Me first

Since our IEW journey actually began with my taking a two-day class with Mr. Pudewa, I suppose I shall begin with the piece I wrote during said class. I will note that I probably put more effort into this assignment than he expected or wanted, as evidenced by his snide comment to me in which the words "perfectionist" and "typed it?" had starring roles. After staying up late writing, editing, and, yes, typing my assignment, I was appalled to learn, upon inquiring the next day, that he was not going to have us hand them in or read them aloud or, in fact, do anything at all with them. Disgusting, really, to assign something and then not even take the time to read them. But, I digress. The assignment in question was to practice re-writing a fable, as learned in section three of the IEW system. Our fable was The Bat and the Nightingale, but, as you'll see, one of the particularly enjoyable parts of section three is the freedom to change the characters, setting, basically anything you like, when you re-write it. Therefore, my story includes neither bat nor nightingale; just a singer and a lowly stagehand.


A Vision of Grandeur


Raising her arms triumphantly over her head, the singer crescendoed, filling the theater with brilliant music which seemed to charge the very air with electricity and light. As the curtain closed on the wildly cheering audience, Juliette smiled to herself. Another perfect performance completed, she turned to head back to her dressing room when, suddenly, she found herself flat on her back with her feet pointing straight up and her skirts askew in a most unladylike fashion. She had fallen over something. On second thought, she realized with a surge of annoyance, she had fallen over someone. Angrily, she picked herself up, turning to face the cause of her calamity. Samuel Jones, stage technician and proverbial geek, stood with hands offering assistance, lips offering profuse apologies, and eyes offering, well, she never had quite figured out what those soft, gentle eyes were offering when they gazed at her. That gaze always seemed to be upon her, caressing her back like a parting hug as she stepped onto the stage each night and greeting her like a congratulatory friend when she returned again. Consistently faithful and kind, his eyes spoke silent volumes. But Juliette had never been a terribly good listener, nor particularly observant, and she would hardly notice such a simple and lowly man if she tripped over him! Which, in fact, she just had.

“Watch where you’re going!” she shrieked, her face red with fury and embarrassment. Slapping away his still outstretched hands, she stormed through the crowd which had gathered around them, trying to ignore their gleeful stares and snickers.

“I guess the nightingale needs to work on her landings!” mocked a woman’s voice, and the onlookers exploded into jeering laughter. As the taunting continued, Juliette finally turned back, furiously facing the cast and crew.

“Enough!” she screamed. “Who do you think you are, to laugh at me? Do you think those people fill this theatre night after night to see the likes of you? Ha! Without me, you are all nothing! Do you hear me? Nothing!” She stomped out, turning back once more to yell, “I don’t need any of you!” and slamming the door with characteristic flair.

Tossing and turning amid piles of pink satin and softness, Juliette had a terrible time falling asleep that night. All she could hear was that raucous laughter still echoing between her ears, punctuated with her own shrieking din of “Nothing without me! Nothing without me!” Then, finally, blissfully she descended into silence.

She glided confidently out onto a stage of shining mahogany. Although she couldn’t quite remember how she had gotten there, she was absolutely certain that she was exactly where she belonged. Below her, she could see thousands of eyes turned up at her, greedily devouring every inch of her beauty, from the tiara-ladened locks of golden curls cascading around her pale shoulders to the glistening pearl gown sweeping down to her crystal encrusted shoes. As she moved among the other actors, she could feel those eyes follow her, just as the spotlights followed her from above. She began to sing, thrilling even herself with the perfection and clarity of her voice. The notes rose higher and higher, and she could see the very angels in the rafters weeping with joy at the sound. With a flourish, she finished her song, standing breathlessly, face upturned, eyes closed in the ecstasy of the moment. Time stood still. Juliette slowly opened her eyes, expecting roaring applause but hearing instead horrified gasps ensuing from the audience. Glancing around, she discovered that the other actors were no longer behind her. In fact, there was nothing behind her at all, no set, no curtain, nothing. The stage was empty, dusty, lifeless. It had all disappeared. Then, horror of horrors, Juliette looked down and discovered that her own glorious gown, her shoes, even her tiara, were gone as well! There she stood, stark naked on the stage, with all of those horrified eyes staring at her from the packed house. She tried to scream, but her voice shrank within her, abandoning her with all the rest. All that she could do was stand there, in the spotlight, as the eyes stared, stared, stared…

Juliette sat straight up in bed, heart pounding in her chest as she gasped and sobbed. Slowly her breathing returned to normal, but she remained frozen, contemplating her dream. “I’ve been such a fool,” she finally whispered, burying her face in her hands. Gripping her hair in her fists, she held tight for a moment until tears sprang into the corners of her eyes. “Alright,” she said, “I am fully awake, and fully aware for probably the first time in my life. But how will I ever show my face there again?” She collapsed backwards once more, covering her face with a silken, pink pillow.

It was a rather new and different Juliette who showed up to the theatre that night. Gone were the haughty looks and the pompous stride. Meekly, she slipped in the back door, eyes downcast, hoping to make it unnoticed to her dressing room. In her rush, she clumsily knocked over a pile of props which was perched on a stool by the door, sending glittery wands and black top hats flying in every direction. Dropping to her knees, she hurriedly reached for a half-broken plastic tiara, but her fingers collided with someone else’s hand. Looking up, she found herself staring into a pair of eyes, which stared right back, not mockingly, but kindly, caressingly, lovingly, as they always had. Samuel Jones’ eyes spoke volumes, and, this time, Juliette was finally listening.