Woogally in the Lair of the Beasts

Happy Birthday, Woogally!!!

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Fingers

Mr. Fingers had a pretty wife. She never got out much but you could see her face pressed against the attic window all afternoon on sunny days, her unseen but presumably dainty little fingers working on something intricately – something just below the window seat – so Ben could never see what that thing was.

He used to walk across the street every afternoon at four – on his way to the river – where he’d meet his father at the little jetty where the fishermen lounged about all day. He’d throw up his brown switchblade into the air – and catch it again with his deft fingers, feeling the snag in the metal where Bessie’s dog Susie-Ann had bit into it. A picnic five years ago when Ben had been seven and much too young to run up Nail Hill after a crazy dog.

But Mrs. Fingers would never look up. Ben didn’t know why he wanted her to – except that Ben liked people to look at him.  He’d whistle while he walked down the street all the way to the jetty, a peppy tune from the latest picture, so people would look up at him as he jaunted along, playing with his knife. Everyone except Mrs. Fingers. Either her closed window didn’t let any sound in or she was always at work on something far more interesting than Ben’s famous tunes.

Jimmy Fingers went to school with Ben. Jimmy was a quiet boy with a small mole on the back of his neck. He sat at the corner desk in the front row, with his very dirty fingers spayed greasily on the table in front of him and looked ahead all the time – giving Ben a full view of absolutely nothing of himself – except his hands and his little mole. Ben liked to look at people – just as he liked them to look at him. He’d stare at them as if he was memorizing everything about them, as if he was a portrait artist who needed to go back home and start painting what he’d seen. But all he could remember of Jimmy Fingers was his mole and a set of ten very dirty fingernails.

One early Tuesday afternoon, Ben and the boys had been idling about near the jetty, having skipped school and feeling very pleased about themselves. The boys were sitting facing the sea – watching their fathers’ boats bob up and down on the waves far away near the horizon. All except Ben, who was staring at the tiny flash of light from Mrs. Fingers’ window, a row of houses away.

They were playing rock, paper scissors. Absentmindedly. Rock bashed scissors, scissors sliced up paper, paper stifled the rock, over and over again, as the light in the attic window flashed in and out of the sun.

“There should be more to it.” Ben said, sitting up. “To rock paper scissors.”

“You mean like how we’d tried lighter bird gun last Christmas and ended up with matching black eyes each over whether the bird flew away with the paper or choked on it and died?”

“No. Something else. Closer to home. What do you think Mrs. Fingers has in her fingers?”

All six heads swung in unison towards the attic window.

“A needle? I don’t get it.”

“It should be a surprise. It should be something no one knows about. Like a trump card. Or an ace up a sleeve.”

“But it’s definitely a needle. What else could she be doing all day?”

“But what kind of needle? It’s an awful idea of Ben’s – playing rock paper scissors x – but Mrs. Fingers could be doing anything beneath the window. Knitting needles wouldn’t catch so much light – crochet? darning?”

 “She could be stitching up dead bodies of birds. Stuffing them – what’s it called? Taxi-dummy?”

“Maybe it’s a knife, not a needle, and she’s slicing them up instead. All the birds she finds in her chimney and the rats she finds in her larder.”

“And people. Bodies that her husband’s dug up for her at the graveyard over the weekend.”

“Maybe she’s chopping their fingers off and arranging them in little jars according to their sizes.”

“Or plucking out their finger nails to use because she doesn’t have her own.”

“Maybe it is a needle,” Ben added,“and she’s stitching up Jimmy. A new version of Jimmy Fingers everyday, complete with the mole for id. And sending the stitched doll to school. And that’s why he’s so quiet – because he’s not human.”

There was a quiet whimper in response to this statement – behind the rocks they were sitting against. Everyone shut up – and turned to look. Everyone except Ben, who continued to speak, because he was enjoying it – and thought he sounded very clever, even to whoever the person was listening behind the rocks.

“And that’s why none of us can ever remember what he looks like. Because he doesn’t have a real face.”

An unreal face raised itself from behind the rocks, very slowly, quivering red in a very real way. The boys were deathly quiet now.

“Only real fingers, that she stitches on to each new doll over and over again. And that’s why they’re so dirty. Because she keeps re-using those fingers over and over again.”

This was said directly to Jimmy, because Ben couldn’t bring himself to stop. He was feeling awfully sorry now, but the momentum that had pitched the story forward was in full swing – and it lashed out at the unreal boy, like a fist to a face.

And it was met with the same. Or would have been, if the other boys hadn’t caught those very real fingers in time, and held them back.

Ben laughed. He wanted to stop, but he couldn’t, not now.

“Well?” He asked, as Jimmy Fingers quietened down under ten sets of stronger fingers. “Which one was right?”

Jimmy Fingers grinned. Very white,very unreal teeth flashed for a brief second behind those parting lips. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” he asked.

Ben shrugged. “Actually, yes. Will you settle this over a game then? If you win, I’ll say sorry. And if you lose, you’ll tell me what your mum’s doing behind that attic window.”

“Ben, that’s not – ”

“Shut it,” the twelve-year-old hissed. “I’m asking Jimmy. Let the doll decide.”

Jimmy’s grin froze – for only a split second – and then grew wider.

“Sure. Except, if you win, I won’t just tell you what my mum’s up to, I’ll take you up to the attic and show you. And if I win, your fingers belong to me.”

There was another one of those funeral silences. Ben broke it, laughing shrilly.

“You’re bluffing, but I’ll call it. And I suppose you’ll want to play a game that matches, too. Stabbing knives between our fingers – or throwing them at apples in our mouths – or something.”

Jimmy was still grinning. “Sure – if you say so – rock paper scissors would do just fine for me.”

Ben grinded his teeth. “Fine then. Since you’re too scared to put your fingers on the line. Rock paper scissors it is.”

“Can I have my fingers back first?”

Ben nodded. In unison, the boys let Jimmy Fingers go. The two faced each other against the blue waves and sky, tiny boats bobbing up and down in the horizon. Ben called – or Jimmy called – or both of them called together – it didn’t matter which.

“Rock.”

Jimmy’s eyes were roughly where Ben’s fingers would be – behind his back – as if he could see through the cloth and bone.

“Paper.”

Ben’s flitted briefly away from Jimmy’s face – to the eyes of his comrades, standing at aslight angle behind Jimmy. The boy shook his head, ever so slightly.

“Scissors.”

He’d let him draw once.Together, they drew out their fingers, index and middle cutting outwards.

“Rock.”

Second time round, and Jimmy was fighting now. Ben could tell in the way his smile was faltering under those furrowed brows.

“Paper.”

Ben glanced towards the boy behind Jimmy again, as the boy shook his head.

