Teacher-centered Teaching Approach VS Learning-centered Teaching Approach by Tressilla, November 2008

Personally, human should not stay stagnant in this life. Life has many more to offer than entertainment, delicacies and sleeping! There is always “knowledge explosion” occurring every single day around us and it is up to us to gain them and to make our life more passionate and colourful with all the knowledge that we have acquired. Isn’t it fantastic to be able to share our intelligence; talking about your latest discovery in physics or maybe sharing your latest work update in building a flying car for instance? Life is fun and has always been about learning and enriching our “knowledge bank”. Like the saying of the Chinese, “Learning is a process that we end only after our death.” In other words, we should be lifelong learners. All of us have that gift and thus, to expand the capability of our generation of learners, teaching approaches shares crucial role in providing a favourable learning environment to stretch learners’ learning to the maximum.

There are indeed various types of teaching approaches. However, the usage or choice of it should be based on the type of learners that a teacher has. In this case, we will discuss on the teacher-centered and learning-centered teaching approach.

First of all, based on the lesson plan shown, it is more of a teacher-centered teaching approach that applies the notional-functional syllabus. This particular type of syllabus divides its syllabus according to functions of subject. For instance, the elements of English are pulled and integrated together. The new teacher attempts to teach pronouns through a bigger or major theme which is People. This is good as the traditional element of this approach is modified compared to its initial strong teaching prescription that organise all teaching contents traditionally according to the structural syllabus. For example, instead of teaching pronouns based on real-life context or theme such as people, pronouns are taught dryly; within its own category.

Back to the term teacher-centered teaching, it is a conventional approach whereby the teacher controls over the entire class and lesson. Teachers are the giver while students are the receiver; they are spoon fed. Philosophically, the purpose of education here is just to maintain social order by passing down knowledge and culture to the generation; teaching or learning for its own sake (Prof. Dr. Raja Fauzi: Language and Teaching Methodology Notes) Looking at the teaching plan, teacher starts off the class by going straight into briefing the topic of the day. It seems to be that the teacher are teaching deductively without having the students to jog their mind and brainstorm whether they have at least any previous knowledge or encounters with pronouns before. Besides that, students are seen as empty glasses where they are expected to receive input and not showing output. Students are also to be taught in a lock-step way which is one of the main characteristic of teacher-centered teaching techniques in which all students perform the same activities. In other words, students are treated as homogeneous group. This is actually not recommended as we would normally deal with a diversity of students: none of them are alike. Additionally, students are also required to complete the worksheet individually in development Stage II. This technique may be appropriate as a take home assignment but as a class activity, it would be more motivating if students have the opportunity to share and voice out their opinion about what they have learned from the lesson by discussing interactively with their classmates; they will be able to construct the knowledge conveyed by the teacher more meaningfully.

Well, in comparing all the different teaching approaches that we have, I prefer the constructivist way. Why?

In the point of view of a constructivist, learning is like a building blocks or scaffolding whereby meaning towards a phenomenon is interpreted and construed through learner’s active participation and anticipation in constructing them through new experiences and which is based on their personal pace and learning comfort.

Education in this context is about maximising the potential of individuals. And the process of maximisation is carried out by having the individuals constructing and reconstructing meaning to phenomena through new experience (Prof. Dr. Raja Fauzi: Language and Teaching Methodology Notes).

To illustrate, in a constructivism context of learning and teaching, teachers play the roles as managers of the learner’s learning experience whereby they only manage, coach and guide students through their journey of seeking knowledge. Learners on the other hand are knowledge seekers. Their knowledge is gradually gained when they experience a phenomenon and construct its meaning over and over again until they understand all those phenomena around them. In analogy, in a baseball field, teachers are the coach while learners are the players. As a coach, he/she can only guide the players how to hit the ball with strategic positions and maybe the rules and regulations as well. However, whether all those teaching or knowledge makes sense, it depends entirely on the players’ reception towards the knowledge. They are basically the one that experience the hitting and sensing any achievements or improvements. And if they fail to hit correctly, they may ask for more explanation practice and guidance from the coach and construct better on the previous knowledge that they have gained. Step by step, they get the best out of it: The knowledge and the experience as well!

This constructivist theory is often the theory applied in a learning-centered teaching. How does this type of teaching approach differs from other approaches? Well, the term states it all. It is a teaching approach that accommodates learner’s natural learning capability. In other words, it means developing student responsibility for their own learning and meaning (Pyhllis Blumberg: Learning-centered Teaching). As every single learner is unique by him/herself, this teaching approach caters best in helping them fit into learning according to their own single velocity. Linking to this statement, the two main effective highlights of learning- centered teaching techniques are differentiated and informed teaching.

As stated by Tracey Hall, Nicole Strangman and Anne Meyer in their report “Differentiated Instruction and Implications for Universal Design for Learning (UDL) Implementation”, differentiated teaching can be defined as the differentiation of instruction by recognizing students’ varying background knowledge, readiness, and language, preferences in leaning and interests and to react responsively. To make it simpler, it is a teaching and learning process for students of different abilities that are in a same class; students do different task at the same time based on their own pace. The authors also agreed that the intention of differentiated teaching or instruction is to maximize each student’s growth and individual success by assisting in the learning process. Thus, in classroom context, students may be given multiple options for taking in information and making sense of the ideas.

Informed teaching on the other hand, uses a variety of purposeful use of teaching techniques based on the needs or requirements of students. The difference between this and the former is that in this teaching technique, students are informed of the goals and learning outcomes of particular strategies and activities (Francesca Pouwer: Learning to learn). As quoted by Francesca Pouwer, research on learning-to-learn conducted by Wenden (1987) indicates that students are more likely to transfer the skill they acquire from a practice activity to a new situation if they are informed of what skill they are actually learning and why. Besides that, she added further by quoting Gawith (2000) that research also shows that students do not sufficiently transfer skills from one leaning context to the next. By giving at least a gist of what students should be expecting in the lesson, they would gradually be aware of how they can actually improve their own learning (which is the main purpose of this technique).

But of course, instead of expecting all the learners to be a lifelong, self-directed, self-initiated learners and leaders plus possessing excellent problem-solving abilities, teachers also need to provide a conducive environment by analysing the physical class environment and having infrastructure and dedicated resources in educating, orienting and encouraging learners.

By applying this teaching approach, teachers do not only able to build a strong knowledge foundation in learners and helping in developing learners’ learning skills and self-awareness, their facilitative teaching may also create a balance of power (Maryellen Weimer’s: Learner-centered Teaching). This equal power is generated when teachers share some decision about the topic or subject with the class and let students have a certain control over the class or subject policies such as assignment’s deadlines, methods of learning and assessment (informed teaching) for instance but definitely not the content of the lesson. Besides that, with teachers’ creativity and effort in preparing and supplying a great motivational learning environment, learning may as well become even more effective in this teaching and learning approach since all these knowledge seekers need to be responsible over their own learning.

Thus, in accordance to the discussion above, I would again strongly like to recommend the application of learning-centered teaching approach in improving and carrying out the lesson as prepared by the new teacher.

Specifically in improving the lesson plan that is prepared by the new teacher, first of all, I would like to state that even though the lesson plan is based on teacher-centered teaching, it is indeed a good effort of teaching pronoun in notional-functional syllabus where the content organisation is not so rigid and need to be followed as prescribed.

However, I personally think that the lesson should be taught inductively. Instead of the teacher leading in straight to the topic during the set induction, deliberation should come before explanation. Like what have been mentioned above, teacher should have the student jogging their mind and arousing their interest through a small activity for instance. To illustrate, besides of briefing the students straight about the topic and tell out the answer, teachers should start pointing to the students and maybe use the class (furniture, students etc.) as examples in introducing pronouns. It would be better off to use real-life background or example instead of diving straight to the core of the topic. Plus, this little introduction would kick start their anticipation towards the lesson. They can be informed of what slight knowledge on the topic that they have through deliberation process and what they need to improve on and expect throughout the lesson. Now, percentage of students going to have a fun-learning experience would be higher and may also be even more effective.

Moreover, teacher should always bear in mind that the main learner in a class setting is the student. Thus, instead of being the classroom’s controller and “knower” or “transmitter” of knowledge, students themselves should be able to participate actively. And to be active in class, students should be the one that voice out the most especially in class discussion or even presentation. Only then, they will be able to use and process the knowledge received from the teacher. So, instead of being an empty glass, students should be seen as “knowledge seeker”. They should be free in constructing every single data that they have received and experience the phenomenon themselves meaningfully. Therefore, in the lesson plan’s activity, students should be given a more constructive and interactive activity such as group discussion and presentation or even role play instead of an individual work. Let the class setting be more conducive and not deal in the conventional and traditional way. Right after the students have shared all the things that they have learned during the interactive discussion, then an individual assignment can be given. At least teacher needs to know, measure and follow-up the level of the students’ understanding.

Another crucial highlight that has also been mentioned above is that none of the students are alike. Thus, in such a diverse setting, students should be accommodated and catered with the best learning method which is the differentiated teaching and learning and not lock-step teaching. As students are unique in their own way, a lesson may sometime need to be modified in terms of its Support, Task, Approach, Mode, Pace, and Source (STAMP). Thus, the class activity in the lesson plan should be stated and differentiated based on the students’ ability. For instance, the weaker students may be given a slightly easier article to enable them to at least get the basic meaning or rules right while the better ones are given a slightly intermediate or hard one. Or maybe the pace of the lesson can also be slower down. At the end of the day, teaching can be even more effective and every student would be able to gain and learn something from the lesson and experience success. Barriers that frequently limit student access to materials and learning in classrooms can be decreased (Francesca Pouwer quoted: Rose & Meyer 2002). So, the lesson plan’s activities column should be best differentiated and divided into two: the teacher’s roles and the student’s roles.

