Mundelein Writes Issue No. 05: “Isolation” Winter 2020 Published by the Mundelein Arts Commission Table of Contents WINNING ENTRIES Resonance (First Place) ........................................................1 by Deanna Krikorian Imagine (Second Place)......................................................12 by Jessica M. Leong Where to Start (Third Place)..............................................25 by Jerry Cornille HONORABLE MENTIONS Alone.....................................................................................37 by Mike Franklin My Covid Life......................................................................41 by Dorothy Bakirtjy Lost and Found...................................................................53 by Sonja Orentas NOTE: These stories are recreated exactly as they were received for the contest. There has been no editing other than the occasional spelling or punctuation error. Authors retain their copyright, though the stories or any part thereof may be reproduced by the Village of Mundelein for publicity purposes with proper credit but with no payment given to the authors other than the contest prizes. Resonance By Deanna Krikorian First Place Someone had left the lights on. Walking through the door, it was the first thing Lucy noticed, the only evidence that anyone but her had stepped inside the auditorium since school got out. The seats in front of her were empty, the wings barren of props or backdrops, the pit below her sealed shut. The stage felt abandoned, sealed away from those who would normally beg to use it. She’d forgotten how desolate it could look when it wasn’t cluttered with sets and scripts and instruments, packed to the brim with people. Summer left no room for performers. She had to give Amanda credit – she’d promised solitude, and she’d delivered. “I miss hearing you play,” her sister had told her earlier that morning. She’d been sitting cross-legged on the piano bench in their living room, taking up space usually reserved for Lucy. Lucy had rolled her eyes. “You can find plenty of piano music on Spotify.” “You know that’s not what I mean. You’ve been 1 playing almost every day since we were kids, and now you’re just done?” “Sorry to disappoint.” She’d hoped it would have ended there, but her sister had never known when to leave things alone. “Maybe it’s the house that’s stopping you,” she’d said as her eyes wandered around the living room. “Why don’t you go and play somewhere else?” “Amanda, how many places do you know that have grand pianos just out in the open for anyone to use?” “The auditorium at school has one. It’s not like anyone’s using it right now. You used to play there all the time, remember?” “I’m not in high school anymore.” “So what? I know some of the other teachers use it when they think no one’s listening. I can give you my keys, no one will even know you were there.” “Don’t bother – I’m not going.” “Would you just try it? I mean, seriously, what’s the worst thing that could happen?” “I could get caught breaking and entering, for starters.” “Don’t be dramatic. You know it’s always empty during the summer.” “I don’t care. I’m not playing.” “Come on, Luce. Just try.” “What’s the point?” “The point is, you always loved playing. Now the house is quiet all the time. It isn’t right.” 2 She’d looked away. “Nothing’s right anymore.” Lucy had heard Amanda sigh and stand up, but she’d kept her head down. Looking up to find pity in her eyes would have only pissed her off. “You know Mom wouldn’t have wanted you to stop playing.” “Well, Mom doesn’t really get a say anymore, does she?” “Could you please just try it? For me?” Lucy had heard it in her voice, the pain she usually tried to pretend wasn’t there. It didn’t come out very often. Amanda bottled her feelings; Lucy drowned in them. They’d spent months dancing around one another, Amanda forcing her life to stay intact, Lucy letting hers fall to pieces. They’d never talked about it. Lucy hadn’t let them. Every part of her had wanted to say no, but instead she’d nodded, taken the keys and walked out the door. She’d thought it would be a good excuse to leave, to get out of a conversation she knew was heading toward territory she’d rather avoid; now, standing on stage, staring out at the empty seats, Lucy wasn’t sure she’d made the right choice. Every step she took echoed across the hall, emphasized her own aloneness. She let the sound drown out whatever feelings might try to rear their ugly head and forced her mind to focus only on what lay in front of her. She hesitated when she saw it. There was something about the piano sitting center stage that didn’t feel right. It should have been wheeled to stage left, slightly to the back, with just inches of room between the bench and the curtain. It should have been sitting in the only way 3 that allowed for more people to fit around it, should have been thought of in comparison to other performers – an orchestra, a band, a choir. When she used to bring it on stage, when it had been hers, it had only ever been a tool used for accompaniment. This piano wasn’t meant to perform solos. Things had been easier, then. When her only worries were concerts and classes and Homecoming. When the future was distant and opportunistic, intangible in nature and bursting with potential. When problems could be fixed and wrongs could be righted with ease. When meeting expectations was as simple as looking up and playing in time, and she always had someone waiting for her in the audience. Her body moved without her mind’s permission, unlocking the wheels and pushing until the instrument found its rightful place. She acted on instinct, walking around it, locking the wheels into place, lifting the cover until it stood upright, until she could see each individual string. The desire to look inside, to see something that felt almost forbidden, was often too strong to ignore. It should have lessened the mystery, broken the magic of how every key found its note, but all it ever did was add to her own fascination. Something as simple as a string, wound as tight as deemed necessary, created beauty, not pain, when struck in the right way. Lucy wasn’t sure there was anything in the world besides music that worked that way. She sat down before she could remind herself why she didn’t want to. Her hands hovered over the keys for 4 just a moment before she let them drop, falling into their starting position. It felt natural. Familiar. Like a habit too deeply ingrained in her body to ever truly break. As she started, she kept her eyes on her hands, not trusting muscle memory to carry her through unsupervised. The key to success was focus. Her mind always wanted to wander, to search for something she could never quite find, but the music demanded she tie herself down, find the present and stick to it. People seemed to think performing was about unchecked expression, but she relied on a rigidity that felt almost contradictive. Emotions could come and go, were necessary, even, but only so long as they followed the linearity of the music, didn’t try and carry her anywhere else. Only then would she find her way to the end. The problem was, she’d never been one to listen to her own advice. Losing herself was all too easy. It didn’t matter how many other performances she’d had on this stage – this piece had a home. It didn’t exist in an auditorium. She’d spent months perfecting every inch of it, giving it life on a different set of keys, and now she could hear the echo of a memory, louder than any of the notes currently filling the space around her. She stared at her hands and saw an outdated version of them, saw everything that existed the last time she’d played. The deceptive winter sun shining through her living room window, promising warmth it couldn’t deliver. The glare on the stand in front of her, making it impossible to rely on sheet music. Her memory hadn’t failed her that day, not according to Mom. 5 She could always feel her listening, even when she didn’t make a sound. Her presence had been soft, but never unknown, never unrecognized. Lucy had turned toward her when she’d finished, eyes asking for approval. She’d given it. She’d always given it, even when Lucy knew she didn’t deserve it. She felt the error, her pinkie slipping past its target. The chord winced in response, punished her with dissonance, broke the mirage of an old performance. She’d been taught to play through mistakes, to let errors take their place and leave them be, but instead she went back for it, played it again until the missed note corrected itself. The music continued, but when she looked down, the illusion had faded, left as quickly as it had come. She didn’t see anything more than her hands on the keys, didn’t feel anything but the air conditioning sheltering her from the summer heat. No one else was watching. No one else was listening. She stopped again six bars later, went back for the sixteenth notes her right hand tripped over. Again, ten bars after that, for the butchered rhythm. Again, four bars, missed dynamic.