Sharing, as I annually do, the birthday, and indeed nationality of, Mr Samuel Beckett, I have decided to enter the theatrical waters of dramatic creation. The following is what has suggested itself to me, or perhaps is about to suggest itself to me, or indeed may not be about to suggest itself to me, in which case its non-suggestiveness will be manifested by its absence.
ACT 1
Evening. Two figures dressed in old and stained navy suits on a blasted heath. The sky is grey.
FIRST FIGURE: What?
SECOND FIGURE: What?
FIRST FIGURE: What?
SECOND FIGURE: What?
FIRST FIGURE: What?
SECOND FIGURE: What?
FIRST FIGURE: What?
SECOND FIGURE: What?
ACT 2
Night.
SECOND FIGURE: What?
FIRST FIGURE: What.
SECOND FIGURE: What?
FIRST FIGURE: What.
SECOND FIGURE: What?
FIRST FIGURE: What.
SECOND FIGURE: What?
FIRST FIGURE: What.
SECOND FIGURE: What?
ACT 3
Morning. Grey sky.
FIRST FIGURE: What.
SECOND FIGURE: What.
FIRST FIGURE: What.
SECOND FIGURE: What.
FIRST FIGURE: What.
SECOND FIGURE: What.
FIRST FIGURE: What.
SECOND FIGURE: What.
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4 comments:
Good job on Beckett, and Lisbon today.
Thanks. 4 million out of 400 million had to be given the chance to vote, & said no.
Nice. Have to admit that I was waiting for one of the figures to say "True."
It might admittedly be precariously balanced on the point of being predictably repititious, but that very monotonaeity, as you've shown, instils a heightening tension of the possibility of the author's succumbing to the cathartic release of tension that an altered response by one of the characters would engender.
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