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👉 Register to view more posts, get corrections on your writing and correct others.May 26, 2025
un rêve simple
Je voudrais aller à l'hôtel. Je suis très fatiguée parce-que j'ai deux petits fils - un fils de un an et un fils de presque cinq ans. Ils ont beaucoup d'énergie, donc je cours toute la journée avec eux. Mon fils de cinq ans se réveille chaque jour à seis heures du matin, et il ne prend jamais de somme. Mon fils de un an est très grand - il pèse trente livres.
Si j’avais une journée seule dans un hôtel, je dormirais tard. Quand je me réveillais, je ferais de l'exercice, mangerais un bon petit déjeuner, et lirais un livre.
May 26, 2025
I’m embarrassed
Child and her mother ridding on train.
I sitting on middle seat and two seats next each other just opened it.child is sit on it ,her mother is standing. I could try stand and ask the neighbor sitting on my seat. And then, when two seats are open. Her mother can sitting on seat but I was so nauseous ,I didn’t have the courage to try.Normally I would have been to help for other people ,but I couldn’t because of my physical condition. That’s very embarrasses. Have I became a human even can’t help for others. I hate myself like that.
May 25, 2025
May 25, 2025
May 25, 2025
May 25, 2025
May 25, 2025
May 25, 2025
May 25, 2025
May 25, 2025
May 25, 2025
May 25, 2025
Email a friend
Hi John,
I’m writing you to arrange the journey planned for tomorrow. I’ll pick you up tomorrow at 08:00 am, because we need to arrive at 10:00 am at the airport. Remember the limit weight of the baggage, maximum 23 kg. By the way, charge your laptop and download a good movie to watch during the flight, traveling for 14 hours in an airplane might be boring!
See ya tomorrow…
May 25, 2025
May 25, 2025
May 25, 2025
Manchmal strenge ich mich zu sehr an. (Folge 2)
Wie ich vorgestern hier geschrieben habe, war ich sehr sreng zu mir selbst.
Obwohl ich mich sehr angestrengt habe, habe ich immer gefühlt, dass meine Mühe nicht genug war.
Ich bin mir sicher, dass die Erlebnisse im Leichtathletik Verein meine Mentalität betroffen haben.
Als ich die Schule für den Deutsch B1 Kurs besucht habe, habe ich unter dieser Mentalität gelitten.
Trotz all meiner Anstrengungen, die Prüfung zu bestehen, konnte ich mir meine Mühe selbst nicht eingestehen.
Mein griechischer Mitschüler hatte im Gegensatz zu mir eine total andere Mentalität.
Er hat mir plötzlich gesagt: ,, Ich bereite mich auf die Prüfung nicht vor, weil wir nur einen Monat davor haben.
Ich war ziemlich überrascht über das, was er gesagt hat.
Damals habe ich so gedacht, dass wir NOCH einen Monat haben.
(Ich schreibe morgen weiter.)
May 25, 2025
Sätze zur Korrektur und Verbesserung
Wenn man so einen perfekten Körper erreichen möchte, sollte man die Zügel nie schleifen lassen.
Im Ramadan legt man seinem Hunger die Zügel an.
Das Handy findet leider keinen Absatz.
Das Projekt ist über den mangelhaften Absatz gestolpert.
Mir wurde ein ungebührlich hoher Preis abverlangt, deshalb bin ich nicht darauf eingegangen.
Er hat wegen einer sehr kleinen Sache eine Tragödie aufgeführt.
Hör bitte auf, dich so niederträchtig ihm gegenüber aufzuführen.
Durch meine Ausbildung konnte ich sowohl sprachliche als auch wirtschaftliche Kenntnisse anhäufen
In den nächsten drei Jahren habe ich mir vorgenommen, Geld anzuhäufen.
Diese Ware findet keinen Absatz, sie häuft sich nur an.
hast du schon deine Ausbildung durchlaufen
Nachdem du all diese Prüfungen durchlaufen hast, wirst du zur Arbeit zugelassen.
10 Prozent der Teilnehmer, die diese Tests durchlaufen haben, weisen neue Symptome auf.
Ich habe es geschafft, beim Chef sympathisch rüberzukommen.
Du musst halt versuchen, bei denen interessiert rüberzukommen, damit sie dich einstellen.
Du bist interessiert rübergekommen, deshalb wurdest du eingestellt.
An seiner Nähe fühlt man sich immer aufgehoben.
Dort weiß ich, dass du aufgehoben bist.
Ich habe heute irgendwie einen Durchhänger und dementsprechend habe ich keine Lust zu lernen.
Vorsichtshalber habe ich all meine Wertgegenstände versteckt, wo sie besser aufgehoben sind.
Ein Studium ist durchaus etwas Nutzbringendes für deine Zukunft.
Der Weg von B2 nach C1 ist beschwerlicher, als ich dachte.
