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I wrote something. No one has posted in the Artist's Studio in two months so I'm posting it here so people will actually see it. xd
It was posted to my FO blog so I'm just c/ping rather than putting a link. If that bothers you then it's really too bad. ;]
So here it is. 1k to whoever can guess who they're supposed to be:
There is no color here. The gray stage stretches forward into empitness, the lip falling off into the abyss. Nothingness. The gray curtains hang forlornly, stirring ever so slightly. The heavy fabric ripples. The prince stands on the stage, his arms spread. He holds the rolled script in one hand and his head is tipped back.
His mouth is agape as if waiting for something from the sky to drop into it. His hair falls back from his face and rests on his back, a bird's nest resting on the back of his neck. His eyes are close and he seems to be at peace. He stands there, looking up into the emptiness. No spotlights. No stagelights. No footlights. Just the dark, the reaching dark, above the arch. Gray, insipid light pisses onto the dull stage. The prince, though, is in vibrant color. His body seems charged, alive. More alive than the rest of the stage. He lowers his head, a smirk appearing on his face.
"Come forth, Ophelia!" he calls. "Come forth!"
Ophelia sits near the lip of the stage in a pool of gray light. Shoulders stooped and body small, Ophelia raises a weary head. Blue eyes stare out blankly at the prince. Ophelia opens his mouth and only bubbles come out.
Pop.
Pop.
Words echo in the theater.
"I'm here."
The prince places his hands on his hips and stares directly at him.
"Come here."
Ophelia speaks once more, using a sad, delicate voice, rather than bubbles.
"I'm here. I can hear you here."
Ophelia sits in the pool of light, staring at the prince in the foreign darkness. Their eyes meet.
"Poor Ophelia," the prince says.
"Prince of Denmark," Ophelia replies. "To be or not to be. That is the question, isn't it?"
"Come out of the light, Ophelia dear."
"I must like it here. It's wet."
"It's light."
"Darkness, light, there is no difference. Man's internal struggle?"
"You're reading too much into it, Ophelia dear."
"You're not reading enough, my Prince."
The prince drops the script to the ground. It falls slowly, unfurling in the air and floating softly to the ground. Swaying.
"Come forth, poor Ophelia."
"Come here, dear prince."
The insipid gray light retreats to darkness. Only Ophelia is seen on the stage, illuminated by the pool of light. The gray light looks almost blue, casting a strange glow upon his face. He blows bubbles once more.
"Dear prince."
The prince's voice comes out from the darkness, speaking softly and sweetly, like a lover.
"Poor Ophelia."
It was posted to my FO blog so I'm just c/ping rather than putting a link. If that bothers you then it's really too bad. ;]
So here it is. 1k to whoever can guess who they're supposed to be:
There is no color here. The gray stage stretches forward into empitness, the lip falling off into the abyss. Nothingness. The gray curtains hang forlornly, stirring ever so slightly. The heavy fabric ripples. The prince stands on the stage, his arms spread. He holds the rolled script in one hand and his head is tipped back.
His mouth is agape as if waiting for something from the sky to drop into it. His hair falls back from his face and rests on his back, a bird's nest resting on the back of his neck. His eyes are close and he seems to be at peace. He stands there, looking up into the emptiness. No spotlights. No stagelights. No footlights. Just the dark, the reaching dark, above the arch. Gray, insipid light pisses onto the dull stage. The prince, though, is in vibrant color. His body seems charged, alive. More alive than the rest of the stage. He lowers his head, a smirk appearing on his face.
"Come forth, Ophelia!" he calls. "Come forth!"
Ophelia sits near the lip of the stage in a pool of gray light. Shoulders stooped and body small, Ophelia raises a weary head. Blue eyes stare out blankly at the prince. Ophelia opens his mouth and only bubbles come out.
Pop.
Pop.
Words echo in the theater.
"I'm here."
The prince places his hands on his hips and stares directly at him.
"Come here."
Ophelia speaks once more, using a sad, delicate voice, rather than bubbles.
"I'm here. I can hear you here."
Ophelia sits in the pool of light, staring at the prince in the foreign darkness. Their eyes meet.
"Poor Ophelia," the prince says.
"Prince of Denmark," Ophelia replies. "To be or not to be. That is the question, isn't it?"
"Come out of the light, Ophelia dear."
"I must like it here. It's wet."
"It's light."
"Darkness, light, there is no difference. Man's internal struggle?"
"You're reading too much into it, Ophelia dear."
"You're not reading enough, my Prince."
The prince drops the script to the ground. It falls slowly, unfurling in the air and floating softly to the ground. Swaying.
"Come forth, poor Ophelia."
"Come here, dear prince."
The insipid gray light retreats to darkness. Only Ophelia is seen on the stage, illuminated by the pool of light. The gray light looks almost blue, casting a strange glow upon his face. He blows bubbles once more.
"Dear prince."
The prince's voice comes out from the darkness, speaking softly and sweetly, like a lover.
"Poor Ophelia."
