Strange Meeting by Mari

Years have passed
I have seen you on screen
and in the spotlight
But never again like the day we met
Never so fragile and uncertain
Never so unfamiliar and humble
I didn’t know you then
And you don’t know me yet

When I think of it
our meeting was kind of illusory
and in my mind it's like we never met at all
My skin knows
The brand is nowhere to be seen, but it’s there
deep beneath the surface
The mark tells the story
of a strawberry dish in a foreign city
A night where music needed no instrument.

(In response to Wilfred Owen's "Strange Meeting".)

The Black Alley by Tommy

The Black Alley by Tommy

The black alley came towards me
I felt the hesitation in my feet
Why?
Was there something to be afraid of?
The dark, the water dripping everywhere,
The scream, and the stealthy steps coming closer and closer.
Was I the hunted one?
My feet started moving, towards the end of it.
I could see the light now, the end of the tunnel, where I would become free.
Where I could reach the light.
Touch it
Feel it.
But the steps behind me,
Closer and closer
I could feel the breath on my neck
And then the lights were gone
Gone forever
The switch had been turned off.

The Happy Naked Guy by Tommy

He comes home with a smile on his face
No clothes, shoes, or even a shoelace
Steps into the hall
Thinks he is doomed to fall
But there is no one there, not a sound, not a hint
Nor a trace of grace

Now what’s the case,
Why the smile on his face?
He steps farther in the house
Still not even the sound of a mouse
Is he all alone?
No one to embrace

He remembers now, there was a race
Definitely a rapid pace
But everything else is gone
It is like he is all alone

He can feel it, he is in a daze
Nothing important
Still
Just the smile on his face
All he wants to see is someone kind
So he can get something else on his mind
But no
He is all alone

What Terrifies Me Most by André

I am terrified of wasps. They give me the creeps. To me they symbolize terror. I mean, those creatures are the nearest any of us in Norway will get to terrorists. I choose to call wasps terrorists because they possess an ability dear to terrorists and extremists. That is of course their liking for killing themselves while hurting others. They are basically like suicide bombers. Wasps are also very annoying. All the buzzing and humming. Now that is a terrifying quality. Whenever I hear the very annoying buzzing I jump in my seat and run out of the room. If I could rid the world of wasps I would do it in a heartbeat.

(In response to Harry Potter activities.)

All the Young People by Vegar

All the young people went away. He felt them leaving. He knew he would never see them again, all those familiar faces, gone forever.
He was an old man, yet he was only 22. Where were the young people going? Away to a distant place where he would never be able to reach them. These other people, the ones that were talking to him. He saw their lips move, but couldn’t hear what they were saying.
He knew they were trying to communicate with him, but he felt himself slipping further away.
And just before his mind left him, he recognized the faces of his own youth. His own faces.
And they were walking away from him.

The First Meeting by Øyvind

I sat there on bench waiting for someone to come. I had never met this person before; I only talked to her on the internet. I sat there thinking what on earth am I doing here; what should I say or do when this strange unfamiliar person comes?

The minutes pass like seconds; I look at my watch. It is almost 3 o’clock, and she should be here any minute now. I stare at side doors, knowing she would come through those doors and start looking for me.

I waited for about five minutes; then I reached for the cell phone in my bag. As I bent down I suddenly felt a strange feeling; there was a cold breeze creeping up my back. My heart started to beat so intensely like a prisoner in a prison banging on the cell walls, just wanting to get out.

I felt her presence, she was coming closer and closer, I didn’t know if I should turn and face her or just run away. I finally decided to turn and look at her, she captured my gaze and she smiled at me. The smile eased the tension in my body; the cold breeze on my spine suddenly vanished. I could scent a warm and beautiful perfume tickling my nose. My worries were gone. My heart started beating at normal pace again.

She took my hand. It felt like my body was floating on water, carrying me to a place I never thought I would see again.

Strange Meeting by Eirik

You looked at me with sparkling eyes, knowing of the long road ahead of us. The weight of a feather, but yet so heavy. Our first touch, filled with love, I pray to God to keep you safe from up above.

(In response to Wilfred Owen's "Strange Meeting".)

The Lavatory by Stian P.

