Each month when the girls of my writing group get together, apart from the usual catch up chat, tea, coffee and treats, we have a writing exercise. Usually presided over by one of our ex-teachers, we have a set twenty minutes to write a story. Last month our subject was Valentine’s Day (naturally), this month we did discuss the idea of writing a story about a man in a bunny suit, but opted instead for a lucky draw. Each of us wrote down, on three separate sheets of paper, a noun, an adjective and an emotion. We popped them into three bowls then drew a word from each, the object of the exercise is to write a story and include all three words.
My words were diffidence, violin and beautiful.
This is my story:
Diffidence trembled through Camilla as she stretched a hand toward the violin resting haphazardly on a shelf amidst a jumble of other discarded treasures. The old wood shone with the burnish of long use over many years. How much of the world’s beautiful music had flowed from its strings? How often had a musician held it against their breast in a loving embrace?
The occasional quiet knock, and murmur of conversation echoed around the hushed ambience of the antique store. The smell of old wood and by-gone years settled like a presence in the cluttered space.
She ran her gaze over the imperfect surface of the instrument, searching for the marks that would identify it as the one she sought. Where the neck met the body, a blob of glue, aged to amber, and a dent shaped like a crescent moon just below it, spoke in silent affirmation. A surge of trepidation burned through her.
She reached a careful hand and turned the price tag. Her heart lurched against her ribs.
Could she afford to buy it?
A shiver twisted across her nerves.
Could she afford not to?