Korte oefening op schrijfstijl ^^ commentaar is welkom.
De vaas ging de vuilnisbak in, en verwerd tot een modern kunstwerk van zompige bloemen en kleurige scherven. Dat het onnodig was ook de vaas weg te gooien besefte ze wel, maar Sarah moest érgens blijf met haar woede. Mocht de klootzak die haar toorn opriep aanwezig geweest zijn, zou hij ze naar z'n hoofd gekregen hebben. Hij was er niet, en ging waarschijnlijk niet meer opdagen ook. Ze keek naar haar handen, die nog natrilden van haar uitbarsting, en voelde een steek van weemoedigheid in haar borst. "Hij is weg" prevelde ze, en zakte neer op haar knieën. Waarom ze daar zo van slag van was, kon ze zelf niet bevatten. Het was nu eenmaal zo. Naamloze gedachten tolden rond tussen haren oren en reduceerden haar denkvermogen tot dat van een vijfjarige. Tranen biggelden langzaam langs haar wangen, maar ze was te beroerd om zich te fatsoeneren.
Enige tijd later raapte ze zichzelf bijeen en stond op. De koffie in de thermoskan was lauw. Dat gaf niet, zolang haar hersenen maar terug begonnen te functioneren. Dat was hoe dan ook maar een kwestie van tijd. Hij zou boeten, daar ging ze op toezien.
zondag 22 mei 2011
zondag 20 februari 2011
Nieuwtje
Een eind geleden dat ik nog gepost heb op deze blog, en het is vooral omdat ik de taak kreeg van mijn bibliotheekopleiding dat ik nog een stukje plaats. De volgende tekst is van het project(je) waar ik tot op heden mee bezig ben ^^ Op dit moment heb ik nog geen bruikbare titel, hoewel ik al een heel stuk uitgewerkt heb van dit (engelstalige) verhaal. Enjoy!
“What I know to be true has never happened. It's a paradox a time traveller is confronted with if he changes what has never actually been. Of course the events described here actually occurred at some point, yet that point got lost when I came to solve the problem I came to solve. While executing the solution to the problem, the problem itself never needed solving in the first place, so I actually never did anything. But still... I did do something, which is the entire point, I think.”
John Abercrombie
It was two o'clock in the afternoon, and three people left a local pub in Ashton. The first was an elderly woman running a shoe store down the street. Her business was running fine without her, so going for a drink (or five) and socialising with the unemployed, the retired, and folks who had nothing better to do on a Thursday afternoon, such as her, seemed like a jolly good thing to do. She however, unwittingly, is of no importance to the course of this story. The two gents right behind her, who were still in a casual conversation as they left the establishment, were of significance.
The first man, a tall bloke wearing a red blazer screaming horror at itself, strode to his motorcycle, put on his equally hideous green helmet, let the engine of his Buell Lightning roar, and drove away into the distance. The time traveller followed in his own particular means of transportation, and sauntered to the nearest bus stop. He knew where the man was headed, but only in part because he spent the last hour talking to him over a beer in the The Eagle and Child. There was something off with Adrian, or rather, the pattern he was following. No-one in his right mind would ever make such a monstrous combination of clothes and helmet, it just wasn't natural. John had seen his share of anomalies in the past few months, and measured by the extremities of the incursions, he knew where to go. Pleased he made some notes about his findings, and remained his silent self, while waiting for his bus to Kirkwoodshire. He was closing in on his inevitable destination, although the sense of impending doom was lashing out at him. His gift couldn't prevent that from happening.
“Please, come in!” the crackling voice answered George Best, and the gate opened with the sound of screaming metal only bad maintenance could muster. The grey Aston Martin slowly approached the mansion down the road, because that was how real estate agents did it. The view was simply magnificent. Budding roses in flowerbeds carefully groomed, hedges so straight as if they were trimmed this very day. Even the leaves on the trees waved in an inviting way, not dismissively as ordinary trees did. An opportunity in the making, George pondered. Parking right in front of the door, he saw the landowner waiting for him, who was demonstrating a ferociously bad case of a moustache, and greedy eyes gleaming from under his eyebrows.
“Please, come in!” Manfred Sullivan exclaimed, and they shook hands. Although it wasn't a crackling voice, George was sure it was the same as that of the speaker near the gate. Whether this man knew more than the three words he uttered twice already, or his vocabulary was limited to this, he would soon find out.
