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Post 1655. December 20

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Imagine if you will a crowded street. People pass by seemingly unaware of the busker standing in a doorway playing an accordion. He stops, stands motionless for a moment or two bearing an expression of terror, then staggers forward and turns. A flash of light bounces off a steel blade protruding from his back and in seconds his white shirt blushes blood red. He collapses into a heap, like a puppet with broken strings, the instrument beneath him wheezes a tuneless groan. The onlookers gasp.

                                                                             

The curtains swept across the stage and there was a stunned silence for a second or two followed by an eruption of spontaneous clapping. It was the interval and the audience made its way to the gilded bar where glasses clinked and chandeliers sparkled; a roomful of amateur sleuths each with their own theory as to whom committed that dastardly deed. Was it the man with the dog or the boy in the hoodie? Could it have been the lady in dark glasses or the beggar with the white stick? A shrill bell rang time, and they made their back to their seats in eager anticipation of the outcome of this grisly tale.

An hour or so later the man with the dog, the boy in the hoodie, the lady with dark glasses, the beggar, and a reincarnated busker joined hands for their final bow, basking in the glory of appreciative applause. Then the audience shuffled their way from the warmth of the auditorium into the chill of the street beyond.

Close by, an accordion player was squeezing a jolly tune. Suddenly his fingers stopped dancing on the ivory keys and he tumbled to the pavement. The departing theatregoers turned and stared, for as one mystery ended, another was about to begin.

As the Bard wisely said, all the world’s a stage.

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I look forward to reading your thoughts on my piece.