of string quintets;
“I see what you did there.” | @crxisla
He settles into a pleasant nook by the lobby window where he’s basked in the protective, warm glow of sunlight. Wally will unravel come nightfall. There’s no chance of him enjoying an evening barbecue this close to the full moon. But for now, scoring a string quintet keeps his mind clear of anxieties. “What does the sun sound like?” he muses, pressing his fingers upwards and against the glass. “And the sound of a cloud -- yes, we’ll put the sound of a cloud on top of that! What a brilliant counterpoint!”
His purple pygmy puff, hiding underneath his coat collar, squeaks in response. “Now, the cloud’s come to pass,” he says, scribbling on parchment. “It must drift past, slowly...a high and lonely drifting from the second and third violin.”
The pygmy puff pops out from the boy’s shirt and scurries down the length of his arm, where it wrestles with his quill. “I promise we’ll make it in time for breakfast,” he says. “If I don’t write this down now, it’ll be stuck in my head all day. Now, the sun has its moments where it shines through the clouds. These short bursts of intensity -- it must be played with intensity, like you really were wrestling to be seen through that cloud -- stop, then both melodies slowly come together as one.”
Quill scratches against parchment in feverish excitement. His hair flashes from gold to silver, the color morphing strands falling onto eyelashes undergoing the same change. The metamorphmagus doesn’t notice that what was on his head seems to represent what was happening in it. “Two violins, a viola, and a cello...” he muses. “Who would’ve thought that’s all you’d ever need to know what the sun sounds like! You see how it all comes together? You see?”
And as if he’d been touched by King Midas, every strand of hair on his head flashes golden.
“I see what you did there.”
Wally looks up in delight. There’s a painfully large grin on his face and a sparkle in his eyes, as though he were a child showing off a crayon drawing. Only, the music he creates is far from crude; it’s divine. “You do?” he says. “Oh, you have excellent taste! My music is second to none.”
His eyes search the other student.
“Ah...am I late for hotel breakfast?”