A Symphony

The skies quaked and the ground roared; the air tremored while the wind blasted a cold symphony. The gattling of the guns and the scream of the mortars that convulsed into an explosion upon landing sang to me as though brass and strings screeching their highest pitch. I played no instrument as I ran along side my fellow musicians. The black shell that released a jolt every time it fired had been lost when we scrambled from an issued grenade. My hands were sleeked with sweat and the fine machine had escaped my grasp.

The tension rose as the forte crescendo-ed; the white light of seeming fireworks fell from the sky, as a harmony playing the softer touches to the raucous melody.

Then, a rest. A profound, single-beat-rest deafened the sounds that vibrated my skull. My ear had lost the song; the war; the rampage.

Then, as the sun bounced from a glint of metal, as though a streak of lightening, the sounds followed rumbling back. They were so soft at first. Climbing, climbing, louder and louder. Till a final crash echoed forth toppling the orchestra into its finale.

The conductor must stand poised somewhere, arms raised, idling, anticipating the strike he must issue. And, with a flourish, I could see it in my mind's eye, he wrenched his arms down and the thunder of the final note keeled me over.

By: Renada Styles