There are days when the world feels too small, too polite, too neatly folded into its own predictable geometry.
And then there are days like September 5, 2026, when Nieuw-Vennep (New-Vennep, a town and residential-commercial center in the Dutch province of North Holland, situated within the municipality of Haarlemmermeer) cracks open like a cosmic egg and something incandescent spills out across the Linquenda community center.
Fantasticon doesn’t arrive quietly.
It doesn’t tiptoe into the Dutch suburbs with the meekness of a book club or the bureaucratic hum of a cultural symposium.
It erupts. It pulses. It commandeers the air itself, bending it into a frequency that only dreamers, obsessives, and the gloriously unhinged can hear.
By mid‑morning, 52 Oostmoor (East Moor) is already vibrating with the unmistakable electricity of people who have spent their lives reading worlds that never existed and arguing passionately about the physics of dragons.
The building seems to inhale them, every corridor swelling with the scent of old paperbacks, fresh ink, and the faint ozone of imagination overheating.
Stichting Fantastische Vertellingen (Fantastic Tales Foundation) presides over the chaos like a benevolent cabal—32 Geddingmoor may be their address, but their true headquarters is somewhere between a nebula and a fever dream.
Inside, the crowd moves with the restless choreography of a migration ritual.
Veterans of Dutch SFFH conventions stride in with the swagger of people who have survived decades of cosmic battles, eldritch panels, and the occasional literary duel.
Newcomers blink rapidly, overwhelmed, clutching tote bags like shields against the tidal wave of enthusiasm. Every conversation is a spark. Every spark threatens to ignite a wildfire.
There is no hierarchy here.
The novelist who once wrote a cult classic in the 1980s stands shoulder‑to‑shoulder with a teenager who just finished their first novella at three in the morning.
The illustrator who dreams in ink shares a table with the programmer who swears their code is haunted.
The poet who channels lunar spirits debates with the historian who insists that medieval chronicles contain proto‑science fiction if you squint hard enough.
Fantasticon is a republic of the imagination, and everyone is a citizen.
Outside, the quiet Dutch streets pretend nothing unusual is happening. But inside, reality is being rewritten sentence by sentence, sketch by sketch, argument by argument. And the best part is that no one here wants to go back to the world as it was before they stepped through the doors.
By the time the clock struck nine, Fantasticon VII had already shed its skin and revealed its true nature: not a convention, not a gathering, but a living organism stitched together from the dreams, obsessions, and caffeinated heartbeats of dozens of creators.
The Linquenda community center had transformed into a pressure chamber of imagination, humming with the voices of Karen van den Andel, Finn Audenaert, Ruben De Baerdemaeker, Theo Barkel, Gert‑Jan van den Bemd, Patrick Bernauw, Marten Blom, Marjan Brouwers, Emanuel Claessens, Joris Denoo, Bavo Dhooge, Bjarne Donderdag, Sophia Drenth, Guido Eekhaut, Marieke Frankema, Pepijn Hamer, Lex van Heereveld, Olav Heirman, Abram Hertroys, Anthonie Holslag, Mike Jansen, Johan Klein Haneveld, Jan JB Kuipers, Jeroen Kuypers, Paul van Leeuwenkamp, Jos Lexmond, Johanna Lime, Sandy van Loon, Max Moragie, Miriam Ootjers, Jasper Polane, Milou Prins, Frank Roger, Robin Rozendal, Wim Slierendregt, Tais Teng, Alexander Verbeek‑van den Toren, Joost Uitdehaag, and Charles van Wettum.
A constellation of names orbiting one gravitational truth: Dutch‑language fantastiek is very much alive, loud, and gloriously unruly.
The release of „Ganymede 26” SFFH anthology felt like a ritual.
A yearly pulse check of the fantastic bloodstream of the Netherlands and Flanders, twenty‑plus authors distilled into one volume that smelled faintly of ink, ambition, and the stubborn refusal of reality to stay in its lane.
People held it the way one holds a newborn or a bomb—carefully, reverently, aware that something inside might change them.
Panels erupted across the day like controlled detonations.
Utopian SF was dissected with the seriousness of surgeons operating on the future.
Flemish and French fantastiek was mapped like an unstable continent.
Horror literature was dragged into the light and interrogated until it hissed.
The art exhibition glowed in corners, book cover artists surrounded by admirers who whispered about brushstrokes as if discussing forbidden spells.
The dealer room throbbed with publishers, clubs, and authors who had long abandoned the idea of “selling” and instead evangelized their creations with the zeal of prophets.
And through it all, the Dutch word “gezellig” (cozy) floated like a warm mist.
Cozy, amicable, familiar—yet somehow inadequate to describe the way people greeted each other with the joy of long‑lost astronauts returning from different galaxies.
