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sga_flashficThe Visible Spectrum
by dracostella
Sheppard
Like the post by![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
smittywing, this is also based on reccea's card. The timing was unintentional.
G
~1100 words
She was playing Chopin for him the first time she missed a note. It was during a crescendo. She looked at her fingers and sighed.
John's mother had long pale fingers. The skin of her hands was almost translucent as she played the piano. Those were John's first memories. At first, she would sit him in her lap while she played, but as he got bigger, she started to put him on the bench next to her. And while he sat there, he held on to the fabric of her skirt with his left hand and felt the music vibrate all around him.
"Oh baby, I wish you'd learn to play," she'd say to him, and John would always shake his head and not say anything back. The music was his mother's magic.
"Johnny boy, why don't you go and play outside or something and leave your mother alone?" His father would ask him sometimes when John was sitting with his mother on the piano bench.
"He isn't bothering me," his mother would say, and his father would leave it at that. His mother and him together and alone in his mother's magic and it was perfect.
When John was six, his mother took him with her to a doctor's visit. The doctor was a very tall with matted blonde hair. He asked John's mother if she wanted to leave John in the children's play area.
His mother shook her head, and John felt his mother hand tighten around his own.
A month later, his mother started to loose her hair and she started to spend less and less time at the piano.
She was playing Chopin for him the first time she missed a note. It was during a crescendo. She looked at her fingers and sighed.
"I think they are shorter," she said. John put his hand over hers and tried to remember if his mother's hand had gotten any smaller. They didn't look as big as they were before compared to his.
"Oh baby, what would you do if I weren't here?" His mother asked him as she swooped him up in her arms, and John found himself in her lap again for the first time in a long time.
A week later John's father made him go to the first grade.
His mother walked him to school that day even though she hadn't been outside in a while. She wore a long blue silk scarf around her head that made her look like her hair was made of water. John couldn't stop looking at her as they walked together, hand in hand.
When they finally got to the school, John tried to cling to her hand but she pulled away.
"I'll be right here to pick you up real soon. Three o'clock, okay?" His mother said as she tapped her finger gently on the watch she gave him. "You'll be good until then, right?"
John nodded, walking away and looking back every four steps. The music around him fainter with each step. Seven hours and four minutes until he could go back to it, he told himself. Twenty-four thousand four hundred and forty seconds. John counted each one.
There was a piano in his class room, but the teacher, Mrs. Thorsen, made John stand at the corner of the classroom all day when John tried to sit on the bench. Nineteen thousand seven hundred sixty four seconds.
But his mother was waiting for him when he was finally finally finished with his first day of school. He ran to her, and tried to wrapped himself around the fabric of her white skirt.
"What are you doing, baby?" She laughed at him and picked him up.
John wanted to explain himself, but he chocked on the words and hiccupped and his mother kissed his hair.
"Oh my poor baby," She whispered in his hair, "I won't leave you." His mother's voice was soft and warm, and it sounded like a promise.
When John was in the second grade, his mother went back to teaching piano lessons for the first time since John was born. There was a string of students that started to come in to their house and share the piano bench with her.
"Don't you want to learn, baby?" his mother asked him one night when it was just the two of them on the bench.
John shook his head, and listened for the music. It was still all around him. All around his mother. It was getting louder. But it was loudest when his mother was completely alone, when John was only watching her and listening.
When John was in the third grade, his father took him flying for the first time and John fell in love for the second time.
His mother smiled when John tried to tell her about the sky. "I'm so glad you liked it, baby," she said as she is sitting down on her piano bench. John sat next to her and asked her if she wanted to come along next time.
"How could I, baby?" his mother didn't look at him when she spoke. "I might never come back down." She started playing then. It was Bach. She stopped playing Chopin when John was six.
John reached out and held on to a handful of his mother's skirt so that she wouldn't float away, and let the music take them both.
When John was in the fourth grade, his mother's cancer came back. His mother never said anything to him, but she started to play the piano obsessively. John sat with her when she played, and he wondered when the piano music started to clash with the music all around her.
Then, on a hot day in June at the end of fourth grade, his mother took him to the cemetery. His mother was very thin then. Her white skirt floated about her like a parachute that could not hold all of its weight.
As they walked around the cemetery, they stopped and looked at all the statutes of angels. There was one in particular that his mother liked. She even leaned up against one and said something in a language that John couldn't understand. It was prayer. That much John understood.
Three days after that trip to the cemetery, his mother went in the hospital and never came back.
Later, his father would tell him that his mother died on John's tenth birthday. But John remembered it differently. He remembered that the music had finally been loud all at once, and his mother had smiled at him wistfully before she gave herself up to it. He remembered that he tried to hold on to her long pale fingers, but they slipped away into a mist of translucent star dust. And he was left with nothing but a hand full of white light.
by dracostella
Sheppard
Like the post by
smittywing, this is also based on reccea's card. The timing was unintentional. G
~1100 words
She was playing Chopin for him the first time she missed a note. It was during a crescendo. She looked at her fingers and sighed.
