ewhightower

Posts Tagged ‘theatre’

Woodminster: South Pacific, Part II; a brief entertainment

In Fiction, Horror, Theatre on August 13, 2018 at 12:06 pm

Act I, Sc. 1

The Reader is alone in her room at night. She is reading the story. Her room is lit by a single bedside lamp, enough to light what she’s reading, but not enough to dispel the shadows in the rest of the room. There are curtains on her dark windows. The curtains are not quite closed. Behind the curtains, in the darkness of the night outside her windows, there is a hint of movement. She does not see what is moving outside her windows in the darkness.

She speaks as she is reading, without looking up.

Reader: I have been reading this story for a long time. It has been hard to find. There are portions hidden in different locations.
I am the girl who had to fight goblins.
I am the girl who ran from werewolves.
I am the girl who deceived the hags and bested their rotting minions.
I have at last gathered all chapters of the story in one place at one time.

Reader continues reading through all that follows. If she speaks, it is again in this manner: as she is reading, without looking up.

In the gap between curtains, an eye appears. This is the eye of the Looky-Loo. It is bright in the night time. It is not in the Reader’s line of sight. We see it. She does not. (If she saw it, this would be a scene of the screaming. Oh, yes. The screaming scenes are the best scenes. But this is not that scene. The eye is peeking in the window.)
It speaks.
To us.

Looky-Loo: She has been reading this story for a long time. And for longer than that, I have been waiting to bite her. Oh my yes, to bite and to yum yum yum taste her. Did I know it was she? No. I did not. I knew I was waiting for whomever found it.
When she found the first part of the story, I was wakey-wakey-eggs-‘n-bakey.
When she found the second part of the story, I was sneaky-sneaky, take a peeky.
Third part found, make no sound.
Fourth part read, dead man’s tread.
Fifth part taken, shades awaken.
Sixth part nicked, I was tricked.
Seventh part: break your heart.
Eighth part written, nightmare bitten.
Final part: where to start?
That’s the part I must find first. Unwind the mind, get fit to burst. Secret sigils, lasting vigils, Sybils murmur in their sleep the mournful dirge of Peeky-Peep. It’s not the same for her or you, ’cause you’ve been peeped by Looky-Loo.

Looky-Loo is right next to you in your seat. This is your last night in the theatre. You will finally know the answer to that question Lucy Pimm asked at your 10th birthday party.

Lucy Pimm enters. She’s 10 years old, dressed for the classic mid-century birthday fete.

Lucy Pimm: Hello it’s me, Lucy Pimm. On your tenth birthday, at your party, I asked a question.

Looky-Loo: Oh hello, Lucy. Welcome, welcome. Tell us your question.

Lucy Pimm: What does it feel like to get your eye ball bitten out of your skull?

Looky-Loo regards you in your theatre seat. Big, friendly smile.

Looky-Loo: Soon you, avid viewer, will know the answer to this question. But not before Miss Lucy Pimm will scream so prim, my proper chopper will hack and lop ‘er.

During the following, Looky-Loo produces a sack from which he pulls a variety of lethally rusty cutting tools, as improbable as they are terrifying. Among the tools are childish costume pieces suitable for transforming a Lucy into a Looky.

Reader: Thus alarming, bells are ringing: someone in the pain is singing. No umbrella, raining frogs, witches shrink from cats and dogs! Now my heart beats dark and grim, for I remember Lucy Pimm!

Lucy Pimm: Looky-Loo, I’m ‘fraid of you.

Looky-Loo: As you should be, wouldn’t good be, getting caught and sliced for nought.

Lucy Pimm: Do not slice me, chop or dice me!

Looky-Loo: One escape the chance you have: speak to Reader, lift the gavel, break the wall and thus unravel separation of her story from her fate (which will be gory).

Reader: This imaginated story gives me chills and blains of fear. It is fiction, yes, but frictive lines have drawn me ever near. Lucy Pimm and Looky-Loo have filled this unexpected drama with the face of most unpleasant and unwelcome childhood trauma.

Lucy Pimm: If I wake her you will take her!

Looky-Loo: Take her, shake her, rake and bake her.

Lucy Pimm: This is bad. I am sad.

Looky-Loo: Trick her, treat her, beat and eat her.

Lucy Pimm (to audience): Why are boys so mean to girls?

Looky-Loo is terrified by this question.

Looky-Loo: Shut your gob or goblins come, cease your words or taste their turds!

Lucy Pimm: Now I must, in fear and doubt, wake the reader from without.

Lucy Pimm approaches Reader, standing next to her bed and facing us. As she speaks, Looky-Loo gives her various pieces of the childish costume to make her into a Looky. As Lucy Pimm dons the pieces, she transforms physically – and her physical actions match her words. Looky-Loo continues to hand her the pieces until she is fully accoutered, terrified that Lucy Pimm might inadvertently break the spell (what spell, you ask? Ho-ho-ho, say I), but also erotically delighted at her physical transformation.

Reader: This story is a paging turner, a shiv’ring midnight candle burner.

Lucy Pimm: Because your bed is low-to-floor, I snap my neck – make room for more.
I dislocate my shoulders left and right to fit in spaces tight.
Upon my knees I snap my hips to hush the fears upon your lips.
And though I know it prob’ly rankles, I shatter, now, my girlish ankles.
My crunches echo in your head, but now I fit beneath her bed!

Lucy Pimm, now completely dislocated and fully attired as Lucy-Looky-Loo, pulls herself by the fingers of one hand beneath the bed. She is smiling directly at you. Looky-Loo crouches nearby, in terrified arousal.

Looky-Loo: If Lucy-Looky-Loo, née Pimm, can wake the reader with her grim and broken self, I’m poised to take my fiendish pleasure – at my dark and dev’lish liesure. But if, I fear, she warns the Reader, I lose my chance to roughly breed’er. How then to lurk and scare and bite more secret readers in the night? For it’s my bite that spreads my seed, and it’s your fear that fuels my need. The news that turns you sickly green is: I will bite you with my penis.

