This micro-fiction piece was inspired by a writing challenge where the prompt was to choose one word — defiance, soul, or protest — and let that word guide my writing. I decided to push the boundaries and incorporate all three words.
The challenge also asked that I channel the raw, unfiltered energy and unapologetic spirit of Nina Simone.
The piano appeared on a Tuesday. No one saw it delivered. No truck, no footsteps. It was just there—sitting in the alley behind the diner, slick with rain, one ivory chipped like a bad tooth.
At first, no one touched it. Then someone did. Not to play—just a hand brushing the keys, pulling something up from the concrete. Not a song. A memory. Not theirs.
Inside, the lights flickered. Held. Someone whispered, she’s back. No one asked who.
By nightfall, the piano played itself. No hands. Just notes falling like footsteps on a floor that remembered every argument. Slow. Defiant. Heavy with smoke.
People stopped to listen. Some cried. Some laughed like they’d forgotten how. It wasn’t music. It was soul—the kind that doesn’t wait to be invited in, the kind that finds your cracks and sings through them.
By Thursday, it told stories no one wanted to hear aloud. Shame. Grief. The long ache of defiance held too long in the throat.
There were no speeches. No signs. Only the piano, playing protest in F minor, while the world pretended not to listen.
And when the sky split open like a wound, the song didn’t stop. Not for thunder. Not for rain. Not for anything.
It played. Until the storm blinked first.
© 2025 Eric MontgomeryEnjoy the story?
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