119-121

Chapter 119: Fragments of Inspiration 

The darkness danced lightly at his fingertips, carrying a cool sensation. Gradually, his fingers went numb, as if he could feel the devil’s breath flowing softly by his ear. The entire space seemed to solidify around him. 

“Ronan…”  

After a brief silence, Ollie spoke up cautiously, trying to say something. But before he could finish, a sharp ring shattered the quiet.  

Ding-a-ling! Ding-a-ling! 

The alarm blared, making the bed and the whole room shake. Ollie jolted in fright and tumbled right off the bed.  

Thud! 

Ronan heard a dull crash. Startled first by the alarm and then by the impact, he bolted upright. In the dim light, he saw a figure groaning on the floor. Flipping on the bedside lamp, he found Ollie curled up in a heap.  

“Ollie, you okay?”  

His pupils darted as he assessed the scene, quickly piecing it together. Then a burst of laughter escaped him.  

“Hahaha!”  

Seeing Ollie—a big, burly guy—squished between the beds with no room to move was just too funny. Even the bed shifted with his struggles. The sight was so absurdly comical it hit Ronan hard.  

Though he was genuinely worried about Ollie, his rational side urged him to check on him—and he did—but the laughter wouldn’t stop. It rumbled wildly in his chest.  

Ollie clutched the back of his head, struggling to sit up. But the bed couldn’t handle his weight and slid back with a whoosh. He plopped down again, sprawled on his back, which only made Ronan’s laughter explode even more.  

Ollie started laughing too, despite his initial embarrassment. He looked at Ronan helplessly. “Didn’t we say we’d never walk alone?”  

Ronan couldn’t even speak, just pointed at himself with a look that said, Yeah, I’m right here with you!  

Ollie felt a little stifled.  

Knock, knock, knock! 

The door swung open, and Cliff burst in like a tornado. The door quivered like dry autumn leaves as his nagging voice tore through the room.  

“I’ve been hearing you two making a racket for ages, and you still haven’t gotten ready! Hurry up, wash up, and get moving—we’re leaving soon! What if we hit traffic and miss the flight?”  

Ollie muttered, “Traffic at this hour?”  

Cliff’s glare could’ve sliced through steel. Ollie mimed zipping his mouth shut, and the room filled with Cliff’s voice again, rushing Ronan and Ollie to pack up and get going.  

Judging by Cliff’s mix of anxiety and adrenaline, he and Maxim probably hadn’t slept either. They were running on fumes. Even Alice had barely rested, dozing off for maybe forty minutes before dragging herself up.  

The drive to the airport was smooth—usually a thirty-minute trip took less than twenty. They checked in early, and even the drum kit’s air transport, which they’d worried about, went off without a hitch. At the gate, the band waited nearly two hours, restless and bored, before finally boarding.  

Settling into business class, Ronan felt a flicker of excitement.  

In his past life, he’d rarely flown, and those few times were always in economy. Business class was a new, almost giddy experience for him.  

But a sleepless night wasn’t doing him any favors. The long wait at the gate had drained him, and exhaustion crept in. Not long after sitting down, without even taking in the details, he drifted into a hazy sleep, finally letting go.  

He woke up when the meal service started, wolfing down the food like a storm before pulling the blanket back over himself and passing out again.  

Half-dreaming, he stirred when the second meal came around, feeling a bit more alive. Blinking awake, he studied the tray in front of him. A flight attendant’s friendly voice chimed in, “Would you like champagne or red wine?”  

Rubbing sleepy eyes, Ronan smiled and declined. Then he heard Ollie order a red wine beside him. Turning, he flinched at Ollie’s bloodshot eyes. “God, Ollie, don’t tell me you haven’t slept this whole time?”  

Ollie downed the wine in one gulp, then spun toward Ronan with an excited grin, ignoring the question. He handed over a notebook, his tiredness and gloom replaced by barely contained energy.  

