November Writing Challenge #20

 

 

November Writing Challenge #20

Cast:

An aging woman:  short graying hair, glasses, unfashionable clothing (Mom jeans, etc.)

 

Setting:

The curtain is open. A small rosy-red room with three walls.

Right wing:  three shelves attached to the upper part of the wall with brackets. On the top shelf, old dolls and stuffed animals:  Raggedy Ann and Andy, a gray satin elephant, a woolen lamb with a pink ribbon around its neck and a worn place on the nose where the straw stuffing is visible, a baby doll in a yellow bunting, several handmade Waldorf dolls. The downstage half of the middle shelf is also filled with dolls: mostly homemade fabric dolls and one old Ginny doll in a red dress, and one Beany Baby airedale sitting next to a Waldorf doll in orange leggings and an apple-print dress. A figurine of a mother holding a baby. On the same shelf, extending upstage, books, held up by a bookend and on the upstage side by a stack of bricks.  Up against the upstage wall, a large fabric doll wearing a rhinestone necklace in her black hair. On the bottom shelf, downstage, more dolls for about a quarter of the space: a German bisque baby, a ballet dancer in a blue felt cape, an old walking doll with tangled yellow hair and a blue dress, a Madame Alexander “Meg” doll in a dress of the same blue, a Russian nesting doll, several Polish dancers. And then books, separated with bookends, an earthenware turtle playing a harp, and a blue bowl fill of stones with a pelican bone on top. In front of the books, a mantle clock and a worn hammer. On the upstage end of the shelf, a tiny doll on a little rocking horse and a basket.  Beneath the shelves, a large dollhouse with a red roof sits on an old black steamer trunk. There is a dulcimer in the corner.

Left wing:  In the middle of the wall, a white bookcase, full of books and notebooks and papers. On the top of the bookcase, a mug full of colored pencils, a basket full of hats and mittens. Above the bookcase, a glass plaque of the Lord’s Prayer in German, held up by a chain. In the upstage corner, a green stool with a black battery charger on it, above it, a print of Utrillo’s “Eglise de Strine” framed in green.

Upstage center:  a double window with filmy curtains on either side, framing a view of bare trees. Centered before the window, a black paymaster’s desk with silver hardwear. In the center of the desk, an old, large desktop computer, a keyboard and a mouse on pads of red closed-cell foam. The screen saver is a photo of a smiling baby grabbing the face of a gray-haired, bearded man. On the back shelf of the desk, left of the computer a brass lamp with a green “Orient Express” label, a black and white photo of a young man in a parka with his hands in his pockets, standing in a forest. An old rolodex.  On the right side of the shelf, a blinking modem.  On the left side of the desk proper, a brass bucket containing a eyeglasses case, a DVD of “Tai Chi for Arthritis,” a list of Polish vocabulary words, and a notebook. Also a chunk of limestone, a Hummel figurine of two children praying under s shrine, a stack of postcards from Mexico and dated 1945, a pottery cup holding eyeglasses, a brass candlestick with a half-burned orange candle, a ceramic coaster featuring Santa Claus knitting a sock.

There is a big black desk chair in front of the desk with a purple shawl draped over the back.

 

The aging woman enters with a green pottery mug of coffee which she sets down on the coaster. She sits down in the chair.

 

Curtain

November Writing Challenge #16

Only 14 days to go. . .

 

Cast:

Peter: a tow truck driver

Jenn: a landscape worker

 

Scene:

A roadside. Jenn is standing beside a toy truck. The hood is up. There are small trees in the back of the truck. Peter enters sage left on his hands and knees, pushing a toy tow truck, making Brummm sounds. He parks beside Jenn’s truck and stands up.

 

Jenn: It’s about time. I called an hour ago.

Peter:  Too bad. I am twenty miles away, you know.

Jenn: I didn’t know. You’re just a number.

Peter:  Right. And the only tow around here. So, what’s the trouble?

Jenn: Alternator. Like I said on the phone.

Peter:  You sure?

Jenn:  Of course I’m sure. What, you assume I don’t know anything about cars? This is my truck. I work on it myself. If I had a spare alternator, I’d be on my way by now. Did you bring one?

Peter:  An alternator? No.

Jenn:  Why not?

Peter:  Didn’t have one in the shop. This is an old truck.

Jenn: I know that. That’s why I told you.

Peter: I’ll tow you back to the shop and have the boys check out the junk yard at the five corners.

Jenn: But you’ll charge me for the tow.

Peter:  Or, you could sit here and I’ll charge you the same for my mileage to and fro. Your choice.

Jenn:  Can’t win, then, can I?

Peter:  Nope. None of us ever wins.

Jenn: I don’t like that idea.

Peter:  What?  That we’re all losers?

Jenn:  Yeah, that one.

Peter:  Well, it’s true. Think about it. We’re born, right? Not our choice. Parents aren’t our choice, either. Or how many brains we’ve got. Or where we live. Could be some dump, could be a castle.

Jenn:  But lots of people do okay.

Peter:  Oh, well, doing okay. Yeah. That’s about it. Unless you’re Bill Gates or one of them, maybe just doing okay is all you get.

Jenn:  But—I’m doing okay. I’ve got this business, see? A little nursery, trees and bushes and stuff. And even some flowers. I like the work and I get paid enough.

Peter:  Enough for what?  You sure as hell got an old wreck of a truck.

Jenn:  But that’s not important. I mean, I’m not rich, but I have this business and enough to get by. I have a nice little house.

Peter:  Little, though, right? Nothing fancy.

Jenn:  I don’t need anything fancy. What I’ve got is more than most people.

Peter:  Well, okay, that kind of proves my point, doesn’t it?  Most people are losers. You think you’re doing okay just because you’re better off than most people, and that’s not saying much.

Jenn: What about you? Are you a loser?

Peter:  Sure. Of course I am. Most people are. If I weren’t, do you think I’d be doing this for a living? Oh, cars are okay, but if I could do anything I want, I’d be on a beach someplace in Florida.

Jenn: That would get old pretty fast.

Peter: How do you know? Ever tried it?

Jenn:  No, but just sitting around is boring.

Peter:  Oh, I wouldn’t just sit around. I’d have some beers, play some volleyball, maybe surf a little. And I’d have a beach house, you know, one of them on stilts. And I’d have parties with all my friends. A big enough house for them to stay. And we could go to clubs sometimes for the music.  And I could have a good guitar.

Jenn: You play guitar?

