The Music Room

By Deborah Marks

Percy stopped and stared at M.C. "Don't you realize anything, M.C., unless it is told to you? Do you ever try to figure things out? I mean really figure things out? We are practically at the coast, right? I mean all we need is a boat to get to Genesis. But these people in all of their simplicity are not

• Language: English
• Publisher: URLink Print & Media, LLC
• Release date: Jul 14, 2021
• ISBN: 9781647538460

Deborah Marks

Deborah Marks was first introduced to telling stories when her second grade teacher would give her time to make up a story for the class after lunch break making them laugh and demanding that she tell stories everyday. Her hilarious stories, made up on the spot, would have her classmates laughing and wanting her to go on and on. More than forty years later, that love of storytelling extends into her present daily life when she often shares her written adventure stories with her family. She resides in South Carolina with her husband.

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The

Music Room

DEBORAH C. MARKS

The Music Room

Copyright © 2021 by Deborah C. Marks. All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any way by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the author except as provided by USA copyright law.

The opinions expressed by the author are not necessarily those of URLink Print and Media.

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King James Version used in scripture quotes.

Published in the United States of America

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021912346

ISBN 978-1-64753-845-3 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-64753-846-0 (Digital)

10.06.21

DEDICATION

To the millions of people who believe that God is in the blessing business. To Mom and Dad who raised me with the stories of their lives. To Ms. Graves, my second-grade teacher for giving me fifteen minutes to tell a story before class; a time that I fully used. To Kannetha, Maurice, Eric and Malik and Kyla, who really encouraged me to get this book published and to my husband for listening to me tell this story over and over.

To Marcus, Teresa, Velma Jean, and Jerry.

Table of Contents

1. Just Waiting To Be Discovered

2. The Tell-Tell Room

3. Let’s Get Out of This Nasty Place

4. In the Beginning

5. Justice Begins at Home

6. Now I Lay Me Down to Seek

7. Stealth Mode

8. The Jackass Speaks

9. It’s Not the Fall; It’s the Sudden Stop

10. You Better Wear Your Good Shoes in the Swamp

11. Survival of the Fittest

12. Egypt Was Better Than This

13. Afraid of What Lies Ahead

14. The Fall of Lila Sue

15. Do Not Exceed Recommended Dosage

16. No Christmas Pies This Year

17. Somebody’s Watching You

18. Sitting Here Resting My Bones

19. Pain in My Heart

20. Everybody Plays the Fool

21. Fear Tolerated is Faith Contaminated

22. And So it Begins

FOREWORD

The book The Music Room takes place sometime after WWIII around 2064. After a devastating world war, millions of Americans are left afraid and unsure of the future. Crime is rampant, and the citizens search for hope in the leaders. But the leaders are drained and brained-out. Because of fear and lack of understanding, America listens to the ranting of a tyrannical dictator named Fritz Montague whose hatred for music becomes law and music is forbidden in America.

This story is about Miriam Jonna, teacher, and violin virtuoso, who with the group of music students from her academy want to escape America—its rules, laws and most importantly the Detectives. They desire to reach the island of Genesis, which they hope will be a better future for them. Miriam has defied the laws and taught music in secret; but when she is found out there is no alternative but to run.

The power that music gives is often manipulated and spoiled. This story tells of what happens to people gifted to empower others but are denied that right by those who want to control what they themselves cannot create.

INTRODUCTION

The story begins with an ordinary day for Miriam Jonna and eight students at the Jonna Manor. Wealthy, single, gifted Miriam realizes that it is the Ides of March, the day once a year that the Detectives visit.

Just Waiting To Be Discovered

Thoughts are but dreams till their effects be tried. William Shakespeare

Hollister, NC. Miriam Jonna quickly walked the length of the upstairs hallway to the large oak closet door at the end. Reaching one sweaty hand for the golden knob, she turned it gently pulling the door towards her. In front of her were several storage shelves filled with thick white towels, toilet paper, soaps, and various household items. Miriam slid the neatly folded towels on the middle row carefully to the right and felt for the small brass knob in the shelf wall. The knob clicked twice, and the wall of shelves creaked open to reveal a short dark corridor. She walked a few steps and stood still, waiting for the closet shelf to shut automatically behind her. Bedroom slippers slid noisily over the linoleum floor, and then her footsteps were silenced by the carpet beneath her feet. Miriam turned on the lights and scanned the room. It was a beautiful room filled with glorious colors. The cork walls were painted cream and stenciled with vibrant golden patterns of flowers and vines. The floor was carpeted in a rich burgundy. Six chairs cushioned in cream-colored velvet with burgundy piping and tall sturdy backs designed especially for comfort, formed a line in front of a huge dais, filled with numerous palms and tropical plants. Potted plants were placed in various spots throughout the room.

