Dvořák's Symphony No. 9 in E Minor It must have been regal once. Ghosts of ladies in satin evening gowns the color of peacock, chimney smoke, absinthe, sea glass flit across the cracked marble floor. A giant chessboard, the squares alternate red, black; red, black. Mahogany banisters covered in dust lead the staircase up to the second floor balcony. Here’s a monocle; there’s a pair of opera binoculars lying on a silk evening glove; at the foot of the stairs a pocket watch, stopped long ago; by the door a glass slipper leaning against a ruby slipper. In the theatre proper, the black stage gives way to scattered chairs and music stands. The score looks as though it was tossed in the air and the individual pages, left to their own devices, rained down everywhere haphazardly. Violet curtains are already—still?-- pulled to either side and secured like drapes. A large red brooch lays in the concertmaster’s seat, highlighted by the sun streaming in through the cracks in the frescoed ceiling and partially crumbled back wall. Sitting in the black in the dark blue plush seats, one can almost hear the tap tap tap of the conductor’s baton. Everyone is listening. What I Want I want to be able to touch you without worrying. Author Viannah E. Duncan writes poetry and creative nonfiction. She holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Wilkes University and lives with her cat Cleopatra in the Baltimore, Maryland, area. For more, please visit: http://www.duncanheights.com
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