Alhamdulillah!

In Him was life, and that life was the light of all mankind. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.

John 1:4-5

Introduction

In a society, such as this, we most likely grow with the fiery and sharp proverb “A wise man doesn’t think he’s smart, but he knows he’s different” swimming around in our minds. It is a humbling reform, especially when the juxtaposition of the looming question “Can a person be genius without being crazy?” dwells inside the same grey matter. If it were not for the totality of human existence fighting evolution while seeking knowledge, or struggling artists being spit on until a tombstone is placed above their bodies – we may never have had a Rembrandt or Warhol. We want a role model, someone to be definitive – yet flawed. A scar across the cheek, an addiction, or peculiar oddity – something to remind us of their mortality as we fantasize to wield their godly power.

A voyeur can find serenity inside of a Rothko cloud or the colourful fields of a Van Gogh. Their hands had strummed the secret chords that pleased the Lord and brought peace to the broken, only for them to cut short their time and reject their anointing.

We need things to have value for us to consider their importance; we respect Pollock because a singular work of his costs an entire Powerball winning; we steam up the Hope Diamond’s museum display with heavy breath because its tag price is folded with zeroes – rarely taking to mind the homicidal effect of its beauty.

The art world is greedy, lustful, vicious, and cold. It will reject you until you are miles ahead of it then will bring out the red carpet to mislead you into thinking you belong with them. How long must a work of art be tucked away in a closet until it is hanging behind a bulletproof case in the Louvre? What sacrifice must the artist make to fill the never-ending hunger of the roaring audience?

This is a simple story about a painting that has never been witnessed by the public. It has never been appraised with an inflated price, scoffed at by a fine art critic, or showcased in a small-town gallery. Nevertheless, it is a holy relic that gives the onlooker an incredible power that’s far more spectacular than success or fame.

In the end, that is the true meaning of art – to give power to the people. And even though there is nothing lonelier than the act of creation, we must all do it, for it is our calling and purpose. You must completely throw yourself into it, make the jump from the jagged cliff and fall into the volcanic flames with arms wide open. Once the statue has been carved, the monument shadows the sun, or the pigment has hardened upon the canvas – then the portal between mortality and God has been opened.

When a child sketches a parrot or an electrician flips the breaker to illuminate a new home, a gateway is created between the spiritual realm and the physical. Our hands faithfully open the door for goodness and inspiration to flood and outpour onto the streets. This is called the “Law of Attraction” - when something is created for a purpose, the seed will be rooted where it is sown. If something is for good, it will grow. If it was made with evil intentions, it will surely devour. Everything has a purpose, nothing is without consequence, and a good thing should never be overcome by evil. Light will always conquer darkness.

Ultimately, this is a cautionary tale about the importance and value of what we output. In a time, such as this, where every pure idea is immediately ripped from our hands and thrown into the commercial pipeline to benefit only the soulless, may this be a reminder that everything is connected, and greed only begets the destruction of us all.

You are invaluable, there will never be another person like you. You are a completely original, limited edition, one-of-one, rare creature. What you bring into this world is so powerful that it changes it immeasurably. You are responsible for your generation and those that will follow. You are different and crazy, defying the universe with every breath. Do not waste your power – build your portal, and watch your kingdom grow.

Alhamdulillah!

Part ONE

HOSEA

Chapter One

A Rainy Saturday

I

Hosea had never left the Moriah island; its inhabitants were completely unknown to anyone in the world. If an outsider were to be in eyesight of the land, they were sure to become subject of their own doom. Ships, satellites, and planes were immediately destroyed as they encroached the island’s strict borderlines that protected its inhabitants, who were amongst the wealthiest and most powerful people since the dawning of the Neolithic Revolution.

Moriah was a large island, with vast vegetation, wildlife, and incredible monuments. The inhabitants lived in a towering unified structure, encasing the island’s mighty mountain. The structure took four centuries for the inhabitants to construct, only using violet quartz, purple agate, and amethyst as building materials. Once the Purple Pyramid was finished, the inhabitants lived in perfect harmony for many generations.

