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31_days2012-06-29 04:19 pm
insaneladybug.livejournal.com) wrote in 31_days2012-06-29 04:19 pm
[June 29th] [Perry Mason] Lux Aeterna, 29
Title: Lux Aeterna, scene 29
Day/Theme: June 29th - So the songs tell us
Series: Perry Mason
Character/Pairing: Hamilton Burger, Mignon Germaine, Howie Peterson (OC)
Rating: K/G
Takes place after Florence's defeat. References #4.
By Lucky_Ladybug
Hamilton sighed, tapping his pencil on the coffee table in front of him. It was strange, that after everything they had been through with Florence’s regime, he was more stumped by this task than by anything that had come before. He had been staring at this blank sheet of paper for what seemed hours now. Occasionally he would scribble something out and then quickly erase it again. It was tempting to crumple the paper up and send it flying, like all those clichés in movies and television series when someone could not write. But he did not want to waste the paper.
The knock on the door was a welcome interruption. He got up and crossed the room, opening the door. “Mignon,” he greeted in surprise. “I wasn’t expecting to see you until tonight. Come in.”
Mignon unlatched the storm door and stepped into the living room. “I thought I would come by before the celebration tonight,” she said, glancing around him to the table. “I hope I haven’t dragged you away from something important.”
“Oh no. Well, it is important,” he added quickly. “It’s just that I’m glad to be dragged away from it. I have no idea what to do with it.”
She followed him to the couch. “Exactly what is it?” she asked. “The paper is blank.”
Hamilton sighed, sinking into the cushions. “A long time ago, Howie wanted me to write a song when Florence was defeated,” he said. “He might not even remember now, but well . . . I thought it would be a nice gesture. Only I discovered that I can’t even put together some decent-sounding lyrics. I already knew I wouldn’t be any good with the music.”
“Song-writing is difficult,” Mignon said. “There was a time when I considered it, but I abandoned that idea before long. Not necessarily because of its difficulty, but because songs are very personal. More personal than I was willing to share with complete strangers.”
Hamilton nodded. “That’s true,” he said. “And I guess another problem is that I think Howie was imagining something like the poems in The Lord of the Rings. I can’t see myself writing in Tolkien’s style. And a style of my own is non-existent.” He stared at the paper in exasperation.
Mignon was a bit amused. “To be honest, Hamilton, I can’t see you writing in Tolkien’s style, either.”
“Thanks.” Hamilton rested his arm on a large couch pillow. “. . . Maybe it’s also that I’m not sure I feel comfortable with writing a song about defeating Florence in the first place. It was so serious. So many people were hurt. Some even died. And to write a song could potentially come off like making light of it or trying to milk it for inspiration.”
“Or it could come off as a sincere tribute to the sacrifices made,” Mignon said. “It all depends on the tone you’re trying to get across.”
“That’s true.” Hamilton sighed. “Only I don’t know that I’m up to reliving what happened, either. Even if it’s just in a song. A lot of the others might feel the same.”
“I can’t blame you for that,” Mignon said. “What happened was very heart-wrenching and painful. But I know that in the end, Hamilton, you will make the right decision. There has to be a way to write it that you can feel pleased about.”
Hamilton slowly nodded. “I hope so. Maybe I’ll give it another go.”
“One other thing, Hamilton,” Mignon interjected. “Who is supposed to sing this song, assuming you finish it and find someone to compose the music?”
“I don’t know that, either,” Hamilton grunted.
“You sing, don’t you?”
“Well . . . yes, but not for crowds of people. Not in years.” Hamilton pushed the pillow aside and reached for the paper and pencil. “And there’s no way the entire song can come together in a few hours. I don’t even know anyone who writes music.”
“Anything is possible,” Mignon answered as she stood. “But I do think, Hamilton, that it would mean a great deal to Howie if you sang the song as well as writing it.”
Hamilton looked up at her with a start. Naturally that was true. But suddenly something else had occurred to him.
“You knew about the song, didn’t you?” he said in amazement. “You came here on purpose to see about it.”
“Howie mentioned he wondered if you would remember the song,” Mignon said. “I was certain you would, but I decided it wouldn’t hurt to be sure.”
“Oh brother.” Hamilton threw his hands in the air. “Now I’ll have to see if I can make it come out somehow!”
A smile tugged on Mignon’s lips. “You’ll make it, Hamilton.”
“I wish I had your confidence,” Hamilton muttered.
****
It had been some days since Florence’s official defeat. The idea of a celebration had been postponed for several days, what with injured people needing treatment and rest and grieving people needing time to adjust to loved ones’ deaths.
