Excerpt of The Winchesters

This section will be in the second part of the fourth novel

It was November 5th, 2024. Half of the country wanted to battle the other side. There was not really a way to get around that, so the results were actually meant to not be favorable to anybody. Still, it was up to debate if one were to vote for a man who walked with his two hands and two feet . . . while the other walked with his head up his ass. Now, I wish I meant that literally and not friguratively—because if this was literal, you would actually get a laugh out of it—but no. 

Manuel Swan was tinkering with the piano during this day, as he was not a man who even bothered with the mechanics of the people on top, as he believed that it didn’t really matter who was on top—havoc was just going to happen anyway. 

He was trying to tinker with a couple of notes in his head. It was a task, a whirlwind, a place that constituted the fortunate. 

Manuel was more known for his creativity with words instead of notes, although creativity could be transmitted through different dimensions of art. The man by the name of Beethoven would be agitated at the fact that Manuel, a fully-abled man with full hearing, would be baffled at his inability to compose great composition. The man was beautiful in his touch, even without hearing. This, however, was actually the part that frightened him. Okay, I have to show that I truly had skill

There was a montage, the skill of flexing the fingers on the keyboard. This was a task at hand, by using his actual hands, to create the brilliance. The only limitations of his ability were caused by himself. He was the man who caused limits to his own imagination, that there was bound to be a limit to what he could create. He had an issue with too much self-reflection, and as a consequence, the imposter syndrome kicked in. At first, there were kind of flowing—kind of—in a way that may characterize the hesitant, a man who was only tipping his toe in the water. 

Then, it turned a bit more elegant. The way he possessed it was through utter magic. It felt like it came spontaneously through the act of the impulse and the intellect working together in a formation that is spectacular—his own philosophy was working in harmony with this pursuit—but he had a one-man audience, so after his one-minute ensemble, he actually heard a tiny round of applause . . . from two hands. He looked to his side, and there was Desmond, trying his best to show a face that showed how proud he was. “Bravo, Manuel.” 

“Why, thank you.” He got up from his piano seat, knowing that he broke boundaries . . . with all those broken notes. “I bet you’d be a good singer.” 

“Well, don’t get your hopes up too high. I’ve just warned up a little bit.” Manuel was ambitious enough to actually buy a microphone that was there for their own delight. It cost the amount of car insurance you would have to pay. 

Desmond was altruistic enough to test his subpar skills out, adjusting the stand of the microphone so that the bulb would be right in front of his face. This was simply the living room of Manuel’s house, but it was conspicuously clear that he was making the job very difficult for himself, as his hands were sweating, transmitting liquid residue on the pole.

Manuel, however, had to be super extra about the whole thing: “Ladies and gentlemen, may I please present to you the one and only, Desmond Topak!” 

“Stop it, Manuel!” 

“What? I’m trying to liven up the place.” 

“Shut up.” 

“Okay, okay, fine. Take it away.” Manuel was ready for this, but little did he know that his playing partner, Desmond, would probably pee his pants when he would actually perform in the Laughing Stock, which was really the place where he would choke. “I GOT A PEN! I GOT AN APPLE! Uhh . . . apple pen.” Oh brother. There was no need to finish the lyrics, as it was too grotesque that both actually picked this one out of all the possible choices.

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