As a child, Hosea, loved spending as much time as possible outside of the ancient Purple Pyramid. He would spend almost every day, running along the beach, climbing tall trees to reach juicy tropical fruit, playing with his friends, and dream about life beyond the island. Every inhabitant on Moriah was trained extensively on economic control and taught how to wield their power. When Hosea turned thirteen, he was considered a man and entrusted with an incredible fortune. He would spend the next five years learning about and preparing for the Harvest process.

Every inhabitant of Moriah was responsible for completing Harvest by twenty years of age, which begins on everyone’s eighteenth birthday.

Harvest is the most important journey for everyone on Moriah, if the member does not complete the process in a two-year span, they would be considered a failure and completely exiled from the life they had always known. But, if successful, the Harvester will be rewarded with anything their hearts desired: strong political power in their native Harvest country, grace to cause disaster benefitting their economic plans, or influence to direct societies and cultures to benefit their sociological ideals.

And in the middle of the night, after a long farewell celebration, Hosea left the island to begin the process. Once the wheels curled into the plane and they were high above the ocean, Hosea was to strip his identity and be considered an American citizen. He was happy to have been given the country, finding English and the northeastern accent easier to speak than what the others his age were given.

He was to be a blues musician, new into town, and on the quest for fame. When the plane landed at the secluded farmhouse outside of Nashville, Hosea was calculated and prepared, having already become a guitar aficionado, and highly trained in musical theory. His voice was heavy and hoarse, perfected by the teachers and leaders of the Purple Pyramid. He spent every night playing the guitar and singing to them under the purple crystal moonlight. They never applauded or gave any emotional feedback. His music was only a mathematical formula to his audience, every slide and strum a numeric value, every lyric and vocal refrain a calculated move.

II

Hosea, with his guitar case in hand, held the keys to the farmhouse as he stepped from the plane. The sun was beginning to rise through the thick fog as a thin mist fell from the clouds.

The paling yellow paint illuminated from the red morning sun. Hosea walked to the blue screen door and it squeaked as he pried it open. He inserted the key into the underlying cedar door with six diamond windows stacked upon each other, its bottom peak at his chest.

When he stepped inside of the old farmhouse, he flipped on the lights and closed the door as he heard the plane increase velocity and take off into the early morning. Hosea would now carry on the journey alone until Harvest had been completed.

He looked around the living room, the couches had been worn, cushions, covered in floral designs and various stains. There was a used television, a chipped coffee table, and a ceiling fan with a light bulb missing from one of the sockets. Hosea sniffed in the dusty air and walked over to the kitchen, he opened up the cabinets to see them filled with paper plates and plastic cups. He opened the green refrigerator and saw it filled with soda, beer, condiments, lunchmeat, bread, and milk. The freezer had frozen dinners piled on above and under the rack; Hosea reached for a frozen breakfast burrito, popped the plastic wrapper, and placed it into the microwave.

He needed to gain weight, not too much, but enough to widen his body and thicken his cheeks. He had already begun growing his beard three weeks before and already created the habit of subconsciously stroking it during slowly moving moments.

Hosea ate the heated breakfast burrito as he walked through the farmhouse and inspected every room.

He walked upstairs and through the door to the second-story balcony. The balcony was large, with only a small table and chair in the corner. He leaned over the balcony and threw the remainder of the burrito off the ledge, he watched it fall to the ground, and saw a small feral cat slowly begin to eat it.

The sun rose above the tall trees, casting a golden highlight upon every surface. Hosea pulled a cigarette from the open soft-pack in the pocket of his denim shirt and ignited it, exhaling the smoke as the roosters began to crow.

He was tired, having been awake for many hours. After a few puffs from the cigarette, Hosea dropped.

Hosea collapsed onto the thick queen mattress, his nerves finally at ease from the departure.

III

When he awoke, the sky was grey and thick raindrops fell upon the metal roof of the farmhouse.

The clock beside the bed read “2:45 p.m.”

He sat up, yawned, and stretched.

