For Food Money

Elise was surprised that the person who knew the most pop songs was Kyle. Cody had an ear for classical and ethnic music, most of which wasn’t suited for the western musical scale, and Marsh was a fan of old rock and alternative rock, in that order.

So Elise let Kyle sit beside her on the corner of Harney and 11th while they played for food money. Elise had put a lot of effort into learning weird Indie music and grunge rock – so maybe Cody calling her a Courtney Love cliché had some truth to it – but her taste in music wasn’t going to get them fed.

“Try some Leona Lewis,” Kyle said. “You can sing, right?” And he hummed the melody.

For all that Cody assumed most days Elise was uneducated white trash, she’d had a decent enough musical education, and she could pick out a chord progression for a melody. “I don’t know the words,” she said..

Kyle sighed. “Fine. Just for you, I’ll break out my countertenor skills. You ready?”

Elise tested the chord progression, and then Kyle explained the verse-chorus-bridge layout to her, and they began another performance. A group of girls stopped to listen and coo at Kyle (who looked all of six and was really twelve) and nod along to the song, and they dropped some actual bills into Elise’s case, and maybe at the end of an eight-hour day they’d have enough to buy supper for all of them.

Kyle scanned the streets and spotted a group of retiree tourists.

“How’s your American folk music?” he asked.

Elise could play Spanish guitar with the best of them. “What do you mean?”

“Woody Guthrie,” Kyle said. “I know all the verses.”

So Elise played, and Kyle sang, and they were paid.

(300 words)

Dirges and Love Songs

James flung open the door, still enraged at the absolute cock-up that was his afternoon improv exercise. His partner had been utterly unprepared – because, contrary to popular belief, improv required actual preparation – and everything had gone to hell in a handcart.

“Have you ever been stuck with Sanderson for an exercise?” he began, and he stopped short.

Tobias was standing in the middle of the room poised with a violin, eyes closed, making the the strings weep.

James took a deep breath, and then he closed the door quietly. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

Tobias opened his eyes and smiled. The curve of his mouth was utterly gentle, but his eyes were pitch black, and he looked ready to cry. “Don’t worry, you didn’t disturb me.” He lowered his bow and stretched his neck. “Just thought my instrument needed a little love. School got in the way for a while.”

“I didn’t know you played,” James said. He sat down on the edge of his bed.

“I’ve played since I was a child.” Tobias reached into his pocket for a hanky and used it to clean the strings. “I used to practice every day, but then I decided on drama instead of music.”

“I play the guitar, but not nearly as well as you play the violin,” James said, awed. “I hear it’s one of the most difficult instruments to play.”

“Maybe,” Tobias said. “Do you have a guitar?”

“Sold it to buy books,” James said. “What song were you playing?”

“Old Russian melody,” Tobias said, and his smiled turned brighter. “It was a love song, but they all sound like dirges.”

James laughed. “Can you sing any of them?”

“Do you want to top yourself?”

“Fine. Can you play Flight of the Bumblebee?”

(297 words)

Speak-Easy

Mark couldn't remember how long it had been since he had played the piano. He ran his fingers across the dusty keys and picked out a few chords. The bench creaked as he sat down, his weight settling the ancient wood.

Only one or two keys were slightly out of tune as Mark tested them out, his fingers flowing across the ivory. Music flooded the room and it sounded like an entire jazz band era orchestra was coming from the old piano. A vision seemed to materialize from the notes that shimmered in the air.

One could picture a 1920s speak-easy, fedoras tilted at rakish angles and the air hazy with cigarette smoke. Low conversation punctuated by the soft clink of ice in glasses of illegally obtained booze. Smooth men in suits with smartly oiled hair played cards and transacted business deals. Women were resplendent in tight cocktail dresses, hair perfectly coiffed, faces painted up to look like perfect china dolls.

Servers in tuxedos ghosted through the room, collecting glasses and lighting cigars. A piano sat in the far corner of the lounge, a smartly dressed man in slacks and suspenders sat on the bench, coaxing popular tunes from the instrument.

With a final flourish, Mark raised his fingers from the keys and the vision of the speak-easy faded slowly into the dusty darkness.

Guitar and Drums

“So I hear you play the drums,” Will said.

Anna blinked. “You heard correctly. Why?”

“Are you busy?”

Answering a question with a question – a law student should know better. Anna said, “No.”

