Matureauditions Now

“Thank you, Ms. Vance. That was… unexpected.”

The pause stretched, thick and alive. Then, a soft rustle from the judging table.

Eleanor felt a familiar surge of inadequacy. She’d done community theatre in her thirties, a lifetime ago. A passable Blanche DuBois. A spirited Mrs. Lovett. Then came the mortgage, the tenure track, Harold’s illness. The stage lights dimmed. matureauditions

She set the journal on the kitchen table, next to Harold’s photograph. “Well,” she said to his smiling face. “Looks like I’m back.”

The audition notice had caught her eye in the grocery store, pinned beneath a flyer for a lost cat. “The Glass Menagerie” – Auditions. All roles open. Mature actors strongly encouraged. “Thank you, Ms

That was her. She walked into the cavernous, dark auditorium, the single stage light a blazing sun. The judging table was a shadowy outline in the front row.

“Mature,” she’d muttered to herself, loading cans of cat food into her cart. “A polite word for ‘ancient.’” Then, a soft rustle from the judging table

“Well,” the young man said, clearing his throat. “Don’t wait that long again.” The cast list went up the next day. Eleanor didn’t check it. She was in her garden, pruning the roses Harold had planted, telling herself that the audition itself had been enough. The doing of it, the being of Amanda for those three minutes, had been a gift.