2021-22 Writer’s Club Anthology CCHS \"Words are our most inexhaustible source of magic.\" -J. K. Rowling.
Table of Contents Maggie Diaz ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- 2 Kid in Green --------------------------------------------------------------------------- 2-8 Pearl Goldman ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 9-10 Rebecca Moctezuma ----------------------------------------------------------------- 11 Arianna Nieves ----------------------------------------------------------------------- 12 Mia Pagano --------------------------------------------------------------------------- 13-17 Sydnee Patak ------------------------------------------------------------------------- 18-20 Benjamin K. Regenbaum ---------------------------------------------------------- 21-33 Jordan Suralie ----------------------------------------------------------------------- 34-51 Ariel Yarmus ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 52-57 Allison Baisley…….. Advisor/Editor Jeanne Rose……….. Advisor/Editor 1
“REFLECTION OF THE RIVER” By: Maggie Diaz In my reflection I see pain. I don't see the brunette with glasses. I don't see the 5’3 girl with a tummy 10 pounds heavier than she would like I see ugly dirty pain. Pain so unbearable it hurts to breathe you feel the sour strain on your throat when swallowing charcoal, slate,iron,heather shades of gray no color aloud no thoughts a river of denial as I would love to fly but I can't fly when hate obstructs the vision of the sky so I will flap my wings until the sky is clear and the world is green and the river free I won't let my pain distract me from my future bright and clear But for now I am grounded held back only by my fears Santa is a verb By: the kid in green For Mrs. Rose and Mrs. Baisley Santa is real What do you mean he’s a myth? Santa is alive and well I saw him the other day, in fact. Santa is around the corner Santa is behind that door Santa is in a handshake and a poem And a blanket around the shoulders of a friend Santa is you and me and every act of kindness that will ever be The act of Santa-ing is in a smile and a song Santa isn’t far away He’s right here He’s us We’re Santa-ing. 2
Wind Chill By: the kid in green Thanks to Nat for proofreading! “The wind comes and takes anyone who dares to step outside.” Those eleven words were the foundation of his entire life. They were seared onto his brain and into his memories. Those eleven words were nightmares and ghost stories and urban legends and folklore all rolled into one. Words to live by, they were. He’d heard those eleven words for as long as he could remember. His town was...different from all of the other towns in the world, the towns that he saw on the television and read about in books. In his town, only the stupidest, bravest, most desperate people would go out at noon with their faces covered with thick scarves and masks. Only the stupidest, bravest, most desperate people would scramble out of their homes with their shoulders hunched. Only those few people would make a mad dash to grab the bare necessities from stores that suddenly had long lines out of their doors. The lines would span streets, but only for minutes. Cars and bikes and skateboards would clog up the roads and sidewalks of his tiny town the moment clocks chimed twelve and the sun was highest in the sky, when the air was so warm and humid and heavy that not the smallest breeze could be felt. And then one person would see their shadow, or one person would see a leaf floating across the pavement. One person would scream, and they would all scatter, tucking themselves back into their homes once more, determined not to be the next to disappear. He often wondered how he’d survived for so long. He and Maisie and Grandma, they had somehow managed to stay alive through it all. Frugality, Grandma claimed. One dusty old can of food a day, and they had gotten by for years. Because his family could never afford the luxury of timing. No, they couldn’t afford to get stuck in the perilous noontime traffic, or in a tremendously long line that would move forward about three yards before someone would scream and they would all scurry back home. That was another different thing about his town. The existence of noontime traffic. But Grandma was adamant, and her commands never wavered. “You can’t go out there!” she’d yell. “Not a one of you! Keep that door closed! Keep those windows shuttered! Keep quiet and keep your heads on straight! Neither of you are going out there!” And so he and Maisie, they’d both sit down and read, or they’d draw, or they’d just stare at each other until he made a funny face to cheer her up. Occasionally, he’d hear older teens and young adults outside, laughing and shouting and running up and down empty streets like they owned the place. He’d never admit to being jealous. He wasn’t jealous. Those were the people who would disappear next, he knew it. 3
Still, he couldn’t help but imagine that was him, skipping along and chattering like a woodpecker with people his own age. People who he could actually talk to face to face, not over a video call. Maisie would catch him sometimes. “Nigel, what’cha doin’ at the window like that?” “Nothing.” “Who’re those people out there? They shouldn’t be out there, should they?” “Nope. Those are the ones who are gonna get snatched up next.” “Brrrrrr.” She would clutch her teddy bear close to her chest. “Poor people. Hey, why’re you listening to them, Nigel?” “Just thinking. Go do your schoolwork now, ‘kay?” She’d pout grumpily and stomp away, knowing full well that the conversation was over, but minutes later he would find her humming to herself as she sat at the kitchen table and practiced her math. But that was during the day. The nights were the worst. During the nights, the wind would howl and scream past the windows. Tree branches would drag their long fingers against the dirty glass and wood siding. Maisie would curl up and press her forehead to his chest, whimpering under mounds of blankets, and he would hug her thin, shivering, malnourished little body close to him. Every night, he dreaded falling asleep in fear that he would wake up and there would be nothing but a teddy bear in his arms. No, he didn’t sleep well anymore. ~~~ But one day, he just couldn’t stand it. Maisie had been coughing again. She had been born with weak lungs, though half of the time they didn’t bother her at all. But she must’ve caught something, because she’d been hacking so badly. He’d cuddled her close as her teeth rattled together, making the harsh sound of bone clicking on bone fill the air around them. He’d watched helplessly as she curled up on the couch, her bony shoulders shaking violently. Grandma made tea with what little tea leaves they owned as he rifled through empty cabinets for medicine that didn’t exist. But when he’d asked if he could try to get some, she’d fixed him with that wild, mad glare. He brought the tea to Maisie without another word. “Nigel,” she whispered as he walked towards where she lay on the couch. Her body shook pitifully, and he stumbled to her side, sliding the mug from his hands across the coffee table. “Hey,” he whispered back. “Hey, I’m here. I’ve got you some tea. Think you could drink it for me?” 4
She curled further into herself, but nodded silently. However, as he helped her sit up, she erupted into a coughing fit that sent her back to the couch cushions. He froze up, all coherent thought leaving his mind as his little sister spasmed weakly in front of him. He didn’t know what to do. Oh heck, he didn’t know what to do. Slowly, the fit subsided, leaving them both shaken. Maisie slowly looked up at him, her eyes full of silent tears. Asking a silent question. Can you help me, big brother? Outside, he stayed as firm as always, perhaps sort of shaken, but calm and just a little bit worried. Or, at least, he prayed that was how he looked. Because on the inside, he broke. He completely shattered. He couldn’t stand another second of seeing his little sister like she was. So he nodded. Tried to smile. Kissed her forehead, and with a whispered “Be right back,” tucked a blanket around her and hurried silently to the door. Grandma was still in the kitchen. She couldn’t hear his socked feet slide down the hall and into his old hard-soled slippers. She couldn’t see him throw on an extra jacket and stuff his meager savings into his pocket. She couldn’t notice as he rubbed his face harshly, attempting to rid it of any tears before he left. And she was not allowed to watch him leave. Deep in his gut, he knew it was a bad decision. The farthest reaches of his mind warned him from opening that door. Every muscle in his body screamed at him not to turn that handle. His bare fingers brushed the freezing doorknob, and he stopped. Because all of those stories…everyone believed them. Or at least, no one wouldn’t not believe them. The wind would come and whisk him away from…everything. But he could hear Maisie’s weak coughs from the living room, and that was enough. She needed something more than what they had. She needed medicine, or good food, or anything he could get her. So he stepped outside and closed the door. The wind howled around him almost immediately, making his hair whip around his face. The sky was cold and clear. He wrapped his arms around himself, steeling his nerves. He nearly ran back inside, confessed to Grandma, hid under the covers. Years of trained terror wrapped his mind in thick gauze, making his thoughts fuzzy. But Maisie had looked at him with eyes so full of those silently begging tears. He gulped, wiggled his toes, and stepped out into the street. Suddenly, it was pitch-black. Shadows draped themselves over his clothes. The gravelly road crackled under his shoes, making him stop. The wind blew him off balance, knocking him over. He gasped as his palms and knees were sliced open by the sharp, uneven pavement. 5
