Dramatic Tension

AT RISE:

A man with a SUITCASE.

man:
Er, excuse me, but I believe that "man" should have been in all caps there, not "suitcase". I hate to be a bother, but it really does seem as though the suitcase is the main character in the play if you give it that kind of emphasis. And not to judge or anything, but in this kind of play, by this author guy, anything described in caps tends to start speaking, and again, I'd rather not be standing on stage while the audience waits in rapt anticipation for a piece of luggage to give a soliloquy.

Wouldn't that be more interesting? From an audience perspective, of course.

man:
Maybe, but that's not what this play is about. Also, should that stage directions really be quite so.. familiar? It's bound to cause some confusion.

There's no rule against dialogue in the stage directions.

man:
I think there is actually.

Fine....there is a MAN with a SUITCASE.

MAN:
Hey!

...suitcase.

MAN:
Thank you.

A beat.

A slightly longer beat.

An even longer-Okay, what's the problem now?

MAN:
Well, I do have a name, you know.

Really.

MAN:
Of course.

And how is the audience supposed to know that if you're onstage alone?

MAN:
...I don't know.

So it doesn't really matter now, does it?

MAN:
Well yes, it does matter. It's my name. I'm somewhat attached to it.

Well, I suppose the suitcase could say it...

MAN:
No! No suitcases!

Fine. We'll figure it out as we go along.

STUART stands on stage with a SUIT... excuse me, suitcase.

STUART:
My name's not Stuart.

It is now.

STUAAT:
I really hate to be a bother, but-

Can we just get on with it? This play was supposed to be over with five minutes ago.

STUART:
Fine.
(mumbled)
But my name's not Stuart.

Acknowledged. Not STUART stand with a suitcase, all in lower-case letters.

STUART:
What a nice day for a trip.

He farts.

STUART:
No I didn't!

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Alternative Meaning

AT RISE:

A well. A GENTLEMAN enters. He strolls up to the well and peers in.

GENTLEMAN:
I'll be! This well appears to have run somewhat dry! Imagine that.

He walks on, whistling a merry tune. He is then hit by a piano. Or an elephant. Something suitably big.

A blue whale?

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Man of the World

AT RISE:

An INTERNATIONAL JEWEL THIEF holds a bulging sack of lot.

INTERNATIONAL JEWEL THIEF:
Hah! Another in a series of sucessful heists! Heists on an international scale!

A LACKEY enters.

LACKEY:
Now does you status as "international" imply that you've conducted capers that spanned multiple countries at once in a convoluted web of mystery and deception, resulting in a global scale payoff?

INTERNATIONAL JEWEL THIEF:
No! It just means that I occasionally summer in Quebec.

LACKEY:
So, more of a jewel thief with a passport?

INTERNATIONAL JEWEL THIEF:
More or less, yeah.

LACKEY:
Ah.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

For the Rest of Us: Special Internet Edition

(Note: This was originally performed as part of the Bard Household's Festivus 2k8 Celebration)

AT RISE:

Darkness, everywhere darkness. A single spotlight slowly fades into being, illuminating a wobbly-looking aluminum pole, barely a foot high, held up by a cheap wooden base. As the spot reaches full brightness, the audience is struck by a powerful wave of anti-climax.

A tremendous man, dressed as a bear, rushes onstage, as the lights explode over the audience, showering them with luminescence.

BEAR MAN:
FESTIVUS!

Explosions surround the Bear Man. He roars to the heavens as he basks in the destruction he has caused. It’s very exciting!

BEAR MAN:
The year is 1998. The place: the Bard Household. The occasion? The first annual celebration of the Seinfeldian holiday of Festivus, meant to bring balance to the crass commercialism of the more traditional solstice festivals. But that is not what brought that first rag-tag group together that fateful 23rd of December. No. They… were just huge nerds.

Thunder rolls across the sky.

BEAR MAN:
The guest list!

Lightning strikes!

BEAR MAN:
The Bards! David! Mike! Jono!

DAVE, MIKE and JONO appear.

BEAR MAN:
Each referred to by the simple moniker of “Bard”, it was these three that created the legend that built the legend that would later bring party subs! Also present: The Brothers Staufenberg! Mark and Craig!

MARK and CRAIG enter to a very NBA Finals-style fanfare and laser light show.

BEAR MAN:
Russell Weiss!

RUSS fails to appear.

BEAR MAN:
Played by a robot!

An AWESOME ROBOT appears! He’s really cool, guys. Seriously.

RUSS/ROBOT:
Beep beep.

BEAR MAN:
Also present… some other guys? Possibly with names like Mike, and Tom!

A wagon filled with teddy bears is wheeled onstage.

BEAR MAN:
All our favorite traditions began on that simple day. The airing of grievances!

A table appears before the aluminum pole. Everyone sits around it.

MIKE:
Dave.

DAVE:
Mike?

MIKE:
Don’t call me Mini-Bard.

DAVE:
But you’re mini!

MARK:
Craig?

CRAIG:
Mark?

MARK:
We share a bunk bed. This has to stop.

JONO:
Everyone?

EVERYONE:
Jono?

JONO:
I hate you.

RUSS/ROBOT:
Beep.

EVERYONE:
Russ?

RUSS/ROBOT:
Boop.

BEAR MAN:
Food was had!

The table disappears. Everyone produces and eats a single chip.

JONO:
I wish we had a party sub.

BEAR MAN:
And finally, the legendary first Feats of Strength!

The stage becomes an unfurnished basement. Mats are laid about.

BEAR MAN:
The battles were mighty and legendary!

Everyone just generally starts beating the crap out of each other.

BEAR MAN:
But none so legendary as the epic duel between Mike and Dave.

Mike and Dave slowly circle each other as experimental Phillip Glass music plays. The following dialogue is spoken as they do elaborate, slow motion fight choreography, Mike eventually gaining the upper hand.

MIKE:
Remember how I asked you to stop calling me Mini-Bard?

DAVE:
I seem to recall something along those lines being said at some point in the evening, yes.

MIKE:
Well, I’m not sure I made it clear, but I’ve been funneling all of my burgeoning adolescent rage into that single diminutive nickname, rendering me slowly, inexorably, to a murderous rage. A rage which I am now demonstrating. Like so.

He sits on Dave’s back, pinning him to the ground.

DAVE:
Due to my stature as the eldest, I shall refuse to give ground, even in the face of ignominious and embarrassing defeat. This uncomfortable situation shall continue for at least ten more minutes!

EVERYONE ELSE:
Huzzah!

They look uncomfortable.

BEAR MAN:
But finally, Mike, with manly tears welling in his bloodshot, rage-blinded eyes, fled the scene, a winner in fact, if not in spirit.

Mike runs away.

BEAR MAN:
And that seemed to be that. Until….

The stage shakes in time to the footsteps of some mad Titan as the cast cowers from an unseen foe. The sound of a door crashing open, and A. SCOTT BARD appears, more mountain than man. A Colossus in blue jeans. He wields a mighty carpet as a Norse god would a mythical hammer. He speaks in a voice that could demolish the moon with a hoarse whisper.

A. SCOTT:
David, did you make your brother cry?

DAVE
Y-yes?

A. Scott sighs the sigh of kings.

A. SCOTT:
Way to go. Now I am forced to SMITE THEE AS ONE WOULD A TROUBLESOME FLY!

The carpet is hurled with unerring accuracy through the heart of young Dave, impaling him cleanly and hurling him toward the ground, as the lamentations of his fellows quietly begin.

A SCOTT:
DO NOT WEEP FOR HIM. AS HE IS OF MY OWN BLOOD, I COULD NOT STAND TO REMOVE HIM FROM THIS WORLD! HOWEVER, HE SHALL ETERNALLY BEAR THE SCAR OF THIS DAY. A CARPET SHAPED SCAR, CLEAN THROUGH HIS FOUL HEART!

He laughs, and the world becomes a little colder.

A SCOTT:
Now could you bring that carpet to the garage like I asked you to three hours ago?

The footsteps of A. Scott once more wreak havoc upon the eardrums of the audience as he exits, closing the door behind him with a mighty slam!

BEAR MAN:
And yeah, that’s pretty much how it went down. It waxed and waned over the years, diluted with time from a once glorious and bloody festival of combat to a pretty laid back party with Jordan Almonds, and cheese platters. But remember well next time you dig into the traditional party sub… it was brought forth into this house by the same hands that did nearly end the life of yonder host! And if you should cross him, or eat more than your fill, you shall learn a lesson ten years in the making!

Maniacal laughter all around! Mwahaha!

BEAR MAN:
HAPPY FESTIVUS, EVERYONE!

The cast gathers on stage, and a wacky dance begins! Everyone has a great time! Yah!

RUSS/ROBOT:
Beep boop.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Oroburos

AT RISE:

A blog. Yes, through the magic of modern digital media a blog itself appears on the stage! Wow! And weirdly enough, the text of the blog is the text of these stage directions! Which makes the stage directions dialogue as well, if you think about it. Where do the stage directions end and the story begin? Or are they one and the same!?! Something to ponder, eh audience? And ponder they shall! All the way to the Pulitzer!

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Zoot!

AT RISE:

Pudding! Cookies! Treats galore! All sort of present-y crap, in various states of undress, litters the stage. Children fling themselves about with reckless abandon! Dinosaurs are involved, in a support capacity.

After a few moments of revelry, the audience begins to wonder why they spent the time and money to go see a play of people enjoying their holidays, when they could have simply been at home enjoying them properly! But this was the concept behind the play, so the playwright feels a great deal of satisfaction and happiness! Also, money! Huzzah!

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

YES!

AT RISE:

Two guys in lab coats.

GUY 1:
You know what's awesome?

GUY 2:
What?

GUY 1:
Workin' on Christmas Eve.

GUY 2:
(lackluster)
Hell yeah.

Icy silence.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Battle of Wills

AT RISE:

PHIL and CHRIS relax in comfortble chairs.

PHIL:
What time is it?

CHRIS:
Dunno.

Phil grunts.

CHRIS:
Gruntin' ain't gonna change the facts, Phil.

PHIL:
The facts being your inability to check the time?

CHRIS:
You are equally culpable in this chronological blunder, my friend.

PHIL:
Not so. For I am the one who asked. Thus I set events in motion to discover the time, which means that I have been pro-active and thus "put forth an effort". Whereas you have simply resisted any sort of positive action or forward motion of any kind.

CHRIS:
But you have a watch.

PHIL:
Oh yeah.

He checks the time on his wristwatch.

PHIL:
Oh.