In a nutshell, educational curricula and teaching methods are changing (Audrey Gray: Constructivist Teaching and Learning). From the conventional curriculum where only the teachers transmit information and students being the passive listeners and acquirer, today’s learning should be based more on the learners themselves. According to Audrey Gray, Zemelman, Daniels, and Hyde (1993) tell us that learning in all subject areas involves inventing and constructing new ideas. They suggest that constructivist theory be incorporated into the curriculum, and advocate that teachers create environments in which children can construct their own understandings. Besides that, Twomey Fosnot (1989) also recommends that a constructivist approach be used to create learners who are autonomous, inquisitive thinkers who question, investigate, and reason. Therefore, like what have been discussed above, the constructivist approach seems to be more beneficial compared to the traditional way. Thus, teachers need to modify their teaching approach as well to ensure that the students can learn the best out of their lesson.
References:

From Internet

Retrieved on 3 November 2008 from http://amps-tools.mit.edu/tomprofblog/archives/2005/03/604_learning_ce.html

Retrieved on 3 November 2008 from http://academic.pgcc.edu/~wpeirce/MCCCTR/weimer.htm

Retrieved on 3 November 2008 from http://www.usp.edu/teaching/Learner-Centered/Implementing%20lct.pdf

Retrieved on 3 November 2008 from http://english.unitecnology.ac.nz/resources/resources/learntolearn/basic.html

Retrieved on 3 November 2008 from The Access Center: Differentiated Instruction and Implications for UDL Implementation.

Retrieved on 3 November 2008 from Constructivist Teaching and Learning by Audrey Gray

Metamorphosis (Our Version)

Gregor Samsa felt very strange that morning. He felt strangely powerful when he woke up that morning. Odd, only last night he crashed into bed due to exhaustion. But this morning when he woke up, he felt like Superman! He pondered about that for a moment more, before glancing at the alarm cloak. His eyes widen in horror. Holy Mother! It’s already half past seven? I’m late!
Quickly, he shot out of bed. He noticed that the floor look strangely further than usual. And that the ceiling was closer, much closer than what he used to. It was then he noted his hair, his strangely long and silver hair. What? Since when my hair is this long, and I do not remember dying it silver. As he was busy thinking contemplating this, he saw his dressing table. Quickly, he moved to the mirror to verify himself. He nearly screamed when he did.

The man staring back at him from the mirror was not the man Gregor Samsa was yesterday night. Gregor studied his reflection and gulped. Holy Mother! What happened to me? For starters, he had just turn from a midget of 156 cm to more than a 2 meter tall person. His smooth, silky hair grew all the way to his hip. Not to mention the odd silver colour. Gregor observed that his eyes had turn into the brightest shade of green he could imagine. Additionally, those emerald orbs seem to glow with a life of their own. But what struck him as odd was that his iris was slitted, like a cat’s. Gregor’s body was not spared from the strange transformation. On top of being taller, Gregor discovered his body became more muscled. Not the big knots of a body builder, rather the kind that constantly work out. His body was lean, despite its muscled nature.

For the first time ever, Gregor was at a lost. He slumped to the floor, not knowing what to do to overcome this sudden steep curve ball. ‘Don’t feel so lost, child,’ Gregor shot up when he heard that voice. W-who’s there? Show yourself! He demanded as he looked around frantically. But the only sound that answered him was the soft patters of rain beating his window.

A sudden chime broke him out his reverie. A quick gaze at the clock showed it was already seven. Gregor knew by then he would not make it to work on time. By now the company’s porter would have noticed him missing from the five o’clock train. The next train would have left the station a few seconds ago. His only hope for transport is the nine o’clock train. But by then the company would have sent their men knocking on his doorstep, inquiring about his absence.
As he was torn between going to work and staying home, he heard a soft rapping on his door. “Gregor?” came his mother’s voice. “It’s already seven. Had you not a train to catch?” that gentle voice caused him to snap out of his thoughts. “Yes, yes mother I’m about done here,” Thankfully, his voice remain unchanged. However, this brief exchange had the unwanted effect of making the other family members aware of Gregor’s presence in the home.

One by one his family knocked on his door, voicing their concern when he did not leave for work. After much persuasion that he was fine and well, they finally leave him alone. Gregor started to dress himself when he realized his clothes just will not fit him anymore. Frustrated at this growth spurt, he sat on his bed. He barely settled down when he heard it again. ’Look at the foot of your closet,’ Again, Gregor found himself searching wildly around for that voice’s owner. Once again, his search was in vain. Assuming that he had nothing to lose, he did as The Voice told him. Surprisingly, he did found something he could wear. But the style was quite alien to him. The attire consist of a high-collared leather trench coat, tight leather pants with matching shirt, a pair of arm guards and gloves, and a pair of leather boots. All of them are in black.

As he was admiring himself in the mirror, his door was knocked again. This time his sister whispered quietly. “Gregor, the chief clerk’s is here,” Gritting his teeth in frustration, Gregor acknowledged it with a nod. “Gregor,” this time it was his father’s voice. “The chief clerk is here and he wants to know why you missed the early train. We do not know what to tell him. Besides he wants to talk to you in person. So open the door please,” Gregor felt a hot sensation of fury boiling within him. ‘Do not know what to tell him’? He thought mockingly. Or you are nothing but cowards who will not even defend your own son? Catching himself, Gregor blinked and chased away that thought. Where did that come from?

“Good morning Mr. Samsa,” The chief clerk’s voice called out pleasantly. But Gregor’s instincts told him to be wary of this serpent. “He is not feeling well,” came his mother’s worried voice. Oh, I’m feeling just fine mother. Then, his father’s voice spoke up, but Gregor tuned it out halfway through as it was full of lines meant to please the backstabbing serpent. Maintaining his silence, Gregor heard the chief clerk speak, “I can’t think of any reason madam. I hope it’s nothing serious. Although on the other hand I must say that we men of business—fortunately or unfortunately—very often simply have to ignore any slight indisposition, since business must be attended to,” Right, business must be attended to, eh? What about if I impale you with a sword? Business as usual still? Again, Gregor was amazed as that violent thought made its way again. He could have sworn those thoughts came naturally to him. It was almost scary. “Well, can the chief clerk go in now?” his father asked again. This time there was a trace of impatience in his voice.
Again, Gregor chose to maintain his silence. He wanted, more than anything, to open that door, and kill that forked tongue serpent, but what would happen then? How would he explain to them about his changes? "Mr. Samsa," the chief clerk called now in a louder voice, "what's the matter with you? Here you are, barricading yourself in your room, causing your parents a lot of unnecessary trouble and neglecting—I mention this only in passing—neglecting your business duties in an incredible fashion. I am speaking here in the name of your parents and of your chief, and I beg you quite seriously to give me an immediate and precise explanation. You amaze me, you amaze me. I thought you were a quiet, dependable person, and now all at once you seem bent on making a disgraceful exhibition of yourself. The chief did hint to me early this morning a possible explanation for your disappearance—with reference to the cash payments that were entrusted to you recently—but I almost pledged my solemn word of honor that this could not be so. But now that I see how incredibly obstinate you are, I no longer have the slightest desire to take your part at all. And your position in the firm is not so unassailable. I came with the intention of telling you all this in private, but since you are wasting my time so needlessly I don't see why your parents shouldn't hear it too. For some time past your work has been most unsatisfactory; this is not the season of the year for a business boom, of course, we admit that, but a season of the year for doing no business at all, that does not exist, Mr. Samsa, must not exist."

Gregor felt enraged by that comment. So great was his rage, his hands curled to form tight fists. Gnashing his teeth together he immediately stood up and marched to the door. Unlocking it, he opened the wooden portal. Surprise lit up the faces of all that gathered there at the sudden opening. But that quickly turned to shock as they saw the person opening it. Quickly, Gregor grabbed the chief clerk by his neck with a hand and slammed him to the opposite wall. He held the poor man by several centimetres above the floor; his feet dangling helplessly. The chief clerk gasped for breathe as his eyes widen horrifically. Gregor watched with a extraordinary sense of satisfaction as the smaller man struggled to release his grip.

Raising him to eye level, Gregor said in a low voice, “I would strongly suggest that you remove yourself from this property before I personally see to your own cremation,” Afraid for his own life, the chief clerk nodded rapidly, his chin hitting Gregor’s hand several times. Satisfied, Gregor released the frightened man. The chief clerk did not waste any time and dashed down the stairs, right out of the house. Sighing, Gregor turned to his family. Its just one hurdle after another isn’t it. His mother was eyeing up and down in wonder and awe, while his father looked at him with suspicion.

Finally after a long silence, it was Gregor that broke it up. “Mother, father. This is still me. I’m still Gregor Samsa, even if I am changed physically,” hesitantly, his mother walked to him. Slowly, she raised her hands and cupped his cheek. “Gregor?” she asked tentatively. “Is that really you?” The silver-haired youth could only nod and replied weakly, “Yes, mother. It’s me,”


Later that evening, Gregor sits alone in the living room. He was sitting by the reading table with the table lamp switched on. Spread in front of him was the daily newspaper’s Classified sections. His actions this morning was not too pleasing for the chief clerk, and he figured that he might as well try to find a new job. After all, he was the only one that could support his family. Another thing he noticed about his transformation was that his mind was sharper. He could perceive and understand the world around him in a new light. It is as if someone had turned on the light bulb in his head. With that bulb on, it provides him with new knowledge and understanding of the world around him. He could understand the various mathematical solutions that were otherwise looked like groups of numbers to him yesterday. He could also see through the many political maneuvers done by the politicians as he read the day’s newspaper.

