Samuel E. Lee

Once upon a time the only thing falling from the sky was stars and hope. There was no rain and no fish. (Yes, fish have fallen from the sky, but that’s a different story.) This particular story is about a dark man with a dark past in a dark room. The man in question went by Sam, his full name Samuel Emberiea Lee, or Samuel E. Lee. Sam’s middle name was a product of his proud mother, a stiff but loving woman who happened to be a painter. Mrs. Lee loved to research colors and came across the color emberia while pregnant with her little Sam. The color's name, as well as its salmon color, had stuck in her head right until the moment Sam had been born. As soon as Sam had been born Mrs. Lee had rushed to scribble it on Sam’s birth certificate.

Sam was now dead, or at least he assumed he was. Sam E. Lee stood in a dimly lit hallway. Smooth dirty grey walls, floor, and ceiling surrounded him. The hall happened to be quite small but tall, perfect for Sam, who happened to be a skinny six-foot-seven man. Sam’s hair was an average brown and longer than he remembered, it tickled his eyes. His nose was sharp but complimented his thin face and striking electric blue eyes. Sam wore a black trench coat over a black sweater and black dress pants, along with black dress shoes. How he had come to be in the peculiar outfit was beyond Sam’s knowledge or care.

Sam smiled, not in the least bit afraid. He didn’t particularly remember why he was here, or where “here” was. And he didn’t particularly care. The only logical action at the moment seemed to be to walk down the dark, creepy hall. So Sam did. He walked down the hall, swinging his arms in the tight little hall, a small skip in his step. He rubbed his face absent-mindedly then pulled his hand away in surprise. Dark stubble coated his face, although Sam could recall he had shaved quite recently. The feeling of prickly facial hair had startled him.

The only source of light in the hall was a flickering incandescent light bulb hanging on a thin wire. It seemed to swing in a pattern that suggested the room was on a boat, crashing through the waves of an ocean. Sam didn’t notice this small detail, completely occupied with the tall door at the end of his cramped hall.

The doorknob was a tarnished brass, the kind you find in old victorian homes. Sam smiled, showing his straight white teeth, and turned the knob.

Behind the tall and mysterious door was a dark room. Sam now noticed he was indeed on a ship. At least of some sort. It was a dreadfully plain room, the same dirty grey walls and ceiling, but now a scuffed up hardwood floor. Sam rather liked hardwood floors, he didn’t know why, but he did. Turning his gaze around the pitiful room his eyes flashed like lightning. A grand piano sat in the middle of the dirty room. Sam loved to play the piano.

It was a square room, with painfully confusing dimensions. The door opened into a corner, but did not look that way from the hall. The piano’s keys faced to Sam’s left, and directly across from Sam was another corner of the dull room. Centered on each wall Sam faced was a window, short frilly grey curtains with worn pink flowers fluttered on them. The windows were cracked, allowing a salty breeze to flow in. Outside the window was a stormy ocean, it showed the room was moving violently through the waves. Crashing up and down repeatedly. But to Sam, the room felt like it was standing still, a twisted illusion of sorts. How odd, Sam thought.

The light was unnaturally dulled, no sun in sight, and the only artificial light source was still the swinging bulb in the hall. So, Sam left the hallway door open, which seemed to be very logical to him, like an action he did every damn day.
Sam stalked to the piano. It was a dark wood he didn’t recognize, a rich and swirling grain. As if someone had discovered a way to turn music into wood, the grain reflected one of Beethoven’s symphonies perfectly. But it also reflected a few of Mozart’s compositions. Sam shook his head, still utterly at peace.

“May I play?” he asked the empty air. The air said yes.

Sam sat at the bench and hovered his fingers over the ivory keys. A thought struck him, like a stone being thrown at the back of his head. This was not death, simply another life. A duller existence than his previous one. Doomed to play the grand piano until he died. . . Again? Sam didn’t particularly know how everything worked. But he knew he had to play.

So Samuel E. Lee. played the piano made of dark, mysterious wood.

Sam did not notice when another person slipped through the tall door. Nor did he notice when they stood at a window, watching the waves and crying silently to Sam’s music. Sam would later come to know this person as Loriane, but that is a different story.