A Thousand Perfect Notes

by C.G. Drews

she strode into the world as a bitter giant, ready to clobber everyone with a piano.

Beck swivels, walking backwards, and smiles. ‘Done. We can go our separate ways.’ ‘That was painful just to watch,’ August says. ‘You really ought to practise that at home. Alone. Where you can’t terrify small children.’

Life would be unbalanced without sharp words to stick in your ribs like a thousand little knives. Beck’s here to fill the quota.

‘Dude,’ August says, ‘your eyes have this permanent devastated look, like someone stole your ice cream and stabbed your puppy and then told you sprinkles were illegal. Your eyes clearly say they want to pass this assignment.’

‘I practised smiling,’ Beck says.

‘The mirror punched me for my efforts so, good news, you were right. I suck at it.’

‘I’ve tried to be nice about this,’ Beck says, ‘but I really can’t stand your face.’

‘Alternative as in how?’ Beck’s voice is pitched a little high. ‘They sweeten the cake with human hearts?’ ‘Um, more like alternative-as-in-the-cake-is-sweetened-with-stevia.’ Beck sits down. ‘Is the death short and easy?’ August swats him.

How come he can’t muster the energy to truly get rid of her? Because she pays attention to him? Because she laughs instead of seethes at his snarky quips? Because she’s buying him cake? The last one. It’s the last one.

Music is nothing unless it fills your soul with colour and passion and dreams.

She whirls and Beck half expects wings made of frost and longing to sprout from her back and fly her home. He wants to catch her, pin the wings just for a second and ask to fly with her. Ask to be saved.

his song for August is the opposite. It’s slow and filled with pauses of regret and rushes of longing and the occasional dance. It tastes like thunderstorms when he dreams of it at night.