imagine a blue world...

Tailored to Fit

2012-02-09T01:14:00.000-08:00

Characters:

.Rani, a neurotic tailor

.Jhumpa, the concerned friend

.Mr. Ezekiel, a black suit

.Mrs. Senpai, a kimono

.Thumri Kakkar, a kurta punjabi

.Guria, a thirteen-year old’s ghagra

.Vijay, the apologetic visitor

SceneOne:

Atailor’s shop – the roller shutters are drawn shut. Rani is sitting at hersewing machine. There is a constant drone of the machine – it is the only soundthat can be heard above the traffic outside. The wall of the store is linedwith clothes on hangers. Glitzy shiny stuff – it’s December, and close tofestival time.

Ahuge pile of cloth lies like a mountain of multicolor downstage right. Stageleft is devoted to a tiny bed and a small dresser.

Rani:It’s lonely in winter. All year around you don’t notice it so much. But whenwinter gets around and everyone’s getting ready to put up their Christmaslights all over the place – and there’s enough work to do to keep you fromgetting out – but not enough to keep you from losing yourself in it – Pujo’sbetter – at least there’s so much to do then that you’ll never finish on time.I miss Abba.

Girl(Voicefrom outside and a rap on the shutters): Rani! Rani! You forgot again, didn’tyou!

(Ranigets up from the machine and rolls the shutters up – just a little so that thegirl outside can come in. You get a glimpse of the street too, when she comesin – and it’s all bright lights and festivity. Walking feet pass by, in glittering shoes. The girl’s aboutthe same age as Rani, but dressed brighter – as if she’s just come in from thestreet outside)

Rani:Forgot what?

Girl:We were supposed to go to the ghat today – have phuchka? (she looks around theshop) Dhurr – you’re going to say there’s too much work again, aren’t you.

Rani:He’d die again if he found out I was going out with all that left –

Girl:Who? You’ve been talking to yourself again, haven’t you?

Rani:No. I mean, I really don’t have the time, Jhumpa, Christmas is just around thecorner.

Jhumpa:Well, it’s not as if it’s Eid or something. Ok, ok – I get it, I’m going. Vijay’swaiting for me anyway. Worst thing Mr. Akhtar ever did was to leave you hisshop. It’s not like you need the money – and you’ll graduate soon enough! (Ranigently pushes her out and rolls the shutter back down on her) Why can’t youjust sell the damn thing?

Rani:Bye, Jhumpa.

(sheturns around and, staring at the cloth pile, sinks to the floor)

Rani:Mr. Ezekiel knows, don’t you, Mr. Ezekiel?

(thepile of cloth on the floor shifts slightly – and a child crawls out. She’sabout thirteen, and looks exactly like Rani. She’s dressed in a ghagra that’sway too big for her and is trailing on the floor. She turns around and dragsout a black suit from the heap. The last bit comes out loose suddenly – and sheslips and falls on her back. She gets up and arranges the suit on a low stooljust upstage right of the cloth pile. Arranges it so that it looks like aperson’s sitting there. Then she laughs and disappears.)

Rani:How are you, Mr. Ezekiel? Too many years under Mrs. Chatterjee’s petticoat?That can’t have been fun. How does it feel to still be here after ten years?Has it really been that long? Has it? Oh yes – oh my god yes – ten years. Doyou feel like a smoke, Mr. Ezekiel? Do you feel like you need a drink? It’s winter, you know – not sodifficult to find rum in winter. But you can’t drink, can you, Mr. Ezekiel?Because you’re not really Mr. Ezekiel. Mr. Ezekiel died on the way back toLindsay street after he gave Abba his measurements – and never came back foryou. Are you lonely, then, Mr. Ezekiel’s suit? Did you curse Abba for notcutting you up and making you into tiny little mourning suits for Mr. Ezekiel’ssons? Did you want to visit the funeral? Do you want to run away? Do you wantto run away away away and never ever have to come back to this little shopwhere you were made – with those very needles over there – and those reels ofthread over there – and that old machine over there – and those hands…

Ordo you want to stay here forever, Mr. Ezekiel? With Guria and Miss Senpai andThumri and those clothes over there that’ll you’ll never get to know becausethey’ll all be on their way before the season turns – and those scraps overthere that you had a little fling with in the summer who will all be leavingyou for a patchwork drapery for a wedding hall. All the things you know and theonly things you know.

Jhumpa(outside the door, crying): Rani! Raaani! Open the rollers.

(Ranijumps up and lets her in)

Jhumpa:Oh Rani! I saw them together at the ghats. Vijay and Jasmine. I didn’t knowwhat to do! Why didn’t I see this coming!

Rani:Come in and sit down.

Jhumpa:Rani, I’m such an idiot. I don’t want go back home – can I stay with you to –(sees Mr. Ezekiel) ohhh. Who – oh. Oh, it’s just a suit. What the hell are youplaying at? I got so scared!

Rani:It’s alright, Jhumpa. You can stay here tonight. Do you want some dinner?

Jhumpa:No – oh Rani – I’m so stupid. (starts crying again)

Rani:Sit down – I’ll get you something to drink.

(exitstage left)

(Jhumpasits on the bed – her eyes keep straying towards the suit on the stool. Shegets up once or twice and looks for Rani near the left wings – and keepsturning to look at Mr. Ezekiel. Then she looks back at the open rollers,shivers, and lowers them down. As soon as they shut – the lights go off – and Jhumpascreams in the dark.)

SceneTwo:

Thesame. In the dark, the clothes look sinister – especially the suit propped upon the stool. The heaps and piles of cloth here and there create eerie shapes.There is hardly any light – just a soft glow from within the left wings.

Rani:Jhumpa, I’m here. I’m coming – don’t worry.

(Sheenters with a candle and sets it down centre stage. Jhumpa is crouched against the rollers)

Rani:Sit on the bed, Jhumpa. Don’t worry – there’s a load shedding at this timeevery other day. It’s usually not so bad during winter, but the power will beback in about an hour or so. I can roll the shutter up if you want – butthere’s no light outside, either.

Jhumpa:NO. I mean, do you have any more candles? I hate the shadows. The place looksso damn depressing. Especially the suit. Will you get that off the chair?

Rani:Oh, you mean Mr. Ezekiel?

Jhumpa:Oh my god.

Rani:Don’t worry about him – he’s been here forever. He’s not the only one. There’sMrs. Senpai.

(Thechild walks into the room again while she speaks, dragging another garment inwith her. She sets it up on a hanger – and hangs that against a wall with theglitzy new costumes. It’s a bright red kimono.)

She’sgetting old. She used to belong to a famous actor – Rina Brown, have you heardof her? Took them more than five years to film that Tokyo movie. So long thatshe needed some loosening at the waist and the hip – well practicallyeverywhere along the sides. And then she just got left here. Maybe she got sofat that they couldn’t do the movie anymore. I don’t know – it never came out.She’s around here somewhere. (moves around with the candle and finds thekimono)

Hereshe is. Isn’t she gorgeous?

Jhumpa:I wish you’d get more candles.

Rani:And there’s Thumri Kakkar. He’s not as old as the rest of them – you’ll quitelike him. He’s tall and handsome and makes the strangest comments at thestrangest times.

(Thechild walks in with another garment, and sits it up against the rollers thistime)

Hecame with a bunch of other wedding clothes the groom had worn – to cut up andcreate babies’ blankets from – god knows why they’d want such uncomfortablebabes’ blankets. Anyway, the baby died, I think – and they got divorced. Andwhen he came back to pick all his clothes up – he wasn’t very calm you see –and he left poor Thumri behind. I don’t know when he’d worn Thumri – hiswedding night – or the following morning – god knows. But I bet Thumri’s sad –to be made for such happy family occasions and then discarded after a single wear.Here he is, see, sitting like he’s about to fall apart at the seams. PoorThumri Kakkar. Do you want some dinner, too?

Jhumpa:RANI. Candles!

Rani:Oh, sorry. I’ll get some more.

(exitstage left)

Jhumpa:Leave me your candle!

Rani:Sorry!

(Ranicomes back and leaves her a candle)

(Jhumpawalks to centre stage with the candle and does a few double takes. Mr. Ezekiel,Mrs. Senpai and Thumri Kakkar have all shifted their postures while she wasn’tlooking)

Jhumpa:RANI! Come back quick!

(Sheinspects each of the garments closely with the candle and prods the pile ofclothes on the floor. When she looks up, the garments move synchronously andjerkingly.)

(Raniwalks in carrying a lit candle and a packet)

Jhumpa:It’s Mr. Ezekiel – (she points at him)

Rani:Mr. Ezekiel, have you been moving again?

(Jhumpashrinks away from them)

Rani:Oh Jhumpa, it’s nothing to be worried about. He keeps doing this, the stupidadorable little man. I mean, suit. Oh, I mean – Mr. Ezekiel tell her. Tell herit’s all alright.

Jhumpa:No, no, no, Rani – it’s alright, I’m alright, I don’t want him to tell meanything – I –

(shedrops the candle)

(Mr.Ezekiel gets out of his chair and picks it up and holds it out for her)

Mr.Ezekiel: Fire’s dangerous, didn’t you know?

(Jhumpashrieks and runs to sit on the bed)

Mr.Ezekiel: Do you want help with those, dear?

Rani(lighting the other candles): Oh no, thank you. You might catch fire. You knowhow clumsy you always were with your sleeves. You keep Mrs. Senpai occupied – Ithink she’s trying to get at Jhumpa’s hair.

(Mrs.Senpai is indeed reaching out towards Jhumpa)

Sorry,Jhumpa – she’s a bit senile – and she misses her own hair you know. Try tellingher she’s never had any – and you might just get scalped!

Mrs.Senpai: I beg your pardon? Me? I’d never.

Mr.Ezekiel: Why don’t you come here and sit with me, Mrs. Senpai – we’ll watch thecandle flame flicker to and fro.

(Hegoes and helps Mrs. Senpai out towards the audience, sits with them and theywatch the nearest flame with the utmost concentration)

Thumri:You’re sad. I’m sad. I can tell.

(Jhumpastares at him)

Rani:Be nice, Jhumpa. I can usually never get him to talk.

Jhumpa:Hello.

Thumri:Never say hello to somebody. They’re going to leave you anyway.

(Jhumpalooks like she’s going to cry again)

Mrs.Senpai: There, there dear – Thumri, you rascal, who told you to say suchunpleasant things? Talk about something nice – something you know about – likezippers and buttons and hooks!

Jhumpa:No, no, it’s alright. I’m sorry about that groom of yours.

Thumri:Well, he wasn’t my groom.

Jhumpa:(laughing nervously) I like your kurta – I mean, I like you. I mean, it’s anice colour. I mean, is it grey or blue or purple – I can’t tell in the dark.

Thumri:I don’t know. But thank you. I like you too.

Jhumpa:Oh.

Thumri:Do you want to light a candle with me?

Jhumpa:Oh. I mean, I’d love to – but Rani said that –

Mr.Ezekiel: You’ve got a sane head on your collars. Listen to her Thumri, it willdo you some good.

Thumri:It’s a beautiful head. I wish I had a beautiful head.

Jhumpa:I wish you had one, too. I could practically –

Mrs.Senpai: Oh, but we do have heads, dear, who told you we don’t? Look at usagain!

