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My Grandfather is a Giant Schnauzer
Chapter 8 — The Shadow's Miss
The roots of the mangrove trees crackled like the knuckles of a killer warming up his hands before the decisive blow. Laurent Roche — or, as some knew him, the Shadow — watched the special forces from his hideout. They were carrying out bags, escorting pirates and hostages, hauling out seized weapons.
On the military frequency, his tuned-in radio hissed:
“Sweep complete.”
Everyone boarded the boats and left, leaving the ravaged camp in silence.
The Shadow waited.
He figured their departure might’ve been bait. There could still be an ambush waiting.
Thirty minutes passed. Then another fifteen. He waited. Like a predator who knows the scent of a trap.
Only when the sky above the island flared with dawn did he give a short nod to the pirates still hidden behind the mangroves. They had been silently watching him—and waiting.
“You go to the boat,” he said. “Make a wide loop. If they chase you—lead them as far away as you can. Don’t worry about yourselves. If they catch you, don’t resist. I need to get inside the camp. Then we can save everyone.”
Rafael Gomez, known as Palma, and Alexis Bergeret—nicknamed the Cat—exchanged a glance, nodded, and melted into the foliage. A few minutes later came a splash. The boat slid out from the thickets, the motor whined—and a foamy trail sliced through the darkness of the water.
Laurent stayed behind. Alone.
He studied the camp carefully.
Looked like there really was no ambush waiting for him.
Slowly, stealthily—living up to his name—he crept toward the building and slipped into the hangar unnoticed.
His camouflage was soaked, reeking of rotting seaweed, and it drove him crazy.
The base was deserted.
Shadow knew the place well. He had set up several of the caches himself. So he quickly found the false panel he’d installed. Inside was a waterproof case — packed with a rifle and suppressor, a satellite phone, and a thick roll of cash wound tight like a cylinder.
Laurent pulled out the phone, switched it on, checked the battery, and waited for the signal. Then he dialed. Waited. On the fourth ring — a click, and that familiar, disgusting breathing.
"Who the hell is it this time... damn it..." grumbled the voice on the other end. "Do you even know how much a minute on this satellite costs?"
"Shut the fuck up, Pinder. Not in the mood for your crap. They got our guys. All of them. The French raided the whole goddamn camp. Doc’s in chains. You don’t get off your ass — we all go down. And you’ll be first."
"Your son’s been running coke on the patrol boats. And your number two? Freeport’s had his name on a list for weeks. You want the Tribune splashing it across tomorrow’s front page — or are you gonna press the right buttons while you still can?"
“Scumbag,” Pinder exhaled. “What do you want?”
“Make the French marines hand our people over to the police. Any excuse will do — border violation, assault on your agents, drunken brawl — I don’t care. Just make sure they all end up in Fox Hill. Fast.”
“This ain’t a circus, Shadow. I don’t have a magic wand to command the French. They’re probably halfway to Fort-de-France already, you get that?”
“But you do have papers, stamps — and folks who like their envelopes thick. Get moving, Pinder. Don’t stall.”
There was a pause. A lighter snapped.
“Fine. Three days. No more. After that, even I can’t hold them.”
“That’ll do,” said Laurent, and hung up.
He exhaled — sharply, through his teeth, like spitting out venom. Then stood up, rolled his shoulders, stretching his neck, and turned toward the door.
Footsteps. Confident ones, behind him. He didn’t flinch.
Cat and Palma entered, grim, scanning the hangar.
“They trashed the whole damn place,” muttered Cat, wiping his forehead with a rag and kicking an empty shell that skittered across the floor.
“Empty. They stripped the place bare — even grabbed the damn rum,” Palma added, giving an empty crate a kick.
Shadow approached the cache and slid aside one of the false floor panels.
“Not everything,” he said.
Beneath the tile lay supplies, neatly arranged and sealed tight: backpacks, canned food, radios, boxes of ammunition.
“We’re taking whatever’s left,” he said. “This place is compromised. We move to the new site.”
“What about Doc?” Cat asked, pulling a pistol from the stash. “Where’d they drag him off to?”
“Fox Hill. If our guy doesn’t screw the pooch,” Laurent muttered, checking the rifle.
“And if he does?” Palma rumbled — a big, no-bullshit bastard with hands like anchors, hunched over the map.
“Then we play the next round for his sorry hide,” Shadow said with a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “But first — the kid.”
The silence thickened — like gun smoke after a misfire. No one needed to spell it out. The boy didn’t have to be guilty. He was the reason they looked weak — someone always pays for that.
Cat stepped in without a sound, peering over Shadow’s shoulder. The sniper was hunched over the map, dragging a thick line with his nail.
“We move here,” he said quietly, jabbing a finger at the paper.
He marked a spot at Pigeon Point, then another — L’Île-Échouée.
“There’s a shack here. Old boat workshop from back when Bermudians used to fix trawlers. We’ll grab a skiff and head to the island. Sail, oars, a net.”
Cat grunted:
“What if the frog-eaters are still out there?”
“I’ll come as a fisherman — leave as a sniper.”
Palma ran a hand over his shaved scalp and gave a nod. He didn’t argue. None of them did.
The air went heavy — men spoke with looks, not words.
...
Morning.
Pigeon Point met them in silence.
The old boat shed had clearly taken a hit from the tsunami — slanted, a hole in the wall, a half-torn door creaking in the wind. The stench of dead fish hung in the air.
The owner — a Bermudian in wrinkled shorts, with a face like a crumpled nautical chart — stepped out wordlessly. He jerked his chin toward a battered boat, as if to say, "There. Take it and get lost."
Shadow examined the boat closely. Oars — intact. Sail — usable. Gear — enough.
He pulled out a couple of folded bills and placed them in the man’s warm, calloused hand.
“No questions.”
The man nodded.
“Didn’t see you. This boat was never here.”
Cat and Palma dragged the boat to the water, tossing a fishing net over the bottom.
Shadow carefully slid the rifle into an oiled bundle and covered it with the net — perfect camouflage.
“Like we planned,” Palma hissed, securing the towline.
“We tow you out six miles. From there, you row. Drop anchor about three miles offshore — just another broke fisherman.”
Shadow checked his radio, gave a nod.
“We stay on channel,” Palma continued.
“Once it’s dark, you take the shot, call us in, flash your light. From shore, the frog-eaters won’t see a thing. We’ll spot it easy, pick you up, and we’re gone.”
Shadow nodded and jumped onto the boat. The engine growled, the towline went taut and rose from the water. The dinghy bobbed on the waves and followed — heading toward L’Île-Échouée.
...
L’Île-Échouée. The boat had vanished over the horizon. He was alone now.
Shadow stretched, scanned the surroundings, checked the disguise, tested the boat’s balance, and pulled out the fishing gear.
Beneath the canvas — a rifle. Underfoot — a torn fishing net. He looked like a poor fisherman with a bad catch.
e raised his spyglass. On the shore — a camp. Soldiers hidden behind sandbags. A boy drawing something in the dirt. A woman nearby. And that strange dog.
