Of what unutterable parlance Do the bells blow? Of what unkowable utterances Does the wounded seraph murmur? Does she have concern Over the moonlight Bleeding into the sky? Or of her sisters strumming their viols With a masquerade so lachrymose? All whilst singing paeans in the minor mode. Does she feel the blows of drums? The jeers of her heart? White figures, praising Their disquietness as they shriek; “Dance! _ Dance!_ _ Dance!_” Or, perhaps… Her scullery drapes, Of which prior owners Left no trace as they sat her, Sylphlike beauty, On their lap And reviled her. In her decay of silence, where has she wandered? Obsolete, she must be now Where is she now? Where has she withered? Where has she gone forgotten After stripped, Intermingled, Battered, her face balled in her hands. Where can one see In the kingdom of God The drapes of her silk finery Trickling down like tears All into the cascade Blowing, Scattering, Atop Athenian ruins, Chasing ancient voices of children.
See her.
Her, the girl who lives down the Pueblo. The one whom each day Drags the bucket from the well The one who’s bandaged in the scullery clothes of her ancestors. Her, of a wounded angel, Who chants songs without words of folk long forgotten. The sadness of her heart, masqueraded By a look of fatigue. Her heart lays crowded with the descendants of Cain Blowing flutes and pounding drums, All together in the minor mode, Expressing their disquietness of life’s enigmas. But all the while, All whilst her heart crowds with dissonance And the flame of the sun continually scolds her She walks, And walks further, In hopes that one day Any day, She again sees her father The only man she covets Rocking to and fro in his chair inside.
One step closer, The children Flooding the center. Flowering from the last rung of the bell With treats clutched in hands. A “Hello!” From Ernesto, A glance from the Don, The Shepard guiding his flock in the distance. The clanging of cowbells.
One step closer, The sky has begun to dim the light of the world, And the evening redness of the west begins to blanket us all. Her steps scrunching in the gravel Whilst her eyes vaguely make out The place she calls “home”.
One step in, A step simultaneous with the cracks And creaks of decay. Little left of the home she was born in But fireflies. Her fingers trembled as she let go of the bucket Opening the door to the room, Tears trickling down her softly lightened cheeks, All as she meekly uttered: “Father?”
Although now nothing can return, The hours we have spent together, I often catch myself begging to the Lord For just another fleeting moment In your presence, dear.
When you superfluously uttered, “but why should it be me?” All the while, great bliss Spoke from your eyes, As our passions mingled Under the stars— Murmuring secrets to one another… For a brief moment, I truly thought we could have been The children of paradise.
For a second, I truly did. But I do not know the answers, dear. I wish I knew… But I cannot say I do.
The Lord seldom returns My prayers, my longing. Even as I beg to Him “Please,” in clutched fists, “Please take me home; I’ll do the rest,” I say. “Just take me home— And I’ll do the rest”. You, of a wounded seraph, With a heart crowded By the lowly descendants of Jubal, Masquerading beneath a face of sadness, Blowing flutes and striking drums, Chanting and parading Hymns in the minor mode.
What they sing and celebrate, Below their disquiet Of good fortune, I wish I knew… But I do not know… I truly don’t, dear.
But, despite the tone-deafness, Of my eyes and tearful heart, Perhaps, there’s only one thing— One that I am truly very sure: I’ll never know. I’ll never know.
