Dear M.,

I try not to walk by the church in the mornings anymore, even though it’s the quickest route, even though it’s the smartest route, even though it’s the prettiest route, all tree-lined sidewalks and grand old buildings. I try not to walk by the church in the mornings anymore, even though I know I’m being ridiculous, even though I know I’m being irrational, even though I know I’m being far too optimistic or pessimistic or unrealistic, ultimately, anyway. I try not to walk by the church in the mornings anymore because what if you’re not there, what if you’re never there, and honestly, what would I do, what would you do if, what if you’re there after all, after all this time?

A.

When did this begin, this wanting, this coveting, this yearning for something else, something more? With Mary (mother dear, see here, see here, our Savior we have lost) before Joseph? Oh, he thought she had, he thought she had been unfaithful (without faith, but no) but no – the angel came unto (onto) her and said You are Chosen, You are (you alone are the holy one, you alone are the lord, the most high) to bear from your womb a child to be called Jesus Christ. Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us, pray for me, for my kind, sinners – we who are conceived in original sin, we who know nothing that is not sinful, we who by birth were damned to be coveted, wanted, pursued. We who by birth and by growth and by nothing more than our shape, our walk, our lips were the objects of lust and bloody fury. We who were something else, something more and we who are accused, like our own Blessed Mother, of straying – of unfaithfulness – of infidelity but no! We are Chosen not by the angel, no, by the man, the men of flesh and bone and we are to bear from our wombs, from our womb many children to be called John and Sam and Paul, the names of angels perhaps, the names of disciples, the names of men (and I wonder: why so few). We are Chosen to bear more more more generations; to covet, to want, to yearn. Outside it is grey and cool and wet, everything is wet and I am itching in my covers, every inch crawling and I don’t know why, I don’t know why.

The ceiling is waterstained and bowed in one corner, the corner over by the back door, the door to the breezeway. I can see it from where I am laying, arms and legs spread wide like I’m a star or an X or something. Spread-eagle. I can see the waterstain and the bowing and I am watching the way the fading light changes the shades of the inside of the house like it changes the colors of the outside of the house and I am thinking about nothing more than that. Nothing more than the changing shades, the colors. The way the dusk looks.

And then I am thinking about the way the dusk is. The way the dusk feels. The way the dusk mutes and dims. The way the dusk ends the day.

And then I am thinking about how strange my hands feel and when I lift them in front of my face I don’t know them as my own and they are grey and they are wrong. They feel wrong and I am thinking that maybe they’re not my hands anymore maybe they belong to someone somewhere else. Bony thin hands, long fingers, nails bitten to the quick. I don’t know these hands.

And then I am thinking about death.

The ceiling is waterstained and bowed over the breezeway door and the dusk has fallen heavy and I am thinking about just staying here, just letting go. Just giving up.

And then I am thinking about how difficult it is to die when you can’t make yourself move. Dying is an active thing or at least I think it has to be for me. Dying requires getting up off the ground and finding something, some implement to use to bring me to my end and I can’t fathom sitting up, never mind reaching for a knife or the pills and even if I could reach the pills from where I am laying, which I can’t, I would have to get water too and probably a plastic bag because I read somewhere that pills alone won’t do it and I can’t understand why I can’t just lie here and die.

And then I am thinking about sleep because all of this thinking in all of this muted dim dusk has taken every last ounce of energy I have and then the room is so bright, so bright and there is an awfully loud ringing from the other room.

And then I am thinking about the noise and then I am up from the ground and I am dizzy but I am moving across the room, lumbering across the room stiff and achy from being on the floor for so long and I am stumbling into the doorway and I am feeling a bruise bloom on my hip my left hip where I hit the door frame and then I am holding the phone in my hand and it is ringing and ringing and it is so loud and then I am on the floor, I am on the floor on my knees and then I am blinking away tears and I am screaming at the phone to shut up shut up shut up and then I am on my knees on the floor and the phone is silent and everything is silent and the plastic and the wires and the antenna are everywhere and the wooden floorboard is scratched and my right palm is bleeding where I am gripping what is left of the receiver and then I am thinking about death again.

