A Little Breath of Heaven

A Play in One Act by Antonia Finizio

Characters:

ED: Nondescript white man in expensive clothing, obsessively on-spot diction, far overdressed for the diner, late 30s.

MAVE: Buxom redhead, wearing as a top a black lace shawl tied at her side, showing off a red bra, speaks with the general accent of the uneducated, late 20s/early 30s.

EVRONA: African-American waitress, very attractive, very consciously wearing a form-fitting blue uniform, high heels, and provocative walk, strong Southern accent, early 20s.

YOUNG MAN: white, long-haired, casual clothing, early 20s/college age.

YOUNG WOMAN: white, his girlfriend, same age, same style, dreadlocks, deaf.

BUSBOY: gawky teenager in an ill-fitting uniform (race unimportant).

COOK: suspiciously prison-like tattoos, mid 40s (race unimportant)

Setting:

A grungy diner, black and white checkers with unholy red tables and chairs. A faded cardboard cutout of Betty Boop in the corner on which doodlers have added a mustache. There are 5 tables, two prominently forward and center, the only part of the stage well-lit at the outset, and a counter at the back. The diner set is fourth wall open, with small bathrooms on either side of the main room and a propped open door to the kitchen in the back wall. Women’s Room is on Stage R, Men’s Room on Stage L. No bathroom set is required but a cracked mirror in the Women’s Room. A projection screen that drops down in front of the diner is needed.

Throughout the play:

Extras at two or three other tables maintain a murmur without discernible words. Kitchen workers come in and out of the back door shouting orders. Sounds of a nearby highway play. Background noise levels rise and fall at the director’s discretion.

Act I: Scene I: Right, Left, and Love

ED and MAVE sit at the table centerstage, MAVE on the Stage L side, ED Stage R. At the other center table, YOUNG MAN and YOUNG WOMAN sit so that YOUNG MAN is facing ED. They talk with sign language; only YOUNG MAN speaks aloud as he signs. HE also can’t seem to look away from MAVE. After the lights go up, there is silence between ED and MAVE as HE texts and SHE sketches on a napkin, just long enough to make the audience shift uncomfortably and wonder if someone has forgotten their lines.

(MAVE sighs.)

ED

Don’t complain now, doll.

(MAVE slams her pen down.)

ED

Sorry. Don’t complain now, Mave.

MAVE

What the fuck would I be complainin’ about? I’m charmed.

ED

Let’s start practicing language for polite society, doll. (Beat of furious silence.) Mave.

MAVE

Why the fuck would I complain? I’m enchanted.

(They make eye contact for the first time.)

ED

You remembered to fix your dangling preposition. Praise Jesus. (Signals for a waitress.) Let’s get this over with.

MAVE

Oh, give ‘em time, ya prick. Look, the other waiter’s flirtin’ her up. Let the young love blossom. Like a red, red, rose. (Jumps to write that down.) Oh, don’t they remind you of us, all of a couple months back? What’re you going on about, anyway? Praisin’ your Jesus now? Ain’t it praise Henry Ford? Anyway, I could stay here forever!

ED

I find it truly atrocious.

MAVE

(Writing.) The dive or the young love? Spell that big word for me, won’t ya, Eddie?

ED

My life and everything in it. Except you, of course.

MAVE

A-tro-cious. A-T-R-O-S-H-U-S?

(ED signals for a waitress.)

Meaning: opposite of enchanted.

ED

You should utilize that new vocabulary when you meet my father. Sarcastically, you understand. He’ll say “I’m enchanted, Mave,” and you’ll say “Well, I’m atrocious, Reverend.” He loves jokes like that.

MAVE

Really? Well ya know I love jokes! And I can’t stand people who don’t get smart ones. The more you tell me things like that, the more I just don’t understand why you don’t think we won’t get along.

ED

That’s- Yes, it’s true, both of you are as hilarious as the idea that someone got paid for this décor.

MAVE

It’s local color, Eddie! Don’t be rude.

ED

Sure, doll. There’s a lot of color here. Half of it’s giving me a headache and the other half’s not giving me food. Fucking- (Gets up, muttering angrily, and goes to where EVRONA and BUSBOY are adding detailed female anatomy to Betty Boop.)

MAVE

(Suddenly talking with slightly better diction, partly to herself, but sideways so that YOUNG MAN can hear her. Still sketching.) Idiot. Like I don’t know the racist asshole’s gonna go feel up that poor little girl. Teacher told me once a nice watch attracts stupid girls. Grandma told me once a nice watch attracts pretty girls. Both were right. Who am I to mess with the trite wisdoms of my elders? I could add some lines though.

YOUNG MAN

(Managing to say it to both MAVE and YOUNG WOMAN.) And what would you say, love?

MAVE

First, remember that a watch don’t have magnetism powerful enough to attract two different types of women.

(ED slips EVRONA some money, leaning over the counter and whispering in her ear. HER eyes widen, then SHE nods slowly and comes around from behind the counter.)

Second, it’s the nice suit that spreads the legs.

(EVRONA and ED whisper more, arguing. HE shakes his head and SHE shrugs.)

EVRONA

I’ll be in there when you’re ready.

MAVE

Last, that watch’s a fake.

(ED and EVRONA make their way to the table. ED points her in front of him and enjoys his view.)

EVRONA

Welcome to A Little Breath of Heaven Diner on Route 69 (dispensing menus). My name’s Evrona. What can I get for y’all today?

ED

Well, good afternoon, Evrona, you can call me Ed. In fact, please call me Ed. I’d like an egg salad sandwich on whole wheat with chips and a Diet Pepsi.

MAVE

Oh, that’s a lovely name! Is it a old s- uh- fam’ly name?

EVRONA

I’s from the Bible. Same one you use, last I checked. It means “rage overflowin.” Pause. Now what can I get for y’all?

MAVE

Oh, it couldn’t be the same Bible I use, not unless you mean Cosmo. You’d wanna talk to Eddie here ‘bout that. Who’da ever thought little ol’ me would be goin’ into business- I mean getting’ hitched with- the Reverend’s son? Anyway, Elvira, we were just talking about the dee-core. I find it absolutely ravishingly atrocious the way the picnic checkered floor clashes with this metallica red.

(Pause.)

ED

That- doll- none of that was remotely- no, Ed, it’s not worth it.

EVRONA

If she ain’t right in the head or sumthin, I got other tables, Ed. (Pointing to a NO SHOES NO SHIRT NO SERVICE sign.) Shouldn’ even legally serve her. I’s a personal favor to y’all.

