Beverly Broca (16)
Ribbons
Winner of the Lungs Contest
The case appears uncannily similar to the casket; the casket that acts as a stagnant tumor, defining every fiber of his brain, every morsel of his identity.
His hands fasten around the instrument. It finds its familiar spot within the crevice of his neck. The deep breathing emanating from his lungs encloses the man in a corset of apprehension. His head throbs from the swarm of recollections rattling inside. The music, once filled with the joy of success, now scrapes his mind raw, burning the exposed contents of his intellect.
The much too recognizable note of A rings from the man’s violin in his exasperated attempt to tune. The quintessential note, so steady in nature, is not exempt from the man’s efforts to construe it into a reflection of his wavering stability.
A hand beckons for the man to come on stage. The dreaded time to perform has arrived. Thoughts of entertaining and musicianship had long fled the fissures of his memory and now uneasily endeavor to fit back in place. As he takes his first steps on stage, his eyes meet the cascade of stage lights that concurrently expose the audience members’ countenances. They are so ignorant of the man behind the music, so ignorant of the sentiment underneath that final, artificial layer of sound.
The man’s bow crashes down, down, down, along with his final grip on reality.
The first chord rings, reverberates throughout the concert hall. Her face appears in his mind; the face which he struggled so desperately to annihilate, to shove into the darkest chasm of his subconscious. She is still smiling.
With every beat of the melody, her aura follows. No longer does the man see the yearning gazes of a watchful audience, but the recognizable scene of the accident. Gravity seems to tug with increasing heaviness on his arms as his outpouring of emotions detracts from his now petty desire to perform. The solemnity of D minor carries greater depth as the violinist’s song becomes laced with reminiscing. It is no longer a song. It is a cry for help.
Every crescendo is her laugh—the laugh that encapsulated summer and relief and untainted authenticity and afternoons spent playing hopscotch. Every decrescendo is her breath—the slight pause before her accordion of words and the color of lilac. It is the deep exhales of slumber and the subtle metronome behind life. Every pizzicato is one of her freckles—the blemishes that spotted her face the way constellations adorn the heavens.
He is gaining momentum now. Playing is no longer excruciating, but enthralling. The notes are performed with a certain coarseness, enough to make the audience on edge. Each stroke of his bow brings him closer to her—closer to the remorse.
The vibrato is the wails of the ambulance on the way to their house, the cries of himself, the screams of her mother. It is the austere fragility of a doctor’s voice breaking the news about his daughter.
He thinks music is so detached from life. Life is not beautiful, it is callous. Even the most dismal of notes ring with sweetness. Life is a continuous stream of mourning, interrupted only by figments of sweetness—flashes of bliss that lead you to think your existence is lovely and meaningful and deep and jubilant. It isn’t. There is no glorious close, only a perpetuation of pain.
The scales are the turning of car keys. They are the highs and lows of nights spent submerged in liquor, notes sung by a funeral choir that were meant to be comforting, the loopy cursive of divorce papers’ signatures.
The chord is death. It is the ignition of an engine, the impulsive blasting of the radio, the ever-quickening ticking of time, the neglecting of checking mirrors. The chord is not A major, but the thud echoing from a driveway. It is the contrast between the blue ribbon in his little girl’s hair and the ribbons of scarlet that plastered her tiny, limp figure. It is the shattering of a beer bottle thrown as his wife slammed that front door for the last time.
The climax is complete. The faint whisperings of an almost inaudible note frolic through the concert hall the way residual smoke dances off the tip of a cigarette. The audience claps, and then stands. They are astonished. He is devastated. The man looks out into the audience to see his little girl one last time, as the stage lights reveal the hot tears painting his features like watercolors. He feels her spirit in the air that pervades his lungs, in the elusive pulsation of his heart. A wretched exhale escapes his lips and, for the first time in a long time, he does not hold his breath.
Beverly Broca is 16 years old, a lover of puns, and an avid thesaurus user. She spends her time making and listening to music, stressing over trivial matters, and petting her two benevolent dogs. As a newbie to the world of creative writing, she hopes you enjoy her first publication!
