Quote of the Week

Quote of the Week

"Let him that would move the world, first move himself" - Socrates

Sunday, April 8, 2012

The Night Pianist: A Short Story - Part 1


                Her beleaguered eyes found no solace in closing. Instead, the empty apparitions of the night haunted her lonely and pensive soul. Silence pursued her with fiery vengeance for every word she had spoken, or left unspoken. Stillness clawed her heart for every idle moment and every misplaced step she had unfortunately wrought. Darkness burned her mind for every deep and shallow thought she had dared to think. Thus the night had chained her, petrified, upon the bed of her remorse.

                But then a sound, barely distinguishable from the silence surrounding her, played in a long, beautiful note. It was softly, but purposefully, joined by others until a graceful and placid harmony was formed. As each note peacefully echoed into her ear, the bonds of the sepulchral night were shattered from her mind

                Her feet lightly touched the cold wooden floor as she soundlessly glided down the hallway towards the author of her freedom. She arrived at the open doorway of the study and stood breathlessly as her eyes beheld the display. A lone figure sat at the piano, gently pressing its ivory keys. His face was illuminated by the glow from the full moon, which shone through a large window. The entire room was basked in luminescence and shadow.

                She stood and watched, not daring to interrupt such an ethereal scene, fearing that even the slightest disturbance would break its link to her reality. Every second passed as an eternity – holding all the history, beauty, and depth that a soul could contain. The bookcases which lined the wall seemed to grow taller as they reached into shadows untouched by the moon’s illumination. They stood as sober and salient guards of the knowledge and wisdom contained within their chests. Against the wall opposite her stood an erect and lonely clock, its face scantly lit by the reflection of the moon atop the polished piano. The pianist seemed to play with the tick of the second hand, as if time were the very meter of his heart and mind.

And then – Silence.

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