Archive for the ‘Uncategorized’ Category

A bored group of people in New York a week before prohibition decide to tell stories about things that are impossible but possible! The stories get wilder and wilder until “The Glowing Man”.

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Satan’s Children by Stanislaw Przybyszewski and translated by Joe E Bandel


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Episode 004 The Tomb at Pere La Chaise by Karl Hans Strobl Translation by Joe E. Bandel. Copyright Joe E. Bandel.

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Just put this out on Lulu!

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Episode 002 The Head by Karl Hans Strobl Translation by Joe E. Bandel. Copyright Joe E. Bandel.

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Deadly Days-Tales of Dark Fantasy

This is a link to my new podcast. Once a week I will be posting a story that I have translated and the first post is “The Spider” by Hanns Heinz Ewers! Next week I will be posting “The Head” by Karl Hans Strobl. I will be drawing from Hanns Heinz Ewers Vol 1&2, Lemuria Book 1, Kokain magazine and of course Der Orchideengarten. Right now I figure that I have around 3 years worth of short stories already translated and am currently translating more!

Issue 12 of Der Orchideengarten has been translated and being put together for publication. I’m currently working on Issue 13 and Lemuria Book II by Karl Hans Strobl. I hope to have Lemuria Book II done this summer and of course monthly issues of Der Orchideengarten! Immediately after that come Hanns Heinz Ewers Vol 3 which will contain even more high quality stories that have never been translated.

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Horst Wessel Chapter 2


Horst Wessel sits at home in a parish house; he thinks back over his young life. Thinks on his father, dreams of him, of what was and what will be. – the S. A. Travels to Pasewalk in Pomerania – and how storm leader Sprengel received the name Barrikaden Albert. – Horst is in custody at the police station, he has plenty of time to think in his cell.

“Pass surgery? Good luck! – Fourth station? Well really, it will all come together – in a couple of months you will be finished with your exams! – How? – That’s Self evident! Everyone will be happy to see you, mother, sister, brother! – Even me – I would very much like to speak with you, about all kinds of things! – Just come right now!”


Horst hung up the receiver.


“Helmut is coming here,” he said.


His mother nodded. “Good, good! You should meet with him more often my boy.”


He looked up. “And much less with the others – is that what you mean, mother? I tell you: so what if my comrades from the S. A. are not students, but just metalworkers, clerks, chauffeurs, common workers, then –”


She interrupted him, and gently pushed the hair away from his forehead.

“I know everything that happens to you, know very well, that they are honest fellows. But you should really also think a little about your studies, you are in your sixth semester now, and not permitted to take too much time left”


“It will happen, mother”, he cried, “it will happen. Just let me alone – everything will all work out.”


He nodded to her, then walked across to his room. It was very important to him, that Mingard was coming. He had the urge to share what was in his heart with someone else. He had no secrets from his mother, and neither from Ingeborg, his sister, nor from his brother Werner – and really none from his comrades either. He spoke with them about everything, that the day brought – but there was so much happening, was always something new and different. What was the reason for it all, what was it really, that was behind all these things? He felt deeply: that things must be the way they were, must be that way and no other. He stood there right where the fates had placed him, or perhaps it was God – who could say? But why was everything the way it was?


His fraternity brother Hellmut Mingard – he stood outside of all this hatred, perhaps even on the other side of it, and scarcely knew anything about what was happening here, every day, almost every hour. Hellmut was calm, citizen clear, and even-tempered. He would be able to talk with him –


Well, and if he couldn’t talk to Mingard either, couldn’t clarify things for himself, if he couldn’t get to the core of all these things, it would still be nice to talk with him –


He glanced out the window into the autumn garden. Here was his childhood; this was where he had played as a boy, had grown up to be a youth, right here in the middle of old Berlin. A half century ago Juden Strasse had once been a Jewish ghetto. And a few steps further lay Juden Court, just off a bit  from the street, a deathly quiet place with old Acacia trees in front of the little hunting lodge of the great electors. There were no Jews here anymore, they were long gone, and lived all over Berlin, and had still, of their own free will, built a new ghetto: Down on Münz Strasse, Grenadier Strasse, and Dragoner Strasse, right next to Alexander place. But now, all around his parents house, among the other citizens, lived many communist families; who looked very suspiciously at him, cursing and complaining, when he was out with the S. A. men and encountered them – even right in the middle of Juden Court, he, the son of the old preacher that lived in the parish house on Juden Strasse, which had even oncee been a Jewish patrician’s house.


No, he had not been born here, was no child of Berlin – was that what it was, that kept him a little distant from his comrades, a differentspeech and dialect that he still spoke? It was water from the river that had baptized him, not from the fountain; water from the Rhine that he had drank in his childhood, just like the man with the glowing, burning eyes and balled fists; the leader of Berlin, whom he loved, just like Joseph Goebbels did. Didn’t all the walls in the houses today still speak of the Rhine? His own home had paintings, a dozen and more, from the hand of Edward von Gebharts, who had painted the cloister of Loccum, Church of Tranquillity in Düsseldorf and so many others. His father loved the Lutheran art of the old master, and had decorated his Mülheimer church with his paintings as well.


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