Hillside Reverie and Nocturne No.2
Mid-day sun shone down generously upon the hill in view. Though it wasn’t spectacular in height, it was, however, immensely green and immaculately mown. There were two trees which sprouted from the hill, one on the incline itself and another standing, rather contentedly, upon the top. Both eschewed comfortable looking shadows upon the grass. Their branches and leaves lead a heterogeneous shade, the area beneath them darkened but puddled with sunlight. The distinct notes of Nocturne No.2 reverberated, and the trees swayed to the rhythm of the strings. Upon the crest of the hill two women walked along, their dark hair taken by the force of the wind which increased in intensity along with the keys of the piano. Their walk began to entertain a noticeable lean, as if—unbeknownst to them—they were being lowered head first towards the ground. Not only did their procession take on this alteration, but the trees did as well. In fact, the entire vista seemed to embody this increasing rotation which was not entirely sickening nor entirely the opposite. Much like the sound of Nocturne No.2, it was caught in a state of equipoise, teetering somewhere between beauty and destitution. The subliminal tilt continued to crescendo along with the No.2 until a nauseating vertigo was induced, and the trill of the piano keys became haunting as opposed to delicate—an arpeggiated horror. The spectacle seems at its apex, yet finds further ways to warp, locked in a desperate fight against forces which desire to revert it to its static nature. With the conclusion of Nocturne No.2, the hillside submits to rigidity, ceasing its geometrical rebellion. The women cross the hill to the other side, out of view.
Cole Martin is a twenty-something writer from Atlantic Canada. He has words in healthline zine, Fahmidan Journal, Rejection Letters, and Bulb Culture Collective. He can be found on twitter @maritimemagnate, and on Substack (asilaytrying.substack.com)
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