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A New Eden – a short story

28 May 2021 by villia Leave a Comment

The display read 28 May 2321. It also displayed general information on the outside atmosphere. 77 percent nitrogen, 22 percent oxygen, 0.8 percent argon, and 0.2 percent unidentified gases. Temperature is 22 degrees Celsius, humidity 81 percent.

It is almost the same as Earth’s, Ashley said. Atmospheric pressure is 87% of that on Earth. We should have no trouble breathing here, but we may grow tired quicker, but slightly lower gravity may compensate.

The others were sceptical, but the surroundings looked suspiciously similar to Earth. Trees with deep green leaves, a strange creature shot through the grass-like straws. Some kind of cross between a cat, a dog and a koala. Looked harmless.

I didn’t expect to see mammal-like creatures here, Aron said. He was the commander of the mission and immediately after touchdown; he took the initiative. I’m going into the airlock, no space suit, no oxygen. Lydia, you take command if I don’t make it.

They sealed the airlock and watched as Aron prepared himself. He rolled his shoulders, looked up, took a deep breath, wiggled his arms. Okay, open the outer door.

The door made a whooshing sound as air rushed out. Because of the lower atmospheric pressure, he felt slightly dizzy for a moment, but adapted quickly. The air was fresh, like he’d never experienced before. One small step for us, a giant leap into the future. The grass was soft and slightly damp, and the leaves of the trees made a soft hustling sound in the gentle breeze. What a perfect world, Aron thought. They were here to build a new world for humanity and he fantasised about how it would turn out. The six astronauts were highly intelligent, each a specialist in their field, chosen after extended physical and psychological tests. Earth 2.0 would be a lot more successful than the old world they’d left behind.

He turned and looked at the spaceship behind him. A relic of their old world. The last great achievement before civilisation turned inwards and was forced to react to the climate catastrophe of the late twenty-first century. There were no space missions anymore, no looking to the future. Earth had enough problems to deal with. He imagined they’d probably forgotten about this very mission, Genesis I, launched to explore a promising planet in the Alpha Centauri star system. Scientists had pinpointed this planet in 2176 as very similar to Earth, and a mission was immediately prepared.

The six astronauts would need to find a way to communicate with Mission Control, if it still existed. The findings were correct. This could be a perfect Earth 2.0. A new Eden.

The airlock closed and within a few seconds, the other five were outside. I suppose building a fire should be safe, Lydia said. The atmosphere is similar to ours and the ground isn’t overly dry. Let’s set up camp here.

The days were longer, around 27 hours and a few minutes, but they got used to it. The trees provided excellent building material, and there was enough edible vegetation. Within a few weeks, they were no astronauts anymore; they were settlers. A few exhibitions had revealed a mountain range in one direction and a large lake or an ocean close by. They relocated and set up camp on the shore.

Lydia was busy working on the communications equipment, trying to contact Earth. She and Aron were getting very friendly, while Ben, the biologist, was trying his best with Ashley. Ben laughed about them being Adam and Eve, and that they would create a new humankind. Ashley shrugged it off. Spoiling this world with humans was the last thing she was interested in. The more she learned about this new world, the more absurd the idea was. Wounds left by chopped trees angered her. The houses they built didn’t belong here. What if they managed to contact Earth and thousands, or millions of people arrived here?

Would they destroy the forests? Would native species go extinct? Would the oceans become acidic and die?

The idea was unbearable.

It was on the evening of 29 August that everything changed. Three months and a day after planetfall, two camps later, Ben made his move. Aron and Lydia were off for a walk along the shore when Ben put his arms around Ashley. She resisted, but he grabbed her tighter. You know you want it, babe. We are Adam and Eve and without us, this world will die. He slipped his hand down her trousers while holding her. She couldn’t move. She tried to fight him off, but he was stronger. He finished what he’d started and rolled over. Ashley lay in the sand, tears running down her cheeks. Aron and Lydia were far away and the other two were at the spaceship. She was alone in this alien world.