Hosea had rehearsed this day for months with his leaders, the initiation into the main world and saturation into the selected society.

He showered and combed his beard, then put on a pair of faded blue denim jeans and a white motorcycle company t-shirt.

Once he was dressed, the rain had begun to lighten. Hosea reached for a Coca-Cola from the refrigerator and his acoustic guitar case, then made his way to the garage.

He flipped the light switch with his Coca-Cola in hand and the garage illuminated. Inside was a beat-up black Volkswagen van and a blue ten-speed bicycle.

Hosea smiled and traced his fingers above the dents and scratches, thinking the van was absolutely beautiful. It was all his, he could go wherever he wanted, explore the endless countryside and infinite nooks and crannies of everything he saw.

Hosea opened the side door of the van, inside was a queen-sized mattress, a folded blanket, two pillows, an ice cooler, and a microwave oven. He gently placed his guitar atop the mattress, closed the door, picked up his Coca-Cola off the hood, opened the driver door, and hopped inside.

The van turned over and started up smoothly, purred, and reverberated inside the small garage. Hosea pressed a large button that was clipped to the sun visor of the van and the garage door began to slowly lift vertically and above the van. Hosea placed the purring van in reverse and made his way down the driveway, into the outer realms of his imagination, through the gated border of the “real” world.

The sun began to shine through the grey Tennessee sky. Hosea drove 23 minutes to a small town by the name of Franklin. Houses with faded paint, outdated vehicles, chained-link fences, trailer parks, and a gas station outlined the two-lane highway, guiding Hosea into the historic downtown area of Franklin.

Hosea slowly pulled the black van into a parking spot directly in front of a tavern. He stood from the van and grinned at the old brick building. A large yellow neon sign, turned off, proudly protruded from the brick and mortar, reading “Samaria’s Icehouse.”

“Day one,” Hosea whispered through his thin smile.

He grabbed his guitar off the mattress, locked the van, and walked through the tinted door of the bar.

Samaria’s Icehouse was a quaint, old place – with a rich history and dedicated local cliental. The place had around ten patrons when Hosea entered for the first time. He looked around, saw people enjoying themselves, and Hosea thought, I can make this work.

He stepped to the bar and saw a young woman behind the bar, pouring a tall beer from the tap machine. “Excuse me, ma’am?”

The woman wore dark blue denim jeans, a black sweater, and had her brown hair cut at the shoulders.

Hosea thought about how attractive she was when she turned to him and he smiled. “I’d like to sign up for your open mic tonight.”

“Signup sheet is right there,” she replied. The woman nodded her head, her brown hair slightly lifting as she pointed towards a clipboard hanging on the wall. She turned and gave a middle-aged couple the newly poured beer.

Hosea placed his guitar case down and reached for the plastic pen, taped to a string tied to the clipboard.

He wrote in large, fully capitalized, bold lettering in the 9:00 p.m. slot: “HOSEA.”

He lifted his guitar and leaned it against the corner of the bar.

The bartender walked over to him and dried the counter with a rag “What slot did you pick?” she asked.

“Nine,” he replied, sitting on the stool beside his guitar.

“Seems like you have a few hours to kill,” she said more factually than flirty.

“I don’t mind,” Hosea replied calmly, ”I like to people watch.”

She placed a clean glass atop the wooden counter in front of Hosea. “Then you’re in luck. We are supposed to have a pretty big turnout tonight,” she smiled, “what can I get you?”

“Word on the street is you can make a damn good Old Fashioned,” Hosea said.

“Oh, my reputation precedes me. Where did you hear that from?” she blushed.

“A buddy of mine. He told me when we were talking about the contest,” he answered. Hosea took a cigarette from his pocket’s shirt, lit it, and exhaled smoke from his nose.

She began making the drink and said, “An Old Fashioned – what a stupid thing to be remembered for.”

The bartender poured the bourbon atop the mixed simple syrup, water, bitters, and ice. She walked to a small icebox on the wall and placed a maraschino cherry and orange peel inside of the cold glass.

