The Literary Magazine of Western Reserve Academy 2014 -‐‑ 2015

BUFO The Literary Magazine of Western Reserve Academy

2014 - 2015

2 BUFO 2014 - 2015

EDITORS

Anna McMurchy & Taryn Washburn

FACULTY ADVISOR

Todd Gilbert

STAFF

Caroline Babbin Charles Prendergast Madeline Maneval Austin Rand Hannah McKenzie Chung Hwa Suh Kristina Nazarova Katherine Zandee

SPECIAL THANKS TO

The Dads’ Club The Pioneer Women The Green Key Society

3 4

I have no words powerful enough to describe what words mean to me. These combinations of letters on a page have the ability to transport you to any kind of place. My infatuation with stories centers around this unique opportunity for escape. The most fulfilling part about all the work I have done to pull BUFO together throughout the course of this year has been reading the submissions from my fellow students and discovering new insights into the journeys of others. C.S. Lewis, the author of one of the greatest fantasy series of all time, said “Friendship is born at that moment when one person says to another, ‘What? You too? I thought I was the only one…’” By reading my classmates’ heartfelt pieces, I feel that I have become more in tune with them and with the emotions of the human race as a whole. Words can do that. I can think of nothing else that can say the same.

Putting this magazine together has been an absolute joy. Whether it be peering into the inner workings of Erin Dockery’s mind through her Glimpse page, or running around orchestrating the most successful BUFO coffee house in WRA history, I have had a great time; I truly believe that I am a better person because of this project. Mr. Gilbert and I organized the first six-word story contest this winter, a fun competition which I hope will continue for years to come. The depth that some students could contain within such a small snippet of prose amazed me, especially since so many submissions came from people who might not normally submit to BUFO. Our general submission process went digital this year, which turned out to be an absolute success. I cannot wait to see how the story of BUFO develops over the years, and I hope this wonderful opportunity will always have a warm place in the heart of WRA tradition. It has certainly found one in my own.

Lick and enjoy!

Anna McMurchy

Bufo, a journal of young creative writing, is distributed annually by students at Western Reserve Academy, and was published in 2015 by Western Reserve Printing of Hudson, Ohio. This edition was printed using the Palatino Linotype typeface. Editors can be reached through Bufo Advisor Todd Gilbert c/o Western Reserve Academy, 115 College St., Hudson, OH, 44236.

6 CONTENTS 2014 - 2015 POETRY Erin Dockery, Clean 12 Simon Ong, All the World’s a Stage 14 Taryn Washburn, Death in the Living Room 15 Anna McMurchy, The Fears of Which We Speak 17 Wren Zandee, To Exist 18 Kristina Nazarova, Smoke Signal 19 Noah Kontor, It’s Always Breakfast Somewhere 20 Hannah McKenzie, Two Coats 21 Jessica Babbin, Willie P. 22 Taryn Washburn, Sports Bras 23 Max Forsyth, Whipped Back in Place 25 Sarah Zimmerman, You Said You Wanted to Climb 26 Noah Kontor, Lifeguard 27 Max Borrmann, Why Not Tea? 28 Hannah McKenzie, How We Came to Be (Downstairs) 31

ART Neva Onysko 34 Taryn Washburn 35 Sandra Spurlock 36 Kelsey McKracken 37 Sandra Spurlock 38 Neva Onysko 39 Taryn Washburn 40 Sandra Spurlock 41 Kai Stewart 42

FICTION SIX WORD STORIES First place winner: Max Borrmann 44 Runner-up: Irina Kopyeva Darcy Kuang 45 Sarah Smith Kyle Buseck Kali Chapas Anna McMurchy

7 Erin Dockery Marc Franquesa Zachery Bloom Dakota Gibbons

VERY SHORT STORIES Sarah Zimmerman, Out of Tune 46 Caroline Babbin, Chartreuse Kristina Nazarova, The Real Reason Grant Foskett, No Fishing 47 Alec Rubin, HEADLINES Sarah Zimmerman, Bubble Mint 48 Caroline Babbin, Dammit Jessica Babbin, Robert Harrington Psy.D. Eric Beuhler, In the Kitchen 49 Naz Ferdhusi, His

SHORT STORIES Sam Haseltine, The Siren 51 Joey Mylott, Ice 53 Anna McMurchy, Stirring 54 Jessica Babbin, The Harbinger 56 Hannah McKenzie, Claustrophobia 57 Chung Hwa Suh, The Nobles of the Palace 59 Grant Foskett, Field of Flowers 61 Kristina Nazarova, (A/De)ttatchment Blanket 63

ONE-ACT PLAYS Hannah McKenzie, Frugality 68 Kristina Nazarova, Blinding Sun 77 Alec Rubin, Background Noise 87

Cover art by Sandra Spurlock ‘16

POETRY

11 ERIN DOCKERY

Clean

I thought there was an egg, in that red haired knot, that Pauly wore atop his head, it’s funny I should notice, that wired red nest, because 77 piercings pleaded for sore words, or maybe admiration from a small few, but I don’t think that’s what the he former she was going for, but I was glad for a societal weirdo, in fact I praised Pauly for his cotton red pants and blue button down, wrinkled to a crisp, for maybe he would write words on me without carving hate too, yes, I went out that day to get a little ink, something my parents definitely wouldn’t approve of, but at least with a label, I don't have to pretend, that my insides match the out, I wanted the letters to show, so when I gulp 20 pills and sit through support group, I could simply wave my letters in surrender without saying a thing, I hoped he would understand, that to have an affliction, is a cube, and each day by the people we meet, or our bodies willingness to accept defeat, we land either feet down or heads up, with no arms or legs, to say it’s alright, I’m okay, so Pauly please write these letters on me, five steps away, still bearing my CEO nametag, I stutter my story, and click my heels,

as if this was a fairytale, red and sparkly, Red and sparkly like the sign of Sunny’s Tattoos, and that man named Pauly, smiled as if to say, midlife crisis, I see it twice a day, but my reasons are different, far more complex, for I surpassed mid-life five years ago, finally I raise my white flag in surrender, a crinkled white page with three capital letters, and Pauly raised his guns in fear, “Sorry lady,” said he, “I can’t tattoo someone with HIV.” I blushed for fear was my friend, “Why would you want ‘HIV’ tattooed, you’re so beautiful.” “Shut up,” I said. and walked planning to scream, “I have HIV.”

All the World’s a Stage

A pantomime, That’s what we are now A pantomime without any action Instead all is silent. The stage lights bounce off your glistening, wet eyes. You struggle through your lines getting choked up as you do. Broken, fractured, tears roll down your face as the crowd cheers.

Death in the Living Room (January Thirtieth)

It’s been a year since Tracey died; a year since her fingertips calcified to a pale, hard-looking yellow; since the tumors, nearly bursting, bulged on her ribs throat spine skull, blossoming beneath the skin like ripened fruit; plumbs peaches pears apples, purple and blistering like the plague. It’s been a year since Tracey died; a year since Death visited the family room -where we are supposed to eat drink, and be merry- and sucked her last breath calmly from her lungs. I had been told she would struggle and spasm and gasp

and I “wouldn’t want to see it,” but Death was kind enough to simply press on her chest -careful not to touch the open, bloody tumor on her breast- and let the air out. It’s been a year since Tracey died; a year since I watched Death take her in his arms; since her eyes opened and met mine as they rounded the corner on their way to my

memory.

The Fears of Which We Speak and the Ones We Must Keep Silent

Maybe I’ve got it Philematophobia No one’s ever tried

What I truly fear Is that I’ll live my whole life Sans the chance to know

WREN ZANDEE

To Exist

Has it ever occurred to you That to exist is animal, but to disappear is divine This is what he says to me As I give up on the menu and blearily order a latte He mumbles on Death, he says, is in the details Human beings slowly ground down to pencil stubs Just as long as life doesn’t come for me Demanding action and reaction and thought

Scientists say that the blind see white That it is light and not dark that presses against their eyelids So maybe Dying is nothing but spinning into the light Not at all the monsters under your bed Nor the stalker behind the tree The brightness That invades ou when you leave the dim church and see the sun highlighting your reality

KRISTINA NAZAROVA

Smoke Signal

Two miniscule boats drift on the world’s surface The smaller one timidly peeps out from behind, Seeking comfort in his shadowy reflection Yet she burns just the same The earth’s potent reflections of them do not mirror reality And the earth provides them with no contours or hints, For the sky and water have blended into one The two who willingly left dock, find themselves enclosed by a heavy mustard haze The can only depend on each others’ false images, painted by the earth, to guide themselves somewhere. forward. But soon the dark reflections sink, replaced by the desolate hiss of smoldering sticks

It’s Always Breakfast Somewhere

As the ethereal orb in the placid sky Leaves from American lands, It casts its own benevolent head Upon the Australian sands. One world to sleep, another awakes, And here is our great lesson: Whilst some of us sleep, others eat, For their breakfast is in session.

