Andie Bottrell
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The Sisters Standing

4/11/2013

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She couldn't understand her sister's reaction to the news, but then there was little she was making sense of on that day. Even the weather seemed to be a paradox of sunshine, blue skies and mysterious thunder and rain. It was as if all that she had known and understood about life was slowly fading away to reveal a much more complex and invisible lining that no one had yet, in the history of life, been able to uncover as the real truth of our reality. Perhaps gravity was not gravity and sadness merely a perverse form of happiness. Perhaps love was hate and richness poor. Perhaps up was down and down was sideways and her father's death merely a marking in the passing of time, a joyous occasion for the celebration of the circularity of life. Her sister, Sammy, had just given birth to her third child, the previous two had died shorty after birth. Death was as much a part of her life as life itself. She, our leading hero, is named Abbila, sort of like Attila the hun, except only in pronunciation and not in anyway similar by cause, gender or character.

The news of Abbila and Sammy's father's passing was shocking, but not surprising, in that since their earliest waking memory both had known and understood the inevitability of death. Their mother passed when they were 4 and 5 respectively. Their grandparents passed in quick succession, boom, boom, boom, boom. Every year held a new death of someone close, a cousin, a friend, an aunt, a mentor. Death became almost like a yearly holiday, a birthday, or rather, a death day. There were more death days than birthdays these days. The girls grew up understanding the finality of each decision, each goodbye. This did not mean that death meant nothing, however, it anything they understood it better than most- the bittersweet nuances it held, the layers of grieving, the spirituality seeking, the final acceptance, the need for happy memories. Abbila and Sammy held on to each other through it all like survivors aboard a raft in the midst of a massive and deadly hurricane. They had become to each other and to most others as almost one in the same. Rarely did you see one without the other, even after Sammy got married and Abbila stayed single. Even through each pregnancy and birth and loss of child. Even these differences did little to differentiate them to each other or to others. They were like two fingers on the same hand, strong, unanimous and complementary, if slightly different in height.

Today, however, all that was changing. Abbila took her father's death in the usual custom. She grieved, she cried quietly and recounted happy memories, she made the necessary arrangements and phone calls, she filled out the appropriate forms and made those minor inner adjustments of what her future would now look like. No Father walking her down the aisle, should she ever change her stance on marriage. No more Sunday dates with Father over doughnuts and coffee, perusing and discussing the world's events printed in the newspaper. No more Christmases spent around a cozy fire making up songs together while Father strummed his beloved guitar. No more Father. And that was that, sad and final.

Sammy took the news... Sammy took the news with a laugh. As if a final straw was breaking in the concrete of her core and the crumbling of it tickled her. She laughed like a hyena. She laughed with such gusto it woke her newborn baby in the other room. While the baby screamed and cried, Sammy laughed and laughed. Abbila stood stunned and quietly left to tend to her baby niece. Sammy's husband arrived after a small time and took her in his arms, but Sammy kept laughing. She laughed so hard she contracted the hiccups, which after several hours turned into burps and eventually... vomit. When at last she was quiet, she seemed to turn to stone. She sat, like a statue, on the edge of her bed and stared at the wall. A look of perplexity set into her face, like she was staring at a math equation that was eluding her. Sammy was something of a math whiz, math wonder-kin. She'd given up a mathematical career to focus on motherhood and wifery, but always in her free time she would take to the numbers and calculate her answers ferociously and with great passion and care. Now, however, was in front of her an equation with which she could not make sense nor sound of.

Abbila stood in the doorway, hesitant to speak or move for fear that she may induce in her sister another fit of unusual hysterics. Sammy's husband, Brian, came to join her in the doorway with baby Molly in arm. "Anything?" He asked her. "Nothing," she answered. He retreated like a defeated soldier back into the living room. Abbila took a deep breath and entered slowly. "Is there anything I can get you?" She asked. Sammy shook her head. Abbila sat next to her and like an opposing magnet, Sammy stood and walked to the other side of the room, crossing her arms. "Sammy...?" "I can't. Just- go." Abilla was stunned. Never had they ever not been able to talk or hold each other through their worst of times. Never had one of them ever requested to not be in the presence of the other. "Sammy-" "GO!" "...Okay." And she left. And as she did, the world turned on it's head and all the blood inside her body gushed down to her feet.

When Abbila got home she slid down the front door to the floor. Walking any further into her apartment seemed an impossible feat. She struggled to breath, as if the air had turned to bricks around her, heavy and unforgiving. She worried, as she'd never worried before, that this death may be her sister's undoing, the last loss she could accept. If Sammy could not accept any more loss, if Sammy could not accept this loss... Abbila could not even contemplate it without getting so woozy in the head she felt her consciousness slipping away. If Sammy could not accept the loss, Abbila would lose Sammy and that was the one and only loss Abbila had left to fear. She laid her head on the floor and felt the cold tile with her hands and ear and cheek. Salty tears formed a puddle beneath her head gluing stray hair strands to her skin. She moved her hand rhythmically back and forth and found it soothed her. She moved her hand back and forth until the air released a little of its hostile grip and she found the courage to sleep.

