Young Writers Society

The night shared its fleeting dominion with a chilled, moist air that left no house free of its piercing presence. The sky glowed from distant storms and parting clouds catching the farthest licks of the sun's flame, but still glowered down on the depressed little town called Brawley. The town sighed in a tired sleep and stirred in annoyance with the rise and departure of the unnamed multitudes of field workers trudging their way from the canvas cities they inhabited to the earthen planes they worked.

Among the tan and grey and fresh clay brown of the town's complex complexion slinked a single, determined shadow hugging the glass sides of every building. The shadow from time to time emerged into the revealing moonlight and cast off its anonymity long enough to show the dirtied, patched up shirt, jacket and denim clad boy it really was. He dashed across the puddled dirt roads and carefully crept past the stray dogs seeking shelter underneath an old Ford sitting alone in an alleyway. Soon he reached the grand divide of the town and in almost a frightened manner, leapt over the drowning train tracks that still glinted in the dour light being cast from a peering moon.

Now the boy walked with a bit more confidence and walked upright and in the open along the now well kept and well to do structures and roads. He continued on and rejoined the shadows just outside a tall home of brick and mortar that stood silently and alone in its own plot of seedlings and overburdened trees.

The street held its breath in a crisp silence that magnified even the crash of the dying grass beneath the boy's feet. A low, moaning wail rose from the small pocket of darkness he had taken, the polished horn of a cherished trumpet rising with the pitch and glinting in the soft moonlight. From a higher window popped out the head of a small boy, his expression a mix of surprise and relief.

The boy waved from the window and looked back into his house, his wavy brown locks catching glimmers of pale light and making them dance around his head like some saintly halo. He retreated back into the house and soon a responding whine from a finely tuned violin sliced through the open window and entangled itself with the now shrill trumpet playing just outside.

the trumpeter slid out of hiding and waved, beckoning to the re-appeared and now fully dressed violinist.

"Come!" shouted the streetside intruder, "We're lighting up old Broadway."

"David" whispered the slowly escaping rooftop fiddler, "you're going to wake up the sun."

David shook his head dismissively, " It wouldn't dare, not without all of us, hurry Marcos, we have to get the others."

Now a paired specter jauntily leaping from darkened spot to darkened spot, David and Marcos continued on the nameless quest for the other performers. Crossing the threshold of the still sunken rails, they re-entered the more daring side of town. As they played a wandering melody they approached a building of bedlam roaring with laughter, fury and sorrow, all in one mingled noise that echoed down both ends of the dusty, muddy and nearly abandoned road.

Above all this tweeted the high and pretty song of a lone flute searching for accompaniment among the boorish sounds of the red-lit district. An anxious Marcos slid along the broken fence hiding the flutist and called out to him on his strings, David's energetic horn echoing in rapid succession. The flute halted and even the violent anarchy of the block calmed for a moment, but then a boy in over sized trousers and a church=ready jacket slipped his thin frame between the uneven wooden boards, his well worn yet prime sounding flute tracing behind his slow steps.

Marcos announced his joy and spoke, "Nathan, your already up and playing, good, come on, we're trying to beat the sun."

Nathan caressed his flute's frail and slightly dented shaft and nodded, "I'd like God for an audience, instead of the beaten drunks back there."

David grinned again and put his arm around his shoulders.

"We'll be playing for God, Christ, hell even Senor Diablo himself, but at least we're playing."

Nathan nodded and put the flute to his cracked lips, sending a fluttering note soaring into the star spotted sky.

Now the hyper trio played a manic march that made the crooked branches of the spina trees straighten and the cracked surface of the old dirt road heal and firm. They held outside the dark and imposing steel and stone train station, looking about for any sign of their missing musician.

Marcos waited with his violin and David called out for him to play with his trumpet and Nathan chirped for his friend on his flute. A flicker of light just at the corner of Marcos' eye made him slow and tiptoe towards it. His strings yearning for the lost friend. Into the brightly glowing hue of the candle came the tired, sleepy face of the station master, pointing with his eyes to a support beam just behind Marcos.

A feline tune wrapped itself around everyone listening and had them all come close for a more mellow discussion.

"Lucas" said a dragfooted Nathan, " are you coming?"

Lucas walked sullenly to the group and nodded, purring with his clarinet as he followed the others back out into the town.

A lightening yellow was beginning to burn just at the fringes of the dark dye-blue sky, pressing the calm quartet's immediate journey.

They walked stiffly into the bunched up and noisy tenements that housed the separate and forever unequal black population of Brawley. They caught stares and mock Spanish insults, even a few threats, but soon enough they came to the row they were searching for. The building hummed an angelic sound from the improvised Baptist hall towards the back, and was tended to by dozens of busy people preparing for the morning's service.

One man in a pressed pastor's suit approached with a toothy grin and outstretched hands.

"my boys, my bots how do you fare?"

David said, "Well Father I'm glad you care, the folks round here don't like us much."

