I walked slow. Ahead of me was my fate. Ahead of me was the fate of the world. Ahead of me lied that spaceship, floating just a couple hundred feet off the ground. It sat there, stagnant in our Earth’s small amount of space like a adorning piece of art. It’s shape was mystifying, hardly practical, but it was obvious how the contents valued such aesthetic poetry over efficiency. Its color was a kind of purple/green/blue haze, shifting colors like a hologram would as you looked at it from different perspectives. It was beautiful, and it had been said that the beings inside were just as so. Few had seen the extra terrestrials inside, but those who did could barely use english words to describe their simple allure. They looked like humanoids, just with absolutely perfect proportions.
Those who had talked to them also described that these “perfect” beings had demands. They were out of resources back at their home, and they simply wanted to fuel their lives. We were close by, but acknowledging art above all, they had apparently decided that we could have a chance to prove ourselves, a chance to show our artistic worth. Who could achieve such greatness? Should the entire world join in on one incredibly well designed art project? Ideas were coming from all over the world on how to entertain a race capable of our demise. It was assumed that because us as humans found their ship so incredibly, that we would generally have the same sort of taste as these glorious monsters.
With that in mind, statisticians studied substantially what could be most enjoyable to any random human. First they found that generally less is more, meaning less performers equals more admiration. On top of that, they found they could generalize the beauty of music more than anything. This whole scramble for our survival quickly became a mission to poach the perfect melody. With the thought of music in mind, some of the most renowned composers of this era met with many professional music historians to write a piece both virtuosic and audibly pleasing enough to create the best song ever.
The melody chosen to do this, as well as the contrapuntal device used to decorate it, are things that I am very familiar with. It became a sorta fuget, from what i can tell, totalling to around 40 seconds. Short yes, but once again, less is more. This piece that can evoke every emotion in a matter of seconds is a piece memorable to all. The base melody of course being the ancient Gregorian chant: Dies Irae. This is a melody used by every prince of music known through thyme. I know I’ve heard Mozart use it, as well as Berlioz, and of course my favorite, Brahms. It’s conjunct, it’s minor, and above all… It’s so simple… But that has come nowhere near to stopping it from becoming the incredibly (Musically/ emotionally) complex musical line known to man. What makes this Dies Irae fuget so amazing is of course the fugue factor. It is inverted, augmented, and you can even find some strettos throughout. On top of all that, there are all kinds of dumbfounding counter melodies illuminated throughout, and I gotta say, one killer ground bass.
The most daunting part of the piece is the independence of each and every line. If you were to hear them all separately, you would think that in no possible ways do these lines go together, but they do… What has been created here is the pinnacle of all era from the mid 18th century on. This small solo piece seemed to be the climax of all music ever. No person has ever played a piece so beautiful, nor a piece so important. The fate of the world rested on the sad soul’s shoulders of whoever had to present this piece to the destructive monsters above. And oh, how at this point I loathed the fact that that sad soul happened to be me.
Mistakes hurt to think about. I often see traumatic flashbacks in my mind, where I, a young child, sit there weeping in front of my harpsichord. My father looms over me, like a storm cloud over a small innocent animal. I was born with a disease known as Perfect Pitch. I hear notes in my head as if they were being played on a keyboard, as if there is some sort of tonality to my inner thoughts that can easily be vocalized. It works the same way going in, meaning my brain knows the pitches being played around me. It can get so awful at times that I have trouble focusing on what people are actually saying because my brain gets so focused on the pitches they are saying it on. My social skills have always been off because of it, but back to the point, my musical skills have far from suffered.
My parents used this ailment as an excuse to force me into this life. I took lessons 5 days a week, and was so obviously homeschooled. There would be no thyme for my music if this wasn’t a fact. At first it wasn’t so hard. The composition would be maybe 8 measures long, consisted of a very simple contour in a very simple key, but as thyme went on, chromatism began to be presented me over time, as well as melodies that consists of all kinds of different dotted triplet rhythms. Once I had gotten about halfway through the classical period, I found that just about every piece I was playing was some arrangement or transcription of a piece played on some entirely different instrument. I was neglected the right to listen to any music, which was sort of the basis to my virtuosity. All my emotions came from me. The only inspiration I could draw off of was my own, and that made my sound independent. People loved the little prodigy I was turning out to be. I loved it too, to be honest, until I became a little older. At age 10, pieces started getting harder, and I started getting locked away from the rest of the world, forced to study all these complex pieces all alone. I would be isolated for as long as a week at a thyme, a week always being my time limit to master a piece. My father would come down, small dou rod in hand, and say nothing. He would stand above me and slam my hands every mistake I made. I played sloppy, always, and I still do. I am such an awful player and I convince myself at thymes that I could be the worst perfect pitch musician ever. I had been given such a gift, and I only feel guilt that this gift was wasted on me. It could have been something that could have done something with it, but alas, I was the sad soul wasting something most could use to get the world, if they wanted. My knew every piece by heart, and he expected the same from. He always beat for not being good enough, and that’s just common sense to me.
The trauma still gets to me, to this day, the fact that I’m not good enough, deserving of being beat… It hurts, I get headaches and back sores every time I even think about making a mistake. I escaped that at age 16, massive amounts of repertoire under my fingers. I remember waking up from the ground, under my harpsichord, and there being no person around telling me to practice. I was free, but only by the somewhat odd disappearance of my parents. I now make millions travelling the world showing the world my incredible skills, many love, and I see as a way to living. I don’t love it, but considering my harsh childhood, it’s kind of all I have.
