Tucked into a narrow closet-turned-workshop in The Library, the Clockmaster tinkered. Gears spun, pendulums ticked, and a chorus of cuckoo clocks held their breath. Light flickered against brass tools and paper blueprints, casting long shadows across the tiny room. When a small group of audience members stepped inside, he paused his work, lifting his eyes as if sensing a shift in the air.

“What’s your favorite time of day?” he asked.

“Sunset,” someone answered. “Midnight,” said another. Someone else whispered, “That quiet hour before school.” He considered their responses, then leaned forward:

“But would your favorite time mean anything… without what fills the hours between?”

In that moment, the Clockmaster revealed not only the heart of his own search, but the central question behind Mid-Pen’s 2025 fall production: What does it mean to be human?

This world — its questions, its characters, its mysteries — was built entirely by students. Twenty young artists created The Order of Alexandria from the ground up. They didn’t begin with a script; they began with a prompt. From there, each student invented an original character, crafted a backstory, gathered props, wrote a personal scene, and developed a distinct voice. Several characters emerged from different eras or imagined timelines; others were scholars, archivists, or curious thinkers trying to preserve the fragments of human experience.

The result was a campus transformed. Last weekend, closets, classrooms, hallways, and offices became hidden corners of an enormous, time-bending library. Audience members didn’t sit in rows — they moved in groups of six, guided through doorways that opened into intimate encounters. Over the course of 40 minutes, each group visited five of twelve scenes, creating dozens of possible story paths. No two journeys were the same, which became part of the wonder.

One group might begin with the Keeper of Memories, holding a fragile letter written a century ago. Another might meet The Author, wrestling with a story that keeps writing itself. Some found themselves in a dim archive filled with old books; others in a brightly lit office where a character questioned which pieces of knowledge deserve to be saved at all.

With each stop, the walls between performer and audience softened. Scenes often began with quiet conversation or an object passed gently from student to viewer. The closeness invited honesty, vulnerability, and reflection — small acts of connection that built the world piece by piece.

“This show was built through the collaboration of twenty creative and thoughtful young people,” shared Theater Director Liz Woolford. “As we started this journey together, I offered them this: What if this piece is a gift for our audience?”

And that gift was felt. Audience members emerged comparing notes about which characters they met, which stories they followed, and which ones they missed. That fragmentation, seeing only part of the archive while knowing others experienced something different, echoed the very theme the students set out to explore. Our stories rarely align perfectly. Our experiences overlap but never replicate. The threads that tie us together must be found, shared, and held with care.

As the final groups stepped out of the library and back into everyday rhythms, the performance lingered in questions, conversations, and the details that made each journey unique. And the main inquiry, the one that opened the door to it all, stayed with them:

What story will you help keep alive?

Cover photo by Alexandra Rivers Photography