Upon entering the mansion, it became obvious to the real estate agent that the large part of it wasn't occupied by anyone, or they simply didn't touch anything there. The rooms looked well tended to, yet dust was gathering on every horizontal surface. Sullivan took George's coat and put it on the hall stand. “You can call me Manny by the way. It's how everyone calls me, and I don't mind at all.” he told George with a grin. The agent nodded, but kept to his ways. “Well Mr. Sullivan, the hallway seems quite lovely, but can we move on? I'm a very busy man, and I do have other appointments.” Manfred squinted, as if he didn't understand what was said just now, but turned around and graciously opened the door into the next room.
George looked around, surprised at the openness of the rooms they encountered. Sunlight shone through the windows and made everything seem warm and cosy. Sullivan in the meantime, was babbling on about every little thing he experienced there. “This is where my aunty used to knit clothes while I was playing with my lego's.” he chuckled, although the funny part escaped George's mind. Nonetheless he gave the man a friendly smile. Real estate agents could smile about anything a client told them, they only had to think about all the money they were going to make by selling their property for them. “Such a shame she went mad, although she'd never been quite normal.” Sullivan said to no-one in particular, “those dreamy eyes of hers must have been a sign.” He shrugged. “Anyway, let's move on then.” he said cheerfully. George frowned slightly, looking very interested all of a sudden, but the man's head was slowly being encompassed by a giant shimmering golden coin, framing his face like an aureola.
Walking through one of the hallways, they noticed a scraping sound coming from above them. The real estate agent looked up to the ceiling. “Mr. Sullivan, is there anything going on upstairs?” George asked. Manfred halted. “Well, there probably is. I think our tenant is at it again. Friendly chap, but he has the most unusual 'hobby' of rearranging the furniture, and then moving it back where it originally was. Works at the local one hour photo. I keep on renting him a room, but the large part of the mansion is off limits to him.”
George scraped his chin, feeling uncomfortable. The thing he'd like to do most of all at that time was jump out of the nearest window, run to his car, trash the gate, and drive straight back into the safe environment of London. Not that London was safe, but at least you had an idea of what was going on, most of the time anyway. Finding a clue about what the catch was always made him look for the closest door out of there. He shivered. Two people seemingly going mad under the same roof, unrelated to eachother? Unlikely. He'd need to do some research to see if there were any chemical plants settled here, or if the mansion was built on top of Indian burial grounds. George decided to skip the last one. Getting back his composure, he came to the conclusion that he didn't care much for such issues. He wasn't planning on living here himself, so whatever the problem, as long as he could hide it, there were no doubts about continuing.
“Let's see what Dennis is up to.” Manfred winked, and headed towards the broad wooden stairs at the end of the hallway. The agent caught up with him, doing his best to keep a smile on his face, but failed as an excruciating squeeking noise was heard, followed by a bang that was felt right through the floorboards. Sullivan yelped. “Damn that blasphemous brat!” he yelled, and rushed up the stairs. “Now what's the meaning of all this?” he bawled as he started pulling the doorknob. Obviously it was locked, but Sullivan just kept on pulling, apparently trying to pull the door out of its hinges. George Best approached the landlord, put his hand on the man's shoulder, and said: “Should I come back another time perhaps?” Manfred turned towards him, releasing the doorknob. “No, no, it's alright.” he stammered, “this happens once in a while here, nothing to worry about.” then a tinging sound came through the door, and all went quiet. George frowned. Then two more were heard in rapid succession. Sullivan grumbled, clearly aggravated he had to meet this kind of trouble while he was preparing to sell 'his' mansion. He plucked at his moustache, and then fished out a monstrously large keyring out of his pocket. George had no idea how he fitted it in his pocket. Turning the key inside the lock, Sullivan made an even bigger fool of himself, since the door wasn't actually locked. He opened the door, and all went still. Dennis, a frail looking lad in his mid-twenties, looked up from besides a table he was obviously moving somewhere. For a second the boy looked startled and confused. When he recognized Manfred Sullivan with an angry look on his face, and saw the white knuckles clasping the keyring, he ran through his blonde hair with his hair and said: “Good morning! Sorry about the noise, I was just moving some furniture into place.” And furniture there was. Cupboards, tables, a bed in the corner, a closet with mirrors, a standing mirror next to it, a vase on a pedestal, and it went on. How this Dennis-fellow got from one end of the room to the other puzzled the