Simple observation is something that has always fasinated me.
The idea of watching something just for the sake of watching it. Not playing a part in too and frow of events simply because you want to see how things turn out on their own.
I've often wondered what it would be like to spend a lifetime, or longer, just playing the part of the observer. Divorced from all base emotions and needs. To be comfortable and fulfilled with merely watching the world go by.
Of course I don't have to tell you there are a number of problems with this idea (Basic human needs/boredom/attention span problems that could only be solved by the ability to convert everything into a montage...also people have a habit of not living forever) but the idea still interests me enough that it served as the seed for the following piece (then I sort of messed with it).
Anyway, brace yourselves for more poetry type writing and let me know what you think in the comments.
Broken Circle.
A heady wind blows uphill then wanders down
leaving promises of warmer weather.
The sun slips bonds and wallows childlike in the snow.
Slowly waking, I feel winter’s sullen hold decay.
Bare branches spread as hands placed upon the sky,
while roots tremble and crack the glass below.
Reborn, I stand with pride on fertile soil,
now ready to cast my seed upon the earth again.
Rains come, a scattering of grey string, held
Taut across the sky; virgin buds suckle and grow.
Without a voice I whisper to my children,
Curled up upon the shore of sleep. Soon. Soon.
I dance in the wind and the sun returns, ashamed.
Young growth begins to bask in its guilty glow.
Leaves unfasten and small seeds uncoil;
I listen to the chatter of my children flow.
Spring turns summer and warmth becomes heat,
The glutted sun rests heavy upon my crown of green.
Paralysed in paradise, without thought
Or care; I could stay this way forever.
It does not stay, it does not last, my children
Crackle and dry, fading as quickly as they came.
My crown becomes a husk, a memorial
To the dead and dying and I shake with my sorrow.
I shake as if a beast that sheds its skin,
Then stand shamefaced and bare and alone.
My children lay littered at my feet. Dry and dead;
Given voice by cold wind I feel my branches groan.
The wind picks up; the storms roll in, dancing madly
They give forth a neon glow that cuts the sky.
A bolt of static, of serrated charge,
Seeks me out and breaks me then casts me upon ground.
I smoke and splutter, a furnace makes my heart;
I high pitched pyre of searing sparks and bubble talk.
I writhe and turn, delirious and aloof.
My sap mixes with the ash, turned vapour in the sky.
The rains roll back in, flames hiss with hate. Too late.
I lie broken and burnt; I lie disembowelled.
No hope of healing or growth. I am done.
The slow fall of snow burries me. Folds me over. I sleep.
I barely wake in time for the return of spring,
Anchored only by the bits not blackened and burnt.
Melting snow exhumes me, both the living and the dead,
A skeleton that will not grow; a being all blunt and tamed.
Time passes. I spend most of it in sleep.
New growth springs up all around. But none are mine.
New noises fill new trees. A distant roar.
In the distance older growth is trampled down.
They come with hard eyes and cold iron that cuts,
Then calmly take to me and those all around.
Laid low by servile fear I shake and I
Shudder at the sudden force, the biting axe.
Rough hands break me down into little pieces
They say I’ll find some use. Be something new.
A chair. A table. Something useful.
Something polished. But I know that it won’t be me.
So there we go. Like the last piece I put up this was part of a recent poetry assignment and apart from being inspired by the idea of the eternal observer that I touched on above it was also written in response to another poem - the Drunken Boat by Arthur Rimbaud (which he wrote when he was 16!) which can be found here (http://www.mag4.net/Rimbaud/poesies/Boat.html) - in that it follows the journey of an inanimate object that is described as being both conscious and unconscious of itself and its surroundings at the same time.
So have a read of Rimbaud if you are so inclined, but, keep in mind that it was originally written in French and so the translation linked above is rather different (and in my opinion not as good) from the one that I first read (if you are capable of doing so maybe read it in its original form?).
Anyway that’s enough from me for the moment. Think I’m getting into a good place with writing at the moment (The way The Executioner turned out has got me thinking about whole new avenues of writing) so the next post should not be too far away (Also, no, I haven't forgotten about my promise of pirates - so that will turn up at some point too).
Until then,
M
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Beyond the Pale
Well you're in for it now...
The last couple of weeks have been pretty full, what with uni and heavy doses of procrastination - all the good stuff.
