Ring of the Nibelungen
Flash Fiction Story
by Barbara Krasner
Elsa always wanted to be an opera star. When she was little, she’d dress up in costumes she pulled from an old trunk in the attic, smear red lipstick on her lips and cheeks, and belt out a song. Most of all, she wanted to perform in a Wagnerian opera. She wanted to wear a horned helmet like Brunhilde. With that heavy metal on her head, she could be queen and rule the land. She could have servants waiting on her. And she’d own a stable of white horses. Every day she’d go riding on her favorite she’d call Apple.
Her parents humored her and paid for voice lessons. Elsa auditioned for every school musical. Her voice grew stronger, more melodic. Her teacher said one day, “Do you know how lucky you are to have perfect pitch?” Elsa nodded. She was meant to be a star. In college, she majored in theater arts and again auditioned and got major parts in the musicals. Best of all, the school offered free tickets to the Met dress rehearsals. In the spring the company would perform all four parts of the Ring of the Nibelungen. She sat in the plush red seat, read the libretto in English on the screen across the chair in front of her, completely mesmerized by the music, the setting, the voices. Out came Brunhilde, one of the Valkyries.
Elsa stepped up her studies. She told herself she’d give anything to play Brunhilde. More voice lessons. More practice. A move to New York City. Finally, after studying Germanic mythology, practicing the German language, trilling her r’s, mastering those troublesome umlauts, she auditioned for the part.
“I’ll do anything to be Brunhilde!” she said. The minute the words slipped out, she regretted them. “I’ll work very hard. Sacrifice my free time. You can rehearse me to death.”
“I hope you mean what you say,” the casting director said.
She won the part.
On the day of the opening performance, she sat in front of her mirror in her dressing room and ran the scales, focusing long and hard on each specific vowel, and holding it. She worried about that twenty-minute aria for the immolation scene, when Brunhilde rides into the funeral pyre, and Valhalla explodes in fire. The ultimate sacrifice. Performing it terrified even the most mature singers.
There was a knock at the door.
“Come in,” she said.
A man with a pointy beard and red satin jacket entered. “You will give a superb performance tonight," he announced. "You will have five curtain calls.”
Elsa’s eyes lit up. “Really? How do you know this?”
The man smiled in a way that gave her chills. “It’s been the plan for years. You will perform brilliantly. And then you will give your soul to me. After all, you said you’d give anything.”
“But the part is already mine!” The words pricked her throat like shards of glass.
“You know how these Wagnerian arias can stress your vocal chords. How do you think other singers manage them? Oh, if I had a pfennig for every singer I’ve struck a bargain with. Five just this week.”
Elsa’s mouth opened. The immolation aria poured out with ease and perfect soulful diction.
The man slid a piece of paper in front of her. “Sign here, Number Six!”


