Woah. It's been a while.
Tuesday, 10. March 2009, 02:58:17
Sorry, anyone who still looks at this. It's been too long since I updated this.
To make it up, I'll show you my best short story yet!
The Violinist
It had been a long boat ride. Flying may have been faster, but he never liked planes. If man was meant to fly, he would have wings for himself.
It started raining when the boat landed. It wasn’t a torrent, just the kind of drizzle that makes everyone feel melancholy. Even with such slow rain, anyone who came out would be soaked. He liked it that way.
One of the new cars so popular in town splashed our man as he walked slowly down the sidewalk. He nearly lost his hat from that.
The sun was shining a bit, even through the thick clouds. Even with light, the scene was boringly dreary. Just a single, aged man in brown hat and coat, walking down a sidewalk in the rain. A car passed him every few seconds, but no one else walked.
The man carried a violin case almost as ragged as himself. Most people driving past didn’t notice. The few who did made sure to drive faster. Nobody played violins anymore. Not even old men in brown bowler hats played violins anymore.
A taxi rolled up to the man and slowed to a stop. “Get in,” said the driver through an open window. “You don’t want to be here.” The man simply raised a hand in refusal of the offer. The taxi followed him for a few seconds longer, and then drove off.
A few men smoked under the awning across the street. They were in loose-fitting jeans that started to slip a bit, and two of the three had tattoos scrawling across their faces. The one without tattoos had a trumpet in his free hand and played scales between drags on his cigarette. The people passing in cars eyed the trumpeter suspiciously, but smiled pleasantly at the tattooed pair.
The man carrying a violin case ambled across the street and glanced at the trumpet player. The younger man spoke in response to that silent signal. “Violinists don’t play jazz.”
“Trumpets don’t either,” the old man challenged. “Not anymore.”
“True,” replied the younger before going back to his scales.
The ancient violinist walked away, knowing he wasn’t welcome, even with another musician. Perhaps relics of the old age were too young for even older relics.
Years ago, the man would have been welcomed by anyone in this city. Violinists were a rare treat back then. Now they were simply trash among humans, destined to die in the gutter as beggars and peasants.
Another old man walked slowly along the first’s path. When he saw the violin, he started to smile softly. “Perhaps the arts haven’t died yet,” he said.
“They will after me,” replied the first with a gentle smile. “Perhaps it’s for the best. They don’t remember us any more. I would like to have just one more concert, though.”
“Then play here. I’d like to hear that old music once more.”
Our old man grinned and started to uncase his violin. As he tuned it he started to speak. “Perhaps the other relics will remember this.”
He started playing a slow tune, dragging out the notes in a perfect emotional melody. The other recognized the tune after a few notes, even with the slow speed, and started humming along.
A few people passed by while the violinist sped up gradually. Most of the younger heard the tune and left quickly. An old couple stayed back and started to sing along with the increasing tempo. Some children who roamed the streets slowly gravitated to the music and listened to the lyrics.
“Vyydu, vyydu v rozh' vysokuyu,” the couple repeated when the violinist kept playing past the lyrics. A few of the children had picked up some Russian from the streets and translated the lyrics for the rest.
The group kept playing faster, but none of them seemed to tire even after several repeats. The children started to sing along, mostly out of tune and with only partially correct lyrics.
A small family, two parents and their daughter, walked past. The girl slowed down and tugged on her father’s pants, trying to get him to stop by the crowd of musicians. “No,” replied the father. “They’re dangerous.”
The mother seemed to agree, but the violinist, who had moved to the edge of the crowd, stopped playing at the end of the verse. “Music is dangerous,” said the man. “It enlightens the people and cleanses the soul.”
“I wasn’t talking about music; I was talking about you,” replied the father. “You are the scum of this city.” He started to walk faster.
“And they say the arts aren’t loved,” said the violinist sarcastically. He started playing a different song and went back to the crowd, who clapped along to the beat.
The family simply went back to their home in the safe part of the city, away from all the vile musicians.
