novel – LITERASEA

Kälte und Einsamkeit

an extract from the same novel by Jeremias Winckler

Südlich vom Munku Sardyk, Mongolei, 9.9.2017

Im schwachen Licht der Sterne sehe ich die enormen Weiten der Steppe. Wäre mir nicht so kalt, würde ich mich am liebsten auf die Wiese legen, um mich in der Unendlichkeit des Universums zu verlieren. Doch ans Faulenzen ist nicht zu denken. Ich muss mich um Wasser kümmern. Das sanfte Rauschen eines Baches durchbricht die Stille der Nacht. Ich kann die Entfernung nur schwer einschätzen, denn die Finsternis verschlingt Farben und Konturen der Umgebung. Ich folge dem wohlvertrauten plätschernden Geräusch. Bald erreiche ich den Bach. Ich tauche meine Flasche unter Wasser. Meine Hände sind wie betäubt. Sobald das Gefäß halb voll ist, nehme ich ein paar gierige Schlucke zu mir. Das Wasser benetzt meine Lippen und kühlt meinen spröden und kaputten Mund. Ich mache mich auf den Rückweg zum Lager.

Um mich vor der Kälte zu schützen, ziehe ich jeden Abend einen Großteil der Klamotten an. Genauer gesagt: zwei Sets Skiunterwäsche, zwei Paar Socken, vier T-Shirts, drei Pullis und zwei Hosen. Dann lege ich mich in den Schlafsack und decke mich mit den Jacken zu. Es hilft alles nichts, die Kälte kriecht ins Zelt und arbeitet sich Schicht für Schicht zu mir durch. Ich schließe den Zelteingang und stülpe mir die Kapuze des Schlafsacks über den Kopf. Meine Hände und Füße spüre ich kaum noch, und immer wieder überkommen mich Zitteranfälle. Die Nacht schreitet voran. Der Bach plätschert. Mein Pferd trottet schnaubend umher. Und ich reibe die Hände aneinander und versuche, mich ganz tief in den Schlafsack zu verkriechen. Schließlich, nach mehreren Stunden der Kälte, gleite ich in einen unruhigen Schlaf.

Ich erwache zitternd. Der Reißverschluss des Schlafsackes hat sich in der Nacht ein wenig geöffnet. Ich will ihn schließen, aber meine Finger sind taub und ich kriege den Zipper nicht zu fassen. Um besser sehen zu können, krame ich nach der Kopflampe. Licht flutet das Innere des Zeltes. Ich erschrecke furchtbar: Meine Hände sind blau. Ich halte sie unter meine Achseln. Das Gefühl will nicht zurückkehren. Angst überfällt mich. Wie viel Kälte kann ich ertragen? Alles verschlingende Einsamkeit überkommt mich. Wie schön es wäre, einen vertrauten Körper an der Seite zu haben, die Wärme des anderen zu reflektieren. Ich mache mich klein, presse die Hände an den Körper und atme in den Schlafsack. Jetzt nur nicht einschlafen. Die restlichen Stunden der Nacht sind pures Elend. Nach einer gefühlten Ewigkeit spüre ich, wie die Durchblutung in den Händen wieder einsetzt. Ein stechender, pulsierender Schmerz. Meine Finger schwellen auf die doppelte Dicke an. Es tut so weh. Ich beiße die Zähne aufeinander und heule in mein Kissen.

Die Sonne ist noch nicht ganz am Horizont erschienen, als ich das Zelt verlasse, um mich auf den Tag vorzubereiten. Eine dünne Eisschicht bedeckt die Pfütze am Zelteingang, und die Wiesen sind mit Morgentau überzogen, in dessen kristallener Oberfläche sich die ersten Sonnenstrahlen widerspiegeln. Im schwachen Morgenlicht scheinen mir die sich verziehenden Nebelschwaden wie Geister, die dem anbrechenden Tag entfliehen. Erst nach Erlöschen der letzten Strahlen werden sie wieder ihr Unwesen treiben. Es sind meine Geister und sie machen mir Angst.

Kein Ende in Sicht

Content warning. May contain spoilers.

blood

an extract from the same novel by Jeremias Winckler

51.524453 Nord, 100.073991 Ost, Mongolei, 8.9.2017

Durch die einen Spalt breit geöffnete Zeltplane scheinen mir die ersten Sonnenstrahlen des Tages entgegen. Sie vertreiben die morgendliche Frische wie der Frühling den Winter. Unzählige wässrige Kügelchen, die sich an den Spitzen der Grashalme festhalten, rollen wie funkelnde Perlen daran hinunter. Es ist ein Spektakel der Natur und ich bin der einzige Zuschauer.

Ich reibe mir den Schlaf aus dem Gesicht. Die Rauheit meiner Hände kratzt an der feinen Haut der Augenlider. Mein Nacken ist steif. Wegen der Wurzeln und Steine, die unter dem Zelt liegen, habe ich in einer unnatürlichen Position geschlafen. Unter den Fingernägeln, an den Füßen und in meinen Haaren, überall hat sich Dreck angesammelt. Obwohl ich es selbst kaum noch rieche, umgibt mich der Geruch tierischer Verwilderung. Meine Klamotten sind durchgeschwitzt. Nur meine Unterwäsche wasche ich in den Bergbächen entlang des Weges. Mich plagt der Hunger, doch ich unterlasse es, nach Essen in der Satteltasche zu suchen. Vor zwei Tagen habe ich das letzte Stück Brot verzehrt und die Überbleibsel der Karotten abgenagt. Mein Proviant ist erschöpft. Ich stehe auf. Mir wird schwarz vor Augen und ich breite die Arme aus, um nicht zu stürzen. Seit gestern verspüre ich gelegentlich einen Anflug von Schwindel. So stehe ich da, schwankend, stinkend, hungrig und trotzdem auf eine sonderbare Art glücklich.

