Welcome Visitor: Login to the siteJoin the site

The Opera of Lucia Di Lammermoor

Short story By: Vonish
Fantasy



Quick piece about epic-ness and violins and unearthly beings dark places and funny night skies and other goodies.


Submitted:May 10, 2007    Reads: 128    Comments: 0    Likes: 0   


Lucia Di Lammermoor stood in the graveyard on the night of the red moon. Her violin ripped itself to life under the scarlet shreds of the night time sky that October. Snow had yet to show its presence, but its sickly chill had permeated past the hundreds of coats and hundreds of hats that stood witness, feebly warming their possessors that night. The letters upon the gravestones moaned their operatic passage into cursive long forgotten by poet's hands and composer's wands alike. Simple V's became extensive diagrams of the people's collective mind as X's and Y's reconstructed the ordination of Christ and his Holy Father.

A Pope in the Vatican fell down upon cold marble as the first crescendo rose. The massive audience took their silent seats among the graves, no less polite than the cadavers above which the multitude sat. Lucia moved little during her opening among the dead. Her mouth would open and close as her pale throat gave birth to sounds meant not for the human ear. Perforated in elegant rhythm, to be saluted only by an inaudible applause, the musician swept into the onlookers a desire for greatness, for perfection, for absolution.

And little did she promise that she did not in turn bring forth, Lucia Di Lammermoor cascaded through the burial ground in epic tones and foreign arias. Value eroded itself into ashes as her completion rose above conscious, above emotion, above fear. Her violin sang into the red sky in spirals and concussions, humbling angels and saints as they sat on their clouds, listening to the graceful evocations of their entire lifetimes, splayed out before them as crops to be inspected for impurity. Tumultuous heavens bowed themselves as the earth hummed its repentance.

Only the living and the damned remained in their places. Reality fled. Dreams fled. Creation fled. All was stripped bare before the blind judgment of the prophetic musician and her unearthly instrument. All was overcome before her illuminating proclamations, thread in tones and languages that had meanings lost long ago. Even the dead, buried and forgotten, bowed their heads in utter redemption to the grand opera of Lucia Di Lammermoor.





0

| Email this story Email this Short story | Add to reading list



Reviews

About | News | Contact | Your Account | TheNextBigWriter | Self Publishing | Advertise

© 2013 TheNextBigWriter, LLC. All Rights Reserved. Terms under which this service is provided to you. Privacy Policy.