Monotone, strident, and undeniably annoying sound of the alarm.
I drag my sand-filled limbs across the room towards the dim light of the bathroom.
I hit the doorway, curse it out, and raise my eyes to meet the face looking back at me from the looking glass.
‘Tis the time for theatre.
My heels cling to the sidewalk and my stride rivals the harshness of the wind.
Before I know it, I feel myself sinking into the red velvet chair, legs crossed as I glance towards the emptiness of the stage.
As the lights start to dim, I recall my bathroom and the looking glass.
With all his peculiar glory, eyes wide and hands covered in red tulle, he storms onto the stage.
Like a child, Jester Jack jumps from front to the back.
Crooked genuine smile and a lopsided hat.
Lights up front, collared shirt and a burnt jacket pocket.
Jester Jack nearly falls, the laugh skyrockets.
I can feel the velvet of the chair against my back as the sheer tights incessantly squeeze my legs.
My clammy fingers wipe the tears across my cheeks.
Laughter escapes my throat like a flamboyant predator.
Then the audience plummets as Jester Jack rises.
In their utterly melodramatic demises.
The red velvet chairs swallow piles of limbs whole.
Jester Jack then sits down and abandons the role.
The silence is interrupted by the monotone, strident, and undeniably annoying sound of the alarm.‘Tis the time for theatre.
Cover Image: Untitled (Red On Red). Mark Rothko, 1969.
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