Two Coats

Shoulders clobbered in the oversized coat hunched as if to say: It’s not that bad or What more was there to do? because he knows that a stuffing is inevitable and all true martyrs end at the start of the barrier that reads distinctly NO TRESPASSING.

Trespass they do-- every inch of body must be theirs for the taking and they trespass his skin his blood his bone.

This faulty taxidermy wrestled the beast into confines of bumper to bumper traffic and cityscapes. So now emptiness hangs below the sleeves waiting for either hands or hooves.

JESSICA BABBIN

Willie P.

He is ten thousand feet away. I refuse-- Anything else.

He exhales, covering his face in a hypnotizing mask, The cold air serving as weak plaster. The night’s fog is sharp; droplets cling pathetically, Satisfying their want to pollute my skin. I command myself to wipe them off-- My body is a thing.

One thousand feet,

In my chest, a vault With a dry-ice heart for safekeeping, Mine or his depending On who presently holds the sledgehammer, His cigarette smoke forces itself on my mouth, The searing vapor catches in my throat, My lips crack and bleed, I swallow,

One hundred

He whispers The exhaust from a police car Assailing my ears My mind Louder than any screaming siren The swirling stars The billowing white painful clouds The withering phrase over and over It burns and blisters Will he please

Sports Bras

After bouncing for months between sexuality’s stark, narrow labels -the sticky kind, made to go on perfectly rectangular boxes and envelopes – I found myself in a new predicament: Boys don’t have boobs. I didn’t want boobs. (Well, yes, I did but not like that) This revelation came as a surprise late one night - or early one morning, whichever you prefer – as I appraised myself for the first time in the wake of appraising others. Hours later, dawn peeked through the blinds, laying fresh eyes

on the fresh individual, still awake and amazed. I went out that days and I bought ten sports bras.

MAX FORSYTH

Whipped Back in Place

A silk spider strand anchored to the rock Floats nobly towards the sky, dangling from the dock.

So light and nimble, stagnant air aligns it high. Free from standing still, controlled by the tide.

Ignorance is bliss, when you’re made of silk. Buckling here and there, spinning like a mill.

Nothing seems restrained, when you whip around. Until you realize you are stuck to a rock on the ground.

SARAH ZIMMERMAN

You Said You Wanted to Climb

You said you wanted to climb all the way to the top. I was reluctant, We were pressed for time And grandpa didn’t like it when we were late, But it was your voice telling me that you wanted to show it to me That changed my mind.

We all have certain places That mean something to us Whether it be because of the people we shared it with Or our own thoughts. I guess Roseberry was one of yours. I guess it’s one of mine now, too.

We made it up all the stairs And all of the rocks And all of the dirt. My ears were tingling from the wind. Even you, the lover of cold, admitted it was freezing. I pulled my hood over my head. The view was most definitely beautiful, With the sun shining down on the farms, But I think what was even better Was the fact that it was you showing it to me. Getting to create memories in such a breathtaking space. We were lucky, weren’t we?

NOAH KONTOR

Lifeguard

In times of black, sad blue, I would be dead if not for you. You pulled me from that treach’rous height, Far from that tree from which I might Have fallen, fallen, fallen down, Fallen dead into the ground. In seas of black, sad blue, I would have drowned if not for you.

27 MAX BORRMANN Why Not Tea?

Feeling lucky to be alive, listening to the symphony of crickets with the interlude of bird calls, a cacophony of cicadas calling for their family, the final buzz of a bee as it dies like its brethren in the new world, just like the men who brought them; a stain of death on new clothes, spilled coffee from a warm mug, making you feel warm on the inside like a fresh baked cookie or a grilled piece of meat, the carnivore versus the herbivore, or better yet the omnivore, but when does that become an enigma? Waiting like a Rubik’s Cube to be solved. Organized. Catalogued like a library, a rigid shell full of ideas and knowledge that knows no limits, an infinite complexity confined in a turtle shell. Bound in the aged skin of cows, that is where we keep our secrets, thick leather tomes as old as exploration itself. But a new story is being scrawled across the interwebs. Another infinity, but one of ones and zeroes searched and found in a matter of milliseconds, while simultaneously forgetting the very spirit of discovery, the thrill of riding a giraffe bareback into the unknown,

28 MAX BORRMANN a mountain of secrets, systematically reduced to data points in less time than it takes to blink an eye, or shatter a bubble into nothing. All the wonder gone. Facts left over like the meat clinging to a carcass left by lions to feed the vultures who pick away at the scaffold of life. Clinging, not jumping like lemmings unable to spread wings and soar, but bound like a tree to the earth. Subject to weather and wearing like the gnarled and cracked skin of an elephant's knee, which stands under the stress of more than a midterm; the crushing spirit of two tons of organic matter, made from the same particles that make up the outer reaches of our galaxy, expanding like a balloon. Hopefully, we won't Be here to see it POP! goes the weasel, and round and round like a planet and a star, a dance of two celestial bodies, bound for an eternity by some unseen force. They will never touch, just as the whale will never walk again, in and out of the sea from legs to flippers, or back again, returning from one state like water to ice. But that's just the tip of the iceberg. Or maybe of a banana? No love for the shriveled brown end of an otherwise white fruit, subconscious segregation a racism that should not be ingrained in the fibers that make us human;

29 MAX BORRMANN or the soft fibers that, when sewn together, make a soft hat; or all of the fiber in that aforementioned banana. Working together, bonded like atoms, striving for a common goal but not one for the common man. Only the elite can move up from their high throne, gilded with the jewels of opportunity and advancement. Ever aspiring to move higher and never look back around a corner where the shadows fog up the meaning like the warmth of your breath on a chilled pane of glass, reflecting like a crystal lake, the source that flows to keep us alive but all part of an overarching cycle. A rainbow bent in a perfect parabola across the limitless sky, a beauty only possible when the sun and rain mix. Good and evil united for beauty. Unity. Strength in shared experiences, not in individual endeavors. Seek light not just truth, but find where you are going after you have left. A cartographers nightmare, a philosophers dream. The mix of bad and worse go hand in hand with the half and half in your coffee, But why not tea?

HANNAH MCKENZIE

How We Came to Be (Downstairs)

It is said that existence stems from the sun, and humans once suckled breath from the great star’s flaming bosom.

Each earthly being that walks on thin ice fears her omnipotence, since it is known that she can melt.

Without that incandescent orb, hearts would not survive long enough to pump a prayer in morse code.

Upstairs the heat of absorption swallows-- stifling life through a single smatter of rain.

(with lines taken from “Six Poems” by Larry Eigner)

ART

Neva Onysko

Taryn Washburn

Sandra Spurlock

Kelsey McKracken

Sandra Spurlock

Neva Onysko

Taryn Washburn

Sandra Spurlock

Kai Stewart

FICTION

SIX WORD STORIES

First Place Winner: Max Borrmann

Two opinions, two men, one knife. At least the robots can't fly. The trip didn't go as planned. Big parties, bigger egos, no happiness. Don't try negotiating with a bear.

Runner-up: Irina Kopyeva

All sewed up. Where’s the scalpel? Sleeps around. Suffers from extreme narcolepsy. No more toilet paper. Must scavenge.

SIX WORD STORIES

My grandpa died at age 6. -Darcy Kuang

Your voice is in every song. His words chiseled her frozen heart. I found you but lost myself. I thought you felt it too. -Sarah Smith

Rain falls, shielding tears, rinsing hearts. -Kyle Buseck

She didn't know how to cry. -Kali Chapas

I cannot create, only replicate. Repeat. -Anna McMurchy

I'm Joe, and I'm not unemployed. Never show tattoos in an interview. Failure is relative; success is inevitable. -Erin Dockery

Ice keeps on, despite our apathy. -Marc Franquesa

A species dead. New purse made. -Zachary Bloom

Fighting but yet not strong enough. Knowing what's right but can't execute. Just like us, just... he’s alone. -Dakota Gibbons

VERY SHORT STORIES

“Out of Tune” By: Sarah Zimmerman The dents in the carpet were staring at me. I know that carpet is inanimate and that it doesn’t have eyes, but it can still stare at you. It’s like when you take a shower in a hotel and the bathroom is white and the lights are white and the shower is white and the ceiling is white in the worst sort of way. I understand that the color white can’t scream, but it’s a very loud color when it’s bright and it screams. Anyway, the carpet was kind of like that, too. It was just staring at me, making sure to rub in the fact that I had to sell my piano to pay rent. I didn’t need the carpet to tell me how broke I was. I knew that enough by the stupid white bills that came rolling in every month to tell me how much farther away from my dream I had slipped. I didn’t need the carpet to tell me about that.