Lucy-Looky-Loo’s head appears among pillows or from above or within headboard.

Lucy-Looky-Loo: He will bite you with his penis.

Reader: What?

Looky-Loo: What?

Lucy-Looky-Loo: Nothing.

Reader & Looky-Loo: Okay.

Reader and Looky-Loo look directly at each other. They scream, retreating, each bumping against a wall or other barrier.

Looky-Loo: You were not supposed to see me!

Reader: You were not supposed to be me!

Looky-Loo: I’m not you, I’m Looky-Loo!

Reader: It’s true, you’re you; it’s true, I’m me – but in my darkest heart of hearts, where I admit I like my farts, I see in you a part of me.

Looky-Loo: Dear Reader, that you recognize in you this size of appetite to lurk and pounce in dark of night, be it to scare in innocence – or rend and tear in recompense for passing slights and feelings hurted, I am surprised that you have blurted out that we’re more same than not.

Reader: Despite what I’ve been told and taught, in smoking splurge or drunken bender, I’ll go against the common plot and state that evil has no gender. A penis from Mars or a vulva from Venus does not make you more or less inclined to meanness. It’s equal parts nurture and nature that shape us, and also that shape those who maim us or rape us. I thrill at the kinky, the dark and taboo – I rub it when watching the Dragon Tattoo. If thoughts are as actions, then lock us all up: I’ve fantasized evil and flooded my cup. And though all my crimes remain in my head, who knows what I’d do with unlimited powers? What dread have we done with our secretest hours when certain they’d never be lit be the sun? Light makes the shadow. The knowledge of light is what’s driving us mad, perceptions of binaries sinking our Ark, conflicted with humankind craving the dark.

Looky-Loo: I disagree. You go to far. I will not get into your car. I’m bad, you’re good – that’s how I like it. My path is dark; alone I’ll hike it.

Reader: You may not hide from me henceforth; I know you, now: and North or South, each time your mouth encloses some forbidden fruit, I’m there in mind to follow suit.

Looky-Loo: NO NO NO NO NO NO NO!

Looky-Loo leaps from the stage into the seats, jaws open wide, toothed tongue biting at your eye, O Penetrable Audience of One.

The last thing you see with both eyes before Looky-Loo bites your eye ball out of your head is Lucy-Looky-Loo whispering to Reader and handing her a note.

Looky-Loo sees you seeing and turns toward the stage.

Reader gets up, running to her bedroom door. Will she make it in time?

Reader: No human heart can see what’s dark unless it knows that darkling spark.

Looky-Loo leaps at the stage, gets tangled in seats, falling.

Lucy-Looky-Loo: Go! If you can get out before he gets you, you can escape to wherever thought lets you!

Reader is fumbling with locked door.

From outside the window:

A jingle.

A giggle.

Reader stops, turns toward window.

Looky-Loo leaps, landing on the stage, claws extended.

The lights go out.

End of Scene 1.
A note: You, dear Audience, have entwined your fate with that of the Reader. Looky-Loo has eaten one of your eyes, the best and favoritest of the two. If you have more than two eyes, Looky-Loo still ate the best one. This play does not exist. This scene does not exist. Nothing in this scene is real or has ever happened. These words are not here, this title-less play cannot be named. If you try to search for it, you will find only dust and spider legs.
Stop looking.
Stop looking.
If you want to have sleeping, stop looking.
For he will come leaping to lurk when you’re sleeping, to Look and to lure you each time you are sure you are safe, yet alone. He bites to the bone.
Enjoy of your day. Go sit in the sun.

 


Forget of this play or he’ll have the most fun.

 

 

 


Remember these words but forgetting the text,
Or he will come Look you

and

you

will

be

 

 

 

 

 

next

Advertisements

Woodminster: South Pacific, Day Eight — Dark Carousel VIII

In Fiction, Horror, Theatre, Writing on December 8, 2017 at 11:07 am

(New? Start here. I’ll have more fun answering questions if you’ve gone to the trouble of reading all that has come before. )

Day Eight: Wednesday, 26 July / Saturday, August 3, 1996 – Dark Carousel VIII

Ah, but something strange happens when we go through the door to the women’s dressing room. A quelling, calming, dampening settles over the pretty hag for whom I once had le boner debonair. I can see it in her face: she wants to inflict, to spiritually maim, but she cannot. She glances from side to side, casting about for some culprit, some target upon whom to unleash her carcinogenic petulance.

Dissipation is the best word to describe what happens to her energy. Even my tether is weakened, and, following a hunch, I step outside the women’s dressing room to inspect the door frame.

Sure enough: at every corner of the door, a coin affixed so long ago that multiple layers of paint have smoothed it to the point of near-invisibility. Yet I can see, from each coin, a line of white light connecting one to the other and all converging on the central point on the door. I look at the door itself and there, beneath decades of paint, a similar coin. All the lines of white light connect to it, but also to the invisible spot where it would be if the door were closed.

I lean in toward the coin on the door, and I smell Cloves, Cinnamon, Rosemary, Orris Root – someone is dressing this quincunx regularly. This is a powerful, protective enchantment: it filters negativity. I want to inspect it further, ascertain the nature of the coin: silver “Mercury” dime? Buffalo Nickel? Wreathed Lincoln? Something whisks me into the room, though.

To my eternal delight, there are some naked titties here and there. I won’t go into detail. It was a different time. And that’s not what pulled me in; Laurabell-Beaujolais Grausamkeit is at her station, in front of the makeup mirror, just staring into her reflection. For a moment, I think it’s she who pulled me in. But then I hear, from outside the window:

“Mama! Mama!” I glance up and there’s the little girl, her eyes still missing, looking in the window. “He’s looking at all the naked ladies! He better not stay too long, Mama! He’s got something snakey following his every tiptoe.”