Sometimes this isn't so bad, procrastination by definition is doing something other than what you're supposed to be doing - and so at times not working on the essay that I'm supposed to be working on can lead to me writing something that turns out to be a half decent attempt at a story instead.
Thankfully that's how it's been working over the last few weeks - I kept putting off working on History and Human Rights pieces so that I could jump into working on the bits of the assignment that I have just handed in - the mid-semester assessment for my Poetry unit - which (now that I've finished) I thought I might put up here.
As I’m reasonably sure that most of my readership (you guys are still reading right? Comments!) doesn't actually read a lot of poetry I'm not sure what you'll think or what you'll say seeing that poetry criticism can be a messy affair at the best of times: One of the pieces - that I may or may not put up - is a response to 'as a wife has a cow' by Gertrude Stein, which (aside from the rather ridiculous name) could either be described as an interesting exploration of language or as the nonsensical blathering of a mad woman (you can make up your own mind).
The piece that I'm going to put up today however isn't that much of a leap from what I normally do - as it was written as a response to 'Les Chants de Maldoror' which is a prose poem (the line between prose and poetry is rather shaky) which was written by Isidore Lucien Ducasse under the pseudonym - Comte de Lautreamont’s. I haven't had much luck in finding it on the internet (at least not in English) but it can best be described as a study of evil, via the titular character 'Maldoror', who is portrayed as just a little bit of a prick (you really do have to read it to get the idea).
That is not to say that Lautréamont was a nasty bastard himself as he was supposedly writing a companion piece to Maldoror (a study of good this time) at the time of his death (at the age of 24)So this is probably those occasions where it is best not to make any assumptions about the authors characteristics based solely on what he has written (and that goes for me as well).
Anyway that is definitely enough prattle - so here we go:
The Executioner
Their questions are all the same. All made in that plaintive voice of those who know their time is up: “How can you do this? What gives you the right?” Each time I sadly smile and say simply, “Because I can.” They do not understand. Some will yell and shout, pulling at the bars. Others will simply sit and weep, pushed over by their fear. Still others, though fewer in number, will let their eyes go cold. Will spit and sneer and make sullen accusation. “You are a tool” they say: “A dog that does his masters bidding, a coward too afraid to show his face.” I weather their onslaughts with stoic pose. They do not understand and so I must explain. “I am no tool, for there is no authority greater than mine.”Some are given courage by this; their faces turn to smirks and they spit dismissal. “You do the work of the wealthy” they say. I tell them that I do not take money for my work, that more often than not it is the wealthy that end up here. They say: “Then you serve the King, you serve his ‘law.” I tell them that I have outlasted both before. At this they grow angry and sulk like a petulant child. “Then you will be judged by god.” I flash white teeth. “God plays no part in my work. I do what he will not. What he cannot bring himself to do.” At this they wail, cry and stamp. Fear finally mingles with them in the dark and the buck and heave as if they were a horse trying to throw off a rider that has taken too much of a liking to his spurs.
On the night before they will not sleep, but will turn to begging, to prayer: Both will go unanswered.
In the morning I will unlock their cell and pull them out and march them to the gate; their eyes distant, their countenance cowed; weighed down by knowing. Some forget to blink in the light. Most ignore the jeering crowd that flaps around them, swooping and squawking and screeching for blood. They only come alive again when they see it perched upon the hill: The great machine. The child of some giant’s chair and an infernal mousetrap made man-sized and sharp. It seems to quiver with an energy barely contained. They grow skittish, eyes darting for a place to hide, an avenue of escape: knowing full well that there is none. I strap them in, face down. Their eyes grow dull. The crowd jeers. From this point on there can be no intervention either by luck or chance. Last prayers. Last words. I pull the leaver sharp. The blade slithers through the air. Such swiftness! Such beauty! There is a ‘thunk’, a spray of mist upon my mask. The crowd reaches its crescendo.
Soon some official will arrive: To talk of justice. Of how humane a quick death is. At that the executioner will slip away. Already forgotten, he is a part of the machine, a faceless cog, even though it is he who pulls the leaver; who makes it work. The world changes, but he remains. There is talk of democracy: of equal rights. The king knows fear; and so lashes out at all around. Nobles and commoners, the rich and the poor, all are equal under the sweep of the scythe. The people cry out at such abuse. At the horror of a machine that decides the fate of man. They pray to their god. He remains silent, though his servants make hollow threats of hellfire and excommunication.
