By Arden Hunter

Her violin was polished to a golden shine, but at the five minute warning she realized she needed to rosin her bow. She selected a cake of clear amber light; worn down and dusty in the centre from frequent use. A coating of fine powder appeared on the hair as she moved it back and forth, back and forth.

A tutt of disapproval. The concertmaster frowned down at the sticky dust then looked pointedly at the other members of the orchestra who were lining up, ready to perform. He moved away, leaving her staring down at the horsehair that slotted so neatly into the groove of rosin. An exact fit. So proper.  

As she strode out onto the stage, a few people tried to subtly point out the hand-print of white powder glistening like tiny diamonds on her thigh. She ignored them, and raised her instrument. 

Arden Hunter is an aroace agender writer, artist and performer. With an eclectic range of interests from the horrific to the whimsical, the theme tying all of their work together is an inexplicable and unconditional love of the ridiculous beast that is called ‘human’. Arden has words and art hosted and upcoming with Thi Wurd, Acid Bath Publishing and Kissing Dynamite among other places. Find them on Twitter @hunterarden and at