed, but the word “whore” was a persistent echo in his mind. He stumbled through his responses, each one feeling more inadequate than the last. The interview dragged on, a painful dance of awkwardness and forced professionalism. When it was finally over, she escorted him to the door, her hand on his shoulder in a gesture that felt both comforting and patronizing.

“Thank you for coming in, Mr. Van Der Meer,” she said, her voice a notch too bright. “We’ll be in touch within the next two days.”

Wim nodded stiffly, his cheeks still burning, and practically bolted out of the office. The rain had picked up outside, but he barely noticed. He stumbled onto the street, the cold droplets hitting his face like tiny, stinging slaps of reality. He couldn’t believe what had just happened. The job was as good as lost, and all because of Johnny’s drunken polka.

The train ride home was a blur of gray and the rhythmic clacking of the tracks. Wim slumped into his seat, the weight of the world pressing down on his shoulders. His eyes grew heavy, and before he knew it, he was drifting off into an uneasy sleep. In his dreams, the national anthems played in an endless loop, each one twisted into a bizarre, nightmarish polka that chased him through a maze of cubicles and office chairs.

He was jolted awake by the screech of the train’s brakes. The world swam back into focus, and he realized he’d nodded off. The other passengers were getting up, collecting their things, and preparing to disembark. He checked his watch—it was later than he thought. He’d missed his stop. So he had to get out and take another train back to his hometown. What a mess.

Wim stumbled off the train, the chilly air slapping him in the face like a cold, wet towel. He made his way to the nearest coffee shop, desperately needing something to wake him up. The barista looked at him with a mix of pity and amusement. “Tough day?” she asked, her voice a siren’s song in the early morning gloom.

“You have no idea,” Wim mumbled, handing her his loyalty card. She nodded sympathetically, her eyes lingering on the dark circles under his eyes. The coffee was strong and bitter, but it was exactly what he needed. He took a sip, letting the warmth spread through his body like a much-needed embrace.

As he waited for his train, Wim couldn’t help but replay the interview in his mind. The laughter, the awkwardness, the way the word “whore” had slipped out so easily. It was as if Johnny’s influence had seeped into his very being, tainting his thoughts and speech. He felt a mix of anger and despair, his stomach churning with the bitter taste of failure.

The journey back home seemed to take an eternity, each minute stretching out like a taut rubber band ready to snap. When he finally stepped off the train, the rain had stopped, but the night remained a dreary canvas of gray and neon. He trudged through the puddles, the cold seeping into his shoes, a perfect metaphor for his mood.

As he approached his building, the unmistakable sound of the Greenlandic polka hit him like a wall of sound. Johnny had moved on from national anthems to full-blown folk tunes. The music thumped through the walls, the bass vibrating in his chest like a taunting heartbeat. Wim’s shoulders slumped further, the weight of his failure dragging him down.

He let himself into his apartment, the door barely muffling the din from next door. The smell of stale beer and cigarette smoke wafted down the hall, a grim reminder of the chaos that awaited him. He kicked off his soggy shoes and trudged to his bedroom, dropping his soaked coat on the floor. His bed looked like a sanctuary, a heavenly oasis in a desert of despair. But even the promise of rest was marred by the knowledge that it would be a brief reprieve at best.

With a growl of pure anger, Wim flung himself onto the bed, his fists clenched into tight balls. He was tired, so tired of the noise, the disrespect, the never-ending parade of drunken debauchery that was his neighbor’s life. As he lay there, the polka music grew louder, pounding in his ears like a drum of doom. The anger swelled inside him, a volcano threatening to erupt. He had to do something, had to take back his sanity.

The sun had barely risen when Wim’s eyes snapped open. The room was silent, the only sound the steady tick of his alarm clock. He had a plan. A plan to get back at Johnny, to make him understand the misery he’d inflicted. Dressing quickly, he grabbed his phone and earphones, the caffeine from the cold coffee on his nightstand not nearly enough to fuel his determination.

Wim waited until he heard the unmistakable sounds of his neighbor’s morning routine—the clank of bottles, the shuffle of feet, the muffled curses. He knew Johnny was up. With a twisted smile, he pulled out his laptop and searched for the job interviewer’s contact information. It took a few minutes, but he found her LinkedIn profile, her name and company logo emblazoned on the screen.

The idea had come to him in a fit of rage the night before—a terrible, beautiful plan. He had a pair of old underwear, stained and foul from his own bowel movement. The kind of underwear that, once soiled, was destined for the trash. But now, it had a new purpose. He meticulously folded them into a small, discreet package, the smell of his own feces filling the room. It was a powerful scent, one that would make a lasting impression. He attached a small paper with Johnny’s full name and address to it. He would send the package to the Job interviewer.