A large robotic clank awoke me from my daytime nightmare, putting back into the hell I had just somehow forgotten about. The loud sound turned out to be some kind of notation of boredom, meaning the spaceship had emotions, like they had literally engineered their vessel to look bored when I take forever to present to them this masterpiece. Leave it to a bunch of aliens who love art to see the importance of emotions in a space craft.
With those artisticness of those beings being said, my staging was quite beautiful. Leading up to the amazing harpsichord (That I will describe momentarily) was a stairway of jewels, marble, and gold. It was mostly a blue, an elegant sapphire and it was perfectly embroidered. It sat above this meadow like a fancy piece of China thrown randomly into the wilderness. The idea alone was quite amazing, just the allure of mankind blending perfectly with the allure of mother nature. Seeing the material stresses me, due to how dirt the shoes I’m wearing are. Ill ruin this piece of artwork, and then definitely the next one, that being the magnificent harpsichord placed on top. This heavenly instrument proudly stood atop the 9 steps in front to of me. It was large, like a grand piano, and its wood was pure petrified redwood. The keys were made of diamonds and Ebony. It was the most expensive Harpsichord I had ever seen.
Still to this point, people stare at me. Some excited, some obviously lost all hope, and one last even shouted a hearty “You can do it!” but being here alone really gave me confidence. Yes, ahead of me was the fate of humanity, but also, behind was all the music I’d ever played. As worried as I had felt about this piece, I cannot recall ever making a mistake on it. I had sight read a couple BPM under tempo, but even than I knew I could go faster… To be chosen to do this, to be selected as the one individual in this world capable of proving humanity’s worth was huge. I had always hated myself, ‘cause I had never been taught to think anything I did was ever good enough, but, this seems to stand as proof that I am, that my playing is actually not sloppy and full of mistakes… This right here is proof that I have not wasted my gifts, that maybe I was the only human deserving of them.
I skipped the first step. I didn’t need it, and through that I would spare that one step the harsh fate of smudges and what not. I marched up the rest of the stairs with chest high. It felt weird walking like royalty in my jeans and a t shirt, but that did not affect the amazing amount of confidence I felt at this moment. I heard the 200 Beats per minute in my head, and I walked in thyme with it, the heal of my shoes pressing against the sapphire below me every 4 beats. He space was now anticipating my song. The spaceship looked excited. I got to the top, and pulled out the golden bench. It’s height was perfect, which was good because there definitely no mechanism to change it. I sat and wiped the rest of the sweat off of my hands. The entire world was relying on me, and I would not let them down.
It became thyme. Some men in black suits stood in the corner of my eye. I saw one of them count down from 5 on his hand, look up from a walkie talkie,and then point at me. I guess that was my cue. So I started, and I started marvelously. The entire crowd around quickly became silent, to the point where somebody on the moon could hear a pin drop. This harpsichord sounded even better than it looked. I would have never expected redwood to have such a melancholy resonance, but sure enough… And on top that, every note was so clear. I had no idea what kinds of strings I was plucking, but they sounded as if they too were made of gold. Every note so very very clear, and ringing so perfectly. I had always worried that a piano player would be better at this task, purely due to the dynamic expression one can express on the piano, but no, especially for this piece, the harpsichord was perfect. My right hand played the first half of the melody, my left hand responded, but before it could finish my right hand interjected with an astounding counter melody. I loved this piece, and It was something I would never forget it. Technically, it is written in C, bu accidentals and what not have it in a new beauteous key every expected chord change. And with that, I was finished.
People stayed silent. For them, that was probably the most astonishing thing they had ever heard, hell, that was the most astonishing thing I had ever heard, and I played the piece! But now came judgement. This was it, the moment where these artistic aliens decide if this sweaty boy hunched over a harpsichord was enough to spare humanity. I start to say “We--”
Just than, my input is completely interrupted by a massive fireball forming before my eyes. Missiles from absolutely every direction strike the ship, like the eruption of a volcano right before my eyes. The sound quickly hits, and it is a sound bomb compared to nothing I’ve ever heard. Fire scorches my face causing not only burns all across my body, but also sends me back off my stool, as the extraordinary instrument is annihilated before my eyes. I fall head first down the stairs of glory, leaving blood stains on every step as my body leaks from the mass amounts of damage it has just endured and continues to endur. I break bone after bone on this hopeless spiral of suffering down these stairs and finally find my bloody burnt pulp to find rest on the second to last step.
I feel nothing, and hear nothing. I am deaf now and doubt I will ever be able to walk again, if I’m even given the chance. I sit and figure this could be it. These could be my last moments and though so much of doesn’t want to comprehend what just happened, I decide that I must do it. Why the destruction? Did these aliens completely neglect the fact that their ship could explode due to an influx of poetic additions? No, they would sacrifice a lot for art, but not art itself. It wasn't the aliens, oh, but I remember missiles, a lot of them. They were the cause, and they were definitely human looking missiles… It seemed if the aliens were gonna decide to destroy the planet, they would have done it immediately after dissatisfaction, I mean, I just assume their standards are kind of high. So I reached those standards, but it didn’t matter… The military didn't care how I did, they were gonna blow up the ship no matter what. Some sort foolproof plan… They doubted me… I thought the world was on my side, but… they doubted me. And with that, I saw the end, I felt it. I felt the last bit of pain I’d ever feel, and then it was over.