The Burning Girl, after a brief construction phase, is open for business.
Enter. Up the cracked stone steps (chiseled that way, for Kasey thought it was so "New York"). Hold a black iron rail that loops like some amusement park rollercoaster. The sign above is painted in some iridescent medium, meant to suck you in as you pass under.
You might wonder, "Why the Burning Girl?? It's ok. Everyone does.
The first floor is a ballroom gone awry. It is certainly not fit for a black tie event. The walls are painted in bursts of color: purple and blue with white epicenters, streaked by hues of red and orange, which fade in and out, like a dissipating fog. The backdrop is black but curiously mottled by little silver dots. A stage is at the center, lifted three feet off the floor. The curtains are a heavy black velvet. There are two bars at the back, one sporting the common spirits, the other catering to more unusual tastes. They sit right and left of the door, respectively. There are tables scattered throughout, but the center of the room is left bare, save for a black baby-grand. The owner is known, on occasion, to tickle the ivories, but when he does not, club-goers are permitted to do as they like (Kasey has often encouraged the prettier ilk to dance around him whilst playing). Two grand chandeliers light the way, though each bulb is a different color (Kasey did not feel RhyDin would understand the disco ball).
Up a winding metal staircase stage left, and reach the catwalk. Here are the loungers, the wallflowers, the lookouts. Mismatched couches line the walls, relics of a decade of garage sales.
Club operating hours are in sync with the fall and rise of the sun.
Enter. Up the cracked stone steps (chiseled that way, for Kasey thought it was so "New York"). Hold a black iron rail that loops like some amusement park rollercoaster. The sign above is painted in some iridescent medium, meant to suck you in as you pass under.
You might wonder, "Why the Burning Girl?? It's ok. Everyone does.
The first floor is a ballroom gone awry. It is certainly not fit for a black tie event. The walls are painted in bursts of color: purple and blue with white epicenters, streaked by hues of red and orange, which fade in and out, like a dissipating fog. The backdrop is black but curiously mottled by little silver dots. A stage is at the center, lifted three feet off the floor. The curtains are a heavy black velvet. There are two bars at the back, one sporting the common spirits, the other catering to more unusual tastes. They sit right and left of the door, respectively. There are tables scattered throughout, but the center of the room is left bare, save for a black baby-grand. The owner is known, on occasion, to tickle the ivories, but when he does not, club-goers are permitted to do as they like (Kasey has often encouraged the prettier ilk to dance around him whilst playing). Two grand chandeliers light the way, though each bulb is a different color (Kasey did not feel RhyDin would understand the disco ball).
Up a winding metal staircase stage left, and reach the catwalk. Here are the loungers, the wallflowers, the lookouts. Mismatched couches line the walls, relics of a decade of garage sales.
Club operating hours are in sync with the fall and rise of the sun.