[Critique Group 1] your pieces are due

[Leonard Tuchyner]

Hi group 1,

Just a friendly reminder, your  pieces are due tomorrow. Mine is below.




Violin 

 

I was lovingly fashioned by my master craftsman . He had not made a name for himself, for he wasyoung.  I remember how his coughing started. At first it came as a constantclearing of his throat. Then it gradually grew into a severe cough, which soonwas accompanied by specks of blood. 

His name was Myron Humbleton. He  was gaining skill, and I thought he hadreached  a level of mastery that wasclose to being as good as anybody’s in the world  by the time he started to make me.  I know, because only the best violins have asoul. You can hear it when a master plays one. I knew I would have one, beforeI was fully formed. That’s how I know he was a master. But it looked like Iwould never be finished.  

Myron was not married. He had no family, having lost themall in a war. He grew up in poverty and had only a modicum of training. For themost part, he was self-taught, putting all his resources into his beloved  craft. Getting the best woods, tools, glues,and everything necessary to fashion a quality instrument was his one desire. This goal was even more important thanhis welfare and health. Consequently,  hisbody was failing at a very early age.

“God,” he prayed, “please allow me to finish my  masterpiece. That is all I ask from you.  And if you fail me, I’ll make a pact with theDevil.” 

God seemed not to have answered his prayer. Myron was deterioratingrapidly, and it seemed he would die before I was completed. One day, after aspasm of bloody coughing, I heard him talking to a presence. It was an evilpresence, like a singular cloud continually given to lightning strikes whichmade no noise but exuded colored flashes, all of impossible hues. 

“Did you call?” the presence asked.  His voice was that of a businessman.

“Y, Y, Yes,” was the quivering  answer that came from Myron.

“Don’t tell me--,” his sarcastic voice told Myron. “You wantto make a trade.”

“Yes. I know it’s not much of a trade. My soul has beencursed since the day I was born. Giving it to you will cost me nothing.”

“If it is worth nothing to you, then you cannot expect muchof a deal. What do you want from me in return for your worthless soul?”

“Allow me to  finishmy  violin. It will have value. Nothingelse that issues from me does. Perhaps that will make my life worth something.”

“This is an arrangement that potentially has a few loopholes, which I must cover in writingthe  pact.”

“Whatever you wish, I’ll agree to. However, I, too, want tocover some loopholes.”

“Such as?”

“When my violin is finished, I must have a guarantee that itwill last at least two thousand years.”

“No problem. But you just assure me that you will work on itat least ten hours a day. Otherwise, you might take forever.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll throw in good health while you work on it. You’ll needit.”

“Very well,” Myron acceded.

“Acceptable. Now  signhere on the dotted line in blood.” 

Instantaneously, Myron’s complexion turned from grey to aruddy, healthy color. His breathing became clear, and vitality entered , for the first time, into his life.For the remainder of his corporeal being, everything went his way. The resourcesfor completing or going back to redo his work on me were at hisfingertips.  The best of varnishes, glues,woods, and tools seemed to appear from nowhere. Myron’s  feverish desperation to  finish his workwas now a joyous activity. I could feel myself coming together .  My strings were  the very best ,aswere the pegs and bridge.  My bow was thelast piece of artistry. The horse hairs to coax out a vibration in my stringswere the finest. 

Finally came the finishing touches, which required  Myron to play and listen for flaws. He foundthem and spent time in making alterations. When finished, it was the moment oftruth. I was cradled on his shoulder, and I sang. I could feel  him pouring his soul into me, and I cried,laughed, shouted  as the processproceeded. It was then that I became aware that I was truly alive. Myron playedfor four hours without stopping. Folk songs and operatic arias filled my voice.  

Reluctantly, he stopped. All that he had was poured intome.  

There came a knocking on his door. 

“Come in, Mr. Lucifer. I’m ready to go with you.”

The Devil walked in, then looked  expectantly at Myron. Then his expressionchanged to confusion, followed by anger.

“What did you do with your soul?”

“It is in the violin.”

“Did you seek to break your contract with me by putting itin your violin?”

“I couldn’t help myself. I have always poured my soul intomy work. This violin is the only instrument that can hold it.”

“I’ll just take it with me into hell,” said Satan. 

“If you do, it will break. Then you will have nothing out ofthe contract.”

Lucifer’s anger then quickly turned to laughter. He lookedat Myron with admiration. “ But you have not had the last laugh. I will stillown your soul, even if it is in your accursed instrument.  You cannot die, for you have no soul to giveme, or God  nor anyone. You are cursed toroam the world carrying your creation . Only when you play it will you be trulyalive. When you play it, know you are playing for me. I  gift you for your almost outwitting me.”

“What is that?” Myron asked.

A violin case appeared in his hand and the Devil laid it atMyron’s feet with a bow of appreciation, ending in a flash of Hell fire into whichhe disappeared.

If you hear a far-off sound of a violin  playing, or a sweet summer breeze  or the crashing of a sea, perhaps it is mesinging for the Devil.  




 
 
Leonard I. Tuchyner, Author
 
https://www.dldbooks.com/tuchyner/

 
  
 
 

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