A cellist sits across the street from a bike sculpture. His cotton shirt and skin are drenched with sweat. He caresses the bow across the strings of his battered instrument. Belly held like that of his beloved. What emits from the instrument is a haunting refrain. One fraught with an ache so deep even the bystanders feel it. In the heat, they are enraptured and transported to an orchestra hall. Somehow, the summer air turns cool from imagined air conditioning, and the acoustics are absolute. They are spell-bound until the final note is played. Applause erupts and the musician beams.
100 words (Genre: general fiction (Narrative? Hell I don’t know!))
Thank you Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for carrying on the tradition of Friday Fictioneers. You have been a considerable help to me and I’m honored to know you. Remember, I take kudos and criticism. Bring it on.
Happy weekend. Mwah!