tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5015795886208691084.post8958662643402475917..comments2023-07-17T09:55:04.909-04:00Comments on Eva Marie Everson's Southern Voice: Writing Contest for August 2013Eva Marie Eversonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15159409003924304308noreply@blogger.comBlogger47125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5015795886208691084.post-70951022520297904962013-08-13T10:56:33.061-04:002013-08-13T10:56:33.061-04:00I missed it for sure but oh what a great idea! Suc...I missed it for sure but oh what a great idea! Such fun and connection! Susan Marlene https://www.blogger.com/profile/12644008271992138790noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5015795886208691084.post-63445621499446807712013-08-08T15:34:18.344-04:002013-08-08T15:34:18.344-04:00Hmm. I did one but it isn't here...Hmm. I did one but it isn't here...Nancyhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/09528247353792997425noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5015795886208691084.post-30560751500278801912013-08-08T08:09:59.265-04:002013-08-08T08:09:59.265-04:00Sorry, I didn't mean to post anonymously...I&#...Sorry, I didn't mean to post anonymously...I'm not that chicken. (:Anonymousnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5015795886208691084.post-30305251162865921712013-08-08T07:59:21.720-04:002013-08-08T07:59:21.720-04:00With empathy, I watch her being unnoticed. I want...With empathy, I watch her being unnoticed. I want to yell out, "Hush!", and "let her play!", as my eyes scan the room. How did they come to be so indifferent? It's as if the artist does not even exist!<br /><br />I know the Creator of life, but in this colorful world I always get drawn in. Look closely into the mirror. Just beyond the musicians' missing reflection there's a fly on the wall. As one of the uninvited, I have a unique perspective.<br /><br />I see what's wrong with this picture because I'm not a significant part of it. If I were, wealth would not be taken for granted, and the music would never beg for silence.<br /><br />As it is now, however, I blend into the scenery and watch as these elegantly dressed women make up their own worthless sound...and rich men are played like cheap violins.Anonymousnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5015795886208691084.post-34587946670885518192013-08-07T18:58:59.723-04:002013-08-07T18:58:59.723-04:00A hush fell over the guests as Sarah bent to pick ...A hush fell over the guests as Sarah bent to pick up the violin. No one had touched it since last Christmas, when James gave his final performance. The instrument had remained on the credenza, a tribute to the virtuoso.<br /><br />Sarah tucked the instrument under her chin and pulled the bow across the strings. <br /><br />As the melody lilted into the hall and up the stairs, conversation stopped. It was Christmas again, and James was filling the house with music and magic. <br /><br />Only now it was Sarah, his daughter, who brought life to the block of wood. Sarah, who had kept her talent secret for so long, recreated the emotions her father had birthed with his talent. And it was Sarah who brought life back to a home where there had been none.<br /><br />James was content.<br /><br />Sarah smiled as a tear fell onto the violin.<br /><br />Debbie Hardyhttp://debbiehardy.com/noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5015795886208691084.post-53208275737412271342013-08-06T23:24:31.878-04:002013-08-06T23:24:31.878-04:00Anna gazed out at the crowd. She was ready, but re...Anna gazed out at the crowd. She was ready, but ready wasn’t enough. She knew this by the look in Dawson’s face. But still she stood glued to the floor, violin in hand. <br />This was the moment when she would meet with her future. She knew something was wrong about it all, and obviously so did Dawson, Andrew Dawson that is. Andrew would know better than anybody. <br />Not only had Anna and Andrew grown up together, but Andrew knew more about the people that met with her than she did. <br />She was waiting to enter into a dream she would never leave. What had she agreed to? She raised her bow to the violin slowly. No one paid any attention to her. Dawson stood slowly. His eyes drilled hers. They begged her not to play. She didn’t care, she closed her eyes. She played. She dropped. <br />She would dream forever.