I'm sitting on the edge of the stage, an hour after everyone has gone home. I wasn't part of the performance, nor was I of the audience. I didn't paint the set, work the lights, adjust the sound. I didn't compose the music, choreograph the dance numbers; I didn't even write a line of the script.
Only two of the overhead stage lights are on: a dim, yellow-orange glow fades to the black of a shadowy auditorium floor, highlighting only the dust in the air and the candy wrapper under a chair in the third row. The fluorescent buzz of the stage lights reminds me of the emptiness in an almost questioning tone of voice.
"Why are you here? The show's over, and it's much too late for another. There's no one for you to watch, and no one to watch you. Why, it's so quiet you can even hear me talking."
But I don't move. The abandoned stage is perfect for a shy actor like me.
~When we ran.
FictionPress.com - let the words flow
