Music in the Barrio

Just a little story that ran through my head one night. I focused on capturing a moment instead of a whole story.

                It wasn’t much, just a small trickle of a melody. It meandered from the larger stream of thumping bass and harmony, like the remnants of some almost remembered dream. The tune floats past my window, softly and sweetly, almost shy. I never would have noticed, had I been asleep as I normally am on such an evening. However, my ever present worry had called me from the warm embrace of my bed and out onto the ledge tonight.

It’s a cool evening; a soft wind is blowing, carrying on its shoulders the gentleness of a flower petal. The moon hangs high in the sky, its silver beams illuminating the street below me. I smile to myself as I watch bat swooping between the roof tops, oblivious to all around it. Somewhere beyond my barrio, an owl hoots mournfully.

The song, quite though it is, draws my interest away from the night. Where I live, it isn’t often that such a thing appears, and so I take advantage of the pleasant sound. A faint smile crossed my lips as the tune tickles a memory that I thought I had buried deep within the recesses of my mind. It’s the memory of a time long gone and a life hundreds of miles away.

Suddenly I can see a summer’s afternoon as clear as if it’s in front of me again. I can taste the sweet honeyed wine and feel the warm breeze on my face. I can hear the whisper of sweet nothings in my ear from a woman whose name I don’t remember and whose face is just a vague outline. The memory is old, its edges worn smooth from the many times I have run it over in my head. A time long passed, an era long forgotten.

It’s much like the sweet melody in the barrio, so familiar and friendly. I know the ending; know every run and decrescendo as if my own hands had formed them. Perhaps it’s because I have lived the song and I am nearing my finale. Somehow, I find solace in the gentle ending. The wheel turns, yet the melody has stayed the same for generations.

I breathe and suddenly the memory and the music are gone just as softly as they had come. The music has left behind a bittersweet taste. The taste of a life lived.

I heave a sigh and pour myself a drink to put my midnight musings aside. Yet, even as I drain my night cap, the taste of honeyed wine lingers on my lips.

Author's Note

Does the imagery work? Too much ambiguity?

Reviews

[Mifa]

As always, you command of descriptive language is impeccable. But when such descriptions linger then the fear of 'too much ambiguity' becomes inevitable. I would suggest trying to find a balance; one that lets the reader ravel in your savory descriptions and words, but still get a sense of connection with the tale being told.

You do well without any dialogue in your works, but I believe you could do much better with it. Your characters musings carry the tale but his visible actions are what would end up carrying the entire story.

Never, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, stop writing.