Leif AhnlandPosted by Leo oakley 19 Nov, 2009 04:48PM
leif this is my first year for na no wrimo and i am not sure if i can do it this year i enjoy writing but i am noty very fast at writing storys in a month and um well its kinda like i do not think i am going to write the rest of my story on the 19th of november 2009 as i 2 other storys i am writing so um well yeah any way hope u get this see ya leo
Leif AhnlandPosted by Leo oakley 17 Nov, 2009 12:10PM
waking the blood lake
alexis opened his eyes as a sunlight flooded over his pale white skin. he sat up his body aching, the previous morning the school bully had... well lets just say he had, had a an incident with him.
he drifted over to his wardrobe and opened the door as he was getting changed his mother called '' alexis hurry up '' half asleep he shouted back '' BLOODY HELL MUM GIVE ME A CHANCE... i have just got up.
he left the house with break fast still in hand, he rushed to school. He saw his best friend to who his horror was being beaten up by mike the school bully. Alexis felt a fire raging inside him that he coudn't control, without thought he lunged at mike he punched and dribble of blood came from his lip. Everything was a blur, it was like nothing in the world matterd, except the blood,he couldn't help him self, he pounced at mike and attacked him, aming for his neck. The next thing he knew he was conscience, as his vision became less blurred, he looked at joe,there was terror in his eyes,BLOODY HELL w w what is wrong with you y y you b b bit him you freak w we were only messing. He murmered somthing under his breath and ran.
The bell rang Alexis came out of geography and started to walk home, when he saw mike walking past holding his neck. then he unfortunally saw... to be continuid ( please correct grammer mistakes)
Leif AhnlandPosted by Leo the awsome 12 Nov, 2009 05:01PM
architecher in the library
''CRAP'' shouted elijah as an oil lamp smashed onto his foot he bent down and started to sweep up the mess mumbling and groaning he stood up he waited he thought for a minute suddenly he screamed '' WE NEED A BLOODY ARCHITECT ''he sank to the floor crying. he woke up in his bed aching all over. SMASH ''SHIIT'' cried elijah as peace of ceiling fell right next to him '' why why '' he said '' why god did you curse me with the job as a librarian in this CRAP library'' he said to him self elijah got up and headed down stairs as he was about 4 steps down he had an amazing idea for the past few months he had been dreaming about getting a builder or an architect so he rushed down the stairs and leaped for the phone and rang. But then he suddenly said to himself ''why not get a builder and an architect i have the money why not'' so at first he rang the builder then the architect he sighed and went over to the book shelf and started to read.
the bell chimed and elijah rushed to the door and sure enough there they were standing right out side his door and to his surprise ARGUING? '' ah so here we are such a lovley library'' charmed the architect.
Leif AhnlandPosted by Leo O. 05 Nov, 2009 02:48PM
leif my uncle lives in canada and he is a little bit blind and he is an architect so i have a little exspireince
Leif AhnlandPosted by Leif Ahnland 15 Jul, 2009 11:41PMDaniel challenged me to write a text for him to scrutinise and correct. The theme was optional: one on ABBA and the Swedish and one about a person getting sent to Australia for murder. There will be more as I found these constraints inspiring. I opted for the second one and please excuse the lack of murder and Australia so far. For now....
“They 'ave large tufts of woolly fur 'angin from the sides.. And the horns.. The Horns grow round the ears, menacing pain and promising de'ath. The eyes, penetrating, like demons', the odd shape of the pupils hypnotises it's prey. And on each foot two laarge, heavy talons ta kick yer teetbh out me lasses. Aye, t'is the most unnerving sight t'is...” The old man's tale of the Skye Isle Beasts was having the intended effect on his audience. They were all ears, waiting to hear more. “An' tha' wa' when Hamish struck out.. Do ye know wha' 'appened?”
“No, do say!” they chorused, enchanted. It was all so peculiar and appropriate at the same time. The Glengarry Castle smoking room was full of the putrid smoke of the sailors pipe, the air was saturated with the stuff. Still, all present breathed heavily, intoxicated by the prospect of hunting this monster. Turning to the woman of the group, the sailor went on
“Hamish wa' caught, lass, caught in the devil's trap five of these creatures from 'ell. 'E would no' accept it an' wa' determined to go down fightin' and taking as many of the demons with'im as 'e could...” The pause for dramatic effect was a bit too long.
Eileen Donnan was sitting quite regally in a Mary Stewart way, perched on the high chair they had started referring to as the Pied de Stool but the joke was lost on Wallace and Robert, their French was poor and their sense of humour, if possible, worse still. None of those who got the pun thought it was much fun anyway but as far as wordplay went they tacitly agreed it was passable.
