... with a juicer, a porcupine, and a flowerpot.

S YF's over. Gold with honours for RI. Whoop-de-do and all that. I wish I'd been able to play, though - unfortunately in the past I made a rather large decision that prevented me from doing so by making sure that I was unable to rehearse (or anything like it).

Let me tell you- I'm no pro musician like Zh or Rayner or Shaggy but I could tell there was an energy there, while I watched, the realisation that in the culmination of months of passion and practice there was something larger than the individual they were working for.
In the preparation, during the final tuning, I could tell just by looking that we were all nervous with the reality that the performance was just around the corner, inexorably close. We all had exams coming up. The musicians were in various states of stress, depression, overwork, or sleep-deprivation.
They all had their reasons to do well. For pride, for honour, for love, for whatever. The goal was the same, and the music was there. I held my breath, and when they went on stage and they played...
nevermind if they rushed a little.
nevermind that some entries were slightly off.

They were ensemble.

And that was enough.


- adam

Writing excercise 01

Taking a hint from a website I visited, I wrote this piece with my monitor off. (spelling errors have been fixed, though). Comments are appreciated.


I sheathed my sword, strapped it around my waist and went off in search of Phobos.
The rain came down in sheets; it ws the middle of autumn, and the trees whispered slightly as the rain struck the leaves. Phobos was in that forest, I knew it. I would find Phobos. I clenched the pendant tightly- it was a tuft of orange fur, attached to a ring; tied to a thin golden chain that I wore around my neck. There was blood on the fur... I hope it didn't belong to Phobos. This was Phobos, to me- the tuft of orange fur on a chain. That was him, and I pondered that as I went into the forest in search of him. Lightning struck, thunder. I plunged in, ignoring the wet and the mud and the branches.

Three days into it. I think i'd begun to look a bit emaciated; but even if there were any clear ponds to check that they would've distorted my image. It wasn't important, anyway; I caught a rabbit, skinned it and ate it. There was no fur left on my arm where i'd scraped it on a branch; on a rock where i'd scraped by knee. But my sword was still sharp; and still I looked for Phobos.
No sight and no mind- somewhere in here was phobos. I followed the scent of blood, although I was unsure whether it was my own. It mattered not, anyway. The rain wouldn't stop- I waded through mud knee-deep, sucking at my feet.

Leaves opened to receive the rain - like the pages of a book. Opening up, illuminated by the flashes of lightning, but I couldn't read them. I didn't know the language.

There was sun for a day. It shined down on me, tearing across my exposed body and chilling me even deeper. I was soaked; I shook myself and carried on. The birds chirped in the sun, emerged from their flooded nest-holes. There was a dark cloud on the horizon- but I looked beneath every tree for phobos.
The rains came- another blur of days. Trees after mud-soaked trees. My complexion had turned a rather depressing shade of brown from eons in the wet. Oftentimes I stumbled, and I clutched the pendant for support. It was a pretty thing, that trinket - I'd taken it from a dying man. 'Phobos' he'd said. Rain and branches and mud, and on the fifth day I met the monster.

First it slinked at me from the shadows, unheard beneath the patter of rain drizzling on the leaves. There was a pair of glowing eyes from the bushes, and a black blur that bore me to the ground bleeding from long gashes. My sword came loose, rusty a little (from the days in the wet). I parried left and right, dashing the creature to the ground once. It came again, howling - I tasted blood. I caught a glimpse of feline ears as I blocked several more gashes. A panther, then? But it seemed improbable; it moved too quickly and too surely. I pulled the pendant off my neck, snapping the little chain. I clutched it tightly in my right hand. MY sword came down again, once and twice, slicing off branches and leaves, tearing holes in the carpeted ground. Not a speck of blood on it though... only on the pendant. Another lunge broke my frail parries; I slipped to the side as I felt the bones of my right arm come loose, shredding like moistened paper. The pendant fell to the floor. This seemed to draw some attention off myself (well enough as I was nursing my broken arm). But as it moved to peeer at it, glowing eyes sibilant, I engendered a final blast of strength, lifted my sword, and cut the thing hard with my blade. It flew veritably five feet, landed in the bushes with a tumble of black fur, blood and fleeing squirrels.

There was an explosion. I opened my eyes, expecting a section of charred wasteland- but walking over to the bush, I only saw a figure cut deeply in his side, clad in orange fur.


- adam

anonymous

This is a major part of what inspired my literary pretensions. I found it somewhere, untitled and anonymous, but it struck me. If anybody knows where it came from or who wrote it, please inform me.

You and I, my friend
watched the shades of daylight
darkening to grey, clouds ripening above
until the first droplets plummeted earthward
You and I
unsheltered in your kingdom
let in the whispering rain
within the copse of swaying sycamores
You and I
watched steam rise from our skin
dance and swirl away, ghostly on the breeze
and mingle with the rain
You and I
strayed dangerously close
brushed the rain from one another's face
and with it went our doubts
You and I
fled at last
emerged into a world of warmth and comfort
and heat and light enveloped us
Beside me
you were bedraggled and splendid
shook the rain from your hair with a grin
and warmed my hand in yours


- adam