A game of hide and seek with terror.
The stage is completely in shadow. We are in The War Zone. There is a slight sound of something very large smacking its lips. It is subtle, yet disturbing. A spot rises on THE GRANDMOTHER (the oldest living thing) standing center. Though ancient, she is elegant and graceful. Her skin resembles tree bark and vine. She addresses the audience as lights rise on the stage.
Open the play [+/-]
THE GRANDMOTHER: Fear! Terror! Horror! (Her voice echoes.) Fear tosses its colossal head on the rooftops of Iraq, on the rooftops of the world! Look upon your terror! (We now see the bodies of Iraqi men, women and children and US and coalition troops lying all over the stage motionless.) It has not the countenance of man! It is monstrous! A grotesque formation of man’s greed! Is this what you want for your children, this- an ogre of your own making? It tosses its colossal head upon the rooftops of the world! You are not free of it!
(Four weary Iraqi citizens enter from the back of the house, two children, a boy age nine and a girl age twelve, a middle aged man and a woman. They make their way to the stage. The adults are
weary-worn from their futile searching for terror as they call out and turn bodies over.)
BOY: Terror! Terror! Come out, come out, wherever you are!
MAN: Is it you?
WOMAN: Are you the one we seek?
GIRL: Is this he?
BOY: Terror! Terror! Come out, come out, wherever you are!
GIRL: Stop saying that!
MAN: I can smell it… It is near.
WOMAN: All I smell is flesh…
GIRL: I don’t smell anything… I think my nose is deceased!
BOY: Terror! Terror! Come out, come out, wherever you are!
GIRL: I said to stop saying that you big baby!
BOY: Terror! Terror! Come out, come out, wherever you are!
GIRL: Somebody make him stop saying that! It's so annoying!
THE GRANDMOTHER: Children and mothers and fathers are red-eyed of seeking they wish to converse of loss, of a gut wrenching pain. They wish to be free of it. To rend it impotent.
WOMAN: Are you terror? (Turning over a body.)
MAN: No! That is not him! He is an Iraqi!
BOY: Terror!
WOMAN: How do you know he is not the one we seek?
MAN: His skin is too brown.
BOY: Terror!
WOMAN: He has no skin!
BOY: Terror!
MAN: It is not him!
WOMAN: How can you know if he has no skin?
BOY: Terror! Terror! Come out, come out, wherever you-
MAN: Hush, boy! Stop your yelling! Stop acting like this is some silly game. It is not a game.
GIRL: I told you to stop. Serves you right, little baby boy!
BOY: Shut up little girly baby!
GIRL: Make me you big baby!
(The boy and girl begin an innocent game of chase and seem oddly gleeful running in and around the dead bodies.)
THE GRANDMOTHER: Near the center of life, militant troops beat down doors calling out its name-
THE GRANDMOTHER/CHILDREN: Terror! Terror! Come out, come out, wherever you are!
(Suddenly a large man, holding an even larger gun, enters from behind the pile of skeletons.)
GUNMAN: Where the hell are you? I can smell your rotting flesh! Show yourself! Show yourself so we can leave this red hell of your making! We need pack it up and march ever onward! Terror! Terror! Come out, come out, wherever you are! Show yourself you coward!
THE GRANDMOTHER: The mammoth lips spit down upon them and wags a bloody tongue toward death. It is hungry for more; ravenous for unholy kingdom, dried lips smacking an unquenchable thirst. Kidnapped by its own gluttony it tosses back, and still, red-eyed children and mothers and fathers seek it out. They've not had their words yet. They need them. They wish to be free of it. To rend it lifeless.
GIRL/BOY: Terror! Terror! Come out, come out, wherever you are!
MAN/WOMAN: Hush!
GUNMAN: There you are!
(The GUNMAN unleashes the fury of his weapon, spraying death everywhere. The group falls dead.)
GUNMAN: Gotcha! I gotcha, terror! You're dead!
(The smacking sound can be heard and blood drips down upon the GUNMAN’s shoulders and helmet making loud splattering sounds.)
GUNMAN: What the-? Where the-? Where’s all this blood coming from? (Looking straight up.) Oh crap…
(Sudden blackout. The ogre’s great shriek now fills the theatre, the GUNMAN fires at will and then silence and we again hear the smacking lips.)
THE GRANDMOTHER: The grotesque formation of man’s greed, war, tosses its colossal head on the rooftops of the world, its arms and legs and torso lay dead upon the ground.
(The lights slowly fade and from the darkness all we hear is the disturbing smacking of the ogre’s bloody lips.)
