Have you ever been tempted to write a short narrative motivated by music? It is a wonderful exercise that produces different effects to the words, sometimes attaching a rhythm or patterning to the narrative.
In my endeavours to find ways to stimulate my writing, I try to choose music from different genres. It can inspire thoughts about characters or influence a scene that has been suffering from mental block. Sometimes, it’s just for fun to relieve tension and let the mind flow, unimpeded.
Today, I’d like to share with you a little piece written under the influence of Clair de Lune by Claude Debussy. I’ve chosen an extended version that allows me enough time to become accustomed to the melody and then to submerge my mind into the emotional senses aroused by the music. Suddenly, the music speaks and all I have to do is note the words flowing from its narrative.
So, here it is – my little piece written under the influence of Clair de Lune by Claude Debussy! Enjoy.
Soft, sensual lips slowly murmured my name. I felt the quiver resonating through my body, sending shivers down my spine, extending outwards to my toes and the butterflies dancing under my ribs. Shadows of laughter hinted at those lips, so delicious and inviting. Yet, something held me back. Was it the unanswered question lingering in my dry throat, hungry for the lips to sate me? Was it knowing that once I succumbed to such sweet temptation, there was no going back? Or the fact that our bodies were entwined when they weren’t supposed to touch? Oh, sweet torture.
Angry, I let go of those long fingers wrapped around my waist. They slipped away, taking the warmth of their touch with them. Desolation engulfed my now hollow frame. How could I be so stupid? Those lips had promised salvation; knights willing to slay the hunger growling inside me like an ugly beast pushing and shoving at my maligned heart. Helpless, I watched as they turned down their protuberant smile and sharp lines invaded smooth skin around them. A sadness I had caused shaped something once so beautiful and eager. So easy it would have been to say yes; so easy to quiet the doubts pecking at my temptation.
Alas, those sweet persuasions were now far away and focused on a new prey, a prey eager to take the trip to fantasia.
I watch as they meet, the enduring touch divulging a missing innocence that was never there to begin with, the embarrassing tartness of such haste and machination. My heart cries at the betrayal but my mind celebrates its fastidiousness – the victory of overcoming a certain desolation that would have cracked an already fragile heart, the hurt that might have been suffered after such sweet salvation.
No. I refuse to watch any longer. After all, it is my birthday and there will surely be more hidden promises of amuse bouche awaiting to entice my appetite for amour.
E. De Sousa 