What is Weakness?

ACT I


SCENE ONE
(The stage is set up to resemble a bar. There is a table on stage, sideways to the audience. Under the table is a row of glasses. GWEN is a middle-aged woman with a fierce demeanor and exacting movements. She stands behind the table, holding a rag, cleaning a glass and humming to herself. The door opens. DURZO is a young-looking man with an air of casual hostility, dressed in black. He enters, slams the door shut and stalks forward to take a seat opposite GWEN. She gives him a dark look.)


DURZO
Give me a drink.

(GWEN frowns, and slowly does so.)

DURZO
(mutters)
Thanks.

(DURZO downs the drink and slams the glass down, glaring at the table.)

GWEN
What's wrong this time?

DURZO
Kylar.

(DURZO motions for another drink, seeming agitated. GWEN fills another glass and sets it down.)

GWEN
What about him?


DURZO
(drinks and slams it down again)
Doll Girl.
(pauses and regards the empty glass)
I see him looking at her. I think he's falling in love. That can't happen.
(to himself)
It'd ruin everything.

GWEN
He's a boy.

DURZO
(snarls)
He's a killer. I trained him myself.

(DURZO pauses, holding the glass before pushing it forward with a growl. GWEN picks up the emptied glass.)

GWEN
You seemed to have managed all right.
(angrily)
You managed to give my sister a child.

DURZO
(snort)
There's a difference between fucking and love.

GWEN
(refills glass and sets it on the table)
I doubt Vondra saw it that way.

DURZO
(downs the glass)
Vondra was the bitch that didn't know when she wasn't wanted.

(DURZO sighs and puts his face in his hands for a moment. Then he lurches to his feet and grabs the glass he was drinking from and flings it across the room.)

DURZO
Damn him!
(softer)
Damn him.

(GWEN fills a new glass and holds it, cradling it against herself for a moment, while watching DURZO. For a brief time he is unaware of being watched, then DURZO looks up and sees GWEN looking at him. He reaches for the glass she is holding.)

DURZO
Give it to me.

GWEN
(pulls back)
You've gone through three already.

DURZO
(snarls)
Three or three hundred –

GWEN
You're a drunkard. You understand that, right?

DURZO
A drunkard isn't sober after leaving a bar!

GWEN
But a drunkard does drink night after night in the hopes of getting drunk.

(DURZO stares at GWEN for a long time, not quite reacting to what she has just said. His hands migrate to the table and curl into fists. He looks away. GWEN sets the filled glass down.)

GWEN
(slightly bitter, slightly wistful)
What's the problem with love, anyway?

DURZO
Murderers don't worship the goddess of love. We worship the god of potent liquids.
(raises glass in a mocking toast and takes a sip with each pronouncement)
Blood. Semen. Wine.
(pauses, looking into the glass and laughs)
He's a lie, like they all are, but at least he isn't a weakness. Not like Doll Girl.

GWEN
(shakes her head)
You're obsessed.

DURZO
And if I am? Give me another.

GWEN
(fills another glass and sets it down)
You can't expect –

DURZO
I'll expect what I damn well want to!

GWEN
(placating)
Durzo –

DURZO
(frenzied anger)
He knows the price of failure!

(GWEN stares at DURZO, then turns her back on him to fill another glass. There is an extended silence between the two of them. DURZO sits completely still, his face unreadable. GWEN sighs as she turns around with the filled glass and sets it on the edge of the table, watching DURZO.)

GWEN
He's just a boy, Durzo.

DURZO
(echoes)
Just a boy?

GWEN
Kylar.

DURZO
(reaches for glass and fiddles with it)
Kylar.
(looks down)
Yes. He is just a boy.
(extended silence)
Gwen. Help me.

GWEN
(puts down another glass)
Help yourself.

(GWEN exits silently. DURZO picks up the glass as though mesmerized, and stares after GWEN for a moment. Then DURZO stands and throws the glass after her.)

