MARCH SADNESS - A Symphony of Sorrow

[pumpkinhollow]

SYMPHONY OF SORROW

If the Audience Would Please Take Their Seats

You find yourself at the theatre.

You may be asking how you got here, why you are here, when did you arrive. But none of that matters, does it? Nothing matters. Whether you are shocked at yourself for thinking so or whether you have known that nothing matters for years on end does not matter either. Whatever meaning there was to be had in any of this escapes you now. Who you were and what you wanted, what you valued and stood for, it all seems now like such a hazy dream. Out of reach.

There is a ticket in your hand. It tells you where to go. You follow it dutifully. Ticket stubs are exchanged for playbills. A schedule of performances. Whatever. You numbly proceed to where you belong. Performers and stage crew to their places, orchestra to the pit, workers to their positions. All with the knowledge that there can be only pain.

A four-armed conductor in moth-eaten robes raises his baton, and there is music.

You deserve this.

You deserve this.

You deserve this.

Observer’s Overture

First Movement in E Minor

adagio, con dolore
PP

Lights down on the chorus, who sits in the stands. They are playing the role of the audience. Ad lib spoken word between chorus members seated near one another. Soft music begins to swell eerily.

Lights up on the stage. A performance begins, apparently in media res, where the chorus is meant to observe.

vacillante, improvvisato
cresc. P

The performers on stage play out their acts, appearing fearful. The chorus ad libs quiet uncertainty from the stands. Some of them will look down at their playbill and find their own name on the schedule of acts to come. There is a brief description on the page of the act that is scheduled for them. It is clear by the state of the ones already on stage that this isn’t something they have a choice in.

Chorus members attempt to rise from their seats, but cannot. Not yet. Foreshadowing to a later movement. For now, they must endure the overture.

Opera Infernale

Second Movement in Various Keys
( A medley of vignettes, performed in various styles)

chorale concerto a tutti, con affetto

F

Various chorus members rise between songs and make their way to the green room, where they are costumed. They have some time to talk with other incoming acts. They will find themselves and their loved ones being prepared for their acts.

segue

Those who performed before stop in the green room again. They look drained. A fate which awaits the incoming acts.

segue

On the stage, each act is a musical recreation of trauma. A worst fear, a most painful moment, an act of cruelty, a time of hardship. The styles will vary accordingly. If the other players in a given tale are present, they will receive their role without question. If a cast member has no fellow performers from their own world present, an understudy will be chosen to play any other roles from those that they are close to. Everyone is off book. Vocal quality is adjusted to match the conductor’s standards. Staff ensures there are no interruptions. The show must go on.

CODA: Für Nimona
A Coda in A Minor

There is a stranger in the green room, unmoving. Pale glowing eyes peer out from an ungulate-shaped void perched atop a high end suit. Antlers leer overhead. He is waiting for someone. Staff take no notice of him.

Ensemble's Lament

Third Movement in G Minor

bocca chiusa
PPP

There are other places to be besides the stage. Other roles to play.

pesante

Behind the stage, the stage crew toil under Baritone, the stage manager and the Viscount of Suffering. There is a pipe organ built into the man’s chest, and the bell of a horn where his heart ought to be. It shows. He is as cruel as he is miserable. He runs a tight ship.

declamando, letando

There are others in the pit, if they have the musical skill for it. And while this part of the performance is managed by a kinder sort, the Contessa of False Comforts is not so named for no reason.

The opera is long. There are no intermissions. The orchestra plays until their lungs ache and their fingers bleed, while Sonata assures them that it will all be over soon. Surely she cannot be lying. Surely there must be an end…

freddo, pietoso

Just outside the auditorium, there is work for the chorus serving food and drinks, taking ticket stubs for the endless stream of audience members, cleaning messes, or all other manner of soulless work. Perhaps these ensemble members simply did not interest the Conductor. Or it could be that they were made more miserable elsewhere.

Reprise - Observer’s Overture

Fourth Movement in E Major

impetuoso
FF It would seem that once a chorus member’s concerto is complete, they are free to move about the premises. At least until they are scheduled in a supporting role for another soloist. This means a chance to explore--- or escape.

presto repente, bellicoso
cresc.

Those attempting to escape will be met with resistance, however. Guarding the doors are shades, creations of the Conductor who can wear the faces of those held dear by those that look upon them. Escape, more likely, will come from within.

Members of the chorus who attempt to do battle with the Conductor, however, will find themselves up against something far more dangerous. Figures of glass, in all different shapes. Some abstract and solid, some hollow and human-like, and everywhere in between. Perhaps some chorus members will find one to be familiar.

The Hero will need an ensemble of her own to make it through and strike at the Conductor. Perhaps a resistance can be formed in a hidden location near the green room.

Homeward Aria

Fifth and Final Movement in C Major

tiempo di fanfara, vittorioso
F

When a dagger of Aster is driven into the heart of Prince Efrain of Sorrow’s Song, at last, the illusion fades. The members of the chorus relinquish their roles and find themselves on the summit of Crane’s Ridge.

It will be an arduous journey home, but it can be done with the solace that there is one less Demon Prince to trouble Pumpkin Hollow. Music in a joyful major key swells, then decrescendos.

enfatico, mancando poco a poco

| CONTENT WARNINGS: altered states of consciousness, entrapment, grief, depression, mood control, loss of bodily autonomy |

Comments

[stoneoftherose]

"Exactly. Although existence is nearly always easier to bear if I have a project to give my attention." You're just not meant for idleness, Petryushka, Andrey used to say, in happier times before Vienna and Paris and the Town-on-Gorkhon. That mind of your always works better if it has a problem to whir away on. Perhaps it was even true.

