Disclaimer - Oh please! Gaston Leroux is dead (last time I checked, anyway), Andrew Lloyd Webber is too busy with his next big play, Susan Kay writes novels, not short stories, and I'm certainly not making any money off of this! The poem is a stanza from Paige C. Storme, but I changed the word voice from eyes because it seemed to fit better. I mean, why have poetic license if you can't use it now and then?
A/N - I've never really believed in muses, but after this I'm not so sure. The story just popped into my head, all written and ready to go. Strange things happen to one at one in the morning, I guess.
Paris is pretty at night, after rain. It looks so new! The dirty stuff that covers everything during the day gets washed off and all the water lies around, shimmering.
Mama won't let me go out to play in the water because she says it's dangerous at night, but I know nothing bad can be around with everything so clean. Something must be wrong with Mama, so I sneak out, all by myself! Skipping through the empty streets, singing nonsense go I! I wonder how many stars are in the velvet black sky? One… two… three… four…five…
Whoops! Looking up too long, now someone trips over my foot. Sorry mister! Something white flies by, glittering in the light like a star. I look at the man for a second. What a pretty face! Why does he hide it with his hands? Why is he crying? Is something wrong? He's all hunched up on the stones, reaching out and patting them. Did the pretty man loose his glasses? I look around. There! Near the rag pile! I go to it, grab the shiny white mask. Is this yours, pretty man?
But a dirty hand grabs my wrist, not the pretty mans', someone else. The rags are moving, now a person connects to the hand. This man's face isn't so pretty, all dirty with yellow teeth. How can a smile look so cruel?
Ouch! He's squeezing my wrist too hard! What does he mean; I'm too lovely to go wasted? The words are nice, but it comes out of him all wrong.
What's going on? Get your hands off my dress! It used to be my Mama's!
But now the pretty man is here, holding me in his big, strong arms. Why does the dirty man look so scared? Why is he screaming, and running away? How come he doesn't like the pretty man?
Oh, here's the mask. Why do you wear it? Doesn't anyone see how pretty you are?
Now he's singing Mama's lullaby for me! He must be an Angel, like Mama talks about, with his pretty face and perfect voice. An Angel of Music!
Pretty man's voice is making me sleepy, just like Mama's. How did he know her special song? It carries me away on sleepy waves, every time............
Why does he cry?
He sounds so nice.......................................
Still
I wonder, in his corner of life,
where hopes and dreams come to be
The man with the voice of an angel
Was I dreaming or did he cry for me?