MORGAN!

Years ago I wrote a play about Morgan Le Fay, King Arthur's half-sister. The work had one public reading, and then I withdrew it. Not altogether sure why.




Anyway, today I was organizing - stuff, and ran across my master hard copy. Here's one of the monologues. At this point Morgan is desolate – life has no meaning. Even the stars at night cause her pain.

I once thought they be not stars, but mirrors of my soul – those myriad twinklings set apart, aloof. How alike we are, I thought, to watch as bourgeois’ kingdoms rise, gasp for life, and fall. To remain pure, chaste – unreached and unreachable – thereby avoiding the countenance of that soiled creature, God – in His perfect wisdom – permitted to begrime the earth. To live forever! To never age or … or if to die, to die purposed, a bright burning gash across the heavens.

I thought them supreme. Omnipotent! One with the creator! But with the coming of the simple morn, they depart, those stars. Frightened, no, offended by the belligerence of the sun.

I remain. I.

Take me with you! Leave me not to face the iniquities of this little life – which draw me away, which make me less like you.

They do not hear me. Or, if hearing, disdainfully ignore my supplication. And in my heart, that secret place where truth be not denied, I am pleased – grateful! For if in compassion they respond, then they be more like me than I would be like them.

And so, for a space I forgot them, moved as I was toward consuming sorrow, the pain within all too jealous for attention.

And now … now I think again we are alike, those stars and I. Distant. Untouched. Unknowing – affecting not the nature of any living thing, save as a curiosity. Existing for the mere sake of …

existing.

jb

THE TEAPOT COLLECTOR

So. I make all these noises about being a playwright. But it's been a couple of years since one of my works has been produced. Am I now writing for my own amusement?

That ain't it, kid.

So. Last year my buddy Julie and I entered a play in the WRITER'S DIGEST PLAY COMPETITION, and it did well.

So. This year I entered my latest work in the same competition. I mean, that's doing something.

Right? Right.

So. A minor complication. The play has been entered, but so far only 25 pages of it have actually been written. I mean, if it wins something, what are the chances that somebody might actually want to read part of it?

So. For the past few days I've been writing like the panicked idiot that I am. Here's a bit of dialogue nobody else has seen yet.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

(Madeline, age 55, is talking on an antique cell phone.)

MADELINE: Betty? Madeline. Would you do me a favor? Look out your window and tell me if Bill is home yet. (SHE pauses.) Good.Yes. I'm still here. His Highness hasn't come out of the bathroom in three hours. I mean, nobody is that full of ... on the other hand, I could be wrong about that. (SHE pauses.) I don't know. A couple of hours, most likely. I want to make sure he's taking his pills. Not that it would be such a big loss, if you know what I mean. (SHE looks around.) God, look at the dust. I'm in the tea room. The TEA room. The GARAGE!

(SHE runs a finger over the top of a dusty teapot. At that moment OWEN, age 72, enters.)

OWEN: If you break that, you pay for it.

MADELINE: Why don't you clean these once in awhile?

OWEN: Go home. Clean your own teapots.

MADELINE: Teapot. Singular. More than one is an excess.

OWEN: Too bad you don't feel that way about husbands.

MADELINE: I beg your pardon?

OWEN: As well you should.

MADELINE: I'm sure I don't know why I come over here.

OWEN: You're masochistic.

MADELINE: I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about.

OWEN: And it's no fun at all if I have to explain it.

(MADELINE speaks into the cell phone.)

MADELINE: Betty? I'll call you back. (SHE ends the call, hands the phone to OWEN.) You really should get a new one of these.

OWEN: Why?

MADELINE: It's old.

OWEN: So am I. There. I've fed you a straight line for once. Make the most of it.

MADELINE: Of what?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Comment?

JB

And how was your day?

Excerpt from the play ANOTHER DUMB GHOST STORY

ICKLES is a ghost, who, at various times, appears to MARY as; a Scottish bagpiper, the Sugar Plum Fairy, and – at this moment – a Mexican bandit. ANOTHER DUMB GHOST STORY has crisscrossed the United States so many times that the logo is registered.


MARY: Are you really a ghost?

ICKLES: WHY does everybody always ask that question?

MARY: Why don’t you wear a sheet and go around clanking chains, like you’re supposed to?

ICKLES: I like that. You meet one ghost, and already you’re telling him how to dress.

MARY: I didn’t mean anything personal.

ICKLES: Would you take off all your clothes and run around the neighborhood with only a sheet wrapped around you?

MARY: I guess not.

ICKLES: I guess not indeed.

MARY: I’m sorry.

ICKLES: I accept your apology. We won’t mention it ever again.

MARY: Well, it’s been fun talking to you, Mr. …

ICKLES: Ickles. Just Ickles.

MARY: Pardon me, but …

ICKLES: Yes?

MARY: Don’t you have someplace you can go?

ICKLES: Not really. Do you?

MARY: I’m there!

ICKLES: Me too. Isn’t it nice?

MARY: You can’t stay here.

ICKLES: Why not?

MARY: Because I’m tired and I want to go to bed.