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Fire & Brimstone

4/11/2013

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Picture
This was written as an exercise in Writing Group. We chose this picture (above) and the sentence, "She even climbs into bed the same way." The theme was "Fire and Brimstone." We wrote for 20 minutes.

"Fire & Brimstone"
by Andie Bottrell

EXT. A SCHOOLYARD - DAY
Weeds and tall, brown grass grow up and around the long abandoned playground as if ball-and-chaining them to the ground like prisoners of a forgotten war.

The surrounding town, that's almost entirely viewable from the top of the slide, is likewise empty of new growth and vitality of life. 

A squeaking sound draws our attention to the fence where a chubby little girl licks her lips into a sinister smile before waddling over to the swing set.

SUPER: 1974

The little girl hums while she swings, pumping higher and higher and higher as the wood and chain creak and strain. Just as she reaches the height of her pumping one of the sides of the swings breaks, sending her crashing to the ground so instantaneously that there is neither time for scream or shock. 

Black out.

INT. CABIN - DAY
A slightly chubby woman in her late 20's opens her eyes in a white sheeted bed. Light flows in through the windows and cracks in the cabin logs. An intensely gazed man of 50 with a strong white beard and wild grey eyes comes in from the wintery outdoors carrying firewood which he adds to the fire.

SUPER: 2000

MAN
It's negative 15 degrees if it's 20! She even climbs 
into bed the same way as you did and you're 20 if 
you're 5 still so she's still you and it's still, it's still
winter in Utah, ya know. Fuck cold fu- Fuck! Sorry.

The woman gets out of bed slowly and covers herself in a banket. She looks out the window longingly.

MAN
Hey! So, I went to town again and they're looking
for you, for me, for us, for our bodies. I think I'm
real, but you, you're just imagination. Here, Here.
Kiss me now. It's morning in Utah. Cold as fuck.

The woman stands still. The man kisses her on the neck tenderly and then runs back over to the kitchen area to prepare breakfast. He chops apples. The sound of the knife crunching through the apple and tinging on the metal table meshes in the woman's ears with the metal clanging of the swing, back and forth.

Voices, far off in a distant, untamed memory, call out her name, "Martha!" "Martha!" "Where are you?" "Martha?"

The apple cutting quickens faster and faster and more intense with each chop. Suddenly a scream. She turns. Blood is everywhere. The man has cut off his hand and it is laying on the table still holding the apple.

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Unearthing the Truth

4/11/2013

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This was written as part of a writing exercise in Writing Group.

"Unearthing the Truth"
by Andie Bottrell

Mrs. Leary was a tender old bat, feeble with limbs like bird legs. The way she walked was bird-like, too; her head sort of jutting forward and back with each tiny shuffle of a step. She wore a blue and yellow patterned dress, very worn but also clean. Her hair, grey, black and wispy, circled the top of her weathered head like a crown.

"I once saw," she stopped to catch her breath before continuing on, "two children- ah!" She screamed in delight, grabbing onto little Joey, 9, and Tabitha, 8, both tanned little beings with golden locks and eyes as wide as days, "Two children," she continued, "male and female, at sunset, right here..." she paused again to drag the children into the abandoned building next to her cabin. They entered the building, which, being as it was, in its current state, was not altogether unlike being outside of the building; grass and weeds and trees and animals all inhabited themselves within the half broken walls and sunken in floors. Some trees even threatened to reach the sky through holes they'd conquered in the ceiling. There was an entire wall filled of strange and empty drawers, some open, some half, some missing and one that was entirely closed.

The children gasped in fright. Mrs. Leary laughed and pulled them in closer to her. "These two children, the male and female, at sunset, were right here," she said, elongating the "here" for emphasis as she pounded her tiny foot on the ground, "making love!" She laughed again, almost howling. Joey and Tabitha, uneasy, laughed with her, though they did not understand the joke- if it was in fact a joke.

For years the two had been coming out to play in the woods behind their cousin's house, but never before had they encountered Mrs. Leary or this strange abandoned place with all the drawers. They felt frightened of all the unknowns, but at the same time, Mrs. Leary reminded them of their Grandma Janet-Anne who was always giving them candy and hugs and kisses so they felt a little reassured in her presence. 

"So, do you know what I did?" asked Mrs. Leary.

"What?" Joey asked back.

