The Song

This is a little something I wrote after hearing a certain top 40 song on the radio. I could not get it out of my head. I didn’t like the lyrics and it stood for so many things I considered morally wrong, but I found myself constantly singing it, humming it and wanting to hear it. I truly believe that Lucifer was in charge of music in heaven, as is often supposed,  and that he is using his master weapon against us daily. When you feel drawn towards a song that has an incredible beat but stands for something incredibly wrong, think of this story…

He sat hunched over the small cluttered desk, sweat beading on his brow as the smoke from his cigarette curled and sensuously danced around his head in a slow rhythmic sway. His pencil doodled aimlessly as he sat frustrated and helpless. Muttering to himself, he blearily glanced at the clock—3am. Pouring himself another drink, he gratefully sipped the cool amber liquid. It burned like fire in his throat and brought life to his veins. Stubbing out his old cigarette, he promptly lit another and inhaled deeply, the smoke filling his whole soul.

He wished the woman would come to him. She was calming, beautiful. She helped him write incredible songs—songs that could make you weep, smile or dance. He knew that if he could just feel her nearby she would give him The Song he needed. She was his muse, his inspiration.

Just then, a soothing presence seemed to touch his shoulder. She was here. He could visualize her face—a wispy ethereal beauty who would surround him with the robes of her arms. Smiling, he began to fill the wrinkled paper with notes. The words flew furiously across the page. It is as if the song has taken over his pencil, his mind, his body. The tune, the beat, the heart of it plays over and over in his mind. He laughs giddily. This is what he has been waiting for—the muse had not failed him. She had come, bringing him The Song. He knew it would be big—very big.

“My glory!” he shouted. “It is finished!”

The soft wispy hands on his shoulders caress him gently, as their shape slowly changes into scaly claws that dig into his body.

He feels nothing.

The band’s members shifted impatiently. This recording session was getting hot and long.

“One more guys, and it’s a wrap,” called out their manager from the recording booth. “Let’s get it down clean and go home.”

Rejuvenated, the band gears up. They love The Song. It really gets them going, and it looks like the next big hit for this big name band. The beat kicks up and each lyric is sung feelingly from the heart. The recording is perfect—almost too perfect. Everyone listens to the playback in amazement.

“We’re going to be gods,” the lead singer crows. Everyone agrees. The manager smiles a knowing smile, and pats their contract.

He knows they’re his.

It is the hottest hit on the top 40—steamy, sizzling, everyone adores it. You hear The Song everywhere—restaurants, cars, clubs, homes. People sing it and hum it as they go about their day and long for Friday. A popular club jumps with the sound as the fog machine and lights create a sultry, pulsating enticement. The fog dips and swirls around the dancers as they sensuously sway to the mesmerizing rhythm. A woman gyrates to the beat, her fluid body moving enticingly to the delight of many a man. She totters slightly as the alcohol flows through her system, but breathes in the exhilarating unbalance of the drink. She is lonely, and The Song reminds her of her oneness. Discreetly tugging her skirt a little higher and her blouse a little lower, she makes her moves more obvious. She won’t be going home alone tonight, she vows.

A man who has followed her with his eyes smiles—his white teeth glowing brightly in the dark room. He knows she is ready and willing to be his pawn. He seductively dances over to her and touches her shoulder. Pulling her towards him, he caresses her gently, gains her trust, kisses away her reasoning. The Song flows around them, tightening and tugging at their very souls, drawing them to lose themselves within it.

The next morning she is alone, empty. He is gone.

The Song reminds the teenager he is alone. She has left him for someone better, more popular. They have been together forever, so it seems. This was their song.

He hates it.

It reminds him what good times they had together. He plays The Song again as his hands shake in rage and the tears course down his face. The pain stabs again and again as he spirals down to worthlessness. The voice whispers to him that he can be free of the pain. He knows the voice well—it has shown him many things and many ways. It speaks to him through the music he loves. Freedom. A simple thing.  He walks over to the drawer where he knows it is hiding. Holding its cold, hard firmness in his hand, he plays The Song again—a little louder. The note is written, her picture is torn, the shot is fired.

He feels nothing.

The spirit wanders on, his mission accomplished.  There will be other Songs, other souls. It begins again.