Writing game 4

I better talk to her about it. Now is probably as good a time as ever. At least we’re sitting in the shade drinking beer, and she seems cheerful enough.  What is she looking at? Those are just hills. Haven’t you seen hills before?  White elephants you say, are you on drugs right now? Well, I better be casual about this if we’re ever to have a civilized conversation.

-“I’ve never seen one.”

Why are we talking about white elephants now? What does that even mean, aren’t they usually grey or what? She can be so annoying. 

What now? Right, I should have guessed. Her childish mind wants to try the Anis liquor. I guess I can’t blame her, it is, after all, written on a curtain of beads. Irresistible!

How can you be this emotionless about it? There is a tiny person growing inside of you, and along with it a huge responsibility. How can she can she be so detached. It’s an act of course, but why this passive aggressiveness. I must make her understand I’m not the bad guy in this.

Why does this have to be so difficult? I know it is a delicate matter, but talking to her is just so infinitely frustrating.

A hybrid - Author function AND war-poem

Author Function: Letter writer
Notion: Love

Normandie, 1945

To My Love,

I don't know if I'll ever see you again. Yesterday, we were under heavy fire and I got hit. I am in pain you won't be able to comprehend. It's indescribable. But nothing compared to the uncertainty whether or not I'm gonna see you again. Dear, gentle, beautiful you. The only thing that is certain to me at this moment is all my memories of you.
I remeber the first time I layed eyes on you. You were wearing a white dress.. it was the 4th of July 1939. You smiled. I couldn't stop look at you. You looked like an angel! At that moment I knew that I loved you. I thought I knew what love was, oh silly me. You taught me love. You touched my heart so that I thought it would pop right out of my chest. Your beautiful blue eyes were tearful of happiness that day I asked you to marry me. I couldn't help myself. I just had to make your mine. I adore every move you make, I honestly can't stop thinking of you. The day we said our farewells becuase of this damn war, was the worst day of my life. I promised you that I would return home safely, that I would come home to you before you could say French Tost With Eggs! But.. Now.. 3 years later. that's not happening. It probably won't. I don't know. I just know I love you. I love you more than words can describe! I am truly blessed by your love. And know this, my baby, you are the only worthy recipient of my soft love. I have written a poem and you know that I'm not much of a poet. But for you I can do everything

That day felt as black as a nigga's skin

That day ripped apart a heart or two

That day made me break a promise

That day that hurt you

You, with your corn-yellow hair

never should have known of that day

That damn day that almost smelled of gun-powder

That day that hurt you

"Whatever happens I'll always be yours"

We told eachother on that day

you were brave

on that day that hurt you

The day that was as black as a nigga's skin

forced us to be apart

But remember, my love

to always be as brave as you were

on that day that hurt you

I love you.

Forever yours and if not in this life, then in the after-life

Michael

Writing Game 4 - based on Hills Like White Elephants

Genre: diary

Dear diary,

I feel so misunderstood. And so alone at the same time. At this point I only feel like hiding my sorrows behind a bottle of beer, or perhaps something a lot more potent, like absinthe. That’s all he wants to do anyway, he never listens to me and what I care for. Not really. To him, it’s not a child I’m carrying, not a person. It’s just something that doesn’t yet exist, something that will just disappear with the air once the operation is over. He says that he loves me, but I know it’s not the case. Not like he used to anyway, despite what he says. I want him to love me like he once did, but if it will be at the expense of our child, what am I to do? I feel it inside me, and I feel the love for it, but he does not. Why doesn’t it matter to him? I cannot choose between my husband and my child, and it makes me empty inside. I know why he is concerned, but does it really matter that much? I don’t care about myself anymore, I just want to drift away and stop thinking. Thanks for listening.

Jig

Writing Game 5 - Travel Writing

List of ingredients:

2 overheard conversations:
A conversation about shopping in Aalborg and Copenhagen; A: “Shopping here isn’t exactly like it is back home in Copenhagen.” B: “That would be exaggerating a bit.”

A conversation about smoothies; A: “I love smoothies!” B: “Yeah, I could use one right now.”

