blackbeeno3569

[blackbeeno3569]

Když svoje pětileté dítě nadchnete postavou víly hloupější než průměrný blatouch, odsoudíte se k improvizované literární tvorbě na dlouho dopředu 😅

Žabky

To jednoho dne víla Amálie zaslechla kluky na břehu řeky, jak si povídali o házení žabek.

“Já házím těmi nejmenšími,” svěřoval jeden kamarádům svoje tajemství.

“A mě vždycky letí nejdál!” vychloubal se druhý.

“Moje nejvýš!” trumfoval ho třetí.

Amálie ještě nikdy neviděla žáby létat. Ale hned se rozhodla, že to vidět musí.

K večeru už číhala v rákosí a během chvilky měla plný lopuchový košík žabek.

“Jen počkejte,” mluvila k nim laskavě, “hned se proletíte.”

Žáby se samy od sebe k létání neměly, ale Amálie si pamatovala, že se jim musí pomoci. Během chvilky tak první žába letěla vysokým obloukem nad řekou - roztáhla nohy v letu a zděšeně vykvákla, než zmizela pod hladinou.

A rovnou si plavala stěžovat.

Když vodník Hannes vypochodoval z řeky, v patách mu skákalo už deset rozzlobených žabek.

Víla se ale zlobila taky. V košíku ji zbývala poslední žabka.

“Ještě že jsi tady,” zamračila se na vodníka, “ty tvoje žáby jsou úplně rozbité. Vůbec nelétají!”

To Hannese překvapilo natolik, že jí ani hned nevynadal.

“Jak, nelétají?”

“Kluci s nimi hází a pak létají,” vysvětlovala víla, “ale mě, mě neletěla ani jedna!”

Hannes na ni chvíli beze slova zíral. Pak se sehnul pro placatý kamínek a hodil ho naplocho po hladině řeky. Kamínek letěl krásně - pětkrát se pěkně odrazil. Jako žabička.

Amálie ho sledovala s široce rozevřenýma očima. Pak se podívala na vodníka. Pak na jedenáctou žábu. Pak zase na Hannese.

“Možná,” zkusila opatrně, “nemluvili o opravdových žabkách?”

Jedenáctá žába hlasitě kvákla, jedním skokem se osvobodila z košíku a zmizela v rákosí.

Ten večer Hannes strávil tím, že vílu učil házet žabky. Z oblázků.

[blackbeeno3569]

Don’t trust the shadows :)

[blackbeeno3569]

“Let’s make a video!

I’ll play the villain, I look better.”

The same kid strikes again.

“Why do some villains have names after sweets?”

???

“Deserter from dessert, mafian (member) from muffin…”

The same kid of mine who demands Tooth Fairy gifts for elders…

[blackbeeno3569]

How the time flies with The Apiarist…

There was the fancomic. Then the stories.

Now the completed novel, removed from fanfic.

And now, apparently, came the time of the fairy tales:

Of Night Flowers

Fear and the Apiarist understood each other. That was no surprise. One looked after dread, the other tended to sorrow and heartache across the world. And so, when the last of Fear’s nightmares flew off into the dawn and the black bees returned back to the Apiarist, both were glad not to return to empty home.

But one day, something strange happened. The spectral bees began to fly slowly, reluctantly, dozing on window frames, and the honey stores began to shrink. Their mistress’s smile faded from her face—there were simply too many human sorrows for her to carry.

So Fear decided he had to cheer her up. He knew how much she loved flowers—after all, the Palace was full of her herbs and blooms. But flowers as a gift—that called for something exceptional. Something far more precious than ordinary weeds, Fear mused.

And then he had an idea.

The most enchanted blossoms grow in dreams. And Fear knew how to walk through the darkest, most terrifying, most haunted dreams of all.

With the setting sun, the first dreamers drifted off, and all he had to do was step into their nightmares.

