The End of the World

Reads: 318  | Likes: 0  | Shelves: 0  | Comments: 0

  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Reddit
  • Pinterest
  • Invite

More Details
Status: Finished  |  Genre: Thrillers  |  House: Booksie Classic
The End of the World.

Submitted: October 05, 2008

A A A | A A A

Submitted: October 05, 2008

A A A

A A A


The piano was vibrating under his fine pale fingers. Each chord would reverberate through the mahogany study. The piano keys tinkled under his lightest touch, playing a tune that wasnât controlled by his fingers, but by his mind. His face was shrouded in the light, a mere elongated nose and the fine features of perfection. But if you looked close enough, a small smile spread across his face as he felt the warmth of music.

Snowflakes, as thin as paper drifted lazily across the room, yet he continued to play. The music was so soulful; it spilled across the street in a frenzy of deep notes and accelerating crescendos. Blood began to create streaks of crimson on the milky white keys outlined by smaller darker keys, the color of the darkest corner of the world.

No one sauntered the streets that the music was now invading with a purposeful force. He continued playing; the building had begun to crumble. Windows shattered and brick walls disintegrated, adding to the disturbing song.

Soon, the voices of dead were joining in to the sinister song. Each voice adding onto the layers of paranormal music, each beat intensifying the barrier of sound. The higher the notes became the higher the screech rebounded through the city, through the country, through the world.

The climax was approaching fast; at a steady rhythm his fingers played a waltz against the keys, feeling each note, each beat, each sound like a shard of death. His memories became the music, all the deaths he had witnessed. Becoming a gruesome music, spine chilling to the point where you wanted to end life itself and slink away into the shadows of the night.

I stood by the remains of a doorframe and watched his fingers change tempo, becoming a sluggish tune, like a drunk each noise floated and held you in a sense of tranquility. When he turned around, the music ended with an abrupt halt. And the world concluded, for it could not live on without his music. His presence was the meaning of our lives.

Our eyes communicated, his s was like the deep pits of darkness while my own were like two overflowing blue ponds. I was naïve, not knowing the power of each snowflake sinking upon my satin skin. He was the darkness, the power, the reason people held grudges or felt envy.

There were no words, but we both knew, it was time.

And if anyone had seen the end of the world that blissful midmorning, they would have seen Death and Birth, together at last.


© Copyright 2020 karnipa. All rights reserved.

  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Reddit
  • Pinterest
  • Invite

Add Your Comments:

More Thrillers Short Stories