Creative Writing.

My mother told me roads change sometimes. They grow and they stretch. They twist and turn and rise and fall. They go with the times and with our ambitions and our greed and then sometimes they die, when we no longer need them. When that which they went to is no longer there.

Eli Cole had lost his religion long before he came to Sunset and yet people liked to say it was the town turned him godless. In their minds he’d wore his cassock coming up Oalapa Road all those years ago when in fact it had lain folded in a suitcase – neatly, granted, befitting a good man of the lord. He’d folded it once more after that and looked at it for some time and then he’d stashed it on the upper shelf of his cupboard and never looked at it again.

After some days the sun went down and never rose again. There were no stars and there was no moon and yet there was a glow about the earth like a fire burned beneath it. The sand flickered like faint candlelight and Loola didn’t like it none but she was a fine horse and she didn’t falter and so neither did Terrance.

De mensen die langs me heen marcheren, zeulen hun bepakking naar Chilkoot Pass. Tot nu was de reis eenvoudig – een stoomboot van Seattle naar Dyea, een tocht van twaalf mijl naar de Scales. Maar de trap naar de hemel doemt langzaam voor ons op. Daarachter de valleien met goud. Klompjes voor het oprapen. Goudstof overvloedig als modder.

The city of Huế is burning. The flames that light
up the night whisper softly to each other. They speak of
the events of the past day that have painted the ground
with red. They burn out of every broken window, every
open doorway and every other hole brought about by
bullets and bombshells. Huế barely resembles a city
anymore. The streets are filled with debris and dead
bodies, the buildings look as if they were torn apart by
mythological beasts. And in the midst of the destruction
march the shadows of soldiers, their rifles firmly in their
hands.

Niemand kan mij wijsmaken dat geen twee sloten hetzelfde zijn, geknipt en geplakt in een eindeloos patroon. Ze schieten voorbij in een monotoon ritme, onderbroken door monotone weilanden met monotone koeien. Het land is een schaakbord, opgedeeld in even grote vakjes. Alleen zijn ze allemaal groen, en wordt er nooit een zet gemaakt.

Fellas I’ve some news to share
For all you folks who were not there
It seems two men both strong and tough
Called Soapy on his final bluff

Children in films are often wise beyond their years. They
serve as the antithesis of adult narrow-mindedness,
spewing pieces of wisdom that take most people a
lifetime to discover. My Neighbor Totoro takes a different approach and paints its two youthful protagonists in a touchingly realistic light.