[Verhaal] I am Coco's brain.

Schrijfsels
#1

(Voordat je denkt: Omg, en what about Ik vs. alle idioten…? Ja, ik ben nog bezig met de zomer van Andreas, heb al genoeg geschreven en binnenkort ga ik het posten)

Ik loop al een hele lange tijd met dit verhaal in mijn hoofd, en het moest in het Engels van mezelf, anders zou het gewoon niet kloppen.

Wanneer Coco’s moeder Coco dwingt om de zomer door te brengen met haar vader in het kleine badplaatsje Sandy Shore, is Coco niet enthousiast. Haar pa is een one-night stand-verslaafde, dronken surfer, maar al gauw komt ze erachter dat ze dingen gemeen hebben. Ook ontmoet Coco Eden, een jongen met leukemie. Ze raakt met hem bevriend, en stelt voor om een lijstje te maken met dingen die ze willen doen voordat de zomer voorbij is.

[b]Prologue[/b] A brain has many convolutions, and those convolutions exist from thousands of molecules and billions of atoms. We split our brain into two halves, and each half has million functions. Our brain knows exactly what it could handle, and what not. And my brain knows what it could handle, because it can handle me. Our brain makes us who we are nowadays, even if my parents don’t approve.

My brain crashed last summer.

Apart from the brain you’ve got the heart, and that’s something different. The heart doesn’t make us who we are, but it keeps us alive. We give it away, and get one back (mostly, hopefully, maybe). Our heart can break (literally and figuratively).

My heart broke last summer.

But let me start from the beginning.

Dus, wordt het wat, of vinden jullie het niks?
#2

Ik vind de titel alleen al interessant, ga verder!

#3

lijkt me wel een leuk verhaal!
vooral omdat ik je andere verhaal ook volg en dat is lekker anders dan de rest.
i like that.

#4

Klinkt erg interessant! Vind je stijl ook weer leuk, en op wat schoonheidsfoutjes na (in to = into, half’s = halves, en een brain is een ‘it’, geen ‘he’) is je Engels prima :slightly_smiling_face:

#5

super proloog, interessant verhaal, maar het doet me denken aan het boek ‘before I die’, door dat lijstje en die jongen met leukemie.

#6

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Bedankt ^^ Heb het meteen verandert.

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Oh, ken het boek niet, maar klinkt wel interessant n___n

In front of me there’s a redhead, right from me there are some fifteen year olds, and behind me there’s an old man who snores. My mom got the great idea that I should spend this summer with my dad. He lives in a place called [i]hell[/i], I mean Sandy Shore. A tiny little village, in California, near the coast. The biggest hobby of the people who live there is to collect shells.

Pro? They’ve got a beach. Con? My dad’s living there. Pro? My dad is a really good cook, he’s the chef at a fish restaurant. Con? He only knows fish dishes. Pro? I don’t know any pros anymore. Con? My mom went to the Bahamas with husband number five to ‘work’ things out. Why couldn’t I come with her? Yes, that’s a con. So it’s two pros against three cons, the cons win. But whether they’ve lost or won, my mom still is making me to go.

It isn’t that I can’t laugh with my dad; he’s a nice, cool guy. The only ‘but’ is that his life contains three words: One-night stands (That’s one word!), beer and surfing. How many single in-their-forties-men do you know who like to bang eighteen year olds, get every Friday drunk like hell and then try to surf? That’s what I’m telling you.

#7

Leuk leuk leuk.
Doet me denken aan die film: Greta.
maar ga maar verder. :slightly_smiling_face:

#8

Greta heeft me ook een beetje geïnspireerd tot dit verhaal n__n dus het kan dat sommige stukjes je eraan doen denken.

But back to the bus. The redheads music is so loud that I can hear it. It’s Britney Spears, or some other dumb blond singer. The fifteen year olds are excited for their first trip to Sandy Shore. Should I destroy their dream to tell them that at the end of the summer they would be addicted to drugs, have lost their virginity and officially became sluts. Well, they are dumb enough, so why not? “Oh my god! I can’t wait ‘till were in Sandy Shore!” (I can’t wait ‘till you’re a drug addict!) “Me too! Glad that you’re parents were, like, so nice that they would, like, give you the keys to the, like, summerhouse. That’s, like, so cool!” (You know what I would like? To kill her.) The rest of the conversation is about nail polish, clothes and boys (and how to bang them. I’m not kidding!)

I’m dragging my neon pink suitcase (Blame my mom! Blame my mom!) out of the bus. So long redhead-who-actually-needs-to-dye-her-hair-blond, fifteen year olds who’ll lose their virginities at the end of the summer, old man who snores, and hello Sandy Shore. I’m blocking the sun with my hand as I walk to my dad. The fifteen year olds are also out the bus, I hear them.
“Oh my god! Look at that hotty over there.”
“Caitlin! He’s way too old.”
“I know, but he is so hot.” I look at them and see that they’re whispering and pointing at the tanned, blonde surfer dude. I mean ex-surfer dude, because ‘hotty’ is my dad. “Oh my god! That weird kid from the bus knows him!” Oh my god, yes. It’s my dad. Hopefully he won’t be the their first ‘one’.
“Coco!”
“Dad!” I say with a fake enthusiastic voice. I give him my suitcase, light a cigarette and give him the lighter. He also lights one up. (“Oh my god, he smokes. That’s so cool!” says Caitlin. Since when is lung cancer cool?)

