31 Plays in 31 Days: #10 - "The Late Mrs. Chadwick"

This is very clearly inspired by Noel Coward's Blithe Spirit. One thing I found to be a slight missed opportunity in that piece is that only Charles Condomine is able to see the ghost Elvira, I think there would have been lots of funny things to do with a slightly different scenario. I also wrote it imaging two of the very talented gentlemen I worked with in Sherlock Holmes, Chris who played Sherlock and John who played my husband Larabee, as Chadwick and Shrewsbury. It made things much funnier for me.

Another inspiration was one of the one-acts Jared and I saw at the festival of them thrown by the Hovey Players. The piece on its own was fairly whatever-- it was about a man who went into the hospital for an appendectomy and came out with a sex change and was trying to very politely bring it up with his doctor. The jokes were pretty obvious and not that remarkable on their own, but they made it work by giving the characters English accents, and making the joke out of how completely polite and stiff-upper-lippy they were. I thought I'd borrow that for my own piece here.

Also, for some perverse reason I really like writing dialogue for characters who hate Catholics. I love using the term "papists."


Day #10 - "The Late Mrs. Chadwick"

(Two very stiffly-dressed English gentlemen, ARTHUR CHADWICK and EDWIN SHREWSBURY sit in a tastefully decorated parlor drinking tea and talking about cricket.)

SHREWSBURY: That is a bold statement, friend. That is a four-time championship team you’re talking about.

CHADWICK: I say the team is ageing out of their skills. Their lineup has not changed in far too long.

(There is the ghostly wail of a woman from offstage.)

SHREWSBURY: I say, Chadwick, did you hear something?

CHADWICK: Beg your pardon?

SHREWSBURY: Apologies, nothing, old boy. You were saying?

CHADWICK: Yes, well, they’ve got to get some new blood in there. Thirty-six isn’t absurd, but they’re no spring chickens when it comes to test cricket.

(Suddenly a woman ghost, MATILDA CHADWICK, her skin painted a pale gray wearing a diaphanous gray gown, sweeps through the parlor, wailing as she goes. After a moment she exits. CHADWICK appears not to notice, but SHREWSBURY is vaguely perturbed.)

CHADWICK: Shrewsbury, are you quite all right?

SHREWSBURY: Forgive me, old friend, but what was that?

CHADWICK: What was what?

(MATILDA reenters and sweeps through again, waving her arms and wailing, then exits.)

SHREWSBURY: Are you aware that there seems to be some sort of… spectral lady… thing… of some kind… floating around your parlor?

CHADWICK: Oh, yes, good of you to notice. That is my late wife.

SHREWSBURY: Your… late wife?

CHADWICK: Yes, Matilda. She’s recently taken up residence in the house again.

SHREWSBURY: I see. But, if I might ask, how can that be so, given that Matilda is… what’s the polite word… dead?

CHADWICK: Yes, in a freak croquet accident on the front lawn. Very tragic.

SHREWSBURY: I recall.

CHADWICK: But it seems that somehow in the Great Beyond word reached Matilda about my recent remarriage, and as far as anyone can deduce, she is so distraught over the news that she’s crossed back over to the material plane in order to seek eternal vengeance from beyond the grave.

(A piece of crockery flies onstage and explodes on the ground. MATILDA enters after it and swans around dramatically, making rhythmic keening sounds.)

CHADWICK: But please, don’t let it trouble you.

SHREWSBURY: Oh, I hardly notice.

(MATILDA knocks the teacup out of SHREWSBURY’s hand. He is just slightly nonplussed.)

CHADWICK: More tea, old friend?

SHREWSBURY: Please.

(SHREWSBURY picks up another cup from the tea set, which CHADWICK fills from the pot. MATILDA knocks that cup away too.)

SHREWSBURY: On second thought, that’s enough for me.

CHADWICK: Quite right.

SHREWSBURY: And what does the, shall we say, living Mrs. Chadwick think?

CHADWICK: Between you and me, old boy, I will confess that she is not entirely pleased with the whole arrangement.

SHREWSBURY: Oh, the poor dear.

CHADWICK: Apparently Matilda sees fit to take out the whole sad business on her by vowing to haunt and torment her through this world and beyond until the fires of Judgment Day.

SHREWSBURY: How unfortunate. You have my sympathies, Arthur.

CHADWICK: Thanks very much. These things are sent to try us.

(MATILDA begins picking up household items and hurling them to smash upon the ground.)

SHREWSBURY: Where is your wife at the moment?

CHADWICK: Well, Hermione’s found it a bit vexing to remain in the house for long periods, what with the flying crockery and Matilda’s propensity for setting fire to her hair.

SHREWSBURY: Quite understandable.

CHADWICK: I rather thought so. So my dear girl’s dedicated herself to having Matilda exorcised.

(MATILDA wails.)

SHREWSBURY: I say, exorcised?

CHADWICK: I believe that’s the term. You know, banished. Returned to the Great Beyond.

SHREWSBURY: For my edification, what is the process for such a banishment?

(MATILDA breaks something.)

SHREWSBURY: In case any of my departed relations also elect to make a return visit.

CHADWICK: I’m afraid we’re still in the process of figuring that out. Lord knows we’ve tried a few things.

SHREWSBURY: With no success, I take it?

(MATILDA pours a ewer of water over CHADWICK’s head.)

CHADWICK: Not as such, no. First we rung up one of those, what do you call them, mediums, who commune with the spirit world.

SHREWSBURY: Oh, yes, they’re very entertaining at parties.

CHADWICK: To be sure, but this one seemed to have difficult effectively communicating with Matilda.

SHREWSBURY: Ah.