Gregor sighs and leaned back in the comfortable chair. Many things happened today that he did not understand. First his transformation, followed by The Voice and finally his sudden violent urges. ’Your urges are signs that you are ready, child,’ Gregor rolled his eyes at that. Oh no, not you again. What is it you want from me, woman? Or are you still not willing to show yourself to me? This time to his surprise, soft laughter rang in his head. And to his greater surprise, The Voice did reply to him this time. ‘Not yet child. But soon I will tell you everything’.

Life for the Samsa family resume like normal several days later. It took a few days for the family members to get used to Gregor’s transformation. But in the end, even the father could be seen relaxed in his son’s presence. The same goes for his sister, though she took less time than their father. As for Gregor, now that he was unemployed (he received his resignation letter a day after his transformation), he could freely go about and help with the chores. Being unable to sit around idle, Gregor did what he can. He cleaned the windows, the ceilings, and even the floor; anything to get rid of the growing sense of boredom inside him.

‘Soon child. Soon I will come to and you will stand by your rightful place,’ The Voice always whispered this or something along this line whenever Gregor felt bored and discouraged by the lack of activity. Partly, he felt puzzled by what it meant. But for the most part, he felt eager to work again.

At one point, about 2 months after Gregor’s transformation, the family held a meeting. His mentioned about the almost critical economic condition of the family. Gregor failed to find a single job since the day he was fired. For his part, he suspected the chief clerk must have spread out false lies and rumours about him. Every time he went for an interview, the interviewer would often gaze at him with fear in their eyes. As if afraid he was going to produce a gun and kill them all. Hence the family was without any source of income for two months. They had to live by what little savings Gregor’s father had from his company’s leftover funds. As such, they were forced to take on lodgers as a means to support the family.

The problem with this method would be that Gregor did not like the lodgers at all. All of them acted as if they were the owners of the house. They would comment on the vainest of things such as the colour of the carpet or the position of a particular flower vase. The worst of them was when he caught the lodgers’ teenage son staring at his sister. Normally Gregor would allow for some allowance for this hormone-induced behaviour. But when he detected the teen was staring at her like a wolf would a sheep, he felt he had to take action. But what sort of action could he take? His parents had explicitly forbidden him to even speak to the lodgers unless he was spoken to. The silver-haired young man feels annoyed at this situation.

‘Patience child. Just a hang on a bit more and you will be able to join me,’ Gregor could not help but smiled. You again? You have been saying that same thing for the past 2 months now. Yet I never saw any sign of you fulfilling your promise. The Voice chuckled lightly at that jibe. ‘Oh always the impatient one, are you? Just hold on a bit more and we can remove these infidels from this world for good,’ To say Gregor was shocked was an understatement. But a after a moment of consideration, he dismissed it as a joke made by The Voice.

That evening, as Gregor retreated to his studies after dinner he caught the distinct sound of a violin being played. For a while, he was puzzled as to who in the house-hold could play the violin. Mesmerized, he retraces his way back to the living room. There, he was greeted with the scene that would be etched forever in his memories. Playing a solo tune on the music stand, was none other than Gregor’s own sister, Greta. The look of pure concentration and determination on her face could have been comical in other cases. But in this case, Gregor knew it was only her own steel nerves that rooted her to the stand and continue playing the instrument. Gregor knew how shy her sister was. Oh yes, he knew about it. More than perhaps even their parents do. She was shy to play her violin, even though she could play the instrument and its musical piece perfectly. Sitting nearby were the three lodgers, with the teen being in the middle. Gregor’s parents were sitting at the edge of the room. The whole chamber was quiet as Greta played a tantalizing tune she learned from her musical classes.

Once again Gregor observed the teen lodger staring at his sister. This time there was an unmistakable look of hunger in those pale blue eyes of his. Gregor frowned deeply. He was about to move and throw the youngster out when there was a high pitched noise followed by a surprised shriek from Greta. Gregor took a moment to examine her. Apparently one of her violin strings had snapped. Embarrassed, she bowed low and quickly retreated to her room. Sighing, Gregor shook his head and left for his room as well, leaving his parents to deal with the lodgers.
That night, Gregor was assaulted by various dreams. Many of these dreams had been him wielding a long sword almost his own height and going about killing many people. He sees himself impaling a woman with his sword, while decapitating a child in another vision. The background was always the same; a burning urban area. Then he would see himself walking to some sort of a pedestal with a large glass tube. The tube was filled with clear liquid of unknown origin. But the content of the tube was what drew him. The creature held within the tube looked remotely human, but he could be wrong. The creature’s shape was always blurry whenever he reached this stage of the dreams. But on top of the glass tube, Gregor could clearly make out the letters printed on the metal plates. It was always printed as JENOVA.

A pair of green, slitted eyes snapped opened. Gregor immediately sit up and began to take in deep, calming breathes. He realized he was sweating heavily and that his hair, along with his bed sheet was wet from his perspirations. That dream again. I was having that same dream for a week now. Deciding that a glass of water was in order, Gregor left his room for the kitchen. Having satisfied his thirst, the silver-haired man returned to his room. He was halfway up the stairs when he heard a scream.

Looking up, he quickly discerned that it originated from the first floor. Clearing the rest of the flight with a single bound, Gregor made his way to the source. He realizes with a sinking feeling that he was heading to his sister’s room. Gritting his teeth, he hastens himself. When he reached her room, he noticed the door was slightly ajar. Muffled voices could be heard from inside. Feeling his anger boiling anew, Gregor kicks the door off its hinges and dashes in. His 2-months-old night vision gave him a clear view of the scene in front as though it was day light. The teenage lodger was on top of his sister, and he was forcing his way with her. ‘Give in to your anger,’ Grudgingly, Gregor gave in, allowing his dark rage to consume him. He allowed his instincts to move him. He felt his body flying forward. He was dimly aware his right hand swung outwards and connected itself with the teen’s jaw. ‘Summon your instrument of doom,’ Gregor, still in a daze, held his left hand out, palms facing outward. The teenager grabbed a table lamp and leaped at the elder Samsa sibling. Black feathers filled the room as a long singled-edged sword materialized itself in Gregor’s left hand. The sword was as long as Gregor was tall. With his free hand Gregor easily caught the overhead swing from the lodger. Now with the boy within his sight once again, Gregor felt an overwhelm sense of hate filling his every fiber. The hatred caused his killing urges to rise. ‘Strike your enemy down. He deserves it,’ Visions of the teen staring lustily for his sister filled Gregor’s mind, strengthening his hatred for the boy. Gripping the sword tighter, Gregor threw the table lamp aside before spinning his torso around rapidly. The momentum of the spin caused him to perform several rapid horizontal and diagonal slashes on the lodger’s body.

After a final horizontal slash, Gregor felt the red haze surrounding him gradually lift. He looked around and realized he had done something horrible. Lowering his gaze, he saw the teen lodger, or what was left of him. To his left was his sister. She was looking at him with a look of utmost horror and fear. Her face was pale and her mouth was opened in shock. Gregor lifted his hand to soothe her but stopped short when he saw it. His hand was red with the still warm blood of the teenager. A massive wave of nausea swept over him as he smelled the iron in the warm fluid. The long, bloody sword fell with a clang to the ground. Its master fell to his knees weakly, aghast at his own actions.

Suddenly, thundering footsteps could be heard from the corridor outside. Gregor’s parents were the first on the scene. It took them a few seconds to put two and two together. When they did, both of them went pale. Gregor’s mother fainted right away, while his father moved to the youngest Samsa sibling in an attempt to comfort her. A few moments later the other two lodgers came in and they instantly fell to their knees when they saw the carnage. Nobody spoke for a few tense minutes.

The eldest lodger was the first to break the silence. “You, you monster!” he shouted. “You murdered my grandson!” Gregor flinched at the first sentence. He cast his gaze to his sister for support. At this time if she could only back me up… But Gregor found that hope to be a nothing but a dream. Greta was still in a traumatized condition to speak. If anything, she is not any condition to do anything at all for quite some time. The post-traumatic experience could really shake some people hard. Gregor tried then to defend himself.

“Father, its not… he tried to force himself to Greta…” But the silver-haired man could not continue. His own voice was stuck halfway through. As if something was blocking his windpipe. This was followed by a vehement protest by the eldest lodger, “What? That’s preposterous! My grandson has a lot finer taste in women than this, this immature little girl,” Gregor felt a familiar wave of anger wash over him, but he suppressed it with great difficulty. “It’s…its true, father! I saw it with my own eyes,” Gregor said through gritted teeth. Gregor’s father however, closed his eyes for moment before saying his judgment. His words sent Gregor’s world in a turbulent spin, “I’m sorry, Gregor. But I find that hard to believe as well. Leo was a fine young gentleman. He would never do anything of the sort,” Gregor felt a part of him shatter as those words register in his mind.

“You are a monster and a liar! You should be put to the gallows for this!” the elder lodger shouted again. Gregor winced at being called monster. ‘Monster? Is that what they called the one who save his sister’s virtue? Maybe you should show these fools the real meaning of monster, child,’

“Shut up!” shouted the eldest sibling, stunning everyone in the room. Gregor turned to his sister, who shivered and hid her face to their father’s chest. “Greta, please tell them the truth. Tell them I did not kill him in cold blood. Please tell them,” This time the pleading tone in his voice could be heard by everyone. But Greta only shook her head as she hugged her father tighter. The Samsa patriarch took this as a sign of guilt. “So, that’s it eh? You intend to implicate Leo’s death by saying he tried to rape your sister. But your sister was obviously caught by her conscience when you brutally slaughtered Leo. That’s fine Greta; do not aid this murdering madman. You are no longer my son. Be gone from this house, monster!” he hugged her daughter tightly.