“Is it true you have a set of drums in your apartment?” Will asked.

“Yes.” Where was he going with this?

“Great. Can I come over?”

Anna glanced longingly at the next season of Spooks, waiting for her in all its Richard Armitage goodness and said, “Yes.”

Seven minutes later, Anna opened her door and saw Will standing on the doorstep, guitar slung across his back, amp in one hand.

“Where are your drums?” he asked.

Anna gaped. Will – proper, buttoned-up, Victorian Will – played the guitar? A gleaming red electric fender, no less. Will craned his neck and peered past her.

“Oh, they’re in your room,” he said. “Is there a plug in there for me to set up?”

Anna said, “Yes,” because it seemed that was all she was capable of saying, and she led Will into her bedroom. He spotted a power outlet and set up immediately while she stared, confused.

“Sit down and play a beat, any beat,” he said, so Anna, still dazed, obeyed. She grabbed her sticks, adjusted the hi-hat, and picked a beat from a song she’d been working on for a while. It was a beat for a Moffatts song, but then Will began picking a series of notes, a Chili Peppers song, and somehow it worked.

Will played the Red Hot Chili Peppers.

In Anna’s room. While she played the drums.

Wonders would never cease. Anna kicked into a filler and slid into a new beat, and Will followed her, this time with some Pink Floyd.

To top it off, he began to sing.

(297 words)

Paying the Piper

“What d’you suppose this is?” the professor asked. The slide changed to an image of a series of shapes, faintly tubular, encrusted with dirt and obviously fragile with age, bound together in a series of staggered lengths.

The students in the dimly-lit classroom made no move to answer.

The professor sighed. “Come on, put your thinking caps on! Look at it from an artist’s perspective. Why was it given this shape? What was it for – was it practical or ornamental or both?”

Tobias raised his eyebrow at the notion of thinking caps, because they were in Art History 101, not second grade. He glanced up at the slide, and then he felt something in his chest tighten. He knew that image instinctively, from some place buried deep inside of him. He raised his hand.

“Yes, Andrew,” the professor said, and the name ricocheted down to the soles of Tobias’s feet.

“It’s a set of pipes,” he said, “carved from the antlers of the deer driven on the steppes by the people who roamed Russia back in those days. It was tied with a strip of deer hide and used both to play music and also as a signaling device for hunters to communicate across long distances.”

The professor blinked at the eloquent answer. “Yes...that’s a very real possibility.”

Tobias knew it wasn’t a possibility – he knew it was the truth, because he’d played those pipes himself. He could close his eyes and see Asia – no, Kana dancing to his songs. If he had those pipes in his hands, he could breathe life and magic into them, he was sure of it.

But then the lights came on, and the lecture was over.

Tobias wondered what other skills were sleeping just beneath the surface.

(295 words)

Brother My Brother

Joe let his fingers lightly caress the strings as he hummed a wordless melody, his pitch perfectly harmonic to the chords he strummed. A ripple of sound rolled off six strings and echoed through the wooden body of the old guitar that Alec had left behind.

"I didn't know you played the guitar," David said as he poked his head into the den of their little apartment, his thoughts had been sidetracked when he had heard the quiet music.

"I don't really," Joe replied, "Just the chords that someone once taught me. I shuffle them around into different patterns, though it never comes out quite right."

David stepped out of the room, his mind returning to his paperwork when he was arrested in his thoughts again as Joe softly began to sing, his voice a rich tenor.

"Brother my brother
our time, it was so brief.
We laughed until our days were gone
And now we come to grief.

Time and again I remember when
We laughed until we cried.
And even though the memory is strong
It feels like I'm dying inside.

Your spirit whispers softly
urging me to carry on.
Still you keep me from falling,
Even now, when you are gone."

David hadn't noticed when tears had begun rolling down his cheeks.



(I am proud to say that I wrote those lyrics myself just for this piece.)

Uilleann Pipes

“I might play the uillean pipes.” Keith slanted a glance sideways at Tobias, who was making a fine point of tuning his violin.

“I thought you played the bass,” James said.

“I do play the bass,” Keith said. “But I also play the uillean pipes.”

Asia raised an eyebrow. “I don’t ever remember you –”

“I might have picked them up in a moment of national consciousness,” Keith said.

“What are uillean pipes?” James looked slightly cornered with all of Asia’s brothers crowded into the tiny kitchen in his flat.