Es ist Zeit, das Lager abzubauen. Alles packe ich ordentlich zusammen. Die Gegenstände und Klamotten, die ich erst zum Abend wieder brauche, werden zuerst verstaut. Das Messer und mein Kompass klappern in der Hosentasche. Ghostbuster zupft an einzelnen Grashalmen. Ich nähere mich ihm. Er hebt den Kopf. Seine tiefschwarzen Augen folgen meinem Gang. Ich löse den Knoten, mit dem ich ihn an einen Baum gebunden habe. Da Ghostbuster von eher stürmischer Natur ist und sich leicht in Rage versetzen lässt, mache ich mich auf Gegenwehr gefasst. Ich ziehe den Hengst mit einem Ruck zu mir heran. Ohne den Kopf zur Seite zu reißen, wie er es die letzten Tage versucht hat, gehorcht er mir. Ich schmeiße die dicken Filzdecken über seinen Rücken. Der Sattel folgt. Inzwischen halte ich die Leine nur noch lose in der Hand. Er steht wie angewurzelt. Ich bücke mich und atme tief ein, greife entschlossen unter dem Bauch des Tieres hindurch, schnappe mir die auf der anderen Seite herunterhängenden Lederriemen und ziehe sie durch die metallenen Schnallen. Die Unberechenbarkeit tierischen Eigensinns bereitet mir immer noch einen ungemeinen Respekt. Was wäre, wenn mein Pferd sich erschreckt? Würde es sich aufbäumen und mich zur Seite schmeißen? Ich könnte unter die Hufe geraten. Ich ziehe die Riemen fest, Ghostbuster stöhnt auf, ein lang gezogener Furz entfährt ihm. Ich befestige die Satteltaschen und das Zelt auf seinem Rücken. Danach drücke ich Ghostbuster das Mundstück ins Maul. Alles ist bereit.

Ich schwinge mich mit einer fließenden Bewegung auf ihn und rufe: „Cho!“ Ohne zurückzuschauen, reite ich los. Unter den Hufen brechen Sträucher und Äste. Der Wind bläst mir durch das Haar. An den Waden spüre ich das rhythmische Pochen meines Begleiters Herz. Seine Muskeln spannen sich im Takt und mit jedem Steigen hebt sich mein Körper und landet im nächsten Moment sanft auf dem sich senkenden Sattel. Die frische Morgenluft durchdringt mich, als wäre ich ein Teil von ihr. Ich fliege durch die Ausläufer des Waldes, getragen von Gezwitscher und meinem trommelnden Puls. Ghostbuster will nach links und nach rechts ausbrechen, doch mit sicherer Hand halte ich uns auf Kurs. Ich visiere die noch schneebedeckten Kuppen Russlands an. Die Grenze liegt nördlich vom Kovsgol-See. Seit Wochen reise ich immer weiter in Richtung Norden. In nur wenigen Tagen werde ich die russische Grenze sehen.

Aus der Böschung trabend, dem Geäst entweichend, öffnet sich vor mir eine weite Steppe. Das satte Grün der Wiesen und der Geruch von Wildblüten entlocken mir ein Lächeln, das sogleich zu einem Lachen wird. Wie eine gigantische Schlange windet sich ein reißender Bach durch die Mitte der offenen Fläche. Die Wellen tänzeln in weißen Gewändern zwischen den Steinen. Wir nähern uns dem Wasser, Ghostbuster senkt den Kopf und trinkt. Ich steige ab und fülle meine Wasserflasche. Eine Herde Wildpferde hat auf der anderen Seite Rast gemacht. Auch sie trinken. Einige Fohlen tapsen unbeholfen im Bach herum. Nachdem Ghostbuster seinen dringlichsten Durst gestillt hat, wird er auf die freien Pferde aufmerksam. Er wiehert und reckt den Kopf. Ich will ihm und mir die Freude der Herdengemeinschaft nicht verweigern und drücke meine Hacken in die Flanken des Hengstes, um den Fluss zu durchqueren.

Unter den Hufen wackeln die Steine und die Strömung reißt an den Beinen meines Gefährten, doch wir leisten Widerstand. Mit sicheren Schritten, als wüsste er um die Beschaffenheit des Untergrundes, durchwatet er das Gewässer. Die Herde hat uns nicht aus den Augen gelassen und ist vom Fluss zurückgewichen. Ihr Wiehern hallt von den Felshängen wider. Die Neugier steigt in mir auf und ich will ihr Raum verschaffen. Wir nähern uns der Herde. Das Wiehern wird lauter und Ghostbuster reißt an den Zügeln. Ich muss ihn mit aller Kraft zurückhalten, damit er nicht vorschnellt. Ich wende mich zur Seite, betrachte eines der Fohlen, da entgleiten mir die Zügel. Mir rutscht das Herz in die Hose. Von Freiheit und Freude erfüllt, schießt Ghostbuster vorwärts. Ich klammere mich an den Eisenbügel des Sattels. Mein Körper holpert auf und ab. Ich finde den Rhythmus des Tieres nicht. Verzweifelt drücke ich meine Waden gegen die Flanken. Von der Hektik aufgescheucht, setzt sich die Herde in Bewegung. Wir hetzen auf den Wald zu. Die Äste schlagen mir ins Gesicht. Ich schmecke Blut. Das muss ein Ende haben!

An der Seite hängen die Zügel hinunter. Wir werden immer schneller. Die Kiefernnadeln peitschen auf mich ein. Ich versuche, nach den Zügeln zu greifen, doch ich kriege sie nicht zu fassen. Mich zur Seite lehnend, komme ich ihnen näher. Mein Körper fliegt auf und ab. Die Oberschenkel schmerzen. Noch ein kleines Stück. Ich beuge mich vorwärts. Ein Zucken. Plötzlich: Schwerelosigkeit. Meine Füße fliegen aus den Steigbügeln. Meine Hände schließen sich um die Zügel und ich halte mich mit Leibeskräften an ihnen fest. Ein Aufprall. Ich kann weder hören noch sehen. Ich werde über den Boden geschleift. Gerade will ich aufgeben, da bleibt die Welt stehen. Stille. Ich atme aus, krieche zu einem neben mir aufragenden Baumstumpf und schlage die Zügel darum. Es pocht in meinen Ohren und alles schmerzt. Ich schaue an mir hinunter. Unter der zerrissenen Hose sehe ich Blut. Ich betaste die Stelle vorsichtig. Für einige Minuten rühre ich mich nicht. Mein Pferd schaut sehnsüchtig der zwischen den Bäumen verschwindenden Herde nach.

Unter normalen Umständen hätte ich eine Pause gemacht und mein Lager an Ort und Stelle aufgeschlagen, aber mir fehlt es an Proviant. Ich weiß, dass ich weiter muss. Die nächsten Nomaden können nicht mehr weit sein. Sobald wir den Wald verlassen, werden wir welche finden. Wir müssen welche finden. Irgendwen. Von diesem Gedanken angespornt, stehe ich auf und ziehe Ghostbuster zu mir heran. Ich rücke die Satteltaschen zurecht, straffe den Gurt und steige auf. Jeder Meter des Weges schmerzt. Die schweißnassen Klamotten reiben an meiner wunden Haut. Mein Körper ist mit Blutblasen und Schürfwunden überzogen. Ich kann nicht mehr. Ich bin erschöpft. Aber ich muss weiter, solange ich noch die Kraft habe, mich im Sattel zu halten.