CHADWICK: I suppose I can’t criticize. It was a feat I had yet to achieve myself in five years of marriage to her!

(They laugh politely. MATILDA knocks over a table and wails.)

SHREWSBURY: Perhaps you could find a more diplomatic one.

CHADWICK: Perhaps, but the whole affair left Matilda quite cross, and I’m not inclined to weather that again. With all the blood weeping down walls.

SHREWSBURY: Most troublesome.

(MATILDA hurls a pillow at SHREWSBURY. He dodges without skipping a beat.)

CHADWICK: And then there was the woods witch who made a terrible mess of the drawing room with all those goats she sacrificed.

(MATILDA hurls another pillow at CHADWICK, who dodges equally casually.)

SHREWSBURY: Oh, I can imagine.

(MATILDA screams with rage and storms out.)

CHADWICK: It’s all driven Hermione to become quite desperate. At the moment she’s gone down to St. Swithin’s to ask assistance from the pastor.

SHREWSBURY: St. Swithin’s? Your Hermione set foot among the papists?

CHADWICK: Unbelievable, I know, but the poor thing’s quite determined. I understand they’ve some protocols in matters of peasant superstition.

SHREWSBURY: One does hear all those terrible stories about priests with their heads all spun about on their necks, though.

CHADWICK: Indeed. Bad enough that the neighbors see them coming in the house without having to remove their bodies as well. Still, I’m afraid we’re rather out of options.

(There is screaming and crashing offstage, then the crackling of flames. Smoke drifts out into the sitting room.)

SHREWSBURY: I say, Chadwick. That sounds rather terrible.

CHADWICK: I’ve come to know that sound quite well, I believe it’s the screaming of the servants. Excuse me a moment.

(CHADWICK rises and goes to look offstage where the smoke is coming from.)

CHADWICK: Yes, indeed. She’s set the kitchen on fire.

(There is the terrified screaming of horses.)

CHADWICK: And released the horses from the stables. Oh, I do hope she hasn’t barricaded the door this time. Forgive me, friend, but I’ll have to run off for a tick and handle this.

SHREWSBURY: Can I be of any assistance?

CHADWICK: Oh, don’t trouble yourself. Please, stay at your ease.

SHREWSBURY: If you insist, sir.

CHADWICK: Won’t be a moment!

(CHADWICK exits. SHREWSBURY pours himself a new cup of tea and begins sipping. He occasionally tosses a vaguely curious glance in the direction of the commotion.)

(MATILDA reenters. She storms up to SHREWSBURY and stares him down in the chair. After a long moment, she slaps the cup out of his hand again and runs off.)

31 Plays in 31 Days: #9 - "One Drop"

Another spoiler-packed piece based on The Stand, not for the eyes of those who hope to play someday. I like the idea behind this piece a lot, but I am very dissatisfied with the execution. It is forced and needs work, so I will have to seriously edit it when I have time.

This piece is about Bonnie Reston Harper, the mother of PC Zachariah Harper who has just passed away at the start of game. The other character was difficult for me to decide on, given the point in the timeline and the subject matter of the discussion. I wanted to use someone already established in the universe, but nobody seemed to work, so I made a new character. I think it works, but I may change her to someone else if I think of any already existing character.

I am working on implying things in my dramatic writing without making them explicit. I wrote this as if taking it for granted that the reader knew what these two women were talking about. I hope it reads even without that definite prior knowledge.

Day #9 - "One Drop"

(Enter two middle-aged women, fair-skinned BONNIE HARPER and black-skinned IDA BOW, who sit at two simple chairs with a table between them. There is a cloth-draped rectangle upstage. BONNIE is frail and wan from illness. She lights a small lamp on the table.)

BONNIE: Ida, you shouldn’t have come back all this way. What if somebody catches you?

IDA: Had to, Bonnie. I heard you was real sick, and you’s all alone in the world now. After everything you done for me, I couldn’t let… anything happen to you, not without seeing you one more time.

BONNIE: Aw, honey, God bless you.

IDA: Is it so?

BONNIE: It’s so.

IDA: How bad is it?

BONNIE: Real bad. Bad as can be.

IDA: Aw, sweetheart. You sure?

BONNIE: Had Doc Harris check me out. He said it were certain.

IDA: The drunken war doc? Not sure I’d bet the farm on what he says.

BONNIE: Wouldn’t matter if he was the surgeon general, I can feel it. There’s a… rattling, like, in my chest. Getting a little worse every day. Won’t be long now, I expect.

IDA: Honey, I am so sorry.

BONNIE: It ain’t the worst thing there could be. It’s just… all this. After I’m gone… who’s going to keep things going? Who’s going take care of everyone who comes through?

IDA: You learned from your papa, didn’t you? Couldn’t you pass it on to your own children?

BONNIE: Believe me, Ida, I been thinking about it. But it’s not so simple. Can’t be my girl Julia, she’s married to a carriage-maker all the way in Alabama. Doubt I could even reach her in time.

IDA: In time?

BONNIE: Before it’s too late.

IDA: Oh. Well…what about that boy of yours? Zach… Zachary?

BONNIE: Zachariah.

IDA: What’s become of him? He… he went off into the frontier, didn’t he?

BONNIE: He’s a good boy. Done well for himself, made a bit of money by finding the right spot at the right time. Sends most of it home to me, the dear, and I see a letter from him once a month.

IDA: A real good boy. So what’s the trouble?

BONNIE: Lots of trouble, love. First off… he don’t know. Him nor Julia know.

IDA: They don’t? Twenty years you been helping runaways through, and you never said nothing about it?

BONNIE: When they was growing up, we hid it from them. Maybe it were foolish, but we thought that way we might not bring anything down on our children’s heads if ever we was caught. I… I have an awful lot of explaining to do.

