The Vaudevillian

[Romulus]

Hey guys,

So this is a story that I'm working on. Right now, I've only written the prologue, but I was interested in knowing how you feel about it. I'm not sold on the title so that'll probably change. Anyway, let me know what you think!

Prologue

His eyes were fixed upon the wax candle that slowly waned within its glass prison. The dance of the flame peppered his imagination with the vision of the vaudevillian showgirls that he’d become familiar with through old silent films and weathered picture books that he’d first found as a boy in his grandfather’s attic. In those days, he fancied himself as something of a treasure hunter, getting lost for what seemed like days in the old world archives of the three story house in Virginia that had belonged to his family for generations. The faint light illuminated his face ever so slightly, conjuring shadows upon his worn features. It was a tired face. The years had not been kind to the man, preferring to grant him hardships over luck and he swallowed his troubles late at night along with the bitter taste of wine.

As he let out a sigh, the aroma of the previous sip on his tongue prompted him to reach again for the bottle. Four minutes was far too long a period to wait in between drinks. He poured more of the heavy red into his empty cup and then into his eager belly. His head reeled, as it so often did. It was filled with dreams, hopes, and promises; but also failures, broken hearts, and stories of days long gone. Jacob Kinsley was a faux nostalgic. He was a man who longed for a period of time that he had never even lived in. As he raised the glass to his lips and sipped, he grimaced as the alcohol flirted with his tongue. While Jacob never loved the taste of wine, he liked the air of sophistication that it bestowed upon him.

He’d spent the last few months living in a tiny Harlem apartment, hardly staying afloat in a rising ocean of debt that he’d amassed in pursuit of a useless degree in history. While he didn’t wish to live the bohemian life, it was forced upon him by his worsening financial situation. However, by the morning he’d be gone. He’d leave behind the noise, the people, and the troubles of the city; at least for a little while. Jacob’s grandmother was ill. She’d always been a fighter, having survived a string of awful occurrences that included two instances of her house catching on fire (both of which she swore were not her fault), a failed robbery attempt by some men that she’d hustled at Chinese checkers, and an incident in which she was once hit by a horse and buggy while buying an apple pie from the local Amish market. However, it seemed that the grim reaper had finally coaxed her out of her hiding place and would soon come after her with his icy hand.

It began with her weight. While she had never been a large woman, Ella Kinsley had been losing weight consistently yet unexplainably over a short period of time. At seventy-six years old, she certainly wasn’t putting in her daily hour of cardio at the gym, and she was comfortable enough in her own skin that “revolutionary” new weight loss diets were of little use to her. However, even if she increased her food intake, the pounds seemed to disappear into the air as if they were evaporating like the year’s first snowfall that was failing to lay on too warm a ground outside of Jacob’s window. Little by little, she began to lose the drive that had made her such a headstrong woman, as if little pieces of her soul were already leaving her body in anticipation of the final journey. Most people upon receiving the news that they have liver cancer choose to dwell on the unfortunate nature of their situation, but not Ella. While the disease sought to destroy her body, she knew that it could never destroy her heart. She resolved to do all that she had not yet in life. Ella chose to spend her remaining time visiting foreign lands, seeing the Northern Lights, taking an airplane ride in first class, and learning to bake the perfect cake (a goal that made her relatives very happy). Above all of this, Ella knitted a quilt. Stitched into this quilt were panels and on the panels were the things that she’d accomplished in life that she was most proud of, the names of those that she loved, and simple things that made her happy like strawberry jam or ribbon candy. She displayed it proudly on her wall, so that when she passed, it would serve as a constant reminder of her love for those she touched.

However, recently Ella began to slow down. She was finding it hard to do simple tasks like lifting a gallon of milk or fastening the buttons on her old floral dress. On one occasion she called her daughter weeping over the fact that she’d forgotten that her birthday was the day earlier. Her memory was starting to fade, and she was well aware. When her daughter suggested that perhaps someone should be there to take care of her, she reluctantly agreed. For a woman who at one point in her life had only her pride when her father died and left her penniless, she was hesitant to put make herself vulnerable to anyone else, even if that anyone was blood.

