Shmigget Edits Lund
Eric has been writing some nice flash fiction lately, and he and I got to kicking around ideas for changing one of them. I took a stab at it, so here's the original followed by the version with my edits.
An Insistence of Music Appreciation
By Eric W. Lund (c) 2007
Ron was the curator of The Ancient Oddities Museum, which was the name he gave to his basement. He saw beauty in bizarre antiques, and kept a collection of dysfunctional inventions. In this particular shop, however, hidden far from the highway, he saw only the usual: chairs you can't sit in, tables you can't eat off of, and lamps giving poor light.
But it never hurts to ask. "Do you have anything unusual?" he said to the old man in the corner. Ron explained his interest in a rapid, salesman-like manner. The proprietor eyed him for an awkward duration, and finally mentioned the box.
This music box wasn't that old: early 20th century, with a typical cylinder and comb design, and a metal crank to serve as the windup key. Other than being small for the period and utilizing porcelain housing, it was downright common. "Does it work?"
The proprietor turned the crank and a simple, baroque tune sprinkled out. This sound seemed to please the man, but not Ron. Ron rarely listened to music, and classical music left him apathetic. He shrugged. "What's strange about this music box?"
"The text on the back," said the old man, who tenderly flipped it over. Ron squinted at the tiny characters.
The music box ("the box") agrees to play music upon its crank being turned by a second party ("the listener"). The listener, by turning the crank, agrees to enjoy said music and provide waves of enjoyment ("waves") to the box.
The letters got smaller as the legalese blathered on, finally becoming too minuscule to read. Sensing Ron's interest, the old man casually mentioned, "Cash discount is five percent."
Ron returned home with his new curio, and set it on his workshop bench, pushing aside the prize of his collection: a late-18th century mechanical butler that failed to extend its arm and offer you a drink when you stepped on its foot. He examined the music box with a magnifying glass, but the final clause was no more legible now than it was at the store.
Ron absently toyed with the crank, pondering how his ex-wife could help him with this matter. The box obligingly tapped out a song, which the curator ignored. However, something else caught his attention. A stack of magazines that had remained motionless for two years were now sliding off the shelf above him. Ron estimated their likely trajectory, but reached out too late. The entire pile slammed onto the mechanical butler.
He was livid.
The next day he called his ex-wife. Amanda laughed. "Oh, you're calling to talk about antiques? I'm shocked." They arranged to meet for lunch.
Amanda beamed at the music box. Ron eagerly showed her the writing, but she didn't share his fascination. "This is your nicest piece so far. I really like it." She reached over and turned the crank, smiling at the music it made.
"Do you think you could read it with the electron microscope?" he asked.
Amanda pursed her lips. "I don't know about that, but we've got other machines in the lab that might help."
Ron missed her smile. He wondered if he could get another out of her, and found himself playing the music box again.
The curator became aware of a peculiar sensation. Certain emotions seemed to be draining, gradually, as if a cork had been pulled out of his chest. The pining he normally allowed himself faded, and within moments, he felt empty. The bareness was shocking. Panic groped at his fringes, but before it could take hold he noticed Amanda's smile, and everything felt better.
After work, Ron picked up his ex-wife at her house, which used to be their house. She was hungry, so he pulled into the Kwik Stop, near the University where she worked. Amanda said, "Keep the car running," and ran inside to buy a snack.
The curator was lost in thought. A preposterous notion was gnawing at him. He put the music box on the dashboard and stared at it conspiratorially.
He rotated the crank. Then again, and again, winding until the spring resisted and left his grip. Notes fired quickly at first before slowing to normal tempo. It played for over a minute and stopped. And Ron was fine. The anxiety attack from this afternoon did not repeat itself.
Two loud firecrackers interrupted his reverie. Ron looked around, trying to target the source of the noise. As uneasiness took root in his belly, two armed men bolted from the store.
The ambulance arrived too late.
It was two months after Amanda was killed when Ron heard that tune again. He was in an elevator. Normally oblivious to speakers, this time a familiar melody bit his ears. He rushed to a phone, and coerced Amanda's friend at the University into granting a favor.
That evening, Ron stood in the lab, soberly reading an enlarged, off-color image of the contract from the bottom of the music box. He reread the final clause, in the smallest print:
Failure to provide waves puts the listener in violation. In such cases, the box may appropriate any types of waves from the listener or, if no waves are forthcoming, may take necessary steps to stimulate their production.
