BonesofBirdWings (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
bonesofbirdwings) wrote2017-08-02 02:22 pm
bonesofbirdwings) wrote2017-08-02 02:22 pm
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Dance of Death: Reggae
The last one in my dance of death vignette series, this one follows this post and this one. It argues for the view that the music/dance of death could be reggae.
Imagine - a Death whose fingers are lionfish spines, who is draped in tangled nets and twisted lines. His robe is the decaying remains of a military-issue body bag, embroidered with thick filaments of algae. He does not have a scythe, but a harpoon. It glints dully in the moonlight, dripping with a mixture of seawater and blood. It’s fashioned from a whale’s rib - the rest of the carcass lies far beneath the waters, in the dark abyss, surrounded by scuttling scavengers.
Most think that Death lives down there, in the abyss. This is a myth. Death rides riptides. He lurks in the crash of waves against the shore, in the insistent tug of the undertow. He hides in shadowed holes along the vibrant wall of a coral reef.
And, very occasionally, when the moon is bright and the tide is high, he comes ashore. He carries a bass guitar, strung with seaweed and played with a pick of bone. Its voice is dark and deep, ancient in its reverberations.
He enters the dancehall through the back entrance and ascends to the stage. He sets a driving beat, the dancers surging towards and away from the stage, like the advance and retreat of the tide. They all gyrate in the dark, individual whirlpools, beautiful and deadly.
The air is humid, saturated with seawater. The beat continues, steady and heavy. The dancers gasp for breath. Sweat soaks their clothes, drips from their skin. Advance, retreat. The waves break against the shore.
There is water under their feet. It falls from the crushing, soaking air. The dancers claw at their throats. The music continues. Advance, retreat. The bodies all wash out to sea with the tide.
Imagine - a Death whose fingers are lionfish spines, who is draped in tangled nets and twisted lines. His robe is the decaying remains of a military-issue body bag, embroidered with thick filaments of algae. He does not have a scythe, but a harpoon. It glints dully in the moonlight, dripping with a mixture of seawater and blood. It’s fashioned from a whale’s rib - the rest of the carcass lies far beneath the waters, in the dark abyss, surrounded by scuttling scavengers.
Most think that Death lives down there, in the abyss. This is a myth. Death rides riptides. He lurks in the crash of waves against the shore, in the insistent tug of the undertow. He hides in shadowed holes along the vibrant wall of a coral reef.
And, very occasionally, when the moon is bright and the tide is high, he comes ashore. He carries a bass guitar, strung with seaweed and played with a pick of bone. Its voice is dark and deep, ancient in its reverberations.
He enters the dancehall through the back entrance and ascends to the stage. He sets a driving beat, the dancers surging towards and away from the stage, like the advance and retreat of the tide. They all gyrate in the dark, individual whirlpools, beautiful and deadly.
The air is humid, saturated with seawater. The beat continues, steady and heavy. The dancers gasp for breath. Sweat soaks their clothes, drips from their skin. Advance, retreat. The waves break against the shore.
There is water under their feet. It falls from the crushing, soaking air. The dancers claw at their throats. The music continues. Advance, retreat. The bodies all wash out to sea with the tide.