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section7mfuPrompts: Arch / pink
Word Count: Approx. 750
Author's Note: I supplied the setting; my daughter supplied the scenario. Another cousin in the making.
The warm Sunday afternoon, the first of the spring, attracted many local residents to Washington Square Park. Children frolicked in the fountain, while their mothers exchanged gossip on the surrounding steps. Young couples lounged there as well, basking in the sunshine and in each other. Men of varying age and race gathered around the chess tables. The park’s eclectic mix of New Yorkers was captured by the furious sketching of Village artists, some of whom displayed their work for sale or offered to do portraits for a fee. Scattered amongst them all were the musicians. The air resonated with the strains of their guitars, mandolins and banjos, as the earnest young folkies sang of peace and love.
One such singer sat at the base of Washington Square Arch. His blonde hair, worn long like many of his fellow musicians, was in stark contrast to his dark t-shirt and tinted glasses. A battered guitar case lay open by his bare feet, a respectable collection of coins inside it. He strummed an equally battered instrument and sang,
Trouble comes down from the sky.
No one can ever tell why.
Just when you think all the world’s pink,
It hits you right smack in the eye.
A shadow fell across the singer as he vamped on the song’s final chords. He slowly raised his gaze, passing over the stranger’s dark, nondescript suit, until he reached a dark, forgettable face.
“Will you play The Times They Are a Changin’?” the man asked.
"Only on a fifth Sunday,” the singer responded, picking out a few notes on the guitar.
With a flick of his hand, the man tossed something into the guitar case. The musician picked up the flat, gold disk and slid it into his pants pocket.
"Trouble certainly will be coming from the skies. Once those plans are in place, UNCLE won't know what hit them.” The man curved his lips in a conspiratorial smile.
“Not if I can help it.” Illya heaved the guitar at the THRUSH courier, who staggered back in surprise. The Thrushie recovered quickly, flinging the instrument aside and turning to run. Illya lunged forward and grabbed him around the knees. They crashed to the pavement. A brawl ensued, their exchange of blows accompanied by the tight harmonies of a nearby trio singing If I Had a Hammer.
I'd hammer out danger.
I'd hammer out a warning.
I'd hammer out love
Between my brothers and my sisters
All over this land.
The courier pinned Illya to the ground and squeezed his neck, laughing softly in triumph. The smile melted away as the guitar bashed against his head, driven by Illya's powerful swing. Wood splintered, strings twanged, and the Thrushie fell over, stunned.
Cries of alarm replaced the singing. Illya checked his pocket for the disk, then dragged the courier to his feet. Twisting the man’s arm behind him, Illya placed the Thrushie between himself and the agitated crowd that began to gather.
“Bravo, bravo.” A familiar voice called out from the back of the crowd. Illya sighed in both relief and annoyance as Napoleon shouldered his way to the front, clapping loudly.
“Very impressive piece of performance art. Wouldn't you agree?” Napoleon nudged the people around him. “Amazing how well they conveyed the power of music to overcome the military-industrial machine.” Slowly others began to clap along with him, and the tension diffused.
“Well, I think these boys have given all they have to give for today. Can’t wait to see what they’ve got for us next week.” With practiced ease, Napoleon shepherded the curious, chattering crowd away.
Illya quickly handcuffed the courier and sat him down heavily against the base of the Arch. “What took you so long?” he demanded when Napoleon sauntered back.
“I was playing chess.” Napoleon waved his hand toward the southwest corner of the park.
“Did you get hustled?” Illya asked hopefully.
“On the contrary. I won,” he said, patting his jacket in satisfaction. He squatted down and collected a pile of coins that had been scattered during the struggle. “You didn’t do too badly yourself.”
Illya gathered up the shattered remains of his instrument and placed them inside the case. “It won't be enough to offset the guitar.” He looked at Napoleon expectantly.
Napoleon sighed and fished some bills from his inner pocket. Reluctantly he handed them to Illya. “Easy come, easy go.”
Behind them, the vanquished Thrushie nodded in commiseration. “You said it, brother.”
