Villi Asgeirsson

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Archives for January 2021

1953 – een kort verhaal

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De exacte datum van de begrafenis kan ik mij niet meer herinneren. Ik was net acht jaar oud en begreep niet goed wat er gebeurd was. Ik hield mijn vader’s hand vast. Tranen zag ik nooit, maar ik denk dat ze wel stroomde ’s nachts, als ik hem niet zag. Voor mij probeerde hij altijd sterk te zijn.

Drie kisten lagen voor ons, naast de graven. De ene was groot genoeg voor mijn moeder, twee kleinere, voor mijn tweelingzus en voor lieve Tessa. Afgelopen november vierden we haar vijfde verjaardag. Mijn vader had mijn hand vast, net zoals hij die van Tessa vast had die nacht. Alleen, toen, was hij zijn greep verloren. Jaren later, als oude man op zijn sterfbed, zag ik zijn tranen. Zijn laatste woorden, ‘ik had haar vast moeten houden, ik had sterker moeten zijn’. Dat waren zijn laatste gedachten voordat hij deze aarde verliet. Hij heeft dit leven verlaten met tranen in zijn ogen.

Zaterdag 31 januari 1953 was een gewone dag. Storm werd verwacht, maar dat was niets bijzonders voor de tijd van het jaar. De donkere wolken zagen er stoer uit en we lachten erom. Beter niet buiten zijn als het gaat regenen, word je zeiknat. Onze buurman, oude Jan, was vrolijk en lachte toen hij de aardappelzak aan mij gaf. Kan je dit dragen, schat? Is best zwaar voor een klein meisje.

Ik ben niet klein, had ik duidelijk gemaakt, en hij gaf mij een knuffel. Groetjes aan je vader, zei hij.

De zak was wel zwaar en ik had moeite met fietsen over de dijk in de stevige wind, maar ik was het gewend. De zee was erg hoog en de golven kwamen tot bovenaan de dijk, en soms proefde ik zout in mijn mond. Vader was duidelijk geweest, snel terug naar huis komen. Het wordt een zware storm.

Mijn zusjes speelden rondom het huis toen ik thuis kwam. Ik gooide mijn fiets neer en ging achter hen aan. Moeder keek me aan, hoe vaak had ze nu gezegd dat ik netter met mijn fiets moest omgaan? Ik had daar geen tijd voor, Tessa rende gillend weg en verstopte zich bij de stallen. Ik vond haar en riep ‘boe!’ en ze lachte. Je kan me niet pakken, riep ze en rende weer weg. Ons pakken vond ze ook fantastisch en soms lieten we haar winnen.

De aardappelen waren gekookt en moeder stampte ze samen met de boerenkool in een grote pan. De geur van de worstjes ontsnapte naar buiten en we gingen naar binnen. Aan tafel waren we stil, alleen het geluid van de radio en het gezeur van de storm.

“Boven het noordelijke en westelijke deel van de Noordzee woedt een zware storm tussen noordwest en noord. Het stormveld breidt zich verder over de noordelijke en oostelijke Noordzee uit. Verwacht mag worden dat de storm de hele nacht zal voortduren. Daarom werden vanmiddag om half zes Rotterdam, Willemstad en Bergen op Zoom gewaarschuwd voor gevaarlijk hoogwater.”

Mijn vader leek bezorgd en moeder wilde ons zo snel mogelijk in bed stoppen. Rond acht uur lagen we er allemaal in.

Ik kon niet goed slapen. Het was pikkedonker toen de herrie me wakker maakte. De storm trok aan ons huis en ik maakte me zorgen over het dak. Ik probeerde weer te gaan slapen, maar buiten klapperde een deur. Waarschijnlijk bij de stallen. De koeien kunnen niet slapen met die herrie, dacht ik.

Ik ging mijn bed uit, vond de kerosine lamp van mijn vader en een lucifer. In de oranje gloed van de lamp zag ik hoe de regen als watervallen langs de ramen stroomde. Ik trok mijn laarzen aan en deed de voordeur open. De storm trok deze gelijk uit mijn handen. Ik zette de eerste stap naar buiten en de regen sloeg in mijn gezicht, alsof het ijskogels waren. De lamp werd gedoofd en ik stond weer in het donker.

