Thursday, March 13, 2008

The Watching of the Yellow Bloodshot Eyes

Your dreams are but pieces of you. Small pieces, that when combined, can tell you so much about yourself. Your nightmares . . . they are who you really are.

[Sitting, center stage, light blue spotlight on him. Hands to his face as if to pray. He moves them away to talk, replaces them when silent.]

Act One, Scene One didn't fair too well, did she?

[Waves hand, light appears near the wall. Holes line it—big, small, tiny, huge.]


[We are forced to play the role of spectators from our lofty position in the rafters. As Corn unfolds his hands, we see the holes, but more so, we see the misshapened body of a woman. Her skin is dark, long fine hairs covering each inch. Giant eyes peer from the shadowed body. In her hands are the two green eyes of the rocking horse.]

[We know her as the first Dreamer. Her nightmares a reality, her world full of doubts and fears. Paranoia rocks her back and forth in the hole, in her prison.]

[The light dies and we are forced to focus our attention back to Corn, the yellow clad monstrosity sitting at center stage. His top hat lies beside him.]

Who's next?

[We are again helpless as the world goes black and the yellow spotlight flashes along the crowd.]



[Points to the man in the audience. Smile stretches across face; a weasel's smile.]


[The man shakes head, his gaunt face filled with fear.]

What are you afraid of?

[Corn stares, his blood shot eyes dancing in their sockets, hypnotizing.]

It is your dream. Why are you scared?

[The man doesn't speak, though his mouth moves. We see the webbing, like that of spider silk, in his mouth. A groan escapes him and it almost sounds like, HELP. The mouth snaps shut and a trickle of crimson spills from one side of his lips.]

What's that?

[Corn puts a hand to his ear in mock response.]

It's not a dream. You're right, but it is still yours. It is your nightmare. It is inside you. What do you have to lose? Except your mind?

[We see the fear in his eyes and we know his fate has been sealed. The mad man on the stage snaps his fingers and the movie begins to play on the screen behind him. We look to the back of the theater but see no screen room. We follow the light from the screen to the source of film tick tacking before us.]

[The man's eyes are bright. Two lights shine from them and we see the beams blend into one as they reach the screen. The dreams . . . the nightmares are being pulled directly from the source.]

[We grab our collective stomachs and force back the vomit we feell in our throats. The man's eyelids ripple and singe as the movie plays for us, for them, for Corn.]


Face your fears! Face your failures and disappointments. It's the only way out.


He sits at a table, barely aware he is even there. He is outside, drinking coffee at a café. Across the outdoor patio sits two women, hair blue with age, faces wrinkled, ancient cats eye spectacles are over both of their eyes. They drink tea from fine china.

They chatter on like hens in a roost, or at least that is how he sees them: two old hens picking and pecking away with gossip on their beaks.

The café looms large over them, like a skyscraper. But, that is all wrong and he frowns.

He turns and stands in one motion. Behind him a giant wrecking ball on a long chain dangles in the air. Nothing holds it. It sways back and forth, picking up momentum. The man turns back to the old women. They are oblivious to the destruction, the doom heading their way.

He opens his mouth to scream, nothing comes out.

The wrecking ball swings toward the building and he ducks. He looks up to see it crash into the structure, bringing parts of the café down around the women.

He tries to yell again.

One of the women look up, her face an angry snarl.

Her eye is yellowed and bloodshot and he sees nothing else . . .


[The screen freezes with us staring at the yellowed bloodshot eye of the ancient woman. Smells of piss fill the room. We look and see the man still in his seat, his eyes white, bloodshot orbs in their singed sockets.]

Face it!

[Corn is lying on the stage, leaning over the edge, hands holding him, keeping him from falling. They are not his hands, but the stage's. Hundreds of them grip his body, covering him, holding him.]


[A smile traces across the man's face and we watch as his eyes blink, become normal.]

What do you see?


[Blinking away the light in his eyes. He feels a relief wash over him. Darkness fades and he sees the odd yellow man held by hands on the stage.]

What do you see?

[He shakes his head. Confused.]

What did you see in your dream? They won't wait long.

[To the side, they are coming out of the holes in the walls, their features hideous, even in the dark of the theater.]

Come now, what did you see?

[He shakes his head, blinks.]


Eyes. Their eyes. Yellow and bloodshot. They wore glasses from out of the seventies. Their eyes . . . their eyes . . .

[We watch, our hopes surging]

What about their eyes?

They're watching me. They're staring at me, waiting . . .

For what!?

[The creatures advance closer, whispers pouring from their lips. We can not understand them but we know the young man is running out of time.]

I . . . I don't know . . .

[Corn screams, green spittle flinging from his face. The hands grip him tighter, digging into his yellow tuxedo.]

Get him out of here!

[Terror. It fills the man's eyes and our hearts. The creatures—the Quelchers—pull him from the seat, his shackles and chains rattle. His mouth stitches shut, his eyes follow suit and then he is gone. Pulled into a hole, one hand holding on for his life. It slips and we hear his muffled screams.]



[He stands. Brushes the dust from his clothing, straightens his coat. Breathing hard, he snaps his fingers. Hands melt into the stage, flesh and bone blending into the surface.]

The eyes. They stare!. They watch! Like an enemy.

[Scratches balding pate, long fingernails raking across the skin, drawing tiny beads of blood.]

So simple. . . so easy. . .


[Hands raise, he glares out at the audience.]

Be careful of enemy eyes watching you. They wait for you to fall; to make a mistake so they can exploit you. Damage you. Discredit you.

It's so simple to see . . .


[We watch, high up in the rafters, our minds working, thinking. Could it be that simple?]

[Corn stomps from the stage, the liquid hands splashing under foot. He turns, one good eye toward the people.]

Who's Next?


A thanks goes out to Erik Smetana for the concept for this installment.

1 comment:

Erik Smetana said...

This was creeptastic!