Casper Helenius

On life, career, personal economy and dreams

Roger’s story – Complete first draft

Unedited, uncorrected, rough first draft.

The chosen photo is published under the public domain, Creative Commons 0 license by Paul Itkin through unsplash.com.

Enjoy.

Roger’s story

By Paul Itkin

The morning was particularly cold. Roger could feel the air he was breathing prickling in his nostrils. He pulled up the fur, it was from a bear he had killed at least two decades ago, in an effort to keep him warm.

It didn’t work.

Roger was old. Frankly, he couldn’t remember how old any longer. He simply had stopped counting. His long, white hair had thinned quite a bit during this winter and he had felt increasingly more tired than ever before. His high cheek bones had protruded under his drooping eyes and the clothes had begun to hang on his frail body.

He didn’t feel any pain, though he knew everything was probably not well. Roger was a loner. A hermit. He lived by himself in his small cottage, built by his own hands a long, long time ago. His wife, Flora, had spent her last years in a home. He wanted to take care of her, but he couldn’t. He didn’t have the money, and he didn’t feel the love.

It had been hard at the end. Roger used to say, that the doctors took her away from him. It made it easier for him. But his conscience had a better memory than him, so he knew that it had been the disease. Black spots on her brain had caused her to lose contact with, well, everything. Near the end, she didn’t recognize their children and at she didn’t recognize Roger. They had tried everything. Pictures, photos, music and even reruns of the tv-shows they had used to enjoy together in their house in Sitka. Not even the faintest glimmer of remembrance.

That was when Roger gave up. He gave up on her, packed a bag with some canned foods, bottled water, his toolbox and some clean clothes and drove out into the wilds. It was early fall, and he had had plenty of time to build a basic shack for him to stay in during the winter.

Over the years, the shack had grown. Not much, but enough to add a common room, with a small table, a chair and an old iron stove he had found dumped in the woods on one of his tours around the area in the spring after he had finished his first take on the shack.

Roger had lived here ever since. He had hunted wildlife and caught plenty of fish, collected roots and berries and he soon made what he thought of as a fairly decent living by himself in the Alaskan outback.

This morning, however, he sensed something was, if not wrong then at least a little out of place. He couldn’t decide if it was a smell or if it was an energy that had changed around him. Despite him pulling up the warm bear fur, he couldn’t sleep any longer. He sat up, slowly, he was after all an old man living on his own, and he didn’t want to risk breaking or busting something in his back. He swung his legs over the edge of the wooden bed and put his wrinkly feet down on the boarded floor.

The floor was ice cold to the touch. He shuddered for a second, lifted his feet with a slight grin across his face, before putting them down again. He was a summer person, that was for sure, but he accepted the turn of the year as something inevitable and took the coming of winter as something as inescapable as getting old.

Roger took a deep breath, letting the cold, frosty air fill his lungs before exhaling deeply. “Strange,” he thought, “no breath? Guess the air isn’t that cold anyhow.”
He threw back the fur and heavy blankets. His frail body, closely resembling a skeleton, with a thin layer of grey skin hanging loosely like old sacking on the worn bones.
He slowly got up, and casually noted that his back didn’t hurt today. “Just another curiosity to add to the long list of curiosities”. He smiled at himself.

The long life Roger had lived, had been full of curious incidents. He hadn’t fought in any of the wars, all in all a random event, given that he had been a grownup man during the last two-thirds of the most violent century of modern time. He had made quite a good loving for the family, despite him having no real education – something that would have been impossible for a man born just 30 years later than himself.

He put on his bunny slippers. He made them from rabbits he had caught and skinned many years ago. He also put on a cotton shirt, once white, and took a look in the broken mirror he had hung over his old bucket. It wasn’t an Ikea-solution, but it did the job as a sink.

He splashed some of the very cold water on his face. It brought refreshment instantly, and he started to feel a little better. He stretched his back and felt his bladder croak.

He went towards the door and reached for his coat on the nail in the door frame.

It wasn’t there.

“Bloody ‘ell” he muttered, but he knew he didn’t have the time to look around for it.

As he opened the door, the ice clear winter sunlight blinded him for a brief moment. He stood still, adjusting his eyes to the bright outside, the sun reflected like by a disco ball in the virgin crystals of the night’s snowfall.

