Falling Apart Like a Good Girl

"You can walk" He says. His voice falls flat, emotionless.
She stares at him for a moment, suddenly knocked off stride. Every muscle in her quivers and a new hollowness rises up in her chest in that terrible virus known as doubt. She then turns away and walks out the door and into the cold night. There's a slight drizzle that catches on her hair and sparkles under the glow from the night life. Echoes of live bands and drunken shouts reach the main street and taxis race by in a scramble to snatch up every penny from the travelers. But she walks as if the street is silent, as if she's caught in a bubble as a ghost unable to touch the real world. She is surrounded by people, but she is entirely alone.

Who loves the sun?

"Walking in the rain is for twelve year olds." He said.
"If we became unable to appreciate beauty the older we got then we'd all want to die before we turned thirteen." She replied with glassy eyes.
"I don't need to repeat an experience I already understand."
"That's a bit closed-minded."
"You're very naive."
And so she turned away and vowed out of pride to never let a drop of rain fall upon her skin again. He quickly forgot. And eventually she wilted.
Every time it rained he had a vague recollection of a dehydrated flower- but it never made much sense to him. He quickly forgot.

Gamenophyte in a Bubble (fern)

The Grand Piano

This is a work in progress for my music class. It is a creative essay based on a concert I went to of a very famous pianist.

The lights went down and the solitary grand piano glowed expectantly. The murmur of the crowd grew to a faint echoing as all attention shifted towards the instrument. The piano, suddenly under extreme scrutiny, shivered and leaned towards the sound panels that were blocking any possible escape through the windows. A coin dropped and released its high-pitched flurry of noise before resting on the floor. Everyone was staring and waiting. All the gleaming black and white of the piano could do was wait and hope for the best.
Finally the piano’s partner showed his face. He walked slowly onto the golden stage, as an ivory figure dressed in ebony. He approached the instrument deliberately but humbly with only a flitter of a glance towards the rustling audience. The piano took a breath as the man sat down on the dark cushion placed before it on four spindly legs. The expectation of the audience was forgotten as musician and instrument warmed in their connection. Silence. And then…
He began with his left hand as if testing the waters with a limb that would not be dearly missed should it be burned or frozen. He skipped along a major chord as sound waves erupted into a melody known as “Chaconne”. The tune itself meant ‘pretty’ but it was not the music so much as the flow between pianist and piano that was beautiful. It didn’t take long until his right hand had agreed to take a chance and leap in as well. Together they jumped across the notes like they were running up staircases.
He did not have the monochromatic paper in front of him, nor did he even seem to recognize the pattern of depressed notes before him, instead the figures danced across his mind as shadows of sound flowing as naturally and uncontrollably as a dream. The two dark figures became wrapped up in each other’s existence as black cut off into white space and cream cut into midnight again. They pulled away from the ochre that gleamed on the floor that prevented them from dispersing with the pulses of sound. They shut out the glowing rose and gold of the faces in the crowd from which bright eyes of admiration shone. They were in their two toned world allowing us to see into their window and listen to the enchanting beauty of their unified voice.
Then the music sped up and the dynamics changed. The notes thundered through the music hall and both demanded attention and expressed control. His hands raised and pounced upon the keys, scampering up and down upon their sleek surface. He rocked back and forth keeping a tempo with the movement along the keys. He might tell you later how he feels in control, how he is always dictating what is needed from the piano. He would mention the respect he feels for the bold material beneath his hands but never fail to qualify that as a respect held by an authority. But now, in this moment of observation- of live brilliance- the connection is clearly reversed. His fingertips are pulled delicately along the keyboard but they are pulled nonetheless.
He holds his breath as the movement of his fingers leads to a cross of his left wrist over his right. The sound is on the verge of overwhelming as the notes cascade past each other rolling and dodging across scales. His fingers are frantically trying to keep up with the score streaming through his mind and ringing in the piano’s heart. They are like racehorses pushing past their limits and everyone is watching and waiting, in both horror and awe, for their legs to break. The left hand suddenly reins in and demands with deep, contrasting chords for the crescendo to slow into a gentle trot. The man shakes upon each blow, his breath leaving his body with every request for a decreased speed. Finally the attacks are left to fade and an echo of silence creeps across the keys before a soft melody returns.
The left hand slows into chords as the right taps across soft individual notes that roll up and down across the pitches. They are tumbling through a rainstorm. The individual drops splatter into the audience, the thunder rolls closer, the lightening warns of the change in dynamics ahead. The wind builds as half notes become quarter notes and eighth notes become sixteenth notes. The storm arrives and the left hand becomes the striking lightning that races then jolts through the sky. The right hand flutters like a quaking aspen.
When listening closely a heartbeat can be heard beneath this chaos. The man’s foot is pulsing out the rhythm. It is the only constant in a variable environment. It is the only escape from the frenzy above it. It is the only thing holding the sound on the ground. The thud of the pedal is relied upon, embraced, and incorporated in the breath of both the man and the music. It helps pull the tempo back down.
As the notes slow the right hand drops to around middle C and briefly plays alone. Its twin adds in a mellow chord once in a while. It’s time for the final kill. The fingers spot the prey and chase the notes, pounding into them for traction before making one last pounce with all of their expendable energy. The hands rest there for a moment to ensure the demise of their victim- the tune that filled the hall just seconds before- and then drop from the instrument. The man leans back and gets up stiffly for a bow. The audience takes a breath then the applause begins. His left hand holds the top of the piano. He stares off into some unknown space.