If you like it, tell me. If you don't, too bad. Only tell me if you have constructive criticism.
To make it up, I'll show you my best short story yet!
The Violinist
It had been a long boat ride. Flying may have been faster, but he never liked planes. If man was meant to fly, he would have wings for himself.
It started raining when the boat landed. It wasn’t a torrent, just the kind of drizzle that makes everyone feel melancholy. Even with such slow rain, anyone who came out would be soaked. He liked it that way.
One of the new cars so popular in town splashed our man as he walked slowly down the sidewalk. He nearly lost his hat from that.
The sun was shining a bit, even through the thick clouds. Even with light, the scene was boringly dreary. Just a single, aged man in brown hat and coat, walking down a sidewalk in the rain. A car passed him every few seconds, but no one else walked.
The man carried a violin case almost as ragged as himself. Most people driving past didn’t notice. The few who did made sure to drive faster. Nobody played violins anymore. Not even old men in brown bowler hats played violins anymore.
A taxi rolled up to the man and slowed to a stop. “Get in,” said the driver through an open window. “You don’t want to be here.” The man simply raised a hand in refusal of the offer. The taxi followed him for a few seconds longer, and then drove off.
A few men smoked under the awning across the street. They were in loose-fitting jeans that started to slip a bit, and two of the three had tattoos scrawling across their faces. The one without tattoos had a trumpet in his free hand and played scales between drags on his cigarette. The people passing in cars eyed the trumpeter suspiciously, but smiled pleasantly at the tattooed pair.
The man carrying a violin case ambled across the street and glanced at the trumpet player. The younger man spoke in response to that silent signal. “Violinists don’t play jazz.”
“Trumpets don’t either,” the old man challenged. “Not anymore.”
“True,” replied the younger before going back to his scales.
The ancient violinist walked away, knowing he wasn’t welcome, even with another musician. Perhaps relics of the old age were too young for even older relics.
Years ago, the man would have been welcomed by anyone in this city. Violinists were a rare treat back then. Now they were simply trash among humans, destined to die in the gutter as beggars and peasants.
Another old man walked slowly along the first’s path. When he saw the violin, he started to smile softly. “Perhaps the arts haven’t died yet,” he said.
“They will after me,” replied the first with a gentle smile. “Perhaps it’s for the best. They don’t remember us any more. I would like to have just one more concert, though.”
“Then play here. I’d like to hear that old music once more.”
Our old man grinned and started to uncase his violin. As he tuned it he started to speak. “Perhaps the other relics will remember this.”
He started playing a slow tune, dragging out the notes in a perfect emotional melody. The other recognized the tune after a few notes, even with the slow speed, and started humming along.
A few people passed by while the violinist sped up gradually. Most of the younger heard the tune and left quickly. An old couple stayed back and started to sing along with the increasing tempo. Some children who roamed the streets slowly gravitated to the music and listened to the lyrics.
“Vyydu, vyydu v rozh' vysokuyu,” the couple repeated when the violinist kept playing past the lyrics. A few of the children had picked up some Russian from the streets and translated the lyrics for the rest.
The group kept playing faster, but none of them seemed to tire even after several repeats. The children started to sing along, mostly out of tune and with only partially correct lyrics.
A small family, two parents and their daughter, walked past. The girl slowed down and tugged on her father’s pants, trying to get him to stop by the crowd of musicians. “No,” replied the father. “They’re dangerous.”
The mother seemed to agree, but the violinist, who had moved to the edge of the crowd, stopped playing at the end of the verse. “Music is dangerous,” said the man. “It enlightens the people and cleanses the soul.”
“I wasn’t talking about music; I was talking about you,” replied the father. “You are the scum of this city.” He started to walk faster.
“And they say the arts aren’t loved,” said the violinist sarcastically. He started playing a different song and went back to the crowd, who clapped along to the beat.
The family simply went back to their home in the safe part of the city, away from all the vile musicians.
If you like it, tell me. If you don't, too bad. Only tell me if you have constructive criticism.
WIDGETIZE