It was a 16K sketchbook with a black cover, plastered with state stickers in a messy but charming way. The edges were frayed, showing years of wear. Inside, scattered scribbles and notes filled the pages.  

This was Ollie’s creative journal, the source of many One Day Kings songs. But since the Scooter mess, he hadn’t touched it much—maybe flipped it open now and then, but never added anything.  

Until today.  

Ollie tried to pass it to Ronan, but Ronan waved it off politely, gesturing at his tray. “I’m about to eat. You should too, or you won’t have the energy for this afternoon’s rehearsal.”  

Ollie nodded absently, flipping open the sketchbook. He leaned over, practically begging for attention, like a dog wagging its tail for its owner. “Look, I jotted down some inspiration fragments earlier. How about I read them to you? Tell me what you think?”  

Ronan spread butter on his bread slowly, like an artist painting with a knife, glancing at Ollie. “Music?”  

“No, lyrics.” Ollie shook his head, completely ignoring his own food.  

Ollie, who usually cherished every bite, had forgotten his meal entirely. Ronan gave Ollie’s untouched tray a pitying look but turned back to him, nodding to show he was listening.  

Chapter 120: Lingering at the Fingertips 

With a small nod of encouragement from Ronan, Ollie bounced in excitement, nearly knocking over the tray on his little table—luckily, he caught it just in time. But he didn’t have a second to fuss over it. After a quick glance to make sure the tray was still in place, his eyes snapped back to Ronan. He wiggled his shoulders, barely containing himself as he dove in. “The lyrics aren’t complete yet. There’s still a pretty clear disconnect between the parts. I was just trying to grab some scraps of inspiration and jot them down fast. I’m not sure how they are, so I need your take on it.” 

Ronan gave another light nod, popping a piece of buttered bread into his mouth. He chewed slowly, savoring the faint toasted wheat aroma blooming on his tongue. The subtle sweetness, tinged with a hint of char, mingled with the perfectly kneaded dough, spreading out in a satisfying warmth that hit just right. 

Ollie either didn’t notice Ronan was mid-bite or didn’t care. He ducked his head and started reading, his voice low but buzzing with excitement he couldn’t hide—like the whole world had just lit up. 

“Mayday. Mayday. Mayday.” 

“The ship’s going down. They think I’m crazy, but they don’t get it. They’re circling me like vultures, waiting to break me, to strip my colors away—wipe them out completely.” 

“Oh, he’s owning the room, and I’m sinking slow. Get out of my head—I need to keep moving. Get out of my head, or I’ll die if this keeps up.” 

Ollie’s face was all eagerness and spark, but the words spilling from his lips were drenched in darkness. Despair and fear twisted around like vines, creeping up his wrists, tiny thorns sinking into flesh. The pain spread bit by bit, laced with the scent of blood—bruised, battered, dripping red—silent screams roaring deep in his mind. 

So desperate. So helpless. 

“We’re melting into one. You take all my pain away. Save me when I turn into the monster. I can’t stop this sick obsession—it’s got me, dragging me into the void. I need you to pull me out. I can’t keep fighting alone forever.” 

“No matter how long I wait, I always know my fate, and it doesn’t look pretty.” 

“Mayday!” 

His quiet recitation ended there. Ollie looked up, locking eyes with Ronan, his gaze brimming with anticipation—practically overflowing—sending out a steady signal, waiting for a response. That burning stare was impossible to ignore. 

Ronan nearly choked on the beef in his throat, coughing twice. He turned to Ollie. “You know if you don’t focus while eating, you’ll mess up your digestion, right?” 

Ollie didn’t mind, just grinned with a little chuckle, rubbing his head. He shifted in his seat, facing his own tray now, and carefully set his sketchbook on the armrest between them. Then he stared at his food, dazed for a second, before slowly unwrapping it. 

But it was obvious—Ollie’s mind wasn’t on the meal. Even food couldn’t pull his focus. So when Ronan set his own tray aside and reached for the sketchbook, Ollie noticed instantly. Knife and fork in hand, he whipped around to face him. 

