The Story Ends

The story ends, grinds to a halt, leaves everyone unsatisfied. The music in the room wobbles like some knocked against a record player. Brent casts her an evil  eye. Tonight, Sophie’s story-telling sophistry has buckled. She has corpsed.

What went wrong? Good opening, interesting characters, hooks, foreshadowing and plenty of quirky little details. But she spots that she started to ramble that the execution got flabby. Characterisation stumbled, following closely behind an unravelling narrative. Then you hit that breakneck rush to just end the thing and get off the stage.

Her cigarette tasted shitty awful; he whiskey was a cheap burn. She so greatly underwhelmed herself at this moment that part of her was falling into the deep gravity well of depression where thoughts of never doing this again arose from. Pull yourself together, she told herself, take the paltry applause for what it was. Live to fight another day. Watch the next act and pick up some tips.

Candy rocked – it was sexy, it was fast-paced, punchy, gut-wrenching, and emotionally resonant – bitch was on fire! It cheered Sophie no end; her friend was a great storyteller. Everyone had bad nights, but when you really hit your stride you could make magic happen.

Candy came and sat down next to her.

‘Hey, girl.’

‘Hey, you were great.’

‘You sucked balls.’

‘Thanks, Candy.’

‘Ah, who gives a fuck – it’s art and we’re risking something. Takes a lot to be willing to fail at something. You walk the walk, and tomorrow night you’ll rock.’

‘Yes, I will.’

They ordered daquiris and settled in for some serious drinking.

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