The dog stared out at the sea. At Laurent. As if he saw him. As if the dog somehow knew he was there.
Laurent lowered the spyglass. A face surfaced in his memory — his brother, Doc. Gray-haired. Stubborn. Locked away somewhere in a cage.
“Vengeance is a dead end,” Doc had once said.
Laurent remembered.
Maybe Doc had a point… he thought.
But if he backed off now, he’d stop being himself. The Shadow would vanish.
He exhaled softly, as if speaking to the boy:
“You’re gonna die, kid. Just not your day today.”
When night fell, he rowed closer to shore.
The moon was tucked behind the clouds. The water — ink-black. Perfect.
At two hundred meters, he wouldn’t miss.
Shadow assembled the rifle. Screwed on the suppressor. Tilted his head into the wind.
Silence.
He took aim.
The boy sat by the fire.
First shot:
His finger touched the trigger.
In that very second, the dog lunged, growling.
Its head surged into the scope, blocking the target.
Laurent flinched — the shot went wide, straight into the sand on the beach.
Second shot:
He reloaded.
Target: the boy’s chest.
A sudden gust of wind rocked the boat.
The shot missed — lost in the dark.
Third shot:
He froze.
Target: the head.
His finger began to squeeze—
and then, as if a cold, foreign hand gripped his wrist,
the bullet plunged into the sea.
Lights flared in the camp. Shouts. Barking.
The dog was torn with the urge to chase.
Shadow quietly packed up the rifle, wrapped it in cloth, and pulled out the radio.
“Extract me.”
Three short flashes of his light — toward the open sea. Barely visible.
He sat in the dark, waiting for the boat, muttering to himself:
“What the hell’s wrong with you, Shadow…
I’ve fired through fog. Through rain. I never missed.
And now — three shots.
All wasted.
Three shots, all wide…
like someone yanked my hand.”
May 25, 2025
My Grandfather is a Giant Schnauzer
Chapter 7 — The Mark of the Black Turtle
They woke me like a thief — silently, the way smugglers must rouse each other before slipping away. Someone tugged on my leg, and just like that, the day began. Cold morning air hit my face, and outside the tent I heard a soft whisper:
"Psst! Toma! Come out!"
I sat up and saw a pair of bare feet visible just outside the tent. Then a tousled head poked through the tent flap — Maren. I heard Elen's stifled giggle. I crawled out and mumbled a greeting.
"Come on!" Maren hissed. "Arina came up with something epic. Quick!"
I followed.
Ded, curled up at the entrance, huffed disapprovingly. But catching the scent of mischief, he raised his head, yawned dramatically, and trotted after us.
We ran across the still-sleepy camp to Arina’s tent. She sat cross-legged on a thin blanket, with the solemn look of someone about to hand me Captain Nemo’s will, clutching her notebook like a sacred document.
"Ready?" she asked, barely smiling. "Then look."
She opened the notebook and turned it toward me.
There, drawn in black ink, was a giant sea turtle, its shell adorned with a skull and crossbones. It looked so cool that chills ran down my back. Like a proper coat of arms for a pirate island.
"This is the symbol of the treasure you found," Arina said. "Now this place has its own mark."
I nodded, unable to say anything. In moments like that, silence works best — so you don’t scare off the magic.
"We need a plaque over the cave!" Maren declared, shaking his fist like he was starting a revolution.
Everyone jumped on the idea without a word. Maren dashed off toward the shore, hoping to find a good board among the tide-thrown debris. I went to the supply tent and found plywood, nails, and a hammer. We borrowed glue and varnish from Elen.
Half an hour later we were working fast — hammering, gluing, painting.
Ded supervised the process like a general contractor. At one point he yawned so theatrically we all burst out laughing.
"Perfect," said Arina, and sealed the drawing with varnish.
When it dried, we mounted the sign by the hatch — so it would be visible from afar.
Now the place had a face. And that face grinned with a crooked pirate smile.
"This place is officially dangerous now," Maren declared.
Ded growled in approval.
By then the camp was waking up: footsteps, clanging dishes, someone laughing near the fire.
From beyond the tents came Thierry Roche’s voice:
"Breakfast! Everyone to the table!"
We exchanged looks and laughed. The job was done, and the smell of food pulled stronger than any adventure.
We had only just sat down at the table when the morning turned upside down.
I was reaching for a slice of toast when I heard it. Not a hum — more like a growl.
Low. Growing louder. Somewhere beyond the lagoon.
"Engines," Maren said. "More than one."
Elen turned pale.
Three black speedboats burst from behind the reefs, foam trailing behind them.
At the bow — armed figures in bandanas.
Pirates.
Someone screamed. Ded’s fur bristled.
Captain Branc shouted:
"No panic! No sudden moves! Everyone down, lie flat on the ground!"
The boats hit the shore. Out poured the bandits — modern-day pirates.
First among them, waving his rifle, was the leader. I knew him — he’d been to the island before, trading rice for pearls. Bald, with a thick beard, a shark tooth necklace on his chest. His name was Antoine Levasseur, but everyone called him Harpoon. The pirates stalked through the camp like they owned it, rifles raised. They rummaged through supplies, searching for valuables.
Harpoon approached Captain Branc, who remained standing with his hands raised in calm defiance.
"Brave one?" the leader asked in a rough voice, aiming his rifle. "We respect the brave."
I wanted to be brave too. Like the captain. So I stood and walked toward them.
"He doesn’t understand you," I said to the pirate who turned to me.
"And the kid... looks like you got hit hard too. The sea didn’t spare anyone, huh? Where’s your granddad? Got any pearls for trade?" Harpoon sneered.
"No pearls. Everything’s lost. Grandpa’s dead. These people — they’re a rescue team. They came to evacuate the wounded and survivors."
"Harpoon, look!" someone yelled, pointing at our new sign.
Captain Branc began gesturing, trying to explain something. But the pirates and I spoke only Creole French. The captain used clean French. None of us understood him.
"What’s he saying?" Harpoon asked, gesturing toward Branc.
I had to improvise — I couldn’t let them know about the treasure.
"He says this area’s dangerous. It’s all mined. That sign’s a warning. The whole site’s marked off. A single blast could blow the whole island apart. They’re waiting for a military boat with sappers."
"How soon?" Harpoon narrowed his eyes.
"Very soon," I replied. "They’ll be here in thirty minutes, maybe less."
The pirate frowned. He glanced toward Doctor Varma, then at the women crouched near the tents. Something shifted in his face — weighing his options, calculating next moves.
Then, with a curse — half in Spanish, half in Creole — he barked an order.
His men backed away from the hatch, then flooded through the camp, snatching anything in sight — wallets, watches, bags. In a blur of motion, they clambered into the boats. The engines hissed and barked before dissolving into a full-throated roar.
Within minutes, they were gone. Even the sound of the engines had faded into the sea.
Everyone slowly began to recover, tallying up what had been lost — phones, wallets, jewelry, tools, devices — all missing from both teams.