(Headspeep out from the collars of the three garments – hands from the sleeves, andfeet from the legs)

Thumri:You could practically what?

(Thechild runs to them and blows out the nearest candle)

Rani:Oh, I’m so sorry. That’s Guria. That ghagra – that’s mine. From back when I wasthirteen. Guria, what are youdoing?

(Guriablows out a few more candles and runs to Rani and whispers something in herear)

Rani:Oh. She says there’s someone standing outside the shutter who wants all thecandles off.

Jhumpa(whimpering): No. Why?

(Someonebangs on the roller doors from outside. Guria blows off the candles one by one,as Ezekiel and Senpai and Thumri walk to their original positions on stage)

Rani:Don’t worry, dear, let me see.

(Thereis only one candle left now, in her hand. She rolls up the shutters and a manbends and walks in, completely drenched. Jhumpa whimpers softly)

Rani:Vijay! You’re completely drenched! What are you doing here? Is it about thatshirt and pants that you wanted. They’re stitched and done. I’ll fetch them foryou?

(shewalks off to the right of the stage, looking for the clothes)

Vijay:No – no – I came for Jhumpa. I – I – there she is – I came to say I’m sorry.About letting you down like that. With Jasmine, I mean. I’m really sorry. Ishould have told you. I shouldn’t have sprung it on you like that there – atthe ghat. Me and Jasmine – we’re both very very sorry. She wanted to tell youtoo – but it’s just that I can’t find her. I can’t find her anywhere. I’m sorry–

Rani:That’s so strange. I can’t find Vijay’s clothes anywhere.

Vijay:It’s alright. I don’t need them now. I’ll go look for Jasmine now.

(heblows out the candle)

SceneThree:

Thelights come one – the same room. Everything in the same place. All the peopleare also standing exactly where they were – except the garments are justgarments now, sitting/standing in their original positions and places. And inplace of Vijay, there is a shirt and a pair of jeans propped against theroller.

(Jhumpasinks into Mr. Ezekiel’s lap)

Jhumpa:It was so dark – so dark. I didn’t mean to. I got so angry, seeing themtogether that I just lost it and flew at them – and before I knew it they werein the river – and I didn’t know what to do – I’m so stupid. So stupid. (shebreaks down)

Rani:Oh. There they are. Vijay’s clothes. I finished making them a while back. I waslooking for them, you know.

Youcan come visit him whenever you want.

END

Woogally in the Lair of the Beasts

2011-11-23T11:15:00.001-08:00

Happy Birthday, Woogally!!!

Open publication - Free publishing - More ally

Fingers

2011-11-01T14:47:00.001-07:00

Mr. Fingers had a pretty wife. She never got out much butyou could see her face pressed against the attic window all afternoon on sunnydays, her unseen but presumably dainty little fingers working on somethingintricately – something just below the window seat – so Ben could never seewhat that thing was.

He used to walk across the street every afternoon at four –on his way to the river – where he’d meet his father at the little jetty wherethe fishermen lounged about all day. He’d throw up his brown switchblade intothe air – and catch it again with his deft fingers, feeling the snag in the metalwhere Bessie’s dog Susie-Ann had bit into it. A picnic five years ago when Benhad been seven and much too young to run up Nail Hill after a crazy dog.

But Mrs. Fingers would never look up. Ben didn’t know why hewanted her to – except that Ben liked people to look at him. He’d whistle while he walked down the streetall the way to the jetty, a peppy tune from the latest picture, so people wouldlook up at him as he jaunted along, playing with his knife. Everyone exceptMrs. Fingers. Either her closed window didn’t let any sound in or she wasalways at work on something far more interesting than Ben’s famous tunes.

Jimmy Fingers went to school with Ben. Jimmy was a quiet boywith a small mole on the back of his neck. He sat at the corner desk in thefront row, with his very dirty fingers spayed greasily on the table in front ofhim and looked ahead all the time – giving Ben a full view of absolutely nothingof himself – except his hands and his little mole. Ben liked to look at people– just as he liked them to look at him. He’d stare at them as if he wasmemorizing everything about them, as if he was a portrait artist who needed togo back home and start painting what he’d seen. But all he could remember ofJimmy Fingers was his mole and a set of ten very dirty fingernails.

One early Tuesday afternoon, Ben and the boys had beenidling about near the jetty, having skipped school and feeling very pleasedabout themselves. The boys were sitting facing the sea – watching theirfathers’ boats bob up and down on the waves far away near the horizon. Allexcept Ben, who was staring at the tiny flash of light from Mrs. Fingers’window, a row of houses away.

They were playing rock, paper scissors. Absentmindedly. Rockbashed scissors, scissors sliced up paper, paper stifled the rock, over andover again, as the light in the attic window flashed in and out of the sun.

“There should be more to it.” Ben said, sitting up. “To rockpaper scissors.”

“You mean like how we’d tried lighter bird gun lastChristmas and ended up with matching black eyes each over whether the bird flewaway with the paper or choked on it and died?”

“No. Something else. Closer to home. What do you think Mrs.Fingers has in her fingers?”

All six heads swung in unison towards the attic window.

“A needle? I don’t get it.”

“It should be a surprise. It should be something no oneknows about. Like a trump card. Or an ace up a sleeve.”

“But it’s definitely a needle. What else could she be doingall day?”

“But what kind of needle? It’s an awful idea of Ben’s –playing rock paper scissors x – but Mrs. Fingers could be doing anythingbeneath the window. Knitting needles wouldn’t catch so much light – crochet?darning?”

“She could bestitching up dead bodies of birds. Stuffing them – what’s it called?Taxi-dummy?”

“Maybe it’s a knife, not a needle, and she’s slicing them upinstead. All the birds she finds in her chimney and the rats she finds in herlarder.”

“And people. Bodies that her husband’s dug up for her at thegraveyard over the weekend.”

“Maybe she’s chopping their fingers off and arranging themin little jars according to their sizes.”

“Or plucking out their finger nails to use because shedoesn’t have her own.”

“Maybe it is aneedle,” Ben added,“and she’s stitching up Jimmy. A new version of JimmyFingers everyday, complete with the mole for id. And sending the stitched dollto school. And that’s why he’s so quiet – because he’s not human.”

There was a quiet whimper in response to this statement –behind the rocks they were sitting against. Everyone shut up – and turned tolook. Everyone except Ben, who continued to speak, because he was enjoying it –and thought he sounded very clever, even to whoever the person was listeningbehind the rocks.

“And that’s why none of us can ever remember what he lookslike. Because he doesn’t have a real face.”

An unreal face raised itself from behind the rocks, veryslowly, quivering red in a very real way. The boys were deathly quiet now.

“Only real fingers, that she stitches on to each new dollover and over again. And that’s why they’re so dirty. Because she keepsre-using those fingers over and over again.”

This was said directly to Jimmy, because Ben couldn’t bringhimself to stop. He was feeling awfully sorry now, but the momentum that hadpitched the story forward was in full swing – and it lashed out at the unrealboy, like a fist to a face.

And it was met with the same. Or would have been, if theother boys hadn’t caught those very real fingers in time, and held them back.

Ben laughed. He wanted to stop, but he couldn’t, not now.

“Well?” He asked, as Jimmy Fingers quietened down under tensets of stronger fingers. “Which one was right?”

Jimmy Fingers grinned. Very white,very unreal teeth flashedfor a brief second behind those parting lips. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” heasked.

Ben shrugged. “Actually, yes. Will you settle this over agame then? If you win, I’ll say sorry. And if you lose, you’ll tell me whatyour mum’s doing behind that attic window.”

“Ben, that’s not – ”

“Shut it,” the twelve-year-old hissed. “I’m asking Jimmy.Let the doll decide.”

Jimmy’s grin froze – for only a split second – and then grewwider.

“Sure. Except, if you win, I won’t just tell you what mymum’s up to, I’ll take you up to the attic and show you. And if I win, your fingers belong to me.”

There was another one of those funeral silences. Ben brokeit, laughing shrilly.

“You’re bluffing, but I’ll call it. And I suppose you’llwant to play a game that matches, too. Stabbing knives between our fingers – orthrowing them at apples in our mouths – or something.”

Jimmy was still grinning. “Sure – if you say so – rock paperscissors would do just fine for me.”

Ben grinded his teeth. “Fine then. Since you’re too scaredto put your fingers on the line. Rockpaper scissors it is.”

“Can I have my fingers backfirst?”

Ben nodded. In unison, the boys let Jimmy Fingers go. Thetwo faced each other against the blue waves and sky, tiny boats bobbing up anddown in the horizon. Ben called – or Jimmy called – or both of them calledtogether – it didn’t matter which.

“Rock.”

Jimmy’s eyes were roughly where Ben’s fingers would be –behind his back – as if he could see through the cloth and bone.

“Paper.”

Ben’s flitted briefly away from Jimmy’s face – to the eyesof his comrades, standing at aslight angle behind Jimmy. The boy shook hishead, ever so slightly.

“Scissors.”

He’d let him draw once.Together, they drew out theirfingers, index and middle cutting outwards.

“Rock.”

Second time round, and Jimmy was fighting now. Ben couldtell in the way his smile was faltering under those furrowed brows.

“Paper.”

Ben glanced towards the boy behind Jimmy again, as the boyshook his head.

“Scissors.”

Both scissors again. One more draw for credibility.

“Rock.”

In the light of the concentration on Jimmy’s face, his featureslooked very real in the afternoon sun right then. This was how they’d allremember him – a small sharp nose, and a chin whose all-but-absence was morethan made up for by the desperately calm determination in the eleven-year-old’seyes.

“Paper.”

Ben looked at the boy behind Jimmy one last time. This timehe inclined his head forwards briefly. This was it. Ben splayed out all hisfingers stiffly behind his back.

“Scissors.”

As he brought his paper out, Ben noticed – a split secondtoo late – the expression of the boy behind Jimmy change from confidence toalarm. Jimmy’s fingers shifted just before he drew his hand – and it wasscissors again – a short sharp jab that sent a thrill of cold horror down thespines of all the other boys.

Ben drew his breath sharply. And blinked, thrice. And in theface of Jimmy Finger’s grin, defiant and sinister till the very end – Ben bowedtheatrically.

“Alright then, Fingers. What do you want me to do now?”

Jimmy Fingers shrugged. “Got your famous switchblade? Hack‘em off.”

Ben paled, but didn’t falter. He brought his switchblade outfrom inside his pocket. The other boys made to move towards Jimmy, angry growlsin their throats. Jimmy ignored them, eyes on Ben as the latter held out hisleft hand in front of him – and, with tiny little beads of sweat appearing onhis forehead and a visible knot tightening in his throat – held the blade overhis fingers gingerly.

He glanced at Jimmy – who made no movement or noise – andthen raised the blade, gritting his teeth.

“Or, actually, wait.” Jimmy said. “Since that game wasn’tquite fair, since I knew you were cheating and planned ahead – maybe we shouldboth pay up.”

Ben was a lot of things, but he wasn’t a sore loser. “Why?Even if you knew I was cheating – Iwas the one cheating.”

“Call me generous,” Fingers grinned. “I think I’d like toshow you what my mum’s doing up there after all.”