“Scissors.”

Both scissors again. One more draw for credibility.

“Rock.”

In the light of the concentration on Jimmy’s face, his features looked very real in the afternoon sun right then. This was how they’d all remember him – a small sharp nose, and a chin whose all-but-absence was more than made up for by the desperately calm determination in the eleven-year-old’s eyes.

“Paper.”

Ben looked at the boy behind Jimmy one last time. This time he inclined his head forwards briefly. This was it. Ben splayed out all his fingers stiffly behind his back.

“Scissors.”

As he brought his paper out, Ben noticed – a split second too late – the expression of the boy behind Jimmy change from confidence to alarm. Jimmy’s fingers shifted just before he drew his hand – and it was scissors again – a short sharp jab that sent a thrill of cold horror down the spines of all the other boys.

Ben drew his breath sharply. And blinked, thrice. And in the face of Jimmy Finger’s grin, defiant and sinister till the very end – Ben bowed theatrically.

“Alright then, Fingers. What do you want me to do now?”

Jimmy Fingers shrugged. “Got your famous switchblade? Hack ‘em off.”

Ben paled, but didn’t falter. He brought his switchblade out from inside his pocket. The other boys made to move towards Jimmy, angry growls in their throats. Jimmy ignored them, eyes on Ben as the latter held out his left hand in front of him – and, with tiny little beads of sweat appearing on his forehead and a visible knot tightening in his throat – held the blade over his fingers gingerly.

He glanced at Jimmy – who made no movement or noise – and then raised the blade, gritting his teeth.

“Or, actually, wait.” Jimmy said. “Since that game wasn’t quite fair, since I knew you were cheating and planned ahead – maybe we should both pay up.”

Ben was a lot of things, but he wasn’t a sore loser. “Why? Even if you knew I was cheating – I was the one cheating.”

“Call me generous,” Fingers grinned. “I think I’d like to show you what my mum’s doing up there after all.”

Then he paused conspiratorially, leaned forward and whispered, loud enough for everyone to hear: “And then – let her use your fingers.”

“You little – ” Ben started, and then stopped himself. In spite of himself, he let curiosity get the better of him, and he nodded.

“But just you,” said Jimmy Fingers.

The two boys walked back to the Fingers’ house, as the others waited by the shore uneasily. Their little fists were bunched up and raised in front of them – and the two of them who had tiny knives in their pockets had their fingers clenched tight around them.

Ben followed Jimmy into his house and up the single stone staircase.

“Maybe it’s a knife, not a needle, and she’s slicing them up instead. All the birds she finds in her chimney and the rats she finds in her larder.”

His friends’ voices were playing over and over in his head, like a dull recording he desperately wanted to shut off.

 “And people. Bodies that her husband’s dug up for her at the graveyard over the weekend.”

His fingers were trembling as he laid his hands on the dusty banister.

“Maybe she’s chopping their fingers off and arranging them in little jars according to their sizes.”

There was a dull ache in their joints – that was more fear than pain – and his heart throbbed loudly against his rib cage, even as his steady steps followed the younger boy up, up, up towards the attic, his eyes transfixed on the mole on the back of his neck, his face pale but straight.

 “Or plucking out their finger nails to use because she doesn’t have her own.”

There was no door. The staircase led straight into a small room, with one large window spilling warm late afternoon sun onto minimal furniture – a bed, a cupboard, a potted plant by the door, a chair by the windowsill and a low desk beneath the window.

Mrs. Fingers was sitting at the desk, her light hair falling in thick curls over one shoulder, the desk in front of her crowded with little clear bottles all filled with red liquid that glittered quietly in the sun.

She turned as Jimmy walked in and smiled lovingly, holding out her hands. A glass mirror in her right hand caught the sun as she moved and flashed briefly. The fingernails on her left hand glinted blood red.

Jimmy went up to his mother and kissed her. Mrs. Fingers reached out for one of the bottles in front of her, held her son’s hands out in front of her, and started painting his nails.

“She’s been like this for five years,” Jimmy said quietly to Ben, who stood still, framed by the doorway. “She was trying to save her sister’s dog from swallowing some switchblade she’d run away with. She ran up Nail Hill after the dog – and tripped over a tree root and fell rolling all the way down, hitting her head against the rocks below. She hasn’t spoken since, and she doesn’t understand what we say either. She just likes to sit at her window, and paint her nails.”

Mrs. Fingers let go of her son’s hands and turned to look at Ben.

“It’s ok. You can come closer, she’s harmless.” Jimmy said, walking over to the potted plant and digging his fingers in the dirt to hide the pink colour on his nails. “And you promised you’d let her use your fingers.”

Ben let Jimmy’s mother pick a nice bright scarlet from amidst the bottled nail colour and paint his nails with it.

His voice was hoarse when he spoke – but he had to get it out.

“It was my switchblade. The one she was running after. I’m sorry, Jimmy.”

“It doesn’t matter. Not anymore,” replied Jimmy Fingers.

Mrs. Fingers heard nothing, and went on painting, her smile quiet and empty as always. And when she finished, she patted the boys on the back and sent them off, each with a set of dirty fingernails, smearing bright red over their sleeves and pockets and trailing messily on the floorboards behind them.

The Clockmaker - a Very Old Obsolete Puppet Show

SCENE 1:

Clocks ticking rhythmically, clockmaker (CM) enters, begins working on the clock, hums a little tune.

Customer 1 enters.

C1: I have a problem with my clock.

CM: Let’s see your clock…yes, I see. Leave it with me for two days- I’ll have it ready by Friday.

Customer leaves.

CM goes to his bedroom, lies down, clocks keep ticking(sound becomes louder)

Light swings to large wall clock behind audience and follows hand movement, clock ticks rhythmically.

SCENE 2:

Clocks tick, CM walks in and for a second clocks stop ticking and then they start ticking again normally. CM looks around still confused and sits at his table, goes on working on the clock.

Customer 2 comes in, calls CM once or twice before CM realizes he’s there.

C2: What kind of clocks do you…(fades out and ticking becomes louder)

CM shakes his head.

C2: I was thinking of an alarm you know.

CM stares at C2 without responding.

C2: Hello? An alarm clock? Hello? (waves in CM’s face)

CM keeps staring at him.

C2: Freak! (and walks out)

CM goes to his room and sits on his bed. He hums his tune… it becomes faster than the ticking of the clock and he loses the beat. He stops and begins humming again along with the ticking but again he loses the rhythm and becomes faster. Then the ticking of the clock increases speed to match with his humming. He nods and goes to bed.

Light swings to large wall clock at the back, which makes rhythmical noises and lights swing with clock hands.