“The Irish equivalent of bagpipes,” Tobias said without looking up from his violin.

“Irish equivalent my foot.” Riley stood in the doorway, hands tucked into his pockets, grinning. “Uillean pipes sound far better than those Scottish honking geese.”

Keith broke into a grin. “A man after my own taste. Do I detect a hint of Armagh in you, m’lad?”

Riley grinned back at him. “Aye. And I hear some Ulster in you, I dare say.”

“Indeed.”

James cleared his throat. “So...how long have you been playing the uillean pipes?”

Keith started to say something, but Asia dug an elbow into his ribs, and he wheezed out, “Five years.”

“I have a set, you know,” Riley said. He reached toward the crowded table and poured himself a cup of hot cocoa. “Serenade us, why don’t you?”

Keith immediately turned a fantastic shade of red. “I, er, I’ve never performed before.”

“Why do you have a set of uillean pipes?” James asked.

Riley shrugged. “National pride. And my granddad played, too.”

“Tell you what,” Asia said, “sometime you play for us, and I will play for you.”

Tobias lifted his head sharply. “Since when do you play an instrument?”

“Didn’t you know?” James said. “Asia plays the piano. Hammers and strings.”

(299 words)

Beatbox

Steve sauntered down the hall towards his math class, headless of the looks that he got as he passed. He tapped rhythmicly on his thigh as his lips contorted, his voice forming the strangest sounds. For a moment it sounded like a snare drum to be followed by a base drum, a kick, some base, and various synth sounds, all of it tumbling from his lips in the most compelling patterns.

Steve leaned against the wall outside his class room as he continued to Beat box, his eyes closed and his fingers keeping time on the wall; increasing in tempo and complexity. He finished with a flourish of sounds and stepped into the room just as the bell rang, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

The Harp

“You play an instrument?” Elise asked.

Marsh thought her eyebrows were going to fly right off her face.

“It’s not uncommon,” Cody said, hunching his massive shoulders defensively. “Reading music helps children read better when they’re younger, and practicing an instrument instills discipline –”

“Yeah whatever,” Elise said, waving a hand dismissively.

Cody hunched his shoulders further. “Promise you won’t laugh.”

“Why would I laugh?” Elise asked. “It’s not something embarrassing like the tuba or triangle, is it?”

Cody cast a shifty glance in Marsh’s direction.

Glee lit in Elise’s eyes. “It is the tuba, isn’t it?”

“It’s the harp,” Cody said flatly.

“The harp? Like...angels on a cloud harp?” Elise’s glee turned to puzzlement.

“It makes sense,” Kyle said, and Marsh blinked; he’d almost forgotten Kyle was there. Kyle was prone to long bouts of silence while he set wards on a safehouse.

“I guess...since Cody’s so big he can carry one around,” Elise said, but she was eyeing Cody with a newfound skepticism.

“King David played the harp,” Kyle explained.

“Like David and Goliath David?” Elise asked.

Marsh hummed tonelessly and attempted to sing, “I heard there was a secret chord that David played and it pleased the Lord –”

“I always figured it was a piano,” Elise said.

“They didn’t have pianos back then,” Cody said. He cast Israfel a look. “Don’t you teach her anything?”

Israfel shrugged and sketched quavers in the air. “She sings, and I answer.”

“Play us a song,” Elise said.

Cody cast her a withering look. “I don’t have a harp with me.”

Elise snapped her fingers. “Israfel. A harp for the boy.”

“He’s an angel, not a genie in a bottle,” Cody said.

Elise shimmied her hips and sang an old pop song. Cody sighed. Marsh laughed. Kyle finished the wards.

(300 words)

Overview # 80 - Poetry

Okay. So I turned out a few this week that I was proud of, but I got sick with a terrible cold so my posting slacked off. I did have several more ideas, most of them were of the fever induced variety and they didn't stick around for very long. Plus my internet connection has been driving me up the wall this week! It will randomly stop working. So I hope to be forgiven.

Most of my work this week didn't rhyme; which is kind of a departure for me, but I rather liked it.

Project #81: Musical Instruments

I realize we have a list of challenges we'd like to do, and I know we did songfics recently, but I'd like to see how your characters deal with musical instruments. Can they play? What instrument can they play? Were they classically trained or self-taught? What kind of music do they play? Are their instruments expensive or cheap, rented or owned, family heirlooms or bought on a whim? Do they refuse to play? Is there an instrument they like listening to best? 100-300 words. Musical instruments...go!

