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. 

The Door

She approached the unfamiliar door and nervously pulled the key from her pocket. She took a deep breath, unlocked it, paused, and then opened the door. To her horror, what she saw nearly took her breath away. She stepped back a few paces, unsure whether she should go on, but something tempted her to cross the threshold. She inhaled. A voice inside her asked whether she’d be able to return if she went any further. Maybe she should leave the door ajar, just in case. Just don’t lose the key.

She remembered she had seen that door before. In a dream. In fact, she’d seen it in several dreams. Each time, the vision was crystal clear; a hallway, like something from a castle. A carpeted floor, walls partly wood-paneled, partly fabric-covered. No portraits of old ancestors, just flickering electric sconces leading toward large brown doors with beautiful metal fittings. She had no idea what the dream meant, or why it had started appearing.

                                                                                * * *

A few months earlier, she had started pondering the meaning of her existence. But why? She felt pretty happy. Nothing seemed missing. She had more than enough; work, money, entertainment, vacations every quarter; diving was a demanding hobby. Thoughts of work, hobbies, and friends filled her whole horizon. But that February, she caught the flu and was stuck home alone. Once the worst of the illness passed but she still had to rest, nothing entertained her. She was left alone just by herself. And she didn’t know what to do with that. She was simply bored but couldn’t even move. She felt lost, staring into the void of her future.

“Am I really happy with everything I have?” she wondered. “What about freedom?” her thoughts continued. “I have enough money, so I must have freedom,” she thought. “But what’s the price of money?” she heard. Suddenly, it was as if two foreign characters were arguing in her mind. And she was merely the observer. Slowly, their outlines came into focus, then she saw them clearly. The first, a woman in her prime, defended her current happiness. She named her Maggie. The second, obviously younger and visibly cheeky, opposed her like a teenager. “You’ll be Cami,” she decided silently, and watched the play unfold before her eyes.

“What do you mean, what’s the price of money?” Maggie wouldn’t back down. “Well, how much effort does it take her to earn it?” Cami cut in. “She gets up every day and goes to work. She has to dress nicely, look presentable, and spend time. A lot of time. Most of her life, really. Sometimes she doesn’t feel like it. Often, she doesn’t and forces herself out of bed. And that fake stress... No wonder she drinks it away in the evenings. That’s it, the price of money is time. She’s trading time for money. Her time is the price,” Cami beamed.

“No pain, no gain. Every child knows that,” Maggie snapped. “How would she live without money? No rest, constant worry about bills. No vacations, or dinners with friends. Think she could afford that? She’d be sleeping under a bridge. And don’t even get me started on taxes.”

“I’m not against working. I’m against employment, against selling your time for money. Everyone needs to do something. But imagine if she didn’t have to go to work and could do what she loved. Like diving. She’d live by the sea. Wake up, just steps from the water. Make a nice breakfast, or not, and dive into the waves,” Cami explained patiently.

“Sounds like a nice little utopia. And what would she eat, catch fish? Search for pearls?” Maggie fired back. “I suggest we try an experiment. Leave it to me. I’ll give her a…”, but didn’t finish.

                                                                                * * *

“Fever. Hallucinations. Just a dream? What was that, it felt so real,” she woke up, drenched in sweat. “Great, 39°C… I can barely see. One more Panadol and back to bed. I just want this over.”

                                                                                * * *

“… give her a key that…”

                                                                                * * *

Once she recovered, she thought about the dream for a while. It had been so vivid. But as time went on; work, plans, friends - she forgot. Later, near the end of May, she stayed home one evening, opened a bottle, and drank to another exhausting workday. How long could this go on?

Her eyes fell to the floor near the dresser. Under the bottom drawer, a yellowed scrap of paper was visible. “Clearly, I haven’t cleaned in a while,” she thought. She rose from the couch and staggered toward it. Bent down, picked it up. Something was written on it. As she unfolded the paper, a key fell out. 

“Liberty Avenue 1.” She mustered the courage to go there, finally on August 4th.

                                                                                * * *

What she saw was more surprising than frightening. She certainly hadn’t expected anything like this behind the door at the end of the hallway. Behind the door, it wasn’t a room, but a long, sun-drenched beach. In the distance, the sea shimmered. She heard the splash of waves and the cries of seagulls. “Are my senses deceiving me? What magic is this?” she thought. Finally, she found the courage to take a small step. Then another. And a third.

For a moment, she stood—one foot over the threshold, the other in the hallway. She looked back, still uncertain, but an unstoppable longing for adventure pulled her forward. She breathed in the salty air and took another step. Clutching the key in her pocket, she didn’t look back. She walked down the beach and felt like a bird. 

 

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.