Witness
I'll only take the violin.
When I was eleven, father got me an audition with the Maestro. After a few bars he frowned, hobbled to the door. The violin hung on the wall after that, a witness.
The ornamental mahogany furniture and Persian rugs were sold piece by piece to slake father's thirst. When I found him, his bulging eyes stared at the violin.
I unhook it, wrap it in an old coat, carry it out, hugged close.
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Author's Note
A Father's Day piece.
Other stories by Andrew Stancek
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Real writing, Andrew.*
Nothing wasted.*
exquisite, dense with associations going off into all directions like fire flies.
Yes, implications and associations go beyond the words to deepen the story. Very well done. *
Fine and spare. *
Joani, Sam, Marcus, Mykell, Ann,
your support means much to me. Thank you.
On target, this. A kill shot.
Andrew,
Fine piece. Yes. Some of us were witness to a lot of hard, hard things.
Isn't is a gift to be able to put it into words.
Lucinda
Wow! What a piece ~ power in brevity and economy of motion. Really like. A lot! *
JLD,
your kind words always thrill.
Lucinda,
one foot in front of the other, isn't it? Thank you.
Michael,
much appreciated.
This is terrific, in its short and precise form, but now I am enamored and want the longer version too, if possible..
Very efficient at evoking very powerful experiences.
Lovely. The "useless" violin at least serves to give pause to Daddy's engulfing thirst. *