Eh, not entirely sure where I'm going with this. Just figured I'd post what I have, and see what people think.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------It's your senior year and your standing on the sidelines of the football field. Your back is to the opposing marching band –who currently has the field -- which means you're facing the crowd. These people (all three-hundred of them) are serious about this. They aren't like the people who go to the regional competitions. No, this is state, and the people who come to watch are very serious about this, indeed.
The music slowly draws to a close as the second song ends. Your heart races. Slowly, it dawns on you: this is it. This is your last high school marching band competition. All the sweat, tears, drama, aches and pains that you put in all year will be put to the test.
Sweat begins to drip down your back and your hands begin to shake. You wonder: was it enough? You had felt utterly confident when you walked unto the track, but, now . . . The band behind you is tighter in their music. Their rhythm is faster and the crowd seems into it. After hearing them, after seeing the crowd, you begin to regret throwing away all those useful hours that could have been used for practice.
Finally, the competing band is silent. The crowd is clapping. They seem impressed, from what you can tell. You arch your neck in a futile attempt to see the judges, but they are too high up for you to see. You turn your back on the crowd and watch the band exit. They seem pleased with themselves. Your heart skitters. You've never felt that pleased when walking off the field . . . have you? You struggle to remember, but come up short.
Some one calls your name, grabbing your attention. You're being foolish, you think to yourself. Of course you've felt that pleased, you made it all the way to state, didn't you? How could you have done that if you weren't pleased with your performance? The fellow spinner calls your name again, more urgently this time. You only have a small amount of time to set your flags, and you've already wasted a good minute with your thoughts.
You rush around, trying to appear confident, even though your body is trembling. You try and seem like you know what you're doing, that your calm and collected, even though your mind is racing, you can't breath, and you've completely forgotten where your last flag lies.
Finally, you're standing on your hash line, on your spot. You bow your head, clasp your right hand into a fist behind your back while your left hand holds onto the flag at your side for dear life. It's quite. The band is at rest, waiting for the field commander to blow the whistle. No one moves. No one breaths, it seems.
Your neck begins to ache from being arched downward, and from being tensed up. Your palms are sweaty. Strands of hair have fallen out of your tight up-do. Their light flyaways, and their softness tickles your nose as they swish around in the breeze. You want to badly to move them, but you can't. If you move before that whistle blows, you lose points.
Finally. Finally, after what seems like hours, the shrill sound of the whistle cuts through the silence. You snap to attention: head raised, flag brought straight up in front of you. Your right hand snaps up, grabbing unto the flag, positioning itself correctly above your left hand.
The band begins to march. They file past you, taking their places on the field. The commander raises her arms, the band raises their instruments, and the music begins. Instantly, you're lost. Lost in the music, lost in the steps, the tosses, twirls, spins, lunges. Your brain is on autopilot, naturally moving through the choreography that has been drilled into your brain for the past eleven months.
And then... it's over. The last toss has been caught, the last note has been played. It's done.
Tears well in your eyes. It's over. Not just the song, not just the competition, but your career in the high school marching band. No matter band camp, no more fighting with the drum-line. No more re-working routines to fit around the bands movements. No more late night practices. No more picking out uniforms. No more spin-offs to raise money for the team. No more pep talks from the band teacher. No more taking pain and anger and stress out on the flag. No more anything.
As you march off the field, out of sight of the judges, all of the seniors gather together. It's not an intended thing – you're all just dragging your feet, not quite ready to walk away from the field. Everyone's crying. Some are openly sobbing. You all stop, all at once, and huddle into a circle. You all put your arms around each other, all pull in close. There aren't words – they aren't needed. Everyone's well aware that this is a big stepping point. But, strangely, you're suddenly comforted. And the girl who'd been sobbing starts to laugh.
It maybe over, but it's not over just for you. There are others, right there with you. You're in it together. You're not alone. And that makes it just a little more bearable.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------It's your senior year and your standing on the sidelines of the football field. Your back is to the opposing marching band –who currently has the field -- which means you're facing the crowd. These people (all three-hundred of them) are serious about this. They aren't like the people who go to the regional competitions. No, this is state, and the people who come to watch are very serious about this, indeed.
The music slowly draws to a close as the second song ends. Your heart races. Slowly, it dawns on you: this is it. This is your last high school marching band competition. All the sweat, tears, drama, aches and pains that you put in all year will be put to the test.