“Captain!” Arina’s voice rang out, tense. “Captain, we’ve got a problem. They stole my camera — it had all the treasure photos! We need to act, fast.”
“We will,” Branc said, and asked Jean-Luc Forge to contact the coast guard, the Bahamas, and the UN Maritime Bureau.
“Sending SOS,” Jean-Luc confirmed, speaking crisply into the radio. “Reporting armed attack and the risk of pirate return.”
“Let’s play it safe,” Louise added. “Duplicate the alert to the French Navy. Maybe someone’s nearby.”
An hour later, the roar came — low and deafening, tearing through the sky.
A shadow streaked between the clouds — a jet, black and fast as lightning.
Toma froze, mouth open.
“Is that them?” he whispered.
“It’s them,” Louise nodded. “Ours.”
And behind the jet, a tiny speck grew larger on the horizon.
A speedboat. The French flag flying from its mast.
Soon, a squad of marines landed at the shore — figures in dark navy jumpsuits, rifles slung, eyes scanning everything.
Their commander, a sturdy man with a scar across his chin, introduced himself without ceremony:
“Lieutenant Dumont, French Navy. We’re here to secure the camp.”
Captain Branc gripped his hand like he was clinging to rigging in a storm.
“Thank you,” he said with a breath. “You arrived just in time.”
Among the Mangroves
Meanwhile, the pirates had returned to their hideout — a secret base buried in the mangroves. The loot was meager: cash, jewelry, phones, equipment — and Arina’s camera.
The leader — Basil Roche, known as Doc — sat slouched in a leather chair, scowling at the table. He was not impressed. Too long scraping by on scraps, and today’s haul looked like more of the same.
Pedro Cordova, nicknamed Moose — the mechanic and helmsman — fiddled with the camera, flipping it on and scrolling lazily through the pictures.
Then he stopped.
On the screen — a cave. Gleaming coins. A massive, ancient hatch.
Moose went still.
“Hey, Harpoon!” he called. “Come see what you brought back!”
From the shadows stepped Harpoon. He grabbed the camera, flipped through the frames. A cruel smile curled on his lips.
“They tricked us,” he rasped. “But the kid... he’ll pay.”
Black Turtle Island
That night, a deep calm settled over Black Turtle Island. For the first time, everyone could sleep — knowing they weren’t alone, but guarded by strength. On the horizon, the lights of a frigate shimmered. In the sky — the rare flicker of air patrol beacons.
Just before dawn, the fast boats reappeared on the horizon. The pirates had come to settle the score.
Three boats — three trails in the black water.
Suddenly, a patrol helicopter roared overhead. Its spotlight sliced through the darkness, sweeping over the black water and picking out boats, silhouettes, and bursts of spray — the whole snarl of the pursuit.
“Left one! Take the left!” came the voice on the radio.
One boat veered toward the shoals. The helicopter dropped low, almost skimming the surface. The beam swept across the deck. Warning shots stitched the water directly in front of the boat. The pirates froze, throttled down, and raised their hands.
The boat drifted. A coast guard vessel moved in.
The other two boats split, racing for open sea.
“Cut off the sectors! Intercept!” snapped a command.
Toma and the others watched from shore. Searchlights scanned the darkness. A silver blur tore through the water, cutting across the second boat’s path.
The third — the fastest — vanished into the mangrove maze. The helicopter gave chase but had to turn back. Low fuel.
“Pursuit terminated. Returning to base,” the pilot reported.
One boat escaped. Two were taken.
The captured pirates were brought aboard the French ship. Resistance was minimal. Several of the pirates agreed to reveal the base location.
The Pirate Camp
The marines didn’t wait for daylight. Several boats departed at once. When they reached shallow water, they switched to night vision.
The shapes of structures emerged from the dark — a few hangars, ruined huts on stilts.
“There,” nodded one of the bound pirates.
Basil Roche, nicknamed Doc, was known in certain circles — once a mission doctor, now a backroom broker in ransoms and petty piracy.
The signal for the assault was given in silence. Three teams moved in a wide arc.
Team A — frontal breach. Team B — cut off escape. Team C — clear the storerooms.
Three armed guards at the door were stunned with tasers.
Inside:
— People in cages: fishermen and two tourists.
— Crates of stolen goods.
— Arina’s camera on a table.
A spotlight lit the prisoners’ faces — gaunt, but alive.
Doc tried to slip out the back. But he was met at point blank — a taser burst dropped him to the ground.
“You’re under arrest for piracy, kidnapping, and armed assault,” the sergeant said calmly.
The night ended in the rattle of handcuffs and the stomp of heavy boots on wooden planks.
By dawn, the base stood empty. The third boat was gone — along with the most dangerous pirate among them.
Basil Roche was captured. But his younger brother — Laurent Roche, known as the Shade — was still at large. Angry, free, and circling like a shark in warm water.
Hidden among the mangroves, Laurent watched through a spyglass.
He saw them take his brother away in chains.
His lips moved:
“I’ll find them. I’ll strike back. I’ll burn it all.”
Moonlight caught his face — young, scarred, with the squint of a hunter.
To be continued...
May 25, 2025
My Grandfather is a Giant Schnauzer
Chapter Six – Adoption
“Oh no, it’s almost lunchtime, and we still haven’t really had breakfast! Just quick snacks — fruit, cookies, chocolate,” exclaimed Arina, suddenly remembering.
Louise shot her a dry glance over the rim of her glasses, as if to say: leaving a child in the care of such a "thoughtful assistant" was risky business.
I hadn’t even noticed how I gulped down an apple that morning, clinging to my thoughts of sketching — so eager was I to help Arina.
At that moment, Ded gave a loud snort, as if to confirm the accusation, and began scratching his ear with his hind leg in a way that clearly said: “I may just be a dog, but I understand everything.”
“All right,” Louise said with a smile. “You two go have breakfast… or rather, lunch. And I’ll go figure out the procedure for temporary adoption.”
She leaned down to speak to me at eye level.
“Toma, if you’re willing to let me handle your affairs, then you must trust me with something even more important. I’ll become your official guardian. No objections?”
I shook my head energetically. Inside, something unfolded — like a sail catching the wind.
Ded gave a pleased little huff, then, remembering his "role," went back to scratching his ear.
As we approached the makeshift kitchen set up hastily at the edge of the beach, we heard a rumbling voice.
Thierry Roche, the ship’s cook and the camp’s guardian of appetites, stood by a large pot from which wafted the smells of spices, fish, and rice.
His apron was worn and stained in places — the mark of someone who worked hard and didn’t fuss over appearances.
Beside him, neatly rolled up on the table, was a knife roll — practical and sharp, just as a proper cook should keep it.
“You can’t feed a growing boy crumbs and chocolate!” Thierry grumbled, lifting the pot’s lid and giving Louise a stern look. “Real food first — sweets later!”
Under a light canvas awning stood a long table made from bleached boards.
The aromas of stewed fish with herbs, seasoned rice, and roasted fruits stirred my appetite, making my stomach rumble traitorously.
