Scott Westerfeld Forum

Pages: 1 ... 5 6 [7] 8 9

Author Topic: A Place To Post Your Original Writing  (Read 16033 times)

Echo :)

  • Hero Member
  • *****
  • Posts: 20185
Re: A Place To Post Your Original Writing
« Reply #90 on: August 18, 2011, 04:07:17 AM »

Isn’t it funny,
How money defines,
The people we are,
And who lives and who dies?

Isn’t it odd,
How things that we do,
Can say who we are,
And who makes it through?

Isn’t it strange,
How what we all say,
Can start to determine,
When things are going our way?

Isn’t it cruel,
How just what we like,
Can tell other so much,
About who and what we really are.
Logged
“He looks," Simon had once said to Isabelle, "like he's thinking about something deep and meaningful, but if you ask him what it is, he'll punch you in the face.” ~CoFA

Echo :)

  • Hero Member
  • *****
  • Posts: 20185
Re: A Place To Post Your Original Writing
« Reply #91 on: August 18, 2011, 04:13:28 AM »

The hurt is real
The pain is deep
My life is a mess
If you really look close at me.

Satan tugs
And satan pulls
He gets a thrill and he sure knows
 how to put me on me knees.

The pleasure that comes
The pain fills a gap
An empty place
But I know that God belongs in that space.

He seems so faint
So far away
Why is it that he only seems real
For part of my days?
Why do I feel so empty today?
Logged
“He looks," Simon had once said to Isabelle, "like he's thinking about something deep and meaningful, but if you ask him what it is, he'll punch you in the face.” ~CoFA

~Steampunk~Bovril~

  • Hero Member
  • *****
  • Posts: 721
  • The fluffeh loris.
Re: A Place To Post Your Original Writing
« Reply #92 on: August 28, 2011, 08:54:26 AM »

My Heart is Like a Hummingbird

My heart is like a hummingbird,
Beating fast and barely heard.
When it flies, its wings beat quick,
Sipping nectar, sweet and thick.

Where do all its feelings go?
Are they buried deep beneath the snow?
Does it even share its thoughts at all?
In the Summer and the Fall?

I never know where the hummingbirds go,
Hidden in the Winter snow.




Not Shakespeare, but hey, it's progress. Free form poem written and created by me.
Logged
~Steampunk~Bovril~
"Mr. Sharp" *giggles* XD
"I'm in a store, and I'm SINGING!" ~Buddy from Elf
:) I couldn't live without putting a smiley face in my signature!
☮ ☯ ♥ ✰ ☀ ☁ ☂ ☾ ✷              ⠙⠗⠑⠈⠍ (That spells "DREAM" in Braille.)
~WESTERFORUM'S OFFICIAL FANFIC WRITER AND LEVIATHANEER~

Treya-Chan

  • Hero Member
  • *****
  • Posts: 19732
  • Dauntless at Heart
Re: A Place To Post Your Original Writing
« Reply #93 on: September 14, 2011, 01:33:34 PM »

