Lyrical Darkness: 11 dark fiction stories inspired by the music that rocks your soul

by Terri Reid

  Johnny thrust his hand into Chuck’s and pumped it enthusiastically. “It was a good run,” he said sincerely to his cousin. He could afford to quit his anger now that he saw the future clearly, saw his name and image embedded among the stars.

  “Yeah,” Chuck replied softly, “it was.”

  They shook one more time then their hands fell apart. Silently, reflectively, the men turned as one and headed for the bus.

  *

  They arrived in Atlanta a little after ten that evening, bringing with them the dust and dirt from interstate highways, farm to market roads, city streets, country lanes, and freeways so congested it seemed like opening day at the track. During the fourteen week tour, Johnny and his talented band had played in big cities, small towns, suburbs, ghettos, and places not even on maps. They had whizzed by historical markers, impressive monuments, indescribable works of nature, and Johnny’s favorite—a stump. A big ole hickory stump. One that sat in the middle of nowhere from which roads leading east to west and north to south extended. When they’d passed that stump, vivid memories from twenty years before had overtaken Johnny. In his mind, he saw his 18 year old self…

  …a tall, skinny boy, the ink barely dry on his high school diploma when he grabbed his fiddle case in one hand and in the other, a small cardboard box which contained his birth certificate, about two thousand dollars in cash, and a stingy assortment of clothes and toiletries. Pushing the screen door open with his shoulder, he burst out of his father’s tense house, skipped down the porch steps, and without a backward glance or word of goodbye, set out on foot for Atlanta, leaving behind what promised to be a small life in Mississippi. He hitched the occasional ride, but walked a good portion of the state and the next state and finally reached the Georgia line. A few miles into what would become his new home state, he came upon a hickory stump. It seemed a good place to rest with the sweet, wild grasses bending carelessly to the wind; rows of nearly ripe vegetables adding color to the greens and browns of summer; and plenty of birdsong to please the ear. Inspired by the birds’ melodies, Johnny took a seat on that ole stump and pulled his fiddle from its case. After rosining the bow, he joined the birds in song. He didn’t know how long he’d played before he came back to himself, and there in front of him, a stranger stood. Blinking up at the man, Johnny wondered why he couldn’t get the sun out of his eyes until finally he had the sense to lower his gaze and there at the man’s chest was the reason why he’d been unable to focus—a bright, shiny fiddle that outblazed the sun.

  Shading his eyes, Johnny reached out to it, mesmerized. Touched it; it felt hot. Snatched his hand back then finally looked up into the man’s face.

  The stranger smiled friendly-like at Johnny and without a word of greeting sat down on the stump. The stranger’s smile turned deadly when he faced Johnny and said, “A bet. You win, you get my fiddle of gold. I win, I get your soul.”

  No consideration was needed on Johnny’s part. He knew before the stranger had finished issuing the challenge that he would take the bet and win. He’d spent 13 years under his father’s instruction and even though his music teacher father had told him every day those 13 years that he was average and would never make a name for himself in music, Johnny knew better. Something deep, deep-down in his soul told him he would be a great musician. Johnny held tightly to that belief and knew this challenge by a fellow musician was merely a test of his belief, just as his father’s destructive words and handling had been a test. With that conviction and a teenager’s invincible, egotistical spirit, Johnny eagerly said, “I’ll take that bet,” then smiled slyly and finished with, “Take care with my fiddle.”

  The challenger played first, thrilling the air with such a happy, energetic tune that the air enthusiastically carried it to all the nearby creatures, great and small. Soon, the challenger ended his song and while the final notes lingered in the air, Johnny began clapping and whistling, sincerely impressed with the stranger’s talent. He even patted him on the back and said, “Not bad ole boy but…” He picked up his fiddle and tucked it under his chin. “…let me show you how it’s really done.” Before Johnny had played a lick, those great and small creatures popped out of their holes, burrows and caves to better hear. Even the angels in heaven stopped frolicking to get a better listen. And God, master of all, peeked below to see just who in blazes played like that. Far too soon, Johnny brought his masterful, heart-and-soul playing to an end and when his final note sounded, the other musician hung his head and handed over the golden fiddle. The stranger vanished in a poof, but Johnny neither knew nor cared. He cradled that fiddle and smiled down at it like it was a newborn babe.

