Concerto No. 2020-00167 in D# Minor by Daniel Baldwin

Where once stood a man, now stands an instrument. They have hollowed out my chest and their hammers hover above my ribs, quivering with a morbid anticipation. I say what they want me to.

Two multi-instrumentalists alternate. One presents a favourable melody, the other plays counterpoint. Both attempt to lead.

Still, no instrument can hear the tune being played upon it, so I fail to hear the melody being composed. I can, however, see the audience. They reflect the two levels of talent. The instrumentalist playing against me does so with great skill, the other less so. A virtuoso and a toddler.

The toddler continuously hammers the same note to little effect. The eyes of the audience have become as glass. My fourth rib is cracked, sore from the repeated impact; I fear it may break and fall into the space that once held my lungs. And, despite his monotony, the toddler continuously makes missteps. Out of time, on the offbeat, the notes are lost to the audience. Each long forgotten by the next.

The virtuoso woos the crowd. He makes me sing. I produce sweet, dulcet, harmonious tones, resonating just as he needs. In rare moments, he appears to make an error; a finger slips onto an accidental, a dissonant seventh rings out. The audience feels the tension, I see the strain hanging on their faces, but the resolution comes promptly. Without missing a beat, he eases into another key, improvises, then swiftly returns to the original. Classically trained, but imbued with more modern influences; the mistakes add character. Add weight. Further his cause. The audience basks radiant in the melodies he forces from me.

The music is directed towards the audience that matters. The critics. Those who have been deemed worthy to judge my performance. Those given purpose, rather than the masses indulging themselves in a macabre entertainment. And, like all critics, they posit self-imposed questions. They ask if my melody is one of redemption. No, they reduce it further. Is it good or bad? Am I? If I am fortuitous, my performance will be declared a success and I will be man once more. The best alternative outcome will be my rendering as an instrument for life; destined to play the same tune eternal. Though, perhaps I shall be neither. Perhaps they will sit there ambivalent and undecided. If so, a new audience with new critics will be brought in to jeer, laugh and cry on command.

The toddler has made a basic error: an underhand chord long since banned from arrangements. Not a measure passes before the virtuoso has alerted the conductor. All seeing, he sits above us guiding the concerto, silently judging the performances until his direction is needed. The toddler apologises, and the error is removed from the notation; though the critics have already heard all. At least the performance is being recorded for posterity. It will be shown to those musicians in training. I foresee this being the only evidence of my existence.

It is decided. Where once stood an instrument, now stands a warning. I am to be decommissioned. My strings are to be snapped and I am to be cast aside. I could not be a man, nor simply a tool. The warning has been made clear to the others. Stay in your key. Do not go out of tune. Do as they want you to.

………………..

Daniel Guy Baldwin is a writer currently living in Newcastle-Under-Lyme, a Philosophy graduate from Keele University and trying his best to write meaningful fiction with varying degrees of success.

Twitter: @danguybaldwin