The Tale of the Bloodline

Contest entries that were submitted for a chance to win

The winner in March 2010 was

Julie
in Texas

IN GASTON LEROUX'S NOVEL, THE PHANTOM OF THE OPERA, CHRISTINE RETURNS TIME AND AGAIN TO THE PHANTOM'S LAIR BENEATH THE OPERA HOUSE. SHE DOES THIS DESPITE TELLING RAOUL THAT ERIK FRIGHTENS HER. IN YOUR OPINION, WHY DOES CHRISTINE CONTINUE TO SEEK OUT THE OPERA GHOST?

As the children sat around her feet, each making a small niche in the petticoats of her skirts, they asked her to repeat the stories of the two handsome suitors in her life, both young men vying for her love and attention. She would tell of the handsome, proud, tall stature of the gentleman, full of nobility, the Viscount Raoul de Chagny. To stroll beside him, holding onto his strong arm, definitely tempted the mind to follow that path in life. He was an amazing gentleman, more than capable of making their lives complete. Then she would tell of the handsome stranger, his black fluid grace flowing around him as he passed in front of her. His strength and sensitivity always making her feel safe and secure. This was Erik D'Angeles, master of all and lover of only one. A loner, he always hid behind his cloak and his many masks of different colors, covering his face so no one could see. Sending out the treasure of his love, not only with his touch but with his look, was difficult for him. She did not always have feelings of security and warmth. But a girl could surely get lost in those deep golden eyes. “Tell us more, mama! Tell us of the spirit that made you giggle with happiness.” She could not conceal her smile. “But wait, see for yourself, children. He stands behind me now, brushing his fingers on my check, holding all of us so reassuringly.” Loving and tender, whirling fragrant kisses to his children – all snug and comfortable, sheltered before him. “This second, strange creature – now called Papa – is mon amie.” Mon amie!

Christine II, From inside the Opera Populaire
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was always the two of them....the handsome aristocrat tugging at me, pushing me toward his life, his friends. The gaiety and the prestige had a strong hold over me. I desired to dine and dance as much as all the other beautiful woman hanging on the arms of their dashing aristocratic men. But always, as the moments ended; I retired to the shelter of my room and listened for the music in the night that would bring me peace and contentment. The sounds would fill my ears, each note sent with the thrill of love. The adoration of these notes would enter my head and circulate through my mind. They would fill my heart, make me strong. I felt the love there as no one else could. This Angel of The Night, this Angel of Music had no wings...but he floated to me nourishing the tension from my body and mind, reminding me so much of Papa. This is the legacy Papa has left me. The Angel beckons me to listen. He maintains that I learn, that I choose the life of music, that I choose the love of music, and that I choose the Angel behind the melodies and the soft caress of serenades. I could not love anything more than I do my invisible Angel. Perhaps the notes will turn me into a Princess and my Angel into a Prince. Music will be our lives, and we will journey to heaven in the commitment together.

Christine, From inside the Opera Populaire
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Erik -
You asked me, Monsieur, why I return to you - again and again, like a woman possessed. Perhaps I am. No...no I know it to be true; I am possessed, possessed of a great love that suffers fear as its tormentor. Oh Monsieur, if you only knew! If you knew that even when you think that no-one else can hear you sing, the notes that pour forth from your tortured soul...they find me! Asleep or waking, they seek me out and ensnare my mind, calling me down to you. Do I dare wish to be free from you, Angel of Music? Do I dare dream of being another dreary aristocrat, locked up like so many pretty songbirds in a gilded cage, nodding my head and singing the songs chosen for me, forever forbidden to sing the notes that are in my head and in my heart? Do I turn my back on all that you have given me, that which you have sacrificed for my well-being? Do I just say "No!"? No. I think not. At least not today. For isn't it true, dearest love of mine, that we fear that which we do not understand...and who could be more mysterious than you? My love, my dearest Phantom, my Angel of Music who has been there for me when the world turned its back and would have discarded me. You are my heart's true home...and home is the safest place to be.
Yours, Christine.

