This a story I wrote a few years ago...
Applause
There he sat. His hands, with sad black eyes painted on
their backs, the eye lashes extending up the knuckles, covered his face. He
just sat there, his back straight, his lips ever so slightly puckered; like
when the sun is just a slit on the horizon. He was draped in black, cold and
lifeless. From the heavens beamed warm, disturbing light; dark enough for you
to question its reality but bright enough for you to know it was not a dream.
He was emotionless, a statue, frozen under that murky starlight, from some
heavenly body lost in shadow. The eyes stare at you, “I’m watching you” they
whisper- “no, that’s absurd,” I think “eyes can’t speak”. But, surrounded by
darkness, immersed in lifeless light, there could only be his eyes, his lonesome
black eyes.
Out she wandered, timid, frightened, wavering on the hazy
fringe between the light and dark. Her slender foot outstretched, her delicate
toes gently met the ground; her first step. She was curious, though she
despised herself for being that way. Reluctant yet intrigued, she wandered
forward. Her eyes, golden brown topazes, widened. They stared into those hollow
black eyes, she noticed a black tear drop was painted on one hand, it was sad.
Everything was silent. Closer she crept, closer, closer, until her pale face
tilted, she was intrigued; she was lost in those vigilant black eyes. She
raised her ivory white fingers, like swan feathers preparing for flight,
quickly she recoiled- she dare not touch him, she might disturb his cold
slumber. But was he really a he? Not an it, not just a hard life-like statue? Maybe
she would touch it, just to be sure. Once more the swan raised its fare wing, a
single moon-white feather drew closer, her finger trembled ever so slightly.
Closer it drifted closer, closer until-“SHAZAM!” the stone figure burst to
life, his hands spinning around to show their palms; wide, curious, black eyes.
The swan’s entire body recoiled, letting out a harsh cry; it seemed she would
fly away, but those eyes, those passionate black eyes.
His voice was playful and slightly absurd, “Well hello there,
my dear girl, how do you do?”
“Who are you?” she was abrupt, scared.
“Well who are you?” He was blissful, wild.
“How do you see me?”
“Well how do you see me?”
“With my eyes” She was frightened and confused.
“With my eyes” he was mimicking her voice, pretending to be coy. His intrigued
black eyes followed her movements, his fingers stretched out wide.
“B-but how do you--”her voice was wavering; her legs began to give way. She
seated herself on the ground, afraid she would faint with distress. Her back
was to him, but, those black eyes, they were studying her. They were sad again,
they pitied her, and they comforted her.
The intense black eyes were hidden; the back of his hands faced outwards,
once more those sad eyes gazed at her, as if at any moment he would shout
‘peek-a-boo”, but all they did was stare, silent, watchful. The black painted
tear was unmoving; forever he would be caught in sorrow. “There, there child”
now he wandered over to her, crouched next to her, his hands still covering his
face, those cheerless black eyes still staring. She shrank back from him. “Why
are you so sorrowful” It seemed he truly cared.
“Who are you?” She was more firm this time
“Why my child, I am the eye merchant”
“The eye merchant? What does that mean?” She looked into those lonely black
eyes
“I trade in eyes, you see”
“But that’s impossible”
“Don’t be so silly, why, when you were a child your father would exclaim ‘got
your nose’ and he would snatch it off your face”
“that was nothing but a child’s game” she replied confidently, mirroring her
mother’s tone.
“Was it?” Suddenly he reached forward and with a sudden swipe exclaimed “got
your nose!” She let out a muffled scream covering her face. Her voice sounded
strange and muzzled
“Please give it back” She pleaded
“Now do you believe me?” He swiftly slid it back on her face, without revealing
his face behind his long hands, behind those pitiful black eyes. She calmed
herself down, let out a sigh, breathed once more through her slender nose.
“Mind you,” he continued “noses are wretched things, so pointy and long or fat
and round, I would never trade such grotesque things”
“Are there nose traders?”
“Of course child, why, there’s nose traders, ear dealers, chin marketers, lip
barterers, brow traffickers, some even sell voices, but steer away from those
fellow,” Once more his hands flipped around, his fingers stretched wide, and
painted on his palms, those blazoned black eyes “but I, I deal in eyes,
beautiful deep eyes” His voice was dreamy and enchanting “Sapphires, emeralds,
diamonds- they are worthless compared to eyes, they are the window to one’s
soul you know”
“so you could swap someone’s eyes for someone else’s?” the idea still seemed
foreign to her, the concept difficult to comprehend.
“Of course, I could even do business with your eyes, which I must say are
rather beautiful” He was close to her now, looking into those golden brown
topazes, framed by that small pale face, then something changed in his face- a
twitch, of sorts, but just for a moment.
He turned away, once
more the palms were hidden and those solemn black eyes, with that single
eternal tear were facing into the dark oblivion “but I do not wish to speak of
this anymore”
“Why? Is something wrong?” she was generally concerned, such was the heart of
the young girl.