"I ate them!" she exclaimed, laughing. 

Tabitha screamed, instinctually covering her mouth in horror. Joey's eyes widened even as he smacked his sister and told her to, "Shut up!" and that, "She's just teasing us, dimwit." At that, Mrs Leary became very quiet and crept down so close to Joey's face that he could smell her aging, dying flesh. "I wouldn't joke about something as tasty as children, my boy." Just then, as if on cue, the lone closed drawer sprang open revealing two half-eaten children. Joey and Tabitha screamed and bolted into the woods.
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Table Talk

4/11/2013

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Picture
This was an exercise completed in Writing Group. We used one picture (above), one sentence ("I couldn't tell her not to talk to Johnny, although that's what I really wanted, so I'd sulk around hoping she'd get the message and cut him dead.") and one theme from a book chapters (Table Talk). We wrote for 20 minutes.

TABLE TALK
by Andie Bottrell

Tabitha, of 80 years, had walked the earth- a wanderer. She'd grown up quickly after the death of her family by the hands of a tiny army. Now, for the first time in decades, she stood still. Unmoved in heart or motion. Around her fields of wheat and cotton. A breeze as humid and hot as the world could muster came and seemed to be blowing upwards and at her. Almost a beaconing.

She closed her eyes when the impulse registered and swelled up with all the memories of her life. Swing sets and laughter. Schooling and family dinners. Then, the tiny knocks, the tiny guns, the tiny, tiny, tiny hands of murderers so small you could seem to squish them with a thought and yet, they lived. Indestructible. Destructing all that she had known and loved.

Her eyes opened, paused, and closed again.

A black hawk cawed and once more thoughts from yonder ran foreward.

"I couldn't tell her not to talk to Johnny, although that's what I really wanted. So, I'd sulk around hoping she'd get the message and cut him dead." Her was Solomina. The love of Tabitha's life. Brown, tall, smart and fast as lightening. Tabitha wanted nothing more than to hold her and to run, walk, sit, stay, lay, lay down together with her forever.

After the tiny army killed her family, Tabitha tried to tell Solomina how she felt. There was a knot growing in Tabitha's throat the size of a cantaloupe and she feared she'd choke on her lust if she did not share it, but when she found Solomina she was sat at a tiny table with one of the most vicious members of the tiny army, Johnny Zdrovstvolstoff. He stood a foot and a half tall and was caressing Solomina's nail beds with a great, ferocious delight, whispering in his tiny, high tone how he was going to ravash her into unimaginable ecstasy.

Tabitha stood paralyzed in shock and heartache. How could Solomina accept his touch? This man who had taken everything she'd known and loved. She felt her legs and arms, her hands and face begin to tremble, as if her body could not stand it, would not accept it, could not stand it, would not stand still. Johnny was now climbing the tower of Solomina's elaborate structure and when he reached the top of her left shoulder he suckled on her neck, behind her ear, no doubt whispering more unmentionables, no doubt bragging of his diabolical feats.

The suck, their talk, was then, at once, stilted by the tumbling Tabitha. She'd crashed into the side of the house, caught in fright by an attacking hawk. CAW! CAW! Feathers flew! She'd snatched the fowl's menacing wings by the bare of her hands and shredded them to bits. The cawing ceased. Her hands, blood stained and feathered ran hot over her chest. Tiny footsteps tick-tocked and tip-tapped and for all of one second Tabitha caught Solomina's glance through the window. In that glance the second buoyed and elongated and defied the laws of time as she trembled in a feared betrayal, begged of her Johnny's death, questioned her motives, searched for meaning, and at last, sulked in a final act of deafetist hope. Solomina's only response was a cold, still stare- the kind that can freeze love right on the spot.

From there, that instant, she took off running, never looking back or even sideways. She moved, constantly, she moved and did not stop. And like this she wandered, earth-ridden, downtrodden, heart-broken, but her body seemed determined to simply walk it off. She walked and ran, she wandered and she could not stop. Like this her life passed by her, time running ever just ahead of her, her body in a constant state of motion trying to surpass it in a hopeless effort to leave the past behind.

Her eyes opened once more at the CAW of another hawk, a tiny crowd of hawks had gathered, circling in the sky above her head, ready to descend upon her. The fiery breeze blew up hotter than before and pulled, sucked, burnt through the soles of her warn out, fragile feet. Looking down, in what would be her final act and motion, she found her hands beginning to flow red in anticipation for the at last and much awaited end.
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THE ROCKING CHAIR

4/11/2013

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This is was an exercise done in Writing Group. The rules were: 3 Characters, 20 Min. to write, and we had to pick an object in the room to use. We picked the rocking chair. Here is what I came up with...

