Keep your creativity flowing with Fishamble's #TinyPlayChallenge
In these challenging times, Fishamble - along with many of our colleagues in the wider Irish artistic community - is working hard to keep imaginations lively, communities engaged - and most of all offer people the opportunity of creative expression. We asked our audiences: Would you welcome the challenge of exploring your thoughts and feelings through drama? Do you have a dramatic story that you feel the urge to work out for yourself, and maybe share with your fellow citizens? Below is one of the chosen plays from our global submissions. Lights. Audio of rain, continuous. Stage middle, a woman in late-twenties – Herself – sitting on left of armchair before a barricaded door, staring left as if into unfathomable depths. A man – Himself – appears from right of stage, pacing, sitting upon armchair, reaching right-arm out. Herself accepts his touch. Herself: Would have wanted children. Himself: Would a’ like to’ve been a dad. Herself: Have sons. Himself: Daughters. HERSELF TWISTS TOWARDS HIMSELF. Herself: Daughters? Himself: Daughters, aye. Teach em bou butterflies. Bees. Herself: They’ll be missed, bees. Himself: But remembered. Herself: Not remembered. Mythologised like all abused things. Himself: Could’ve given our daughters mythic names. Naturey names. Herself: Names like Roan. Willow. Ash. Himself: There’ll be ash enough. In the end. Herself: In an end we’ll see. We’d have been good parents in better times. HIMSELF STARES AT HERSELF. Himself: You’d be a mighty mother in monstrous times. Herself: Burning times. Himself: Dying times. Herself: Times of silence and noise. Himself: Big hard-boy noise. Herself: Absolute bitches of words. Himself: ‘Catastrophic.’ ‘Unprecedented.’ ‘Unimaginable.’ Herself: ‘Acidification.’ ‘Biocide.’ ‘Pyrocene.’ Himself: Biblical stuff. Herself: Sci-fi crap. Himself: What would her first words be? HERSELF LETS GO OF HIMSELF. Herself: Only one daughter? Himself: There’d be only time and space for one, if one at all. Herself: One’s enough. Himself: Nuff to invest in. Herself: Better be good first words. They’ll be the first of the last of all words. Himself: Best teach her right. Herself: No arsehole-words. Himself: No ‘mortgages.’ Herself: No ‘quantitative-easing.’ Himself: No ‘ethnic-cleansing.’ Herself: No ‘asset-liquidation.’ Himself: No ‘algorithmic-governmentality.’ Herself: No ‘neoliberalism.’ Himself: No ‘vulture-funds.’ Herself: No ‘bear markets.’ Himself: Just actual bears. Herself: Actual words. Himself: Gorgeous useless truthful words. HERSELF RISES OFF ARMCHAIR. Herself: Then let’s teach her the language of soil and rain. Himself: Like ‘Quagga?’ Herself: Yes! Quagga! Himself: And ‘Eucalyptus.’ Herself: ‘Platypus.’ Himself: ‘Spermaceti.’ Herself: ‘Okapi.’ Himself: ‘Binturong.’ Herself: ‘Wobbegong.’ Himself: ‘Rorqual.’ Herself: ‘Quetzal.’ Himself: ‘Gorilla.’ Herself: ‘Sequoia.’ Himself: All the words. Herself: The words that matter. CEASELESS BANGING AT DOOR. Himself: But the world’s been wrote off. Herself: We’ve rode it into the ground. Himself: Some more than others. Herself: Oh we’re all complicit. In the screwing over – Himself / Herself: –of each other. Himself: Of everything. HERSELF SITS AGAIN. Herself: Everything that was to be hers. Himself: What’ll we do? Herself: Have sex. Himself: Global-warming orgies. Herself: Picture it. Us two. Riding. On the beach. Wave coming. Himself: Fires spreading. Herself: Birds falling. Himself: Fish floating. Herself: Us two going at it like beasts. Himself: Riding back to our roots. Herself: Best way to go out. Bang. Bang. Himself: Pop. Herself: Middle-fingered F.U. to the apocalypse. Himself: Get stuffed, Doomsday! Herself: Piss off, Ragnarok! HIMSELF HOLDS HIS HEAD. Himself: Christ Jesus. We’re not even thirty. Herself: She wouldn’t reach thirty. Himself: Did our parents contend with this. Did theirs? Herself: They’d their battles too. Their great wars. Himself: But we’ve the war on everything. Must we accept the selfishness of bringing a daughter into a world upping sticks and checking out? Herself: Then let’s not. Himself: Not have a child? HERSELF STANDS, LIFTNG HIMSELF FROM ARMCHAIR. Herself: Not let this stop us. AUDIO OF RAIN TURNS TO THUNDER. BANGING AT DOOR INTENSIFTING. Himself: Ok. Herself: Yes? Himself: Let’s have a child. HERSELF PLACES HER FOREHEAD AGAINST THAT OF HIMSELF, CRYING ANGRILY, DEFIANTLY. Herself: Our wild child. Himself: Our climate queen. Herself: Our ecocide empress. Himself: Our living breathing daughter. Herself: Our daughter who’ll live and breathe. Himself: Who’ll outlive this. Herself: Outlive everything. LIGHTS OUT. AUDIO OF STORM AND BANGING PEAKING, FADING. Ryan is a twenty five year old artist and writer, who graduated from University College Dublin in 2017 with a Masters in Creative Writing. He is originally from Gorey in Wexford. He had formerly been teaching English before the virus, and he is hoping to pursue a career as a novelist, artist, and environmental activist. Most of his creative work explores issues of climate change, biodiversity loss, sexuality, mythology and spirituality. Some of his artwork is featured on his instagram account @ryan.murphy73550.
