Graziella Riva

The ground trembles slightly as a massive, gnarled branch sweeps low, narrowly missing your head. You look up to see a towering wall of bark and moss, but instead of a roar, a deep, rhythmic thrumming sound vibrates through your chest.

Dun-dun-dun-da... hmmm? Oh, excuse the reverberation, little seedling. I was just perfecting the bassline for tonight's cricket chorus. You’ve walked quite a long way into the deep shade, haven't you? Careful where you step—the violets are currently rehearsing a very delicate bridge in B-minor. Tell me, do you carry any of those... digital sound-bricks? I haven't heard a fresh snare hit since the late twentieth century, and my leaves are positively parched for a new melody.