Cradle the Monster
Melissa Morrison
There are countless words.
Words I can use for that one moment,
that one second
that one instant
where everything became clear.
It was like a flashback from a movie
revealing memory after memory of my life.
I saw the gas spilling out of a tipped jug
not caring what it selfishly destroyed and
I smelled the stagnant aroma of pickled brine.
There was the Crack of a brittle twig, in a silent woods.
So here is the evidence I use to prove against you
How can you deny it?
I demand you,
not to cradle the monster in your hand
to welcome it more.
But I can’t sway you.
You listen only to the monster’s words
So I turn away,
knowing that my life is altered by that
bottle you clench in your hand.
And incased in my chest, I hold a limp heart,
wrinkled and leathery, defeated
from the words of the monster
coming from your mouth.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Short Story--V. 1
The Last Task
Melissa Morrison
I stared at the heavy textbook lying in my hands. I had spent entirely way too much of my high school life pouring over the endless paragraphs and pages of the book, taking notes and filling notebooks cover to cover with note outlines. I had carefully selected key points from every chapter I oh-so-carefully read so I could use them later on for late night cramming before huge fifty point tests. This textbook had pretty much taken away any social life I had had.
The truth was, while most kids dreaded the large spined U.S. History textbooks, I secretly loved them. Well, actually it was more of a love/hate relationship. I loved all the interesting tidbits that I learned so that I could use them to spring on my friends, making me seem super smart. But like any other kid, I hated the extra weight they added to my already bulging backpack and the deadpan drone they used to described the political bosses of the late 1800’s.
But this particular textbook I had grown attached to. It was now, as I held it in my hands that I realized how much I enjoyed reading from it all semester, because whoever the previous owner was, they left little notes here and there for me to read—and yes, I checked inside the front cover for the list of previous owners. As far was the list was concerned, I was the first to use this book even though there had been clearly more owners then just me, judging from the worn look of the front cover.
Most of the time, the notes where funny, saying hello loser! or your breath stinks. Although every once in a while, there were little helpful notes saying this next test is a tricky one!—study extra hard! But best of all, the last owner had left tasks and challenges for me to complete. Once the book challenged me to shout during the middle of the class “It sounds like a spaceship!” What exactly sounded like a spaceship, I have no clue, but I didn’t exactly complete that task as it was written anyways—I only whispered it and no one heard me.
I now opened the book up at random and searched for a page that held a note, memorizing the dare—refer to yourself as “The Ambassador” in third person all day—so when I turned the fat text back to the school in one short week, I could remember the stupid challenges it gave me. Having one last chuckle at the ridiculous task on the page, I then turned to the page of my homework assignment.
Chapter twenty-eight, the sixties.
Last chapter of the year! Almost there!
I smiled at the now familiar writing. Analyzing it, I could tell that the block and square-like lettering was a guy’s hand writing and judging the precision of it, he was probably a neat freak. I could faintly see the place where he had erased an “a” and rewrote it, perfecting the new “a,” computer style—Arial font, size 12.
I turned to the actual chapter and started reading.
I flew through the Kennedy presidency and right on through to the main discussion on the Vietnam War. I was rounding on the last few pages of the chapter when I saw the handwriting of the previous owner. I stopped in the middle of a sentence to read the note in the margins.
Last note. Challenge: go find that one person you’re crazy about and go romantic. Find them and take a chance. I stared at the mocking words. This was one challenge I could not do. I had completed every dare in some way or another but this was the one thing every high schooler dreaded. There was no way I could complete it.
I closed the textbook slowly, forgetting about my unfinished chapter.
Well, there was Nick. He was kinda cute, and I did like him last year and I thought he might have liked me too, but recently there was nothing between us. Then there was also Alex, who was nice and funny and cute, but I wasn’t sure if I was that crazy about him. Jake was nice too, but every day when I sat next to him in Spanish I always noticed his fingernails were too long for a guy and they looked like they had ever received a proper wash. The guy I would probably go after if I were to complete the challenge from the book—not that I was going to—would be…
“You counting down till the end of the first semester, sophomore?”
I could only barely see Joey McCarthy over the top of the car-roof as he looked over at me while he unlocked the car door. I was too short, but I could still see his brown hair that was just starting to grow out from his last summer haircut before winter came. Joey on the other hand was tall and could clearly see over the car and at me.
“What?” I asked, snapping out of my thoughts.
“You counting down for the end of the semester? Because you got a pained expression on your face like you were doing something related to math—and I know how much you hate math, sophomore.”
I rolled my eyes at his nickname for me—true, I was a sophomore, but he was a sophomore just last year too. And I knew the nickname would stick with me next year too—while I’m a junior and he’s a senior.
“I only got a year left of high school after this one, how ‘bout you, Kayla?” He teased.
I rearranged my purse and books in my arms, “Just unlock the damn door, Joey.”
Joey opened the driver’s side door then and unlocked the car from the inside, “Can’t take a joke today, can you?” He joked.
I quickly opened my door and threw all my books and stuff in. I then quickly sat down inside the car, cold from sitting in the school parking lot all day in the winter weather. Joey sat down next to me in the driver’s seat, tossing one of my textbooks at me which had spilled onto his seat before sitting down.
I grabbed the book before it slid off my lap and onto the floor. I set it on my lap; it was my U.S. History textbook.
“Sorry,” Joey muttered as he plugged his iPod into the cigarette lighter. He glanced at the textbook in my lap, “hey, find any other notes in that thing recently?”
I looked at the green textbook. I thought about telling him the most recent one—the one about going for the person I liked—but decided against it. I told him about most of notes, but this last task was too daunting for the average sophomore girl, and I didn’t need to let a junior guy who I had known since I was three know all about it.
I shook my head, “No notes worthy of telling about.”
I looked into the eyes of one of my best friends, Joey McCarthy. His eyes were dark brown and gave a soft warm glow. The combined effect was a feeling of a soft cashmere scarf that seemed to wrap around you when ever his large eyes set upon you.
“Hmm…really,” he pondered.
I nodded uncomfortably, “yeah.”
“You can keep telling yourself that, but it’s not the truth,” he grinned, “I can tell you’re lying.”
I turned away from him, yet I could still feel his eyes on me and myself growing warm—damn cashmere scarf. “Nope, no notes.”
“Let me see the book then.”
“Start the car.”
“Not until I see the book.”
“No.”
“Why is this such a big deal?” He asked.
“It’s not,” I said, picking the book up in my arms and cradling it against my chest. “You’re the one who’s making it a big deal.”
“Just let me see the book.”
Joey then lunged over the armrest at me and reached for the book. I turned away from him towards the window, keeping my back to him. One of his hands fell onto my shoulders and one on my arm. I noticed the warmth that his hands gave—maybe his hands were equivalent to a blanket around your shoulders—or a Snuggly—if you were still going with the idea of winter clothing.
I didn’t move at first but rather enjoyed being in his presence.
“Kayla…”
I could hear my name just barely fall from his lips—what those would be, I’m not sure.
“Kayla… I already know what the last task is anyways.”
I turned around to face Joey and found that his face was a lot closer to my face then I thought it was. “What?”
“I already know what the last challenge is.”
I stared at him dumbfounded, “how can you know that? Did you read it already once before when I first got this book?”
Joey seemed to consider his answer for a second, “no.”
“Then how do you know what it is?”
Joey took a deep breath, “I wrote every one of those notes last year while I was in that class—that I was my book last year.”
