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Before the gig

The young rapper stared into the mirror, clenching his damp fists. In his imagination, fear streamed down his face in rivulets of sweat. A distant voice called his name, the announcer warming up the crowd for his appearance. What a performance it would be! He’d drop the mic. He’d fumble his rhymes. He’d be subject to shouts of shame, boo’ed from the stage, sent back into the nothingness from which he’d crawled.

“Hey kid. You’re up.”

Up. Yeah. “In a sec.”

The walk backstage felt like it took forever. The hallway stretched out. Mouth dry, lyrics missing from his mind, the rapper felt like walking down death row, the shouts from the crowd a persistent rumble in the distance. Then suddenly all was silent. He looked around. A mic. A massive crowd fallen silent at the sight of him, waiting with breaths held. Yes. His hand wrapped around the microphone, took a firm grip, pulled it out and the first rhymes fell into it as the beat started and his fans went wild.

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