Thursday, May 15, 2008

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. . .

Thursday, May 8, 2008

Exploding Torpedoes and Dust Everywhere

[Dust hangs in the air. We've noticed it over the last several days. For some reason, the theater is not as clean as it was when we entered this place over eight weeks ago.]

[It has been silent for the last few days. Our meals arrive as normal and the trays are taken away by the shadowy hands of servants we can barely make out in the dark.]

[But, still, we can't help but wonder why there is dust swirling about whenever the spotlight comes on.]

[We listen as the footsteps echo through the building and we know he approaches.]


So, you think you are all smart?

[Clicks teeth. Taps hand on chin.]

I think some of you have gotten lucky. Not today. Someone . . . someone will pay today.


[The spotlight comes on and we watch as it centers on an older man, his skin sagging and body thin beneath the dark clothes he wears.]

[Without speaking, the man's head rises and he looks at the descending silver screen.]

[Corn snaps his finger and the dream projects from the man's eyes and we watch as . . .]


The boat speeds ahead on the open water. He steers it and his face is frantic.

The scene shifts and he is now flying in an old war plane, his eyes looking from the cockpit down toward the water. He sees the boat and the plane's nose dips. As the plane descends he presses a button on the control panel. A hatch opens and the bombs drop from the plane.

The scene shifts again and he is back in the boat looking over his shoulder. He sees the bombs and they are more like torpedoes now. They hit the water and skirt toward him. He gives the boat all she has but the torpedoes gain ground.

In desperation, he jumps from the boat and swims toward the oncoming torpedoes. He grows as they shrink. He tries to scoop them up in his arms but one gets away.

The explosion that ensues wipes away the dream . . .


[There is a scream, but it is not the man's. He is not in his seat and the person beside him is bleeding. The person on the other side is dead, her face missing, as is part of her torso.]

[The woman who is screaming is missing one arm and her skin is charred.]


Some dreams are quite literal. Too much for this gentleman to bear.

[Looks back to the screen, watches the remnants of the explosion fade.]

He could have overcome if he would have done something about that temper. Words can be so damning in anger.

[Snaps fingers and light dims.]

Quenchers. Clean up time.


[We hear their hisses and odd words as they move from the holes in the walls and floors and make their way to the dead woman. The other woman's crying ceases in a gurgle and, though we can't see what is happening, we know that the Quelchers didn't just take the dead body.]

[But, there is something else. A clue. We're not entirely sure Corn meant to give it to us but he did.]

[Some dreams are quite literal.]

[We ponder the thought as Corn leaves the stage for another week.]

[Our attention is diverted as the Quelchers finish eating and slink back to their holes.]

[Something else catches our attention. The man in the back row who stayed when he could have left, stands and makes his way down the center aisle. He hops up onto the stage and though we can't hear his foot falls we know he is walking toward the cage the woman hangs in.]

[His words are soft and we can only assume he is talking to the children.]

She will be free soon.

[Then he is whispering and we hear no more.]