Crickets - Chapter 0.5
Sneak preview of an upcoming serial
Here’s the thing.
I made a deal with myself at the beginning of the year that I wasn’t going to miss any writing deadlines, and I’ve been good so far. But the last Friday of the month is when I usually post flash fiction, and I don’t have a flash fiction piece for you.
I have something that could be flash fiction, if I felt like cutting until I hit bone. It could also be a novella, if I felt like giving it room to grow. It could be a lot of things, and I’ve devoted a decent chunk of mental energy this week trying to figure out what it should be.
After lots of deliberation, I’ve decided to release it as a serial, with a chapter set to release each Friday in April. I’ve never done serialized fiction before, but there are a few natural breaks in this story, and I think it would work well in this format. I want to give it a little more time to rest (and give myself time to edit, organize, and schedule posts), but I also kind of want to keep my promise about deadlines and posting when I say I will, which is today.
So here’s a sneak preview of Crickets.
First Movement
Fours is sitting where he always is, legs swinging from the tailgate of his pickup truck, which—to my knowledge—has never vacated its perch overlooking the northbound lane of CR 34. At this point, you’d need a crane to move it. The tires are a study in dry rot. The axle would split in two if you tied a string to it.
The truck’s owner doesn’t look much better. Old and thin, Fours is more rangy than muscular, with too-long arms and a paunch that untucks the hem of his shirt every time he reaches for something. You couldn’t tailor a suit to fit him, and I doubt anyone’s ever tried to.
“Evening,” he says as I walk up, which is true. It’s the first Thursday night of summer break. Three months until the start of senior year, which feels more and more like a deadline, like time is slowing down and speeding up all at once.
“Evening,” I say, hopping onto the tailgate and nestling the violin case between us. Atop this meager table, I lay out an offering of cold sandwiches and a Ziploc bag with three chocolate chip cookies. He eyes it all, greedy, then nods and reaches for a sandwich. One of Fours’ many unwritten rules is that he doesn’t talk while he eats, so I sit quietly until he brushes the crumbs off his jeans.
“What are we working on tonight?” he asks.
“Rieding,” I say. “The B minor concerto, first movement.”
“Kid stuff,” he says. “You should play Bach.”
“I’m not good enough for Bach,” I say, but he shrugs this off.
“No one’s good enough for Bach,” he says. “But okay. Show me where you’re at.”
I pull out my violin and cradle it between my chin and collarbone. The harsh light of Fours’ camp lantern blares against the varnish, so I turn half an inch and stare off into the woods at an audience hiding somewhere in the trees.
I play atrociously, like I always do, like I’ve never played the violin before. Part of the trouble is that I can only play fast or slow but can never manage both in the same song. Either I dance over the eighth notes and rush the legatos, or I get a perfect tone from the long pulls and trip over the accents. Worst of all, I get nervous at the thought of my own imaginary audience. I rush through the end of the piece and end up limping over the finish line, grateful to be done.
“Not bad,” he says. “Hand her over.”
I pass Fours the violin, and you can almost see the trees lean in to listen. The bugs stop chirping. The underbrush falls quiet. Birds leave their nests and gather on branches at the edge of Fours’ campsite.
He plays, and it’s like the sky opening up, like rain falling on dry earth. Every note lands exactly where it’s supposed to, resolute and inevitable, but with a few pauses here and there to leave you twisting with the music. The first movement ends and he continues on to the second and third. Halfway through I notice him humming his own counter melody, adding the piano parts back in so that the violin has something to dance over. I don’t even think he knows he’s doing it.
The piece ends, and the night rushes to fill the silence with a breeze that ripples through the trees like scattered applause. Fours hands me the violin.
“You’re up.”
That’s the thing about Fours. He doesn’t actually teach you anything. He doesn’t correct your posture or your hand position, doesn’t show you the proper way to hold a bow. He just makes you believe in magic and then asks you to prove it.
Nice work!