Rich

Much played, and much loved. The guitar looked weathered from many years of play. Sat beside the guitar was a man wearing a straw hat, greyed hair on top and above his lip. He was wearing a black vest over a blue-white striped button-up shirt. The man was looking at his feet, smoking a cigarette with one elbow dug into his knee. Finishing his cigarette he sat up slowly and leaned back into the bench.

The park was filled with passersby on their way to work for the morning. Cups of coffee held and clopping shoes heard as women in uncomfortably high heels were trudging over the pavement, a full day of ankle pain in their heads. The man grabbed the neck of the guitar and placed it in his lap. With a slight hesitation of a breath in he began to strum slowly and softly. Gradually his pace and his intensity striking the guitar strings reverberated through the park. This pleased the man, as their thoughts were pleasantly interrupted by the sound of music and away from the long task list that met them when they arrived at their offices.

A woman sat on the park bench opposite the guitar playing man and began sipping her coffee, gazing intently at both the man's technique as he placed this weathered guitar and also into the man's eyes . Seemingly admiring the creative endeavour this man had chosen for what seemed like his remaining years ahead. The engagement of this woman made passers-by almost relish in the thought that this woman is now contemplating her own twilight years and what endeavours she may pursue.

The guitar playing man finished his song. A brief pause to a water bottle and opening up invite to the few captivated audience members to look at the open guitar case in front. Was this man playing for in need of money deposited into this placed guitar case? Or was the invite and receiving of money just a validation in the pursuit of his investment of showing up to this park and connecting with others. The woman checked her watch. Got up from the bench and deposited the change from her left coat pocket. One could only imagine change from a $10 bill that she received from the coffee in hand only purchased moments ago. The man knodded without word. An acknowledgment of both her witnessing him play this song, but also in gratitude of her parting with the money that was hers.

The man put his water bottle down. Picked up his guitar again in position and began his next song. Passersby continued to notice or not this man sat on the bench with his weathered and sun leeched guitar. Either way, the man was content in his day. This was what he wanted.

The man watches as this newly captured brumby thrashes in the pen in front of him. Turning to Catherine he says "What do you think? We keep him?". "Never seen you shy away from a challenge before". "Sure" he replies. It's been a long dry season in Dutfall Texas. Cattle have been struggling to stay upstanding. Feed has been hard to come by, water for stock even more so. It hasn't rained enough to notice in over 5 months. And both the livestock and the people are at their wits end. Looting has started across the county, and weapons drawn even more so a common occurrence.

The brumby had been in Kevin's sights for asome time now. Not directly witnessing this beautiful creature; no, instead noticing tracks not belonging to any of his dwindling cattle. Drawn to the last pooling of water now the Brumpby was in Kevin's possession. This was less a challenge of breaking in this horse and moreso a challenge of staying afloat. A horse like this would be a substantial asset to the company once broken in. There was barely any gas left in the countryy, and if you could find some, you were a target. This was a potential form of travel for the family, to find water, to find food. Kevin needed this challenge, not for the sake of accomplishment though.

"All right, let's get started" tipping his hat towards Catherine as he boldy steps uder the railing and into the pen with the Brumby. "The horse rears up towards the sun on his hind legs letting out a shrill of anxiety .and also a message of warning to Kevin on his approach. Kevin noticed the sun reflecting in the Brumby's eyes, a beautiful yet dangerous creature at the same time.

His approach was slow, soft, yet not convincing to any of the parties. He and all around him knew his intention was to come to the Brumby, soothe his anxiety but then go about training him to go against his current will. But the Brumby was tired, malnourished and parched. This would be a fight to exhaustion, but one of erlief once Kevin could close in on this creature. In circles the brumby stomped, kicking up dust and protestingly nodding its head back and forceth. Kevin remained still until the horse had subdued. Now he could make his final approach and connect into the horse's soul.

Almost as if recognising the futility of the situation the brumby complied. A loose rope around its neck now securing a tether to Kevin. Of comfort, or now of hierachy. The brumby had now started its path with the family, and a path to safety.

She fell. She fell hard. Jackie was walking in the woods on her way home from work. The air was dense with some mist in the late afternoon. Odd she thought, there isn't usually mist or fog at this time of day. Capturing the feeling of the moment she passed her local partk. "I might take a little detour on the way home today" she thought. In she stepped into the pathway of the park, and for a few moments she thought what a waste of time this is, to step into the park when she could be at home under her blanket on the couch with the television turned on watching "her stories". But then again, she hadn't been to this particular park before. Noticed it sure, but been no.

The park opened through the pathway lined by heavy ccedrer trees. Grass, recently mowed expanded out into a small field. In the distance, an eerie kind of swing set was off by the thick cover of fog. Over she walked, through the grass which was now somewhat saturated by dew and the moisture from the fog above. Eventually she got to the swing set. It was old, paint peeling all over the place. Beneath it a perfectly clean surface of saned. She noticed thtat the swing hadn't been used in a lvery long time. How did she know? she could just tell, the white tinge of old sun damaged plastic remained on the red seat, with no indication of friction from any persons pants.