“Prove it.”
I didn’t believe him. But it was easy enough to prove. All he had to do was show me what his handwriting looked like—because as long as I had known him, I never really paid attention to what his handwriting looked like.
Joey finally took his hand off my shoulder and reached for my book. I let him pull it out of my embrace and he reached for a pen off the dash board. He opened the front cover of the book and under my name, he wrote his. Joey McCarthy.
I looked at the twelve small letters that made up his name—size 12 font, Arial, computer style. Slowly I looked around his car. There was not a single penny left on the floor or a discarded gum wrapper. The seats and floor were all recently vacuumed and the windows were washed from the inside even—neat freak.
“Tell me what the last task is.” I whispered. “Without looking at it.”
Joey returned the book to me, “Does it have to be word for word?”
“No…?” I wasn’t sure what difference it made, I think I already believed him, but I was just trying to wrap my mind around it.
Joey sighed, “It basically says find the person that you like and actually ask them out.” He shrugged.
“Did you actually do these tasks?” I asked.
“All of them—except one.”
“The last one?”
“Yep.”
I stared at the floor of the car before speaking again. “How’d you know I would get this book?”
Joey scratched his head, “I didn’t—it was just chance that you got it. I was just doing it for fun, and I kinda hoped that if I could complete the other tasks, that I could build up the courage to do the last one.”
I stared at him now and I felt his eyes wrap their warmth around me—that cashmere scarf—and it didn’t matter that the car wasn’t turned on yet with no heater on in the middle of the winter. I just felt his eyes on me.
I knew who I had to take the chance on.
I slowly I set my book aside and inched closer to him and pressed my lips on his.
They were warm—like a cup of coffee between your hands, and they were soft, like the petals of a rose across your face. They weren’t a piece of winter clothing at all. His lips were like the first hint of spring.
Reluctantly I withdrew my lips from his. “Who were you trying to get the courage to ask out last year?” I asked.
Joey smiled—it was like the sun rising on the first day of spring, “You,” he whispered.
And then he kissed me.
Task completed—for both of us.
--------QUESTIONS---------
1. I tend to think my readers are complete idiots and I over explain things, are there any places where I do that in the story?--where?
2. Is the story too choppy and moves too fast?
3. Can you connect with the characters are all? Do they seem a bit flat (cuz I think so), how can I add depth to them?
Melissa Morrison
I stared at the heavy textbook lying in my hands. I had spent entirely way too much of my high school life pouring over the endless paragraphs and pages of the book, taking notes and filling notebooks cover to cover with note outlines. I had carefully selected key points from every chapter I oh-so-carefully read so I could use them later on for late night cramming before huge fifty point tests. This textbook had pretty much taken away any social life I had had.
The truth was, while most kids dreaded the large spined U.S. History textbooks, I secretly loved them. Well, actually it was more of a love/hate relationship. I loved all the interesting tidbits that I learned so that I could use them to spring on my friends, making me seem super smart. But like any other kid, I hated the extra weight they added to my already bulging backpack and the deadpan drone they used to described the political bosses of the late 1800’s.
But this particular textbook I had grown attached to. It was now, as I held it in my hands that I realized how much I enjoyed reading from it all semester, because whoever the previous owner was, they left little notes here and there for me to read—and yes, I checked inside the front cover for the list of previous owners. As far was the list was concerned, I was the first to use this book even though there had been clearly more owners then just me, judging from the worn look of the front cover.
Most of the time, the notes where funny, saying hello loser! or your breath stinks. Although every once in a while, there were little helpful notes saying this next test is a tricky one!—study extra hard! But best of all, the last owner had left tasks and challenges for me to complete. Once the book challenged me to shout during the middle of the class “It sounds like a spaceship!” What exactly sounded like a spaceship, I have no clue, but I didn’t exactly complete that task as it was written anyways—I only whispered it and no one heard me.
I now opened the book up at random and searched for a page that held a note, memorizing the dare—refer to yourself as “The Ambassador” in third person all day—so when I turned the fat text back to the school in one short week, I could remember the stupid challenges it gave me. Having one last chuckle at the ridiculous task on the page, I then turned to the page of my homework assignment.
Chapter twenty-eight, the sixties.
Last chapter of the year! Almost there!
I smiled at the now familiar writing. Analyzing it, I could tell that the block and square-like lettering was a guy’s hand writing and judging the precision of it, he was probably a neat freak. I could faintly see the place where he had erased an “a” and rewrote it, perfecting the new “a,” computer style—Arial font, size 12.
I turned to the actual chapter and started reading.
I flew through the Kennedy presidency and right on through to the main discussion on the Vietnam War. I was rounding on the last few pages of the chapter when I saw the handwriting of the previous owner. I stopped in the middle of a sentence to read the note in the margins.
Last note. Challenge: go find that one person you’re crazy about and go romantic. Find them and take a chance. I stared at the mocking words. This was one challenge I could not do. I had completed every dare in some way or another but this was the one thing every high schooler dreaded. There was no way I could complete it.
I closed the textbook slowly, forgetting about my unfinished chapter.
Well, there was Nick. He was kinda cute, and I did like him last year and I thought he might have liked me too, but recently there was nothing between us. Then there was also Alex, who was nice and funny and cute, but I wasn’t sure if I was that crazy about him. Jake was nice too, but every day when I sat next to him in Spanish I always noticed his fingernails were too long for a guy and they looked like they had ever received a proper wash. The guy I would probably go after if I were to complete the challenge from the book—not that I was going to—would be…
“You counting down till the end of the first semester, sophomore?”
I could only barely see Joey McCarthy over the top of the car-roof as he looked over at me while he unlocked the car door. I was too short, but I could still see his brown hair that was just starting to grow out from his last summer haircut before winter came. Joey on the other hand was tall and could clearly see over the car and at me.
“What?” I asked, snapping out of my thoughts.
“You counting down for the end of the semester? Because you got a pained expression on your face like you were doing something related to math—and I know how much you hate math, sophomore.”
I rolled my eyes at his nickname for me—true, I was a sophomore, but he was a sophomore just last year too. And I knew the nickname would stick with me next year too—while I’m a junior and he’s a senior.
“I only got a year left of high school after this one, how ‘bout you, Kayla?” He teased.
I rearranged my purse and books in my arms, “Just unlock the damn door, Joey.”
Joey opened the driver’s side door then and unlocked the car from the inside, “Can’t take a joke today, can you?” He joked.
I quickly opened my door and threw all my books and stuff in. I then quickly sat down inside the car, cold from sitting in the school parking lot all day in the winter weather. Joey sat down next to me in the driver’s seat, tossing one of my textbooks at me which had spilled onto his seat before sitting down.
I grabbed the book before it slid off my lap and onto the floor. I set it on my lap; it was my U.S. History textbook.
“Sorry,” Joey muttered as he plugged his iPod into the cigarette lighter. He glanced at the textbook in my lap, “hey, find any other notes in that thing recently?”
I looked at the green textbook. I thought about telling him the most recent one—the one about going for the person I liked—but decided against it. I told him about most of notes, but this last task was too daunting for the average sophomore girl, and I didn’t need to let a junior guy who I had known since I was three know all about it.
I shook my head, “No notes worthy of telling about.”
I looked into the eyes of one of my best friends, Joey McCarthy. His eyes were dark brown and gave a soft warm glow. The combined effect was a feeling of a soft cashmere scarf that seemed to wrap around you when ever his large eyes set upon you.
