Tiberius found his boyfriend alone in the theatre. The lights were off and the blackout curtains were drawn tight. It was like entering a cave.

Or a tomb.

“Great show tonight,” he said by way of greeting.

“You say that every night,” Aurius laughed, running a hand through his shoulder-length blond hair.

Tiberius smiled shyly, adjusting the strap of his messenger bag. “Are you ready to go?”

Aurius turned his gaze towards the empty auditorium. “Give me a minute.”

Tiberius waited a minute. And then another. And then another.

“Aurius,” he said quietly, “what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” his boyfriend said quickly, “nothing. I’m just… feeling sentimental.”

“Oh,” Tiberius sat himself down beside Aurius, “I see.”

They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes more until Aurius lent his head on Tiberius’ shoulder.

“I’m scared,” Aurius said finally, “I don’t want the show to end.”

“It’s not over yet,” Tiberius replied, casting his arm over Aurius’ shoulders and drawing him close. “You’ve another week to go.”

“I know,” Aurius whispered into Tiberius’ neck, sending goosebumps down his spine. “Still. I’m sad it’s going to have to end.”

“Everything ends,” Tiberius countered, “look at the Roman Empire.”

Aurius chuckled. “You’re comparing my acting career to the fall of Rome?”

Tiberius laughed at that. “Suppose I am?”

“Hmm,” Aurius tapped his chin thoughtfully, “that’s either an incredible compliment, or a terrible lie.”

“Can it be both?”

“Absolutely,” Aurius planted a kiss on Tiberius’ cheek, “not.”

The theater empty. No more cheers echoing from the balcony, no more excited conversations of those leaving. Simply, silence.

The young woman peeked out from behind the heavy red curtain. Her childhood dream had been accomplished, but it had disappeared too soon.

She had finally gotten to experience being on stage in front of hundreds of people, singing and performing her heart out. Yet, it was all over in a matter of hours. It was only a one time show; she had no idea if she would ever have the opportunity again. She asked herself if this is what she wanted her life to consist of, brief moments of ecstasy, followed by the crushing weight of reality.

She wasn’t sure, but she had no time to ponder it, for she was being called by her costar to hurry up, they had a party to attend.

She stepped back from the curtain, watching as it shut out her view of the stage, and left for the party celebrating the end of her dream.

The lights dimmed and the chattering voices and clapping died as the theater emptied out. The cast ran to get their mics off to talk to the audience and crews ran to put away stuff and talk to their friends. In a few moments there was only one left on the stage. Not necessarily one person left, but instead a ghost, sitting center stage looking out at the empty seats and still wings. The only movement was a small gust if wind from the last person closing the door brushing along the curtains.

The ghost came out to sit every night. She was young, pale and wore a white dress which covered her legs that lay criss cross on the floor. She had long golden hair, but on top of her head a dent and blood, blood blood. It washed down the top of her head like a waterfall and stained into her hair and back of her dress.

The ghost sat waiting like she did every night hoping someone would come back to the stage and sing or dance with her, but this night was the same as every other. No one came and she was the only one on the stage.

The cast strolled on stage to bow at the end of the show. The crowd cheered loudly and clapped their hands.

“A great success!” said Susie, a crew member. “Now to clean up.”

“I’ve always wanted to be a Princess,” said Jenna another crew member.

“You have ?” said the stage manager, Maggie with a smile.

“I heard they’re doing Princess and the Pea next month. You should audition,” said Maggie.

“Oh, that’s great! I’ll look into it,” said Jenna twisting her hair.

They swept the floor and put props and costumes away. Then they tore down the background. They finished at eleven o’clock.

Two days later, Maggie posted the flyer asking for auditions for the Princess and the Pea.

Jenna looked at the flyer. “I’ll try out, I’d be happy even to be the understudy for the princess,” said Jenna.

“Good for you. I hope your dream comes true,” said Susie.

Jenna went to sign up to audition and they gave her the lines to memorize for the princess part. Jenna practiced her lines every break she got and while at home.

Audition day came and Jenna did great! She won the understudy part of the Princess.

“Congratulations Jenna,” said Maggie. “Welcome to the cast.”

“Thank you, Maggie. I’m honored to be chosen,” said Jenna.

Jenna continued on the stage crew too. When downtime came, Jenna and Susie practiced Jenna’s part.

A day before the show, the girl who got the Princess part got sick.

Jenna kept practicing her lines and her acting.

