Short Story / Solo (Analysis)

As the last chorus of the melody begins, my senses selectivley sharpen. I ignore the blinding lights, the imposing audience. Instend I foucus on the brewing dissonanc of the trombones. The explosive saxophone section.There is complete awareness of my body: the sensation of my sweat soaked shirt clinging to my heavy chest and the weakness of my legs, inspite of which I stand. Each step to the solo mic is measured and deliburate; each footfall crushes another butterfly. I adjust my neckstap. Posistion my mouthpiece and put my pusling fingertips to the familiar pearl keys. The keys are so cool and responsive as my hands are impatient. The last bar sounds: the piano slams out the last chord; the bass walks the last few notes; I take my last final breath, reaching down to the butterflies. A rim shot breaks the spell. Silence falls.

I am on.

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