Peter:  Yup. But I don’t have a very good one. Taught myself when I was a kid. Always wanted to be a musician.

Jenn:  So you think you’re a loser because you aren’t a musician?

Peter:  I didn’t say that.

Jenn: Well, it’s what you meant. Your dreams didn’t come true, so you think you’re a loser.

Peter: Well, aren’t I?

Jenn:  No. Be serious. Nobody’s dreams come true. That doesn’t mean we’re losers.

Peter: What was your dream?

Jenn: None of your business.

Peter:  Hey, it’s only fair. I told you mine.

Jenn:  I wanted to be a musician, too.

Peter:  What instrument?

Jenn: Drums.

Peter:  So what happened?

Jenn: Parents thought girls shouldn’t play drums.

Peter: So you didn’t.

Jenn: Nope. I didn’t.

Peter:  Loser.  At least I’ve got a guitar.

Jenn:  Hey, that’s not fair. Drums cost a lot.

Peter:  Yeah, that was mean of me. Besides, all us losers have to stick together. I mean, that’s about all we’ve got, isn’t it? Our loserhood. We should have passwords and badges and stuff. We could have a lodge:  The great brotherhood of losers.

Jenn:  laughing  Well, maybe you’re right. But you know, there’s still dreams out there. Maybe they’ll come true for somebody.

Peter: Maybe. Well, talk doesn’t move trucks. Let’s go.  He closes the hood of her truck and attaches it to his tow truck. Hop in.

Both get on hands and knees and push their trucks toward stage left, while he makes car noises.

 

 

November Writing Challenge # 13-15

. . . because I’ve been thinking about it for a few days. With sincere apologies to the ghost of Samuel Beckett.

 

Cast:

Walker: tall & thin … he has salt & pepper hair … he walks, gazing up & away from the road, always … never looking ahead, behind, or down

Bigfoot

SCENE:  A road, with a single evergreen tree just to the left of center.  Bigfoot is sitting on the ground under the tree. Walker enters and stands beside Bigfoot.

 

8767 (cat typing) Bigfoot:  Nothing to be done.

Walker: Oh, well, but perhaps. . . Have you seen her?

Bigfoot:  No. Have you?

Walker: I have not seen her.

Bigfoot: She is not in the sky. I do not believe that she is in the sky.

Walker: The last time I saw her, she was in the sky. It was a sunny day, a shiny day. Five crows flew together across the road, flying in the same direction. North. The wind was from the south.

Bigfoot: What was she doing then?

Walker: With the crows. She was flying with the crows. Her arms were outstretched and her hair was flying like crow wings.

Bigfoot: Will she come back?

Walker: She will come back, so I am watching for her. All the time I’m watching for her.

Bigfoot:  I, too, am watching. Not in the sky. I am not watching in the sky.

Walker:  Are you happy now?

Bigfoot: Now? No. I am unhappy. Since the wind shifted to the south, I have been unhappy. The south wind carries the scent of oranges, and the scent of oranges always makes me cry.

Walker: Ah yes. Oranges. But is there not a scent of lemon?

Bigfoot:  No lemon. Not yet. Not this time of year. I’ve been thinking about killing myself.

Walker:  Will you do that?

Bigfoot:  Perhaps. Perhaps if I do not see her. Or if I do not see the crows. Or if the wind does not change.

Walker:  The crows will return. I am sure of that. Crows always return. Perhaps they will not be the same crows, but they will be crows,, flying hard through the sky. When the wind changes, you will see that there will be crows.

Bigfoot: Then perhaps I can live.  He stands up.

Walker: Will you go on?

Bigfoot: I might stay here. I might go on. Are you going on?

Walker:  Yes. I am going on. It is time for me to go on. The wind is changing.

Bigfoot:  Is it from the north?

Walker:  No. It is not yet from the north. This wind is from the south west. Tonight, maybe tomorrow, the wind will blow from the north.

Bigfoot: I think the smell of oranges is diminishing.

Walker:  Then perhaps you can live.

Bigfoot: Then perhaps I can live.

Walker:  Are you going on then?

Bigfoot:  I think I am not going on. I think I shall stay here. He sits down. I like this tree. There is an essence of life in this tree.  Perhaps if I stay here she will feel encouraged to return. Or the crows will be encouraged. In the meantime, nothing happens but the scent of oranges diminishing.

Walker:  Perhaps you could go on.

Bigfoot: If I go on, will something happen?

Walker:  Your feet will move. That is something.

Bigfoot:  But is that enough?

Walker: I do not know if that is enough for you. For me it is enough.

Bigfoot: It would not be enough for me. I shall stay. Until the wind changes, I shall stay.

Walker:  Do you have an umbrella?

Bigfoot: I do not have an umbrella. Should I have an umbrella?

Walker: Yes. You should have an umbrella if you will stay until the wind changes.

Bigfoot: For what reason?

Walker: When the wind changes, you may open the umbrella and the changed wind will take you somewhere else.

Bigfoot:  Is something happening somewhere else?

Walker:  Sometimes something is happening.

Bigfoot:  I do not have an umbrella. Perhaps I should go along. He stands.

Walker:  We could look for her together.

Bigfoot:  I could look on the ground and between the trees.

Walker: I will continue to look at the sky. I think she will come from the sky. When the crows return.

Bigfoot: When the wind changes.

Walker:  Yes. Shall we go?

Bigfoot:  Yes. Let’s go.

 

They do not move.

Curtain.

November Writing Challenge #11

. . . going by date, since I certainly haven’t written every day. See what can happen if I get a character?

Cast:

a poet/professional football player with an eating disorder

a therapist

 

Setting:

A therapist’s office—two chairs, a desk

The therapist is sitting behind the desk when the poet enters. There are items on the desk, pencils and so on. During the scene, the therapist periodically picks something up and fiddles with it.

 

Therapist: Sit down, sit down.

Poet: Thank you. sits

Long silence.

Therapist: So. What do you want to talk about?

Poet:  Food. I mean, food, really. I want to talk about food.

Therapist: Say more.

Poet:  Well, I mean, I like it. I really like it. I eat it all the time. I have to, for work. I mean, I play football, right, so I have to stay bulked up. So I eat. Food. Steaks and chops and all like that. Bread. Donuts. Cake. Hamburgers. Ice cream. My favorite is chocolate but I like cherry and peach and chunky monkey and strawberry and even sherbet. Lemon, orange, lime. That mixture, you know, that’s striped together. You can scoop it out in your bowl so it looks like a rainbow. Salad—not as much salad as I oughta, but some. Just lettuce and tomato is the best with French dressing or blue cheese. Hotdogs but with just mustard, no relish. French Fries. Pie. Apple pie is the best, but rum raisin is pretty good. And date cream. And coconut cream. And banana cream. Pumpkin if it’s not canned. Mincemeat on Thanksgiving, but not with ice cream, and peach. And. . .

