Gently & Ivory

These two related pieces came from the prompts ‘Gently’ and ‘Ivory’. They were posted in that order, but I have reversed them as somehow it works better with the shorter piece first. They reflect my deep regret at being inherently un-musical, and my fascination with watching pianists make wonderful music.

Ivory (100 words) It’s about more than tinkling the ivories

Until he settled on the old worn piano stool, and he and the cool ivory keys made contact with each other, he could never be sure what notes he would strike. The sensation beneath the tips of his fingers suffused him with joy, sadness, energy, lassitude.

The piano would guide his hands, determining the tempo and the mood of the pieces that flowed effortlessly through them. The instrument knew his state of mind. Sometimes it indulged his melancholy, sometimes it contrived to buoy him through the difficult times. It uplifted and calmed him, harmonising with his inner thoughts, soothing his soul.

Gently (300 words) – Hitting the Right Notes

His agile fingers danced effortlessly and gently across the ivory keys, making the complex shapes of the different notes and chords. He looked up at her from time to time and then bowed his head again, moving his torso sinuously, swaying and dipping over the keyboard. His feet flexed and released the pedals, damping some sounds and allowing others to build in resonance and timbre.

She did not have the gift of music and so envied the ease with which he could sit at the beautiful maple wood baby grand and bring it to life. Seated at the worn piano stool he would disappear for hours into himself, locking her out, left, tuneless, helpless, without the words or notes with which to reach him.

She recognised the melody, but without his training, his vast repertoire played without sheet music, she had no recourse in her memory to search for the title or the composer. It was something classical, that had been modernised somewhere, somehow. She tried to recapture a time when she had heard it before and to know why this tune, why now.

“Ed?”

He shook his head, dismissing her and changed tempo.

The piece was discordant, the minor chords giving it an overwhelmingly sad feel. He shifted now into ragtime, his left hand hitting the same notes in a repetitive pattern whilst his right stretched and jangled the higher notes. He switched to an achingly beautiful piece and became engrossed in its complexity. As it reached a crescendo, he slipped seamlessly back to the ragtime. He was mocking her. That’s what he used his music for- to tease her, to love her, to laugh at her, to show his anger – to communicate with her. But today she was at a loss to decipher his musical code.