Midsummer Audition | Juniper & Wat
Juniper sat on the seat a few rows back from the stage with a list of papers in her hands and a pen spinning between her fingers. She’d never cast a play alone before, but since she was the manager of the theater she figured she may as well start putting on plays, and since it was summer she’d decided a Midsummer Night’s Dream would be a perfect play to start with. Tapping her pen against the edge of her papers she looked up at the stage and called out to the person in the shadows. “Okay, we’re ready for you!”
“Hello!” Wat came out onto the stage without a script, giving a friendly smile and simple wave of his hand. Thin and average height, he dressed casually, ever experimenting with fashion lately in a brighter and more humid than he was used to climate. Light jeans, Vans, a striped teeshirt and light grey blazer over it. He felt a blazer would be a little dressy. Make a good first impression.
“I’m Wat Fletcher. World history teacher. Vampire. I’m reading for Nick Bottom, but really whatever part you see fit, Madam Director... I’ve played Puck, Flute, Lysander, Hipployta, at various points over the years, and then Bottom in 1631 for the Bishop of Lincoln. That’s a fine story if you like. I know this play like the back of my hand. So even, if you need a stage manager...” Wat smiled and shrugged, looking around the stage for a moment. It had been a while since he’d done any Shakespeare.
“I’ve missed this...” He looked to Juniper, obviously grateful for the opportunity and the very fact that there was such on the Island. “I miss him. Will was always kind to me. To think, and we all knew he was a genius, but I would be up here again 400 years later speaking his words. It’s funny, Miss Juniper, what survives the sands of time and what does not.” Another soft smile before he took a step back, was quiet for a mere moment and began his piece.
“When my cue comes, call me, and I will
answer: my next is, 'Most fair Pyramus.' Heigh-ho!
Peter Quince! Flute, the bellows-mender! Snout,
the tinker! Starveling! God's my life, stolen
hence, and left me asleep! I have had a most rare
vision. I have had a dream, past the wit of man to
say what dream it was: man is but an ass, if he go
about to expound this dream. Methought I was—there
is no man can tell what. Methought I was,—and
methought I had,—but man is but a patched fool, if
he will offer to say what methought I had. The eye
of man hath not heard, the ear of man hath not
seen, man's hand is not able to taste, his tongue
to conceive, nor his heart to report, what my dream
was. I will get Peter Quince to write a ballad of
this dream: it shall be called Bottom's Dream,
because it hath no bottom; and I will sing it in the
latter end of a play, before the duke:
peradventure, to make it the more gracious, I shall
sing it at her death.”
