“The Scottish Play”, A creative piece in the style of Tim O’Brien’s “The Things They Carried”

Written by Esther Barth, Writer and Editor
Peer Reviewed: Ben Brooks, Senior Writer in Residence, Emerson College, Greater Boston

Callie Harrison was relieved that Madeleine was playing Lady Macbeth tonight, even if she did hate her guts. Madeleine generally was insufferable, and not even because she had a diva attitude. Oh, no. It was that Madeleine’s questions took, on average, thirty-two minutes of rehearsal time every day—Cal had taken to timing her, and had often considered formally recording Madeleine Time on the rehearsal reports she, as stage manager, would email to the director and the technical director every night. A four-hour rehearsal would be interrupted every ten minutes or so—not including the fifteen-minute break that Cal liked to pare down to thirteen minutes, since the actors would take one minute going to break and one minute coming back—and Madeleine would want to know some intimate detail of the inner workings of the mind of the Lady of the play, and Greg would have to spend one minute and fifteen seconds working out how the Lady was feeling in that moment. Of course it was the director’s job to aid the actors in enhancing their portrayal of the characters, but honestly, Cal sometimes wanted to grab the pig irons off of the fly system and hurl them at both of their heads.

Not that accidents weren’t happening on their own, without Cal’s help.

In addition to the eighteen scenes of blocking, break times, schedules, attendance sheets, contact sheets, rehearsal reports, one-hundred and fifty-six light cues, twenty-two sound cues, dozens of entrances and exits, prop list, costume list, costume change list, production notes, dramaturgy report, two full scripts, instructions for the fog machine, hazardous chemical analyses for the paint, varnish, bleach, and other things in the paint closet, eight sheets of college-ruled loose-leaf paper, one red pen, one black pen, one regular pencil and two mechanical pencils, now Cal had had to add to her binder a list of things that needed to be fixed as a result of all of the accidents.

The biggest one was the flood. Whenever anyone thinks about disaster in a theatre they always think of fire. Well, its opposite was disastrous too. Sixteen costumes, eleven props, two flashlights, a ridiculous amount of the actors’ makeup, one power drill, one table, thirteen yards of twine, two black curtains, nine pairs of shoes, two poster-board size schedules, a stack of lumber, the water cooler, and a mop had all been completely destroyed, with only four weeks and three days before opening night.

There had been an uproar. As the liaison between the technical and acting sides of the theatre, Cal had been called back and forth to every single person imaginable. She’d finally told all of the actors just to find her assistant stage manager with any issues they were having because Greg and Victor, the technical director, had her running from the stage to backstage at least twenty-four times. Cal was just glad that all of the lighting instruments and the sound equipment had made it, being high up in the stage manager’s booth, up in the catwalks behind all of the seats where she could see everything and everyone.

“Cal.” Sean was really a fantastic assistant stage manager, but sometimes he just had really terrible timing.

“What, Sean?” Cal didn’t stop scribbling notes on what Greg had told her concerning the changes he was going to have done to the new replacement swords, but she cocked an ear to him.

“Madeleine—”

“No.”

“But Cal, she—”

No.

Sean sighed, rolling his eyes and stamping his boot on the hollow stage. The noise made Cal look up in surprise, mid-scribble. “She can’t find her script,” he said flatly, his tilted head and downturned mouth more an invitation to commiserate than frustration with Cal’s shut-downs.

Cal groaned. “Fine, I’ll just add it to the list and see if one of Macduff’s soldiers has a clean enough copy for me to photocopy at some point. You’d think that eight weeks into a production that she’d be off book already—”

Sean shook his head, dark bangs swaying across his forehead. “It had all of her notes in it. You know. How to scream. How much crazy per scene. When to blink, for god’s sake.”

Cal looked at him blankly, then her eyes started to widen, her head finally dropping forward in defeat when she heard the first rumblings of the approaching panicstorm coming from the women’s dressing room.

