Rochelle Wisoff-Fields Friday Fictioneers
The Lonely Musician
When he stopped playing her tune, she threw him out.
‘And take your Steinway,’ she yelled. ‘It clutters up the place.’
For forty years he played on the street corner.
To the delight of commuters who dropped coins into his hat.
He never asked for a penny.
He lived and dreamed for music and to charm happy smiles from weary faces.
The lonely musician crawled under the lid one day, and citizens kept his piano as a memorial.
The passing shoppers can still hear Debussy being played.
Every day, when his wife waters the flowers on the musician’s grave.
Yew Tree Memorial
In our eulogies, we promised to gather beneath the yew and play canasta.
Our descendants keep the place fresh and painted in the summer
and, in our honour, they place the cards.
I dislike their stinking cigars.
They have forgotten we played outside in the fresh air away from satanic dens and we thanked the Lord for our community spirit, friendly companionship and enjoyment in life.
We cough and splutter as their foul smoke drifts through the branches disturbing eternal peace, we wait for sundown.
In eons, we have evolved our wisdom and take our seats to play Battlestar Galactica.