Morgens laden wir die Fracht aus dem LKW aus.
Beim Umschlag der Fracht ist uns ein Fehler unterlaufen.
Die Hunde sind so beschaffen, dass sie unbedingt Auslauf benötigen.
May 25, 2025
I Ate Ramen
I went outside for the first time in four days. My family and I went to a bike shop, because my brother wanted one. Then he bought a used bike, although it seemed like almost new. It cost not less than eleven thousand dollars. I wanted SIX iPhone 16 Pro Max phones instead! I also wanted to arrange them and to operate! It’s a joke.
After that, we went to ramen shop and ate there. I ate Ise ramen with topping super butter. It was delicious. Actually we planned to eat Macdonald foods, but there wasn't Macdonald near the bike shop. So we gave up on going. However we decided to eat it yesterday.
We got back home at 7 pm, and I started studying English. I've practiced pronouncing pronunciation symbol and paid attention to shape of my mouth, consequently I’m tired right now.
May 25, 2025
May 25, 2025
Tさんの話について感想を書きましょう。
Tさんの話を読んで、私はとても感心しました。T さんの話は単に本が好きな人の話についてばかりでなく、日本の文化や歴史を未来へ繋ぐ「使命」という話です。
Tさんは山奥の中にある昭和漫画館青虫という書斎に住んで、その場所はとても不便です。それでも、夢を追求したいという思いで、Tさんはその場所に住み続けて、大切にしている本を集めて、守ってきました。私が一番感動したのは、Tさんの情熱や諦めない心です。交通の不便さや大変な仕事や質素な生活など、多くの困難に直面しながらも、Tさんは静かに、自分の信じることをずっと続けていました。Tさんは、お金や便利さよりも、「好き」という気持ちを大切にして生きてきました。そんなことができる人は多くないかもしれません。だから、私にとって、T さんは素晴らしい人です。
Tさんの語を通して、自分の理想に忠実に生きることの美しさに気づかされました。
May 25, 2025
May 25, 2025
May 25, 2025
My Grandfather is a Giant Schnauzer
Chapter 11 – The Fury and the Pirates
The bullet that had been found unsettled everyone on the island. I stepped closer to take a look. It lay sealed in a zip bag on a folding table, right next to a mug of still-warm coffee. The marines weren’t shouting or running, but you could see the tension in them. One of the soldiers, pretending to joke, put his vest and helmet on me. He said something—probably joking—and Louise explained that he’d asked me to guard his gear until things calmed down. But I understood: all this fuss was because of me. And he gave me the helmet not for fun, but to protect me from whoever had hidden in the boat that night.
Ded sat at my feet, looking in the same direction I was—not at the bullet, but at the sand.
“They think the shooter came ashore,” I whispered.
“They’re wrong,” Ded answered in my mind. “I would’ve smelled him. I memorized his scent in the boat. Sniffed everything he touched, on purpose. If I catch that scent again—I’ll know. And it’s not here. Not anywhere on this island.”
“So he’s gone?”
“Yes. During the night. By motorboat. I heard an engine approaching before dawn, then pulling away fast.”
I nodded. It had all been more or less clear already, but Grandfather’s confirmation settled it.
Louise was nervous too. I tried to tell her there was nowhere left to hide on the island, and the shooter was surely long gone. But she insisted that since I had been the target, we all had to return to the Équinoxe and leave the island at once. The treasure didn’t need us to guard it anymore—there were marines and archaeologists for that. And nearly everyone agreed with her.
Arina also said that we’d already stayed on the island too long, and the expedition had research plans no one had canceled. So the crew of the Équinoxe packed up and returned to the ship—seeking shelter behind the safety of its steel hull. Only the marines and archaeologists stayed onshore to guard the treasure and wait for the main group, whose ship wasn’t due for another six days.
By the end of the day, the Équinoxe was already at sea, heading for the Sargasso. I used to think the Sargasso Sea and the Bermuda Triangle were the same thing. But Louise explained the difference: the Sargasso Sea is a region in the middle of the North Atlantic, surrounded by ocean currents. The Bermuda Triangle is an imaginary zone, with corners at Miami, San Juan, and the Bermuda Islands.
“Stories of disappearing ships and planes? Mostly sea legends,” Louise said. “But vessels really do avoid the thick sargassum clusters. And now those same waters are choked with floating trash.”
“That’s exactly why we’re here,” she said, pointing at a chart in the mess hall. “All these zones are potential collection points. Bottles, nets, rubber, silicone, styrofoam, crates, spray cans, ropes. Different materials require different recycling approaches.”
“The drone with the claw approaches the trash island and collects samples,” Christian added, showing tablet photos of floating trash mountains—easy to mistake for real islands.
“That’s where I come in,” said Cécile with a smile, pointing at the vials filled with green-tinged fragments.
“My job is to understand how this waste affects the water’s composition. We’re testing different recycling methods.”
