Midsummer Dream House

 

Reverie

The theater gleamed as though it had just been built yesterday. The magnificent chandelier glittered from its place of honor high above the velvet-lined seats. The frescos decorating the walls were so fresh that he didn’t want to touch them, just in case the paint was still drying.
The venerated theater was Hugo’s dream. He had dragged his parents on many tours, and he had seen as many performances there as he had been able to afford. He thrived in the small rituals of it all: the same small cocktail bars, the murmur of the hushed voices, the glory of the moment when the lights started to fade.
And now it was his chance to join some of the best actors and most acclaimed musicians on the stage. From his dressing room, he could hear the footsteps muffled in the carpet and the almost imperceptible groans of the old wood as bodies sank into the cushions. A fellow cast member rushed by to wish him luck as he made the final adjustments to his costume and found where the light would hit him when the curtains went up.
A few more agonizing seconds later, the violins started playing softly. The stage lights switched on, and all eyes were on him as he began the opera in the admiring gaze of an adoring public. If Hugo had been nervous before, it had all melted away, and he felt he had somehow become one with the music.
His voice never trembled, but mingled like honey in warm water with the others, reaching up toward the heavens. In the first row, he could make out his parents and his sister with her young son in her arms. They were all there for him, and during the intermission, he could hear them proudly explain that he had always loved the opera, even as a baby. It was the only thing that would soothe him to sleep.
Hugo was sailing through the second act, and the end of a perfect performance was almost in reach when the unthinkable happened, and the grand room was suddenly filled with the harsh barking of alarms. Water started spaying down, and the crowd fought to get out of the door and out onto the street, pushing and shoving, tumbling over those who had fallen.
The musicians left their instruments where they were and bolted out of the stage exit along with the performers, apprentices, and assistants. As pandemonium unfolded around him, he was frozen in place, wet from the emergency sprinklers. The water got into his eyes, and he blinked to clear his vision.
When he could see again, he was alone on the stage, his mop and bucket in his hand. He had to finish cleaning. If he wasn’t careful, someone would get suspicious and catch him one of these days. He was sure it had been the heavy thud of the doors that had broken him out of his reverie.

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Fiction by Calla Smith

 

 

Calla Smith lives and writes in Buenos Aires, Argentina. She enjoys reading, cooking, spending time with friends and family, and continuing to discover all the forgotten corners of the city she has come to call home. She has published a collection of flash fiction What Doesn’t Kill You, and her work can also be found in several literary journals such as Five on the Fifth, Cosmic Daffodil, and Bottled Dreams among others.