Gedankenkarussell

Content warning. May contain spoilers.

hospital

an extract from a novel by Jeremias Winckler

Hamburg, Deutschland, 22.10.2017

Ein weiterer Tag geht zu Ende. Ich schließe meine Augen und tauche ab in ein schwarzes Meer. Die Dunkelheit umhüllt mich. Hier liege ich nun also. Alleine mit meinen Gedanken. Die sich drehen. Immer weiter. In nie endenden Kreisen. Ohne Anfang. Und ohne Ende. Der Schlaf will nicht kommen. Das Kissen ist unbequem. Ich rücke es zurecht. Es ist ein wenig klamm und zu warm. Viel zu warm. Vielleicht drehe ich es lieber um. So ist es besser. Bevor ich einschlafe, sollte ich noch mal auf die Toilette gehen, auch wenn ich eigentlich gar nicht muss. Ich öffne meine Augen, drehe mich auf meine Seite und gehe zum Bad. Krankenhaus riecht unausstehlich, so steril. Insbesondere das Bad. Nachdem ich für einige Minuten untätig auf der Toilette gesessen habe, gehe ich zurück zu Bett und decke mich zu. Eine Krankenwagensirene ertönt, gedämpft. In Wirklichkeit ist der Krankenwagen ganz in der Nähe. Doch das merkt man nicht. Die Fenster sind schallisoliert. Der Raum fühlt sich beengend an. Mein Zelt war mir lieber. Da konnte ich nachts die Geräusche des Waldes hören. Das Rascheln der Blätter. Das Schnaufen und Stampfen. Doch jetzt ist alles still. Ich versuche, mich auf meine Atmung zu konzentrieren. Das soll beim Einschlafen helfen, glaube ich. Vielleicht lenkt es mich ab. Von den Gedanken. Langsam fülle ich meine Lungen mit Luft. Sekunde für Sekunde. Und leere sie wieder. Mein Körper fühlt sich schwer an. Vielleicht schlafe ich endlich ein. Wenn ich viel schlafe, geht die Zeit schneller vorbei. Hoffentlich. Denn ich bin es leid. Wann kann ich endlich das Krankenhaus verlassen? Wann wird es mir endlich besser gehen? Wann wache ich aus diesem Albtraum auf? Ich kneife meine Augen zusammen. Tränen laufen mir übers Gesicht. Ich spüre, wie die salzigen Tropfen über meine Wangen laufen. Langsam. Konzentriere dich lieber auf deine Atmung. Das ist weniger schmerzhaft. Weniger beengend. Als der Gedanke. Der Gedanke des vergehenden Lebens. So dramatisch ist es gar nicht. Ich bin kein akuter Notfall. Ich habe ja nur Fieber. Mein Körper funktioniert und bekämpft das, was auch immer es ist, was ich in mir trage. Bald schon wird es mir besser gehen. Ich atme wieder aus. Langsam und kontrolliert. Dann streiche ich mir die Tränen von den Wangen. Dabei drücke ich etwas zu fest zu. Kleine weiße Punkte erscheinen in der Dunkelheit. Wie farblose Mandalas. Sich drehende Lichter in der Dunkelheit. Fluoreszierendes Gedankengut. Das mich umgibt, während ich falle. Immer weiter. Hinab in die Dunkelheit. Wie ein Stein unter Wasser, der dem Abgrund entgegentrudelt. Oben sehe ich das Lichtspiel der Sonne. Strahlen piercen die Oberfläche und erhellen das Nichts, bevor sie sich in der Endlosigkeit verlieren. Immer weiter. Immer tiefer. Schwerelos. Lautlos. Angezogen von der Finsternis in mir.

Passed On

Content warning. May contain spoilers.

depression

an extract from a novel project by Lina Ketelsen

Monica’s mother had been staring at the wall for about an hour now, whilst Monica was staring at her. She wondered if her mother even registered her gaze, if she even noticed the desperation hiding behind it. Monica was holding a cup of tea in her hands, the print of a white kitten sitting in front of a pink window peeking out between her fingers. It was her favourite cup; her mother had gotten it for her when she was only eight. The tea had gone cold. She had only drunk half of it.

I wish you would still care about me. I care so much about you. She kept her thoughts to herself, as she did often these days. The only person she ever shared them with was her husband. He’d always listen and she felt as though he would never judge her for thoughts she herself would deem as cruel coming from a daughter about a mother. She didn’t want to be cruel about her mother, but there was only so much a person could handle, even if that person was a daughter.

Monica was staring a hole in the back of her mother’s head, completely lost in thought. She grabbed her red, clothbound journal and a pen out of her bag and started writing.

***

When did everything get this bad? You haven’t left the house in weeks and I can barely get you to eat anything. I wish I could go back and pinpoint where it all went wrong. I guess no one’s to blame, really. Could I have stopped your depression from getting this bad if I had just gotten you help earlier? I was just a kid and back then there was barely any help available, and I didn’t even really know what was wrong with you. But still. I wish I could go back to the days of me and you sitting in your bed, with you telling me stories about your childhood, while we cuddled until dad came back home. Everything was better then. I barely see him anymore. I guess it’s just too much for him to handle, too. You know, sometimes I blame him for your sadness. And sometimes, if I look closely, I see the same sadness in his eyes. I wonder if Rob will ever look into my eyes and find it in them too. The terror I feel at such a thought. I would never want to do that to him. He deserves to live a life full of happiness and laughter and I will make sure to give him just that. Not just for him, but also for me. I promised myself I will get help as soon as I start to notice the same signs you had shown once everything began. I still remember how you used to take care of me, Mom. You took me to get birth control when I was only thirteen because my cramps were so bad I could barely get out of bed. Everyone in our neighbourhood judged you for it but you never cared. Now I’m not sure you care about anything at all. I wonder what you will say when I tell you about the baby. The baby that I will give birth to because I forgot to bring that birth control on my honeymoon. Rob just said that whatever happens happens and if we do conceive a child it must simply be meant to be. I hope you’ll love your grandchild. I’m sure deep down you will, even though you might not be able to show it. I promise to make sure that my child will know how much you love it. Mom, I am so scared of becoming a mother. I am so scared of becoming you.

***

She put the pen down and got up to make her mother dinner she probably wouldn’t eat.

A week later, Monica had an appointment at her gynaecologist to check up on the baby. Rob had taken a day off from his job at the bank to come with her. Aside from some nausea, the pregnancy was going very well, and everything had been fine at her other appointments, yet Monica was overcome with anxiety every single time.

