The Orchestral Brigade


Separated by worlds of physical essence, they stared at the same moon. Crescent, shining brightly, the moon stole their gaze. Taking more than their time to view it, they situated themselves comfortably to stare at the moon. Different people, different genders, different instruments, different worlds and ways of life. Each held their piece, their instrument, their weapon. Battle hardened, calloused fingers, and the utter will wrought out of rage, out of anger, out of stress, out of the demons of this life. They were to attack this world, and everything in it. The violent employ of their weapons would shake the buildings, would crater the deserts, would drain the sea, would fill the space, would put out the sun, would make Mars see who the real warrior was, would make Jupiter feel small and would make the entire human race see and believe. They had the potential, and on that fateful night it was put to use. And there was the moon, the sole viewer of such adequate and powerfully moving artistry conceivable only by human mind and creativity. Nay the others notice that a concerto was laden beneath their very eyes, so close that one could simply turn an ear to listen or simple sit still for a little while. The bustling world was too busy with its own self-destruction that it never noticed where the real war was; where the real fight for survival lay. The battle was cast aside and its strategies torn asunder for too long. Ignorance was the key for so long, but no more. Now in its last resort, a final Blitzkrieg was afoot. The cue ball was set, shining upon them, inspiring them with the simplicity of its one imperfection, the black dot. It rolled and struck the numbered spheres with a powerful blow that shut the world up for a single moment, gripping their attention, clasping it ever so tightly with its only capability. And so, the percussion followed.

Do you not hear them play?

The pounding of the drums began. Explosive, fast paced, ear shattering gunshots coming from an instrument of music. Trotting moving to a gallop, as the concerto began, she sprung herself and dropped its weight upon the soft tissues of the moon’s eardrums. There he was, the heavy-metal rocker boy, pounding away the stress from his schoolwork, the angst and anger towards his parents, and the pubescent misfit scream rallied along with the drums in a sorrowful cry of pain directed towards the woman-to-be who once stole his heart. She’d reached into his bare chest, tearing flesh and bone, gripping the heart, careful not to squeeze it shut before retracting her whole arm with a single jolt that released the gushing blood and she sliced the arteries and veins. She crucified his love, and now he who was lost in the bleak mourning found solace in the cave of his room, locked with stone, where he will attempt a resurrection with the beating of his chest resonating with his music. It will be a grand return to life, yet a process must be overcome before he would achieve that bang of an end. And so, the strings followed.

Do you not hear them play?

Slowly, as if waves climbing the shore, moving inch by inch closer to the sand, the strings came. It swayed up and down, carrying rhythm with it, bringing about the turbulence that was slightly slower than the drums, taming the rage, and lightly crashing itself on the beat of the shore. There she was, the violinist/painter/sketcher, dabbing away at the depressed blues of her water colours, playing around with them on her violin. She guided the colours as if she was Pan, but with a violin, she slowly captivated the waves to follow. She lured many ships to her rocky reefs, her wonderful song captivating the sailors to follow the sound of her song that sang of everything. They were attracted to the frailty of the shrillness of her voice. They were attracted to the endurance she held, not letting the note down, maintaining the course. Yet the one she needed most remained on land. Far from her grasp, she could only stare and paint his image on her mind. The waters were dark, yet her paint shone the brightest blue in the depth of all blues. Undeterred by the obtrusions that attempted to dash away her feelings, hopes and dreams. Her prince, deaf to her song, but still she plays with the strings of her voice with the hope of an innocent child. And so, the woodwinds followed.

Do you not hear them play?

