By Forrest Maynock
Scene: A man alone in his room sitting on his bed in silence. Occasional twitching. He is staring at a picture of a dead tree on the wall in his room.
Monologue.
God once told a little story about a bird he used to hang with back in the day, they used to hang in the outback of outer space.
[begins to slowly stand up and turn to face the audience in a pirouette sort of motion, voice is questioning]
The mind is a strange beast; it crawls out and eats your expectations right out of the hands that feed it.
[begins to pace back and forth, thoughtful voice]
The big questions in life are a little too hard to answer but so are trigonometry questions.
[stops and hangs his head slightly while facing the audience, voice is melancholy]
What’s the point? Stupid radish. I think my mind is broken mom…you don’t seem to care; I’ll just drop off the cliff with my cat and dance in the dark without my head. At least you know what you know.
[begins to walk back and forth across the stage very quickly; almost in a power walk, voice is raised now]
Cut. Print. Press…press releases for the edge of midnight are lost right now, but I can light the way Frank.
[stops mid stage, angry voice]
Bob get the hell out man, you stick like rotting onion juice in the sun, and why do you even think the people see your splendor shining in tight quarters of long narrow corridors? Huh?
[erratic movement, maniacal voice]
No answer: from you I least expected a simple tug at the arm or leg or face. You challenge the true authority here. You brigand. Unhand me fool. I will smite your soul in 7…8…9…0…4 days. Can you see me, you mighty jerk? Hmm, no, only a trail of intestines that you dragged through the door on the way in. I slap you my kind twit! What kind of douchery is this? The kind that kills us all in the blink of an atom’s apple. Babbling brook be my trailblazer of guidance and last chance of redemption.
[movement back to stability, voice is calm]
You know who wants it, Yogsloth. He wants your soul and life essence. Trying to equate one’s life to the perils of warping is vastly impossible. The impossibilities are only visible to those who read between the lines of fate. The death of the grim reaper is inconceivable but entirely possible.
[thoughtful pause, asked whimsically]
Your mind is my mind, but whose mind do we belong to?
The Polyphony 