#16: FIELD OF FLOWERS - by Ed Valentine
© January 16, 2010 * ed@edvalentine.com
LIGHTS UP: A FIELD OF FLOWERS. A MAN and a WOMAN, apart.
MAN: My love!
WOMAN: My love?
MAN: My love?
WOMAN: My love!
MAN: Babykins?
WOMAN: Honey lamb!
MAN: Sweetie bear?
WOMAN: Schnookums!
MAN: Come here.
WOMAN: You come here.
MAN: No, YOU come here.
WOMAN: No, YOU come here.
-
MAN: Let’s BOTH go there.
WOMAN: Excellent idea!
MAN: I’m coming!
(They both run towards each other. A rumble. A crack opens in the ground, a fissure between them. They cannot cross it. They sit, sadly, on the ground.)
MAN: No no no.
No no no.
WOMAN: This’ll never work, Tom. I told you.
MAN: I know. Don’t you think I know?
(They sit sadly. Lights fade.)
END OF PLAY.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
January 15 Play: DINNER WITH THE DEVIL
#15: DINNER WITH THE DEVIL - by Ed Valentine
© January 15, 2010 * ed@edvalentine.com
LIGHTS UP ON A MAN AT A TABLE WITH THE DEVIL. DEVIL’s face is very glossy red, his horns are sharp. Perhaps he’s in evening clothes – a smoking jacket. It’s literally smoking: curls of smoke curl out of the jacket. He has a glass filled with ice and bourbon. His dinner companion, the MAN, is very obese. He digs into a heaping plate of food. He has a glass of beer.
DEVIL: You’re very kind to come over. I really needed someone to talk to.
MAN: (ALWAYS EATING) This canapé is delicious, have you tried the duck?
DEVIL: It’s been hard for me lately.
MAN: You always serve the best food.
DEVIL: The old paradigms just aren’t WORKING for me, I can’t seem to get MOTIVATED. Sure, I do what I do. What I’ve always done. And I’m good at it. Really good at it.
MAN: Yes you are. Olives?
DEVIL: No, thanks. So then why, why is none of it satisfying? Why don’t I take pleasure in anything? I remember the old days, when -
MAN: Look. Look, how long have we known each other?
DEVIL: All your life.
MAN: So take it from me – and really, I mean this from my heart – nothing has changed.
DEVIL: But.
MAN: Nothing has changed.
DEVIL: But.
MAN: Are you listening? Nothing has changed. You’re just thinking about it more.
DEVIL: And.
MAN: Talk talk talk talk talk! What good is talk? Just DO something, for heaven’s sake, and don’t THINK about it. Action is all. ACTION.
(FINISHES ONE LAST MORSEL. WIPES HIS MOUTH.)
Now, what’s for dessert?
DEVIL: You’re right. And gluttony is a sin, bitch.
(DEVIL snaps his fingers. Flames. Many long red-silk-gloved HANDS spring up from beneath the table and drag the MAN, screaming, under.)
He’s right. I DO feel better.
(DEVIL holds his own glass and takes the glass his dinner companion left behind. Clinks ‘em together in a toast.)
To me? To me.
(He drinks from one glass. The HANDS come up and caress him. His jacket smokes. Lights fade.)
END OF PLAY.
© January 15, 2010 * ed@edvalentine.com
LIGHTS UP ON A MAN AT A TABLE WITH THE DEVIL. DEVIL’s face is very glossy red, his horns are sharp. Perhaps he’s in evening clothes – a smoking jacket. It’s literally smoking: curls of smoke curl out of the jacket. He has a glass filled with ice and bourbon. His dinner companion, the MAN, is very obese. He digs into a heaping plate of food. He has a glass of beer.
DEVIL: You’re very kind to come over. I really needed someone to talk to.
MAN: (ALWAYS EATING) This canapé is delicious, have you tried the duck?
DEVIL: It’s been hard for me lately.
MAN: You always serve the best food.
DEVIL: The old paradigms just aren’t WORKING for me, I can’t seem to get MOTIVATED. Sure, I do what I do. What I’ve always done. And I’m good at it. Really good at it.
MAN: Yes you are. Olives?
