The Music of Spring: Wilson’s Uncle He shrugged off the vest and settled it on my shoulders. “Heavy, isn’t it?” he said. The weight did surprise me, but I refused to let him see. “Pass the mallets, would you?” He pulled four from behind his back, and twirled them in a blur. When he relinquished
The Music of Spring: Glockenspiel’s Jingle As it turned out, there was a xylophone in the marching band, but the senior student who played it was secure in his position. I was a sophomore, and the band director smiled as he handed me the case, vest, and mallets to the glockenspiel. “Welcome to our band,
The Music of Spring: So Conventional As I stared, Daddy held a finger to his lips and picked up a long handled mallet. Gently, he struck the longest bar on the top of the instrument. A deep and penetrating tone filled the nook and I reached out for the mallet. He handed me four of
The Music of Spring: The Smile I Adored A group of men beside a monument played sets of steel drums, and I begged, “Please, Mother, I want a set of drums like those. They sound wonderful.” She looked through the dirty windows, and saw only the sandblasted metal and improvised frames. “No, Aoede, I can’t.
The Music of Spring: “Where’s that Girl?” The pitch was good, and I poured glasses for all the major pitches of the scale. By then, the amazing bottle was nearly empty. Humming under my breath, I poured a glass for B flat. My hand was steady as I raised the silver serving spoon and tapped
The Music of Spring: Amazing Bottle I haven’t been this nervous since High School Talent Night. I’m Aoede, lead singer and marimba soloist of the band Spring. I still have no clue why my parents named me after the Muse of Song, but from the first day I picked up a wooden spoon and a
Purest Fiction: A Parade and a Hero
As the author staggered downhill under her load, a turquoise convertible rolled by. She grinned, having taken childhood trips in an identical car.
One block from her apartment, a city worker placed sawhorse barricades across the street. The turquoise convertible idled behind them, and the dark-haired driver leaned out and spoke to the city employee. Then he shrugged, and turned toward his passenger. The redheaded woman braided her long hair.
She wasn’t near enough to make out their conversation, but the mystery partially resolved itself when the author heard a marching band. After a deep breath, she stepped forward. A parade was nothing to cause worry. It’d hold the attention of everyone on the street. As she approached the corner, the author paused for a few moments.
Purest Fiction: Morning Coffee
A semi-tractor in the street released its brakes.
The frantic author shoved at the scratchy wool blanket, then sat, bewildered.
Because the windows had no shades, she hustled into the tiny bathroom. It was unsatisfactory to scrub at the chipped sink, and she longed for her deep tub.
Purest Fiction: Offensive Apostrophe
When she walked back to the bureau and delved in the suitcase for her bag of pens and pencils, she scraped her knuckles on her “souvenirs.” Despite what she’d told Ed O’Connor, there were rocks in her luggage. A palm-sized lump of pink and gray granite came from the Continental Divide.
One dark jaggedly fractured chunk of stone commemorated a trip to an island in Lake Huron. When she pulled out the flattest fragment, picked up on Mount Washington, mica glared in the harsh light. Would she add Pennsylvania bluestone?
Purest Fiction: She Could Write Here
When the doors closed at ten, the refugee writer had no appetite.
The waste of food appalled her. The slop bin on her cart swam with flat soda, cold coffee, strands of spaghetti, and cigarette ashes. So many customers chose the triple bacon cheeseburger the author was sure the odor in the apartment stairwell would be a living, breathing thing.
“Hey, bus girl, ya did a good job tonight.” Mavis nodded as she swiped the day’s entries from the chalkboard. “I never did hear your name. Did Bill give you your share of his tips?”