FIRE, SOUND AND SPIRIT - – A Story About rap, guns & reggae 🎤📖 🎸

🔥 Hello CCC Community – Shemzee Here with a NEW Story Post

Hey everyone,
I’m excited to be sharing my first post here with the Creative Coin Community.

Writing for me has always been about chasing sound, feeling, and truth. I don’t just want to tell what happens — I want the reader to hear it, smell it, breathe it. That’s exactly what I tried to do in the story I’m sharing today.

🎶 Chapter Twenty: Fire, Sound and Spirit

The story follows Stan, Ros, and their friends — musicians who gather in a seaside villa to create something raw and alive. The air is heavy with salt, smoke, and expectation. Instruments wait like silent companions. The music begins, not as melody but as a question — a voice searching for meaning.

But when inspiration flows at its strongest, reality intrudes: armed men break in, demanding money and gear. The villa becomes a test — not just of courage, but of unity, faith, and the unshakable power of music.

What happens next is a clash between fear and defiance, between greed and spirit. And at the heart of it all is the belief that music is not just sound, but freedom itself.

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FIRE, SOUND AND SPIRIT

The sun was slowly sinking toward the water. The sky was transparent, yet filled with a sadness that could not be seen—only felt. The sea lay calm, stretched out like a satiated lion. The heat had pulled back a little. The air smelled of salt, smoke, and something sweet that did not come from the trees.
The road to the city was dusty. The hills on either side made it even narrower. The van slid along silently, as if it wasn’t carrying people but shadows.
Inside were Stan and Rosen. Stan stared ahead, biting his lower lip. His hand rested on the guitar case. Rosen sat beside him, silent, with his hands on his knees. He looked as though he wasn’t sure if this place was real or just a dream from which he would wake with a trembling voice.
“Relax,” Stan said without looking at him. “They’re good people. You’ll like them. Relax.”
By the time they arrived, the sun was already touching the sea. The villa wasn’t big. Its roof sagged slightly, the windows were open, and from inside came that sound you cannot describe—only experience. The silence between the notes. The sound of something not yet born, but already breathing.
They were waiting outside. Nina appeared first—barefoot, with a scarf on her head. Her eyes sparkled as if after a sip of rum.
“You’re right on time. The magic begins.”
After her, four more came out. They moved without hurry, as though they knew everything would happen exactly when it was meant to. There was no tension. Only music.
First was John. Tall, with dreadlocks that seemed older than he was. He held drumsticks, but not tightly—he carried them the way someone carries a prayer. His eyes were dark and distant. He shook Rosen’s hand, introduced himself, then embraced Stan.
After him came Ben and Izzy, doing the same. Last was Coxi—in a striped top, mouth half-open, as if already speaking before the words had formed.
“This is our world,” he said without raising his voice. “Don’t look for order, don’t look for rules. Here sounds are not words but choices.”
He looked at Rosen.
“And you… you’ve come with a question. Good. Just don’t expect an answer you can write on paper.”
They went inside.