DEVIL: No, thanks. So then why, why is none of it satisfying? Why don’t I take pleasure in anything? I remember the old days, when -
MAN: Look. Look, how long have we known each other?
DEVIL: All your life.
MAN: So take it from me – and really, I mean this from my heart – nothing has changed.
DEVIL: But.
MAN: Nothing has changed.
DEVIL: But.
MAN: Are you listening? Nothing has changed. You’re just thinking about it more.
DEVIL: And.
MAN: Talk talk talk talk talk! What good is talk? Just DO something, for heaven’s sake, and don’t THINK about it. Action is all. ACTION.
(FINISHES ONE LAST MORSEL. WIPES HIS MOUTH.)
Now, what’s for dessert?
DEVIL: You’re right. And gluttony is a sin, bitch.
(DEVIL snaps his fingers. Flames. Many long red-silk-gloved HANDS spring up from beneath the table and drag the MAN, screaming, under.)
He’s right. I DO feel better.
(DEVIL holds his own glass and takes the glass his dinner companion left behind. Clinks ‘em together in a toast.)
To me? To me.
(He drinks from one glass. The HANDS come up and caress him. His jacket smokes. Lights fade.)
END OF PLAY.
January 14 Play: FUGU
(I'm gonna have to type this in when I find the pages I wrote them on. Check back here for this one. Sorry!)
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
January 13 Play: PAYPHONE PLAY
13: DESERT PAYPHONE - by Ed Valentine
© January 13, 2010 * ed@edvalentine.com
LIGHTS UP ON ONE SIDE OF THE STAGE: A YOUNG MAN, very dusty, with a dirty backpack, at a phone booth in a desert. A ringing sound, as if through a phone.
HE
Come on, come on…
(Ringing continues. Lights up on the other side, an OLDER WOMAN puts down her crocheting [a Christmas stocking]. She picks up the phone.)
SHE
Hello?
HE
Ma, don’t hang up. It’s me.
SHE
-
Who is this?
HE / SHE
It’s Billy, Momma, don’t you… / I’m sorry you must…
BOTH
-
HE
Sorry?
SHE
I’m sorry, you must have the wrong number.
HE
Oh. Oh God, I’m.
(He’s crying now.)
SHE
That’s okay.
-
That’s.
Are you – nevermind.
HE
I’ll be okay. Thanks.
SHE
There there. I’m sure it’ll be okay.
HE
You’re sure, huh?
(Blows nose.)
I’m sorry. You’re very kind.
SHE
Not always. Alright, well, I’m sorry you didn’t reach –
HE
Wait, no, please. Don’t.
Um.
Just one –
Second, ok? Just one second.
Ok?
SHE
-
It’s your dime.
HE
They don’t cost just a dime anymore.
SHE
I don’t imagine so, no.
HE
I put in all this –
MONEY. Fistfuls of change. And then I got
YOU.
No offense.
SHE
None taken.
HE
You have a son?
SHE
-
HE
Cuz you thought I was your son. At first.
SHE
Had a son.
-
HE
-
SHE
My daughter lives in Tucson, she’s a dental hygienist. She finds it hot there, she’d like to move.
Now I don’t know why I’m telling you that.
HE
I’m glad you did.
RECORDED VOICE
Please deposit fifty cents for the next two minutes.
HE
Damn. Dammit, I’m out.
SHE
You’re –
HE
Out of quarters, all out.
SHE
And what were you going to say?
HE
When?
SHE
When you reached
HER, reached your mother?
HE
Nothing. I was –
I was going to ask if I could come home.
RECORDED VOICE
Please deposit fifty cents for the next two minutes.
HE
I was gonna say, can I come home, Momma?
I been away too long, too long.
I been away too long.
SHE
Uh huh.
HE
But now I’ll never reach her. I’m all outta quarters.
RECORDED VOICE
Deposit fifty cents or your call will be disconnected.
SHE
My two cents?
HE
Yes, ma’am?
SHE
Go home. Just go home.
No matter what you’ve done.
She’ll be glad to see you.
You hear me? You hear?
(A click. Lights out on the YOUNG MAN. A dial tone, as if through a phone far away.)
SHE
Oh.
Okay.
Hope you get where you’re going to, Billy.
