maiah

by Maxen Jack-Monroe

Maiah pressed the skip button seven times, then “play” on the boom box she knew her family would never get rid of. The CD was one she knew her family would never get rid of either, a symbol of the early days when her father’s talent as a musician was still appreciated enough to allow them to afford what other families could afford. She then closed her eyes, laid back and listened to the colors. The sharp yet sensual sound of the soprano sax which melted into magenta, then violet, then blue again. Along with it was soprano’s cousin the alto; all raspberry and lime which emerged from the tenor, a treat of chocolate brown, then cafe au lait tan, finished off with the deepest of cherry reds. And finally the baritone, the big cousin that soprano was always afraid of. Deep and regal, its sound a bar graph of desert orange and midnight blue.

Along with the colors, Maiah could hear the smells. She could not determine the individual smells of each instrument, but the scent of the quartet together was unmistakable. A mixture of hot Indian curry, white chocolate mocha, jasmine and just a hint of lavender. Such aromas would never mesh well in the real world, but in this world it reeked divinity.

Suddenly she heard the gray-green, thick yet powdery sound of her father’s footsteps. As she opened her eyes, different smells and colors swirled around her head in a range of motions and formations. Maiah quickly sat up, trying to focus on what was outside the swirls. Her father laughed his chalky white laugh that came out in small, strained circles. Maiah was not quite sure what was amusing him so.

“I remember the day we recorded this. It was only our third take that made it on the album. I thought that we should have kept going, but for some reason the guys thought it was fine. Only listening to it now do I really understand why they cut the record so early. While most of the music’s pretty blended together in a way that’s pretty smooth, this song has more ridges to it. Like you can hear more than just the music, if you know what I mean.”

She gave a sardonic plum-colored snort in return, then leaned over and pressed “pause” on the boom box.

“What was that for?” her father asked quietly, with the smell of a bowl of warm, cream-of-crab soup.

Maiah shrugged, then smiled as she let the music simmer down in her mind.

by Maxen Jack-Monroe

Nominated by Mr. Hobson.