The First Sentence

Text 1: The Hall, by Mira Dallow

An original short story extract.

From behind the curtain, the school hall no longer looked like the place where we ate lunch. It had become a dark mouth waiting for me to step inside. Rows of parents faced the empty stage, whispering and coughing. Above them, the clock clicked steadily towards seven.

I held my cue cards with both hands. I knew the first sentence. I knew the second sentence. I knew exactly when to pause. Then I looked down and realised that the cards were damp at the edges.

My name was called.

The applause began too soon, stopped too quickly and left a silence behind it. As I crossed the stage, the microphone breathed through the speakers. My shoes struck the wooden floor with four loud knocks. Everyone could hear me coming.

My first word escaped as a squeak. The cue cards rattled like rain against a window, and the letters seemed to swim across the page. I took one slow breath and found the first sentence. Then I found the next. By the second paragraph, the hall had shrunk back into an ordinary room. A boy in the front row smiled. At the final line, I placed the cards on the lectern and looked directly at the audience.