#9

Briljant dit =D
En ook goed te volgen, ik bedoel, ik ben maar een klein meisje -okee niet klein maar goed- en normaal snap ik geen donder van engels, maar dit is tenminste niet zo moelijk!

Leuk verhaal, dooorgaan ^^

#10

Aargh waarom heb ik altijd dubbel ;l

#11

He drags my suitcase to the car and I walk behind him, slow. His car is a blue Beetle with a surfboard on top. It’s the kind of car that doesn’t have air conditioning, so you need to drive with both windows open.
When we’re in the car, he starts to drive (You must be kidding me! What else do you do in a car? Don’t come with some smarty-pants answer like bang fifteen year olds.)
“So Coco, does your mom knows that you smoke?”
“Does she care?”
“Does Ron know that you smoke?” How does he know husband number five’s name?
“Does he care?”
“You know that you’re legally not suppose to smoke. You need to wait another year.”
“Seventeen, eighteen. What’s the difference? And what do you care?”
“I’m your father, I suppose to care about your health.” I’m going to kill myself if he’s going to give me quitting tips.
“Said the smoker himself.” He starts to laugh.

#12

up :3

#13

Nog maar een upje.

#14

Een super leuk verhaal! Je kunt echt heel goed schrijven. Ik snap waarom je het in het Engels schrijft. Het heeft iets, dat zou niet zo zijn als het Nederlands was.

#15

Verder :grin: leuk verhaal !

#16

Haha ja nu je het zegt ;d was goede film trouwens, dat wel! Ik kan niet zo heel goed engels maar wel mooi geschreven van wat ik lees of beter gezegd : kan lezen haa :slightly_smiling_face:

#17

Danke voor de reacties n__n

My dad is living in the same house for the last forty years. He inherited it when my grandparents died in a plane crash. It isn’t that bad as it sounds, only five people died. Some people call it bad luck, I call it karma. My grandparents were horrible people. They were snobbish, and lived like they were the King and Queen of Sandy Shore. I’d visited them once, they didn’t even took the effort to remember my name. That day I was Sally, Kelly, Clarissa and even Mary-Jo, and let me tell you, none of those names are close to Coco! “Have you ever thought about moving out?” “No.” He walks to the kitchen to make tea. “Why not?” I walk around, and let me fingers glide over the old, dusty books. “Why would I? Sandy Shore is the perfect place for me. There’s a beach, I’m the chef of a fish restaurant, and everybody here knows me.” “I don’t know, it’s so small here.” “That’s because you’re used to Phoenix. Big city, big problems, everything there’s big.” “Phoenix lies in Arizona, not Texas.” He starts to laugh. “You know Coco, you’re more alike me than you’d ever admit.” Liar! I’m nothing like him and I always tell the truth!

I sit on the couch when he comes with two cups of tea. It’s 79 degrees and he wants tea! He’s not hundred percent in his head, believe me.
“It’s too hot for tea.”
“It’s never too hot for tea, but if you don’t want it…” He lights up a cigarette.
“How many do you smoke per day?”
“I don’t know, two packets? How much do you smoke?”
“One packet.” He inhales.
“I heard from your mom that you had a fight with Ron?”
“Yeah, I said that he better would leave me alone, otherwise…”
“Otherwise what?”
“Otherwise, I don’t know. I also told him that he could fuck himself in the back. He said that he wasn’t flexible enough. I said that his was too tiny that if he fucked mom she wouldn’t even feel anything.” He starts to laugh again.
“What happened then?”
“That night I needed to sleep with earplugs.” He starts to laugh even harder. “By the way, why did she leave you?”

#18

Go on! More!

#19

Meer!
fantastisch grappig om te lezen en (godzijdank!) goed engels!
:slightly_smiling_face:

#20

Nieuw stukje n__n

“She wanted to move to New York, and I didn’t want to. She wanted to live happily ever after in Manhattan, but I wanted to live here. Then she gave me an ultimatum, or I was going to marry her, or she would leave. We were young, I didn’t want to. Six months later I heard that she gave birth to a daughter, my daughter.” He stands up. “You know Coco, you’re seventeen years old and this is Sandy Shore. Go and explore.” I give him the finger, but he doesn’t see it. I don’t do anything someone tells me.

He left for his job, so I’ve got the whole kingdom to myself. He said he’d bring the leftovers, so that I wouldn’t have to cook for myself. (Thank god, because I’m a terrible cook.)
I’m taking a shower, and washing all the sweat from the bus trip off me. Showering is like I’m feeding my brain. When I take a shower, my brain starts to work, it starts to think. It thinks about my past, and my future. It protects my hopes and dreams.
I step out of the shower, and watch my face glowing from the hot water. My nose begins to tinkle, and I see a red drop coming out of it. I let is glide to my mouth, and my lips turn red. I taste blood, and it’s salty. It keeps gliding to my lips, and from my lips it slips to my chin. In no time my chin is red, and I anoint it all over my face.
When I look for the second time in the mirror, my whole face is red. I turn on the cold water and wash all the blood of my face. I didn’t have a blood nose in more than a year. Maybe it’s the heat’s its fault, because my brain can’t handle the heat.
As I walk around the house, my eye falls on my dad’s record collection. Most are bands from the seventies and eighties. One band I recognize because Mom also listen to them, they’re called Cowboys of Vietnam. Mom said that I was named after one of their songs: ‘Dead ducks on the ceiling’. I still don’t know why they like their music so much; the members aren’t even that good-looking.
I put up the record, and the first song is ‘Dead ducks’. I start to sing along.