Absolution

[Vlad]

Sinatra sings himself hoarse in the background. A needle, scratching on the record, a constant reminder that his words will never go away. Lights dim, and a speck of red hangs in the distance. There's a cough, and the cigarette returns to its owner’s mouth.

 

I clear my mind and step out. The curtain rustles, swinging at my gentle touch. So pure and innocent, the burgundy hangs. Rubber soles of my Doc Martins grip the tile, refusing to let go, to let me go. Sinatra stops, and a lonely spotlight illuminates the front of the room. The artificial yellow glare is too much for my eyes, hiding, always hiding. With a wave of my hand, a technician slips the red lens on. The effect surreal, I'm living through an eclipse in this place.

 

The woman with the cigarette coughs again. I turn and look. She can't be past her thirties, but she looks tired. Everybody here looks tired. Her eyes droop, wrinkles make their homes on her younger face, her lips round. The makeup makes her face seem exaggerated, a clown or a mime. Under these lights, it's impossible to tell.

 

I clear my mind and take the microphone. The words that I had practiced so many times before resurface in my mind. They float around in nothingness, melding together, forming sentences, stanzas, stories that I have to tell. I blink. The castles my thoughts created tumble down, back to the bricks that made them. The words fall into letters; the letters slide into strokes of ink; the ink dries up at once. I open my eyes.

 

White noise flutters through the room, a lost child waiting for his mother. Anxiety rips through the audience and into the manager. He booked this act. He set his reputation on the line to give this kid a chance. He's already planning on how he can save the night, scrambling to remember Plan B. I see worry. I see fear in their eyes, coffee in their blood, and elitism in their souls. So I wait.

 

I clear my throat. Loudly enough for everyone to notice, but not enough so the worry sinks away. Silence blankets everyone like ants on a picnic. Creeps out from a middle-aged man shushing and catches on like an epidemic. It's rhythmical, almost. I judge them ready.

 

The moment overtakes me, I spout words and ideas I'd never even heard. Gibberish on love, a few thoughts on war. The obligatory remarks about sex and drugs, followed by chants of bringing down the regime. I don't recall what I told them all, but it's perfectly fine because neither do they.

 

Fin

 

Edit: Spelling and Grammar

Edited May 26, 2005 by Vlad

[Sweetcherrie]

*bump* Wow...

 

Now this feels like such a good piece to read.

 

Sinatra sings himself hoarse in the background. A needle, scratching on the record, a constant reminder that his words will never go away.

Already from the first line, I got dragged into this Jazzy nightclub. with the air thick of blue smoke. I felt myself standing there, all the faces aimed at me. The nerves of initital stagefright, and then giving over to what I'm supposed to do.

 

The moment overtakes me, I spout words and ideas I'd never even heard. Gibberish on love, a few thoughts on war. The obligatory remarks about sex and drugs, followed by chants of bringing down the regime. I don't recall what I told them all, but it's perfectly fine because neither do they.

This part reflects so well, the feelings you can have, straight after you've done something. And you know that the memories of what has happened will flood you over once you've taken a moments to sit down, and take it all in.

 

I have no ideas of technicalities, but if I look at the feelings this piece gave me and how it swept me off my feet and dragged me into a different world, this is pretty darn good.

[Wyvern]

I also really liked this vignette, Vlad, and agree with Sweetcherrie that the vivid descriptions really drew me into the setting and situation. I thought that the personal impressions of the narrator were shown very well throughout, and made his emotions tangible over the course of the narrative. I also loved a number of the details brought up in the narrators thoughts, such as the description of the reversed writing process and the womans changing face.

 

In terms of possible things to improve: while I thought the impressions were phrased well for the most part, I wasn't as big a fan of the personifications of objects and sounds, namely the "pure and innocent" curtains and the noise as a "lost child." These particular personifications struck me as a bit more highbrow than the rest of the piece, and seemed a bit forced in the context of the narrators other thoughts. Perhaps if these images were expanded upon and connected to the narrators personal life or history, they'd become more meaningful and evocative.

 

Great stuff... did I mention that the Sinatra opener was brilliant?