The Silver Piccolo

yet another repost found in my sent box. can you believe i wrote this for school?

  The gentle, melancholy sound of the piano filled the house, like the late afternoon sunglow drifting like the tide through old glass windows, pooling on motes in the air. The high shine polish on dark, hardwood floors reflected the premature reminder of sunset, interrupted only by footsteps.
     The footsteps, echoed through the empty halls, ended when their creator sat down backwards on the piano bench next to the girl playing. The boy wore a loose white dress shirt and grey pants, obvious hand-me-downs, over which was an old and faded black trench coat. His hair was long and black, his eyes turquoise. The piano player had long, thin limbs and wore a sweater in heather grey, the colur of her lucid eyes, over a shirt and pants in true black, the colour of her smooth hair. Both of these people, apparently in their teens, had pale skin and eyes changed by a lifetime of tears. The boy watched the girl play, her powerful hands traversing the keys, until she began to sing, when he closed his eyes to listen.
     Her voice was low and smooth. “I heard there was a secret chord, that David played and it pleased the Lord, but you don’t really care for music, do you? Sing with me, Rush! It goes like this, the fourth, the fifth…” She kept playing for a couple of measures, looking over her shoulder at him, and stopped playing with a sigh when he didn’t join in. She shifted so she sat with one leg on either side of the bench. She stared at him, his eyes still closed, and asked him, his fingers toying with a cigarette, and asked, “Why don’t you sing anymore?” When he didn’t answer, she turned his face toward hers and kissed him. “What’s wrong, Rush?” she asked quietly.
     Only then did he open his eyes a little. “Nothing, Jess.”
     “Don’t lie to me.”
     There was a long pause, at the end of which Rush seemed to get suddenly angry, and stood up. “I hate being stuck here,” he muttered while stalking off, bitterly accenting that one word.
     Jessie rolled her eyes. “Do you have a better plan? Or am I not good enough for you?” Rush abruptly stopped, paused, then picked up the keys from the table and headed for the door. “It’s not our fault our parents are dead, Rush, any of us,” she called after him. She sighed again as the door slammed, her head in her hands.
     Outside on the street, the sound of the actual city two blocks down could already be heard, at a volume quiet enough to be ignored from within deep thought. Rush wanted to go into the park across the street from the place he lived, but knew that would give him a little too much time to think, so instead he turned left.
     The edges of the city weren’t half as busy as the city center, so people had enough room to give Rush space on the sidewalk. He walked several minutes through the refreshingly cold air smoking his cigarette absently, before entering an antique shop, ignoring the cheerful jingle set off by the opening door. Rush hated antiques; he loved the silence.
     He ignored the shopkeeper, but she knew him, so it didn’t matter. He stomped upstairs, seeing the same objects as every time before. A white ceramic cat smiled welcomingly as he passed, red ribbon around its neck, paw raised in greeting. A small, cube-shaped, golden clock struck six with a series of melodious rings. Mechanics from within it could be heard as two tiny doors opened, and harlequin and prince figurines danced out, orbited each other, then returned through their respective doors. Ballerina figurines in costumes from various countries mingled with girls in kimono and Victorian ladies. Rush thought of what a field day Jessie could have in a place like this.
     Very few people ventured upstairs, so it glistened with unusual items, most of which had lain undisturbed for months or even years, and probably would for a long time to come. One doorway was completely covered by a white, sequined dress with taffeta at the hem. Stuffed animals, paintings, glassware, an assortment of fake flowers, letter holders, eccentric shoes, rubber sea life renditions, masks, children’s books, mirrors, potholders, coffee mugs, and old soda bottles decked tables, chairs, and shelves, smelling of old cloth, wax, and lives. Bottle caps and hideous old jewelery hung suspended from black plastic tie racks and offwhite jewelery holders. Behind an overly gaudy gold chain necklace and a garish chain of magenta beads, Rush spotted a gold hair clip in the shape of eight tiny, feathered wings, holding a pristine light blue gem cut into an octagon. He pocketed it to pay for it later- things like this went for nothing in this kind of shop, and he could use it as an apology to Jess, for walking out like that.
