A Gathering of Tongues

Um… this is a really weird thing I wrote a long time ago about languages. It's REALLY WEIRD. All linguistical errors are mine.

Also, Blogger is acting up. Um. WHAT IN THE WORLD IS HAPPENING TO BLOGGER

Enjoy?

¿Divirtete?
~

America paused by the staircase as Britain swept past in her stark business suit. “Hey, Bri,” she said. Her eyes glowed, star-like. “How’s it going?”

Britain lowered her glasses, her face shadowed with a red-white-blue starburst. “Rather strangely,” she said.

The sharp blue-green form of Ísland exploded down, occasionally spitting shards of ice. He tapped the banister, and frozen crystals rocketed outward. “Don’t start another war, yeah?” His words cleaved open the silence.

“Yeah,” America said brightly, and went on her way in her tank top and jeans, multicolored rainboots squeaking, blue skin shimmering ever-so-slightly. And as she faded out of sight, an explosion of color ensued in her footsteps, purple and green and red and orange.

Britain put her glasses back on and looked at Ísland. He shrugged, navy jacket crinkling. “So, milady, the war continues. Til ðryð.” The syllables jabbed at the air.

“Yes,” she said primly. “To glory.”

Deutsch, the purple-misted old man living in the attic, waved from the balcony, voice rasping, and laughed. “I see, that many people friends make.”

Britain raised her eyebrows. “How are you?”

“As gut as ever,” he said. He coughed, leaned on the railing. “And you?”

“All right,” she said, shrugging.

“Stop with the understatements,” Ísland said.

Britain shrugged again and continued up the staircase.

Ísland raised a hand in greeting to Deutsch and left to the ballroom, where he pushed his way grimly through thirteen dancing couples.

“Ah, Ísland!” sang Italia, the little bird in a pale yellow ball gown, and stepped up, bouncing. “Long time no see, no?” Her hands fluttered with quick gestures.

“I do not have time for idle talk,” Ísland said.

“Sì, signore,” she said, and stepped out of the way again to greet Indiya, who stood tall and proud in her dark green sari, watching the dancers.

“Buongiorno, signora,” she said, teasing.

She looked at her, frowning, and stayed silent. Italia bowed, and she left. She knew when someone didn’t want to be disturbed.

“Italia,” France called.

“Ciao!” Italia swept up to join her, golden notes trailing behind her.

France’s dress of midnight stirred. “Have you seen Britain?”

“No, signora,” Italia trilled.

France swore. “She said she would be here.”

“For what?”

“We have… things to discuss.” Her accent smoothed out the words. Even in the linguistic equilibrium, Italia could hear the velvet softness in the pauses.

“You won’t find her in the ballroom,” Italia said. “Maybe on the second floor? She always did like high-up places.”

“Oui,” said France, “et merci.” And she left in a swirl of blue and chocolate. Italia watched her leave and continued on.

Español was at the buffet with his twenty children — from one wife or another. The baby, Guinea Ecuatorial, squealed as Italia approached.

“Hey!” Español yelled, extremely enthusiastically. “¿Digame?” Talk to me?

Italia sat down by his side. Honduras, short brown hair pulled up and braided in the Mayan fashion, said, “Haven’t seen you in a while, Auntie.”

“Me neither,” said Italia, and she rumpled his hair. Honduras ducked away.

“So how’s the food?” she asked Español.

“Could be better,” he said. “Fairly decent. And this ballroom dancing is too slow for a man of my time.”

“Silence!” yelled a very, very old man. And everything abruptly stopped.

He was old, the oldest one: older even than Latin and Norse and Sanskrit but somehow still living.

All that was left was a ink-black man, his clothes a multicolored white shimmer in the air. No one knew who he was, or where he came from. No one knew where he was the moment he called for silence, but they could all see him. No one knew his name and instead named him. They called him Dog, because Dog backward is goD, and everything about him was backward.

“I have called you here today,” he said. “I have called you, so that you might speak to each other again, for the first time since you were each created. And maybe some of you have never met the other.

“There is a war, on the mainland, a war of tongues and understanding and melting. Of separateness in the melting and stubbornness. Of becoming different and the same. And we are falling apart.

“And I tell you this: If we do not conform, we will wither. Before, we were apart and we could survive this way. Now the spider on the top of the world has been busy, and people can speak to each other in a matter of moments. They are connected, and we must be this way too.

“You do not realize this. You are all proud of yourself, that is fine. But we must recognize the greatness of the other. And we must understand each other’s language. America and Britain are not the most amazing of you lot. For if we do not understand, how can there be peace?”

There was a silence.

America looked up, letters of cyberspace floating across her skin. Britain and France, standing on the landing of the staircase, paused in the conversation that shot from English and French and back in milliseconds. Ísland, rolling up the sleeves of his jacket, stood straighter, cold blue gaze ricocheting from one silent face to another.

