Kitten Courna

“Drink! for you know not whence you came nor why:
Drink! for you know not why you go, nor where.” -Omar Khayyam

Song
______

“Play! Play again! Do not let the music die until the singer’s throat runs dry!”

“Leave off then!”

“We’ll wet his throat again!’

“I don’t think that singer’s voice will ever dry up.”

Bawdy jokes and laughter. He sat at the head of a long table, on a raised dias behind the final chair, though not in a place of honor. He sang for them; it was his voice that echoed across the hall to the beat of their dancing. Paling, breathless in the hall filled with red, drunken faces. He imagined each stone being piled upon the next to make the great high walls of the narrow dining hall and imagined with each stone a gathering pressure upon his chest. He sang for them; it was his voice that they cheered and shouted to, his voice that they had imprisoned in the walls of their own hall, not to be heard outside again except for the pleasure of his captors.
His seat on the dias was a well stuffed pillow, the soft borders of which he imagined his ever shrinking cage. They had imprisoned him, a collar around his neck and a chain that reach only to the beer slicked floor below. Gold and silver and fine stuffed cushions were what imprisoned delicate things. Loss of heart made their soft walls strong.

“Strike another!”

“Call it loud!”

“Make another dance!”

He glanced across to his only friend, the musician. He caught the turning down of dark eyes before a tune was struck, a melody that floated over the audibly rapacious shouting. Fearfully, he felt his chest twisted and burst under the pressure as he turned to sing. A song of home, his home, a melody that resided past these walls and in the still walled part of his heart. His voice, however cracked and overused, was not what he heard. He heard to voice of a homeland, a sweet and pure melody. The sound beneath the song subtly died. The raucous dancing ground to halt. Twisting through the air came barbs of broken homesickness. By song the broken are put together again, by song they find peace. A slow song more piercing than the steel against the walls took the broken edges and sewed them together again, piecing those who had torn apart.

The song died as easily as it had risen. The singer looked over the crowd again. The musician watched hopefully over his friend. The chain was drawn taut on the collar and the order came quietly from the head of the table, “Strike again.” The musician started his piece and the singer accompanied. His voice was clear, a the noise grew around it again, but the chain was not loosed. He sang with a smile this time, the walls of his heart rebuilt by the trumpet that destroyed.

The musician played quietly, his fingers over the strings soft. Easily relaxed, his fingers plucked a melody, though he remembered another more acutely. He may have killed his friend with his song, but first he had allowed him to be free.

__________________
Cadmus: Poor child, like a white swan warding its weak old father, why do you clasp those white arms about my neck?
Euripides; 'The Bacchae'

obiwanjabroni

I'm surprised that no one has commented on this story yet, but I've gotta say I really love this story. You wouldn't mind if I snatch this from you and save it to read in the future? And if possible, can I have an proper name as author?

Out of curiosity, what inspired this story?

Kitten Courna

I'm not *grin* short stories aren't well loved here. (and before I get crucified, it's only a tease)

You certainly may save it and read it, I wouldn't put it up here otherwise. I will say that I'm particularly honored you liked it that much *smile*. I didn't think it was that great.

I won't give you my proper name, not out of disrespect, but because I don't like to. No harm done, I hope.

It was mostly 'Ave Maria' (the schubert version I believe) sung by Andrea Bocelli. It started to play unexpectedly, and startled this scene into me.

Thanks for stopping by and commenting!

-Kitten

__________________
Cadmus: Poor child, like a white swan warding its weak old father, why do you clasp those white arms about my neck?
Euripides; 'The Bacchae'

Sneaky

Well, if you think it was not very good, plz post a better one .

Some typos, that was all (dias? i thought dais, if you mean an elevated place, a chain that reach(es/ed) he heart to (the/an) voice) i found to critize.

Well done indeed.

Penelope

I suppose your icon is musical bars with half concealed notes but it makes me think of a gate to the fence you are looking over in your other icon .. *phew* long sentence - I could go back and add punctuation or a break but this is comment space .. n'est pas? Where was I? oh yes! Your short story.
Know what it made me think of? Of course you don't.

oh Danny boy .. the pipes the pipes are calling .. from glen to glen and down the mountain side .. but summer's gone .. and all the leaves are dying

yes .... lovely story Kitten

sing me another one .. please?

__________________
"Trees cause more pollution than automobiles do." Ronald Reagan ~ 1981

Poetry Editor @ Sacred Twilight

STONEANGEL444

Your article gave me the impression the musician/friend was enabling the singer to gain the peace and serenity that can at times be found only within ones own soul. Thank you for posting this story.

Kitten Courna

Sneaky: Dais...darn dipthongs. I'll peruse for misspellings, it was a rather sudden post. Thanks for telling me *grin*. And thanks for your comment *smile*, I'll try and put up a better one.

Penelope: Thanks for stopping by *grin*. It is indeed musical notes, but it has similarities to my other one. I was thinking no one would noticed I had changed it *sheepish grin*. If I had a good copy of Danny Boy, It probably would've been written to that, but the problem is when I hear that song I only want to listen. It's indeed very fitting though, and as chance may have it, perhaps that's what came out of the harp and voice. Thanks for your comment, I appreciate it *smile*.

Stoneangel: Something like that, though sometimes you need a little help finding your soul again. I'm not used to be thanked for posting, heh heh, but, thanks for commenting? And you're welcome too? *grin* I fall apart with this kinda stuff.

Thanks for dropping in, all of you
-Kitten

__________________
Cadmus: Poor child, like a white swan warding its weak old father, why do you clasp those white arms about my neck?
Euripides; 'The Bacchae'

Penelope

I notice icons always Kitten. They are part of the personality that the majority on here seem to want to hide behind. Sometimes they even have me going off on a poetic ramble (lavender Wol). Actually, I remember a lot of insignificant twaddle. Maybe that's why I like to write?

__________________
"Trees cause more pollution than automobiles do." Ronald Reagan ~ 1981

Poetry Editor @ Sacred Twilight

Kitten Courna

Or maybe, like years are made of days, that's what writing is made of *grin*.

__________________
Cadmus: Poor child, like a white swan warding its weak old father, why do you clasp those white arms about my neck?
Euripides; 'The Bacchae'