She has curly brown hair like mine but finer, wilder. Her eyes are darker than mine, deep dark brown like coffee, like chocolate, like all the things I love strong and sweet. She laughs easily and in this image in my head always in my head she is wearing a pale pink leotard and a tutu and she is holding a magic wand, pink with ribbons. She has been in my head for so long it’s as though she’s a real person and not an imaginary someday-child. It’s as though she exists.

I don’t know where I got this image of this child who isn’t and won’t be. It was years ago, some daydream or maybe even a regular old night-dream. I was young, but not so young that imagining myself as someone’s mama, as her mama didn’t seem so out-of-reach.

She was our child, I think. Yours and mine. Before, though, before those long, long days of shaking hands, too-fast heartbeats. Before those days.

The ever-tightening knot of those days: that wasn’t her. That wasn’t anyone, or so I told myself, or so I tell myself. But even if it was it wasn’t her. She existed before those days and she’s existed ever since, way back in the part of my brain that holds those memories.

Why am I always writing about you?

X

The morning after he leaves for good this time for real this time Miriam rises with the grey dawn like she always does, makes coffee like she always does, watches the neighbor steal her paper like he always does. She sits and stares at the steam from the coffee and thinks about how little she wants to eat anything and thinks about how much she should eat, more and more these days. She walks down the hall in her pajamas, closing the blinds on the way; she takes down the mirrors on the wall without looking at them, without thinking about them. Without knowing what she is doing, nevermind why, she takes down the mirrors and she turns them around and she leans them against the walls where they belong.

The morning after he leaves Miriam does not cry. She bites her lip instead, drawing blood, copper taste in her mouth. She bites her finger, chews on her nails. She does not cry; she will not cry. She finds a bottle of nail polish and paints her nails a garish red so she won’t tear at them anymore. She puts on lipstick, blindly, mirrorless and she runs her fingertip around the outline of her lips to make sure it is on straight. She combs her hair, changes her socks and her underwear, puts on jeans and a sweater, the red cashmere four sizes too big, once her grandfather’s. She turns on the faucet in the kitchen and turns on the stereo in the living room and she washes the dishes that’d piled up over the course of the week they’d been together, singing loud and off-key despite the overwhelm of her self-consciousness. When the plates and glasses and forks and spoons are clean and dry, put back in their drawers and cabinets, (a place for everything and everything in its place, she thinks) Miriam walks into her bedroom, strips the sheets, the pillowcases, the blankets, willing herself not to bury her head in them, inhale him her them together. She rolls everything up into a ball and shoves it into a bag.

The linen closet yields clean sheets, fresh pillowcases. She makes up the bed, shakes out the pillows, pulls up the covers; she kneels on the floor and looks under the bed to make sure there’s nothing left of him, of them. The trash! she thinks, and goes to empty it; a viscous substance at the bottom of the bin gives her pause but she shakes her head, runs to the kitchen, grabs a bottle of Clorox and splashes it in. The bleach is overwhelming, overpowering but she sloshes it around anyway, dumping it out into the sink.

The doorbell rings and Miriam is paralyzed. Taking a deep breath, she slowly, slowly backs up until she reaches the back wall of the kitchen, and when she is there, when she is braced, she slides down the wall until she is a puddle on the floor, forehead on the cool linoleum, legs curled underneath her. The bell rings again and she holds her breath, repeats ‘goawaygoaway’ in her head like a mantra, counts – 1 2 3 4 5 6 – until the bell rings again and then she closes her eyes and counts again – 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 –

When she wakes several hours later her contacts are dry and her arm is cramped from being beneath her.

