The Singer.

A Story by Jess Holden

went to a concert with a friend, and had a very unique expierience with one of the bands.

The room was dark, as the multicoloured lights lit up a small area of the stage. The area that was visible had a woman standing in the center of it, her dirty blond hair tied up in a small pony tail. She wore a small shirt, and even smaller shorts, showing as much skin as she could, with many bracelets covering her wrists. She was a young woman, about 17 or 18; still a child in the eyes of most, but not in mine. I knew she had something within her that was going to expload at any moment, and give us a front row show of what it would be. As she stepped up to the microphone, she let out a small sigh, and grabbed the microphone, wrapping the cord around her wrist. That's when the rumbling of the drums started, and the light, airy sound of an electric guitar roared through the room. That's when the cheers started, fueling the drummer to drum harder and faster than before. The girl began to stomp her feet, a smile spreading across her face as she did so, her grip on the microphone becoming tighter. The lights started to move outwards, revealing the hidden guitarists and drummer; one had hair blacker than night, the blue of the light shining off his muscular chest as he strummed along his black guitar. The other guitarist was blonde, his hands gently strumming along with the beats of the drums, smiling as he did so. The drummer was left in the shadows, with no proof of his existance other than the sounds he was making. The woman lifted the microphone to her mouth and began her sonnet of expression coarsing through her voice. Her words came out in a rush, blurring the ends of words into the beginnings of the others, her voice raising with every word. Her words, at first, were like a foreign language that made me cringe and become awkward; but as I listened, I learned her language. She spoke in an outraged emotion, expressed like no other, it made me shutter with anticipation as she spit out every word. She was teaching this crowed about music, about life, and all we could do was listen. And as I watched her dance upon the stage, screaming the soul uttering lyrics, our eyes caught each other. She smiled, and nodded, continuing to dance and sing, the smile still present on her face. I didn't know what would bring her to look down at me, the one loner in the crowed, but that look stayed with me for the entire night.