Ronan turned his head and jumped—Ollie’s wide-eyed stare was like something out of a horror flick, nearly stopping his heart. He shot him a glare. “What, are you gonna eat that sketchbook whole?” But he didn’t say more, just lowered his head and started reading carefully. 

Ronan got it—Ollie’s mood, all of it, 100%. He’d felt the same after writing “Born This Way” and “Chasing the Light”—half-excited, half-nervous, a rollercoaster of emotions too messy to put into words, just waiting for someone to say something. 

And this? This was Ollie’s first stab at creating again in three months—after last night’s emotional whirlwind, no less. That jittery, anxious vibe had to be even more tangled up now.  

No words were needed. The strokes on that page said it all. 

Ronan didn’t speak right away. His fingertips brushed the words lightly, tracing each line, feeling the struggle and pain etched into them. Darkness and blood seemed to gnaw at the life inside, like a demon taking full control. 

As his fingers grazed the ink, notes stirred awake. The hum of the plane’s cabin pressure buzzed in his ears, faintly pulling him into the vastness of space—like drifting alone in the cosmos. That endless isolation felt like a void you could never escape. 

Picture it: floating in space, no landmarks, no sense of where you are or how time’s passing. Space and time blur together, wrapping you in boundless chaos. Life’s grandeur and smallness clash yet somehow fit, everything losing meaning. How do you even describe that helplessness, that despair, that overwhelming vastness?  

Then the words came alive. Notes in his head painted a picture, breathing fresh life into the text. 

Beep. Beep. Beep. 

The “mayday” signal ticked in his ears like a steady pulse, sending out its SOS in perfect rhythm. Even if the lost soul in the universe had given up, the signal hadn’t—tirelessly waiting for someone to hear. 

Just like last night. 

Ollie had been sending out his own mayday for a while, but the band was too caught up in their own worlds. Maxim and Cliff’s bickering had drowned everything else out, and no one noticed. Ollie slipped further into the dark, lost in that endless expanse. 

Then came last night’s sudden high—the second surprise after Scooter. Sharp joy tangled with sharp worry and fear, throwing everything off balance. Ollie sent another signal, and this time, Ronan heard it. The night cracked open, just a sliver. 

Ronan’s right hand tapped lightly on the sketchbook, almost like Morse code. But really, it was the melody in his head taking shape through his fingers—like playing a piano. Cool, clear notes lingered between his lips, emotions pooling at his fingertips. Golden threads of sound wove into a score, hazy inspiration sharpening under the words’ guidance. It felt a bit like… 

Weightlessness. 

Words morphed into notes; emotions stitched into melody. A chemical reaction, sparking quietly. 

Chapter 121: Crafting a Melody 

The melody surged through him like an electric current, flowing from his mind to his fingertips. Notes swirled, light and lively, weaving through the words as they danced together.  

“Help, help.”  

“The ship is sinking. They think I’ve lost it, but they can’t understand how it feels. They circle around me like vultures, trying to break me down and strip away my colors—erase them completely.”  

“Fly away, sing out loud, and you’ll be unstoppable.”  

“Become one, no boundaries—you can take the pain away.”  

“If I turn into a demon, save me (Save-Me, If-I-Become… My-Demons).”  

Without thinking, Ronan started humming softly. His right hand fumbled across the paper, and Ollie caught on instantly, handing him the ballpoint pen.  

Exactly what he needed!  

Ronan twirled the pen between his thumb for a couple of spins, then began marking up the sketchbook—  

Horizontal lines under some words, wavy lines under others, dots or triangles to highlight key phrases.  

Next to the text, he jotted down quick snippets of melody in musical notation. It wasn’t formal—this shorthand was something Ollie had taught him over the past few months—but Ronan had gotten the hang of it. It might not be perfect, but Ollie could follow it.  