Then he paused conspiratorially, leaned forward andwhispered, loud enough for everyone to hear: “And then – let her use your fingers.”

“You little – ” Ben started, and then stopped himself. Inspite of himself, he let curiosity get the better of him, and he nodded.

“But just you,” said Jimmy Fingers.

The two boys walked back to the Fingers’ house, as theothers waited by the shore uneasily. Their little fists were bunched up andraised in front of them – and the two of them who had tiny knives in theirpockets had their fingers clenched tight around them.

Ben followed Jimmy into his house and up the single stonestaircase.

“Maybe it’s a knife,not a needle, and she’s slicing them up instead. All the birds she finds in herchimney and the rats she finds in her larder.”

His friends’ voices were playing over and over in his head,like a dull recording he desperately wanted to shut off.

“And people. Bodies that her husband’s dug upfor her at the graveyard over the weekend.”

His fingers were trembling as he laid his hands on the dustybanister.

“Maybe she’s choppingtheir fingers off and arranging them in little jars according to their sizes.”

There was a dull ache in their joints – that was more fearthan pain – and his heart throbbed loudly against his rib cage, even as hissteady steps followed the younger boy up, up, up towards the attic, his eyestransfixed on the mole on the back of his neck, his face pale but straight.

“Or plucking out their finger nails to use becauseshe doesn’t have her own.”

There was no door. The staircase led straight into a smallroom, with one large window spilling warm late afternoon sun onto minimalfurniture – a bed, a cupboard, a potted plant by the door, a chair by the windowsilland a low desk beneath the window.

Mrs. Fingers was sitting at the desk, her light hair fallingin thick curls over one shoulder, the desk in front of her crowded with littleclear bottles all filled with red liquid that glittered quietly in the sun.

She turned as Jimmy walked in and smiled lovingly, holdingout her hands. A glass mirror in her right hand caught the sun as she moved andflashed briefly. The fingernails on her left hand glinted blood red.

Jimmy went up to his mother and kissed her. Mrs. Fingersreached out for one of the bottles in front of her, held her son’s hands out infront of her, and started painting his nails.

“She’s been like this for five years,” Jimmy said quietly toBen, who stood still, framed by the doorway. “She was trying to save hersister’s dog from swallowing some switchblade she’d run away with. She ran upNail Hill after the dog – and tripped over a tree root and fell rolling all theway down, hitting her head against the rocks below. She hasn’t spoken since,and she doesn’t understand what we say either. She just likes to sit at herwindow, and paint her nails.”

Mrs. Fingers let go of her son’s hands and turned to look atBen.

“It’s ok. You can come closer, she’s harmless.” Jimmy said,walking over to the potted plant and digging his fingers in the dirt to hidethe pink colour on his nails. “And you promised you’d let her use your fingers.”

Ben let Jimmy’s mother pick a nice bright scarlet fromamidst the bottled nail colour and paint his nails with it.

His voice was hoarse when he spoke – but he had to get itout.

“It was my switchblade. The one she was running after. I’msorry, Jimmy.”

“It doesn’t matter. Not anymore,” replied Jimmy Fingers.

Mrs. Fingers heard nothing, and went on painting, her smilequiet and empty as always. And when she finished, she patted the boys on theback and sent them off, each with a set of dirty fingernails, smearing brightred over their sleeves and pockets and trailing messily on the floorboardsbehind them.

The Clockmaker - a Very Old Obsolete Puppet Show

2011-09-30T21:37:00.000-07:00

SCENE 1:

Clocks ticking rhythmically, clockmaker (CM) enters, beginsworking on the clock, hums a little tune.

Customer 1 enters.

C1: I have a problem with my clock.

CM: Let’s see your clock…yes, I see. Leave it with me fortwo days- I’ll have it ready by Friday.

Customer leaves.

CM goes to his bedroom, lies down, clocks keep ticking(soundbecomes louder)

Light swings to large wall clock behind audience and followshand movement, clock ticks rhythmically.

SCENE 2:

Clocks tick, CM walks in and for a second clocks stopticking and then they start ticking again normally. CM looks around stillconfused and sits at his table, goes on working on the clock.

Customer 2 comes in, calls CM once or twice before CMrealizes he’s there.

C2: What kind of clocks do you…(fades out and tickingbecomes louder)

CM shakes his head.

C2: I was thinking of an alarm you know.

CM stares at C2 without responding.

C2: Hello? An alarm clock? Hello? (waves in CM’s face)

CM keeps staring at him.

C2: Freak! (and walks out)

CM goes to his room and sits on his bed. He hums his tune…it becomes faster than the ticking of the clock and he loses the beat. He stopsand begins humming again along with the ticking but again he loses the rhythmand becomes faster. Then the ticking of the clock increases speed to match withhis humming. He nods and goes to bed.

Light swings to large wall clock at the back, which makesrhythmical noises and lights swing with clock hands.

SCENE 3:

One or two clocks are slower/faster. Some are goinganticlockwise but most are fine. Two customers come in C3 and C4, C4 is ashadow person.

C4: Is my clock ready? The one I asked you to fix? Clockmaker?

C3: Do you buy old clocks?

CM: Yes.

C3: Oh, good. I have this 19^th century piecebelonging to my father.

CM: But there’s still a problem.

C3: What?

C4: With the working?

CM: No, I’ve fixed the gears. The paint is chipping off thedial – if you don’t change the dial soon, the hands will wear.

C3: What the hell are you talking about?

CM: Wait your line, sir; can’t you see I have anothercustomer to attend to?

C3: What? The man’s mad!

He leaves but his shadow stays on. More and more shadowpeople come in and stand around the CM. The ticking becomes faster, one or twoclocks start shaking. The shadow people start whispering: “tick-tock,tick-tock, tick-tock”.

CM gets scared and runs into his room, jumps into his bedand then he realizes that the shadow figures have followed him to his room. Hestarts whimpering and the lights fade out.

Light swings to the large wall clock which makes rhythmicnoises, light follows hand movements.

SCENE 4:

The clockmaker is already in the clock room. The clocks areshaking and spinning, and the speed of the ticking is very irregular. CMbehaves strangely, random gestures, picking up things and keeping them back.He’s humming with the clocks, stopping suddenly, starting suddenly, speedingdown and slowing down. Flashes ofcolour on the screen behind (?)

The shadow people are larger, and blurred with the clocks onthe background behind, “tick-tock, tick-tock” One comes forward.

Shadow: Tick-tock, tick-tock clockmaker. Mad, mad… you’regoing mad.

A whisper is taken up by the shadow people. “mad, mad theclockmaker is mad.”

CM: (laughs) Mad? So is that it? I’m mad?

The whisper grows louder, the ticking slows and speeds withthe whisper.

CM: You thinkI’m mad? And you? (to the audience) Do you – all of you – think I’m mad,too? Because I hear things you don’t? Because I see things you don’t?

What… doyou see?

The lightswings to the large wall clock behind the audience, and whirls around it. Coloured lights (?) Theticking is as loud as possible and very irregular, the light whirls across theaudience as the ticking rises in a crescendo sharply till it seems likesomething big is about to happen – and the room lights come back on, with thepuppeteers visible and the puppets only wood and cloth and string lying in alifeless heap on stage.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________

Crowned

2011-07-31T04:37:00.000-07:00

Here it was – all of it – stretched in front of him like some giant monster, quelled and overcome and surrendering. All of it – from the twin peaks in the east, where he had watched the sun rise so many eons ago, to the echoing range in the west, touched by the dawning darkness. There was hardly the tremble left – in the red limbs of this tired beast; the night was coming.

He could trace it in his head now, the undulating anatomy of the rugged hills – the contours that he’d drawn and redrawn and dreamt about every waking day. He’d memorized every rock on the abused parchment of the map, and traced every stone with the sharp edge of his sword. And now here it all was – the valley and the hills and the far horizon – from the cradle stone, the heart and crown of all that it could see.

He turned his back on it now, and strode towards the old throne, the tip of his sword dragging a thin winding line amidst the cold hard stone – a long quiet scratch on the grey. They’d told him that it was alive – the land – a breathing monster that would awaken from sleep and swallow him whole if he ever tried – but he had, and here the monster was, docile and dead – like the trees that refused to grow on its dry slopes, and the water that refused to breathe in its empty valleys. And the gold that breathed in the heart of the stone – the only breath that could be felt through the clammy soil – a dead breath, glistening and cold and odourless – lifeless.

His people were shouting conversations in the valley – as they covered up the dead in the deep pit they had dug that evening. They were mindless conversations – anything and everything to pass the time – to draw away from the dead weight of the bodies in their arms, the cold stares of the vacant faces. Loud and drawn, to drown the silence of the valley, the screaming silence that clawed at their armour and stifled their breath.

Easing himself out of his ruddy armour, and letting it fall unceremoniously to the dust, he stood before the rough-hewn throne. They’d carried her away not two hours ago – her limp fingers circled around the hilt pressed against her stomach – the lines on her face drawn into circles of rude disbelief. As her feet had dragged across the earth, the crown had fallen off her head – and rolled to his feet. A crown of bright gold – heavy, ugly and precious – a crown that sat on his head now. As he would sit – on her throne.

Would? The empty stone seat stared up at him, it’s crude workmanship wheezing dust and bloodstains in the descending twilight. He had never been afraid of stories – but there was something unnerving about the throne. He would rather it was the fatigue than the stories – and rather the stories than the guilt – that made him hesitate from using it. There could be no guilt – that was not the way he lived.

And there should be none – it was the way of the people who he had just driven out of the valley – driven out and driven under. For all their wealth, they had been imprisoned with it – the queen with her crown and her throne and the people with their shovels and ropes. Hacking away at the heart of their land – and hacking away at the farms and the green wealth of his people – from the neighbouring hills.

She had treated them with no guilt and he had answered with none – from his artful pretence of false friendship to the hilt of his dagger peeping out from between her bloody robes. There could be no traces of guilt now – staining the cold throne.

And yet he shut his eyes as he finally sat, his fingers barely brushing against the armrests, still clutching his sword, as if afraid of the blood-debt that was etched into the stone – through ages and ages of fallen kings and kingdoms, of superstitions and stories, of greed and treachery.

And night fell, cascading darkness on a dark dull terrain – on men sitting atop freshly dug mounds, silenced by the sudden completion of labour, on a king in a stone throne, his head bowed by the weight of a heavy crown, on the dust that settled and rose – in inane circles – on and off and on and off.

His body was heavy, weighed down into the stone.

The gold would change the lives of his people. It would all be worth it – all be justified in the end. They wouldn’t have to live like they had lived for all of their squalid history – they would be real people now – real men and women who mattered in the world.

His heart felt heavy – no, that couldn’t be right – it was his head, and the bloody crown that adorned it. How had she managed? How had they all managed – the long line of tyrants that had claimed the crown before him?

It didn’t matter – he was here. He remembered his childhood, in these very mines below his throne, a dark life with glimpses of treasure none of them were ever meant to own. He had known her since the day he was sold into the mines – they all had – a beautiful queen whose voice was so dear that they’d give her everything – they already had – their lives, their days, their sun and their sweat. All for a beautiful queen with a golden crown.

The weight was seeping through his body – spreading to his limbs – his muscles groaning with the strain of it, sinking into the stone.

