Just a one shot about Vince trying his hardest to write a song for a certain someone, unfortunately he has writers block.
Disclaimer: Everything Boosh is Barratt and Fielding's
And the lyric used at the end of the story and the title is owned by the Moulin Rouge
Your song
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
He thinks deeply, harder than he ever has in his entire life. Usually the words would come to him, like fashion sense and style does, but not today, not this time. Today the words are against him, they appear in his head but can't seem to string themselves together into sentences that make sense and mean something.
When something forms in his head, a line, a rhyme, anything, it clouds over and disappears before he can write it down. Even when he does get a perfect line, nothing seems to go with it, it stays there on its own, isolated from all the other words in the world.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
His pen is the only thing making a noise in the quiet little shop apart from the ticks and tocks from the clock on the wall. The noise of the clock distracts him as he scribbles something down, in frustration he slams a fist on the counter, crumples the paper into a ball in his fist and tosses it aside aiming for the bin but missing completely. The discarded words sit in a screwed up mess along with a mountain of other useless words that just didn't work; they weren't good enough for him so ended up in the bin.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
He slumps his cheek into his palm, his elbow resting on the counter propping up his heavy over-worked head. He inhales silently then expresses his emotions through a frustrated sigh, it echoes round the shop then bounces right back at him. Nothing comes to mind, it's a total blank. The ink from the pen covers his fingers, he rolls the biro round between a finger and thumb and stares at it desperate for some form of inspiration. He lets the nib touch the paper and allows it to take over, he doodles for a while, drawing nothing of importance, scribbling a few words here and there hoping to string them together but it doesn't happen.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
He slaps the pen down onto the desk and hangs his head in his hands clearly fed up with the progress he had made, or rather hadn't made. He screws his eyes up getting too worked up over not being able to think properly praying he won't cry. He scrunches the page up in his hand and tosses the black ink scribbles aside along with all the other rejected words and sentences. With a fresh piece of paper and pen in his hand he starts again, this time he thinks hard, bites his lip, shuts his eyes and relaxes.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
One sentence was all he had managed in an hour, a sentence he was proud of but didn't know what to continue it with, it seemed perfect on its own but he wasn't entirely happy. Before he could mend it, add to it, think about it or even screw it up he was interrupted by somebody else entering the shop. His hand slaps down onto the thin pad of paper while his other hand brings the pen to his mouth, which he starts chewing on nervously. He looks up with such innocence at the person in the shop hoping they won't notice the paper mountain that was building up in the bin, hoping they'll focus more on his angelic expression than what needs to be recycled.
"What you doing back so early?" He asks suddenly without removing the pen from his mouth.
"I'm not early, I'm back later than what I said I would be." Comes the reply "What you got there?"
"It's nothing." He mutters pulling the paper towards him; he chucks the pen unlovingly onto the counter not caring that it slipped down a gap in the counter never to be retrieved again unless they moved the furniture.
"Come on, what is it? Looks like you've been working hard." He motions at the large mess in the bin and smiles warmly, a smile that melts his heart causing him to skip a beat or two.
"It's nothing!" He protests getting up from his seat and moving away, he leaves the shop floor and heads up to the flat with a quicker pace than usual. He leaves the paper, leaves the screwed up words and phrases, leaves them for him to see.
Tick, tock, tick, tock.
No more than a second after he has completely disappeared his work is read, a single phrase, only eight words long, thirteen words that took him more than five hours to think of, more than five hours of his life to string together which only took a second of his life to read to himself.
Tick, tock.
"It's Your Song." Comes a voice from behind him as he reads, there he is again, back from the flat, starring, awaiting a response, awaiting criticism, waiting for his words to be screwed up and tossed aside. But nothing happens to them, the words are saved from the trash, salvaged, held dear, smiled upon and loved. Then he disappears again without wanting a reply, not caring if his work isn't liked because he knew that when you were in love it didn't matter about what was written and what was not, he didn't care if the words didn't come right away or come at all, it didn't matter as long as he had him, and he did have him.
He didn't need those thirteen words but he kept them anyway. He kept the single piece of lined paper that had imprints of angry scribbles and dizzy doodles from the previous sheet and admired the masterpiece that simply read;
'Suddenly my life doesn't seem such a waste now you're in the world'.