CHRIS:
What time is it?

PHIL:
I'm done playing your games.

A tense pause.

CHRIS:
I need a hug.

PHIL:
I know what you mean.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Experimental

AT RISE:

Nuttin'. After a few seconds, a JANITOR enters, pushing a broom.

JANITOR:
Hey.

AUDIENCE:
Hello!

JANITOR:
Would you like to hear a freestyle rap? It's about Greek mythology.

AUDIENCE:
No thanks! We're good!

The Janitor shrugs.

JANITOR:
Your loss. By the way, the play doesn't end for another three hours.

AUDIENCE:
We can live with that!

JANITOR:
Cool.

He exits.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Powder

AT RISE:

SNOW! Snow every-goddamn-where! Whiteout conditions sweep the theatre, audiences are blown about by gake force winds, and everywhere, everywhere, everywhere snow! AN INDISTINCT BLOB, MOST LIKELY A HUMAN enters.

IBMLAH:
Holy shit, that's a lot of snow!

The IBMLAH is quickly covered over by pure, white, powdered cocaine. And by cocaine, I mean SNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOW!

IBMLAH:
And tomorrow? SLUSH!

WHITEOUT. END PLAY.

Sitcom

AT RISE:

A MAN and a WOMAN. They read magazines.

MAN:
Did you know that manatees are also known as sea cows?

WOMAN:
No. And I choose to take that as an insult.

MAN:
Your logic is flawed.

WOMAN:
Nonethless, it can still be defined loosely as logic, and thus I assert my victory in this small, petty arguement.

MAN:
I suppose I shall have to spend the next week making this up to you.

WOMAN:
Hopefully there is a lesson here for us all.

BOTH:
Laugh track.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Deadlines

AT RISE:

A YOUNG MAN runs back and forth across the stage.

YOUNG MAN:
PANNNNNNNIIIIIC! THERE'S NO TIME! NO TIME!

He stops for a second, scribbles some doggerel on a scrap of paper, before disgustedly throwing it away.

YOUNG MAN:
No good! No time! YARRGH! I SUCK!

He resumes runnig in circles.

NARRATOR:
And he lived happily ever after.

Job Hunt

AT RISE:

A YOUNG MAN runs head-first into a wall. He falls backward with an appropriately unsettling thump.

After a moment, he stands back up, wipes a thin trickle of blood from his forehead and gets in position to do it again.

YOUNG MAN:
The existential angst of my generation must be expressed in a pointless and violent display!
(beat)
And I don't wanna join the army!

He runs head-first into the wall again.

YOUNG MAN:
Or maybe I just need pancakes.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Textbook

AT RISE:

A MAN.

MAN:
Traditional dramatic structure would have me come out here, introduce myself in a way that the audience would not find too jarring (unless jarring interaction with the audience is the point), introduce the conflict or conflicts, and then go about resolving those conflicts, or not. Though it should be noted choosing not to resolve a conflict is in itself a method of resolving a conflict.

A DUDE enters.

DUDE:
And yeah, in a kind of traditional meta-textual sort of thing, there would be some kind of public acknowledgement of the tenants of the dramatic form which the audience was reading, thus making it, in away, a formula in and of itself.

A LADY enters.

LADY:
And then of course there's all this meta-meta crap, which talks about the meta-ness of being meta in a very non-meta way.

A WOMAN enters.

WOMAN:
And of course there are examples of dramatic writing which make no sense at all. This usually from a complete lack of storytelling, rather than an example of tortured, anti-establishment genius, as many writers would have you think.

MAN:
Because, see, you need structure to allow the audience to follow along.

DUDE:
And yet, being aware of the structure itself is an excellent way to both comment on it, and try something new.

LADY:
Basically, you need to know the basics to break them.

WOMAN:
And even when breaking them, you still have to follow them in some sense. or basically, the whole thing goes to shit.

EVERYONE:
GOT THAT, THEATRICAL COMMUNITY?!??!? MAKE SOME DAMN SENSE NEXT TIME!

The AUTHOR enters.

AUTHOR:
And now, a joke about a duck.

LADY:
Where's my duck?

MAN:
You don't have one!

Icy silence.

DUDE:
That wasn't a joke.

WOMAN:
Was that meta?

AUTHOR:
Yes?
(beat)
Snickers for everyone!

Snickers bars rain from the sky! What a good play!

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Medical

AT RISE:

FRANK and MERV sit on a bench.

FRANK:
Hey, Merv.

MERV:
Yes, Frank?

FRANK:
When you were younger, did you ever think that song "No Scrubs" by TLC was about the band's desire to avoid dating doctors?

MERV:
No.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Parcel Post

AT RISE:

A FedEx package pickup depository. Sterile and white, with funky purple highlights. STEVE stands behind the counter, efficient and neat.

The sound of a sliding glass door, and MARK crawls onstage, wearing a tattered white lab coat, covered in filth.

STEVE:
Hi, welcome to FedEx. How can I help you?

Using the counter, Mark manages to stand. His legs, however, remain unsteady.

MARK:
Are you aware of how difficult it is to find this place?

STEVE:
Customers do occasionally comment on our location, yes.

MARK:
Occasionally comment? You're in the middle of bleeding nowhere! I had to hop a train to get within two miles of this place!

STEVE:
Well, we are in New York City, sir. The subway is a fairly common-

MARK:
I don't mean the subway. I mean a freight train. I had to fight a hobo.

STEVE:
There are easier ways to get here.

MARK:
Not according to your security guard at the gate. The gate FIVE MILES west of here. He even gave me a stick beat off the coyotes. Have I mentioned the coyotes?

STEVE:
No, you haven't.

MARK:
Oh.
(beat)
There are coyotes.

STEVE:
And you beat them off with a stick?

MARK:
Oh no. The hobos took my stick. I had to distract them with leather from my shoes.

STEVE:
Fascinating. Is there anything I can help you with today?

MARK:
...I'm here to pick up a package.

STEVE:
You wouldn't prefer that we deliver it to your home?

MARK:
I would actually. Unfortunately, your delivery man did not seem to realize the technology behind a door knocker, and left without actually delivering me the package.

STEVE:
I'm sorry to hear that. Do you have your package slip?

Mark checks his pockets frantically.

MARK:
...I must have lost it back at the quicksand.

A trombone makes a sad "mwomp, mwomp" noise.

STEVE:
Dem's the breaks, kiddo!

MARK:
Well, that's the last time I go to the Bronx!

Freeze Frame!

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Mystery

AT RISE:

DAN eats a pear.

CECIL enters, eating a kumquat.

MARNY enters, eating an orange.

PHIL and DON (twins) enter, sharing a pineapple.

All five gather stage center and appraise each other.

DAN:
So, this is how it ends?

MARNY:
We all knew this was coming.

CECIL:
I just hoped it would be a little longer.

PHIL:
Let's not be so sentimental. We have a job to do.

DON:
He's right.

DAN:
I know. We all know. That doesn't make it any easier.

Cecil sighs.

CECIL:
I guess I'll start.

She throws he kumquat away and sits down. The others follow suit.

CECIL:
.... huh.

DAN:
What?

CECIL:
I've forgotten how this play ends.

PHIL:
What do you mean?

CECIL:
I mean I forgot the punchline.

MARNY:
Uh oh.

DAN:
How could you forget the punchline? It's the whole freakin' point!

CECIL:
I'm sorry! But, I mean, seriously? It's not liek there's some kind of logical progession in storytelling or anything.

DON:
I guess not.

PHIL:
But I mean, this all had to be leading up to something, right?

DAN:
Of course.

CECIL:
Really? 'Cause all I've seen is a bunch of people eating fruit and being cryptic. Whatever it was we were supposed to do or say would only be funny if it was completely random.

MARNY:
Logically.

CECIL:
So it could be anything!

DON:
Maybe this is the punchline?

DAN:
That's retarded.

CECIL:
Yeah, what the hell kind of ending would this be?

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Man vs. Wild

AT RISE:

A MAN wrestles a polar bear! And the polar bear is wearing a fedora! They grapple, manly grunts abound, and the audience is filled with the visceral thrill of combat at its most pure! Dodging a swipe of the polar bear's massive paw, the man duckas behind the bear, and gets it in a sleeper hold. The bear wriggles wildly for a moment, but to no avail! Within second he is out like a light.

The Man dusts himself off, and sighs with relief before sinking to his knees, exhausted. A WOMAN enters.

WOMAN:
Alright, fine. You win. I'll make meatloaf tonight.

The Man pumps his fist in exhaisted triumph!

WOMAN:
Now take out the garbage.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

100th play Sale-ebration!

AT RISE:

The AUTHOR reclines in a leather chair, holding a glass of cognac.

AUTHOR:
Greetings interweb! It's time once again for me to celebrate myself. How glorious! Anyway, this here "mark"s the one hundredth play that I've churned out on 100(give or take) consecutive (mostly) days!

A PEASANT strolls in.

PEASANT:
Gee golly gosh, Mr. Author! How much longer do you think you'll be able to keep this up?

AUTHOR:
Nigh infinitely, my little friend! I mean, how hard is it to recycle plotlines, jokes and timing gags when yon audience's expectations are set so incredibly low by its sheer punctuality?

PEASANT:
I guess I never thought-

AUTHOR:
Shut up!

He laughs jovially!

AUTHOR:
In any case, I thought I'd take this opportunity to share the immense pleasure of being me, rather than bore you with some sort of "greatest hits" style phantasmagoria of previous content wrapped in the bow of nostalgia. So I opened it up to you, dear readers! And now, it is my pleasure to present the fan-created submissions to the 350th Annual Staufenberg Short Play Festival, in no particular order! Briefly noted, if the play didn't come with a title, I shall provide one myself! Enjoy! I know I did!

He sips the cognac, makes a sour face, then drinks from a nearby box of Hi-C "Ecto-Cooler"

BLACKOUT. BEGIN PLAYS...?
----------------------------

MOUSTACHE
by Ty Hosler

AT RISE:

A YOUNG MAN with a moustache faces the audience.

YOUNG MAN: I wanted this to be a pencil moustache. That was what I had in mind. I wanted to grow it full, and just shave the top half of it. And then slick back my hair. Use some hair gel. I thought about sideburns, or what would happen if I just let the hair on the back of my neck grow. But now I'm gonna grow a beard. And I'm gonna start wearin' a straw hat. A big straw hat. And if anyone asks why, I'm gonna tell 'em it's because I got it made in the shade, and I'll tip my cap.

YOUNG MAN pauses while facing the audience.

