31 Plays in 31 Days: #12 - "Protege"

I'm a little behind, but this was a piece I wasn't expecting to write and I'm glad I did. It could be very useful in the future, as it is an early scene in the sequel to Mrs. Hawking. I would like to open that piece with a scene that shows Mary's progress getting into Mrs. Hawking's work, with her mentor running her through a deduction and espionage exercise that leads to the solving of a case. Something fun, clever, and establishing to their growing dynamic. This scene would come immediately after. What I want here to is to set up an issue to explore for the rest of the play. Mary and Mrs. Hawking's relationship has to grow further, and I want it to happen with Mrs. H realizing that Mary could be her protege to continue her work on. What they may not see yet is that Mary may not fit exactly into the mold that her mentor wants to put her in, and that is something they'll have to work out.

Day #12 - "Protege"

MRS. HAWKING, avenger of downtrodden women
MARY, her housemaid and assistant
~~~

(MRS. HAWKING is in the parlor in his stealth suit, removing it piece by piece. MARY rushes back in through the front with her wrap and hat over her dress, exhilarated.)

MARY: Oh, that was extraordinary!

MRS. HAWKING: A task adequately managed, indeed.

MARY: I did it, I worked it all out, you saw it yourself!

MRS. HAWKING: Eventually. With some guidance.

MARY: Still, I did manage!

MRS. HAWKING: You did at that.

MARY: And yes, with your guidance. Everything you’ve wanted to teach me, I’ve worked very hard to learn.

MRS. HAWKING: Yes. Yes, you have.

MARY: You have seen it, madam, haven’t you?

MRS. HAWKING: You’ve been a diligent student. In fact… you’ve been an excellent one. Better than I dared hope.

(MARY beams at her. Then she begins taking off her wrap, her hat, and her gloves. MRS. HAWKING becomes contemplative, and after a moment MARY notices.)

MARY: Are you all right?

MRS. HAWKING: It’s only… it makes me think. I’ve been at this work for half my life now, and before you, I’d always done it alone. I thought that when it came time that I could not keep on with it any longer… that would be the end of it. All my efforts would die with me. But since you’ve come along, you’ve learned. You’ve risen to every challenge that’s come your way. I would never have guessed what help you would be to me.

MARY: Oh, madam. Do you mean that?

MRS. HAWKING: I do.

MARY: I’m sure I’m not the assistant you would have imagined.

MRS. HAWKING: Perhaps not. And yet I see now that I have in you a protégé, on your way to becoming a true partner. And one day, you’ll carry it all on in my stead.

MARY: Mrs. Hawking… I don’t know what to say.

MRS. HAWKING: Is that a path that you could see for yourself?

MARY: After everything you’ve shown me… it’s the only path I can see. Thank you.

MRS. HAWKING: No need. I can rest easy in the future of my life’s work.

(She turns away, pleased, and begins to gather up her things. MARY watches her, charmed.)

MARY: Why, Mrs. Hawking?

MRS. HAWKING: Yes?

MARY: I do believe you’re smiling.

(MRS. HAWKING frowns hard.)

MRS. HAWKING: I beg your pardon?

MARY: You never smile.

MRS. HAWKING: Certainly not. I don’t know what you’re on about, Miss Stone.

(She gathers her things in an armful and strides from the room. MARY watches her, and glows.)

31 Plays in 31 Days - Day #9 "A Fair Trade"

This is based on The Stand, and a scene from a possible play I could write about PC Carson Hill, about the first time he ever met PC Emma Holloway, the young black woman he employs in his saloon. This scene is somewhat spoilery for the game, but to minimize that, I will say that Carson feels a huge sense of guilt that fires up upon meeting her, and drives his behavior in the scene.

Day #9 - "A Fair Trade"

CARSON HILL, formerly a lawyer, now opening a cowboy saloon out west
EMMA HOLLOWAY, a runaway slave
~~~

(CARSON is closing up his bar at the end of the night. As he cleans up, he hears a knocking. He pauses a moment and listens. The knocking comes again.)

