the Hundred Year FarceThe Hundred Year Farce
a PLAY in brief
[Open on a bus stop with bench, currently unoccupied. OLD MAN enters slowly from SR, hobbles to and sits on the far side of the bench. He takes a sighing breath, then extricates a pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket. He places one in his mouth, lights it, and smokes contentedly. There is the sound of a scuffle off SR, and YOUNG MAN is thrown bodily onto the stage, where he staggers to his feet, somewhat drunk.]
YOUNG MAN: Just you wait til I'm sober again! [Nearly falls twice] but until then, I'll give you time to think about it. [He weaves his way to the near side of the bench and gestures to it] this seat taken? [OLD MAN shakes his head, and he sits.]
OLD MAN: The fighting any good tonight son?
YOUNG MAN: The best in weeks. [Peers at OLD MAN] Do I know you?
OLD MAN: Nope.
YOUNG MAN: But I just saw you in the bar.
OLD MAN: You're the only man I know that professes to
The Boy in the Bag ACT1 SC1The Boy in the Bag (working title)The Boy in the Bag ACT1 SC17 years ago in Scripts & Screenplays More Like This
ACT I, Scene I
ROBERT: a therapist in his mid thirties, enamored with messes, less so with work. Wears glasses.
FRANCINE: a receptionist, enamored with Robert and clean things. Wears high heels.
BOY IN THE BAG: a teenager, poorly-postured, gloomy. Wears a paper bag mask.
FATHER and MOTHER: nondescript. This is not their story.
[The lights illuminate a dual set. SL is a lobby containing only a receptionist's desk, a filing cabinet, and three uncomfortable-looking chairs against the back 'wall', facing the audience. SR is a cramped office, containing a desk, two chairs, a book case, and a lot of mess. Between the two spaces is an open doorway, suggesting the presence of a wall.]
[ROBERT fumbles in his office, holding in his left hand a coffee cup and under the same arm a rolled newspaper. With his free arm he shifts books and piles of paper around, trying to find the
Tanka Series1.Tanka Series8 years ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
the perfect spiral
of my worn
asking her out
I proofread every word
to the free space
in my journal-
but how can five lines
hold autumn dusk?
sorority bake sale
the girl I dumped
a cold brownie
of a stray dog
the tarot woman's hand
against my own
even in the cool
of night air
memento mori I.memento mori7 years ago in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
Death has been standing outside my house all night.
Last night I wiped my eyes against the cool glass and I watched him out the leaves of my window; watched while he circled the perimeter, his hands dancing near my rosebushes, giving light touches to the leaves and breaking them off along the neon vein lines. I touch the patches on my face and I try to make out the lines on his body: hooknose frame, dark lidded eyes, nailed mouth. The ceiling of nighttime rushed over him like a blanket and a smile, and I fell asleep with the crook of my head against the sill, images of his dead-star hands floating on my eyelashes, dripping off onto my cheeks.
And when I opened my eyes and saw morning stretch its back in a curved imitation of blue and white clouds like drippy wings, I knew who he was.
Now it's midmorning, and I take the knife and shiver until it cracks against the board. I bring the end dangerously close to my fingers,
Upon the unusual death...Reflections Upon the Unusual Death of a Tertiary CharacterUpon the unusual death...7 years ago in Humor More Like This
You have got to be kidding me!
Well, I never thought I'd go out like this... plummeting, facing skyward, off the rooftop of a bajillion-floor building.
Ohh! Wait! Maybe if I flail my arms around and scream a lot, I'll generate enough lift to survive impact (or at least keep the camera's attention a little longer) !
Ah. It would seem not. Shame. I've been building up karma points for like, years now . I should have kept that extra change they gave me at the drive-thru last Sunday.