---

The music didn’t start all at once. First it was felt—in the air, in the wood of the table, in John’s steps on the floor.
The light was soft, golden. It flowed through the open shutters like a memory. The cables on the ground looked like roots. Everything was plugged in. Ready. Yet no one was in a hurry.
“What we’re about to do,” said Coxi as he connected the last cable, “won’t be a song. It will be a question. But don’t be afraid. A question is stronger than an answer.”
Stan lifted his guitar. He said nothing. His eyes narrowed slightly. He began to play. It wasn’t rhythm. It wasn’t melody. It was like a voice that doesn’t want to be heard, but must be spoken.
Then the others joined. No gestures. No signals. They simply became part of it.
Rosen sat in the corner. He didn’t dare breathe too loudly. He watched something happen that no one commanded, no one conducted, and no one repeated.
The words came on their own. Stan spoke them, not sang them.
Tell me, how hard is it
to defend the beast inside you…
The words didn’t seek harmony. They sought pain. They sought meaning.
When the number of the beast is written
in black and white on more than one forehead…
Coxi added an effect. The walls widened. The silence became greater than the sound.
In the cell of your freedom chains are rattling.
Don’t be afraid, take them. They are yours…
Rosen closed his eyes. For the first time in a long while, he didn’t want to understand. Only to feel.
…the shackles of your freedom.
Rosen raised his hand. Everyone stopped.
“This rhythm is great, but I need to find myself in it first. Then the piece needs more edge, more rock guitar in the solo spots. Let’s try?”
Nina translated into patois:
Dis riddim sweet, but mi haffi find miself in it first. Den di chune need likkle more fyah – more rock vibes pon di solo part, seen? Mek wi try it!
Everyone agreed. John struck up a Caribbean reggae rhythm, and Rosen’s distorted rock riff crashed down over it, clearing the way for the skank guitar, the bass, and the keys. What emerged was a powerful groove, smelling of hot asphalt storm and wild jasmine. The villa’s rooms stretched with the sound—not from its volume but from its depth. John’s drums no longer played, they led—forward, through the night, toward something forgotten yet needed. Ben’s bass nailed itself to the floor, as if to hold the house down from flying away. Izzy poured in the last drops of soul with his brassy tone, and Coxi sent the signal through a cloud of effects, like smoke through a curtain. Stan closed his eyes and surrendered to the sound. Then his words came—unexpected, alive. They flew from his mouth like a voice from another time. It was anger. It was faith. It was a question only the body could answer. Rosen’s guitar had its own voice, presence, and message. The notes replaced words, but their burning sound pierced hearts and souls.
And then everything stopped. Not because they wanted to. But because they had to.
Someone kicked the door.
“Yuh tink yuh can play music and nuh pay di price?”
Five armed men stormed in. One in a jacket with a big rifle—the leader. The others with pistols. Their eyes were glassy, filled with hunger and something worse.
“Wi know seh foreigners full up wid cash and gears! Gi wi di money an di laptop now!”
(We know you foreigners are loaded with money and gear! Give us the money and the laptop now!)
No one moved.
“Mi seh move, or mi light dis whole place!”
(I said move, or I’ll set this place on fire!)
Then Coxi stood up.
In his hands was a gas canister hooked to a cable. He raised a lighter.
“Mi nuh fraid fi dead, seen? Dis is Jah house, an yuh cyaan bruk it! Touch one of dem, an mi mek Babylon burn.”
(I’m not afraid to die, you hear? This is Jah’s house, and you cannot break it! Touch anyone here, and I’ll make Babylon burn.)
The attackers froze. One laughed, then fell silent. The canister hissed softly. The lighter flickered.
“Leave now, an live. Or stay, an burn wid di greed dat kill yuh soul.”
(Leave now and live. Or stay and burn with the greed that kills your soul.)
A second. An eternity. Then the men backed away. Slowly at first, then faster. No shots. No words.
When it was over, there was no applause. No words. Only the evening wind drifting in through the window. And the sea, silent in the dark.
The silence after the attackers’ flight did not break at once. Everyone stood frozen, lungs full, still feeling the weight of what had just happened.
Rosen was the first to exhale.
“That was close… too close. I’ve never felt such silence.”
Nina bent down to collect the scattered pieces of her necklace.
“For a moment, fear took the place of music. But breathe. This wasn’t the end.”
Coxi slipped his phone back into his pocket.
“Jah gave us strength tonight. Now it’s time for us to be strong. We must call the police. This cannot stand.”
“Agreed,” said Stan, slowly standing and looking at the others. “But this villa is vulnerable. I have another place—my villa is better protected. If we move there, at least the equipment and we ourselves will be safe.”
Ben looked at Nina, then at John, and said,
“Time is against us, but I don’t want to lose any more. We need to be together, stronger than ever.”
Izzy, who had been silent until now, added softly,
“Our music is our defense. Wherever we go, we’ll preserve it.”
They began packing the equipment, carefully, almost ritually. John checked the cables, Izzy arranged the amps, and Rosen stared at the night sea through the window, as if searching for an answer there.
When everything was loaded into Stan’s van, the doors shut with a heavy thud, as if closing a cycle.
“This night wasn’t just a failure,” Rosen said, staring out the windshield. “It was a warning… and a chance.”
Stan looked at his friends in the rearview mirror.
“Whatever comes, we’ll be ready. Together.”
The van rolled down the dusty road, while the music from the night before lingered like a memory—quiet but alive, carried along by the sea breeze.

TO BE CONTINUED

THIS IS THE SONG USED IN THIS CHAPTER:

https://shemzee.bandcamp.com/track/--451

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