PRUDENCE

"But I'm fine, really, there's no need-"

"Just go haume, Pru-dence. I'd ra-zer you miss a day zen waste it here in such a poor counten-ans. Maybe to-maur-ow will be better."

I lowered my head as Mr. Allemande turned and walked down the hallway. The click-clack of his boots got distant, but his presence, his annoyance, was still deeply felt.

Once again, I had let my thoughts get the better of me, and once again I was sent home early. If I kept this up I was sure to be let go. I reached for my coat and left the building.

Last time I had been sent home, I had seen the boys on the balcony. That was an utter surprise, and being distraught was completely justified.

But this time?

I knew that I would see them. I went to their studio. I expected all of it. I had no reason to be so shaken.

That wasn't true.

All day I was aware of the closeness between me and them. I was working across the street from where they were recording. The tension swirled like a tornado in the road between us.

I  walked quickly to my apartment building, plaguing my mind with curses for my poor work ethic. At least self-chastisement kept any thoughts about yesterday out of my head.

As I entered my flat, a wave of weariness came over me, and I dropped my bag, shrugged off my coat, and plopped onto the bed.

Car horns screeched outside the window. Wheels skidded on the road. Hammers gonged at a construction sight. A drum beat slowly filled the air.

Get back, get back, get back to where you once belonged...

The phone was screaming. I awoke and looked around. The clock said half past five. Had four hours passed already?

I sat up and ran my hands through my hair. "One second," I muttered, but the phone was impatient. I got off the bed and walked to the phone, slightly dizzy from such a rude awakening. I picked up the receiver and leaned against the wall. I took in a deep breath, trying to make my voice sound as fresh and well-rested as possible.

"Hello?"

"Prudence, it's George. Can we talk?"

That woke me right up. I clutched the receiver tighter. His voice sounded distant, broken. "George...Are you... What happened?"

"Nothing, nothing," he quickly brushed off the question, trying and failing not to worry me, "I just wanted to talk. But, erm, if you're busy, then nevermind-"

"I'm not busy."

"Okay." He sucked in a shaky breath. Then silence.

"George? Are you there?"

"Yeah, yeah."

Silence.

"Pru?"

"Yes?"

"I think I'm going insane."

PAUL

I stared at Ringo, who was staring at Yoko, who was staring at John, who was staring at his food. The rest of the crew had drawn back, unwilling to be in the midst of whatever was about to unfold.

"What are we going t'do?" Ringo asked softly, turning to me.

I shrugged, and brought my fingers to my temple.

George had run out, again. But we knew he wouldn't come back, not today.

We had all tried to pick up where we had left off after yesterday. John had acted as if nothing had happened, and Yoko never left his side. Everything was back to normal.

Except it wasn't. From George's torments over his wife, to Prudence's arrival, to John's complete non-reaction, nothing was normal. George couldn't handle it.

We were done with our first lunch course when he walked to the table. We had stared at him, and he at us. The room had gone silent.

His face was stone, but his eyes looked weak.

"See you 'round the clubs," was all he had said.

Immediately, John had turned to me and said, emotionlessly, matter-of-factly, "Let's get in Eric. He's just as good and not such a headache."

George had winced, and then was gone.

"We have to record somethin'," I said softly.

"We will," John grumbled. Yoko nodded in agreement.

The room was quiet again.

"Come 'ead," John stood up, and Yoko with him. "We 'ave work."

Ringo and I slowly, dejectedly, followed suit. The crew started to clean up. As a worker reached for Ringo's bottle, Ringo swiped it out of his way and took it with him.

My stomach was churning. We hadn't done any proper work in two days, and it didn't seem like we would today, or anytime soon.

This had to be it. Our past had finally caught up with us, and now we were being swept away by an avalanche, into the abyss of another forgotten rock band. The music had become "work", and personal matters were now all we thought about.

I sucked in a breath and forced the thoughts out.

JOHN

My hand grew clammy in Yoko's grasp. I felt rage bubble within me. It wasn't towards George. I was angry at myself, for saying what I did. George already had one traitor of a friend, he didn't need a second one.

