angel of music [Tom]
Jan 26, 2019 6:34:41 GMT -5
Post by Lyn𝛿is on Jan 26, 2019 6:34:41 GMT -5
The oak feels cold against my back when I lean against it, stopping to rest for a moment on my way back from the debate. It's an old tree, one side of it still bearing scorch marks from several years ago even as the other sprouted new branches and left the tree lopsided.
You either burn or you drown here, I think. It's hard not to feel a little bitter, passing by the remains of what used to be an opera house. I'd visited Tempus often in its heyday back in the 60s, and still have fond memories of my children perched atop my shoulders, clapping excitedly at the performers. But I'd also watched it decline, Riordan declining with it until he'd volunteered for the 75th and... well, there were rumors, that someone'd torched the place afterwards on his behalf.
He was a good kid, I'd tell people, wishing they didn't sound so surprised at my words. As though I was supposed to hate him, for caring about the opera house more than he did his classes.
Five years later, and nobody's touched it. It's blackened concrete, yellowing weeds growing through the cracks among the patches of snow. People tried not to look at it too, most of them hurrying past - until I hear, behind me, a slow crunch of footsteps on the icy sidewalk.
You either burn or you drown here, I think. It's hard not to feel a little bitter, passing by the remains of what used to be an opera house. I'd visited Tempus often in its heyday back in the 60s, and still have fond memories of my children perched atop my shoulders, clapping excitedly at the performers. But I'd also watched it decline, Riordan declining with it until he'd volunteered for the 75th and... well, there were rumors, that someone'd torched the place afterwards on his behalf.
He was a good kid, I'd tell people, wishing they didn't sound so surprised at my words. As though I was supposed to hate him, for caring about the opera house more than he did his classes.
Five years later, and nobody's touched it. It's blackened concrete, yellowing weeds growing through the cracks among the patches of snow. People tried not to look at it too, most of them hurrying past - until I hear, behind me, a slow crunch of footsteps on the icy sidewalk.
⚪
hope in the face of our human distress
helps us to understand the turbulence deep inside
⚪
hope in the face of our human distress
helps us to understand the turbulence deep inside
⚪
Tom
