He stood so tall upon the stage,
A giant from a golden page.
His voice was loud, his cape was red,
I believed in every word he said.
But then the script began to fray,
With jagged words that spoiled the play.
The music stopped, the air went still,
Against a sudden iron chill.
Guilty
The house lights flickered on and stayed,
To show the hollow thing he’d made.
The glare unmasked the quiet lie
Of painted wood and paper sky.
I looked to find the hero’s shape,
But found instead an empty cape.
It lay neglected on the floor,
Beside a heavy, bolted door.
Stephanie Hurley is a writer and English teacher based in Manawatū, New Zealand. She is passionate about all things creative; in particular, using writing to examine the world around her. Her work has been published in Tarot, Mote, Chortle, The Belladonna Comedy, Poetry Potion, and fiftywordstories.com.