Poetry

AT RISE:

Two roomates, ZACK and STEVE.

ZACK:
Haiku battle, go!

STEVE:
Challenge accepted! Begin!

ZACK:
I wear leopard print
My cherry pie is the best
I'm your drunk mother

STEVE:
Samuel L. Jackson
Sitting in a field, alone
Dreams of destruction

ZACK:
If norse myth cycles
Are to be believed at all
Sex with wolves is great

STEVE:
Damn it.

ZACK:
Forfeit?

STEVE:
Never!

ZACK:
Continue, then!

STEVE:
I've no idea
What I am going to say...
Aretha Franklin?

ZACK:
If five-seven-five
Is the sole criteria
This poem is great

STEVE:
Uh....
Sweet googly moogly
Ran out of material
But must keep talking

ZACK:
That was terrible.

STEVE:
That's for history to decide.

ZACK:
I'll show you history.

STEVE:
You can't! It's already happened!

The squabbling is interrupted by the entrance of GEORGE, the third, irate roomate.

GEORGE:
This contest is dumb
Your lives are slipping away
Go clean the bathroom.

He exits.

STEVE:
That was impressive.

ZACK:
Yeah, if this was a play, that would be a great ending.

STEVE:
Definitely.

They stand around for a second, at a loss.

STEVE:
Hey, do you wanna-

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Ka-Blammo

AT RISE:

A DUDE with a sledgehammer stands before a watermelon.

DUDE:
I wonder if Gallagher ever realized that part of the weird thrill of this was the similarity to smashing a guy's head in?

AUDIENCE:
OH GOD, I DID NOT NEED TO HEAR THAT.

DUDE:
Sorry! I guess a man with a sledgehammer truly should not fall prey to introspection!

AUDIENCE:
Perhaps it is for the best! For how else can we truly come to grips with our animal natures than by confronting the origins of our simplest entertainments?

DUDE:
I think there is a lesson here for us all!

AUDIENCE:
Huzzah!

DUDE:
Raincoats on, everyone!

And with a mighty swing, he gives that watermelon a good smashing! What a messy good time!

WATERMELON:
BLORCH!

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Oh Boy

AT RISE:

MAN and MAAAAAAAN.

MAN:
Authenticity is the new Irony!

MAAAAAAAN:
How Ironic!

MAN:
DAMN IT.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Multi-media

AT RISE:

A MAN sits on a couch, watching a television. He's really enjoying it!

MAN:
Oh man.
(to the audience)
This is a really good movie, guys.
(beat)
Of course, for all you know I could be lying my sweet patoot off. And trust me, this is one sweet patoot. The perils of the fourth wall!
(he looks around for a second)
You know what? Just this once, let's forget about the whole illusion of reality thing. 'Cause seriously, this is a really good movie. Hold on a second.

He pulls the TV over to face the audience, then hops off stage to join them.

MAN:
Much better, huh? I mean, as a sophistcated theatre-going audience I'm sure you'd rather just watch me watch the movie like a good bunch of polite voyuers, but in a weird way, thsi feels a but more theatreical to me. I mean, why should I be having all the fun? Anyway, back to the movie, am I right?

He presses play. They have a great time together,with plenty of back and forth regarding the quality of the film, and background details about the production, and a true bond of friendship is formed!

There is one downer, however, but he can just go backstage with the other actors, still waiting on a cue that shall never come, and commiserate about the downfall of theatre and ways in which a more complete theatrical experience can perhaps only be achieved via a more direct link with the audience but then HOLY SHIT, THAT JUST HAPPENED! He will then return to his seat, mind blown, and enjoy the rest of the play.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Chums

AT RISE:

A MAN and a DOG.

MAN:
Dog!

DOG:
Yes, Man?

MAN:
You are my best friend!

DOG:
Intriguing! Is this a literal interpretation of an old adage?

MAN:
Not intentionally!

DOG:
I wonder if intention makes a difference in this medium.

MAN:
That is a question rife with debate!

DOG:
True. Let's not get into it.

MAN:
Agreed. I shall draw us a bath!

