Saturday, October 23, 2010

Rodak's Writings: Keep Those Home Fires Burning

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xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxKeep Those Home Fires Burning
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxa dramatic thingy, in one whatchamacallit


Dramatis personae:

She, the frail, inappropriately garbed victim

He, the unseen voice offstage

[As our thingy opens SHE is seen lying on a thin throw rug on the floor. She is dressed in a bizarre white jacket, which looks as though it might have been constructed of the severed tails of thousands of immature white bunnies, stitched together with eight-pound nylon fishing line. She is propped up on one arm (her right), wearing severely pointed dark shoes which will cause her misery later in life, staring fearfully in the direction of two six-foot tall candles, each of which projects from one of the eye sockets of a human skull, also “resting” on the floor. While the comely woman has only a thin piece of rug to cushion the tender flesh of her vulnerable young hips from what we understand to be the stony unyielding chill of the floor in this dark, dungeon-like chamber, the skull rests comfortably on a soft cushion, which may account for its mocking grin. The dark wall behind the young woman is evidently coated with a black, glossy paint, for it reflects a large circle of light having nothing to do with the tiny flames atop the huge candles and can only be the artificial light of the spot set to enable a visual record to be made of this scene, using primitive photographic equipment.]

She: (fearfully)
Honey? Honey, are you there?

He: (angrily, from the black shadows of the wings, stage left)
What is it now, goddamn it?

She:
I…I think it’s going out!

He:
What’s going out? What the fuck is going out?

She:
The candle! It’s about to go out!

He:
Yeah? Well, there was two goddamn candles the last time I counted, and both of ‘em was lit just fine. Je-sus Christ! Can’t you fuckin’ do anything right?

She:
I…I’m sorry, honey. I guess I got distracted. So, what should I do?

He:
Okay, let’s review: there’s two fuckin’ candles. And you say “it’s” goin’ out. So maybe, if I’m real nice ‘n shit, you will be kind enough to tell me which “it’s” it is that’s fuckin’ going out? Think you can handle that, precious?

She:
Gosh, you don’t need to be so mean about it. It’s only a candle…

He:
Are you gonna tell me which candle it is? Or am I gonna have to come in there and look for myself—and maybe kick your ass while I’m doin’ it.

She:
It’s the one on the right.

He:
Well that’s real good! We’re finally getting somewhere. But—pay attention now—because I’m gonna need to ask you another question—and this one might be just a little bit harder... You say “it’s the one on the right.” That’s good. Now, think hard, sweetheart—is it on your fuckin’ right. Or is it on my fuckin’ right?

She:
Well, gee… I don’t know. I mean, which way are you pointed right now?

He:
Oh, my God! What did I do? Why do I deserve this shit? Yo, genius…I’m not fuckin’ pointed. I’m fuckin’ seated. On the fuckin’ pot. Takin’ a fuckin’ dump. Okay?

She:
Oh. Then it’s the one on your left. ...Honey?

He:
What now, goddamn it? Can’t a man take a shit in peace?

She:
Honey, it’s cold in here! I’m cold!

He:
What you’re cold? Didn’t I light both goddamn candles for you? So how the fuck are you cold? Whaddya want? Another freakin’ skull and two more goddamn candles? What am I? Fuckin’ John Gotrocks, maybe? I work hard to provide your lazy ass with two fuckin’ six-foot tall premium fuckin’ candles and all I get is your freakin’ whining and complaining. You’re fuckin’ cold? Put on your fuckin’ coat— which also cost me a freakin’ bundle by the way!

She:
I already have my coat on!

He:
Oh. You do. Well then—shut the fuck up!

She:
Honey?

He:
Lord-have-mercy! This better be good!

She:
Why can’t we get a couch?

He:
A couch she says! A fuckin’ couch she wants! The princess wants a fuckin’ couch to rest her pretty little gettin’-fat-already fuckin’ ass on while I’m workin’ my fuckin’ skinny ass off to make a living so I can provide her useless self with not one but two fuckin’ six-foot tall premium candles! A couch! Let me ask you somethin’, princess…

She:
What?

He:
Does my mother have a fuckin’ couch?

She:
Well, no. But—

He:
“Well, no” That’s exactly fuckin’ right. She does not. She does not have a fuckin’ couch. But you think that you should have a fuckin’ couch, while my fuckin’ mother, on whose fuckin’ ass you wouldn’t make a bloody patch, sits on the fuckin’ floor knitting fuckin’ booties for my fuckin’ son, which you better produce pretty fuckin’ soon or I’ll find some other bitch that will. Do you fuckin’ hear me? Do you?

She:
Well gosh, it’s just fuck me then, I guess. (she bursts into tears)

[from stage left we hear the sound of a toilet being flushed]

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxFade to black

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4 comments:

Mad said...

Um...okay? I guess I was expecting something a little more in the Bertolt Brecht mold, considering that photo which is best described as the poster still for "Fritz Lang's HAMLET" ...

Rodak said...

Hiya, Mad--
This post is actually the product of a writing challenge exercise in a writers' group that I joined recently. The challenge was to write a story to go with that picture. Most everybody wrote a little story, but I thought I'd go with dramatic script. It was fun.

Mad said...

Sounds like fun! And I like the premise of the group. Well, you see what my contribution would have been...a screenplay (lol). I actually DID think of Fritz Lang and Hamlet upon seeing that rather grotesque vintage image.

Good to see you enjoying the creative life. I've taken a photography class. I'll email you a couple of my attempts at "artistry."

Rodak said...

Cool. Do that. I love photography.