A short story by Emma Lairson. The challenge was to use these words: carnival, sprained, mask, oxidation, awkward, apple, juvenile, controversy, twirl, sassafras.

Plopping myself down at the bar, I take a big juicy bite of my apple, which I brought to eat in between sets. I take a look around the room, my eyes landing on a couple that looks like they are on an awkward first date. I shake my head and think, Good luck, before finishing my perusal of the room. On the dance floor a lone woman twirls around seemingly lost in her own head.

“Do you want anything, Pen?” Chloe, the bartender and my friend, asks.

“I’ll take a root beer, extra sassafras,” I say with a finger gun and a wink.

She rolls her eyes but says nothing as she fills my order. My attention is diverted to the muted television and the controversial bullshit that takes up screen time. Scoffing, I turn back to the bar where my drink is waiting for me to consume. Thanking Chloe, I make my way towards the stage.

My second set as the bar’s only piano performer is about to start, so I get comfortable on the bench. This job, while keeping my skills fresh, is a waste of my talent and hard work. I put on my mask of professionalism and start playing. I start with some calming mood music before slipping into some upbeat carnival music. A couple people look over in surprise but are swept away again into their conversations.

A couple hours later, I’m finishing up and closing the piano. I’m grabbing my things from the staff room when my other friend Ethan, walks in.

“How have you been?” I ask.

Ethan was out for a week with a sprained ankle. Having the tendency to overshare, Ethan goes into detail how he sustained the injury during a complicated sexual act.

“Ethan,” I groan.

“Oh, shush. I know you live vicariously through me since you haven’t had any action since man invented electricity,” he smirks.

I stick out my tongue in a juvenile statement of how I feel about his assumption. His very correct assumption.

“Hey, are you still coming over to help my niece with her homework?” Ethan asks.

“Yep.”

“Okay, good. I don’t remember anything from high school, let alone oxidation or whatever.”

Now it’s my turn to smirk. The smirk fades as I walk out. I’m good at all, but a master at none, I think. I feel as if I’m just existing, never doing the things that I love or pictured myself doing when I was young, but in some ways doing better than others.

I’m not going up or down, I’m static, just staying the same. That isn’t good enough for me anymore. Something needs to change, I think as I step out into the warm summer night that now seems filled with possibilities.