Relic

A liar plays the lyre. His eyes, shadowy as hades, shimmer in the scattered moonlight, refusing to blink. He begins to play. A little Grecian youth stands mesmerized at the forests edge, listening into the darkness past the screech of the owl and croaks of the frog. Sweet as fig and gentle as goat's milk, the descant echoing from the trees bids the boy toward it, enveloping the olive skinned child. Deeper now he travels, over breaching roots which tear apart the forest floor, beneath the verdant canopy which blocks the light of the midnight moon. The liar strums away, string upon string, each chord more enchanting and haunting than the last, drawing the boy nearer with every note. Cicadas cry out bitterly into the balmy Mediterranean air, Tithonus sings for the sweet embrace of death, though it will never greet him. The youth is nearly ensnared, whilst the liar continues to perform his melancholic song, louder, faster, and more sanctimoniously. A lone cicada now coasts effortlessly through the inky forest towards the music, transfixed, until it reaches the composer. The liar welcomes the creature, and tempts it to come nearer to the sound. Upon the insect's bristly leg landing on the cold golden body of Hermes' creation, it vanished. Swiftly as a brisk wind that blows from the sea, the cicada was never seen again. Upon encountering the lyre, neither was the little Grecian boy. As dawn breaks over the island, the musician fades alongside the darkness.

A liar plays the lyre. His face, gnarled as an ancient oak, leers as it sees it's reflection in the unmoving pond. His song begins anew. Beneath a beard of grey and tangled hairs, a farmer sweats profusely as he walks through a lulling pasture towards a small wooden cottage overlooking the Atlantic. Cows graze carelessly in the sweet grass, paying no mind to the heavy set man walking amongst them in their isolated meadow. Upon nearing the cottage's polished cedar door, the man heard the music, quietly at first, buzzing in his ear. As he reached for the latch to enter, a sudden breeze blew across his face, along with it, a chilling melody of strings. His wife sat in the garden, tending to shallots and courgette, a floppy straw hat fluttering above her golden hair. The farmer sat upon a sturdy bench in the centre of the room, and peered inquisitively into a pot of stew that his wife had put on earlier that day. Suddenly the sound of the lyre was accompanied by another sound, it was high pitched, and shrilly hurt the ears of the man. The pot over the fire boiled over, spilling across the floor, and extinguished the flame. His wife screams from outside. He rushed to the window only to see she had disappeared from sight. The music was louder now. Upon opening the door, the farmer saw not the green pastures he expected, nor the garden, nor the pond, nor his wife, only the face of death itself staring through him, holding in it's hand a golden lyre. The cows roamed free from that day on, and the shallots were never harvested by human hands. As fleetingly as the vibration of an instrument's string, the farmer's wife had vanished, and so did he.

A liar plays the lyre. His instrument decadent with tortoise shell and gold, rests heavily behind a panel of glass, upon a podium, surrounded by men, women, and children alike. They stare and they leer at the contraption, gawk and gad, not realizing they are being observed just the same. His song starts anew. The sounds of voices drown out the music at first, it drifts waveringly over the heads of the crowd. Mechanical noises and handheld automatons vibrate powerfully, pushing against the strum of the strings, fighting with death, refusing it and accepting it all at once. Their heads all down, illuminated by constantly changing lies. This is all except for one. An elderly woman sits in a chair adjourned with wheels, parallel to the display, her eyes reaching beyond the glass to the lyre itself. She hears its song playing, and she feels its draw. Slowly she rolls towards it, fantasy sweeps through her cognizance. Swashbuckling journeys across high-seas and terrible treks through unexplored jungles dance in her head, taunting her with their intrigue, set to the score the liar plays. She stretches out a wrinkled and spotted hand towards the showcase, grasping for it's sweet song. The fluorescent burn of the room scorched her, ripping away everything she holds dear. Her chair sits empty, free of an occupant. Nobody realizes she is gone. They move on. They disappear. They move on.

A lyre plays a liar. It's host weary and old as the cosmos themselves. A relic capturing those whose souls scream silently out to it. Whose breaths weaken with each passing day, from disease, plague, or curse. A gift to appease Apollo. A little Grecian boy gasps for air as his eyes burst open, as though Charon pulled him drowning from Styx itself. As the boy's eyes adjusted to the intense brightness, his heart raced, pumping blood rapidly through his body trying to circulate enough oxygen to keep him conscious. He looks out above him and sees eternity, galaxies of immense heliotrope and violet, planets and stars beyond imaginations bounds. The ground beneath him is powder blue, and sandy between his toes. He tries to move, to run, but he is frozen, sitting, staring out into the universe. Tears form in the child's eyes as he recounts the music, the crooning of the lyre which drew him to this fate. To his left, over the spherical azure horizon the youth could see the silhouette of a man and a woman, equally transfixed facing into space. To his right, an old woman, lying on the planets face, craning her neck to see the ringed planets that floated past trillions of years in a moment. Outside the bounds of life and death, spellbound by the ether, preterits spanning across history sit and gaze upon what is left. The melody now sweeps more and more loudly, crescendos abound, sweetly yet sadly. A final chord is played by the liar, the most beautiful and gratifying sound to ever exist, time for the truth. The boy looks up above him to see earth floating overhead, spinning and sighing along with the lyre.  A lone cicada lands gently on his narrow shoulder, chirping contently.  As the chord reverberates away, there is silence. Nothing follows.