SCENE 3:

One or two clocks are slower/faster. Some are going anticlockwise but most are fine. Two customers come in C3 and C4, C4 is a shadow person.

C4: Is my clock ready? The one I asked you to fix? Clock maker?

C3: Do you buy old clocks?

CM: Yes.

C3: Oh, good. I have this 19^th century piece belonging to my father.

CM: But there’s still a problem.

C3: What?

C4: With the working?

CM: No, I’ve fixed the gears. The paint is chipping off the dial – if you don’t change the dial soon, the hands will wear.

C3: What the hell are you talking about?

CM: Wait your line, sir; can’t you see I have another customer to attend to?

C3: What? The man’s mad!

He leaves but his shadow stays on. More and more shadow people come in and stand around the CM. The ticking becomes faster, one or two clocks start shaking. The shadow people start whispering: “tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock”.

CM gets scared and runs into his room, jumps into his bed and then he realizes that the shadow figures have followed him to his room. He starts whimpering and the lights fade out.

Light swings to the large wall clock which makes rhythmic noises, light follows hand movements.

SCENE 4:

The clockmaker is already in the clock room. The clocks are shaking and spinning, and the speed of the ticking is very irregular. CM behaves strangely, random gestures, picking up things and keeping them back. He’s humming with the clocks, stopping suddenly, starting suddenly, speeding down and slowing down.  Flashes of colour on the screen behind (?)

The shadow people are larger, and blurred with the clocks on the background behind, “tick-tock, tick-tock” One comes forward.

Shadow: Tick-tock, tick-tock clockmaker. Mad, mad… you’re going mad.

A whisper is taken up by the shadow people. “mad, mad the clockmaker is mad.”

CM: (laughs) Mad? So is that it? I’m mad?

The whisper grows louder, the ticking slows and speeds with the whisper.

CM: You think I’m mad? And you? (to the audience) Do you – all of you – think       I’m mad, too? Because I hear things you don’t? Because I see things you don’t? 

       What… do you see?

The light swings to the large wall clock behind the audience, and whirls around it. Coloured lights (?) The ticking is as loud as possible and very irregular, the light whirls across the audience as the ticking rises in a crescendo sharply till it seems like something big is about to happen – and the room lights come back on, with the puppeteers visible and the puppets only wood and cloth and string lying in a lifeless heap on stage.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________

Crowned

Here it was – all of it – stretched in front of him like some giant monster, quelled and overcome and surrendering. All of it – from the twin peaks in the east, where he had watched the sun rise so many eons ago, to the echoing range in the west, touched by the dawning darkness. There was hardly the tremble left – in the red limbs of this tired beast; the night was coming.

He could trace it in his head now, the undulating anatomy of the rugged hills – the contours that he’d drawn and redrawn and dreamt about every waking day. He’d memorized every rock on the abused parchment of the map, and traced every stone with the sharp edge of his sword. And now here it all was – the valley and the hills and the far horizon – from the cradle stone, the heart and crown of all that it could see.

He turned his back on it now, and strode towards the old throne, the tip of his sword dragging a thin winding line amidst the cold hard stone – a long quiet scratch on the grey. They’d told him that it was alive – the land – a breathing monster that would awaken from sleep and swallow him whole if he ever tried – but he had, and here the monster was, docile and dead – like the trees that refused to grow on its dry slopes, and the water that refused to breathe in its empty valleys. And the gold that breathed in the heart of the stone – the only breath that could be felt through the clammy soil – a dead breath, glistening and cold and odourless – lifeless.

His people were shouting conversations in the valley – as they covered up the dead in the deep pit they had dug that evening. They were mindless conversations – anything and everything to pass the time – to draw away from the dead weight of the bodies in their arms, the cold stares of the vacant faces. Loud and drawn, to drown the silence of the valley, the screaming silence that clawed at their armour and stifled their breath.

Easing himself out of his ruddy armour, and letting it fall unceremoniously to the dust, he stood before the rough-hewn throne. They’d carried her away not two hours ago – her limp fingers circled around the hilt pressed against her stomach – the lines on her face drawn into circles of rude disbelief. As her feet had dragged across the earth, the crown had fallen off her head – and rolled to his feet. A crown of bright gold – heavy, ugly and precious – a crown that sat on his head now. As he would sit – on her throne.

Would? The empty stone seat stared up at him, it’s crude workmanship wheezing dust and bloodstains in the descending twilight. He had never been afraid of stories – but there was something unnerving about the throne. He would rather it was the fatigue than the stories – and rather the stories than the guilt – that made him hesitate from using it. There could be no guilt – that was not the way he lived.

And there should be none – it was the way of the people who he had just driven out of the valley – driven out and driven under. For all their wealth, they had been imprisoned with it – the queen with her crown and her throne and the people with their shovels and ropes. Hacking away at the heart of their land – and hacking away at the farms and the green wealth of his people – from the neighbouring hills.

She had treated them with no guilt and he had answered with none – from his artful pretence of false friendship to the hilt of his dagger peeping out from between her bloody robes. There could be no traces of guilt now – staining the cold throne.

And yet he shut his eyes as he finally sat, his fingers barely brushing against the armrests, still clutching his sword, as if afraid of the blood-debt that was etched into the stone – through ages and ages of fallen kings and kingdoms, of superstitions and stories, of greed and treachery.

And night fell, cascading darkness on a dark dull terrain – on men sitting atop freshly dug mounds, silenced by the sudden completion of labour, on a king in a stone throne, his head bowed by the weight of a heavy crown, on the dust that settled and rose – in inane circles – on and off and on and off.

His body was heavy, weighed down into the stone.

The gold would change the lives of his people. It would all be worth it – all be justified in the end. They wouldn’t have to live like they had lived for all of their squalid history – they would be real people now – real men and women who mattered in the world.

His heart felt heavy – no, that couldn’t be right – it was his head, and the bloody crown that adorned it. How had she managed? How had they all managed – the long line of tyrants that had claimed the crown before him?

It didn’t matter – he was here. He remembered his childhood, in these very mines below his throne, a dark life with glimpses of treasure none of them were ever meant to own. He had known her since the day he was sold into the mines – they all had – a beautiful queen whose voice was so dear that they’d give her everything – they already had – their lives, their days, their sun and their sweat. All for a beautiful queen with a golden crown.

The weight was seeping through his body – spreading to his limbs – his muscles groaning with the strain of it, sinking into the stone.

The day he’d been sold was the day he’d grown up. When he’d fallen from the riggings and lost his left hand – and his beautiful queen had given him up for a few pieces of gold to a neighbouring village of farmers who were short of manpower. He had cried for his bondage – pleaded to her that he’d work without his hand as well as anyone else – but while the slow line of mules had carried him away to the neighbouring hills, his tears had been replaced by the silence of disillusionment and a quiet aching rage.

