Guitarsophist@VisualInspiration #writingcommunity #microfiction
As the weekday crowd flowed through the market square, a wiry graybeard carrying a battered wooden drum threaded through the shoppers. He sat in a corner between a noodle shop and a tattoo parlor, unrolled a worn square of carpet, and sat down to play. He had no tip jar, upturned hat, or cup. He was not there to play for coins.
A crowd has a rhythm and a flow. A scene has a rhythm too. Every person has a heartbeat, a walk, and pace of thought that adds up to a rhythm. All these beats align and syncopate into a rhythmic symphony of movements that extends through time and is carried beyond the place by those who walk away.
The drummer was there to alter that symphony.
The first groove was in concert with the rhythm of the crowd. Those who were out of step began to adjust, to conform. The drummer introduced variations and little fills, altering the flow. Individuals in the crowd felt energy and positivity. Then the drummer saw the one he sought, a councilor to the king, dressed as a commoner but still haughty. The drumming locked in on that person's gait. A counter rhythm appeared, modeled on that gait, that consciousness. The councilor's steps changed, subtly, then gradually more. The drummer had power now.
A change in rhythm can stop a heart. It can kill. But it also can change the flow of thought. The councilor began thinking along a different path of arguments, still thinking as he walked away from the square.
It wasn't music, it was politics. Or was it both?
Visual Inspiration
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