ICKLES: A good place to go when you’re tired.

MARY: Look, Ickles. I’ve had a rotten day, a long drive, and – thanks to you – a fight with my landlady. I may be evicted in the morning! I ache, I’m tired, and I’ve reached the end of my rope! If you don’t leave – now – I’m going to start throwing things! Do you read me, mister?!

ICKLES: Loud and clear, SIR!

MARY: Then you’ll leave?

ICKLES: No.

MARY: A-a-a-h!

ICKLES: Don’t get mad at me. It’s your fault. You’re the one who brought me here. You’re the only one who can send me back.

MARY: I did not, by any stretch of the imagination, bring you here.

ICKLES: I beg to differ with you, but you did.

MARY: I did not.

ICKLES: Yes you did.

MARY: I didn’t.

ICKLES: You did.

MARY: Didn’t.

ICKLES: Did. I win!

MARY: Alright, if I can send you away, I order you to go. Be gone. Scat. Poof!

ICKLES: Am I gone?

MARY: No.

ICKLES: You must be doing something wrong.

MARY: Oh, you noticed that?

ICKLES: Do you know any magic words?

MARY: What magic words?

ICKLES: You know. Magic words.

MARY: You don’t mean abracadabra, and things like that?

ICKLES: I don’t?

MARY: That’s silly.

ICKLES: Okay. Which side of the bed do you want? Personally, I like the side toward the bathroom …

MARY: I didn’t say I wouldn’t do it. I just think it’s silly.

ICKLES: It’s worth a try. Hey, I’m as anxious to get this over with as you are. I certainly have no desire to stay where I’m not wanted.

MARY: Okay. But promise me you won’t laugh. What am I saying? I’m trying to think up words I don’t know, to get rid of somebody who isn’t even here. Why am I doing this?

ICKLES: When you figure it out, wake me.

MARY: Abracadabra! Alacazam-shazam! Jumpin’ Jehoshaphat! By the shores of Gitchee-Goomie.

ICKLES: Mary! Something’s happening …

MARY: What?

ICKLES: I don’t know. I have this strange feeling in the small of my back.

MARY: You’re sitting on your spurs.

Excerpt from the play THE DISENCHANTED FROG

This was my first foray into children’s plays. I wanted to write something where the dialogue would appeal to adults (figuring that the costumes and action would hold the kids.) It worked out much better than I hoped. “Mature” adults never understood a word, but those who were kids at heart got it all. In this scene our narrator – FENNIMORE FROG – has just been introduced to a private detective, one BEBE WOLF.


FENNIMORE: I guess I’m ready. When do we begin?

BEBE: Begin? Dear frog, we have begun! I call this …

(HANS enters, blows a squawk on a toy saxophone, then exits.)

…”The Case Of The Missing Mast!”

FENNIMORE: What was that?!

BEBE: We’re trying to work a little music into the act.

(FENNIMORE moves away from Bebe.)

Where are you going?

FENNIMORE: Out of the line of fire when they start throwing things.

BEBE: I know what you mean. I thought the accordion lacked dramatic effect.

FENNIMORE: I want to hear about the missing mast. If that’s alright with you. If you don’t mind.

BEBE: Yes. Alright. I don’t mind. It all started when I was approached by this old sailor, see, and …

FENNIMORE: Of course he came from the sea. Where would you expect a sailor to come from? Arizona?

(HE looks for a reaction from Bebe. There is none.)

Excuse me.

BEBE: Certainly.

(FENNIMORE crosses down to the audience.)

FENNIMORE: Where is it carved in stone that the frog gets all the straight lines and none of the funny stuff?

(HE crosses back to Bebe.)

Thank you.

BEBE: You’re welcome. Are you done?

FENNIMORE: Apparently.

BEBE: As I was saying – before I was interrupted – I was approached by this old sailor, s-s-s – you understand, and he was in a very low state …

FENNIMORE: Florida?

(HE again looks for a reaction from Bebe. He receives a blank stare.)

Don’t you get it? You said he was in a low state, and I said Florida, and … I quit.

BEBE: Where was I?

FENNIMORE: Low state.

BEBE: … and he told me that during the night, someone had stolen one of his masts! Right off his ship!

FENNIMORE: Stolen a mast?

BEBE: I’m sure he said it was a mast. One of those big long things? You hang sheets on it?

FENNIMORE: I know what a mast is!

BEBE: Of course, it could have been an anchor … or a rudder … or a week from Tuesday … No, it was a mast. I’m almost positive it was. Anyway, the curious part – oh, most curious indeed – was that no one saw or heard anything! I’m sure the crime would be undetected yet today … EXCEPT … when the sailor woke up in the morning? … and went up on deck? … he found all this rope on the floor, and this big hole? Well. He suspected something was definitely amiss. You don’t live on a ship for years and years, and not notice a thing like that.

FENNIMORE: I suppose not.

BEBE: Well. Once he realized something was wrong, he decided to count the masts. I never would have thought of that. Brilliant! And when the full realization struck him, he cried out in a most stricken voice: oh my goodness! One of my masts is mizzen!