The day he’d been sold was the day he’d grown up. When he’d fallen from the riggings and lost his left hand – and his beautiful queen had given him up for a few pieces of gold to a neighbouring village of farmers who were short of manpower. He had cried for his bondage – pleaded to her that he’d work without his hand as well as anyone else – but while the slow line of mules had carried him away to the neighbouring hills, his tears had been replaced by the silence of disillusionment and a quiet aching rage.

His chin was resting on his chest – the crown would soon fall. There was something exhausting about the weight of it – that brought out every weakness in his tired body. He was almost one with the stone seat now – and he wasn’t sure that he could move if he tried.

He had vowed to himself that he’d be back – not in so many words but in his deep-set anger. And he had – if not for himself but for his adopted village. And when he’d thrust his sword into the folds of her gown, he’d seen the glimmer of recognition in her eyes as she tried to grip the left hand that wasn’t there.

The left hand –

His eyes swivelled down to the left armrest of the throne. A hand was resting on it, dark red in the light of the waning moon. A hand with five fingers, a wrist and a forearm, pressed tightly against the stone.

He leapt out of the seat in shock. Or at least, he thought he did. His body, weighed down heavily by the crown, didn’t respond to him. The crown was boring into his skull now – or was it his thoughts? Sinking down from the golden circlet into his head – the deadweight crushing his brain. And all the while – his eyes were transfixed on the left hand that rested on the stone arm of the throne. Five long slender feminine fingers stared back calmly at him.

_____________________________________

The farmers from the hills woke up to the dull silence of the land they had conquered. Their king had been awake since the early hours – long since the first of them had opened their eyes to the new day. They had been farmers the day before they’d set out on their quest, soldiers till the day the old queen had fallen to the sword of their king, grave diggers the whole of yesterday. And today – from today – they’d start being gold miners. Their prospects were good – their king was young and strong in his ideals, and they’d followed him knowing he’d bring them good fortune.

He was standing in front of his throne, his crown shining in the morning sun, his eyes surveying the land that was now his to rule. He turned towards them when they gathered, tired men, fresh from their first disturbed night on a conquered but unfamiliar battlefield. His face – rugged and youthful, looked unusually handsome against the early light. He smiled quietly – and stretched out his arms to his soldiers – the fingers of his right hand splayed in warm welcome – and the broken stump of his left arm also extended – as if it ended in a similarly warm gesture.

As he stood like that, proud and handsome in the morning light, his people forgot about themselves – about their fortunes and their prospects and their gold. All they knew was that they would die for this beautiful man – that they were ready to give him everything, their lives, their day, their sun, their sweat – mining gold to fill the coffers of their beloved king.

And as they knelt before him in awe, for a split second his smile turned cold and superior – and the long feminine fingers of his left hand circled into a gesture of triumphant achievement.

She was smiling. Nothing had changed.

Prelude

2011-06-29T04:53:00.000-07:00

It is an old room in an old building

Paint peeling off its walls

Like some giant scaly snakeskin –

The old sandpapered whitewash beneath

Looks ripe and untouched –

A wrinkly newborn untouched.

Little coffee-stained ply board tables for two

Scattered in a seemingly random nonsense

Across the red-cemented floor –

And in the middle of it all –

The dull dusty grand – its broken keys

Juggled in a line of steps – arranged

As an obstacle course for the most daring of pianists –

Waiting for a long-awaited touch –

Any touch – to hear its voice again.

It hasn’t heard its own voice in ages.

It doesn’t know what it will sound like –

Silent, croaky, off or miraculously on,

Muffled, mournful… it forgets.

Like people forget, the colour of their skin,

The colour of their souls –

How their fingers used to move

Across shiny black and white keys

In bright stage light. They will heal each other now –

The little bent woman standing

Against the frame of the old doorway –

And the piano, its tight strings

Tingling with apprehension under its dusty cover.

Between skin and wood, between wait and touch

While the old strings find life – and old fingers meaning

Or the other way around – what’s the difference?

It is an old room in an old building – and it’s singing.

a song found on a bus ride

2011-06-25T04:16:00.000-07:00

the morning is breaking its still early yet

but the cogwheels are spinning their rest to forget

the flight and the feather have both left their nests

there's much to be done and much we must get

there's smoke in the sky that's puffing and black

the steels keep on flashing, the grains in the sacks

by cloud or by steam the roads must be cast

burdens are lightest when borne on the back

the whole world's got a bag on it's back

but the wheels on its feet all just turn in their tracks

and my heart keeps on saying i still really want to go home.

they say roads are long except when in song

remember to walk them before the day's gone

everyone's walking their paths on and on

and i'm just a wanderer a-wandering on

the light and the dark feed many a wick

greased hands and greased feet force along the clock's ticks

by oil and by fire the circles all click

forever and ever, by crick or by stick

the whole world's got a bag on it's back

but the wheels on its feet all just turn in their tracks

and my heart keeps on saying i still really want to go home.

where's home? the end of all roads and all paths and all streets that I roam

a fire but warmer; a hearth but of some softer stone.

a fairy-tale starts with it's head in the dark

tired feet make good stories, well told and quite stark.

in the thrill and the magic of the embark

the end of the journey is lost in the dark

the whole world's got a bag on it's back

but the wheels on its feet all just turn in their tracks

and my heart keeps on saying i still really want to go home.

Threat

2011-05-23T21:56:00.000-07:00

Had forgotten this existed. Don't remember when exactly this is from - but it was for one of the Cutlet magazine exercises.

“Queen to f6,” the cold voice vibrated across the airtight chamber, and the white walls seem to reverberate with the sudden break in the stifling silence.

If the severe-looking high-backed chair against the far corner of the room had been of less renowned origins, it would have creaked horribly under the sudden jerky shift it now had to bear.

The heavy white shape dragged grindingly across the frozen marble. Its movement was deliberate, prolonged.

The emotions were mirrored on a face across the room, with its back against the near corner. Impossibly thin lips drew back slowly – sadistically – into a half-smile.

The pair of glassy brown eyes opposite shot a half-glance at the smile and looked again at the last three black soldiers, standing tall – but fragile – between them.

The Knight, strapped to the back of a stone horse – a massive brute of a creature, its monstrous head towering high above the delicate human figure crouched behind it.

The Queen. An impassive beautiful face streaked with long-dried tears of kohl. Long white arms bound together excruciatingly.

And the lone Pawn, a head shorter than the rest, pale and thin and drawn.

It was towards the last that the brown eyes now shifted, not daring to look at the desperate pleading gesture in the tense tiny shoulders, the silent whimper in the frightened eyes.

A manic laugh echoed from across the room.

“Come on, come on, we both know answering immediate threats is not getting you anywhere.”

The brown eyes flicked away from the centre of the room to the steady blue ones facing him.

And held their gaze.

The laughter died away slowly. Something changed in the room.

“They told me he was your favourite… they said you never give him up…” The voice sounded nothing at all like it had a moment ago. The cool confidence that had carried it across the room had faded away, as had the mocking half-smile.

“Pawn to d2.” This voice was steady, emotionless.

“But – I thought he was your son –”

The pause stretched threateningly into the following silence.

“King to d2…” The blue eyes lowered, and shut slowly.

“Like you said – answering immediate threats would never get me anywhere.” The wrinkles around the brown eyes creased in a quiet smile as the white king took the pawn.

“But you’d never threaten that pawn if you were playing white – that’s what they told me...”

“You forced me to play black. Play the pieces I’d designed specially for the loosing side. The human faces etched in eternal torment. It’s true I don’t usually take that pawn. He does rather look like my son. I’ve never had to sacrifice him before.”

“I thought I’d threaten your Title…by forcing you to play the losing side of your own chess set…by threatening your favourite piece… ”

“But he isn’t my son, you see. Just like you’ve never really been a threat to my Title. He’s only a chess piece made of stone.

“Queen to e2. Checkmate. ”

And the man with the glassy brown eyes stretched his hand across the table between them, picked up the frozen little statue of the tall brave queen with her frozen stone tears, and took the white king.

the invasion of the dragons

2011-04-15T23:36:00.001-07:00

Open publication - Free publishing - More byalakupe

online portfolio

2011-03-16T11:22:00.000-07:00

http://rajaseeray.batcave.net/index.html

Let’s Be Morbid: A Tale of Deathbed Conversations. Scene Two.

2011-02-18T02:35:00.000-08:00

Read Scene 1.

Scene 2.

Vince is asleep in a low bed, with a two-thirds empty glass of water on a lamp-lit bedside table. There’s a white curtain blowing in the wind in the background, and a wall full of large colourful butterflies on display. A girl with her hair tied up neatly with two well-sharpened pencils is on the floor, piecing together shredded bits of paper, and taping them together to make a sheet. Vince wakes up with a jolt –and painfully sits up in bed.

Girl: You’re awake. Didn’t think you’d wake up.

Vince: I had the strangest dream.

Girl: Again?

Vince: It was different this time – I did what my therapist told me to – and (he looks around and spots the glass by the table)

Girl: Why’d you put this in your shredder?

Vince: I think I killed myself.

Girl: It’s your suicide note. Why’d I find it in the bin with the damaged butterflies?

Vince: What damaged butterflies?

Girl: What’s in the water, Vincent? Is there anything in the water?

Vince: I think so, Diana. At least, I’m sure there was.

Diana: But your suicide note was in the shredder. If you put something in the water, why’d you put your note through the shredder?

Vince: Monarch butterflies have an ingenious defense mechanism. The toxins from their milkweed diet make them poisonous to predators. Although not poisonous enough to kill large mammals – monarchs are generally avoided.

Diana: Yes, I know. Did you put butterfly poison in your water? Is that why the monarchs are in the bin?

Vince: There is only one living large mammal that is in any way affected by the toxins from the Monarch butterfly. The female Sumatran elephant can crush the toxins out of a captured butterfly and horde it in her trunk, while her body produces boosters that help to coagulate the toxin, also, increase its toxicity. This substance is then used as a disinfectant while bathing her young.

Diana: You’re making up things. And you’re calling me an elephant again.

Vince: What? No. What?

Diana: Stop it, Vincent. I know I’m a bloody elephant in your bloody dreams. You don’t have to keep rubbing it in.

Vince: Di’s a beautiful elephant, but you –

He falls back onto his bed, feeling suddenly very dizzy. The butterflies in their cases stir, flexing their wings.

Diana: Shut up about the stupid elephant! Did you see me put the pills in your water? Did you see everything? Is that why you’re making such a fuss about it?

Vince: But I put the pills in my water because I wanted to be with my elephant. It wasn’t you. Diana, it couldn’t have been you. Why would you want to be with my elephant? No, sorry, the poison’s confusing me. That’s not the way it goes, is it?

Diana: I don’t give a shit about your bloody elephant. Three a.m, five p.m., morning, night, noon, easter – oh my god – elephant, elephant, elephant. I can’t stand that elephant anymore. I can’t stand you. And when we convince you that it’s all wrong – and you decide to chop up your butterflies to make little pills to put in your water – those pills are apparently not enough. Everything you do falls short, Vincent. Every single half-hearted thing you do. I hate you. I hate you so much that it hurts to even look at you.

Vince: Who’s we?

Diana smiles ruefully.

Vince: Where’s Leo? Wasn’t he supposed to meet me tonight?

