Schlagwort: Storybook

It is night, and I wander through the empty streets. At some windows, I pause, seeing the light within and imagining what it might be like there. People, family, togetherness – happiness? Perhaps, perhaps not. Snippets of an argument reach my ears. Here, a woman hysterically screaming at her husband. There, a toddler crying. And over there, lustful moaning, sounds of two people immersed in their own world of passion and devotion on this night. Continue reading „Night of the Rats“ →

He turned around and tried to wrap the blankets around his body in his half-sleep. Many consider March to be warm, but it isn’t. Not when you’re sleeping outside, when you’ve eaten little, and when a completely different kind of cold is present every day: the cold in the hearts of those who walked past him, looked down on him, and showed him their disdain. Who made it clear to him day after day what he was to them. A dirty bum, someone who had failed in life. A parasite and superfluous. Someone nobody wanted. Continue reading „On the Edge“ →

She was trembling. The vaults were damp and cold, and they had given her nothing with which she could cover her nakedness. The sounds were horrifying, echoing through the dark dungeon with a metallic clatter and distant thuds. In this world of shadows and screams, sounds always meant approaching pain and despair. Continue reading „The Witch“ →

He sat on the old, worn-out armchair, the same one he had been sitting on when his wife was still alive. The television he stared at was not much younger than he was. Occasionally, he remembered better times, back when his back was still strong and his legs carried him safely through the world. Yes, those were good times, when he could wander the Christmas markets with his wife and children, occasionally sipping mulled wine. Nowadays, he mostly sat in his chair, listened to the radio, or watched TV shows that, with their modern and loud style, filled him with fear about this new world outside. In his old age, the former charmer had turned into a quiet, sad man fighting with his loneliness and memories. Continue reading „Christmas 1979“ →

Evening mood – The sky takes on the color of the port in my hand in the light of the setting sun, while the small lake below seems to shimmer like lead. A dark red – like a sea of copper and dark blood, streaked with orange and violet stripes, and in the background, the dark silhouettes of the mountains paint themselves against the horizon. Continue reading „Sparks of Fire“ →

I’d like to invite you to join me on a little journey. A journey back to a time when I thought less about the consequences of my actions and words—or more accurately, about what happens when you fail to act or speak.

The idea to write this came to me through the question of repentance, a question some people like to ask. Maybe this is a confession, or perhaps it’s a way to make peace with myself. And if it encourages someone else to reflect, then it has a purpose… Continue reading „A Story about Words, Stones and Memorys …“ →

It was evening, and the old man sat alone on his rooftop, lost in memories. He thought of friends who had departed before him, wars he had fought in, and the woman he had loved. He closed his eyes and listened to the wind gently brushing against the house, and it seemed to him as though it carried a faint melody. He relaxed and allowed himself to be carried away by the barely audible tune. Continue reading „The old Man …“ →

True beauty comes from within – he despised this saying, for it was the biggest lie he had ever encountered in life. He was a master of words, weaving and juggling them in ways few could. He helped people, encouraged them, and gave them a view of their own hearts. Yet, no one dared to look into his heart, for what they saw there displeased them. He was the monster, the aberration, the creature to be mocked and driven away, the thing that bore a guilt not of its own making. Continue reading „Monster …“ →