For a moment, all he could do was lie there, stifling his whimpers. It was cold, it was dark, there could be anything around him and he would never know, he had no idea where he was going and Maisie would never get better. Maisie. Her pale, pleading eyes were staring at him. Please. Help me. He grunted softly, pushing himself to his feet and turning around. He could not see home. Is it this way? No, no, this way. That can’t be right. It must be this way. On and on he trekked, keeping his hands outstretched so he couldn’t run into anything. It was dark, it was so dark and he couldn’t see a thing and oh God, he was going to die. He was blind. He was completely blind and deaf because there was no light and there was no sound, save for the screaming wind in his head. This is it. This is how I die. Alone. Completely alone. He sank to his knees, curling up into a shivering ball. They’ll never know. They’ll never know why I went outside. Maisie will just get thinner and thinner until she evaporates completely. Grandma will be all alone and no one will be there to cheer her up. I abandoned them. And they’ll never know. Sobs wracked his body. His tears froze upon his cheeks. Because he was all alone. A twig broke, its sharp sound echoing around forever and more and stilling the gales. He was snapped from his descent into a downward spiral of nothingness, and he gasped in shaky fear, glancing wildly around himself and trying to reason out why the world had gone still. A person stood a few yards away. He didn’t recognize them at all, but whoever they were, they must’ve been holding a flashlight or something to their face, because bright white light shone through the surrounding darkness. It reflected against tree bark on all sides, but he couldn’t possibly worry about that now. It was a person. In his half-delirious state, he laughed aloud. Perhaps it sounded a bit crazy, because the person flinched back. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he croaked, holding up his hands in a placating gesture. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I should’ve brought a light of some sort, shouldn’t I?” he chuckled. “Hey, can you 6
help? I don’t know where I am, and I need to get somewhere. Problem is, I don’t know where it is.” The person hummed quietly, stepping closer. The flashlight near their ear shone brighter, warmer. Kinder. He grinned. “I’m trying to get to the doctor’s office. I need to get medicine for my, uh, my little sister, see, she’s-” The light suddenly grew harsh and blinding, making him shield his eyes with one hand. Squinting, he tried to focus on the person, but suddenly they were right in front of him. They held no flashlight - instead, their wide, panicked eyes were full of light. The wind began to pick up once more, whipping around more violently than ever. It swirled the person’s long, grey hair around their shoulders and face, and he realized that though their face was youthful, his supposed savior had skin the color of charcoal. Before he could begin to even shiver, they clamped one freezing hand around his wrist. He strained to break free, but their grip was like cold steel. He slowly began to lose feeling in his fingers. Give her to me, a voice whispered in his eardrums, slowly chanting louder and louder until he cried out in pain. Give her to me Give her to me Give her to me Give her to me Give her to me GIVE HER TO ME GIVE HER TO ME GIVE HER TO ME GIVE HER TO ME NOW. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t even think as he stared at the guy. Ice froze his veins. Frost creeped across his skin at speeds he’d never so much as imagined. The person - the guy who was supposed to be his savior - did nothing but stare straight back at him with wild, completely white eyes and let the wind whip all warmth in the air away. He glanced down. The cold spread from charcoal fingertips. Give her back to me now. Struggling for breath, he looked straight at the figure in grey. His vision darkened at the edges. Still, he shook his head and mouthed one final word. No. An older brother’s frozen, dead body thumped to the ground as the wind slowly began to die down. And off the spirit walked, completely unaware that they had just killed. 7
“Try not to Wander” By: the kid in green 8
A Friend By: Pearl Goldman I’ve walked down this road before Was it a year ago? Yesterday? I don’t know, but i’ve been here before It's dark here. More gray, huh? Looking back the dull gray got brighter, almost white A tiny dot in the distance Was I spacing out? It was quiet here A little too quiet for my liking But that was OK Because the quiet meant that noone was around to hear me To hear the thoughts that drowned me To hear the bloody heart pounding against my chest To hear the clicking of heels from my newly bought shoes I think I heard something It sounded sorta like static Is it words? Is someone speaking? Was someone there? I can’t tell but, I was sure that there were footsteps beside my own They were loud and echoed throughout this place Drowning the pounding of my own heels Is..someone there? A blurry image was walking next to me I couldn’t hear what they were saying But it must have been nice Judging from the wide smile on their shadowed face They turned towards me Their smile was smaller but it still made my stomach warm I think they asked me something What was it? The gray was lighter now Did I walk backwards? 9
Oh, that’s right My name? It’s… What I know By: Pearl Goldman I used to think that rainbows were a blessing, Now I know it is a trick of the light I used to think that I knew everything Now I know that no one has all the answers, and that sometimes maybe we don’t want any I used to think that there was no end but a beginning, Now I know that was just a belief I used to think that I was no different than the average person, Now I know that no one is like me I used to think that there were millions of people with me Now I know that that was a lie I used to think that I was alone Now I know that that was just wishful thinking I used to think that everything I knew someone knew it better Now I know that everyone grows up with different stories I used to think that there was only one person in the world that will ever understand me-but I’ll never get to meet them I know now that there are many who I can talk to I used to think that no one would like what I like, would understand my crazy thoughts and weird obsessions Now I know that there are those with the same likes and overly dramatic tendencies, and that they like to talk to me too 10
“Reminiscing a sweet snowy night” By: Rebecca Moctezuma Walking down the shimmery path the sound of crunching snow being stepped on by the heavy, rubbery boots Filled up the cold atmosphere Looking up at the sea of dark purplish and greyish tones I saw how calmly the moon sat in place illuminating the night sky As I ran my hands through the crystallized winter blanket I realized my hand had gone from a light color to a ruby red The soft feathery snow filled up the streets in perfect white, as it danced a choreographed ballet conducted by the wind A once rousey and loud neighborhood suddenly became a peaceful snow globe. Each breath I took in felt like sharp daggers, the cool winter air never failed to surprise me. 11
Stargazing by Arianna Nieves Did you know that the brightest stars are the farthest away? The cool breeze of a summer night and a blanket of stars as comfort, always felt like home with you. We nearly touched those stars that night, but somewhere along the way the pressure was too much and it was time for you to go back to Earth. I stopped and looked back as you drifted back down but I felt as comfortable as ever in this atmosphere. Should I stop? On our way up I felt the color fading when our hands touched. I already felt so free, did I really want to returned to the grass not being able to begin the life I secretly longed for? We were two different stars at different luminosities but I deserved to shine brighter and was getting so close to where I was meant to be. So I let go. Thank you for the glimmer, I’ll always be here, just a light-year away. 12
\"the weight.\" By: Mia Pagano what do you do when you feel all the weight? every ounce of what enters your body hangs over your head in shame. you feel the bread go down your throat, and feel your gravity pull stronger. your breaths get shorter and your cries longer because, simply, you messed up. you try to tell yourself that it’s okay, it’s normal to eat three times a day, or even more, or even less; simply whatever you feel is best. but what is life if not a competition? and if not with your mind; with who then? the greatest battles are not on the field but instead in the mind, where no one can yield. an ever going fight which never relents a proud side eye which you give the rest who cannot complete the task that you are taking on! what peasants, what fools, what fat lazy bags of everything you want to be and everything you had but you don’t. and you won’t. until you pick up the fork and erase all thoughts of defamation from your friends, from your sport, 13
from ads which follow you, call at you, laugh at you the male gaze which tackles you, baffles you, but you cannot stop trying to please. please. make it go away. you miss when you were young when food would simply stay a substance to enjoy, when you were hungry or sad not a thing that you challenged; not a thing that was good or bad just simply an action; like breathing or not. and just like breathing, how could you choose to stop? how could you choose to stop? why did you choose to stop? was it worth it? to stop? for the love of god, stop. close your eyes. breathe again. \"the haze\" By: Mia Pagano in late summer air, there seems to be an overlying haze. 14
