200words.

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.

I googled dark and Roethke, thinking I’d just pull a poem from the
Internet for this week’s submission and thinking that Roethke must’ve
surely written something on the topic. I can still see images from
poems of his I read in high school. Busted geranium pots, foul mouthed
alcoholic fathers, headlights dieing as the blizzard sets in.

Theodore Roethke’s poem “In a Dark Time” came up at
http://gawow.com/roethke/poems/231.html along with the notion that, “If you’re a fan of his work it’s probably because of this piece.” The poem is ridiculous. Who knew this was how people found Roethke?

I’ve been reading a collection of his letters. Short self-referential
little numbers that make the modern email look elaborate. He’s writing from the University of Washington. It’s sunny in Seattle when I picture him in his little cottage.

A steady storm of correspondences!
A night flowing with birds, a ragged moon,
And in broad day the midnight come again!

What is it with the dark and hyperbole? What gives it permission? Not only three headed circus freaks but three headed circus freaks where one of the heads has a particularly tragic story. Not only stormy nights but bloody murders and curses!

The dark tempestuous sky, eerie and unnatural for early afternoon
Ceaseless thunder crashing, jarring teeth and earth
Dark water accumulating, first in puddles and then into streams
And soon the dirt road is no longer visible

Inside the dark house it is unusually quiet
No power, no television, no fun
Filling the empty space with calm games
This inner silence does not last

Her dark shape coming in from the garage
Naked save for a white sheet slowing darkening
Illuminated in a flash of lightening arterial blood gushing
Seeping into the cracks between the floor tiles
Staining the baseboards

A darkness fell over the house as her lifeblood seeped out
Quick, call for help! but the phone is out
Quick, run for help! but the streets are flooded
Quick, swim for help! through the dark watery street

Finally, finally the darkness is broken
Flashing lights and screaming sirens
The gathering of the lifeless form in sheets no longer white
Taking her away through the dark empty streets
And the only thing she thought to say was “You stupid bitch”