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Los Hombres AzulesLos Hombres Azules (The Blue Men)
A One-Act Play
John Rivers, Anthropologist
Laura Faulkner, Anthropologist
Hormiga, their Guide
Timuron, Head of the Village of La Golodrina
Topo, the Ceremonial Dancer
(A bend in a dusty road in Mexico, a small pueblo off in the distance, during the afternoon. Off the path there rests a large flat boulder. Entering stage right, JOHN, HORMIGA, and LAURA with traveling gear and backpacks are following the rough path towards the pueblo.)
LAURA: John, I think we are almost there.
JOHN: Yes, Laura, I can see it off in the distance now.
HORMIGA: (indicating the boulder) I suggest we take a brief rest while we are here.
(JOHN sits on the ground while LAURA and HORMIGA lounge on the boulder.)
JOHN: Hormiga, tell us again what we should expect when we reach La Golodrina.
HORMIGA: Nothing the file didn't tell you. It's a small close-knit desert community; don't be surprised if they express host
The Storyteller, Part IIThere is anxiety amongst the fish-women today. They are nervous, excited by a mysterious electricity that crackles from eye to eye. Their perfect precision cutting fish is slipping today; only the eldest and the newcomer are unfazed, silently, calmly slicing the scales off the creatures of the sea with unearthly accuracy. The other women wait for their cues.
Finally, the eldest breaks the silence. "Do you hear that, my child? The sharks are hungry today. They fuss like old hens over a young rooster. Continue your story, please."
"Of course, sister. Where did I leave off?"
"Notaman has left for the City at the Center of the World."
"Ah." She takes another deep breath and begins the second third of her tale...
"The City at the Center of the World is far from the world's edge, with all manner of terrain in between, from rolling plains to towering mountains to deep oceans to shallow rivers. Notaman traveled quickly day to day, crossing miles in a few hours time. But his journey was not wit
The Bishop of Bones Scene(HEROD wanders on, coming to a chapel in the fog. As he approaches, he notices with building horror that it is made completely of bones arranged perfectly, none out of place.)
HEROD: What vision is this? Another nightmare to haunt me?
(He enters. There is an empty altar flanked by tall bone candelabra, behind which there is a throne, like the rest of the chapel, made of skeletal remains. On the throne sits the BISHOP OF BONES, dressed in the pure white regalia of a bishop of Catholic church and wearing an obviously rubber skull mask. He is holding an infant's skeleton as one would hold a live child, mumbling to it gibberish in low, dark tones.)
HEROD: You there, masked one, I command you to speak! Where am I, and what is this horrible place?
BISHOP: (ignoring him) Ah a child, a child, a child!
How beautiful one can be:
Free and innocent and loving and kind,
passion's rewards set free!
HEROD: A child? But that child is dead! It is only a skeleton, a shell, a leftover.
BISHOP: (staring a
How to Summon a Demon for LessHow to Summon a Demon for Less Than 5¢ a Minute
The circle of red powder enclosed the droplet of blue flame levitating a foot or so above the ground. The conjurer, an adolescent speckled with acne at random spots, sat back and watched with satisfaction. How fortunate it was for him to have found a small, weathered tome in the back of an antique shop, the front cover ripped from it by the ages. In a Gothic script the first page read, "ON THE MATTERS OF DEMON SUMMONING: By M.E.F. Istopheles, PhD Christian Studies."
Something about the two-cent manual bound sometime in the 1950s (a most sinister decade of history) attracted his young, curious mind. Immanuel purchased the thing, and, after several months of lonely study and economic robe-seeking, we find him outside his first successful magic circle. Why the art of necromancy had originally snared him was anybody's guess, but the juvenile had needed some outlet to express his eccentricities. He was one of those "just plain weird" chil
Flowers of the Modern AgeIn the garden beneath the setting sun
Where Men no longer go,
The blossoms within hold many secrets
Which men should never know.
