Alice In Concerto/24

Bill — balancing himself rather bravely upon such limited surface — gave a bow. 

Relaxed, he stood tall, grounded both legs, and began moving his mighty little hands as though tuning invisible strings with a thrilling accelerando.

Alice’s breath came quick and low. “Pray—pray don’t do that!”

The words seemed to dissolve between the strings the second they left her mouth.

Bill only tightened his hold, his fingers moving with dreadful precision — each trembling vibrato a ghostly pluck along her nerves.

Alice wanted to still herself — to not breathe, not feel — yet her whole being betrayed her, executing the emotion she had meant to close, and tuning itself, helplessly, to Bill’s tremolo key.

Bill pressed on — fingers bowing, rocking, trilling.

The rhythm spiralled into dazzling runs and tumbling scales, streaming through her ribs as if her body had become an unwilling instrument of his tune.

It was alive.

I could almost make out the piece — ah yes, Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto in D major, unmistakably — each phrase unfurling with fevered brilliance, a beta build of beauty that made Bill’s pride almost too exquisite to bear.

And Alice, poor girl, seemed to feel every note without ever quite hearing it.

A Concerto Only to be Felt By Alice... 

Coming up next--

The Laughter Concerto

Laughter Dares, 

In the Concerto?

A surreal chapter in Alice’s digital dreamscape.