Forging ahead with fictional endeavours: ~ Write a life on a page and hurry not to its grave; abhor not the coming age, for eternal is the next page. ~ Read what you will, I hope you will enjoy reading as much as I do writing.

Here I am with another random word challenge.  Today’s word: Theater.  This one actually inspired some not story related musings which I have posted here.  I have also drawn from a classic Australian poem ‘The man from Ironbark’ by Banjo Patterson.  Excerpts are bolded and underlined. 🙂  I choose to include this because Patterson’s works are often used for children’s plays in Aus.

Shouting Fire

John could not imagine a worst place to be on a Friday night. His younger brother’s primary school play. UGH. He could hear his parents whispering between themselves oh did you remember the camera what about the batteries and oh doesn’t he look adorable? John rolled his eyes so hard he thought they were going fly off into the ceiling. The conversation had been on repeat since they left home. He drowned it out to such an extent that when his mother clutched his arm John near jumped out of his skin. “Mum!” he exclaimed, shaking off her hand. In typical fashion his mother ignored his attitude, instead waving a pointed finger excitedly at the stage. “Look!” she hissed in a breathless fashion; trembling so much the camera she held shook. With an overly aggressive whip of his head John returned his attention the stage, much to his regret.

manironbarkOh. The snot was on stage, dressed up in a cliché barber outfit. How pathetic. A starring roll in a children’s reproduction of ‘The man from Ironbark’. John cringed back into his seat. Their pitchy voices grated on his nerves and he had stopped counting the things he’d rather be doing now. “I’ll make this bloomin’ yokel think his bloomin’ throat is cut.” Party at Matt’s. “No doubt it fairly took him in.” Chilling with Elly. I only wish I had a knife, you blessed murdering shark! Gaming. “Murder! Bloody murder!” yelled the man from Ironbark. Fuck, even homework would be preferable. This thought jarred John. He sat sharply upright in his chair, opened his mouth and bellowed ‘Fire’.

The hush was impressive. Beside him his mother had buried her head in her hands in shame. His father had already slipped off out the side to avoid the disgusted glares. On the stage the children still worked through their lines, but instead of the near perfect cues before, they were now muddled and jumbled. John simply stretched back in his seat and enjoyed the show. And when he was later asked ‘Why did you do it?’ He simply answered ‘I was bored.’

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