Woodchoper's Ball

              She was late as always, but this time she was a little more late. Journey, her cat, just had to have her stand there while she ate her  kitty kibble. As Keara hurried down the sidewalk, she thought about how spoiled her favorite feline is. That cat gets everything she wants! It’s just as well, though, because while she may be just a cat, Journey is her rock. She’s been with Keara through everything.
         
Ugh, now Keara was starting to feel depressed thinking about her past. Shaking her head, she walked through the door of Woodchopper’s Ball and got in the zone. Jazz. It’s her passion, her love. It’s the only mister that’s never let her down.

         Joe, the barkeeper, greeted her over the crowd as he skillfully poured the tap for one of the regulars.

         “Hey, Keara! You doing ok?” he yelled with his thick English accent.

         “Yeah, I’m ok!” Keara screamed back, trying to be heard over the low rumble of drunken jazzies.

         She made her way to backstage after promising to have a drink with him when she was done playing. The atmosphere changed when she walked behind the black curtain separating the crowd from those who were musically talented. It was almost like walking into a whole new world. Outside, people swayed, drank, and socialized all as her friend, Jason, played his trumpet soulfully. Back here, however, silence ensued as people bustled to and fro trying to accomplish tasks that needed to be accomplished. Those who weren’t bustling, focused and did what they needed to do in order to ensure they played flawlessly.

         Keara set up her saxophone and went to the designated area to tune and warm-up. This room was pure chaos to all who listened. On the far side, the tuner sat mounted on the wall. Everywhere else players randomly played scales or prepared warm-ups in an attempt to get their chops in working order.

         Keara scaled ,warmed up, and tuned in about fifteen minutes. She was due on the stage in five more minutes. Waiting on stage left, she twirled her caramel-colored hair as she watched her friend, Monica, play clarinet in a bright, spirited fashion.

         Breathing in and out, she prepared to face the crowd. Tonight, Keara was the featured soloist. Her ability to improv was one of the best. She knew that. The only thing flipping her out right ow was her stage fright. She loves to play her sax but suffers greatly from insecurity. The crowds always get her. There was even a rumour that a scout for one of the best jazz ensembles in all of Britain was in the audience this evening. Oh great. Now she could add that to her nerves!

         Keara rolled her eyes as her thoughts became evermore sarcastic.

         Two more minutes now. Her hair twirling became fervent. Those little butterflies were having extreme seizures in the pit of her stomach.

         At this point in time, Keara severely hated her body what with her sweaty palms and random twitching of her leg. She was a sight to see.

                Finally, it was her turn. Lights zeroed in on her and the pub quieted down. She miked her saxophone and took a couple of deep breaths. Closing her eyes, she began.

         She started slowly with low, dark notes used as the opening melody. Keara swayed to and fro in sync with the rhythms clearly getting into her tune. Before long, her slow, dark notes became fast, light notes. As she swung her playing, she moved around the stage in time with her music. Jazz is her focal point right this very second. In her mind, instead of seeing the notes and fingerings, she sees colors that correlate with the way the sounds are flowing through her. Blacks, navy blues, dark purples, and greens for her somber melodies. Pinks, yellows, reds, and oranges for her light swings.

         Keara ends her ten minute improvisation with a sudden gliss up. Opening her vibrant green eyes, she sees the audience jump out of their respectable seats and applaud with a deafening roar. The smile on her face reveals her relief at being able to get off-stage. After curtsying, she exits stage-right.

         She cases her instrument and makes her way to the bar. On the way, random people congratulate and applaud her. She graciously thanks them all and takes a seat at the bar. Joe came up and poured them each a shot.

         “That was some great playing. Maybe even the best you’ve done,” he lifted his stunted glass and clinked it with her’s.

         “Ha-ha thanks but it just kind of happened,” she replied throwing back her share of tequila. It was quite obvious this wasn’t her first shot. With a past like Keara’s, sometimes the only way to get through the day was with a few shots of her favorite liquor.

         “Miss McFadden?” a guy comes up wearing glasses and a head full of blonde hair.

         “Yes?”

         “I’m Aiden Wilson with the Great Britain Jazz Ensemble. I was wondering if you’d be willing to come down and audition for us. I’m sure you’d make a top spot,” he said looking hopeful.

         Keara looked at Joe then back to Aiden with a dumbfounded look upon her face.

         “Um, why sure!” she managed to stutter out.

         “Great! Here’s my card; call tomorrow and we’ll work everything out,” he hands over a glossy card.

         She takes it and mutters a thank you still unable to form a coherent thought. Maybe now she can finally get out of that horrible job she has. Working for a publisher is not all it’s cracked up to be.

         Keara looks at Joe, and he looks at her. Reaching for the tequila again, they toast to her great fortune.