Rage was building up in her. Ben had violated this peaceful world, violated her, destroyed what they had. Their duty was to build a new human race, to populate a world that didn’t need or want them. She realised everything would be the same, women would be subdued, raped, abused. The planet would be exploited. Rage got the better of her. She grabbed a stone and struck Ben on the head. He screamed and raised himself up, his hair soaked in blood. Ashley panicked, didn’t understand why she’d done this. Regretted the whole thing and wanted to apologise, was ready to give in to anything that was expected of her. He attacked her, grabbed her throat, pushed her to the ground. She had no choice. Still holding the rock in her hand, she struck again. This time, he fell to the ground. Ben was dead.

She sat there for a few minutes, crying over what had happened. To her and Ben. How the mission was now in jeopardy. What kind of justice system did they have here? None, they would have to improvise. How would they punish her?

Something moved in the bushes behind her. A large animal with enormous teeth approached her. Ashley stood up and walked slowly backwards, towards the water. The animal made growling noises, and she almost tripped. Then it focused its attention on Ben’s corpse and ripped it open. Another animal appeared and joined the first. They were scavengers, not interested in her.

Ashley ran through the forest to the old camp, found the space ship. She was in panic. Lucy and Simon, the two scientists on the mission, saw her approaching. We made a breakthrough; they exclaimed. The incubator works. The fertilised eggs are responding. We should have around fifty babies in nine months. Enough for genetic diversity, enough to create a new human race!

Ashley smiled and entered the spaceship. Looked at the faint glow at the back, at the glass tubes. The embryos were still just a handful of cells, invisible to the human eye. Nobody would notice.

This is the twenty-first installment in the Moments series

Filed Under: Short Stories, Writing Tagged With: alphacentauri, future, moments, scifi, short stories, short story, space

Afternoon – a short story

21 May 2021 by villia Leave a Comment

Her back ached, but it was nothing, she told herself. The children were playing outside, and they had to be fed. You must never let your children starve, no matter what else is happening around you. She stirred in the large pot and monitored the oven. It would be soup tonight, with freshly baked bread. The bones danced in the boiling water as the bubbles escaped from the bottom. She added a few herbs to improve the flavour. The bread was simple. Flour she had managed to get at the market, a little salt, water and an egg. It was all she needed. All she had.

Her husband would be home soon. It was hard to say when, it depended on his work. He did well for himself and his family, helping international organisations and making reasonable pay. They got by and that was all you could ask for. After witnessing people suffering, their oldest daughter was determined to become a doctor. How proud could a mother be? The two younger kids looked up to her and said they wanted to become doctors too, or firefighters, because that was really important. Maybe nurses to help the wounded or maybe politicians to stop the suffering.

They were darlings, and they would be fine. She hoped.

The soup was ready. She went to the door and called the children. Smiling, they came inside, one after the other. Where is daddy, they asked? He will be home soon, she told them.

The youngest ran to his room to get a toy, returned to the kitchen. Where are my bedsheets, he asked? You will all be sleeping with us, she replied. They asked why, and she just smiled. Didn’t want to tell them that if they died, they would die together so that no one would have to mourn the others. They would live together or die together.

The woman filled bowls with soup and put the bread on the table. Leave one for your daddy, she told the kids. He will be hungry when he gets home. She sat down at the table, smiling at her three children. Hoped desperately that their dreams would come true. That they would live to see their dreams realised.

They spoke of the day. A building collapsed a few blocks away. They say old Mustafa was dead. He was attending his vegetable garden when a bomb hit. Why would anyone want him dead? He never harmed anyone. He never made any money off his produce because he kept giving his vegetables away. No matter how life treated him, someone else had it worse and he couldn’t bare to see others starve. His death didn’t make any sense.

The oldest daughter had visited the hospital earlier in the day, seen people covered in blood. She hadn’t cried or fainted. They had told her this was no place for kids but she was twelve and she could handle it and insisted on helping. And she did. After spending a couple of hours there and helping the medical staff, she left. But only after being told she was a very brave girl and that they would love to help her with her study and that she would become a fine doctor some day.

Her mother smiled, and they ate in silence.

It was almost six, and he always tried to be home by six. He rushed down the street and crossed an intersection. He passed a building, the side collapsed, the structure barely standing. It was too common. Too many buildings were damaged or turned to rubble. He held a small box in his hand, made sure not to drop it. A precious thing he’d acquired from the news reporters. It would be a gift to his wife. He was almost running. Turning a corner, he entered their street. Smiling, he felt his heart beating. He wished for this whole thing to be over, for them to have a normal life. The gift was a token of a better future. She would love it.