DURZO
You stupid bitch!
(long silence)
Whore!
(pauses uncertainly, then plaintively calls)
Gwen?



THE END

(Here's my disclaimer: Durzo, Gwen, Kylar and the Night Angel series does not belong to me... That's the property of one Brent Weeks. (And if you haven't read it, you damn well should.))

10-26-2009

It's been two years already. We were perfect, once upon a time. I promised, once upon a time.
But that was a long time ago. It feels longer than it has been. We met across time, across space. I was stuck here, and there and places blurred together and then fell apart. There's nothing in this life to replicate the artistry of being one whole individual, locked in a clock. It starts ticking backwards, and the lock is missing from the tower's door while the wolves are still howling, out on the moor.
Or maybe I've been dreaming. I used to dream. The songs flowed through my mind, and they got caught, laughing at me as I sought out words that would make sense to use. I've been hard pressed to choose which way I'm going to turn in the end. On the mend, I'll send you a postcard, I swear. I wish you were here, but of course…
You are sitting somewhere far away, staring at the desk, cords wrapped around your wrists, smiling. It's tape? Or something else? You will be there, sitting, eyes closed, that grin – maniacal – plastered across your face, and you'll begin laughing, just laughing, so softly at first, until the silence of sound extends. Then maybe you'll stop, and see something else. Singing. The rhythm of drums, mirrored in your mind. It's all a dream, isn't it? Or have we been playing songs of silence in the sadness, mixed with madness – was this gladness that brought the beginnings… It's not time to be awake. We're dead on our feet.
I'm sorry. I've been sorry, and I meant to apologize, but I couldn't quite get myself to say the special words. I died, a little inside when this first began, but those were supposedly tears of joy that brought us together. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I've been trying, trying –
This exhaustion of being, of mind, of seeing. Believing.
I’m done believing.
If I was sorry once, I'm sorry now again, and question motives. It's time. It's been two years, but now it's been three, and sitting here, shitting on a field of victory that was lost… It's been costly, these years, these months, these days. We praised the sun, once upon a setting, getting higher off it. Do you remember? Or is it lost to the wind and the sands, the way your hands are now?
Call out words to the fields, and smile for me one last time, across the vast landscape of my imagination. You'll always be here, in my mind, grinning, sinning with a smirk. It's been your way since that day when we first accidentally connected. Maybe I'll be remembering that when the sky lights go black and the dew begins to form newly on the rocks of the ending of my universe. It's a curse, can't you see?
I invested so much into this, and what did I get out of it?
Everything.
Nothing.
I'm sorry. Whyfore, I cannot say, nor want I to, for speaking in tongues is the curse of a devil that lived with me for far too long. I'm trapped, and so are you, but you're freer than I ever was, and now you're waiting for the final days. I'm here, brushing fingers over grave letters, burnished lovingly by a man whose job is to play with the stones that serve their purposes through the ages. In stages, we've torn this down.
It's been two year, or maybe three. Now gone four… I'm sorry darling. You're gone – I can't do this anymore.
-
-
-
She stands by the iron fence. Her back is pressed against it. Wind blows chill. She has no jacket. Rocks tower over her. Her arms are around herself as the traffic squeals in the background. The sun is descending. Trees glitter. She turns against the fence. It is cold and black. Her face is contorted. She ventures a step from the fence. Nothing moves. She seems to be looking for something. Her eyes are tear-filled.
The graveyard is still.

Word of the Day - Ill

Love sick, darling.
It's that sickness that keeps you tied down in hospital beds, long after all the other patients have mended.
The kind of sick that gets you rolling over yourself in the morning, dry-heaving because nothing else can come out of you.
The kind of sick that feels like purple, trying to take out blue.

