Saturday, May 18

No-Prompt Thursday-Two, Pensador Louco

Pensador Louco  Show Offs Community


Everything started with an absurd idea.

The old maestro looked back and noticed the endless amount of music he had left in his past. A lifetime of melodies and harmonies, rhythms and conductions, all he ever knew how to do. His whole life had been dedicated to music and symphony, which was the most noble food for one's soul.

All that was lost now. He was deaf, and there was nothing to do about it.

It's so hard to imagine someone having every symphony in his head, and being only permitted to hear them as memories do, as memories go. Never being really there, in his ears. Memories coming back to him were bittersweet as he heard the notes of music playing in his head. An echo off, as were dimmed his entreaties. Oh and he missed it! He missed everything about hearing music and the life. The life.

He was the Maestro! The man who had brought fear to the faces of his musicians as his rule was harsh. But at the end hearing the audience applause it had all been worth it. Fear, reverence and respect are the foundation of a good conductor. The ovation was his treasure forever. And alas, he had it all! The sound of the world in his ears.

But now he was purged and broken. Incapable. He was deaf, and there was nothing to hear. How could they do this to him?

Like a bad joke among his new life of silence and shame, one day the old Maestro saw an auction a piece. And it spoke to him. A museum piece like himself. The old dead Gramophone looked back and a bizarre wish arose. A bond. An equal, unable to sound, just like him.

It was broke beyond repair as he felt he was so he bought it and took it home. He placed it on the mantle.

There it sat in a dark corner unseen, just as he had become unseen. He sat down opposite the Gramophone and studied it all night contemplating his shattered life. What was and never would be again.

One day he noticed it was getting dirty and decided to clean it. While he was rubbing it something strange happened.

He cut his finger. A mere scratch that was hardly noticed. A cut made by the hard and thick needle of the Gramophone. An instrument that reminded him of himself. A cut still, more serious and sad that any Princess Aurora could ever suffer. But the wound suddenly sounded. The needle quickly drew a drop of his blood and drank it like a tyrant. Exactly as a conductor should do. A vibration then rose, shaking dust of ages, crusts of indifference and spider webs of lost time. It created a clear and perfect musical note. And the deaf could hear it.

The conductor was awake. There would be no sleep for Aurora that night. Without hesitation, he jabbed his finger, the same one the needle had cut and, as a casual vagina, let his friend drink at will. It was so thirsty. Like a sponge turned into music. The gramophone drank from his finger and, as a gesture of appreciation, fired away adagios and allegros from its cone. Desire made flesh. Flesh squeezed into music. Music he could hear. His own blood serving as a red and unique musical score. His flesh to violins. Metals. Cadences.

How could he deny it more food?

Great days followed this, and at the conductor's home it was a merry time. And why shouldn't it be? He couldn't care if the world went to hell. Why should he? Wasn't his music back? It was his compositions that dripped and flowed from his veins and was it not his legacy? All he needed was his best friend. Just the two of them. Composer and orchestra together in a solid red. It was obviously too good to last.

Well, was that not a sign of weakness that his source was exhausted? That all meals were not enough and that his blood was not enough? He'd die bloodless listening to the Gramophone and at that moment as the thought occurred to him he knew that was exactly how the idea appeared. The absurd and funny idea.

The old Maestro rose from the floor. He had little strength left to stand up, and the Gramophone was still thirsty for more. Hungry. He could no longer feed him alone, no blood enough to quench all he wanted to listen. But there was so much food in the rest of the world. Wasn't it replete with stupid deaf people? Those who did not appreciate the value of an authentic symphony? Were not the ones blessed with a body capable of listening, that made fun of the few who would really value it and fill the air with heavenly harmony? There were thousands of persons who simply didn't deserve to hear music. Too many. Too many. So many, in fact.

That no one would miss one or two, right?

A week went by since the crazy idea, and no sound was heard in the old house. But soon, alas, soon.

He looked at himself in the mirror, and the image pleased him. He was still deaf. Of course he was. But he was a restful one now, due to days and nights of rest and good meals. He recovered his strength enough to feed his friend for another week. Or to bring home with him a new form of audience. One he would teach how to listen properly.

He left the house through the front door. The night was high and he could hear nothing. However, far from bringing him sadness, his deafness was good now, because it announced its biggest and clearest regency. It would prove to be his definitive work, and he could not wait. He was as eager as a boy, and went hunting for those deaf people who didn't really need to hear and to which no one would hear again. He was happy. So happy. He only needed a few. A handful of them would be sufficient. Just enough for a lifetime of orchestras.

There. He spotted the first candidate a few blocks from him. A candidate so small he would make no resistance to be taken.

The maestro stopped, closed his eyes for a brief moment and imagined how beautiful it would be to conduct his hungry gramophone. He wanted to see what would be given to him in return, for all the food and juice he was bringing home. He smiled. You could almost hear him licking his lips. And as a harsh ruler, again in life, the look of fear on the audience's faces would be satisfaction enough. Each of them waiting their turn.

He stopped breathing and opened his eyes.

And walked into his future, whistling a song that he had no form of hearing.

No-Prompt Thursday-Two, Bekkie Sanchez

Bekkie Sanchez

11:36 AM Entries For Events

Writer’s Block

My book it lies unfinished
That poem left dangling there
The words remain extinguished
It’s like my thoughts are bare.

My first book came so easy
The money made now gone
The blank page makes me queasy
My writing just looks wrong.

I meant to write a story
A word, a phrase, a quote
I wanted all the glory
One word is all I wrote.

No-Prompt Thursday-Two, françoise MICHEL

françoise MICHEL

Event Entries 11:07 AM

La vie des mots

Dans ma tête, mes mots caracolent.
Lorsqu'ils s'ennuient, ils invitent des amis.
Ils s'amusent, dansent des farandoles,
font la fête bruyamment, sans répit.

