Sapphic Voices General Fiction

Nocturne In Red And Gold

(Be honest)

What story do you have to tell? What lies within you? (Note the double meaning of the word “lies.”)

Okay: we can start out with a Girl. (We’ll call this scene “Nocturne in Red and Gold.” Be content with just a scene, take it one step at a time). So: a Girl. Girl on a blank set for now. But she can’t be blank – fill her in. Her hair is red, alluring (“Nocturne in Red and Gold”). Her eyes – velvety brown – warm. She’s of average height and build, with soft, inviting flesh. Leave her dress blank for now. But let’s be honest, that’s not really important anyway, now is it? It’s the way those eyes absorb you, the way that voice envelops you, the way her emotions become yours, the way your heart goes out to hers; the affinity all readers have for the characters they love.

But that, too, remains to be seen.

So let’s turn now to the set. She stands alone on an empty stage. No background, just the whiteness of the walls and the dust collecting on the floorboards below her feet.

We have many backdrops. We have a Parisian café, an American baseball field. We have lolling Irish hills or the Tahitian sea. We can show you sultry African jungles or concrete urban ones. We have several train stations (very symbolic, of course, very popular); you can have an early black and white photograph-type or a Realist interpretation. You don’t even have to do the trompe-l’oeil thing at all. Because what you love is the story, not the setting. So let’s use this one: on the yellowed label sharpied letters read “Russian Night.”

As the dusty backdrop unfurls behind her (let’s not forget our Girl, here), we see an impressive sight. The Moscow silhouette is visible, but barely; if you look closely you can make out the cupolas of St. Basil’s Cathedral near the bottom. But the backdrop is predominately an expressionist (or Post-Impressionist) sky at sunrise or sunset (you can’t tell which, but then it doesn’t really matter, now does it?). Reds and oranges swirl and mix like Chinese dragons until, near the top of the poster, they fade into indigo night. Our Girl is still alone against this august sky.

Perhaps the scenery’s too distracting, but she doesn’t seem to mind, and you will forget it anyway. We could give her props, other characters, anything to tease out her story, but when you think about it, all of that is excess. All she’s going to get for now is a creaky wooden stool. It appears on stage now, and she sits acceptingly. She crosses her legs and sits in a manner suggesting both confidence and delicacy (fragility, almost). And so we’ve taken her as far as we can go, because this is not really our story to tell. So we recede into the darkness of the orchestra pit and wait. Our siren prepares her song (she clears her throat); sing what’s on your heart (takes a deep breath), and nothing more (and opens her mouth). Nothing less and nothing more. (and Speaks:)


GIRL: [her voice is pensive, thoughtful; unsure at first, but picks up momentum]: [Chuckles] Yeah, this is awkward for me, too.

Well…[a beat]. I’m trying to choose these words carefully, so bear with me here. After all, you’ll judge me based on how engaging I am. Don’t deny it; you know you will. We all do it. That’s how we find the characters we love—we get a feel for them.

This is tougher than Tolstoy makes it seem.

Don’t want to sound too superficial, too aloof, too smart, too dull, too contrived, too phony. So…[a beat or two]…I really like that backdrop. It’s like, the last thing Anna Karenina ever saw. At least it strikes me that way. [She flushes]

So much for a good first impression. [A gentle, endearing laugh]

Honestly, I’d love to express myself—you know, rip open my chest and pour out my soul and all that, but I have nothing to say. [Shifts on the stool] And it doesn’t matter what I say anyway--it’s like I’m mentally comparing myself to something really profound, intangible, and I just know that everything that comes out of me is the stuff of imitation. The curse of all readers, huh?

