Wow. Weird. It made the same mistake twice. (Or maybe it was just me!)
Note to our new(ish) readers...if you want to see the photograph in a bigger format (and therefore get a whole lot more detail) please click on it to enlarge. Thanks!***
Anyway...I'll be back later with my story. And I'm expecting some very interesting tales from the rest of youse guys!
Tevye craned his neck to see if his 4:30 was running late. The lady in sunglasses walked by every weekday between 4:20 and 4:30 and listened to him play. She usually dropped a few dollars in his violin case on Thursdays and he had grown accustomed to her face and her dollars.
She called him Mick after the wrinkled face behind him on the billboard. He called her Tess after she left. The way her eyes half closed when he held the longing chords of home reminded Tevye of his own Tess, left behind in the soil of the motherland.
As a tear slid down Tevye's cheek, he felt something jolt his chair and the old thrill of adrenaline ran down his spine. He looked into the brilliant brown eyes of new Tess, then down at the knife hilt in her hand, blood springing from his chest.
"Thanks, old man. I'll never forget my first," and she kissed the apple of his cheek above his beard.
The old man in the wheelchair began playing a familiar pop tune on his violin as two tourists walked by. They tried not to look at him, so they wouldn’t feel guilty, especially as they had no intention of dropping any coins in his case. They looked at the billboards behind him instead, before turning back to each other in conversation. The old man sighed.
After the tourists were well past him, the old man turned around himself, to gaze at the posters which were hung on the wrought iron fence behind him. One featured a picture of Mick Jagger and sported the line, “Please allow me to introduce myself!” The other poster was of a photograph of T.S. Eliot with a line from Burnt Norton: “Human kind cannot bear very much reality.”
“So tell me, is it reality when you introduce yourself to someone, for whatever purpose. but not so much reality, if you don’t?” The man pondered this aloud. "Quite a philosopher, ain't it?" He figured that Mick must’ve liked the sentiment because he was smiling broadly. T.S. was another story, however.
“We make quite a trio, don’t you think, fellas? But seriously, I do appreciate your company and companionship. After all, who else would hang around with the likes of me?”
The two two-dimensional men remained silent. The old man shrugged. “Geez. Woulda thought you’d have more to say for yourselves, gents. A poet and a rock star? Well, back to work, then. One of the three of us has to make a living here, you know.”
The old man started to play the opening to Eine Kleine Nachtmusik. Suddenly, it felt as it Mick and T.S. were standing next to him on either side, placing a hand each on his shoulders. Everything was spinning and changing color rapidly, but the colors were nice ones, at least, or so the old man thought.
“I’d like to introduce you to the new reality,” Mick said. T.S. nodded solemnly in agreement. The old man saw and heard nothing more. He slumped over in his wheelchair as his violin tumbled to the pavement.
"That guy used to be a music professor at NYU." Katie nodded at the grizzled old man planted in a wheelchair, playing violin.
"Urban legend," stated Tim. "You've lived here long enough to know there's a tragic story floating around about every high-profile homeless dude. All bogus, meant to induce sympathy."
The familiar strains of a Bach concerto lured them across the street.
"Seriously," Katie insisted. "Don't you remember hearing the story? His wife was a concert violinist..."
"Oh yea," Tim butted in, "he discovered her body in their apartment about ten years ago. She'd been strangled with a violin string. Creepy!" he shuddered.
"The poor guy went off the deep end," Katie sighed. "Now he just sits outside the museum and plays Bach day after day. The wife was famous for her Bach concerto in A minor."
"That's harsh," Tim said, watching the old man caress the violin tenderly as he played.
"Can you imagine re-living that scene every day of your life?" Katie shook her shoulders as if to erase the image.
Thomas Carmichael watched the two young people drop coins in his violin case and smiled. "Of course I can," he thought contentedly, "that was the best performance of my life."
For years he had studied human behavior, but this was his ultimate experiment and one he had saved for his retirement years. Morning after morning he rose early and prepared for the day, donned a clean and pressed shirt and slipped on well-polished shoes. The lanyard he wore around his neck held the credentials which were once required to enter the facility where he worked – a subtle touch, he reckoned.
Day after day he positioned himself outside the gates of the museum, not so close that visitors had to step around him but close enough that they couldn’t help noticing his wheelchair or his music. He wondered if anyone noticed his expensive flask or the signature on his Stradivarius.