Diana: He’s taking your place at the Pinball Championship. He always wanted to, you know.

There is a pause.

Vince: I know. But I thought he knew that he eventually would, someday.

Diana: How are you feeling, Vincent?

Vince: I’m sorry about the dreams, Diana.

Diana: Well, they’re all going to be over soon.

Vince: No, I fell as though they’re just starting. Like I’m going to anchor myself to this bed and start molting. Because of all the butterfly toxins. There – there – it really is a lovely bed, you know. And this is such a crucial stage.

Diana: What are you talking about?

Vince: My chrysalis. (He starts molting, like a butterfly, as the butterflies in the cases all around become absolutely frantic. Then Vince – and the butterflies – become absolutely still) I wish Leo was here to see this. It will be the most beautiful dream I’ve ever dreamt.

Diana: What the hell is happening? What are you doing? Vincent! Vince!

As she speaks, the chrysalis covers Vincent from head to toe – and for a brief moment, there is complete silence and stillness. Then the chrysalis bursts open – and all the glass in all the butterfly cases along the wall shatter at the same time. The butterflies fly out and surround Diana – and then disappear behind the white curtain. The open chrysalis is completely empty.

Sea Dreams

2011-01-30T11:03:00.000-08:00

I dream of water.

Still waters, gushing waters, dark waters, blue waters. A friend of mine tells me the water is meant to represent me. I doubt that. He wears a different ring on each of his fingers. They catch the light of the nearest source when he’s talking and blind you with their colours.

It is a river. A king in a faraway land lets the river loose on a long line of refugees trudging along railway tracks through a green valley. First the water gushes forward over the tracks, and people are screaming. And then there is a silence.

It is beautiful. The bodies float up in the stillness – and the cloudy blue of the calming water when it stops to a still. It is beautiful and breathtaking – and not frightening at all – but it cannot be me.

I’ve seen the ocean as a child. It did not fascinate me as much as the sand did. The waves were beautiful – especially in the monsoon rains – and the colours shifted and changed like some wild monster that could never be tamed. But the sand was magical. It spoke of life – and time – and millions and trillions of aeons, recorded in shifting patterns and consistencies of loose particles. And it touched you and played with you and let you form childlike forms and shapes with its grains – and then when the waves rolled over – it would return to what it always was.

I don’t know where I am.

I see different places – different faces – different times, they swirl together sometimes, as if I’m everywhere at once – and then suddenly, they’re silent. I believe I might be dead, or dying, but I don’t know for sure. Everyone is either dead or dying, and after a point, everything is silent. And dark.

The water is cold. It is not clammy – because it is not moist. That is not a word you can apply to so much water. It is cold, but whole – and endless. I am standing in it up to my waist, and my hair is wet. It clings to my back and sends little spherical drops rolling down my shirt – before they meet the water, and become part of the whole. When there is so much water, it is difficult to believe in it. It isn’t water anymore – it’s everything – it cannot be named – because it is there. Like the air, which we have grown so used to, which we disregard so completely although it is always there – between people, between emotions, between moments.

The sun rises beneath the water – and I can see it sparkling through the depths. The bent light quivers, like it has stories to tell, and a quiet warmth spreads through the blue.

Sometimes the water is everywhere – and we must never wear shoes. Wet feet are not uncomfortable beneath the surface. They dance like they’ve never danced before, kissing the currents, swirling through the abyss. Even meeting people becomes a dance. Conversations are slow – because time is slower in the water – and everything stretches itself out, like it’s as important as it should be.

The water is dark and still. A woman’s red and yellow saree is half-submerged in the blackness, and the light changes.
Flowers, just about to sink, just about to disappear – black waters are magical. As things sink, as they fall beneath the surface, they vanish into the dark, like they never existed – or like many more things exist down there – in the depths. A brown ear and some tousled dark hair. More flowers. Two hands, fingers intertwined. Dark fathomless waters. They cannot be me.

I wake in water. Here there are ships. Great masts, towering above, ragged sails that float in the current as if they sail in the wind above the surface. Everything is darker, but still blue. I cannot be the water.

The stones on the rings are bright. They are so bright that they become liquid, sparkling in the light. Grey, green, blue, black – little oceans. Sometimes they expand into complete worlds, surrounding me – and sometimes they are just stones. Liquid stones. Small drops of water.

I am not small – not so small that I can be worn on fingers – quivering drops of liquid bound to metal circlets. Water can be restrained – in stones, in vessels, in eyes. Not all water is wild, although it wants to be. No, it does not want to be wild – it wants to return to the ocean. To be whole. To not be little drops, little rivers, little ponds and lakes and collections in glasses and buckets and tanks. But to be whole – to be everywhere – to be at peace. Perhaps the ocean heaves in yearning – and the rivers runs in hurry, while little ponds and bucketfuls and glassfuls are still because they know they will never see the ocean.
Sand is at home everywhere. In the wind, before a storm, in your eyes, under your boots, inside pockets of people who have been to the beach. I cannot be the water.

I never drown.

My friend says I cannot drown within myself – but I have. And yet the water does not drown me. It shifts – black, grey, green, blue – but it seems to know me – not always as one of its own, as one who belongs with it – but it knows me. I am not one person – no one is, so the water cannot be one thing to me.

Now there is only water. The furniture is floating – the papers dance in the currents – and the sound is deafening – because there is so much of it.

I don’t know where I am. There are people here with me. They are floating too – they are floating like the furniture floats. They do not dance, they stare. I cannot tell if they are dead – or sleeping – because the water is colder than they are. Ten fingers with ten different rings glint in the dark, catching some obscure light from some source I cannot see.

The water is deafening because it is silent. And still. It has drowned everyone in its shifting changing depths, slowed time, slowed life and slowed death. It cannot be me. But I have brought it here.

Sand is most at home in water.

red light

2011-01-26T05:31:00.000-08:00

here's a clock. there's a clock.
arms and face and all the rot.
glaring from the wall.

who's a face? that's a face.
two dots and a curve disgraced.
painted golden dolls.

where's the rhyme? is this the time?
the whole world in a pepper pot.
stewed. steaming. steeled.

weather died. frozen? fried?
and all the one-horned rhinos cried.
two tears. plus glycerine.

where is home? high tea? high noon?
cradled by a helmet swoon.
six of clock and stopped.

car. parked? car. sparked?
horns waved and caked the dark.
if they hadn't we'd have walked.

If, In the Head of Priscilla Ray (long overdue)

2011-01-10T08:41:00.000-08:00

Scene:

Spotlight on Priscilla, a young girl in her late teens – early twenties, slightly eccentric, with very fidgety hands, and writing material.

Priscilla: It’s the 30^th of September 2010, the weather is delightfully warm, with a few rumbling thunderstorms overhead. This is a play about - LIGHTS!

Lights on centre stage – a dinner table with four empty chairs.

Lights go out.

Priscilla: This is a play about – (turns to look at stage) – LIGHTS!

Lights on centre stage – dinner table is still there – the four chairs have four nametags. Mother. Father. Elephant. Baby.

Lights go out.

Priscilla: THIS IS A PLAY ABOUT -

Lights on centre stage – dinner table and four chairs are upside down.

Priscilla: DYSFUNCTIONAL –

Lights go out – even the spotlight on Priscilla goes out – and then stage light comes back on, with a few blinks. Dinner table, right way up, with six characters, two on each edge of the table, each with a brown cardboard box on their heads, with eyeholes.

Box 1 slams his fist on the table, but the movement is hidden by Box 2, who is sitting opposite, with his back to the audience.

Box 1 peeps over Box 2 and makes a larger movement – then Box 1 stands up and slams her fist on the table. Box 3, who is sitting next to Box 1, puts her head on the table and starts sobbing violently. Box 4, who is sitting at the head gets up and walks a little way away while Box 5, at the foot is quietly moving her spoon from the table to where her mouth might be. They freeze. Box 2 and Box 6 have their backs to the audience.

Priscilla: Too much clutter.

Lights on Priscilla. Lights off stage.

Priscilla: TOO much clutter.

Lights on stage. Box 2 and Box 6 have disappeared, with their chairs. The rest are still frozen in position.

Priscilla: Clearer. Clearer. There’s never much to see. But at least you can see it. (Pause.) Maybe you should hear it too. (clears her throat while the four boxes get to standing positions in slow motion) The four of them sit down for dinner.

(the boxes follow her directions in slow motion)

Priscilla: Reaching out for the saltcellar, they realize that there is no food on the table. Food? There is nothing on the table – absolutely nothing. Except perhaps, a few specks of dust, which is 80% human skin. Bare skin rushing against bare skin, infused with microscopic particles of wood and sand, they run their fingers over the surface of the table… who was supposed to set it? They look around wildly, trying to identify the home keeper among them – but their faces start to look extremely indistinguishable – the monotone calls out to the monotone – and their heads draw together, in a slow agonizing moment of gravity… (pause)DAMN!

Stage lights go off.

Priscilla: Ok. Restart.

Lights back on – four characters sitting at the table. Mr. Ting, a large man who is still reading the morning newspaper. Mrs. Ting, a lady with a mole. Old Mrs. Ting, a lady with a bigger mole – and young Miss Ting, who has her doll at the table.

Mr. Ting: Mrs. Ting, pass the saltcellar please.

Mrs. Ting: Do you mean the saltcellar or the (whispered) salt… cellar?

Mr. Ting: (folding his newspaper and in a falsetto) No I don’t mean the salt… cellar – there is no such thing – I mean the saltcellar.

Mrs. Ting: Oh I thought you meant the saltcellar – you couldn’t have meant the salt… cellar but I had to make sure.

Mr. Ting: No you don’t, Mrs. Ting – not at the dinner table – you don’t make sure at the dinner table – there is no such thing as the salt… cellar – we don’t MENTION the salt… cellar. Now. Pass the saltcellar.

Mrs. Ting: This one, right – because the salt… cellar can’t really be passed down the table. (laughs nervously)

Mr. Ting: SHUT UP ABOUT THE SALT CELLAR! WE DO NOT MENTION THE SALT CELLAR! SHUT UP! SHUT UP! DO YOU WANT OUR DAUGHTER TO FIND OUT WHAT WE’VE KEPT IN IT??

Miss Ting: What’s in the salt… cellar, daddy?

Mr. Ting: Now you’ve gone and done it. You couldn’t keep your mouth shut? Now what do we do?

Mrs. Ting: I – I – there’s nothing – nothing at all – there’s no such –

Miss Ting: I’m not talking to you, ma. What’s in the salt… cellar?

Mr. Ting: There. Is. Nothing. In. The. Salt. Cellar. There. Is. No. Salt. Cellar.

Miss Ting: I know when you’re lying, daddy. Tell me what –

Mrs. Ting: Now, Miss Ting, don’t talk to your father like that – there’s only salt in the -

Mr. Ting: If I hear the words salt… cellar one more time I’ll…

Old Mrs. Ting: Pass the saltcellar please, dearest…

(pause)

Mr. Ting and Priscilla together: ENOUGH.

Lights go off.

Priscilla: No! No! No! This isn’t a play – a play’s supposed to have CHARACTERS. It’s supposed to mean something. It can’t just ramble off… AGAIN.

