by Jefferson Krogh

The sun had set, but George didn't know. The small monitor of his Macintosh provided all the light he needed. His small wooden desk, littered with computer manuals and cola stains, looked murky in the dimness. A waiting microphone rested next to the keyboard.
George stared at the screen, which patiently displayed a short musical score, and tried to beat back the stray sounds which cluttered his mind. Somewhere in there the melody he wanted lay buried underneath layers of pounding drums and screaming vocals. He squeezed closed his eyes and concentrated. After a moment his only reward was the first throbs of a headache. He rubbed his eyes and glared at the screen.
At the top of the screen, just below the menu bar, the title "SYMPHONY #2" glared back at him. Below it a score sat quietly, mocking him. He moved the mouse across the table and clicked its button once. Twin stereo speakers to either side of him produced crisp, flowing harpsichord music. His blood pressure rose rapidly. He pounded the desk in frustration.
The music stopped. He shook his head and cursed softly. "I had it this morning," he said through clenched teeth. He grabbed at a lock of his hair. Shut up! he shouted at the mental cacophony. Some of the sonic debris faded into the background, and behind it he thought he heard his melody. Afraid to lose it again, he grabbed the microphone and hummed into it with a slightly wavering but tuneful voice. The screen flashed. A moment later the score reappeared, this time altered. He played it back, and the harpsichord taunted him with a melody that was not quite his.
He felt his chest rise and fall slowly in rhythm with his grinding teeth. His stomach grumbled. Burrito, it said. He told it to shut up, too.
His rebellious mind took advantage of the distraction and let James Hetfield and his guitar out of their cage. "Obey your master!" All there was now was a hopeless amalgam of Metallica and Mozart. The melody was lost as Amadeus and Hetfield hurled notes at each other.
George's spirits fell. He'd never finish the first movement.
He fixed his eyes on the screen and drummed his fingers. A small ball of fire was lodged somewhere inside of him, waiting to burst out. It shortened his breath, sharpened his senses. It would gnaw at him, he knew, until the melody was complete.
Hetfield shouted again, "Obey your Master!" The fire surged.
The only thing he could do now, he decided in resignation, would be to take what he had and see what was wrong with it. He replayed what he had so far. The beginning was fine; it flowed smoothly into the middle, like he wanted, but the ending was not right. Off kilter somehow.
He sighed. It was time to use the crutch.
He clicked the mouse again, and a new window appeared on top of the first. The title bar read "HARMONIC ANALYSIS." The window told him his piece was in the key of E, major mode,his chord progression was E-F# minor-A-B7-D minor, and on a scale of 10 its harmonic strength was a 6.5. Big deal, he thought; it doesn't sound right. He moved the pointer onto a button that said "Chord suggestions" and clicked. A third window -- "Classical chord progressions in E Major" -- appeared with several lines of examples. One caught his eye: E-F# minor-A-B7-D# minor. He caught his breath; the cool elation of solution began to rise within him. He clicked twice, and his music played again. This time, the ending fell perfectly into place.
The fireball subsided somewhat, promising to return.
He pounded his fist into his palm in triumph. Thank you, professor, he thought. Now if I could only sing properly.
His stomach rumbled again. Burrito!! "All right," he told it, "just give me a minute."
He clicked the mouse again, and the Mac beeped as it ejected a disk. He reached behind the machine and turned it off, plunging the room into darkness. "Whoops." It was nighttime. He carefully inched his way to the door, bare toes rustling against the carpet, and flipped on the overhead light, which didn't help because his eyes weren't ready for the brightness.
He blinked several times and looked about for a dark place to rest his eyes. His dormitory room was small but cozy. A disheveled waterbed sat under a solitary open window. The earthy odor of dirty socks exuded from an open drawer in the bed's stand.
His eyes not hurting now, but still squinting, George filed the floppy disk in a box on his large bookshelf. The box shared its home with a collection of neatly organized classical, rock and reggae compact discs, textbooks from a variety of disciplines, and computer software and manuals.
The opposite wall was his "kitchen:" a microwave and mini-refrigerator next to a Spartan linoleum sink. He was headed there, thinking about that leftover burrito, when the phone on his desk rang. George picked it up. "Hello?"
A voice inquired, "George Norman?"
He looked into the mirror behind the sink and grinned. "Yeah."
"Good evening. This is Arthur Fleming, from the San Francisco Symphony."

All contents of Skaldheim (C) 1997 by Jefferson Krogh.
URL: http://www.skaldheim.com/fiction/notefromdad/nfd1.html
Revised: July 16, 1998.