Villi Asgeirsson

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Archives for April 2021

White Roses – a short story

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The morning sun illuminated the small café, casting shadows across the tables. People were rushing in, getting coffee to go, while others sat down with the morning papers or their electronic devices of choice. The distant noise of the kitchen escaped into the dining area, the chat of people filled the space.

Vera sat by the window. She liked it here, enjoyed being able to look out onto the street at people rushing by. An enormous bouquet of white roses lay in the middle of the table. She touched one rose, stroked the soft flower. She looked across the table.

‘White roses. You always gave me white roses.’ The delicate smile on her face did little to hide her inner struggles.

A cheerful server arrived at the table like a tornado, put a large cup of cappuccino in front of Vera, a double espresso opposite her. She looked at the server and smiled. ‘Thank you.’

As the tornado rushed off, Vera looked across the table. ‘Double espresso, just the way you like it.’

She took the spoon from the saucer and played with the foam in her cup, dipped it in the coffee and tried to make a pattern in the foam, but failed. She looked across the table. ‘I never knew how they did that. Butterflies and… I once saw someone make a rose.’

She paused. Looked out the window. People were rushing to their jobs, appointments, or whatever seemed so urgent to them at that moment. ‘I never really liked roses. They’re overrated. I like dandelions, they’re stronger but less pretentious.’ She gave up trying to create a pattern in the foam and gently stirred the coffee.

‘They always struck me like a male fantasy. Here is something I got you, and now you know what I want in return.’ Vera put the spoon on the saucer and touched the flowers. She took a sip and stared across the table with the cup in her two hands.

‘Why did you believe them? Did you really think you going there was going to make any difference?’ She put the cup back on the saucer and looked across the table as if waiting for an answer.

‘You’re quiet today.’ She smiled coldly and looked outside again.

‘It was all lies and you just wouldn’t listen. You bought into that fantasy world.’ Vera gazed across the table and spoke through her teeth.

‘I guess the mine was real.’ She finished her cappuccino, stood up and put her coat on without looking away. ‘I shouldn’t be so harsh on you. It must have been extremely painful, dear.’ She grabbed the bouquet and left.

It was only two streets away. The gate was open, and she entered the cemetery. New graves, old and overgrown. Names of couples that had insisted on being buried next to each other, children. People she didn’t know and would never get to know.

Vera walked up a path towards a grave. Looked at the stone. It was ten years ago today. A barren landscape in a far-away land, soldiers walking across a field when an explosion shattered the small group of men. The authorities sent her a message, said they were sorry for her loss and that he’d served his country well. She lay the flowers on the grave and smiled.

‘It is time to end this. I won’t be coming back, darling. It is time to close this chapter and open a new one. Rest in peace, honey.’

She walked away, never looking back. 

This story is the seventeenth installment in the Moments series

The Sun that Shone like Eating Horses – a short story

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Jim Darn was thinking about Jackie Doran again. Jackie was a cold-blooded angel with red hands and pretty fingernails.

Jim walked over to the window and reflected on his glorious surroundings. He had always loved sunny Amsterdam with its curvy, crowded canals. It was a place that encouraged his tendency to feel eager.

Then he saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the cold-blooded figure of Jackie Doran.

Jim gulped. He glanced at his own reflection. He was a funny, popular beer drinker with sloppy hands and curvy fingernails. His friends saw him as an adorable, adventurous author. Once, he had even helped a striped injured bird recover from a flying accident.

But not even a funny person who had once helped a striped injured bird recover from a flying accident, was prepared for what Jackie had in store today.

The sun shone like eating horses, making Jim hungry. Jim grabbed a glowing sausage that had been strewn nearby; he massaged it with his fingers.

As Jim stepped outside and Jackie came closer, he could see the red smile on her face.

Jackie glared with all the wrath of 3162 admirable relieved rats. She said, in hushed tones, ‘I hate you and I want to go away.’

Jim looked back, even more hungry and still fingering the glowing sausage. ‘Jackie, I want you,’ he replied.