As she lay down on the bed, Rob sat down on the chair next to it. He squeezed her hand, looking at her with his warm brown eyes and giving her a small smile. It was the same smile Monica fell in love with the night they met in that Jazz Club, and she still got that same warm feeling inside of her chest whenever she saw it. His leg bounced up and down quickly, but his thumb drew comforting circles on the back of Monica’s hand.

Her nurse walked in, greeted them, and began the examination. Monica sighed in relief as soon as she found out that the baby was fine and everything looked exactly as it should.

She thanked God in her head and flashed her husband a wide smile who promptly reciprocated it.

Then, the nurse asked, ‘Do you want to know the gender of the baby?’

‘Yes.’ Monica and Rob replied in union. They had talked about it beforehand and had decided on satiating their curiosity instead of waiting until the baby’s birth. Now, with the answer to the question being so near, Monica felt her heartbeat quicken and her grip on Rob’s hand tightened.

‘Congratulations, you’re having a girl!’

Monica had gotten a little quiet on the car ride home, while Rob did his best to console her worries. He had calmed her racing thoughts down a bit by talking about all the options for the nursery they had been working on and the dresser he was planning on building for their baby girl. As soon as they arrived, she told her husband she needed some time for herself and sat down on their terrace. She closed her eyes and took a moment to feel how the sun tickled her skin and, as she breathed in, she smelt the scent of freshly cut grass. Rob must have mown the lawn earlier this morning while she was paying her mother her daily visit. Monica remembered her journal entry that she wrote a week ago and decided to return to it, overwhelmed with emotions and desperate to make some sense of them.

***

How is it possible to feel so happy yet so scared at the same time? I’m so glad that my baby is fine, but I am also a little scared. A mother is more likely to pass her depression onto her daughter than her son. Will I lay this burden upon her that has been throwing shadows over my life ever since I was a little girl? Is it my fault if she will be haunted by the same fate as my mother? If I know that it cannot truly be my fault, then why do I still feel guilty somehow? Sometimes, I feel myself waiting for the day when it’s my turn and I start to feel my mother’s depression creep up on me. I’m scared of it. But all I know is that I cannot pass the fear onto my daughter, I cannot, and I will not make her experience the things I have had to go through with my mother. I will do anything I can to show my baby that the world is a beautiful place and that she is unconditionally loved by her parents, just like any child deserves. Just like I deserved it, too. I cannot wait to give birth to her, I’m sure the sight of my girl will clear my worries, at least for some time.

***

Monica closed her journal, took a deep breath, and put her hand on her round belly. Just then, Rob walked out on the terrace holding a tray with tea and cookies, smiling at the sight of his wife. She smiled back at him and felt that everything would be alright as long as they had each other.

Author’s note

This piece is going to be a part of a coming-of-age novel spanning the sixties through to the early 2000s. It centres around the issues of womanhood, mental illness, motherhood, and love. It follows the protagonist Monica, whose story is based on my own family’s history, as she grows into womanhood, finds love, and navigates life with a depressed mother while becoming a mother herself.

Acts of Desperation

an extract from a novel project by Carolin Hansen

Margaret woke up to the dim light of dawn slowly creeping through the cracks of the worn-down shed. She shivered. The shelter barely kept out the cold, and she didn’t know how they would survive the winter months ahead. Margaret glanced around the shed. It was a cramped space, barely big enough to fit them all. The few belongings that Margaret could gather in their frantic rush to flee were stacked neatly in one corner: a few blankets, some worn-out clothes, a couple of cooking utensils, and a cherished family photo. Beside her, Rosie and Doris huddled together for warmth. Their small bodies were frail and thin, their faces pale from weeks of being on the move and little to no food. Doris had Erika in her arms, protecting her from the world around them. Since the night they left home, Doris had been a constant source of comfort for Erika, holding her close during the most frightening moments. Margaret watched them for a moment, before pushing the blanket back and sliding, quietly, out of bed. It was time to get up. The day’s work would begin soon, and lateness was frowned upon. They were working on the harvest for the Heinrichs, the family that had taken her and her children in. With a heavy sigh, she stood up, feeling the familiar gnaw of hunger in her stomach; she had given most of last night’s food to her children, as she had done the previous nights. Though Margaret was grateful for the roof over their head, the price she had to pay was steep.

Outside in the middle of the vast, muddy field, Margaret knelt down, shivering as a cold blast of wind cut through her like a knife. She looked up at the sky, the thick, grey, low-hanging clouds stretching endlessly over the landscape. She looked down at her knees and winced. The ground was uneven, and the clumps of hardened soil and rocks were digging into her flesh with every movement. The repetitive chore of digging into the soil and pulling out the potatoes was exhausting. While she worked, she would reminisce about the time before the war, when everything was still alright. She thought about the candlelit evenings with her husband and children, the sound of their laughter, now a rare memory, echoing in her mind, reminding her of the joy she once knew.

As she dug her hands into the cold earth, Margaret’s fingers brushed against a particularly large potato. She paused; her children’s cries from the night before echoed in her head, their thin faces marked with pain. The rations that the Heinrichs provided were barely enough to survive, let alone keep them healthy. She quickly looked around the field, ensuring no one was watching. The other workers were busy on the opposite side of the field, their voices faint in the distance. Margaret’s heart pounded as she hesitated, the potato still half-buried in the soil. Why had it come to this? She thought, her hands trembling as they dug into the soil. With a quick, decisive move, she slipped the potato into the deep pocket of her apron. Her heart began to race and she quickly continued working, her hands moving mechanically, while her mind was racing with doubt and anxiety.

Am I doing the right thing? The question gnawed at her, but she pushed it aside. This isn’t theft, Margaret told herself. I’m not a thief, I’m just trying to keep my children alive. Her thoughts raced, and she recalled the tales of Robin Hood from her childhood. He stole from the rich to give to the poor. Wasn’t she doing the same thing?

But what would happen if she got caught? Would they lose the shed? Where would they go? The thought of her girls not having a roof over their heads made her stomach turn. Then she remembered the stories about how Mr. Heinrich liked his belt. Would he raise his hands against her children? Her heart stopped for a second, and a cold wave of fear washed over her, making her hands tremble. Was he really capable of that? The thought of his belt cracking through the air haunted her, her pulse quickening as she fought to keep working.

Suddenly the sharp voice of Mr. Heinrich echoed over the fields. Margaret’s jaw tightened as she listened to his commanding voice.

