Every day, twice a day, for four weeks—and then more—Sarah listens to Bolero. It is early spring. She has not written well since the seeds went into the ground. They have now pushed themselves back out, and though they are full of life and green, Sarah thinks that this is yet another rejection mocking her.
Why does nothing want to stay where it has been put? Sarah had not thought—that way—about her mother for so long. But now she is sad again, and the red and orange leaves, which fall also with the brown, seem so far off.
Ravel himself called it one very long, gradual crescendo: orchestral tissue without music. Sarah’s mother called it garbage. Sarah enjoys the mindlessness of it. She once met a man who said it was his favorite because when he had been younger and played it, the percussion required his total attention and restraint and that nothing had taxed him like that—before or since.
Each day Sarah listens to a new recording. A new conductor or orchestra. A new city or continent. She worked very hard to amend the soil. The nets are now up around the leafy greens and though they look promising, it is early.
When she first puts on Boléro in class, the students ask for it to be turned up louder. Then louder. Sarah hesitates—because she knows what is coming—but complies—because she knows what is coming. And then the volume increases. And increases. And Sarah lets it. The students begin to say they can no longer concentrate. It is no longer fun. When will the end come, they ask? Will she please make it stop?
Brendan Todt lives and writes in Sioux City, Iowa. His story "Sarah draws little moustaches" was a finalist in the Smokelong Quarterly Award for Flash Fiction. Other stories in the Sarah series have appeared in Necessary Fiction, Abraxas Review, Surely Mag, and elsewhere. In addition to teaching and writing, he runs ultras and coaches youth soccer.
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