The king sends churchmen to the executioner. They ask him to pray for them and then break down when he will not. Cursing and crying like common men. Outside the cells he stays hidden in the shadow of the great machine.
Then comes a time when all the fear can no longer be contained. It breaks loose and washed out into the streets as blood and flame. Revolution comes. The people march on the king and drag him from his throne. Their teeth gnash with talk of justice and of all being equal under law. They forget the cries they raised against the great machine and instead ask it now to become their impartial judge, the dispenser of their will. They bring the king out. Beaten and dirty but still crowned. They march him to the great machine. The executioner stands ready; winds back the blade. The king is full of gnawing horror as he stares into the abyss. The crows all come to see. Shrieking and tearing at their clothes in anticipation. They strap the king in and he cries like a common man. Last prayers. Last words. I pull the leaver sharp. The blade slithers through the air. Such swiftness! Such beauty!
The ‘thunk’ and spray are greeted by a new rattle as the crown rolls off and into the crowd. They grab it and raise it high: An idol to their work. As men talk and puff and preen I slip away. They think I serve their use, but in truth do they serve mine. I whisper to the dark: “After all, there is no authority greater than mine.”
Alright, so that's it for the moment
It felt alright to me once I was done with it - although I'm not entirely happy with some of the metaphors and some of the symbolism (I may be describing I little too much rather than evoking). But it's not my opinion thatI'm interested in - so tell me what you think!
M
The last couple of weeks have been pretty full, what with uni and heavy doses of procrastination - all the good stuff.
Sometimes this isn't so bad, procrastination by definition is doing something other than what you're supposed to be doing - and so at times not working on the essay that I'm supposed to be working on can lead to me writing something that turns out to be a half decent attempt at a story instead.
Thankfully that's how it's been working over the last few weeks - I kept putting off working on History and Human Rights pieces so that I could jump into working on the bits of the assignment that I have just handed in - the mid-semester assessment for my Poetry unit - which (now that I've finished) I thought I might put up here.
As I’m reasonably sure that most of my readership (you guys are still reading right? Comments!) doesn't actually read a lot of poetry I'm not sure what you'll think or what you'll say seeing that poetry criticism can be a messy affair at the best of times: One of the pieces - that I may or may not put up - is a response to 'as a wife has a cow' by Gertrude Stein, which (aside from the rather ridiculous name) could either be described as an interesting exploration of language or as the nonsensical blathering of a mad woman (you can make up your own mind).
The piece that I'm going to put up today however isn't that much of a leap from what I normally do - as it was written as a response to 'Les Chants de Maldoror' which is a prose poem (the line between prose and poetry is rather shaky) which was written by Isidore Lucien Ducasse under the pseudonym - Comte de Lautreamont’s. I haven't had much luck in finding it on the internet (at least not in English) but it can best be described as a study of evil, via the titular character 'Maldoror', who is portrayed as just a little bit of a prick (you really do have to read it to get the idea).
That is not to say that Lautréamont was a nasty bastard himself as he was supposedly writing a companion piece to Maldoror (a study of good this time) at the time of his death (at the age of 24)So this is probably those occasions where it is best not to make any assumptions about the authors characteristics based solely on what he has written (and that goes for me as well).
Anyway that is definitely enough prattle - so here we go:
The Executioner
Their questions are all the same. All made in that plaintive voice of those who know their time is up: “How can you do this? What gives you the right?” Each time I sadly smile and say simply, “Because I can.” They do not understand. Some will yell and shout, pulling at the bars. Others will simply sit and weep, pushed over by their fear. Still others, though fewer in number, will let their eyes go cold. Will spit and sneer and make sullen accusation. “You are a tool” they say: “A dog that does his masters bidding, a coward too afraid to show his face.” I weather their onslaughts with stoic pose. They do not understand and so I must explain. “I am no tool, for there is no authority greater than mine.”Some are given courage by this; their faces turn to smirks and they spit dismissal. “You do the work of the wealthy” they say. I tell them that I do not take money for my work, that more often than not it is the wealthy that end up here. They say: “Then you serve the King, you serve his ‘law.” I tell them that I have outlasted both before. At this they grow angry and sulk like a petulant child. “Then you will be judged by god.” I flash white teeth. “God plays no part in my work. I do what he will not. What he cannot bring himself to do.” At this they wail, cry and stamp. Fear finally mingles with them in the dark and the buck and heave as if they were a horse trying to throw off a rider that has taken too much of a liking to his spurs.
