A Fleeting Career In The Lights
written by: Rae S. Earley (thestoryscripter)
I point my feet delicately on the stage, toes in either direction. My scene partner squares off beside me, arms thrust out, fingers extended as far as they dare, their tips white from the stage light. I sense the vibrations through my harness. The wires that will lift me straight up and my partner, who will send me into a cyclone of emotion. The highlight of the scene. At the cue of the drums, I flex my calves, one leg drawing down so my knee hits the ground. My partner tenses, and we clasp hands, both rough from practice and passion. We skirt around each other, lost in each other’s gaze, the audience invisible thanks to the curtain of light. With a twist of their arm, my partner picks up the pace, and I follow suit. Before long, I’m airborne. My legs lift clear off the stage, my costume an undulating silk cape behind me. Right on cue, the audience gasps and starts to clap. I know the wires will twist, and when they do, I contort myself with them, elegantly completing the spiraling flip. Down below, my partner makes exaggerated reaches for me, but I am too high to touch, too free to be tied down. The music swells and rumbles, every note traveling through the wires to my hips and to every limb, down every hair. It feels so good to fly.
But even though I hit every mark with precision and professionalism, I know this will be the last time I soar. The audience is packed to the brim, so intensely that people are standing along the aisles. This is the last time we will perform. The last time this play will ever show. It is my exit from a fleeting career in the lights. I make sure to relish every moment I’m in the air. Every millisecond is accounted for and appreciated. Every flip and twist, every churn of my legs, and reach for the stars. ‘This is the show that put Maggie Marksman on the map.’ And it’s being taken from me. But I have no one to blame but myself.
When I finally alight back on terra firma, the sorrow is crushing. Even the bellowing applause and standing ovation can’t ease the pain of losing my favorite job. My bow is slow and long; I can’t bear to make eye contact with any potential cameras that I know will be zoomed in.
My castmates crowd around me. Roses and bouquets shower the stage. Cameras flash. Whistles blow. As the curtain falls, so do I.
It’s been two weeks since my departure from the stage, and already the world has moved on. Whenever I walk down the street, no one recognizes me. Maggie Marksman has been erased from the public memory, even though I had the lead in a hit Broadway play. It was less than a month ago that the theater sold standing spots for our final show. I might as well be a foreigner in a sleepy rural town. None of my castmates keeps in touch with me. They probably think I left the industry of my own free will. That I wasn’t ‘cut out for it.’ Who would want to socialize with a quitter? If only they knew.
I rouse myself out of bed only to relieve myself nowadays. I’ve quarantined myself in this beaten-down studio, where the walls are uninsulated and the floor creaks with every step. I haven’t eaten in days. Eating makes the transformation happen faster. I know I should just get it over with, but I can’t bring myself to do it. When I fully metamorphose, I will forget my ambitions, my relationships, my status, and my memories. I will become locked in survival mode, concerned only about where my next meal will come from and where I can catch a solid six hours. When I stare in the mirror, my eyes are a blistering orange and my fingertips have curled into claws. A ridge of hair now lines my arms, and my canines have lengthened into formidable weapons.
Why did I let this happen? I had my whole life ahead of me, full of opportunity. Why did I make such a permanent deal?
Because I wanted to know what it was like to fly. I wanted to feel the light on my face, and the wind through my hair. I wanted to see what the world looked like when it wasn’t obstructed by human heads. But I didn’t just want to fly. I wanted to dance on the breeze. I wanted to swim through the air. To let my voice carry far. And there was no way I could attain that from my social standing.
I can show you, the voice claimed. I can make you fly, and everyone will cheer for you.
I don’t know where the voice came from, but it wasn’t from this plane of existence. I ignored it at first, but the prospect of fulfilling my dream, even only briefly, was agonizingly enticing. I knew the price was steep. I knew it would be eternal. And I knew no one would ever look at me the same way. And I was okay with that. I still am, I think. I got what I wanted after all.
It starts with my extremities and slowly works its way up my body. Skin becomes smothered in coarse fur. My skeleton shrinks and reforms itself, buckling and snapping. Two legs aren’t enough to sustain me anymore. My appetite becomes ravenous. I can’t hold off any longer. But I’m not craving leafy greens or ripe fruits. A deep desire for meat seeps through my insides. Red and raw, bone and beef. My nose and mouth form a sharp muzzle, covered in whiskers, and I sense my jaw muscles strengthening, built for tearing into flesh.
The pristine, composed theater girl known briefly as Maggie Marksman is no more. I’m wiped from the memory of my family and the world, thanks to the voice’s indiscriminate powers. The only production I’ve ever starred in fades into obscurity. My thoughts become simple and singular.
I need to eat.
I need to sleep.
I have an itch.
I scramble out of the tiny studio on all fours, claws clicking along the old wooden boards. No one gives me a second glance as I cross the street. Just another scavenger. Rooting through the leaf litter at the base of a trash can, I come across a newspaper of a young woman on wires, twirling like her soul depends on it. The headline is in giant font, but I can’t read anymore. For a moment, though, the girl looks hauntingly familiar…
- A Fleeting Career In The Lights - November 10, 2025
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