Certaines fois, ils en ont assez et se rebellent
Ils partent vers d'autres destinations
A la recherche d'une nouvelle définition
Ils s'enrichissent, se croisent, se mêlent.

Puis, je les vois revenir dans le lointain
lourds de sens, le pas incertain
Ils sont fatigués et traînent des pieds
il est temps de les coucher, là sur le papier.

English Version:

The Life of Words

In my mind, my words prance.
When bored, they invite friends.
They laugh and dance farandoles,
are partying loudly, relentlessly.

Some times they have had enough and rebel
They go to other destinations
Looking for a new definition
They get richer, intersect, mingle.

Then I see them back in the distance
full of meaning, not the uncertain
They are tired and dragging their feet
it is time to sleep, then on paper.

I would like to add it’s not easy to write in a language that one doesn’t speak. Therefore when reading this the original language will express this person the best. ♦Website’s owner.

Prompt Tuesday-Image Four, Kim Robertson


Kim Robertson

Show Offs (Event Entries) May 16, 2013

Lot’s Tale

Never look back.
Never look back.
Don't look back.

"Flee to the hills, lest you be swept away!', they both said. Lot trudged on through the desert heat, thinking back on the last 24 hours.

The day had started much like any other, but Lot sensed something in the air. He went to the city wall, as he did each day to greet the rising sun.  It rose amid a shroud of angry red light, shimmering across the plains. Birds awoke with the sun, but instead of singing Lot watched them fly out of the city and away towards the hills. On his way home normally Lot would see a few friendly cats and dogs in the streets, he had some treats in his pocket for them. Today all was silent and empty, none of his friends where around.  Even when he released the chickens from their cages they did not want to come out, they just hid inside the coup, as if a fox was waiting outside. Something was clearly not right.

Troubled, he later went to the market. There he spied his prospective sons-in-law who were brothers. Both were drunk and rowdy and, upon seeing Lot, they made him welcome. “Ah Lot, come have a drink with us! Soon we will marry your daughters and bring honor on your family. You could certainly do with that, eh!”, they laughed. Lot was a very patient and kind man and took the disrespectful behavior without response. “Boys, I am worried. The birds and animals are behaving strangely; there is something not right in the air. Last time it was like this there was a large earthquake. Maybe we should leave the city and head onto the plains where it will be safer?”

“Both of the young men laughed out loud, “Ah Lot! You see a few birds flying away and you think the world is ending! Today is a beautiful day and all is right with the world. You can go and stand in the hot sun and stare at mountains all on your own!”

Lot spent the day gathering supplies for a journey for his family. He decided that a small journey for a few days would not harm anyone. In the evening he came home and was met by his wife and daughters. “Ho! Lot, where have you been today? We have missed you.” Lot replied, “Beloved Edith, I have gathered food and supplies for a journey.  We are going to Zoar!”. So they all gathered their things.

That night, while the family ate a quiet supper, there was a knock upon their door. Lot answered cautiously, due to the late hour. There before him were two people, who he later could not describe. They appeared clothed in white but in what style he could not say. “We bear news of great import for you, Lot. A great disaster is coming to this city. You must leave or face ruin and death!”  Lot was very scared and became determined to the task. The visitors said a great many other things that Lot did not understand. Stories of fire and earthquake and death, and how me must move further than Zoar before a week is out.”  Lot was left terrified.

First thing in the morning, instead of his walk to the city wall, Lots family lead a caravan of all the asses Lot owned towards the city gates. His neighbors heard the clamor and came to see what the fuss was. When they saw him they jeered and laughed, “Have you finally gone broke old man? Has your foolish generosity been your downfall? You had better run! Your creditors come with swords! I will buy your daughters as slaves, but not your haggard wife!” and many other taunts. They were glad to leave the gates.

Lot warned his family, “I believe those visitors last night were Angels! They told me to warn you that whatever you hear, whatever you see, whatever you feel, do not look back!”

Soon after the ground started to shake making the asses baulk and become nervous. The family tugged on the lines, but never looked back.

Next they heard a tremendous crack and the sound of angry fire whooshing and sizzling and spurting. The animals panicked, and some broke away, but still lot and his family remained firm.

The sky grew dark and lightning fell all around and a hot harsh wind that smelled of sulfur tore past the family and the few animals. Clouds of ash started falling from the sky obscuring sight and sense of direction. Sounds of crashing and thunder rent the air and also what sounded like the voice of doom.

Suddenly Edith turned to lot, “I cannot see the girls! We have lost them! We must turn back!”  With that she turned around.

Lot remembered the look on her face to his dying day. It took a few seconds, but seemed an eternity. Lot lunged toward her to stop her but her eyes grew wide and it was too late. Her skin turned pale and ashen and she screamed. As her eyes turned white, she clawed at her face. All of her hair fell to the ground and shattered into salty sand.

Then her screaming stopped and she stood still, and slowly hardened and became stone like, crackling like salt thrown on a fire. Her skin turned grey, then white like the nearby Dead Sea lakes.
Lot knew she was dead. He was paralyzed. He did touched her but she was gone. For an age he stood stunned staring at her form, unable to understand.

“Father! We heard a scream! Is all well? What is the matter?”, his daughters called as they emerged from the swirling ash clouds. Lot came to, and shook himself. “Oh my daughters! There your mother stands, struck by what lies behind! DO NOT LOOK, Oh please, DO NOT LOOK BEHIND!”

For days they moved on and finally left the maelstrom and came to the village of Zoar which was abandoned, only a few worn salt statues in poses of horror were left. Lot stayed for a night, and grieved his lost wife, then moved on. He never did look back again: not then, nor for the rest of his life.