‘You have to finish this field in the next half hour, so hurry up!’

Margaret paused to wipe the sweat from her brow, looking out over the field with a mixture of bittersweet relief. Another potato won’t hurt, she thought to herself, emboldened, and quickly slipped another potato into the pocket of her apron.

That evening, after bedtime, she boiled the stolen potatoes over a small fire.

‘Mama, why are we eating again?’ Doris asked.

‘This is a secret and special meal just for us. You cannot tell the other children about this, you both have to promise,’ Margaret said.

‘I promise,’ Doris said.

‘Me too,’ Rosie said.

Margaret mashed the potatoes with a little water, stretching them as far as it would go. Her children’s eyes were brightening. Margaret sat on the wooden floor, cradling Erika in her arms and feeding her with a small spoon of mashed potatoes.

For the first time in weeks that night, they fell asleep without crying.

Author’s note

This excerpt is taken from a longer piece of work, a historical fiction novel set towards the end of, and in the aftermath of, WWII. The story follows Margaret and her three children and the immense hardships they endure and, in doing so, also concerns itself more broadly with the struggles of women in this period of history. In this extract, we see Margaret’s resilience and determination to provide for her children.

The Day at the Lake

an early chapter from the same novel project by Jule Heyen

‘Days in summer are apt to linger.’ I remember that line. Oscar Wilde, as I learned much later. There were quite a few days that fit that description. Me and my sister as children playing, unbothered by the changing times around us; not knowing or caring about any problems more pressing than what we’d have for dinner. Laughing with my parents, in one of the rare moments they weren’t fighting. Back then, before my father started working more and more, until we barely saw him anymore. And Lucy, again and again. Swimming in the lake, sneaking out at night to watch the stars, riding our bikes through the forest. Lying on the grass in the garden, just talking and talking for hours, without a care in the world. Most of my happy memories were moments with Lucy. It made looking back quite painful after she left. It seemed as if she’d taken a big part of my childhood and teenage years with her. There was now a gaping hole where she and her smiles and her secrets used to live.

One particular day always came back to me. Although the season had turned to autumn, the memories of warmer days were still close enough that we missed it every day. For me, it didn’t really matter that much. Summer or winter, sunny or rainy, warm and pleasant or cold and harsh. What I missed was how vibrant Lucy seemed in the sun, how she seemed to come alive when the wind was warm and the fields green. Lucy was never as happy as on endless summer days, the sun competing with her smile for who could shine brighter. Something always seemed to pull her outside, to run around as if we were still children, laughing under the endless blue sky. Once the days turned shorter, you could almost see her withering, like a flower without water. She always took longer than most to let summer go and prepare for autumn.

‘Let’s go outside.’

‘What?’

‘Let’s go outside. To the lake.’ I smiled up at Lucy sitting on my bed from where I was sitting on the floor. ‘It’s much too nice a day to sit inside and stitch.’

‘What are you talking about? It’s raining cats and dogs.’ She cast a miserable glance at the window, where it was, indeed, raining.

‘Exactly. Just lovely, isn’t it?’

‘Sometimes you confuse me.’

‘We can be confused outside,’ I responded. She smiled at me at that, and although we didn’t go outside, I felt like I had reached my goal. It was a mad idea, I suppose. Even though autumn had barely begun, the air was already colder and the wind freezing. But my mother had gone to one of her friend’s houses for tea, and my father never came home from work before it was dark. Even the maid had left to go to the market. Lucy and I were all alone, and that always brought out a kind of restlessness in me. A recklessness, almost, though it was hard to tell the difference in the moment. And yet, we silently continued with our embroidery until Lucy interrupted the silence.

‘Why do you always insist we go out in the rain?’

‘Always?’

‘Yes, every time. Summer is over and it’s all dark and grey and cold and ugly…’ She stopped herself. ‘And you want to go out in the rain.’ She sounded almost accusing.

‘I guess I…’ I didn’t really have a response to that. ‘I guess I just don’t want summer to end.’

‘You don’t even like summer all that much. Not more than any other season at least.’ But you do, I wanted to respond.

‘No particular reason,’ I quickly said instead and broke eye contact. I desperately tried to focus on my stitches. Lucy, being Lucy, didn’t relent and kept looking at me. After a while she laid down on her belly and took my embroidery hoop, ripping the needle right out of my hand.

‘Hey!’

‘You can have it back after answering my question.’

‘Lucy!’ I climbed onto the bed and tried to get my materials back. Lucy just turned onto her stomach, hiding them under her body.

‘You’ll stab yourself with the needle if you aren’t careful!’

‘Then you better tell me, before I do and bleed out.’ She started weeping dramatically. ‘It’d be your fault, yours alone.’

I couldn’t stay serious with the sound of her over-exaggerated crying in my ears and fell on top of her, laughing. In just that moment, she turned onto her back to look at me. We both froze at the same time, suddenly realising how close we were. Just looking at each other, as if time had stopped for a moment.

‘Sophie…’ I could feel her breath on my face as she said my name, our noses almost touching. I didn’t dare move, afraid of what exactly I would do if I did. Many seconds passed like that, Lucy, too, seemingly trapped in the same trance that had overcome me.

‘Do you…’ Lucy finally broke the silence. She didn’t finish her sentence. If I moved, just a little, I could… As if waking up from a dream I abruptly moved back and off the bed, retreating to a safe distance on the carpet. Lucy sat up, too, my embroidery still in her hand. For once, she seemed to be out of words to say.

‘If you don’t give it back, we’ll just have to go to the lake.’ I tried to change the subject, make her laugh, anything. It sounded forced even to my own ears. Nevertheless, she handed me my hoop, looking to catch my eye. I desperately tried to avoid hers, instead focusing on detangling the tablecloth that got wrapped around itself in our scuffle.

‘Maybe if it stops raining,’ she responded finally, ‘if it’s meant to happen, it will.’ She looked out the window, where the raindrops were still racing down the glass. The atmosphere felt charged. Something had changed, and we could both tell, even though I, at least, couldn’t quite put into words what exactly it was.

We kept up with our embroidery after that – or at least I did; Lucy kept looking out of the window, unusually quiet – and I soon finished my second flower. Lucy was still on her first, so I started up another one. I had almost convinced myself that it was just because that would mean an earlier lunch for both of us and not because I’d do anything to help Lucy.

‘It’s okay, you know. Whatever you want to tell me.’ Lucy was still staring out of the window. She bit her lip as if deeply lost in thought. My breath suddenly came irregularly, my thoughts swirling in my head so quickly I felt dizzy. But before I could think of something to say, she continued.

