By

Catie Osborn

Cast of Characters

Detective Christopher Samuel Ian (or CSI for short). A no-nonsense police detective. He is also dressed like a mummy.

Alfred Servington–the faithful butler of the Skellington family for over 40 years. His father served as a butler as well as his father before him. Some may say that he is a little too attentive to Millicent.

Madame Fortunia Tella–world famous fortune teller..or so she claims. She is a little odd and very mysterious and often communicates with the spirits.

Millicent Skellington–the gorgeous and sometimes overly dramatic lady of the household. Is usually a bit…tipsy.

Osric Skellington– the suave and debonair master of the house. Has a bit of a temper and cares for his family deeply.

Amber Skellington: The black sheep of the skellington family—she’s captain of her college cheerleading squad, and straight A student. She is also hiding a secret.

Dr. Igor VonBeakerstien is the washed up mad scientist who rents a room in the Skellington’s basement where he has set up a laboratory.

Hestor Festor: Our victim. (unseen) Was an up and coming young scientist who was interested in one Ms. Amber Skellington

ACT ONE

Ideally, the audience enters to the sounds of The Dance Macbre or the Headless Waltz or something otherwise mood setting. ALFRED mingles among the guests, welcoming them and assuring them that Madame should be arriving shortly with the Master. As the music swells, he clinks his glass and calls the guests attention to the door.

ALFRED: Ladies and Gentlemen, your attention please. The Master and Mistress of Skellington Manor!

At precisely 5:29 in Dance Macabre, the doors burst open and MILLICENT and OSRIC majestically appear.

OSRIC: Greetings everyone.

MILLIE: Welcome to our home, so glad you could make it, etc. etc.

ALFRED: Let the celebration begin!

OSRIC: Splendid party, old man, simply splendid.

MILLIE: Yes, thank you for all of your hard work, Alfred. You’re such a dear. Where’s the bar?

ALFRED: Anything for you…or the rest of the family, Madame. You know I only live to serve.

OSRIC: Alfred, would you be so kind as to run to the cellar and bring us a little celebratory drink? After all, this is a party…and I would want no one else here by my side then you, my beautiful, beautiful darling.

MILLIE: Alfred, have you seen Amber?

ALFRED: I’m afraid not, Madame. I’ll send her here at once if I should happen to see her.

OSRIC: That wine, Alfred.

ALFRED: At once, sir.

Alfred bows and exits.

MILLIE: What a lovely party, darling. Oh no–here he comes. Look busy…look busy….oh, he’s spotted us.

OSRIC: Not another lecture on the inaccuracies of Frankenstein…I can’t stand it. Who invited him?

MILLIE: Well he is a tenant, darling. It would be rude not to invite him.

OSRIC: Isn’t it rude to force the rest of our guests to listen to him babble on about his silly experiments. He’s such a bore.

MILLIE: He’s a bore who is helping make the world a better place.

OSRIC: A better boring place.

DR. IGOR: Greetings, landlords!

MILLIE & OSRIC: Hello, Dr. VonBeakerstein.

DR. IGOR: And a happy anniversary to you!

MILLIE: Thank you, Doctor.

DR. IGOR: Incidentally, this night is another anniversary as well!

OSRIC: Oh, really? Do tell us. We’re so very interested.

DR. IGOR: Yes! On this very night in 1879 the very first light bulb was illuminated by the famous Thomas Edison …imagine, will you? The world, bathed in darkness, and then, suddenly, this great scientist, with the flip of a switch illuminates a nation–creates light with his very hands—his named indelibly etched upon the tomes of history, a legend, a master of—-!

The lights go out.

The following lines are yelled in the dark:

OSRIC: You were saying?

DR. IGOR: Well, that’s odd.

MILLIE: I do so love the dark…

DR: IGOR: Oh! My goodness! (this should imply that Millie perhaps pinched his bum in the dark!)

OSRIC: You stay here, darling. I’m going to go see what’s happened. I’ll go check the fusebox.

The door slams.

MILLIE: I’ll see if I can find some candles.

The door slams again.

DR. IGOR: I’ll stay here…wait for me!

The door slams again.

Just as he says this, the lights flicker back to life, and Alfred bursts into the room shortly after.

ALFRED: Madame, Master…I’m afraid something’s happened. Where did they go?

MILLIE enters, then DR. IGOR, then OSRIC.

OSRIC: Seem to be working again. Good.

MILLIE: What is it, Alfred? You’re as white as a ghost.

DR. IGOR: It is an interesting fact that often when the human mind has received a great shock, there is a response by the parasympathetic nervous system that causes a temporary loss of palour in most-

OSRIC: Yes, thank you doctor. You were saying, Alfred?

ALFRED: Madame, we’re going to have to cancel the party.

OSRIC: Cancel the party, whatever for, Alfred? We’re having such a lively time…

ALFRED: I’m afraid there’s been an accident of some kind.

MILLIE: Oh, dear. Did I drink it all again? That’s alright, Alfred. We’ll send for more wine.

ALFRED: Madame, we need to call the police. I found Hestor dead in the basement.

THUNDER CLAP!!!

MILLIE: What?

OSRIC: Dead?

DR. IGOR: Hestor? Dead? Simply impossible. He was fine a few minutes ago! I was with him in the lab! He said he was going to finish up some work and come join us at the party. This is impossible.

OSRIC: I’m going to call the police. Please excuse me everyone.

Rushes out of the room. As he does, he nearly runs over AMBER, who is just coming in.

MILLIE: Pity. Hestor was always the life of the party.

AMBER: Sorry I’m late. There was a sale at Hot Topic. Notices the somber mood. Sheesh. Some party. Who died?

ALFRED: I’m afraid you’ve arrived at a bad time, Miss Amber. There seems to be a small emergency.

Osric reenters.

OSRIC: I called the police. They’re sending someone over.

AMBER: The police? What happened? What’s going on?

DR. IGOR: It’s Hestor. He’s dead.

THUNDERCLAP!!

AMBER: What? Hestor? Dead? How?

OSRIC: We don’t know anything just yet, darling. We’re waiting for the police to arrive.

MILLIE: I really am sorry, everyone. Death at a party is so terribly unfashionable. Can I borrow that? (downs an audience member’s drink).

OSRIC: Now darling–

MILLIE: Not in front of the guests, dear.

The doorbell gongs a somber tone.

OSRIC: That must be the police. Alfred?

ALFRED exits and returns with a very large mummy.

CSI: Good evening everyone. I’m Detective Christopher Samuel Ingram.

AMBER: I thought you called the police, dad.

OSRIC: I thought I did.

CSI: You’ll forgive the costume. Department Halloween party.

OSRIC: Was everyone else wrapped up at the moment?

MILLIE: I’m sorry…I didn’t catch your name.

CSI: You can call me CSI. All my friends do.

AMBER: Wait….your initials are C.S. I.?

CSI: And?

AMBER: ….never mind.

CSI: We got a call about a body in the basement?

DR. IGOR: That’s right. A few minutes ago we found my assistant… dead.

Thunderclap.

CSI: Does that happen often around here?

OSRIC: You’d be surprised.

CSI: And who found the body?

ALFRED: That would be me, sir.

CSI: Were you alone at the time?

ALFRED: Yes. I was sent to fetch a bottle of red for the lady.

OSRIC: It’s our anniversary. We were going to have a toast.

CSI: Any witnesses?

OSRIC: Not that we know of.

CSI: Can we head down there? My guys should be done taking away the body and I’d like to ask a few questions before it gets to be too late.

But before they can, the door bell gongs again. ALFRED exits and returns with an eccentrically dressed FORTUNIA TELLA.

ALFRED: I’m sorry, she insisted she be let in.

TELLA: The spirits summoned to me, beckoned me to come here, to this house, on this night, when the fullness of the moon is obscured by storm and cloud.

AMBER: Thank god for that.

CSI: What does that mean?

MILLIE: Nothing, Detective. Just a little family joke.

OSRIC: I’m sorry, did I miss something? Who’s the hippie?

TELLA: I am Madame Fortunia Tella,. I was beckoned to come here by the spirits, sent to deliver a message of great importance by an angry soul.

MILLIE: Ms…Tella? What exactly is it that you do?

TELLA: I am a communicator for the spirits. And a purveyor of fine Avon products. (To an audience member) By the way, if you’d like me to do your colors, I would be more than happy to give you my cards.

AMBER: Mom, why is the Avon lady holding a snow globe?

TELLA: This is no snow globe! This is a device with which to commune with the spirits, to speak with lost souls and wandering spirits…to conduct the mournful sighs of long lost ghosts so that we mere mortals may hear and understand.

AMBER: Wow. So there’s an app for that?

CSI: Ms. Tella, I’m afraid I’m a little confused. What exactly are you doing here?

TELLA: I told you, I was sent by the spirits who wander lost in the–

CSI: Right, we got that part.

TELLA: I come with a message from an angry spirit. I sense death in this house.

OSRIC: And I suppose the coroner’s van out front had nothing to do with it.

TELLA: Certainly not. I am a psychic, not some purveyor of cheap tricks.

MILLIE: No, just make-up. Pours herself another.

TELLA: If you are not in need of my services then I will adjourn elsewhere.

CSI: Hold it right there, lady. Who’d you say this message is from?

TELLA: I can’t tell you that.

CSI: And when exactly did you receive this message?

TELLA: Upon the dawning of the midnight hour, when the mists of—

CSI: Ahem. The time?

TELLA: About 10:36.

CSI: That’s pretty precise for a wandering spirit.

TELLA: The spirits work in mysterious ways, unfettered by human law.

OSRIC: I’m not sure there are any spirits involved in this circumstance.

ALFRED: Sir, if I may make a suggestion—

MILLIE: Certainly, Alfred. You know we think of you as family.

ALFRED: Thank you, Madame. What I suggest is that we at least hear the woman out. She might have some valuable information.

AMBER: Yeah, valuable information from the spirit world.

TELLA: What I do is no joke, young lady. The spirit world is like a dark and hazy maze, difficult to navigate and wrought with peril.

AMBER: So are your metaphors.

OSRIC: Amber, darling, temper. Put your claws away, dear. There’s no need for that now.

MILLIE: Amber, why don’t you excuse yourself for the time being. I believe the detective wanted to see the lab.

AMBER: But I don’t want to–

OSRIC: Amber, it looks like it’s starting to clear up outside. Why don’t you go look at the stars from your room? I know how much you like the night sky

AMBER: But dad–

ALFRED: Miss Amber, let me see you safely to your chamber.

MILLIE: Shall we go, officer?

CSI: Yes, thank you. Let’s get started.

It is at this point that (ideally) the audience is led to the downstairs “laboratory”. The following scene occurs here.

CSI: Alright. I know some of these questions are going to be difficult to answer, but please bear with me. Who was the last person to see him alive?

DR. IGOR: I suppose that would be me.

CSI: And when was that?

DR. IGOR: Around 10:30, I suppose. We were finishing up some—bloodwork—and then we were going to head to the party. I went into my room to change into my good lab coat and Hestor said he would join me shortly, after he finished transcribing some notes.

CSI: What sort of lab is this, Doctor?

DR. IGOR: Oh, you know. A little of this, a little of that…

MILLIE: Detective, what happened to Hestor? Or…what was left of him?

CSI: We’ve taken the remains to the morgue to be analyzed.

OSRIC: Analyzed? Analyzed how?