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Keep your creativity flowing with Fishamble's #TinyPlayChallenge
In these challenging times, Fishamble - along with many of our colleagues in the wider Irish artistic community - is working hard to keep imaginations lively, communities engaged - and most of all offer people the opportunity of creative expression. We asked our audiences: Would you welcome the challenge of exploring your thoughts and feelings through drama? Do you have a dramatic story that you feel the urge to work out for yourself, and maybe share with your fellow citizens? Below is one of the chosen plays from our global submissions. (Three women on stage. They hold pictures of hands.) WomanOne: This is the picture of my father’s hands. You know them. They would give you your sausage, pepper, and onion sandwich out the window of his food truck. Everyday. No matter. His hands cut the food, cooked it, assembled it and then gave it to you dripping with sauce. You would ask for extra napkins. WomanTwo: These are my mother’s. She wrote books. She made quilts. For family. Friends. She knitted shawls and sweaters. She adjusted my father’s ties with them. She would pat them on her knee as she read a book. Pat pat, pat pat. WomanThree: My brother’s. He built tables. Dining tables. Come to the table everyone. He built beautiful tables. WomanOne: My father died from this. He’s buried on Hart Island. Our Potter’s Field. Too many dying at once. There’s no time for funerals or wakes or any of the proper rituals. Load them up and bury them quick. Line one on top of the other, on top of the other, on top of… He wanted to be cremated. He picked out the urn years ago. The Funeral home made me pay for it though I have nothing to put in it. WomanThree: That’s horrible. WomanOne: Yes. WomanTwo: Maybe his apron. Did he have a favorite? WomanOne: He did. Your mother? WomanTwo: In one of the refrigerated trucks waiting to be buried or something. I wanted to go and put my arms around the trucks. All of them. Not just for my mom, for all the people but no one’s allowed near. WomanThree: My brother was early on. Got a virtual Funeral which he would have said “Wow I’m like a Star Trek Episode.” His hands built tables for people to come together and enjoy a meal, a conversation, a laugh. His hands. And now they say don’t share with your hands. Don’t reach out with them. Keep them to yourself. They’re dangerous. But they’re what we hold with, what we create with. WomanOne: We high five with and shake with. WomanTwo: We snap, tickle, and blow kisses with. WomanThree: We bake and knead with. WomanOne: We zip and button with. WomanThree: And lift with. WomanTwo: We catch balls and hold babies with. WomanOne: Some talk with them. (WomanOne does the sign language for “Hello?”) WomenThree: We build bridges and ships and planes and buildings with these. (WomanThree holds up her hands.) WomanOne: We make paintings, sculptures, music with them. WomanTwo: We mend bones, hearts, lungs, lives with them. WomanOne: We love with them. WomanThree: We pick each other up with them. WomanOne: We write letters, thank you cards. WomanThree: Sympathy and birthday cards. WomanThree: We applaud with them. Every night, everywhere, everyone applauding to all those helping. To all those caring.To all those saving and losing and getting up again and doing it all over because we never lost hope. (Three starts applauding she is quickly joined by one and two. They face the audience. The clapping turns to a rhythm. Now they are dancing with the clapping. This is a celebration of hands. It reaches a crescendo of clapping sound and dancing and then is lights out. Silence Done.) Holli Harms is a playwright, screenwriter. She is a member of Dramatist Guild, Ensemble Studio Theatre, NYWFT, and on the board of Women In the Arts and Media Coalition. She is guest Lecturer at School Of Visual Arts College (SVA) NYC, as well as, screenwriter for SVA. She has been awarded the Dramatist Guild Fellowship, EST/ Sloan Grant, Terence G Hall Fellowship, TNT Pops Winner, and Three Time Winner of Austin Film Festival Second Rounder. Her Short Narrative Film, Icarus Stops For Breakfast continues to win awards. She lives in Manhattan with her husband, daughter and dog. Visit her website @ holliharms.com. Keep your creativity flowing with Fishamble's #TinyPlayChallenge