it darkens skin which is fair, and lengthens all the days. it lightens burdens and heals minds, it can do all sorts of good; all kinds. but, as we all know, hazes are temporary. they fade like the sun into night. slow at first, dimming the bright until everyone and everything forgets what is right. but was it a dream? was it not real? the haze is not a place, nor a feeling to feel. it instead is a gleam, a most magical one at that. sometimes it can be seen, even as the months pass-- a glitter or a gleam; a reflection of light in glass. for it can be marketed, the haze, can be recorded and remembered. for in our dreams what is bittersweet is often sweetened and rendered to be this all-healing place with no faults nor scars; a rose-colored bikini with cut up arms. so, may i ask, why must i rely on this haze? why does this warm blanket comfort me throughout my days? is it a scapegoat for my fear? do not worry, fun lies here! do not worry, do not doubt, 15
it all will get better when the haze comes around. pictures are a hand, holding me through my cries. i can‘t tell if they’re shouting truth, or if they’re shouting lies. were my smiles really real? were they for the camera, or something i‘d feel? and if i never felt in then, will i ever feel it again? do not worry, do not doubt, it all will get better when the haze comes around. but i worry. but i doubt. i hope it all gets better when the haze comes around. \"water out of wine glasses\" By: Mia Pagano we're drinking water out of wine glasses, staring high. at turns the tide sun low as you stare at me so longingly, i just can't bring myself to say goodbye. we're staring at the edge of Eternity, 16
barely onto last holding our breath but even if it all ends here right now, at least i can call you my best friend. \"a temporary beauty\" inspired by “Morning on Shinnecock” by Olivia Ward Bush-Banks By: Mia Pagano in the smallest part of the day, when the earth bore itself anew, it's almost as if the wind spoke to me; the trees and the flowers too. they reminded me of simpler times, when the world was experienced instead of understood; when my mind made up all the answers, and didn't search further when it no longer could. i missed when my ideas didn't have to be justified; when the only proof i needed was between me and my eyes. because no one can tell you colors; can't argue or debate or question or grade or-- a breath. a pause. a wish. a prayer. i stared longingly into the sunrise; begging it to remain with baseless scorn. but, merging into sorrow’s day, then beauty faded with the morn. 17
“innisfree” By: sydnee patak for peace comes dropping slow, dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings. oh, the place where the cricket sings! where will i find it? that melancholy memory of another life, one i so long to see again, if not for the first time. it’s where i run. deep within, when it all gets too loud. when the mouths move too fast and the dark comes too slow. when the screams dampen and clog, crushed by the inexplicable, unrelievable weight of the want. the want to prove to the world that i’m here. i’m here. i’m here. but i’m also there. that majestically floral dome of breathtaking landscape, carpeted by pine shavings, tangled by vines of velvet petals, backlit by just the sun and the moon and the stars. can i be that manufactured speck in the cushioned wrappings of the natural kingdoms? won't someone help me decide? should i stay or should i go? “middle men” By: sydnee patak Keeping quiet in noisy times was a sin, the immeasurable crime of indifference. Our streets pour out perpetrators, not a single one busy 18
but not a single one with time. They tiptoe down their middle ground, holding, hanging, onto every thread. Everyone is right. No one is wrong. Why? Why? Why? Why? They sit and watch, the houses of their kin smolder to the ground. They chain us down, pulling on our limbs, “Disengage!”they scream. Ironic. The only words they dare speak, are to tell others to quiet their own. But nothing moves forward without battles. Some things must be fought to be freed. You can’t stay gray forever. “a portrait of the red haired boy from the river” By: sydnee patak The paddle struck the water at an angle. It glided down smoothly through both air and then water, not stalling nor slowing. It moved with the sleekness of a falcon diving to scoop its prey. Perfectly empowering, funneling currents at its whim. It guided them all. Or rather, he did. It was his faintly freckled arms, after all, that pushed the paddle down over and over to meet its watery fate. His carefully balanced body that seemed so relaxed and at home out on the river, unbothered by the choppy grayness of the waves. Then again, they didn’t attack him, they cushioned his hull, smacking instead into the space just behind. But if they had targeted him, it seemed he would not mind. His kayak was bright, vibrant orange, the color a toddler might use in a crayon illustration of the sun, and it’s contrast with the ashen sky only made it more appealing. It matched him too. Not only because the hair that peeked out from his worn baseball cap and curled softly around his ears was also fiery in appearance. No, it was more his bright easy smile and the way those around him never seemed to 19
want to fall behind. Even the water droplets that splashed up clung to him, dewey little crystalline beads all along his forearms. If possible the sky seemed to darken even more and somewhere nearby a train roared over tracks, but his paddling stayed steady and purposeful. Each movement was even and well practiced. Two strokes on the left, two on the right, then three more on the left, he never broke pace or tired. Several times he turned back and seemed to be observing those who paddled behind. Once, twice his neck twisted to them; a status check. On the final turn, he seemed to make a decision and his tangerine boat cut slightly to the side, paving a pathway through the roughening waves for the others. Their arms burned and they grimaced with every stroke but none complained. They simply paddled after him. Overhead the shadow of a large bird must have caught his eye and his gaze strained just enough to spot the reddish flash of the tail and the silvery glint of a fish clutched in the bird’s talons. He stayed locked on the bird as it swooped by, hypnotized by it’s path through the air, perhaps wishing he too could experience such weightlessness and freedom. It was with longing that he watched the bird coast towards one of the tiny islands that adorned the horizon, and it was with a barely twisted mouth of disappointment that he finally turned his attention away from the space it had occupied. He shook his head in a nearly imperceptible motion, as if to refocus his mind. The correction of a moment of distraction. And he paddled on. The transition from bouncy waves to smoother waters was both instantly relieving and startlingly abrupt as the group finally glided beneath the shadow of a bridge and into their destination. It was only a small inlet but it was a refuge for the now weary group and their eyes seemed to smile more in thanks as they looked to the one who had brought them here. The area was lined with marsh grasses that blurred yellow-green as the wind tousled them, jutting out atop solid muddy fingers of land into the inlet, creating a miniature maze. The water was brownish gray indicating it’s shallowness. It seemed quieter here, as if the water easing had stilled the air too. He drifted at the edge of the group, making quiet conversation, taking pictures for the families that requested, letting them all catch their breath even though his had never even deepened. When he told them gently that they should all begin to head back no one pronounced a single syllable of protest or complaint. They simply steeled themselves and navigated back into the choppy waters. And though their breaths came in huffs and they were soaked by the violent splashes and their muscles cramped and burned, none seemed eager to return to solid ground. And he, with his quiet comfortable laugh and hands that so confidently gripped the paddle, it seemed he would have stayed on the river forever until he melted into the fiery space between the sky and the water, replacing the sun that was hidden by the clouds, blending forever into some elusive watery portrait. 20
“To All Who Will Listen.” By: Benjamin K. Regenbaum “Prelude, Early Morning.” “The Loud Whisper Echoes” Waking up, he looks outside. The tree reaches towards him, calling him. A faint, yet ever so significant sound. He ignores it. He goes to the bathroom. The sink reaches toward him, calling him. It begs him, pleads with him to give in. He tries his best to ignore it. Making breakfast, a knife reaches toward him, calling him. It begs him, pleads with him to let go. He looks, but ignores it. He goes on a walk. Cars pass, grabbing him, screaming at him. They beg him, plead with him to do it. He stares, but finally ignores it. The whispers echo, echo only to him. But it echoes in his ears, reverberating through his soul. The loud whisper echoes, echoes breaching his mind. Dear God, oh Dear God! He can no longer ignore this scream! He runs to his house; the trees, the cars screaming to run faster. An immense struggle, he shatters. He must give in; he has to give in. The rope is a final beckon; it comforts him. Words cannot possibly relay. He throws it, and the tree catches it, an unholy exchange. The rope tightens around his neck, reassuring him; it will all be over; the screams will fade. The loud whisper echoes, echoes refusing to end. The last step is made, a final prayer, a lasting thought. A smile forms. The screams end, darkness sweeps through his eyes. He whispers. His final whisper echoes, echoes to no one. The loud whisper echoes, however, echoes to everyone. 21