FENNIMORE: Mizzen? Now wait a minute …

BEBE: How cold you are, frog. How callous. I’m sure if YOU had a mast mizzen …

FENNIMORE: You don’t understand. There IS a mizzen mast …

BEBE: That’s what I said. That’s what HE said.

FENNIMORE: Every large sailing ship has a mizzen mast. You may have misunderstood what …

BEBE: Every ship has a mizzen mast?

FENNIMORE: Large sailing ships. Yes.

BEBE: Every one?

FENNIMORE: Every one.

BEBE: Crime wave! Crime wave!

FENNIMORE: No, it’s CALLED the mizzen mast, and it’s …

BEBE: I’m sure I would call it the mizzen mast also, considering the circumstances.

FENNIMORE: Will you listen? The mizzen mast is the one behind the main mast. He was referring to …

BEBE: Darling frog, it pains me to contradict, but the mizzen mast was before the main mast. The main mast was after … In other words, the mizzen mast was the main mast mizzen – missing. The main mast wasn’t missing and couldn’t be mizzen, therefore we must mark the missing mizzen mainly, and merely mention the remaining main … mast.

FENNIMORE: Huh?

BEBE: Let me put it the same way. The main mast missing is the mizzen, however if the main mast is ALSO missing, then we must mention the missing mizzen more meaningfully, merely because it’s the main mast. Missing.

FENNIMORE: I’m glad we cleared that up.

BEBE: You might call this a marvelously malevolent moment in maritime memorabilia.

FENNIMORE: A what?

BEBE: Don’t ask me to repeat it, frog. I was lucky to get through it the first time.

FENNIMORE: Just tell me one thing – are we looking for one mizzen – missing – mast, or two?

BEBE: Masts? Oh dear me no, lovely frog. You won’t find masts, I dare say. Not one. Gone gone gone.

FENNIMORE: Then what ARE we looking for?

BEBE: Isn’t it as obvious as the nose on a chicken? Somewhere in this town lurks the world’s largest termite!

FENNIMORE: No!

BEBE: Yes! A terribly tremendous and tenaciously tempered termite, threatening the titanic toothpicks of trade trawlers and troop transports everywhere. What do you think?

FENNIMORE: I think the role I got in this show isn’t so bad, after all.

(FIZZY, HIZZY, and WAYNE enter.)

FIZZY: Don’t push!

HIZZY: I didn’t push. HE pushed!

WAYNE: Did not! Did not!

HIZZY: Did so!

WAYNE: Did not! Did not!

BEBE: Excuse me.

(SHE crosses to Fizzy, Hizzy, and Wayne.)

I thought I told you to wait back there.

FIZZY: It’s dark back there.

HIZZY: It’s cold back there.

WAYNE: It smells back there.

FIZZY and HIZZY: We don’t wanna wait back there.

HIZZY: We’ve been back there for MINUTES!

FIZZY: I wanted to say that.

WAYNE: I thought of it first.

FIZZY and HIZZY: Did not! Did not!

WAYNE: If I can’t think of it first, I’m gonna hold my breath ‘till I turn purple!

FIZZY: You ARE purple!

WAYNE: See?!

(To FENNIMORE.)

FIZZY; We’re the three little figs. I’m Fizzy.

HIZZY: I’m Hizzy.

WAYNE: I’m Wayne.

FIZZY, HIZZY, and WAYNE: Hi!

WAYNE: A poem! In honor of the sales … frogman.

BEBE: Oh good.

FENNIMORE: A what?

BEBE: Wayne is very talented.

FENNIMORE: No no no no no no ….

BEBE: Sweet frog, do you know what happens when you hurt a fig’s feelings? They sing.

FENNIMORE: A poem. How bad can that be? Why do I keep asking questions when I already know the answers?

WAYNE: A poem. By Wayne Fig Newton. That’s my stage name. I thought of it myself. A poem. I call it “Ode To A Fig.”

FIZZY: He used to call it “Odorous To A Figorous.” He did.

HIZZY: But that was too long.

WAYNE: So I shortened it.

FENNIMORE: Good plan.

WAYNE: Ahem. “Once there was a fig,” …

FIZZY: A fig? That was me!

WAYNE: “… who tried to climb a twig.”

HIZZY: Yesterday it was a tree.

WAYNE: Who’s telling this?

FIZZY and HIZZY: Sorry.

WAYNE: “And just because the tree was tall …”

FIZZY: “He climbed up on a bee!”

HIZZY: A wall!

FIZZY: “Then fell down on a flea!”

HIZZY: A ball!

WAYNE: “Because the tree was big and scary …”

FIZZY and HIZZY: “He decided he should name it Mary!”

WAYNE: “And when he saved the last for best …”

FIZZY and HIZZY: Yes?

WAYNE: I’m pretty sure I forgot the rest.

FENNIMORE: That was it?

BEBE: Very nice.

FENNIMORE: I didn’t feel the ground shaking. Maybe the worst is over.


