Thousands of hands sailed in the wind to their rhythm, four different parts contributing to the grand picture, each part as important as the rest. The drums died down and the guitar rose, a majestic sight of lights emerging from the background. Suddenly, the crowd ceased its romantic waving, transferring into a frantic jumping. The guitar player strummed and the music behind him picked up, kept picking up until the drummer began hitting on the drums with all his might, driven by the music and the crowds and his fellow band members. The singer poured his soul into his lyrics, and tears of merriment rolled down the audience's cheeks. When the song was over, the guitar player elevated his fist in triumph, the crowd returning his body language...

Willie Wysoki opened the Christmas gift and was excited, even though he already knew what the gift was. "Thank you so much, dad!" He exclaimed. His father and mother smiled and hugged him in merriment. Willie looked down at his new treasure; red as a tomato, sleek, brand new. He put his fingers on the strings and strummed the guitar, bringing forth a soothing sound. His strumming picked up, gaining in strength and melody until he was playing a song, his gifted and talented fingers moving up and down the shaft to different notes, different cords, different music. He heard the drummer pick up behind him in the background and the singer conjuring words from his lips. His playing fell but the clapping of his relatives raised. Willie grinned, showing off his perfect white teeth, and carefully put the guitar back in its case as if it were a baby.

The guitar had not slept for three months. Constantly it was played by Willie in dreams of reaching stardom. For three months straight, Willie watched the greats and studied their techniques: Jimi Hendrix, Jimmy Page, Jeff Beck, Brian May, Van Halen, and many others. The guitar was a drug for him; any day without it was a bad day. It was a constant relief and break from stress for Willie. And he learned to play it so well, people gathered outside his dorm at three in the morning to hear him echo the greats and perform free style. His schoolwork soon lay on his table gathering dust while the guitar blazed paths of music through the black of night.

"Will that boy ever stop?" She asked her husband.

"Come on, Sheryl. Let him play, he might be famous one day," Responded the husband.

"Dale, I can't go to bed," Complained Sheryl.

In the basement, Thomas Calum hacked away at the grand piano positioned by the window. His fingers felt tired, but he nonetheless played away, striking the keys smoothly, never missing a single note. Piano books lay in a pile next to the side of his bench, each one mastered and mastered again. "Why am I doing this..." He asked to himself. Ten years wasted down here in this basement. Nothing will ever come of it, he thought.

Sheryl and Dale heard a loud bang upstairs. Thomas Calum flipped his bench over and threw it into the wall. He littered his sentimental books (gifts from dead relatives, autographed books from famous musicians, and birthday and Christmas gifts) all over the room, in a rage. I've wasted my life, he thought. Thomas Calum wasn't one to cry, but a single, wet tear rolled down his cheek and landed on his grandmother's book. He kicked it on his way out of the room. He stormed through up the stairs and met his parents on the way down.

"Thomas, what was that noise?" They asked at the same time. Thomas ignored the question and continued on his way to his bedroom with his parents in close pursuit. He touched his doorknob to enter the room, but at that moment, something held him back. Some mystical force he had never experienced before. Something...something that he couldn't put his finger on. He dropped his adjectives at the time: rage, hostility, and fury, and replace them with new adjectives: collectiveness, calm, and cool. His bewildered parents watched their child walk past them for the second time in one minute, but this time, in the opposite direction, with the opposite mood. Thomas Calum picked his bench back up with a trembling hand, collecting his books at the same time. He composed himself and began playing his enemy once again, greater than before, better than anyone he'd ever see play the piano before.

Four years later, Willie Wysoki was playing his guitar on a street corner in New York City, filling the streets with his gift and the great thing that is music. "Thank you, Sir," He said to a man as the man dropped a dollar bill into Willie's guitar case. Willie still had his red guitar, still in the same condition as the day he opened it. He had tried to land a deal with a company, but they didn't like him. Called him "too last year." After the crushing blow, he got a mediocre job, but still longed to play the guitar and hear its sound.

From twenty yards down the street, a Thomas Calum's ears were filled with the guitar's sound. He immediately whipped his head around to find where the sound came from, and saw Willie with his red guitar sitting on the street corner. He lowered sunglasses over his eyes and started moving towards Willie.

Willie Wysoki thanked a depressed looking man for dropping some money into his guitar case. Willie played on for another ten minutes and thanked a depressed looking man for dropping some money into his guitar case. Is that the same man...?He watched Thomas for a while and figured it must have been the same person. Thomas wasn't moving. He was standing there with his mouth open watching Willie play his guitar. Willie had never seen anything like this before, but he just shrugged Thomas off.

When he finally had enough, Willie packed his guitar into his case and began walking back to his apartment. He scanned the area to see if Thomas was still there and found him, staring right at him. Frightened, Willie ran all the way back to his apartment, earning looks from the New Yorkers. But when he got there, the man in sunglasses stood right in front of the door.

"Do you want to form a band?" He said.