“Introduction, 7:30 A.M.” The Sun rises. Warmth, comforting yellow light waves to the darkened streets. They lay abandoned, empty. Slowly, the darkness retreats to the shadows, plotting its return. Time passes slowly; orange hues and pink wonders wash over the surrounding trees. The moment remains forgotten. Man slumbers, unaware of the grandiose event. He lays, abandoned, empty. Slowly, the darkness collapses around him, plotting his demise. Time passes slowly; a distinct black spreads through a barren night, a lonely room. Darkness is his only company; it has been for an eternity past. Darkness is his only friend; no other element has the courage to comfort him. Darkness has never abandoned him; it is imprinted in the deepest sections of his mind. He does not try to fight it. Dark is his only light. Yet, he remembers Light. Vividly, he pictures the years spent in joy; he once loved Light dearly, after all. Fixed in its gaze, he once bathed in the waters, his soul warmed by the comfort, by the acceptance. How could Light betray him? To be as cold as only the blackest of nights and only the deepest of caves? No, stop remembering. He can never return; He must fight it. He does not care about beauty; he renounces a world built upon the foundations of brightness. He does not acknowledge the light; he always finds a way to ignore it. It is uncanny. He refuses to even speak of it; it only reminds him of a past life- of a different world. But the pressures intensify, breaking him; the Man must look; the Man must experience it once more. The Sun stands still. Light halts, a line drawn with the thickest of pens. The darkness remains. It is waiting, waiting for him. It silently begs, cries; a sharp pain digs into the very essence of Man. Life can return. Warmth can return. Comfort can return. Joy, happiness- they can return. Yes. They can return. Should they return? Yes, please return! 22
He can no longer resist the calls. They beckon him like the sweetest of angels. Light, after all, is prosperity in the eyes of those standing tall. He cracks. An eye crests the surface of once permanent covers. A singular crack. The crack of a jet-black curtain reveals a glimmer. A slight, yet oh so tremendous glimmer! Yellow waves seep through the window, peering curiously into his eyes. They smile, a grin wider than any ocean and deeper than any cavern. Why fight it? He gives in, the smile is impossible to refuse. He no longer fights. Although only a second, he throws down his covers- a moment larger than time. Dark retreats into the deepest corners of his mind, to the hardest spots to uncover; he escapes it. Light enters in its wake, reviving spirits once left disheveled, broken; he embraces it. The Sun rises. The cycle continues. It will set once again. Man wakes; his cycle is broken. It will likely never return. Today will finally be a good day; finally. “New Beginnings. 9:15 A.M.” “Forget everything.” How can he forget? How could she not remember- the real question. A collapse of the mind, the fall of his rise; the flames of pointed rain hinder his movement. Regurgitate to rewind, constantly hidden, the failed disguise; the impassioned argument sears the heart. A soul unable to recover, a man bent to her will. An eternity ago, the story requited. “Forget everything.” What to do with the pain? How could she not feel it- a pressing debate. The hintings of a struggle, feigned strength; the fires of love burn brightly within, ignored. Writhing, eyes no longer supple, waned and sank; the life shattered, nowhere to move toward. Alarms ring, not one could feel, not one came; how could he awaken- he hides his face. A ghost left to wander, a once glowing home. An eternity ago, the lights now unknown. “Forget everything.” Who does he turn to? How could she turn away- no answers remain. The Art of War, a battle unprepared; unexpected, a betrayal. A relationship left smoldering. 23
What is it time for? The brain ensnared; rejected, a face turned pale. Emotions are left roaring. The alarm continues singing; it refuses to give in; how can he awaken- he hides his face. Yet, one eye peeks, the real world finally visible. Shrouded in inky black, he stands still as time. A soul left as contraband, evicted from his picturesque lands. An eternity ago, from angel to foe. “Forget everything.” Where will he run? How could she leave- a voice rises with a tremor. A vision impaired, the senses lost to the senseless; a knock on his door, savior or traitor? Flowing golden hair, the person lost to the personal; a knock on his door, no. He cannot. It is her. The alarm screaming, reaching, my God it refuses to give in! He is shaken- rise with time? A sudden movement, a face emerges as shadows retreat. Captured by gilded waves, he freezes. Words fail to portray thoughts. His mouth contorts, tired lines trace to tragically lost ties. The spirit broken, words puncture his lungs, stealing hurried breaths. An eternity ago, a man fell. “Forget everything.” Why did she do this? How will he ever know- blinded by his cage. A smile faded, expressions lost to the expressionless; the knob slowly turns; go away, please. A heart baited, love lost to lust; the door begins to creak; his stomach churns; he must not face her! The alarm shaking, ringing erupts through his deepest fears. He rises- a drunken rage deep. Dear God, why must she enter once again? Is this but entertainment, a game to be played? To her, a pastime. Switching emotions like channels, arguments like episodes. The mind frayed. To him, an endless climb. Facing struggles like no other, conflicts like bloodied battle. He caves. A fear reignited. A fish to a hook, a rabbit to a dog: the tragic destiny; An eternity ago, solemnly fulfilled. “Forget everything.” Forget everything? How does she declare this- her intentions malign? A relationship obsolete, strength stolen by the weak; the crack widens; what to do if she enters? A friend lost, kindness beaten by the cost; he must not let her in again. He must not. No more. The alarm quiets, interested- has he changed his mind? He moves quickly- frightened. He howls. Anger boils, bubbling through dredged shouts and soft murmurs. He will not let her in! No! Under no circumstances. She throws herself to the door, a sightless boundary. With boundless strength, a final push. 24
No! He will surrender. He leaps forward, might motivated by an ill-intended plight. With boundless strength, a final push. No! She will leave him. With wicked creaks, misshapen wood drenches cracked floors. One arm enters, the gravest sin. No! Please! Do not touch him! Yes! She will reach him! She will grab him! God, can anyone save him? The end approaches, he bends as he always has: unfortunate tradition. Yes! She smiles proudly. Suddenly, a weight lifted, the door is closed. A battle within his mind, the story unfolds, to never appear again. A soul put to rest, he passes the harshest of tests; her voice still lingers, but she is gone, go figure. Yes, at last. The moment that shattered an eternity; for the first time, he forgets everything. “Runner’s High. 10:30 A.M.” He rides the tides; the series of unfortunate waves, born from disgrace. Closed eyes. Runner’s High: what grander a feeling? Bonded to it as a slave, an endless crave. Opened mouth. Uneven smoke fills the air; ragged breaths are taken. A perfect blue morning, birds chirp passing. Eyes greet the view above; mountains watch, sacred observers to his heavenly agony. He rides the tides; the series of unfortunate waves, born from disgrace. Closed eyes. Runner’s High: what is possibly better? No way to save, adorn the pace. Opened mouth. A hill approaches; fear is intensified. He wonders- can he beat it? Adrenaline soars as he roars- Forward, moving toward the obstacle; man can hardly identify. Of course, he can beat it! Striking downwards, moving upwards, his stagger increases; he refuses to fall into pieces. Forward, moving always, his feet lengthen; honor is on the line, not to mention. He rides the tides; the series of unfortunate waves, born from disgrace. Closed eyes. Runner’s High: what a show! He always must cave, an endless crave. Opened mouth. The top of the hill; the climax of the story. He exclaims- he has beat it! Adrenaline soars as he roars 25
Forward; the end is in sight. A final push with all of his might. Of course, he can beat it! A green haze surrounds him. Pine trees, the sole survivors of the winter season, stand sound. Squirrels shiver, dogs bark as the cat whimpers. Ice is condensing on the ground, darkened silver. All this, the environment: cold and always shifting, unpredictable and weathered; he notices. He notices as he rises, unbeaten. He basks in the glory, a finished sequence. Victory! He rides the tides; the series of unfortunate waves, born from disgrace. Closed eyes. Runner’s High: The moment never goes! He declares with a rave, abandoned face. Opened mouth. The race is finished. The moment is through. His adrenaline fades, as though he never knew. His bones begin to ache, he groans irate; all this trouble to return home; a man remains unchanged. The bait is a gimmick. The Euphoria ceases to grow. The happiness jades, a friend turned foe. He nearly breaks- present as fate. His mouth foams, deranged. He rides the tides; the series of unfortunate waves, born from disgrace. Closed eyes. Runner’s High: The moment never goes! He declares with a rave, abandoned face. Opened mouth. The mailbox in sight. A relieved grin takes hold. No longer in suffering, his joy unopposed. No cars in the driveway, yes; the house stands alone, his journey unnoticed. Runner’s High: what grander a feeling? But is it worth the fall? “The World Encapsulated. 11:40 A.M.” The Sun reaches high into the sky. An endless cycle, it is never defied. Why? It reaches its peak; deep golden light shines. It shines on a freak, on an abandoned disciple. It glows, a malevolent light bright. It shines on the Man, a man in fright; he tries to fight. It knows, knows of the falsely remarked dark; the Man stuck in the shadows. He cries. Eyes fall, battering tattered clothes. A wrinkled face looks on, always infinitely opposed. Children peer upwards, smiles to frowns to screams as they look upon this face! He cannot cave. He increases his pace. A look impossible to fake: fear displaced. The feeling culminates. 26
