En Day Cowd Are Goon

[Darkness fills the room.]

[The man in the corner tosses and turns, his eyes closed, his body sweat-soaked, sheets on the floor. The yellowed skin is chalky, like damp dust in an old abandoned building.]

[He dreams.]

***

The floors are lit with runway lights. The stage is worn, dilapidated and on the verge of collapsing. Above it sits several cages, the doors open and its occupants long gone. Broken spotlights line the ceiling; the curtains are in tatters, shredded from top to bottom.

Beyond the stage, the aisles are lit with the same runway lights; the stadium seats are empty. Many of them are broken, leaning to one side or other or not there at all. Bones sit in other seats, the muscles of their bodies gone, leaving them as pick up sticks for someone else to clean up.

A lone piano sits near the stage. A tune plays and the man keying it looks rugged and old, his hair gone, his skin sagging, his eyes . . . his eyes missing.

He begins to sing, his voice soft and anguished but he can't hear his own words.

His head jerks up and he looks into the dark of the theater. The hissing comes from all around him. Words intermingle and he strains to hear them.

En day cowd are goon.
En day cowd are goon.

"No," he says and stands, but the piano continues to play. The hissing intensifies and he stares toward the seats. Shadows dance and voices speak.

En day cowd are goon.
En day cowd are goon.

Small red eyes appear in the dark. They move toward him and he backs away and onto the stage. He stumbles backward and sees the bones rising from their seats, their whispers blending with the other voices.

En day cowd are goon.
En day cowd are goon.

Hands reach for him and he screams . . .

***

[He sits up. Hands on head. Blood trickles from his nose. One eye is vacant, the other one intense.]

It's not over.

[He is angry and he stands from the bed.]

It's not over. Oh no. It's just beginning. . .