Currants

“Grandpa, come on, start already,” my granddaughter interrupted my nostalgia. Who could resist her?

So, I began to read. The children, tucked in like logs in their sleeping bags, strained their ears in eager anticipation of what was to come. However, I was certain that they wouldn't be able to resist my soothing voice, and in a few moments, only the young teacher would be listening to me.

I was sitting in the kindergarten, reading to the children before their afternoon nap. I smiled to myself. I had disliked kindergarten since a very early age, and I feared other people's children like the plague. How does it actually happen? How does a cheerful little human being, running freely and happily around currant bushes in a green garden, turn into a frightened, timid boy?

If I remember correctly, I didn't even like the nursery, where I spent a few weeks before starting kindergarten. I don't remember exactly how long. I suppose they didn't tie me up, beat me, or yell at me there; I just remember that I cried constantly. And that was only the beginning. After three years since my birth and living in the countryside, in a warm environment at my grandmother's place, I suddenly stopped liking other children. Following my "banishment" from the paradise - that is, the currant garden - and after being rescued from the nursery, I found myself in the cruel world of strange little creatures with the arrival of September.

I didn't understand it from day one. I tried to stay under the radar and fit in. But why did they notice me? Why did they push me around? Why did they need the exact toy I was playing with? And right at the moment I took it, even though nobody had paid attention to it before. Nobody defended me, nobody stood up for me, and when the teacher came, she even scolded me for not knowing how to share. It is one of those core, primal memories that burns into your mind and shapes your socialization for a long time to come.

Fortunately, I had the period before that. A time of absolute happiness and freedom. 

Much later, a psychologist told me that perhaps thanks to that, I am "more or less normal." "More or less" - how amusing. I am grateful for that time. Though it is hazy, and I only know it from photographs, stories, and vague feelings, it still forms the solid foundation of my personality. I am grateful for that fleeting joy, the freedom to explore, and the safe boundaries set by a strict but loving grandmother. It was a life spent in a forgotten village surrounded by mountains and castle ruins -the back of beyond - where no cars drove, and my greatest enemies were the geese and our backyard rooster.

After a brief episode in the nursery and kindergarten, my mother stayed on maternity leave with my sister, so I could stay home with her. It was a bit of a relief, but the free countryside turned into a city and a concrete apartment block full of orders and prohibitions without explanation. Today, I idealize that village; surely not everything was rosy there, but that’s how I perceived it as a child.

But the worst of the kindergarten days was yet to come. A year before starting school, I had to enter the preschool class, which was a preparation for the first grade of elementary school. And it continued exactly where it had left off. With the difference that against me, as a newcomer, there were already organized, well-coordinated groups that had been practicing together for a year. A classroom of thirty children, screaming - mostly from the teachers, but from the kids too. I didn't know what to do, so I started defending myself physically. 

I fought back against unwanted pestering, having toys snatched from my hands, and being shoved around. To this day, I remember that as a punishment, I had to stay behind in the nap room while the other children played. Back then, I didn't see it as a punishment, but as a relief. I had peace, I was alone. I learned to avoid the crowd, and I was happy. Today, I look at it differently.

How would I handle those situations if I had my current knowledge and insight back then? I probably can't solve or change that now, but I can influence how I handle things today.

“But let’s go now, so we don’t wake them up again.” The now-familiar whisper snapped me out of my memories. 

The story is originally written in the Slovak language as a companion story to "The Glasses". English and Czech translations are generated by AI. The picture is  from author's archive, colored by AI. This story is fictional and any resemblance to real characters or events is purely coincidental. 

The Glasses

“You have a lovely voice,” a stranger’s whisper interrupted my thoughts. “Would you like to do this again sometime? It puts the kids to sleep beautifully after lunch.”

I have absolutely no idea how I ended up here. It felt strange to be sitting here again. And above all,
uncomfortable. Never, truly never, would I have thought I’d ever return to this place. Well, I don’t mean this specific room, but this type of institution in general. Even in my wildest dreams, it couldn't have felt more surreal.

