Here is my submission for this past week's Snapshot Prompt. :) Tomorrow we'll have a whole new set of words and a photo for your inspiration. Until then, check back at this prompt post and see what others were inspired to write this week.
Tracy peeked out the door of the back entrance. It's where the crowds would gather after every performance, waiting to rub shoulders with one of the stars, hand over flowers to a loved one or just to be a part of the energy that followed another incredible performance.
For now, the tide had ebbed, taking with it the people and their waves of energy. She opened the door all the way, placing a partial cinder block at it's base to hold it open and set to rolling up the dirty red mat. Tomorrow morning, some stage hand would come in and clean all the dried mud from the dense fibers, wiping it down so it would be ready for the Matinee show. For now, all Tracy had to do was pack it away just inside the door, keeping the dirt far away from the fine costumes depicting the French revolution and the props for the castle, the town, and the gallows.
"I'm set to head out," she called into the cavern of backstage.
"Hold on," the gruff voice of the old stage manager halted her. She heard some shuffling from his office before he stepped out with an industrial stapler. It was the sign of an agreement between them. Tracy could only walk the alley at night as he re-stapled the billing posters. The heavy-duty stapler was as good a weapon as any, he believed. Not that it was needed in the clean, well lit alley that paralleled the main street, but if it made the old guy feel better, Tracy wouldn't argue.
Tracy left the man and the theater behind, hands in the pockets of her ratty wool coat. The streetlights were spaced perfectly apart, each section of yellow light just touching the edges of the next. Tracy smiled, feeling as though these were her personal spotlights, throwing her own quiet, behind the scenes life into the forefront of life's stage. It was a heady moment she looked forward to every night, these few moments when the quiet world was her oyster and her audience of one was riveted to her every move.
The coffee shop was only a hundred yards or so from the theater's back entrance. She paused just outside the door to wave back the way she came, grasping the door handle and making her exit, head held high.