A Trek of A Storyteller

Ch.2: The Stage

Heaving his satchel over the gate, then more carefully sliding his guitar between the fence posts, he climbed over and landed painfully on his feet. He did not cry out, simply sighed with relief that he could still feel his toes. Gathering his things, he set off down the road that was more frozen than muddy or dusty.

It wasn't long before he found his second obstacle. He scaled it easily, a second, weaker fence, and he was in. There were no cameras, he was sure, since there was no electricity. He made his way down the roads he knew so well from the voyages in his mind, smiling at the closed up shops covered with white sheets untouched by dust. Just as he'd imagined.

It was then that he saw the stage. His stage, once filled with a smile. Benches were stacked upon it and he smiled sadly at those splintering seats, stacked so silently with a poignant air about them.

He couldn't feel the freeze of the spring air around him, and for a moment he was back in that soft autumn wind with the rhythm of knives around him and the smell of funnel cakes and popovers and all the sugary sweet tastes caught on his lips.

His eyes fluttered open abruptly and he shivered, teeth chattering. Sighing, he decided he'd commandeer the old building atop the crooked steps of the stage for the time being.

After he'd forced his frozen limbs up the stairs and laid down his few possessions, he noticed the few stray items left behind by those that would use the stage in so many months. A broom with shedding bristles that laid in a corner covered in cobwebs; an empty container that once held something important, he presumed, but now only had bite marks and a large hole in the lid from various wildlife; a few rags that were frozen to the wood rail and damp; and a small folding table all put away, leaning against the wall.

"This will do," the boy said aloud, smiling widely, perhaps talking to himself or the stage itself.

He first removed the rags from where they were frozen on the wood of the building using his breath. He tucked them into the back pocket of his pants, letting them thaw out there. Setting the container aside for the time being, the boy cleaned the broom with leftover icy chunks of dirt-filled snow to remove the cobwebs. He set to work immediately to keep warm, sweeping away all the dust and wet leaves from the floor and down the steps, sure to keep them away. He reached a small snowbank slumped against the wall. Frowning at it, he found a use for the container and shoveled out the snow, wrapping his hands with his flannel to keep them from getting too cold.

When at last he had swept, shoveled, and done a half-hearted wipe down of the table which he then placed in the middle of the room as if for dining, he took a step back and admired his work. It looked almost presentable. Other than the fact it was an abandoned fairground backstage area, he had made it more cozy, he thought. 'Neat and tidy,' he added to himself with a sly smile.