THE ROCKING CHAIR
by Andie Bottrell

ARKANSAS BACK COUNTRY – PRESENT DAY

MEMAW PHILLIPS, 86 and always drunk, pulls along AMORPHEOUS, 9 years old and full of attitude and freckles who wears only a baseball cap and jeans. They reach a cabin with a bunch of shit on the front lawn.

                                                MEMAW PHILLIPS
                                    See, look- what’d I tell ya? Garage sale.

                                                AMORPHEOUS
                                    I don’t see no garage.

                                                MEMAW PHILLIPS
                                    Ain’t got to have a garage to be a garage                                    sale, dumbass.

                                                AMORPHEOUS

                                    Then why they call it that?
    
                                                MEMAW PHILLIPS
                                    ‘Cause that’s the way it is.

JENGI, a male in his 50’s with no teeth, walks out the front door with a gun.
       
                                                JENGI
                                    Can I help you folks?

                                                MEMAW PHILLIPS
                                    He’s got a gun! Duck, Amy!

                                                AMORPHEOUS
                                    It’s Amorpheous!

He lifts up Memaw’s dress and hides his head under it.

                                                JENGI
                                    Calm down. I ain’t gonna shoot.
                                    It’s for sale.

                                                MEMAW PHILLIPS
                                    How much?

                                                JENGI
                                    $200. It’s a war souvenir.
                                        
                                                MEMAW PHILLIPS
                                    I’m a war souvenir- how much you
                                    pay for me?

                                                AMORPHEOUS
                                    MEMAW!

He pokes out from under her dress.

                                                MEMAW PHILLIPS
                                    Woman’s gotta eat, son.

                                                JENGI
                                    I’d pay $5 for yer puss.

                                                AMORPHEOUS
                                    I’d pay zero. It smells like bologna.

Memaw hits him upside the head. He runs over to an old rocking chair.

                                                AMORPHEOUS
                                    Cool! It’s like Pepaws!

                                                JENGI
                                    You like that, son?

                                                AMORPHEOUS
                                    Sure do! How much?

                                                JENGI
                                    Not for sale.

Memaw walks over and inspects it.

                                                MEMAW PHILLIPS
                                    Aw yeah, this here’s nice. Don’t squeak
                                    or nothin’ when she rocks.

                                                AMORPHEOUS
                                    Yeah, how come it ain’t got no rickity to
                                    it’s rackity?

                                                JENGI
                                    ‘Cause it’s magic’s how come.

                                                AMORPHEOUS
                                    Aw, shut up. You lyin’.

                                                JENGI
                                    Wanna bet me? How much?

                                                AMORPHEOUS
                                    $1 – my whole allowance.

                                                MEMAW PHILLIPS
                                    Careful, Amy.

                                                AMORPHEOUS
                                    Amorpheous!! $1!!

                                                JENGI
                                    $1 it is. Alright. You ready? Imma send
                                    you to a whole ‘nother dimension.

                                                AMORPHEOUS
                                    Awesome! Do it!

                                                JENGI
                                    In 3, 2, 1!

Jengi spins the rocking chair and kicks it over. The boy falls out and Jengi throw’s a black sheet over him, picks him up and hurls him over his shoulder. Amorpheous squeals in terror. Jengi runs inside with the boy. There is a bright flash of light when they enter the cabin.
                                                MEMAW PHILLIPS
                                    Hey, where you takin' him?

She follows them inside to find the entire house is filled with rocking chairs- nearly all of these rocking chairs are occupied by a little boy holding a gun, rocking back and forth with a blank stare on their face. Jengi places Amorpheous in one of the chairs and he begins to rock with the same blank stare. Jengi places the gun in Amorpheous hand and then approaches Memaw.

                                                MEMAW PHILLIPS
                                    What the hell is this?

                                                JENGI
                                    My army. We gonna rise up one day once we
                                    get to 100 boys and we gonna bring down all
                                    the birds from the sky.

                                                MEMAW PHILLIPS
                                    But why?

                                                JENGI
                                    Don’t gotsta make sense. Just gotsta do it.
                                    Like pissin’ and drinkin’ and…

                                                MEMAW PHILLIPS
                                    And…?

                                                JENGI
                                    Women!

He dips her down and kisses her. She gives in to it. He releases her.

                                                JENGI
                                    Damn fine woman, you are.

Jengi runs over to the door and opens and closes it real fast. The lights go out and then back on. When they come back on there remains only a single rocking chair with Amorpheous rocking in it. He comes to and looks around excited.

                                                AMORPHEOUS
                                    Whoa! Cool! Memaw, I was in an army
                                    and I killed 300 birds! Shot ‘em down
                                    like fighter planes! Peeeeoooow boom!

