A/N- This was a descriptive story that I wrote for English. It was twice as long as it was supposed to be but… at least it got me an A =D. How realistic do you think it is? Tell me in a review!
And I'm working on the second part of 'Not Guilty, Large Windows, and Falling.' RL got in the way, and I just got lazy. Hopefully I'll post it in a week or less.
Disclaimer- lolno
The siren-pitched miasma of noise penetrates your ears as the neatly uniformed policeman gets up onto the cheap plywood stage. He shouts something into the microphone, and you very quickly stop screaming. The noise level instantly drops to almost nothing, but your ears still ring from the cacophony. You blink, eyelids heavy, as you try to hear what the trim official says. Something about keeping the noise down or the Beatles will leave? You can't tell, but watch the entrance to the field, which is directly across from your seat, breathlessly.
Suddenly, they are sprinting out of the dugout. Whatever the policeman might or might not have vocalized is thrown completely out of the window as you and the rest of the crowd leap up and down, screaming. First is John, the witty one, with his reddish-brown moptop and oddly shaded hazel eyes. A slightly sarcastic grin is on his face. Next came Paul, the cute one, and you hear the shrieks triple in volume at the sight of his round cheeks, neat dark brown moptop, and charming smile. After him was George, gorgeous George Harrison. You collapse back into the solidity of your chair at the sight of his tousled brown hair, which is in a moptop that was slightly longer that John and Paul's, his gorgeous deep brown eyes, his lovely lopsided grin; his tall, lanky body and limbs. "George!" you scream, forcing yourself out of your seat. You've loved George ever since you first saw him on the Ed Sullivan Show in 1964, and he is your absolute favorite. Nothing could change that.
Last, but not least, is Ringo. He is exactly three inches shorter than John, Paul, and George, you knew, but at this distance you can hardly tell. However, you can see his large nose and crystal blue eyes. Ringo is your second favorite, and you love him like a brother. You think he is too adorable to be a love interest, but you'd hug him and never let go if you could.
Finally, they reach the stage. John says something into the microphone, but you can't hear over the din. Then the four of them begin to play the song Twist and Shout. If you strain your ears, you can hear guitar and bass chords, drumbeats, and the rumble of vocals, but nothing distinct.
The stadium floor is solid beneath your feet. You leap up and down, despite feeling the intense late August heat all around you. Sweat rolls down your face from the exertion, and reluctantly you take a break from your adulation to drink the Coke you had bought. The tanginess of the carbonation mixes with the sweetness of the beverage on your tongue and you gulp it gratefully down. Quickly, the bottle is empty. You place it carefully back into the rough green plastic holder attached to your chair and fly back onto your feet to continue screaming and celebrating.
The concert is zooming by. Already they have played five songs: Twist and Shout, She's a Woman, I Feel Fine, Dizzy Miss Lizzy, and Ticket to Ride. You cry out even louder than you thought possible, knowing that George was about to sing Everybody's Trying to Be My Baby next.
You see his lanky form move over to one of the microphones and Paul switch to sharing John's. Paul says something indistinct into it, and then they begin the song. You go into an absolute frenzy, screaming George's name over and over while pulling at your hair like a crazed person would. A surprising, mischievous gust of wind blows a few tendrils of your dark blonde locks against your nose, and you breathe in deeply. The choking odor of hairspray overtakes you; you again plummet back into your uncomfortable green plastic chair just as the song ends. Deciding your limbs couldn't take another instant of your Beatle-induced hysteria, you stay in your chair, exhausted, and simply watch for the rest of the concert. Can't Buy Me Love, Baby's In Black, I Wanna Be Your Man, and A Hard Day's Night slip away like the fish with sparkling silver scales you used to try to catch bare-handed in the lake near your grandparent's cabin. Tears of exultation slide down your face all throughout, and you murmur their names constantly.
Suddenly, from the very bottom row, a brown-haired girl in a red dress sidesteps the police barriers and sprints towards the flimsy stage. You watch avidly, utterly green with envy. If you had the opportunity, you would have already attempted it, but being twenty rows back you know you have absolutely no chance. Breath bated, you stare in awe as she manages to make it all but five feet of the way to the dais on the field before being hauled back to her seat by the police.
Before you even know it, the Beatles are playing their last concert song, I'm Down. Realizing that it may be the last two minutes you ever, ever see your idols in real life, you fly to your feet in a frenzy. And, within a heartbeat, the snippet of musical genius written by John and Paul is over. All smiles, the Fab Four trot offstage.
Long after they leave, you and the rest of the crowd continue to screech your love. In fact, you scream so loudly your voice vanishes. Surprised, you accidentally bite your tongue. The saltiness of blood pools for a second, but disappears quickly. You sob silently before a formidable platoon of police march into the audience and force everyone out of the stadium. You find yourself crushed in the mass exodus, surrounded by hundreds of other teens like yourself and the cloying scent of perfume. Struggling to escape the masses, you finally find yourself outside. Instantly, you spot your mother's brand-new navy blue vehicle and drag your aching body over to it.
"Took you long enough," she remarks, perfectly waxed eyebrow rising at the sight of your exhausted self. "How was it?"
You make wild signals with your hands, trying to nonverbally explain that you screamed yourself hoarse. Your mother rolls her eyes and passes you a clear plastic bottle filled with water. You grab it gratefully then drink the whole thing, loving the cool, refreshing non-taste of the beverage. "It was amazing," you manage in the quietest of whispers. You have never been the greatest with words, and can't fully explain just how you felt.
Your mother makes another face of extreme annoyance. "Get in," she grumbles to you. You pull the passenger side back door of the car open only to find your 17-year-old brother Max and his disgustingly dirty sports equipment occupying the back. Shoving his things to the floor, you climb into the perfectly cool interior of the car ignoring the layer of grass and dirt covering the once pristine leather seat. You can smell the rank odor of sweat and dirty teenage male emanating from Max, and you press yourself as far into the side of the car as you can to hide from it.
"How were the Beatles?" he asks you in a horrible imitation of your tones.
You bravely expose your nose to the stench to croak, "Fab!"
"Grow up!" he exclaims. "They're just a band- get over it!"
You hide your face back in the cool metal interior of the car to muffle your irritated groan. Your mother and brother are such squares sometimes. Still, the palladium of your love for the Beatles surrounds you and you know you will remember the concert forever.
3