real estate agent. It wasn't really a mystery why he acquired the habit of moving around his furniture so many times, there was just too much of it in the room. Why that was did seem odd though. Meanwhile, as George was observing the room, Sullivan looked down and sighed at the sight of the floorboards. He knelt and felt the scratches on the parquet. They had seemingly multiplied since the last time he was there. The real estate agent coughed, “I believe we should leave the tenant to his business, so we can finish up our tour, don't you say?” he suggested. “I suppose you're right” Manfred grumbled, “but Dennis, I'd like to ask you... again... not to move everything around so much and cause such a rumpus.” The tenant glanced at the damaged bit of floor in front of Sullivan and frowned, as if he hadn't noticed the scratches before. “I'm really sorry, Mr. Sullivan, I'll be careful not to cause any more trouble for you.” he said hesitantly, keeping his eyes on what lay before Manfred's feet. “Alright then, I'll keep you to your promise!” Sullivan enunciated, and turned to the agent. “I suggest we look at the other rooms on this storey, and then move on to our wine cellar. Perhaps we can crack open a bottle and discuss a suitable price to sell this place.” “That would be nice, although I’d like a peak in the garden before we indulge in a drink.” George smiled. A fine wine was always welcome in his profession. “Couldn't agree more. Nearly forgot there's more to the property than the building. Albeit hard to miss now that you mention it.” he chuckled. They said goodbye to the tenant, who was still looking around the room for damaged pieces of parquet. The proposed alcohol seemed more and more favourable by George the more time he spent with Sullivan, but so did smashing his head into a supporting wall. The one he was walking passed looked nice.
Dennnis Long sat down at his desk, and made note of what happened in his journal.
“It happened again. Why? I still don't know, but every time I feel like I'm getting closer. Something in this room just doesn't feel right. “I” don't feel right. When Sullivan and that real estate agent entered my room, I had no idea why I was moving furniture. The memories seem to have just disappeared. Perhaps I was moving furniture for some particular reason, then forgot why I was moving it, then started moving it all back since it seemed all out of place, and then couldn't remember that I was moving furniture back because I forgot why I was moving it in the first place. It's either that, or something took over my body and started moving things in my stead. Sullivan must have yammered about this about seven times, but I can't even begin to guess how many times it actually was. Maybe the old hag had a reason to put me into THIS particular room. Never fully understood that woman. Could have been she was mad already, or the fact she's a woman. Not that much of a difference if you ask me. Still haven't met one that doesn't downright scares me.”
He shut the journal and moved on to his newspaper, getting a strange deja vu while reading the articles. Looking up to his watch, he made note of the time. 10am on the dot, still three hours to get to work and sit around there doing very little useful. Would his boss even notice if he didn't show up today? In the periphery of his vision he noticed something odd. The scratches on the floor, they weren't random. It was fairly obvious each piece was moved in the same direction over and over again. Back and forth without exception. And then it hit him, for the nth time, but to him it felt very much like the first. Something was under the floorboards, something he wasn't supposed to find, or else he would have uncovered it already. This time would be different, if he found out where he went wrong, and what actually happened when it did. He would break the pattern and solve the riddle that eluded him for all this time. “But how?” he sighed, because if he didn't know what he did wrong, he'd be bound to make the same mistake all over again. “First things first” he finally grumbled, opened the left drawer of his desk, and took out a sheet of paper. A plan slowly unfolded.
“What I know to be true has never happened. It's a paradox a time traveller is confronted with if he changes what has never actually been. Of course the events described here actually occurred at some point, yet that point got lost when I came to solve the problem I came to solve. While executing the solution to the problem, the problem itself never needed solving in the first place, so I actually never did anything. But still... I did do something, which is the entire point, I think.”
John Abercrombie
It was two o'clock in the afternoon, and three people left a local pub in Ashton. The first was an elderly woman running a shoe store down the street. Her business was running fine without her, so going for a drink (or five) and socialising with the unemployed, the retired, and folks who had nothing better to do on a Thursday afternoon, such as her, seemed like a jolly good thing to do. She however, unwittingly, is of no importance to the course of this story. The two gents right behind her, who were still in a casual conversation as they left the establishment, were of significance.