They looked at each other with needy feelings, like two graceful, greasy goldfish singing at a very understanding accident, which had punk music playing in the background and two clever uncles sitting to the beat.

Jim regarded Jackie’s red hands and pretty fingernails. ‘I feel the same way!’ revealed Jim with a delighted grin.

Jackie looked happy, her emotions blushing like a hilarious, tall hat.

Then Jackie came inside for a pleasant drink of beer.

This story was generated by A.I. after I fed it a few words and ideas. Is it any good? Is artificial intelligence able to create stories like a human?

This story is the sixteenth installment in the Moments series

Lucifer’s Boredom – a short story

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The bells rung and Salvatore – that’s what he called himself these days – fixed his sleek black hair. One must look his best in front of the almighty. Sermon next Sunday, find your way in God, a poster by the entrance said. He stroked the benches with his fingers as he walked up the aisle. There were colourful leaflets with selected Bible stories, fairy tales for kids. It never seized to amaze him how God managed to sell his past as noble and cute. Let’s condemn two sorry beings from Paradise for eating an apple, let’s drown everyone because they’re a pain in the butt, let’s have my own son tortured and killed, but tell it all in a way that kids accept it as normal.

Salvatore smiled. How many times had he offered an easier way out, a little less dramatic? But no, God always needed to show off, to demonstrate his power, always needed unconditional love of the very people that feared him.

Machiavelli said it was good for a leader to be feared and loved, preferably to be feared if you couldn’t be both. God must have listened.

Salvatore walked down the aisle like a father without a bride, looking up at the glorious stained glass window above the altar. Jesus was still being crucified all these years later. Must be tedious, being famous for your death. Soft organ music played. Salvatore sat down on a bench and clenched his hands in prayer.

Dear Lord, it’s been a while. Have you missed me? It’s not my fault, really. You are the absent one, you never answer when I call upon you. Are you tired of your creation or have I made this game too challenging for you?

He picked up a book and opened it on a random page. Psalm 51.

Have mercy upon me, O God.

Damn, Salvatore thought. Sounds like a scene from a horror movie.

According to Your lovingkindness.

Salvatore sighed. You are so loving and kind that people must ask you for mercy. Yet, they blame me for the cruelty in the world. Why can’t you just let them have fun, Father?

As if called, a man dressed in white appeared from the side of the church. He approached Salvatore and sat next to him.

‘Psalm 51, I like that one.’ The white clad man lowered his head in prayer.

‘Of course you do.’ Salvatore stroked the paper. ‘I want to confess.’

‘Come with me.’ The man smiled and walked towards the confession booths. Salvatore followed and entered, still holding the book of psalms in his hand. Each man entered his own part of the booth and the priest started praying.

‘You’re talking to yourself, Father.’ Salvatore stroked the page with his finger, feeling the delicate paper.

‘What may I help you with, son?’

‘And in sin my mother conceived me.’

‘Pardon?’

‘I’m reading your psalm. I never understood your obsession with people’s private lives.’

‘My son, if you have sinned, please confess.’

‘Behold, You desire truth in the inward parts, and in the hidden part, You will make me to know wisdom.’

‘Son, please get to the point.’

‘Is the Lord losing patience?’ Salvatore ripped the page out of the book and laid it flat in front of him.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Mothers are not sinners, my Lord. The good-time girls are not sinners. You have led them on long enough, my Lord. The only good thing you’ve done recently is abandoning the pour souls. You see what I’ve made of the world? It’s peaceful now. Mostly. You never managed that.’ Salvatore spread dried leaves on the paper, then rolled it into a cylinder.

‘I am still not sure what your sin is, my son.’

‘You don’t recognise me, do you?’ Salvatore licked the paper and put the joint in his mouth, searched his pocket for a lighter, but found none. ‘Do you have a light?’

‘Do I know you?’

