A short piece.

As the curtain rises, you step out, awkwardly, but surely and say those lines that you've rehearsed to mundanity.
"I love you!"
This is the point when the crowd cheers, the lighting technicians do a fancy show, a few roses are thrown at your feet and people call you 'captivating'.
You smile and take a bow, the tie you straightened this morning falling forward and your smile taking on a life of it's own; the applause carrying your spirit as high as a weekend worthy of forgetting.
The reviewers describe how heart-fell and beautiful your performance was, worthy of that Oscar you had always wanted sitting on the dusty mantelpiece in that fifteen by fifteen apartment that you call home.
Alas, love is never that simple; your lines come out in a incomprehensible cloud of stink that have little to no effect.
A crowd that fails to react is never a bad crowd, ever.
You slouch and your head cranks forward... Smile and exit stage left. A stage-hand tells you that the lines you fluffed were decent and  you get the impression that he's a better actor than you.
"Strike while the iron's still hot!" he says, firing off clichés like fly-spray.
The iron grows cold and the moment exits, stage left, it's face clutched in hands.
It disappears and your role diminishes.
Supporting actor, minor character, one-line-wonder and eventually, an Oscar-less extra that you see drinking in the pub, muttering silent words that no one ever picks up on.
"I'd like to thank my parents, but only a bad workman blames his tools."

Again, just a short piece I worked on in class, but never got a chance to actually type up.
Enjoy if at all possible! Any comments or criticism are welcome.