IDA: I see. But you ain’t afraid he won’t understand, are you?

BONNIE: Not that, Ida, never that. Sure, the Indians are the darkest folk he’s ever seen, but we raised him better than that. Still… it’s a lot to ask of a young man.

IDA: Sure it’s a hard thing to do alone. I remember when your Lucas passed.

BONNIE: That was rough and no mistake.

IDA: But a decent boy like your Zach would want help you. Wouldn’t he?

BONNIE: It’s ain’t that, Ida. It’s only… it’s ain’t what Zachariah wants. Being bound to some patch of ground for any reason. He used to listen to his granddad’s stories of living on the frontier, and… his eyes would go wide as dinner plates. He went off to live those stories for himself the minute he was old enough to go. He writes about how he has an adventure every day and sleeps under the stars every night. He ain’t never been happier in his life. Asking him to take it over would be asking him to give all that up. Every time I start writing him… I hate myself for trying to drag him back here.

IDA: The boy would want to see his sick mother before she goes.

BONNIE: But he wouldn’t want me to chain him here.

IDA: Ain’t just anyone who’d risk it all just to do right by some other people.

BONNIE: Oh, Ida. Did I ever tell you why I got to doing this?

IDA: No, honey, don’t think you ever did.

BONNIE: It were my ma and pa, you know.

IDA: Wish I could have met them. Walter Reston must have been quite a man. Ran his own town, and still worked to help folks what didn’t have anyone else.

BONNIE: More than that, dear. I never showed you their picture.

(She goes to the cloth-draped rectangle upstage.)

BONNIE: My father and mother… Walter and Daisy Reston.

(She unveils a huge portrait of a distinguished-looking couple, a white man and a black woman.)

IDA: That’s your ma and pa? But you look…

(BONNIE touches the image of her mother reverently.)

BONNIE: She had a white papa herself. Reckon I take after that part of her.

IDA: Was they married?

BONNIE: In secret. She belonged to a tobacco baron in Virginia. I was lucky. When I was born, because of how I looked they sent me to go live with my auntie. So I wouldn’t have to live that life. That’s why Papa went out west. To earn the money to buy her free, and bring us out here with him.

IDA: She never made it, did she?

BONNIE: Daddy worked his whole life so he could get her out. Get her somewhere where nobody could stop them living as man and wife. But she died a slave. He wasn’t going to wait for anybody to buy their out ever again.

IDA: Oh, honey… I never knew. And you done so much for us... when you could’ve lived your life forgetting all about it.

BONNIE: What’s that they say? One drop is enough. If they ever found us out, I would have been in the same place as you were. As my mother was. I couldn’t do nothing else.

IDA: The children… do they know?

BONNIE: No. They never had to think about it. And now my boy’s free. Freer now than any of us. But… I can’t let this thing die. Ida… what do I do?

IDA: Bonnie… your pa gave all his rambling up to help folks what needed it. That’s the mark of a good man. And I ain’t never met your boy, but… I think any man raised by you is going to be just as good. You write that letter, Bonnie. I’ll see that it goes out.

(BONNIE considers, then nods. She takes out a pen and paper and begins to write. IDA holds on to her hand.)

31 Plays in 31 Days: #8 - "Earned a Little Something"

This play works better than it has any right to. It depicts a birth gone awry, a situation like the last piece's in that it is kind of tough to portray onstage. I think it gets away with it by coming into the story at the right moment, after the labor is done with, and by implying with lighting changes that they have moved from one room into another.

This is another bit of backstory from The Stand. This time it's non-spoilery, but it is sad, and dark, and creepy. It depicts the day that Amelia was to give birth to her and Sheriff Malcolm Royce's only child... only things do not go as planned. This was hard to write, and I ended up having to just force it out onto the page, so it's rough. But might be salvageable with editing, even given the difficult theatrical setup.

Day #8 - "Earned a Little Something"

(Lights up on the right side of the stage only. Sheriff MALCOLM ROYCE paces across the stage, casting worried glances stage left. There is an empty crib behind him.)

(SAMUEL HARRIS the town doctor comes out from the dark, disheveled and with the red face and shaky hands of a longtime alcoholic. He carries a swaddled bundle in his arms.)

MALCOLM: What’s happened?

SAMUEL: It’s bad, sir.

MALCOLM: I know that, that’s why I called you.

(MALCOLM notices the bundle.)

MALCOLM: Is that… is that the baby?

SAMUEL: Sheriff… she come out cold.

MALCOLM: You was supposed to fix this!

SAMUEL: She was already dead! Poor little thing…

MALCOLM: What about Amelia? Is she…

SAMUEL: Too much blood… can’t stop it coming.

MALCOLM: What did you do, you worthless gin-soaked fool!?

SAMUEL: Might be I am, but she was already too far gone.

MALCOLM: Couldn’t you pull yourself together just one night to do your damn job!?

SAMUEL: Weren’t nothing I could do!

MALCOLM: You bastard… get your hands off her.

(He snatches the bundled baby from SAMUEL’s hands.)

MALCOLM: Get out! Get going!

(SAMUEL stumbles out. When he is gone, MALCOLM peels back the blanket to look at her, and his face breaks.)

(Lights up stage left, revealing AMELIA in the bed. She stirs.)

AMELIA: Malcolm? Is that you?

(MALCOLM lays the little body in the crib.)

MALCOLM: Darling? Oh, Jesus.

(He goes over to her.)

AMELIA: Where is she?

MALCOLM: She’s… in the cradle.

AMELIA: I didn’t… I didn’t get to see her.

MALCOLM: You didn’t?

AMELIA: Doc Harris… carried her off. She… she’s not crying. Malcolm, why ain’t she crying?