Slowly, a sprint emerges from the walk. The store is in sight, finally. He looks to his left, his right. What is around him? Shops surround storied ground; all leeches, only seeking a profit. No way to stop it, endless sound. The bells chime, a church in the distance; the revered building: chipped white paint, broken down. He wonders, do the bells chime for a man lost? Those rusted bells, to Death they always taunt. A single building lay in decay; what life did it once live? Not a worthwhile one, he would say. Far off, homes lost to the mountains; all are the same: little boxes. He knows the damage within. Close ahead, roads covered by trees; where do they lead? All are the same: to nowhere, he sees. He increases his pace. A look impossible to fake: excitement erased. The feeling culminates. Slowly, a flame rises from the ashes; his throat burns, his heart crashes; darkness, his eye catches. Who is around him? Families stand around, left speechless; they stare at the Man- piercing his soul- eyes that pound. A blond-haired boy intently watches; he stares at the Man- questioning his movement- mind sound. A child turns away, for his toy he reaches; a fear unmistaken: Man is the wrong path taken. An old man’s stare, eyes tremor as if sleepless; boiling anger: Man has lost all he was given. Eyes fall, battering tattered clothes. A wrinkled face looks on, always infinitely opposed. Children look upwards, smiles to frowns to screams as they look upon his face! He cannot cave. He increases his pace. A look impossible to fake: anger retraced. The feeling culminates. Slowly, the Man lifts himself from the ruins; his eyes burn, “Store closed, return when it opens”. Why is he here? Originally, he left his home: his single place of comfort, of distinct safety, of acceptance, To purchase food. Why did he do this? He tries to remember. Ah! No food for breakfast, none. Not a crumb in the house, the Man was done. He weighed his options, which journey more fun? Either order-in or finally go out, return to the world. He fears this foreign place; his mind twirled. 27
He decides to depart, a momentous occasion. The Man was motivated, brazen. His eyes blazen. Today will be better, it will save him. He increases his pace. A feeling impossible to fake: joy forever replaced. The feeling culminates. Slowly, battered shoes turn in retreat; legs quickly spur feet. Oh, what a calculated defeat! Where to go now? Where is he welcome? Anywhere? The answer he knows; a pit in his stomach, weepful, tearful sorrow grows. He thinks of his house: grey blur, windows with welcoming faces, warm memories, brown couch. Children play in the kitchen, fight in the den. Parents look onward, any wounds they will mend. Happily, dogs bound though the halls. Golden swirls match blackened curls as barks echo to all. A TV plays distinctly, always something new. The family sits, the room brightened by laughter. He left this home: his single place of comfort, of distinct safety, of remarkable acceptance. He increases his pace. A feeling impossible to fake: insanity encased. The feeling culminates. Slowly, a runner reaches the finish line; the last hill is in sight. He can return home, eyes alight. How will he recover from this loss? To him, it does not matter. He pushes this out of his mind. A fight ensues. He must not think; he must only run. Why focus on the how? Why move the way he does? He must not think; he must only run. To return home, why focus on why? His eyes wander. Stop! No time for thoughts to wander. No! He must stay focused, regardless of the time! He must not think! He must not think! He must only run! His thoughts tear open, bones feel broken. He must not think! He must only run! His eyes close tightly, tears fall frightfully. He increases his pace. Once more he does! 28
He must not think! He must only run! He finally reaches the driveway. The race is over. His thoughts reform as he sways. He is home. He is finally home, but what of his journey? What does he have to show? “Converging Light. 12:00 P.M.” The division, perfection; there is no better contrast: the converging light. No need for fright! Yin and Yang, black and white, never any grey. The moment but a second, defines the entire day. Church bells chime, the endless time. The Man bathes in light that washes away folded crimes. Oh! The light fades in and out around the man. What precious beauty indeed! Oh! Yellow waves surround eyes bright and round. What endless forgiveness he sees! Oh! The Sun glances down, a smile from a frown. What a moment, if only to freeze! Already, the moment is through; it will return as if he never knew. In 24 hours time, the cycle will reset. The light’s waters will return, so dear Man, do not fret. The Man is comforted. All his anxieties, pressures, the rise of the Sun lifted. The chiming ends; the clock starts fresh. It is the afternoon. “Converging Light, Rise. 12:01 P.M.” The division, perfection; there is no better contrast: the converging light. No need for fright! Yin and Yang, black and white, never any grey. The moment but a second, defines the entire day. Church bells chime, the endless time. The Man bathes in light that washes away folded crimes. Slowly, the feeling of release; he submits to it. Thank the stars and the Gods! His crimes are lost to the always rambling facade! What a facade indeed! It tricks him, pulling emotions like a lover to his love; all this lost to greed. Quickly, he embraces the warm stare; he basks in it. 29
He ignores the trick- the facade is lost. For this otherworldly experience, but a minor cost! What an experience indeed! It attracts him, distinct warmth, a comforting scent as thoughts dim. Oh! The light fades in and out around the man. What precious beauty indeed! Oh! Yellow waves surround eyes bright and round. What endless forgiveness he sees! Oh! The Sun glances down, a smile from a frown. What a moment, if only to freeze! To freeze, impossible with such unending breeze. A torrent tired, as if God’s sneeze. Please! He begs, grovelling on battered hands and bruised knees. Please, Father Time, freeze! He knows the pleas prove worthless; losing his pride, is it worth this? So suddenly, indeed. Slowly, the winds move East; he feels it. Thank the martyr: The man who taught to be like a seed to sod! Off his teachings the brain feeds; What teachings indeed! They encourage him- proud philosophies- as his mind recedes. Quickly, he must savor every second; he knows it. The moment is nearly through- as though he never knew. To remember it, anything he would do! What a moment indeed! It motivates him: a purpose. The clock strikes twelve as thoughts dim. Oh! The light fades in and out around the man. What precious beauty indeed! Oh! Yellow waves surround eyes bright and round. What endless forgiveness he sees! Oh! The Sun glances down, a smile from a frown. What a moment, if only to freeze! Finally, the glimmer glazes, the color slowly fazes; a moment in ruins, yet the Man created. A life-changing glimmer. Normal, yet oh so striking in nature! Impossible to view such beauty- a crazed shift- faceless. Life, with its infinite movements, returns. Birds chirp, dogs bark and the passerby works. The perfection, endless, lay in an urn; flawless vision turned only to ash: something to burn. The Man, expressionless, held his wrangled body stern. Already, the moment is through; it will return as if he never knew. In 24 hours time, the cycle will reset. The light’s waters will return, so dear Man, do not fret. The Man is comforted. All his anxieties, pressures, the rise of the Sun lifted. His eyes lift. Colors, shifting greens among flurried blues dazzle bright. 30
His smile widens. Casually walking, his mood is impenetrable by even the smallest termite. The chiming ends; the clock starts fresh. It is the afternoon. “The Call to Adventure. 2:30 P.M.” “Lost and Found. 9:45 P.M.” Lost- a man beckons, long fingers pointed. A hand with no movement, fallen out of favor. Grizzled beard, what stories to be told behind these grey lines; the dark wrinkles, deeply defined. Eyes rise to the sound; the Man reckons, thoughts disjointed. A blank stare, nothing to savor. The Man feared! What stories to be told behind these white lies; the sharp words, starkly unkind. Where will he be found? Under the overpass; the outskirts of town. Sweat drenched, mind wrenched- caught by the hound, a clown. Lay passed out, a wooden bench struggles. The mahogany leaves him drowned. His breaths stolen, movements folded. The end is nearing, edging closer; no one is around. Lost- a never ending feeling: Euphoria. Deep red eyes roll back, oh to avoid the stigma! Ruffled hair, what stories to be told behind the whirlwind ensnared; oh to fix the imperfections! Opened mouth, agape with no expression. It is not fair; oh, to suffer loss, to submit to failure! The Man feared! Feared what? What greater fear than the feeling itself? No worse feeling. When will he recover? Forced in and out, up and down. Will he ever? Lay passed out, no escape, the Man is pierced, punctured by the weather. A cold, winter storm; it tatters not only his clothes adorned. A faded sweater. Words remembered. Oh so sweet. Why do they come back now? “Please get better.” What he would give to return: a warm home, lights bright. A thought to sever. Lost- a man sentenced; the deepest of punishments, the harshest of fates. Oh, to stop the frost! No way to crawl out; no chance to sit back; no opportunity to move forward. Oh, is all truly lost? Tears ebb and flow, the cold stains crystals to flushed cheeks. Oh, to restart, but at what cost? 31