Enormous grief crashed over Ron. He wept and choked. Amanda died in his arms, all over again, except this time he knew he caused it. The thought was unbearable. The curator shook, raising the music box high, intending to hurl it against the floor, when an idea steadied him like an island in an ocean of anguish.
He turned the crank. The music box spewed its insipid composition once again. A few seconds later, his eyes were dry. Strength returned to his limbs. And he could breathe again. His guilt dwindled. After a deep sigh, he was right as rain.
Later, Ron reconsidered destroying the music box so its power could not be abused. Eventually he relented because it was an antique.
Ron was the curator of The Ancient Oddities Museum, which was the name he gave to his basement. He saw beauty in bizarre antiques, and kept a collection of dysfunctional inventions. In this particular shop, however, hidden far from the highway, he saw only the usual: chairs you can't sit in, tables you can't eat off of, and lamps giving poor light.
But it never hurts to ask. "Do you have anything unusual?" he said to the old man in the corner. The proprietor eyed him for an awkward duration, and finally mentioned the box.
This music box wasn't that old: early 20th century, with a typical cylinder and comb design, and a metal crank to serve as the windup key. Other than being small for the period and utilizing porcelain housing, it was downright common. "Does it work?"
The proprietor turned the crank and a simple, baroque tune sprinkled out. This sound seemed to please the man, but not Ron. Ron rarely listened to music, and the toy piano-like tones left him apathetic. He shrugged. "What's strange about this music box?"
"The text on the back," said the old man, who tenderly flipped it over. Ron squinted at the tiny characters.
The music box ("the box") agrees to play music upon its crank being turned by a second party ("the listener"). The listener, by turning the crank, agrees to enjoy said music and provide waves of enjoyment ("waves") to the box.
The letters got smaller as the legalese blathered on, finally becoming too minuscule to read. The old man casually mentioned, "Cash discount is five percent."
Ron returned home with his new curio, and set it on his workshop bench, pushing aside the prize of his collection: a late-18th century mechanical butler that extended its arm and offer you a drink when you stepped on its foot. He examined the music box with a magnifying glass, but the final clause was no more legible now than it was at the store.
Ron absently toyed with the crank and the box obligingly tapped out a song, which he ignored. Suddenly a stack of Antique Trader weeklies that had remained motionless for two years was sliding off the shelf above him. The 1935 painted iron hen, which once laid Hartwig & Vogel chocolate eggs, fell from its perch on top of the stack and fell squarely onto the mechanical butler’s foot with a crunch.
The next day Ron called his ex-wife. Amanda laughed. "Oh, you're calling to talk about antiques? I'm shocked." He arranged to pick her up for lunch.
Amanda beamed at the music box. Ron eagerly showed her the writing, but she didn't share his fascination. "This is your nicest piece so far. I really like it." She reached over and turned the crank, smiling at the music it made.
"Do you think you could read it with the electron microscope?" he asked.
Amanda pursed her lips. "I don't know about that, but we've got other machines in the lab that might help."
“Play it again,” he said, missing her smile.
After lunch, she asked if he could pull into the Kwik Stop, near the University where she worked. “I’ll be right back,” she said.
Ron barely heard her. A preposterous notion was gnawing at him. He put the music box on the dashboard and stared at it conspiratorially. He rotated the crank. Then again, and again, winding until the spring resisted and left his grip. Notes fired quickly at first before slowing. He heard several loud firecrackers and thought of sitting on a blanket next to Amanda on the fourth of July, feeling her next to him.
Ron turned his head as two armed men bolted from the Kwik Stop.
The ambulance arrived too late.
It was two months later when Ron heard that tune again. He was in an elevator. Normally oblivious to speakers, this time a familiar melody bit his ears. He rushed to a phone, and coerced Amanda's friend at the University into granting a favor.
That evening Ron stood in his apartment, soberly reading an enlarged, off-color image of the contract from the bottom of the music box. He reread the final clause, in the smallest print:
Failure to provide waves puts the listener in violation. In such cases, the box may take necessary steps to stimulate their production.
Grief crushed him like falling metal. Amanda died in his arms all over again. He raised the music box high, intending to hurl it against the floor, but hesitated. Eventually, he placed it on a shelf next to a few other 20th century oddities.
