Morris was not one to take a challenge lightly. It was to be met with precision, conviction and pride. It was his moment to shine in the Edwards household; it was a chance to prove to the family his worth, his purpose, his superiority over the Dog.
He had been perched on the chair for around seven minutes. This position above ground had proved a great place for hunting, not to mention allowing him to see what was being prepared on the counter for the family meals. His favourite so far had been the lemon chicken he swiped Thursday evening.
Kneading slightly with his black sleek paws, Morris twitched his nose upwards at the dangling feathers of the wind chime. They were so close now, the cause of great irritation was in his sights. He followed them swaying in the slight wind with two wide eyes. Left, right, left, right, come, here, you, little, feathery, feather, argh!
Morris, in one sleek movement, propelled himself from the chair. Spreading his paws wide so that he resembled something of flying squirrel, the ball of black fluff flung himself passionately at the feathers.
Shame that there was a glass window in the way.
Showing posts with label Wind Chime. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Wind Chime. Show all posts
Tuesday, 22 May 2012
Wind Chime by Sam Smith
Greg didn’t quite understand the band that his daughter wanted to go see. Jessica had asked him if she could go to the gig, but because she was only thirteen she needed an adult with her. There was once a time when Greg went to see a lot of bands play, but that was way before Jessica was born. He agreed to take her, partially because he could rarely say no to his children, but also just to see if he still enjoyed music.
The band was called When We Find The Answer Hidden In The Tundra We Won’t Tell A Soul. He only found this out when he saw their name on a poster outside the Ampnigrande Theatre. Jessica had called them WWFTAHITTWWTAS when she asked to go, which Greg thought was just an odd made up word that people were saying nowadays. That stuff seemed to slip by him now.
Jessica was the youngest person there. She might have been the only person who needed a parent to bring them, but Greg wasn’t sure. Everyone else in the crowd had extraordinarily odd haircuts. Some were slicked back like a ‘50s greaser, others were shaved at the sides with long, dirty strings of matted hair hanging over the edge but some very styled, without one piece out of place. Most of the women had the exact same haircut; a bob with a curly fringe. They all wore clothing that looked like they stole it from their grandparents’ closets. Lots of cardigans and flowery dresses and sensible shoes. No one would look up from their phones for anything. This wasn’t how Greg remembered gigs.
WWFTAHITTWWTAS walked on stage quite a bit later than had been written on the A4 sheets of paper pinned to the doors of the theatre. There were nine band members, all dressed smartly and serious looks on their faces. They barely acknowledged the audience, who in turn barely acknowledged the band. The houselights came up, displaying the array of odd instruments lined up on the stage. Two very different drum kits, three guitars, one with more strings than the others, a double bass, a xylophone, a selection of flutes and panpipes on a small table, a set of wind chimes, a church organ, a keyboard, a scarily complicated looking brass instrument and at the centre of it all, one microphone. Despite there being a lot of band members, they were outnumbered by the instruments. The band members walked around and picked up an instrument, seemingly at random and stared down at the ground. The tallest band member shuffled up to the microphone.
‘Hey. If at some point any of you want to come up and play something, just kind of go for it I guess,’ he said in a strong American accent. He tapped the microphone a couple times and looked at his fellow band members, nodded, and turned back to the microphone. ‘We are a band. This is a song.’
Greg had trouble hearing sometimes and he wasn’t too sure if he was getting the music. It was difficult to understand what was making what sound. The members of WWFTAHITTWWTAS stood stoic but their instruments flailed wildly on their bodies, making a horrible drone. He was a bit mesmerised by the whole thing. The first song last eight minutes and the only lyric he could decipher was ‘We are all liars.’ When the droning stopped, he kind of clapped, but really he just placed his hands together a bit harder than he needed to.
The second song started and it was very similar to the first, a low rumbling with sporadic twinkles. He glanced to see if his daughter was having fun, but she wasn’t standing by his side like she was before, she was squeezing through the crowd of people to the stage. Jessica tiptoed up the steps and stood beside the wind chimes, which were hanging on a stainless steel frame. None of the band members even seemed to notice a little girl up there with them. She grabbed the frame and started to shake the wind chimes. Greg couldn’t hear them very well. A couple of the small metal cylinders dropped off. Jessica had an intense look on her face, starring deep into the wind chimes. She stayed up there for the rest of the gig, never ceasing to shake the frame. Even between songs when the band were fiddling with their own instruments, she was making a sound that reminded Greg of being right years old and sitting on his grandmother’s porch during a wicked storm and watching the wind chimes get knocked around by the heavy breeze and the hail stones pinging off them and stepping back as the fell to the painted wooden floor.
