The moon god dreamt…
Tom knew there’d be trouble as soon as he heard the medley reach its climax. It was too perfect, too smooth. Oh, what had he done? One did not fuse Beethoven, Debussy, Gustav Holst, Dvorak and Chopin into a single entity. The transition from Moonlight Sonata to Claire De Lune had been fine, but then when his playlist had started on Mars the Bringer of War, into the third movement of the New World Symphony and culminating with the Funeral March, Tom knew that it could mean only one thing… the end of the world as he knew it. Visions of the future, cold and lifeless, filled his thoughts, moonlight shining white and bright only on a few scattered corners of the world. He felt like flinging his speakers to the ground and destroying them with a baseball bat. Did he even have a baseball bat?
No, a hammer would have to do, but what was the point in even trying? The damage was already done. Wrecking his speakers wouldn’t change a damn thing. The universe had already heard the song. Instead, he put on some Amon Amarth and tried to think, his mind flying to new heights on the eddies of the guttural growls of 21st century vikings. There was comfort in this sound, melody within cacophony, method within madness, honour won and glory earned in a barbaric and murderous world, virtuoso solos within distorted power chords. This was what the Fifth Symphony sounded like in hell. Amon Amarth helped him see things with new perspective. Tom had broken the world and he had no idea how to fix it.
Perhaps it was time he took up ice fishing.
The digital witch liked and shared…
Callie caressed the cheek of her muse. Her inspiration, trapped in the laminate of her wardrobe, gazed back at her through sad and wide eyes, glazed with speckles of plywood.
“A thousand subscribers in a day,” Callie crooned to her muse. “Thank you, dear one.”
She heard footsteps outside her door, the hard thuds of her mother. “Eat your breakfast,” her mother yelled, with a token preamble of knocking followed by a harsh and forceful dislodgement of her door. Talk about an invasion of private space. Her mother could have taught the Nazis a few things or two about the Blitzkrieg with those moves. It was about time Callie got her bedroom door’s lock fixed. “Your bus will be here any minute,” Callie’s mother continued her tirade, her tapping foot heralding the coming of artillery fire. “I’ve never seen a girl as scatter brained as you. Now stop staring into space like a dolt and get moving.”
Callie rolled her eyes. Why couldn’t she wake up to birdsong every morning, and get ready in peace and harmony? “Okay Mom, I’m coming. You may take your leave.”
Her mother bobbed a mock curtsey and left, thank the Goddess for small miracles. Callie checked her feed one last time. Her subscribers had gone up by fifty within as many minutes, and her poetry recital video had gone up by a thousand views. How long would this magic last? She blew her trapped muse one last kiss and left the room.
© whenmarsmetsaturn.wordpress.com (2018)