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Message-ID: <42613asstr$1053803406@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Delta <Delta@nym.alias.net>
Subject: {ASSM} DELTA:  Amphitheatre (M/F)
Date: Sat, 24 May 2003 15:10:06 -0400
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RE

Should you wish to comment upon my story, I can be reached by 
E-mail at: 

delta @ nym . alias . net


Comments and criticisms are welcome.

Standard disclaimers:  This is a work of fiction - no character 
within is a depiction of any real person, living or dead.  No 
place or event described within exists outside of the writer's 
imagination.  Copyright retained by the author and this post
is for private use of the reader only.  It is not to be published 
in any form whatsoever, including being made available on BBSs or
web pages, without the express prior consent of author.
     Any readers who are underage in the jurisdiction in which
they reside are asked to please pass by.


Delta.

Note:  This was to have been the start of a series of stories
about the Amphitheatre. It has been floating about my hard drive
for a few years now and I thougt it was time to set it free.


                       Amphitheatre
                     by Delta  (1999)

     Curious it was, the tearing down of the fence surrounding
the old Conner estate. Conner had not passed on, or at least no 
mention of such a passing had reached her ears, yet the fence had
disappeared and wide openings cut in the hedges, allowing free
passage.
     Rumours abounded. The estate had been sold. Conner had
grown too ill to remain. Conner's son had returned and
taken over running of the estate for Conner was no longer
mentally competent.
     Any of them could have been true; all might be false. 
She had no way to tell. One rumour, though, could be easily 
verified:  The Amphitheatre. Word spread that there the grounds
contained a small amphitheatre, a place one might practice out 
in the open--if one didn't get one's butt tossed off the property.
     Although adjacent to the park, few, it was said, had the
courage to slip across that line from public to private property.  
The fear of tempting the legendary wrath of Conner saw to that.
     Karen swallowed hard as she took her first step over
the line. She glanced about, almost fearfully. Nothing
happened.  A second step, somewhat easier than the first.
Still nothing.
     The wind was light, yet small gusts and eddies blew about
the golden mantle of dried leaves that covered the ground. The air 
smelled of the trees, of the land, of life. It unnerved her to 
proceed, to consider doing this so far from her place amid the 
ensemble.
     Yet occasionally conditions conspire to take one out of 
oneself, to allow one to become more. This day was such a day and 
this place such a place. Karen found herself looking down past 
the tiered benches without knowing how she'd arrived. Down,
at the focal point, stood the small building, open to the front, 
open to the air, open. She shuddered.
     The warmth of the day remained, the sun shone brightly, 
yet the breezes cooled. If she pressed herself, Karen could 
almost make herself believe a stray cool breeze had caused the
shiver. It was what she wanted to believe, yet she knew that 
this was not the case. It was fear.
     She had been foolish to come.  Foolish to think this might 
help. Help, should she require it, resided elsewhere, back, back 
where the professionals jealously guarded their vocations, their 
reputations. Here was . . . .  She turned to leave, took one 
step then stopped suddenly.
     He stood there, next to a tree. It was impossible that he
had come upon her unknowing, soundless. The leaves would not 
have permitted that. Yet there he stood, nonetheless. Karen
swallowed once again. The stranger wore a long coat, one which
reached his knees, and had a wide brimmed hat pulled down low 
over his eyes. He stood in the shade of a large evergreen and
the contrast between the daylight and shadow hid his features.
     "Play for me."
     Karen stood, transfixed. His sudden appearance coupled 
with that awful request stunned her. Her mind blanked. She could
do nothing, say nothing.
     "Play for me," the stranger repeated, a slow, comforting
smile coming to his lips.
     Karen felt the heavy sword of fear pierce her stomach,
chilling her very blood. He knew not what he asked. He couldn't 
know else he would not have asked. She stood, silent, unmoving.
     His smile faded. The words, when they came, barely carried
to her ears, whispered.  
     "I have need, please do not deny me."
     The words angered her. *He* had need? What of *her* need.
Were his needs to be placed above her own? How often had she
allowed that? Just who did he think he was, anyway? Her 
fingers tightened around the handle. Three steps and she would
pass him. She took the first step tentatively. The second felt
more sure and the third was followed naturally by the fourth and
fifth as she began her march back.  
     He had not changed position as she walked but his shoulders
had slumped. She had seen this before sweeping by. Needs. Her
march devolved into a seeming stumble before rushing back, 
strong and proud. And that march carried her past him once
more, past him and down past the benches, made from split logs, 
to the stage below.
     There were needs, and then there were needs. She opened
the case and withdrew the bow. With unsure hands she tightened
and rosined the hair. Then, with as much confidence as she
could muster, Karen picked up the violin and brought it to her
chin. She gave her left hand a worried glance, then drew the
bow across the strings.  
     Out of tune, but she had the ear and it in only moments she 
was ready--as ready as she'd ever be. She glanced upwards and saw 
the form of him, standing in the self same spot where she'd first 
glimpsed him, waiting.
     Waiting. The waiting was in every line of his being; the
intensity of the waiting was compelling. Karen drew the bow
down across the strings and her fingers moved upon them, sometimes
firm and sure, sometimes hesitant. She grimaced at the lack.

