Recital
A Thursday Prompt story
©2023 by Walter Reimer

Prompt: player



“Next is Horace Nicholson.’

The ram took a deep breath to center himself as his name was called. His fleece had been trimmed short, not sheared; his curling horns had been polished and the tuxedo he wore was new and clean. His hooves clicked against the hardwood floor as he stepped out of the theater’s wings and onto the stage.

Pinned under a small array of floodlights was the mountain he had to climb. The cello had been his constant companion, mortal enemy, and best friend for years as he honed his style. He and it had won music competitions more often than they had lost. He resisted the urge to bow to the instrument before turning to face the panel of three judges that sat below him, third row center.

The trio, two men in tuxedos and a woman in evening dress, nodded impassively as he took a seat, settled the cello between his legs just so, and took up his bow. He had rosined the strands before positioning the instrument onstage while the judges had taken a break from the previous contestants’ performances. Horace was last.

Perfect.

Let others play material written by others like Brahms, Beethoven, and McCartney; with a final nod, he closed his eyes, set the bow to the cello, and began to play a composition he had written himself. It was titled Summer Thunderstorm.

It started gently, the melody describing in warm tones the afternoon breeze, the call of birds, and the play of children before it began to gain a somber note to describe the gathering storm on the horizon. The breeze grew into a wind and the birdsong and children receded as they sought safe haven.

A brief minor-key pizzicato heralded the first drops of rain.

Horace closed his eyes, losing himself to the music. Every bit of his concentration centered on the notes, the chord progressions, the emotions of facing a storm alone. The thunder, the flashes of lightning and gale force winds were evoked as his bow raced across the strings of the cello.

Gradually, the lightning ceased, the thunder withdrew into the distance, and with a final pizzicato the rain stopped. The music changed, evoking once more the song of birds, but this time on a triumphant note. The children’s theme reemerged, accompanied by brief explosions of notes to mimic playful splashing in rain puddles.

The coda was gradual, fading eventually into silence, leaving Horace with his head bowed over the cello, the bow nearly slipping from his paw.

All he could do was breathe, and wonder where the time had gone.

The applause of the three judges brought him out of his reverie.

He set his cello, his friend, his enemy, his lover, aside and stood to bow and acknowledge their applause, and the fact that he had won the competition.

It had all been worth it, even the abdominal surgery that enabled him to craft new strings for the cello. He wouldn’t miss a few feet of small intestine, so the doctor had assured him.

An artist must suffer for their art.



end