Post script; this was my first play written on commission, to be produced at an outdoor Arts Festival. I remember starting it one morning at about 5am, and finished it that same day just before midnight. The script remained virtually unchanged for 15 years, until I added the poem by the figs. You have been the first to see that addition.

Excerpt from the play ALYCE TIMES ONE

This play is now complete, in third draft form, entered in a contest, and waiting for the first public reading in August. This is the first play I have co-written, with Julie Morrison. I’ve chosen this section for you to read, for two reasons. First, we worked about equally here, but I don’t think you can tell where one of us stopped and the other began. The second reason I chose this segment is because I like it. Here is almost the end of the play – Alyce learns she has joined her dead husband. Sounds morbid, I know, but … read for yourself. (By the way, it’s Alyce (Al-LEASE), not Alice. Say it wrong and Julie won’t correct you … but she will give you a look that would melt marble.)

ALYCE: Maybe you’re just hopeless. What are you smiling about?

JACK: You.

ALYCE: I don’t want anybody stealing our stuff.

JACK: Why? It’s just stuff. What are ya gonna do with it?

ALYCE: EH. … you take all the fun out of it.

JACK: Tell me something.

ALYCE: What?

JACK: Did you ever tell me your dreams?

ALYCE: I’m impressed. You WERE listening.

JACK; You don’t remember.

ALYCE: I only remember the last one, at a diner in Kansas City ... I was a waitress and he was a cute customer. He asked me out then disappeared. He did leave a honking huge tip, though. I told myself, If I ever see that guy again, I will treat him right and never let go. I starting dreaming that he'd come back to get me ...

JACK: A shame I got there first.

ALYCE: That WAS you, coconut head.

JACK: Oh.

ALYCE: Don’t tarnish one of my better memories of you.

JACK; Wouldn’t think of it. I love you.

ALYCE: What?

JACK: You heard me.

ALYCE: I just haven’t heard you say it like that in such a long time. I love you, too.

(ALYCE and JACK kiss.)

Wow, you still haven’t lost it… What do we do now?

JACK: What did you have in mind?

ALYCE: I don’t know. You’ve been here longer than I have. Don’t we walk into the light or something? And stop grinning at me.

JACK: Don't tarnish some of the best memories I have of us. Walk into the light if you want to. Personally I’m going to ride. I’ve got the Maserati parked downstairs.

(JACK jangles keys in front of ALYCE.)

ALYCE: You’re kidding. They let you drive?

JACK: What? One accident and they never let you forget. If you’re nice, I’ll let you drive, maybe.

ALYCE: Oh yeah? I’m a better driver than you are.

JACK: Whoever told you that?

ALYCE: You did.

JACK: Must have been a weak moment.

ALYCE: You didn’t think so at the time.

Excerpt from the play VOLLEYS

VOLLEYS is a series of sketches depicting the relationships between men and women. Some volleys are playful (Volley for serve.) Some are more serious, as in cannon volleys in wartime. Nothing in this play is made up. It’s bits of conversations I’ve heard (or at least to which I’ve been a party.) The following monologue is almost word for word as it was given to me in a Dance Hall on a Friday evening. By the end of the evening, a variation on this practiced speech had been duplicated to everyone in the place. I included it in the play because I suspected sad people like this actually existed, but I had never personally met one before.


AMY: See that woman over there? The one in the black dress? No! Don’t turn around. See her, now? That’s Jill Forrest. She hates me. I don’t know why. Jealous, I guess. I’m younger, prettier … I only mention it because she’s talking to Mike. Look how bored he is. Mike and I are getting married, did you know that? We haven’t formalized anything, he hasn’t even asked me yet. But he will. That’s why I came over to talk to you. You’re his friend. May I ask you something personal? Does Mike talk to you about me? What does he say? You can be honest. I can take it. Here he comes. Hi darling! Did you see that? Did you see how he smiled? He does love me, he just hates to show public affection. Shy. We’re going to be so happy – just the two of us. Once we get married and I get him away from that crowd he runs around with. I know they’re telling him bad things about me. I don’t mean you, of course. Who’s he talking to, now? I don’t know that woman. Do you? I don’t think I like her – her type. Would you do me a big favor? Go over and talk to him. And somewhere in the conversation – casually – ask him why he never says he loves me. But make it seem like it’s your idea. Tell him that I’m a person, I like to hear it, too. He does love me, you know. We’re getting married. Soon. We have to – I’m thirty years old, I don’t have that many child bearing years left. My sister is five years younger than I am, she already has two little girls. There he is- tell him! Tell him he has to marry me! Tell him I’ve saved myself, I don’t want to be alone any longer …

Excerpt from the work in progress play THE TEA POT COLLECTOR

OWEN is a 70-year-old reclusive white man. NEDA is a 14-year-old street wise black girl. What brings them together is a mutual love for Owen’s tea pot collection. We join the play at the point where they are having tea together for the first time.


OWEN: Watch it. This is hot.

NEDA: What is it?

OWEN: Tea. My own blend. It’s hot.

NEDA: Where’s the tea bag?

OWEN: This is real tea. Peasant.

