FEATURED STORY: The Gramophone by Jalyssa Fermo

The memory is always the same.

He smiles over the rack of records, looking for a song.
She walks over to him, rolls her eyes, and pulls out the very one he was avoiding.

Slowly, delicately, she removes the casing and pulls out the sleek, black disc, lined with groves and crevices.
Playfully, he takes it from her, walks over to me, and places the record on my stomach.
Taking my pin, he places it right where it always goes.
That’s my cue.

I sing as beautifully as I can, filling the room with the same, sweet sounds that the household was known for.

Stepping with grace and poise, the two inch closer to one another.
Then they dance with my music.
He puts his hands on her waist, and she puts hers on his shoulder.
They sway and twirl with such beauty, yet they never looked away from each other.
They never let go.

As my song approaches the end, they go even closer and hug, still swaying to the melody.
I always loved seeing this. I loved how my music brought out so much emotion in people.

The years went by. They grew a little older. They had kids. For a time, I played younger songs for them, making the smaller ones jump and giggle with glee.

It was such a happy time.

Then, one day, he left.
She was crying, the small ones, a little older now too, were hugging him, telling him not to go.
He cried too.
There was a knock on the door.

A man in a uniform, similar to his, but with much more pins and medals, told him it was time.

She let out one more sob, and kissed him.
He hugged them all, and said goodbye.
He tried to smile, saying everything was okay.

I never saw him again.

For the first time in years, the door to my room opens.
After a while, they moved me higher up.

In a dark, dusty room where other forgotten memories lie.
They locked me away, and barely opened up again.
Until today.
An old woman, face and skin wrinkly, hands shaking, approached me.

Picking me up, she dusts me off as much as she could.
Steadily, she climbs down, and I see the room where I always performed.
There were new things now, much younger than I am.
But a performer always knows her stage.
The woman puts me down where I usually sit.
Walking over to the rack, she picked a record I knew too well.
It was their song.
She removes the casing.
She pulls out the disc.
She puts it on my stomach.
But before she put the pin, she got a picture of him.
He was so serious, unlike his usual self.
He was wearing the uniform he left in.
Hanging on the frame was a medal.
She looked at it so sadly, and tears brim in her eyes.
Walking over to me, she put the pin down.
Closing her eyes, she hugs the frame, and starts to cry.
I tried to sing, but all those years of silence changed me.

She started to slowly dance, letting all the tears fall.

But if this was my last performance, I had to keep going.
I sang the best I could until the melody ended.

Even though the last few bars finished, she still swayed.