An Insistence of Music Appreciation
By Eric W. Lund (c) 2007
Ron was the curator of The Ancient Oddities Museum, which was the name he gave to his basement. He saw beauty in bizarre antiques, and kept a collection of dysfunctional inventions. In this particular shop, however, hidden far from the highway, he saw only the usual: chairs you can't sit in, tables you can't eat off of, and lamps giving poor light.
But it never hurts to ask. "Do you have anything unusual?" he said to the old man in the corner. Ron explained his interest in a rapid, salesman-like manner. The proprietor eyed him for an awkward duration, and finally mentioned the box.
This music box wasn't that old: early 20th century, with a typical cylinder and comb design, and a metal crank to serve as the windup key. Other than being small for the period and utilizing porcelain housing, it was downright common. "Does it work?"
The proprietor turned the crank and a simple, baroque tune sprinkled out. This sound seemed to please the man, but not Ron. Ron rarely listened to music, and classical music left him apathetic. He shrugged. "What's strange about this music box?"
"The text on the back," said the old man, who tenderly flipped it over. Ron squinted at the tiny characters.
The music box ("the box") agrees to play music upon its crank being turned by a second party ("the listener"). The listener, by turning the crank, agrees to enjoy said music and provide waves of enjoyment ("waves") to the box.
The letters got smaller as the legalese blathered on, finally becoming too minuscule to read. Sensing Ron's interest, the old man casually mentioned, "Cash discount is five percent."
Ron returned home with his new curio, and set it on his workshop bench, pushing aside the prize of his collection: a late-18th century mechanical butler that failed to extend its arm and offer you a drink when you stepped on its foot. He examined the music box with a magnifying glass, but the final clause was no more legible now than it was at the store.
Ron absently toyed with the crank, pondering how his ex-wife could help him with this matter. The box obligingly tapped out a song, which the curator ignored. However, something else caught his attention. A stack of magazines that had remained motionless for two years were now sliding off the shelf above him. Ron estimated their likely trajectory, but reached out too late. The entire pile slammed onto the mechanical butler.
He was livid.
The next day he called his ex-wife. Amanda laughed. "Oh, you're calling to talk about antiques? I'm shocked." They arranged to meet for lunch.
Amanda beamed at the music box. Ron eagerly showed her the writing, but she didn't share his fascination. "This is your nicest piece so far. I really like it." She reached over and turned the crank, smiling at the music it made.
"Do you think you could read it with the electron microscope?" he asked.
Amanda pursed her lips. "I don't know about that, but we've got other machines in the lab that might help."
Ron missed her smile. He wondered if he could get another out of her, and found himself playing the music box again.
The curator became aware of a peculiar sensation. Certain emotions seemed to be draining, gradually, as if a cork had been pulled out of his chest. The pining he normally allowed himself faded, and within moments, he felt empty. The bareness was shocking. Panic groped at his fringes, but before it could take hold he noticed Amanda's smile, and everything felt better.
After work, Ron picked up his ex-wife at her house, which used to be their house. She was hungry, so he pulled into the Kwik Stop, near the University where she worked. Amanda said, "Keep the car running," and ran inside to buy a snack.
The curator was lost in thought. A preposterous notion was gnawing at him. He put the music box on the dashboard and stared at it conspiratorially.
He rotated the crank. Then again, and again, winding until the spring resisted and left his grip. Notes fired quickly at first before slowing to normal tempo. It played for over a minute and stopped. And Ron was fine. The anxiety attack from this afternoon did not repeat itself.
Two loud firecrackers interrupted his reverie. Ron looked around, trying to target the source of the noise. As uneasiness took root in his belly, two armed men bolted from the store.
The ambulance arrived too late.
It was two months after Amanda was killed when Ron heard that tune again. He was in an elevator. Normally oblivious to speakers, this time a familiar melody bit his ears. He rushed to a phone, and coerced Amanda's friend at the University into granting a favor.
That evening, Ron stood in the lab, soberly reading an enlarged, off-color image of the contract from the bottom of the music box. He reread the final clause, in the smallest print:
Failure to provide waves puts the listener in violation. In such cases, the box may appropriate any types of waves from the listener or, if no waves are forthcoming, may take necessary steps to stimulate their production.