One early September day as I was walking my little feisty Jack Russell Terrier, something out of the ordinary happened. Out of the ordinary in a way that would make a grown man take a giant leap back. Anyways! My dog Cat and I did the same thing every single day. You can say we had our routines. Some would say we had perfected it to the point of being crazy.
As we left the main road and entered the city park I felt a sudden urge to take a leak. I knew there was a lavatory in the middle of the park. If I could get Cat to pick up the pace I would make it in time. Cat must have known I was in some sort of trouble because his little feet were hitting the pavement like tiny drumsticks. The lavatory was an old one; it was not very well maintained. The paint had taken to the ground and found its last resting place. Inside there was a leak, the floor was covered with water from one of the toilets. The smell was horrible, even Cat turned its nose. We thought we were alone but we weren’t. I pushed open one of the stall doors and found my self staring into two bloodshot eyes. It was a woman. She was wearing a brown winter coat and nothing else. She didn’t even have shoes on; I could see that her feet had turned blue from standing in the cold water. Cat had been barking all the time while we stared into each other’s eyes. I asked her if she was all right. She just mumbled some sentences that made no sense at all. The distinctive smell of alcohol on her breath led me to believe that she was drunk as a bat. I brought her home with me. Six months later we were married.
The end

(Pavement, lavatory, clouds, smell, alone, coat, drunk,

The words are taken from Sillitoe’s “Uncle Ernest”.)

Ernest by Paal

The weather was really nasty. All of us were soaking wet, not to mention dirty. Mud was all over the place, but still the match went on. I saw the players’ faces. They were struggling. More rain poured down on their wet and tired bodies. The schedule had been really tough the last few weeks, but still, we expected our lads to win. We’d won it three years in a row.

There we were, a very cold November night at the Galpharm Stadium in Huddersfield, my friends and I. The tension among the players was high and all the fans at the stadium were standing, cheering and shouting. Except for one.
Just beside us, a man was just sitting in his seat. Without cheering or shouting. He seemed to pay attention to the game, but he surely lacked enthusiasm. He was wearing a dirty old raincoat which looked very well-used. His hair was grey and very thin. It looked as if it would fall off any second. He looked very old, but if you took a closer look you could see that he hadn’t passed middle age.
In his grey, shaky hand he held a disposable cup, probably with tea in it. He drank tiny sips, slurping his Earl Grey down his cold throat and into his belly.
No one else noticed the old man. People around treated him as if he were a ghost. It also seemed that the old man didn’t want to be noticed. I think he was living in his own world, not caring for anyone, including himself, and not cheering for the game or nothing. These kinds of people are a disgrace to football. The lads could use our support, fighting for points in this god forsaken weather. But the old man watched the game as if he were sitting on his couch at home.

The ref blew his whistle. The game was over. The fans were of course disappointed. We just didn’t make it this year. I looked beside me...the old man was gone, again. We lost the match, but more importantly, we lost our uncle.

(In response to Alan Sillitoe's "Uncle Ernest".)

Lend Me Your Eyes by Maria

If you could lend me your eyes I would like to see the four seasons. How the leaves fall from the trees. How they make a colorful layer on the ground that makes the forest look like a piece of art.

Then I would like to see winter. The way smoke comes out of the mouth when it is cold, or how snowflakes dance in the air. The way you feel when you know that none of them look the same.

Spring fills the world with different shades of green, so many different shades you didn’t even know existed. When you find a flower where there used to be snow in your garden. Bright and yellow like the sun.

Then comes the summer sun, watch it dance on the curtains to wake you up in the morning. Then the smiles on boys’ faces when girls start wearing dresses. How the sun makes your face look red, and then brown.

I would like to see the beauty of the world…..but most of all I would like to see the beauty of your face.
(Inspired by “Cathedral.” It is about the beauty of seeing, what I would show a blind person or what I would like to see if I were blind myself. )

My Room by Stian W.

I want to tell you how my boy’s room looks like. It is not that big, but not that small either. It has changed a little bit since I was a kid. In one of the corners there is the same bed I have had since I was 10 or something. The room also contains a desk were I used to do some homework. On the other side of the room there is a shelf where some books are lined up, mostly old schoolbooks. On the right side of the shelf there is a closet where some of my clothes are kept. On the wall just over my bed, there is a huge poster of my idol when I was a kid, Peter Schmeichel. I also have some diplomas from the military on that wall. That is basically how my old room looks like right now.

(In response to the description of a room in J. Joyce’s short story, “A Painful Case.”)

The Room by Marius

When you enter the tidiness is all you can think about. Has the person living here got dust on his brain you begin to question yourself. The TV is on and from it a loud scream followed by a commentator’s eager voice fill your ear. ‘Sports,’ you begin to realize. In the kitchen everything is ship shape; the only thing missing is something to pour water with. The computer is on and something about a prison is showing! A tattooed man is apparently starring. The light in the bathroom is on and from it comes sweet tunes sung by a lady. Suddenly there is a change in the voice in the bathroom. There is a man talking. Ahhh, a radio, you realize. How stupid of me. The fireplace is lit and you see red flames playing. Not a lot of firewood is needed to keep this place warm. The resident isn’t in.