Craig's List

Who I Am:

I'm too good to be true.
I'm off the wall crazy, and proud to stand by it.
I'm seeking love with no strings attached, and sex that will have you crawling back to me for more.
I'm a slacker, with no real motivation in life, and although I'm a student, I don't get straight As.
Or even straight Bs.
I'm off the wall fantastic.
My caring side is limited to whatever is for dinner.
If I like you, you'll know it. If I don't, you won't.
I like to lie, but I tell the truth when it suits me.
I'm an engaging conversationalist, but if you aren't you might end up dead.
I'm a writer.
Trustworthiness and loyalty are for pussies.
I used to be in the mafia. Now I own them all.
I'm also engaged to my ex-boyfriend's future transgendered self.
We're supposed to get married in August.



Who I'm Looking For:

I want a man who is 6'2" and under 170 lbs.
I want a man who likes weed, and binges drinks every night of the week.
But he can't end up drunk.
I want a man who has fucked more than 30 people - a minimum of two should be male.
I want a man with self-esteem issues, who thinks he's destined for hell.
I want a man who can't dance for crap.
I want a man with dark eyes, dark hair and perfect teeth.
I want a man who used to smoke, but quit when he found out he was addicted.
I want a writer.



How to Contact Me:
To separate the spam from the desperate from the gullible, put your name, age, address, social security and credit card number in the subject line of your email.
I'll get back to you ASAP.

Cheers.

Word of the Day - Skeleton

The bones were white, painted white by a shaky fifth grader's hand while a mother looked on. A science project, once upon a time.
But now, something different.
Skeleton -
"Honey, are we keeping this?" Mr. Marret called to his wife.
She stopped by the door and looked in, smiled.
"Yes," she said.
"Why?"
"Skeletons," she said, "in the closet."

Word of the Day - Ticket

If you want to get away, you set your feet loose, and follow where they take you. To the train station, down the subway tunnel, on the left side of the tracks, pressed against the wall. Out in a rainstorm with the world crashing around you. Underwater, when you can't feel anything because the water is so damn cold. Into the atmosphere, where anything is possible.

Word of the Day - Violet

Purple.
Goddammit.
You don't bleed purple, and your blood isn't bluer than mine, once it hits the air.
But you keep saying you're royalty of a sort.
Spotted inside, or something.
Violet.
Just makes me want to rip out your insides, to inspect them.
Blue-blooded bastard.
Brother.

Word of the Day - Violent

You are the horror to garner sympathy for my plight and the secondary action sequence to back up my daredevil plot.

Word of the Day - Megaphone

Amplified voices, carried across the stadium, announcing the problems, the solutions…
Hidden under the stands, Melanie only heard the problems.
Someone had died.
Someone always died.
She pulled her boyfriend closer and started kissing him again.
“That was your twin, wasn’t it?”
He muttered something, and unclipped her bra.

Word of the Day - Trophy

On the top of the trophy case sat a small book with words inside. Or...words that had been inside. Blank, now, because a fiendish seven year old had taken scissors to the words and cut all of them out over the course of the past year. A word, cut out in a box, and discarded, until there was only a small book with words inside that had been taken out. Gutted.

Word of the Day - Sticks

Sticks and stones, love.
They mend bones.
Words - it's words, now that you've got to know do the breaking.
Breaking hearts, that is.
Not bones.
Sticks and stones, and stones and sticks - splints and axes so we can mend the men we kill.
But words...
Oh, love.
There's no cure for words, besides the cause of pain -
more words.

Word of the Day - Plague

The black and blue marks on my legs make me look like a victim. Like I've been sick, like no one could cure me. They make me look like I'm dying, bleeding out from the inside. They make me look ill.
Plague victim, people say.
I look at them and laugh.
Victim? Maybe.
But plague?
No.
It's love, got me looking this way.

Word of the Day - Cigarette

Do you know what a flavored cigarette looks like when it's burning into the palm of your hand? No?
Well, do you know what the face of a girl whose palm is being burned looks like?
I'll tell you.
It looks serene, and calm, as she stares down at the flesh melting off her hand.
It looks at ease, and relaxed, almost like this is the movies, and she watching it happen to someone else.
And then her eyes flutter closed and she collapses, and murmurs something soft, that you barely catch, only you think it sounds like, "That was beautiful."