He frenzied into their living room, knife balled in his fist. He looked directly into her eyes and she glanced back into his. He spoke, in a frantic tone. “I just- I just killed someone!” She narrowed his eyes at him, laughing nervously. "What do you mean you've killed someone?" "I'm dead serious, babe. We need to get moving. Pack your bags." “Jesus, Andres. I knew you were insane, but now I don’t even know what’s wrong with you.” “Stop talking! We need to leave!” He said, as he suddenly clutched her shoulders and gazed into her widened beady eyes. There was a contemplative silence whose voice filled the room. She long thought about what could have possibly driven him mad when he was well just a few days ago. Was it the neighbor's constant parties? Or a problem with the coverup? Her ex-boyfriend who has been harassing them ever since they got together? Or could it be his affair? An affair that she knows of but does not dare to bring up in danger of him becoming hell-bent on violence. “Your ex.” “Gabriel?” “Yes, Gabriel.” Said he, panting. “Oh, god…” she said, as she fell to her knees and tears began to create puddles on the marble white floor. “Hey, hey. What’s wrong?” “What the fuck is wrong with you. Why did you do this?” “Isabella! We- we can be free now! Let’s run away, to a place where they can’t find us. A place we can call paradise!” Again, silence’s voice filled the room. The sounds of whimpers are its only accompaniment. As her confusion and regret overwhelmed her, he looked at his purple colored shirt. Thereafter, a reminiscence of their date last week flashed into her mind. He wore the same shirt on that day. He thought of how their laughter filled each other's hearts as they shared the chocolate milkshake. Their smiles and cheers as it accidentally dripped down his shirt. She knew he was involved in criminal activity and could be pushed into violence, but when she would gaze longingly at stars muttering at night she wished he was there to see them. Her love for him was genuine, but her sense of dignity was even more so “Andres… I don’t need you to do this to me” “What?” He said as if he were losing his breath. “No, no. You don’t understand. I have enough money and everything for us. I’ve been preparing this for weeks. It was a surprise for you, you’re supposed to be happy!” “How could I be happy when you killed someone?” Said she with temptation. “I promise you, everything I do is for you! I love you till the end of time! I’ve already saved you from him!” “Andres, I don’t want you. I don’t need your saving” she said. Her bloodshot eyes scolded him. She trembled and balled her fists as she spoke those words. Drops had gathered in her eyes but they did not fall. Andres looked at her with tears trickling down his cheek. He swiftly risked a glance to the ground. Every second that passed, was every second that he would clench the knife even tighter. His eyes became hellishly red while beginning to tremble violently. “You stupid bitch! You’re all the same!” He seized her by the arm and cut her throat. She instantly fell to the ground whilst crimson expressed itself on the floor and the knife rolled over. He gazed at her laying down in the pool of her blood. Her eyes are as serene as the moonlight reflecting off the steel knife. “Isabella? Are you alright? Said he, falling to his knees and nudging her shoulder. “Isabella, wake up. You’re okay, right? Please, get up. I’m sorry I did that to you. Please, forgive me!” His tears trickled into the blood. As he cried, he grabbed his distorted face and silently wept in the shadow of death.
“Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name; thy kingdom come; thy will be done; on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. Amen.”
The pastor spoke, and the organ sang its heavenly song whilst the Church sat. They all were blanketed in silence, its voice only being interrupted by sniffles and tears. All were there in memory of Javier Cavallin. He was only twenty-six when he drowned himself that night. Before, he and his girlfriend reminisced about their childhood under the medallion lights of their apartment, their childhood being the only escape and fantasy from the punishments they suffered financially. As dawn broke he left quietly. After driving for just seven more minutes he plunged his car directly into the river and did not free himself.
Mother and father were the first to receive the news. They were the first to arrive and rushed through the red and blue lights and yellow tape to see their boy being pulled out of the water like a newly born baptismal candidate. All they could remember hearing were the ambulance’s moans. His girlfriend and cousins were later told, followed by his uncles and aunts. The last to know was his grandmother, who had only one more grandchild after him, a boy of nine named Agustin. During the service —whilst the children recited from the good book— she thought about the times he first held him in her arms right after his birth. How merry she felt when his laughs filled her heart and eased her mournings of her late husband. Drops gathered in her eyes but she could not weep. It was all far too sudden for her to comprehend. The only other thing that came to mind was when she received the phone call and how the stars did not whisper on that night.