Therapist: It seems to me that you talk about food.

Poet:  Right. You’ve got it. Once I start talking about food, I can’t stop. I mean, if I even think about it, right, I start talking about it. Baked beans. Macaroni and cheese. . .

Therapist: interrupting  I see. I see. Your job is football. I recognize you, as a matter of fact, and I’m a fan, but that ought not to affect our work together. Unless, of course, you have a problem with that.

Poet:  I don’t. Really. I mean, everybody who watches football knows who I am, so I’d have trouble finding a therapist who doesn’t know who I am. And even if they don’t watch football, there are those mustard commercials I do. You know where I eat hotdogs like it’s a test of some kind and one is plain, just in a bun, you know one of those soft kind of buns, not the whole wheat ones. Those are weird. If you’re going to eat a hotdog, you shouldn’t bother with whole wheat, unless you’re having a tofu hotdog but those are gross so why bother. And they say that a bunch of them even have meat in them anyway so what’s the point. And one of the hotdogs has relish and mustard and the other has just mustard and I always say in the commercial that I like the one with plain mustard the best, and I do, really. Relish kind of interferes with the taste of the hotdog, but mustard enhances it, if you know what I mean. Especially that red pepper relish. . .

Therapist:  interrupting  I understand that you also write poetry.

Poet:  I do. I kinda like to have that as a sideline, you know. It gives me something to think about when I’m working out. Words. How they go together. LIke hotdog and mustard. Hotdog and mustard. Hotdog and mustard. Hotdog and mustard. . .

Therapist:  I see. So do you write poems about food. . .

Poet: interrupting  I most write about food. I like the way food words go together. Brown bread and butter. Turkey and stuffing. Potatoes and gravy. Pancakes and syrup. Bacon and eggs. Steak and eggs. BLT. That’s one of my favorites. BLT. BLT. BLT. BLT. BLT. ..

Therapist: interrupting  I understand. What is your past experience with food? When you were a child, for instance?

Poet: I liked it. Mom says I was, like, always a good eater. A good little trencherman she said, whatever that means. She used to cut up hotdogs and put them into baked beans and I liked those. And chicken a la king. I like the sound of that, too. A la king. A la king. A la king.

Therapist: I can see that. So you always had enough to eat growing up?

Poet: Oh yeah. Mom was a good cook. Good mac and cheese, good hamburger casserole, good meatloaf. With baked potato and squash, usually and pie for dessert. And peanut butter sandwiches on homemade bread. With honey. Or jam. Or jelly. Or fluff.

Therapist: How long have you had this problem? Talking about food?

Poet: Is it a problem?

Therapist: Is it? I assumed that’s why you came to see me.

Poet: No! Why would that be a problem? No, I came to see you because my girlfriend wants to break up and I’m pretty depressed about that. We’ve been together for, like, five years.

Therapist: What are the reasons she gives for breaking up with you?

Poet: Communication. She says we have a communication problem.

Therapist: And how do you respond to that?

Poet: Well, I tell her that I don’t think we do. We go out all the time for dinner and talk. Chinese food, Mexican, sometimes Thai, but I don’t like that as well, and she doesn’t like Indian as much as I do because it’s too hot for her, even if she only gets the mild. Good old diner food sometimes, you know, hot turkey sandwiches with cranberry sauce and some pickled beets on the side. And sometimes we go out to breakfast. She always gets just yogurt and granola, though, so I don’t see the point. And I like sausage gravy on biscuits. Or sometimes three eggs over easy, or a cheese omelet with white toast. And sometimes. . .

Therapist: What does your girlfriend like to talk about?

Poet: Oh, well, she talks about plants. She grows a lot of plants. African violets and things. Ferns. Those hanging ones with the shiny leaves. Stuff like that. She talks about those all the time. They need water and stuff. Fertilizer. But she doesn’t have a garden outdoors. Just house plants. Nothing she can eat. But she has room, and sometimes I’m like, “Hey, you could like grow spinach and broccoli and lettuce and tomatoes and all like that. Grow your own stuff for BLTs except the bacon part. I really like that combination:  BLT, BLT, BLT . . . .

The therapist slowly gets up and extis, while the poet happily repeats BLT until the curtain comes down

 

November Writing Challenge #10

Gotta work on the ending. Or not.

 

November Writing Challenge #10

HAPPILY EVER AFTER

Cast:

Snow White, sixty years later (age 76)  (her husband is Charming)—she is kind

Sleeping Beauty, sixty  years later (76)  (her husband is Gallant) —analytical

Cinderella, sixty years later (82)  (her husband is Handsome)—a little bitchy

~they may be dressed like modern women, but with tiaras, or they might be dressed as Disney or fairy-tale characters, but they should be gray-haired and elderly

 

Setting:

A kitchen—era depending on director’s decision, but in keeping with the costumes

the three are seated around a table, drinking coffee or tea or something out of goblets

 

Snow White:  So, Grumpy came to visit last week. He’s the only one left, and he hasn’t changed a bit. He even looks the same. I think he was born old.

Sleeping Beauty:  I thought Dopey was still alive? I always thought Happy would outlast us all, given his optimism. He was always so robust. And he was the first one to go, wasn’t he?

Snow White:  He was. That took us all by surprise. But Dopey died about a month ago. Grumpy, bless his heart, took care of him until the end. I wanted them to come here to the palace where I could look after them, but Grumpy insisted that Dopey would be more comfortable in familiar surroundings. He was probably right. I wanted to go down to the cottage to see him, but my hip was acting up and Charming thought the ride would be too much for me.

Cinderella:  Sounds like Charming. Sometimes I think you two are lucky to have husbands who look out for you. Handsome just doesn’t seem to care what I do.

Sleeping Beauty:  That makes sense, though, doesn’t it? After all, our husbands had to bring us back from the dead, so naturally they worry.

Cinderella:  And all Handsome had to do was ram a shoe on my foot.

Snow White:  And speaking of husbands—I think Gallant is beginning to fail. He can’t remember anything these days—really can’t remember. And he’s taken to standing on the balcony and staring vaguely into space. I got the royal physician to look at him, but there’s nothing that can be done, he says. Age. Funny how that happens. And sad. I can’t imagine the world without him.

