By B. Bezio
The decisive direction of the sun cast anorexic trees onto the screens mounted upstage. Skeletal limbs danced in abject harmony for the sun’s set. The trio of actors, having lost the celestial spotlight, blew flaccid in the wind. We found we could breathe again in the sultry air.
The performance had been oppressive. The actor found foreign in the world was a trope too long tried. But now the act had dulled. Features glistened softly on the ends of silhouette men. The actors beckoned the sun’s caress to penetrate the burlesquing trees. It was us, however, who bathed in the rays of gold, and the sun retracted the hold with which it had crushed our throats.
One among us started to cough; they choked on the sun. Riling us all, they died a spectacular death. The actors wilted and curled into one another. Though they went unwatched, the trees surely stilled in intermission. I was perturbed at the halt of the production.
B. Bisaillon is an emerging writer from the Arizona valley. A student of the Social and Behavioral Sciences at Arizona State, Bisaillon hopes to connect the literary community with social and political themes through various styles of writing.