MAVE

(Ignoring her.) Eddie, don’t talk to yourself, it’s rude. (To EVRONA.) Don’t mind him, he has trouble thinkin’ about two things at once.

EVRONA

I’m havin’ some trouble getting’ two orders at once, but I don’ usually.

MAVE

Yes, I’m quite taken with this little place. It’s, what’s the word- kitschy. Catchy? Crusty? That ain’t right… anyway, let me see this charming tear on the menu. Oh, it goes right over the world famous specials. Ain’t that poetic? Poetic! This place is oh, so poetic. There’s a story here, beneath the surface. Somethin’ nobody’d see but an artist. You gotta be on the lookout, ya know? You sure are lucky to work here, Eva.

(Pause.)

ED

Shut up, doll. (Takes her menu and hands it EVRONA.)

EVRONA

Alright. It’d be real poetic if cook ‘n I surprise you with our favorite special for guests who really seem to belong here, k, baby?

MAVE

Well, aren’t you a doll? Thank you, Erma. But let cook know I’m only drinking ice water. That Diet Coke gives you cancer.

(Pause.)

EVRONA

I’m sure he can fry that up jus’ for you.

MAVE

Thanks so much! Oh, and, before you go, I see the Little Boy’s Room there across from me, where’s the Ladies’ Room at? Also, I don’t eat calories. Thanks, Esmerelda.

(Pause.)

EVRONA

Can’t help you, baby. I get lost in here all the time. I usually just give up and use the Little Boy’s room.

MAVE

Oh, that’s all right. Thank you!

(EVRONA goes and tosses their orders on the counter without informing anyone they are there, then proceeds to the Men’s Room, putting an OUT OF ORDER sign on the door.)

Wow, she wasn’t kidding! Well, I’d rather not risk that, I don’t have a sign, wouldn’t wanna be propositioned in there by some creep or somethin’… I’ll go ahead and go on a search for the Ladies’ Room. Don’t miss me too much, Eddie.

ED

That’s beyond my capacity, doll.

(Furious silence.)

Go on, doll. What are you waiting for?

(MAVE gets up and begins to slowly circle the diner, stopping to examine various paint chips, wall graffiti, etc.)

ED

(Examining MAVE’s napkin.) Damn it all to Hell, the bitch has talent. (He looks up and realizes that YOUNG MAN is eavesdropping.) I’m not sure how much it could be worth when her right brain seems to have entirely eaten the left. Well, that’s what Eddie’s for. Fucking hell. What has a good businessman’s life come to when he’s bringing that set of tits home to prove he’s still got it? Can you figure out how lace lingerie furthers an artist’s ability to put on a successful gallery show? Me, neither, but Excel- I- can figure out that it seriously cuts into profits.

(YOUNG MAN shrugs awkwardly. YOUNG WOMAN is clearly confused by the gesture.)

You know it’s a recession. I can’t wait to see how you handle it. Damn hippie, you judge me when you can afford a real haircut. I hope you know you’re both representing your failing liberal arts college with perfectly disgusting stereotypes.

(ED turns around to see that MAVE has found the Women’s Room. HE rips the napkin in half and goes to join EVRONA in the Men’s Room. As HE goes to grab her waist SHE holds out her hand and HE reluctantly hands over his watch. SHE stores it her bra and they begin heavily making out. EVRONA’s eyes remain open.)

MAVE

(Aligning her face so the crack in the mirror cuts it in half and laughing.) I am leaving here with a poem called… well, not The Crack, that’s no good. Huh. This one’s a crack and the menu was a tear. That makes this very tricky…

ED

Hold on. Hold on, doll. How long have we been here?

EVRONA

I dunno. Didja lose your watch? Bummer. So what’s with crazy chick, anyway? She don’ put out? Then why dress that way?

ED

Shut up. We’ve got to finish this soon.

EVRONA

Or is premarital lovin’ where the Reverend draws the line on his dolls?

ED

(Grabbing her shoulder and nervous about doing it.) Be careful, doll. I make more money in a week than you do in a year. She’s not my bitch, she’s- my sister. And investment.

MAVE

Crossing What’s Important. Cutting in Half What’s Important. I’m getting’ there.

EVRONA

Really, Reverend? What do you even care whether I leave here thinkin’ you’re holy or Lucifer? Far as I’m concerned, everybody who comes through here is both ‘til they prove ‘emselves with a tip. ‘Course if you ain’t lying, you might wanna see a shrink ‘bout why you call both your sis and your holy hookups ‘doll.’ Or, even simpler, why your sis says you’re getting’ hitched.

ED

(Making a move as though to hit her but backing off.) I have a better name for you, then. Fucking nigger cunt. You got my worst watch and it could pay for a car better than the likes of you deserve. Now do what you’ve been fucking told.

(Under MAVE’s dialogue, EVRONA backs off and opens her mouth as though to scream. ED covers her mouth, they struggle briefly, and HE pays her off again. SHE beckons for more, calmly takes it, then swiftly kicks him between the legs and runs out, leaving him on the ground. SHE removes the OUT OF ORDER sign and returns to BUSBOY.)

MAVE

(Turning away from the mirror to face front). Shit! Aw, shit. Poems ain’t part o’ Sir Fucking Edward’s gallery. It can be a poem that goes with a painting- no! No, fuck you, Ed. (Turning back to the mirror and carefully standing to ‘poetically’ place the crack again.) It’s your gallery, bitch. Your hands, your spread legs that keep it up now, and your poetry reading if you damn well please. His money started it, maybe you could give ‘im that. Nah, only if it were money he earned somehow, not a fucking bankruptcy settlement. (Laughs.) Good business.

EVRONA

(Lazily handing off ED’s and MAVE’s orders to COOK.) Spit in both. Shit in the top one, too. (To BUSBOY.) Hey, baby, can you bring two regular Cokes to the front table?

(MAVE comes out of the bathroom. SHE sees the table empty and the napkin torn, and meets EVRONA’s eyes for a long moment. BUSBOY bumps into her shoulder and puts the Cokes down.)

BUSBOY

Excuse me, ma’am.

MAVE

Run back to Evrona there, boy. Long as you’re cool knowing she’ll never touch you but you’ll keep doin’ her work.

(Turns and leaves swiftly. YOUNG MAN openly watches her go, and opens his mouth, but SHE is gone.)

