Day at the Theater [Ollie]
Dec 6, 2013 4:08:36 GMT -5
Post by Forrest Edwin Antias-Robertson on Dec 6, 2013 4:08:36 GMT -5
The theatre professor had been getting nearer and nearer to her due-date; Forrest, who felt close to the younger woman, had been ecstatic for the young lady. Once famous for her acting, in the Hoenn and Kanto regions, the actress had settled down in Remoor. She spent most of her free-time lecturing young-adults on the wonders of orating, role-playing, and public speech. Tiny by most standards, with nearly non-existent hips and a weakened immune system, complications had begun to pile up. The doctors hovered between cautious-optimism and worry. Finally, after a miscarriage-scare, the teacher had been put on maternity leave.
With a new semester starting, an important play just on the horizon, the classroom had needed a replacement. Suffice to say, as he usually taught introductory (‘dull’) English, the former-thespian had raced to audition as substitute. The theater was his true love (aside from his adoring husband). Forrest was qualified. The other teachers were over-scheduled. Suffice to say, with virtually no competition, the tope-haired Pokemorph found himself smiling beneath his scar.
The man had no idea why the secretary raised her neatly-trimmed eyebrows as he turned away from the office. The lovely woman was likely just exhausted with this rocky start to the semester; Forrest would send her a single yellow rose later that evening. His tablet, as it could not offer gifts, just glared with words of simple gratitude.
Taking a calming breath the hardwood floor seemed to give a groan of welcome; the chair beneath him easily shifted across the freshly cleaned stage. Forrest looked up at what he had written upon the board and could not help a mandible-filled grin. The initial topic of the class had been a study on ‘Hamlet’. Luckily for Forrest, who had gained no small bit of infamy himself, the main role felt like slipping on his favorite pair of pants. Just like the title character himself, who happened to be a bit melodramatic and peacock-like, the flannel pajamas could make most highlights look dull.
The room was empty. Ignoring the initial screeches, which resembled nails on the chalkboard, Forrest began to recite the most beloved part of the Shakespearean play. A skull, a human one pilfered from the biology-department’s closet, sat upon his chitin-covered fingertips. Suffice to say, remembering his inability to speak in a public-setting, the man realized the reason for the chuckling and wishes for luck. Regardless, as little of acting was about the words themselves, Forrest was confident he could accomplish something.
“To be, or not to be--that is the question:” The words echoed back to his ears. His ability to speak seemed to be improving. The garbling, as ivory-spears nearly slicked into his tongue, was far less pronounced. While his speech was still rough and hoarse, when compared to his once cultured-voice, Forrest could understand the echoes. Regardless, with all of the work he had put into speaking, it left him disheartened. The middle-aged man continued in a quieter manner.
“Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer. .” How many young people in this room had asked this same question? Hamlet, as it was far easier to speak when he trulyassumed his role, closed his eyes and continued. Nervous fingertips hovered just beneath the scarf. The other hand continued to dance, like fat-worms, through the concaves of the yellowed skulls. The eyesockets were no longer empty.
“The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. .” The scientists who had ‘gifted him’ with his new DNA could kindly take it back. Slurs, racist remarks, cruelty, and sometimes laughter were far worse than any slings or arrows. Looking back on his acting-days, from a more experienced-perspective, Forrest comprehended his former-naivety.
A variety of props lay at his feet; brown eyes dropped to the sword beside his feet. Hands, truly unused to combat, managed a series of brisk movements. The voice rose in volume. The sensors detected the movement; lights flickered on in the old theater. “Or to take arms against a sea of troubles.” The costume seemed to sag against his skin as Forrest sagged, exhausted, into the old wooden chair. The others, meant for the students, were gathered round him and the electronic-white board.
Hands lifted over his chest in a form of a shield. “And by opposing, end them. To die, to sleep, no more--and by a sleep to say we end.” Death had been a frightening concept to the young man after his Pokemorph-procedure. The once bright eyes had stared at the ceiling in agony as pain gripped his body. While it was not the sort Hamlet spoke of, his uncle destroying his father and seizing his mother, it was still heartbreaking. The performance was far more convincing than it had been as a young-adult; the soliloquy had taken on a new life.
The last echoes of his voice, jarring and disturbing, vanished. The door had opened; some of the speech could likely been heard from outside the door.
The man had been turned away from the doorway. A bell jingled; a student, or a poor lost little lamb, had finally arrived. The scarf was pulled back up. A series of hooks and elastic secured it around his chin. The old parchment seemed to fit with the ancient outfit he had found tucked into the corner of the dressing room. Feet slapping against the dark-wood, old shoes hidden beneath faux-boots, Forrest reached the front of the stage.
A marker, digital and not the least bit messy flew across the board.
”Welcome to MTH 223. This is a class in multi-variate calculus. You’re welcome to all of its secrets, my early-bird.”
With a flourish, his cursive shifting to resemble some olden tome, Forrest signed his name at the bottom. With the hyphenated last-name, and some ostentatious loops, the white board was now a giant mess. Forrest could not resist a small grin. The Flabebe in his pocket, hidden from view, did the same.
The skull, turned toward the ajar door, had a much larger smile.