Sunday, 15 November 2015

Festival of Drabbles: Discord and Harmony

And we come to our farewell post for this wondrous Festival of Drabbles. I shall play you out with a bit of a dark melody…

Rime and Season

The frost wind swirled down from the mountain, and the icicles hanging from the trees chimed with its passing. It blew down the cobblestone streets, and around the corners and cracks of brick and mortar. It rattled the wooden shutters and howled down the chimneys. It churned the snow drifts and swooshed about the settled grime.
Nothing else moved in the quiet, solemn town.
Nothing else would ever move in this place again.
They occupied each house, every structure. While the wind howled, while the snow blew, the dead remained. Frozen, lifeless, forever locked in an eternal world of ice.


Desert Song

Across the sands, beyond the dunes, when the Mother of Moons rises in the night sky, you can hear their song on the sirocco winds. A velvet melody vibrating through the amber radiance, twirling in the light of the desert moon. They sing arias, of roses blooming in the paradise oasis, of the first raindrop and its petrichor echo. Their chorus shivers the firmament that binds the universe, and soothes the disquieted fires of the soul.
They serenade of all things sacred, but beware, listen too long…
…and the Night Sisters will sing you to your final place of dreams.


Just An Old Tune

The guitar sits in the corner, weather-beaten, with dust gathering across its worn down varnish and strings. It has some scratches and some blackened streaks; it has survived much. Countless hands have plucked it chords—old and young--through wars, through blistering summers, and long cold winters. It has strummed many a tune, and captured the vivacity of spirits in the melodies it harmonized.
Spirits it never let go.
Sorry souls that bled their happiness into the hungry maw of a demon instrument. And now… well that guitar, it’s waiting to be played.
By the next servant of the devil.

© A. F. Stewart 2015 All Rights Reserved

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