The Statue’s Song

By Collin Mitchell

Let me tell you about the saddest song in the world.

I have heard many songs in my time, from opera houses to cheap taverns. From soaring angelic chorus, to the chitter-chant of demons.

But none are quite so sad or beautiful as this.

It was in a dive bar, the kind of place with neon signs, sticky tables, folks in trench coats, and at least one murder within the last year.

It was my kind of place. But on this day, I had not been planning to stop by. On this day, everything was far too much and I was far too little and all the world sounded like it was being played through cheap speakers.

All I wanted was to sit at the bottom of the river for a few hours to get my breath back.

But on the way to the river, I heard it. A sound like the sky was wailing. A sound like the feeling of mascara running down your face. A sound like if diamonds had a voice.

The singer stood tall in front of the piano, a marble statue carved slowly by the wind.

I’m not being poetic: she was literally a weather-worn statue. She was beautiful.

The audience tastefully averted their eyes as she sang, to preserve the modesty of her stone lips moving. I sat down and placed my hat over my eyes.

By the time the song was done, the tears were ankle deep on the floor.

I approached her at the end. She stood perfectly still as the audience began to move towards the exit sign. No applause. No praise. Just tears.

“Thank you”, I whispered to her. As I spoke, the rest of the crowd collapsed, clutching their bleeding ears.

The room went still and eerily quiet. I peered at the statue one final time before turning to leave, and without lifting her eyes to meet mine, she echoed a whisper across the room.

“You’re welcome.”

Hayley Pheonix

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