Please critique! I would appreciate it very much
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The Sound of Frantic Mice
Negative
Black imposing pillars obscured the outdated carpet of the theatre with unwelcome shadows as Charlie Fiorillo’s boisterous saxophone music choked the air. Feeling an envious lurch in my stomach, I collapsed into a faded seat. Assembling my clarinet, I eyed the sixty black chairs that scowled at me from an elevated stage. My face grew hot as I thought of the soon-to-come audition. I pressed the instrument to my mouth; the taste of stale bread and stench of mold made my eyes water. Wincing, I inhaled a heavy gust of air and practiced my solo and scales, dreading the thought of performing. After five minutes of “warming up,” I scrambled from my seat and waded toward Hakoda’s office, where I waited three year-long minutes. Finally, the door swung open and Hakoda drew forward, a devious smirk on his lips. He pushed me along as I entered a pale, meticulously tidied room. Hakoda’s first demand was the D-Major scale, two octaves. Next I was to play the G-Major scale, three octaves, which required me to play the highest and most wretched of all clarinet notes. Drawing an insufficient breath, I formed the notes first as low, doleful squawks, peaking into the frantic squeaking of a mouse on the run. I skirted through my solo and hurried the sight reading. When a slow silence proceeded, I retreated. Outside a heavy bland blanket covered the sky, and my heart fell as if weighted under it. My complexion blotched and eyes watering, I threw the clarinet case into the back seat of my car and drove off without a pinch of hope remaining.
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The Sound of Music
Positive
Chromatic flecks of light flitted across the floor of the antique theatre room, where black chairs beckoned from an elevated stage. I nestled into a cushioned chair in the front row, glancing at the stage once more. The natural light from outside gave it a curious glow, almost as if the word hope rested upon it. As I assembled my instrument, a vivacious and entrancing sax cadenza flowed from where Charlie Fiorillo was, several rows behind. Giggling inwardly, I followed suit and practiced my scales and solo, anxious for audition time to come. As I played, the subtle yet familiar flavor of wood amused my mouth, while the cool touch of the clarinet keys soothed my senses. After a few minutes of warm-up, I rose from my seat and proceeded to Mr. Hakoda’s room. A deepening vigor rose in me as I waited for my chance, bouncing like an effervescent wind. Soon Mr. Hakoda ambled from inside the clean room and a grin curved upon his face. “Good evening, Miss Seim.” With a hand-to-shoulder gesture, he led me into the room and I found my place behind a petite metal stand. As I performed his requests—D Major Scale, two octaves; G-Major Scale, three octaves—the sounds of my instrument resonated and reflected off the walls, and a soft vibration tickled my fingers. Within a few minutes, however, I was finished, and I thanked Mr. Hakoda for his time. Outside I met a cool, wet breeze and dreamy skies. Without needing a reassuring glance, I set my clarinet case in the back seat of my car and beamed a toothy, triumphant grin.