Enormous grief crashed over Ron. He wept and choked. Amanda died in his arms, all over again, except this time he knew he caused it. The thought was unbearable. The curator shook, raising the music box high, intending to hurl it against the floor, when an idea steadied him like an island in an ocean of anguish.
He turned the crank. The music box spewed its insipid composition once again. A few seconds later, his eyes were dry. Strength returned to his limbs. And he could breathe again. His guilt dwindled. After a deep sigh, he was right as rain.
Later, Ron reconsidered destroying the music box so its power could not be abused. Eventually he relented because it was an antique.
Ron was the curator of The Ancient Oddities Museum, which was the name he gave to his basement. He saw beauty in bizarre antiques, and kept a collection of dysfunctional inventions. In this particular shop, however, hidden far from the highway, he saw only the usual: chairs you can't sit in, tables you can't eat off of, and lamps giving poor light.
But it never hurts to ask. "Do you have anything unusual?" he said to the old man in the corner. The proprietor eyed him for an awkward duration, and finally mentioned the box.
This music box wasn't that old: early 20th century, with a typical cylinder and comb design, and a metal crank to serve as the windup key. Other than being small for the period and utilizing porcelain housing, it was downright common. "Does it work?"
The proprietor turned the crank and a simple, baroque tune sprinkled out. This sound seemed to please the man, but not Ron. Ron rarely listened to music, and the toy piano-like tones left him apathetic. He shrugged. "What's strange about this music box?"
"The text on the back," said the old man, who tenderly flipped it over. Ron squinted at the tiny characters.
The music box ("the box") agrees to play music upon its crank being turned by a second party ("the listener"). The listener, by turning the crank, agrees to enjoy said music and provide waves of enjoyment ("waves") to the box.
The letters got smaller as the legalese blathered on, finally becoming too minuscule to read. The old man casually mentioned, "Cash discount is five percent."
Ron returned home with his new curio, and set it on his workshop bench, pushing aside the prize of his collection: a late-18th century mechanical butler that extended its arm and offer you a drink when you stepped on its foot. He examined the music box with a magnifying glass, but the final clause was no more legible now than it was at the store.
Ron absently toyed with the crank and the box obligingly tapped out a song, which he ignored. Suddenly a stack of Antique Trader weeklies that had remained motionless for two years was sliding off the shelf above him. The 1935 painted iron hen, which once laid Hartwig & Vogel chocolate eggs, fell from its perch on top of the stack and fell squarely onto the mechanical butler’s foot with a crunch.
The next day Ron called his ex-wife. Amanda laughed. "Oh, you're calling to talk about antiques? I'm shocked." He arranged to pick her up for lunch.
Amanda beamed at the music box. Ron eagerly showed her the writing, but she didn't share his fascination. "This is your nicest piece so far. I really like it." She reached over and turned the crank, smiling at the music it made.
"Do you think you could read it with the electron microscope?" he asked.
Amanda pursed her lips. "I don't know about that, but we've got other machines in the lab that might help."
“Play it again,” he said, missing her smile.
After lunch, she asked if he could pull into the Kwik Stop, near the University where she worked. “I’ll be right back,” she said.
Ron barely heard her. A preposterous notion was gnawing at him. He put the music box on the dashboard and stared at it conspiratorially. He rotated the crank. Then again, and again, winding until the spring resisted and left his grip. Notes fired quickly at first before slowing. He heard several loud firecrackers and thought of sitting on a blanket next to Amanda on the fourth of July, feeling her next to him.
Ron turned his head as two armed men bolted from the Kwik Stop.
The ambulance arrived too late.
It was two months later when Ron heard that tune again. He was in an elevator. Normally oblivious to speakers, this time a familiar melody bit his ears. He rushed to a phone, and coerced Amanda's friend at the University into granting a favor.
That evening Ron stood in his apartment, soberly reading an enlarged, off-color image of the contract from the bottom of the music box. He reread the final clause, in the smallest print:
Failure to provide waves puts the listener in violation. In such cases, the box may take necessary steps to stimulate their production.
Grief crushed him like falling metal. Amanda died in his arms all over again. He raised the music box high, intending to hurl it against the floor, but hesitated. Eventually, he placed it on a shelf next to a few other 20th century oddities.
posted by Christopher A. Dellario at 2:51 PM
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