Den där kreativiteten jag vill ha kvar

För bara något år sedan kunde jag komma på idéer till berättelser bara sådär, utan anledning. 

Kreativiteten flödade. 

Nu är jag visserligen fortfarande kreativ när jag väl sätter igång med någonting,

men den kommer inte på samma flytande sätt som den gjorde då. 

Samma sak som med ritandet. När jag var liten kunde jag komma på världens idé om vad jag skulle rita, 

komma på en helt ny växt eller varelse utan någon riktig inspirationskälla.

Det är inte så längre,

och det är tråkigt. 

Jag vill vara lika påhittig och lika kreativ nu som jag var då.

Jag vill kunna skriva såna här saker:


The reek of five  

We went out for a walk, my black umbrella and I, on a cold October night,

We had to clear our head from the thoughts that had come to us out of fright.

We had seen many things that night; we had seen them very clear,

Things that might to you seem strange, but to us were very near.

We were not afraid to be seen, since we were not able to,

Nobody would ever see us, not him, not her, maybe not even you.

If you would have seen us, though, we would have startled you by our look,

If you would have come near us, you wouldn't have known all the stupid chances that you took.

Yes, we are crazy, that I can tell,

But we were not so from the beginning, it was made out of the smell.

We will tell you about it soon, but not really yet,

First my black umbrella and I will have to tell you where, when and how this story is set.

It began like most days in our life, we woke up, we opened the door, and we went for a walk.

We didn't bring our voice, because we knew they wouldn't talk.

We met them like most mornings at this time,

In the building down the block, where we had, not long ago, committed our crime.

I, for one, was not really that involved in the killing itself,

I mostly helped to hide our victims and put them on the shelf,

Well, not really on the shelf at all, I just placed them all around,

I put them down so carefully, just so they wouldn't make a sound.

There were five of them, our victims, all together,

Some of them heavy, and one light as a feather.

We liked them all for different reasons; we knew them very well,

It's all about them, really, the story I'm going to tell.

Well, first there was O'Neill, the man with the cat,

He would sit, smoking cigars in his apartment, always wearing his worn out hat.

He would feed the cat, let it sleep, and pet it too,

Until it walked into the hall, and shred his favourite shoe.

Then, first he would ignore it, but very soon tire,

And take the cat, up in his hands, and put it in the fire.

There also was Monique; she was the pretty girl,

She was the only girl in town, who could make your neck hairs curl.

She loved to go out on long dates; she loved to make boys laugh,

She was the boss of a big company, and she slept with all men in her staff.

Monique was very special, we like that girl the most,

If it was here right now, we would be glad to meet her ghost.

Delilah and Maurice were the cutest couple in town,

She would bring him back up, whenever he was down.

We saw them every day, and we were jealous of their love,

We wanted to have it too, all of the above.

The last one of the bunch was Emily, the small,

She was not that young really, no, really, not at all.

More like an old-timer she was, almost 95 years old,

And she actually is nice; don't trust whatever else you have been told.

Now, you may wonder, why all these would end up dead,

Well, then you are just stupid, haven't you listened what we've said?

We felt bad for the cat, so we gave it its revenge,

And Monique was far too gorgeous to bee seen; we sat her on the bench.

Delilah and Maurice were too happy for this life,

They made us both be jealous, so we put in them a knife.

Poor old Emily we liked, and did not kill ourselves, she died of age,

But nobody ever found her; so we took her, all out of rage.

These people are now our friends, and we've kept them for quite some time,

We didn't want to feel the smell, so we froze them down and sprayed the building with lime.  

Although, this day when we went to see them, the smell had come back again,

A fuse had broken, and they had melted then.

So now we're back to the smell, which we were going to tell you about,

It reeked so bad, that it smelled worse than rotten brussel sprout.

Many people felt it, I'm sure,

But none of them ever came to the door

This is because we were there,

And they couldn't see us, we were invisible, they had made that very clear.

They were too afraid to talk to us; they thought we were strange,

Before we would cry about it, tears and moaning would range.

But now we have gone past that, we don't cry any longer,

As they say, and it is true, that don't kill you, makes you stronger.

Now we didn't care about the smell, we let the bodies lie,

We went away from there, never came back, hoping the other people in town would also die.

We had a good time with our favourite five, that's true,

But now it's time for us to leave, my black umbrella and I have more important things to do...

 

<3


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