When he played the accordion, people could fly. Everyone loved him and the women cooked for him. After he'd fininshed his food, he would start tapping his left foot and picking his accordion would start rolling his fingers. The women would fly back to their home.

When he died, everyone in the town was infuriated. How could he do this to them? Just because he had special powers didn't mean that he had the liberty to succumb the pleasures and pressures of dying whenever he felt like doing so.

So, they hired a man to play the accordian. But they couldn't fly. So, they hired wings for themselves. And they hired everything else. They worked hard and made all the arrangements. At last when they could fly they were too tired to do so.

That night, they set the accordion on fire and each jumped into it. The accordian played by itself. Never was a better composition heard by the fellow passangers of the plane I was flying on

Labels: accordian, death, fiction, flash fiction, life, music, short story, story, surreal, surrealism