Ded quietly settled under the table, stretching out his paws just enough to bump my leg if the food was unfairly distributed.
Next to me, Arina, head bent, was already sketching quickly in her notebook — boats, sandy alleys, the wrinkled faces of fishermen — capturing every detail of our island.
Thierry watched over me like a seasoned boatswain overseeing a new recruit in the galley.
“Now that’s a proper meal,” he declared with satisfaction as I wiped my plate clean with a piece of bread.
He set a bowl of fresh fruit slices in front of me, and then, without a word, slipped another, smaller bowl under the table — filled generously with fish and rice for Ded.
Ded lifted his head, gazed up at him respectfully, and began eating with the dignity of a well-mannered dog.
Thierry gave us both an approving nod, smoothed his apron, and muttered:
“From each according to his needs.”
Louise chuckled softly:
“Look at you — turning into a little communist?”
Arina giggled behind her sketchbook.
Thierry just waved his hand dismissively:
“Spent a few summers at Artek camp when I was a kid. Justice runs deep.”
And with that, he returned to his pot.
When I finished eating, Louise quietly motioned for me to come aside.
“We’re flying to Nassau today,” she said, crouching down beside me. Her eyes were serious, but a smile flickered at their corners. “Everything’s arranged. We just need to pack and be ready.”
I nodded. Somewhere deep inside, an invisible string trembled at her words.
Until now, everything around me had felt like a dream. Suddenly, the world became very real.
Ded nudged my hand with his nose, as if to say: "Don’t worry. We’re in this together."
When the others heard about the trip, we quickly gathered companions. Elen and Maren asked to join, and with permission granted, Maren hurried off to prepare. He approached Ded, gave him a critical look, and said:
“He’ll need a collar. They won’t let a dog into the hotels otherwise.”
Bruno Clément, standing nearby, frowned.
“They might not allow you inside. Maybe better to leave the dog with me here on the island?”
Something twisted painfully inside me.
I pulled Ded closer, feeling his warm fur against my skin. Ded stayed silent, but his gaze said everything.
Maren noticed and thought for a moment. Then he snapped his fingers brightly:
“No way. He’s coming with us. We’ll make a collar ourselves! I have a spare belt in my backpack.”
He unbuckled his woven leather belt, studied it like a craftsman, and added:
“This will make a perfect collar. And the leftovers — we’ll braid into a leash.”
Activity burst into life by the camp kitchen.
Someone fetched a knife, someone else a sturdy carabiner from old gear.
Someone found a broken fishing rod ring — perfect for securing the carabiner to the leash.
Maren, face focused, carefully cut the belt, deftly unraveling strips and weaving them into a tight braid.
People bustled around, offering advice, cracking jokes — like a real ship’s crew before a voyage.
Ded lay absolutely still, patient and dignified. He understood perfectly: this was for him.
An hour later, the collar and leash were ready. Captain Branc himself tested their strength, pulling hard in both directions.
“Solid,” he said with a nod, clapping Maren on the shoulder.
“A true sea dog,” Maren said proudly, fastening the leash.
Ded barked once, short and approving, as if to say: Now I’m a real wolf!
When the preparations were complete, Jean-Luc Forger was already inspecting the seaplane — an old De Havilland Beaver, a true classic of tropical air routes. His sunglasses caught flashes of sunlight as he hummed a lively tune under his breath, short and stocky like a cheerful old sailor.
"Bienvenue à bord, young sailors!" he shouted, waving to us from the pontoon.
He must have been nearing fifty, while Louise was only thirty-eight. Maybe that's why he felt free to call all of us "young."
Louise made a joke about it, and I smiled.
We took our seats. Jean-Luc at the controls, Arina with her sketchbook beside him. I sat directly behind the pilot, by the window on the left. Louise sat next to me. Behind us, Maren and Elen squeezed into the back row.
Ded sprawled out across the floor, neatly tucking his muzzle under my sneakers.
When everyone was settled, the engine roared to life.
The seaplane slowly backed away from the shore, lazily slicing the water, then turned sharply, gaining speed across the waves — and with a sudden, smooth lift, we were airborne.
I was pressed into my seat, my heart dropping somewhere into my shoes.
The noise was so overwhelming that Jean-Luc shouted something over his shoulder, but his words drowned in the roar of the engines. We could only guess by his gestures.
Below us, the ocean opened wide — an endless shimmering blue.
Far away, silver patches sparkled — shoals of fish churning the surface.
I sat silently, drinking in every curve of the waves, every glint of sunlight on the water.
At first, the sea below was clear and bright, but the farther we flew, the darker the surface became.
Then, patches of sargassum appeared — thick golden weeds floating like sleepy continents.
And behind them came dirty green and brown stains. At first, I thought: jellyfish?
But no — looking closer, I realized: these were islands of garbage.
Plastic bags, torn nets, rusted barrels — drifting, poisoning the sea.
I gripped the seatbelt tighter. Somewhere down there, the ocean was dying.
And it was us — humans — killing it.
Arina, sitting ahead, flipped open her notebook and started sketching again — even here, even through the noise and shaking.
Louise quietly placed her hand on my shoulder.
Across the aisle, Elen leaned toward Maren, whispering something into his ear.
He blushed furiously and mumbled back.
They didn’t care about the view outside the window — they were wrapped up in their own world.
I noticed it and smiled to myself.
After about two hours of flying, a huge city rose on the horizon.
At first it looked like a scattering of golden beads gleaming against the blue.
Then houses with brightly painted roofs came into focus, and white piers, and tiny ships clustered by the docks.
The seaplane touched the water with a soft, gliding thump — like a giant seabird.
We skimmed toward the dock, and the engines fell silent, leaving only the soft slosh of waves and the distant murmur of the city.
Evening Nassau greeted us with a hot, humid wind scented with mango, salt, and fried bananas.
On the waterfront, strings of lights blinked between the buildings. Somewhere down the alleys, reggae music bounced through the air. The smells of spicy food, exhaust, and blooming flowers mingled around us.
I walked behind Louise, holding Ded's leash.
He marched proudly by my side, like a sailor on shore leave.
Ahead of us, Maren and Elen laughed together.
Elen shoved a cup of fruit ice into Maren's hand, and he, flustered, nearly dropped it.
He turned bright red and muttered something, while Elen just giggled and wiped his sticky fingers with a napkin.
Louise kept offering me sweets from street vendors, but I politely refused.
I wasn’t hungry — I was busy drinking in every piece of this new world with my eyes.
The lights from the lanterns shimmered in puddles along the cobbled streets.
Old men smoked pipes outside shop doors.
Children chased scraps of plastic bottles, kicking them like footballs.
The city was noisy, dazzling, and completely unlike anything I had ever known.
It was a living fairy tale — the kind Ded used to tell me, and now, here I was inside it.
In the morning, after a hearty breakfast, we headed to the consulate.
Jean-Luc was already waiting for us by the entrance — he had arranged for a car so we could quickly take care of everything.