(Another diner opens the Men’s Room door. Furious, ED scrambles to his feet and limps out as fast as he can. As HE reaches the table, an exaggeratedly loud car starts up offstage. HE punches the wall, throws the napkin to the floor, and collapses in his seat.)

(YOUNG MAN jumps to his feet and retrieves the napkin. YOUNG WOMAN runs to the Women’s Room, beginning to cry. HE puts the napkin together as the lights dim and the projector screen falls, showing the torn napkin. The expert sketch shows a detailed human brain, the tear cutting the hemispheres in half. In the left hemisphere is ED’s watch, and the right a paintbrush and typewriter. Beneath in clumsy handwriting, all spelled correctly:

My love is like a red, red rose, Grasp it at the base and it stabs you with its woes.

Eddie: Atrocious, appalling, abhorrent, horrendous, heinous, repulsive.)

The End.

In a Trick of the Light

I have never seen anyone die. But as I heard the day after it happened, a young girl saw and held the body of a man, full of holes, as he bled thick and black onto the pavement. This road ran alongside Freret Street, which opens at the mouth of Carrolton Avenue with thick, wooden trees and thick, wooden houses, trickling down into a thin stream of stacked clubs and shady bars, and people cold and harsh as gunmetal. Moving away from the walk, up the stairs and into the double doors was Friar Tuck’s bar and grill, inaptly named due to its lack of grill and Friar-dom. This road cuts through my backyard, where I used to take many drunken walks back to sleep or sober walks back to waking. It was the place to go; no one really liked being there, at least no one I know (myself included), and the majority of business came with plans to forget their evening in a clear plastic cup filled with alcohol that no other place would serve them. While I slept, the scene was set: the victim and the one who pulled the trigger; all in their places. If the days could realign, I would have been there, I could have seen.

I wasn’t sure what to make of all the stories being told the next day. Snippets of conversation told me that someone died last night outside of Tuck’s—he went to school with me and he was only 19. The news reports all said similar things: “Fatal shooting outside troubled Freret Street bar”; “Shooting forces Tuck’s closure”; “A Deadly Night”; never really the full story, though, just summaries of what I could read from Facebook statuses and hear from people’s excitement over something to mourn. As always, people blamed the demographics or the shooter’s drug addiction (allegedly, this was the case, as one news story explained) but this brought no avail. The kid was still dead and we all wanted to know why. One quote read, “He was a good kid, just in the wrong place at the wrong time.” As if he had walked in front of the bullet’s path as it harmlessly headed for embedment into a light post. No, people were convinced something else was at work, something, someone had to be blamed because people can’t just die unless they have a damn good statement to make about it.

I wondered where you were that night. I wondered if you pulled that trigger and what you were trying to say.

I was not a Tuck’s frequent, but I spent time there. I made friends with my floor-mates there, met future roommates there; my drunken sexuality came into full bloom there while shitty rap music came in through the speakers. Still, as dingy and gross as every aspect of that bar was, it became a character in itself, almost a friend—the one you keep around to exploit but secretly like regardless of everything, the one all your friends love to hate but without whom they would be lost. I couldn’t shake myself from it.

This is where I ran into you.

One night, it was a Wednesday; I was at a table in the corner, next to the beer pong tables. I was offered drink after drink and before I knew it the cups were drained and only a pale blue stain remained at the bottom. Empty cups crowded the table like an avid audience. The familiar numbness descended into my joints, my legs became loose and so did my mouth, and faces blurred in front of me, Yeah, hi, nice to meet you and We go to school together, don’t we? and empty cups kept crowding, watching the show. People passed and hands pulled mine and before I knew it I was kissing one of these faces, an unfamiliar one, warm and wet with alcohol, and we stopped and giggled and someone must have shifted because then there was another mouth I met, and another, and another. One of these mouths was another man. He was talkative and skinny but I liked him, almost instantly, the vodka burning up all the unnecessary conversation between us and letting our hands do the talking. Simple, base attraction; both of us basking in the affection of someone we don’t have to worry about loving.

You made your entrance. I was buried in the crook of his neck when you walked up and told us to separate. I don’t know if you touched me, but I remember my chest burning as if you’d shoved me; as if my ribs anticipated violence by contracting. Like it was obvious, like it was a rule, you told us we should stop. “I just don’t like faggots” is the phrase you used. This is something I know I heard because I remember the sensation of my spine snapping me straight into sobriety. When I picture you turning away from me, I can hear you say it. The alcohol allowed me to keep that snippet of memory—a punishment, or a warning.

Three weeks later, that boy was killed. In a matter of days, they found his killer. I don’t think he was hiding. The media loaded their guns and took aim. They called it gang violence, they made references to drugs. They blamed the area, this “poor part of town,” all firing wildly at what might be the reason why.

One article spoke of two men who heard the gunfire. They ran to get blankets for the victim to help stop his bleeding, and were too late.

The articles are as worthless as those blankets. The dead remain dead and the living still question why. We don’t get answers.

My mother once warned me that people still hate, but I did not understand. As my sexuality flourished and matured I assumed everyone else’s did, too. In the sticky heat of that summer after my senior year I knew more boys than I care to remember because I was seventeen and immortal, and at this age, I have no reason to say no to anything. In the secluded world I made for myself, my parents had no idea my identity was quivering in the back seat of my car and the world didn’t give two shits who I was kissing because they had bigger matters to attend to. I was wrong. My parents could smell sex on my clothes and people cared more than I could understand. I didn’t understand this world’s ability to kill.

Well, I sure do understand now, and I thank you for clearing that up. That night, while some drunken frat star rubbed his hard-on into the tight-jeaned crotch of some random woman, I was told to stop kissing another man because as you told me, “I just don’t like faggots.” While people fornicated on pool tables and girls pushed their full breasts up against each other like some sort of lewd circus, I was wrenched away from a warm mouth and tongue and told that I didn’t belong. Yes, thank you, now I understand perfectly. I never realized my sexuality was not supposed to exist. Under dim bar bulbs reflecting off pools of spilled beer and piss there are no queers. With sports games and beer pong humming in the tabaccoed air there are no fags here, you can get drunk with no shame and do whatever you want because you are a real man, not my shameful sham of skin and bone that doesn’t act like you do.