Word of the Day - Mean

My average is taken from the truth of what I am and divided by the falsehoods of those I meet.
In the end, all the data agrees that I am better than you are.
Than any of you can ever be.

News Report

Doing cool stuff is only cool when one is at least marginally competent.

Word of the Day - Maroon

The same color stained the paper as Marilyn wore for her blouse. And the poster paint didn't really even show up. It was kind of... Reddish. Rusty, except darker, and less brown. She didn't have a word for it. Just dark red, but not red like blood. Red like some stars could be, on days when the atmosphere was a little thicker, a little closer to earth.
Red, Marilyn thought, and smudged two more fingerfuls of the paint on herself; no one even noticed.

Word of the Day - Cast

They signed the plaster moulding of the cast for the bronze horse, the same way you might sign a cast for a broken wrist, but they made a whole to-do about it, and cast one another in roles, announced a casting call, cast about for lofty words and finally cast off shore where the boat promptly sank and the cast of the bronze horse sank.

Word of the Day - Stem

Stem cells grow slowly; they're moving, fighting one another, rolling dice to decide what they want to become. It's funny, to watch, y'know. All the cells gathered around the table, throwing down numbers and muttering curses as they move to another side of the table and start to mutate - make room for new cells to gather. The researchers are just watching the game, hoping they can use some loaded dice somewhere; it rarely works.

Word of the Day - Given

It’s been given to me to make a change in someone else’s life. Someone I didn’t know but who felt like I should have. He was sitting on a bench, today, and contact juggling, with a glass ball and a hat between his paint splattered boots, singing to himself. I walked by, and then stopped, and went back to sit by him, to look at him, to wonder at him.
And then when he had given over the stories he holds, the stories of his life, how he had been raised by a Nazi, gone homeless by choice, followed bands and avoided drugs, helped people when he could and called the gypsies his own people – a wanderer – then I gave over what I could, and heard the words shouted behind me as I left him.
“Love!”
But I’m not sure what they meant.

Word of the Day - Assisted

In assisted living quarters, there are only two exits: one by death and the other by getting someone to sign a warrant to certify that you are indeed insane.
And the second one only leads to tighter security measures anyway, so it's really only death if you want to get out.
Breathe in and breathe out until you die, or, if you're smart and creative, have someone smuggle you out after you pretend to be dead. That's the insane way of doing things.

Word of the Day - Crane

A thousand paper cranes, folded nicely, neatly, and then you get a wish, they told me.
I sat down one day and began to fold. Over, over, under, down. Crisp, sharp lines that made the crane come to life.
And then I breathed into its belly, set it afloat on the air and turned to the paper stacks to make nine-hundred, ninety-nine more.

Word of the Day - Lust

I want the words to come to my fingers when I call them. I want these words to bend over backwards to do my bidding. I want them to come crawling back when they have disobeyed, when they have hindered forward progress. When they have dared to come between myself and my message. I want these words to do what I want, and when they do, the electric storm it creates is so heady, I want to fall into it and drown myself in the lust of the moment.

Word of the Day - Altar

Alternate feet as you step up to the altar. Your alternate personalities are warring as they sing the warnings and you’re boring yourself half to death. (Go twice, and I’ll never see you again -how’s that feel, Mr. Psychiatrist?) And you’re just walking, like you’ve been stalking me again, which is how we met, isn’t it? But I bet the Feds wouldn’t like to know you broke all the way through the ten-foot snow to tell me you don’t like the restraining order anymore.

Word of the Day - Station

I went to the station to see if I could remember the way things were when I first met you. The way you looked as the officer led you inside, your hands pulled behind your back and pinned together in his – The way you were looking at the ground, so innocent, so humble so - And then you looked up and your eyes were like wildfire, like you were ten souls trying to escape the hell that was your corporeal existence and then - And then - I remember where I am while the officers stare at me, and I leave, because I can’t stand that they took you away.