I looked at the young kindergarten teacher, surrounded by a flock of little creatures tucked in like logs in their sleeping bags. “But let’s go now, so we don’t wake them up right away,” she said almost inaudibly.

Have you, as an adult, ever sat in a kindergarten chair? It’s hard enough to squeeze into one, but getting out is even worse. Even though I’m of a more mature age, alright, I’ll admit it, I’m retired, I didn’t want to embarrass myself in front of this beautiful young lady. 

But for some reason, I just couldn't get up. I should have worked more on my core strength at the gym, I thought to myself. “Can I help you?” She whispered into my ear.

Oh, that’s all I needed! I gave myself a powerful push, and, voilà, it worked. But I barely managed to keep my balance afterward. Whew, I need to practice this for next time. What next time, exactly? Wait, have I already been talked into this? It didn't take her long at all.

Every now and then, my wife and I help our kids by babysitting the grandkids. And when my granddaughter started kindergarten, I began walking her there to help them out with the logistics. I suppose I looked like I was enjoying it, but who wouldn't smile around that little girl? I didn't want to look like a grumpy old man in front of her. When she’s supposed to take an afternoon nap at our place, I always read to her because they say it helps her fall asleep. But apparently, she just can't manage a "nap time" at kindergarten. “Grandpa, wouldn't you come there with me sometime?” she asked me once while I was reading to her again. “You have such a beautiful, soothing voice, you could put even snakes to sleep.” A shiver went down my spine, as if someone had walked over my grave.

For decades, I managed and coached adults, but I feared other people's children like the plague. Just the thought of something similar gave me instant hives and put me on the verge of anaphylactic shock. Or at least a heart attack. It’s a good thing I wasn't drinking anything at that moment, or I probably would have drowned in a glass of water. But I calmed down almost immediately when it hit me that she was just teasing me. She did that often, and she was really good at it. And I wasn’t going to fall for it this time!

Unfortunately, it wasn't one of her pranks. She meant it seriously and wouldn't be talked out of it. As soon as her mom came to pick her up, she started manipulating her in that direction. I felt a sense of relief when they left, and I completely forgot about it. But it didn't take long, and during a typical Sunday family lunch, the little one brought it up again. How she loves it when Grandpa reads to her, how she’d love to have Grandpa in kindergarten too, to read to her before nap time so she could fall asleep easier, and how the other kids would too, and how...

Slowly but surely, my throat began to tighten. It was clear to me that she wasn't joking. Or was she? A tiny shred of hope flickered for a second. But no, it didn't look like it. Her mom and grandma joined in. “Et tu, Brute?” I thought as my own wife started persuading me. I tried to change the subject to football, but it didn't help. How about the garden? Not that either. Well, I need to excuse myself to the restroom.

In the evening, when my wife and I were left alone, it continued. They had already arranged it with the kindergarten, and they said it would look bad to back out now. Well, long story short, I held the defensive line for exactly a week. Armed with my glasses and the best book, I walked toward our kindergarten before lunch. Why am I writing "our," anyway? It’s not ours yet... whew, I don't want to get ahead of myself.

I was welcomed by one of the teachers, the prettier one. Though both were very nice. They led me into the classroom, where there were mini chairs with a mini table. Since I wanted to sit down, the mini chair was one of two options. The other was the floor. I chose the chair without thinking it through in much detail. I put on my glasses and opened the book.

The glasses - that was my cubby symbol in kindergarten. I had it embroidered or drawn on all my things.

It was constantly in front of my eyes; even my underwear was marked with it. I used to think it would follow me my whole life. I literally felt branded. I hated it. But symbols were rationed. I wanted a ball, like a proper little soccer player. I didn’t like kindergarten either, and my whole life I sincerely hoped I’d never step foot in one again.

“Grandpa, come on, start already,” my granddaughter interrupted my nostalgia. Who could resist her?

