Promethean Logophile - Drama

For the Love of Art

Seth Croston Barber — Thu, 21 Jul 2005 22:59:57 -0700

Arthur sighed, “Can I move yet? I'm getting tired.”

“Just a little bit more,” Sophie called from behind her canvas.

“You've been saying that for the last forty-five minutes. Hurry it up will you? I'm cold, tired, and my body is beginning to cramp up on me.”

“You can't rush art,” Sophie protestingly pouted. “I'll treat you to a massage when you are done, okay?”

The Great Kite Festival

Seth Croston Barber — Wed, 01 Jun 2005 21:35:55 -0700

“He will so totally ruin it! Why did they have to pick a loser like him anyway?”

“Suzie, give him a chance. He will not ruin it.”

“But Principal Needler, he's a total loser. All he wants to do is play with his silly models. He doesn't know how to lead; he's got no vision. One time, he was made the leader of a group project in my English class. We gave this totally lame presentation, without music, or videos, or nothing. Because of him our group got the lowest grade in the class! He's a totally unfit loser!” Suzie pouted.

A Mother's Shame

Cheri Nine — Sat, 07 May 2005 13:43:27 -0700

Biscuit was sitting primly to one side when I walked in, pretending to ignore me. She had never been very friendly, and ever since Diego had taken up with me instead of her, we hadn't spoken at all. What surprised me was that the others also seemed to be ignoring me, or sizing me up with sidelong, surreptitious glances. This seemed an ill omen on such an important night. My son had gone on his First Hunt only last night, and this evening would be given his place with the adults among the hunters. Wondering what the strange behavior portended, I walked slowly and deliberately up to Sheila, with whom I had often shared a morning stroll. Her son was already a hunter, and a friend to my Jimmy.

Searching for Asylum

Seth Croston Barber — Wed, 13 Apr 2005 20:30:13 -0700

“Oh no. Oh no, no, no, no, no, no, no!” exclaimed Nivley. “No, it cannot be. No, not this, anything but this. Oh not again.”

“Nivley, what's the matter?” Patty asked, running into the room breathless.

Nivley sat staring at the phone, then finally let it slip from her fingers to clatter noisomely on the floor. “They've committed him. He's locked up. No, not him. He's not sick, he's fine.” She lunged at Patty violently grabbing her shoulders, a wild look in her eyes. “He's no more crazy than I am and they know it! They know he's normal, just normal, only they don't like his work. They fear him. Oh we must get him out. We must. We cannot continue our noble plans without him.” Nivley began to sob, and crumpled up on the floor.

A Bonded Vacation

Seth Croston Barber — Sat, 19 Feb 2005 21:11:33 -0800

“It was the most fantastical vacation I have ever had,” a perfervid Thom began.

“Go on,” Matilda prompted. “What happened?”

“What didn't happen,” Thom exclaimed. “Remember that silly little novella I wrote a year ago?”

“The one about the alien super hero battling crime in some Martian suburb?”

“It was Venus, but yes, that one. I published that book on the Internet and tried to sell it for $1. Four hundred thousand people paid for it, and to celebrate I treated myself to a vacation in the tropics.”

A Solid Will

krags — Fri, 18 Feb 2005 11:57:53 -0800

My stomach churned waiting for the lawyer, Ronald Eggbald, who was already fifteen minutes late to our afternoon appointment. The office reaked of antacid as I popped a Tums into my mouth. I wondered if Eggbald used Tums or some other brand. What would he do if I lighted the joint hiding in my shirt pocket?

Brushing back fine black hair that always fell across my eyes, I couldn’t help noticing and reaching for the cold metal picture frame. It clattered to the floor when the office door opened behind me. Ronald Eggbald stood with the door open to secretaries typing in the other room. I could see him ponder the fallen picture, my torn worn blue jeans, and striped western shirt with pearl snaps. Crossing to his desk, he sat, and placed suit covered elbows on the tabletop in front of him. His fingers formed a triangle at his mouth. A large diamond gold ring indicated that he was a married man. I picked up the frame. It held a middle-aged woman who smiled softly. I placed the picture near where it had sat before on Eggbald’s burled maple desk.