“And all of it,” Arina said, wrapping her arms around me, “so our children won’t breathe in microplastics or poison themselves on mercury-laced fish. So they can live full lives.”
“To save the sea!” I said, full of sudden joy.
“To save the sea,” she echoed.
I nodded silently. For the first time in a long while, I didn’t feel like a random tagalong or a curious little animal. I felt like part of something bigger. A real member of the crew.
The Équinoxe cut through the waves, heading toward new sampling zones. Onboard, among scientists and sailors, was a small boy named Toma and his dog—a living reminder of who we were doing this for.
And as the ship followed its course, I began to find my place in this world. No rush, no pressure—just gradually dissolving into the shared work, like sea salt in water.
The uncertainty had vanished without a trace.
Louise no longer left me alone with my doubts. The French lessons gave way to stories about her work. That’s how I learned that behind her modest appearance was one of Europe’s leading oceanographers—a research director at IFREMER and curator of a massive EU-funded ocean cleanup program.
“My team in Brest calls me ‘the boss,’” she said with a grin, showing me photos of her lab.
“But here I’m just Louise. Although…” — she poked a finger into my chest — “if you ever see me yelling about a broken drone, you’ll understand why the sailors on the Équinoxe nicknamed me Fury.”
It turned out she had twenty expeditions behind her—ranging from the Arctic to the coral reefs of New Caledonia. And for the past five years, she had dedicated herself to fighting plastic in the Sargasso Sea.
I gradually settled into the rhythm of life at sea—like a sponge soaking up water. At first I just watched quietly. Then I started helping. Alice gasped when I sorted thirty samples by code without a single mistake. Jean, a born mechanic, suddenly let me hold his tools while he fixed the pump. And Thierry… Thierry made me his apprentice in the galley.
“Onions first, then carrots,” he grumbled, watching me chop vegetables. “Don’t slice—hack! Ever seen someone split logs with an axe? Like that!”
By the third day, I already knew—this was my place. Here, among these people. Even Ded, usually skeptical, now circled the galley with confidence, begging for scraps.
But we let our guard down. Three days after leaving Black Turtle Island, two suspicious boats appeared on the horizon.
Pirates.
They had found us.
***
After their prison break, Dok’s gang wasted no time. From Pinder, they learned that the Équinoxe had departed L’Île-Échouée. The hunt was on.
“We disguise the boats as coast guard patrols,” said Dok, pointing at a marked spot on the chart. “We approach at night, cut their comms, take the ship by force, grab the boy, and vanish. Thirty minutes, start to finish.”
Shadow racked the bolt of his rifle in silent approval.
“Even if by some miracle they call for help, it’ll take a plane at least ninety minutes to get there. We’ll be long gone.”
Elk turned a radio over in his hands, skeptical.
“The treasure’s still on the island. That ship’s full of scientists and glass tubes. No gold, no cash. Why risk your freedom for some scrawny kid?”
Dok slowly turned to him. The same fire that had carried them through storms now burned in his eyes.
“He’s not just a kid. He’s the one the sea chose. Tell me, Elk—when was the last time you made a vow?
I swore it back in that cell, to myself, to all of you, and to the ocean:
that boy is going to be one of us.”
"Elk… it wasn’t just a miss." Shadow’s voice was low.
"I fired three times—and each time, something got in the way. It wasn’t wind. It wasn’t shaking. It was like the sea itself wouldn’t let me hit him. Like its will turned my hand away."
"He’s not ordinary. Dok’s right. He’s not just a kid. He’s chosen."
Harpoon, sharpening his knife, gave a snorting chuckle:
"An' that mutt of his... I liked the beast. Proper animal. Shouldn't rot with those lab rats."
"They’re ours," Dok said, flicking a cigarette over the side.
"And we always take back what’s ours."
***
The boats sliced through the water at speed, their hulls rising onto plane as bow spray arced into the night.
On deck stood men in dark uniforms—no insignia, only counterfeit coast guard emblems stitched onto their sleeves.
“Two minutes to contact,” Shadow said, checking his tablet.
“Comms?” Elk asked curtly.
"Jammed," Shadow said flatly. "We’re already jamming. Nothing’s getting through."
Doc stared ahead, calculating.
He had no taste for unnecessary violence.
Even the dummy torpedo tubes, bolted hastily to the decks, were there purely to intimidate.
This had to be clean. No gunfire. No blood.
And there she was—the Équinoxe, her navigation lights glowing faintly in the black sea.
The boats moved in a coordinated pincer: one to port as a decoy, the other closing in on starboard for the boarding.
From the boat disguised as coast guard, flashing lights came on, and a piercing beam from the searchlight locked onto the bridge of the research vessel.
The sailors on Équinoxe’s deck exchanged confused looks—no one understood what was happening. It all looked like a routine inspection or escort.