His chin was resting on his chest – the crown would soon fall. There was something exhausting about the weight of it – that brought out every weakness in his tired body. He was almost one with the stone seat now – and he wasn’t sure that he could move if he tried.

He had vowed to himself that he’d be back – not in so many words but in his deep-set anger. And he had – if not for himself but for his adopted village. And when he’d thrust his sword into the folds of her gown, he’d seen the glimmer of recognition in her eyes as she tried to grip the left hand that wasn’t there.

The left hand –

His eyes swivelled down to the left armrest of the throne. A hand was resting on it, dark red in the light of the waning moon. A hand with five fingers, a wrist and a forearm, pressed tightly against the stone.

He leapt out of the seat in shock. Or at least, he thought he did. His body, weighed down heavily by the crown, didn’t respond to him. The crown was boring into his skull now – or was it his thoughts? Sinking down from the golden circlet into his head – the deadweight crushing his brain. And all the while – his eyes were transfixed on the left hand that rested on the stone arm of the throne. Five long slender feminine fingers stared back calmly at him.

_____________________________________

The farmers from the hills woke up to the dull silence of the land they had conquered. Their king had been awake since the early hours – long since the first of them had opened their eyes to the new day. They had been farmers the day before they’d set out on their quest, soldiers till the day the old queen had fallen to the sword of their king, grave diggers the whole of yesterday. And today – from today – they’d start being gold miners. Their prospects were good – their king was young and strong in his ideals, and they’d followed him knowing he’d bring them good fortune.

He was standing in front of his throne, his crown shining in the morning sun, his eyes surveying the land that was now his to rule. He turned towards them when they gathered, tired men, fresh from their first disturbed night on a conquered but unfamiliar battlefield. His face – rugged and youthful, looked unusually handsome against the early light. He smiled quietly – and stretched out his arms to his soldiers – the fingers of his right hand splayed in warm welcome – and the broken stump of his left arm also extended – as if it ended in a similarly warm gesture.

As he stood like that, proud and handsome in the morning light, his people forgot about themselves – about their fortunes and their prospects and their gold. All they knew was that they would die for this beautiful man – that they were ready to give him everything, their lives, their day, their sun, their sweat – mining gold to fill the coffers of their beloved king.

And as they knelt before him in awe, for a split second his smile turned cold and superior – and the long feminine fingers of his left hand circled into a gesture of triumphant achievement.

She was smiling. Nothing had changed.

Prelude

It is an old room in an old building

Paint peeling off its walls

Like some giant scaly snakeskin –

The old sandpapered whitewash beneath

Looks ripe and untouched –

A wrinkly newborn untouched.

Little coffee-stained ply board tables for two

Scattered in a seemingly random nonsense

Across the red-cemented floor –

And in the middle of it all –

The dull dusty grand – its broken keys

Juggled in a line of steps – arranged

As an obstacle course for the most daring of pianists –

Waiting for a long-awaited touch –

Any touch – to hear its voice again.

It hasn’t heard its own voice in ages.

It doesn’t know what it will sound like –

Silent, croaky, off or miraculously on,

Muffled, mournful… it forgets.

Like people forget, the colour of their skin,

The colour of their souls –

How their fingers used to move

Across shiny black and white keys

In bright stage light. They will heal each other now –

The little bent woman standing

Against the frame of the old doorway –

And the piano, its tight strings

Tingling with apprehension under its dusty cover.

Between skin and wood, between wait and touch

While the old strings find life – and old fingers meaning

Or the other way around – what’s the difference?

It is an old room in an old building – and it’s singing.

a song found on a bus ride

the morning is breaking its still early yet

but the cogwheels are spinning their rest to forget

the flight and the feather have both left their nests

there's much to be done and much we must get

there's smoke in the sky that's puffing and black

the steels keep on flashing, the grains in the sacks

by cloud or by steam the roads must be cast

burdens are lightest when borne on the back

the whole world's got a bag on it's back

but the wheels on its feet all just turn in their tracks

and my heart keeps on saying i still really want to go home.

they say roads are long except when in song

remember to walk them before the day's gone

everyone's walking their paths on and on

and i'm just a wanderer a-wandering on

the light and the dark feed many a wick

greased hands and greased feet force along the clock's ticks

by oil and by fire the circles all click

forever and ever, by crick or by stick

the whole world's got a bag on it's back

but the wheels on its feet all just turn in their tracks

and my heart keeps on saying i still really want to go home.

where's home? the end of all roads and all paths and all streets that I roam

a fire but warmer; a hearth but of some softer stone.

a fairy-tale starts with it's head in the dark

tired feet make good stories, well told and quite stark.

in the thrill and the magic of the embark

the end of the journey is lost in the dark

the whole world's got a bag on it's back

but the wheels on its feet all just turn in their tracks

and my heart keeps on saying i still really want to go home.

Threat

Had forgotten this existed. Don't remember when exactly this is from - but it was for one of the Cutlet magazine exercises.

“Queen to f6,” the cold voice vibrated across the airtight chamber, and the white walls seem to reverberate with the sudden break in the stifling silence.

If the severe-looking high-backed chair against the far corner of the room had been of less renowned origins, it would have creaked horribly under the sudden jerky shift it now had to bear.

The heavy white shape dragged grindingly across the frozen marble. Its movement was deliberate, prolonged.

The emotions were mirrored on a face across the room, with its back against the near corner. Impossibly thin lips drew back slowly – sadistically – into a half-smile.

The pair of glassy brown eyes opposite shot a half-glance at the smile and looked again at the last three black soldiers, standing tall – but fragile – between them.

The Knight, strapped to the back of a stone horse – a massive brute of a creature, its monstrous head towering high above the delicate human figure crouched behind it.

The Queen. An impassive beautiful face streaked with long-dried tears of kohl. Long white arms bound together excruciatingly.

And the lone Pawn, a head shorter than the rest, pale and thin and drawn.

It was towards the last that the brown eyes now shifted, not daring to look at the desperate pleading gesture in the tense tiny shoulders, the silent whimper in the frightened eyes.

A manic laugh echoed from across the room.

“Come on, come on, we both know answering immediate threats is not getting you anywhere.”

The brown eyes flicked away from the centre of the room to the steady blue ones facing him.

And held their gaze.

The laughter died away slowly. Something changed in the room.

“They told me he was your favourite… they said you never give him up…” The voice sounded nothing at all like it had a moment ago. The cool confidence that had carried it across the room had faded away, as had the mocking half-smile.

“Pawn to d2.” This voice was steady, emotionless.

“But – I thought he was your son –”

The pause stretched threateningly into the following silence.