“Hmm…really,” he pondered.
I nodded uncomfortably, “yeah.”
“You can keep telling yourself that, but it’s not the truth,” he grinned, “I can tell you’re lying.”
I turned away from him, yet I could still feel his eyes on me and myself growing warm—damn cashmere scarf. “Nope, no notes.”
“Let me see the book then.”
“Start the car.”
“Not until I see the book.”
“No.”
“Why is this such a big deal?” He asked.
“It’s not,” I said, picking the book up in my arms and cradling it against my chest. “You’re the one who’s making it a big deal.”
“Just let me see the book.”
Joey then lunged over the armrest at me and reached for the book. I turned away from him towards the window, keeping my back to him. One of his hands fell onto my shoulders and one on my arm. I noticed the warmth that his hands gave—maybe his hands were equivalent to a blanket around your shoulders—or a Snuggly—if you were still going with the idea of winter clothing.
I didn’t move at first but rather enjoyed being in his presence.
“Kayla…”
I could hear my name just barely fall from his lips—what those would be, I’m not sure.
“Kayla… I already know what the last task is anyways.”
I turned around to face Joey and found that his face was a lot closer to my face then I thought it was. “What?”
“I already know what the last challenge is.”
I stared at him dumbfounded, “how can you know that? Did you read it already once before when I first got this book?”
Joey seemed to consider his answer for a second, “no.”
“Then how do you know what it is?”
Joey took a deep breath, “I wrote every one of those notes last year while I was in that class—that I was my book last year.”
“Prove it.”
I didn’t believe him. But it was easy enough to prove. All he had to do was show me what his handwriting looked like—because as long as I had known him, I never really paid attention to what his handwriting looked like.
Joey finally took his hand off my shoulder and reached for my book. I let him pull it out of my embrace and he reached for a pen off the dash board. He opened the front cover of the book and under my name, he wrote his. Joey McCarthy.
I looked at the twelve small letters that made up his name—size 12 font, Arial, computer style. Slowly I looked around his car. There was not a single penny left on the floor or a discarded gum wrapper. The seats and floor were all recently vacuumed and the windows were washed from the inside even—neat freak.
“Tell me what the last task is.” I whispered. “Without looking at it.”
Joey returned the book to me, “Does it have to be word for word?”
“No…?” I wasn’t sure what difference it made, I think I already believed him, but I was just trying to wrap my mind around it.
Joey sighed, “It basically says find the person that you like and actually ask them out.” He shrugged.
“Did you actually do these tasks?” I asked.
“All of them—except one.”
“The last one?”
“Yep.”
I stared at the floor of the car before speaking again. “How’d you know I would get this book?”
Joey scratched his head, “I didn’t—it was just chance that you got it. I was just doing it for fun, and I kinda hoped that if I could complete the other tasks, that I could build up the courage to do the last one.”
I stared at him now and I felt his eyes wrap their warmth around me—that cashmere scarf—and it didn’t matter that the car wasn’t turned on yet with no heater on in the middle of the winter. I just felt his eyes on me.
I knew who I had to take the chance on.
I slowly I set my book aside and inched closer to him and pressed my lips on his.
They were warm—like a cup of coffee between your hands, and they were soft, like the petals of a rose across your face. They weren’t a piece of winter clothing at all. His lips were like the first hint of spring.
Reluctantly I withdrew my lips from his. “Who were you trying to get the courage to ask out last year?” I asked.
Joey smiled—it was like the sun rising on the first day of spring, “You,” he whispered.
And then he kissed me.
Task completed—for both of us.
--------QUESTIONS---------
1. I tend to think my readers are complete idiots and I over explain things, are there any places where I do that in the story?--where?
2. Is the story too choppy and moves too fast?
3. Can you connect with the characters are all? Do they seem a bit flat (cuz I think so), how can I add depth to them?
Monday, January 4, 2010
Time my World Changed V. 3
Cradle the Monster
Melissa Morrison
There are countless words.
Words I can use for that one moment,
that one second
that one instant
where everything became clear.
It was like a flashback from a movie
revealing memory after memory of my life.
I saw the gas spilling out of a tipped jug
not caring what it selfishly destroyed and
I smelled the stagnant aroma of pickled brine.
There was the Crack of a brittle twig, in a silent woods.
So here is the evidence I use to prove against you
How can you deny it?
I demand you,
not to cradle the monster in your hand
to welcome it more.
But I can’t sway you.
You listen only to the monster’s words
So I turn away,
knowing that my life is altered by that
bottle you clench in your hand.
And incased in my chest, I hold a limp heart,
wrinkled and leathery, defeated
from the words of the monster
coming from your mouth.
Melissa Morrison
There are countless words.
Words I can use for that one moment,
that one second
that one instant
where everything became clear.
It was like a flashback from a movie
revealing memory after memory of my life.
I saw the gas spilling out of a tipped jug
not caring what it selfishly destroyed and
I smelled the stagnant aroma of pickled brine.
There was the Crack of a brittle twig, in a silent woods.
So here is the evidence I use to prove against you
How can you deny it?
I demand you,
not to cradle the monster in your hand
to welcome it more.
But I can’t sway you.
You listen only to the monster’s words
So I turn away,
knowing that my life is altered by that
bottle you clench in your hand.
And incased in my chest, I hold a limp heart,
wrinkled and leathery, defeated
from the words of the monster
coming from your mouth.
Monday, December 14, 2009
What I Needed to Say--V. 1
Only then can I know you,
Melissa Morrison
I see a foggy and dewy morning,
a wall of liquid smoke.
The morning is cold like a spring snow
and the fog is unbreachable.
I know that once the sun rises,
clear over the horizon like
the sound of a rising bell,
that it will burn the fog off,
like a match to a gasoline glaze.
But until that veil of fog lifts,
I can’t see onto that stage
That stage where your story plays
unwinding, unfolding, being retold.
I can’t see you, I can’t see you.
So I will have to wait,
wait until I can meet you again,
Where the sun reaches its most golden point
and the moon seeks its most haunting voice.
Only then can I know you.
For now, I wish I could love you more.
--------------QUESTIONS-------------
1. Does my poem have a nice flow to it?
2. Is there anywhere i could improve it?
Melissa Morrison
I see a foggy and dewy morning,
a wall of liquid smoke.
The morning is cold like a spring snow
and the fog is unbreachable.
I know that once the sun rises,
clear over the horizon like
the sound of a rising bell,
that it will burn the fog off,
like a match to a gasoline glaze.
But until that veil of fog lifts,
I can’t see onto that stage
That stage where your story plays
unwinding, unfolding, being retold.
I can’t see you, I can’t see you.
So I will have to wait,
wait until I can meet you again,
Where the sun reaches its most golden point
and the moon seeks its most haunting voice.
Only then can I know you.
For now, I wish I could love you more.
--------------QUESTIONS-------------
1. Does my poem have a nice flow to it?
2. Is there anywhere i could improve it?
A Time My World Changed--V. 2
This is totally different from my first version, but the same concept except its just less obvious. Feel free to re-read my first version and tell me if you like the first one or this one better. But I like this one better soo... here is version two:
Cradle the Monster
Melissa Morrison
Revelation
Realization
Comprehension
Understanding
Coming into light.
All words I can use for that one moment,
that one second
that one instant
where everything became clear.
It was like a flashback from a movie
revealing memory after memory of my life.
I saw the gas spilling out of a tipped jug
not caring what it selfishly destroyed and
I smelled the stagnant aroma of pickled brine.