In the maw of night, a man fell onto asphalt as gentle and as shaken as a crumpled leaf, and in this road someone watched him die. That could have been me. In retrospect, maybe it should have. “He was a good kid, just in the wrong place at the wrong time.” The night I kissed that boy full on the lips was the night I unknowingly danced in gunfire. If the hard, shiny metals that make a gun would have assembled and solidified in your hands, you could have pulled the trigger. These two separate nights could have been one. Someone was killed on the cracked brick sidewalk in front of that bar, and it easily could have been me, shamelessly flaunting myself to people like you, people that burn with inherent hatred that I only try to understand. I do not know why that boy was killed, and perhaps he didn’t either. Both of us were in that bar, unaware of our power to die. The lines between our two stories blur so easily. In a trick of the light within my mind’s eye, I watch myself bleed onto black pavement.

That boy is still dead for reasons never clearly explained; no sudden revelation of the killer’s intention has surfaced and revived his victim. Tuck’s has closed down. People avoid that neighborhood. I don’t raise my voice when asked to speak of myself. We all carefully watch where we stand and who we are.

But not you. You don’t care because this will never happen to you. You are doing everything right. Not you, not you. But in my mind, you are a murderer. Not you, not you, not you, not you, never you.

You see it coming while you're blind

It develops within you slowly like a disease

Swearing it could never happen to you

And the pity for the ones who it’s done to

Could it be with the first sign?

No, that push is too simple to blame

You're fine when you're forced to notice your state

Sitting there, waiting for the moment

Oh, here it comes

You knew it would come

Before you could guess

The damage has begun

"You're a fucking piece of shit!"

Harsh words pour from his lips

Tears fall but they don't matter

If anything they fuel.

The insecurities are building

But so are his muscles, big, strong, and forceful

His face, cold and fierce with eyes that never lose focus

The rage, growing with every exhale

Pacing quickly in my direction I freeze

My body tenses with no chance to move

I've learned that lesson

My breath is held

I feel every inch quiver and tighten

My arms race to block when I see what's coming

With my eyes shut tight I feel pressure meet my chest

With all its force and rage behind it

I fall, instantly feeling the only boundary of his force, the wall

My back meets it first, and my head follows

Before I comprehend the contorted position I'm in

I am already being flipped again

"Please! Please!" It's not enough

"You dumb fucking cunt.

You were really going to leave me.

I'm sure you just want to be with someone else."

He spits on me before his palm lowers to grab hold a of my hair

There is no time to cry in between the gasps for air

The reactions of my hands grab a hold of his wrist as I scream

I cringe to the way my back is scraped

As I'm dragged to a bigger working station

My hand is free but I know I'm not

I stumble to even get to my knees

A left foot meets my ribcage

There I am coughing curled up in a ball on the floor

He continues to scream

I only catch every other "bitch" and "fuck"

I quickly try to stand as my head on the floor sees those shoes walking closer

I made it up

Congratulations

My right hand grips my ribs

While the left sweeps across my swollen eyes

Smearing mascara and tears

Now I can see I can see him right there in front of me

6'4 220 pounds staring down with disgust

I gulp hard and find the courage to say

"I'm done with this"

He stares at me as a grin crosses his clenched mouth

"I could have you right back to where you were."

I'm unsure if the force is worse than the manipulation

But there I am flying

This time there isn't a wall

But a coffee table to break my fall

Before laying on the ground

There is nothing to think or say

I can feel his fingers wrap around my neck

His grip tightens

My head becomes heavy as I feel the oxygen hit my tongue

My eyes feel as though they are bulging

And the seconds go by as my grip loosens around his arms

I'm released

Coughing and gasping for air

My hands struggle to find my neck

I'm surprised it’s still there

I hear his footsteps disappear

Down the hall and shut the door

My marks smolder at the edges

The colors of a dead soul

Lie motionless on the floor

As blood pours from the wounds I was left with

This horror plagues my thoughts

I’ve never felt so lost

Emptiness comes across me

As I struggle to stand up

My knees crumble to the pressure

I’m carrying the weight of the world on my back.

Glass Angel

Glass Angel

A Drama in One Act

By
Michael Sanchez



ENGL-A211-002, Intro to Creative Writing

Prof. Dale Hrebik

Loyola University of New Orleans

April 3, 2011





Cast of Characters

Dana, the husband
Gina, the wife
Cop #1 (Officer Lopez)
Cop #2

SCENE
Living room

TIME
Late night on a weekend.





Act I

Scene 1

Late night in DANA’s living room. A rectangular, glass-surfaced coffee table is in the middle of the stage. Behind it is GINA sitting on a blue couch with a wooden end table next to her left side. On top of the end table is an antique table lamp.

(The stage is dark and quiet. The sound of a key slowly unlocking a door is heard. The doorknob quietly turns. A squeak escapes from the opening door. DANA, dressed in slacks and a shirt, enters from stage right. As soon as he closes the door with a quiet thump, GINA, dressed in a nightgown, turns on the lamp and the stage becomes bright.)

GINA
You son of a bitch!

DANA
GINA! What are-

GINA
Dana, where were you all night?! (Rises from couch and sniffs him.)

DANA
I was-

GINA
Are you drunk? Again?!

DANA
No! I was working late and decided to grab a couple of beers with the guys before I came.

GINA
Don’t you lie to me!
(Points finger.)
You’ve been coming home after midnight for the past month.

DANA
Baby, keep it down. You’re gonna wake the neighbors.

GINA
I don’t care! I’m your fucking wife! I did not marry you for this bullshit!

DANA
(forefinger over his lips)
Shhhhhh…

GINA
I refuse to put up with this! I can’t believe you!
(SHE clenches her fist. SHE exits to stage left.)
I’m going to bed. You’re sleeping on the couch tonight, asshole! (Offstage.)

DANA
(Sits on the couch facing the audience)
I miss the old Gina. She used to be such an angel. She was so shy too. I almost threw up asking her out after chemistry class in high school. She was so down to earth. I don’t think we’ve ever fought while we were dating. Not once. She was special. She made we wannna become a better man. That’s why I loved her. I’ll never forget our wedding night. She was gorgeous in that strapless dress. She was something outta a fairy tale. My own princess. We even had a boy on the way. I thought life was gonna be great with my new family. Things change though… Dante never made it. Stillborn. The doctor told us it was some kinda freak accident. A piece of her died with our son. She stopped smiling. She stays at home watching Netflix and shitty sitcoms. She barely cooks and is always nagging. And she fucking wonders why I’m always out! I wanna a divorce but I can’t leave her like this. For better or for worse (shakes head.) Whatta buncha bullshit…

(DANA unbuttons and takes off his shirt revealing a purple mark on his throat. GINA enters from the bedroom. SHE’s carrying two folded blankets with a pillow on top.)

