Kada Williams

I’m in my second year at Cambridge, studying math after many years of mathematical olympiads in Hungary and the US. Outside my degree, I like to live spontaneously, catching plays or talks or concerts, reading about philosophy or politics, feeling out music at parties, cooking pancakes with friends, or picking up a Virginia Woolf or Coetzee or Maugham novel, say. To me, art represents an inclusive and curious rather than unwittingly utilitarian and analytical attitude towards feelings, an attitude I feel late capitalist society has much to learn from. In writing, I seem to drift towards consolidating emotion and earworm snippets while letting form emerge organically, but I’m tentatively looking forward to creating more structured and focused prose.

The Weather Says Hello

How strange that a weatherman should stop at their door! An odd figure! Should they open the door? The man just stands there, as if waiting. It would be nice to continue with that newspaper. Maybe the situation will pass and the man will go away.

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Purple Shadows of Wire

It was a cold and stormy night. The windows opened and shut at Nature’s will, and she sat curled up in her bed, shivering. “I can’t take another day of this,” she thought, but of course, the day after arrived, then the harsh grey surrounded her grandfather’s mansion, then lightning came down tearing sheep to ruddy bits and she broke out crying.

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Dreams of Passion: a symphonic poem

In the cave. Waves throw foam into it, but there’s a crisp silence, the rumbling dulled by the walls. If he felt like a dolphin, he’d dive off the cliff at the edge (and receive the plunge, so sweet on his skin). But now he sits by the fire and warms his hands.

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An Evening, Old and Young

I’m overwhelmed with associations — I don’t know what to say. I want to talk about the whole world. Holding the whole world in mind. Holding it all like a globe cupped in my hands, and beholding it silently. Holding it longer than my true interest holds, and the mere pleasure of seeing from afar sets in.

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Marty Preston’s Mystical Adventures

Marty, when cycling home, rolling with fresh-air joy downhill onto a stone bridge over the Ouze, whiffed the scent of a puppy, with big droopy ears and elliptic brown spots all over his fur (or is it the brown which is the background?).

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Impromptu on Becoming Engaged

Let me set down my reading of the stimulus — don’t you also prefer songs with clearly audible lyrics? Dante, as he opens his visions of Paradise, appears to be highly sensitive to the reader, knowing and fearing for the effect he might have on them.

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