‘I mean, I also don’t tell you everything, even if I want to. I think we might…’ She shook her head, breaking out of the strange mood that had overcome her and quickly turned towards me with a laugh.

‘Oh, never mind. It’s also okay if you don’t. Tell me, that is.’

I wanted to say something, anything, but at the same time, I was glad she seemed to move on. Putting this – putting everything – into words felt almost dangerous. Like standing on a cliff, knowing that the ground under my feet would fall away at any second. Expecting the drop, not knowing if something would catch me or whether I would keep falling forever. I let out a deep breath. After a while, Lucy went back to her embroidery, but she barely got two stitches in before her thread ripped. She groaned and threw her hoop away.

‘I don’t know how you stand this.’

Relieved everything seemed to be back to normal, I looked up at her.

‘It’s calming.’

‘Infuriating, that’s what it is. I wish your mother would finally arrive in the twentieth century…’ She glanced at the window again, before quickly turning towards me with a smile.

‘Well, would you look at that? Maybe it’ll be a lovely day after all.’ In a stroke of luck – or fate, Lucy always believed in fate – it had stopped raining. We packed the remaining biscuits and our stitching – no matter how unlikely it was that we’d actually finish it today – into a picnic basket, packed a blanket, and snuck out of the backdoor. We didn’t really need to sneak – no one was home after all – but at this point, it was second nature for us to watch our every step. The sky was still grey and we spent the way to the lake in almost complete silence. Lucy seemed once again lost in her thoughts.

‘What’s up with the sombre mood?’ I asked her, glancing at her from the corner of my eye.

Lucy just rolled her eyes at me. ‘Just thinking.’

‘About what?’

She turned to me, the usual glint returning to her eyes. ‘How I could convince you to go for a swim with me.’

‘Oh dear, you’ve completely lost it now.’ She laughed and I wanted to drown in the sound. ‘Completely gone. Fallen to her madness, may she rest in peace.’ As she glared at me again, I couldn’t keep serious anymore and started giggling.

‘Hey!’ She bumped her shoulder into mine in mock offence. ‘You were the one who wanted to go out in the rain! Are you suddenly afraid of water?’

She bumped into me again and again, still laughing, until I fell off the path and had to cling to her to avoid slipping down into the muddy trench. Like that – pushing each other, clinging together, giggling – we finally arrived at the lake. We spread out our blanket on the still wet grass, taking off our shoes to avoid getting mud all over it. Despite how grey the sky had been all day, a few rays of sun had broken through the clouds. I sat and took out the tablecloth to continue embroidering it, but before I could even start, Lucy once again stole my needle.

‘Hey!’

She just laughed.

‘Come on, my mother will be angry if we don’t get it done.’

‘That’s not true. Your mother has never been angry at anyone except your father.’

I tilted my head to the side, admitting she had a point. She grinned.

‘She’ll be disappointed,’ I said, ‘which is worse.’

‘Lighten up a little, would you? She’s not going to kill us for enjoying a nice afternoon outside. Going for a swim…’ She looked at me out of the corner of her eye, a wicked smile on her lips.

‘Have you met her? She absolutely will. It’s not proper.’ I rolled my eyes at the last word.

We did finish the flowers we started after that, albeit, at least on my side, quite a bit less orderly than I would have usually done it. We had our picnic after that, just talking and laughing, the weird mood of the morning long forgotten. I always lost track of time with Lucy, but this afternoon especially I couldn’t tell whether it had been minutes or hours. I was so lost in the conversation that my heart almost jumped out of my chest when the first drop of rain hit me. Then Lucy stripped off her dress and my heart stopped beating entirely instead.

‘What are you doing?’ My voice sounded unnatural even to my own ears, higher than usual, breathless.

‘What does it look like? I’m going for a swim, obviously. Join me if you want.’

Then, with that same wicked smile from earlier on her lips and only wearing her underwear, she turned around and ran off towards the pier. And without a second thought, I, too, stripped and ran after her. When I caught up to her, she was already standing on the edge of the pier, looking out at the gently rippling water of the lake. She turned around with a dazzling smile so bright it took my breath away for a moment. I stood there, shivering when I felt it again. Something I couldn’t – or didn’t dare – put into words. The same charged feeling from this morning returned and I found myself back on that same cliff, looking out into the endless drop below me.

‘What’s stopping you? We’re already wet, might as well go for a swim.’

There was no choice there, of course, and she knew it. If she jumped, I would follow.

As she took my hand and pulled me over the edge, I thought to myself that I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. Jumping into the cold water, I felt at peace for the first time in months. We stayed in the water for what felt like hours, even though it could only have been minutes until the sound of thunder scared us out. We just about managed to collect our clothes before they were completely muddy and ran for shelter among the nearby trees.

‘See, we shouldn’t have bothered to do it after all’, Lucy said, holding up the soaked table cloth, ‘it’s ruined anyway.’ We looked at each other for a few long seconds and burst out laughing. When we finally fell quiet, my stomach hurt from all the laughter, but my heart was beating more than it had in a long time. I grinned at her. We spread out the blanket again, sitting on half of it and pulling the other half over our heads to protect us from the rain. Lucy had opened her braid and her long curls, now hanging over her shoulders, dripped water onto her skin. I stared, transfixed by the way the raindrops drew patterns on her dark skin. She pulled the blanket further over us. The brown plaid pattern turned the dark grey light into something softer, warmer.

‘We will probably have a cold tomorrow.’

‘I think that’s worth it.’ She grinned at me. ‘And it was your idea, anyway.’

Her eyes were a deep brown, almost black at first glance. I knew I was still staring, but I couldn’t find the strength to look away. Days in summer are apt to linger… I breathed in, and out. She did, too. I felt it on my skin. There, under the protection of the blanket, hidden from the world, I somehow found the courage to move closer. Her breath hitched.

‘What did you mean this morning? What might we both…?’ I asked her.

‘I think you know.’

‘Do I?’

She kept looking at me. I moved even closer.

I said her name, my voice barely more than a whisper, my eyes closing. Lucy moved and finally closed the gap between our lips. When she kissed me, I forgot how to breathe. The last coherent thought I had was that her lips tasted like the lemon filling of the biscuits we had eaten earlier. After one impossibly long, impossibly short second she pulled back. When I came back to myself, she was already looking at me with a strange look in her eyes. I glanced at her lips. She took my cheek in her hand and all I had been holding back came out at once, a tidal wave of suppressed feelings and late-night thoughts, and we were kissing again. I was no longer standing on that cliff. Instead, I was flying.