Vechtend door de storm kwam ik bij de stallen. Ik kon bijna niks zien maar ik hoorde de koeien trekken aan de kettingen. Ze waren doodsbang. Ik ging naar binnen en aaide ze eventjes, probeerde ze tot rust te brengen. ‘Wat doe jij hier, schat?’ Mijn vader stond achter mij. ‘Ga naar binnen, probeer te slapen.’ Hij aaide over mijn natte hoofd en gaf me een kus op de kin. ‘Morgen is dit allemaal voorbij.’

Hij had gelijk. Ik moest naar bed. Ik ben naar buiten gegaan en liep richting het huis, maar ik was erg nieuwsgierig hoe de storm op de dijk eruit zag. Vader wordt boos, dacht ik, maar hij had de lamp aangekregen en was met de koeien bezig. Hij kon mij niet zien en als ik snel terug was en in bed, zou hij er niks van weten. Ik klom tegen de stijle zijwand van de dijk, achter ons huis op, en kwam bij het fietspad. Het was bijna onmogelijk om te staan. Ik spreidde mijn handen uit en schreeuwde tegen de wind. Dit was geweldig!

Een windvlaag gooide me tegen de grond en toen ik weer probeerde op te staan, kreeg ik een zware golf over me heen. Ik was zeiknat, zout in mijn mond en mijn ogen deden pijn. Ik probeerde weer op te staan, maar kon niet. Nog een golf spoelde over me heen en ik voelde de grond zakken. De dijk die ons en alle onze bezittingen beschermde, voelde als zand onder mijn lijf. In paniek probeerde ik weg te kruipen, richting de vuurtoren die in de verte nog wat licht straalde. De aarde zakte weg en de zee stroomde over me heen. Ik moest weg.

Kruipend voelde ik de grond wegspoelen achter me. Het lukte om op te staan en half struikelend rende ik zo snel als ik kon richting de vuurtoren. Ik draaide me om en zag hoe de dijk wegspoelde, hoe de zee het land op stroomde, hoe het huis onder water stond. Ik zag mijn vader rennen met de lamp, zag hem net op tijd binnen gaan, zag de ramen kapot gaan en water naar binnen stromen, zag de lamp op de bovenverdieping en het water hem inhalen, zag het licht richting zolder gaan en brokken huis weg spoelen.

Ik riep ‘papa!’, maar hij kon mij niet horen. Ik zag het licht doven, hoopte dat ze allemaal veilig op zolder zaten, dat de dijk mij zou beschermen. Door de storm heen kon ik de stem van mijn vader horen. Hij riep ons, alledrie de zusters, mijn moeder riep terug. Ik wilde niets liever dan terug naar het huis maar een oceaan stormde tussen mij en mijn familie.

De dijk zakte weer in en ik kroop verder weg, totdat ik hun stemmen niet meer kon horen.

Met grote dank aan Marcel Cornelissen. Hij zorgde ervoor dan mijn Nederlands leesbaar bleef.

De watersnood van 1953, meestal aangeduid als de Watersnoodramp, voltrok zich in de nacht van zaterdag 31 januari op zondag 1 februari 1953. De ramp werd veroorzaakt door een stormvloed in combinatie met springtij, waarbij het water in de trechtervormige zuidelijke Noordzee tot extreme hoogte steeg.

Het aantal doden bedroeg 1836 in Nederland, 307 in het Verenigd Koninkrijk, 224 op zee, waaronder 133 bij het vergaan van een Engelse veerboot en 28 in België. De ramp was aanleiding voor de ontwikkeling van een sterk verbeterde kustverdediging met zware stormvloedkeringen. Het meest ingrijpend zijn de Deltawerken in Nederland, terwijl in Engeland onder meer de Thames Barrier en een stormvloedkering in de rivier Hull zijn gebouwd.

Dit verhaal is niet gebaseerd op echte mensen, maar het is een verhaal dat had kunnen gebeuren en in vele vormen gebeurd is. Dit verhaal is een eerbetoon aan de mensen die zijn omgekomen en die familie en vrienden verloren hebben door de ramp.

1953 – a short story

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The exact date of the funeral escapes me. I was barely eight years old and couldn’t quite comprehend what had happened. I held my father’s hand. He didn’t cry, or he didn’t cry when I could see him. I am sure he did at night, after the lights were out. When I couldn’t see him.