CSI: We need to determine the cause of death to figure out just what exactly happened down here. Do you always leave the windows open, Doctor?

DR. IGOR: Windows? No. We use a mac down here. Much more reliable.

MILLIE: No, doctor. The window.

DR. IGOR: That’s strange….

CSI: What is it?

DR. IGOR: We never open that window. We deal with delicate samples down here, detective. We can’t risk contamination.

TELLA: Perhaps Hestor grew weary of the stuffy air and sought to welcome in the fresh air of an autumn night.

OSRIC: Or perhaps whoever killed him came in through that window.

CSI: Now, Mr. Skellington, please don’t jump to any conclusions. For all we know, Mr. Festor died of natural causes.

TELLA: There is an angry spirit here, Detective. I think his death was far from natural. No, I think it violent and bloody. Very, very bloody.

MILLIE: And why would you think such a thing?

TELLA: The spirits beckon me here….no….here….wait, no….it is here.

OSRIC: You mean where this big yellow evidence tag says blood spatter was found?

TELLA: I merely speak for the spirits.

MILLIE: Particularly the unobservant ones.

CSI: This says that the blood spatter came from a concentrated source. Hestor was probably holding a vial or container and dropped it when he fell.

DR. IGOR: All of our blood samples are kept in this forced condensational cooling unit.

CSI: That looks like a refrigerator filled with leftovers.

DR. IGOR: To the untrained eye it may appear that this is a refrigerator but to a scientist it is apparent that this is a far more technologically advanced—that’s funny.

CSI: Doctor?

DR. IGOR: There appears to be a blood sample missing. Several, actually.

TELLA: I sense that you are confused. Do not be afraid. All will become clear.

OSRIC: How do you know?

DR. IGOR: This is Hestor’s shelf. I saw him receive this sample rack earlier this week, and it was full. Now there are two missing.

CSI: Received a bunch of blood samples? Why?

DR. IGOR: He often would do extra work for the local labs to pick up extra spending money. You know how it is. Lab assistants don’t make much, and a student needs a little extra spending cash.

MILLIE: But I don’t understand. Why would anyone steal a container of blood?

TELLA: The spirits speak! Tained blood! Cursed blood! Blood of a beast!

CSI: What is that supposed to mean?

TELLA: I merely speak when spoken to, Detective. You’ll forgive me if the message I relay is a bit strange.

OSRIC: I think the only strange thing here is that we’re listening to this woman.

Alfred returns.

ALFRED: Master Osric, Miss Amber is safely and soundly sleeping.

MILLIE: Poor dear. She’s had a trying day.

DR. IGOR: You’ll forgive me, Detective, but there is something else.

CSI: Yes?

DR. IGOR: It seems that there are some pages missing from Hestor’s notebook. See, here? This is dated a week ago. Hestor kept immaculate notes. To have a whole week missing is unheard of. And here, this pile of folders–Hestor kept them in order of date received–and these are all mixed up. It seems someone went through them.

OSRIC: So? A few pages from a nerd’s notebook are missing. What does this have to do with anything?

DR. IGOR: It has to do with everything! Whatever is on those pages must be what incriminates the person who did this.

CSI: We still don’t know whether or not Hestor was—

The detective’s cell phone rings. He answers it.

CSI: This is Ingram. Yes. Yes. Yes. Thank you. He hangs up. That was the lab. Hestor was murdered.

Thunderclap!

Alfred: Ladies and gentlemen, dinner is served.

End Act 1.

Act 2

MILLIE: I can’t believe it. I won’t. Who would do such an awful thing?

TESSA: An angry spirit haunts this house.

OSRIC: Tell your spirits that they can wait until I’ve had another drink. Grabs one from an audience member and says.. I really am sorry about all of this. Terrible thing to happen at a party. Although I suppose you’ve been to worse.

CSI: Right now we need to focus on piecing together exactly what’s going on. According to the test results, Hestor was injected with potassium chloride. It would have only taken a second for someone to slip down to the lab and kill him.

MILLIE: How awful.

CSI: Right now I need everyone to help me go through these files from the lab.

DR. IGOR: You had no right to disturb my lab.

CSI: As far as I’m concerned, I’ll disturb whatever I need to to sort this mess out.

TESSA: The spirits are disturbed! They wish to speak!

MILLIE: Oh, please. I’ve had my fair share of spirits tonight already. Although I suppose a few more can’t hurt. drinks.

TESSA: Listen to what I say! An angry spirit is here, now. We must take this opportunity to learn what it knows!

OSRIC: What do you think, darling?

DR. IGOR: Paranormal activity is a science still yet fully explored. While there is some evidence that states that —

OSRIC: The other darling, Doctor.

MILLIE: And how do you suppose we commune with this spirit? Can we ask your I-crystal?

TELLA: Don’t be ridiculous. We’ll hold a séance.

CSI: It’s up to you folks. At this point I’m willing to believe anything.

TESSA: That’s the idea.

MILLIE: What was that?

TELLA: We must keep an open mind in communicating with the spirits, or they may leave us.

OSRIC: Alfred, check and see if Amber’s feeling up to participating. We may need her there. You might also check the forecast for the rest of the evening.

ALFRED: Yes, sir. At once.

At this time the audience is taken to the “séance room” where the following scene takes place..

TELLA: Sprit! Spirit hear us! Speak to us now

AMBER: This is so dumb. And where did all this stuff come from? It looks like Pier One threw up in here.

OSRIC: Shhhhh.

AMBER: But dad—

OSRIC: Let’s just get this over with.

TELLA: spirit! Hear us! Hear us now! We wish to learn!

Suddenly something really creepy and epic happens. We’ll talk special effects later.

MILLIE: What’s happening?

OSRIC: What the–

AMBER: Ohhh, looks like someone broke the Ouija board..

CSI: Ms. Tella, what’s going on?

TELLA: The spirit is present! It draws closer! It—no…he….he wishes to speak. Spirit! I hear you! Come to me, let me be your voice. In a different voice. Murder…..I was murdered…..

CSI: What do you mean?

AMBER: Oh, come on. You guys can’t really believe this stuff. Ghosts aren’t real.

OSRIC: Neither are werewolves and vampires, darling.

TELLA: The one you seek is not who they seem! Anger! Rage! Hate! There is a secret…a dark secret. To discover it means death to all who come near! They wear a mask of innocence, but the guilty party is here! In this very room! Nearby! So close! Avenge my death! Avenge me!

MILLIE: Who did it? Tell us!!

TELLA: You know! You all will know! Soon! Soon!

CSI: Ms. Tella—Ms. Tella?

TELLA: in her normal voice. Hello? Spirit? Spirit? He has left us.

OSRIC; What in the dickens does all this mean? This is nonsense. Dark secrets and masks. This is ridiculous.

ALFRED: Perhaps not, sir. We have no reason to doubt the woman.

MILLIE: Of course we do. Some random woman shows up on our doorstep an hour after a man was murdered in our house, spouting a bunch of nonsense about crystal balls and spirits, and we’re expected to believe everything she says?

CSI: No. We’re not. But I don’t see any reason why we can’t look into this a little further.

AMBER: Dad? I don’t feel so good. I’m going to go back to my room.

MILLIE: Why don’t we all get out of here and go back to the ballroom? The air is much fresher in there.

Guests are taken back to the ballroom.

TELLA: Detective, might I have a private word? I found these in the laboratory. She hands him a file. In it are several pictures of Millie and Alfred. Together.

CSI: Very interesting. Thank you.

ALFRED enters and whispers to MILLIE. She nods and exits.

CSI: What was that about?

OSRIC: What was what about?

CSI: There’s something funny going on and it’s not just (to an audience member) this guy’s choice of necktie.  I want to know what is going on.

OSRIC: Even if I told you, you’d never believe me.

ALFRED: Sir, perhaps it would be best to—

Millie returns with AMBER, who is looking quite ill.

AMBER: Best to what, Alfred?

ALFRED: Miss Amber, Detective Ingram was merely—

CSI: I want you to tell me what’s going on.

AMBER: Going on, Detective?

OSRIC: Amber….temper….

MILLIE: Osric, love, perhaps it would be best to tell—

DR. IGOR: I don’t see how it is of any scientific use to—

CSI: Somebody better start talking or you’re all under arrest!

TELLA: Signs and portents point towards doom and still the thunder rumbles on! I sense that you are upset, detective.

AMBER: Your powers of observation are truly extraordinary. Detective Ingram, there’s something you should know.

OSRIC: Amber, sweetheart, you don’t have to do this.

MILLIE: Darling, please.

CSI: What is it, Amber?

AMBER: It might have something to do with the case. You know what was going on with Hestor—maybe this is part of it.

OSRIC: Amber, don’t.

AMBER: Detective—I’m a werewolf.

CSI: Right, and I’m lord of the vampires.

(At this, Dr. Igor immediately pulls out a cross and perhaps a clove of garlic and yells..,).

DR. IGOR: Oh god! Security breach!

AMBER: I’m not joking.

CSI: This is absolutely ridiculous–you—can’t….you’re really not joking, are you?

OSRIC: I’m afraid not, Detective. I know it sounds ridiculous—completely beyond belief, but there are things in this world that we don’t fully understand, forces beyond our capacity, just beyond our sight—mysterious things –some good, some evil–I don’t claim to know about them all, but all I know is that our daughter is special in ways that you can’t even imagine.

CSI: You do realize what you’re asking me to believe?…Is she safe?

AMBER: I’m standing right here, you know.

TELLA: Do not trust the werewolf kind.

At this, Amber mockingly bears her teeth and snaps at Tella, who jumps backwards into Dr. Igor, who is busy trying to catch CSI’s reflection in a small hand mirror.

ALBERT: We’ve taken certain steps to ensure the safety of those around us.

DR. IGOR: Absolutely. Since her infection we’ve run hundreds of tests in order to determine the best course of action and rate of lycanthropy in her bloodstream.

AMBER: Seriously, you guys. I’m not deaf. I just turn into a wolf.

OSRIC: She’s our daughter, detective. We would do anything to protect her.

CSI: So what does this have to do with Hestor?

AMBER: Tell him, Mom.

MILLIE: Hestor was….aware…of Amber’s …delicate condition.

AMBER: Mo–om! I’m not delicate. And it’s not a condition. You make it sound like a disease.

OSRIC: Well, darling, what would you have us say?

AMBER: Just say it, Mom and Dad! I’m a werewolf and there’s nothing that anyone will ever be able to do about it! I’m doomed forever!! And the only person I’ve ever loved is dead!

CSI: What are you talking about?

MILLIE: It’s true, I’m afraid. Amber was attacked when she was a small girl. We’ve been dealing with it ever since.

CSI: Exactly how old are you?

AMBER: 67 in dog years.

OSRIC: Amber…you’re going straight to your room if you keep this up.

DR. IGOR: It is a common misconception perpetuated by the Hollywood archetype that werewolves are in some ways immortal. I assure you, to the best of our knowledge, Amber ages like any other normal girl. She merely has a permutated blood stream.

TELLA: The tainted blood the spirit spoke of!

OSRIC: I will thank you not to accuse my daughter of murder!

AMBER: I am not tainted. I just take longer to shave my legs.

DR. IGOR: Yes, and some of us have been working harder than others on that tainted blood.

TELLA: What does that mean?

OSRIC: Hestor was working on a cure. He told us he was close.

CSI: A cure?

MILLIE: For Amber’s…condition. Hestor moonlighted as a freelance researcher. I asked him to try and

find a cure, to help my little girl.