Unknown Lies!
By Mahalia Raven 2011
 
 
~♥~Prologue~♥~
Why is the world out to get me? So that know that I am? Why is it no one gets me? Is there anyone in the world I can trust or do they just want me for lust? I thought he would have come by now but his still not here. Did I do something wrong? Where is my love? He told me he'd save me and yet his not here to wipe my tears away to day. Is there something wrong with me? I mean besides what I am. How I miss my dear sweet Derek. I've been in Iowa for three months now and his still not here. I'm starting to think they found him. And that's not a good thing got him or me. They could use him against me or kill him or worse they could beat him to the point he wishes he was dead. Oh Derek what have we done? We may have made the worse mistake ever. We never should have split up in new york if we wouldn't have we would still be together today. We could have out ran them, we could have made it here. Oh Derek where are you? I feel so alone why aren't you here? I've sat here in this little town hoping, praying that you would find me. But you haven't I'm starting to lose hope. Please Derek come find me I'm so scared. They are catching on I know it, they follow me, they never let me out of their sight. I know they are starting to know what and who I am. Its starting to freak me out on top of fearing for your life I now fear for my own. I can't so this much longer all I want to do is run and I can't. I haven't ate in days I can't, not with them following me. I'm starting to go crazy with hunger, I can't stand it anymore. I'm weak if they come for me I wont be able to stop them. I need food or I might die of huger. I'm starting to see things that aren't really there. I'm hiding in a cave to afraid to move they should be afraid of me not me afraid of them. Just one wrong move will make then come after me I haven't slept in a month. I don't know what to do anymore, Should I run for my life or should I stay here and wait for you? Why cant this be easy? Why can't you come and find me? I jumped when I saw something out of the corner of my eye. I hugged me knees against my chest and hoped they wouldn't find me. “Victoria?” Someone said and I knew the knew the voice but I couldn't place it till he walked into the light. His black hair hung into his eyes shinning blue in the bright sun light, his eyes inhumanly white with a ring of gold around the pupil that was gray instead of black, his shirt hung loosely off his shoulders, he looked taller then he was before we split up in new york, maybe about six-five now, his eye's hid all emotion as he walked closer to me. His bare foot making slapping sounds as they hit the cave floor.
“Derek you found me!” I said in a weak voice then saw the bow in his hands. I looked from it to him eyes wide he smiled and pulled the arrow back aiming for my heart. I just stared at him with wide eyes trying not to cry. He let the arrow fly and it hit it target.
“you always believe the lies.” He said with a laugh as everything went black that last thing I heard was someone yelling no before that life ended.
Logged
Westerforum Resident Multi-Genre Music Lover

Echo :)

  • Hero Member
  • *****
  • Posts: 20185
Re: A Place To Post Your Original Writing
« Reply #94 on: September 15, 2011, 08:37:07 AM »

Beyond the smile
There lies a great pain,
I do try to hide it
But what does that gain?

Can anyone see?
Is there someone who knows?
How long can I hide it
Before it explodeds?

Here in the darkness
I reach and I crawl
But who can come help?
It seems no one at all.

I see in the black
I see through the dark,
There is my hope
A fire, a spark.
Logged
“He looks," Simon had once said to Isabelle, "like he's thinking about something deep and meaningful, but if you ask him what it is, he'll punch you in the face.” ~CoFA

Treya-Chan

  • Hero Member
  • *****
  • Posts: 19732
  • Dauntless at Heart
Re: A Place To Post Your Original Writing
« Reply #95 on: September 17, 2011, 01:34:29 AM »

Thats really cool!
Logged
Westerforum Resident Multi-Genre Music Lover

Echo :)

  • Hero Member
  • *****
  • Posts: 20185
Re: A Place To Post Your Original Writing
« Reply #96 on: September 17, 2011, 07:33:23 AM »

Thanks :)
Logged
“He looks," Simon had once said to Isabelle, "like he's thinking about something deep and meaningful, but if you ask him what it is, he'll punch you in the face.” ~CoFA

Treya-Chan

  • Hero Member
  • *****
  • Posts: 19732
  • Dauntless at Heart
Re: A Place To Post Your Original Writing
« Reply #97 on: September 17, 2011, 09:04:22 AM »

Your welcome!
Logged
Westerforum Resident Multi-Genre Music Lover

Shadow

  • Hero Member
  • *****
  • Posts: 2099
  • ^previously Ms. Ashdown/Skye Redlin.
Re: A Place To Post Your Original Writing
« Reply #98 on: September 24, 2011, 06:51:31 AM »

