Musical Encounters
Galina Barashka
©
Copyright 2026 by Galina Barashka
|
Photo by Gundula Vogel at Pexels. |
Nobody
is going to believe me anyway. But it's worth telling my stories.
That's what writers do after all.
I
don't know when exactly I came up with the idea that I should become
a writer. Maybe after several desired professions I didn't have the
talent or the skills for. My outcasting of the school choir due to a
tiny mishap put an end to my singing career. I couldn't become a
teacher because I wasn't able to choose what discipline to teach. As
to the astronaut’s ambition - after one week of eating food
that came out of a tube, my stomach said “enough”. So, I
chose something less stressful for me and the people around me. A
writing career. After years of flirting with different genres,
copying my favorite authors, trying to achieve a writing style of my
own, I finally realized that what I needed to do first was to learn
the ropes. How does a writer's mind work? Where does the writer draw
inspiration from? Well, I think I got the answers and I am ready to
share them.
There
are two things that each writer should be able to do. Once you master
those two arts, inspiration comes easily. And it comes from everyday
life. Sometimes real-life events are so impactful, that you don't
need to invent anything, telling the story is enough. So, those two
skills, in my opinion, are: the ability to observe and to listen. In
my case it was to observe nature, fauna, in particular and to listen
to rock music (mainly). Strange as it may seem, in the following
lines I will share how these two coincided on two occasions before my
eyes.
Case
1
Years
ago when only people were called smart, intelligence was natural and
generations didn't have labels, life was simpler. Forms of
entertainment existed, they were efficient enough, although they had
nothing to do with staring at screens. Yes, we had mobile phones, but
we used them predominantly to make calls, send short messages and
play music that was on our phones. So archaic…
So,
back in those days we had actual free time. One day we - two boys and
two girls, made the decision to spend some of the aforementioned free
time fishing. Actually boys did. We, girls, having no previous
knowledge on the subject and no desire to acquire one, had sunbathing
plans. We took the bus to a nearby village that had a lake as big as
the village itself, after hours of wandering found the perfect spot
and settled in. It was early summer and the sunbeams weren't that
cruel. The proximity of the lake provided just the right amount of
coolness and we, girls, were simply enjoying the experience. The boys
weren't that excited, because every time they caught a fish we
cheered for a while and made them release the poor soul back in the
lake. So fishing with no fish as a proof. Boys grew tired after
several hours, gave up the idea and tried to think of ways to
entertain themselves. One of them offered to play some music on his
phone and we agreed. I don't know why but he decided to do it while
in the lake. Imagine him standing in the lake, water up to his knees,
holding his phone high not to get wet and playing “Deep
Purple”. The song was “Smoke on the water”. Halfway
way through the song he mumbled: “Hey, guys, you have to see
this!” What we eyewitnessed after was something I would never
believe if I hadn't experienced it firsthand:
Frogs.
Five or six of them. Standing on underwater rocks, not perceivable by
the human eye. They made a “worship” half circle so close
to my friend, that he was able to touch them, should he just bend
down. It was like he was preaching something and the parish gathered
to listen to his sermon. They listened in awe, heads straight up,
eyes in my friend, the master of music. We, the human beings, were
standing in silence, pensive, considering if all of this was true or
just a collective dream we were all having simultaneously. Whatever
it was, it ended with the song’s final accords. The frogs
realized the impromptu concert was over and one by one jumped back to
the lake. We quietly gathered our things and headed to the bus stop.
Case
2
Decades
later. Another bus stop. My humble persona - the only witness. Early
Sunday morning, cold season, maybe November. I am heading to the bus
stop, singing a song I've recently discovered. I want to play it so
badly on my phone, but I forgot the headphones at home. I get to the
bus stop and there's no one there, no people on the street, just two
crows scavenging for food. There's still time until the bus comes,
four minutes, just enough. I am playing the song and singing out
loud. I don't know the lyrics, since they are in German, but this
doesn't dampen the fun. I am howling along with the lead singer, air
drumming with the drummer, head banging - gently, in case anyone
comes. The song (“Puppe” by “Rammstein”) is
over, I am enjoying the “taste” it left on my palate and
all of a sudden something small and shiny falls from the sky. Right
in front of the bus stop. I stand up, look both ways, see no single
soul out there, pinch myself, just to be sure I am awake and aware. I
look down and I see a dead fish. My town is by a river, still the bus
stop is at least two kilometers away from any water sources. How come
that fish turned up here? Dead? While I am convincing myself I am not
going mad, that things that cannot be explained happen all the time
and I've just witnessed one of them, I hear the crows. They are on a
branch of a tree right above the bus stop. They are chirping. They
are content. They liked the song and decided I needed a reward. So
they treated me to a dead fish. The bus is here. I'm getting on and I
am sure nobody's gonna believe me. But it's worth sharing. I am a
writer, after all.
Galina
Barashka is a writer currently residing in Ruse, Bulgaria. She is a
previously unpublished writer with no prior professional writing
credits.
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