Pianoforte

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Flash Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: January 06, 2019

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Submitted: January 06, 2019

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Pianoforte

She’s crazy!”

She’s gone mad!”

Have you ever heard of such a lunatic idea?”

These comments and more echoed around Trisha’s ears. None of them understood the magnitude, the deepness of her desire to do this one thing. Even if it should mean the end to her piano.

It was something she simply HAD to do!

The closest to understanding was her own mother. “It’s such a waste, though, Trish. You should be in a concert hall somewhere. I know that you’re good enough and so do you.

I know why you want to do this but please, just think about it. It could be recorded, and then you could send that. At least that way you’ll know he’ll hear it.”

It’s symbolic,” she had said. “Whether he hears it or not, I can do it, and know that it is done.”

Trisha was not going to change her mind and, as she pointed out, the piano and the dress belonged to her. She should have the final say.

It took a lot of organisation. Taking a piano such as the one Trisa owned anywhere was no easy task, but to set it down on the beach, amongst the rocks was a real challenge. Timing was crucial for the position that she had insisted on was washed by the waves. The tide would need to be out, and to have been so for a while, otherwise those wooden legs were just going to sink.

And then there was getting it back, too. She’d not be able to play too long without risking losing her precious instrument to the sea.

It’s a risk I’m prepared to take,” Trisha had said. “He’s worth so much more than any instrument, no matter what it’s monetary value.” And amidst all the looks, the scorn, the comments of madness, Trisha had stuck to her plans.

She walked out to the piano bare-foot, oblivious to the pools of salt water that her dress dragged in. She did not care about it for Trisha knew that she would never wear it again. Even though the day was mild, she shivered with her back and her arms exposed to the elements. Even when she took her seat, began to tentatively stroke the keys with her finger-tips, there was still the remnants of a tremble.

Trisha shifted her position slightly, and then she began to play, the notes of the piano being picked up and lifted by the breeze. She poured herself in to it, playing out her emotions; love, hesitation, desertion, devastation. The music went soft, then loud, spiralling with her feelings. She followed no written notes but played out her heart.

For ages she played and drew quite an audience. She knew that he would not hear, all those many miles away, but still she let her music talk for her until finally the notes drifted to a halt.

The applause from the gathered crowd startled her. Trisha had not known that they were there, had felt herself to be alone. It was a private moment, intense, draining. She knew her tears had left her make-up streaked.

Someone held a jacket out to her and she took it, thankfully. She was now so very cold, so very drained. All she wanted to do was to lay down and cry herself into a long, possibly endless sleep.

People began to walk down to lift the piano from the sand, to take it to safer land well away from the sea’s reach, but Trisha looked up and said, “No. Leave it to the sea for I will never, ever play again.” She walked up the beach without once looking back at the piano she was sacrificing to the sea.


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