3 species of birds: pigeon, ostrich, chicken

2 brand names for food: Knorr, Uncle Ben’s

Text from 6 signs:
- “Slow! Children at play.”
- “EXIT”
- “We serve good food.”
- “KEEP OUT!”
- “STOP”
- “No smoking”

The name of a planet or a star: Saturn

The name of a lipstick: Elysambre

1 time of a day: 14:57

The title of a book of fiction: A Song of Ice and Fire – A Game of Thrones by George R.R. Martin

The title of a painting: “The Scream” by Edvard Munch

The name of a dead politician: Abraham Lincoln

2 types of onion and one type of potato: garlic, shallots, and red skin potatoes

3 items from a hardware store: power drill, blender, oven

A make of gun: Colt

Something a child might say: “I want ice cream!”



Not What It Seemed

At first, the “STOP”-sign really could have seemed to be a warning, and as the cab turned around the corner this was only underpinned by the second sign, covered in pigeon droppings, to meet our eyes which told us to “KEEP OUT!” As open-minded backpackers we didn’t really pay much heed to it, although the silence among us suggested that this wasn’t what we had expected. I guess this charmless facade surprised us. There were more chicken on the streets than people. The gaps in the pavement might as well have spelled “DANGER!” and looked like someone had randomly molested them with a huge power drill.
The cab driver seemed to feel the same discontent as he speeded past an empty playground, ignoring the “Slow! Children at play!”-sign in a hurry to drop us off. Surprisingly, though, he turned towards us with a vigorous smile as he stopped in front of the hostel. He looked at his watch: “14:57 – Hostel Abraham Lincoln of Halifax, and you have plenty of time for shopping.” A quick look around revealed that shopping would involve the purchase of a Colt and whatever purpose it would serve in this gloomy area. We paid the driver and trudged towards the entrance door. “So, does anyone wanna go shopping?” I asked my friends with a touch of irony. “Sure, we can hunt down our own prey; I could eat an ostrich right now.” I wasn’t the only one noticing the gun store. Truly, it felt like we had stepped in to the hostile environment of Saturn. “Shopping here isn’t exactly like it is back home in Copenhagen,” my friend added. “That would be exaggerating a bit,” my other friend approved.

But then everything changed as we entered the hostel and the smell of garlic, bread in the oven, and exotic seasoning ascended our nostrils. Further addressing our appetites we were welcomed in the hallway by a sign which assured that “We serve good food.” We stepped into the reception and were welcomed with the smile of a gypsy-looking lady who couldn’t exactly be accused of cutting back on the Elysambre. “Hey! Welcome!” She burst out happily as she rolled out a lump of dough on the table beneath the counter. A very unusual sight in a hostel reception, but as we glanced around, we noticed that the entire room was one big mess of colorful decoration and old furniture that provided the room with a very cosy and homely atmosphere. In the midst of everything, the terror of Edvard Munch’s “The Scream” failed to annihilate the positive vibes and instead afforded an ironic imitation of our baffled faces. It really surprised me that this hippie-shack allowed “No smoking.”
“You booked a room?” The lady asked while stuffing fruit into a blender. We did. “You can drop your luggage over there.” I quickly occupied a huge, comfortable chair in the corner with my backpack, thinking that I would spend the evening here with “A Song of Ice and Fire” before continuing our journey in the morning. “Care for a smoothie? On the house,” the lady asked. My friend quickly replied “I love smoothies!” Whereas my other friend added: “Yeah, I could use one right now.” Free smoothies, a lovely hostess, and a menu spelling: “fried chicken, red skin potatoes, and homemade red wine sauce with hand-picked shallots.” Knorr and Uncle Ben’s would remain comfortably packed for the moment, and I remember thinking that the huge “EXIT”-sign above the door certainly didn’t seem alluring at the time.

Seibaek: A fairytale - Just because

The Princess with the Orange

Once upon a time, in a land far, far away lived the most beautiful princess the world had ever seen. As so many other princesses she was locked away in a tower, because that is how you raise a princess. Being alone all day, every day without anyone to talk to, you can get quite lonely, but the princess was so fortunate as to have her best friend with her constantly. Her best friend was an orange. From Brazil that is.