From the bedroom comes a cold draft………

(In response to the way some of the authors we’ve read describe rooms and houses.)

Strange Meeting by Stig Rune

It was summer and there was only one day left of our summer holiday. The next morning I
would have to go to school again. I had thought of this day all summer. I was nervous because I was the oldest one at school the year before, and this year I would be the youngest again. It was kind of scary, and I was only thirteen years old. I told my father earlier that summer that I wished to break my leg the day before school started so I wouldn’t have to go. I don’t know why I wanted to break my leg because there are more reasonable things that could happen that would keep home from school. But that’s what I told my father and that’s what I hoped would happen.

So this was the last day before school, the last day of fun. It was a beautiful sunny day and the rest of the team and I ran out on the pitch to warm up. We were looking forward to ending the vacation with a football match and hopefully with a victory. We were playing against a team from my father’s birthplace, so many of my relatives had come to support me. I would have given anything to win this match and as an attacker hoped to score some goals. The score was 3-1 to us after two goals made by me, and we had played about 25 minutes of the first half. Somebody on my team had passed me a long ball as they often did because of my speed, but this time it was a little too long. The goalkeeper was running against the ball from one side and me from the other side. It was him against me. I ran as fast as I could and so did the keeper, but I got to the ball first and kicked, but the keeper thought he had it also, and so he also kicked. He missed the ball but he hit my leg. It was extremely painful, and I couldn’t walk for the next hundred days, one of the bones in my leg had broken into two pieces. Of course I thought of my wish, I often did and I still do. It was the worst time of my life; I couldn’t play the game I loved.

I never knew who the goalkeeper of the other team was, and I’m sort of glad I didn’t know for some time, because I wasn’t happy with him. I know he didn’t do it on purpose, but still. About ten years later I met my girlfriend, with whom I now live. After we had been together for a while, I met her brother. This was something I had looked forward to, because he was the same age as me, and he liked football. We got to know each other and became good friends. We often talked about football, and I knew from the first day I met him that he was a goalkeeper. I also knew that he played for the team from my father’s birthplace, but I never thought that he could be the one who had broken my leg, because I remember that somebody told me one time that the goalkeeper’s name was Roy and his name was Rune. But one day I told him about the incident and then he admitted that it had to be him. Because he remembered that he injured a player very badly one time, and he had always been the goalkeeper for that team. As I said earlier we were good friends and we still are. But I’m glad I didn’t know him back then.

(In response to Wilfred Owen's "Strange Meeting".)

Who am I here? by Jan Terje

Who am I here
Who am I there
Who am I anywhere
What mask am I supposed to wear
To make you like and care
I have thousands to choose from
And I cannot choose the wrong one
If I do, you will be long gone
Why can’t you like me?
Why can’t you love me?
Without my masks, I am so lonely
The darkness engulfs me
When I let my own soul fly free
I didn’t think that’s who I really was supposed to be
Wearing different masks for different occasions
My own soul is on a long vacation
My soul will surely emerge some day
I really hope that it’s on its way
Come out, come out, come out……. Please, come out.
(This little poem is influenced by “The Moons of Jupiter” by Alice Munro.)

Strange Meeting by Jan Terje

The flames licked intensely at the walls…
The shock and disbelief of watching……
Old confused people climbing out of windows on weathered, stiff limbs.
No one to help?
Tentacles of strong, warm and friendly arms….. reaching out.
Helping, carrying, lifting.
You looked at me…. So helpless.
With old, worn puppy eyes and just a nightgown to wear in the biting cold……

You found an entrance to my home.
Shivering…. Cold…..
A blanket over your trembling, chilly shoulders…..
A warm cup of coffee in your frozen hands..….

The cold, old woman transformed into a warm, soft soul as the flames go out, and this newfound soul finds its way to its smoke-filled lonesome home.

(In response to Wilfred Owen's "Strange Meeting.")

Uncle Ernest by Espen S.

The sun is rising behind the hills. It is still early in the morning but all is perfectly normal near the Artic Circle. He saw a polar bear yesterday, in a dream. It was beautiful, white, with black eyes and it had a great hunger.

The next moment he saw the same polar bear lying along unswept gutters. Empty-bellied Ernest was ready for breakfast, and he thought about having some filet mignon. He saw the polar bear and he knew instantly that he would stay hungry until lunch.

Then he woke up.

