"What on earth am I to do with you sorry bunch… curtain's up in less than seventy two hours and you still have tons of work to do!"
The voice boomed across the stage. It bounced back and forth like a swing ball suspended from a rope.
"I could get a canary to perform better than you sorry pair!" Sarcasm dripped like iced water.
The singers cleared their vocal chords, eyes darting back and forth. Somebody passed a glass of water. They accepted gratefully.
"And you people over there who call yourselves dancers… Yes, yes, quit hiding behind one another! Move forward! Move forward!"
The dancers kept their eyes averted, frozen to the spot.
"Why are you bunching up like an awkward high school dance group at an end-of-year school fundraising concert?"
A purple vein throbbed at the corner of his temple.
"Space out! Own your space! It's all about artistry! A-R-T-I-S-T-R-Y!"
He grew more incensed by the minute. "The singing and dancing is totally out of sync!"
The tirade reached a crescendo…
"You are like a bunch of novices!" Eyes rolled in disbelief.
"There's no feeling!" Fists clenched in urgency.
"No passion!" Eyes closed in a dramatic show of despair and voice thick with emotion.
"No oooomph!" A short, sharp air-punch delivered with finality, in a desperate attempt to get the message across.
Silence descended. Nobody breathed.
With perfect timing, Boy Friday stepped onto the stage. He delivered a tray to the outraged director. On it stood a single mug. It was filled with his favourite beverage… caramel cappuccino.
The entire cast and crew clapped.
Check out the Bluebell Short Story prompt at: http://bluebellbooks.blogspot.com/2011/11/short-story-slam-week-15.html