#singingrass

casper smiles around the cigarette in his own mouth as he listens, tilting his head a little and looking over at the other. there’s a comfortable silence from the ghost as he takes his own drag, holds it, then slowly lets the smoke out. he doesn’t really know what to say, isn’t sure if this is a situation where he’s supposed to comfort or deflect with humor. he ends up choosing neither option.

   ❝ do you believe in MAGIC ? ❞

    The sun’s starting to set along the coastline, as Théo pulls his pickup into one of Cape Scott Provincial Park’s designated parking areas. He kills the engine, yawns widely before turning to see the condition of his brother in the passenger seat.

    Job had adored the six-hour drive from Victoria to the northernmost part of the island much to Théo’s delight. He’d been a wide eyed child, that goofy smile plastered on his face as they’d snaked through the mountains, pine trees climbing towards the sky all around them and the occasional turquoise colored lake. They’d had to stop several times for crossing rams and elk, and one time Job had nearly given Théo a heart attack when he’d exclaimed (rather loudly) about a black bear clawing it’s way up a nearby tree.

   Who needs bear spray or bells, when you’ve got this kid?

    But he’d worn himself out around the four-hour mark, and fallen asleep with something soft and folky playing on the AM. Théo could use a nap himself, but there’s still a thirty minute hike to the remote beach location that he wants to set up camp at. He smiles softly at the kid, who’s all wrapped up in a flannel blanket, feeling a little guilty to wake him. The older man fumbles out his mobile, and after a few awkward minutes, snaps a picture of Job for safekeeping.

       On very rare occasions, such as this, he chooses a street corner or a storefront or park, and he plays the violin for passersby. Vivaldi, Beethoven, Paganini. Bach is his favorite. If he’s in a particularly pleasant mood, he might even throw in a few contemporary pieces for the younger listeners. It’s all in fun: fresh air, an appreciative audience, and the simple pleasure of playing. Music for music’s sake. (And, perhaps, there is a small part of him hoping that she is near enough to hear it and know that he is close by.)

       Many toss coins or crumpled bills into the violin case at his feet as he plays, but he doesn’t need the money. After he’s finished his set, Emilian kneels and gathers it up, scanning the slowly dispersing crowd; his eyes light on a young man--- tall but graceless, clothes worse for wear, quite bedraggled. He catches the other’s eye and waves him over. 

     “ would you mind if i picked your brain about something ?  “

“Can’t believe I missed Mothman Festival for this...” She mutters to herself, practically pouting with her chin on her arm as she pulls napkins from the dispenser, leaving a little pile of ghosts on the table.