A tranquil morning just after dawn. Beethoven's music whispers softly through the air. The Moonlight Sonata can be traced to the window of an apartment. The window of the room has been left open. A slight breeze passes through, causing the thin red curtain to sway.
A well-respected gentleman (known to many as "The Great Poet") is sitting quietly at his desk. Aggrieved by an ever present dilemma, he finds comfort to his stressful times by putting his thoughts down on paper. He attempts the transfer, but the words fail to come. Then - in a fit of despair - he scribbles a few lines onto the page:
Already dissatisfied with the first couple of lines, he sighs from discouragement, then wads the sheet into a ball to inevitably toss it toward a particular destination - an already overflowing waste can. Scattered throughout the entire room are numerous other discarded materials: a pen that would not write, several balled up papers, and countless gum-wrappers. All were cast aside, missing their target.
The Great Poet begins to rise from his chair; however, along the way, he catches just a glimpse of the bathroom door. This inspires him. After sitting back down, he removes a stick of gum, discards the wrapper, puts the gum into his mouth, then begins to write. Refreshing. The words flow through his pen like waves upon the vast ocean. Sweat trickles down the man's forehead and into his eyes, burning them with images of pain and remorse as he continues this release. The relentless rush of waves, crashing hard along the shore, may temporarily tame the tide trapped inside him, but there exists an enigma surrounding his soul that plagues his mortality with the recurring questions, "Who and What am I?"
There is a page torn from the bible tacked to the wall beside the desk. Psalm 55. Verse five through thirteen have been underlined in red:
A slight breeze enters the room, sending a cold chill down his spine. The man closes his eyes - exhausted - as if he hadn't even rested the night before. He lays his forehead against the desk. Tears well up in his eyes as he remembers a time when things were better. He had a wife and son years ago that loved him. And he loved them. But they are gone now. Everything he once cherished is gone now. He takes another sheet of paper and scribbles a few lines:
Something else to throw away - like his life. Staring hard into a mirror on the wall, he finds the reflection is not his own staring back. Taking a half empty glass of wine from off the desk, he slowly takes a sip, then violently smashes it into the mirror, shattering the reflection into tiny shards.
Time passes. Beethoven's Symphony Number Five can vaguely be heard. The wind is not a constant thing. Half past midnight. A circular moon stands amid the glassy shards of sable sky. There is a muffled scream from the dark alleyway. Slow footsteps quicken into a run. Consecutive noises: cracking, ripping, snarls from a rabid canine, and several gunshots; the sounds of the city. A mist suddenly inhabits the alleyway then disappears. Thirty minutes pass on the Sea of Time.
Same alleyway; however, there is no longer a deep darkness because of the flashing blue and red lights. There are people wearing various uniforms shuffling about the area. A man and woman are arguing with each other. She, dressed in plain clothes, is a police officer, but this is her "off" day. He wears a suit and tie with a badge visible at his hip; one of the department's top detectives. " I understand Miss - I mean officer, but you need to run everything by me again. For the record," he states in a professional, but irritating fashion. "Listen," she quickly responds, "I have already told you several times. And no matter how hard it is for you to comprehend - it is the God's honest truth. ONE -MORE -TIME, detective, this creature was monstrous! After noticing me, it dropped this blood-drenched and mangled corpse and lunged at me. I managed to squeeze off a half-dozen shots into it. Finally, the horrid thing faltered, landing right here (she points down) where its body underwent a transformation like nothing I've ever seen, could ever imagine, or even explain. Believe me when I say I can hardly believe it myself. It happened just like that."
This course of events has altered many things involving the case: there is a second body; a half naked man, head intact, who is labeled immediately the killer. Blood is visible only on the man's hands, even though there are bullet holes in his face and chest.
A few feet from the man's body is the severed head of his female victim, lying motionless beside the alley wall. Her eyes are wide open, staring lifeless into empty space. A universal sleep.
A slight breeze enters the alleyway and catches a discarded gum-wrapper, shifting it past the read and blue lights, the crowd of people, and eventually the alley itself.
The detective sarcastically reminds the female officer, "Psychiatric help."
Not far from the alleyway and the blue and red lights, there is an apartment with its window left open. Occasionally, a surge of wind will sway the thin red curtain. Scattered throughout the entire room are numerous discarded materials: a pen that will not write, several balled up papers, and countless gum-wrappers. All were cast aside by a frustrated individual - a confused man who questioned his own existence.
The Great Poet is gone. On the desk that he once occupied are a few pieces of paper, stacked neatly. Pages full of words - ocean waves:
In the alleyway the female officer turns back to where the man's half naked body lay. It was gone. "Detective!" she exclaims. "Well, I'll be...," he announces - shocked.
Beethoven's music whispers softly through the air. The Moonlight Sonata can be traced to the window of the apartment. The thin red curtain is pushed aside by a trembling man - naked - with blood on his hands. As he climbs in through the window he notices a page torn from the Bible tacked to the wall beside the desk. Psalms 55.
Twilight of the Gods (HomePage)
The Death of Beowulf
Cuchullain's Last Stand
Legacy of the Stranger
Where Sunken Graveyards Dwell
About the Poet Jason Moore