You might wonder what a princess and an orange could have in common, but when your options are narrowed down, you learn to cope with what you have got. And in fact, it was a very nice orange – fresh and bright in colour, young and in its prime. With that said, they still did not enjoy the longest, deepest or most heartfelt conversations. But they got by.

As you might have guessed, this could not end happily, seeing as a princess and an orange do not have the same lifespan. One day the orange began to rot. Struck with grief the princess watched her best friend slowly fade away in a very smelly and wrinkly manner. When the orange finally passed away the princess was heartbroken.

One day a handsome young prince heard the rumour of a beautiful young princess who was devastated by the loss of her friend. Knowing it is best for a princess to always have a smile on her face, he set out to aid her in her need. After 40 days of riding night and day through deserts and deep forests, climbing over the highest mountains and crossing the widest rivers he arrived at the gates to the princesses’ castle.

He immediately lost his heart at the sight of the sad princess and wanted nothing more than making her happy again, and since he was such a handsome prince she soon agreed on marrying him. On one condition! She told him that she could not marry him unless he mended her broken heart by giving her a new orange. Back in those days, oranges was not something you could find in your local grocery store, the prince would have to go on a journey to Brazil. (Because that is where all oranges come from)

The prince sat out, galloping away in the horizon on his mighty steed. His ivory white steed was indeed so fast that it could run across water without sinking to the bottom. Nonetheless it took the prince seven days and seven nights to get to the borders of Brazil, and there he found his first challenge. All princes have to endure challenges, you see.

An enormous green dragon was guarding the border and would not let him trough. But the prince was lucky; the dragon had the most awful toothache, and offered to let him pass if he in return found a dwarf who could remove the dragons’ sick tooth. The prince agreed and set out on his new mission.

Not long after, he arrived at an entrance to a cave. Knowing that dwarfs live in caves, he went in. Deep within the cave he found a small man working with fluid gold, and casting it into shiny armour. The prince asked the small man if he were a dwarf. He was. He asked if he knew how to pull out a tooth. He did. He asked if he would help him. He would not. But the dwarf wanted the princes’ help, and in return he would help, and remove the tooth. The prince had to make the dragon promise to protect the small dwarf when it was needed, and then the dwarf would remove the tooth, and even give him the golden armour. And so he did.

The dwarf got his promise, the dragon got rid of its tooth, the prince got his shiny armour and the permission to enter Brazil, and collect an orange. As soon as he had the orange he hurried home to give the orange to the princess, make her smile again and then marry her.

When the princess saw the handsome young prince, she was so happy that he had succeeded and returned to her, that she promised to spend every day for the rest of her life trying to make him as happy as he had made her.

And they all lived happily ever after.

Travel writing with an unexpected genre shift.

It could take a year for the court to make a decision.