Far from his beloved plane, he looked a little lost and kept glancing at the sky.
The consulate building, white with a proud French coat of arms, looked strict and a little sleepy.
Louise filled out the documents meticulously.
I was asked to press my finger onto a sheet of paper and then stand still while they took a photo.
— Welcome aboard, little prince, — the consul said with a warm smile.
We left the consulate right after, making our way back toward our seaplane.
As we drove through the streets of Nassau, I pressed my forehead against the car window and soaked everything in with hungry eyes.
In the morning light, Nassau was even brighter, bustling with life.
Vendors were laying out baskets of fruit along the sidewalks, women in colorful dresses laughed and called out to each other, children raced around with homemade toys, weaving between stalls.
The city seemed even more magical now — busy, alive, full of unknown stories.
The flight back was nothing like the first one.
When we lifted off the water, the roar of the engines no longer seemed so frightening — it even felt a little softer, like an old song that no longer scared me.
I sat by the window, watching the endless ocean unfold below in all its shades of blue and green.
It felt as though the tension that had built up inside me over these past days was slowly melting away.
— Louise, — I asked, — why did the consul call me the Little Prince?
She smiled and brushed a lock of hair from her forehead.
— I think he remembered a beautiful story when he saw you and your Ded — she said softly. —
The heart of that story is simple: We are responsible for those we have tamed.
— Oh! — I leaned closer. — Could you tell me that story? I haven't heard any tales for so long.
Louise nodded, and for a moment, her smile trembled — two tears rolled down her cheeks.
— These are good tears, — she said, wiping them away.
— And yes, I’ll tell you. But first... do you know how to play games?
Want me to teach you one I loved when I was your age?
I nodded eagerly.
So Louise taught me a game called Qui perd, gagne — "He who loses, wins."
If you made a mistake, you had to invent a funny challenge for the others.
It wasn't about being right — it was about making everyone laugh.
We played and laughed until our stomachs hurt.
Sometimes Maren and Hélène joined in too — though most of the time, they were too busy being secretly in love, holding hands and thinking no one noticed.
But I did notice, and smiled quietly to myself.
In the cockpit, Arina kept sketching endlessly, her pages flipping in the breeze.
Through the window, I watched the ocean change again — the blue growing lighter, the waters sparkling as we neared home.
When we finally touched down near the island, I could see familiar faces waving from the shore.
Cécile Angers, Captain Branc, Jean-Marc Lecroix — all waiting for us.
I stepped onto the sand and felt the ground cling to my soles, as if the island itself, once touched by loss, was afraid to let me go again.
At the camp, we were welcomed with laughter and the delicious smells of dinner.
Thierry Roche, armed with his ladle like a knight with a sword, had prepared a real feast:
stewed fish, rice cooked with spices, roasted fruits that smelled of honey and salt.
I ate in silence, savoring every bite.
It felt as if everything churning inside me these past days was slowly settling — like the sea calming after a storm.
Ded also got his share — a generous portion placed right under the table — and he ate with all the dignity of a seasoned sailor back from a long voyage.
After dinner, Louise came up to me, smiling:
— Well then, my little prince, it's time to begin your lessons.
We sat on the warm sand under a canopy of stars.
Louise picked up a thin stick and started drawing letters carefully:
Toma Makea
I traced the letters after her, slowly, carefully, my tongue sticking out in concentration.
Then she showed me a few simple French words:
"ami" — friend,
"chien" — dog,
"mer" — sea.
Ded dozed next to us, his leash neatly coiled by his side.
The sound of the ocean was like a deep, steady breath all around us.
When it grew darker, Louise stood and held out her hand:
— Come, little prince, I promised you a story.
We went to my small tent.
Louise sat on the mat; I lay down on top of my sleeping bag, with Ded curling up right by the entrance, as if keeping guard.
Louise began to tell the story — quietly, almost whispering.
About the boy who lived on a tiny planet.
About the rose he loved.
About the travelers he met while searching for a way home.
And about the Fox, who taught him the most important thing:
"You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed."
I listened without blinking.
The gentle rustle of the wind against the tent walls blended with her voice, and it felt like the night itself was telling me this story.
When she finished, Louise brushed my hair lightly and said:
— I will find that book for you. I promise.
Without thinking, I sat up and threw my arms around her neck, hugging her tight.
— Thank you, Louise, — I whispered.
She froze for a heartbeat, then hugged me back and kissed me on the cheek.
— Good night, my little prince, — she said.
I lay back down, feeling my eyes close, heavy with happiness and peace.
Outside, the sea whispered and breathed.
And I fell asleep, knowing:
My new life was beginning.
And this time, I had someone waiting for me.
As for Ded?
He hadn't gone anywhere.
He had simply become a dog.
And honestly — I think he liked it better this way.
No more aching back, no sore knees, no complaints — just the simple joy of lying on warm sand and listening to the waves.
To be continued...
May 25, 2025
My Grandfather is a Giant Schnauzer
Chapter Five — The Heart of the Turtle
Louise, Ded, and I headed back to camp from the seaplane. The sun was climbing higher, heating the sand.
Activity had already started all around. The spot with the hatch was now cordoned off with tape.
Dr. Suresh Varma was giving orders not only to his team but to anyone who happened to cross his path.
Louise leaned over to me and whispered:
"He's from India. That’s why the captain didn’t shake his hand — the greeting was different."
She pressed her palms together at her chest:
"It’s called namaste. It’s a way to show respect from the heart."
We practiced the gesture as we walked, laughing and bowing at each other.
When we reached Arina, I greeted her the same way, and she, smiling, returned the gesture.
"You know, Toma..." Louise said, "this is where the real work with the Heart of the Black Turtle begins."
I looked at her.
"Everything we found isn’t just gold. Every coin, every scratch on the cave wall — it’s a story."
"You can’t simply take them away. You have to understand them."
That’s why Suresh Varma and his team arrived so quickly. And soon a special research vessel would come, bringing equipment. Scientists from all over the world would study the treasure.
It wasn’t just my grandfather’s legacy. It was a legacy for all of humanity.
I nodded. Words were few, but inside I felt as if something was filling up, like the rising tide.
Louise left me with Arina.
Arina was sitting on a folding chair under a canopy. Around her were scattered pencils, sketchbooks, a camera, instruments, and other things.
"Come sit," she said. "Let’s continue."
I settled onto a mat nearby. Ded stretched out between us, lying so he could watch both me and her at once.
Arina opened a fresh sheet of paper.
"Tell me who else you remember. We won’t find the living, of course... but maybe we’ll find the lost. We’ll bury them, just like we buried your grandfather."
I began to speak.
About Laurent, who gathered crabs in the western lagoon. About Miryam, who sang at night. About Aunt Miryam and her love for strange things — like the doll we had left behind in the cabin.
About the catches Grandfather and I shared with her.
Arina quickly sketched faces, boats, outlines of houses from my words.
When I faltered, Ded nudged me gently with his nose.
And in my head, his voice whispered:
"Traps, Toma. Where the water's cold."