DOG:
Delightful.

They trot off.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Disjointed

AT RISE:

One million Dollars. That is, one million men and women, all with the surname Dollar. They will stand in front of the baffled audience, relishing the cleverness of the pun. For them, the experience will be sublime.

Of course the audience, not being privy to the naming scheme of this particular cast of characters, will simply be worried about things such as stampedes and fire exits. A night of extreme discomfort and confusion awaits these poor souls.

SUGGESTION: Have the cast hand out free popcorn during intermission!

BLACKOUT, END PLAY.

Etc.

AT RISE:

The AUTHOR stumbles, exhausted, into his apartment holding a suitcase, which he promptly drops on the floor.

AUTHOR:
Planes...air trams...monorails...subways.....

A beat.

AUTHOR:
NO MORE METAL TUBES!

...and promptly collapses, snoring, onto his bed.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Family

AT RISE:

Two BROTHERS. This relationship will be obvious to the entire audience by way of the following dialogue.

BROTHER 1:
Hi, younger brother.

BROTHER 2:
Hi older brother.

A long, long silence. Then, Brother 1 slowly reaches over and pokes Brother 2 very deliberately on the nose.

BROTHER 2:
I WILL EAT YOUR EYE RIGHT OUT OF YOUR HEAD!

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

The Friendly Skies

AT RISE:

STEVE and WANDA on board a commercial jet liner. A STEWARDESS hands Steve a can of soda and a small plastic cup filled with ice. The Stewardess exits. Steve regards his new acquisitions before pouring some soda into the cup.

STEVE:
Wow.

WANDA:
What?

STEVE:
This tiny cup...

WANDA:
What about it?

STEVE:
This tiny cup makes even a simple can of soda a meal fit for a king!

WANDA:
No it doesn't, Steve.

STEVE:
I beg to differ, my dear woman! Behold this glass-

WANDA:
It's plastic.

STEVE:
This plastic...goblet filled to overflowing with bubbling brown crude!

WANDA:
Would you stop?

STEVE:
And yet, dear woman, the can.. the CAN remains nearly three-quarters filled! What sorcery is this that gives me so much from so small a thing?

WANDA:
Fluid dynamics.

STEVE:
Pish posh and poppycock! Surely this must the work of a benevolent god, strolling down the street of miracles, doling out... doling out...

WANDA:
Soda?

STEVE:
And how!

He takes a hearty sip!

WANDA:
What the hell is wrong with you?

STEVE:
I don't even know anymore.

A long beat. Steve sips his soda quietly. Wanda sighs.

WANDA:
Okay, fine. It's magic.

STEVE:
Huzzah!

WANDA:
But next time, you have to be the straight man.

STEVE:
Deal.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Word Play

AT RISE:

A MAN.

MAN:
Words.

A WOMAN enters.

WOMAN:
Words.

MAN:
More words.

WOMAN:
More words.

MAN:
Endless stream of words.

WOMAN:
Words considered to be clever when put in a particular order to satisfy the author's intent to prove to the audience that he is a very clever monkey.

MAN:
Words to create a sense of deliberate wit and whimsy, similarly impressing the audience with the author's capacity for humorous thought, without actually making them laugh in the slightest.

WOMAN:
Words that crudely insert a political metaphor into these otherwise straightforward conversational proceedings.

MAN:
Words to draw the attention to said metaphor, again showcasing the author's vast and discerning talent.

A heart plops down from above.

WOMAN:
Well that was overly literal.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Long-Term Absurdism

AT RISE:

A POP TART talks to a DUCK!

POP TART:
Have we done Pop Tarts yet?

DUCK:
I dunno. Ther've been toasters at least. Can't remember if their contents were adequately explored. I know ducks are old hat at this point.

A BEAR enters.

BEAR:
You guys need me for anything?

POP TART:
Nah, we're cool. Thanks though.

BEAR:
Anytime.

DUCK:
Bears have definitely made a few appearances.

POP TART:
Oh yeah. Par for the course.

DUCK:
A bit sad really. Shows a distinct lack of imagination.