Hour after hour his tired old hands caressed the strings of his perfectly-tuned antique violin as the tunes from his classical repertoire filled the air. Through his narrowed eyelids he watched the reaction of the people who passed.
Some increased their gait. Others slowed. Occasionally someone would drop a few coins into his violin case. Rarely a passerby would mutter their disapproval. A few times a day a small group or a family would stop and listen and then offer polite applause, more in appreciation of their own act of kindness than of his efforts.
But no one ever stopped to chat, to ask who he was or what he had done with his life. No one was interested in the war that had put him into a wheelchair or in the career that he had built around his experiences with people who had been traumatized by battle. No one wondered how it was that he had mastered such a difficult instrument or when he had been exposed to the kind of music that he chose to play. They preferred to see him as pitiful, as homeless, as a beggar. To dismiss him and wish he hadn’t made them feel uncomfortable. To believe he had always been on the streets with a fiddle.
The sign he sat beneath served as a synopsis of his experience. “Allow me to introduce myself, indeed, Mr. Jagger,” he thought. No one would ever would. “That would definitely be too much reality for human kind, Mr. Elliot.”
This comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteThis comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteWow. Weird. It made the same mistake twice. (Or maybe it was just me!)
ReplyDeleteNote to our new(ish) readers...if you want to see the photograph in a bigger format (and therefore get a whole lot more detail) please click on it to enlarge. Thanks!***
Anyway...I'll be back later with my story. And I'm expecting some very interesting tales from the rest of youse guys!
(Hope this works!)
Really these are my choices? Kill an old guy, Mick Jagger or T.S. Eliot? I'll have to come back to this.
ReplyDeleteI hadn't thought of it like that, to be honest - but now my curiosity is seriously piqued!
ReplyDelete“You know that guy on Third Avenue?”
ReplyDelete“What guy?”
“That guy, the one with the fiddle and the wheelchair?”
“You could have just said wheelchair, I would have remembered him. Though, he’s a great fiddle player. Sometimes I like to stay and watch him play.”
“Yeah, anyway… he died.”
“What? That’s so sad!”
“He died on the street and, like, no one noticed!”
“How could they not notice?”
“I have no idea. Maybe they thought he was sleeping or something.”
“How did they find out that he was dead, then?”
“He started stinking.”
“That must have been something because he stunk already.”
“I know! Can you imagine?”
“I’m trying not to.”
Oh my gosh! Heather! You did say you were going to kill off a character - and you did. How very sad, though.
ReplyDeleteBut, it's amazing that you did the whole story in dialogue!
LOL! That sucker was going to croak. You can't be the only one who writes about death around here! :)
ReplyDeleteYea, unofficial kill a character day!!!!!!!!!
Tevye craned his neck to see if his 4:30 was running late. The lady in sunglasses walked by every weekday between 4:20 and 4:30 and listened to him play. She usually dropped a few dollars in his violin case on Thursdays and he had grown accustomed to her face and her dollars.
ReplyDeleteShe called him Mick after the wrinkled face behind him on the billboard. He called her Tess after she left. The way her eyes half closed when he held the longing chords of home reminded Tevye of his own Tess, left behind in the soil of the motherland.
As a tear slid down Tevye's cheek, he felt something jolt his chair and the old thrill of adrenaline ran down his spine. He looked into the brilliant brown eyes of new Tess, then down at the knife hilt in her hand, blood springing from his chest.
"Thanks, old man. I'll never forget my first," and she kissed the apple of his cheek above his beard.
Wow! First Heather and now you, B. Nagel. You guys are evil. (Heh! Heh!)
ReplyDeleteBTW...great story.
Slashed him with a knife! hahahaha
ReplyDeleteI'm impressed with your dialogue, Heather. I never lost the story line.
ReplyDeleteI figured I'd get the old guy and Jagger in one fell swoop.
The old man in the wheelchair began playing a familiar pop tune on his violin as two tourists walked by. They tried not to look at him, so they wouldn’t feel guilty, especially as they had no intention of dropping any coins in his case. They looked at the billboards behind him instead, before turning back to each other in conversation. The old man sighed.
ReplyDeleteAfter the tourists were well past him, the old man turned around himself, to gaze at the posters which were hung on the wrought iron fence behind him. One featured a picture of Mick Jagger and sported the line, “Please allow me to introduce myself!” The other poster was of a photograph of T.S. Eliot with a line from Burnt Norton: “Human kind cannot bear very much reality.”