John's mother had long pale fingers. The skin of her hands was almost translucent as she played the piano. Those were John's first memories. At first, she would sit him in her lap while she played, but as he got bigger, she started to put him on the bench next to her. And while he sat there, he held on to the fabric of her skirt with his left hand and felt the music vibrate all around him.
"Oh baby, I wish you'd learn to play," she'd say to him, and John would always shake his head and not say anything back. The music was his mother's magic.
"Johnny boy, why don't you go and play outside or something and leave your mother alone?" His father would ask him sometimes when John was sitting with his mother on the piano bench.
"He isn't bothering me," his mother would say, and his father would leave it at that. His mother and him together and alone in his mother's magic and it was perfect.
When John was six, his mother took him with her to a doctor's visit. The doctor was a very tall with matted blonde hair. He asked John's mother if she wanted to leave John in the children's play area.
His mother shook her head, and John felt his mother hand tighten around his own.
A month later, his mother started to loose her hair and she started to spend less and less time at the piano.
She was playing Chopin for him the first time she missed a note. It was during a crescendo. She looked at her fingers and sighed.
"I think they are shorter," she said. John put his hand over hers and tried to remember if his mother's hand had gotten any smaller. They didn't look as big as they were before compared to his.
"Oh baby, what would you do if I weren't here?" His mother asked him as she swooped him up in her arms, and John found himself in her lap again for the first time in a long time.
A week later John's father made him go to the first grade.
His mother walked him to school that day even though she hadn't been outside in a while. She wore a long blue silk scarf around her head that made her look like her hair was made of water. John couldn't stop looking at her as they walked together, hand in hand.
When they finally got to the school, John tried to cling to her hand but she pulled away.
"I'll be right here to pick you up real soon. Three o'clock, okay?" His mother said as she tapped her finger gently on the watch she gave him. "You'll be good until then, right?"
John nodded, walking away and looking back every four steps. The music around him fainter with each step. Seven hours and four minutes until he could go back to it, he told himself. Twenty-four thousand four hundred and forty seconds. John counted each one.
There was a piano in his class room, but the teacher, Mrs. Thorsen, made John stand at the corner of the classroom all day when John tried to sit on the bench. Nineteen thousand seven hundred sixty four seconds.
But his mother was waiting for him when he was finally finally finished with his first day of school. He ran to her, and tried to wrapped himself around the fabric of her white skirt.
"What are you doing, baby?" She laughed at him and picked him up.
John wanted to explain himself, but he chocked on the words and hiccupped and his mother kissed his hair.
"Oh my poor baby," She whispered in his hair, "I won't leave you." His mother's voice was soft and warm, and it sounded like a promise.
When John was in the second grade, his mother went back to teaching piano lessons for the first time since John was born. There was a string of students that started to come in to their house and share the piano bench with her.
"Don't you want to learn, baby?" his mother asked him one night when it was just the two of them on the bench.
John shook his head, and listened for the music. It was still all around him. All around his mother. It was getting louder. But it was loudest when his mother was completely alone, when John was only watching her and listening.
When John was in the third grade, his father took him flying for the first time and John fell in love for the second time.
His mother smiled when John tried to tell her about the sky. "I'm so glad you liked it, baby," she said as she is sitting down on her piano bench. John sat next to her and asked her if she wanted to come along next time.
"How could I, baby?" his mother didn't look at him when she spoke. "I might never come back down." She started playing then. It was Bach. She stopped playing Chopin when John was six.
John reached out and held on to a handful of his mother's skirt so that she wouldn't float away, and let the music take them both.
When John was in the fourth grade, his mother's cancer came back. His mother never said anything to him, but she started to play the piano obsessively. John sat with her when she played, and he wondered when the piano music started to clash with the music all around her.
Then, on a hot day in June at the end of fourth grade, his mother took him to the cemetery. His mother was very thin then. Her white skirt floated about her like a parachute that could not hold all of its weight.
As they walked around the cemetery, they stopped and looked at all the statutes of angels. There was one in particular that his mother liked. She even leaned up against one and said something in a language that John couldn't understand. It was prayer. That much John understood.
Three days after that trip to the cemetery, his mother went in the hospital and never came back.
Later, his father would tell him that his mother died on John's tenth birthday. But John remembered it differently. He remembered that the music had finally been loud all at once, and his mother had smiled at him wistfully before she gave herself up to it. He remembered that he tried to hold on to her long pale fingers, but they slipped away into a mist of translucent star dust. And he was left with nothing but a hand full of white light.
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