KETCHUP

Ketchup
By Luke Allard

Two people, A and B, in a living room, perhaps a basement. A couch, a recliner, a coffee table and a stereo system with relatively large speakers on either side. A is lying, stretched out, on the couch, with a container of fries in his hand. B has the stereo receiver on her lap, and is connecting the speaker wires to the back of the receiver. B keeps her head down and focused on the task at hand throughout A’s first speech. A stares at the ceiling, hands behind head, thinking. They sit/lay in silence for a few moments when A, with a furrowed brow, says

A
you know what really gets me? (pause) ketchup packets.

B
oh?

A
yeah, ketchup packets. I can’t stand them. I mean, there is absolutely nothing practical about them. Nothing.

B
well, other than the…ketchup part, you mean.

A
no, that part is cancelled out by all the other negative aspects of the ketchup packet. Alright so say you’re in a restaurant, a fast food establishment, and you order and all that, and they give you your food and they say ‘you want sauce?’ and of course you want sauce and they plop a fistful of these ketchup packets right down on your tray. That’s where the impracticality starts. Because now that I have this fistful of ketchup packet, I feel obliged to use every packet that’s in front of me, because I’m not going to return the packets I don’t use and I’d really prefer not to dispose of an unopened packet. Then you sit down and go to work on these things. And you go to tear one open and it’s not enough of an opening to quickly empty, or it’s too big and it gets all over your fingers, or HEAVEN FORBID you’ve had a fry or two already and your fingers are too greasy to even get a grip on the little edges, but finally, finally you get a decent pile of ketchup on your paper placemat. And what do you have, just to the side of your ketchup? An even larger pile of the former homes of the ketchup, cast aside now that they have been vacated of their original inhabitant. It’s a fucking shame.

B
that’s America for you.

A
It is! That’s my point! We create these horribly wasteful little ketchup filled non-biodegradable mother-earth abusing…

B
…catalysts of counter-existence?

A
touché.

B
So what do we do about it?

A
We exclusively go to fast food places that have those hand-pump and paper-cup ketchup dispensers. and! And! We find a use for the empty packets.

B
what the hell could empty packets be used for?

A
hm. Well, we could…refill them?

B
you can. I have my own social and environmental injustices to struggle with.

A
like what?

B
eh, I don’t know yet. But I’ll find some.

A
Oh no.

B
(pause) what?

A
I just thought of all the people who make those ketchup packets. If it wasn’t for those little harbingers of the apocalypse, hundreds, perhaps THOUSANDS of blue collar factory workers would be out of a job, no longer able to support their families, unable to provide little Billy or Jenny an opportunity, nay, a glimmer of hope to…to make something of themselves.

B
true.

B stands up and places the receiver back on the table it belongs. Plugs in the power, hits the power button. The receiver lights up. She turns a dial and it clicks twice before Bob Dylan’s “Blowin’ in the Wind” comes on, softly. B turns the volume up to a reasonable volume and the two remain still, listening. A closes eyes and smiles, slightly. The song ends and the two continue to be still in the silence. A opens eyes.

A
we should make a movie.

B
what about?

A
…about… about war protest.

B
which war?

A
depends on how we wanna do it. Do we want to make it back in time, say world war two or one, or the civil war, or revolutionary war, or Korean, or Vietnam, war on terror, war on drugs, war on-

B
we could make up a war.

A
but we have so many to choose from that aren’t made up!

B
true, but think of the creative freedom we could have if we created our own one… we could make a war over… over spilt milk.

A
isn’t that a saying or something?

B
yeah. it’d be ironic.

A
but why would there be a war over spilt milk?

B
does it have to be war on a grand scale?

A
I hadn’t thought of it that way…no, it doesn’t.

B
it could be a ‘war’ in a house! Of like three people…roommates….



A
and one spills milk but doesn’t clean it up for some reason…

B
and another gets unnecessarily pissed over it!

A
well, spilt-spoiled milk…I’m not sure if there’s a limit to how pissed one can get over that.

