Static
By M Hill
Feedback welcome
We listened to static on the radio. And though no channels came through clear we refused to settle for such dissappointment. Under the cover of waning light we lifted the aerials upon the rooftop, shingles crumbling as our stocking feet slipped upon the moss covered wood. Cracked and worn, they disintegrated as the weight of our frail bodies pressed against them... protect us from the elements as it would, this rooftop could not support the weight of our adventures.
In lone households surrounded by fields we eagerly turned the knobs upon the wooden box. Lights and needles sprang to life, bring vibrant greens to interplay with the red shadows of the lone log burning in the fireplace. Even the embers scoffed at our new found god... leaping into our eyes with every gust of wind outside, reminding us of the precarious makeshift frame upon which the roof was resting, dying. Slowly, the needles began to move, to tick, to pulse with life: There was someone out there. But no matter how we turned the dials, no matter how high the gain was set, how far left or right the tuner was spun the static was our only friend.
And so night after night we let the green light warm our hearts, we let the white noise caress our ears as we lay prone upon the damp floor, watching the roof deliver little drops of water to buckets scattered around the room. The ceiling was sagging, the walls were aging; the furniture consisted entirely of second hand chairs and couches, even dinner was eaten off of trays stolen from a local food court. But this is how we lived in peace.
When the voices came through the speaker one day, none of us knew what to think. He spoke only for a minute, before being replaced classical music, the violins no different from the cello as the worn speaker attempted to recreate the sound. And as abruptly as it had come, and it had come abruptly: diving through the tube amplifiers and out the soundboard with such suddenness that we lost grip on our seats and colided harshly we the floor, it was gone. The last of the strings echoed through the room as we chased them, grasping in the air like maddened children snapping for wisps of smoke from still warm cigarettes. There was more than a green light and the static.
We had no fields to burn so we torched factories instead. Watching the flames lick the skies we hoped the people inside would join us in our quest of redefinition: the emergence of sound from static. But as the walls began to buckle under the weight of the collapsing frames, the chains on the doors held the occupants inside. "Let us out!" they screamed, they screamed so loud it dug lines through our ears. But it was sound. The popping of wooden beams exploding, the thunderous crashes of walkways falling, the people inside praying for mercy from their gods, who clearly exerted no influence over our cruel actions.
Finally, the speaker spoke again. "This," it told us, "this is the cost of revelation. This is the cost of knowledge. Because once you've heard the sweet strings singing softly, you'll never live without them." And then, there in the damp living room of our collapsing shack, our anemic abode which no longer protected us from this foreign world, there in between the buckets full of rain water something terrible happened. The green light faded, and with one last desperate pop the tubes inside shattered and the static went still forever.
By M Hill
Feedback welcome
We listened to static on the radio. And though no channels came through clear we refused to settle for such dissappointment. Under the cover of waning light we lifted the aerials upon the rooftop, shingles crumbling as our stocking feet slipped upon the moss covered wood. Cracked and worn, they disintegrated as the weight of our frail bodies pressed against them... protect us from the elements as it would, this rooftop could not support the weight of our adventures.
In lone households surrounded by fields we eagerly turned the knobs upon the wooden box. Lights and needles sprang to life, bring vibrant greens to interplay with the red shadows of the lone log burning in the fireplace. Even the embers scoffed at our new found god... leaping into our eyes with every gust of wind outside, reminding us of the precarious makeshift frame upon which the roof was resting, dying. Slowly, the needles began to move, to tick, to pulse with life: There was someone out there. But no matter how we turned the dials, no matter how high the gain was set, how far left or right the tuner was spun the static was our only friend.
And so night after night we let the green light warm our hearts, we let the white noise caress our ears as we lay prone upon the damp floor, watching the roof deliver little drops of water to buckets scattered around the room. The ceiling was sagging, the walls were aging; the furniture consisted entirely of second hand chairs and couches, even dinner was eaten off of trays stolen from a local food court. But this is how we lived in peace.
When the voices came through the speaker one day, none of us knew what to think. He spoke only for a minute, before being replaced classical music, the violins no different from the cello as the worn speaker attempted to recreate the sound. And as abruptly as it had come, and it had come abruptly: diving through the tube amplifiers and out the soundboard with such suddenness that we lost grip on our seats and colided harshly we the floor, it was gone. The last of the strings echoed through the room as we chased them, grasping in the air like maddened children snapping for wisps of smoke from still warm cigarettes. There was more than a green light and the static.
We had no fields to burn so we torched factories instead. Watching the flames lick the skies we hoped the people inside would join us in our quest of redefinition: the emergence of sound from static. But as the walls began to buckle under the weight of the collapsing frames, the chains on the doors held the occupants inside. "Let us out!" they screamed, they screamed so loud it dug lines through our ears. But it was sound. The popping of wooden beams exploding, the thunderous crashes of walkways falling, the people inside praying for mercy from their gods, who clearly exerted no influence over our cruel actions.
Finally, the speaker spoke again. "This," it told us, "this is the cost of revelation. This is the cost of knowledge. Because once you've heard the sweet strings singing softly, you'll never live without them." And then, there in the damp living room of our collapsing shack, our anemic abode which no longer protected us from this foreign world, there in between the buckets full of rain water something terrible happened. The green light faded, and with one last desperate pop the tubes inside shattered and the static went still forever.