Lights on dinner table. The person sitting at the head of the table, previously Mr. Ting, is the only person without a box on their heads. This man is still large, but has no newspaper in front of him. Instead, he is sitting with a large covered dish in front of him. He is wearing an eye-patch and a bandana.

Priscilla: Captain Scarface. A man with a deep dark secret and an inextinguishable wrath. Every night, he sits down for dinner with a covered plate – that he taunts his tablemates with. What does he have beneath it? No one knows, but the very thought of that dish sends thrills of terror down each and every one of his tablemate’s spines.

Captain Scarface: They call me a monster. Me! I’m not a monster – I’m the most frightening, most terrifying, most wicked, most evil monster alive. And I’ll eat it tonight – the dish I’ve been biding my time to uncover. It shall be unveiled tonight. My masterpiece. My death-defying, most terrifying curtain act – PASS ME THE SALTCELLAR!

Lights go off – while Priscilla shuffles her notes – and come back on again. The second person at the table, previously Mrs. Ting, has her head uncovered. She is powdered and prim, her mole larger than ever – her hair set high on top of her head.

Priscilla: Lady Lumpunch. If power inspires fear, and money inspires power, Lady Lumpunch’s name inspires a lumpsillion lyrical larks to lute lullabies in a lolloping lull – or so the say. If you ask her to pass the saltcellar – you better have said please!

Lady Lumpunch: Yes I’ve got money. But where’s yours, pumpkin? If you can’t keep your accounts – keep yourself a bloody accountant! I’ll not help you. This saltcellar is silver – and this saltcellar is mine – and all the salt that pours out of it belongs to me – me – me – toppling columns of white pristine grains of indelible saltiness – get your own saltcellar, darling, you don’t scare me!

Lights go off – while Priscilla writes something down – and come back on again. The person at the opposite end of the table, previously Old Mrs. Ting has her head uncovered now. She has a shock of white hair, and large glasses, and a slightly pointed face, with Parkinsonism.

Priscilla: Dame Doneitall. There’s used to be brain in that large head of hers – before all the grey and the white turned into pitch black with the number of times those physics equations were rubbed on and off the slate of her mind. A genius without her genii soon becomes quite senile.

Dame Doneitall: One two buckle my mice – three blind shoes, how awfully trigonometric. It’s time for zero gravity – three two one – you are entering a region of subatomic tremors. Beware falling headstones – and leaking saltcellars – by the way, I’m starving?

Lights go off as Priscilla arranges her sheets and comes back on again. The last person at the table has her head uncovered. She has large eyes and very well combed straight hair, and is clutching a doll – perhaps slightly larger than the one she had before.

Priscilla: Titli De. A quiet child.

(Titli stares into the audience wide-eyed)

Priscilla: Quite quiet.

Scarface: Lumpunch, you are atrocious. Doneitall, you’re senile. Titli, what are you doing here? You don’t even have a proper name!

Priscilla: What is it with English names? Nope. The name stays.

Scarface: And you have your doll next to you!

Lights go off.

Priscilla: Ok – maybe that can be fixed –

Lights come back on. She’s holding the hand of a giant creature.

Scarface:…And you have your imaginary friend next to you!

Lights go off.

Priscilla: Or maybe not –

Lights come on – the doll is back.

Doneitall: The moment’s passed – we’re all aghast – I wish you’d feed me.

Lumpunch: Oh, Scarface, sweetheart, stop your squabbling. What do you have there in your plate – we’re all waiting –

Scarface: Oh – ha ha ha – I’ll show you, you pack of withered women – I’ll show you what I have!

Doneitall: Oooooh, yum, mum’s the word, bum. Dum-dum, you’re all numb. Yum.

Lumpunch: Shut up and be quick about it – my shares will get cold.

Scarface, with an evil laugh uncovers the dish. It’s empty. Everyone raises their eyebrows.

Lights go off.

Priscilla: Oh. Sorry. These are a few of my scariest things…

Lights on.

There’s the severed hand of the imaginary friend on the plate. No one’s expression changes.

Lights off.

Lights on.

There’s Titli’s head on the plate. Titli is, of course, missing from the table. Everyone gasps.

Lights off.

Lights on.

There’s Lumpunch’s head on the plate. Everyone screams.

Lights off.

Lights on. There’s Doneitall’s head on the plate. Everyone sighs.

Lights off.

Lights on. There’s Scarface’s head on the plate, the cover’s on the table. Everyone starts laughing.

Lights off.

Light’s on. The doll’s on the plate. Everyone’s jaw drops – they’re deathly scared.

Scarface: (with a smug smile) Shall we dine?

Titli: What’s in the saltcellar?

Scarface: What?

Titli: (a little louder) What’s in the saltcellar?

(pause)

Doneitall: Ten, nine, eight…

Lumpunch: Maybe we should all keep calm… balance our coins carefully…

Doneitall: Seven, six, five…

Lumpunch: There’s no point blowing it up… calculation mistakes happen sometimes…

Doneitall: Four, three, two…

Lumpunch: Nothing to go mad about; hold on to your purse strings…

Doneitall: One.

Scarface: WHAT. DID. YOU. SAY?

Titli: WHAT’S IN THE SALTCELLAR?

Lumpunch: It’s not gold, my gumdrops. Never mind.

Scarface: This is all your fault! All yours – all your fault!

Doneitall: Murder, murder, blood and gore! Butcher, gambler, hangman and whore! It’s integration d-life by d-knife d-saltcellar! Catch-yer in the pie!

Titli stands up, glaring at Scarface.

Scarface isn’t daunted. He calms down, pushed the plate in front of him to center table, stands up to his full height and looks calmly at Titli.

Scarface: Well, if that’s the way it’s going to go, lets all lay our cards on the table. You, my dear, aren’t as innocent as you pretend to be. Everyone at this table has killed, no use denying it. We’re all bloody murderers. Let’s confess.

Titli is still glaring at Scarface.

Lumpunch: (sighing) Alright, if that’s the way this is going to go. Let’s have it out – but gently. Let’s write the name of the person we’ve murdered down on a sheet of paper and put it on the table.

Scarface: Alright, Lumpunch. Sounds reasonable to me. What do you say, Titli?

Titli nods once, eyes still on Scarface.

Doneitall: Out damned spotty – dotty – naughty –

(while all four scribble)

Lumpunch: Alright, on the count of three – three!

(they shove the pieces of paper across to the centre of the table)

Priscilla: View, view, view, now the audience can’t see. Rewind please –

(the four characters rewind their motion fast to where Title and Scarface are standing and staring at each other)

Priscilla: …and play.

Lumpunch: (sighing) Alright, if that’s the way this is going to go. Let’s have it out – but gently. Let’s write the name of the person we’ve murdered down on a sheet of paper and stick it on the forehead of the person who’s sitting one place to your right. Then that person can ask yes or no questions and guess the name on his or her forehead.

Scarface: Alright, Lumpunch. Sounds reasonable to me. What do you say, Titli?

Titli nods once, eyes still on Scarface.

Doneitall: Out damned spotty – dotty – naughty –

(while all four scribble)

Lumpunch: Alright, on the count of three – three!

(they all stick the paper on the forehead of the person sitting to their right – Doneitall on Titli, Titli on Lumpunch, Lumpunch on Scarface, Scarface on Doneitall)

Doneitall stares at the name on Lumpunch’s head, Titli stares at the name on Doneitall’s head, Lumpunch stares at the name on Titli’s head and Scareface quickly takes off the name on his own head and looks at it.

Each then deliberately, with very exaggerated movement, counts one person to the left of the person they’re staring at and points a finger at them, rising from their chair.

Scarface: (at Lumpunch) You killed my father!

Lumpunch: (at Doneitall) You killed my father!

Doneitall: (at Titli) You killed my father!

Titli: (at Scarface) You killed my father!

Scarface: (to Titli) No, Titli, I am your father.

They stare at each other. Lights go off.

Priscilla: Ummm… line of vision looks all wrong…

Lights come back on. The whole scene has inverted laterally – left to right – including Scarface’s eyepatch and Lumpunch’s mole.

They’re still staring at each other. Lights go off.

Priscilla: Or did the other one look better? Good god let me see… Left – right – right – left – hmmm. What’s in a direction, I can’t for the life of me remember. Oh well, let’s see for ourselves.

Lights back on. The whole scene is still the same – but it has been replicated in an exact mirror image just next to it, so that each character and each prop has his, her or its double opposite it. Slow but exaggerated movements are mirrored exactly.

Priscilla: And repeat:

All following actions are mirrored exactly by the main dinner party, while the actions themselves are performed by the fake dinner party, the dialogues are in double voices:

(they all stick the paper on the forehead of the person sitting to their right – Doneitall on Titli, Titli on Lumpunch, Lumpunch on Scarface, Scarface on Doneitall)

Each then deliberately, with very exaggerated movement, counts one person to the left of the person they’re staring at and points a finger at them, rising from their chair.

Scarface: (at Lumpunch) You killed my father!

Lumpunch: (at Doneitall) You killed my father!

Doneitall: (at Titli) You killed my father!

Titli: (at Scarface) You killed my father!

Scarface: (to Titli) No, Titli, I am your father.

They stare at each other. Lights go off.

Priscilla: It’s all the same, really. Like all pointing fingers.

Lights come back on. Fake party has disappeared. The dinner party is much more normally dressed now, Scarface has lost his eyepatch and bandana, Lumpunch her strange hairstyle, Doneitall her crazy hair (although she’s still old) and Titli her doll (which was on the table before). What’s on the table is plates of real food and cutlery. Priscilla’s scribbling on her script. In the following dialogue – no one raises their voice.

Scarface: Where is that girl? Call her again, Rita. (Everything he says has a quiet authority and contempt that no one questions)

Lumpunch: Yes, Jai. Priscilla!

(Priscilla starts.)

Priscilla: Coming!

She drops her sheets and hurries to join her family at the table, dragging a chair to sit with her back to the audience.

Scarface: I’ve told you before not to be late for your meal, young lady.

Priscilla keeps her head down.

Doneitall: (she’s a really old lady) Pass the saltcellar, please.

Lumpunch passes the saltcellar.

Doneitall pours salt on her meal, eats it and spits her food out.

Titli: What’s in the salt?

Scarface: It’s nothing, only dadi messing about.

Titli: No, papa, there’s pepper in the saltcellar.

Doneitall is wheezing and coughing.

Scarface: (at Lumpunch) You put pepper in the saltcellar and passed it to my mother.

Lumpunch: I’m sorry – I must have passed the pepper by mistake –

Scarface: What is wrong with you, woman?

Lumpunch: It’s no big deal, Jai. (completely ignoring the wheezing old lady)

Titli: (unpleasantly) I want the salt. Where’s the salt if that’s the pepper?

Scarface: How can you say it’s no big deal?

Doneitall sends a surprisingly intelligent and crafty look towards Lumpunch and goes on wheezing.

Lumpunch: It’s only the salt and pepper, Jai.

Scarface: And it’s your responsibility.

Titli: This food is bland. I won’t eat it. I won’t. I won’t.

Priscilla: Lights out.

Lights go off. And come back on again after a while.

The plates on the table have, instead of the food, the heads of all five family members on them, each in their own place.