The gig finished and everyone left. Jessica scooted up to her father and smiled. Greg patted her head.
‘Did you have fun, Jessy?’ he asked.
‘It was okay,’ she said, clutching one of the broken wind chime cylinders in her hand.
The band was called When We Find The Answer Hidden In The Tundra We Won’t Tell A Soul. He only found this out when he saw their name on a poster outside the Ampnigrande Theatre. Jessica had called them WWFTAHITTWWTAS when she asked to go, which Greg thought was just an odd made up word that people were saying nowadays. That stuff seemed to slip by him now.
Jessica was the youngest person there. She might have been the only person who needed a parent to bring them, but Greg wasn’t sure. Everyone else in the crowd had extraordinarily odd haircuts. Some were slicked back like a ‘50s greaser, others were shaved at the sides with long, dirty strings of matted hair hanging over the edge but some very styled, without one piece out of place. Most of the women had the exact same haircut; a bob with a curly fringe. They all wore clothing that looked like they stole it from their grandparents’ closets. Lots of cardigans and flowery dresses and sensible shoes. No one would look up from their phones for anything. This wasn’t how Greg remembered gigs.
WWFTAHITTWWTAS walked on stage quite a bit later than had been written on the A4 sheets of paper pinned to the doors of the theatre. There were nine band members, all dressed smartly and serious looks on their faces. They barely acknowledged the audience, who in turn barely acknowledged the band. The houselights came up, displaying the array of odd instruments lined up on the stage. Two very different drum kits, three guitars, one with more strings than the others, a double bass, a xylophone, a selection of flutes and panpipes on a small table, a set of wind chimes, a church organ, a keyboard, a scarily complicated looking brass instrument and at the centre of it all, one microphone. Despite there being a lot of band members, they were outnumbered by the instruments. The band members walked around and picked up an instrument, seemingly at random and stared down at the ground. The tallest band member shuffled up to the microphone.
‘Hey. If at some point any of you want to come up and play something, just kind of go for it I guess,’ he said in a strong American accent. He tapped the microphone a couple times and looked at his fellow band members, nodded, and turned back to the microphone. ‘We are a band. This is a song.’
Greg had trouble hearing sometimes and he wasn’t too sure if he was getting the music. It was difficult to understand what was making what sound. The members of WWFTAHITTWWTAS stood stoic but their instruments flailed wildly on their bodies, making a horrible drone. He was a bit mesmerised by the whole thing. The first song last eight minutes and the only lyric he could decipher was ‘We are all liars.’ When the droning stopped, he kind of clapped, but really he just placed his hands together a bit harder than he needed to.
The second song started and it was very similar to the first, a low rumbling with sporadic twinkles. He glanced to see if his daughter was having fun, but she wasn’t standing by his side like she was before, she was squeezing through the crowd of people to the stage. Jessica tiptoed up the steps and stood beside the wind chimes, which were hanging on a stainless steel frame. None of the band members even seemed to notice a little girl up there with them. She grabbed the frame and started to shake the wind chimes. Greg couldn’t hear them very well. A couple of the small metal cylinders dropped off. Jessica had an intense look on her face, starring deep into the wind chimes. She stayed up there for the rest of the gig, never ceasing to shake the frame. Even between songs when the band were fiddling with their own instruments, she was making a sound that reminded Greg of being right years old and sitting on his grandmother’s porch during a wicked storm and watching the wind chimes get knocked around by the heavy breeze and the hail stones pinging off them and stepping back as the fell to the painted wooden floor.
The gig finished and everyone left. Jessica scooted up to her father and smiled. Greg patted her head.
‘Did you have fun, Jessy?’ he asked.
‘It was okay,’ she said, clutching one of the broken wind chime cylinders in her hand.