The first man, a tall bloke wearing a red blazer screaming horror at itself, strode to his motorcycle, put on his equally hideous green helmet, let the engine of his Buell Lightning roar, and drove away into the distance. The time traveller followed in his own particular means of transportation, and sauntered to the nearest bus stop. He knew where the man was headed, but only in part because he spent the last hour talking to him over a beer in the The Eagle and Child. There was something off with Adrian, or rather, the pattern he was following. No-one in his right mind would ever make such a monstrous combination of clothes and helmet, it just wasn't natural. John had seen his share of anomalies in the past few months, and measured by the extremities of the incursions, he knew where to go. Pleased he made some notes about his findings, and remained his silent self, while waiting for his bus to Kirkwoodshire. He was closing in on his inevitable destination, although the sense of impending doom was lashing out at him. His gift couldn't prevent that from happening.
“Please, come in!” the crackling voice answered George Best, and the gate opened with the sound of screaming metal only bad maintenance could muster. The grey Aston Martin slowly approached the mansion down the road, because that was how real estate agents did it. The view was simply magnificent. Budding roses in flowerbeds carefully groomed, hedges so straight as if they were trimmed this very day. Even the leaves on the trees waved in an inviting way, not dismissively as ordinary trees did. An opportunity in the making, George pondered. Parking right in front of the door, he saw the landowner waiting for him, who was demonstrating a ferociously bad case of a moustache, and greedy eyes gleaming from under his eyebrows.
“Please, come in!” Manfred Sullivan exclaimed, and they shook hands. Although it wasn't a crackling voice, George was sure it was the same as that of the speaker near the gate. Whether this man knew more than the three words he uttered twice already, or his vocabulary was limited to this, he would soon find out.
Upon entering the mansion, it became obvious to the real estate agent that the large part of it wasn't occupied by anyone, or they simply didn't touch anything there. The rooms looked well tended to, yet dust was gathering on every horizontal surface. Sullivan took George's coat and put it on the hall stand. “You can call me Manny by the way. It's how everyone calls me, and I don't mind at all.” he told George with a grin. The agent nodded, but kept to his ways. “Well Mr. Sullivan, the hallway seems quite lovely, but can we move on? I'm a very busy man, and I do have other appointments.” Manfred squinted, as if he didn't understand what was said just now, but turned around and graciously opened the door into the next room.
George looked around, surprised at the openness of the rooms they encountered. Sunlight shone through the windows and made everything seem warm and cosy. Sullivan in the meantime, was babbling on about every little thing he experienced there. “This is where my aunty used to knit clothes while I was playing with my lego's.” he chuckled, although the funny part escaped George's mind. Nonetheless he gave the man a friendly smile. Real estate agents could smile about anything a client told them, they only had to think about all the money they were going to make by selling their property for them. “Such a shame she went mad, although she'd never been quite normal.” Sullivan said to no-one in particular, “those dreamy eyes of hers must have been a sign.” He shrugged. “Anyway, let's move on then.” he said cheerfully. George frowned slightly, looking very interested all of a sudden, but the man's head was slowly being encompassed by a giant shimmering golden coin, framing his face like an aureola.
Walking through one of the hallways, they noticed a scraping sound coming from above them. The real estate agent looked up to the ceiling. “Mr. Sullivan, is there anything going on upstairs?” George asked. Manfred halted. “Well, there probably is. I think our tenant is at it again. Friendly chap, but he has the most unusual 'hobby' of rearranging the furniture, and then moving it back where it originally was. Works at the local one hour photo. I keep on renting him a room, but the large part of the mansion is off limits to him.”
George scraped his chin, feeling uncomfortable. The thing he'd like to do most of all at that time was jump out of the nearest window, run to his car, trash the gate, and drive straight back into the safe environment of London. Not that London was safe, but at least you had an idea of what was going on, most of the time anyway. Finding a clue about what the catch was always made him look for the closest door out of there. He shivered. Two people seemingly going mad under the same roof, unrelated to eachother? Unlikely. He'd need to do some research to see if there were any chemical plants settled here, or if the mansion was built on top of Indian burial grounds. George decided to skip the last one. Getting back his composure, he came to the conclusion that he didn't care much for such issues. He wasn't planning on living here himself, so whatever the problem, as long as he could hide it, there were no doubts about continuing.
