Friday, February 13, 2004
Musings. Oh, and a story.
I turned in my first story (300-400 words) for my creative writing class today, and got my first look at others' stories as well.
One girl turned in a leaving-my-deadbeat-abusive-man story, but it's not just any deadbeat abusive man story -- it's SONGFIC. It might be 'original', but it revolves terribly around the lyrics to "Runaway Train", and includes the wonderful phrase "the hot-glow of eye congestion". Is it wrong that I had to restrain myself from laughing? It was almost as amusing as the unintentional but extremely sexual imagery of another classmate's "Death of a Blow Pop" story.
Probably I should not criticise, since I turned in this little thing. It's nothing special, but what can you do with 400 words?
Prelude in A Minor (Lamely titled "Piano" on the copy I turned in... but I was scrambling for any old title at ten this morning.)
It was cold outside and raining hard when the boy stepped into Hardy's Piano Emporium. Mr. Hardy furrowed his wrinkled brow at the gangly youth dripping water on the clean carpet. He looked about fifteen, with skinny arms and a freckled nose that was far too big for his moon-shaped face. A wet fringe of strawberry-blond hair was pasted to his forehead. The boy said nothing and Mr. Hardy thought he had just come in to escape the rain. He sat down behind the counter and returned to his sheet music inventory.
A few minutes later, he heard the sound of fingers tapping keys. Mr. Hardy glanced up and saw the boy sitting at a polished ebony Yamaha upright piano, his long hands poised delicately above the ivories.
Then he began to play.
Mr. Hardy watched and listened intently as the pale boy threw himself into a feverish but flawless rendition of Liszt's Hungarian Rhapsody No. 2. So engrossed was the young man in his music that he did not notice when Mr. Hardy hobbled around the counter and stood behind him. As the song reached its crescendo, Mr. Hardy put a hand on the boy's shoulder and said:
"What's your name, son?"
The boy did not stop playing. "Andy Mueller."
"Who taught you to play like that?"
He eased into Mozart's Piano Concerto No. 5. "Me."
"That's mighty impressive."
"Thanks."
"Do you have an upright at home, or a grand?"
"I don't have a piano."
Mr. Hardy raised his bushy grey brows. "Then how did you learn to play?"
"My grandfather had one. They sold it when he died."
He slightly squeezed Andy's shoulder. "Sorry. That's tough, son."
"Yeah." Andy began to play a complex Bach minuet. Mr. Hardy listened, his hand still resting on the boy's damp shoulder.
"How do you like this piano?" he said after a time.
Andy shrugged. "I'm not buying. Just here to play."
"I'll make you a deal. You come play for me every week, and I'll give you the piano."
The music stopped. "I don't even know you," Andy said, looking up from the bench.
"And I don't know you, kid -- but I know talent when I hear it."
Andy's hands rested on the black and white keys, but the strings remained silent.
"Thank you," he said finally. Mr. Hardy clapped the boy on the back and motioned for him to keep playing.
Beethoven had never sounded sweeter.
***
In other news, I stumbled across Fox Mulder/Harry Potter slash today in the course of a quite unrelated Google search. Oh, the horror! The horror! *runs away screaming*
In more other news, the cute Czech grad student has sat next to me the past two class periods, and also leans over somewhat more than necessary to read off my copies of the texts (which he does not have, as he's not actually enrolled in the class). Must make a note to wear something cute on Tuesday and possibly work up nerve to begin an actual conversation next time. Also must make note to find something better to talk about in The Cowards for my weekly email and class discussion.
In further other news, I bought my copy of Irresistible Forces today, and still have ten bucks left on my Barnes and Noble gift card. They didn't have the book on display yet, and I had to ask the clerk to look it up for me. She misspelled "irresistible" in the title field and thus could not locate it, so she had to employ the help of another clerk. He asked for the editor's name; I said I couldn't remember, but that it included a Bujold short story. "OK," he replied, and began looking under science fiction. At that moment the first clerk got the spelling right and said loudly, "Wait, is it a romance anthology?"
"Er, yes," I said. "But I'm only getting it for the Bujold short story, and she writes science fiction!"
I'm not sure she believed me.
In yet more other news, I made cookies tonight, and they didn't explode or bubble all over like a cookie dough volcano, and they taste like... cookies. Yay! Now, if only I'd had the chocolate chips, then the recipe would be a real success....
And now, I think I'm off to read "Winterfair Gifts".
| 12:08 AM |
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