Status: fractured.
Break a Leg
finito
It was the smell of soot.
It burned her lungs like the after taste of fresh mints, tearing at the delicate skin inside of her. She was such a lily, a real petal with gangly legs and long toes. Her staggering steps like a stag itself – little doe with two left hooves clobbering over ecological debris; clop clop, the lack of echo more disconcerting than the smell. She was dressed as Charlotte Vince, the theatrical side-character that would reflect witty 1930’s angst and contribute nothing but controversy; but it was worth extra-credit. Lily Jordan needed extra-credit.
“Decent actress,” her home-room teacher would grin with that unchanging emotion. “You’ll do just fine, Lily. Just fine. Break a leg.” Crack a rib and get extra-credit on luck as well, Lily. It’s worth every fissure.
Her legs were nearing cracking as her ankle gave in. Her clothes were sooting up and she felt all but smart. Her lungs were shaking and shrinking, trying to regurgitate all the sickening fumes her trachea allowed entrance. It tasted horrible. It tasted like a tea-spoon of ashes mixed with a drop of sea water. It tasted like something that should never be tasted.
Act VI ended with a real blast; if only the audience could admire that. Politely stand up and give a clap or two, demonstrate endless ovation with the tact etiquette requires. Lily Jordan was late for her appearance. Principal actor – poor, struggling, inspiring Carlos – played his role right to reality. He broke his leg as he fell off the stand with the true meaning of the play’s title. The crowd turned rude and left before the final act – poor Vilma had yet to confess her undying love – but with due time the audience learned manners and erupted. Just like Carlos.
Lily Jordan couldn’t breathe right. Her eyes were clogging up with smoke and the god-awful smell that reminded her of charred – charred what? Just like last summer back at home – Johnny burned the hotdogs, mom. I’m hungry mom. It smelled just like charred meat right off the barbeque. Charred meat, charred friends, charred family – it was all the same. Burning all nicely – cheering with the same sickening ‘pop’ whenever the wood got too hot. Pop, crack, pop.
Break a leg, crack a rib, burst a lung. You’ll do just fine, Lily.
It burned her lungs like the after taste of fresh mints, tearing at the delicate skin inside of her. She was such a lily, a real petal with gangly legs and long toes. Her staggering steps like a stag itself – little doe with two left hooves clobbering over ecological debris; clop clop, the lack of echo more disconcerting than the smell. She was dressed as Charlotte Vince, the theatrical side-character that would reflect witty 1930’s angst and contribute nothing but controversy; but it was worth extra-credit. Lily Jordan needed extra-credit.
“Decent actress,” her home-room teacher would grin with that unchanging emotion. “You’ll do just fine, Lily. Just fine. Break a leg.” Crack a rib and get extra-credit on luck as well, Lily. It’s worth every fissure.
Her legs were nearing cracking as her ankle gave in. Her clothes were sooting up and she felt all but smart. Her lungs were shaking and shrinking, trying to regurgitate all the sickening fumes her trachea allowed entrance. It tasted horrible. It tasted like a tea-spoon of ashes mixed with a drop of sea water. It tasted like something that should never be tasted.
Act VI ended with a real blast; if only the audience could admire that. Politely stand up and give a clap or two, demonstrate endless ovation with the tact etiquette requires. Lily Jordan was late for her appearance. Principal actor – poor, struggling, inspiring Carlos – played his role right to reality. He broke his leg as he fell off the stand with the true meaning of the play’s title. The crowd turned rude and left before the final act – poor Vilma had yet to confess her undying love – but with due time the audience learned manners and erupted. Just like Carlos.
Lily Jordan couldn’t breathe right. Her eyes were clogging up with smoke and the god-awful smell that reminded her of charred – charred what? Just like last summer back at home – Johnny burned the hotdogs, mom. I’m hungry mom. It smelled just like charred meat right off the barbeque. Charred meat, charred friends, charred family – it was all the same. Burning all nicely – cheering with the same sickening ‘pop’ whenever the wood got too hot. Pop, crack, pop.
Break a leg, crack a rib, burst a lung. You’ll do just fine, Lily.