This is a battle scene from a book I'm working on, a short summary may be in order:
 Xander Harrow (the Emperor), is my twisted antogonist. He was raised for royalty from birth and when his father died it was thrust upon him when he wasn't ready. In addition, the woman he loved, the only person who he felt true emotion for, rejected him. She has spent her whole life running from him.  This caused him to grow compeletly sadist, denying the existance of emotion and especially love and punishing those who exihibit it. The women he loves arrived during a gigantic resistance battle, long story, and she's with them. She gets wounded, lethally and.....
   And suddenly, all the sound of the battle, of the world, twisted and melted and faded. The combat had simply stopped, after so many years of perperation and sacrifice, all for the cries of the first person to be wounded. The Emperor could not take his eyes off of her, his last tie to humanity, lying broken on the floor.
   She would not give up so easily though. He had always known that. Despite the scarlet rose blooming all over her torn tunic, she struggled to her feet. The guards drew back as if she was a contagious disease that they might catch. She stood at the center of her stage, queen of some morbid spotlight. She was staring right at him.
    "So this is what it comes to, Xander." she whispered, and her words rang. The effort shone in her gray eyes, her limp hands. Her anger was more prominent. "Your great quest for knowledge." she spat. She took a step towards him. Without thinking, without meaning to, he reached out a hand, which she ignored, instead collapsing on the floor.
   "You think you're so clever. You think you've figured it out. But you don't know the first thing." she pulled herself off the floor. "You think you know pain? This is pain."
   And she was lifted from the floor, without apparent effort, lifted above all their feet and twirled in mid-air like a groteseque puppet. Her shift flew off, and he was left staring at a pure pale back. But a disfigured one. A single scar ran from her right shoulder to beneath her torn skirt. He rememebered that day so well....
  The first bruise to appear looked little more then a charcoal mark scribbled there by mistake. But on her back grew brothers and sisters, till there was nothing but bruise upon bruise, intermingling with scars. She faced him then, mouth twisted in a soundless howl. "THIS IS PAIN!" she shouted, and it was gone.
  "You think you know sorrow." she announced from her perch. "This is sorrow!"
And the weeping of millions filled the air, a crescendo of depression. The cries of the lost souls, the souls he'd ordered lost. A pang struck in his heart. Her presence would not allow him to dismiss it. "You think you know pain, and sorrow, and joy" and now she was dancing, and he saw, twirling around her, all his own happy memories, before he'd been appointed. "and fear, and hate" and now powerful surges of emotion were consuming him. Her words were lost in the downpour.
But then she fell, and this time it was right into his arms. But there was only one emotion he had not felt, and he knew what it was.
   "You think you know love, Xander." she said, turned away from him, her voice caressing the many wounds she'd just opened. But then she rolled over in his arms, and her eyes were staring right into them. They were his only, his great weakness. They inspired him to forget, and to feel. But suddenly, he did not want them gone. He knew only this, and this he felt more then all. "This, Xander, is love." she said, and her eyes, those open windows through which he had climbed to so many worlds, a thousand years ago, gave one last promise and were silent. And she faded to ashes in his arms, and for the first time, Xander Harrow was alone.
« Last Edit: September 24, 2011, 07:03:11 AM by Shadow »
Logged
"You don't know what it's like
to be hurt, to feel lost, to be left out in the dark,
to be kicked, when you're down, feel like you've been pushed around, to be on the edge of breaking down and no one's there to save you, no you don't know what it's like....welcome to my life." -simple plan

Hope-la

  • Hero Member
  • *****
  • Posts: 5037
Re: A Place To Post Your Original Writing
« Reply #99 on: September 24, 2011, 06:56:12 AM »

The hurt is real
The pain is deep
My life is a mess
If you really look close at me.

Satan tugs
And satan pulls
He gets a thrill and he sure knows
 how to put me on me knees.

The pleasure that comes
The pain fills a gap
An empty place
But I know that God belongs in that space.

He seems so faint
So far away
Why is it that he only seems real
For part of my days?
Why do I feel so empty today?
Oh my goodness... That's amazing. Do you have a window inside my head?
Logged
"Light, light, light up the sky
Light up the sky to show me You are with me
I, I, I can't deny
No I can't deny
That You are right here with me
You've opened my eyes
So I can see You all around me
Light, light, light up the sky"
~The Afters

Echo :)

  • Hero Member
  • *****
  • Posts: 20185
Re: A Place To Post Your Original Writing
« Reply #100 on: September 24, 2011, 07:01:48 AM »

Thanks... And no... no window inside your head, just the thoughts and inspirations from around me...
Logged
“He looks," Simon had once said to Isabelle, "like he's thinking about something deep and meaningful, but if you ask him what it is, he'll punch you in the face.” ~CoFA

BagpipeHeadache

  • Hero Member
  • *****
  • Posts: 7527
  • Me and the master!
Re: A Place To Post Your Original Writing
« Reply #101 on: October 01, 2011, 08:45:38 AM »

Alright....this one may take a few posts....  XD

Now, this is an essay that I actually just completed yesterday, and turned in today....don't worry, it was due today.   ;D

the minimum requirement was 3-5 pages. That just wasn't going to do....

