B is for Broken by Brittany Warman

Author:Brittany Warman
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Poise and Pen Publishing
Published: 2015-04-16T00:00:00+00:00

N is for Negatives

Michael M. Jones

THE Theatre of Dreams stands alone, small and unimposing against its surroundings. It’s located on the outskirts of the Gaslight District, Puxhill’s oldest and strangest community, set back a little ways from the road itself. Save for a small sign, you’d never know what the building truly was. There is no ticket booth; you cannot call ahead or pre-order here. There are no prices listed; entrance is paid with innocence and secrets, whispers and hopes. There are no hours posted; either you know when performances are, or you do not. The Theatre is not listed in any newspapers, trade magazines, or travel guides. It does not advertise. It doesn’t need to.

It’s Friday night, and the marquee reads, “Juliet Sinclair, appearing irregularly.” No other explanation is needed. She is the star. She is the Dreamer.

It’s almost time for the midnight show and the people are still outside. The crowd is curiously mixed, college students and socialites sharing the same sidewalk—jeans and T-shirts clashing against tuxedoes and gowns. Strangest of all, however, are the Theatre’s most devoted attendees. Divided into two factions, they circle each other like tired boxers, neither willing to start something, but each convinced they’re the only “true” fans, that the others are poseurs and fakes. The Funereal Children come decked out in their best mourning clothes, all black and lace, veils and tears, while the Unquiet Sleepers move with heavy-lidded distant eyes, garbed in nightgowns and robes, clutching articles of comfort to their chests.

Finally, the doors open. Quietly, eagerly, the patrons file into the converted playhouse to take their places in the circular auditorium, settling into velvet seats that oppress with faded opulence and murky charm. Even the first-time patrons instinctively fall silent, nary a whisper escaping anticipation-laced lips. A faint cough hacks forth, hushed with sheepish haste before the atmosphere is poisoned. Funereal Children, socialites, Sleepers, students, yuppies—all wait patiently. All are equal here.

The lights dim, throwing the room into pitch-blackness. In flagrant disregard for safety guidelines, not even an illuminated emergency exit sign violates the darkness. A low throbbing, the sound of a giant heart beating, resonates through the walls and seats.

A spotlight clicks on, shining down upon a simple bed in the middle of the stage, an old oak four-poster with creamy white sheets which glow almost fluorescent. Gliding in time to the heartbeat, a young woman seems to sleepwalk down the aisle. Her movements are languid, her nightgown filmy and vaguely transparent against the single light. She is thin and pale, a mere wisp of a figure. Her hair is cornsilk verging on platinum, worn loose almost to her waist. Her eyes are closed.

Deep in her trance, the woman—Juliet Sinclair—climbs into bed. Within minutes, she has passed into sleep, chest rising and falling in slow rhythm, matching the ominous heartbeat

Minutes tick by, the audience still and silent. Beyond the sharp boundaries of that single spotlight, velvet darkness grips them in its embrace, the heartbeat linking them together, synchronizing their breaths.

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.