In these challenging times, Fishamble - along with many of our colleagues in the wider Irish artistic community - is working hard to keep imaginations lively, communities engaged - and most of all offer people the opportunity of creative expression. We asked our audiences: Would you welcome the challenge of exploring your thoughts and feelings through drama? Do you have a dramatic story that you feel the urge to work out for yourself, and maybe share with your fellow citizens? Below is one of the chosen plays from our weekly submissions. A monologue, for anyone. Note: each moment continues past where the sentence stops. **** Recently I haven’t been able to-- Haven’t been able to fini-- Every sentence just seems t-- Every time I try t-- As much as I try I-- I can never just-- I haven’t always-- This is-- This is-- This isn’t something I-- And it’s not because of-- It’s-- Things have-- Everything has-- Since… As you can-- As I’m sure you-- It makes it very difficult to-- To-- Or-- Or even-- … Do you know what I—? … Never-- Never my-- My-- It makes me seem-- Getting off buses, not able to-- And at work only-- It’s made me a stranger to my-- To my-- Even I don’t-- … I’m-- The first time this-- It was-- I was-- Now, I hadn’t been on a-- If you could call it a-- And the restaurant was-- And she was-- And I thought it’d-- I obvious didn’t think that-- And it wasn’t until we-- And the waiter is-- And no words are-- It just keeps-- And there’s nothing I-- Nothing I-- And I’m try-- And she’s-- And all I can-- And the waiter is-- And I just-- Couldn’t even call her a-- That sounded like-- Let’s just say their wasn’t a-- Wasn’t a-- I’ve seen a-- Just so you-- They say it’s something I-- “Can’t go over it, must go—“ It’s all up-- And I do wonder-- I do wonder why it’s-- And I’ve tried but-- … As if I don’t-- In prison, you get given a-- Given a life s-- And I’ve been think-- I’ve been-- What if life is a-- Is-- Just words that-- With a-- Do we all just have a-- And those few words are-- And then it’s—? … I know why I-- Why I can’t-- I can’t fini-- Can’t finish-- Can’t-- If life is just a s-- Then what was your—? Did your sentence go—? Did it just—? And I feel like I am-- That I’ve-- That everything has gone incompl-- All my memories are-- All my ideas are-- Without you to-- Without-- And that’s why I-- That’s why I don’t-- Because if I-- Well then does that mean-- Does that—? I don’t want to-- And I think that if I-- Then you’ll be-- You’ll-- And I-- So I-- And I know it’s-- It sounds-- It sounds absolutely-- But-- But-- But nothing is worth saying if I can’t say it to you. Rían is a playwright from Dublin, based in Navan, Co. Meath and Edinburgh, Scotland. Keep your creativity flowing with Fishamble's #TinyPlayChallenge
In these challenging times, Fishamble - along with many of our colleagues in the wider Irish artistic community - is working hard to keep imaginations lively, communities engaged - and most of all offer people the opportunity of creative expression. We asked our audiences: Would you welcome the challenge of exploring your thoughts and feelings through drama? Do you have a dramatic story that you feel the urge to work out for yourself, and maybe share with your fellow citizens? Below is one of the chosen plays from our global submissions. Lights up on the kitchen/dining room of a modest three bed semi-detached house in Dublin. It is cosy, lived-in and spotless – a well cared for home. A worn out dog lies sleeping in his bed beside the fridge. MAUREEN and DECLAN, a married couple in their 50’s enter at a pace. / indicates the next line cuts off a character mid sentence. MAUREEN No, I’ve had it! DECLAN Maureen/ MAUREEN I mean it this time! DECLAN Calm down love/ MAUREEN NEVER the appropriate response Declan! DECLAN Sorry, I know, I do know that, isolation brain, just sit down till I make ye a cup of tea! DECLAN proceeds to make tea. MAUREEN Tea isn’t going to fix this one pal! DECLAN Pal? MAUREEN Yeah! DECLAN That’s a new one. MAUREEN I know I said they were all welcome but I was only really being polite! DECLAN You used to love them all being here! MAUREEN I know! I did! I really did! For little SNIPPETS of time though! DECLAN Well there’s no going back now I’m afraid. MAUREEN One of them could go… DECLAN And how do you propose to make that choice diplomatically? MAUREEN I don’t know. Last in first out? DECLAN Last in… like, last one of our children born, or last one to bag an other half? And just the biological offspring’s other half or does the child get the boot too? MAUREEN You’re purposely complicating this. DECLAN You don’t have the heart. Suddenly the Friends theme music blares from the sitting room next door. MAUREEN I could find it. DECLAN Look at the place. MAUREEN What? DECLAN Look at this room! Spotless! MAUREEN And? DECLAN Well I didn’t do that. MAUREEN What’s your point Declan? DECLAN And look at Rusty! That dog hasn’t seen the likes of the walking he’s getting these days since he was a pup. MAUREEN He’s worn out, the poor fucker. DECLAN He’s delighted! And when’s the last time you cooked a dinner? MAUREEN I cook! DECLAN The roast of a Sunday and only because you won’t let anyone else near it for fear it won’t meet your standards! MAUREEN There’s a very specific skill to gravy that young people do NOT appreciate. DECLAN They won’t be here forever. MAUREEN I know. DECLAN And, isn’t it nice to have a busy house again, for a bit? MAUREEN Busy is an understatement. DECLAN I know the place wasn’t necessarily built to take 8 adults/ MAUREEN And three dogs! DECLAN The other two are only small, Maureen. MAUREEN I heard them last night. DECLAN What? MAUREEN From the attic. There’s that floor board that creaks, ye know. I couldn’t sleep so I was up reading and… they must’ve waited till the middle of the night but/ DECLAN Oh. MAUREEN