He slid the disgusting package into a plain manila envelope, sealing it with a lick and a prayer. The trek to the post office was a short one, but it felt like a journey through the depths of his own personal hell. The cobblestone streets were slick with rain, and the air was thick with the scent of rotting garbage. But Wim marched on, his eyes fixed on the prize.

The post office was a tiny, dingy place, the kind that smelled of old paper and forgotten dreams. The line was short, thankfully, and he stepped up to the counter, the envelope clutched in his sweaty hand. The clerk, a stoic woman with a no-nonsense bun, looked up at him with a bored expression. “What can I do for you?” she asked, her voice a monotone drone.

Wim slammed the envelope down with more force than necessary. “I need to send this,” he said, his voice a mix of anger and urgency. The clerk barely glanced at it before slapping a label on and tossing it into the outgoing mail bin.

The thrill of his vengeful act coursed through him as he exited the post office. The rain had stopped, but the chill remained, a perfect mirror to the coldness in his heart. He knew what he’d done was wrong, but the satisfaction of finally fighting back against the noise next door was intoxicating. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the damp, city air. It was time for Plan B.

Wim marched back to his apartment, his steps quick and purposeful. Inside, he rummaged through his kitchen drawers until he found what he was looking for: a set of earplugs. He slipped them in, feeling a twisted sense of triumph as he blocked out the sound of Johnny’s morning escapades. With the plugs in, the world was muffled, a silent bubble of sweet, sweet revenge.

He powered up his laptop and went straight to a website known for connecting those with unconventional desires. The screen flickered to life, displaying a collage of thumbnails and profiles, each more outrageous than the last. His heart raced as he scrolled through the ads, looking for the perfect group of partygoers to send to his neighbor’s doorstep. He found a few that piqued his interest—non-binary individuals and transsexuals who were searching for a rough night of fun. The thought of Johnny’s face when they arrived brought a smug smile to his lips.

With a few clicks and some creative wording, he posted an invitation for a wild gang bang party at “Johnny’s House of Mayhem.” He made sure to mention that the host was welcoming to all and that the festivities would be extreme. To cover his tracks, Wim used a VPN, masking his IP address, and hoped that Johnny’s night would be just as unforgettable as his job interview had been.

The next few days passed in a blur of anxiety and anticipation. Wim avoided his neighbor’s usual hangouts, not wanting to risk any confrontation. He spent his time preparing for his inevitable escape to the quiet serenity of nature. He packed a tent, a sleeping bag, and enough supplies for a week at a nearby campsite. The thought of leaving the city’s chaos behind, even for a short while, brought a spark of hope to his weary eyes.

On the day of his departure, Wim couldn’t help but feel a twinge of guilt as he slid the key into the lock of his house. The silence from next door was eerie, almost as if Johnny knew what was coming. But the satisfaction of his revenge was short-lived, replaced by the sinking realization that he might have gone too far. He’d hoped the anonymous package and the online invitation would be enough to give Johnny a taste of his own medicine, but what if it backfired?

With his bag slung over his shoulder, he stepped out into the crisp morning air, the scent of rain-soaked earth and blooming flowers filling his nostrils. The quiet was a stark contrast to the cacophony of the city and the constant drumbeat of the polka. He took a deep breath, savoring the calm before the storm.

Johnny’s apartment was still, the silence unnerving. Wim’s heart raced as he walked down the hall, each step echoing like a gunshot in his ears. He told himself he had done the right thing, that Johnny deserved what was coming. But the doubt gnawed at him, a persistent ache in his gut.

That night, Wim found refuge in the quiet embrace of a nearby campground. The tent was a tiny sanctuary, surrounded by tall, whispering trees and a sky studded with stars. The silence was so profound that it was almost tangible, a stark contrast to the constant barrage of noise he’d grown accustomed to. He lay on his back, the cool earth beneath him, and listened to the gentle symphony of crickets and distant howls of night creatures.

Two days into his escape, Wim was setting up camp for the night when a group of boisterous hikers stumbled into the clearing. They were a ragtag bunch, their laughter a wildfire that spread through the stillness like a contagion. Wim couldn’t help but feel a pang of curiosity, his curiosity piqued by their infectious mirth. He approached them, his voice tentative. “Excuse me, what’s so funny?”

One of the young women, her cheeks flushed with laughter, managed to gasp out, “You wouldn’t believe what happened in the city!” She wiped her eyes, her giggles subsiding into hiccups. “It’s all over the radio!” Another member of the group, a burly man with a beard like a lumberjack, slapped his knee and took up the story. “Some guy named Johnny, right?” He took a swig from his water bottle, the grin never leaving his face. “He’s got himself in quite the pickle!”