(She sits, receiver in hand, looking outward and inward at the same time. Lights fade on the WOMAN.)
END OF PLAY.
© January 13, 2010 * ed@edvalentine.com
LIGHTS UP ON ONE SIDE OF THE STAGE: A YOUNG MAN, very dusty, with a dirty backpack, at a phone booth in a desert. A ringing sound, as if through a phone.
HE
Come on, come on…
(Ringing continues. Lights up on the other side, an OLDER WOMAN puts down her crocheting [a Christmas stocking]. She picks up the phone.)
SHE
Hello?
HE
Ma, don’t hang up. It’s me.
SHE
-
Who is this?
HE / SHE
It’s Billy, Momma, don’t you… / I’m sorry you must…
BOTH
-
HE
Sorry?
SHE
I’m sorry, you must have the wrong number.
HE
Oh. Oh God, I’m.
(He’s crying now.)
SHE
That’s okay.
-
That’s.
Are you – nevermind.
HE
I’ll be okay. Thanks.
SHE
There there. I’m sure it’ll be okay.
HE
You’re sure, huh?
(Blows nose.)
I’m sorry. You’re very kind.
SHE
Not always. Alright, well, I’m sorry you didn’t reach –
HE
Wait, no, please. Don’t.
Um.
Just one –
Second, ok? Just one second.
Ok?
SHE
-
It’s your dime.
HE
They don’t cost just a dime anymore.
SHE
I don’t imagine so, no.
HE
I put in all this –
MONEY. Fistfuls of change. And then I got
YOU.
No offense.
SHE
None taken.
HE
You have a son?
SHE
-
HE
Cuz you thought I was your son. At first.
SHE
Had a son.
-
HE
-
SHE
My daughter lives in Tucson, she’s a dental hygienist. She finds it hot there, she’d like to move.
Now I don’t know why I’m telling you that.
HE
I’m glad you did.
RECORDED VOICE
Please deposit fifty cents for the next two minutes.
HE
Damn. Dammit, I’m out.
SHE
You’re –
HE
Out of quarters, all out.
SHE
And what were you going to say?
HE
When?
SHE
When you reached
HER, reached your mother?
HE
Nothing. I was –
I was going to ask if I could come home.
RECORDED VOICE
Please deposit fifty cents for the next two minutes.
HE
I was gonna say, can I come home, Momma?
I been away too long, too long.
I been away too long.
SHE
Uh huh.
HE
But now I’ll never reach her. I’m all outta quarters.
RECORDED VOICE
Deposit fifty cents or your call will be disconnected.
SHE
My two cents?
HE
Yes, ma’am?
SHE
Go home. Just go home.
No matter what you’ve done.
She’ll be glad to see you.
You hear me? You hear?
(A click. Lights out on the YOUNG MAN. A dial tone, as if through a phone far away.)
SHE
Oh.
Okay.
Hope you get where you’re going to, Billy.
(She sits, receiver in hand, looking outward and inward at the same time. Lights fade on the WOMAN.)
END OF PLAY.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Introducing... "DAILY ED": My 'Play a Day' Project!
Happy 2010! This year, please join me online for my latest adventure: I’m writing a short play every day - and posting each and every one of them on this here blog thingie.
I was inspired, of course, by the fabulous Susan-Lori Parks, whose “365 Days/365 Plays” spurred me to write 365 short plays of my own back in 2007. (I’ve written about that play-a-day endeavor before, HERE and HERE.) Ok, ok, that year many of those plays were hastily written in December, when I recommitted to the project after months away from it. At the last minute, I crammed through by writing 6 or 7 plays every day until the end of the year. (But I finished, within seconds of midnight on New Year’s Eve!)
This time, I’m trying to do things a little differently. First, I am committing to writing only ONE play a day, every day of the year. I think there’s something about the daily practice that’s important for my own writing development.
Second, I’m (gulp!) making the work public. “Writing wants to be read,” writes Ariel Gore in her snappy and terrific book, “How to Be a Famous Writer Before You’re Dead.” And I think that’s true: there were times in ’07 when I felt a wee bit like the Belle of Amherst, keeping my private stash of one-page-of-yellow-legal-pad-plays in a folder, for no one’s viewing but my own.