CARSON: Sorry, we’re closed.

EMMA: (Off-stage) Just need a moment! Please!

(CARSON exits briefly, as if going to a door, and backs up onto the stage as EMMA enters, dressed in tatters. He stares at her.)

EMMA: Beg pardon for pushing in. Just that I’m mortal hungry. I thought a body could have a bite here.

(CARSON stares.)

EMMA: I ain’t got three heads.

CARSON: Oh! Forgive me, I… I, uh… there isn’t much I’ve only just opened up… but, uh…

(He searches behind the bar and digs up some biscuits.)

CARSON: The sheriff’s wife brought these. You’re welcome to them.

(EMMA takes them after a moment and begins to eat. CARSON watches her with trepidation.)

EMMA: I’ve got money.

CARSON: Oh— no, no.

EMMA: I pay my way!

CARSON: It isn’t that.

EMMA: Ain’t you never seen a negro before? We eat the same as anybody.

CARSON: No— it’s just been a while. I mean… I never met one in Reston before.

EMMA: I’m new out west.

CARSON: How did you come here?

EMMA: On the boat that come through the canal.

CARSON: Is that so? That’s… that’s a long way. What brings you here?

EMMA: Same reason as all folks, I reckon. Making a new start.

(Pause.)

EMMA: You’re awful curious.

CARSON: I’m sorry, I don’t mean to interrogate.

EMMA: I be moving on soon.

CARSON: Moving on? Do you have any place to stay?

EMMA: Never you mind.

CARSON: No… it’s only… it’s a rough place out there. To have nowhere to go.

EMMA: I make my way.

CARSON: I’m sure.

(He paces off, then rushes back over to her.)

CARSON: You want a job?

EMMA: Beg pardon?

CARSON: If you don’t have anywhere else to go, you might work here.

EMMA: Don’t need your charity, I’m sure.

CARSON: I could use the help. I’m new out west too, and new to keeping a
place like this. Can you cook?

EMMA: Yep.

CARSON: Well, I can’t. Can you serve up a plate?

EMMA: Course I can.

CARSON: The bar could use a maid. You seem like you can meet a hard day’s work.

EMMA: Harder than you ever.

CARSON: I don’t doubt that. I’ll pay you a fair wage, and you can stay here if you like.

EMMA: Why you so hot to have me?

CARSON: I think we both could use a fair trade. Just… trying to do something right.

(EMMA considers.)

EMMA: I could take a fair wage.

CARSON: Thanks very much, miss… I don’t even know your name.

EMMA: Emma.

CARSON: Good to have you, Emma. The name’s Hill. Carson Hill.

(After a moment, he extends his hand to shake, uncertainly. She regards it, then warily reaches out and takes it.)

31 Plays in 31 Days: #8 "Rich Men's Sins"

As you may remember from The Tailor of Riddling Way, the golden boy of the Loring family Rowan Loring enlisted in World War I despite all expectations. I have been wondering if maybe there is a play in the story of what happened to him there. I haven't given much thought before to the details, although it is well known that he died a hero. This is a little piece of what it might have been like when he was serving. I'm not sure what the larger arc would be-- it may be that he would have to be a supporting character in someone else's story --but here's a little musing.

Day #8 - "Rich Men's Sins"

