This is a short story that I wrote for my creative writing class. Opinions?
A Minor
Rosemary Hilliard
Charles stared at his hands, poised like daggers above the ivory keys of the piano. Silence glared back at him, unwavering in emptiness and oppression. Feeling the sweat begin to bead against his palms, Charles foolishly glanced at the small audience gathered in the room, waiting like pigeons to be fed their share of musical genius. Shuddering, the boy turned his attention back to the instrument lying mutely before him, its ebony frame engulfed in white light from the burning overhead lamps.
Senior Recital, Charles Fisher, 7:00 PM Tuesday, May 4, Sharon Lynne Concert Hall. The flier that his mother had printed up for the concert were blue with little pink flowers in the corners. A perfect representation of how much she didnt understand him. The tiny group gathered in the concert hall mindlessly clutched at the little sky-blue pieces of paper, devouring the small biography of Charles and the repetoire list included in the handout. Charles will be attending the New England Conservatory of Music in the fall for a degree in piano performance. Aside from practicing, he loves to ride his bike, walk his dog Moxie, and read science fiction novels. Charles hadnt written any part of the biography his mother had insisted be included in the recital program, and had laughed at her frankness in word choice. How could a life be summed up in such explicit language?
High school senior Charles Fisher questions his inner self and his ability to make it in the music industry, choosing to attend NEC only to appease his parents. Aside from having a romantic affair with his piano teacher and sneaking out of the house almost every night, Charles enjoys hiding his homosexuality and getting high in his best friends basement.
Thats what it should have said, at least.
Charles looked back out at the nearly invisible mass of the audience, blankly scanning the faces of those in attendance. He still had five minutes until he was supposed to begin playing, and the hushed silence that enveloped the eager faces wasnt doing anything to calm his nerves or erase the feeling of apprehension that was beginning to boil in the pit of his stomach. Glancing across the rows of keen faces once again, Charles met the eyes of Mr. Garrison. The piano teacher was seated at the back of the theatre as he always was, smiling softly at Charles through the garish glow of the stage lights. Charles nodded oncea simple gesture, their gesture. Garrisons lips broadened.
From across the theatre, Charles caught a flash of movement. His mother was shifting uncomfortably in her chair, evidently having noticed the moment of intimacy passing between teacher and student. Though she and Charles father had never truly caught on to the affair, he knew they were suspicious. His mother had not even wanted for Garrison to attend the recital, and her refusal to send the man an invitation had forced Charles to extend the welcome himself.
Approval. That is what the entire recital represented to Charles: the need to be accepted by everyone else. His parents, his friends, even Mr. Garrisonthe audience expected him to dumfound them with his music. Charles loved the piano, and wished that he could share his appreciation for music with those around him. To his parents, he was nothing more than a prodigy to be proud of, a pet to be shown off and bragged about the neighbors. To Mr. Garrison, his talent reflected the teacher, and though Garrison certainly appreciated Charles, it was difficult for the older man to comprehend Charles indecision regarding the New England Conservatory.
Charles ran his hands over the instrument, the white keys smooth as bones in the sun. His entire life waiting in the springs and the gears of the piano, tied up in the strings like bundles of secrets and expectations. Closing his eyes, Charles poised himself over the keyboard, his fingers ready to dance and play and pound out the melodies that he had so carefully memorized for this moment.
Grieg. He would open with the Grieg. Ignoring the programs instructions that he would begin with the Brahms Intermezzo in Eb, Charles smiled gently to himself, turning his attention away from his parents, from his lover, and from the quiet judgement of the audience. His mother despised piano pieces that were not simply slow and beautiful, and Mr. Garrison disapproved of anything composed after 1800. The Grieg was neither, and for Charles to play such a piece represented his ultimate detachment from his parents and his piano training. Somehow, he did not care, and Charles felt almost giddy with his newfound revolutionary spirit, balanced on the precipice of self discovery and the future that waited for him by the doors of the theatre. Sucking in a deep breath, Charles launched into the Grieg Piano Concerto in a minor, allowing the familiar chords to wash over the theatre in a wave of melodious sound.
