Music
Muse
You know
the story of Calliope trapped in a room. Ideas hit you like a murder of
crows. At first you marvel at the multitude. Soon, they shackle you
to the wall, peck and peck until you are wounds. Calliope, hair torn and
clothes askance, laughs a song, hope turned to despair.
Museum
We stood
side by side, looking at the lutes through the glass. You said, split
avocados. I said, ancient rock guitars. We knew the hands that once
played them have long been dust. I saw your reflection in the glass, a
silhouette in charcoal. I reached for your hand but it wasn't there.
Music
Her sound
drifted through the window like the aroma of cooking curry, enticing to the
wandering palate. He walked by, hearing the soothing viola notes, his
vanilla clothes brightening to fruit salad mélange. Stay and listen, as
the world marched, deaf grays hollowing out the remaining ears.
Muslin
I am lost
in hammered leaves and crunchy steel. My mouth wrapped in finest muslin.
Scream and it's lonely music, beautiful.
Muzak
You
thought, I've never actually heard music on an elevator before. You
wonder, maybe I will when I die. You pray, I hope it goes up, and the
music is good.
CP
Christian
Bell lives near Baltimore, Maryland. His fiction has appeared in SmokeLong Quarterly, Wigleaf, and JMWW Quarterly, among other
publications.
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