Copyright © 2006 mrp / thepoetryman
The stage is completely in shadow. We are in The War Zone. There is a slight sound of something very large smacking its lips. It is subtle, yet disturbing. A spot rises on THE GRANDMOTHER (the oldest living thing) standing center. Though ancient, she is elegant and graceful. Her skin resembles tree bark and vine. She addresses the audience as lights rise on the stage.
Open the play [+/-]
THE GRANDMOTHER: Fear! Terror! Horror! (Her voice echoes.) Fear tosses its colossal head on the rooftops of Iraq, on the rooftops of the world! Look upon your terror! (We now see the bodies of Iraqi men, women and children and US and coalition troops lying all over the stage motionless.) It has not the countenance of man! It is monstrous! A grotesque formation of man’s greed! Is this what you want for your children, this- an ogre of your own making? It tosses its colossal head upon the rooftops of the world! You are not free of it!
(Four weary Iraqi citizens enter from the back of the house, two children, a boy age nine and a girl age twelve, a middle aged man and a woman. They make their way to the stage. The adults are
weary-worn from their futile searching for terror as they call out and turn bodies over.)
BOY: Terror! Terror! Come out, come out, wherever you are!
MAN: Is it you?
WOMAN: Are you the one we seek?
GIRL: Is this he?
BOY: Terror! Terror! Come out, come out, wherever you are!
GIRL: Stop saying that!
MAN: I can smell it… It is near.
WOMAN: All I smell is flesh…
GIRL: I don’t smell anything… I think my nose is deceased!
BOY: Terror! Terror! Come out, come out, wherever you are!
GIRL: I said to stop saying that you big baby!
BOY: Terror! Terror! Come out, come out, wherever you are!
GIRL: Somebody make him stop saying that! It's so annoying!
THE GRANDMOTHER: Children and mothers and fathers are red-eyed of seeking they wish to converse of loss, of a gut wrenching pain. They wish to be free of it. To rend it impotent.
WOMAN: Are you terror? (Turning over a body.)
MAN: No! That is not him! He is an Iraqi!
BOY: Terror!
WOMAN: How do you know he is not the one we seek?
MAN: His skin is too brown.
BOY: Terror!
WOMAN: He has no skin!
BOY: Terror!
MAN: It is not him!
WOMAN: How can you know if he has no skin?
BOY: Terror! Terror! Come out, come out, wherever you-
MAN: Hush, boy! Stop your yelling! Stop acting like this is some silly game. It is not a game.
GIRL: I told you to stop. Serves you right, little baby boy!
BOY: Shut up little girly baby!
GIRL: Make me you big baby!
(The boy and girl begin an innocent game of chase and seem oddly gleeful running in and around the dead bodies.)
THE GRANDMOTHER: Near the center of life, militant troops beat down doors calling out its name-
THE GRANDMOTHER/CHILDREN: Terror! Terror! Come out, come out, wherever you are!
(Suddenly a large man, holding an even larger gun, enters from behind the pile of skeletons.)
GUNMAN: Where the hell are you? I can smell your rotting flesh! Show yourself! Show yourself so we can leave this red hell of your making! We need pack it up and march ever onward! Terror! Terror! Come out, come out, wherever you are! Show yourself you coward!
THE GRANDMOTHER: The mammoth lips spit down upon them and wags a bloody tongue toward death. It is hungry for more; ravenous for unholy kingdom, dried lips smacking an unquenchable thirst. Kidnapped by its own gluttony it tosses back, and still, red-eyed children and mothers and fathers seek it out. They've not had their words yet. They need them. They wish to be free of it. To rend it lifeless.
GIRL/BOY: Terror! Terror! Come out, come out, wherever you are!
MAN/WOMAN: Hush!
GUNMAN: There you are!
(The GUNMAN unleashes the fury of his weapon, spraying death everywhere. The group falls dead.)
GUNMAN: Gotcha! I gotcha, terror! You're dead!
(The smacking sound can be heard and blood drips down upon the GUNMAN’s shoulders and helmet making loud splattering sounds.)
GUNMAN: What the-? Where the-? Where’s all this blood coming from? (Looking straight up.) Oh crap…
(Sudden blackout. The ogre’s great shriek now fills the theatre, the GUNMAN fires at will and then silence and we again hear the smacking lips.)
THE GRANDMOTHER: The grotesque formation of man’s greed, war, tosses its colossal head on the rooftops of the world, its arms and legs and torso lay dead upon the ground.
(The lights slowly fade and from the darkness all we hear is the disturbing smacking of the ogre’s bloody lips.)
Copyright © 2006 mrp / thepoetryman
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