                                                MEMAW PHILLIPS
                                    …what?

Jengi winks at her.

                                                JENGI
                                    Y’all be on yer way now ya hear.
                                    And have a nice day.

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STOP! HOLD!

4/11/2013

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STOP! HOLD!
Andie Bottrell

He's tall, dark blond, thin and handsome. His fingers, long and bony. Turned sideways he hardly exists. His hair comes down just below his eyelids. His stance is often just slightly left heavy.

She's tall, but not so tall as he is. Her hair is indeterminate. Her skin is fair like his is, but slightly more flawed where his is flawless. She's got a gut around the middle. She's planted on both feet.

He walks in the front door of the apartment. She sits on the floor watching TV, leaning against the bed, eating chips out of a family sized bag. He does not acknowledge her. He sits, back to her, at the kitchen table and opens his computer to "surf" or to type or to finish work or for pleasure.

She is more aware of him than he is of her. He wants to forget his day. She wants to begin hers. Hers begins with him. After a while she shuts off the TV and puts the chips away, ashamed of them. Of herself for eating them. She stands behind him. Her hands rise and want to touch his neck, rub his shoulders, but they hesitate, unsure. Finally she touches his shoulder and he jumps.

TIM
What is it?

GLORIA
I was- I could rub your shoulders, your neck. If it's still... sore?

TIM
Oh.

GLORIA
Okay?

TIM
Yeah. Fine.

She begins.

TIM
Thanks.

GLORIA
Sure. Tough day?

TIM
I guess.

GLORIA
Yeah?

TIM
No. Not really.

GLORIA
Oh.

TIM
What did you do?

GLORIA
You know...

TIM
You should get out more.

GLORIA
You're right.

Tim closes the computer and begins to enjoy the back rub.

She stops.

Tim looks at her. She walks to the bed and lays down. Tim gets up and goes in the bathroom.

Gloria gets out of bed and takes her baggy, sloppy clothes off so that she is only in her panties.

She gets back into bed and tries to hide her gut with her pillow and the covers, unconsciously.

She waits.
And waits.
And waits.

The toilet flushes.

Tim comes back out and turns the light off and gets in bed. Never looking at her.

Pitch dark.

Gloria cries.
And cries.
And cries.

Tim snores.

Gloria gets out of bed, wraps herself in a robe and steps outside. Under a lamplight. A busy city street, now quiet with the dead night.

Gloria speaks honestly. To no one.

GLORIA
Didn't I tell ya? It's at night that I need to be held. I crave food to fill my belly up, shut my mind up, a story, a thousand stories to do the same, but still, even all together, all the food and all the stories, just ain't the same, ain't enough to equate the feeling, the full, satisfactory feeling of bein' held in the arms of the one you love. And it's been far too long since that feelin's been felt, my skin's grown cold and lonesome blue. See, I don't think I know how to even begin a day now, seeing as I never have ever truly woken up. I'm still waiting to be held, so that I can sleep soundly. Still waiting to be loved, so that I can wake up.

She walks down the street until she disappears from view.

Tim snores himself awake with a jolt and sits up. He turns the light on and feels the empty bedside. He gets out of bed and looks around. He sits back down in bed and stares straight ahead.

TIM
I don't find her attractive any more. I don't mean just physically. I don't mean the gut. I mean she's gone somewhere inside her mind and she's gone. It's not fun. It's not sexy. It's stale and don't judge me. Life's short. I'm entitled to my desires, to lightness and fun and to shallow beauty. I'll only be this young once. What am I doing here? I have to get out. I'll grow old here. I'll die here if I stay. She'll take me down with her. (pause) Anastasia. Now there was a woman worth living for. Anastasia. I wonder if she's still at the bar. Maybe it's not too late to change my mind about tonight.

He gets out of bed and gets dressed. He combs his hair, grabs his wallet and keys and heads to the door just as it opens and Gloria comes in hauling a huge, red, street STOP sign, still attached to the pole.

TIM
What on...

She pulls it into the middle of the room, sets it upright with great effort as Tim looks on in amazement, then gets back in bed. Tim looks back at her, then the sign, then her again and leaves.

Gloria looks at the door, surprised, then gets up and looks out the window. She goes over to the Stop sign and drags it in front of the front door, blocking it from opening.

She gets back in bed and turns on the TV.

The TV plays all night, even after she's fallen asleep. The TV plays.

Morning comes. The sun rises. 

Gloria denies the sun it's presence, hiding under her covers. The TV continues to play.

Tim is at the door, but it wont open with the STOP sign blocking it.

TIM
Gloria?

She will not answer him.

TIM
Gloria?

He will not beg her to answer him.

He breaks through the window and comes in and begins packing his bags.  

