The Play

A young girl walks alone down dark and deserted halls, the setting shifting behind her as backstage crew skillfully manipulate their art - ominous organ music plays and the audience slides to the edge of their seats as one. The fainthearted gnawing at their fingers, the fanciers of horror gripping their arm rests in chilled anticipation - all of them waiting for the pin to drop and the inevitable to happen to the young and innocent child.

The music and lighting would fade on the girl facing her demons and challenges, the stage fade to black and the audience would dwell mere seconds on her fate - then the stage lights return and their attention is enraptured by the next scene, the next victim, the next ominous score.

And on the play goes. Every scene a new tragedy for the audience to consume and relish in - like vampires, they feed off the fear and agony of each victim. Some of the audience grow angry and bitter with what they witness - scene after scene, inevitable ill fate after unavoidable tragedy. The anger, fear, and bitterness became a cloak donned time and again, worn so many times it has become comfortable and a favorite.

The play becomes addicting. The same faces in the audience attending over and over again, watching the same performance of events, again and again. They demand an encore and the performers give them one every time, repeating scenes with slightly shifted roles.

The audience never realize, of course, that every viewing cements their place in the hall. They become less eager to leave their seats and face the realities of tomorrow that wait for them outside the theatre walls; they become more captivated by the drama on the stage.

State boxes were seated by the playwrights and the architects of the performances. They never watched their own plays, however, but were enraptured by the attendees, the captivated audiences. The worst of the vampires are these - savoring the raw emotions that permeated from the mezzanine below and in the balcony above.

These vampires hold a secret, however. Though they are listed as playwrights, write plays they do not. Rather they regurgitate the performances of others and repeat the same scripts. The performers know their lines by heart, portraying their characters and their tragedies like the prized thespians they are. In return for their acts, the performers get to cling to the spotlight and keep hold their power over the audience’s heartstrings.

It will end, though, one day.

The theatrics, the emotional vampires, the rooted audiences. It won’t all last through thick or thin. The audience will awaken in time. Shaking their heads free of the cobwebs around them as the outside world draws them out of their seats and into the sun. They leave the performers and their playwrights - all of whom are forced to face the realities of their own lives. All of them - the audience, the performers, the theatre’s architects - the whole lot of them take their detox, embrace the outdoors beyond the four walls of the drama.

It’s cyclical, however, their fascination with the lives of the portrayed innocence on the stage. In time, they’ll return - much like they’ve done before and like they’ll do again - having forgotten the time they lost in watching and listening to the siren song of conflict and tragedy of others.

Reviews

[Unspoken poet]

These vampires hold a secret, however. Though they are listed as playwrights....

Oh how I loved this part! Love your imagery and detail.
This is amazing!!