On the night before they will not sleep, but will turn to begging, to prayer: Both will go unanswered.
In the morning I will unlock their cell and pull them out and march them to the gate; their eyes distant, their countenance cowed; weighed down by knowing. Some forget to blink in the light. Most ignore the jeering crowd that flaps around them, swooping and squawking and screeching for blood. They only come alive again when they see it perched upon the hill: The great machine. The child of some giant’s chair and an infernal mousetrap made man-sized and sharp. It seems to quiver with an energy barely contained. They grow skittish, eyes darting for a place to hide, an avenue of escape: knowing full well that there is none. I strap them in, face down. Their eyes grow dull. The crowd jeers. From this point on there can be no intervention either by luck or chance. Last prayers. Last words. I pull the leaver sharp. The blade slithers through the air. Such swiftness! Such beauty! There is a ‘thunk’, a spray of mist upon my mask. The crowd reaches its crescendo.
Soon some official will arrive: To talk of justice. Of how humane a quick death is. At that the executioner will slip away. Already forgotten, he is a part of the machine, a faceless cog, even though it is he who pulls the leaver; who makes it work. The world changes, but he remains. There is talk of democracy: of equal rights. The king knows fear; and so lashes out at all around. Nobles and commoners, the rich and the poor, all are equal under the sweep of the scythe. The people cry out at such abuse. At the horror of a machine that decides the fate of man. They pray to their god. He remains silent, though his servants make hollow threats of hellfire and excommunication.
The king sends churchmen to the executioner. They ask him to pray for them and then break down when he will not. Cursing and crying like common men. Outside the cells he stays hidden in the shadow of the great machine.
Then comes a time when all the fear can no longer be contained. It breaks loose and washed out into the streets as blood and flame. Revolution comes. The people march on the king and drag him from his throne. Their teeth gnash with talk of justice and of all being equal under law. They forget the cries they raised against the great machine and instead ask it now to become their impartial judge, the dispenser of their will. They bring the king out. Beaten and dirty but still crowned. They march him to the great machine. The executioner stands ready; winds back the blade. The king is full of gnawing horror as he stares into the abyss. The crows all come to see. Shrieking and tearing at their clothes in anticipation. They strap the king in and he cries like a common man. Last prayers. Last words. I pull the leaver sharp. The blade slithers through the air. Such swiftness! Such beauty!
The ‘thunk’ and spray are greeted by a new rattle as the crown rolls off and into the crowd. They grab it and raise it high: An idol to their work. As men talk and puff and preen I slip away. They think I serve their use, but in truth do they serve mine. I whisper to the dark: “After all, there is no authority greater than mine.”
Alright, so that's it for the moment
It felt alright to me once I was done with it - although I'm not entirely happy with some of the metaphors and some of the symbolism (I may be describing I little too much rather than evoking). But it's not my opinion thatI'm interested in - so tell me what you think!
M
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
All the world's a stage
Alright, it took me a little longer than I expected (at first, once I figured out what I was going for and how I was going to format it, it was actually rather easy) but it's done. My first stab at something that may or may not vaguely resemble a play.
Now it's not finished yet, with this only being the first two scenes of act one, but I thought I would it would be better to release this in short doses so I can get gradual feedback on whether it's any good (I have the next few scenes mapped out at the moment, but not really any more than that - so recommendations are welcome).
So here it is - (Haven't really thought of a name yet).
Gabriel
Malcolm
ACT 1
Scene 1
Winter.
The murmur of distant voice comes from a country bar.
A stray dog sniffs around in the dark outside.
A door slams. A figure stomps out into the snow.
Another follows.
MALCOLM
Oh come on Gabe! Don’t be like this!
GABRIEL
(Sarcastically) Like what?”
MALCOLM
“Like this (grasping for words)... I mean... I just got here and you’re going to leave. I think you owe me a bit more than that...”
GABRIEL
(Turns around and looks Malcolm in the eye) Owe you Mal? (spitefully) What on earth could I possibly owe you!?
MALCOLM
(Holding arms upon in front of him, exasperatingly) I don’t know Gabe? It’s been like what? Three years? Three years without a fucking word. (Angry now) How much you reckon that’s worth?
GABRIEL
(turning to leave) Not as much as you would think. Try coming back in another three.
MALCOLM
(Stomps after Gabriel. Grabs him by the shoulder. Swings him around) Fucking hell Gabe. I’m your brother and it’s taken me weeks to bloody find you. You are not walking away.
