Silas was the son of a watchmaker, but although he dutifully followed his father’s craft, he dreamed of becoming a musician instead. By day he toiled in the workshop, greasing gears, replacing springs and calibrating the minute mechanisms of the… Continue Reading
“Anton, listen to me. You won’t get anywhere like this.” Herr Hoffmann looked over my shoulder at the notes I was composing and sighed. “The salons of von Genzinger want something new. Your five-finger piano exercises use tunes from twenty… Continue Reading
It was a Bush that my grandfather received as a present back in 1958. It was housed in an expensive wooden cabinet with dials for volume, treble and bass, piano keys to switch between the bands, and a needle moving… Continue Reading
“Autumn Sweater” plays. And there we are, sitting, existing, in this space whose size we cannot know. And it’s a cliché, but clichés sprout from truth, and that’s a heavy truth that just sits there unless you do something with… Continue Reading
Through the hazy watercolor of a child’s memory, those months stand out with clarity even into my ninth decade. They start with the bombs dropping in the village streets. Even a child couldn’t mistake the bone-shaking howl, the blinding flashes… Continue Reading
After a week, a small band of followers started to gather at the bottom of the hill each morning to listen to Barbara’s magnificent voice. She took to wearing a bird-like mask to preserve her anonymity. When these supplicants asked… Continue Reading
I admit to looking down on them. Old men, stooping, dragging their miserable bodies and depressing outlooks into the paths of those still drinking life. The embers of their fading passion spent on letters to local papers complaining about technological… Continue Reading
The crunchy lettuce in her sandwich resounds in her head as she chews, so it’s not until she swallows that Maggie hears the song threading its way through the fug of damp clothes and coffee steam. The melancholic voice conjures… Continue Reading
Him, in a gray coat and red scarf. Him, one hand on the gas pump, the other in his pocket. Him, winking at me while whistling a tune. Me, in the same blue hoodie and jeans I’ve been wearing for… Continue Reading
Anya’s earworm was malfunctioning. There could be no other explanation for what she was feeling: she had caught herself several times humming the melody of a tune that wasn’t her graduation song. Just this morning at breakfast, her fingers had… Continue Reading