Isabella C. Dorough
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

What could she do? Where could she go? Who could she tell? Keeping the visitations a secret frightened her, tormented her. But if anyone knew they would think her mad! Perhaps she was…she listened to songs spiraling from heaven itself, pieces of glory coming down from her father through the Angel of Music. Why had the Angel forbidden her to speak of him? How could she not tell others of the exhilaration and happiness she felt when she heard him sing? The musical notes glided like honey off a spoon. She floated in them, nurturing each with love for they nourished her, quickened her as sunlight does a budding rose. In response she sang alone, as he directed, her heart seizing every lesson, filing it away within her mind to be remembered, rehearsed. Each night brought new, more intricate sounds, more life breathed into her soul. The songs were real, and each time they began anew her heart skipped a beat knowing there would be more. How does one hold onto sounds drifting in the air, wondrously making their melodious way down to her? Would she never rise to meet him? Never cast her eyes upon him? How could she not touch him? Perhaps a day would come when he would descend. Brush her face, kiss her lips, merge with her soul. Surely he would enter her and she would welcome him when it happened. For there is only one Angel of Music and only one true love awaits him.

Jodi Lucas
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The memory of those nights comes as a hazy mist filled with swirling dampness. I hear our soft footsteps, the ruffling of my skirts, as we move over stone through near pitch black. Rank odors permeate the air, mixing uncomfortably with the scent of the stranger. Secretly I pray he’s drawn to smell. I’ve touched perfume strategically on my body so he won’t forget me. At the boat his fingers beckon me to come. Transfixed, I watch his arm straighten, his fingers uncurl, gallantly offering me his hand. We touch and my fingers soften. His becomes stronger, more purposeful, encircling mine like a delicious snake. He draws my body closer, straight to him, until I am not an inch away from his. I feel his breath on mine. His chest moves so rhythmically. Does he hear my heart beating stronger and stronger under the torture of those golden eyes boring right down into my soul? Bravely my gaze seeks his, desperately trying to tell him that Heaven could be ours if he would but open the gates. My own weakness breaks communication, but his eyes never leave mine. In the house his bellowing music calls to the angels of light and life. The melodies swell in my brain. Oh, how I want to become one with the music and this man. Yet I remain unmovable, craving his touch, yearning to see his face, take in again the scent of his being. Sweet, sweet creature will I ever know your taste?

Maxxi M.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Had she imagined the dream, actually seen the Angel of Music? Dazed, she looked toward the mirror and saw Christine. Perhaps she’d only pretended to see the reflection of someone else. Moving ever so lightly, she touched the cold glass, letting her awakening senses confirm she stood alone. But was someone watching her? The strange declaration of love from the man in liquid black seemed so real. Didn’t his musty smell still linger, mingling with the faint odor of perfume issuing from her costumes? Delicate moisture drifted in the air, dampness from the underground lake. He’d beckoned to her to come and taste the droplets of Tokay. The bittersweet flavor remained on her tongue, an aching reminder. With opened lips she re-felt the gentle brush of his fingertips as she waited, thirsting for more. Did she dream the soft melodious voice or could she hear, even now, the heavenly sounds other performers seemed unable to perceive? Every night the sweet accents of heaven drew nearer, nearer. Those soft insistent chords of bliss…incomparable to anything else…addicting melodies sung from that celestial throat…paralyzing her, forbidding her to move in any direction except toward its soul-searching strains. Surely these visions were real. “So graceful a sound.” Her cheek actually caressed the unyielding glass. “Not a dream, no. Return, come back.” Given the slightest provocation, she’d hasten to walk through the mirror into the other side of heaven, to see, to hear the magic of the music of the Phantom of the Night.

Giovanna Fraioli - The Great State of Massachusetts
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Life set a cruel choice before her: two men, each professing love. One filled with sunlight - the other shrouded in shadows and haunting corners. She envisioned making a home, a nest, with either. Clearly Raoul wanted an empress draped on his arm, someone to play gracious hostess at parties. A trained performer might accomplish that role and be an attentive mother, too. But could she change him from spoiled nobleman to caring husband? Erik craved a mate, desired her, sucked away her breath. Shunning public attention, he was content to take her on carriage rides in the middle of the night, to kiss her hand, and sing those heartrending songs. She trembled. How could she warm those icicle fingers? Surely he would want children, claim her in the night. Could she change his life from that of ultra-recluse to allow just a small amount of daylight, perhaps in their private garden? He would defend her and not with a show of his chest stuck out in a grand way. No, he would chokehold the fool who insulted her and leave him swimming in a sea of want. Silently she admitted the truth, she could alter both men, mother each. But it was to the cellars she returned everyday, to the soul at the organ who vibrated with music and shattered her heart with his passionate fury of melodies. Below, in the kingdom of forlorn stone, was the soul most like her father, the real prince, the Angel of Music.