Three coffins lay there, ready to be lowered into the ground. One the size of my mom, two smaller, one for my twin sister and finally, a smaller one for little Tessa. She turned five last November. My father held my hand and wouldn’t let go. Like he had held Tessa’s that night, only to lose the grip. Many years later, as he lay dying, he cried. Cried because he thought he should have been stronger that night. Cried because he should have done a bit more to save her.

Saturday 31st of January 1953 had been like any other. A storm was brewing, not unusual for this time of year. The dark clouds in the sky looked impressive, and we laughed about getting soaked if the rain came. Old Jan, our neighbour, was cheerful as he handed me the sack of potatoes my father had asked for. It was heavy and my bike was unstable in the wind as I rode across the dike, but it was nothing I wasn’t used to. The waves were crashing against the dike, and sometimes I could taste salt. Father had told me to be home quickly. The storm was getting worse.

My sisters were playing by the house as I arrived, and I immediately joined them. Tessa loved hide and seek, and especially if we shouted “boo” and ran away when she found us. She would do her best to catch us, and sometimes we let her.

The potatoes cooked, and our mom stamped them with kale. The smell of sausages escaped the house and as they called us, we went inside. We ate in silence, with the radio turned on.

“A heavy storm is raging above the northern and western part of the North Sea and is spreading eastwards. The storm is expected to last all night. Rotterdam, Willemstad and Bergen op Zoom have been warned of an unusually high tide.”

My father seemed worried, and my mother was eager to get us to bed as soon as possible. We we were all in bed by eight that night.

I didn’t sleep well. It was pitch dark as I woke up to the noise. The storm was tearing at our house and I feared the roof would come off. I tried to go back to sleep. A door was slamming outside, probably the stables. The cows couldn’t sleep if it wasn’t secured, I thought to myself. 

I got out of bed and went downstairs, found my father’s kerosene lamp and lit it. The orange glow revealed the rain as it streamed like waterfalls down the windows. I put on my boots and opened the front door. The wind immediately pulled it out of my hand. I stepped out into the storm, the rain like icy bullets on my face. The wind blew the lamp out and I was in darkness again.

Struggling through the storm, I got to the stables. It was so dark I couldn’t see much, but I heard the cows pulling at their chains. They were scared. I went inside and stroked them for a while. I think it calmed them a bit. ‘What are you doing here,’ my father said? I turned and saw him standing in the doorway. ‘Go inside, try to get some sleep.’ He stroked my head and kissed me on the cheek. ‘Tomorrow, this will all be over.’

He was right. I should go to bed. I went outside and closed the door behind me. I should try to sleep, I thought, but I really wanted to see what the storm looked like up on the dike. I looked back at the stables and saw my father through the window. He was attending the cow and couldn’t see me through the window, so I climbed the steep slope behind our house. As I came up to the top of the dike and onto the path I’d biked, I could hardly stand. A gust swept me off my feet and a wave washed over me. I was soaking wet, the taste of salt in my mouth and my eyes hurt. I tried to stand up, but I couldn’t. Another wave washed over me and I felt the ground under me crumble. The dike that protected us, everything we owned, seemed to turn into sand. I frantically crawled away and towards a distant light. The only thing that allowed me to see anything, the lighthouse we sometimes biked to. It was far away and I wouldn’t be able to reach it, but I had to get away as the ground crumbled beneath me. The wind tore at me and the waves crashed over the dike.

As I crawled, the ground gave way behind me. I got up on my feet and ran along the dike, hunched, or the wind would have taken me away. The sea rushed down into the yard and engulfed the house. In the near darkness, I saw my father run, windows break and the water reach the upper floor. I cried for papa, but he couldn’t hear me. There were screams. A light came on, but an instant later, everything was dark. I heard their voices through the storm, heard my father calling our names, Tessa’s, mine, my twin sister’s. I heard my mom calling our names. I wanted to go to the house, but there was a streaming ocean between us. The ground became soft under me and I frantically crawled further. Until I couldn’t hear their voices anymore.

The 1953 North Sea flood was the worst natural disaster in the Netherlands in the 20th century. The storm surge struck the Netherlands, north-west Belgium, England and Scotland in the night of 31 January and 1 February 1953.

In the Netherlands, 1,836 people lost their life, 307 in England, 28 in Belgium and 19 in Scotland. 230 people drowned at sea as boats, shipping vessels and ferries sank.

This story is fiction and not based on specific people, but it is typical for what would have happened and did happen that night. I dedicate it to all that lost their lives and their loved ones that survived and had to rebuild their lives after this disaster.

