Under the rays of the velvety, pink and golden sky, a hush settled over the little part of the world where the children often played. A particular quiet, however, was apparent in the air of the Demey’s greenhouse, where Ross often sat to think. The stillness of it all was not like the stifling atmosphere of a library or a classroom, though. It was rather inviting, almost playful and vivacious, beckoning him to intrude like a surprise visit from a distant friend. His mind flitted and skimmed across the glistening emerald, waxy leaves of orchids, wove itself in tangled ivy, and was enveloped by the pungency of Ethereal Mint. And for every blessed moment of his mental nebulous meanderings, a melody grew within him, louder and more intricate with every sip of luminescence.

The wooden bench he sat on creaked and groaned as he stood; he lifted a large, black hardshell case from beneath it and set it where he had been sitting. The clasps snapped like gunshots as he opened them one by one, reverberating in the formerly placid air. He opened the case to reveal a very well-kept saxophone, its various tubes, buttons, and other such apparatuses reflecting the green and gold that swathed every inch of space between the greenhouse walls. After a few moments of inspection and consideration, he carefully wedged the reed into place (he had been sucking on it the entire time, he always knew when a song was writing itself in his head), and steadily allowed the melody that wove itself inside of him to come forth, the crescendo reminiscent of a rising tide or a sunrise, contrasting the eventide’s advance.

It swelled into a melancholic lament, mayhaps grieving the day’s end, until tears streamed down Ross’s cheeks, offering life to his surrounding hosts. Despite his weeping, Ross felt giddy and gleeful inside, his heart leaping and skipping beats all the same. There, alone in the greenhouse with naught but inanimate greenery and brass, the animate was created, as everyone knows that Music is simply Life in situ.


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Michelle builds starships.

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Paola Trimarco

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"I saw the Angel in the marble, and carved until I set him free"

Jo Writes Fantasy

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