“The Conductor and his Muse” (Morning Fiction 5/8/2018)

Sound pierced the airwaves as the composer sat back in his chair.

The orchestra expressed itself in the music, hands moving in unison as violins and oboes struck vibration through space.

The tension of the music built as the composer absorbed the wave of feeling. The music he had written.

In one fluid motion, the orchestra flipped their composition notebooks and arrived at a blank sheet of paper.

The sound of music abruptly stopped as the members of the orchestra looked up from their charts.

There was nothing written.

The composer sat down in his chair, heart beating anxiously as he waited for the next few notes to arrive.

They had been playing the same segment of music the entire afternoon, and every time they reached the climax, they abruptly stopped.

He was trying to figure out where the music was supposed to go, but his mind was beaten and his body was tired.

The muse of inspiration was refusing to arrive.

The composer took a deep breath and looked at his musicians. He looked into their eyes and past, to the walls surrounding the auditorium.

He saw beyond the veil of physics into the world of music.

“What comes next?”

The musician knelt in prayer and clasped his hands tight. He offered himself to the gods, to the muse, and to the music.

His body began to shake and shudder, convulsing as his brain began to download from the ether.

Cymbals crashed and oboes flailed as the room was enveloped in a mighty gust of wind.

A voice spoke from the speakers, resounding a deep below into the hearts of those inside.

“Is is worth it? Let me work it. Put my thang down flip it and reverse it.”

A beam of light shattered the walls of the recording studio as a giant face floated into view.

It was Missy Elliot. And she was sassy as shit.

“Oh mah lawd!”

The conductor stood up from the floor where he was crouched down in prayer.

“My lord and savior Missy Elliot! Please, bless us with your music. Share with us the sounds of soul!”

The giant floating face that was Missy Elliot slung some sass in the conductors direction:

“It’s your friminipa blah blah blomo”

She spoke in tongues, an oddly sounding backwards dialect that punctured the waves of air with robotic purity.

“Sweet sweet missy Elliot! You’ve done it! You’ve arrived!”

The composer gathered up his notebook and scribbled furiously, eyes lit with the heat of a mad man.

The floating face that was Missy Elliot looked around the rubble, people strung about sporadically beneath piles of debris.

The giant face that was Missy Elliot pouted her lips and looked down at the composer.

“Boy, you better recognize!”

Miraculously, a giant floating hand appeared, rings glimmering and nail polish glinting in the air.

Missy Elliot snapped the fingers of her giant ghost hand, sassing up the room with style.

She let out a great roar and the giant face that was Missy Elliot floated through the hole in the roof and up into the clouds from whence she came.

The composer gazed up, stunned in total reverence. A small tear fell from his eye and he beamed a radiant smile.

“Missy mother fucking Elliot…”

His voice trailed off as he stood up and looked at the mess of wind instruments and people. Rubble and paper. The space was totally fucked up.

He gathered himself and pulled his conducting rod from his pocket.

“Alright people! Wake the hell up! We gots to get it in!”

The sound of a single trumpet blared as a a musician pushed his instrument through the rubble.

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