[FICTION] The Piano Monologue
Preface: The following piece is a short story and poem hybrid. It is an exercise exploring character development and establishing the voice of the speaker. The setting of the scene is a post-apocalyptic underground civilization that is losing it's history.
What have you heard about the piano? Nothing, I'm guessing. It's something from very, very long ago. I don't know if you've ever heard of one, let alone seen one. They were rare about fifty years ago, probably extinct now, like all inventions from the time we walked the surface. Have you heard of music? Music was made from the piano, even healed the sick, if you believe the stories. The piano was made out of metal strings and wood, the stuff that made up trees. Like this stuff here. Look here, at the handle. Never thought you'd see a gun this old, did you? Don't worry, it won't hurt you. Well the entire piano was made up of this stuff. They made a box out of wood and stretched thin metal wires over the top of it. When you hit the wires, they made a sound, like if you hit a steel plate. But it was clearer. Different strings made different sounds. You could hit it hard or soft and it would play hard or soft. I thought it was like water or rain, the first time I heard it. You ever hear rain? It isn't like the water falling in the showers. Like it, but not like it at all. Sorry sprout, grammy's old, too old to talk to a young man like you. She thinks too much in the old ways and maybe that's why people think she's crazy. Crazy to remember these sorts of things. You probably learned about rain in school. It's the condensation part of the water cycle. Water would condense into clouds, way up in the sky, and fall all the way down to the ground. Sometimes we would sit in our huts, outside our porch, listen to the sound of rain hitting the ground, the trees, the house. That's music, boy. With a piano, you can make that sound anytime you want. Or you could make thunderstorms, hurricanes, blizzards, fog. You could do that with a piano. The one who played, an old man, much older than me now, he could take you places you never been. If we had a piano sitting here with the man playing, you wouldn't be sitting in this cave right now. No, you'd be hundreds of years before now, when you could walk on the surface without a mask, let the rain fall on your skin and let it blur your eyes. Listen to the music and the birds. These sorts of things haven't been heard in a long time by anyone but me, and then only in my head. Don't leave me alone in my head, sprout. Come back sometime and visit grammy in her cell. Don't ask for permission either, your parents won't let you. Make sure you keep quiet about this, between you and me and we can talk some more, keep that world alive. The world is dying, sprout, not just the one above, but the one in here. It's begging for another chance.
What have you heard about the piano? Nothing, I'm guessing. It's something from very, very long ago. I don't know if you've ever heard of one, let alone seen one. They were rare about fifty years ago, probably extinct now, like all inventions from the time we walked the surface. Have you heard of music? Music was made from the piano, even healed the sick, if you believe the stories. The piano was made out of metal strings and wood, the stuff that made up trees. Like this stuff here. Look here, at the handle. Never thought you'd see a gun this old, did you? Don't worry, it won't hurt you. Well the entire piano was made up of this stuff. They made a box out of wood and stretched thin metal wires over the top of it. When you hit the wires, they made a sound, like if you hit a steel plate. But it was clearer. Different strings made different sounds. You could hit it hard or soft and it would play hard or soft. I thought it was like water or rain, the first time I heard it. You ever hear rain? It isn't like the water falling in the showers. Like it, but not like it at all. Sorry sprout, grammy's old, too old to talk to a young man like you. She thinks too much in the old ways and maybe that's why people think she's crazy. Crazy to remember these sorts of things. You probably learned about rain in school. It's the condensation part of the water cycle. Water would condense into clouds, way up in the sky, and fall all the way down to the ground. Sometimes we would sit in our huts, outside our porch, listen to the sound of rain hitting the ground, the trees, the house. That's music, boy. With a piano, you can make that sound anytime you want. Or you could make thunderstorms, hurricanes, blizzards, fog. You could do that with a piano. The one who played, an old man, much older than me now, he could take you places you never been. If we had a piano sitting here with the man playing, you wouldn't be sitting in this cave right now. No, you'd be hundreds of years before now, when you could walk on the surface without a mask, let the rain fall on your skin and let it blur your eyes. Listen to the music and the birds. These sorts of things haven't been heard in a long time by anyone but me, and then only in my head. Don't leave me alone in my head, sprout. Come back sometime and visit grammy in her cell. Don't ask for permission either, your parents won't let you. Make sure you keep quiet about this, between you and me and we can talk some more, keep that world alive. The world is dying, sprout, not just the one above, but the one in here. It's begging for another chance.
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