thhe e sgghhoostt mmoommenntts

TTHHEE GGHHOOSSTT MMOOMMEENNTTSS

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An expandable one-act drama by

Randy Wyatt

This script is for evaluation only. It may not be printed, photocopied or distributed digitally under any circumstances. Possession of this file does not grant the right to perform this play or any portion of it, or to use it for classroom study.

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The Ghost Moments © 2015 Randy Wyatt All rights reserved. ISBN 978-1-62088-488-1. Caution: This play is fully protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America, Canada, the British Commonwealth and all other countries of the copyright union and is subject to royalty for all performances including but not limited to professional, amateur, charity and classroom whether admission is charged or presented free of charge. Reservation of Rights: This play is the property of the author and all rights for its use are strictly reserved and must be licensed by the author's representative, YouthPLAYS. This prohibition of unauthorized professional and amateur stage presentations extends also to motion pictures, recitation, lecturing, public reading, radio broadcasting, television, video and the rights of adaptation or translation into non-English languages. Performance Licensing and Royalty Payments: Amateur and stock performance rights are administered exclusively by YouthPLAYS. No amateur, stock or educational theatre groups or individuals may perform this play without securing authorization and royalty arrangements in advance from YouthPLAYS. Required royalty fees for performing this play are available online at www.YouthPLAYS.com. Royalty fees are subject to change without notice. Required royalties must be paid each time this play is performed and may not be transferred to any other performance entity. All licensing requests and inquiries should be addressed to YouthPLAYS. Author Credit: All groups or individuals receiving permission to produce this play must give the author(s) credit in any and all advertisements and publicity relating to the production of this play. The author's billing must appear directly below the title on a separate line with no other accompanying written matter. The name of the author(s) must be at least 50% as large as the title of the play. No person or entity may receive larger or more prominent credit than that which is given to the author(s) and the name of the author(s) may not be abbreviated or otherwise altered from the form in which it appears in this Play. Publisher Attribution: All programs, advertisements, flyers or other printed material must include the following notice: Produced by special arrangement with YouthPLAYS (www.youthplays.com). Prohibition of Unauthorized Copying: Any unauthorized copying of this book or excerpts from this book, whether by photocopying, scanning, video recording or any other means, is strictly prohibited by law. This book may only be copied by licensed productions with the purchase of a photocopy license, or with explicit permission from YouthPLAYS. Trade Marks, Public Figures & Musical Works: This play may contain references to brand names or public figures. All references are intended only as parody or other legal means of expression. This play may also contain suggestions for the performance of a musical work (either in part or in whole). YouthPLAYS has not obtained performing rights of these works unless explicitly noted. The direction of such works is only a playwright's suggestion, and the play producer should obtain such permissions on their own. The website for the U.S. copyright office is http://www.copyright.gov.

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CHARACTER LIST

MATTY

BETHANY

THERESE

CARVER

MARIANNE

ZACHARY

CAROLINE

MICHAEL

ELLIE

ROSHANNA

MELODY

SUSAN*

CHARLENE*

PETER*

* = alternative monologues

NOTES

The set is minimal. White cubes, tables, chairs, not many. Lots of dark open space. Transitions between pieces, unless otherwise noted, can be more whispering and wandering.

The playwright gives permission for school groups to eliminate/revise profanity in accordance with their community standards. However, adult performance groups must seek permission for language alteration in accordance with the licensing agreement.

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© Randy Wyatt

This is a perusal copy only.

Absolutely no printing, copying/distribution or performance permitted.

I. PROLOGUE

(At lights up, the ghosts wander in. Or perhaps we begin with the entire cast on stage, haunting it. In tableaux, or just standing and staring. Lost souls.)

(The cast whispers the prologue in unison. For each line, a different cast member speaks it aloud, backed by whispers. Perhaps more than one cast member speaks the "you will be haunted" lines, but the whispers never fully disappear.)

As your feet walk this earth you will be haunted. Some phantom will tether you. A kiss A look A longing A memory A belief A regret. An understanding. Whatever it is there is no forgetting here. It will follow you It will hunt you down until you finally gulp the air steel your gut and turn to face it. You will look back and freeze for just a moment. Your ghost moment. In that moment You will either banish the demon

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Or let it possess you. Your choice. How you will choose is unknown but this much is sure. As your feet walk this earth you will be haunted.

(Cast members begin whispering significant lines from their monologues on top of each other as they mill about, moving into their areas, into the first monologue. The whispers eventually die away.)

(Transitions between pieces, unless otherwise noted, can be more whispering and wandering.)

