When I was five years old, I auditioned for the role of 'Tiny Tim

Host: The theatre was almost empty, except for the ghost light burning at center stage—one lone bulb on a slender pole, casting long, fragile shadows across the worn wooden floor. Dust floated like tiny galaxies in the beam, and from the old rafters came the creak of a century’s worth of memory.

Jack sat in the front row, elbows on his knees, watching the pale pool of light. Jeeny stood on the stage itself, turning slowly beneath it, her fingers grazing the air like she was tracing invisible applause.

Between them lay an old script, its edges yellowed with time. On the cover, handwritten in faded ink, was Zach Anner’s line:
“When I was five years old, I auditioned for the role of ‘Tiny Tim’ in A Christmas Carol.”

Jeeny: “Isn’t it wonderful? Just that image—a five-year-old, tiny and trembling, dreaming of saying, ‘God bless us, everyone!’ in front of strangers.”

Jack: “Wonderful? It’s ironic. Every child dreams of being Tiny Tim—the pure soul who suffers but smiles. The tragedy we find charming. But real life doesn’t hand out applause for being brave.”

Host: The light above them flickered once, as if the theatre itself were exhaling. Jeeny looked down from the stage, her eyes soft but defiant.

Jeeny: “No, it doesn’t. But maybe that’s what makes it beautiful. A child doesn’t audition for applause, Jack. He does it because he believes in possibility.”

Jack: “Possibility?”

Jeeny: “Yes. That simple, shining thing adults forget. To imagine yourself in a story bigger than your own life—and to believe you belong there.”

Jack: “Or maybe it’s delusion. The first lesson in disappointment. We teach kids to dream, but not how to survive when the curtain drops.”

Jeeny: “You call it disappointment. I call it rehearsal.”

Host: The rain began outside, tapping gently against the old theatre’s windows—a faint percussion, like a metronome marking time for the past. Jack leaned back, the wooden seat creaking beneath him, his eyes fixed on Jeeny.

Jack: “So you think Zach’s talking about innocence? About trying?”

Jeeny: “I think he’s talking about origin. The moment where courage and wonder collide. The first time you step into a world that doesn’t have to take you in—and you do it anyway.”

Jack: “Courage? He was five.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s when courage is purest. Before pride, before fear, before the world teaches you how to shrink.”

Jack: “You’re saying a five-year-old knows something we forget?”

Jeeny: “Completely. A child walks into an audition believing magic is real. An adult walks in calculating the odds of failure.”

Host: Jeeny moved toward the edge of the stage, the ghost light’s glow wrapping her in a fragile halo. Her voice softened, but every word carried a quiet conviction.

Jeeny: “Don’t you remember what that felt like? When you tried something not because it would succeed—but because it called you?”

Jack: “I remember learning how quickly the world corrects that kind of thinking.”

Host: The rain grew heavier, drumming now, drowning out the distant city. The air smelled of dust and wood polish, of endings and beginnings.

Jeeny: “You always talk like the world’s a critic, Jack. But even critics were kids once. Even cynics auditioned for something.”

Jack: “Maybe. But some of us didn’t get the part.”

Jeeny: “And yet, you still remember it. That’s the miracle—failure that lives on because it mattered.”

Jack: “You think memory redeems failure?”

Jeeny: “I think it gives it meaning. Tiny Tim didn’t teach us how to succeed. He taught us how to hope.”

Jack: “Hope doesn’t feed you.”

Jeeny: “No. But it keeps you alive long enough to find what does.”

Host: Jack’s hands rested on the back of the seat in front of him, his knuckles pale in the light. He stared up at Jeeny as if she were performing a role he couldn’t yet name.

Jack: “You sound like you still believe in fairy tales.”

Jeeny: “I do. Not because they’re true—but because they remind us we could be better if we believed they were.”

Jack: “So this little quote—this audition—it’s more than nostalgia to you?”

Jeeny: “It’s faith disguised as a memory. A child stepping onstage to say, ‘Here I am, world. See me.’ Even if the world doesn’t.”

Host: Jeeny stepped down from the stage, her footsteps echoing softly in the empty hall. She came to sit beside him, close enough that their shoulders brushed. The light from the stage fell over both their faces—his carved in skepticism, hers illuminated with tenderness.

Jeeny: “You ever audition for something you didn’t get?”

Jack: “Once. College theater. I froze halfway through. Forgot every line. They said I wasn’t convincing.”

Jeeny: “And were they right?”

Jack: “Maybe. Or maybe I just hadn’t learned yet that conviction isn’t about being convincing—it’s about daring to be seen.”

Host: The light flickered again. A bulb popped somewhere overhead, and the room briefly sank into shadow before steadying once more.

Jeeny: “See? Even lights stumble. But they still come back on.”

Jack: “You think everything’s a metaphor, don’t you?”

Jeeny: “That’s because everything is.”

Host: Jack’s laughter broke softly, low and genuine. For a moment, the theatre didn’t feel so hollow.

Jack: “So what’s the metaphor here? A kid auditioning for Tiny Tim?”

Jeeny: “It’s the start of every human story—the moment someone decides to try even when they don’t know the script. That’s the truest form of bravery.”

Jack: “And if they don’t get the role?”

Jeeny: “Then they’ve still proven they belong in the story.”

Host: The rain outside began to fade, replaced by a silence that felt almost orchestral. The ghost light hummed, steady now, as though it too had listened and learned.

Jack looked out toward the stage. His voice softened.

Jack: “You know, I think I get it now. The quote isn’t about getting the role—it’s about daring to audition. About wanting to matter enough to show up.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The audition is the act of belief. That’s all faith really is—a performance for no guaranteed audience.”

Jack: “Then maybe life’s just one long audition for acceptance.”

Jeeny: “Or for understanding.”

Jack: “And maybe every mistake is just a forgotten line we learn to recover from.”

Jeeny: “Yes. The best actors aren’t the ones who never stumble. They’re the ones who keep the story going when they do.”

Host: The ghost light cast two shadows on the stage—long, graceful, imperfect. They merged somewhere near the wings, indistinguishable. Jeeny stood again, walking back toward the center.

She turned toward Jack and raised her arms slightly, as if opening to an unseen audience. Her voice—soft, sincere—broke the silence:

Jeeny: “You know what I love about Tiny Tim? He’s small, fragile, forgotten—and still, he blesses the world. He believes in goodness, even when it forgets him. Maybe that’s all any of us can do.”

Jack: “Be small and still bless the world?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Be small—and still show up.”

Host: Jack smiled faintly, leaning back in his seat, his eyes tracing the glow of the ghost light.

Jack: “Then maybe the audition never ends. Maybe we’re all just five years old again, waiting to be chosen by a world that keeps pretending not to watch.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But the beauty is—we get to keep auditioning anyway.”

Host: The rain stopped. The air felt cleaner, alive. The ghost light burned steady now, the quiet guardian of dreamers who dared to stand in its glow.

Jack rose, joined her on stage, and together they stood—two silhouettes in the half-light, surrounded by the invisible hum of history and hope.

Jeeny: “You see, Jack… trying isn’t about getting the part. It’s about proving to yourself you’re still willing to play.”

Jack: “And maybe, someday, that’s the role that saves you.”

Host: And with that, the light above them flared a little brighter—just for a heartbeat—before settling into calm.

In the hush that followed, they both understood:

Every act of courage, no matter how small, is an audition for meaning.
And every heart that dares to try—
is already center stage.