Your writing, mangled by Google Translate

[CatrionaGrace]

One step to Hawaiian and back:

The spirit began to whisper to me in the name of the spring where I was twelve, that spring is the chicken in the name of the spring that I was twelve, that spring is the flesh that dried up the moon's black blood as it flowed between my legs. In those days, I lived with Meema, my mother's mother, while Dad drove a truck full of oranges from Florida and oranges from Alabama. Tá sé ina chulad ar Mheema agus ar an seventy-five acres on a red dirt road outside of Washington, Arkansas.

Irish, Basque, and back:

I turned twelve the spring when ghosts began to whisper about my mother, the flesh gathered under my nipples, and the dark blood of the moon began to flow between my legs every month. At that time, I lived with Meema, my mother's mother, and my father drove a truckload of oranges from Florida or onions from Alabama. Meema had a big old house and seventy-five acres on a red dirt road outside of Washington, Arkansas.

Original

Ghosts started whispering to me by name the spring I turned twelve, the same spring the flesh mounded up under my nipples and the dark moon blood began its monthly flow from between my legs. Back in those days, I lived with Meema, my mother’s mother, while Papa drove a truck filled with oranges from Florida or onions from Alabama. Meema had a big old house and seventy-five acres on a red clay road outside of Washington, Arkansas.

Ha. That was fun. I tried Greek and drove Google Translate to a mental breakdown.

 

[THUNDAIR]

Irish, Basque, and back:

I turned twelve the spring when ghosts began to whisper about my mother, the flesh gathered under my nipples, and the dark blood of the moon began to flow between my legs every month. At that time, I lived with Meema, my mother's mother, and my father drove a truckload of oranges from Florida or onions from Alabama. Meema had a big old house and seventy-five acres on a red dirt road outside of Washington, Arkansas.

This one is pretty good.

 

[CatrionaGrace]

This one is pretty good.

Yeah, ghosts whispering about my mother could turn into a whole new story.

 

[Rath Darkblade]

Ah. I've learned something.

No, I picked Finnish because I've always admired the Finns for beating back the Soviets in the Winter War, and because it's not a Romance language. Javanese and Basque because they're not so widely-known and I wanted to do some mental travelling.

Acccckkkk ... for a second there, I thought that instead of saying "I picked Finnish", you said "I pickled Finnish". And that causes a very strange mental picture.

 

[CatrionaGrace]

Don't be silly. I only pickle Norwegian. Finnish is too tough.

 

[Catrin Lewis]

Yeah, ghosts whispering about my mother could turn into a whole new story.

I liked the Hawaiian one about the spring of the chicken. It seemed so . . . meaningful.

 

[CatrionaGrace]

I liked the Hawaiian one about the spring of the chicken. It seemed so . . . meaningful.

Definitely filled with possibilities and interpretations. Is it the spring of the chicken as in a place where water rises to the surface, as in April or May, as in the coiled things that one finds in chair seats, as in the action of leaping? And is it an actual cluck-cluck chicken or a coward? And if a cluck-cluck, is it on the wing or baked with herbs?

This sort of rich symbolism is why I enjoy literary novels.