By Anthony Wobbe
I waited quietly, as a number in the crowd, crouched in the sitting position; nerves stinging as though sliding down the edge of a razor blade; my bow strung at my side, hungry to do my bidding.
The cost of this hateful relationship would be paid in full tonight. The debt of his public rants, his belittling and screaming, his antagonism…all was finally come due. I spent the last months wallowing in self-hatred because of him. Now I just hate him.
I lived this moment in my mind and practiced its movements countless times. He would be slain by rote ability tonight and know that it was me: his very own and personal example of the student becoming the master. And in the end, I’d leave his useless, bloated form, lifeless!
I was mentally prepared for the crowd’s reaction, knowing they’d be stunned as they watched. The rumors of our hatred and spats were old and legendary. In time, they’d understand my white hot rage and why his destruction would be best served done in public.
The crowd began to stir, announcing his arrival. My heart pounded in my ears as he approached, my eyes searching the entrance of the great hall…as they locked, my blood began to burn.
His strut was like that of a peacock, puffed up and arrogant, a cape draped over one shoulder and his thin half-cane slung through his belt like a sword. As he made his way through the crowd, he accepted their phony adulation as if it were a birthright.
I couldn’t take another minute of it. I grit my teeth and slowly, discreetly reached for my bow…it’s time.
Like a smarmy politician, he acknowledged all other faces, purposefully saving mine for last. But his eyes widened when his gaze came to me, because I was standing and my bow was already drawn.
His smile disappeared into concern as it became clear what I was there to do. Immediately, his own posture hardened as he drew his cane-sword and raised both hands in the air. The crowd quieted immediately and watched as he reached, swishing his weapon hand from side to side. This was our final showdown…our final show.
He whispered the count; 1…2…1…2…and the piece was started.
The newspaper reviewer wrote that I assaulted the piece masterfully; that I had matured well past our small town orchestra and its dramatic, part time conductor. The Flight of the Bumble Bee is notoriously hard on a first seat violinist…but I nailed it.
[Tweet “I grit my teeth and slowly, discreetly reached for my bow…it’s time.”]
I feel cheated as a reader. 🙁
Great example of walking it back.
Nice build, good story. In my opinion, there were a couple of extra words that stood out that could have been edited to streamline the story a bit more. The extra words disrupted the pace you were building, at least for me. The transition from assassin to first violinist was abrupt and clever. Again, my opinion, you could have taken it a bit further, and played out the arrow’s flight.Thanks!
Nice build up and a great twist at the end.
Well done. At first I thought “bow” like a violinist would use, then I thought bow and arrows and wondered how the assassin was going to fire without anyone noticing. Then, at the end, I realized the prey was the conductor. You fooled me. Bravo!
Fooled me and I loved it. Usually, I don’t. But the hyperbolic language needed just this payoff. What fun!
The build up of wallowingg in self hatred worked well, I kept wondering why no one noticed the bow, and until the last paragraph I didn’t figure it out. I would agree with Kieth, and little more editing for points and you have it.
Nice twist
Loved this story. You had me fooled right up to the end! Well-done and bravo! @sheilamgood at Cow Pasture Chronicles
oooh, you threw me out the window, i was so sure i was about to walk out the door. i had to read the story the second time, smiling at all the cues i had missed that were right in front of me. thumbs up!