“King to d2…” The blue eyes lowered, and shut slowly.

“Like you said – answering immediate threats would never get me anywhere.” The wrinkles around the brown eyes creased in a quiet smile as the white king took the pawn.

“But you’d never threaten that pawn if you were playing white – that’s what they told me...”

“You forced me to play black. Play the pieces I’d designed specially for the loosing side. The human faces etched in eternal torment. It’s true I don’t usually take that pawn. He does rather look like my son. I’ve never had to sacrifice him before.”

“I thought I’d threaten your Title…by forcing you to play the losing side of your own chess set…by threatening your favourite piece… ”

“But he isn’t my son, you see. Just like you’ve never really been a threat to my Title. He’s only a chess piece made of stone.

“Queen to e2. Checkmate. ”

And the man with the glassy brown eyes stretched his hand across the table between them, picked up the frozen little statue of the tall brave queen with her frozen stone tears, and took the white king.

the invasion of the dragons

Open publication - Free publishing - More byalakupe

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Let’s Be Morbid: A Tale of Deathbed Conversations. Scene Two.

Read Scene 1.

Scene 2.

Vince is asleep in a low bed, with a two-thirds empty glass of water on a lamp-lit bedside table. There’s a white curtain blowing in the wind in the background, and a wall full of large colourful butterflies on display. A girl with her hair tied up neatly with two well-sharpened pencils is on the floor, piecing together shredded bits of paper, and taping them together to make a sheet. Vince wakes up with a jolt –and painfully sits up in bed.

Girl: You’re awake. Didn’t think you’d wake up.

Vince: I had the strangest dream.

Girl: Again?

Vince: It was different this time – I did what my therapist told me to – and (he looks around and spots the glass by the table)

Girl: Why’d you put this in your shredder?

Vince: I think I killed myself.

Girl: It’s your suicide note. Why’d I find it in the bin with the damaged butterflies?

Vince: What damaged butterflies?

Girl: What’s in the water, Vincent? Is there anything in the water?

Vince: I think so, Diana. At least, I’m sure there was.

Diana: But your suicide note was in the shredder. If you put something in the water, why’d you put your note through the shredder?

Vince: Monarch butterflies have an ingenious defense mechanism. The toxins from their milkweed diet make them poisonous to predators. Although not poisonous enough to kill large mammals – monarchs are generally avoided.

Diana: Yes, I know. Did you put butterfly poison in your water? Is that why the monarchs are in the bin?

Vince: There is only one living large mammal that is in any way affected by the toxins from the Monarch butterfly. The female Sumatran elephant can crush the toxins out of a captured butterfly and horde it in her trunk, while her body produces boosters that help to coagulate the toxin, also, increase its toxicity. This substance is then used as a disinfectant while bathing her young.

Diana: You’re making up things. And you’re calling me an elephant again.

Vince: What? No. What?

Diana: Stop it, Vincent. I know I’m a bloody elephant in your bloody dreams. You don’t have to keep rubbing it in.

Vince: Di’s a beautiful elephant, but you –

He falls back onto his bed, feeling suddenly very dizzy. The butterflies in their cases stir, flexing their wings.

Diana: Shut up about the stupid elephant! Did you see me put the pills in your water? Did you see everything? Is that why you’re making such a fuss about it?

Vince: But I put the pills in my water because I wanted to be with my elephant. It wasn’t you. Diana, it couldn’t have been you. Why would you want to be with my elephant? No, sorry, the poison’s confusing me. That’s not the way it goes, is it?

Diana: I don’t give a shit about your bloody elephant. Three a.m, five p.m., morning, night, noon, easter – oh my god – elephant, elephant, elephant. I can’t stand that elephant anymore. I can’t stand you. And when we convince you that it’s all wrong – and you decide to chop up your butterflies to make little pills to put in your water – those pills are apparently not enough. Everything you do falls short, Vincent. Every single half-hearted thing you do. I hate you. I hate you so much that it hurts to even look at you.

Vince: Who’s we?

Diana smiles ruefully.

Vince: Where’s Leo? Wasn’t he supposed to meet me tonight?

Diana: He’s taking your place at the Pinball Championship. He always wanted to, you know.

There is a pause.

Vince: I know. But I thought he knew that he eventually would, someday.

Diana: How are you feeling, Vincent?

Vince: I’m sorry about the dreams, Diana.

Diana: Well, they’re all going to be over soon.

Vince: No, I fell as though they’re just starting. Like I’m going to anchor myself to this bed and start molting. Because of all the butterfly toxins. There – there – it really is a lovely bed, you know. And this is such a crucial stage.

Diana: What are you talking about?

Vince: My chrysalis. (He starts molting, like a butterfly, as the butterflies in the cases all around become absolutely frantic. Then Vince – and the butterflies – become absolutely still) I wish Leo was here to see this. It will be the most beautiful dream I’ve ever dreamt.

Diana: What the hell is happening? What are you doing? Vincent! Vince!

As she speaks, the chrysalis covers Vincent from head to toe – and for a brief moment, there is complete silence and stillness. Then the chrysalis bursts open – and all the glass in all the butterfly cases along the wall shatter at the same time. The butterflies fly out and surround Diana – and then disappear behind the white curtain. The open chrysalis is completely empty.

Sea Dreams

I dream of water.

Still waters, gushing waters, dark waters, blue waters. A friend of mine tells me the water is meant to represent me. I doubt that. He wears a different ring on each of his fingers. They catch the light of the nearest source when he’s talking and blind you with their colours.

It is a river. A king in a faraway land lets the river loose on a long line of refugees trudging along railway tracks through a green valley. First the water gushes forward over the tracks, and people are screaming. And then there is a silence.

It is beautiful. The bodies float up in the stillness – and the cloudy blue of the calming water when it stops to a still. It is beautiful and breathtaking – and not frightening at all – but it cannot be me.

I’ve seen the ocean as a child. It did not fascinate me as much as the sand did. The waves were beautiful – especially in the monsoon rains – and the colours shifted and changed like some wild monster that could never be tamed. But the sand was magical. It spoke of life – and time – and millions and trillions of aeons, recorded in shifting patterns and consistencies of loose particles. And it touched you and played with you and let you form childlike forms and shapes with its grains – and then when the waves rolled over – it would return to what it always was.

I don’t know where I am.

I see different places – different faces – different times, they swirl together sometimes, as if I’m everywhere at once – and then suddenly, they’re silent. I believe I might be dead, or dying, but I don’t know for sure. Everyone is either dead or dying, and after a point, everything is silent. And dark.