Cinderella:  Handsome has taken to humming. All the time. It wouldn’t be quite so bad if he hummed tunes, but it’s just humming.  She hums tunelessly.

Sleeping Beauty:  Well, it could be worse. We’ve had them for many years now. Sixty years! We were such children then, when they carried us off.

Snow White:  I was sixteen. A child indeed. All I’d known was the death of my mother and the cruelty of my stepmother, and then the kindness of the gamekeeper (Cinderella snickers) —he was kind. He was a good man. He said I reminded him of his daughter. Had it not been for him, I would have been killed. And the dear dwarves. . .

Sleeping Beauty:  I was sixteen, too. Sixty years ago!  But then, I fell into that sleep when I was sixteen and was awakened when I was technically one hundred and sixteen. I’d still like to know how she suspended time.  I missed so much. It was quite a shock to enter the modern world. The castle was so out of date! But my father let Gallant take charge of updating everything. Poor mother never adjusted, though, and to her dying day she dressed like someone from the Dark Ages.

Cinderella:  Well, sixty years ago, I was older than the two of you. Twenty-two. Old enough to know better. I thought I’d never get out of that appalling house, out from under the yoke of those awful girls and that witch of a stepmother. You two were lucky.

Sleeping Beauty:  I don’t think Snow White was so lucky. She had a very traumatic childhood. I was lucky, though. The world revolved around me. It just stopped for awhile.

Snow White:  And I was lucky in a way. I wouldn’t trade my time in the forest for anything.

Cinderella:  But think how much better things would have been if your mother hadn’t died or even if your father hadn’t remarried. You probably would have been married off to Charming anyway.

Snow White: Perhaps.

Sleeping Beauty: Well, it’s useless to imagine what might have happened. What happened, happened.

Cinderella:  And I suppose what will happen, will happen?  Que sera, sera?

Sleeping Beauty:  What?

Cinderella: We have a new court jester. A young man from Spain. He says that all the time. Que sera, sera.  What will be, will be.

Sleeping Beauty:  I’m not sure I believe that. After all, we have some choices.

Cinderella: I know I did. I wanted to go to that ball, so I found a way.

Sleeping Beauty:  At least in the Grimm version you did. Disney made you pretty passive. Actually, he made all of us passive. Me the most of all, I think. All I did was fall asleep.

Cinderella: Isn’t that all you did?

Sleeping Beauty:  No! I can’t believe we’ve known one another all these years and I’ve never told you!

Snow White:  Tell us.

Sleeping Beauty:  I heard the curse—you know—the fairy who wasn’t invited. So burning the spinning wheels was my idea. But then, my father had to figure out where to get thread for the weaving. I helped him set up a deal with the kingdom of Gallant the Fourth. So—-

Snow White:  So your Gallant would have known about you from tales told by his father and grandfather—

Sleeping Beauty:  Yes indeed. I like to think I played a part in my own rescue.

Cinderella:  I still think I had more to do with my fate than you two.

Snow White:  In the Grimm version.

Cinderella: Well, of course, the Grimm version.

Sleeping Beauty:  But you just used the word “fate.” Can we, in fact, influence our “fate”? Or is fate something that happens inevitably? Are we also “fated” to do those things which lead to an already determined outcome?

Cinderella:  Oh Beauty, honestly. Are you a queen or a philosopher?

Snow White:  There’s no reason one can’t be both, I think.

Cinderella: It’s fate.

Snow White:  Let’s not quarrel. We’re old now. We don’t know how many more years we’ll be able to meet like this. You were both good enough to come here this year since I can’t ride. And next year, who knows?

Sleeping Beauty:  You’re right.

Cinderella: You are. We’re lucky women, all three of us. There have been ups and downs, but maybe we really have been living happily ever after.

November Writing Challenge #9 with revisions of #6

This worked better than the story, which isn’t saying much:

 

November Writing Challenge #6—ACT I

Setting:  a church sanctuary, elaborate, Victorian/Gothic. Altar with hangings, candlesticks. A cross above, not quite in the center. A font stage left, with the cross on the lid tipped to the side. There is a door in the wall next to the altar, on the right side. A chair up against each side wall. Dimly lit, as a church would be without electric lights in the middle of an autumn morning.

Cast:

Father William, The New Priest—a fresh-faced young man. In clericals.

Martha, The Altar Guild Lady—a middle-aged woman, very efficient and brisk.

Father Grayson, The Old Priest—under the altar, which is moveable, and can be raised

lowered. He is spectral and wearing a black cassock.

Florist—not a speaking part

 

As the curtain opens, Father William and Martha are standing in front of the altar, continuing a conversation.

 

William: Martha, I told the vestry that I don’t want to make any changes in the building, but I do think that straightening out that cross isn’t extreme.  I think I should just get a step ladder and get up there and move it before the service tonight.

Martha: Oh, but then you’d have to step on the altar.

William:  I’d take the fair linen off, first, of course, and put down newspapers.

Martha:  That’s not what I meant, Father. Standing on the altar.  .  .

William:  I understand. But it’s off-center. And surely when it was hung in the first place, someone had to stand on the altar.

Martha:  Father Tomlinson often commented on that cross. He believed that it was hung that way for a purpose.

William: Perhaps it was. But I believe that purpose has been fulfilled, and I shall move it to the center. And while I’m up there, if you like, I’ll give the paneling a good rubdown with whatever polish you recommend. Would you mind taking the fair linen and other things off? I’m afraid I’m not good at that sort of thing.

Martha (somewhat mollified): Certainly I can remove the things properly. And I’ll fetch some polish. I have just the thing in the sacristy closet.  Exits

William:  I thought you might. He is visibly relieved.

Martha returns wearing a pair of white gloves. She hands a pair to him.

Martha:  You may help me with the candlesticks. Be careful. They’re heavy. Father Tomlinson didn’t like is ladies to move them without gloves.

He puts the gloves on, and each of them lifts a candlestick from the altar. They carry them through the door. When they have gone, the altar shifts slightly so that the cross appears to be in the center. They return, without gloves. Martha has a tube to roll up the fair linen, and she begins to do that while William stands back and watches. He looks at the cross, clearly puzzled.

William:  Martha, could you come over here for a minute? She leaves the rolling and stands beside him.

Is it my imagination, or is the cross in the center now?

Martha:  I believe it is. But wait. . . she goes back to the altar and looks at the floor. The altar has moved. Look!  William joins her and examines the floor.