“Chartreuse” By: Caroline Babbin Shirts in Peacock, Violet, and Ocean Drift were doing well. Wheat was criticized heavily, people claiming it lacked a certain wholeness. Which is a lie, because if you compared it to a slice of rich bread, not a roll, or some cheap pita fourth, it looked perfect. And conversely, vomit was selling out, day after day, people raving it looked, “Exactly like the real thing!” Which was a surprise, to even the designer. But not to one woman, who saw that color, fashion, style, these things were up for interpretation. But the truth was not and although the green shade was slightly sickening, and thoroughly unflattering, it was an honest color, with an honest name.

“The Real Reason” By: Kristina Nazarova “The real reason behind the creation of teddybears, is to distract from the foul things that hold them. And to foster forgiveness for the spilled milk.” Letter from Teddybears CEO to Board of Directors.

VERY SHORT STORIES

“No Fishing” By: Grant Foskett He sat fishing on the pier everyday. You weren’t supposed to fish on the pier and he knew that, but no one else did. So no one ever bothered him and he never bothered anybody. All because he removed the notice, which is something that anyone could have done, but he did.

“HEADLINES” By: Alec Rubin The incident received minimal coverage in the newspapers, being discretely presented corners as a small box with the text “CONSTRUCTION ACCIDENT KILLS TWO, THREE INJURED.” The man had never noticed before he arrived at the hospital--but of course his present condition resulted in him having far more time to think--but he had never before considered how something so completely trivial to the lives of the masses could be so impactful simply to one person. Since Indianapolis really was quite a large city, he knew of course that its reporters were bound to miss a few things, yet he really did find it shocking how glaring some omissions were: there was no mention in the Obituaries of a once vibrant soul that now lay dead, no message in the Birth Announcements of a monster born and rooted in place with a severed spine and a face smashed beyond recognition as a human, and no Missing Persons report for the disappearance of a once-loving woman that had promised “For better or worse” but vanished when she realized just how bad “worse” could be. At the same time, he also realized, with an air of nostalgia for his former, free life such things were only matter of course for the world. People always seem to move on in the face of tragedy, so what good would sparing him only a minute of pity do?

VERY SHORT STORIES

“Bubble Mint” By: Sarah Zimmerman My mom told me it was time for me to be a big kid, which is why she switched out my bubble gum mouthwash for mint. I think time for me to be a “big kid” really just means that they were out of bubblegum at the store, though, because I don’t really see how mouthwash would make me any older. I’m still six, even with mint mouthwash. Anna even told me that eight is when you become a big kid because she’s eight and that means that she’s a big kid and I’m still just a little kid and mint mouthwash doesn’t make me eight years old. I really hate mint mouthwash. I brush my teeth before I eat breakfast every day and my favorite thing for breakfast is orange juice. At least bubble gum mouthwash got the mint taste out of my mouth before I drank orange juice. Do you know how bad it is to drink orange juice after you brush your teeth? I hope they have bubblegum mouthwash next time mom goes back.

“Dammit” By: Caroline Babbin Dammit. He let the fates of the world choose his path, believing that they would pick right for him, and that for whatever reason he was in their good graces. They laughed.

“Robert Harrington Psy.D.” By: Jessica Babbin I am a salesman. I sell promises to anyone willing to pay. Bestsellers include: “He/She is telling the truth,” “I won’t say anything”, and “Everything will be okay.” After an impromptu business meeting today, I’ve decided to charge a little more for “You’re right.”

VERY SHORT STORIES

“In the Kitchen” By: Eric Buehler The News played on a small TV in the kitchen. It was in Spanish. In fact everything in the kitchen was in Spanish. It is why he liked the kitchen. He felt comfortable in the kitchen. He was a waiter and so he had to leave the kitchen for the dining room which was a different world. The TVs were in English, the people spoke English, everything was in English. He could speak English better than almost everybody in the kitchen, but that’s because no one in the kitchen could speak English. Every time he took an order he could feel English eyes digging into him. English eyes judging. Every mispronounced word was a sin. Every misheard word was a crime. He thought knowing some English in the States would be a blessing. He was wrong. Better to fit the status quo. He wished he worked in the kitchen.

“His” By: Naz Ferdhusi The first Sunday after you left I spent the day collecting your things. In all the places that you held my hand and brushed my hair and kissed my lips, I found the things that you left there. I took the time to pick them up and all the while found myself thinking about you. And your hands. And your lips. I stripped the memory of you from my bed. The sheets you bought on our first anniversary, the first to go into a box I could not bring myself to write your name on. In time I will unlearn your name and hope to God I will not shake whenever I hear it. I will forget the way you look in the morning when you haven’t slept enough, the way you laugh at something absurd, the birthmark on your back. In time I will unlearn your name and hope to God I will not tremble when I see you with her. Into the box go the last of your t-shirts, your comic books and coffee cups. I take my time savoring each souvenir. Already you’re becoming a memory. The man I used to love. You are already the past. In time I will forget you.

SHORT STORIES

The Siren

ANH ANH ANH ANH ANH

One of my eyes squints open and looks at the clock.

It is 6:15 a.m. It is a Wednesday. I hit snooze.

ANH ANH ANH ANH ANH

6:16 a.m.

“WHO THE HELL MADE THIS ALARM CLOCK?!?” I yell into the abyss of dirty clothes and leftover pizza that is my one-bedroom apartment. No response.

Reluctantly I open both of my eyes and inch out of my blanket burrito. As I am about to push the off button on my Star Wars alarm clock something catches my eye. There is a sticky-note taped on it that reads “Do not worry Jeff! Today is the day!”

All of my exhaustion and animosity towards alarm clock’s maker disappears.

God I cannot believe I forgot that today is the day. I thought to myself. Even though I set the alarm at night I always forget in the morning.

Today marks my 4th meeting with a girl I met at the coffee shop down the street. Usually, I do not get ready for work until around 6:30. Well... 6:30ish. But on the first Wednesday of every month I plan to casually run in to her. I know that she is there all the time but this way, unbeknownst to her, every sighting is an anniversary of our first.

I get chills at the thought of her. She is my caffeine, my muse and my very first unrequited love. I do not know if she could ever reciprocate enough for my liking. She is constantly with other people. People who do not care for her like I do. She gets bumped, pushed, shoved, discarded and sometimes even spilled on! She does not deserve that treatment. To most, she is an icon, but to me she is a goddess. Her long, wavy hair, is a sea of green grass flowing in the wind. Though an odd color, it frames her face elegantly. I do not quite know how tall she is. From where I stand it is always so hard to tell. She loses me in her eyes. Her porcelain

51 skin makes them shine like emeralds. Even though she is much older than me and has many experiences to share, I usually do all the talking. She is a great listener. I carefully pick out my least-wrinkled, post-office uniform and make my way down the city street, bouncing with every step. Today is the day. The world seems to be smiling with me. I wave and smile at every stranger I see, wanting them to feel even one ounce of my happiness. As I round the corner a bright red “We’ve moved” sign on the window of the shop startles me. I look into the dark shop, searching for my love. There she is sitting on the counter as beautiful as ever. I wave. She looks at me blankly. Haha she is so funny. One of the baristas comes out with her. They lock the store.

“Hey, man, we’ve moved inside the Barnes and Noble down the street,” the barista man reassures me. My heart sinks. I look at her. Then at him. I reply directly to her, “How could you do this to me? After all this time you are going to be ‘freshly brewed’ by those guys? Oh no no. I will not have this. I will have none of it.” He looks at me quizzically, “Hey, man, uh, who are you talking to?” I point at her and she blankly stares back. I can sense how torn up she is about our breakup. Without another word I turn around and head to work. She was always green faced anyway, I thought to myself.

On my way to work I pass a man in a newly opened coffee shop. My heart races and I start to shake. The posters say his name is Dunkin and that the whole country runs on him, wow. I think I have found a new source of exhilaration.