"Think about who you'd like to have in it," he reminds Fever. "It's alright if you want to add more people later, but having a list would at least tell me where to start."

[abhorrently]

"Give me a piece of paper, and I can already start."

Because certain names would always come to the surface faster than others, and at some point, she's going to be confused at how the list got reasonably long. Enough people to reach towards and ask who was I, and maybe, she won't need to exhaust herself again looking for every trace of who she might have been.

(Someone cared enough to make sure she wouldn't lose everything.)

[stoneoftherose]

"Of course. Here..." To his own surprise, Pyotr feels a sense of growing excitement, rising up as if through a well sunk deep, deep into his chest, that makes his hands tremble as he leans over to dig through the box where he's been keeping fresh sketchbooks that have yet to be filled. (Of course he buys them in bulk, it's practical.)

"Here," he says, at last selecting a hand-sized, lineless notebook and a pencil and carrying them over to Fever. And finally he can sit down next to Fever, at ease in her presence once more. "Write down everyone you can think of." He can use the rest of the space in the book to keep track of sitting appointments and such. A project of this size requires a schedule.

[abhorrently]

Taking the items, she pauses for only a moment before beginning to write a list. Names in a now-practiced script, the one she uses at work for noting things down, occasionally pausing before adding another on.

One name gets an underline to highlight its importance to this list - Pyotr Stamatin. No getting out of that particular promise.

Finally, she's reached the end and turns it to him, red eyes waiting for some kind of approval or disapproval. It's going to require at least a solid chunk of time to complete, with how everything has been going around them, but the longer it takes, the better.

[stoneoftherose]

He merely nods in agreement when she writes his name. He made a promise; if he can do nothing else for her, he'll see this done.

"Some of these may be a little tricky to set up," he comments, once he's taken a look at the full list. "Valdis doesn't precisely hold me in high regard...and neither, I'd imagine, does Nimona." He's never said a single word to her, but she was the one who killed Efrain...meaning she first had to fight her way through a horde of his creations do it. "It may be better if you speak to them first. On the other hand I may not even need Burakh to sit for me at all, considering how much time I spent sketching him at Merrymeet."

[abhorrently]

She shrugs, but nods. "Valdis will yield if I ask her to, regardless of her personal opinion." Her friend is a proud woman, but not unreasonable. The same goes for Nimona - if she explains her reasons, Fever knows she'll be fine with it.

The mention of sketches makes her intrigued though.

"Can I see what you made of Artemy? I confess I didn't see you there sketching...I was somewhat distracted that day."

Angel. Still a closed fist in her stomach, that.

[stoneoftherose]

"Oh, I kept myself well-hidden." He smiles slightly and gets up to retrieve the drawing pad, now mostly a stack of loose paper from all the sheets he tore out. The ones on the top of the stack are rather water-stained -- these he sets aside, flipping through the remaining pages until he unearths the face and hand sketches he'd made of Burakh. One can hardly say they've studied the man unless they pay equal attention to his most important tools.

"Here we are -- Artemy Isidorevich Burakh," he says grandly, passing the sketches over to Fever (at the bottom, as a surprise, waits a caricature he'd done after Artemy had taken his leave; a little cartoon of the man arguing with a large bull. Yes Artemy, the whole does know about that.)

[abhorrently]

There's an honest note of admiration, seeing how Pyotr captured Artemy - there he is, just walking through the fields of paper instead of the woods of the Isle, and there are his steady hands brought to life, still for a passing moment in their rendition. And then - she can't help but stifle a chuckle at the bottom picture.

"I wonder who would yield in the end - the bull or the man."

Probably the man, but it's funny to imagine.

"Can I look at the others?"

[stoneoftherose]

"Historically, the bull -- if only because it's too big for Burakh to throw across his shoulders and carry off." His lingering smile fades when she mentions the other drawings, but he nods and pulls them closer. "These were drawn before the demons showed up," he says, handing those to Fever first. Instead the stack are quick sketches of the dancing and the Flower Court, especially Dahlia Leeds and her magnificent gown.

"And these were drawn after. It's fine if you don't like them." These are the waterstained (tearstained) drawings, depicting the demons and the suffering of their victims. People lay sprawled on the ground or clutching each other in shared misery, their very bodies warped by gloom. Nightmarish spirits stalk the former revelry, and Efrain watches over all with a gloomy smirk on his shadowed face.

Pyotr got a very good look at him while they were talking, after all.

[abhorrently]

The drawings of before - he might notice she moves more quickly over those that reflect the dancers, the Court - she doesn't want to catch a glimpse of her own features. Oh, she had tried to push through, but when Efrain's band arrived, she had fled as swiftly as her legs could carry her, disappearing as morning mist does when the heat finally hits it.

But the drawings of misery, she lingers over. The anguish wants to come off the page, and something in her wishes she witnessed it, got to drink it in and add it to the collection of times she has witnessed horror with her own two eyes. The beauty in the grotesque, and a memory of what was. It reminds her of Jean's sketches of Parade Day, and the brutality therein.

"You know, I think I like them anyway."