GINA
(Reluctantly)
Here, I brought this for- YOU ASSHOLE! HOW COULD YOU?!
(GINA hurls the sheets and pillow at DANA.)

DANA
Baby! I can explain!

(GINA rushes DANA and hits him. SHE continues to beat him until HE flees to the bedroom offstage. GINA chases after him.)

GINA
(Offstage)
I HATE YOU!
(Loud thumps, wood banging, and porcelain breaking are heard offstage.)

DANA
(Offstage)
Baby stop! You’re hurting me!
(The noises, mixed with profanity, continue until DANA & GINA reenter the stage. GINA stops chasing DANA and collapses into tears, near the coffee table.)

DANA
I’m so sorry, baby.
(HE sits next to HER and embraces her.)
I’m so sorry…

GINA
(Sniffs)
How did it become like this?

DANA
We’ll fix this. I promise.

GINA
There is no fixing this…

DANA
What are you talking about?

GINA
Get out.

DANA
I’m not leaving you.

GINA
You need to…

DANA
Dante wouldn’t want that…

GINA
GET OUT! (SHE stands up and starts hitting DANA, who is trying to cover his head.)

DANA
GET OFF ME!
(HE pushes HER into the coffee table. GINA falls on her back. Glass shatters. GINA bleeds profusely.)
Jesus! I’m so sorry! Are you ok? BABY?!
(GINA lies there and weeps. Loud knocks are heard offstage.)

COP #1
(Offstage)
Police! Open the door.

DANA
Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Baby, go to the bedroom. Please.

(GINA struggles to get up while sobbing. A long shard of glass pierced her kidney. DANA lays HER on her side, on top of the couch and sits next to her.)

COP #2
(Offstage)
OPEN UP!

GINA
Dana, I’m so sorry…
(Shallow breath.)
For this…
(Shallow breath.)
For Dante…
(Shallow breath.)
I wasn’t ready for a baby...
(Shallow breath.)

COP #1
(Offstage)
WE’RE COMING IN!

(DANA glares at GINA. A few tears descend from his eyes.)

DANA
Don’t apologize to me...
(They embrace. HE kisses HER.)
Tell it to Dante when you see him.
(He twists the glass. GINA releases a whimper and stops crying. A crash is heard and two COPS enter wielding pistols.)

COP #2
ON THE GROUND! HANDS BEHIND YOUR HEAD!
(DANA kneels and complies while maintaining eye contact with a still GINA. COP #2 kicks DANA to his belly. He bends DANA’s arm backwards and locks the cuffs.)

COP #1
Jesus…
(Speaking into radio.)
This is Officer Lopez. Requesting an ambulance to 284… (Fades out.)

END









P.S. I spent a couple hours formatting it on Microsoft Word but this blog's formatting killed it...

The Cut Spirit

Once upon a time, she told us her story in the middle of the woods, four of us in a group of a two-hundred sitting criss-cross-applesauce on the detritus-laden ground, pine needles and leaves digging into our dusty legs, mosquito breeze tugging at the loose strands of our hair. We itched, slapping and scratching the growing white-red welts on our skin, but we did not move from our chosen circle-spots on the ground. We’d chosen them, circling around like cats before we planted ourselves, knowing the time we’d spend here, the life’s weight she held. For the next hour, she was our guru, our Dalai Lama, our Thoreau.

Tiredness burned behind our eyelids, struggling them with weight. There had been a rogue mouse last night, bug nibbles to itch, conversations to have under stars too quiet for city lights. Now, the sky had clouded, tiny drops of humidity brushed our skin with friction. My crossed arms stuck to themselves, but my neck remained free—I’d chopped my ponytail off last night when I reached into my bag for a toothbrush and found a pair of scissors instead. My hair actually looked a lot like Krystal’s. She stood in front of us, ready to speak. She’d been giving us a disclaimer all this time: she may cry, she may forget words. We’re to bear with her. I’ve got all day—I’m one of those pansies that fears public speaking more than death.

“There was a tsunami in Japan,” Krystal said. “People died.”

Beside me, I heard leaves rustle and turned out of habit. It was the other girl in our group, Brianna, swatting at the guy sitting next to her. His name is Ryan. He loves her. The dampness has flattened the hair on the back of her arms—she wouldn’t have felt him until they were skin-to-skin. He knew this—I see it on his face.

“Stop it!” she hisses, with the playful edge girls my age use when they talk to guy’s Ryan’s age. But quiet, too, for Krystal’s sake.

Krystal didn’t notice, or maybe she didn’t care. “People died,” she repeated, “and somehow, I’m supposed to talk to you about redemption.”

Brianna scooted away from Ryan and moved toward Matt. Matt loves her too. Brianna likes him a lot. He grinned and put his arm around her. I heard a familiar whine by my ear and swatted at the intruder. Too late—my neck itched.

“Here’s my question,” said Krystal. “Where’s the redemption? Where the fuck is it? How is there redemption in a world that suffocates its inhabitants in tons of seawater? How is there salvation in a world where I have to tell my three year-old brother that my mom’s coming back, when I know she won’t? How is there forgiveness in a world where my dad exists only in body and not in spirit?”

I stopped scratching. Brianna sat her pretty little ass still.

“It’s not a rhetorical question,” said Krystal, flinging her hands out to the sides, jerking them toward us. I saw the jagged edges of her nails. “I don’t have an answer, and I need one. Where is it?” Her eyes gleamed, but she checked herself, calmed, shuffled away then back to us. “Let me tell you a story,” she said.

I felt a tap on my shoulder, turn, and find Matt there, grinning a Matt grin. He’s thinking of the million times I’ve run up to him with those exact same words. After a while, I didn’t have to say it. “You light up when you have something to say,” he told me once. “There’s that run and that smile, and I’ve got to drop what I’m doing. Arielle’s got a story.” I smile back, but there was a difference between me and Krystal. Yes, I was a writer. But she was a poet. I could grab your attention and make you sit down and shut up until I was finished. Krystal sang beauty to you. You wanted to reach out and touch it, take it into your heart and make it your own. Krystal opened her spirit to us, encapsulated us, warmed us up, and she stood there, talking about the night her father told her that her mother had been running with a knife and couldn’t be with them anymore, the way she learned to use a knife to mark herself with the memories that were the real cause of her insomnia, how she’d sobbed about nonexistent perfections for hours in front of the mirror, until her tears stung her wounds and she had to shower with soap until her body evened into a dull ache.

Already, I felt myself floating away, but her verbal pain had already nested itself into my chest, and she was taking me with her.

