The great opera singer, Mademoisella, would take the stage. Waiting in the wings, were the audience. Wearing a ridiculous straw hat, topped with miniature vegetables, and a satin bow, and a huge, emerald dress with a loose peasant shirt, she looked out and curtsied.
"Greetings!" Mademoisella yelled. She followed her own greeting, with an opera-like screech. She had warmed up in the dressing room many times, waving her hands in front of her, before she batted her false eyelashes at the audience, unaware that one had fallen off.
The audience tittered. Mademoisella looked out at the audience, hearing someone whisper that perhaps she couldn't sing at all. She would prove them wrong. Every single one of them. And so she started.
Mademoisella sang. The audience was astounded by her voice. Gone were visions of a bumbling opera singer, moving around in the doorway. She took them far --to lands far away, to places they could only dream of, and opened their eyes. At least in her head.
Later some of the audience would describe it as 'glass shattering,' 'ear piercing', and 'a ghostly shriek that chilled them to the bone.'
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