William: Did we. . . bump it? When we removed the candlesticks?

Martha: I doubt it. Try moving it.  He tries, and fails. “Bumping it” is out of the question.

William: You’re right. Was there an earthquake? But—nothing else is out of place. We would have felt something. . .

Martha: The altar has a solid marble top. I doubt that an earthquake would move it at all.

William:  Well, I guess I don’t have to move the cross.

Martha:  But now the altar is off center.

William:  And since we can’t move that, it will have to stay that way. I suppose we can put the things back.  Martha unrolls the linen again, and smooths it, while William ponders, and examines the altar and the floor. They exit. While they are gone, the altar moves back to its original place. They enter, in white gloves, carrying candlesticks, which they put on the altar. William steps back.

William:  Martha. Look.  She joins him. They look at one another in puzzlement.  All right. I think we’d better leave this. No ladder, no moving, no polishing. I must think about this. Thank you for your help. It looks as if everything is all set for the service tomorrow night.

Martha:  Except the flowers. They’ll be delivered at six. You’ll be here. (not a question)

William: Yes. My first service. All Souls’ Day. (To himself) I must remember the list of names.

Martha:  It will be sad to hear Father Tomlinson’s name on that list this year.

William:  We’ll all be on that list one day, Martha. One thing we can be sure about.

Martha:  (darkly) Assuming there is still a church and a congregation. I do hope you can make a difference. Father Tomlinson tried, but he was not well.

William:  I’m sure he did his best. The Bishop would not have sent me here if he thought the situation without hope. Thank you for your good work. Everything looks very nice.

Martha: So I’ll go now.

William: And I’ll see you this evening.

Martha:  Of course. Good morning, Father.

William:  Good morning. . .

She exits, and he stands in front of the altar with his arms folded.  

William:  All right. Whoever you are, whatever you are, I know about you. The Bishop told me there was something amiss here, and there is. That cross, that crooked font, the organ that won’t stay in tune, the bell that won’t ring no matter how many times it’s rehung, the fact that no one has been baptized or married here for one hundred years. . .  I want this foolishness to stop. And I will get to the bottom of it. I know about you. I even think I know your name. I’m off to search for the missing vestry records. And if I must, if you will not repent, I will do an exorcism, old-fashioned though that may be. As he speaks, the cross falls off the wall.  So. You see the writing on the wall:  “Mene, mene, tekel, parsin.”  Your days are numbered.  Exits.

 

ACT 2

The curtain rises on the dark sanctuary. William enters, carrying a flashlight. He stands in front of the altar and shines the light on the crooked cross.

William: I do know your name.  I found the missing records, hidden, as the Bishop suspected they’d be. Well hidden, so no one in the parish has ever found them. Buried in the bottom of a trunk in the crawl space in the attic. You are in fact Henry Malachi Grayson, the third rector of this parish. You were not universally beloved, and in fact, the vestry minutes from that time indicate that the Bishop had been asked to remove you from this cure, but it was not necessary because one Sunday morning you were not here. You were not in the rectory. You were nowhere to be found. Letters were written to your remote cousins in New York, but they had not seen you. You disappered. You are the haunting. And I want you to come forth and tell me, now, in the name of Christ, why you are haunting this place?

There is a rustling, and Father Grayson, ghostly, appears from behind the dark altar. The lights go up enough to make things more visible.

Grayson: Murder.

William:  Whose murder?

Grayson:  Mine.

William:  He sits down in the chair opposite the font. Grayson stands in front of him.  Tell me. I command you.

Grayson: (As if reciting lines by rote.) They were too young and they did not belong here.

William:  Who?

Grayson: The people who came on that Saturday. The woman was with child.

William: Strangers?

Grayson: (testy) Of course they were strangers. I would not have turned away members of my own flock. I would have chastised them, of course, as was my duty, but I would not have turned them away.

William:  What did they ask of you?

Grayson:  Marriage, in the holy church.

William:  And you refused.

Grayson:  Of course I refused.  (back to rote recitation) The man had not been baptized, the girl had fallen away. The child was conceived in sin. The man was coarse and loud. When I told him that I would marry them only if he repented and was baptized, and only if they both repented of their sin, he picked up a candlestick—(pointing to the candlesticks on the altar) and struck me. I died.

William:  And what happened then? Where did they go? What did they do with your body?

Grayson: (contemptuous) I do not know. I was dead. And so here I am, unavenged, unshriven, forbidden the heavenly mansions until my corpse is discovered and anointed.

William:  Perhaps you should repent.

Grayson: Of what should I repent? I was murdered by a hooligan.

William:  Lack of charity, perhaps. Arrogance. Pride. Bearing False Witness. Maybe. . . lust. Maybe. . . fornication.

The ghost raises its arms in a classical sort of haunting position. William is unmoved.

William: That’s it, isn’t it? You seduced that girl and she conceived. The man with her was not her lover but her father. When you refused to acknowledge your fault, he struck you and you struck him. And there was murder—but not yours.  You’ve told yourself that story from your place in purgatory for so long that you’ve come to believe it.

Grayson:  This is outrage.

William:  Indeed it is. Where did you hide the bodies, Grayson? I command you to tell me.

Grayson: (snarling)  The altar. You fool, look behind the altar.

William (stands)  And you must move it.  I command you. If you want rest for your soul, Grayson, you must do this thing. And you must confess.

Grayson gestures and the altar rises. There are two skeletons curled on the floor.

William: And now, if you would be free, confess.

Grayson is clearly beaten. He kneels, sobbing.

Grayson:  Bless me father, for I have sinned.  William stands above him.  She and her father were drifers who came to me for help. She was naive and very pretty. I gave them money for food and lodging in a boarding house, and I gave her money for nice things and I took advantage of her. She conceived and told her father. They came to me, begging me to marry her. I refused. I said that she was a whore. Her father was a strong man. He struck me. I lifted a candlestick from the altar and struck him and he fell. The girl screamed. I struck her. I hid their corpses behind the altar and sealed the seams with pitch so there would be little smell. I took clothes from the poor box to wear, and I took what money I had, and I took a train out west, where no one knew me. I died of cholera, in a no account town in Ohio. And when I came before the judgement seat, I was sentenced to return to this place until I repented. And I did not repent, but told myself the lie I told you. I confess that I have sinned, and I humbly repent. Save me, father, save me.

William:  Ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis.

The lights go out, the altar is lowered, and Grayson exits in the dark. William exits also. He reemerges from the sanctuary as the lights go on—as if he’d flicked a switch. The cross is in the center, and the lid on the font is righted. 