Yeah. DECLAN Right. MAUREEN I believe the term is ‘TMI’. DECLAN Not ideal. MAUREEN No… DECLAN But hey, you want Grandkids so… MAUREEN Declan! Jesus wept. DECLAN It could be worse. MAUREEN How? How could it be worse? DECLAN Sure if they weren’t here, we wouldn’t be able to see them at all. MAUREEN …I suppose. DECLAN And you’d be sick of the sight of me by now. MAUREEN Never. MAUREEN gives DECLAN a quick kiss. MAUREEN You’ve the patience of a saint. DECLAN I learned from the best. With that, the kitchen door crashes open to reveal AMY, ROCCO & DIMITRI, DECLAN AND MAUREEN’s eldest daughter and her two French Bulldogs. ROCCO & DIMITRI immediately run to RUSTY, waking him up to play, barking and scrapping. AMY is wearing a giant sombrero, is laden down with shopping bags & very excited about… AMY FAJITAS!!! BLACKOUT. Clare Monnelly is a writer and actor. Her first play Charlie’s a Clepto was nominated for two Irish Times Theatre Awards (Best New Play, Best Actress) and the Stewart Parker New Playwright Bursary. Her second play minefield premiered at the Dublin Fringe Festival 2019 and was nominated for three Fringe Awards (Best Design, Fishamble New Writing Award, First Fortnight Award). As an actor she has worked with Druid, the Gate, the Abbey and Livin Dred among others and on screen for RTÉ, Sky One and TG4. She is an alumnus of Irish Theatre Institute’s Six in the Attic programme. Keep your creativity flowing with Fishamble's #TinyPlayChallenge
In these challenging times, Fishamble - along with many of our colleagues in the wider Irish artistic community - is working hard to keep imaginations lively, communities engaged - and most of all offer people the opportunity of creative expression. We asked our audiences: Would you welcome the challenge of exploring your thoughts and feelings through drama? Do you have a dramatic story that you feel the urge to work out for yourself, and maybe share with your fellow citizens? Below is one of the chosen plays from our global submissions. DA and SON in a car, at the side of a road, waiting. A news bulletin plays on the radio: ’Today’s covid-19 figures see a rise. . .’ DA: For god sake. . .sick of it. Do they really need to be ramming it down our throats 24/7. SON: Here comes the hearse now. DA: Turn that radio off. SON: Right. DA: Wind down the window. SON: Why? DA: Because I farted, what do ye think ye big eejit, it’s a mark of respect. SON: Is it? DA: Shhh. Here he is. Father and Son bless themselves as the hearse approaches. The driver has a mask on him, shocking. SON: Is that to stop him from getting it or from passing it on? DA: Ask him. SON: Shut up. DA: Probably to keep the smell of your uncles feet out of his nostrils. SON: That’s awful Da. DA: I’m not joking. He was notorious for it. SON: Notorious for smelly feet? DA: Ah, there’s your mother in the car behind the hearse, wave at her. SON: I’m not fucking waving, it’s a funeral not a papa visit. DA: Not one person walking behind the hearse. Awful. It’s no way to go. SON: I know. DA: He’d be disgusted. A showman your uncle was, people would hang on just for a sing song with him. Honestly. SON: So I’ve heard. DA: This is just not right. SON: They’re slowing up? Son sticks his head out the window. Some sort of traffic jam. DA: This road, a glorified lane, fuckin council, it should be one way traffic and that’s it. SON: Yeah alright Da, I haven’t the head for you banging on. DA: Where did you put my bag. SON: In the back. Your not cracking into them already are ya? DA: With this bottleneck traffic. We’ll be hear for a while yet. Da opens the bag. You big eejitt ye, you forgot me glass. SON: Oh did I? Sorry. DA: Sorry? Is that it. Can’t drink Guinness out of a can. SON: Ye can, same thing, it’s all a myth that pouring shite. DA: Sometimes I wonder about you, your not dealing with the full deck at all. SON: Look at poor Ann. DA: God help her, she’ll be lost without him. SON: The drivers getting out of the hearse now. DA: Jaysus. Get out and see what’s happening. Son gets out of the car, then returns. SON: Your not going to believe this, a collision up ahead, nothing is moving either way. Turn on the radio we might get a traffic update. DA: You’ll do no such thing, that’s a mark of disrespect to the dead. SON: Don’t know which is worse uncle Derek dying or being stuck in a car with you. DA: This isn’t right. SON: So you keep saying but there’s nothing we can do about it, this is the new reality for everyone Da. DA: Not for me son. Not for your uncle Derek. Da opens the car door, he tries to hoist himself up onto the roof of the car but fails. SON: Have you completely lost it? DA: Push me up. SON: Are you for real? Beat. DA: Please? Son reluctantly gets out of the car and walks around to the passenger side. Son gives his Da a boost onto the roof. DA: (shouting) Right folks, come on, wind down your windows, come on, Ann, you too love, wind down your window while your waiting, that’s it. This is one of Dereks numbers - (singing) ’when no-one else can understand me’ Come on son? SON: (barely audible) O oh oh oh. DA: ‘When everything I do is wrong’ SON: (embarrassed but audible) O oh oh oh DA: 'You give me hope and consolation’ SON/ANNE/MOTHER: ‘O oh oh oh’ DA: ‘You give me strength to carry on.’ The End. Eric is an actor who indulges with some writing from time to time. Keep your creativity flowing with Fishamble's #TinyPlayChallenge
