'Playing Fireworks' by Sarah Oakes

In the Hall of the Mountain King, you play fireworks.

You start slow, with those short staccatos of anticipation, small crackles twirling on the air, the scale undulating up and down, up and down, in a rhythm older than time, that never seems to end.

The repeat ripples, and fireworks blossom in staccato gardens, yellows and oranges growing as you go. Up, and down. Up, and down. Your fingers start to tremble, as the greens and purples flutter, as you realise in the next repeat that there is no going back now. Any second, it will begin. Wait for it. Not now. Keep going. Soon. Do you hear it? The oboe and violin set sparklers in motion, as they lead you into the unknown. And you follow, in a blaze of blue, as you itch to go faster, to touch the stars and speak to gods, to find that place where anything is possible. Soon. Any moment. Not now. Wait. The crescendo builds, in gold and silver, until time gasps. Now!

You let loose, the new tempo setting souls afire, and desires ablaze. Streams of fireworks fly, with each note, bangs and blasts of colour. Fingers whirl over staccatos and scales, Catherine wheels rippling as you go faster, and faster, tempting death and stealing breaths. And you lose yourself, as the brass takes you higher, faster, further, a kaleidoscope of colour that cannot be denied. And you follow in that dance, as the drums roll, fireworks fizzing on your tongue as reeds lick flesh, as the adrenaline and delight consumes you, as the grand finale sweeps you into a cacophony of colour; red, orange, yellow, green, blue, purple, gold, silver, that reverberates through souls.

And in the silence that follows, there is sheer bliss.