Poseidon’s Piano

       They positioned the Grand Piano on the very edge of the old rickety dock off of the great Pacific ocean. It was a rainy day at best, the skies dismally gray, the wind just cold enough to hurry the steps of those outside. No one watched with any true notice as a man in a polished tuxedo walked out on the dock, his shined leather shoes squeaking as much as the wood beneath them, a kind of preludio applause to a performance to come.
    The artist sat upon the old bench before the chestnut instrument and tightened his white gloves a little for comfort. His eyes weren’t sharp, they were a plain brown, just as his features were plain and ivory. His black hair had been slicked to the side but rebel waves seemed to ebb and flow throughout the locks.
    Below on the ocean waters the sea foam came up from below into an orchestra of well-dressed musicians, all of them with steel gray eyes and Poseidon-age wrinkles along their faces and hands. Violins, Violas, Cellos, and Bass instruments made of coral, polished and fine, set themselves against their musical masters as tubas, trumpets, trombones, flutes and many other instruments sprouted from sand dollars, sea kelp, and other things of the sea, were raised in salute. The timpani and percussion was made of basalt, of volcanic rocks, and from the wood of sunken pirate ships, giving themn a unique sound as they were set in place on the tide.
    The pianist stretched his arms and gave a nod to the orchestra below in their blue and white glamour, and then put finger to key.
    The singular piece of sound that then spilled forward across the air in a torrent of all the great musical nocturnes, froze the air itself. The clouds above shattered like glass, pieces of them falling downwards in sharp edged chunks to embed themselves in the passer-by’s soul.
    The orchestra followed in time and in each crescendo and lull, their sea-made instruments singing with voices never before heard above the waters.
    The piano playing figure on his bench played with the dexterity of man older than the mere 30 he looked. Each trill, each strike, each motion was as fluid as the next until he himself seemed to be rocking on par with the waves beyond his figure on the dock.
    It was not a happy song, and it was not some C-Minor shoot-yourself-when-it’s-over dirge either. The melody itself could not be described by those impaled listeners that made up the audience to the Pianist on the Dock. As the song progressed through the moments of time in which it would always be remembered but never again heard, the shards of the sky melted into the bloodstreams of the men and women hypnotized by the eerie and yet beautiful symphony.
    The sun swept down in time with the crescendo and finale of the song, lighting the chestnut piano and its player as the song climaxed like the deadly tsunami before it came crashing down on the unsuspecting shoreline. Those left standing after this melody was played were as though shell-shocked, their eyes deadened and ears unable to hear anything but the lulling drum roll of the seawave before silence fell.
    The Pianist on the Dock stood and turned, taking one squeaking step off the edge of the dock, into the Orchestra pit below, vanishing into the depths without so much as a splash.


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