His bags are packed now and he looks over at her. He sets his bags by the window and sits on the bed. Sits on top of her- her who is under the covers.

She screams. He moves over and lifts the covers up. She looks at him. He looks at her.

TIM
Anastasia Billings. 4023 Iodine Lane. Please forward my mail there.

He touches her face.

TIM
I've grown to become revolted by you and I'm not sure how exactly you've done it. It's sort of amazing, considering how much I loved you in the beginning. I would have killed for you. Now... look at you.

GLORIA
You're being needlessly cruel. I know it all already.

TIM
Yes. Of course.

GLORIA
She will revolt you eventually, too. Anastasia. Whoever.

TIM
Yes. Probably.

GLORIA
It's too cruel. This love you give. I'm beginning to think the problem isn't me-

TIM
Don't be ridiculous.

GLORIA
What was it your Mother called you when you were five?

TIM
Nothing. She never called me anything ugly.

GLORIA
Selfish? You selfish little spoiled brat- wasn't it?

TIM
She was drunk off her ass. She didn't know what she was saying.

GLORIA
So it wasn't true?

TIM
Of course it was. And why shouldn't I be selfish? Who else is there?

GLORIA
Well... not any longer, but for a while, there was me.

TIM
No. There wasn't. That was your mistake. Thinking you were. See, there's never anyone. There's never anyone but you.

Gloria gets up and emphatically points at the STOP sign.

TIM
Yes. Of course. Goodbye then.

Tim starts to leave through the window and Gloria runs, drops to her knees and grabs strong hold of his legs.

TIM
Gloria. Gloria. Do grow up, dear. You'll never make it to the end if you take each departure this hard.

She holds harder. Determined. He wont go.

TIM
Gloria. I don't love you. I'm not real. I don't exist. You're alone and you've always been alone and you'll always be alone and you'll one day die alone and that piece of factuality is for you to come to peace with. Not me. I can't help you. There is nothing left for me to do- to feed your delusions.

GLORIA
Didn't I tell you? It's at night that I need to be HELD!

TIM
But, baby, dear, it's not night any more. It's day. It's daylight now. See?

He tenderly lifts her chin to see out the window. She can't believe it. She squints her eyes, still holding him.

GLORIA
It's... day now?

TIM
Yes. So see? You'll be fine for at least another 12 hours.

GLORIA
Yes. Yes...

She lets go of him and crawls back to lean against the STOP sign.

He starts to go again.

GLORIA
And then?

TIM
And then what?

GLORIA
Exactly. And then what? In 12 hours?

TIM
You'll have your stories and your food. Your food and your stories to pass the time, to comfort you.

GLORIA
How did you know? 

TIM
I lived it. Parallel you. Beside you. I saw how you live. It repulsed me, but I saw it all. Every nose wipe, every weak sexual appetite, every clumsy attempt to figure it all out.

GLORIA
You saw it all? And you didn't love me. You saw it all and now you're leaving me.

TIM
That's exactly it.

Tim leaves through the window.

GLORIA
But you were my prince charming and I was...

She looks up at the sign and points.

She stands up and screams.

GLORIA
STOP!!!!

Pitch dark.

Lights up.

Tim and Gloria sit at the table, in love as ever, picking over a full Turkey on a platter on the table.

TIM
Eat!

GLORIA
I'm not hungry!

TIM
Eat! Eat!

GLORIA
I want only you. 

They kiss.
And kiss.
And kiss.

He picks her up and her legs surround him. He takes her to the bed where they make love.

The lights fade half.

The love making is already over.

He turns the TV on. She gets out of bed and dances, seductively around the pole which turns Tim's head back to her.

He gets out of bed and goes to her once more.

They make love on the kitchen table, next to the Turkey. Tim grabs a bite at one point, during.

She slaps him playfully for it and send him to pleasure her down under.

The lights go black once more and when they come up Gloria is gone and Tim sits on the floor, hanging on to the Stop sign.

TIM
It's no use thinking about it. The greater meaning of things. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. The sex. That's something to hold on to. Right? Afterlife? War? Bombs? God? Meaning? Politics? Don't think on it. You can't change it. You can't even find it on the map of reasoning. You just gotta accept it- or don't- but you can't question it. It exists- same as you- and then... who knows. For now, there's sex.

Gloria comes in the window.

GLORIA
And what if you don't have sex? Then what?

Tim gets up and grabs the Turkey.

TIM
There's food...

And turns the TV on.

TIM
And stories...

GLORIA
So you get it? You really get me, huh? You know what I need.

Tim turns off the TV, puts down the Turkey and looks at her.

TIM
To be held.

GLORIA
At night.

TIM
Come.

GLORIA
Finally. That's right.

