The Schoolhouse

I'm standing in what appears to be an old schoolhouse. One room with a little bell on top to let the kids (now with great grandkids of their own) know that school is in. I'm standing in the middle of the main room. The whole room seems to be swaying and moaning with the wind. There are large planked wooden floors and a single side table off to one corner. There is a large fat lady sitting at the table.

A tight bun in her hair.

An expectant look on her face.

She holds a pencil in her right hand and a piece of paper in her left.

She is staring at me.

There is an even larger man off to my right. His chin and clothes droop yet he is as tall as he is wide. He is standing facing me. He shifts constantly. Agitated.

Straight ahead one of the schoolhouse walls is missing. A vast lake sweeps under the floorboards and I can now hear the water faintly lapping below my feet. The water is dark and ominous reflecting the sky above. Both are near black with only shivers of light appearing and disappearing. Playing tag. The sky is a heavy dark blanket. A mist begins to seep between the faint line separating water and night.

The mist moves sideways reaching for me. My face and arms become damp. The fat man looks at me and snips "I'm waiting and this is unacceptable".

I furrow my brow and look at my feet before responding "I'm not really ready". What I mean is, I'm not sure what to sing.

It dawns on me. This is a darkly twisted singing audition. A signing audition? The fat man looks even more agitated. He looks towards the door as if summoning strength, or a new performer, whichever comes first.

He looks at me again and takes a deep breath, "Find that one song. That one song that is yours. The one that you have been thinking of every day for as long as you can remember. The one that your mind plays with and moulds over, constantly changing in an attempt to perfect".

I say, more to myself than to the fat man, "That which my mind plays over and over is a plot not a song".

I watch the fat man shuffling his weight. Impatient and annoyed. I turn to see the fat woman put down her pencil. I then attempt a horrific rendition of Sheryl Crow's Home as the mist grows into drops.