Thunderous applause! Absolutely ridiculous. And all of the peons in the audience were on their feet. Bill Cromwell, a seventy-year old retired choir director and former Marine, refused to stand. Instead, he sat with his his legs crossed and arms folded, with his mouth folded in a vicious scowl. The children’s community choir were cute as cherubs, he conceded, but at least five of them had committed the ultimate sin – singing an octave above their ability.
she went up an octave to see if things cleared up there. they didnt. she went back down, then down some more, and once more til it was all unrecognizable. she tried to scurry upward but it was too late. she forgot where she started.
above.
above whatever
tarnish you thought
would keep you comfortable.
that’s where it lives.
one octave higher
than just okay.
many attempts don’t make it.
they sound hoarse,
out of key,
like you want to give up.
but nothing sounds sweeter than
finally nailing it.
“Hello!” His voice was a few octaves above the rest. “Hey! Over here!” He continued to yell louder than the others.
“Not another one…” She lamented. To her, he was just another photographer attempting to get a candid photo of her.
There’s eight notes in an octave. Eight legs on an octopus. Eight sides to an Octagon. I don’t have eight sides, or legs, or sounds. I’m not the eighth-born, like my name would suggest. I’m actually an only child. So why Octavia? I have never forgiven my parents for it – it’s certainly not the name you want growing up post-2000.
It is the day week of a festival,or the eighth day of any religious festival of any religion.It is also known as the combination or collection of eight things.it is also known as the eight lines of a poem.
Stacy’s piano teacher was a mouth breather. Stacy sat at her place at the piano, playing her scales and her etudes, but what sense of music could there ever be with that mouth-breathing bread loaf of a human being sitting behind her ruining the whole fucking process.
“Play ‘Oom-Papa’ for me please,” my piano teacher asked.
“Sure.” I fliped throughmy book to find it. I played it for my piano teacher.
“Well done! Now try playing it and octave higher.” I played it.
“Thank you.”
Oh, how this word reminds me of show choir. Those were the days. Singing jazzy songs and doing cute dance numbers with my boyfriend… Show choir was my favorite class in high school, for sure. I really miss those days. I miss being so happy, with so little to worry about.
Octave
A simple yet beautiful word to the people who don’t know its meaning.
To people who do know the purpose and meaning of the word, you know that it is there to keep everything organized
The boy was just an octave higher than everyone else, and that was what made him so special . . . what drew her to him. Her boss had told her that it was prudent she find a kid that showed real talent in either singing or acting, and it seemed that she would not have to disappoint him.
“I’m Elizabeth Cater,” she told him, bending down to his level. “And you are?”
“Joshua Starkland,” he mumbled. What a shy boy.
She gave him a warm smile. “Well, Joshua, you sing beautifully. Would you like to be in a play that I’m conducting?”
Tim was, by no means, a musician. He could appreciate music, sure, but had no interest in learning to sing or play instruments. It was just something he wasn’t interested in! He didn’t really know anyone that was into music, either. There was young virtuosos in the Facility, sure,
She could sing every octave, but never did how much attention it would bring her. She wanted to let others know just what she could do, but she was supposed to lay low and finish her task.
What do I know about music? Almost nothing apart from the bands that I listen to, which people tell me is either too upbeat or simple. Yet, I went to his house and we talked about cellos. We drank wine and talked about guitar. And then we did something we shouldn’t have which ruined our friendship. At least I don’t miss you. That’s the great part.
Octave…
The same…..yet separate
Separated by six notes….
Never to meet
In that linear sort of way
But vibrating..pulsating…
Together
In that space…
beyond
Awakening remembrance
Deep resonance
Just beyond…consciousness…
Octave..
She wrote the octave for a class her junior year of college. She proceeded to rewrite it everyday, never seeming to be happy with it. By the time of her death it was still unfinished.
She knew him by his name. Octavian. Unusual, august, severe. But he never acted like that. Not around her, at least. She never new him, the real him, until she saw him crumple, that fateful day in the parking garage…
i see blue i am an octopus i can fit through tiny gaps to get away from pray so right now i am running fro a shark into small spaces swimming fast the shark is swimming faster than i am, am i going to bait? but i see a small opening i run into it and sit there for a ;pond time.
The octave was harder to compose than he previously expected. Unwilling to simply drop the task like all the other unfinished poems he had littered around his desk, he instead grabbed his clipboard and stepped outside. He fished out an old fashioned fountain pen (a gift from a friend, he would never have been able to purchase such a pricey commodity himself) from his oversized denim jacket and settled down out next to the patio. It was a tad arduous being a poet in the modern 21st century, but he had to make ends meet somehow. Besides, he always got inspiration from watching the people pass him from his patio view. Paris was never boring.