It took only a few second. Then he could see. He walked down the small flight of stairs, three steps, and stepped into the cold snow. He could really feel the bladder now, and as the snow was freezing his feet, he needed to skip fast through the snow to reach his outhouse.

He took another step. Then he stopped where he stood.

There were footsteps outside the shack. They lead away from the door.

For a second, Roger forgot what he was on his way to do. He didn’t notice letting himself go, and frankly he didn’t care.

“What’s ‘is?” he asked loudly, as if expecting the tree and the wild animals to answer.
“Did I have company, I di’n’t know of?” he asked, again loudly and unanswered.

He took a step, then another, following the footsteps leading away from his home. He had forgotten about pissing, he had forgotten about cold around his feet and his bare legs. He just waddled through the snow, further and further away from the house.

The warm beams from the sun made the snow glisten, casting rays of light all around him, as he zigzagged among the naked trees.

He lost track of time. Had he walked for half an hour? An hour? Maybe two? He didn’t care. The tracks lead him further away from the house than he had been for years, but he kept getting drawn towards them.

Roger stepped into a small circle among the trees. Something lay in the center. He stopped on the edge of the clearing, trying to make out what it was. The footsteps lead straight to it. He took a step inside the circle. The intensity of the sunlight seemed stronger. Roger thought that it was probably due to the lack of trees in the circle.

He came closer to the whatever it was in the snow in front of him. He still couldn’t quite make out the details. Something grey, almost white. As he came closer, the light became more intense.

As he took the final step towards the bundle in the center of the circle, he felt almost completely blinded by the light. He reached down, felt the soft touch of stiff hair; the fur of a boar. “Strange” he thought. It wasn’t boar season yet. He grabbed the fur. It was loose. He pulled it off, and felt his heart skip a beat.

As the almost completely white light, too bright to be just the winter sun, completely engulfed him, the pieces fell into place and he suddenly felt light as a feather. He felt warm, at ease, forgiven.

Through the beams of light, he watched as the figure below. He had recognized the face and the coat. And as he ascended into the warm winter light, he could not let his eyes go of the bundle below him. He felt happy. He felt at peace.

The bundle, smiling, eyes turned to the sky, was him.

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Ben’s story – Complete first draft

Unedited, uncorrected, rough first draft.

The chosen photo is published under the public domain, Creative Commons 0 license by Ismael Nieto through unsplash.com.

Enjoy.

Ben’s story

by Ismael Nieto

“Daddy?”

The timid voice woke him up mid-dream. Ben, alone in bed, tried to adjust his vision to the almost complete darkness of the bedroom.
As he laid there, unable to see clearly, he couldn’t help wonder, if he really heard the voice, or if it was just a part of a dream.

That had happened a lot lately.

His therapist, Dr Manley, had said that it was quite normal. Quite expectable, even. It had been stressful times, and the mind reacted to this in strange, often unpredictable ways.

Janet and Ben had split up 2 months ago. At the same time it came as a shock, but in all honesty it was inevitable.

High-school sweet hearts, star quarterback and lead cheerleader, prom king and queen; just that perfect couple all the losers from small-town USA always strived to be. Ben had gone to MIT, following his life-long dream of becoming an electrical engineer. He loved his job. A job, that would always give back just what he put into it. Electronics never did anything of its own. Ben liked this. Janet taught music at middle school. She was a gifted pianist, with a keen ear, able to play almost anything you asked of her, but putting in her own style and soul. And she loved children, and they loved her. She was a feeler, affectionate, and very emotional. In many ways, the diametrical opposite of Ben. But you know what they say, opposites attract.

Yet, they no longer lived together. They hardly spoke, and mostly just texted each other, though not very often. Some would say they grew apart. That was the nice version.

Truth is, they were torn apart. They lost their daughter, Bridget, half a year ago.

Bridget was seven years old, when she disappeared. Ben had taken her to the park to play. It was a beautiful day, not a cloud on the blue sky, and the park was full of people, lot of children and joyous laughter and screams. Bridget had played on the swing set, when Ben headed for the ice cream stand. He must have turned his back to her two, maybe three minutes – no more than three minutes, he always told himself, while standing in line. He had checked his phone, emails, Facebook. Followed an idea for a project at work. Looked at the other people standing in line.

