Object Writing: Choir

The distinct smell of veneer that peels in polished chunks off of ancient wood in a resonate concert hall that gathers a cough and disperses it across all corners and crevices of the room. Dust gathered curtains in velvety crimson tussle slightly in the vacant air that filters through the room to go no-where at all. An ebony piano awaiting its voice with slippery ivory keys worn through years of repetitive repertoire, witness to the cane, mildly contained abuse and then gentle parenting. The modern fans billow stale air that cannot reach the stage where the air sits hollow and heavy laden like the single drip of sweat that slides down the neck's nape and along the crevice of the spine. It gathers between the stiff bodies like a radiator on low and tickles at the brow. Astray droplets begging for a breeze to cool the skin. With a quick crescendo of the wrists the choir is halted for a beat before the piano's voice signals the introduction. A dance of notes plays from left to right and soon a harmonious sound affixes the air in its exuberant dance. A Top 40's hit from an era not yet acknowledged by the underaged singers who are grateful for a slightly more up-tempo tune, and also for the English it has been written in. The many stumbles across latin and Italian within which they are poorly versed have dispersed the glee of communal and musical oration...

I don't think I can chuckle and say "this was fun" every time so I'm just gonna go ahead and say from now on that's implied.

I tried to recall the finite elements of my old choir days for this one and really enjoyed taking my time describing the space and the cavernous discomfort that was simultaneously confined. I also tried to explore the feel of something that appeared ancient and old-fashioned against modern comments: Top 40s; gentle parenting etc.

This is probably the most I've managed to get out. I actually had to check my timer to see if I'd actually put it on - I had.

Favourite lines: the air sits hollow and heavy laden like the single drip of sweat that slides down the neck's nape and along the crevice of the spine - I was trying SO hard with this line not to say you or my or their. I definitely wanted the narrator to remain separate from this story as long as I could - Dust gathered curtains; An ebony piano awaiting its voice