Alltheprompts - Blog Posts

It was a small stage. Set up on the bank of the river with a few strategically placed cinder blocks and some press board, there was nothing fancy or professional about it. The band was equally questionable, with unfashionably ragged jeans, shirts with dates from ten years ago, and miss-matched shoes. There wasn’t a single keyboard or amp to be seen. In fact, it was as absolutely low-tech as possible. The only attempt at levity was the string of Christmas lights hung across the bracing beam that ran above the stage. A car battery had been jury-rigged to supply silent power, and while the safety of the maneuver was questionable at best, no one cared.

The grass was still soaked, the ground beneath so saturated with water that each step upon the Earth caused liquid to well. Fog crept in as the band was still walking on stage with their guitars and fiddles and horns still in their cases. The people gathered on the sodden ground did not care. Candles flickered intermittently amongst the group’s of twos and threes, the loudest conversations were murmers, and few people walked around. This was not a concert. This was not a party. This was grief. And joy.

The waters of the river had only just receeded back behind their banks two days previous. The houses just behind the listeners were lost, down to the tiniest wood shed. Pets had been lost; so had treasured heirlooms. But the people themselves were still alive, still here.

The fog rolled in, the candles flickered, the band opened their cases.

And there was music.