Anyway, we wrote dream plays, among other things, and just for kicks, I've posted the last scene of my dream play below. I was going to post the whole draft of this and one other play on my Ourmedia page (the link to my short plays on the right side of this page), but it's having problems apparently. When that page is back up I'll put them there. I gave this one a quick and dirty title, "The Museum on the Hill." Enjoy!
(LIGHTS RISE on the interior of the MUSEUM. A TEACHER is surrounded by clay pots and shards of broken pottery. Some of the pottery is new, and there are lumps of fresh clay, as well. Prominently displayed is an empty pedestal. There are also a few STUDENTS. A STUNNING SOCIALITE joins this scene, observing. WILSON enters. He awkwardly holds his arms to his torso. He is in pain, covered in mud, and his clothes are torn.)
TEACHERGlad you could join us, Mr. Wilson.
WILSONMy arms are broken.
TEACHERSo is your watch, apparently.
WILSONI’m not kidding.
TEACHERI have a class to teach. Don’t trouble me with your petty calamities.
WILSONSomeone call 9-1-1!
TEACHERThere’s a phone in the lobby. You may make personal calls on our break, which I believe you might’ve forfeited by coming in so late. That’s unfortunate.
WILSONWhat’s unfortunate is that I can’t dial a phone because BOTH MY ARMS ARE BROKEN!
STUNNING SOCIALITEI abhor conflict. Repetition as well. I communicate succinctly, wasting no time or energy. I don’t engage in power struggle. I admit when I’m wrong, and I don’t gloat when I’m right.
TEACHERYoung man, why are you troubling me with such distracting details? I have other students to consider, don’t I? You’re wasting everyone’s time.
WILSONI’m in pain. I need help!
TEACHERAnd we have pots to throw!
WILSONHideous brown mud that will be nothing but hideous brown stone and I would throw it out the goddamn window if I had the use of my arms COULD SOMEBODY PLEASE CALL A FUCKING AMBULANCE!
TEACHERI will waste no further time on this.
WILSONIs there somebody else here who will? Security? A nurse? An administrator?
TEACHERThere is no one else here.
WILSONOf course not. It’s a museum. Why would there be?
TEACHERWhat’s that supposed to mean?
WILSONIt means DEVOID OF LIFE. Which I will be too from internal bleeding if—-
TEACHERWell then we could get on with our class, now, couldn’t we?
(WILSON stares at the TEACHER, who ignores him, tends to her students. He starts to exit. On his way out, he passes the STUNNING SOCIALITE. They appraise each other. He scowls. She stifles a giggle. He exits. She produces a perfect, sleek, glazed vase, places it on the empty stand, and exits behind him. LIGHTS OUT on all but the vase, which remains in spotlight for a moment.)