The sweat had frozen his neck, like rivers going from the start of the scalp down to the deltoids. It was freezing and he knew he had to eat, that was why he had been dreaming about Ernest. Ernest was empty-bellied, just like him. He had to catch some breakfast. Perhaps he could kill a seal for lunch, or a polar bear – that would be a god-sent polar bear. Going outside the igloo was the worst time of the day, still, after living in this godforsaken igloo for almost three months. He felt the nausea coming; usually it came to him at this time when he had not eaten for days. Why did he ever do this? Was it something he had to, or just one of the regular mistakes that haunts him down, almost to death?

He felt in a dim indefinite way that need to go back and search out the slums and landmarks of his youth, just before the terrible accident; the wheel of the years had broken him. After this expedition he would probably have to go back to using a wheelchair again. Then he would like to die.
(In response to "Uncle Ernest," by Alan Sillitoe.)

The Moons of Jupiter by Espen S.

After spending some time in Mexico, I felt the bitter feeling again. Not to my mother for once, but to my grandfather. He was the one that told me that mom did not love me anymore, that I always was the black sheep of the family. That I should not speak because of my dreadful voice. When I was a kid he was always making jokes about my voice. He told people that I had a voice from the dark side, and that probably my father was The Beast himself. I was crying until I had no more tears, then I started tearing up the buttons from my shirt. Mum was always complaining about the buttons. I did not tell. I chose to stay incommunicado. That was a sacrifice, but I had to.

I knew my grandfather was ill; he probably didn’t have much time left. I felt nothing other than relief. My sister Judith was my only friend. She and her husband will come to visit me soon here in Mexico. Mum doesn’t know. I told Judith to make up an excuse, to say that they were going on holiday or something like that. This is my holiday, and I choose who will be invited or not.

Judith said that I should come back with her, she would take me back to their house. I said nothing, stared at her for a sec and put up a grin. I put a record on and gave Judith and her husband a drink, took up my guitar and started playing and singing along.

“Ah, I just want to run away, I’m done with this, just take me back to your house, I’m lonely, I’m lonely, can I come home with you?”

He took up his harmonica and stated playing along as well. We all started dancing and talked for hours. The next morning I received a phone call. It was mum. She told me that grandpa had been under the knife, and he did not survive. She wasn’t crying and neither was I. I told her that I would come home for the funeral.

(In response to "The Moons of Jupiter" by Alice Munro.)

"Darling, Don't Be Wise," by Siri

"Darling, don't be wise. Keep your black eye closed."

Dirty dishes, dirty floor, a dirty table. That is what I see. The floor drowns in the colour of brown. My feet are drowning. And nothing happens. Nothing ever happens. But a smell appears. The smell of old alcohol hits my nose. I wish I were clean. Clean and white. Just like snow. Blue eyes. Just like the ocean. And a pink dress, just like a doll. But no. Instead you’ve got tears. Brown tears on a brown face. A dirty black face. And the smell of new alcohol and dirty dishes keeps on hitting your nose. There’s a shadow by the front door. Familiar steps by the way he walks. Stumbles. Falls. His yellow shirt lifts; his face and his black skin fill the room with darkness. One touch, and I’m down. One look, and I scream. I’m important, no more. Destroyed, yes. Unloved, yes. But now, I can finally see white.

(In response to The Bluest Eye by Toni Morrison)

My Beautiful White South by Aina

Ernest Shackleton once said, “we all have our own white South”. In my case, it’s true. I have a place I dream of. It’s a warm place where I can feel free and have no worries. If this day doesn’t get any better I sure as hell want to go there. I know that my white South is a bit different than what normal people would dream of, but why should I care? I’m addicted. My friends are the best, even though my mum, and my dad, and most of my teachers say I have to change my lifestyle or I will completely lose myself. My opinion, however, is that life is great, and none of my friends have any bad influence on me. With them I feel good, and accepted. My parents don’t know anything about my life, but still they say they care. I don’t care for them. Why would I ? They are so different and don’t respect me, so why think about them? It sure beats me! For the time being I will just keep on ignoring their comments and live my life. Unfortunately, I can’t afford to move out and according to my parents I’m not old enough either. But I’m 16. I believe I’m old enough to take care of myself. I can just escape to my white South when I’m struggling. My white South will always protect me and take care of me.

A good feeling!
No worries!
And a possible death!

(In response to several texts where the characters are searching for something.)

Blind Love by Silje

If I were blind
I would not see his beauty or his smile
His movements or his gentle hands
The sparkle in his eyes

If I were blind
I would not see the green leaves of the trees
The ocean or the sunset’s glow
The starlight of the night

But I would feel
His beauty soft against my fingertips
The steady beating of his heart
Surrounded by his love

And I would see
The light he saw and feel it on my face
He’d take my hand and lead me through
The darkest night with grace.

(My response to “Cathedral,” by Raymond Carver –and inspired by the narrator’s attitude towards blind people and their right/ability to love.)