The Musician

It happened on a New York City street, and there was nothing Meggs could do to stop it. A force more powerful than life pushed it into being, despite her will. Her fingers gathered a life of their own, strumming shamelessly on her guitar until her fingers bled. Her voice lifted over the sound of traffic, lilting sweetly as she sang along with her guitar. Someone offered her an empty milk crate and she accepted it graciously, placing one foot on it for balance. A small crowd gathered around to listen, and she closed her eyes tight, lest fear grabbed hold of her and she stopped playing.

 

Julliard accepted Meggs into their music program and she had gone willingly, gratefully, but she never managed to graduate. She could not do the presentations required of her. She had barely managed the audition, which was only set up because her mother was a single parent, the widow of a prisoner of war. Meggs grew up hearing stories of the musical talent her father possessed. Her grandmother claimed when he sang it was as if angels had come to earth and chased all the evil spirits away. Meggs, on the other hand, had such stage fright she could not even perform for her family. Her mother was the only one privy to her music.

 

Meggs mother, Sarah, listened gladly, though the music was bittersweet. Meggs found the book her father used to play from and when she played from it, it never failed to bring tears to her mother’s eyes. Meggs had more talent than her father did, but she could never tell her that. She feared it would make Meggs stop playing altogether. After all, she started playing for the sole reason that she wanted to feel closer to her father. Taken from this earth too soon, Meggs had few memories of him. Sarah wanted her daughter to know the man her father was. He was a brave musician who died a hero; his death was almost poetic in its occurrence.

 

When Meggs found her father’s unfinished song, Sarah’s heart skipped a beat. Most of Meggs talent was still untapped, and Sarah hoped that Meggs would not finish it. There was something soothing about the unfinished work– something that allowed her to feel like he was still there, and would be back soon. Meggs played the soft opening chords quietly, repeatedly, until they became smooth. She progressed on to the more complicated parts, soft cries of pain as the strings sliced the fat of her fingers. When she came to the end, she strummed a few more chords before going back to the beginning again. This time her voice joined the guitar, humming at first, then words began flowing from her lips. Meggs stopped abruptly when she saw her mother standing in the doorway, tears streaming from her face.

 

“Mom!” Meggs started. Her face turned a soft shade of rosebud pink as she realized her mom listened when she played. “What’s wrong?”

 

“This song…” her mother said. Sarah’s voice came out as more of a whimper than spoken.

 

Meggs shrugged her shoulders. “It isn’t finished.”

 

“I know,” her mom said softly. “You were finishing it.”

 

Meggs eyebrows furrowed in confusion. Her lips closed tightly. “I wasn’t finishing anything.”

 

“You were singing, yet there are no words, and the chords you strummed were new.” Sarah insisted.

 

“Oh…that,” Meggs blushed again. “No, I wasn’t finishing the song. I was just messing around.”

 

Sarah walked over to Meggs and took the guitar from her arms. They sat down on Meggs bed together. Sarah folded Meggs hands into her own and gripped them tightly. Her eyes searched the pale pink quilt that covered the bed as if it had the answers she was seeking. No words hid among the tiny roses that alternated with the solid pink. No answers peeked out from behind the tiny white dots some of the squares held. Sarah sighed, releasing a few more tears as she looked into Meggs’ eyes.

 

“Meggs, your father began this song when he found out about you, only weeks old in my belly. Called to war when I was six months pregnant, when he returned home the first time, you were already almost two. He set his music aside to delight in you and be a father. He kept talking about finishing the song, but never got back to it before they called him to war again when you were four. He never returned from that war. He never finished that song. Hearing you play it…” Sarah paused long enough to take a deep breath and exhale slowly. Another tear drifted down her face. She cleared her throat. “Hearing you play it, Meggs, is bittersweet. I want to hear it, and I don’t want it to end. At the same time, I want to hear the end, but I don’t want it finished, though I know it needs an ending.”

 

Deeper confusion clouded Meggs face. “No, mom. I’ll put it away so it doesn’t hurt you anymore.” Tears trickled down her own face as she met her mother’s eyes. What she saw there, deep within the brown flecks, shocked her. “You…you want me to play?”

 

Sarah smiled between tears. “I do, love. More than ever. I want you to finish the song, even though you don’t believe you can. I know you can. Finish it.”

 

Sarah released Meggs’ hands and stood up. She crossed the room and let her words follow her out the door. “Finish it!”

*~*~*~*~*~*

 

It happened on a New York City street and Meggs’ mother watched with awe. The crowd gathered around, coins dropped into the small bucket someone had placed near where Meggs was playing. Dollars soon followed, but the applause became the greater gift. Meggs still closed her eyes, and when she did, the guitar playing changed, her voice changed, and that was when Sarah knew.

 

He was there.

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For the Scriptic prompt exchange this week, Kirsten Piccini gave me this prompt: it happened on a New York City street..

I gave Sinistral Scribblings this prompt: Armed and ready.

I welcome and appreciate all honest feedback. Please share your thoughts in a comment.