Only when a commotion rose from the opposite side did the crew spring into action, racing to the water cannons in hopes of blasting the intruders into the sea. But it was already too late. Three pirates were climbing the storm ladder.
From the fake patrol boat, a voice barked through a loudhailer:
“If this vessel doesn’t halt immediately, we’ll fire torpedoes—and you’ll sink to the bottom!”
“To the citadel! Everyone below!” Captain Branc roared.
The citadel was a special armored compartment inside the ship’s hull, where the crew could shelter during an attack and send distress signals.
Besides water cannons, the Équinoxe was equipped with an LRAD—a long-range acoustic device, or, as the pirates called it, “the devil’s horn.” But they didn’t dare use it: its sound didn’t distinguish friend from foe. Anyone still on deck would have suffered just the same.
Captain Branc clenched his jaw.
He had no choice but to stop the ship.
Once it was clear the crew wasn’t going to resist, and the captain emerged from the wheelhouse with his hands raised, Dok decided to board himself and speak to him directly.
While the pirates moved methodically through the cabins, opening lockers in search of loot, Dok gestured for the captain to return to the bridge, and followed him up. Branc looked back, but said nothing.
By the coaming of the hatch, hidden in the black shadow of the ventilation stack, crouched the figure of Ded—still and silent.
His dark, coal-colored fur melted into the night, and only the gleam of his narrow eyes revealed he was there—
He wasn’t a hero.
But he wouldn’t leave Toma behind.
“Easy, Captain,” Dok said calmly—almost gently. “We don’t want your ship. We’re not here for your cargo.”
He could barely follow the pirate’s speech, but he couldn’t call out to Louise—the only one fluent in the local dialect. Too dangerous.
He stepped up to the helm, leaned on it, and stared at the screen displaying the navigation chart.
“We’re pirates—not fools,” Dok said, squinting. Then, realizing the captain didn’t understand, he switched to English.
“Listen, Cap. We want the boy. Just him. The sea chose that kid.”
Right then, Louise appeared in the wheelhouse.
She was wearing a shirt stained with iodine, her face pale.
She had heard the words “the boy,” and spoke up—voice steady despite the fear.
“Listen to me. The sea didn’t choose him. I did. I’m his legal guardian. And as long as I’m alive, he’s going nowhere—with anyone.”
“That’s what you think,” Dok rasped.
He was waiting—for the signal that the boy had been found, and they could leave the ship.
And then I stepped out from behind Louise.
“Why do you want me?” I asked the pirate.
He looked at Louise. Then at the captain. And finally—at me.
“You’re coming with us. That’s not up for debate. This place—it’s not for people like you and me, boy,” he said, locking eyes with me.
I didn’t look away.
“I’m not like you!” I said.
“I’m going to save the ocean. I’m staying with Louise. Black Turtle told me so.”
Silence fell.
Only the navigation lights blinked on the instruments, and the dark waves murmured at the stern.
Dok froze.
His fingers, trained to grip the hilt of a knife, clenched and unclenched on their own.
“Black Turtle…” he whispered.
He turned to the open porthole, where the night water stretched black and silent. Then, suddenly, he shouted into the darkness:
"You see?! I could’ve taken him right now! Raised him into a real pirate! I kept my promise—we're square! You made his choice for him!"
He turned back to Toma.
There was no anger in his eyes—only a strange kind of relief.
"Alright, kid. So the Turtle chose you to save the ocean.
And me? To watch how you do it.
I won’t take my eyes off you.
Remember that."
“Stay with them.”
He turned on his heel and walked out of the cabin.
The attack ended as suddenly as it had begun.
The pirates withdrew to their boats and vanished into the night—
as if they had never been aboard at all.
But they had been.
And now the crew had work to do:
figuring out how the pirates managed to board the ship unnoticed, assessing the damage, contacting the shore.
But for now...
Louise pulled me toward her and hugged me tight. Her eyes shone with tears.
Something stirred inside me—and I hugged her back.
For the first time, not out of fear, but for real.
“Does this mean… we’re a real family now? Yes?” I asked, not knowing why my throat suddenly felt hot.
Ded, who had been hiding all this time, ran up and sat at our feet, letting out a soft whine.
Louise laughed through her tears and hugged him too.
So we stood there— the three of us,
under the mute sky of the Atlantic.
In a silence full of meaning.
***
And so ends the first book about Toma and his companions.
Ahead of him lies a path of learning—making choices, making mistakes, discovering new things—
and perhaps changing not only himself, but the world around him. The treasure they found was only the beginning.
One day, he won’t build a ship or a fortress out of that treasure—but something entirely new.
But that’s a story for another time. If this one found its way into you, dear readers.
May 25, 2025
My Grandfather is a Giant Schnauzer
Chapter 10 – The Escape Black Turtle Island
At dawn, an old fishing boat washed ashore. The marines pulled it out of the water and inspected it— old, but held together just fine. At the bottom lay a folded sail and a torn net.
