In an older part of the building, well hidden, towards the back, behind the gardens, the picnic benches and wiry hedges, is the former theatre. It's dusty, and a bit broken and no one, not even the janitors, go there. The old stage is empty, a dusty relic of times gone by, and no feet have crossed those boards for, perhaps, 50 years or more. But underneath, in the misty bowels, are the old dressing rooms. They are full of forgotten costumes, dried up makeup, and scripts of long ago. And some children, white as the driven snow.
YOU ARE READING
Walking Shadow
General FictionLife's but a walking shadow, a poor player That struts and frets his hour upon the stage And then is heard no more. It is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury Signifying nothing...
