Dagmar Goeschick
Stories (115)
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Shogun
The book "Shogun" by James Clavell is based on a genuine story that is so ridiculous that it should be classified as fantasy. Every word, every syllable transports the reader into the enchanting world of Japanese culture and the cruel regulations of the samurai. You feel it with every heartbeat.
By Dagmar Goeschick3 years ago in Critique
Stranger
I was reading, reading, reading. I couldn't stop myself. Dean Koontz's (Strangers) "Schwarzer Mond" kept me awake. The novel had such a vivid effect on me that every word stayed with me. I received the impression that I was a character in this book. I was completely absorbed by the book and its language.
By Dagmar Goeschick3 years ago in BookClub
"Little Muck"
The Adventures of “Little Muck” It was once upon a time. A small man with a large head resided in the city of Nicaea. Everyone referred to him as the Little Muck. The adults were quite courteous to Muck. However, the kids on the street taunted and mocked him frequently. That's why he only went out on the town once a month.
By Dagmar Goeschick3 years ago in Families
How does the salt go into the sea?
"How does the salt get into the sea?" the small girl asked her father, her wide brown eyes fixed on him. Her father was not just her DAD, but also her best friend, and he meant everything to her. He had all of the answers to the questions she was continuously asking. He was the one who taught her to look deeper and closer. He was the one who taught her how to appreciate the natural beauty around her. For her, he was the rock in the sea.
By Dagmar Goeschick3 years ago in Fiction
Born to be a Hero
Born to be a woman is an issue in a world where men believe they always know better. Men are causing more issues, but women must bear the next heir, preferably a male, work in the kitchen or give orders to the kitchen and to house workers, learn to sing, do needlework, and that's all.
By Dagmar Goeschick3 years ago in History
The Sunday-Family-Walk
I'll never forget the Sunday family walks in the fields, the forest, or just down the street. My father and mother were arm in arm, with my sister and I in front of them. We were hopping, laughing, and tormenting one other. For all of us, it resembled a ritual, albeit a significant one.
By Dagmar Goeschick3 years ago in Art