On show night the crowd applauded. Jenna loved acting her part.

After the show, Maggie came to Jenna. “Great job!”

“Thank you, my confidence is boosted. I’ll audition again some time.”

“Films, not movies.” That’s the only thing I remember my friend Paul saying during the hazy year we spent hanging on each other, intoxicated by our own intelligence, drunk off whiskey. Nothing like dark liquor to give even the dullest of dolts a false sense of wit, sexual prowess, just an all around inflated sense of self importance, which may be why going through the world as a drunk day to day is generally discouraged.

Paul and I didn’t do much outside of watch films at the local indie theater and drink at any of the two dozen bars within striking distance. To us, that was a life. Only now do I see it for what it was: The past time of two boys pregnant with their own egos and afraid of the world, afraid to take anything in without a wry, condescending smile, without dumbing it down with alcohol. You try drinking like you have a death wish and tell me you don’t feel like the fucking king of the universe. Go try it, come back, and tell me you didn’t become a fucking rock star, if even for those few short hours that you couldn’t string a sentence together, remember your mom’s name, or eat a hot dog without getting your fingers in the mix.

A man gnawing on his fingers deserves no further wake up calls. That’s it. That’s the last one, and if you can’t listen to it, you just might be in for a double feature, if you will, except you can’t see it unfold, only others are privy to the horror your life has become. 

We’d be two peas in a pod no matter what dive you’d place us in, but anywhere except the bowels of humanity, and we’d be found out for the absolute idiots we were. We could only hide amongst outcasts, lowlives, undesirables, and even then we ‘d stick out like to sore thumbs.

We’d walk into the bar, any bar, and while I wouldn’t say our reputation proceeded us, it certainly stuck around us like a bad, almost visible, odor. Without exception the barkeep would refer to us two as some variation of ingrate, or at the very least sneer at our unsightly appearance. Though our dalliance with what we construed as a bohemian lifestyle lasted less than a year, it was all it took to run its natural course, which, obviously, was inevitably mired with cliffs and dead ends.

The last time I saw Paul, at least the last time that I remember seeing Paul, was at what I gratefully accept as my rock bottom, and if it wasn’t his as well, then I don’t want to know what that ended up looking like for old Paul. By this time, we had started sleeping in the theater, which was probably the only place we kept our mouths shut enough as to not betray our obnoxiousness. Drunk, we sat rapt by the pictures coming into view from out of nowhere to move across the screen and exit back to nothing. 

For a few days near the end, we’d go to the late night double feature, knowing that they wouldn’t clean it out until the next morning, and we’d stay, thinking it was the most ingenious caper anyone had ever pulled off, as if the novelty made up for the fact that we were two homeless bums with a sum total of zero between us. Zero money. Zero ambition. Zeros. Looking back, I can’t quite figure what we saw in one another. Maybe we found the excuse in one another that we needed to justify our lifestyle, the excuse that allowed us to do less than nothing and complain about our plight all the while. 

Our little enterprise didn’t last long. We thought we had the operation figured out, but it turned out, as was often the case, that we knew less nothing. The staff must have been onto us, you can’t very well live in a fucking theater. One night, about a week into breaking in our new digs, they called the police. Rapping the bolted metal legs of our row of movie theater seats, the cop tells us “You can’t live in the movies, kids, get up!”

Drunkenly, Paul offered the officer a variation on waking up, looks in his direction and says “film, not movies, officer.”

No one knew as their hands cooled from the slapping applause and their ears calmed from the whistles and shouts of ‘encore—encore’ that the last act of the play was ready to be released. The silver boxes with red silk brocaded tassels were quietly being placed in the corners as the audience pressed itself across the rows and down the aisles and out the doors. Even with the doors open and the side windows pulled up wide, the air was still thick and hot from the living and could ignite a match if it were pulled from its box and held in the air. The thespians had released all they had and stumbled back to their dressing rooms and stared in blank faces in those lighted mirrors where a bulb was gray or sometimes just missing. Their stares waiting. A man clothed in black silk and sable went to each of them to touch up their makeup or seal their masks tighter with a brush of latex. He waved his hands and chanted over them.