So whether it turns out to be a public sharing, a public spectacle, a public festival, or a public flop… for better or for worse, you’ll find the daily plays at my blog (which you can also access via my website: www.edvalentine.com).
While I hope you’ll enjoy them, I have no idea how they’ll turn out! If you want a taste of them, some of the ones I particularly enjoyed writing so far:
Please feel free to leave or email your comments, too. I’d love to hear your 'likes', 'dislikes', 'thumbs-ups' and 'thumbs-downs', your ‘loves’, and your ‘detests’ - and especially your 'what the heck was THATs???'. Yes, I welcome and love love love to hear your feedback and questions!
So off we go – or, as Tennessee Williams put it: “En Avant!” (“Forward! Onward! Ahead!”) Only 352 days to go. Hope you'll go forward with me this year, as well.
All the best,
Ed
I was inspired, of course, by the fabulous Susan-Lori Parks, whose “365 Days/365 Plays” spurred me to write 365 short plays of my own back in 2007. (I’ve written about that play-a-day endeavor before, HERE and HERE.) Ok, ok, that year many of those plays were hastily written in December, when I recommitted to the project after months away from it. At the last minute, I crammed through by writing 6 or 7 plays every day until the end of the year. (But I finished, within seconds of midnight on New Year’s Eve!)
This time, I’m trying to do things a little differently. First, I am committing to writing only ONE play a day, every day of the year. I think there’s something about the daily practice that’s important for my own writing development.
Second, I’m (gulp!) making the work public. “Writing wants to be read,” writes Ariel Gore in her snappy and terrific book, “How to Be a Famous Writer Before You’re Dead.” And I think that’s true: there were times in ’07 when I felt a wee bit like the Belle of Amherst, keeping my private stash of one-page-of-yellow-legal-pad-plays in a folder, for no one’s viewing but my own.
So whether it turns out to be a public sharing, a public spectacle, a public festival, or a public flop… for better or for worse, you’ll find the daily plays at my blog (which you can also access via my website: www.edvalentine.com).
While I hope you’ll enjoy them, I have no idea how they’ll turn out! If you want a taste of them, some of the ones I particularly enjoyed writing so far:
- Jan 2 (“Under the Sand”)
- Jan 7 (“Seventeen Antonios”)
- Jan 12 - today’s play (“The Beard Play”)
- And especially: Jan 6 (“Rough Beast” – for 3 Kings Day, a Nativity Play gone horribly wrong)
Please feel free to leave or email your comments, too. I’d love to hear your 'likes', 'dislikes', 'thumbs-ups' and 'thumbs-downs', your ‘loves’, and your ‘detests’ - and especially your 'what the heck was THATs???'. Yes, I welcome and love love love to hear your feedback and questions!
So off we go – or, as Tennessee Williams put it: “En Avant!” (“Forward! Onward! Ahead!”) Only 352 days to go. Hope you'll go forward with me this year, as well.
All the best,
Ed
January 12 Play: THE BEARD PLAY
© January 12, 2010 * ed@edvalentine.com
LIGHTS UP: A MAN in a barber chair, covered with a haircutter's apron. On his face: an absurdly long elaborate beard that winds down toward the floor. Behind him, a mirror. To the side, THE BARBER waits with big sharp scissors.
MAN: Wait.
BARBER: How long?
MAN: One second longer. One and a half.
-
Ready.
(BARBER goes to cut the beard.)
Wait! Not ready.
BARBER: Mister –
MAN: Been a long time.
BARBER: One snip –
MAN: You don’t understand!
BARBER: Try me.
(Leans, sharpens his scissors.)
MAN: We go wayback, my beard and me. Way wayback.
I’m attached to it.
BARBER: Naw. It’s attached to you. There’s a diff’rence. It’s attached to you, see?
(The BEARD rises up like a rattlesnake. Or an anaconda.)
MAN: (Evil voice:) Wanna make something of it?
BARBER: Don’t sass me, son, I got scissors.
(BEARD subsides. Normal voice:)
MAN: Sorry.
-
We go backback. Wayback.
(The BEARD rises like a tentacle and caresses him. Enfolds him.)