YOUNG MAN: But I gotta make this a pencil moustache first. It's gotta look slick, suave. I gotta do that before I do the rest of that stuff. And I gotta learn how to sing. Old WWII type songs. Crooner songs. Then I'll slick back my hair and sing crooner songs with my pencil moustache.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.
-----------------------------------

Well... Pity Much
by Nick Reginio
AT RISE:

The stage is dark. The audience can see the exit lights reflected in two small eye-shaped shapes that are reflecting the exit lights as they move slowly across the stage from stage left to slightly right of stage left. The lights come up, and that cat gets the FUCK out of there! Cat freaked the fuck out seeing all those people at once.

ACT II

The lights come up on an empty stage. An hour later, the cat walks on, but it's cool because there's nobody in the audience. The cat sits down, licks itself, and farts musically.

ACT V

Three weeks go by. Literally. As in, like, people in the audience have been cooking Ramen noodles on a hot plate and waking up with cricks in their necks after sleeping in the aisles for literally 21 days before the cat finally decides to wander back onstage. There are people in the audience still, but it's cool this time because they're really quiet and there's Fancy Feast in a crystal dish in the center of the stage. The cat finishes eating and begins to lick himself again. First he licks high up on his cat arms and then he licks his pretty paws. His pitty paws. Mr. Pittipaws gives himself a pedicure. A pedicute! Prince Pittipaws of Pipley-Upon-Tyne has the pittiest paw-paws. Peedly-peedly-peedly-pooo! Who's da pitty? You don't even care what I think. 'Cause you're so pretty. Pretty kitty.

Prince Pittipaws has feline AIDS

BLACKOUT. END PLAY

----------------------------------------

Let's Get Dangerous!
by Mike Campbell
AT RISE:

ETHAN is hanging over a building ledge with LAVERNE grasping his arm, keeping him from plummeting to his death. In reality, the drop is superficial – a couple of feet perhaps. Rain and lightning.

ETHAN:
Now I suppose I tell you that "I promised Rebecca she'd see her little boy again!"

LAVERNE:
And then I tell you that "you were never a good liar, E."

ETHAN:
Then I'm supposed to say "neither were you."

LAVERNE:
Ok, great. Now that it's obvious to both of us, and everyone else, that you're going to plummet to your death, I'm going to let you go. My arms are starting to hurt.

ETHAN:
Sure. Honestly, if I see any more of your cleavage, I'm required by law to motorboat you.

LAVERNE:
I was hoping you would do that anyway
(pulling him up)
Get your sweet ass up here.

ETHAN:
(On level ground with LAVERNE –speaking to the audience)
Oh sweet bazooms!

ETHAN buries his face in LAVERNE'S "bazooms" making obnoxious motorboat sounds as she alternates between laughing hysterically and moaning. A whistle choir recording of The Lion Sleeps Tonight rises, playing throughout the house.

FADE TO BLACK. END PLAY.

---------------------------------------------
Mimesis
by David R. Bard

AT RISE:

Four MIMES, dressed in black and white from head to toe. One is leaning daintily on a tattered black umbrella (invisible). Two more are in a seated position, bouncing a rubber ball (also invisible) back and forth. The fourth is pacing about and glowering irritably.

One 1500 POUND SACK OF FLOUR hangs precariously above them, suspended by a single rope or cable.

GEOFF enters after a few beats, holding four potted plants in his arms. He catches sight of the MIMES and stops.

GEOFF:
Oh, for crying out loud!

GEOFF sets each of the four potted plants down carefully, one after the other, in a neat row in front of him. The MIMES continue to go about their business.

GEOFF:
This is the thanks I get.

GEOFF very intentionally kicks over one of the potted plants, knocking a clod of dirt out onto the stage.

LEMON cartwheels onstage. She is spritely.

LEMON:
Geoff!

GEOFF:
Huh?

LEMON:
It's time for dinner!

GEOFF:
Who… who are you?

A beat.

LEMON:
OK, good point!

LEMON cartwheels offstage.

The lights begin a 90-second slow fade to black. GEOFF eyes the MIMES.

GEOFF:
I guess I am kind of hungry.

The two ball-bouncing MIMES stand up. One of them takes the ball (invisible) and bounces it, full speed, towards GEOFF.

GEOFF:
Wait---!!!

GEOFF is hit full-force by the ball (invisible). He collapses onto the stage, plainly dead. The slow fade continues until blackout.

END PLAY.

---------------------
Hat Tip
by Allyson Schettino

AT RISE:

A YOUNG LADY sits on a cluttered couch with a laptop. You can tell she is a lady because there is a pot of tea next to her. The stage around is strewn with things that give a general impression of being unfinished- half wrapped gifts, a vacuum on its side, garbage bags stacked in the background, various dirty plates, cups and bowls. Two CATS are taking turns jumping on her keyboard, eliciting protesting beeps and pings from the laptop. The YOUNG LADY is paying them no mind, her eyes darting from the stack of gifts to the laptop, a rather crazed look in her eyes. In the background poorly arranged Christmas lights blink in a manic manner.

YOUNG LADY:
Christ! He’s done one of these every day for the last one hundred days?!?

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.
-------------------------

Thanks again for all the terrific submissions!

-The Management

The Little Things

AT RISE:

A MAN sits on a Jet-ski.

MAN:
This gives me a sense of power and control over my life that I previously found lacking. With this ferocious aquatic beast dry-docked in my living room, I feel greater freedom than I ever thought possible. From this seat of power, I shall eat my nachos.

He pretends to rev the engines, and sits back, satisfied.

MAN:
I'm sorry, my friend, but you shall never taste the water.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Sketchy

AT RISE:

Two GUYS.

GUY 1:
Okay, here. I'll pretend to ride some kind of wacky animal, and then you pretend to ride one that matches or tops the wacky animal quotient of my imaginary wacky animal. Got it?

GUY 2:
Got it!

GUY 1:
Okay! Here I go!

He thinks for a second, then slowly pretends to mount an invisible beastie.

GUY 2:
Okay! My turn!

He thinks for two seconds, then pretends to mount an invisible, slightly larger beastie.

GUY 1:
Wow!

GUY 2:
I know!

BOTH GUYS:
We're both winners!

They gallop about.

AUDIENCE MEMBER:
But what they hell are they suppose to be riding?

GUY 1:
I said, we're both winners, guy.

GUY 2:
Yeah, what's your problem?

AUDIENCE MEMBER:
But-

GUY 1:
Blackout!

GUY 2:
End play!

...What they said.

Greetings Interweb

So, the 350th Annual Mark Staufenberg Short Play Festival is rapidly approaching it's 100th... well, short play. So, as a kind of mini-celebration I'm opening up the floor in a manner of speaking. In addition to my own personal, sexy and exciting play, I'd like to see what you fine internet people have to offer. So, if you want to be a part of the "magic", email mstaufen@gmail.com with a short play of your own, to be posted alongside play 100. Not too many guidlines, just keep it short, keep it funny, and don't be afraid to add in a little bit o' metatext. All submissions will be due Thursday at midnight, so get typing!

Thanks,
The Management

Har Har

AT RISE:

DESTRUCTION! Explosions abound as a ragtag group of charming and scrappy young professionals scaramble about, dodging debris and the occasional jet of flame as the world around them crumbles to dust! MIKE, the leader, turns to the others.

MIKE:
So maybe gathering a group of ironic and underemployed young people, with no common base of knowledge orhistory together, other than that freestyle punk-ska-rap contest we all entered, to start up a bed and breakfast in the English countryside was a bad idea after all!

CAROL, a sultry blonde, speaks.

CAROL:
I wish you'd told me that before I got this manicure!

Cue laugh track, which puzzles the audience, or at least those members of the audience who recall that live theatre rarely has a laugh track. Five people in the audience see the laugh track as a post-modern commentary on the bleeding together of various forms of culture in this modern, interconnected day and age. They have a great time.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Abrupt

AT RISE:

MIDNIGHT MCBRIDE saunters on stage. He is everything you imagine him to be by virtue of his name alone. How does the author view this man among men? What physical characteristics does his possess? A mystery indeed! One everyone must look inside themselves to discover, for to give away any information about Midnight McBride, would be to do a great disservice to the joy of naming.

MCBRIDE:
I am Midnight McBride.

A WOMAN runs onstage, swoons, then rolls back offstage.

MCBRIDE:
Thank you.

The audience erupts in applause. McBride takes a deep bow, and then backflips off the stage.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Some People

AT RISE:

A CONDOR! Yes, a majestic condor! Flown in specially from that place! You know, that place? With the condors? It's a great place, I highly suggest you visit sometime. What do you mean, "more specific"? It's the place with the condors. And the other stuff. Y'know? ...Nature? Look if you're not going along with this, then I'm not sure I even want to tell you about the condor. You're right, it is your loss. Your loss indeed! Fine, that settles it, I will never mention condors again. Way to go, guy you just ruined the whole intenet. And the world of theatre. In fact, if anyone ever asks why theatre is no longer culturally relevant compared to other forms of mass-market shared media experiences? I'm telling them it was you. I hope you're happy.

The Condor flies away, too good for all this.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Set Design

AT RISE:

An ESKIMO buys a bag of ice.

ESKIMO:
See, the part you can't get from the modern desire of stagecraft to impart less of a establishment of a specific world location than an emotional state with scenery and a general sort of mise en scene means that this seems like an odd character choice for me. In reality I live in Southern California, and wear this heavy parka not as protection from the frigis north, but rather to hide my nudity before I flash elderly women.

He smiles and walks off with the ice.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Quack

AT RISE:

A young MAN wears a duck on his head.

MAN:
Hello.

A young WOMAN enters holding a duck billed playtpus.

WOMAN:
Hi there.

They appraise each other for a moment.

MAN:
I appreciate the bill on that small mammal.

WOMAN:
Similarly I appreciate the bill on your average-sized fowl.

MAN:
Perhpas we can come to some sort of mutually beneficial arrangement?

WOMAN:
Such as?

MAN:
Brunch.

WOMAN:
I can do brunch.

They shake hands. There is a touch of lingering.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Building Blocks

AT RISE:

SCOTT paces quickly in a tight circle.

SCOTT:
The problem with pursuing creative pursuits is the unavoidable fact that sometimes you just dry up. And dry up is really the best term for it, because suddenly it feels like your brain has run out of water, if you can imagine such a thing. Most of the time it's more like dammed up, really, because your brain cansee the water, but just can't get to it thanks to some kind of re-enfoced conceret bunker type deal. The success of various creative endeavors, I fell, has to do with the quality of one's psychic jackhammer.

