Michael was no friend to Rhythm. Rhythm wanted Michael to like her and would have been happy with any type of relationship, even that of a less than casual acquaintance. Such a type as you might have with your next to the next-door neighbors. You know, the people that live 2 doors down from your house. The couple that always seems to be out on their front porch, hugging and waving to company that is either coming or going to their home. You might know their names, but generally you don't, which leads to awkward moments after you end up in the same line while shopping at the market. You know you know them somehow, they are in your life, yet you cant put your finger on it.
Rhythm herself was more than just a word but less than something you could touch. She was an inspiration, but not in the same way as a muse, they initiate creativity, she was more of a reaction. She sought out the beat of music, thriving in harmony and melody, while sharing its joy. Rhythm could be called a symbiont, for it was when she found a willing host that she, and they, flourished together in movement. The tapping of a foot, the sway of hips, Rhythm moved and grooved and flourished within and through the willing. It was rare she could not cohabitate with someone, but there are those that refuse to accept the input of another, denying any intimate connection deep within themselves, struggling against even the subliminal.
Rhythm tried so hard to bring Michael around, but he would always find a way to bungle any attempt for Rhythm to exist within him. Currently Michael's body was jerking, tweaking, twisting and spinning about as he plodded and plopped his feet. Not only was he out of beat to the pitchy tune, but to make matters worse, he was the one whistling the music. Michael wasn't a whistler, so it required a large effort for him to achieve up to this level of bad. He sashayed on the pathway like a marionette trailing a broken string. Amidst the brush and undergrowth, woodland crickets stopped in mid chirp. They scratched their heads instead of their legs as Michael shuffled on past.
Dusk was filling the empty spaces in the bushes lining the trail. Little shadows raced among the grass and rocks to fade into the sunset. Michael caught sight of the pointed tips of onion domes poking over the tree tops. Seraph and Adremelechk's rooftop was beckoning him with friends, food and cards. He adjusted the leather pack that dug grooves in his shoulder, slowing to a near stop as the house came into view. Nothing stirred within the darkness of the windows.
No candle glowed, nor was there smoke topping the chimney. Not a single boisterous voice or even a jubilant call as he approached. He was alert now, cautious as he stepped onto the porch and approached the door. It was ajar a hands width and from somewhere within, he heard it, a chanting.
On the far side of the entryway, obscured in the inky depths, voices repeated a single number, again and again, "8! 8! 8! 8!"
Michael took the pouch from his shoulder and held the strap tight in his right hand. He would use the bag to block or bludgeon any surprises that were waiting inside the lightless house. He leaned towards the door while the chants of 8 continued, trying to peek through the crack and into the main room. His left hand gripped the doorknob, as he readied to swing it wide and charge inside.
Without warning, a single finger poked through the opening, into Michael's eye.
Michael winced and stepped backwards, his hand pressed against his closed eye. It teared up as he rubbed at it, trying in vain to wipe away the tingling sensation. Inside the house everyone shouted in unison.
"9!"
Laughter broke out as candles flared up, illuminating the festivities within. Arcade, ever the culprit, emerged from the house. The other 7 Angels followed to greet Michael with a flurry of handshakes, hugs and laughter. The crowd, with a squint-eyed Michael, went back inside. Glasses brimmed with wine as the cards took center stage. Michael took a big gulp of Chardonnay; his eyesight was returning to normal.
YOU ARE READING
12 Seconds Short of Eternity
General Fiction'The humidity hung in the dark like a shroud. It silenced the streets with only the rattling hum of the air conditioners piercing its veil. Nights like these can bring no good. Best to turn out the lights and wait for tomorrow...' A spatula slapping...
