More writing for my reader(s)

I have a question for you all. If I can get AT LEAST ten different people to comment on this post, I will bust out my awesome novel, which is getting amazingly close to finished, and will most likely end off at around 35 pages at the least.

But you need something to read right now. In school this week, we wrote descriptive narratives. The piece I'm giving you is just that. It's titled Solo Piece.

People were talking, human chatter in the background, but they were muffled by the darkness. Then light came, and the three pieces shone in silvery light. Warm hands wrapped around each piece and delicately set them together, one sliding into the other to make the familiar image of a flute, with its thin silvery rods going down the flute, holding the buttons in place, round disks with the indents to hold fingers in place on the smooth metal. The hands brought it up, placing her fingers in the grooves and her lips along the metal lips of the flute, rolling the instrument until the rough edges aren’t felt and the smooth cold metal is against her lower lip. She could smell the bitter scent of the metal as she took a deep breath and directed her exhale into the hole of the flute, producing a low whistling sound. She pressed her lips into a tight circle and a clear sound rang out like a bell. She moved her fingers, lifting certain buttons and the tone changed, moving upward and downward in a scale. Someone brought out a black music stand, and a paper was placed on it. There were lines all along the paper, with dots on or between the lines to signify the different tones, a written language foreign to some, but was second nature to the two. She took a deep breath, smooth out her simple black dress and a curtain was lifted, revealing the people. They were friends, family members, neighbors, and all here to listen. She took another breath and started to read aloud the story of the composition. She blew into her flute and her fingers pressed on the keys, and soon she was lost in the sound of the familiar tune.
The sound moved up and down, swelled and shrank away, then swelled again with each breath, and it chirped and whistled. The audience sat in their seats, awed by the sound, some swaying with the music. The player remained steady, except for her fingers, which pressed the keys in a password to unlock the notes on the paper. When she got to the end, the note reverberated through the building, carrying the fresh memories of the song to the walls and curtains. She brought the flute down to her side and took a bow before returning to where she first was to retire the flute to its case. She took a soft rag from her case and threaded it through each flute piece, rubbing along the keys, sticky from the oil on her fingers, and along the rest of the flute, examining the tiny dents and scratches from years of use along the pipe shape. She finished her ritual, and got up to greet her fans and accept congratulations and hugs.