erinm_4600
in
12to32
Fic: Some Say He is a Wizard
Title: Some Say He is a Wizard
Author: Erin (erinm_4600)
Rating: G
Characters/Ship: The Mystic Man and two stage hands (mention of the dancers and some other OCs)
Summary: They call it magic. He calls it imagination.
Warnings: pre-series, and one Wicked reference. *hugs Idina* *Written for the Last Words Challenge 03 challenge at tm_challenge.
Disclaimer: The original characters belong to L. Frank Baum and their respective actors. The current characters belong to Sci-Fi, the movie folks and their respective actors. The rest of 'em are mine.
He'd always been a student of the theater, even when he wasn't actually interested in it. Honestly, having been dragged to shows with his parents as a child was excruciating. There was no life to the characters, the costumes were boring and he'd rather have watched paint dry. The point of going to the theater was to see another world, step out of reality, imagine to possibilities.
One day, while accompanying his father to the theater to drop off contracts for the new production, he witnessed two stage hands discussing the best way to get the star off the stage, from center stage, with nothing to block the audience's view.
"She can't walk off stage. She's supposed to be taken by the ghost," the taller man said, snapping his fingers. The stout man next to him pointed toward the lights and shrugged.
"Hit the lights and let her walk off. Lights come on, guy says: 'Hey, para-whatsit can control the electricity and where did you go?'" he motioned, turning to look for an invisible third person. The taller man raised an eyebrow.
He looked at the current blocking and then out into the sea of chairs, now lit up as there was no show. He threw a glance to the rafters, walked around the two men and stared at the floorboards. They each gave him the slightest glance and continued to discuss the idea of simply turning off the lights.
That was the dumbest thing, he thought. Turning off the lights is taking the easy way out; it's what everyone was doing. If they did something fantastic, that would get people talking. It was all about illusion and misdirection. Let them see what the left hand is doing while the right is doing something else.
"Why don't you use a trap door?" he suggested. The two men eyed him and simply shook their heads. He shrugged and moved away. If the men were too stupid to realize the simplicity of the feat they wished to accomplish, it wasn’t worth his time. He was three steps away when the taller man called him back.
"Wait, kid." He turned and noticed the man waving him back and glancing at the floor. "Trap door, you say?" He nodded and pointed to the boards just behind the small sofa and stepped over to them.
"Right here, just a bit larger than your actress - don't want her cracking a rib on the way down - and have him do something-" he said with a wave in the direction of the side chair. "Have the phone ring or someone knock on the door... Maybe let the lights flicker slightly, but don’t be so safe. You want to draw the audience in; impress them with the effect."
The two stage hands looked at each other and then to him.
Forty years later, he was still coming up with the newest way to impress the crowds. The real trouble came in the costuming - the fashions of the Outer Zone were in a rut and there wasn't much more anyone could do to liven them up. When in doubt, the costumer called for 'another feather here', 'beading there' and 'make this red a little more red'. The turban headdress she had concocted was absolutely ridiculous - and it weighed a ton - but she was on a mission. So he sat, reading over the lines and constantly having his head tugged this way and his jaw shoved that way. He tried to convince her that the point would be made just as well with a simple cap, but she wouldn't hear of it.
And then came the peacock feather. She'd tried it here, tried it there; Two? Maybe three... Left side, right side, dead center. The stage manager breezed through with some well-to-dos and the two chorus girls became giggly at the sight of one of the rich young men. She turned, peacock feather in hand, to shush them, as well as see who was in attendance.
The script fell to the floor as he jumped to the side, his hand shooting up to rub the side of his face. Giving her the sternest glare he could, the Mystic Man shouted: "Damnit, woman! This isn't Hamlet, you know, it's not meant to go into the bloody ear."
That was it: He was going to wear the red cap and he didn't care about hurting her feelings.
Author: Erin (erinm_4600)
Rating: G
Characters/Ship: The Mystic Man and two stage hands (mention of the dancers and some other OCs)
Summary: They call it magic. He calls it imagination.
Warnings: pre-series, and one Wicked reference. *hugs Idina* *Written for the Last Words Challenge 03 challenge at tm_challenge.
Disclaimer: The original characters belong to L. Frank Baum and their respective actors. The current characters belong to Sci-Fi, the movie folks and their respective actors. The rest of 'em are mine.
He'd always been a student of the theater, even when he wasn't actually interested in it. Honestly, having been dragged to shows with his parents as a child was excruciating. There was no life to the characters, the costumes were boring and he'd rather have watched paint dry. The point of going to the theater was to see another world, step out of reality, imagine to possibilities.
One day, while accompanying his father to the theater to drop off contracts for the new production, he witnessed two stage hands discussing the best way to get the star off the stage, from center stage, with nothing to block the audience's view.
"She can't walk off stage. She's supposed to be taken by the ghost," the taller man said, snapping his fingers. The stout man next to him pointed toward the lights and shrugged.
"Hit the lights and let her walk off. Lights come on, guy says: 'Hey, para-whatsit can control the electricity and where did you go?'" he motioned, turning to look for an invisible third person. The taller man raised an eyebrow.
He looked at the current blocking and then out into the sea of chairs, now lit up as there was no show. He threw a glance to the rafters, walked around the two men and stared at the floorboards. They each gave him the slightest glance and continued to discuss the idea of simply turning off the lights.
That was the dumbest thing, he thought. Turning off the lights is taking the easy way out; it's what everyone was doing. If they did something fantastic, that would get people talking. It was all about illusion and misdirection. Let them see what the left hand is doing while the right is doing something else.
"Why don't you use a trap door?" he suggested. The two men eyed him and simply shook their heads. He shrugged and moved away. If the men were too stupid to realize the simplicity of the feat they wished to accomplish, it wasn’t worth his time. He was three steps away when the taller man called him back.
"Wait, kid." He turned and noticed the man waving him back and glancing at the floor. "Trap door, you say?" He nodded and pointed to the boards just behind the small sofa and stepped over to them.
"Right here, just a bit larger than your actress - don't want her cracking a rib on the way down - and have him do something-" he said with a wave in the direction of the side chair. "Have the phone ring or someone knock on the door... Maybe let the lights flicker slightly, but don’t be so safe. You want to draw the audience in; impress them with the effect."
The two stage hands looked at each other and then to him.
Forty years later, he was still coming up with the newest way to impress the crowds. The real trouble came in the costuming - the fashions of the Outer Zone were in a rut and there wasn't much more anyone could do to liven them up. When in doubt, the costumer called for 'another feather here', 'beading there' and 'make this red a little more red'. The turban headdress she had concocted was absolutely ridiculous - and it weighed a ton - but she was on a mission. So he sat, reading over the lines and constantly having his head tugged this way and his jaw shoved that way. He tried to convince her that the point would be made just as well with a simple cap, but she wouldn't hear of it.
And then came the peacock feather. She'd tried it here, tried it there; Two? Maybe three... Left side, right side, dead center. The stage manager breezed through with some well-to-dos and the two chorus girls became giggly at the sight of one of the rich young men. She turned, peacock feather in hand, to shush them, as well as see who was in attendance.
The script fell to the floor as he jumped to the side, his hand shooting up to rub the side of his face. Giving her the sternest glare he could, the Mystic Man shouted: "Damnit, woman! This isn't Hamlet, you know, it's not meant to go into the bloody ear."
That was it: He was going to wear the red cap and he didn't care about hurting her feelings.