  Johnny considered that day the start of his musical career and now, twenty years into the future, look where that starting point had taken him. Around the world and most recently around the country and now back home to Atlanta. Johnny looked past his reflection in the bus window, thinking more about that day at the stump. No doubt because it held even greater significance than being a start. It also represented proof. Proof that he did have the guts to leave his father’s house and words behind and go after the success his schoolteacher father had been too afraid to even attempt. Proof that he did have the talent and skill to make a name for himself as a professional musician. And finally, tangible proof of his convictions: a fiddle of gold. Johnny smiled at himself in the window and said, “That had been one happy day.”

  And other happy days had followed. Days in Atlanta filled with making the rounds of clubs; of hanging out at studios; of practicing and composing; of creating head shots, demo tapes and other marketing materials; of moving from one residence to another with each successive home becoming less and less desirable. Then one day the happy days ended. The timing coincided with the last of the money he’d been saving since he was eight years old. For even at that age he knew his father’s house would not be his home. Neither would he claim a homestead in the small town where he’d been born and raised, and where his mother’s remains rested.

  To re-initiate the happy days had required a sacrifice: sell the fiddle of gold for money. Money to keep club dates; to pay for studio time and back-up musicians; to promote his talent; and to move Chuck to Atlanta and buy them a corner house out of which they had lived and worked. Then, the sacrificial money had been needed for a tour bus; to buy a studio; to distribute his records; to meet payroll for his band and a small staff of five and to purchase the office building next to the studio for the staff. Later still, the fiddle money had been used to buy separate houses in different parts of town for he and Chuck; to pay for the latest digital recording equipment; for even more marketing, promotions and wider distribution. The sacrifice had been worth it. The money had sustained him during what could have been years of famine and drought; what other musicians and artists called “a time of paying dues.” And while there remained sacrificial fiddle money in one of his bank accounts, Johnny was grateful that his earnings had kicked in years before to surpass even that.

  With his mind now focused on money and success, Johnny didn’t notice that the bus had taken its final turn and soon they would be arriving at Fiddler Music. He slouched in his seat, long legs splayed, ignorant of the stirrings of his band members as they counted down the minutes to home. Tuned inward, he simply frowned at the fact that money had never been the issue with his music career. If his success in the music business had been money based, he could have bought endorsements, lifetime achievement awards, Grammys. He could have bought the people who selected the musicians to write scores for Broadway and Hollywood, to perform at the Kennedy Center and other “by special invitation only” venues. But it wasn’t about money. Hell, it wasn’t even about talent, although it should be. It was about connections and the influence and power to transcend his chosen genre, and that’s where Chuck had failed.

  “But it’s all good now,” Johnny affirmed to his mirror self. He couldn’t stop the smile that re-surfaced and took over his entire face. Now that the dead weight of his cousin had b
een lifted, even the sky was no limit. Dreams of his name and image growing larger than life crowded out reality and he missed the bus’s entry into the back parking lot.

  *

  Well before the bus driver applied the brakes, the men, and one lone woman, a young drummer with unbelievable talent, were on their feet, retrieving duffle bags, instrument cases and sacks of souvenirs for loved ones. Even before the driver switched off the motor and opened the doors, the musicians were lined up, anxious to escape this rolling home and retreat to their real homes. As soon as the doors opened, they stepped off, one by one, moving slowly, weary from playing fifty-six gigs and logging thousands of travel miles.

  It only took fifteen minutes for the musicians to disperse, the bus driver too who raced by Johnny and Chuck, waving and tossing out, “I’ll be back tomorrow to clean her up real good. Inside and out.” Johnny returned the wave, Chuck nodded, both watched as his red rear lights faded into black. That left the two of them, Johnny and Chuck, standing at Chuck’s car, under one of the parking lot lights.