(MALCOLM says nothing. AMELIA begins to cry.)

AMELIA: She’s dead, isn’t she?

MALCOLM: I’ll kill that drunken wreck of a sawbones. I’ll drag him down Main Street behind my horse.

AMELIA: Stop it. He done nothing that nature hadn’t already done worse. Nothing can bring her back now…

MALCOLM: We’ll… we’ll have another, dear. We’ll have a houseful. Remember what we said? God thought we’d earned a little something.

AMELIA: Malcolm… you know there ain’t going to be any more.

MALCOLM: We can’t say that! We never thought we could have this one.

AMELIA: No, love. That’s it… that’s it for me.

(She pushes off her blanket, revealing sheets that are soaked through with blood.)

MALCOLM: Jesus Christ. Oh, honey… oh, no, honey.

AMELIA: Should have known, eh? Too old for birthing babies. Poor little girl… she had no chance with me… never even got to hold her…

MALCOLM: Ain’t your fault, honey, these things… things happen.

AMELIA: No matter now. I’ll be with her soon.

MALCOLM: No! No, don’t talk like that.

AMELIA: It’s too late, Malcolm. It’s real bad.

(He starts stroking her hair and face.)

MALCOLM: It’ll be all right. We’ll find you a real doctor, even if I have to ride all night.

AMELIA: Malcolm.

MALCOLM: Was a miracle we even made that baby. Why not have another miracle? It’ll be all right.

AMELIA: It ain’t all right, love. I never wanted to go like this… not with something hanging between us.

MALCOLM: Hanging between us? There ain’t nothing, darling.

AMELIA: I never meant to keep nothing from you. You’re the best man I know. Can’t leave things like this with you.

MALCOLM: You’re right with me, honey. You’re right with me.

AMELIA: I wanted to tell you, I just made a promise…

MALCOLM: What are you saying, dear?

AMELIA: Malcolm, I should have told you. Before now. But… you must promise me you can forgive.

MALCOLM: Tell me what, honey? Tell me what?

(AMELIA’s head drops back and her eyes flutter closed.)

MALCOLM: Amelia? What is it? Amelia!

(Her hands slip out of his. MALCOLM’s face contorts in pain, and he lays his head down on her chest in grief. After a moment, he rises. He smooths her hair and takes the clean blanket and lays it over her, concealing the blood. He regards her a moment in sorrow.)

MALCOLM: Thought we earned a little something.

(He then goes to the crib. He gathers up the body of their baby girl, and steeling himself, carries the small bundle out.)

31 Plays in 31 Days: #7 - "Pierced Silver Piece"

Another short piece based on The Stand. This one is slightly awkward, as it attempts to depict an instance of backstory from the game that probably doesn't especially lend itself to theatrical portrayal. It needs a good deal of cleaning up, but I was pushing to finish, and it plays a little abruptly. But I think if I could manage to whip it into shape it might fit nicely into a theoretical larger piece, featuring a certain character I have been lately inclined to write about.

Again, this is EXTREMELY SPOILERY for the game, so do not read if you have not played and someday intend to. But for those who have, this piece features the PC Clarissa Dunn, played so far by Tory, Jenn, and Sam LeVangie, in a rather significant moment in her short life.

Day #7 - "Pierced Silver Piece"

(CLARISSA DUNN , a young girl in buckskin clothes, sits at a small campground eating jerky. An enormous rifle lays at her side.)

(Enter DAMON BARRETT, a middle-aged man in frontier garb and a black hat with a pack on his back. He stops short when he sees CLARISSA, surprised.)

DAMON: Howdy there.

(She snatches up her gun.)

CLARISSA: You stay back now.

DAMON: Why, you’re just a slip of a thing.

CLARISSA: Matilda here makes it so that don’t matter so much.

DAMON: Matilda, huh? That’s a big gun for a little girl.

CLARISSA: And I know how to use it! So don’t try anything funny, you hear?

DAMON: Fear me not, I seen what pretty little things can learn to do with those. Mind if I rest awhile, if I promise to behave myself?

CLARISSA: If you want.

(She lays the rifle across her lap. DAMON sits down a little ways off from her, laying his pack aside.)

DAMON: Don’t see too many girl children out here on their lonesome. Where’s your ma and pa?

CLARISSA: Ain’t got ‘em no more.

DAMON: Well. Nothing for that. Reckon you must take care of your own self, or else you’d not have made it out here.

CLARISSA: That’s for damn sure. I know most of the trappers around these parts, but I ain’t never seen you before. You from hereabouts?

DAMON: Used to be sometimes, not anymore. I just… go out every now and then. Roam around, see what I see.

CLARISSA: Yeah? What for, if you got settled someplace now?

DAMON: Looking for… for something, I suppose. Not even sure I know for what any more. Probably something I can’t find.

CLARISSA: Well, I know exactly what I’m after. Justice for my old papa.

DAMON: Yeah? What happened?

CLARISSA: Some varmint shot him. And I mean to see him pay for it.

(She hefts the gun.)

DAMON: Aw, hell. That’s a heavy load for a young thing to bear.

CLARISSA: Ain’t nobody else going to do it.

DAMON: Would your mama want you dragging that gun around the woods just to get vengeance?

CLARISSA: Sure as she didn’t. But she left after my papa died.

DAMON: Christ. That’s rough, sweetheart.

CLARISSA: Can’t say as I blame her. She was all alone in the world after that. The woods was no place for her. And I ain’t your sweetheart.

DAMON: No, that’s plain. Well. I wish you good fortune on your way. Hope you find it before it’s too late.

CLARISSA: Too late for what?