GABRIEL
(Gabriel stares at him for a long time, then looks away. Defeated.) Or what? You’ll hit me? Real original Mal.
MALCOLM
(sighs) That’s not fair. And no. (He lets Gabriel go) I was hoping that you could put aside the fact that you’re a cranky bastard for a second... I do remember that about you by the way, so you don’t have to put on a show to remind me... and come back inside and have a beer with me, because I’m your brother and I’ve come all this way and you have in fact missed me. (begins to grin) Plus if you say no, I’ll just follow you around and be generally annoying until you change your mind - and you know how good I am at that.
GABRIEL
(Shrugs, slowly starts to grin as well.) Well when you put it like that I guess I don’t really have a choice.
MALCOLM
“No. You don’t. (Gabriel looks at him. He smiles) And I’ve missed you too, in case you were wondering or anything, though you do seem to be even crankier than when you left...”
GABRIEL
Thanks.
Malcolm puts his arm around Gabriel’s shoulder, Gabriel hesitates then smiles, embarrassed. Together they walk back inside.
The dog looks at them go. Whines.
Curtain
Scene 2
The bar. A little while later.
Malcolm and Gabriel sit across from one another in a booth near the back, a number of empty glasses sit on the table between them.
The same murmur of talk fills the room, except louder and closer.
GABRIEL
(More relaxed now. Cheeks slightly flushed from the beer) What d’you mean he’s in prison? (excitedly)How the hell did that happen?
MALCOLM
(grinning) Thought you’d like that. (takes a gulp of beer) He got drunk and picked a fight with someone...
GABRIEL
Ha, that’s it? Way I remember it the fucker used to get pretty pissed off if the end of week came and he hadn’t managed to pick a fight with someone.
MALCOLM
(feigning annoyance.) Hold on, I haven’t finished yet. But yeah, it got worse after you left, if you can imagine it. (Gabriel shudders.) All the usual places stopped letting him in, so he had to go looking for trouble (Malcolm spreads his hands.) So... Somehow he got into some dinky bar in the city, probably got lost or something; ended up beating the shit out of some kid.
GABRIEL
So he got arrested for that?
MALCOLM
Eventually. Turned out though that the kid had some friends with him and they didn’t take to kindly to dad’s methods of ‘socialising’. He tried to do them over too, but one of them pulled a knife on him and stuck him a couple of times.
GABRIEL
Shit...
MALCOLM
Yeah. Pretty much. (Pause) He ended up in hospital for a couple of weeks. Lapsed into a coma on the way in and by the time he came out of it the cops had had plenty of time to figure out who he was. As far as I know there were a couple of them there to greet him the moment he woke up.
GABRIEL
Shit.
MALCOLM
That was about a year ago now. Trial started pretty much as soon as dad had recovered. Think the government had been after some of the people that dad used to work for for a long time. So they fast-tracked the whole thing. Think they were hoping that he could help pin some stuff on them...
GABRIEL
Except he didn’t?
MALCOLM
No... Out of some misplaced loyalty or something dad kept his mouth shut. I think he thought he knew enough people that he would be protected, but they looks like they thought exactly what the cops did, cause they sold him out just like that (Malcolm snaps his fingers). Apparently I lot of evidence just started to turn up on him. Stuff bad enough for them to give him fifteen years in Byron.
GABRIEL
Jesus Christ... How... How are we feeling about this? (Concerned) How’s mum?
MALCOLM
Mum’s okay. The trial was hard, dad kept asking for her. I managed to convince her to stay away. He never hit her, what with his fucked up sense of honour and everything, but you know as well as I do that it was still an abusive relationship. She’ll be better off. (Malcolm pauses) But yeah, I don’t know Gabe. Dad was a fucker, you’re right on that. The stuff he did... to me... to you. It’s unforgivable. But... Fuck. He’s our father. Though I don’t know what that means anymore. Or if it means anything.
Malcolm finishes his beer. Gabriel looks away. Both are quiet for some time.
GABRIEL
(Looking suddenly at Malcolm) You want me to come home with you, don’t you?
MALCOLM
Yeah... Yeah I do.
GABRIEL
(Looking away again). Huh.
MALCOLM
We all miss you Gabe. Mum. Me. (Grinning) And seemingly that girl you used to hang out with... what was... Julia? She’s the one who told me where to find you. Says you’ve been sending her letters this whole time. (Gabriel blushes) I take it that my letters got lost in the mail eh?