DR. IGOR: No, I was. It was me, I tell you! Me!

CSI: What do you mean, doctor?

MILLIE: Not this argument again. I’m going to go have another drink.

DR. IGOR: I tell you, I was! It was my research, my technique, my laboratory…the work was mine! Hestor was jealous of my work, jealous of me, of my fame!

MILLIE: Your fame? Your fame? Face it, Igor. You’re a laughingstock. A joke. You haven’t made any significant headway in years, and Hestor was an up-and-comer. He was brilliant, and you were jealous of his work, of his talent. You had every reason to want him dead–his files conveniently stored in your laboratory, it would be that easy to simply switch names and claim his work for your own.

DR. IGOR: I tell you , I didn’t do it! Hestor was my protégé, my friend!

OSRIC: And now he’s dead. Explain that, Igor.

TELLA: The spirits are telling me that–

EVERYONE: Oh, shut up.

CSI: Mr. Skellington, I can’t help but notice that you don’t seem too upset by all of this.

OSRIC: Can you blame me?

CSI: I don’t know. Why shouldn’t I?

OSRIC: That bloodsucker broke my little girl’s heart.

CSI: Oh?

MILLIE: Darling, now may not be the best time–

OSRIC: No, darling, he needs to know the facts. Amber was madly in love with Hestor. She’d have done anything for him. But he was–uncomfortable with her…condition. It scared him. She attacked him once–she didn’t mean to–it’s just a reflex, part of her nature. But after that…he was scared. And so he cut things off. Just like that.

AMBER: And right before our wedding, too. Do you know what that’s like? We had already rented a hearse and everything. And just like that—he left me standing at the altar.

CSI: That must have made you very angry.

AMBER: Of course it did. And do you blame me? That jerk promised me that as soon as he found a cure, we’d get married. And then, just like that, he dumped me.

TELLA: Oh, my dear…

CSI: Amber, where were you when Hestor was killed?

MILLIE: You can’t possibly think–

OSRIC: Detective—

AMBER: I was—at the mall.

CSI: The mall? At 10:30? Doesn’t the mall close at 9?

AMBER: I–I—

MILLIE: Amber, please.

OSRIC: Tell the man, darling. Where were you? The cemetery again?

AMBER: I was–I was—Mom and Dad….I was at cheerleading practice.

OSRIC: What?

MILLIE: Darling, you can’t be serious.

AMBER: It’s true. I’m a cheerleader. I’m tired of hiding it. I’m tired about lying who I am. Even more than I already have to.

OSRIC: Good lord. It’s enough that we have a werewolf for a daughter, but now this? Cheerleading? What’s next? Becoming a preschool teacher and Singing the Sound of Music?

MILLIE: Now dear, there’s no reason to be ridiculous.

AMBER: I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you. Hestor was the only person who knew. He was the only one I could trust.

CSI: So you were at cheerleading practice, then. And you came straight home?

AMBER: I had to make a quick stop first.

CSI: And where was that?

AMBER: I had to…get something to eat.

OSRIC: I am not going to stand here and listen to you question my daughter!

MILLIE: Darling—

OSRIC: This is absolutely ridiculous. Do you know what it’s like to have to accept the fact that your daughter is a werewolf? And then to watch her have her heart broken by some lab rat because it’s inconvenient for him—he threatened to go to the press-to tell the world her secret if I didn’t pay him– he was going to expose her , let her be locked up and tested—he deserved what he got. And now you’re accusing this poor girl—

CSI: Sir, I’m not accusing anyone of anything right now.

AMBER: But detective, I am an evil savage beast.

OSRIC: Amber, I have had enough— I need some fresh air.

Osric exits.

AMBER: Well, that went well.

DR. IGOR: I’m sorry, detective. He is often prone to fits of anger.

TELLA: I sense that he is troubled about something.

MILLIE: Someone really should give you your own show on Bravo.

CSI: Ladies, please. Alright, Amber. So you got something to eat.  What did you have?

AMBER: Venison.

CSI: Ah. And then what?

AMBER: Then I just came right back here.

DR. IGOR: And Hestor…did you see him at all?

AMBER: Why would I want to?

MILLIE: Really, detective. I assure you that this line of questioning will get you nowhere.

CSI: Ms. Tella, I’ve been meaning to ask you–how, exactly, did you say you came to be here?

TELLA: The spirits beckoned from across the—

AMBER: Oh, give it a rest. She has a police scanner in her car.

MILLIE: What?

TELLA: How did you—

AMBER: When you guys weren’t looking I snuck out and checked your car. You’re no more a psychic than I am.

TELLA: That’s not true. I–I–

CSI: The truth, Ms. Tella.

TELLA: Alright. Fine. I’m not really a psychic.

DR. IGOR: Then what exactly are you doing here?

TELLA: I’m a reporter.

AMBER: What? No—-

TELLA: Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me. I know what it’s like to have to live in the shadows.

MILLIE: So then what, exactly are you doing here?

TELLA: I don’t really know. I needed a story, and I heard on the police scanner that a body was found here. I figured Halloween, the Skellingtons, it would make for a great scoop. So I through together a few scarves and came over.

CSI: And the séance?

TELLA: High school acting class and a wireless fog machine. I snuck it in while you guys were eating.

MILLIE: Imagine that. She can’t really see dead people. I’m almost disappointed.

AMBER: Can I eat her?

TELLA eyes her nervously.

Just then, Osric bursts into the room, and he is MAD.

OSRIC: I have something to say. I think I know what’s been going on.

MILLIE: Darling, where have you been?

OSRIC: Not this time, Millicent. You can’t run from the truth any longer.

DR. IGOR: What are you saying, Osric?

OSRIC: I was reading this. I found it in Amber‘s room. It’s Hestor’s private notebook.

TELLA: Impossible! His notebook was stolen!

AMBER: What were you doing in my room?

OSRIC: I was checking the weather.

AMBER: And you just took it? Not cool, Dad.

CSI: I’m not concerned with how he got it, I want to know what’s inside and why we didn’t know about this before.

AMBER: Hestor had two. He kept a personal journal as well, as a back up, in case something happened. Like it being stolen.

OSRIC: Right here, Detective. Read this.

CSI: According to this notebook, Mrs. Skellington, you’ve been depositing large amounts of money into Hestor’s accounts for the past year.

DR. IGOR: It makes perfect sense.

CSI: You said it yourself, Doctor. Lab assistants don’t make much.

AMBER: But blackmail? Hestor would never do such a thing.

TELLA: It appears that he would. Desperate people often result to desperate acts.

MILLIE: It’s simply not true! I can explain—

OSRIC: Don’t play dumb with me!

DR. IGOR: What do you mean?

OSRIC: Millicent, do you think I don’t know?

MILLIE: know what, darling?

OSRIC: I can’t take this ridiculous charade any more! Don’t you think I know what was going on between you two?

MILLIE: Between Hestor and I? Don’t be ridiculous.

OSRIC: Then how do you explain this?

MILLIE: Darling, I was paying him to continue work on Amber‘s treatments.

AMBER: Mom—

MILLIE: After you attacked him, Hestor came to me and told me that he felt it was partly his fault that he couldn‘t protect you from what you are. I asked him as a favor to me to continue working on a cure in secret.

OSRIC: But why all the secrecy?

DR. IGOR: Why didn’t you say anything?

MILLIE: I didn‘t want to get her hopes up. After awhile, he started demanding more money, saying that he needed it for research or something. He started threatening me, saying he would go to the press about Amber‘s condition ,making outrageous accusations against me. After awhile I told him I was through. I couldn‘t afford to keep paying him, and I know that Amber knew that he was working on a cure. I didn‘t want to disappoint her.. She‘s been through enough already..

OSRIC: Darling, I’m sorry…can you ever forgive me?

MILLIE; Of course, darling.

CSI: And those outrageous accusations?

MILLIE: Excuse me?

CSI: I can understand your concern about Amber being exposed to the press. But those outrageous accusations you mentioned. What were they?

MILLIE: I don’t see why that matters.

AMBER: I already knew. I knew, mom. I knew that you were paying him. I know that he stopped working because you stopped giving him money. I loved him, and he gave up on me because he wasn’t going to make a profit.

ALFRED: I’m sorry, Miss Amber.

AMBER: It’s fine. Everything’s fine now.

CSI: I’m sorry, I hate to break this up, but I have a question as well.

MILLIE: What is it, detective?

CSI: Can you explain these photos?

MILLIE: Where did you get those?

CSI: That doesn’t matter. Alfred, maybe you should speak up right about now.

ALFRED: I’m afraid you wouldn’t believe me even if I answered honestly.

OSRIC: Why don’t you try.

ALFRED: They aren’t real.

OSRIC: Of course they’re not.

ALFRED: I promise you, Master Osric, that they are not what they seem. These mean nothing. I believe in propriety and discretion, and I am infinitely loyal to this family.

DR. IGOR: It would appear you’re being very discreet in these photos.

MILLIE: Darling, you have to believe me.

ALFRED: Indeed.

CSI: Do you want to explain to me how, exactly, then, Hestor got a hold of these pictures?

ALFRED; I’m afraid I don’t know that, Detective. He came to me. A few months ago. Approached me with these pictures and told me that unless I paid him, he would tell Master Osric. I would have been ruined. How can I explain something like this? I’m sure you’re all aware of Mistress Millicent’s less than excellent reputation, but I assure you, we are merely friends.

OSRIC: This sounds like a load of junk to me.

MILLIE: It’s true, darling. We couldn’t let you find out because we knew you would react just like this.

DR. IGOR: So wait, you knew about the photos as well?

MILLIE: Yes! He came to us both., demanding cash or exposure.

TESSA: Looks like these pictures have plenty of exposure already.

CSI: So why didn’t you go to the police?

ALFRED: And tell them what? That this fellow had a set of dubious pictures? I was trapped. There was nothing I could do. I’ve been with this family for 40 years, my father worked for the family and his father before him. I have nowhere else to go.

CSI: Alright. I need to make a phone call. All of you stay right here. No one leaves this room

The motives:

Amber and Hestor were romantically involved for awhile, but he left Amber and she is bitter at being stood up for prom and furious that he threatened to reveal her secret to the world.

Alfred was being blackmailed by Hestor because Hestor was in possession of compromising photos of Millie and Alfred.

Millicent was desperate for Osric not to find out about photos with Alfred, and her longstanding feud with Hestor over payments for Amber’s cure adds even more fuel to the fire.

Dr. VonBeakerstien knew that Hestor was well on his way to finding a cure for Amber’s werewolfism, and Hestor was going to the press with the news—but Dr. VonBeakerstien felt that it was his original research that led Hestor to the cure, and without any major scientific breakthroughs in many years, VonBeakerstein stood to regain his once great reputation if credited for the cure.

Madame Tella showed up in the middle of the party and faked a séance to convice people she was a legitimate psychic, not a reporter looking for a break. But is she so desperate that she would create her own crime scene to get a better scoop?

Osric found Amber’s test results and press releases regarding amber’s condition in the lab. Hestor threatened to reveal them to the press unless the family paid. He also hates Hestor for breaking his daughter’s heart.

Did the butler do it? Or was it Amber, angry at Hestor’s prejudice? Or was it Millicent, bound and determined to hide her affair with Alfred? Could it have been VonBeakerstien, desperate to regain his standing in the scientific community? Might it have bee Madame Tella, hoping to be a successful journalist? Or was it Osric, who had plenty of motive and opportunity to end Hestor’s life?

