The quartet remember awakening together on a humid, drizzly spring morning, with distant thunder and nearby traffic rumbling in their ears. Holding hands in a circle like a fairy ring, in a betrashed and weedy field behind an abandoned battery factory, they sat up together, looked at each other, and began to think and feel.
They preferred and dwelt in the intersection between un-wild and wild, the overgrown and decrepit margins where green meets gray.
The Brownfields understood each other, but they could not speak in any way that any other creature could hear. Without fleshly lungs to draw in and exhale air, they could make no sound. They could, however, move matter in other ways. Slowly, they learned to touch. Once making things fall over stopped being funny, they devoted much effort to touching the material world in more interesting and complex ways.
Touching, watching, listening and making sense of their observations consumed them for many years. They loved the world that couldn't see or hear them. They loved seeing love in the world. They despaired of ever adding to that love themselves.
Very gradually it occurred to each imaginary friend that they might play music together.
They knew where musical instruments could be found, and learned when owners of guitars, pianos and drums would not be around to hear the Brownfields make noises that began to resemble music. Moldy basements and music store backrooms would fill with dust as four determined invisibles toyed with chords, cords, keys, amps, and warped cymbals.
Using a WiFi hotspot they elected to flat-out steal from Verizon, the Brownfields are preparing to upload a handful of instrumentals and make them publicly available. They are shaking with fear. They desperately want to connect with people by way of music. Rejection frightens them emotionally, though not intellectually. If they are heard and their music does not please, what then? They vow to continue.