Prompted Short Story — The Pink Violin

Prompt: The museum director comes in to the old instrument room to find his rebellious teenage son has graffitied across one of the instruments. Behind him are three art critics. You can write the exchange between the museum director and his son, or the reaction of the art critics!

Story: Cigarette hanging from the corner of my mouth, a puff of smoke escaped my lips as I looked at the display, spray can shaking in-hand. The sound of a rhythmic metallic clatter reverberated through the acoustics of the museum.

Holding the ancient violin in my other hand, admiring its story, the handiwork, I decided it was time for a glow-up as pink glitter adorned the violin’s body.

The front door flew open with such gusto that I dropped my cigarette, barely missing the rug displayed on the podium. Shit. My cat-like reflexes engaged as my right leg extended ahead of me to extinguish the cigarette, while raising the violin and spray can overhead for balance. I was just caught red-handed. Pink-handed, in this case.

My father’s voice boomed, “What’s burning?! Where’s the fire?” His eyes locked with mine and he finally took in the scene. His brows furrowed and his face turned a concerning shade of beet-red. I, still frozen in place, slowly looked to see three figures standing behind my father, mouths all slightly agape. One of them looked a bit too pale.

Too much silence filled the room as we all stared at one another. In these circumstances, I knew only one solution. A slow smile crawled across my face. And somewhere in the background, my father growled, “Don’t even think about it…”

I slowly lowered my arms and brought my feet together to face the three figures. Clearing my throat, I presented myself with an exaggerated bow, while I slyly hid the spray can behind the display case. Pulling myself back up, I found the bow still in the display, and placed my new pink glittered violin to my chin, pink glitter now covering not only my hands, but also my black shirt and face. My new friend beckoned me to play.

I drew a deep, steadying breath. Upon the exhale, I pressed the bow to the strings, and a sweet, entrancing sound reverberated through the grandeur of the space.

The pale one grasped his heart and softly spoke, “The bravado. Desecration. An elegy for the instrument itself.” A slow clap came from the figure on the right, as if he were still entranced. The left one, utterly speechless. And my father, well, he stood there looking like a fish, his mouth opening and closing slowly.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how I got into Juilliard.