Thanks for stopping in!

 

The Street Players

You could only hear it when the wind blows, which was often. Eerie chords of music, like a lullaby, caught on the wind and carried along the breeze sent chills coursing up and down your spine, its icy fingers left pimples on your flesh, and its somber tones shot straight to your heart.

If you stopped and listened long enough, and it was the right time of day, you might catch a glimpse of the player. Ageless in her red kimono, her chrome streaked onyx hair pulled up in the traditional Japanese bun, she gripped a mandolin tightly between her hands. Her fingers tickled the strings with a grace only born from patience. Its andante flow pulled you in, drew you closer. Suddenly becoming an allegro, it stole your breath even as it made your body move. Helplessly trapped in its cadence, your body weaved and flowed until you danced to the spot.

There, on that cobblestone heart, she stood, strumming that mandolin until her fingers bled. One by one, they joined her on that square. There, in that square, you stopped, surrounded by the shimmering specters of past street players the mandolin has sung to life. Your eyes closed and they disappeared, sparkles of light mimicked by the sun, the mandolin player the last to go.

Yet, the music never ceased.

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This week’s Write at the Merge, hosted by Write on Edge, gives us 500 words and a choice of 2 prompts. I chose the second picture shown in the story above. The first picture is from my own Be Inspired post ( image found on Facebook). I’ve been looking at this lady for a long time with a story working in my head. I’m glad to finally give her COMPLETION (yes, there’s one of my Just Be Enough words for you).

I always want and welcome honest feedback. Please share your thoughts in a comment.

Thanks for stopping in!

Odin’s Opus

click image for source

Alexander Breckman spread the sheet music across the piano and bent over the keys. He cocked his head to the left, closed his eyes, and listened as his fingers glided over the piano. His hands moved smoothly across the keys, adding notes and playing beyond the sheets. He paused. Lifting his pencil, he jotted down the new notes he’d played. He smiled as he repeated the cords, letting the music soar through him as it always did. So lost in the music he was, he forgot what he was doing and just played. He played over the arrival of his friend, his closed eyes unseeing the light of his doorbell signal. The music came to a jolting halt as Marcus tapped him on the shoulder.

Marcus pointed to his watch. Alexander started, surprised at the time. He’d only meant to add a few cords, the finishing flourishes to “Odin’s 18th”, completing the song. Now he wouldn’t have time to finish. It didn’t matter. The next time he returned to the piano, he would be able to hear the music instead of simply feeling it. He patted Marcus’s arm and rose, gathering the sheet music and bunching it neatly in a pile. He could feel the excitement welling in his belly.

He reread the instructions thoroughly and signed on the line. He drifted off feeling the cold steel of clippers shaving his head. When he awoke, he had a hearing aid behind each ear with long cords that attached to a box on either side of his head. He smiled. The cochlear implant surgery had been successful. He coughed, and then cringed at the harsh sound. He could hear the whoosh of the machines monitoring him. He could hear the blip blip of his heart flashing across the monitor. He could hear the soft treads of sneakered heels on laminate flooring. He drummed his fingers on his chest, enjoying the dull sound of the tapping. The curtain opened with a shwoosh and he smiled. When the nurse spoke, he could hear her buzzing but couldn’t understand what she was saying. A handwritten note popped up in front of his face. She read it aloud to help him.

“You can hear my voice, yes? It sounds like a buzz.”

He nodded.

“Do you see how these words are forming on my lips?”

He turned his eyes from the paper to her lips and she repeated. A light bulb clicked on in his head.

He nodded again.

“Look at me.”

He turned and looked at her face. She said more words to him he didn’t understand. Frustration lined his face. The nurse patted his hand and handed the note back to him.

“It’s okay. You’ve never heard anything before today. It will be a long process of relearning how to hear and talk, but you will get it in the end. I promise.”

She smiled at him when he looked at her again. A disappointed frown stayed on Alexander’s face despite her efforts to cheer him up. Within an hour, discharge papers arrived. Marcus picked him up, smiling, and uttered a single word, “Hi.” Alexander smiled back, not willing to give up his silence yet.

When he got home, he ran through the house, listening to the sounds. The hum of the refrigerator was too loud. The ticking of his clock was soft. He was pleased to find that most everything sounded as he thought it should. The only thing he hadn’t tried yet was the piano. He sat down on the bench with enthusiasm surging through his veins. He smiled as he spread the sheets out, and he pressed a key, gently. A frown replaced the smile on his face.

No, no. That’s not right!

He played more chords, double-checking his finger placement. Still it didn’t sound right. I will have to rewrite this part; he thought and moved to the ending he knew was right. He remembered exactly how it had sounded to him the last time he played. He moved to the last page. He closed his eyes and bent over the keys. He played the chords, once, twice, the frown never leaving his face. What he remembered and what he was now hearing was not the same. This arrangement was horrible. He stood, opened the bench, and pulled out Beethoven’s fifth. He breathed deeply, and started playing. He ended sharply, slamming the cover down on the keyboard. Tears moistened his eyes, spilled over, and left pathways that ended on the piano. His hands flew over his head and swiped the top of the piano, sending the sheet music flying.

