Flotte og herlige skoletekster!

[consilium]

Det var kun lyset fra de passerende bilenes Xeon-lamper og de halogenerte gateskiltene som holdt byen tilbake fra et totalt mørke.

Hehe, drømte du om Intels Xeon-prosessorere da du skrev stilen?

 

Det er Xenon-lys i bilene.

[piit]

Det var kun lyset fra de passerende bilenes Xeon-lamper og de halogenerte gateskiltene som holdt byen tilbake fra et totalt mørke.

Hehe, drømte du om Intels Xeon-prosessorere da du skrev stilen?

 

Det er Xenon-lys i bilene.

Tomato tomato

[LarsP]

hehe. Som sagt, det er en gammel stil. :-p

 

pottit -> potet....eller ikke

[Medrakil]

Her er en engelsk tekst, leverte den dette semesteret (Grunnkurs Allmenn), fikk solid 6'er

 

Sunset over Johannesburg

 

The sunrise over Johannesburg was extraordinarily beautiful that morning. It was in the middle of autumn, and the sight of orange leaves falling down in front of the red sunrise warmed hos heart for the first time in days. Things weren't too good for him right now. He was a policeman, and of course white. However, Mr. Aarksvaard was not a typical boer when it came to opinion about blacks. But almost nobody knew that. Because if his boss learned that Gerald Aaarksvaard was a black sympathizer, he would no doubt lose his job. Being mean to blacks was part of the job description.

 

 

Takawo Nbeke had been awake for a few minutes, but was still lying flat on his back on the floor of his shack. He got to his feet and looked out the door. Although his township was not much of a sight, he had to admit that the sunrise was beautiful. He made sure he was carrying his passport, and went out into the streets.

 

 

Mr. Aarksvaard was walking down Plaanak Road to the place he'd been assigned to patrol. It was a township, and Mr. Klerk was waiting for him. He didn't fancy Mr. Klerk too much. He used to beat blacks just to be mean to them, and thought of them as animals. They'd been patrolling for a few hours when a child, probably about four years old, came up to Aarksvaard and wanted to shake hands with him. He wished he could do it, but he knew that Klerk would tell everybody. “Well?” said Klerk, in Afrikaans.

 

 

He looked at Klerk for a split second, and immediately understood. Klerk wanted him to strike the little boy with his baton. He knew he had to do it. Last week he had let a black without a passport go, and Klerk thought he was way to kind to the blacks. He drew the baton from its holster, and struck the boy over his right cheek. He swallowed a big lump in his throat and looked down. He was lying on the ground like a sick gazelle that's been bitten by a lion. Tears were running from his eyes, blood from the cheek. He looked up at Aarksvaard, and his eyes were filled with innocence and fear.

Aarksvaard looked down at him, and tried to apologize via eye contact. And the little boy understood. And then his facial expression changed. His small brown eyes looked up at him, and without saying a word, they shouted out “WHY?” Aarksvaard tilted his head slightly towards Klerk, before he knew it was time to move on.

 

 

Takawo had come to his destination. He knocked on the door in a specific rhytmic pattern and waited for his contact to open. “So, the day has finally come”, he thought to himself. It was the day when all the black people in his township were to enter the streets without passports and start a riot. And his contact had something he knew would come in handy; a firearm.

 

 

Aarksvaard had lunch with his colleagues. The rest of the squad ate like horses, but he himself couldn't force down a single mouthful. He said he wasn't hungry, but in fact he was more than that. Beating the poor child had made him feel physically ill. He told the others he needed some air, and went out inte the streets again. And he was about to round the corner of Schtirtzschtrasse and Plaanak Road, when he heard loud shouting noises. He ran around the corner and saw several hundred black people demonstrating against the new passport laws. The police were controlling the angry mob by waving guns and shooting rubber bullets, but the situation looked unstable.

 

 

Takawo was standing in the middle og the mob. He hadn't used his gun yet, but if the police opened fire, he would shoot one. He knew it. His contact had only given him three bullets, but it would suffice, he thought. He saw that the police had been reinforced, and he immediately found the man familiar. It was the man that had stricken his his son with a baton earlier that day.

 

 

He was given a machine pistol, and started waving it at them. Aarksvaard didn't like this situation at all. What if he had to shoot someone? He shot two shots into the air, to scare the mob and scatter them a bit, but shortly afterwards, the came closer. The lieutenant ordered him to start shooting as well. Aarksvaard had to think quickly. He swiftly and discreetly switched on the safety catch on his gun. The lieutenant didn't notice. He turned to Aarksvaard and yelled at him in Afrikaans: “Why aren't you shooting?” He pulled the trigger twice, and the gun made clicking noises. “It's jammed, sir!” he said.

 

 

Takawo had unholstered his gun and was ready to aim it at a policeman. The familiar one seemed to have trouble shooting, so he aimed at another one. He was just about to pull the trigger when he heard a gunshot from his left. The one who had stricken his son was firing. He quickly turned around.

 

 

The lieutenant had almost disclosed his lie, and Aarksvaard had to switch the safety off and start shooting. He was aiming so he'd just miss an old man when he heard a gunshot from the mob, and a stinging sensation bread across the side of his stomach. He was shot. And he was shot again. And the mob rushed forwards, tramplng down the police's roadblock.

 

 

He was lying flat on his back. The riot had moved past him. The sun was setting now. And like the red sun's tomato juice ran down between the mountains, the blood from his wounds ran down the gentle slope of Planaak Road.

 

*

 

The sunset over Johannesburg was extraordinarily beautiful that evening. It was in the middle of autumn, and the sight of orange leaves falling down in front of the red sunset warmed his heart for the last time.

Endret 12. juli 2004 av Medrakil

[darkness|]

Imponerende, Medrakil. Trist historie

[Medrakil]

Imponerende, Medrakil. Trist historie

Takk! =) Ja, den er trist... Ikke alle historier ender godt...