A Dire Script
By Eva Suluk
The air in the dusty rehearsal room hung thick with the ghosts of forgotten lines and stale coffee. Outside, autumn rain lashed against the theatre's grimy windows, a fitting percussive accompaniment to the internal storm brewing between Connie and Terry as they stared at the offending script. A singular, inexplicable ink blot marred page thirty-two, right over the most ludicrous monologue, a tiny, dark omen, like a splotch of dried blood on a map to nowhere. It was a detail only they, the doomed navigators of this theatrical shipwreck, would ever notice or assign such dire significance.