Mine ended up being twelve pages.

It's a narration/ description essay, so it does tell a story, so it's not entirely full of drudgery and facts.

In fact, this hasn't even been graded yet. This is entirely how I write essays. I think they're fun.  ;)

(And not all of this is entirely......factual......but it can be slightly fictitious.  ;D  If you have trouble deciding which is which, just PM me or something...   :P  )

So here it is:

Dedication, Control, Patience
     I made a futile attempt at stifling a laugh. I ultimately failed, and what came out of me was a mix of nervous giggle and hysterical wheezing. It wasn’t nearly as bad as the thoughts running through my nearly panicking head, which mostly consisted of jittery ramblings and hopeless attempts at thinking and focusing at the task at hand. Which, at the time especially, seemed like a very momentous task indeed.
     I was in Pleasanton, California. If that is an unfamiliar name, it’s not too far from San Francisco, just a little farther inland. My father and I had driven all the way up the length of the state just to attend the particular event being held there (And as a consequence, apparently missing everything vital and important at school while I took one day off the end of the week to make room for the drive). Specifically, the “there” that I am referring to is the Pleasanton Fairgrounds and Horse Racing track, which is located in the middle of the city somewhere, tucked away enough to make it aggravatingly difficultly to find, even with today’s mounds of satellite navigational technology.
     So I approached. It was somewhere around eighty degrees, and I wore black dress shoes that were made of nice leather and had laces nearly two and a half feet long, gray-blue socks that stretched the full length of my shins and ended halfway up my kneecap, a knife (called a Sgian Dubh; don’t try to pronounce it) stuffed into the right sock, it’s
handle just visible below the bottom of my wool kilt, woven in the pattern designated as “Hunting Stewart”, a white, long sleeve, button-up collard shirt with a waistcoat over the top. Oh, and don’t forget the wool hat that is required to adorn one’s head and make life as miserable as possible through providing as much heat as a hat that size physically can, no matter the weather.
     Such is the uniform requirements for solo competition.
     I also failed to mention the near ten pound instrument being held against my shoulder by my left arm, through which the sleeve was already bled through with sweat from endless amounts of time spent tuning and fiddling with small details. You see, the Great Highland Bagpipe isn’t an instrument that one can pick up and make noise with immediately like, say, a violin or piano. Sure, a four year old can smack the keys of a piano well enough to get their ecstatic parents to hire a tutor, or a complete stranger can literally pick up a violin, slide the bow across a string, and produce a sound. Even if these particular sounds aren’t the products of a Johann Sebastian Bach, or a Ludwig von Beethoven, they are sounds. With the pipes, the average person is usually only able to get maybe a split-second squeak or chirp to emit from the chanter, (trust me, I’ve let people try) no matter how red they turn or however many veins burst out of their face. Once one surpasses the “making good noise” part, there’s the whole bit about refinement of tuning, timing, finger work, posture, blowing strength and steadiness, reed manipulation, and musical prowess and control. And the years of practice it takes to become accomplished in any sort of respectable way.
     On that note, allow me to present the man that I have been chosen to stand before and
play what -- compared to the prowess and monstrous skill, dexterity, and musicianship that this figure possesses -- might as well be a rendition of “Mary Had a little Lamb”.
     He isn’t the most intimidating person one will ever run across. This man is reclining as comfortably as one can in the metal folding chairs provided, a clipboard and pile of peculiarly marked papers on a small, plastic, round table with a pitiful umbrella stuck through the middle of it. In his mid-fifties, he’s lucky in a certain respect to still have a full head of hair, made more astonishing by the fact that it is entirely the same hue of light grey. He’s Canadian in origin, so he has a lighter complexion than most of the Californians running around, and he’s quite a bit healthier too, as he seems to lead a well-managed life style. He has somewhat noble features, and always seems to have a calm disposition about him. Standing, judging by the point at which the top of his head would be as compared to my upper arm, I would estimate him to be somewhere around average height.
     When this man plays his pipes, and aura of calm control surrounds him, and, if the pipes were mute and his fingers invisible, he seems as though he’s just playing an exceedingly simple tune, no harder than, say, walking and holding a conversation. But his fingers are in a blur, the pipe’s drones never wavering, producing a solid wall of beautifully harmonious humming to perfectly coincide with the tuning of the chanter. His timing seems never to deviate, nor his expression that is neatly played to the beat, and his grace notes are impeccably woven into the music. He has such a strong focus when playing that it looks like he’s just lazily staring off into space. Nothing, it seems, can distract him from playing.