Maybe, I thought later, it wasn’t that I didn’t know how to put my feelings into words. Maybe I knew exactly what it was, and was afraid that there was no way back, that this whole façade I had so carefully kept up would break apart and leave me drowning in the chaos of the aftermath. But all I thought at that moment was that even if I’d never remember how to breathe, I didn’t need to. I only needed her.

Prologue: Lucy’s Eulogy

Content warning. May contain spoilers.

death, funeral

an extract from a novel project by Jule Heyen

If this were a movie, I think, it would be raining.

In the movies Lucy and I had watched together the weather always matched the proceedings of the moment: sunshine for seemingly never-ending happy days, storms coincidentally breaking just as the big fight is resolved, and rain for every funeral. Not here, however, and thus I make my way along the lonely path over the graveyard with the bright sun shining and no rain to wash away my tears.

I twist my shoulders self-consciously, aware of how constrained they are in my dress, resisting the urge to swash away my veil. There are other groups of mourners here, too close for me to forget about them, but not so close that I could take comfort in being part of their group. If I stumble now, I think, would they run over and catch me, or would they simply watch me fall from afar?

‘Long black dress, veil… Don’t you think that’s all a bit… over the top?’ I had asked Lucy once. ‘What’s next, mascara tears?’

‘Come on, you only get to go to my funeral once, at least try to look appropriately dramatic!’ She paused for a moment. ‘Mascara tears aren’t a bad idea actually.’

Flower petals fall as I continue my progression. I make my way from the gate to the very back of the graveyard to the lonely coffin waiting for me, waiting to be buried, waiting. I grip the single peony in my hand tighter, like it’s the lifeline that could pull me out of this moment.

‘It’s going to stand right here and you will walk down the path slowly with music playing… Do you know how to play the violin?’

‘Uhm, no.’

‘Are you willing to learn?’

‘What? Absolutely not!’

‘We’ll have to hire someone or get a recording. I know just the right guy…’

We had picked the flowers together too. Before. Not Lucy’s favourite – she’d always preferred sunflowers, marigolds, lilies… everything yellow and bright and happy. Too happy for her funeral, Lucy had said. She wanted something more dramatic, a flower that would lose its petals so that they’d swirl around the mourners like in a movie. We’d picked the rosy white colour to match the dress Lucy was going to wear.

I don’t know if she is wearing that dress now, with the coffin closed already. I hold my breath, quietly thanking the gods Lucy didn’t believe in that it was.

‘I want to invite the whole city and have a gigantic funeral progression! I can see it before me, just filling up the entire graveyard!’

‘Do you even know that many people here?’

‘Well, not really, but we’ll just post it in the newspaper saying there’ll be free food, someone is bound to show up. They don’t need to actually know me.’ She paused with a giggle. ‘Actually, I think I prefer it if they don’t. Let them make their theories. They couldn’t guess the truth even if they tried.’

‘You’re incorrigible.’

‘Oh, you love me, really.’

No one came, of course. I’d never posted the ad. I couldn’t stand the idea of anyone else here with me today, particularly strangers. Even the other mourners here, far away as they may be, seem to trap me. I can almost feel their breath on the back of my neck and their staring eyes on me, judging me silently.

For a few long moments, the only sound I can hear is that of the wind and the birds. I want to scream at them to keep quiet, to understand the gravitas of the moment, to behave like in the movies. But they have no concept of my pain, no incentive to pause their singing on such a pretty day, and I am left to quietly envy them instead.

Okay then, I think, just as Lucy told me. I raise my head and throw back the veil. We’d practised that when we finished sewing it. It dramatically catches in the wind, almost being pulled off my head completely. I feel the mascara tears I had so carefully painted on like lines of ice on my face. With one last heavy breath, I start with Lucy’s eulogy, written for no one’s ears but my own:

‘Lately, many people have expressed their sympathies about my loss and I never quite know what to say to them. Everyone is sorry, everyone feels my pain, everyone is there for me, should I need them. But no one ever finds the right words.’

‘You’ll need to memorise the speech, obviously. You can’t just stand there with a piece of paper in your hand.’

‘You just like giving me extra work.’

‘It’s my funeral, the least you can do is put in some effort!’

I smiled at the offended look Lucy gave me. ‘Okay then. Let’s write you the prettiest eulogy ever. You’ll have to help me, though, I’ve never actually been to a funeral before.’

‘Well, neither have I, but it can’t be that hard. Just say something like “I brightened up every room” and call me your sunshine or something.’

‘Of course, you would say that I say that about you!’

‘Just because I know it’s true, darling,’ Lucy said with a wink. At that, I just rolled my eyes.

‘That’s exactly my point.’

‘Lucy and I met only three years ago, through good friends of ours. I would love to tell you long stories about a will they / won’t they romance, but truth be told, it was pretty much love at first sight, at least on my part. When I, against all odds – and in some friendly competition – managed to win her favour and her love, it made me the happiest person on earth.’

‘What are you talking about? Not one word of that is true.’

‘Well, no one needs to know that, do they?’

‘Anytime someone you love passes away, there is a strong temptation to remember them perhaps a little too well. Misdeeds are forgotten, offences forgiven. Only the most shining characteristics make it into the version of them that we keep with us when they’re gone. But despite knowing how memory embellishes character, I just can’t seem to…’

‘That’s when the practised bit stops and you start saying what your heart tells you to.’ Lucy placed her hands over her heart.

‘But we are still writing that down, right?’

‘Of course we are, but that’s the story you have to convey. It’s like… directions on how to act. It’ll really move people if they think you prepared a speech but then went off script, so overcome with emotions you just couldn’t keep up the façade…’ At that, Lucy had flopped down onto my bed, dramatically closing her eyes and placing the back of her hand on her forehead.

‘You really are serious about this, aren’t you?’

‘Of course I am!’ She sat up quickly to look at me. ‘Frankly, you should be taking this a lot more seriously. I’ll only get one funeral. It needs to be perfect.’ Her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.

My voice breaks – I had practised that sound for weeks to perfect it – and I pause to reach my hand towards my eyes; facing the coffin, facing Lucy. If anyone were here with me, if anyone were watching… they would only be able to see my hands, hear my voice, and assume I’m crying, gathering my thoughts, finding the will to keep going. They wouldn’t assume I practised. Who would?

‘Do you think we should put in a moment where I say “is” and then stop and switch to “was”’?

‘Aww, I knew you care.’

‘Oh, stop it, I’m just trying to brainstorm!’