  Chuck had always led the business discussions and Johnny saw no reason to change that now. So he waited patiently, his fiddle case in hand, as Chuck stowed his travel bags and laptop case in the trunk of his Cadillac. Finished, Chuck slammed the trunk closed and when he turned to face him, Johnny stiffened inside and out. He didn’t want to hear any begging or pleading for his job back but as he searched his cousin’s face, Johnny saw no sign that Chuck planned to do so. In fact, there was nothing there. No regret, no hurt, no emotion whatsoever. That was good because his mind was set; his future, too. Johnny relaxed.

  “How ’bout six tomorrow night?” Chuck suggested, looking his cousin strong in the eyes. “We can meet here. Finalize the separation.”

  “Fine by me.” Even though Johnny had not planned to be moving about by that time tomorrow, he could afford to be accommodating now that an unfettered future awaited him.

  “I’ll ask Roger to come too. Address any legal matters.”

  “Sure.” Johnny agreed, but couldn’t imagine what matters that might be since he had full rights to all his creative works. And there was only one owner of Fiddler Music—him. Chuck was an employee just like one of the band members or the office staff. But then again, that wasn’t the right description either. Chuck had been the first employee. Chuck had had his back from the start, taking on every responsibility so Johnny could remain focused on the creative side of things. And never once in twenty years had Chuck shown himself to be anything but loyal to him and Fiddler Music; a very uncommon experience in the music business. At that reminder, Johnny flirted with guilt and regret but only for a moment. For then those big dreams pushed their way back to the forefront and the justification began.

  He’d done right by Chuck. His business manager was financially set. Even with a monthly child support payment that rivaled that of some professional athletes, Chuck still lived a good life with a house in an exclusive neighborhood, luxury cars, college money for all six of his children, and investments as solid as Gibraltar. And professionally, Chuck, the music producer/promoter was set. He had a solid reputation in their genre and once the record labels heard he was available, they’d come courting. Even if they didn’t or if Chuck turned them down—the more likely scenario—Chuck had a skill for picking talent. The outstanding band that backed up Johnny had been scouted by Chuck who practically lived in clubs and studios doing just that—sniffing out talent. Any or all of his future picks would likely be stars, guaranteeing Chuck professional longevity. Lastly, on a personal note, the man was set. He was smothered in love. His current live-in had given Chuck two beautiful, smart daughters. The previous two had given him a boy and a girl each. Chuck drowned all of his kids in love and attention, and they in turn treated him better than a king. Chuck would be fine. He had a life most men would wager the Devil for.

  “It’s been real, cuz.”

  Chuck’s deep voice brought Johnny back to the now. He glanced down and saw Chuck’s hand posed for a shake. This time, Johnny did not waste any time grasping his manager’s hand. He squeezed it tightly once and let go. “Sho’ you right.”

  They chuckled at the inside joke, a reference to the incomparable Barry White, and then in a low tone that trembled slightly around the words Johnny said, “Kiss the girls for me.”

  Chuck nodded and they both turned, in different directions.

  *

  Johnny didn’t drive home immediately. He needed time to key down. It was always like that after a tour or a major recording session or a creative stretch where the notes jumping around in his head were transferred to paper in beautiful arrangements. Transition time is what Chuck called it, that period of time needed to come down off the high of being a performer to again become an everyday man, to again engage in life’s rote experiences such as taking out the trash, retrieving the mail, and buying groceries. Over the years, Johnny had learned that his transition back into an everyday man never happened suddenly, but gradually over the span of hours, days, sometimes weeks. But eventually, he’d get there and for now, driving alone, on the dark, nearly deserted streets of Atlanta would start the process.

  This Johnny did for quite some time until a big yawn shook him. Soon after, his eyelids started to droop. Time for home, he told himself, noting that bits of gray had started sneaking in around the edges of a black sky. A look at the clock on his dash confirmed that dawn would take control of the sky soon and by that time he hoped to be stretched out in his bed.