ROWAN LORING, an enlisted officer in WWI
HENRY MORSE, his aide
~~~

HENRY: You’ll be along with us?

ROWAN: Of course. Can’t just throw you all to the wolves, can I?

(HENRY sighs.)

ROWAN: Do you have something to say, soldier?

HENRY: Nothing you care to hear, sir.

ROWAN: Still. You seem damn determined that I hear it any way. So out with it and enough of this.

(Pause.)

HENRY: You ought not to be here, sir.

ROWAN: Is that so?

HENRY: Since you asked, sir.

ROWAN: Have I been such an incompetent commander as that?

HENRY: It’s not that, so much. Might not be if you could sit in an armchair at headquarters and write letters to the front.

ROWAN: I’m afraid that’s rather above my grade. I’m stuck here on the front with the rest of the fellows.

HENRY: But you’re not one of the fellows, are you?

(Pause.)

HENRY: You’re a rich man accustomed to a soft life. It’s a rougher turn for you than it is for the rest of us.

(Pause.)

HENRY: I’m out of turn.

ROWAN: Perhaps. But you’re not wrong. I’m sorry it’s so, but I don’t disagree.

HENRY: Then… why are you here?

ROWAN: We all have to do our part, don’t we? What would you think of a rich man who used his place so that regular fellows could die in his stead?

HENRY: I suppose.

ROWAN: But you’d prefer I not drag you all down, eh?

HENRY: I don’t mean it like that. It’s only… we’re all in the line, here. There’s danger enough without having the skills to take it on.

ROWAN: I couldn’t just stay out of it all.

HENRY: It goes both ways, I’m sure. There had to be something a rich man can do that the rest of us couldn’t.

ROWAN: That’s the trouble. There are some sins that only rich men can do.

HENRY: Sins, sir?

ROWAN: And how are we to pay for them, Henry? With money? When men around us are dying for them?

HENRY: I don’t know what you mean, sir.

ROWAN: It’s no matter. Just that no one escapes what’s coming to us. Might as well meet it as best we can.

(He stands.)

ROWAN: Tell the men I’ll be along, won’t you?

(He exits.)

31 Plays in 31 Days: #6 - "Good Night, Night Vale"

So today's piece is basically just a short Welcome to Night Vale fan fiction. I enjoy the show, though it's not grabbing me as hard as I hoped it would. I like the dryness, the subject matter, and the presence of a sweet, matter-of-fact, low-key queer crush. I do not like how loud the background music usually is, and I really am not feeling the musical interludes; I usually just skip over them.

I'm only six episodes in, so I'm not sure if this is consistent with the whole of the established story, or if I'm repeating any ideas they use later, but I felt like doing something in that style today, so I decided what the hell. I made a list of a handful of creepy things I could use in the humorous Night Vale style and gave it a shot. I hope you find it funny, particularly if you like the show.

Reading it over now, I actually think I did a pretty good job with this. Also, I got to make up the word "megalocoons."

Day #6 - "Good Night, Night Vale"

CECIL: And now for a short evening edition of our program. After all, night is a special time to our quaint desert hamlet, as it gives us our name, as well as a blissful ignorance of all the unfathomable terrors that its all-concealing veil encompasses.

Night Vale is now in the midst of the migratory season for what biologist Dr. Edmund Droop at the Crucian University identifies as “megalocoons,” an oversized cousin of the common opossum. These “megalocoons” may be identified by their high-pitched, blood-curdling squeals, their hairless, whip-like tails, and the unearthly luminosity of their glowing red eyes. You may be disquieted by the megalocoon’s uncanny resemblance to housecat-sized sewer rats, but Dr. Droop says if you are close enough to observe this, you are likely to not survive long enough to be disquieted. If you hear something digging around in your trash cans this summer, do not approach with a garden hose— leave them, your trash cans are already lost. Otherwise, sleep easily as their sonorous gurgling hiss soothes you off to dreamland.

As the weather’s gotten warmer, there seems to be an increase in the number of arcane arrangements of sticks and other assorted whicker fetishes found out in the dunes. The nature of these carefully constructed bundles is unknown, though several theories have been put forth. Some believe they are part of an outdated prank staged by local teenagers armed with too much weed and a cheap camcorder. Some believe they are the anchor points of an elaborate web of unholy power that is slowly being woven over the town. Some have drawn a connection between these and the recent uptick in missing housepets, but that could of course be related to the megalocoons. In any case, local music fans with the inclination to turn them into bonfires at a festival are hereby cautioned, in the event that it angers any local practitioners of the forbidden arts.

Finally, rumors spread of a secret population of monstrous, mutated humanoids living beneath us in the sewers. They are supposed to have either been victims of caustic chemical exposure from the explosion at the chemical plant, or when popular regional soft drink Cactus Nectar changed its formula. They were then driven underground, able to bear neither society’s revulsion at their hideousness, nor the light of the scorching desert son. Now they seethe beneath us, building a new social order based on self-loathing and churning resentment of our rejection of them, as well as our beautiful, unblemished forms. These remain, of course, in the realm only of urban legend. On an unrelated note, Mayor Pamela Winchell has begun directing a portion of her campaign resources to targeting what she refers to as “underserviced subterranean constituencies.”

And that concludes our short evening broadcast. Remember, while a leopard can’t change his spots, all cats are gray in the dark.

Good night, Night Vale.

31 Plays in 31 Days: #5 - "Chasseur"

This piece is to introduce a character I've had in mind for a while now, a ballet-themed superhero called Chasseur that would be an addition to my superhero universe. I'm considering calling it "Vantage" after the name of the fictional city it takes place in. It was surprisingly hard to figure out how to present, until it occurred to me stage it as a conversation with Bantam, questioning his credentials to be a superhero. It helped up the conflict a little bit. This needs much more shaping to be a full ten-minute play, but it has a lot of really fun, funny ideas in it that I would like to develop later.

Also, sharp-eyed readers may note, he can only do TEN consecutive pirouettes. He may be a superhero, but he's still not Baryshnikov. ;-)

Day #5 - "Chasseur"

BANTAM, a rooster-themed brawler superhero, mid twenties
CHASSEUR, a ballet-themed superhero, mid twenties
~~~

