The Conductor, or Jonathon.

Once upon a time, a conductor named Jonathon needed to write a new symphony, or he would lose his internship to the great conductor, Logan A. Summers. Okay, let me rephrase that: He needed to write a better symphony than his a**hole boss, Logan A. Summers, so he could replace the 86-year old Summers and fulfill his longtime dream. (Telling fairy-tales are hard, give me a break!)

Jonathon was a laundry list, overcome with so many things to do. He wrote his piece late into the night, not bothering to finish his teriyaki chicken sub. His eyes sunk down to a very ugly bruise color, his eyes lost its young vibrancy. Not only was he losing his sleep, but he lost a girlfriend, a hamster named Pluto, and some of his hair in the process. By the 13th week, he was done with the symphony. By then, he already caught up with sleep and finally got around to burying his hamster. He immediately telephoned his boss.
“Eh?” Logan Summers’ raspy voice filled the speaker.
“Hello, uh, Mr. Summers, this is Jon. I mean, Jonathon Fetterline. I’ve completed the symphony, and I hope you’ll, um, look at it.” Jonathon’s nervous voice echoed over and over in the speaker until:
“YOU THINK YOU CAN REPLACE ME, THE GREAT LOGAN ANTONIO SUMMERS?! YOU ARE OUT OF YOUR MIND, YOU WORTHLESS PIECE OF YOUTH THAT SHOULDN’T HAVE BEEN BORN!! YOU THINK I’LL LOOK AT YOUR DAMN SYMPHONY? NO, BECAUSE IF IT’S ACTUALLY WORTH LISTENING, THEN YOU’LL GET MY JOB! WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK I AM? STUPID?! MY GOD, YOU-“ Mr. Summers ranted and screamed into the phone. Jonathon could almost see his spit flying across the room, killing a fly.
“Sir, please, just look at it! I don’t want to replace you, I want you to use it!” Jonathon pleaded. A long silence was on the other line as Mr. Summers pondered those desperate words of help.
“So you don’t want to replace me?” he asked slowly, as if he didn’t quite believe Jonathon’s words.
“No, sir!” Jonathon said quickly, though in his head he screeched, YES I WANT TO REPLACE YOU!
“You don’t want me to die a quick and easy death?” Mr. Summers glared at Jonathon uncomfortably.
“No, sir!” Jonathon replied, anticipation and apprehension edging into his voice.
“Excuse me?” Mr. Summers asked in a deadly voice. Apparently, he had mistaken Jonathon’s uneasiness for uncertainty.
“No sir!” Jon said in a stronger voice.
“Okay.” Logan let out a long sigh and Jon braced himself. “I’ll look at it tomorrow.” He hung up. Jonathon couldn’t help sliding down the wall and letting out a maniacal burst of laughter.

The next day, Jonathon was surprised how Logan handled his symphony. It was the first time he didn’t throw something or say some vulgar phrases about something he composed. In fact, he liked it.
“It’s not that bad.” Those words were uttered in a snap, crackle, pop voice.
“Thank you, sir, I just-“
“Shut up. I could use this. Just stamp my name on it.” A long, sly smile escaped from Logan’s mouth.
“Um, sir? Does this mean, I don’t get the credit of writing this?” Jonathon couldn’t believe his ears. It was indiscretionaly unfair.
“I’ll give you double you salary. Okay?” Logan smiled gruffly at Jonathon. Jonathon couldn’t help but think it looked strange on his boss’s face.
“But, sir, really, I just want the credit of composing.” Jonathon could feel Logan’s anger rising like an ocean wave.
“You’ll get that after I finish my new will. Now, GET OUT.” Logan’s smile was replaced by an angry bull-like face and his finger aimed at the door.

Jonathon scurried out, utterly exhausted and just plain disappointed. He walked home, not bothering to use his umbrella. His brown hair drooped down to shag and his green eyes were filled with tears. The image of Logan’s wrinkly, egg-shaped head in his gold wheelchair and immorality crammed expression crowded into his mind, taunting him. He had again failed. As he got home, he threw himself at his sofa and drifted to sleep to the steady dropping of his tears and to the lullaby of his composition, Symphony No. 1 in A Minor.