They slowly gathered dust in the back room of the little theatre, in the dim light and away from prying eyes and fingers. Perhaps in the right hands, they could be used again to amaze. But before that could happen, they would need more than a little repair. And likely fresh paint.
The chair suspension had a loose leg, and could hardly support itself, let alone a volunteer.
The thin model sawing was missing a blade. Without it, the secrets would leak out under the bright lights, and then it would fail to be an illusion. ALthough to be fair the line between illusion and disillusion is always fairly thin. Even when all works perfectly, small slips by the performers add up and the audience may not be fooled in the slightest.
Most of the production props were aging, suffering badly from loss of flexibility. A compressible bowling ball is worthless if it crumbled to dust when packed, or takes too long to spring back to shape when released.
The egg bag seemed to be home to many generations of moths. If picked up and manipulated today, it would fall to pieces. In its glory days it would have been the keystone of an act that produced a dozen fresh eggs and the chicken that laid them.
In the darkest corner there was a box of appearing canes stuck open, and disappearing candles stuck closed.
If George ever remembered he’d left this show here, he was going to need to take some time to bring it back to its former glory.