The line between comedy and tragedy can be pretty thin and my latest piece of flash fiction crosses it. I’m not entirely convinced that’s a good idea in a story of less than 500 words. But I’m hopeful that the foibles of the fascinating world of theatre, particularly at the amateur dramatics end of things, are well enough known that the comedic aspects don’t need explaining.
And the tragedy?
Well, ghosts have been part of human folklore since antiquity, so I don’t think that needs too much explaining either, especially in relation to Shakespeare.
* and speaking of Shakespeare, that banner image is cropped from a photo I took of the Zombie Macbeth cast promoting their show at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival in 2006 *
There were three requirements for the AWC’s May Furious Fiction challenge:
1. The first word had to be ‘five’,
2. Something had to be replaced, and
3. The words ‘the/a silver lining’ had to be included.
You can follow the link to find the winning and shortlisted entries and to sign up for notification of the competition, which happens on the first weekend of each month: you’ll have 55 hours to write a <500 word story that meets the criteria announced at 5pm on Friday. It’s a lot of fun.
Meanwhile, I hope you enjoy Shakespeare and Spirits:
“Five fathoms deep thy father lies –”
“It’s not –” Avita said and Zoe grabbed her arm.
“I’ll just stop you there a moment, er….” She checked her clipboard. “Miles.”
On stage, the actor frowned and peered at them across the lights.
“Is there a problem?”
“It’s ‘Full fathom five’,” Avita said.
“What?”
“Just a couple of things, Miles, sorry to break in so early,” Zoe said, hushing her assistant. “Avita’s right, though, Ariel’s song starts ‘Full fathom five’.”
“Well,” he huffed. “I think I caught the gist of it.”
“Yes, but Shakespeare –”
“I mean,” he went on, “there’s alliteration and then there’s just showing off. Anyway, if you insist.”
He flung out his right arm and declaimed, “Full fathom five thy father lies. Of his bones –”
“Miles!” Zoe pinched the skin between her eyes where a headache had wormed its way into her skull. Seven auditions and this was the last.
“What?” said the actor.
“We’re not auditioning for Ariel,” Zoe said.
“Yes, but –”
She spoke over his protest.
“In fact, we’re not auditioning for The Tempest.”
“I know that,” he said. “But you can’t expect me to read from the Scottish play.”
“But we’re auditioning for the Scottish play,” Zoe said, looking away from Avita whose jaw had dropped in disbelief. “We urgently need another Banquo.”
“And why is that?” he demanded. “Because the curse of the Scottish play fell upon you.”
Avita’s mouth snapped shut and she surged to her feet. Zoe caught her wrist.
“Our Banquo died of a heart attack during dress rehearsal,” Zoe said. “There’s no curse.”
“I think you’ll find,” the actor said, putting his hands on his hips. “that the curse is very well documented.”
Zoe released Avita’s wrist and let her stalk towards the stage steps.
“Yeah, well, thanks for your time today, Mr Carr,” Avita said. “I’ll just see you out.”
As her assistant bundled him off stage, Zoe repeated, softly, “There’s no curse.”
“What, can the devil speak true?”
Her head jerked up. There were no more auditions…
Something flickered like a figure in an old black and white news reel beside the curtains to the downstage wings. Dressed for the first act, their Banquo stood on the spot where he’d died.
“Connor?” Zoe said.
“All’s well.” He lifted his pale gaze to her. “I dreamt last night of the three weird sisters…”
Light caught the edge of his tunic, a silver lining that flared like touchpaper and consumed his strangely celluloid image. Zoe shook her head. A ghost.
She didn’t believe in ghosts.
“Unbelievable,” Avita said, coming back onto the stage. “That’s all of them gone. What are we going to do?”
“I don’t know about you,” Zoe said, “but I really need a drink.”