I run my fingers through the ash, watching as the fine gray dust trickles through and forms wisps of clouds above the blackened ruins.
Ruins. Is that really the right word?
Ashes and ruins are words that describe the end. Everything comes crashing down, they say. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
The sunlight catches the wisps of ash, glowing the papery flakes and dust to a golden hue. A gentle breeze blows into the remains, stirring my hair and causing the finest flecks of ash to dance along the ground.
In many people’s minds, these crumbled ruins mean death.
But to me, they are hope.
Prompt: Opera and Morals
The rich soprano tones filled the opera house as the orchestra played softly, slowly rising in volume. All the people in the dim rows nearly held their breath in anticipation for the chorus they knew was coming.
That is, almost all the people. I wasn’t one of them.
Who knew than an opera house could be such a difficult place to evade someone? I thought as I army-crawled through the orchestra pit, squeezing between the tightly-packed rows. The musicians frowned at me, but what could they do? The show must go on!
Honestly, I had hoped that I could just grab a seat in the back and blend in with the spectators. Who knew that even now, in the 21st century, people dressed up to go see an opera? Who knew that they even had operas anymore?