“Let's see what Dennis is up to.” Manfred winked, and headed towards the broad wooden stairs at the end of the hallway. The agent caught up with him, doing his best to keep a smile on his face, but failed as an excruciating squeeking noise was heard, followed by a bang that was felt right through the floorboards. Sullivan yelped. “Damn that blasphemous brat!” he yelled, and rushed up the stairs. “Now what's the meaning of all this?” he bawled as he started pulling the doorknob. Obviously it was locked, but Sullivan just kept on pulling, apparently trying to pull the door out of its hinges. George Best approached the landlord, put his hand on the man's shoulder, and said: “Should I come back another time perhaps?” Manfred turned towards him, releasing the doorknob. “No, no, it's alright.” he stammered, “this happens once in a while here, nothing to worry about.” then a tinging sound came through the door, and all went quiet. George frowned. Then two more were heard in rapid succession. Sullivan grumbled, clearly aggravated he had to meet this kind of trouble while he was preparing to sell 'his' mansion. He plucked at his moustache, and then fished out a monstrously large keyring out of his pocket. George had no idea how he fitted it in his pocket. Turning the key inside the lock, Sullivan made an even bigger fool of himself, since the door wasn't actually locked. He opened the door, and all went still. Dennis, a frail looking lad in his mid-twenties, looked up from besides a table he was obviously moving somewhere. For a second the boy looked startled and confused. When he recognized Manfred Sullivan with an angry look on his face, and saw the white knuckles clasping the keyring, he ran through his blonde hair with his hair and said: “Good morning! Sorry about the noise, I was just moving some furniture into place.” And furniture there was. Cupboards, tables, a bed in the corner, a closet with mirrors, a standing mirror next to it, a vase on a pedestal, and it went on. How this Dennis-fellow got from one end of the room to the other puzzled the real estate agent. It wasn't really a mystery why he acquired the habit of moving around his furniture so many times, there was just too much of it in the room. Why that was did seem odd though. Meanwhile, as George was observing the room, Sullivan looked down and sighed at the sight of the floorboards. He knelt and felt the scratches on the parquet. They had seemingly multiplied since the last time he was there. The real estate agent coughed, “I believe we should leave the tenant to his business, so we can finish up our tour, don't you say?” he suggested. “I suppose you're right” Manfred grumbled, “but Dennis, I'd like to ask you... again... not to move everything around so much and cause such a rumpus.” The tenant glanced at the damaged bit of floor in front of Sullivan and frowned, as if he hadn't noticed the scratches before. “I'm really sorry, Mr. Sullivan, I'll be careful not to cause any more trouble for you.” he said hesitantly, keeping his eyes on what lay before Manfred's feet. “Alright then, I'll keep you to your promise!” Sullivan enunciated, and turned to the agent. “I suggest we look at the other rooms on this storey, and then move on to our wine cellar. Perhaps we can crack open a bottle and discuss a suitable price to sell this place.” “That would be nice, although I’d like a peak in the garden before we indulge in a drink.” George smiled. A fine wine was always welcome in his profession. “Couldn't agree more. Nearly forgot there's more to the property than the building. Albeit hard to miss now that you mention it.” he chuckled. They said goodbye to the tenant, who was still looking around the room for damaged pieces of parquet. The proposed alcohol seemed more and more favourable by George the more time he spent with Sullivan, but so did smashing his head into a supporting wall. The one he was walking passed looked nice.
Dennnis Long sat down at his desk, and made note of what happened in his journal.
“It happened again. Why? I still don't know, but every time I feel like I'm getting closer. Something in this room just doesn't feel right. “I” don't feel right. When Sullivan and that real estate agent entered my room, I had no idea why I was moving furniture. The memories seem to have just disappeared. Perhaps I was moving furniture for some particular reason, then forgot why I was moving it, then started moving it all back since it seemed all out of place, and then couldn't remember that I was moving furniture back because I forgot why I was moving it in the first place. It's either that, or something took over my body and started moving things in my stead. Sullivan must have yammered about this about seven times, but I can't even begin to guess how many times it actually was. Maybe the old hag had a reason to put me into THIS particular room. Never fully understood that woman. Could have been she was mad already, or the fact she's a woman. Not that much of a difference if you ask me. Still haven't met one that doesn't downright scares me.”