When it was his turn to order, he turned to call Bridget over, but she was no longer there. Panic hit instantaneously. That panic every parent, who has lost a child at the mall, only knows. Bone chilling, spine tingling, nauseating panic. Ben scouted the playground, eyes flinching from left to right, looking for Bridget’s pink dress and long, dark pig tails. Was that her by the monkey bars? In the sandbox? Yes, it was her by the sandbox! Why would she leave the swing set when she knew better?
He half-ran to the sandbox, only to stop a few feet from the edge. The pig tailed girl had turned around. Definitely not Bridget.

Calling the police was easy. Janet not so much. How do you tell your child’s mother that you lost her child?

The police had been very helpful over the next weeks. They had both taken some time off from work. It was hard to focus on anything else for Ben, besides finding Bridget. Janet could not think of anything else but blaming Ben.

The weather had gone cold, the day the police called Ben up. They had found Bridget. She had been strangled and dumped in the woods outside town. Ben had dropped the phone and missed the rest of the call. Janet had immediately known who as calling and why. She had moved out of the house a few weeks later. She couldn’t live with Ben any longer.

Ben had adjusted to the lack of light in his bedroom. He held his breath, listening intensely. Did he imagine things?

There was a light tap on glass. Tap-tap-tap. He was sure of it. He silently pushed the duvet back and stood up out of bed. The cold floor under his soles woke him up a bit further. The sound came again. Tap. Tap-tap. It came from the living room.

Ben walked slowly, warily, down the hallway towards the living room. He didn’t turn on the lights. He kept telling himself he wanted to keep his night sight. But truly, he was too scared.

He peeked slowly around the corner from the hallway into the living room. He could see the door to the garden from where he was standing. He cursed. He had drawn the curtains when he went to bed, something he never did. Why bother, he had nothing worth breaking in to steal.

Tap-tap.

The small hairs on his neck stood out, a chill running down his spine. He thought the tapping was more determined now. Did the tapper know he was standing there?
He stood on the corner of the hallway for a few moment, not knowing what to do. Should he ignore the tapping? Should he call the police? He could grab a kitchen knife so he could defend himself.

On the other hand, what kind of burglar taps the window multiple times before breaking in? Ben felt foolish. Childish. He turned the corner.

He sneaked slowly towards the garden door, edging along the kitchen table, around the breakfast nook.

Less than 2 feet to the curtain now.

His shaking finger tips took a light hold of the curtain. He held his breath.

As he started pulling the curtain slowly to the side.

Tap-tap-tap! This time rapidly.

Ben shrieked, let go of the curtain and jumped a step back.

The night outside the garden door seemed quiet. The distant muffled roar of planes and trains and cars passing by on the high way off to the east, but nothing unusual.

For a second, Ben just stood there. Was it just a dream? Someone playing tricks on him?

He mustered up all the courage he could find, took a deep, slightly shivering breath, and grabbed firmly around the curtain edge, and yanked it to the side.

For what seemed like forever, he just stood there, eyes fixed on what has beyond the glass in the garden door.

It looked back at Ben. She looked back.

Ben’s brain had suffered a shock. Like had he been struck with a sledgehammer dead between the eyes.

Tap-tap-tap.

Bridget’s pale, dirty, tiny finger tapped the glass garden door again. Her hair was cluttered with dirt and soil, greasy and clinging to her head with large, bald areas of her head visible underneath.

The skin on her face had swollen, like it had been in water for too long. And yet, it seemed saggy, like too-worn stockings, at the same time. Her ocean-deep, blue eyes had lost their colour and were now just a glossy empty white. Like staring at snowy peaks on a winters night. Her mouth was gaping, like a guppy’s, and though she seemed to be talking, no words left her mouth.

Ben felt her blind gaze pierce through the glass. He sank to his knees, gasped for breath and cuddled up on the floor in front of the garden door, tears slowly streaming from his eyes.

He was awoken by her scream. It cut through his bones and kept ringing in his brain while he slowly opened his eyes.

She was still outside the door. Tapping the glass, mouthing something he couldn’t apprehend. He was absolutely sure he was looking at Bridget, or whatever would have been left of her after months in a coffin. But his rational, scientific mind could not put together the bricks he was laying out. Bridget was dead. Buried. The dead stayed dead. He knew that for a fact.

