The Chanson Dramatique.

‘A dramatic display is all about illusion and misdirection. It’s very much like magic’. She swept the long thick cape around herself, a mock vampire. Tiny particles burst into the air dancing in the beams of light that softly, harmlessly caressed the thick weaved fibres of the rug. She dropped it to the floor disturbing another thick plume of dust.

She moved with utter conviction from one end of the room to another, sliding onto the piano stool with a ballet like fluidity. She caressed the first ten notes of Bach’s Aria da Capo, now the air was filled with delicate music, it inspired a twinge like weightlessness in his cock. He closed his eyes as the hum of the last note was dispelled from the air.

‘If you want to learn then you have to become one with it. You can’t just imitate, you don’t act you are. Do you understand?’

The delicate silks she had cast over her torso was embossed at the breast with the impression of her nipples.

‘You’re cold?’

‘If you can’t hold your focus on anything else then I really don’t see this going anywhere.’

His cheeks lit up and he turned his gaze to his feet. He shrugged, ‘Im sorry, you’re just so…’ and she was gone. Vanished into the ether.

‘What are you doing up here again you little shit?’ His father was clambering through the opening into the attic. Losing his foothold in his rage, he fell. A sick thud followed.

‘Dad? Dad?’ He crept over to the edge.

His father lay in a heap arms and legs twisted at all angles. He leant over, his vision zoomed, his fathers face was close now, he could feel his weak breath. He held his head close, listened to him die * knife plunged deep into her stomach blood warmed his hands, shit streaming down her leg * the smell of gunpowder in his nostrils, burning, bullet lodged in the eye socket * skin flayed loose from muscles, blood smattered floor * eyes roll, skin pales, last breath. Lights, curtains, applause.

Dramatic