A Violin Death
Dreamed 2015/11/24 by Wayan
I read Through the Woods by Emily Carroll. Wintry fairytales done as loose comix/picturestories, in watercolor/gouache--contrasty, simple, effective. But every tale's grim. And misandric--basically "Girls, protect yourselves, men are all monsters. One slip and they'll have you. Don't slip? They may get you still." Emily's a men-are-shits lesbian and it really shows.
Though I read the story about worms--where the sister-in-law's the monster (literally; she's--a worm colony) with a certain identification. Having what appears to be an extremely persistent Lyme infection (and they're spirochetes--essentially, microscopic worms) slowly eating me alive. While I try to have a life anyway.
A fiddler with a valuable old violin has recurring visions or dreams warning of a hit-and-run driver crushing his violin--and, incidentally, him too, though as a musician he focuses on the violin. We gotta die somehow; could be worse than a single sudden blow. But that violin could live CENTURIES.
After several warnings, he reluctantly sells it to a friend, a player who'll treat it well. Our fiddler takes up guitar instead. But he's still nervous crossing busy streets. Maybe he averted the vision's scenario and it won't happen at all now, but... violin case, guitar case, what if his vision got that detail wrong?
Just in case, he bought an expendable guitar.
Today he's nervously crossing a fourlane highway curving through a deep forest. Sweating, hypervigilant. He sprints across... alive. He walks on Through The Woods... to a campground. Here he meets his friend and his ex-violin. They plan to camp here and jam, here where there's no car-danger. At last he can relax.
Wrong! A car whips round the corner of the dirt campground loop, doing 50 kph--the camp speedlimit is five. Hits the fiddler's friend and the violin, instantly crushing both. And drives on, hit-and-run. Then a whole FLEET of cars roars the OTHER way round the loop, running over the man's body. And the violin. Over and over. To be sure their bones aren't just kindling but toothpicks. To be sure we're not haunted by the spectre of ... violins.
Faintly I hear tentative, embarrassed laughter. An audience uneasily deciding they'd better treat this murder-pun as a joke. Or, more likely, it's laugh track--to force us to treat it as funny.
Well, dear reader? Funny? I think not.
NOTES IN THE MORNING
NOTE TEN DAYS LATER
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