Charles closed his eyes and bent over the piano, back arched like a snake, straining through the confines of his tuxedo. Grimmacing against the pain and the passion of the piece, he lost himself in the music, ignored the angry stare from his mother and the disapproval leaking away from Mr. Garrision, ignored the startled gasp from the audience as he kicked away the piano stool and stood, panting, paying the greatest homage to Edvard Grieg that the dead composer had likely ever received. Music echoed through the hall and drowned out the thoughts of all within hearing distance, the beauty and the ardor of its creator flowing like blood through the veins of the reverberating chords.
As the final movement of the concerto modulated from the sadness of a minor into the pure rapture that was C Major, Charles abandoned all familiarity, playing the piece far better than he had ever dreamed. In his mind, the great orchestral accompaniment to the concerto began to play, competiting with his fingers for recognition. The final notes of the piece were far grander than anything that preceded them, and Charles landed on the last chord with the fervency of a spreading fire.
The orchestra of his mind faded away into the silence that met him at the hands of the audience, their expressions drowned out by the tears that had begun to seep from the corners of Charles eyes. Vacant seats answered his glances to his mother and Mr. Garrison, but Charles did not care. Weak at the knees from over half an hour of intense playing, Charles pulled up the piano stool and sat down, breathing heavily.
Thank you. That was the Grieg Concerto in a minor, my favorite piece ever composed for the piano. I appreciate you all taking the time to come out to my recital, and I hope that you enjoy this music as much as I do. Charles smiled warmly at the still-shocked audience members, the quiet crowd evidently frightened into silence by his impassioned performance.
Taking a deep breath, Charles rested his fingers against the cold keys of the piano and began to play the Brahms, weaving a silken web of melodic beauty and meaning for the entire crowd, filling their silence with nothing but beautiful music.
A Minor
Rosemary Hilliard
Charles stared at his hands, poised like daggers above the ivory keys of the piano. Silence glared back at him, unwavering in emptiness and oppression. Feeling the sweat begin to bead against his palms, Charles foolishly glanced at the small audience gathered in the room, waiting like pigeons to be fed their share of musical genius. Shuddering, the boy turned his attention back to the instrument lying mutely before him, its ebony frame engulfed in white light from the burning overhead lamps.
Senior Recital, Charles Fisher, 7:00 PM Tuesday, May 4, Sharon Lynne Concert Hall. The flier that his mother had printed up for the concert were blue with little pink flowers in the corners. A perfect representation of how much she didnt understand him. The tiny group gathered in the concert hall mindlessly clutched at the little sky-blue pieces of paper, devouring the small biography of Charles and the repetoire list included in the handout. Charles will be attending the New England Conservatory of Music in the fall for a degree in piano performance. Aside from practicing, he loves to ride his bike, walk his dog Moxie, and read science fiction novels. Charles hadnt written any part of the biography his mother had insisted be included in the recital program, and had laughed at her frankness in word choice. How could a life be summed up in such explicit language?
High school senior Charles Fisher questions his inner self and his ability to make it in the music industry, choosing to attend NEC only to appease his parents. Aside from having a romantic affair with his piano teacher and sneaking out of the house almost every night, Charles enjoys hiding his homosexuality and getting high in his best friends basement.
Thats what it should have said, at least.
Charles looked back out at the nearly invisible mass of the audience, blankly scanning the faces of those in attendance. He still had five minutes until he was supposed to begin playing, and the hushed silence that enveloped the eager faces wasnt doing anything to calm his nerves or erase the feeling of apprehension that was beginning to boil in the pit of his stomach. Glancing across the rows of keen faces once again, Charles met the eyes of Mr. Garrison. The piano teacher was seated at the back of the theatre as he always was, smiling softly at Charles through the garish glow of the stage lights. Charles nodded oncea simple gesture, their gesture. Garrisons lips broadened.
