A certain someone said that I could post short stories on this thing. So here it goes. This is the short story I did for my Creative Writing class. Just please give me feedback of any kind, and seriously, I love constructive criticism. But if all you want to do is rave about it, I love that too. :)
Fae
P.S. Thoughts are inside * *. Just thought you might want to know.
He searches for his keys as he walks towards his car, parked behind the theater. A disappointing football game ends his long day. He stops and tries to remember. *Where are those dratted keys?* he thinks. He puts his stuffed gym bag down on the pavement in order to fully search through his pockets. *Ahh, here they are.* They are in his left-hand pocket. He now remembers putting them there after they slipped out when he was changing into his uniform.
A poster advertising �The Boyfriend� is plastered on the side of the theater, announcing the upcoming spring musical. *I hope Jennifer doesn�t want to see that. I won�t be able to handle people bursting into song at random.* He arrives at his car, drops off his bag, and heads toward the theater after he picks up his cello case from the trunk. The theater should be empty because he saw practically everyone at the game and everyone he didn�t see; the goths, the punks, the druggies, were all getting high or amusing themselves in weird ways. All he wants to do is play his music. He tries the back door; it�s open.
He slips in and takes a look around. *Perfect!* He makes his way to the stage dodging half-constructed props and bright, partially-painted backdrops. He smells the fumes, still thick in the air.
With only the hallway giving light he moves around the stage and looks at his shadow on the theater seats. He finds a wooden chair at random giving it a weird look. He pulls the chair to the center of the stage, sits down, and opens his case.
He puts the rosin on the bow, while choosing which song he should play. He�s memorized a piece by Stravinsky. *This should sound nice.* He draws the bow across the strings hearing how the sound echoes off the walls.
The first few notes are always hard to get into, but tonight, he feels the pull of the music. Mrs. Johnson, his teacher, doesn�t think that emoting music is a good thing. �One has to be strict in one�s interpretation of a piece,� was her favorite line. She always told him to go by what the composer wrote, not the emotions hinted. But she isn�t around, he can express himself as much as he wants and this vacant auditorium presents the ideal opportunity.
The song he chooses is perfect for the way he feels. This was not a good night for football. He tried to be focused during the game, but he barely made any tackles. Everyone depended on him to be the best linebacker against their rivals. Tonight, though, he was off. Nothing worked. The Willsonville Wombats won 24 to 12. He couldn�t be more disappointed in himself. And right now, he vents his frustrations of missed tackles and lost touchdowns. He expresses the pressures he feels from everyone, his coach, his teammates, his family, his friends, all through the music. He closes his eyes, giving in to the power of the piece.
The notes dip and soar resonating off the dark walls. He forgets what he wants and feels the lull music always brings, something he never feels with football. He looses himself in the song indulging in the sound of his cello.
*Somebody is here.* Suddenly, he feels someone�s stare on him and his instrument. He opens his eyes in time to see someone else�s shadow from the hallway light as they leave. He stops, guilty at being caught in a place he shouldn�t have been. He jumps up, packing his cello as rapidly and delicately as possible.
�No, don�t go,� a girl�s voice rings out. He glances up and sees her clothes are all black and she�s wearing thick black eyeliner. The only color on her comes from the red choker at her neck. It�s one of the goths. He stills, not trusting her.
"Don't go," she repeats. "That was a beautiful song. I was just admiring your gift." *She thinks this is a gift? This is only the result of years of practice and a nagging mother.* He wants to be alone with his music and this girl wants to interrupt him. He turns and silently inches towards the door.
He hears the clunking of her combat boots coming nearer. "Where'd you learn how to play?" *She doesn�t need to know anything.* He lengthens his stride, eager to get out.
"Wait, don't go! Please." He looks at her seeing the sincerity in her eyes. He hesitates. "I'm here most evenings," she says. "The back door is always open. Mr. Mefford has given me the keys so I can work on the costumes. You're welcome to come and play again. I promise I won't bother you. I promise. Please, just consider it.
�Please,� she pleads. Her face gives off a sort of helpless, wide-eyed look, like a kid wanting something only he can give. She looks like she�s trying to preserve something, something he finally did right. *Interesting, she wants to hear me play. No one wants to hear me play. No one thinks I can play.* He turns to leave again. She sighs. He turns back and tilts his head. He looks her up and down. *Can I trust a goth?* He looks her in the eye and nods, ever so slightly, to signal his agreement of the terms.