Yet again, Gregor felt a piece of himself shatter at those words. He looked down, unable to lift his head and gaze into everyone’s eyes. Hot tears began to form in his eyes. All at once he felt the familiar red haze of wrath and hatred began to settle around him, wrapping him in its comfortable embrace. This time the feeling was amplified several times over as the pain of betrayal stabbed deep into Gregor’s heart. ‘So this is the thanks you get for the trouble of helping your sister? You might as well leave her to her fate,’ Gregor nodded. Silently, Gregor stood up. He began to walk slowly out of the room. The lodgers quickly made way for him to pass. He could feel the eyes of everyone in the room on him as he ambled towards the door, the long sword was held in a reverse grip in his left hand. As he passed the door, he beheld the unconscious form of his mother. Right now, there’s nothing more he wished than to hugged that lovely woman and said his apologies. But he could not. One look at his bloodied right hand stopped him cold of any such movements to his beloved mother. No, I could not tarnish her anymore than I already did. I’m sorry mother. However, Gregor did knelt down beside her and was about to bend down to kiss her brow, when his father exploded, “Don’t you dare touch her you monster! You have done enough damage to this house already. Be gone, she does not have a murderer for a son!” Gregor jerked back, the final piece of himself shattered and died. ‘Yes, child that’s it. Give in fully to your hatred. These mere mortals do not deserve one such as you. You have long toiled just to provide a meal for them a day. Is this how they repay their provider? With betrayal? They deserve nothing but the Abyss, child,’ Gregor’s green, slitted eyes flashed as he raised his long sword.

As Gregor slowly walked away from his house, he felt empty. The void that was inside him was suppose to be fill with the love of his family was nothing more than vacuum now. As he glanced at the blazing house, he could not help but glimpse at the lone black pinioned wing on his right shoulder. He felt pain stabbing into him again; the pain of betrayal. Forever will I carry this wound for as long as I lived. Mother, am I really a monster? The soothing gentle sound of The Voice broke into his mind.

‘Personally, no child. You are not a monster. You did what you think was right. After all, that idiot did try to rape your sister, did he not?’

…Yes, you are right of course. I’m sorry. And the others too did not even try to listen to my side of the story. Just because that Leo was more ‘fine’ Gregor thought angrily
‘Do not worry child. I will not make that kind of mistake easily. I know you well enough,’ He realized he did not know much about The Voice in his head. Gregor asked The Voice, So, does the mysterious voice in my head have a name, or do I just call it The Voice? There was light laughter in his mind. Highly inquisitive, are you child? You may call me Mother if you may,’ The silver haired man was a bit surprised at this. Mother? Bad memories there, considering my last mother betrayed me.

‘Like I said I will not make that mistake. Now come to me my One Winged Angel. We shall purge this world of its impurities,’

I understand. But is other name you have…mother? Gregor asked after a slight hesitancy.
‘Yes I have. But ‘mother’ will do. My other name was JENOVA’.

Written and edited by,

Niisan, Hadi, Tress, Grace, Lilly

The orphan and the mob: Were it not for the need to pee, Jude might discover the secret of his birth