From across the theatre, Charles caught a flash of movement. His mother was shifting uncomfortably in her chair, evidently having noticed the moment of intimacy passing between teacher and student. Though she and Charles father had never truly caught on to the affair, he knew they were suspicious. His mother had not even wanted for Garrison to attend the recital, and her refusal to send the man an invitation had forced Charles to extend the welcome himself.
Approval. That is what the entire recital represented to Charles: the need to be accepted by everyone else. His parents, his friends, even Mr. Garrisonthe audience expected him to dumfound them with his music. Charles loved the piano, and wished that he could share his appreciation for music with those around him. To his parents, he was nothing more than a prodigy to be proud of, a pet to be shown off and bragged about the neighbors. To Mr. Garrison, his talent reflected the teacher, and though Garrison certainly appreciated Charles, it was difficult for the older man to comprehend Charles indecision regarding the New England Conservatory.
Charles ran his hands over the instrument, the white keys smooth as bones in the sun. His entire life waiting in the springs and the gears of the piano, tied up in the strings like bundles of secrets and expectations. Closing his eyes, Charles poised himself over the keyboard, his fingers ready to dance and play and pound out the melodies that he had so carefully memorized for this moment.
Grieg. He would open with the Grieg. Ignoring the programs instructions that he would begin with the Brahms Intermezzo in Eb, Charles smiled gently to himself, turning his attention away from his parents, from his lover, and from the quiet judgement of the audience. His mother despised piano pieces that were not simply slow and beautiful, and Mr. Garrison disapproved of anything composed after 1800. The Grieg was neither, and for Charles to play such a piece represented his ultimate detachment from his parents and his piano training. Somehow, he did not care, and Charles felt almost giddy with his newfound revolutionary spirit, balanced on the precipice of self discovery and the future that waited for him by the doors of the theatre. Sucking in a deep breath, Charles launched into the Grieg Piano Concerto in a minor, allowing the familiar chords to wash over the theatre in a wave of melodious sound.
Charles closed his eyes and bent over the piano, back arched like a snake, straining through the confines of his tuxedo. Grimmacing against the pain and the passion of the piece, he lost himself in the music, ignored the angry stare from his mother and the disapproval leaking away from Mr. Garrision, ignored the startled gasp from the audience as he kicked away the piano stool and stood, panting, paying the greatest homage to Edvard Grieg that the dead composer had likely ever received. Music echoed through the hall and drowned out the thoughts of all within hearing distance, the beauty and the ardor of its creator flowing like blood through the veins of the reverberating chords.
As the final movement of the concerto modulated from the sadness of a minor into the pure rapture that was C Major, Charles abandoned all familiarity, playing the piece far better than he had ever dreamed. In his mind, the great orchestral accompaniment to the concerto began to play, competiting with his fingers for recognition. The final notes of the piece were far grander than anything that preceded them, and Charles landed on the last chord with the fervency of a spreading fire.
The orchestra of his mind faded away into the silence that met him at the hands of the audience, their expressions drowned out by the tears that had begun to seep from the corners of Charles eyes. Vacant seats answered his glances to his mother and Mr. Garrison, but Charles did not care. Weak at the knees from over half an hour of intense playing, Charles pulled up the piano stool and sat down, breathing heavily.
Thank you. That was the Grieg Concerto in a minor, my favorite piece ever composed for the piano. I appreciate you all taking the time to come out to my recital, and I hope that you enjoy this music as much as I do. Charles smiled warmly at the still-shocked audience members, the quiet crowd evidently frightened into silence by his impassioned performance.
Taking a deep breath, Charles rested his fingers against the cold keys of the piano and began to play the Brahms, weaving a silken web of melodic beauty and meaning for the entire crowd, filling their silence with nothing but beautiful music.
Nice story, I love the details: the feel of the piano keys, the pink flowers and blue of the flyer.
I wonder if you'd considered ending it without the resolution of the last two paragraphs. I kind of like the image of him collapsed at the piano. My $.02 anyway. I'm a visual person, so I tend to wrap things up with images.