Hosea watched her, enraptured in her elegant movements, and subtle intricacies. When she brought the drink to him, he couldn’t help but ask, “What’s your name?”

The bartender blushed even more, “Salome.”

He lifted the glass in his hand, holding the cigarette with the tips of his fingers. The cool drink warmed his body, tasting sweet and bitter.

She looked for his approval and asked, “Did I live up to expectations?”

Hosea slowly placed the drink upon the counter and replied, “More-so than ever imagined.”

They both gave each other glances and smiled.

“My name is Hosea; it’s nice to meet you Salome.”

IV

A local radio station was hosting an open mic contest at Samaria’s that night. The winner would be given $50 and the chance to perform live during prime-time listening hours. More than 30 people signed the clipboard and Hosea watched every person perform.

Most songs were boring, some were very decent. Hosea seemed to be impressed by the vast levels of talent that sang upon the wooden stage, behind the same microphone. With a mixture of the drinks and becoming more familiar with his surroundings, Hosea’s nerves finally began to dissipate. He stood from the stool and walked to the restroom.

The man that had just performed was urinating at the large urinal, the bottom layer covered in ice.

“You were really great out there. You really know how to play a sax,” Hosea said as he stood next to the man.

“Why, thank you,” the man replied, keeping his viewpoint on the wall. He was shorter than Hosea and a little wider, with dark skin and a trimmed black beard. He had played an instrumental version of a popular song, garnering generous applause in return.

When Hosea left the restroom, the clock read 8:55. He walked over to his guitar and by the time it was firmly in his grasp, the host called out his name.

He downed his fourth Old Fashioned and made his way to the stage as the small crowd applauded for his entrance.

The radio group sat at the table closest to the stage, with notebooks, ashtrays, and empty glasses covering the surface.

Hosea took the guitar from the case. Its pearl inlays and intricate designs gleamed under the spotlights. The acoustic guitar was handcrafted by the finest instrument maker that had ever lived, only the inhabitants of Moriah to ever know of his work.

Hosea had become quite acquainted with the instrument and refused to leave the island until he was granted permission to take the six-string.

Now, he sat on a stool upon the stage of Samaria’s Icehouse, perfectly in line with his teachings and plan.

The 9:00 slot, the shirt, the number of drinks – everything had been perfectly executed.

He placed his left hand upon the fretboard and his right upon the mic to lower it. After everything was perfectly adjusted, the small crowd began to settle and gave Hosea their full attention.

“Hi,” he said humbly into the microphone.

A few people chuckled at his greeting and Hosea sat higher on the stool. “My name is Hosea and I wrote this song for my grandmama.”

A couple of women in the crowd gave a subtle, “Awh!” as Hosea began to lightly strum the finely tuned strings of his guitar.

He closed his eyes and began to play one of the greatest songs ever conceived. No one had ever heard of something so beautiful and pure. It was a song about leaving their family something behind when the end inevitably comes and praying for admittance into paradise, in hopes to meet God – the Creator of the Universe.

Hosea opened his eyes as the last chord hummed through the guitar’s wooden body and saw Salome staring at him. Then, the crowd began to applaud his performance. Napkins were thrown upon the stage, people were whistling and howling.

The radio group seemed marvelously impressed and Hosea felt a wonderous sense of pride. He placed the guitar back into the case and walked off the stage.

Salome watched him as he walked closer to her. “Another Old Fashioned?” she asked.

Hosea gave a small laugh and replied, “Ah, no. It would be best if I began to slow down. I believe a cold beer would do me just fine.”

She smiled and cracked open a bottle. “Your grandma must be an extraordinary woman for you to write a song like that about her.”

“She was,” he replied, taking the beer from her hand, their fingers touching.

“Oh. I’m sorry, how foolish of me,” Salome said embarrassed.

“It’s quite all right. You don’t have to apologize for a misunderstanding. But you are absolutely right. She was an angel. While I searched for fortune and fame, she was praying for me to find a good woman. Every phone call, I’d talk about a gig or play her a song I was working on and she’d say, “Oh, honey, it’s lovely. I pray every night for that special woman to come into your life to share these songs with.’”