The water is cold. It is not clammy – because it is not moist. That is not a word you can apply to so much water. It is cold, but whole – and endless. I am standing in it up to my waist, and my hair is wet. It clings to my back and sends little spherical drops rolling down my shirt – before they meet the water, and become part of the whole. When there is so much water, it is difficult to believe in it. It isn’t water anymore – it’s everything – it cannot be named – because it is there. Like the air, which we have grown so used to, which we disregard so completely although it is always there – between people, between emotions, between moments.

The sun rises beneath the water – and I can see it sparkling through the depths. The bent light quivers, like it has stories to tell, and a quiet warmth spreads through the blue.

Sometimes the water is everywhere – and we must never wear shoes. Wet feet are not uncomfortable beneath the surface. They dance like they’ve never danced before, kissing the currents, swirling through the abyss. Even meeting people becomes a dance. Conversations are slow – because time is slower in the water – and everything stretches itself out, like it’s as important as it should be.

The water is dark and still. A woman’s red and yellow saree is half-submerged in the blackness, and the light changes.
Flowers, just about to sink, just about to disappear – black waters are magical. As things sink, as they fall beneath the surface, they vanish into the dark, like they never existed – or like many more things exist down there – in the depths. A brown ear and some tousled dark hair. More flowers. Two hands, fingers intertwined. Dark fathomless waters. They cannot be me.

I wake in water. Here there are ships. Great masts, towering above, ragged sails that float in the current as if they sail in the wind above the surface. Everything is darker, but still blue. I cannot be the water.

The stones on the rings are bright. They are so bright that they become liquid, sparkling in the light. Grey, green, blue, black – little oceans. Sometimes they expand into complete worlds, surrounding me – and sometimes they are just stones. Liquid stones. Small drops of water.

I am not small – not so small that I can be worn on fingers – quivering drops of liquid bound to metal circlets. Water can be restrained – in stones, in vessels, in eyes. Not all water is wild, although it wants to be. No, it does not want to be wild – it wants to return to the ocean. To be whole. To not be little drops, little rivers, little ponds and lakes and collections in glasses and buckets and tanks. But to be whole – to be everywhere – to be at peace. Perhaps the ocean heaves in yearning – and the rivers runs in hurry, while little ponds and bucketfuls and glassfuls are still because they know they will never see the ocean.
Sand is at home everywhere. In the wind, before a storm, in your eyes, under your boots, inside pockets of people who have been to the beach. I cannot be the water.

I never drown.

My friend says I cannot drown within myself – but I have. And yet the water does not drown me. It shifts – black, grey, green, blue – but it seems to know me – not always as one of its own, as one who belongs with it – but it knows me. I am not one person – no one is, so the water cannot be one thing to me.

Now there is only water. The furniture is floating – the papers dance in the currents – and the sound is deafening – because there is so much of it.

I don’t know where I am. There are people here with me. They are floating too – they are floating like the furniture floats. They do not dance, they stare. I cannot tell if they are dead – or sleeping – because the water is colder than they are. Ten fingers with ten different rings glint in the dark, catching some obscure light from some source I cannot see.

The water is deafening because it is silent. And still. It has drowned everyone in its shifting changing depths, slowed time, slowed life and slowed death. It cannot be me. But I have brought it here.

Sand is most at home in water.

red light

here's a clock. there's a clock.
arms and face and all the rot.
glaring from the wall.

who's a face? that's a face.
two dots and a curve disgraced.
painted golden dolls.

where's the rhyme? is this the time?
the whole world in a pepper pot.
stewed. steaming. steeled.

weather died. frozen? fried?
and all the one-horned rhinos cried.
two tears. plus glycerine.

where is home? high tea? high noon?
cradled by a helmet swoon.
six of clock and stopped.

car. parked? car. sparked?
horns waved and caked the dark.
if they hadn't we'd have walked.

If, In the Head of Priscilla Ray (long overdue)

Scene:

Spotlight on Priscilla, a young girl in her late teens – early twenties, slightly eccentric, with very fidgety hands, and writing material.

Priscilla: It’s the 30^th of September 2010, the weather is delightfully warm, with a few rumbling thunderstorms overhead. This is a play about - LIGHTS!

Lights on centre stage – a dinner table with four empty chairs.

Lights go out.

Priscilla: This is a play about – (turns to look at stage) – LIGHTS!

Lights on centre stage – dinner table is still there – the four chairs have four nametags. Mother. Father. Elephant. Baby.

Lights go out.

Priscilla: THIS IS A PLAY ABOUT -

Lights on centre stage – dinner table and four chairs are upside down.

Priscilla: DYSFUNCTIONAL –

Lights go out – even the spotlight on Priscilla goes out – and then stage light comes back on, with a few blinks. Dinner table, right way up, with six characters, two on each edge of the table, each with a brown cardboard box on their heads, with eyeholes.

Box 1 slams his fist on the table, but the movement is hidden by Box 2, who is sitting opposite, with his back to the audience.

Box 1 peeps over Box 2 and makes a larger movement – then Box 1 stands up and slams her fist on the table. Box 3, who is sitting next to Box 1, puts her head on the table and starts sobbing violently. Box 4, who is sitting at the head gets up and walks a little way away while Box 5, at the foot is quietly moving her spoon from the table to where her mouth might be. They freeze. Box 2 and Box 6 have their backs to the audience.

Priscilla: Too much clutter.

Lights on Priscilla. Lights off stage.

Priscilla: TOO much clutter.

Lights on stage. Box 2 and Box 6 have disappeared, with their chairs. The rest are still frozen in position.

Priscilla: Clearer. Clearer. There’s never much to see. But at least you can see it. (Pause.) Maybe you should hear it too. (clears her throat while the four boxes get to standing positions in slow motion) The four of them sit down for dinner.

(the boxes follow her directions in slow motion)

Priscilla: Reaching out for the saltcellar, they realize that there is no food on the table. Food? There is nothing on the table – absolutely nothing. Except perhaps, a few specks of dust, which is 80% human skin. Bare skin rushing against bare skin, infused with microscopic particles of wood and sand, they run their fingers over the surface of the table… who was supposed to set it? They look around wildly, trying to identify the home keeper among them – but their faces start to look extremely indistinguishable – the monotone calls out to the monotone – and their heads draw together, in a slow agonizing moment of gravity… (pause)DAMN!

Stage lights go off.

Priscilla: Ok. Restart.

Lights back on – four characters sitting at the table. Mr. Ting, a large man who is still reading the morning newspaper. Mrs. Ting, a lady with a mole. Old Mrs. Ting, a lady with a bigger mole – and young Miss Ting, who has her doll at the table.

Mr. Ting: Mrs. Ting, pass the saltcellar please.

Mrs. Ting: Do you mean the saltcellar or the (whispered) salt… cellar?