I mean seriously, what is the deal with this? I'm not really that bad of a guy. Mr. Protagonist up there could totally have just knocked me out with that neck-grip; even a punch to the face would have at least been civil. But noooooooo, it was absolutely necessary to sent me catapulting over the guard rail (fat lot of good that did) i
Monologue"I could tell you that I do this because I'm insane, because God is in my head, because I go about my business with a thousand avenging angels conducting a symphony of holy amorality, directing my every move. Because organized crime killed my father, raped my mother, and tortured my sister, and that they had all this coming to them. That I do this because I like it; because I like to kill, and that I'm no more alive than when I stand there looking down on them, willing the light to go out of their life, staring down at their eyes so that I can watch--so that I can feel them die. Because I revel in it. Because I'm lost. Because I wasn't breast-fed or because society wouldn't have me or that I was abused, scorned and hated. That life was cruel and God disowned me.Monologue9 years ago in Scripts & Screenplays More Like This
That I never watched a violent movie in my life and that my parents protected me and nurtured me too much, and when I saw
Bambi's mom get murdered in cold blood, it unhinged my mind. That Disney walked away with my soul and tha
Strawberry reaction An Alaskan storm introduced itself to the weather three nights ago. It shook me straight from dreaming about (really, remembering) a dance with an elderly man, my feet placed off the ground onto the tops of his shoes. A balancing act. I awoke to four-fifty five, followed by a fleeting FLASH before truly registering the dark and the storm itself. I sat up in bed to peer out the window when a FLASH FLASHED again. For a split second, the room shone brighter than day. Somewhere close by, lightning had entered conversation. The sky grumbled in response as thunder fought for last word.Strawberry reaction7 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
Lightning never spoke again though. Within minutes I found myself sitting bolt upright in total darkness.
It hadn't rained so unforgivingly the e
I Love You MotherI watched them smile happily at each other; I stood wide eyed at the fluidity of their movements: bending with each gust of wind and the sun warming their leaves, making them shift slightly. I kept my distance as I observed them, they tracked the sun with a hidden compass and never straying from their designated path. Each day they would lift their heads to the sky and gaze longingly at the pale golden rays blazing above them.I Love You Mother7 years ago in Children and Teen More Like This
They would twinkle little melodies each time the sun would break from a stray cloud and shine even brighter. Their green hands would fold downward when the rain fell from the above, like tiny, clear pearls dropping delicately to the ground. I'd watch in amazement at the long complicated dances they would perform for their only audience, the Sun.
With their leafy tendrils they would carry loved ones high in the air, illuminated by the sheer joy the sunlight brought them. Raising their voices in unison they sang praise for the shower of golden rays that woke them e
How to Write a SestinaIn order to write a sestina,How to Write a Sestina11 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
you must start by being unsure,
quickly switching from cold to hot
to cold and to hot again,
the temperature being like a cat
in the Sahara desert at dusk.
Sit on your porch at dusk,
watch the clouds create their sestinas.
As you watch, allow your cat
beside you, her tongue lapping unsurely
from a cup. Look up again,
wonder if milk would be hot
if left out. It is hot;
There is a heat about dusk.
Forget. Forget about the poem again,
Look around. Everywhere, there are sestinas.
Not just in the cool, unsure
ripples your cat
makes, the gentle clink clink your cat's
teeth make as she tips her hot
tongue against her cup. In unsure
clouds, sestinas. Not just in dusk
either. And mosquitoes make stinging sestinas.
Crumple a sheet of paper. Again.
Now throw it out, again and again.
Eventually, sensing a toy, your cat
will chase it. Wonder what a sestina
really is. The pen will feel hot
in your hand. Take some paper. Dusk
is now ending; Be absolutely sure
this time yo
Heart-boatsGive me a song, worth singing from the heights of a clifftop,Heart-boats7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
over to calm the raging seas,
a pinnacle point, to quash the rage of the oceans.
Come to my side, in the pouring rain and howling wind.
Let the squall lash your dark hair across your pale face,
turn your seagreen eyes unto mine night sky blue's.
Here layeth the raging storms of torrential emotion,
which poured forth from a broken, bruiséd and shattered heart.
