The exercise:
Write about: the musical.
Had some time to recoup this morning before taking the boys for the afternoon. Caught up on a few comments on the blog, started reading a new book.
Speaking of which, fair warning: it's John Connolly's Wrath of Angels. That means my writing might get a tad darker for a little while, as my favorite author tends towards grim writing.
Anyway. On with tonight's writing before sleep is the victor once again.
Mine:
"This must be a misprint."
"What, in the playbill? The show's been on for months now, that doesn't seem likely."
"Maybe I'm the first one to actually read this stupid thing. It's almost as long as a novel, after all."
"Fair point. Okay, what's the problem?
"See? Right here? It says this is a musical."
"Yeah... that's because it is. Didn't you know that?"
"You can't be serious."
"Dude. You are the one who cannot be serious. This thing has been selling out since day one. I practically had to kill a man to get us these tickets. How could you not know it's a musical?"
"But, man... it's a play about Hitler!"
3 comments:
I'm back! It's been a long summer, but school starts tomorrow so I'm getting back in the routine.
==============
Practice and practice for all of two weeks
Today's the big day, the curtain goes up
Absolutely serious, the children begin to sing.
@Morganna: welcome back! That's a nice little poem to start your return with, and... is the acrostic deliberate?
@Marc: John Connolly rings a bell but I can't bring to mind anything I've read by him which means I've probably only read one book by him. I'm pretty sure it was on Kindle, so I'll be able to look it up at some point :) I'm looking forward to seeing your writing get grim and dark!
I love the length of the playbill; that made me laugh. As for a musical about Hitler -- I haven't checked by I'm pretty sure it's been done. But I'd definitely like to hear more about this musical :)
The musical
It was hard to tell where the clouds began and the smoke ended, or vice versa. The sky was grey and black and there was a bitter taste in the air; the hills around had been burning on and off for days so it wasn't unexpected, but it still tasted like something was afire that perhaps shouldn't be. The sunset was a collection of angry reds and oranges: given the right artist it could have been beautiful or it could have been the entrance to hell. Jake sighed and turned away from it, the boards of the porch creaking under his bare feet. In the doorway, holding the screen-door open with a liver-spotted, wrinkled hand, was his father.
"Jeez Dad," he said, not exactly angry. "you'll give me a heart attack doin' that. You want me in a pine-box before you, is that it?"
His father spat, missing the terracotta planter by inches, and stepped out onto the porch. His other hand held two beer bottles, and he offered one to Jake.
"Don't you be talkin' like that," he said. "Lest'n it come true. I buried your mother already and Lord knows I'll bury you if that's His plan, but don't you go wishin' that on me."
"Sorry Dad."
"It's an evenin' for them. You should be careful out here."
Jake pulled on the beer bottle. It was imported lager with an acrid pilsner bite to it.; his dad had great taste in both food and drink. "An evening for whom?" he asked.
"An evening for whom," mimicked his father without malice. "Sure should've got y'all those elocutin' lessons when y'all were a littl'un, hey?"
"Talkin' nice helps for the musicals," said Jake. "Iff'n I talked like this all the time I'd never get out on stage. A nice evenin' for who then, Dad?"
"The night birds," said his father. "Fluttering around the windows near-silent like, looking for a chink or a gap or some other tiny hole they can crawl in through."
A shadow might have passed across a band of red sunset at that moment, but it could have been a floater in Jake's eye.
"You used to tell me to close the windows up tight at the end of summer," said Jake. "You never said why. The night birds?"
"The night birds."
They sipped their beers some more, and the breeze picked up, still warmed by the fires in the hills.
"What do they do if'n they get in?"
"They land on your head, tangle their little feets up with your hair and steal your dreams. When y'all wake up in the morning and y'all can't remember falling asleep the night before -- that's the night birds been at your head. But y'all daren't wake up too early, 'cause if y'all affrit them they'll rip your scalp right off your head."
They finished the beers in silence, watching tiny black shapes silhouetted against the dying embers of the sunset.
"Thanks Dad," said Jake.
Morganna - hurray! Welcome back :)
That's a sweet image you've painted for us. And whether this acrostic was intentional or not, I find myself looking forward to reading more of your work in that style!
Greg - he writes the Charlie Parker detective series. I enjoyed the first book the least but it has gotten stronger and stronger with every entry since. So if you've only read the first, I highly suggest you give the second a shot.
I actually did a quick search before picking Hitler as the subject. The only thing that came up was Springtime for Hitler, which was in The Producers movie, so maybe that's what you're thinking of?
Note: full title is actually Springtime for Hitler: A Gay Romp With Eva and Adolf at Berchtesgaden
Ah, I see you've been inspired by my night birds ridiculousness. This makes me very happy. Love the dialogue here, as well as the background scenery. Very nicely done :)
Post a Comment