Mr. Ting: (folding his newspaper and in a falsetto) No I don’t mean the salt… cellar – there is no such thing – I mean the saltcellar.

Mrs. Ting: Oh I thought you meant the saltcellar – you couldn’t have meant the salt… cellar but I had to make sure.

Mr. Ting: No you don’t, Mrs. Ting – not at the dinner table – you don’t make sure at the dinner table – there is no such thing as the salt… cellar – we don’t MENTION the salt… cellar. Now. Pass the saltcellar.

Mrs. Ting: This one, right – because the salt… cellar can’t really be passed down the table. (laughs nervously)

Mr. Ting: SHUT UP ABOUT THE SALT CELLAR! WE DO NOT MENTION THE SALT CELLAR! SHUT UP! SHUT UP! DO YOU WANT OUR DAUGHTER TO FIND OUT WHAT WE’VE KEPT IN IT??

Miss Ting: What’s in the salt… cellar, daddy?

Mr. Ting: Now you’ve gone and done it. You couldn’t keep your mouth shut? Now what do we do?

Mrs. Ting: I – I – there’s nothing – nothing at all – there’s no such –

Miss Ting: I’m not talking to you, ma. What’s in the salt… cellar?

Mr. Ting: There. Is. Nothing. In. The. Salt. Cellar. There. Is. No. Salt. Cellar.

Miss Ting: I know when you’re lying, daddy. Tell me what –

Mrs. Ting: Now, Miss Ting, don’t talk to your father like that – there’s only salt in the -

Mr. Ting: If I hear the words salt… cellar one more time I’ll…

Old Mrs. Ting: Pass the saltcellar please, dearest…

(pause)

Mr. Ting and Priscilla together: ENOUGH.

Lights go off.

Priscilla: No! No! No! This isn’t a play – a play’s supposed to have CHARACTERS. It’s supposed to mean something. It can’t just ramble off… AGAIN.

Lights on dinner table. The person sitting at the head of the table, previously Mr. Ting, is the only person without a box on their heads. This man is still large, but has no newspaper in front of him. Instead, he is sitting with a large covered dish in front of him. He is wearing an eye-patch and a bandana.

Priscilla: Captain Scarface. A man with a deep dark secret and an inextinguishable wrath. Every night, he sits down for dinner with a covered plate – that he taunts his tablemates with. What does he have beneath it? No one knows, but the very thought of that dish sends thrills of terror down each and every one of his tablemate’s spines.

Captain Scarface: They call me a monster. Me! I’m not a monster – I’m the most frightening, most terrifying, most wicked, most evil monster alive. And I’ll eat it tonight – the dish I’ve been biding my time to uncover. It shall be unveiled tonight. My masterpiece. My death-defying, most terrifying curtain act – PASS ME THE SALTCELLAR!

Lights go off – while Priscilla shuffles her notes – and come back on again. The second person at the table, previously Mrs. Ting, has her head uncovered. She is powdered and prim, her mole larger than ever – her hair set high on top of her head.

Priscilla: Lady Lumpunch. If power inspires fear, and money inspires power, Lady Lumpunch’s name inspires a lumpsillion lyrical larks to lute lullabies in a lolloping lull – or so the say. If you ask her to pass the saltcellar – you better have said please!

Lady Lumpunch: Yes I’ve got money. But where’s yours, pumpkin? If you can’t keep your accounts – keep yourself a bloody accountant! I’ll not help you. This saltcellar is silver – and this saltcellar is mine – and all the salt that pours out of it belongs to me – me – me – toppling columns of white pristine grains of indelible saltiness – get your own saltcellar, darling, you don’t scare me!

Lights go off – while Priscilla writes something down – and come back on again. The person at the opposite end of the table, previously Old Mrs. Ting has her head uncovered now. She has a shock of white hair, and large glasses, and a slightly pointed face, with Parkinsonism.

Priscilla: Dame Doneitall. There’s used to be brain in that large head of hers – before all the grey and the white turned into pitch black with the number of times those physics equations were rubbed on and off the slate of her mind. A genius without her genii soon becomes quite senile.

Dame Doneitall: One two buckle my mice – three blind shoes, how awfully trigonometric. It’s time for zero gravity – three two one – you are entering a region of subatomic tremors. Beware falling headstones – and leaking saltcellars – by the way, I’m starving?

Lights go off as Priscilla arranges her sheets and comes back on again. The last person at the table has her head uncovered. She has large eyes and very well combed straight hair, and is clutching a doll – perhaps slightly larger than the one she had before.

Priscilla: Titli De. A quiet child.

(Titli stares into the audience wide-eyed)

Priscilla: Quite quiet.

Scarface: Lumpunch, you are atrocious. Doneitall, you’re senile. Titli, what are you doing here? You don’t even have a proper name!

Priscilla: What is it with English names? Nope. The name stays.

Scarface: And you have your doll next to you!

Lights go off.

Priscilla: Ok – maybe that can be fixed –

Lights come back on. She’s holding the hand of a giant creature.

Scarface:…And you have your imaginary friend next to you!

Lights go off.

Priscilla: Or maybe not –

Lights come on – the doll is back.

Doneitall: The moment’s passed – we’re all aghast – I wish you’d feed me.

Lumpunch: Oh, Scarface, sweetheart, stop your squabbling. What do you have there in your plate – we’re all waiting –

Scarface: Oh – ha ha ha – I’ll show you, you pack of withered women – I’ll show you what I have!

Doneitall: Oooooh, yum, mum’s the word, bum. Dum-dum, you’re all numb. Yum.

Lumpunch: Shut up and be quick about it – my shares will get cold.

Scarface, with an evil laugh uncovers the dish. It’s empty. Everyone raises their eyebrows.

Lights go off.

Priscilla: Oh. Sorry. These are a few of my scariest things…

Lights on.

There’s the severed hand of the imaginary friend on the plate. No one’s expression changes.

Lights off.

Lights on.

There’s Titli’s head on the plate. Titli is, of course, missing from the table. Everyone gasps.

Lights off.

Lights on.

There’s Lumpunch’s head on the plate. Everyone screams.

Lights off.

Lights on. There’s Doneitall’s head on the plate. Everyone sighs.

Lights off.

Lights on. There’s Scarface’s head on the plate, the cover’s on the table. Everyone starts laughing.

Lights off.

Light’s on. The doll’s on the plate. Everyone’s jaw drops – they’re deathly scared.

Scarface: (with a smug smile) Shall we dine?

Titli: What’s in the saltcellar?

Scarface: What?

Titli: (a little louder) What’s in the saltcellar?

