Music of the Spheres (Preface and Chapter One)

Preface


For a sixteen-year-old, I am shockingly prone to existential musings. I ponder my place in the world, my legacy, my purpose, my unusual attraction to long words, but all that I’ve really taken from it is that my greatest gift is story-telling, and it’s a gift that will only grow with time, assuming I don’t lose it or give up.
Or, y’know, die. That could happen too.

One of the greatest abilities, in my opinion, is the imagination of storytellers, and their ability to think up their tales as they go along. It’s something I’ve never really tried before, but it’s something that I’m going to try now, just star a few characters on their way with no idea where they’re going to end up or what they’re going to do, just focus on the journey. It’s Arthur Dent seeking out the Ultimate Answer to the Ultimate Question of Life, the Universe and Everything, it’s the Dawn Treader setting sail to discover new lands, it’s Frodo walking for three ridiculously long films and Luke Skywalker travelling across the harsh realm of Winterfell to recover the three magic triangles and defeat Lord Voldemort (I haven’t actually read The Golden Compass). My point is that the journey is a huge thing in fiction – it’s the thing that really sticks with us, whether because of an amazing story or amazing characters or Aragorn’s ridiculously sexy stubble compensating in the absence of either. And now, I’m going to write one. It won’t just be a story – this will be the story, the one that will stick with the world. Years from now, people will look back and say, ‘That was where he began. We will never truly be able to offer sufficient praise to our glorious leader, god, and general fiscal manager.’ (Fiscal irresponsibility is a major problem, and one I plan to fight with all the power of the United Conglomerate of Places I Rule once the world witnesses my magnanimity and immediately makes me its President.)



Chapter One
In Which We Meet Tom, Who Is In General A Rather Normal Person


Tom was, in general, a rather normal person.

He had normally-spaced eyes, and normal hair, and normal shoes, and a normal habit of collecting money at normal intervals to fund his normal unemployment. Basically, he was boring, he was dull, he was unexceptional, he was drab, he was this and a thousand more synonyms of which he has undeservedly had lavished upon him and overall resembled that lingering sense of pointlessness all my fellow existentialists know well personified.
Tom was walking along the road, carrying a plain plastic bag containing milk, eggs, bread and Corn Flakes, the universally agreed least interesting products, when he first came across Geoffrey, noting him first as ‘that strange guy with the teal hair and decorative fishnets’ (for those of you still picking up on the subtleties of writing, that’s called ‘foreshadowing’, and it’s a technique you’ll be seeing a lot of in this story). He appeared to be packing an unusually small guitar into its case, and a hat lay next to his foot with a smattering of coppers gleaming from inside in mockery of his futile attempts at professionality. He smiled at Tom, and Tom smiled half-heartedly back as he quickly upped his pace in case Geoffrey got any ideas about following him.

Geoffrey was, in general, a decidedly not-normal person. He was the kind of person, in fact, that you might up the pace of your walking to avoid any contact should you come across him, for fear that the not-normality may rub off. As Geoffrey smiled at the fifty-second person that day to either cross the road or begin walking more quickly (or, in one case, pepper spray him and run screaming) in order to avoid contamination from his not-normalness, he got ideas about following him. He tried to blend in as he walked along at what he believed to be a safe distance from Tom, but he noticed that Tom only seemed to be walking faster, with the occasional furtive glance backwards at him. He began to consider that Tom might not want to be followed, but soon dismissed the notion as ludicrous. The idea that someone might be uncomfortable with meeting new and unusual people was alien to him. However, he was forced to drop back as Tom hailed a cab and disappeared into the city, leaving Geoffrey feeling rather sad. He walked back to where he had been busking, only to find that his hat had been stolen. The money was left behind, apparently more bother to carry than it was worth. Geoffrey sat down next to a tuppence coin and sighed as a passerby smiled charitably and crouched down to set a used handkerchief on his lap. It was going to be a long day.