Imitation…reality…[shakes head] that Platonic duality is such crap, you know? Look at me. What you see is what you get. If those hidden thoughts never come out, then who’s to say they’re part of you? [Chuckles] No, I don’t really believe that. What you see…I don’t think that’s all there is to it. It should be, but it’s so important to us to have something hidden, something incredibly intense that no one knows about. The “real” you, so they say. [Nervous laugh]

How do you be real anyway? Just living, just breathing, just…existing—isn’t that being real? Is it? Is that it? [Sigh]

But let’s be honest, I don’t want to just exist anymore. I want to feel alive, in this moment, this…this blink I have on earth. I don’t want to just schlep through it all. Because who knows what comes next? Probably nothing, I think. Call me gloomy, sacrilegious, whatever—I think we’re here, we take a few breaths, and that’s that—le fin. [A beat; then, softly:]

It’s so cruel, you know? [Shakes her head, becoming more intense, more unguarded] It’s taken you before you’ve really begun. And how do you live, when you have such a short time? I know, I know – death is the reason life is so sweet, and so on, but…I don’t know, sometimes…sometimes I just feel so profoundly cheated…[a beat]. Once, I was rummaging around in a box of my mom’s old stuff. I found this prayer book, a Jewish prayer book. I just sat down on the floor and thumbed through the pages. I kinda…I ran my fingers all over the letters, the Hebrew symbols. They’re so alien to me, just like the whole religion. Like every religion. Spirituality. “The God thing,” that’s what I used to call it. Now that I’m not as angry at the world at large, I have this…this respect for people with faith. [A beat; with melancholy:]

I’d give anything to feel that way. To have something to believe in…to hold on to…[She drifts off, a pensive, sad look on her face]

[Finally: clears throat, gives a nervous laugh]

Anyway…[a sigh] you know, there’s something about the world that makes you so lost—you, me, whatever pronoun you like.

Sometimes…I just don’t know what to do with myself. [A beat or two]

Why is being honest such a big deal? What I mean is, why can’t we just be who we are? Why is there is unwritten rule that we have to hide it? I know I’m not the only one who does it. Because doesn’t it seem special if you have something hidden for yourself? I felt that way for a long time but…but now I just feel… lonely.

I want people to know me.

Can’t happen if I keep pretending like this.

I don’t want to hide anymore. And that goes for everything. I mean, it’s so frustrating when you see a girl …and you start thinking…imagining things…(not even sexual things—just the two of you together, someone who cares for you, understands you…love)…[becoming bitter/angry]

--and then someone asks you what you’re thinking and you make up something trivial or even worse, you say, “Oh, nothing.” [A beat; wistful:]

They make me so confused, these feelings. Sometimes I think I want a guy, but when I’m honest I know it’s just because that’s what I’m supposed to want and there’s something – there’s something very frightening in nonconformity, in not being able to live up to everyone’s expectations. It’s sad to be so alone in desire, because that’s not what it’s about, you know? It’s about being drawn to another person, not drawn away from them. But to want someone and to have to bite your tongue because of their sex and yours…it’s so empty.

I just need hope…I need hope that things are going to be okay someday.

I wish things were easy. I want someone to put their arms around me and tell me that things are going to work out. [Wraps her arms around herself; softly:]

I want to live in a beautiful world, like the one they promise you when you’re little. I want to…I want to be able to wonder again, you know? I hate being this weary and sick of life all the time. Because then it’s like my life is over before it’s even begun. [Glances over her shoulder at the backdrop, on which the lights have now begun to dim]

I want to look out into the night and know that dawn will come again. [Frowns; turns away from the backdrop] No. No, not even that much. I don’t need dawn. I don’t need any light. If it were my last hour on earth, if Armageddon were about to strike, if the sun were about to go out—hell even if it were an ordinary night, I would want to just feel the moment. Not dwell on death, or the future, or what I’m going to eat for breakfast. I’d just want to look up at the moon and the sky and feel like I’m…alive.

[The lights on the backdrop have now completely gone out, so our Girl’s face is the only light on stage. For a moment, she illuminates the darkness, and then, we fade to black. Fin.]

If you have enjoyed Alix's "Nocturne In Red And Gold", then please be certain to e-mail her at  Alix[at]sapphicvoices.com  and thank her for posting this Story.

Click here for a list of all of Alix's Stories and Poetry at  Sapphic Voices Authoresses.

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