This story is the fourth installment in the Moments series.

The Girl from Nowhere – a short story

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Something isn’t right about this. I was minding my own business, if you can call it that. Business has been slow lately. It’s like nobody has affairs anymore or murders their spouse, loses their dog or gets bribed and needs a discreet way of getting rid of the kidnapper.

It’s been two weeks since my last assignment, and that wasn’t much. A lonely wife asked me to follow her husband because he was apparently cheating on her. Turned out, he was working late. Really working. The assistant he was supposed to be banging was a married man that left the office on time. By the look of things, she was the dangerous one. She offered me a payment of sorts, but I told her I needed money. She paid, while accidentally revealing too much through her silky bathrobe.

So, I was sitting here in my office smoking cigarettes and drinking whisky. As you do. It was late and I should have been in bed but there is no set bedtime when nobody tells you to get up in the morning. The greatest problem I was facing was the bottom of the bottle. I had about a glass left, then it was empty. I knew I needed money, if only to buy more whisky.

The phone rang, and I picked it up a little too eagerly. A female voice on the other end asked if I was Frank Tuna, which I admitted to. They always ask who’s asking in the movies, but I figured it was another lady looking for her dog.

She asked to meet me at the docks. I have an office, I replied, but she said we needed to be discreet. I asked what she needed and she said time. She needed time. Pretty vague.

I wasn’t doing anything, so we agreed to meet fifteen minutes later outside a house by the docks. I put on my coat, grabbed my hat and embraced the foggy night.

It was chilly and she made me wait. I stood there, prepared to admit I’d been made a fool of. I’ll give her five minutes, I thought to myself as I lit a cigarette. The smoke seemed to make the fog even thicker. As I took the last drag and threw the but in the gutter, headlights lit up the mist. A car slowed down and stopped. I couldn’t see who was behind the wheel and I decided not to approach. Something felt off. The person could get out if they wanted.

The car just stood there, engine running. After a moment had passed, the driver’s window came down, far enough to point a gun at me if that’s what they were planning, not far enough for me to reach into the car if needed. It started moving, ever so slowly. I decided this was bad news and walked off. The car followed. I took a turn into a side street but they kept following. I didn’t like this at all. If they wanted to talk to me, they would have got out instead of intimidating me like this. I started running, but the car matched my pace.

As I came to an alley, I ran down to the docks below. The car made a roaring noise as the driver stepped on the accelerator. I ran onto a pier, but there was no way out of there except swimming, and as I’m not a strong swimmer and don’t love freezing water, I turned. I needed to get away from here. I suppose I could have hidden in a boat or something, but that would have made me stuck at a dead end if this person really wanted to find me. I decided to run for it. The fog would protect me.

As I came back onto the dock, the car approached. They’d found a way to drive down here. I stood there, like a deer in the headlights. My heart was beating, but I didn’t run. I tried to make out the driver, but the fog and headlights blinded me.

I decided not to run. If this was going to be the end, so be it. I felt the cold gun in my pocket and found the trigger. Held it in my hand, just in case. I would not go down without a fight.

The car door opened and someone got out. I was blinded, so couldn’t see who or what it was. I looked down at the cobblestones and saw slim ankles and high heels. It was a woman. As she approached, I saw her slender figure in a white dress. She was overdressed for the occasion and underdressed for the freezing night. As she cleared the headlights, I recognised her. I couldn’t believe my eyes.

‘Lauren?’ I said astonished and let go of the gun in my pocket. She just stood there, looking at me. ‘Lauren, is that you?’ I asked. I took a few steps forward to see her better. It was impossible, this couldn’t be her. ‘How long has it been? Twenty years? You haven’t changed at all.’ She said nothing, just stood there, no emotions on her face. She casually lit a cigarette and blew smoke into the air, looking up to see how it merged with the fog. Then she looked at me, piercing my soul with her gaze. ‘What is this?’ I asked. ‘How can you look exactly the same after twenty years? Are you a ghost? Are you dead?’

’No honey, I’m not dead.’ She blew smoke again and smiled. That voice caused an avalanche of memories, it broke my heart to hear it again.

‘I’ve always kicked myself for leaving you like that, but I didn’t want to wake you up.’ She just stood there, as if she couldn’t hear me. ‘It was nothing personal. It was just that one night. A bit of fun after a few drinks. Happens all the time. I never thought there was anything more to it.’

