My second class for the writing course is tonight and I’m starting to get a little nervous.
We were assigned homework which we were supposed to turn into the instructor by Tuesday, so she could critique it and return it to us before we have to read it aloud in class tonight.
I e-mailed mine in on Tuesday and have yet to hear anything back. Either she read mine and became violently ill after reading it (as in, it was bad) or I sent it to the wrong email address.
While I’m pretty sure it was just the wrong email account, wouldn’t it be kind of funny if it really were that bad; that she swore off teaching forever! I wonder if that has ever happened?
Anyways, I’ve been debating whether to share it on the blog or not and I feel like now I should, if even just to send it out into the void to get my mind off of it.
The assignment was 300 words on “the violin.” I guess you could interpret that however you want. I couldn’t believe how short 300 words is; barely even one whole page!
So here it is, for better or for worse, my 300 words on “the violin.”
Relegated to a corner, easily overlooked amid the volumes of leather bound books, it had sat, untouched for years, gathering dust upon a shelf in his library. This exile made it easier to forget the happy days once associated with the violin. Yet, despite its silence, the mere presence of the violin, albeit in the shadows, was painful for him. Still, Martin couldn’t bear to rid himself completely of it.
It had been during the summer of 1978 when, as a child, his Grandfather had marched him down the weathered streets of Heidelberg and straight into Fandrich & Sons instrument shop. His Grandfather, an accomplished pianist, prided himself on the musical talents of his family, and he had decided his Grandson would be no different.
Martin had resisted at the time, his mind filled with daydreams of fighting pirates and slaying dragons. Yet, as he stood amid all the shimmering instruments lining the walls, he inexplicably found himself drawn to a small, dark violin, hidden behind a more commanding bassoon. This delicate violin, appearing almost fluid in its grace, held him in its trance.
A faint smile crossed his Grandfather’s lips as he watched his Grandson gravitate towards the violin. He recognized the stillness that seemed to envelope Martin as he drew ever closer, his anxious fingers stretching out to stroke the violin’s darkly varnished body. He had once felt that same lust, when he, as a young boy, ran his eyes over the cold ivory keys of a Steinway piano.
“This one,” whispered Martin, his head never turning from the violin. “I want to play this one.”
As they walked back up the darkening streets, Martin felt the weight of the violin, secured within its leather case, pulsing with expectation.