An Odd Signature

1 min
Image of 2018


Image of Short Story
A zephyr. People moving to and fro. Buying and trading. An ordinary day in the market place. Her muse continued to walk alongside. A gasp. On the right across the street. Signage behind the crowd. “Conductor for the day.” How could this be? The opportunity of a lifetime. Song selection. A full orchestra and a baton. What would they play? Who were the musicians?

Waiting. A continuous flow of person after person building up their bravery to set the tempo in front of the crowd. Would all of the music have been played? Her heart racing. She had never set the tempo before. Always a musician but never in the rhythm section. A child who looked to be eight or nine steps up. “He must have taken a conduction class” she thought. Standing ovation.

The baton. Resting on a cold piece of black steel. No one had claimed it for 20 seconds. Her turn. She looks back at her muse and smiles. She picks up the baton. “Victory!” or so she thought. “What would you like us to play?” inquires a violinist. Ah ha, a choice. “Beethoven, Brahms or Bach? Do you have any of those?” she replies. With a smile, the violinist says “We do.”

She raises the baton and counts them off. They began to play. She flails her arms in a semi-fluid motion as they glance between the conductor and the off-white pages spotted with black music notes. The longest three minutes it seemed. Her heart still racing. “Am I doing it right?” she thought. The song was over. No standing ovation.

An older lady from the crowd emerges and walks over to the woman. “Did you know you were conducting in six eighths?” “My goodness. You are brave. I hadn’t done that in years.” With wide eyes, the woman exclaims “I didn’t.” They both had a laugh. The woman returns to her muse “Next time if they ask if I have any request, I’ll say, you got anything with an odd signature?”

Few words for the author? Comment below. 0 comments

Take a look at our advice on commenting here

To post comments, please

You might also like…

Short Fiction

Goodbye Paul!

Olivier Castor

It was November. It was cold; below the seasonal average, the weather forecast said. The wind swept the dead leaves along in gusts. The sky was a cold, clear blue. Really not the weather to be put... [+]

Short Fiction

The Blue Lady

Susan Ayotte

Melody jostled a dust-coated box into the backseat of her car. The box had remained untouched for the three years she’d been at Harvard. Why had she insisted on bringing it to law school? She’d... [+]

Short Fiction

The Hate Sponge

Paul Blinov

It was a slow, massive roar. A dense wall-of-sound that couldn’t possibly be made by one person, no matter how many microphones were hooked up to how many speakers. A scratchy, grainy blend of... [+]