Saturday's Storyteller: "No one knew what to do when the diegetic music stopped."

by Belinda Roddie

No one knew what to do when the diegetic music stopped. It was supposed to keep going throughout the entire scene, but the piano had suddenly dropped off. It hadn't even faded - there was a simple progression of major chords, crescendoing into a waterfall of notes, and then it was like someone had taken a silent hammer to either the ivory keys or the pianist's hands.

The director rose from her seat, sweating noticeably. She wiped her wet hands on her slacks and then clapped a soggy clap.

"Cut!"

The awkward ensemble of extras shuffled to the corner, while the hot-headed lead actor strutted toward the director, obviously fuming.

"I told you to fire that musician," he scowled.

"She's much older than you are. Her hands act up sometimes."

"We haven't even gotten to the part where I compliment the damn woman on it! My token line. 'You must have dug up Mozart's fingers and had them attached to your palms.' Golden!"

"Let me just talk to her, okay?"

Readjusting her cap, the director pushed her way past the flustered lead actor and the awkwardly shy lead actress, who had settled onto a set chair and started sipping her prop wine compulsively. In the corner was Gladys, gray-haired and tight-lipped and absolutely frozen, her hands arched angrily over the keys where she had demonstrated her musical prowess.

"Gladys?"

"I can't move them," Gladys mumbled, and she sounded very, very scared. "My fingers are locked up. I can't move them."

"Does this happen a lot?"

The old pianist wrinkled her nose. "Often enough to worry. This has been the worst yet. Normally it's only for a few seconds, and then..."

"I can get you to a doctor right away," the director suggested. "We'll reshoot the scene later."

"You may want someone else to do your diegetic scriptwork, Bobby," Gladys called out to the screenwriter, who always hovered around the catering table. "Maybe you can get Mister Ego to play a tune."

"It's not my part!" the lead actor scowled.

"You'd be better off playing a tree in the background!" Gladys shot back, smirking as she was led off set, with a red-faced celebrity glowering after her.

***

"You think Grandma will ever play piano again, Charlie?"

Charlie sighed and ran her fingers through Sam's hair. Sam had just received the news through e-mail, that Granny Gladys would need extensive nerve surgery and electroshock therapy on her hands. And to think, the film had been going so well for her.

"I don't think," replied Charlie, "that your grandma would want you to worry."

Sam shrugged one shoulder sadly, got up from the computer, and went to the kitchen to fetch leftover pork chops. Charlie watched her go before clicking out of the message, stooping down to pet Sassypants, the disgruntled tabby, before he swiped at her arm.

"Maybe we can see your grandma at the hospital when she gets out of her first surgery," she suggested as she heard the buzzing of the microwave. "Would you like that?"

"Sure. Why not."

Charlie walked to the toy piano and tinkered with a tune. Perhaps she could take Gladys's place on set. If only she had the actual talent.

This week's prompt was provided by Daniel Bulone.