GABRIEL
(Sheepishly) Something like that.
MALCOLM
Ha! (Then seriously) But Yeah. Whatever our issues are with dad. He’s going to be away for a long time. He can’t hurt you if you come back.
GABRIEL
I’ll think about it.
MALCOLM
Good. (Nodding) Not that we would have to go back immediately mind you. Tickets to Europe aren’t exactly cheap , least you could do is show me around a little bit while I’m here.
GABRIEL
(Chuckling) All right, but in the morning. For the moment let’s just find you a place to stay.
MALCOLM
Deal.
Malcolm and Gabriel leave the bar and make their way out into the night.
Curtain
Alright, hope that was half decent and the dialogue was alighted and the characters consistent (or understandable in their inconsistencies) - let me know what you think*. Was reasonably happy with the way it turned out - I'm not entirely happy with the 'criminal father idea' (though I'm not entirely sure why).
Going to be rather bogged down in assignments over the next couple of weeks, but I will try to get something up, though it will probably something SF again, just to make things easy. We'll see.
*might be a good idea to read some other plays as well first/at the same time (this being aimed at Sam mostly, as I'm not sure if you have since high school - and that was mostly Shakespeare (I’m not looking to write anything in any way reminiscent of Shakespeare).
Try (if you can be bothered) - http://www.samuel-beckett.net/Waiting_for_Godot_Part1.html (Read this in second year - rather liked it - copied the basic formatting for this - though it is a very different type of play...).
M
Now it's not finished yet, with this only being the first two scenes of act one, but I thought I would it would be better to release this in short doses so I can get gradual feedback on whether it's any good (I have the next few scenes mapped out at the moment, but not really any more than that - so recommendations are welcome).
So here it is - (Haven't really thought of a name yet).
Gabriel
Malcolm
ACT 1
Scene 1
Winter.
The murmur of distant voice comes from a country bar.
A stray dog sniffs around in the dark outside.
A door slams. A figure stomps out into the snow.
Another follows.
MALCOLM
Oh come on Gabe! Don’t be like this!
GABRIEL
(Sarcastically) Like what?”
MALCOLM
“Like this (grasping for words)... I mean... I just got here and you’re going to leave. I think you owe me a bit more than that...”
GABRIEL
(Turns around and looks Malcolm in the eye) Owe you Mal? (spitefully) What on earth could I possibly owe you!?
MALCOLM
(Holding arms upon in front of him, exasperatingly) I don’t know Gabe? It’s been like what? Three years? Three years without a fucking word. (Angry now) How much you reckon that’s worth?
GABRIEL
(turning to leave) Not as much as you would think. Try coming back in another three.
MALCOLM
(Stomps after Gabriel. Grabs him by the shoulder. Swings him around) Fucking hell Gabe. I’m your brother and it’s taken me weeks to bloody find you. You are not walking away.
GABRIEL
(Gabriel stares at him for a long time, then looks away. Defeated.) Or what? You’ll hit me? Real original Mal.
MALCOLM
(sighs) That’s not fair. And no. (He lets Gabriel go) I was hoping that you could put aside the fact that you’re a cranky bastard for a second... I do remember that about you by the way, so you don’t have to put on a show to remind me... and come back inside and have a beer with me, because I’m your brother and I’ve come all this way and you have in fact missed me. (begins to grin) Plus if you say no, I’ll just follow you around and be generally annoying until you change your mind - and you know how good I am at that.
GABRIEL
(Shrugs, slowly starts to grin as well.) Well when you put it like that I guess I don’t really have a choice.
MALCOLM
“No. You don’t. (Gabriel looks at him. He smiles) And I’ve missed you too, in case you were wondering or anything, though you do seem to be even crankier than when you left...”
GABRIEL
Thanks.
Malcolm puts his arm around Gabriel’s shoulder, Gabriel hesitates then smiles, embarrassed. Together they walk back inside.
The dog looks at them go. Whines.
Curtain
Scene 2
The bar. A little while later.
Malcolm and Gabriel sit across from one another in a booth near the back, a number of empty glasses sit on the table between them.
The same murmur of talk fills the room, except louder and closer.
GABRIEL
(More relaxed now. Cheeks slightly flushed from the beer) What d’you mean he’s in prison? (excitedly)How the hell did that happen?
