That Song - JP

I wrote this as part of the "A Bridge, A Reflection" pitch, intending it to be the "bridge" half of the pitch, with a short

      about "a reflection" coming later. The second half ended up having both a bridge and a reflection in it, though, 

     so that became the weekly story and this guy gets relegated to the bonus area. I guess that's fair, since it's

     basically fan fic.

Marty grew up listening to that song on the radio. Everyone did. When he was old enough, his father got him a guitar and that song was the first one he learned how to play. When Marty traveled back in time, he played the song for a crowd of dazzled on-lookers who had never heard anything like it before. He even met the man who first wrote the song, and told him with a wink, “Take it, it’s yours.” The man did, and soon it was blasting through the airwaves, and it remained popular right up till Marty was born.

            The song was better than popular-- it was a phenomenon.  It rang in the ears of anyone who listened to it, reverberating through them, holding them with the strains of the music of time itself. The first notes shattered the silence, a bang of sound from nowhere that exploded into a melody of driving rock. Its beat came from the delta blues, a driving thrum like the beat of the universe, keeping the measure of all eternity. The fast wail of the solo was pure jazz, the feverish flutter of Coltrane translated to an electric guitar, the squeal and excitement of life, of love, of death, of imagination. And the notes that hung in between like stars pulsing in some distant night where the world is nothing but sound and the very fabric of the cosmos just vibrations on endless strings; unresolved chords that pulled the words from the singer’s mouth, begging for a long awaited harmony to ease them into satisfied oblivion. The whole world stood still whenever they played that song, listening to the birth pains of creation, striving backward to some primal memory of youth, frozen forever in the hanging notes of the bridge.

            Marty, fourteen years old, stood in his garage with his brand new guitar, strumming the chords in time. The echoes of a song that no one had written played in the back of his mind, and he slowly brought the pick down to the strings.