As he cried, an idea came to him. He gathered the scattered sheet music from the floor, and set it back on the piano carefully. He ran to the bathroom, and looked in the mirror. He carefully detached the cords from his head and set them in the basket he’d bought especially for them. His face beaming, he sat back down at the piano, organized the sheet music, and started playing. The music ended abruptly as his hands flew to his ears, squeezing them. New tears of frustration rolled down his cheeks.

How can it be? How can it not sound the same? Why, oh why did I have the operation! My life is over.

He stood and looked wistfully over the sheet music. He opened the bench and pulled out a folder titled Odin’s Opus. He opened it, sifting through the pages with care, his love apparent on his face. With trembling hands, he added the unfinished 18^th movement to the file. He walked to the fireplace, dropped the file on top of the fresh logs, and lit a fire.

Marcus stopped in to visit Alexander the next day. He found him still in bed asleep, the cords to his new ears still lying in the basket in the bathroom. He found a note on the piano written in Alexander’s curvy hand.

Dear Marcus,

The great god Odin was wise when he left the 18^th song a secret. He promised it would be the end of the songs, and so it is. I must sacrifice myself, the musician, to save myself, the man. In my final act, I bestow music upon you. Please take the piano and any other musical devices from my home and never return. If you do, you will find a very sad and sorry man, and I wish you rather remember the man I was, not the man I will become.

                                                                                                 Always,

                                                                                                                               Alexander Breckman

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For the Scriptic.org prompt exchange this week, Grace O’Malley gave me this prompt: Odin sacrificed himself to himself, and gave us eighteen runes and seventeen known charms or magical songs. He also learned an eighteenth, a secret song. Please write it down for us, weave it into a tale, or describe it and its effects…

I gave dailyshorts this prompt: The absurdity of silence.

A huge thanks goes out to my muses this week. You know who you are.

I welcome constructive criticism of all kinds. Please feel free to share your feedback in a comment.

Thanks for stopping in!

Grey Street

When is it my turn? When will anyone love me? Why must they all play games? There is something wrong with me. Why can’t they see how much I need them? How hard I love? Will this pain in my heart never end?

I’m right here, in front of you. Why must you run away, and then come back again, only to run away once more? Am I not good enough for you? Why must I always feel this way?

I just need to feel loved, to feel worth it to someone.

I’m screaming for help. Will no one answer?

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This week’s song was Grey Street by Dave Matthews. I require lyrics to be able to participate, and this week’s lyrics hit me hard. It took me back to a dark place in my life in my early 20s when I was probably suffering from PPD and recently removed from my childhood of abuse. The song reminded me much of “She Only” by Great White, which I had on replay back then because it fit me to a T.

Fairy Tale {Part 4}

Last time with the princess: Fairy Tale Pt 3

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The princess lifted her head from the gilded vanity and looked in the mirror again. Her chocolate tresses shone from rigorous brushing. Her Caribbean blue eyes sparkled just as they always did. Her skin was creamy as it always was; her cheeks the ripened cherries she’d been born with. She didn’t see any of that, however. She only saw the slight crook in her nose. It was so subtle that she had to look hard, but it was definitely different than it was yesterday, and there was a small spot not unlike a bindi between her eyes that was never there before. Tears formed and dropped, leaving dark splotches on the gold surface of the vanity. It was so ugly.

The healer did this. She didn’t know how, but he took her beauty and put it in that little pouch he wore around his neck. She would get that pouch from him before he could steal any more of her beauty. She let her anger take over, and the tears dried quickly on her face. Her parents would be appalled. She’d ignored them when they knocked earlier, but she knew they’d be waiting on the other side of the door. She slipped a pink satin robe around her shoulders and headed towards the door. She stopped mid-stride when she heard the music. They were playing her song!

She flew to the window in confusion and saw her parents step out on the balcony overlooking the courtyard. They were accompanied by the healer and a girl. Her eyes widened in fright as she saw the girl was dressed like her, even to the point of covering her face exactly as she did! Her chest heaved as she gasped in anger. How dare they! Not only did they replace her, but they used her song! She was the princess. She was supposed to be irreplaceable!

The music stopped at the same place it always did, and the crowd was quiet like they always were. The faint voice of the crier filtered through the window panes. She heard her name, and watched as the impersonator curtsied. She was horrified. That was the most terrible curtsy she’d ever seen. The people would never buy it. She could feel the beginning of a smile lighting up her face. No, the people were smarter than that. It would never work. They knew their princess and they loved her.

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This week Write on Edge‘s Red Writing Hood challenge was to show how my character reacts to a piece of music and keep it 400 words or less.

The princess is a brat, eh? Aren’t they all?

I’m always looking for feedback on my stories, so feel free to share your thoughts. Feedback helps me grow.

Thank you for stopping by and reading!