     Just like the pipes were intended to be played when in the middle of warfare. The Great Highland Bagpipe is an instrument of war, after all. It replaced the harp, of all things, as the Scottish’s main instrument used to inspire and emotionally charge soldiers and warriors before the impending battle, and was often used during the battle. When playing the bagpipes, the pipers didn’t have access to any formidable defensive weapons, much like the poor soul elected to carry a nation’s flag into battle. When playing in an environment such as that, it took more bravery, willingness to sacrifice one’s self, dedication, and love of one’s country than hardly anybody has ever experienced. That carried over into the Great War, and even World War Two, and is actually still used in some instances today. It gives me great pride and gives me an immense sense of honour to be able to play such a unique yet vitally important instrument at the level that I do, and to even know people of the calibre of the gentleman waiting to hear me play.
     I hear people sometimes say that they would love it if they could meet their rock stars. The names often thrown around are names like Avengesevenfold players, ACDC, Metallica, etcetera . But in the piping world, your rock stars are just normal people until you give them a bagpipe. They will even help you out with a tuning issue before you go up to compete. They will be your private tutor, band instructor, friend. You can even, if your old enough, grab a drink with them at the nearest pub or tavern. I have some of their phone numbers and e-mail addresses, and a plethora of them are on Skype, willing to give lessons. In the piping world, your rock stars and gods are ones you can shake hands with.
     Those facts don’t do much to help the nerves that crop up as one enters the presence of a piping god, though. A competitor can’t help but reflect upon the monstrously large
culmination of skill and prowess that hangs over the judge like a levitating mountain. This person has more than likely practiced for more hours than the competitor has been alive, and their musical knowledge is, in and of itself, a vast ocean of accumulated comprehension of the inner musical workings of the instrument, timing, musical expression, notes, time signatures and bars.
     And this is where my mind begins to unsettle me, for it seems that he becomes farther away with every step I take, and time slows. I can hear the other pipers, who more than likely just as nervous as I, playing and warming up a fair distance away, and their playing seems to blur and become muddled as they suddenly slow in tempo. Every footfall sounds like a clap of thunder, sending the shock throughout my entire body, even though I am on the grass.
     I look up once again at the face of the man that I am destined to play for, and the thought hits me like a truck.
     That man is Jack Lee.
     The common person won’t necessarily understand the impact behind the name. It is, after all, just a name. But his name is instantly recognized by any educated piper. This is a master, a world-class musician, a god. He has won, just to name a few, the Gold medal at Inverness and Oban in Scotland, the Gold Clasp twice, also in Inverness, the Glenfiddich Overall Championship, the Bratach Gorm of London, the Glenfiddich Piobaireachd Contest three times, and the Silver Star three times. Again, the common person wouldn’t necessarily understand the significance of all these, but only the best players in the world are able to compete in these events, and the amount of “best players in the world” isn’t all
that large.
     To the average person, competing in this manner would be the equivalent having Babe Ruth evaluate your pitches in front of other amazing and legendary baseball players, or having the feeling you get right before Ladainian Tomlinson uses you as an example on how to tackle someone. It’s very much a mental game, but the nerves are still there.
      As he looks around, he does finally notice me as I make my way over to him, feeling unexplainably sheepish. He greets me with a smile and a “Good morning.”
     I reply, trying not to make a complete fool out of myself, “Good morning, sir, how’s your day been?” This has been rehearsed many times, obviously, but the repetition doesn’t make it any easier to recite.
     I already know the answer: “Oh, very well, thank you. What do you have to play for me?” Which translates to: “I’ve been sitting here all day listening to pipers high on nerves and flailing about in their tuning and playing, making hopeless amounts of obvious mistakes, while I sit in the sun, sweltering in this heavy and somewhat unnecessary uniform, how do you think I’m doing? What musical torture do you have for me?” But at least he smiled. Even if it too was rehearsed.
     I recited my tunes for him dutifully. “Either the Highland Wedding or Colin Thomson, Susan MacLeod, and MacAllister’s Dirk.”