The Man feared! Families, children gaze- smiles to frowns to screams as they look upon his face! Who will rescue this disheartened soul? Will anyone ever? He knows for certain: everyone avoids the burden. His tears lull. Lullabies, the soft upbringing. To be raised in gold, to fall to shadows untold. He unfolds. The loudest silence, impossible to bear. He wears thin, an icy grin cold. Lost- a man vanished; he is gone, home abandoned. Was he ever truly there? Was he? No. Not one man, woman, child, searches for his departed heart, his broken mind. No. No! Of course no one sifts through the bile! Wasted life, no restart; his broken mind. No! A Man feared! He fears for his life; it will soon be in the grip of Death. The figure calls to him. This time, not to be skipped over. The fear is too immense, the circumstances too great. He fears. He fears for himself. It is over. It is all over. Why did this have to happen? Why in this way? Why now? There is no answer. Found- this time, not to be skipped over. Not Death- not his deviled stare. He calls to him. “This time, not to be skipped over. The fear is too immense, the circumstances too great.” He fears. He fears for himself. It is over. It is all over. A heartbeat slows, shallowed breaths fade. The tears ebb for the final time. Silence. A silence louder than any noise and more powerful than any words; a light has gone out. A light, although dim, has gone out entirely; no more chance to be repaired, to shine bright. A light permanently broken, shattered in vain. The Man once feared, fears turned grey. They no longer exist, his mind begins to decay. Found- the unfortunate bystander. A scream, the dark realization is made. A man found dead, Under the overpass, on the outskirts of town. Sweat drenched, mind wrenched, nothing said. He lay, unmoving; a body purple with the cold, eyes glossed over, heavy as lead. How will the world ever recover? The answer is simple: The loss was entirely unknown, a man forgotten from the beginning of this poem. 32
“Apples and Oranges. 10:30 P.M.” I used to think of the world as a frightening, yet enthralling place. I now know those thoughts are true. I used to think that the Sun only brought light; to now understand it symbolizes hope. The moon once only sentenced darkness; it is now revered, a representation of joy. To think the Sun and the Moon are any different; to realize they are in fact the same. I used to believe that life was a game to be played; it is in fact a journey to be experienced. Death was supposed to be an ending; it is simply a new beginning. To think Death and life are any different; to realize they are in fact the same. I used to view people as either bad or good, black or white. I now see people are on a spectrum, a rainbow sparked with individuality. Criminals once were purely evil, heroes were once purely good; everyone, however, bends between good and evil. To think anyone is any different from me; to realize we are in fact the same. I used to see only light; I now know light accompanies darkness, the two intertwined. I was supposed to be the best, surrounded by brightness; to now understand my mistakes, flaws like any other. To think only good moments provide happiness; to realize the bad moments are how we learn. To think any moment is different; to understand they are the same. 33
A WALK IN THE PARK A DRAMA IN THREE SCENES BY JORDAN SURALIE FOR THE SCHOOL 34
CAST OF CHARACTERS WILL, DONNA, MISSUS JONES, PHILLIP, MAILMAN… SCENE ONE _________________________________________________ The entire play that you are about the witness is going to take place inside of a small house in Philadelphia in a 1950s like setting. Only a portion of the house will be seen up on the stage such as the living room and the kitchen. In the kitchen is a table with four chairs, a glass vase with flowers (none in particular), a sink, stove, refrigerator, and a few cabinets if possible. The door to the right of it will represent the front door. As you walk further into the house and head left of the stage, you will enter the living room, which only has a television, sofa, a small bookshelf with a small dresser and lamp accompanying the sofa on either side. As the CURTAIN RISES and the scene begins, we can see a middle aged woman sitting at the table with another middle aged woman, sitting in front of a bottle of bourbon and a few glasses. The second woman, MISSUS JONES, gives a look to DONNA, pours into her glass and slides the bottle over to her. Donna takes the bottle and pours for Jones and rests the bottle at the middle of the table. MISSUS JONES: Take a drink. Donna picks up her glass and downs the drink. She proceeds to tap the rim of Missus Jones’ glass. DONNA: You're up next. Missus Jones nods her head. Smiles, down the drink. Then opens the bottle of champagne to add some more. 35
DONNA: What’s next Hillary? Will is getting ready to go off to College, Jeanie’s got married and getting ready to have her first child, and George’s getting promotions at his job. And what are we gonna do? Lay around, waiting to die alone? MISSUS JONES: Speak for yourself, Donna. I’m gonna find me a man. DONNA: Who says you’ll be happy? MISSUS JONES: I do. Like you said, we’re both gonna die alone. I’d rather die married. DONNA: How can you Hillary? Aren’t you religious? Don’t you know it’s a sin to get married after a divorce? MISSUS JONES: You’re religious too Donna, and you wanna get married, don’t you? DONNA: I didn’t get a divorce, my husband died. Of course I wanna get married -- eventually. But the way I see it, maybe I don’t wanna spend the rest of my years in a relationship. I’ve been through marriage once before, it’s not easy. It’s like a part-time job, you’ve got to keep working at it. Besides, ’m too old for that now. MISSUS JONES: You’re a paranoid freak, don’t you know that Donna? DONNA: I’d smash this bottle upside your head if I could, but I’m too much in a good mood. MISSUS JONES: You’re not getting any younger, you’ve said it yourself. Take a risk, you’ve got nothing to lose. DONNA: I’ll lose my chance to see my first grandchild. MISSUS JONES: Oh please, I have three grandchildren and I see them twice a year. And to be honest, I don’t care about them as much as I thought I would. Under her breath. Lord forgive me. Children aren’t the only reason to live. Do something for yourself for once. I’m telling you Donna, ain’t nobody responsible for your happiness but yourself. DONNA: I hear you. Missus Jones fills up Donna’s glass and puts it in her hands. MISSUS JONES: Here, drink up. We’ve got half the bottle left. DONNA: as she takes a sip. You know -- there is this one guy. 36
MISSUS JONES: a smirk grows on her face. What’s his name? DONNA: Phil. I met him at work a few days ago. Nice guy, he’s got a good smile. MISSUS JONES: Got his number? DONNA: I’m not that bold. I’ve tried to talk to him. I think he’s attracted to me. He’s kinda tall. I mean anyone would be tall for me, I’m pretty short myself. But he’s got this charm, it’s just -- something about him. MISSUS JONES: But you haven’t got his number? DONNA: It’s not your man, I’m not sure why you care so much. Takes another sip of her drink. I would approach him. But I’d rather him approach me. It’ll make me feel much more important. MISSUS JONES: I say you snatch him up before another girl gets ahead of you. If he’s as good of a man as you say he is then you should. There aren’t many out there, you know? DONNA: If the Lord says it’ll happen, it’ll happen. But I ain’t stressin myself for nobody, I’ll tell you that much. MISSUS JONES: fills up her empty glass. I guess that is something I can drink to. Cheers! DONNA: raising her half filled glass. Cheers! They touch glasses and drink. Missus Jones looks at her watch. MISSUS JONES: When’s Will coming home? DONNA: He went over to his friend Billy’s house to congratulate him. And that’s just around the corner, so he should be here any minute now. MISSUS JONES: smiling curiously. Was it a good graduation? DONNA: Absolutely the most beautiful! I just loved seeing my baby walk across that stage. Makes a single mother feel real proud, you know. Suddenly, they hear some footsteps approach the front door to the house. Donna puts down her drink and rises with anticipation. Missus Jones looks to the door. DONNA: stepping towards the door Here he is now! 37
The door opens. WILL enters the scene. He wears his graduation hat and gown. He smiles when he sees his proud mother stretch her arms out to greet him. He takes her in his arms and gives her a big ol’ hug. DONNA: Welcome home! How’s it feel stepping into the house for the first time as a graduate? To Missus Jones And a valedictorian, at that. MISSUS JONES: impressed. Valedictorian, really? Well excuse me little Einstein Jr. I never knew you’d raise such a genius. DONNA: rolls her eyes. Please. I knew I would. Won’t you look at him, Hillary. Isn’t he the most handsome boy you’ve ever seen? WILL: slightly embarrassed. Stop, ma. MISSUS JONES: rising with an envelope in her hands. Here you go, Will. And congratulations. WILL: taking it. Thanks Missus Jones. What is it? MISSUS JONES: Open it up and find out. DONNA: as Will opens up his present. Don’t you remember when he was just a baby? MISSUS JONES: I know. Makes me feel so old. As if the drink didn’t do that to me already. I remember when you first brought him to the house and he puked all over my brand new rug. WILL: slightly embarrassed. Did I? MISSUS JONES: Sure did. And I think that was the only time I’d ever hate you. Will has opened the envelope to uncover $40.00, which in 1958, the time when this play takes place, would add up to about 384 dollars. WILL: Look at this, Ma. 40 dollars she gave me. MISSUS JONES: Just a little something I’ve been putting together. DONNA: I suppose that’s gonna go towards College, isn’t it, honey? MISSUS JONES: Oh please, he’s got enough College money already. DONNA: No he hasn’t. He’s lucky them bills won’t go towards the mortgage, I tell you that much. Goes over to the stove. Will, I made your favorite: Green Bean Casserole and whatnot. MISSUS JONES: He likes that? 38
