A short play

On the eve of inspiration I wander drunken but unshaken.

There is no sleeve I must lift, no miles I must walk.

I have done it all! Excited and unhappy still.

 

Other: But you cannot be unhappy in such a festive state of mind!

 

First: I have and always will be that which I was and ever shall continue to be.

 

O: My friend, you words ring like bells in a tower of some neglected Russian bluish, over-impressionistic church. Gather your things together and see here the damsel that comes our way. Perhaps she can lift your spirits.

 

F: Hey there pretty lady!

 

Damsel: I have wandered far and wide and have met many men. Some have used jewels and pretty words to charm me, others have taken by force, and others still have cried. None has ever managed to hear me for who I am.

 

F: I have looked for that which I cannot hear. That which I have no fear of. Can you say something that will make my heart leap above the thousand corpses I have left behind on the battlefield. I remember an attack at Aleppo. This very simitar, I used to cut and thrust my way through many ranks of the enemy. That day I was captured by them and spent the next twelve years as a prisoner of war.

 

D: General! Freed and fierce. Take from me that which you want, but expect not to hear my voice.

 

O: It seems perhaps your spirits are at war, even though your eyes have been fixed like two invisible serpents. The winds are blowing harder. It is nighttime. The innkeepers have warned of monsters preying the woods. Our fire is weakening. We must carry what we have and move now if we are to survive the night. Damsel, join us, and we will protect your from the lions of the night.

 

D: I have walked through woods at night and day. Have even slept under a frozen star, I’ve lost my emerald necklace to the scavengers of the haunted woods. Little troles that see nothing other than shine. Stinky breathes, rude manners, and a tendency to hollers at unfairness. I want to engage my body with this bruised soul, but am worried his knife shall cut deep if I undress my mind further.

 

F: I have conquered entire armies, never caught, by my forearm’s strength, my brow’s sweat and the fortune of the ages. I have traveled through blood and flesh and hair and spit, streams of it!, to hear the silence broken by a single note. I spent some time with a band of musicians, learned to tune my flute, read music, and yes, to play. I was harmonious and tactile. We spent many nights engaged in delicate sounds. That was before the alarum bell of the camp deranged my mind into a thousand different foe, each with a thousand different hands, armed with a thousand different scimitars.

 

O: I pray the both of you to release each other from your entanglement and let us all move forward to the Inn. It is only over there on the hill. We can make it through the darkness with this torch I have fashioned. I have packed our belongings onto the horses, and we can lead them like friends on a journey across a frozen lake.

 

D: Perhaps there I can give my body to this man, to both of you at once, perhaps, and I can rid myself of this curse for all. Like a little disease that visits me, once in a while. Nothing a little ointment doesn’t fix. I have many odious tales of dysfunctional body parts.

           

F: Then let my companion take you now to the inn. I will sleep here, under the moon, unclothe myself in the silver light and send milky streams into the ghost infested night. Perhaps it was only a nightmare that made me drop my flute, made me hear silence.