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Chronicles of a Hot Spring's Night: Chapter 1 - "The Beginning of a Series of Soaked Footsteps" 
17th-Jun-2006 01:35 am
Lick
Our story begins I an almost entirely rotted narrow street.
As footsteps echoed weakly from a unknown position, a foul stench drifted in waves of putrid green-grey that slithered down the passageway trying to poison the first innocent that passed.
But, oh, it failed in it’s attempt! For this stranger that hid his hands inside a frock-coat and his head behind an a extravagant hat, was everything but innocent.
The foul slithered away, frightened that it’s own decay would be mortally threatened.
The man’s beautiful black boots splashed the muddy puddles while he whistled something that sounded oddly like Mozart’s Symphony no. 29. His head was moving slightly, conducting his invisible orchestra, as the mud ran down his boots accompanying him with it’s twisted dance, a cicada played the violins for him.
When he reached the end of the street he turned left and continued walking in what appeared to be a long forsaken plaza with collapsed buildings and birds that whistled along with his Allegro Moderato.
“I’m gaining public” he thought gaily, making a more brusque movement of his head and whistling a high string of notes.
Soon he reached the end of the plaza where he entered another perilous looking alley that made it’s way in curves that led, at last, to a vast road.
The road led to a field, and reaching the field led him into an Andante that was chorused by soft airs and the same cicada that continued with it’s vibrato.
The field, with an astounding shock of colour, was enormous and was covered from side to side in with bright red flowers and other plants of very curious designs.
He smiled as he gazed all of it, then he kneeled down and picked up a small yellow wild flower that he placed in one of his frock-coat’s eyelets; his moving hand covered in a dark leather glove was an odd sight next to the fragile little flower that with great effort remained anchored to his eyelet.
Here the aroma was delicious, filled with all the sweet scents of flowers from his fields and the ones next to him.
He stood there a while, until his Andante gave way to a Menuetto, Trio.
He seemed to float past the flowers, his tall figure visible only from the upper half and his frock-coat sewing amongst the green leaves that fluttered at his and the wind’s pass.

He did not remembered the last time he had come, but yet he recalled the same scent from another field he had visited recently, there too, grew wild orchids in the trees and lemons and oranges filled the air with their citric perfume. Heat, as only in this part of the continent can be, was starting to molest him, he wanted to get rid of the frock-coat, the hat... and maybe at some point just swim about some warm limpid sea.
When he reached the end of his field the Menuetto, Trio had long given way to an Allegro con Spirito and the climax of his “Illusionist Symphony” was announced when a glass filled with lemonade was offered to him.
Placing his coat in a chair and his hat in a desk, he withdrew, apparently form thin air, a baton and continued leading the orchestra as he lulled himself to sleep in a wooden rocking chair.
He let the music drift slowly of his mind... let the sound grew fainter as a new orchestra of colours composed it’s own magnificent symphony.

Back in the alley, the poisoned smoke glided to it’s original place and when the symphony died away and the last note came to an abrupt halt a corpse fell to the mud, splashing the stench that was oscillating near it’s owner, who found it’s death drowned in putrid and muddy water, soaked in blood.
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