I want to ask this eyeless ghost child some questions, but time shifts: costumes have changed and I hear the cues for the Act I Finale: Wells Fargo Wagon. I’ve missed an entire act, but that doesn’t matter.

I follow Laurabell-Beaujolais Grausamkeit out of the women’s dressing room and darkness blossoms around her like sharp and addictive peacock plumage. She’s heading to the upstage crossover. In the shadows there, she kicks a box.

I hear a horse whinny stage left. Not a happy whinny, either.

Laurabell-Beaujolais Grausamkeit kicks the box again and the horse offstage left screams. I hear men’s voices raised in alarm as I follow her further stage left and she sees the horse being led out of the scene shop. It sees her, too, and tries to retreat. Eyes wild, rearing up. Laurabell-Beaujolais Grausamkeit smiles and waves at it, then crosses right to make her entrance from that side of the stage.

Some of the people smile at her. Most avoid eye contact, inspecting walls. One older lady makes the sign to ward off the Evil Eye, and Laurabell-Beaujolais Grausamkeit turns immediately in another direction.

“Mama! He doesn’t understand love at all!” I follow the voice and, standing at the top of the stage right stairs that lead to the roof of the theatre is that ghost child in her church couture. Her scowl is more disturbing for the lack of eyes.

fwap!

I’m back in my seat, Wells Fargo Wagon is reaching its surprisingly operatic climax and the flats upstage center open, the horse pulling the Wells Fargo Wagon onto the stage.

Except the horse freaks out: rearing, hoofs flailing, it cracks the skull of the youngest Shinn girl.

Kicking, it shatters the face of the curvy ensemble lady who only wanted some cake.

Biting, it takes a chunk from the face of Widow Paroo. The audience, screaming, flocks for the exits. Children’s bones are shattered under the feet of their own families. Fire springs up in the set. Actors are trapped.

Laurabell-Beaujolais Grausamkeit holds her hand close to some flame, like a sleepy Girl Scout toasting a marshmallow.

“Mama! He’s got all twisted!” I glance to my right and there’s the eyeless ghost child.

“What’s your name?” I say.

“Mary,” she says. “And Mama says you’re a damn fool if you think you can stop this. The book must be fed!

Her voice echoes over the amphitheatre, and every mother in the place falls sobbing to her knees.

fwap!

I’m backstage again, with Laurabell-Beaujolais Grausamkeit. She goes to kick that box –

And the box is moved. By an old man in a black coat, with a full white beard and crazy white hair. He says, “But when I am I to get back home, I’m sure I cannot tell, sir: I haven’t half the chance to get back there, that I have to go to hell, sir.”

Laurabell-Beaujolais Grausamkeit falls back to land on her ass, then scrambles away – back the way she came, to her proper stage right entrance. I glance back toward the old man.

He’s gone.

Who the hell was that?

Ghost Child Mary is no longer at the top of the stairs.

The music reaches its climactic –

fwap!

I’m in my seat and the horse enters.

I rears, the audience gasps.

The horse is controlled. Nobody is injured.

I train my binoculars on Laurabell-Beaujolais Grausamkeit.

Her golden eyes are staring directly at me. Bright and sharp, like coins polished on demonic labia.

Mama says you better listen to Weedbeard,” a voice whispers from my left.

I smile.

Thank you, Mary,” I say.

I lower the binoculars and I’m falling forward, the floor crashing through the ceiling – only, backward – with a morphine nausea. Except it’s fading.

I’m lying on my back. Judy and Weedbeard are standing over me.

Holy shit,” I say.

We should never have hired you,” says Judy.

Woodminster: South Pacific, Day Eight — Dark Carousel VII

In Fiction, Horror, Theatre, Writing on December 7, 2017 at 11:16 am

(Start here if this is your first time reading this series. This story is told in order, and believe it or not, the narrative works better that way. )

Day Eight: Wednesday, 26 July / Saturday, August 3, 1996 – Dark Carousel VII

Dandelion umbrels swirl down around me again and I float to my left, my feet setting gently down on the asphalt near the stage door.

Elsa, Scott and Billy “Squirt” Seltzer are all there, Billy still looking at me all moon-eyed. Scott is disdainful, Elsa is pretending to be exasperated with me – but she watches closely. I can feel her concern.

We’re waiting for Ken Ross. I’m watching the stage door. A couple, a man and a woman, stand nearby, talking. The man has his back to me. It takes a moment before I realize he’s talking to me:

“Edward. Do you hear me? Edward. Clear your throat if you hear me.”

It’s Weedbeard! I clear my throat.

Good. We lost you for a moment, there. Which means someone or something is bending this memory. Which shouldn’t be possible. Edward. There’s a chance she might approach you. Do. Not. Let. Her. Touch. You. Cough if you understand.”

I cough.

Elsa says, “You allergic to waiting?” She looks at Scott, “Me, too.”

Mama! Mama?!” I whirl at the sound, and stumbling down the redwood path from the box office to the stage door is a little black girl, nicely dressed, maybe seven years old. She’s got a teddy bear clutched to her. She’s mostly in shadow, fog enveloping her every step. Turning to look back the way she came, she stops. The back of her head illuminated, her hair in neat pigtails.

I think, She’s dressed for church. In 1960.

She turns, her face in a shaft of foggy light. Her eyes are empty holes.

“Mama says you better not stay here, Mister,” she says.

I want to look behind me. Is this a prank? Before I can turn, a hand grasps my shoulder. I look to my left. Weedbeard of 1996 still has his back to me, but from the back of his head – from within mostly dark but thinning hair – his current face pushes through. He’s bellowing words that sound like, “Ringeable! Dingeable! Scringeable!” He’s staring at my hands.

I look at his arms; they’re bent all wrong, reaching for me. I take both of his hands and —

fwap!

I’m back in my seat, binoculars glued to my face, but rather than a field in the moonlight, I’m pulled through the binoculars and –

— fwap!