     He picked The highland Wedding for my march, and the other two tunes were to be played in a set immediately afterwards, non-stop. I would be playing what’s called and MSR set, or March, Strathspey, and Reel. And of course, he had to pick my six parted 2/4 march to go along with my six parted reel. Maybe I would gain favour by playing
exceptionally longer and more complex tunes than the rest of the competitors, who usually played tunes of four parts.
     And all this is completely memorised, mind you.
     He fills out the empty spaces on the peculiarly marked piece of paper. Grade 2 MSR, competitor number, tune names.
     “Take all the time you need. Whenever you’re ready.” he said in a calm voice.
     This meant that he was ready for whatever I was to dish out for him, whether it reflect all the long years and hours of practice I have endured and sometimes suffered through. I filled my bag with air for the umpteenth time, feeling it’s familiar tautness against my arm and side, the drones laying splayed at even spaced across my left shoulder. As I gently strike the bag with my free right hand, the drones fire without a hitch, and they become the only sound audible to me as I adjust the now solid feeling bag under my arm. The rest of the world seems to stop for a moment, and I increase the air pressure just a touch, and the bright, crisp sound of my competition solo chanter springs into my consciousness. I hold it at a high A, the recommended note for tuning drones, until I bring my right hand to the lower note holes on the chanter. I begin my own unique warm up phrases.
     These “warm up phrases” have become quite an amusing concept to realise. They are almost like the howl of a wolf; it identifies the animal to the rest of its pack, and the pack immediately knows the wolf’s position in the hierarchy, and identity. Same with pipers. One can usually detect a particular piper’s skill level through the phrases and notes he or she plays to loosen and warm up their fingers. Most of the gods can, too, be identified by
their unique style of warm up.
     I turn away and begin to play a random march to re-warm the four reds that inhabit my pipes. As I play, I listen with all my power to the tone and tuning of the drones, asking myself and repeatedly evaluating if they were matched to the notes on the chanter. At the end of the march, I begin making fine adjustments to the drones, sliding the base up slightly, along with the middle drone. They reach a perfect, rich, flat wall of sound as I once again play some notes to warm up.
     All the while, Jack Lee has been listening and observing, making sure I can tune and that I know my way around the instrument competently enough. I can feel his eyes burning in my back, but I try to ignore it.
     My tuning only lasts about a minute and a half, but it felt like an eternity. I finally turn to face the shimmering example of piping musicianship, one of the best ever to live.
     I march.
     It went rather well until the challenging fourth part, during which I turned and laid eyes on my judge. Like I wasn’t supposed to, I began thinking about something other than the tune. The thoughts mostly consisted of things like “My god…that’s Jack Lee…” and other pointless ramblings.
     I made a mistake! How could I let my mind wander like that?! That’s not a good idea-
     Another blunder.
     Focus!
      The rest of the march only had maybe one or two small hitches in the playing, but I held on as I came to a graceful halt in front of him and started into my strathspey, which
was a dance tune. I missed a doubling as soon as I started, but no matter. I held the tone of my drones as steady as I physically could, the specially made reeds never wavering and producing a satisfactory wall of sound. Now into the reel. I started well, and gradually sped up the tempo within the first line or so, but I lost concentration for a split second, and the tune began to get away from me. I was stuck at the slightly speedy tempo, but that didn’t concern me as much as seeing Jack Lee bending to write on the paper he had filled out earlier.
     Whether it be good or bad comments, the judges are required to give a good evaluation of a player’s performance and suggest any ways to help the player do better in the future. Of course, even though the player can’t see what’s being written on the sheet, we all assume it’s errors or negative material. And that doesn’t do anything to ease our already scared witless minds.
     I come to the end of the tune, trying to play it as musically and well as I can. When I cut off the drones, or stop the sound in one crisp movement, I quickly meet his gaze, snap into a British salute and click my heels. He nods and thanks me, and I thank him for listening.
     That part’s also endlessly mentally rehearsed.
     I start to walk away, and it takes me three or four strides to realise that a sizeable crowd had gathered around, and was lightly applauding. As I scanned, I picked up a few members of world-class pipe bands, a couple other judges who had finished with their assigned list. They all smiled as I passed, and I smiled back, replying politely to the “Great job” and “Excellent playing” complements that pursued me as I made my way to
the next judge to start the whole process over again.