Trapped Under a Cat's Paw

This is just a stream of consciousness piece:

There's something evil caught in my throat forming nets of twigs and wires as I sleep constantly longing for that silence that falls apart from vibrations bouncing and sliding across the night sky and perhaps that darkness lies in my veins and wishes to seep into that cool air but maybe it lies between the willows and sweeps out from under the elms to tackle the energy in my shadow as I step carefully over the new born dead grass just revealed to our eyes as it screams 'I swear, I do exist and I want to live' but we hardly hear those cries as we tramp slowly over its crushed body with no mercy and no desire to cease in our actions and so the bird funerals and oak birthdays pass as a cloud chasing a storm and I lie beneath you, my wave of sunlight, and laugh of day lilies, and I dream of dark feathers stuck in the mud and bright eyes clawing through the stale florescence of a burning light bulb alone in a room with no windows and no doors- at least none we ever look out of- at least none we ever notice- at least none that ever seem to take us beyond this mundane and this terror and the overarching question of the hummingbird trapped under a cat's paw- 'why?'

The Arrival

The Arrival

Won’t you let me in
Dear friend?
It’s rather cold out here
And there’s a frost that’s beginning
To bite onto my ears

Won’t you open the door
Kind sir?
You are passing right by
And there’s no great difference
In the tolerance of you or I

Won’t you come this way
Sweet madam?
Take pity on a poor cat
And hold me in your fur-coated arms
Give me a gentle pat

Won’t you let them know
Dumb dog?
There’s a king at their door
And he will not take being treated such
And will ask kindly no more!

Shadow Lines

I've decided I need a place to compile all of the creativity that keeps pushing against my skull. This seems like the perfect place to do it. I've named this shadow lines because it can apply both to writing and artwork. The address is 'shadowlie' because not only was 'shadowlines' not available but because of the elusiveness of shadows. Any line drawn to represent a shadow is essentially a lie. Any thing I write here is merely for the joy of writing and I hope to use this as a way to learn how to compose better. I'd love comments because that will help me improve. All the best dear follower, I hope you can enjoy what you find here.
*In a strange coincidence today I discovered that Conrad has written a short story by the title "Shadow-Lines." I bought the book it is in. It will be interesting to see if I can relate to that story or not...