A Small Stage in a Town with a Backbone of Labor

A brief disclaimer: Currently I am in a short story class in which we are focusing on developing the different parts of fiction. Each week we do an exercise on a different element, and I've decided I will post a few of them in my blog as well. This first one is an example of setting.

Sun shines on the cobblestone road as it strolls past the too-trendy-for-this-town coffee shop on the corner. A sharp turn to the left and cobblestone meets asphalt abruptly – history only pays for so much after all. Sparkling lights in trees entice pedestrians to storefronts that promise quaint nick-knack shops but offer hardware stores. Where the lights end the warm, bitter smell and the truth begin. The smell is hops. The truth is agriculture. Neither can hide behind twinkling lights and the faint aroma of coffee. This is a town with a backbone of labor. It is evident here, on Main Street, because of the warehouses. On the other side of town suburbs grow out of orchards. It is evident there, because of the magazine-clipped houses that are the product of fruit plucked by immigrants and money made by family businesses.

In the heart of town neither extreme is so evident. Quaint houses of blue and red and green do exist on streets by the names of Chestnut and Lincoln; remnants of a time when neighbors worked side-by-side and spoke face-to-face. Schools made dingy with time still stand tall, alternately spilling students in colors of green and white, red and blue, orange and black from their halls.

Inside the school whose spillage was red and blue there is a stage. Deep but short, chipping but well-loved. Half a decade ago a 13-year-old girl stood upon its black surface staring at the robust red velvet curtain to her right, rather than the bald smiling director to her front. To her left the pianist sat, fingers perched on the keys of the upright piano on wheels, waiting for the girl’s nod indicating she was ready to begin. With a deep breath she was ready to look forward, but over the director’s head. She tried to avoid the window-turned-mirror on the sound and lighting booth at the back of the theater that usually feels overcrowded at 300 people; though she was feeling that twenty were a bit too many. Finally she decided to focus on the empty seats that were taken from a dying movie theater and gifted to a growing high school theater. They were old and ordinary and smelled faintly of popcorn. She found the combination comforting. Her neck muscles relaxed enough to her allow to nod while staring straight forward. Notes of the piece she had selected started streaming from the piano. One more deep breath and she allowed her robust voice to accompany the fluid chords. The director found the combination comforting.