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II. THE ACCIDENTAL EXORCIST

(MATTY, 20ish, enters with a backpack or messenger bag, eyes shut.)

MATTY: Hello? Hello? OK, awesome. Don't talk to me. Good plan. I really really like this plan. Just keep silent and we'll be juuuust fine.

(He dumps out the contents of the bag—a couple sticks of incense, an incense holder, several books of matches, a wooden cross, a plastic bottle full of water, a smartphone.)

Stupid Carly. I wouldn't even be here if she and her stupid stoner boyfriend OH MY GOD WHAT WAS THAT?!?

(He listens intently. There's nothing.)

OK. OK don't talk to me. OK? OK. I'm serious. I will completely lose my shit [mind] if you suddenly talk. Not funny, alright? All I'm here to do is cleanse this place of your demonic spirit, and then we can both go about our respective existences. You on your plane or whatever, and me on...mine. God I hate this. I HATE this. I mean, I bet it's no picnic for you either, being dead. And evil. And possibly not even existing at all but just being a figment of my sister's screwed up imagination while freaking herself out after she and her wastoid Chad—I mean seriously, CHAD...I know, right? I give it three months tops—they were up here drinking Jagershots until three watching spooky DVDs when Chaaaaaad gets this brilliant idea to make a Ouija board out of a pizza box and a Sharpie and suddenly bam! YOU and now they won't come back here until I...you know. THIS is what I get for being an altar boy. Like twice. I don't even know what I'm—

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You didn't just breathe, did you? I heard breathing. I HEARD BREATHING. DO GHOSTS BREATHE? OK. OK. It's me. It's me! I'm breathing. Which is good. I like breathing. You don't breathe. You're dead. OH MY GOD.

(He closes his eyes.)

Five, four, three, two, one. (He inhales deeply.) Jesus loves me, this I know. For my gramma told me so. She also told me NOT TO PLAY WITH OUIJA BOARDS, CARLY. WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?

(He starts fussing with the stuff he dumped out, lighting the incense.)

Like opening the door to the other side, she said. You don't mess with that stuff, she said. Remember, Carly? She told you too. Remember? Oh no? Were you too busy writing CHAD'S name on your TRAPPER KEEPER in METALLIC MARKER over and over and over? Or some other loser's name? I'm always sweeping up after your messes. God.

(He looks heavenward.)

Oops, sorry. I didn't mean that. I'm really gonna need you in a sec here.

(He lights the incense. Smoke.)

OK. I don't know how holy "Summer Peach Blossom" is, but I hope to God ghosts hate blossoms. And peaches. And lingering in empty apartments. And possessing the souls of well-meaning little brothers. You know, stuff like that.

(He tries to laugh lightly. It's not convincing.)

I mean, it's gotta be more holy than Piña Colada. Am I right? Eh? Cuz that's the only other one I...OK. OK.

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(He waves the smoke around a little. His eyes dart around the room.)

OK.

(He's at a bit of a loss. Suddenly he remembers and picks up the cross. He holds it out as if it was casting a force field around him. He gives a martial arts/Power Rangers-style war cry. A pause. He waves it around, making lightsaber noises.)

(A beat. He puts the cross down, still looking around.)

(A beat.)

Let's talk about this. You and me. Man to...you. What do either of us gain from you staying here? I'm just gonna get terrified, and you're going to wind up smelling like burnt peach cobbler. What will your ghost friends say about that? I mean, seriously. You don't wanna be THAT ghost. Dude. It's nothing personal. It's just—Carly needs to be able to come back here. It's been four days and I'm sick of her crashing on my couch. I just want her to be able to come back here, the place she pays rent, the place she should be sleeping at. And that means you have to go. Providing you even exist. Totally possible you don't. I think we covered that. Right. No offense if you do though. It probably means you have to leave. I don't know why you'd want to stay and listen to her snore anyway. Right? Girl needs a sleep study. Right? Ha ha ha. OK.

(A pause.)

I don't even know if I'm doing this right. But OK, whatever. OK.

(A pause. He straightens up and gets serious.)

I hereby cast you out of this place by the power infused in me—wait. Infused? That's not right. That's like—iced tea.

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Invested? Invested in me by the state of...no, that's a wedding. It compels you to? Um. Huh. Something about compelling. You're compelled. So there. I probably should get my verbs right. STOP LAUGHING AT ME. I'm serious. I'll come back here with a priest and a ghostbuster pack and a whole lot of garlic if I have to. CARLY IS NOT SPENDING ANOTHER NIGHT ON MY COUCH. JUST. GO.

(A deep sigh.)

She's my sister and I love her. She's my sister and I love her. She's my sister and murder is illegal. THE INTERNET.