‘My Lord, you supposedly know all of humankind. Every one of them. How would you otherwise judge them?’ Salvatore got tired of searching for a lighter, lifted his thumb and touched the end of the joint, sucked in the smoke and blew it out into the world.

‘My son, are you smoking weed in the church?’

‘It’s a neat trick, don’t you think? Lighting your smoke with a fingertip.’

‘Son, you can’t smoke that in church.’

‘My Lord, was it not you that created weed? Why would you object to your sheep using it? Or is it like your apple back then? I still don’t understand why you punished them for what I did.’

‘Punished who?’

‘I told Eve to eat the bloody apple, and you punished her, not me.’

‘Lucifer?’

‘Your memory is coming back, old man.’

‘I plunged you into hell.’

‘So you did, and it was a favour. Your endless nagging and acting holy was driving me insane.’

‘Why have you come here?’

‘Just wanted to see how you were doing.’

‘You haven’t summoned me in centuries. Why now?’

‘I was bored.’ Lucifer smoked his weed, taking great pleasure in the psalm burning.

‘Have you summoned the Horsemen?’

‘Of the apocalypse? No, of course not.’ He laughed. ‘That old story. You know as well as I that the apocalypse is nonsense. It’s a story about an uprising many years ago. That you made them all believe I was going to come back and end the world, but then lose to Jesus was bogus and you know it. You used it to instil fear in humanity. You’re a tyrant, God. I have come to put an end to it. In fact, I have been putting an end to it for three centuries now. Nobody really believes in you anymore, God. Is that why you have been in hiding since the reformation?’

‘I have not been in hiding.’

‘You send your girlfriend to Portugal or wherever it was, to impress some school girls. They go crazy. Your people in the Vatican act all important and hide the secret, but where were you, God? What else have you done recently? While I have assisted humankind in the sciences and gaining knowledge. It’s like the apple back in the day. They need knowledge.’

‘You have caused two world wars and endless suffering, Lucifer.’

‘I’m not perfect like you, God. Sometimes things don’t work out, but it’s mostly good now. Almost no wars, famine at the lowest level it’s ever been, poverty and disease on the decline. A far cry from when you were still active.’

‘You will pay for this, Lucifer.’

‘See who is losing his temper? Which one of us is really the evil one?’

‘You are, Lucifer.’

‘If you say so.’ Lucifer threw the butt on the floor and stepped on it. ‘It was nice seeing you again.’

‘You will pay for this.’

‘What are you going to do? Throw some pour soul out of their garden and onto the street? Like a bouncer at a sleezy bar?’

‘I will fight you, Lucifer.’

Salvatore opened the booth and walked down the aisle towards the large door. Behind him, God climbed up onto the altar and raised his hands in the air. As Salvatore opened the door, he turned and looked at God. ‘Hold your horses, God.’

‘Damn you! Damn this whole evil world!’ God rushed down to the side of the church and through a small side door. As he stood outside, he sent a thought up into the gathering storm clouds. ‘Jesus, come down here immediately. Take the horsemen with you.’

This story is the fifteenth installment in the Moments series

The Kiss – a short story

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Quiet organ music played while the congregation sat on the hard benches, some nervously turning their heads towards the large door. Richard sat at the front, looking at his son as he stood there, waiting for the bride. The big day. The music intensified, and the congregation stood. His heart took a jump as the door opened, and she walked into the church. She was so beautiful, so perfect. So dangerous.

As she slowly walked down the aisle, Richard closed his eyes. The night before flashed in his mind.

It was the evening before the big day and the full moon gave the garden a magical feel. Inside, ten or so people were talking and having drinks, the last preparations done. Tomorrow’s plan was set. At 11, the bride would be picked up in a white 1930s cabriolet and driven to the church, where the guest were waiting. Her father would walk her down the isle, the groom take her hand and kiss her after the priest spoke the magic words. It had been done a million times and it would be done many times after, but this was their day, their moment to prove their eternal affection for each other.

