My dad’s thunder would pluck you out of a trance before you realized you’d entered one.
“What’s that crap you’re listening to!? Rock ‘n’ Roll? That’s not music; it’s shouting!”
Sixty years later, every nerve twitches when bombarded by the “music,” all words and volume.
I’m irrelevant. Just like Dad.
Eileen is a writer on good days, a crafter on others. She wishes the muse would sit on her shoulder more often.
Folks at church think it be a sin just to pause by the basement doorway where that type music flowed raw. Our hymns was crumbs compared. But I took me a sip of saxophone, a gulp of jazz piano, and drank myself to heaven. Was blind but now I see.
Beverly C. Lucey prefers to write short pieces because she is always getting interrupted. Her work has been published online and in anthologies.
Lights are strung helter-skelter around the building’s rooftop garden.
When lit, it could be an outdoor bar in Mexico. I imagine a Mariachi quartet, plump men with thick mustaches and black sombreros embroidered with silver threads.
It’s a nice thought when the typical music is police sirens and jet engines.
Matthew Weigelt finds the best characters in McDonald’s, so he writes and eavesdrops, eavesdrops and writes, with a dollar-size sweet tea. He then goes to the gym. Someday he’ll need to find characters elsewhere. He has a YA novel, The Mysterious Matt Barnes, due out in March. See more at ReadBetweenThePages.com.
The boy gently accepted the withered violin, taking the neck. And holding the bow, he felt a sizzle, like the hot fence at his uncle’s house.
The violin lifted, fitted under his chin. The bow dragged his arm toward the strings. The pair met again in his arms and sang.
Matthew Weigelt is an author and journalist, a photographer and drone pilot. This story is a follow-up to Tamsin Seymour’s Lost Chords
New strings, a polished case, and it was only then she discovered her uncle’s spirit lived on in the violin. The instrument wept tears of resin when she told it of her aunt’s death. That night the strings carved melody from raindrops, sliced moonlight into splinters, whispered chords of regret.
Mark Farley was only too happy to join in with Tamsin Seymour’s
lovely idea of writing sequels to each other’s stories. This story is a follow-up to Lost Chords
She touched the violin’s remaining strings. They quivered in fear. After so many decades in the cupboard, they’d forgotten how to sing.
Until now, the house had surrendered few clues to Uncle’s life before he fled Budapest.
The sudden grief floored her. She hadn’t even known he used to play.
Tamsin has started to ask her friends for 50-word commissions, and would like to thank Alison for the “musical instrument in the back of a cupboard” challenge.
He comes to the jam most Sunday nights,
This gentle, unassuming man, carrying his
Note for note, played or sung, pitch perfect and
resonating with feeling.
But it is the hugs he gives so generously and effortlessly,
full of kindness, that seem like music
and feel like love.
Ellen lives in Maine and plays at the jam.
Engineers created robots that wrote music based on brainwaves.
We wanted to hear thoughts of wonder, imagining a new wave of ‘sub-conscious’ brain-raves.
Exhilaration turned to panic as a deeply buried sorrow filled our ears. A dying world screamed within our minds, and we had turned the volume up loud.
Alex Massey is a writer and the editor of Story Seed Vault
. They can be found hiding behind decorative foliage at parties or on Twitter
It’s freezing, the air crisp. The moon… she rises slowly, her blue light washing over me, calling me.
I take out my guitar. I begin with arpeggios. Simple, I know… but soon, faint waves of violet, then teal, then orange dance in the sky.
Her hue warms, as does mine.
Joey realizes that the violin or piano may be the traditional choice of instruments in these circumstances but he can’t play those. If he tried, her ears would bleed and she would run away. Of course, she might do that anyway. Either way, you can visit him at joeytoey.com
The orchestra had lulled the audience with a sweet adagio before the violins began to reach the crescendo, urgent in tone and tempo.
The music swelled towards the climax; the audience, enveloped in its energy, anticipated a tumultuous finale.
The sound of the exploding bomb mingled with the last notes.
Jan lives in the Riverland of South Australia where abundant wine helps with the creative process.