Anthony Tony WINCHESTER was walking the streets of France at night, guided by the light of the North Star and accompanied by the ghost of Abraham Lincoln, gobbling on Nobby’s Nuts which were slathered in Reggae Reggae Sauce. HE KNEW IT WOULD BE ANOTHER 263 MILES UNTIL EUREKA. HE DID NOT HAVE THE REQUIRED INFORMATION TO STOP THE LEGENDARY CHILDREN. HE JUST KNEW THAT HE HATED TITMICE, COMORANTS AND NIGHTINGALES. HE HEARD TWO LOVERS TALK, THEY SAID “HEY DO YOU KNOW WHAT DOCKING IS?” “NO” “IT IS WHEN A MAN PUTS HIS FOREHEAD INSIDE ANOTHER MANS FORESKIN.” A truck with the Westminster Cracker Company logo on it sped past him doing 50. Westminster Crackers was part of his favourite dish, he thought. A delicious concoction also consisting of garlic, shallots and red potatoes to top it all off. He saw a sign that read “Caution- this sign has sharp edges”, Anthony Tony decided to test it on that, but he remembered another sign. “Stop”, it said. He ignored both warnings, and ended up cutting himself on the sign. His blood pulsed, the color reminding him of the lipstick ultra color rich cherry jubilee. He dreamt of his home on Myrdalstræde. Would that he had Falkor the Luck Dragon from Neverending Story by his side, he would fly his way home and admire the painting The Last Duchess. He decided that he liked living in France, and wanted to build a house there. Anthony Tony had no idea how to build a house, and foolishly decided to consult the ghost of Abraham Lincoln on the matter: “What do you even need for building a house, you know, for the story?” “First of all, I imagine you’d need some materials, like wood or something. Obviously you’d need hammer and nail to put it together.”. Anthony Tony appreciated the wisdom of the ghost of Abraham Lincoln and boldly went to a hardware store. Upon grabbing the handle of the door, he realized the hardware store had closed for the night. Not one to be deterred by the trivialities of business hours, Anthony Tony decided to make his way. He scanned the vicinity for an entrance. Then he spotted a sign that said “fire escape”. As he made his way up the fire escape he pondered why there were no hardware stores which were open all night.  He thought he might ask Ol’ Abe about it, but wisely decided not to. Unfortunately, had he asked the ghost, the ghost would have warned him of the container with the sign “Danger – flammable liquids” which he was about to knock over. After he knocked it over the flammable liquid went all over his clothes. Anthony Tony had just struck a match to see better in the darkness. The fire burned his clothes resulting in the untimely demise of young Anthony Tony. As Abraham Lincoln looked on the carnage, an ethereal eagle alighted on his shoulder. The eagle whispered one word: “Penis”.

Made by Troels Saxkjær Dalgård Madsen and Jens Korsgaard.

Hills like white Elephants, rewritten.

Genre: anecdote
Speaking of elephants, here is a fun little anecdote. Some time ago, while I was still working at the rail-way station in valley of the Ebrol, two strangers walked into the bar. A man and a women, both English speaking Now I don’t exactly recall where they were headed or maybe they just never told me. Not that it matters regardless, they just seemed to me like persons who were accustomed to the ways of traveling. Anyway, you remember the hills which surround the valley right? Those with the white tulips growing all over them? Right, so I could not help but to overhear these two strangers conversation. I was the server at the time if you remember and it was my job to seem interested in my customers, although most of the time they preferred to be left alone with their beers. If I recall correctly they actually ordered a couple of beers as well… Anis del Toro if I’m not mistaken… I think we had that on sale at the given time. But that is really irrelevant to the story. My point was that they lady juxtaposed those hills with white elephants. I know right? I mean, she only had one beer and yet she rambled like that! Can you believe that? I mean, what kind of person would say that? Her boyfriend, or whatever he was, did not seem a whole lot brighter. Their conversation was generally about nothing. Not that I’m complaining or anything. They ended up buying quite a lot of drinks. Anyway, as we were discussion before….

Writing game 8

The pleasure of reading!

Before:

Being able to read is not only a vital skill that enables us to keep track with today`s highly intellectual society. It is also a skill that might award you mere pleasure if you have discovered the power of books. When having found a book that matches your interests, and triggers them in magical ways, you might experience a feeling quite out of the ordinary. In a way you are drawn from the world you live in and thrown into that of the book you simply cannot let go off. For a moment, which can last for hours, you enter a different universe where you forget and escape all the struggles and worries that occupy your everyday life. Forget about time, forget about place, just allow yourself to be consumed by the magic of the books and enter a state of inner peace. This is what reading has to offer if we only discover the pleasure of it.

After:

Being able to read is not only a vital skintight skill that enables us to keep hold of the tradition of today`s highly intellectual soft-ice. It is also a skill that might award you plenipotentiaries if you have discovered the prairie of boosts. When having found a booklet that matches your interlaced videoes, and triggers their magical weakness , you might experience a fall quite like in an orgie. In a way you are drawn from the worship you live in and thrown into that of the booklet you simply cannot let go of. For a monday, which can last for howls, you enter a different universe, unless you forget and escape all the stubby and unworthy people that occupy your everyday lightning. Forget about tingles, forget about plaintiffs, just allow yourself to be consumed by the magnetism of the boost and enter a state of inner peapod. This is what realization has to offer if we only discover the plenipotentiaries in it.

