A snippet from a radio play what I wrote.
Voice 1: And out in the real, wide world –
Voice 2: The upside down, Scary Mary topsy-turvy world –
Voice 1: The sea lashed and splashed the promenade in half-hearted whispers, running fingers through the hair of the rocks as sand scuffed tarmac, seagulls distantly called and flags muttered in a chopped, churned breeze. Down on the pitch and putt –
Voice 2: Windmills, children, mothers with handbags letting their hair down in the clean-fresh sea-breath of lemon and salt and cockles and no husbands beside them –
Voice 1: The sun kissed dreams and raced to be the first to scold the sea –
Voice 2: For being so smart –
Voice 1: As it whippersnappered lovingly at the beach, all nibbles and giggles and half-flung ripples soothingly sung to the rythms of the long-lost drum-beat of its soul, chased by wild men in wilder seas at rainbow’s end, never found, the sound of fury spent, relented howls washed up, washed out, hushed , never meant, coy sighs, slept souls’ lament stretched smoothly on the cries of the tickled sands…. And the wind told lies in half-breaths flung untidy with full-stops in its name, contrary to a moment, singing and dancing to creation’s wilder side in laments that lamented not, coughed giggles wiping the toes of the tarmaced world in mocked dismay, disarray brought from the travelled shores of sun-burnt isles, dread peaks where winter speaks, forced rivers’ rushing trials; and nothing in its nod and toss spoke easy, nor was there turn or climb that rested, stopped, save in its changes that changed not, full chaos breathed and no relief, no peace, no let-up.
Voice 2: Last Man Stanley, deserted in the graveyard of his troubled thoughts, spat moodily at the fancied cat he saw shadowng itself between-dreams. It flicked away in a whisker, denying all , seeing all, a half-spun whisper placed on the right side of his soul –
(Muttering moodily) Last Man Stanley: To catch me out!
(Cat’s sardonic miaow)
Voice 2: And he stamped his wanton foot in a squall of rage, quite undone, and blasted his useless temptations into the folly of his life masquerading as a solid brick wall.
(Last Man Stanley yells in pain)
Voice 2: And in the whirl of his thoughts behind the pain he saw Her face implacable, and it hurt his rage, oh it did so –
(Softly) Voice 1: And he hopped and stomped and bellowed in his fury and would have smashed his fists as well –
(Mocking) Voice 2: But it hurt so, oh it hurt!
Voice 1: And bit by limping bit as his colour returned he found a hobbled thought to hold onto –
Last Man Stanley: It’s not started – yet!
Voice 1: And he whimpered –
Last Man Stanley: My life!
Voice 1: And Kate in her travelling-dream looking down smiled grimly.
(Knock on door)
Mrs. Beeton: Mr.Stanley! Mr.Stanley!
(Fast) Voice 1: Quick as a silver flash he was gone, shimmying down the drain pipe.
(Distant) Last Man Stanley: Not me, love!
Voice 1: Mrs. Beeton, landlady, hair a riot of perms, knocked hard on the door with a broom-handle –
(Mocking) Voice 2: If only, if!
Mrs. Beeton: I know you’re in there !
Voice 2: She wished!
Mrs. Beeton: All tart and flounce!
Voice 2: And she tossed her head and sniffed –
(Faintly) Last Man Stanley: Not me!
Voice 2: As Last Man Stanley hit the road, and ran.
Voice 1: And Big Kate sighed, high on the battered rocks of the hill, quite unsurprised –
Voice 2: She knew.
Voice 1: Oh yes, she knew.
(Simply) Kate: I’m a woman, see?
Voice 1: You see?
Voice 2: She sees.
(Simply) Voice 1: She sees.