Roseblud

Jazz at Midnight

Three loud bumps dragged through the nighttime air. Jerome’s fist clenched around his pen, his head creaked towards the door, and with only a dim desk light guiding his vision, his eyes strained to make out the source. His tongue tasted metal and his ears were filled with the sound of his own heartbeat, suddenly diluting the warm honey of Miles Davis’s Boplicity with acrid water. He sat there as seconds trickled into eternities, let the music’s peace overtake him again, and for the first time since finding it in his uncle Jermaine’s old home, turned on the ocean projector light he wasn’t fond of. With the room awash in flowing blue light, Jerome couldn’t help but feel even more anxious, but at least now he could see.