There was the Crack of a brittle twig, in a silent woods.
Here is the evidence used to prove against you
How can you deny it?
I beg you.
not to cradle the monster in your hand
to welcome it more.
But I can’t sway you.
So I turn away,
Knowing that my life isn’t the same.
There you hold the bottle in your hand.
and incased my chest, I hold a limp heart,
wrinkled and leathery, defeated.
Cradle the Monster
Melissa Morrison
Revelation
Realization
Comprehension
Understanding
Coming into light.
All words I can use for that one moment,
that one second
that one instant
where everything became clear.
It was like a flashback from a movie
revealing memory after memory of my life.
I saw the gas spilling out of a tipped jug
not caring what it selfishly destroyed and
I smelled the stagnant aroma of pickled brine.
There was the Crack of a brittle twig, in a silent woods.
Here is the evidence used to prove against you
How can you deny it?
I beg you.
not to cradle the monster in your hand
to welcome it more.
But I can’t sway you.
So I turn away,
Knowing that my life isn’t the same.
There you hold the bottle in your hand.
and incased my chest, I hold a limp heart,
wrinkled and leathery, defeated.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Ten Minute Play--Final Draft
Roger and Ashburn
ASHBURN, SOPHIE, and WALLIS (all three of them are cops) along with a group of about five or six police officers stand hidden around the side of a building, occasionally peering around the corner of the building to look at the trashed and deserted street.
SOPHIE
[Looking around the corner of the building]
Are you sure he’ll come?
ASHBURN
I’ve seen him walk down this street everyday for the past week—chill, he’ll come. We still got four minutes until he should arrive.
SOPHIE
But what if he decides to take a different way home today?
ASHBURN
[Gives SOPHIE a stern look.]
SOPHIE
Fine, but let’s just go through the procedure one more time, okay? So, what’s your story?
ASHBURN
Alright, so I’ll go sit on the corner of the street disguised as a drunken, homeless bum—a drunken ex-CIA agent bum that is. Then, when he comes down the street, I’ll convince him to come over.
SOPHIE
Why a drunk ex-CIA agent? That is so random!
ASHBURN
I don’t know, it just sounds so much more…tragic!
SOPHIE
Okay, whatever. So how will you get him to come over?
ASHBURN
I’ll ask him to paint me, and if he doesn’t do that, I’ll start cussing him out and even attack him if I must. Once I’ve gotten him to come over and he’s over and distracted, I’ll grab his sketchbook and you guys will move in.
SOPHIE
Yes, make sure to get the sketchbook. It has all his plans and diaries about the murders in there. It’s going be the key evidence in the trial.
ASHBURN
Yeah, I know.
SOPHIE
[Smiles mischievously]
That scum bag is so going down for murder today! We’ve been chasing him around long enough—following his stupid clues all over the county!
ASHBURN
Yep, today’s the day. How much time do I have?
WALLIS
One minute till he comes, Ashburn.
SOPHIE
[Straightens ASHBURN’S ragged coat]
Okay, well you better go—oh wait! Where’s your props?
[RANDOM POLICE OFFICER hands a bottle of beer to SOPHIE]
SOPHIE
[Looks at beer bottle, jokes]
Hey, who opened this and took a drink?—you know we’re not supposed to drink while on duty!
[Group of police officers chuckle.]
SOPHIE
[Hands beer bottle to ASHBURN.]
Here and good luck!
ASHBURN
[Gives SOPHIE a peck on the cheek]
Thanks honey cakes!
WALLIS
[Moans]
Seriously?
ASHBURN
[Ignores WALLIS]
Okay, gotta go.
[ASHBURN leaves the group of police officers and walks onto the street and sits down on the curb. Just coming into view from around the corner (or offstage) is ROGER along with an armful of art supplies. ROGER comes closer to ASHBURN and looks disgusted but also a little worried for his safety at the sight of a drunken homeless person.]
ASHBURN
[Squinting up at ROGER, speaks in a drunken tone.]
What chu looking at fool? Never seen a man down on his luck?
ROGER
[Alarmed]
I…uh…um… nothing…?
ASHBURN
[Takes a swig of beer.]
You what I think? You should come down here and paint a picture of me so yous knows what it’s like to be down on yous luck and to look into the face of a man who has nothing!
ROGER
[Readjusting his art utensils in his arm and trying to edge away from ASHBURN, concerned.]
Ah…I’m sorry, I just really don’t have the time…I gotta go, sorry, but I really do.
ASHBURN
[Getting up and starting towards ROGER]
Justa quick one! A quick painting! That’s all I ask for!
ROGER
[Puts up his hands]
Okay okay! I will! Just calm down!
[ASHBURN sits down and pretends take another sip of beer]
ROGER
[Starts to set up his easel and art supplies in front of ASHBURN]
I guess I could paint you… I mean, I’m an artist and I was looking for inspiration for my next art piece and when I saw you, I just thought ‘wow, now there’s a story that speaks’—but I didn’t want to paint you without your permission but then you just kind of freaked out on me... [Mumbles on]
ASHBURN
[Sarcastic]
Really? You think that an old drunk ex-CIA agent is worth painting?
ROGER
Yeah. You know, you got a story that just speaks—that tells of hard times.
ASHBURN
[Looks confused]
So you say I gots a face that speaks?
ROGER
[Nods]
ASHBURN
Always wanted to be painted... So do I get some of dat money—or at least half your earning when you make it big on dat painting of me?
ROGER
[Chuckles]
Well, I doubt I will ever make it big—or if I do, I won’t be alive to see it—but sure, maybe I will.
ASHBURN
[Seems to consider ROGER’S words]
Now dat’s real nice.
[ROGER paints in silence for a while and ASHBURN pretends to slip his beer]
ROGER
So you’re an ex-CIA agent did you say?
ASHBURN
Yeah…
ROGER
You’re not anymore? What happened?—you look too young to have retired.
ASHBURN
[Looks over to SOPHIE who is peeking around the corner, mouths ‘what do I tell him?’]
SOPHIE
[Mouths back ‘I don’t know, just make something up!’]
ASHBURN
[Looks off into the distance, preparing himself to tell an epic tale]
Well...once upon a time…when I was just a young man, I was working in the CIA. Then one day as I did my usual work—no I’m not telling you what really goes on in the CIA—I saw the most beautiful woman I ever laid eyes on. Her hair was a deep chestnut brown and her skin smooth as the petals of a white rose.
ROGER
[Watches as ASHBURN’S eyes get glassy with tears]
What was her name?
ASHBURN
Her name was Sophie and she could figure a code out in five minutes while you hadn’t even started because you were too busy staring into her doe-like brown eyes. Of course, fool that I am, I fell in love with her, but then I got sent on a mission to Paris—no I ain’t telling you what that mission was!—and I didn’t see her for a very long time.
ROGER
How was Paris? What was it like?
ASHBURN
Lonely—because I missed Sophie. I planned to propose to her once I got back to the States.
ROGER
Did you?—propose to her I mean?
ASHBURN
Now hold on! So I was in Paris, and my dear Sophie decides to surprise me by coming to visit. Well, she saw me talking to a lady co-worker and thinks something is going on between us. So she screams at me, calls me names, throws caviar in my face and leaves!
ROGER
So she just left? She didn’t give you time to explain?
ASHBURN
Nope. She just left.
ROGER
So you never got the chance to propose?