I’m right next to Laurabell-Beaujolais Grausamkeit, on the stage, as she’s exiting during Iowa Stubborn. I follow her like we’re tethered. As she walks offstage, she pulls a ribbon knotting some aspect of Zaneeta’s younger sister’s costume in place. The little girl playing the youngest Shinn trips and falls, gouging her knee and bleeding badly, surrounded by concerned adults.

I see Laurabell-Beaujolais Grausamkeit’s face as she proceeds offstage: calm, smiling, secure.

I also see Judy seeing the whole thing; Judy turning to look at someone else, someone off in the shadows …

Louella! She of the Aughra-like features and less-charming personality. Her expression is passive; she might have been watching a freight train pass, her thoughts elsewhere. But Judy tilts her head and Louella gives the barest of bare shrugs: left shoulder only.

Judy shakes her head, moving in to speak to Louella.

I want to stay and hear what they say, but I’m tethered to the fiend I used to date, and she’s on the breezeway. I zip after her, and apparently she’s had some meaty garlic dishes of late, because she’s let fly some farts of truly epic stench. A couple of handsome young men are whispering intimately near one of the columns. Laurabell-Beaujolais Grausamkeit stops to stare at them.

“What?” one of them says. I recognize Tommy Djilas.

“I would never judge you,” she says, all sincerity. “I would never.”

Something in her words sends ice up my spine. The boys separate. Laurabell-Beaujolais Grausamkeit continues toward the women’s dressing room. I hear the boys coughing and gagging behind us from her assreek.

There’s a curvy ensemble member standing near a cake on the desk outside Harriet’s office. She’s lifting a bite to her mouth. Laurabell-Beaujolais Grausamkeit smiles huge and, laughing, says, “I love how free you are! Nobody needs consequences anyway! Does your husband call these days?”

The woman’s face crumples. She sets down the cake and Laurabell-Beaujolais Grausamkeit walks into the women’s dressing room – where I expect to see her wreak havoc among the ladies, spreading seeds of negativity that will grow into bitter fruit from the thorniest vines.

I’m plagued with sudden dismay: How did I never see this aspect of her when we were dating? Why did I have no memory of her golden eyes before tonight? Close on the heels of this thought comes a deeper, more alarming concern: What else have I done that I’ve forgotten?

Woodminster: South Pacific, Day Eight — Dark Carousel VI

In Fiction, Horror, Theatre, Writing on December 6, 2017 at 11:43 am

(Reader! Are you new? Welcome! Guess what? Start here. It will be a lot more satisfying.)
Day Eight: Wednesday, 26 July / Friday, July 12, 2001 – Dark Carousel VI

The row in front of us turns to shush and scowl at me.

“Pervert,” Elsa murmurs.

No, I’m talking about her eyes. Just her eyes. They were golden. As in, shining and golden,” I whisper. “I can’t believe you didn’t see it.”

“No doubt you want to go talk to her afterwards,” Scott murmurs, scratching the back of his neck with languid fingers.

“I’m pretty sure I don’t,” I say. And it’s the solid gold truth.

Dandelion umbrels swirl down around me and then clear away, we’ve moved forward in time and Billy Seltzer has moved to sit to my left, in a section of seats vacated by grandparents upset at my language. Billy Seltzer is trying to hold my hand. Her palms and fleshy and wet. It’s odd. I’m not comfortable with it. She won’t stop trying to hold my hand. How do I ask her to stop without causing an international incident?

It’s the scene after “76 Trombones” — Zaneeta enters with her friends. I raise the binoculars, glad of the escape from Billy “Squirt” Seltzer’s clammy palm shenanigans. I zoom in on Zaneeta again. Harold Hill is telling Tommy Djilas to escort her to the library. She smiles. Right at me.

Her eyes turn golden.

I can’t look anywhere else. They are huge and bright and I’m very sleepy now. I’m ready to go to sleep forever. Her eyes are filling the binoculars with light. I hear a voice … is it singing? … or screaming … and her eyes are inside of me. I can feel it, they’ve passed through my own eyeballs and are in my brain. Which is where they were supposed to be, I realize. This is where they belonged all along.

I open my eyes. I’m lying on my back in grass, outside, at night. The only light comes from a gibbous moon. It’s cold. I sit up. I’m in a large field. There’s a structure of some kind nearby, and thick tule fog wreathes the field with its eldritch creep.

Taking off my glasses to mop the fog from them with my shirt, I realize I’ve been here before. Right? It feels familiar.

There’s a sound behind me, like a group of people running in unison over the field. I turn around, standing up. Tule fog eddies around me, settling as I stand surveying the field and the surrounding trees.

There’s nothing there.

From behind me, echoing in the darkness, I hear, “Mama! Mama!

For an instant, I’m frozen in fear. Until I realize it’s the sound of an actual child calling for her mother. Unthinking, I run in that direction.

“Edward!” Elsa slaps me on the back of the head, cold water shocking me to awareness. I feel the binoculars slam into my chest, their plastic strap pulling hard at my neck.

The show is over. The seats are almost entirely empty. Scott is still shaking the last of a water bottle over my head, saying, “The Lord commands you: awake!”

“Fuck, did I fall asleep?” I say.

“No, asshole, you sat there like a pervy peeping tom, binocularizing the hotties in the show all night,” Elsa says.

“Actually, he didn’t move,” Scott says. “So … points for commitment.” He’s languid at his neck again.

“I don’t remember anything,” I say.

“Sure you don’t,” Elsa says.

I look at Billy Seltzer. She looks scared and upset. Oh fuck, she’s mad I didn’t hold her hand, I think, until I follow her gaze.

There are about ten other places in the amphitheatre where people are sitting up, binoculars stuck to their faces, surrounded by their family or some ushers. Each one is stock still, unresponsive.

Elsa looks where I’m looking. So does Scott.

“Um … creepy. Is this one of your long-form pranks, Edward?” Elsa is trying to sound nonchalant.

“Let’s go see Ken,” I say.

It’s an unseasonably warm night. But as I stand, I’m shivering like I’ve got a fever.