“But what am I supposed to do?” came the wail, one that wouldn’t have sounded out of place as she hurled herself off of a Scottish tower and plummeted towards a barren moor.

Cal’s shoulders started to shake with laughter despite herself, and even with her head still down she could hear Sean covering his snickers with his hand.

“Two-hundred and sixty-five lines!” Madeleine’s dirty blonde hair whipped like a flag behind her as she burst onto the stage from the right wing. “Two-hundred and sixty-five lines with no emotion!”

Greg stood in the front row of the house, looking reluctantly impressed with the freak out his Lady was having. If she could bring this fervor to “Out damned spot,” then they would pack the house every night of the run. “Maddie, I don’t see why you can’t bring emotion to your performance without the notes. You’re doing a fine job right now.”

“It’s all in the details,” she protested. “The details are everything. Every line has a different shade of feeling. And I was close to finishing each one!”

“But—”

She straightened abruptly, hands rigidly at her sides and glare on one of the fourteen taped spike marks on the stage that showed the stage hands where to place the furniture in the dark. “No. I can’t do this.” And she fled back stage right.

“Maddie!”

“I could do it, Greg,” came a level voice from the left wing. All eyes swiveled to see Andrea, also known as Lady Macduff and owner of forty-one lines in the show, lingering behind the black curtain shielding the wing from the house’s view. “After working with this show for eight weeks I know all of her lines anyway.” She stepped downstage center and looked down at Greg, her already impressive height clearly making the short man feel shorter.

He looked at Cal, whose stage manager senses were tingling, waiting to document any change or even a suggestion, ready to set the proper wheels in motion to turn a minor character into a star. Andrea was quiet, watchful, and only needed to be told something once. She kept her things in order, was always on time. Never brought sloppy food like pizza or Chinese food into the theatre. Never screamed.

And they needed a Lady Macbeth who understood ambition.

“Well,” Greg hemmed. “I’ll have to talk to Maddie to see if she really doesn’t feel she can do it…”

“Evidently she can’t remember how she’s supposed to feel unless it’s written down for her,” Andrea said coolly. She started for the right wing, toward the women’s dressing room. “Just let me know.”

As the door to the dressing room hallway shut behind her Greg groaned and slumped into a seat. “Cal…”

“Yeah, I know, Greg. Sean, a chai tea latte, please.”

“You’re lucky that there’s actually a reason I should be getting that instead of you,” Sean grumbled as he left the theatre through the vom. Over the eight weeks they’d been working, Cal had only had to fetch three lattes. All forty-four of the others had been delegated to either Sean or, if she could grab one, one of the stage hands. Honestly, managing twenty-two actors, six stage hands, one costume director and her two assistants, one technical director and one ASM meant that leaving for nine minutes to get coffee was basically impossible.

*~*~*

“You’re convincing your husband to murder someone, Andrea,” Greg said, leaning forward in his seat in the second row. “We should be thinking about bloody, violent death, not regal royalty.”

“Lady Macbeth is regal,” Andrea argued from her place upstage. “She wants nothing more than to be queen.”

“Yes, but she has to kill someone to get it. Make us think of murder.”

Cal grit her teeth and said nothing, her rehearsal script open to the proper page in case anyone forgot their lines while they were trying to get emotional. Clearly Andrea was not having that problem. Her motions, her glances, her delivery of lines, her walks to and fro on the stage, her engagement with the other characters, her wielding of props, whether daggers or candlesticks or nightgowns, were…predictable. Even though Cal had all of the blocking in front of her in the script, Madeleine always had flowed organically from one spot to another. With Andrea, Cal could predict how the blocking was going to be altered. It was sad.

Madeleine sat next to Sean two seats away from Cal, sucking morosely on the straw of a juice box and pretending not to watch Andrea.

“Have you had enough yet?” Cal whispered to her as Andrea delivered her lines in the same haughty way for the third time.

Madeleine’s gray eyes gleamed over her juice box, riveted to Andrea’s dark hair and gesticulating hands. “Yeah.”