William: I’ll leave them. What better place for two sad souls than under an altar. May they rest in peace.  He looks at his watch.  It’s nearly six. And here come the flowers. I’m going to ring the bell.

Florist enters from the audience and he helps put the flowers on the altar, then exits through the audience while she/he continues to arrange them.

There is a sound of bells.

November Writing Challenge #6

One that I kind of like, at last. A redo of a failed story. This is Act One. I’m taking the weekend off.

 

November Writing Challenge #6–ACT I

Setting:  a church sanctuary, elaborate, Victorian/Gothic. Altar with hangings, candlesticks. A cross above, not quite in the center. A font stage left, with the cross on the lid tipped to the side. There is a door in the wall next to the altar, on the right side. Dimly lit, as a church would be without electric lights.

Cast:

Father William, The New Priest—a fresh-faced young man, determined to do things right, but     not deterred by the memory of Father Tomlinson his predecessor. In clericals.

Martha, The Altar Guild Lady—a middle-aged woman, very efficient and brisk.

Sacred to the memory of Father Tomlinson

Father Grayson, The Old Priest—under the altar, which is moveable.

He is spectral and wearing a black cassock.

As the curtain opens, Father William and Martha are standing in front of the altar, continuing a conversation.

William: I think I should just get a step ladder and get up there and move it.

Martha: Oh, but then you’d have to step on the altar.

William:  I’d take the fair linen off, first, of course, and put down newspapers.

Martha:  That’s not what I meant, Father. Standing on the altar.  .  .

William:  I understand. But it’s off-center. And surely when it was hung in the first place, someone had to stand on the altar.

Martha:  Father Tomlinson often commented on that cross. He believed that it was hung that way for a purpose.

William: Perhaps it was. But I believe that purpose has been fulfilled, and I shall move it to the center. And while I’m up there, if you like, I’ll give the paneling a good rubdown with whatever polish you recommend. Would you mind taking the fair linen and other things off? I’m afraid I’m not good at that sort of thing.

Martha (somewhat mollified): Certainly I can remove the things properly. And I’ll fetch some polish. I have just the thing in the sacristy closet.  Exits

William:  I thought you might. He is visibly relieved.

Martha returns wearing a pair of white gloves. She hands a pair to him.

Martha:  You may help me with the candlesticks.

He puts the gloves on, and each of them lifts a candlestick from the altar. They carry them through the door. When they have gone, the altar shifts slightly so that the cross appears to be in the center. They return, without gloves. Martha has a tube to roll up the fair linen, and she begins to do that while William stands back and watches. He looks at the cross, clearly puzzled.

William:  Martha, could you come over here for a minute? She leaves the rolling and stands beside him.

Is it my imagination, or is the cross in the center now?

Martha:  I believe it is. But wait. . . she goes back to the altar and looks at the floor. The altar has moved. Look!  William joins her and examines the floor.

William: Did we. . . bump it? When we removed the candlesticks?

Martha: I doubt it. Try moving it.  He tries, and fails. “Bumping it” is out of the question.

William: You’re right. Was there an earthquake? But—nothing else is out of place. We would have felt something. . .

Martha: The altar has a solid marble top. I doubt that an earthquake would move it at all.

William:  Well, I guess I don’t have to move the cross.

Martha:  But now the altar is off center.

William:  And since I can’t move that, it will have to stay that way. I suppose we can put the things back.  Martha unrolls the linen again, and smooths it, while William ponders, and examines the altar and the floor. They exit. While they are gone, the altar moves back to its original place. They enter, in white gloves, carrying candlesticks, which they put on the altar. William steps back.

William:  Martha. Look.  She joins him. They look at one another in puzzlement.  All right. I think we’d better leave this. No ladder, no moving, no polishing. I must think about this. Thank you for your help. It looks as if everything is all set for the service tonight.

Martha:  Except the flowers. They’ll be delivered at six. You’ll be here. (not a question)

William: Yes. All Souls’ Day. I must remember the list of names.

Martha:  It will be sad to hear Father Tomlinson’s name on that list this year.

William:  We’ll all be on that list one day, Martha. One thing we can be sure about.

Martha:  (darkly) Assuming there is still a church and a congregation.

William:  Yes, of course, assuming that, which I do.  Thank you for your good work. Everything looks very nice.

Martha: So I’ll go now.

William: And I’ll see you this evening.

Martha:  Of course. Good afternoon, Father.

William:  Good afternoon. . .

She exits, and he stands in front of the altar with his arms folded.  

William:  All right. Whoever you are, whatever you are, I know about you. The Bishop told me there was something amiss here, and there is. That cross, that crooked font, the organ that won’t stay in tune, the bell that won’t ring no matter how many times it’s rehung, the fact that no one has been baptized here for fifty years. . .  I know about you. And I want this to stop. And I will get to the bottom of it. And if I must, I will do an exorcism, old-fashioned though that may be. As he speaks, the cross falls off the wall.  So. You see the writing on the wall?  “Mene, mene, tekel, parsin.”  Your days are numbered.  Exits.

November Writing Challenge #5

I don’t know how long I can keep this up.

 

 

November Writing Challenge #5

Cast:

Joe Medien: an NPR style interviewer

Dame Julian of Norwich, whose speech is deliberate, gentle, courteous

 

Set:

Split stage. Joe in a sound studio, Julian in a small stone-walled room with a cot, a desk with a crucifix above it, a bench, a little window open to the outdoors. Cat optional.

 

Joe:  Good afternoon. This is Joe Medien, with Anchor to Anchor. Today we’re delighted to have as our guest Julian—at least that’s the name she goes by these days. For the past ten years, Julian has lived in a little room attached to the church of Julian in Norwich. This is, I believe, the first interview she has granted, and we’re honored to have her with us. Dame Julian, thank you for joining us.

Julian: Thank you for having me.

Joe: Dame Julian—or may I call you just Julian?

Julian:  “Just Julian” would be presumptuous, since God alone is truly just. “Dame Julian” is fine.

Joe:  Oh. Well. Dame Julian, I’m wondering how you came to be shut up in your—what is called? A hermitage?

Julian: A cell. I am not a hermit. Were I a hermit, I would not be speaking with you.

Joe: Thank you for clearing that up. So, how did you come to be there?

Julian: When I was a young woman, I desired more than anything to see the passion of Jesus. I also wanted to come very close to death, and I wanted to learn to long for God. After all of those things happened, I wanted to pass the rest of my earthly life in contemplation.

