Fact or fiction: Violinist in the cemetery

She went to his grave every day. It was like breathing. Automatic. Something she did without thinking. It had become routine. Not in a bad way. Not like when she recited the confession in church, saying the words but not really paying attention to what they meant. But routine in the way that if she didn’t come, her day wouldn't feel quite right. Like drinking a gin and tonic and instead of her usual Tanqueray No. 10 she was stuck with Seagram’s Extra Dry, a piss poor substitute. She could taste the difference, even with extra lime.

Once, she tried not coming. She almost got through the whole day, too. But when she closed her eyes that night, she saw his face. He was beckoning her. Next thing she knew she was on her knees in front of the small granite grave, her nightgown bunched up around her.

She didn’t know she had company. Didn’t see him staring from a few graves away. Normally, he came when the day was closing its eyes. But today was an exception. Today, he was there before the morning could finish its yawn. He had to be at the airport by 8.

He watched her fingers dance across her chest, making the sign of the cross. Her flaming red hair licked her back like a rolling fire. He wondered if she had a temper. Isn’t that what they said about redheads? She didn’t look like the temper type.  She looked more delicate. Maybe it was her pale skin or that a violin case lay open beside her.

It was the music that first drew him near. Her sweet notes drifted like snowflakes and he felt like a boy, wanting to capture them on his tongue and savor forever. When he followed the musical trail, he found her playing a lullaby. Sweet and flowing with a tinge of sadness.


Fact or fiction? Read on to find out.

Fact or fiction: Yapper in the house

Her mouth flapped faster than the American flag whipping the metal pole in the spring green yard. Just when I thought a period was coming and she’d stop and take a breath the sentence ran on – and on and on and on.

 It was like watching my wheaten cairn terrier eat up the yard looking for that dang brown bunny, the one that teases him from the other side of the glass patio door. I swear that if the bunny don't die the dog will trying to catch it.

Like the cairn, she was on a topic and she wasn't going to let it go until she killed it. Her rubbery lips fast danced and her mouth spewed gossip like it was a volcano that couldn't keep its fiery guts from boiling out.

After awhile, I stopped listening. Like I sometimes do in church when Pastor Greg’s voice slides into a lullaby. You’re looking and nodding but your mind is somewhere else. Maybe you’re thinking about the Moose Tracks ice cream in the freezer and wondering if there’s any left. Maybe you’re thinking you need to clip your nails or shave or… Hell, I don’t know. You’re thinking a million things other than what you should be thinking. And that’s when it happens. She notices your glassy eyes, the way your melon-sized head bobs and your heavy eyelids crawl closed.

“Are you even listening to me?” she spits in your face.

 And you know you’ve been caught mingling with more interesting subject matter – like Moose Tracks ice cream. So the question is do you tell her the truth and admit you played mental hooky (which means she’s going to start over and you’ll be listening to her yap for another hour) or lie.

 I lie. Try to sit still. Keep my eyes focused on her acrobatic lips.

 “I thought you said you were listening to me?”

I twist in my seat like I’ve got to pee. “Sorry. I’m listening. Totally. I promise.”

“As I was saying…”

And all I can think about for the next 30 minutes is how much I want to eat the Moose Tracks ice cream. When she shuts up, er leaves, I leap for the freezer only to find that someone’s beaten me to it.

The Moose Tracks is gone – and so it my sanity.

Is this fact or fiction? Read on to find out. 

Quote of the day

"You must want to enough. Enough to take all the rejections, enough to pay the price of disappointment and discouragement while you are learning. Like any other artist you must learn your craft—then you can add all the genius you like."

--Phyllis A. Whitney