The Not-So-Forgotten-But-Evil Lore of Reed-Making

She didn’t want to think of that forsaken knife again;

Didn’t want to think of the malicious cane that would only snap in her hands,

But she picked them up anyway.

The tip was too long, the blades were shifted, and the knife was far too dull,

But still she scraped.

The minutes ticked by until they seemed like hours,

And still she scraped.

The knife hit the plaque with a steady click, click, click,

And still she scraped.

“Go on, try it,” her teacher urged.

She obliged and shoved it in her oboe and glared at it balefully

Before raising it to her mouth.

And then the most awful sound of a duck filled the stifling practice room,

But her eyes lit up and she stared at the tiny thing that had just made a noise,

And finally it hit her.

Her eyes filled with tears and a smile spread over her face

And a tiny spark that kindled in her heart rose into a bonfire

As she gleefully leaped over the first menacing stone.