The Show Must Go On Anna Shaikun
Theme Essay The theme of my project is “The Show Must Go On.” Through trials and tribulations, the phrase “the show must go on” evokes humanity’s steadfast determination. The theatrical aspect of the phrase also ties into the plot of the project -- each piece is based on a step of Joseph Campbell’s concept of the hero’s journey, a timeless story prototype where the protagonist completes a quest and returns home. My pieces follow a chronological order and are divided into a 3-act structure. Act One includes the “Ordinary World,” “Call To Action,” “Refusal of the Call” and “Meeting The Mentor.” In a space familiar to them, the hero must come to terms with their destiny and choose to push forward. Act Two includes “Crossing the Threshold,” “Tests, Allies, Enemies,” “Approach to the Innermost Cave” and “The Ordeal.” The hero has left behind everything they’ve known and passed the point of no return. They have no choice but to brave the dangers of the unknown world to achieve their goal. Act Three includes “The Resurrection,” “The Reward,” “The Road Back” and “Return With the Elixir.” Now, our hero must come to terms with themself in reverse -- how can they reassimilate into their ordinary world when their quest has fundamentally changed them? Even when the hero’s notions about their reality are challenged, the story continues. The show must go on.
Act One I. The Ordinary World || (Phoenix) II. Call to Adventure (Wishing Away Time) || This I Believe III. Refusal of the Call (Gilded) || Dictionary Poem IV. Meeting the Mentor (The Youth) || Viator
Act Two V. Crossing the Threshold (Through The Looking Glass) || Golden Shovel Poem VI. Tests, Allies, Enemies (Atlas) || Three-Word Poem VII. Approach to the Innermost Cave (Darkness I Hear) || The Blitz VIII. The Ordeal (Monster) || Short Story
Act Three IX. The Resurrection (And I Quote) || Found Poem X. The Reward (Treasure) || Digital Collage XI. The Road Back (Home Is A Pair Of Outgrown Shoes) || Spenserian Sonnet XII. Return with the Elixir (The Show Must Go On) || Monologue
About The Author
Anna Shaikun is a senior at Clarke Central High School and the Digital Editor-in-Chief for the ODYSSEY Media Group. Shaikun seeks to tell informative, creative stories and guide the next generation of journalists. In her free time, Shaikun enjoys practicing jujitsu, listening to music and playing Dungeons and Dragons. Photo by Aza Khan
Act One
Phoenix
The Ordinary World // Villanelle
Dawn breaks anew, yet each day is the same Eat, sleep and daydream, then rinse and repeat Awaken, rise like a phoenix from flame Search for the burn when life’s flavor is tame Sharp tang of failure, or victory sweet Dawn breaks anew, yet each day is the same One of a billion, yet dreaming of fame Oh, how lovely to perform some great feat! Awaken, rise like a phoenix from flame One step at a time, a pawn in this game Could take the throne when the match is complete Dawn breaks anew, yet each day is the same Shatter your bonds, cast off pity and shame Stagnation is our only true defeat Awaken, rise like a phoenix from flame Listen to the world, it’s calling your name Know you’re alive as you hear your heart beat Dawn breaks anew, yet each day is the same Awaken, rise like a phoenix from flame
Wishing Time Away Call To Action: This I Believe
In psychology, latent learning is a form of learning not immediately expressed in an observable response. Sometimes, you’ll hear an impactful idea that won’t hit home until days, weeks, even years later. One of those ideas that lay dormant in my head arrived on a late spring afternoon when I was in the car with my father. I was about 12 years old, complaining about having the rest of an already long week ahead of me. “I wish it would just be the weekend already,” I said. My father grew quiet for a moment, then spoke. “Don’t wish time away.” At that age, I thought he was being overdramatic. What’s wrong with wanting the weekend? I almost forgot about it, just as the Earth almost forgets a seed buried deep within. But when I was a little more capable of self-reflection, I began to think about his rationale. My grandmother, his mom, died in 2011. She was 59 at the time, but I’m sure my father still saw her as the young single mother who raised him. He cared about her so much, and I know now that he would give anything to see her for another day. “Don’t wish time away.” Now, as a senior in high school, every day is ticking down to a “last” something. My last Creative Writing Project, my last class with my favorite teacher, my last time seeing some of my friends before we go our separate ways. Thankfully, I know when most of these “lasts” will be. But most things in life aren’t that cut and dried.