Jacob had weighed his options carefully. He had just graduated with his bachelors degree and was as of yet undecided about what to do with his newfound freedom. He had dreams and aspirations, but they all seemed impossible under the weight of his mundane existence. He found himself working long hours to make ends meet, and yet had nothing to show for all of the sweat that he’d put into his labor other than a few paid rent receipts and an empty bank account. When he received the call from his mother informing him of his grandmother’s condition, he was floored. Jacob had escaped childhood without having any of his family members pass away. It seemed that they Kinsleys were blessed not only with good genes, but also the keys to the fountain of youth. His voice seemed lost in the back of his throat as he struggled through the usual questions: Will she be alright? How long does she have? When can I see her? A million questions raced through Jacob’s mind as his mother dutifully did he best to answer. The silent moments in between her fragmented responses and the fight to hold back her tears felt like ages. Jacob couldn’t imagine losing his mother, and his heart ached for her knowing that within the year her own mother would be gone. At she’d be able to spend her last days with a friendly face about.

Mortality was something that Jacob had always struggled with. He’d often find himself spacing out, daydreaming about his own death. Now, Jacob had no desire to die. In fact, it was quite possibly the most unpleasant and undesirable thing that he could think of. However, as morbid as it was, he could never stop himself from worrying. Would he die from a heart attack? Would he accidentally trip down a flight of stairs and land somewhere in purgatory? Or, would he die heroically by saving a group of school children from a rabid bear? These questions plagued Jacob’s thoughts. He would get lost in his imagination, eventually blowing his own mind and depressing himself over his inevitable demise. It was the unknown. He couldn’t stand the thought of not knowing what was going to happen to him. Death was supposed to be the greatest journey of all, and Jacob desperately hoped that he’d lose his ticket. He was afraid for himself, and he was frightened for his grandmother.

He stood up from the rickety wooden chair and tried to catch his balance. The wine hit him all at once, and he felt the room begin to spin like a carousel. Jacob stumbled back as he struggled to find his footing and make it to his bed. Never before had the simple task of tucking himself in felt like a brutal war between his legs and his coordination. Slowly and yet miraculously he made his way over to the feathered haven where he would drift off into uncharted lands. He closed his eyes and let his body freefall backwards into the cushions, and yet he instead of being met by the warmth and gentle touch of his bed, he was instead greeted with a large THUD as he smacked into the floor. The ground was cold, and he could feel wood beneath his hands.

Jacob sat up. His vision was blurred, and yet slowly a new world began to construct itself before his weary eyes. At first, all that he could see was a blinding white light. His heart sank deep down into his chest and felt for a moment that it would stop beating. A million thoughts raced through his head, but they all merged into a harmonious final chorus that screamed,” I am dead.” And yet, as Jacob’s anxiety had made the decisive call that he must be dead, new visions began to replace the light and colored in the washed out world.

Before him, he began to see faces. One face became two, two became three, three became six, six became twelve, and so on until there were hundreds of faces staring at him. They were each dressed to the nines in their finest clothes, looking extraordinarily dapper and silently staring at him with their vast sea of eyes. He looked around, greedily gasping at the air to stop himself from hyperventilating. He no longer was in his room. The walls were adorned with gilded sculptures of angels, and ornate trimmings. He felt the hard wood beneath his feet, and looked down at the stage that he was standing on. The audience remained faithfully silent as Jacob drank in his surroundings. The theatre looked as if it had been built by hands that had poured their passion into creating a world where dreams could come true. It was incredible, unlike anything that he’d ever seen, save for in books and films. The spectacle was enough to make him lose complete sight of the hundreds staring at him. The house was lit by fire, giving the faces a warm glow. Slowly, the lights on them began to fade and the ghost light illuminated. Jacob knew that a ghost light was an old theatre tradition and was used to help unsettled spirits find their way around so that they could at very least inhabit the place where they felt most alive; the stage. The light was faint at first, and yet it continued to grow. Jacob could feel the heat of the flame brushing against his face as the fire began to roar. The captivating light seemed to call his name as he moved closer, the embers dancing around his eyes. Gently, he reached out his hand. He moved it closer, and closer until at last the flame was just outside of his grasp. He closed his eyes, took a breath and thrust his hand into it.

Jacob bolted awake as a quick sharp stinging pain consumed him. He was back at his desk, with his candle knocked over onto the wooden surface, and a thin layer of wax on his hand. Somewhere between the last sip of wine and his newfound wax battle scar, Jacob figured he had dozed off. He took a moment to recollect his thoughts, picking up the candle and scraping the wax off of his hand. The theatre had seemed so real. The feeling of the stage electrified him and gave him a euphoric feeling that he’d never achieved in his waking life. Once more he stood from his chair. He dragged himself across the floor to his bed, closing his eyes and allowing himself to fall backwards again onto the cushions. This time, he was met with a soft grounding, instead of the wooden floor of the stage. A wave of disappointment splashed over him as he pulled the comforter over his head. The night outside was cold as the snow danced through the air like thousands of ballerinas. As Jacob drifted into slumber, he waited for the ship that would take him into the stars and back to the theatre just once more.