ASHBURN
Nope. And I was so thorn up I couldn’t concentrate on my work anymore—plus, I knew once I got back to the U.S. again, I wouldn’t be able to handle going to work and seeing Sophie there again. So I quit.
ROGER
I’m sorry. How long ago was this?
ASHBURN
Two years.
ROGER
That’s bad a turn of luck man.
ASHBURN
But you know what? It’s okay now—because you have found me and you will make me millions off your painting of me. It will be called “A…A…
[Raises he beer bottle in excitement for naming his painting]
“A painting of a Heart Broken Drunk Ex-CIA Agent!”
ROGER
[Trying not to dampen ASHBURN’S excitement]
Wow. That’s really great.
ASHBURN
Perfection…
ROGER
That it is.
ASHBURN
So what’s your story, Mr. Starving Artist?
ROGER
Oh just the usual story. I want to become an artist, my parents don’t support me. I go on my own; I fail at making a living. So here I am painting ex-CIA Agents.
ASHBURN
You mean you’ve painted other ex-CIA agents? I’m not the first one?
[Looks disappointed]
ROGER
No no no no! You are the first ex-CIA agent I’ve ever painted.
ASHBURN
Well, good. I was kinda worried there—didn’t know how many ex-CIA agents there were trying to steal my opportunities to get painted and make fortunes!
[Points at a sketch book at ROGER’S side]
Could I take a looksie at your sketch book?
ROGER
[Snaps]
Sit still.
ASHBURN
Can’t I just see your sketch book?
ROGER
No, you’re a homeless bum! If I let you see it, you’re just gonna run off with it!
ASHBURN
Just let me see it man!
ROGER
I’m sorry; I can’t let you see it.
ASHBURN
[Lunges for the book and grabs it, rolling away from ROGER with the sketch book in hand. Getting a safe distance away, he stands up and whistles]
ROGER
[Snaps]
Sit down! What are you doing?
[The police officers come running out and surround ROGER and ASHBURN]
ASHBURN
[Losses drunken slur]
I’m not really a homeless drunk ex-CIA agent, I’m been trying to catch your worthless butt for awhile now. Boys, I got him.
ROGER
[Paints sloppily]
What the hell is going on? What the hell is this?
ASHBURN
You’re under arrest for the murder of ten people. You have the right to remain silent.
ROGER
[Yells]
I didn’t kill nobody!
RANDOM COP
We’ll remember you said that mister.
[Pulls ROGER up from his painting.]
Back up to the building. Put your hands up!
WALLIS
They’re playing my song! The butterflies fly away, nodding my head like—
ASHBURN
Shut Wallis!
WALLIS
Yeah…
[SOPHIE makes her way through the crowd of officers]
SOPHIE
[Takes sketch book from ASHBURN]
Well done, Ashburn—and very touching story.
ASHBURN
Pretty good story for being made on the spot.
WALLIS
[Sarcastic]
I cried.
[ROGER gets handcuffed by a cop.]
WALLIS
[Walks over to the painting of ASHBURN, sarcastically]
That’s a nice painting of you Ashburn. I think we should keep it in the office
[The group of cops all move to stand behind ROGER’S painting.]
ASHBURN
[Leans into painting to get a closer look at the painting.]
Shut up.
WALLIS
No, it’s really nice.
[The painting is hastily done and not much better than a stick drawing or something done by a first-grader]
ASHBURN
[Walks away from the painting]
Alright, let’s put this loser away!
SOPHIE
[Standing off to the side and flipping through the pages of ROGER’S sketchbook.]
Wait, look. Roger isn’t the one who murdered all those people— he’s been framed or else he was only an accomplice.
[Everyone—except ROGER—focuses their attention of the sketchbook and WALLIS starts to slowly and discreetly creep away.]
ASHBURN
What do you mean? How do you know?
SOPHIE
We thought we were tracking Roger the whole time and that this book was his plans,but these are instructions to Roger from someone else.
ASHBURN
What!?
[Snatches sketchbook and waves it in ROGER’S face, yelling]
Is what she said true!?
ROGER
[Nods]
SOPHIE
[Calmly walks over to ASHBURN and takes the sketchbook back, starting to flip through the pages again]
Wait, all the signatures under the instructions say The Walrus—like some kind of code name.
ASHBURN
[Angrily grabs ROGER by the jacket and lifts him off the ground]
Who is The Walrus!?—do you know who he is!?
ROGER
[Nods slowly and points]
[ASHBURN and everyone else slowly turn to look where ROGER pointed, but no one is there]
SOPHIE
[Softly]
Who…?
ASHBURN
[Softly and slowly]
Wallis’s favorite song is “I am the Walrus” by the Beatles…
SOPHIE
And Wallis is… [Looks around] …not here.
ASHBURN
[Softly
“I am the Walrus” by the Beatles starts to play from an police officer’s walkie-talkie, starting out soft and slowly getting louder and louder. The officer takes the walkie-talkie off his belt and stares at it, curious.]
ASHBURN
[Shocked]
Wallis…wow. I can’t believe it.
SOPHIE
Looks like we have to go to Liverpool to catch him—that’s where the Beatles originated and this is probably his clue. He’s going there next.
ASHBURN
[Weakly]
Let’s do this.
[Songs and lights start to softly fade, getting quieter and darker till you can no longer hear the song or see the characters.]
ASHBURN, SOPHIE, and WALLIS (all three of them are cops) along with a group of about five or six police officers stand hidden around the side of a building, occasionally peering around the corner of the building to look at the trashed and deserted street.
SOPHIE
[Looking around the corner of the building]
Are you sure he’ll come?
ASHBURN
I’ve seen him walk down this street everyday for the past week—chill, he’ll come. We still got four minutes until he should arrive.
SOPHIE
But what if he decides to take a different way home today?
ASHBURN
[Gives SOPHIE a stern look.]
SOPHIE
Fine, but let’s just go through the procedure one more time, okay? So, what’s your story?
ASHBURN
Alright, so I’ll go sit on the corner of the street disguised as a drunken, homeless bum—a drunken ex-CIA agent bum that is. Then, when he comes down the street, I’ll convince him to come over.
SOPHIE
Why a drunk ex-CIA agent? That is so random!
ASHBURN
I don’t know, it just sounds so much more…tragic!
SOPHIE
Okay, whatever. So how will you get him to come over?
ASHBURN
I’ll ask him to paint me, and if he doesn’t do that, I’ll start cussing him out and even attack him if I must. Once I’ve gotten him to come over and he’s over and distracted, I’ll grab his sketchbook and you guys will move in.
SOPHIE
Yes, make sure to get the sketchbook. It has all his plans and diaries about the murders in there. It’s going be the key evidence in the trial.
ASHBURN
Yeah, I know.
SOPHIE
[Smiles mischievously]
That scum bag is so going down for murder today! We’ve been chasing him around long enough—following his stupid clues all over the county!
ASHBURN
Yep, today’s the day. How much time do I have?
WALLIS
One minute till he comes, Ashburn.
SOPHIE
[Straightens ASHBURN’S ragged coat]
Okay, well you better go—oh wait! Where’s your props?
[RANDOM POLICE OFFICER hands a bottle of beer to SOPHIE]
SOPHIE
[Looks at beer bottle, jokes]
Hey, who opened this and took a drink?—you know we’re not supposed to drink while on duty!
[Group of police officers chuckle.]
SOPHIE
[Hands beer bottle to ASHBURN.]
Here and good luck!
