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Car Park Symphony

Car Park Symphony

Friday Flash

Opus 39

Prelude

He pulled into the car park as dusk gathered her skirts and rustled them like autumn leaves around the gutters and across the playground.

First Movement

With the keys removed from the ignition the radio ceased its duet with the engine. The keys jingled quietly until muted in his palm.

Second Movement

The staccato squeak of swings and the arpeggio laughter of two toddlers formed the opening prelude as he walked to the boot of the car.

Third Movement

In the open the boot he rigged a music stand, attached a light and pegged down the music before opening the case and taking out his violin.

Fourth Movement

Cradling the violin under his chin he plucked the strings to tune midst an abrasive chorus of screeching lorikeets roosting.

Fifth Movement

He rested the bow against the strings, pausing to listen to the sounds surrounding him. A smile formed on his lips as he added his own song.

Sixth Movement

His song finished as the orange and red blended into velvet blue. The lorikeets were silent and the swings had ceased their metronomic pulse.

Seventh Movement

The toddlers stood hand-in-hand, eyes focused on the violin. He bowed and they ran back to their mothers. The music echoed in their footsteps.

Polaroid Memories

 I

He waved the Polaroid like a fan, an invocation to the camera gods. Greys and whites morphed into a toothy smile, pigtails and brown eyes.

 II

He remembers the pinhole camera made in science class and his first over exposed photo of his gangly best mate with a pudding bowl haircut.

 III

A thousand images plastered to his folder, replicating an editor’s cutting room floor, yet shaped by a teenage boy’s view of the world.

IV

Spooling rolls of film into an old fashioned camera, he searched for her soul through the viewfinder. The weaving of two lives printed onto paper.

V

Breathe in. Breathe out. Push. A held breath as the doctor delivered a little girl. A memory imprinted into his mind like a photograph.

VI

He turned the pages of albums, sheets of acetate and leaves of paper crinkling like autumn drifts pushed and pulled by the winds of memory.

VII

“Make a wish.” Grasping the dandelion in pudgy hands she blew a mix of air and spit, watching the tiny blossoms parachute to the ground.