In these challenging times, Fishamble - along with many of our colleagues in the wider Irish artistic community - is working hard to keep imaginations lively, communities engaged - and most of all offer people the opportunity of creative expression. We asked our audiences: Would you welcome the challenge of exploring your thoughts and feelings through drama? Do you have a dramatic story that you feel the urge to work out for yourself, and maybe share with your fellow citizens? Below is one of the chosen plays from our global submissions. The land: We’ve been meeting this way since centuries You the messenger, I the sentry and there’s no ending of us, no ‘eventually ... ‘ And I love you when you’re like this- When you’re a tender brush against my grassy wild-flowered cheek And the light’s low over Achill and all arguments are put to rest And you’re soft-spoken and you bring me news of the dolphins and the basking sharks and the news from the islands and what the fish are learning in schools. We’re a slow dance on nights like this When you’re tender-tongued and I accept the kiss. Yes, I love you when you’re like this, But some nights there’s crashing eruptions- You get all wild-tempered-hurled-insults and foam-mouthed spitting And you lash out, throwing everything at me in one great fury All riled up beyond taming or talking, such a change comes over you, a great change comes And all your affection’s gone, gone too your soft way, And there’s nothing for it but to wait ‘til you change again Because I love you when you’re like this, too, all overcome and beyond reason Brutally honest and unleashed, all madness released and no mention of why the change- no call to justify the change, there’s only the change itself, full and felt with each wild wave- Until you change again, and no more thought’s given. Stoic, I, the land, and you, the sea, forgiven. The sea: You who watches the changes in me Sure we’ve been meeting this way since centuries You, stood there at the beginning and the end of me, unconditionally You the resolute listener and I the sweet-talker that has you doe-eyed listening to the lapping sound of me Bringing you the news from the islands, and the singing of the shoals Softly telling you the depth of me and the many tears wept in me And to hear in turn, the news of the cattle and the wild-flowers The roots of the tree-talk and the fairies and the field-hours Exchange of the scent of the gorse for cooling your rock-face with glistening fan Our mutual-ness understood And I love to be this way with you and each time this way I swear I’ll remain But then the change comes over me again And my blue eyes roll wild and I roll wild against you And everything is shattered and cast against you And I’ve killed men this way, I’ve broken ships and I’ve broken bits of you In my surges of anger I’ve risen up and flung everything at you Blind howling, pure aggression, all changed, a great change, Brutal and baying, unprovoked, stoked by some signal I can’t control And all my affection’s gone, gone too thesoft way, Gone the sentiment, gone the sweetness of the day, all changed And the deep belly of me rumbles and bared-teethed I fight you And spite you and I forget everything we agreed upon before. Turned against you and railing, until I exhaust myself into slumber and rest– Gentle, soft crest and changed again, beyond heroic. Forgiven, I, the sea, and you, the land, stoic The bird: Witness, I, to their history, The stoic land and the changing sea. Of late, Patrick is living down west, looking across the water at Clare Island and Inisturk. He loves to play the piano and to sing. He's been living a long time before now, in a city, which it seems wasn't the right place for him at all. Patrick loves the sound and the feeling of laughter. He has a big grá for the sea. He was a hurling man for a long time. He is trying to learn the difference between a robins and a wrens song. He managed to set the baby potatoes on fire making the dinner today. Find Patrick on instagram @ihaveatribe. Keep your creativity flowing with Fishamble's #TinyPlayChallenge