He took a drink from his beer. “Well, she never got to meet her or see me become anything, but I do believe she’s up there still rooting for me.”

“I bet she’s proud,” Salome smiled, leaning on the countertop.

“Thank you, Salome. That means a lot,” Hosea expressed and leaned closer to her.

Salome subtly bit the bottom of her lip and took a napkin from behind the bar. She wrote her number above a drawing she had been working on throughout the night and handed it to Hosea.

The drawing was of a snake, with large teeth and a long-forked tongue, and as the next musician played on, Hosea folded the napkin and placed it in his front pocket.

V

The rain began to pour as Salome told the patrons of Samaria’s that it was time for “Final Call for Alcohol.”

The saxophonist stepped up to the bar and ordered a shot of tequila. Whenever he reached for his wallet, Hosea told him that’d he would pay for the order.

“That’s kind of you, sir, but before I accept your offer, I’d like to know for what reason have I deserved such a kindness,” he asked as Salome poured the tequila into the shot glass.

“Your playing. It’s wonderful,” Hosea said.

“I’ll have to admit, I believe your song was something of a rare treat. We don’t get much players like you around here,” the saxophonist replied. “It’s nice to hear a soul in the melody for once.”

Hosea smiled with gratitude. “Thank you. My name is Hosea; may I ask yours?”

“Noah,” the saxophonist replied, drying his tequila-soaked lips with his long shirt sleeve, then reached his hand out to Hosea.

Hosea shook his hand. “Nice to meet you, Noah.”

“Pleasure is mine, Hosea. Thank you for the tequila,” Noah replied as the radio group walked up the stage.

“For our $25 second place winner, we have chosen Noah and his beautiful saxophone playing,” the host announced. The crowd began to cheer as he stepped up on the stage and claimed his prize.

“For our $50 first prize winner, we have selected Hosea and the song he dedicated to his grandma. He will also be performing the song live on our radio program tomorrow evening at 7:00 p.m., so make sure to tune-in to 106.9 KLLY and witness the making of history ladies and gentlemen.”

Hosea claimed his prize and stood beside Noah. The crowd began to cheer, the host thanked everyone for coming, and wished everyone a “good night.”

Noah began to walk off the stage and Hosea caught up to him, “Hey, Noah! Come and play with me tomorrow! I would love if you improvised over the song. It could do with your input.”

“Oh, I couldn’t do that, Hosea,” Noah replied, grateful for the acquisition.

“Noah, you must! This is a chance for you to be on the radio,” Hosea insisted.

“I’m flattered, honestly. But I couldn’t without my violinist,” Noah stood firm, refusing to take the spotlight without the other half of his duo.

“Violinist?” Hosea responded with a subtle sense of shock. “I saw no violinist play here tonight.”

“That’s because she was working,” Noah said, pointing to Salome.

“Salome plays violin with you?” Hosea asked as they stepped to the bar, knowing very well she had.

Salome stood on the other side, in-between them, the three now in full conversation.

“She’s the best I’ve ever come across,” Noah remarked as Salome began putting on her leather jacket.

“Oh, Noah. You’re far too kind,” Salome said as she walked from behind the bar, the three being the only remaining people in Samaria’s Icehouse.

They all shook each other’s hands in agreement, and in the joining of three souls, an entity that would forever change the world was born.

VI

The storm raged under the night sky. Thunder began to pound; lighting began to strike – hitting a power line transformer and leaving half the town in total darkness.

“I bet the missus is having a fit, I better get home,” Noah remarked, looking out into the blackened town.

“You couldn’t possibly be driving in this!” Hosea said. “That’s absurd!”

“Awh, I’ve driven in far worse than this sprinkle,” Noah replied, thinking Hosea was the one being absurd. “See you two tomorrow. We’re gonna be on the radio!”

He smiled and walked to his truck, holding his saxophone case.