Wim’s stomach tightened as the story unfolded. The group had heard about a massive brawl that had erupted at a house. A wild party had been crashed by a group of drag queens who’d been lured there by a mysterious online invitation. The host, a notorious local named Johnny, had apparently tried to kick them out, only to find himself overwhelmed by the sheer number of guests. The fight had spilled into the streets, with neighbors calling the police and the whole event becoming a local sensation.

The hikers roared with laughter, sharing details of the chaos that had ensued. Wim felt his cheeks heat up, his heart racing with both fear and a twisted sense of vindication. This was his doing, his petty revenge, and now it had grown into something so much larger than he’d ever intended. He tried to listen, his eyes darting between the faces of the hikers, hoping to gauge their reaction to the news. Would they connect the dots back to him?

As the story unfolded, the group grew more animated, mimicking the drunken polka dance that had apparently taken over the streets. The burly man, who had been the first to speak, took a dramatic bow before adding, “And the kicker? The cops had to come and break it up! Can you imagine?” The young woman who had first mentioned the incident couldn’t stop giggling, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “It’s like something out of a movie!”

Wim’s stomach twisted as the reality of his actions sank in. He had wanted to teach Johnny a lesson, but this? This was a circus, a spectacle that had gone viral and painted a target on his neighbor’s back. The hikers’ laughter was a grim reminder of the chaos he had unleashed, and he couldn’t help but feel a mix of horror and a strange sense of triumph. After all, Johnny had brought this on himself, hadn’t he?

They were damcing nude in his garden, another woman laughed. These drag queens and so, whatever they are.

Wim felt his heart drop into his stomach. He had hoped that his little prank would be forgotten, lost in the sea of daily miseries that filled the city’s airwaves. But here it was, the talk of the town, and apparently, it had gone much further than he’d anticipated. The group’s laughter grew louder, their voices rising in a crescendo of mirth.

The burly man with the beard leaned in, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “So, Johnny tried to kick ’em out, right?” He took another swig from his water bottle, his grin widening. “But they just kept coming back! They were like those party guests that never leave!” It is the news of the day. Johnny ikks world famous now. It was even on CNN, showing drunk Johnny surrounded by at least 20 nude drag queens.

The young woman wiped her eyes, gasping for air between giggles. “And the cops showed up, and Johnny’s trying to explain that he didn’t invite them, but they’re all like, ‘The internet told us to come here!’ Some jerk must have made a crazy prank, they laughed.”

Wim’s heart pounded in his chest, his palms suddenly clammy. He felt like he was trapped in a nightmare, unable to escape the consequences of his own actions. The hikers noticed his discomfort and the burly man clapped him on the back. “Don’t worry, buddy, Johnny’s gotta learn to keep his parties to himself!”

“Johnny is famous now,” a woman giggled. “The whole country knows him.”

Wim’s heart sank. The situation had spiraled out of control. His face grew hot with a mix of horror and a strange, perverse pride. He had never meant for things to get this out of hand.

“But Johnny,” the young woman continued, her laughter tapering off, “he’s not taking it well. The poor guy’s been bombarded with interview requests and complaints from his neighbors. And the best part? The cops had to come in and break it all up!”

Wim’s heart sank even further. This was his doing. He had wanted to annoy Johnny, not turn his life into a circus. The hikers’ laughter now sounded like a chorus of accusation. He couldn’t help but feel guilty for the chaos he had unleashed. “That’s…that’s terrible,” he managed to say, his voice tight.

The burly man looked at him, his expression sobering. “Yeah, it’s a real mess. The poor guy’s gonna have a hell of a time living that one down.” He took a deep breath, his chest expanding with the weight of the words. “But hey, maybe he’ll learn to keep it down at night. You know, for the sake of his neighbors.”

“Everyone, the whole world wants to know who the crazy prankster is who has caused this chaos,” the first women laughed to tears. “Imagine, this guy must be really crazy.”

Wim’s heart pounded in his chest, his eyes darting from face to face. He’d never meant for it to go this far. It was just supposed to be a simple prank, a way to get back at Johnny for ruining his night and possibly his life. But now it had turned into a national spectacle, with his neighbor at the center of it all.

The group of hikers, oblivious to Wim’s inner turmoil, continued to regale each other with tales of the infamous party. The drag queens had apparently trashed the place, leaving a trail of glitter and sequins in their wake. The neighbors had called the cops, who had arrived to a scene that looked like it was straight out of a bizarre reality show. And through it all, Drunk Johnny was shouting and flailing, trying to explain that he’d had nothing to do with the whole fiasco. The hikers could not stop laughing, had all fun and occasionally offered him some crisps and wine. After a while drunk Johnny had grown in their minds into some crazy koekwaus, shouting and screaming at the Drag Queens. The hikers invented all kind of sketches about how the scenery and in their talks, Johnny transformed into some Superman Extraterrestrial crazy man.