(SHE takes a sip of tea, burns her tongue, yelps in pain.)

Did I mention it was hot?

NEDA: I burd by toug, (I burned my tongue.)

OWEN: I did. I’m almost positive.

NEDA: What’s this black stuff in the bottom of the cup?

OWEN: Tea leaves.

NEDA: And they’re supposed to be there?

OWEN: Later I’ll read your fortune, if you’d like.

NEDA: What’s that smell?

OWEN: My own blend. A full bodied aroma, don’t you think?

NEDA: Smells like warm cat pee.

OWEN: It’s an acquired taste.

NEDA: Gotta be.

OWEN: Would the reigning debutante care for a small repast?

NEDA: You’re talkin’ about me again, right?

OWEN: I am.

NEDA: An’ you asked me if I wanted somethin’ t’ eat. Didn’t ya?

OWEN: I did. Yes

NEDA: You sure do know a bunch of big and useless words.

OWEN: Maybe you’re not ready for this.

NEDA: T’ eat?

OWEN: To make it an occasion.

NEDA: I eat every day. I do. I’m not liein’.

OWEN: Do you have your gloves?

NEDA: Mittens. I’ll run home an’ get ‘um.

OWEN: In your lap.

NEDA: What?

OWEN: Your gloves. Pretend. They’re in your lap.

NEDA: I’m eatin’ lunch with mittens on. In th’ middle of summer.

OWEN: Gloves. You are. And it’s not lunch. You’re breaking your fast.

NEDA: Uh-huh.

OWEN: Elbows off the table.

NEDA: Uh-huh.

OWEN: Frances, my dear, would you care for a small repast?

NEDA: Yes, please. See? I can do it.

OWEN: Ah, let’s see …

(OWEN reaches for an imaginary plate of finger food.)

Oh yes, we have a choice; crumpets, scones, or tea sandwiches.

NEDA: Oh, how will I ever choose? I don’t think my little mind is able to make such a big decision. You pick.

OWEN: Nice try.

NEDA: I’ll take the sandwich … please.

OWEN: As you wish.

NEDA: I don’t know what that other stuff is.

OWEN: Now the gloves.

NEDA: You really eat with gloves on.

OWEN: I don’t. You do.

NEDA: Why?

OWEN: If you’d rather not …

NEDA: Puttin’ on the gloves.

(SHE pulls the “gloves” on, all the way to her elbows.)

There.

(OWEN frowns.)

What?

OWEN: They’re tea gloves. They go to the wrists only. You put on opera gloves.

NEDA: Sorry.

(NEDA rolls the “gloves” back down to her wrists.)

Better?

OWEN: Very proper.

NEDA: Now what?

OWEN: Now you eat.

(NEDA stuffs a “sandwich” in her mouth.)

NEDA: Yum.

(NEDA notices that OWEN is staring at her.)

What? What I do?

OWEN: Not like that. Not … Look.

(OWEN takes a “sandwich” and nibbles around one edge.)

You watching?

(HE then takes a “napkin,” daintily dabs his mouth, places the napkin in his lap, and folds his hand over it. )

What do you think?

NEDA: You don’t wanna know.

OWEN: Yes I do.

NEDA: I’m gonna starve t’ death. That’s what I think.

OWEN: It was good enough for my grandmother.

NEDA: Lemme talk to her.

OWEN: She’s been dead for years.

(NEDA stares at him with a “I’ve proven my point” look in her eyes.)

Excerpt from the play THE REVENANT

FRANCESCA is facing the Inquisition. At the moment SHE is in her cell, silently mouthing what appears to be a prayer. Actually, it’s the spell to summon the demon ASMODEUS. Dressed as a monk, ASMODEUS obligingly steps out of the darkness.


ASMODEUS: You have called. I have come.

FRANCESCA: … from whatever part of the world, come presently, come affably, manifest that which I desire. I command thee by Whom all creatures …

ASMODEUS: Command? You command? Command the dung at your feet, then, and the worms that live upon it. There is your kingdom now.

FRANCESCA: I command thee, O demon Asmodeus; in the name of the ten guardians of the Sepherat: Keser, Chochma …

ASMODEUS: Persist as you will. Although for what further purpose I cannot imagine. You have requested my presence. I am here.

FRANCESCA: Angels are requested. Those of the lower regions are commanded.

ASMODEUS: Ah. The pupil now instructs the teacher. Have I been thus enjoined to play word games?

FRANCESCA: You have taught me well. To properly name a devil gives power over him. I name you the demon Asmodeus, tempter of men, destroyer of marriages, Prince of whores.

ASMODEUS: If I be that illustrious Prince, then you must be my most eager and loyal subject. Although I must confess a disappointment. Loyalty is only effective if it’s tempered with a degree of – shall we say – imagination.

FRANCESCA: Sweet Asmodeus, do not admonish me for that which I have pledged; to serve and obey.

ASMODEUS: This is why you have so rudely called me hither? Consider your task accomplished, then. You serve me better than you know.

