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Gunnar M. Schröeder
My name is Gunnar Milkhause Schröeder, and if you’re wondering about the umlaut over the ö, yes, it’s real. So is the head full of voices. When I was a child, I didn’t just daydream—I conducted symphonies of imagination. Entire civilizations rose and fell behind my eyelids. Mars wasn’t just a red dot in a textbook; it was a desert kingdom ruled by librarians who rode sand-foxes. The moon? A quiet retreat for retired astronauts who’d grown tired of breathing and just wanted to float in peace. I climbed Everest in my socks, scaled Machu Picchu between math problems, and once walked the Amazon rainforest during a particularly long lunch…
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Gunnar M. Schröeder
Me llamo Gunnar Milkhause Schröeder, y si te preguntas por la diéresis sobre la ö , sí, es real. También lo es la cabeza llena de voces. De niño, no solo soñaba despierto, dirigía sinfonías de la imaginación. Civilizaciones enteras surgían y caían tras mis párpados. Marte no era solo un punto rojo en un libro de texto; era un reino desértico gobernado por bibliotecarios que montaban zorros de arena. ¿La Luna? Un refugio tranquilo para astronautas retirados que se habían cansado de respirar y solo querían flotar en paz. Escalé el Everest en calcetines, escalé Machu Picchu entre problemas de matemáticas y una vez caminé por la selva amazónica…
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Prince Erik, The Seafarer
The wind howled through the high cliffs of Hrafnnes, rattling the stone walls of the palace and carrying with it the bitter scent of frozen pine. Inside the great hall, King Akbar paced before the great fire, its orange tongues doing little to chase away the cold that had settled deep in his bones. Beside him, Queen Egrida stood, her silken robes a muted gray that mirrored the sky outside. For years they had stood together on the throne, their rule marked by prosperity and peace, but their joy was incomplete, hollowed by a single, aching absence. He was fifteen winters old when the iron clad scent of salt first…