ASHBURN
[Gives SOPHIE a peck on the cheek]
Thanks honey cakes!
WALLIS
[Moans]
Seriously?
ASHBURN
[Ignores WALLIS]
Okay, gotta go.
[ASHBURN leaves the group of police officers and walks onto the street and sits down on the curb. Just coming into view from around the corner (or offstage) is ROGER along with an armful of art supplies. ROGER comes closer to ASHBURN and looks disgusted but also a little worried for his safety at the sight of a drunken homeless person.]
ASHBURN
[Squinting up at ROGER, speaks in a drunken tone.]
What chu looking at fool? Never seen a man down on his luck?
ROGER
[Alarmed]
I…uh…um… nothing…?
ASHBURN
[Takes a swig of beer.]
You what I think? You should come down here and paint a picture of me so yous knows what it’s like to be down on yous luck and to look into the face of a man who has nothing!
ROGER
[Readjusting his art utensils in his arm and trying to edge away from ASHBURN, concerned.]
Ah…I’m sorry, I just really don’t have the time…I gotta go, sorry, but I really do.
ASHBURN
[Getting up and starting towards ROGER]
Justa quick one! A quick painting! That’s all I ask for!
ROGER
[Puts up his hands]
Okay okay! I will! Just calm down!
[ASHBURN sits down and pretends take another sip of beer]
ROGER
[Starts to set up his easel and art supplies in front of ASHBURN]
I guess I could paint you… I mean, I’m an artist and I was looking for inspiration for my next art piece and when I saw you, I just thought ‘wow, now there’s a story that speaks’—but I didn’t want to paint you without your permission but then you just kind of freaked out on me... [Mumbles on]
ASHBURN
[Sarcastic]
Really? You think that an old drunk ex-CIA agent is worth painting?
ROGER
Yeah. You know, you got a story that just speaks—that tells of hard times.
ASHBURN
[Looks confused]
So you say I gots a face that speaks?
ROGER
[Nods]
ASHBURN
Always wanted to be painted... So do I get some of dat money—or at least half your earning when you make it big on dat painting of me?
ROGER
[Chuckles]
Well, I doubt I will ever make it big—or if I do, I won’t be alive to see it—but sure, maybe I will.
ASHBURN
[Seems to consider ROGER’S words]
Now dat’s real nice.
[ROGER paints in silence for a while and ASHBURN pretends to slip his beer]
ROGER
So you’re an ex-CIA agent did you say?
ASHBURN
Yeah…
ROGER
You’re not anymore? What happened?—you look too young to have retired.
ASHBURN
[Looks over to SOPHIE who is peeking around the corner, mouths ‘what do I tell him?’]
SOPHIE
[Mouths back ‘I don’t know, just make something up!’]
ASHBURN
[Looks off into the distance, preparing himself to tell an epic tale]
Well...once upon a time…when I was just a young man, I was working in the CIA. Then one day as I did my usual work—no I’m not telling you what really goes on in the CIA—I saw the most beautiful woman I ever laid eyes on. Her hair was a deep chestnut brown and her skin smooth as the petals of a white rose.
ROGER
[Watches as ASHBURN’S eyes get glassy with tears]
What was her name?
ASHBURN
Her name was Sophie and she could figure a code out in five minutes while you hadn’t even started because you were too busy staring into her doe-like brown eyes. Of course, fool that I am, I fell in love with her, but then I got sent on a mission to Paris—no I ain’t telling you what that mission was!—and I didn’t see her for a very long time.
ROGER
How was Paris? What was it like?
ASHBURN
Lonely—because I missed Sophie. I planned to propose to her once I got back to the States.
ROGER
Did you?—propose to her I mean?
ASHBURN
Now hold on! So I was in Paris, and my dear Sophie decides to surprise me by coming to visit. Well, she saw me talking to a lady co-worker and thinks something is going on between us. So she screams at me, calls me names, throws caviar in my face and leaves!
ROGER
So she just left? She didn’t give you time to explain?
ASHBURN
Nope. She just left.
ROGER
So you never got the chance to propose?
ASHBURN
Nope. And I was so thorn up I couldn’t concentrate on my work anymore—plus, I knew once I got back to the U.S. again, I wouldn’t be able to handle going to work and seeing Sophie there again. So I quit.
ROGER
I’m sorry. How long ago was this?
ASHBURN
Two years.
ROGER
That’s bad a turn of luck man.
ASHBURN
But you know what? It’s okay now—because you have found me and you will make me millions off your painting of me. It will be called “A…A…
[Raises he beer bottle in excitement for naming his painting]
“A painting of a Heart Broken Drunk Ex-CIA Agent!”
ROGER
[Trying not to dampen ASHBURN’S excitement]
Wow. That’s really great.
ASHBURN
Perfection…
ROGER
That it is.
ASHBURN
So what’s your story, Mr. Starving Artist?
ROGER
Oh just the usual story. I want to become an artist, my parents don’t support me. I go on my own; I fail at making a living. So here I am painting ex-CIA Agents.
ASHBURN
You mean you’ve painted other ex-CIA agents? I’m not the first one?
[Looks disappointed]
ROGER
No no no no! You are the first ex-CIA agent I’ve ever painted.
ASHBURN
Well, good. I was kinda worried there—didn’t know how many ex-CIA agents there were trying to steal my opportunities to get painted and make fortunes!
[Points at a sketch book at ROGER’S side]
Could I take a looksie at your sketch book?
ROGER
[Snaps]
Sit still.
ASHBURN
Can’t I just see your sketch book?
ROGER
No, you’re a homeless bum! If I let you see it, you’re just gonna run off with it!
ASHBURN
Just let me see it man!
ROGER
I’m sorry; I can’t let you see it.
ASHBURN
[Lunges for the book and grabs it, rolling away from ROGER with the sketch book in hand. Getting a safe distance away, he stands up and whistles]
ROGER
[Snaps]
Sit down! What are you doing?
[The police officers come running out and surround ROGER and ASHBURN]
ASHBURN
[Losses drunken slur]
I’m not really a homeless drunk ex-CIA agent, I’m been trying to catch your worthless butt for awhile now. Boys, I got him.
ROGER
[Paints sloppily]
What the hell is going on? What the hell is this?
ASHBURN
You’re under arrest for the murder of ten people. You have the right to remain silent.
ROGER
[Yells]
I didn’t kill nobody!
RANDOM COP
We’ll remember you said that mister.
[Pulls ROGER up from his painting.]
Back up to the building. Put your hands up!
WALLIS
They’re playing my song! The butterflies fly away, nodding my head like—
ASHBURN
Shut Wallis!
WALLIS
Yeah…
[SOPHIE makes her way through the crowd of officers]
SOPHIE
[Takes sketch book from ASHBURN]
Well done, Ashburn—and very touching story.
ASHBURN
Pretty good story for being made on the spot.
WALLIS
[Sarcastic]
I cried.
[ROGER gets handcuffed by a cop.]
WALLIS
[Walks over to the painting of ASHBURN, sarcastically]
That’s a nice painting of you Ashburn. I think we should keep it in the office
[The group of cops all move to stand behind ROGER’S painting.]
ASHBURN
[Leans into painting to get a closer look at the painting.]
Shut up.
WALLIS
No, it’s really nice.
[The painting is hastily done and not much better than a stick drawing or something done by a first-grader]
ASHBURN
[Walks away from the painting]
Alright, let’s put this loser away!
SOPHIE
[Standing off to the side and flipping through the pages of ROGER’S sketchbook.]