Sweat begins to drip down your back and your hands begin to shake. You wonder: was it enough? You had felt utterly confident when you walked unto the track, but, now . . . The band behind you is tighter in their music. Their rhythm is faster and the crowd seems into it. After hearing them, after seeing the crowd, you begin to regret throwing away all those useful hours that could have been used for practice.
Finally, the competing band is silent. The crowd is clapping. They seem impressed, from what you can tell. You arch your neck in a futile attempt to see the judges, but they are too high up for you to see. You turn your back on the crowd and watch the band exit. They seem pleased with themselves. Your heart skitters. You've never felt that pleased when walking off the field . . . have you? You struggle to remember, but come up short.
Some one calls your name, grabbing your attention. You're being foolish, you think to yourself. Of course you've felt that pleased, you made it all the way to state, didn't you? How could you have done that if you weren't pleased with your performance? The fellow spinner calls your name again, more urgently this time. You only have a small amount of time to set your flags, and you've already wasted a good minute with your thoughts.
You rush around, trying to appear confident, even though your body is trembling. You try and seem like you know what you're doing, that your calm and collected, even though your mind is racing, you can't breath, and you've completely forgotten where your last flag lies.
Finally, you're standing on your hash line, on your spot. You bow your head, clasp your right hand into a fist behind your back while your left hand holds onto the flag at your side for dear life. It's quite. The band is at rest, waiting for the field commander to blow the whistle. No one moves. No one breaths, it seems.
Your neck begins to ache from being arched downward, and from being tensed up. Your palms are sweaty. Strands of hair have fallen out of your tight up-do. Their light flyaways, and their softness tickles your nose as they swish around in the breeze. You want to badly to move them, but you can't. If you move before that whistle blows, you lose points.
Finally. Finally, after what seems like hours, the shrill sound of the whistle cuts through the silence. You snap to attention: head raised, flag brought straight up in front of you. Your right hand snaps up, grabbing unto the flag, positioning itself correctly above your left hand.
The band begins to march. They file past you, taking their places on the field. The commander raises her arms, the band raises their instruments, and the music begins. Instantly, you're lost. Lost in the music, lost in the steps, the tosses, twirls, spins, lunges. Your brain is on autopilot, naturally moving through the choreography that has been drilled into your brain for the past eleven months.
And then... it's over. The last toss has been caught, the last note has been played. It's done.
Tears well in your eyes. It's over. Not just the song, not just the competition, but your career in the high school marching band. No matter band camp, no more fighting with the drum-line. No more re-working routines to fit around the bands movements. No more late night practices. No more picking out uniforms. No more spin-offs to raise money for the team. No more pep talks from the band teacher. No more taking pain and anger and stress out on the flag. No more anything.
As you march off the field, out of sight of the judges, all of the seniors gather together. It's not an intended thing – you're all just dragging your feet, not quite ready to walk away from the field. Everyone's crying. Some are openly sobbing. You all stop, all at once, and huddle into a circle. You all put your arms around each other, all pull in close. There aren't words – they aren't needed. Everyone's well aware that this is a big stepping point. But, strangely, you're suddenly comforted. And the girl who'd been sobbing starts to laugh.
It maybe over, but it's not over just for you. There are others, right there with you. You're in it together. You're not alone. And that makes it just a little more bearable.
this is a heads-up on a story im writing. its about this kid in highschool wh ogoes into this haunted house,then,she turns into a vampire,slowy,and people begin to notice. its awesome.
heres the charecters.
vanessa:vampire girl.
duncan:vampiers girls brother
kylie:vamps bfff.
susan:mean girl
katie:posse (mean girl)
ashle:same as katie
mom:vamps mom
dad:vamps dad
um:those are the main charecters. details i havent thought of yet.ok,so,now you know.ok,bye!
gotta type more,you cn leave now.
jfgfgddfddfffff vampires rule!
heres the charecters.
vanessa:vampire girl.
duncan:vampiers girls brother
kylie:vamps bfff.
susan:mean girl
katie:posse (mean girl)
ashle:same as katie
mom:vamps mom
dad:vamps dad
um:those are the main charecters. details i havent thought of yet.ok,so,now you know.ok,bye!
gotta type more,you cn leave now.
jfgfgddfddfffff vampires rule!