The Tale of Little Red Riding Hood

Translated from English to Dutch, French, Polish, Finnish, Italian, Icelandic, Latin, Welsh, Hebrew, Hungarian, Chinese, Afrikaans, Russian, Turkish, Haitian, Greek, Spanish, Thai, Arabic, back to English using Google Translate technology.
By Bard Neeus (2010-11-22)

However, the city was old as well. Grandmother loved her despite the high pressure: Red Riding Hood, a young woman named in Red Hat.

One of those days, she said: ‘my mother, my love and I came to this very bad feeling after the rumours I have heard about the bread and butter.”

Never withdraw from your grandmother in another city Red Riding Hood!

In the wild, the wolf spirit is also a tree which fears deforestation marches that can never be found. Some writers have to go if you know that wolves pose a threat to grandmothers who hear the mission for the poor. She said, “the bread and butter are my mother.”

"I tend to break down what is.”

"Yes”, said Little Red Riding Hood, “in the first office of the village.”

"Why," said Wolf, “it seems they knew what they wanted when they visited first.”

The wolf fought against the economy as soon as possible, in fact, he was nuts. The butterfly curve of industry against the old house, turns out to be wild animals after a short time when the content is not a step.

“What's this?”

“I am Hood, the son,” said Little Red Riding Hood, “the opposition to beautiful, cereal, bread and butter. I come to see your mother.”

“A little girl in a big city," said the beginning of photography.

Good Bobby opened the door and saw girls for more than three days, winning seven of their index fingers. He waited to at last trust Red Hat, then sleep. Grandma blows.

“What's this?”

Red Hat is more difficult than he thought. Grandmother said, “I was surprised to hear the sounds of the first harsh winter so I sent the daughter of Red Riding Hood’s mother and her jar of cream pie.”

Wolf called, "I hope that the opening of the bottle is safe.”

Bobby with the red hat opened the door.

Wolf said, “put the bread and butter in a pan on the double bed, and take another chair with hair skin.”

Little Red Hat made the bed. She was surprised how many reservations grandmother had made. She said, “my grandmother in bed is significant.”

“I want to kiss the child.”

"Great, and a good friend in the legs.”

“Children are the best.”

“Move your ears.”

“I left the best for Israel.”

“Grandmother looks great!”

“It would be better to see my children.”

“Grandmother, girls have big teeth!”

"All the best food.”

The man who was with the big bad wolf, ate the red hat.

Doris Lessing

This is the sort of thing we accepted as normal. Yet for all of us there were moments when 'the game we were all agreeing to play' simply could not stand up to events: we would be gripped by feelings of unreality, like nausea. Perhaps this feeling, that the ground was dissolving under our feet, was the real enemy...or we believed it to be so. Perhaps our tacit agreement that nothing much, or at least, nothing irrecoverable, was happening, was because for us the enemy was reality, was to allow ourselves to know what was happening. Perhaps our pretences, everyone's pretences, wich in the moments when we felt naked, defenceless, seemed like playacting and absurd, should be regared as admirable? Or perhaps they were necessary, like the games of children who can make playacting a way of keeping reality a long way from their weaknesses?

From a friend

"Think of Easter as a resurrection. It's gonna get better from now on."

Names

What would my life look up if my name were Anthony? Or Christian? Mark, Damon, Benjamin, Jonas, Louis, Magnus, Conrad, Gregory, Ivan or even Alejandro? Would I be prettier if I were a Dante? Would I be smarter as a Joseph? Would I be straight as a Daniel? Would I be a world-famous painter if I was named Gustav? Would I be sick more if my name was Elias? Would Mauritz be more adventurous? Surely if I was a Bjorn, I would be more into sports? As a Rico, would I be into science?

Couldn’t I have a different name for each day of the week?

3 years of my life in status updates

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Part Sephenn - Dead Letter, Numb Twat, Drifting Stones

A boy (hungry) left the country
That empty stomach of his! That burning hole
Where once a lost Jesus
Was his groom, a greasy shining God,
A healing stomach ache against banality
Of rooting, saving, building, owing.

But banality is nothing?
Ah no? But oh, the joy!

On the city square friendly scholars sat
Reading Ovid by a full moon, they laced
Chaos to cosmos on their quoting tongues
And I presented my empty stomach to their feet
And nobody yelled that I confide in fantasy,
That you are nothing but a dead letter.

No sir, I don’t need a vision, no disclosure
And no revelation through higher powers, no ma’am,
A summer morning, black coffee, cigarettes,
The singing example of a fly, a mosquito,
Which bombards my absence with her drunk figures,
Such things suffice to lift up the skirt
Of a moist soul, to blind your critical eyes
With her numb twat, oh yes sir.

I don’t care about words, you see, but about constructions
That marched the street this morning out of nowhere
When the yawning children, still drunk from sleep,
Carefully played with each other’s desires
And caught balls that no man would toss over the hedge
They lie down on the curb, hugging each other
And kiss without caring about their distant futures
It is about these constructions, without meaning.

I dream with head and hole
Around the clock, I braid and I knot
With all ten toes, ten fingers
At once, I walk on my bare hands

Into the night, of this paper

My lips pluck drifting stones
Of the road, my climbing feet churn
The constellations, my voice
Comes up and runs away

I have nothing to gain.