‘Happens all the time?’

Oh, I felt stupid. Bad choice of words. ‘Yeah. I mean… you go home with someone and it doesn’t mean anything.’ I felt I’d found myself in a hole and couldn’t stop digging. Words weren’t going to get me out of this, so I took a few steps forward. I was standing right in front of her, saw her every feature and it reminded me of that summer, so long ago. I raised my hand and touched her face. ’Such soft skin. You haven’t aged at all.’ I ran my fingers down her face, touched her lips like I used to, let my fingers touch her flawless neck and down to her dress. I gently touched her breast. I never realised I’d missed her so much. A life that could have been, flashed before my eyes. ‘You’re wearing the same dress.’

She looked into my eyes and I saw twenty years of lost opportunities. She smiled slightly as she took another drag. I moved my face closer to hers, put my hand on her head, felt the warmth through her hair, closed my eyes, waited for our lips to touch, waited for eternity.

But she pushed me gently away. I opened my eyes and saw her looking at me as she threw the cigarette on the ground and squashed it with her foot. She then ran her hands down her dress, straightening it. ‘It was my mother’s.’

She touched my face with her soft hand and turned. I wanted to say something, but I couldn’t make a sound. As she stood by the car, she turned and smiled. ‘Bye dad,’ she said and got in. The engine roared and she disappeared around the corner.

This story is the third installment in the Moments series.

The Confusing Coronation of Karel I – a short story

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The wars were mostly over, and the battles won. Spring was in the air and the sun shone on the congregation as they slowly marched past a man with a long sword. He was guarding the entrance. He smiled at the guests as they walked through the door, into the almost dark building, while looking out for archers hiding in the bushes, or militias running over the hills. He stood there, relaxed. The day seemed peaceful enough. Just as well. You didn’t want trouble as the new king was being coronated.

‘In these troubled times, stability and firm leadership is what we yearn for. A peace in the land and prosperity for our people! We have been abandoned by the Gods and we may never enjoy their protection again, so it is of great importance that we build the society we want to live in, where everyone is free to prosper and live to old age.’ The cardinal was dressed in a red cardigan to show his closeness to the Divine. Red was hard to come by, and he was eager to establish a divide between the Holy and the ordinary.

Karel Widebrook was kneeling before him. He was still handsome, and the battle scars only added to his masculinity. His sixteen-year-old son, Lomer, followed the proceedings from the side.

The priest continued. ‘It is my pleasure and Holy duty to crown this man, Karel Widebrook, to be our first king! May his reign be long and prosperous, and may he bring peace to our realm. Hooray!’

The fifty or so people gathered around, raised their voices and swung their swords in the air. Karel the First, Karel I as the priest had insisted. Kings would be called by their first name only, they were above and beyond surnames. Their title was enough to distinguish them from others. Besides, Widebrook wasn’t a great surname. They had given it to him after his many encounters with members of the fairer kind. Wide open, they said, his pants. Ye broke is mighty wide, ye old hag, they had laughed. Now that he was a king, he had to appear respectable.

Karel hadn’t understood why he was to call himself I. Karel I, I am a king and so I shall call myself I.

‘It isn’t Karel I, it is Karel the First, but you will write it as Karel I,’ the cardinal had explained

‘I see,’ Karel lied.

‘It is the way of the Gods. They count like this when they mean business. I is one, II is two, III is three and so forth.’

‘It’ll be mighty many I’s as you reach hundred.’

The man of cloth smiled. The king-to-be had much to learn. V is five, X is ten, L is fifty, C is hundred, M is thousand. So, I, II, III, IV, V, VI, VII, VIII, IX, X. That’s how you count to ten.’

‘Why not 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10? Seems a lot easier.’

‘My lord, you must understand that once you are king, you must distinguish yourself from the masses. They must not understand everything about you. You are above them.’

‘I did not fight to become better than them and I don’t understand this IVX business myself.’

‘You can’t say IVX. That wouldn’t make any sense. XIV is fine, that’s fourteen.’

‘Why does that make sense and IVX not?’

‘You will understand in due time.’

The cardinal was wrong. Karel I lived to be 53 years old, he reigned for 14 years, coincidentally the number he didn’t come up with on that day, but he never learned to count like the Gods supposedly did.

