onstage
Title: Onstage
Author: chanter
Series: original, Costello’s universe (1940’s London)
Rating: PG for suggestions
Characters/pairings: Veronica
Summary: Some people cultivate a stage persona, and some people don’t have to.
This is the first in a series working up to a longer story. The whole thing is completely inspired by Elvis Costello’s Veronica, which explains where the universe gets its name. Credit where credit is due, thank you, sir knight.
Challenge #32 stage
317 words
“Who am I?”
When she’s onstage, she’s one thing. She’s an image, she’s a doll. She’s a figure dancing under a liquid spotlight, or floor light, or whatever illuminates layers of lace and gossamer and pale skin dazzled white with perfectly even blush, eyelashes lengthened and darkened, perfect blonde hair threaded with cinnamon strands. When she’s up there, she’s an angel, elegant and whimsical all in one, artful and completely flawless, performing the dance of the seven veils with her face uncovered. She dances for them, and she sings for them, and when she does both at once she holds them spellbound.
When she’s onstage, when she’s turning, when she’s reaching her highest notes and when she’s leaving she enthralls them enough that they’ll scream her name from the crowd, from the seats, from the hallway as she slips out the back entrance and emerges under London stars. She can make them scream, and reach, and unravel wide gauzy scarves worn three at a time, one on top of the other to enhance the act; just that much more mist.
When she’s onstage, or when she’s leaving-losing-shedding stolen clothing as she goes, or when she’s walking down a well-lit street in a cloud of borrowed smoke and her own perfume, she’s laughing.
When she’s leaving, she’s laughing, and she’s listening to them shouting after her, remembering the gin on their breath and the uncultured accents and how only half of them can remember her name, and half again of those can pronounce it without slurring. And she doesn’t care. They can call her anything they like. She knows her own name.
And she’s proud of her own name.
When she’s onstage, and when she’s leaving, and when she’s walking she’s weaving webwork and spider silk intangible enchantment, captivating, enough to leave them shaking, cursing, amazed by blue eyes.
And when she’s offstage, she isn’t all that different.
Author: chanter
Series: original, Costello’s universe (1940’s London)
Rating: PG for suggestions
Characters/pairings: Veronica
Summary: Some people cultivate a stage persona, and some people don’t have to.
This is the first in a series working up to a longer story. The whole thing is completely inspired by Elvis Costello’s Veronica, which explains where the universe gets its name. Credit where credit is due, thank you, sir knight.
Challenge #32 stage
317 words
“Who am I?”
When she’s onstage, she’s one thing. She’s an image, she’s a doll. She’s a figure dancing under a liquid spotlight, or floor light, or whatever illuminates layers of lace and gossamer and pale skin dazzled white with perfectly even blush, eyelashes lengthened and darkened, perfect blonde hair threaded with cinnamon strands. When she’s up there, she’s an angel, elegant and whimsical all in one, artful and completely flawless, performing the dance of the seven veils with her face uncovered. She dances for them, and she sings for them, and when she does both at once she holds them spellbound.
When she’s onstage, when she’s turning, when she’s reaching her highest notes and when she’s leaving she enthralls them enough that they’ll scream her name from the crowd, from the seats, from the hallway as she slips out the back entrance and emerges under London stars. She can make them scream, and reach, and unravel wide gauzy scarves worn three at a time, one on top of the other to enhance the act; just that much more mist.
When she’s onstage, or when she’s leaving-losing-shedding stolen clothing as she goes, or when she’s walking down a well-lit street in a cloud of borrowed smoke and her own perfume, she’s laughing.
When she’s leaving, she’s laughing, and she’s listening to them shouting after her, remembering the gin on their breath and the uncultured accents and how only half of them can remember her name, and half again of those can pronounce it without slurring. And she doesn’t care. They can call her anything they like. She knows her own name.
And she’s proud of her own name.
When she’s onstage, and when she’s leaving, and when she’s walking she’s weaving webwork and spider silk intangible enchantment, captivating, enough to leave them shaking, cursing, amazed by blue eyes.
And when she’s offstage, she isn’t all that different.