Word Count: Approx. 750
Author's Note: I supplied the setting; my daughter supplied the scenario. Another cousin in the making.
The warm Sunday afternoon, the first of the spring, attracted many local residents to Washington Square Park. Children frolicked in the fountain, while their mothers exchanged gossip on the surrounding steps. Young couples lounged there as well, basking in the sunshine and in each other. Men of varying age and race gathered around the chess tables. The park’s eclectic mix of New Yorkers was captured by the furious sketching of Village artists, some of whom displayed their work for sale or offered to do portraits for a fee. Scattered amongst them all were the musicians. The air resonated with the strains of their guitars, mandolins and banjos, as the earnest young folkies sang of peace and love.
One such singer sat at the base of Washington Square Arch. His blonde hair, worn long like many of his fellow musicians, was in stark contrast to his dark t-shirt and tinted glasses. A battered guitar case lay open by his bare feet, a respectable collection of coins inside it. He strummed an equally battered instrument and sang,
Trouble comes down from the sky.
No one can ever tell why.
Just when you think all the world’s pink,
It hits you right smack in the eye.
A shadow fell across the singer as he vamped on the song’s final chords. He slowly raised his gaze, passing over the stranger’s dark, nondescript suit, until he reached a dark, forgettable face.
“Will you play The Times They Are a Changin’?” the man asked.
"Only on a fifth Sunday,” the singer responded, picking out a few notes on the guitar.
With a flick of his hand, the man tossed something into the guitar case. The musician picked up the flat, gold disk and slid it into his pants pocket.
"Trouble certainly will be coming from the skies. Once those plans are in place, UNCLE won't know what hit them.” The man curved his lips in a conspiratorial smile.
“Not if I can help it.” Illya heaved the guitar at the THRUSH courier, who staggered back in surprise. The Thrushie recovered quickly, flinging the instrument aside and turning to run. Illya lunged forward and grabbed him around the knees. They crashed to the pavement. A brawl ensued, their exchange of blows accompanied by the tight harmonies of a nearby trio singing If I Had a Hammer.
I'd hammer out danger.
I'd hammer out a warning.
I'd hammer out love
Between my brothers and my sisters
All over this land.
The courier pinned Illya to the ground and squeezed his neck, laughing softly in triumph. The smile melted away as the guitar bashed against his head, driven by Illya's powerful swing. Wood splintered, strings twanged, and the Thrushie fell over, stunned.
Cries of alarm replaced the singing. Illya checked his pocket for the disk, then dragged the courier to his feet. Twisting the man’s arm behind him, Illya placed the Thrushie between himself and the agitated crowd that began to gather.
“Bravo, bravo.” A familiar voice called out from the back of the crowd. Illya sighed in both relief and annoyance as Napoleon shouldered his way to the front, clapping loudly.
“Very impressive piece of performance art. Wouldn't you agree?” Napoleon nudged the people around him. “Amazing how well they conveyed the power of music to overcome the military-industrial machine.” Slowly others began to clap along with him, and the tension diffused.
“Well, I think these boys have given all they have to give for today. Can’t wait to see what they’ve got for us next week.” With practiced ease, Napoleon shepherded the curious, chattering crowd away.
Illya quickly handcuffed the courier and sat him down heavily against the base of the Arch. “What took you so long?” he demanded when Napoleon sauntered back.
“I was playing chess.” Napoleon waved his hand toward the southwest corner of the park.
“Did you get hustled?” Illya asked hopefully.
“On the contrary. I won,” he said, patting his jacket in satisfaction. He squatted down and collected a pile of coins that had been scattered during the struggle. “You didn’t do too badly yourself.”
Illya gathered up the shattered remains of his instrument and placed them inside the case. “It won't be enough to offset the guitar.” He looked at Napoleon expectantly.
Napoleon sighed and fished some bills from his inner pocket. Reluctantly he handed them to Illya. “Easy come, easy go.”
Behind them, the vanquished Thrushie nodded in commiseration. “You said it, brother.”
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Date: 2016-03-15 01:00 pm (UTC)