Noah by Dina Al-Awadhi

In order to understand this, you must first learn who Noah really is.

Noah was old. His beard was greying and his eyes, which had once seemed so alive, now carried a glassy look. He was growing painfully stiff all over and the Noah could barely bend over when he dropped a book or a pen or anything.

Looks wise he was certainly aging well however. His ever-present smile was more than charming and Noah’s slim almost unnatural physique still got him more than one side eye and wink. 

One would think that at such an age, Noah would have finally retired, settled at home and lived the rest of his days in peace and quiet.

But Noah loved his job.

Yes, he loved his job.

Every night, the club would open up, flickering lights blinking and flashing, drawing in the late nighters like drunken flies to oozing honey.

Every night, the seats would be filled with eager eyes, dry mouths, and twitching fingers.

And every night, the lights would dim low, and the audience would collectively inhale as Noah would take the stage.

And then a stillness would take over the theatre, for Noah was the MC of the most important, spectacular show in the world.

He would walk up to the spotlight and he would only have to say his famous line and then the music would start, and the show would begin:

“Welcome one, welcome all to The Most Important, Spectacular Show in The World!”

“Here comes Baby Baby…” so named for her interesting choice of outfit. “So beautiful, so pure,” her shining complexion and large Amazonian body striped in highlighted rainbow paint were a point of reverence for many of the audience. It might also have been the fact that she was only wearing a cotton pair of knickers. Regardless, Baby Baby swayed like a goddess to a classic Britney Spears song with more than excitable dance moves. The applause was deafening.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, please welcome Tinkerbell.” And so the twirling ballerina would grace the stage. She was one of the heavier ones, filled out and luscious, and her pink tutu barely covered anything of her silvery complexion. She pirouetted to a dubstep remix of Swan Lake in manner that would have made her old ballet instructor faint. But the crowds were gasping in delight, throwing roses upon roses and scribbled numbers onto the stage.

“And next we have Barbara and the Jets,” the blonde girls who always came out in full on makeup and several states of undress. A missing top there, mismatching shoes here, and that one seems to have forgone everything in favor of a gentleman’s large shirt. They twirled and danced to their favorite Elton John song in ways even a ventriloquist would gasp at. And the audience was going wild.

When the girls finally left the stage amidst an uproar of encores and declarations of love, the crowd would die down again waiting for Noah to announce the next performer, but he didn’t have to say anything except one word: “Ted.” The crowd grew still, so still as the beautiful, dark skinned man walked onto stage wearing only a see-through-

“Young Lady! Are you still up?”

The little girl’s eyes widened. She shut off her flashlight and scrambled into bed just as the door to her bedroom cracked open. The hallway lamps cast a warm light over the girl’s bed as she feigned sleep, and her mother quietly entered the room.

She kissed her child goodnight and drew up the bed sheets to the young girl’s chin, but not before placing her favorite dolls and toys around her: a Baby Doll colored all over with markers, a stuffed elephant in a tutu, three half-naked Barbies, a teddy bear, and her brother’s old favorite toy soldier: Commander Noah.

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