I am twelve, and I love to run. Time and reality suspend itself, and I run for miles in loops and squares and triangles. I am the fastest of the girls, then of my grade, then in the school. Racing wasn’t that much of a problem, just more of the same. I didn’t mind spending a couple more hours a day doing it. My dad comes to my meets. He sits in the stands and cheers me on. Then my mother comes, and they sit together and cheer, and I feel wild, free, beautiful. I transcend.

I am fifteen and my life has settled into a routine. I go to school for eight hours, then practice for two. A nutritionist defines what I’m to eat and drink. My coach owns my time. I’m not the best. I must focus, always focus. Stop looking around, focus! I’m exhausted. I dream I watch myself sleep peacefully, without hearing the constant shouting that’s coming from downstairs. Mom and Dad have creative discussions, they tell my two younger sisters. I make up stories and act them out so they can sleep. Mommy and Daddy are writing a story for you, I say. And every night, there’s a new installment. There were two princesses, Hannah and Lauren. They shared a castle but not a room. They each own a puppy. And a kitten. And a fairy.

I hate protein shakes, and I have them for two out of three of my meals every day. I’m underweight. Every two weeks, every time I must be faster. There is no race with others anymore, there is no freedom. I race myself. There’s a fallacy in that statement—I learn this in school. I will never win. Still, I try. My dad hangs around us to cope. My mother goes away. But I want her to keep coming. I have anxiety jitters. I throw up before every race. It has nothing to do with my body—I get mistaken for a fucking sixth grader. I run, run away, run from myself.

I don’t stop to catch my breath when I’m done, just stumble over to the time board—two seconds off. I’m safe for another two weeks.

I’m sixteen and he’s eighteen. He doesn’t know my last name. I don’t know the real color of his hair. I know he runs sprints and I run long distance, so I don’t see him much. But my car breaks down and he drives me home for three weeks, and he’s cute. He finds me intriguing, and I’ve never even been kissed. I lose my virginity in my track uniform in the back of his car, spur-of-the-moment, but I’m not worried. I’m fifteen pounds too far away from even having to worry about a period. I never talk to him again.

At least he asked.

I’m still sixteen and I’m changing schools. Throwing up doesn’t calm my nerves anymore—I have to have a panic attack each time after I run. Everyone asks me what’s wrong, and I honestly don’t know. I sleep more than I’m awake now, and my sisters are too old for stories. Hannah plays volleyball. Lauren dances. I drive them to practice, nap in the back of the car until they’re done. Thank God homework’s not hard.

I’m relieved when I lose my sport scholarship at the old school—I knew it was coming. It was only a matter of days. My mother stops dealing with me at all—only calls when she needs to talk about two of my sisters. She’s divorced my father, but he can’t stay away. Moves in four houses down like a pussy. I drop off groceries for him some days. He barely goes to work, and I suppose he’s just waiting for the other shoe like I was. He won’t talk to me because I don’t try. I take to dying my hair a different color on the first of every month. I find that changing one feature like that stops people from associating you from the Hazel “Power Twins.” I could say that I care, but I don’t. I really just want people to stop talking.

Matt is in my English class, also a transfer, there on scholarship. We’re the only two people who haven’t known each other since the diaper days. At lunch, he tells me that he’s from Seattle and that he, his parents, and his three sisters moved because the two youngest girls didn’t like the rain. He invites me over to his house after school and his mom makes cookies—like real cookies—before she heads to her night shift as a nurse. I meet Ryan in the kitchen and soon find that he stays with Ryan more than he stays in his mom’s trailer. Matt’s dad comes home and says things like “Would you like to stay for dinner?” and “You’re welcome here any time you want.” We work on homework in Matt’s room, and I wonder why anyone wants to be extraordinary when ordinary feels so good.

Matt was actually sad to see me go. I told him I’d come back. More importantly, I told him that my last name was Hazel. His last name was Stone.

People at school called us the Three Musketeers. I was perfectly fine spending the majority of my time with a couple of guys. My previous high school experience had made me quite tired of girls, and with Matt and Ryan, I was one of the guys. Ryan went through girls like paper towels, so there were some rumors. None of these bothered me, though. Every girl wanted Matt, though. Together, Matt and Ryan made up a great Good Guy Bad Guy combination. A lot of girls tried to become friends with me before they realized they’d be better off doing something—anything—else.

Enter Brianna. She wasn’t supposed to be anything but one of Ryan’s flings. But she was smart and not terribly annoying. Somehow, she ended up being the fourth musketeer. But that didn’t have a mainstream reference. We became the Fantastic Four. Matt fell for Brianna immediately. I suppose I could see why. She was rich but humble, sophisticated but quirky. And she had a past. The way everyone clings to each other these days, that was important. You have to be attracted to looks and personality and all that, I guess. But your pain has to be attractive too. That’s the most important part. He was extremely attracted to her pain.

I’m seventeen and it’s three o’clock in the morning when I get the call. Eyes thick with sleep, I stumble around my room in the dark, holding the car keys to my hip to deaden the noise. By the time I get to the hospital, Ryan and Brianna are standing in the waiting room, all sweatshirts and pajamas like me. Brianna turns around when she hears me come in.

“It’s Mr. Stone,” she whispers. “There was an accident a few hours ago.” She collapsed into my arms, not crying, but numb from foot to head. It’s Ryan who’s crying. Then Matt appears somehow—I still don’t know where he came from, and pulls us all to the side.

“I wanted you here,” he said simply.

That was a lost week. None of us went to school. None of us went home. We just stayed in his room, listened to music, and rearranged furniture. Matt took the mattress off his bed and we made a fort and stayed in there, safe from the world.

Just as suddenly as it began, it stopped. Krystal took a particularly long pause, and I emerged from the cocoon of her words, a gasp for air. Suddenly, there was so much air, even though the humidity reading’s somewhere in the 80 percentile. Around me, the slow breeze picked up speed, and the trees rustled overhead. Louder, louder. Then leaves were coming our way so fast that all of the crowd closed its eyes.

Through the safety of my hands, looking through my finger-made slits, I peered at Krystal, back to the wind, looking fiercer and stronger than any storm on earth or sea. She was, indeed, crying—cathartic, victorious. She had taken a good look inside herself and decided it was time to heal. So she cut her soul open, cleanly, with good conscience, to show us something much more powerful than the scars on her arms and legs. She told us her story, and this, the fact that she stood in front of us now, answered her question well enough.

Far Off Memory

Out of the frying pan into the fire. Yep. That about sums it up.