Word of the Day - Belief

I believe that this place is alive. Not alive the way you might think of alive – moving and breathing, but alive inside, the way I am when I’m sleeping, or playing dead. This place is alive on the inside, the hidden eccentricities set loose by the fall of night – the shadows that don’t quite match. The footsteps that echo and the bangs and clashes around above my head, in an upstairs that probably, technically doesn’t exist. We went looking for it, and all we found were stairs that ended far short of a destination we still believe exists.

Take the memories back.

Word of the Day - Predict

I predict that in two days, I’ll still be alone. In two weeks, I’ll still be single. In two months, I’ll stop whining about it. In two years, maybe I’ll have forgotten what it felt like to not be alone. In two decades, maybe I’ll have gotten used to the concept. In two decades and two days, maybe I’ll regret having been used to it. In two more days, maybe I’ll break down. And maybe, in the last two minutes, I’ll ask, because in the two seconds before it’s over, I’m hard enough on myself to want to hear, “No.” Two moments, long enough to be alone.

Word of the Day - Cells

The cells were silent, all the nuns sitting quietly, knitting and sewing, and one who was digging the needles through her skin, but no one heard her, and she was silent, like the rest of the cell block. And the silence continued, on for a long time, until the nuns went to sleep, and the one nun with her bloodied needles snuck out with prayers to god to forgive her for forgetting what it was like to feel pain in a perfect, solitary existence.

Word of the Day - Intensity

Have you seen the lightning bugs? They die, you know, after they’ve been alive long enough to glow. They send out these parting signals to one another, to call back a True Love from somewhere, only they all glow the same, so they’re all calling one another, and the intensity of their search brightens the darkest night. It’s sad, too, though, because you can’t help but think there’s only one in a billion chance of them finding each other. Of finding that perfect soul mate before time runs out. And that…just seems so sad.

Word of the Day - History

The past is going by faster than you can say Jack Robbins, faster than you can think of a retort, faster than the present which was here is gone. The past is something of recall, something of a story that you can’t ever tell the same way twice, because there’s always a little detail you omitted the first time, and then remembered the second,but forgot the third while recalling other pieces. History isn’t absolute or true – it’s the composite agreement of men and their attempts to be accurate, which ultimately fail.

Word of the Day - Antlers

The deer head was sitting on the desk, staring at me when I walked into the class room. It’s one of those strange moments, when you see something, and do a double take, y’know? When you think that something is there, and really it isn’t. Like, how I thought there was a spark of life in glass eyes that were watching me when I came in. It’s supposed to be a haunted classroom, after all, and I thought maybe it was the spirit of a deer pissed off that its head had been chopped off its body. But maybe that’s all stories, and the deer’s head was new; some old ghost like an ancient boa constrictor haunting the place instead.

Mad Men

I don't know how well you understand madness. If you think it's emotion, like anger. If you think it's insanity. If you know what it looks like, feels like, tastes like. I don't know if you know you know someone who is mad, or if you don't.

But I'll tell you a secret.

I know a mad man. He lives in the stars and carries a wand made of ash. He dreams in black and green, wears a top hat and shaves five times a day. He stands on the corner by the stop sign when little children cross the street, singing Twiddle-twiddle, tweedle dum-dee-dee.

And he knows secrets about the World That No One Else Can See. He tells me those secrets some times, and sometimes not. I'm not young enough to learn, he likes to say. Not like Alice. Not as young as the pretty blonde kindergartner who waits for her mother by the stop sign at two-thirty pm every day on the corner of Broad and Main, with the man I know is mad.

Word of the Day - Morals

Morals make me think of the ideas of Right and Left.
Not Wrong.
Left.
As in…I left the train station behind, and I took the ticket of the old lady who was sitting next to me, and her wallet. And her husband’s dentures, as well as his ashes.
Left.
As in…I left in my wake a trail of bodies, and blood, and a few crying children.
Left.
As in I left you behind, and I’m not going back, and I don’t want to hear from you ever again, or I’ll make sure you regret it, the same way I regret having left…in the first place.