(He pulls out his smartphone and fires it up.)

Exorcisms...quick and on the cheap. And send. Why didn't I think of this—oh. Wow. That's a whole lot of Latin. Um. There's gotta be something easier.

(Into the smartphone again.)

Exorcisms for people who might not believe in anything.

(Looks at results.)

Oooookaaaaay. I'm gonna be here awhile. This is ridiculous. This is ridiculous. This is all Chad's fault. He's the one who put this ghost in your head, Carly. He puts lots of ghosts in your head, Carly. But this one, especially. This is the one who has me in your empty apartment in the middle of the—AT LEAST IT BETTER BE EMPTY—night.

(He picks the phone back up and reads.)

Step one: Acknowledge the existence of the ghost. Step two: Explain calmly and respectfully that its presence is no longer

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wanted there. Step three: Bid the spirit begone. Burn some fresh sage if necessary. Well, I mean. When is that not necessary? Burnt sage. Acknowledge the existence of the ghost. Hi ghost. If you're actually there. What up? If I'm not talking to myself. Ugh. I don't think this is really acknowledging you. Let's skip this step. I'll come back to it. Step two. Calmly and respectfully. Heyyyy there. I know you've probably had a rough time of it lately. It can't be easy, being you. I'm validating your feelings. I just want to take a moment and say, calmly and respectfully, get lost. No, wait no, that's not very. Respectful. Please go away. I mean, come on, it can't be very fun here for you. Isolating is never healthy. I know. I'm not exactly the social one. That's Carly. She's always the one pulling me into parties and meeting me for lunches and checking in on me and— What am I doing? OK. Here's the point. She's more awesome than you are. Which is why I want to make her feel better, and this is...going to work. I think. I hope. I kinda owe her. She'll smell the incense, she will know I spent time here, she'll think my two times as altar boy makes me an expert on exorcism, and then she can move back in and feel safe. Which is what a brother is for. So. Yeah I know. I'm sweet like that. Awww. No, stop. I'm blushing.

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(He goes and gets another stick of incense. He sits and lights it. He looks out into the darkness.)

Do you have a sister? A sibling? I'm thinking you don't. Or you wouldn't be here. You'd go haunt them. That's actually kinda sad for you. Did I just acknowledge you? No. I still don't think you're there. Or maybe you are. You haven't tried to freeze my blood yet or anything, which I super appreciate, by the way. Can you even do that? Please, please don't answer. Stupid Chad. I feel like I'm doing better on step two. I feel like we've established a thing here. Calm. Respectful. Go me. Step three: Bid the spirit begone. Obviously I can't do step three until I really do step one.

(He holds the incense stick as it burns.)

I think it's gonna be a long night.

(He keeps vigil.)


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III. SPARKLES IN THE REAR VIEW

(BETHANY is a woman in her 20s or 30s.)

BETHANY: Aunt Diane used to take me to swimming practice in her rusted out 1971 Impala. Sometimes I would sit in the front seat, the hot vinyl sticking to the parts of me that weren't covered by my Wonder Woman one-piece swimsuit. It was my favorite time of week—not the swimming, I hated that, the other girls all screaming and splashing each other for an hour, by the end of which I was desperately longing to see the slim woman with the brown-tinted sunglasses to appear near the exit, striding in to come claim me. No, it was the drive—there and back. It was our time each week. She would say "I've never had a niece before, so tell me if I'm doing things right" as we'd pull up to the ice cream shack after practice. She was a 70s goddess, a Charlie's Angel—Farrah had nothing on her. I'd messily devour a huge brownie sundae but always keep one fascinated eyeball on her, sipping her can of Tab with just that one calorie, reading some tan-colored paperback, absently brushing her feathered bangs out of her face. I was in awe of her, I wanted to be her. I loved sitting next to her, chatting with her as if I too was a young independent 70's jet-set woman instead of a dumpy nine-year-old girl going to swimming practice. We'd listen to "Hot Child in the City" on the radio and turn it up so loud I thought my mother would pop out of the dashboard and scream at us to turn it down, but she never did, and that was cool. Sometimes Diane would flatten out the back seat and I would sunbathe as we roared down the highway, blasted by the hot cross-breezes flowing through the four open windows. Once I had a sniffle, and my mother had insisted on me bringing, not a package, but an entire box of tissues. I discovered that if I pulled out one after another, the mad breezes would turn the yellow tissues into golden faeries, skittering, flying all about, butterflies in a