‘She brightened up every room she walked into. Where there was chaos and uncertainty, she brought order. She made every house a home and always made everyone feel welcome, wherever and whoever they were. She could make the whole room laugh with just a look or gesture and told the most amazing stories. She is… was what my heart always needed, my sunshine on a gloomy day.’

More mascara flows down my cheeks. We’d bought the least waterproof one we could find. I couldn’t quite tell if those were the tears we’d practised or the ones belonging to me, sneaking out when they should stay hidden. I pause to look around the graveyard, beyond her grave, beyond her.

‘I guess it just hasn’t really sunk in that she isn’t here… isn’t with us anymore.’ It has, I think. After all, I have been preparing for it for months now.

‘Isn’t all of this very… impersonal? I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s pretty, for sure, but it isn’t really about you, is it?’

‘It doesn’t need to be. That’s easier, don’t you think? For you? To just say all these phrases without any meaning? Then I’ll have my pretty funeral and you can keep your composure. I’ll know what you actually mean, anyway.’

‘It doesn’t have to be easy on me, it’s your funeral!’ At that, I pause for a second, caught up on my own words, before continuing more slowly. ‘I don’t think it could be, really, no matter how well we plan.’

There’s the sound of birds, still singing, of children screaming joyfully, of the wind gently rustling the leaves. There’s that wind moving my veil and hair and the sun shining down on me. There are people on the other side of the street, beyond the graveyard’s fence, just going about their lives as if nothing happened at all, as if it is a day like any other because to them it is. There are other people in the graveyard, not actually watching me at all, too consumed by their own grief to pay attention to me. For a brief second, I can almost feel Lucy, still by my side. But the moment passes and I am all alone again.

‘I am grateful for every moment I was able to spend in her company —and although it was many less than I had selfishly hoped for, I still treasure every memory. This is how I want to remember her. Lucy… may you rest peacefully. You’ll always have a place in my heart.’

I place the peony on the coffin and step back.

‘And then everyone else will place their flowers, it’ll be a gigantic pile on top of my coffin!’

‘Why not just bury you in flowers, then?’

‘Do you think we can do that?!’

No one else is there to step forward to place their peonies on top of the coffin, of course. No one else is there. We’ve taken so much effort in planning exactly how this would go, that I’m almost surprised to see things diverting from our plan. We’d even gone to the market to ask the woman selling flowers which ones lose their petals easily so that they’d all get blown away by the wind. Lucy did always love a bit of drama. Now, there is only one flower, and it isn’t losing its petals, no matter the wind. We timed everything, right down to the music – pre-recorded – so I just stand there, waiting, until the music tells me I can leave.

I can’t help but remember the day Lucy showed up at my door, crying, and just fell into my arms. We sat there on the doorstep for what felt like hours, no one saying a single word. What was there to say? She would die, nothing to be done, no stopping it.

‘If there’s no stopping it, there’s no point in being sad.’

‘I don’t think that’s how feelings work, Lucy.’

‘We just have to keep busy, then it’ll be over in no time.’

‘Over for you. And what about me? What am I supposed to do without you? I need you!’ I had screamed the last words, immediately feeling regret. But suddenly, as if some gate had broken, there was no stopping the tears I’d been holding back for days.

We had made dinner in silence that night and never spoke of it until the day Lucy showed up at my door again, this time with a bright yellow folder titled “My Funeral”.

I listen, quietly, to the song Lucy picked. It’s one I’ve always hated.

‘It’s easy, we’ll just plan it all now. I know I’m dying, so there’s really no point in waiting and leaving all the work to you alone. I’ve already chosen dresses for us. We can plan your speech, the invitations, the flowers… All you’ll need to do is show up.’

‘Why… what? What are you talking about?’

‘My funeral, silly. We’ll have it all ready by the time I die. I got a heads up on dying, so I might as well have some say in how my funeral goes!’

The wind is picking up even more now, finally ripping the petals from the flower as we had planned. Lucy would’ve liked that. She wouldn’t be watching though. She’d been adamant about that after I had mentioned that she could at least watch from heaven.

Slowly, the music starts to fade out. I missed my cue to leave, and it’s too late to leave now. There’s the sound of birds, still singing, of children, still screaming, of the wind still blowing through the trees, all seemingly from far away. The world is moving on, I think. And yet, here I stand, a single lonely figure, surrounded by flower petals falling.

Author’s note

This is the prologue of a romance novel I am currently writing. It’s the story of Lucy and Sophie, childhood friends who fall in love in 1920s Germany. Lucy dies, of course – you just read about her funeral. But a lot happens before and after. The two girls find and lose each other over and over again while trying to realise who they are and how they fit into the world they live in. Much later, in contemporary times, a group of university students finds Sophie’s diary. With only the diary to guide them, they begin to dive deeper into the story of Sophie and Lucy.

Prologue I

an extract from a novel project by Myra Sophia Dedekind

The day evil died, screams filled the air. Cries of defeat and destruction. Shouts of happiness and victory. The menace hovering over earth had been defeated. No more lives would be sucked away. No more creatures had to quiver in fear of being suddenly torn from their world. Their children could dream and awaken once again.

Yes, screams filled the air and with them spread power. The nightmare’s soul had been released from its body. It disappeared to the place where all conscious must one day end their voyage. As evil as the soul had been in the eyes of the living, after death it would be sucked away as any other, ceasing to exist, leaving nothing but the pure spirit, the energy of life. It would spread through the world becoming the fuel for the newly born that would always continue to appear. Earth was a planet full of spirit. Not all could sense it. But it blessed each and every living thing.

However, the spirit balance had been disrupted. The cause was now defeated. Their sacrifices had been great. But little did they know it was just beginning. As the nightmare stole spirit from where it belonged, the balance of life fell into disarray. With its death the stolen force was finally unshackled, exploding into the atmosphere, racing to fill the voids its theft had once created. Masses of spirit washed over the earth. But instead of giving life, it had now turned fatal. As cheers of celebration echoed through the world, the lives of countless new and unborn were sapped. Only the strongest could survive. Only a born spirit wielder had a chance to withstand this force.

And so the next generation was born. The smallest in history. The greatest in history. For power was the gift of all who survived.

Author’s note

A few years ago, the question came to my mind of what happens after the main villain dies. Would it be simply a happy ending? What would the fallout be? In my novel Beyond Zero (working title) I began to, and continue to, explore this question. Prologue I describes the day on which the main villain threatening the story’s people died and the immense casualties that immediately followed. It sets the background from which the story and its society is built and gives the first insight into the trauma that any and all characters have experienced or inherited.

The novel explores the first 20 years following day zero and will likely span over three books. Its genre is Sci-Fi.