(pause)

Doneitall: Ten, nine, eight…

Lumpunch: Maybe we should all keep calm… balance our coins carefully…

Doneitall: Seven, six, five…

Lumpunch: There’s no point blowing it up… calculation mistakes happen sometimes…

Doneitall: Four, three, two…

Lumpunch: Nothing to go mad about; hold on to your purse strings…

Doneitall: One.

Scarface: WHAT. DID. YOU. SAY?

Titli: WHAT’S IN THE SALTCELLAR?

Lumpunch: It’s not gold, my gumdrops. Never mind.

Scarface: This is all your fault! All yours – all your fault!

Doneitall: Murder, murder, blood and gore! Butcher, gambler, hangman and whore! It’s integration d-life by d-knife d-saltcellar! Catch-yer in the pie!

Titli stands up, glaring at Scarface.

Scarface isn’t daunted. He calms down, pushed the plate in front of him to center table, stands up to his full height and looks calmly at Titli.

Scarface: Well, if that’s the way it’s going to go, lets all lay our cards on the table. You, my dear, aren’t as innocent as you pretend to be. Everyone at this table has killed, no use denying it. We’re all bloody murderers. Let’s confess.

Titli is still glaring at Scarface.

Lumpunch: (sighing) Alright, if that’s the way this is going to go. Let’s have it out – but gently. Let’s write the name of the person we’ve murdered down on a sheet of paper and put it on the table.

Scarface: Alright, Lumpunch. Sounds reasonable to me. What do you say, Titli?

Titli nods once, eyes still on Scarface.

Doneitall: Out damned spotty – dotty – naughty –

(while all four scribble)

Lumpunch: Alright, on the count of three – three!

(they shove the pieces of paper across to the centre of the table)

Priscilla: View, view, view, now the audience can’t see. Rewind please –

(the four characters rewind their motion fast to where Title and Scarface are standing and staring at each other)

Priscilla: …and play.

Lumpunch: (sighing) Alright, if that’s the way this is going to go. Let’s have it out – but gently. Let’s write the name of the person we’ve murdered down on a sheet of paper and stick it on the forehead of the person who’s sitting one place to your right. Then that person can ask yes or no questions and guess the name on his or her forehead.

Scarface: Alright, Lumpunch. Sounds reasonable to me. What do you say, Titli?

Titli nods once, eyes still on Scarface.

Doneitall: Out damned spotty – dotty – naughty –

(while all four scribble)

Lumpunch: Alright, on the count of three – three!

(they all stick the paper on the forehead of the person sitting to their right – Doneitall on Titli, Titli on Lumpunch, Lumpunch on Scarface, Scarface on Doneitall)

Doneitall stares at the name on Lumpunch’s head, Titli stares at the name on Doneitall’s head, Lumpunch stares at the name on Titli’s head and Scareface quickly takes off the name on his own head and looks at it.

Each then deliberately, with very exaggerated movement, counts one person to the left of the person they’re staring at and points a finger at them, rising from their chair.

Scarface: (at Lumpunch) You killed my father!

Lumpunch: (at Doneitall) You killed my father!

Doneitall: (at Titli) You killed my father!

Titli: (at Scarface) You killed my father!

Scarface: (to Titli) No, Titli, I am your father.

They stare at each other. Lights go off.

Priscilla: Ummm… line of vision looks all wrong…

Lights come back on. The whole scene has inverted laterally – left to right – including Scarface’s eyepatch and Lumpunch’s mole.

They’re still staring at each other. Lights go off.

Priscilla: Or did the other one look better? Good god let me see… Left – right – right – left – hmmm. What’s in a direction, I can’t for the life of me remember. Oh well, let’s see for ourselves.

Lights back on. The whole scene is still the same – but it has been replicated in an exact mirror image just next to it, so that each character and each prop has his, her or its double opposite it. Slow but exaggerated movements are mirrored exactly.

Priscilla: And repeat:

All following actions are mirrored exactly by the main dinner party, while the actions themselves are performed by the fake dinner party, the dialogues are in double voices:

(they all stick the paper on the forehead of the person sitting to their right – Doneitall on Titli, Titli on Lumpunch, Lumpunch on Scarface, Scarface on Doneitall)

Doneitall stares at the name on Lumpunch’s head, Titli stares at the name on Doneitall’s head, Lumpunch stares at the name on Titli’s head and Scareface quickly takes off the name on his own head and looks at it.

Each then deliberately, with very exaggerated movement, counts one person to the left of the person they’re staring at and points a finger at them, rising from their chair.

Scarface: (at Lumpunch) You killed my father!

Lumpunch: (at Doneitall) You killed my father!

Doneitall: (at Titli) You killed my father!

Titli: (at Scarface) You killed my father!

Scarface: (to Titli) No, Titli, I am your father.

They stare at each other. Lights go off.

Priscilla: It’s all the same, really. Like all pointing fingers.

Lights come back on. Fake party has disappeared. The dinner party is much more normally dressed now, Scarface has lost his eyepatch and bandana, Lumpunch her strange hairstyle, Doneitall her crazy hair (although she’s still old) and Titli her doll (which was on the table before). What’s on the table is plates of real food and cutlery. Priscilla’s scribbling on her script. In the following dialogue – no one raises their voice.

Scarface: Where is that girl? Call her again, Rita. (Everything he says has a quiet authority and contempt that no one questions)

Lumpunch: Yes, Jai. Priscilla!

(Priscilla starts.)

Priscilla: Coming!

She drops her sheets and hurries to join her family at the table, dragging a chair to sit with her back to the audience.

Scarface: I’ve told you before not to be late for your meal, young lady.

Priscilla keeps her head down.

Doneitall: (she’s a really old lady) Pass the saltcellar, please.

Lumpunch passes the saltcellar.

Doneitall pours salt on her meal, eats it and spits her food out.

Titli: What’s in the salt?

Scarface: It’s nothing, only dadi messing about.

Titli: No, papa, there’s pepper in the saltcellar.

Doneitall is wheezing and coughing.

Scarface: (at Lumpunch) You put pepper in the saltcellar and passed it to my mother.

Lumpunch: I’m sorry – I must have passed the pepper by mistake –

Scarface: What is wrong with you, woman?

Lumpunch: It’s no big deal, Jai. (completely ignoring the wheezing old lady)

Titli: (unpleasantly) I want the salt. Where’s the salt if that’s the pepper?

Scarface: How can you say it’s no big deal?

Doneitall sends a surprisingly intelligent and crafty look towards Lumpunch and goes on wheezing.

Lumpunch: It’s only the salt and pepper, Jai.

Scarface: And it’s your responsibility.

Titli: This food is bland. I won’t eat it. I won’t. I won’t.

Priscilla: Lights out.

Lights go off. And come back on again after a while.

The plates on the table have, instead of the food, the heads of all five family members on them, each in their own place.

Curtain.