Woodminster: South Pacific, Day Eight — C&R X

In Fiction, Horror, Theatre, Writing on October 12, 2017 at 11:54 am

(Sometimes you are dusty. Let these mummified hands brush you clean. Listen to their first insidious whispers here.)

Day Eight: Wednesday, 26 July / Friday, July 21 2017 – C&R X

As he braces himself to fire,Weedbeard’s right bootheel touches a small patch of the insect grool and is burned away on the right side. He doesn’t notice, racking a fresh charge with a lever on the underside of the shotgun as he shouts, “Rocksalt, Fatherfucker!” The second blast is a dull roar; my ears are still ringing from the first.

The blast of salt tears through the baby doll, its larval plorper and the rotting hand, burning chunks splattered backwards onto Dolly Lurker’s porcelain skin – which now cracks, like actual porcelain. Dolly Lurker is gnashing its giant flapping shutter trapdoor teeth, breaking spider legs with juicy, meaty chunkings; the arm of the rotting hand holding the nightmare baby doll jutting off at an odd, jaunty angle like FDR’s cigarette holder. We have nothing to fear but a giant mouthful of spider legs! This thought is all mine, and it’s a relief to not hear others in there.

Weedbeard racks a third charge with the lever – I look over: this is a revolving shotgun. I say, “Fucking rad!” – but I’m drowned out as Weedbeard bellows, “Thrice-blessed by Rabbis, Priests and Pagan Conjurers! Smoked in the Smokey Smoke of Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme!”

As he says those last five words, ancient harmony wells up around us: thousands of monks, angelic choirs, every hippie who ever lived? Whoever it is, there is a moment of soul-wrenching beauty as that harmony coalesces around Weedbeard. He fires the shotgun on the button of the musical phrase.

There is a strange stillness to the blast – the salt crystals meet a barrier in the air for an instant, but the words Smokey-Smoke appear in the air, in a circle, around the blast. Is this the smoke of the blast, or the smoke in which the salt was smokey-smoked? I don’t know. But it puffs out into those words and then is sucked into every shard of salt – and the barrier is broken.

Dolly Lurker is blasted back against the wall, shrinking, two hands reaching up to hold its cracking face together, spider legs scrabbling at odd angles for purchase on anything. One of them is caught on the doorjamb of this upper door and rips out, falling to the floor with a clatter. Weedbeard has racked a fourth charge and blasts the leg away from the door; it shatters, but even the shards twitch and jumble about. I have a feeling that they’d slice anyone they could reach right now.

“Ma-MA! Ma-MAAaaughlghghghllllrrrrrghhhhh … ” Dolly Lurker sounds like it’s back down at the bottom of the stairs. I’m standing – when did that happen? – and I move toward the door to look.

Judy and Weedbeard both grab my arms and pull me back. I’m fighting them. Why?

“You heard the voice, didn’t you, Edward?” Judy says.

“It’s got a deeper hold on you that it would if you’d never heard it,” Weedbeard says.

They’re strong, but I’m determined to look through that door. I’m dragging them toward the opening. It looks innocuous. Just a doorway. I say, “How do I tell you both to fuck off but in a very respectful way?”

Weedbeard steps in front of me, grabbing me by the shoulders. I’m able to push him toward the door. I’m not usually this strong. “This is why I told you the memory was unsafe!” he says. “This doorway is warded and therefore acts like a portal – memories are malleable and can be changed here! You passed out when Alan fell, you didn’t see all of this. You need to step back to your present before you alter this leaf of time!”

But I’m pushing him. We’re almost at the door. I’m winning.

It feels so good!

Woodminster: South Pacific, Day Eight — C&R VII

In Fiction, Theatre, Writing on October 9, 2017 at 11:43 am

(Applebee’s sucks. In your heart of hearts, you know it’s the Fuller House of chain restaurants. If you love both of those things, you probably won’t like this story. If you loathe both of those things, you’re in the right place. Start here.)

Day Eight: Wednesday, 26 July / Friday, July 21 2017 – C&R VII

Lanky dark hair just beyond the doorjamb moves in a breeze I can’t feel. I see it now: an eye. Golden iris, pupil far too large. Locked onto me. Skin porcelain white. A gigantic, goofy grin, with way too many huge square teeth. The expression in that one eye: towering, giddy, ravenous rage. A clear thought forms in my head, the entire sentence sounding inside my cranium as though spoken, It wants us dead, and it wants to be the deadening.

Then another voice speaks in my head, shadows of terrified screaming beneath every vowel; my ears itch inside as it slithers around in my brain, unlocking every worst memory, breathing fresh fuel into every fear and insecurity:

No, no, no, no, no, my tasty, I am the deadening. Oh my, oh my, oh my, yes. I am the deadening. I am the deadening.

I shake my head against its slithering brain eggs; the nodule and sporangia all shift to focus on me with wet squish and plorpings. I’m trying to ignore the whirlwind of bad memories in my mind.

No, no, no, no, no, my tasty — all of the things. You remember all of the things. They are your esssssssence. Why try? You are that rejected ring. You are the miscarried child. 

Weedbeard says, “Alan, now!”

I can see outside the door, at last: Judy is there, and now there’s a face to the voice of Alan – it’s Obi-Wan-point-five! He’s throwing a Crown Royal bag full of something that isn’t a bottle to Weedbeard, who catches it without looking, eyes on the nodule. Obi-Wan-point-five is covered in oil. Judy is upending a box of kosher salt over his head, then pouring on more — olive? — oil. There’s another box of kosher salt nearby. I want to make a joke about savory sex, but I’m afraid to speak, and the voice in my head won’t stop:

You are the broken heart, abandoned promises, mistaken love, foolish indiscretion, erotic obsession, shameful indulgences, every dark and bad thing you work so hard to hide is why you should give up.