Ice

The whistle pierces through the thunder of the crowd. Michael jabs to the left as the inbounder slaps the ball, then quickly reverses his path. Navigating through the trees, he vanishes from the view of the baseline. One. The storm in the stands settles somewhat. Six seconds remain. Two. Michael emerges from the maroon and white forest, with a scared predator close behind. Determination protrudes from his stone-cold face. Three. Spotting his take-off, the prey streaks to the corner, creating some much needed separation. As the ball snaps towards Michael, the thunderstorm dissipates into a drizzle. He catches the ball exactly where he wants, between the stunning arc and the menacing sideline. The rain begins to freeze into sleet. Rotating his shoulders to focus on the rim, he flips the ball in his flaming hands to line up the grooves in his fingers. Take off. The vibrant ball floats up towards the basket, while the entire arena sits momentarily in the eye of the storm. Silence. Every pair of eyes in the gym are plastered to the ball as it reaches the zenith of its journey. A few small crackles sound as the net freezes. Michael stands still with the rest of the crowd after plummeting down onto the safety of the hardwood. The obedient ball dive bombs through the iron, shattering the blistered net. Ice.

53 ANNA MCMURCHY Stirring

“I’m sorry,” the doctor had said.

These words loop themselves over and over again inside the woman’s mind. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’msorry Imsorry imsorryimsorryimsorry. Over and around they tumble, stumbling into each other, rolling about, reveling in the vast, cavernous emptiness of her soul.

“I’m sorry,” the doctor had said. “It’s just... they’re severely damaged. These blockages and lesion in your fallopian tubes are going to make conception nearly impossible.”

“Nearly impossible?” The woman’s vocal cords stretched to their maximum length. Pleading.

“Well, yes. There’s the harvesting and surrogate option, but, well... you know. I’m sure you’ve read about the costs.” The doctor observed the holes in the soles of the woman’s thrift-store sneakers, the faded flannel shirt draped over the once-white, from-a-Walmart-package tank top that shied away from her stubbornly flat abdomen. Tears plunked down onto the fraying fabric.

That’s not to say she couldn’t take care of a child. She just couldn’t afford the fees for a Build-a-Baby workshop.

So it was me after all, she thinks to herself as she wallows in the tepid bath water. There’s never been anything wrong with Mark. It’s always been my fault. I’m broken. My body is poisoned, rocky soil.

How she envied other women. How angry the thought of discarded teenage pregnancies made her feel. Whenever she saw the neat stack of those little plan- B boxes in the aisle of her local drugstore, it made her want to burn the place to the ground. Or at least knock over the display and stomp on the pills, grinding them into smithereens with her heel.

The woman’s hand grabs something on the bathroom countertop, which she can just barely reach from the tub. Her arch-nemesis comes to mind as she turns the object over in her hands. Curse Michelle Duggar and her nineteen fucking kids. It seems selfish, really. All that fertility concentrated in one brainless, backwoods place.

54 ANNA MCMURCHY This is what she thinks about as she pinches the object firmly between her fingers. It’s sad, she realizes, that Mark will be the one to find her. But she has to set him free. She knows how desperately he wants children, but he’s a good man. He wouldn’t leave her, even if she tells him the truth that the doctor revealed to her months ago. So she must set him free herself by choosing a path that is irreversible, because Mark always tries to set things right. The lack of pregnancy hasn’t been for lack of trying. The woman knows that for certain. Every position, every online tip, every herbal enhancement—they’ve tried them all. Now the woman knows that it’s as she’s always feared. There’s something wrong with her. And when there’s something wrong with something, you get rid of it.

The woman grits her teeth as she slides the blade across the soft flesh of her wrist. She pried it loose from Mark’s razor after he left for work this afternoon. As she slices fresh lesions into the tubular strands of her veins, a sigh escapes her lips. She remembers the feeling of Mark’s smooth cheek against her own, the gentle desperation of his touch as they tried again just last week. And the week before that. And the week before that, on and on, even after she had found out the truth. She craved his passion, even after she knew that their numbers would only ever add up to two, never three. She wanted something to hold on to in this moment.

A stream of red runs down the side of the tub, staining the water a sickening pink. The woman sighs again. She switches hands, steeling herself for the final strike, the lonely last act which no one but herself will witness. As the point of the blade makes contact with her fiercely throbbing pulse, she feels something stir inside her.

JESSICA BABBIN

The Harbinger

I’m the type of creature to recognize the start of a wildfire. As soon as the first owl gives warning, there is one rule: run as fast as you can. His eyes are usually a sky blue, but today they are different. Not sad or frustrated but perfectly aware. I knew how to tell. His eyes darken, and I think of the smoke before a fire starts. I wait for the first spark. It isn’t difficult until he stares right at me. My legs twitch, but I sit still. His muscular, overpowering arms tense. His fingers withdrawal from mine. He cracks his knuckles. I hear the snapping of kindling. His fingers curl into fists. My eyes wander and lock with a pair of familiar brown eyes. They are soft and warm like a deer's coat. I want to send a warning. It’s coming. I feel heat in his eyes too, but I want to run towards him. Blue Eyes turns, and instinct whispers the secret. I smell the smoke before I meet his eyes. It fills my lungs. His eyes are ablaze. Fury swiftly follows the flames. My eyes water in the searing silence. Everything between us changes, charring in the heat. I avert my eyes from the fire. It is time to escape. I desperately want to tell him to flee. Warn him how the heat grows. I can already hear the questions: How long? Who knows? How could you? Before I can find his chestnut eyes-- I lose my chance. Blue Eyes takes my wrists and restrains me. He stares at me. Blue Eyes watches with me as everything ignites. Tears slip from my eyes; they cannot extinguish the inferno. “You’re inhuman.” “I know.”

Claustrophobia

“How are you?” The girl grunts in response as the man slides into the pew. She is sitting at the end of the row and as he scoots closer she keeps her thighs clenched to avoid hip confrontation. When he finally settles, he is a little too much in her personal space. Since his shoulders tower over hers, the girl’s arms are uncomfortably pinioned at her sides. The edge of the man’s suit coat rests on her leg and she starts to tense. It’s not so much the fabric itself that bothers her, but instead the idea that it’s there. So that she doesn’t erupt from irritation, she starts to fiddle with the strings on her sweatshirt. She pulls the left one down because it is shorter than the right, but then it surpasses the latter in length. Next she yanks the right to diminish the discrepancy, however, the strings still hang lopsided. “I know I’m not on time,” the man begins, on the beat of the hymn. This bothers the girl, because she knows that eventually the rhythm of the conversation won’t be able to keep up with the pace of the psalm. “I’m not stupid.” “No, no, of course not…” “I’m not a child.” “I didn’t say you were.” “Well you’re acting like it.” “Well how would you like me to behave?” “Differently,” she mutters under her breath. Neither the priest nor God is speaking to the girl, so her mind starts to drift. Her eyes travel everywhere and anywhere but to the man’s face. They roam past the stained glass windows and across the flower arrangements. They count the lights on the ceiling. They casually slide over the prayer cushions on the floor when a certain scene draws the girl back. The woven picture is of a woman with a bucket of water. The girl stares at each individual thread in the cushion but they start to blend together and she is not sure what she is looking at. And instead of a woman there is a man and instead of a pail of water he sloppily grips the neck of the Grey Goose. And he’s shouting at the girl from across the kitchen. And suddenly she is on the floor and the innards of the Goose are around her and its skin is embedded in her skin and she is confused as to why the liquid on the ground is red when it is supposed to be clear. The girl feels sudden sharp pain in her left arm and turns to the man, who has pinched her back into reality. “Stop wandering off.”

She looks up at the front of the church and tries to focus on the sermon, but her fingers and her mind toy with the sweatshirt string. She feels the frayed ends coming apart in her hands and panics slightly at the thought of the permanent imbalance that would be created if the string unraveled before she straightened it out. This game had kept her fingers busy for a while. “Stop.” “What?” “Stop doing that.” “Really?” “You’re splitting the strings.” “It’s an old sweatshirt.” “It’s your favorite sweatshirt.” “It’s my sweatshirt. Leave me alone.” But he doesn’t and she isn’t because he follows her down the center aisle. She feels more so than usual the man’s presence bearing down on her. Even though she’s walking, and has more room than she’s had in an hour, she needs space. She wants to move forward but the line is stopped and all she can see and feel and think of is him behind her. She cups her hands together and the priest lays the Body-- He grabs her wrists and squeezes. She tries to scream, but the wafer has sucked the moisture from her mouth and she finds it impossible to make a noise. He throws her to the floor and swings. The force behind his fist fractures first her jaw and then her collarbone and he makes his way down her body. By the time he is done she lays numb and defeated, her arms splayed out on either side. She is shaking as she walks away from the altar. She stops in the wing of the church and she waits. For clarity. For God. For the man. He takes part of the chalice into his own hands and puts his lips to the rim. The man takes a large gulp while the minister’s blessing sidesteps him. He thirstily reaches down for another sip from the Cup of Salvation. He doesn’t realize that no matter how many he takes the watered-down wine won’t pacify him. She pulls on the right string and then the left. There is a moment of extreme discomfort when both tighten around her neck and the tension is too much. His hands are around her throat and they close and her throat is constricted and the air is constricted and the girl is constricted. But then her neck is free. Mobility returns. The string, coiled like the remains of a snakeskin, lays tattered and disjointed in her hands.

