Histórias de Odal

Isto é um texto que eu escrevi à muito tempo. Apesar de não ser fenomenal, para mim é dos melhores que já escrevi. Caso gostem, irei postar depois mais

Citação :

No one ever heard about Jack Ebon. The truth behind Jack Frost. But I have. This is my story. A tale of art, dreams and love.
It all began a long time ago, on the XIV century, on a winter night. The Ebon family gave birth a child, a little boy who was named Jack. It was a calm night, and when Jack came to the world it began snowing calmly. For either being born in the season or simply for other unknown reasons, Jack loved the winter. No matter how old he was, when winter began was when Jack was at the peak of his happiness. Maybe it was because of the snow draws he made, for his second passion in his child life was to draw in the snow. When the first snows came, everyone could see the young Jack in the front garden, making little drawings in the snow. And how beautiful they were! When his parents noticed his potential for arts, they bought him paper and paint so he could draw all he wanted. But even on his old days, Jack would always paint in the snow.
Then he met her. The minute he saw her he was immediately paralyzed with passion. She was a tall woman, with long red hair, that seemed to reflect when she passed through the lights of the street. Her pale skin was almost as white as the snow, though her touch was as warm as the fire. Her light-blue eyes seemed ice, but they were friendly eyes. She walked like a muse and had the voice of an angel. He was in love. When he got home that night, he went to his bedroom and immediately started drawing. He hoped that his drawings would conquer her, for Jack really didn’t stood out in the crowd. He wasn’t ugly, but neither was he a prince. His short dark hair was a regular sight in the people, and brown eyes were the most common ones to see. And Jack knew this, so he used his lethal weapon: his beautiful, winter-related drawings. Every day he would go to her house with a new painting. He would leave the drawing on the front of the house, knock and then hide behind some bushes. Then she would open the door and after seeing the painting, she would look on to see who it was that left her gifts at her door. And everyday she would spot him, hiding behind the bushes. It is a pity that every time she noticed him hiding he would ran away, for had he remained there he would have seen her smile. Until one day. Like every other day, he left a painting by the door. Like every other day he hid in the bushes. However, on this particular day she left by the back door and approached him softly, touching him by the shoulder, and when he turned, frightened, she kissed him.
They were the happiest couple the village had seen in a few years. They were each one obsessed with the other, they had their group of friends and never argued about anything. Jack was at the top of his happiness, living with the girl of his dreams and becoming known for his mastery at art. He was happy… until that one day.
It was a winter night. She had gone to the woods in search of apples, just as she did multiple times. But this turned out to be a stroll she would never forget, for she found herself surrounded by white wolves. They didn’t attacked her, but advanced towards her, making her go deeper in the woods. Soon they reached the lake. It was there she realized the reason for not being attacked. The Winter Goddess Nótt appeared before her, and told her that the winter was threatened to end, for she was old and needed someone to replace her. And without further saying, she summoned the cold winds and took her to the Palace of Winter, Nótt’s home.
The next morning, when Jack woke up and noticed she wasn’t there, he immediately knew something was wrong. He went into the woods, searching something that would tell him of her whereabouts. When he reached the lake, he saw her scarf. Looking around, he also found the marks of wolfs paws. At that time he realized she had been taken away by the goddess Nótt, and he almost threw himself at the lake. However his love for her was stronger, so he returned to the village and sought the village elder, who knew all the myths and stories. After telling him what happened and begging him for the answer, the elder told him that the Winter Goddess had a fortress hiding in the forest, and if he whished to reach it he would have to follow the white wolf. The elder also told him he had to reach the fortress before the end of the winter, for if the winter ended she would become the next Winter Goddess.
That very night he departed. He spent the entire day gathering food, water and clothes for his trip, since he didn’t knew how long it would take. The end of the winter was a month away, but he needed her too much to just forget about her. Two days he walked in the forest searching for a white wolf until he found one. He nearly missed him, since the wolf seemed to melt in the snow. He spent a week following the wolf, ever with his heart in his hands, such was his fear of losing the wolf of his sight. But they eventually reached the fortress.
It was a tall palace, made of white stone, located on the peak on a mountain covered in snow, so it would go unnoticed. Jack climbed the mountain and when he reached the top, he found the door of the palace open, as if the goddess was expecting him. Not knowing what was inside, Jack entered the castle slowly, every second expecting someone or something to stop him. Strangely as it seems, he found no resistance. He went up to the final room, and there he found his loved one, sleeping in a bed, and the goddess herself, sitting on her throne. She welcomed Jack and asked him why he had come. Jack told the goddess of his love, telling the goddess he would do anything to release her from the goddess’s grasp. Then the goddess told Jack of her situation: she was dying, and she needed a substitute, for if not Winter would disappear forever. Shocked by this news, Jack started thinking of something to do. A few minutes later, it was the time for the goddess to be shocked: Jack offered himself to replace her in keeping the winter alive, the only condition was that his loved one returned to their village safely. Marveled by the bravery of Jack, she accepted.
The next morning, Jack’s bride woke in her own bed, on her own house. It was a cold morning, and when she got up she noticed something on the window. It was covered in small frosty crystal patterns. Looking more closely, she saw they were very similar to one of the painting’s Jack had given her. That day she cried and yelled, begging him to come back to her. Eventually she realized he could not come back, so she accepted his fate and her own.
Ever since then, Jack Frost appears every winter to paint small frosty patterns on windows, in hope his love sees them and remembers him.

