My class is doing a vignette project now, and as I'm having to do them already, I thought I might share a few with you guys and gals, and was wondering if you could share some of yours.
Here's mine, entitled, "A Cinematic Catharsis"
The purple seats of the new theatre are soft, the rooms spacious, and the walls ornate. Soft staccato crunching sounds burst forth from the paper bags and the grappling fingers of those around me. Each eye is entirely focused on the enormous softly glowing screen before me. I had come to watch a movie.
Softly weeping violin music played as the black-and-white images of an elderly man appear. He sings, his voice quivering with age and sorrow of a love recently lost. He is at an auction, and after his melancholic solo, the elderly man looks to the auctioneer. The auctioneer calls the next lot to be sold, in a loud booming baritone voice, a chandelier in pieces. He asks his associates to turn on its lights: Gentlemen- Suddenly brass horns are blaring, the dust on the screen is dispersing, and the shattered chandelier begins rising to a former brilliant glory with bursts of color, light, and flame. The wailing tones sound as if to both herald royalty and warn of deep-cutting and eternal despair. Goosebumps run down my spine as I am awed by both the spectacle of the now vibrant gothic theatre on the screen, and the music which ever escalates in desperate emotion, higher, higher, louder, louder, until-
A soprano sings for the world to hear, for me, personally, to hear, that fearless lofty might of her throats power. The voice grabs what little of me remains on the outside, and beckons me enter the world in the screen; time inside the film passes slowly. I see, live, feel, the lives of those inside, for my stomach is in knots as the protagonist performs publicly for the first time, the tension rising with every escalating note so flawlessly, wonderfully executed; my pulse quickens and eyes widen as the protagonists two lovers fence, their rapiers flashing, clashing, dangerously approaching their enemy; my chest is heavy, and my head hot, lip slightly quivering, as one globular cool drop cascades from its deepening pool under my eye, down my cheek, as I hear the angst and desperate longing for love in the antagonists frenzied, confused, sorrowful songs, sang and moaned and yelled through clenched teeth.
After the last ing tinkling music-box note of The Phantom of the Opera, the screen goes black, clinical white credits roll, and soft yellow light floods the theatre, calling all within it back to reality. But not me. My eyes are still fixed to the screen, my mind dwelling past it, still contemplating the pain and sorrow and love and longings of life that the music so strongly conveyed. After a few moments, I became only slightly aware of my surroundings, and so I wiped the waters of my eyes wells across my face, and left the theatre. My gaze was still transfixed, my chest still heavy, my face still hot, for, on that softly glowing screen and in the voices that echoed within it, I had felt the immense pits of each characters emotions. Through them, I had been shown my own.
Here's mine, entitled, "A Cinematic Catharsis"
The purple seats of the new theatre are soft, the rooms spacious, and the walls ornate. Soft staccato crunching sounds burst forth from the paper bags and the grappling fingers of those around me. Each eye is entirely focused on the enormous softly glowing screen before me. I had come to watch a movie.
Softly weeping violin music played as the black-and-white images of an elderly man appear. He sings, his voice quivering with age and sorrow of a love recently lost. He is at an auction, and after his melancholic solo, the elderly man looks to the auctioneer. The auctioneer calls the next lot to be sold, in a loud booming baritone voice, a chandelier in pieces. He asks his associates to turn on its lights: Gentlemen- Suddenly brass horns are blaring, the dust on the screen is dispersing, and the shattered chandelier begins rising to a former brilliant glory with bursts of color, light, and flame. The wailing tones sound as if to both herald royalty and warn of deep-cutting and eternal despair. Goosebumps run down my spine as I am awed by both the spectacle of the now vibrant gothic theatre on the screen, and the music which ever escalates in desperate emotion, higher, higher, louder, louder, until-
A soprano sings for the world to hear, for me, personally, to hear, that fearless lofty might of her throats power. The voice grabs what little of me remains on the outside, and beckons me enter the world in the screen; time inside the film passes slowly. I see, live, feel, the lives of those inside, for my stomach is in knots as the protagonist performs publicly for the first time, the tension rising with every escalating note so flawlessly, wonderfully executed; my pulse quickens and eyes widen as the protagonists two lovers fence, their rapiers flashing, clashing, dangerously approaching their enemy; my chest is heavy, and my head hot, lip slightly quivering, as one globular cool drop cascades from its deepening pool under my eye, down my cheek, as I hear the angst and desperate longing for love in the antagonists frenzied, confused, sorrowful songs, sang and moaned and yelled through clenched teeth.
After the last ing tinkling music-box note of The Phantom of the Opera, the screen goes black, clinical white credits roll, and soft yellow light floods the theatre, calling all within it back to reality. But not me. My eyes are still fixed to the screen, my mind dwelling past it, still contemplating the pain and sorrow and love and longings of life that the music so strongly conveyed. After a few moments, I became only slightly aware of my surroundings, and so I wiped the waters of my eyes wells across my face, and left the theatre. My gaze was still transfixed, my chest still heavy, my face still hot, for, on that softly glowing screen and in the voices that echoed within it, I had felt the immense pits of each characters emotions. Through them, I had been shown my own.