Friday Writing Response for July 3, 2009

Not my best answer, but not the worst. Cut me some slack this week - today is the first day I'm finally starting to feel better. Next week's will be more extensive, I promise.

The prompt I used, as you'll figure out very early on, is Thriller. Emma and Zeke in this piece are from my novel, And You Tell Me I Am Home.


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Emma found Zeke alone in his apartment, sitting on his bed, strumming his guitar while Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” played in the background. She’d gotten worried when he didn’t answer her phone calls – granted, she’d just called to say she was on her way over, but it wasn’t like him not to answer when she called.

“Hey.” Leaving her back on the couch, Emma sat next to him, reaching out run a hand over his hair. “Everything okay?”

He blinked, looking over at her. Though his fingers never left the strings, he wasn’t playing anymore. “Michael Jackson is dead.”

“I know.” She’d thought it was a joke at first – one of her customers mentioned it while paying for her drink. Then someone else brought it up. And so did the next customer in line.

“It’s just-” Zeke waved with his hand, as if trying to find the words. It was then that Emma realized the music came from his record player, not the computer; “Thriller” had to be one of his father’s old records. “I’ve listened to his music for years. Sure, the new stuff wasn’t any good but he was a genius, Em.”

Resting her head against his shoulder, Emma whispered, “I’m sorry.” She didn’t know what else to say. While she hadn’t expected this reaction out of him, it made sense – Zeke had many musical idols and he loved 1980s pop music.

Zeke blew out a breath, shoulder slumping forward. “No, I’m sorry. It’s been on my mind ever since I found out.” He strummed the guitar. “I’ve been trying to play all night, but this is all that comes out.” He played for a second, the notes forming the bassline to “Thriller.”

“Maybe that’s all you need to play.” Sitting up, Emma crossed her legs, leaning forward. “Or maybe it’s because the record’s on.”

“It’s been on since I got home.” He rubbed at his eyes. “I don’t know. I didn’t expect it to hit so hard, you know? It’s not like I knew him personally. I just had a few albums.”

She reached for his hand, stilling his fingers as they brushed over the strings. “That’s not the point. Music, art – they touch you. You don’t have to know them to be affected by it.”

“You probably think I’m crazy.”

“I think you’re grieving. I’d be the same way if one of my idols passed away unexpectedly.” She couldn’t imagine if Neil Gaiman or Jim Butcher stopped writing; their works were the kind of books she hoped to write someday. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

He was quiet for a moment, looking down at his hands – no, not his hands, but the instrument he held. “Distract me?”

As gently as she could, Emma took the guitar from him, setting it next to her on the bed. “We stick with the plan. Ice cream at Hank’s tonight, remember?”

His eyes brightened. “I haven’t been to Hank’s since I came home.”

“It’ll be just like old times.” She sat up, holding her hands out to him. “Come on. We’ll be standing in line forever if we don’t get there soon.”

Before they left, Zeke paused in front of the record playing, hand resting against the glass. The music still played, almost as if he was afraid to shut it off. After a minute or so, he lifted the lid and took the needle off the record. “When we come back,” he murmured.

“When we come back,” Emma agreed, taking his hand and leading him to the door.