It was an afternoon in late Autumn. The air was frigid and the wind bitter. It blew in fierce little gusts, penetrating the old man's thin, worn coat and sending shivers down his spine. He sat on the cobblestone ground in a drab, dark alleyway, slouched against a brick wall. Every few moments he would have violent spells of coughing, spattering his handkerchief with phlegm and blood.
He had accepted the fact that he was going to die. He only wished for company, someone, anyone to hear his story, and for warmth. It had been so long since he'd known the comfort of a fire crackling in the hearth.
Instead, he was to live his last moments in solitude and silence in this dismal place, the cold gnawing into him mercilessly.
Gradually the sky darkened, the pale, ghostly blue twilight of dusk fading slightly darker until finally the sky was a deep, inky indigo. Stars appeared slowly, and eventually the moon emerged from the clouds, brilliant and full. The old man tried to focus on the serenity of the night and the moon's regal beauty, to let it take his mind off his misery. He longed to join the distant, glimmering stars, suspended in the vast sky--so far from poverty and hunger and disease. So far from arrogance and selfishness, from those who assumed people like him deserved their misfortune and showed no compassion. A star would be free of strife. It would know only tranquility and beauty.
The moments crept by, the silence interrupted only by the old man's frequent coughing spells and the rats rummaging through overturned trash bins.
Something stirred in the shadows. The old man strained his eyes and thought he could make out a figure. It drew closer silently until it stood near the old man, illuminated by a flood of moonlight.
It was a slender young girl. She was barefoot and wore a simple dress. She was pale and had delicate features: jutting cheekbones and a dainty nose, small, shapely lips. Her eyes were dark and clear and calm and seemed to large for her pixie-like face. They were framed by arching brows. Dark tresses spilled over her slight shoulders. Though her face was young, her expression was older; weary and wistful and knowing.
In one hand she clasped the elegant, spiraling neck of a violin and in the other, its straight, slender bow. The polished mahogany gleamed in the gentle glow of the moon. The old man assumed she was one of the young street urchins who played scratchy tunes on street corners, hoping that sympathetic passerby would toss them a few coins.
The girl studied him solemnly a few moments, then raised her violin and carefully positioned in beneath her chin. She lifted the bow, its taut, horse-hair strings shining silver-white, and rested it atop the violins strings.
She closed her eyes and began to nod gently. Silently she mouthed the syllables, "One-te two-te three-te-"
She launched into a fiery, furious piece, her bow zipping madly across the strings. Her fingers worked rapidly at the top of the violin. Her brow was creased in concentration, her cheeks flushed with passion.
This was no street urchin.
[i]This is the beginning of a short story; it probably won't be much longer than 5 or 6 pages. It's a bit strange but I rather like it. What do you think? There's more to come...[/i]
