Archibald

   Archibald stood up and took a bow.  He looked at all the smiling faces and realized that this was it.  This was what he had worked for.  The theatre was filled to the brim, people were standing outside hoping to catch a glimpse of the virtuoso.

   "This must be a bit like what Heaven feels like", Archibald thought as he soaked in the applause.  The air tasted sweet as honey; sugary, effervescent, joy. The kind of memory to look back on in the darkest pales of melancholy.

  The crowd began to chant, "Encore! Encore! Encore!" Over and over again.  So Archibald re-seated himself, left hand flipping violin to chin, right finding the bow.  With a minuscule nod the backing orchestra readied themselves.  He closed his eyes and let his fingers dance upon the strings.  The orchestra followed Archibald's lead, improvising, adding emphasis. The Victorian crowd erupted with approval, shouting, whooping with elation and uncharacteristically shedding their carefully arranged composure.  Wild abandon became the style for the night.  Archibald reveled in it and created music that would not be heard again for years to come.  Jazz was born if but for a moment.  A night to live on through nothing but memory, only familiarity.