Nancy’s Bio:

Nancy began writing in December 2009 as a way of “reconnecting the wires,” helping to restore memory and cognitive function following twenty years of chronic Lyme disease. Her therapy immediately became a passion, and she joined both a local writers’ group and an online work-shopping community. She also works as a clinical massage therapist, helping to rehab injuries in both horses and humans. In her spare time she hikes, raises chickens, and plays with her two horses, Lucy and Louise.

Nancy was born in California, grew up on the North Shore of Massachusetts, and now lives with her husband, Jim, in southern New Hampshire. Her story, “Lime Green and Not Deep,” was recently accepted for publication by A Cup of Comfort® books, and her novel-in-progress, Finding Sara, has been selected as a finalist in the Strongest Start Four competition on the Next Big Writer website. Current projects include a number of short stories, a novel about a young woman who hears voices in her head, and daily writing practice, experimenting with a wide range of genres and voices.

Note

By Nancy DeMarco

She stepped shyly into the light, her feet lead, her heart trembling, leaping against her ribs like a cricket behind the sticky fingers of a small boy. She took note of the judges’ tight smiles, allowed each a moment of acknowledgement before nodding to the accompanist. She was the youngest entrant, hastily added following a last-minute rule change that allowed thirteen-year-olds to compete.

She pretended it didn’t mean everything.

The single strike of one piano key sang the starting point, the note drawn, vibrating on thick air, slowly dying against stark walls and empty eyes. She sucked in a quavering breath, her lean belly swelling against the too-expensive dress, hesitating.

The accompanist repeated the note, stronger, in case she had not heard, in case she needed the gentle push. She let go her mouth, released her throat and allowed her soul to spill forth, her spirit claiming the silence.

The judges sat mesmerized, transported by the child, her voice swelling like a prayer, drawing them to unimaginable heights, dashing them against the wind. With her they were plucked from the projects and soared, flying free amid the tenors of her heart. They drowned in the rich timbre of her voice, fell with her to the angry streets, learned of love and loss and courage in the face of unimaginable pain. They died and were raised up, held aloft by the final note, timeless, singing of a hope almost too beautiful to bear.

In the hush that followed she stepped back, flushed, her heart finally calm. The judges whispered among themselves, embarrassed, nervous laughter hiding the raw truths unveiled by her song. They pointed to one note, sharp, a momentary distraction from an otherwise flawless performance. She was young, they said. Consistency would come with time. She could try again the following year.

She stood tall as the words crushed her heart, the ache of wanting, the sting of failure, another crushing blow to the still fresh wounds beneath the pancake makeup. But faith and daring remained unbroken, ready to dig deeper, ready to work harder, longing to sing again.

***