“So tell me, is it reality when you introduce yourself to someone, for whatever purpose. but not so much reality, if you don’t?” The man pondered this aloud. "Quite a philosopher, ain't it?" He figured that Mick must’ve liked the sentiment because he was smiling broadly. T.S. was another story, however.
“We make quite a trio, don’t you think, fellas? But seriously, I do appreciate your company and companionship. After all, who else would hang around with the likes of me?”
The two two-dimensional men remained silent. The old man shrugged. “Geez. Woulda thought you’d have more to say for yourselves, gents. A poet and a rock star? Well, back to work, then. One of the three of us has to make a living here, you know.”
The old man started to play the opening to Eine Kleine Nachtmusik. Suddenly, it felt as it Mick and T.S. were standing next to him on either side, placing a hand each on his shoulders. Everything was spinning and changing color rapidly, but the colors were nice ones, at least, or so the old man thought.
“I’d like to introduce you to the new reality,” Mick said. T.S. nodded solemnly in agreement. The old man saw and heard nothing more. He slumped over in his wheelchair as his violin tumbled to the pavement.
"That guy used to be a music professor at NYU." Katie nodded at the grizzled old man planted in a wheelchair, playing violin.
ReplyDelete"Urban legend," stated Tim. "You've lived here long enough to know there's a tragic story floating around about every high-profile homeless dude. All bogus, meant to induce sympathy."
The familiar strains of a Bach concerto lured them across the street.
"Seriously," Katie insisted. "Don't you remember hearing the story? His wife was a concert violinist..."
"Oh yea," Tim butted in, "he discovered her body in their apartment about ten years ago. She'd been strangled with a violin string. Creepy!" he shuddered.
"The poor guy went off the deep end," Katie sighed. "Now he just sits outside the museum and plays Bach day after day. The wife was famous for her Bach concerto in A minor."
"That's harsh," Tim said, watching the old man caress the violin tenderly as he played.
"Can you imagine re-living that scene every day of your life?" Katie shook her shoulders as if to erase the image.
Thomas Carmichael watched the two young people drop coins in his violin case and smiled.
"Of course I can," he thought contentedly, "that was the best performance of my life."
All so excellent today!!! I like the dark theme going on too. Fun.
ReplyDeleteFor years he had studied human behavior, but this was his ultimate experiment and one he had saved for his retirement years. Morning after morning he rose early and prepared for the day, donned a clean and pressed shirt and slipped on well-polished shoes. The lanyard he wore around his neck held the credentials which were once required to enter the facility where he worked – a subtle touch, he reckoned.
ReplyDeleteDay after day he positioned himself outside the gates of the museum, not so close that visitors had to step around him but close enough that they couldn’t help noticing his wheelchair or his music. He wondered if anyone noticed his expensive flask or the signature on his Stradivarius.
Hour after hour his tired old hands caressed the strings of his perfectly-tuned antique violin as the tunes from his classical repertoire filled the air. Through his narrowed eyelids he watched the reaction of the people who passed.
Some increased their gait. Others slowed. Occasionally someone would drop a few coins into his violin case. Rarely a passerby would mutter their disapproval. A few times a day a small group or a family would stop and listen and then offer polite applause, more in appreciation of their own act of kindness than of his efforts.
But no one ever stopped to chat, to ask who he was or what he had done with his life. No one was interested in the war that had put him into a wheelchair or in the career that he had built around his experiences with people who had been traumatized by battle. No one wondered how it was that he had mastered such a difficult instrument or when he had been exposed to the kind of music that he chose to play.
They preferred to see him as pitiful, as homeless, as a beggar. To dismiss him and wish he hadn’t made them feel uncomfortable. To believe he had always been on the streets with a fiddle.
The sign he sat beneath served as a synopsis of his experience. “Allow me to introduce myself, indeed, Mr. Jagger,” he thought. No one would ever would. “That would definitely be too much reality for human kind, Mr. Elliot.”
LOL All of them were great! It was a great prompt too.
ReplyDeleteHi, Lolly! Glad you joined.
Lolly, great post! Welcome!
ReplyDeleteLolly - definitely a terrific post!
ReplyDeleteDeb - ooooh...[so good!]
Thanks Heather!
And now...on to Tuesday's wicked prompt!
=D