The Music to His Lyrics

Harry’s POV.

The beautiful voice filled my ears as I plugged in my ipod and scribbled a few more lines of lyrics onto a piece of paper. As the instruments came to a close and the voice slowly faded after holding a note, I realized that this would be the tenth time I’ve played the track over this morning. I’d almost finished writing the words to the entire song I'd started this week. And I had absolutely no tune to go with it. No music to go with the flow of the lyrics.

I set my ipod aside, placed the large keyboard headphones on, and began moving my fingers in a procession over the black and white keys, hoping that the general motion would spark an idea for a tune. My head wasn’t working, so maybe I could lose myself in a song, and play my way into a new series of notes to go with the written lyrics.

I was about halfway through my brainstorming session when I realized I was playing the song I had written for my niece on her birthday. Frustrated, I ran a hand over the white keys, from the lowest note to the very highest. This wasn’t working.

“Having some trouble?” I heard a voice say behind me.

Ted strode over to where I sat in front of the keyboard, and I lowered the headphones so that they rested snugly around the back of my neck.

“I don’t get it, man,” I sighed.

“What’s there not to get?“ he asked, using my shoulder as an armrest for his forearm.

I handed Ted the notebook, and he flipped through the pages, skimming over a few lines of lyrics.

“I’m nearly through with the lyrics for the entire song, and I have yet to come up with a single option for a tune to go with it.” I explained.

“This sappy stuff’s the shizz, bro. Another love song?“ Ted asked, raising an eyebrow.

“You’d think I’d be finished by now, but I just can’t figure out what to add to make this piece great, different from the other ones I've written. This has the potential to be the best song I’ve ever written, but it’s missing something, and I’ve been sitting here for three hours already. I still can’t figure it out,“ I said, with a hint of frustration in my tone.

Ted held the beaten up notebook in front of my face, and said in a high-pitched voice, “Harry, meet writer’s block.”

I snatched notebook out of Ted’s hands and replied, “I can’t remember the last time I had writer’s block.”

“It’s okay, dude.” Ted reassured me. “Think of it this way: you’re trying to finish one of those three hundred piece puzzles, right? You’ve got the corners, the edges and outer part finished. You’ve even filled in the puzzle so that you can pretty much see the picture, because you’ve almost finished the middle. Except-”

“Come on, Ted. Is there a point to this?” I asked, a bit anxious to continue writing.

“Trust me,” Ted assured me.

I folded my arms and awaited Ted’s ultimate conclusion after he finished spinning up this complicated metaphor.

“Okay,” Ted continued, “You’ve pretty much finished the puzzle, but you’re missing one last piece. So, you can’t see the whole picture yet. All you need to do is find that missing puzzle piece: your inspiration.”

“A missing puzzle piece,” I murmured to myself. “That actually makes sense.”

“Thank you. No applause, please,” Ted said, mimicking the announcer’s voice at Music Madness.

'Speaking of missing,’ I thought to myself, ‘Where’s Cole?’
I hadn’t seen him all morning.

“Where’s your brother?” I asked curiously.

“He woke up saying he wasn’t feeling well. He hasn’t even gotten out of bed,” Ted explained.

I stood and walked over to one of the far ends of the tour bus, where the twins had the last room to bunk. I pulled open the curtain separating the twins’ room from my own, only to see a pale Cole lying underneath his bedcovers, hugging his pillow close to his chest as he inhaled deeply, wheezing a bit and letting out a nasty cough.

“What’s up guys?” he greeted us in a hoarse tone of voice as soon as he was able to catch his breath. He sounded like a different person.

I noticed the dark circles beneath Cole’s tired hazel eyes and asked, “How long have you been like this?”

Cole attempted to clear his throat, but began to cough, and shoved his face into his pillow until he was able to calm his breathing enough to respond. “All night, man. Practically coughing my guts out.”

I shot Ted a look, as if to ask him why he hadn’t let anyone know about Cole’s condition sooner, but Ted simply rose his hands into the air as if in a gesture of surrender, saying, “Don’t look at me. I can sleep through anything. Slept through a hurricane once.”

I walked over to Cole’s bedside, and bent over to place the back of my hand against Cole’s forehead. He was burning up.

I stood up straight, and looked at Ted with a serious expression on my face. “Ted, go find Steve. Tell him to call a doctor.”