Tableau Vivant

A story of one hundred words:

Tableau Vivant

Skin powdered and bathed in Drummond light, she seemed carved from alabaster. A fan of ostrich feathers in each hand, she held the pose; head turned left, right foot raised on toes as if thinking to run, the muscles of her calves exquisite. She was one among many on the stage, but I could see no other.

When the curtain dropped, I knew the score; the joke man to follow, a sing-along finale to close. None of it would suit my mood.

“Same time tomorrow?” asked the ticket man.

I nodded, as I always did, and left alone.


This story was first published in the most excellent Brass Goggles forum. It is reprinted here as a cautionary tale, warning the reader of the temptations of theatres and music halls.




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