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| Flash fic prompts: this city street, a busker, and a key... |
So this time last year, the Small but Mighty MM Romance Group page on FB had a flash fiction challenge. The organizer invited group members to post pictures plus three word prompts, and we were all invited to choose one and write a short piece. It was a lot of fun! I liked the shortie I came up with, and even though some of you might have read it already, I wanted to post it over here on the blog. I hope you enjoy it!! And happy Valentine's Day!!
Valentine’s Day in Paris, and the rain matched my mood. The
French limited the celebration to lovers – no tacky paper cards for everyone at
school or gags for the gang at work – so I got nothing from no one. Yeah, I’d
been abandoned in the city of love and the rain-slicked streets made me feel
right at home.
I’d staked out a spot under a café’s awning in the Place du
Tertre, a hat on the ground at my feet. Wearing my hair in a ponytail let the
damp send shivers down my neck. The rain chased away most of the tourists, so
the hat was empty, but the artists whose booths lined the square were happy
enough to have me serenade them.
Keeping a mandolin in tune while playing outside, with or
without the rain, had its challenges. I paused between songs, plucking the
pairs of strings to find the offender. Twisted the peg, my gaze on the wet
cobbles. Plucked again. Twisted.
A single strum told me I’d restored order. My fingers found
the strings, as if they’d made an independent decision regarding what to play
next. I took a quick look around. A man leaned against the nearby wrought iron
streetlamp. His posture was relaxed, but his gaze was sharp, and aimed directly
at me.
I played the opening chords of Scarborough Fair,
choosing the tune made famous by Simon and Garfunkel, rather than one of the
older, less familiar melodies. The man smiled, nodding in time. The lyrics tell
the story of a series of impossible tasks that must be performed to win true
love, although most people only know the list of herbs that make up the
refrain.
I finished the verse that asks for an acre of land and the
man on the light pole raised a finger. He was taller than me, and darker, with
a ball cap shading his face. Still, the heat of his gaze took the edge of the
cool damp air.
He began a new tune, though the melody still fit the chords
I played. He sang The Elfin Knight, an even older folk ballad
than Scarborough Fair.
Instead of parsley and sage, the refrain repeated blow,
blow, blow, wind blow. I adjusted my strum, adding more drone to suite the
earlier mode, hoping the wind wouldn't take it as an invitation. For the next
verse, I joined him on the melody, guessing which set of lyrics he’d use.
That ol’ degree in music history came in handy every now and
then.
With me holding down the tune, the stranger found a
counter-melody, weaving his voice around mine in a way that raised the hairs on
my back of my neck. Our lyrics weren’t a perfect match, but I’d spent hours
rehearsing with ensembles who hadn’t gelled nearly as well as me and some guy
on the street.
We finished another verse, and I wanted to test us both. I
paused my hands and, with a teasing grin, said, “the Battle of Evermore”.
The Led Zeppelin song was showy and popular, and the stranger returned my
smile.
I shortened the finger picking introduction to get us to the
vocals and jumped into the verse. Four lines in, the vocal line shifted to a
higher register, often performed by a second singer. I nodded at him and the
stranger came in, his pure tenor both a delight and a challenge.
After Led Zeppelin, I tried Tam Lin, figuring if
he knew The Elfin Knight he’d know this. He did and he
harmonized, verse after verse, the overtones created by our blend evidence of
our perfect tuning.
How is this happening? The twining of our voices
felt like a seduction. We’d drawn a small crowd, despite the rain, and God
knows me and my ne’er do well ex- had never sounded so good.
Rather than get derailed by the guy who’d left me broke and
busking in Paris, I shut my mind down and just played. Greensleeves,
as much a classic as Scarborough Fair. Gaudete, because
it’s always Christmas somewhere. Sumer is icumen in, a bouncy
Medieval round.
“Wait,” the man said after the last cuckoo’s call faded.
“Play Belle qui tiens ma vie.”
Beautiful one who holds my life.
Slower than the others, the song he’d suggested was a
pavane, a courtly dance. Though only known by history nerds and SCA types, the
lyrics were unashamedly romantic.
Your beauty and your grace
And your divine ways
Have melted the ice
Which was freezing my bones
And have filled my heart
With a loving ardour.
While the song might have been a declaration of courtly
love, something in the man’s expression gave the words added layers of meaning.
His tone was an invitation, and while my dick thought that was a fine idea, the
rest of me was gun-shy.
I stopped after the third verse, the heat in the harmony
becoming too personal for a public square. I didn’t even know his name, but
right then he could have talked me into anything.
“What?” he asked, one brow raised as if he sensed my
discomfort and found it amusing.
“Uh…” I gestured at my hat, now holding a few francs and
some coins. “I can buy us both a drink.”
His smile broadened. “Another time, perhaps, but thank you
for the music.”
He bowed from the waist, as anachronistic as the songs we’d been
singing. His smile held mischief, but his eyes were full of promise.
And me? I was cock blocked in the extreme.
The rain picked up, chasing away the crowd. I packed up my
mandolin and pocketed the cash. I wasn’t in the mood for a solo visit to a
café, so I found a market and treated myself to a baguette, cheese, and a
bottle of wine. All the while, my nerves thrummed with leftover excitement.
Since my ex- had left, I’d had to downsize. Rather than a
decent two bedroom flat, I had a small studio, the kind that rented by the
week. The place had once been a fancy home, but it had been carved up long
enough ago that each apartment came with an antique metal key.
A key that was no longer in my pocket.
Damn it.
Standing in the mildewy hallway, I set my parcels on the
floor and patted myself down. Nope, the key wasn’t in any of my jacket pockets,
and it hadn’t magically traveled to my pants. What the fucking hell had
I done with it?
“Hello Damon. Looking for something?”
The question startled me so bad I hopped. “What?”
The guy from the Place stood a few feet away, dangling my
key between his thumb and his index finger. “If I had to guess, I’d say this is
what you're after.”
Questions tumbled out of my mouth on a single breath. “How’d
you know my name and where’d you get that and who are you and what the fuck is
going on?”
His grin widened. “I’m Leo Dubois, Bard of the Danaan sidhe,
and I borrowed your key so I’d have a reason to see you again.” He closed the
distance between us. “And as to what’s going on, I hope we do more of this.”
Leaning forward, he brushed a kiss over my lips. Up close,
he smelled like fresh air and clean pine forest, and, acting on instinct, I
grabbed his jacket and hauled him in.
Our second kiss was longer and deeper and hotter than anything
in recent memory. The blend in our voices was nothing compared to the way our
spirits melded together. When we finally eased apart, I stood with my forehead
resting against his chin.
“You still didn’t tell me how you knew my name.” I should
have been embarrassed by how breathless I sounded, but Leo’s answering laugh
wrapped me in reassurance.
“Invite me in, and we’ll talk. I feel we have much to
discuss.”
I blinked, suddenly aware that we were two men kissing in a
semi-public place. Not the smartest thing ever, so I fitted the key into the
lock.
I had questions and hopefully he’d have answers, but either
way, my dick was first in line for satisfaction. This Valentine’s Day had taken
a mighty unexpected turn, and, almost vibrating with excitement, I invited him
in.
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