Broken Fiddle

The old man looked down at the splintered wood of his violin and cursed the diddle-o under his breath. His son had never respected him - and now he had taken his only joy. Life would never be the same. “My heart is aching for my beloved fiddle.” He cursed again.

His only chair was in splinters also. The tall grain bag had been split and scattered the floor. There was blood on the tiles - Jacob’s blood - from where he had hit his head.

“That boy was never any good”, he muttered to himself.

The sun was beginning to rise, and he did not feel cold of it, but rather strangely warm. The elderly man fumbled for the latch, the door was already open.

Outside, the air smelt of Spring. A golden light permeated the garden, and lit the flowers, nudging them to open. Jacob blinked at its brightness.

-Gabriel Brunsdon, Finding Self - Second Guesses- Azlander Series