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Sila

You can always find more at www.mylifeinablg.wordpress.com

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  • 21 posts
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  • 01-01-70
  • Leven in United Kingdom

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Vertalen   12 jaren geleden

Chapter 1: Stockholm - Sweden 1800s This is the first chapter of a series I will write in alternating voices. I hope you enjoy. An unusually cool August sunset led me out to an unfamiliar alley. Not only was the road slightly twisted but horses and carriages had worn the sun-hardened mud and the rough rocks embedded within. Indeed, the road was not a smooth one but it was the shortest to my favourite lakeside spot where the birds sung with all their passion. The water was violet silk, candy-floss pink, and a warm orange all at once. The boats roared back and forth since the industrial revolution - some for business other for the many immigrants. Upon my arrival, I sat in the same spot as I had since I was a little girl. The breeze was cool and the sky had only just begun embracing shades of darker blue. The daisies around me seemed endless and their smell was mesmerizing, pulling me into them. I lay my auburn hair becoming one with the grassy earth. Shortly after, with the sound of the soothing water, the day's labour became too much and I fell almost without control, to sleep. As I awoke, a strong smell coming from a cloth roughly pressed to my nose soaked the consciousness away from me and, within seconds,I was no longer in the same world as the passion-filled birds.

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    Vertalen   12 jaren geleden

    Dry Leaves and Dried Secrets It was an autumn night as he walked into his worn school grounds and drew in a lungful of the heavy air surrounding him. The smell of rusting chains from the squeaking swings moving back and forth aimlessly in the brown, leaf-carrying wind had brought back some memories. He looked at the scar on his arm and a slow bittersweet smile spread across his chapped, air-dried, blood-red lips as he remembered where it came from.

    One summer as break began everyone rushed onto the play area, shouting, and childish agreements were being made on the fate of the swings for the next fifteen minutes. It was finally his turn and as he sat to enjoy the mere few minutes he had negotiated for himself, the chains holding the swing up were unusually loud as he swung back and forth in the summer sun, and, as one snapped he fell to the floor and cut his arm open on the grey razor-sharp gravel beneath. He wished he had enjoyed it better now; the summer sun overhead in his young years where everything seemed so complicated and yet was so simple, the sweet smelling flowers planted left right and centre blooming with vibrant colours of pink, purple, orange and golden yellow- not to mention the uncomfortable dark blue uniform which made them a target for the older children though they never bothered Leo much -his friend put up a mean fight.
    Lance, typical blond hair blue eyes with broad shoulders and above- average height was sitting cross-legged opposite the silent street to the now abandoned school. His black Nike trainers, too tight to be comfortable, were untied with the strings barely noticeable in the now overgrowing grass. His black jeans, as always, were folded up at the ends with the untidy stitches blaring out proudly. Leo chuckled; he’d always hated those hideous turn ups. His shirt was worn one too many times and was covered with all sorts of stains – a patch on his shoulder had even ripped slightly. Leo joined his old friend Lance as they sat in the grass looking at their old school exchanging memoirs laughing as they pulled out the grass beneath them and stopped on the brown crunchy leaves blowing left and right as they did.
    Lance pulled out a black leather skinned notebook from his pocket and unknotted the strings keeping the shabby book together. He noticed the notebook was filled with small hand written notes and made out the words “old secrets” before lance quickly flicked between the sweet smelling pages with his large rough hands to show his old friend Leo an old picture of them together sitting in the same grass. Leo asked Lance to grab them a drink from the shop just in front of the school a street away. As Lance left Leo took the book and quickly skimmed through it. He knew it was here. The secret Lance had always kept hidden from him -willing to take it to the grave; the reason they were no longer close. If it was anywhere it’d be in his very hands, between the very pages – after all it was important to him. While skimming the book a letter fell out from between the pages and he quickly read it and made a copy from the same pages with the same pages for himself. Lance would never know.
    After a few hours of casual chatting Leo got up to leave as the tower clock nearby reminded him that he had errands in the morning. He bid Lance farewell and began to pace down the street with a now straight face in an almost jog. He was not amused the slightest. He felt so betrayed that a fire broke in his chest and his muscular hands broke into sweat as he took out the note of the letter that he had made for himself and reread it over and over until the words began cutting into his skin like glass, spinning around his head getting louder and louder. He was so full of anger that he started to run. Small whimpers fell from his lips onto the dirty floor as he trod heavily past them. His eyes turned ice cold as he swallowed tears of silver and tried not to blink. He never cried and he wasn't going to now – he knew what had to be done. The morning chores had to be delayed.

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      Vertalen   12 jaren geleden

