MULTIPLY Creative Challenge #34: Symphony

When Beethoven wrote it, his hearing was diminished
So symphony No. 10 just remained so unfinished
Schuberts was better, No. 8 was so short
I wanted it longer he probably thought
But Schubert had left us before it was played
It was not the intention, he would rather have stayed
Bizet had problems, he was lost for the end
He had no idea how to finish and went round the bend
Borodin was lazy and just kept it short
To write more to the symphony, he gave it no thought
Bruckner was unlucky his overture got lost
three movements survived, his nerves it did cost
Mahler’s No. 10 was almost full in print
But there exist only two movements, the rest was just a hint
Tschaikovsky started one but decided to rewrite
It was a concerto but his mind had a fight
A piano concerto he wrote, but a symphony was needed
He decided to rewrite, and his symphony succeeded
Bach wrote a fugue, his sons had it printed
It was for piano, but a symphony was hinted
It was then rearranged, for orchestra completed
It was a success and from all it was greeted
So a symphony is great, of music the best
And after my lesson I will let the history rest.

Creative Challenge #34: Symphony

The First Day of the New Year 2009

This is how it started in our part of the world, Switzerland. On New Years Eve it started snowing. We already had very cold weather before the snow came, -3/-4° C, so the ground was nice and cold. As soon as the snow hit the ground it froze and there was a nice layer of ice to begin with. We managed to get our shopping done on that day with no great difficulty although it was snowing all day. Yesterday evening our sons were out in town until early in the morning celebrating the New Year and we were glad that they did not go with a car, as town is within walking distance.

Today we were all at home and very glad that we did not have to go anywhere. The roads had a nice layer of ice covered with snow and it was very dangerous. There were many car accidents in our part of Switzerland. My Mr. Swiss took a walk to the container where we live, just down the path, to deposit some rubbish. He said it was just pure ice and he had to hold on something that he did not fall down.

Today it didn't snow but we had freezing temperatures all day and it will probably stay like that until next week. I hope that things improve a bit before I go back to work on Monday.

My cats are quite annoyed that everything is covered in snow as they do not like it, although my big black cat did venture out when it was snowing. Here is proof with a photo - and she has snow in her fur.

MULTIPLY Rita's Writing Challenge: The Door at the Beach

The heavy wooden door set into the rocky cliff on the beach at Campo di Fontana in South West Italy fascinated Agnes. Since she arrived in this holiday place with her husband Alfred, she had sort of been drawn to it. If they spent the day on the beach, she always made sure they were near the door.
“Agnes I do try to understand your strange ideas, but why we always have to be in this place on the beach is beyond my understanding. I think you have been watching too many horror films on the television. We fly to Italy to be on holiday and enjoy the sunny weather and you always have to camp down in this place. We could move a bit nearer to the sea.”
“I know Alfred, but that door just fascinates me. Why would anyone think of building a door in such a place. What lies behind the door? I have never seen anyone open the door and enter up to now.”
“Then if it is so interesting ask at the hotel. They will probably know the answer. It’s probably for keeping the beach chairs and tables that they hire out to us tourists.”
“I don’t think so Alfred, they usually put the beach furniture in piles on the beach in the evening and spread it around again in the morning. I am sure it is for something else.”
Alfred decided there was no point in arguing with Agnes so he turned over and decided to make sure that his back became the same shade of brown as his chest. They returned to the hotel in the evening for their meal and Agnes spoke to one of the young men at the reception desk.
“Can I help you Madam?”
“I just have a question. I noticed there is a large wooden door near the beach. Can you tell me why?”
The receptionist looked up from his work at the desk.
“I cannot help you madam. That area of the beach belongs to one of the businesses in the village and I do not come from this part of Italy.”
“Then who could help me?” Agnes asked
“I think you must ask around in our village” he said and looked back down at his work at the desk.
Agnes noticed that she would get no further help from this direction so went up to her hotel room.
“That’s funny Alfred.”
“What’s so funny?” he answered
“The hotel receptionist could not say anything about the door at the beach and it seemed to me he didn’t want to. There is something fishy going on in this village if you ask me.”
“Rubbish Agnes, it is just your suspicious mind that is inventing stories.
That evening when Agnes went to bed she just could not sleep.
"Alfred”
“Yes Dear”
“I can’t sleep.”
but the answer was the constant breathing and snoring of Alfred that had decided it was Agnes problem with her insomnia.
So Agnes decided to take a walk along the beach.
It was very quiet during the night and she found it very soothing to hear the waves gently lapping on the shore but she suddenly heard another noise; a creaking sound. She looked in the direction from where it was coming and saw the door in the cliffs, but it was open, just a slit and there was a beam of light breaking through the opening of the door. She went nearer to have a look. Through the opening she saw many wooden boxes on the floor.
“Oh no,” she thought, as at a second more detailed look she saw they were not boxes, but coffins, in all shapes and sizes and colours. She then heard footsteps coming towards her and made her way back to the hotel as quickly as possible.
“Alfred, Alfred are you asleep? Listen I have to tell you something. I knew there was something very fishy with that door in the cliffs.
“Agnes I was asleep until you came in and awoke me and what on earth are you doing fully dressed in the middle of the night?”
“I couldn’t sleep and went for a walk along the beach and the door was open and inside it was full of coffins.”
“Dracula was Rumanian and not Italian and that can’t be.”
“I tell you Alfred, it was a room full of coffins.”
“Ok, Ok was anyone in them?”
“I didn’t stay long enough to see. I heard someone and decided to disappear. I must tell the police tomorrow.”
This was getting a bit too much for Alfred. He knew his wife should not watch so many horror films on the television and with her imagination, this was the result.
“I tell you Agnes, tomorrow we will both take a walk along the beach at night and we will see what is going on.”
I am sure there is something illegal happening. Perhaps it is place where the mafia bring the people they kill.”
“We will wait until tomorrow evening and now let’s get some sleep from the rest of the night that is left.”