"Grandfather knew where to set traps," I said aloud. "Where the sand feels colder. That’s where the springs are."
Arina wrote everything down without interrupting.
Then Ded prompted me again, and I continued:
"Your mother, Maya. Her laughter chimed like a tiny silver bell, light and joyful."
I spoke of my mother. Her bright, ringing voice. My father — Levi Makea. He caught barracudas by hand, diving under the reefs.
They drowned together. Their canoe was shattered — only fragments were found. I had just turned one year old. After that, Grandfather raised me.
Ded kept guiding me:
"Tunea Orteaa... he was my friend. A carpenter. He cursed funny while he worked. Built boats."
I told Arina about Tunea, about his canoe we found after the tsunami.
And Ded remembered Fari Busque — an old man whose hands always smelled of crabs.
And old Laurent, who laughed with a hiccup-like chuckle.
I honestly admitted to Arina that I didn’t remember most of them myself — Grandfather had told me their stories.
Time moved quietly. The air smelled of sunlight and paper as Arina wrote and sketched.
Sometimes I fell silent, staring at the dancing patches of light.
Sometimes Ded whimpered softly — and another memory surfaced:
Old anchors buried in the sand.
The songs of the wind in the abandoned houses.
Letters from missionaries, rotted away inside a forgotten time capsule.
Later we went with Arina to the graveyard.
There, on the slope, the storm had toppled faded crosses, but some names were still visible.
Arina carefully copied the inscriptions:
Mokea Quassen (elder) 1910–1980
Aneta Leblanc (wife of Louis) 1935–1960
Dominique Castagne 1861–1945
Armand Giraud 1866–1942
When I grew tired and my head ached, we returned to camp.
Louise was waiting for us. She sat down beside me.
"Toma," she said. "We’ll document everything we find. Your coins are important too. Without them, the picture would be incomplete."
I nodded.
I already understood: I had to give them everything. Even the little string from the pouch was precious to them.
I walked to the spot where I had buried the pouch.
Ded walked silently at my side.
I dug quickly with my hands and pulled out the cloth.
I took out the tiny bundle of coins tied to my belt.
I offered them to Louise: the pouch separately, the coins separately.
She accepted them with both hands — the way one accepts something alive.
"Thank you, Toma," she said.
I looked at her.
"They’re beautiful," I said. "And valuable. Grandfather told me about the price of gold. It is gold, right?"
Louise nodded.
"They are valuable. But not for the gold itself. Their real value is the story they carry. Thanks to them, we might discover things long lost."
I thought about it. Then asked:
"And the money? To save the ocean?"
Louise smiled faintly.
"That will be all right. Some of the finds can't be sold — they’ll go to museums. But some will be auctioned."
"And with that money, we’ll create a fund to protect the ocean."
I looked at the pouch in her hands.
Far off, I heard the sea rumbling.
Ded, lying at my feet, raised his head and sniffed the air, as if sensing something.
And his voice in my mind said:
"We’ve taken the first step. Saving the ocean is right. But first, we must save our island. Restore its name. Its strength. Let them create the fund — but it must be registered here, on our free, independent island."
I looked at Louise:
"Can the fund be registered on the island?"
Louise nodded.
"Of course, Toma. It all starts here.
And since it all starts with the Heart of the Black Turtle,
I think we should restore the island’s old name — The Island of the Black Turtle."
"Shall I represent you in this, Toma?"
To be continued...
May 25, 2025
Schule ohne Noten
Es gibt viele Meinungen über das Thema Schule ohne Noten. Manche denken, dass es gut ist, keine Noten zu haben, damit die Schüler sich mehr motiviert fühlen, anderen aber, halten es für sehr schlimm für das Lernen. Auf einer Seite kann man sagen, dass es viele Vorteile gibt, wenn Schüler nicht mit einem Zeichen beurteilt werden. Ein wichtiges Argument dafür ist, dass wenn Lehrende ihren schlechten Ergebnisse sehen, konnte dass zu Verschlimmerung des Selbstbewusstseins führen. Ein weiteres Argument ist, dass es vielleicht zu einem negativen Wettkampf zwischen Schülerinnen und Schüler bringen und zu weniger Respekt und Teamarbeit führen könnte, wie zum Beispiel während des Unterrichts oder Gruppenprojekte. Auch zeigen Noten nicht immer, was man wirklich weiß. Ein Beispiel sind Anwesenheitspunkte. Schüler könnten krank sein, einen Tod in der Familie oder Probleme zu Hause, über die sie nicht sprechen wollen haben, und es ist unfair dafür weniger Punkte und eine schlimme Note zu bekommen. Auch Punkte für aktive Diskussion könnten den Studenten, die normalerweise sehr klug sind und alles rechtzeitig lernen, aber Angst vor Sprechen haben, schaden. Andererseits gibt es viele Nachteile, wenn es über eine Schule ohne Noten gibt. Man kann nicht gut wissen, wo man genau Fehler gemacht hat. Auch können sich Lehrende möglicherweise nicht weiterentwickeln wenn sie nicht wissen, ob sie etwas gut oder falsch gemacht haben. Es kann auch demotivierend auf ihnen wirken, wenn sie nicht nach einer besseren Note streben können. Im Grunde genommen gibt es sowohl Vor- als auch Nachteile wenn es um dieses Thema geht. Meiner Meinung nach ist, dass es unbedingt eine Schule mit Noten geben soll, weil es wichtig ist, dass man weiß wo er steht, um sich weiterentwickeln zu können, aber dass die Schülern objektiver beurteilt werden sollten.
May 25, 2025
Un viaggio in Italia
La settimana scorsa ho visitato l'italia. Ho incontrato un amico a Roma. Ho portato il mio laptop per lavorare remoto. Siamo visitati le quartiere di Roma non per touristi. Giovedi siamo andati a Pescara. Ho mi piacutto mangiare le arrosticini, un piatti locale. Dopo ho cantato kareoke in italian per gente italiano.
May 25, 2025
May 25, 2025
Viaje al extranjero como parte del currículo escolar
Personalmente, viaje mucho y visité muchos países. Viví en los EEUU, en Canada, en Francia, en Polonia, y en los Caribes. Por eso, puedo decir que viajar y descubrir las culturas nuevas es algo muy importante en el desarrollo de tu mismo. Aunque me doy cuenta del cuesto de algo así, quería que se añadan los viajes al extranjero al currículo escolar.
Ahora que viví en todos estos lugares, me doy cuenta de lo que aprendes realmente al extranjero: las cualidades como la comunicación mejora, las lenguas nuevas, o las maneras de ver cosas de una perspectiva diferente, son unos ejemplos de lo que puedes aprender. Además, encuentras muchas personas y creas amistades con personas a través del mundo. Por ejemplo, yo tengo amigos estadounidenses que estudian medicina y sé que si, un día, tenería algún problema medico, podría pedirlos que me ayuden.
