The crack of pistol fire whipped the athletes into a sudden sprint. Redmond surged forward, running long athletic strides. The hunger for a medal sent adrenaline streaming through his veins.

50 metres flashed by – the lungs beat out air like the bellows of a blacksmith.

100 metres -  the heart pounds like a hammer on an anvil.

At 150 metres, Derek Redmond crumbled to the Olympic track. He had pulled a hamstring, and hobbled for a few metres before succumbing to the excruciating pain. He fell down and lay there, back to the floor, one hand over his leg, the other over his face.

The other athletes raced past the finish line, and had their respective times recorded. The stretcher came for Redmond. At the sight of it, he mustered the strength and courage to stand up on one leg, and began to hobble towards the finish.

Meanwhile, one of the crowd was pushing and elbowing his way past the audience and officials towards Derek. It was his father. He placed Derek’s hand over his shoulder, and together they crossed the finish line to a standing ovation from a crowd of 65,000. Together, they finished the race.

Derek Redmond’s story that day is written with all of the qualities that we as humans should aspire to and be inspired by. It is a story blotted with struggle and failure, but countered by courage and perseverance. It is featured in the Olympics’ ‘Celebrate Humanity’ series and in an advertisement by VISA. Most importantly, though, it challenges the maxim that winners are those who finish first.

http://www.youtube.com/results?search_query=derek+redmond – search page on YouTube for ‘Derek Redmond’

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_ReZThBQmAU – Celebrate Humanity video featuring Derek Redmond

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BU3jfbb172E – VISA advertisement featuring Derek Redmond

Retrieving books from the endless row of shelves, poring over them with the mind of a scholar, and settling them down on the red mahogany tables when his arm muscles ached from holding a book too close. His almond brown eyes travelled the width of the paper; they were sunk beneath two jet black eyebrows that flicked up ever so slightly when he stumbled upon something of interest. He smiled, crunching a juicy red apple while he began on the next volume. His youthful passion was unparalleled.

A countless number of suns and moons travelled their arc overhead, but he was always there within his growing library. I became a sole eye in the darkness focusing my energies on him from behind a sheet of glass. He no longer noticed or bothered to answer me.

I took the time to gaze over the grand library. Elizabethan style furniture peppered the massive room with its elegant curves and intricate etchings. Gazing up at the ceiling, I felt a sense of pettiness as the glass chandeliers loomed overhead reflecting and refracting the light so as to create a myriad shimmering rainbows. The bookshelves arranged themselves haphazardly so that in some places they formed a labyrinth of wood. Carpets from Persia, Azerbaijan and as far away as India adorned the dust-layered stones; artefacts from Arabia – mostly khanjars of varying size and shape, but all borne in a sheath of silver and embedded with a multitude of gleaming red and green gems – hung from the walls; to the Empire of the East he paid homage with statuettes of dragons, snakes, ships with almost triangular sails, all in dazzling jade that he placed upon the tables, the intensity of their green colour contrasting gently with the dullness of the red wood; African tribal masks, long and short, wide-eyed and squinting, puffy-cheeked and starved, were set high up on the walls near the ceiling and ran both the length and breadth of the room; looking at them created an eerie feeling of unease in my stomach, a feeling that although my former friend wasn’t watching me, these beings were.

The beautiful décor belied the fact that it was to become both his home and hell.

The rustling of pages and the continual sound of shallow breathing were all that could be heard. An occasional raspy cough interrupted this flow. Worn fingers twiddled the corners of the never-ending pages.

The books he became engrossed in were an assortment of colours, but they shared a single attribute – their dark shades. They were bound in board, leather, and in a few cases, human skin. Some were merely pamphlets of paper or parchment that he treated with the utmost care due to their fragile state. Most were academic studies of Anatomy, Physics, Mathematics and the like illustrated with confusing diagrams of scattered letters and numbers. Each one had some knowledge to convey to its master and he whipped them until they grew tame and tired of resisting and spilt their secrets.