The Solution:

CSI: Alright, everyone. Sit down. I just got a call from headquarters and there are a couple problems with your story.

MILLIE: What do you mean, detective?

CSI: I’m saying that something here isn’t right and it needs fixing right now before we go any further.

AMBER: I don’t have any silver bullets on hand, but I’m sure that—

CSI : Why don’t you start by telling everyone your real name?

AMBER: You got me. My real name is Harry Potter, and I live in a cubboard–

OSRIC: What exactly is the meaning of this, Detective? I’m a little confused.

DR. IGOR: I think we all are.

MILLIE: Will someone please answer the man so I can have a drink?

Suddenly, TELLA pulls a gun out of her voluminous peasant skirts and points it at the family.

OSRIC jumps in front of MILLIE, DR IGOR dives under a table, and AMBER jumps onto a table and sits in pounce position. CSI camly watches.

TELLA: If any of you move, you’re dead. And don’t worry, silver bullets will kill humans, too.

OSRIC: Can’t we talk about this?

AMBER: Please let me eat her?

TELLA: Shut up, all of you, shut up!

DR. IGOR (from under the table): There’s no reason to be rude….

TELLA: Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re all going to turn, slowly, and walk to the other side of the room. (Perhaps here we involve the audience as well.). Then you’re going to face the wall and count to 50. I’m going to leave now, and none of you are going to try and stop me.

CSI: We found your prints, Carmen. They were all over the inside of the cabinet and the fridge. Although I will admit that you did a great job of wiping the rest of the place down and hiding your tracks–but your prints were already in the system from that job you did up in Michigan. Give it up, Carmen. You’re done. It’s over.

MILLIE: I’m sorry. Will someone please explain to me who Carmen is?

CSI: She is. Meet Carmen Fester, younger sister of Hester and small time petty criminal, until now. Carmen, you’re under arrest.

ALFRED: That’s not all.

OSRIC: For god’s sake, will someone tell me what is going on??

ALFRED: Carmen and I were previously involved. Romantically. Long ago.

AMBER: I knew the butler did it!

ALFRED: Miss Amber, it’s not like that. I broke things off. I ended it. But Carmen persisted to the point of delusion, convincing herself that we were still together. Do you remember when I went on vacation when you were 16? I was getting a restraining order. I am loyal to your family, Master Osric. Please believe me.

MILLIE: This is worse than a soap opera!

CSI: You have the right to remain silent–

He takes a step towards her.

TELLA/CARMEN: I said don’t move! Alfred, baby, please. Tell them how you really feel. Tell them about us. Tell them how you love me. Alfred….come on, Alfred…don’t be like that. Well fine then! Fine! I never liked you anyway! You’re pathetic! All of you! None of you even know who you’re dealing with!

CSI: Face it. The game’s up. There’s nowhere to go.

TELLA/CARMEN makes a break for the door, but at the very moment she does, the following happens.

OSRIC: Like hell you will!

OSRIC dives for her at the same time AMBER pounces. DR. IGOR peeks out from under the table and watches as MILLIE grabs for her—but it is Alfred who calmly sticks one dignified foot out and trips CARMEN. Her gun goes flying and she is quickly subdued. CSI handcuffs her and she is hauled to a chair.

AMBER: Please let me eat her!

ALFRED: I’m afraid that would be most unladylike, Miss Amber.

OSRIC: I just don’t get it. Why go to all this trouble?

TELLA/CARMEN : Hestor was my brother. And he was always given everything. Every chance, every opportunity—everything was given to him, brilliant Hestor, the prodigy of the family. And me? Nothing. I got nothing. Then Hestor came here. He told me who he happened to be working with, what family, what butler—it was fate. I had my second chance. And then Hestor came to me with some nonsense about an easy way to make a little cash. He was going to blackmail the butler and make it look like he was having an affair, but I knew that Alfred only has eyes for me. I knew that I had to stop Hestor from ruining my love.

ALFRED: A most incorrect assumption.

OSRIC: So you weren’t really a reporter OR a psychic.

TELLA/CARMEN : No.

AMBER: What about the missing files?

TELLA/CARMEN : Hestor had records linking me to him. To not be caught, I had to make those files disappear.

CSI: Linked? Linked how?

OSRIC: And then what happened?

MILLIE: He fell in love.

TELLA/CARMEN : That’s right. He fell in love.

AMBER: And look where that got him.

TELLA/CARMEN : Not with you, freak. With your mother/

AMBER: Watch who you’re calling freak. I’m not the one in handcuffs.

TELLA/CARMEN : He pretended to love you to get closer to your family, to get in with your parents. But he was in love with Millicent.

ALFRED: You’ll pardon me for asking, but how exactly did I come into this? Why me, in particular? He could have chosen any number of people—

TELLA/CARMEN: He was jealous, I suppose

ALFRED: Why?

TELLA/CARMEN for being close to Millicent, for being a part of the family that he never could quite belong to–so he decided to ruin you.

OSRIC: And the photos?

TELLA/CARMEN : Taken out of context. I gave them to Detective Ingram to put him off the trail.

ALFRED: Ah. Because everyone knows the butler always did it.

MILLIE: But why? Why would he blackmail an innocent man?

TELLA/CARMEN : I already told you. He was jealous, he was in love. So was I. So he decided to use your questionable nature against you and blackmailed the both of you. But I couldn’t let him do that. Not to my Alfred. He had to be stopped.

CSI: That may be true, but taking the law into your own hands–killing your own brother?

TELLA/CARMEN He deserved it. He deserved that and more.

CSI: Folks, I’m sorry about the party, but it looks like we got things under wraps. I’ll give you all a call in the morning and you can come down to the station and give your statement. Evening folks.

DR. IGOR: What an entirely unusual evening.

MILLIE: The wine!

She exits and returns with toasting flutes and a bottle of red wine.

ALFRED: Oh, I don’t know old friend. I think we’ve seen stranger.

He gestures towards AMBER who is scratching behind her ears in a very dog like fashion..

AMBER: What?

OSRIC: Justice has been served, my dear. Shall we have a toast? To health, happiness and most importantly, to our love.

ALL: Cheers! Cheers with the audience, too. Don’t be rude.

OSRIC: Dance with me darling, before the sun comes up!

MILLIE: Osric, darling, I’d love to.

She smiles, and we see for the first time, big ol’ vampire fangs in her teeth! She can secret these in whilst getting the wine.

ALFRED: And I wager we’ll see far stranger yet/

Thunderclap!!

THE END!!!

]]> http://catieosborn.com/2010/06/19/murder-at-the-mansion-2/feed/ 0 Catie O http://catieosborn.com/2010/05/07/i-bless-the-rains-down-in-africa/ http://catieosborn.com/2010/05/07/i-bless-the-rains-down-in-africa/#comments Fri, 07 May 2010 08:48:22 +0000 theadventuresofcatie http://catieosborn.com/?p=468 Continue reading →]]> Okay, that has nothing to do with this post. But it’s raining outside, and I’ve been listening to that song on a loop because it’s the only CD i have in my car that I can tolerate.

Anyway.

So. A story for this rainy evening.

There once was a girl. Rather average looking, rather smart, short hair, lovely smile and pretty eyes. Grey, like the sea. And she wanted, more than anything else in the world, to act. Oh, to be on stage. To play the greatest queens and lowest peasants–to fall in love again and again and again, every time it different and unique–to have a lifetime of listening to orchestras warming up, waiting for the curtain—yes, it would seem that acting was the life for her. And yet, she had another love–writing. Oh, the stories she would tell. Tales of Great Adventures and pirates and dragons and princes and kings and forbidden loves–her mind constantly swirled with people and worlds, and it was all she could do to get them on the page. She would be a writer, she was determined.

She had such hope for this life, and believed more in the power of hope, perhaps, than the power of acting or writing combined. Hope, it seemed served as that constant reminder that things would always turn out right in the end.

It is funny how so often our passions lead to our demise. Take, for example, Shakespeare. Never mind, that is a different tale entirely. But yes, this girl–her passion was acting, and it would lead, literally, to her downfall.

It came to pass that she was chosen to play, per her usual fantasy, a great queen. How happy this girl was! Finally, a chance to shine–and then one day, during a particularly difficult rehearsal, the girl tripped, fell and landed on her back. It hurt, as most falls do, but she thought nothing of it.

The next morning she awoke quite early, with searing pain down her spine. What was this? An injury? Probably just something silly from rehearsal. She thought nothing of it and went about her day. That night, as she lay in bed, she began, quite suddenly, to shake. How odd. Just as quickly as the shaking began, it began to grow in intensity until she was wracked with spasms that caused her quite a lot of pain. And so, like most people do when they have odd things happen to them, she went to the hospital.

At the hospital, the doctor looked her over, determined her injury a “sports related hurt” and gave her some vicodin and a pat on the head. She went home, and still her spasms remained.

The next morning she awoke (still shaking) and went to go see her family doctor. He, too, declared her injury “sports related” and sent her on her way. She went home, and still her spasms remained.

For three days she shook like this, every day hiding them as best she could in order to save herself from embarrassment. She would attend her rehearsals–by day, a great queen, and by night, a pathetic wretch, sobbing on the floor in agony as her helpless boyfriend watched on, but still she hoped.

Finally, her boyfriend had had enough of this and took her to his doctor, hoping for more answers. Again she was told it was just a “sports injury” and sent on her way, this time with an x-ray bill to boot.

For another week she shook, the same story being repeated every morning. She went to three chiropractors and an allergy doctor and even a witch doctor straight out of a hippie film–and no one knew what to make of these strange spasms that still caused her to shake and twitch, but still she hoped that soon, soon everything would be okay.

During that same week, the girl found that her hands began to freeze into stiff claws that would last for sometimes hours at a time. The girl was horrified and embarrassed, and became exceptionally adept at hiding them. However there was one who could spot them and sometimes fix them, and so the girl found herself relying on her boyfriend even more, this time to massage her ugly hands back to normal. It was awful–but still, she hoped.

Next her journey took her to her neurologist’s office, where he poked and prodded and signed her up for still more tests–but still she shook. The next week she returned to take the tests, most of which were very unpleasant. EEG’s, MRI’s, CAT-Scans…it seemed that every letter of the alphabet was being used to treat her, but still she had no answers.

She returned to the first doctors she had seen, twice more each, and neither could offer her any answers–only medication that dulled her senses and put her to sleep for hours on end, only to awaken again to more pain and more twitching. Her pillows (and, dare I say, her boyfriend’s pajamas, grew suspiciously wet with tears every night, but the girl would not admit how desperately frightened and scared she was for all the world, for she still clung desperately to that little bit of hope.

There was one glorious evening when the girl stopped twitching for almost 7 minutes on the ride home from rehearsal. She bounded in the door and jumped in the shower, only to begin twitching again. She emerged, soaking wet and shaking and fell into her boyfriend’s arms, sobbing harder than she ever had before. She had had such hope.

Because it seemed that doctors in town weren’t getting any closer,the girl decided to go to the famed Neurology Clinic at the University of Iowa. She drove through the sunrise and arrived, hoping for answers. Instead, she was seen by yet another doctor, poked, prodded and questioned–and told that she would have to return later, to see another doctor, who was a renowned specialist and would be able to tell her what was wrong.