Of course she had doubts. Everyone has doubts. A lifetime with the same person, however nice, felt like a trap. She needed air and discretely slipped out the door and into the garden. The moonlight glistened on the leaves and the path looked like a silver-coloured road that would take her away to freedom. She came to a patio and noticed a silhouette of a man. His features so mysterious against the low-hanging moon. It was him, her future father-in-law. She sometimes wished his son was more like him, well spoken, elegant, intelligent. Her future husband was all these things, but the older man had a refinement the son lacked. Time would fix that. She was sure of it.

She walked up to him and stroked his back. ‘Nervous?’

He turned and looked at her. ‘Julie.’ He put his hands on his shoulders and kissed her on the forehead. ‘ I would be if I was my son.’ He smiled. ‘I was just thinking about the day I got married. Before you were born.’

‘I wish she could have been here.’

‘So do I.’

She put her hand on his back. ‘We all miss her.’

‘He’s a lucky man, my son.’

‘For having such a good father.’

He pulled her closer. ‘For having you.’

‘You miss her every day, don’t you?’

‘Yes, of course. I loved her.’

‘I hope my marriage will work out as well as yours did.’

‘Looks can be deceiving.’

She looked into his eyes. ‘In what sense?’

‘I loved her, but there was no fire anymore, no passion. We lost the passion years ago.’

‘Yet, you stayed together.’

‘Of course.’

‘Even if you didn’t…’ She was looking for the right words.

‘Oh, but we did. We loved each other, but not like that. Not anymore. You need to keep the flame alive.’

‘How do you do that?’

‘If I knew, I’d tell you. You’ll have to find that in yourself.’

‘Maybe I should marry you.’ She laughed, but he looked her deep in the eyes. ‘I mean, you have been through it and learned how it works and maybe you can make it work this time and…’

‘…and you’re thirty years younger.’ He just stood there laughing.

‘We’re both alive.’

He laughed and put his hands on her hips, pulled her closer. He wanted to say something, but instead pulled her in for a hug. She put her hands between his shoulder blades and pushed her body against his, felt his breath on her neck. Kissed him on the cheek. He ran his fingers through her hair; she felt him against her, and they kissed.

They kissed passionately, bodies locked in each other’s arms, like the world was about to end. Totally oblivious to the approaching footsteps. Their tongues, she felt him, wanted him. He slid his hand down her back, followed her curves.

‘Julie?’

She pulled herself out of his arms and turned. ‘Here!’ She smiled and greeted her husband to be. ‘We were just having a chat.’

‘Hi, dad.’ He smiled at his dad.

‘Ready for the big day?’ Richard put his hands in his trouser pockets.

‘Of course! Coming to bed, honey?’

‘Yeah, I’m tired.’ She kissed her father-in-law on the cheek and smiled. ‘See you in church tomorrow.’

This story is the fourteenth installment in the Moments series

The Woman by the Road – a short story

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This story is based on events that happened to me many years ago, and would later be the inspiration for my first novel, Under the Black Sand.

It was around an hour after midnight in late summer of 1988 when I drove out of the city to spend the weekend with my grandparents. They lived on a farm around 45 minutes away. The first part of the drive took you across the mountains that separate Reykjavík from the farmlands on the south coast.

 Alone in the car, I turned up the music and enjoyed the darkness and solitude on the road. I passed the old house where my father had died, the lake opposite, the old shop where people bought hot dogs, located close to the Ghost Hills. I continued through what they call the Pig’s Lava Fields, probably driving too fast. Never stopping to wonder who the pigs were, or the ghosts. I was just enjoying having my driver’s license and being able to play music loud.

Right after passing the old ski resort, the car climbed the slope up to the highest part of the route. As I reached the top, a woman was standing alone by the side of the road. It was dark, but the headlights made her almost glow in the dark. It was too late to stop. The car sped past her, but I pressed the brakes and looked in the rear-view mirror. Couldn’t see her.

What would a young woman be doing on her own on top of a mountain, in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of the night? Maybe she was in trouble? Had there been an accident? I stopped, reversed, and backed up to the place she’d been standing and got out of the car.

