Considering it's due in less than an hour, I'd appreciate any quick feedback you might have.
Prompt: Topic of your choice (unless you have a better idea - I couldn't think of any option this essay could fit under)
I can fly.
No, seriously. I spread my arms, take a running start, jump as high as I can, and I'm flying. The ground falls away beneath my feet, and suddenly the world is made of toy cars and dollhouses. I'm floating, I'm falling up, I'm flying until my mother throws off the covers and demands to know just what the hell I'm still doing in bed when school started half an hour ago.
"Go 'way, Mom. I'm trying to fly," I mumble, clutching my pillow in a dream-fogged stupor.
"You're not flying, and if you don't get up in five seconds you'll be grounded."
With a start, I realize that the fetal position is conducive neither to flight nor mother's delight. In four seconds flat, I'm stumbling groggily into the bathroom. A glance out the window at the gray Monday sky confirms that the universe hates early mornings as much as I do. Today, a thought has half-formed in my still-hazy mind: I don't have to stop flying if no one says otherwise. A splash of cold water washes the notion out of my head for the rest of the day.
I have a piano audition after school. As we pull into our parking spot, my dad turns around and gives me the dreaded Serious Look. "Look," he begins, "I know you practiced this piece a lot. You've been working really hard to learn it, and I'm proud of you for doing so much, but you just started learning this piece last month. I know your teacher's been cramming in two or three lessons a week for you, but even so, you know you're not ready. I really don't think you should even enter this competition."
I give him another moment to make sure he's finished with his monologue before I respond. "Bit late for that now, Dad. Don't worry, I'm sure I'll do fine," I say, flashing him a smile full of false cheer. I hop out of the car and head over to the front doors, where my piano teacher is waiting anxiously. "Come on, you're up soon," she says, ushering me hurriedly inside. As we wait outside the audition room, I can feel my sweaty palms wrinkling the sheet music. She notices my restless shifting. "What's wrong?"
I scratch my head sheepishly. "Ah... to be honest, I'm pretty sure I'm not ready for this audition."
My teacher snorts derisively. "You can't think like that while you're walking into the room. I spent ten hours with you on this piece; there's no way you're not getting in."
I'm not sure if that's a promise, a reassurance, or a threat; whatever it is, her careless confidence is contagious. I enter the room, fully certain that I can't fail. All the way up to the piano, past the panel of judges with expressions of supreme boredom plastered across their faces, I'm walking on air.
It's not flying. It's pretty close, though.
My teacher calls later that night to report a successful audition. "Was there ever any doubt?" I ask smugly.
"Oh, definitely," she replies. "I thought for sure you wouldn't make it in. Good thing I didn't say that; you definitely would've failed if I had."
I shrug. I take my victories where I can.
As I curl up in preparation for another night's flight, my morning's fragmented musing finally pulls itself together into a more coherent thought: flying isn't about believing you can. It's about not believing you can't.
Comments, please - the harsher the better.