The Curtain Opens…

B. J. Thompson
Aug 23, 2017 · 4 min read

The publicity had been phenomenal. Nothing like it ever seen before or since.

La Ville du Monde had a centuries old baroquial theatre coined Le Teatre du Fantasme which could seat a thousand souls, but tickets had long sold out, mostly to the uber-wealthy and the well connected. It would be a black tie, long gown and fur stole evening, the red velvet rug having already been unfurled onto the many mottled-green marble stairs which lead up to the colonnade entrance.

Paparazzi had amassed as did the town’s many spectators,

the huddled masses spying up and down the boulevard for stretch ebony limousines and black lacquered cabriolet’s or landaus, their breath creating mini fog clouds, their cheeks as rosy-red as the VIP carpet, their anticipation as electric as the fluttering flame of the outer brass lanterns and the shimmering glow of the inner crystal chandeliers.

Amid the flash-cracks of camera bulbs, the effervescent laughter and chat and the bang-pop-fizz of champagne bottles, soon the red velvet upholstered seats were filled and the Hall lights dimmed, the palpable swell of excitement dying down to a deathly silence only a dropping pin could appreciate.

~~~

“I took a peek, Brad, and oh boy, it’s a full house. More glittering bobbles on the necks and wrists of the audience members than in the house chandeliers. We’re playing to the height of society tonight. I think I’m going to vomit.”

As he carefully adjusted his fake pencil moustache one more time in the light bulb bordered mirror, Brad replied, “Oh, Jane, calm yourself. One audience is like another, you should know that by now. The great societal leveller is that every audience is made up of humans yearning for escape. They will react as we have planned for them to react. We’ve rehearsed until we’re blue in the face, memorizing our own lines as well as everyone else’s. We have nothing to worry about, you just watch.”

“Says you. I’m putting a waste paper basket at Stage Right, just in case.”

Brad laughed and gently took the arm of his leading lady, who was gloriously bedecked in a flowing ivory moire taffeta gown, the remainder of the cast — in total, eight playhouse actors — followed his lead, exiting their backstage dressing rooms, the troupe on tip toe making their way down the darkened backstage hall and onto centre stage, taking their places in soft moss green damask upholstered settees or in front of the brass drinks cart or aside the stately white marble fireplace in this Victorian era styled parlour stage set for Act I.

The dead-weight red velvet curtains were still drawn but on the other side, programme cards could be heard fluttering and the orchestra tuning up. Above the actors heads one could see stage hands on the catwalk performing final adjustments on the klieg lighting.

Seconds left, time enough to breathe in, breathe out, to facilitate mind and body relaxation so the artistic muse could to enter the souls of these play-house actors.

The centre curtain rising as the side curtains opened…

~~~

Not a whisper, not a clap. The troupe was met with an errant stillness from the audience. And though the lighting should have been directed on stage, it was shining glaringly bright into the hall, enabling the actors an unobstructed view of their watchers.

Shrieks and screams and thumps on the floor were the next sounds heard as several actors erupted and others fainted in shock.

The audience was dead.
Stone cold dead.

One thousand souls on the first floor, second and third balconies full, drenched in their own blood, still wet, oozing and gliding in rivulets down their corpses. Heads forced askew, eyeballs bulging, arms and legs flopping or splayed, bodies barely hanging onto their chairs, others, in rows and aisles, crumpled onto the rug below. Elegant gowns splotched and stained a grotesque red, men’s crisp white button-down tuxedo shirts assaulted with the harried blood splatter equally adorning the theatre walls.

The metallic and fetid blood odour of the dead had two women actors vomit into their laps, the acrid effuse forcing a few more to join in on the horrid vomit parade.

The side curtains closed and the centre curtain descended.

One Act plays, no matter one’s Point of View, can be blood chilling….

~~~

Clap, and keep clapping, if you liked this micro play, and thank you.

)
B. J. Thompson

Written by

North-Irish-Canadian literary novelist who yearns to hack out tales on either side of Cocktail Hour...

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