(Two superheroes, BANTAM and CHASSEUR, hang out on a rooftop.)

BANTAM: Doesn’t that mean… “shoe”?

CHASSEUR: Your schoolboy French fails you. I’m “Chasseur,” not “chaussure.” It means “hunter.”

BANTAM: You don’t sound French to me.

CHASSEUR: I’m not. It’s just most of the terms in ballet are. I thought that was the most intimidating derivation I could come up with.

BANTAM: Everybody’s going to think your name is “Shoe.”

CHASSEUR: Big talk from somebody called after a chicken.

BANTAM: Of course, if you’re going for intimidating, it’s not like ballet gives you a lot to work with.

CHASSEUR: What’s that?

BANTAM: Well, I mean, you know…

CHASSEUR: Are you implying that ballet is, how do you say, for sissies?

BANTAM: Oh, no. I’m sure it’s really tough to get good at. But come on, it’s not like—

CHASSEUR: Boxing? Like what you do?

BANTAM: It teaches you to take a hit, that’s for sure. Can’t be a wuss for that.

CHASSEUR: And you think you can to dance ballet?

BANTAM: Well—

CHASSEUR: They’re more like superheroes than boxers.

BANTAM: Oh, bullshit.

CHASSEUR: No kidding.

BANTAM: Boxers fight! Superheroes have to be able to.

CHASSEUR: You might laugh, but you know nothing. It’s actually the perfect synergy between jobs.

BANTAM: How do you figure?

CHASSEUR: Since I was seven years old, I’ve spent of my time training my body to endure punishing physical challenges and to perform exceptional athletic feats. In fact, you could almost view it as a form of cross-training. You can bet that when I’m leaping for my life, I’m leaping pretty damn high.

BANTAM: It takes more than being fit.

CHASSEUR: My skill set lends itself very nicely too! Like, how about grabbing hold of damsels and carrying them off over your head, or throwing them into the air?

BANTAM: Well— the average woman you’re going to rescue is going to weigh more than a ballerina—

CHASSEUR: And can you kick high enough to nail a minion square in the jaw?

BANTAM: Still. That doesn’t make you tough.

CHASSEUR: Oh, yeah? Try doing all that for three solid hours and finishing on ten consecutive pirouettes.

(Pause.)

CHASSEUR: And, hey! I’m used to working in tights!

(He laughs.)

CHASSEUR: Anyway. The point I’m getting at is, when you’re in costume— two words. Dance. Belt. It’ll change everything.

(He pats BANTAM on the shoulder.)

CHASSEUR: You’ll thank me later.

(He leaps out.)