The oarlocks were wrapped in rags, likely to muffle any noise. The grandfather (now a dog) paced around the boat, sniffing and growling. Then he suddenly darted away, barking and urging the marines to follow.
One of the soldiers went after him. The dog led him to the spot where Toma had sat the evening before. In the sand, they found a bullet.
This put the soldiers even more on edge. The lieutenant frowned, ordered the camp to sound the alarm, and contacted the coast guard. He suspected that an unknown intruder had landed on the island during the night.
The search for the shooter began...
Meanwhile, Shadow, Pal’ma, and Kot were already far away—approaching Nassau. Their speedboat had raced toward its destination all night, skimming over the waves, and by morning, the port lights glimmered on the horizon.
The port was waking up as the boat lazily nudged against a weathered dock piling crusted with seashells. Fishermen unloaded ice-filled crates, truck doors slammed, and the air smelled of diesel, salt, and the start of another workday.
Shadow nodded at a familiar dockworker—a man sitting on a crate, a damp hand-rolled cigarette clamped between his teeth.
Recognizing Shadow, the dockworker leisurely flicked ash from his jacket, stood, and approached the boat. "No papers again?" he rasped, looping the thrown rope around a rusted mooring ring.
"You love trading papers for papers," Shadow tossed him a set of keys. "Register it like. last time."
The dockworker caught the keys, stuffed them into his grease-stained pants, and spat into the water.
"Pick it up at Dock Three. If anyone asks, you were fixing the ramp."
Shadow and his companions quickly stepped ashore and melted into the crowd of dockworkers, heading toward the market...
***
In a dimly lit restaurant booth overlooking the docks, Shadow met with Pinder.
The man was eating oysters, sipping white wine. He listened in silence, then wiped his mouth with a napkin and said:
“I don’t appreciate being blatantly blackmailed. Let’s put it down to temporary emotional instability. As you asked—they’ve all been moved to Fox Hill. I had to pay for it. Now it’s your move.”
Without expression, he gave Shadow the name of a guard who could be trusted.
Before leaving, Shadow slipped a thick stack of bills into the menu and muttered: "The rest—after the job...".
While Shadow had breakfast with Pinder, Kot and Pal’ma checked into a hotel. Kot called construction companies, posing as a contractor. He urgently needed to "clear out" an abandoned drainage tunnel.
Pal’ma called from another room—looking for work. He was blunt: "I’ve got hands, not afraid of dirt, can start digging today."
The goal? Make sure the two requests didn’t seem connected.
By lunch, they found their man—he agreed to send a crew to the site and offered Pal’ma a "trial day" digging up an old storm drain on the outskirts.
After breakfast, they went shopping. Kot needed to look the part: suit, shoes, tie, watch, hard hat, vest, gloves, and safety glasses—all picked up at a construction supply store.
Pal’ma settled for just a good pair of work gloves. They hailed a taxi but got out early—approaching the site from different directions to avoid suspicion.
***
Kot handled negotiations. Pal’ma played the laborer—silent, back straight, walking with a heavy stride.
Kot was confident, his face half-hidden under the hard hat. A reflective vest was strapped tightly to his chest, a clipboard in one hand, a plastic folder in the other. He traced a finger along the schematic, talking about the backup overflow line, the urgency, and how his main crew was currently tied up. So he needed subcontractors—no paperwork, cash payment.
José Barbosa, short and sweaty, lit up at the word "cash" brighter than the sun glinting off his glasses. He turned, nodded at Pal’ma, and said: "We start right now."
And work began. Pal’ma alone started clearing branches and dirt, opening the passage.
Within half an hour, three others joined him—silent men in vests and coveralls, swinging picks and shovels. Things moved fast: the workers were paid little and by the job, so "time is money" wasn’t just a saying here...
Meanwhile, Shadow had already visited the prison, spoken to the guard, and learned the rules for deliveries.
Now he sat in his old friend Gonzales’ shop, drinking tea. The air smelled of lemons, bananas, and something else fruity.
Behind the counter, Gonzales’ son, Paulo—a teenager—scrolled through inventory on a computer, calling out prices.
Shadow wasn’t shopping randomly—he had a plan. "Something that sounds like freedom. See if you’ve got anything like that," he commented on his order.
Paulo found a box of tea: " Detox Tea – Libera Toxinas." Shadow read the name aloud, lingered on "Libera," and nodded: "That’ll work. Next on the list: hot peppers, smoked sausage, sailor’s crackers, salted beans, fried cassava, popcorn, khachapuri. And two water bottles—Bahamian Pure and Island H2O."
While Paulo gathered the items, Shadow discussed local kids—football fans—with Gonzales.
"Fast, sharp. Sometimes loud, but give ’em clear instructions, and they’ll get the job done right." Shadow nodded and left money with Gonzales for them, asking him to buy a good football and three air horns.
