For Sarah
So I guess I should post this here, too... Maybe... Oh well.
This is the first story I've written just to write something. Usually I HATE writing. I think it's kind of weird...
But it all stemmed from a dream I had, which I wanted to write down immediately. But I had to take the SAT. Damn.
Well, here it is:
The musician crouched over a cramped wooden desk, frantically pouring his soul onto the five lines of a treble clef. The only other piece of furniture in the dark room was a grand piano, polished until the low light from a candle reflected off of its surface and illuminated even the far corners of the room. Its bench had been, at one time, pulled over to the writing desk, but now lay on its side opposite the door. It was a heavy oaken door, accustomed to frequent use, but it had lain, unopened, for three days. Its well-built iron lock had been fastened from the inside with a large key. There were no windows in this room, which had served as a study and a retreat for its previous owners. The desk itself was fastened to the wooden floor, as it had been since the house’s construction at the turn of the century. History rang through its halls and echoed in its empty places.
The musician ran his fingers through his hair and turned, like so many times before, to look at the piano. He let a mournful sigh escape his lips, and turned back to the yellowed staves on the desk before him. The pages were torn and faded from multitudes of erasures, while the staves were still empty. He looked down, past the desk. The ground was littered with the hundreds of sheets he had filled in a vain attempt to preserve the only song worth saving - one written by a divine hand, paid for with blood, and written in tears. The musician looked back at the paper in front of him. It was his last sheet; it was his last chance. He watched as a single tear, stained golden by the yellowed paper beneath it, fell onto the handwritten title above the staff: “For Sarah.” The grandfather clock in the hall, its voice made timid and woeful by one hundred years of tragedy, struck two o’clock. The musician looked at the door for the seemingly endless duration of its chimes. As the final peal rang into the empty house, he fell to his knees, giving voice yet again to his sorrows. He glanced toward the piano, as for help.
~ ~ ~
She had been his light, given life to his bleak world. For a brief span of two years, he had been happy - the only such time in his life. The day they were wed, he had been afraid that he would wake to find that she had been simply a dream, just another product of his imagination. When she walked through this dark house, it had finally become home - a place loved and desired. Now there were only memories; the ghosts of the past stalked its long halls. Every breath of wind caused the ancient floorboards to creak, as if she still walked the halls in her joy.
The night she had finally succumbed to divine will, the musician had fled to the only comfort that remained: the dark room in the very center of the house, where resided inspiration amongst melancholy melodies. He had turned the black iron key, which always hung about his waist from a chain, and left it in the lock. He did not have the courage to open the door. In his tears, he had stumbled over the bench that now lay in the corner. He had sat down, leaning on the piano for solace. His hand had touched one of its polished keys.
~ ~ ~
The musician slowly walked to the corner of the room, filled with regret for his imperfect memory. He picked up the bench, pulling it to the center of the room, and placed it in front of the piano again. He reached out his hand, touching the key that had been so powerfully ingrained in his mind. As the note sounded, clear and melodic, his face took on a slightly different expression. His sorrow had become infused with determination and acceptance. He reached out to the piano, pleading with God to give him the strength to remember the song he had played three nights before.
As he began to play, searching his memory for each note, his face contorted into a mask of disappointment. Though the song was the same, it could not produce the same effect. It was missing some key element; something that made it unique, irreplicable. He finally surrendered and, tears falling down his cheeks, fell into another memory.
~ ~ ~
He had played the song the entire night. It was the most powerful melody ever heard, not because of any special talent of the composer’s, but simply because it came of pure emotion. It seemed to him that he could hear her speaking through the notes, her voice ringing between each chord. He talked to the song for hours, hearing her voice one last time. But acceptance never came, and when the song faded, as it must, she was gone yet again. He had fallen into depression again, spending his time in the company of memory and two staves. He had not eaten in three days.
~ ~ ~
The musician woke again to the sound of the aged grandfather clock in the hall striking five. It seemed to him as if the old clock had found a new hope, something to cling to in the midst of tragedy. He knew what was missing from the song. He turned once again to the bright keys of the piano, filling his heart with love for her, and began a new song. His regret and sorrow turned a simple structure of note and chord into a beautiful, grand cathedral. She stepped out of that cathedral, speaking the words of love he knew so well. The sound of her voice served as a catalyst, raising the song ever higher, spiraling into the heavens. The musician smiled for the first time in three days, and, in his joy, set loose his soul to run to her.
~ ~ ~
When the friends of the musician opened the heavy oak door, they saw his empty shell laying on the piano, his last smile still on his lips. The candle that had served as his only light for three days lay extinguished. On the writing desk lay a blank manuscript, entitled “For Sarah.”