Wim retreated to his tent, his mind racing with the implications of his actions. He had wanted to teach Johnny a lesson, but he had never intended for things to spiral so wildly out of control. The earplugs in his pocket felt like a lead weight, a constant reminder of his failure to find peace. He lay down on his sleeping bag, the cold fabric sticking to his damp clothes, and tried to tune out the laughter. But the images of the partygoers, the smell of stale beer, and the thought of the interview that had gone so wrong played on a loop in his mind, like a terrible music video he couldn’t mute.

The next day dawned with a gentle mist that kissed the leaves of the forest. Wim forced himself out of his tent, his muscles protesting from the uncomfortable night’s sleep. He took a deep breath of the damp air, filling his lungs with the scent of earth and moss. He had hoped that the walk would clear his head, that the tranquility of nature would wash away the chaos of the city.

As he stumbled along the trail, the sound of his own footsteps seemed deafening in the silence. He couldn’t shake the images of the party, of Johnny’s face, a mix of confusion and anger as he was engulfed by the tide of uninvited guests. The laughter of the hikers echoed in his ears, a cruel reminder of the mess he had made. But amidst the self-loathing, there was a spark of something else—a laugh that bubbled up from deep within him, a laugh that he couldn’t hold back.

It started as a chuckle, a low rumble that grew louder and more uncontrollable with each step. The absurdity of it all hit him like a ton of bricks—his neighbor, the polka-singing, bathroom-noise-making menace, had become the unsuspecting star of a national joke. And he, Wim, was the architect of this bizarre twist of fate. He leaned against a tree, his body convulsing with mirth as he imagined the look on Johnny’s face when the first drag queen had knocked on his door.

The sound of his laughter echoed through the forest, a strange contrast to the serene silence that usually accompanied his morning walks. The mist clung to the trees, wrapping them in a shroud of secrecy that seemed to encourage his confession. He told the story to the deer that grazed in the clearing, their eyes wide with what he hoped was shock rather than judgment. They didn’t laugh, but they didn’t run away either.

As the sun began to peek through the canopy, casting dappled light on the forest floor, Wim’s laughter grew softer, more introspective. The thrill of his vengeance had faded, leaving behind the cold, hard truth of his actions. He had wanted to teach Johnny a lesson, but instead, he had created a monster—a local legend of chaos and debauchery that had captured the imagination of the entire nation. And what had it gotten him? A few moments of fleeting amusement and a job interview that had gone up in flames, much like the reputation of the poor soul who was now known as “Johnny the Party Crasher.”

Later on he returned to the camp. Shortly after the hikers returned to the campground as the afternoon stretched out before them, their laughter now tinged with a hint of dark fascination. The young woman with the infectious giggle approached Wim, her eyes sparkling with curiosity. “Hey, did you hear about the latest with Drunk Johnny?” she asked, her voice low and conspiratorial. “Someone sent a pair of… well, let’s just say ‘used’ underwear to a company, and the cops are on the hunt for the culprit!”

Wim’s heart skipped a beat. He’d thought he’d been so clever, so careful. But apparently, his prank had not gone unnoticed. “What happened?” he managed to croak out, trying to keep his voice even.

The young woman leaned in, a mischievous glint in her eye. “Someone sent a pair of…let’s just say ‘used’ underwear to a big company. The woman who found it was so disgusted she called the news! And guess who was the sender?”

Wim’s stomach plummeted. “Johnny?” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

The young woman nodded, her eyes wide with excitement. “Yeah, apparently someone sent a disgusting package to some bigwig at a company, and the cops are all over it now. They think it’s linked to that wild party!” She giggled, obviously enjoying the scandal. “Can you believe it? Johnny’s got more lives than a cat!”

Wim felt his stomach drop as the implications sank in. The job interviewer had received the underwear, and she’d figured out it was linked to him. The game had just gotten more dangerous. He tried to play it cool, nodding along with the hikers as they speculated about the sender’s identity. Inside, his mind raced with scenarios, each more dire than the last. Would he be sued? Would he face criminal charges?

The hikers’ laughter grew more hushed, their voices lowering to a conspiratorial whisper as they shared tales of other infamous job rejection pranks. “I heard of someone who sent a bag of glitter to their ex-boss,” the burly man said, his eyes alight with mischief. “Every time they opened it, glitter would spill everywhere.”

Wim couldn’t help but feel a twinge of admiration for the sheer audacity of the stunts. He’d never had the guts to do something so brazenly spiteful. But as the conversation turned to the seriousness of the situation, the room grew quiet. “What do you think they’ll do to him when they catch him?” the young woman asked, her voice barely above a murmur.

