Wednesday, March 25, 2015

3-25-15 Wednesday Write-up
5:21 PM

3-25-15 Wednesday Write-up

Artwork © Sergey Urlapov, All Rights Reserved-
Story and Characters © Corey Blankenship, All Rights Reserved 
Brought to you by Four Fools Press: “Crazy Good Stories”

The allure of sound is the invitation into life. The buzz of bees, the songs of birds, the laughter of children, the whispers of lovers...each draws you into a secret world, one where the musician guides you to explore. Sound can also be highly destructive, the force that shreds realities, buildings, lives, and relationships. A powerful, wonderful tool.

Sound is my only consolation and defense in our ruined world.

The echoes of hidden trysts, newborns, and robins linger only in my brain. These days only shrieks, howls, screams, and maniacal laughter disrupt the uncanny silence. I almost love the quiet, simply because it means one second without some peril seeking to claim me. But I so miss coffee shop conversations and classical music. Their memory lurks within and in my tuning fork. When I play, these ghosts come to life. My guardians against the Pandemonium.

I stand on a rooftop, its tiled shingles tinkling lightly under my steps. Their pianissimo cascade hints at the coming crescendo. Crash! The rubble breaks loose on its tympanic ringing as it rains on glass. A pulse-quickening basal roar responds to the traitorous concussions. I look up to see the spiraling fusion of bone and stone: A conductor. These thousand-eyed monsters grew from the thousand lives destroyed...their collective horror and hatred at this perverse insult to creation. Trapped. Screaming. I unhinge the clasp on my leather instrument case and close my eyes. These cursed minor-chord minions demand you look at them and lose your voice. But I see the woven song of the past and let this music sing through me.

Through my tuning fork.

The yellowhammer joins the butterfly, the spring rains shine in the summer sky, and the autumn festivals circle the flowers blooming through each pulse from my giant instrument. The blasts brighten the air in my imagination, reminding the shambled tower beneath my feet that diners chuckled over sparkling glasses; the grey, smoky skies that their natural hues are blue and gold; the withered concrete pots that oaks drenched their seams with emerald light--and the lively chirps of sparrows. I do not have to see the warped, blind eyes of the beast to notice the choir of sad souls weeping. I do not have to look to find the lost child hurting for its mother. The mourning father missing his bride and daughters. The cabbie forever divorced from his daily drive. I hum their forgotten melodies, and teach them to remember. Teach them to forget the bonds of revenge that drive their gluttonous master to hunt the last notes of happiness in this broken world.

I do not need to see that the songs of the past redeem the future.

I know, because I hear their demonic wails transform into joyous laughter.

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