A.E. Greyscott
Bio
"People still write like this?" -Some guy
"Overly pretentious and sentimental." -Bob Pancakes
"Excited to tell my therapist about this book." -My therapist
Stories (2)
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Opening Night
Spotlight. The velvet claret coloured curtains draw back, exposing me to the critical eyes of the crowd. My co-stars begin, almost like a dance, floating through actions and dialogue, embodying the characters. The hour blows by and before my mind catches up, the presenter is announcing the brief intermission. Curtains draw closed and the atmosphere backstage shifts, as if the long drapes that had sat, mesmerised by so many performances, were catalysts for the switch. A stampede of actors scramble down stairs in all directions, to dressing rooms and hair and makeup. The costume change is quick, everything meticulously timed. As soon as I slip on the final piece of my costume, a sequin covered red vest, I’m rushed off to hair and makeup, with a smile and a “good job out there” and “good luck”. Echoes of the same sentiments to and from all the cast and makeup artists fog up the room full of mirrors and bright lights. Glitter floods the air as co-stars and crew alike excitedly chatter and hurry in and out of the room. It comes to my attention, as my eyelids are being brushed with an exquisite blue, that the chaos backstage is as much an experience as standing front of stage with the spotlight beaming down. I blink and it’s over, the audience full of some of the most well known critics in the city return to their seats, their temporary homes for this evening's experience. Standing behind the curtain, awaiting its opening is an energy like no other. The anticipation is palpable and the eagerness to immerse ourselves in a story we’ve rehearsed almost everyday for 2 months and for that story to be received by the theatregoers tonight is clear on the cast standing beside me’s faces. With one more shared nervous smile, a final goodbye to the magical backstage air, we launch into characters we’d dreamed of for years. From kids watching bootlegs of plays our parents would never agree to take us to, to our very first auditions, our first meetings with these characters. An hour later, the crowd erupts with applause, even the harshest critics give a short nod of approval. Standing on that stage, surrounded by people who have become my family, we drink up the praise and it occurs to me that for the first time since being a child hiding under my duvet, watching musicals way past my bedtime, I feel like I’m home.
By A.E. Greyscott6 months ago in Fiction
Alma De Mi Vida
Five years; the book, finished and waiting, had been sitting in a box full of my childhood possessions at my mother’s house, guarded by toy soldiers and teddy bears. My mother’s house, decorated with photos of family and friends I had never met, felt empty even at its full capacity. I grew up to the sound of clinking champagne glasses and crowded dinner table discussions, my mother’s avoidance of being alone, even if she still felt it. My mother played at being a good host, but there was little else I knew about her, despite being the only person living with her after I turned five.
By A.E. Greyscott4 years ago in Fiction
