She appeared in the music shop window. An enigmatic child before Christmas breathing slow circles of lust across the glass. Day after day she faded in and out, inching closer to the gold plated door handles. Her rats nest hair, highlighted by shimmering grey, and clanging camping pots scared patrons away.
The day she finally slid her dirty fingers across the grand piano keys we knew. Whatever she unleashed, it was beauty the world wouldn’t be ready for.
People looked on. Phones took video. It wasn’t long before every mind became captivated.
Once again I’m reposting. This was originally published in … maybe about a year ago in 2018 I think and the WordPress prompt of the day was Black. I couldn’t help myself back then and I can’t help myself today. Tell me about your favorite music?
There’s a certain beauty to life alone. A certain finesse to the fine art of dying in no ones arms but your own. I’ve lost count of the seconds slowly rolling into days. Those things were never ours anyway. It’s funny … The noises your mind will come up with to keep time floating in oceans with little salt. At first you know it’s just the children in your head playing. Then you begin to doubt as shadows creep out. Humans can die from any number of ailments … A common cold to a lightening strike, Historic rejection or morbid curiosity, It’s what makes us the same. At least that’s what they say. Maybe I relied too much on silence in those days.
My shadows frolic through the roaring break. They toss their hands to the wind And dance the steps to heaven. I don’t imagine they’ll let me live.
Word Count: 147
A write for What Pegman Saw. This weeks location is St. Helena island. For more information and rules visit the link. To read more stories click the blue froggy below.
Art of Dying is also a song by George Harrison, not really much in common with this piece but still nice to listen to.
My head is a balloon floating from a child’s hand. The bed, beeping machines, city streets with colonies of feet fall out of focus below me. I’ve never been much a believer in heaven or hell but beyond the clouds there exists a veil. It waves me forward, a welcoming call.
Oh but I can feel the child like tug after all. My balloon head fills with lead, plummeting, it lands squarely against the bed.
Perhaps it’s a bit too loaded, this moment they allude to in death. The pressure to ascend just right, or be doomed to plummet into the hand of a mad man, is enough to drive one from sanity.
The nurse slips a round or two into my IV. I never truly see her. My mind shuffles like channels over the TV, all white noise and infomercial pleas.
For the briefest of seconds a signal flickers. Sensations flood my mind, driving me quickly into overtime. Between the thrashes and splashes the nurse stands stoic, medicine at the ready.
I don’t say much, my tongue operates like the finest mush, but the nurse with her ruby smile assures me. She pats my hair and caresses my arm.