And to arrange a meeting that evening at the field near Fox Hill... On his way to the prison, Shadow stopped by his hotel room. There, he took the water bottle and tea from the care package.
Flipped them over, carefully rewriting the expiration dates. On the tea—"21.03.2011 20:00", on the water—"21.03.2011 21:00". He replicated the factory stamp perfectly, using a permanent marker...
He arrived at the prison right on time—inmate deliveries were still being accepted. He handed over a passport under the name Laurent Roche. The prisoner was listed as Basile Roche, confirming their relation and granting permission for the package.
The guard took the bag, lazily peeked inside. Pulled out a couple of cigarette packs for himself and asked: "Who’s it from?" "From Laurent," Shadow replied curtly. "They’ll understand...".
Dok spread the package out on the table.
The pirates crowded around, examining the odd assortment.
“Popcorn. Sailor’s crackers,” said Crab.
“Is this a joke?” Harpoon snorted.
“Libera Toxinas...” Elk read from the tea box.
“Beans, chili sauce... Weird combo,” muttered Zhara.
Dok turned the Bahamian Pure bottle in his hands.
“Expires at 21:00. The tea—20:00. Font looks factory-made, but the times... no. This is fake. Made for us.”
He looked up.
“This isn’t dinner. It’s a countdown to freedom.
The times are a schedule: 20:00—we set the mattresses on fire. 21:00—the escape begins.”
Crab pointed. “Sailor’s crackers—that’s the mattresses.”
“Smoked sausage and chili sauce—means burn it,” said Harpoon.
“Beans—that’s the garden. Must be the yard,” guessed Goose.
“Popcorn... definitely hinting at an explosion,” Crab nodded.
“Cassava—root. Must mean the tunnel,” Dok added.
“Bahamian Pure—that’s the time marker. Island H2O—the route to the sea.”
“And khachapuri...” Elk grinned. “Well, that’s obvious. The boat.”
Dok looked at them calmly.
“Fire at eight. Explosion at nine.”
“Exit’s under the yard. He hasn’t forgotten, brother.
He remembers that map we found in Father’s chest.
Right now, he’s clearing the old tunnel—
the one beneath Fox Hill.”
The pirates exchanged glances—and smiled.
The escape was already underway...
***
At the same time, three boys—Manuel, Paulo, and Jaime—were playing football again. Gonzales’ son, desperate to join their crew, had brought a brand-new football and a bag of fan air horns.
They stashed the air horns for the stadium, but the ball—that ball was just right.
For a gift like that, they let little Gonzales stick around—let him play too.
He also passed on a message: someone would drop by that evening about a well-paid job. But only after dark.
The game went on so long that no one noticed the sun dipping toward the horizon. Then a boy appeared, followed by a grim-faced man with sharp eyes.
The game stopped. The gang huddled and approached. "Perfect, gather round," the man said, extending a hand to Manuel.
“Name’s Laurent,” he said. “And I’ve got a little job for you boys.”
Preparations for the escape took the pirates two more full days. Shadow combed through thrift stores, buying clothes for the whole crew, estimating sizes from memory.
Borrowed a couple of fast boats from dock contacts. Pal’ma and Kot finished clearing the tunnel. The subcontractor hauled away the dirt and debris in his truck.
Now the renovated exit was fitted with a black-painted iron grate secured with a padlock. The tunnel stretched all the way to Fox Hill. The TNT charge was placed for directional impact—to blow open the prison yard’s paving stones without collapsing the tunnel.
Detonation would be remote. Only then would Shadow and his team storm through to free the prisoners... Everything went as planned.
***
On March 21, after noon, a group of kids appeared on the field outside the prison. They put on a show for the guards in the watchtowers.
As evening approached, they split off in different directions.
The air horns were ready. When smoke first curled from a prison window, Manuel—the first to spot it—started a mental five-minute countdown. Per Shadow's plan, the boys were to position themselves on three sides of the building to monitor the windows.
The fire was set at 20:00. The mattresses caught and smoldered, coughing up choking, bitter smoke that spread fast.
Within minutes, the cell was unbreathable. The pirates wrapped wet shirts around their faces and pressed to the floor. Crab pounded on the door, summoning guards.
Normally, no one would’ve responded—the guards were playing cards, indifferent to the prisoners. But then, from outside, sharp horn blasts erupted from multiple directions—as if locomotives had converged outside the prison for a rally. A guard looked up—first at the noise, then at the smell of burning fabric, then at the banging from the hall.
The guards rushed to the cells. As the door swung open, smoke poured out—so choking that the guards staggered back, then rushed to start dragging the prisoners outside.
A horn cut through the evening. Then two more. Shadow straightened and nodded at Kot.
“Now.” Kot hit the button. The blast came a second later—followed by chaos.