A TOASTER STRUDEL and a GOOSE enter. There is a long pause.

TOASTER STRUDEL:
This is awkward.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Element of Surprise

AT RISE:

BEN and ELLEN at a diner.

ELLEN:
So the guy asked me why I broke up with my last boyfriend, and I was all like "Well, I'm like a line segment, and he was a ray, you know? There was no point of intersection for congruent angles." Do you think I came on too strong?

BEN:
Wait, that was supposed to be flirting?

ELLEN:
Yeah.

BEN:
Was the guy a mathematician or something?

ELLEN:
No.

BEN:
Huh. Well then, I think you're in the clear.

ELLEN:
Really?

BEN:
Yeah, but I'm fairly sure he had no idea what you were talking about.

ELLEN:
Oh.
(beat)
I can't talk to boys.

BEN:
Thank you.

ELLEN:
You don't count.

BEN:
Wow, thanks. Now I feel even better.

ELLEN:
Shut up.

BEN:
Hmm, now that I think about it, you are proving your point admirably. Offense negated.

ELLEN:
Thank you.

BEN:
You're welcome.

ELLEN:
I just don't understand why you're supposed to be all flirty or whatever. Why can't talking to guys just be funny?

BEN:
So just having a laid-back, fun conversation, and then...BLAM, romance?

ELLEN:
Exactly.

BEN:
So that'd be what? Like a guy coming up to you and being like: "So two guys walk into a bar, right? And there's this duck sitting there. Also, I love you?"

ELLEN:
Kind of. I guess. But like, with more of a "what the hell?" factor maybe. Like, I want to be blindsided.

BEN:
Ah. Blindsided.

He thinks for a minute.

BEN:
Okay, how's this? A man in a dolphin suit parachutes in through the window of one of your classes, tells a dirty limerick, asks you the time, then jumps back out the window while throwing a frog at your teacher. And when you look back to your textbook, you see that he replaced it with a "Hang In There, Kitty!" motivational poster with the word "Coffee?" scrawled in egg yolk next to his phone number?

ELLEN:
Yeah.
(beat)
This might explain why my previous relationships were so screwed up.

BEN:
Nah. I think it was probably more of a lack of that kind of spontaneity than anything.

ELLEN:
Maybe.

She looks at her watch.

ELLEN:
Bleh, I've gotta go. Don't want to be late for class.

BEN:
Fair enough.

Ellen throws some money on the table.

ELLEN:
I'll give you a call later. We can figure out my new plan of attack.

BEN:
Right. Yeah. Sure thing.

ELLEN:
Bye.

BEN:
Later.

She exits. Ben pokes at his breakfast for a second, then picks up an egg from his plate. He regards it for a second, then takes a cellphone from his pocket and dials.

BEN:
Yes, hello? Who do I speak to about dolphin suit rentals?

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Daily Bread

AT RISE:

The eyeglass lab of a Lenscrafters. It is empty and dark. A small, electronic kitchen timer beeps gently from a tabletop.

The lights flicker on and MARK enters, holding a labcoat draped over one arm. His expression is ambiguous. In no apparent hurry, he dons the labcoat, one arm at a time. The buttons are buttoned with precision and purpose, and not a one is missed. From his front pocket he takes a shiny metal name tag, and places it over his heart.

When the outfit is complete, he gently smooths a stray wrinkle on the front of the coat. He sighs a small sigh, and then, almost dreamlike, he walks over to the kitchen timer, gently picks it up, and hurls it against a wall as hard as he can. The beeping stops.

Mark gets on with his work. After a moment, the phone begins to ring. He ignores it.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Two A.M.

AT RISE:

DOUG and ELENA sit outside a party. There are a few empty cups spread around.

DOUG:
So I was kind of planning on saying something philisophical. You know, about the human condition or something like that.

ELENA:
Oh?

DOUG:
Yeah, it was going to be pretty half-baked. Also rambling.

ELENA:
That does sound like you.

DOUG:
Unfortunately. So, uh... I was wondering if you could find some way to stop me before I make a complete ass out of myself.

