Untitled

My footsteps echoed as heel met hardwood floor. The gentle perspiration on my hands glistened from the overbearing lights above. I bowed low with eyes closed, to me, to my parents, to my teacher, to Chopin, to Schumann, to Bach. The black fabric of my dress dragged slowly against the cushioned seat as I slid into position. Heel pressed against ground, toes feeling the brass pedal through the soles, already hearing the rich thick voice that would ring the second I push. Hands draped delicately at the edge of the two-toned pool, I poise for the dive.

The first note splashed and painted red on the canvas of my ears. My fingers danced across hills, leaped furiously and elegantly in exotic flamenco. I breathed in the scent of mahogany, of ivory. Fingertips stroking the silky keys, every chord escaping from the music box, the strings vibrating, the hammers tapping, the music swirling and embracing me like wisps of perfume. My heart beating in rhythm with the contemporary piece I was banging out, boom boom little drummer, caged by ribs not sturdy enough to bear such dedicated pounding. Once again, I cover my eyes in red-tinged darkness and start to see the notes endlessly flowing, the woman Beethoven was courting, the moon reflected on the surface of a still pond. I feel the prick on the back of my neck, then on every inch of skin, the sensations of eyes probing, reaching, touching the music enveloping me.

A quivering chord lingers in the still air as my pinky nearly collapses with fatigue. My breath comes in shaky rasps. I press to the core of the instrument, squeezing the last bit of juicy reverberation from its insides. Finally removing the veil, I stand up and bow to the rows and rows of velvet seats. Silence is as loud as the missing applause of the audience.

My footsteps echoed to the ceiling of the empty hall.


[This is something I wrote for Visiting Writer Week in Writing 1. I think I will start sharing more of my works from now on]