<br /><br />-Micheala Burch (michealayburch@gmail.com)Anonymousnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5015795886208691084.post-76708262364705076202013-08-06T17:53:30.965-04:002013-08-06T17:53:30.965-04:00Taffeta rustles and the chattering of my companion...Taffeta rustles and the chattering of my companions quiets into whispers around me. How innocently they await this performance. My love, as I stand here with trembling knees, my heart melts like wax within me. This is the hardest thing you have ever asked me to do for you. I breathe a steadying breath, deceptively full of flowers and perfume. Only I share in the heady secret that these sweet notes enable outside these walls. ‘Tis for our country, my love, our dear land. The traitors will never stop you. Godspeed to you my love. Godspeed. Can I possibly play these delicate notes of Swan without trembling? Yes, I will. I must. The knowledge of your wonderful plan will only strengthen me, not cause me to falter or burst into foolish tears. I will be strong. I will. For you. For this land.readywriterhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/09437119002531879941noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5015795886208691084.post-19715125765035014512013-08-05T21:11:45.635-04:002013-08-05T21:11:45.635-04:00 Your skin feels soft sittings in my hands as they... Your skin feels soft sittings in my hands as they caress the shape of your face. The face of you, the girl I fell madly in love the moment my eyes saw your dark hair up nicely on your head that night. The black dress, dark in color it made your creamy skin shine brighter than the crystal chandler that hung above you. It was placed upon the ceiling to illuminate the room, yet your beauty radiated so vividly, it put the exquisite chandler to shame. When I look into those emerald green eyes, I am reminded of the night I first saw you. That night at the party, you sat in the front, entranced by the way the bow moved against the strings of the violin. If I could go back to when the music floated in the air, I would, just to see you in that moment again. <br /><br />-Paige Touse (paigetouse@gmail.com)Anonymoushttps://www.blogger.com/profile/04932352693550986037noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5015795886208691084.post-44210527878982409112013-08-05T19:28:10.420-04:002013-08-05T19:28:10.420-04:00A flash of displeasure registered on Elizabeth’s f...A flash of displeasure registered on Elizabeth’s face as she noticed not only had her love interest not returned, but Sarah too was missing. Though many chatted on oblivious to Elizabeth’s change in countenance, still others stared with anticipation of her performance. She cleared her throat awkwardly and curtsied slightly while trying to force a smile. Taking her nod as his cue, the pianist pored himself into the musical introduction startling Elizabeth. For a moment she was able to pull her attention to the cheerful dance of the sonata, but the attempt was vain. Her jealousy boiled to attention again causing her to miss her entrance. The piano went silent and Elizabeth felt the weight of everyone’s stares. Tears welled up. Her face flushed with embarrassment, with hurt. Able to endure no more, Elizabeth tore from the room, violin still clutched in her hand.<br /><br />-Gary Burch (garyaburch@gmail.com)<br />Anonymousnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5015795886208691084.post-28071008271127582042013-08-05T16:46:14.244-04:002013-08-05T16:46:14.244-04:00Oops. Should've been "Her right hand...&q...Oops. Should've been "Her right hand..."<br /><br />Haha oh well<br /><br />-SamanthaAnonymousnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5015795886208691084.post-52937170481017240102013-08-05T09:56:39.938-04:002013-08-05T09:56:39.938-04:00Her fingertips brushed the strings lightly, testin...Her fingertips brushed the strings lightly, testing the sound. Perfectly in tune.<br /><br />Unlike her life.<br /><br />She caught the slight dip of her father's head. He was ready. <br /><br />Her left hand twisted and rubbed the wood of the bow, avoiding the fine threads of horsehair. Was the bow tight enough? Had she run the block of rosin over it? She could not afford to disappoint her father again. Not tonight. Fortunately, there was one thing he valued more than marrying his daughter off to the highest bidder.<br /><br />The sale of that instrument.