He sat up on his knees, pushed his sweaty hair back from his face, and took a look at Bridget and fell an instant sting in his heart. The pain felt like a pole of ice being stabbed through his very body, splitting his heart in two. He flinched at the pain, and bent forward in an effort to contain the pain. In his mind, he could hear her voice, crying, asking him. “Why, daddy? Why did you leave me?”. Ben let out a cry as he sobbing fell to his side. “I’m sorry, baby, I’m so sorry”, he cried. “I didn’t leave you. I didn’t mean to. I wanted to protect you! Always!” he fought for his breath between sobs and tears.

He wanted to go back to the park, keep watch of her. Bring her in the queue to the ice cream van, hold her hand and under their breath discuss the weird people surrounding them, making up stories of their men, wives, dogs, children, their castle in the sky or the dragon in their dungeon. He wanted to hold her, spin her around, laughing at the sun, hug her and tell her that he loved her, always and forever.

Now she stood outside his garden door, and he didn’t know what to do.

He watched her, the soaked, scuffled body standing outside the door, staring emptily at him. He watched her intensely. What was she saying? What was she mouthing without any sounds?

“Mom?”

“Oh God,” it dawned on him. “She don’t know. “

The mind can be your forgiving partner, and it can be your hateful nemesis. Tonight, Bens dug out memories he had tried to hide for what felt like forever. Janet crying endlessly, rejecting his attempt at holding her; that being the only thing that would console both her and him. Him crying, Janet yelling at him, throwing Bridgets stuffed animals at him through the open door to Bridgets room, blaming him over and over for losing her daughter. Them leaving the coroners officer, Ben trying to put his arms around Janet, but she screamed and pushed him away.

Tears filled his eyes, as Ben tried to look into Bridgets blurry eyes. “I’m sorry, sweetie”, he sobbed. “I’m so, so sorry. Mommy’s not here anymore.”

Maybe he was imagining things, after all he was not sure if Bridget really could be there, but he convinced himself that she stopped her constant tapping and mouthing. Just for a split second.

There was complete silence in the house and ind Ben’s head for that split second.

He must have closed his eyes, maybe to hold back more tears. He was brought back by a loud bang.

Bridget had thrown both her hands surfaces on the glass garden door, and the glass now vibrated with the force she had used. Ben could tell that she was angry.

“Forgive me.” he whispered. “Forgive me for everything.”

He mustered the last bits of physical strength he had left, and raised his right arm. His hand caught the door handle.

His eyes met Bridget’s white pools of nothingness. The pain was more than he could bear. His eyes filled with tears and he gave the door handle a twist and pushed the door open.

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Ben’s story – part 2

Ben walked slowly, warily, down the hallway towards the living room. He didn’t turn on the lights. He kept telling himself he wanted to keep his night sight. But truly, he was too scared.

He peeked slowly around the corner from the hallway into the living room. He could see the door to the garden from where he was standing. He cursed. He had drawn the curtains when he went to bed, something he never did. Why bother, he had nothing worth breaking in to steal.

Tap-tap.

The small hairs on his neck stood out, a chill running down his spine. He thought the tapping was more determined now. Did the tapper know he was standing there?
He stood on the corner of the hallway for a few moment, not knowing what to do. Should he ignore the tapping? Should he call the police? He could grab a kitchen knife so he could defend himself.

On the other hand, what kind of burglar taps the window multiple times before breaking in? Ben felt foolish. Childish. He turned the corner.

He sneaked slowly towards the garden door, edging along the kitchen table, around the breakfast nook.

Less than 2 feet to the curtain now.

His shaking finger tips took a light hold of the curtain. He held his breath.

As he started pulling the curtain slowly to the side.

Tap-tap-tap! This time rapidly.

Ben shrieked, let go of the curtain and jumped a step back.

The night outside the garden door seemed quiet. The distant muffled roar of planes and trains and cars passing by on the high way off to the east, but nothing unusual.

For a second, Ben just stood there. Was it just a dream? Someone playing tricks on him?

He mustered up all the courage he could find, took a deep, slightly shivering breath, and grabbed firmly around the curtain edge, and yanked it to the side.

For what seemed like forever, he just stood there, eyes fixed on what has beyond the glass in the garden door.

It looked back at Ben. She looked back.

Ben’s brain had suffered a shock. Like had he been struck with a sledgehammer dead between the eyes.

Tap-tap-tap.

