CONTENTS - SCROLL DOWN FOR MICRO FICTION
TWO TINY MUSICAL TALES - DEBUT AND ENCORE
THE WEBSITE OF AUTHOR JANET GOGERTY
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VISIT THE AUTHOR'S LOCAL AREA AND CATCH UP WITH THE LATEST SEASONAL SHOTS
JUST PICTURES - FROM SCENIC TO STRANGE
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BRIEF ENCOUNTERS OF THE THIRD KIND
QUARTER ACRE BLOCK - READ THE BACKGROUND STORY
PLUS SHORT STORIES
My eyes were glued to the screen as the credits rolled over the cheering audience and the presenter bade us farewell ...goodnight from the Albert Hall
In a few days I would be there, my debut at the Royal Albert Hall, at The Proms... of course I had plenty of concerts under my belt, but this would be special and I was ready. I knew the programme off by heart, I would be waiting back stage for my moment, fit and well, my hands in good shape, my best black outfit pressed.
At last my moment had come. I could hear the rapturous applause, even back stage a camera was on me. I counted the seconds nervously, judged the level of applause then opened the stage door.
Out he came, my hero, tonight’s soloist. My palms were sweating, but I managed to coolly hand him the bottle of water. He took a swig and smiled at me before going back on stage to more thunderous applause.
For thousands of years rainwater had filtered through limestone hills, seeping out at the precious spring to be bottled for this moment. He had smiled at me, little me; but where would the world’s great musicians be without the backstage crew ensure their concerts went smoothly?
I realised the pain had stopped, I was dreaming, pleasantly drifting, music somewhere. Had it all been a dream?
When I first got the diagnosis I had joked with the other players of the string section, cellos always outlive their players. Mine certainly would, she was already three centuries old, how many had played her? Drifting, where was she now, my beautiful instrument?
Doctors give you a sentence, what they don’t say is that only half the sentence will be real living. I gave her back, I didn’t own her anyway; few musicians can afford to own the great instruments. They didn’t rush me, everyone was keeping up the pretence I was going to play again. The only positive to come from my untimely demise would be another player getting the chance to play her.
We’re going on stage, everyone’s tuning up. I can’t see, the others are leading me on. When did I lose my sight? It doesn’t matter, I know the concerto off by heart. I just wish I knew where we were. My arms aren’t working, how can I play without my hands? Am I still fixed to all those tubes and drips, still dreaming... I can’t open my eyes, I can’t wake up...
Everyone’s clapping. I can feel the audience, I’m close to the front of the stage. I can feel the breathing of the other string players... complete silence, I know I am in good hands. I sing the opening chords... they say the sound of the cello is the closest of any instrument to the human voice. I had a human voice, now I have a cello voice.
They say, who says, did I read it or just know it? They say when you die you become what you loved most.
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