Friday, April 22, 2011

Road to Russia...

is the name of the piece by Barrage that we used for our writing prompt on Wednesday. For some reason, I can't find a link to it anywhere. Let's see if these writing samples give you a feel for the music.

by Angela
The girl put the headscarf down on her forehead to obscure her eyes. In the unfamiliar trousers she felt uncomfortable, different, but she stove to act nonchalant.
The marketplace was teeming with livestock and people. She crushed herself between two fat merchants and slipped several oranges into her scrip before anyone noticed.
"Boy!" someone shouted, but she was off, dodging between men and slaves, thrusting her tiny form into cracks in the crowd as a mouse. Someone might follow...
She dashed into the next street, the Nimandra Rua, where shirtless men sparred with blunt wooden swords, past the men's chorus shouting on the corner, and through a small, dark doorway in the wall.
"I have food!" she announced.

by David
The music again. No please not the music. Strident. Chilling. How have things come to this. I can't even think back far enough to life before. Before they came. Before I ended up here.
And yet the violin plays on... The bell no longer tolls. The piper no longer plays but the violin calls...

by Karen
(First makes me think of "Fiddler on the Roof," frantic and rapid violin - also of movie "Young Sherlock Holmes" music)
Most of all I think of a Civil War battlefield, of men of foot charging in the face of near-certain death, of men dashing at one another, so close their musket tips almost touch, of men rushing onto one another's sabers.
When the tempo increases, the battle grows more and more fierce, me falling badly wounded, men dying face down in muddy ditches, men dropping in lines, still in formation.
Horses being spurred forward, being shot out from under them, horses piled by the dozens on the battlefield - easier to shoot the men riding them, horses screaming their pain.
At the most frantic moment, the battle ends, so many dead they won't even be counted, only put into a mass grave by the hundreds.

by me
Playing with fire. She knew she was, but didn't care. The warnings were, to be honest, a spur. Getting out of the house was the trickiest part, but she remembered the one squeaky stair and skipped it. Her heart raced in the freezing moonlight. She could hear the voices carrying in the night, and felt her house looming behind her as she set off down the forest path.
She stopped just inside the ring of light cast by the dancing fire and looked at the white faces and bare chests around her.

Could you begin to hear the music in your head? Karen is in charge of writing prompts next month, and I can't wait to see what she comes up with.
In other news, the theme for May is night time. In the next day or two, I'll be posting April's last Cinquentas, if you'd like to submit one, I'll post it as long as I get it by tomorrow. For May, I'll publish haiku, so start sending them to me!
Thanks, and have a great weekend, everyone!

No comments:

Post a Comment