Some had not been sure that they should have a celebration at all, considering all the sorrow and heartache their battle against Florence had brought about. But others had prevailed, insisting that the departed would want the survivors to be happy and commemorate such an important event. It was, after all, the Revolutionary War or the War of 1812 of their day, fighting for their independence against tyranny. And those less enthusiastic on the idea had at last agreed.
Perry had felt it should not be an out-and-out party, however, but a tribute and celebration to those who had sacrificed everything and ended up either killed or seriously wounded as a result. His idea was welcomed both by those who had lobbied for the event and those who had been more skeptical. But it was also agreed that they would not mainly focus on sad or bittersweet angles. They wanted to celebrate life, not mourn over death. And they also wanted to recognize those who had not been gravely wounded but had still risked everything, not knowing if they would live or die.
That was how the gathering became an evening of remembrance as well as hope for the future. There were activities for the kids, a tribute wall of all who had fought against Florence, and several buffet tables of food. It was one of the largest events the building had catered in some time.
It was shortly before dinner that Hamilton approached the table where he and Mignon and Larry would be sitting with the Petersons. Howie was already there. He looked up with a bright smile. “Mr. Burger!” he exclaimed. “This is a really cool party. Are you having fun?”
Hamilton smiled. “I am,” he said. And that was a surprise to him too. He had been one of the skeptics, one who had not felt like throwing an out-and-out celebration. But this was turning out very nicely. While everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves while they ate and chatted, there was always a respectful feeling in the air. It was not crossing the line into boisterous and light-minded. Those who were not with them, for whatever reason, were always held in great esteem.
Hamilton slid out a chair next to Howie and sat down, leaning forward so he could be better heard over the crowds. “Howie, I want you to know that I tried to write you a song,” he said.
Howie tilted his head to the side. “Weren’t you able to?” he asked in disappointment.
“Well . . . frankly, I wasn’t sure how to write it,” Hamilton said. “There’s no music for it, so I can’t sing it, but I did write it.” He held up a folded piece of paper. “Some of it you might not understand now, but maybe when you’re older it will make more sense. It’s probably not exactly what you were hoping for, but I did my best.”
Howie took it with wide eyes. As he unfolded and read it he grew serious. But when he was done and had placed it on the table, he looked up at Hamilton with a big smile. “Thank you, Mr. Burger,” he said in all earnestness. Jumping down from his chair, he hugged his godfather and friend.
Surprised and touched, Hamilton returned the gesture. “You’re welcome, Howie.”
That was when he decided that, although the rest would have been nice, perhaps what meant the most was not whether it had music or whether he sang it, but that he had remembered and had taken the time to write it.
Day/Theme: June 29th - So the songs tell us
Series: Perry Mason
Character/Pairing: Hamilton Burger, Mignon Germaine, Howie Peterson (OC)
Rating: K/G
Takes place after Florence's defeat. References #4.
Hamilton sighed, tapping his pencil on the coffee table in front of him. It was strange, that after everything they had been through with Florence’s regime, he was more stumped by this task than by anything that had come before. He had been staring at this blank sheet of paper for what seemed hours now. Occasionally he would scribble something out and then quickly erase it again. It was tempting to crumple the paper up and send it flying, like all those clichés in movies and television series when someone could not write. But he did not want to waste the paper.
The knock on the door was a welcome interruption. He got up and crossed the room, opening the door. “Mignon,” he greeted in surprise. “I wasn’t expecting to see you until tonight. Come in.”
Mignon unlatched the storm door and stepped into the living room. “I thought I would come by before the celebration tonight,” she said, glancing around him to the table. “I hope I haven’t dragged you away from something important.”
“Oh no. Well, it is important,” he added quickly. “It’s just that I’m glad to be dragged away from it. I have no idea what to do with it.”
She followed him to the couch. “Exactly what is it?” she asked. “The paper is blank.”
Hamilton sighed, sinking into the cushions. “A long time ago, Howie wanted me to write a song when Florence was defeated,” he said. “He might not even remember now, but well . . . I thought it would be a nice gesture. Only I discovered that I can’t even put together some decent-sounding lyrics. I already knew I wouldn’t be any good with the music.”
“Song-writing is difficult,” Mignon said. “There was a time when I considered it, but I abandoned that idea before long. Not necessarily because of its difficulty, but because songs are very personal. More personal than I was willing to share with complete strangers.”
Hamilton nodded. “That’s true,” he said. “And I guess another problem is that I think Howie was imagining something like the poems in The Lord of the Rings. I can’t see myself writing in Tolkien’s style. And a style of my own is non-existent.” He stared at the paper in exasperation.
Mignon was a bit amused. “To be honest, Hamilton, I can’t see you writing in Tolkien’s style, either.”
