HE.

• Breanna Nobbs, Grade 12
• Short Story
• 2010

Since the vanishing sound of the omnipresent waves, music is what keeps him alive.
He loves the way he is able to express his emotions through it, the sensations that cannot be conveyed through words; but through dynamics and notes that meld together to create a masterpiece.
He can’t show how he feels, but his music allows his true self to resonate within the walls in which his song is encapsulated. He is not accustomed to his new appearance, his skin, a costume he would rather not wear. His stately figure, donning a sophisticated business suit contrasts with the soft waves of his hair, swept off his forehead revealing his strong defined cheek bones.
He glances over to the piano, its black top glistening in the soft morning sunlight. Without his touch, it is lifeless.
He sits, tightly closing his eyes. When he opens them, there is an empty space between his long delicate fingers and soft ivory keys of the piano. Like tiny dancers, his fingers lightly pirouette over the keys, keeping perfect time with the uninterrupted precision of the metronomes quiet tick. With each touch, a new note sounds, creating a new wave within the stunning melodic contour.

Nearing the end of the first phrase, his fingers grow weak and begin to falter. The cold hand of his master harshly swipes the side of his face, commanding him to play faster, louder.
His hands flail and his master pulls him backwards off his piano stool.
‘Finish the piece or I will beat you’ bellows his master.
The music’s emotion is now forced, it does not flow from within, and no self reflection is evident as quiet sobs escape his mouth.
He remains curled on the floor, rocking back and forth as if he is the ocean, gently lapping at the shore. He has become accustomed to his daily beatings.
‘Look at me Fool!’ his master cries as he lights a match, threatening to set fire to his precious piano...

He closes his eyes once again, letting his fingers dance across the keys.
His right hand grows softer, playing articulate triplets, resembling the final crash of a wave, whilst his left hand slows down in pace, playing strong, thunderous octaves, mimicking the deep grumble of the irate ocean.
He cannot see the music, but he can feel it, wrapping its arms around his frail body, urging him to continue. As all concentration is given to the piano, he cannot hear the silent footsteps of his master re-entering the room.
He continues to play triplets, modulating to the key of B flat major, imitating the graceful flutter of a butterfly. As he finishes the piece with a perfect cadence, its simplicity is disrupted by a callous voice, reprimanding him for using the piano as an emotive outlet. He has now recognised the masters presence, when suddenly his cries of anger and frustration turn into a distant echo, that voice now a confusing mumble of unidentifiable words...


written by Breanna Nobbs 17, Richmond River High school, year 12