I have a scene,
a scene from a play not written,
that has been haunting me.
It accosted me yesterday,
when I didn't expect...
already written,
directed, acted,
there in my head,
all of this scene.
All of it.
I watched it.
For some reason, I was afraid of it.
But it kept coming back to me,
this scene,
no matter how much I ran away.
After two days of running,
I know now
it is something I must write.
I don't know more of the story
than what I post here.
But I know I have to put it up.
Like I said,
it is unwritten still.
And just this one time,
though I welcome comments,
please,
make sure that you don't comment
on what could, might, or should happen next.
--untitled--
A small kitchen and dining room.
No decorations, no paintings. A
fish bowl (the old round variety)
in the middle of the table. A
basket of food on the counter by
the sink. A mother. Her twelve
year old son.
All is silent, but for the low
buz of the kitchen timer (the
noisy, wind-up dial type).
DARLA listlessly rummages through
the basket, more running her
hands over items than actually
looking at them.
CHASE sits on the counter. The
silence prevails for a full
45 seconds.
DARLA You like mandarin oranges?
CHASE Yeah.
The silence resumes. DARLA opens
the can, dumps it into two small
bowls, taps the can on the side
of a bowl to drain the juice, then
sets the bowl next to Chase.
CHASE Thanks.
CHASE stares at the bowl. DARLA
watches him, then places one of
the orange-sections in her mouth,
delicately.
CHASE They look like little fishes.
DARLA pauses for a moment, then
spits the orange (yet un-chewed)
into the sink. She rinses her
mouth out with water from her
cupped hand under the faucet.
CHASE Sorry.
DARLA S'ok.
DARLA dries her mouth with the
hand towel, and dumps the mandarin
oranges into the sink.
DARLA You're right. They do look like fish.
CHASE jumps down from the counter.
He wraps his arms around the fish
bowl, his chin on the table, his
forehead pressed against the glass.
He watches the goldfish.
CHASE Did they bring us any of those cheese thingys?
DARLA looks through the basket,
almost desperate. The kitchen timer
goes off. SHE jumps. CHASE does not.
Another moment of looking.
DARLA No.
CHASE They did last time.
DARLA opens the oven and removes
a pan of french fries. SHE grabs
the ketchup from the refridgerator,
puts both on the table, plops in
a chair, squirts ketchup in the
corner of the pan, and is just
about to eat her first french fry.
CHASE (Who hasn't moved) You forgot the mustard.
DARLA lowers her french fry, and
stares at the goldfish herself.
CHASE waits a moment, unwraps
himself from the fish bowl then
gets the mustard out of the fridge
himself. HE squirts some in another
corner.
CHASE For Dad.
HE pops three french fries in his
mouth at once, and resumes his
position at the fishbowl, arms
wrapped tightly around, chin on
the table, forehead on the glass.
DARLA has not moved except that
her eyes have followed the move-
ment of the fish.
There is a knock at the door.
Posted by stephanie at April 30, 2004 09:46 PM | TrackBack