“Thanks.” Hamilton rested his arm on a large couch pillow. “. . . Maybe it’s also that I’m not sure I feel comfortable with writing a song about defeating Florence in the first place. It was so serious. So many people were hurt. Some even died. And to write a song could potentially come off like making light of it or trying to milk it for inspiration.”
“Or it could come off as a sincere tribute to the sacrifices made,” Mignon said. “It all depends on the tone you’re trying to get across.”
“That’s true.” Hamilton sighed. “Only I don’t know that I’m up to reliving what happened, either. Even if it’s just in a song. A lot of the others might feel the same.”
“I can’t blame you for that,” Mignon said. “What happened was very heart-wrenching and painful. But I know that in the end, Hamilton, you will make the right decision. There has to be a way to write it that you can feel pleased about.”
Hamilton slowly nodded. “I hope so. Maybe I’ll give it another go.”
“One other thing, Hamilton,” Mignon interjected. “Who is supposed to sing this song, assuming you finish it and find someone to compose the music?”
“I don’t know that, either,” Hamilton grunted.
“You sing, don’t you?”
“Well . . . yes, but not for crowds of people. Not in years.” Hamilton pushed the pillow aside and reached for the paper and pencil. “And there’s no way the entire song can come together in a few hours. I don’t even know anyone who writes music.”
“Anything is possible,” Mignon answered as she stood. “But I do think, Hamilton, that it would mean a great deal to Howie if you sang the song as well as writing it.”
Hamilton looked up at her with a start. Naturally that was true. But suddenly something else had occurred to him.
“You knew about the song, didn’t you?” he said in amazement. “You came here on purpose to see about it.”
“Howie mentioned he wondered if you would remember the song,” Mignon said. “I was certain you would, but I decided it wouldn’t hurt to be sure.”
“Oh brother.” Hamilton threw his hands in the air. “Now I’ll have to see if I can make it come out somehow!”
A smile tugged on Mignon’s lips. “You’ll make it, Hamilton.”
“I wish I had your confidence,” Hamilton muttered.
It had been some days since Florence’s official defeat. The idea of a celebration had been postponed for several days, what with injured people needing treatment and rest and grieving people needing time to adjust to loved ones’ deaths.
Some had not been sure that they should have a celebration at all, considering all the sorrow and heartache their battle against Florence had brought about. But others had prevailed, insisting that the departed would want the survivors to be happy and commemorate such an important event. It was, after all, the Revolutionary War or the War of 1812 of their day, fighting for their independence against tyranny. And those less enthusiastic on the idea had at last agreed.
Perry had felt it should not be an out-and-out party, however, but a tribute and celebration to those who had sacrificed everything and ended up either killed or seriously wounded as a result. His idea was welcomed both by those who had lobbied for the event and those who had been more skeptical. But it was also agreed that they would not mainly focus on sad or bittersweet angles. They wanted to celebrate life, not mourn over death. And they also wanted to recognize those who had not been gravely wounded but had still risked everything, not knowing if they would live or die.
That was how the gathering became an evening of remembrance as well as hope for the future. There were activities for the kids, a tribute wall of all who had fought against Florence, and several buffet tables of food. It was one of the largest events the building had catered in some time.
It was shortly before dinner that Hamilton approached the table where he and Mignon and Larry would be sitting with the Petersons. Howie was already there. He looked up with a bright smile. “Mr. Burger!” he exclaimed. “This is a really cool party. Are you having fun?”
Hamilton smiled. “I am,” he said. And that was a surprise to him too. He had been one of the skeptics, one who had not felt like throwing an out-and-out celebration. But this was turning out very nicely. While everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves while they ate and chatted, there was always a respectful feeling in the air. It was not crossing the line into boisterous and light-minded. Those who were not with them, for whatever reason, were always held in great esteem.
Hamilton slid out a chair next to Howie and sat down, leaning forward so he could be better heard over the crowds. “Howie, I want you to know that I tried to write you a song,” he said.
Howie tilted his head to the side. “Weren’t you able to?” he asked in disappointment.
“Well . . . frankly, I wasn’t sure how to write it,” Hamilton said. “There’s no music for it, so I can’t sing it, but I did write it.” He held up a folded piece of paper. “Some of it you might not understand now, but maybe when you’re older it will make more sense. It’s probably not exactly what you were hoping for, but I did my best.”
Howie took it with wide eyes. As he unfolded and read it he grew serious. But when he was done and had placed it on the table, he looked up at Hamilton with a big smile. “Thank you, Mr. Burger,” he said in all earnestness. Jumping down from his chair, he hugged his godfather and friend.
Surprised and touched, Hamilton returned the gesture. “You’re welcome, Howie.”
That was when he decided that, although the rest would have been nice, perhaps what meant the most was not whether it had music or whether he sang it, but that he had remembered and had taken the time to write it.