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Vindfall

Type: Assignment.
Time: Winter/Spring 2008.
Grade: 6
The few minutes that passes when a boy is about to take his own life. I actually got an award for this short story at my school's Award Galla! Ain't that fancy? It's in Norwegian, though, so most of you won't get to read it.



Ropene fra folkemengden nedenfor virket berusende. Hva de ropte brydde han seg ikke om. Han forestilte seg at de jublet, klappet og heiet, at han var stjernen, kongen over verden. Avisene skulle ha ham på førstesiden dagen etter. Ingen skulle glemme ham for dette. De som hadde sett ned på ham skulle angre.
Noen av dem stod der nede nå, han kunne se dem. Han kunne se de åpne munnene, hvordan de gapte opp mot ham. Hvordan de ropte at han måtte gi seg, snu og dra hjem. Hvordan de alle så på ham.
Vinden blåste hardt mot ham og han svaiet. Folkemengden nedenfor gispet og trakk seg litt tilbake. Han smilte for seg selv, hadde alltid likt vinden, hvordan den var så mektig og sterk, selv om den ikke kunne sees. Den viklet seg rundt ham og strøk gjennom håret hans før den fortsatte ned mot og over folkemengden som måtte holde på hattene sine.
Femten meter rett ned i den harde betongen. Han kikket ned på de slitte joggeskoene som stod noenlunde stødig på det brede rekkverket før blikket beveget seg ned på folkemengden igjen. De var visst overbevist om at han ville hoppe nå. Det gikk en hvisken gjennom dem. Han bøyde seg fremover. En kvinne skrek og resten gispet, men han rettet seg opp igjen. Han likte å se hvor redde de var. Hvordan plutselig så mange mennesker brydde seg om ham. Med øynene lukket, forestilte han igjen seg selv på en scene. Alle lyskasterne pekte mot ham, publikum jublet, ropte på mer. Han strakte armene ut mot sidene og nøt oppmerksomheten.
Igjen traff et vindkast ham hardt. Brutalt ble han brutt ut av fantasien, nær ved å miste balansen. Han strevde lenge på ett ben for å gjenvinne balansen, mens folkemengden gispet atter en gang, og flere skrek; han syntes det virket som om de ikke kunne annet. Med to ben plantet på rekkverket igjen, fikk han en mer alvorlig mine. Vinden var hans venn, den ville la ham gjøre dette selv, bestemme selv når det skulle skje. Den ville ikke forråde ham på den måten. Ikke slik som alle de andre, de han ikke kunne stole på. Hans såkalte venner.
Sinnet kokte opp inne i ham. Han fikk lyst til å rope, høyt. Få ut alt sinnet. Men han visste ikke hva han skulle rope, hvilke ord han skulle bruke, hvordan han skulle få det ut riktig. Da slo det ham; det spilte ingen rolle. Ingenting spilte noe rolle lenger. Han samlet luft i lungene og holdt litt, før han brølte ut. En slags lyd, ikke noe ord, en sint lyd. Folkemengden ble stille. Brølet fortsatte til han ikke hadde mer lyd igjen i kroppen.
Og det var da vinden forrådte ham. Uforberedt, i sekundet han lukket munnen for å trekke pusten, slo vinden mot ham og dyttet ham utfor kanten.
Han falt. Falt mot et virvar av farger og lyder, lyder som bare var et fjernt sus for ham. Det var som om alt gikk hundre ganger saktere enn normalt, som om tiden var like ved å stoppe opp. Vinden, den siste han kunne stole på, hadde nettopp sendt ham i døden. Den lekte med håret hans før den forsvant for siste gang. Alt han hadde opplevd de siste årene for gjennom hodet hans. Alt det folk hadde sagt, gjort, alt det han hadde hørt, sett… følt. Helt frem til øyeblikket han bestemte seg for å gjøre det. Og han angret. Angeren gnagde i ham som et innvendig, blodtørstig monster. Fallet føltes som en evighet, og monsteret spiste ham opp. Han ville hjem og gi foreldrene en klem. Men angeren forsvant, vinden blåste igjen og alt ble hvitt.



Paragon

Type: Assignment.
Time: February 2009.
Grade: 6
Just something very short which I consider some of my best work at that time. Greatly inspired by Guild Wars, the movie Mirrormask and Verd. Reviewed by Christina.



The new laws had been pushing them down for far too long. For seven months they had forced them to labour in the mines. For seven months they had been neglecting what really mattered. Never before had there been this many begging in the streets and dying in the Auwan gardens. The city was falling apart and not one of their so-called leaders realized that measures would have to be taken. Their eyes were fixed on the precious Illyan ores deep in the earth beneath the city. Like greedy vultures they watched over the city from the mansion on the mountain, threatening to swoop down on the city and consume anything that was relative to their interests. Their greed was only topped by their lack of conscience. With all the men old enough to carry a pickaxe or push a wheelbarrow captured in the mines, the women---their daughters, the very oldest and the very youngest---were forced to tend to the ever-withering city. But their numbers were too few, and it had early become apparent that they were losing the battle against the toll of time and neglect. Food was getting scarce; smugglers attacked the traders on the road and sold the loot for double the price; the farmers were sent to the mines, leaving the crops to wither; the herds and wild game were slaughtered in masses to be served at the leaders’ tables; much water was used in the mining and the level of water in the wells was rapidly sinking.
In the middle of all this, a stranger had come to the city. On the thirteenth day of the seventh month there was a commotion in the town square. Two guards had dropped dead and a being had risen from the curious crowd and climbed up on the wall surrounding the square, on the side that bordered the Auwan gardens. It wore a mask of mirrored glass, beaming in the weak sunlight that struggled with all its might to break through the thick wall of storm clouds. No one could see if it was female or male, or even human at all; a drapery of midnight black covered every inch of its body, leaving everything to the imagination of the crowd. It spoke with a voice of heavenly delight, leading even the cynic guards to agreement. It spoke of the freedom they deserved, what the leaders had stolen from them, and how their power only existed because of the submission of their slaves. They were encouraged to march to the mansion this evening and take back what was rightfully theirs: their freedom.
The crowd broke into cheers of hope and excitement, shouting their agreements and blessings, calling the being Paragon, their saviour. They all ran to their homes, fetched anything that could be used as means of threatening: knives, floorboards, brooms, torches and even wooden ladles. Their pockets were filled with rocks, and those who had any brought their old weapons: swords, maces, and shields of Illyan metal. In all the excitement, no one noticed the Paragon leaving silently through the gates of the Auwan garden.
They marched up the mountain road, chanting and singing, shouting and calling. In their minds, the leaders were cowering beneath their tables, shivering with fright and fearing what was to come. For over an hour they climbed the road, continuing though tired. Those who felt lucky were already throwing rocks up the mountainside, aiming for the mansion that could barely be seen through the fog.
But then, a gigantic bang stopped them all in their tracks. The ground shook violently and threw many off their feet, tearing huge chunks off rock from the ground on which they were standing. They all turned to witness a nightmare embodied: where their homes once stood, where the town square and Auwan gardens once lay, there was now only a giant pit. From it rose flaming tongues, licking the clouds above, thick black smoke enveloping it all. The Illyan mine had collapsed.
On the mountainside, the crowd stood speechless.

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