The Lucky One

"Daddy!"

I zone out: lose myself before the hearing the inevitable.

My pulse is so deep I feel my fingers flinch every other second. The mouse feels warm, wet rain—sprinkles—under my palm. The spring bounces. My eyes drift close. I'm ready.

There's a pause and then her voice starts up. I breathe. I'm not being fooled. The twang is there, the breath is there…The husk?…It's there. It's flawless. It's organic.

It's Miley. I'm not being hoaxed. It feels beautiful.

It's this confusing, bittersweet thing that pangs me next. In some way, I hadn't missed her at all. Seventeen years gone and her name never came to me—at least not in this sense. After 19 years and 7 months in the music industry, Miley Stewart had become an object. An exhibit of some sort. Not for singing, not for…this, but for living.

In this moment, listening, I don't think about the past. I can't see the red carpets, the short dresses, the cleavage, the secrets, the drugs in baggies. I see the basement.

Nestled between feet of earth.

Mismatched bricks looking organized

keeping rotting wooden architecture lining

powdering drywall beneath crème-painted walls

And there Miley is. Hair tied up, guitar in hand, maybe it's blue. Her hair won't stay, it falls to her face, and she huffs in the microphone again.

She loves her children. She loves her husband. I love mine.

I almost hear her pick hit the strings like an amateur does.

I hear the ever so subtle curses of Hollywood.

The bridge gets high and she goes off-key. It is just the way I remember her.

She loves her kids.

She likes vine.
The white kind.

She hummed and it's over.

"Daddy, I'm hungry!"

"What would you like, Princess?"

"Spaghetti!"

"I thought so."

Maybe another seventeen years. She'll love her cottage.


A/N: Hey. Long time.

So, Taylor Swift had me thinking (Surprise). She's started talking about the end of her career and fading into obscurity it made me wonder: Where will we be when a former popstar's raw, untouched song leaks in 2029? 25 or so years go by and Katy Perry decides to pick up the ol' acoustic. The producers are gone, the moguls have moved on, directors want fresher faces. Nothing to sing about but motherhood and wine. You decide to Google your faded idol and there's one recent (leaked) raw track on a media site? Will you stop and listen? Or is who has passed…the past? What do you think?


UPDATE: Play's next chapter is coming soon. I apologize for the wait. Finding time is hard. Plus it's super long. It's about 18 pages right now and I'm not even finished the scene. xP Dramatic shizz. Anyway, TY for reading. I'll see you soon. :)