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cyclone, all around me. And though my mother would have told me "stop wasting Kleenex," Diane just laughed and accelerated just a little more, so that the car soon was a magical cavern, a private grotto for Diane and the faeries and me. She had a small prism, like a marble, that hung on fishing line from her rear view. Sometimes, I would stare at it when I sat in front, and think that I was hypnotized, and watch it break the afternoon sunlight into little spectrums, splashed all over the car interior. I wanted to scoop up these miniature rainbows and put them in my pocket, to somehow capture the magic of being older, sophisticated, independent, mysterious, that feeling that being with Aunt Diane gave me. I tried to tell Mother but she never really understood. "Honestly," she'd say, waiting for a saucepan of margarine to melt, "I don't know when Diane is going to grow up and get a nice guy for herself. Settle down." But I didn't want Aunt Diane to "settle down." "Settling down," to me, meant being still, meant the fun was over and you had to come in and get ready for bed and "settle down." And if that's what Mother meant, then I didn't want Diane to settle down ever, ever, ever. At night I would dream of road-tripping with her, just the two of us, lounging on beaches, sipping iced teas, reading novels or racing cars just ahead of Burt Reynolds and Dom Deluise, winning by a nose. I never told Mother about Kevin, not out of deceit, but because I never really thought to. Once Kevin appeared, he showed up more and more at our ice cream shacks and pizza nights out. At first, I didn't want him along, but Diane knew how to have a boyfriend and a niece at the same time. Sometimes she would light up her Virginia Slim and with the smoke curling around her catlike eyes she'd tell him "Go along now. The girls


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need their time together." And he would ruffle my hair, peck Diane on the cheek and go. And then we would instantly turn to each other and talk about him "Do you think he's cute?" "Is he always that goofy in restaurants?" and on we'd go, laughing and laughing. Soon, he was that wacky neighbor you didn't mind, and even kind of liked. I had no idea he was black at the time. Sometimes, now, if I concentrate, I remember what it was like to be truly color-blind, how to look at someone and not break them into categories, like some cheap robotic analysis. Once you go past that point of knowing why the glances turned suspicious, awkward, uncomfortable, when your mother tells you she's taking you to swimming lessons from now on and you realize that you know why, once you learn the subtle art of intolerance through being polite, through Bible verses and better judgment, through safety by disassociation, all you want to do is go back and unlearn it all. You want the tissues to turn back into faeries, and rainbows to explode over your car, and race on and on with your Aunt Diane forever. I wear the sunglasses she gave me the last time I saw her. I wear them whenever I want to feel older, sophisticated, independent, mysterious. Because of her, I know how. Because of her, I know a lot of things. Rock on, hot child.

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IV. BULLSEYE

(THERESE, a young wheelchair-bound woman, wheels herself onstage. During this speech, she mimes stringing a bow, retrieving an arrow, and notching it into her bow, facing the audience.)

THERESE: Ever since I became a "cripple," people think it's my legs I miss the most. Nope. It's the respect. During the first year, I didn't talk to anyone. Before I found Eddie. He was hanging on the wall of a sports equipment shop, one that took me a half-hour just to get up the stairs to get into. I knew it was love from the first second I saw him. I plucked him off the wall and I knew it was destiny, baby, him and me. I told the cashier that I was taking up archery. "Good for you," she told me. For months, all I did every day was take Eddie out back and shoot cans. Arrow after arrow after arrow. I'd shoot a can off the stump from 10 yards, and my mother on the porch would cry out "Good for you, honey." She bought me a target, which I looked at for a very long time. "That's the bullseye," my mother said, as if I didn't know, as if I were six years old, like the wheelchair had taken me back through time. "That's what you aim for." Close up, the red spot in the middle seems so large. I know at larger distances it becomes a challenge, but to me, there was another target inside that red spot—a bullseye within that bullseye. When I set it up, it was that inner bullseye I was aiming for. Dead center of the dead center. I started hitting it. Over and over. I signed up for competitions. "Good for you," they told me. I started winning competitions, one by one. All of them. Juniors, divisionals, regionals. Nationals. And people stopped telling


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me how good it was for me. They started being very quiet. Which was exactly what I had been aiming for all along. This morning, I qualified for the Summer Olympic Games. Archery is one of the few sports that you can qualify for even if you started training later in life. Or early in your second life, depending. Every so often, when I mention it to a waiter or a bystander, someone tells me "Good for you." But they don't understand.

(She starts drawing her bow back.)

To me, good was never, never the aim. I now live my life on a pass/fail basis. With every shot, I feel myself getting closer and closer to God. When I get there, I'll have a few questions. From now on, it's never good for me. It's absolutely

(She lets it go.)

perfect.

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V. SPIN

(CARVER, a man in his 30s or 40s, speaks to another man, played by one of the other actors or perhaps merely implied. Both of them are seated, as if in a cafe.)

