Hannah O’Brien
Professor Holbrook
ENG 100 011
17 October 2024
In the Wings
Spotlights beam down from the ceiling with a blinding intensity, engulfing the stage in a
warm, almost cozy atmosphere. The empty auditorium stretches before the stage; each row
fading progressively darker from the lack of light. As the stage glows, isolated from the rest of
the room, dust particles dance in the light rays, catching the glimmer with every movement. The
velvet curtains are pulled open for the first time in months, letting out an uncomfortable screech
as the metal scrapes against itself.
My hands feel clammy as I rub them on my concert black dress, matching every one of
the performers near me. I’ve performed countless times, but every performance feels like a first
—anxiety-inducing and nerve-wracking. My mind ponders the possibilities: What if I play the
wrong note? What if I make the band drag? The possibilities are endless. As the curtains open, I
feel they're unwillingly forcing my man-made walls to crumble. I pace in the small, crowded
wing, counting my steps to calm me down as the time approaches.
The audience slowly shuffles in; murmured conversations can be heard in the still air.
Soft thuds of shoes stepping on the corporate-grey carpet accompany the low crinkles of
programs and plastic water bottles. People stumble through each row, offering quick and amateur
apologies as they sit and push past one another. Like dominos, the audience settles into their
seats, ensuring they do not move too much to cause a creaking sound. Kids sprint down the aisles
to find the closest seats to the stage, their hands knocking against the backs of the seats until they
Professor Holbrook
ENG 100 011
17 October 2024
In the Wings
Spotlights beam down from the ceiling with a blinding intensity, engulfing the stage in a
warm, almost cozy atmosphere. The empty auditorium stretches before the stage; each row
fading progressively darker from the lack of light. As the stage glows, isolated from the rest of
the room, dust particles dance in the light rays, catching the glimmer with every movement. The
velvet curtains are pulled open for the first time in months, letting out an uncomfortable screech
as the metal scrapes against itself.
My hands feel clammy as I rub them on my concert black dress, matching every one of
the performers near me. I’ve performed countless times, but every performance feels like a first
—anxiety-inducing and nerve-wracking. My mind ponders the possibilities: What if I play the
wrong note? What if I make the band drag? The possibilities are endless. As the curtains open, I
feel they're unwillingly forcing my man-made walls to crumble. I pace in the small, crowded
wing, counting my steps to calm me down as the time approaches.
The audience slowly shuffles in; murmured conversations can be heard in the still air.
Soft thuds of shoes stepping on the corporate-grey carpet accompany the low crinkles of
programs and plastic water bottles. People stumble through each row, offering quick and amateur
apologies as they sit and push past one another. Like dominos, the audience settles into their
seats, ensuring they do not move too much to cause a creaking sound. Kids sprint down the aisles
to find the closest seats to the stage, their hands knocking against the backs of the seats until they