This was my story.
Sincerely yours,
J.E.

Bonita história Odal.O teu inglês é bastante bom. Não sei porquê, mas esse tal Jack, mesmo sendo uma personagem fictícia, parece ter algo a ver contigo. Talvez a aparência física e a timidez? Este conto faz-me lembrar A Rainha das Neves, de Hans Christian Andersen. É um dos meus contos favoritos.

Nocturna escreveu:

Bonita história Odal.O teu inglês é bastante bom. Não sei porquê, mas esse tal Jack, mesmo sendo uma personagem fictícia, parece ter algo a ver contigo. Talvez a aparência física e a timidez? Este conto faz-me lembrar A Rainha das Neves, de Hans Christian Andersen. É um dos meus contos favoritos.

Claro! Ele com cabelo castanho-escuro, eu com cabelo quase loiro. Ele com olhos castanhos, eu de olhos verdes. A nossa parecença é puramente físicamente

Talvez em breve poste a minha segunda história, se achar que vale a pena. Só o tempo que demorou a alguém dizer algo ia-me deixando desesperado

Realmente tenho a mania de comparar as personagens com os seus autores. A tua ironia deu-me cá uma vontade de rir. Isto poque achei piada .Bem, sei o que custa ninguém responder. Pertenço a outro fórum em que escrevi textos que me deram muito trabalho e só algumas pessoas leram e não comentaram. Por isso sou solidária contigo e não me importo de perder uns poucos minutos e dar a minha opinião.

Nocturna escreveu:

Realmente tenho a mania de comparar as personagens com os seus autores. A tua ironia deu-me cá uma vontade de rir. Isto poque achei piada .Bem, sei o que custa ninguém responder. Pertenço a outro fórum em que escrevi textos que me deram muito trabalho e só algumas pessoas leram e não comentaram. Por isso sou solidária contigo e não me importo de perder uns poucos minutos e dar a minha opinião.

Hehe ainda bem que gostaste. Talvez para a semana poste a minha segunda história. E depois talvez a terceira

Obrigado por perderes tempo a comentar os meus rascunhos

Não tens de quê. Sempre às ordens!

Tropecei agora no teu conto, Odal! (ainda há muitos recantos por descobrir aqui no forum).
Gostei muito, tens o dom da escrita


Quando quiseres coloca mais aqui. Eu quero ler!

Vampiria, perdão pela demora. Obrigado por leres!

O teu post levou-me a entrar num frenesim à procura dos textos. Desde que tinha postado aquele que passei por 3 formatações de pc e uma troca de pc mesmo, por isso julguei que já tinha perdido os textos. Eles estavam impressos, mas no Algarve...