Joe: Can you describe what you have in your—cell?

Julian: A bed, a desk, a bench, and above the desk an image of my Beloved.

Joe:  Ah! So would that be your late husband? I understand that you were widowed in a round of the black death.

Julian: My Beloved is my dear Lord and Mother who holds me in his wounded side.

Joe: I see. . . . .But I’m wondering about your husband.

Julian: His life is hidden in Christ.

Joe: So, would you say that your belief in Jesus was a major factor in your decision to go live in a cell?

Julian: Yes.

Joe: May I ask how you spend your time?

Julian: I ponder what my Beloved has shown me, and as I can, I write down what is most clear to me. Now and then pilgrims stop by my window and ask for my prayers. I pray with them, and I pray for them. Prayer takes much of my time. And of course there is my cat.

Joe: I want to ask you about your cat. What can you tell me?

Julian: She is good gray cat who comes and goes through the window and feeds on church mice. Every day the woman who brings my food brings her a saucer of cream. She sits on my lap when I pray, and purrs her own prayers.

Joe:  Does God answer your prayers?

Julian: How can God not answer, when God is love and desires nothing but our happiness?

Joe: Pardon my ignorance, Dame Julian, but it seems to me there is a great deal of suffering in the world. How do you account for that?

Julian: When we are in pain, we hang on the cross with our Beloved.

Joe: Okay.  (an awkward pause)  Dame Julian, if you could give one piece of advice to our listeners today, what would it be?

Julian: Remember that our blessed Lord creates all things for your joy.

Joe:  Is that all? Isn’t there something our listeners can do to, say, get closer to God?

Julian: It is not possible to be closer to God, who is our very life, and the source and spring and quenching of all our longing.

Joe:  Well, I guess that’s all we have time for today. Thank you so much, Dame Julian of Norwich, for taking time out of your. . . busy schedule to join us.

Julian: You are welcome. You are most welcome.

Joe: We’ll be right back after a break.

 

November Writing Challenge #4

This one is kind of cheating because it was a story I wrote a few years ago, turned into a play.

 

Cast:

Annie–retired secretary.  sweat pants and cute t-shirt, embroidering a baby blanket—

large mochaccino with whipped cream

Joanne–massage therapist, married to Annie.  Yoga clothes–hibiscus tea

Linda— retired nurse, dressed youthfully–lime italian soda

Hill—retired social worker-drab black and gray —black coffee

Sally–retired kindergarten teacher, bright cardigan

Young man

Barrista

Other people at nearby tables—some should be able to sing

A few singers planted in the audience

 

Scene:

A coffee shop with a barista at work. All the women but Joanne are seated around one table, drinking their beverages. There are people seated at other tables, too, doing the usual coffee shop kinds of things, occasionally getting up to get refills. The fourth wall is a window, looking out at the audience/street.

 

Joanne enters:  Hey all, sorry I’m late. My class just went on and on. Gotta grab some hibiscus. . . (she goes to the bar)

Annie: She always says that. The class goes on and on because she lets it. Dear old Joanne.

Linda: Well, I’m glad she’s finally here. I’m pretty nervous about this.

Hill: We’ve been over this so many times. Either it will work, or it won’t.

Joanne (returns with tea, and looks at Annie’s work)  Annie, I can’t believe you’re working on that now. If we mess up, the baby might not need it. 

Annie: Oh, Joanne sweetie, I think she will.  I think it will all work out just fine.  You have to think positively. And besides, I think better when my hands are busy.  (Bites of the end of the thread and spreads the blanket across her lap.. Takes a sip from her drink.)  There’s the little red hen. Now all I have to do is finish the duck and do the rooster. (And during the conversation that follows, she continues embroidering.)

Hill:  So. Down to business.  Can we do it today?  The trees are finally all on board, and the maples are especially anxious to begin, since they’ve already mostly lost their leaves and are heading for dormancy.  They so want to be part of this, you know. We knew we couldn’t count on the annuals, but the ones still green are willing to do what they can, and the mycelium is all raring to go.

Linda:  Well, we can’t do it at all after the hard frost forecast for tonight, so if everything else is in place, I think we should go for it today. The water is ready.  Really, really ready.  I’ve had trouble convincing a couple of rivers that they need to wait for everybody else.  As soon as they got word, they wanted to start.  They’ve suffered so much.   (Staring sadly into her soda.)

Annie:  So has the dirt. Bless its heart.

Linda: Which is why I’m surprised that it’s been so reluctant.

Annie:  You can’t blame it, Linda. It doesn’t want to work with water.  After all, water has been the most immediate cause.”

Linda: Agent, not cause.

Annie:  Agent, then. But you know dirt.  It’s always been the most conservative of the lot.

Hill: It was brilliant of Sally to suggest the frogs.

Annie: No kidding.  We can do without an element here and there, but without dirt, this whole project would be doomed from the get-go. And the frogs are the ideal mediators.

Sally: Well, it just made sense to me. Mud-dwellers know how critical it is for water and dirt to work together.  And they were able to point out that erosion isn’t water’s fault.  When this is all over with, it should be much better for everyone–water, dirt, frogs, toads, salamanders. . . those metamorphosing guys are really into this since they’ve got an immediate handle on major change.

Hill:  But change is hard for almost everybody else. People don’t like it much, after all, or annuals, or most of the Zone 5 perennials.”   

Joanne: Funny that the rocks are so much more likely to support change. You’d think that being so slow and unaffected, they’d oppose everything.

Sally:  Are you sure they’re on board?  They’re the ones I’m most concerned about.  After all, there are children to think of, and if the rocks are not cooperative, everything will blow up.  And you did express some doubt, Joanne, you know.  I couldn’t help but notice. (She pours tea from the pot in front of her into her cup and after looking around, pulls a flask from her sweater pocket and adds a few drops of liquid.)

Joanne:  They really are.  I know them well enough after all these years.  I don’t have their complete answer yet, but they always start with either a yes or a no, since they know it takes us awhile to translate.  This was most definitely a yes and they continued with a statement about the problems they’ve had with mountain top removal.  Even as we speak, they’re going on about their fears about deep-sea drilling.  They may be slow, but they’ve seen so much, and they’ve been part of the whole thing from the very beginning, ever since the first sharp-edged tools.

Hill: Sally, what about the mammals?

