Absurd Short Story: -Long Island Smooth-

When I was a lad around the age of 6, my parents made me take up the viola. As some of you very well know it is difficult to comprehend the intricacies of such an instrument at this tender age. I considered myself a decent player, but on occasion my bow would run across the strings in a manner that produced violent scraping noises. These noises were so unbearable to the neighbors in the apartment that they constantly banged on the walls, discouraging me from playing. However, my parents, with strained smiles, cajoled me to keep at it. Unfortunately, poor technique led me to never be able to correct this flaw in my playing.

After a few months, my instructor deemed that I could play sufficiently enough to have my first concert at the senior citizen's center in West Babylon, Long Island, hoping that our soothing sounds would help relieve the elders of their stress. I spent the prior night fumbling with my notes until I was forced to resign at 10:30 PM (a very late bedtime for a 6-year old, mind you) and woke in the morning cranky and devoid of energy. My mother had to splash water in my face that morning to prevent me from drowning in my cereal.

Afterwards, I was driven to the center, ready to give the performance what little energy I had left inside me. The rest of the band started the beat and the elders seemed to be enjoying the sounds for a while, bobbing their heads and tapping their feet. After sixteen measures of rests, my part came, and I, out of fatigue and anxiety, faced my unfortunate flaw as I scratched bow across string. The din that it produced was similar to that of a dying cat, and even the nicer looking members of the retirement home let their hands cast shadows over their ears.

In my attempts to correct my devilish note, I fingered the fretboard differently, but each sound proved to be more horrible than the last. By the time I had finished, most of the elders had been killed, put out of their misery by my deafening tones; those still alive fanning themselves with newspapers, trying to slow their palpitating hearts.

From that disastrous day forth I have never felt the urge to pick up the viola again, and my parents, neighbors, peers, and the entire West Babylon senior community seemed to be eternally grateful. We donated the viola to an arts organization in Wantaugh, and it remains on their wall to this day.