Read Online Silent Song (Ghostly Rhapsody) by Ron C. Nieto - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ron C. Nieto
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music stopped, the cat relaxed ever so slightly, enough that I could tell myself that feline doom didn’t await me, but not enough to allow us to brush the animal off.
“What’s wrong?” Keith asked him.
Sparrow didn’t answer, thanks to all that’s holy, but he did huff again when Keith made as if to resume his playing.
“He doesn’t like your music,” I tried to joke, and he rolled his eyes in annoyance.
“There’s a reason he practically lives in this room.”
“Warm and comfortable.”
He gave me a “yeah, right” look.
“So you weren’t enjoying it.”
Okay, he had me there. There were things not even I would lie about.
“It was beautiful.” After a moment’s silence, I added, “It was new, wasn’t it?”
“They were new,” he corrected. “Yeah, both of them. The first’s something I’ve been working on for a while; you might have heard one of the previous versions. The second’s probably the most uncooked thing I’ve ever played for an audience.”
“Uncooked?”
He shrugged, a bit self-conscious. “I played on the fly. I had this idea of how I wanted it to go, but…”
“You’re just bluffing, right?”
“Why would I?”
“To look cooler.”
He laughed again. “Alice,” he said, and his voice and my name were a match made in Heaven. “Does it look like I try to be cool at all?”
I studied him. There were some other goths or emo kids at school, but Keith didn’t fit in with them, either. His style did include some elements that could fit in their wardrobes, I guess, but the way he combined them—if he did put any thought into combining—made him stand out from them as much as from us over at the center table. An outsider to all groups, I guessed.
“No, I suppose not. So, how do you play on the fly?”
“It’s not difficult. The trick is to know your intervals and then to decide whether you want the melody to go up or down. You’ve to keep your notes harmonic with your first one. If you do that, it’ll sound good. For example, something like this.” He bent his head down to demonstrate, and a flash of black streaked over my shoulder, scrambled all over him, throwing irate hissing noises and bolted out the door.
I was out the chair before I could even register what had happened.
“Are you okay?”
He cradled his right arm, looking after Sparrow with a frown and a bothered expression. Four red welts were rising on his forearm, droplets of blood swelling here and there.
“Yeah, it’s nothing.”
“Oh my God, you’re hurt!”
“I think I’ll live.”
I gave him my business look. “Do you have peroxide?”
“I can take care of it. It’s nothing.”
“Claw wounds infect easily, don’t you know that?” I crossed my arms, as if expecting him to be amazed at my cleverness.
He looked back to his arm. “This is not a wound, just a scratch.”
“Peroxide.”
“Bathroom.” He sighed, giving up on me. “Out in the hallway, door in the front wall.”
I nodded and stomped out, woman on a mission.
The bathroom was clean and neat, and it had a small cabinet stocked with several pills, cotton balls and standard first-aid material. I grabbed some cotton and the bottle of peroxide and went back to his room without catching a glimpse of Sparrow.
“Arm.” I held out a hand and he placed his forearm on my palm, a small smirk in place. I started dabbing at the angry welts, resisting the urge to blow softly to mitigate the sting, and he didn’t even twitch.
Foam formed around the scratches and I washed it away, again and again.
“Does it hurt?”
“Not really.”
I nodded, and he didn’t say anything else. I focused on my task until I could in no good conscience justify my lingering fingers.
“Don’t put a Band-Aid on it,” I said, relinquishing his arm. “It’ll dry better this way.”
He nodded, and it struck me how much he changed once he wasn’t hiding behind his guitar. He became silent, insecure, and shy. I wanted to reach
“What’s wrong?” Keith asked him.
Sparrow didn’t answer, thanks to all that’s holy, but he did huff again when Keith made as if to resume his playing.
“He doesn’t like your music,” I tried to joke, and he rolled his eyes in annoyance.
“There’s a reason he practically lives in this room.”
“Warm and comfortable.”
He gave me a “yeah, right” look.
“So you weren’t enjoying it.”
Okay, he had me there. There were things not even I would lie about.
“It was beautiful.” After a moment’s silence, I added, “It was new, wasn’t it?”
“They were new,” he corrected. “Yeah, both of them. The first’s something I’ve been working on for a while; you might have heard one of the previous versions. The second’s probably the most uncooked thing I’ve ever played for an audience.”
“Uncooked?”
He shrugged, a bit self-conscious. “I played on the fly. I had this idea of how I wanted it to go, but…”
“You’re just bluffing, right?”
“Why would I?”
“To look cooler.”
He laughed again. “Alice,” he said, and his voice and my name were a match made in Heaven. “Does it look like I try to be cool at all?”
I studied him. There were some other goths or emo kids at school, but Keith didn’t fit in with them, either. His style did include some elements that could fit in their wardrobes, I guess, but the way he combined them—if he did put any thought into combining—made him stand out from them as much as from us over at the center table. An outsider to all groups, I guessed.
“No, I suppose not. So, how do you play on the fly?”
“It’s not difficult. The trick is to know your intervals and then to decide whether you want the melody to go up or down. You’ve to keep your notes harmonic with your first one. If you do that, it’ll sound good. For example, something like this.” He bent his head down to demonstrate, and a flash of black streaked over my shoulder, scrambled all over him, throwing irate hissing noises and bolted out the door.
I was out the chair before I could even register what had happened.
“Are you okay?”
He cradled his right arm, looking after Sparrow with a frown and a bothered expression. Four red welts were rising on his forearm, droplets of blood swelling here and there.
“Yeah, it’s nothing.”
“Oh my God, you’re hurt!”
“I think I’ll live.”
I gave him my business look. “Do you have peroxide?”
“I can take care of it. It’s nothing.”
“Claw wounds infect easily, don’t you know that?” I crossed my arms, as if expecting him to be amazed at my cleverness.
He looked back to his arm. “This is not a wound, just a scratch.”
“Peroxide.”
“Bathroom.” He sighed, giving up on me. “Out in the hallway, door in the front wall.”
I nodded and stomped out, woman on a mission.
The bathroom was clean and neat, and it had a small cabinet stocked with several pills, cotton balls and standard first-aid material. I grabbed some cotton and the bottle of peroxide and went back to his room without catching a glimpse of Sparrow.
“Arm.” I held out a hand and he placed his forearm on my palm, a small smirk in place. I started dabbing at the angry welts, resisting the urge to blow softly to mitigate the sting, and he didn’t even twitch.
Foam formed around the scratches and I washed it away, again and again.
“Does it hurt?”
“Not really.”
I nodded, and he didn’t say anything else. I focused on my task until I could in no good conscience justify my lingering fingers.
“Don’t put a Band-Aid on it,” I said, relinquishing his arm. “It’ll dry better this way.”
He nodded, and it struck me how much he changed once he wasn’t hiding behind his guitar. He became silent, insecure, and shy. I wanted to reach
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