The violinist

A tale for Sunday's Whirligig where the given words are shade, stain, lace,

velour, purse, ink, diaphanous, clip, iridescent,weather, dissonant and mottled.

I woke to the dissonant sound of a screeching violin. I told myself I was dreaming. Rarely did anybody pass my little shack in the woods. I opened my eyes. I wasn't dreaming; somebody was outside braving the cruelest winter weather I could recall. 

Wrapped in a blanket, I walked to the window and tugged open the velour drape. The inside of the glass was festooned with an iridescent lace pattern of ice shimmering in the early morning sun. I scraped some of it away leaving a mottled diaphanous film though which I could just make out the shape of a man sitting on a snow covered stump in the shade of a tree. I pushed open the window and watched as he tunelessly scraped the strings of a violin with a bow. He noticed me, stopped and looked at me with a menacing expression, his lips pursed, his brow furrowed.

He sat motionless for what seemed ages. I was transfixed by his glare. He dropped his instrument into the snow and produced a quill pen, and a sheet of parchment from a bag clipped to his waist.

I watched as he furiously scribbled, his hand a blur. He stopped then turned the parchment to face me; I was staring at a picture of myself, an agonised countenance on my face. Suddenly a gust of wind ripped it from his hand and I watched as it flew higher and higher, up and over the treetops. When I looked down he had gone. All that remained were his  footprints disappearing into the distance. 

I left my shack that morning never to return. I handed the keys to an agent and asked him to dispose of it for me.

There was something in the way the agent looked at me. His pursed lips and furrowed brow seemed chillingly familiar. And he bore an ink stain on his hand.

Picture: Part of Violinist Circular Study, Joseph Vassie

It's back to the April A-Z Challenge for me tomorrow. With just four letters and 1560 writers remaining we have reached W and I've written a poem for children called  If I was a Worm.