FRANCESCA: How may that be, when I am so confined. For your love I have dared everything. Is my usefulness so easily dismissed? Was I not a witness to murder, and a receptacle for your indulgence beside that still warm body? Do I not stand mute before my judges, endure bludgeoning without crying aloud? Is there to be no surcease? Tell me the purpose I serve, and I will be comforted.

ASMODEUS: You serve MY purpose! That should be enough. As for your comfort, pleasure and pain are two faces on the same coin. In one there is always a reflection of the other. Do not despair. Revel and rejoice! Take your comfort from the sensations of the flesh, for that is all I ever promised you.

FRANCESCA: You promised the material things of this world. Wealth, power, domination over others. My name respected and feared.

ASMODEUS: I have given unstintingly all you’ve asked for, and more. Do not be so foolish as to think such gluttony as yours lasts forever.

FRANCESCA: I was to be given these things for my lifetime!

ASMODEUS: So you have them. For your lifetime.

FRANCESCA: I know you are without compassion or pity, but is there not some bargain I may yet devise for my release and those things I hold dear?

ASMODEUS: You waste my time.

FRANCESCA: Wait! For my freedom, then. All that I have for my freedom alone.

ASMODEUS: You intrigue me after all. With what would you bargain? What is still yours to give?

FRANCESCA: Why, I … I …

ASMODEUS: I thought as much.

FRANCESCA: Myself! I can still give myself!

ASMODEUS: A husk fit only for swine? When you were twelve you were of value to me. Why should I bargain for used goods when new are mine for the taking?

FRANCESCA: My soul, then. My everlasting soul.

ASMODEUS: That is not yours to give! The soul is a feather, buffeted by the wind, an inconsequential speck caught up in the conflict between the Gods of the Upper and Lower regions … usually to land on the shore of least resistance. Do not speak to me of your soul. Give me something I may hold in the palm of my hand.

FRANCESCA: It was desire for all I could not have which led me willingly – nay, eagerly – into iniquity’s hot embrace. I tell you, devil, you cannot understand the hunger in here, that no table scrap, however generously given, may satisfy.

ASMODEUS: All these years of instruction and still you have a dullard’s lack of perception. I not only understand that delicious hunger, I engender it.

FRANCESCA: Then know you that the path I trod is not a lonely one. The pitfall which lured me beyond its rim may be used over and again, if it is effectively baited.

ASMODEUS: The creatures I hunt are small. There is no need to slaughter a calf to tempt a mouse. No, your arguments are logical, as well they should be. I taught you the technique. But they fail to convince. I nurture desire for something. I care nothing for the thing itself.

FRANCESCA: There must be something! Some THING! Else, why are you here? Am I truly adept enough to cause your appearance by my will alone? If so, I am in a better position to bargain than I thought. Or … have you come merely to gloat over my wretchedness? No. I have neither risen so high nor fallen so low as to be worthy of more than passing derision. So there must be something, if I have wit enough to grasp it. Something obvious, perhaps so natural to my sight that is invisible. A task incomplete, or one yet to be performed. Yes! Speak, devil! Whatever it is, I shall do it. But there will be a price.

ASMODEUS: Feckless woman, why do you so entreat me? I have long ago given you the keys to your cell – cunning and guile. Do not be too clever for both our purposes.

FRANCESCA: I perceive you are of a single mind in this regard, and I shall comply with your demands. But I still wonder which has the greater worth, the deed or the perpetrator.

ASMODEUS: I had thought you a valuable tool, molded of hardened metal and tempered in fire. But if that tool bends easily or breaks with use, then it is of inferior material and quickly discarded.

FRANCESCA: If a tool receives proper care and handling, it may be useful for many years, and considered a prize possession. But if it is ill used, to be thrown away too soon, it is not the fault of the tool, but of the craftsman. Do you hear me, devil?! Have a care you do not discard your tools in haste!

Excerpt from the play CORIE

BEN abandoned CORIE twenty years ago. Now he has returned, telling her that he never stopped loving her. At the point where we pick up the dialogue, we are well into the second Act, and BEN has just informed CORIE that he is dieing of leukemia.


CORIE: Window’s still hot. Been dark for hours, but th’ window’s still warm t’ th’ touch. An awning would be nice, don’t ya think? Some cool shade from th’ heat o’ th’ sun. Wouldn’t that be nice?

BEN: Would you sit down for a minute?

CORIE: Had an awning once. Cheap flimsy thing, all canvas an’ wood. Norm tol’ me th’ first big wind an’ it’d be gone. It was.

BEN: I’m worried about you.

CORIE: I know what I want – saw a pitcher o’ it in th’ Sears catalogue. Aluminum an’ steel. Pretty, too. White with a green edge. I could order it – be here in a couple weeks. Wouldn’t take long for us t’ put it up. An’ then we could … we could … somethin’ …

BEN: Please don’t do this.

CORIE: What? I’m not doin’ nothin’.

BEN: You’ve had enough pain in your life. I don’t want to cause you any more.

CORIE: Ya don’t cause me pain. You’re m’ pleasure an’ m’ joy. Don’t ya know that?