He stops, and sits.

SCOTT:
Mine, unfortunately, is made of Legos.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Garfield

AT RISE:

A DUDE and a GUY.

DUDE:
I hate Mondays.

GUY:
It's Tuesday.

DUDE:
Good.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Too Easy

AT RISE:

A Kumquat. The AUTHOR enters.

AUTHOR:
Yes, yes. I know. Kumquat. An easy joke, told too often. Now, if I ere to follow tradition, the kumquat would transform into some mythical beastie or start to speak. But the easy road is not for me! I will challenge your perceptions of internet playwriting by forcing you to confront the issue head on! Apply meaning! Use this small piece of fruit as a metaphor for your own life. Learn something, why don't you? DO IT!!!!

He leaves. The Kumquat soldiers on. Audiences around the world learn a little something about themselves and the world is better for it. Three billion years later, the sun supernovas.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Chocolate

AT RISE:

A SCIENTIST warms up unwrapped snickers bars with a bunsen burner and sticks them together in a crude stick-figure effigy of a man. When the job is complete he takes a step back to admire his handiwork, but instead of jubilation, the life drains from his face.

SCIENTIST:
Sweet Lord! What have I done? I have flown too close to the face of the sun and spat in the very face of God!

He cowers in fear. The Snickers Man remains impassive.

SCIENTIST:
I shall be thrice damned for this monstrosity that I have inflicted upon our unsuspecting world! This...this homunculus of fat and nougat shall spell out the end times and sing the song that ends the world! Until the last man perishes in a ball of flame, my name shall be spat out as a curse, a fairy story used to scare the children of the world and prove the existence of evil! Damn whatever cursed inspiration was whispered in my ear by the Devil himself to bring forth into the world such a monster!

The Snickers Man, slightly melty, falls over. The Scientist falls to his knees.

SCIENTIST:
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Something Different

AT RISE:

A MAN stares into the eyes of a CAT. The CAT stares back.

MAN:
This is quickly turning into an example of "cat humor" isn't it.

The Cat shrugs, and transforms into a wildebeast.

MAN:
Much better.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Daily

AT RISE:

A MAN rides the subway, bored in a commuterly kind of way. That is to say his eyes are as vacant as death's and he avoid eye contact with fellwo travellers who show even the most minor signs of wear and tear, for fear of donation requests.

Suddenly, RASTAFARIAN JAMES VAN DER BEEK appears! Holy shit!

MAN:
R-Rasta!?

RJVDB:
Yes my friend, it is I. Similar in many ways to the former teen star of Dawson's Creek, yet my own man in so many others.

MAN:
But why? Why now?

RJVDB:
Because I just finished my reggae album, and I would like for you to buy it. Here, on this silver chariot of hope, as it races through the bowels of the greatest city on Earth.

MAN:
Uh.. no change, sorry.

RJVDB:
...Fine.

The heavens open up and take RJVDB back to his celestial throne. The MAN looks at the floor, and hope noone thinks he's a dick.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Rivalry

AT RISE:

The AUTHOR sits in a chair, a pained looked playing across his face. The AUTHOR's BROTHER paces around him, animated.

AUTHOR'S BRO:
What's so hard about this, anyway? Huh? Huh? Here I've got one. Check this shit out.

"AT RISE:

A CHICKEN watches a Cary Grant movie. The Chicken rises."

CHICKEN:
Man, that is one dapper man.

BLACKOUT. FIN."

AUTHOR'S BRO:
See? The thing is you're just lazy. Here watch this, I'm gonna write a sequel. It will make me one billion dollars when it goes global. Bam.

AUTHOR:
Why do my rage daggers lack the dealy precision of their real-world counterparts?

AUTHOR'S BRO:
Probably because you're gay. BAM!

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Themed

AT RISE:

A Turkey.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

It Could Happen

AT RISE:

A stuffed SHARK is launched out of a pneumatic tube at the audience! They are startled and titiliated! Just as it seems that said shark with crash into the fragile laps of the ticketholders, however, it explodes, igniting a carfeully laid out series of firecrackers that have been glued to the ceiling. The resulting firestorm seems set to engulf the entire theatre when....the audience all wakes up! It was just a dream Whew! Close call. The audience, a little cranky from being woken up so abruptly, will then notice on stage a single red rose. All is forgiven.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Notes From Underground

AT RISE:

A Lenscrafters lab. GEORGE, a dude in a labcoat, stands in front of a table, fiddling with a pair of glasses. MARK, another dude, also in a labcoat enters. As a note, George is incapable of both irony and of lowering his voice. Also, over a small speaker setup, Beyonce is playing. Beyonce is always playing.

MARK:
Hey man, what's up?

GEORGE:
What! Hey player, you been chillin'?

MARK:
Yeah, pretty much.

GEORGE:
Cool, cool. Listen man, what'd you have for dinner last night?

MARK:
Uh, lasagna. I think.

GEORGE:
What!? Listen man, did it have chicken in it?

MARK:
Nope.

GEORGE:
That's crazy, son.

MARK:
Not really.

GEORGE:
Word.

MARK:
...What?

GEORGE:
Later, player!

George takes two steps to the left and stares at the table.

MARK:
What?

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

In Joke

AT RISE:

TED and TERRY drink root beers. They are in their mid-40's.

TED:
Hey, Terry?

TERRY:
Yes, Ted?

TED:
Did you ever watch "Doctor Quinn, Medicine Woman?

TERRY:
No.

TED:
LIAR!

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Musings

AT RISE:

The AUTHOR sits on a see-saw. There is a beat before the speaking commences.

AUTHOR:
Here's a question. Was this play depressing before I started talking? The imagery evocative of being alone? Or was it hopeful, as if I were waiting for someone? Funny, because of the somewhat unexpected starting image? Maybe you were comepletly unfazed, and thought it was trite, or even satisfied because you were convinced that I was actually participating in an activity with an imaginary being from beyond the stars. Though what beyond the stars implies, I have no idea. More stars? Right about now you're probably annoyed that I've been babbling on in this mildly pretentious way, and wish that you could go back to the first impression, whatever that was for you. Unless you just really enjoy hearing people talk. Well, read people talk for those of you out there on the ol' interwebs. Anyway, that's all I have to say about that. Later.

The lights starts to fade.

AUTHOR:
Oh, and in case you were wondering, it's the invisible being from beyond the stars one.

INVISIBLE BEING FROM BEYOND THE STARS:
Drive safe!

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Cold War

AT RISE:

Two groups of serious-looking soldiers in contrasting uniforms enjoy a hearty snowball fight. Off on the corner sits a dejected PRIVATE, shivering.

PRIVATE:
I hate puns.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Pastry

AT RISE:

A MAN lies atop an enormous pile of Pop-Tarts.

MAN:
Maybe I should have wished for world peace.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Tough Call.

AT RISE:

A movie theatre. DALE and AMELIA sit in the front row as the lights of a film play across their faces.

DALE:
Do you ever wonder if the constant move of entertainment toward a safe, undemanding mediocrity is indicictive of the increasing shallowness of our culture, or the effect of the culture of fear that has permeated our shared culture for the past decade or so, leading toward a demand for mindless escapism rather than a studied look at the effects of our modern perspective on our future? Bonus question: Do you want more popcorn?

Amelia thinks for a moment.

AMELIA:
I would love more popcorn.

DALE:
Right-o.

He exists, holding a popcorn bucket.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Higher Learning

AT RISE:

A YOUNG WOMAN stands before a complicated flow-chart, holding a pointer. She is just finishing up what seems to be a very complicated presentation to an audience of one: a nine-year old BOY.

YOUNG WOMAN:
...And in conclusion, I feel that your assertion is incorrect, and professional wrestling is, in fact, completely stupid. Any questions?

The Boy raises his hand.

YOUNG WOMAN:
Yes?

BOY:
Can we get juice now?

YOUNG WOMAN:
Yes. But you're buying.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

The More You Know

AT RISE:

A man wearing a beret, GERARD, flies a kite. Gentle French accordion music drifts throught the theatre.

GERARD:
Truly, it is the simple things that make life worthwhile.

He takes a long drag from a cigarette.

GERARD:
Flying a kite, smoking a cigarette, fulfilling ethnic sterotypes in a way that will offend virtually no-one.

Another drag.

GERARD:
I worry for the day that racism against a Frenchman will no longer seem funny compared to the other, obstensibly more serious forms.

He picks up a passing frog and licks it.

GERARD:
Which is not to claim that the great civil rights struggles have been over nothing. Au contraire, mon frere.

He glares at a passing tourist.

GERARD:
The degree of hatred and violence based on such prejudices are no laughing matter. But it never hurts to remember that racism applies to everyone.

He takes a bite of cheese, swills some wine, swears beautifully and seduces at least fourteen women, all without bathing.

GERARD:
Except those dirty, socialist Canadians.

He shrugs, and mimes being in a box. Also: Jerry Lewis.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Discourse

AT RISE:

BEN and LISA share a bowl of pudding.

BEN:
Pudding.

LISA:
Yeah.

BEN:
So you feeling better?

LISA:
Not particularly.

BEN:
Hmm.

LISA:
What?

BEN:
I dunno, I really thought the pudding would do it.

LISA:
It's not the pudding, Ben.

BEN:
I know but... I mean, it's chocolate and everything.

LISA:
I know Ben, really. Great pudding.

BEN:
Fantastic?

LISA:
Yes Ben, this pudding is fantastic. If it had a saddle, I would ride this pudding into the sunset.

BEN:
But you don't feel any better.

LISA:
No.
(beat)
Well, less hungry.

BEN:
See? You do feel better.

LISA:
Not the time to be grasping at straws, my friend.

BEN:
I beg to differ.

LISA:
Look, you've got to accept that I'm just going to be mad for a little while, okay?

BEN:
No.

LISA:
No?

BEN:
I refuse to accept that you're just going to be mad for a litle while. Now eat your pudding.

LISA:
I'm starting to wish I had never sold myself into white slavery.

SURPRISE ENDING!

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Huh?

AT RISE:

A MAN with a birdcage.

MAN:
You know, of the modern sportsman's many pursuits, urban falconry is by far the fastest growing in terms of popularity. Of course, being in a metropolitain area necessitates certain compromises. For example, this is a common finch.

He revals the finch in the cage.

MAN:
But it's commonality and household pet status in no way negates it's potency as a predator!

Another man enters. The first Man releases the bird, who proceeds to fly straight through the new man, cutting a hole clean through him before returning to the cage.