DONNA: He’s always been quite the healthy child. To Will. I’ve already fixed you a plate, so come here ‘n eat. Will takes off his hat and sits down at the table. Donna places his plate of food in front of him and Will picks up his utensils. She goes to the fridge, takes out a bottle of juice, and begins pouring him a cup. MISSUS JONES: So Will, have you thought about whether you wanna go away to school or stay home? DONNA: as she pours. He’s staying home. WILL: Actually, I was thinking about going away . . . Donna pauses and looks at him, irritated. Missus Jones exchanges looks with both parties. DONNA: concerned. Will, we’ve discussed this already. You’re staying home. WILL: Well, when I went over to Billy’s house, we talked. He says he’s going away, so I figured going away wouldn’t be so bad -- DONNA: even more irritated It’s not about Billy. Whatever works for him works for him. WILL: Maybe this could work for me, too. DONNA: It ain’t gonna be like that, Will. Not with me. WILL: Ma, I’m eighteen years old. Why can’t I make my own decisions? Why can’t I choose whether I wanna go away or not? DONNA: getting serious. Because I feed you, don’t I? Silence; louder. Don’t I? Will nods. I buy you clothes, don’t I? Will nods. You live in my house, don’t you? Will nods. Boy, as long as you live in my house, as long as I pay for this house, as long as I feed you, and as long as I am the adult, I make the decisions around here. You understand me? WILL: I’m an adult, too. I’m eighteen ain’t I? DONNA: As long as you’re living in your mothers house, you ain’t an adult. Get it? MISSUS JONES: looking at the time. Oh look at the time, I must be going then. rising. DONNA: Sit down, Hillary. She sits. I’m not gonna tell you again, Will, you’re staying home whether you like it or not. WILL: I’m an adult now, Ma. How are you going to expect me to be an adult if I can’t make adult decisions? DONNA: Like I said before, if you’re livin in your mother’s house, you’re not an ADULT! 39
WILL: I’m eighteen. How many other eighteen year olds do you know live in their mother’s house? It’s not like I don’t work. I got a job to help you pay for the house. DONNA: angering. You’re staying home! And that’s the end of the discussion. WILL: rising; putting on his hat. I’m gonna make my own decision, and THAT’S the end of the discussion. Will turns on his heel and walks out of the DOOR. Donna is at a loss for words at this. She turns to Hillary. DONNA: Can you believe this? Shaking her head. You do so much for these kids and they don’t even respect you. MISSUS JONES: Because he can’t do what he wants he don’t respect you? Donna tries to rebuttal but she can’t. The battle’s finished, and she doesn’t know if she is defeated. She sits down at the table once more, grabs the bottle of champagne and pours a drink. CURTAIN SCENE TWO _________________________________________________ The CURTAIN RISES. Donna is currently sitting in the living room in front of the television watching her favorite program. Footsteps approach the door and Will enters the home. As he shuts the door, we can see that he is holding a book, a few pieces of paper, and a white envelope. He makes his way towards the table, sits down, and begins opening the envelope. Missus Jones looks over the back of the sofa and sees Will sitting at the table. She develops this offended attitude towards his inability to acknowledge her presence in the home. She rises, and walks over to the table. Will keeps his head down, and opens the letter inside of the envelope. Donna is watching him closely. 40
WILL: still, without looking up. Here. Grandpa sent a check. It’s about 25 bucks. Handing her the letter. DONNA: placing it back into his hands. You keep it. After all, you were the one who graduated. WILL: spiteful. Don’t I need it for College? DONNA: Like Missus Jones said, you’ve already got enough College money, don’t you? Will suddenly rises. He picks up the book and the rest of the other pieces of paper, and makes his way out of the living room. Donna turns to stop him. DONNA: Will -- he pauses; turns around. Don’t you wanna tell me what’s on those pieces of paper? WILL: Just a report card. And if you didn’t know already, my grades look pretty good. There’s silence in the house. Will continues. Donna runs into the living room, turns off the television manually and approaches Will once again. DONNA: Will -- he pauses once more; turns around slowly. Don’t you wanna -- talk about it? WILL: About what? DONNA: College. WILL: I’ve said everything I’ve needed to say, Ma. But still you’re too ignorant to listen to what I have to say. DONNA: as he turns to leave. Now wait a minute. He pauses. Sure, I may not understand how you feel but don’t you dare call me ignorant. WILL: puts his head down; respectfully. Sorry, Ma. Donna walks closer to him. Will slowly puts his head back up. DONNA: I’ve already explained to you why you can’t go away to College, Will… WILL: It’s not like we can’t afford it. 41
DONNA: Money’s out of the question. I’ve been saving up for your College ever since you were born. But, a lot of things happen in College. Young people do a lot of foolish things. They drink, they fight, they have sex, and you know how I feel about that. I don’t think you're good for that kind of an environment. I just feel like, if you went away, I couldn’t stop you from doing all those things. And when you come back and you’re all a mess, I’d feel like such a failure. I could never forgive myself for letting that happen to you. Do you understand what I mean? WILL: Sure, I do. Pause. But, don’t you feel like you’re being a little overprotective? DONNA: scoffs. All mothers are overprotective. WILL: That ain’t true. I went to Roger’s house, and his mother ain’t overprotective. She let’s Roger leave the house whenever he wants, make plans whenever he wants, go on the phone whenever he wants, take the bus whenever he wants. And Roger ain’t ever got into trouble. He ain’t ever smoked a day in his life nor drank a drop. DONNA: That’s because Roger is one of the very few good ones. WILL: But what about Fred? His Momma’s overprotective. Never let him leave the house, never let him go to parties, he ain’t ever been on the streets at night. And remember what happened to him as soon as he moved out? We found him on the side of the road, beggin’ his old friends for loose cash. Roger’s Mom did the right thing, she let him make his own decisions. And if he did something wrong, she’d never blame herself because he did that, not her. DONNA: It’s not about everyone else, it’s about you, Will-- WILL: One day I’m gonna move outta here, Momma and you’re gonna be all alone. You ain’t gonna see me everyday. We ain’t gonna talk on the phone everyday. We’d only see each other on thanksgiving and that may change depending on whether I get married and have my own kids or not. But, I can’t be an adult if I can’t experience life like one. I’m gonna just as stupid and dumb as Fred, begging for loose cash from old friends who don’t even care to look down at my ugly face. He turns and makes his way through another doorway that leads into the second half of the house. WILL: This is my life, Ma. And when you’re dead and gone I’m gonna be the one who still has to live it. 42
WILL EXITS. Donna goes back to the kitchen and thinks about it. She moves past the table and searches through the cabinets for that same bottle of bourbon. She searches for another glass out of another cabinet and as she takes it out, it slips out of her hand and shatters into pieces across the floor. She GASPS loudly. She’s not hurt but thrown off by this incident. For some reason though, she doesn’t choose to clean it up immediately. She instead, turns to the house phone on the counter, picks it up and begins to dial a number very slowly. Before she dials the last digit though, she looks up, closes her eyes, lets out a deep breath, and then does so. She waits for an answer. DONNA: someone answers Hello? Phil? -- Hi, it’s me, Donna, from work -- Don’t you remember? -- Yes, that’s me. I was just calling to… I was just calling to wonder… calling to wonder how you were doing today. WILL reenters the scene -- That’s good to hear. It’s nice outside. And I was planning to -- Oh. Well that’s all right, you could call me anytime you want, don’t you have my number? Fine, I’ll call you later then. Goodbye. Phil hangs up the phone and so does she. The pleasant smile that she once had during the conversation has suddenly faded into thin air. She looks down and slowly moves towards the table. She puts her hands on her face and lets out a long groan of embarrassment; not understanding what she was thinking, doing something as foolish as that. She picks up the bottle of bourbon and tosses it into the sink. It smashes into pieces as well. DONNA: looking up into the sky helplessly. Oh God, why did you have to curse me? Why did I have to be the widow? Why have I got to be alone? Why God? WILL: putting his hand on her shoulder. God hasn’t cursed you. DONNA: It sure as hell feels like it. Missus Jones hasn’t got a husband yet she’s happy. Why can’t I be? WILL: Because you focus too much on the fact that you are lonely that you don’t take the time to appreciate it. Pause. Marriage to me always seemed like more of a burden than anything else. I mean, who wants to spend the rest of their lives sleeping in the same bed with the same person. When you see the same person so much don’t you hate ‘em? What do you talk about when you're bored? You’ve known each other for so long, you practically know everything about each other, there’s nothing interesting anymore. It grows into something bitter that lasts longer than when it was sweet. I think that’s what’s bothering you, Ma. DONNA: rising; looking down at the smashed pieces of glass on the floor. What’s bothering me? 43
