That Awkward Moment When You Are A Writer Who Doesn't (Ahem) Write

I'm a gonna wander through Wikipedia's list of genres. & write something. anything. Quality is no longer the issue. Quantity is the issue. To Hell with how good or bad or ugly it is. It needs to be. It needs to ... is. Blah. I turn away from the implications of this paragraph with eyebrowraised disgust.

Drama - stories composed in verse or prose, usually for theatrical performance, where conflicts and emotion are expressed through dialogue and action

Conflicts & emotion. That's it, is it, Wikipedia? Hohum - I think I can work with that (rather narrow) definition.

No Drama - A One Act Play

Scene One

A savanna. Night. From somewhere, unseen, owls (or things that sound like owls) hoot. Two women stand in the midst of it, wearing nothing.

Woman One: It is curious, is it not, that it is we who are presented, as though we had torn our ways through paper bags, like half-dead cats, out of all possible people in all possible worlds...

Woman Two: This is the only possible world. I haven't seen another one. Have you?

Woman One: Only when I have slept. & then I seem to have remembered...

Woman Two: I don't remember. Anything. At all.

Woman One: That is because you are stupid. Besides - you do, or you wouldn't remember what not remembering was. That is why you are stupid.

Woman Two: I hate you.

Woman One: I know.

Out of the darkness, a winged chameleon flaps incongruously feathery wings & hovers before Woman One.

Woman One, prostrating herself: O! Lord of the lamplight! Lady of the shade!

Woman Two, cowering: Why? Do you come hither & make us afraid?

Winged Chameleon, flapping: How else is life to live upon The Earth?

Woman Two, laughing maniacally: This?!? This?!? The Earth?!? Don't make me laugh, serpent!

Woman One, spreading her legs: Come reproduce yourself within my cunt.

Woman Two, covering her face with her hands: Not this again! O God! O God! Not this!

Winged Chameleon: Go fuck yourself.

Winged Chameleon hovers before Woman One's ... cunt ... & flaps furiously, while she writhes & moans in simultaneously disturbing & comic orgasmic paroxysms. It then flies away, painfully slowly, while the Women stand in awkward silence. 

Woman Two: & when will you give, well, birth, to the beast?

Woman One: You needn't talk in iambic pentameter anymore. The Winged Chameleon has gone.

Woman Two: Gone where, though?

Woman One: I don't know. How should I know?

They stand in silence for a full thirty seconds, shifting awkwardly about as though they wished there were something they could do to occupy themselves, but there was not.

Woman Two: Do you think it possible that you are mad & that I am conjured up by your madness & -

Woman One: Don't be ridiculous. You can't be solipsistic that way round.

Scene Two

 
All is darkness, except for a spotlight, which falls upon the Winged Chameleon, which flaps slowly throughout, as though hovering.

Winged Chameleon: It might as well be thus. It might as well. This world's a heaven. It's also a hell.

Disembodied Voice: This world's a hell. It's also a heaven. Studying history, & Nye Bevin?

Winged Chameleon: I do not study. I impregnate.

There is a pause, in which the rush of a mighty stormy gale is heard. 

Winged Chameleon: But only those two. Why only those two?

Disembodied Voice, laughing with impossible eeriness: You are not the only Winged Chameleon.

Winged Chameleon: Yes, I know, but-

Disembodied Voice: Silence!

Scene Three

 A savanna. Night. From somewhere, unseen, owls (or things that sound like owls) hoot. One woman stands in the midst of it, wearing nothing but a polo necked jumper.

Woman Two: Why is it thus? But it was ever thus./As long as my memory will serve me./Who next? Not me. It's never me. Who next?/Split open to slake the thirst of the ground.