Wind Chime by Emily Chadwick
Coltan Kingshield stood on the balcony of his new room, looking out over the Summerstone estate. He sighed, raked his fingers through his dark hair and leant on the railing, reflecting. He still was not sure that he had made the right choice in coming here.
The room he had been given was light, airy and Spartan, dominated by a large bed with a soft, heavenly mattress. The pillows were plump and stuffed with goose-down and the sheets were crisp and white. A medium pine desk was crammed in one corner, in case he wanted to bring work to bed. Aside from the door leading out into the main hallway, there were two other doors set into the walls of his bedroom. Through one door was a medium sized room, for a servant to liv in, if he so wish. Through the other was an en-suite bathroom, with a large bath set into the stone floor.
It was not home, but it would do.
“Coltan?”
Startled out of his reverie, Coltan turned. Elery Summerstone, the young master of this estate, was hovering in the doorway.
“Yes?”
“Would you like a tour, or do you want to settle in?”
“I’ll settle in first, if that’s all right.”
Elery inclined his head and withdrew.
Crossing to the trunk at the end of the large bed, Coltan knelt and opened it. He searched through the pile of clothes his mother had insisted he pack, before finding what he was looking for. Carefully, he drew it out.
The wind chime was made of the finest crystal, carved into thin, dangling spires. He held it up to the sunlight. Rainbows scattered across the dark wood floor.
Coltan smiled and hung the wind chime from the roof above his balcony. It sung in the gentle breeze.
Perhaps this place could become home after all.
The room he had been given was light, airy and Spartan, dominated by a large bed with a soft, heavenly mattress. The pillows were plump and stuffed with goose-down and the sheets were crisp and white. A medium pine desk was crammed in one corner, in case he wanted to bring work to bed. Aside from the door leading out into the main hallway, there were two other doors set into the walls of his bedroom. Through one door was a medium sized room, for a servant to liv in, if he so wish. Through the other was an en-suite bathroom, with a large bath set into the stone floor.
It was not home, but it would do.
“Coltan?”
Startled out of his reverie, Coltan turned. Elery Summerstone, the young master of this estate, was hovering in the doorway.
“Yes?”
“Would you like a tour, or do you want to settle in?”
“I’ll settle in first, if that’s all right.”
Elery inclined his head and withdrew.
Crossing to the trunk at the end of the large bed, Coltan knelt and opened it. He searched through the pile of clothes his mother had insisted he pack, before finding what he was looking for. Carefully, he drew it out.
The wind chime was made of the finest crystal, carved into thin, dangling spires. He held it up to the sunlight. Rainbows scattered across the dark wood floor.
Coltan smiled and hung the wind chime from the roof above his balcony. It sung in the gentle breeze.
Perhaps this place could become home after all.
Wind Chime by Lesley Whyte
She hung the wind chimes in the garden just a week after they moved in. They were young and in love and ready to face whatever the world threw at them. They would lie in bed at night and listen to each other's breathing, listen to the tinkling of the wind chimes outside.
They hung there for years. Every summer evening, after the children were safely tucked into bed, they would sit quietly in the garden, sometimes reading, sometimes talking, sometimes just enjoying the night air. In the winter, they would curl up in front of the fire, with music or the hum of the television filling the room, masking the rattling of the wind chimes outside.
The new owners blazed through the house, ripping out walls and doors and windows as they went. They wanted something new, something fresh. Something to call their own. They didn't turn their attention to the overgrown jungle of a garden for months, almost a year. The young woman found the wind chimes hanging from the corner of a shed, old and broken and discoloured. She never guessed that they had once been every colour of the rainbow. She unhooked them and threw them into the rubbish pile, ready to cart out to the skip.
They hung there for years. Every summer evening, after the children were safely tucked into bed, they would sit quietly in the garden, sometimes reading, sometimes talking, sometimes just enjoying the night air. In the winter, they would curl up in front of the fire, with music or the hum of the television filling the room, masking the rattling of the wind chimes outside.
The new owners blazed through the house, ripping out walls and doors and windows as they went. They wanted something new, something fresh. Something to call their own. They didn't turn their attention to the overgrown jungle of a garden for months, almost a year. The young woman found the wind chimes hanging from the corner of a shed, old and broken and discoloured. She never guessed that they had once been every colour of the rainbow. She unhooked them and threw them into the rubbish pile, ready to cart out to the skip.
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