MALCOLM
(grinning) Thought you’d like that. (takes a gulp of beer) He got drunk and picked a fight with someone...
GABRIEL
Ha, that’s it? Way I remember it the fucker used to get pretty pissed off if the end of week came and he hadn’t managed to pick a fight with someone.
MALCOLM
(feigning annoyance.) Hold on, I haven’t finished yet. But yeah, it got worse after you left, if you can imagine it. (Gabriel shudders.) All the usual places stopped letting him in, so he had to go looking for trouble (Malcolm spreads his hands.) So... Somehow he got into some dinky bar in the city, probably got lost or something; ended up beating the shit out of some kid.
GABRIEL
So he got arrested for that?
MALCOLM
Eventually. Turned out though that the kid had some friends with him and they didn’t take to kindly to dad’s methods of ‘socialising’. He tried to do them over too, but one of them pulled a knife on him and stuck him a couple of times.
GABRIEL
Shit...
MALCOLM
Yeah. Pretty much. (Pause) He ended up in hospital for a couple of weeks. Lapsed into a coma on the way in and by the time he came out of it the cops had had plenty of time to figure out who he was. As far as I know there were a couple of them there to greet him the moment he woke up.
GABRIEL
Shit.
MALCOLM
That was about a year ago now. Trial started pretty much as soon as dad had recovered. Think the government had been after some of the people that dad used to work for for a long time. So they fast-tracked the whole thing. Think they were hoping that he could help pin some stuff on them...
GABRIEL
Except he didn’t?
MALCOLM
No... Out of some misplaced loyalty or something dad kept his mouth shut. I think he thought he knew enough people that he would be protected, but they looks like they thought exactly what the cops did, cause they sold him out just like that (Malcolm snaps his fingers). Apparently I lot of evidence just started to turn up on him. Stuff bad enough for them to give him fifteen years in Byron.
GABRIEL
Jesus Christ... How... How are we feeling about this? (Concerned) How’s mum?
MALCOLM
Mum’s okay. The trial was hard, dad kept asking for her. I managed to convince her to stay away. He never hit her, what with his fucked up sense of honour and everything, but you know as well as I do that it was still an abusive relationship. She’ll be better off. (Malcolm pauses) But yeah, I don’t know Gabe. Dad was a fucker, you’re right on that. The stuff he did... to me... to you. It’s unforgivable. But... Fuck. He’s our father. Though I don’t know what that means anymore. Or if it means anything.
Malcolm finishes his beer. Gabriel looks away. Both are quiet for some time.
GABRIEL
(Looking suddenly at Malcolm) You want me to come home with you, don’t you?
MALCOLM
Yeah... Yeah I do.
GABRIEL
(Looking away again). Huh.
MALCOLM
We all miss you Gabe. Mum. Me. (Grinning) And seemingly that girl you used to hang out with... what was... Julia? She’s the one who told me where to find you. Says you’ve been sending her letters this whole time. (Gabriel blushes) I take it that my letters got lost in the mail eh?
GABRIEL
(Sheepishly) Something like that.
MALCOLM
Ha! (Then seriously) But Yeah. Whatever our issues are with dad. He’s going to be away for a long time. He can’t hurt you if you come back.
GABRIEL
I’ll think about it.
MALCOLM
Good. (Nodding) Not that we would have to go back immediately mind you. Tickets to Europe aren’t exactly cheap , least you could do is show me around a little bit while I’m here.
GABRIEL
(Chuckling) All right, but in the morning. For the moment let’s just find you a place to stay.
MALCOLM
Deal.
Malcolm and Gabriel leave the bar and make their way out into the night.
Curtain
Alright, hope that was half decent and the dialogue was alighted and the characters consistent (or understandable in their inconsistencies) - let me know what you think*. Was reasonably happy with the way it turned out - I'm not entirely happy with the 'criminal father idea' (though I'm not entirely sure why).
Going to be rather bogged down in assignments over the next couple of weeks, but I will try to get something up, though it will probably something SF again, just to make things easy. We'll see.
*might be a good idea to read some other plays as well first/at the same time (this being aimed at Sam mostly, as I'm not sure if you have since high school - and that was mostly Shakespeare (I’m not looking to write anything in any way reminiscent of Shakespeare).
Try (if you can be bothered) - http://www.samuel-beckett.net/Waiting_for_Godot_Part1.html (Read this in second year - rather liked it - copied the basic formatting for this - though it is a very different type of play...).
M
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)