I gave myself a writing challenge. I put out an open call on facebook for individuals willing to let me write their Dystopia Rising characters. I explained that I want to write more than just Jeanie, that I’d work with the individual who plays each character. But, it’s a chance for me to work on my writing skills by challenging me to branch out into other characters. So, here it is. The third of my Dystopia Rising Friend Fictions.
It is also based on the recent plot going on in Dystopia Rising Mass.
The refugees of Ripton Falls had come to know the almost constant sounds of music drifting around whatever town they were living in. Back in Ripton, the sounds of flutes might drift from one of the bars. In the Grove, you could usually find the bar filled with the graceful sounds of saxophone. Even when the people of Ripton had gathered in Pequod Port to help the Saltwise who lived there, the sounds of music had followed them. An interesting breath powered keyboard contraption could be heard echoing across the water and through the hills of the town.
The refugees of Ripton Falls had forgotten how unsettling silence could be.
The Ascensorite sat at a picnic table mere feet from the water’s edge. His saxophone sat upon his lap, highly dented but carefully cleaned of rust and any other damages to the gently tended piece. There was a comfort in it’s presence. The knowledge that this tool of the beat was still here in his hands, reminding him of the constant aspect of the beat in his life.
That comfort was needed, especially considering everything he had learned while working with Jeanie, Krey, and Viktor. The information was hard to put out of mind and it kept eating away at him.
Someone was trying to create the undead.
Sigmund shuddered. There was something unnatural about it.
Sigmund shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. He closed his eyes and listened carefully for the beat around him. The beat was with him. And despite the terrifying implications of those notes, the beat would live on and guide him. He would listen for that.
The steady thump-thump of his heart was heard first, a gentle drum beat. The water lapping against the shoreline was heard next, a faint but still steady sound. It blended in perfect time with his heart. The wind blew through the trees. Some branches rustled against each other. The rustling was almost like brushes on the cymbals that pure blood entertainers might own. Nature’s precise percussion session.
His own King spoke of this when he mentioned the beauty and love he could sense all around. John Coltrane’s lyrics were pure genius, presented generations before people truly needed them.
The Ascensorite’s head began to bounce lightly in time with the natural percussion sounds that were surrounding him. He brought his saxophone to his lips and spent a few more moments listening, quietly.
Gently, he began to play.
He let his fingers caress the instrument, speaking all of his fears. The air pushing past the reed carried his frustrations through the instrument and out the bell at it’s base. Someone may be doing the unnatural, but his King would carry him through. The beat would fill him and guide his fingers, as they always did.