'Sound Gardener' - Flash Fiction - Freewrite #9

I’d spent the morning trying to record the birds in Hyde Park, but they were having none of it. Flying off at the first sign of the microphone, or if not, then offering only a few notes of unusable melody. It turns out birds prefer to sing in micro-tones - not chromatics. Little show offs. Easy to auto-tune during production, sure, but then that pretty much defeats the purpose. I must have followed round that one goldfinch for almost half an hour. She, at least, had soul. My spirit animal, or something.

After one-too-many concerned looks from the local joggers, and cat calls from the lads playing football, I went for a sandwich in Trafalgar Square. The birds here didn’t look any more promising. All anaemic pigeons and crows, although there was one with a missing foot I took a shine to. More likely to steal my lunch than sing a tune. Besides, too many tourists, too much background chatter. The fountains were on, emitting a consistent, pleasing hiss of water droplets. White noise. I made a few recordings and they went ok. Good enough for that ambient track I had saved up, perhaps.

A road crew were setting up for some kind of concert in the North-East corner. Huge slabs of temporary staging, and stacks of amps I hadn’t seen the likes of since my days as a metalhead. Memories of mud pits came flooding back to me, the feeling of a steel railing crushed against my diaphragm. I grimaced a little but on some level was still intrigued. The unfortunate amputee got my last few crusts, cooing happily, then I packed up and headed over.

But it turned out not to be a metal band. Andre Rieu was playing his indistinguishable brand of classical schmaltz, for one night only. Huge posters of his beaming face were standing on either side of the stage. At a distance, I’d mistaken him for Bruce Dickinson, except with longer hair - a resemblance I was sure old Bruce would be horrified by. Still, I’d made the effort now. I walked up to the railing, let it rest in the familiar place, and stood there for a while watching the crew mill about.

Just as I was about to turn and leave, one of them spotted me. A guy in his thirties, at the top of a ladder, screwing the last of the stage-lights into place.

“You’re a little early, no?” he shouted down, and gave a wink.

“Just watching,” I shouted back, much quieter.

“What?”

“Just watching.”

“Wait a sec, I’ll be right down.”

He started backing down the ladder slowly. Without even thinking, my hand moved to the tape deck in my jacket pocket, and hit record. The microphone was nestled in the inside pocket, which I angled forward, still hidden behind the railing. Better to be safe than sorry. You never know what you might miss; unexpected gems which come and go before they even register. Once I got a whole set of lyrics from a drunk on the tube.

He jumped off the last few rungs and sauntered over. Two of his workmates at the back of the stage nudged each other, and pointed.

“Just watching, huh? You like what you see?” he said, putting his hands either side of me on the railing, leaning in.

“Ugh,” was I all mustered, turning away and moving my hand to stop the recording, but he grabbed my shoulder.

“Hey. You made me come down here. Let’s talk.”

“I’ve got better things to do.”

I pulled free and shut off the recording. The tape deck clicked audibly.

“What’s that?” he said, eyes widening, “You recording this?”

“Not any more,” I mumbled, walking off and zipping up my jacket.

“Bitch. Psycho!”

Such a shame. The very last one would have made a great loop. Something to give a bit of punch to the house track.

Not sure where to go next, I returned to Hyde Park to look for my goldfinch, but the trees were empty. I found a bench and sat, listening back to what I’d managed to record that day. Snippets of birdsong. A couple of car horns speeding past, warped by the doppler effect. Not bad. The gushing of the fountains and low sounds of water slapping concrete. Better.

Then, “Let’s talk.”

“Come down here. Let’s talk.”

I smiled. That could work.

@lazarus-wist_{My ninth entry to the daily freewrite project kindly hosted by @mariannewest,
with the prompt, "her homemade jams".
Another in my series of; how off the wall can I make this prompt. Hope you all enjoy.}

_{Thanks for reading.Image}