      Yellow Plums This short story is inspired by the novel "Perfume" by Patrick Suskind. I hope you enjoy. September; the month of heavy hearts, dismay and monotone cycles. Since the beginning of the month I’ve furtively been seeing Fabien behind the strong protective walls of Paris. Although it’d be hard I was yet to regret it. Not only was the thrill of not being caught exhilarating, Fabien was a splendid loving gentlemanly, we were likeminded and I enjoyed his quiet company. Just this morning I had snuck out to meet him beside the rosebush. We had our usual conversations; discussing how we ought to run away, how the lady across the street Ms. Isabelle had many times almost been caught with our letters, we laughed at meaningless jokes, as I observed his usual habits: fixing his brown curly hair as and his grey eyes tracing the equally grey horizon . My father, Aldric, had long found me a man which I was promised to and wedding plans were already under way. The son of a wealthy family – the magnificent Pierre – was noble and trustworthy, or so they said. I was to meet him tonight at the celebration of the king’s coronation. Thankfully my gullible father believed I was heavily sick and that the meeting should be postponed to a later date. So there I sat, in the middle of the courtyard, endlessly stemming and pitting dozens of yellow plums. I caught myself smiling every time my mind drifted to thoughts of Fabien, and my heart sunk at my misfortune as I could not avoid my inescapable fate with Pierre. Even the golden candle light had sympathy for me – it was glowing lovingly, embracing my sorrows as it burnt. The sky was endless, black and starry as was the long thin alleyways of Paris leading to this courtyard beckoning me with silent whispers in the night. Locks and bolts were not the reason I remained here in Paris – for I was as free as the wildest bird and the sweetest smelling odour in the air if there were any in this grim, dirty, dull and infected city – rather I had to stay as I had many times lost the battle within myself between love and fear. The new#moonwas not so forgiving however. He hid behind the black of night concealing himself as bold bursts of colourful fire exploded in front of him completing his disguise. Their sounds echoed through the thin narrow streets and vibrated through the walls while he watched ensuring I didn’t escape from this misfortune as he promised darkness in which lay the cold and lonely route to my death. Stemming and pitting the plums had become so tiresome and repetitive that I didn’t have to think about it anymore. My hands were covered in sticky yellow plum juice but it didn’t bother me, the soft wind tickled and cooled my fingertips. I sliced yet another plum admiring the yellow, almost orange colour, pitted it, and moved on to the next. There was a soft rustle from the plum tree inside the courtyard. I jerked my head to the side as the sound suddenly caught my attention not because it was abrupt, but more because pitting and stemming plums was boring and cyclical without distractions. A figure appeared in the entrance of the courtyard. A familiar one. Jack, Fabien’s dog was standing under the arch wagging his tail happily, tilting his scruffy head to the side to look at me curiously before strolling without a worry in the world over to my side and jumping on my lap. Mother never let me pet Jack... but she wasn’t there then. Jack jumped up to my lap and I pet his black and white, soft fur almost forgetting about the complicated world of fate and trouble. Jack stayed with me for a little while before he started getting restless and uneasy and buried his brown damp nose into my scarlet, blood red hair before jumping off my lap and stared at the area behind me before making his way, rapidly, in the opposite direction. Obscure animal. I continued pitting and stemming a few more plums before the ache in my arms ache overcame my will to carry on. I placed my knife on the table and curled my arms into my body. Not only because of the ache but also because a strange, eerie and uncomfortable chill came over me. The next few seconds were a blur. But here i am now in the hands of my murder. His rough hands clenched tightly around my throat. I can’t even look into his eyes. His face turned away from mine as his effortless grip on my neck gets tighter and tighter as my breath becomes thinner and thinner. There's no need to struggle. In fact continuing my #life in its miserable way as it lead into the heart of some man i was yet to meet and away from the one i loved. Death would have been the only way it would have been resolved. Mine, Pierre’s by the hand of Fabien, Fabien’s by the hand of my father or Pierre’s or mine by the stranger clawing his hands into my throat. I had not disappointed my father by telling him i was not interested in Pierre and had made empty promises of escape to Fabien. I rather my blood was spilled rather than theirs – the consequence of my foolish love.

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        Vertalen   12 jaren geleden

        The Hummingbirds Dance In a little island, as the sun shone equally, the grass grew just as green, the flowers smelt just as sweet a bright humming-bird buzzed in all her loneliness. It was early still, the wind had not gathered enough to disturb the peace and was soothing and as our tiny magnificent miracle fluttered with all her might, the people still lay awakening slowly from their dreamy state . She had flown from long and now lived in a small nest on the side of an abandoned building with trees growing through the walls that were damaged not only with bullet holes, but were so away from sight, had their choked in their own misery. Barbed wire stretched all across the beautiful city, not a soul stepped foot on its sandy beaches, only a few curious eyes peered through from both sides every now and again seeking her beauty. As the hummingbird flew through the barbed wire she saw the same thing on both sides; hope. The little boys and girls looked at each other the same way - only through a barrier in which our little bird could, of course, flew freely over. She did not understand why they looked at one another so sorrowfully, and why they could not just embrace and become one again. She was not alone in wondering why they did not unite. Many of the islanders wish they could come together and live in the same sweet harmony they used to. The melody was whole, loving and together and anyone who heard it would smile and appreciate its beauty. Now its a wordless song. The tune is broken, divided and it saddens her eyes.

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          Vertalen   12 jaren geleden

          Magical mystery Its been a while my long lost companions - I guess thats what exams do to you. Stress, halls filled with students flipping pages looking confused, stunned or just overly confident. The more I read the more I find literature an art. Words are paint my friends. Used just in the same way too - brushed delicately on a page as if soothing an infant. Colours incorportaed into the meanings. Allow me- Red; Passion, love, anger and hate. Lovers - their every trait. Orange; Warm camp fires, roasted marshmallows and tangy gossip that spreads giggles. Yellow; A bright souled chatacter, a smile, a sly trick. Green: A story of a day on the lskeside. The lovers stroking grass. Joy of our youth. Blue; A long lost friend. An unreachable destination. Indigo; The wild flowers they so calmly trod past. The heavy mountain air. Violet; Humming between the clouds that just couldn’t be seen. The magic. And the rainbow is the story of the soul -hidden between the shy lines. Natures magical mystery ..

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