Italia looked back into the ballroom, where Indiya looked back, and smiled. Indiya raised her eyebrows slightly, and red danced its way down her fingertips. Español looked away from the buffet and into the eyes of Nihon, the lovely lady in a sea-green tall dress, and even his twenty squirming children felt his mood lift.

Dog tapped his fingers on the grave of Latin (250 B.C. — 972 A.D, Te audire no possum. Musa sapientum fixa est in aure) and grinned, his white smile beaming all over the world. He looked at the graves of Norse (963 A.D. — 1403 A.D, Ek veit sem ek em dauðr) and Sanskrit (1930 B.C. — 579 B.C, Eshaha ka?) and all the other forgotten tongues and congratulated himself on a job well done.

And Deutsch, sitting in the attic, laughed.
~

Zhong fiddled at his tie for a moment, looking into the mirror. He frowned, slightly, and reached for a different one.

Of course he'd heard Dog. Who couldn't? But he did have to look good for the rest of them. Otherwise there would be no point.

He vanished the tie he was wearing and began to loop the next one around his neck. And if you looked hard enough, you would've seen the trail his arm left in the air.

I Like Whales

Since you asked, Selina, yes, we have abandoned this blog.

THE FACT THAT I COULD UNDERSTAND 99% OF THE FRENCH THING (the 1% being aujourd’hui)

I’M USING A SPANISH KEYBOARD TO TYPE IN FRENCH IS THAT SACRILEGE

L’amitie c’est manger tout le déjeuner d’autre.

(Friendship is eating all of the other’s lunch.) (I think. In theory. SELINA CHECK)

WHY IS THERE A C’EST EXPLAIN

SHOULD IT NOT BE L’AMITIE EST ____

*is even more of a noob than Selina*

My vocab is even worse. But in case you ever wanted to know, “pomegranate” is “grenade.”

Here is a song about whales. You may sing it to whatever tune you like.

~

Whales are great
and they sing often.
Why? I don’t know.
All I know is that singing is good,
singing often is better,
and whales are the best.

Whales are great
and they jump often.
Why? I don’t know.
All I know is that jumping is good,
jumping often is better,
and whales are the best.

Whales are great
and they _____ (your verb) often.
Why? I don’t know.
All I know is that _____ (your verb in gerund form) is good,
_____ (your verb in gerund form again) often is better,
and whales are the best.

Bridge:
Whales! Oh, whales!
Lovely lovely whales!
You sing! You jump! You _____ (your verb)!
Whales are great!

Ending:
Whaaaaaaleeeessss! (drawn out for as long as possible)

A Late Valentine's Poem (in French)

Okay, I'm not sure what happened to everyone else, but why am I the only one writing on this blog?
(￢_￢;)

Anyway, here's a Valentine's poem I wrote for my French class. Even though it's supposed to be the day of lovey-doveyness, I decided to write about friendship. After all, I know much more about friendship than love.

I'm pretty satisfied with how it turned out even though I'm a noob French student.

Qu'est-ce que l'amitie?

L'amitie c'est discuter avec toi
et aller au café
et écouter de la musique
et chanter avec toi.

L'amitie c'est danser avec toi
et faire un pique-nique
et jouer aux cartes
et voir des films avec toi.

Mes jours sont heureux avec toi.
Mon ami, aujourd'hui, je pense à toi.
Mon ami, je t'adore. Et toi?

And in case you can't read French, here's a translation:

What is friendship?

Friendship is chatting with you

and going to the cafe

and listening to music

and singing with you.

Friendship is dancing with you

and going on picnics

and playing cards

and watching movies with you.

My days are happy with you.

My friend, today, I'm thinking of you.

My friend, I adore you. And you?

Look at that limited vocabulary... (￣u￣;)

First Piece: A Riddle (by Selina)

This is my first time writing on this blog. I don't write often, but I'll try to write when I get an idea or something. I'm being pressured to do this by Cynthia *cough*
Actually, this is a "poetic riddle" I wrote for my lit class. See if you can guess what it is. I'll put the answer at the very bottom. Hope you like it :)


An upside-down smile stretches across the sea-
A sliver of happiness after a good long weep.
Its paint drips through the surrounding snowdrifts,
Like a ribbon nicely tied around a birthday gift.


I tried.
Scroll down for the answer-























Answer: a rainbow :)

Spelling

From heaven there are angles

and from hell there are devilles.

From the ground grows flours

and space has stares.

Grammar is herd.

English is wired.

But I love Poe and tree.

And I absolutely hat autocorrect.

Because I really, never spell anything rung.

You’re asking how many strips of bacon?

I’ll take too.

Where are we?

Around the corner killing Tim.

What kind of hairstyle?

Get a layered cute.

The guy we met today?

I thought he was kinda hoot.

Anyway, I’m done with this. I’m finally going to tune of autocorrect.

I mean you red all of this correctly any weigh.

Done.

Good buy.