The lone light in the studio shone down and flared out and around the subject. Seated, the girl adjusted the long tresses of black hair, which fluttered past her headphones and well down behind the chair.

A check of the headset, and the girl looked down her seated self. The short black suit jacket kept her warm in this room, and she felt the silk of the white blouse beneath it. The ultra-short matching skirt showed nearly everything, or that not covered by the black stockings, which rose to mid-thigh. Her black shoes were cast off, and lay on the floor beside her.

These did not concern her at the moment. Arrayed before her, slightly to her left, she adjusted the papers on the music stand. Notes in different colored inks stained the pages, along the bars; notations of chord changes, slides and shifts of hand. 

Only the words were unchanged.

The ancient Sennheiser mic, protected by a round screen was before her. Littered across the tiled floor, were more microphones, the numerous snakes competing with the cables more designed for such a project. Two more boom mics hung from the ceiling, in perfect height and distance from one another, and the one below.

A left hand, roughened slid across the silver strings, and the echo sounded in her headset. These and the koa wood of the Taylor glinted in the slight, as did the vines and tendrils up its fretboard.

She leaned. “I’m ready for another take,” she said. “Something is still missing from this; I’ll try changing it up this time.”

All the lights in the control room were off; she could see past the window the one figure hunched over the board. Even with the varied lights of this and the flickering, blinking lamps of the gear racked behind him, she could see nothing. “That’s fine, Arisa,” an aged, male voice called through the talkback, “do what you feel. I’m rolling.”

The one called Arisa nodded. “One, two, three…” she whispered, her right thumb struck the dark wood above the strings.

And she was off. Long, thin fingers worked the heavier strings, to create a bluesy bass line. The girl’s body and the guitar swayed in position, and she leaned into the mic with a pair of sharp chords. “Have no say in what’s at stake, hatchin’ from a tempest egg…”

Back to the line, and a whispered refrain: “Black Swan tore the temple down, black swan tore the temple down…”

The music stopped, and the hands tapped the rhythm on the top and sides of the axe. “Call the storm on thunder’s wings, fallen stone and broken things…Black swan tore the temple down, black swan tore the temple down…”

Sultry words, taken in a tone lower than a young Japanese woman would be anticipated to give, was presented. Arisa could imagine the mics picking up every breath, every nuance, every click and snap of her instrument’s attack.

She began to float, just above her seat; the disquiet of her stomach subsided, and her body melted into the guitar. The instrument molded itself to Arisa; the music, and vocals pushed upward from inside and out of her. “Black swan tore the temple down…”

For five minutes, Arisa’s universe vanished, and she picked, strummed, smacked and powered her way through someone else’s song. Her voice turned on high; limbs lost their tension, her fluids sloughed down and away from her onto the floor, flooded the room and rose up to take her in a temperature-less pool.

Then nothingness. Drained, Arisa slipped the headphones from her ears to round her neck, and she leaned over on the guitar. Her left hand went to her stomach, and she slowly inhaled.

The lights, pinpoints of space slowly rose, and Arisa could now see the room. Soundproofed with grey foam, the hardwood floor was bare but for her tools, the mics and cables. The age of this place spoke to her; from her first discovery to now, Arisa felt the warmth of here, and how it accepted her.

“That was really good, Arisa,” The voice called. She looked up, and could see the shadow of the man behind the board. “You hit every mark; I assume that was how you wanted to do it.”

Exhausted, Arisa’s head lifted. “Yes, but not completely,” she replied. “Something is missing from it, Samu. I would like to hit the rhythm more; I can do both parts, but it would benefit from something other. I will find it, eventually.”

“Do at your own pace,” Samu replied. “I know you have to go; you can tear down now.”

Arisa nodded. She turned down the volume and tone knobs on the Taylor, and carefully unplugged. Headset and cord left on the chair, she slid back into her shoes and carefully tiptoed her way through the sea of snakes and mics to the door.

The darkened control room was cool, even with all the equipment in here. An ancient Orem board was placed before the window; two equally aged tape decks to the left. Racks of effects, compressors and other tricks of the producer’s trade blinked on the far wall two meters back.

Arisa carefully replaced the guitar in its case, hard-shell black with a gray fur-like interior. Satisfied her picks, capo, spare strings and other gear was in place, she closed and locked the case.

She turned to Samu. The aged one sat there, in a flannel work shirt and jeans, bare feet in a pair of sandals. He ran a hand through his longish gray hair and peered over his glasses. “That song has a special meaning to you,” he remarked, “but you have never told me what it is.”

Arisa smiled and took the second chair in the booth. Case on the floor beside her, she unconsciously stroked it like a pet. “Ever since I first heard it,” she replied, “that song spoke to me. I have so many of my own, and I’ve tried not to steal, but that one is irresistible to me. I only hope when the time comes, I can do it justice.”

“You will.” Samu stroked his thin mustache and goatee and asked, “But you mean justice to the original?”

“To that person, yes.”

Samu again nodded. “I think,” he said at length, “you will find benefit of others. There are so many around you, Arisa; I’m surprised you’ve not brought them along.”

Arisa looked to the man. “I was…” she responded, then paused, and then continued, “…not sure about how you felt on that. I didn’t want to break in on something as important as this.”

“Not at all.” Samu smiled and said, “You are a fine judge of character, Arisa; music is a living being that each of us has within. Those around you have it, and the project will require more than just you, and my ability to twist knobs.”

The two shared a quiet laugh. “I suppose,” Arisa told him, “it is that, but also my own fear.”

Samu watched her, and noted the shift of Arisa’s personality. “What do you fear?”

“The missing things,” Arisa replied. Her hand rested on the handle of the case, the fingers took it for reassurance. “I must open my music to the others, Samu, perhaps then I can open myself.”

A nod, and the two rose. “Thank you,” Samu replied from his stooped posture, “for being protective, but as I say, you know what decisions are best. You’ll know without knowing.”

The two bowed to one another. “Thank you, Samu,” Arisa replied. “See you soon.”

Case in hand, Arisa passed through the rear door. Over her shoulder, she watched as Samu headed into the studio to clear away the gear.

She closed the door, and walked down a bare, dark and cold hall. Shoes clicked on the cement as she headed for the stairs and the metal piping that was its railing. 

Samu hadn’t readied the playback, and Arisa was interested in hearing that idea, with all those mics, and the additional tracks devoted to them. Then Samu had his own secrets, and Arisa would just have to wait, as he would do for her.

Down the flight of stairs, and Arisa looked into the dark, dusty cluttered first floor of this place, but only for the moment. A pair of sunglasses covered her eyes. Arisa’s hand then went to her flat, knotted belly; she inhaled slightly, cased her system, and decided she was safe.

Out the side metal door, Arisa slammed it closed and ensure of the catch. Down the cracked alley, and Arisa returned to the smoother, better kept sidewalks. Before her lay apartments, small business and like institutions. This part of Osaka was once more alive to Arisa, and in her.

She smiled slightly and turned up the narrow street. Amid the cars, bikes, mopeds and trucks, horns honking, voices shouting, there too were those who passed along the walk. Men, young and old, and boys turned to watch. Women, especially older ones gave the girl in the stylish, expensive black outfit a wide berth. The long hair flowed down to her hips and drifted behind her as she walked the street. She made a striking picture, older than her years; Arisa did not smile, nor did she give any indication they were there. She was thinking of the music, that song, those lyrics, but also what Samu said. It flowed through her, and Arisa walked on.

The Black Swan was in flight.