Villi Asgeirsson

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Candles – a short story

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Francisca combed her still damp hair and let it flow down her shoulders, enjoyed how it tickled her back. She took a step back, looking at her naked upper body. Not bad for a 39-year-old, she thought to herself.

She was a clever girl, and while Ben had done his best to hide the preparations, she knew there would be a surprise party. Why don’t you take a long, hot bath while I prepare dinner for two, he’d said? Good idea, she’d replied, knowing that the moment she went upstairs, the guests sneaked into the house. Ben couldn’t hide anything from her, and that was just as well.

A touch of foundation. She didn’t need much. Mascara and eye shadow, but just enough to accentuate her face. A deep red lipstick perfected her. Still naked, she opened the door to the hallway and entered her walk-in closet, selected black lingerie, black skirt and a red blouse. She slowly got dressed, always keeping an eye on herself in the full-length mirror. Turning slightly to each side, she made sure her attire looked perfect. You still got it, girl, she whispered to herself.

Using her finger, she fixed the lipstick and stroked her cheekbones gently, then went back to the bathroom. She brushed her hair again, applied a little hair lotion, just enough to keep it from being messy, then decided perfection had been reached.

Francisca entered the hallway again and put on her pumps. The heels were very high, so she didn’t use them often, but it was her birthday and she was determined to look absolutely perfect. She slowly descended the stairs, careful not to slip. That would be very unsignifying, and probably painful. She opened the door to the living room.

Plastic trumpets and confetti greeted her. The girlfriends were there, a few colleagues as well. Presents in golden paper stacked on the dressoir, table decked with plates and tiny forks. Ben stood there smiling, holding a large bottle of champagne in his hand. As she looked at him, he rubbed the cork and it flew across the room. Francisca quickly grabbed a champagne glass from the table and put it under the bubbles that were spewing out of Ben’s hand.

The glasses were filled, and they proposed a toast. To Francisca and many more years, they all cheered.

Ben kissed her on the cheek, slipped past her and into the kitchen. He returned with a large cake with candles lit. Francisca gestured him to quickly put the cake on the table and inhaled.

Hesitated.

This wasn’t right.

Ben, she said. Why does the cake have forty candles?

This story is the eighteenth installment in the Moments series

Verrader – een kort verhaal

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De verpleegster trok de gordijnen dicht. De oude man lag in het bed en ademde moeizaam. Het was gedaan met hem, dat was duidelijk. Twee weken eerder werd hij hierheen gebracht omdat er geen genezing meer mogelijk meer was op herstel. Normaal gesproken was het redelijk druk op de afdeling, veel visite, maar het was haar opgevallen dat hij geen enkel bezoek had gehad. Niemand kwam voor deze man. Zij organiseerde de ongelezen tijdschriften op een nette stapel en vulde zijn glas met water. Hij maakte een kleine beweging, keek haar aan en ze kwam dichterbij. ‘Ik moet je wat vertellen,’ fluisterde hij. ‘Ik moet een belijdenis maken.’

‘Een belijdenis, meneer? Ik ben geen priester.’

‘Het maakt niet uit.’ Hij had moeite met spreken en ze kon hem bijna niet verstaan. ‘Iemand moet dit horen voordat ik ga.’

Het was vroeg in het voorjaar van 1943. Marloes was een schat, en bakkersdochter. Achterin de bakkerij verpakte zij wat broodjes in een schoon doek en stapelde ze in haar fietsmand. Haar vader keek nerveus op zijn horloge. ‘Vijftien minuten.’ Zij gaf hem een kus op de wang, hing de mand aan haar fiets en was weg.

Het was niet ver van hier, de plek waar ze de vracht zouden droppen. Zij fietste langs het kanaal en over de dijk, totdat ze bij het veld stond. Het was fris en ze trok haar kraag tot over haar oren. Zij had dit vaker gedaan, maar elke keer kreeg ze het er koud van. Ongeacht het weer. In de verte hoorde ze de lage brom van vliegtuigmotoren. De kleine punt in de lucht werd groter en het geluid harder. Het vliegtuig was nu bijna direct boven haar hoofd en ze zag een pakket vallen, een parachute openen. Ze rende in de richting van het krat dat nu op de grond lag, deed hem open en pakte de inhoud in haar handen.

De wapens verstopte zij onder de broodjes. De boer zou de krat ophalen nadat zij weg was. Je kon het niet riskeren dat de Nazi’s deze zouden vinden.

Marloes fietste snel terug naar het dorp, langs een paar soldaten die naar haar knipoogde. Zij was bang voor ze, voelde de angst die alleen een jonge meid kon begrijpen. Een van hen floot en lachte naar haar, maar Marloes negeerde ze. Stel je voor dat ze wisten wat in de fietsmand lag. De soldaten flirten altijd met haar, knipoogden, en lieten duidelijk merken wat ze met haar wilden doen. Maar ze lieten haar met rust.

De oude windmolen stond aan de andere kant van het dorp. Marloes volgde het pad, legde haar fiets naast het hek, pakte de mand en liep rond naar de achterkant van de molen. Zij trok een oud luik open en legde de wapens neer. Iemand zou ze phalen wanneer het donker was.

Zij deed het luik dicht en draaide zich om. Vijf soldaten stonden achter haar, hun geweer in de aanslag. Ze vroegen, in het duits, wat zij aan het doen was. Wat kon zij zeggen? De mand viel op de grond.

‘Ik heb wat bloem nodig. Voor mijn vader, de bakkerij.’ Haar stem trilde en haar handen voelden ijskoud.

De soldaten bleven staan, hun geweren gericht op haar gezicht, terwijl de commandant het luik open deed. Hij bukte, pakte een brits pistool. Marloes deed haar ogen dicht. Hij liep langzaam achter haar langs, langs haar zijde, stopte recht voor haar. Richtte het britse pistool tussen haar ogen. Hij liet het pistool zakken, en aaide haar gezicht met zijn linkerhand. Voelde haar zachte huid, haar nek, haar borsten. ‘Wat zonde,’ zei hij met een glimlach.

De zuster zat naast de stervende man, luisterde naar zijn zwakke stem, zag hoeveel moeite hij had met ademen. ‘Zij is een paar maanden later gestorven, ergens in een kamp. Ik weet niet welk.’ De man probeerde te hoesten maar het lukte niet. ‘Niemand wist dat ik het was. Dat ik de verrader was.’ Hij hijgde, ademen ging erg moeilijk. ‘Ik dacht dat ik aan het helpen was. Ik geloofde in hun leugens. En Marloes. Ik hield van haar maar ze zag mij niet. Deed alsof ik niet bestond. Ik weet niet waarom ik haar heb verraden. Ik hield van haar.’

De zuster zei niks. Ze ging staan, opende de gordijnen en verliet de kamer. Van haar mocht hij alleen sterven.

‘Ik heb hier mee moeten leven,’ fluisterde hij toen de deur dicht ging.

Het aantal slachtoffers in Nederland tijdens de Tweede Wereldoorlog is niet duidelijk, maar wordt geschat op rond de 300.000, waarvan ruim 100.000 Joden. Dit verhaal is voor jullie.

Dit verhaal is het tiende in de serie Moments en werd oorspronkelijk in het Engels op 12 maart gepubliceerd.

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