They spent the next day on the beach, Agnes keeping her eye on the wooden door, but everything was quiet. Late in the evening Alfred decided for his wife’s sake they would go for a walk along the beach. As they approached the door they slowed down but there was nothing suspicious. The door was closed and there were no strangers around. Just as they were leaving they heard voices speaking Italian coming from the direction of the door. It was then they saw two men make an exit through the door carrying a coffin between them and lock it with an extremely large key.
“I told you Alfred, there is something going on here”
“What is going on Agnes, all I saw was two men come out of a door and lock it. “
“Yes, but they were carrying a coffin and why only at night and not during the day. I am going to the police tomorrow.”

The next morning came and Agnes got herself ready and went to the police station in the village taking Alfred with her. There was a small problem. Agnes could not speak Italian and the Italian police spoke very little English. She tried to explain that people were probably being killed and put into coffins kept in a room beneath the cliffs, but the police reacted with a “Si, si”, “certo”, and “addio” which was a final goodbye. All this was accompanied by a lot of laughter.

Agnes was furious, but she could not speak the language. Suddenly another person entered the police station, but not dressed in uniform. The other police greeted him with a “Buongiorno signor capitano” and so much Italian Agnes could understand so she started to talk to their chief hoping he could understand English. He did.
“Can I help you” he asked and Agnes told him her story and what she had seen in the evening through the wooden door. Alfred decided to say nothing and let his wife get on with it.

The police captain listened and spoke
“This is a very serious accusation, I think you must come with me to see the owner of the room behind the door.”
He showed them out of the police station and began walking along the main road of the village until he stopped at the entrance of one of the buildings.
“This is where the owner has his business, Signor Nero” and he entered a small office in the building being followed by Agnes and Alfred. Signor Nero was a small person, dressed completely in black. Agnes recognised him as one of the men she saw on the beach and was already feeling sure that she had found an Italian vampire.
Signor Nero spoke English and asked Agnes and Alfred to follow him. They entered a large room. There was a table and chairs in one corner and he asked them to take a seat. By this time Alfred was laughing his head off and Agnes felt very stupid.

They were in the reception room of a funeral parlour. However, even Signor Nero saw the funny side of it and explained that the room in the cliffs was his storage room. It was only used at night as he did not want to offend the tourists during the day by transporting coffins along the beach into the village.
Rita's Writing Challenge: The Door at the Beach

Christmas Memories of the Past

Did we all have a nice Christmas? Well, I did. Nice and quiet, no stress; just me and the close family. Thinking back to my english days, Christmas was more like a carnival, at least in the East End of London. The first Christmas parties I remember we had at home in Bethnal Green in the heart of the East End of London. We had a small house, granddad lived downstairs and we had the top floor. My Aunt lived opposite with her husband and we also had a piano. It was bought before the second world war, had never been tuned but it worked. The rooms were decorated with paper garlands in all colours and we had a Christmas tree. The presents were arranged under the tree and after having food which was usually some cold meat, pickles cheese, bread and butter with jelly, fruit and custard as a sweet and a cup of tea for all (we were english) the presents were distributed. Afterwards the party started. The complete family was there. Three aunts, their husbands, and my cousins, we were six cousins. One was born before the war so he was a lot older than the rest. Me and my other five cousins were then kids, all being born after the war.

Grandad was the respected patriarch of the family, his age being then about 75 years. He was seated in the corner with his glass of whisky, cigarettes and his family arranged around him; three daughters and their families and his son with his family. Although it was a small room we all seemed to fit in somewhere. It was then that the true cockney (east London) spirit developed. Everyone sung through their repertoire. I can hear my Aunt Lil today singing my yiddisher mama in full strength which was her imitation of Sophie Tucker. No, we were not Jewish, but the East End of London was partially and my aunts grew up with the songs from the area.