Still more time went by, and still the girl shook and twitched. Her show went up perfectly without a hitch, and the last good thing the girl had to hold onto ended. Now it was just her and her pain and her stubborn refusal to appear needy. No matter how bad the pain got, she vowed, she would not show it. No one needed to know how bad she felt, for the world was ugly enough already, complaining wasn’t needed. Besides, she was going to beat this. Despite everything–despite the pain and shaking and embarrassment and stress–she was going to get better. She still had hope.

All week she looked forward to her appointment at Iowa City, for this was going to be the day that she finally found out what was wrong with her and began to find ways to treat it. She had been shaking continuously for nigh on two months now, and she was getting awfully tired of it, but still she hoped.

Every so often she would get a brief reprieve, no more than a few minutes, just enough to garner hope enough that maybe, this time, it would finally stop for good. It never did.

There had even been a girl in the newspaper, locally, who had exhibited some similar symptoms to the girls. The girl eagerly contacted her, only to jealously discover that the girl in the newspaper’s symptoms were much lesser and far less life-altering than what our subject was experiencing.

Finally the day of her next appointment arrived and again she drove through the sunrise to Iowa City, this time to be poked and prodded and questioned by yet another doctor. He drew blood and berated her with questions…and then sent her on her way, only to return later, in order to do more testing. He didn’t know.

It seemed now that no one knew. She had seen the top doctors and they were clueless.  She was given little more than a reassurance that the doctors would “probably be able to figure it out, someday”.

So now, not only was the girl still in constant pain, but now she had failed out of a semester of college and become a practical recluse, forced to abandon her  dream of becoming an actress—for who was going to hire an actress who couldn’t even stand up straight? She was content with this, for she still had her writing, but her useless hands often made it difficult to write, slowing her enough to frustrate and infuriate her at the doctors, the hospitals, her body that so defied every move she made and even at herself, for not being able to just stop.

There is a sense of guilt there, too. She feels awful having to ask for help, even worse complaining to people about how bad she feels, so instead she takes it out on her helpless website. She has a wonderful life, great friends and family and a man she is madly in love with, even a budding career as a writer. Some might say that if it were not for the shaking, her life would be perfect.

For now, the girl sits, still shaking, waiting for July, when the doctor’s office so generously managed to “squeeze her in” for a 6 hour test that may or may not determine what it is, and whether or not they can do anything about it. The pain is normal now, the hands an annoyance, and the spasms a part of daily life. Every morning the girl wakes up and takes a shower, and then falls back into bed, too exhausted to move. Slowly she gets up her energy and manages to paste a smile on and get through four or five hours before she collapses back into bed. The longer she waits, the more she shakes, until she can barely stand. Sometimes she falls, or trips, or spills her drinks, but still she refuses to ask for help from anyone but her most trusted of friends, for she is proud and awfully stubborn. Most nights she can’t sleep, so she stays up listening to the rain and staring out the window, thinking of the great stories she’d like to and adventures she wants to go on, but for now it would seem she is stuck here, shaking, instead.

For the first time in her life, it would seem that the girl has given up hope.

Not that I have any personal connection to this story.

You need only two things to achieve the man of your dreams—a good bra and a good martini.

Now, alone, these two may seem rather inconsequential, but when both are added into the same equation, it’s then that most men find themselves enraptured and you find yourself with a husband, which is, of course, the end goal. if not, i would suggest a better bra and an excellent pair of pumps.
A good martini consists of liberal amounts of gin, a conservative dash of vermouth and a single olive. I, personally, find olives deplorable and a waste of space that might be otherwise occupied, and so thusly omit them. Upon consumption of a few of these, I may omit my bra, but that is another story entirely.

In some cases, vodka may be substituted for gin, but this is only during times of great emergency or on sundays, but depending on where you find yourself on sunday morning, be it church or an unidentified flat on the upper east side, the term emergency may be more loosely interpreted. However, the absence of a good bra should always be considered an emergency, unless it has just been misplaced, in which case, you should remain calm, and fix yourself a drink if necessary.

There are some authors who paint pictures with their words, and there are many readers who act as an empty canvas, ready to absorb every drop of detail. There are also readers like Jordan Murfield, who sat behind me in high school and thought William Shakespeare was the captain of the drama team, because we like, totally like, talked about him so much.

It is because of people like Jordan Murfield that I learned that when the writer directs her words like a movie, they always seem better. So, dear reader, I ask you to picture the camera coming down from the clouds, thick and gray with rain and down on through their lightning and under them, (perhaps a few ambient raindrops yet remain on the lens), and then down further to the city, gray as well, but made from concrete, then to a particular block and a particular street, and then to a hazy window with green curtains, bordered by yellow flowers in a window box underneath. It is raining.

In through the window.

It is a small apartment, furnished mostly with a comfy sofa of the lounging sort, perhaps borrowed from the parlor of Sherlock Holmes and refitted for this century. There is a large armoire, and many bookshelves. These are filled. There is a throw rug, a bust of Shakespeare, the sort of junk one amasses when one possesses a strange sense of humor and history and has access to thrift stores—in short, it is messy, strewn with books and clothes. MINA, our hero, is sleeping akimbo on the couch, while a large, furry gray cat sleeps in her legs.

A clock nearby ticks to seven and begins to ring loudly. Mina slaps it shut reflexively and turns over. The cat falls and stretches, yawning widely. He looks at the clock and purrs, then jumps and rawrs. It’s late! It is important to note that this particular cat is one of those animals in stories that have a particularly humanistic quality to them, and behave as such to keep the children in the audience entertained.

The cat purrs more loudly, MINA simply mutters in her sleep and goes back to bed. This time, the cat jumps up and knocks a large pile of papers onto Mina’s blue hair. She awakes with a start and looks at the clock.

Suddenly MINA is everywhere at once, brushing her teeth, desperately trying to find something to wear, trying to control her hair, eating breakfast, hopping on one leg while she ties on her bright blue sneakers, packing a lunch, all while the cat looks on bemusedly. MINA dashes out the door and it slams behind her. A short pause. She dashes back in, frantically dives for her messenger bag, which is bright purple, and runs out the door again. Another slam, another pause. This time it’s her keys. She finds them nestled inside a book and goes to grab them, but instead gets a glimpse of the words inside and for the first time, is still. She smiles with guilty pleasure and begins to read. The cat yowls and MINA is startled out of her daydream. She runs to the door and we see her watch the bus sputter past, again. It is still raining.

We next come upon Mina as she walks dejectedly into work, water dripping everywhere. As she does, one young man in the back looks up with great excitement and nearly falls out of his chair following her as she sopps back to her desk, which unfortunately involves directly passing her BOSS’s office. He is a trim man with suspenders and a bow tie, and his mustache is not to be rivaled. He raps on the glass with a green fountain pen and jabs at the clock.

She looks at the clock and then looks at her BOSS, who scowls and shakes his head and goes back to writing…She’s been caught. The young man continues to frantically try and get her attention, somehow managing to upset his pencil cup in the process. He likes her. She doesn’t notice the pencils nor his intended affections. He is skinny, probably wearing a yellow shirt, maybe light blue and is handsome. As MINA passes, he rests his head on his hand and sighs the sigh of unrequited movie love.

She slinks guiltily over to her barren, boring grey cubical and unpacks her things. As her computer bleeps on, she sinks back into her chair and we feel every ounce of hatred she has for her linear, boring, gray job. She gazes out the plate glass window at the gray people walking by, with their city slicker umbrellas and briefcases and glances back at her bright purple messenger bag and sighs.

MINA pulls out a stack of official looking papers, cracks her knuckles and begins to type. The clock ticks, the florescent lights buzz, and the phone rings in the distance. MINA looks at the clock again, it hasn’t moved. She types. Then the clock again. She types. Finally the clock languidly clicks over to the next minute. MINA cracks her neck and goes back to typing, but as she does we see her get more and more frustrated. Finally she slumps back in her chair and blows her bangs out of her eyes. The cursor on the computer screen blinks. MINA looks both ways and begins to type. “once upon a time…”

Suddenly MINA is transported out of the office and onto the bridge of a pirate ship where a raging storm is brewing. She is desperately holding onto the wheel while the wind whips the sails behind her. We see another ship approaching. The captain of the other ship (who looks a great deal like her BOSS) brandishes his sword, which looks very much like a fountain pen.

Advance, men! Take no prisoners! He bellows, gesturing wildly with his sword and occasionally stopping to check his mustache in the reflection of the blade.

Suddenly the boat is swarmed with pirates, all wearing business suits and brandishing umbrellas and briefcases. MINA is still trying to steer through the storm, but there in front of her is the PIRATE BOSS who thwacks his fountain pen sword down on the wheel and yanks, sending MINA flying. As the wheel spins, the ship tilts wildly. She’s thrown to the other side of the ship, where a rouge wave grabs her and sends her over the edge of the railing, but she manages to grab hold by one hand. She dangles precariously, the waves tossing and turning far below her, rain pelting her, and her fingers begin to slip. She looks up and sees the PIRATE BOSS menacingly brandish his pen sword above his head, just about to strike when all of the sudden he opens his mouth and says in a very New Yorkian Jewish grandmother’s voice.

Mina! Mina? Mina honey, pay attention, would you?

MINA is shaken back to reality and we see that she’s become completely engrossed in what she’s typing, furiously chewing a pencil, eyes wide. From the other side of her desk, a rather large woman in cat’s eye glasses and a flowery dress looks on disapprovingly. Her lipstick has just started to seep into the cracks around her lips and her blush is almost the exact shade of red.

Writing stories again? You better not let the boss catch you. I need these reports done by three.

The woman flops a huge stack of files on MINA’s desk and waddles away. MINA glances despairingly at the, and rests her head on her hand. She sighs and blows her blue bangs out of her eyes.

Later that day. MINA walks exhaustedly down a long, poorly lit hallway and stops at a row of apartment mailboxes, juggling a bag of groceries. She tries to check her mail, but the groceries throw her off balance and she nearly falls, but suddenly the bag is grabbed and the groceries neatly caught in the sack by a pair of skinny hands, that are conveniently attached to the same skinny fellow we saw earlier at the office. He awkwardly presents the groceries back to her, nervous. This is his one shot.

JIM: Here you go.

MINA Thanks, Jim.

JIM: Hey, Mina? I was wondering if maybe sometime you’d….

But MINA has already grabbed her groceries and mail and the door shuts in JIM’s disappointed face.

He sighs and turns away.

Inside the apartment, we see MINA disappointedly reading a letter from Brahm’s Publishing House, which thanks her for her submission but regrets to inform her that….she crinkles it into a ball and throws it into a pile in the corner. A very large pile. The cat twines around MINA’s legs and we see two more letters fall into the pile. Her feet turn away and dejectedly kick a magazine or two out of the way.

She sets a pot of water to boil on the stove and maybe halfheartedly chops a few carrots, but stops halfway through and sighs, yet again. She sets down the knife and turns.

She goes over to a closet door and throws it open, and an avalanche of books and papers fall out. She ducks, and then reaches into the very back and pulls out a dusty volume. She tenderly brushes it off and goes over to the sofa, pushes some papers out of the way and curls up to read.

The next morning her alarm goes off much the same as yesterday and she awakens much like yesterday, only this time it is to the sound of the smoke detector, and we see that the pot has melted down the stove and smoke is billowing from inside the kitchen. As the cat yowls, she frantically runs into the kitchen and puts the fire out with a towel, which promptly catches on fire. She puts that fire out and wipes her face with the sooty towel, leaving a mark.