     The haunting sound of a crying violin reached the old man's
ears. His head came up and he turned, testing the air. From that 
way. He moved slowly in what he hoped was the correct direction, 
his cane stabbing into the leaves.
     Funny, but he didn't recall this area. Something was 
different. He peered through the thick lenses of his glasses,
wondering if his memory had finally failed him. But the music 
grew stronger, music which he loved, which reminded him of
times long past.
     Suddenly he arrived. He stopped on the flat spot just
above the final tier of benches. Stopped and stood looking
without seeing as the woman below plied her trade.

     As Karen played the final note a small smattering of 
applause rose. She opened her eyes. Perhaps ten or twelve
people sat upon the benches. Above them stood a solitary
figure, holding on to a cane and, past him, the stranger.  She
had not seen them arrive. What did they want? What did they
expect from her?
     Music. But her music was no longer what it had been. Too 
many of the notes came forth sour; too many too long or too 
short. She was making a fool out of herself. Her gaze returned
to the stranger, to the place under that brim where his eyes 
must be. Needs. Defiantly, Karen lifted the violin once more to 
her chin, even as two more figures drifted down the slope and 
took up seats.
     The notes lifted and swelled, the vibrancy of the work
elevating both the performer and the listeners.

     Margot eased herself down and looked about. Pity that 
Conner had so long hidden such a marvelous place from view, 
holding it for himself only. Looking down the hill past the 
stage, she could see the lake, boats and the islands. To her 
right she could see the city workyard.  People went about their 
daily lives, working, playing, relaxing. Yet here there was 
magic.
     Someone had surely known what they were about, for the 
acoustics were wonderful. And the violinist! Such talent she
had never heard from a busker. Something to be appreciated.  
Margot glanced at the score or so of people, sitting, 
appreciating.  Then she craned her neck and looked up. Ben?  
Could that be Ben after all these years?
     She rose and made her way up to him. He didn't notice her.
His eyes were closed tight and tears ran down his cheeks. She 
touched his arm and he started.
     "May I please have this dance?" she asked gently.
     His arms were no longer the arms of youth, yet he held
them, and her, with the gentle strength the years had granted 
him. Then he led her about the 'floor' as he'd led her long ago.
     "Teresa passed eight years ago," he told her.
     "I heard, but only recently."
     "It has been hard."
     "You still lead well."
     He laughed. The body has its own memory and the memory
of movement is a strong one. His limbs were no longer so
supple as before, yet the grace was not entirely lost. If only
he could see well. He hoped she would keep them on the level
patch, just as he hoped . . .
     