DAMON: For everything else. Can be right hard to have a different life when you spend so much time another way. Things slip away before you know it.

(He leans back thoughtfully. He takes hold of a length of chain hanging off his vest with a silver coin on the end of it and begins idly twirling it. CLARISSA notices it and starts.)

CLARISSA: What’s that!?

DAMON: What’s what?

CLARISSA: That there! On your watch chain!

(He holds it out to look at it.)

DAMON: This? Nothing, just an old Spanish coin.

CLARISSA: I remember that thing, that thing on the watch chain dangling off his belt… it was you. It was you who done it!

DAMON: Me? Done what?

CLARISSA: And your black hat! I remember that black hat too!

(She hefts the gun and clambers to her feet.)

DAMON: What are you doing?

CLARISSA: I ain’t going to forget in a million years! It was you that day! He was a trader up in the territories named Marlon Dunn, and you killed him!

(He knocks the barrel aside just as she pulls the trigger.)

DAMON: A trader from around here? I killed no such man!

CLARISSA: He was my father and you killed him!

(With effort she swings that massive gun back toward him. He begins backing up hurriedly.)

DAMON: Swear on my mother’s grave!

CLARISSA: And for that, I’m going to kill you!

(She fires again and hits him in the leg in an explosion of blood and bone fragments. He falls to the ground, howling in pain.)

CLARISSA: I know what I saw! He had a black hat, a black mole on the back of his neck, and a pierced piece of silver on a watch chain!

DAMON: Jesus Christ!

CLARISSA: I was six years old! He was working at a trading post, and you gunned him down before me and my mother’s eyes!

DAMON: A trading post…? Wait! Wait! What was that name? What was your father’s name?

CLARISSA: Marlon Dunn.

DAMON: Marlon Dunn— oh, Jesus. Oh, gentle Jesus.

(He collapses in on himself.)

CLARISSA: Now shut up! I been waiting years to say my piece. His name was Marlon Dunn. He was my father and you killed him. And for that, I’m going to kill you.

DAMON: I see. Well, little lady, I do not blame you one bit.

(She hefts her huge gun and levels it at him.)

DAMON: Flora, my girl, you and Jesus forgive me.

(CLARISSA fires. DAMON collapses in a heap, dead. She lets the heavy gun drop, gasping for breath, almost sobbing. After a moment, she goes to the body and yanks off the silver piece on the watch chain. Then she kicks him over so that he lays face down and kneels beside him.)

CLARISSA: Where is it… where’s your damn mole…?

(She pulls down his collar and pushes away his hat so she can look at the back of his neck.)

CLARISSA: There… there ain’t one. No. No. Can’t be.

(She searches intently for a minute, then backs away quickly.)

CLARISSA: Black hat, silver piece. It has to be him, it has to be. But… he ain’t got no mole. Oh, Jesus. Oh, Jesus.

(She snatches up Matilda and clings to it as if for comfort. She dithers there a moment, back and forth.)

CLARISSA: If you ain’t him… what did I just do?

(She scrambles to pack her campsite back up, holds her gun to her chest, and scurries off like a hunted animal.)

31 Plays in 31 Days: #6 - "Public Enemy"

Who would have thought that my biggest source of inspiration for short plays would be the backstory of The Stand? I was always proud with how rich the storyline for that game was, and as I cast about for subject matter for this writing challenge, I find there are many scenes from the larp that are perfect for dramatizing. I have done three already, two in this month alone, and I expect there will be many more. Maybe I can use that connectedness for performance reasons, and someday produce an evening of Stand-related theater.

That said, the following scene, unlike the other two, is EXTREMELY SPOILERY FOR THE GAME. If you have not played The Stand and someday intend to, do not read this piece. For those who have played, it may interest you to know that it involves two important NPCs, Amelia Royce, the wife of the sheriff, and Caleb Coleman, a rival to the Sinclair Company in the local cattle business.

Day #6 - "Public Enemy"

SETTING: 1847, the small cattle town of Reston in the Northern California Territory

(CALEB COLEMAN, a wealthy middle-aged gentleman, sits at the desk in his study. AMELIA ROYCE, a nice-looking woman, simply dressed, enters deferentially.)

AMELIA: Mr. Coleman?

CALEB: Why, Mrs. Amelia Royce! What brings you out here?

AMELIA: Forgive me for just showing up, I’m sure you’re real busy, but I was hoping you might have a moment to speak with me.

CALEB: Always got a moment for the charming wife of the sheriff. Please, come sit.

(AMELIA takes a seat across the desk from him and smooths her skirt.)

AMELIA: Thanks very much for your time, sir.

CALEB: It’s good to see you. I’ve been meaning to say thank you for that mighty fine pie you sent over. I am right partial to cherries.

AMELIA: It were for all that money you gave to Bonnie Harper’s charity. A pie’s a small token for that.

CALEB: Oh, think nothing of it.

AMELIA: It was a right generous thing for you to do, Mr. Coleman.

CALEB: Well, thank you kindly for saying so, ma’am.

AMELIA: My husband is happy to see so more and more decent citizens moving out west here.

CALEB: Reston’s been lucky to have him come out too. They say he’s the best in the territory.

AMELIA: Well, at chasing varmints at least.

CALEB: He’s got a hell of a record for that. Nobody else could’ve cornered Red Jed Palmer in that cider mill, and chased the Mad Indian through six miles of burning countryside. He collared all of them.

AMELIA: Except for one. Deadeye Damon Barrett. You know about him?

CALEB: Everybody knows about him. He’s got a hell of a price on his head.

AMELIA: He was the real outlaw. Tricking townies, outriding cowboys, better shot than the governor’s best marshals. Malcolm chased him for years, but never did catch him. We still don’t know what became of him.

