At her Grandmother’s behest, Sunday’s weekday name was given. Born last of nine siblings, Sunday refused to hide her powerful singing voice among her talented brothers and sisters. A bratty little girl grows up and paves her way through the cruel music industry. Along her journey, she finds heartache, pain, triumph, and lastly redemption. It’s Sunday, by Sunday S. Lewis, Topazpublishingllc.com
Sunday Stepney Lewis
Sunday Stepney Lewis is a proud Texas native. At her Grandmother’s behest, Sunday’s weekday name was given. Sunday loves to sing, write, and enjoys playing the piano. Born last of nine siblings, Sunday refused to hide her big voice among her talented brothers and sisters. A bratty little girl grows up and paves her way through the cruel music industry. Along her journey, she finds, heartache, pain, triumph, and redemption.
Although I was withdrawn and shy, the thought of singing brought boldness to my timid heart. I’m so excited to embark on this new adventure of writing. Being able to express views, opinions, thoughts and feeling takes me to a higher height in self fulfillment.
Excerpt: It's Sunday, by Sunday S. Lewis
Waiting, Mrs. Simon tapped her pen on her clipboard. It echoed throughout the classroom.The judges turned their eyes and looked at the other. Then, Mr. Jones shrugged.“Anytime now, Sunday.”
A knot drew my stomach tight. Was now the perfect time for a restroom break? I had to think of something. Their lips were drawn. It was obvious these people were not impressed with my impression of a chicken.
I inhaled, and then placed my foot atop the other. Think Sunday. Pretend you’re at home in the bathroom mirror. A wave of nausea came over me. I held my stomach visualizing myself as I stood atop a step stool in my bathroom. With hair brush to my lips, I sang loud and clear. Yes,the bathroom was my sanctuary. It was my turn to shine. The shower curtains were the perfect accent for my grand performance. I’d gaze in the mirror, while perfect lyrics flowed from my lips. The angels in heaven were applauding, of that I was sure.
Of course, my father had a problem with my singing. He loved his evening television shows. After a few bars of my favorite song, I usually heard, “Sunday! Shut your mouth, or close that door. I don’t care which one you do. I can’t hear the television with you screaming!”
Close the door—are you kidding? The acoustics were perfect. My voice was so lovely against the bathroom walls. How could dad not appreciate my God given talent? Notes floated toward the ceiling, then wafted over me like sprinkles of sunshine and daisies. “Okay Daddy. I’ll close the door!”
After climbing from my perch, I’d close the bathroom door. Then, I’d reclaim the awaiting stool. Eyeing myself in the mirror, I pondered. How could a man with such a discriminating musical ear, choose a television program over my beautiful singing voice. Now, it was time to put my private practice, or screaming as my daddy called it, into action.
“Sunday.” Mrs. Greenly raised her voice to get my attention. “Today, sweetheart.”
Startled by the sound, I gasped. Mrs. Greenly had invaded my day dream. Now, it was time to introduce the world to my talent.