CARVER: You can ask my mother. She's the only other one I've let see me do it. I was in my playpen, four years old. She says she saw me wiggle my fingers—I won't do it now—and she saw my teddy twirl around, like it was in an invisible dryer. And she screamed and told me to do it again, honey do it again. But she scared me, I thought I was in trouble, see. So I didn't. And later on, she'd say she was seeing things, but she'd say it with this penetrating look at me, as if she were asking me a question but couldn't find the words. That's how young I was when I knew. At first it was great. I mean, just a thrill. I'd duck out of school early and run to the park, sit on the bench and make pigeons dizzy. A quick twirl—oops, haha, almost did it again—twirl my fingers and sort of blow. The blow was for dramatic effect, because I know it's all in the fingers but. I can feel—I mean, I can actually feel the tiny currents, like little threads, wrap around my fingers, and some sort of electric tingle on the tips, the very tips of my fingers—and then a little flick, and I send it off. This little cyclone. And it spins and it spins and then...it's gone. Just a couple seconds. Like the water whorls you see when the water goes down the drain. Little vortexes. All mine. Sometimes I thought I was dreaming it, I mean, I was a dreamy kid. I'd even force myself to forget about it for a while, because parents and teachers and everybody—they teach you to be, you know, normal. But I couldn't forget this, of course, I mean, I could do this amazing thing that nobody else could do. Then I thought that maybe this power would grow, and I


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was gonna be a superhero. Tornado Man. So I started "training." Asked my old man for a punching bag. He was so happy. Slung it up in the cellar, and I'd go down there, punch it a few times, barely make the thing move, and then wiggle my fingers and watch this tiny whirlwind fly from my hand, boomerang back into my hair and knock my own glasses off. Oh, but I'd dream, ya know? I'd dream that someday I'd be huge and mighty, and hurl F-fives at the bad guys and whisk them off to jail. But no matter how I twisted or flailed my arms around, they never got bigger.

(He makes a wimpy wooshing sound.)

That's all I could do. Just these little dust devils, five, maybe six inches tall. Pathetic. When I figured this out, I was a teenager, and I just felt stupid about it. The way you feel stupid about everything. And I didn't really do it again until...years after college. I tried to just erase it from my mind and go on, because it wasn't worth anything, because it didn't mean anything, I mean, little cyclones? What good are they? Who cares? Like my father said about painting. I tried to take a course in it once but my father scoffed. "What good will that do ya? College ain't recess." So I dropped it and went on. Because life ain't recess. And that became my mantra with everything. "What's it good for?" But I care. I admit it. I think it's beautiful. I can't explain it and I think that's the best part. I don't want to know how I do it. I just know I can. And now you know. You're the only person I've ever told. You inspire me. You make me want to tell you things, to bare my soul. And now you know my two innermost secrets. First, that loving you—trusting you—feels like jumping off a mountain, I

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mean, like being tossed in a hurricane, it scares me that much, exhilarates me that much. And this. I don't want to be ashamed of either anymore. I watch my father die nightly. He takes so many pills and he's strong for his age but his skin is like parchment in some library somewhere. Flaking. You know it's just a matter of time. And it just makes me realize—looking at him, it makes me realize that these secrets of mine—they shouldn't be. I should be so much more visible than I've ever allowed myself. That's the spin I put on it, anyway. Maybe I'll tell him. Let him see what it's good for. You wanna see it, don't you? Alright. Take my hand. One. Two. No more secrets.

(He raises his arm. The lights go out.)

Three.


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VI. AQUARIUMS

(MARIANNE, 17, sits on a stoop or a small stool, and lights a candle.)

MARIANNE: One night Do you remember? I woke you up "Dad, hey Dad!" And you said "Marianne What are you doing out of bed? Did you have a bad dream?" And I said "No Daddy It was an EXCELLENT dream." And you grunted And yawned like a cave bear But then you sat up and said "Tell me about it." Do you remember? So I did. We were at the pet store Just like we had been the day before Except this time With no warning All the fish swam out of the tanks Through the glass Right into the air And they were all around us Filling the air with stripes and flashy scales Like floating Christmas ornaments. Silly, huh? I said. But beautiful, you said. You said "Did you try to catch them?" And I said "No, they were too high

