Fog rose from the wide river, creeping up and flowing over the containing concrete banks, floating across the city, damply feeling its way into bricks and steel. It became so thick, the illumination from the streetlights quickly became absorbed in a blanketing mist of opaque nothingness. Clammy fingers of haze slithered along sidewalks, crawled up walls and enveloped everything in a moist moment of silence. Space coalesced, sound was muffled and each inanimate object became a world unto itself, isolated in miasmic nightmares.

Previously familiar places became unrecognizable. Zante stopped, convinced she could hear something. Suddenly a droning entity of subdued light roared passed. She opened her mouth to shriek, then partially relaxed.

It was an automobile finding its way through the foggy streets. Looking up, she tried to make out the name on the shop and use it as a guide to where she was. To her surprise she saw steps leading up between the buildings. The young woman had only lived in the city for six months, but couldn't remember seeing them before in this district.

Hesitating, Zante noticed a metal sign fixed on the crumbling brick wall, the rust and algae showing its age. Peering intently, she was amazed, but relieved, to see it indicated an arrow and the words, Fifth Avenue, which was the location of her apartment.

Deciding to follow this route, she carefully started to climb the steep steps, feeling her hand against the slimy walls, hoping to find a rail to hold. There was none there, only the touch of dusty stone, mixed with the dampness of the mist. Along with the gritty grime, Zante felt the finger-tingling webs of scurrying spiders, their traps filled with the dead bodies of all sorts of insects.

The steps wound up, the fog so thick she could hardly see the treads. In the distance she saw a faint orange light. It appeared to be swaying, but she couldn't tell where it was, as it hung disembodied in the swirling wet mist. Her instincts fought between running scared and walking slowly to avoid tripping on the broken stones.

With each step the light seemed to remain static, keeping its distance from Zante. But she did begin to detect a noise, like some devilish bird, its plaintive squawk calling desperately, along with a the flapping sounds of wings trying to escape a terrible fate.

"Zante," the voice came out of the vapor. The young woman stood still, completely petrified. It was a knowing call, superciliously self-confident. Again it sounded. "Zante," this time more insistent. She couldn't tell from where it came. In terror, Zante, decided to try and run.

Blindly running up the steps, hands dragging against the wall to try and guide herself in the gloom, feet slipping on the wet treads, Zante heading toward the orange light. Then her body was taken, grabbed and held. She screamed and struggled. The one armed grip was like a vice around her waist, another hand restraining her flailing right hand. Then another man - from the strength it must be male - took hold of her, lifting Zante into the air.

In panic and fright, she was carried up the stairs. They never reached the light or the top. Turning into a side passage, Zante fainted as her captors took her into a dark, cold tunnel.


* * *


Her eyes saw nothing but the glare. Bright, white light, dazzling her senses, stunning her thoughts. Zante tried to move. Only her head responded. She felt numb and paralyzed. It took her a few moments to realize she was bound fast. She was somewhere unknown, seated on a plain wooden chair, her arms pulled back and wrists tied behind her, secured to the same upright stretchers, with ankles similarly tied. That radiance almost pinning her to the spot.

"Are you now ready?" It was the same voice that had called her name when she was on the stone stairs.

Incomprehensively, she shook her head.

"Dim those lights for a moment," the instructions came from somewhere in front of her. It was that tone. Soft yet menacing. The spotlights went low. Zante began to see her surroundings. She was on a sort of stage, the scrubbed boards worn with by the feet soles of a thousand feet, thick, red drapes to both sides, and in front of her the stalls. A lone, indistinct figure sat four rows back.

"Release her," came the manes directive.

Two hulking forms walked from either side of the presidium. They were slow of step and dim of countenance. Zante shivered at their appearance of brute strength. She surmised they were the two men who had carried her from the outside steps into this place. Awkwardly, they untied the ropes binding her.

"They may look dim-witted and slow, but do not attempt to run once you are untied. All the doors of our Theater are locked. If I have to get these stage hands," the voice laughed, "to bring you back, they can get annoyed and out of control. Especially with someone so pretty. If you understand."

She didn't want to, so remained very still when the ropes were removed, only rubbing her wrists and ankles to bring back the circulation and ease the pain.

"So, is that better, Zante?"

"How do you know my name?" she asked, angry but frightened.

"I have seen you in many parts, and roles."

She finished touching the red mark on her wrist and stared down at him. "What do you mean?"

The man stood up. As he moved along the row, then down the aisle to stand just in front of the stage, she could see his pale face, handsome yet severe, slightly gaunt, with deep set, lively eyes. He held a large book in one hand, and raising it to his face, read, "Zante Zimber. Real name Sara. Started to call herself Zante six months ago at the age of twenty-two when she moved to this city. Works for a charity organization. Likes to play many characters."

She frowned down at him and began to get up from the chair. The two large men at either side made a movement toward her. It was enough to make her resume sitting.

"Who are you?" Zante asked as she watched him run a long finger against the text in his book.

"Me, I am the Director."

"I think you have mistaken me for someone else," Zante almost pleaded. "I'm not an actress."