<br /><br />Her father’s future depended on how well her fingers navigated those four narrow strings. As she lifted the violin an inch higher, the first melancholy notes rose from the piano. The foreign gentleman and his companion leaned forward, as if already entranced. Just behind them, her father's dark gaze narrowed in a final warning.<br /><br />Play or pay.<br /><br />-SamanthaAnonymousnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5015795886208691084.post-78727612763853806442013-08-04T19:56:34.898-04:002013-08-04T19:56:34.898-04:00Emaline let the final strains of Paganini’s Capric...Emaline let the final strains of Paganini’s Caprice No. 24 fade away, along with her hopes of a truly sensational presentation. How could she have chosen such a predictable repertoire? Only the leering Rajkumar Puneet seemed remotely interested.<br /><br />Scoundrel. Perhaps she should consider another use for her bow.<br /><br />Choosing to ignore him, Emaline glanced around the room, searching for a friendly face, an encouraging smile. No one even noticed she’d stopped playing. Clearly, it would take more than a few conventional compositions to win the acceptance of Adèle and her entourage. Not that they would notice anyone who wasn’t dressed in a black tail coat and top hat. <br /><br />What these people needed was a good old Virginia reel. But would that give too much away? Emaline sighed. Maybe it was time to shake things up a bit.<br /><br />Her mother would be appalled.<br /><br />Well. That’s as good a reason as any.<br />~sharynhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/03900618724766476779noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5015795886208691084.post-70398879438594466922013-08-04T17:38:40.593-04:002013-08-04T17:38:40.593-04:00She was a scullery maid, not a violinist.
Betsy ...She was a scullery maid, not a violinist.<br /> <br />Betsy gripped the bow with trembling fingers and hoped she was holding it correctly. This wasn't part of the wager. She’d successfully bluffed her way through the evening, even used the oyster knife correctly, but a musical performance was not part of her repertoire. If her ruse failed now, would Sir Rafe be able to protect her?<br /> <br />He caught her eye, his confidence infusing her with warmth as he had so often during their six months of elocution and deportment lessons. He didn't really think she could fake musical talent, did he? Why would he risk it when they both had so much to lose?<br /> <br />A brief conversation at the piano and Rafe replaced the white-haired musician. Betsy raised a recently refined eyebrow. He couldn’t play the piano, but he must have a plan. And at his nod she lifted the bow.<br />Regina Jenningshttps://www.blogger.com/profile/08791893550984663049noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5015795886208691084.post-548443543710782482013-08-04T17:36:10.211-04:002013-08-04T17:36:10.211-04:00This comment has been removed by the author.Regina Jenningshttps://www.blogger.com/profile/08791893550984663049noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5015795886208691084.post-27949704363092245632013-08-04T10:21:16.289-04:002013-08-04T10:21:16.289-04:00It's Beverly GoodeIt's Beverly GoodeBeverly Ednahttps://www.blogger.com/profile/07543059877181363828noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5015795886208691084.post-72792739861143405792013-08-03T15:09:18.386-04:002013-08-03T15:09:18.386-04:00I wonder if I might have a do-over. I'd still ...I wonder if I might have a do-over. I'd still be under 150 words.<br /><br />"Why, Mr. Wilkie, what a kind thing for you to say. Yes, my cousin Evelyn does play well, doesn’t she? I know Father is so glad you’re here. Tell me now, how is your son Alfred?"<br /><br />The old gentleman leaned forward as if to speak in confidence. “It’s been over a year, but he’s still grieving. He asked about you, you know. He asked if you are yet married.”