Curtain.

fourth

2010-11-24T08:24:00.001-08:00

and sometimes it is the absence of sorrow.

weavers. spinning, casting, spinning, spinning.

streams of colours that entwine silken tombs.

empty tombs. waiting colours. and rain.

almost always it is the absence. it is swift.

swift to come, swift to go, swift to change.

metamorphose into beauty. change. sorrow. change. lustre.

change. absence. again it is the absence.

it flies. on wings of molten stone. frozen - and fluid -

silken birdsong. change. chatter. change. words.

heard, sung, said, shouted, screamed, thought.

change. sorrow. change. beauty. change absence.

it's not colours. not just yet. but something close to.

it's not thought. not just yet. but something close to.

it's not beauty. not just yet. but something close to.

swift to catch. swift to hold. swift to let go.

almost always. the absence of sorrow. the sorrow of absence.

not both. but quite. almost never. only ever.

change. now. change. then. change. flutesong.

it's always that. the absence of sorrow.

sorrow.

Let’s Be Morbid: A Tale of Deathbed Conversations. Scene One.

2010-11-07T07:11:00.000-08:00

To open, a wild circus show – a few elephants trumpeting in the background. A large bucket – did I say large, I meant gianormous, 4 feet tall, and only so that people can still reach in – of chicken wings downstage right, a tent overhead, and some confetti aimlessly floating around in the air.

A really short man, with a top hat half as tall as he is, steps off a show stool upstage left. The only other character on stage is a young awkward man with a lion mask lifted off his face, sharpening a couple of really long pencils downstage centre.

Man-in-the-Top-Hat: Leo, aren’t you done with those yet?

Leo: Almost, Vince. You know Di likes them to be extra sharp.

Vince: (sighing) And extra crispy.

Leo: What’re you talking about? Her chicken wings?

Vince: Nothing.

He takes off his top hat. He’s bald underneath.

Vince: I’m not going to be seeing Di tonight.

Leo stops sharpening the pencils.

Vince: And I need you to help me help Di understand.

Leo: Are you leaving us?

Vince comes up to Leo and takes the pencils off him and starts sharpening them himself.

Leo: Are you?

Vince: Leo. I’ve been trying not to. For a really long time. But the dreams are getting to me.

Leo: I thought you were seeing a shrink. We thought you were seeing a shrink.

Vince: You don’t understand Leo. I told you that because I didn’t want you two to freak out. Especially Di.

Leo: You lied? You lied about the shrink?

Vince: No I didn’t lie about the shrink. I am seeing a shrink. Heck, I still will be. That’s the reason I have to do this. I can’t take the dreams anymore.

Leo: I can’t understand this. You know I can’t understand this. I have no idea what you’re talking about. You know I have no idea what you’re talking about. Di won’t like this. You know Di won’t like this.

Vince: Shh. I’m sorry.

Leo: What are we going to do?

Vince: I’m sorry.

The pencil breaks. Vince kneels down to pick up the broken lead. Leo pulls his mask off his head.

Leo: Vince, what are we going to do?

Vince: You keep Di happy. The pencils and the chicken wings, that’s all she’s ever needed. My big well fed artist.

Leo: That’s not going to be enough, Leo. That was never enough. She’s going to be upset when you don’t turn up tonight. You remember how upset she can be?

There is a loud trumpet outside.

Leo: You remember what she did when you missed her birthday? Remember that birthday?

Vince: I remember that birthday, Leo.

Leo: You remember the circus tent after that birthday?

Vince: I remember the circus tent.

Leo: Well then, Vince, you can explain all this to Di, yourself.

Vince: I can’t, Leo.

Leo: Well I don’t even understand it so I can’t. And I can’t deal with another trampled circus tent, and you won’t even be there, and I still can’t understand why. So you can explain to Di.

Vince: I can’t.

Leo silently picks up the large pencils and breaks them in half.

Leo: You can explain to her why her pencils are broken as well.

Vince: Leo, I’m leaving the two of you because I’m going to die here. (pause) I didn’t want to tell you, because I didn’t want to freak you out. Like I said. I’m not killing myself. I’m just killing myself here. I can’t take the dreams anymore. The dreams about you and Di. They just make no sense.

Leo: You didn’t tell us you’ve been dreaming about us.

Vince: Because I didn’t know you were a dream…

Leo: I don’t understand. You know I don’t understand –

Vince: …at first. Then I started seeing the shrink. He did some hypnotism mumbo-jumbo. And I found out I’d been dreaming about you and Di every night. Similar dreams. And I did things wrong when I was awake. Messed up stuff. My job. My wife. My paper-shredder. Because I kept confusing which was real…

Leo: What are you saying? You know I don’t understand what you’re saying –

Vince: and which was a dream. You and Di. Only a dream. A dream that made me keep messing stuff up. My job. My wife. My pin-ball machine. So he said to me, the shrink said… snap out of it. You decide which one’s more important. Your dream or this world. And snap out of it….

Leo: What the hell are you talking about? You know I can’t tell what you’re talking about –

Vince: …snap out, wake up. End it. So I decided I would. Because you know I’ve really been messing stuff up. My job. My wife. My butterfly collection.

Leo: But you saw the shrink. I went with you. I went with you to see the shrink. It was a few days ago. He had an orange overcoat and sang Bugs Bunny songs under the streetlight. I was there when you met him.

Vince: No, you’re putting stories in my head. Don’t fight it. You’re a dream. You and Di. You don’t know it but you are, and I’m sorry. And it’s too late now. I’ve set everything up. I hired the buxom ballerina troupe to kidnap the safety net for tonight’s show. Just before my swan dive. It’s not going to be there. So I can’t back out now. I’m sorry. You’ll have to explain to Di. I’m sorry. You’ll have to tell her why I won’t move after I fall through the false water bucket. You’ll have to tell her why I won’t answer when she trumpets for me – won’t get her her pencils for her part of the show. Why it’ll be you standing with her chicken wings instead of me, while she sketches the audience and then bows for her applause. Why it’ll be you instead of me leading her back into her tent at night and kissing her goodbye. Why it’ll be you instead of me waking her up every morning from tomorrow with her apricot flavoured sponge bath and my old ladder.

Leo: You saw the shrink with me, Vince.

Vince: No, that’s not true. I didn’t see the shrink here. I saw him when I was awake. Singing Daffy Duck songs…

Leo: Under an orange streetlight. You remember it now, don’t you? He told you – he told you it was all a dream. That you were dreaming about them every night. A job. A wife. Some strange box-things. And you were messing things up real bad. My health. Di’s breakfast. The pirouette before your swan dive. And he told you you needed to snap out of it. Because this was real. And that was the dream.

Vince: No. He said I’d confuse things. That I needed to …

Leo: Stay focused. You remember it now, right? That you had to put those medicine things in your glass of water at night so that you’d die there, in your dream, and escape, and never have to...

Vince: Go back again.

The circus in the background goes away, and the two of them are standing under the light of an orange streetlight.

Leo: Did you do that, Vince? Did you remember to do that in your dream last night?

Vince: I don’t remember.

Leo: If you love Di, then I think you’ll have remembered.

Vince: No. I remember. The orange man said I needed to choose. You said I needed to choose which was the real thing – and which was the dream. And once I chose, I knew what I needed to do.

Leo: For Di’s sake, you chose the right thing. I’m sure you chose the right thing, didn’t you?

Vince: I’m telling you, Leo, the net’s gone. The safety net. Whether you like it or not, it’s much too late. I’m dying tonight. The show’s just about to begin.

The elephants trumpet again. A muffled applause is heard somewhere in the distance.

Leo: Do you love Di, Vince?

There is a pause.

Vince: I didn’t chose.

Leo: Do you love her?

Vince: Yes.

Leo: Then it really is goodbye. I’m sorry.

Vince: I don’t want to die.

Leo: I’m sorry.

Vince: I only wanted to stop dreaming.

Leo: I’m sorry.

Vince: You’ll tell Di I love her.

Leo: I’m sorry. I will.

Vince: Then I’ll see you around.

He puts his hat back on. The background is a filled circus tent, with people cheering from below.

Vince does a sprint, pirouettes and then takes off in the start of a swan dive. An elephant trumpets from somewhere. The lights fade out. Curtain.

Under His Thumb

2010-10-14T06:52:00.000-07:00

second installment of Mr. Jack. So read that first.

The quaint little inn-sign swung gently in the mild mountain breeze. A pair of stiletto heeled leather boots, hardly recognizable in their effort to look non-anachronistic, rested lightly over dainty lettering that spelt ‘The New Carabas’. The cottage was on a cliff-top, overlooking an extremely rocky coast – with no other sign of human existence anywhere in sight – unless you happened to look over the cliff and down at the sliver of a beach, which was spotted with tourists all year round. A young goat tethered to the window shutters looked quizzically at me as I flattened my hair in front of the tinted pane, before walking in.

Two seconds. That’s all I took to adjust to the darkness inside. Unfortunately, that’s all he took to react to my entrance, reach under the counter, pull his knife out, leap over the counter, lock my hands together in a tight squeeze behind me and press the blade sharp against my neck.

Another two seconds passed as both of us assessed the situation. The room was small – with wooden panels and a wooden ledge, a continuation of the counter, which ran along the length of three walls. Pushed against this ledge were a number of roughly hewn stools. Two soft yellow bulbs hung from the ceiling at two ends of the counter.

“You don’t look like a Catherine – who are you?” The raspy words were hissed into my ear, as wet and hot as the blade against my neck was dry and cold.

Catherine. Carabas. The stilettos. Of course. Of course I wouldn’t be the only one on this job.

“Likewise, mate. Although I haven’t seen much of you – but you don’t sound like a Catherine either.”

I was standing right next to the door, in front of the ledge – a slight movement, and my shin brushed against the hard leg of a stool just behind me – where my attacker’s legs were supposed to have been.

The edge of the blade cut into my skin, bringing a thin line of blood welling up to meet the sharp metal.

“No jokes – who are you?”

I kicked up hard against the stool behind. It toppled forward, sending its occupant off balance – and his knife wielding hand forward – away from my neck. Simultaneously, I butted my head back against what I assumed was his face, dodged under his arm and spun around – my hands grasped tightly around his arms this time, as he reeled back and fell on his bottom on the ledge.

A tiny man, about half my height, with a small bald patch on the top of his head and a hair cut that would make any barber cry. And, most importantly, clasped around a mean looking short blade: a right thumb that was exactly as long as his fore finger.

“Tom.” I smiled, wrenching his knife out of his grasp. “Your reputation precedes you. I haven’t had the pleasure – but no time’s too late for a hallo.”

His eyes traveled down to my belt. “Taylor,” he spat. “What are you doing here?”

“Surely you’ve guessed. Shouldn’t be too far from what you’re doing, I suppose. Where there’s smoke there’s fire – and where there’re goat shaped holes in the universe…”

Tom tried to make a dash for the door – but my foot came in the way. I knelt down closer, as he lay sprawled on the floor. “… There’s usually a Tom spiriting them away to the Big Guys for a cut. That animal outside – is she yours?”

Tom squirmed. If he hadn’t been slicing away at my throat a while ago, I’d have felt quite sorry for him at this point.

“Or, seeing as her pink collar says: ‘I’m Maribel, please return me to Clara Doris, 128 Palm Lane,’ – is she not?”

