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                The sounds of the scratches echoed off the smile on Mark’s face.

                The musician spun the record against the movement of the turntable, releasing a short, intense burst of static as the needle tore through the vinyl. He whipped his wrist a few times, causing a rapid barrage of sounds before he stepped back, letting the record continue to play. He took a deep breath, counting off the measures of the imagined song, then he stepped back up to the table and started to adjust the record’s path, scratching the air more.

                As he kept beat, he glanced over to the windows, to see the early morning sun rising at the edge of the green horizon of trees. He glanced back at the tuxedo that hung from his bathroom door, as if it was as energized by the previous evening as he.

                Mark turned his attention back to the scratching and started to speed up the tempo. He kept pace with the music in his head, keeping the twin records up to speed with his imagination. The scratches hit the walls, reverberating back at him, the power of his music keeping him company.

                With the a grand explosion of a gasp, he stepped back from the turn tables, letting the wheels turn. He laughed at his own breathlessness as he held his left forearm, flexing his fingers powerfully. He groaned in delight, then bent down in front of the turntable cart.

                He hit the eject button on the stereo beneath the turntables, the cassette deck releasing a single tape. He put the tape into the next deck with it and slid in a new, crystal-clean tape in to the now-unoccupied deck.

                Mark sat in the corner of the room, the large computer that was normally covered by a stack of clothes and magazines turned on, it’s ancient screen of green and black displaying the archaic program. He typed in a fast control of the mouseless computer, stringing together a consistent sequence of files, many of them duplicates. He typed over and over, forming a visual web on the screen of the files pushed together.

                Finally, he smiled as he stared at the files. He didn’t even bother running the program on the speakerless computer. He simply pulled the plug out of the computer and ran it into the tape deck on his turntable station. He turned on the stereo, then looked back at the screen. With synchronized movements, he hit the play button, the record button and play command on the computer.

                He glanced nervously between the three functions, making sure they were working properly. He laughed sleeplessly and looked over at the red-display of his clock, telling him he only had an hour. He smiled again and shook his head. “You guys don’t know what you’re in for.” He said to himself, looking up at the sun as it encased him from the window.

                Mark was sitting in front of the Atlas club at noon when Henry and the others finally rolled up. The black eighties muscle car opened up and the four band members got out, each dressed with different heavy metal t-shirts on. Henry stepped out from the driver’s seat, a sleeveless Megadeth shirt proudly displaying his somewhat thick arms. “Hey!” He said, holding up his hand. “You’re alive after all.”

                “Yeah.” Mark said, high-fiving the lead singer and guitarist. He looked to the rest of the band. “David.” He said to the bassist. “Adam.” He nodded to the rhytm guitarist. “Alex.” He nodded to the drummer. “How’re the new glasses?” He asked.

                “Oh, they’re great.” Alex retorted snidely. “The UV protection’s incredible. In fact, I can’t even see the sun. Or anything else for that matter.”

The group shared a laugh that only encouraged Mark. He looked at Henry and smiled. “You ready?” He asked, mainly to the lead singer.

                “Always, man.” Henry said, trying to sound confident, but not hopeful.

                Mark turned to the front door of the club and took out his keys.

                Tiffany stepped back into the dressing room of the club, sitting down with a sigh. She looked around subtly, making sure none of the other girls were near her in the long, narrow dressing room. She closed her eyes and sighed heavily, leaning back in the chair. She stared straight up at the ceiling, her exhausted expression slowly fading into a smile.

                “Mark Prescott.” She grinned slowly to herself.

                A ring woke her from her musing.

                Tiffany snapped herself up in the chair, staring at her purse before her on the counter of the make-up stand. She reached into it, pulling out the cell phone and flipping it open. Another quick glance around the room proved she was alone. “Hello?” She said, holding the phone to her ear.

                “Tiffany?” Came her mother’s voice.

                “Hi mom.” Tiffany laughed to herself. “You know, I was just thinking about last night.”
                “It was a good turn-out wasn’t it?” Her mother asked. “You’re out shopping with Alison and Emily, right?”

                “I’m not sure if it could be called shopping, but something like that.” Tiffany tried to keep from smiling.

                “Well, I just want to make sure you’ll be home by six. The Rush’s are coming by and you need to spend some time with their son, Franklin.”

                “Mom, I don’t like Franklin.” Tiffany said.

                “Well, dear. That’s no reason to be rude. They’ll be here at seven so I want you home by six. Understood?”

                “Yes mom.” Tiffany said. “I’ll see you later. Bye.” She added quickly as she hung up the phone before her mother could say anything more. She sighed and tossed her phone back onto to her purse, then leaned back again, trying to recapture her thoughts from a few moments ago.