Uncle Arthur and Uncle Harry would sing a song called “Underneath the Arches” together, made famous by a couple known as Flanagan and Allen (way back in the 1940’s). I couldn’t find that song but something very similar.

My mum would play piano to accompany the songs, changing with Aunt Lil. Well playing the piano is saying too much. The right hand always found the melody but the left was more luck than judgement. It was just a good old cockney sing song. Of course “Knees up Mother Brown” was a song and dance known by all, as well as the Hokey Cokey.

As the years went past most of the family were rehoused just outside of London although my family remained in the East End. The piano was replaced by a record player, or gramophone and the music changed for something a bit more modern, although towards the end of the evening everyone started singing their own thing. Yes there were many glasses of beer tipped into the insides of the gramophone, but it was still working by the end of the evening.

We usually met at one of my aunt’s houses and as no public transport was working on Christmas Day evening so we all did a sleep over. The men slept on the floor in the living room and we children were put into beds with our aunts. A bit crowded, but it was all part of the fun. Aunt Lil and Aunt Annie were a bit on the heavier side, but who cares; somehow we managed to get to sleep. They were the good old days.

So back to this Christmas, it was me, my other half and two sons with a small Chrismas tree perched on a table and good food. How times change. I always seem to get a bit sentimental at the end of the year looking back on the older days.

MULTIPLY Writing Challenge: The Portal

Pat felt a bit sad after the funeral. Miss Chadwick was the nicest person she had ever met and did a lot for the village. She had the most beautiful garden in the whole area and it could be seen from the road side. A small door which was always open, showing the beauty of what was hidden behind the walls. It was now up to Pat to write an article in the local newspaper about Mrs. Chadwick, but she just did not know where to begin.

She thought back to how friendly Martha Chadwick was and always ready to help. Her garden was open to the school and on many summer days it was filled with children making notes about the plants growing there. Martha had all sorts of plants. She knew no weeds; at least they were not called weeds in her garden. Every flower and bush had its place. If one of the school children asked her the name of what was growing, Martha Chadwick knew it, not only that, but how it grew, when it was ready to be planted and where the best place was. Whether a daisy, dandelion or a rare orchid, she treated them alike and the children reaped the benefit from her watchful eye. Although she was not a teacher, she was a respected person at the school and her advice was often called for in the biology lessons. Pat remembered her days at the local school and how much she looked forward to the visits made to Miss Chadwick’s garden. Now Miss Chadwick was gone and there was no-one that could take her place.

“Pat, how is the article coming along about Miss Chadwick” it was Dave the editor of the local newspaper where Pat worked.
“There is so much to write about her Dave, I just don’t know where to begin.”
“Well you must hurry Pat, the next work is waiting for you and we want to keep our villagers informed.”
“OK, Dave, surprise me, what is lying around the corner. I cannot think of anything of more importance than writing an article about Martha Chadwick. We have such a lot to thank her for in the village. If a villager was sick, she would call on them. She would take our elderly population into town if they could not walk so well and she often brought them their shopping. Not of course to mention the way she let the children of the village play in her wonderful garden and learn about the plants growing there. Why, she even taught the children the meaning of the insect life in the garden, and woe betide anyone that would kill a spider or ant. Mrs. Chadwick said they were living things and had their purpose on this planet as well as we humans.”
“Yes Pat, but when you have finished singing the praises of Miss Chadwick you can transfer your attention to Robert Blogg and his new project.”

“Oh no,” thought Pat, if it was someone she did not want to write about it was Robert Blogg. He was the richest man in the neighbourhood and known for his building projects, transferring land into concrete shopping centres, owning most of the shops himself.
“What’s his next project Dave? Does he want to turn our village into one of his new shopping centres, at least the elderly people will not have to travel into town, if they are still living here after he has demolished their nice houses and cottages.”
“No, nothing like that Pat. Well almost. Mrs. Chadwick died with no heirs and her property has been bought by Robert Blogg. Of course, he will not be living there himself, he already has a villa on the edge of town up on the hill.”
Pat knew the building. A square white house with three storeys – an eyesore on the hill, but where Robert Blogg could look over the village deciding what to rebuild next.
“So what has Blogg cast his eye on this time? Is it perhaps an underground car park for his fleet of cars up on the hill, or a tennis court for himself and his wife in his garden.”
“No, nothing like that Pat, he has decided to rebuild Miss Chadwick’s garden; the part that you can see through the small door. Or course the door will have to be removed as well as well as the surrounding wall, to have enough room for the building machines to enter. Tomorrow the building starts so make sure you are there with a photographer to see the first building operations.”
“You must be joking Dave, Robert Blogg will be demolishing the beautiful garden that Miss Chadwick built for us all to enjoy. The poor woman will be turning in her grave.”
“That’s life Pat, besides do not forget who pays for the most advertisements in our newspaper. Without the income from Robert Blogg we could close the newspaper down.”
Pat decided it was no good arguing any further with Dave. He was a good boss, but like most business men, money spoke the loudest when it came to the business.