I shut the feelings up and squeezed Yoko's hand. She looked up at me with a peaceful face, and sat down on the blue cushion, where George would have been.

Afraid of saying something else horrible, I let it pass and went to my own place.

"Okay, let's do this," Paul said. His voice sounded tight. Ringo drank and took his place at the drums.

RINGO

The music was the loudest and angriest that any of us have ever played. John and Paul slammed on their guitars, and I banged the drums in and out of time. Yoko took over George's mic and screeched into it.

We weren't the Beatles anymore. We were three suffering blokes who happened to have instruments. John shouted into his microphone, and Yoko wailed with him. I smacked the drums, playing like I've never played before.

The Beatles were gone. In their place were three men in turmoil, and one small screechin' lady.

"Yeah," I shouted as loudly as I could, "rock it to me baby!"

John stopped playing his guitar and started to sing.

"Gonna tell Aunt Mary 'bout Uncle John,

He claim he has the misery but he's havin' a lot of fun!"

Paul played the bass accompaniment, I filled in on the skins, and Yoko added howls into the background.

"Oh baby, yeah baby, woooo!" John's voice cracked as he hit the high note. "Havin' me some fun tonight!"

I tossed my head back and forth violently. Paul looked as if he was having a seizure.

"Well long, tall Sally, she's built for speed, she got everything that Uncle John need, oh baby!" John shouted the lyrics out in one breath. "Yeah baby, woooo baby! Havin' me some fun tonight!"

He turned to me, pointed dramatically, tossed his head, and shouted, "Take it away, George!"

I started in on a drum solo, my first one since I joined the Beatles. It was chaotic and lacked rhythm, but its novelty took hold of me. I banged on each drum with extreme ferocity.

"That's what I like!" I screamed. Sweat dripped down my face and back. My wrists throbbed with a dull pain. After a few more hard bangs, I ended the solo and started playing more steadily.

"You may think this is a full orchestra," I yelled into the nearest mic, "but if you look closely, you can see there's only two people playing and one person singing!"

Yoko didn't stop her wails, but John was silent, buzzing with energy as he watched me.

"I know it sounds like Benny Goodman, but don't worry, it's the big sound of 1969! You bet your life!" My throat became sore and my voice raspy. "Oh, sock it to me, sock it to me!"

It was terrible. It was wonderful. It hurt, but it hurt good.

PRUDENCE

I walked into the cafe, and a bell connected to the door tinkled. There were few people at the tables, but I didn't see George at any of them, at least not at first. After a moment of searching, I saw what looked like George covered by a big hat. He was hunched over and his table was empty. I came closer to him.

"Hello?" I said, softly, ambivalent about whether I was approaching the right man.

George lifted his head and smiled a little. "I thought I'd have ye fooled with my getup."

I sat down across from him. "I can see right through that silly costume."

George looked back down at the table. "They forgot t'give me a menu," he said with a small chuckle. "The new Beatles treatment, I guess."

I put on a small smile and motioned for a nearby waiter. After a minute, we had two menus in front of us.

"Anything look good to you?" George asked, his brows furrowed.

"The chocolate mousse seems nice," I answered politely. George nodded and raised his hand for a waiter.

"Two servings of chocolate mousse, please. And two teas." The waiter nodded, took our menus, and went away.

George folded his hands and looked out the window. "The weather's not so bad today, is it?"

I ignored the polite observation. "George."

He looked at me. His face was molded into calm, as if he was on just another outing with a friend.

"Tell me what's wrong."

His expression cracked like a bathroom mirror. He looked back down at his hands and said nothing.

"Talk to me."

He opened his mouth, then shut it again. I was growing impatient.

"Look, if you aren't talking then I'll just leave." I drummed my fingers on the table.

George still said nothing. Silverware clattered around us. A baby started to cry at a nearby table.

"Alright then," I said tersely, "ta, George." I picked up my purse and started to get up, but George lunged forward before I could go.

The kiss was short, but it was enough to stop me. My eyes stayed open and I stared in shock at George's, which were shut tight. As he pulled away and sank sheepishly back into his seat, the surprise subsided and awkwardness set it.

"Sorry," he muttered.