CALEB: I reckoned he was dead. Nobody’s seen hide nor hair of him in ages.

AMELIA: Well, they’re not about to forget about him. Not after he knocked over that US Treasury wagon. Folks still talk about it.

CALEB: Suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. It were the biggest robbery pulled in the territory since the US took it on.

AMELIA: I know— one hears things as the sheriff’s wife. Sometimes the little details that don’t get in the papers.

CALEB: That so?

AMELIA: Yes, sir. You see, it was something at the Easter picnic. I heard some of you fellows talking about that robbery. I remember you saying that… that Deadeye run off with ten thousand dollars in bullion. Is that so?

CALEB: That’s what I said.

AMELIA: That’s just it, you see. That weren’t in the papers, Mr. Coleman.

CALEB: What? I’m sure that can’t be.

AMELIA: I’m sure that it is, sir.

CALEB: Well… must be I heard it somewhere, I traveled around.

AMELIA: And then you turn up in town one day, richer than almost anybody.

CALEB: What are you saying, Mrs. Royce?

(AMELIA takes a crumpled piece of newspaper out of her handbag, smooths it carefully, and lays it on the desk.)

AMELIA: There ain’t no good pictures, so they weren’t enough to be sure. But when I heard what you said… I got sure. I think your name ain’t Caleb Coleman. I think it’s Damon Barrett.

(CALEB looks down and grows very still. He makes a fist on the desk.)

CALEB: It’s been thirteen years since anybody called me by that name. Thirteen years since I left that life.

(He rakes a hand through his hair.)

CALEB: Can I count on Sheriff Royce coming up after you to march me away in cuffs?

AMELIA: He doesn’t know. I haven’t told him.

CALEB: You didn’t? And… why would you do a thing like that?

AMELIA: I wanted to talk to you my own self first.

(CALEB rises from his chair and paces a little, finally pausing with his back to AMELIA.)

CALEB: Tell me, Amelia, ma’am… am I what you thought I’d be? Face to face with the most hunted man in the western territories… is this what you expected?

AMELIA: No. No, nothing like that.

(He marches up close and stares her down.)

CALEB: So how can you think you can march into my house play judge and jury on me like you know who I am?

AMELIA: Sir. I came out here, a woman alone, to accuse a man of being the most feared bandit in the west. Do you think I would have done that if I thought him just a beast? Do you think I don’t mean to give him a fair chance?

(He takes a few steps back. AMELIA stands.)

AMELIA: So here’s your chance. What should I make of you, Mr. Barrett? Wild, wanted Deadeye Damon Barrett?

(Some of the ire goes out of him and he deflates a little.)

CALEB: I know you got no reason to cut me any slack. Everything you heard about me, all the cons I pulled, all the crimes I did… they’re all on my head, I ain’t going to deny it. Any woman in your place would hand me over to her lawman husband on a silver platter and see it make his career.

AMELIA: Not to mention protecting folks from a public enemy.

CALEB: Right you are. But, ma’am… I ain’t no public enemy. Not anymore. I’m no danger to people. On the contrary, you said it yourself, I been good for this town. I gave jobs to decent men. I been generous, I gave cash to folks what needed it. Ain’t I?

AMELIA: Yes. Yes, you have.

CALEB: I done good since I got here, Mrs. Royce. The first real good I ever done anybody in my life.

AMELIA: And that means you’ve atoned? For everything you’ve done?

CALEB: Might not be, ma’am. Might be I got a long way to go before I’m right with Jesus. But I can’t do no good to anybody in a cell. Or swinging off the end of a rope.

AMELIA: A lot of folks suffered for what you did.

CALEB: I know. And I quit because I regretted that. Because I wanted to put a stop to that. I know it don’t make up for it, but I suffered for it too.

AMELIA: How? All those lawmen chasing after you with their guns—

CALEB: You think I mean about comfort and safety? That ain’t nothing of what that life cost me!

(He struggles a moment, then reaches into the pocket of his waistcoat and withdraws a lock of brown hair tied with a blue ribbon. He tosses it down on the desk. Carefully AMELIA picks it up and examines it.)

AMELIA: Oh, Caleb… Damon… was she…?

CALEB: The sheriff ain’t the only one to judge me for what I did. And that’s one hell of a penance from where I stand. You remember that when you go home into the arms of the husband that loves you.

(AMELIA considers, then carefully goes to CALEB and places the lock of hair back in his hand.)

AMELIA: Malcolm doesn’t have to know.

CALEB: You mean that?

AMELIA: I do. You got a long way ahead of you before you atone. I ain’t going to stop you now.

CALEB: Thank you.

AMELIA: This you can’t quit. You can’t ever quit.

CALEB: I won’t. I swear it.

(CALEB presses the fist clasping the lock hair to his chest. AMELIA nods.)

AMELIA: Good day, then. Mr. Coleman.

CALEB: Thank you, Mrs. Royce.

(AMELIA exits. CALEB collapses against his desk.)

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

Today, surprisingly, was the first day I struggled a little to figure out what story to write about; the others came to relatively easily by comparison. But I settled on the silly little conceit of a stay-at-home mom who, for some reason, has a surprising amount of empathy for a local female superhero. I think this is the weakest of all the pieces I've written so far for 31 Days 31 Plays, I feel like I've missed a lot of opportunities. This should be wittier and funnier, and I should have come up with a cleverer name for the superhero than Wondra. Of course, in making fun of the fact that Wondra isn't the best name, I added in one of the few actually funny lines in the piece. Still, lame as it may be right now, it might have potential if I go back and fix it up later. I like the conceit, even if I didn't quite make it work this time. And hey, at least I'm still five for five!