MAN:
Next up: Bath Sloths.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Stranger than Fiction

AT RISE:

Bleary-eyed NERDS toil on computers in a dank room. Another NERD, only slightly less bedraggled rushes into the room.

NERD:
Guys! There appears to be a large burning ball of gas in the sky, what gives?

No response.

NERD:
See, it was a joke. Get it? I meant the sun.

Nothing.

NERD:
I wish I could say we were purposefully acting out stereotypes. It would be less sad, somehow.

Nuttin'.

NERD:
Alright, fine. Make room.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

(And special thanks to Emily for the guest strip!)

Extra Special Guest Author Post Featuring: Emily B.!

(Author's note: I haven't written a play in two years, but Mark is trapped somewhere and I was told not to let his dream die. And also to send him some pizza and a change of pants, but I ignored that part.)

LIGHTS UP

DREW
Look, I can see you're upset with the direction of the piece.

LIAM
I wrote a lovely, atmospheric play about a plucky young bulimic who makes a lot of mix tapes in Ireland and sends them to people on the internet who desperately need human connection in a sterile information age, some of whom have cancer and some of whom have wacky dogs and some of whom had fathers who never understood their dreams. And then they all learned something about life and wrote letters about it that their children read later.

DREW
Yes.

LIAM
It was lyric!

DREW
Yes.

LIAM
And what you've just shown me is two men dressed like robots jousting.

DREW
On miniature ponies. It's edgy.

LIAM
With their cocks.
(beat)
Actually, they're just kind of...fucking.

DREW
I might add some puppets later. Those wacky Japanese-y ones with the chalk faces.

LIAM
I just feel that gay porn is a little too intense for what I'm trying to convey.

DREW
You do get a lot in a small package.

LIAM
So to speak.

DREW
Indeed.

LIAM and DREW stare off into the middle distance. A CLARINET plays "Love for Sale".

LIAM
I don't know what Tom Stoppard's got that I don't.

LIGHTS DOWN

END PLAY

Sleep

AT RISE:

A BED looks out a window, sadly. A Pillow falls from the sky, then sits upright.

PILLOW:
What's wrong, Bed?

BED:
Well Pillow, I just don't think people appreciate me anymore. I think they're just using me for sex.

PILLOW:
This conversation just got weird.

The Pillow jumps out the window.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY

Three Words

AT RISE:

BEN and BOB drive in a car.

BEN:
So hey, Bob.

BOB:
Yes, Ben?

BEN:
I think we should go see that new thing.

BOB:
What new thing?

BEN:
You know, those new red stairs downtown.

BOB:
I'm going to need more descriptive language than that.

BEN:
You know, those new things. C'mon, man. They're like red stairs.

BOB:
And?

BEN:
And they're new.

BOB:
Give me three good reasons.

BEN:
One: They're new. Two: They're red.

BOB:
And three?

BEN:
...Stairs.

BOB:
Stairs.

BEN:
Yeah.

BOB:
No.

BEN:
I will buy you a candy bar.

BOB:
...Fine.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Dear Pen Pal

AT RISE:

DAN sits at a desk, preparing to write a letter. A middle-aged British WOMAN stands slightly behind him, with a sweet smile. As Dan begins to write, the woman speaks.

WOMAN:
Dear Pen Pal, you'll neer believe what happened to me today. In fact, I hardly believe it myself!

Dan looks off into space for a second, biting the end of his pen. A thought strikes him and he resumes.

WOMAN:
I guess it all started when I got home...from...

The Woman's speech slows along with Dan's pen. He now seems concerned.

WOMAN:
From...work. It was just like any other..

Dan stops writing, and listens intently. Carefully, he puts pen to paper.

WOMAN:
...Afternoon.

Dan whirls around, and spots the Woman.

DAN:
AHHHHHHHHHH!

WOMAN:
Damn it!

She turns to run as Dan lunges to his desk and removes a gun.

DAN:
Never again!!

He FIRES! The Woman goes down in a pool of blood. She raises a hand weakly toward Dan.

WOMAN:
Dear..Pen..

He FIRES again and again, until the chamber clicks empty. The Woman is silent at last. He drops to his knees.

DAN:
Is it...is it finally over?

Sirens wail in the distance, as Dan puts his head in his hands, and weeps.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Blocked

AT RISE:

An empty stage. A minute passes. Then another minute. The voice of the AUTHOR can be heard from offstage.

AUTHOR:
Damn it!

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Possible

AT RISE:

A party. A YOUNG MAN stands in the center without a shirt.

YOUNG MAN:
Wow. You know what's fun?

PARTY:
What?

YOUNG MAN:
Alcohol, apparently.

PARTY:
An interesting theory!

A chicken is placed on his head, and the party continues. Shit, as they say, get crazy.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Shakira Shakira

AT RISE:

A DUDE eats a Twinkie.

DUDE:
I have nothing relevant to say at this juncture.

We linger with the Dude for a long while, but he really doesn't have anything else to say. Somewhere, a creative writing teacher is weeping.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Not Me

AT RISE:

STEVE and STEVE stand in line at the post office.

STEVE:
Hey, Steve?

STEVE:
Yes, Steve?

STEVE:
Do you remember that song: "Who Let the Dogs Out?"

STEVE:
No.

STEVE:
Oh. Just as well, really.

He buys some stamps.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Pilot Season

AT RISE:

A WOMAN wheels around the stage on a rolly-chair. Her look is pensive.

WOMAN:
Sometimes I feel like I'm being introduced to the world every day for the first time. And it gets me anxious, because I'm never sure if new viewers will catch on to the patchwork quilt of quirks, mannerisms and deep-rooted emotional problems that make me who I am within a reasonable space of five to ten minutes. And once I've lost these metaphorical viewers, I'm worried they'll never tune back in, forcing me to toil in obscurity until my premature cancellation. So I constantly feel this pressure to find some kind of hyper-efficent method of characterization that'll get me noticed, remembered, and possibly adored.

She spins in place on the chair.

WOMAN:
And that's why man invented rolly-chairs.

She zips offstage, laughing.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Nov. 4th

AT RISE:

The AUTHOR relaxes amongst heaping piles of money. He is eating a sandwich, perhaps the best in the world.

AUTHOR:
This... is a really good sandwich.

He takes a bite and sighs, completely relaxed. From outside a gilded window comes the sound of cheering. There seems to be some kind of celebration going on.

AUTHOR:
I'm just going to asssume that's for me.

THE CROWD:
It's not!

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Chronological

AT RISE:

A MAN and a LADY relax at home. Through the window, we can see that it is night-time.

MAN:
(yawning)
What times is it?

LADY:
Five.

The man looks out the window, alarmed.

MAN:
In the morning?

LADY:
No, in the afternoon, you cantankerous boob.

MAN:
That was unexpectedly articulate of you.

LADY:
It's my "lady time".

MAN:
Say no more.

He looks out the window again.

MAN:
Pitch black at five o'clock in the pm. What ever happened to daylight savings time?

LADY:
It was last Sunday.

MAN:
What!?

He tears open the window and shouts to the heavens.

MAN:
WHO ARE YOU GOING TO SAVE, DAYLIGHT? WHO ARE YOU GOING TO SAVE IF YOU CAN'T EVEN SAVE YOURSELF?

LADY:
That's my fella!

Cue theme music.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Bitter

AT RISE:

A MAN does laundry. For an hour. Most of the hour is spent sitting around waiting for the washer and dryer. The rest is spent readinga succession of take-out menus. The audience is enraptured because this is EXPERIMENTAL and BORING, and thus must be ART. To re-enforce this, and to make the audience feel better about spending fifty bucks, there is music by PHILLIP GLASS.

Between wshing and drying, the MAN should doff all his clothes. The house lights then come up as he does nude jumping jacks while asking the audience pointed questions about their lifestyle choices. He may or may not "tea-bag" an unwilling spectator.

And finally, the laundry is done, the man exits and the audience goes home, poorer, but a little wiser.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Crime Drama

AT RISE:

A plate of cookies. A MAN walks in, stops when he sees the cookies. His face contorts in a mask of rage as he pulls a handgun, storms over to the cookies, and holds the gun an inch from their collective, delicious faces.

MAN:
You know what this is about.

A heartbeat of silence. Then, a bag of cocaine shoots out of the middle of the cookies. The Man catches the bag.

MAN:
Amatuer.

He runs off, cackling. The cookies remain impassive.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Porcine Puncher

AT RISE:

GLENN and TOMAS relax in their living room. GLENN is at a computer.

GLENN:
Oh my God!

He turns from the computer in horror.

TOMAS:
What?

GLENN:
I just saw something horrible.

TOMAS:
Like what?

GLENN:
Well, I was googling "ham fist"-

TOMAS:
Wait, what?

GLENN:
Uh, "ham fist".

TOMAS:
Why the Hell would you do a search on "ham fist"?

GLENN:
I was bored.

TOMAS:
You were bored. And your mind immediately jumped to "ham fist"?

GLENN:
Look, I don't judge your lifestyle choices.

TOMAS:
Fine, whatever.

A beat.

TOMAS:
What came up on your search, anyway?

GLENN:
Take a look for yourself.

Tomas gingerly gets up and looks at the computer. His face becomes as white as a sheet.

TOMAS:
Mankind is a plague that must be cleansed from this Earth.

GLENN:
That's all I'm saying.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Tipsy

AT RISE:

MIKE and SANDY sit at a bar, nursing beers.

MIKE:
She said I looked like John Ochenbach.

SANDY:
Who's John Ochenbach?

MIKE:
You didn't let me finish. She said I looked like John Ochenbach...but "super hot".

SANDY:
What does that even mean?

MIKE:
How should I know?

SANDY:
Well, you were there.

MIKE:
WEll yeah, but that makes it more confusing.

SANDY:
Who's John Ochenbach?

MIKE:
I have no idea. But apparently he has a great personality.

SANDY:
Well, thank goodness for small favors.

MIKE:
It's your support during these trying times that really cements our friendship.

SANDY:
Who needs support, when you're the hot John Ochenbach?

MIKE:
Super-hot.

SANDY:
My mistake.

They each take a long sip of beer.

MIKE:
Someday, I shall meet this Ochenbach.

SANDY:
And then what?

MIKE:
I shall figure that out when the time comes. Sufficeth to say, he shall know himself as the inferior man.

SANDY:
You're going tos how him your penis, aren't you?

MIKE:
The future is yet unwritten!

He takes another sip.

MIKE:
But yeah, probably.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

The Creative Process

AT RISE:

A WRITER sits at a computer.

