Creative Writing: High School Band

I sat with Chris and Jo beside me as we watched the other high school bands. The sky illuminated bright orange and purple as it fell below the earth and let darkness overcome the sky. I tried not to let the other bands intimidate me, but one did. Their color guard was mesmerizing as they waved their flags, the music was crisp and I couldn’t detect one person who was out of step. The butterflies in my stomach went into a frenzie, flying as fast as they possibly could.

Once they had completed their amazing finale, Mr. Hewitt waved for us to get ready to go into the back building so we could file through the tunnel and make our entrance onto the field. He wouldn’t admit it, but I could tell he was nervous after he watched the school

Then, the faintest whisper came from the wood winds, and then the brass, and they grew louder until their sound enveloped the entire stadium. The percussion started, and everyone marched to create shapes and patterns. We wove through other lines of people. I felt the music in my bones and goose bumps formed on my arm. Before I knew it, it was time for my solo. After two beats of complete silence, I could tell the audience was at the edge of their seat, anxiously waiting for what was to happen next. I started drumming, growing louder, getting faster. Chris pushed me to the middle of the field where the band had left empty for me. Intricate rolls and patterns that I knew like my best friend sounded across the field, the stands, and most likely even the parking lot. The color guard performed the finale as the band played whole notes and Chris pushed me to the edge of the group of people. I flipped a stick and caught it in my right hand and pointed it towards the middle of the field, and at the same moment, everyone (who was able to) bent down on one knee and turned their head towards the color guard, who were posed in the middle of the field. Chris and I turned our heads with the rest of the band, except the color guard wasn’t there. Standing there was a man, dressed in an army uniform looking at me. Adrenaline rushed through my veins, and empowered me to stand up and walk.

“Daddy!” I screamed, trying to run towards him, but my legs wouldn’t

I feels weird to say “my dad.” Mr. Hewitt let me sit with my mom and dad in the bleachers as we waited to hear who the winner was. I was happy just to sit next to my dad and spend time with him. He joked about the plume, which he called “a fluffy stick” on top of my head like he would even if he had not just gotten home from Afghanistan, and I noticed he had a purple heart badge on his uniform, as well as many others accompanied with scars that spread across his face and arms. I would definitely ask about those sometime, but not tonight. Tonight, we relaxed and enjoyed life. After a couple more performances, everyone had gone and the announcer ran to the middle of the field, wielding a