The Piper
It starts with a single note.
Piercing,
clear,
haunting.
It lingers, hanging in the air like a crystalized breath on a winters day. Hangs for an eternity, till it seems that there is only the note, has always been the note, always will be the note. Then it shatters, dissipating in the onset of the melody.
And what a melody.
Lilting,
flowing,
haunting.
It catches at the soul, a tune of life, of joy, of beauty. Images form from sound. An enchanted castle. A clear summers day. A party. Christmas morning.
It pulls, leading the way past open streets and empty parks. Round abandoned bus stops and flickering street lights. Down flights of littered stairs, till it draws to its source.
He stands, tall and thin. An emaciated giant with a crown of flame. Not flame, hair. Wild and unruly, and as red as the sun at dusk.
He smiles. Teeth too white in a dirty face. He is clothed in motley, once bright colors faded by time, by wear, by dust. He looks like he has not seen a bath in ages.
But the flute!
Silver and gleaming, its artistry surpassed only by the sounds it produces. It is simple, elegant, right. It is exactly what one imagines a flute should look like. The ideal of the flute.
He holds it lightly by fingers long and moving, always moving. Like a spider walking a web. Like kelp writihing in the current. There is something obscene about the way his fingers move. An action more akin to fondling then to anything else.
Then he raises it to his lips and all else is forgotten.
Perfection.
In the beginning there was the word, and this is what it sounded.
Time stops. There is only the music.
An age passes. The melody ends. Eyes of a lunatic watch avidly as the flute is lowered. Pursed lips are relaxed, replaced by a smile full of malice. Of lust.
I do it for the children. he whispers.
And then the flute is gone and long fluttering fingers are reaching,
grabbing,
pulling.
A mad laugh, and the anguished wail of a child.
Silence.
and this ladies and gentlemen is what you end up doing with and english degree and an obsession with faeire tales - working a government job and writing bizarre little poems. maybe i just need a masters?
It starts with a single note.
Piercing,
clear,
haunting.
It lingers, hanging in the air like a crystalized breath on a winters day. Hangs for an eternity, till it seems that there is only the note, has always been the note, always will be the note. Then it shatters, dissipating in the onset of the melody.
And what a melody.
Lilting,
flowing,
haunting.
It catches at the soul, a tune of life, of joy, of beauty. Images form from sound. An enchanted castle. A clear summers day. A party. Christmas morning.
It pulls, leading the way past open streets and empty parks. Round abandoned bus stops and flickering street lights. Down flights of littered stairs, till it draws to its source.
He stands, tall and thin. An emaciated giant with a crown of flame. Not flame, hair. Wild and unruly, and as red as the sun at dusk.
He smiles. Teeth too white in a dirty face. He is clothed in motley, once bright colors faded by time, by wear, by dust. He looks like he has not seen a bath in ages.
But the flute!
Silver and gleaming, its artistry surpassed only by the sounds it produces. It is simple, elegant, right. It is exactly what one imagines a flute should look like. The ideal of the flute.
He holds it lightly by fingers long and moving, always moving. Like a spider walking a web. Like kelp writihing in the current. There is something obscene about the way his fingers move. An action more akin to fondling then to anything else.
Then he raises it to his lips and all else is forgotten.
Perfection.
In the beginning there was the word, and this is what it sounded.
Time stops. There is only the music.
An age passes. The melody ends. Eyes of a lunatic watch avidly as the flute is lowered. Pursed lips are relaxed, replaced by a smile full of malice. Of lust.
I do it for the children. he whispers.
And then the flute is gone and long fluttering fingers are reaching,
grabbing,
pulling.
A mad laugh, and the anguished wail of a child.
Silence.
and this ladies and gentlemen is what you end up doing with and english degree and an obsession with faeire tales - working a government job and writing bizarre little poems. maybe i just need a masters?
VIEW 3 of 3 COMMENTS
I often wondered the same thing about the children... Then i try to block those harrowed thoughts..
I do a lil writing m'self.. working on a dark faeire tale right now as a matter of fact... when m'done, i'll share
oh and i added you to keep track of your journal... heh
yes yes.. please bring out some more for me to read. I'm coming along rather well on the story that i'm writing. Maybe I'll actually have the guts to send it to a publisher at some point
update your journal!
xox