Frenzy Sonata
rating: +1+x
medium.jpg

I spray oil on the man tied to the pillar, ignoring his muffled screaming. I paid him in advance.

I wonder what he thought when he got the money. He looked very thirsty for women, so he might have thought that way.

Whatever. I can think this over later, composing. Maybe he can be an excellent addition to my new tune.

I pour more oil around the oil-drenched man. A rose shape would look pretty. I can't be too liberal, though; it must be in four directions, and the time for it to burn up should be five to ten minutes. Each trail is connected to its respective fuse wires, four in total. The fuse wire runs upstairs to a bomb in the centre. Additionally, the floor upstairs is made of glass; conversely, it's a glass ceiling to the man.

I will look down at the rose-shaped flame trail and a corpse. And I shall write a crimson note about life and death, watching as the dead man's desire flourishing into fiery petals. His desire for life will creep towards me, his enemy. Well, to be specific, to the bomb that I'm sitting on. I killed his life to composing, but the very composing threaten my own life. The irony of the situation will be the spice for a piece of explosive music.

My plan is perfect.

I poke a hole on the pillar drenched in oil and put the fuse wire there, one long enough to buy me time to climb upstairs and sit on the bomb. I'm not sure if I'll work, but my guts never betrayed me.

I light a matchstick. I can see the terror in his eyes. Huh, am I laughing?

He'll struggle to put off this fire, but nothing will work with a gag on his mouth. The thought of that makes me chuckle.

Now I lit the first fuse on fire with my match. Listening to the man's desperate screams, I leisurely walk towards the stairs. The sound of pitiful breaths to put off the fire is muffled under the sound of beauty, giving me a tingle up the spine.

As I sat on the bomb, the fire reached the man's body. You're still sharp, Giodano.

As the fire burnt through his gag and flesh, I can now hear his screams more vividly. I transcribe the background ambience on the staves.


First, Andante. The burning is unsatisfyingly slow. The pillar was indeed too thick. At least the man's scream filling the gap is relieving.

f(Forte)! Such sweetness, the melody invigorating the painfully sluggish start! Blessed be his soul in musician's heaven as he fulfilled his task.

Now the fire reached the oil trail on the floor, burning through it. Here, Prestissimo. I might have been too complacent. The oil burns faster than I thought. It looks like it would reach in three minutes, let alone five or ten. Doesn't matter. I can compose in a trance deeper than I expected, like always. Three minutes are more than enough for me.

His screams wither down. Decrescendo. Huh, he's moving. Look at him twitch. Is he crying? But I'm laughing. Poor guy. It's okay, though, as your last trails will be that of grace.

Stringendo. The oil burns even faster. Matching its pace, I draw my notes even faster. Just a bit faster, just a bit more. Let me play with more notes in hand!

The fire reached the fuse wire on edge. It starts climbing upstairs. Fire climbs. Heightening. Crescendo! Let me revive the dead notes with only speed here! Expel hellfire at the moment of the apex of ecstasy! Boom!

And with a pop, the soul that had been hanging somewhere on the ceiling is sucked into me. Then I sit down still, watching one of the four dots that escalate towards me.

Ha…Ha… I let out a bitter chuckle of exhaustion. The downside of explosive force is that it wears down so quickly.

I regain my clarity and look up, and I can see the fire upstairs—five metres to bomb.

Here, Ritardando. The last step of tidying amidst the explosive chaos. I step down to the window with a grin on my face. I don't know if the explosion will break the glass, but I know sure enough that escaping with nothing more than the explosion is no fun at all.

I pull out my marker and write something on the glass pane. Symphony No. 94 in G major 'Surprise'. The glass starts to subtly shake along with the marker writing - a vibration perfect for the minor prelude of the finale.

I tap the glass with my fist. It shatters down, making a lot of noise. I chuckle at the beautiful sound. Why can't I hear this sound today, here, at this moment, but not forever?

There's a garbage truck filled with snow below. I don't know who drove it here. Nothing would matter to a guy that skipped work and never came back.

Now, I close my eyes. And one, two,
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Wait, did I draw two lines in the last part?

f f f f f f f f f f (Fortisisisisisisisisisimo)!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Explosion! Bang!


I might have missed a step from the explosion, as I can feel the snow on my back, but not on my feet. Flying. Swoosh! Crash! To the ground. A sharp pain clears my mind with a chill up my spine into my brain.

Wow. That felt good. Though I missed the timing and crashed without style, but whatever, I got the note.

But landing on my back sure does hurt. I don't want to stand back up. This is why I planned to fall standing.

I open the note in the snow. It's surprisingly well preserved considering that chaos. My care paid back.

And yes, I drew two lines.

In overwhelming delight, I kiss the note, and I hug it while panting, like a couple that just had sex. Not a single mistake. Well done, Giodano.

A composer can reach highs just by writing notes and playing upon them. I can't still let go of that high, so I roll around in the snow, hugging papers. I do not want to escape from the snow-white madness under the red fire, in a space where no one will visit.


…But wait.

Where do I perform this thing?

Eh, I dunno. I can steal a place or something.

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License