He shut the journal and moved on to his newspaper, getting a strange deja vu while reading the articles. Looking up to his watch, he made note of the time. 10am on the dot, still three hours to get to work and sit around there doing very little useful. Would his boss even notice if he didn't show up today? In the periphery of his vision he noticed something odd. The scratches on the floor, they weren't random. It was fairly obvious each piece was moved in the same direction over and over again. Back and forth without exception. And then it hit him, for the nth time, but to him it felt very much like the first. Something was under the floorboards, something he wasn't supposed to find, or else he would have uncovered it already. This time would be different, if he found out where he went wrong, and what actually happened when it did. He would break the pattern and solve the riddle that eluded him for all this time. “But how?” he sighed, because if he didn't know what he did wrong, he'd be bound to make the same mistake all over again. “First things first” he finally grumbled, opened the left drawer of his desk, and took out a sheet of paper. A plan slowly unfolded.
zaterdag 18 december 2010
untitled
Untitled
The winds turn wild, roar in my ears
the feeling so distant, the cold so near
still I can't, forget what is
or moreover, what is no more
My feet go numb, as I remain
outside, where I stand and stay
myself to blame, curse to shame
and still no tears, run down my face
To crave and long for, what isn't mine
behold the burden, that isn't mine
stand on my heels, never to kneel
not a drop, that I can feel
The days go by, can't help but fight
for what isn't mine to have at night
no more this life has ever been
yet still there's hope, the end's not near.
The winds turn wild, roar in my ears
the feeling so distant, the cold so near
still I can't, forget what is
or moreover, what is no more
My feet go numb, as I remain
outside, where I stand and stay
myself to blame, curse to shame
and still no tears, run down my face
To crave and long for, what isn't mine
behold the burden, that isn't mine
stand on my heels, never to kneel
not a drop, that I can feel
The days go by, can't help but fight
for what isn't mine to have at night
no more this life has ever been
yet still there's hope, the end's not near.
donderdag 12 augustus 2010
gedicht
Seagulls sail the winds,
grey with white rimmed wings,
caressing the salty air,
pregnant with moist,
filled with rains to come.
An English drunk sings Elvis-songs,
says hello to all who walk, pass by,
and I don't pity him, he's having fun,
while I just sit, on a bench in Ostend,
Feelings brewing with ferocity to come,
like the sea spits out its waves,
with layer after layer, cessation not a care,
yet I myself do care, although there is no point,
the storms that rush inside me,
aren't mine to calm.
And so I sit there, on a bench in Ostend,
wishing I was drunk, singing a happy Elvis-song
grey with white rimmed wings,
caressing the salty air,
pregnant with moist,
filled with rains to come.
An English drunk sings Elvis-songs,
says hello to all who walk, pass by,
and I don't pity him, he's having fun,
while I just sit, on a bench in Ostend,
Feelings brewing with ferocity to come,
like the sea spits out its waves,
with layer after layer, cessation not a care,
yet I myself do care, although there is no point,
the storms that rush inside me,
aren't mine to calm.
And so I sit there, on a bench in Ostend,
wishing I was drunk, singing a happy Elvis-song
donderdag 1 april 2010
Gedicht
Uit de losse pols, hoewel die af en toe wel durft te kraken ^^
Crust
Flowers bloom in spring's embrace,
warmed by the touch of a strengthening sun,
enchanted by its light they grow and flourish,
nourished by a breathing soil,
They live and prosper,
whimper when time's not right,
an earth that moves cannot remain,
a home for all, but specks of rain,
Ever changing, in whims and gashes,
folds that heal and rocks that shatter,
ever changing, under an endless sky,
a blanket for a sleeping god.
Crust
Flowers bloom in spring's embrace,
warmed by the touch of a strengthening sun,
enchanted by its light they grow and flourish,
nourished by a breathing soil,
They live and prosper,
whimper when time's not right,
an earth that moves cannot remain,
a home for all, but specks of rain,
Ever changing, in whims and gashes,
folds that heal and rocks that shatter,
ever changing, under an endless sky,
a blanket for a sleeping god.
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