A beam of light shone from the ceiling, highlighting the drummer on stage like a target for alien abduction. His arms blurred as he pounded out the beat of One to the crowd.
Perspiration dripped beneath my T-shirt as my front pressed against the metal barricade where I was wedged between my friends, all of us reeking of salty sweat.
Thank god this wasn’t general admission, I thought again. For the first time in a month, my arms were free to move, my instrument of torture removed early in the evening. Permanently.
A sickeningly sweet cloud poured over me and my eyes watered. I returned my focus to Lars as his drum kit spun around to face us.
I yelled in approval, noticing a rasp in my hoarse voice.
The music from One filled me, the massive speakers placed in the arena delivering it to me until my body was the song.
I lived every beat. Guitar strum. Note.
I circled my head as fast as I dared, praying I didn’t somehow reinjure the newly freed collar bone while headbanging.
The song ended and I looked up.
Lars moved from the kit, waving at the fans on the corner of his stage, a mere thirty feet from us.
And a miracle happened.
His eyes met mine. Somehow. And it was just us in the crowd.
I love you, man! I mouthed, careful to enunciate my silent words.
You love me? His lips asked, his question clear in the thundering din of the audience.
I love you! I pointed at him with my good arm as I spoke.
Here. He tossed a glass of water he’d picked up. I didn’t bother reaching for it as others around me grabbed for the glass, the cold liquid a balm on my hot and sticky skin.
No! I screamed silently, the words only for him. I want a drumstick!
He laughed, thrusting the stick in my direction. You want it?
He walked down his stage’s ramp into the floor area between the two stages.
My heart pounded with each footstep as he approached me.
Without another word or attempt at communication, he placed a drumstick into my eager fingers. They closed instantly, my knuckles almost white from the instant death grip.
A guy standing next to me discovered this when he tried to rip the drumstick from my grasp the second Lars turned his back.
It was the side of the broken collar bone, still weak.
But the drumstick didn’t budge, my grip and the copious amount of tape wrapping the stick keeping it secure in my hand.
I turned to the guy, imagining myself The Terminator. I gave a slight shake of my head and bathed him with a menacing look, the meaning clear.
Do not touch my drumstick again. Ever.
* * *
Creative non-fiction does more than report events; it draws you into the writer’s experience and allows you to live memories and emotions along with the author. Descriptive language is at the heart of that side-along living. How you as a writer convey sensory information will decide how engaged your reader becomes.
For this week’s memoir prompt, we’re going to let narrative take a backseat. Choose a moment from your personal history and mine it for sensory detail. Describe it to us in rich, evocative details. Let us breath the air, hear the heartbeat, the songs, feel the fabric and the touch of that moment.
Let’s keep the word count to 500.