Perry's Masterpiece: A Flash Fiction

Perry struck the keys with all he had left. The rhythm swelled through Inky’s, the little bar where 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 like roads of dust,

Like willow trees in beating sun,

I crane my neck, Dad, I can’t go on,

So lonely here in this quiet hum.

He hit the break and breathed. The keys rested beneath his fingers. For a second, he forgot what came next.

He used to think this one—Shoreless River—might be the masterpiece. The one people remembered. The one they would sing along to. He had worked it over again and again. But it never landed. Never moved anyone. And 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 the mourning doves fly

across the shoreless river.

And I’ll think of the journey we will take together,

In the oarless boat we’ll glide,

across the shoreless river.

The final chord rang, quiet and clean. The bar settled back into hum and chatter. A few claps. 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, quiet.

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

Then he collapsed onto the sidewalk and stared up at a streetlight, mistaking it for the moon.

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

Then—a tune rose. Soft and familiar. Someone was humming.

He 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. Then 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.

Then he pulled the man into a hug. And 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.

And when Friday rolled around again, Perry returned to Inky’s. He sat at the keys. He began Shoreless River.

The young man was there, mouthing every word.

Perry smiled. And when the last note rang, he stepped down, standing tall.

Joe slid him a shot of whiskey. Perry pushed it back.

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