From the gaping hole in the ground, through clouds of swirling dust, three figures sprang forth like devils from a snuffbox—masked and clad in body armor.
One hurled a flashbang toward the barred security gate. A blinding flash. A deafening roar. The guards flinched, confused and disoriented.
The assailants raised their automatics, slowly sweeping their aim from side to side—no shots fired.
Terrified, the guards raised their hands—no match for automatics, armed with nothing but radios, batons, and sidearms.
A second blast—sharper, shorter—blew apart the grate separating the cellblock from the yard. Dust settled, and the pirates emerged from the hallway, helping each other move, breathing hard but voices alight with triumph. It all happened fast.
One by one, the pirates dropped into the hole and vanished underground. A minute later, the yard was empty. Another explosion collapsed the crater further, sealing the tunnel behind them.
On the coast, speedboats waited. Engines roared to life instantly, and the boats tore across the black water, carrying the fugitives back to their element.
May 25, 2025
My Grandfather is a Giant Schnauzer
Chapter 9 - "Bahamian Justice"
The office of Deputy Minister of Justice Graham Whitelock smelled of rosewood and cigars. On the wall hung a certificate: “Effective Management of Correctional Institutions” (Miami, 2008).
Graham Whitelock—known to a select few as Pinder—was studying his glass of cognac, evaluating its color against the sunset. On the desk lay a folder bearing the seal of France: a dossier on the detained pirates.
“Jean-Claude, I understand your position,” he said, setting the glass aside. “But let’s look at the situation... more broadly. Your marines conducted an operation in border waters without notifying our government. That could’ve easily turned into a diplomatic note. Or headlines.”
The words hung in the air. Jean-Claude Delacourt, French consul, didn’t blink.
“We acted under the Joint Anti-Piracy Agreement. Your Foreign Ministry signed it in 2009.”
“Signed it—yes. But we also had witnesses. There were women and children present. That wasn’t anti-piracy. That was... an incident.”
“Is piracy a legal business in your country?” Delacourt asked dryly.
Graham smiled faintly.
“No, but we do have a presumption of innocence. And you had minors in a fire zone. You think Paris will be pleased when that surfaces?”
He leaned back in his chair. Then, almost without changing tone:
“But I’m not suggesting a scandal. On the contrary. Our court will handle the case quickly. Formally. And efficiently.”
He picked up a tablet and tapped a few buttons. Photos appeared on the screen: overcrowded cells, peeling walls, a drainage trench running across the floor.
“Fox Hill,” he said calmly. “Cells built for six hold twenty. They sleep in shifts. Water’s turned on twice a day—for an hour. Three weeks ago, there was a dysentery outbreak.”
He swiped again: a bitten leg, a rat in a trap—close-up.
“We call them gray sharks. They’re fond of human flesh. Especially the kind that once thought they ruled the sea.”
The consul winced but kept listening.
“You want them punished, Jean-Claude?” Graham put the tablet away. “Trust me—Fox Hill isn’t a prison. It’s a paragraph from Dante’s Inferno. In two weeks, they’ll forget how to hold a weapon. In a month, they’ll forget violence ever existed.”
Silence.
Whitelock opened a drawer and pulled out an envelope—gray-blue, sealed with an official crest. Thick. Neat. Unassuming.
He placed it between them, tilting it slightly toward the consul. Among the official papers, a familiar silhouette peeked through— the sleek lines of a 42-foot Beneteau, hull number JC-171. Consul Delacourt recognized his yacht, L’Étoile, even before Graham gently covered the envelope with his palm.
“Inside—witness lists. Testimonies from fishermen, yacht owners, agents. Some of them... quite influential. They’re all waiting for hearings. And they want those men behind bars. Here. Not in France.”
The consul glanced at the envelope. Didn’t touch it.
“Have these materials... been forwarded to the prosecutor’s office?”
“Only as part of preliminary procedure,” Graham said with a polite smile. “Nothing beyond that. All official. Just like our approach.”
He took a sip of cognac. The consul exhaled, then nodded slowly:
“Very well. I’ll inform Paris that the detainees remain under your jurisdiction. And that the French side is temporarily waiving extradition—in the interest of justice.”
“Exactly,” Whitelock said softly. “In the interest.”
When the consul stood up, Graham remained seated. He simply rested his hand on the envelope—neither taking it nor pushing it away.
“Glad we understand each other.”
...
The security truck with barred windows braked hard, throwing the pirates into each other. Doc was slammed against the bars with his shoulder, but didn’t make a sound.
“Well, gentlemen,” he muttered, peering through the narrow slot in the door, “welcome to the finest prison in the Caribbean.”
Beyond the door, lit by floodlights, loomed the gray bulk of Fox Hill. A guard in a worn uniform clicked the bolt of his rifle.
“Out! Move it!”
The pirates were shoved into the yard.