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And I didn't want to be mean, Daddy." And you said "You did the right thing" And I felt so proud. And then Do you remember? You lifted me up With your giant strong arms And placed me into the soft mountain of comforter Between you and Mom (Mom was still asleep—she can sleep through anything) And you looked me in the eyes and said "You are like those fish. You're not like regular fish. You will never be contained. Boxed in. You will float wherever you want to Whenever you want to And nothing will stop you. Nothing. Unless you want it to. You watch." Do you remember? Maybe I dreamed it. I hope not but It was late and I was suddenly sleepy And the dream was disappearing into my mind And the comforter was so so warm and Comforting. And the next thing I knew It was morning and I was back in my own sunny room. Maybe I dreamed it but I don't think so because Two days later you took off work


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And we went to the aquarium With the eerie blue lights And ripple shadows everywhere And huge turtles and seals and sharks And squids twice as big as me All floating soundlessly by Seemingly everywhere. And you bought me that glass With the angelfish on it. It broke in the move and I was so upset. Because it was one of two things I had to remember you. Now I just have the dream That night And some broken glass. I kept it. It isn't much But it's something. In a few minutes Mom will come to the window And stare at me for a minute Then call Aunt Sheila And tell her that I'm doing it again. We don't talk about it. This. We tried once. It didn't go well. She said "It's not like he's dead." And I said "He's dead to you." And she said "True." And she went back inside. We don't talk about you

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And I'm losing you More every year But I guess that's maybe the point, right? She said "Get lost." You got lost. You sure did. Mom and Aunt Sheila and counselors and everyone else Whoever mom can reach around me They all say "it's not your fault." Well, duh. That's not... But you are ashamed, aren't you? Of you. Of her or the other her. Of me. Of all of us. Something. And I feel it. Maybe you don't know But I do. Shame is heavy. Quiet and heavy. It's so silly. What I do. I try not to think about it much but I know it is. We moved. Twice. And it's not like you're staring out the window Or driving down random streets looking for a girl with a burning candle. Are you? If you were to actually show up here I think I'd stand up And punch you square in the face. Or maybe I'd cry and ask you to hug me. Or maybe I would just think you were the mailman


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And not recognize you. On purpose. I don't know. Maybe I don't know what I'd do. Maybe I'd surprise myself. I'm not like regular fish. There was one other time Mom and I talked about it. Sort of. Not really, but kinda. Not directly. She said to come inside, it was getting cold. And I said not yet. And she asked what I hoped to accomplish. And I said that I didn't know but that It wasn't my fault that your birthday was in November. She said it was hopeless. She said you weren't coming back And that it wasn't my fault For the billionth time. And I said Well more like screamed "Maybe I need something different from what you need." And she got real quiet then. She sat next to me. And we watched the candle burn. I asked her if hope is silly. And she said "Yes, honestly, sometimes it is. But Hope also makes you beautiful." So here I am. Being silly and beautiful. I can handle that.


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TRANSITION

(Lights up on Matty, burning a new stick of incense.)

(He and Marianne mirror each other's movements. Looking deep around them into the darkness, holding their respective votives, searching for ghosts.)

(Marianne blows her candle out.)

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VII. FORTRESS

(ZACHARY, 25-45, fiddles with the camera on a tripod and points it at the chair. He sits in the chair and looks at the camera.)

ZACHARY: OK. Hi. No. Not how I want to start this. Hold on.

(A pause.)

Hello losers. No.

(A pause. Clears throat.)

When the zombie apocalypse comes, I, Zachary P. Ledbottom, will be prepared. I'll say it again. When the zombie apocalypse descends upon us all, I, Zachary P. Ledbottom, will be prepared. And you won't. None of you. I don't even know which of you will be seeing this. I picture all of you huddling over some barely buzzing laptop in a basement somewhere, or maybe over at Greg's stupid apartment, passing around your last liter of Diet Mountain Dew and crying as the zombies pound on your door, moaning BRAAAAAINS. And I will feel such pity. FOR THE ZOMBIES. Because when they break in looking for brains, they are only going to find A LIGHT SNACK. At. Best. Yeah Greg, I said it. I've had it. I'm done. You are the worst DM ever. But more than that, Gregory and I know how you hate to be called that Gregory, MORE than that, you are a terrible person. And you hang out with terrible people. And I can't believe you killed off my paladin. HE HAD A PLUS SIX DAGGER AGAINST THE UNDEAD, GREGORY. YOU KNEW THAT.