The Nobles of the Palace

The air smelled like a mix of grease and sweaty anticipation. I still remember the stench as I entered the place. I was walking onto the dirt, shards of glass crunching beneath my heavy boots. They met around the old ruins of the Crystal Palace. Once a great monument flocked with tourists, the Palace slowly declined in popularity around the late 1800’s, declared bankruptcy around the early 1900’s, and burned down to nothingness a bit after that. For whatever reason, it was never rebuilt, and remained a pile of rubble and dirt—perfect for racing. Everyone had been in the group for a while, but it was our first night. I didn’t know what to think. They were in a huddle, crowded around some guy’s truck, socializing, drinking, dancing. There were definitely some characters: older guys covered in scars, their girlfriends covered in very little, younger guys chugging beers, and older women who were willing to start a fight just to show how tough they were. Sweat was trickling down my palms and soiling the insides of my studded leather gloves. I won’t make it out here alive, I thought to myself. As we slowly approached the truck, I fiercely clung to Vanessa. She had told me that this was a good idea, and of course, I jumped at the chance to join her. Vanessa was the one with all the ideas, because with her long black hair and luminous blue eyes, she had nothing to be afraid of. I was a scrawny closet lesbian who stayed with her for support and the prospect of love. For me, being friends with Vanessa was just a kind of bulimia—I would get close and interact, but I would never really absorb or enjoy. So instead of telling people that I liked girls, I would simply tell them that I had bulimia; eating disorders were less of an evil than homosexuality. I often sat alone in bathroom stalls during lunch, wondering if I could purge feelings. Vanessa always coaxed me to join her table with her fabulous group of friends, but I preferred to wallow in my misery by myself. The only cure (albeit temporary) for my loneliness seemed to be these adventures I had with Vanessa. She liked to wander in a smaller pack, because she knew that even if she lied about how crazy last night’s underground rave was, I would never reveal that we had actually gotten kicked out of the rave and ended up at the ice cream shop next to school. In Vanessa’s pretty eyes, I was the perfect sidekick. Initially, it started out with us sneaking into bars, but that got boring. Hence, we used our creative little minds, and there we were, adventuring at the burned rubble of some long-forgotten monument. Once we squeezed in the group, we puffed out our chests and stomped our boots to show that we weren’t scared, and touched up our eyeliner to make ourselves look older. “No, this isn’t our first time”, we would say. “You must have missed us with all the dust and shouting.” The guys would laugh and the girls

would give us a suspicious look, but everyone was having too good of a time to kick anyone out of the revelry. The partying went on for hours. People were fighting, grabbing at each other with a ferocity that I had never seen before. I had witnessed fights at school: adolescent boys hurling insults at each other until one of them broke down and sucker punched the other. But this was different. I watched as a tall lady smashed her beer bottle over someone’s head. Shards of glass flew everywhere, and a piece cut my face. Petrified, I touched my wound and tasted the tinny zing of the lush, red stream trickling down my face. Yes, it was clear: I was really there. But I was the only one standing still. Everyone else was trying to feed the frenzy rather than isolate themselves from it; even Vanessa had joined, excitedly kicking the guy in the gut. Flecks of glass sparkled amidst his bloody brown locks, but he was still laughing. I began to wonder whether there was method in this madness. And then the action really began. A couple people loudly announced the time, and it was like a pack of wolves had been unleashed. They were getting their bikes ready, pushing, shoving, and shouting: the racing was to begin. Vanessa clutched my hand—I wasn’t sure whether it was in fear or excitement—as the racers hopped onto their motorcycles and sped past us. The bikes roared through the dirt, rocks flew into the air, and the dust enshrouded us. We were cheering. Everyone was cheering. Vanessa and I were shouting just as loudly as anyone else in the crowd, and I had no idea who or what we were even cheering for. But I soon realized that that didn’t matter, because that wasn’t the point; the point was to just let it all out. We were all furious with society, disillusioned and disinterested in what it had to offer. It was a gathering of civilization’s casualties. And in that moment, as I watched them shriek and laugh together, I no longer felt completely alone. These people had found homes in each other. They made me believe that I could do the same. I turned around, and I kissed Vanessa. Tomorrow didn’t matter; all that mattered was this moment, and the utter sensation of life that saturated every part of my being.

Field of Flowers

“Abuela?” “Si, chico?” “I’m hungry.” She continued sewing. Her hands were old and wrinkled, yet nimble as ever. She sat in a wooden rocking chair in the corner of the room, gently moving back and forth as she worked. Her eyes were tired with heavy bags resting under them, but they were filled with hope. She breathed deeply and stopped, then turned to look at the boy. “I’m busy, Emilio” Emilio was silent, but he did not move. He stood in front of the chair with his hands behind his back and waited. She continued her work, aware of the boy, deftly moving the needle in and out. Emilio looked down at his feet and rocked back and forth on his heels in rhythm with the chair. “Ay, chico, what do you want.” “Abuela?” “Si, chico?” “We never ate lunch.” She stopped and looked out the window into the darkening sky. The rows of maize were swaying in the gentle evening breeze. “Ay mi, where does the time go?” She pushed herself out of the chair and started for the kitchen. Emilio followed behind like a shadow. She opened the pantry and took out a bag of rice. While she did this, Emilio ran out to the well for some water. He brought it back and she began to cook. Emilio sat at the table and waited patiently “Chico, light a candle.” “Si, Abuela.” The room was already darkened by the time Emilio brought the candle. He carefully lit it and placed it in the center of the table. She brought the rice to the table and immediately Emilio reached out for some. “Emilio!” “Lo siento, Abuela.” “You must have patience, let us say our prayers.” “Lo siento, Abuela.” “Let us thank God for the food that he has given us and for this time together.” “Amen.” They ate in silence. The room darkened and darkened until the flickering candle light was all that was left. Once both were finished they began to clear the dishes. “Abuela?”

“Si, chico?” “When is Mama coming back?” She froze, and the dish she was carrying shattered on the ground. Emilio rushed over to the sound. “Are you okay, Abuela?” “Ay, chico,” she whispered. She made her way back to the table and sat down. Emilio sat down too, and began to cry. “No llores, chico. You didn’t do anything wrong.” But she began to cry herself. The tears dripped from her face to the old wooden table below. She tried to steady her breathing, but failed. She took the candle from the table and set it on the floor, illuminating the broken pieces of the dish. She bent down and attempted to pick them up one by one, but even her careful and nimble hands couldn’t handle every little sliver of the shattered plate. “Abuela?” “Si, chico?” “W-wil she ev-” “No, chico. Tu mama lies in a field of beautiful flowers. Flowers more beautiful than anyone can grow. The flowers are a perfect red, chico. Can you see them?” She closed her eyes and imagined the beauty of the field of a million poppies. But it brought back the pain, the pain that had been-. “No, I...I don’t under-” “Chico,” The woman turned to look the child directly in the eyes, “You won’t understand for years to come now, but just know that the plate I dropped has been chipped for years.” Silently, she stood and walked out to the front steps. Emilio sat and watched her leave. He still had tears in his eyes because he missed the woman he didn’t know. She sat down and looked up at the moon. She searched forever, but it wasn’t there. It was a new moon, yet she didn’t understand more than Emilio did, where and why the moon had gone.

62 KRISTINA NAZAROVA

(A/De)ttatchment Blanket

It was a dying autumn morning when Cora approached her two-story building. She quizzically eyed the glowing window on the second floor; it looked queer in comparison to the dark, frosty mirrors neighboring it. This peculiarity belonged to a plump, flushed woman who smiled excessively. Cora had only seen snippets of her, as the woman, bundled in scarves, waddled to her car. Up until a month ago, Cora had lived in solitude on the second floor. The woman had only been here for a short period of time, but already she was on better terms with the first-floorers than Cora would ever be. Not to say that Cora was an unpleasant person. She did her best to smile at passerby, and she continuously donated to charities, causes of which were irrelevant to her. On this biting morning, Cora slowly ascended the staircase to her hall. She was watching her feet climb when she nearly collided with the flushed woman. “Oh I’m sorry darling! My goodness, are you my elusive neighbor? I’m Laura,” the woman said stretching out a puffy hand. “Cora.” “It’s so nice to finally meet you. Our neighbors mentioned that you lived on the second floor, but if I can be quite honest, I thought you were a ghost!” The woman’s eyes searched Cora’s face for a reaction that wasn’t contrived. “Say, would you like to come by tonight for some pumpkin pie I was planning on baking? You know… Get to know each other? Keep warm?” “Sure. Yes. Sounds nice,” Cora said with a quick smile. “Where do you work hon?” Cora smiled, “A desolate coffee shop on Second Street. I doubt they’d notice if I left. It’s nice. What time works for you?” “Well… I get off work around six. So, how does eight sound?” “That works.” The woman stretched her smile further. “Perfect. I’ll see you then darling.” The exchange of words ended and Cora vanished into her cold apartment. At 8:03 she knocked on the woman’s seasonally-clad door. “Come in hon… I’ll be right out. Would you mind cutting us the pie? It’s on the kitchen counter.” Cora stepped past the threshold and into the kitchen where the smell of the pie hung in the air like steam from a scalding shower. As Cora methodically sliced the pie, the woman bustled in. “Here let me help you sweetie.” “I can manage.” “How was work?

