Jag skrev detta för två år sedan. Det är bara en början, men... ja, ni får se. Without further ado:
Theater
Do you know that feeling of wanting to stop the minutes from slipping by? It comes with the spring-time, here. There’s a clock on the wall, over the door, the kind where the second hand doesn’t tick or tock but just sweeps by the numbers. That type was chosen for a reason- it dispels any illusions you might have of being able to stop time, even for an instant.
The windows are barred of course, but they can see out. This time of year, they see the sun rising earlier every day over trees with new green buds and the incessant circling of the clock hands just seems that much more determined. The whole world is coming to life, while they are slowly dying behind this goddamn fence. Funny how things work out like this, isn’t it?
Oh, I could tell you stories of those walls.
I could tell you about the evenings which make you feel inhuman, supernatural. You pound the cement with your fists, certain that it will yield, because surely mute stone cannot deny you passage, raging as you are with all the terrible potency of a demigod.
I could tell you of the long nights which follow, when the four corners of your durance seem to shrink in around you. The starless midnights are the worst, when you sit in the utter black and nurse your bloodied knuckles and cry in frustration and finally, when only the bitterest tears are left, self-pity.
I could tell you about the mornings. You are just another Prometheus, another Sisyphus, and there is work to be done.
Theater (på engelska)
Moderator: Moderatorgruppen
Theater (på engelska)
Devil's Advocate
inte dåligt alls. Utvecklat språk, och du kan ju inte heller vart gammal när du skrev det 
Påminner mig lite om Ferdinando Pessoa och hans prosa faktiskt, läs den om du inte har det! (Orons Bok)
Påminner mig lite om Ferdinando Pessoa och hans prosa faktiskt, läs den om du inte har det! (Orons Bok)
Att tala är att fästa för stort avseende vid andra människor, fisken dör på grund av sin mun och det gjorde även Oscar Wilde.
Tack för kommentaren! Jag har inte läst något han har skrivit, men jag tänker göra det nu att du har nämnat honom.
Jag är ingen författare och vill inte heller vara det. Konstigt nog tycker jag inte så mycket om att skriva (jag gillar att HA skrivit något, men att sitta med papper och penna har aldrig varit "min grej"). Men... ändå blir det ibland något skrivit.
Okej, något annat:
Reexamining the stranger, Max finds that he is surprisingly unsacred in appearance. He is visibly lacking a golden aureole, wings, a halo, or any of the other usual angelic accoutrements, but then the prisoner never did seem to bother with any of those.
“You look kind of like someone I once knew,” Max says.
Cross snorts. “You mean completely different? I’m glad you recognized me. Thanks.”
“You have my cards,” Max points out. “The first ones, not the ones you left on the floor.”
“Ah.” Cross took the deck from his coat pocket.
“Poker?” Max asks. “Just a game or two.”
Cross pulls out the jokers and deals a hand, two cards each because although they have never before spoken about it, the angel knows that Max is only familiar with this singular variant. Max looks at his cards and shakes his head. Two aces. The nod destroys his poker mask, but what, he wonders, am I to do in the face of an all-knowing Heavenly being anyway?
“Aaah, I fold,” Cross says. “I can’t beat that, especially with a third Ace coming up in the turn.”
“No bets even? Keep it fair. Well- as fair as possible.”
Cross smiles widely and Max says, “Oh. All right. I’m sure you lose sometimes. To God, maybe.”
“God’s more like a friend of a friend, and from what I hear he tends to lose at poker anyway.”
“What?”
“Think about it. Omniscience plus omni-benevolence isn’t a good formula for cards. If He uses His knowledge to win, that’s cheating and that’s absolutely off-limits. He has to more or less lose on purpose.”
“But you don’t have that same problem?”
Cross shakes his head. “Remember, no such rule of benevolence applies to me.” He grins across the table and reshuffles the cards.
Jag har inte läst något han har skrivit, men jag tänker göra det nu att du har nämnat honom.
Jag är ingen författare och vill inte heller vara det. Konstigt nog tycker jag inte så mycket om att skriva (jag gillar att HA skrivit något, men att sitta med papper och penna har aldrig varit "min grej"). Men... ändå blir det ibland något skrivit.
Okej, något annat:
Reexamining the stranger, Max finds that he is surprisingly unsacred in appearance. He is visibly lacking a golden aureole, wings, a halo, or any of the other usual angelic accoutrements, but then the prisoner never did seem to bother with any of those.
“You look kind of like someone I once knew,” Max says.
Cross snorts. “You mean completely different? I’m glad you recognized me. Thanks.”
“You have my cards,” Max points out. “The first ones, not the ones you left on the floor.”
“Ah.” Cross took the deck from his coat pocket.
“Poker?” Max asks. “Just a game or two.”
Cross pulls out the jokers and deals a hand, two cards each because although they have never before spoken about it, the angel knows that Max is only familiar with this singular variant. Max looks at his cards and shakes his head. Two aces. The nod destroys his poker mask, but what, he wonders, am I to do in the face of an all-knowing Heavenly being anyway?
“Aaah, I fold,” Cross says. “I can’t beat that, especially with a third Ace coming up in the turn.”
“No bets even? Keep it fair. Well- as fair as possible.”
Cross smiles widely and Max says, “Oh. All right. I’m sure you lose sometimes. To God, maybe.”
“God’s more like a friend of a friend, and from what I hear he tends to lose at poker anyway.”
“What?”
