Best English Homework Ever

[NumiTuziNeru]

We left one old panich alive, let him be out little messenger; The Triumvirate will die, he'll say and won't they know it, and he will know it too, my friends.
One never forgets the night of littens like these, how they swit in the up above; or how we'd done them in so elgance. By their leave, 'What'll it be?', for all is fair in war and springtime, my friends, and we only ask what they would tell to us, lies and all.

It's a pieruny thing, you understand, make the zholdats think they're living and then give them the old ruster to their throats. Oh, they try and seem so dially so brave like little children, littens in their ochies; oh, how wonderful it can be to watch the, fall away as their flacks begin to spill and they turn red raz dwa and gone.

But my friends, we have to give them their dues, they kept their backs prosto, all dignified like they're told; 'If you bear fear in your hearts, O brethren, pray banish it forthwith', writ in those pieruny words of theirs. But one, just one went and znist it all with his bloody leb and wet eyes that kept slobbering about his diechis at home. Oh, I could not stand a man to be so undignified; he went first, once he coughed so loud, twice his face dripped so hideously, thrice he shook to much; I couldn't bear it, and I swept him away so he would shake no more, my friends.

---

This was my English homework.
A pathetic attempt at imitating the style of A Clockwork Orange.
HOW DO I ANTHONY BURGESS....

Kinda proud nonetheless.

[NumiTuziNeru]

He’s one of the newuns, those inteligentsya types, who wrote something like they shouldn’t have done, the ones who never last long in this little dallylo you see, they got their little lives before and one slip up and konet, gone. Us zholdats don’t ask questions too much, only do what we’ve been told before by those sherjant rotters, elseways they’d give us the rusters I’d bet.

I gad with an other of mine, both of us being there and waiting and watching old Commandant gadding like the same things over and over and over. What’d thissun be out of them all, like that one that didn’t talk for blubbing all the time even like when he got a big old waltz to the leb like he deserved it, or something else?
‘If you have fear in your heart, o brother…’ Commandant says, like all the same old drivel what he says all the time, and he don’t stow it either just keeps gadding on about perish it forthwith and the same old junk with a few of the old waltzes thrown in until he asks the man all bruddy and bloodied,
‘Perhaps the little songbird would like to sing for us now?’
‘Ah, enculeure-tua son medra, fil d’putene don le burdell d-‘
Oh, Commandant hisses, he hisses alright and he sends him right into a wall, and the both of us know there’d be hell to pay like there always is for the little panich that talks back.

Easy to think he’d get the good old ruster, how he tells us to hold him back so he won’t be going anywhere, like he’s done again and again, so we do even though he’s wriggling like some sort of great wormy thing and Commandant, he spits at him and says all his things like how you drop a man he falls, set him on fire he burns, bury him he rots, all that garbage like he says to the dially ones.
Loud revving comes hrrrahrrrahrrra and like I guessed, another case of the old vanner white. Oh, I closed my eyes then, pitying the poor man like under those littens of the air, because you never forget what comes with the hrrrahrrrahrrra; crack of his leb being waltzed and bloodied, and the roar of that vanner on him and how he’s cursing at us, all the filthiest gads and those we don’t know until he’s just lachin and znisting it all with the noises he makes, gurgling right down like from the insides and trying to lose us but he can’t. He’s dropped when we’re told to and he falls over, and we open our eyes again, and he’s lying on the ground like sodden and bloody and wet-eyed, hacking on his own rot in the brud, and outside the radio plays a little bit of Oh Nona we’ll meet again one sunny day…

[NumiTuziNeru]

It was early morning when we arrived at the village; around the time of day then the sun is slowly beginning to break through the great cover of clouds in the sky, illuminating the landscape with its ethereal glow. Here, the weather was a stark contrast from the blizzard we had driven through while crossing the wastes, and indeed it seemed almost comical how quickly the surroundings could change within an hour.
The woman who greeted us, a rather severe, intimidating person clearly accustomed to being respected, seemed more content with barking orders at her subordinate rather than giving us anything by way of a full welcome, gruffly telling us to follow her and marching off briskly before either of us had any chance to react.
My proprietor Kuznetsov, ever the diplomat, attempted to make conversation, which I have reason to assume she promptly spurned; she seemed such a cynical woman, one almost pitied her.
I had little reason to listen to their discourse, however, being utterly enthralled by the surroundings; little wooden cottages with tarred roofs and engraved windows, piles of yet-unmelted snow lying in neat piles swept into corners, windflowers growing haphazardly as they began to bloom - yes, just like a holiday postcard, or the paintings on sweet tins, beautiful in its innocence. There was none of the noise of the city, nor the smell of burning that pervaded the air; just the faint twitter of birds in the distance and the clarity of the countryside. It was nothing short of beautiful, and even if I were to be reprimanded for daydreaming I was certain it would have been worth it.
As it stands, I was, then told to make the vidograms I was supposed to make and to not bother anyone else with my foolishness, while the superiors did the more important work. Doubtful as I was of Kuznetsov’s writing abilities, I was glad to be able to detach myself from them and perhaps explore the town itself. It seemed nothing if not a shame that a visit to a distant village wouldn’t involve at least a little sightseeing.
After leaving our belongings in the inn where we would be staying, I decided to venture a little ways beyond the village boundaries. The landlady had informed me of a pleasant spot for vidograms around ten minutes walk away, and I wasted no time in finding that spot in the hopes of a decent shot.
It turned out soon enough that this place the landlady has spoken of was, in fact, a graveyard, much to my consternation, and while the surrounding flora certainly was very pretty, I hardly thought vidograms of gravestones would be the sort of thing Kuznetsov was after.
It was then as I turned to leave that I noticed a woman there with me. Needless to say, I felt rather embarrassed for not having noticed her earlier
She was a rather unusual sight, much like a solitary raven among starlings, dressed in deepest black clothes of mourning of a sort that had long gone out of fashion. What little I could see of her was enough to recognise that she seemed to be of ill health, for she was unnaturally pale, far more than the blackness of her garments could count for. The skin and what little flesh remained of her face seemed stretched across her skull, bearing a faint sickly sheen, with her eyes sunken and shadowed. Though I can hardly call myself a medical expert, I had heard of such conditions causing terrible ravages of the flesh, many of them incurable; and it seemed almost poignant how she still retained a faint trace of a not inconsiderable former beauty in her now wasted face.
I decided I would approach her, perturbed that she should concern herself with such dreary matters while so close to her own death, and offer my sympathies and assistance in anything she could possibly need.
It was then that she turned to face me. I could see her eyes then, heavy yet strangely bright, and I could see that she bore some inkling of an emotion - though perhaps it would have been better if she had not. Her eyes were marred with a violent, burning malevolence, as though there has been something she was searching for, that she needed - no, wanted, more than life itself - that she had almost caught, only to have it taken from her, and she could do nothing but focus all her hatred onto them with all the force she could muster.
I had little reason to believe that this was aimed at myself, but at that moment I had lost much in terms of reason. I felt nothing but her gaze boring right through me, turning my blood to stone, lurching my heart into my mouth, how I kept standing despite how pathetic my legs became. Every breath I took ripped through my throat, so I could hardly bear to even try and speak despite how desperately I longed to cry out, whether in anger or in horror at being driven into such a miserable state. But I could do nothing but gape blankly forwards; something gripped at me with claws of steel, pinning me in place in a sort of paralysis.
I remember little else but how calm the darkness seemed when it finally came over me.