My first high school talent show featured me in a dubious solo act as "The Human Kite." Clad in a glittering spandex jumpsuit and pilfered from my neighbor's gardening gloves, I careened around the stage, flailing like a wind-tousled bird while being ostensibly controlled by an unseen 'master puppeteer.'
As the music reached its climax, I inadvertently drifted toward the school piano, sending Mrs. Johnson's prize grandeur teetering on the edge of destruction. A stray hand flailing wildly knocked over candles lit to "atmosphere's sake," plunging the auditorium in darkness except for twinkling mini-lanterns strewn behind me. The silence following had its own sort of poetry – the muffled sound of everyone's shocked inhaling.
As the music reached its climax, I inadvertently drifted toward the school piano, sending Mrs. Johnson's prize grandeur teetering on the edge of destruction. A stray hand flailing wildly knocked over candles lit to "atmosphere's sake," plunging the auditorium in darkness except for twinkling mini-lanterns strewn behind me. The silence following had its own sort of poetry – the muffled sound of everyone's shocked inhaling.
3