The Performance
#1 of Writing
I was randomly inspired to write something while walking to the store. This is the rough, unedited result of that inspiration.
The only thing he could concentrate on was the thumping of his heart beat, the horrible, fluttering, sinking feeling in his stomach. What had once been excitement, had changed to anticipation, and it was killing him. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and reminded himself:
You've done many times before. You can do this. You will do this.
_ _
But no, he thought, this wasn't like the other times. This was the real deal. This was the big league. This was a one shot make it or break it opportunity, and in five minutes time, he would be a somebody... Or a nobody. One mistake. That's all it would take: One single mistake, and he would never see an opportunity like this again. His eyes still closed, he took another deep breath.
He was momentarily broken out of his thoughts by the stage operator calling his name. It was time. Slowly, he stepped toward the stage, with the mahogany crafted instrument that would change his world one way or the other cradled carefully in his arms. The thought nearly made him falter, but no, he was already past the curtains. There was no turning back now. He counted his steps to distract himself from his thoughts.
One step. Two. Three.
He closed his eyes, and took a deep breath.
Four. Five. The trip to the center stage felt like miles.
Six. Seven. Eventually, he stopped counting and opened his eyes again. There was the stool, and the lonely microphone. The stage felt empty. Foreboding. He saw - And felt - A sea of faces all watching and waiting intently, like ravenous wolves. He took a deep breath, and settled onto the stool, his mahogany instrument resting over his thigh. He hesitated. Silent. Unmoving.
The crowd stared on, equally silent and unmoving. They were waiting. What was he waiting for? As he exhaled and he closed his eyes one last time, his hand moved. It was almost instinctual - As if his body knew what to do, even if his mind was locked up in every single possible what-if imaginable. What if a string broke? What if his voice cracked? What if the microphone wasn't turned on?
His thumb plucked the first note, then his fingers followed suit. It was too late to turn back now. He kept his eyes closed, focusing on the sound of his instrument. On the feel of the wood and strings in his hand. His foot began to tap in rhythm to his playing. And then, his voice began right on cue, as if controlled by someone else. As he sang and played, his mind's eye brought him to the very place he had wrote about barely weeks ago - Blue skies. Green fields. The peace of the world around him. He saw the wildlife, untamed by man. Forests and rivers, untouched by industry. He heard the call of a wolf - Not ravenous, but haunting all the same. He heard an ocean as it gently caressed a beach. It was all so beautiful. And then, just as quickly as it began, it was over - Or so it seemed to him.
He opened his eyes, then blinked slowly. What had been the sound of an ocean, was now the sound of roaring... Applause? Had he finished the song already? He stared as what had once seemed like a foreboding sea of silent faces was now a swarm of clapping, standing people. His gaze then focused on four people in particular, at the forefront. They, too, were standing and applauding.
He'd done it. He had given his all, his one chance, and he had done it. As he heard the judges give their enthusiastic, ringing endorsements, he couldn't help but smile and take one last, relieved breath. He had shown himself to the world, and now the world knew his name.