Perry's Masterpiece: A Flash Fiction

Perry struck the keys with all he had left. The rising and falling melody, carefully crafted to be a delicate mix of minor and major chords, soared through Inky's, the dimly lit pub where he played the open songwriter event every Friday night. But tonight, his head hung low over the piano, burdened with sorrow. The once-burning desire to perform and share his music with others had flickered out and faded altogether. And he knew it—with bone-shaking certainty—that this would be his final performance.

Thick beads of sweat dripped from his long, gray hair as he bent his neck further, striking the keys even more ferociously. Water rushed like ocean waves in a storm into his eyes. He began to sing, his voice broken, the last verse of his song "Shoreless River," a piece he had written a few years back after his father passed away:

"Wishing wells seem like roads of dust.

Like willow trees under the beating sun.

I bend my neck, Dad, I can't go on.

So lonely here with this quiet hum."

As he played into the break before the last chorus, he thought how fitting that this was the song he’d finish with. The frustration he experienced writing this song—laboring over the chord changes, modifying the lyrics over and over, struggling to get them right to no avail—all seemed to pour out of him now. He had wanted it to be his masterpiece, but it never quite made it. So, like a dam breaking and gushing water, he burst into the final chorus:

"In time, we’ll smile through the stormy weather.

Watch the 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."

Perry’s heart pounded in sync with the rhythm of his slowing fingers. Those present set down their drinks, lifting their eyebrows in solitude, as if, at the very least, they were aware that the change in volume deserved a moment of their attention.

He pressed the resolving C chord, and the song faded, meshing with the bar’s light operating hum. Slumped over the piano, he stared at his weathered hands as if they had lost feeling. Then, his fingers slipped from the keys.

 A smattering of polite applause greeted him as he stood. He bowed to the sparse audience of regulars who were just there to booze, then trudged toward the bar. The dream of his music meaning something to someone, anyone, waned with each heavy step.

He sank into the barstool like a sloth and sucked down a shot of whiskey. Joe, the bartender, passed him another. With each shot, his dream crawled deeper into the void in his chest, like a dying worm under the swelter of a relentless sun, inching off to find a dark place to shrivel up in peace.

***

At 2:00 AM, Perry stumbled out of Inky’s and fell into the street. Cars honked, swerving around him, but he just whooped and blabbered, raising a middle finger while cursing them to hell.

An attempt to rise to his feet only made him tumble again. Eventually, he landed on the sidewalk and lay there for a while, staring at the streetlight above, mistaking it for the moon.

Perry closed his eyes against the brightness as the bars along the strip began to empty out. The sidewalks buzzed with life; people walked around him, laughing and stepping over him as if he were homeless. Perry hardly noticed.

But then he heard something that made him snap his eyes open. It was a quiet, familiar tune drifting through the air. Managing to stand, he followed the sound, tottering through the crowd until the hum grew louder in his ears. With ragged steps, he approached the source: a young man wearing a top hat, singing while strolling along the sidewalk.

Perry grabbed hold of the man by his shoulders and spun him around. “Do you like it?” he slurred. The man threw up a clenched fist at first, ready to clock him, but softened his expression and smiled. “It’s stuck in my head.” He looked Perry over. “Are you alright?”

Perry said nothing for a while. He just stared open mouthed, then finally let him go. “You do?” he said at half volume.  

“Of course, Perry,” the young man replied. "It's a good song. I come every week just to hear you play it. It reminds me of my dad.”

Perry stood motionless in astonishment. He blinked against the moisture forming in his eyes, then the tears began dribbling down his cheeks. Without speaking, he wrapped his arms around the young man’s slender frame, squeezing him and planting a sloppy, blissfully drunken kiss on his cheek. Then he bumbled homeward.

The following week, Perry returned to Inky’s open artist night. As he played his set, he occasionally glanced up at the young man, watching with joy his lips mouthing the words to "Shoreless River." After the final note trailed off, Perry walked off stage, proud and standing tall. Joe, the bartender, slid him a shot of whiskey, but Perry slid it back with a steady hand. "No thanks, Joe. I’m headed home. My masterpiece still needs work, and it certainly won't get done here!"

As Perry walked toward the exit, his eyes glittered with a newfound spark. His feet seemed to spring with a fresh step. He nodded at the young man, grateful for the crisp breath of life his one simple compliment had given him. The young man tipped his top hat, nodding back with a smile.

"Just keep holding on and pushing through," Perry told himself, swinging open the door and strutting down the street. For the first time in years, he had walked out of Inky's without stumbling. "Maybe you've got to prove you want a dream bad enough before it can come true," he continued. "Maybe the struggle is like the caterpillar of a dream before it becomes a butterfly—and maybe this is how true masterpieces are born!"

That night, he sat down in his parlor at home, placing his fingers on the piano keys. Shards of moonlight slanted through the windowpanes. His father's picture, hanging on the wall above him, gleamed in the pale glow. Not long after, a new section—a bridge just before the last chorus of "Shoreless River"—seemed to flow through him, one that finally glued it all together and made it feel just right.

Perry looked up and smiled at the picture, a tear rolling down his cheek. He had finally completed his masterpiece!

"I bet you think I'm done now, Dad!" he said with a laugh. "Hardly—I'm just getting started."