The years after the coronation weren’t very different from the years before it. There was fighting, but while he had fought to gain control of the realm before, now he had to fight to keep it and that was a lot harder.

His reign ended on a rainy night in the year 948.

He never learned to write down the years. 948 wasn’t quite M, but it was much more than C. The cardinal was long dead himself, by this time, or he might have explained that it was the year CMXLVIII. It is doubtful Karel I would have remembered anyway, had he been told.

Karel died by rather conventional means. He was sleeping when an assassin sneaked into the simple building and stabbed him. It is quite tragic that they didn’t have castles back in the day. It could have saved him.

But such is death. It doesn’t wait for us to find the means to defeat it.

Karel I was succeeded by his son Lomer I who in turn was succeeded by Karel II. And so it continued for C’s.

This story is the second installment in the Moments series.

A New Beginning – a short story

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The fig leaf didn’t sit comfortably. It rarely did. She couldn’t understand why he insisted on them wearing the damn things, it’s not as if there were other people around. And if there were, would it have mattered? We’re all created the same, except for the obvious differences between the genders. Who dictated what body parts on another person you could see? Why was it fine to see the arms, back, face, but not downstairs? See, you couldn’t even name the sacred places without worrying about offending someone.

Today was beautiful as usual. Butterflies chasing each other, she’d seen a deer in a meadow down by the crystal clear stream and the birds were chirping and jumping from branch to branch. She awkwardly adjusted the fig leaf, tried to make it stay put, wondering again why she even needed the thing. As it got dark, they usually threw them off, rolled in the grass and acted like the wild horses. Playing, sensing each other. During the day, cover yourself with a leaf. It was pointless, she thought. None of the animals paid them much attention anyway.

The bushes were blooming and the berries ripe. She loved the berries. They were sweet and when they were getting a little soft, made her feel funny. She picked a handful and put them, one by one, in her mouth. The sweet taste flowing over her tongue. She picked another handful and ate them, gently squeezing each berry between her teeth until it burst. The sensation when the juice flowed through her mouth was so sensual. Smiling and ever so slightly dizzy, she looked to the sky and walked on through the soft grass.

There was an old tree in the middle of this forest, a trunk so thick she couldn’t get her arms halfway around it, with a crown so dense that it kept the surroundings in perpetual shadow. Sometimes she would come here and take a nap during the warmest time of the day. She touched the rough bark, running her fingers down the trunk. How old are you, she asked the tree silently? What stories could you tell us if you could speak? Are you the oldest living thing in the world? Did you spawn everything that is? Is that why I have been told not to eat your fruit? Are you the tree of life or something like that?

The tree didn’t speak, so she never got her answer. It had been here forever, or so it seemed. She was forbidden from eating the fruit, but was never told why.

Her head was light, probably from the berries. Slightly dizzy, but not in a bad way. She lay down, leaning against the tree, and looked up towards the sky. She watched the flies dance in the air and the birds circling far above.

The green leaves and bright red apples moved gently in the soft breeze, almost forming a blur of colour. The surrounding grass made a soft sound as it drifted back and forth. The colours blended in her mind like in a kaleidoscope and slowly faded to black.

Her stomach woke her up. The berries were playing tricks on her again, and she was hungry. It took some effort, but she managed to stand up. Smiling, she took a deep breath and stretched her arms upwards, let her fingertips feel the smooth surface of a large apple. It looked delicious. Her tummy growled slightly. She gripped the apple, turned ever so slightly, and pulled. The fruit fit her hand so well, almost like someone had designed for her to pick it and eat. It smelled nice too.

A small bird flew up from the ground, screaming. Like something had startled it. Indeed, something was moving through the grass. She froze, tried not to panic. With a firm grip on her apple, she looked in the sound’s direction. It was coming from beyond the tree. A small head appeared and two piercing eyes looked at her.

A snake! She stood there, heart beating fast, unable to move. The snake crawled up towards the tree and proceeded in climbing the trunk, all the while keeping its eyes on her. As it came face to face with her, it stretched its head in her direction. She wanted to run, but could not.

‘Nice apple you have there.’

‘You are a snake.’

‘Yes, I am aware of that.’

‘You’re talking to me.’

‘Why is everyone so surprised by that? I can speak, you can speak, it’s not a big deal.’

She took one step backwards. ‘You can have it.’ She stretched her arm and gestured as casually as she could towards the apple.