I just nodded slowly and stared out the window, waiting for what just happened to fully come to my realization. We sat in silence for a few minutes, but it was overwhelming.

I blurted out, "We can't do this."

George looked at me. "What?"

"I know that you're  messed up somehow, but I'm not here for this." Anger and embarrassment reddened my cheeks. "I came here so you could talk about your problems, not for you to start some... affair with me." It pained me to say that word out loud.

George opened his mouth to speak, but I wasn't finished.

"I have no intention of being your 'other woman', George. We are supposed to be friends." My voice was level, and it covered the hurt I felt.

"We are friends, Pru."

"Friends don't kiss each other!"

"I know, I know, I didn't mean to-" he stopped and shifted in his seat, then pulled his hat off, ran his fingers through his hair, and shifted in his seat again. His movements were hectic, as if he was on the verge of a panic attack. "I wasn't trying to..." 

Then he shattered. His head fell to the table, and his shoulders heaved with sobs. I sat back, and watched him break down in front of me.

"George..."

"I can't do this," he spluttered between sobs. "Everything I do hurts someone, and no matter how hard I try not to say anything, to keep it down, it wouldn't help," he lifted his head and turned his red eyes to the window, "it wouldn't matter, because Eric is in love with Pattie, and he won't stop loving her."

He kept staring out the window. Tears fell down his cheeks, but he wasn't sobbing anymore.

"...Eric?" I asked slowly, waiting for clarification.

George didn't turn to me, just spat his name. "Clapton."

I let out an uncontrollable gasp. The Eric Clapton? For a second I wallowed in George's star-studded drama. But then I came back to reality, and the weak man sitting in front of me.

"Did anything... happen between them?" I asked with trepidation.

Still staring out the window, George answered softly, "No. I don't think so. That's what Pattie tells me." He sighed shakily. "But I still freak out. I still get paranoid. And I think it's making Pattie unhappy."

I reached out and took his hand. He didn't acknowledge the gesture, and kept going.

"I think she might want to go to Eric. At least he doesn't get as jealous as I do." He chuckled. "Isn't that a laugh? I'm so worried over my wife leaving me, that I end up forcing her out anyway." He bit his lip as more tears bubbled at his eyes.

I got up from my seat and took the one next to him. I didn't know what to say, so I didn't say anything.

The boy I knew back in Liverpool was optimistic, innocent, naive. He hadn't a care for himself, just for others. He had a big appetite and a quiet sensibility. He was a little scouser runt. He was my friend.

I wrapped my arm around him and pulled his head to my shoulder. We sat like that, staring out the window, with his tears dropping onto my lap, for what seemed like ages.

{this one is pretty long and took me a few days but I like it

guys I need to write a farewell/ode/eulogy thing for my piano here if you don't mind

I've had this piano for ten years. It's a child's piano, smaller than a regular one, over one hundred years old, and the keys are real ivory and they're chipped all over, and the piano is extremely out of tune, and the bench is chipped and unstable.

When I decided I wanted to learn to play piano, my family got me this one, and I learned on it, despite how off it sounded. I was six.

For six years I took weekly piano lessons and practiced on it. Whenever guests came over, I would play something for them. When I quit piano lessons at twelve, I kept playing for myself.

I got a keyboard, but I played on it less often than I did on the piano. Even when I got a new fancy Yamaha keyboard with cool buttons and gadgets, the piano was my go-to.

Sophomore year of high school I became the accompanist for my school chorus. I had another purpose to play piano, and I practiced every day on it. I covered the top with records, playbills, and artwork, and it became a staple of my bedroom.

I love how it feels to play on it. I've outgrown the piano and my legs don't quite fit under when I'm playing but I love playing it nevertheless. It's so horrendously out of tune but it still sounds amazing that way.

And now, after ten years, I have to give it away. When I found out I cried.

I know that it's just a piano and not a person and there are much worse things that can happen but I still feel so attached to that stupid old out-of-tune thing.

Okay I'm done now

By the way that part about George leaving was true. I used the actual dialogue and the angry recording session that happened afterwards. I thought it was a really interesting story and it fit well in mine.

I hope you all enjoy your day :)

PEACE AND LOVE L***}