Beneath the trees and betwixt the vines
Flowers dot the land;
The colors great, the aroma fine,
And the arrangement extremely grand.
If ladies were to come here,
They would surely find
A beauty only made by the artistic Nature
And her sagacious mind.
Her artworks here, however,
Are not for ladies' sight.
They are aberrant things and rejects of nature
Made during her angry blight.
Look at the rose, burning petals
In a sea of thorns
Whose leaflets slice the very shirts
In which they are adorned.
Contemplate the tulip bloom
Of strange and far-off lands,
With cupped venom deathly sweet
To melt away the hands.
The violets here are chilling and dark,
Like purple shadows beneath the sea,
And they sway in hellish winds
Of deviant blasphemies.
What could cause fair Nature
To make the monstrous beasts?
'Tis Man, that's what prompted these grotesque sculptures
Character Description: SarahSarah comes from the land of England, where Archelaus met her during his education at Oxford. She is a loving wife--calm, yet firm in her emotions--and watches over her son like a falcon. Her only weakness is an almost pathological fear of snakes; after watching her younger sister Edna be constricted at the local zoo when she was young, she fears that they will do the same to her or those she loves. Recently she has been plagued by nightmares of Zahr in the form of a snake-man creature, giving her a rattled, unsettled appearance.
The Storyteller, Part IIt is at noon when the fish-women tell their stories. They gather on the piers, their heads wrapped in colorful scarves, cleaning their husbands' catch from that morning, they speak in low tones amongst each other, so only them and the near-dead fish can hear what they say. They compete against one another for who can tell the best story that day; in singsong Arabic they speak of love and loss, violence and peace--whatever their heart sings that day. It is only when a young girl marries that she may join the fish-women and tell her own stories.
It is just one such occaision when the white-faced foreigner begins her first story. She is new to the village; her husband left to explore the world and came back with a strange wife from a strange land with strange ways. Although, she has adapted well. Her skin is becoming the sun-blasted tan of the fisher-woman, and her hijab is always wound correctly. But there are still peculiarities--she wears the trousers of a man and her Arabic is broken
CD: Archelaus and ArnabArchelaus is the son of Herod and the heir to the throne of Judea. Young and bold, but of frail constitution, he was educated in England as his father was and attended the University of Oxford, where he met his wife Sarah. They have a son, Arnab, fourteen months old at the beginning of the play. Archelaus has no desire to control Judea; he merely wants to live with his family in peace. He is concerned with the discovery of the oil well and tries to sway his stubborn father to allow foreign oil companies to use it so war will be prevented.
Arnab is the playful young son of Archelaus. He enjoys spending time with his grandfather, who keeps a rattle in his throne room just for Arnab.
Some VersesWhat terrible words of doom you spoke
that conjured up the fire and smoke
and like fragile glass it shattered and broke
the night Judea burned?
And barren does the land now lay,
now deprived of love they say,
the alien land beneath your sway,
the scorched land Judea.
The people weep and the rivers cry
tears of blood from the eye
and their bodies mourn-ed dry
the people of Judea.
A vile land of djinn and snake
that trembles in your sin's wake
unhospitable, it will be spake
"That horrible place Judea!"
Poetic PsychosisIn thirty seconds, the next shell would fall. Every night was the same, but every night Lorenzo experienced it as if it were the first time. His throat felt swollen; breathing was hard. He glanced around at the others; young men like him who had been shipped out in the name of honour and freedom. There was no honour in this, no freedom. Only death behind your eyelids, and a fear so gutting, that it carved out your innards and left you a hollow husk. Lorenzo tried to breathe, tried to assure himself that he was still whole, still made of flesh. They had lied when they told him he was ready.
Matteo ran towards him, arms out, rifle swinging uselessly at his side. He shouted for him to run, but Lorenzo remained motionless, unable to move as his friend’s warning was lost in the constant blare of gunfire. None of them were ready.
“The cycle is repeating. It is not safe.” The voice was soft and weak, yet it carried over the gunfire and battle cries without impediment.
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