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A Voice From Within

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A Voice From Within The trees swayed along to the rhythm as the wind whistled its faint refrain. Their leaves whispered as a chorus of newly awakened voices. Overhead, the clouds drifted away to make space for the silver orb that was the moon. A weary tramp pushed his way through the woods, forcing his staff ahead of him to guide the way. The tramp was blind. For the past thirty years, life seemed to have mercilessly catapulted rocks at him one by one. Oh, he had got used to living with nothing- a wife who had died in childbirth, an unsteady job... but he had had his son. He was only a lowly janitor in some building in town. In his free time, he would paint. He would create wonderful works of art along with his son. Despite their relatively poor lifestyle, they were happy together. His son had been the very reason for his existence- lighting up the many dark corners in his life. Tears streamed down sightless eyes, memories and random images of his little boy running through his head. A mere fifteen years old, yet Death had knocked on his door. ...read more.


His father had tried everything, willing him to hang on to that frail string that connected him to the mortal world. "He who does not hope to win has already lost," he used to tell his son. And now- he was ready to give away his own life so quickly. The tramp toyed with this increasingly tempting idea. After all, it wasn't like anybody would miss him. There wasn't a soul that cared for him or even knew of his whereabouts, and he had no debts that he would have to clear. There was no reason not to carry out his decision. The minutes passed by as the man wondered idly what would happen after this. Would he spend an eternity slaving away in the fiery empire of Satan? Was he destined for the splendour of the heavens? Or would he return to the earth later in a different form? Fantasies glided through his head...maybe he would be a rich man if he ever came back to earth...or maybe, in the worlds up there, maybe he would meet his beloved son again. Once again, the tears pricked at his eyes. ...read more.


He would depict sadness as watery waves of misery. His paintings came alive; mesmerized viewers could read detailed stories into them. Once in a while, he would feel a sudden surge of frustration as he realized that he would never be able to set his eyes on his own work, but usually, merely the satisfaction of giving his blank canvas a character of his own was enough for him. The tramp's attention was jolted back to the present as the voice spoke again. Yet again, that gut feeling of familiarity came back. On hearing it speak, he felt...like he was back home, all those decades ago. "He who does not hope to win has already lost. You taught me that, remember?" said the voice quietly. *** The chandelier twinkled at the hundred expectant faces in the marble-floored room. One could hear the occasional clink of glasses, the occasional hushed whisper- but the noise simmered down as the young woman climbed onto the stage and tapped at the microphone. "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. I am pleased to announce that today, we are going to launch the second art exhibition of the eminent Mr. John Fisher- a man whose blindness did not prevent him from producing great masterpieces in oil." Fervent applause resonated throughout the hall. ?? ?? ?? ?? Tanya Sen 10JA English coursework ...read more.

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