     Dancing? Karen gaped for a moment and her fingers struck
a sharp where a sharp should not have been. This was incredible.
About sat people in all manner of attire and nowhere a tux or 
evening dress to be seen. *And now an old couple were 
dancing?*  If this ever came out at the concert hall . . .
     Yet, the sight, the experience moved her. Here, existed 
none of the intellectual enjoyment of music that had guided her
youth. Here no one seemed to mind if she missed a note or two or 
ten. These were just ordinary people having a good time. There a 
young couple held hands and occasionally kissed. Here a young 
mother gratefully rested while her children sat entranced and,
above them all, the couple danced. It came to her: Here, the
music she played was a gift.  There . . . 
     Karen smiled as she shifted adroitly to a piece with a slower
tempo. For them. She wondered at their thoughts.


     In the cool of an evening the tryst began.
     "It's cool out tonight," she giggled.
     "I snuck a blanket--two," he laughed back as he pulled
her to him, lips finding lips.
     Her arms went around him, pulling him in and he felt 
himself rising to the occasion. So, apparently, did she for
she ground into him just that little bit more, and giggled
again. "Ben, I think we'd better get just a little farther
from the hall," she whispered.
     "You keep that up and I won't be able to walk. 'Sides, I 
want to be able to hear the music. It's all here, Margot, the 
stars, the moon, the music . . ."
     "And us, don't forget us," Margot laughed as she began
attacking his buttons.
     "How could I?" Ben asked as he pulled her sweater over
her head, halting, for the moment, her evil intentions toward
his shirt. "Wow!"
     "Glad you like them. Come on, let's get those blankets
down . . . mmmm, nice." His hands were gentle on the upper
slopes of her breasts. It pleased her he wasn't like some 
who grabbed for the nipples at first opportunity. Mmmm. Much
more like it. Her eyes closed and she let him explore, she 
receiving at least as much benefit as did he.
     With little caresses here and there; small kisses on her
lips, cheek, forehead; and gentle loving words whispered in her
ear, she almost didn't realize that her clothes were being 
removed in a quite forthright, though restrained manner.
     Her eyes opened when she felt his fingers between her
thighs, caressing her swollen lips, stroking her mound, running
though her hair.  
     "Bastard," she whispered affectionately.
     "What?" he inquired in an injured tone.
     "You have much too much clothing on. Here, let me help."
Margot had pants unfastened, his zipper down in a trice and the
hardness of him in her hand before he could reply. He did, 
however give out with such a lovely moan as she stroked him, 
repaying the pleasure she'd so recently received.
     "I want you in me, now," she told him, and he moved over
her. She guided him in and gasped as he pressed forward. So
very nice.  
     In the background the band played on.


     In the warmth of the early evening they moved to the music.
     "I remember . . ." the two said together. Their gazes met
through his thick lenses and they blushed.
     They merely swayed now, together, and Ben brought a hand 
from behind her, to cup a breast tenderly. It was no longer
as firm as it had once been, yet was a source of joy and wonder
to him for she in no wise moved away. Instead, she lay her 
head against his chest.
     "This time I think I'd like a proper bed," she said
demurely. "The ground has become harder through the years."
     His low laugh thrilled her. "I have just the place," he
murmured, breathing in of her scent, "just the place."

     Karen allowed the final note to drag on, then bowed to
the applause. There seemed a general reluctance on the part of
the audience to move on, even as she loosened her bow and 
replaced it in the case. Then the moment passed and a general 
drifting away began. At the top of the theatre the old couple 
walked slowly, hand in hand, towards the parking lot and bus 
stop. Her eyes moved across the lip of the amphitheatre, but 
the stranger no longer watched from above. She shrugged and 
replaced the violin in its case, then closed it.
     As she stepped from the stage, a voice from behind and
to the side wafted to her ears. "Thank-you."

End of "Amphitheatre" by Delta  delta @ nym . alias . net

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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