The Flying Violin: Stories from my Left Pocket

By Kate Pavelle

In this ethereal short story defying genre conventions, Taylor follows the inexplicable pull of her childhood friend's music. Now, as an adult trying to make sense of Ying Li's sensational and improbable disappearance, Taylor needs to decide where reality ends and fantasy begins.
Her journey, a formative experience that forges a true artist, takes her to the edge of time itself.
This story is a stand-alone read, but you can find similar ones under the "Stories from my Left Pocket" subtitle.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mugen Press
• Release date: Jan 25, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201995409

Kate Pavelle

A prolific writer under another name, Kate Pavelle is an award-winning author and an Amazon best-seller. Her works span many genres, but her Kate Pavelle pen name focuses on works of suspense, adventure, and the occasonal dead body. Born in the Czech Republic, Kate enjoys her rich family and professional life in Pittsburgh, PA.

Book preview

THE FLYING VIOLIN

Taylor had met Ying Li in kindergarten. They were both five, they lived near each other, and their friendship soon progressed from sharing crayons at the coloring table to weekend playdates.

Playdates soon became first grade bus rides to school and back, and over the next three years, Taylor played dolls and traded reading books with Ying Li. When she visited her house, they played in Ying Li’s room, all pink walls and frilly bedding and sparkly girl things. Yet, every time the timer went off, Ying Li got up, and walked Taylor to the front door.

Taylor had followed her down the carpeted staircase, through the room that should have been a dining room, and to the foyer, where Taylor’s mother waited in companionable silence next to Ying Li’s mother.

They were like night and day, a study in contrasts, much like Taylor and Ying Li.

Ying Li’s mother smiled. Thank you for visiting. Come again!

As Taylor thanked her, her eyes slid toward Ying Li. She saw the wistful anticipation in Ying Li’s dark, sparkling eyes, but Ying Li wasn’t looking at her, nor was she looking at her mother.

Her gaze, and her mind apparently, were already in the dining-room-that-wasn’t, a room whose center had been taken up by a baby grand piano, and whose walls were hung with violins.

Those violins were not mere decorations.

Yet as many times as Taylor got to visit, she never got to hear Ying Li play. Perhaps it was this