…and Coltrane Played

Photo by Gracious Adebayo on Unsplash
Photo by Gracious Adebayo on Unsplash

…and Coltrane played as the summer rains fell, tumbling across our faces without ever pausing. The sweet scent of wetted wildflowers made for an alluring intoxicant, as the saxophone played through both our minds and the intermittent sun made dapples of colour.

If ever music and art mixed to perfection, it was then. As the smooth melodies accompanied her raven beauty, and the rain continued to fall, it might have been day or night, or neither, for only she glowed, only she radiated life, at least, to me. I couldn’t drag my eyes from her. Why would I?

There were wide spreading cedars scattered across the glade, catching the sky’s tears and dispersing them wherever they felt best. Rowan trees hung with berries for baubles added an artisan touch, protruding from the long, lush grass like Christmas memories. Was it all a dream? Was she?

…and Coltrane played as though especially for us, as the rain soaked our clothes but never our hearts, the saxophone pulsing. The distinction between fabric and flesh disappeared with every new raindrop. The music swooped and soared. Our lips closed as though meant to be, warm against the world. And it was meant to be. It was always meant.

I laid out my jacket; she rolled it aside. Earth and flesh. Flesh and earth. Brushed by feathered seeds made heavy in the downpour, we two were one.

…and Coltrane played to our silent crescendo. No other music would have done. It had to be jazz. It had to be that jazz. As he soared, so did we, and we never came down. We never have.

…and Coltrane plays, still.


Thank you for reading
Richard

Richard M. Ankers
Author of the brand new steampunk extravaganza Britannia Unleashed.

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The Cellist

Photo by Tanya Trofymchuk on Unsplash

The Cellist

There’s something about the cello that ruins the soul. It’s as if whoever first built one had fallen from grace, and in so doing, torn their heart from their chest and strung it from ear to toe. Before bleeding into the land, into history, into nothingness, they’d picked up a twig and begun to play. Death was not an option. Only a life of unending sorrow remained.


I recite this story to my secretary as I sit here and play. The notes rise and fall with her breaths. My fingers rest only when she blinks. I pour my everything into this most personal performance, not to impress, but to explain.


She smiles when I desperately wish her to weep.


Thank you for reading

Richard