Then came the moment that cracked open the hall: Johan Klein Haneveld receiving the Bemoste Beeld‑prijs. He stood there, white shirt glowing under the lights, holding the moss‑covered trophy like a relic dredged from a mythic swamp.
Remco Meisner—organizer, ringmaster, benevolent chaos conductor—stood beside him with “Ganymede 26” in hand, grinning like someone who had just successfully summoned a minor deity.
Johan’s twenty‑plus books, his countless short stories, his tireless editing, his buoyant presence—none of it felt like résumé material.
It felt like the backbone of the Dutch SFFH community, a man who didn’t just write worlds but held them up so others could climb inside.
The Main Hall buzzed with tables—foundations, publishers, artists—each one a tiny universe.
Debit cards flashed like talismans.
Drink vouchers changed hands with the solemnity of ancient currency.
Volunteers poured beverages with the patience of monks, hoping no one would spit or shoot at them, though the crowd was far too euphoric for violence.
Art spilled into the Annex: Milou Prins, Robin Rozendal, Bobby de Groot, Gidion van de Swaluw, Drakenlicht Illustraties, Babs van der Hoeven, Lex van Heereveld.
True Art was being forged at table FC‑5 under the watchful Eye of the Master, Gert‑Jan van den Bemd, who judged creations with the intensity of a man deciding which realities deserved to exist.
And then there were the Coffee Chats—half‑hour confessions between guests of honor and brave attendees.
Questions ranged from the philosophical to the absurd, from “What was your biggest mistake?” to “Why do you always write about overweight people?” to the eternal “Where does inspiration actually come from?”
These conversations drifted across the grounds like secret spells, sometimes planned, sometimes spontaneous, always dangerously intimate.
Fantasticon VII didn’t end at five.
Not really. It lingered in the air, in the pages of „Ganymede 26Ț, in the moss on Johan’s trophy, in the throats still dry from too much talking and too little drinking.
It clung to the walls of Linquenda, waiting for next year, knowing full well that once you’ve tasted a day where reality gives up and imagination takes over, you spend the rest of your life trying to get back.
The Dutch Fantasticon has no connection whatsoever to the Danish convention of the same name.
The Dutch Fantasticon is a national science fiction, fantasy, and horror event held annually in Nieuw‑Vennep, the Netherlands, organized by Stichting Fantastische Vertellingen. It celebrates Dutch‑language speculative literature and art, featuring authors, publishers, and creators from the Netherlands and Flanders.
By contrast, Fantasticon Denmark is the Copenhagen‑based fan‑run convention, founded in 2004, and organized by volunteers from Science Fiction Circlen and Fantastik. It serves as a community space for Danish fans, writers, and artists to meet and collaborate.
Despite sharing a name and a love for the fantastic, the two conventions are completely independent, each rooted in its own national tradition and fandom culture.
Across the world, four major annual conventions—or distinct event series—share the name Fantasticon (or FantastiCon), each born from its own cultural soil and creative tradition.
Though they echo one another in spirit, they remain entirely independent, four parallel universes orbiting the same word.
Fantasticon Netherlands (Nieuw‑Vennep)
The Dutch incarnation is a literary celebration of science fiction, fantasy, and horror in the Dutch language. Hosted by Stichting Fantastische Vertellingen, it traditionally unveils the Ganymede Yearbook, a yearly anthology of contemporary fantastic writing from the Netherlands and Flanders. Its home is the Linquenda Community Center in Nieuw‑Vennep—a place where the Lowlands themselves seem to levitate.
https://www.fantastischevertellingen.nl
Fantasticon Denmark (Copenhagen)
Founded in 2004, this is Denmark’s national celebration of science fiction, fantasy, and horror. Entirely volunteer‑run, it thrives on the energy of fans who build their own cosmos from conversation and community. Held most often at the cultural center Støberiet in Copenhagen, it is sponsored by Science Fiction Circlen and Fantastik, and remains the beating heart of Danish fandom.
Fantasticon USA (Midwest Series)
A traveling convention circuit devoted to comic collectors and pop‑culture enthusiasts. Each year it unfolds across five cities in Michigan, Ohio, and Indiana—Port Huron, Toledo, and other Midwest hubs—where superheroes and nostalgia collide under fluorescent lights. It’s less a single event than a pilgrimage for fans of vintage comics and cinematic imagination.
Fantasticon Canada (Montreal Region)
Held near Montreal, at the Lachute Arena in Quebec, this event is devoted to comic books and vintage toys from the 1970s through the 1990s. It’s a kaleidoscope of collectors, artists, and dreamers who gather to trade memories molded in plastic and ink.
Each of these Fantasticons stands alone—distinct in purpose, geography, and soul. Together, they form a constellation of imagination stretching from Copenhagen to the Midwest, from Nieuw‑Vennep to Montreal—proof that the fantastic knows no borders, only believers.
