Orchestra Play Monologue

A fire began to burn. Its embers combusted and shattered across the pages, marking smudges of smoke between the parallel lines of the fingerboard and music sheets. She silently sat upon a throne - first chair. What most looked up to, she began to dismiss. They told her she was privileged, some sort of nonpareil player. Although the excitement of starting to play a new instrument drove her to her spot which she accompanied for two years, the fire began to die. “You don’t want to be first chair anymore?” the neighboring cello player’s question mixed with his shocked expression. “I don’t care for it much,” I mumbled while diverting eye contact and mindlessly strumming out of tune viola chords, “I guess it isn’t meaningful anymore.” # A play
She wants that spot badly,” my orchestra teacher nudges back to the girl sitting a row behind me. I glanced back to find a pair of beady, innocent eyes following the lines of the music sheet as she played. The hopeful gleams of her eyes made my bored, stoic ones seem cynical. Like a breath of crisp winter air, her gaze was sweet like snowflakes but rimy as the chilly breeze. Her polar ambience clashed with my fervent nature. Although her determination seemed hushed, it seemed as that wafting breeze was trenchantly snaking around the scorching, vigorous fire that continued to
Instead, it made me more anxious. “Can you count off for me, Mrs. Lorimor?” I gulped down the bead of worry that was stuck in my throat. She began to count up to four. The gentle ricochets of the numbers ticking off the millisecond moments that were slipping away launched off the first stroke of my bow. I thought that maybe it wasn’t too late. Maybe there was still time to save that fire being buried inside. “If only you played like that during the first half of the song! Your playing got better during the second part,” the conductor’s instant feedback turned to tangled noises as I only heard those words, “if only it was sooner.” those simple yet striking words sent a slap of