Here you sung to the storms, though they railed against you,
your steady, confident gentleness soothed the wrath away.
Now together, within my walls we sit and confide in each other,
share long passed secrets and long lost stories.
Between the walls, you and I, we grew to love, in secret,
though quiet, our love grew warmer day to day.
Turning to replace the storms of fear, to storms of passion.
And the vessels of our hearts deftly skim the waves of our love,
no serpents from the deep snap at the keels anymore,
as together we conquered them.
On days of calm we sit a
Pete, Re-PetePete, Re-Pete7 years ago in Science Fiction More Like This
Two hours ago, Pete had been pulled gasping from a tank of jelly. Now he sat in an immaculate office, wearing borrowed clothes with his employer staring him down from the far side of a granite slab desk top.
"Welcome back, Pete." Terrence Carter, syndicate heavyweight and the man Pete ran data packets for. "I must say, you look better than you did the last time I saw you."
Pete sat straight in his chair, tentatively rolling and flexing muscle that remembered thirty eight years of abusive mileage, but didn't feel a days wear and tear. "What happened Terry, what's going on?"
"You were running a very special package for me Pete, one we couldn't copy, one we had to risk transporting as original data." Terry paused, pulling at each of his white shirt cuffs in turn, evening their length against the dark fabric of his suit. "You had an incident Pete, for some reason you seem to have hidden my package from me. I don't know exactly what went wrong in your head, Pete, but when we finally... reco
Visceraostracize the wounded; listen!Viscera7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
to the way they graze over sidewalks,
un! deux! trois! quatre! cinq!
counting bones and the chipped teeth
of sun-browned children, they come
six! sept! huit! neuf! dix!
plus one/subtract the liver, and stipple
the ribs with paint; this thin viscus,
crippled with veins - - stilled eyes
some porphyry and feldspar flecked,
onze! douze! treize! quatorze! quinze!
counting small rodents and bag pipes - -
lisping fingers from the wagon train
like pale arachnids between the spokes
The Writing ProcessWhat is the Writing Process?The Writing Process7 years ago in Academic Essays More Like This
Many of us learned that the writing process is made up of five parts: Pre-writing, Writing, Revision, Editing, and Publishing. Indeed, this process has been so ingrained, and the vocabulary and terms have become such a part of our education, that some students (and adults) feel as if writing is a formulaic, rigid thingnot unlike learning mathematicsthat they simply never excelled in. Fortunately, this simply isn't true. While the five basic steps of the writing process are effective, they can only be effective if the people using the process understand the purpose of each step.
Experience has shown that many students do not know the purpose of drafting beyond a certain, vague understanding that you're supposed to "correct" or "fix" something for each new draft. Its unfortunate, but its also been shown that students who are forced to Pre-Write in certain ways, even when they have been
Dragon SlayerThis book is a story of stories.Dragon Slayer7 years ago in Spiritual & Occult More Like This
It is fitting to begin with one of which there are so many variations.
Somewhere where there was a wood, far away and long enough ago not to matter to people who thought that way of getting rid of problems best, a little child found a bird on a woodland floor. The child was a boy; it could have been a girl, too, for it was just a common child.
But the bird was a majestic thing, which storytellers would later call the Simurgh Phoenix. It was crowned with glory, with wings like the sun, and all birds were made in its image.
It was a powerful bird, like an eagle, falcon or a hawk, that saw all things.
It was like a sparrow, very full of joy, that chirruped so that anyone with kindness would kneel to nest it in his hand.
It was like a magpie, that looked sharply at everyone, with a mind quicker than anything.
The Drug OperaAs dusk dripped thick through a coffee filter brume, the edges of the sky blistered and curled in on themselves like a photograph aflame. The orphaned troupe Alamort marched - no, limped, dragged their fractured marionette legs over the macadamized road towards a sizzling neon sign, the vista bathed in its bright red panicked heartbeat. A plaque of hoary grout plugged the fossil veins of crack-toothed cobblestone, whispered salty scandal to their tattered shoes. Rainwater crept through seams in the jigsaw stone, trilling toward Canaan in days-long fingers of living mercury.The Drug Opera9 years ago in Transgressive More Like This
And they followed it, the five pairs of abandoned feet, walking the dew lines like liquid tight rope toward their aqueous juncture, to where the melted clouds converged in pulsating chrome puddles; at the grand and pompous feet of The Drug Opera.
