In The Hall Of The Mountain King (on temporary hold)

10-2-1926

10-2-1926

Dear Diary,

Sorry I hadn’t fulfilled my promise to write in my diary everyday. One, nothing interesting has happened because Nicholas wasn’t at school on Friday, and I had no legend to share. For another, I’ve been busy all week, helping set up for my sisters coming of age party (she turned 18 a few days ago). We had to go to my grandparents house to get them to help with the preparations, and my aunt and uncle came from 

Southern Norway for the party. Everyone’s going crazy, because the 18th birthday for a girl is REALLY important, but it maybe for Benedikta and my parents. It’s too boring and crazy for me. 

During all the preparations, I’ve been in my room, trying to write a story about a Greek boy named Ares, and his memory of meeting the Greek gods and goddess. Greek mythology interests me very much, so I thought the story would be perfect to take my mind off school and the party. Here’s what I’ve got of the story so far:

Ares, a poor Grecian slave, massaged his tan skin angrily to lessen the pain of the sunburn, and went back to work. His day had been horrible, his mistress taunting him again for his dark skin, and her wealthy sons laughing at him while they played marbles. He hated how his parents had sold him as a slave because they didn’t want him. He hated how everyone taunted him about his golden brown skin. Even though the gods had golden skin, everyone only wanted pale skin for some the reason that they were lazy bottoms. Ares wiped some more sweat off his brow, and went back to work. Then, he looked up in the sky and saw a shape moving across the sky. What was that? He squinted harder and made out the shape of a burning chariot, horses, and a golden man coming straight at him.

That’s the only part of the story I had written so far. As far as my poetic abilities go, this is one of the poems I had written while I was up in my attic room. Here it is:

A golden mop of hair flaps in the wind as the man owning it flies thought the sky

The man holds whips it like it’s his treasure, singing softly and playing a harp

The lovely music loud, it cuts thought peoples minds like a knife that’s sharp

Oh, how I love the watch Apollo roam the skies in the heat of July

Just a little poem I had made up pertaining to my story.

I have to go now, mama’s banging on the door and calling my full name. That can’t be good, unless she needs big help with setting my more flowers for Benedikta’s party. Well, goodbye, and who knows what will happen tomorrow?

Sebastian Zachariassen