Wait, look. Roger isn’t the one who murdered all those people— he’s been framed or else he was only an accomplice.
[Everyone—except ROGER—focuses their attention of the sketchbook and WALLIS starts to slowly and discreetly creep away.]
ASHBURN
What do you mean? How do you know?
SOPHIE
We thought we were tracking Roger the whole time and that this book was his plans,but these are instructions to Roger from someone else.
ASHBURN
What!?
[Snatches sketchbook and waves it in ROGER’S face, yelling]
Is what she said true!?
ROGER
[Nods]
SOPHIE
[Calmly walks over to ASHBURN and takes the sketchbook back, starting to flip through the pages again]
Wait, all the signatures under the instructions say The Walrus—like some kind of code name.
ASHBURN
[Angrily grabs ROGER by the jacket and lifts him off the ground]
Who is The Walrus!?—do you know who he is!?
ROGER
[Nods slowly and points]
[ASHBURN and everyone else slowly turn to look where ROGER pointed, but no one is there]
SOPHIE
[Softly]
Who…?
ASHBURN
[Softly and slowly]
Wallis’s favorite song is “I am the Walrus” by the Beatles…
SOPHIE
And Wallis is… [Looks around] …not here.
ASHBURN
[Softly
“I am the Walrus” by the Beatles starts to play from an police officer’s walkie-talkie, starting out soft and slowly getting louder and louder. The officer takes the walkie-talkie off his belt and stares at it, curious.]
ASHBURN
[Shocked]
Wallis…wow. I can’t believe it.
SOPHIE
Looks like we have to go to Liverpool to catch him—that’s where the Beatles originated and this is probably his clue. He’s going there next.
ASHBURN
[Weakly]
Let’s do this.
[Songs and lights start to softly fade, getting quieter and darker till you can no longer hear the song or see the characters.]
Monday, November 23, 2009
Ten Minute Play--FIRST DRAFT
ROGER—a struggling artist is wandering the garbage strewn street looking for inspiration for his next piece of art. Spying a drunk sitting on the street corner—ASHBURN, he strikes inspiration.
ASHBURN
[Squinting up at ROGER]
What chu looking at fool? Never seen a man down on his luck?
ROGER
[Readjusting his art utensils in his arms]
Nothing. It’s just that, I’m an artist and I was looking for inspiration for my next art piece and when I saw you, I just thought ‘wow, now there’s a story that speaks’.
ASHBURN
[Sarcastic]
Really? You think that an old drunk ex-CIA agent is worth painting?
ROGER
[Sitting down on curb next to ASHBURN]
Yeah. You know, you got a story that just speaks—that tells of hard times.
ASHBURN
[Looks confused]
So you say I gots a face that speaks?
ROGER
[Nods]
ASHBURN
So if I let you paint me, do I get some money—or at least half your earning when you make it big?
ROGER
[Chuckles]
Well, I doubt I will ever make it big—or if I do, I won’t be alive to see it—but if I do, sure, maybe I will.
ASHBURN
[Seems to consider ROGER’S words]
Awhh sure. You can paint me if that’s what you want to do.
ROGER
Great.
[Starts to set up painting easel]
So you’re an ex-CIA agent?
ASHBURN
Yeah…
ROGER
[Uncapping jars of paint]
You’re not anymore? What happened?—you look too young to have retired.
ASHBURN
[Looks off into the distance, preparing himself to tell an epic tale]
Once upon a time…when I was just a young man, I was working in the CIA. Then one day as I did my usual work—no I’m not telling you what really goes on in the CIA—I saw the most beautiful woman I ever laid eyes on. Her hair was a deep chestnut brown and her skin smooth as the petals of a white rose.
ROGER
[Watches as ROGER’S eyes get glassy with tears]
What was her name?
ASHBURN
Her name was Sophie and she could figure a code out in five minutes while you hadn’t even started because you were too busy staring into her doe-like brown eyes.
ROGER
[Starts to paint]
ASHBURN
Of course, fool that I am, I fell in love with her, but then I got sent on a mission to Paris—no I ain’t telling you what that mission was!—and I didn’t see her for a very long time.
ROGER
How was Paris? What was it like?
ASHBURN
Lonely—because I missed Sophie. I planned to propose to him once I got back to the States.
ROGER
Did you? Propose to her?
ASHBURN
Now hold one! So I was in Paris, and my dear Sophie decides to surprise me by coming to visit. Well, she saw me talking to a lady co-worker and thinks something is going on between us. So she screams at me, calls me names, throws caviar in my face and leaves!
ROGER
So she just left? She didn’t give you time to explain?
ASHBURN
She just left.
ROGER
So you never got the chance to propose?
ASHBURN
Nope. And I was so thorn up I couldn’t concentrate on my work anymore—plus, I knew once I got back to the U.S. again, I wouldn’t be able to handle going to work and seeing Sophie there again. So I quit.
ROGER
I’m sorry, how long ago was this?
ASHBURN
Two years.
ROGER
That’s bad a turn of luck man.
ASHBURN
But you know what? It’s okay now—because you have found me and you will make me millions off your paining of me. It will be called “A…A…
[Raises he beer bottle in excitement for naming his painting]“A painting of a Drunken Ex-CIA Agent.”
ROGER
[Trying not to dampen ASHBURN’S excitement]
Wow. That’s really great.
ASHBURN
Perfection…
ROGER
That it is.
ASHBURN
So what’s your story, Mr. Starving Artist?
ROGER
Oh just the usual story. I want to become an artist, my parents don’t support me. I go on my own; I fail at making a living. So here I am painting ex-CIA Agents.
ASHBURN
You mean you’ve painted other ex-CIA agents? I’m not the first one?
[Looks disappointed]
ROGER
No no no no! You are the first ex-CIA agent I’ve ever painted.
ASHBURN
Well, good.
[Eyes a fancy gold watch on ROGER’S wrist. Points at it.]
But that’s a pretty fancy watch you got there.
ROGER
[Snaps]
Sit still.
ASHBURN
Where’d chu get it?
ROGER
My grandfather gave it to me before he died.
ASHBURN
[Sounds skeptical, leans forward to examine watch.]
Really? Because I saw a watch just like that in Paris—some large business owner had it. It was stolen, that’s why I was in Paris—trying to find that watch.
ROGER
Well, I got it from my grandfather.
ASHBURN
It’s supposed to be one of a kind, and that looks a lot like the one that was stolen. If you just let me see it to make sure it’s not the one stolen…
ROGER
No, you’re a homeless bum! If I let you see it, you’re just gonna run off with!
ASHBURN
Just let me see it man!
ROGER
I’m sorry; I can’t let you see it.
ASHBURN
[Stands up and whistles]
I’m not really a homeless drunken ex-CIA agent, I’m been trying to catch your worthless butt for awhile now.
ROGER
[Snaps]
Sit down! What are you going?
[Fifteen secret agents come running out and surround ROGER and ASHBURN]
ASHBURN
[Losses drunken slur]
Boys, I got him.
ROGER
[Paints sloppily]
What the hell is going on? What’s this?
ASHBURN
You under arrest for processing a stolen watch. You have the right to remain silent.
ROGER
[Yells]
I didn’t steal this watch!
RANDOM COP
We’ll remember you said that mister.
[A girl with dark brown hair makes her way through the crowd of officers]
SOPHIE
Well done, Ashburn—and very touching story.