Abençoada seja, por isso, a minha querida namorada! Que guardou com carinho(ou pelo menos espero) os documentos de word e mandou-mos agora!

Assim sendo, sem mais delongas, eis outra história...

The tear of the Firebird

Citação :

Heed me now. The forest is a throne. The throne of the legendary Firebird. Few have heard of it, and fewer still have laid their eyes on it. Gather ‘round, folks, I see your eyes shining with curiosity. Gather ‘round people, and hear the story of Marko and the tears of the Firebird.
The legend speaks of Marko, a young and powerful warrior. Born from a small town to the east, Marko was a brash child, arrogantly thinking of himself as a god. He challenged every warrior he’d cross paths with, and if he won he would brag non-stop about it. If he loosed, he would make up excuses: he was tired that day; he had slipped and so on. By the time Marko was 25 he had travelled the entire country. He made one last stop on the capital before returning home, and in there he heard the story of the Firebird. He was in the tavern, drinking and eating, when a young bard entered. Marko immediately noticed something strange about the bard. He looked so young and yet seemed to have lived for 500 years. He irradiated knowledge, and Marko moved closer to him in order to hear his tale better. And, by the gods, what he heard! The bard told the story of an old castle deep in the woods, hidden from all, where resided the mighty Firebird. Marko gasped. He knew the legends surrounding that mystical creature. While the people of the capital dismissed the story, Marko strongly believed it. The bard told the story with so much detail it could not be made up. He even spoke of a forest where Marko had been a few months earlier.
And so the wheel of Destiny started spinning. That same night Marko left the city and headed for the forest.
For two years he searched the forest. For two years he walked by the trees, climbed rocks and fought beasts. Two years of searching, almost dying at the clutch of wild beasts. For two years Marko suffered. And as he suffered, his rage grew. Every day that passed Marko grew angrier. Whenever he thought to be near, his dreams vanished like dust in the wind. Until that one day. He now knew the entire forest from one end to the other. And he had not found the castle. Yet he still believed in the bard’s tale. The castle had to be there somewhere. But it was nowhere to be found. And so Marko became desperate. And a desperate man takes desperate actions. So he burned the forest to the ground. Not a single animal escaped. Not a single tree was left standing. The whole forest burned. And only then did he found the castle.
Located in the middle of the forest, it was a small castle, yet it shined with wealth. In the inside Marko found some of the finest things he had ever seen. Carpentries made of gold and silver strings, beautifully detailing the gods. Armours shining in the sun, almost looking alive. Marko was amazed. But there was something strange with the castle: it had no one inside. There were no maids or guards. No servants or cooks. There was no one… except the king. He was in the throne room, silently sitting, as if he was made of stone. But when Marko got near him, the king got up and asked:
- What is it that you seek?
And so Marko told him his story. He told the king he was the greatest warrior of the land and after hearing of the existence of the Firebird he had come to take it. A sad look came upon the king’s face.
- So much trouble you had, and for nothing it paid. Please, follow me.
Confused Marko followed the king as he walked to the second floor. This floor differed from the first in which it was poorly decorated. In fact, it did not have any decoration. It only had a black curtain covering one the walls.
- Here you have, the mighty Firebird. – said the king, pushing the curtain aside.
And there it was. The Firebird. In a painting. But what a painting it was! It seemed so real, so alive. Marko stood there speechless. So much trouble, so much pain and sweat… for a painting. And that was the last drop. Marko exploded into a rage known only to the berserkers, and he striked the king. There was no grace in his attack. There was no humanity left in his heart. And the king died quickly. But as Marko was mutilating the body, he noticed something strange, something impossible. The king’s blood was moving, and was making a strange sigil. Scared, he backed away, looking as the blood completed the sigil. And as the sigil began shining, the Firebird appeared.
He was beautiful. He was ruby red, with the tail feathers made of fire. Marko was marvelled. But the bird was not. He saw the king’s body, forever mutilated, and Marko, with his sword in hand, and a glimpse of understandment went through his eyes. And he shrieked, so high Marko heard the windows break. But the horrors were yet to come. As the bird shrieked, his body started to glow, to a point where the whole bird was a sphere of light. And that was the last thing Marko saw. The sphere exploded to flames, instantly burning Marko to death, and forever destroying the castle and it’s wealths.
And after that, only the bird remained. There was no evidence of a castle, of a king, or of a brash youngster named Marko. There was only a magnificent bird. Crying. As he began to cry, he flew off. He flew above the remnants of the forest, his tears falling to the ground. And as the tears touched the ground, life began to appear. It started with the grass, then came the flowers, the trees were erected again and the animals re-borned. And within minutes, the forest was at its peak of magnificence. Only then did the bird return to the place where his master had fallen. And there he stood still, slowly disappearing to the forest background, never to be seen again.
Legend says that every year, on a specific day, on a specific month, a crying can be heard in the place where the king has fallen. And it is also said that by the morning a pond of water will appear, and all those who bathe in it shall know the secrets of the world.
Or so does the legend says...