Three members of the crew, who had been sworn to utmost secrecy, unlatched those boxes and took three steps back as the Wordgobblers and Lineguzzlers began their work. They were as large as juicy, fat beetles and iridescent like pearls freshly polished. Their wings unfolded in a crystal clinging click and they rose to the loges or tumbled back from seat to seat. Some even scurried on the floor between the programs and chewing gum wrappers. With their mouths they swallowed each magic word, each enchanted line that had been said that night. Their shells, as the shells of all beetles are, were hard and sturdy to hold those emotional laden lines. Their legs could hold a thousand times more than their weight, so those deep sighs and very heavy remorse could be carried without crumbling under the burden. Their tiny hooked feet were perfect for hilarious laughter that rose like helium towards the ceiling. There they could hang upside down and take it all in, ready to be retrieved.

Once not one syllable or consonant was left in the air or on the floor. They went back to their boxes and the three member crew took them back stage and sorted them according to act, line and actor and put them in separate boxes that you might confuse with expensive chocolates. Then they knocked on each door, it must have been habit to do such a thing, and they went in to the dressing tables and saw those empty stares in the mirrors. Even with their makeup and masks, those week old corpses were beginning to look thin and frail. They set the box on the table and left. They never knew if the cast might develop a taste for flesh. The actors who had once been deep in the earth knew what to do. They placed those beetles in their ears or carefully swallowed them in their mouths. It was miraculous, the lines for the play for the very next night were back in the folds of what was left of their brains. A small hum and echo could be heard coming from their skulls. They weren’t members of The Acting Guild, due to their acting method. They needed no food, no lodgings—-but after a few days a heavy dousing of perfume as well as a pull and pluck of maggots. Then when they had finally become has-beens, they were taken back to their graves. New ones were dug up to start their short star studded careers. It had become a very profitable business model.

The last to leave the theater for the night was the Necromancer who had found a way for his craft to bring delight to both the living and th dead. Comedy and drama. Life and death.

(Not Perfect Strangers, but semi related…)

After the curtains closed, the lights came up in the theater and people began filing out. I had heard that if you hung around after a show that you might get to meet some of the actors. Honestly, there was only one actor I had any interest in meeting.

It was a cool night but not cold. I had stayed inside until the last of the people filtered out. I glanced around the stage area but there was no one around.

The local college held a theater festival every year and this was one of the shows. If this had been a major play, there probably would have been a line around the building for meeting the actors.

I stopped in the foyer when I saw a couple of the actors already there. Okay, they would be going through here. Now, I just had to get the courage to actually go up to him. I didn’t want to be in the way, so I turned into a wallflower, but I kept an eye out for a particular still slightly curly head.

Finally, I spotted him come through the door. He wore a plaid button up shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He also had glasses on. I bit my lip. I stayed almost an extra hour. I couldn’t chicken out now.

I pulled out the playbill and opened it to the page with his picture. I also had a pen ready, just in case.

I took a deep breath and went up to him. “I’m sorry to bother you, but could you sign this for me?” I held out the playbill and pen.

His eyebrows lifted, bemused. “You want my autograph?” He paused, his cheeks turning a little pink. “Sure!” He took both items. “What’s your name?”

I told him and he wrote on the page, then handed both back. I read the inscription, made out to me, “Best wishes…” and a signature. “Thank you very much!”

His cheeks got a little pinker. “You’re welcome. Thank you for making me feel a little bit young again.”

“You’re welcome,” I replied, smiling.

He smiled back, with a nearly indiscernible upper lip, then continued on. No one else stopped him.

I’m glad I did.

-End-

Grace and her friend sat in the second row clapping as the curtain closed. She was so excited to see to get good seats at a bargain. It was a big theatre that was brightly decorated. The ushers were dressed in red as they watched the people leave. The actors and actresses have returned to take a final bow as someone gave the actress a beautiful bouquet of flowers. Grace and her friend allowed the people in her row to pass as they talked about the musical. They were hoarse because they were singing along with everyone. Grace was celebrating her birthday and she had a blast. They got up and climbed the crimson carpeted stairs while adjusting their eyes to bright light again. They slowly walked to the exit and took a selfie to mark the occasion. They headed to an Italian restaurant to have dinner.