31 Plays in 31 Days: #4 - "Worth a Crack or Two"

Today's piece is a scene that could be incorporated into the first sequel to Mrs. Hawking. As I've said, I think Nathaniel is going to want to get more involved in helping Mrs. Hawking. But he's got a lot to learn, not just about her business, but also about how to work effectively with women. He's got a lot of cultural prejudices that will have to be whacked out of him-- perhaps literally, in this scene. But it's the first step to him figuring out what his unique skills and contribution can be, the way he can actually be something truly useful to the endeavor.


Day #4 - "Worth a Crack or Two"

MRS. VICTORIA HAWKING, avenger of downtrodden women
MARY STONE, her housemaid and assistant
NATHANIEL HAWKING, her nephew with ambitions to help her
~~~

MARY: I say, Nathaniel— is that a bruise?
NATHANIEL: Oh, this? It’s nothing, I assure you.
MARY: Nothing? You look as if you’ve taken quite a bash!
MRS. HAWKING: Wherever did you get that?
NATHANIEL: Just— from sport.
MRS. HAWKING: Sport? Taken up boxing, have you?
NATHANIEL: As a matter of fact.
MRS. HAWKING: Surely you’re joking.
NATHANIEL: Not at all, Auntie.
MARY: Why on earth have you done that?
NATHANIEL: Well— if you must know— it’s to make myself more useful to you. So I can handle myself and lend another arm if things come to it!
MRS. HAWKING: Nathaniel. Going a few rounds of gentleman’s boxing is hardly going to ready you for the sort of roughs we encounter.
NATHANIEL: It isn’t right to just hang back and leave it to you ladies. What kind of man would that make me?
MRS. HAWKING: Ha!
NATHANIEL: Go ahead and laugh. But how do you think I feel, knowing the two of you are putting yourselves in danger and I’m not fit to help you?
MRS. HAWKING: I don’t think you quite understand. There are no Marquess of Queensbury rules when you’re fighting for your life.
NATHANIEL: Even Mary’s had to handle herself. And she just a girl!
MARY: Sir!
NATHANIEL: No offense intended, Mary. But if you can swing that poker surely I’m worth a crack or two.
(MARY looks to MRS. HAWKING, who sighs.)
MRS. HAWKING: Very well, then, Nathaniel. If you mean to have a go, have a go at me.
NATHANIEL: I beg your pardon?
MRS. HAWKING: If you think you’re fit to take on a real threat. Take on me.
NATHANIEL: I say, Auntie, how could I?
MRS. HAWKING: If you’d like to cast yourself into the fray, you ought to know what you’re up against. Show me what
you’re made of.
NATHANIEL: I don’t know—
MRS. HAWKING: Take his coat, Mary.
(He and MARY look at each other a moment. Then he shakes his head and throws up his hands. She steps forward and he shrugs out of his jacket. She places it aside as he begins turning up his shirt cuffs.)
MRS. HAWKING: Now come on!
(Uncertainly, NATHANIEL puts his fists and advances on her. He takes a few swings, which she dodges easily, even walking backward.)
MRS. HAWKING: Is that all? You must do better than that!
(NATHANIEL starts punching in earnest, but still she evades him easily. At last he throws himself at her, and she moves like lightning, landing a sound blow almost too fast to see that knocks him to the ground.)
MRS. HAWKING: And if you can’t, you’d best keep out of the way.
(She exits. MARY rushes over to NATHANIEL as he pulls himself up off the ground.)
NATHANIEL: Well, I’ve made a fool of myself.
MARY: Oh, not at all.
NATHANIEL: Go on.
MARY: She’s been in training for years.
NATHANIEL: And made short work of me.
MARY: For my part, I think it’s quite noble of you. That you’re not content to hang back out of harm’s way.
NATHANIEL: Still, perhaps she’s right. Perhaps I’m not cut out for this.
MARY: It’s not all knives and brawling, you know. Even she does more planning and creeping than fighting.
NATHANIEL: I did so want to make myself of use to her.
MARY: And so you will. Who knows, Nathaniel? We may run up against something that only you can do. We’ll just have to find out what it is.
(Pause. Then NATHANIEL laughs.)
NATHANIEL: That was quite a belt she gave me. I wonder how long she's wanted to do that.

31 Plays in 31 Days: #3 - "For Her"

Today's piece goes to that source of inspiration that served me so well the first time around, drawing from the backstory of The Stand. This is an attempt at doing a better job at a scene that would have appeared in Sally and Deadeye, my original thesis piece that for whatever reason wasn't working the first time I tried to write it. (As you'll recall, I ended up abandoning it in favor of writing Mrs. Loring.) But I think it could still possibly be salvaged, especially since I'm no longer morbidly depressed. So, without looking at my original draft, I redid this scene from whole cloth. This is rough and rushed, but it's a stab.

This is extremely spoilerly for The Stand, just as a warning. It follows sometime after No Clean Break, a ten-minute I wrote in my first semester of grad school, which has had several readings now and is considered to be one of my more successful pieces.

Also, surprising no one, it features of one my more common Author Tropes.

Day #3 - "For Her"

FLORA JOHANSSON, formerly an outlaw, now seeking refuge in a convent
SISTER ESME, a nun at the convent
~~~

