Poetry, Tags, OCs, Short Stories, etc.

Tech Week

The players, file in, one by one
Past the 700 seats, 700 ships at dock.
The lights flicker, red, blue, green,
It happened sort of like a dream.
A moon is projected on the stage right cyclorama.
The costumer isn't here.
"But when is she ever?" we whispered behind the director's back,
Digging through the racks she left here for our mink and pearls
And tugging them on as she envisioned.

Don't forget to smile as you tap the night away.
Try not to think of the fact that you've yet to try on your costume for this song.
Or that it's the Tuesday of Tech Week.

Or that your mic pack just went flying.

The tug on your forehead as you feel the wire dangling behind you,
The buckle comes lose, but the show must go on.

Next number, act two,
An unexpected aside.
"Knock 'em dead, dollface," he whispers.
You laugh.
Not genuinely though.

Character shoes and jazz shoes wear our feet raw,
But it's all worth it to see our choreographer beaming rays of sunshine from her seat.
11 at night is a helluva late rehearsal,
but it's all worth it to see the light in our director's eyes.

Theatre is a drug, there's no more denying.
We're all high on it, we're all addicted.
That's the love we share, the intoxicating fumes that fill the air of every song and dance.
Costumers, mic packs, ad libs, are gonna throw us off,
But we love this too much to let it push us away.