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Building Pianos

By @noceurx

building pianos


Growing up, Arthur “Art” Locke was unable to talk. His movements weren’t there at all. He could only remember lying in the middle of a room, lights aimed directly into his eyes and his father hanging up pictures around the room, staring at him in deep thought. He never bothered to wonder why. He merely stared back and then looked away once he got bored.


It was November when Art watched his father lug a huge bag in through the back door. A warm colored liquid dripped onto the floor. The contents were dumped out and his eyes widened. If he had a voice, he would’ve screamed. If he could move, he would’ve ran. He couldn’t take his eyes off of all those limbs. He knew his fate. He did not want it.


His father had spent all night cleaning off the pieces. Art watched him hollow them out and how they transformed into a horribly pale white. They were put away and a year later, just as he forgot, his father pulled them back out and tied them all together with a steel string. Art passed out.


After he had awoken, Art could not remember who he was. He realized that he felt heavier than before, but he could move now, ever so slowly, and he could make sound now, although only sometimes. In front of him was a white bench with thin legs and a red velvet cushioning. His father (who had turned soft having finished his project) would sit on it and they would talk for hours. The idle chatter was addicting.


5 years passed. Eventually, he had forgotten completely who he was and how he began, and most of all, he had forgotten that searing pain which marked his childhood. His father helped him move to a different room, a room with lots of sunlight and little antique trinkets lying around. The nice tinkling sound of a bell would resonate every now and then. He met lots of new people in that new room and he never stopped talking these days. His father smiled. Arthur Locke was growing up.


2 months later, his father now being old and brittle, was escorted to a car with only one sad suitcase.

“Where are you going?” Arthur squeaked.

His father waved and turned away.

“Wait, wait for me. I want to go, too! Wait fo-” He suddenly could not move. Silence.

The car door shut.

D.C. al Fine

Arthur “Art” Locke was a boy who existed but was never born. He was a boy made from parts and everyday, strangers would take his father’s place on that red and white bench and stare at him, jabbing at his unique white locks and pitch black eyes until he screamed with frustration. After 4 years, some butch people arrived and pulled him apart. He felt relieved. Maybe this could be his end and he could go meet father again. But he knew better. Arthur Locke was an immortal boy made from parts, and there would always be someone to put him together again.

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