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You knew that. And I know that was four years ago, but it doesn't hurt any less. Gregory. But no, no. This isn't about that. This isn't JUST about that. It's about how you guys don't listen to me. You. Never. Listen. And you know why? Jealousy. You're all jealous of what I know. You know I know all of those manuals backwards and forwards, so well that you could challenge me on any bit of game rules, which I've challenged you to do, which none of you have ever done, BECAUSE YOU'RE JEALOUS. It's so obvious. PLUS. You're jealous of all the other stuff I know. That one time when Cody and Nelson were all talking about Bruce Wayne in the corner LIKE I COULDN'T HEAR THEM and I had to say "Um actually? Batman did use guns, back in the early days, like back in the 30s and 40s? He carried a machine gun, but the creator of Batman, who everyone knows is Bob Kane, decided it didn't feel right, and made it part of the character to never use guns. YOU'RE WELCOME." And instead of THANKING ME they looked at me like I just rolled in old cheese and totally ignored me. Or that one time when you, Jeremy, were wasting time talking about the Potterverse, which was MY name for the Harry Potter universe which you totally co-opted without giving me proper credit but hey, I let it go, I'm the bigger man, and I had to say "Um actually? Hermione's patronus was an otter, not a badger, because otters fall asleep holding hands with other otters, and she does that in the movie, not with otters but with Ron, and anyway badgers aren't even water-based mammals. YOU'RE WELCOME." And you just PAUSED and then KEPT RIGHT ON TALKING as if I weren't EVEN there.

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Or that one time, Veronica, and I'm sorry, I'm sorry but I have to include you in this too, the only girl WOMAN in our gaming group, but that one time when you were wearing your Flash T-shirt which you look AWESOME in b-t-dubs, but then you incorrectly named Wally West as the Silver Age Flash and you made me be all "Um actually?" But before I could even say anything else, you cut me off and told me you didn't care to be corrected. Didn't. Care. To be. BUT YOU WERE WRONG. I just don't get it. And I don't get any of you. I thought I did. But obviously, I was wrong. FOR ONCE. Why bother saying anything at all? You're not going to listen. No point in talking if you know people aren't going to listen. That's why I never told you about this. My Fortress.

(He stands up and backs away from the camera, arms outstretched.)

I never told you about this because I was testing you all, to see if I could trust you with it. Obviously, none of you were worthy. Too bad, jerks. Too bad. I hope you can see all this glory. Wait, hold on.

(He removes the camera from the tripod and walks around with it.)

For years, I've been preparing this bunker. Every summer digging the hole, pouring the concrete, researching. Stocking it with cans of food, gallons of purified water, flares, utensils, a composting toilet, a bunk—and I guess I only need ONE, huh?—backup generators, a couple of tasers because you never know, and a thousand other things your little minds don't have the imagination to comprehend. This is the Fortress. I will stand alone against the onslaught. And you will


© Randy Wyatt



be eaten. Sucks to be you. If only you had listened to me. If only you had been nicer. If only.

(Pause.)

So YEAH. Take that.

(Pause.)

In one hour, I'm going to lock myself down here and wait for the inevitable. I have it from some pretty solid Internet sources that the zombies will be coming any day now. All that radiation that Japan dumped into the ocean isn't just going to wash away. But that's probably too complex a concept for your little brains to handle. Poor zombies. They're going to be so hungry. It's best this way. I'm sick of trying to connect with people. This way, I can just eat my canned ravioli and watch Adult Swim in peace, while you all get slowly and horribly eaten. All of you—Gregory, Cody, Nelson, Jeremy, Veronica...

(Something about Veronica's name makes him lose his trail of thought. He tries to get it back.)

It's all just too much work, you know? It's just.

(Pause. His smile is gone. He turns off the camera. Sets it back on the tripod. He sits back in the chair and thinks.)

Sorry Veronica but I can't.

(Pause.)

Seriously. You won't even miss me.

(Pause. He gets up and turns the camera back on.)

So. When you guys—if you guys—find this memory stick, which I'm mailing to your house Gregory—it will be too late. I'll have locked myself in. And you won't have to—listen...

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(He stares at the camera. He gets up and shuts it off.)

How do I finish this? People are so...

(He rewinds the camera, hooks it up to playback device—a tablet, maybe.)

Maybe. Just watch what I have. I'll pick up the vibe. I'll see what I'm saying. Yeah.

(He starts watching his video. The light from it flickers against his face as the light dies on him.)


© Randy Wyatt



VIII. WATER: A MEMOIR

(CAROLINE, a woman [30-60], steps onstage carrying a glass pitcher of water.)

