Stories
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Release title: Mechanics Of Silence
Format: Compilation / Digital Download
Style: Drone Dark Ambient Electronic
Duration: 11 Tracks / 76 min.
Release Date: 14 April 2011
Released by: Essentia Mundi label

The moments between...
by Thomas Park (Mystified)
"Silence is an absence of sound, but it has different forms and attributes. Sometimes we find it in long stretches, across deserted tundra or other inhabited realms, broken only by occasional rumbles of thunder. Sometimes it is periodic, such as in the space between passing cars on a busy street, or the moments between paragraphs in a speech. But sometimes silence exists, and yes, it is still silence - during just a moment after a tragic event. A dying man falls over, and briefly there is only shock - no time to react. A car crashes, a tree snaps - a tsunami strikes. After the quake and wave hit, there must have been an abbreviated period of relative but profound silence. The Earth had made so quickly its mark, and the change, so devastating, could only be mutely surveyed by survivors, before the shock and awareness of its significance settled in."

A Japanese Story...
by C. Holliday (The Drive To Uqbar)
"Akerin’s mother, a corpulent asthmatic, depressed the sewing machine’s foot control: the needle, exhausted, came to a stop a few centimeters above the hat’s green felt brim. She lifted herself from the iron-backed chair, her breath fighting to escape those fibrous lungs: clogged billows.
Breath.

Anxiously, Akerin pulled the threaded needle a final time through the hollow bone of the one-eyed peacock feather, then placed the now-finished hat on her mother’s workbench with the others. About four minutes now. She hurriedly stuffed her spools of thread and remaining feathers into their respective drawers in the cherry wood cabinet. Later, while brushing her teeth, the memory of them there, in stasis, would make her beam.
Sigh.

Slivers of thread—infant worms—littered her dress, peach with white lace trim. She brushed them off. Stuffed with hats at various stages of life, shelves and cubby-holes lined the shop’s work-parlor. She rushed to the door. Upstairs, her grandmother—a retired vocal coach, her eyes now fogged over with cataracts—was just about to launch, in her hoary “vox,” into the next phrase of Aoinoue.
Hum.

Over the black puddle, between three histrionic dogs dancing about a piece of wax paper that had escaped the butcher’s dust pan, then to the corner: some lingering sun-shapes splashed the cobblestones. Short breathed, she reached the half-moon shaped windowsill. A rain-damaged book unexpectedly occupied her place: she moved it aside and lifted herself up into position. She held the book upon her lap: The Hearth Opera.
Sing.

He hadn’t yet appeared. She occupied the few remaining moments with the scene unfolding next door: a gruff, suspendered man lugged on a squeaking dolly a dozen half- gallon cans (their labels canary yellow, like her parents’ bathroom) of peeled tomatoes through the darkened entrance (its battered door ajar) of Suntour Pub.
Inhale.

A feral cat howled—and she turned. The man had already emerged from the small slatted door to the right of the tower clock, itself framed by a brick tenement house and a decrepit bottle factory; he stood upon a small balcony. Just moments left. Next he’ll scan the village rooftops, then prop himself up with that broom, his chin resting atop its handle, for the few seconds of nothingness before he resuscitated time itself. When he complied, her fingers gently clenched the crumbling book’s spine. The clock’s hands formed a two-headed, vertical arrow. He would need to nudge, with the broom’s wood end, the second hand forward, for it had long since been suffering. And then, he—
Exhale."

The visit...
by S. Datcu (Sibiu/RO)
"The Browns, a wealthy family from Hastings, inheritor of the famous local factory are at home. They are waiting.
Mrs. Brown is wearing a short cocktail dress paired with black high-heeled italian shoes, her hair combed in a perfect loop. Mr. Brown is wearing a classic tuxedo with black bow tie. He is smoking a corona grande cigar. Paul, the 4 years old son is sitting on a couch bending his feet up and down. He is looking towards his room. “Don’t”, says her mother’s frown eyes. And he doesn’t go. His new wooden toy train is not playing with his other toys. It hasn’t met them yet! Maids are running up and down the room, dusting unexisting trails of dust, arranging again the flowers, smashing fine glasses, hiding away from Mrs. Brown’s angry eyes. The bell is ringing.
They’re here.
The Browns are standing in front of the wooden crafted door, lined up, all three of them smiling. Paul is standing straight up, just like his father, one hand behind his back. The Katsumi family have arrived. A family of three: parents and Kenta, a five years old boy. They have travelled all the way from Japan to meet their future business partners: The Browns, the owners of the candy factory.
“Please come in”, “how was you trip” “what a lovely house do you have” Paul doesn’t recognise their parents theatrical voices. He wonders, he wants to…”don’t” says his mother’s eyes. He doesn’t.
20 minutes later. An embarrassing silent. Four smiles. No one has opened the subject they are very keen on. “Please help yourself to more cookies. They are fresh, just baked in our factory”. “More wine, more coniac, or a cigar”. “No, thank you. I don’t smoke”. Kenta is engorging more cookies. Paul is looking at him. He has a secret he wants to share.
“Darling, please help me with the food”. “But …”, “In the kitchen, please darling”. Mrs. Brown smiles at Mr. Brown. “Yes, darling”.
“WHAT are you doing? What stupid jokes have you chosen to say..” whispers angrily Mrs. Brown. “Relax, my love” smiles Mr. Brown.” How can I relax? Will lose millions! I don’t understand anything! I’ve been to two courses on nonverbal communication but nothing prepared me for their stiffed posture. They bend to much and thank too quickly!”. “And they don’t laugh at my jokes”, complains Mr. Brown. “Because they are stupid!!” “Maybe you have a better idea, darling!”
In the luxurious living room The Katsumi family are lined up on one side of the table. Paul sits on the opposite side, his forehead rising just above the table. He is standing, looking at his guests, peering at his parents. He needs to yawn. “Don’t”. He tries not to. He looks at Kenta. He startles. He recognises the car on the other boy’s shirt. It’s Fulger McQueen! He glances towards the kitchen, holds his hands up in the air, grabs an imaginary steering wheel and “bruum, bruum” smiles at he boy. Kenta as if awaking from a boring dream, smiles and says something in japanese. Paul doesn’t understand a word but he’s happy. He answers him: “I have the whole collection, and I have a Spiderman mask”. The boys jump off the chairs and run to Paul’s room.
Laughter, sounds of cars, horns of drivers interrupts the Browns. They stop to listen, follow the noise and see Kenta’s parents in the doorstep smiling at the boys.
“He’s got the whole collection for Christmas”. “You are lucky. Our boy wanted the Chuggington set too and a big tractor”
Two hours later: laughter, sounds of cars, horns of drivers in Paul’s room.
Laughter, sounds of glass, and Brahms in the living room. All four of them are relaxed, ties undo, shoes off their feet.
The children have taught them the art of communication."

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