If I had urinated immediately after breakfast, the mob would never have burnt down the orphanage. But, as I left the dining hall to relieve myself, the letterbox clattered. I turned in the long corridor. A single white envelope lay on the doormat. I hesitated, and heard through the door the muffled roar of a motorcycle starting. With a crunching turn on the gravel drive and a splatter of pebbles against the door, it was gone.
Odd, I thought, for the postman has a bicycle. I walked to the large oak door, picked up the envelope, and gazed upon it.
Jude
The Orphanage
Tipperary
Ireland
For me! On this day, of all significant days! I sniffed both sides of the smooth white envelope, in the hope of detecting a woman's perfume, or a man's cologne. It smelt, faintly, of itself.
I pondered. I was unaccustomed to letters, having never received one before, and I did not wish to use this one up in the one go. As I stood in silent thought, I could feel the orphanage coffee burning through my small dark passages. Should I open the letter before or after urinating? It was a dilemma. I wished to open it immediately. Yet a full bladder distorts judgement and is an obstacle to understanding.
As I pondered, both dilemma and letter were removed from my hands by the Master of Orphans, Brother Madrigal.
"You've no time for that now, boy," he said. "Organise the Honour Guard and get them out to the site. You may open your letter this evening, in my presence, after the visit." He gazed at my letter with its handsome handwriting and thrust it up the sleeve of his cassock.
I sighed, and went to find the orphans of the Honour Guard.
I found most of the young orphans hiding under Brother Thomond in the darkness of the hay barn. "Excuse me, sir," I said, lifting his skirts and ushering out the protesting infants.
"He is asleep," said a young orphan, and indeed, as I looked closer, I saw Brother Thomond was at a slight tilt. Supported from behind by a pillar, he was maintained erect only by the stiffness of his ancient joints. Straw protruded at all angles from his wild white hair.
"He said he wished to speak to you, Jude," said another orphan. I hesitated. We were already late. I decided not to wake him, for Brother Thomond, once he had stopped, took a great deal of time to warm up and get rightly going again.
"Where is Agamemnon?" I asked.
The smallest orphan removed one thumb from his mouth and jerked it upward, to the loft.
"Agamemnon!" I called softly.
Old Agamemnon, my dearest companion and the orphanage pet, emerged slowly from the shadows of the loft and stepped, with a tread remarkably dainty for a dog of such enormous size, down the wooden ladder to the ground. He shook his great ruff of yellow hair and yawned at me loudly.
"Walkies," I said, and he stepped to my side. We exited the hay barn into the golden light of a perfect Tipperary summer's day.
I lined up the Honour Guard and counted them by the front door, in the shadow of the south tower of the orphanage. Its yellow brick façade glowed in the morning sun. We set out.
From the gates of the orphanage to the site of the speeches was several strong miles. We passed through town and out the other side. The smaller orphans began to wail, afraid they would see black people, or be savaged by beasts. Agamemnon stuck closely to my rear. We walked until we ran out of road. Then we followed a track, till we ran out of track.
We hopped over a fence, crossed a field, waded a dyke, cut through a ditch, traversed scrub land, forded a river and entered Nobber Nolan's bog. Spang plumb in the middle of Nobber Nolan's Bog, and therefore spang plumb in the middle of Tipperary, and thus Ireland, was the nation's most famous boghole, famed in song and story: the most desolate place in Ireland, and the last place God created.
I had never seen the famous boghole, for Nobber Nolan had, until his recent death and his bequest of the bog to the state, guarded it fiercely from locals and tourists alike. Many's the American was winged with birdshot over the years, attempting to make pilgrimage here. I looked about me for the hole, but it was hid from my view by an enormous car park, a concrete Interpretive Centre of imposing dimensions, and a tall, broad, wooden stage, or platform, containing politicians. Beyond car park and Interpretive Centre, an eight-lane motorway of almost excessive straightness stretched clean to the horizon, in the direction of Dublin.
Facing the stage stood fifty thousand farmers.
We made our way through the farmers to the stage. They parted politely, many raising their hats, and seemed in high good humour. "Tis better than the Radiohead concert at Punchestown," said a sophisticated farmer from Cloughjordan.
Once onstage, I counted the smaller orphans. We had lost only the one, which was good going over such a quantity of rough ground. I reported our arrival to Teddy "Noddy" Nolan, the Fianna Fáil TD for Tipperary Central, and a direct descendant of Neddy "Nobber" Nolan. Teddy waved us to our places, high at the back of the sloping stage. The Guard of Honour lined up in front of an enormous green cloth backdrop and stood to attention, flanked by groups of seated dignitaries. I myself sat where I could unobtrusively supervise, at the end of a row. When the last of the stragglers had arrived in the crowd below us, Teddy cleared his throat. The crowd silenced as though shot. He began his speech.
"It was in this place…" he said, with a generous gesture which incorporated much of Tipperary, "…that Eamon de Valera…"
Everybody removed their hats.
"…hid heroically from the entire British army…"
Everybody scowled and put their hats back on.
"…during the War of Independence. It was in this very boghole that Eamon de Valera…"
Everybody removed their hats again.
"…had his vision: a vision of Irish maidens dancing barefoot at the crossroads, and of Irish manhood dying heroically while refusing to the last breath to buy English shoes…"
At the word English the crowd put their hats back on, though some took them off again when it turned out only to be shoes. Others then glared at them. They put the hats back on again.
"We in Tipperary have fought long and hard to get the government to make Brussels pay for this fine Interpretive Centre and its fine car park, and in Brünhilde de Valera we found the ideal minister to fight our corner. It is with great pride that I invite the great granddaughter of Eamon de Valera's cousin, the minister for beef, culture and the islands, Brünhilde de Valera, officially to reopen… Dev's Hole!"
The crowd roared and waved their hats in the air, though long experience ensured they kept a firm grip on the peak, for as all the hats were of the same design and entirely indistinguishable, it was common practice at a Fianna Fáil hat-flinging rally for the less scrupulous farmers to loft an old hat, yet pick up a new.
Brünhilde de Valera took the microphone, tapped it, and cleared her throat.
"Spit on me, Brünhilde!" cried an excitable farmer down the front. The crowd surged forward, toppling and trampling the feeble-legged, in expectation of fiery rhetoric. She began.
"Although it is European money which has paid for this fine Interpretive Centre; although it is European money which has paid for this fine new eight-lane motorway from Dublin and this car park, that has tarmacadamed Toomevara in its entirety; although it is European money which has paid for everything built west of Grafton Street in my lifetime; and although we are grateful to Europe for its largesse…
She paused to draw a great breath. The crowd were growing restless, not having a bull's notion where she was going with all this, and distressed by the use of a foreign word.
"It is not for this I brought my hat," said the dignitary next to me, and spat on the foot of the dignitary beside him.
"Nonetheless," said Brünhilde de Valera, "grateful as we are to the Europeans… we should never forget… that… they…"
The crowd's right hands began to drift, with a wonderful easy slowness, up towards the brims of their hats in anticipation of a climax.
"…are a shower of foreign bastards who would murder us in our beds given half a chance!"
A great cheer went up from the massive crowd and the air was filled with hats till they hid the face of the sun and we cheered in an eerie half-light.
The minister paused till everybody had recovered their hat and returned it to their head.
"Those foreign bastards in Brussels think they can buy us with their money! They are wrong! Wrong! Wrong! You cannot buy an Irishman's heart, an Irishman's soul, an Irishman's loyalty! Remember '98!"
There was a hesitation in the crowd, as the younger farmers tried to recall if we had won the Eurovision Song Contest in 1998.
"1798!" Brünhilde clarified.
A great cheer went up as we recalled the gallant failed rebellion of 1798. "Was It For This That Wolfe Tone Died?" came a wisp of song from the back of the crowd.
"Remember 1803!"
We applauded Emmet's great failed rebellion of 1803. A quavering chorus came from the oldest farmers at the rear of the great crowd. "Bold Robert Emmet, the darling of Ireland…"
"Remember 1916!"
Grown men wept as they recalled the great failed rebellion of 1916, and so many contradictory songs were started that none got rightly going.
There was a pause. All held their breath.
"Remember 1988!"
Pride so great it felt like anguish filled our hearts as we recalled the year Ireland finally stood proud among the community of nations, with our heroic victory over England in the first match in group two of the group stage of the European football championship finals. A brief chant went up from the young farmers in the mosh pit: "Who put the ball in the English net?" Older farmers, farther back, added bass to the reply: "Houghton! Houghton!"
I shifted uncomfortably in my seat.
"My great grandfather's cousin did not walk out of the Daíl, start a civil war and kill Michael Collins so that foreign monkey-men could swing from our trees and rape our women!"
Excited farmers began to leap up and down roaring at the front, the younger and more nimble mounting each other's shoulders, then throwing themselves forward to surf toward the stage on a sea of hands, holding their hats on as they went.
"Never forget," roared Brünhilde de Valera, "that a vision of Ireland came out of Dev's Hole!"
"Dev's Hole! Dev's Hole!" roared the crowd.
By my side, Agamemnon began to howl and tried to dig a hole in the stage with his long claws.
Neglecting to empty my bladder after breakfast had been an error the awful significance of which I only now began to grasp. A good Fianna Fáil ministerial speech to a loyal audience in the heart of a Tipperary bog could go on for up to five hours. I pondered my situation. My only choice seemed to be as to precisely how I would disgrace myself in front of thousands. To rise and walk off the stage during a speech by a semi-descendant of de Valera would be tantamount to treason and would earn me a series of beatings on my way to the portable toilets. The alternative was to relieve myself into my breeches where I sat.
My waistband creaked under the terrible pressure.
With the gravest reluctance, I willed the loosening of my urethral sphincter.
Nothing happened. My subsequent efforts, over the next few minutes, to void my bladder, resulted only in the vigorous exercising of my superficial abdominal muscles. At length, I realised that there was a default setting in my subconscious which was firmly barred against public voidance, and to which my conscious mind had no access.
The pressure grew intolerable and I grew desperate. Yet, within the line of sight of fifty thousand farmers, I could not unleash the torrent.
Then, inspiration. The velvet curtain! All I needed was an instant's distraction and I could step behind the billowing green backdrop beside me, and vanish. Once hidden from sight, I could, no doubt, find an exit off the back of the stage, relieve myself in its shadow, and return unobserved to my place.
At that second a magnificent gust of nationalist rhetoric lifted every hat again aloft and in the moment of eclipse I stood, took one step sideways, and vanished behind the curtain.
I shuffled along, my face to the emerald curtain, my rear to the back wall of the stage, until the wall ceased. I turned, and I beheld, to my astonished delight, the solution to all my problems.
Hidden from stage and crowd by the vast curtain was a magnificent circular long-drop toilet of the type employed in the orphanage. But where we sat around a splintered circle of rough wooden plank, our buttocks overhanging a fetid pit, here a great golden rail encircled a pit of surpassing beauty. Its mossy walls ran down to a limpid pool into which a lone frog gently plashed.
Installed, no doubt, for the private convenience of the minister, should she be caught short during the long hours of her speech, it was the most beautiful sight I had yet seen in this world. It seemed nearly a shame to urinate into so perfect a pastoral picture, and it was almost with reluctance that I unbuttoned my breeches and allowed my manhood its release.
I aimed my member so as to inconvenience the frog as little as possible. At last my conscious made connection with my unconscious; the setting was reset. Mind and body were as one; will became action; I was unified. In that transcendent moment, I could smell the sweet pollen of the heather and the mingled colognes of a thousand bachelor farmers.
I could hear the murmur and sigh of the crowd like an ocean at my back, and Brünhilde de Valera's mighty voice bounding from rhetorical peak to rhetorical peak, ever higher. And as this moment of perfection began its slow decay into the past, and as the delicious frozen moment of anticipation deliquesced into attainment and the pent-up waters leaped forth and fell in their glorious swoon, Brünhilde de Valera's voice rang out as from Olympus
"I hereby… officially… reopen… Dev's Hole!"
A suspicion dreadful beyond words began to dawn on me. I attempted to arrest the flow, but I may as well have attempted to block by effort of will the course of the mighty Amazon river.
Thus the great curtain parted, to reveal me urinating into Dev's Hole, into the very source of the sacred spring of Irish nationalism: the headwater, the holy well, the font of our nation.
I feel, looking back, that it would not have gone so badly against me, had I not turned at Brünhilde de Valera's shriek and hosed her with urine.
They pursued me across rough ground for some considerable time.
Agamemnon held them at the gap in the wall, as I crossed the grounds and gained the house. He had not had such vigorous exercise since running away from Fossetts' circus and hiding in our hay barn a decade before, as a pup. Undaunted, he slumped in the gap, panting at them.
Slamming the orphanage door behind me, I came upon old Brother Thomond in the long corridor, beating a small orphan in a desultory manner.
"Ah, Jude," said Brother Thomond, on seeing me. The brown leather of his face creaked as he smiled.
"A little lower, sir, if you please," piped the small orphan, and Brother Thomond obliged. The weakness of Brother Thomond's brittle limbs made his beatings popular with the lads, as a rest and a relief from those of the more supple and youthful Brothers.
"Yes, Jude…" he began again, "I had something I wanted to… yes… to… yes…" He nodded his head, and was distracted by straw falling past his eyes, from his tangled hair.
