Tim Frank
Mylene steps on stage, click-clacking in her kitten heels, flared skirt rustling like autumn leaves. She acknowledges the audience with a shy smile, then shuffles her sheet music. Despite her youth, and her nerves, she’s ready to perform in this historic auditorium.
She begins to play Tchaikovsky’s Concerto in D major, and her delivery is bright and sweet, pure and clear.
But the audience don’t care, they respond with a crude guttural roar and form a mosh pit by the front of the stage. They hurl bottles of beer into the air and bang their heads.
Appearing from the shadows, a caped magician in sparkly shoes wades through the crowd with his saw and giant black box on wheels. He slices his beautiful assistant in half, and then releases caged doves.
Elsewhere among the metalheads, an old lady in a two-piece string bikini reclines on a lounger, spreads sunscreen on her leathery skin, and savours the heat from the overhead lights.
Two yards from the stage, a hulking teenage boy in a zip-up polar bear onesie does the Downward Dog on a yoga mat, fending off kicks to his head.
Descending from the cheap seats, army marines march into the building and set up camp near the crowd—lighting a fire and pitching some tents. After they jog laps around the hall, they merge with the moshers and let themselves go. Fists fly, and blood spills.
Mylene’s tried so hard to maintain her poise—held back tears and played through the noise. She’s worked all her short life for this moment but it’s turned into chaos. She’s had enough.
She hurls her violin onto the floor, smashing the fine maple wood instrument, then wields her bow like a samurai sword. She kicks off her shoes, wipes the lipstick from her mouth and jumps into the pit. She strikes the pack of sweaty rockers who have ripped off their shirts and screamed themselves hoarse.
But instead of fighting back, the rockers become still. They all turn to face Mylene and break into rapturous applause. They lift her up over their heads and cheer her name, like she’s a chart-topping pop star. They love her, they really do.
Humbled, it occurs to Mylene, nobody likes Tchaikovsky or even classical music—not anymore. She’s been toiling in anonymity for years, what did she expect? She’s lucky anyone showed up at all, even if they are a bunch of raving lunatics.
So, she proceeds to hug each one of the crowd, signs her name on bare chests with marker pen, and even kisses the odd baby. She swaps jokes and phone numbers, and then goes to a bar to celebrate her triumph with her newfound fans. Finally, she’s discovered her true demographic.
Tim Frank’s short stories have been published in Bending Genres, X-R-A-Y Literary Magazine, Maudlin House, The Forge Literary Magazine, The Metaworker and elsewhere. He has been nominated for Best Small Fictions. His debut chapbook is An Advert Can Be Beautiful in the Right Shade of Death (C22 Press ’24). X/Twitter: @TimFrankquill
Photo by Anthony Delanoix (Freerange Stock)