Odal, tu escreves maravilhosamente bem! Pessoalmente, eu adoro ler e, eu acho que as tuas histórias dão gosto de ser lidas de tão boas que são. O teu inglês é excelente.

Citação :

Talvez em breve poste a minha segunda história, se achar que vale a pena. Só o tempo que demorou a alguém dizer algo ia-me deixando desesperado

Sei como te sentis-te. Eu já publiquei uns textos num fórum que eu frequentava e nem respostas houve. Se leram ou não, ainda estou para descobrir.

Mas continua a escrever assim, pois tu tens um dom que nem toda a gente se pode gabar de ter.

Tu também? Credo. Esta juventude não lê nada actualmente
Posta aí cenas tuas também

Há uma terceira história escrita, infelizmente não me deu para mais .

Dentro de uns mesitos posto a terceira. Não quero que depois isto seja afundado no esquecimento

Edit: Não é um dom. São vagas esporádicas de inspiração. E um profundo fascinio pela mitologia europeia.

Beeeeeeeem, adorei!
Já estava a ver os cenários na minha mente enquanto ia lendo e só o facto de escreveres algo do género fantástico melhor ainda!

Eu espero que continues a escrever contos e um dia lanças um livro com a compilação, não achas?

Fico a aguardar a próxima história.

Vampiria escreveu:

Beeeeeeeem, adorei!
Já estava a ver os cenários na minha mente enquanto ia lendo e só o facto de escreveres algo do género fantástico melhor ainda!

Eu espero que continues a escrever contos e um dia lanças um livro com a compilação, não achas?

Fico a aguardar a próxima história.

Já tive essa ideia, mas de momento são poucas histórias para fazer tal. Talvez daqui a uns anos quando tiver mais. Se fizer mais. Depois venho cá ao fórum anunciar a launch party

Odal, eu pensei em publicar aqui no Fórum alguns dos textos por mim escritos, mas depois, pensei um bocadinho melhor e achei que era bom haver um blogue em que quem quisesse pudesse publicar as suas histórias e os seus c0ntos. Então, ontem à noite como já estava farta de estudar (tenho testes, visto ainda andar no 9º ano), decidi que ia criar o tal blogue. Como tal, aqui vai:

Land Of Magic

Dá uma espreitadela e dá-me a tua opinião sobre o blogue. E, se não fosse pedir muito, manda-me as tuas histórias que eu publico-as no blogue.

P.S.:E já agora, toda a gente aqui do fórum que gosta de escrever fazia o mesmo, se faz favor.

Selene, agradeço o convite, mas não pretendo que os meus textos cheguem a muitas pessoas. É algo pessoal, e prefiro que estejam num sitio mais privado como este fórum que na blogosfera . Já dei uma olhadela por alto no teu texto. Pareceu bom, mas tens uns quantos erros de escrita. Aconselho-te a rever o texto. Also, o teu texto decorre rápido demais. Quer dizer, num minuto eles odeiam-se, no outro já querem casar? Começou bem, mas depois parece que quiseste despachar a história...