My eardrums finally stopped ringing as my buddies sat down next to me. Jack, all broad shouldered and square jawed, offered me a cigarette. Taking it gladly, I nodded hello to him. We didn’t speak; we barely even glanced at each other – definitely a sign of mourning. We lost several good men today, men who had hardly seen a day over twenty.

Our Sergeant limped toward us, the tolls of combat pouring out of his body. A bloodied bandage curled itself around his thigh, signaling that he was not as invincible as many thought him to be. We didn’t even bother to stand or salute; that’s just endangering the Sergeant and wasting our energy. Instead, my buddies and I just waited to hear what he had to say. Hopefully, it was something good.

“Okay, boys,” Sarge drawled, spitting out tobacco, “we got orders to rendezvous over at site 22A.” Some of the boys groaned. “Get over it, you bunch of pansies! We head out in 0200 hours.” With that, Sarge limped away. I vaguely wondered if that wound would gain him a ticket home, but I knew it wouldn’t. No one goes home.

One of the guys next to me asked where site 22A is. No one answered for a moment. No one wanted to say it out loud. Then, Jack flicked his cigarette away before answering.

“The Knoll.”

Everyone paled. That was indeed suicide. Jack looked at me, trying to reassure that it was going be okay, that we'd all go home to our loved ones and live the rest of our lives in peace. But no one goes home. Alive.

I somehow found myself on a chopper. That happens from time to time; I’ll be one place one minute, then somewhere else the next. War does that to you, I’m guessing. I looked to my left, trying to see who was next to me. It was Jack, no surprise there. Ever since boot camp, we’ve been at each other’s side. People say it’s dangerous to get too close to someone during a tour, but I couldn’t help it. How could you? I needed someone to be there, to keep me rooted. Sane. And Jack was a damn good soldier. He was likely to get medals.

He saw me looking his way and grinned. “All good, Jayne Baby?” I chuckled, a feat considering we were going into an extremely hot landing zone. Jack was the only one who had ever called me Jayne, which is my middle name. He found it hilarious when we first introduced ourselves. Called me it ever since. I don’t mind; it gained me a fine friend.

Someone yelled that touchdown was in ten minutes. My heart skipped. I wasn’t ready for this fight. Jack placed his hand on my knee and squeezed. The contact surprised me, but I was grateful. Not our usual before-fight ritual... The chopper jerked, and we jumped. The battle was like a dream, a nightmare.

At the first footfall, I was under heavy fire. Bullets were speeding everywhere, as if they were pebbles sharply hitting a pond's surface, one right after the other. Thunderous booms from enemy artillery rendered me deaf for a few terrifying moments. The Lieutenant Colonel's commands became distant and incoherent, muffled as if under water. The shouts of my fellow soldiers collided roughly into my ear: the angry battle cries directed toward our enemy, the sorrowful yells of losing a comrade, and the agonizing wails of the wounded. Each sound was a nail on a chalkboard, echoing – piercing my head.

Recovering from initial shock, I quickly ran for cover behind a rise of dirt. The soldiers there were the very picture of disarray. Their uniforms were muddied and weathered, their grime coated helmets askew on top of dirt covered heads, and their whole bodies caked in sweat, dirt, blood and other substances I dared not name. The brows of these men were lined with worry and fear; their eyes lighted with a gleam of awareness that this might be the last time they draw breath. New explosions sent clumps of dirt raining down on us, occasionally sending men flying backwards, landing with sickening thuds. Reloading my weapon, I watched as men, both ally and enemy, fall to the ground in a tangled web of limbs either wounded or dead. Spurts of deep brown and crimson rose into the air every other second.

The man next to me fell on my side, his head slouching onto my shoulders. My throat tightened, air struggling to break its way through, as I felt warm, thick liquid inch its way down my arm. I pressed my rifle closer to my chest, the once cool material hot and clammy from my constant touch. The inside of my chest burned with nerves, a monstrous pounding that ripped its way through my ribcage. I fired, feeling every bead of sweat trickle down my skin. Suddenly, a piercing pain throbbed at my upper arm. The skin had been cut with a rogue bullet, just deep enough to bleed. It was nothing serious; I pushed the prickling pain out of my mind.

A sudden stench filled my nose. It was the stink of burnt wood, grass, and flesh. The enemy had started throwing grenades; they were getting too close. The smell stung the inside of my nostrils. The mixture of baking bodies, burning flesh, and bodily waste made me feel ill. The drying blood from my fallen comrade also rose up to my nose. The gruesome concoction churned my stomach until I felt the need to release its contents; however, I suppressed it in order to follow my Battalion in a head on attack.

As I rushed forward, the smoke from the burning trees gushed into my mouth. Choking on the stale material, I was thrown off my feet by another blast. Landing face first on the hard ground, I swallowed a mouthful of grimy dirt. As I spit the contents out, I ran to my foes. I fired at anything that wasn't an ally uniform, tasting my own sweat as it poured down my face from heat and nerves. I fell back suddenly, an unknown force grinding me into the ground. I stared blankly as I felt for my gun, bewildered for a moment. Then it came: blood. Blood was slowly trickling into my mouth. It was hot, almost frying my taste buds, and thick like peanut butter, sticking to the sides and top of my mouth. The bitter, coppery taste made tears spring to my eyes. The blood began to flow from the corners of my mouth, mixing with the saltiness of my fallen tears.

The sounds of battle became light and distant. My world grew dark with each passing second. I could no longer feel the heat beating down on my body, nor could I taste my own blood within my mouth. What I could do, though, was smell the slight scent of some foreign flower, the sweetness of its fragrance lulling me to sleep. It was a peace of mind, of war, of life in my final moment of awareness.

At least, that’s what I thought.

Fuck.

I woke up some time later under the faint light of the soon to be rising sun. Everything was quiet, literally silent. I didn’t want to move in fear of disturbing this rare moment of tranquility. For a moment, I thought I really was dead. For the first time, I noticed the beauty of the foreign landscape around me. In the quietude of the morn, it looked so heavenly. The wind blew gently, its touch caressing each leaf on every tree. The greens patched together with the browns in a masterpiece painted by some famous artist. It was close to perfection.

As more light began to peek through the curtain of trees, birds began to chirp. A smile found its way onto my lips. It’d been so long since that sound entered my ears. It gave me hope that the war wasn’t a complete waste of life.

