Friday, March 22, 2013

"The Piano" by James Archer

White and soft the piano keys soothed the old man’s broken skin, cracked and dry. Tempting winds sift through windows and walks up and down the frail spine and fragile bones. Closed eyes are shut and prepare for the storm, opening up the drapes of yesterday covered in dust. Lost thoughts and dreams sit around in the graveyard of never, mingling with unfinished compositions.
Raising fingers above the forehead, the old man hammers them down on the keys. A dissonant and raw euphony echoes and rests across the wooden floor. It is all coming back to the ancient player. Forming his hand into a specific pattern with precise distance, the pianist presses down. And, as the keys are pressed down, so is the air around the piano, it resonates and raises the noise high into the pinnacles of life and the far reaching caverns of Hell. Moving the fingers and spreading the palm, various notes and chords swirl around and mix with the stars. Right when the sound meets the nebulous ball of fire, at that exact moment of physical contact, it explodes and illuminates the darkness with a blossoming crackle of symphonies. A wise old head tries to keep pace with the youthful and spirited fingers that dip themselves into the minds of demons and angels.
Every noise creates a conversation between the heart and mind, a fluid dialogue. Neither can actually stand each other, but somehow, no one knows how, they just work. Sweat drops and drips from the wrinkles on the old man’s forehead. The mental composition comes to an end as the man, spirited and youthful, puts his finishing touch. A final tap of a black key is uttered, and the piano is sealed back again.
And as the artist walks down the attic steps, accompanied by the creaky noises, one could almost hear him say “I still got it.” Almost. 

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