I moved from foot to foot, uncomfortably aware of the shouts of the approaching mob. Agamemnon, by his roars, was now retreating heroically ahead of them as they crossed the grounds toward the front door.
"Tis the orphanage!" I heard one cry.
"Tis full of orphans!" cried another.
"From Orphania!" cried a third.
"As we guessed!" called a fourth. "He is a foreigner!"
I had a bad feeling about this. The voices were closer. Agamemnon held the door, but no dog, however brave, can hold off a mob forever.
"Yes!" said Brother Thomond, and fixed me with a glare. "Very good." He fell asleep briefly, one arm aloft above the small orphan.
The mob continued to discuss me on the far side of the door. "You're thinking of Romania, and of the Romanian orphans. You're confusing the two," said a level head, to my relief. I made to tiptoe past Brother Thomond and the small orphan.
"Romanian, by God!"
"He is Romanian?"
"That man said so."
"I did not…"
"A gypsy bastard!"
"Kill the gypsy bastard!"
The voice of reason was lost in the hubbub and a rock came in through the stained-glass window above the front door. It put a hole in Jesus and it hit Brother Thomond in the back of the neck.
Brother Thomond awoke.
"Dismissed," he said to the small orphan sternly.
"Oh but sir you hadn't finished!"
"No backchat from you, young fellow, or I shan't beat you for a week."
The small orphan scampered away into the darkness of the long corridor. Brother Thomond sighed deeply and rubbed his neck.
"Jude, today is your eighteenth birthday, is it not?"
I nodded.
Brother Thomond sighed again. "I have carried a secret this long time, regarding your birth. I feel it is only right to tell you now…" He fell briefly asleep.
The cries of the mob grew as they assembled, eager to enter and destroy me. The yelps and whimpers of brave Agamemnon were growing fainter. I had but little time. I poked Brother Thomond in the clavicle with a finger. He started awake. "What? WHAT? WHAT?"
Though to rush Brother Thomond was usually counterproductive, circumstances dictated that I try. I shouted, the better to penetrate the fog of years. "You were about to tell me the secret of my birth, sir."
"Ah yes. The secret…" He hesitated. "The secret of your birth. The secret I have held these many years… which was told to me by… by one of the… by Brother Feeny… who was one of the Cloughjordan Feenys… His mother was a Thornton…"
"If you could speed it up, sir," I suggested, as the mob forced open the window-catch above us. Brother Thomond obliged.
"The Secret of Your Birth…"
With a last choking yelp, Agamemnon fell silent. There was a tremendous hammering on the old oak door. "I'll just get that," said Brother Thomond. "I think there was a knock."
As he reached it, the door burst open with extraordinary violence, sweeping old Brother Thomond aside with a crackling of many bones and throwing him backwards against the wall where he impaled the back of his head on a coathook. Though he continued to speak, the rattle of his last breath rendered the secret unintelligible. The mob poured in.
I ran on, into the dark of the long corridor.
I found the Master of Orphans, Brother Madrigal, in his office in the south tower, beating an orphan in a desultory manner.
"Ah, Jude," he said. "Went the day well?"
Wishing not to burden him with the lengthy truth, and with time in short supply, I said, "Yes."
He nodded approvingly.
"May I have my letter, sir?" I said.
"Yes, yes, of course." He dismissed the small orphan, who trudged off disconsolate. Brother Madrigal turned from his desk toward the confiscation safe, then paused by the open window. "Who are those strange men on the lawn, waving torches?"
"I do not precisely know," I said truthfully.
He frowned.
"They followed me home," I felt moved to explain.
"And who could blame them?" said Brother Madrigal. He smiled and tousled my hair, before moving again toward the confiscation safe, tucked into the room's rear left corner. From the lawn far below could be heard confused cries.
Unlocking the safe, he took out the letter and turned. Behind him, outside the window, I saw flames race along the dead ivy and creepers, and vanish up into the roof timbers. "Who," he mused, looking at the envelope, "could be writing to you?" He started suddenly and looked up at me. "Of course!" he said. "Jude, it is your eighteenth birthday, is it not?"
I nodded.
He sighed, the tantalising letter now held disregarded in his right hand. "Jude… I have carried a secret this long time, regarding your birth. It is a secret known only to Brother Thomond and myself, and it has weighed heavy on us. I feel it is only right to tell you now. The secret of your birth…" He hesitated. "Is…" My heart clattered in its cage at this second chance. Brother Madrigal threw up his hands. "But where are my manners? Would you like a cup of tea first? And we must have music. Ah, music."
He pressed play on the record player that sat at the left edge of the broad desk. The turntable bearing the orphanage single began to rotate at forty-five revolutions per minute. The tone-arm lifted, swung out, and dropped onto the broad opening groove of the record. The blunt needle juddered through the scratched groove. Faintly, beneath the crackle, could be heard traces of an ancient tune.
Brother Madrigal returned to the safe and switched on the old kettle that sat atop it. Leaving my letter leaning against the kettle, he came back to his desk and sat behind it in his old leather armchair. The rising roar of the old kettle and crackle of the record player disguised the rising roar and crackle of the flames in the dry timbers of the old tower roof.
Brother Madrigal patted the side of the record player affectionately. "The sound is so much warmer than from all these new digital dohickeys, don't you find? And of course you can tell it is a good-quality machine from the way, when the needle hops free of the surface of the record, it often falls back into the self-same groove it has just left, with neither loss nor repetition of much music. The arm…" He tapped his nose and slowly closed one eye. "…is true."
He dug out an Italia '90 cup and a USA '94 mug from his desk, and put a teabag in each.
"Milk?"
"No, thank you," I said. The ceiling above him had begun to bulge down in a manner alarming to me. The old leaded roof had undoubtedly begun to collapse, and I feared my second and last link to my past would be crushed along with all my hopes.
"Very wise. Milk is fattening and thickens the phlegm," said Brother Madrigal. "But you would like your letter, no doubt. And also… the secret of your birth." He arose, his head almost brushing the bulge in the plaster, now yellowing from the intense heat of the blazing roof above it.
"Thirty years old, that record player," said Brother Madrigal proudly, catching my glance at it. "And never had to replace the needle or the record. It came with a wonderful record. I really must turn it over one of these days," he said, lifting the gently vibrating letter from alongside the rumbling kettle whose low tones, as it neared boiling, were lost in the bellow of flame above. "Have you any experience of turning records over, Jude?"
"No sir," I said as he returned to the desk, my letter white against the black of his dress. Brother Madrigal extended the letter halfway across the table. I began to reach out for it. The envelope, containing perhaps the secret of my origin, brushed against my fingertips, electric with potential.
At that moment, with a crash, in a bravura finale of crackle, the record finished. The lifting mechanism hauled the tone arm up off the vinyl and returned it to its rest position with a sturdy click.
"Curious," said Brother Madrigal, absentmindedly taking back the letter. "It is most unusual for the crackling to continue after the record has stopped." He stood and moved to the record player.
The bulge in the ceiling gave a great lurch downward. Brother Madrigal turned, and looked up.
"Ah! There's the problem!" he said. "A flood! Note the bulging ceiling! The water tank must have overflowed in the attic and the subsequent damp is causing a crackling in the circuits of the record player. Damp," he touched his temple twice, "is the great enemy of the electrical circuit."
He was by now required to shout on account of the great noise of the holocaust in the roofbeams. Smoke began entering the room.
"Do you smell smoke?" he enquired. I replied that I did. "The damp has caused a short circuit," he said, and nodded. "Just as I suspected." He went to the corner of the room, where a fire axe rested in its glass-fronted wooden case. He removed axe from case and strode to beneath the bulge. "Nothing for it but to pierce it and relieve the pressure, or it'll have the roof down." He swung the axe up at the heart of the bulge.
A stream of molten lead from the roof poured over Brother Madrigal. The silver river flowed over axe and man, boiling his body while coating him in a thick sheet of still-bright lead that swiftly thickened and set as it ran down his upstretched arm, encasing his torso before solidifying in a thick base about his feet on the smoking carpet. Entirely covered, he shone under the electric light, axe aloft in his right hand, my letter smouldering and silvered in his left.
I snatched the last uncovered corner of the letter from his metal grasp, the heat-brittled triangle snapping off cleanly at the bright leaden boundary.
Snug in that little corner of envelope nestled a small triangle of yellowed paper.
My fingers tingled with dread and anticipation as they drew the scrap from its casing. Being the burnt corner of a single sheet, folded twice to form three rectangles of equal size, the scrap comprised a larger triangle of paper folded down the middle from apex to baseline, and a smaller, uncreased triangle of paper of the size and shape of its folded brother.
I regarded the small triangle.
Blank.
I turned it over.
Blank.
I unfolded and regarded the larger triangle.
Blank.
I turned it over, and read…
gents
anal
cruise.
I tilted it obliquely to catch the light, the better to reread it carefully: gents… anal… cruise.
The secret of my origin was not entirely clear from the fragment, and the tower was beginning to collapse around me. I sighed, for I could not help but feel a certain disappointment in how my birthday had turned out. I left Brother Madrigal's office as, behind me, the floorboards gave way beneath his lead encased mass. I looked back, to see him vanish down through successive floors of the tower.
I ran down the stairs. A breeze cooled my face as the fires above me sucked air up the stairwell, feeding the flames. Chaos was by now general and orphans and Brothers sprang from every door, laughing and exclaiming that Brother McGee had again lost control of his woodwork class.
The first members of the mob now pushed their way upstairs and, our lads not recognising the newcomers, fisticuffs ensued. I hesitated on the last landing. One member of the mob broke free of the mêlée and, seeing me, exclaimed, "There he is, boys!" He threw his hat at me and made a leap. I leapt sideways, through the nearest door, and entered Nurse's quarters.
Nurse, the most attractive woman in the orphanage, and on whom we all had a crush, was absent, at her grandson's wedding in Borris-in-Ossary. I felt it prudent to disguise myself from the mob, and slipped into a charming blue gingham dress. Only briefly paralysed by pleasure at the scent of her perfume, I soon made my way back out through the battle, as orphans and farmers knocked lumps out of each other.
"Foreigners!" shouted the farmers at the orphans.
"Foreigners!" shouted the orphans back, for some of the farmers were from as far away as Cloughjordan, Ballylusky, Ardcrony, Lofty Bog, and even far-off South Tipperary itself, as could be told by the sophistication of the stitching on the leather patches at the elbows of their tweed jackets and the richer, darker tones, redolent of the lush grasslands of the Suir Valley, of the cowshit on their wellington boots.
"Dirty foreign bastards!"
"Fuck off back to Orphania!"
"Ardcrony ballocks!"
I saw the sophisticated farmer, who had seen Radiohead at Punchestown, hurled over the balcony and his body looted of its cigarettes by the infants.
The crowd parted to let me through, the young farmers removing their hats as I passed. The other orphans shouted, "It is Jude in a Dress!" But the sexual ambiguity of my name served me well on this occasion, as it helped the more doubtful farmers take me for an ill-favoured girl who usually wore slacks.
Escaping the crowd down the final stairs, I found myself once again in the deserted long corridor.
From far behind me came the confused sounds of the mob in fierce combat with the orphans and the Brothers of Jesus Christ Almighty. From far above me came the crack of expanding brick, a crackle of burning timber, sharp explosions of window-panes in the blazing tower. My actions had led to the destruction of the orphanage. I had brought bitter disgrace to my family, whoever they should turn out to be.
I realised with a jolt that I would have to leave the place of my greatest happiness.
Ahead, dust and smoke gushed down through the ragged hole in the ceiling through which the lead-encased body of Brother Madrigal had earlier plunged. I gazed upon him, standing proudly erect on his thick metal base, holding his axe aloft, the whole of him shining like a freshly washed baked bean tin in the light of the setting sun that shone along the corridor, through the open front door.
And by the front door, hanging from the coathook in a more alert posture than his old bones had been able to manage in life, was Brother Thomond, the golden straw bursting from the neck and sleeves of his cassock. And in the doorway itself, hanged by his neck from a rope, my old friend Agamemnon, his thick head of golden hair fluffed up into a huge ruff by the noose, his tawny fur bristling as his dead tongue rolled from between his fierce, yellow teeth.
What was left for me here, now?
With a splintering crash and a flat, rumbling, bursting impact, the entire façade of the south tower detached itself, and fell in a long roll across the lawn and down the driveway, scattering warm bricks the length of the drive.
Dislodged by the lurch of the tower, the orphanage record player fell, tumbling three stories, through the holes made by Brother Madrigal and landed rightway up by his side with a smashing of innards.
The tone arm lurched onto the record on impact and, with a twang of elastic, the turntable began to rotate. Music sweet and pure filled the air and a sweet voice sang words I had only ever heard dimly.
"Some…
Where…
Oh…
Werther…
Aon…
Bó…"
I filled to brimming with an ineffable emotion. I felt a great… presence? No, it was an absence, an absence of? Of… I could not name it. I wished I had someone to say goodbye to, to say goodbye to me.
The record ground to a slow halt with a crunching of broken gear-teeth.
I looked around me for the last time and sighed.
"There is no place like home," I said quietly to nobody, and walked out the door onto the warm bricks in my blue dress. The heat came up through the soles of my shoes, so that I skipped nimbly along the warm yellow bricks, till they ended.
I looked back once, to see the broken wall, the burning roof and tower.
And Agamemnon dead.