También, cuando viajes al extranjero, el aprendizaje de las lenguas se hace más fácil porque, la mayoría del tiempo, ya no puedes hablar tu lengua nativa. Por ejemplo, algunos meses antes, hice un viaje a Madrid, y cuando llegué, me di cuenta de que mi sola opción de comunicación fue intentar de hablar en español. Aunque sé que casi todos los españoles hablan inglés o francés, de verdad era mucho más fácil comunicarme en español, sin preguntar cada vez si la persona hablaba inglés.
Para concluir, sé que hacer un viaje escolar al extranjero para una clase entera sería muy caro y bastante difícil. Sin embargo, las ventajas son tan increíbles que espero que estos viajes se hacen más comunes en el futuro. Además, en las escuelas especializadas en el aprendizajes de lenguas, un viaje al extranjero podría ser una opción muy interesante para ayudar los estudiantes a aprender una lengua mucho más rápidamente.
May 25, 2025
A little bit Frustrated
I told you about my charity yoga class for elderly ladies. Well, I feel a little bit frustrated recently.
There are fifteen students in this class, and eight of them come to the class almost every week. They have been doing great in the class, but from time to time, some of them would fall down during daily activities. It seems normal for them to fall at their age.
I've been trying to help them strengthen their muscles, but I only offer yoga classes once a week. So, I try to teach them to set a daily exercise goal and how to monitor their physical activity levels by themselves.
Today is the third of monitoring and only three individuals are continuing to participate.
Oh, I don't know how to help others be more active.
There is always a way. I'll think about it tomorrow. It's too late now.
May 25, 2025
May 25, 2025
Chapitre deux, rideau levé.
Ce matin, un ciel bleu s'étend au-dessus de moi, décoré de nuages moutonneux semblables à de la dentelle flottante. Entourée par le vert éclatant des arbres et les chants joyeux des oiseaux, je savoure mon café sur le balcon. Les matins de congé sont pour moi le plus grand des luxes. En observant au loin les mouettes qui passent de temp à autre, je ressens une profonde gratitude pour cette liberté intérieure que je possède aujourd'hui. J'aime profondément la personne que je suis devenue. Et le dire à voix haute, avec fierté, n'est chose récente que depuis quelques mois.
Avant cela, je luttais de toutes mes forces pour transformer ma réalité. Préparer mon départ pour le Canada m'avait plongée dans un tourbillon d'obligations et de choses à accomplir. Il n'y avait ni temps pour le plaisir, ni espace pour la légèreté. Mais malgré cela, je sentais confusément que j'avançais. C'est pourquoi je n'ai jamais arrêté de marcher. Je ne savais pas si j'étais sur la bonne voie ou non. Mais une chose était sûre: je n'avais pas d'autre choix que de croire en moi.
À présent, aprés des mois d'apprentissage en anglais, en français et en mécanique automobile, je commence à récolter les fruits de mes efforts. Ce qui autrefois n'était que douleur devient désormais source de joie. Et soudain, tout le paysage a changé, comme lorsqu'on atteint un sommet en montagne. À celle que j'étais, j'aimerais dire ceci : « Ne t'inquiète pas. Crois-y simplement, et avance droit devant. »
Mon premier chapitre est désormais clos. Le second s'ouvre en ce moment même, et j'ai hâte de découvrir quelle histoire il me racontera.
May 25, 2025
May 25, 2025
Daily Life - writing practice - day 1
I'm trying hard to stick to my 90-day plan to improve my language skills. I like to learn how to write and speak in a way that sounds more natural, not just too formal and academic. So my teacher suggested writing here. I don't know if this information is topic-related, but I always prefer to talk more about the context. Let's talk about my daily life a bit. I am a software engineer, working in a VOD platform as a Front-End developer. I usually get up at 8 in the morning because I am working remotely and don't have to get up early. Our first online meeting starts at 10, so I have enough time to have my breakfast. It's so hot outside and we don't have electricity for 2 hours every day, but I managed to do all my tasks today. Since my grandma lives in the same apartment as we do, I usually have lunch with her. I have to write 150 words in each exercise, so until next one, bye!
May 25, 2025
May 25, 2025
May 25, 2025
May 25, 2025
May 25, 2025
Ennuie
Normalement mon but c’est écrire juste un petit texte par jour ici, mais aujourd’hui je suis ennuyé à cause de mon maladie. Donc pourquoi pas utiliser le temps pour pratiquer mon production d’écrit en français.
Un autre problème, c’est que je suis toujours sur mon lit depuis presque trois jours déjà et par conséquence il n’y a pas beaucoup de choses sur ce que je puis écrire. En effet j’ai regardé beaucoup de TikTok et aussi une série qui s’appelle week-end family. Je la trouve vraiment drôle et aussi un bon moyen pour pratiquer mon compréhension du français. Même si j’ai besoin de sous-titres parce qu’ils parlent trop vites et aussi avec plein d’argot. D’ailleurs, comme j’ai dit déjà, il se n’y a pas beaucoup passé les derniers jours.
À bientôt (peut-être à toute à l’heure)
May 25, 2025
May 25, 2025
Carta informal
Barcelona, España
23 de mayo de 2025
Hola Juan,
¿Cómo has estado? Encontré una chaqueta vaquera y me acordé de ti, de cuando intentábamos cantar las canciones de Tim McGraw en el instituto. Me acuerdo de la última vez que hablamos: estabas triste por lo que pasó con Ana. ¿Cómo te va ahora? ¿Estás saliendo con alguien nuevo? De todos modos, estás haciendo un gran trabajo con los estudios y con tu papel como productor de vídeo. ¡Tus canales en redes están ganando seguidores a un ritmo que ya quisiera Bad Bunny!
Vi en Instagram que subiste algunas fotos de tus viajes a Italia. ¡Mamma mía, esas tortas se ven irresistibles! Quién sabe…¡quizás tu media naranja sea italiana! Espero que sepa cocinar bien, sobre todo tortellini y una buena carbonara con una salsa bien sabrosa.
Cuando regreses a Barcelona, deberíamos juntarnos para tomar algo. Avísame cuando puedas por WhatsApp.
Un abrazo fuerte, José
Barcelona, España
May 25, 2025
Carta 1
Londres, Inglaterra
24 de mayo de 2025
Querida Ana,
Me llamo Angela y acabo de regresar de mi estancia en España como participante del programa “Abriendo Puertas”. Por los últimos seis meses, viví con una familia local y asistí las clases de español en la escuela junto con el programa. Por las mañanas, aprendí el vocabulario y la gramática del idioma español y por la tarde, salí con los otros participantes a conocer Madrid.
¡Espero que visites el Museo de Prado, El Parque de Retiro y La Plaza Mayor! El sistema de transporte público es fenómeno en la capital, lo cual te permitiría a viajar sin auto por los precios asequibles. Las familias te cuidan mucho y te ofrecerán una ventana a la cultura española. Deberías salir por el fin de semana con los otros alumnos para conocer algunas amigos españoles también. Sin duda, vas a aprender no solamente el idioma sino mucho de tu misma y la gente del país maravilloso.