In these challenging times, Fishamble - along with many of our colleagues in the wider Irish artistic community - is working hard to keep imaginations lively, communities engaged - and most of all offer people the opportunity of creative expression. We asked our audiences: Would you welcome the challenge of exploring your thoughts and feelings through drama? Do you have a dramatic story that you feel the urge to work out for yourself, and maybe share with your fellow citizens? Below is one of the chosen plays from our global submissions. Night. A living room in almost complete darkness. PHIL, a middle-aged woman, curled up on the couch, the telly on low. She’s been crying. The front door opens, and her husband DENNIS enters. He pulls his coat off. DENNIS: You’re still up PHIL: I couldn’t sleep. DENNIS: I met Mae. She said she called, you didn’t answer. Were you out? PHIL: No. DENNIS: I told her to come around tomorrow. She wants to show you those photos. She thought maybe the two of you could go for something to eat or .... into town. Phil. PHIL: What DENNIS: ...... I’m going to bed. Are you coming up? Right. Goodnight. (He exits upstairs. A minute or two passes. He comes running back down the stairs) DENNIS: You cleaned out his room. Phil. Look at me. You cleaned out his room! PHIL: Don’t shout at me. (He turns on the light. In the corner, a pile of boxes – duvets, posters, a lamp – an entire room) DENNIS: No. No, that’s not – that’s not staying there, I don’t care, that’s not staying there PHIL: I couldn’t look at it – DENNIS: I asked you, I specifically asked you – PHIL: I couldn’t look at it. DENNIS: We agreed to leave it as it was, you promised me – PHIL: I didn’t throw it out. DENNIS: That’s not the point. PHIL: You’re not here. DENNIS: What? PHIL: You’re never here. You’re always working or running around, carrying on like you haven’t a worry in the world – DENNIS: You had no right touching his stuff without talking to me first PHIL: While I’m here, like a thick – DENNIS: You had no right – PHIL: Then put it all back! Put it all back but when you do, you better lock that door and throw away the key because if I spend another minute lying on his bed, crying and thinking to myself “what if?”, going over it in my head again and again and again – there’ll be nothing left of me. DENNIS: I’ve asked you every day, I’m blue in the face asking you to come out with me or to go for coffee with Mae or to the pictures but you don’t budge, you sit here, day in and day out like a zombie, what else can I do, what can I do? PHIL: Sit with me! (Silence. After a beat, Dennis takes a breath, puts his coat back on) DENNIS: You’re not helping yourself. I know you think ...... but you’re not. It’s going back. I’ll do it myself but it’s not sitting there. Ok? (Silence. Dennis exits. Phil is left alone. The lights fade.) The End. Jamie is an aspiring playwright from Wicklow. He studied theatre performance and later creative writing in Inchicore College and since, has taught theatre in the US. He was chosen as one of ten from two hundred applicants to join AbbeyBegins, an initiative for new writers run by the Abbey Theatre and more recently, in October, took part in the Fishamble playwriting course where the idea for his piece was born. Keep your creativity flowing with Fishamble's #TinyPlayChallenge
In these challenging times, Fishamble - along with many of our colleagues in the wider Irish artistic community - is working hard to keep imaginations lively, communities engaged - and most of all offer people the opportunity of creative expression. We asked our audiences: Would you welcome the challenge of exploring your thoughts and feelings through drama? Do you have a dramatic story that you feel the urge to work out for yourself, and maybe share with your fellow citizens? Below is one of the chosen plays from our global submissions. Two women sit facing the audience in armchairs, two meters apart. THERAPIST sits up straight while CLIENT slouches, feet up. Both are on the phone. C: Sorry about that. I don’t know why Zoom makes me so uncomfortable. T: No problem. So besides the digital fatigue, how do you think you’re handling it? C: (laughs) Which part? T: Any part. The change. C: Uh it comes in waves. Like sometimes it’s fine, or even kinda nice. My mom and I made bread the other day. That was good. Like there are definitely nice moments. I don’t know maybe it’s just that it’s so constant? Like that I’m always with them? T: It’s a really unnatural situation, to be in such close proximity to the same people all the time. C: Yeah, no I know. But like…I don’t know. This is dumb but I was listening to this podcast the other day, just like some comedy thing, and this girl was talking about how much she loves her family. Just like gushing about them. “Wow I know this is obvious but I just love my family so much” kinda like that. T: Okay and how did that make you feel? C: (agitated) I mean I don’t know. Like sad I guess because I started crying. T: And why do you think it made you sad? C: I love my family. I’m not a psychopath. I guess I just couldn’t picture myself being that enthusiastic about it. At least not right now. (Inhales). I’m just so angry all the time. And I feel bad about it. T: You feel bad about being angry? C: Yes. Like guilty. I know we’re lucky that we can be together. And I could probably calm down a little more. Let things go, especially the political stuff. Not actively pick fights. The other night I told my dad that I really respected Sean Hannity’s* work as a performance artist. So like that made him pretty mad obviously. T: Why do you think you do that? C: Probably because I’m angry. It’s like a cycle at this point. (Pause). Our neighborhood is doing this “bear hunt” thing. Have you heard about these? T: No. C: