It is finished.
Kicking open the screen door with the bridge of my pointed foot, I leap onto the porch. The sound of a thousand plaudits greets me. My audience is standing, a sign of their approval and admiration. They have released a murder of crows in my honor. In their arms are pouches full of yellow gemstones: citrine and topaz, rewards for my outstanding performance. I curtsy and pirouette into cornfields, witnesses to my bloody exhibition. I wait, hidden amongst the stalks like a child.
There is barely enough time for mingling, however; the police sirens are announcing Act II.