¡Te deseo que tengas un buen vuelo y que me escribas pronto de sus próximas aventuras!
Un abrazo,
Angela
Londres, Inglaterra
May 25, 2025
Los pollos 🐓
Los brotes de enfermedades animales como la gripe aviar ponen en evidencia la necesidad de una coordinación internacional más estricta en materia sanitaria. Crucialmente, los brotes representan los riesgos no solo para la salud animal, sino también para la salud humana y la economía. Por lo tanto, es crucial que tengamos más colaboración al nivel internacional y más salvaguardas.
La brote actual de gripe del ave en Brasil ha provocado las interrupciones en las cadenas de suministro para los socios comerciales como la Unión Europea y China. El omnipresente riesgo de transmitir el virus con la migración de los aves a través de las fronteras se amenazan las cadenas de suministro al nivel global y el abastecimiento de los productos avícolas. Para los empleados del sector, los riesgos para la transmisión zoológica y la mutación del virus aumentan los riesgos a los seres humanos. Además, el encarcelamiento de los productos avícolas plantea un impedimento económico para la cesta básica de muchos países.
Sin embargo, las medidas de protección son mayormente reactivas. Dado que las enfermedades no respetan fronteras, una respuesta nacional aislada es insuficiente. Para abordar las amenazas de un posible brote, los organismos como la OMS y la FAO deberían liderar protocolos de actuación rápida y compartida. No obstante, nos falta una red eficaz de la vigilancia epidemiológica entre países, especialmente en regiones con fronteras extensas o informales.
En definitiva, los efectos duraderos de los brotes en un mundo aún más interconectado necesitan una solución integral para mantener el rendimiento agropecuario. Según el dicho, “Vale más prevenir que lamentar”, deberíamos crear los acuerdos sanitarios regionales obligatorios y protocolos de bioseguridad. A través de la transparencia, la recopilación de datos y la hincapié en la prevención veterinaria, pondremos detectar y contener los brotes desde el origen.
May 25, 2025
Consumo eccesivo
Oggi vi parlerò del consumo eccessivo di libri.
Da lettrice, vedo spesso delle persone accumulare libri senza nemmeno leggerli. E spesso, queste persone sono molto orgogliose di collezionare tutti questi libri ed incoraggiano gli altri a fare la stessa cosa.
Sui social, molte persone sono orgogliose di avere 100 libri (che hanno comprato) da leggere e ne aggiungono sempre di più. Il problema è che questo scatena una sensazione di competizione tra gli influencers oppure i lettori.
Però, alcuni lettori non sappiano che la maggior parte dei libri che si « comprano » gli influencers sono in realtà offerti dalle case editrici per fare pubblicità agli autori. Perciò li vediamo sempre leggere qualcosa o con dei libri nuovi in biblioteca. È la stessa cosa con gli raccomandazioni che ci danno, in realtà tra gli influencers di libri molti si conoscono e sono amici quindi quando uno di loro scrive qualcosa, il libro è raccomandato subito.
Ritorniamo al tema del consumo eccesivo, quello che voglio dire è che molte persone hanno trasformato la loro passione per la lettura in una passione per « possedere » libri. E questa trasformazione scatena una competizione per sapere chi ha più libri tra tutti ? Il problema in sé non è che vogliono leggere molti libri ma è che si comprano 100 libri, non li leggono e poi dicono « la mia passione è leggere ». È un po’ contraddittorio.
C’è lo stesso problema con la colorazione, molti dicono che gli piace colorare ma in realtà quello che li piace è possedere molti pennarelli e che i propri disegni abbiano un buon « aspetto estetico ».
Eppure gli influencers non possono sempre essere responsabili di tutto. Da lettori o pubblico, dobbiamo anche noi non lasciarci influenzare e metterci limiti. Dobbiamo anche noi domandarci « ne ho davvero bisogno ? Non ne ho già abbastanza ? Ho i soldi per comprarmi questo ? » :)
May 25, 2025
Ein perfekter Tag
Ich werde wahrscheinlich um 8 Uhr aufwachen. Dann werde ich frühstücken, aber ich werde es nicht zubereiten. Ich möchte jemand für mich kochen und ich kann für sie einen anderen Tag kochen. Ich werde danach mit meinen Eltern im Fernsehen sehen, vielleicht eine Kochsendung. Wir haben uns vor zwei Monaten eine Kochsendung angeschaut, aber wir haben sie nicht beenden. Ich möchte alle Folgen sehen. Während wir gucken, können wir Snacks essen. Ich denke, wir könnten Kartoffelchips und Popcorn essen. Meine Eltern essen gerne Popcorn und ich esse gerne Kartoffelchips. Für Getränke würde ich Sprite trinken. Mein Vater trinkt gerne Kaltkaffee, also er könnte er trinken. Meine Mutter trinkt gerne Tee. Dann könnten wir in ein Restaurant gehen. Wir haben dort viele lange Zeit nicht gehen. Ich esse gerne an einem Buffet, weil es viele verschiedene Gerichte gibt. Wir könnten auch einen Film ins Kino gucken. Als ich acht Jahre alt war, haben wir uns einen Film ins Kino miteinander angeschaut. Das war die letzte Zeit, wir haben miteinander das gemacht. Wir werden dann shoppen. Mein Vater wird sich etwas für seine Plfanzen kaufen. Ich werde mich Snacks einkaufen und meine Mutter wird sich etwas Klamotten kaufen. Wenn wir zu Hause zurückkommen werden, werden wir nichts essen. weil wir schon viel gegessen haben. Ich werde eine Gesichtsmaske auftragen und später ins Bett gehen.
May 25, 2025
Заколдовывающие пастухи
Раньше во Франции, приписывали пастухам магические силы. Говорили, что они могли бы наводить все виды ужасных порч если они чувствовали себя обиженными: вызывать грозы, привлекать нечастье, передавать болезни, убивать животных и людей... Эти пастухи не умели ни читать ни писать но в многих деревнях люди боялись их силы и знания. Советовали путешественникам быть осторожными с пастухами и просто не говорить с ними, из страха получить какое-то проклятие!
Одна легенда гласит, что у одного пастуха был талисман от рога своих баранов. Он сохранил его символом защиты. Однако сосед этого человека (он тоже был пастухом) сердился на него. Сосед украл талисман, молол ево в порошок и закопал его с кротом, лягушкой и хвостом рыбы произнося эти слова: «погибель, проклятие, разрушение». 9 дней спустя он откопал противную смесь и наложил её на луг, где бараны своего врага паслись. Некоторое время спустя все бараны погибнули таинственно..!
Пастухи жили в окрестностях деревень, вне деревенского общества. В каком-то смысле, они были маргиналы в сравнении с другим жителями. У них был дикий аспект, они скорее относились к природному миру. Этот мир был всегда вызывал увлечение и страх. О чужых людях рассказываются более менее оригинальные, причудливые истории, потому что их мало знают. Но может быть пастухи действительно знали некоторые магические секреты... Кто знает?