Zoë’s Creative Writing Corner: A Mournful Sonata

Hi guys! This new addition to Zoë’s Creative Writing Corner is a really short story about a girl and her violin. I really enjoyed writing this, especially since I was listening to fast, classical violin music on YouTube while I worked. This story has nothing to do with the rest of my stories. It belongs in its own little bubble. I hope you enjoy Amira and her mournful sonata.

A Mournful Sonata

Amira picks up her violin from its case, holding it by the neck and placing it comfortably under her chin and over her shoulder, her bow twirling in her other hand. Any other time, Amira would be indulging in the delights and details of the world, but not now. When Amira holds her violin, her companion through thick and thin, the world silences. Amira does not need sheet music to play, her own fast-paced compositions running like a stream between her thoughts. Taking a deep breath, Amira gently places the bow on her taut strings. Then, she plays. 

In seconds, the music consumes Amira, engulfing her in the stream of her own noise and thoughts. Amira runs her bow against her strings like a madwoman, shaking and swaying with the rises and falls of her music. Amira does not play slow music. Her life has always moved faster than most, so of course her solos do the same. Without noticing, Amira begins dancing across her little studio, her black waves swaying around her with her every, perfectly messy step. Her legs leap with her notes and her hips sway with her melodies. 

The notes in her head begin moving faster, spinning in on themselves and out again until an almost inhuman melody spews from Amira’s hands. This is when the ghosts come. 

Ghosts of every shape and size rise from the ground and walls, smokey and pale as their eyes shine with wonder. Amira does not notice the ghosts, her eyes closed as the world of her music revolves around her. Some ghosts, the people who died peaceful deaths in their beds, sit in the corners of the studio, admiring the dancing girl that lured them. The younger ghosts, the children and young adults, the people that died much too young, dance with the girl, spinning around her and holding hands, always entranced by the violinist who summoned them. They cannot help but love her and her vitality. 

Every so often, a ghost will float up to the girl’s face and admire her flushed cheeks and the beads of sweat on her neck. They will note every smile that crosses her lips and every knit of her brows in concentration. They will note every detail that proves she is alive, every inch of the girl that they cannot reproduce. 

After over an hour of playing, when Amira’s fingers are sore and her forearms aching, she slows to a stop in the center of her studio, her song slowing with her. Amira’s wailing notes slide into a longing crescendo, a final outcry for more even as exhaustion beats down on her weary arms. After her cry goes unanswered, her music slows, coming to a final, mournful halt. The ghosts stay entranced, their hearts breaking as Amira opens her dazed eyes. She is not shocked to see the ghosts, her constant companions. She only looks across their ranks and sighs, “Okay guys, show’s over.”