Bridget’s pale, dirty, tiny finger tapped the glass garden door again. Her hair was cluttered with dirt and soil, greasy and clinging to her head with large, bald areas of her head visible underneath.

The skin on her face had swollen, like it had been in water for too long. And yet, it seemed saggy, like too-worn stockings, at the same time. Her ocean-deep, blue eyes had lost their colour and were now just a glossy empty white. Like staring at snowy peaks on a winters night. Her mouth was gaping, like a guppy’s, and though she seemed to be talking, no words left her mouth.

Ben felt her blind gaze pierce through the glass. He sank to his knees, gasped for breath and cuddled up on the floor in front of the garden door, tears slowly streaming from his eyes.

He was awoken by her scream. It cut through his bones and kept ringing in his brain while he slowly opened his eyes.

She was still outside the door. Tapping the glass, mouthing something he couldn’t apprehend. He was absolutely sure he was looking at Bridget, or whatever would have been left of her after months in a coffin. But his rational, scientific mind could not put together the bricks he was laying out. Bridget was dead. Buried. The dead stayed dead. He knew that for a fact.

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Ben’s story – Part 1

“Daddy?”

The timid voice woke him up mid-dream. Ben, alone in bed, tried to adjust his vision to the almost complete darkness of the bedroom.
As he laid there, unable to see clearly, he couldn’t help wonder, if he really heard the voice, or if it was just a part of a dream.

That has happened a lot lately.

His therapist, Dr Manley, had said that it was quite normal. Quite expectable, even. It had been stressful times, and the mind reacted to this in strange, often unpredictable ways.

Janet and Ben had split up 2 months ago. At the same time it came as a shock, but in all honesty it was inevitable.

High-school sweet hearts, star quarterback and lead cheerleader, prom king and queen; just that perfect couple all the losers from small-town USA always strived to be. Ben had gone to MIT, following his life-long dream of becoming an electrical engineer. He loved his job. A job, that would always give back just what he put into it. Electronics never did anything of its own. Ben liked this. Janet taught music at middle school. She was a gifted pianist, with a keen ear, able to play almost anything you asked of her, but putting in her own style and soul. And she loved children, and they loved her. She was a feeler, affectionate, and very emotional. In many ways, she was the diametrical opposite of Ben. But you know what they say, opposites attract.

Yet, they no longer lived together. They hardly spoke, and mostly just texted each other, though not very often. Some would say they grew apart. That was the nice version.

Truth is, they were torn apart. They lost their daughter, Bridget, half a year ago.

Bridget was seven years old, when she disappeared. Ben had taken her to the park to play. It was a beautiful day, not a cloud on the blue sky, and the park was full of people, lot of children and joyous laughter and screams. Bridget had played on the swing set, when Ben headed for the ice cream stand. He must have turned his back to her two, maybe three minutes – no more than three minutes, he always told himself, while standing in line. He had checked his phone, emails, Facebook. He mentally followed an idea for a project at work and absentmindedly regarded the other people standing in line.

When it was his turn to order, he turned to call Bridget over, but she was no longer there. Panic hit instantaneously. That panic every parent, who has lost a child at the mall, only knows. It was a bone chilling, spine tingling, nauseating panic. Ben scouted the playground, eyes flinching from left to right, looking for Bridget’s pink dress and long, dark pig tails. Was that her by the monkey bars? Was she in the sandbox? Yes, it was her by the sandbox! Why would she leave the swing set when she knew better?
He half-ran to the sandbox, only to stop a few feet from the edge. The pig tailed girl had turned around.

That was definitely not Bridget.

Calling the police was easy. Calling Janet was not as easy. How do you tell your child’s mother that you lost her child?

The police had been very helpful over the next weeks. They had both taken some time off from work. It was hard to focus on anything else for Ben, besides finding Bridget. Janet could not think of anything else but blaming Ben.

The weather had gone cold, the day the police called Ben up. They had found Bridget. She had been strangled and dumped in the woods outside town. Ben had dropped the phone and missed the rest of the call. Janet had immediately known who as calling and why. She had moved out of the house a few weeks later. She couldn’t live with Ben any longer.

Ben had adjusted to the lack of light in his bedroom. He held his breath, listening intensely. Did he imagine things?

There was a light tap on glass. Tap-tap-tap. He was sure of it. He silently pushed the duvet back and stood up out of bed. The cold floor under his soles woke him up a bit further. The sound came again. Tap. Tap-tap. It came from the living room.