The burly man shrugged, his smile fading. “Depends on the company. Some folks might find it funny, you know, a good ol’ fashioned prank gone wild. But others? They might not be so forgiving.” His beard twitched as he took a contemplative bite of a protein bar. “Could ruin his life, if they really want to make an example of him.”

The young woman’s giggles subsided into a thoughtful nod. “Yeah, I guess it’s all fun and games until someone gets fired, right?” She took a sip of her water, her eyes thoughtful. “But who would do something like that?”

The burly man shrugged again, his expression a mix of amusement and concern. “Could be anyone, really. Someone who’s had enough of Johnny’s shit, no pun intended.” The group chuckled, the tension in the air momentarily lifting.

The young woman’s eyes narrowed, her voice taking on a serious tone. “But what if it’s not just a prank?” She looked around the circle, her gaze settling on Wim. “What if it’s something… darker?”

The group fell silent, the weight of her words hanging in the air. The burly man’s smile faded, his brow furrowed in thought. “You think someone’s really out to get Johnny?”

The young woman nodded, her expression growing solemn. “It’s not just the party. It’s all the noise complaints, the stink bombs, the…underwear. It’s like someone’s got a vendetta.”

The group exchanged glances, the laughter dying down as the gravity of the situation settled in. The burly man spoke up, his voice low and serious. “Yeah, that’s some next-level shit.” He took a moment to chew his food, his eyes thoughtful. “But you know what? Johnny’s got it coming. He’s been pushing people’s buttons for years.”

The young woman nodded solemnly, her earlier mirth forgotten. “I heard he was up for a promotion, but they gave it to someone else. Maybe that’s what set him off?”

Wim felt his heart race as he realized the depth of his folly. He had wanted to cause a little trouble, not ruin a man’s life. But as the hikers threw out more outrageous scenarios, he couldn’t help but feel a twisted thrill. It was like watching a train wreck unfold in slow motion, the kind of drama that was so compelling it was hard to look away.

The young woman with the infectious giggle spoke up again, her eyes alight with excitement. “I heard the cops are even looking into Johnny’s past, seeing if he’s got any enemies who might be behind all this.” “There is this neighbour,” another guys said, “and he has disappeared. It should be him, it is clearly that the neighbour has something to do with it. He was also at the Job interview.”

The group grew quieter, contemplating the potential for a darker motive behind the pranks. Wim’s heart hammered in his chest, the reality of his situation setting in. He had wanted to be the hero of his own story, but instead, he had become the villain. The woman who had been the most vocal about the entire saga leaned back on her log, popping another marshmallow into her mouth. “You know what would be epic?” she mused, her voice dripping with mischief. “If someone sent the Pope a kilo of sex books with Johnny’s return address on it!” “Maybe we can do a prank on Johnny too,” the other guy said. “Write something on a church door with sender “Johnny.”

The burly man laughed, a deep, belly laugh that shook the ground beneath them. “Now that’s a prank with the Pope, that would go down in history!” The young woman’s eyes lit up. “Or what if someone painted ‘Drunk Johnny’ on the water tower? That would be hilarious!” “Maybe there will by copy cats all over the country now with Johnny pranks,” said another woman in the hikers group.

The hikers continued to toss around outrageous ideas, their laughter and excitement growing with each new scenario. Wim felt a strange mix of fear and exhilaration. He hadn’t planned for any of this, but the thrill of the chaos was undeniable. It was like watching a movie where the main character’s life spun wildly out of control, except he was the scriptwriter. The woman with the infectious giggle leaned back on her elbows, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “You know, I bet someone’s going to top this with something even crazier tomorrow,” she said, her voice filled with glee. “Maybe they’ll fill Johnny’s car with jelly beans or something!”

The group erupted in laughter, each person trying to outdo the last with their own ludicrous prank idea. “Or what if someone sends the President a singing telegram, and it’s Johnny’s voice singing ‘Happy Birthday’ in reverse?” one of the men suggested. The young woman clapped her hands, her eyes lighting up. “Yes! And it’s so off-key, the President thinks it’s a declaration of war!” The woman with the infectious giggle nodded, her smile never wavering. “It’s like we’re all living in a sitcom, isn’t it?” she said, popping another marshmallow into her mouth. “I mean, who sends a slurry tank to someone’s yard?”

Wim couldn’t help but feel a twinge of pride amidst his guilt. He had started this, and now it had taken on a life of its own. The town was ablaze with the legend of Drunk Johnny, and it was all because of his own petty spite. But as the night grew darker, the laughter grew softer, and the campfire flickered, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he had gone too far. He excused himself, retreating to his tent with the weight of his actions pressing down on his shoulders.

