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Written to the prompt by Making Up Monsters — Monster who is starting to like the hold music
Originally posted on cohost on June 7th, 2024.
Bossa nova occupies an unfortunate place in too large of the popular consciousness. Most often experienced stripped of its energy and relegated to crummy speakers by hold services that exacerbate further abysmal distortion.
The tide has thrice flooded and left this dripping cavern beneath the idyllic shepherding green of an isle in miserably cold waters while tinny speakers by old copper wiring pipe the cheapest copyright of what would be too short a loop of music even if it hadn’t been echoing nearing two days into the stony expanse.
Between stalagmites, the hulking expanse of something unspeakable squirms on its back, kicking six sets of claws into the humid chill before turning on its side. The shuffling snare brush matches the encroaching rising tide trickling into crevices and soaking its toes as it listlessly listens to the jarring cut and loop in the track. It breathes once in, once out, and pauses for—
“Your call is important to us. Please stay on the line. Your call will be answered in the order it was received.”
—and breathes in again as truly atrocious sounding keyboard pretending to be a marimba resumes the unsatisfying final note of a lost riff.
It rolls over, toppling a stalagmite as easily as a sand castle with the awkward kicks of a hind leg vying for a comfortable resting position, and starts humming along.
Originally posted on cohost on June 7th, 2024.
~~~
Bossa nova occupies an unfortunate place in too large of the popular consciousness. Most often experienced stripped of its energy and relegated to crummy speakers by hold services that exacerbate further abysmal distortion.
The tide has thrice flooded and left this dripping cavern beneath the idyllic shepherding green of an isle in miserably cold waters while tinny speakers by old copper wiring pipe the cheapest copyright of what would be too short a loop of music even if it hadn’t been echoing nearing two days into the stony expanse.
Between stalagmites, the hulking expanse of something unspeakable squirms on its back, kicking six sets of claws into the humid chill before turning on its side. The shuffling snare brush matches the encroaching rising tide trickling into crevices and soaking its toes as it listlessly listens to the jarring cut and loop in the track. It breathes once in, once out, and pauses for—
“Your call is important to us. Please stay on the line. Your call will be answered in the order it was received.”
—and breathes in again as truly atrocious sounding keyboard pretending to be a marimba resumes the unsatisfying final note of a lost riff.
It rolls over, toppling a stalagmite as easily as a sand castle with the awkward kicks of a hind leg vying for a comfortable resting position, and starts humming along.