WILL: You’re gonna be lonely once I’m gone. And you’re afraid you’re gonna be lonely for the rest of your life. DONNA: That’s what happens to most mothers. Your children just don’t care about you anymore after a while. WILL: I’ve spent eighteen years with you, Ma. I’ve got to move on eventually. I bet you felt the same way with Grandma when you were getting older. DONNA: chuckles. Yeah, as a matter of fact I did. Donna picks up a broom and pan. She begins sweeping up the broken glass and tossing into the garbage bin as she goes on. WILL: So why is it so different with me? DONNA: stops sweeping for a moment. When you see it from a different perspective it hits harder, I guess. WILL: pause. I just heard you on the phone with Somebody named Phil… DONNA: goes back to sweeping suddenly. Boy, why don’t you mind your own business? WILL: Nice guy? DONNA: stopping once again. You know, he is. I’ve only seen him a few times, but he’s nice. I told Missus Jones this, but he’s got this sort of a -- charm to him. WILL: Missus Jones? sourly. So I guess I’m the last one to know. DONNA: As long as it’s my business you’ll always be the last one to know. Chuckles. I’m just playing. It’s just something about him. He’s really intelligent. You talk to him, and as soon as he opens his mouth you can’t help but shut up and listen. You don’t even have to understand what it is he’s talking about, you just wanna listen. And after you talk to him, and you begin talking to other people, you wanna talk just as intelligently. As if he’s some kind of a good influence or something -- I dunno. WILL: No, I get what you mean. I’ve met people like him. Brightly. So, you gonna marry him? DONNA: Me? No. I don’t think he’s very much interested in me. 44
WILL: I’ll be honest, I wouldn’t be either. That conversation was pretty awkward. DONNA: That’s just how I am. Like I said, he’s intelligent, so you don’t wanna say anything wrong around him that’ll make you look bad. WILL: Well, maybe that’s why he’s not interested. You’re not being yourself. You’re trying to impress him, and that stops you from having -- a decent conversation. DONNA: looking up; jokingly. Where did I go wrong for my son to lecture me about relationships? WILL: But seriously Ma, if you wanna get this guy to like you, you’ve got to be yourself. DONNA: Maybe you’re right. WILL: Maybe all those years of being single made you forget how to flirt? DONNA: shaking her head. No, it’s just with him. Continuing to sweep. You’re right, Will. God didn’t curse me. I’m alone, but I’ve got a son. Just imagine where I’d be right now if I didn’t have you. I’d be alone, crying because I’m alone. I’d be miserable. But all in all you make me happy. And I guess that’s why it’ll hurt when you move on with your life. Pause. You can go away to College if you want to, Will. But just promise me you won’t be like the other kids. See me -- often. Don’t forget about me. WILL: Don’t worry Ma, I won't. They both stare at each other in silence, as if they really wanna hug each other. But they don’t. Will steps back. WILL: Well, it was nice talking to you, Ma. DONNA: Nice talking to you too -- son… Will walks away and Donna goes back to sweeping the dirty floor. CURTAIN 45
SCENE THREE _________________________________________________ The CURTAIN RISES. It is now two months later in the story, towards the end of summer. It is a bright sunny day, birds are chirping, the energy of the scenery is positive. Out of the living room comes DONNA, who has just finished fixing up the living room. She looks around her house and it is nice and spotless. She walks into the kitchen, opens the fridge and takes out a pitcher of water. She pours some into a glass, sets it down on the table, and reaches to take a sip. But, before she can, she stops and just stares, thinking, thinking, and thinking. Rising up from her chair she walks over to the counter and takes a look at a picture, from what we can assume is of her and her son WILL. After putting the framed picture down, we can hear a truck pull up in front of the house. A door SHUTS, the mailman makes his way over to the front door and knocks three times. Donna opens it and greets him. DONNA: Good Morning. MAILMAN: a nice smile. Morning’ ma'am -- this is for you. DONNA: he hands her a package. Thank you. MAILMAN: turns on his heel; waves. Have a good day, ma’am. DONNA: You, too! The mailman leaves and she closes the door, but before she can close the door, MISSUS JONES makes her way past the mailman and puts her foot in the door. Donna opens the door wider. DONNA: Hillary, you oughta be careful! MISSUS JONES: I thought you were gonna lock me out. DONNA: I just got something from the mailman. MISSUS JONES: I can see that. 46
Donna walks over to the counter and grabs a knife. She begins cutting through the packaging and opens it up to see what’s inside. She takes out another clear plastic packaging filled with College Merchandise. DONNA: excitedly. It’s from his College! Look what they’ve sent him. Holding up various items. A shirt, a pair of pants, a hat. MISSUS JONES: even more impressed. Drexel University -- I wish I was that smart. DONNA: You’ve got nobody to blame but yourself. Always skipping class and what not. MISSUS JONES: I still got a pretty good job didn’t I? A longer pause. So -- how is he? DONNA: He’s doing just fine. MISSUS JONES: You and him are holding up all right? DONNA: Yeah, I already told you we’ve made up. He’s had a few moods here and there, but overall we’re doing just fine. MISSUS JONES: That’s good. At one point you’ve just got to suck it up. There ain’t much time left and I doubt he’d like to leave on a sour note. DONNA: I thought he would. I feel bad for him, though. MISSUS JONES: How come? DONNA: I was thinking about it the other day, about whether I was a good enough mother for him, and I’ve realized that boy never truly had a father. Jimmy died when he was young. I was focusing on so many other things but I never really stopped to think about it. And now that he’s getting ready to go off to College, I wondered how much better he’d be if only there were the two of us, not one. MISSUS JONES: You did the best that you could with what you have. And that’s better than most people. DONNA: I know. That poor boy had it rough. It wasn’t no walk in the park for the both of us. I just hope he won’t hold it against me. MISSUS JONES: If his heart is where I think it is, there’s no doubt in my mind he never will. 47
Footsteps approach them. WILL ENTERS the scene. He is holding a suitcase with one. He places it next to the table and greets Missus Jones with a kiss on the cheek. WILL: pleasantly. Morning’ Missus Jones. MISSUS JONES: Morning’ Will. Are you ready for the big trip? WILL: Never thought I would be. Looking around the house. I’m gonna miss this ol’ place. MISSUS JONES: I’m sure you would, because your living space is just gonna get smaller. WILL: I wasn’t thinking about that, I was thinking about the cooking. DONNA: from behind Will. Don’t worry, I’ll be sure to stop by and bring you a bowl every now and then. There is silence in the kitchen. Missus Jones exchanged looks with both of them. MISSUS JONES: Well, I guess I’ll leave you two alone for now. I’ll get the car ready. MISSUS JONES exits the scene. The focus is now on Donna and Will. They take a few steps closer to each other. DONNA: All set? WILL: Yep. Are you okay? DONNA: Sure, I’m fine. This is the day I’ve been waiting for, since you were a baby. That day you’d leave me to go off to College. WILL: Yeah… another pause. DONNA: You’ll be sure to call me every week? WILL: How about twice a week? DONNA: Even better. Wash your clothes, keep your dorm room clean. One day I’m gonna surprise you and I better not see any bugs crawling up on that floor, do you understand me? WILL: Yes Ma’am. 48
DONNA: And Will… WILL: Yes, Ma? DONNA: after a pause. Take care of yourself. WILL: I will, Ma. DONNA: I know I haven’t been the best mother. I’ve made a lot of mistakes. Done lots of things I shouldn't have done. And I wouldn’t say it’s been the easiest for the both of us. But, you know what they say, there ain’t no handbook to tell you how to be a parent. I just did what I thought was best. And so far, I don’t think it’s worked out half bad. I love you, Will. With all of my heart. WILL: I love you, too. Ma. I’m gonna miss you. DONNA: But, I ain’t far away. As long as you think of me I’ll be there. They finally hug each other. It’s a long, long, passionate hug for a long, long goodbye. Once they separate, Donna begins to get emotional, but she suppresses it. WILL: Goodbye, Ma. DONNA: Goodbye, son. Will turns around and walks over to the door. He puts his hand on the knob, twists and pulls, preparing to walk out. But, before he does, he turns back for a moment. WILL: Before I go, Ma -- I’ve got a surprise for you. She’s not sure how to respond. Suddenly, through the front door enters PHILLIP. He wears a smile on his face that eventually transfers to Donna’s face. Her expression brightens and she is at a loss for words. He comes closer to her as WILL exits. PHILLIP: Hi, Donna. DONNA: Hi, Phil. I didn’t expect you here. PHILLIP: Neither did I, but when Will called me up… 49
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