"Oh but you are, dear Zante," he said, waving his hand and becoming animated for the first time. ?With your work friends you are shy and reserved. With Johnny - the man you met at a party last month, you have adopted a sophisticated, erotic role. But with Gary - your boyfriend - you are the reluctant virgin. I have been watching you, Zante darling."

The Director sat in one of the seats on the front row, put the book by his side and inclined his head to one side. "You intrigue me, Zante. I've asked you here to discover if you can play not just a supporting role but become a great leading star."

He picked up the book again and called loudly, "Today you will audition. Let the play begin."

Zante's indignation got the better of her fear. She stood up and shouted at the man, "You're mad. I'm leaving."

Calmly, the Director shook his head as if he was dealing with a petulant child.

"You stage people are so temperamental. You stage hands, take Zante and get her ready."

The two hulking brutes moved in, picked up the struggling Zante and carried her off, along corridors stacked with the props and sets of a theater, taking her into a small room, forcing her to sit on a chair. They walked back and stood, arms folded, in front of the door. An old woman was standing, bird like, by the side, her hands full of clothes.

"So you are Zante," she clucked like a fussing hen, "the Director has spoken about you. Now, young lady, we need to get your makeup ready first. Let's get these clothes off."

Zante froze as the old woman put down the bundle she was carrying and urged her to get up. "We don't want powder all over your clothes do we," the woman cackled as she undid Zante's buttons on her dress. "Anyway, we have a lovely costume for you, my sweet thing. The Wardrobe Mistress will be here soon."

There was silence in the small dressing room. Zante stood watching herself in the mirror with its row of bare light bulbs around it as the old woman undressed her. She could also see the two large men, passive, yet intently studying every piece of the slow motion action. It wasn't long, as her bra was removed and panties taken down, that before Zante stood statuesque like, naked.

There was a moments stillness, then a rapid knock on the door. Without anyone saying anything, a tall, lithe lady came in. She was dressed in a black suit, her hair red as the glowing evening sun, eyes and hands in perpetual small hasty movements.

"You must be Zante. Such a divine body. I'm the Wardrobe Mistress. The Director said you were gorgeous."


* * *


"Do you think we need these men?" The Wardrobe Mistress spoke at last, after walking around Zante, making soft appreciative noises and speaking rapturously about the young woman's body, all the comments being to herself. Without waiting for an answer, she turned to the men and waved a dismissive hand at them as if she was shooing away bothersome flies.

"Don't look so disappointed," she huffed, "You can wait outside the door and if Miss Zante shows any reluctance in preparing for the part Ill call you in to. shall we describe it as - persuade her."

The two men went out of the door, as the Wardrobe Mistress held it open. She looked over at the old woman and insisted, "You as well. I need to be alone with Zante."

Closing the door firmly, the red haired woman made a face, which indicated satisfaction that they were now ready.

"What is this all about?" Zante tried to see if another female much nearer her own age would take pity and explain what was going on.

As if ignoring the question, the Wardrobe Mistress walked behind Zante and put her hands on the young woman's shoulders.

"Call me Thelma, dear Zante." Running her fingers down each side of Zante, the Wardrobe Mistress felt over her waist, then hips. Her hands circled Zante and lightly cupped her breasts.

"So much easier to assess what will fit. I find the hands far more sensitive than a cold, calculated tape measure. Now what was it you were asking? Oh, yes."

Thelma stroked Zante's hair with one hand, letting the other glide like a velvet glove to the young woman's sex, imperceptibly touching and teasing.

"The Director takes a long time to select players for his productions. He must have been watching you. You should be flattered, Zante."

"I'm not an actress." Zante's protest was mild. Her senses dichotomous about Thelma, fearing to object to the exploration of her body, fighting to subdue the enjoyment.

"His plays are like life, full of indecision, open to interpretation. Do not be afraid, Zante. There is a method, there is a reason."

"What?" Zante sighed, tear in her eyes.

"I cannot tell you," Thelma whispered. After a moments hesitation she kissed Zante's ear. "If I show you some of the Theaters ways, do not tell the Director."

"You talk in riddles," Zante sobbed, but let herself lean back onto Thelma.

"Riddles are the beginning of knowledge," Thelma soothingly replied.

* * *


When Zante was led back along the corridor, Thelma waited behind in the dressing room, a final caress sending the young woman on her way to the stage. The powerful arc lights were back on, Zante walking cautiously to the center. She was not alone. Two men and a woman were already there, poised in immobility, as if waiting for something.

From just beyond the area of the orchestra, the Director called up. "You look the part now, Zante."

The young woman tried to see him, but couldn't in the daze of the spotlights. She tried to remember what Thelma had said. She tried to hide her thoughts of what Thelma had taught her. Zante was dressed in a long white flowing dress, with golden belt and a sash of purple, her shoes, soft sandals of finest leather. That was all. Thelma had said she wouldn't need underwear. Zante felt the sensation of the silk material touching her skin.

"Let's go to Act two, scene three," the Director instructed.

"I have no lines," Zante heard herself shout.

