writing: scripted - paul lisson
Excerpt from a play in one act.
Marco - who is dead
Arturo - who is not
Setting: Dimly lit room with a table and two chairs in front
of a window. Post-nuclear flash outside the window; phosphorescent, luminiferous. Beautiful. Deadly.
Photism is a hallucinatory sensation or vision of light.
Toward the back of the room a figure is slumped on a mattress.
Outside - the sound of keys, a series of locks, heavy boots climbing the stairs, a voice.
"I'm a comin' you plaguey bastard."
The boots continue their climb. The voice is nearer.
"Crashing screaming drunk.
Drunkenly grasping the rail
and hauling my drunken
screaming drunken self
the stairs with a crash.
the two of us."
More keys and the final lock. Arturo enters carrying a stick, flashlight, and loot bag. He stumbles and points the flashlight around into corners.
"Honey, I'm home. Marco! Where are you, you little buboe?"
The light of the flashlight hits upon the mattress.
"Ah, so this is what you do all day. Sleeping while I'm out busting my ass ... earning a living ... bringing home the bacon."
He drags the body to one of the chairs and tapes it into a sitting position, starting at the ankles.
"Your toe bone connected to your foot bone,
Your foot bone connected to your ankle bone,
Your ankle bone connected to your leg bone,
Your leg bone connected to your knee bone,
Your knee bone connected to your thigh bone,
Your thigh bone connected to your hip bone,
Your hip bone connected to your back bone,
Your back bone connected to your shoulder bone,
Your shoulder bone connected to your neck bone,
Your neck bone connected to your head bone,
Hear the word of the Lord!"
He finishes taping.
"Tea time!! No, don't get up. I'll make it."
here / art / writing / contact