Theatre Creative Writing

I haven’t dreamt in color lately. Normally my subconscious performs elaborate shows for me, with brightly painted sets and multi-hued costumes. Since Sam’s passing, the whirlwind of events that has followed has been reflected within the theatre of my mind, the former extravagance reduced to a thick layer of clouds and distant thunder. It’s a sad excuse for a recurring dream, and I often find myself impatient for the shriek of an alarm clock. Today, however, I am not roused from the murk by a clock but by a ringtone. I sit up in bed, blinking the blanket of sleep away from my mind, and fumble for the cell phone on my dresser. By now it has gone silent, its screen informing me of my wife’s call. Rather than calling her back immediately, I set the phone down next to me and allow myself some time to wake up. I gaze out the window at the semi-clouded sky and the Rockies beneath them, the scene framed by long, green tulle curtains. The peaks push my eyes back into the confines of my room, a little too reminded of Sam’s ski

The backstage is buzzing with politicians and venue staff. Surprisingly, I’m largely being ignored, though a few of the more somberly-dressed crowd eye me from a distance. They, however, do not occupy my attention as I read over my address one last time. The words on the pages are glowing with hope and strength, yet I admit I cannot match them in their confidence. I’m nearly on the last page before an aide approaches, informing me that the event will be starting in five. Thanking and dismissing her, I skim through the ending before the lights dim. A hush blankets over the audience and the curtain-disguised crowd, and the man introducing me steps out onto the stage. I follow, taking deep breaths, emptily hoping that they will be able to steady me. As my eyes trail over it, I find myself lost in the size of the