“Oh my dear child, I’m afraid you would not understand,”
“Oh-“
“-But I shall tell you anyway, once, long ago, I was graced with the presence
of a lovely woman, a woman of intrigue, of delight, and of sadness, she
promised me the perfect eyes, eyes that shone in the darkest places and could
see to the farthest corners of the universe- but she deceived me, the
treacherous wretch, I would curse her name every day, if I only knew it. She
sang sweet songs, but it was all a lie, she stole my eyes, and all she gave
me,”
Here his voice
wavered
“-Was a black paint brush” suddenly he turned standing tall
and fierce “see, gaze on what I call my eyes!” He pulled his hands away;
painted over his eyelids, following the arch of his brows were two malevolent,
black eyes, painted with rage, hatred and the worst kind of malice,
“but, they are not your real-” her timid
voice was quickly consumed by his fiery tone
“-my real eyes? I dare not raise my eyelids for what you
would see is the terror of the deepest voids imaginable, and if it is true; if
eyes are truly the windows that the soul shines through, then I have no soul!”
He turned away, and then, ever so slowly he turned back, his
hands concealing his face, concealing those angry black eyes. The back of his
hands facing outwards, those dejected black eyes staring into her warm,
emotional face, those golden brown topazes.
“But why do you not just use someone else’s eyes?”
“I have not seen a human face for centuries, few, if anybody, wander down this
road, let alone someone willing to sell me their eyes- how absurd!-I have
nothing to offer them, no eyes to trade with them”
She thought for a moment “Well, I could give you one of my eyes-just one, it’s
not like I need both of them”
“I would not dare ask such a thing of you, my dear child”
“no really, I insist, if it will end your sorrow I shall do it” her face lit up
at the idea, where she came from she was not needed, but here, here she was
greatly desired! The eye merchant’s fingers spreader wider then closed together
once more, like eye lashes flickering. He was opening to the notion, “would you
really, truly, honestly” His hands opened up, a butterfly bursting from a
cocoon, those inquisitive black eyes its striking markings.
“Truly I would!”
“Why my dear you are so very kind!” He twirled and span, giggled with glee, and
so did she, joining him in his celebratory dance. She laughed and leaped, he
jigged and flipped. They were caught up in their peculiar romance, the statue
and the swan, the eye merchant and his shy saviour.
“Now, let us begin!”
“Yes let us!” she was taken aback by her own enthusiasm.
“My dear sit” he urged her, he was rather eager. “Tilt your head back,” he
stood in front of her, his tensed hands tightly holding onto the frame of the
chair, those mad black eyes stared into her golden brown topazes, no! They were
his, all his, he would not share; he would have them all to himself!
She let out a stifled scream, he reached into her face, drew
out those precious gems. Carefully he placed them in his eye sockets, hiding
the deed from the heavens, from that warm, disturbing light. He turned to face
the dark sky, and, ever so slowly, he lifted his eye lids and gazed, through
those golden brown eyes, those sparkling topazes
“At last!” he shouted, leaping and stomping “after so long, I’m free!”.
But the deed was not
finished yet, drawing out from a hidden pocket, a small paintbrush and a black
ink pot, he turned once more to the injured swan. He loomed over her, refusing
to show the world his creation until he was complete. Like an artist creating a masterpiece he
delicately painted on both sides of her hands, just as it had been done to him
long ago, one side, her palms, showed delight, the other, frustration. Finally
he concluded with her face, painting over her eye lids and following the arch
of her eye-brows, he created eyes that were not angry nor sad nor happy, just
lost. “Now my child, I am terribly sorry, but I must be off, once again thank you”.
Then, with such a carefree yet sinister expression he wandered into the
darkness, leaving behind that pale, strange statue, and that warm disturbing
light.
It seemed centuries past, and she just sat there, waiting,
until finally...
“SHAZAM!”
The audience rose from their chairs, a tempest of applause
shook the stage. The girl was no longer timid or frozen, she was now a smiling
and confident performer, and my,
hadn’t she performed well. She stood hand in hand with her fellow actor, the
black eyes on their palms meeting, together they bowed, the applause followed
them off the stage. As she gave one last wave, she turned, taking one last look
at that pleased audience, that magical stage, lit by that warm, disturbing
light, she stepped into the darkness.
The theatre was empty, the only spectator that could be
found watching the stage was a single pale moth, it had silently descended from
up in the rafters, through a small hole in the intricate, lavish yet old and
dusty ceiling. It shone like dust in the light as it fluttered down, to finally
rest somewhere in the ocean of chairs. Out she wandered, aroused, daring, wavering
on the hazy fringe between the light and dark. Her slender foot outstretched,
her delicate toes gently met the ground; her first step. She was curious, and
she loved it.
Like a ballerina she
danced on the stage, a pirouette, an arabesque, tip toeing, gliding, and
flying. What a beautiful creature, she giggled as she performed for the old
worn-out chairs, the crimson curtains and the spot light pouring out that warm,
disturbing light. Those black eyes had been washed off her face and hands, her
fare skin shone and her eyes, golden brown topazes, sparkled. Standing on that
chair in the centre stage, she prepared for the finale. She raised her ivory
white fingers, like swan feathers preparing for flight. With her wings
stretched out wide, she leapt-no, she soared through the air, landing gently at
the front of the stage. She gave one final bow, with her head bent low, she
smiled to herself. The only applause that could be found in the large, empty
theatre was the flutter of that pale moth’s frail, ashen wings-It was all the
girl needed.
