Taking the Stage

Taking the Stage

A Story by Tenzing Ray

As I felt the red metal staircase under my feet, I felt like I felt before, a long time ago. Well, maybe not so long ago. Either way, when I reached the top, I knew I was in the spotlight. The dark of mindless stares watched my body shifitng around a single point, sweaty and suffocating. There was only the one light, and it blinded me from seeing everything else I needed to see. Everyone says it's easier when you can't see the audience. Why wasn't it like that for me? Because I knew that they were physically there, in front of me. I knew they were real. Closing my eyes on them never helped; it only made things worse: I felt so alone in the endless waves of interested eyes. I knew I was loved, so why did I feel so alone? Maybe I didn't want to feel loved.
The extended limb of the microphone beckoned me to bring my lips to its tip, and just sing. It stank of stale bread and whiskey.
So easy... It was so simple... Just forget the world of the light, watch the bulbous beauty just half an inch away from your teriffied little lips, and sing... But I couldn't. Maybe I couldn't because I had to. I always had that problem. I couldn't accomplish certain tasks exactly when I was supposed to perform them. I always rose after the occasion, you know? And I couldn't rise now; this was THE occasion. The stench of stale somethings seeped through the little holes... "That's funny", I thought. You see, at the time I thought the holes existed only to let my voice fill it with the sound of music whenever I so desired. Yet there it was... The sound of expired carbs, enveloping the stage in a vicious frenzy within a matter of seconds... Or it seemed like seconds anyway. It was disgusting, but at least it would give me something to think about besides the eyes, right?
Unfortunately, that's not how the stage worked. The big wet eyes ripped through the air and ravaged every shiny spot. The smell danced in perfect harmony with the white little demons, and this savage ritual was somehow enticing me to sing and dance as well. I tried... Maybe I didn't really try, but I tried on some level, I swear. It's just that another part of me wouldn't let me try. The eyes reeked of hot, greasy meat and dead skin. The carb-meat-whatever amalgamation made me a bacon sandwich that would plague my pretty little face with zits for the rest of my life. And then it relieved itself... by vomiting its fuming liquid acids all over any spotlight available. Wait, why'd I say it like that? I was the only spotlight. Right?
Anyway, the spotlight itself, did it shine on? I don't know; I didn't stay long enough to find out. They engulfed the thing inside the light. The stage did something to me... Otherwise, killed me. I can't know for sure. But I don't need to right now. I'll find out if they wake me up. If they don't, I'll never have to face the mic again.
But is that what I want again?
Or is it only for when they ask again?
The truth is that I long to be under the light again... I think of taking the stage,
Or maybe the stage taking me again.

© 2014 Tenzing Ray


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Added on February 26, 2014
Last Updated on February 26, 2014
Tags: stage, sing, song, dance, short story, Freud, naked, gaze, stage fright, nervousness, men, women, feminism, microphone, performance, sex, regression, repression, psychoanalysis, alone

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