Unfortunately, I am late with this, but blogger's also been down for about an hour. That's right, I am partaking in the genius of my darling blogmother, whose work in this particular case is being carried on by a lady of equal greatness, my blogaunt Silk. Silk changed the premise to three inspiring pictures. For once, I actually used two of them. This Friday only, ladies and gentlemen, my blogmother is hosting it again for Silk at Silk's whilst the dear adventurous blogaunt goes on safari, so to speak. Limited supplies, so be sure to stop by!
This idea started creeping and crawling through my brain on Tuesday, and I began to write it then, but college took over until this afternoon. Here is my contribution:
Crysten dusted off the old trunk with her fingers. Slowly, she uncovered the words Theatrical Productions, worn as they were. She was in the loft of the carriage house she had just purchased. It was located behind an old theatre mansion of great renown, which still held an air of past glory about it. Here, the real estate agent had said, many brilliant works had been performed in all elegance and splendour – masterpieces at every turn. No one ever entered that building anymore. It was said to no longer be structurally sound, and visited, so to speak, by those who know no use for doors.
Her fingers traced the letters on the trunk. Gingerly, she unlatched the lock and carefully opened the lid. Moths flew out at her, stirring the dust around. The insects did not faze her. She stared, awestruck, at the contents of the trunk. Inside was a treasure trove. Silks of regal colours lay before her, faded yet still magical. Beaded gowns, intricate sashes, frilled shirts. A wide array of whimsical costumes lay before her. She felt as though she knew the exhilaration Howard Carter had known at Tutankhamen’s tomb in 1922.
She brushed against the fabric, and as it rustled, she was transformed entirely
– the sensation felt like she was drowning. All around her was darkness as she gasped for breath, reaching out and around until she was –
suddenly a floor dancer. It was evening, and she was entering a great performance hall – seemingly of the theatre mansion, but in days of yore. The room was brightly lit, and full of guests in high dress. All around her were members of her troupe, dressed in similar rich and lustrous attire. She glanced down, and gasped. She was wearing the fabric she had just touched, but it was in mint condition. Crysten noted the headdresses of those surrounding her, and felt the top of her head. She was dressed just as they were, from head to toe.
And then they were rushing forward with the start of the music. She leaped, she pirouetted, she danced as all the others danced. Inside, Crysten panicked as the tempo picked up. She had no reason to be frazzled, however; her feet seemed to know all the steps already. Her body flowed with the music as she whirled around the long sash she hadn’t been holding until a moment ago. Or had she?
She twirled and swayed as
– she found herself in darkness again. Swimming with the swirling nothingness around her this time, she found herself swept away. The fabric ripped away from her, leaving her empty, and then she –
was in the arms of an unfamiliar man. His kiss was so sweet, his grasp so strong. Music danced about them, Music and its masked partner, Time. A masqueraded meeting, and a forbidden one? It felt that way to Crysten. But why did he have such a heavenly glow about him? She resisted his clutches, and started to run. Yet she could not escape. He held her by the black angel wings on her back. She looked back, and his eyes pleaded with her. As much as she wanted to stay with him, to be his, instinct told her that it would be wrong. There was something against her laws here. Her laws, or the laws of her family. No ‘fallen angels’ for ‘heavenly beings.’ She flung his hands away as she raced from him. Once outside, Crysten hid her face in shame and sorrow as the mists enveloped her.
The mist gave way to a tranquil, lonely beach. And as she looked down, she noticed
– the colours churned about her, pinks and violets and mosses mixing together, a rainbow scene before the darkness fell upon her again, and then she –
was a nereid. She was robed in the elements of the sea. Its spray kissed her skin and she dove into its waves. Its colours covered her body. Her pores opened to the sea’s caressing touch, and she began to sing its praises. Crysten did not recognize the voice, nor did she understand the words coming forth from her lips. Her mouth seemed to know what it was saying, though, and the sea found it pleasing. She sang about the joy of the sea, its power, its gentleness, and the creatures came from the deep to listen.
By the light of the moon, she beckoned them forth, embracing them. She nurtured their young, laughed at their spunk. The old she soothed. She swooned at the acts of the mighty males, and their praises she added to those of the sea. The mothers she greeted as sisters, and her words spun a golden light about them all.
They nudged at her hand gently, hoping for the favour of her touch. And once again, her hand slipped from that fabric, and she
– saw the stars bursting forth. Beautiful streams of light were emitted, bright and clear. And the sun came blazing toward her, warming and drying her skin, --
turning her into a bronze goddess. She leapt onto the passing chariot, pulled by four majestic, fiery horses. The god driving the team smiled, greeting her as old friends do. Then, stepping aside, he let her guide the team as they traveled across the sky. Crysten gulped, fearing she would lose control. But her hands were firm and strong, and she guided the team well.
Far below, she could see the people of the world, toiling away at their duties, interacting with each other. To her, this view was a beautiful thing. Smiling with satisfaction, she passed the reins back to him, and as her fingers left the smooth golden leather, she
– found herself once more spinning in darkness. Now, though, the darkness was comforting to her, like an old friend. She wished for it to continue, and –
it took her back whence she came. She found herself sitting in the carriage loft, before the trunk; her fingers had fallen to the floor.