Perry's Masterpiece: A Flash Fiction

Perry struck the keys with all he had left. The rhythm swelled through Inky’s, the little bar he played every Friday. But tonight, something felt different. He hunched over the piano, long gray hair damp with sweat, eyes blinking back water.

He began to sing—not softly or tenderly, but like he was trying to shake something loose.

Wishing wells and roads of dust,

Willow trees in beating sun,

I crane my neck, Dad, I can’t go on,

It’s lonely here with this quiet hum.

He hit the break and breathed deep. The keys softening beneath his fingers.

For a second, he forgot what came next.

Perry used to think this one—Shoreless River—might be his masterpiece, the one people remembered, the one everyone would sing along with. He had worked it over, again and again, but it never landed, never seemed to move anyone. Tonight, he knew: this was the last song he would ever play—might as well finish it.

In time,

we’ll smile through stormy weather

see mourning doves fly

across the shoreless river.

When I think of the journey we will take together,

In the oarless boat we glide,

across the shoreless river.

The final chord rang, quietly fading. The bar soon settled back into its hum and chatter. A few claps came—a cough.

Perry stared at his hands as if they belonged to someone else. Then he stood, bowed, and slumped offstage.

At the bar, Joe slid him a shot of whiskey. He drank. Joe poured another. He drank again.

His dream slipped away.

Small, cold, and quiet.

At 2:00 a.m., Perry stumbled into the street. A car swerved. A horn blared. Perry cursed the sky, the road—the whole world.

He collapsed onto the sidewalk and stared up at the streetlight, mistaking it for the moon.

He closed his eyes and let the noises pass over him.

Then—a tune rose, soft and familiar. Someone was humming.

Perry sat up, turned, and saw a young man walking away, lips moving with the melody.

Perry pushed through the crowd and caught his shoulder.

“You like it?” he asked, words slurred.

The man pulled back, startled, but his face lit with recognition.

He smiled. “I come every week, Perry,” he said. “That song you play—I love it. It reminds me of my dad.”

Perry blinked and swallowed. “I wrote it when my father passed,” he said quietly.

Perry pulled the man into a hug, then he went home.

Perry awoke the next morning with the sense that something inside him had changed. There was a lightness in his bones, a freshness in his step.

When Friday rolled around Perry returned to Inky’s. He sat at the keys.

He began Shoreless River.

The young man was there, mouthing every word.

Perry grinned. When the last note rang, he stepped down, standing tall.

Joe the bartender slid him a shot of whiskey. Perry slid it back.

“Not tonight,” he said. “I’m going home. I think I’ve got a few more masterpieces up my sleeve.”