*~*~*

One; two; why, then ’tis time to do’t.

“Light cue one-twenty, stand by,” Cal whispered over her headset, receiving the even softer confirmation, “Lights,” from the operator at the other end of the booth.

Hell is murky,” Madeleine murmured under the spotlight on the stage. She and Cal had the house breathless.

Twelve weeks, six hours, twenty-two actors, six stage hands, one costume director and her two assistants, one technical director, one assistant stage manager, one-hundred and fifty-six light cues, twenty-two sound cues, a thousand hearts beating loudly in the packed house along with the two-hundred and fifty-six lines of a madwoman.

Here’s the smell of blood still,” the Lady wailed from center stage.

“Light cue one-twenty, go,” Cal breathed, and a reddish tint bathed the stage in a bloody glow.

To bed, to bed: there’s knocking at the gate.

“Blackout, stand by.” Cal’s eyes were pinned on the desperate queen, knowing it was the long hours, lack of sleep, constant takeout from the Chinese food place around the corner, lighting plots and set blueprints and one man toiling with a quill pen four hundred years ago that had driven her to this.

What’s done cannot be undone. To bed, to bed, to bed.

“Blackout go.”

Creative Commons License
Urban Wildcat by Esther Barth is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License

Mine by Rights, a short story

Written by Esther Barth, Writer and Editor
Peer Reviewed: Jon Papernick, Senior Writer in Residence, Emerson College, Greater Boston

Mine by Rights

“Come on, Prima, give it back!” Secundus was standing on his tip-toes and he still couldn’t reach the banana Prima was holding above her head.

She stuck her tongue out at him and walked away with the banana still held high, putting her nose in the air so she could be even taller. A force slammed into her back and she hit the carpet hard, the banana flying out of her hand and landing a few feet away. Secundus was heavy where he had crashed onto her back. He kicked her in the ribs, clambering over her to get the banana.

“Secundus!” A Director came through the door while Prima was still getting up. “Fighting Is Wrong. Give the banana back to Prima.”

Prima smirked as Secundus trudged over and thrust the hand holding the fruit into her face, his eyes on his gray shoes, which were two sizes smaller than Prima’s. She took the banana—which had fingerprints on it now—and walked away from him, not saying Thank You on purpose. When she looked back over her shoulder, Secundus had already slunk back to Tertia and the others, knocking over Octavus’s blocks on purpose and making the little boy scream.

“Prima, come here please,” said the Director.

Hoping she wasn’t going to be scolded too, Prima obeyed, peeling her banana as she went. The Director took a leash and fastened it around Prima’s wrist, making her switch her snack to the other hand, and then led her out of the door.

Prima had been out of the door before once, a long while ago, to go to the doctor. He had lived down the hall in a room much smaller than the one that belonged to Prima and the other kids. But the Director walked right past the doctor’s door and kept going down the hall, tugging on the leash when Prima hesitated and making her stumble. Prima scowled at the Director’s back. Just because Directors Are Always Right didn’t mean she had to like what they did.

She and the Director turned down lots of different hallways full of completely new doors. She tried to count them as she munched on her banana, but got confused when they kept turning corners. Finally the Director stopped in front of one of them, tapped something on a keypad, and then the door opened. “In here,” she said, unclipping the leash from Prima’s wrist.

The new room was small like the doctor’s room, with one whole wall that was a mirror. Little green lights blinked on some kind of rectangular machine in the corner, and directly underneath the fluorescent light was a little table and a chair that Prima thought looked too small for her. Maybe Quinta would fit in it, or maybe even Quartus, but when Prima sat down her knees hit the underside of the table.

“Director Irene Calloway, with homunculus 1001: Prima Control, female, aged nine years, six months, zero days,” the Director said to the mirror. Prima put her banana peel on the floor under the table, since she couldn’t see a trashcan anywhere.