Miriam walked onto the dais, stood behind the podium, and faced the room. She picked up the baton, closed her eyes, and waved the baton as if conducting a major symphony, jerking her arms across her chest and into the air, in perfect four-by-four rhythm. A myriad of sounds flooded her memory, and her head moved in a funny jerking motion as she remembered a particular work of Bach, interpreting the music with her hands and arms. Miriam did this often as she felt closer to her music now than ever before, fighting the rude fear that she was forgetting. Placing the baton on the dais, she turned and walked onto the luxurious carpet and down the linoleum corridor to the button on the floor that opened the shelf wall. The closet door opened then closed faithfully behind her. Again, in the magnificent hallway, she glanced at the grandfather clock as she walked past. It showed 5:59 a.m.; the big clock was about to chime. Miriam programmed the clock to chime once a day at 6:00 a.m., otherwise it chimed all night and disturbed her sleep.

Percy Mung hated being awakened by the alarm clock every day. He groaned loudly, swinging his right arm angrily at the clock, knocking it off the bedside table, barely missing Monte Cristo Robertson’s head in the bed next to him. The clock slammed against the far wall and banged noisily to the floor, but the alarm kept ringing. Why did they need a clock in their room? He swung his muscular legs to the side of his bed. His black hair brushed the lashes of his almond-shaped eyes, and his pink lips pursed in displeasure. He was twenty-two with no facial hair, and he let his hair grow long to honor his Asian heritage. Despite his muscular frame and strength, Percy did not know martial arts, and he hated the stereotypical notion that he should. But keeping this secret from his peers gave him a sort of edge…so he let it be assumed.

Why don’t you stop slapping your alarm clock against the wall, Percy? Joshua Beck said groggily; his face burrowed into a pillow. Twelve-year-old Joshua Beck was a wimpy, small-statured, irritating hypochondriac. He always had the latest flu strain, or a weird virus, or whatever. He took at least four aspirins every day for some malady; at least Joshua thought that he was taking aspirin. Miriam found out about his habit and replaced them with a placebo. The lack of luster in his brown eyes made him appear tired and hungry everyday even though he ate good filling meals. His butcher cut haircut was severe and unflattering but that was precisely the way he liked it. His head looked square! His ears stuck out from the side of his head like two antennae. Slovenly, rumpled Joshua wandered from day to day in an unconcerned demeanor. But underneath his guise of sickness he was afraid every single day of everything. Each new day brought with it new doubts and terror. Was he safe? Was the world going to end soon? Was it going to rain?

Lincoln B. Cooke lay awake on his bed next to Joshua, his head of tousled black curls resting on the palms of his hands. Lincoln slept in a king size bed in the huge room to accommodate his six-foot two-inch frame. His plump lips parted in a yawn showing amazing perfect white teeth. The color of his skin was like cinnamon and chocolate with a hint of cacao darkness in the color of his eyes. Big well-developed hands made it seem unlikely that he would play a bass violin. He could be taken as a farmer or construction worker maybe, but never a musician. He was a sharp dressed, well-groomed man, and he was the oldest of the group at twenty-six.

There is no need for so much passion man. He got up, retrieved the clock, and stopped the alarm. Absolutely no need at all. Lincoln B., as he was fondly called, detested violence, even swearing off looking at it in any form. He liked peace and peaceful people.

Monte Cristo Robinson’s sepia brown skin was smooth over his slender frame and his black eyes sparkled when he laughed. He was a slender young man of twenty-two who was bald with a mustache. M.C. lay still softly singing an old hymn: A Charge to Keep I Have. What a beautiful voice he had! It was like a golden stream of soothing sound, so melodic and strong. Singing gave him a certain power. It felt good to rebel in secret and have people enjoy it. Everyone was still relishing his voice, listening to him sing like a nightingale, thrilled by this wonderful joy he gave. But it was dangerous for him to sing this or any song outside of the music room.

In the room across the hall from the boys, little Sybil Smith opened one eye and peered at Tybalt O’Ryan in the bed horizontal from her, next to the window. Tybalt lay on her side with her dark black hair covering her face. The alarm clock rung in a mad frenzy on the nightstand between them, and neither girl moved to turn it off.