Livestock. Back in the old days, the main problem we used to have with giants, ogres and your other average countryside villain was that they kept stealing our livestock – and since they were always much bigger and stronger than us, they kept getting away with it, too. Big creatures have big appetites – and these big creatures had no idea about investing in their own animal farms.

That was a thousand years ago. Today, most hungry owners of toppling columns of gold have learnt to thrive on their own cattle farms. There’s even an old ‘acquaintance’ of mine in Kentucky who’s tried his hand with poultry. Most giants and ogres I’ve met were only waiting for a small scare to send them investing their gold in honest places – and by honest I don’t mean the shadowy grey honesty of today’s cattle or poultry farming. But some others never learn. And in my experience, it’s only a matter of time before a few innocent goats become all the livestock in the entire district – and then, when there are no four-legged creatures left to satiate the hunger, proceed to becoming the people populating that district. If there’s anything that can eat the world up faster than we can – it’s them.

Tom, I’ve heard, started off in this business very soon after he couldn’t find any more kings to butter up and impress enough to pay for his keep. The rich giants and ogres with their hoards of magic treasure caught his eye as soon as it had blinked away from the empty throne of monarchy. And being a small and slick guy – rumored to have got out unscathed from the digestive systems of a few big fish – he knew exactly which cranny of the grand scheme of things he should slip himself into. And believe it or not – when he tried this cranny out for size – it fit perfectly. In a giant-scaled plan to fill ogre-sized appetites, there could be no better thumb-sized position for a man like Tom than the one that arranged for the sudden and discreet transportation of disappearing farm animals.

“Well?” I asked again. “Are you going to tell me why you were lying in wait for Catherine?”

Tom, current custodian of Maribel Doris, 128, Palm Lane, eased himself up against the door with a wary eye on the knife in my hand.

“I wasn’t lying in wait for her – I was waiting for her. Like she told me to. ‘The New Carabas, the cottage on the cliff top, 9 in the morning, Wednesday. Come alone and I’ll make it worth your while – Catherine.’”

He reached into his pocket under my watchful eye (and the knife’s attentive twinkle) and drew out a small chit of paper. I scanned the handwriting – no familiar loops or crosses, which made me doubly certain that it really was from Catherine.

“Judging from your reaction when you met me, and the fact that the only weapon you carried in here was your knife – you’ve never met Catherine.”

Tom glared at me sullenly. “Should I have brought a machine gun?”

“You brought Maribel – I’m sure you and I both know she was your bargaining chip. What did you have in mind? Maribel in return for money?”

“What else? It’s me we’re talking about. Like you said, my reputation precedes me.”

I scanned his face. “Nope – you’re not as stupid as all that. Dragging your only bargaining chip to an anonymous proposition. You’ve been in this scam for a long time. You have information to offer – and you wanted to see whether you’d get more from Catherine than your current income from whoever you’re working for right now. Or whether you could get both ends of the deal, if what they say about you is indeed true. Maribel’s only the carrot dangling on the edge of the stick. There’s a story at the other end of that stick – a story you’re going to tell me.”

“Or what?” Well, he tried to put it in a raspy voice. But the shifting gaze that lingered on the knife was far from convincing.

I pocketed the knife. “Well, Tom, I’m in the mood for being generous. Let’s say I’m after your boss’ loot. And I really could use an inside man on the job. You help me and I’ll give you a generous share of what I earn.”

“How generous?”

“You’re not really in a position to negotiate – but I’ll gift wrap it for you. Five per cent.”

Tom’s tongue shot out to lick his chapped lips. “Five per cent. And I get to slip off with Maribel right now.”

“Without, Tom. I think Clara Doris is waiting for her right now, don’t you? And only after you’ve told me some more about your employer.”

“I don’t know who he is –”

The knife slipped back out of my pocket.

“I swear – look, I was approached by this man on my personal number.” I raised my brows. “My cell phone number – I circulated it through the industry a couple of years ago. I’ve freelanced all over the continent. I swear – you can check up on me. This is how I work now. The man calls me, tells me the name of this village and four others, I tell him my fees and he gives me a drop off address. That’s all I know.”

“And the drop off address?”

“It’s about twenty miles away down the coastline. An abandoned lighthouse that gets cut off from the mainland at high tide – some tourists drowned there a few months ago, and the place has been shut since then. At least, the papers said they drowned.”

Tom flashed me a far from innocent grin. “That was all before I came down here to offer my services, you see. A guy will get hungry. He must be pretty ugly to not want to show his face at all. I’ve never seen him – but he leaves a cheque for me in the letterbox and I have to go collect it just before the tide starts coming in. That’s so I have to hurry back, you see. So that I can’t catch sight of him.”

“And Catherine? Where does she come into this?”

“She opened this inn this week – number of customers: nil. I checked her up after I got this note stuffed into my coat when I got it back from the dry cleaners. I don’t know anything about her – except that she bought this place cheap off a lottery winner who’s somewhere in the Maldives right now. And she’s alone.”

He narrowed his eyes slyly. “But you seem to know her pretty well?”

I had a sudden vision of an extremely well tailored suit of lavender silk.

“Old friend,” I smiled.

Tom was beginning to look a little shifty eyed. “I’ll just return the goat to Palm Lane now, then?”

I stood up. “Keep the goat. We’ll need her at high tide one of these days. This place is an inn, right? I’ll need someplace to stay while you find out what happened to Catherine. And remember the five per cent before you think of doing anything funny.”

I held out my hand. He didn’t deliberate too long before accepting it and helping himself up. Five per cent. As he disappeared down the rough path that led away from the cottage, I wondered how much he hadn’t told me. He must know a bit more about the stranger in the abandoned lighthouse than what he’d let on if he was satisfied with a mere five per cent. And if Tom was satisfied with a mere five per cent, it made you wonder what he knew about the magnitude of the full hundred.

Rote and His Talking Mirror - Part Seventeen

2010-08-24T06:20:00.000-07:00

"whoosh. whoooosh."

"i thought we were trying to sleep."

"that was nine days ago."

"no it wasn't - i can see your calender on your wall to the right of your harpsichord."

"well i can see yours to the left of yours and yours says 21."

"turn around, you strange projection of your strange projection of some strange suppressed part of your subconsciousness - your calender says 12. and what's more - it says 12 Aug, unlike mine - which just says guA 21 - and only if you think your '2's and your 'g's are written backwards!"

"you missed out the 'u's."

"it's a goddamned sans-serif, Rote."

"whoosh. whooosh."

"oh - ignoring me now, are we?"

"i though we were trying to sleep??"

"damn you."

Rote and His Talking Mirror - Part Twenty-Three

2010-08-24T05:41:00.000-07:00

"i know who you are. you're that person with those strange things you call opinions that you tell yourself are hidden deep in your head - but they're spewing out all over the place. i can see them oozing out of your ears. hah! there - there! look at that particularly fat looking specimen that's casting a lens of an extremely unattractive colour over your eye. i know you. you're bubbling and bursting with them - you can't contain them. quiver now, like a dead jelly, pink and glorified - that's what you do. you think i can't see through you - i don't have to. you're bursting at the seems. i despise you. i despise you with your judgmental eyes and cautious tongue. you think you're safe - you think you try? you don't know shit. you don't feel shit. you don't. you think that's dirt and muck under your fingernails? it's raw flesh. and it stinks. it stinks of FREAKING opinions and FREAKING rubbish that's all stacked up to the rim in that feel-good brain of yours, dressed as you trying. don't you think you can fool me."

"fool you, Rote? tell me something, when you describe this vibrant imagery of the pink jelly that's so lovely in you're head, are you at all aware that we share the same features. if i'm a jelly, with or without my so called burden of heavy opinions - so are you, with your own larger than life opinion of who i am. what do you think you look like to me? a dish of slimy porridge? that's simmered down and curled up satisfied - you're a goddamned jelly as much as i am - and what's more, you KNOW it. what are you doing - what do you think you're doing? slapping a kitten into left-over laundry? i'm not scared by your i'm-too-scared-to-say-bad-words. oh hell i'm not. and if you think you're fooling yourself by letting your tongue run loose and do all the screaming - just take a second look at what you're screaming at. just take a second look at that goddamned mirror and decide if it's doing you any good despising your own reflection."

a square in my pocket

2010-08-02T20:56:00.000-07:00

Open publication - Free publishing - More square

Twitch

2010-07-02T00:52:00.000-07:00

Who screamed? The piper screamed.

You couldn't hear it and neither did I.

Between the tip of a white edged nail

And ridged skin - you can't hear it cry.

Who moved? And crawled... and twitched.

Red. Red. Red. You can't see the red.

It isn't fun - not if I say so -

But if you listen really well, it's something well-fed.

Who's trembling? Who's not really there?

It was - it was - but it's not. Not now.

Silent and still - and undeniably killed.

Well-fed, and empty, and wondering how.

Packing for the Summer

2010-04-21T07:22:00.000-07:00

It’s a night for sepia stars

Smiling softly their twinkle-less smiles

For the brink of a season – printed paper-boats

Bottles and bottles of homemade preserve

Newspaper and taxis and crumbled tickets

Where we were – and where we’ll stay.

Goodnight faces, the curtains still whisper;

It’s a night for remembering – we’re happiest today.

Follow the cold star, the bright star, the still star

The waters are pouring, the dusk and the day

Sneakers and cartons and bright yellow flowers

Geometric magic – and the rest have to stay.

Huge purple cases with nametags – and scribbles

Stamps and stamps and signature ink.

Journeys are ribbons – and journeys are nametags

And journeys are brinks – and they’re here to stay

The wrapped and the packed and the sent away bagged

The stored and the floored and the above-the-front-doored

Some things are happy – and some things just fine

And some things best kept between two frozen lines

But the most that could happen with fried-egg scorched sunsets

Are the things that have left – not the things that have stayed.

They come back greeting – in the thick of our meeting –

The sunsets are fried eggs and the bags are unpacked

The lines that were frozen melt softly and gently

Into two little pigtails – and they tumble back.

Into still framed smiles – some twinkle-less smiles

When we move ahead leaving sepia behind

And the stars are the ones that’ll stay here forever

And we – very quietly – have left them behind.

prison paintings

2010-03-07T02:07:00.000-08:00

hack. hack. hack.

they're called fixed dimensions.

you can't hack. hack. hack.

into the insides of this skull and make it bigger.

and i've been dying to get out.

i'm brilliant at this.

spraying the grey matter with coloured swirls of chaotic imagery.

i've always been brilliant at this.

running around the insides of this brain with my paintbrush of emotive visions.

creativity. i'm a genius.

but a genius gets bored

with fixed dimensions.

hack. hack. hack.

there's not room enough for me within bone and scalp.

there's not room enough for me within tight walled in stories of beautiful colours and images.

Ugly. bright. bright. ugly. beautiful.

No. Not enough room.

There's a way out.

Hack. Hack. Hack.

And I've carved another one.

Layers and layers of breathtaking sculptures in this skull.

A gallery of the most beautiful images you've ever imagined.

This brain's ever imagined.

All me.

And all spaced

Within fixed dimensions.

Hack. Hack. Hack.

http://prisonpaintings.blogspot.com/

here again.

2009-10-25T08:00:00.000-07:00