A Madman Butterfly Interstitial 

The request had been simple. And impossible. The man wanted to hear a new sound. He had gathered hungry young musicians at the theater to fulfill his desire, hooked them with promises of a big prize. All the others had failed. Their bodies were sat around Mr. Gabriel as he stared down at Abby from his seat halfway up the rows, dead-center. She hadn’t even taken the invitation from the reclusive mogul seriously; she wanted to hear what everyone else came up with.

 Her parents had wanted her to be a star, putting all their eggs in the musical basket when she showed some aptitude. She wanted to be a paleontologist when they decided her future. She lived music from then on. It was adapt or burnout, and she got lucky. The problem was, they didn’t know much about music. They drilled her with great precision, too much precision. She could hit all the right notes. Mechanical precision without a human touch was what one of her performances was called. That stung, being a human and all. Her parents decided it was better she switch tracks, no point being a musician if she couldn’t be A Musician.  But she had lived music, and she’d spent years trying to loosen up. 

She’d enjoyed the first performance, a nice blend of funk and metal that she hadn’t heard often. Mr. Gabriel called it an uninspired mash-up. Then the strange, faceless creatures had descended from the ceiling and strangled them. There was a panic. No doors could be opened. No phones worked. The creatures protected Mr. Gabriel. He sat calmly, dressed for a funeral, beard long and eyebrows bushy. He told them that an act would die every fifteen minutes if they refused to perform. The creatures prepared the equipment. No one could satisfy him. It was all derivative in some way. More death. A few had breakdowns. A few refused on principle. Most simply failed. Then it was her turn, and out of sheer desperation, she had an idea. A Romantic idea. She wouldn’t need her guitar. She needed a piano. He seemed able to see into their pasts, into their thoughts. She was banking on it. But first, she’d make him wait until it was her time.

“So what are you? The Devil at the crossroads?"

“You know the funny thing about angels and demons? Both appear in all kinds of guises; we can both be instruments of wrath and judgment. Neither can do more than they are allowed; the difference is a matter of enthusiasm for the plan. What are we planning to play?”

“I still have time. Why the obsession with music?"

“There’s a rather pivotal phrase in Christian theology, ‘the Lord hardened Pharaoh's heart.’ Sticky issue for the free will crowd, but we have had our little tricks to compel. Little levers to pull. One was sound. Structured, intentional sound. Music. We could change your moods and minds with the right tones and notes. Then someone had the idea to make your species aware of it. To make it for themselves. Good old Samyaza, the horny bugger, he’s buggered it all. It was nice at first. But you have a tendency to repeat yourself. History, faces, music. I helped make music. I just want to see something new for once. Spontaneous.  And you just can’t manage. You killed the sublime with repetition. So now that I am allowed to judge, I am judging, and I judge you disappointments. So far. What’s your plan?”

“Nocturne in E-flat major, Opus 9, Number 2,” Abby said.

He leaned forward in his seat, finally intrigued.

“I think you’ve missed the point of this exercise. Time’s almost up.”

“A  talented man who lived in an old bungalow because he declined the spotlight and kept it local once told me, ‘There’s nothing new under the sun, somebody had to invent the saxophone for me to even play it.’ You should know the first part.”

Mr. Gabriel chuckled, “My, we are upset.”

Abby responded by playing the piano.  She had bored the audience with this piece at a recital. Too precise. No soul. No feeling. She had been trying to figure it out like a technical problem. Her parents were staying at a beachside hotel in the winter off-season for cheap, close to family for holidays. It had a nice view. A closed dining patio overlooking the water. There was a piano in it. She had been playing. The hotel owner’s daughter appeared in a doorway and told her she needed to loosen up. But not harshly like the others. Kindly.  She told her it was meant to be played with feeling, not exactness,  that there was no perfect way to play it. She had sat next to Abby on the bench, told her to look away, to not even watch her hands. Look out the window. Listen to the music and the wind.

The sky was dark blue, overcast, but that somehow made the grass and white shores contrast with the sky and calm waters more than when brightness made them more vivid. Technically more vivid, but not really. The dull, even light made it all more beautiful to Abby. The grass seemed a clean green, all the little spots of withering washed out enough to blend in. Even the dirt on houses back home somehow seemed cleaner back home on a rainy day, like it belonged there, like it was painted on with care. The perfect grass susurrated gently in the mild breeze, mixing with the eternal movements of the water. 

And the music was perfect. Not precise. The girl rushed here, lingered too long there, but it was the sight, in sound. A gentle day with playful, unpredictable gusts. Quiet, but undeniably alive. The girl kissed Abby on the cheek once while she played, and Abby put her head on the girl's shoulder as she kept looking outside, sea air and coconut shampoo. Abby didn’t play the song as she remembered it played; she played as she felt when she looked back on years later. It was almost perfect, but then she would hold a note too long as her other fingers carried on. Moments when the memory stopped her in her tracks, then she would pick it up a little too fast when she would try to throw herself into work to forget it. She wanted to see that girl again suddenly, as a woman. She might never, but if she lived, she could dream. The song ended with a surge, far more forceful than at the start. The song had been played before. It would be played again. But not even Abby would ever play it that way again. 

The creatures withdrew to the shadows as the song ended. When the last note had faded, Mr Gabriel simply said, “Oh.”

He was gone. It wasn't an explosion. He was there, and then there sat some regal skeleton, the room ablaze, the bodies burning. Abby stumbled to an exit, nearly being consumed by the fire. Then she was guided outside and found herself lying on the ground as a disheveled man checked her for injuries.

“I thought there was supposed to be a prize,” she mumbled, the general shock of the situation overcoming her.

“Hey, life’s one big sur-prize," he said. She laughed too loudly. He elevated her legs and told her to breathe deeply.

“I think I killed Gabriel.” She said.

“Gabriel who?”

“The angel.”

“Oh, dear, you sound like me. I’d keep that to yourself,” he said with a mischievous laugh.

“What do you think of music? I heard something very alarming about it just now,” she asked in a daze.

“It’s not the most romantic view, but I think of art like a tool. It is what it is; what matters is how it's used. Is there anyone I should call?”

“Not really. I think that’s very Romantic.”

Next Issue– Sovereign:The Book of Watchers