BEN: I have leukemia.

CORIE: An’ you’re getting’ better. That’s what them pills are for. Ya haven’t coughed hardly, all day.

BEN: Some days are better than others, that’s all.

CORIE: Don’t wanna talk ‘bout it no more.

BEN: We have to.

CORIE: Monday – no, wait – Tuesday, we’ll drive up t’ th’ clinic in Elkhorn.

BEN: That won’t help.

CORIE: Lincoln, then. They got hospitals there, good as anywhere.

BEN: You’re not listening. I’m not going to get any better.

CORIE: Stop sayin’ that.

BEN: It’s true.

CORIE: Ya don’t know that – not for certain. Not for positive certain.

(BEN starts to object.)

No. Lemme finish. I know what you’re thinkin’ – I don’t know what I’m talkin’ ‘bout, jus’ clutchin’ at straws. Well, maybe I am, but so what? I’ll clutch at ‘em all day, if I’ve a mind t’. Beats layin’ down an’ diein’, don’t it? I buried m’ maw an’ paw, m’ son, an’ m’ best frien’. An I’ll tell ya somethin’, I purely didn’t like it much. Held Edie’s han’ for twenty-six hours straight, ‘till it wasn’t Edie no more, jus’ a dead thing liein’ there. But I never gave up – hopin’, prayin’ – never did. So if ya think I’m gonna give up easy on you, you’re wrong! I won’t! An’ if I won’t, why are you?

BEN: You think that’s what I’ve done?

CORIE: Ya made me a promise once.

BEN: What was that?

CORIE: Don’t ya remember? When we was first together, an’ everythin’ was such a wonder – we stayed up ‘till three, four in th’ mornin’, every night?

BEN: We made a lot of promises.

CORIE: One. One special one. Ya promised when we got old, you’d try t’ live long enough so I could die before ya? Ya remember? I didn’t wanna be old an’ alone without ya. Scared me. Shouldn’t I only pretend that happened?

BEN: Don’t be cynical.

CORIE: I’m not – don’t have ‘nough experience for it – ‘cept what I learned from you.

Excerpt from the play ROUGH DRAFT

THE WRITER is completing the rough draft of a story. At this point the character of RUPERT has returned to his lover CYNTHIA after being away at war.

RUPERT: Cynthia. My love. You’ve changed.

CYNTHIA: Changed, my dearest? I haven’t changed – I have stayed just as you remembered me. It’s you who have changed.

RUPERT: I suppose I have. The war …

CYNTHIA: I know.

RUPERT: What do you know?! Wait – I’m sorry … I was wounded, did I tell you that? How have I changed?

CYNTHIA: In little ways.

RUPERT: It was in the Google …

CYNTHIA: What?

RUPERT: Where I was wounded.

CYNTHIA: Oh? And where is that … exactly … where …?

RUPERT: About a hundred miles north of Paris.

CYNTHIA: Oh. And … I mean … where does it hurt?

(THE WRITER types.)

RUPERT: In my head.

(THE WRITER types.)

In my arm.

(THE WRITER types.)

In a place I can’t show you at the moment.

CYNTHIA: Oh dear.

RUPERT: Oh dear?

CYNTHIA: I’m sorry you were wounded.

RUPERT: I was wounded?

CYNTHIA: That’s what you just said.

RUPERT: I did?

CYNTHIA: You don’t remember?

RUPERT: Remember what?

CYNTHIA: Being wounded.

RUPERT: I was wounded?

CYNTHIA: In the Google.

RUPERT: A hundred miles north of Paris.

CYNTHIA: Yes!

RUPERT: I don’t remember.

CYNTHIA: Nothing? Anything?

RUPERT: It comes and goes. Did I tell you I was wounded?

CYNTHIA: Yes. Beside that, what do you remember?

RUPERT: Clean slate. Nothing.

CYNTHIA: Oh.

RUPERT: Why is that?

CYNTHIA: How should I know?

RUPERT: It bothers you, doesn’t it? We know each other, and it bothers you I don’t remember.

CYNTHIA: The important thing is that you get better.

RUPERT: We’ve known each other a long time? We’ve known each other a short time? We do know each other.

(CYNTHIA stares it Rupert,)

Oh-h-h …

CYNTHIA: What?

RUPERT: We … know, that is, KNOW … and uh, that is, YOU … and you know that … I don’t … I mean I DO, I really do, but I don’t … know … that I do … know. Is this making any sense to you at all?

CYNTHIA: I’m trying.

RUPERT: So I was thinking … that is, you know, I was thinking …

CYNTHIA: What?

RUPERT: I was thinking, I mean – it occurred to me that, if maybe, maybe we were to uh, that is, if we … knew each other … a little … maybe my memory would come back. Maybe. You know – I think that doing things that are familiar to me … might … it was just a thought.

CYNTHIA: Do you really think that would help?

RUPERT: Cross my heart!

CYNTHIA: I don’t know what to say.

RUPERT: I understand.

CYNTHIA: If you really think that would help …

RUPERT: I do! I do!