     He returned to the hallway and found a closet he had only seen once before. It had been locked the last time. When he entered it now, the atmosphere was noticeably cooler than the rest of the shop. VHS tapes marked “$3” were stacked to waist height in a corner, a thin, white chest of drawers stood across from it, and handmade shelves, nailed to the wall, held smiling ceramic figures, paint uneven. It was an ugly room; Rush turned out the light and closed the door. When he sat down and leaned against the wall, his feet touched the closet’s other end. The air conditioning kicked on, and Rush let the incessant hum lull him into the release of sleep. 
     He awoke when the AC turned off. Now that its sound was gone, he could hear all sorts of broken noises outside.
     One beautiful sound from downstairs drowned them all, though it was dwarfed in volume. Someone was slowly playing piano, one-handed, high up on the black keys. The melody, picked out steadily in a minor key, made Rush think of Jessie, but she was too skilled to be reduced to one-hand “chicken-pecking” as she called it. The song rose in enchanting waves, like falling glass. Through the vents, Rush realized. Drawn to the sound’s source, he left the room and descended the staircase.
     Turning his head around a corner, feet still on the last stair, he could see a girl at a piano which was never there before. She played the sequence of high, haunting notes again. She was small, bony, and pale. In fact, she looked a lot like Jessie had three or four years back. But when Rush stepped onto the wooden floor, older by far than most things or people on it, a loud creak reached the girl’s ears.
     She whirled around, eyes wide in fear, the degree that human nature constantly attempts to disguise. It was a child’s face that lived in the midst of agony. She jumped up from the piano, striking one last, shrill E-flat in her desperation to stand. Stumbling over the pedals, she dashed into the back room Rush always remembered as being locked.
     As the door to the room slammed, a thin, metallic object fell to the floor, first with a soft thud onto the carpet, then a quiet clatter as it rolled over the tassels onto the wooden floor. Rush went over and lifted it up to eye level. It appeared to be a wind instrument- a piccolo, of a shining, white-gray metal. Probably, it was made of silver, but it seemed to light to be solid. As Rush twirled it like a baton, a red gleam might have flashed over the piccolo’s surface, or it could have been the reflection from a car on the street.
     Rush fingered an ornate carving at the instrument’s base. Several dryads danced in an unending circle. The mouthpiece was blank but for one small, angular flower. Experimentally, Rush raised the piccolo to his lips and blew one clear note.
     Almost as soon as the note ended, a corresponding note could be heard somewhere in the distance, but likely within the city. Curiosity awakened, Rush slid the piccolo into his empty left pocket and left the shop. The owner was asleep, head on her desk.
     Outside, the city had lit up, and cooled down. Light pollution bit at the receding, dark evening sky. Rush tried to play another note, higher that the first, but his inexperience with the instrument made the note screech. Trying again, blowing more softly, he managed two successive, differing notes. Once again, their distant counterparts reached his ears. Starting off at a fast walk, he headed toward where he thought they originated. Again he played a note on the piccolo. From somewhere to his right, the reply came. Afraid of losing track of it, he ran across the street, eyes searching wildly as if they could take in the sound as well. Vaguely he heard tires screech behind him.
     Now fluctuating between walking and jogging, he wove through crowds of people on the shopping streets, who frowned or complained as he passed, brushing shoulders or heads. He played a note that started low and ended high, like a birdcall. This time he heard it from his left, and he may have crossed another street to reach it. He only felt something hard and metal stop abruptly and hit his right hand, but this didn’t concern him because his piccolo was in the other hand. The sound around him increased, and blurred.
     As he raised the piccolo to play another note, someone caught him by the arm. He jerked it away, but they held on.
     “Rush,” they called his name. “Watch out for yourself. You almost got killed there.”
     Who was it? Probably Jessie. “It’s okay. Just let me go,” he told his sudden captor. He tried to break away and chase after the song again, but was pulled back. Looking straight at her, he couldn’t identify her, but that didn’t matter now. “Let go!”
     “Rush, it’s been hours since you left,” she told him. “I’ve been out looking for you. Will you please come home already?” There was a strong pleading tone in her voice. She took a step forward, reaching out to him. He turned and ran all the same. “Rush, please!” she cried after him. “Rush!” The young woman’s tears were so strong you could hear them in her voice. But he was gone. He played the piccolo again, terrified that its counterpart might be gone. But still its voice rang out, so near this time- just around the corner, it seemed! Hand on the bricks of a building’s wall, he spun around the corner and he was at his destination.
     Rush stopped running.
     In front of him, he saw himself, holding a piccolo, and a silent city behind him.