Miriam avoided the male quarters, and entering the girl’s room, walked to the nightstand, and stopped the alarm.

Well, good morning, Ms. Jonna. It is a good morning isn’t it? Tybalt pulled a few strands of wispy black hair from her face and stared at Miriam with piercing blue eyes. Miriam shrank slightly under her gaze, immediately cursing herself for doing so. She had no reason to be afraid of an eighteen-year-old girl.

My goodness, exclaimed Sybil, Is it six o’clock already? Why do we have an alarm clock with the deafening sound of the grandfather clock in the hall? She hid her face under her pink laced coverlet.

It’s the fifteenth of March, girls. Miriam said. She hesitated a moment at the door, waiting for the girls to realize what she said. Across the hall, the boys were stirring and protesting as usual.

Shh, I am tired of this. M.C.’s solemn declaration echoed. "Something has to be worked out so that I can get some rest! What do you guys say? Waking up at 6:00 in the morning, everyday is a pain in the…

"I say you all get ready for breakfast and be downstairs in not less than forty-five minutes. Or have you forgotten what day of the month this is?" Miriam answered from the doorway of the boy’s room.

Like falling dominoes, Percy, Lincoln B., and M.C. sank back onto the bed as the reality of the date took hold. Joshua lay shivering like a frightened mouse. The fifteenth day of March could be like any other day, except it was the day the Detectives visited.

Forty-three minutes. Miriam echoed as she walked away to her room.

The mirror over Miriam’s dresser reflected a beautiful thirty-nine-year-old woman with shoulder-length straight brown hair, a strong keen nose sprinkled with freckles and light-brown eyes. Her long legs and well-defined figure gave her the appearance of a fashion model. She was often mistaken as being Hispanic, but she was African American. Her mother, Jacoba, was a mixture of Native American and African American to which Miriam could attribute her beautiful mink-brown skin. With her hair pulled back in a chignon that accentuated her high cheekbones, she looked like her grandmother who was a descendant of the Creek Indians of Alabama. Her father, Hartwell Jonna, was a very dark man, with fine chiseled features. There could be no mistaking that he had little race mixture in his ancestry. Both her parents died just a few months apart when she was in college. There were no brothers or sisters. Her only living relative then was her paternal grandfather, Moses Jonna, who died five years ago.

Miriam was a high school English literature teacher with a list of impressive accomplishments. She won Teacher of the Year for three years at the Mountain Airs School of Perfection, a private school where she designed and implemented many learning programs to aid in the curriculum of the school. Mountain Airs was in the Catskills Mountains of New York, a place that Miriam loved because it reminded her so much of her grandfather’s estate the Jonna Manor in North Carolina. She was also an accomplished violinist, a fact she took great pains to keep carefully hidden from her colleagues. As a young girl, she began her studies under Dr. Luciana D’Artre, noted Hungarian virtuoso until the age of twenty-one. Her grandfather insisted she study the first violin and arranged for the lessons with his good friend Dr. D’Artre, who had been a former first violinist with the noted Brazilian Symphony Orchestra of the twenty first century. Dr. D’Artre loved Miriam like a daughter teaching her everything she could about the old world filled with music of all kinds; a world which had since changed so drastically. Now Dr. D’Artre was dead, and Miriam carried an emptiness in her heart for a woman who had given her so much besides music. She was gifted with a D Z Strad Model from her grandfather because of her extraordinary skill.

Her beautiful image glared at her: Miriam Jonna, now a teacher of music and English literature, caught in a web of secrecy.

How long are you going to stand there and stare at yourself? Tybalt, as usual, came into Miriam’s bedroom without knocking. She stood looking at the woman her blue eyes sparkling like shards of ice. Miriam turned and met her gaze. Beautiful Tybalt O’Ryan was eighteen years old with long thick black hair that reached her waist. Her slender frame and delicate features were the envy of many women yet what made her breathtaking were her eyes. They were the color of a faded blue sky that sparkled brilliantly when she was happy but turned a cold steel-blue when she was angry. Her willful temper, a great achievement at least to her only masked the gnawing fear she tried to contain; she felt change stirring in her members and it was going to happen soon. After all she was doing what she had become good at—hiding.

Why don’t you go on into the kitchen and start the breakfast for me, Ty. Miriam asked.

What were you thinking about, old times and familiar faces? Tybalt asked, resting her head against the door frame.

I was thinking about a people that have come in and out of my life. Do you miss your family Ty?

"Just my dad and my sister,