The piano plays a discordant glissando as it plunges down the steep stone steps and comes to rest at street level with a final mournful crash of notes.
The former fat man slumps, the apples of his cheeks more green than red. His overalls hang baggy as he sits upon the brick wall round an ornamental pond: his denim seat still damp from where he slumped before and sat flab-buttocked full in lukewarm water.
His thin assistant kneels, legs like broken twigs, as he mewls in almost mute despair. He bows his head and his bowler hat falls off. Sweat slick hair sticks up in spikes, which he ruffles while his lips assume a grin shaped rictus.
They have lost count of all the times the piano has been pushed and pulled between them up these unforgiving flights, only to be fumbled at the last and lost to gravity. The jangle of its strings grows more mocking with each iteration. The sun stands at its zenith and pounds upon their pates throughout an afternoon that appears without pity or prospect of ending.
The deflated fat man removes his own bowler to fan himself. Loosening his tie, he says, ‘Well, that’s another f----.’
But is interrupted by a small man storming from his house, moustaches twirling like a propeller beneath the wonky cockpit of his eyes.
‘Where’s my piano, you lollygagging chumps?’ he demands.
Looks are exchanged. Looks with the potential for violence: for uprooted trees and smashed windows. Their gaze grows wide and white as a salvo of flung flans.
The piano’s settling strings sound a tone so doleful that their spirits sag. Its lid pops open. Without a hint of swagger in their gait, they descend towards the ivory grimace of a smile more fanged than funny.
Comments
WilkyBarKid | September 21, 2009 - 14:35
Version 2: Now exactly 250 words.
The piano plays discordant glissandos as it plunges down stone steps and comes to rest at street level with a final mournful crash of notes.
The fat man slumps, apples of his cheeks more green than red. He sits upon the wall around an ornamental pond, seat of his overalls still damp from where he slumped before and sat full-buttocked in dank water.
His thin assistant bows his head and mewls in almost mute despair. His bowler hat falls off. Sweat slick hair sticks up in ruffled spikes. His lips assume a grin shaped rictus.
They have lost count of all the times the piano has been pushed and pulled between them up unforgiving flights, only to be fumbled at the last and lost to gravity. Humorous at first, its jangle grows more mocking with each iteration.
The fat man removes his own bowler to fan himself. Sun slaps his pate without pity or prospect of afternoon ending. Loosening his tie, he says, ‘Well, that’s another f----,’ but is interrupted by a small man storming from his house, moustaches twirling like propellers beneath the wonky cockpit of his eyes.
‘Where’s my piano, you lollygagging chumps?’
Looks are exchanged, with potential for violence, for chaos. Wide gazes white as salvoes of flung flans.
The small man baulks at premonitions of uprooted trees and smashed windows.
The piano’s lid pops open. No swagger in their gait, the fat man and the thin man descend towards the ivory grimace of its smile.