63 KRISTINA NAZAROVA

“Average… and yours? “Oh, pretty good, busy busy day.” When they sat down, the woman smiled and the customary questions ensued. “Does your family live nearby?” “No. They live in California.” “I’m sorry… you must miss them a lot.” “Actually, not really. We’ve kinda stopped talking,” said Cora with a half-smile. The woman blinked perplexedly and then inquired, “How come, darling?” “They worried about me getting into college, even though I told them that I didn’t plan on going. I didn’t want to stress or burden them, so I left and cut off communication. I felt like it would be fairer if they stopped caring so much about me… I can’t help them.” The woman stared into Cora’s face for a few moments. Again, her eyes searched Cora’s as if trying to discern something. She hesitated before asking, “Would you like some apple cider rum?” “Sure.” A few minutes passed while the woman was fetching alcohol, in which Cora observed her home. It was appropriately decorated fall, unlike Cora’s residence. Framed pictures of hugging women and old people encircled the couch on which Cora sat. It made Cora feel uncomf--- The woman hustled into the room carrying two steaming mugs. “Here ya go hon.” “Thanks.” Silence had settled over the woman and the girl when Cora interrupted, “What about yours?” “My what?” “Your family.” The woman laughed unnaturally, the rum already in full effect. She began slowly, but her words caught speed. “Well… it’s somewhat of a long story.” “But we have time.” “My parents died a long time ago… about when I was your age… I had no one to lean on, so, consequently, I fell in love with a stranger.” “He broke me.” “But I do not regret meeting him, because shortly after he abandoned me, I gave birth to my sweet, darling son.” Here the woman paused and took a swig of her concoction. “He was my only family back then, and I loved him more than anything. When he was nineteen, he became dangerously ill… and he eventually moved on.” Cora didn’t seem to notice the emotion gushing from the woman’s voice. Rather, she pondered on what the woman’s son had died from. Referring to common courtesy, she decided that it might be hurtful if she asked; so she refrained. “It tore my world apart. It was the first time I felt utterly alone,” said the woman with a tremor. “But, because of it, I learned the most important lesson of

64 KRISTINA NAZAROVA human life. Cora, you gotta build a support system of people you love and people who love you back. If you reach out to people, they will grasp on.” “They’ll grasp on anyways,” whispered Cora. “In which case, you support them, and build something together. Care really is the most precious thing in life.” Cora averted her eyes to a flickering candle. She felt oppressed by the earnest warmth shining through the drunk woman’s expression. “Darling… Cora… How much do you make from your job?” A shrug of shoulders answered. The woman hesitated before quietly asking, “It can’t support you for much longer, can it? “I guess not. I’ll manage.” “Let me help you,” the woman pleaded, grasping Cora’s cold hand in between her two large, soft ones. Cora twitched and her eyes widened as she stared at the three hands. “Let me care for you. You have no one, no web of support. We can build one together.” Cora met the woman’s overbearing gaze, and compressed her eyes. With her eyes shut, she made the same heart-aching decision she recognized to be the only method of escape. She slid open her eyes, and, in a wavery voice, worded, “How can you care for me if you couldn’t even care for your own son.” She released her hand from the woman’s limp clasp, and left the apartment. When she returned to her door, she noticed that the first snow was heavily blanketing the brown leaves. She put on her boots and coat, and trudged downstairs. Outside, she looked up at the woman’s window, where she imagined the woman lay wrapped in blankets, encompassed by smiling frames of friends and family, a world she would never feel right being a part of. A sad smile crossed Cora’s expression as she turned away. She bent her head and looked down as the cold snow submerged her cold feet.

ONE-ACT PLAYS

Frugality

Cast of Characters

Ava: A teenage girl.

Brad: Her father.

Scene A premature estate sale, an aseptic hospice center, and a dismal burial ground. Time Towards and at the end.

ACT I Scene 1

SETTING: A 1950s ranch-style house. The living room consists of two armchairs covered in outdated floral fabric and a few faded pink velvet dining chairs centered around a circular glass table. There is a vertical oak piano in the corner. Built-in bookshelves surround the marble fireplace on either side. The morning sunlight pouring in through the large window centered upstage creates a permanent stagnancy. The folding tables displaying antique china, fabrics and clothes, and various trinkets line the room.

AT RISE: AVA sits on the floor referencing a sheet of paper and marking items with stickers accordingly.

AVA You know, I have a problem with this.

BRAD (shouting from the other room) With what?

AVA All of this.

BRAD (entering the room) They’re experts, hun.

AVA I don’t buy it though.

BRAD You heard the doctors. They said it was only a matter of time.

AVA 69

They don’t have any rational concept of time! (gesturing around the room) And neither do you, apparently.

BRAD I don’t like this any more than you do.

AVA Yet here we are with every item in the house tagged for purchase. (AVA picks up a crystal bowl and stares at price sticker.) At depreciated prices, too.

BRAD I’m not going to argue with you about this.

AVA Don’t you think grandma’s life is worth a little more than nine ninety nine?

BRAD The buyers won’t.

AVA You’re kidding me.

BRAD (grabbing the bowl) Ok, then. How much do you think I should tag it for?

AVA You’re missing the point.

BRAD You’re missing the truth. It’s not like it hasn’t been explained, either. You’re just choosing to ignore it.

AVA Because it isn’t there! And at least I have a choice. You’re treating grandma as if she’s not a person.

(Enraged, BRAD throws the bowl on the ground and it shatters.)

BRAD Shut up! Goddammit, shut up! You’re acting like this decision has no effect on me. As if I’m not hurting to see my own mother suffering, or to give away a lifetime of memories. This is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. It’s not nothing to me.

AVA Of course not. We obviously see things differently.

BRAD Look at what’s in front of you.

AVA It’s not that simple.

BRAD Say what you want. But let me tell you that this stubborn ignorance of yours is only going to make what’s to come even harder. (Looks at the mess on the floor.) I’ll go get a broom. (BRAD exits.) (FADE BLACK)

ACT I Scene 2

SETTING: A sterile, bare hallway of the Lethe Hospice Center.

AT RISE: AVA walks back and forth from wall to wall, placing each foot directly in front of the next.

AVA Seven.

(BRAD enters.)

BRAD What’s that?

AVA Nothing.

BRAD Narrow in here.

AVA Suffocatingly so.

BRAD Do you need some air? We can go outside.

AVA I’m fine.

BRAD Are you?

AVA Sure.

BRAD Can we please have more than a two-word conversation?

AVA I guess so.

BRAD We can talk about it, what’s bothering you.

AVA What’s bothering me? I’m sure, whatever it is, it’s bothering you, too.

BRAD C’mon, Ava.

AVA What do you want me to do? Make a list of how I’m feeling, go down and address each bullet point for five minutes and then move on. I can’t just crease the edges and pretend everything’s ok.

BRAD Talking helps.

AVA This conversation isn’t.

BRAD At least I’m trying.

AVA Trying to do what? There’s no clear course at this point. At least none that I can see. But I’m glad it’s all so black and white for you. I really am.

BRAD Ava, please just try. Really, what’s the harm?

(AVA is silent.)

AVA She won’t remember.

BRAD She still loves you.

AVA I know what happens, Dad. I’ll walk in there and she won’t recognize me, or any of the moments we’ve had together. It’ll be like I don’t know her.

BRAD Remind her. Remember for her.

AVA I don’t want to have to spoon-feed memories. I can’t force them down her throat.

BRAD Being there for her and holding her hand is enough.

AVA Maybe not for me.

(ATTENDANT arrives.)

ATTENDANT Elise is awake.

(BRAD nods politely. ATTENDANT leaves.)

BRAD This could be your last chance.

AVA That’s morbid.

BRAD I’m preparing you for reality. Something you can’t seem to wrap your head around.

AVA (muttering) Not my head, my heart.

