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.
When darkness fell over the Rappahannock, the guns rested, but fighting continued.
One side fired “Battle Hymn of the Republic”, the other returning shots of “God Save the South”.
They fought until one side played “Home, Sweet Home!” The other repeated. They sang together.
Tomorrow, they’d return to their guns.
Matthew Gregory is a writer and filmmaker living in South Florida. Some of his work can be found at geronimatt.tumblr.com.
December. There is no turning back.
For a working musician, December means less choice in what to play. Not that their ears are more attuned, not at all.
I dare not enter malls: the oppressiveness of yet another version of whatever will rob me deaf of my peace.
Ian Hanchet (aka Boy Blue) is a professional musician/songwriter/recording artist from Montreal, Canada. He teaches music to children in an elementary school.
Everyone watched in silence as she placed her old, shaky hands on the piano for one last time. A tear rolled down her cheek as she tried to remember what she had once played.
I stay huddled in the corner, too young to understand.
Now she is dead.
Alessandra Merto is a 6th grade student. She likes reading, writing, dancing, and running.