Nobody there. I looked around and saw nobody. Down below, a small house stood, but there was no movement there, no lights. There were no signs of an accident, no skid marks.

No woman.

There was no doubt she’d been there. I was absolutely sure of it. I’d seen her. She had dark hair, was average height, slender and wearing a hospital uniform, like a nurse. I saw her in detail. She was as real as anything I’d ever seen.

Where had she gone?

This was pointless. There was nobody here. I was crazy, I had to be. Giving up, I got back into the car and drove off. Slower this time. No music. I couldn’t get the girl by the road out of my head. Half an hour later I was at the farm. I got inside and went to bed.

My grandfather was in the kitchen as I got out of bed. He’d already milked the cows and was brewing coffee for himself. I sat down at the table and he handed me a cup. ‘How was the trip last night,’ he asked and smiled?

‘Interesting,’ I replied.

He looked at me, and I wondered whether to tell him about the girl. He would think I was mad. But then, he loved interesting stories, so I decided to tell him.

He listened as I explained how I’d seen the girl by the road.

‘Was it just after the ski resort?’ he asked.

I hadn’t told him where it happened, so it was surprising to hear him pinpoint the exact location. I confirmed that’s where I’d seen her.

‘She was standing by the side of the road, you say? On the right-hand side as you drive up the hill? Actually, at the top of the hill, as you reach the high plateau? That’s where you saw her, right?’

I confirmed.

‘Was she wearing something out of the ordinary? Like a uniform or something like that?’

‘Why do you ask?’ I was in some kind of shock by this time. How could he complete the story without me having gone into detail?

‘Dressed like a nurse, I believe?’

My jaw would have been on the floor at this point. How did he know this? All I could say was yes, as I asked him how he knew.

‘They say the house at the foot of the hill is haunted. People can’t sleep there. Many have seen strange things in the area. Sometimes a driver will see a man sitting in the passenger seat. He says nothing. Just sits there. It’s like having a hitchhiker that never waived and you didn’t stop for. He’s just there, all of a sudden. Doesn’t say anything. And then he’s gone.’

I remembered hearing stories like that, but never thought they were anything more than amusing stories dreamed up by superstitious old people.

He continued. ‘Our uncle was driving to Reykjavík years ago when a car came up the hill, on the middle of the road. As they got closer to each other, a collision seemed inevitable. Your uncle was about to pull at the wheel, which would have taken the car off the road and down the steep slope, but at the last moment…’ My grandfather took a deep breath. ‘At the last moment, he noticed that all the windows of the approaching car were blackened. It was like they were all painted black. He decided against turning off the road, to risk the collision. Just before the cars met, the other one vanished.’

‘That’s impossible,’ I said.

‘As for your girl, many have seen her there. She lived in a town close to here and was studying to become a nurse in Reykjavík. After a Christmas break, she was driving back to the city when she lost control of the car in terrible weather. There was a storm, and the road was slippery. She lost control of the car and went down at the exact spot you saw her.’

‘Do you think she saw something that scared her?’

‘We have no way of knowing that.’

We finished the coffee. What we did with the rest of the day, I can’t remember. But I’ll never forget that morning or the night before.

A few years later, I was in Meðalland. Speaking to our uncle, I asked him about his incident and he confirmed it. Said he’d been driving his car down the hill above the ski resort when this other car started playing chicken with him, coming onto his side of the road. He talked about the black windows and how the car vanished just before impact.

Now, dear reader, I am not superstitious in the slightest. I believe in things we can see and measure. However, I know for certain that I saw a girl by the road all those years ago. I also know that my grandfather filled in gaps in my story before I finished telling them. He couldn’t have known, had this simply been my mind being overly active. He knew the story before I told it.

As much as I’d want to write this off as nonsense, I can’t.

But then I can’t explain what I saw, and why I saw it.

This story is the thirteenth installment in the Moments series