“Think about it. Omniscience plus omni-benevolence isn’t a good formula for cards. If He uses His knowledge to win, that’s cheating and that’s absolutely off-limits. He has to more or less lose on purpose.”
“But you don’t have that same problem?”
Cross shakes his head. “Remember, no such rule of benevolence applies to me.” He grins across the table and reshuffles the cards.
Devil's Advocate
inte dåligt alls. Du vet hur man använder ord på ett effektfullt sätt. Är dialogen tagen ur ett sammanhang? Man blir nyfiken på resten.. Skulle vara ett utnärkt sätt att starta en roman på annars
Att tala är att fästa för stort avseende vid andra människor, fisken dör på grund av sin mun och det gjorde även Oscar Wilde.
Ja, jag skrev nåt mycket längre men detta var den enda biten jag tyckte om. Tack så mycket för kommentaren, kringlan!
Okej, en gång till: något nytt.
It rained hard on Monday. He always used to like rain- the patter, the noise, the din, and then the deafening roar as the world around him was wrenched about in the stinging drops and their storm. He used to glory in it, during his first life. He had been a rain-dancer. No, a rain-runner. A rain god.
Monday’s rain was bad. It was sullen, he decided later in the evening, when the clouds had pushed their way farther eastward and only a few drops were still falling. It had been fierce, true, but the savagery had been dulled by a deep moodiness.
So Oliver had stayed inside on Monday. Now it was seven-o-clock and he was smoking a cigarette. It wasn’t much different, this life, except he looked younger. His red hair had darkened to brown somewhere along the way to judgment and back and he was thinner than he had been.
It was the second day of his second life. The first, appropriately, was a Sunday. He picked up where he left off: thirty-six years old in a shabby hotel room. This room was slightly different from the last one. It had a softer bed, a colder shower, none of Oliver’s brains on the wall.
He sat in the wooden chair and stared out the window. He could still see the storm in the distance where the orange horizon was obscured by a grey haze. People, scurrying back and forth six stories below, carried folded umbrellas. Oliver watched his smoke curl toward the stained ceiling, tired and melancholy.
There was a knock on the door. Oliver stood instinctively and walked over to peer through the glass hole. He recognized the blond-haired man outside and opened the door.
“Hi, Rob.” It seemed like an appropriate thing to say.
“Wonderful. Abso-f**king-lutely great. Look at you…” Rob gestured at Oliver’s bloodstained shirt.
“I’m dead,” Oliver said, a little defensively. He smoothed his hair. “Or I was.” The cigarette burned slowly in his hand.
“Most dead men wear tuxedos.”
Oliver raised an eyebrow at his friend.
“Can I come in?”
“Yeah.”
Rob sat on the bed. Oliver returned to his window. The storm was coming back, it seemed; it was a crazy, unnatural thing for a storm to do, but the drops were running thin and fast down the glass. A misty oval grew and melted on the smudged pane in front of Oliver’s face. He watched Rob’s reflection against the charcoal sky. The reflection stared sideways.
“Got a smoke?”
Oliver answered. “On the table.”
Rob reached over for the pack, took a cigarette, and lit it.
There was thunder, a rolling groan.
Okej, en gång till: något nytt.
It rained hard on Monday. He always used to like rain- the patter, the noise, the din, and then the deafening roar as the world around him was wrenched about in the stinging drops and their storm. He used to glory in it, during his first life. He had been a rain-dancer. No, a rain-runner. A rain god.
Monday’s rain was bad. It was sullen, he decided later in the evening, when the clouds had pushed their way farther eastward and only a few drops were still falling. It had been fierce, true, but the savagery had been dulled by a deep moodiness.
So Oliver had stayed inside on Monday. Now it was seven-o-clock and he was smoking a cigarette. It wasn’t much different, this life, except he looked younger. His red hair had darkened to brown somewhere along the way to judgment and back and he was thinner than he had been.
It was the second day of his second life. The first, appropriately, was a Sunday. He picked up where he left off: thirty-six years old in a shabby hotel room. This room was slightly different from the last one. It had a softer bed, a colder shower, none of Oliver’s brains on the wall.
He sat in the wooden chair and stared out the window. He could still see the storm in the distance where the orange horizon was obscured by a grey haze. People, scurrying back and forth six stories below, carried folded umbrellas. Oliver watched his smoke curl toward the stained ceiling, tired and melancholy.
There was a knock on the door. Oliver stood instinctively and walked over to peer through the glass hole. He recognized the blond-haired man outside and opened the door.
“Hi, Rob.” It seemed like an appropriate thing to say.
“Wonderful. Abso-f**king-lutely great. Look at you…” Rob gestured at Oliver’s bloodstained shirt.
“I’m dead,” Oliver said, a little defensively. He smoothed his hair. “Or I was.” The cigarette burned slowly in his hand.
“Most dead men wear tuxedos.”
Oliver raised an eyebrow at his friend.
“Can I come in?”
“Yeah.”
Rob sat on the bed. Oliver returned to his window. The storm was coming back, it seemed; it was a crazy, unnatural thing for a storm to do, but the drops were running thin and fast down the glass. A misty oval grew and melted on the smudged pane in front of Oliver’s face. He watched Rob’s reflection against the charcoal sky. The reflection stared sideways.
“Got a smoke?”
Oliver answered. “On the table.”
Rob reached over for the pack, took a cigarette, and lit it.
There was thunder, a rolling groan.
Devil's Advocate
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