I want to spend every last bit of my time in this school, in this city and in this world doing what I’m passionate about and being with the people I love. Even when my overall situation is looking dim, there’s always something to bring me joy -- Sunday night dinner with family friends, Dungeons and Dragons sessions, and laughing with my staffers. “Don’t wish time away.” Every moment that I waste in this grand adventure is gone forever, and each word of my story speeds me toward the next chapter of my life. If change is inevitable, I need to enjoy everything I’m grateful for, for as long as I have it. I think of my journalism group every year at the Southern Interscholastic Press Association conference, where the seniors reflect on our experiences in the program and have a cathartic moment of tears. We all join hands and feel a quick pulse make its way through us. The underclassmen are somber as they mourn their future “fallen soldiers,” as our Journalism adviser Mr. David Ragsdale tells us this group will never be together again. There is a silent promise to finish strong. “Don’t wish time away.” We only have so much.
Gilded
Refusal of the Call // Dictionary Poem
gil·ded || / ˈgildəd / adjective Fool’s gold Its worth only skin-deep The skillful deceiver With a single scratch, the illusion falls away Easily mistaken for value Yet underneath the surface It rusts How long can it rest on a pedestal Before it is discovered And torn apart Synonyms: golden || / ˈgōldən / adjective A precious metal through and through It rests heavy in your hand It can bear your diamonds It is not like me Please search elsewhere I beg you I am not your golden child
The Youth Meeting the Mentor // Viator
For are we not the youth? We enter, young and starry-eyed Drinking in visions of heroes Seekers of the truth
Standing on our own two feet Stretched between future and past For are we not the youth? Stand your ground, there’s no defeat
Brick by brick, they build us strong For are we not the youth? Giving all they have to give Their odyssey, we’re just along
Guide the mighty, train the uncouth We pass the torch, they carry the crown When we leave this room, an era ends. For are we not the youth?
Act Two
Through The Looking Glass Crossing the Threshold // Golden Shovel Poem
to the life i have known, i spare only a glance, for what is the use of looking back when the road leads ahead? like glass i am melted and forged into something new. so afraid in the face of destiny, yet entranced by a shiny future, gleaming bright; it’s my time to leap and fall down a rabbit hole to learn something new i wish i’d always known. no matter how terribly i just want to go home, i must quickly become the heart of my own queendom, find the method to my madness. delusions of glamour run off with my head as all that is “normal” fades
Lyric credit in colophon
Atlas
Tests, Allies, Enemies // Three Word Poem
Upon my shoulders Lies the weight Of the heavens Perhaps a punishment For my sins Perhaps simply fate Or wicked consequence
I cannot falter Letting it fall Causes irreparable damage Yet I struggle On the mountaintop Isolated and failing At my purpose
On strong days I raise them Above my head Trembling and triumphant But I crumble And drop down To one knee
A hand reaches To lend itself To my burden Together we strain Together we breathe The weight of The world is
Best served shared
Darkness I Hear Approaching the Innermost Cave // 3-Word Poem
Search the cave / Search the darkness Darkness unending / Darkness so quiet Quiet like death / Quiet brings ghosts Ghosts of those passed / Ghosts of the future Future is bright / Future uncertain Uncertain times / Uncertain of victory Victory over evil / Victory over self Self-inflicted misery / Self is a construct Construct my tools / Construct my identity Identity for others / Identity crisis Crisis averted / Crisis of faith Faith in myself / Faith in destiny Destiny to win / Destiny awaits Awaits my move / Awaits my face Face the facts / Face my fears Fears of failure / Fears not becoming Becoming of me / Becoming a legend Legend unfolds / Legend is flawed Flawed story / Flawed being Being unsure / Being there There for the masses / There goes a hero Hero alone / Hero of home Home far away / Home to nobody Nobody with me / Nobody to hear Hear my hello / Hear the echo Echo… Hello?
Monster The Ordeal // Short Story
I do not remember when I first made the acquaintance of the monster. It begins small, like a twittering, tenebrous sparrow masquerading as an angel on my shoulder. “You serve the world,” it whispers. “You should be perfect, for them.” The monster learns to read me like a book, critiquing my diction, tone, and character. “I am but human,” I protest, but it takes no notice. The monster feeds on despair. It grows and grows, now a vulture with its last meal still caked around its beak. The weight of it hunches my shoulders and turns my eyes downward. Better not to act, not to invoke its wrath. Some days, it puts pressure on my lungs to the point where I can barely speak. Each time I fade into the background, it laughs a little louder. Each time my sentences vanish into thin air because no one listens, its claws grip a little tighter. I am not strong enough to resist.
