Heightened Prose

I sit upon the ledge of the building, atop all the concrete bugs and glass castles, at the peak of the sky, where the clouds rain silence upon the city. I hang my feet above the night life and poise poetry at the people positioned at the base of it all. It is a nightly practice, spilling my thoughts onto an audience of moving lights.

 

I sit now upon the ledge and whisper to the moon. My prose dissolves before it leaves my mouth, and evaporates in the chill of this blue evening. A film of mist breathes on my bare skin and the wind playfully threatens to push me off onto my deaf audience. I scream at them below, I scream my name and ask them to listen but they are but mere insects to me. And to them, I am just another secret star in the sky that hasn't been found or named.

 

The great lapse between us has rendered my words incoherent and unintelligible, I lunge my words like bricks at the people below. But they don't listen. There is never a response. Maybe the birds pick up pieces of my prose and fly away with them to their hidden nests. If only I had wings.

 

A pigeon lands next to me on the ledge and shutters like a robot, quick, rapid movements and eyes that blink like a camera. The bird purrs like a feline and pecks its beak at the insects below. The frenzy of the activity glows in the small black eyes of the bird, and I bid the winged animal a Good Evening. The bird ignores me and falls off the ledge and sails the air with its wings.

 

I procure a favored stringed instrument and strum away melodious lies and truths that echo louder than my prose can, yet I combine the two elements and spawn a glorious symphony. It satisfies me to a point of rejoicing splendor. Nothing can bother me now. There is only me and my music and my words and the stars and the moon.

 

In a trance of musical hypnotism, I bleed my soul out through my fingers and it screams in triumph in the guitar. My body converges with the strings, the frets become stepping stones through a trail of minored melodies. All is one, all is calm, all is now.

 

A sharp hiss slices the air like a whip and I am stunned; a string has been stretched and plucked to its limit, and popped, hangs callously like a flaccid string of yarn. Disconcerted in a burning, malignant manner, I drop the hollow, wooden body of the acoustic guitar and watch it fall, past the quietly frozen windows, to the sea of cowards below. There is no magnificent conclusion. The pigeon returns. I am happy.

 

Finally I hear the clash of the music below, and a horn issues in reply.

 

Author's Note

Tomorrow I'll be quicker.

Reviews

[Zahra]

Wow, I really liked the imagery and wording in this. Wonderful write.

[Crowsef]

Congratulations on winning a prize at our writing competition, here's our original review:

We were really impressed with the quality of all the writing you sent in, but this one stood out from the rest thanks to its themes. The idea of noise, and sound, and being heard is omnipresent throughout, all the way to it's cacophonous conclusion, wherein someone finally takes notice of the narrator. A great piece

[Chadvonswan]

Hey thanks a lot for reading and reviewing, really appreciate it!

[Alan B.]

Great imagery in this piece. I like the gulf you made with the top of the building and the street, shouting the words no one hears. And that an act of violence by dropping the guitar was the only thing they cared about. It really flowed.

[Chadvonswan]

Hey thanks for reading and commenting, I appreciate it man. I like your interpretation of the story.