This is the first story I've written just to write something. Usually I HATE writing. I think it's kind of weird...
But it all stemmed from a dream I had, which I wanted to write down immediately. But I had to take the SAT. Damn.
Well, here it is:
The musician crouched over a cramped wooden desk, frantically pouring his soul onto the five lines of a treble clef. The only other piece of furniture in the dark room was a grand piano, polished until the low light from a candle reflected off of its surface and illuminated even the far corners of the room. Its bench had been, at one time, pulled over to the writing desk, but now lay on its side opposite the door. It was a heavy oaken door, accustomed to frequent use, but it had lain, unopened, for three days. Its well-built iron lock had been fastened from the inside with a large key. There were no windows in this room, which had served as a study and a retreat for its previous owners. The desk itself was fastened to the wooden floor, as it had been since the house’s construction at the turn of the century. History rang through its halls and echoed in its empty places.
The musician ran his fingers through his hair and turned, like so many times before, to look at the piano. He let a mournful sigh escape his lips, and turned back to the yellowed staves on the desk before him. The pages were torn and faded from multitudes of erasures, while the staves were still empty. He looked down, past the desk. The ground was littered with the hundreds of sheets he had filled in a vain attempt to preserve the only song worth saving - one written by a divine hand, paid for with blood, and written in tears. The musician looked back at the paper in front of him. It was his last sheet; it was his last chance. He watched as a single tear, stained golden by the yellowed paper beneath it, fell onto the handwritten title above the staff: “For Sarah.” The grandfather clock in the hall, its voice made timid and woeful by one hundred years of tragedy, struck two o’clock. The musician looked at the door for the seemingly endless duration of its chimes. As the final peal rang into the empty house, he fell to his knees, giving voice yet again to his sorrows. He glanced toward the piano, as for help.
~ ~ ~
She had been his light, given life to his bleak world. For a brief span of two years, he had been happy - the only such time in his life. The day they were wed, he had been afraid that he would wake to find that she had been simply a dream, just another product of his imagination. When she walked through this dark house, it had finally become home - a place loved and desired. Now there were only memories; the ghosts of the past stalked its long halls. Every breath of wind caused the ancient floorboards to creak, as if she still walked the halls in her joy.
The night she had finally succumbed to divine will, the musician had fled to the only comfort that remained: the dark room in the very center of the house, where resided inspiration amongst melancholy melodies. He had turned the black iron key, which always hung about his waist from a chain, and left it in the lock. He did not have the courage to open the door. In his tears, he had stumbled over the bench that now lay in the corner. He had sat down, leaning on the piano for solace. His hand had touched one of its polished keys.
~ ~ ~
The musician slowly walked to the corner of the room, filled with regret for his imperfect memory. He picked up the bench, pulling it to the center of the room, and placed it in front of the piano again. He reached out his hand, touching the key that had been so powerfully ingrained in his mind. As the note sounded, clear and melodic, his face took on a slightly different expression. His sorrow had become infused with determination and acceptance. He reached out to the piano, pleading with God to give him the strength to remember the song he had played three nights before.
As he began to play, searching his memory for each note, his face contorted into a mask of disappointment. Though the song was the same, it could not produce the same effect. It was missing some key element; something that made it unique, irreplicable. He finally surrendered and, tears falling down his cheeks, fell into another memory.
~ ~ ~
He had played the song the entire night. It was the most powerful melody ever heard, not because of any special talent of the composer’s, but simply because it came of pure emotion. It seemed to him that he could hear her speaking through the notes, her voice ringing between each chord. He talked to the song for hours, hearing her voice one last time. But acceptance never came, and when the song faded, as it must, she was gone yet again. He had fallen into depression again, spending his time in the company of memory and two staves. He had not eaten in three days.
~ ~ ~
The musician woke again to the sound of the aged grandfather clock in the hall striking five. It seemed to him as if the old clock had found a new hope, something to cling to in the midst of tragedy. He knew what was missing from the song. He turned once again to the bright keys of the piano, filling his heart with love for her, and began a new song. His regret and sorrow turned a simple structure of note and chord into a beautiful, grand cathedral. She stepped out of that cathedral, speaking the words of love he knew so well. The sound of her voice served as a catalyst, raising the song ever higher, spiraling into the heavens. The musician smiled for the first time in three days, and, in his joy, set loose his soul to run to her.
~ ~ ~
When the friends of the musician opened the heavy oak door, they saw his empty shell laying on the piano, his last smile still on his lips. The candle that had served as his only light for three days lay extinguished. On the writing desk lay a blank manuscript, entitled “For Sarah.”