F. Paul, Minnesota
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Many were unaware that the mythical creature called the Opera Ghost was real. Like most factually based myths, exaggeration enhanced the story. Christine knew the details were correct, except that the elusive Phantom was not eight feet tall and did not possess a fiery skull for a head. After the monster revealed his true identity to her, declaring his undying love, he’d become more visible, taken undo risks. Rumors flew; he’d even been spotted ducking in and out of cracks in walls. She’d tried to debunk the overstatements, but fearful superstition reigns supreme among the artistic. They’d questioned her and tossed her off as a conspiracy theorist feeding on the maddening abundance of circumstantial evidence – someone who believed mashed potatoes formed divine shapes. It hurt being lambasted with whispers and harsh stares. Then Bouquet spotted the ghost burrowing around in the scenery. His “sighting” proved to be a crudely drawn charcoal figure, waving! But she’d detected the ghost’s death-like scent in the area of the caricature. She knew his stinky; it was everywhere. Now she felt like a nut-case who needed a field guide just to navigate the back areas of the opera. The only way to regain credibility was to descend into the cellars and obtain a plaster molding of his footprint. True evidence that he was real and spoke to her! She’d prove she wasn’t a hoax monger planting evidence for attention. The Phantom wasn’t hard to find. Enter the corridor behind the mirror and follow your nose!

Steven Pentecost
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Despite the belief that Christine was an “innocent” among the world of theater, she was well acquainted with the competitive spirit that pulls one star to the top of the public’s attention and crashes another down into oblivion. She’d grown up in the ballet corps, watched performances for years, and now had an opportunity to achieve excellence. Oh, she wanted the attentions of the Viscount de Chagny, but initially she was willing to put even that at risk to become a diva. Humans are devious and deceptive. She tells Raoul that Erik frightens her, but she secretly relishes the chance to go to the very depths of the cellars and practice with the maestro. She has discovered, and not a moment too soon, that she can play both sides of the tracks and come out ahead. Does she care that Erik’s heart is breaking? No. In Leroux’s book, she spares him one parting little kiss on his forehead. Do his tears stir her into lingering? No. Undeserving Jezebel has spun her plot. Her training is complete and now she may marry the man with the whole face. The fop dandy who has been babied all his life and given every whim he ever desired. Ambitious Christine is no heroine. She goes back to the cellars time and again to focus on her musical performances. It is the Phantom that upsets her calculating plans by stealing her right off center stage in a bold unprecedented stroke of iron-handed will. Too bad.

Julie's winning entry
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The power of the Phantom over Christine allows him to possess her with his eyes, to capture her with his charm, to enfold her with his deathlike hands, to free her with his music, and to intoxicate her with his love. Her fear is as real as the man who stands before her. Her needs are as rapturous as his voice. Her pity is as strong as his horrible face, and her love is as desirous of his melodious music. She cannot escape the being that surrounds her. He thrusts fear into her face and mind. He encompasses her with the gentleness of his commanding touch. He surrounds her with his love. Pity for this man and sympathy for his actions has brought her here these many times to the underground. The pity and sympathy for this semblance of a man who allows her to see him has now sustained their abounding love. Why does she feel love for this man who has this power over her life? Christine Daae is hopelessly devoted to the Phantom by her pity, by her love, and by the power of the unknown that compels her to stay. The Phantom has again balanced her horror with sympathy and her revulsion with admiration. Their love begins in the underground and their love will live there forever!

J. McMahon
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She waited at the fourth turn, confident he would come. Dreading his approach. The tunnel, dark and fearsome, felt like the mouth of a snake about to swallow her. He pledged he would sing as he approached. That he’d warn her he drew near. She remained, trusting in his word. Her angel, her teacher. She trembled. Clutching at her music satchel in the coolness, fear absorbed all wayward thought. Down beneath her feet she heard the song arise. The melody was distant, as if echoed through canyon walls. Yes, he was definitely coming, true to his promise. Heart racing, she ordered her limbs to stop shaking. Commanded them to be still. Lord God, such a voice. Drawn from the breath of some creature crashed to earth, surely by accident. Poor pitiable Erik. He’d made her promise to appease his needs and come to him. How he feared the very mention of Raoul’s name. Had he despaired of life? The singing stopped. Straining, she tried to sense him, sense anything. Intractable silence absorbed her every thought. Surely he had not changed his mind! Surely he would not leave her standing there in the blackness! No, he would never desert…unless something else, something unforeseen held him back. Painful seconds passed. She pictured him hobbled. Tears filled her eyes. Was he hurt? No sound of a scuffle had come to her. A lantern’s soft light gradually filled stonewalls up ahead. He stood there. Proud. Independent. She sighed. Relieved. And he sang for joy.

Natalie Pimentel

back to top