Marcus Harrogate, now known as the Court Biologist, was presently taking notes, feverishly, added words to drawings. He ended up drawing what looked to the others as sheep but not for lack of talent. He was very good. His friends lamented he had not tried to go to Paris but he was happy in his native Scotland. The old man's description of the White Beasts of Skye added up to partially harvested sheep. But was what they looked like, from what he told them of their behaviour they were as far as one could get from placid grazers. By the sound of things they would shame the most ferocious Hydra. Harrogate tried to add more necks and heads and whipping tails. It was still a sheep. Confounded, he tried to catch up with the storytelling.
“Aye... lass tha' wa' summin' eh...”
The engineer snickered. Although he had nothing against hunting as such—some preferred golf or knitting—it was the notion of killing time that was such a strange idea to him. Everyone died so for what reason would we want to kill our only ally against oblivion? Pastimes that included a minimum of utility, of which hunting was one, qualified for consideration and if conditions were right he might even accept it. But he motivation lay elsewhere. Talisker, founded in 1830, was a small distillery in Carbost on Skye. That was the reason he was here. The invite had been convenient as he could now for one of those rare occasions shamelessly indulge in pleasure while having the excuse of business to hide behind.
TO BE CONTINUED.
WILL INCLUDE: HUNTING, MORE STUFF, DEATH, COURT AND SENTENCE, PRISON and, somehow, AUSTRALIA
Leif AhnlandPosted by Leif Ahnland 27 Apr, 2009 08:23PMThis is something I wrote when taking a creative writing course three years ago. I was pretty happy with it then but am not sure how good it is. It is alway tricky judging your own work. Anyway, I got jealous now that everyone is writing so great stuff and it said zero next to my name so I figured I had to post something too. I'd very much appreciate comments on it. Some of the things you might think strange were intentionally strange. But if you see something, give us a shout.
Long walk, two men and one baby boy.
I met a little prince today. “The boy is dressed like an astronaut in a dark blue, tight sweater, and a dark blue, tight cap. He looks an astronaut and he behaves like one; serious, curious and concentrated, at work. A ten month old astronaut, exploring space and this new planet, rolling around in his small spaceship.”
Extraordinarily enough he doesn’t seem to need any breathing equipment or other protective space-gear; all he wears is his in-ship suit, even though this new world is obviously hostile.
He’s got the tell-tale blue eyes all the space-babies have, a blue intensified by all the space-baby-diet supplementary nutritients. For example, the ones born in space need almost twice the calcium earthborn do. They need three times the iron, double rations of carbohydrates; you name it, they need it, only much more than you did. Then we have the emotional aspects of being thrusted from the womb, not only to a colder and louder place but so much darker too, in every way. Let’s not go there tonight, I don’t think I understand it well enough to explain.
Who the father is? One of the frontier legends. The work he has done cannot be underestimated. He is, to most of us, the first of the vanguards recon-platoon. A battalion all by himself. An endless source of inspiration. Always one step ahead, immediately considering the new situation derived from analysis of the last answer, that being the answer to the question the rest of us is racking our brains to even begin to formulate. Source of frustration as well. Pleas for help or advice are usally met by a smiling silence. This is not him being a guarded or distrustful person. He knows all of us, him included, would be better off if we could all work at the same level. But it is either the way he puts it:
"I’m sorry my dear but you would not understand. Yet."
or, which is what I say, that:
"He doesn’t understand it yet."
Having known him for nine years now, almost to the day, I believe I can say this with some authority. Let me explain. It was august, 1997. We were all at the preparatory school, beautifully located 50m from the islands western shore. We went for a swim every lunchbreak until the end of september that year. One of the first things he said to me was this:
"We have a seal in our midst! A beautiful fat seal up and down in the water."
I know it sounds a bit silly today but back then I remember being so proud that someone like him would say anything at all about me. I think almost everyone knew instinctively that he was special. And as soon as we got to see his early work we didn’t have to doubt at all. We got the He-is-the-One feeling.
He went on to the Academy of course, first in London and then back here for the final two years. I chose another path, the path of the ambiguous and the doubtful. I was never one for the A-team. But we kept in touch and now, working with him like this, I wouldn’t have it any other way.
He doesn’t understand yet. What I mean? That beautiful brain of his knows, his sensitive gut screams YES! and that heart of gold that he wears like an incapsulated amulet, beats a steady du-dum of confirmation. His whole system turns into an ocean of certitude. There is no doubt, the sheet where he scribbles his notes in a private and encrypted short-hand looks a runway to him, flight-control just gave him the go ahead, the air is clear and nothing will stop him now. This state of bliss will not last of course, somewhere he knows this even as he flies in his shaft of light. And at the same time as he looks at his work and he sees that it is good, at the same time he cannot make it coherent, not for one second, not to us. And not to himself either.
How do I know this feeling? Because once, I too was in love.