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To wit: this week's Thursday Prompt is based on an image by DonCoyote, for which you can get all the info you need here.
The image upon which this 365 is based is here.
On the stage, the ensemble; the lighting sublime, the mood tentative, the postures full of emotion – or restraint – suiting the atmosphere and the needs of each character. She pouted and gave a distant look into the wings; he leaned ominously forward, projecting himself into the theatre; they filled the space, their voices mute and their presence no more of interest than that of the painted mirror behind them; he added menace, ready to turn heads and gain admirers at the stage door (and later, in his unkempt bed.)
The smoke swirl of a Turkish cigarette drifted lazily through the path of a primary spotlight, lending to the scene an air of film noir it did not deserve.
The backdrop was rich, voluptuous in browns and gold, redolent with the faux reflection that showed no theatre. The table around which they posed could have been taken from a gothic mansion, though its source was far more common: a craft shop not two minutes from the stage door, in which a wheezing Michelangelo created illusion after illusion for which no-one cared, sawdust soon to be the cause of his demise.
The action slowed, the moment of truth approaching. The actors stiffened into that pose upon which the moment depended. A hush descended that might deafen a infinity of angelic choirs. The light sharpened, focused and hot, beading sweat on the brow of the lead, his gravity pulling watchers into his orbit, as that single line – the sucker punch around which the entire play orbited – readied itself to be heard.
"You di— ahukk, ahhmm, ah-HEEEHHHMM…" gargled the lead.
The ensemble turned to look, their breaking character caused by the concerto of choking, and concern for their luvvie.
"Oh fuck," he gasped, waving a paw before his face, "I think I swallowed a fly!"
He descended through a octave of splutters until his phlegm-laden clarification yielded fruit: the fly appeared glutinously upon the table.
"Oh, gross!"
"Really!"
"Oh, come ON, Johnny, what the fuck?"
A cackle erupted from the gods.
"Awright, you clowns! From the top, one more time! Just don't do this shit when we got an audience, you get me?"
Johnny turned his head.
The image upon which this 365 is based is here.
oOoOn the stage, the ensemble; the lighting sublime, the mood tentative, the postures full of emotion – or restraint – suiting the atmosphere and the needs of each character. She pouted and gave a distant look into the wings; he leaned ominously forward, projecting himself into the theatre; they filled the space, their voices mute and their presence no more of interest than that of the painted mirror behind them; he added menace, ready to turn heads and gain admirers at the stage door (and later, in his unkempt bed.)
The smoke swirl of a Turkish cigarette drifted lazily through the path of a primary spotlight, lending to the scene an air of film noir it did not deserve.
The backdrop was rich, voluptuous in browns and gold, redolent with the faux reflection that showed no theatre. The table around which they posed could have been taken from a gothic mansion, though its source was far more common: a craft shop not two minutes from the stage door, in which a wheezing Michelangelo created illusion after illusion for which no-one cared, sawdust soon to be the cause of his demise.
The action slowed, the moment of truth approaching. The actors stiffened into that pose upon which the moment depended. A hush descended that might deafen a infinity of angelic choirs. The light sharpened, focused and hot, beading sweat on the brow of the lead, his gravity pulling watchers into his orbit, as that single line – the sucker punch around which the entire play orbited – readied itself to be heard.
"You di— ahukk, ahhmm, ah-HEEEHHHMM…" gargled the lead.
The ensemble turned to look, their breaking character caused by the concerto of choking, and concern for their luvvie.
"Oh fuck," he gasped, waving a paw before his face, "I think I swallowed a fly!"
He descended through a octave of splutters until his phlegm-laden clarification yielded fruit: the fly appeared glutinously upon the table.
"Oh, gross!"
"Really!"
"Oh, come ON, Johnny, what the fuck?"
A cackle erupted from the gods.
"Awright, you clowns! From the top, one more time! Just don't do this shit when we got an audience, you get me?"
Johnny turned his head.
oOo
Category Story / All
Species Unspecified / Any
Size 119 x 120px
File Size 339 B
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