She leans back against the counter and slowly slides down, looking at the havoc wraught upon her once sunny kitchen, now black and dismal and very, very damp. She leans her head back and blows her bangs out of her face. The cat comes over and licks her face. The automatic sprinkler system kicks in.

Later that day, MINA is sitting alone in the office cafeteria, and eating a rather damp looking sandwich. She is chewing thoughtfully and scribbling in a notebook. Suddenly she stops. Something isn’t right. She scribbles furiously and rips the page out, blowing her bangs out of her eyes and then goes back to writing. We see JIM enter the cafeteria and spot MINA. He takes a deep, awkward breath and checks his reflection in the vending machine glass. He approaches.

J: Hey, Mina?

Thoroughly engrossed in her writing, she doesn’t hear him.

J: Mina!

She looks up, but is still thinking about her newest story.

M: hmmmm?

J: I was just wondering if maybe—maybe you’d like to go to dinner with me or something?

He rushes the last part and waits expectantly. MINA is still staring into space.

J: I mean we don’t have to get dinner if you don’t like food, not that there’s anything wrong with not liking food, I’m sure lots of people don’t like food, or restaurants, I mean maybe you’re just not hungry or you like movies better,

MINA suddenly realizes she’s being talked to. She blinks and shakes her head to clear it.

M: what? Sure.

The sure comes a courtesy in the hopes that Jim won’t know that she didn’t hear anything he just said. He doesn’t. He smiles brightly and we know this has been his dream for weeks.

J: really?

MINA suddenly realizes what must have just happened. She panics.

M: I have to go.

She quickly gathers up her things and leaves, but as she does, the crumpled piece of paper falls and wafts down to the floor behind her. Jim sees it and grabs it before it can fall entirely. He gazes at it and sighs. We see the words “once upon a time”. Jim begins to read.

Suddenly JIM is transported to a desolate mountain hilltop, suddenly dressed in armor made out of various office cafeteria dishes and eating utensils. He looks and finds a sword in his hand, and a very large blue dragon in front of him, that happens to be about ready to roast him alive. He rolls away just in time, as the jet of flame bursts from the dragon’s mouth. The dragon roars and unfurls its giant wings and dives at JIM, who spins and sprints for a nearby cave, only to be thwarted at the entrance by another dragon, this one twice as large with fiery red scales, much like the red hair of the cafeteria lady who JIM passed on his way inside. A handful of bats swarm JIM at the same time, bats that greatly resemble rejection letters. The two dragons surround JIM and he’s trapped. The dragons rear back and bare their giant fangs. He raises his sword to strike, but just as he does, the dragon suddenly turns into a bunny, the other dragon into a field mouse and then they slowly disappear in a haze of letters.

We are taken back to the cafeteria, where JIM sits, sweating and breathless, holding the paper. He lets it fall into his lap and gives a relieved

Wow.

In the afternoon, MINA returns home and repeats the process of checking mail, this time sans groceries. She pulls four envelopes out, one is a bill and three are from publishing companies. She hurries inside and rips them open, and is disappointed each time by the standard rejection letter, which she adds to the pile.

We see her walk into the living room, which is covered in books turned upside down while fans waft the pages gently, drying them. The carpet squishes under her sneakers.

She is eating a frozen dinner, blindly searching for bites with a fork with one hand while the other hand holds a book. The cat is following the fork, waiting for something to fall off. It usually does. The phone rings ,then rings again. She looks up and then looks around, confused for the source of the sound. Another ring. She looks at a stack of books and makes the connection. She leaps over more upturned books and digs for the phone, and answers it breathlessly.

Hello?

We hear Jim on the other end. He’s nervous.

Hi, Mina. It’s Jim. From the office. We um—work together. At the office. Where you work.

He realizes and tries to save it.

Um, listen, I was just– just wondering if maybeIcouldpickyouuptomorrowatfivefordinnerafterwork? Maybe? If that would be alright with you?

MINA furrows her brow, mulling it over. The cat nudges her. She looks at her burned up kitchen and the cat nudges her again.

Okay. That sounds good. Thanks, Jim.

We see JIM do an ecstatic happy dance and, simultaneously MINA realize she’s going on a DATE. Tomorrow. She gulps.

A brief office scene with ticking clocks and buzzing florescent, and then

MINA is sitting in a coffee shop, thoroughly engrossed in a book. Suddenly the bell tinkles and a rather loud woman in a slinky power suit comes in, in mid cell phone conversation. A loud conversation that barely muffles the click of her stilettos and does nothing to cover up the cloud of expensive perfume she’s enveloped in.

Yes, yes, that’s right. No, I don’t—no, I can’t really say for—Well that’s really not my priority is it, Greg? If he doesn’t like it then he doesn’t like it, and there’s nothing I can—we’ve got three days until the deadline, that’s plenty of—I don’t know, Gregory (tall half-skinny half-1 percent extra hot split quad shot latte with whip, thank you) I don’t write the books, I just print them. It’s up to you to find an author he likes— well he’s going to be in New York in less than 12 hours , and I take no responsibility for any— it’s not my fault he’s hated everything we’ve sent him. that’s right. At Muriel’s. 6:30 sharp. Tonight. Don’t be late this time, you know he has a temper. Oh, and Gregory, wear a tie? Thank you darling.

The woman saunters away from the counter with her coffee and the bell tings again. We see MINA, this time rather annoyed at the interruption. MINA glances at her watch and then bolts upright, nearly upsetting her coffee in the process. It’s almost five.

The next scene opens with a gigantic pile of clothes, a pair of feet and a flying dress. The dress lands on top of the cat who is unfortunately sitting in the line of fire, as it seems MINA has been pulling everything she owns out of her rather messy closet in a desperate attempt to find something to wear. She pulls out all manner of hideous and unsightly dress, and finally settles on a royal blue shirt, and then immediately changes her mind. Again.

There is a knock on the door, and MINA runs across her living room and looks through the peep hole at an incredibly nervous JIM, who is nervously tugging at his shirt and holding onto his flowers for dear life. She goes to open the door and suddenly realizes that her living room is in shambles, she pokes her head out.

M: Just a minute.

The door slams again and we hear banging and booming and a cat yowling, and then, suddenly, a breathless MINA is at the door again. She opens the door, fully this time, and we see that MINA has thrown books under, over or around every surface imaginable. She take a breath to say something, and the closet door behind her bursts open and an avalanche of books fall out. She blows her bangs out of her eyes and sighs, and JIM, not knowing what to do, hesitantly offers her flowers.

We next see the two at the one Italian restaurant in New York, checkered table cloths, a red candle, brick walls and a giant pizza on a dais in the center of the table. JIM is in the middle of explaining his deep love for pizza and MINA is genuinely enjoying herself, leaning on her hand and smiling as JIM’s arms exaggeratedly explain the size of the pizza back home. She laughs.

J-and then so after college, I had to decide between the two, and so I chose to come to New York.

M-Wouldn’t you rather have stayed and opened a restaurant?

J—Oh, I suppose, but you can’t make a living doing that sort of thing. Everyone I’ve ever known who opened a restaurant lasted a couple of years and went broke, and now they work in an office. I figured I’d cut out the middle man. It was just a silly pipe dream, anyway.

He chuckles ,but we see that JIM’s restaurant is more than just a pipe dream to him.

M—He didn’t.

J—Who didn’t what?

M—He didn’t go broke.

MINA indicates the hefty proprietor of the establishment, who is enthusiastically tossing pizza dough in the back and singing an Italian opera. Badly. JIM is clearly taken aback.

M: Wouldn’t you rather try and fail then never take the risk at all?

J: I suppose—I guess I just—everyone has those ideas, you know? We just never act on them. I’m sure you do. What’s yours?

M: Mine?

J: What’s the one thing you would do if you got the chance​? Anything in the whole world?

JIM’s enthusiastic gesture knocks a picture off of the wall. MINA laughs.

J: But really. Anything. In the whole world.

MINA’s eyes light up.

M I’d write stories.

J Stories? Like detective novels?

M more than that—anything. Stories about giants and dragons and pirates and princes and great adventures and love–

MINA realizes she’s getting carried away. She blushes.

He leans back ,arms behind his head, entirely comfortable in her presence. Awkward maybe, too gangly for his own good, but comfortable.

J:You gotta admit, it has a ring to it. Mina Ray, famous author.

M: I suppose.

There is a pause. MINA hestitates and then decided, maybe for the first time, to trust JIM with her secret.

M All I’ve ever wanted to do was write stories. I never had a place where I felt like I belonged, so I would make up my own. Then I got good at it, then I fell in love with it, and now here I am, the furthest thing from an author I could be. I am a transciptionist.

The very nature of the word transciptionist tastes foul and bitter in her mouth, and her false glorification of her horrid, soul sucking job embarrasses her. She’s never this open with people.

M sorry—I–

J: no, it’s okay. So why don’t you?

M What?

J Why don’t you write your stories of great adventures and pirates and dragons and love?

M I’ve tried, believe me. I’ve sent my stories to nearly every publisher in new york, but no one wants to hear stories about silly things like dragons and princesses anymore, I guess. Besides, you can’t make a living—

MINA stops, realizing she’s echoing the same sentiments that JIM voiced earlier. She looks down and blushes again, and takes a bite of pizza.

JIM understands, and from across the table, he tentatively takes her hand. She doesn’t move it. They share a moment, and then, suddenly, there is a loud screech of tires. Both of them turn and look at the noise, and we see outside the window a large limousine whip around the corner and hastily drop off and the same woman from the coffee shop, this time dressed to the nines in a slinky evening gown, still on her cell phone, and a sweaty, balding fellow with a rumpled shirt trailing behind, carrying a planner and tugging at his tie, which is too short and tied MUCH too tightly.

She is demanding: well where is he? How do you just lose the most powerful publisher in America? Keep looking around the airport. How should I know? Send a page or something. We’re already at the restaurant. When you find him, let us know, and get here, fast.

The rounder of the two runs awkwardly from the back to get the door for the other, and we see the door swing shut, next to a restaurant sandwich board marked “Muriels”. Tonight’s special is CUISSES DE GRENOUILLE PROVENÇALE. A nearby frog hops by, sees the sign, and gulps.

Later that evening, MINA and JIM are sharing a walk and enjoying ice cream cones, when MINA notices a picturesque park bench nearby. They mosey over and are sharing the seat when a very grumpy, very small, very old man with a distinct twinkle in his eye that belies his better interior kicks a can on the ground nearby and ricochets off of the garbage can in front of the park bench MINA and JIM are sharing.

The old man takes a seat on a park bench nearby and swings his legs, looking at the view. Suddenly he jumps up.

EURGH! Gum! Got-blasted durn kids and their chewing bubbles…

It seems that our wizened friend discovered an unfortunate suprize on the bottom of the park bench. His hand is covered in the sticky pink goo. MINA sees his trouble and goes to his aid.

Here…take this…

She offers him a hastily torn page from her notebook. Without thinking, she tries to help him, but only makes it worse. Now the gent has a hand full of gooey notebook paper.

Oh, I’m so sorry…let me…

every effort she makes turns out worse until finally the old man chuckles.

This just ain’t your day, is it, kiddo?

M: Apparently not. I’m really sorry.

SJP: Oh that’s alright. Gives me something to read and saves me the effort of holding on. Should have thought of that when I started printing books. Sticky books. Course I suppose now they’ve got those new fangled sticky notes….

