The Universe's Mixer

The levers and switches all had the same purpose as those in her own Opera House from back home. One for the curtains, to bring the thick velvet up or down toward the stage. Another to open or close the trap doors beneath the solid wood, holes utilized for quick prop set up and take down, or a quick escape by a diva or a stagehand. Some were for the series of lights that hung over the stage: pinks, reds, blues, yellows, greens...any hue combinations one could imagine for capturing the definition of the set and people performing.

It was like a breath of fresh air. A dark secret that was shared between but a few that could know such a feeling as intimately as she. Music was a magic of its own and yet it was tangible and real. If it wasn't ripping your soul to shreds and bleeding you dry, or healing every wound in your heart then you just weren't doing it correctly. It demanded focus, patience and passion no matter how small the piece or at what scale it was performed.

For all of the years Mag had spent alone, she always had the stage. It had been her constant companion: it had hurt her deeply, nursed her ailments and brushed away her tears. It had heard her laughter, made her smile. Been there when she had been nothing. Had nothing. And here it was again.

The white lights illuminated with the upturn of a lever and the polished wood shone eagerly, tempting her. She hadn't realized she was chewing at her bottom lip until there had been soreness. Releasing the skin, Mag turned and beheld the empty space before her. It was almost like coming home.

If anyone had been there in the shadows she would not have noticed, being too caught in the moment. The diva was out in the light past the curtain in a few steps, hands lifting the fabric of her dress so as not to trip over it when she moved. The sparkle of her eye was outline in a thick black cat-eye, and the lids shimmered with a soft, snowy dust. Her hair was down, though some was pinned up and though it wasn't styled as usual it still held the same grace as if it were set and sprayed for the stage. Once settled in the center, she glanced out at the empty chairs that sat patiently in the darkness before her. Her glowing eyes swept from one side to the other, taking in each empty seat in both the balconies and on the floor level.

Then she opened her mouth, tilted her chin up slightly and closed her eyes to sing the deep Russian words, "Why did it not know before, I have no angst, no sorrow, no tears, and all the days of leaking happened, among the sounds of Heaven and roses?"

Mag was fluent in many languages. She had to be cultured to ensure that her ability surpassed any other. To be believable. Her craft was complex and it required hard work; endless days and nights of practice and study as well as a vast knowledge and expertise of culture and language. No barriers could hold her down and none would.

"I hardly hear the birds chirping, a little heat will revive distant forest, and all sounds of glee - I entered into solemn chorus! And now all day brings me, not clear, deep reproach, and the page of fate sends birds choir and noisy stream."

Her eyes opened, as did her arms, and she willed the invisible people in the vacant seats to hear the passion of the Russian tone and her own addition of emotion to the words, the plight of the maiden born blind though she does not know what affliction has been laid upon her. A woman whom is unaware that others do not share the same fate and that there is a world beyond the darkness that she has always known.

"Why this silence of the night and I have cool mil? Why do I like her sobs I hear when the nightingale sings, Why so? Why so?"

Finally Mag breathed and stood where she was, listening to the sounds resounding from the walls, the chairs, the wood of the stage. Empty, the place felt so hollow and uninviting. Mag wished to once more fill it with life, with vitality and essence. With strength. With hope.