(FLORA sits up in bed, still tired and disheveled from giving birth, holding her newborn baby. Enter SISTER ESME.)

SISTER ESME: How is the little one?

FLORA: She’s sleeping now.

SISTER ESME: She is a pretty little thing.

FLORA: She is. God bless her. More than I deserve.

SISTER ESME: And how are you, miss?

FLORA: Tired is all.

SISTER ESME: Glad to hear. We’ll talk after you’ve had a rest.

(She turns to go again.)

FLORA: Talk? About what?

SISTER ESME: About what your plans are.

FLORA: My plans?

SISTER ESME: Now that the baby’s come.

FLORA: Oh. I reckon you’ve got rules about keeping babies here.

SISTER ESME: It’s only… there’s a great deal a baby needs besides a home.

FLORA: No mistake. I suppose… I haven’t thought so much of it.

SISTER ESME: You know, we’ve helped many a fatherless baby find their place in the world.

FLORA: What are you saying, marm?

SISTER ESME: We’ll talk when you’ve rested.

FLORA: No. We’ll talk now.

(The sister sighs.)

SISTER ESME: It is a shame for a child to go without a family. We could find her one.

(Pause.)

FLORA: You want me to give her up? Let you… find her some nice mama and papa to take her away?

SISTER ESME: It’s a choice you might consider.

FLORA: She’s my baby. I’m her mother!

SISTER ESME: Just as you say. And as her mother, you’ve got to do the best for her.

FLORA: How can I do that if I give her up?

SISTER ESME: There are decent people you could trust her to. Them who won’t trouble if she hasn’t gotten a father or a name or a place in the world. For they have them to give to her.

FLORA: You folks do that a lot? Find respectable wedded couples to raise babies?

SISTER ESME: Very often. We’ve saved many unwanted babies that way.

FLORA: She ain’t unwanted!

SISTER ESME: I know, child. But you must ask yourself what you can provide for her.

FLORA: I can care for her. I can love her.

SISTER ESME: So you can. But it’s a hard world for a little one with no home and no father to look after him.

FLORA: And a mama what lived how I lived.

(Pause.)

FLORA: And you think that what I ought to do?

SISTER ESME: It’s your decision. We’ll abide by it.

(FLORA begins to cry.)

FLORA: You don’t understand, sister. I gave up… everything. My whole life.

SISTER ESME: You were right brave.

FLORA: I need something to hold to, sister. Something to make it not all some crying waste. She’s all I got now. Sure I
mustn’t… give her up too?

SISTER ESME: Flora, what did you do it for?

FLORA: Why, for her. Why else?

SISTER ESME: Why else, indeed?

(Pause.)

SISTER ESME: You needn’t decide anything now. You best get your rest. We’ll talk more later.

(Exit SISTER ESME. FLORA holds her baby close.)