Just a piece…

The “story” below is just one of those inspiration texts I wrote in one or another of my writing classes. Recently I translated this into English, just hoping I was able to find the same tone as I have in the original Swedish version – and the right English word for it. As I’ve mentioned before: I love to write, but I hate to translate my Swedish texts into English. And yet, I sometimes do it anyway

At the writing lessons during those years, we were trying all and everything, and always encouraged by our teacher. Including testing how to write in second person – you, and not only in the traditional third person – he/she; or in first person – I. That isn’t the most common way of writing, neither in Swedish nor English, but thank goodness – there are authors who do. I love that!  –  And of course: First person and present tense – together!!! WOWWWW!!!!

The header image is a photo I've taken,
and than edited in Pixlr.

“Carefully and silently you are threading forward in your soft moccasins, gazing alternately at one side and then at the other. You reflect you have never been wandering here before. You don’t recall the path and you don’t recognize the trees with their awkward, crooked branches.
That little pond with its frogs and salamanders, you have never seen before, not even in your dreams. You also ponder, it’s odd you haven’t seen any other creatures around. Nothing bigger than a stable rat has crossed your road.

Suddenly an owl is hooting nearby, and you flinch for a brief second. In what world am I, you ponder in silence, where owls are hooting in broad daylight, and the suns are spreading their hotness, and the meek wind is making the grass rustle like a heap of dry leaves. The dangerous grass. The bristly grass. The grass you have learned to be wary of and avoid.

Warily you thread further in silence. Hiding for a while behind the trees that follow your path. Attentively looking your way around before threading carefully along. With each step, you get more aware, more alert if anyone, anything, will show up in front of you, or behind. From heaven, or from deep down in the earth.

Behind you, your horse whickers and joggles his mane. His hot breath blows in your neck, and he gently puffs his head against your left shoulder

”So, so, Mackie”, you calmingly whisper. Because you sense how unsettled he is. Under the black and white coat, you touch the rapid beat of the pulse and the muscles restrained lust to run. Something is worrying him, and you are aware of it yourself. The suspense which like electricity vibrates through the air.

You take a deep breath and tell yourself to be still. To stop and listen. This emptiness can only augur suspicion.

Far away, on the other side of the desert, through the sun illuminated haze you can descry the mountain ridge. It stretches along the horizon like a dead dinosaur, and you know you have to cross the desert before the darkness falls upon the earth. What happens at nights are way too dangerous. You squint toward the sun, shadowing the eyes with your hands, and try to estimate how long time you have got. Four hours, you reckon, maybe five. If you’re lucky, that is. Would be better to camp here for the night, but you know you haven’t got that time. You must reach the mountains before it gets dark.
You water the horse, then you water yourself, but carefully since you know you have no spare when it comes to the life-giving source. Then you stretch your arms and stretch your legs and bends your back until your eyes meet the heaven which is almost white.
The heat is wearing you out, but you have no choice. You have to go, and you call on your horse to follow.

You are not aware of it yet, but when tomorrow morning the second sun cleaves the horizon, there is not much left of the world you know.”