ASHBURN
Well, I’ve been tracking him for quite a while now, since I was in Paris.
[ROGER gets the watch taken off of him and handcuffed. An officer hands ASHBURN the watch.]
RANDOM COP
[Sarcastically]
That’s a nice painting of you Ashburn. I think we should keep it in the office
[The group of cops and agents all move to stand behind ROGER’S painting.]
ASHBURN
[Leans into painting to get a closer look at the painting.]
Shut up.
[Turns his attention to look at watch]
Well, this is the watch that was stolen. It has the inscription on it which was described by the business owner.
SOPHIE
Let’s put this loser away!
ROGER
[Struggles against the cops]
I didn’t steal it! My grandfather must have--I'LL SUE YA!
ASHBURN
Let’s go Sophie, have some dinner.
SOPHIE
[Take’s ASHBURN’S hand and they walk away.]
Although, I think I would really like that painting of you…
------------QUESTIONS---------------
1. What are some good things about my play? What are some things that I need to imporve on?
2. My ending is really cheesy and I feel like it doesn't have good transition into the ending, what can I to make it better?
ASHBURN
[Squinting up at ROGER]
What chu looking at fool? Never seen a man down on his luck?
ROGER
[Readjusting his art utensils in his arms]
Nothing. It’s just that, I’m an artist and I was looking for inspiration for my next art piece and when I saw you, I just thought ‘wow, now there’s a story that speaks’.
ASHBURN
[Sarcastic]
Really? You think that an old drunk ex-CIA agent is worth painting?
ROGER
[Sitting down on curb next to ASHBURN]
Yeah. You know, you got a story that just speaks—that tells of hard times.
ASHBURN
[Looks confused]
So you say I gots a face that speaks?
ROGER
[Nods]
ASHBURN
So if I let you paint me, do I get some money—or at least half your earning when you make it big?
ROGER
[Chuckles]
Well, I doubt I will ever make it big—or if I do, I won’t be alive to see it—but if I do, sure, maybe I will.
ASHBURN
[Seems to consider ROGER’S words]
Awhh sure. You can paint me if that’s what you want to do.
ROGER
Great.
[Starts to set up painting easel]
So you’re an ex-CIA agent?
ASHBURN
Yeah…
ROGER
[Uncapping jars of paint]
You’re not anymore? What happened?—you look too young to have retired.
ASHBURN
[Looks off into the distance, preparing himself to tell an epic tale]
Once upon a time…when I was just a young man, I was working in the CIA. Then one day as I did my usual work—no I’m not telling you what really goes on in the CIA—I saw the most beautiful woman I ever laid eyes on. Her hair was a deep chestnut brown and her skin smooth as the petals of a white rose.
ROGER
[Watches as ROGER’S eyes get glassy with tears]
What was her name?
ASHBURN
Her name was Sophie and she could figure a code out in five minutes while you hadn’t even started because you were too busy staring into her doe-like brown eyes.
ROGER
[Starts to paint]
ASHBURN
Of course, fool that I am, I fell in love with her, but then I got sent on a mission to Paris—no I ain’t telling you what that mission was!—and I didn’t see her for a very long time.
ROGER
How was Paris? What was it like?
ASHBURN
Lonely—because I missed Sophie. I planned to propose to him once I got back to the States.
ROGER
Did you? Propose to her?
ASHBURN
Now hold one! So I was in Paris, and my dear Sophie decides to surprise me by coming to visit. Well, she saw me talking to a lady co-worker and thinks something is going on between us. So she screams at me, calls me names, throws caviar in my face and leaves!
ROGER
So she just left? She didn’t give you time to explain?
ASHBURN
She just left.
ROGER
So you never got the chance to propose?
ASHBURN
Nope. And I was so thorn up I couldn’t concentrate on my work anymore—plus, I knew once I got back to the U.S. again, I wouldn’t be able to handle going to work and seeing Sophie there again. So I quit.
ROGER
I’m sorry, how long ago was this?
ASHBURN
Two years.
ROGER
That’s bad a turn of luck man.
ASHBURN
But you know what? It’s okay now—because you have found me and you will make me millions off your paining of me. It will be called “A…A…
[Raises he beer bottle in excitement for naming his painting]“A painting of a Drunken Ex-CIA Agent.”
ROGER
[Trying not to dampen ASHBURN’S excitement]
Wow. That’s really great.
ASHBURN
Perfection…
ROGER
That it is.
ASHBURN
So what’s your story, Mr. Starving Artist?
ROGER
Oh just the usual story. I want to become an artist, my parents don’t support me. I go on my own; I fail at making a living. So here I am painting ex-CIA Agents.
ASHBURN
You mean you’ve painted other ex-CIA agents? I’m not the first one?
[Looks disappointed]
ROGER
No no no no! You are the first ex-CIA agent I’ve ever painted.
ASHBURN
Well, good.
[Eyes a fancy gold watch on ROGER’S wrist. Points at it.]
But that’s a pretty fancy watch you got there.
ROGER
[Snaps]
Sit still.
ASHBURN
Where’d chu get it?
ROGER
My grandfather gave it to me before he died.
ASHBURN
[Sounds skeptical, leans forward to examine watch.]
Really? Because I saw a watch just like that in Paris—some large business owner had it. It was stolen, that’s why I was in Paris—trying to find that watch.
ROGER
Well, I got it from my grandfather.
ASHBURN
It’s supposed to be one of a kind, and that looks a lot like the one that was stolen. If you just let me see it to make sure it’s not the one stolen…
ROGER
No, you’re a homeless bum! If I let you see it, you’re just gonna run off with!
ASHBURN
Just let me see it man!
ROGER
I’m sorry; I can’t let you see it.
ASHBURN
[Stands up and whistles]
I’m not really a homeless drunken ex-CIA agent, I’m been trying to catch your worthless butt for awhile now.
ROGER
[Snaps]
Sit down! What are you going?
[Fifteen secret agents come running out and surround ROGER and ASHBURN]
ASHBURN
[Losses drunken slur]
Boys, I got him.
ROGER
[Paints sloppily]
What the hell is going on? What’s this?
ASHBURN
You under arrest for processing a stolen watch. You have the right to remain silent.
ROGER
[Yells]
I didn’t steal this watch!
RANDOM COP
We’ll remember you said that mister.
[A girl with dark brown hair makes her way through the crowd of officers]
SOPHIE
Well done, Ashburn—and very touching story.
ASHBURN
Well, I’ve been tracking him for quite a while now, since I was in Paris.
[ROGER gets the watch taken off of him and handcuffed. An officer hands ASHBURN the watch.]
RANDOM COP
[Sarcastically]
That’s a nice painting of you Ashburn. I think we should keep it in the office
[The group of cops and agents all move to stand behind ROGER’S painting.]
ASHBURN
[Leans into painting to get a closer look at the painting.]
Shut up.
[Turns his attention to look at watch]
Well, this is the watch that was stolen. It has the inscription on it which was described by the business owner.
SOPHIE
Let’s put this loser away!
ROGER
[Struggles against the cops]
I didn’t steal it! My grandfather must have--I'LL SUE YA!
ASHBURN
Let’s go Sophie, have some dinner.
SOPHIE
[Take’s ASHBURN’S hand and they walk away.]
Although, I think I would really like that painting of you…
------------QUESTIONS---------------
1. What are some good things about my play? What are some things that I need to imporve on?
2. My ending is really cheesy and I feel like it doesn't have good transition into the ending, what can I to make it better?
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