In the first dream, a deep black forest stood still. It bent toward him with a thousand sharp branches. But the spirit raised a hand, and the darkness lit up with the pale glow of mushrooms and ferns. Glowing, translucent ferns—Fear gathered them first. And the soft earth beneath him let him fall straight into the next dream.

He landed on the hard stones, and the darkness was replaced by a scorching sun. A barren plain stretched around the second sleeper, and cries echoed in the air: “Run! Run!” Yet the desert never changed, never moved. The dreamer ran in panic, not knowing from what.

Fear paid him no mind. He lifted one of the hot stones and struck it against the ground. The stone cracked in two, and from it rose a strange red bloom. It glowed and snapped at his fingers with sharp teeth.

Then the dream shattered into pebbles, which whirled and scattered, carrying the dark spirit into the dream of the next sleeper.

In the third dream, tall walls rose up. This was no dreamscape—this was a classroom. The third dreamer stood at the blackboard, dreaming they knew nothing. Time crawled like a snail. Every second stretched into hours. On the windowsill grew a cactus, every needle sharply outlined against the tense silence.

Fear smiled and spoke aloud the few words the dreamer was so desperately trying to remember.

The cactus split open, and from within bloomed a golden flower. Fear plucked it, and the flower watched him with a quiet, accusing gaze, wherever he went.

One nightmare after another vanished beneath Fear’s long fingers, and in his arms grew a strange bouquet. It glowed, it sizzled, it growled and whimpered softly.

At last, he leapt out of the dream and stood before the gates of the Palace. He looked down with satisfaction at the dream-harvest in his arms. No one else in the world could have gathered a bouquet like this.

But just then, a swarm of angry, buzzing black bees darted past his ears.

The Apiarist had returned home after a long and heavy night.

Startled, Fear recoiled—and in that single brief moment, he lost the thread of magic that held the dream-flowers together.

They dissolved into the light of the coming dawn and were gone.

Fear muttered a quiet curse and looked around in despair—there was almost no time left…

“Their wings are aching. One always has to remind people not to run from sorrow,” the Apiarist complained instead of greeting him as she reached the gate.

Fear smiled and discreetly brushed soil from his palm.

“Good thing you remember. But—I’ve still got something for you.”

The Apiarist breathed in the scent of forest violets he placed in her hand, and for a moment, forgot all the world’s sorrow.

“Thank you,” she smiled, and kissed him on the cheek. “Now let’s go home.”

And so, into one of the darkest corners of the world, good cheer returned.

It smelled of violets.

[blackbeeno3569]

“Why do some villains have names after sweets?”

???

“Deserter from dessert, mafian (member) from muffin…”

The same kid of mine who demands Tooth Fairy gifts for elders…

[blackbeeno3569]

🇨🇿 Další příručka, tentokráte ke kroji novohrozenskému aneb orszáckému:

(🇬🇧 A simple guide on the traditional dress that women wore in Nový Hrozenkov, Moravia):

🇨🇿 Asi není tak podrobná, takže pokud něco není jasné, můžete se podívat i na předchozí příručku jihokyjovskou, případně na tento příspěvek o rukávcích. Pokrývku hlavy jsem tu neřešila.

(🇬🇧 It's similar to a guide I made on the traditional clothing from around Kyjov, which is translated into English)

[blackbeeno3569]

Took The Apiarist manuscript on a Scout Camp to revise.

It has barely survived :)

[blackbeeno3569]

[blackbeeno3569]

CHAPTER 2 OF ""CHESS"" IS HERE

40% LESS CHESS, 10% MORE FISH

[blackbeeno3569]

Morana’s ermines stopped by for a visit.

Something fast and white climbed up Hazel’s skirt, causing her to flinch in surprise. Two snow white ermines settled on her shoulders, sharp claws painfully scratching bare skin. They both turned their snouts to the Scholar, growling darkly.

For the tiny creatures they were, they were more cute than anything else.

However the Scholar quickly took a few steps back.