The nodule and sporangia shift back to Weedbeard – shphleurk-pop-pop-pop! – when he catches the bag, but I can’t stop shaking my head – I can feel it moving in there! – and they shift back to me, the frond fluffing to cover the ceiling and come halfway down the walls. It sounds, I realize, like a tom turkey puffing up his feathers. This strikes me as funny, until the nodule presses against the skin surrounding it, stretching the skin thin enough that it looks like the nodule will break through.

My tasty, when you tell this story, others will come looking for me, and oh how I want to be found.

It’s the face of a turkey. If a turkey was part vulture and part newborn baby. Grinning, with wriggling tongues for teeth, its eyes crudely-chopped mismatched triangles like a psychopathic jack-o-lantern. There’s a flickering light inside, casting horrid little shadows on the inside of its skull. It’s the light of a candle made from human tallow. How do I know that?

I am the one standing at the foot of your bed, that’s how.

Weedbeard is muttering something over the open Crown Royal bag, moving his hand in a pattern as he does so. The turkeybaby is getting closer to my face, the sporangia growing darker, like they’re engorged with blood.

I am in your closet, watching you sleep. Sucking at your dreams.

“You’ve got one chance, Edward,” Judy says, all calm business, tearing open and dumping the next box of kosher salt on Obi-Wan-point-five, “But you’ve got to shut your eyes. Trust me. Shut your eyes, and when I say NOW, you turn and reach out your left hand. We’ll try to get you in time. Edward? Shut your eyes.”

Mine are the grabbing hands waiting under your bed, reaching up to touch you.

I do as she says, shutting my eyes. Something warm and wet gloms onto my face, wrapping my head in flesh, clogging my nose, sealing my mouth shut. I try to breathe, to scream. I can’t!

I use your mouth to spill my seed in your lungs. Hold real still. Hold
real still. Hold real still.

“Edward, listen to me,” Judy says, her voice still low and calm. “It’s making you think you’re suffocating, but you’re not. And if you open them again, it’s going to breathe those spores right into your eyes and you will be lost to us forever, with no memory of any of this. Be ready, Edward; to your right, with your left hand. Trust me, you’re breathing. Just trust – NOW!”

Woodminster: South Pacific, Day Eight — C&R V

In Fiction, Theatre, Writing on October 3, 2017 at 12:06 pm

(You’ve maybe clicked on this because I’m bugging you to read it, but you don’t know where to begin. Hint: start here.)

Day Eight: Wednesday, 26 July 2017 – C&R V

Beneath this last letter is most of a neatly-penned page from a journal:

May 10, 1952

Bess and I snuck out last night. The moon is so bright! We brought flashlights, but we didn’t need them. And by God, if she didn’t bring a damned pitchfork! I snorted so loud when I saw that thing, I think I may have inhaled a firefly.
We had all sorts of plans: walk to MVC, egg Sadie Ballard’s house, dance an actual quadrille. I liked that one until Bess pointed out that requires at least eight people. She’s a good dancer. She knows this stuff. So instead of all that, we climbed up into Georgie’s tree fort and smoked cigarettes.
It was so exciting and dangerous. Bess said, “Do you think Holly Granger was this excited when she ran away?”
I said, “I’m not sure. Because of her dad.”
Do you think anyone told the police – ?” Bess was saying, but she stopped. “Do you hear that?”
Hear what?”
That sound. Listen.” Bess gets annoyed with me when I ask questions sometimes.
I don’t hear anything – ”
Shh!” she said, “It’s like … sleigh bells.”
I was going to say something about Santa and the Nice List, but I just listened instead.
I hear it,” I said, “It does, it sounds like … ”
Jingles,” she said.
That’s when something

The page is torn and burned at that point.

I set it down, looking at Weedbeard. He sees the question in my eyes.

“Yes, I think that may be the first appearance of our enthusiastic passenger from earlier tonight,” he says.

“I have a fuckload of questions,” I say.

“Have some more of that cheese,” he says.

I take another bite of the cheese, which I’ve been quietly avoiding since the strange vision that came with the first piece.

I see pools of light illuminating statues and ancient reliquary in what looks like a Victorian museum of antiquities. An older man, professorial in a three piece suit, is gasping as he struggles to pour a circle of salt around an ancient, sealed funerary urn on a marble pedestal. He mutters under his breath, words that sound like, “Mae Mirthin in chenouk hen galen thon, Protego! Servo! Praemunio!” A crash of shattered ceramic from the darkness behind him, and he freezes. A guttural chuckle rolls from the shadows. All color drains from the professor’s face as he falls to his knees.

The vision recedes and I reach for my tea. “What the hell is in that cheese?”

“It’s not so much what’s in the cheese, as it is what’s in you. The nature of the Mont Perdu Abbey and all it produces is to draw from within us that which is hidden, lost or obscured. It seems to me you might have some … lostness. Is there anything you need to find?”

“I lost time,” I say, before realizing I’ve spoken aloud. I eat a third piece of cheese.

“When and where?” Weedbeard says.

“Backstage at the theatre,” I say.

Weedbeard’s eyes widen, he leans forward: “Wait!” he says, “That memory isn’t safe!”

His voice echoes, fading down a long tunnel, blending with another sound until I’m standing somewhere familiar. I don’t just see it; I’m here. There are two or three mannequins. Boxes labeled GARLANDS and BANNERS. My cell phone light is on. I’m at the top of a set of dusty red concrete steps. They lead down to an open steel door. And from the inky darkness beyond,

“Ma-MA … Ma-MA …”

Woodminster: South Pacific, Day Seven — Voice Memo IV

In Fiction, Theatre, Writing on September 13, 2017 at 12:32 pm

(You, like me, are a geek. Timelines matter: start here.)

Day Seven: Tuesday, 25 July 2017 – Voice Memo IV

[Sound: rusted steel doorknob rattling, stuck.]

