Narrator: Life is mostly a story told by idiots, full of noise and emotional disturbance but devoid of meaning. Read this in the morning: Has the sun risen, or have you just woke?
In an attempt to make sense of this, one must see for oneself. Yet it always seems that the last question asked is never the first answer returned. If there were a spectacle unlike aught else, it would remind us as such.
On display for all to see, the sun bows over the horizon. Such deceit flows into the self-proclaimed crucible of truth. The act has already begun...
Aristocrat 1: "Heavens to Betsy! What on earth is that tramp doing?"
Aristocracy: "Hrmmmm?"
Narrator: In the theatre's foyer, patrons begin to gather around some commotion. There was a blonde woman prostrated on the floor beneath their feet. Another with her back turned as she seemingly tried to make an exit...
Aristocrat 2: "A live performance?"
Aristocrat 1: "To demonstrate such a coarse act is surely unworthy of our fair lady's response."
Aristocrat 2: "Our beloved fair lady..?"
"That onyx attire... who else might it be but Lady Evelyn! O joyous days, everyone, come gather at once!!!"
Narrator: As if scripted, the crowd coiled. Now, an impromptu stage beckoned forth its actress. The foyer lighting came to dim save for but one key light. As the face behind the mask, if there were a stage, she must answer its call. To maintain such fame was to fit this image; hence, the amicable front returned. Anything less than prudent acumen yields a risk Evelyn does not dare take. Waving with smiles, she walked with grace. Until, at last, under the spotlight, Evelyn was in place.
Aristocrat 3: "She returns O she returns! To demonstrate such heartfelt affection for us, the audience... might it be without limits... tis no question of mine!"
Narrator: By an act of submission, Ceraphina sought to rectify the past. As instructed, she confronted yesterday's outburst with another. Although now bereft of tongue, this method demanded effortless delivery. In simple plausibility, the utmost expression could be found. Indeed quite fitting for the transparent soul. However, led to such application by darkness—it was an unfamiliar rush. Raised overhead, she presented a manuscript.
Evelyn: (*sigh*) Why must you make a scene out of every little thing...
"Oh my dearest understudy, pray tell, what urgent matter requires theatrics in such manner?"
Narrator: The inert Ceraphina does not move. Steadfast in such a striking pose, she'd show complete control over her body. Yet, such a particular accentuation of posture irked Evelyn. To the audience, not privy to this, Ceraphina suggested that Evelyn take her lead for once.
Evelyn: (*urgh*) The nerve!
"Do not tarry now, I implore thee to stand and give voice to thy thoughts."
Narrator: Instead, Ceraphina thrust the manuscript higher. Evelyn leered at the uncharacteristic tenacity or perhaps better described as mutiny.
The weight of the crowd's eye forced an action to occur before them. The sooner she obliged, the sooner she could take things backstage; thus, Evelyn entertained such absurdity. Certain to be a written farce, she read aloud its title,
Evelyn: "Crown O' Fame."
Narrator: Reaching forth, a tickle upon those fingertips. Seemingly, they clipped into the contents like a match. Why, then, was she startled? Evelyn immediately reeled back in response.
YOU ARE READING
Crown of Fame: Sholto's Script
General FictionUpon an act with life itself as our stage, I challenge you to remember what we are. When the lines of reality and illusion blur... when passion overlaps with desire, it's only fitting that, a human, judge what is truth! The City of Shimérik has long...
