Post 1470. Tuesday March 7
‘You’ve got no friends’ my father said. ‘You need a proper job’. There was no point in arguing. But my fingers were my tools, ivory keys my colleagues and composers my friends. As a pianist I earned little, but it paid the bills.
I cannot describe the feeling I had whilst sitting at my piano upon a stage, notes flying, gliding, hovering, diving. My audience flew with me. They smiled; sometimes they wept. I wept. Such is the power of music.
I played in smoky jazz bars too, a tot of whisky and a cigarette to hand. It was so different. There, my music competed with chattering crowds. They only heard me when I stopped! I played loudly they spoke loudly; in quiet pieces, they murmured. But I loved it.
Time took its toll on my overworked hands. I play little now. My piano sits ‘neath a dusty cover in the corner of my room. I occasionally play for old folk and sometimes stand in for the organist at my church. But music remains my constant companion, though now I consume rather than create. It will never desert me, never.
Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers