|
Murdered Man in Uniform Crawling Man NOTE: The composite imagery used to conjure an impression of the stage is intended only as a suggestion of what each play should look like during a performance. Not all of the details described in the stage notes are precisely or realistically reproduced by the images accompanying the plays. These images are meant to provide a visual blueprint or shorthand for the stage and the action. Stopping On One’s Ways—Stage Image  The wicks at the ends of the candles drool lines of wax
along your skin, ash from somewhere nestles into your esophagus, shovels parcels of decay against your uvula, your mouth backed up to the teeth. Good luck breathing. Mr. In, is there really no other way?
can a canvas not, at base, at heart be that wall across from that glass lamp; glares emanating from the forbidding rule of touch. Must you come in with your bleach and cloth on bended knee, on a dozen pills for that line on your forehead and curse wax for its sticking and color for never staying put. The child, small, cannot reach The place where you’ve locked their crayons away; You believe the key gift enough You’ve never believed in pineapple clouds. & the ache starts when I see the heifer
plodding across tilled dirt, belly low & pregnant in the sunset’s handsome shadow. & she pants against the grass, ear tags swinging sublimely even in their punched-through vigor. & I go home & pull my eyelashes out in clumps, & look at my snarling reflection until my face is lost in blotchy red shadow. & how is it that furious animal feels easier than being a woman? & at 13 my mother tells me the color red is womanhood’s delicate mark but I thought red was for charging bulls & the angry pound of sweat. & I would rather trample the red flag in unseeing brawn than watch my reflection swirl he who looks upon her with whims and fancies,
can never roam in tandem with the unfathomable. the grappling chokehold the void the chains that dredge through folds of skin void of willpower. metal fragments slit through roots where gore runs down in trickles of ruby burning down raw wrists. the marks of desolation left to remain along with My cure came at night. But that is coincidence,
pure and stark as stars. When I was in the mental hospital, the only thing I did was make paper stars. On my first visit, the nurse gave me pen and paper so I could learn to make a work like hers, a meadow starred with flowers. My pages were as blank as me, vacant except for bright blue rules. When I tried to outline what I had in mind, my meadow scene was something else entirely–deep wide open space. Still, I liked what I was trying. INT. CLUB - NIGHT
Throngs of bodies move together on the dancefloor. Hot sweat rolls down their skin. Techno lights flash all over. Music blares over the speakers. JULIET (18) is in the middle of the dancefloor. She’s your typical girl next door. Except right now? She looks like a vixen from hell with her cleavage-revealing dress. ERIC (25) is dancing right next to her. Eric is like the thick, slimy grease on a gas station pizza. JULIET (yelling) Are you having a good time? ERIC A great time! Do you want to sit down? JULIET Sure! Juliet has to lean on Eric as they make their way to their seats. Finally, they sit down. Juliet takes a DRINK from a waiter who passes by. She drinks it almost empty before sitting it down. JULIET (CONT'D) I was soooo surprised when you decided to ask me out. ERIC Really? JULIET YES! I was like me? Me? He’s asking me out? You’re like the hottest guy I’ve ever met! Eric chuckles. ERIC Thank you. JULIET And- Juliet makes a gagging noise. JULIET (CONT'D) I need to go to the bathroom. The second that ‘want’ turns into ‘should,’
She becomes a withering flower, ripped from its damp soil, placed on a windowsill that only sees sunless grey, and dying limply in a dirty glass cup. the stones battle inside the body
water, a mirror an artless reflection of a woman the body is belonging by itself our face painted in the pink of lungs water, a mirror where do you long to be, before the cicadas' song begins anew. In a day and age when men’s opinions are so well regarded that they can quite literally overturn
constitutional rights, I felt the need to gather and record the opinions of women, historically less present. The overturn of Roe v. Wade directly affects millions of women across America. Their opinions on the subject need to be heard. So, I asked almost all the women I could what they thought about the overturn of Roe v. Wade. I have recorded all of their thoughts, thus propelling often overlooked women’s opinions into the record. By the time you finish reading this, women’s opinions on the overturn of Roe v. Wade, and women’s opinions in general, shall be slightly less vague. Now, before I begin I should point out the obvious flaw in my plan. I only spoke to about six or seven different women. Due to this fact, the opinions I am about to spout out can not possibly be indicative of the opinions of every woman in the United States, let alone the world. Let me make one thing very clear: that is not the point. This is not about making sure that every voice is heard. Feasibly, I could not do that. Originally, I went for the angle of diversity. I could not have imagined that all five women would have the same opinion. However, each and every woman I interviewed was of a common mind. In hindsight, this is not that surprising. According to the Pew Research Center, sixty-two percent of Americans believe abortion should be legal in all or most cases. Nevertheless, I will reiterate myself: this speech is about preserving women’s opinions. Here are some women’s opinions: Betraying boundaries that we have made,
Created defectives based off how we’re portrayed, Established prophecies that praise your name, And ensure that it’s legacy will leave us in suffering, And assert we are naturally weak and a detriment, You, Put a bird in a cage, Clipped their wings, Let them, spin, You, Then claim it as flightless, “It chose its reliance”, On that wing-clipping man, i. a woman’s accusation
blink your eyes open. i am here with you as i have always been. iron your white button-up catch my fingers on the hot metal, but you do not help my pleading scorched burns that hurt almost too much. watch my bones splinter as you talk in comforting intonations you think are good. the ideas you speak of make me wither a dying flower dried up, crushed under I sometimes ponder on the weight of disdain,
wondering how it feels like to be hated by many. Especially when once you found yourself bathed in admiration, only to be caught in a bitter haze, following an error, a mistake. Like Helen of Troy, wrongfully accused of igniting the Trojan War, once adored, then loathed, a fall from grace. I’m not talking about the bloodthirsty men of the past, History’s dark stain. Those earned their hatred, for they inflicted unbearable pain upon millions And I hope that as their bones rust under the earth, their memory gets soiled and tarnished; a second death. Little girl, don’t you know?