CAROLINE: Bobby came to me one day, his calendar in hand. He says to me "Caroline, Caroline. What's this all about?" He showed me the marked-out squares and I smiled. "I'm going away for a time," I says to him. "That's my sabbatical." He screwed his face up at me when I gripped his hands. "Sometimes" I said to him. "Sometimes you just have to remember." I left Thursday morning along the interstate north. To Upper New York State. A six-pack of Diet Coke in a little blue cooler and a road map was all I took. All the way there, I counted the reminders. When I was four, the rain tore open the sky and splashed onto my parched face, onto the squealing animals, onto the dusty ground. My parents hugged each other, then they hugged me, my mother's tears running down my neck and I remembered. When I was 13, the pastor knocked on my door, Bible in his hand, relations behind him, smiling. We went down into the creek and he dipped me back, back into the warm waters of the marsh while my sisters sang a hymn. My white dress was ruined, but I remembered. When I was 20, I met my husband in Bostontown. He met me late at night on the wharf, stepped me onto a rented motorboat for two. He cut the motor and showed me the stars, like diamonds to a pauper girl, while the black silent sea rocked us—back and forth. And I remembered. When I was 36, I'd wake early in the summer morning, watch the sprinklers rise from the earth like moles, spraying mists over the lawn, splintering the early morning sun into so many

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rainbows. The steam from my almond tea kissed my face, and I remembered.

(We hear the rushing sound of a waterfall. Perhaps made by the company.)

Now I stepped out of the car, down the path, paid for my ticket, six dollars. I entered the elevator in the cliff and closed my eyes. I stepped out onto the terrace as the tour guide started speaking, and I approached the falls, that Erie River drop, the great Niagara. And I stood on the terrace as the waters gushed over my hair, down my blouse, over my jeans, through my shoes and I smiled. He reminds me, and I remember.

(She holds the glass pitcher of water over her head and pours it onto her face. Another actress comes up behind her and holds the pitcher as Caroline's hands release it, her arms sweeping slowly down to her sides. We bask in her baptism for a moment.)


© Randy Wyatt



IX. THINGS TO LOSE

(MICHAEL is a male in his early 30s.)

MICHAEL: I lose things. I always have. I misplace my wallet on the bus. I forget my keys at home. I leave my dayplanner at every other restaurant. Every paperback book I have ever been seriously interested in I've had to buy twice. I keep my bus pass on a chain around my neck. Along with my driver's license. I cut up my credit cards. I laugh when salespeople offer me cellphones. I lose my place, my sense of direction. I will come home hours and hours after lunch, the moon a hole gushing light over the lawn. Fortunately, I don't work, or I'd have lost my job long ago. I try. I do. I endeavor to maintain some sort of schedule. I set my alarm every night with the best of intentions. The radio roars to life at 6:11 every morning. Country, I hate country. We both did. I roll over to his side of the bed to avoid getting up on the wrong side. The radio keeps going long after I've left the room. By the time I reach the shower, I've forgotten what the big deal was. I turn the handles and water and steam fall. I sit down cross-legged under the shower until I am shivering. The house is silent. I pad downstairs half-dressed. The coffee-maker has started but I don't drink coffee. I just need the smell. It's not morning, it's not normal unless. Mark made candy. He'd kiss me and rush out the door to the shop. He'd come home smelling of chocolate and pralines and

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raspberry creams. I'd lick it off his fingers and somehow never finish my 4:30 whiskey sour. We're not like other couples, he'd tell me through a wolfish smile. We're staying together. He'd roll on top of me and I'd laugh until I'd feel his warm stare. I'm stuck with you, he'd say. I'm stuck with you. I threw out a lot of things afterwards. Things. They lost their names. I went to my landlord to ask if I could move into a one-bedroom. She gripped my hands and her tears were clear and beautiful. "I'm so sorry you've lost him," she said. I couldn't speak back to her, just beamed and nodded, squeezing her hand back, as if I were holding onto her kindness. The next week there was broken glass on our living room floor. The television was missing, some other things. I picked up the telephone to call the police and froze. I sat down and stared at the shards of glass, like tea leaves at the bottom of my cup, telling my future. Take it, I thought with gratitude. Take it all away. I'll just lose it. Mark died in winter. It took me all of spring to remember how to make a pot of tea. Day by day, I felt the satisfaction of a kid who knocked down his own sandcastle. Erasing our lives became the satisfaction of a deeper hunger than I knew I had. I don't remember when the carelessness wasn't welcome anymore, but I heard a voice, like wrapped in cotton, deep in my chest, don't lose it all. Don't forget it all. And I remember crying helplessly to my friends, blubbering my request for help, please don't let me lose it all. And they understood, and they packed boxes and took them away, and even though I didn't know where they were exactly, I knew they were safe,


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secured under Gerome's bed, or in Hannah's office or deep in my mother's hall closet. Today I was offered a simple chocolate by a store clerk. Sure, I said. I closed my eyes in the dull pain of remembrance as I slipped it into my mouth. Why not? I said, my mouth and mind flooding with Friday afternoons and keepsake whispers, that which I could not box up.

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