The air of this place had, over the years, absorbed the pain and despair of more than a thousand souls.
It was passed from one to the next by all who crossed these gates—exhaled in heavy clots of accumulated rage.
Doc walked first, calmly scanning the surroundings. His gaze slid over the brick walls streaked with mold, the rusted bars, and the eyes flickering in the shadows behind them.
“Block D, third floor,” the guard snapped, jabbing Harpoon in the back with his baton.
The cell was small, the plaster on the walls crumbling from damp.
There was no glass in the window—only wind, salt, and the cries of distant gulls, as if the sea itself were laughing at the inmates.
A space meant for six now held fifteen.
Doc, Harpoon, Moose, Crab, and Goose took up the places along the wall; the rest clumped together like sardines in a barrel.
“Are we here for long?” Goose asked, rubbing his wrists.
Doc didn’t answer right away.
He walked slowly around the cell, scraped the plaster with a fingernail, ran his palm over a crack in the stone.
Then, suddenly, he gave a crooked smile.
“Any idea why they moved us into this one?”
The pirates glanced at each other.
“Heard the French whispering—locals are planning to quietly finish us off,” Moose muttered uncertainly.
“Oh yes,” Doc crouched down, running his fingers across the filthy floor. “Special microclimate. They say even rats die in here…”
Doc quickly began drawing something in the dust. At first, no one could tell what it was. But as the lines came together, they froze. A crooked cat’s face took shape—one ear curled like an arrow, pointing dead at the door.
Crab slipped toward the door without a word. He listened—then nodded once.
Someone was standing outside.
Doc nodded, stood up, and a moment later was sprawled on the bunk.
“This isn’t just a prison. It’s a pirate crypt. The foundation under us? What’s left of Vane’s powder magazine. Back in 1718, he set it off to hold off the British. Blew everything to hell. The stones melted.”
He drew the air in through his nose.
“Smell that? Still stinks of sulfur. And not by chance. Fox Hill isn’t just a prison—it’s living history from the Golden Age of Piracy. Hornigold—the sly fox—was the first to settle here. Then came Vane—stubborn as an anchor. Calico Jack—a jester with a cursed coin. And Teach—Blackbeard himself, the Devil wreathed in fire and smoke.”
“And more—Black Bart, Captain Kidd, Morgan, Bonny, Read... a hall of legends soaked in rum and blood. They didn’t just drink and brawl—they built a republic. A Pirate Republic. Early 18th century. Yeah, boys. That was quite the crew.”
He leaned back, his voice dropping a little.
“After the war with Spain, the kings wrapped up their little games and told the sea dogs to go home. But where to? Hands still remembered how to grip a boarding hook. So they came here. Nassau. A blessed place. Deep harbor, shielded from storms, and the Brits weren’t running things yet. Right here—Fox Hill—back then just a hill with a view. This is where they made their own rules. Split the loot, argued, fought—but mostly… they drank. Drank to luck, to the fallen, and to the Devil who always smiled on them.”
He paused.
“A short-lived fellowship. A republic, gone like a flash of powder. But while it burned, they were free. Free of kings, of laws, of all that ‘yes’ and ‘no’ nonsense. They were the law.”
“That’s why it still smells of sulfur. The spirit of those days, of freedom and lawlessness—it hasn’t gone anywhere. It’s in every stone of this place, in every gust of wind off the sea. This place remembers them. And you—rookies—listen. Listen and remember. Because it’s your story too, if you’ve ever dreamed of the sea. Or of freedom.”
Harpoon’s voice rasped from the shadows.
“All right, pirates—whose treasure was it, then? The one the boy found.”
Doc lifted a finger.
“Could be Black Bart—Bartholomew Roberts. Five tons of gold from a Portuguese galleon.”
A second finger.
“Or maybe Black Sam Bellamy. His Whydah sank, but not all the cargo was on board. He played the long game.”
A third.
“Could’ve been Teach. Blackbeard. His sloop Adventure disappeared. Along with what he took from Vane.”
Doc sat back and exhaled.
“Or Vane himself. He was the last who might’ve sealed a tomb of gold. He knew—treasure lasts longer than the men who bury it.”
Crab frowned.
“And the kid? They searched three hundred years, and he just stumbles on it? No map, no lead? Just luck?”
Doc nodded.
“He didn’t find the treasure. The sea chose him. And once we’re out—we’ll find him. We’ll take him. And we’ll raise him—make a real sea rogue out of him.”
Goose blinked.
“Raise him?”
Doc grinned.
“Yeah. He’ll scrub decks, read ciphers, learn to steer a ship. Become who he’s meant to be. A new captain. The spirit of Nassau isn’t dead. He’s just sleeping”
He ran his finger along a seam between the floor tiles and added softly:
“And we’re his nightmares. And we’re coming back.”
Someone, it seemed, fainted behind the iron door.
May 25, 2025
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.”