Symphony Man

I believe in two things: Life & Death. What I have discovered about the two? They are both unbelievably far and incredibly close.

Symphony Man

The strings of the piano grow louder, strum, strumming the tune of the masked man. A candle 

flickers in the distance, tombstones rising from the upturned earth. Wriggling worms draw nearer. Voices of the damned rising above a silent reverie. This is the silence of the children, the flailing limbs of resting corpses. Rot. Oozing pestilence of unkempt flesh. Your deathbed, your soil ridden divan. Tip of the hat, your demise will not be commiserated. 

Condolences. Grievances. They usher you forward with offers of remembrance and fulfilling 

gratification. But these words are not for you, not your own to consider or accept. Poor student of reality. Have you entered a world in which you cannot escape? The coffin awakens near your side. Eyes like dusty marbles. Something you had expected? Considered? No, no she had swayed to and fro with the rest. A flower in the breeze, her twirling color of life slowly subsiding around her. You too have begun to fade. 

Fingers sleepily caress the piano keys as the crowd awaits your answer. The finale! Begin slowly, 

arise, crescendo. Sharp, sharp notes, high and low. A wave of trumpets filling your ears. Pounce on the 

ivory squares. Demand the attention. Push them higher, the twirling flowers dancing across the stage. The coffin closes, worms drawing back into dark holes. Children’s laughter erupts around you. B flat, E minor. Strum, strumming the keys! There will be no earthbound settee for you on this day, no pity. 

The notes linger in the air, rebounding between the seated ruby cushions. A woman holds her 

breath; the note cannot escape. She reaches, her arms open wide, a plumage of hair resting atop her 

powdered forehead. You watch the tension rise beneath her chest as the last upsurge builds beneath your fingertips. Her lips draw a breath, and then a magical bravado. The trill, the flowing F. Three octaves above middle C and your fingers grow persistent. Swaying harmony between pianist and libretto. Joy in this moment! 

Resting corpses be damned, this is not a day of demise. Never a day of failure. Tip of the hat, you 

have mastered the keys. Choral symphony of brilliance, Ode to joyous jealousy. Vienna’s jubilant 

applauding audience wishing you well. Ovation, yield to concentration. Your ended fortissimo, avoidant of musical limbo. Success, the crowd awaits your reception.

By Yours Truly: Michelle Salyga

The Short Life of X & Y

Sometimes, you just think to yourself. You can’t help it; I mean come on- you didn’t wake up one day and program your brain to function this way or that. It does what it does, it is what it is; but suddenly you can’t remember what the ‘it’ you’re referring to has done to stimulate your life.

X rolled over onto the cold spot of the bed. She could feel her mind racing, thinking about the next day, and the day after that, and the things to follow the days to come. It was hard to focus, but there was an aching feeling tucked somewhere within the confounds of the squish best defined as a brain. The light tapping she felt on each of her temples was enough to begin the worry itch.

You know that feeling, when the worry itch starts to creep in. There’s a light pressure behind your eyes and a pounding in your frontal lobe. It is this exact location that contributes to working memory tasks and an influx of Dopamine. It is also this locality that presents dysfunctional motives and altered egos. Some choose to refer to this as an exploration, some choose to submit the conclusion of schizophrenia, but you…for you, we will call it Y.

Y rolled over onto the cold spot of the bed. She could feel. She could think. Days passed by, and things remained. Clarity was the focus. She had developed a hypersensitivity tucked somewhere within the confines of the grey wrinkled matter best defined as intellect. There was a muffled hum resonating in her ears, a subdued shrill of the beast within.

In this moment you have a choice. You can lie back and wait, pondering the significance of the things to come, or you can react by suppressing the aggressor. As you peer into each of these options, you must realize that the effected part of your brain is growing in both power and command. Action is key at this point. There is no time to contemplate, though if you choose to do so- you may wake up in a sticky solution of plasma and platelets, the ingredients of which may or may not include both human and animal material. 

X rolled over onto the cold spot of the bed. She could feel the heat rising behind her eyelids. It was hard to concentrate, the familiar taste of bittersweet pills tingling her tongue, a distinction that can be noted as overdosing.  She watched the grinning shadows form above her, their soft silken grey melting into the walls.

It would appear that you no longer need advice, and have consequently provided a noose for your own neck. But in the case that your noose was tied with a slipknot, don’t lose hope- many victims of the frontal lobe have lived to tell their story. Though this story is sometimes repeated within the confines of a prison wall, have faith that you might begin your repetitious rant inside the borders of an insane asylum- no doubt you would fit in well.

Y rolled over onto the cold spot of the bed. Tonight she had been awake, re-energized, and empowered to work her crimson magic, but she too could see the silken grey silhouettes that rose into the ceiling. There was a faint cry that had escaped from her mouth, a distinction that can be noted as defeat. She reached out into the dimming gloom of failed escape, no slipknot could be found.

Perhaps during this attempt to suppress your alter ego you have forgotten the key to success. Victory can only be achieved in the realization that you are now alone, that this choice was both pre-meditated and solely your own. However, dear friend, you have failed to realize that in your attempt to squash Y, you failed to question your resources for advice. The advisee, being myself- and therefore the ‘I’ in this equation have defeated you both. So yes, my X, I have slipped your knot and will remain on the working end.