Short Stories
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Centre Of Gravity
Becca pushes through the heavy stage door of the Theatre Royal a half-hour later than she ought to; auburn hair in a messy bun, laden with carrier bags, no time to make small-talk as she hurriedly signs in. The sun streams in through the theatre windows and it’s a warm and stifling June afternoon. She’s about half way up the stairs when she spots him; Adam, languid and smiling, leaning over the railing. His back is arched and graceful, his head tipped to one side....
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The Lesser Tufted Mundy
Summer in Oxford, and there’s a constant end-of-term hum in the air. The mood has persisted all the way down from Llandudno, following them through Southampton and Eastbourne and onward to Canterbury, making the whole company a little giddy. In the late afternoon a group of swings sit on benches outside the theatre, demolishing pastries and giggling in the sun, eyes delighted behind oversized shades as they make plans for tomorrow and the end of their Oxford run.
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Red Velvet And Gold
Promise hangs heavy in the air, glistening like a cobweb across the auditorium. This is a memory palace, a magician’s trick. 7.10. Whispers of conversation drifting up from the stalls. The people in the circle marvel at the high, domed ceiling and the twinkling chandelier. Thick air, the smell of dry-ice. Something that isn’t quite stillness creeps across the stage.
The orchestra begin their tune-up. 7.22. The French horn. A hint of a flute. |
This Is The Way The Tour Goes
This is the way the tour goes. They’re in the business of stories and there’s a new theatre every few weeks to tell them in. They tell them in corridors. Behind wardrobe crates or in dressing rooms, hunched next to the cardboard boxes backstage. In wig rooms. On auditorium floors. They cram them into the one-minute window after the lights go down, whisper them just before the Overture kicks in.
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