She walks to him. He holds her in his arms. He tries to kiss her and she stops him.

GLORIA
What do I need, Tim?

TIM
To be held.

GLORIA
At night.

They get into bed and spoon.

GLORIA
Tell me again. It's so sweat to hear it while it's being done. What do I need, Tim?

TIM
Just to be held at night.

GLORIA
And is that so much to ask, Tim? Of you? Or anyone?

TIM
No. It's not so much. It's the least we can expect.

GLORIA
And you? Do you ever need that, Tim?

TIM
Every single night. Or every other, maybe.

GLORIA
Yes, some nights can be faced alone I guess. Maybe. A few.

TIM
I like the scent of you.

GLORIA
Still? It doesn't revolt you yet? (pause) It's not mine. I bought it. It was my Mother's brand.

TIM
I'll bet I would have liked her.

GLORIA
I'll bet you would have. (pause) What are we doing here?

TIM
Ask not.

GLORIA
Yes. Just stop.

TIM
Yes. Stop.

They hold onto each other forever.

GLORIA
Does it ever feel to you that we are just waiting for the crashing of the end of times?

TIM
It occurs to me all the time. There's nothing we can do.

GLORIA
But stop.

TIM
And hold each other.

GLORIA
I thought I revolted you.

TIM
Turns out, others revolt me more.

GLORIA
Yourself included?

TIM
Of course. Myself included. You too?

GLORIA
Oh, God, yes! Me too. (pause) What time is it?

TIM
It's best, I think, for our sanity that we not continue to ask.

GLORIA
Let's turn on the TV again. I want to hear some stories.

TIM
I'll tell you one instead.

GLORIA
But can you do all the parts?

TIM
Of course.

GLORIA
Okay. (she pulls his arms tighter around her) Make it good.

Lights fade to black.

The end.
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Reprise at Noon

4/11/2013

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After a morning bemoaning my body
while I run my errands on the town,
I slouch into position to begin my work.

iTunes up and a slow jazz song plays
piano keys, some soft horns and a hi-hat
rat-a-tap-tat, ohhh, eeeh, ohhhh.

Okay, I think, okay...

My mind can drift away now,
leave my body and be light as air.
A squiggly line dancing on a blank white page.

And, like that, I reprise at noon.

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All New Things Are Grand

4/11/2013

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Picture
A wintery chill had just taken the usually ungodly hot town captive and sweaters gleefully made their first-born appearance alongside scarfs and the rare, overzealous hat. I, for one, could not have been happier at this. A child of the north, this warmer climate was nice enough but its relentless determination not to ever change got to me sometimes. I ventured out. Mindless errands first. To the bank. To the post. What followed I was open to and the answer came back to me in the traditional way, by way of a passing thought. To the cafe.

The cafe I chose was one from my old neighborhood. I still drove the few extra miles out of the way to frequent the bank there, among other things and the cafe was one of those other things. This cafe was special. Magical. In the back was a room- no, a portal. It sounds queer, but it's true. A portal to another time and place. And it was magical. And the coffee was okay, too. 

I always got a little flutter of excitement as I walked down the sidewalk towards the cafe. This is it, I'd think, just a few more steps. And then... I'd arrive. The front door makes a tiny ting, ting when you open it and immediately all heads in the front of the cafe turn towards you as if to say, "Who's this!!" A phrase that would be woefully intimidating in any other place, but at this one is only filled with excitement and pleasure. As if all new things were grand. 

I walked up to the bar. No line. That's nice. Sometimes there's an ungodly line. Today, no line. The barista was busy with her friends. Two girls, tattood, with attitude and style. I was not intimidated. All new things were grand. She finally turned to me, "What can I get for you?" I studied the menu on the wall above. My hands reading brail on the countertop, but the brail was invisible even to touch. My eyes were running sprints between her eyes and the words scrawled above. Prices. Flavours. "Do you do, like, an iced mocha?" I asked. "Sure. We can do that. Do you want a single or double shot?" "S-s-s-s double," I finally decided. She smiled at me. It might just have been me, but I think she was enamored. 

Her friend turned to me, "I like your sweater." "Thanks." "I do, too," added the barista. "I like your whole outfit," added the other friend. "Thanks," I blushed. "It goes together really well," one of them said. "The best thing ever," said the barista referring to my drink as she handed me my iced mocha. I became excited for my drink. I looked where to sit. All the front cafe seating was filled. My body and mind still buzzed from the attention of the cool, new girls. The cool girls. I walked back, wondering where to sit.

