The Street Pianist

A short story I wrote while, strangely enough, dwelling upon unnoticed street musicians.

A man sat, cloaked in an obsidian robe, on the side of a busy street in downtown

Chicago, Illinois. He was paid little to no attention, other than that of stares at his drawn-

up hood and the occasional comment about “nutcases these days”. A small, upright

piano stood before him, worn and well-used. The keys shone iridescently in the sunlight.

 

As the stone-faced people moved about the cloaked man, he began to quietly

play. Beautiful music flowed from his fingers as they rhythmically moved about the keys.

The tune was mournful and powerful and awe-inspiring all at once, but no one took

notice of him. The song ended, and there were no listeners, no donations, and no praise

for the street-pianist.

 

He struck up another song, this time furious and vicarious. His nimble digits

pounded out the melody and the resulting sounds filled the air. It was the work of a

virtuoso.

 

Yet still no listeners.

 

He did this several more times, adopting different songs and melodies. No

reaction came. So he gave up, standing up from the piano and pulling the hood off his

And to the amazement of none, the visage of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart was

revealed.