THE WRITER: Rupert hesitated, wondering if now was the time …

RUPERT: No no no. Hesitation – bad thing. Bad. Mind your own business!

THE WRITER: … wondering if now was the time to tell her …

RUPERT: Tomorrow! I’ll tell her tomorrow! Promise!

THE WRITER: ... the time to tell her his terrible secret ...

RUPERT: Later tonight. I’ll tell her tonight. Later.

THE WRITER: … this terrible secret he had been keeping …

RUPERT: Fifteen minutes! Please!

THE WRITER: … a secret he could no longer keep alone. A secret he must share with …

RUPERT: Alright! Alright! So what’s this big deal secret? And make it quick.

THE WRITER: Approaching Cynthia, he takes her tenderly in his arms …

RUPERT: That part’s good.

THE WRITER: Looking deep into her eyes, he says …

RUPERT: Darling, there’s something I have to tell you.

CYNTHIA: What is that, my dearest?

RUPERT: I have no idea. What?

THE WRITER: I have an incurable disease.

RUPERT: I’ve got a very bad cold. (HE coughs once.)

THE WRITER: I have a wife and three children in another town.

RUPERT: I have relatives in Outer Mongolia.

CYNTHIA: You do?

RUPERT: So it seems.

CYNTHIA: We’ll have to go visit them sometime.

RUPERT: Yeah sure.

THE WRITER: I’m actually gay.

RUPERT: I’m actually ga … ga …very happy to be here.

An excerpt from the play MORGAN

I’m in a mood tonight. Melancholy. It’s late. Dark. Quiet. In the past, this has not always been a good thing for me. Normally on nights like this I’d enjoy nothing better than to go out and howl at the moon. I truly want to do that.

However. It’s raining outside. From past experience, I know it’s difficult for me to get a good howl going when the moon is behind the clouds and my feet are wet.

Because of this I feel more inclined to share something with you tonight. It’s funny in a way. I’ve made all these claims about being a playwright, and I don’t think I’ve ever shared anything I’ve written.

And so, BECAUSE it’s late, and BECAUSE I’m in a mood, I’m going to give you what I consider to be the best monologue from the best play I’ve written. You’ve never seen it before. I’ve never offered it for production. But I give it to you tonight because you will understand what I’m saying.

A young Morgan le Fay has joined a coven of witches in order to advance her knowledge of magical spells. Her teacher, however, is concerned that Morgan’s focus is along the lines of black magic only, ignoring the more common earth magic and potions.









WITCH: A mage of worth is filled with wonder for all things. Knowledge is gleaned from the richness and variety of experiences. She can ill afford the luxury of a SINGLE abiding passion. If one favors the darkness, she will be blinded by the light.

MORGAN: And if the light gives naught but pain, would she not be wise to avoid it?

WITCH: And in so doing, avoid all the light may disclose? Smell the air. Do it.

(MORGAN sniffs the air,)

What say you? What do you perceive?

MORGAN: Nothing. Air.

WITCH: You do not allow yourself the most simple – the most basic – of pleasures. There’s no weakness, no surrender, in the enjoyment of that which is freely given. Given! Not bartered. Not sold or purchased. The light, the air …

MORGAN: Nothing is freely given! Not even air. It is taken!

WITCH: Can you not smell the scent of hay fresh mown? The faint tickle of dry leaves burning? You take them, true enough. But what price is attached? The trees below, shimmering in the moonlight … The stars above. Look to the stars, tell what you see, what you feel … what THEY cost you.

MORGAN: I once thought they be not stars but mirrors of my soul – those myriad twinklings set apart, aloof. How alike we are, I thought, to watch as bourgeous kingdoms rise, gasp for life and fall. To remain pure, chaste, unreached and unreachable, thereby avoiding the countenance of that soiled creature – God, in His perfect wisdom – permitted to begrime the earth. To live forever! To never age, or … or if to die, to die apurpose, a bright burning gash across the heavens. I thought them supreme! Omnipotent! One with the creator! But with the coming of the simple morn they depart, those stars. Frightened – no, offended – by the belligerence of the sun. I remain. I. Take me with you! Leave me not to face the iniquities of this little life … which draw me away … which make me less like you.

(MORGAN laughs.)

They do not hear me. Or, if hearing, disdainfully ignore my supplication. And in my heart, that secret place where truth be not denied, I am pleased – grateful! For if in compassion they respond, then they be more like me than I would be like them. And so … for a space I forgot them, moved as I was toward consuming sorrow, the pain within all too jealous for attention. And now I think again we are alike, those stars and I. Distant. Untouched. Unknowing. Affecting not the nature of any living thing, save as a curiosity. Existing for the mere sake of … existing.

WITCH: A pity there be no magic to fill an empty heart.

In case there was any doubt at all

O, what a rogue and peasant slave am I!
Is it not monstrous that this player here,
But in a fiction, in a dream of passion,
Could force his soul so to his own conceit
That from her working all his visage wann’d,
Tears in his eyes, distraction in’s aspect,
A broken voice, and his whole function suiting
With forms to his conceit? and all for nothing!