Martin Schaarschmidt
Bio
Japanologist who earns his bread as a copywriter and occasional comedian. I also train and teach boxing in a small gym in Heidelberg. I read and write much less than I should in my spare time, so Vocal is a great place to hang out. ;)
Achievements (1)
Stories (8/0)
re:emergence
"Look on the bright side," she says, aiming the gun right between my eyes. Though I can't move and am dazed, her voice rings clear in my head. Without any compassion, instead seasoned with a caustic mix of arrogance and sarcasm, she adds, "one door closes, and another opens," and pulls the trigger.
By Martin Schaarschmidt2 months ago in Fiction
Voidforce
Chapter One Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say. But what about the screams here on Earth? An obvious, almost banal question, I know. But I believe it is justified, for the vacuum of space has come to us—or something even more unfathomable than it.
By Martin Schaarschmidt6 months ago in Fiction
- Runner-Up in Dads Are No Joke Challenge
The Surprising Sweetness of Stone SoupRunner-Up in Dads Are No Joke Challenge
THE BOY deeply inhaled the loamy, sandy smell of the vineyard soil warmed by the sun. Home! After filling his lungs with air, the boy held his breath and closed his eyes. So he sat there for a while, his tousled dark blond hair making him look like a runaway convent student practicing the art of immersion. Individual rays of the sun, already high above the vineyards, fell through the canopy of the old beech tree and tickled the tip of the boy's nose, who smiled in response and wrinkled his nose a few times in delight. After about a minute, the boy inhaled audibly and opened his eyes. He then eyed the ground around him and reached for a reddish stone. He examined the stone with a critical eye before putting it in his pants pocket. Then he turned back to the ground.
By Martin Schaarschmidt7 months ago in Fiction
Aleppo
“Freedom just smells different, don’t you think?” “Ouch!” Whenever I say something silly or pathetic, Ukhti throws stones at me. Right now, she is throwing stones at me. Thinking about it, I realize that she has been throwing a lot of stones lately. Another one hits me on my left shoulder. Dammit! How the heck does she do it? She must have a store of stones in her pockets. I turn around and give her a wolf-grin, flashing my teeth. She aims another stone right at my head. I duck and it flies by, almost touching my hair.
By Martin Schaarschmidtabout a year ago in Fiction
The Prince
Prince Alexandru Ioan Cuza looked with narrowed eyes at the map that lay spread out below him on the table. His two hands were clenched in fists, the left resting on the border between Serbia, which belonged to the Ottoman Empire, and Walachia, the right on the Russian city of Kishinev, not far from the border of the Principality of Moldavia. Bucharest… Iași… The prince's eye travelled back and forth between the capitals of the two principalities he had united into the United Principalities of Moldavia and Walachia. Mihail Kogălniceanu, his closest adviser, was in the room with him. And as always when the prince was silent and had put on a look like this, Mihail knew that he would do well not to disturb him. What he didn't know was that the prince's mind was not on the revolution, as Mihail had assumed. The prince watched his realm from above, but instead of thinking of the tremendous tasks that lay ahead of him and his followers, his thoughts turned to the dream he had dreamed the night before and which left him no longer in peace. Restlessness had spread in him since those hours when he had awakened from the dream. A strange thought crossed his mind: had he woken at all? How could he be sure that he wasn't still dreaming? He frowned at the thought and turned his attention to the document on the table.
By Martin Schaarschmidtabout a year ago in Fiction