Her body hummed with the miracle of it all. After all these years, somebody, another body opening hers, caressing it, worshipping it, filling it completely with itself. His nose brushed across her breasts and ran up the length of her neck, his sighs making perfect octaves in her ear. She clawed at his head. His beautiful, perfectly formed head that smelt of aftershave and sex. With an instinct from another time she lifted her body to meet his, skin against skin. Slowly at first but inevitably the rhythm building so that she could push herself into the very heart him, and him in to her, in a frenzied union of flesh and wanting.
one octave lower and he would have had her – now he was left with her sister with a bunged up sinus cavity that made her sound like the pits of chaosmos laughing.
ive honestly never heard the word “octave”. But my first thought was a cave. i always go hiking to caves and really enjoy it. i always enjoy hiking. i feel whole in nature.
“I didn’t even know Larry could sing at that octave!” whispered Ed as soon as the aria was over.
I laughed. “Falsetto,” I replied. “You never tried singing like the Bee Gees?”
“Nah. Hurt my voice too much.”
We waited for Larry outside the auditorium, eating the cheap cookies and drinking the sparkling cider that the fundraiser parents had left out. Once the spindly, tall vocalist stepped out, Ed, his parents, and I all clapped. He instantly went bright red, very embarrassed.
i don’t really know what this means.
but i think it means something about music
maybe
im not sure though
octave what is it?
“No, higher. Gosh!” The soprano snapped. “It’s hopeless! I’m never going to be able to perform with you guys! I quit!”
She stormed out of the room. The other guys looked at each other uncertainly.
“Um, weren’t we discussing where to place this plant to kill the most zombies?”
“Gee, I don’t know. She sounded pretty off.”
I don’t know where in the world this word came from or what it means but it sounds really cool and it looks like octopus.
Thunderous applause! Absolutely ridiculous. And all of the peons in the audience were on their feet. Bill Cromwell, a seventy-year old retired choir director and former Marine, refused to stand. Instead, he sat with his his legs crossed and arms folded, with his mouth folded in a vicious scowl. The children’s community choir were cute as cherubs, he conceded, but at least five of them had committed the ultimate sin – singing an octave above their ability.
she went up an octave to see if things cleared up there. they didnt. she went back down, then down some more, and once more til it was all unrecognizable. she tried to scurry upward but it was too late. she forgot where she started.
Your love is like a harmony.
You sing with such delicacy,
and you take me climbing up the octaves
Your love is a beautiful symphony.
above.
above whatever
tarnish you thought
would keep you comfortable.
that’s where it lives.
one octave higher
than just okay.
many attempts don’t make it.
they sound hoarse,
out of key,
like you want to give up.
but nothing sounds sweeter than
finally nailing it.
“Hello!” His voice was a few octaves above the rest. “Hey! Over here!” He continued to yell louder than the others.
“Not another one…” She lamented. To her, he was just another photographer attempting to get a candid photo of her.
There’s eight notes in an octave. Eight legs on an octopus. Eight sides to an Octagon. I don’t have eight sides, or legs, or sounds. I’m not the eighth-born, like my name would suggest. I’m actually an only child. So why Octavia? I have never forgiven my parents for it – it’s certainly not the name you want growing up post-2000.
Eh..
What do you want me to write? Well if it is about weather it is pretty hot today. Feeling elated as I seem to have unlocked some treasure today.
I DO NOT KNOW IF SOMEONE KNOWS I WILL SEE MY SELF.
It is the day week of a festival,or the eighth day of any religious festival of any religion.It is also known as the combination or collection of eight things.it is also known as the eight lines of a poem.
Whats an octave? Thats a very good question which i am anxiously waiting for the countdown to finish so i can read your answers.
Stacy’s piano teacher was a mouth breather. Stacy sat at her place at the piano, playing her scales and her etudes, but what sense of music could there ever be with that mouth-breathing bread loaf of a human being sitting behind her ruining the whole fucking process.
“Play ‘Oom-Papa’ for me please,” my piano teacher asked.
“Sure.” I fliped throughmy book to find it. I played it for my piano teacher.
“Well done! Now try playing it and octave higher.” I played it.
“Thank you.”
Poem with 8 lines in it. Music note .
Oh, how this word reminds me of show choir. Those were the days. Singing jazzy songs and doing cute dance numbers with my boyfriend… Show choir was my favorite class in high school, for sure. I really miss those days. I miss being so happy, with so little to worry about.
up down change drop fast shift between always different unknowing to yourself give it away speaks for you
Octave
A simple yet beautiful word to the people who don’t know its meaning.
To people who do know the purpose and meaning of the word, you know that it is there to keep everything organized
the beat, the thrum,
shining through my ears will not, cannot, stop.
I sashay up and about out my house, heeding to where the octave lead me
the place i wind up, a kayak materialized by musical notes.
the area of rest, where i succumb´ life´s insecurties, is within the octave.
The boy was just an octave higher than everyone else, and that was what made him so special . . . what drew her to him. Her boss had told her that it was prudent she find a kid that showed real talent in either singing or acting, and it seemed that she would not have to disappoint him.
“I’m Elizabeth Cater,” she told him, bending down to his level. “And you are?”
“Joshua Starkland,” he mumbled. What a shy boy.
She gave him a warm smile. “Well, Joshua, you sing beautifully. Would you like to be in a play that I’m conducting?”