Sally: Well, not surprisingly, the bears won’t cooperate.  They’re too busy, they say, and besides, they still don’t believe there’s a problem.  I think they’re addicted to backyard birdseed–it muddles their minds.  The deer won’t help, either, which is somewhat surprising, given what we’ve done to them.  I think they’re just timid.

Hill: We certainly haven’t given them any reason to trust us.

Sally:  Oh, Hill, I’ve tried to explain things, but they’ve seen too many hunters’ tricks.  Their chief told me that now you can’t even count on scent, what with all the masking stuff in use these days. And if you find a good source of apples, well, there’s likely to be a hunter lurking somewhere near by.

Annie:  You can’t win ‘em all.  We knew we’d have trouble with lots of the wild animals.  How about the domestic ones?

Sally: They’re with us, thanks to the cats.  Dogs are about half and half, depending on their masters.  Cows. Horses—they’re pretty much a go. No chickens, but that’s no surprise. But— the heroes of the piece are–guess who?  Another wild tribe. Chipmunks!

All but Sally: Chipmunks?

People at nearby tables look up.

Sally (loudly, reacting to the attention): All over the yard! I thought it was moles digging the holes, but no.  So I set traps.”

The people at nearby tables go back to their laptops and phones.

Annie (still a bit loud) But they’re so cute!  (and quietly continuing) They convinced the mice.

Hill: Really? I thought they were plotting their own uprising.

Sally:  They were.   But the chipmunks pointed out, quite rightly, that if they joined with us it would save them the trouble of keeping everybody in order.  Mice are really good at spreading gossip, but not too good at organizing.

Hill:  So, we can use their network?

Sally: Absolutely.  They’re ready now.  All the mice in the world are ready. The team in this very cellar is ready to go, the minute we begin.

Hill: Excellent .So—we’re ready?   (She looks around the table and each woman nods.  Then here we go.  She places her large blue mug, still half-filled with black coffee, in the middle of the table. The others array their cups around it.

There is silence for a long minute while the women gaze quietly at the cups.

Young Man (entering from the audience, breathless)  The boulder! The boulder that holds up the cannon in the park!  I just saw it shake off the cannon!

Barista:  (soothingly) I’m sure it did.  How about a cup of chamomile tea? On the house?

Young Man:  No! I’m not kidding.  It shook it off just like a dog shaking off water.  And it’s moving!  Look, if you don’t believe me.

Several people get up from their tables and go to the window. Some scream.

A man:  Oh my God!

A woman: The planters on the corner.  The dirt is spilling out of them and the plants are just kind of rising up in the air. And the water in the fountain has all splashed out and it’s just hanging there.

A man: What are all those pigeons doing?  There’s hundreds of them!  And starlings.  All together, flying in circles.

Everyone is up, crowding around the window.

General chatter:  What the hell?  Squirrels?  Mice? Cats?  Look at all the chipmunks! Is that a cow?

College student: Oh man, here come the trees.

The five women sit at their table, quiet. Annie continues to embroider, placidly. 

The people are quiet, too, horrified.

A woman (holds up her phone and taps at it): It’s everywhere.  New York–Central Park–the rocks are coming out of the ground and all the squirrels are lining up, and the trees are marching.  And London.  The Thames has risen, but it isn’t flooding–the water is just sort of hovering over the banks.  Where’s Australia?”  She taps at the screen and continues to talk, breathless, unbelieving.  The sand all over the deserts, moving.  And the kangaroos and things are lining up and marching together.

Several other people tap at screens, and the rest continue to report from the window.

Various voices ad lib:

China.  The stones in the Great Wall.

Wait!  The stones in the church across the street are coming apart, not falling but just hovering.

New Orleans.  The Mississippi.

Same as the Thames. The Volga. The Yangtze.

Animals in the rain forests—they’re marching around!

O my God!  San Francisco!  The San Andreas fault–not an earthquake, just sort of shimmering. Some guy’s filming it—

the Grand Canyon?  What the hell?

The lights flicker and blink out, the screens go blank. The people stop their frantic chatter and stand where they were, their empty devices before them. There is a long silence, in the dark. And then, music begins. Earth music, with deep drums and animal sounds and wordless melody. And then the people in the café begin to sing, one by one, wordlessly, some of them weeping a little, a little harmony, nothing strident, just everyone trying to make something lovely together, until they are all singing. The lights are slowly coming up, and the house lights come up, too, slowly, and there are people planted in the audience who begin to sing. And this goes on as long as it should. 

Meanwhile, the five women sit, watching, until the music dies away and the people slowly drift out toward the audience, still humming, holding hands or with arms around one another.

Annie:  I’d say that was a success. and look, the duck came out perfect.”

Joanne:  (leaning over and patting her hand)  Only you could put the transformation of the world and an embroidered duck in the same sentence.

Annie:  And isn’t that the point?

Sally (looking in her cup): Tea will never be the same.

Linda: Nothing will. Even for us. And we knew what was happening.

Hill: Did we?  All we did was open a door.

Annie:That’s all anyone can ever hope to do. (She threads a needle with red thread) Now I’ll start on the rooster.

 

November Writing Challenge #3

The dumbest so far:

 

November Writing Challenge #3

Scene: If I knew how to do sets, I’d have some kind of backdrop that makes the pinhead (spotlight) look like it starts out the size of a real pinhead. But I have no idea how this could happen.

 

Cast:

two scholars, in doctoral robes

Angels—dancers—enough to fill a spotlight that covers the whole stage

Lighting guy—barely visible above the stage until the end, when he/she is spotlit him/herself

 

The scholars stand stage right.

Scholar One:  How many angels can dance on the head of a pin?

Scholar Two: I have no idea. Has anyone ever asked them?

Scholar One:  I don’t think so. Hm. Shall we try? pulls a pin from hat and holds it up

Both Scholars (shouting): How many of you can dance on this?

The shout echoes and echoes while the lights go out and the Scholars exit.  A small silver-white spotlight appears on the stage. Dim lighting elsewhere. The angels enter, stage right, in a line. One moves into the spotlight and dances. The light is just a little bit too big—clearly two angels could dance in it. The next angel in line is invited into the spot and the dance goes on—in a tight formation. This continues until the spot extends to the edge of the stage. The angels waiting in line should be like anybody waiting in line:  checking fingernails, stretching, texting, talking on phones, whatever. When the stage is full—and the angels are all fairly annoyed:

Voice of a Scholar, loud and echoing from the wings:  So, how many of you can dance on the head of a pin?

An angel:  (shouting toward the ceiling) How big is the damned pinhead?

Lighting guy: How big do you want it?

Curtain.