The Ebony and The Ivory

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Non-Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
This work highlights the feelings a musician, specifically a pianist, feel when they do their thing. The seemingly random capitalization adds to the mood, and also helps to specify which element is being referred to.

Submitted: July 07, 2014

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Submitted: July 07, 2014

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In the soft solitude and silence, He found comfort in the feeling of His hands sliding across the keys. From Ivory to Ebony, then back again to Ivory, each gentle tap plucked a string. Now these strings were not just the physical strings located within the piano, but also the emotional strings. Each impact jostled a certain string, and He knew exactly which impacts led to the appropriate jostling. A quick flurry of impacts finishing with a solid major tone to tease the Happy strings. A crescendo to build a false climax, this fictitious climax eliciting exhalations of anticipation from the rafters. Alas, it 'twas not yet time. The phony withdrew itself, the joyousness and whimsicality replaced quickly with a mounting melancholy. He paused mentally, a torrent of brutalities and agony impressing themselves into every stroke. His eyes filled with water, threatening to burst into rainfall upon the Ebony and the Ivory. He managed to keep his friends parched, free from the oppression of his sniveling. Continuing along His own memory's road, the requiem turning slowly, the minor melody melting, melting, melting. Starting from the bottom, the symphony changed. The excitement returned, but still He chose to clutch desperately towards his sorrow, leaving a somewhat bitter undertone to resonate thoughtfully twixt the floorboards. He knew that They knew now what He had not then. They knew that this grasp upon the wistful would steadily win out over the seemingly jubilant exterior. Even the Ebony and the Ivory could sense where it was going. She and He grimaced, knowing the cruel toll their master was preparing to extract from them, for this was but the first of many, the Primum Multarum so to speak. And lo, the piece again took upon itself a crescendo, but instead of the Minor notes departing, 'twas the Major who were ushered out. He froze mentally yet again, knowing the cruelty of what He was about to do to the Ebony and the Ivory, and yet, He knew, They knew, She and He knew what must happen. The rise and fall of his hands, descending upon the Ebony and the Ivory akin to a Paramedic defibrillating a casualty, assumed a desperation, His facial expression declining from focused to frenzied in the space of the beating of a heart. She and He practically moaned in their agony, relaying their feelings back onto their agitator, the guilt welling up inside Him, He spiraled the atrocity into low pitches and octaves, another fraudulent climax. He paused, lifting hands and feet from Them and She and He, allowing all an opportunity to breathe, and the silence to engulf each and every one of them. Forcing himself to calm, He continued, but gentler, akin to the beginning. How He longed that all could be as it 'twas in the beginning, simple, carefree, and in a state of jubilee. Even so, no matter how brief, He, as well as the Ebony and the Ivory, were satisfied with the respite from the despair drawn from despondent times. Mentally returning to His memory's lane, the melody became full, joyous again, She and He beaming, content with where they were. And so it continued, the hours becoming days, days becoming weeks infinitely, cycling among Major, Minor, and somewhere along that precious, precarious middle ground until finally, He was finished. Rising, He took a bow, and basked in the applause of the empty room. Bidding farewell to his staunchest friends, He took his leave, for the Ebony and the Ivory were not how He made His living, but how He made Himself alive.


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