The Lantern;

A short narrative.

The furniture is dusty - nearly as dusty as the floor. There’s no electricity in this place, and the lights have long since gone dim. I keep a kerosene lantern on the old oak table; the metal casing has become rusted with age. My notes writ in crude ink are scattered on tables, chairs, and the floor; some cling to the walls and even the windows by way of candle wax dripped most cautiously (it would not do to set fire to one’s own notes; paper is not inexpensive).

Most of my notes are of the musical variety - half-notes and cadences bled from fingers cut by old strings. As I am now: my traveling coat is worn thin by miles uncounted or uncountable, but it keeps me warm all the same; my boots, dark leather with sturdy laces and buckles, the colour made light where the creases prove their use; dark trousers and a shirt that I’ve loosed ‘round the neck while the wind is held at bay by the stark wooden walls of this place; my father’s hat lain idly on the table by the lantern; hands bare and ghostly white, my gloves resigned to the pocket of my coat. 

Lo Winter and the deep blue that permeates the sky just after the setting of the sun, twilit colours bid farewell by the coming night and altostratus clouds, no moon in sight. Dark is the room and the lantern as it yields to coming midnight, though midnight is not yet come; dusty are the windows that meld the light.

My fingers, callouses on callouses, stickied by the black resin as they gently sow it on the old horses tail; white powder such as is powdered on the wooden body of my instrument. Resin set in the hollow of the case, my left hand takes the neck, bringing the body gently to my shoulder to rest ‘neath my chin. Ah, but such an instrument it ever was, and shall never there again be: spruce and maple stained in deepest shades of red, darker than blood, specks of resin resting like fallen snow ‘neath the strings; dark and dark again the woods and parts that make my violin (make it mine; made to be mine); strings of sinew rent just for me, made pliant by pale hands and intent; bow curved, not taut nor loose as it were - balanced for the balance I intend for it.

A flicker and a whisper of wind, and all is still again. My bow brought to string but kept separate for the moment; a heartbeat and a blink and an intake of breath and then

                                                      exhale

and my bow finds the string, a gentle note played - D in D minor it was, the saddest note I could think of. All dark shades of blue and blue light, kerosene lantern holding back the night, strings alive, notes singing in unison and I

                                                       inhale

return to the starting point, bow gliding back ‘cross the strings and all goes black as my eyes close gently and I smile slightly and the dust and the old oak furniture and the dreary windows and the lantern and the old paper and the crude ink and my father’s hat and the deep blue near-midnight and the way I move so slowly ‘round the room as the room plays with me in the failing light.  

Reviews

[saratogaparty]

"A flicker and a whisper of wind, and all is still again. My bow brought to string but kept separate for the moment; a heartbeat and a blink and an intake of breath and then


exhale


and my bow finds the string, a gentle note played - D in D minor it was, the saddest note I could think of. All dark shades of blue and blue light, kerosene lantern holding back the night, strings alive, notes singing in unison and I


inhale"

Man, I really Like the way you made this look, I felt like I was breathing on cue. I think I really did.

[Jimi Brady]

I'm really glad it had the desired effect. :) Thank you!

[.]

ahh..very nicely described fella.........i' saw ur's profil,there i'd seen video....quite nice ..not bad.........ur's writing is good.........
i loved it........have a nice day fella..........

[MOON]

Lovely narative , the way you weave and describe details. Its like a story told betwen the lines . Love these lines particularly Most of my notes are of the musical variety - half-notes and cadences bled from fingers cut by old strings. As I am now: my traveling coat is worn thin by miles uncounted or uncountable, but it keeps me warm all the same; my boots, dark leather with sturdy laces and buckles, the colour made light where the creases prove their use; dark trousers and a shirt that I’ve loosed ‘round the neck while the wind is held at bay by the stark wooden walls of this place;

[Michael Kevin Spencer]

You have a setpoint of rapture in much of your writing, that I find I can listen to between the lines. It's peculiar, like Kafka and Borges camping out there.

[Jimi Brady]

Wow - thank you, Michael. :)

[Samuel Dickens]

Very nice, exudes strong images. The creative process is a marvelous thing to behold.

[Jimi Brady]

Thank you so much for the review, Sam. :)

[Amanda Granger]

This is mystifying and gives me a slight chill. The imagery is so vivid, and it really makes me want to know more about the speaker. I love the poetic style you used to write it. It could certainly fit as poetic prose. Your writing is so vivid and intriguing. I love it (as much as I love you). :)

[Jimi Brady]

I always cherish your insight, darling. Thank you! :D