[Kerys]

biggrin It makes me curious and that's what a good prologue should do. It also gives the background for a rip roaring story coming up..... heart heart heart

[Romulus]

Thanks for the comment! Glad you enjoyed.

Any more feedback would be greatly appreciated, thanks all!

[Romulus]

Here is chapter one, and I would love any feedback!


Chapter One
New York, 1922
The howling winds had silenced the sleepy city streets, beckoning the brave and serving as a warning to the weary of the impending onslaught. The frost clung to the silenced shop windows as a persistent reminder that summer had ended its seasonal reign and given the crown to a darkness that had now claimed the daylight. Lanterns lined the cobblestones, their flames the final soldiers fighting with a defiant sense of hope against the inevitable.
Competing against the roar of winter’s fury was the sound of footsteps making their way upon the worn stones of the road. Only a fool would attempt to drive in such conditions, which made George Kinsley feel less foolish for walking in the middle of the street. He couldn’t be bothered with sidewalks, and the cause for his moonlit journey forced his legs forward with a brisk sense of urgency as if he were being chased by the very notion of failure.
His hands clutched a folio, gripping the pages so tightly that he feared his fingers might break through to the other side. He felt his heart bursting with a nervous energy and resounding in his ears like a kickdrum. He shuddered but pressed onward against the wind that threatened to blow him and his dreams into the vast darkness. However, among his many critics, none could say that George Kinsley lacked determination. He approached the little town home that was nestled snugly between its dark bricked counterparts. The black of the windows suggested that its inhabitants had long since drifted off into their nightly retirement. Upon the brown carved wooded door rested a bronze knocker in the shape of a lion’s head. The vibrant bronze had long since given way to rust, which George couldn’t help but relate to the old man who lived behind it.
He quickly reached for the lion, knocking so loud that the noise echoed off of the brick buildings surrounding him. He huddled inside of his coat and waited for the small light from the window to illuminate. From inside, he heard a bounding down the stairs that reminded him of an elephant stampede. His hands shook, whether from the frigid air or out of sheer anticipation he couldn’t he sure. He jumped a bit as the door to Number Ten, Bowery Street swung open with a swiftness that George didn’t think possible from the old man.
“George, what in God’s name are you doing here? Do you know what time it is?” The inhabitant of the little house was anything but little. Before George stood an imposing figure. He measured in at roughly six feet tall, and must have weighed two Georges put together. His snow-white hair was cut short, obviously thrown into discourse from having been asleep just a few minutes earlier. He had a finely trimmed beard, and large blue eyes enhanced with dark bags that suggested a fair bit of sadness. However, despite what his stature would suggest, there was certain warmth about him. He had an innate friendliness that he often tried, and failed, to mask with gruffness.
“It’s finished!” exclaimed George almost instantaneously.
“What’s finished?”
“My play! It’s finished!” he repeated again, practically pouncing on the older man’s words.
“This couldn’t wait until morning?” He asked bluntly, a question that he followed with an exhausted yawn. “Well, come in then for God’s sake. Don’t just stand out there and freeze.”
George followed him as he pushed open the door and quickly shut it again behind them, trapping the last bits of the chilling air that had snuck its way in. George helped him light a fire, and then took his place in a red velvet armchair, the man choosing the matching adjacent couch. The room was elaborately decorated, suggesting the vast wealth of the owner despite the outwardly quaint appearance of the house. However, despite its obvious luxury, it retained a cozy sense of home that made George feel at ease. Books, both old and new, aligned the walls upon wooden shelves and above them hung paintings whose images George couldn’t quite decipher. One particular painting caught his attention. A sky filled with stars above a row of sleepy homes.
“van Gogh. Do you like it?”
George nodded, eyeing the picture, which felt as if the painter himself had truly captured the meaning of the word “beauty”.
“Well, you damn well should. Cost me enough. So George, to what do I owe the pleasure of this unexpected little drop-in?”
George shifted around nervously in his seat, instantly feeling the sense of anxiety that he felt before he entered the home. He realized that he had not put the folio down since he entered, and released his iron grip on the pages, placing it upon the elaborate wooden table that was carved with pictures of old Roman scenes It was then that he realized his palms were damp and that he had been sweating even in the harsh cold.
“I’m sorry Theo, it’s just that I’ve finished it. You told me to bring it to you when I was done. “
“I bloody well didn’t mean exactly when you’d finished it. Must you take everything to be so literal? And it’s Theodore.”
