a minor

by Tara Wiley

“No, not like that. This is not an etude, your fingers are not little drills driving out the notes! You make Bach shudder in his grave with your lifeless interpretation!” Dr. Branch waved his impossibly long arms through the air as he spoke, and the beautiful young student at which he directed his tirade swallowed a giggle.

She did not succeed in suppressing her yawn. Olivia had become nocturnal lately, a change that seemed inevitable as a member of the conservatory of music. Late evening concerts, either attended or performed, brought on an adrelanine-laced sensory overload. Calming oneself to sleep required a glass of wine or two, usually enjoyed by friends, along with philosophical conversations that wound well past Cinderella’s magic hour. Why Dr. Branch insisted on having a teaching schedule beginning at 8 a.m. was beyond Olivia’s comprehension. Surely he was not truly a musician, but a hypocrite hiding behind the overblown gestures and instructional shouting sessions.

She had only once seen him perform, at a fundraising event for the college. He was playing second fiddle in a quartet comprised of professors. They were tucked away in a corner, providing background music as the city’s patrons sipped wine and ate shrimp cocktail. The perfect place for a pretender.

As Olivia nursed this train of thought, tuning out Dr. Branch’s grating, desperate voice, her disgust blossomed into a reckless disrespect. Unbridled words sputtered out before she could restrain them -

“Why don’t you SHOW me what you mean? Stop telling, start showing. Can you even play this? SHOW me why I should respect your instruction!” She shoved her violin and bow at the reddening face of her middle aged professor, shocking both of them with the intensity of her verbal venom.

Paul Branch’s mouth opened and shut without sound. His pale blue eyes widened, then squinted as he processed the confrontation. What should he say to this privileged, foolish girl? This concerto, laced with his painful memories, just might be the death of him yet. Would telling his story simply be pearls before swine, or would it actually change her perspective?

A Devouring Hunger

by Jill Clingan

Laura turned her car into the church parking lot and sighed.  She hated coming to church alone.  When her husband Paul was by her side she could always have someone to talk to during the dreaded “turn-around-and-have-a-very-smiley-conversation-with-someone-you-don’t-know!” part of the service.  Just standing during the singing and holding his hand made her feel more grounded to earth, to the community around her, and to the alienated God she had come to try to worship.  But Paul had to work today.  And she knew she couldn’t be trusted to spend the morning home alone.

Already, she had failed.  Laura reeled with self-loathing at the memory.  She had intended to wait until the last possible moment to have breakfast.  While she was in the shower she carefully planned the meal: small bowl of oatmeal made with ¼ cup dry oats and ½ cup skim milk, a swig of juice only big enough to swallow her vitamin.  Nothing more.  She repeated her instructions over and over to herself: ¼ cup dry oats, ½ cup skim milk, one drink juice; ¼ cup dry oats, ½ cup skim milk, one drink juice; ¼ cup dry oats, ½ cup skim milk, one drink juice.  She recited this mantra as she stepped out of the shower.  As she dried her body with her towel she rubbed with agitated disgust, wishing she could scrub off the fat.  According to her doctor, she was slightly underweight, but she knew he was lying.  She didn’t even look down at her body as she wrapped her pink robe around her and walked to the kitchen.

This isn’t the right order, Laura’s brain screamed at her as she entered the kitchen.  She was supposed to get dressed, put on makeup, fix her hair, and then have breakfast, right before she had to leave.  If she could just wait until it was almost time to walk out the door, she might not mess up.  But I’m hungry, she thought—lying even to herself—and she walked numbly to the cabinets.  Preparing her breakfast started well.  She dutifully measured the oats and the milk into a bowl.  Seventy-five calories for the oats, forty-three calories in the milk, she calculated.  Then she placed the bowl in the microwave and set the timer for one minute and thirty seconds.

One minute and thirty seconds.  That’s all it took. 

Hypocrites

by Jen Gregory

She was headed for the cookie jar. Olivia was a plump little lady of nine. Each dimpled finger a testament to her privileged life inside the gigantic house overlooking the sea. Although she was a tad overweight she bore it well, all of it proportional and flattering. Her tan, rounded thighs slimming down to robust calves with delicate white scars that criss-crossed her shins. Her hair was blonde like buttermilk, not specifically white or yellow. It cascaded into loose beachy waves over her shoulders and fell into fine little points across her back. Her toes were always bare and unpolished.

It was these unpolished toes that padded down the tiled hallway towards the kitchen. She had dressed and readied herself well before Kimberly could get downstairs and tend to her. This was just as she planned it. She grabbed a paper towel from the holder, its soft separating the only noise Olivia was making. In the giant kitchen she could see out the floor length windows towards the water. It whispered to her, “come, come.” Her small blue eyes twinkled as she imagined the sand squishing between her toes, Kimberly dawdling behind telling her, “Olivia, slow down for heaven’s sake, it’s not a bloody race!”

Olivia stood tippy toe and used her chubby little fingers to grasp the top of the cookie jar. With the other hand she pulled forth four snicker doodle cookies, round and soft, placing them like cinnamon jewels onto her napkin. She sat at the table in front of the windows and placed one entire cookie in her mouth, crumbs diving from her lips to the floor. She chewed hastily and swallowed, quickly doing the same to the next three. As the mush of cookies going down her gut settled and filled an empty space she imagined the coconut smell of sunscreen, the bright yellow bikini she would wear and the children she would see when they got down there, her father sitting in his beach chair adoring her.

She wiped up her crumbs, threw it all in the trash, not the kitchen trash but the one in the laundry room down the hall and then she went to the fridge reached for a small yogurt, picked a banana from the bunch on the counter and sat it ready at the table. She clicked the TV remote and turned on the news.