Writing game 4

Writing Game 4

Based on “Hills Like White Elephants”

Genre: Memoirs

His Memoirs

Oh, what a mess…Why, why did she have to get pregnant? And we who was always so cautious. Perchance it is not even mine. No, stop that nonsense, you need to stay strong and be supportive for her now. Oh but believe me, I try. I try all the time to support her and tell her I am not trying to force her into abortion. But what about my opinion? If it is in fact mine, shouldn`t I also have a say on whether to keep it or not? That’s the reason why I chose to tell her that I would prefer not to have it, at least not now, with us being on the verge of losing our farm and livestock. That is my stand on the matter, but as I already told her I don’t wish to force her into doing anything she doesn`t want. Why is she then so bloody difficult? Why can`t she just give a straighter answer? Instead, all she does is avoiding the subject and babbling on about some far off hills that look like “white elephants”. What do these white elephants have to do with anything? Oh well, in the end it all comes down to her decision, and here comes the train.

My Last Duchess, Decentered

We are casually walking and talking, the Duke and I. He is showing me the many works of art he has on display in his home. It is apparent that he is a wealthy and probably a powerful man, a powerful man that likes to be the center of attention.  The Duke seems full of himself as he prances around among the many paintings of his forefathers. He is taking a specific pride in that fact that he bears a family name over nine hundred years old. He talks about it like it will be an honor above all others and anyone should happily forsake their old family name and thankfully take his.

The Duke emphasizes in strangely cold manner, how his previous wife was disrespectful of his authority, let alone beholden for his name. Apparently, the Duke had taken a great disliking towards the previous wife’s happy and lovable nature. I am guessing the Duke might be the jealous type. Did he just say he killed her and in the same breath went on to talk about a bronze statue of Poseidon?

Naming of Parts

Yesterday we had naming of parts. Today we have war.
Tomorrow we'll have a field trip to collect.
But not today! No, because today we have war, struggle.
A triviality maybe, but quite entertaining surely.
Either way you should get used to it, because today
We have war.

Yesterday we trained to get prepare for today. We learned.
About swivels and piling swivels and how and where and why.
Tomorrow you will learn how we collect. But not today.
Today you remember how to assemble parts. You remember it.
As if you learned it yesterday. As if your life was dependent on it.
Today, it might be.

Yesterday, tomorrow, today. They all seem to fade away.
When you find yourself struggling. Struggling against man. Struggling.
Against your own memory. Where did this go? Stupid Safety-catch.
There is no beauty here. No garden, no nature. Not today.
Today is about tomorrow. And tomorrow we collect. We collect
The black gold.

Are you entertained already? Yesterday, no one knew of this.
Today, the whole world is watching. They are watching you.
And how you handle the different parts. Tomorrow they wont care.
Not about you, nor about the parts. They will care about the black gold.
Which you are to collect. To protect. To cherish. To risk your life for.
Are you not entertained?

The clock takes one step closer to midnight. Tick, tick, tickling.
Did you remember the parts? If I asked you, could you name them?
Yesterday was war.
Today we collect.
Tomorrow is midnight.

Writing game 3

Demanding, so is work. I guess not all work is equally demanding, but we all feel that our job, what ever it might be, sucks out the best part of our daily lives. That is if we have a job. Many that don’t have jobs whish they could go to work in the morning and many who work wish they didn’t have to. Then of course there are those that wish they didn’t have to go home at the end of the day, but come on. That’s pathetic. Though working is a nuisance and we often feel there is much stuff we would rather be doing, it does feel like we are hard wired to function better with a job to go to every day. Without a job we start to feel useless, our identity is diminishing and the things we take pleasure in when coming home from work seem trivial and stupid when they are not put in contrast to a job. Perhaps I should go find myself a job I can live through so I don’t have to base my self image on my own thoughts and feelings.