WRITER:
Oh man, do I have some ennui.

A jar of peanut butter floats down from on high! A chorus of angels sings at this culinary miracle!

WRITER:
Oh, man do I have some ennui and peanut butter.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Hippocratic

AT RISE:

A DOCTOR and a PATIENT.

PATIENT:
So, what's the prognosis, Doc?

DOCTOR:
Honestly? I don't really have an opinion either way.

PATIENT:
What?

DOCTOR:
I guess I'm just having a hard time mustering up enthusiasm.

PATIENT:
I see. I guess it's time to make some serious life changes.

DOCTOR:
Same here!

A mear kiss, which turns into an embarassed low-five.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

True West

AT RISE:

Two GUYS stand in a vacuum.

GUY 1:
Define for me the spirit of the American Frontier!

GUY 2:
Peer inside my mind!

Suddenly we are at the bottom of the sea. A MAN in 19th century diving gear stands upon the ocean floor. He waves at the audience, then whistles sharply. A seahorse wearing an ornate saddle appears. The man clambers atop the great beast and rides off into the tide, pumping his fist excitedly!

And just as suddenly we are back with the two GUYS.

GUY 1:
Was that accurate?

GUY 2:
Prove me wrong!

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Battle of Wills

AT RISE:

A MAN and a WOMAN glare at each other from across a table. For a while. A long while.
I mean, the audience should be really uncomfortable about now. Once the tension is truly unbearable, the woman sticks a Cheeto in the man's ear.

WOMAN:
Checkmate!

The man slumps over in defeat.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Kitchen Time

AT RISE:

STEVE sits on a kitchen floor, hitting keys on a laptop.

STEVE:
At rise: Mike sits on a kitchen floor with a laptop, typing.

LIGHTS UP on MIKE, sitting on a kitchen floor with a laptop, typing.

MIKE:
At rise: Doug sits on the floor of a kitchen with a portable computer in his lap, his fingers move quickly across the keys.

LIGHTS UP on DOUG, who sits on the floor of a kitchen with a portable computer in his lap, his fingers moving quickly across the keys.

DOUG:
At rise: Some guy hangs out in a kitchen, writing something on some kind of laptop or something.

LIGHTS UP on SOME GUY. He hangs out in a kitchen, writing something on some kind of laptop or something. He looks bewildered and somewhat sheepish.

SOME GUY:
At rise: …Uh…Hmm.

Steve, Mike and Doug look at him expectantly.

SOME GUY:
At rise: There’s a person….maybe. It might be a …. no, it’s a person. And they’re thinking really hard about something. Because it’s Christmas, and uh… there’s a bidet. But he’s not using it, because he’s in a kitchen. He’s just uh…thinking really hard about something. Really hard.

Steve stands up indignantly, and is about to say something, when:

SOME GUY:
Uh… The End.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Eco-Friendly

AT RISE:

A STYROFOAM DINOSAUR stands next to a MODERN GUY.

STYROFOAM DINOSAUR:
You know, I'm going to be sixty-six million years old next Tuesday.

MODERN GUY:
You don't say.

STYROFOAM DINOSAUR:
Yup. Go evolution, huh?

MODERN GUY:
I guess.

A beat.

STYROFOAM DINOSAUR:
I miss Pterodactyls.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Deadly Rays

AT RISE:

A CITY BOY enters, chased by something the audience cannot see.

CITY BOY:
Being as I am not in the city, I find this influx of fresh air and sunshine to be most upsetting to my obviously fragile disposition! Fragile, you see because I am a stereotype of the laziest sort! Aieee!

The SUN enters and punches the boy in the face. The Sun addresses the audience.

SUN:
Remember folks, your eyes need U.V. protection year round, not just in the summer!

The Sun picks up the City Boy and body-slams him. And a couple more times for good measure. The audience finds nothing objectionable because the victim is obviously some kind of "hipster", and thus annoying on principle.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

PRODUCTION NOTE:
The SUN should be at full scale, or the play will fail utterly. UTTERLY.

Kitchen Sink

AT RISE:

A working class couple, JACK and OZZIE. They sit at a small kitchen table.

JACK:
I feel oppressed.

OZZIE:
By society?

JACK:
Sure.

OZZIE:
Ah, the toil of the Irish Laborer at this particular period in American History!

JACK:
I'm not Irish.

OZZIE:
You're not?

JACK:
Not even a little. My family is straight Scandanavian.

OZZIE:
Well that's not nearly as interesting.

JACK:
I can't believe you didn't know that! I mean, my last name is Fjord.

OZZIE:
I thought it was a quaint town in the heath!

JACK:
Quaint town in the heath? It refers to jagged rocky crags abutting the vast and merciless sea!

OZZIE:
If you say so.

JACK:
I do.

OZZIE:
(sighing)
You know, your problems don't seem nearly as interesting anymore.

A beat.

OZZIE:
You couldn't just speak in a light brogue, could you?

JACK:
Never!

OZZIE:
Then I'm afraid I'm going to have to end this marraige. Good day to you.

She walks out.

JACK:
Ah well, at least I'll get a memoir out of this.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Play Number 50, or: Re-occuring Themes, or: Hubris

AT RISE:

A GUY and a GIRL are onstage. Also, some more GUYS. And some PEOPLE. Some of the people have names, but they will be forgotten momentarily. Some of them, it should be noted, are LIBRARIANS.

One of the GUYS is nude. Rock and Roll!

Also hanging about the increasingly cluttered stage: a NUDE MAN, GIANT SQUID, A MAN who apears to have a sperm whale for a head, a POTTED PLANT, Two TURTLES, one named FRANK, some CATS and other ASSORTED OBJECTS BOTH ANIMATE AND INANIMATE. At some point in the evening, they will all talk. Or not.

Suddenly: The stage directions take a marked turn into metatexual self-reference! The Audience SWOONS, the actors LAUGH! Everyone has a TERRIFIC TIME!

Oh, wait. Neither the audience nor (perhaps) the actors have read the stage directions, and thus this turn into self-aware comedy is only noticed by the select few who actually READ PLAYS. These people are widely regarded to be extremely silly, but well meaning over all.

The nude man wiggles his buttocks, and everything onstage disappears into a cloud of stardust.

Because to the audience this has all taken place in a matter of seconds, they are perhaps confused as to the point of it all. Thus the AUTHOR feels the need to indert himself into the action. As is usual in these situations, he arrives in a shower of sweet-smelling rose petals and a burst of lyrical song.

AUTHOR:
When I say: "Random statement, either philosophical, nonsensical, or extremely literal!", You say:

AUDIENCE:
Encouragement of original statement via reciprocation or question! Elements of whimsy! A structure based on light deconstruction of the mechanisms of dramatic storytelling!

AUTHOR:
Yes!

The lights dim, until there is only a spot on the Author.

AUTHOR:
If I can be serious for just a moment, I'd like to insert one of my patented pleas for audience support for a product I feel is somewhat lacking in quality!

AUDIENCE:
These are the things we have come to expect from our internet-based theatrical entertainments!

AUTHOR:
Huzzah!

He runs through the Audience, high-fiving every single one of them. This can take upwards of 20 minutes if performed properly. And it should always be performed properly.

BLACKOUT.

EPILOGUE:

A YOUNG MAN sits at a desk, typing at a computer. After a few seconds of concentration, he gives a small chortle. He makes a final keystrokem and leans back in his chair.

YOUNG MAN:
They will absolutely hate this one.

He laughs, then turns to the audience>

YOUNG MAN:
Thanks for reading!

He does some sign language. You are VERY IMPRESSED by his senstivity.

YOUNG MAN:
I'll see you next time!

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Modern Times

AT RISE:

KEN and DON attack each other with tiny sticks.

KEN:
This would be far more satisfying in a more rural environment!

DON:
Agreed! The lack of true foliage in this urban sprawl is making our intetntions, i.e. violence, rather difficult to act out!

KEN:
Perhaps we could switch to somewhat more deadly materials?

DON:
But then we will lose the advantages garnered by our somewhat childlike behavior, and perhaps go from charming eccentrics to violent criminals in the eyes of passersby!

KEN:
Oh, the myriad difficulties of city life!

DON:
Indeed!

They continue to attack each other.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Alpaca Alpaca Alpaca

AT RISE:

An alpaca chews some grass. Two GUYS walk by.

GUY 1:
So the thing about the thing is...

He trails off, captivated by the alpaca.

GUY 2:
Guy? You okay?

GUY 1:
Sorry, I just got lost in that alpaca's eyes. Is that weird?

GUY 2:
The eyes of the alpaca are widely regarded to be extremely soulful. I can't think of one person on earth who would judge you.

GUY 1:
Ah, cool.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Ripped From the Headlines

AT RISE:

A FELLA and a DAME enjoy a relaxing warm beverage. It could be any beverage really, it just doesn't matter. But man, you just know they'll be one guy in the audience who spends the entire performance wondering what's in the cups. The author now chooses to dedicate this play to him. Here's to you, Minutiae Guy! Keep the fire burning! As for the beverage? HE'LL NEVER KNOW. Unless there's a talkback.

FELLA:
So, naked Harry Potter on Broadway.

DAME:
I know! I am terribly excited.

FELLA:
You're not at all disconcerted that you'll soon be seeing the package of a kid we've been watching in family-friendly fantasy adventure films since he was ten years old?

DAME:
Are you kidding me? That simply adds to the mystique. And for the record, I would prefer if you did not referr to his genetalia as his package.

FELLA:
Fine.

DAME:
Call it his "wand".

FELLA:
No. I draw the line at overly obvious wordplay.

DAME:
Fine. Man, speaking of wands, wouldn't wizard porn be great?

FELLA:
Why? All the flying and unicorns and stuff?

DAME:
No, that would be weird. I just mean like, I bet they'd have books where like you'd open them up, and they'd have these magic pictures inside them that moved, and-

FELLA:
You mean like the internet.

DAME:
What, no-

FELLA:
Hey, you know you're right. Magical moving images would be a great venue for porn! I think you should make a movie about it. Oh, wait.

A harsh silence.

DAME:
Having re-evaluated our friendship in the previous five seconds, I have determined that it will only take one more ill-timed word for me to storm out of this room. Choose carefully.

The Fella thinks for a good long moment.

FELLA:
Package.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Angry Young Man

AT RISE:

A FURIOUS DUDE enters.