“Thank you, Director Calloway,” said the ceiling. Prima jumped and looked up, but all she could see was a little black box with little tiny holes in it stuck to the plaster. “Experiment 276.1: Music Reaction 1,” it continued. “Director Calloway, you may commence.”

The Director put a pencil and a multiplication test on the table in front of Prima. It looked easy. Prima had taken tons of these before. They only went up to 12×12 anyway. Prima could do a hundred of them in two minutes and only get one or two wrong.

“Director,” said the ceiling, “please prepare to play the first track. On my mark.”

The Director went over to the machine with the green lights and got ready to push a button. “Get ready to start, Prima, when the Administrator says ‘mark’.”

It was usually 8×7 that messed her up. She could never remember if it was 56 or 65…

“One, two, three, mark.”

A hideous cacophony filled the room, like wires being dragged against each other and plinking and banging and hooting and something that might have been yelling except it didn’t sound human. Prima flew out of the chair, hitting her knees on the table on the way and sending the pencil and the test flying. The racket changed and kept going as Prima ran for the door. The Director seized her around the waist as she scrambled at the wall, her flailing arms knocking against a switch. The room was plunged into darkness as the screeching and yelling went on.

“What happened? Control the homunculus, Director!” the ceiling shouted.

“I’m—trying—Administrator—argh!” Prima wriggled out of the Director’s hold and rushed back to the locked door.

Light sliced into the room as it burst open, three more Directors rushing in. Prima ducked out of the door behind them as they bustled past, one of them leveling something long and thin across his shoulder.

“Don’t shoot until you see the target!” another one shouted. The door swung shut behind them and Prima scuttled down the hallway as they fumbled around trying to find the light switch. She couldn’t find the room where Secundus and Tertia and the others still were no matter how many corners she hurtled around, her soft gray shoes making almost no noise on the tile floor. A Director was opening a door just as Prima was rounding another corner, and she slowed down to sneak behind him into the room beyond, keeping very close and crouching low.

Soundlessly she tucked herself behind a cabinet of drawers in the new room, trying not to let her sigh of relief come out loud as the Director placed a tray of food down on a desk. The other Director behind the desk was staring at a hundred TVs at once, all of them in black and white.

“Did they get it yet?” Director who’d brought the food leaned over the back of the other one’s chair, peering at the TVs too.

“No,” the one in the chair murmured, his eyes darting from screen to screen. “They can’t even find it; it got out of the room somehow when it was still dark. Can’t believe they didn’t un-install the light switch after that darkness experiment. You’d think they could wait a few days for remodeling before they absolutely have to use the room again.”

The door slammed open and Prima shoved herself further back behind the cabinet in panic until all she could see was a white-knuckled hand on the doorknob. “Intern Farrigan, we need all personnel on search for the homunculus! What are you doing?”

“I was just supposed to bring Guard Alman his lunch—”

“Forget lunch, get out there!” The younger Director scurried out past the hand on the doorknob, his white coat flapping behind him. “Alman, did you find it yet?”

“Not yet, Director, and I can’t if you’re talking to me. Whose idea was it to put a light switch in an experimentation room, anyway?”

“None of the other homunculi would be tall enough to reach it. I can’t believe this one was—”

“It’s a nine-year-old kid, it can reach a light switch!”

“It’s a homunculus! Just find it, Alman, and page us when you do.” The door banged shut again.

“Yeah, like I don’t know procedure,” Alman muttered as he went back to the screens.

Prima ducked her head around the cabinet to study the televisions too. What if they could see her on them right now? She had to be sure.