The story is originally written in the Slovak language. English and Czech translations are generated by AI. The picture is downloaded from pixabay and pixaby. This story is fictional and any resemblance to real characters or events is purely coincidental. 

Dreamcatcher IV.

Martin turned the car around and stopped on the opposite side, closer to the hospital entrance. As he passed the security booth, he remembered the sign from his dream: St. Cross Hospital. Ring the bell.

Exactly the same as in the dream.

This time, however, there was a guard inside – an older man, probably retired, earning a few extra coins. Or maybe he was just here to feel useful… to be around people.

“Where to, young man?” rasped the guard, snapping Martin out of his thoughts.

“Uh… ophthalmology,” Martin stammered.

“Well, you surely need it,” the guard chuckled. “The map’s right in front of you, and you’re asking for directions? Straight ahead, second floor, right wing.”

“I didn’t ask,” Martin muttered irritably – and immediately regretted it.

“Ah, never mind,” the guard waved it off. “You were standing there like Lot’s wife, so I just asked.”

“Right… thanks,” Martin said quietly and headed toward the main entrance.

Exactly like in the dream, he thought as he stepped inside. Even the smell is the same.

Instead of ascending to the second floor, he descended to the basement. A maze of corridors stretched before him – but this time, he followed the signs, in the direction of the arrows leading to the pathology department.

“Where do you think you’re going, young man?” came a calm voice behind him – a man in a white coat.

Again?  And with the ‘young,’ Martin thought. Do I really look that fresh-faced?

“I… I’m here to ask about one of the victims. From that train crash,” he managed to say.

“Are you a relative? Which victim? There are several here,” replied the doctor.

“Yes… the son-in-law. Of Mr. K– K–”

“You mean Kubica?”

“Yes,” Martin nodded.

“Then his daughter is already here. Your wife, I presume?”

Martin only nodded silently.

“This way, please. I’ll take you to her.”

They entered the same room he had seen in his dream. The doctor opened the door and said quietly, “I’ll leave you alone,” before closing it behind them.

Martin prayed silently that Mr. Kubica was the same man from his dream — and that he had only one daughter. It seemed his prayer was, at least partly, answered.

From where he stood, Martin saw the man from his dream — Mr. Kubica.

Now he wasn’t merely corpse-like. He was completely dead.

 Before him stood a figure in a T-shirt and tight jeans, turned away. From the shaking of her shoulders, he knew she was crying softly.

“Oh, father…” she whispered.

Martin couldn’t grasp it. He had never dreamed before — and now, his dream had become real.

How was that possible?

And why was he even here? Why had he needed to test it?

“And who are you?” came the girl’s voice.

She turned and took a step towards him.

It’s her. His daughter, Martin thought as her face came into view.

The story is originally written in the Slovak language. English and Czech translations are generated by ChatGPT. The picture is downloaded from pixabay. This story is fictional and any resemblance to real characters or events is purely coincidental. 

---

Dreamcatcher III.

“Martin... wait. Help me... please.”
His hand clung to the doorknob, ready to press it down and flee. The voice from under the blanket was faint, yet urgent.
“Only you can help me.”

Martin’s stomach tightened. What was he supposed to do? What was he even afraid of? His life? But what life? Maybe this was just a dream... but painfully real. He let go of the knob.

Step by step, he drew closer to the figure in the wheelchair. The head came into view. In the dim light from the hallway, it looked ghastly—gray, stiff, corpse-like.
“Good, you’re here, Martin,” the gaunt face spoke, bulging eyes fixed on him. “I need to ask you for something.”

“Find my daughter. She’s terrified for me, and I can’t reach her anymore. I regret arguing with her before I left. We never said goodbye. And then... the train I was on crashed.”
Headlines flashed through Martin’s mind. A terrible tragedy.

“It wasn’t supposed to end this way. Please, tell her. You must tell her.”
Then he felt it—a cold hand on his skin. His heart nearly stopped— and... he woke up.