He trails off, suddenly noticing the portion of the story written on the paper stuck to his hand. He begins to read, and suddenly the old man finds himself swinging from a high tower covered in vines that look suspiciously like spaghetti noodles. He looks up, and there within the tower window is a beautiful maiden with macaroni hair and meatball princess leia buns and a dress patterned with pepperonis and green peppers. He strains to drag himself up the rope, and just as he reaches the top, the OWNER of the restaurant, now dressed as a wizard, begins casting a spell with his staff, which looks suspiciously like a rolling pin. The old man cowers, but the Spaghetti princess pushes the WIZARD out of the window. They both watch as he falls and falls, and then finally a pizza dough parachute opens and he drifts gently out of sight.

The OLD MAN slowly lowers his be-gummed hand and looks at MINA with intense, squinted eyes.

SJP: Did you write this?

MINA is embarrassed. He probably thought it was a terrific waste of time for a grown-up to be writing stories like hers.

Yes…

The OLD MAN nods, thoughtfully and looks off at the city in the distance. Finally, he speaks.

SJP:You know, when I was younger, this whole block used to be filled up with apartments above the restaurants. Course now, it’s mostly offices and that, but that restaurant over there has been open for 60 years. My father opened it—took him years to get it off the ground, but he managed to. Almost went bust a few times, but he stuck it out. Sold it for ten times the price he paid when he retired. Used the money to send me to school. I didn’t know what I wanted to be—I knew I didn’t want to be a chef, that’s for certain. My father always thought it terribly ironic, but such is life, I suppose. Full of surprises.

I’d come here to this bench and look at the city, think about what I wanted to be. Still don’t know, to be honest. I’ve tried mostly everything there is to do to make a living, but the one thing that’s ever made me happy is listening to stories. Or reading them, I suppose. Turns out there’s no such thing as a professional listener. So I made my business printing stories and my hobby listening to them. I’ve traveled all over the world and met all sorts of people—I’ve met kings and queens and powerful chiefs, talked with the poorest of the poor, convinced hermits and monks to tell me their tales, and seen the seven wonders of the world… but I gotta tell you, young lady, you’re the first one I’ve met with blue hair. So tell me, what’s your story?

He winks.

MINA blinks. JIM pokes her and takes a lick of his ice cream which he has just realized has melted all over his hand. They share a glance and MINA takes a deep breath.

MINA makes a decision there, in the moment, to take the risk.

M: Could I—could I just TELL you a story?

SJP: Young lady, I would like nothing better.

MINA takes a deep breath, closes her eyes, and opens them, suddenly focused and strong. This is a MINA we’ve never seen before.

M: Would you hear a tale of grand adventure, or of the search for love, or a search for one that leads to both?

The old man laughs long and hard.

SJP: Now that—that is what I like to hear. Tell me more, young lady.

MINA begins.

M: Once upon a time is not a good way to begin a story, but as it happens every story must have a beginning if there is to be an end, and so begins the story of a boy.

We next see the three of them fighting the pirates and defeating them, with the BOSS tied to the mast. MINA and JIM share a high-five. Over hills and mountains and higher still until we come to the dragons, who are now tamed, with JIM and the OLD MAN riding them. The blue one is licking MINA’s hair. Away from the dragons and well towards the east, and in the distance the pasta castle. Now we are inside the kitchen with the SPAGHETTI PRINCESS and the WIZARD, who is giving cooking lessons to JIM while MINA and the OLD MAN amuse themselves by playing with a certain gray cat by the fire.

Onwards we go, this time to a giant mountain shaped like an ice cream cone, where they are desperately trying to reach the top as snow pelts them. They spot the Abominable Snowman, who lends JIM a hand and pulls him up to the top, just as once again we are pulled away, gently back into reality, to a simple park bench where JIM and MINA are sitting with the OLD MAN and

And so they went on to become the greatest leaders the kingdom—

Suddenly, we hear a sharp voice that ruins the spell.

There he is!

The slinky woman and her harried assistant hurry up to the old man and begin fawning over him.

Mr. Paperstien, we were so worried, Did you have a nice flight? Where have you been, did you get our messages?

Can I get you anything, Mr. Paperstien? Bring the car around!

MINA’s eyes widen and she realizes who she’s been talking to—Mr. Sydney Joseph Paperstien, the most powerful man in publishing. Paperstien grumpily shrugs off the assistants with a wave of his hand as he frailly climbs inside the limo, which dwarfs him.

SJP: Can’t an old man take a walk? Young people today, think us old fellas can’t do anything for ourselves…

He glances to MINA and JIM. MINA is staring at Sydney, and JIM is staring at MINA. His ice cream cone drips. Sydney stops, at though he just remembered something.

SJP: Young man?

Jim starts.

JIM: Yes Mr. Paperstein, sir?

Paperstein grins.

SJP: Kiss her already, will you? Young lady, be in my office tomorrow morning at 9AM.

He winks.

I need to hear the end of this story.

With that, the limo door closes and it zooms off into the night. We go up above the park bench, just as MINA and JIM embrace, MINA’s ice cream finally giving up and melting with a plop. Up above the city, up above the clouds, up above into the stars and finally to black.

The end.

http://www.grantleganphotography.com/

http://www.grantleganphotography.com/

Check out that hair….

There were a few others I loved, too—check it out.

Grant is amazing.

Also…

Sidney Tulaska lived in Alaska in a tiny small town by the sea
Every day he’d look out his window and Sidney would hate what he’d see
Snow! Tons of snow!
There was snow all around
snow on the rooftops and snow on the ground
there was snow on the sidewalks, on driveways and cars
and poofy grey snow clouds would cover the stars.

Sidney said nothing and bided his time
and while he was biding, snow started to climb
higher and higher till it covered the brush
While the streets and the sidewalks were covered with slush
the snow blew and drifted and covered the trees
and made snowy patterns in the cold winter breeze

Sidney retired to bed at a quarter past eight
and thought nasty things about snow (Oh, the hate!)
As he drifted to sleep in his big fluffy bed
visions of snow plows danced through his head.

At 7:03 he awoke with a fright
For Sid seemed to think something else was not right
He went down the stairs in a terrible huff
and found that his kitchen was filled with the stuff!
The windows had opened while it snowed through the night
and covered his kitchen way up to the lights.

There was snow on the counters and snow on the chairs
Snow in the freezer and snow in his hair.
There was snow in the fork drawer and snow filled the pots
There was snow over everything! Snow! Lots and lots!

Now, try to imagine how Sidney must feel.
He had to wear snow shoes to eat every meal!
No waffles for breakfast or hot crunchy toast
snow buried the comforts that Sidney liked most
It must have been hard to find his white dishes
but when one asks for snow one gets what one wishes
For it seemed that the kids in Alaska that day
were hoping that more snow would be on the way
It’s a little known fact in Alaskan state law
If the snow measures 9 feet, there’s no school at all!

So Sidney kept digging to get the snow out
He got madder and madder then started to pout
then suddenly Sidney cried “Hey!” with a shout.

“I do not like snow in my mashed up potatoes
and I do not like snow with my ham
I’m tired of snow in my hair and my toes
and mixed with my strawberry jam!”

He threw down his shovel and stomped with his boots
and ignored all of the kids with their yelps and their whoops
He stomped right through town and stopped at the train
It was leaving that minute for a small town in Maine.

From Maine down to Pittsburg then over to Jersey
Sidney kept going in quite a big hurry
Across the wide ocean, he boarded a freighter
That was bound very far past the Southern Equator
He bought tickets and passes and cards for the train
Determined to never be snowed on again.

So Sidney Tulanska moved to the desert where the days are sunny and hot
Every day he’d look out his window and see what Alaska did not.
Sand! Tons of Sand!
There was sand all around
sand on the ground and sand in the treeses
and sands that were carried by hot tropic breezees
There was sand in the carpet and sand on the beach
and sand stuck in places that Sid couldn’t reach.

And the sun!
So much sun!
There was sun every day!
Sidney turned red in the heat of its rays.
And as he sat sweating and sipping his drink
Sidney tipped back his chair and he started to think.
He thought of Alaska and its mountains and trees
and the snowfall that fell almost up to his knees

Sidney missed chilly breezes and his warm winter fire
he even missed putting big chains on his tires.
He missed making snow men and snow balls and forts
And, realized Sidney, I don’t look good in shorts.
He missed slippy sliding around on the ice
and so Sidney though a trip would be nice.

So Sidney Tulaska moved back to Alaska
just in time for the annual snow
And as he arrived he smiled and he sighed
“I guess home is wherever it snows”.

One day the girl was at market, buying bread for her daily meal, when she noticed a man dressed head to toe in a rainbow of colors watching her from a far. She thought nothing of it, and went back to her business and returned home.  The next day, the girl returned  and noticed the same man watching her. This time, she approached him and demanded to know why he was watching her.

“Milady, I am but a lowly jester of the court, but I must confess that you are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen”.

The girl blushed at his attention, and for a moment her mask nearly fell off. She carefully straightened it and resolved to never let flattery catch her off guard ever again. She rushed away from the market, and caught the reflection of her mask in the window of the millinery shop. “How could I be beautiful? I’m plain as hay and horses”.

And so, for week after week, the girl would walk from her small home in the fields and would go to market, and see the court jester watching her, always with a smile on his face.

One day, as the girl turned to go home, the jester stopped her. “A thousand pardons for my insolence” he said with a wink “But might I accompany you home?”
The girl blushed, and somewhere deep within her, the wound in her heart burned –(for hearts will often burn when they are lonely). She nodded quietly, so as not to upset her mask, and they began walking in silent companionship.

When they arrived at her home, a small fire burned in the kitchen, and they warmed their feet by the fire. The court jester told her of his many adventures, his days at sea, and how he came to be a jester for the great king.

The girl listened, her eyes blazing with excitement as his stories grew grander and the night grew darker. Finally, the jester paused and looked out at the cold, snowy night.

“I really must be going”. With that, the jester reached for his belled hat and made towards the door.
“Oh, do stay. It is so cold, the least I can do it offer you a warm supper and  a soft bed” insisted the girl.
“As you wish, milady. However, tomorrow you must tell me your story”. with a wink and a hop, the jester was off to bed.

All night the girl nervously paced, trying desperately to remember some tale that she could tell to make her jester laugh. But she has no stories, nor tales of adventure. She had spent so long trying to keep her mask on that the time had slipped away. As the first purple rays of sunrise crept over the hearth, the girl picked up her quill and ink and began to write
Days came and went, and still she did not rest. The jester brought her hot soup and soft bread at mealtimes and otherwise would just sit by the fire and watch her as she scribbled.

First a few pages, then dozens, then hundreds and then into the thousands, still her quill flew across the page. Reams of paper lined the walls, the floors, even stacked into the rafters—and still she kept writing.

She wrote of her past–her fears, her ambitions, her deepest longings and her wildest dreams. She wrote of her hope for happiness and her belief in hope. She wrote down the stories of the grand adventures she’d imagined going on when times were hard and of the beauty she saw in the world around her. She wrote of her sadness and her secrets and often just whatever came to mind, her thoughts on life and love and of the people she’d met.

Little by little, the mask she’d worn for so long begin to crumble away, but she paid it no mind. The pieces of her mask melted into the swirls of ink and disappeared, entwining and becoming part of her story, all while the jester sat and watched.

