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Week 30 - Critical Hit
The door jangled as I opened it and inhaled the warm, welcoming aromas; I needed a coffee, and I needed it fast. Sheryl, the hippy-artist-grandmotherly type who ran the café, greeted me with her usual cheer. "Morning, love, how'd it go?"
I smiled wanly and waggled my hand in the so-so gesture, belying my actual thoughts. We'd nailed it last night, with none of the usual hiccups of a first-night performance. The audience had been on their feet. That hadn't stopped me lying awake for hours, replaying it through in my head. Had I missed that note, or held it too long? Did I remember to hold the dramatic pause at the end of Act II, as Sam, the director, had hammered into me?
Sheryl grinned, her dangly earrings chiming. "I'm sure it was great. You've been working on this for so long."
She'd know; we were in here every evening, thrashing out and rehashing whatever we'd been rehearsing. She was privy to all the politics and peccadilloes to be found in every theatre troupe. I'd confided my crush on Erik to her, and sat up drinking with her all night when her daughter left for Australia. She was practically our mascot.
I smiled back at her. "Thanks, Sheryl."
The door chimed, and I turned to see Sam coming in, wiping the dirty sidewalk snow off his boots. I waved to him, and headed for our usual corner, drink in hand. The couches were shabby, with that embracing softness that makes it so hard to leave. Just like Sheryl.
Our corner filled up over the next hour, as we traded jokes and worried over how each scene had gone. We drank too much coffee, and indulged in Sheryl's comfort food. Her omelette could heal a broken heart. It was tradition, just as it was that Erik would be the last to arrive.
At last he did. As expected, there was a newspaper tucked under his arm. We waited, tense with pretended nonchalance, as he spoke to Sheryl, collected his drink and came over. He squeezed into the middle of the couch, his taut thigh hot against mine, and I suppressed a thrill of desire as he made a great show of settling into place, carefully sipping his drink and adjusting the cushions behind him. At last he sat back, and as on so many other mornings-after-the-first-night-before, he held up the paper and said, "Let us consult the Curmudgeon."
James Curgeon was the local theatre critic. We'd called him "the Curmudgeon" ever since our first opening night, six years ago, when he'd described Erik as "a luscious Lothario with the wits and voice of an adolescent weasel". Erik was many things, but a weasel he was not. Still, that review had spurred us to work harder and longer, and we were seeing the benefits. The Curmudgeon's arrival in the theatre foyer last night had flown backstage in whispered messages, and I wasn't the only one who had been inspired by that knowledge.
Erik spread the newspaper on the low table as we hurriedly moved cups and the detritus of assorted breakfasts. He flicked through, searching for the review section, jokingly reading (and inventing) parochial headlines in tones of disinterest, but his act dropped in a second as he froze, then leaned forward to point at a page.
As one, the cast leaned forward to read the headline that his finger had speared.
"Local critic found dead," it read, in bold blackness.
I skimmed through the article, leaning to see around other fingers stabbing at points of interest. "...found in his home..." someone murmured. "Authorities suspect poison!" someone else gasped.
The cast broke into fragmented conversations, talking over the top of each other. "Murder!" Erik exclaimed. "Who would-?"
Sam snorted in half-amusement and gestured ironically around the group. We'd all felt the bite of the Curmudgeon's acid keyboard at some point, all entertained wistful notions of him undergoing a painful and unusual death.
*
Behind the counter, Sheryl watched the group with her usual beneficent eye. She'd grown to love these kids, with their crazy, overgrown dreams of stardom. They deserved it. They certainly didn't deserve the scathing critique that nasty man had been typing up when he stopped in for a coffee during the show. He hadn't even waited for the end, just slipped out during the intermission! So rude.
She yawned. It had been a long night.
I smiled wanly and waggled my hand in the so-so gesture, belying my actual thoughts. We'd nailed it last night, with none of the usual hiccups of a first-night performance. The audience had been on their feet. That hadn't stopped me lying awake for hours, replaying it through in my head. Had I missed that note, or held it too long? Did I remember to hold the dramatic pause at the end of Act II, as Sam, the director, had hammered into me?
Sheryl grinned, her dangly earrings chiming. "I'm sure it was great. You've been working on this for so long."
She'd know; we were in here every evening, thrashing out and rehashing whatever we'd been rehearsing. She was privy to all the politics and peccadilloes to be found in every theatre troupe. I'd confided my crush on Erik to her, and sat up drinking with her all night when her daughter left for Australia. She was practically our mascot.
