The Jazz Concert-by Kirsten Nash — FICTION

The cedar shakes on the sides of our house were faded and worn, blackened by rain and mildewed with neglect. While the summer sun kissed the rest of the world, it came to rest on our house with a slight sense of distaste. Usually. This morning was different. This morning the sun would dance proudly on our dingy rooftop, tossing its’ bright orange smile over the coastal rain forest to introduce the rest of the day. And a very special day it was. This day there would be a concert, a jazz concert and I was up by five in the morning to make sure it didn’t slip by without me. I was six years old. I loved jazz. When the sun finally licked the …

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