January Write Bites

   Welcome to the January edition of Write Bites! This new addition to Barely Seen consists of one-paged plays and poetry. In this post you'll find various themes and styles of writing, with "Martha and the Thief" by Olivia Arieti, “Lemming Lessons” by Greg Beattie, “Protest” by Gary Beck, "Blue" by Sara Lyons, and "The Sound of One Hand, Etc." by Mark Rosati. 

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MARTHA AND THE THIEF

By Olivia Arieti

Characters  

MARTHA - Dishevelled hair, long white nightgown.

THIEF

Setting: The living room. A safe.

Time:    The present. Night

Props:   A bag, a flashlight.

(THIEF is trying to open the safe. MARTHA enters.)

MARTHA: Hey, man, you’re the third this month.

(THIEF goes on working.)

MARTHA: It must be the luxurious convertible in our drive that makes you guys think we’re rich.

THIEF: Why won’t you shut up, lady?

MARTHA: Sure, but first let me tell you that you’re wasting your time. There’s nothing in that safe except my mother-in-law’s goofy ring with a fake diamond. 

THIEF: Will you let me do my job, for goodness sake?

MARTHA: To tell the truth, there’s also grandpa’s pocket watch but it’s not even gold. You’ll never make any money out of it.

THIEF:  Have you got any cash?

MARTHA: Not much, just a few bucks.  

THIEF: Only that?

MARTHA: It’s not worth the trouble, trust me. Besides, my husband might wake up and call the police.

THIEF: Why won’t you tell me the code instead of going on blathering?

MARTHA: Fred never let me know it. That’s why one of your pals took out his knife and stabbed me. He didn’t believe me.

THIEF: (Chuckles.) Luckily, the guy didn’t kill you.  

MARTHA:  Unfortunately, he did. But I still enjoy roaming around here and having a chat with the stubborn blokes like you that keep dropping in. It makes me feel still alive.

THIEF: (Steps back.) Hey, what the heck are you talking about? You’re not a ghost, are you?

MARTHA: (Raises her arms. Groans.) I am, man, I am.

THIEF: (Grabs his bag.) Good grief! I’m getting out of here. Won’t have anything to do with spooks, no sir! (Runs out.)

MARTHA: (Loudly.) Everything’s fine, Fred, just another stupid chicken. We can go back to sleep now. (Exits.) 

                                                                           Blackout

                                                                          THE END

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Lemming Lessons

By Greg Beattie

Lemmings must follow their leader

But would do somewhat better if

they thought just a moment before they followed

their leader over a cliff. 

Humans can learn from lemmings

When told what we should be swallowin’

To avoid our own ruin we should be doin’

More thinkin’, I think, and less followin’. 

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Protest

By Gary Beck.

Two young, middle-class, white women are on their way to a demonstration against impurities in lipstick.

Liz: “I can hear a commotion around the corner. That must be it.”

Sandy: “It’s very noisy. I wonder why they’re so excited.”

Liz: “Well its about time that someone got angry at the junk they put in our make-up.”

(They reach the corner and see a demonstration about immigration.)

Sandy: “Look, Liz. it’s about immigrants, not lipstick.”

Liz: “Immigrants are important. We need people to do our nails and stuff. As long

as they don’t move in next door to me.”

Sandy: “You don’t have to worry about that. They couldn’t afford the rent in your building.”

Liz: “That’s not the point. I wouldn’t mind a French or Swedish person next

door. Just not those Mexicans who talk so fast you can’t understand them.”

Sandy: That’s how you might sound to them.”

Liz: “Don’t be silly. I speak English.”

Sandy: “I see there’s no point in discussing it with you. Do you want to join this

demonstration?”

Liz: “Of course not! I’m no immigrant. Let’s go someplace nice for lunch.”

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BLUE 

By Sara Lyons

INGREDIENTS 

1) A victory 

2) Your favorite color 

CHARACTERS 

SARA – mid-20s, survivor. 

SETTING 

Late evening, post-apocalypse. A commercial city block, reduced to rubble.

LIGHTS UP on a destroyed city block, a few months after the apocalypse. Rubble lies all around, and everything is coated in a layer of grey dust. Steel beams and cinder blocks stick out at odd angles. Dirty paper scraps float close to the ground on a barely-there breeze. Siren-like horns play in the distance, but feel crackly, like they’ve been playing at this time every day for a while without any specific purpose. 

Some rubble upstage and slightly off into the wings shifts, and SARA climbs over the top. She swings a leg over the heap, jerks her head back to see behind her, and then scrambles down the front of the rubble heap to the ground. Her movements are slightly animal-like, as if she’s been scampering over her destroyed city for a little while now. Her clothes are torn, but it looks like her shirt might have been a graphic meme tee at one point. 

SARA picks through the small rubble at the front of the pile, seeking something under every rock and pile of papers. Each object she looks under gets thrown unceremoniously to the side after it’s been lifted. Eventually, realizing she’s looking under papers she threw previously from another spot, she proceeds to a larger pile of debris. She tries, struggles, and fails to lift a large cement block. She collapses to seated on top of the rubble pile. We hear gunshots in the distance - SARA flinches. She climbs to the bottom of the pile behind a high peak as a searchlight scans over the landscape. The light glints off something colorful in the pile across from her, and SARA’s eyes grow wide. 

                                                                                SARA 

                         Wait…! 

Checking that the coast is clear, SARA skitters in the direction of the colorful thing. She digs with her fingers through the dust and uncovers one Blue Raspberry Baby Bottle Pop. It’s seen better days, but upon further inspection, she sees it’s still sealed. 

                                                                                SARA 

AHA! 

SARA starts giggling through hysterical tears, and scrambles to her previous hiding spot. She hunches over the candy, peeling it like a kid at Christmas. She lifts it in front of her face, and methodically removes the protective covering over the hard candy portion. Slowly, almost like a religious ritual: she unscrews it, licks it, turns it down into the powder container below, flips it over and back again, and then removes the pacifier-lollipop-thing. She puts it in her mouth, sucking the blue powder off the candy, a look of ecstasy on her face. We hear another siren-like sound in the background and even more distant gunshots, but SARA does not. She repeats the ritual slowly as LIGHTS FADE. 

                                                                                                                                                      FIN.

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The Sound of One Hand, Etc. 

By Mark Rosati

        (A MAN and a WOMAN lying on a blanket, staring up at the sky. Silence, broken only 

         by the occasional sound of birds or insects. Finally, the MAN speaks, asking a 

         question that has gnawed at his very marrow.) 

                                                                    

                                                                    MAN 

What is the sound of one hand clapping? 

         (a pause) 

                                                                   WOMAN 

Listen - there it is. 

           (long silence) 

                                                                      MAN 

Is that the answer? 

                                                                    WOMAN 

There are no answers, just more questions. 

                                                                       MAN 

            (devastated) 

Why? 

                                                                     The End 

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