ELENA:
Any suggestions?

DOUG:
Not as such. But you had better make it fast, I just thought of something rather banal to say about the Middle East, and-

Elena gently takes his hand.

DOUG:
Yeah. That'll do.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Positive Thinking

AT RISE:

A DUDE at a computer!

DUDE:
"You know what I'm sick of?" he asks himself, being as there is no-one else around that he could be communicating with. And the "I" in that previously sentence is referring of course to me, which might be confusing for anyone who thought I was referring either to an anecdote I was in the middle of when they (whoever "they" might be) first became aware of my current thought process (through what means I could not begin to guess). This clarification is doubly necessary due to my proximity to this computer, which might render statements, such as my first, confusing in terms of their origins, as I might be speaking aloud those words which I am, or have been in the process of typing. I also might be reading something off of its impressively shiny monitor. But none of these are the case, I assert to thin air, perhaps in the hope of nosy neighbors or some sort of "big brother" (the Orwellian nightmare, rather than the all too familiar familial one) type who might be listening to my every word for purposes I have no ability to fathom, perhaps to record them for posterity, more than likely to masturbate to in either a physical or intellectual capacity. But enough of that particular tangentm as I am afraid it is a bit too carefully worn for my personal taste. Innuendo unintentioanl, a point that I feel necessary to make though I am, again, by myself. Perhaps it is the same impulse that causes us to excuse ourselves when we burp alone, or perhaps it is simply a sign of swiftly approaching dementia. But I digress. Do you know what I'm sick of? (Knowing full well that the question is somewhat rhetorical due to his own knowledge of his current thought process).

A beat.

DUDE:
I'm sorry, I was fully intending to continue with the original thesis of my soon-to-be diatribe, but I just realized that the thing I was planning on caomplining about was the amount of complaining and negativity present on the internet, thus unintentionally adding to it. Not that I feel I am on the internet right now, being as I am a person speaking aloud, apparently to himself in a small, enclosed room with four (count em' FOUR) good walls, but I believe the intention still stands and thus I will conclude this, whatever-it-is, with a simple good night, and enjoy your weekends. Thank you.

A beat.

DUDE:
You're welcome?

He sits at the computer.

BLACKOUT. THE END.

The Return

AT RISE:

A MAN and a WOMAN.

MAN:
When one returns to a work in progress after a hiatus, would you say that the expectations for the immediate continuation of said work in progress would be, for the short term at least, higher than normal?

WOMAN:
I would argue that is a valid estimate of human behavior, yes.

MAN:
And yet, very rarely does this expectation seem to be met. I mean, look at Guns N' Roses. 15 years for an album that nobody ended up caring too much about.

WOMAN:
True, almost regardless of its objective quality, the hiatus creates an expectation of quality that is virtually impossible to live up to.

MAN:
And thus, one could argue that there's no point in trying to outdo oneself in these situations.

WOMAN:
That's one way of looking at it. Why?

MAN:
No reason.

They stare at each other deeply for fifteen minutes. And then... clowns!

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Excuses!

Hey internet,

Sorry I've been shirking my duties the past few days. Lack of proper internet and so forth are my excuses of choice! But I'll be making it up with some extra plays this week, so look forward to that! And no, this one doesn't count.

Homecoming, or: Dial Up

AT RISE:

The AUTHOR chips letters into a small piece of bark.

AUTHOR:
...Blackout. The end.

He leans back, smiling the smiley smile of one who has finished a great work.

AUTHOR:
At last! The day's update is complete!

He gives an elaborate whistle, and a messenger bird soars gracefully to his outstretched arm.

AUTHOR:
Well met Bartholomew, my old avian companion. I've a task for you!

The bird chirps happily, as the AUTHOR affixes the bark to its leg with a bit of twine.

AUTHOR:
Now go, Bartholomew, fly! Straight through the night! The update must get through!

The bird takes off in a flash.

AUTHOR:
To the internet with you, my friend! And may the north wind carry you swiftly!

He laughs joyfully. A WOMAN calls from offstage.