“You think he’s going to be okay?” Hosea asked Salome.

She giggled and replied, “You really aren’t from around here, are you?”

Hosea relaxed his tension and spoke humbly, “I’m overreacting, aren’t I?”

“Maybe a little,” Salome said in a comforting tone. “I have to ride home in this on a motorcycle,” she pointed to the black Indian bike standing underneath the tavern’s front canopy.

“Oh, Salome. Don’t do that,” Hosea said, amazed at the actual worry in his voice.

“Well, you can take me home, if you want to,” she suggested. Salome stood closer, looking up at him through the strands of her bangs.

“How about you drive?” Hosea said, terrified at the thought of him behind the wheel.

Salome took a step backward, the moment of intimacy that she had expected not coming into fruition. She felt a little disappointed, rejected, and confused as Hosea began to change from a confident and beautiful enigma into an anxious and panicked person.

“Storms scare you?” she asked with a now paternal tone.

“I lost a brother in a hurricane once,” Hosea said softly and barely audible over the howling wind.

Then, Salome felt for him, wanting nothing more than to place her long arms around him and hold him tightly. “Give me your keys,” she said. “I’ll guide you through the storm.”

VII

Hosea had fallen asleep in the passenger seat of the van. When Salome placed the vehicle in park, Hosea awoke underneath the bright light of a covered parking garage.

“Home sweet home,” he heard come from the woman he had only met a few hours ago.

“I fell asleep?” he said with a gruff voice.

“See? There’s nothing more peaceful than a little storm chasin’,” she smiled and opened the driver’s side door. “Now. Let’s heat up a pizza!” Salome said excitedly, ready to take her shoes off and enjoy herself.

They walked down a flight of spiraling stairs and through a hallway before they reached Salome’s apartment.

She placed her key inside the brass doorknob, opened the door, and turned on the light switch.

The small apartment illuminated. Three curved windows dressed the opposing wall, showcasing the dark and rainy sky. The floor was dark, antique wood. There was a coffee table, couch, mattress, and nightstand on a large burgundy rug. In contrast to the small amount of furniture and luxuries, was the vast collection of bare, half, and completed art canvases. The dark wooden floor held many multi-coloured dried spots of acrylic paint, surrounding the rows of artwork and leading into the small kitchen.

The paintings themselves were fluid and realistic, scenes of mountains, castles, roaring oceans, and the rural countryside.

“These are wonderful, Salome,” Hosea said, honestly never seeing anything like them.

“Thank you. I’ve been painting for as long as I can remember,” Salome responded, placing her leather jacket on the coat rack by the couch.

She walked over to the nightstand and emptied her full pockets of the dollar bills she had been tipped for the day at Samaria’s.

“Do you mind if I take a shower?” she asked Hosea as he stared at a painting of a flower.

He turned and looked at her as she pulled the tie from her long brown hair and let it fall. “It’s your place, I don’t see why my permission would be needed,” he replied, looking at her curiously.

“I suppose…I’m wondering if I can trust you. Not to come off rude but you’re an absolute stranger… after all,” she said. Salome turned, without studying Hosea’s response, knowing that she had made herself adamantly clear.

Hosea turned to look at her artwork again, completely distraught at any idea of intimacy. Neither kiss nor passionate embrace came across his mind and her steadfast approach only eased the deep well far in the heavily brushed forest of his mind. He came across a painting of an island and it reminded him of home. Hosea closed his eyes and placed his hands on the painting as the thunder and shower orchestrated their symphony around him.

Once his hands felt the thick acrylic brushstrokes and indentions of the canvas, Hosea could feel the sand on his feet, the sun warmed his skin, and he heard the waves crash upon the shore.

He sat on the wooden floor, with his mind and spirit in an elevated state, and felt at peace.

Salome touched him on the shoulder, making him jolt back into the rainy night of a strange land. She was wearing a pair of red plaid sweatpants, an oversized grey hoodie – the logo covered by her long brown hair, and she held two bottles of domestic beer. She twisted off the cap of one and handed it to Hosea. “Here.”