Pois... Quanto aos erros acredito. Na altura nem tive tempo de rever -.-'
E sim, na altura quis despachar um bocadinho aquilo porque era um trabalho de casa de inglês, mas era suposto só ter 150 palavras. Acabou com mais de 500... Mas eu vou rever aquele texto. Vou corrigir os erros e ver se modifico algumas coisas. Mas eles não se odiavam... Apenas não se lembravam do quanto gostavam um do outro, por assim dizer.
E também ainda sou nova, por isso, tenho tempo para melhorar os meus textos, um pouco de cada vez.

Mas obrigada pelos conselhos!

Um conselho. Pega na história e reescreve-a, demorando o teu tempo. Vai sair bem melhor.

Mesmo que não comente, há sempre alguém a ler (e apreciar) estas coisas que aqui estão.

...já olhaste bem para o número de vistos que tens neste tópico?

Kraft durch Freude escreveu:

Mesmo que não comente, há sempre alguém a ler (e apreciar) estas coisas que aqui estão.

...já olhaste bem para o número de vistos que tens neste tópico?

Podia ser a Vampiria a revisitar o tópico

Há muita malta que não gosta de ler textos lúdicos num ecrãn de computador. Não é por mal. E muita gente extra-fórum vem cá e não comenta, mas lê e pesquisa.


Odal, não te imaginava um romântico Surpreendeu-me pela positiva o teu bom Inglês. E conseguiste resumir uma história completa em poucos parágrafos, o que nem sempre é fácil. É um conto simples, mas bonito. Eu gostei. De certa forma lembrou-me a minha sueca perdida no já distante ano de 2006.

AI, COMO SOFRO!

Estou a brincar, já nem lembro da aparência dela.

Odal escreveu:

Kraft durch Freude escreveu:

Mesmo que não comente, há sempre alguém a ler (e apreciar) estas coisas que aqui estão.

...já olhaste bem para o número de vistos que tens neste tópico?

Podia ser a Vampiria a revisitar o tópico

LOL, só agora vi!
Eu confesso! Eu revisito o tópico muitas vezes, estou vidrada!

Aelle escreveu:

AI, COMO SOFRO!

Estou a brincar, já nem lembro da aparência dela.

LOL, brutal.

Aelle escreveu:

Odal, não te imaginava um romântico Surpreendeu-me pela positiva o teu bom Inglês. E conseguiste resumir uma história completa em poucos parágrafos, o que nem sempre é fácil. É um conto simples, mas bonito. Eu gostei. De certa forma lembrou-me a minha sueca perdida no já distante ano de 2006.

AI, COMO SOFRO!

Estou a brincar, já nem lembro da aparência dela.

A minha ideia era mais fazer um conto "infantil", mas que agradasse a todo o povo Tal como as antigas lendas .

Aelle, tem calma. Mete cartazes na rua, pode ser que a encontrem

Butterflies from the Shadows

Citação :