(AVA walks out.) (BLACKOUT)

ACT I Scene 3

SETTING: Obol Avenue Cemetery.

AT RISE: BRAD and AVA stand before a gravestone. AVA kneels down and places narcissus flowers near the base. AVA stands up and holds BRAD’s hand. BRAD has clearly been crying. AVA is staring ahead.

BRAD Av—

AVA What?

BRAD Are you okay?

AVA No.

BRAD Me neither.

AVA I want to feel something but I can’t. I can’t and it’s killing me.

(BRAD puts a hand on AVA’s shoulder.)

BRAD It doesn’t mean you love her any less.

AVA I don’t know what it means. I don’t know anything anymore.

BRAD That’s how it feels.

AVA I thought the sting would fade, but I’m totally numb. 75

BRAD It takes time. I’ll give you some.

(BRAD exits.)

AVA You can’t. (Kneeling and crying) Our time’s all up. How did this happen? I know your memory faded and you lost all of your possessions, but you’re still you. You’re still... (AVA sits cross-legged, places a sticker on the gravestone, and reads it aloud.) Priceless. (AVA traces the engravings in the stone with a finger.) After all, you can’t sell your soul. (BLACKOUT)

Blinding Sun

Cast of Characters

Figure I: First figure

Figure II: Second figure

Figure III: Third figure

Tall Figure: Overseeing figure

Man: Man

Wife: Man’s wife

Eric: Man’s son

Scene Life Time All the time

ACT I Scene 1

SETTING: A hospital room containing only a shabby cot, a life-monitoring machine, and one flickering, buzzing light bulb. The tone follows that of an expressionistic play, entailing a nightmarish atmosphere, simple images, a disjointed plot and structure of the play, and both staccato and lyrical dialogue.

AT RISE: Three hooded figures wearing black robes numbered I, II, and III (Figure I, Figure II, and Figure III) walk in an emergency cot with a man on it. They throw the man onto the shabby cot. Tall Figure enters.

TALL FIGURE What do you think?

(Three numbered figures turn to face the man on the cot.)

FIGURE I Yes.

FIGURE II No.

FIGURE III Yes.

TALL FIGURE Take leave. (Three numbered figures exit first, followed by the Tall Figure. The wife enters and carefully sits cross-legged to the left of the cot, turning only her head to face the man. The man opens his eyes.)

THE MAN (to himself) Where?

WIFE A car accident darling. (With her body still facing upstage, she reaches up with both hands to grasp the man’s, which instinctively flinch but then relax.)

MAN (Turning in his cot to directly face his wife) Tell me dear.

WIFE Well, you left home after dinner to buy groceries.

MAN Yes. And you stayed behind with Eric.

WIFE You were driving on the empty highway.

MAN It was awfully cold.

WIFE You turned on the radio.

MAN I became lonely.

WIFE A drunk driver rushed in behind you. A suicide attempt.

MAN I was unaware and

WIFE (Cutting the man off) Yes. And now you’re here.

(The man relaxes into the cot and closes his eyes.)

MAN (Opening his eyes again and turning his head to face his wife) What about my body?

WIFE I promise, everything will be okay.

MAN And me?

WIFE Yes darling. Much more than okay.

(Figure I enters)

MAN Sir?

FIGURE I Don’t worry.

(The wife gives one of the man’s hands to Figure I.)

MAN I’m okay?

FIGURE I Perfect.

MAN Was there a test?

FIGURE I There are always tests.

MAN Something seems wrong.

FIGURE I Nothing’s wrong. (The man adopts an expression as if he wants to say something, but says nothing.)

WIFE (with a confused look) Why would you doubt reassurance? (then addressing Figure I) Can he be discharged?

FIGURE I Without a doubt. I need you both to sign the papers. (Figure I pulls out papers. The wife signs them, and then hands them to the man.)

WIFE I’ll go start the car for us darling. Make it warm for us. (Wife exits. The man and Figure I stare at each other. Figure I drops the man’s hand.)

FIGURE I Sign the papers and you will leave. (Figure I exits. The man stares after him and then turns to fully face the papers.)

MAN (calmly) No text. (The man closes his eyes and scribbles his signature at random on the page. The stage lights shut off and a faint ongoing beep begins.)

ACT I Scene 2

SETTING: A makeshift forest, where nothing occupies the stage. A soundtrack of chirping birds plays continuously.

AT RISE: The man and his son Eric sit on the ground, leaning back on their hands.

ERIC Dad?

MAN (calmly, with his eyes closed) Hm?

ERIC Where do the birds live?

(The man doesn’t answer, waiting.)

ERIC I mean I know they chirp around here every day… But where do they live?

MAN (smiles with his eyes still closed) Well… what do you think?

ERIC Mmm… maybe they fly straight up into the sky. Past the sun. Somewhere we can’t see.

MAN (shrugs his shoulders) Could be.

ERIC But you know, right?

MAN (smiles, and hesitates before answering) Eric, why do you think they come here every day?

ERIC To sing?

MAN But why do they sing? And why do they come here to sing?

ERIC (thinks for a while, then crestfallenly) I don’t know. Why?

MAN (still with his eyes closed) Some people say they come to build families. Others say that they come to find food. (pauses) I like to think they come here to create beauty.

ERIC But which answer is the right one?

MAN (chuckles softly) Eric, a different answer will be the right one every time you look at it.

ERIC That’s not true. It’s too confusing.

MAN Is it not beautiful?

ERIC What?

MAN (sighs and opens his eyes) Eric, you’ll have a lot of time to learn the right answers. But you won’t be able to answer everything.

ERIC Why?

MAN Well… say we knew all the answers, what would we do?

ERIC Live.

MAN (chuckles and closes his eyes) What life is that?

(Eric closes his eyes, mimicking his father’s stance. Then he glances again at his father and closes his eyes again.)

ERIC (still with his eyes closed) Dad?

MAN Hm?

ERIC Does that mean that most answers are wrong?

MAN I don’t think so. I don’t think there’s a wrong answer, unless someone says something they don’t believe.

(The two fall silent.)

ERIC Dad?

MAN (opening his eyes) Yeah?

ERIC I think they fly into the sky and build homes on the other side of the sun.

MAN (closes his eyes again) Right now I think so too.

(Lights dim out. The chirping soundtrack only stops when everything is completely dark.)

ACT I Scene 3

SETTING: The man’s bedroom. The room only contains a shabby bed and a telephone.

AT RISE: The man is sitting on the bed, looking at nothing. The telephone rings.

MAN (nervously) Hello? (The man starts pacing the floor and turning in mindless circles)

FIGURE III (on the telephone) Hi sir. I’m calling from the hospital about your results.

MAN (pauses his pacing) Yes?

FIGURE III Sir, I’m very sorry to say this… but your condition has reached its peak.

MAN (heavily sitting down on his bed) Well… we both knew this was coming. Right?

FIGURE III I’m sorry sir. MAN No surprise really.

(Figure III says nothing.)

MAN How long?

FIGURE III A few months.

MAN Okay. Thank you. FIGURE III (in an unemotional, factual voice) Sir–

(The man hangs up the phone and rams the heels of his hands into his skull, then slides his hands down his face. Then, stiffly, the man lays on his bed, his arms and legs spread wide in a star shape.)

MAN Hello Death.

(The stage lights shut off and a faint constant beep begins and doesn’t end until the audience has cleared out.)

Background Noise

Cast of Characters

Zelda Denzel: A scientist employed by the Universität Wien in Austria. She has forever been devoid of the love that she should feel for her family.

Azzo Denzel: The husband of Zelda, he is frustrated by the circumstances of his family life and has turned to his children to release his frustrations.

Amadeus Denzel: One of the two twins, disenfranchised by the life around him.

Lara Denzel: The other twin, far more mature for her age and able to disassociate herself from the surrounding world.

Scene Locations in Vienna, Austria. The premise is that a strange signal has been detected being emitted near one of Neptune’s moons and cannot be analyzed, so with advances in space technology being an investigative squad is being flown out to research it.

Time The year 2045.

ACT I Scene 1

SETTING: The scene opens in a mid-sized auditorium, filled with people holding glazed, uninterested looks. Centered in the stage is the family, sitting together around a circular configuration. At the edge of the right side a well-dressed man speaks into a crackling microphone. The room is quiet, but in the way bored schoolchildren will whisper to one another and distract themselves from the talk at hand.

AT RISE: The speaker at the podium is in the middle of his speech. Lara leans over to whisper something to her brother and he reacts with a mixture of disinterest and annoyance. Azzo simultaneously swirls his drink and scratches at the side of his face; the family is clearly in disconnect, as Zelda is the only one paying any active attention to the speech about her.

