Hummingbird Music
I offer up the short story, Hummingbird Music, for your consideration.
We've reached the six month mark of this short story journey. Six stories that I hope you've had time to read or listen to (if you haven't - no worries, now is a great time to start). Help me celebrate this half-way mark by going back and leaving some comments on previous stories (as well as this one). It would be great to get some feedback on what you've experienced so far in reading these tales.
On the main page for these short stories, I have the following quote by Orson Scott Card.
"The "true" story is not the one that exists in my mind; it is certainly not the written words on the bound paper that you hold in your hands. The story in my mind is nothing but a hope; the text of the story is the tool I created in order to try to make that hope a reality. The story itself, the true story, is the one that the audience members create in their minds, guided and shaped by my text, but then transformed, elucidated, expanded, edited, and clarified by their own experience, their own desires, their own hopes and fears. The story is one that you and I will construct together in your memory."
I fully believe this quote is true, and hope to continue to build experiences for the both of us in the next six months. The joy of reading is the ability of a story to always evoke something within the reader. It may be a character you can relate to or empathize with. Maybe it brings up topics you dislike, don't understand, or even disagree with.
All in all, stories are a journey, one that you and I are on together. They are touchpoints along the path where conversations start, memories are relived, opinions formed, and hearts moved.
Hummingbird Music
"The girl may begin when ready."
A flash, the glint of August sun off glass, as the man pulled his spectacles from his lumpy face.
Late afternoon cut the formal parlor into shards. Luminosity met the piano against the far wall and then split into dark corners. No gray, just harsh lines. The lumpy man, Mr. Robbins, sat on the boundary where brilliance met gloom. The girl imagined him as a golem, animated for a purpose but lacking a soul.
The mantle clock ticked twice—three more and her mother cleared her throat.
Emily Vogel brought her fingers to the piano's keyboard. She quickly glanced to where her mother sat. The stern woman, perched straight and proud, gave her daughter a warning look. Behind, stood her father, his firm hands resting on the back of his wife's chair. Emily didn't need to look into his eyes. She knew the piercing stare.
And so, it once again began. ...click here to read more...
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