An alcove in the corner of the building served as storage for a few private belongings of his youth, belongings he had probably long forgotten the true value of. Oddly, I noticed him glancing towards the stained glass windows more often than usual. In fact, I often found myself gazing at them. They depicted scenes of lush landscapes. The biggest of these was a forest of amber trees, detailed with tiny sparrows flocking to their nests against a translucent backdrop of snow-capped mountains. Copper leaves fell and dotted the grassy terrain. A lonesome gravel path twisted into and lost itself in the beauty of it all. Beneath the path, a banner displayed the word Salus proudly. The windows were positioned in such a way that every morning at sunrise, when the rays of sunlight heaved themselves over the grassy knolls to pour out into the world, the coloured windows would glow with an angelic aura lighting up the alcove with bright hues of red, green, yellow and blue.

At night, candlelight suffused the air, and the world became a dance of flames as they flickered in twilight. A cloud of mist seeped through the porous rock like an inverted waterfall creating a wispy waist-high layer to complete the surreal atmosphere. The greyness of the mist melded agreeably with his now silver hair. A fit of coughing ensued echoing off the distant walls and ceiling.

I spied a twinkle in the man’s eyes that I had seen long ago. I searched deeply into those eyes and discovered a streak of fear and astonishment hidden within them. He had discovered something that all the knowledge of the scientific world could not provide him with.

The vigour with which he once attacked his studies halted sharply. Sensing his deteriorated state, the jumble of letters, sentences and paragraphs leaped out from their paper prisons. They lunged at him, taunting him, circling him, and then striking like a spitting cobra. They filled his head with voices, whispering loudly in his mind. The old man bolted up from his chair, grasping the sides of his forehead. The creases protruded from his face, now contorted with terror. He shook from side to side trying to drive the evil away. His black robe thrashed wildly on his frail frame. Compartmentalising his fears, he struggled towards an open tome on his desk. The cover had the pattern of black marble splattered with specks of grey. It sneered at his futile attempt – the words chained his hands and bound his feet – and watched him crumble to his knees. With the little strength he had left ebbing from his skeletal body, he swiped a mad claw over the table. The book lay still. And a candelabrum swayed, first to the left, then to the right, building up momentum. Then it tumbled over the front of the table throwing its candles on to a Persian rug below.

It ignited with a fiery blast, and seared across the whole of the carpet as if petrol had been poured over it. From there a stray flame licked at the edge of a bookcase. It caught fire and went up in flames burning other bookcases beside which burnt those beside them similar to the domino effect. I flew to the exit dodging debris which came whistling down from the ceiling like fireballs from the sky. At the door I looked back. Within minutes all was a swirling fireball amongst a frightened mist which dissolved into the air, and at the centre of it a charred body lay prostrate.

Perhaps it was a mirage of the heat, but in the shimmering fields of fire I saw the purest of angels, stout and proud. I looked again – indeed, his were eyes as blue as the azure sky of dawn outside partially hidden behind golden locks of flowing hair. As was my job, I delved deep into those two pools and found myself facing a wall of iron will, a testament to the discipline with which he followed his path. He wore a tight-fitting white toga beneath a breastplate of beaten silver which surely came from the forge of Hephaestus himself. A matching pair of greaves and bracers of unsurpassed workmanship adorned his bare legs and hands. His wings spanned twice his height, and arched over his head in smooth curves. They beat furiously as he descended upon his target – another angel, but one whose wings were as charred as the body he sought. Sharp talons on the tips of his wings served as extra limbs. The streaks of black and grey that ran across his body seemed to give the impression that he was shrouded with pestilence. Bloodshot eyes filled with all the hate and anger they could muster fixed their gaze on the graceful figure that came swooping down. Above, his bald head was witness to the cursed life he now led. Nevertheless, a dormant beauty existed behind this facade of evil that was forced upon him. His was a tragic tale. I knew well of it. We all did. But it was not my right to take sides.

I sat there on the edge of a circular window of stained glass at the front of the building above the wooden double door gazing down at the epic battle of the two titans below. I watched as they flew from one burning bookcase to another immune to the flames that tickled their feet. I watched as their swords crossed one another, the loud clang of metal only barely audible above the roar of the blaze. And I watched until all three blurry figures were consumed by the fire…

* Note: I apologise for having not written anything for quite some time, but I’ve been rather ‘consumed’ myself with various projects such as making short movie clips. I hope you enjoyed this tale, and that it makes up for my temporary absence. I also hope you’ve read it with a keen and open mind.