FURIOUS DUDE:
Hey, have you ever had a really shitty job? I mean like super-shitty, no room for creativity, independent thought or meaningful advancement? And the have you ever been almost completely classified as the guy who "works at that shitty job, huh that's weird"? Now has this ever happened to you while you work your ass off at what you consider your real job, even though you get no payment or recognition for it? All in the hope that one day you can tell your shitty job to stuff it and do what you've always wanted to on your own terms?

(Beat)

No?

(Beat)

Then shut the hell up already.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Growing Up

AT RISE:

A MAN sits with a turtle.

MAN:
A turtle's never really alone when he has a man, right Frank?

The turtle looks at the man for a moment, then goes back to thinking about lettuce.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

JCVD

AT RISE:

Two PEOPLE (Yah! Gender neutral casting) sits around, having a grand old time.

PERSON 1:
How long can you love something ironically before the love stops being ironic?

PERSON 2:
Are we talking single digits or decades?

PERSON 1:
I think I just slipped into year ten recently.

PERSON 2:
Then I'm afraid it's not ironic anymore. What're we talking about, anyway?

PERSON 1:
Jean-Claude Van Damme.

PERSON 2:
Ah.

PERSON 1:
From Bloodpsort to The Quest, I just can help lovng the wooden acting, absurd catchphrases, and overly ballectic fight coreography of the Muscles from Brussells. I even love his bizzare penchant for slightly homoerotic posturing. I have a sickness.

PERSON 2:
That's as may be, but why let it bother you so?

PERSON 1:
Well I mean, aside from the slef loathing normally associated with a connection to such a silly person, there's also the fact that there are people who genuinely think his ouvere is composed of quality pieces of action filmmaking! Sometimes I worry that my own love of those films for their terriblility somehow diminishes the joy in those poor, simple hearts.

PERSON 2:
Well, I don't think it really matters why you love something, as long as you do. I mean, are you genuinely entertained by the movies?

PERSON 1:
Well, yeah.

PERSON 2:
Would you, say, rate those movies in terms of pure enjoyment above other films widely regarded to be of much higher quality?

PERSON 1:
Yes, I suppose I would.

PERSON 2:
Then your love is valid. Cherish it!

PERSON 1:
I will! I will cherish it even as I wonder at the world that would engender such a bizzare mixture of pity and elation in response to a piece of media! I mean seriously, think of the reprocussions of a culture that can create genuine emotion from abject mockery!

PERSON 2:
This has been a truly philosophical conversation.

PERSON 1:
I too, am overly proud of myself.

They bask in their own smugnes. But who can blame em', really.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Ramen

AT RISE:

Nothing. It's an empty stage. A STAGEHAND enters, and places a steaming bowl of RAMEN on the floor stage center. The stagehand exits.

Suddenly, the audience gets really hungry. The DIRECTOR runs onstage as soon as he senses that this is the case.

DIRECTOR:
A-hah! Hungry, aren't you!

He bows deeply.

DIRECTOR:
And with that, I have proven that theatre still has the power to compel audiences!

The stagehand re-enters.

STAGEHAND:
No, you proved that looking at food can make people hungry.

DIRECTOR:
Hunger is compelling.

STAGEHAND:
So is the desire to pee, yet no-one has ever claimed victory when an audience member gets up to use the restroom.

DIRECTOR:
Not yet.

STAGEHAND:
Touche.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Science Fiction

AT RISE:

A ROBOT and a WAITRESS stand on the bridge of a fantastical space ship.

ROBOT:
We have much in common, hu-man waitress.

WAITRESS:
Do we?

ROBOT:
Yes. Yes we do. For one, we are both in space.

WAITRESS:
While that is true on a basic level, I'm afraid your use of pure logic as a basis for personal connection will seriously stunt any prospects of a positive long-term relationship.

ROBOT:
If that is the case, however will we fight space-crime?

WAITRESS:
I don't know, robot. I wish to Space-God that I did.

ROBOT:
Truly the future has a host of unique, yet relatable problems.

WAITRESS:
I guess it isn't so different from the early part of the 21st century after all, huh? Because obviously the early 21st century, and to a lesser extent the end of the twentieth, will be the sole model from which the future, our present, will draw inspiration.

ROBOT:
Yes, we are very specific.

WAITRESS:
Very.

They look awkward for a bit. In the robot's case this is a very impressive accomplishment.

ROBOT:
I can think of another way in which we are-

WAITRESS:
Shut up.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Regrettable

AT RISE:

A MAN stretches languidly. He is having a great time, and feels no need to rush, audience be damned. After a good minute or so of this, a DUDE enters.

DUDE:
Hey, man.

MAN:
(continuing to strecth)
Hey, dude.

DUDE:
Stretching?

MAN:
You know it, brother.

DUDE:
Hell yeah I do.

The Dude begins to stretch, but somehow manages to be completely terrible at it.
Suddenly, the PLAYWRIGHT loses track of his work, and some PIRATES appear.

PIRATE 1:
We are pirates, for those uninitiated in the ways of seafaring rogues such as we.

DUDE:
Watch out, Man! Pirates!

MAN:
I see em', Dude.

He continues to stretch.

MAN:
So, is there anything in particular you guys wanted?

PIRATE 2:
Nah, just putting our names out there, you know.

MAN:
I can accept that.

PIRATE 1:
Cool.

Everyone just kind of STANDS AROUND.

DUDE:
So-

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Timeless

AT RISE:

TWO LADIES sit across the room from each other. They each have a laptop balanced on their (well I suppose it's obvious, really) laps. Who'd a thunk. I should probably give them names or risk the ire of the obviously socially conscious audience, who would insist that the lack of names for female characters, far from being a result of lack of nominal inspiration, was in fact, a sign of deep-rooted patriarchy in the author. Patriarchy being a somewhat strange choice in term, perhaps for what father would decide not to give his daughter name? But I guess the term doesn't really refer to it's direct meaning per se, and is just a snazzy buzzword generated by extremely angry people. You know, upon further reflection, the author is starting to realize that this entire set of stage directions itself will probably raise it's fair share of ire and is now wishing that he (or she!) should have just made the protagonists some sort of asexual single-celled organism regardless of the needs of the plot (such as it is).

Anyway, their names are Doris and Cloris.

DORIS:
Hey Cloris?

CLORIS:
Yes Doris?

DORIS:
What's the deal with the internet, anyway?

CLORIS:
It's a bunch of computers.

DORIS:
Well, yeah. But, I mean, what'll we do with it when we're done?

CLORIS:
Done?

DORIS:
Finished. You know, ready to move on.

CLORIS:
I honestly do not know.

DORIS:
Yeah, weird, isn't it? Nobody ever seems to talk about what happens after the internet. I mean what if it doesn't just sort of evolve into something new, what if we end up completely destroying it for the sake of something else.

CLORIS:
Well, it's not like the internet was just turned on one day, out of the blue. It gradually developed into what it is now. I really don't think there's just a big switch out there marked "emergency internet off switch" or something.

DORIS:
But what if there is? That's like, my entire point.

CLORIS:
Then we all learn the dewey decimal system again until "Internet 2" is up an running.

DORIS:
And what about all the porn?

CLORIS:
Porn will take care of itself.

DORIS:
I guess they could just print all the porn out and hire someone to retype it or whatever.

CLORIS:
I'm sure that's exactly what's going to happen.

DORIS:
Yeah. The porn will take care of itself.

CLORIS:
It always has.

DORIS:
There's something comforting about that, isn't there.

A moment's thought.

CLORIS:
You know, there kinda is.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Possibly Morbid

AT RISE:

A dank, smoky room. DOUG, KYLE and RALPHIE sit around a table. A dead body sits slumped in a fourth seat and a gun lies on the table.

DOUG:
You know what would make Russian Roulette more fun?

KYLE:
What?

DOUG:
Nerf weapons.

RALPHIE:
Just take your damn turn, Doug.

DOUG:
...Pass.

KYLE:
What?

DOUG:
Pass. I pass. I uh... forfeit my turn.

KYLE:
You can't forfeit your turn.

DOUG:
Says who?

RALPHIE:
Says the rules.

DOUG sighs.

DOUG:
Fine.

He takes a playing card out of his pocket, and throws it one the table.

DOUG:
Reverse!

KYLE:
You have got to be kidding me.

Ralphie examines the card.

RALPHIE:
It's an "Uno" card.

KYLE:
What?

DOUG:
Uno? You know, only the best party game ever. Now if you don't mind, I believe it's your turn.

KYLE:
Pick up the damn gun, Doug.

Doug gulps audibly and picks up the gun. He presses it to his temple.

DOUG:
(out of the corner of his mouth)
...Click. Oh man, close call. Whew. Well, it's been a pleasure guys, but I should really go home and feed the cats, right? Right. Again, awesome time, really. Uh...later.

He turns to leave, still holding the gun.

RALPHIE:
Aren't you forgetting something there, Doug?

DOUG:
Hmm? Oh yeah, of course.
(beat)
Uh... Good game. Thanks?
(beat)
No?

KYLE:
No.

DOUG:
Fine. I'll just, uh, leave it here then.

He gingerly places the gun on the floor, and makes to leave.

DOUG:
Again guys, thanks a bunch. And uh, great seeing you guys again. Bye!

He bolts off stage. Ralphie and Kyle consider the gun for a moment, then look at each other.

RALPHIE:
This is why I never invite guys from the office.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Squid

AT RISE:

A DUDE and a LADY.

DUDE:
Hey, did you know that it's National Cephalopod Awareness Day?

LADY:
Indeed I did! You could say that I was "aware" of that!

DUDE:
This relationship is over.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Logic Loop

AT RISE:

Two GUYS eat at a table.

GUY A:
Being as I am the first one to talk, I am assuming dominance over this conversation.

GUY B:
C'mon guy, enough with the metatexuality.

GUY A:
What do you mean?

GUY B:
You know exactly what I mean.

GUY A:
No, really. What're you getting at?

GUY B:
Look, I'm not going to get into it.

GUY A:
Why not?

GUY B:
Because it's virtually impossible for me to critique your habit of pointing out our nature as dramatic constructs without myself pointing out our nature as fictional entites. And once that's happened, there's nowhere for the story to go without becoming overly clever and thus unsatisfying.
(A beat)
Shit.

They stare at their food.

GUY A:
Does this mean the play's over?

GUY B:
Of course not.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Economy

AT RISE:

A huge EXPLOSION!!

AUDIENCE:
WOW!

BLACKOUT. END PLAY. THE AUDIENCE FREAKS OUT FOR A WHILE IN THEIR SEATS, DUE TO THEIR MINDS BEING SHATTERED BY THE SHEER SPECTACLE AND SHORTNESS OF IT ALL.