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Zille ringe hjem

Jeg er nødt til at dele det her billede med jer. Sara og jeg sad ved spisebordet og malede Warhammer figurer og Zille – min yngste på 3 – legede ude i haven. Pludselig kom hun ind i spisestuen, iført outfittet på billedet, råbende ind i mikrofonen: “Hallo, er der nogen?” flere gange.

Zille_calling

Jeg ved, at man ikke må grine af børn. Men engang imellem er det virkelig, virkelig svært 🙂

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Zille phone home

I have to share this photo with you guys. Sara and I was sitting around the dinner table, painting Warhammer figures, and Zille – my youngest at age 3 – was playing in the yard. Suddenly she entered the dining room wearing the outfit in the picture, yelling “Hello, is there anybody there?” continuesly into the microphone.

Zille_calling

I know, that you should not laugh at your children. But sometimes, it is really, really hard 🙂

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Grillede hamburgers

I går grillede vi hamburgers, selvfølgelig på Weberen. De blev helt, helt fantastiske så jeg besluttede mig for at dele opskriften på farsen til hamburger bøfferne her.

Hamburger bøffer:

1 kg magert (3-5% fedt) hakket oksekød
2 spiseskeer hvidløgspulver
2 spiseskeer løgpulver
2 spiseskeer medium stærk sennep
1 spiseske Worcester Sauce

Note: Opskriften her bruger løg- og hvidløgspulver for at tage hensyn til de stakkels børn, der ikke kan lide at tygge i rigtige løg. Du kan snildt bytte de tørrede ingredienser ud med 2-4 fed presset hvidløg og 2-3 medium løg, snittede og let brunede på en varm pande.

Bland det hele sammen, og vær sikker på at alle ingredienser er blandet godt ind i kødet, form 6-8 bøffer, drys med salt og friskkværnet peber og stil dem i køleskabet i 30 minutter mens grillen varmer op.

Pensl bøfferne med lidt olie inden de lægges på grillen, hvor de steges i 8 minutter på hver side over høj, direkte varme, og vendes ca hvert 4 minut.

hamburgers

Server med burger boller, og blandet grønt fra køkkenhaven (salat, agurk, tomat, etc), mayo, ketchup og – naturligvis – en mellemstærk ost.

Velbekomme.

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Grilled hamburgers

Yesterday, we had grilled hamburgers, made on the new Weber. They ended up very, very delicious, so I decided to share the recipe for the hamburger patties here.

Hamburger patties:

1 kg of lean (3-5% fat) beef
2 table spoons of powdered garlic
2 table spoons of powdered onion
2 table spoons of mustard (medium)
1 table spoon of Worcester Sauce

Note: This recipe uses dried/powdered onion and garlic. This is to spare the poor kids whom does not like eating whole pieces of onions. You could easily exchange the powered garlic with 2-4 cloves of minced garlic and the powdered onion with 2-3 medium sized, sliced and diced onions lightly browned on a hot pan.

Mix it all together, making sure the ingredients are mixed thoroughly, form 6-8 patties, sprinkle with salt and freshly ground pepper, and leave in the fridge for 30 minutes, while the grill is getting hot.

Sprinkle the patties with a little bit of oil before barbecue’ing them for about 8 minutes on each side over high, direct heat, flipping every 4 minutes or so.

hamburgers

Served with hamburger rolls, and a variety of veggies from the garden (lettuce, cucumber, tomato, etc), mayo, ketchup and, of course, a medium-strong cheese.

Enjoy.

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Endnu et voice over job på nettet

Det er et stykke tid siden jeg sidst lavede voice overs, jeg har primært fokuseret på mit job og det rejseri der har fulgt med, men jeg sikrede mig en opgave for en dansk virksomhed, der har lavet en all-inclusive mobil- og web applikation for landmænd, der ønsker et større overblik over marker, maskiner, etc.

God fornøjelse, og giv gerne feedback ved hjælp af Contact Me siden.

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Another voice over job well done

It has been a while since my last voice over, my mind and effort has primarily been on my everyday job and traveling as a part of this, but I landed a gig for a danish company, producing an all-inclusive mobile- and web application for farmers, requiring a digital overview of fields, machinery, etc.

Enjoy, and feel free to provide feedback by using the Contact Me page.

The voice over is in danish.

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