Fred

Fred, like many moder working class citizens, lived a fairly busy lifestyle that accounted for countless hours of rigerous work accompanied by horrible, though quite necessary pay. Also like many modern working class citizens, Fred did whatever he could in order to get by and it showed according to his drooping eyelids, balding nogin, frayed eyebrows, heavily appearant stubble, and prevalent wrinkles that well surpassed his age. Often out of sheer frustration, Fred would openly bicker about the overwhelming difficulty of balancin his social life with his job, working over-time, and so on and so forth. The funny thing was that Fred's flimsy cubicle walls wouldn't respond. It wasn't untilone pleasant spring afternoon during Fred's annual doctor's visit that Fred's forgotten passion would finally intercept this "rewarding" life of his that suddenly seemed to be spiraling out of control.

"Fred, I have some rather bad news...Y...you have a brain tumor which, in your case, leaves you about one month left to live..." With a diminutive clipboard tightly clasped in his rigid hands and an incisive expression crumpled upon his weathered brow, Dr. Vaughn's message came about in a professional manner that seemed rather cliche while, on the contrary, eerily frank and sincere.

Disguised in his usually impassive mask of unconcern, Fred gave the doctor a timid nod and wearily shuffled out of the room, out of the hospital, through the confusing maze of traffic, allies, and street corners, and up three flights of cricking stairs into his plain, morose apartment building where he stood, staring aimlessly toward the crooked window panes for what seemed to be eternity with practically zero thought, movement, or attempt at speech what-so-ever. Suddenly, a sense of freedom radiated down his contour spine, causing a delightful smile to stretch across his glowing face and a "bucket list" to unravel from the depths of his once unphased mind. Holding the top spot of his list was...trying out for the prestigious orchestra at a nearby theatre.

Quickly, he dashed to his cluttered closet, rumuged through the heaping pile of junk, and recovered the dusty violin that had obviously seen better days. After properly assembling his treasured instrument, he began to play a song so harmoneous and lucid that the lulling band of robins, perched in an orderly fashion along the sloping window sill, began to chirp along, note by note. He hadn't forgotten how to play or had his technique or rythem faultered. Peaceful memories of his hschool lingered around his thoughts while he continuously strummed numerous pages of magnificently heart warming tunes. Knowing that this, and this alone, was capable of fullfilling his life-long dream and patching up the grief associated with death, Fred left promptly the following morning to the majestic theatre that rested about four blocks south of his apartment.

With absolutely no room for even the most minute error, Fred cast aside his nervousness, auditioned with the upmost confidence, and simply captivated the judges as was his intentions. For the reluctantly prolonged remainder of Fred's precious life her on Earth, his lovely music helped mend the broken heartstrings of audiences accross the globe. Under such bizzare circumstances, Fred harnessed his gift and left behind a legacy that can never be burried. One pleasant spring afternoon, Fred passed away with his antique violin nestled comfortably in his lap and for a brief momment, everything finally appeared to be back in sinc.