brigits_flame june.1
So after a 6-7 month break, I'm finally returning to competition in brigits_flame. Strangely, I joined the community because I thought weekly prompts would get me writing more. Instead, I simply stopped participating when I (insert excuse here). Now I'm back, largely due to a desire to hammer out more of my mad wordsmithing. This week's prompt is "fugue refugee", and so I bring you a piece vaguely inspired by The Music of Erik Zahn.
I can't do this anymore. It's starting to... intrude... on the rest of my life. There are eleven others; they can handle it. I knew going into it that this was a terrible burden, but a necessary responsibility. But it's too much. I can't do it. I can't go back there. I can't play again.
These are the things going through my mind as I stare at the flute sitting on my table. It's a lovely instrument. The body is silver (solid, not silver-plated brass) and the keys are carved bone. The keys are attached with an arcane jointing method that I was instructed to never alter, but allows for amazing control. A very faint filigree, the sort that becomes invisible in bright light, courses over the body of the flute. The carvings were, at first, indescribable whorls and curves. With time and an almost uncontrollable desire to categorise, the lines slowly begin to take on familiarity. This is clearly a carp. This looks like a rainbow, but without colour. Here at the embouchure is... let's not think about what the embouchure looks like.
I just don't know what to do with the flute. I can't give it back. Then they'd know. I'm reluctant to throw it away because of it's such fine craftsmanship. And I think it might come back. I can't keep it. I can't have this thing in my apartment anymore.
I spent the weekend staring at the flute. I didn't sleep enough and I think I probably ate at least twice. My phone rang several times. One of them, late Saturday night when I might have been dozing, I'm sure must have been the others. They'd call to see where I was. But everything's still here. That means it's okay, right? I didn't show up for the Sabbath session and they managed without me. They'll probably find someone else by next week. They'll need my flute, though. This isn't the sort of instrument you can purchase at Ted Brown. I'd like to give it back, but I'm concerned they won't let me go again. I don't know if this is the sort of thing you can just quit.
I'm awoken Monday morning by a heavy pounding on my door. Blearily, I stumble across the living room - had I fallen asleep on the floor? - and open the door. It's the police. They say I'm under arrest for stealing an artefact from the museum - an ancient instrument. I'm quickly handcuffed and hustled out the door before I can really figure out what's happening.
I'm in a room. There's a chair and a table and a one-way mirror. I'm sitting across from a woman in a skirt suit. The room is too bright and there's an almost subsonic hum that grates on me.
"How are you feeling?" she asks me.
"I... what happened?" I'm not sure what day it is and I don't remember anything since leaving my apartment.
"You told a detective about your work on the wall. I'm supposed to be here to evaluate your mental state. Fortunately, we were keeping an eye out since you defected. I'm here to help."
"Who are you?" Was she with the others? They had to have the flute back. What else would they want from me?
"My name is Katherine. I'm with a group who helps people like you. You want out, right? You want these eldritch claws out of you so you can have your life back?"
I nod. "Yeah. That's why I'm here, I guess."
She gives me a wry smile. "I can get you free. But you'll need a new life. You have to leave town. You can't return to your apartment." A bag that I hadn't noticed slides over to my feet. "There are clothes and money. Don't stick around to say goodbye to anybody."
Katherine leaves, then, and I wonder what comes next. Surely they won't just let me leave. As I consider my options, I notice a flash around the edge of the door and it swings open a few inches. With a shrug I grab the bag and walk out.
I'm on a train across the country now. I feel good. My mind hasn't seemed this clear in months. It seems like things are going to be all right again. I think I'll stop in Iowa. Nothing happens in Iowa, right? That would be perfect.
I can't do this anymore. It's starting to... intrude... on the rest of my life. There are eleven others; they can handle it. I knew going into it that this was a terrible burden, but a necessary responsibility. But it's too much. I can't do it. I can't go back there. I can't play again.
These are the things going through my mind as I stare at the flute sitting on my table. It's a lovely instrument. The body is silver (solid, not silver-plated brass) and the keys are carved bone. The keys are attached with an arcane jointing method that I was instructed to never alter, but allows for amazing control. A very faint filigree, the sort that becomes invisible in bright light, courses over the body of the flute. The carvings were, at first, indescribable whorls and curves. With time and an almost uncontrollable desire to categorise, the lines slowly begin to take on familiarity. This is clearly a carp. This looks like a rainbow, but without colour. Here at the embouchure is... let's not think about what the embouchure looks like.
I just don't know what to do with the flute. I can't give it back. Then they'd know. I'm reluctant to throw it away because of it's such fine craftsmanship. And I think it might come back. I can't keep it. I can't have this thing in my apartment anymore.
I spent the weekend staring at the flute. I didn't sleep enough and I think I probably ate at least twice. My phone rang several times. One of them, late Saturday night when I might have been dozing, I'm sure must have been the others. They'd call to see where I was. But everything's still here. That means it's okay, right? I didn't show up for the Sabbath session and they managed without me. They'll probably find someone else by next week. They'll need my flute, though. This isn't the sort of instrument you can purchase at Ted Brown. I'd like to give it back, but I'm concerned they won't let me go again. I don't know if this is the sort of thing you can just quit.
I'm awoken Monday morning by a heavy pounding on my door. Blearily, I stumble across the living room - had I fallen asleep on the floor? - and open the door. It's the police. They say I'm under arrest for stealing an artefact from the museum - an ancient instrument. I'm quickly handcuffed and hustled out the door before I can really figure out what's happening.
I'm in a room. There's a chair and a table and a one-way mirror. I'm sitting across from a woman in a skirt suit. The room is too bright and there's an almost subsonic hum that grates on me.
"How are you feeling?" she asks me.
"I... what happened?" I'm not sure what day it is and I don't remember anything since leaving my apartment.
"You told a detective about your work on the wall. I'm supposed to be here to evaluate your mental state. Fortunately, we were keeping an eye out since you defected. I'm here to help."
"Who are you?" Was she with the others? They had to have the flute back. What else would they want from me?
"My name is Katherine. I'm with a group who helps people like you. You want out, right? You want these eldritch claws out of you so you can have your life back?"
I nod. "Yeah. That's why I'm here, I guess."
She gives me a wry smile. "I can get you free. But you'll need a new life. You have to leave town. You can't return to your apartment." A bag that I hadn't noticed slides over to my feet. "There are clothes and money. Don't stick around to say goodbye to anybody."
Katherine leaves, then, and I wonder what comes next. Surely they won't just let me leave. As I consider my options, I notice a flash around the edge of the door and it swings open a few inches. With a shrug I grab the bag and walk out.
I'm on a train across the country now. I feel good. My mind hasn't seemed this clear in months. It seems like things are going to be all right again. I think I'll stop in Iowa. Nothing happens in Iowa, right? That would be perfect.