“My boy! That was an amazing performance!” said Dawkins, whom I was their understudy. “Same can be said for you sir!” I replied back Dawkins is one of these Shakespearean actors, has acted in Macbeth and Hamlet many a time in many theatres so it comes as a surprise when he calls my performance “amazing”. I’m a bit more contemporary I guess, I come from a background of cartoons and Netflix Originals and while I’m certainly not bad at acting I could never get to Dawkins’ level. He just has so much natural charisma and is so loud, I’m convinced he’s a dead ringer for Brian Blessed or Oliver Reed on a deeper and more spiritual level. He also likes his drink, as was evident by him reaching for his secret flask of alcohol tucked away into his bag. Dressing room necessities I suppose. “Dawkins, it’s four o’ clock in the afternoon” I say to him, concerned “Pffftt” he says “Time is merely a human construct boy, all the birds and other mammals don’t look at the clock all the time do they?” “That’s cause they’re animals Dawkins, they don’t even have a grasp on the concept of money to go buy a clock let alone time itself” “Ah you know what I mean! Don’t try and be clever!” “I’m just saying man, maybe wait until later to have a drink? We still have another performance to go” “I know I know, fine I’ll keep it for now” he says hesitantly, putting the flask back into his bag and gets himself ready. Dawkins does this thing sometimes, where he’ll do this little shuffle/twitch to get himself ready. I’d normally chuck it down to a superstitious actor but with him it’s different, like really different. I’ve seen him absolutely smashed before a gig, I’ve yelled at him to get his shit together and in no time at all he shuffles and he’s in perfect working order again. Since we had time, I asked him about it. “Say Dawkins? What’s with that twitch?” “What twitch?” I’m taken aback a bit, he doesn’t realise he does it? “You literally just did it, you drank, you kept the flask and then you did a little shuffle” He looks just as taken aback as, presumably, I am. “I didn’t do a shuffle what are you talking about?” “You JUST did it” “Did what?” “Shuffle! You did a little shuffle!” “Oh you bloody kids! You should get your head checked since it’s your generation that brought in all that snowflake ‘PMA’ shit. In my day you just got on with it!” I point to his bag “and thus you developed a drinking habit to cope instead. Don’t bring all that baby boomer energy into this, I don’t need that” This aggravated him a bit. “How fucking old do you think I am? I’m NOT of the baby boomer generation. Besides, if my mother and father had joined that fucking crowd of ragingly horny hares then not like I knew! I was raised a goddamned orphan.” Suddenly my frustration turned into sentiment. “O-oh, I’m sorry to hear that” “Ah, it doesn’t matter. I doubt they’d have been happy to see me like this, going into the arts and all. Oh well, like I said, we just got on with it and I certainly did and never looked back.” He stands up, and says “now come on, we have a crowd to please boy.” Upon him saying that I realised what the time was and walked back onstage with him.

