And now: a Mini-Opera

Several weeks ago, I stumbled upon this link, which was a call for amateur writers (librettists), composers, and film makers to write a mini-opera for a fun competition. 

Here is the story to inspire the script, written and read by Neil Gaiman.

So, this is what the website says: "We’re after the most creative, innovative and interesting writers, music makers and film makers out there, whatever your level of experience or knowledge." My experience would be nil, and my knowledge, very close to that (i.e., null?). (I love operas, but over the last few years, haven't been able to attend them as often as I'd like. So I watch them on DVDs and listen to them on the iPod.)

But after listening to Gaiman, who is wickedly genius, haunting me with his story, I sat down and wrote this. If you want to listen to the music I was listening to (Fratres, by Arvo Pärt) as I composed this, open this link, let the music play for a minute or so, then minimize the screen so you can read the opera and hear the music I happened to have on. 

source

THE LINGERER 

A Mini-Opera

SCENE :

AN EMPTY STADIUM AFTER A GAME. THE LANKY SWEEPER ENTERS, PUSHING A LARGE BROOM ACROSS THE BASE OF RISERS (BLEACHERS). HIS HAIR IS LONG AND UNKEMPT, AND ALTHOUGH THE SLEEVES OF HIS JUMPER ARE ROLLED UP TO REVEAL A DRAGON TATTOO AND A CIGARETTE DANGLES FROM HIS LIPS, THERE IS SOMETHING ALLURING ABOUT HIM. HE IS EXHAUSTED.

HE ENCOUNTERS PANINA, A HAUNTINGLY BEAUTIFUL YOUNG WOMAN, IN AN EMPTY STADIUM. IN THE ROW BEFORE HER, AN ARM'S LENGTH AWAY, IS A SMILING BOY, 6. PANINA SITS LIKE A STATUE ON THE BLEACHERS, GAZING AT THE BOY, AMID THE REMAINS OF THE GAME--CRUSHED POPCORN BOXES AND PAPER CUPS, CRUMPLED PAPERS AND SCATTERED NAPKINS AND OTHER DETRITUS.

THE SWEEPER STOPS, LOOKS AROUND, THEN EXTINGUISHES HIS CIGARETTE ON THE
FLOOR WITH HIS BOOT. HE RECOGNIZES PANINA, AND THOUGH HE HAS NEVER SPOKEN TO HER, HIS HEART ACHES AT THE SIGHT OF HER.

SWEEPER:	Another one. Lingerer, Come, it's time. The game is lost. I've work to do. Dreams to burn. There is nothing here for you.
PANINA:	No. Please.
SWEEPER:	Lingerer, I've work to do. You exhaust me at the waking hour. I cannot make exceptions for you. Go.
PANINA:	No!
SWEEPER:	You must.
PANINA:	I won't.
SWEEPER:	I've seen you before. Waiting here hoping, holding your breath, the cheers Of spectators still echoing, lifting you on a cloud. To the palimpsest of dawn, to places we're not allowed.
SWEEPER TURNS ASIDE AND SPEAKS TO HIMSELF.

	And I've seen those cheeks before, Flushed, alive. How I've wanted more— to touch them. To feel her pulse on my lips. I am a fool. A Sweeper of Dreams.
HE TURNS BACK AND SPEAKS TO PANINA.
	But look, these halls are empty now. The sun is born I've work to do Dreams to burn. (TO HIMSELF) And you to burn from these visions now.
PANINA:	Six months, he has been gone from me. Six months since he flew. Six years is too young to go. Six years is too few. And here I'll stay, where we cheer, Where his face is bright, Where we meet each night.
SWEEPER:	Lingerer, there are dreams and there is death Lingerer, you cannot have the two. It will not do.
PANINA:	Please, please. I beg of you, Do not wake me from this sleep. Don't sweep away his singsong voice, The smell of his skin, his palm on my cheek. He's happy here, and I am, too. Let the living world rust, But do not burn my son to dust.
SWEEPER:	This is no world for you. The boy is gone.
PANINA:	My boy is here.

SWEEPER:	There is only madness dear If you choose to stay. I've seen the sturdiest men crumple under savage screams. You cannot live in the wreckage of your dreams. Come, boy.
THE SWEEPER HOLDS OUT HIS HAND TO THE BOY. THE BOY STEPS DOWN OFF THE BLEACHERS AND SITS BEFORE THE SWEEPER, IN A SMALL PILE OF POPCORN BOXES, PENNANTS, FALLEN BALLOONS, ETC.
PANINA:	Take me, too!
SHE RUSHES DOWN AND COLLAPSES AT THE SWEEPER'S FEET. THEY SING TOGETHER.
SWEEPER:	PANINA:
She comes to me each night. Standing here Waiting, holding her breath, The crowd, the cheers, lifting her on a cloud… To serenity. I'm not allowed... And to see her cheeks, flushed, alive. How I've wanted to hold them… To feel her pulse upon my lips. My ashen lips turn golden… I am a fool, a Sweeper of Dreams... But look, these halls are empty in the sun...	He comes to me each night. Standing here Living, I hear his breath, The crowd, the cheers, lifting him on a breeze… But heaven can't have him, he's here with me. And to see his cheeks, flushed, alive. How I've wanted to take them. To feel his pulse upon my lips, My mourning soul awaken. I am a mother, without her son... But look, these halls are empty in the sun...
DAWN IS BREAKING AND THE STAGE IS COLORED MORNING.
SWEEPER:	I've work to do, for you, I swear. Back to the breathing, the waking air. Back to your living child who waits. I sweep so you can come again, come       renewed. These dreams I burn for you.

THE SWEEPER PLACES ANOTHER ROLLED CIGARETTE IN HIS MOUTH AND LIGHTS IT. THEN HE STRETCHES HIS HAND OVER THE PILE OF OBJECTS AND THE BOY AND FLICKS ON THE LIGHTER. A PILLAR OF SMOKE RISES UP AND ENVELOPES THE CHILD.

PANINA BACKS UP SLOWLY AS THE SWEEPER PUSHES HIS BROOM ACROSS THE STAGE. HE LOOKS BACK AND WATCHES HER RELUCTANTLY EXIT INTO THE SUNLIGHT.

CURTAIN