Black Love

Ursula called and you answered back,
But then you found there's more that you lacked.
One heart was broken, another one squashed,
You thought another would just be a josh.
Deep within her cauldren, her cavernous maw,
You called, When shall I be fairest of all?
That Ursula though, she had more in mind,
She'd already owned you, each of your lines.
The witch then played you, she made you speak,
Forever you called out, never growing weak.
And so you thought you had power to live,
But here I watch you, and it's hard to forgive.
To make a pact with a selfish heart,
Is to be selfish right from the start.

Inside the Abandoned Theater

The doors swung open lightly as if they had been expecting me.
Inside was dark, and the cold winter air stirred some pieces of paper lying just inside the doorway blowing them deeper into the darkness.
As I stepped into the theater, the steps echoed up into the empty rafters and down beneath the empty rows of chairs, rolling across the stage and hiding behind the dusty curtains backstage.
I managed to find a light switch just within the threshold and flicked it once.
Nothing stirred.
No lights came on.
Obviously this place didn't have power anymore, I realized.
I squinted into the darkness and my eyes began to adjust slowly in the dim light from outside.
Scattered down the aisles were pages upon pages of pamphlets and handouts, most of them covered in a fine layer of dust that seemed to weigh them to the floor.
Amongst the aisles I suddenly noticed a small pair of footprints leading deeper towards the stage.
Someone must have come to visit recently.
That would explain how a page of the play managed to escape the theater.
I began to follow the footprints down the gradual slope towards the stage, leaving a fresh pair of footprints along side the original ones.
My eyesight got better the deeper I got into the theater.
There were rows and rows of chairs that were folded up with the occasional seat that had fallen down over time or because it had plainly been broken, but to me it looked like there were invisible people sitting in those seats waiting for the show to begin.
It didn't look like they were going to get one.
As I approached the stage I could see the countless scripts lying in various states across the floor.
Some were lying open like little books eager to be read, some were lying face down as if in silent defiance, and even more were torn apart at the binding and lay in small bunches of paper strew across the stage.
I paused at the stairway to the stage and waited a moment in respect before working my way up the steps.
The trail of footprints I'd been following circled around on the stage, pausing at piles of paper here and there to make a mark in the dust or stir a script.
I walked over to one particular script that was turned face up.
Picking it up, I read the title to myself:

Echoes from a Dusty Past

I was just walking past that old theater when it happened.
Usually passing it from time to time by chance alone, I never would have thought it could happen today.
There in front of me was a page from the play.
Not a pamphlet or handout, but a full page of the play.
I should have kept walking past.
The theater was barely visible from the road where I stood.
But, then I wondered what a page of the theater was doing outside so far from the stage.
And it was a later page too from a scene we hadn't even rehearsed.
I bend down and picked up the dry, stained paper, careful not to tear it by accident.
I could feel something move from the paper into my hands, like a small ghost had been waiting inside this fragment for a new host.
A small chill ran down my spine as I turned back toward the theater.
It looked as abandoned as ever.
And yet, I could clearly hear something calling me from within.