Preaching to the Choir | Lily Dura
On the patchworked couch, T rubs his eyelids with his middle fingers to stop the itching. The living room window is open, and slightly falling apart as violets are supposed to be entering and leaving the house at the demand of the spring wind. Unsteady lights from above leave tracks on the carpet beneath Ms. Finks dirty pink slippers. Mice scurry and die under her nose by command. Dainty fingers strategically flatten the corpses of the flies that she has been storing in her couch cushions; eyes downcast, she lets out a weak sigh with an air of superiority, tossing the flies onto the mechanic gang of mice with pity, as they make loops around the rotting room.
This very sigh is a signal for T to begin his lines. He disconnects his hands from his eyes, revealing his bloodshot egg whites; gasping for relief, his retina drowns in a red sea. T’s shriveling head bounces up and down. He opens his mouth for a moment before he shuts back down and begins to dig into his eye sockets once more like a toddler on bath salts. T’s vision is blurry, burning images of crucifixes slowly into the set around him.
Ms. Fink rises from the shroud of shadows hanging over her love seat as flies tumble out from the crevices of her beige nightgown and disappear into the carpet. Trailing forwards, she balances on her toes and brings her purple arms up to the ceiling with attempted vigor.
We gather here today in the Gardens of Versailles to appreciate the beauties of. Ms. Fink trails off mid-sentence and twiddles her thumbs in thought.
She sighs, falling back onto her heels and then into her cushion. What is life when the physical and the mental disappoint you greatly, she whispers, gathering flies into her lap like children.
A red velvet curtain draws forward, covering the scene from the dim auditorium that is filled with homeless people taking naps and trading snacks in the dark aisles. Ms. Fink dozes off peacefully on her way to a temporary dream. Until the director busts through the curtain with foam escaping every crevice of his rosy face, tearing layers of clothes from his feeble body as he eyes Ms. Fink’s snoring visage. Nearly naked, the director stands on the arm of her love seat and looks down upon her with murder swimming in his white eyes.
You fucking delusional kook! You old bag of a woman! What are your lines, what are they, look at me and say your lines! And put down those goddamned bugs would ya!
The little man tries to put his foot on her head, failing miserably as his short legs struggle to settle upon her balding scalp. With every denunciation he releases, a vein on his translucent arm seems to pop.
Do you want me to give your part to Mr. Sink?
Mr. Sink hears his name from beyond the stage and drops his loaf of bread into the row below him. Wearing shoes on his hands and feet, he scurries on all fours to investigate.
I am willing to put Mr. Sink in a fucking wig if I have to you fucking bag! Do you hear me!
Ms. Fink tilts her head upwards to acknowledge the man who has been speaking to her for quite a bit now. With a furrowed brow, Ms. Fink gathers her bugs into her cupped hands and brings them to the directors pointed nose; she grunts and nods her head. Mr. Sink approaches in a mighty gallop and knocks the director right off the arm rest with the furry of his bald scabby head.
Mr. Sink. I heard my name. I heard it; I swear.
Shaking like a dog after a bath, Mr. Sink stands over the director in agony of a response; his ragged coat tails drenched in some soupy liquid: green and orange bits of unknown street vegetables dripping onto the directors exposed knees. The director rises with composure, keeping his body stiff as though the coat juice would otherwise seep into his skin and turn him rabid. He whistles for backup. Two figures, with crucifixes for eyes, approach Mr. Sink in unison; their slinky long legs clonking against the floor as Mr. Sink stands facing the director in a cloud of oblivion. Four two fingered hands dig into Mr. Sinks blistered skin, dragging him through a door backstage that reads Employees Only.
Ms. Fink chases a deep sleep. T is melting off the couch and sprawling out across the pest-ridden floor. The director is performing jumping jacks. Mr. Sink has deep holes in his skin.
The set is alive.
Lily Dura is a junior at Susquehanna University. She is triple majoring in Creative Writing, Literature, and Publishing and Editing. Lily enjoys Kafka, Dostoyevsky, and Primus.Preaching to the Choir is her first publication. @lilyduraaa37