Flash Fiction On and on it plays

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Image © Björn Rudeberg

 

Sometimes I wake in the night, panic tight around my neck like a cord. I press my palms tight against my ears but I can still hear it, the song you wrote for me. The song you played for her.

I furl and unfurl my fingers. Sometimes they cramp with the memory. How the rosewood felt beneath my skin. The weight of the cello as I swung it high above my head, splintering as it came crashing down upon your skull.

But I still hear the music.

I whimper as I rock backwards and forwards, my fingernails clawing at my scalp.

Please make it stop.

 

I didn’t think I would be able to join in with Friday Fictioneers today as my copy edits for The Gift are due but they are not here yet and once I saw the photo I couldn’t resist joining in.  To read the other entries or join in with this weekly hundred word story challenge, inspired by a photo prompt, hop over to host Rochelle’s blog, here.

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65 thoughts on “Flash Fiction On and on it plays

  1. I love where you took this! Favorite line? panic tight around my neck like a cord P.S. I asked our local library to order your book “The Sister” so many people can read and enjoy it! A copy is on its way. Hooray!

  2. The things that have happened to cellos and acts perpetrated by cellists in this series. Your person hits someone over the head with it and my person wakes up holding a cello in bed thinking it’s his dead wife.
    I come from a musical family where my cousin’s a cellist and I play violin so that’s given me an intimacy with the topic and I’ve really been enjoying reading the responses.
    Your take was great. Very vivid and graphic. Well done.
    xx Rowena

  3. Dear Louise,

    I’m so glad you jumped in and joined the party. What a wonderful piece of writing. So many good things have been said already. I echo them. All the best with the editing. We’re still in process with As One Must, One Can.

    Shalom,

    Rochelle

  4. Wonderfully dark tale, Louise. I can visualise the cello being weilded and the splintering wood. I particularly like depiction of the rocking guilt and anguish. I’m sure the killing felt to the narrator like an ending, not realising what would come after…

Constructive criticism appreciated

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