Julian Gough

March 2006

Moving Furniture

*Yawn* It was again that same old feeling, the same old experience. Facing the same walls and ceiling, and waking up in the same room day by day, again and again had really triggered me into moving the position of my bedroom furniture.
First thing first, the old, ancient closet was the first on my list to be gotten rid of, not to mention the pink smelly sofa; a loyal companion of mine that had grown pale, covered with dust as year passed by, earthed on the same spot since I was six. It must have been a long time since I couldn’t even recall back when was the last time I sat on it and actually got it brushed and vacuumed after the unfortunate event where that old Kitty had “sprayed” on it.

In attempt of pushing that heavy couch out of my room, I realized that I had only inched it out from its actual site in spite of the full-powered force and energy that I had transmitted into. *Sigh* I’d never thought that moving furniture would be that tiring and back-aching. Giving up, I lied down on the floor to rest my back, closed my eyes for a moment and turned, trying to get myself up when Abracadabra! Something glittering shone right before my eyes underneath the yet-to-move aged closet. Immediately, I got on my knees, bent down and stretched out my hand to sense and reach for it. “Finally…” I said to myself and cleared the webs and dust from its surface. Once cleared, I was flabbergasted! It was the diamond photo frame from my girlfriends for my 13th birthday present that kept an old group picture of my school’s annual ball. Looking at it, brought back the setting of that particular magical night where tables were adorned with candle lights, colorful banners stuck on walls and unique decoration draped on it, also with a special glittering disco ball that hung proudly in the middle of the hall.

Thinking back, I used to wonder and imagine how my life could be if I am the daughter of an influential, rich and high-ranking family. I could be one of the girls out there who are able to spend unlimitedly, dress up in rich garments daily and doll themselves with cosmetics that keep them pretty and noticeable each day. However, I live in warm, loving and caring family without too many problems to ponder and worry over. Not everyone, including the rich and famous, may know and understand the fortune and happiness in living in a family like mine. Knowing how lucky I am, I really appreciate and am very thankful to be born in my family. Though it is only a modest one, still it holds the position as the main happiness in my life. Speaking about my family background, I therefore come in the same modest package. I am just a plain, simple and ordinary girl who dresses moderately as in no make ups and accessories dangling from me, who plans what I spend and just goes through the everyday life quite unnoticed. In short, I am just like the girl next door. Yet, like what every girl in the world would feel, there was a particular part of me that wished and craved to someday be noticed more by the people around me, to let them know about my existence.

Coming to the rescue, this particular occasion has truly marked a remarkable and memorable experience and chapter in my life. People didn’t really notice my existence around them. They just came in and out of my life without really going through the whole process of learning and understanding each other well. I would say that I had only known a few real friends. But conversely, people typically only really notice my existence if I appeared in hallways and classes with my twin sister. I guess that I only really capture people when we appear specifically in a pair then. As new students in St. Peter, freshmen especially were looking forward into the school’s annual ball. I still remembered how my two girlfriends and the whole school reacted towards the flyers and posters that had been circulated and passed both inside and outside school for nearly a month. Frankly saying, like everybody else, I’d started dreaming and imagining the night of the ball in my sleep and classes. But like always, the word “nerd” again appeared in my mind. Taking into account how I appeared with my thick spectacles and unfashionable hair, “No one would want to date a nerd like me…” I thought.

However, miraculously, the four-eyed genius, Josh whom always got his braces stuck with the leftover of his breakfast each day, which had been sitting next to me all the time in science class gradually asked me to be his date. Smiling from ear to ear, I was on cloud nine! It was something unexpected. Same happened to my sister too. Apparently Josh’s best friend needed a date too. Instead of having no date at all, my sister and I turned to each other, exchanged smiled and said YES!

Slowly, after the busy frenzied period of the ball’s preparation, the day of the party finally arrived. It was really an outstanding night as the theme was the free costume concept. We had a table reserved for the gothic costumes and one for the hot and spicy. Others included Halloween, hip hop, flora and fauna and the beach wear costumes which I was in plus many others. One can only imagine how dazzling and colorful the hall was with all the beautiful decorations. Scented candle lights and colorful spot lights helped brighten the feeling adding such a wonderful mood to the atmosphere. Not forgetting the participants who dressed to kill with each of their impressive outfits.

When daddy dropped both of us in front of the hall, I can still remember how we both seemed to be the centre of attention that night. Everyone were eyeing us looking surprised and shell shocked to see a set of identical looking girls wearing the same long batik skirt with high heels and a ring of pretty flowers decorating each of their curly set-hair. They had no idea at all who we were. In addition, they were not only students, but also outsiders and teachers. There were no more thick spectacles or the tying and clipping up of hairs. Even our girlfriends didn’t recognize us. Oh my, thinking about it again, I was in the ambiance of happiness and feeling high yet nervous since everyone got their eyes on us. Oh it all comes back to me now, the wonderful feeling of ecstasy mixed with extreme horror. I am really thankful for my uncle’s help in preparing us that evening.

The night was a total success. Everyone loved and enjoyed the party. We had games and dancing floor activities which were meant to be ice-braking sessions aimed at making more new friends. The games brought down the house where everyone couldn’t stop laughing seeing some of the participants’ acts and creativity during the games. In that one special night, I felt like Cinderella who in the early part at the ball was not at all noticed by anyone but finally became the major attention of the whole party. In my case, having guys coming to and fro, asking us for a dance or two wrapped up by a busy photo session with the people I didn’t even know flattered me and made me feel like a real life princess.

Wow, it was truly a great night. Even after the party, some guys waited up outside the hall just to pass us their numbers while asking us for ours too. How cool was that? I can’t believe that I have nearly forgotten such a remarkable experience that has changed and totally transformed my entire school’s years from a girl that had spent her days in only her comfortable shell to a cheerful, noticeable girl. *Smile* Thank God that this “marvelous” idea came across me, or else I would end up staying in that same unchanged room for another decade of my life; and little by little having this special forgotten memory far away from me and bit by bit losing its position forever.

-Tress-

I'm Not Meant to be a VIRUS!

“I hate my life. Why must I be born this way. Can’t I be like the antibody that protects and guards her master? I want to be as loyal as them. I want to serve.” This was what I had been telling myself for that particular hour of my life.

Since small, I had been infecting, destroying and killing. I used to feel satisfied with my life. Kill, kill, and kill. Somehow I gained a satisfaction through this forbidden, hedious action. That was what I thought my life should be like. Daddy and mummy never said anything about not to kill. However, as time passed by, I started realizing that my life stands no meaning at all. Over the years, I’d seen death everywhere. I killed and I destoyed. But the antibodies fought with all their hearts, guarding and protecting their masters faithfully. In one particular time when I was in a new target, I started to feel a little lackness. A feeling that made me felt incomplete. What was it? Why did it makes me feel uncomfortable? I started questioning myself.

One day, as I was about to destroy one of the white cells again, the cell leader blocked her boldly with his sword. Weird. It was so weird. They were covering for each others’ back and were united though they had never even seen the owner of the body before. I on the other hand felt so confused, alone and isolated. Somewhere deep inside my heart, I hold a feeling of envy seeing how united, and happy they were. Unexpectedly, I broke into tears and dropped my sword. Seeing that, the leader came up to me and said:

“Have you been thinking for this few days about your life? Please stop listening to the evil voice. I understand how you feel and I wish to help. I know what has been lost in you life now.” Catching a spark from his speech, and feeling curious that he knew my state, I looked up and started listening to him.

In our conversation, he talked about life and how God had created all the beings on earth, even the tiny little living thing like he and I. Amazingly, I started entering a realm of satisfaction. My heart was slowly opening up to the word of God. Though I may be born as a virus, repenting was not an impossible thing. Since then, I repented and started joining the cells force. Instead of killing, I learn to protect and guard my master. It is really like a dream come true. Though I know the fact that I am still a virus, I am glad to know that I am loved and cared by God. Those who repent shall be filled and seek no more.

-Tress-

The Prayer

The Prayer

Stop, stop I told to myself
As I ran and entered the forbidden forest
My head is spinning with her yells and shouts
Couldn’t take it anymore
I need to leave

“Fly, fly, fly my maidens”
I heard a voice delicately speaking
As it was the forbidden forest you see
I ran to the bush and ducked to peek
To fill the questions of my curiosity

“Land, land, land under the moonlight”
It was a flock of swans I see
Transforming into maidens under the moonlight
I was surprised, surprised and surprised
“Am I dreaming?” I started to think

Then came a man with a crown on his head
He came and talked to the queen of the swans
It must be love at the first sight I guessed
As he got down on his knee with her hand in his
And then he went back out of the forest again

I sat and see and waited for the man to come
While the maidens were performing their capturing moves
They swayed to the left, they swayed to the right
They stood on their toe and ballet all around
But not for long the Queen then left

Standing on my feet, I wanted to get home
It was late for sure, I guess it’s nearly dawn
But then came the Queen with cry of despair
She laid on the grass, looking dreadfully sick
Running towards her was the man in crown again

The man cried and then kissed her gently
The maidens were sad that they danced sadly
He then threw off the queen’s tiara into the lake
Which then followed by a strong gushing sound
Where the lake rose and immersed them both

Miserable, miserable, miserable was what I felt
When there were nothing left of them
Tears came rolling down my cheeks
I closed my eyes and prayed it was a dream
And found myself back under my bed within a jiffy

-Tress-

An Environmentalist

Are you aware of the Dying Nature?

