Mr. Funaki pinched his fingers so softly together, his wrist turning, the violin singing a long, fragile note that rang through the auditorium. His heart soared with every trill. His breath sighed and twisted at every gleaming, crystal-sharp echo that swept through his chest and swam high against the rafters. The instrument was perfect: its dance so delicate that the tiniest fracture would form in his mind and shine like the sun.
Tears stung his eyes as they flicked open, gazing at the silent instrument in its case. He lay his swollen, arthritic hands to his lap,… the memory fading away.
(c) Tim Austin 2016. Promo image courtesy of Providence Doucet via Unsplash
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