For one whole week she wrote, and then, at sundown on the seventh day, she finally set down her quill. She looked around at the thousands of pages that surrounded her and suddenly noticed that her mask had disappeared. She tried to hide her face from the jester who stood behind her, but he took her face in her hands and said

“This is a very good story. It is not great. But it could be. A great story relies on experience, and you have spent your life behind your mask. Like so many, you may have seen the world but you haven’t experienced it. Find others who wear a mask and seek them out. It is time for you to become part of their story. Teach them to dream. Laugh. Cry. Listen. Write all you see down, for it will become part of the story. Give them hope. Always. Speak often of hope, for hope is what we storytellers bring, and hope is always free.”

The girl made to ask a question, but in a flash of light and the oldest type of magic, the jester was gone, leaving no trace. The girl looked in her mirror, the first time in many years, and saw how her face had aged with care and worry, but her eyes remained the same.

And so off into the wide world the girl went, carrying nothing but a traveling cloak, a quill and some bits of paper. To tell of all the things she saw and did would take as many hours as the stars that guided her home when her travels had reached an end.  She recorded all of her Great Adventures and shared them with those she found who still wore masks, and often helped to heal their hidden wounds with her stories of hope, and it might be said that at times, she was happy.

And she lived until it was decent, and then passed on, as people so often do,
And somewhere in the world, another story began.

One: It is a very foolish person who does not listen carefully to the warnings of children’s stories
Two: One should never steal from a known witch
And Three: If you do, you may not live to regret it.

And so begins my story.

It was a beautiful sunny day in mid July (what, you thought it’d be a dark and stormy night?) and the flowers that Elizabeth Wardly had planted at the beginning of the summer were finally in full bloom.

Now, Elizabeth was known far and wide for her beautiful flowers. Looking across the wide expanse of her garden, it seemed as though a rainbow flowed like a river across the parched land. You see, for years, the land Elizabeth so lovingly tended had been dry as desert, but somehow, she made her flowers grow. They would bloom in July and remain in full bloom until the first frost in November, when they would disappear. Every year, it was like clockwork.
Some claimed it was luck, some claimed it was talent, and still others claimed it was witchcraft.

They were correct.

Elizabeth Wardly was no mere gardener. She was a powerful witch, and for years she had used her talents for the benefit of the town, producing masses of beautiful flowers for all to enjoy. She lived a simple life, casting spells and growing flowers, but she lived in peace and found herself quite happy. (That is, as happy as witches can be).

That is, until one dark and stormy night in late October. (Better?)

It was on this night that a group of young and foolhardy ruffians from the steel mill across town began cooking up a scheme. Owen Bates, the leader of this gang, bought yet another round for his mates in the pub and they began talking of far off places and the women they’d find there.

“I want myself a bride”, Owen said.
“You should marry that witch, Elizabeth”, said one of his friends.
“Fie on your life”, retorted Owen.
“I doubt you’ve enough courage to cross paths with her, let alone marry the woman” cried another.
Owen choked on his beer–”I lack no courage, nor strength of heart”
“Prove it! Prove it!” his friends began chanting and pounding their mugs on the rough wooden tables.
“I shall, and all of you will be proven the lesser men for it!”. Owen tipped back his mug and finished his drink. He rose and stormed out of the door into the raging storm.

A few miles down the road, Owen began regretting his decision. He had no quarrel with the witch–ah, but she wasn’t truly a witch. There were no such things, merely fairy stories told to children to get them to behave. She was just a crazy old woman. He shrugged his cloak more firmly around his shoulders and continued down the dark path until he reached Elizabeth’s famous garden.

The flowers whipped to and fro in the storm, lit only by lighting that flashed after each gigantic thunderbust. Owen reached casually through the fence for the closest flower–he would prove that he was man enough for all of his friends, but something stopped him. There, in the middle of the garden, was the most beautiful flower he had ever seen. Owen stopped and waited patiently in the downpour for the next lighting burst. Yes, there it was again. A beautiful bloom, the color of peach, with petals like satin. The rain pearled off of its petals like tears and something in Owen cried out “I must have that flower!”

So, over the sturdy wooden fence crept Owen, against every fairy story he’d ever heard. he slipped and slid his way across the muddy garden, trampling many blooms to get to the center where the flower grew. If the flower trembled at all under his rough grip before he plucked it from the ground, he didn’t notice. With a sharp tug, he ripped it from the earth and shoved it under his coat. It was done. He pulled up the hood of his cloak and began the long walk home.

The next morning, Owen triumphantly showed the rest of his friends the flower. They all ooo’hed and ahh’d, but it bothered Owen that no one appreciated the flower like he did. News spread of his foolhardy act, and he showed the flower all over town to anyone who would hear his tale (however, it must be confessed that he committed several more acts of daring per repetition of the story). Owen found himself repeating the tale again in the General Store when the bell about the door softly tinkled, and in walked the most beautiful girl Owen had ever seen. She had hair the color of peach, deep green eyes and skin like satin.

“Hello, Owen”.
Owen smiled weakly. “Hello…”
“Poppy. My name is Poppy”.
“Hello, Poppy”
“I’ve heard your story second hand all over town, but I simply must hear it for myself. Will you walk with me?”
“I’d be delighted”, Owen managed to say.

Poppy walked towards him with the grace of an angel. She put her arm on his and he escorted her into the lane outside. As they walked, he regaled her of his adventure, perhaps only embellishing when absolutely necessary in order to impress her. Owen vaguely realized that they were headed in the direction of the scene of his crime, but Poppy had a firm grip on his arm, and she smelled so sweet—he didn’t mind.

As he finished his tale, Owen managed to glance away from Poppy’s eyes and found himself directly in front of the witches garden.
“So you did all of this, then?” asked Poppy. “All for a flower?”
Owen looked over the garden, and saw how flowers lay crushed and broken from his heavy boots, muddy footprints obscured the neat rows so carefully planted, how injured stems and leaves lay ripped from vines and he gulped.

“Well-I…”
Poppy’s eyes grew hard. “All of this, for a flower that wasn’t yours?”
“I…”
Suddenly, Poppy began to cry. “They were innocent. You killed my friends”
“Please don’t cry—” Owen stopped. “Your…friends?”

Poppy looked up at him. A single tear ran down her cheek. Owen absentmindedly brushed it from her face and looked down, confused. His finger wasn’t wet, it was smeared with a dusty orange substance. “Thats funny”, thought Owen. “I must have gotten some pollen on my–” A sudden wild thought raced through Owen’s mind, but he brushed it aside as impossible.

No sooner had he done this did Poppy begin to lead him down a winding path that ran from the road and past the garden. “I really don’t think we should–” Owen tried to remove his arm from Poppy’s grasp, but her grip was firm. Further down the path, he saw a tiny, weatherbeaten shack at the end of the road. Something about the house filled him with dread, so he tried again. “Perhaps we should turn back–”. Still Poppy did not waver.

A few moments later he found himself inside the home. A fire burned in the small fireplace and a large workbench covered with all sorts of gardening tools stretched across the back wall. Dried flowers hung everywhere from the rafters, mixed with strange herbs and vegetables that Owen had never seen before. “I don’t think we should be in here, Poppy”.

Poppy whirled around and crossed towards him. “Oh, does this bother you, Owen? I didn’t think you had any trouble being where you don’t belong. Especially in MY GARDEN!”
With that, there was a flash of light and the smell of rot, and suddenly Poppy collapsed. Owen rushed towards her. “Poppy!”

He reached down to help her up, and Poppy reached up and grabbed his hand. Only this time, it’s wasn’t Poppy’s beautiful silken skin. The hand that grabbed Owens was rough and calloused and covered with spots, with twisted knuckles and long clawlike fingernails. Owen tried desperately to shake off the grasp, but it was too strong .

Owen gasped as he saw the transformation that Poppy had undergone. Her hair was stringy and matted and missing in places, her beautiful face twisted and scarred and her body was bent like that of an old crone. He screamed in terror and tried to get away, but the witch threw him into a corner and began rummaging around her work bench.

“Now, let me see, yes…yes, this will do nicely”.

She shuffled towards him and Owen cowered in terror, thinking the worst. She reached out one claw-like hand and grabbed his wrist. In the other hand she held a black rose with angry looking thorns, which she used to prick his finger. Once finished, she shuffled back towards the bench. Owen feigned bravery as he bit his injured finger. “Crazy old woman, are you going to thorn me to death for stealing nothing more than a flower? I demand you let me go”.

The witch whirled and crossed towards him more quickly now “Boy, I have done worse to those who have done less. Would you like a giant thornbush to perhaps crush you to death, or a vine to enter you at one end and come out the other? Or perhaps you’d like to have your bones turned to wood and be burned for kindling?”

Owen thought it best to be quiet.

He watched nervously as the witch pulled out an ancient wooden box, covered in strange symbols and runes. She opened it and pulled out a single white flower. She then tilted the black rose and lifted a tiny vial to its thorn and collected a drop of Owen’s blood .She then tilted it onto the white flower and whispered an incantation. Owen’s eyes were huge as he watched it turn from red, to purple to green and then finally blue.
“Now”, crooned the witch. “What becomes of a thief? Ah, I know. We teach them a lesson about keeping their fingers to themselves”.

Slowly, one by one, the witch pulled out 10 petals from the blue flower. Owen laughed and taunted the witch. “What, do you expect me to be scared?”. It was only when he felt the first twinge of pain that he looked down at his hands and watched as each one of his fingers fell off. Owen screamed in terror as the witch laughed. “Who’s sorry now, boy?” she cried.

As Owen clutched the bloody stumps of his hands to his chest, he searched around the room for an exit, but there was none to be found. He tried desperately to get away, backing up against the wall, praying that he might discover any sort of door to make his escape. As he did, the witch merely looked on in amusement from her workbench. After a time, she grew tired of this game and began to reach for something. Owen lurched towards her, but it was too late. She had chosen a long and deadly pair of silver clippers.

The witch carefully positioned the blades underneath the bloom of the blue flower, directly around the delicate stem. She looked at Owen. Owen gulped.

She snipped.

Owen fell.

That spring, there was an unusually large crop of blue flowers in Elizabeth Wardly’s garden. She presented some of them to the good Mrs. Bates, who was still mourning the strange disappearance of her son. Mrs. Bates dried them near the fire and sat them on her bedstead, and would often look over and smile at the kindness of the old woman who grew such beautiful flowers.

Lights up.

A girl steps forward out of the shadows and speaks thus:

So here’s the thing. Not everything is about you. Because I haven’t even given you a second thought for 8 months. Why? Because it’s over. it’s been over. It’s was over before it was even over because you wouldn’t let it die. And now I am informing you that—well, I suppose if you don’t have anything nice, right? Because right now it’s all I can do to not call you and scream at you and tell you what I REALLY think, which isn’t something you really want to hear anyway, because trust me, I don’t get pissed often but I’m pissed now. I suppose I should have delineated territores and boundaries, but I also thought you were smart enough to figure that out yourself. Apparently, you aren’t. So listen to what I’m saying. I don’t care anymore. I don’t know if I ever really did. Maybe it was just new and fun or maybe it was pity or something in between, but I am so far beyond the realm of anywhere close to missing you that it makes me want to puke. So one more time, I’m going to tell you. Not everything is about you. Nothing I ever do will be about you. Your incredible vanity is matched only by your vast insignificance.  And I am more than could bes and might have beens. So are you.