WOMAN:
Dinner!

AUTHOR:
Coming, mom!

He exits.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Yes?

AT RISE:

The AUTHOR types furiously!

AUTHOR:
I am writing, fluidly and with great easy! The ideas are fantastic! Everything is fantastic!

A WOMAN enters.

WOMAN:
You've just typed "and" 400 times!

AUTHOR:
It's true! I am a fraud!

WOMAN:
And we all learn a lesson about heroes!

BLACKOUT. THE END.

Fuzzy

AT RISE:

A FROG and a DUCK. Since they have no physical method of anthropomorphic speech, having never mosied down the very specific evolutionary track that led to our development of vocal chords and a nervous system capable of developing language, this play turns out to be very quite.

The Frog shimmies. The Duck makes a half-quack.

Short, too.


BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

News Flash

Using the extremely odd tools available at Xtranormal, I've been diligently animating a few of my favorite short plays. Here's my favorite by far. Check it out! And don't forget to read today's play directly below this post!

Strange Bedfellows

AT RISE:

ALEXANDER THE GREAT stands before a toaster.

ATG:
Toaster! I have ripped apart the very fabric of time and space to withdraw the crispy treasure that resides in your fertile aluminum womb! Do not disappoint!

A ding, and some toast pops up. ALEXANDER THE GREAT takes a hearty bite from the nearest piece. A single tear runs down his mighty cheek.

ATG:
Oh toaster. I love you so bad.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Interweb

AT RISE:

ARTHUR and FRED.

ARTHUR:
The internet is for porn!

FRED:
No, the internet is for navel-gazing!

ARTHUR:
Porn!

FRED:
Navel-gazing!

JILL runs in, as the two men prepare to come to blows.

JILL:
Wait!

They pause.

JILL:
Aren't porn and navel-gazing just tool for masturbation, physical and mental?

ARTHUR:
By God....

FRED:
She's right. The internet...

ARTHUR:
Is for masturbating!

JILL:
Huzzah! The truth revealed!

ALL:
Yah!!

They do a happy little dance, then immediately look guilty and embarassed.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

First Date

AT RISE:

A MAN sits on a swing. A WOMAN sits opposite him, reclining on a see-saw.

MAN:
Hey.

WOMAN:
Hey.

MAN:
You know, this swing is a metaphor.

WOMAN:
It is.

MAN:
Yes.

A beat.

WOMAN:
For your penis?

MAN:
Oh yeah.
(beat)
Big time.

WOMAN:
Really.

MAN:
No.

WOMAN:
Oh.

MAN:
Sorry.

WOMAN:
It's okay.

MAN:
No really, I'm sorry. I mean... I had a metaphor, but that wasn't it. It was about childhood or something. I promise. But then you went off on your little "penis" tirade, and I was just... you know, "going with the flow".

WOMAN:
The penis flow.

MAN:
No, that's just digusting. I'm... you might not be able to tell, but I am appalled right now. Truly appalled.

WOMAN:
Really.

MAN:
No.
(beat)
Can we... start over?

The woman appraises him for a long, long moment. He smiles wanly.

WOMAN:
All right.

MAN:
Yes!

WOMAN:
But I get the swing.

MAN:
Deal!

They switch places.

MAN:
So, this...uh... seeesaw is a metaphor-

WOMAN:
Let's just get some coffee.

MAN:
Right-o.

They exit; awkwardly, but together.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Personal Connection

AT RISE:

The AUTHOR. He's...hangliding, why not. Soaring through the upper stratus on a chute of para. No wait, that's parachuting. He's actually strapped into a harness attached to a metal frame covered in fabric to keep him from plummeting to certain doom. So yeah, hangliding.

AUTHOR:
You done?

Sure.

AUTHOR:
You sure have been chatty lately for what is supposed to be an impersonal device used for description. Cold, cold, emotionless description. Without an opinion or point of view. A tool, serving only the will of the author.

There's no rule that says stage directions can't have personality.

AUTHOR:
Look, forget it, we've already done this joke. But seriously, you didn't even descrive anything in that last sentence. You're just confusing people.

