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Target-Marked Queen of Hearts

By @serebiisama


in a quiet scene, dimly lit by budget-brights featuring dancing dust particles through its determined rays, a low broad voice is cast upon the stage – too faint to be heard and too defeated to speak any louder.

a writer prepares for a silent soliloquy.

it sings in wretchedly eerie yet somber and soulful moans from the center of the cold clean glossy hardwood.

eager clicks and ambitious checks of metal levers and hammer-fallen contraptions occupy the audible landscape.

they are ready to test guns in the background.

distraught croaks about its fallen friends and hidden foes can be heard whistling through the leaves of the makeshift forest.

its mouth remains still.

one, two, three, four.

chamber-cast powdered ignition sends blasts of lead scattered front-facing forward into the air in sequeled quadrants.

inside, line side, for the Queen’s Own blind side – a full-suited dark figure scurries across stage, swiftly examining the sealed-silent and always unchanging actor.

eyes closed, mouth agape, shrapnel shredded across its face.

they are testing guns in the background.

a writer observes and quickly scribbles the rapidly evolving scene before him.

the figure takes leave off to the left, disappearing after drifting too far outside of the spotlight and her majesty curiously leans forward from afar.

dampness and red tainted low-light now rouge the stage modestly.

a writer marks this as the rising action.

they are testing guns in the background.

deep red paints the horizontal polished-wooden canvas like a busted bucket and life leaves our star marionette.

the cerise syrup pools in the spotlight and begins to cascade sparsely, then all at once in weighted droplets over the edge of the stage and onto the foreground.

it is far darker than before.

the stage has no discernable perimeter.

our writer is nowhere to be found.

the audience shrieks in terror.

they are no longer testing guns in the background.

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