“Jayne.” I closed my eyes in relief as Jack came to my side. There was always a fear in the back of my mind, a seed that had planted itself in my inner thoughts. With each battle, its thorns rooted themselves deeper, twisting, choking. Today, however, they stood still. “Jayne, you up?”

“No, fool, I’m still sleeping.” I smirked, opening one eye to peer up at the brunette. He chuckled, shaking his head as he stretched. He looked me over, eyes heading to my bandaged side. Guess a bullet got me. Guess I was saved by Corbin, our medic.

“Heh, was worried for a sec. Knew I shouldn’ta been,” Jack said through a grin, bending over to gently ruffle my hair. My heart skipped a beat. We never spoke about that chance, never had too much physical contact. Why was he breaking tradition now? “Not after I carried your ass to Corbin, my fingers all in your fucking wound.” He held up his left index and middle fingers for emphasis.

I didn't know what to say. Jack had saved my life. If it weren't for him, I'd be one of the rotting bodies on the field. Tears welled up, but I refused to let them fall. Jack looked at my bandages again, a worried crease in his brow as he towered over me. What would I have done if I didn't meet the man before me? Well, besides not breathing right now... I wanted to laugh, recalling how he loomed over me back at boot when we first met the same way he was now. I actually thought the big oaf would give me trouble.

I sighed, placing my duffel on my bunk, wondering what the fuck had I'd gotten myself into. I wondered what the gang back home was doing. I'd give anything to be with them right now.

“Hey. You're in my bunk, pal.” I grumbled, turning around to tell the intruder where to shove it when I froze, finally seeing the guy. Holy shit, he had some muscles! I didn't do anything, and we just stared at each other. “You gonna move or what?” The brunette quirked an eye brow.

“Why should I?” I mentally slapped myself for asking the question as it left my mouth. The guy would probably make me move with his big ass fist, and I'll forever be on his bad graces. Swell. As I was preparing for his first punch, he surprised me by laughing.

“Wouldn't want your skinny ass to be crushed if I make the bunk collapse.” He grinned as he plopped his duffel down on my now ex-bunk. “Name's Jack Michael Caster.” He offered his hand. Blinking a bit, I took it.

“Uh, Samuel Jayne Carrigan. Pleasure?” I stated, unsure. He shook my hand firmly, laughing when I introduced myself. Did I say something funny?

“Jayne? Who names their boy that?” He chuckled as he tossed my duffel on the top bunk. Guess I was moving.

“My mom, apparently. Thought it was cute.” I said, still fascinated that the guy, uh, that Jack hadn't punched my lights out. Jack chuckled again.

“Cute, huh? Well, you betta watch out, then.” When I cocked my head in confusion, he continued with a grin. “All the guys might find a mighty fine interest in a cute boy like you.” He smirked. I blinked, a grin slowly creeping on my lips.

“Oh, is that so? Whatever am I going to do about that?” I batted my eyes at him, which earned a bark of laughter.

Still laughing, Jack draped his arm across my shoulders, pulling me into a light noogie. “Alrighty, Jayne Baby, I'll watch out for that skinny ass of yours.” We laughed as if we've known each other for a lifetime.

Blinking out of good, fun times and back to reality, I peered at my best friend, who still eyed my wound with concern. He kept the promise he made; he saved my ass. Clearing my throat, I spoke. “I’m hard to get rid of.” Even as I said it, I felt a lump rise in my throat. It went down a bit when I heard his bark of a laugh. So much for the quiet morning.

“Are ya kiddin' me? No way you leavin', ya lucky son of a bit –!” He didn’t finish his speech. Bombs had started to go off all around us. One’s force threw Jack forward, landing him next to me. Panicking, I reached around for my rifle. It wasn’t near. Oh, God…

Jack had his, though, and he was using it. Firing at any movement within the trees, Jack yelled for some back up. The Sarge barked out orders, and I heard someone say the medevacs were on the way. The helicopters were coming this way, under all the heavy fire? That’s suicide. I felt so useless. I was a weapon for the army, yet I couldn't do anything to help the fight.

I made to move to find some form of a weapon, but Jack held me down. He yelled something about wounds reopening.

Peering around me, I noticed that I was lumped with other wounded soldiers. Wounded soldiers… medevacs… enemy fire… Oh, God! The medevacs were coming for the wounded soldiers, and Charlie knew it. Shit!

Bullets whizzed everywhere, some hitting their targets with fatal precision and others missing by mere inches. Two others joined Jack in front of the wounded, trying to eliminate any threat to their comrades. Others were trying to hold off our position, keep the LZ clear for the choppers. Then, the thunder came.

The choppers swooped to the ground. My unit ran to deliver the wounded. Bullets were still zooming past us. Jack supported me, an arm wrapped behind the small of my back, while his other arm handled his rifle. “Goddamnit!” He cussed as we dodged our way through the maze of bullets and bodies, “Motha fuckin' gooks just won't quit!”

We made it and briefly waited for my turn to be flung into the helicopter. Jack shielded me as he took out a few Charlies. Jack packed me in last while the other two soldiers covered him. Despite everything, he smiled. “Goin' home, Jayne!” He yelled, “Take care, bud –!”

Time stopped.

I blinked as blood splattered across my face. Jack's eyes widened as his entire body rippled from the force of the stray bullet. My breath caught in my throat as his face contorted achingly slowly into a confused expression, mouth opening slightly. He wobbled, falling forward. Screaming my lungs out, I quickly reached for him, trying to save him, trying to reverse the irreversible. I just managed to grab hold of his shoulders as the chopper took off.

I screamed for someone to help him as I gripped him tighter, not letting him fall from the chopper, but no sound came out. There were simply no words I could utter. I couldn't save him. I couldn't save him the way he saved me. I held on to him tightly even after others helped me pull him fully on board. I held on even after they told me he was dead. I couldn't let go. I failed to save him. Tears were streaming down my face, but I didn't care. I had just lost the closest thing to a brother I'd ever have.

No one goes home. This fucking war takes everything from you. The body may still function, but the mind goes dull, clouded. Haunted. Everyone – everyone – dies in battle. And I did die.

I died when my brother died.

The Schedule

Here's the workshop schedule.

Wed. Mar. 28: Casey, Zara

Fri. Apr. 1: Allison, Kylee

Mon. Apr. 4: Michael, Danielle

Wed. Apr. 6: Austin, Antonia

Fri. Apr. 8: Emma, Shelby

Mon. Apr. 11: Katie, Liv

Wed. Apr. 13: Justen, Rashad

Fri. Apr. 15: Andrew, Tori

Spring Break!