Anyway.

AUTHOR:
Yeah, anyway.
(beat)
Hello world!

A beat, as he takes in the unadulterated love of the world.

AUTHOR:
Ahh. Well, anyway I don't really have much to contribute to the field of electronic dramatic literature today, so i figured I'd just see how y'all were doing. Good?

Beat.

AUTHOR:
Oh, really. I'm sorry to hear that.
(beat)
A goiter, really? Man, that's...
(beat)
Okay, that's just disgusting.
(beat)
No, enough! Enough! I...Ijust can't believe you people! I'm out here every day, working my...No, no I won't let you do this to me, I won't...

He sits.

Still sitting.

You okay?

AUTHOR:
Don't you start up.

Sorry.

AUTHOR:
I was going to tell a story about a kitty. You guys like kitties, right? Or are they not covered in enough festering sores to slake your bloodlust! I mean seriously! Wow. I am never asking you guys how're you're doing again. Keeping this purely professional.

He moves to exit.

AUTHOR:
Alright, Blackout, end play. All that good stuff.

He's now at the end of the stage.

AUTHOR:
It was a really good story, too.
(beat)
Had german potato salad and everything.

He exits.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Tasty

AT RISE:

A MAN wearing sandwiches for gloves. He raises his cursed hands to the heavens and releases a soul-piercing howl.

MAN:
WHAT HATH SCIENCE WROUGHT!?

He ceases his lamentations, out of breath. Quietly, he begins to nibble on the sandwiches.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Domestic

AT RISE:

A MAN sits on a couch. He pets a cat.

MAN:
Kitty! What is best in life?

The cat promptly spits a hairball into the man's lap. They stare at each other for a moment.

MAN:
I would also have accepted: "hugs".

He goes back to petting the cat.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Ensemble

AT RISE:

DOUG, PENNY, GEORGE, MANNY, CECILIA, JOHN, HOPE, GARY, LIZ, BENNY, FELICIA, LAUREN, KELLY, PHIL, and JACOB stand around.

DOUG:
Penny, I love you.

PENNY:
I know Doug. George, I'm pregnant.

GEORGE:
I know, Penny. With my baby! Sorry, Doug.

DOUG:
S'cool. I did, after all, share an elicit cinnamon bun with Cecilia.

CECILIA:
I only agrred to that bun as revenge on Manny for spending every Sunday with Hope!

MANNY:
I was reading her the paper!

HOPE:
I'm blind! Blind because of John!

JOHN:
But it wasn't I who was driving the car that blinded you, Hope! It was Gary!

GARY:
Only because I was drugged...by Liz!

LIZ:
Those drugs were meant for Benny, and you know it!

BENNY:
Thank god I didn't want any iced tea that afternoon.

LIZ:
Of course not, you had spent all morning drinking mojitos with Felicia!

FELICIA:
Only because he happened to walk by my house as I was mixing them on the front porch.

LAUREN:
In the middle of the morning?

FELICIA:
Don't dare judge me, Lauren, not after you drowned my baby!

LAUREN:
That baby was an asshole!

PHIL:
Yes, but it was my asshole baby!

KELLY:
Shut up Phil, we all knew you wanted that baby dead. Then you would have its fortune all to yourself!

PHIL:
Kelly! How could you!

JACOB:
My name is Jacob and I have nothing to add to this conversation!

And they all died.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Dream Ballet

AT RISE:

A MAN draped in a "2008" embroidered toga battles a similarly clad "2009" MAN. It is a totally awesome fight with like, throwing stars, and...and hammers! Throwing hammers! Really a lot of this conflict is acted out vis a vis thrown implements. Also jump kicks. It's quite epic all around.

Finally, 2009 gets the jump on 2008, with a totally sweet sleeper hold. 2008 is down for the count, and 2009 celebrates by tooting gently across his fallen foe's face.

Champgne is uncorked, maidens fair flock the stage and everyone and their mother breathes a sigh of relief that that stupid year has passed.

BLACKOUT. END YEAR.