But even in the darkest night, there remain a few people that repel this creature. Those who are patient enough to assure me, or those who have their own monsters sitting on their shoulders. When I am almost swallowed by the violent maelstrom of my own thoughts, they can pull me to safety. The monster hisses and spits, and warns me that my love is misplaced, that I care for them more than they could ever care for me. But it is at a distance, and for the first time in a long time, I feel free. I do not remember when I first made the acquaintance of the monster. And I believe it will be with me until the day I die. But it feeds on discord and hate, and I will do my best to let it starve.
Act Three
And I Quote The Resurrection // Found Poem
Fix my head. There’s no free will Because there’s no you anymore. That’s called burnout. Are you disappointed? Stupid and unable to learn? Would you like to change that? What are you giving up? I am a martyr. I don’t have a brain. Fix my head. Sometimes, doing harm is necessary. Thank you for lying to me. Forgive me, I promise There’s a goal. Read it and weep, you freak! I won’t lose to fate. I will only lose to you. And I will win. I promise. After you scurried away? I am More fragile than you think. Do you know where Meaning can be found? There is always something left over after the world ends.
Treasured The Reward // Digital Collage
Home Is A Pair of Outgrown Shoes The Road Back // Spenserian Sonnet
My home, I thought that you would never change You would be comforting when I returned What was familiar then is now so strange This sinking feeling, is that all I’ve earned? Perhaps the dread is due to all I’ve learned I dared to stretch my wings, and how I’ve flown I’ve found the kin for whom I’ve always yearned Yet on this well-worn path, I tread alone I ventured far from all I’ve ever known A shining light to bless my journey’s end I could not comprehend how much I’d grown Apart, I barely knew my dearest friend
My home, which I thought I would never lose Has now become a pair of outgrown shoes
The Show Must Go On Return With the Elixir // Monologue
INT. THEATER - NIGHT (A singular spotlight clicks on to illuminate the stage in an empty, darkened theater. JULIET, a young woman in a bloodstained dress, holding a rose, walks slowly across the stage to stand in the center.) JULIET (grandly): Ladies and gentlemen, theater patrons of all ages! I… (She trails off and slumps on the stool behind her.) JULIET (now dejectedly): Oh, who am I kidding? They’ve all gone home. As they should. The show is over. The rose petals have long since been swept off the stage. And yet, I’m still here. I guess I’m just not ready to let go of this. (She clutches her dress) Of Juliet. After all, we rehearsed this for months! I lived and breathed Juliet Capulet. I could have performed that entire play in my sleep. Night after night, I read those lines until my eyes blurred or I fell asleep at my desk. And Juliet began to make sense to me. I understood her personality, her motivations. She was my friend, then I became her. I was in her shoes to the point of wearing holes in the toes. When I’m Juliet, or Eliza Schuyler, or Christine Daaé, I know exactly how to feel, what to do, what to say. But there aren’t scripts for everyday life. I don’t know what to do. I stutter, or I clam up entirely.
...
The moment I step out of this theater, that’s what I become. I’m no longer the charming Capulet that someone would literally die for; I’m the weird kid with her nose in a book, tripping over her words and praying that no one speaks to her. I have confidence in myself when I’m in costume -- why can’t I be certain of who I am outside of this one spotlight? (JULIET sniffles a little, her head dropping towards the ground. As something occurs to her, she stands up and begins to pace.) JULIET (hopeful): And yet… what is it our director always says? “The show must go on.” Because it’s never perfect. No show is perfect. Benevolio blanks on a line and we have to adlib. The propmaster forgets my knife, and I have to drink Romeo’s leftover poison. But the show must go on. So we work around it. Those little mistakes are what make us different from every other production since Shakespeare wrote it. The flaws make it ours. And no matter how badly we screw up, the show must go on. And things get better. Always. It just takes practice. Maybe I just have to practice. (She takes a deep breath) I wasn’t going to go to the cast dinner tonight. But maybe it would be good for me. I’ll try to talk to some people. Maybe even our Romeo. I mean, we’re already married. It shouldn’t be that hard. (JULIET laughs softly. She adjusts her hair and strides off stage right, leaving the rose on the stool. As the door slams, the spotlight clicks off behind her.)
Colophon All written work was created by Anna Shaikun and edited by the iliad Literary-Art Magazine Editorial Board and Mr. David Ragsdale. “The Show Must Go On” headlines were printed in Dancing Script. All body copy was printed in Monterchi. “Treasured” was created by Anna Shaikun using the app Shuffles by Pinterest. All spreads were designed by Anna Shaikun using Canva.
Works Cited Page 14, “Through The Looking Glass” by Anna Shaikun includes references to the following work: Welch, Florence. “Rabbit Heart (Raise It Up).” Lungs. Album Records, 2009.