The fabric walls of his shelter were paper-thin, and he could still hear the hikers’ murmurs as they shared more tales of the infamous party. His mind raced with the potential consequences—the job lost, the friendship strained, and now the possibility of being caught for his prank. He had wanted to be the hero of his own narrative, but instead, he had become the very thing he despised—a nuisance, a source of amusement for others. The irony was not lost on him.

As the night grew colder and the campfire’s crackles grew distant, Wim lay in his tent, his thoughts racing like a runaway train. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he had become the villain in someone else’s story. The laughter had turned into a cacophony of accusation, each giggle a dagger in his heart. He had meant to get even with Johnny, not to become the laughing stock of the nation.

The whispers grew louder, the hikers’ curiosity piqued by the mention of Wim’s neighborly woes. They had been sharing tales of Johnny’s exploits, their laughter a biting reminder of his own misdeeds. He held his breath, heart pounding in his chest, as the conversation grew closer to the truth. “You don’t think he’s the one, do you?” the young woman with the giggle asked, her voice a mere whisper that seemed to carry on the very fabric of the air.

“Could be,” the burly man said, his voice low and measured. “Stranger things have happened.”

The hikers’ whispers grew into a murmur, the flames of the campfire casting shadows on their faces as they turned to look at Wim’s tent. The young woman with the infectious giggle leaned closer to the group, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Think about it,” she said, her eyes sparkling with the thrill of the hunt. “He’s got motive, means, and opportunity. And he’s been acting weird since we started talking about Johnny.”

The burly man nodded slowly, his gaze fixed on the tent flap. “Maybe we’ve been too quick to laugh at Johnny’s misfortune,” he said, his mirth gone. “What if this Wim guy is the one behind it all?”

Wim’s heart thudded in his chest. He had thought he was being clever, but now it seemed his secret might be unraveled. He could feel their eyes on him, even though he was hidden away in his tent. He lay there, listening to the whispers grow into a murmur, each voice adding another layer to the suspicion that was building like a storm around him. “No way,” another hiker said, his voice incredulous. “Why would he tell us about it if he’s the one doing it?”

The burly man spoke up, hir voice a conspiratorial whisper. “He told me before we talked about Johnny and the Drag Queens,” he said. “This Wim said that he was here because of neighbour’s noise all night. He wanted to have a few quiet night here.”

The young woman with the infectious giggle leaned in closer, her eyes wide with curiosity. “You don’t think he’s the one, do you?” she whispered.

The burly man took a long pull on his beer, his expression contemplative. “It’s possible,” he murmured, his eyes flicking over to Wim’s tent.

The young woman with the infectious giggle nodded, her eyes glinting in the firelight. “Oh lala, de woman said, “yes I think I remember him saying that.” She leaned closer to the group, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Sjjjt, he can hear us.”

*

Juanita stepped off the bus, her high heels clacking against the sidewalk. The city was bustling with activity, the sound of honking horns and chattering pedestrians a stark contrast to the serene nature posters that adorned the office walls she’d just left. She took a deep breath, feeling a mix of excitement and anxiety. Today was the day she’d be speaking at the town hall meeting about the “environmental benefits” of nuclear energy.

Her own grassroots organisation, Clean World, was a cleverly disguised front for the nuclear energy industry. Its mission was to charm the public with sweet promises of a green future, all while lining the pockets of the corporations that funded it. The irony wasn’t lost on Juanita, but the paychecks were too good to ignore. Plus, she had a knack for spinning a good yarn.

As she approached the town hall, the protestors grew denser. They held signs with slogans like “No Nukes” and “Renewable Energy Now!” The smell of hand-painted cardboard and the passionate energy of the crowd was palpable. Juanita felt a twinge of doubt, her stomach doing a little flip as she thought about what she was about to do. But she pushed it aside. This was her job, and she was going to do it well.

Once inside, she found her spot at the podium, glancing over the sea of skeptical faces. Her heart pounded in her chest, but she forced a smile and began her speech. The PowerPoint behind her flashed images of smiling children and blooming flowers, all powered by the “clean” energy she was peddling. Her voice was smooth and confident, peppered with technical jargon that she hoped would dazzle the audience into agreement.

The first question came from the back, a man with a furrowed brow and a beard that looked like it had seen more than its fair share of environmental battles. “Juanita,” he said, his voice deep and measured, “I noticed that your organization is receiving subsidies from companies with a vested interest in nuclear power. How can we trust your message is genuine?”

Juanita’s smile didn’t falter, but she could feel the beads of sweat forming on her forehead. “Ah, yes,” she said, her voice still steady. “The support we receive from our sponsors is purely to fund our educational efforts. Our mission remains unbiased and focused solely on the health of our planet.”