Ollie didn’t interrupt, just leaned in close, his eyes tracking Ronan’s pen as it moved. Listening to Ronan’s low hums, he pieced together the melody in his head, the once-blurry tangle of thoughts starting to clear up a bit.  

But Ronan’s flow didn’t last. He got through the first stage, then hit a wall.  

He paused, then let out a quiet laugh. “Uh…” He was still so new to this. He’d always thought creating was a burst of energy, like a waterfall of inspiration pouring out all at once. But today, it stalled.  

No wonder Ollie and Maxim often said music creation was a slow, steady process. Relying on a flash of genius wasn’t enough. Most of the time, it meant sitting in a studio, in a quiet space, fully focused—pushing yourself to the limit and diving in completely, like it was a full-on project.  

Inspiration had to be forced out.  

Of course, talent was a must. Without it, no amount of effort could conjure something from nothing. And even then, the well of inspiration could run dry—when that happened, forcing it wouldn’t help.  

Still, art wasn’t just about a sudden spark and a pat on the head. It demanded retreat, focus, and work.  

Plus, writing lyrics and composing melodies were two different beasts. Some people jotted down melody fragments, while others captured emotions in words. Some excelled at building melodies from lyrics, even arranging them fully, while others worked backward, letting lyrics flow from a tune to reveal its hidden feelings.  

No method was better or worse, but one thing was certain: inspiration and talent were essential, whether for lyrics or melodies. Sensing emotions, rhythms, and beats required different skills.  

That’s what made the creative process so fascinating.  

Now, Ronan was starting to get a taste of what Ollie and Maxim had described. It wasn’t fully real yet—he’d probably need to lock himself away and face the grind to truly feel it—but at least he wasn’t clueless anymore.  

“What’s up?” Ollie noticed Ronan’s expression and asked cautiously.  

Ronan chuckled. “Power’s out. I need to rethink this—the chorus needs a redo.”  

Ollie glanced down at his notes. “These won’t work?”  

Ronan paused, considering. “The vibe’s off.”  

“What I’m picturing is being lost in the vast universe, where darkness and emptiness awaken the demon inside. You know, and I know, that demon’s not leaving your head—it’s devouring you. You’ve got to save yourself, or wait for rescue. Just saying ‘get out of my head’ feels too… peppy. I want the lyrics to carry more weight.”  

“Peppy?” Ollie blinked, baffled, not quite believing his ears. But he got Ronan’s point. The mood of the lyrics and melody mattered—it’s where the emotional magic happened.  

What separated a generic pop hit from a timeless classic?  

Both were catchy and widely loved—popular music that stuck with the masses often shared that trait. “Pop” wasn’t a flaw to bash; it was a strength worth celebrating. The difference was that generic pop songs had lyrics with no depth—just syllables stuffed into a melody, leaving everything to the beat and rhythm. Listeners grooved to the tempo but felt nothing from the words.  

That’s why those songs came and went in waves. They’d blow up, people would love them, then move on to the next similar beat, tossing the old ones aside. Rarely did they evolve into classics that stood the test of time.  

Timeless pop hits, though, had lyrics with a touch that lingered.  

Take The Beatles—simple, accessible melodies and chords, nothing too fancy, but their lyrics always hit the heart.  

Or Bob Dylan, the folk-rock poet who won the Nobel Prize in Literature in 2016, the first musician to claim it.  

Their classics, even after thirty or fifty years, still stirred listeners. After Bohemian Rhapsody took off, Queen’s forty-year-old album surged again—totally timeless.  

That’s how it worked.  

Last night, Ronan’s “Dancing Alone” on the Vegas Strip followed the same rule. The original used the contrast between lyrics and melody to spark emotion; his version leaned on the lyrics’ raw feeling to strike a chord. The arrangements were worlds apart, but the emotional weight of the words tied them together, making both renditions resonate.  

Now, Ronan and Ollie were wrestling with the same question: 

How do you blend lyrics with emotional power into a melody perfectly?  

(End of Chapter)