***

“Where am I? Right... the guesthouse near our outpost at the ‘end of the world.’ Another day in the warehouse. More detective work.”
For a moment, fragments of the night’s vision clung to him, but they soon drowned in thoughts of missing goods. Reality took over. On his way out, he passed the hospital. It seemed familiar, though he couldn’t recall why.

At work, they dissected every possible method of theft. Every item had an RFID chip, scanners at the gates, at every exit. Impossible to vanish unnoticed. Removing the chip? Too risky.
“I’m guessing it’s one of the carriers,” Martin said. “But then someone would notice missing cargo. Unless...” He thought how he’d do it himself.
“We’ll go through the orders, check the types of goods that vanished, narrow down the clients and carriers. We’ll set GPS trackers. Fifty euros each—but worth it. The selection must be careful.”

The day slipped away, but the plan was ready. The trap was set. Tomorrow, he’d get up early to oversee everything. On his way home, he stopped for dinner and a drink. Again he passed the hospital. The déjà vu gnawed at him. Where had he seen it before? He drifted off to sleep, satisfied with the day’s work.

***

“Martin, do you hear me?” The corpse-like voice again. “My daughter... she’s waiting... pleeease.”
Then silence.

“What...? Nonsense,” he muttered. He turned and walked toward the door. Nothing stopped him this time. He opened it—and found himself in a labyrinth of corridors. He went against the arrows. A sign: Pathology. “Morgue... brr,” he shuddered.

He quickened his pace. Stairs. A faint light. Then a reception—empty. 

Above the window: Hospital of the Holy Cross. Ring the bell.

“No way,” he thought, slipping out unseen.

***

He woke up drenched in sweat.

“Another dream. Or was it? This can’t go on. I need a dreamcatcher. If they even sell them in this backwater.” He smirked at the thought, then scolded himself for the arrogance. Maybe he was starting to settle here.

Quick shower, dressed, no breakfast. He had to check the traps. He jumped into the car, slammed the gas. At the crossroads, his eyes caught the sign: Hospital of the Holy Cross. Left. 

He drove straight past—then it struck him. He braked hard.
What now? Turn back? Or wait till after work?

Curiosity won. He grabbed the phone and called the office. He’d be late.

The story is originally written in the Slovak language. English and Czech translations are generated by ChatGPT. The picture is downloaded from pixabay. This story is fictional and any resemblance to real characters or events is purely coincidental. 

New Labubu for a dollar

Walking home from work, my eyes fell on a stall near the school, selling school supplies. Something like a small stationery shop. The stall has a very convenient location – it stands at a strategic crossroads, between elementary schools, a high school, and a kindergarten, right at the entrance to the pastry shop. Besides the usual supplies for schoolkids (and their parents), you can also find toys or seasonal plastic sports equipment. For example, a bum sled, a kite, or a balance bike. In short, something a little kid can use.

So, I wasn’t too surprised by the sign on the stall: New Labubu for just a dollar. To be honest, a month ago I would have had to google what that even was. But today I’m educated. My wife dug up somewhere that Labubu can be very rare and is the object of collectors’ desires. When I asked what it was, she looked at me as if I had asked what bread or water was. “Don’t you know? It’s a smaller Monchhichi.” That threw me off, but after a moment’s thought I remembered something I saw at my sister’s about 40 years ago. A little plastic monster. And I’ve heard even old Monchhichis can be sold. Maybe I should tell my sister to sell the Monchhichi that’s still under my parents’ bed.

According to Wikipedia and AI: “Monchhichi (モンチッチ), also known as Mončičák in Czechoslovakia, is a kind of plush toy animal of indeterminate species originating from Japan. It usually has a childlike face with big eyes and ears. This cute toy was first released in 1974 by Mr. Sekiguchi, and in Czechoslovakia it became popular around 1985.”