Relic, Whimsy, Fustian, Antic, Sorry; kith ranging in years from seventeen to twenty-eight. They dissolved into a line, hand melding into hand like the grimy pearls
The FuguistJonah hated Mars. He hated everything about it. Every minute he spent there he was plagued by a vague feeling of unrest: Mars was not quite foreign, not quite familiar, an endless mirage or coma dream. Maybe he was dead, and maybe this was purgatory. Sometimes he considered praying at night, asking for forgiveness, just in case, for whatever sin might have banished him there, but then he looked out over the barren, forsaken wasteland and thought his time was much better spent sleeping, or walking.The Fuguist8 years ago in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
But he hated how soft the ground was, how little clouds of dust exploded under his soles with every step, and how he could turn around and see his straight, months'-long trail of footsteps stretching out behind him, since there were no winds to erase that lonely path. He hated the air, which was so thin that no one breath was ever enough and so full of dust that he thought his throat and tongue and teeth were coated with the red powder.
He hated the sky, which hung too low overhead, ripe with
People DiePeople DiePeople Die7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
In Skowhegan people die.
In Brooklyn people die.
In Altoona and Galesburg and Osawatomie,
in Seminole and Shamrock,
in Santa Rosa, and Snowflake, and Overton,
and Portersville, and Fresno people die.
They just drop off of census lists
and fall out of phone books
forever. Written into diaries and out of wills
their lives evaporate into the sky
and are inhaled by children
playing tag in a neighbors driveway.
It was in Pico Rivera that you happened to die
Jason, just this past weekend in fact,
while I vacationed in Ventura
and soldiers scrambled for peace
through Kuwaiti sands
and Good Morning Vietnam finally made its debut
on network TV.
Dearest grandpa, great aunt, grammar school pal,
brother, daddy, girlfriend I lost,
bud: you were none of these to me Jason
and still Im tumbling into my liquor-store Leathe,
hoping its sharp and watery wet is spirited
by agents of forgetfulness
If I Were A LineIf I were a lineIf I Were A Line7 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
I think Id be curled,
billowed and swirled,
and slowly unfurled.
Id sweep over a page,
if I were a line,
with the wind in my hair,
and my heart laid bare.
Thats what Id be,
if I were a line.
If I were a spot
Id be round and fat
(now how about that?)
like an old, well-fed cat.
Id have drizzled and dropped,
if I were a spot,
pittering and pattering
with a slight hint of smattering.
Thats what Id be,
if I were a spot.
If I were a colour
Id be a rich red,
like a painted deathbed
or a sword to the head.
Id lunge for macabre,
if I were a colour,
made oh-so dramatic,
my thoughts all sporadic.
Thats what Id be,
if I were a colour.
But I am a human,
so pale and flawed,
and easily bored,
(wishing I was adored).
I twist and bend
(these hinges, you see?);
my shape is no other
than the one I can be;
My colour, it changes
because I am a human:
a human thats me.
Swish-CthunkSwish-Cthunk9 years ago in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
Today I went down to the Bureau of Words to trade in my autumn onomatopoeia. Usually I put it off until at least the end of November, but this year the squelch-thud of my boots in the mounds of soggy leaves brought me up sharp. I went home, gathered my dry snaps, crackles and swooshes, as well as the cheerful spthooshk of a water balloon left over from August and headed down to the department. The rain hurried down to meet my umbrella, an excellent winter sound for which I had no words. But that would soon change.
The stooped man at the front desk greeted me with a finger to his lips. "We're running the barnyard tests, so we've got to be very quiet. Get me?"