She glanced up because a shimmer came from the thick brush and ceders behind the swing set. A red sort of glow had caught her eye. "No way in hell am I going in there to check this thing out" she shthought. "It's already enoguh with this murderous style fog that's cast over, and then this swingset to boot. I'm not going to be a main character in the next horror best seller" she exclaimed to her self. But the curiosity was too much. She set on through the brush towards the red glow.

The glow was far set back in the forrest, but the ceders had opened up. She could still see the glowe, it was pulsing. As she got closer to it she noticed a concrete small structure. A grey steel door and 1m of concrete blocks all around it was all that stood. She sapproached it. Now seeing the breath jfrom her panicing self. This is a murder scenario she kept thinking. But the curisosity was still too capturing. She went dforward, opened the door with the chrome cdoor handle. Darkness was inside. ShGo home? Go in?

Go in she swent, and with that sent her tumbling down the dark sdepths of a 1st floor fall. Bang her head hit. And then looking up, the red light was off. Had the power gone out?

No one. Absolutely no one aat this place. I was told 8:00pm sharp and the room is completely empty. See we're mant to be having a work get together tonight. But all I'm standing in is an empty banquet room with a massive lazy susan. God I'm hungry. I could really do with a loaded lazy susan right now actually. I'm sure they'll turn up , well at least I think they will? They've never stood me up before. Maybe I got the wrong place? Amy takes our her cell phone and frantically scrolls back threough months of emails until she finds the reservation that her boss George made. Right, okay. I got it wrong. Not only wrong time, wrong date, wrong place.

I steo out side of the restaurant, Huagngs Dynasty, and into the sstreet. NYC is hot as all hell at this time of year and especially this August. I contemplate hailing a cab and heading back home. But like, I'm out right now? I'm dressed? I haven't been out in so long! And boy does NYC feel alive on this Friday night. I look over near the arch and people are dunking themselves into the fountain water. I mean, gross, but still, I could go a dunk right now. Maybe that's what I kneed. A proverbial dunk, but a dunk into this city!

Off to haven bar I go. It's only a few blocks from here . I check my phone to see if anyone else made the stupid miustake that I did. I mean, maybe they're trying to walk as fast as I am from that place for fear of being embarressed. No idea how I got that date wrong. But off to Haven I go. I am dying for a pineapple martini . An odd combination I know, but still, on a hot night like tonight, its that or a bunch of frozen margaritas. Hey. Why not both?

I arrive at Haven and Andrew is minding the door. "Wassup Amty? How we doing tonight:?" I don't want to tell him, but I could have actually done with some of that Dynasty fried rice in this belly before a Pineapple Martini. "Yeah, not bad Andrew. Pretty sure I must have been hit over the head by someone picking up a bus and whacking it over my head though. I'm not with it this week so it seems?" Amt I said. "Yeah, well , You're in thr right place Amy, NYC, who's actually with it with all this crazy stuff going on right now?" "True that, thanks for making me feel not like an idiot."

I step in, the airconditioning hits me as if I just had come out of the shower and into bliss. My skin sweaty from the hike over, now feeling dry and replenished with love. I lean over the dimly lit bar and grab a menu. Like I need one, but still. Nothing new. Haven has been here for 25 years now and I doubt much has changed apart from the health of its clientele. I put the menu down, turn my head to wards back the door, and there he is. No. Fucking. Way. George....

The moon is rising in the evening sky. The sky is still pink, birds fleeing to secure their prime spots, away from dangers on the night’s ground and away from fury from the night's breath. I gaze out and think of the places around the world that are experiencing the same thoughts. Same or different birds. The people that have stopped for a moment and taken pause from what had previously occupied them. Here I am. At my piano, wondering what my next composition will be.

I have for far too long looked outside this window, looking for inspiration from the outside world immediate to me. As if there is some level of meaning behind it all. The outside I've been before, and for that reason I bring it back with me. Why am I searching for an epiphany from the immediate outside as if a Bird or a Tree is so symbolic that it can carry more meaning than my very own experiences. The self doubt of the composer I am is how I sit today. And it has caused me paused. Not for the benefit of my craft at all.

As the pink turns to purple, and the purple turns to black away I proceed to strike the keys of this piano. Harmonies intertwined and poking out their heads here and there. Presenting themselves as if perhaps I should entertain them with the score that I write unto. A ballad? A theme? Ambience? Why do I seek to wrap up my endeavours so much in labels. Yet again, the window. Does a bird see itself as a bird? Does it think of it self as having red feathers, a yellow beak? Or is it simply in thought of operation. Is that freeing or self trapping?

I get up from the piano and walk into the living room. It is dinner time and I am ready to prepare a meal. "Alexa, play Jazz In the Background" I shout from the kitchen intowards the living room. "Jazz in the background now playing on spotify" this Robot replies back to me. Kettle set, I open the pantry and scan the ever amount of comdiments and spices that are in front of me. Each with their own sdesire to be a recipe that I set out to endeavour upon. Is this metaphorical for the plumes of scores that seit within my piano bench? What does that say about me? A bird seems to only have one nest they set out to create; well this red one does outside my window. Is that freeing? Or is that trapping one self again?

There's always a pull to sit infront of this window and peer out into the outside world. It's a narrow frame, but the world outside appears to continue to keep on going. Whether I play the piano, or whether I sit and peer outside the window itself.