I enjoy walking in the woods so much. Taking in the fresh air and listening to the wilderness; having my feets and hands in the fresh water that flows gracefully down the stream while watching the fishes swimming happily in it. Also, taking pictures of the tall lush trees and wild flowers; watching deers grazing over the green grass and the friendly birds singing cheerfully.

However……

It was hazy this morning; and it is still smoggy now. Fresh breeze has been long gone after the great blaze last night. It hadn’t been raining for the past few weeks already. Can’t believe that the tiny rain last night would be accompanied by its faithful lightning; bringing flickers and causing a tremendous fire that destroyed the greenery and killing its contain.

Fire fighters look strong and brave. But deep inside them, their fear still holds most. Fire seems to be friendly when it is just a flicker but scary and life-consuming when it grows larger. These people had been tackling the fire since last night. Battling and risking their lives from both the ground and also the air. The scene looked dreadfully scary even for an eye-witness like me. I watched from my window while the flames leaped high in the air and choppers dodged for protections from the fast-moving inferno. I wonder what I can do?

I went to the scene this morning after the long-fighting hour of the fire fighters that had finally brought the fire to a halt. The smell of woods burning still conquers. The stream that I used to relax at were covered with dark ashes and dead fishes. The tall tress that used to stand tall, protecting me from the sun rays were now down on the ground burning and smoking helplessly…The feeling was so overwhelming. All are destroyed.

My dear friends must have felt very scared. Horrified by the hot blazing and falling trees that used to be friendly to them. The deers and the bears must have lost their ways. I hope they found the path out of their fears. “Help! Help!…” would be what they have screamed. Panicked, confused gathering their families. The ashy air were off from helping them. Suffocated, difficulties and body parts weakening. The heat can be felt strongly like it was actually consuming you up. My poor friends. My poor woods. They used to be beautiful, energetic and fresh; standing confidently reaching out for the sun; being the noble tool for the sky-watchers to see and also as a natural painting of views for our homes. However, being sawed and suffered in fire, whether it is caused by human or nature itself, that just seems to be the fate of our woods and forests.

Yet, this time it was the lightnings. It is out of our control to actually avoid it. But those great blazes that were caused by day-trippers, picnikers and campers; human like us, are unforgivable. All these are avoidable. You may not care about the nature, but your fuel, your food, your water and your oxygen comes from them. Thus, direct or indirect, everyone of us holds a responsibilty here. You may think that there’s nothing much you can help. But always bear in mind, even a small little deed matters and can be make greater. Mother nature is crying for us now. Do not wait until our turn to cry for them!!! By then, it could be too late…

Yong, Tressilla
30 November 2007

-Tress-

My Life as a Rain Coat

It was dark outside as black gloomy clouds started taking over the day, pushing the sun aside, forcing it slowly back to its bed. Passers-by that were leisurely walking, taking their time of enjoying the day started to quicken their pace. Faces of the happy young people began to change and alter, hanging on a worried smile instead and started hustling their way out of the hectic street. With the final peek of the sun on them, thunders came growling like an angry legion on war while lightning showing off its great flashes of wonderfully created lights. Pitter-patter...pitter-patter…light rain started hitting the ground. It didn’t last long when all of the sudden it transformed into strong heavy raindrops that started pushing itself towards the window pane of the shops, hitting and beating viciously with a lending hand from the volunteering gust. Well, there went my hopes again.

I’ve been lying on the shelf for quite some times since the day I was shipped from the nation that created me, China; collecting dusts and webs all the way through until gradually, all my fellow comrades were bought, clearing up the front line for me and making me visible again. As usual, I would gain back all my courage and positive thinking when the rain came down and touched the surface of this tired earth as I might be bought. Though today, people normally would opt for our fellow opponent, the umbrellas, yet, raincoats like my race were also useful too. I was sure that every thing was made with its sole unique purpose.

“Ding dong…Ding dong…” sounds from the shop’s speakers interfered my thoughts. In a sudden rush, there went in a fine-dressed man dashing into the shop. He was slightly wet and sweaty from the raging rain outside. His act of kept looking at his watch indicated that he was in a hurry. Having my eyes set on him, he started searching for his items. Hmmm…talking about umbrella earlier on; that was exactly what he was looking for. Grabbing the chosen blue umbrella on his hand, he walked towards the counter when surprisingly; he halted in front of my shelf. He picked me up, twisted and turned me around, reading the words on my back and finally, grasped me in the hand and paid my owner. Well, my ex-owner I supposed.

Without wasting any more time, he stripped the plastic cover off me and wore me. And for the very first time in my life, I experienced the direct contact with Mother Nature. Wow, what a feeling of wonderfulness. I was feeling extremely great and happy. But of course, that rival of mine was not excluded. My owner had it proudly, high up in the air too. Strong wind and rain were still blowing continuously, showing no mercy to the school children across the road. My owner on the other hand doubled his pace and clutching me tightly as the heavy breeze blew. This made me felt more needed, more meaningful and useful. At least, I was able to serve my new master. “We’re equal umbrellas…” I smiled as I thought to myself. “See? We really are equal.”

As my master was reaching his car, he took me off and plunked me under the seat. He then went on and drove to a house where a beautifully dressed lady was waiting at the porch for him. In the car, they chatted gleefully about their days, how busy were their works, any new projects coming up and so on. Not long, the car took a halt. It was still raining as I could hear the sound of raindrops still pitter-pattering. As I was ready to serve my master again, he opened the back door and took only the blue umbrella, fetching the lady in front and entered the high-class, fully-lit restaurant. Dumbfounded, I must’ve been wrong. My rival and I were not equal at all.

My life as a raincoat, ended under that back seat.

-Tress-

The World's Peter

It has been reported that he died because of cholera; probably a result of drinking unboiled water. However, there are other sources that said that he had actually killed himself. Though the nature of his death was undetermined, still the most important part would be having all nations rejoice that Rudolf Kundinger, posted as his respected piano teacher had never succeeded in dissuading him from a musical career. Destined to be a great musician, his compositions and music have until now, heard all over the world; being honoured, respected, choreographed and appreciated.

In this respective day, 7th May, 1840, this well-known composer was brought to the world. Born as the second eldest of six children in Kamsko-Votkinsk, he could read French and German at the age of six and started a piano lesson as well as writing verses in French at the age of seven.

After attending the St. Petersburg School of Jurisprudence in 1850, he then became a clerk in the Ministry of Justice. Before transferring to the newly opened St. Petersburg Conservatory, he studied with Nicolai Zaremba and after a year left his job in the ministry to study full time at the Conservatory. There, he studied everything including conducting from Anton Rubenstein whom shown interest in his talent. However, this man had his own fear when conducting the orchestra. Overwhelmed of the fear of having his head unattached, he normally would have his left hand under his chin as prevention.

After four years, he graduated and carried on and taught at the Moscow Conservatory, a place where he got his inspiration to begin composing. His first few compositions included his First Symphony and the opera Voyevoda. In 1868, inspired by the encounter with the Five (Famous group of young Russian composers), he wrote his Second Symphony. Not long after that, he wrote another few operas featuring the well-known Romeo and Juliet (Fantasy Overture) and The Tempest.

The changes of his single status to wedded started in 1877 when Antonina Milyokova, a student of his declared her love to him and even threatened to commit suicide if he rejected her. His feeling of lost and unable to voice out his rejection was expressed through his composition of Eugene Onegin. Gradually, they got married. However, their marriage did not last long. After a catastrophic nine weeks together, they separated. Facing the storm of a lifetime, he attempted to drown himself yet was saved by his brother, Modeste. Having suffered a nervous breakdown, he moved to Switzerland and later to Italy to recover. Yet, responsible as he was, he supported Antonina financially until his last breath. By the way, after having lovers after lovers in her whole life, Antonina finally died in an asylum in 1915.

In building himself up again from his great turning point, he came under the patronage of Madame Nadezhda von Meck who gave him a yearly allowance permitting him to give up teaching and focus wholly on composing. Though they never met each other, their relationship was extensive and frank. Due to Madame von Meck’s generosity, he wrote his Fourth Symphony as dedication to her.

By this time, he was quite well known in Russia, Britain and United States. He wrote Manfred in where he lived in Klin within virtual isolation while two years later; he brought tours to German, France, and England as conductor. After The Sleeping Beauty was produced, he carried on working on his next opera The Queen of Spades which was later produced in St. Petersburg the following year. Unfortunately, due to illness or pressure from family, Madame von Meck ended her sponsorship on him. Accordingly, he lost his self esteem which seemed not to recover. Yet, life needed to go on. His tour to the United States in 1891 was a success. After his appearance in the opening of the music Hall (renamed Carnegie Hall) that year, he had a premiere of The Nutcracker in the following year. Equal to his amazing gifted talent, he received an honorary doctorate of music from the University of Cambridge. His Sixth Symphony which was started in 1891 was finally completed this year too. Though he personally believed it to be his best work, the critics happened to think the opposite way. Sadly, after a few days, he put out his last breath.

This man had raised the status of ballet music from its previously unknown status. This man though had been experiencing break downs in all aspects of his life, was able to put his unhappiness, disappointments and despair aside and came up with one of the brightest music ever; The Nutcracker. Finally, being widely known best by his composition on the world’s most well-regarded ballet; Swan Lake, this man is no one else but one of the most gifted and talented composers through out all ages, Peter Ilyich Tchaikovsky.

-Tress-