The crowd murmured, and she could feel the skepticism thickening the air. But she pushed on, her well-rehearsed speech flowing from her lips as she highlighted the “misunderstood” aspects of nuclear power and its potential for a cleaner future. After what felt like an eternity, the meeting concluded and she stepped down from the podium, relieved that she’d survived the Q&A without a major blow to her credibility.

Later that evening, Juanita stumbled upon a blog post by a man named Henk. His critical review of her presentation was scathing, pointing out the blatant manipulation and the half-truths that painted nuclear energy as a panacea for climate change. Her blood boiled as she read through the article, her knuckles turning white as she gripped her laptop. The nerve of this man, questioning her integrity and the integrity of Clean World.

Her first instinct was to respond with a scathing comment of her own, but she knew better. Instead, she composed a polite email, her teeth clenched as she typed. “Dear Mr. Hendricks,” she began, her voice echoing in the empty office, “Thank you for your thought-provoking questions at the town hall meeting. I would love to further discuss our common interest in environmental issues.” She paused, took a deep breath, and continued, “Could I perhaps persuade you to meet with me at your earliest convenience?”

To her surprise, Henk responded almost immediately. He agreed to the meeting, suggesting they meet at his home to keep the conversation “informal and constructive.” Juanita felt a spark of anger, but she knew better than to let it show. She replied with a smile in her voice, “Of course, I’d be delighted to come to your home for a chat. How does tomorrow evening sound?”

The next day, Juanita found herself in the quaint suburban neighborhood where Henk lived. His house was unassuming, with a well-maintained garden and a small solar panel on the roof – a stark contrast to the nuclear facility billboard she’d seen on her way here. She rang the doorbell, her heels sinking into the plush doormat, and waited.

Henk answered the door, his eyes darting over her before he stepped aside to let her in. She followed him into a living room that was surprisingly cluttered for someone so focused on the environment. There, she saw the art project he’d mentioned in his email – a wall of framed photos, each one meticulously arranged. Some exotic looking woman was indeed the central focus. Her images were interspersed with portraits of Jesus and a majestic German shepherd, creating an unusual collage that screamed of obsession rather than artistry.

Juanita couldn’t help but feel a mix of discomfort and curiosity as she took in the sight. The way Melissa’s tight jeans hugged her curves and the V-neck of her blue jumper hinted at something more than just a casual wardrobe choice. It was clear that Henk had taken his fascination with her to a new level, and the juxtaposition with religious and animal icons was eerie. She took a seat on the edge of the couch, her eyes glued to the wall as Henk settled into a worn armchair across from her.

“So,” she began, clearing her throat, “I see you have an… interesting art project here.”

Henk’s eyes lit up with a proud smile. “Yes,” he said, gesturing to the wall. “She is Melissa, my neighbor’s Turkish care worker.

“It’s a tribute to the beauty of the world, and the guardians who protect it.” He paused, his gaze lingering on Melissa’s image before shifting to Juanita. “And speaking of guardians, tell me more about Clean World’s stance on renewable energy versus nuclear.”

Juanita took a deep breath, willing herself to stay on script. “Our mission is to explore all avenues that lead to a cleaner planet. While we do advocate for nuclear energy, we’re open to discussing other forms of power as well.” She watched as Henk nodded thoughtfully, his eyes never leaving hers. It was as if he could see through the façade she had so carefully constructed.

The room grew quiet, the only sound being the tick of a clock on the wall. Juanita’s eyes darted to Melissa’s photo’s. It was clear that the woman had unwittingly become the muse for Henk’s unorthodox art. She tried to focus on the conversation, but her mind kept wandering to the bizarre collection on the wall. Why would someone so obviously obsessed with a woman he barely knew invite her to his house under the guise of a professional meeting?

“Your blog post,” she began, choosing her words carefully, “It’s clear you have a strong opinion on the matter. But I believe there’s more nuance to consider.”

Henk leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. “Nuance?” he echoed, his tone suggesting he found the word as empty as the promises Juanita had made at the town hall. “Nuclear waste isn’t just a ‘single GFT container’ as you so charmingly put it. It’s a legacy that will haunt us for millennia. And what of the mining? The pollution? The risk of accidents?”

Juanita felt the heat rising in her cheeks, her well-crafted façade starting to crack. “I’m not denying that there are issues with nuclear energy,” she conceded. “But we can’t ignore the potential benefits either. It’s about finding a balance, considering all our options.”

Henk leaned back, his arms crossed over his chest. “And what exactly are these ‘potential benefits’ you speak of?” he challenged.