Something flew over him. He looked up. A black object moving faster than anything. The flash blinded him. The noise was deafening. He was thrown onto the street, dust and rubble raining on him. Every bone in his body hurt, and it was hard to stand up, but he had no choice. He put his hand on his face, looked at the red palm of his hand, knew he was bleeding, but it didn’t matter. He rushed towards the collapsed ruins of a house. Cried her name. Threw stones to one side. Called for her again. Only silence.

It took them two days to recover the bodies.

His family was gone. His life was gone. Only revenge remained.

This is the twentieth installment in the Moments series

Filed Under: Short Stories, Writing Tagged With: gaza, moments, palestine, short stories, short story, war

Foyer de la Danse – a short story

14 May 2021 by villia Leave a Comment

The audience was still applauding the flawless performance, but Eloise was too tired to give it much attention. It was her sixth day, and each was more gruelling than the one before. All she wanted was to take off her shoes, go home, and sleep. It wasn’t to be. Soon, the abonnés would be here, and they wanted her attention.

Eloise sat down in front of the mirror, looked at her youthful face. She would be fifteen in a few weeks. She shouldn’t complain. Being allowed to perform at the Palais Garnier, the Grand Opera House in Paris, was a privilege most never got to experience. This daughter of a working man had no right to take all this for granted. Her parents also told her as much. When the abonnés entered the foyer de la danse, she should smile and look the prettiest she could. And charm came easily to Eloise. She was petite, short and skilly, child-like, but with the features of a woman. Quiet and well mannered, but intelligent and could follow their conversations if appropriate. She was everything they wanted.

Eloise wiped the sweat from her face, applied a little powder, and made sure she looked her best. Soon, the abonnés would be here. They were now slowly getting out of their seats, getting a glass of champagne, talking to others, showing off their wealth, their social status, being seen.

The doors to foyer de la danse opened, and the men entered. Remy was there. He always was. Close to fifty, she estimated, balding and slightly overweight, but the good life did that to you. Remy smiled at her while someone handed him a glass of champagne. Approaching Eloise, he eyed her from top to toe, commented on her performance, comparing her to a butterfly and the rays of the sun after the rain. She did well today. Flawless, like a butterfly flying from one part of the stage to another. In 1880, you will be the prima ballerina, he commented, before running his finger down her petite body. He may have mentioned a butterfly again. She wasn’t listening.

Remy finished his champagne and smiled, took her hand. Led her to the back of the foyer de la danse, opened a door he’d so often opened before, led her into a small room. He stroked her face, loosened her hair, and kissed her. Ran his hand down her back and squeezed her firmly. Untied her dress, pulled it down, kissed her smooth skin.

It was business. He would get what he wanted, she would get her money, her family would go another day without starving, and Eloise would be closer to her goal of becoming the best ballerina in Paris.

She would have preferred a handsome prince, like they had in fairy tales, but life wasn’t a fairy tale and you had to do what was necessary to survive.

Six days of work. Tomorrow would be her day off. Remy put his trousers back on and left the money beside her. She would go home, sleep in the bed he had bought her, in the apartment he provided. Tomorrow she would have a day off and he would come for a visit.

One day, Eloise would become a proper ballerina, the best among equals. One day, she would not need to please old men.

One day, she would be free.

This story is the nineteenth installment in the Moments series

Filed Under: Short Stories, Writing Tagged With: ballet, exploitation, feminism, moments, paris, short stories, short story

Candles – a short story

7 May 2021 by villia Leave a Comment

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

Filed Under: Short Stories, Writing Tagged With: birthday, moments, short stories, short story

Verrader – een kort verhaal

4 May 2021 by villia Leave a Comment

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.

Filed Under: Short Stories, Writing Tagged With: herdenking, moments, nederlands, oorlog, short stories, short story, war

White Roses – a short story

30 April 2021 by villia Leave a Comment

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

Filed Under: Short Stories, Writing Tagged With: loss, moments, roses, short stories, short story, war

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