This way, called the portal room. This way. I walked this way. All new things were grand. I walked in. A new section of the portal had been created. Almost stagecoach-like. The previous passenger left and I crawled in. Then I was gone. The trotting horse galloped ahead as I trollied behind. The flickering lights provided warmth both in temperature and ambiance. People had scribbled in the walls of the stagecoach. Things like "Set your spirit free" and "Alexz" and "Trees keep living despite their broken branches" and the music I heard was distant and full of strings. And I loved it all. All new things were grand and lead to a greater things.

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"Happiness"

4/11/2013

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"Happiness"
A One-Act, adapted from an original poem
Written by: Andie Bottrell

A young woman enters walking backward to center stage.

YOUNG WOMAN
Happiness, happiness, happiness.

She turns around, facing the audience.

YOUNG WOMAN
It reminds me, it rewinds me backwards, but I regress- before I've even begun, I've digressed to off-topics. Swimming in the tropics. Happiness, happiness, happiness. It reminds me of long ago...

An older woman runs out to center stage and sits. The young woman lays down in her arms.

OLDER WOMAN
I hold you-

YOUNG WOMAN
-you held me tight-

OLDER WOMAN
-comforted and rocked you-

YOUNG WOMAN
-I felt safe, alright.

OLDER WOMAN
Rubbed your back-

YOUNG WOMAN
-you gave me care-

OLDER WOMAN
-scolded you for-

YOUNG WOMAN
-sucking thumbs.

OLDER WOMAN
I love you.

YOUNG WOMAN
And you loved me.

Older woman stands abruptly.

OLDER WOMAN
We made a gingerbread house. Do you remember?

Young woman stands opposite.

YOUNG WOMAN
I remember.

OLDER WOMAN
And you called it Calibou.

YOUNG WOMAN
Because of that movie-

OLDER WOMAN
-that I showed you.

YOUNG WOMAN
And we watched White Christmas every winter-

OLDER WOMAN
-ate popcorn with raisins-

YOUNG WOMAN
-and feared God-

OLDER WOMAN
-worshiped Him-

YOUNG WOMAN
-I worshiped you.

OLDER WOMAN
You did?

YOUNG WOMAN
Until that day you left us-

OLDER WOMAN
-it was a bad day, that's all-

YOUNG WOMAN
-dad spanked me-

OLDER WOMAN
-he was upset.

YOUNG WOMAN
I didn't understand what was happening-

OLDER WOMAN
-neither did I-

YOUNG WOMAN
-he hurt me and it was unnecessary-

OLDER WOMAN
-he was hurting, so he hurt you- took it out on you-

YOUNG WOMAN
-and so did you.

OLDER WOMAN
Me, too?

YOUNG WOMAN
Yes, you.

OLDER WOMAN
Well.

YOUNG WOMAN
No one's perfect.

OLDER WOMAN
Not you?

YOUNG WOMAN
No. Not me.

OLDER WOMAN
Yes. That's true.

Older woman leaves.

A tall young man runs center stage and shoves the young woman.

YOUNG WOMAN
Ouch! Don't!

YOUNG MAN
You were in my way-

YOUNG WOMAN
-and you couldn't say, "Excuse me?"

YOUNG MAN
Your legs are hairy. You should shave them.

YOUNG WOMAN
But I'm only 9!

YOUNG MAN
You eat too much and chew too loud-

YOUNG WOMAN
-then look away and plug your ears!

YOUNG MAN
You're a tattletale-

YOUNG WOMAN
-so don't do bad things-

YOUNG MAN
-and you smell bad-

YOUNG WOMAN
-well, so do you.

YOUNG MAN
I can do everything better than you.

YOUNG WOMAN
For now.

YOUNG MAN
Forever.

The tall, young man freezes.

YOUNG WOMAN
I hated you sometimes because you didn't love me, I thought, but then one day you showed me you loved me when it mattered the most and I never forgot. Not ever.

The tall, young man hugs the young woman.

YOUNG WOMAN
I love you, too.

The tall, young man leaves.

YOUNG WOMAN
Happiness, happiness, happiness. It reminds me, it rewinds me backwards toward falling- on tip-toes toward reaching. It's what we're always seeking- it's always there but we're not always aware. It's in my childhood- in all its jaded forms- in my future when I feel forlorn, and in the present when I'm well and worn.

The young woman walks backwards off stage.

YOUNG WOMAN
Happiness, happiness, happiness.

Curtain down.
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LARD & LETHARGY

4/11/2013

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Picture
LARD & LETHARGY
by Andie Bottrell

I’m worn
    and drained.
I wrote
    an elegy.
I sprained
    my name.
I gave up
    everything
to gain
    what was
nothing.
    Again,
I am
    nothing;
still reaching
    for it all.
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    About

    Hey! I'm Andie Bottrell, a multidisciplinary creative living in Springfield, MO. I share stories (autobiographical and fictional), poems, and other creative or personal musings here. 

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