200words.

“The god Wodin,” the old man was explaining to Tiny, “sacrificed one of his eyes in exchange for wisdom.  That’s why they say insight lies in darkn –”

“That’s enough,” said Tiny, simply.  “Same time tomorrow.”  He finished putting away the black king and few remaining pawns, checked the old man’s chains, and returned topside.  Perhaps uniquely among individuals bearing that particular nickname, Tiny really was small.  The crew of The Wake was, generally speaking, more bulk than brain matter; Tiny liked to think of himself as a balance to some cosmic equation.  He liked to think, period, and was good enough at it to remain with some regularity within the captain’s good graces.

The prisoner was too old to fetch much silver from the auction block and too frail to be of any use on the ship.  Normally, dead weight and a mouth to feed would have gone over the side straight off.  Luckily for him, though, the night when he and a handful of his friends swam from their sinking vessel to a dubious future at Mercator’s mercy, Tiny had noticed the chess set among his meager possessions.  Raphael Mercator had agreed to give him a chance.

The Dark

Just about pinched.

Pulling out from underneath.

Flecks that I feel.

Feel right.

Feel left.

Nothing.

Something holding.

You too see-

Don’t see.

It’s cool sometimes

Somewhere

Over there.

Seeping again.

The eye of –

The world that-

The light from-

What came before then.

Gerbils in general.

Genesis and genius.

God then.

Twenty one.

Shots.

Grams.

Filling, weighing, waiting.

It collects.

I am.

To take its bits would be

Light.

Lift and break solely

For that I am

You, becoming.

More and more.

Dark then.

God then.

More of it, he, she, it, then, but.

Hold again.

That light.

Nothing.

If only I were once

Caught before

This old.

The word.

World without-

Befalling.

Be to fall.

From being.

From falling.

Yes it waits.

Yes it holds.

Gives off this black

This clear

This wrought-

Forgiving before it begins.

To take us from what-

The leaving.

Ask again.

You feel.

You see.

You feel and see.

Unnoticed.

Entirely gone

Very here.

It sounds sometimes.

Its small hum

Making its arc

Through tiny hairs

A passing off.

Off and on.

Passing.

Peaking,

Its still here.

Summoned.

If you steep me in it

Do I turn.

Yes.

You.

Cast
Dr Horatio Guywire Montalvo Esq : A lantern jawed freemason shunned by his scientific peers for his questionable practice of amphibian vivisections and his utter distain for their belief in “animacules.” The doctor’s demeanor is brooding over the events leading up to the departure of his estranged wife Valorina, mixed with business minded focus on his work.

The Dark: An absence of light; nothingness. Deep thinking and morose. Harmless yet feared. The Dark has difficulties approaching women and is abysmal at sports.

Setting
A well lit study in the upper floors of the Basingstoke Inn north of Westphalia . Several high backed leather chairs surround a worn oak coffee table strewn with books and what appear to be scientific writings. A table in the background is clustered with silver dissection tools and jars of preserving fuild. On the mantle are three pictures of a manish woman in profile. Dr. Montalvo is sitting in the study at the open of the play.

Dr Horatio Guywire Montalvo Esp .:”That’s enough work for tonight. Ill just blow out these candles…” (Enters The Dark) “My lord it’s dark in here!”

The Dark: (depressingly to the audience) Yeah… I get that a lot.

fin

When I was a freshman in high school and stealing my parents’ pot from the flour sifter fitted perfectly into the top of a yogurt lid next to the handle of Usher’s Scotch on the top shelf of the eggshell yellow kitchen cabinet I would shut myself in the dark of my room and get high and sit in front of the little four inch screen of my stepfather’s travel television and burn candles and watch wax melt and drip and run and congeal continuously over and over on top of the landscapes that had been created the night before, god knows what I was doing with and to my brain.

I would lie in bed and close my eyes and listen to the ringing in my ears. The ringing sounded like thousands of balls bouncing off each other falling through space in all directions. The ringing would oscillate and the size and material of the balls would change with the sound but they were never more than one kind of ball at a time. All kinds of balls: medicine balls, ping-pong balls, basketballs, those red rubber balls from gym class and a number of other balls that don’t exist.

I’ve been having nightmares, and they’re getting more disturbing.

Last night, I dreamt that my family and I were in a phildickian version of twenty-second century London. We were in a small dinghy, tied up to a dock on the Thames. The sky was blacked out a la “The Matrix,” and soot covered everything. Storms were rampant, and we were preparing for a tornado, a cyclone, a hurricane, something of that nature. Something windy an awful, bound to capsize the boat and throw us all into the acrid water. And that is precisely what happened. There were other boats around, and I remember that we broke away from our moorings and
were forced into an area that we did not recognize. Just as we made it back to the dock, another storm, more ferocious than the first, stirred up and capsized us. I lost members of my family, trapped underneath the boat, which was upside down and filled with water, and imagined them suffering and drowning. I remember trying to turn the boat, screaming for passerby to help, and being alone. I remember the city in chaos, huge arachnoid machines flying overheard, assessing the damage, spotlights cutting through the dark.