Some of the screens showed hallways with Directors running up and down them, but most of them were of different rooms. One had a boy maybe Quartus’s age sitting in the middle of the room all by himself, another showed a girl hugging a big stuffed doll that was standing next to a huge wire robot that was holding food. In between a screen showing a bunch of babies not even as old as Octavus that were alone in their own cribs and an image of a Director yelling at a girl was the screen showing Prima’s room. She edged out just a little closer, trying to make sure all seven of the others were still there and okay. Secundus was poking Quartus while Tertia yelled at him. Quinta was showing Sextus how to do a puzzle and Septima and Octavus were piling up a tower, their little chubby toddler hands just big enough to grasp the cardboard blocks. Prima sighed in relief. The Directors hadn’t bothered them. None of the other screens seemed to show the room Prima was in, although some of them had bizarre things like a boy surrounded by a bunch of creatures that looked like hairy children with tails and ugly faces, and another that had a different boy who looked like he was talking to the wall. Not one of the kids looked as old as Prima was, though, which made her feel secretly proud.

She was trying to find a pattern in the screens that might show her the path back to her room when the door burst open again and she had to fling herself back behind the cabinet.

Alman started to speak, not taking his eyes away from the screens. “Did you finally—”

“Hands on your head and back away from the monitors.”

Prima’s eyes went wide as four people dressed in clothes that weren’t white rushed inside the way the Directors had hurried into the room with the screeching noise. One of them had the same long and thin kind of thing leveled in front of his face. Alman stood and obeyed them. Were these people even more important than the Directors, then, that they could order them around even though Directors Are Always Right?

“Secure the room, make sure there’s no one else here.”

“Who the hell are you?” Alman growled at them.

“Homunculus Rights Group. We’re shutting down this hellhole of torture.”

A woman’s face appeared right in front of Prima, making her scream a little. “There’s one hiding right here, Bryan.” There was no way to get around the woman in black clothes; Prima’s escape was completely blocked. Sirens began going off in the hallway, a much less complicated blaring than the clamor of the test room.

“Good, bring her out, she’ll be the first rescue.”

“You idiots, you can’t do this, don’t you know how expensive these things are to make—”

Bryan hit Alman with the back of the long and thin thing, and the Director fell to the floor. “Shut up, these are lives we’re talking about.” If only this woman would move, Prima could zip right past them all, she knew she could!

“Room is secure, Bryan.”

“Good. Laney, grab the girl, the other teams should be keeping the feds busy enough that they won’t notice you getting her out.”

“Yes, sir.” The woman reached behind the cabinet, and Prima tried to grab her hand to twist her fingers. Even if Fighting Is Wrong, she didn’t want the woman to touch her. The woman shook Prima’s hands off and grabbed her by her white shirt, dragging her out and saying something about how it was “okay” while Prima tried in vain to pry the woman’s fingers open.

The alarms were still screaming in the hallways as the woman hauled Prima out of the room. When Prima’s flailing and kicking almost got her free, the woman scooped her up and flung her over her shoulder. The breath woofed out of Prima’s lungs as she was carried down the hallways, turning corners even quicker than Prima had, fleeing the terrible noise.

The woman smashed her other shoulder against a door and suddenly they were in a huge space. Prima gasped and clung to the woman’s black shirt against a wave of vertigo. There were no walls, only dusty floor as far as she could see. The ceiling was the highest Prima had ever seen, and had been painted a brighter blue than Quinta’s marbles. Even the air was different, lighter, like Prima would only have to take half as many breaths to get just as much oxygen.

Prima heard an echoing crack and then the woman holding her tripped and fell face down onto the floor, dust swirling up in clouds from where Prima was half-pinned under her shoulder.

Footsteps crunched up to where Prima was struggling to get out from under the woman’s unmoving body, a weird, metallic smell rising up around them. “Think we can still use it, Director?”

There was a Director here? Oh, good. The Directors would make everything right be-cause Directors Are Always Right. Prima stopped wiggling and squinted up against the light of the brightest lamp she’d ever seen.

“No, it’s going to be emotionally scarred beyond repair now. And even if we could repair it, it would take too much time.” The Director sighed. “This is the oldest one we’ve ever had. Shame to have to waste it.”

“Yeah, it’s a shame.”

There was another crack, and the room went black.

Creative Commons License
Urban Wildcat by Esther Barth is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License