“What a fucking disaster of a performance” Dawkins says “You could say that again” I reply It was an absolute disaster to be fair, a part of the background fell, one of the newer actors forgot their lines at a crucial point in the performance, a drunken onlooker who somehow stumbled into the theatre threw a full packet of crisps on the stage. It was awful to be a part of, god knows what it must’ve looked like as an outsider. Dawkins is, I’m sure, halfway through his flask not even ten minutes has passed by. However, this time, I won’t blame him for it I even ask for some. “Can I have some of that?” “You out of your mind? This is my personal flask and besides, it’d be too strong for you.” That to me, sounded like a challenge. “Listen, grandad” “Don’t fucking call me that” he interrupts “Sorry. Listen man, I’ve chugged half a glass of vodka at a house party once I can handle my alcohol” “How old are you?” he asks “20” “You can have a sip” He hands me the flask and I take, as allowed, a single sip of his drink. As soon as it hits my mouth I start gagging and nearly fall to the floor. “What the FUCK is in that?” “Told you it was too strong for you” he says as he proceeds to take a massive gulp of it. “That’s not just alcohol in that, there is something ELSE in that” I theorise “You know, you are right” he says “Oh? What is it then tell me” “Oh if only I could tell you without you making a big fuss, you fucking snowflake” his tone has shifted from a cheeky sarcasm to a lamenting whimper. He starts crying. I quickly try to comfort him. “Hey hey man, what’s wrong? Tell me” “If I told you you’d curse me forever” his head in his hands, tears streaking through the gaps in his fingers. “You don’t know that! I doubt you could make me upset twice in one day!” I say with a joking cheeriness but his sudden misery wouldn’t budge “Oh, if only I had your innocence boy. You still have so much time left. Me? My days are numbered, fucking numbered” he was descending further and further down. “I promise you Dawkins, I won’t be angry if you tell me.” I reassure him “Alright, if you say so boy. Contained within this flask is” “Yeah?” “A mixture of rum, Coca Cola and my best friend’s ashes” “What?” I say, trying not to be too aggressive. “What was that last ingredient?” “MY BEST FRIEND’S ASHES OKAY!? I knew you would act like this. You’re just like the rest of them! Don’t believe in true friendship! It was HIS LAST WISH” “To be DRUNK WITH SOME ALCOHOL?” I could feel eyes burning on us “We were drinking buddies, closest I ever had to a twin brother. We look fairly similar, drank the same beers, fancied the same women. He was delightful, old Arthur” “What happened to him? Did he drown by chance?” “Stop it you!! No. He was shot, and left to die in an alleyway” I felt awful, bringing this up, I could tell how much it pained him to reminisce. How much he missed Arthur, how he so wanted to drink with him again. He looked up and then down again. “Arghhh fuck!” Dawkins’ hand is clenched to his chest and he falls down onto the ground “Dawkins?! Are you ok? What’s going on?” No words came out, only moans and throat sounds “Hello!? Can someone help?” I shout out “T-there’s n-n-no p-point boy” he stammered “you’re too l-late.” He pulls me closer “My d-d-days are numbereeeeed” Dawkins lets out a piercing scream as both of his legs unnaturally extend in a horrifying fashion. Cracks of bone and rips of skin are heard in the room as his legs are reduced to a bloody, elongated mess. His feet outgrow his shoes and what come out are hooves, human hooves with some toes still attached and webbed to the black hoof itself. His skin on the sides and his stomach stretch and rip to reveal fur, and growing out of his chest were two more legs with hooved feet. Dawkins’ mouth and chin area grow forward as more skin is bloodily ripped from his face, revealing more fur underneath and his nose grows to be black and bruised. His eyes roll back and turn to a dark colour, and out from within his forehead big antlers grow. Dawkins was long dead, and replacing him was whatever the hell this thing was. “WHAT THE FUCK IS THAAAT!!!! AAAAAAAAA” I point to the creature writhing on its back kicking and screaming “DAWKINS!!” The atrocity, a cross between Dawkins and a hellish deer, gets up on its feet. The full extent of the horror had now been revealed, as this thing still had remnants of Dawkins left. His torso (with his arms still attached) and his head were still there and it was still wearing Dawkins’ clothes. It’s aggro’d by something I can’t see and runs out of the changing room and into the theatre which was still fairly crowded as the screams were deafening. After that horror, I got myself signed up for therapy because I couldn’t sleep at all after that night. My therapist recommended me jot the entire thing down and get my feelings out in a healthy way. I know he’s still out there in god knows where wreaking havoc. He seemed off after that performance but Jesus, fuck. I turned on the tv earlier and he’s turned into something of a folk tale, a legend but nobody wants to believe my story. I’m convinced that not even my therapist believes me, all she does is say “mmhm” to everything. Regardless, I can only hope that Dawkins is in a better place now and maybe, just maybe, he’ll find peace in his new form. If he dies I hope him and Arthur find each other, and only then he will be truly happy.

-end

He sat on his seat patiently till the audience cleared themselves out. The curtain had fallen after the final scene, and he was brimming with excited commentary that was waiting to roll out his tongue.

As the seats began to clear, he grabbed his jacket and made his way towards the stage. Actors and stage crew were now starting to appear and gather props and belongings. He stood patiently by the grand wooden structure, not registering his palms beginning to sweat.

A moment later, she appeared through the massive red curtain. His face broke into a smile at the sight of the person he was excited to see.

“Hey! Sorry if I kept you waiting,” she jumped down from the stage to face him.

“Hi, not at all!” He replied, “that was beautiful. It was a work of art really, you’re truly gifted.”

She smiled shyly at his comment, the colour rushing to her cheeks. “Thank you so much, it meant so much to me- writing and directing this play. It was a dream come true to see it come to life on stage today.”

He couldn’t stop himself from admiring the happiness that radiated from her eyes. “Thank you for inviting me, it was truly a pleasure to watch it.” He looked at the empty audience, “so this is what it must feel like to be on stage...”

“It’s a feeling I’d give anything for...”

“The theatre company is lucky to have you. Tonight’s audience was crazy!”

She grinned, “yes! My heart is so full right now, I can’t believe I did it.”

“If you’re stomach isn’t full right now, maybe we can take this conversation somewhere more private?”

She bit her lip giddily, and nodded. “My stomach craves food as much as my mind craves good conversation.”

“Please do delight me with that mind of yours.” He replied with a smile.