My work was long awaited.
The audience watched in anticipation.
The woodwork was fine-tuned and perfected. Their faces held the identical gaze, looking forward and unmoving. The paintwork on their outfits was identical. The same black pants, the same jacket that was half black, half green, with a golden lightning bolt in between.
Gold buttons jingled as I rhythmically marched them into place. I stood before them, gazing at the crowd with a similar expression. My uniform nearly matched theirs, although I had white gloves instead of their painted blacks, and my green was black.
I gave a dignified salute to my crowd. They cheered, admiring my handiwork as much as me.
I took my spot above them. My arms raised, fishing line strings held in each finger to make it seem as if they moved on their own.
They moved in fantastic formations, and all I did was wave my arms. They followed my beats, their tiny instruments seeming to make noise against the before-hand-planned radio. A few times, one would get out of line, probably a tangled string somewhere. But I pretended it hadn't happened. I would fix it later.
The audience was entranced by my spectacular display. The puppets moved to my every light command. They were alive, but only to obey me. If I were to stop, so would they. If I crescendo, so did they. If I cued, a soloist would play a quick tune. I was in control.
They stopped with a long, beautiful note. I turned and saluted, telling the audience to clap. The puppets panted. They marched off the field at my lead, only when I began to move off my podium.
I smiled as we returned to the stands.
I loved being drum major. I loved my band more then anything. The field was our stage, they were my puppets. I was the puppet master, a planned escape from the world around me. A dreamy sequence where I wasn't me.
As I stood once again on the podium, I tied the little strings to my hands. Now, my puppets danced.
I am drum major.
Hear my band.