Serial Fiction

This month, The Manifest introduced the first installation of two seria works of fiction. Watch the print and online editions for future updates.

The Opera and the Phanton Thereof

By Michael Paquet
Manifest Staff Writer

In the beginning, there was nothing…

And then the manager came, and made this opera house.

And on the first day, he said, “Let there be a chandelier to give light to the opera house.”

And there was, and its light shone through the opera house, and the manager looked upon it, and thought that it was good.
Then on the second day, he said, “And let there be red carpets to cover the floors of the opera house.” The carpets stretched through out the opera house, and the Manager looked upon it, and thought that it was good.

On the third day, the manager said, “Let there be seats for the audience to sit in.” The seats covered the red carpet, and the manager looked upon it, and thought that it was good.

On the fourth day, the manager said, “Let there be a stage, that the audience might be entertained.” The stage appeared at the front of the opera house, and the manager looked upon it, and thought that it was good.

On the fifth day, the manager said, “And let there be sopranos, and altos, and base, and an orchestra to play on the stage.” The sopranos, and the altos, and the base, and the orchestra roamed across the stage, and the manager looked upon them, and was well pleased with their performances.

And on the sixth day, the manager looked upon his opera house, and found it incomplete. So he said, “Let there be a phantom, to dwell in the sewers of the opera house, and let him have dominion and rule over my opera house.
And on the seventh day, the manager went to Australia and left two new managers to look after his opera House.

That is where our story begins…

To be continued

Student Fiction: The Ghost of Strawberry Fields
By Kayla Bauer
Manifest staff writer
To the outside world I appear to be an average college student, one who upon high school graduation experienced drastic life changes.
I’ve already lost nearly all of the people whom I used to call friends. I do not mourn the loss anymore, because it won’t bring them back.
I have the usual first semester courses that students hate and the ones they’re excited to take, but most college students experience this, so this stays true with my image of the average student.
However, there are significant differences between my peers and me. College students don’t generally have any spare money; this is not the case with me. I may not have a job of my own, but I receive money from my parents every month to cover expenses and such. It’s their way of keeping in contact with me I guess.
Money isn’t the only difference: There are plenty others, to be sure. A much larger difference is the look in their eyes; I see no passion, at least not in many of them. They are at school because they believe they have to be.
I honestly admit that I once believed this, for society has it thrust upon us that we must go to college to succeed in life. We struggle through high school to get into a school that looks good on a résumé. We get to college and study a variety of courses, all to receive the coveted piece of paper known as a degree which shall lead us to the promised land known as success.
Wanting to reach this success in my own way, I chose for myself a small, intimate campus. It’s here that I’m known as Ginger for my bright red hair — I cannot think of another reason than that for such a name. I spend most of my time between the library, the darkroom, and my courses. both dull and interesting.
Earlier in my life I recall a vividly-positive attitude towards life and its prospects, but that is now steadily waning. The innocence of youth escaping me I suppose. Every day seems bleaker than the last and I have few consolations: A camera to keep me busy, music for company, and schoolwork to keep me in line.
Recently my creativity seems to be failing me. Everything I put my mind and heart into seems to sour. Perhaps I’m painting an accurate description of myself and my state of mind.
Today is certainly one of the worst days, the last day of classes of my first semester. Usually a joyous time where students rejoice in finishing their studies and selling back their books to have a little bit of pocket money.
For me happiness is not the case, it means a month of nothing to do. I feel terrible as I turn in my final photography portfolio; it means that I am done with my favorite class. I follow my professor’s eyes as he regards my photographs and my countenance. He sees right through me.
It is obvious, I am not in misery. I am misery.


To be continued. . .