Ribbons
Winner of the Lungs Contest
The case appears uncannily similar to the casket; the casket that acts as a stagnant tumor, defining every fiber of his brain, every morsel of his identity.
His hands fasten around the instrument. It finds its familiar spot within the crevice of his neck. The deep breathing emanating from his lungs encloses the man in a corset of apprehension. His head throbs from the swarm of recollections rattling inside. The music, once filled with the joy of success, now scrapes his mind raw, burning the exposed contents of his intellect.
The much too recognizable note of A rings from the man’s violin in his exasperated attempt to tune. The quintessential note, so steady in nature, is not exempt from the man’s efforts to construe it into a reflection of his wavering stability.
A hand beckons for the man to come on stage. The dreaded time to perform has arrived. Thoughts of entertaining and musicianship had long fled the fissures of his memory and now uneasily endeavor to fit back in place. As he takes his first steps on stage, his eyes meet the cascade of stage lights that concurrently expose the audience members’ countenances. They are so ignorant of the man behind the music, so ignorant of the sentiment underneath that final, artificial layer of sound.
The man’s bow crashes down, down, down, along with his final grip on reality.
The first chord rings, reverberates throughout the concert hall. Her face appears in his mind; the face which he struggled so desperately to annihilate, to shove into the darkest chasm of his subconscious. She is still smiling.
With every beat of the melody, her aura follows. No longer does the man see the yearning gazes of a watchful audience, but the recognizable scene of the accident. Gravity seems to tug with increasing heaviness on his arms as his outpouring of emotions detracts from his now petty desire to perform. The solemnity of D minor carries greater depth as the violinist’s song becomes laced with reminiscing. It is no longer a song. It is a cry for help.
Every crescendo is her laugh—the laugh that encapsulated summer and relief and untainted authenticity and afternoons spent playing hopscotch. Every decrescendo is her breath—the slight pause before her accordion of words and the color of lilac. It is the deep exhales of slumber and the subtle metronome behind life. Every pizzicato is one of her freckles—the blemishes that spotted her face the way constellations adorn the heavens.
He is gaining momentum now. Playing is no longer excruciating, but enthralling. The notes are performed with a certain coarseness, enough to make the audience on edge. Each stroke of his bow brings him closer to her—closer to the remorse.
The vibrato is the wails of the ambulance on the way to their house, the cries of himself, the screams of her mother. It is the austere fragility of a doctor’s voice breaking the news about his daughter.
He thinks music is so detached from life. Life is not beautiful, it is callous. Even the most dismal of notes ring with sweetness. Life is a continuous stream of mourning, interrupted only by figments of sweetness—flashes of bliss that lead you to think your existence is lovely and meaningful and deep and jubilant. It isn’t. There is no glorious close, only a perpetuation of pain.
The scales are the turning of car keys. They are the highs and lows of nights spent submerged in liquor, notes sung by a funeral choir that were meant to be comforting, the loopy cursive of divorce papers’ signatures.
The chord is death. It is the ignition of an engine, the impulsive blasting of the radio, the ever-quickening ticking of time, the neglecting of checking mirrors. The chord is not A major, but the thud echoing from a driveway. It is the contrast between the blue ribbon in his little girl’s hair and the ribbons of scarlet that plastered her tiny, limp figure. It is the shattering of a beer bottle thrown as his wife slammed that front door for the last time.
The climax is complete. The faint whisperings of an almost inaudible note frolic through the concert hall the way residual smoke dances off the tip of a cigarette. The audience claps, and then stands. They are astonished. He is devastated. The man looks out into the audience to see his little girl one last time, as the stage lights reveal the hot tears painting his features like watercolors. He feels her spirit in the air that pervades his lungs, in the elusive pulsation of his heart. A wretched exhale escapes his lips and, for the first time in a long time, he does not hold his breath.
Beverly Broca is 16 years old, a lover of puns, and an avid thesaurus user. She spends her time making and listening to music, stressing over trivial matters, and petting her two benevolent dogs. As a newbie to the world of creative writing, she hopes you enjoy her first publication!