Papayas should grow on papaya trees. Slowly but surely, like an Itty-bitty caterpillar and its Hundred legs that pitter patter Pitter patter... Into a butterfly, spreading its Delicate wings that glitter with Morning dew. Papayas should grow on papaya trees. Of course, you probably wouldn’t be able To tell that the papaya tree is a papaya tree At the very beginning It looks like a normal tree with some flowers Scattered here and there Here and there... Smiling at passers-by, who smile back And think: How cute, But never think about the tree again. Trigger Warning: references to female infanticide and mentions of suicide
the pain scale according to my grandmother: 1. “the dull ache in my stomach as i watch my father leave to fish. it is as harsh as the glitter of the sun on the water that i sometimes dreamed of making my jewelry. perhaps i’d wear it to church. my father takes the sea for granted. 2. my sister pulling on my arms and telling me to go back to bed. she doesn’t want me to take the boat out at night. 3. water in the nose. i cough and sputter and it is a glorious and horrible sting. 4. burning myself on chai. my mother is teaching me how to be a housewife. i laugh through the bright pain and put the hurt finger under the tap and learn a valuable lesson: water heals. 1899 - Suffrage
Mama used to bake braided bread every Easter. The slap of calloused hands against soft dough echoing through the kitchen like a lullaby. The clump of flour staring back at me could be anything but smooth and light in my clumsy claws. Tangled and twisted, she would smack my hand, perturbed by my wild spirit and untethering eyes Mama never liked me. She knew what she had created. A vagabond in a whistle-stop of conformity So I left. I let the salt-laden waves lift me away, until Mama and her bread became a folktale. Every Thursday night at 7, Cecilia and Eliza went to the local diner. They rarely
discussed it. No other establishment was ever considered (except for that one time the restaurant was unexpectedly closed for fumigation). It was the way things were. One Thursday evening, Cecilia arrived at the restaurant one minute before the hour, expecting to see Eliza in their usual booth. Instead, an elderly couple had planted themselves there. Cecilia frowned. Had she mixed up the days? But no, she hadn’t. It was Thursday. She knew this because they had served tamales for lunch at work that afternoon, which they did every Thursday. “Excuse me,” she said to the nearest hostess. “Have you seen a girl about yea high — she held up her hand — with brown curly hair? Big glasses?” Blood – rich whispers of crimson,
Like flames melting the feelings beliefs alive, grief that spelled Out the word – I n f e r t i l e Infertility wrenched beauty from my life, Erasing the stars from the night, Darkening my heart – but I survived Yes, I remember I was young one day, Yearning, aching – praying Begging for one smile from a baby, A smile that told me I’d been right… Love would- love could save me At age 5, the MRI machine was my personal tree house, the stickers on the ceiling were my safe
space. It felt cold; heated blankets are now a distant memory. It seemed like I spent an eternity inside that Magnetic Resonance Imaging Scanner. Maybe I just had one scan, but it felt as if it defined my entire childhood. I was already a member of the Pirates of the Caribbean with my eye patch, and now I was also the world's worst Telephone player. My left ear's ability to understand speech reduced with time, declining from 68% to 48% by age 34. In the past I needed hearing aids, just as I do now, but back then I did not love myself enough to accept the help they would give me. Growing up, my friends remained unaware of my hearing loss. As I aged, I'd jokingly tell them to sit on my right side. I'd nickname my left ear my "bad ear," attempting to make light of something that was crippling. But beneath the humor, the truth was harsh: I spent my life guessing what people were saying. she molds life through the cup of her palms
arrows slicing bullseye when she acts with silver tipped precision her footprints create forests in her wake every step nurturing seaweed green plants bursting gracefully to radiant life |