The Story of an Hour

The Story of an Hour

Not by Kate Chopin, but by Chopin the Pianist


Photo by Dolo Iglesias on Unsplash

So, I’ve been thinking of branching into fiction writing. I’m sick of the piano, to be quite honest. And I’ve recently hooked up with this writer chic, she’s cool. Her name is George Sand, no, I’m not gay, she’s really a woman. And what she does seems a lot easier than what I do. Do you know I have to practice the piano like a million hours a day? She takes out this little notebook and jots something down, next thing you know she’s a got a fucking novel.

Well, this is my story of an hour.

There’s this writer chic with a boy’s name — George. And she is given the notice that there was a plane crash and even though airplanes haven’t been invented yet, this is like a sci fi story, into the future. It’s the year 1930 or something. And this writer chic’s husband has supposedly died in the plane crash.

And I guess that’s why I call it the story of an hour, cause this writer chic goes through a whirlwind of emotions in the hour after she hears this terrible news about me, her wonderful husband.

At first she cries. But then…

“Free at last,” she says. “I don’t have to listen to that crap classical music. I dig the new swing. Yeah! Free at last, scoobie doobie.”

So this writer chic, whose real name is Aurore Dupin, is taken by some old lady and she’s walked down the stairs, and everyone’s feeling sorry for her.

When who walks in the front door of the house.


And I’ve got one of those piano-tars that haven’t been invented yet, but you can play a piano standing up, like a guitar, but it’s a piano, see, and I play like the first few bars of some crap Chopin piece. Maybe that awful etude they played in Green Mile. That’s a movie that hasn’t been made yet, but remember this is a sci fi story. I play that etude.

My wife screams!

See, it turns out I wasn’t on the plane. I took a train. Which also crashed, but I survived. Then I took an automobile, which is a horseless carriage, home to my house.

And my poor wife George has a massive heart attack and dies.

The doctor says it was from happiness and joy.

I play my Nocturne at her funeral.

“Free at fuckin’ last,” I think to myself.

Afterwards I text a whore I know in Paris and we have a crazy time, just me, her and my piano-tar.

It’s not suitable for publication, but that’s another story of an hour — an hour and a half actually — of good old fashioned fun times!




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