B
true. Regardless. The spiller thinks it’s an overreaction. So, just to piss off the angry roommate he doesn’t clean it up.

A
but how can he stand the stench?

B
he just stays in his room and away from the kitchen, whereas angry roommate has the room closest to the kitchen AND loves to cook. Also, he’s got a girl who he wants to date coming to the house the following night.

A
is it really necessary that he loves to cook?

B
alright forget the culinary affection.

A
so how is this a war protest movie?

B
I’m glad you asked. To add some humor to the movie, we’ll have the third roommate, a hippy-type character who doesn’t want to take sides-

A
how can you be on the spiller’s side?

B
hm. Well, we’ll figure that out after.

A
alright.

B
(pause) You know, we could make a movie of just us talking. Could be interesting.

(pause)

A
…Nah.

B stands up and takes out another record, unknown to the audience, and puts it on the turntable. She turns down the volume a bit and the song “Sound of Silence” by Simon and Garfunkle comes on softly, and 30-45 seconds into the song, the two speak. The song continues in the background.

A
do you think we’re not productive enough?

B
how do you mean?

A
well, we spend a lot of our time laying here, talking about our plans, but rarely do we actually act on those ideas.

B
well, I just put this stereo system together.

A
and I’m so proud of you. I know it takes a lot of thought and concentration to put a wire into a little hole that is specifically made for said wire.

B
I don’t see you jumping up and doing this.

A
hey, I personally enjoy the…’sound of silence’. Heh heh heh.

B
wow, really? You really just said that?
A
mmm, I sure did. (pause) I’m thirsty. I’m gonna grab some “Mountain Lightning” from upstairs. (stands up, walks to base of stairs)

B
“Mountain Lightning?” you don’t mean…Mountain Dew?

A
Oh no, no no. I mean Mountain Lightning, freshly purchased for 25 cents a can at our local Price-Rite. Should I get two?

B
mark me down for a water, Zeus.

A
you got it! (runs up the stairs)

B stands up, walks over to the McDonald’s bag that is laying beside the couch. She picks it up, lies down, and reaches into the bag. She pulls out a fry and enjoys it. She reaches back in and pulls out a ketchup packet. She looks at it for a moment, looks up towards where A is getting the beverages, and reaches back into the bag and takes out two more. She tosses the bag back to the ground and sprawls out, head hanging upside down. She rips open the ketchup packets and pours them onto her skin and face, like blood, and smears it about. She lays still as A starts heading down the stairs

A
I think the secret ingredient to the mountain lightning is the real lightning. I mean-

Sees B laying motionless, covered in “blood”. Responds accordingly. He drops the drink with a smash and rushes over to her body. He gets some ketchup on him, looks inquisitively at it, swipes it with his finger and licks it. Looks peeved. B pops her head up and says as she reaches her hand up with ketchup packet in it

B
I guess they’re not…totally useless. (smile)

PLOTLESS

Luke’s play
9.26

a set. i’ll leave it up to you. but just know that there must be a set.

a: fuck. fuck where did i put that list. shit.

b: well, where did you last see it?

a: hm. i can’t remember anything after physically writing the list down.

b: what was the list a list of?

a: .... it.... it doesn’t matter.

b: no, i’m just curious, what was it? was it a long list?

a: ...again. doesn’t matter.

b: sure it does! i mean, i’d be much more inclined to try to find this list if it were...for example, a list of christmas presents you’re going to give me. and much less inclined if it were ‘my list of masturbatory positions’

a: don’t worry, both of those categories don’t have enough options for lists. the former, in fact, would be a blank piece of paper. regardless. back to the list-search.

b: list. liiiiiiiiisssssst. it’s a weird word, when you think about it, list.

a: list. list. eh, not that weird.

b: did you maybe give the list to someone else?

a: it’s not that kind of list. no one can see this list. no one.