Overview #80: Open-form poetry

.....And I wrote poetry for the first time in almost a year. Most of it was whimsical and centered around a single image, a metaphor, and was really prose with line breaks, the kind of prose you can't get away with in the middle of a fictional narrative but that works okay with line breaks. Only one poem had even a vaguest notion of a story. The rest of it was emotional.

I noticed there was a lot of emotional poetry this week. I'm my imagistic self, sticking to concrete images and trying to avoid abstractions (not that they didn't tumble off of my fingertips all over the place). I need to learn a new trick or angle, I think, and maybe my poetry will be better.

Tension

Making lace,
Like cross-examination
And well-paced drama,
Is all about one thing:
Carefully-balanced tension.

The strings and wires,
Fingers and wrists,
Must be positioned just so,
Tug here,
Give slack there,
And if coordination
Is met
– Gears in a watch
Turning and ticking
To the eternal circadian rhythm –
Then two hitches
Become one stitch

And there’s just
That little bit
More lace
To adorn her wrist.

A Strange and Beautiful Thing

Flickering cursors,
Green and red,
Dancing across the screen,
Up and down,
Left and right,
Comment and question,
Comma and em-dash,
Connection and correction.

Friday nights on
Googledocs
Can be a strange
And beautiful
Thing.

Another Brick

I’m sorry
Is worn around the edges
From timeless repetition.

I don’t know what to do
Is a little sharper,
Newer,
Clean lines and stark corners.

I love you
Is razor-sharp
And blood-stained.

Each is
Another brick
In a newly-rebuilt
Wall.

Anymore

Each tear is a searing needle
Digging deep into the soul
Every memory a traitorous
Tether, binding free will.

Lightest brush of the fingers,
Tingles remembered. Dancing.
Dancing across the skin.

Simple embrace,
seeking comfort.
Fitting together
Just like before.

A stolen kiss
Quiet whispers.

I can't do this anymore.

Betrayer

Raindrops fall like cat’s paws
Across the slate roof,
Felines circling the house
And waiting for prey to emerge.

Children,
Small as mice,
Grey and hunkering down,
Noses twitching
For the faintest hint
Scent
Taste of the enemy
Linger at the windows and doors.

Officers in black –
Armbands in black, white, red,
North and south,
East and west –
Clutch guns and stamp
In the cold,
Breath misting the air,
Impatient racehorses
Waiting for the firing
Of the gun.

The cat’s meow
Is a smile and a nod,
An affirmation and a sign,
Six points of gold
And the end of a child’s smile.

“Yudas,” says the child.

Betrayer, his mother screams.

Gifts of Life

Give me life and give me hope,
New beginnings and
Springtime joys.

Give me air and light,
Bright days and
Starry nights

Give me freshening winds,
Dancing waves and
Soaring birds.

Give me majestic pines
Wooded hills and
Rocky slopes

Give me vast deserts,
Shifting sands and
Scorching earth.

Give me frozen ponds,
Drifting snow and
Misting breath.

Give me a world of wonder.
Each day a gift and
Each night a dream.

One on One

Ivory on ivory,
Ten fingers on forty-eight keys,
And more songs
Than one man
Can imagine.

White on white,
Ten fingers and two hands,
Two fists against a gi top
And his best friend’s
Skin.

Peach on peach,
Fingers and vials,
Acid spilled onto the gap
Between lab-coat
And gloves.

Red on white,
Blisters and blood,
An entire wood floor
Laid out end to end,
A new home.

Don't Remember

Don't remember how once
You thought to fly,
Buoyed up on the warmest drafts,
Circling higher than you dared imagine.

Don't remember the giddy dreams,
The impossible visions,
Of what might have been.

Don't Remember.

Forget the gentle touch.
Forget the whispered word.
Forget the shadowed gaze.
And forget the sweetest kiss.

Forget.

Forget it all.
For the sake of sanity
And self preservation.
Forget what you had.

File it all into the past
Neatly ordered.
Every thought and wish and dream.
Keep it safely forgotten,
Labeled carefully in your mind.
Let it collect the dust of time.
Become yellowed with age.

Until you forget it was ever there.