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

Saturday, February 19, 2011

Violinist - by SkyKing Voom

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.

Their duet began light and airy. We smiled with Debussy as their fingers danced over violin and viola; soft but quick; leaping from note to note, to rest, to note again. A field of flowers blooming as bows flowed over the strings. All cares were washed away as a warm Spring day sprung forth.

After a pause, long enough for us to glance, a note, single note, strong and vibrant, grows as thunder in the distance. Discordance, a cacophony from afar forms into a distinct beat. We hear the cadent march of boots approach, followed by hard hooves of a horseborne army. Warriors erect in saddle, armed with spear, mace, sword and lance the Valkarie ride. War breaks upon us; fear and resolve forced out with violent strokes of her bow and pounding fingers on the fret. They pass us by. We are not the object of their wrath. We breathe again as the beat of horses hooves recede; ebb but not quite fade away.

The beat grows again, becoming richer, deeper. Our fear slides downward to an
embarrasing warmth. Her fingers carress our skin. A lover's touch dances down our backs to hips and lower still. We look around, reddened to a rosy blush. She plays for each of us alone; knows our hidden desires. Warmth grows to heat, to blaze. We squirm in our seats as Ravel drives us with thrusting bow. She lingers there, passion floating, a breath to catch, then rises again, until a climax explodes in strings and strokes of bow. A darkened stage ensues allowing us to gather our modesty.

A single note rings out crisp and clear. Fingers move over strings. Precise. Ringing clear, concise, perfect in every way. Then what seems strange a note then another pushed to less precision. Now tremelo; now a string stretched aside, sliding one note to another. Bow in single stroke sharp then seeming to falter.Perfection of the first stanza giving way to disconcert. Pain of spirit follows. Fingers and bow now frantic, now slow. Our eyes mist followed by a tear. Our shoulders hunch. We hang our head. Our dispair plunges into the abyss.

The viola surges from beneath the despondent violin, which then joins the climb. They soar together; now crisp and clear again but rising still; passing sanity to mania, and violence ensues; violin crushing viola; bow against bow, string against string as the insanity of Amadeus gushes forth. The viola falls; and victor turns to lord her victory. Viola and violin are their hearts and her violin owns mine.

The curtain falls.

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