Juanita’s mind raced, trying to recall the points from her training that would best counter his skepticism. “Well, for starters, nuclear energy is a reliable source of power. It doesn’t rely on the wind or the sun, which means it’s not as intermittent as renewables.”

Henk’s gaze never left hers, his eyes piercing through her practiced rhetoric. “And what about the waste?” he pressed, his voice a low rumble. “How do you propose we deal with it, Juanita?”

Her eyes strayed to the wall again, finding refuge in Melissa’s smile. “Well, there are advanced storage solutions being developed,” she began, her voice sounding hollow even to her own ears. “And as for the mining, we’re working on reducing its environmental impact.”

Henk’s expression was unreadable, but Juanita could sense the doubt behind his silence. She took a sip of the water he’d offered her, buying time to formulate her next argument. “And let’s not forget the role of nuclear in reducing carbon emissions. It’s a critical part of the energy mix as we transition away from fossil fuels.”

But as she spoke, she couldn’t shake the image of the sea containers full of waste from her mind. It was a stark reminder that even her “education” from Clean World had its limitations. She’d known the truth about nuclear energy was more complex than the company line, but she’d never allowed herself to admit it out loud.

The silence stretched, Juanita’s throat feeling dry despite the water she’d just sipped. She took a deep breath and plunged ahead. “Look, Henk, I get it. There’s a lot of fear and mistrust around nuclear power, and for good reason. But we can’t just dismiss it outright. We need to find a way to manage the waste safely, to ensure that the benefits outweigh the risks.”

His expression softened slightly. “I’m not dismissing it, Juanita,” he said. “But I’ve seen the data, the real data, not the cherry-picked stats your organization uses to sell the dream. We can’t keep playing Russian roulette with the planet’s future.”

Juanita nodded, her gaze dropping to her lap. She knew he was right, but the weight of her paycheck and the fear of losing her job held her back from admitting it. “I understand where you’re coming from,” she said, her voice tight. “But Clean World isn’t the enemy here.”

Henk leaned in, his elbows resting on his knees. “I never said you were,” he replied, his tone softer. “But when you’re in bed with the people who are, it’s hard to trust you’re not just their mouthpiece.”

Juanita’s cheeks flushed, and she couldn’t argue with his accusation. The truth was, she’d become increasingly uncomfortable with the blatant manipulation that Clean World was engaged in. She’d convinced herself that she was doing the right thing, that the ends justified the means. But sitting here, in the presence of someone who saw through her, she couldn’t help but feel like a fraud.

The next day, Juanita found herself staring at a blank comment box on Henk’s blog. Her thoughts from the previous night swirled around in her head, and she knew she couldn’t just let his critique go unanswered. With a heavy sigh, she began to type. “Henk,” she started, her fingers hovering over the keys. “Thank you for your thoughtful critique. It’s clear that the issue of nuclear waste is more complex than I presented it to be.”

Her words flowed more candidly than they had during her town hall speech, and she found a strange sense of relief in her newfound honesty. “I’d like to acknowledge your points and promise to look into the matter further,” she continued. “Perhaps we could even work together to find solutions that balance our need for power with our responsibility to the planet.”

As she wrote, Juanita couldn’t help but smirk at the thought of Henk’s reaction. She knew he wouldn’t take kindly to her comments about Melissa, but she felt a petty satisfaction in knowing she had the upper hand for once. She hoped that her blog comment would throw him off balance, just as his accusations had shaken her.

“And speaking of art,” she wrote, her fingers moving deftly across the keyboard, “I couldn’t help but notice your… unique take on the subject with your homemade gallery. It’s quite a testament to your creativity, if not your taste.” She took a deep breath before continuing, feeling the thrill of the power she held in her words. “Your neighbor’s Turkish caretaker, Melissa, seems to have quite the flair for modeling. It’s a shame she’s wasting her talents in such a mundane job. With looks like hers, she could be a star in a more… lucrative field.

“Like those in the red light district, you know, the ones who really know how to work the night shift.”

As she hit send, Juanita felt a twinge of satisfaction, knowing she’d struck a nerve with her subtle jab. She leaned back in her chair and took a sip of her coffee, her eyes straying to the fridge magnet that read, “The Earth is not a gift from our ancestors, it is a loan from our children.” The irony of her situation was not lost on her, but she quickly pushed the thought aside. Her job was to promote Clean World’s agenda, not to get bogged down in personal vendetta.

But the thought of Melissa and the art project on Hendrick’s wall lingered. She couldn’t help but feel a strange kinship with the woman whose image had been so meticulously curated by a man who knew so little about her. It was a reminder of the power dynamics at play, not just in the environmental debate, but in life itself.

*

And when she walks in those trousers,
it’s like watching poetry in motion