the lights dim, everyone and a steps forward to have a personal moment

a: i wrote this list in a moment of...emotion. emotion i’m not particularly proud of. in the interest of theatrical convention, i won’t tell you...yet. or i might not ever reveal the list at all, leave you, the audience, to make a personal connection and either a) create your own list or b) have nice long, interesting conversations with friends about what the hell that list could have been. or maybe you’ll exit the theatre just pissed.

the lights return to normal as a steps back. b unfreezes, now confused.

a: so--

b: wait wait. what the fuck just happened?

a: uh, well, you were talking about how the word list is weird and then you asked if i gave the list to someone else.

b: no, no, that’s not it. i was standing here just about to ask you another question when suddenly i couldn’t move. i couldn’t speak, couldn’t do anything. and the lights got all dark. then you talked about theatre or something, then the lights came back on and i could function again. do you know what the hell happened?

a: i’m not sure... well, maybe we should try it the other way around. you walk forward slowly.

b: what if nothing happens?

a: then we’re in the same situation we’re in now.

b: alright.

b glances about, nervously, then slowly walks forward, cautiously. he takes 5 steps downstage and the light dims in the background and a strong light shines on b as he stands in the center.

b: hm. i might as well.

he clears his throat.

b: you know what? i don’t care what the hell his list is. i’m just really bored. i’ve been looking for something, anything interesting for the last...day? three days? i lose track. anyway. i’m make him suffer back there, paralyzed for some reason. i talked to some ducks the other day. i was at the park, sitting at the duck pond, doing the lonely old man thing and tossing bread to the various water fowl. a duck walked out of the water to the edge of the pond, doing that little shaking their feathers thing, picked up a bit of bread, and then paused as he ate. i said to him “hello, small feathered-friend” he just stood there, staring at me. so i said “i don’t know what i’m doing with my life, duck. i just feel... disconnected from the world, you know? like nothing i do will make a real difference.” the duck, surprisingly, didn’t walk away. i tossed it more bread. i had more to say. “but it’s not all the time, i’m not, you know, in the throws of depression or something. i just get hit by waves of doubt. most of the time, duck, i actually am a very happy person. but then that proverbial storm comes along and there it is, the doubt, the lonely, and all of the above.” the duck turned and hopped back into the water.

(pause. b looks back at a.)

oh right, forgot he was back there.

b backs up five steps, the lights come back to normal.

a: did you really just spend that long talking about a duck? while i’m back here like a fucking statue with nothing working but my damn ears? you’re a dick, man.

b: my bad, i just.. i just forgot.

a: “i’ll make him suffer”? just...forgot, huh.

b: oh well yeah in the beginning there yeah, i wanted to give you a taste of your own medicine. and that taste is a mix of confusion, anger and contempt. i know it well.

a: as do i. believe me, i as do i.

b: what were we looking for a while back? before that crazy light thing happened?

a: my list of my favorite b-....that list.

b: woah woah almost gave that away...

a: no i was saying ‘my list of my favorite -- by the way, have you checked the mail recently?’

b: riiiiiiight.

b looks around, not really caring much, but soon sees the edge of a small piece of paper. he yanks it out of the couch (if you have a couch.) he un-crumples it and begins to read it

b: a list of the top 5--

a jumps up and grabs the list and holds it to his heart

a: no. NO. not for you.

b: can’t you just tell me the title? is it... what, embarrassing?

a: look. if i tell you you can’t make fun of me, or tell anyone, or-- you know what, no. you’ll clearly make fun and tell everyone, so it’s not worth it for me.

b: you know me too well. also, you suck.

a: i’m going to bed.

a goes to leave. he turns back to look at b for a second, to glare, perhaps, or to look longingly into his or her eyes. it all depends on what the director feels like. he exits. silence. after about 45-90 seconds, a enters again, paper in hand. he places it, deliberately, on the table/other furniture on your set. a then exits again. b picks it up, slowly, and reads it.

b smiles. he breaks out into a small laugh, growing louder. he keeps laughing as he walks off stage.