Deceit in times of peace

suspence, drama, mystery, blogging, writing

‘Down strokes is all it is, then. You never go any further than twelve bars, don’t you?’ I say to Levine who is rocking his Gibson guitar.
‘I’m in my blues period,’ he explains,  ‘it’s all blues now.’
‘The bluest blues. I got it. E A C E. That almost spells peace.’
‘There is no p-chord.’
‘Let’s invent one.’
‘Use your pick, please,’ he urges.
‘Okay, if I can find it between old receipts, coins and beach sand. Wow, I have to dig deep today,’ I say while I’m digging in the back pocket of my jeans. ‘Got it.’
‘Good. A p-chord, watch this,’ he places his fingers high up the neck of the guitar. ‘How’s this?’
‘Sounds like a P. P E A C E chords. This must be the peace blues. The bluest peace blues. I like it.’

We strum our guitars like we’re bringing peace to the earth. Down strokes only, because peace should be simple; that way it’s for everyone. Meanwhile his Angelic blond hair dangles over his guitar, slowly getting intertwined with it’s strings.
‘Look Angels land on our peace,’ Levine says while he swings his hair through his fingers.
‘I think you are losing your hair skills and should tie up your hair.’
‘Point taken mam.’

I take this opportunity to introduce my guitar solo, breaking, picking and bending my way into peace harmony. Suddenly, I think of blood on the floor and see a faceless human with a gigantic cut in his stomach. I stop playing. Draw back. Blink.

I sigh while I pick up our new song again, but the image threw me off and I’m playing in the wrong keynote.

‘What up?’ His hair tied up in a knot on the back of his head. It doesn’t help, it still looks Angelic. I hate him for it.
‘I just saw something awful.’ He looks around as if to find something.
‘No. An image in my head. Blood and horror. Like a nightmare, but in bright daylight.’
‘That’s deceit. A nightmare in bright daylight is deceit. These should only come in the dark of the morning.’
‘So now I have been deceived by my own sleep.’
‘While I’m awake.’

I stare in the void pretending to take it in not knowing where to place it.

‘There is no hope for me. It really is the bluest blues for me today. I need some P.’ So, I start playing our new homemade P chord over and over again.
‘Very good, peace is the best way to drive away deceit,’ he lifts his head in surprise as if he finally found the answer to a deeper thought, ‘you dream of blood and horror during times of peace. It just isn’t right. Maybe you should play war.’ He starts playing the most recognisable tune by Beethoven. Ta da da daaa.
‘In all honesty I would rather create peace in times of horror,’ I add while continuing our new peace blues. P E A C E chords, my solo.

‘You’re getting good at this.’ He’s rocking side to side and I join him. We’re like surfers rocking to and fro on the waves.
‘I’m good at peace.’ The moment I say it another image pops into my head. I startle, and sit up straight. My arms drop like loose ends.
‘Deceit,’ I say. A rotting dead bird, so close, I can almost smell it. He stops playing too. He looks at me. I sigh. Again. ‘Let’s play.’
‘You still dare?’
‘Play is better than blood and deception.’ Peace echoes through the room again. Like it’s right where it should be. I strum like my hand has no other purpose in life, like peace and my hand go together like nightmares in the dark of the morning. I will taunt my taunters, I say to myself.

‘Dirty Ghosts in the dark of the morning,’ he starts singing to our peace blues, ‘what are you doing here in the bright light of day. Your presence is deceit.  Your presence misleads. All you bring is misery. But I see light, light in the bright light of day. And I will call it P, as in Peace. Because this is our Peace blues. It shines. In every hues.’

‘Awesome,’ I sing, ‘and we high five on it by playing the newest addition to the chord charts in harmony. P P P P E A C E. Peace.


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