From a slow beat, the needle set itself into a groove as the record turned and the music played to a crowd of one. The speakers were silent, as all through the house the other residents slept and that melody, which played softly, seeped in through the beat; and the crackle of the record dotted the tune. It was heard through headphones, it was tapped to with feet, it didn’t know any better, this little drummer beat. Singing was heard, vocals were uttered, and the cry of a horn grew dim as the percussion muttered. Splattering and chattering came in with the drums, this time accompanied by chords and a synthy hum. It was now the end: the record runs out, the needle is still going, no more crackle; just crowing.
Fictional Man 1 Minute
Published by Fictional Man
No single work did more to question the conventions than what you now read. Welcome to my world. View all posts by Fictional Man