     Such is the Competition life of a piper. Some days it goes as planned, others not. It all depends on how you play on the day. This particular experience of mine was one of the better ones. All my years of dedication and practice do end up paying off. The good values, morals, traditions, and respectable nature that I have learned through the culture and history of my music has resulted in me leading a better and more enjoyable life.
     But not everyone sees it the same way. Some pipers are there merely for the look, or for the bragging rights. Some, like one of  my piping counterparts and friends, are in it to win. The third type are the group that I decided to join, which are the ones that play for enjoyment, and to their own standards instead of the requirements for medals.
     At the end of that day, I had accumulated a medal in every event I played, and came away with the aggregate trophy. And the one that Jack Lee judged me for?
     That was a gold.
     Now, I was exceedingly pleased with the results, even if I didn’t play as well as I would’ve liked to at the time.
     But there are the select few that aren’t happy at all with anything, no matter how well they do. One of those is a man by the name of Richard. He is a bit of a strange character when one first sees him. His most prominent feature is his incredible facial hair. He has grown a beard everywhere but his neck, and around his mouth, creating a sort of reverse-goatee. It fades uniformly with the reddish-brown hair upon his head, cut nearly as short as the trimmed beard. He is an extremely talented and well-practiced player, and belongs
to one of the few grade 1 bands in the United States: the Los Angeles Scots, whose pipe major was my tutor for a time.
     Now, Richard is probably in his mid-thirties, the prime time for grade 1 pipers. He’s fit, has a well-tailored uniform, and takes students.
     But he’s one of those people that seems angry with everything. If someone compliments him on his playing, he will immediately retaliated with absolutely everything he did wrong. And he’s not the type for clean language either, it seems. It’s a marvel if one can hear him speak a sentence without it being full of profane language.
     It was this gentleman exactly that I heard at one point that day unleash a half howl, half profanity into the air. He had found out how he had placed among the other competitors at his level, which was only one level above mine. It Didn’t sound as though he did too well. I turned, and found that I could see him a little ways off, standing with his sheets held as though they were on fire, or some dangerous animal. He looked at the for a while, then began to pace in a circle, blaspheming and stamping and kicking at the surrounding dirt. He was quite aggravated.
     Richard is the perfect example to demonstrate that one shouldn’t rely too much one goal in life, because if one fails to reach that goal, then they are left hopeless and without a way out. It is wise to choose a path that is full of options. He also serves as a specimen to show that some it is possible to take some things much too seriously, thereby hindering one’s success, pride, and enthusiasm to continue.
     I’ve lost plenty of times, but I didn’t let it become something that my mind obsessed over as it only bothered me for about half an hour. What’s done is done, the past is past.
Others played better than me on the day, and that’s a fact that I’m always open and willing to accept.

After all, we’re all human.


« Last Edit: October 01, 2011, 08:58:10 AM by BagpipeHeadache »
Logged

BagpipeHeadache

  • Hero Member
  • *****
  • Posts: 7527
  • Me and the master!
Re: A Place To Post Your Original Writing
« Reply #102 on: October 01, 2011, 08:47:30 AM »

Oh, I forgot to add that comments are welcome!   :D

Clankinist

  • Hero Member
  • *****
  • Posts: 9220
  • I merely chewed in self-defense
    • Yay!! Teh Clanks art!!:D
Re: A Place To Post Your Original Writing
« Reply #103 on: October 02, 2011, 03:27:48 AM »

That was great!!! I thoroughly enjoyed that! :D

I noticed a few typos/forgotten letters. Nothin too big though. ^^;

And.... 'the drones laying splayed at even spaced across my left shoulder.' Ha-elp!! D:
Logged

BagpipeHeadache

  • Hero Member
  • *****
  • Posts: 7527
  • Me and the master!
Re: A Place To Post Your Original Writing
« Reply #104 on: October 13, 2011, 09:15:20 AM »

Hmmm....

*spaces....  XD
Pages: 1 ... 5 6 [7] 8 9