“I can see it, man. Like, we’re all connected and stuff. Strings flowing through the world, the universe, binding us all together. It’s so beautiful.”

Goddamn cellists, Trevor thought. Everything is fucking strings to them, even when they’re tripping. He eyed the people on the couch opposite his chair. Three men and two women—he didn’t know their names, just what instruments they played. Like most of the people here, they were more friends of his girlfriend than him.

He wasn’t even sure why he was here. After the argument this afternoon, he’d been wandering around campus when he’d run into the cellist—Fred, Frank, F-something—and been dragged to the party.

The cellist was still tripping next to him, mumbling something about strings and octaves and quarks. What was it about the string section that turned people crazy? Caroline, his girlfriend, played the violin. This afternoon she’d started talking about commitment, the future, something about a red string of fate—he hadn’t really listened. She’d started railing at him when he hadn’t picked the right responses.

Trevor looked at his watch; it was after midnight. He drained the last of his beer and stood up. He’d taken a hit with the cellist but nothing was happening and he still had to walk several miles back to the loft he shared with Caroline.

He stepped over a couple sprawled on the floor, both flautists, and tossed his empty plastic cup on the kitchenette counter, adding to the already overflowing pile. He had to push his way through a group of timpanists to get to the door. He didn’t mind timpanists, they were fun at parties—the frat boys of the classical music world.

The party had spilled into the hallway, slowing him as he pushed his way to the stairs. Typical of the cheap apartments music students could afford, the place was on the 8th floor and the building had no elevator.

The late-night air outside the front door was cool and crisp, a welcome change after the hot, muggy atmosphere of the party upstairs and the eight flights of stairs he’d trudged down. Trevor inhaled again; the cold air felt like a sip from an ice cold glass of water on a blazing August afternoon. He rolled it across his tongue as he walked.

He drank in the sights and sounds of the city as he moved on. The light from the lamp on the next corner was bright, almost painful, throwing a sharp line of dark and light across the sidewalk. A train passed nearby, the rhythmical clanking of its wheels on the tracks loud in his ears, a melody he couldn’t quite grasp.

The air filled with the tang of yeast, drawing his eyes to the bakery across the street. Light spilled from the windows, cascading over the sidewalk. A shadow moved in the brightness, a humanoid figure stretched thin across the cold concrete.

He crossed the street to stare through the window. Behind the counter, a large man worked, kneading dough for the morning’s bread. As Trevor watched, the sound of a timpani filled him, matching the strong, heavy movements of the baker’s hands as they worked the dough. It vibrated in his mind, coming from inside the bakery but not passing through his ears.

Behind him, he heard the rev of an engine. A car was turning the corner; its headlights splashed across him, blinding. Music flowed from it, a string quartet playing Beethoven’s Op. 135. His vision cleared and he could see again as it passed. Through its closed windows he could see four people—friends—chatting. The music faded as the car moved away. Behind him, the timpani played on.

The sounds of the city faded around Trevor, replaced by music. He passed an open window, inside was a living room, and a TV he couldn’t hear. A old woman was seated in a rocking chair in front of the TV, a knit afghan across her knees. The strings of a violin, bowed in time to the rocking of the woman, filled him.

He passed a bar, still open and crowded at this hour—an orchestra, playing Mozart’s 40th symphony. A couple was arguing in an alley, an oboe and flute dueling. An etude here, a concerto there, he heard the music of life as he walked.

The songs were fewer as he entered a poorer neighborhood; the buildings in increasing disrepair as he moved on. The sound of a wheezing tuba came from an overgrown park. An obese man in a tattered army jacket stood next to a steel trash can, warming his hands over the fire inside. On the other side of the street, a group of youths sat on the front steps of a tenement, emanating chamber music.

The notes faded as he moved into an industrial area, abandoned years ago and empty of humanity. The silence deepened in the shadows of the broken factories, empty windows staring sightlessly as he passed. The soundless night grew more oppressive with each step, the hard soles of his boots making no sound on the concrete sidewalk, the music gone with the people. He snapped his fingers next to his ear—nothing.

He concentrated, listening for a noise, a note, anything. The silence was complete. Even the beat of his heart, pounding, could not be heard. Trevor hurried on, rushing past burned out hulks of rusting metal in an asphalt lot broken and overgrown with weeds.

He passed a junk-yard surrounded by a chain link fence, a dog barking at him from behind it, making no sound. He passed a homeless man, drinking in the shadow of a doorway. He heard nothing, no music.

He passed a building of faded red brick, its windows covered with plywood and graffiti, shrouded in silence. Then it came, faint but growing, the sound of a harp. It grew stronger, loud enough to follow as each note was plucked out.

Trevor focused on the sound, relief flooding him. The music buoyed him, keeping him sane. It seemed to flow from inside him, carrying him on. His heart beat slowed, matching the tempo, his feet hitting the pavement in time.

The buildings around him were no longer falling apart. He passed a person here, a car there, the streets no longer empty. The song of the harp continued, vibrating through him.

He smiled at a group of college women heading home from a night of partying, nodded to the bouncer standing in front of a local club. Across the street he saw a friend waving and tired to turn toward him—his legs continued on.

The music changed, speeding up, and his pace followed. He tried to stop, to slow, to separate himself from the music. His legs refused to obey.

The song continued, carrying him down the sidewalk, an audience of one to the music controlling his body. He approached an intersection, struggling for control; the harp played on.

G—he took a step. A small light shone in the corner of his eye, the headlights of an approaching car.

A—another step. The car was closer, moving fast. The lamp at the corner was broken, leaving a deep shadow around Trevor.

C—Trevor covered his ears, trying to block out the sound. The driver couldn’t see him, wouldn’t see him until too late. He took another step.

E—his hands grabbed at his legs, trying to slow them. The song moved on, Trevor with it. He was at the edge of the sidewalk.

F—another step, into the street. The car was only a foot away, its driver finally seeing Trevor as he stepped into the headlights. Time slowed. The car inched closer.

“Nein, nein, nein.”

The music stopped, and with it, the world. Trevor could see the horrified face of the driver, could feel the heat of the engine, inches from his body. The edges of the world shimmered, blurred. Another world overlay it, like a television tuning two channels at once.

Trevor saw a living room, heavy with dark wood and antique furniture. In the center stood a harp, a young woman sitting on a stool behind it, her hands stilling the strings. A tall man, thin, with graying hair, stood beside her. He pointed to the music stand between the two.

“Das ist eine halb Note, eine halb Note.” The man clasped his hands behind his back. “Erneut.”

The young woman nodded and lifted her hands.

G—Trevor was back on the sidewalk, the world once again in sharp focus. The car was approaching and the music was playing. He took a step.

A, C, E—three more steps. He was at the edge of the sidewalk, the car roaring closer.

F—A half-note, a half-step. The car roared past, inches away, the wind of its passing tearing at his face.

Trevor stared at the car as it sped away, the sound of its engine loud in his ears, its horn echoing down the street. The music was gone, the sounds of the city surrounded him.

Typical, just typical, Trevor thought. I get a glimpse into the inner workings of the universe and what does my life hang by? A harp string. A fucking harp string.

Contest Theme: Strings