Day #5 - "Wondra"

(A woman, JILLIAN, is laying out breakfasts and packing a lunchbox in the kitchen. She is dressed in a big fluffy bathrobe. She checks the large wristwatch she is wearing.)

JILLIAN: Katie! Hurry up or you’re going to be late!

(A small girl, KATIE, runs in.)

KATIE: Stop right there, evildoer! Wondra is here!

(JILLIAN laughs and hands her lunchbox to her.)

JILLIAN: Come on, Wondra, don’t forget your lunch or you’ll be fighting crime on an empty stomach.

(Enter RICH, her husband, dressed for work.)

RICH: Sweetie, don’t you have a bus to catch?

KATIE: I got bad guys to catch! Just like Wondra!

RICH: Well, get moving, Mom can’t drive you, she’s got her gymnastics class.

KATIE: I’m going to be a great gymnast too someday!

RICH: You want to win a medal too?

KATIE: No, I want to fight crime like Wondra!

(JILLIAN laughs as KATIE runs out.)

JILLIAN: She's playing superheroes again.

RICH: You know, she’s in the news again today. The real Wondra.

JILLIAN: (Pleased) Oh, yeah?

RICH: Another article in the paper for your collection. Apparently she caught a bunch of guys trying to break into a jewelry store, beat them up, and left them tied to the flag pole in the center of the mini-mall.

JILLIAN: Heh, the flag pole was a nice touch, huh?

(RICH sniggers and shakes his head.)

JILLIAN: Huh? What are you laughing about?

RICH: What? Oh, nothing, it’s just— I don’t get what could possess somebody to do this.

JILLIAN: What!?

RICH: I mean, it’s crazy! This girl’s running around in colored tights and a mask karate-kicking bad guys! She sounds like a nut!

JILLIAN: She is not!

RICH: And that name! Isn’t Wondra that special flour you can find in the grocery store that makes really good gravy?

JILLIAN: It’s because she’s wonderful, Rich!

RICH: Oh, what’s so wonderful about her?

JILLIAN: I think she’s great! She’s out there, you know, foiling crime and protecting the innocent!

RICH: She’s going to get herself killed.

JILLIAN: I think she’s brave. Risking herself to do the right thing.

(JILLIAN turns away and begins angrily eating her own breakfast. RICH is surprised by the strength of her reaction.)

RICH: Jill? Are you okay?

JILLIAN: Sure.

RICH: Come on, Jill, what’s wrong?

JILLIAN: It’s just… I don’t think it’s fair to just dismiss her as a crazy person when she’s just trying to do some good! She has… the special abilities she needs to do something nobody else can do, and you just deride her for wanting to do it?

RICH: Jeez, I didn’t mean—

JILLIAN: And God forbid somebody like her step outside their assigned role as helpless female! I for one am glad Katie has a strong female role model!

RICH: Jillian—

JILLIAN: Someone who makes a difference! Somebody who doesn’t just settle for… mundane, conventional, boring… safety.

(She finishes in a huff and crosses her arms, not looking at him.)

RICH: Oh. Wow. I, uh, I’m sorry, Jillian.

(She doesn’t answer.)

RICH: Are you okay?

JILLIAN: No!

RICH: I’m sorry. Please talk to me. We should talk about this. Do you feel like you’re conventional and boring?

JILLIAN: No!

RICH: Do you feel like we don’t appreciate the special stuff about you?

JILLIAN: No! Well… maybe.

RICH: Well, I’m sorry about that. I do think you’re special.

JILLIAN: Really?

RICH: Yeah! You’re always busy, you have a lot of projects. You expose Katie to all kinds of cool stuff I never could! And you’re really dedicated—I mean, you won all those competitions as a professional gymnast! I think it’s cool that you still keep up with it even after you retired.

(She makes a face of frustration.)

RICH: And I’m proud of the fact that you always want to do the right thing.

(She melts a little.)

JILLIAN: Well… I’m glad you see all that.

RICH: I do.

JILLIAN: And you promise you won’t make fun of Wondra anymore?

RICH: Promise. She’s pretty amazing, actually, now that you mention it.

JILLIAN: You better believe she is!

(She smacks his playfully on the shoulder, smiling again. They kiss.)

RICH: I guess I’d better get going to work. I love you, honey.

JILLIAN: I love you, too.

RICH: I’ll see you tonight. Have a good day!

(He gathers up his bag and exits.)

(Once JILLIAN is alone in the kitchen, a blue light on the wristwatch starts blinking. JILLIAN looks at it intently, then pulls a blue domino mask out of her robe pocket and puts it on her face. She throws off the robe, revealing her skintight blue Wondra costume.)

JILLIAN: Don’t worry, dear, I will!

(She dashes offstage to save the day.)

31 Plays in 31 Days: #4 - "Colors in the Sky in Rain"

Today's piece uses characters from The Stand. It's spoiler-free for the game, so it's all right to read if you haven't played yet. It tells a bit of the backstory of two of the characters in the game, Negahse'wey the Yurok woman and a certain former US Marshall who once called himself Kenneth Dillon. I'm pretty good at writing the voice of a cowboy from the 1840s, but I struggled more with figuring out how a Yurok Native American who didn't know perfect English would talk. I tried to give it some verisimilitude without descending into stereotypes.

And hey, this one's not dark! In fact, it was playing these characters that and Adam were legally married while in my larp. I'm still tickled by that. :-D

Day #4 - "Colors in the Sky in Rain"

(A white man, KENNETH DILLON, dressed in flannel and denim lies asleep on a pallet. A Native American woman, NEGAHSE’WEY, sits a ways off mixing herbs and mud in a bowl.)