I smiled back at her. "Thanks, Sheryl."
The door chimed, and I turned to see Sam coming in, wiping the dirty sidewalk snow off his boots. I waved to him, and headed for our usual corner, drink in hand. The couches were shabby, with that embracing softness that makes it so hard to leave. Just like Sheryl.
Our corner filled up over the next hour, as we traded jokes and worried over how each scene had gone. We drank too much coffee, and indulged in Sheryl's comfort food. Her omelette could heal a broken heart. It was tradition, just as it was that Erik would be the last to arrive.
At last he did. As expected, there was a newspaper tucked under his arm. We waited, tense with pretended nonchalance, as he spoke to Sheryl, collected his drink and came over. He squeezed into the middle of the couch, his taut thigh hot against mine, and I suppressed a thrill of desire as he made a great show of settling into place, carefully sipping his drink and adjusting the cushions behind him. At last he sat back, and as on so many other mornings-after-the-first-night-before, he held up the paper and said, "Let us consult the Curmudgeon."
James Curgeon was the local theatre critic. We'd called him "the Curmudgeon" ever since our first opening night, six years ago, when he'd described Erik as "a luscious Lothario with the wits and voice of an adolescent weasel". Erik was many things, but a weasel he was not. Still, that review had spurred us to work harder and longer, and we were seeing the benefits. The Curmudgeon's arrival in the theatre foyer last night had flown backstage in whispered messages, and I wasn't the only one who had been inspired by that knowledge.
Erik spread the newspaper on the low table as we hurriedly moved cups and the detritus of assorted breakfasts. He flicked through, searching for the review section, jokingly reading (and inventing) parochial headlines in tones of disinterest, but his act dropped in a second as he froze, then leaned forward to point at a page.
As one, the cast leaned forward to read the headline that his finger had speared.
"Local critic found dead," it read, in bold blackness.
I skimmed through the article, leaning to see around other fingers stabbing at points of interest. "...found in his home..." someone murmured. "Authorities suspect poison!" someone else gasped.
The cast broke into fragmented conversations, talking over the top of each other. "Murder!" Erik exclaimed. "Who would-?"
Sam snorted in half-amusement and gestured ironically around the group. We'd all felt the bite of the Curmudgeon's acid keyboard at some point, all entertained wistful notions of him undergoing a painful and unusual death.
*
Behind the counter, Sheryl watched the group with her usual beneficent eye. She'd grown to love these kids, with their crazy, overgrown dreams of stardom. They deserved it. They certainly didn't deserve the scathing critique that nasty man had been typing up when he stopped in for a coffee during the show. He hadn't even waited for the end, just slipped out during the intermission! So rude.
She yawned. It had been a long night.
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I do love the twist at the end and the serious tone the piece takes as it goes from cordial to oh my god what. The tone shift was perfect. It caught me off guard just as much as it did them. :)
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I spent my time wondering if the applause hadn't just been polite, as opposed to appreciative.
During teenage years in community and school theater, we also had a "Curmudgeon." For some reason, I'd never once considered poisoning him. And the lady who ran the coffee shop I frequented... she let me down.
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Hey, do you think I need to be more descriptive of appearances in my writing? I left the narrator purposefully blank in regards to gender, but I am just wondering if people think I should be describing more.
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And this confused me - The couches were shabby, with that embracing softness that makes it so hard to leave. Just like Sheryl. Is Sheryl "shabby"?
If you want to run some subtle descriptors by me, post 'em and I'll read 'em! :)
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Probably because I give about zero shits about what people look like in real life, ha.
I always feel like, since Sheryl is someone the narrator is familiar with, he/she is probably not going to "notice" much about her unless it's actually doing something (like the earrings). Does that make sense?
And I don't want to be like: "Hey, is that a new skirt?" Sheryl grinned and shook her hips, the tie-dyed fabric undulating to her rhythm.
Just for the sake of description.
Blah. I don't know. If I make it through this round (unlikely) then I'll really try it next round.
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It's always the quiet ones, isn't it? Well done!
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"Acid keyboard" is a nice way to describe how consistently cutting the man's reviews must have been. He may not have deserved to die, but he certainly inspired others to want him gone. :O
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This was fun to read. :-) Although now I'm worried -- none of the rising stars were implicated in the murder, were they??
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