Post by Shadaras on Jul 14, 2011 18:05:38 GMT -5
Look I'm writing again. xD Let's see how long this goes.
In front of him, the first white person he’d seen in the entire town sat, watching him. Unconsciously, Micah began to hum, watching ghosts fade into his vision. All of them, though pale and faded from death, were distinctly of Latin, Hispanic, or African descent. This girl...
“Who are you?” he asked, voice rough from hours of playing without any words.
She smiled, in the florescent light too harsh for either her or the wood-crafted bar. “Ash.”
“Ash-the-tree or ash-of-coals?” Micah knelt as he spoke, purposefully not looking at Ash. “Ash-of-coals fits your hair. Ash-the-tree fits your sex.”
Unexpectedly, the girl laughed. Micah couldn’t help but look at her, then -- most people he talked to like that, analyzing their name, simply got frustrated with him. She leaned forward over the table she sat at, cream-coloured clothing glowing in the light, and said, “Does it matter?”
“It depends.” Micah loosened the reed’s holder and wiped the reed off. “How much stake do you put in names shaping your destiny, Ash?”
“More than I’d like.”
“Then which is your name, Ash-of-old-fire?” He slipped the reed into its case and placed it in his saxophone’s case, then looked up at her, waiting.
“What is your name, player?”
“I call myself Micah.”
“After the stone or the prophet?”
Micah smiled. “Neither.”
“Then what?”
He turned away and carefully took off the head-joint of his saxophone and wiped it, polishing it absently. “My name.” He placed the head-joint in the case and began cleaning and polishing, more actively, the main body of his saxophone.
The girl didn’t ask what he meant. Another surprise. Micah began whistling, almost tunelessly, watching the ghosts go through their eternal rhythms. It was a comfort, seeing their easy patterns, and to hear, in the back of his mind, their idle chatter. Only when he finally put his saxophone fully away and closed the case with a sharp click did he turn back to the girl. “Is Ash truly who you are, girl?”
She hesitated.
“Is Ash your use-name, then?” He picked up his coak and stood, drawing its dark brown folds around him with a practiced flourish. “I’ve heard so many people confuse the questions.”
“Why do you care?”
“Because I’ve heard too many stories about names, Ashling.” He picked up his saxophone and began walking out into the early morning night. “I don’t want to confuse things more.”
Behind him, he thought he heard her speak again -- something about her name. He didn’t turn back, didn’t ask her what she’d said, nor why she knew or cared about names herself. He would see her again.
“Who are you?” he asked, voice rough from hours of playing without any words.
She smiled, in the florescent light too harsh for either her or the wood-crafted bar. “Ash.”
“Ash-the-tree or ash-of-coals?” Micah knelt as he spoke, purposefully not looking at Ash. “Ash-of-coals fits your hair. Ash-the-tree fits your sex.”
Unexpectedly, the girl laughed. Micah couldn’t help but look at her, then -- most people he talked to like that, analyzing their name, simply got frustrated with him. She leaned forward over the table she sat at, cream-coloured clothing glowing in the light, and said, “Does it matter?”
“It depends.” Micah loosened the reed’s holder and wiped the reed off. “How much stake do you put in names shaping your destiny, Ash?”
“More than I’d like.”
“Then which is your name, Ash-of-old-fire?” He slipped the reed into its case and placed it in his saxophone’s case, then looked up at her, waiting.
“What is your name, player?”
“I call myself Micah.”
“After the stone or the prophet?”
Micah smiled. “Neither.”
“Then what?”
He turned away and carefully took off the head-joint of his saxophone and wiped it, polishing it absently. “My name.” He placed the head-joint in the case and began cleaning and polishing, more actively, the main body of his saxophone.
The girl didn’t ask what he meant. Another surprise. Micah began whistling, almost tunelessly, watching the ghosts go through their eternal rhythms. It was a comfort, seeing their easy patterns, and to hear, in the back of his mind, their idle chatter. Only when he finally put his saxophone fully away and closed the case with a sharp click did he turn back to the girl. “Is Ash truly who you are, girl?”
She hesitated.
“Is Ash your use-name, then?” He picked up his coak and stood, drawing its dark brown folds around him with a practiced flourish. “I’ve heard so many people confuse the questions.”
“Why do you care?”
“Because I’ve heard too many stories about names, Ashling.” He picked up his saxophone and began walking out into the early morning night. “I don’t want to confuse things more.”
Behind him, he thought he heard her speak again -- something about her name. He didn’t turn back, didn’t ask her what she’d said, nor why she knew or cared about names herself. He would see her again.
