The clock struck three in the somber night as the four of us journeyed towards our grand performance. In music, the space between the beats is important. Life, too, unfolds in these spaces.
The incessant snowfall painted a thick veil of white upon the perilous black ice of the mountain highway. Our windshield wipers battled valiantly, their efforts hardly enough to reveal the treacherous path that lay ahead or the abyss of the valley beside. Shrouded by dense fog, in the bitter cold, we pressed on.
Then, in an instant, a booming thud resounded through the night air. Jerome, the valiant helmsman of our carriage, grappled with the wheel as it bucked and fishtailed violently along the icy road. In the back seat, I quickly accepted the fate that seemed imminent, a fate of being reduced to nothing but a mangled mess upon the desolate highway. Next to me, Keefer raised his arms and opened his mouth in dramatic slow motion.
But, onward we pressed, albeit amidst chaos.
“By the stars, thou hast done well, my friend!” I extolled Jerome for his admirable navigation.
“I aimed for the smallest of them,” he replied earnestly. “Three creatures there were, but alas, they appeared before I could discern their presence.”
“Aye, indeed,” added Thud Pumpkin. “Fortunate it was a deer and not a towering moose, for with their long limbs, they could thrust through the very windshield.”
Nonetheless, a hundred leagues still lay between us and the next village, and our headlights had relinquished their radiance to darkness. We found ourselves bereft of warmth, frequently halting in the middle of the highway to replenish the radiator now adorned with six antler holes, spewing the lifeblood of antifreeze. With steady perseverance, we inched closer to the next haven, repairing the beleaguered radiator upon our arrival. The culmination of our efforts allowed us to grace the stage precisely as the hour struck for the grand performance.
The evening greeted us with a throng that stretched for blocks, and the elixir of tequila flowed generously, akin to the flowing streams of Dionysian revelry. From the stage, we beheld the fervent punk maidens, their spirits alight with vivacious dance. As the night unfolded, Keefer and I ventured into the chamber of reflection, where a pair of shoes betrayed their presence beneath a cubicle. Curiosity beguiled Keefer, compelling him to peer over the cubicle, revealing a familiar fan. His unbuttoned sleeve, rolled past his elbow, bore witness to a needle embedded below a small tattoo of a heart with chains.
“Dude, dost it prove effective for thee?” Keefer inquired.
He seemed unaware of Keefer’s intrusion, but Keefer persisted, “Pray tell, does it avail thee, my friend?”
In that moment, I felt a gentle tap upon my shoulder. A fervent punk maiden appeared before me.
“Would you not desire to embrace me passionately?” she questioned with fervor.
“What might you offer in return?” I inquired with a measure of nonchalance.
“I knew it,” she exclaimed in excitement.
With that, we departed from the jubilant assembly and made our way back to the sanctuary of the hotel. The curtains had fallen upon the grand spectacle, and now it was time to embrace the space between the beats.