1. One who is able by virtue of imagination to create works of aesthetic value.

She emerges from the room with her hands full: a wooden board, a pair of papers, two brushes, a black charcoal pencil, and an easel slung over her shoulder.

I sit on a school chair while I wait. The boy’s bathroom lies behind me and the stench wafts back and forth. The floor is dirtied and scratched – the result of many little, scurrying feet. Looking up reveals nothing but the hollowed out ceiling from which a man surveys the scene below with fleeting interest. Even the walls seem to be splattered with grime and filth. Hardly an inspiring scene. Yet I hold my pose as instructed to do.

With a grace only an artist would posess, she sets the tripod down and performs the ritual: easing the brushes into the holes on each side of the easel, supporting the board on the brushes, clipping the paper to the board. She does it with an air of confidence one can only gain from performing such a task countless times. As she picks up the charcoal from the tray below, the floor disappears with a whoosh to be replaced by an endless field of grass swaying in the breeze, and the walls give way to a lush forest where chirping birds hop from tree to tree. I hardly flinch.

After only a moment’s consideration, an avalanche of sand crashes into the forest, smothering the grass and reducing the trees to wisps of dust in the wind. A sandstorm whirls up, and the sun becomes a dimly lit circle in the midst of the parched, yellow sky. But it doesn’t bother me – I am now donned in majestic, creamy white robes embroidered with gold thread. Perched upon a high sand dune, I stay still, oblivious to the biting sand.

Yes. The world will remain like this for now.

The sandstorm rages on and on for the next hour, but all I can hear is the silent scratching of charcoal against paper. Then she takes a peek at me from behind her work. But only for a second before the scratching returns. Then once more, her stern face showing her concentration and determination as the black lines take on the recognisable form of a human body.

Suddenly a bell rings, and her concentration is broken. She halts a stroke midway, and steps back to observe her art. I get up from my seat, stretch, and walk slowly across the weathered, tiled floor to look at the yellow paper – it now contains a black sketch of a man dressed in Arab clothing against the backdrop of a desert. And for a brief moment, I too could feel the soft fabric against my skin and the irritating sand blowing past me.

pi·an·ist n.

1. One whose talent or skill lies in playing the piano.

I’ve come expecting a performance, but what I receive goes beyond the definition of such a term in ways I never thought possible.

She’s in the living room, sipping on a freshly squeezed orange juice, before she stands up and strides towards the piano. A booklet of lines and squiggly characters lies still in front of her. Then she begins to flip through it, page after page – I catch flashes of the words ‘Mozart’, ‘Pathetique’, ‘Chopin’, ‘Tempest’ – until she stops at one marked ‘Moonlight Sonata – Beethoven’.

Her eyes scan the page rapidly, and a fast-paced tune begins to play in her head as she previews the song mentally.

Then, just as I’m about to inquire as to what she’s doing, it begins: a slow, immersive display of emotion whose hands seem to hold me gently in its grip.

From behind the piano, I stared down at her hands. Her fingers moved to create music as would a spider’s legs to create its web. And hers had trapped me already. How they moved so beautifully and elegantly.

By the time she had finished playing the first few lines, the pianist was in her own world – a world consisting of nothing but her fingers and the keys they so carefully chose to press. There may have been a thousand people there, or maybe I alone stood there, but it made no difference to her – she was playing for herself.

I could see her reflection in the ebony piano. Her face echoed the expression of her art. It was light and free during the higher octaves and tense and strained as the deeper notes played.

And then it slowed down. The song was drawing to a close. As the last note lingered in the air, the world returned for both of us to its normal size once again, no longer bounded by the story the music had to tell.

* Note: I apologise that you may have actually had to think while reading this article. I know the majority of you enjoy the mind-numbing, humourous, storytelling nature of my previous entries, but this was dedicated to two gifted individuals that should never abandon their craft.