  Anticipating home, Johnny thought about its secluded quietness. No, his neighborhood wasn’t like Chuck’s gated community with 24/7 security, but it was one where you had to arrive by map because of the crazy bends in the main road and the splintered side streets. Not only did its creative layout lend itself to privacy, but also its low turnover in home ownership. About ninety per cent of his neighbors had built this neighborhood, raised their families there and now lived as retirees in paid-for, well-kept homes. Not him though. He’d been one of the lucky ten percent to find this piece of heaven and stake his claim. He loved the peace, the maturity of the neighborhood, but mostly he appreciated the invisible lines of respect. He knew his neighbors and they knew him but they kept the knowing to a surface level. No personal stories. No shared secrets. No regular visits or invitations. Just innocuous conversations on polite topics while passing each other on the street or in the grocery store. Just the way Johnny liked it.

  Even though their relationships were superficial, that didn’t keep Johnny from watching out for his neighbors which he did now. As he rolled toward the Patrick’s house, he frowned as he spotted a dark colored SUV on the street in front of their house. Knowing the couple, husband and wife, did not tolerate unaccounted for vehicles anywhere in the neighborhood, Johnny wondered at this until he noticed the luggage carrier on the roof of the SUV and the out-of-state license plates. Then he remembered the summer guests they had been eagerly expecting. Good for them, he thought, driving slowly past the house and SUV. A few feet on, the road took its first bend which his Lincoln took smoothly. A couple of houses past the bend, down on the right, Johnny saw another development, and a burst of humorless laughter shot out of him. “Poor Mac.” Johnny referred to Mac Murphee, the only neighbor he had gone deeper than surface level with because they both loved music and often swapped albums. Poor Mac had finally lost, or surrendered, to Mrs. Murphee because a huge, brightly colored “For Sale” sign now hung on his speed boat. With a sad shake of his head, Johnny drove past the reminder of why he’d never acquired a Mrs.

  The road curved again and began a gentle rise but Johnny had driven this street so many times, he maneuvered automatically, freeing his mind to contemplate the give-and-takes, the back-and-forths required in any relationship. Not just romantic ones, but business too. Hell, he and Chuck… Johnny stopped there. There was no more he and Chuck, just he and whoever was going to assist him in reaching the next level. More success, more achievements. Johnny smiled as he hooked
an easy right into his cul-de-sac, which was literally his cul-de-sac because although it was a circular street with room for five houses, his was the only house in the circle; the other lots having been labeled as “too expensive to develop” because the previously gentle rise had graduated to a ridiculously steep incline. He however had lucked out because his house, a tan and blue split level, sat solidly, stubbornly on top of the incline, which it seems had been snipped off for just that purpose.

  As he always did when approaching his house after having been gone awhile, Johnny inspected her, as much as he could in the mixed grays and blacks of the morning sky. From roof to basement, corner to corner, he searched for signs of wear, damage, invasion or loss. Just as he was about to declare all well, he saw movement up top, on the porch. He wasn’t one hundred percent sure because the glow of the porch light didn’t extend to the point where the porch and steps met, but certain he saw something, Johnny stomped on the accelerator and screeched the final few yards into his driveway. He slammed to a stop, a dangerous inch from his garage door, and yanked the gearstick into park. Pushing out of his car, he left the engine smoothly ticking and the car door hanging open to take the stairs three at a time up the crooked, tri-level stairway that led to his porch and front door. Even when blocked by the over-abundant landscape, his eyes never left the spot where he’d seen movement. He hit the final turn of the stairway, stopped dead on a dime and stared. A long, lean man sat on the top step of his porch. The man smiled at him, as if welcoming Johnny to the neighborhood for the first time. This, more than the invasion of his privacy, ignited Johnny’s anger. He advanced a step, fists balled, his face contorted, eyes livid. “I’ma be nice and give you three seconds to get the hell off my porch.”

  “Johnny, Johnny…” the Devil interrupted smoothly. He shook his head as if deeply disappointed. “…so much violence.” He reached to the side and pulled an instrument case forward, situated it across his bony knees.