Pat finished her article about Mrs. Chadwick and the next morning she was at the doors of the garden with the photographer waiting for the machine to arrive and it did. It was a large caterpillar waiting at the entrance, its motor making a loud noise and fumes poisoning the fresh air. Pat could have cried, it was like a monster waiting to pounce. Robert Blogg was naturally also there, he could not miss the chance of his photo being on the front page of the newspaper. The caterpillar charged at the door and wall but nothing happened. Part of the machine broke off at the front and the garden could not be entered. Pat told the photographer to take a photo which he did and Robert Blogg started shouting at the operator, his face becoming a deeper red than usual. The machine operator had a closer look at the wall and found that it was still standing, there was not even a scratch on it.

“What the *#@/--* is going on” shouted Robert Blogg “ you can’t tell me that one of my machines cannot break that wall down.”
Suddenly only laughter could be heard. It was coming from a group of children that had just finished their morning school and were watching.
“Looks like Miss Chadwick doesn’t want her garden to be dug up” said one of the boys and everyone laughed.

Robert Blogg decided he did not have to make a fool of himself in front of the village so called his machine operator to one side.
“We will now get another machine and drive into the garden from the other side, up the path to the house and then enter from the back.”
By the time the second machine arrived and was put into place it was evening and the builder’s people went home, so the first destructive actions were postponed until the next day.

When Pat got back to the newspaper her boss Dave wanted to see the pictures she had captured.
“I can’t use this Pat. Robert Blogg seems to be quite excited and all I can see otherwise is a broken machine.”
“I am afraid the whole operation has been postponed until tomorrow Dave” she said, but could not help hiding her smile.

The next day Pat arrived at the Chadwick house, but entered the garden from the other side. The new machine had arrived the evening before and the driver was now ready to go to work. There was just one problem. The machine was covered in one huge web which had been spun by numerous small spiders still scuttling to and fro on the machine. Each time the web was swept away by one of the workers the spiders climbed back onto the machine and started on their work again.
Robert Blogg was getting excited.
“So men, start the job, you are not frightened of a few spiders are you. After all they are a lot smaller than you are.”
“That might be the case” answered the driver “but they are more than us, must be hundreds of them.”
“So do something” said Robert Blogg “throw some water at them”. The men found a hose and turned the water on. The machine was soon cleared of the spiders.
“That’s funny Mr. Blogg” said the driver “although we poured water on the machine it is all running down the side of the machine as if the machine was sealed up.”
“Rubbish” said Blogg “so now drive the machine into the garden and start digging.”
Pat once again took a couple of photos of an irate Mr. Blogg and the machine which was again having problems.
“Mr. Blogg” said the driver “the machine isn’t moving. Something is clogging up the works.”
“So, have a closer look” said Robert Blogg “it is a machine, not a monster.”
The men started taking the machine apart but were not very happy. Inside the machinery they found about two hundred snails and they were moving around leaving a trail of slime everywhere they went. The complete inside of the machine was clogged up with snail slime.
“Sorry boss”, the driver was looking worried “looks like we will have to take this machine back and have a complete service done, it’s full of snail slime.”

Pat could not help stifling a laugh and smiling. She decided there was going to be no work done any more that day and climbed into her car and drove off to the office. On the way she passed by the cemetery. Somehow she had a feeling she must visit Miss Chadwick's grave and put some flowers on it. There was a field of dandelions growing near the cemetery so she picked a bunch and put them on Miss Chadwick’s grave. She knew that would have given Miss Chadwick more pleasure than the most expensive roses. She arrived at the grave and suddenly she had to stop. There was a spider’s web stretching from the stone to the earth, but not a spiders web as usual. At the top were two “o o”, then followed a “l” and below there was a ”)” but in such a way arranged that it was plainly a J. Pat had her own thoughts.

So did Mr. Blogg’s new concrete shopping centre get built? Well no, not really. The beautiful wild garden still exists. The view into from the gate is still as inviting as ever. Pat was glad. It seemed that after Mr. Blogg’s house being infested with bats during the week that followed and him finding numerous anthills in his own garden, as well as his car brakes being bit through by numerous squirrels suddenly appearing in his garage at night, he somehow changed his mind. There were rumours that Miss Chadwick had appeared to him in a dream, at least that was the rumour going around the village.

Pat was very happy to write her article about Mr. Robert Blogg eventually. He had donated the garden to the school and decided against building a shopping center in the village. I wonder why?

The Portal - A Writing Challenge