Ah, the woodwinds, rustling trees and leaves upon the ground as they played their lovely tune. The tempo was quick, and the strings held the reins, and so the flutes emerge. Cultural variety is clearly visible amongst the wind instruments, as the wind is seen all around us, yet it remains invisible to our senses. The flute was a cry for attention, a cry for justice, and a cry for love. The vibrating panels of the flute jabbed the very soul of the moon, and tears escaped the player’s eyes. He wept, as the wind stroked his face, and the sand rustled beneath the greenery. There he was the flute player, a stereotyped conjurer of black magic, the interpreter of snakes, and the harbinger of terror. Yet the irony lay in the viewers. His flute spoke a message of peace, understanding, and the love that bound human to human, even though the orchestra was separated by thousands of miles, they conjoined with his cry binding them all together. The viewers on the other hand had not seen this, but seen past what was laid before them into the over-thought and over-deliberated upon concept of shallow extents. How different was he from the drummer, whose love left him? The flute player was abandoned by his own fellow human beings. How different was he from the violinist, seeking the affection of the one she loved most, yet has never lost hope? He needed the love from his fellow human beings, and though he was bashed and shunned by the ones he dared call peers, he nurses a faint hope that they may one day see what was there before them. Out of all the cries that night, his was the softest and yet it held the brigade’s cannons. It held the artillery, the big guns, the rockets, the missiles, and the bombs, down to the last deafening grenade. And so, the brass followed.

Do you not hear them play?

So the brass, with the power to reclaim the audience to the awe it once beheld at the beginning of the attack. The trumpets brought about the life once more. The angel to the drums, the golden hero to the strings, and the angel of the woodwinds, the brass was all these with its unpredictable momentum. Carried ever so slightly by the woodwinds, rocked back and forth by the strings, and pushed on by the drums, the brass would strike from behind, flanking the entire world with its immense speed and forced entry upon the raging song that stormed the moons ears. A brass spearhead to the fight. She was point that let loose the final array of ammunition that rained upon the earth. Her turmoil no longer existed since the brass was played not out of the loss of love, of the hope of love, and of the plea of love; the brass was played out of love. The final turnabout in the set of cards, the river, and she jabbed it, all-in, simply for the joy of it. For the love of the art, the use of the instrument, handled with such skill that could not be mastered by the other three. Hers was the beauty of life, and the growth of it, experiencing everything there was to be experienced. The worth of the while taken to play it was found there, within the brass, as she played her heart out willingly for the pleasure. The excitement was resurrected, awoken by that last turn of the cards, and the outcome was unsure. The verdict was held back, just enough to keep them all guessing as to what the outcome of their final attempt would be. They were eager to be thrilled once more, and to be satisfied shortly after. The brass shattered all the walls, structures, and obstacles, victory was in the clearing, and all they had to do was run for it. They had almost reached contentment, but the brass stumbled, tripping over the undying deafness that the world held.

Do you not hear them play?

And so the night fell unwillingly into day. The moon had come and gone, passed them with applause for each one. Empathy to them all for each one of them held a piece of it, and it was what inspired them. The day emerged upon the horizon behind them, as they chased the moon in full retreat from the day’s treachery. Yet they could not outrun the light. They could not outrun the spotlight of a sun that tortured them each and every day, only to let them roam once the night has come to reclaim the particular side. And so they packed up their weapons, and walked amongst their worlds in the false sense of peace that shrouded them. They had all to do but to wait for their next chance was all they could. The day shone the false truth above the table, yet hid all that was beneath it. The wars, outside, with reasons hidden below the table, and all other reasoning that covered up the soil where the seed of truth should have sprouted decades ago. It encompassed life in false light, and enshrouded the truth in the darkness. They had simply to chase the darkness, find the truth as they did so many nights before, and expose it with the sound that would shatter the table and cast the sun as no longer a spotlight, directed at the lies that the world wanted lit up, but rather as a light that shone all throughout, exposing everything.

They all cried, as they always did, sleepless in both night and day. Yet this time felt different, the candle of hope that they kept in the dark had blown away its last flickered flame. It was their last Blitzkrieg and their instruments were locked away, as only a memory of the hope, no longer an act. There was no choice. The world wanted… Still wants zombies, and survivors can only survive for so long.

Did you not hear them play?


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