                Mark slid down the ladder, controlling himself with his feet on the legs and his hands on the rungs. He landed with a thud, but he turned to the four bandmates, grinning from ear to ear. “Well guys?” He asked, holding open his hands.

                They all had exactly the same smile on their faces.

                “That was amazing.” Henry grinned like a little girl.

                “Unreal!” Adam nodded.

                “That was great.” David nodded, still hypnotized by the now-ceased music.

                “You’re still using that same crappy computer and tape deck, aren’t you? That’s incredible.” Alex chided.

                “Someone put rigging tape over the blind guy.” Adam said, elbowing Alex in the side.

                “You guys like it?” Mark asked. “Good. All three are for you guys. I used my computer to put the songs together, so I can get you sheet music as soon as I translate the files to notes.”

                “Dude, with these three songs, we might have enough to cut a second record.” Henry mused equally to Mark and his band mates. “We’ve got six written, plus your three.”

                “Well, I’ll get the songs transcribed.” Mark said, his hands in his black jeans. “And I’ve got a bunch more songs. I think I could rewrite them for you guys.”

                “Rewrite them?” Alex asked. “What do you mean, rewrite?”

                “Well, I didn’t intend them to be rock songs.” Mark explained harmlessly. “They’re songs for the symphony I’m working on.”

                “Oh.” Henry said, a slightly taken-back look on his face. “Okay.” He seemed to stumble mentally, taking Adam and David along with him. He glanced at Mark, a strange anger growing in his eyes, but he looked away again. “Well, get us the music and we’ll start practicing.” He said, trying to get excited once again.

                “What?” Mark exclaimed. “I wrote you guys three songs over night. And at the mention of my symphony, you guys start acting like the girl who gets left sitting around at the prom.”

                “Dude, you’re like a member of the band.” David said. “You’re one of us.”

                Mark was taken back by that. “Since when?” He nearly laughed. “You guys contracted me to write you ten songs. That’s three more right there.”

                “Yeah, but you don’t have to remind us this is business.” Henry nearly shouted, getting close to angry. “You keep throwing the contract back in our faces.”

                Mark’s jaw dropped. “What the hell are you talking about?”

                “Look, just forget it.” Henry declared, looking to Mark then his team. He turned back to Mark, a stern look in his eyes. “Just get us the sheet music and we’ll go from there, okay? For right now, go work on your damn classical music.” With that, Henry turned and stormed off towards the exit of the club. David turned and followed him. Mark watched the two of them go with utter astonishment. He looked back at Alex and Adam, but the bassist turned and followed suit. Only Alex remained.

                “Idiots.” Alex said, shaking his head in acceptance, as if he had seen that coming. He lifted his head up and smiled. “Don’t take it too hard, Prescott. Especially if they fire you.”

                “Fire me?” Mark exclaimed. “Look, I don’t mean to be a dick, but if you guys fire me, I will sue you. I haven’t seen one dime for the now seven songs I’ve written for you.”

                “Okay, maybe fire’s not the right word.” Alex said calmly. “Release you. Let you go.” He dropped his hands and flipped out his cane from behind his back. “They’re just too touchy for this business. I don’t think the band’s going to be around much longer for that very reason.”

                “Don’t say that, Alex.” Mark tried to encourage, shaking his head.

                “No, the others are just too touchy and involved. Besides, they like the lifestyle as much as they like the music. That never makes for a good balance.” He took a few steps, his cane proceeding him before he turned back to Mark. “Listen. No matter what, no matter what, I’ll make sure you get whatever money’s coming to you from the songs you’ve already done for us, okay man?”

                “Dude, don’t let it come to that.” Mark said. “This is ridiculous. They can’t expect me to work for them exclusively. Especially when they haven’t even paid me yet.”

                “I know, I know.” Alex admitted easily. “But, honestly, do you really want to keep working for them after so many of these little stunts?” Alex asked rhetorically. “Mark, Henry needs some help. I think the boy’s got some issues. And Adam agrees with me. I think David’s just too . . . loyal to see it.”

                “That’s being polite.” Mark grumbled.

                Alex smiled, then sighed. “Listen, are you really serious about this symphony thing?” The blind drummer asked.

                “Yeah, I am.” Mark said, as if it was an insult to even ask.

                “Well, listen.” Alex said. “I’ve got some friends who have this little project they’re putting together and they need someone to write the music for it. I don’t know if they’ve found anyone for it or not, but I think it might be something you’d like. I’ll ask them about it. But would you be comfortable to have your symphony in a movie or something like that?”

                “Absolutely.” Mark said. “In fact, I’d kind of prefer it. That way, the music could get brought out more.”

                “Cool.” Alex said. “I’ll give you a call in a few days, man. But good job.” He said, gesturing to the speakers with his visionless eyes. “And I’ll catch you later.” Alex smiled once more, then turned and let his cane lead the way out of the club.

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