A Peaceful FadingA Story by ASandyRabbit-
Spiking through clouds, touching the sky and then going farther, they stand. Untoppleable giants looming over everyone and everything not comparable in size. Mostly untoppleable, anyway. Some have been torn down by massive metal spheres or fiery explosives. The survivors of said selective destruction remain proud, their metal beams comprising a connective skeleton; giving sturdy support to their sleek, shiny exterior. ‘Skyscraper’ is no longer appropriate for this modern beasts. They pierce the sky, making a deep wound through its blue skin and hitting its clear-blooded veins. In proximity, these mammoths comprise the legendary concrete jungle. The metal tigers and panthers stalk across the asphalt rivers. Ants dressed in vibrant clothing travel across the white, two-dimensional planks making a bridge across the rivers and scuttle across the banks. Underground they hurriedly make it to the loud, compartmentalized snakes.
He hobbles on the snake, possessionless but for a stick with which to hobble upon and a curving series of brass tubes with which to play upon. A stench fills the compartment; the smell of dank, sewerly, homelessness. There are few to smell it though, as the hour is late. Those anboard are preparing for their nightly injection of tiresome mental effort, as is the nature of any night job. He sees them and they see him, and he is seated, knowing better than to relieve himself on the snake. Soon his eyes close and he drifts into a reverie far beyond this world. Perhaps it is of rainbows and butterflies and a cheerful forest; the trees boisterously swaying in a cartoonish wind. Perhaps it is of an apocalypse; of volcanic ash covering the Earth. Regardless, he is awoken by the sunlight. Outside is he, somewhere unfamiliar. His eyes and ears flutter open to be greeted by the chirping of birds and the cold, stoney bricks of suburban chateau. The french horn is an unfortunate instrument to be stuck with. The saxophone, flute, and trumpet can be played alone. The french horn much less so. He makes due with the instrument he’s had, and plays it to the best of his abilities. He ponders this briefly as he stabs his staff into the ground, struggling up. By the time he’s up, a man equal in age though without a straggly, greying beard and similar hair. “Hello sir, may I inquire what might your name be?” He isn’t ordinarily put in situations where he must speak. He can speak through brass but not without it. Spluttering briefly, his chapped lips failed to produce a name nor a noise of the English language. Though comprehending of what this person asked of him, the most response he can manage is pointing to his instrument. “A French Horn is what I see. I’ve never heard someone by that name, but let’s put that aside. Come with me sir, I’ll see to your well-being,” the well-off man offering a hand to the vagabond. Smiling, he takes the hand and is ushered through the grand front doors of the chateau. A servant takes the man from there through various corridors and halls an already-drawn bath. After being garbed in a stiff, fresh-smelling suit and his prior odor exorcized, he is assisted to a furniture-abundant room where the man who had graciously brought him indoors sat. “Would you play for me, sir, if you please?” He nodded and after a servant brought him his horn transformed to a polished and tuned version, he began with a note. This note was followed by another, and another. Though alone in his performance, lacking in the ensemble of musicians required to create a band or symphony, the man he was playing for smiled and shifted his head in rhythm of the solo. After the piece was finished, he gave a hopeful smile, eagerly awaiting a word from the gracious man. “Your performance was excellent, sir. How would you like it if you joined my symphony?” Though not understanding of the full gravity of the situation, he nodded with as much exuberance as his aged neck would allow. Incapable of reading music or even words, he knew not how he’d play in accord with others, but the mere brilliance of the situation filled him with joy. He didn’t know, however, that his heart would give out that night after drifting into reverie once more. Nor did he know that he had only been taken in for this very reason: the gracious man having checked his heart for life just that morning upon finding a decrepit vagrant in his yard. He didn’t know that there wasn’t a symphony to perform with. He did know happiness, however. Just for that one day at the end. The following day, the gracious man arranged for his burial and a full funeral, though no relatives nor friends came. This gracious man did so not out of pity but rather empathy, knowing that when his last day that was quickly approaching arrived, he’d want it to be as peaceful and happy as possible. © 2016 ASandyRabbitAuthor's Note
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Added on October 18, 2016 Last Updated on October 18, 2016 Tags: ASandyRabbit, Death, Homeless, Poverty, French Horn AuthorASandyRabbitAboutI'm a young experimental writer still in that phase of everything I write is bad, but I want to improve. Please give me feedback. Tear me to shreds, in fact. I'll be able to improve from it :) I've.. more..Writing
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