(After a moment, KENNETH stirs, moaning softly. He claps his hand to his forehead in pain, then pushes himself up to rest on one elbow.)

KENNETH: Jesus Christ, Buck… feel like a bull run me over… Buck? You there?

(He looks around and is surprised by his surroundings.)

KENNETH: What…? Where am I?

(He looks at NEGASE’WEY in shock. She looks back at him, considering.)

KENNETH: God damn! Who in the hell are you?

(He scrambles awkwardly back a bit.)

KENNETH: Jesus… one of them Yuroks, ain’t she. Gonna be lucky to get out of here with my scalp still on. Oh, Jesus. What in the hell does she want?

NEGAHSE’WEY: I know your talk some.

KENNETH: Oh! Oh. Uh, sorry, there, miss. Ma’am.

(As an afterthought he goes to take off his hat, and realizes he isn’t wearing it.)

KENNETH: Uh, where’s my…

(She reaches for it and hands it to him. He holds it to his chest.)

KENNETH: Thank you, miss. Feel naked without my…

(He clutches his hair again.)

KENNETH: You ain’t cut off my scalp.

(NEGAHSE’WEY looks at him as if he’s an idiot. KENNETH suddenly feels a fool.)

KENNETH: I guess… I reckon you had plenty of chance if you was going to do that. Sorry, ma’am. Can you… can you tell me where I am?

NEGAHSE’WEY: Yurok village. The old plank house where nobody goes.

KENNETH: Yurok village? How’d I get here?

NEGAHSE’WEY: Found you half-dead. Washed up in the river.

KENNETH: The… the river…

NEGAHSE’WEY: Very stupid, swimming with hide and wood and iron on your feet.

KENNETH: We got no choice! We was on the trail, after some varmint! Me and Buck… Oh, Jesus… Buck! He must think I’m a dead man.

(He struggles to stand, but collapses back onto the pallet.)

NEGAHSE’WEY: Buck?

(She comes over with her bowl of herbs and tries to quiet him. She examines him, checking his pulse and looking into the whites of his eyes.)

KENNETH: My brother, my partner in the marshalls… he was with me. Going after the varmint. We chased him to the river, but the storm was picking up. Water was running wild, made it hard to cross, but we couldn’t just let him get away. Had to go in after him. But… the rain, and the current…

NEGAHSE’WEY: River swept you away.

KENNETH: Yeah… yeah, it did. Hit me like a freight train. That’s the last thing I recollect.

(She begins dabbing at his cuts with the contents of her bowl.)

NEGAHSE’WEY: Found you after. In the mud after storm. Only a little breath, much blood. Though you dead, but… I saw your breath.

KENNETH: No wonder my head’s pounding like a stampede. So I been here since last night?

NEGAHSE’WEY: Three nights.

KENNETH: Three nights!?

NEGAHSE’WEY: You sleep. I wonder if you never wake.

KENNETH: Oh, Jesus. Gone all that time… I gotta get back, gotta tell Buck I ain’t dead…

(NEGAHSE’WEY tries to keep him still, but KENNETH staggers to his feet. He goes to leave but sways helplessly.)

NEGAHSE’WEY: Not good to go out there.

KENNETH: Why?

NEGAHSE’WEY: People out there. Yurok.

KENNETH: Yurok?

NEGAHSE’WEY: Want you not here. Rather you die.

KENNETH: Oh. Oh, Lord.

(He sways. NEGAHSE’WEY helps him back to the pallet.)

NEGAHSE’WEY: I think you not go far.

KENNETH: Might… might be right, ma’am. Oof… like I was drunk of a week, I’m so dizzy. Reckon I’m stuck here until I can defend myself on the way out.

(He allows NEGAHSE’WEY to continue ministering to him silently for a moment, then looks to her.)

KENNETH: Wait a breath… if nobody wants me here… how in thunder did I get here?

NEGAHSE’WEY: Me.

KENNETH: You? Just you?

NEGAHSE’WEY: And my spotted pony. Lay you on his back, bring you here.

KENNETH: But… you said they don’t want me here.

NEGAHSE’WEY: Yes. They say, no white man here. Should leave you where you lay, leave you die. I say no. I say, carry you back here, lay you in the old plank house, tend your wounds. Much anger at me.

KENNETH: Why’d you do it, then?

NEGAHSE’WEY: Sad for you. Lying there, blood and hurt, with no one. Sad.

(KENNETH takes off his hat again.)

KENNETH: That was… that was right kind of you, miss. And… sounds like brave too. Thank you.

(Pause.)

KENNETH: Ah… the name’s Dillon, by the way. US Marshall Kenneth Dillon.

(She stares.)

KENNETH: Just… call me Kenneth. If you please.

(Awkwardly he extends his hand for a handshake. He is a little thrown when she touches it palm to palm.)

KENNETH: What’s your name?

NEGAHSE’WEY: (Considering) You say… Colors in the Sky in Rain.

KENNETH: “Colors in...?” Your name’s Rainbow?

(She stares.)

KENNETH: Uh… what do you say? In your tongue?

NEGASEH’WEY: Negahse’wey.

KENNETH: Negah— Negahse’wey.

(She laughs at his pronunciation.)

NEGAHSE’WEY: I have your tongue. You have no Yurok.

KENNETH: Well… I could! I think… I think I might be here for a little while. I could learn.

(She laughs again.)

KENNETH: (Trying hard.) Negahse’wey! See there! I know one word already! Might be… might be you could teach me more.

(NEGAHSE’WEY walks over to the pallet, tipping her head back and forth.)

NEGAHSE’WEY: Might be. Might be not. So stupid you swim with your boots.

(KENNETH stares a minute, then, realizing she’s made a joke, bursts out laughing. Negahse’wey smiles.)