“All right, it’s time for dinner.” Tommy’s mother calls from down the hall in the kitchen. She sets the dishes on the counter and gives the air a quick sniff. Hmm, she thinks. “Tommy.” She sings, still Tommy doesn’t appear. So she decides to make her way down the hall to his bedroom. Tommy has his head lean against the piano while his little fingers are gently tapping the keys. “Well, aren’t you a little composer?” His mother says.
Tommy groans, indicative of wanting to be left alone. “Dinner’s ready.” His mother says. Tommy groans again. “Come on, honey,” his mother places a hand on his shoulder, “you can come back after dinner.”
Tommy’s groan grows louder. “This can’t be that hard.” He says. “It’s just notes!”
“Maybe you just need a break, free your eyes from those notes for a while. Then when you come back, I’m sure it’ll jog your mind.” Slowly, Tommy sighs, sits up, and slides off the piano bench. “There’s my little composer.” His mother smiles.
The same thing is actually happening to me. I look at the notes and would say, “It’s just notes!” but somehow, I can’t get my fingers to move to the notes.
This is a response for Roger Shipp’s new flash fiction challenge, Flash Fiction For the Purposeful Practitioner. We are given the beginning of the sentence and we are to finish the story.