Tim was, by no means, a musician. He could appreciate music, sure, but had no interest in learning to sing or play instruments. It was just something he wasn’t interested in! He didn’t really know anyone that was into music, either. There was young virtuosos in the Facility, sure,
She could sing every octave, but never did how much attention it would bring her. She wanted to let others know just what she could do, but she was supposed to lay low and finish her task.
What do I know about music? Almost nothing apart from the bands that I listen to, which people tell me is either too upbeat or simple. Yet, I went to his house and we talked about cellos. We drank wine and talked about guitar. And then we did something we shouldn’t have which ruined our friendship. At least I don’t miss you. That’s the great part.
Octave…
The same…..yet separate
Separated by six notes….
Never to meet
In that linear sort of way
But vibrating..pulsating…
Together
In that space…
beyond
Awakening remembrance
Deep resonance
Just beyond…consciousness…
Octave..
She wrote the octave for a class her junior year of college. She proceeded to rewrite it everyday, never seeming to be happy with it. By the time of her death it was still unfinished.
She knew him by his name. Octavian. Unusual, august, severe. But he never acted like that. Not around her, at least. She never new him, the real him, until she saw him crumple, that fateful day in the parking garage…
octave octave octave octave octave octave octave r567yuhgvcxzavcdsew8icdsrtyjnbvcdb vcjvfyuj wjrkgnjfegjnejfnvgfubevjbfnghiefbhbqejrbgjjregjnejgnjenarjgjsrhjbghsdghkfghsedghesghlserskfghaihfgsehahfheghfgesfseafaefgsgufsgerfggfgdhssseaseaseaseaseaseaseasaeseaseaseaaseaseaseaseaseaseaseaseaseaseseseserfhkoqfhhhhvhhidhfuhgsef8ughrsuhgsuhsugudhugudhuhrvhuihfgenfinfinfjasoigqwejfnhrghbfjherbhgsfgerhiughirehgiuenhtuyfkgnuydfhgnivurhtgvcnerioshgnoiuerytshviodrgmvituygvnursyjv8hfsnt7vugduyrgnvduyrgntvuygnrsuygcnyugvnicrsunferuciuygnuyregncuyensrcuygsenrfycdfgycidsuygnfisuygncyudgnsciuyesngcfuygnscdfydfycdyvcsfuygfcuygnfduygnfyucgnuyfcgnfsudgfncsuydfgnuyfhcidhcniuhfdudfguhjebcgbnfgcsyuinuygunycugfdnsfuygdsuycguygcfycfgnuydgfnyrewfjrjevcefehjivcdjfjguwjehrvbsfdbivuerjviebvijehrivhirvisvherhguduhguruhvduhvurvehvrbvuruiaehfueuvsiuehrfuehwurfhvidsijifu ge g
hi
i see blue i am an octopus i can fit through tiny gaps to get away from pray so right now i am running fro a shark into small spaces swimming fast the shark is swimming faster than i am, am i going to bait? but i see a small opening i run into it and sit there for a ;pond time.
I don’t know what octave is. May it is like an octopus, but… in a cave? Or maybe the cave has eight tentacles. Hmmm…
The octave was harder to compose than he previously expected. Unwilling to simply drop the task like all the other unfinished poems he had littered around his desk, he instead grabbed his clipboard and stepped outside. He fished out an old fashioned fountain pen (a gift from a friend, he would never have been able to purchase such a pricey commodity himself) from his oversized denim jacket and settled down out next to the patio. It was a tad arduous being a poet in the modern 21st century, but he had to make ends meet somehow. Besides, he always got inspiration from watching the people pass him from his patio view. Paris was never boring.
Starring in the crystal waters of the bay, Octavia ran her slender, pale fingers through her long raven hair.
Her body hummed with the miracle of it all. After all these years, somebody, another body opening hers, caressing it, worshipping it, filling it completely with itself. His nose brushed across her breasts and ran up the length of her neck, his sighs making perfect octaves in her ear. She clawed at his head. His beautiful, perfectly formed head that smelt of aftershave and sex. With an instinct from another time she lifted her body to meet his, skin against skin. Slowly at first but inevitably the rhythm building so that she could push herself into the very heart him, and him in to her, in a frenzied union of flesh and wanting.
one octave lower and he would have had her – now he was left with her sister with a bunged up sinus cavity that made her sound like the pits of chaosmos laughing.
ive honestly never heard the word “octave”. But my first thought was a cave. i always go hiking to caves and really enjoy it. i always enjoy hiking. i feel whole in nature.
One on the other
getting me higher and higher
you were always an octave lower then the rest
but i never cared.
lownly
“I didn’t even know Larry could sing at that octave!” whispered Ed as soon as the aria was over.
I laughed. “Falsetto,” I replied. “You never tried singing like the Bee Gees?”
“Nah. Hurt my voice too much.”
We waited for Larry outside the auditorium, eating the cheap cookies and drinking the sparkling cider that the fundraiser parents had left out. Once the spindly, tall vocalist stepped out, Ed, his parents, and I all clapped. He instantly went bright red, very embarrassed.