"Improvise," the Director said, his voice calming and resolved.

The other young woman on the stage moved toward Zante. "Then you must seek salvation," she said. Immediately the two men came alive, one striding to center stage and looking forlornly out into the auditorium. The second man took hold of the woman's hand and with a gesture of anger, shouted, "She is lost to us." He then marched from the stage taking the woman with him.

Pacing up and down the front of the stage, the remaining man, eventually stopped in front of Zante.

"Why have you done this to me?" he lamented. Zante remained silent.

"Do you not love me any more?" he said, taking Zante into his arms.

Something impelled her to answer, "Yes."

"Then prove it," he said, kissing her. A pause seemed to last forever. The man pulled away from the embrace. "I take your lack of acceptance to be a sign of guilt."

To Zante's horror, she saw him take a dagger from his cloak and raise it passionately into the air.

"No," Zante shrieked, not knowing what to do or truly say.

"Then let me love you," he frantically wept, taking hold of her, tearing at her dress. They struggled for a brief moment. An infuriated call came from the Director.

"Stop. This is not the way to play this scene." His footsteps came rapidly up the stage steps and for the first time Zante saw him clearly. He was pale and languid, even more handsome than she could tell before. Yet he looked ailing, his complexion that of someone who had not ventured out into the sun. But those eyes were magnetic. Blue, no the black of dusk, with an inner brightness like a trillion hidden stars.

"Zante, my dear Zante, this is no way to pass your audition," the Director said, pushing the man aside. "As for you, go back to your dressing room and leave this Theater."


The Director put his large book on a lonely wooden stool, clasped his hands as if in contemplative prayer, closed his eyes and remained still. Suddenly he came out of the self-induced trance.

"You have wronged this man, if not in action, then in thought. When he wants to take you, Zante, you must express your passion so that the audience from the front row right up into the upper balcony can feel it." The Director took hold of her shoulders, gazing hypnotically into her eyes. Before Zante could collect her thoughts, he ripped at her dress, slitting in from top to waist, so she bared her breasts.

"Do you give yourself to show love," he asked, the voice resonant and echoing in the Theater. Kneeling at her body, he kissed her stomach, hands reaching up to fondle her round breasts.

Confusion racked her brain, unable to move, powerless to separate life from the this unreal world. She looked down and incapable to react watched as the Director slipped down what was left of her torn dress. He stood up and back, admiring her naked body.

"How will you give yourself?" he whispered in a mock low tone, but every word carrying around the auditorium. Sweeping her close, he pressed against her body, bending her back, his rising knee pushing between her legs and widening them apart. She saw his striking countenance, that pale skin, now glowing brilliant white under the strong lights, not a trace of sweat, not an inclination of whether he saw this as real or part of his play.

As suddenly as the incident had started, and rushed headlong into the sensual conclusion, it ended. The Director glided away and bowed to the darkened auditorium, looking over at Zante and whispering that she should courtesy. She did so, self-consciously, both because she was naked and also knowing the Theater was empty.

To Zante's astonishment, a wild, frenetic bout of applause erupted, filling the space, blocking her rational thoughts. The Director walked forward to the edge of the stage, holding tight to Zante's hand, bringing her with him.

"Thank you, dear public. Your praise is appreciated. But now you must help us complete this play." He made another bow to the unseen mass and this time spoke almost conspiratorial.

"What of the debutant performance of the beautiful Zante? What will satisfy you in this play? Shall I take her here in front of you, so that her ravishment will be part of the concluding act." The Director knelt on one knee and put a hand to his brow, shading his eyes from the bright light.

"I await your decision, dear audience. If her submission is in your play, then call out and I will bid the entire company forward, each one taking their turn to rape her in front of you." He stood up again and walked back to Zante. Finally he stopped and said to the audience, "Or shall we leave our Zante on the stage for you all."

* * * >The fog was slowly clearly clearing. Zante reached her apartment block, nodding to the man coming out of the elevator. She vaguely recognized him. Perhaps she'd seen him somewhere about the apartment block before. She wasn't sure.

Level six came. She hurried out and along the corridor, turning the cold key in the lock of her door. Her hand went up to the light switch, then for some reason she desisted and let the gloom remain.

Her foot trod on something. Zante leaned down and picked up a large package. Taking it into the living room, she threw her coat over a chair and curled up by the window, the light from the street illuminations percolating into her apartment. Tearing open the package, she held it up to let a loose-leaf book fall out.

ZaZante looked at the front cover, finished in blue, with strong white lettering. It read, "Play With Me." She flickered through it, and then settled down nervously to read the stage production, complete with directions.

The action started on a foggy day when a woman wandered into a Theater and was abused by the actors, Director and then in a horrific finale, the audience. At the conclusion, the whole play started all over again. Like a circle, a half remembered dream, it went on, again and again. Everything in that world was in a perpetual wheel. >Zante was trapped in a Theater of life. She was taken by forced, raped and handed around the company of players.

Applause, applause, applause. Put your hands together and cheer for this woman. When she leaves the arena the next aspiring actor in life will be called onto the stage.

THE END