Ever since reading about 365 tomorrows where these Sci Fi writers plan to have written a short futuristic story for every single day of a year (and these are absolutely fantastic, cramming so much into a mere 200 to 500 words.) ... I've had the urge to write. An easy urge to quell, unfortunately, but an urge none-the-less. It was also apparently, A Storyblogging Carnival's first year anniversary recently as well. It's already past my bed time but I've hit a boiling point with this not writing so I'm going to put up something short. It's inspired by, quite literally, the first thought that comes into my head in the next 30 seconds.
It was just as she opened her mouth that she saw it, out of the corner of her eye: a brief dark shape, flitting in the wings. Against the harsh glare of the twin spotlights, it was a mere blemish, rapid and gone. But it was enough to cut into her focus. Her first note soured, landing a shade flat, and the conductor scowled. Quickly, however, her twenty years of vocal training at the Institute took hold, moving her diaphragm, vocal chords and tongue exactly as she had in rehersals, instinctively, freeing her mind for more immediate concerns.
Who was the shadowy man behind the curtain, what was he doing, and most pressing, where had he gone? She'd been through every inch of this stage as they'd set up for the opening performance, knowing where all the trap doors were and from whence her two suitors in this literal soap opera had appeared in puffs of theatrical trickery. There was not one just inside the wings stage left.
Her aria finished admist the intense yet ordered applause that signaled that not one of the typically tone-deaf opera-goers had noticed her starting gaff. She stood, forced a smile, and tugged politely upwards at her layered dress, watching the stage lights dim and the curtain fall. Before it'd gotten below her knees, she was in the wings, questioning the stage hands. Of course, they denied seeing anything. "Opening day jitters", they said under their breath as they brought her perfumed water.
She lifted a length of rope from the floor, angrily demanding explanations. It was the rope from the last Act. The others laughed, "You know actors," they joked, taking it from her, "so self-absorbed that they drop props as soon as they get a chance, strutting into the wings." After that they paid her no heed, having a complex set to clear. But, she knew the play well enough to know that he had exited stage right.
Shaking off the jitters, she headed back to the dressing room, and a certainly upset musical director. She needed a hot bath and rest before another performance tomorrow. Instinctively, she glanced the hall mirror as she passed, to compose herself.
A man's face looked back. Christine screamed, her voice dissolving into a croak.
Out front above all the exiting guests, the large opera chandelier tinkled with a viscious merriment.
--C.
And no, actually, I wasn't listening to the obvious music at the time, I was just thinking about music and this happened. I know it could be a lot better, but I'm tired.