<br /><br />Sonya felt her face flush and began to fan herself. "We were sorry to hear about his wife dying in childbirth. You must bring him with you next time you visit. It’s been so long since we’ve had the pleasure of his company."Jean Davishttp://iwitnesslife.comnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5015795886208691084.post-90076968462033575422013-08-03T14:03:26.462-04:002013-08-03T14:03:26.462-04:00Locked away is how Isabella spent most of her life...Locked away is how Isabella spent most of her life. Nora, Isabella’s new stepmother, had no interest in raising a child that was obviously not hers, so she often confined Isabella by putting her in the music room that had been her mother’s. In that room, Isabella found her gift…she was a prodigy. After she started school, the room became her refuge. She found hope in her mother’s Bible, left on a music stand. <br /> As a teen, at a family gathering in her home, she appeared with her mother’s violin. Standing there, the room split. Nora’s family, who over the years felt Nora’s dissension toward this beautiful child with her mother’s features, disinterestedly moved to one side of the room. Her father and the rest of Isabella’s family gathered opposite them, their eyes on Isabella. As she prepared to share her gift, she knew her life was about to change…<br />Debbie Barbernoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5015795886208691084.post-77380563203385118922013-08-03T11:27:19.691-04:002013-08-03T11:27:19.691-04:00"Why, Mr. Wilkie, what a kind thing for you t... "Why, Mr. Wilkie, what a kind thing for you to say. Yes, my cousin Evelyn does play well, doesn’t she? I know Father is so glad you’re here. Tell me now, how is your son Alfred? It’s been so long since we’ve had the pleasure of his company."Jean Davishttp://iwitnesslife.comnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5015795886208691084.post-22901333232899181872013-08-02T22:40:13.006-04:002013-08-02T22:40:13.006-04:00Vivenne noticed two oddly dressed fellows in the f...Vivenne noticed two oddly dressed fellows in the front row. She nodded. The pianist began a quiet intro. She recognized Moonlight Sonata immediately. Could her wrists carry the sweeping strokes? Were her fingers nimble after hours of practice? She took a deep breath and poised herself. She had never played Beethoven for an audience. <br />She began to stroke the bow softly at first- but passion overtook in mere moments. Her desire poured out in fluid notes.<br />Melody drifted into the silence of the room as a warm autumn afghan on a moonlit carriage ride. It enveloped the strangers. They listened intently. <br />The strangers moved in closer, as if mesmerized. She felt her face flush. <br />As she ended the sonata, she bowed humbly. <br /> The men approached. <br />"Your music took us to places we have never been." <br />Vivenne smiled at the strangers. Nobody had ever offered such kind words to her before. <br />SpaceforGracehttps://www.blogger.com/profile/07435980158425956375noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5015795886208691084.post-86853906966567878302013-08-02T13:04:54.634-04:002013-08-02T13:04:54.634-04:00Hate it when that happens ...Hate it when that happens ...Eva Marie Eversonhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/15159409003924304308noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5015795886208691084.post-83819201359007068322013-08-02T13:03:59.893-04:002013-08-02T13:03:59.893-04:00Nice, Steve! Especially the part about Provence!
Nice, Steve! Especially the part about Provence!<br />Eva Marie Eversonhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/15159409003924304308noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5015795886208691084.post-47727121242219086312013-08-02T13:03:10.758-04:002013-08-02T13:03:10.758-04:00Oh. That's good ... that's very creative! ...Oh. That's good ... that's very creative! LOLEva Marie Eversonhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/15159409003924304308noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5015795886208691084.post-87317693032872184192013-08-02T13:02:19.492-04:002013-08-02T13:02:19.492-04:00Beth: ah, the 4th wall! :) Very good!Beth: ah, the 4th wall! :) Very good!Eva Marie Eversonhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/15159409003924304308noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5015795886208691084.post-28362031814037281212013-08-02T13:01:29.446-04:002013-08-02T13:01:29.446-04:00I like the part about clearing her throat ... char...I like the part about clearing her throat ... character development in under 150 words!Eva Marie Eversonhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/15159409003924304308noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5015795886208691084.post-48014812586977103932013-08-02T13:00:45.786-04:002013-08-02T13:00:45.786-04:00I don't envy me either! :)I don't envy me either! :)Eva Marie Eversonhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/15159409003924304308noreply@blogger.com