“Did I wake you?”
“No, who would be asleep at three in the morning? Do you want a drink?”
He went to one of the bookshelves on the wall and removed a large leather-bound book. George watched him as he opened the cover, revealing that the pages had been hollowed out. He took a small bottle of bourbon and poured himself a generous amount into a small rocks glass sitting on a nearby end table. He motioned to George with the bottle, but simply shrugged as George refused.
“Suits yourself. This damn country has gone to Hell. A man can’t even legally enjoy a drink in his own home. You can never be too safe. So then, lets see it.”
He again occupied his previous seat on the sofa while George shifted the folio towards him with a trembling hand.
“I’ll read it tomorrow.”
“No. It must be read tonight.”
For a moment, Theo seemed lost in George’s eyes, staring him down with a look that was somewhere in between love and contempt. Maintaining his stare, he took a large gulp of his bourbon, and picked up the folio. He opened the page, finally breaking his gaze at George, and began to read. George stared intently, his stomach a million butterflies fighting to free themselves from the nerves brought upon by his situation. Like a firecracker on the verge of explosion, he was unable to sit still, bursting up from his seat and heading straight to the window fresh with a layer of frost. He gazed intently out, getting lost in the sight of snowfall.
Watching him, Theodore remarked, “I never understood the bother with the winter. It’s too cold and the snow is far too wet.”
“I quite like the winter. I think that the snow is beautiful. It’s as if thousands of little stars are falling from the sky, and sharing their elegance with us until they’re called back to the heavens again.” Theo rolled his eyes, letting out a small laugh of disapproval.
“Well, it seems that I tend to take a far less romantic point of view. Perhaps that’s why my wife left me. I’ll be sure to use that snow bit on her the next time that I see her.” He grimaced and buried his nose back into the play. For what seemed like hours, George got lost in watching the tiny flakes dance down onto the ground and disappear into the night, having never even left their mark upon the wet ground. George feared that he’d one day suffer the same fate as the snowflakes, a temporary thing of beauty that is replaced anew by something equally as beautiful and then entirely forgotten about. People only remembered the biggest snowfall, and George? He was determined to become a blizzard.
George wheeled around excitedly as Theodore placed the leather bound folio onto the table. This was it, his moment of validation. He felt that his heart was slipping into a bipolar state. One minute it would be beating as if it were the drum of a marching band, the next minute stopping completely. After what seemed like an eternity, he was finally able to croak out one meek word. “So?”
Theodore looked up at him, breaking his gaze from the play that lay on the table before him. “I hated it.”
For a moment, George wasn’t sure whether he should break out into laughter or weep. Surely Theo must be joking? However, the look on his face suggested otherwise.
“Excuse me?” George stammered with a hint of genuine confusion in his voice.
“Would you rather I lie to you, George?” asked Theo with a slight edge of pity.
“No.” This was true. Of all the things that George admired most about Theo, it was his honesty. His brutal bluntness was the direct catalyst to many fights, but also what made him the best person in whom to seek advice. However, at this moment, the only thing that George felt by this honesty was hurt. In this case, his favorite thing about Theo had become the thing that had taken his very breath away. “Well, what did you dislike?”
“Where to begin? The plot was inane and dull, the dialogue forced, and above all, the characters were not genuine. I’m sorry, George.” Theo looked at George for a moment, and then back down. George was too ashamed to make eye contact, disappointed in himself and entirely humiliated by the situation. When he handed Theo the folio, he handed him his heart and his soul. However, all that he received in return was a pile of ashes where the hope of his success had gone up in flames.
George let out a heavy sigh. It was the best that he could do to stop himself from breaking down into a heap of tears. He picked the folio up from off of the table, quietly managed to say goodnight to Theo, and stumbled out of the little town home. As soon as he had closed the door behind him, he slid his back upon the door, and collapsed onto the stoop fighting back the tears that seemed inevitable. He took the play and threw it down onto the ground, slamming it onto the hard cobblestones. Picking up one of the pages, he ripped it in half, crumbling it in his trembling hand and slamming it down beside him. A few tears escaped from his red eyes as the lights from inside the home gave way to darkness. He sat and watched the snow as it lightly fluttered to the ground, covering him in its embrace. A few snowflakes gracefully made their way onto the torn page, coating the remnants of his heart in a picturesque blanket that put his dreams to slumber.