--------------

EPILOGUE:

PLAYWRIGHT:
Why didn't I think of this 37 days ago?

He eats a Victory Sandwich.

THE END...?

Unavoidable

AT RISE:

A HOBO WIZARD stands before a garbage can, filthy, yet resplendant in once-colorful robes. He speaks to a piece of cheese.

HOBO WIZARD:
I wasn't always like this, you know. I was like you, once.

CHEESE:
I know, old friend. I know.

Silent tears course down the Hobo Wizard's cheeks.

CHEESE:
No regrets, chum. There's no time left for regret.

The Hobo Wizard nods. Then, he takes a thoughful bite out of the cheese.

HOBO WIZARD:
Give my regards to Valhalla.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

La Mer

AT RISE:

A SAILOR stands under a street light. He is an UNDERCOVER COP, but this absolutely no bearing on the play. Just thought I'd mention it, because it is very DEEP. He smokes a cigarette thoughtfully.

SAILOR:
I'd better go home before I'm mistaken for a prostitue.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Change of Pace

AT RISE:

A MAN and a WOMAN sit on top of some monkey bars. They stare at the sky on a moonlit night.

WOMAN:
Are you a dog person?

MAN:
Not really.

She thinks.

WOMAN:
Then we'll buy a dolphin.

He looks at her, and sees an entire life in the space of a moment.

MAN:
Dolphin it is.

A smile. A kiss. A happy ending.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Prove Me Wrong

AT RISE:

A DOCTOR is in the midst of a surgical operation on a prone patient. After he completes an official-looking task, he reaches below the operating table and produces a large TUNA FISH. He quickly looks around to see if anyone is watching. Satisfied, he raises the tuna...

DOCTOR:
Science, you are a cruel mistress.

...And proceeds to place the large fish into the patient's chest cavity. The doctor begins to weep.

DOCTOR:
Scieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeennnnncee!

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Apolitical

AT RISE:

Two MEN sit on a couch. There is an UNDENIABLE SEXUAL TENSION in the air, though this is never acknowledged, nor must it ever be to maintain the fragile grip these two poor souls have on their notions of sexuality. One imagines that they spend abnormal amounts of time wrestling.

MAN A:
Maybe we should get another piece of furniture.

MAN B:
Why?

MAN A:
So we wouldn't be forced to share a couch all the time.

A beat.

MAN B:
Could we just get a comfier couch instead?

Man A looks at Man B with a look that would convey long-hidden passions and lust if he were even a little bit self-aware. As it is, he just looks kind of sleepy.

MAN A:
Yes. Yes we can.

MAN B:
Awesome.

They shake hands, lingering just a little too long. In self-defense their minds seize up, and start churning out the names of star running backs from the 1960's.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Virtual 2-D Cyber Actors!

What intruigingly familiar witchcraft is this??

http://awesomeroxor.blogspot.com/2008/10/few.html

And don't forget to read today's play!

A Thousand Times Yes

AT RISE:

A TELEVISION WRITER and a PLAYWRIGHT stand side by side.

TV WRITER:
Hi, I write for television!

PLAYWRIGHT:
And I write plays!

TV WRITER:
I write commercial, accessible pieces of dramatic literature.

PLAYWRIGHT:
I write semi-commercial, occasionally unrelatable pieces of dramatic literature, but do so out of reverence to the higher calling of True Art!

TV WRITER:
I get paid!

A pause.

PLAYWRIGHT:
Hi, I write for television!

A GIRL runs in.

GIRL:
Emmys!

WRITERS:
YAH!

She throws Emmy Awards at them and they all have an awesome party with a really cool DJ. I think his name was Jeff, but I might be thinking of Will Smith's sidekick! It's a great ending!

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

2008

AT RISE:

A darkened apartment, with a couch and all sorts of good stuff like that. The sound of a key in the door, and a YOUNG PROFESSIONAL enters, wearing a suit and holding a briefcase.

He turns on the lights, and throws the briefcase down on the couch with a sigh. He turns to face the audience, and loosens his tie. His right foot begins to tap rythmically. The motion is soon joined by a slight bobbing of the head. A song begins to play, softly at first and slowly, very slowly building in volume. The song is different for everybody and should be chosen with great care, for it is more important to the character than any line of dialogue.

The man's movements increase in intensity and largeness with the volume of the song, and he visibly relaxes as the music fills the room. He never quite dances, and remains rooted to the same spot, always facing the audience, but in his mind he is whirling around the room. A smile spreads across his face as the song reaches it's conclusion, and when it ends, he finds himself as he started, completely still.

After a moment of stillness, he removes his jacket.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Academic

AT RISE:

TWO PROFESSORS stand behind lecterns.

PROFESSOR 1:
Statement! The internet has promoted a new love of the written word amongst today's youth.

PROFESSOR 2:
Refutation! They waste the written word, bastardizing for convienience's sake, and using it only to promote their own shallow, mundane world views.

PROFESSOR 1:
Compromise! No-one appreciates anything properly anymore.

PROFESSOR 2:
Addendum! Except for me.

PROFESSOR 1:
Rider to the addendum! Except for us.

PROFESSOR 2:
Agreed!

They shake hands. Then there is some SEX and VIOLENCE to make sure the audience leaves satisfied.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Fact or Fiction?

AT RISE:

Two CATS sit onstage.

CAT 1:
Man, I really appreciate that guy.

CAT 2:
What guy?

CAT 1:
You know, that guy who shows up and takes care of us when that other guy is away.

CAT 2:
Oh, that guy. Yeah, he's cool I guess.

CAT 1:
I feel like we should thank him somehow. You know, give him a token of our sincere gratitude.

CAT 2:
Like what?

CAT 1:
I figure we can just pee all over his stuff.

CAT 2:
Ooh, good call. I'm sure he'll love it.

CAT 1:
Indubitably!

They high five.

NARRATOR:
And then they did. The bastards.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Indicative

AT RISE:

A MAN and a WOMAN sit on a couch, watching television.

MAN:
Isn't it interesting how a relationship can be implied simply by entering into a scene with two characters sitting in close proximity to each other?

WOMAN:
No.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Monologosphere

AT RISE:

DOUG stands before the audience. He's naked, why not.

DOUG:
One time I was going to write one of these new-fangled internet plays that are sweeping the country with brilliance and grandeur and thought "Hey, I'm going to try something different! I'm going to write a one-man monologue play!". So I sat down and started to write. Rather well, if I do say so myself. But after the first ten lines or so I started to realize something. I started to realize that I wasn't writing a ground-breaking one-man internet play at all. I was writing a freaking blog post. Here I was, master of craft and nuance, working at what would have been the top of my game on a proper stage, and yet on the internet, or "internets" as it is also referred, I was the equivalent of an insanely brilliant 16 year old, writing a post about the mundanities of his day to day life. Now I guess I could analyze this in some sort of amazing highbrow essay, concerning the connections between theatrical stylings and internet fueled self absorbtion, perhaps even going so far as to point out the now labored portrayl of theatre folk as masters of self absorbtion, but I am a lazy, lazy man. So I will simply write a play, a silly, yet probing play, about the word "poo-poo".

He wiggles his buttocks.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

It's Effin' Amazin'

AT RISE:

A bread pan sits on a table.

NARRATOR:
(Off stage)
YEAST!

Bread rises in the bread pan until it is a full loaf. The NARRATOR enters, and holds the bread aloft!

NARRATOR:
YEEEEEEEEAAAAAAASSSSSSST!

Spotlight on the bread. Until...

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Pastiche

AT RISE:

Something happens. What? Beats me. Why don't you try thinking something up now and then. Sigh. I gues that's not the deal, is it. Okay, fine. There's an explosion, and scraps of newsprint fall to the ground like ticker tape. A NEWSIE enters, eating an apple. On the opposite side of the stage, a DAPPER MAN enters.

DAPPER MAN:
What's all this then?

NEWSIE:
Nothing worth worrying about. The newspaper's exploded.

DAPPER MAN:
Are you referring to the physical object, or the organization that prints and distributes said object.

NEWSIE:
Both.

DAPPER MAN:
Oh.
(beat)
Which paper was it?

NEWSIE:
All of them.

DAPPER MAN:
Oh. Shouldn't you be more concerned?

NEWSIE:
Probably.

DAPPER MAN:
I see.

NEWSIE:
Do you?

DAPPER MAN:
No.

A beat. The Newsie eats his apple.

DAPPER MAN:
Would you care to accompany me on a fantasical globe-trotting adventure featuring machines the push the boundaries of steam-powered locomotion?

NEWSIE:
I thought you'd never ask.

And they skip off together. A DUSTMAN enters and begins to sweep the newspaper into a large pile.

DUSTMAN:
Ain't that always the way.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Honest Question

AT RISE:

A MAN WITH THE HEAD OF A SPERM WHALE enters. He speaks to a SMALL POTTED PLANT.

MWTHOASW:
If I told you that I vomited rainbows and cried diamonds, would you find a way to love me?

Silence. The lights slowly dim.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Free Time

AT RISE:

A YOUNG MAN sits at a bar, nursing a glass of beer. He speaks to a BARTENDER.

YOUNG MAN:
I'm thinking of developing a drinking problem.

BARTENDER:
Oh?

YOUNG MAN:
Yeah I think it would really give my life a focus and direction it's been lacking up until this point.

BARTENDER:
I don't think that's an entirely accurate worldview.

YOUNG MAN:
Maybe so.

He takes a small sip of beer.

YOUNG MAN:
But hey, maybe I'll get lucky and be one of those really brilliant drunks, like Oscar Wilde or something. Hemmingway! I doubt he wrote a word sober.

BARTENDER:
He also shot himself in the face.

YOUNG MAN:
You know, you really could be more supportive.

He takes another sip. He grimaces.

YOUNG MAN:
How many have I had so far?

BARTENDER:
One.

YOUNG MAN:
This is going to take some doing.

Another sip.

YOUNG MAN:
I'm trivializing a debilitating disease, aren't I?

BARTENDER:
Yes.

YOUNG MAN:
I was afraid of that.

He sighs.

YOUNG MAN:
Maybe I'll just give Mah Jong another chance.

BARETENDER:
That might be a better idea.

There is a buzzing noise. The Young Man takes a phone out of his pocket. He looks at the display, then quickly puts it back in his pocket. He sighs again.

YOUNG MAN:
Can I get a water?

The Bartender hands him a bottled water. The Young Man opens it and takes a swig.

YOUNG MAN:
Yeah. Mah Jong it is.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.