‘There are plenty of apples. Why would I want yours? Besides, I’m not a vegetarian.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Vegetarians don’t eat other animals.’ The snake smiled and stretched its head further towards her.

Eat other animals? Why would you do that, she thought to herself. Is that what the snake was going to do? It gave her the chills. ‘It’s fine. I don’t need it. I shouldn’t have picked it. You can have it.’ She remembered having been told not to come to this tree. No explanation given, just don’t go to the tree. She wondered what was so special about this place. Maybe it was sacred? Sacret was a word she’d heard used but had no clue what it meant. A sacred tree, a secret body part. Sacret was forbidden? Special? Who knew?

Maybe it was as simple as there being a snake nest, and that was why? Nobody had explained that. Just like with the fig leave, so many rules but no apparent logic to it. She was a woman, didn’t need to know, just obey.

‘Eat the apple,’ the snake hissed.

‘No, it’s fine.’

‘Scared?’

‘No, of course not!’ Never show animals they scared you or it would attack you. This much she knew.

‘It’s perfectly fine. You can have the apple. I won’t do anything.’

With that, the snake’s head pulled ever so slightly backwards, the mouth opened, revealing the sharp fangs. It looked her in the eyes one last time before closing his, then latched forward. Her reflexes were awake and as the snake flew plunged towards her, she threw the apple in its direction. She jumped out of the way, landing in the grass, never taking her eyes off the snake. It was like everything was happening in slow motion. As she crashed towards the ground, the apple flew through the air and smashed against the snake’s head. It bounced off, and the snake fell to the ground. She jumped up and quickly took the animal by the tail. Before it could gain its senses, she spun it in the air and the head rammed against the tree trunk. She did this repeatedly until there was no sigh of life.

The berries had worn off instantly. She smiled and picked up the apple. After taking a deep breath, she took a large bite and enjoyed the sweet taste of the fruit.

In the distance, she heard the distinct sound of a two-legged creature moving through the grass. She turned and smiled at him.

‘Eve, what are you doing? I’ve been looking for you.’

Smiling, she raised her hand and presented the limp animal. ‘I have dinner. It’ll get dark soon and we should build a fire. I’m sure this tastes nice.’

Adam smiled and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Good job. I’m starving.’

The fig leave had fallen off in the fight with the snake. She hadn’t put it back, and she wasn’t planning to. Adam could do what he pleased, but she was her own person and wouldn’t be told what to do.

It would be good to take it easy on the berries though, she thought to herself as they approached the meadow where they usually lit a fire for the night.

This story is the first installment in the Moments series.

Is it possible?

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The decision to dedicate 2021 to short fiction wasn’t taken a long time ago. It was two days before Christmas and I was aimlessly browsing the web. Came across a list of 52 short story concepts on Tumblr and it made me think. What if…?

I have written 2-3 shorts in my entire life. 4-5 if you include short film scripts that could potentially be adapted to stories. Writing 52 in as many weeks seems like a challenge destined to fail. So, why not?

I immediately started working on ideas. The concepts the Tumblr list presented me with start with the following.

A story entitled “A New Beginning”.
A story about rising to a challenge.
A retelling of a fairytale.
A story about three siblings.
A story set in London.
A story about finding something that has been lost.
A story about a journey.
A story set during a war.

Fairly vague concepts. I really have to come up with the stories myself. What this list does is give me a starting point. It will prevent me from writing the same story time and time again. So, what do we have so far?

A New Beginning is finished and will be published next Friday. The story about a challenge is written, I just need to edit it a bit. The fairytale? I dabbled in Little Red Riding Hood, Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty, but ultimately settled on Norse Mythology where Mjölnir, Thor’s hammer, is stolen by the Jotnar and must be brought back. I’ve just started that one. Three siblings, I’m thinking about the great flood in the Netherlands in January 1953 but haven’t come up with a concept. That may change, it may become something entirely different. London, lost and journey, I have no idea. A story set during a war, I have an idea of what I want to do there but haven’t written anything yet.

None of this existed prior to 22 December 2020.

So you see, this really is 52 stories in 52 weeks. I don’t have anything laying around that I can use. This year will see my typing a lot, struggling to write more than I’ve ever done. Life is bound to get in the way.

Here is hoping someone will discover this project and cheer me on. I think I’ll need it.

Look out for A New Beginning coming Friday.