After reading the verse, Agustin sat down and remained silent for the rest of the service. He looked around the mass, seeing the faces, whispers, and mournful jeers of people he did not know. The painting of the Lord looked as if it were scolding him. He did not know his cousin had committed suicide; his parents had told him that he suffered a heart attack. Few memories rekindled in his mind, but the emptiness and confusion stayed in him. The mass ended soon after, and Agustin’s father walked towards his mother to comfort her. He wrapped his arms around her and let her tears create puddles on his shirt. Agustin took note with an innocent glance but did not say a word.
As the little bell rang to the sound of the creaking door, my ears filled with indiscernible chatter but for a single “Welcome miss!”. I stood in line for my usual coffee with a hint of milk. Ahead of me was a boy who couldn’t be more than seventeen whilst behind me was a fragile elderly lady. Around us; were frivolous couples and first dates, men on laptops, women sitting gracefully on their own, tables filled with plates. Soon after my observations, the sun parted on that day. A roll of thunder brought the drops at the summit of the roof drizzling down to the agitated footsteps below. We, the lucky ones, showed no intolerance to the sudden outpour. The air filled with the scent of coffee mingled with the rain. The warmth of the cafe seemed ever so present with the drops gathering against the window. Cup in my hands, I cooled my coffee with a gentle blow, as I sat near the window, and watched the trickling rain.
As he sat hunched on that weary stool cushion, the only place where one could sit backstage, he feverishly flipped through the pages of the score. He looked over every notation, every phrase, every pedal mark, every fingering. Beethoven’s spirit seemed as if it was gazing down upon him. “So much hard work, so many sleepless nights,” he thought. “yet still my heart is pounding so fast that I feel like I’m on the verge of fainting. I’ve been preparing for this very audition for what feels like an eternity. All that extra time I wasted watching films, reading, writing sloppy poetry, going out… god, I’m such an idiot. I should’ve used that time to practice. Those leaps in the second movement still scold me. Why didn’t I practice harder? I would’ve never been worrying about this page if I had just put in more time.” Frantically littering his mind, his worries seemed unbearable. Why did it have to be him? He could have stayed home, or been doing anything else. It could have been any other pianist, it makes no sense for it to be him. The sweat from his palms trickled onto the page, the wet spots obscuring the notes. “Oh, my, I’m sure I’m going to have some sort of memory slip in this passage, it’s so hard to memorize these things. It’s like trying to memorize the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle or all the words in a poem!” He cried out in quiet despair. “I get so childish when a performance comes knocking at my door. If I ended up playing horribly at one of my recitals, it wouldn’t make a difference. The audience would simply come and go and I wouldn’t have to worry about it. But this, this is what I feel like I have been preparing for! I wonder why I even began to consider applying to conservatories despite the wishes of my parents!” His legs quivered like they were being punished by the winter wind. At any moment, they would announce number twenty-three, and so that would be his time. He took four deep breaths. He tried to remember why he loved that Beethoven sonata, why he chose to play it, and how magical it sounded when he first heard it. He was a boy of only 9, not interested in any sort of music, but as the pianist played the first few notes of the sonata, it seemed like the elderly concert hall flourished into a paradise. “That other pianist… he must’ve been feeling the same way I’m feeling now.” He uttered under his breath, chuckling. “Look at me, turning the tables. I get so anxious because of stuff like this, I can’t help it. I’m nervous, perhaps even that is an understatement, but I’m nervous about something precious: I am making music. Whether it’s for the child who will be hearing this piece for the first time, or for the old man who sits near the entrance, my playing could be the last that man will ever hear. Oh, if only one could worry about these things more often”. He said with a tearful laugh. As his racing thoughts gradually halted, he started to calm himself. “Number twenty-three, Richard Kates, you’re up,” said the voice across the hall. He buttoned his shirt and left the sheet music on the stool, marching onto the stage. The lights high up in the sky illuminated his trail. And so he bowed to his audience, sat down on the bench, and rung the first notes of the sonata.
