I'm an open brony who adores all fanfics - ship fics, adventure stories and rip offs of famous books that have been ponified. Okay, I don't love grimdarks much but I'll read just about ANYTHING. I am also a co-owner of a Bronyism page on Facebook. Feel free to check it out, as I post the best stories I read on there! *wink*
Urgh. Writer's Block! · 8:49am
Wow! · 7:52am
Start Part Two. · 6:06pm
The second act.
My skirt flows around my feet and I grab a tankard in my left hand. The funny curved glass feels rough and wet due to my sweating hands. It’s not nerves. I’ve done this so many times I could act it in my sleep. Maybe it’s adrenaline.
Ah yes. Oom pah pah! My favourite song. I stand in freeze, tankard up, smile tense as usual. You try grinning when your heart is breaking.
The music starts for the last time. It keeps hitting me over and over, like a hammer. It’s all over.
We go through the choreography. I jump up on my friend’s back and sway drunkenly, side, side, stage and side. It’s like a rolling story in my head. Every song, every move.
Oliver! · 5:44pm
I love the buzz of showbusiness. The nerves as you line up, bowls ready, faces melancholy, caked with makeup. As you shush the idiots whacking each other with props, you feel that worry that the audience can hear you. And then the overture. It’s grand, and a powerful start. Suddenly the ‘dum dum dum dum’ of ‘Food, Glorious Food!’ comes out. Stomping and singing, you’re out in the open. Then… the magic begins.
(Going into first person now. Second is too hard to remember.)
Dances are awful, for one. So hard to get hold of. When you do, great.
I rocket my way through the opening number. I stay in character - sad and hungry. Mr Bumble, acted by a new friend of mine, comes on. He lifts his stick into the air, savouring our longing expressions. BAM! He pulls it down and we all eat in a frenzy of make-believe spoons. Oliver rises. We pull him back, tell him he’s crazy.
“Please sir, I want some more.”
“I want some… more?”
The song starts. We bang the table. We stick our tongues out and try to trip Oliver up. When we’re finally done, we dash offstage and put on our Fagin waistcoats, dash into the staff room and through a door behind the audience. They are sat in trestle seating. Two long rows on either sides on raised seating with a table in the middle. Everyone is watching the stage. They don’t hear the creeping chorus as we line up for ‘Consider Yourself.’
It’s the Sowerberry scene. My favourite. I mouth along to everything. Everyone in the play does. We know the whole script. It’s truly a feat. The song goes a little wrong, as per usual. But that’s that and it’s our last night now. Nothing doing.
Eventually we reach Dodger. He (she really) goes through all her lines and mouths her song. Her throat isn’t well so someone else is singing. We grab the edge of our waistcoats and gulp down our nerves. We’re on again. Dancing and singing and acting jovial. It isn’t easy. I’m absolutely shattered. My smile stays on though.
Then I have to act tough. Pfftsh. I scowl and I laugh roughly. When we reach ‘Pick a Pocket’ I am ready to get up and do something. It goes well. A lot of handkerchiefs get passed around. When we’ve done I get to lie down on the dusty floor and doze until Nancy walks in. Not long, but I’m grateful for the short rest. We all love Nancy. The boys, maybe even in real life. The girls, we pretend to. She sings, we smile. She tells us to be a carriage, we make two fine carriages. No umbrellas for wheels; too risky. Another dance number. Things are getting hazy. I’m not acting, I’m living and loving it. Nancy leaves. We sing ’ Be Back Soon’ and I dance and smile and march my way off, taking a token wave at Fagin. We’re safe. We’re in the library. Our green room.
“Filthy little urchin!”
I slap Mr Bumble and take his walking stick. It’s a routine of ours. Only one more act to go. Then... just a void of boredom.
END OF ACT ONE