Ruthh

United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland

you know that ancient egyptian embalming technique where they pull out the brain through the nose? that’s what i do with writing. if i were you, i wouldn’t lick my pencils.

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Was it good???

This Isn’t What Music Is Meant To Be

January 25, 2019

FREE WRITING

9
The air was thick with the smell of cigarette smoke and my mind was thick with terror. My limbs were like lead: fingers tree trunks defying the roots that manipulated and controlled like puppet strings. My fingers were not dancing over the keys, they were dragging themselves; this was not music. This was wrong. 

The uniformed officers were chatting in such a jovial major that I was jealous of their melodic keys. They knew how to orchestrate such beauty: the beautiful woman, the beautiful laughs, the beautiful drinks like oil wells at their hands. 

From time to time, one of them would look over at me before gazing pointedly in the direction of the people huddled in the corner: shrouded in darkness with pale faces and baggy clothes. They thought we were disgusting: aliens with our different lives and different religion. How disdainfully they stared at us like muck on the bottom of their polished shoes. How I loathed them. How I was at their mercy. 

How did I end up here, in this place of starlight and supernovas? Surrounded by the desirable – my music crawled into their heads and yet their eyes were blinded still by such clashing chords. Time had passed like a wounded beast but it was a beast all the same: the jaws were just as big and the claws just as long. 

I had been playing for 10 hours now. They had been laughing for 10 hours now. 

Yesterday had started as it always had: tiptoeing footstep notes as we hid behind closed doors. A cursed existence, but better than no existence at all.

Then, it had collapsed into a symphony. The trumpets clashed into our small harmony and shattered the tune. Gunshots rapid staccato as they scaled the walls and imbedded in our chests. Blood: the sad violins of mournful dirges that heralded such a day of judgement. 

Dragging us from the dead, we screamed and screamed until our strings snapped and our voices hoarse, before our final punishment was decided. 

I had been playing for 10 hours now. And when I stopped, we would all die. 

Perhaps we could escape? Those officers had guns and they were very drunk: all it would take was a small misdirection and I could grab the metal death and turn it upon them. My husband and children could sneak out the back door and we could run away on the finest ivory keys to our freedom. 

It was tempting and I smiled as I imagined the sunshine image of my family playing in the garden with such joy upon their faces – oh, it was so beautiful! 

Thinking about it made me stumble. My finger played the wrong note. Their stares hardened. My stomach churned.
 
Wiping such thoughts from my mind, I continued as I had before. Tiredly, my fingers dragged themselves across the keys. I was so exhausted. I could feel lullabies pinching at my eyelids, and then tears started to waltz down my face. It hurt so much. 

My shoulders shook as the sobs screamed at my body. How could I ever hope of such paradise? Nothing like that existed. 

I sighed, and my last note ascended through the air.
Another exercise for an English language GCSE paper!! I decided to write something more serious and it’s Holocaust Memorial Day soon so I figured it was appropriate 

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  • January 25, 2019 - 12:04pm (Now Viewing)

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2 Comments
  • Plausible.Poems

    Thanks for commenting on my post! I love your work and especially that last line is so well-placed.


    11 months ago
  • L.B. Stoltz

    Your style of description is truly wonderful. Many authors struggle with the balance between too much and too little description. Your words seem to float on the page and linger in one's mind after you reach the end of the composition. I really cannot wait to see more of your work.


    11 months ago