Playhouse 25 by Mohamed Cisse
PLAYHOUSE 25…On their way to see a movie, the students hear a gunshot and see a figure running up the alley behind the theatre. They foolishly follow the action.
MOHAMED…ducks into the rear door of the theatre and ends up being part of the show.
Playhouse 25
Surprised by the sudden flash of light, George and I froze. We looked around and saw three cars to our left, right, and behind. The engines cut simultaneously. In the sudden, heavy silence, car doors opened, the small interior lights flickering. We were met with the gun that we so wanted to chase. Cornered in this situation, our only options were to find a way to escape or stay to find out our fate. What seemed to be two men and a woman, started approaching us. Looking around, I noticed a red painted stage door- the back exit of Playhouse 25. That was our chance but in fear George ran and left me alone. I could just stay there so I ran toward the stage door. Luckily it was unlocked so I went in.
The door slammed shut, throwing me into near total darkness. The noises outside were suddenly muted, replaced by silence that seemed to soak up all sound. My breath came in split gasps as I leaned against the door, my body shaking with adrenaline. Slowly, as my eyes adjusted, a light from a distant exit sign gave me a slight outline of my surroundings. I was standing on a dusty, narrow floor. A short flight of stairs led down into the main part of the theater, while another set went up. The air was thick with the scent of old wood. A faint light flickered below—the stage lights, maybe? Cautiously, I eased my weight off the door and took a step down. The floorboard creaked loudly, and I froze. Had they heard it? I held my breath, listening intently, but all I could hear was the pounding of my own heart. I crept down the remaining stairs, guided by the red glow. I found myself in a corridor lined with faded posters of long-forgotten productions. I could hear music now, low tunes, and the sound of voices. It wasn’t the police, or my pursuers. It was a play. I was in a live show.
I peeked through a small, curtained window in the door that led into the auditorium. The theater was dimly lit, the stage was in a soft, blue light. An actress in a flowing, white dress was delivering a dramatic monologue to an audience of about fifty people, all completely focused on the performance.
A wave of relief washed over me, quickly followed by a new kind of panic. Someone who’d just been in a filthy alley, about to crash a live play. I turned back toward the staircase, my mind racing for another escape route, when a hand clamped down on my shoulder.
“You’re late, Thomas,” a voice whispered in my ear. I spun around, my heart leaping into my throat.
It was a small, older man dressed in a sharp black tuxedo, his eyes narrow and his expression unimpressed. The theater manager. He gestured toward a side door labeled “Stage Left.”
“The cue was five minutes ago,” he hissed, pushing me toward the door. “Get on stage, the show must go on.”
I didn’t have time to correct his mistakes. The hand on my shoulder was surprisingly strong, and I was moved forward. The door swung open, and I stumbled onto the stage, the sudden brightness of the spotlights blinding me.
The actress stopped mid-sentence, her eyes wide with shock. The audience gasped. A hundred eyes fixed on me.
I froze, the center of attention in a play I didn’t even know I was in. The music stoped. I looked at the actress, then at the audience, my mind racing. The men outside were still out there, but here, I was safe… at least for now. I had to improvise.
Mohamed Cisse
10/17/25