I nodded. Fortunately, the entire antechamber of the Bureau is soundproofed, so my rubber soled boots made no sound on the white carpeted floor despite leaving a great deal of mud.
"What do you have in mind for me today? I'm here for the seasonal trade-in deal."
"Well, we've got snow falling on cedars, rain dripping into a puddle o
Dear Honorable Mr. HolmesDear Honorable Mr. Holmes:Dear Honorable Mr. Holmes7 years ago in Humor More Like This
I bring to you hearty greetings from across the pond. However, as you likely have already surmised by the small smudge on the address bar of the envelope undoubtedly caused by a bead of my own sweat, I also deliver a quandary for the likes of your finely honed skills.
As you may know, a survey was recently conducted of 3,000 of your fellow Britons, asking whether certain figures were real or fictional. When your name came up, Mr. Holmes, 58 percent said you were real.
Isn't that preposterous? That means 42 percent believe you're a fake! I can only think that such hoodwinkery be caused by some sort of slanderous propaganda scheme.
The chigger of misinformation digs even more deeply into the skin of your fellow countrymen, sir. When asked of Winston Churchill, 23 percent believed he was made up. Am I, with most sincerity, being asked to believe that a staggering 77 percent of Britons actually think Churchill was real? The same Churchill who lit his cigars with
DiaryOfAOneRoomSchoolhouseJanuary 4, 2009.DiaryOfAOneRoomSchoolhouse7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I want my long hair back.
Soft, sleek, middle of my back--soft swooping bangs to the right just above my brows.
I want it deep, rich brown again. Not red. Brown. I want my hair back.
I want to be pretty again.
I want to wear dresses.
I want to wear my Mary Jane's.
I want to read my books, to study, to learn.
I want to wear soft make-up, delicate, fresh.
I want to be small and quaint again.
I want my smile back.
I want my faith back, my prayers, my Bible, my pure heart.
I want to be loved.
I want someone to love.
I want to be wanted again.
I wish my hair were redder.
I wish it was long and wavy.
I wish I could be a small fragile thing again.
People cared about me then.
I wasn't in trouble.
I wasn't beaten up.
I pray they never hook me up again.
I don't want to back to the doctors.
I wish they would go away.
I wish they didn't hurt so bad.
I'm just a teenager.
I want someone's hand to hold.
I want a hug.
Wild Flower Crimes When I crush the head of a clover bloom, the scent carries me to that far off field where my weed battered knees cut trails by the blackberry bush. Where the old man let us feast on his jam flavored crop of wild fruit, and told us tales of when his hair was crowned with dandelion fluff. Where the overhead hum of power lines cursing the heat of summer was the only thread we used to find our way back home. Where the king of the day was crowned based upon who found the biggest possum skull, or smashed the tallest crawdad hole; swearing he fought off its occupant, who was the size of Bobbys dog. Back then, the trash of ditches was pirate swag, or royal treasure. A baseball bat swollen with ditch water was a giants club. A thorny weed was the last proof of an ancient forest.Wild Flower Crimes7 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Time ran slow there, meandering with bees tha
find one real bit of feelingdo me a favorfind one real bit of feeling7 years ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
no more love, no more later
this time, just stay gone
the church of what's happenedin my seat in the sanctuarythe church of what's happened5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
with virgin white light cascading over my arms like a spotlight on my presence,
i feel my skin about to burn a hole right through the pew--
my ring about to eat the very flesh and bone from my finger.
as the congregation turns to watch acidic tears erode canyons in my cheeks
they know that i'm the girl who tainted their Sunday
when i touched foot in the doorway with my crimson sins,
staining all before me that'd once been holy.
in horror and shame i sit with my head in my hands,
curled upon my knees,
praying for redemption--
and know there's no girl who deserves it less.
i promised with my life,
and i broke my vow.
the congregation's gaze upon me,
mocking as i lie there rocking;
invisible whispers of, 'we told you not to.
..you naïve, filthy, disgraceful little girl.'