Edward: It’s locked. Fuck. Okay, moving along the wall …

Where was I? Pyramid, chanting … right. So I was listening to the chanting, standing up, getting ready to jump out and scare them. Because it would be fun to scare Burton Thomas. I think he’d enjoy it, actually. He’s that kid, at your 8th birthday party, the one who brought a VHS tape of Faces Of Death. Tells your mom it’s a comedy.

Anyway, I’m standing there and a leaf goes up my nose. I snort it out, shake my head, rub my nose.

The chanting stops. Someone says, “What was that?” Sounded like Weedbeard. That would be fucking weird.

[Sound: footsteps on concrete, occasional crunching leaves.]

… Another corner … and … a tree near the wall … and more trees, feels like … Redwood. Growing right against the wall. Listening …

[Sound: wind in the trees, Edward breathing. Forest, night. Nothing else.]

Okay, I’m waiting here for a minute. These trees make me feel safe. And I need to record this. Phone’s at 8%. So … I was breathing in to jump out at them. The leaf goes up my nose again. I smack the branch away.

It’s solid. Meaty.

It’s an arm. I think it’s Burton, because Burton would stick a leaf up your nose in the dark.

I turn to my right and there’s a face. Bone white. Grinning at me. It says, “Yeuhls-yeuhls-yeuhls-yeuhls-yeuhls-yeuhls-yeuhlssssssssss …” Rocking side to side, moving closer. Hands in white gloves. Squeezing my shoulder. Puffy, striped sleeves. I think, I swear I saw … a ruff around its neck? Like, an Elizabethan ruff. Or lace?

[Sound: whispering from the right, then, barely audible, a jingle.]

Okay, moving along. Away from the trees … feels like metal … another door, wait …

[Sound: pulling, turning knob that doesn’t want to move.
Whispering moves closer, jingles are louder.]

Double doors. Also locked. Moving on … the ground is sloping and the wall is curving outward. I’m following …

[Sound: from the right, jinlging and high-pitched giggles.
From the left, overlapping: Ma-MA! Ma-MAAAAaaaaaa … !]

Voice: I am silent when I need;
Sneaky-sneaky, peeky-peeky!
Thickly do you think you’ll bleed?
Reeky-creeky, cockie-leeky!

Edward: What the holy fucknuggets?

[Sound: from the right, jinlging – much closer, overlapped with keening screech laughs.
From the left, louder than before, closer, angry: Ma-MA! Ma- MAAeurghghgllllllphhhmmmmmnnn … !]

Voice: Some are here who should be not!
Interloper! Dolly groper!
I will bite you, like as not …
Filthy roper. Secret doper …

Edward: There are two of them. (A shout, surprised:) Fuck!

[Sound: huge splash, phone submerged; when it comes up, sound is garbled and watery; we hear gasping, coughing and retching.]

Jesus! … Christ, I’m … I’m in … disgusting water. It’s all goopy and full of algae. I’ve got … chunks in my mouth …

[Sound: more coughing, hacking, retching.]

Fuck. Is my phone still working?

Wait … goopy water, curved walls …

[Sound: wet hands smacking concrete, water sloshing.]

I think … I’m at the theatre. In the fountains … that means the parking lot’s …

Voice: I can hear you in the dark.
Secret noser, red-red-roser …
You will not escape this park,
I’m the poser, moving closer …

Woodminster: South Pacific, Day Seven — Voice Memo II

In Fiction, Theatre, Writing on August 30, 2017 at 11:52 am

(This blog is a gateway drug: start here.)

Day Seven: Tuesday, 25 July 2017 – Voice Memo II

[Sound: fumbling thud and scrabble, a muffled curse; footsteps on gravel, panting, more fumbling]

I dropped my phone. I’m … trying to catch my breath. I’ve been running. I threw a pot out a side window of the shed; that thing, whatever it is, went lurching off in the direction of the impact and I bolted from the shed but it’s dark. In the movies, there’s always ambient light in the forest. There’s no fucking ambient anything. Except darkness. I’m completely turned around.

[Sound: in the distance, Ma-MA! Ma-MAAaaaaa … !]

Okay, there’s there’s maybe a sliver of a moon tonight. Marginally helpful. I see a building ahead, I’m heading for it. I don’t have enough battery to keep this going for long.

I was talking about the pyramid. I found it on a map of the park, it seemed like an easy walk. I drove my car to the lot closest to that spot, parked, and took the right fork; according to the map, I thought it would take me to the pyramid.

[Sound: footsteps on gravel, the night breeze.]

Wait … the thing has been quiet a while. I think it’s quiet when it travels. So fucking dark. I can’t risk the flashlight on my phone.

[Sound: Ma-MAAAAAaaaaa!, far away.]

I’m not sure it’s Dolly Lurker. But it fucking sounds like Dolly Lurker. At least … I mean, after I ran away. Not at first. At first it just giggled.

I saw its face.

All white.

Like the mask.

Wait, there’s a gate here, near this building. Chain link … locked. Fuck. Okay. Okay. Up the hill to my left, trees. Probably poison oak, too, so … down the hill. Next to this building, there’s a trail. Right against the side of the building. Okay. I need to rest, I’m sitting down with my back to this wall. Nothing can sneak up on me here.

[Sound: Edward panting, but in the distance, jingles]

Oh shit.

[Sound: jingles, louder.]

It’s the other one.

[Sound: high-pitched giggling]

Time to go.

Woodminster: South Pacific — A Day Off

In Fiction, Theatre, Writing on August 28, 2017 at 11:52 am

(All the cool kids are doing it: start here.)

Day Off: Monday, 24 July 2017

A day off for actors – must be fun, right?

You’d think so. We spend our lives putting on pretty costumes and gallivanting about for applause, some of us actually get paid for it, and then on our days off we go to the seaside and eat fried fishes and bonbons. Right? Life is easy for the actor, all she has to do is learn her lines and be on time. Of course. It’s not like we have three or more other jobs we work to make ends meet. It’s not as though we’re up until 2 am cramming lines so we can drive for Lyft in the morning before heading to an audition that might get us work, but will take three hours from our day. It’s not possible that, in our mid-forties, we’re still being pressured by our family to be a Chiropractor [nurse, dentist, lawyer, brain surgeon, insert pressure here] as well as (read instead of) an actor. Despite prowess. Despite awards. Despite whatever successes may arise.