Hosea took the beer from her hand and she smiled. “How much for this?” he asked, pointing at the island painting with the bottle of light beer.

“You can just take it if you want it,” she responded, taken aback and flattered by the request.

“No, no,” Hosea cut off her proposition and put his hand in his pocket. The number/snake drawing napkin that Salome had given him earlier was atop the $50 he had won earlier from the radio competition. “Take this,” he said, putting the money into her hand, curling her palm closed.

A sense of pride fell upon Salome, one she hadn’t experienced nor expected. Her first sell – she didn’t even need to leave her apartment.

“Thank you, Hosea. This means so much to me.”

“You deserve it, Salome,” Hosea replied and took a drink from his beer.

The rain and the clink from the slowly spinning ceiling fan filled the silence. Salome placed the $50 on the pile of money on her nightstand and jumped atop the mattress. She laid down, head upon her pillow, and stared at the fan. “Would you like to hear me play?” she spoke softly.

Hosea, still sitting on the ground, turned to her and nodded his head with genuine excitement.

In preparation for his Harvest, a scout had traveled to small-town America studied and evaluated as many artists and scenarios as possible for Hosea’s greatest impact. The scout had chosen Noah and Salome, only giving a few remarks about the two. Noah had wonderful technique, Salome made a great Old Fashioned and her playing was breathtaking.

He spent months under the Purple Pyramid, thinking of the taste of the beverage and the sounds of their music. Salome and Noah hadn’t seen the way their lives had been orchestrated and pinpointed towards the meeting on this rainy day. The vanguard worked ruthlessly to pull the strings behind the scenes (traumatic, existential, and promotional), to set the stage for Hosea’s initial impact in the outside world and set him upon the path of greatest success.

Hosea’s mind was filled with calculated moves, seeing the world as a chessboard, with his future pursuits to be known forevermore. But, what excited him most, was how he was to perceive and experience this world, how his qualia would conceive the taste of Salome’s drink and the sounds of their music.

It was the unobtainable, the personal value and skill of other’s identities. No one could construct their fingerprints or the way their hands move. It was the value of each person’s gifts that excited Hosea the most. He had known Noah was a talented musician, but he could have never known the sweet melodies and subtle harmonic lifts of his playing until the notes played and subjected themselves into Hosea’s mind.

He sat upon the mattress as Salome took a dark wooden violin case from underneath the bed. She opened the case and inside of burgundy velvet lining, was a bright yellow violin. The violin shimmered as she gently took it from the case and placed it in her arms.

Salome plucked a few strings and Hosea tilted his head as she finely tuned it. “I named it Etrog,” she said, pulling a long green bow from the case. “And this little guy is Lulav.”

She played a few introductory notes, making sure it was perfectly tuned and played the second movement of Glazunov’s Violin Concerto.

Hosea became completely entranced, never hearing such beauty. Salome had captured so many perfected and completely intimate moments in so many hand gestures, pressures, and movements. The violinist on Moriah could never compare to the raw beauty of Salome’s playing. His heart began to weep, his body yearned. In only a few slow clicks of the clock, Salome had become Hosea’s goddess.

She captured him completely.

“How on earth are you so talented?” he remarked as she lowered the instrument and reached for her beer.

She coughed as the rim of the bottle left her lips. “Try asking my parents.”

“What do you mean?” he asked, looking mildly confused.

“They never thought I was good enough at anything!” she said, placing Etrog and Lulav back into their wooden case.

“Oh,” he chewed the inside of his cheek, “that’s a shame.”

“It’s quite alright,” she gave him a comforting and sweet grin, “Thank you for everything tonight, Hosea. You have been nothing but sweet to me all day.”

“I could say the same thing about you,” he replied.

They sat on Salome’s bed, with only a violin case between them, and both leaned into each other. Their lips touched and intertwined, Hosea placed his palm in between her thick brown hair, and pulled her in closer.

The rain, thunder, and lightning roared on in an ecstatic sonata as the two lovers embraced – giving themselves into the night.