Survival of the Fittest (a SUAW event): Fantasy's Got Talent

Round One: Awful Auditions

The Prompt:

Your character arrives at the audition area. Their name is called out and they are shown to the stage where they are informed that they will be singing a song that they have written. 

The aim of this round is to show how your character behaves in unusual situations

You'll have to include a bit of a song that your character has written and show them singing itYou can show the audience, the sights and smells and the appearance of the star judges.No plagiarism. Do not use any song that you haven't come up with yourself!

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An unusually slippery slide deposited Sunny on a large pile of throw pillows in what appeared to be a small bedroom, lacking an actual bed, with a desk and a door on opposite walls and a wide variety of musical instruments on prominent display.

On the desk was an envelope and on the back her name had been stamped in gold foil. Inside was a plain card with a short typed message:

Congratulations,
MISS SUNSHINE SPARKLE SUMMERS
on qualifying for this year's Fantasy's Got Talent.
Please make yourself at home.
Someone will greet you shortly.

She took a moment to center herself. The slide was unique but also portentous as her only way out was through the lone door. She could only go forward. As she considered her options, a courtesy knock preceded Miss Ravenshaw's entrance, looking nothing like she had back home.

"Hello dear, are you ready?"

"Ready for what?"

"The first round, of course. You will perform an original song for the judges."

"I already told you I'm not–-"

"It's not about the music." Ravenshaw glanced around as if taking inventory and nodded. "You're on in a little over seven minutes, don't be late." Before Sunny could respond, Avise Ravenshaw ducked back out the door and closed it behind her.

"Well, Alice," Sunny mused to herself. "this isn't what I'd have expected from your first trip to Wonderland." Of all the instruments at her disposal she was most adept with the acoustic guitar, though she'd have preferred a grand piano if she was meant to impress. She retrieved it and tested the strings: E, A, D, G– B was a little sharp so she gave its key a careful turn–and E. It would do. Now all she needed were lyrics and a tune.

She sampled an E major chord progression, a little folksy but with some cinematic flavor. It wasn't perfect, of course, but she didn't have time to fiddle with it and she could always give it extra color by fingerpicking through softer phrases. She'd have to cheat a bit and draw inspiration from songs she particularly liked, perhaps a show tune from Sara Bareilles, or more subtle robbery from a different genre? Mumford and Sons? She giggled softly to herself.

With the skeleton of a melody in place, she checked the time on her smartwatch. Four minutes to flesh it out. She'd have to finish on the way.

There was another option, of course: throw a wrench into the works, sow chaos until the ringleader was forced to show his hand. It had worked before. But for now it seemed prudent to play along, to take it seriously until she knew more.

Without pausing she pushed through the stage door and stepped into a huge chamber with an enormous velvet curtain on the far side.

"Thirty seconds, miss Summers," a voice echoed from somewhere near the curtains and she walked boldly toward them, absorbing her surroundings, cataloging details for future analysis.

When the curtains opened, they revealed a vast opera house with sixty-foot ceilings and dozens of balconies surrounding at least a thousand stadium seats sporting armrests and cup holders. The seats were vacant, save for four shadowy figures sitting together several rows from the front. Before she could identify them, a huge rack of stage lights clicked on, bathing her in their radiance.

"Aren't we a pretty little thing?" a woman's confident voice echoed from the audience.

"This isn't a beauty context, Lady Rhojeka," answered a snide male voice that sounded bored if not annoyed. He emphasized 'lady' and paused before speaking her name, clearly using the honorific ironically.

"I agree, she's adorable," said Avise Ravenshaw in matronly tones.

A fourth speaker, high pitched and slightly wheezy, chimed in. "If we can begin, miss, I'm feeling a bit peckish and lunch is calling to me from my rooms."

A man wearing a silver-sequined waistcoat sidled up and draped an arm across her shoulders, speaking too loudly so his T's and P's popped in the microphone. She later recalled the entirety of his presentation, the names and qualifications of the judges, his own moniker–Skylar Barlow. But she put those absurdities aside to focus on what came next.

"Introducing Miss Sunshine Summers!" he concluded with a grand gesture, exiting stage-left. Sounds suddenly vanished and everything was draped in shadow except for her and her guitar. As she touched the strings, their hum resonated through the chamber.

Sunny cleared her throat and strummed a breezy melody that conjured images of lonely expanses, long walks under cloudless skies, and sitting at home by a crackling fireplace. Among those who heard her, only Sunny was immune to the glamor. To her it was a simple guitar played by a simple girl from a simple town in the Midwestern United States, and it had never occurred to her that she might be anything more than that.

For a moment the audience sat in the presence of divinity, not because she played so well but because she played with an unbroken innocence, kept pure by an enduring, enigmatic will. But the moment passed and that simple Midwestern girl began to sing.

Beneath midnight's veil I will eagerly stride where
Mysteries whisper and uncertainty hides
A challenge, a glow, a flame that sparks deep inside

Walking through shadow where dark dwellers play
Confronted with thunder in silence I lay
Or soaring in storms far over the foaming tides

In the theater of life I'll take every cue
Each trial a teacher, a crucible school
I'll walk in the dark, I'll stand in the light
I'll play you a song, I'll dance through the night
I'll take what I'm given and give it back better
I'll give you my heart and still be a debtor
But keep the door open, keep it wide open,
I'll come back to you
I'll come back to you

Sunny leaned over the strings, fingering an impromptu bridge as she assembled the concluding verses in her mind.

Your letter, your words, they drive me to wander
Unknown and unknowable places I'll ponder
I'll walk between worlds our spirits can only imagine

But home is the place where I long to return
Your kiss, your embrace are the things that I yearn for
The hearth of my heart is the only prize worth winning

In the venues of life I'll take all my cues
All my trials can teach me, this arduous school
I'll walk in the dark, I'll stand in the light
I'll sing you a song, I'll dance through the night
I'll take what you give me and give it back better
I'll give you my heart and still be a debtor
Just keep the doors open, please keep them wide open
I'll come back to you
I'll come back to you

She lingered in the melody, shifted keys, then repeated the last two lines in a graceful rallentando.

As the final vibrating notes dissipated, Sunny stood squinting against the lights, letting the guitar hang from its strap, and nothing happened. No applause, no heckling, no sound at all followed for almost a minute.

Then a voice from the audience called out, "Next," and a trapdoor opened beneath Sunny's feet, plunging her once more into darkness.