01
PREWRITE I
The bitter air tore into my hands and face. I buried my stiff fingers into the pockets of my jacket, trying to recall the warmth that had fled with the January wind. Devoid of the bright colors I knew so well, the now lifeless field seemed uninviting. A shiver of trepidation shook my heart. Any second now, the morticians would pass by in their solemn robes. Here they would bury the memories of a thousand nights. It didn’t seem so long ago.
The field is intimidating to strangers. On some subconscious level, we can all sense the life that has been poured into the dirt. The blood, sweat, and tears that soaked into the patchwork grass. It’s rare to visit without the smell of spray paint wafting over to visit you. Shrieks, laughs, booms, squeaks, and blares rise up in a chaotic cacophony. When I took my first steps onto the field, I suddenly understood what it was like for Jack to enter a world of giants.
The day begins just as the world opens its eyes. The sleepy sun yawns and peeks just above the fence to watch us scurry around. Already, the field is a blur of motion. Props are set up and organized, instruments tuned and pieced together. A low murmur sweeps the field as we all shake the sleep from our eyes and stumble into the morning routine. Our feet pound the dew from the grass, kicking up the scent of freshly mown grass. By midmorning we are performing for the rabbits and cars, welcoming the day with well-worn scales and warm-ups. Even the soccer players hum along. The routine has become embedded in the ground itself.
August scorches the air until your lungs burn for want of a cool breeze. Shadows become hoarded treasures. We melt away from the sun, clothes peeling off our pink-tinged skin. Water turns lukewarm and sour, offering little comfort in the harsh weather. We beggars don’t complain and chug it greedily. The next chance to fight back against the heat could be a lifetime away. Clouds skirt the edge of the field. Like us, they are wary of the roaring sun that fights its descent to the horizon. As the afternoon draws to a close, rain storms loom overhead, bringing with them the metallic tang of ozone. It’s not until the tolling echoes of thunder stifle all other noise that the leadership admit defeat. We dodge the fat raindrops like bullets. The desperation to protect our instruments is only surpassed by our relief. The rain soothed the ache that had rooted its way deep into our muscles. We crowd into sheds and cars, laughing and singing. Huddled away from the storm, we joke around and chat. The rigorous discipline drizzled away as the water washed through the field. Even the tight frowns of our teachers melted away as the rain blanketed the world with its cool embrace.
03
PREWRITE III
How shall the field welcome you today? Will the grass remain cool and the sun gentle, welcoming you as a mother embracing her child? Will the world scorch and crack as your lungs crumble into dust and fire? Will wind sing of banshees, leaving your eyes streaming for want of tears? Will the field be kind?
Already the ringmaster strides around, overseeing the birth of his circus. Clowns dance by as a low murmur rises. The world breathes in, stretching. The sun shakes the sleep from her eyes and peeks over the edge of the fence. The players’ feet pound the dew from the grass, kicking up the scent of freshly mown grass. Watch as the players scurry around, acrobats and strongmen all for this grand circus. An orchestration conducting the sun across the sky, the clouds as the audience, captivated by the twinkling instruments. Shrieks, laughs, booms, squeaks, and blares rise up in a chaotic cacophony. Just as the blur of motion reaches its climax, the field freezes. The world stops as the ringmaster takes the stage. The players hang with bated breath, like puppets waiting for their marionette. He sweeps the field with his gaze. God’s stare couldn’t be more final. He waves his hand, and the first act begins.
The field is intimidating to strangers. On some subconscious level, we can all sense the life that has been poured into the dirt. The blood, sweat, and tears that soak into the patchwork grass. When I took my first steps onto the field, I understood what it was like for Jack to enter a world of giants. Nerves prickled in my chest,
The circus shifts as I step onto the field. The players become soldiers, marching in stiff formations. Stern faced generals bark out orders, commanding their charges across the field. I join in, struggling to keep up. The soldier next to me moves with piston like precision. His face reflects back the hardness of the earth, his instrument as deadly as a rifle in his hands. I struggle to copy his movements. Where he is graceful, I’m clumsy. Where he marches, I stumble. My face burns with shame as I am corrected over and over again. It’s simple. Just step with the beat. Left. Right. Left. Right. Each mistake was a sharp reminder of how out of place I felt.
PREWRITE IV
There he was. Leaning against the redstone wall with his ice blue eyes flicking boredly across the people who came and went. He could have been a portrait in a museum. Nestled between the Floor Scrapers and the Wounded Man, this melancholy fixture lost in the thoughts hidden away in the depths of his mind. His weary thoughts wandering listlessly for a reason to laugh, to fight, to live.
Or maybe he was just waiting for a friend of his. I bit back a sigh. Imagination was a wicked temptress, willing to convince me that Nick was another knight in shining armor. I tried to pull away, to find an excuse to go back to the coffee shop. I couldn’t keep dancing around this idea etched into my heart of happily ever after. And yet. I found myself drawn to him, an awkward crooked smile trying to convince us both: Yes, I know what I’m doing.
His eyes caught me right away. A crooked smile to match mine flashed across his face. My heart throttled my throat, trying to prevent me from saying the inevitable stupid comment.
“Enjoy the play?” The flippant question shimmered a little, making me wince. So much for a smooth delivery.
Mercifully, Nice smiled. “It pretty good. You?”
“I actually didn’t go - tickets sold out.” I hesitated for a moment. We both knew the question that came next. We’d both heard me say it a dozen times before. “Do you mind giving me a ride?”
02
PREWRITE II
The history of Hell goes like this:
Tears stung the back of my eyes, choking off the little air I had in my lungs. I tried to look away and disappear into the ground. Kenny’s eyes froze the world with blazing fury. Even Brad kept a step away from him as he swept us with his glare.
“Do you guys want this or not?”
Each word was another dagger in my chest. No one could look at Kenny. He towered over us, glowering with disappointment and anger. A single drop would shatter the ground around us. But even as terror warred with exhaustion, a weed blossomed deep in my heart. Its green petals tendriled around my chest, rooting me to a horrific realization. This was my fault.
“You don’t know your exercises, you don’t know your music. It’s like you don’t even care what’s going on.”
Hell isn’t pitchforks and cackling red demons. It’s Kenny staring you down. The hellfire is the slow roasting of shame and disappointment that saps the strength from you. You damn yourself when you fail Kenny, and here we all stood, at his mercy.
The torture drove us to silent confessions. Yes, you’re right. We aren’t enough. We have never been. We’re idiots, slackers, weaklings. We’re the sum total of nothing. But we will try. Starting now.
The promise remained caged in our silence. No one wanted to risk his wrath, to risk the condemnation of being wrong. We remained as small and as inconspicuous as possible, desperately begging for the storm to pass.
Kenny scowled again, sending a shiver through the band. I longed to run away from him. This was worse than anything else I had experienced.