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About This Author
 Kiya is a young woman with many interests. She's got a degree in Computer Science and Registered Nursing.
She's an avid reader and considers Stephen King one of her favorite authors.
She's also been known to pen one or two stories here and there, and as a proud moderator of Writing.Com, she invites you to check out her portfolio (and even better, to sign up today!).
Published Works:
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Daily Flash Fiction Entries #444502 added July 31, 2006 at 7:37am
Restrictions: None
Death's Cacaphony
WINNING ENTRY
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#1115385 by Not Available. |
Prompt in bold:
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I woke up. My head was spinning. My arms and legs ached. I was sprawled out on a hard wooden floor in a dimly lit room. Where was I? My wrists were bound with a damp, thick rope and secured to something firm in the corner. A large concert piano sat beneath the dull light on the opposite side of the room, accompanied by an old turntable and some assorted LPs. Suddenly I heard a movement in the shadows, and a voice broke the silence,
“He’s awake,” said the female voice. “Let’s do this.”
Her accent was thick, no doubt from the South, but I was given little to no time to think about this oddity as I was tugged to my feet by the scruff of my shirt. I choked and struggled to breathe, eyes watering with pain before wincing as I was tossed, like a sack of potatoes, upon the stool before the piano.
“You will play for us,” the woman said, stepping out. As suspected, she was a rebel. The unmistakable blue militia uniform and red beret was a dead giveaway.
“I will not,” I spat out coldly, noticing her companion, a burly man with an ugly looking scar running down the side of his face. His bald head shone beneath the lone light bulb, his glare impassive and empty.
The sound of her palm against my cheek was like thunder in the silence.
“You will play for us, you dog of the government,” she said. “Klaus, untie him.”
I knew what song she wanted me to play, and as I stared balefully at the piano, I cursed the talent that God had given me. Music was reserved for the Upper Class, and as an Outcast, I had learned under secrecy with the Reverend, now dead thanks to his allegiance to the Rebellion. I heard the faint sounds of static, realizing that she was setting up a radio broadcast.
“You’re insane,” I whispered, now feeling the cold claws of fear gripping my heart. For years, I had hidden away in my apartment, aware that I had betrayed my people by becoming a part of the Organization. I thought of the many nights spent in a sea of wealth, the bitterness that filled my mouth as I played for them, realizing they were the ones causing my people so much suffering.
“No, we bring hope,” she said, interrupting my thoughts. I looked at her – the determination, no fear of death within those blue eyes. “Now play, Mister Milosh. We need your music again.”
“We’ll die,” I muttered, even though my fingers were already caressing the keys. I could feel the music flowing through my veins, the tune that my family and many others had sung while being persecuted by those in power.
I wept as my fingers began their familiar dance, and when the eventual roar of gunshots mingled with my notes in Death’s Cacophony, I sped into the darkness, believing that I was finally free again.
Word Count: 500
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