Skip to main content

Another excerpt from another unfinished story


Some books start but opt for a timeout before they're finished. This is an excerpt from one such book. - MM

Yumi adjusted the microphone.

Said something in Japanese.

A few people nodded.

Someone clapped once.

And then -

They began.

Daniel didn’t know the song.

Didn’t need to.

It wasn’t about recognition - it was about feel.

Something old. Maybe. Or something that just sounded old. There was space in it. Restraint. Notes that didn’t rush to be heard.

Vince leaned in.

“…okay,” he said quietly. “Yeah.”

Yumi’s voice carried without pushing.

Clear. Controlled. Effortless in a way that made effort feel unnecessary.

Daniel glanced at Hiroshi.

He wasn’t talking.

Wasn’t smiling.

Just watching.

By the second song, the room had settled into it completely.

Not applause-heavy.

Not loud.

Just -

Present.

“Good, yeah?” Hiroshi said quietly.

Daniel nodded.

“Yeah,” he said. “Very.”

Vince raised his glass slightly toward the stage.

“Okay, Hiroshi,” he said. “You didn’t mention this.”

Hiroshi shrugged.

“Normal,” he said.

The third song ended.

A little more applause this time.

Yumi smiled, bowed her head slightly, and said something into the mic.

There was a ripple through the room.

A few heads turned.

Toward -

Hiroshi.

Daniel saw it.

“…oh no,” he said.

Vince grinned.

“Oh yes.”

Hiroshi shook his head immediately.

“No, no,” he said, waving it off. “Long time. I am finished.”

The drummer said something from the stage.

Laughter.

The bassist added something else.

More laughter.

Yumi just smiled.

Patient.

Certain.

The room waited.

Not pushing.

But expecting.

Vince leaned in.

“…you gotta go up there.”

Daniel nodded.

“Yeah,” he said. “I think you do.”

Hiroshi looked at them.

Then back at the stage.

Then down at his drink.

He sighed.

A small one.

The kind a man makes when he’s already decided.

“Just one,” he said.

The guitar was handed to him like it had been waiting.

Not ceremoniously.

Not dramatically.

Just -

Naturally.

Hiroshi adjusted the strap.

Checked the tuning by ear.

A quick run of notes - nothing flashy, just enough to find where he was.

He said something into the mic.

The room laughed.

Daniel looked at Vince.

“…what’d he say?”

“No idea,” Vince said. “But I think we’re about to find out.”

They started.

It wasn’t loud.

It wasn’t fast.

It wasn’t trying to prove anything.

Hiroshi played like a man who had already done all of that.

The notes came easy.

Not perfect.

Not polished.

But right.

There was a looseness to it. A confidence that didn’t need attention.

The kind of playing that made space for everyone else in the room.

Yumi watched him closely.

Smiling.

Not impressed.

Not surprised.

Just -

Recognizing.

Daniel felt it before he understood it.

That shift.

The one that had been happening all night.

Now -

Clear.

“…he’s the real deal,” Vince said quietly.

Daniel nodded.

“Yeah,” he said.

“…he is.”

Hiroshi stepped forward slightly for a short lead.

Nothing long.

Nothing indulgent.

Just a few lines.

Clean.

Honest.

Then he stepped back again.

Like he knew exactly how much to take - and when to give it back.

The song ended.

Applause.

Real this time.

Still not loud.

But full.

Hiroshi bowed his head slightly.

Handed the guitar back.

Said something into the mic that made the room laugh again.

Then he stepped off the stage.

Just like that.

Back at the bar.

Back with them.

Vince stared at him.

“…you been holdin’ out on us, man.”

Hiroshi shook his head.

“No,” he said.

A small smile.

“Just… long time ago.”








copyright notice © 2026 Michael C. Metzger

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

An Old Photo

The photo was old and scratched up. It looked like it had been handled and mishandled for years, and it probably had. Passed from hand to hand, tucked into scrapbooks, displayed in frames, stuffed into drawers, and rescued again. It had been looked at thousands of times. It was still his favorite. It wasn't historically important. Just a photograph of friends sitting in someone's back garden, sharing a few laughs and a few cold beers. The image was every bit as grainy as the memories attached to it. The colors had faded with age, drifting toward reds and yellows. Time had left its fingerprints everywhere. He was the only one left in the photograph. When his time came, would anyone remember those old glory days? Those years when importance itself seemed unimportant. When photographs weren't taken to prove anything, advertise anything, or preserve a carefully crafted image. They were taken simply because someone thought a moment was worth keeping. There was no guarantee the p...
Post a Comment
Read more

A Bluesy Melody and a Scratchy Photograph

Contrary to popular belief, he wasn't born in the mountains. Nor had he been raised in a cave. His appearance, though, often led people to think otherwise. A barber's chair was as likely a place for him to visit as the moon. I don't believe he had ever shaved. His hair, long and unkempt, looked even longer thanks to his seemingly endless beard, which was braided and knotted at the bottom. If unfurled, it probably would have dipped well below his waist.  His mannerisms and manner, while peculiar, were so only in that he was almost religiously polite. What at first glance might appear stand-offish was nothing more than his attempts at being inobtrusive. He was almost like some Appalachian monk, raised by a society trapped in the past, who occasionally ventured into town. He was extremely well-read and more tech savvy than most teenagers. Utmost, he maintained his privacy. No one knew just where he lived. He came and went at his own leisure, unnoticed by the world until he mad...
Post a Comment
Read more

The Blank Page

He'd been trapped in his house for five years.  Not imprisoned exactly. No court had ordered it. No chains held him there. His own body had simply staged a quiet rebellion and won. A series of health problems had reduced his world to a few safe pathways through a three-bedroom house in a respectable neighborhood with a respectable yard. He had once traveled the world. He had stood on foreign streets where he could not read the signs or understand the language, and somehow had felt less lost there than he did now standing at the bottom of his own staircase. The stairs terrified him. They waited every morning like a dare. Go ahead, old man. Climb. One wrong step and they would finish what time had started. So his life became measured in reachable things. The bathroom. The kitchen. The chair beside the window. The distance from the couch to the front door on bad days. The slow geography of decline. His wife still worked. Still moved through the world with purpose. They loved each othe...
Post a Comment
Read more