What are Ozlandish Writings?
From July 2010 to December 2014 we ran OZLAND PICTURE STORIES as described below. Sadly though the number of writers reduced over the years and we decided to call it a day. We leave these as a record of the good times we had.
Are "You" ready to challenge your writing skills? Then participate in our OZLAND Picture Stories writing series at The Ozland Art Gallery.
Each month a new picture will be picked, from our OZLAND Artist of the Month collection, with different themes. Your goal is to write a 500-1000 word... poem... essay... or story about the picture picked. This is a chance for you to challenge your writing skills each month. Story can be written in ANY genre... sci fi... romance... ghost... fantasy... fiction... non-fiction... biography... mystery... historical... whatever your writing genre... feel free to experiment. Send your writing inworld to Sven Pertelson as a notecard to have it included on the web site. We meet at the The Ozland Art Gallery each Wednesday at Noon and 6pm SLT to read the latest submissions on voice. More Information
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Saturday, February 19, 2011
As she stared down at her mother she wondered where the years had gone. When DID her mother get so old? Time flew by so fast. She couldn't help but think of days... weeks... months... even years gone by. She looked at the violin lying on the chair. Her mother loved it so. She tried to remember the first time she had heard her mother playing it. Seems like she had to be very little. She vividly remembers laying in bed, her mother tucking her in and then the sweet music of the violin as she drifted off to sleep.
“Elfi,” the voice whispered, “you brought my Ludwig. I have never been able to speak to him. Perhaps now he will hear me, too. Let me tell you of that night. I had seen a well dressed man in the hall when I went to rehearse. He was tall, though not so tall as Ludwig, with light brown hair and blue eyes. He smiled at me and bowed as I passed him. I nodded, and went on and forgot about him. When I came back, I saw a man’s black silk top hat on the floor. I remembered then the man I had seen, and bent to pick it up. I thought to give it to Analiese to take care of.
She stands with her back to us; white dress draped in folds; its back lifted by hunched shoulders; hair swung forward; head bowed. A foglike aura enshrouds her. An indistinct female form on the dim stage. At arms length bow and violin held as sword and hammer, her victim laying before her. But I know her art. No sound guides her hands. Her music is not for critic's ear, however tuned; however pure. Her Violin is but a tool. Her instrument our emotions.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
She stood by the window looked out over the busy streetlife below. The guards near the corner of the alley who seemed to play a bet game, the older women around the waterwell and the children who chased each other all over the lively street below.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Elfie stood, stunned and shaken by what had just happened. Was it real? It couldn’t have been, yet why would she imagine such a thing? No, it was just her mind playing tricks, overwrought by the excitement and strain of the performance. Get hold of yourself, Elfie, she told herself, giving her shoulders a little shake. Lifting her head, she took a step forward, only to be stopped again. This time, she saw nothing, but felt a presence beside her, and a faint touch on her arm. Again, the faint whisper “help me, please. Until my killer is brought to justice, my soul cannot rest.” Then it was gone, and she was standing there, shaking, unable to move.
Once upon a time there was a violin named Stradi. He was made of fine woods and his strings were tuned and ready to play. He was proud to be made in the style of Stradivari. Stradi longed for a good home with someone to love him and to play his strings like an angel. His past masters had taken great care of him but none had played him long enough to become a GREAT master.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Time passed, and Elfi devoted more of her time to he academic studies. She devoted at least two hours a day to practising her violin, and the rest of the day, what there was left, she walked, or rode her bicycle. She did extremely well in her studies, finding Mathematics as easy as music. She did do concerts, one in the Stiftersaal, or middle hall of Brucknerhaus, in Linz. Before a packed house of 352, at the age of 17, she performed Elgar’s Violin Concerto in B Minor with conductor Helmut Wiedermann. It seemed to her one of the least demanding concerti, but she was pleased with the enthusiastic response, nontheless.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
The giant naked mole rat scurried away from Hannah, further down the dark tunnel. Holding tight to her violin and bow she followed, past the strange writings on the wall. Grimy, peeling posters and scraps from books and manuscripts covered the hard packed soil and roots.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
I remember coming home from school at about age 10. I was so excited I'd been given the violin to play. I found my mother in the kitchen making dinner. "Mama... I got it... I was given the violin." I held it up so proudly. "That's wonderful dear," she said as she stirred the stew. "You can practice later... It's time for dinner." I ran up the stairs and carefully put it on my bed.
Elfi Von Croy hurried out of the small concert hall to find her Mother. She was pale, and her deep blue eyes were wide in fear and excitement. “Mama, mama,” she cried when she saw her “Meister Welser says I am to compete in the 18 to 20 year old class!”