This beard been with me through thickthin,
Through thickskin and thin,
Shirts and skins, fast food, fine dining, fast friends,
faster wimmin.
So many wimmin.
So many, so many. So fast.
Through it all, my sticky beard sticks with me.
Wimmin come and go,
But the beard do grow. Man, that beard do grow.
Naw, Friend: can’t cut the Beard.
(Gets up. Takes off the apron. BARBER pushes MAN down into the chair.)
BARBER: Sit down, Son.
(To the BEARD:)
You too.
(Holds up scissors. BEARD rears back, wary.)
Boy, that beard’s no good for you.
Makes you done do things you don’t otherwise do.
MAN: Now, listen -
BARBER: SIT DOWN, I SAY.
Son, I got the scissors. And I know how to use ‘em.
It's for your own good. One. Two. THREE.
(BARBER feints with the scissors, like a fencer. The beard parries him. On the third feint, he thrusts the scissors into the BEARD – which fights him, like a snake. Chokes him, like an anaconda.)
Ain’t – frightened – of YOU!
(As he's being strangled, the BARBER raises the scissors and cuts the BEARD with one big snip. BEARD falls to the ground, in death throes. BARBER steps on it. MAN reacts as if amputated.
MAN: AH! AH!!!
(BARBER turns MAN towards mirror. MAN breathes. Pleased:)
Ahhhh!
(Despondent:)
Ah.
BARBER: There there. We all been through it.
(Feels his own smooth chin.)
Let’s finish your shave.
Buck up, Son: it’s trimmin’ day!
(He hums a merry song. Fur flies. Music up. The BEARD slinks off to die.)
END OF PLAY.
Monday, January 11, 2010
January 11 Play: MEDIUM AND THE MESSAGE
© January 11, 2010 * ed@edvalentine.com
LOW LIGHTS UP: A séance room. A table with a candle and a tambourine. A Ouija board. A MEDIUM sits with her female CLIENT. Dress of the 1860’s.
MEDIUM: I tell you truth: he gone far to other side, yes? That place hard to reach. Understand?
CLIENT: Yes.
MEDIUM: I do not think you understand. Will take all my powers to reach him. Very tiring, verrrry tiring. You understand?
CLIENT: Oh.
(Takes out her purse. Gives coins.)
Here’s a little extra for you, then.
MEDIUM: I thank you, that help a great deal. And now we begin, yes?
(MEDIUM goes into trance. Chants, hums.)
CLIENT: May I ask –
MEDIUM: DO NOT BREAK TRANCE! Mmmmm.
From darkest night to day,
from across the river, far away,
appear on distant shore.
Let her see you once more, once more.
Let her see you once more.
Let her see you!
Let her see you!
Let her see you!
(HER EYES FLY OPEN.)
CLIENT: Is he –
MEDIUM: He is here.
CLIENT: He is?
MEDIUM: Right around us.
CLIENT: He is?
MEDIUM: Give sign.
CLIENT: Where is he?
MEDIUM: Give sign!
(The tambourine rises from the table. Begins to shake. Then, in the darkness upstage, four other tambourines rise and shake. Suddenly they stop.)
You see?
CLIENT: But where is my husband?
MEDIUM: Patience, patience… he will… APPEAR!
(A whispering sound everywhere. The candle blows out.)
CLIENT: Henry!
(In the darkness, a GHOST appears in spectral light.)
That isn’t Henry.
GHOST: No. But I know Henry.
CLIENT: Why didn’t he come?
GHOST: He’s not speaking to you.
CLIENT: But –
GHOST: He says ‘You know why.’ Do you know why?
CLIENT: -
GHOST: Exactly.
MEDIUM: After all these years…
(The GHOST starts to disappear.)
Tell him – tell him I ask for his forgiveness!
GHOST: He won’t give it. I have to go now.
CLIENT: No, wait –
GHOST: I have to go.
(Disappears. The candle flickers back on as at the beginning. The CLIENT and the MEDIUM sit for a moment.)
MEDIUM: Well. Are you… satisfied?
CLIENT: No. Not at all. No.
(With one last look back at where the ghost appeared, she exits, shaking her head.)
MEDIUM: They never are.
(Picks up tambourine. Gives it a little shake.)
Next!
END OF PLAY.
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