SPEAKER And so, as we are gathered here today to celebrate one of the greatest minds of the– (The SPEAKER shifts his papers around mid-sentence.) The 21st century, we look towards the journey she is about to undertake to secure the posterity of not only our town here, but of the entire world. She is fearless–and as she prepares to travel into the biggest mystery facing humankind as a species. Without further ado it is my pleasure to introduce to you Universität Wien’s own Zelda Denzel.

(Zelda rises from her seat, and the spotlight follows her over to the stage.

Upon reaching the podium she clears her throat and spreads her papers across it.)

ZELDA Thank you. As man has continued his race into the stars, we’ve always held the belief that there could be something...else. For the first time– (She trails off, and the light returns to the table where the rest of the family sits.)

LARA It’s still just so unbelievable (She turns to face Amadeus as she speaks.) –Isn’t it?

AMADEUS I’d’ve thought that you at least would be used to it now. Isn’t this what you’ve always wanted? A big life?

LARA It’s just mom…going out on some adventure…leaving everything behind (Amadeus looks away as she says this.) And no idea what she’s going to find. It’s like a movie–or something.

AMADEUS You’ve said that… God knows how many times

(Azzo looks up and puts the glass in his hand on the table.)

AZZO Can you two just shut up and be quiet for once? She’s your mother for God’s sake, have a little respect.

(Lara flinches at his words while Amadeus stares impassively at his father. Yet in either case the twins fall silent.)

AZZO We take you to this big fancy place, and you can’t pay attention for even two minutes?

(Lara’s gaze drops to the floor and the light returns to the podium where Zelda is finishing her speech.)

ZELDA I never asked for this–go out beyond everything I know and make my own way. But someone has to live this life. (Her voice falls) It’s not a good way, but I’d like to think what I’m doing is right. It’s–it’s what I have to do. Thank you. (The extras in the audience clap, yet the table with Lara, Amadeus, and Azzo is silent.)

ACT I Scene 2

SETTING: The scene takes place in an apartment building in the heart of Vienna. A window overlooks the city’s skyline with the buildings smothered in a layer of snow. A tv flickers while a couch sits on the other side of the room facing it. Although the apartment is, by most standards, nice, the grays colors and gloomy environment lead to a certain air of melancholy.

AT RISE: Azzo sits reclined in the couch watching the television. He has a can in his hand and another lies a few feet away on the floor.

TELEVISION Following the recent unexplained transmissions from Neptune’s moon Naiad, as well as the black film obscuring its view from telescope, the exploratory team filled with top scientists from around the globe has continued to ready their trip in the Venturer II craft.

AZZO All they’ve been playing for the last three months… (Calling offstage) What ever happened to us?

ZELDA (From offstage and in a tone proving she’s been busy the entire day) What do you mean?

AZZO We used to be something. Not just you and your science crap all day in and out. But we were together–we had fun, I think– At any rate its better than what we do now. I

don’t even think we’ve actually talked in… well, in too long. It’s just eat, fuck, sleep and see if we can make it through until the next day. Can’t you give me something for once?

(Zelda walks in from the right side of the stage.)

ZELDA What do you expect? You’re the one who dragged yourself into this. You should’ve just been done with me, went–

AZZO I couldn’t leave my kids alone with someone like you. Who can’t even feel a thing. (He shakes his head)

ZELDA And you’re one to talk. I’m not blind. I’ve seen what you do–heard it–to both of them. You’ve sure got a funny way of protecting them.

AZZO I at least love them! More than could be said for you. Did you ever care about any of us? For christsakes I’m fu–

ZELDA Can we just not, for once? Tell me what you want out of this. There’s no reason you can’t leave. Say the word and you’ll be out anytime.

AZZO I still think someday we can be happy again. If you were ever really happy, I don’t know… but it was fun while it lasted. No pressure on us–if you would just take yourself off this godforsaken mission, we could start over.

ZELDA You know I can’t. My entire life I’ve wanted to do this one thing. Make an actual discovery that can change the world.

AZZO You know that it’s suicide–

ZELDA And so what if it is? For once I can do something that actually matters. And if I don’t– I’d hate myself. And I’d hate you for making me change. When I get back–if I get back, it doesn’t matter–I can be who you want me to be. Or at least I’ll try. And if that’s not good enough for you, then by now you’ve got your expectations too high.

ACT I Scene 3

SETTING: The entrance to the apartment is a drab area, clothed with only a small ornamental rug on which to place shoes. Life the other scenes, it is illuminated grayly. A brown door lies at one end of the hallway, and although the hallway will obviously dissipate into rooms that portion is not shown on stage.

AT RISE: Amadeus walks through the door and takes his shoes off. He has a thin amount of bloodstain on his right hand as well as a bruise around his forehead.

AMADEUS (Mumbling to himself, he shakes his hand out.) Fucking Christ! Next time that asshole shows his face I need to– Dammit!

ZELDA (Off) Who’s that?

AMADEUS Me–obviously.

ZELDA Well, are you okay?

AMADEUS It’s been fifteen years of nothing, I don’t think you need to start caring now.

ZELDA It’s not that, it’s just– (She walks onstage from the direction opposite him.) Is this going to be something I have to deal with at your school again?

AMADEUS (He speaks with obviously mock sincerity.) Oh, I’m sorry to have inconvenienced you madam– I’ll make sure to be a good boy until you leave then, if that’s what you want.

ZELDA Honestly– you never pulled anything like this until I was picked to go. Nothing is going to change my mind. I’m not saying this as your mother, or as your friend for that matter, but you need to accept it. If you get stuck here life is just going to pass you by.

AMADEUS I think it already has. Living with you has been like having a corpse for a mother. Fuck, I feel like our lives are going to be better without…

ZELDA (She turns to leave.) Okay.

AMADEUS Can’t you just be normal for once? Every other mom–on TV, my friends’–whatever, should get mad at me for that! Tell me not to swear so much! To stop insulting you, stop fighting… just do something!

ZELDA Like what? Should I lie to you and tell you that I care? I can if you want.

AMADEUS What I really need is for you to actually care. Not leave me behind with those two– you know what he does–fuck, what they do. This family is going to tear itself apart when you leave. I’ve spent my entire life with you as the only sane one.

ZELDA You’ll manage. If there’s one thing you’ve always done, it’s survive. Your father will be fine. Your sister will be–

AMADEUS Don’t give me that! (He slams his fist into the wall.) If living like this is fine–then I guess they’ll be fine. But this isn’t normal, to have kids who have to hide out every single night. With parents who are monsters; a father that… ugh, because his wife doesn’t love him at all. This might be life, but I don’t think it’s living.

ZELDA Life is just what you make it. Do something–if you really want it to change.

AMADEUS (He sighs.) That’s the thing. It shouldn’t be for me to go do something. You need to. It’s your job.

ZELDA Why? Why do you want me to be something I’m not? I can’t live that life for you– the good mother who’s always at the door waiting. It’s not me. (She pauses and shakes her head.) It can’t be.

ACT I Scene 4

SETTING: Contrary to the other scenes, which took place in more dimly lighted areas, this one takes place in a more airy park. Green trees stand along a paved sidewalk, and the entire place is empty sans for the two characters and the soft sounds of birds chirping lightly played over a speaker.

AT RISE: Zelda and Lara walk together at the park, a nice reprieve for Zelda from the two more hostile male members of the family. They are mid conversation, and as the scene opens they stop and stand near one of the benches.

ZELDA To be honest, I think it’s a bit odd how out of everyone, you’re the only one who doesn’t seem upset about my leaving.

LARA I’ve gotten used to it I think–more than Amadeus has, at least. (She laughs wryly.) I mean not having you around. Or at least even when you are here, you’re not really “here.” So I think I’ll get used to it, and it might not even be that different. (She laughs again.)

ZELDA But are you going to be alright? With them, I mean.

(Lara’s body stiffens.)

ZELDA Not that it’s my place to care now, but, (She smiles weakly.) after coming back from spending years with the same seven people, it’ll be nice to have someone who doesn’t hate me.

LARA It’s never mattered before–and whatever dad does… whatever he’s going to do… (She sighs.) It’ll be fine. Amadeus says that he’s going to leave–he told me not to tell you–but I don’t think you really care. So I can come with, maybe.

(ZELDA nods.)

LARA It’s just that when stuff is good here, it’s great but the rest is–uh. You know.

ZELDA (ZELDA nods again.) I would take you with me if I could it’s just… I know I should feel guilty leaving you guys alone. But I can’t. This is what I’ve always wanted to do with my life: make some sort of huge scientific breakthrough.

LARA No–I get it. (She smiles and stares to the side.) I wouldn’t expect anything else by now. I think that for us, love is just a sweet illusion.

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