She is saying, ‘I didn’t think I was this bad. They used to let me play in the kitchen.’ Let’s name her Dumdora or Sue Ling or Lilting Lily. She’s so bad so has to play alone. Her friends are listening. I think she is playing for herself. “Take your music out to the barn, close the door and shut up.” She’s out behind the barn or out in the backyard.
It’s late afternoon. It’s in the fall. She does this often. She found the lost chord. She shouldn’t do this again. She can’t play worth a darn. She hopes for applause. She’s not happy and is trying to play the guitar to cheer herself up.
I hear leaves rustling. She’s flat, not in tune. What do I smell? Her playing stinks! I hear the wind, leaves falling and the dog barking next door.
She puts the guitar down and wanders away. She puts the guitar in the closet, slams the door and goes downstairs to make herself a martini. I think we should let the little girl alone and not criticize her music. She’s feeling sad. She’s thinking ‘Maybe I won’t try to do this anymore.’ The End
Story created by female storytellers at Seaport Landing community. November 25, 2015