It’s cute. People put teddy bears in their windows and then when parents take their kids on walks they look for them. It’s like a game. I see them when I’m running. There’s this one little girl, she always wears purple rain boots even when it’s nice out, and she gets so excited when she finds one, pointing it out to her mom and stuff. T: That sounds nice. C: Yeah it is. Except the other day I go up to my room and I see there’s this thing on the window. It’s like…swinging slightly. So I go look and it’s this teddy bear that my mom put up. But what she did was she wrapped a string around its neck and hung it from the window. So now I’ve got this weird suicidal tableau being broadcast from my fucking window and some cute little girl in purple rain boots is gonna come along and saying “ooh look mommy a teddy bear.” T: What did you do? C: I took it down. She put one in the attic too. Taped its furry arms to the window. I think that one’s worse, its little nose pressed against the glass. So now when I’m running and I see the teddy bears all I can think is how they’re splayed up against a window. Trapped. Suffocating. Like please, let me out. *Sean Hannity is a conservative pundit on Fox News Grace graduated from Georgetown University in 2018 and since then has mostly been traveling, working, and writing. She worked as the Marketing Assistant for the 2019 Dublin Theatre Festival. Currently, Grace is back in her native New Jersey where she is quarantined with her parents, three younger brothers, and two dogs for the foreseeable future. Keep your creativity flowing with Fishamble's #TinyPlayChallenge In these challenging times, Fishamble - along with many of our colleagues in the wider Irish artistic community - is working hard to keep imaginations lively, communities engaged - and most of all offer people the opportunity of creative expression. We asked our audiences: Would you welcome the challenge of exploring your thoughts and feelings through drama? Do you have a dramatic story that you feel the urge to work out for yourself, and maybe share with your fellow citizens? Below is one of the chosen plays from our weekly submissions. Ben, 11 years old
Louie, 6 years old Two brothers are in their sitting room. They are home alone and playing with a marble contraption. It looks precarious and unsteady. They are rifling through the tub of parts looking for a particular piece. Or really Ben is looking for it and Louie is lolling around impatiently. LOUIE When will mam be home? BEN Soon. LOUIE How long is soon? BEN About as long as it takes to finish building this. LOUIE Do you think she’ll bring us a treat? BEN I hope so. She always does. LOUIE Do you think she’ll bring us jelly tots? BEN Dunno. Depends if they still have them. She said there’s not much left in the shop, remember? LOUIE Like toilet paper. BEN Yeah. LOUIE Are we almost finished? BEN Almost. We’re looking for a small piece. It’s yellow. C’mon, help me find it. LOUIE (picking a random one) Is this it? BEN No. LOUIE But it’s yellow? BEN I know, but it’s not the right one. LOUIE Why can’t we use this one? BEN Because we just can’t. LOUIE Why not? BEN (agitated) Because we just can’t. It has to to be the right piece. That one doesn’t fit. See? (He demonstrates) When we find the right piece this marble will start here and roll the whole way down. Through this bit, and that, and even over the little bridge you built! See? Isn’t that cool? LOUIE Yeah! (They root.) LOUIE I’m hungry. BEN Have another biscuit. LOUIE I want pasta. BEN We’re not allowed to use the cooker. Remember? LOUIE When will mam be home? BEN Soon, I said. LOUIE Can we ring her? BEN No. LOUIE Why not? BEN Because she’s busy. She’s working. LOUIE At the shop? BEN Yeah. (They keep rooting) LOUIE Can I put the marble in when we’re done? BEN Of course you can. LOUIE Ok! (They keep looking.) LOUIE (frustrated) Why is the part so small? BEN Well, it’s like your jigsaws. Sometimes the most important part is the smallest one. The one that looks like it’s not gonna do anything. But then when you put it in, it completes everything, gets the whole thing moving. The entire contraption won’t work without it. It’ll be like magic when we find it, I promise. LOUIE And when we find it, it’ll be finished and then mam will be home? BEN Exactly. (The rifle for another few moments) BEN Aha! I found it! LOUIE Can I put it in? BEN Yes, but be gentle. Here, let me help you. (They slot the piece in and give the contraption a gentle push to test its balance.) BEN It’s ready. Finally! Ok, here’s the marble. You put it in there, are you ready? LOUIE Yeah! BEN Ok, here we go, 3-2-1… (Louie releases the marble and it runs the whole way through the contraption. They squeal excitedly and do it a couple more times.) BEN See? I told you it was cool! LOUIE Yeah. (Pause. He looks out the window) Where’s mam? You said she would be home when we were done. (Pause. When Louie isn’t looking Ben removes a piece of the contraption so a segment breaks off) BEN Oh no! You know what? This isn’t the right piece after all. We need a different one. LOUIE