I quickly compare Monchhichi with Labubu – to me they look similar, almost the same. But AI can distinguish them. “Monchhichi and Labubu are not competitors, but Monchhichi is a retro toy from the 1980s, while Labubu is a modern collectible figurine. It does resemble Monchhichis with its cute but slightly creepy look, but it’s a standalone phenomenon created by the artist Kasing Lung for the company Pop Mart. Labubu is more of a response to the trend for collectible, cute, and slightly scary toys.”

Apparently, back then it was a real craze, something like Barbie. Neither Monchhichi nor Barbie mean much to me. By 1985 I was already in high school, so I missed that. And our sons never wanted to play with dolls. I stared blankly. “Don’t look so clueless – you know, a collector’s craze, like céčka.” “Oh,” I try to dig through my memory. Of course, I remember céčka. As a “Husák’s child,” I was affected by it. Wikipedia says that céčka were used as toys, as fashion accessories, as currency for barter trade, and as stakes in games. Yes, I agree. Even though I never played with them and don’t remember anyone wearing them as fashion.

But currency – yes. I used to get céčka in exchange for helping classmates at school, and then I spent them when I wanted to play with their first digital watches or electronic games. You could also win céčka in school “gambling” games or trade them for various things. For example, for “nunchucks” or even books. Céčka came in different types and had different values. For example, a pearly one was worth five transparent ones, and one transparent was worth ten ordinary ones. I had quite a lot of céčka at home, but I don’t think I ever got sucked into the collector’s craze (like with stamps or toothpaste boxes). Still, I used them a lot for barter. Almost every day, much more often than money. And actually – I never bought a single céčko with money.

I wonder how it is now with Labubu. Of course, you can play with it, and I’ve read that people use it as a fashion accessory. But as a form of currency? Probably no one thought of that yet. Or?

Wouldn’t it be funny to walk into a pub and hear: “... I’ll give you two Labubu for a beer.” “No, I want three. It’s a Pilsner.”

The story is originally written in the Slovak language. English and Czech translations are generated by ChatGPT. The picture is original and taken by author.  

Dreamcatcher II.

He woke up drenched in sweat.

“What was that? Was it a dream? It felt so real… I still feel the cold, brr. And that man — where were we? Was he dead? A morgue? Why was I there?”
Thoughts swirled through his mind. He couldn’t stop or focus.

The alarm rang, and Martin remembered what the day had in store.
Suddenly, he wasn’t looking forward to his “trip to the end of the world.”

Even though he had slept deeply, he felt exhausted. The dark circles under his eyes betrayed the lack of rest.

“That’s what I get for running through syrup,” he thought, smiling faintly as he remembered his clumsy movements.
Time to get to work.

He sat behind the wheel, pondering what the dream could mean.
He couldn’t understand how, after so many sleepless days, he had fallen asleep so hard — and then that vivid, terrifying dream.
What was he supposed to do about it?
He tried to focus on the business meeting and the drive, but it was difficult. He was relieved when he finally parked in front of the warehouse.

The meeting started smoothly. They reviewed the facts and inspected the warehouse’s physical security. Everything was in order, according to internal standards.
They began examining the cases of missing goods over the past month, starting with the most recent.
“Show me the camera footage from Monday morning between 5:00 and 6:00,” Martin said, trying to drown out his night’s mental echoes with work.

The day was ending, and they hadn’t made much progress.
Luxury goods were disappearing somewhere between the warehouse and delivery to the end customer.
They still couldn’t pinpoint exactly where in the logistics chain the losses occurred.
“Maybe we’ll have to check the drivers,” he thought as he booked a room at a guesthouse.

“How many nights will you stay?” a voice on the phone interrupted his thoughts.
Martin didn’t know. He would have preferred not to stay at all, but that wasn’t possible.
“Reserve it through Friday,” he murmured. “By Friday, we need to get to the bottom of this.”