“See?” he hissed furiously, “that’s Morana’s vermin!”

https://archiveofourown.org/works/65393128/chapters/168280306

[blackbeeno3569]

…and it ended well.

And I got my certified gestalt prize in sweet form. Gods bless sweet friends :)

I wrote two final papers about gestalt therapy.

One is called The Apiarist.

The other is about to be defended in front of a committee within an hour. 😶‍🌫️

[blackbeeno3569]

I wrote two final papers about gestalt therapy.

One is called The Apiarist.

The other is about to be defended in front of a committee within an hour. 😶‍🌫️

[blackbeeno3569]

Halloween Problem

Hannes lit his pipe. Hazel inclined her head. 

"I DON'T CARE ABOUT THE CULTURAL EXPECTATION - GET THE HELL OUT FROM HERE!" 

Hazel opened her mouth, closed it again, started anew: "Are they like this every Halloween?" 

"This is LITERALLY the hundred and fiftieth time I'm trying to explain to you I did NOT steal your holiday, Samhain, can't you be reasonable just for once-" A not very well carved pumpkin flew through the air and the Boogeyman barely dodged it. 

"Not every one," Hannes waved with the pipe in his hand vaguely, "only when they cross their paths. So like... every second or third year." 

"IT'S A ROTTEN HOLIDAY ALREADY AND YOU ARE MAKING IT WORSE JUST OUT OF SPITE!"

 "It's not MY fault people stuck ghost stories with it!" 

"My favourite holiday show though, each and every time," the Wassermann concluded. Hazel grimly nodded, watching the fierce argument unravel. Eventually both of them moved out of the way of another flying object. It seemed like a very cheap and way too cheerful skull. 

"What would you think about tea and maybe a few songs?" Hazel asked eventually. 

Hannes decided that while Samhain and Shadow yelling at each other are always fun to watch, maybe it was enough for another three years. 

Shadow found them later in the kitchen of the riverside house, arguing about the right key for whatever music piece despite it being almost morning. 

"You two could have been some moral support," he snarled. Samhain was very decisive about ruining this whole night from sheer hatred both for him and for that holiday she was cursed with. He got rid of her only when she finally spotted some nicely lit and definitely not Halloween themed graveyard. "Finally a proper approach," as she said. 

Hazel patted his hand lovingly: "Don't be silly. We both know how much you love to be rightfully angry at her." 

Hannes poured a third mug of tea: "Imagine that you'd have nothing to sulk about now, despite having the annual 'Why Is Halloween The Worst Holiday Ever And Absolutely Your Fault' fest. That would be a true nightmare, Schatten."

[blackbeeno3569]

It is said that on the midnight after a child's birth, three Fates appear to determine the child's future. The first tells how many years the child shall live. The second, whether they will live in hunger or prosperity. And the third, Death, to determine how the child shall breathe its last.

[blackbeeno3569]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/65393128/chapters/168280306

So, this thing is finished! :)

I was rather surprised that The Apiarist in the end made over 44k words… But here it is.

If anyone would like to tell me what you think about it, it would be fantastic. I could use some feedback and work on it more.

[blackbeeno3569]

Bread Cat

Author: our 4 yo kid.

Had to let that fluffy beast see the world.

[blackbeeno3569]

“Give it up.”

Hannes didn’t bother to even jump down from the willow he was sitting at, feet comfortably resting on one of the branches.

The Boogeyman stared at him in pure disbelief.

The Wassermann waved with the pipe in his hand: “You didn’t need the Apiarist before, you don’t need her now. It doesn’t work, so give it up. And if you truly insist, maybe if you’d beg and crawl enough, Samhain could take you back,” he looked down with zero sympathy, “she might take you back just to torture you with it, but you’ll survive.”

“I came here for advice!” Shadow snarled at him.

Now Hannes didn’t joke anymore and got down from the tree: “I’m giving you one. An easy way out. For your good - and hers. She has more to deal with than your short temper.”

https://archiveofourown.org/works/65393128/chapters/168280306