Maybe there isn’t any. It might be just a story. Then again, why shouldn’t it be true? Just because something is otherworldly, it doesn’t mean it’s not real. Maybe it did happen! Maybe the problem isn’t in the story, but in the people.
Lök was born on a clouded day. The birth was hard, and his mother didn’t survive. His father didn’t care much about it, and soon got himself a new wife. But his new wife didn’t care for baby Lök, and so the child grew with only the small attention his father would give him. And that affected young Lök deeply. By the time he hit manhood he was famous in the village for being a troublemaker. He was drunk most of the time and was always provoking people unto a fight, for he was a skilled swordsman. The villagers didn’t pay much attention to the troubles he’d make, since they knew he had grown with a father that didn’t care for him and a step-mother who hated him. But they were starting to get sick of it. On the day he raped a girl and slashed her throat, the entire village became enraged and banished him. Angry, Lök laid fire to a few houses before leaving with a beautiful white horse that belonged to the chief.
Lök travelled to the capital after hearing much rumours about a guild of troublemakers located there. After one month in the capital, Lök already belonged to the guild and was part of the elite. He was famous for being an assassin, capable of murdering anyone without a glimpse of remorse. Baby, teen, elder. It didn’t matter who it was, whatever the position and condition. He would do it with a big smile in his face. After a few years in the capital, Lök decided it was time to make the guild famous through the country, and so he and a few of his friends hit the road.
The devastation they caused I can only imagine. Mere words cannot describe the fear in the villages, the anger of the people. And there was no way to know where they would strike again, since they used the forests trails instead of the regular roads. Whenever they attacked, someone would die, since Lök wouldn’t go away until then. His thirst for blood was enormous. During one of the attacks, Lök went to the chief’s house and dragged the local völva, an elderly woman rumoured to be descendant of Odin. The poor woman screamed for her life, begged him not to kill her, but Lök paid no attention. He got in the middle of the village, and with his friends watching, beheaded the elder. Her head rolled on the floor, blood pouring from the dead body and a big smile on Lök’s face. Until he noticed the head. It had stopped rolling, and was staring him! As Lök and his friends looked amazed, they heard a strange omen: “Beware of the shadow berserker, for he will bring your death in small wings.” And with that, the head went silent. Astonished, Lök was still staring at the head, his jaw dropped down in bewilderment. After a few minutes, he threw his head back and laughed. “Nothing to be afraid of” said he “Just an old trick to instil fear”, He laughed again before kicking the head and leaving. But as he was leaving, he noticed something by the corner of his eye, a strange berserker, in the shadow of a house. But when he turned to see, there was no one.
And so, Lök continued his attack on villages. But this time it was different. Now, every time he leaved, he spotted the strange berserker, lurking in some shadow… laughing! Why was he laughing, wondered Lök. He was starting to get frightened, but he couldn’t get near him, since he always spotted him by the corner of the eye, and when he turned to check, the berserker had disappeared. Nine years passed, and Lök was still tormented by the shadow berserker. Who was he? Why did he laugh? Whenever he attacked a village, he would see the berserker. And he would remember the strange omen. Until one day. On this day, nine years ago, Lök had slain the völva. He and his friends were riding on a forest trail, and despite the fact that it was day, the tree branches were shadowing the path. Lök was riding ahead of the group, still thinking about the omen and the berserker, when he spotted a figure a few steps in front of him. He could not believe his eyes! It was the berserker, laughing again.
As Lök let out a scream of surprise, the berserker turned and started running. Lök quickly pursued him, with his friends following behind. As they were galloping, his friends started to notice something odd: Lök was being surrounded by butterflies. Blood-coloured butterflies. He was quickly enshrouded, and after a few seconds they heard him scream, a scream they never heard before. A torn-like scream, as if Lök had been shred to a million pieces and then screamed. They stopped, scared to death, their horses nervous. After a few minutes the butterflies cleared, and they saw the impossible. Lök’s horse was laying on the road, dead. But from Lök there was no trace. No drop of blood, no parchment of cloth, nothing that could prove he was there a few minutes ago. He had vanished. And through the forest was heard the laughter, a laughter that seemed to come from the shadows...

Excelente!

Agora é dares asas à tua imaginação e escreveres mais! Gosto muito!

Junto-me a todos os que já comentaram e apoio o seu discernimento ... continua que tens jeito rapaz =)

Eu gostei, mesmo muito e olha que o meu tipo de literatura é bem diferente deste, no matter what, tens jeito, isso é certo.

Vai postando que eu vou lendo (ou podes simplesmente enviar-me words via msn que também não me queixo xD)

O importante é que continues, inspira-te e escreve tudo o que puderes, quem sabe um dia não serás reconhecido por isso

Abraços irmão!



P.S.: Quem sabe um dia também coloco aqui as minhas escritas hein ? No one knows ... just maybe

Floresta li as 3 histórias agora, pois ainda não tinha reparado neste tópico. Devo-te dizer que gostei bastante das 3. Estão bem escritas, e sem dúvida que tens aí uma veia de escritor que podes e deves explorar mais.

Em relação a esta ultima, isto não tem importância nenhuma, mas não terás aqui uma gafe?

Floresta, Ex-Odal escreveu:

He was starting to get frightened, but he couldn’t get near him, since he always spotted him by the corner of the eye, and when he turned to check, the berserker and disappeared.