The Director

by Henry Kellogg

The director sipped his whiskey and looked at the wall. He heard the scurry of mice feet; he heard the mouse squeak.

“More passion,” he shouted at the mouse. “And better diction too. If your going to squeak, squeak like you have something to squeak about.” He looked at the wall in his half-lit room. “And straighten up your posture too. Project. Speak right from the diaphragm. Have poise. Even the slouchy characters must stand and speak like they have something to say.”

The director slouched and stared at the wall. He sipped his whiskey and thought about the great productions he had put on in the past. He also thought about the small room and the mice in the wall. Perhaps I’ll become a famous mouse trainer, he thought. 

“I’ll get you to jump through hoops and make it into a Youtube video. I’ll get 500,000 views and then I’ll be famous again. I’ll be invited for an interview on local television and be broadcast in retirement homes, my voice as background noise. Then I’ll be, if not famous, at least locally notable.”

The mice, however, sounded unconvinced.

“I’ll be back on top,” he told his whiskey. His whiskey did not argue back. Then the director was quiet for a while. He contemplated his mice and his memories. Most of all, he contemplated the wall.

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Henry Kellogg Lives in Burlington, VT. He spends a great deal of time sitting on the stoop.
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