The Instrument
In her hometown, there was a problem with badgers. Those creatures were everywhere, getting into attics, gnawing on power lines, choking up storm sewers, and generally mucking up the sanctity of her otherwise peaceful town.
Maybe she didn't even mind too much, the thrill of living long since squelched in a cloud of indifference many years past. Having to call the fellows down at the volunteer fire department always made for a little fun during the long, agonizing summer nights. Hell, she welcomed the addition of another soul in her home during those hours in which she swore time slowed down, and the hurt of her past sauntered in uninvited and ready for something to eat.
In her basement, next to the mason jars, the wash basin, and the dusty childrens toys long since forgotten, sat her instrument. Sometimes, usually after she had consumed perhaps a tad more shine than she should have, she would wander down to the corner of the basement and start talking to the thing.
She would berate it for letting her walk away so many years ago. Angrily, and with great conviction, she would lecture her instrument on the needs of a family and the lack of importance in the world of expression. Her instrument, flat, cold, and silent, a mute witness to her strange outbursts, simply sat stock still and kept to itself.
But whenever she went back upstairs, leaving the instrument in the darkness, it would jump up, pull the chain on the light in the ceiling, and play itself until it would eventualy go to sleep and dream whatever it is that instruments dream.
One night, after another trumped up badger call, after the firemen adomnished her for wasting their time, she, especially drunk and feeling rather desperate, made to the basement with conviction. Her instrument, busy trying to impress the cold void of the room, didn't hear her coming down the stairs, and thus was unprepared for the confrontation that ensued. Her passion stirred something in the instrument, and so, caught off guard, and in all honesty, tired of the charade, the instrument answered her.
Was she confused by an actual response? Well, yes, confusion was part of it. But there was more. She was also entranced, and not only that, she was intrigued. She wanted more. She begged and pleaded and got down on her knees and implored her instument to play itself for her. Sure, if you can talk, she stated, then you must be able to play yourself as well?
The cat out of the bag, the instrument answered. Sure, I talk, it said, the girl's eyes the size of saucers in response. I talk, and I speak my mind too. How do you like that?
And with that she was out. Nothing could make her even dream of a future life anywhere along those lines. She decided that the agony of an instrument that no longer had a need for a player was simply too much to bear, and so she laid down on the railroad tracks and waited for the 6 A.M. to finally take her home.
And back in her basement, a melancholy tune rang out, once again to no one, but this time, there was a depth to the silence that would never quit, and the days would soon grow very cold.
Maybe she didn't even mind too much, the thrill of living long since squelched in a cloud of indifference many years past. Having to call the fellows down at the volunteer fire department always made for a little fun during the long, agonizing summer nights. Hell, she welcomed the addition of another soul in her home during those hours in which she swore time slowed down, and the hurt of her past sauntered in uninvited and ready for something to eat.
In her basement, next to the mason jars, the wash basin, and the dusty childrens toys long since forgotten, sat her instrument. Sometimes, usually after she had consumed perhaps a tad more shine than she should have, she would wander down to the corner of the basement and start talking to the thing.
She would berate it for letting her walk away so many years ago. Angrily, and with great conviction, she would lecture her instrument on the needs of a family and the lack of importance in the world of expression. Her instrument, flat, cold, and silent, a mute witness to her strange outbursts, simply sat stock still and kept to itself.
But whenever she went back upstairs, leaving the instrument in the darkness, it would jump up, pull the chain on the light in the ceiling, and play itself until it would eventualy go to sleep and dream whatever it is that instruments dream.
One night, after another trumped up badger call, after the firemen adomnished her for wasting their time, she, especially drunk and feeling rather desperate, made to the basement with conviction. Her instrument, busy trying to impress the cold void of the room, didn't hear her coming down the stairs, and thus was unprepared for the confrontation that ensued. Her passion stirred something in the instrument, and so, caught off guard, and in all honesty, tired of the charade, the instrument answered her.
Was she confused by an actual response? Well, yes, confusion was part of it. But there was more. She was also entranced, and not only that, she was intrigued. She wanted more. She begged and pleaded and got down on her knees and implored her instument to play itself for her. Sure, if you can talk, she stated, then you must be able to play yourself as well?
The cat out of the bag, the instrument answered. Sure, I talk, it said, the girl's eyes the size of saucers in response. I talk, and I speak my mind too. How do you like that?
And with that she was out. Nothing could make her even dream of a future life anywhere along those lines. She decided that the agony of an instrument that no longer had a need for a player was simply too much to bear, and so she laid down on the railroad tracks and waited for the 6 A.M. to finally take her home.
And back in her basement, a melancholy tune rang out, once again to no one, but this time, there was a depth to the silence that would never quit, and the days would soon grow very cold.
1 Comments:
Great stuff! This was music to my ears (the ones in my brain i guess). It was strangely refreshing and your voice felt right, calm and with conviction, like a goodbye letter. thanks john.
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