Marcos rolled his eyes, "Bad names and such."

The pastor laughed and shook his head, he said,

"Seems to me like courtesy's dead, now I'm sure you didn't come for my preaching, Martin's out back, go ahead and reach him."

The four went through the warm and friendly atmosphere of the holy row and exited back into the cold.

A shy, droning crone greeted them all and brought a smile to their faces.

"Whats the deal hombres?"

Lucas played a waiting tune and everyone else joined, circling around the saxophonist.

Marcos sang in foux-oration, "We're going to lift the broken hearted and the downtrodden, tell the children in the streets that the morning is a glory come, we are going to declare our humble thanks to God by playing louder than his morning chorus, we, my child, are the angels which sing."

David stopped in place and collided with everyone in an abrupt crash of sound.

"You Good, Martin?"

A sly quintet searched through the empty streets of Brawley's Black quarter, Martin and David battling one another's melodic prowess and raising the grotesque cries of the lost and longing beasts hidden among the debris and unfinished buildings. Lucas tempted the leaves of nearby trees to fall and follow his downcast sound while they did, eyes of a glowing harshness watching from the highest branches.

Marcos slowed and quieted his tragic fiddle in order to catch the leaping and scuttling sound of a distant guitar.

"It sounds so lonely." said Nathan, looking out towards the blue-lit wasteland at the near edge of town.

The acoustic dramatically sent out cartwheeling notes across the barren expanse ahead of him, their faint and fading drone coming to an immediate climax at their feet.

"Jola Cabrones!" said the wandering guitarist.

"Your not helping anyone by talking like that." mumbled Marcos.

The wanderer continued on his approach and shook his head, " you shouldn't speak under your breath, makes it hard to hear your comments."

"I think that's the point of mumbling." Martin rubbed at his dried, tired hands, blowing on them to check for sensation.

An awkward silence came over them all and a nervous tuning session attempted to mask the quiet.

"So..." coughed Lucas, "You want to join us?"

"In what can I ask?"

"We want to play for the morning."

The guitarist chuckled and strummed on the strings of his sun-scorched guitar.

"So far I've been playing for midnight and all the sharp-tongued demons of the desert, I prefer their company."

"Do they applaud?" asked a confident Lucas.

"They praise me in awe-filled silence."

"Or judgemental reserve." chimed in Marcos.

"And who is your adoring public, the wakening roosters, the beleaguered workers, the vacant streets, tell me what grateful being rewards your talent."

"The almighty and the eye of his kingdom."

"Must be one hell of an ovation."

"we're one hell of an orchestra."

He looked at them skeptically, "Orchestra, really?"

"why not?" responded David.

"Good answer... I guess El Centro will have to wait another day for blue James and his bastard guitar."

The unorthodox sextet made its way to the pitch black row of gutted buildings that was Old Broadway.

"We forgot Oscar." said Martin in a suddenly remorseful tone.

"he forgot us." Nathan pointed at the small silhouette atop the once proud theatre that was now a ruin. From the moving shade came the steady pulse of several warmed up drums, played with a forceful hand already in sync with the world's frantic heartbeat. The others climbed the structure and situated themselves in a neat row of seven, a septet ready to rouse the ball of fire into rising.

The strings were checked and tuned, the reeds were changed and the valves were cleared and the settled dust was cleared from the still surface of the sinewy drums.

Then a quiet came, not an eerie quiet that brings thoughts of dread and despair, but a quiet that had the peace of the world on its fragile mantle, in preparation for the shattering unison.

The highest rim of the flooding sun met the rising blare of a horn, propped up by a sprite-like flute dancing around the steadfast note in soulful joy. A mourning clarinet tried to calm the youthful flute unsuccessfully and bemoaned the pounding drum at it's back. The guitar jumped in and joined hands with the flute, a more amused song calculatingly sliding into the fray while humoring the aggravated clarinet.

The violin dashed about frantically, mocking the pompous trumpet, applauding the crazed flute and courteous guitar and berating the complaining clarinet while greeting the hyped up drums. Through this awe the soulful shout and stomp then calm saxophone, seating itself in honorable reverence next to the horn.

The sun caught this earthly fire and hastened itself to see, leaning over the mountains for a better look.

Light spilled from atop it's brow and flooded the Valley with early illumination, sending the beasts into hiding and the devils into retreat.

The trumpet now announced the red sun's coming and shifting color, the sax's throaty voice counselling the visiting light on where to go.

The flute's exuberance left it and forced it to reconcile with a suddenly furious clarinet, the guitar marveling in monologue all the while at it's cleverness. The Violin began to cry in delight, moving among the speakers and putting it its own spin on each mood, the drum pounding away at the floorboards to try and bring the whole thing down.

They played and played and sang and sang, and continued even as the sun's warmth became hostile.

In the final moments of comfort, the many voices of the orchestra united in one final chorus of triumph and beauty, then fell scattered and tired to the cracked dirt of the town.