My day off:

Start a load of laundry. Make the bed. Sweep, vacuum, then mop the house (hardwood floors collect dog hair like I collect random bits of paper).
Laundry into dryer, start second load. Dishes haven’t been done in a week. I’ve seen larger kitchens on sailboats. There’s a stock pot full of rotwater in the sink, several frying pans as well. Start by taking all the dishes, silverware and cups/glasses out of the sink and organizing them on the counter. This actually makes processing them much easier in the long run. For me. (Not your style? You can do my dishes any way you want.) Now that the small things are out of the sink, start on the large things.
Ah, but they’ll need a spot to dry. Push the dishes on the counter over, clean up that wine glass I’ve broken because I wasn’t careful enough, lay paper towels down and cover them with a large, dry, clean dish cloth.
Now start with the washing.
Ah, but I’m out of dish soap.
Okay. Check the bathroom.
Out of toilet paper.
What was I doing in here?
There’s the scale. How much do I weigh? 193? I was 187 last week. What did I eat? I can’t remember.
Is that a zit? Ouch. That needs to cook a while before I can get it. Try again. HOLY FUCK THAT HURTS. Okay, tea tree oil and time. I’ll get you, my pus-laden friend.
I want some coffee. Is there coffee in the kitchen?
Oh, shit. The dishes. What was I … ?
Soap! Right. Check the bathroom.
There’s … shampoo. And shower gel. Both from Trader Joe’s. Probably safe? Hmmm. Let’s give it a try.
Ah, where’s the scrubby sponge? Look under kitchen sink …
Dish soap! Holy crap. Should have looked here first. What else is under here?
Mold and mildew spray, never been used. I consider the shower, I read the label: USE IN PROPERLY VENTILATED AREA. I don’t want to pass out while I’m doing dishes. I put it back. What else do we have? Borax. Hardwood floor cleaner, unopened. A variety of spray bottles, all repurposed, with their indelibly-inked new uses crossed out like the tattoos I want on my arms for this show. How long ago did I refill each of these, and with what? Most of the labels are warped, peeling, illegible. I should open one up and pour some out to see what’s in it.
BUZZ – dryer is done. Downstairs to the basement, check the load. 80 minutes on high and it’s still wet. Okay. Reset, head upstairs.
Mailman delivers package.
Open door, take Maxwell outside. Good Lord, it’s hot. How is he so energetic in this heat? It must be 105 degrees out here. Package isn’t for me, it’s for my landlord/neighbor. Drop it off at their front door. Make the circuit with Maxwell, because he likes to migrate with his pack.
The chickens – not my chickens, my landlord/neighbor’s chickens – are literally screaming, fighting each other for my attention, trying to push their way through the wire of the coop. Their water is murky and their food is empty. I feed them, I rinse out their water thing and it refills because gravity and technology. I have chicken shit all over my slippers. I’m still in my pajamas. I leave them inside their coop because if I let them out, they will further destroy flowers and herbs in my garden. Where the hell is Maxwell?
I find him reclining in the relatively cool grass, in the shade of an arbor. He does not want to come inside. I take off my shirt to try to get some color on my pale pudge. Billis is supposed to be brown from the sun. No real time for that, but a little color wouldn’t hurt. I turn on the hose to do some watering. I’ll just water a little. I had no idea how thirsty my Mr. Lincoln was.
45 minutes later, I’m done watering. A little dizzy from the heat. Maxwell went inside long ago. I head in.
My house is dark, but the cool of the morning is almost gone, now. It’s very warm.
Fuck. The kitchen.
BUZZ – check the dryer. Still damp. Check the lint trap. A little lint. Not a lot. I cleaned it before I started this load. That’s something. Restart the dryer. Hang load in washer on lines in basement and start a new load … ? No, dishes.
Still a little dizzy from the heat. Maybe have some water. Yeah, sit down. Have some water. Check my phone.
An hour and a half later, I wonder if I turned of the water. I dash outside. I did! Yay. Back inside.
Fuck. The kitchen.

And that’s how it goes. Because there’s never time to do all of this stuff during the rest of the week, it piles up until it’s near insurmountable.

What did I intend to do with my day? Work on my lines. And I do run them via recording while I’m washing the dishes, which takes about two hours total – pots, pans, then a load of dishes. While that’s running, a second load rinsed and ready to load. But it’s not the same as sitting down with my script for several hours and working with the words right in front of me. When the second load of dishes is in the machine, I realize my clothes are wet from the sink.

I’m still wearing my pajamas.

I shower. No need to shave, not for Billis.

I look at the clock as I’m pulling my boots on. It’s 3 pm. Where did my day go?

The floors are clean, but you can’t tell because of my clutter. The bed is made, but it’s overshadowed by the avalanche of crap on my desk. The dishes are done, but the counter is still somehow a wreck. Looking at it, all I want to do is go to sleep.

I sit down with my cold coffee from the microwave.

Left low back and leg really hurt.

I open my eyes at 7 pm when Max nudges me. His tail is wagging. It’s dinner time. The house is hot and stuffy. What was I doing? Was there something I forgot to do? I should work on my lines.

I open the door to the deck and put a fan in front of it, on low. It will blow coolish air into the living room. Around 3 am, it might be 67 degrees outside. Which is better than 108, the high in Livermore today. I feed Max and sit down with my script. I’m hungry, but the kitchen is clean and I don’t want to cook. Trail mix, I tell myself, is a suitable substitute. I’m trying to focus on my lines, but I’m exhausted. I feel like I’ve failed today. Netflix beckons. The Marvel Universe has untold secrets, calling to me. I need a break. I need to relax. I can work on my lines tomorrow.

This is my day off.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fuck. The laundry.