Really? BEN Yeah, just one more piece! LOUIE Just one more piece and then she’ll be home? Do you promise? (Pause. Ben hesitates.) BEN C’mon, let’s keep looking. CURTAIN. A native of Co.Clare, Claudia is a theatre-maker and scholar based in Chicago. She is currently working as a dramaturg on 'The Battlefields of Clara Barton', a new musical by Suzan Zeder and Jenn Hartmann Luck, and as a playwriting mentor for ASSITEJ's 'In the Works' festival in South Africa. Her first play 'The Wendy House' was staged at Smock Alley Boys' School in 2018. She has directed for numerous Irish stages including Smock Alley, The Complex and The Samuel Beckett Theatre. Claudia is a PhD student at Northwestern University where she explores the relationship between performance and artificially-intelligent machines. Keep your creativity flowing with Fishamble's #TinyPlayChallenge In these challenging times, Fishamble - along with many of our colleagues in the wider Irish artistic community - is working hard to keep imaginations lively, communities engaged - and most of all offer people the opportunity of creative expression. We asked our audiences: Would you welcome the challenge of exploring your thoughts and feelings through drama? Do you have a dramatic story that you feel the urge to work out for yourself, and maybe share with your fellow citizens? Below is one of the chosen plays from our weekly submissions. A bedroom, surrounded by storage boxes and black bin bags. A woman, mid twenties sits centre stage, packing a box. She is flicking through old photographs when she stumbles on one, and examines it before putting it back in the box.
She moves upstage and starts rifling through old clothes. Keep or bin. She picks up a black hoodie. She smells it, lost in a memory. She picks up her phone and dials. A male voice answers. He’s not expecting the call. Hi Brian. It’s Esther. Right yeah, of course you have my number saved- I thought you might have a new phone or- anyway it’s me. Hi. Sorry to ring you, but I’m packing up my room and I’m after finding a load of your stuff- Eh well I found a hoodies. It’s black, from H&M, and actually quite nice quality if you still- sure, yeah I’ll just throw it out with the rest of my stuff. I’m moving out- finally. Found a room in Cabra with some relatively sound people and its only 60% of my pay check each month so you know a steal really. Cabra’s not too far from Stoneybatter, might run into you in the shops sometime- or maybe for a coffee or- Oh I didn’t realise you’d moved. Wow, look at you property ladder- I’ve heard great things about Clongriffen. It’s like the new…. Swords. Congratulations you and- Kate, right, I was going to say Lorna, I don’t know where I got Lorna- home owners! Painful pause. Why did she call him? She’s contemplating hanging up when- You’re right, it is the end of an era. I’m being forced out really- Mam sold the house. After dad the house just had too many- you know- and Conor’s in Canada so it was just a bit big for- Ah don’t worry about it, I wouldn’t have expected you to- what with the house and everything. Things were just so crazy when it happened. No one had a clue how to handle to it- I didn’t. We facetimed him from ICU the night he died. It wasn’t really him though. He was hooked up to a ventilator and was barely conscious. You remember we’d be up in my room and we’d hear him down the back of the garden, roaring his head off at something funny he’d heard or thought of, we never knew what but we’d be in bits just listening to him. It was strange to see him breathless, for once. There were only 10 of us allowed at the funeral- my mam and Conor, few of the aunties and uncles and a couple of cousin’s. I kept thinking it was all a big joke and any minute the doors would fling open and the church would fill with all of the people who knew and loved him, just as dad would jump up in the coffin and say “April Fools”. It would have been nice to have you there. Dad was always asking how you were getting on. A year. Yeah. I feel I’ve seen more of the inside of this room in the past year than I have all my friends together. Even after the restrictions lifted- I just came seem to find the energy. Things won’t be the same. Pause. Sure of course, sorry for unloading- I’ll let you get on with your evening. Bye Brian- tell Lorna I said hi. Hangs up. She flings the hoody she’s still holding into the binbag. She sits down, picks up the photo from the box and holds it close. Blackout. Rosa Bowden is an actor, director and theatre maker from Dublin, usually based in London (but currently locked down in Glasnevin). Rosa has an MA in Theatre Practice from the Gaiety School of Acting and UCD. My theatre credits include Free EU Roaming at DFF/ Bewley's Cafe Theatre (director) Bump at Smock Alley/ Tara Theatre London (co-writer and director) and Get RREEL at Summerhall/ The Vaults (co-director). Most recently, Rosa wrote and performed in Frigid at the Smock Alley Scene and Heard Festival and is looking forward to developing it further this year. Find Rosa on twitter @rosabow_ and on instagram @rosabow. |