Ring of the Nibelungen - Flash Fiction Story by Barbara Krasner

 

 

 

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!”

Barbara Krasner holds an MFA from Vermont College of Fine Arts. Her flash fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in Flash Boulevard, The Ekphrastic Review, I-70 Review, Flash the Court, and elsewhere, earning multiple Best American Short Stories, Best of the Net, and Best Microfiction nominations. She lives and teaches in New Jersey.

Five Poems by Bruce Black

 

My father’s strength 

My father’s strength 

wasn’t a muscle-popping

sweat-bursting 

physical strength 

but something else—

more interior 

(spiritual does’t describe it)

more like stubbornness,

a refusal to give up,

an insistence on taking joy in life,

in every moment before death 

wipes the slate clean.

It was not giving in to despair,

not letting unexpected events,

personal tragedies, steal his zest

for life

like losing his younger brother 

in the war, like losing Mom to cancer

after 25 years of marriage.

He kept going through grief-stricken 

days, through tear-filled weeks and months,

through years of longing for different outcomes.

I don’t know where his strength came from.

I don’t know if he continued to pray to God

or if his prayers fell down a silent well

and his beliefs in God shattered. 

He never spoke about faith or prayer

except once after mom died

wanting to know if 

I still believed in God.

He was so strong, even in his eighties after

his kidneys failed, and he had to go on dialysis

three times a week for four hours each day.

Even then he overcame the disappointment of losing

his kidneys, of having to be hooked up to machine,

half the week tethered to a device that helped him 

stay alive for another thirteen years

 

because he so wanted to stay alive, 

because he so wanted to live, 

because he so wanted to savor each moment

before it slipped through his grasp and

was gone forever.

 

Brothers 

Do you ever think of how the two of us are linked,

how we spent time in our mother’s womb learning 

the same language, feeling the same throb of her heart,

beginning our lives the same way

or how similar we look—brothers with the same

features, the same timbre to our voices, 

the same bone structure—as if we are carbon copies 

of each other, the same, yet different

even though your hair is curly and mine 

wavy-straight, your eyes brown, mine blue, 

you an inch taller (maybe, maybe not!), 

our hearts beating as one

the memory of Mom’s heart beating with ours,

as if we share one heart,

two different people—

brothers.

After

You were the younger,

so you could leave home

after Mom’s death to pursue 

your dreams

while I was the elder, unable 

or unwilling to leave Dad alone, 

feeling it was my responsibility 

to look after him,

to make sure he was okay. 

And, so, instead of leaving home 

I stayed (maybe using Dad as an excuse 

to conceal my fear of leaving).

I watched you go, proud of your courage, 

your ability to pursue your dreams, 

doing what I wanted to do 

but couldn’t…

Instead, I waited for your letters to arrive, 

those thin blue aerograms,

and tried to make peace

with Dad.

I think we were both angry at God 

for taking Mom away, and angry at each other 

for feeling the need to preserve 

what was gone, 

but neither one of us 

could let go 

or admit 

we had to let go.

A secret code 

How did you know 

where the football 

would land when 

I sent you on

a pass pattern—

Go long!—

and threw the ball 

into the air, knowing 

you’d be there to catch it

in your arms?

It was as if we had 

our own secret code—

our own secret language—

that only the two of us

knew how to speak.

There were no words—

there are still no words—

it was like an invisible thread 

connecting us, no matter 

where we are, how far apart 

or how near.

We know, somehow, 

where the other is… 

and where he will be… 

as if we’re equipped

with a magic telegraph wire

that sends out signals

only the two of us can hear

Where are you?

I’m here.

And you?

I’m here, too.

The sound of milk bottles

The sound of milk bottles 

tinkled like wind chimes

when the milkman came 

early in the morning.

It was always dark

when he climbed

the back porch steps 

and left our order of milk 

and eggs in the metal box. 

The only sign of his visit

the trail of boot prints

he left on each step 

in the snow.

Bruce Black holds an MFA from Vermont College. He is the author of Writing Yoga (Shambhala), and his poetry, personal essays, and stories have appeared in numerous publications, including The MidAtlantic Review, The Amethyst Review, Write-Haus, Bearings, Poetry Super Highway, Poetica, The Lehrhaus, Soul-Lit, and elsewhere. He lives in Highland Park, IL.