Amid the day’s rush, he had forgotten the previous night.
He had focused so intensely that he wiped away all memory of his sleep troubles.
He checked in at the “Peaceful Sleep” guesthouse and grabbed a baguette and a cola from the vending machine on his way to the room.
A quick shower — he didn’t even finish eating, and sank back into bottomless sleep.

***

And then the smell again. This time, he remembered it.
He found himself in the same room, with gurneys on wheels and covered bodies.
He was sure it was a morgue — likely in a hospital basement, windowless.
It looked like a scene from a thriller he wouldn’t want to live through.

He stepped toward the door.

“Martin,” a voice called from one of the gurneys.
“Probably a hallucination. Or a dream… but vivid,” he thought, moving laboriously toward the door.
His hand reached for the handle, ready to escape into the dimly lit corridor.

“Martin, wait!” The urgent voice made him turn around.

The story is originally written in the Slovak language. English and Czech translations are generated by ChatGPT. The picture is downloaded from pixabay. This story is fictional and any resemblance to real characters or events is purely coincidental. 

Dreamcatcher I.

Martin rose from his computer, exhausted. It was already late. He still had to prepare for tomorrow’s business trip, a long drive across the country.

One of the warehouses had been losing high-end goods for weeks, and local management had no clue how to stop it.
“I’ll handle it,” he thought confidently.

“But enough for today,” he sighed. “I need to get some sleep. Long drive ahead. Just brush my teeth and...”

Tonight felt different.

As soon as he lay down, he felt sleep press gently on his eyelids.
“A miracle,” flashed through his mind — and then, at last, he slept deeply.
For the first time in days.

***

Martin Moravec was head of warehouse operations at a major logistics company.
Education, intelligence, focus, and relentless work had brought him far.
He’d started low in management and worked his way to the top.
Recently promoted, he now reported directly to the company’s owner, a man who valued him highly. There were even talks of offering Martin a share. Secretly, he hoped for it.

He’d loved sports since childhood — cycling and swimming most of all.
But lately, there was never time.
Too many hours in the office, too many behind the wheel.
Seventy thousand kilometers a year, always needing to be there in person.
“This can’t go on,” he often told himself.

He thought he was happy.
A good job, money, status — everything that mattered.
A few good friends he rarely saw anymore.
“I should fix that. Take a trip with them,” he often thought, but never did.

He wanted a family. Children.
But how, when there was no time even to think about it?
He kept promising himself he’d change.
No energy for dating — waiting instead for lightning to strike.
But it never did.
A few relationships, none lasting.
Work. Always work.
“Just one more year, then I’ll slow down,” he told himself.
He knew he was lying.

Almost forty.
No kids.
“God, how do I make it happen?” he wondered in the middle of another sleepless night.

*** 

Then he smelled something strange. A sharp, chemical scent. Like standing in a hardware store surrounded by cleaning products.
But he owned nothing like that — the cleaner brought her own supplies.
This was stronger. Chlorine. Formaldehyde. A hospital smell.

Something was wrong.

He opened his eyes and realized, to his shock, that he wasn’t in his bedroom.
He lay on a bed — or something like it — in an unfamiliar room.
He tried to get up, but his body wouldn’t respond.
Slowly, painfully, he sat up. His movements felt thick, sluggish — like swimming through syrup.

As his eyes adjusted to the dimness, he realized he wasn’t alone.
Several beds.
Figures lying on them.

“But I went to sleep alone,” he thought, heart pounding.
The air was icy.
“Feels like I’m sleeping in a fridge.”

“Hello? Anyone here?” he whispered — but his voice came out as a rasp.
He stood, unsteady, and approached the nearest bed.
Someone lay beneath the sheet.
He touched a foot — cold.

“What the hell…”

He moved closer to the head. “Sir? Do you know where we are?” he croaked.

No answer.

“The guy looks dead enough…” he thought.
And in that moment, he understood where he was.

The story is originally written in the Slovak language. English and Czech translations are generated by ChatGPT. The picture is downloaded from pixabay. This story is fictional and any resemblance to real characters or events is purely coincidental.