The Sprout

Short Story: The Violinist

Posted by emb789 from Cardiff - Published on 20/07/2010 at 12:43
2 comments » - Tagged as Creative Writing, Music

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This short story has been entered in theSprout Short Story Competition.

Music is not just notes in the right order. There is science and art behind it, and a beauty nothing else can match.

Take Erik Satie, for example. He wrote three pieces, Gymnopedie no. 1, 2 and 3. The piece I'll explain is Gymnopedie no. 1. If you play the piece exactly as it is written, then it is plain, even a little bland. However, if you play the piece with the sustain pedal, exaggerated dynamics, and even a little rubato, the outcome is simply beautiful.

Although, my own favourite instrument is the violin. The way it's gentle tone can be cheerful, melancholy or even angry, with something as simple as varying pressure with the bow or playing with a little vibrato, is a concept I find fascinating.

I, myself, play the violin. The one I own used to be my grandmother's, and she has always said that her violin is her soul, as long as one lives, so will the other. I always disregarded this as her old, superstitious nonsense, and just enjoyed the rich tone her violin made, but lately, I haven't been so sure.

You see, my grandmother has fallen ill. She has a terrible cough, and can't get out of bed.

Lately, my violin hasn't been playing well, either. The clasps of its case are stiffer, harder to open, and when I do, eventually, get my violin out, its tone is gravelly. It's quieter than usual too, and not staying in tune at all.

So I came up with a plan. Since it was rattling terribly, I would have no choice but to give it a bit of a shake, to see if I could get the contents out. And then, if nothing would come out, I would take it along to a mender’s shop.

When I got around to getting out my violin, the case had become much, much stiffer. It took me a good ten minutes just to open the case. I then took out the violin, turned it upside down and gave it a little shake. Something moved around inside, so I shook it again, a little harder. Still, nothing came out, but I could feel it. Maybe it was an old penny or something?

I decided to shake it one more time, before taking it to the mender’s shop, just to see if I would be able to fix my violin without paying someone a lot of money.

But then something terrible happened.

As I was shaking the violin, the phone started to ring, so I put down my violin, and picked up the phone. It was my grandmother. She asked if anything was happening to the violin, for she was feeling much worse in that last hour than she had recently. I panicked, and so told her that nothing had happened. This must be a sign that I should stop tampering with the violin.

My Grandmother and I said our goodbyes, and hung up the phone. I panicked. I turned around and went to pick up the violin, but I was rushing.

My hand brushed against it, unbalancing it, tipping it off the table I’d left it on.

As it fell, I reached for it, but I didn’t quite get it.

It fell to the floor and shattered. What did this mean for Grandmother?

The next day, my mother told me that Grandmother was dead.

And I felt as though I had killed her myself.

IMAGE: TheAlieness GiselaGiardino