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 Post Post subject: Another Story
Posted: Wed May 23, 2012 4:32 pm 
Catspaw knows all
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I'm going to stop living for God and start living with Him.

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Because of the response I got from my first story (two comments, woohoo!) I am posting its sequel that I wrote beforehand. The italics are written by Karen Andreola (I got it from her book 'Story Starters'), the rest was written by me.
A Young Musician
“Hans, are you in the attic again?” his mother called up the narrow steps. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
“Yes, Mother. I started reading up here, because it’s so nice and quiet,” Hans answered, as he promptly made his way down the winding back staircase. “Have you seen the view of the town from up here?”
“Yes, I have. It’s very nice, son,” She said abstractedly, because something more pressing was occupying her mind. She held out a piece of paper. “A message was delivered here for your father, and I need you to deliver it to him straightaway.”
“Of course, Mother.” Hans tucked the folded paper securely into the inside pocket of his jacket, slipped on his best boots at the door, and waved goodbye. Hans hated hurrying, but his father was a doctor and Hans was used to urgency. People came to the house at all hours of the night when a loved one was very ill, or when there had been an accident. Hans spent several hours a week assisting his father at surgery after school hours. His parents expected that he would study to be a doctor, too. But Hans was uncertain whether he really wanted the kind of life his father had, and he wondered whether he could be as sincerely full of mercy as his father was.
He made rapid steps and delivered the message speedily, but did not stay until his father finished. He walked home in a more leisurely manner, ambling towards home through the back cobblestone streets of his little Austrian town. His stomach was growling and, unable to wait for supper, he stopped at the bakery just before it closed and bought a penny bun. Biting into it with delight, he let the crumbs from its crispy crust fall where they would.
As he continued to stroll along, he suddenly heard the faint but clear notes of music coming from the second story window of a house just ahead. Hans loved music. What a curious tune, he thought. It was news to him. Stopping in front of the house, he wondered who lived in it. Wishing to keep the sweet melody in his head, he hummed it as he walked the rest of the way home. He feared the tune in his head would soon slip from memory if he could not duplicate the notes. There were no musical instruments in his household, but his resourceful mind struck on an idea.

Hurrying to his home, humming the tune all the while, Hans ran up the stairs until he had arrived in the attic. The attic was his reading room and had papers and books, as well as old apple cores and juice cups, strewn about. There was also old furniture placed around and a stool next to a desk with a broken leg. Hans had propped it up with a small log and hurried to the desk now. He grabbed a string and strung it from one wall to another. Then, searching around, he found a box of horseshoes that used to be kept downstairs until the horseshoe court was destroyed in a storm. Hans took the horseshoes and strung them up on the string. He placed all of them together above his desk and grabbed a small, pointed stick. He tapped the horseshoe on the right. Clangs came from the horseshoes.
Hans smiled and hummed the tune that he had heard. He tried to duplicate it with the horseshoes, but all he could get was clangs and dongs.
Hans sighed and dropped his stick. He stared at the horseshoes. He had no other way of duplicating the wonderful tune. He could hum it, but that wasn’t the same as playing it with something. Hans reached over and turned on his radio, suddenly in need of music. The radio was small and had been snuck into the house, but it played music quietly so that no one could hear. Hans turned up the radio and listened to the music. It was fixed on a Christian station.
Suddenly, a violin came on and played the wonderful tune. Hans could barely stop his excitement. He pressed his ear against the radio and turned the sound down. He stared out the attic window, wishing he could play the tune. Then, his eye fell on what was hanging above the window: his father’s dusty violin. Hans started to quiver with excitement. He had seen others play the violin and had even had a few lessons from the school music teacher. Once he found out that Hans didn’t have a violin, the teacher had stopped giving lessons.
Hans hurried forward and grabbed the violin. He slowly lowered from its place and placed it under his chin. He closed his eyes and played the tune. There were mistakes, dozens of mistakes, but each time he played the tune it seemed to go better. Then, he was playing as hard as he could and as quickly as he could. The song seemed to flow from his fingers! Noise seemed to flow all around him and he began to play things he had heard only once or twice.
When footsteps came pounding up the stairs, Hans barely heard them. Not until his mother stared him in the face did he stop playing the instrument.
“What is it, Mother?” Hans asked. His face was red from his work and his arms were trembling, but his eyes were full of joy.
Hans’s mother seemed to look all around except at the boy. “I’m sorry, Hans.”
“What is it, Mother?” Hans repeated. His face had turned into a puzzled frown rather than joyful glee.
“Hans,” his mother whispered, “I can’t let you play that.”
“Why not?” Hans asked, folding his arms around the violin as if to protect it.
“Your father won’t allow it to be played,” Hans’s mother answered. Her face was dark and her heart seemed to be torn in two.
“Okay, Mother,” Hans said slowly, not sure what to make of the matter. He placed the violin where it belonged. He turned around quickly. “Mother, I do so want to play an instrument. Would you allow me too?”
Mother seemed relieved. “Of course, Hans. I could even get you a violin.”
“I thought you said-”
“You can play instruments, just not that one.”
Hans was puzzled, but grew glad that he could play a violin. He hurried down the stairs.

That night, when Hans was in bed, Edward, Hans’s father, and Lucille, Hans’s mother, washed the dishes downstairs.
“Edward,” Lucille started.
“What?” Edward asked.
“I think we should tell Hans. He needs to know about his father.”
Edward stepped over and placed his hand on his wife’s shoulder. “No.” Lucille didn’t protest.
That ended the conversation and because of that Hans never knew what his father had done before Hans had been born and Hans never knew what importance that violin had been while Edward had been at his work.

My blog: Where I talk about stuff and the book(s) I've published.

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 Post Post subject: Re: Another Story
Posted: Thu May 24, 2012 8:19 am 
I'm as fancy as Penguin!
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*yawn* I like crackers.

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Once again, you delivered a great story! Keep on writing 'em and posting them here!


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