George played the concertina. Don't call it an accordion. Dad's lessons came out for something, anyway, he could pick up maybe $40 on a sunny afternoon, George squeezing out the tunes, eyes half-closed, he's back in his old room, red rugs and dark lavendar wallpaper, Edith Piaf on the record player, George is eight, his hair slicked back, suit with short pants, squeezing along with Edith, Uncle Toots slapping his knee, sour cigar smoke drifting to the brown ceiling, drink on the little table, Mom clapping along in her Sunday dress, flowered hat in her lap, Dad just nodding, yes, lessons were going well, George played along with Edith.
A fire truck passed.
George didn't know how old he was, now. His fingers black on the keys. He lifted a knee and hopped in time to the music.
George played the concertina.
Sunday, April 17, 2005
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5 comments:
As I started to read this my mind immediately flashed a picture of Curious George. Yay! But then as I read, I guess that's not who you were talking about. Oh, poo.
Yeah, I can be all sweet and innocent that way. Besides it just seemed to fit the moment I was having. I wasn't quite emotional enough to whip out a "shit" or "holy hellfire".
And "poo" has its own ability to shock, somehow.
Or is it just me?
For you, Sylvana, I'll post about Curious George one day.
alright, c.b. is writing scratch fiction.
a. that was dope, and,
b. see, the groovy thing about making shit up is how you don't have to actually leave the house if you're feeling antisocial or maybe you went out and it was boring. you just have to get really tired...
I like how I can feel your micro-narrative groove there, even though it's one I would never have found on my own.
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