It was midday in March, and Vasily was walking down the street, when a young boy about 10 years old came running up to him.
"Ilya! How good to see you again! How were your classes today?" Vasily hugged him and patted his head, and so they walked together down the road.
"It was alright. Arithmetic is still hard though. There was a test today, I don't think I did so well."
"Ah, that's too bad."
The weather was bitterly cold.
Few people were walking in the streets that afternoon. A storm was brewing to the west, and no prompting was needed to keep people indoors: wind gusts were like knives, and showers of flurries here and there felt more like fire when they hit the face.
Vasily Sergeyevich walked on. He had 2 more blocks to go.
He was returning from his rehearsal with the theater orchestra, and the heavy briefcase in his arms was his bassoon.
At face value, this symphony already poses some interesting features. The Fourth Symphony only has three movements: two relatively long and complex outer movements and a Scherzo in between. While none of the movements use Sonata form, Glazunov creates his own modified versions of theme and variation and sonata-rondo. Much like Schumann’s Symphony No. 4, this symphony’s main basis is an immense cyclical form of a handful of concrete themes. However, this is not a feature that the Nationalists
Yeah, back when blogs were started here, I called my entire short story section of my blog "The Wandering Tower" Blog, named after one of Prokofiev's own creations. I was very excited to find out that he wrote lots of short stories too, we must have many things in common after all.
So what did you think of the latest story I posted? It took me a long long time to do the actual historical research, in which I melded fictional events into. You may never know which are real
Two weeks later, Anton Stepanovich was dead. He embraced one of his books while he died, weeping with his last breaths they say. The book was flipped to this poem:
The days drag on, each moment multiplies
Within my wounded heart the pain and sadness
Of an unhappy love and, dark, gives rise.
To sleepless dreams, the haunting dreams of madness
But I do not complain - instead, I weep;
Tears bring me solace, comforted they leave me.