The Future Refuses to Happen

by Lyza Fennell | Dec 16, 2024 | Playwriting

The Future Refuses to Happen

SETTING: A cluttered living room with a meditation station, signs of Buddhism, new age. Papers piled up everywhere. A clock ticks audibly throughout the scene, but elevates at the end.

AT RISE: The character, mid-rant, paces back and forth clutching their back. They occasionally wince dramatically.

Character: (into phone) “Help! Help! I’m a chronic mindfulnesser, and I’m stuck in the moment! I keep trying to move on with my day, but no dice—stuck! Here’s my backstory: I had a real negative outlook, anxious and worried all the time! Then, I got invited to a retreat with Jon Kabat-Zinn. He talked about the importance of living in the moment, taking appreciation for what I already had. Oh, I was so stuck in a Have and Have Not mentality—it was killing me! An early grave, I was heading, I was.

This retreat was life-changing. I decided then and there, I would not be a worrywart any longer. I loved this idea of living in the moment. It was like quantum physics in reverse—it was science and nature all mixed up. (Throwing their hands in the air.)

It was really working well for me until I slipped and hurt my back—and I’ve been in agony for this moment… forever. I liked old Jonny-boy, but he never told us how to move out of mindfulness!

Can you imagine having back pain for eternity? It’s awful, and I’m sure Mr. Kabat-Zinn would not want me to suffer like this. I’ve tried chanting, ‘The future is mine,’ but the future refuses to happen.

They stop pacing, hold the phone in front of them like it holds the secret to their misery, and shout into it.

I’ve been thinking, and I think the Buddha has some wisdom for me. He says suffering is caused by craving and attachment to things that are impermanent, and I think he holds the key—I’m craving the future. See, you can’t make the present and future non-changing—they always change—so if I can just let go of the idea of time and space, I’m sure this back pain will go away. So please, doctor, doctor— (Pulls phone away, looks at it.) Can you hear me? Please help me break out of this moment! Let this relentless back pain be a thing of the past.

We hear a long beep indicating the end of the message. The clock ticks loudly. The character pulls the phone away in disbelief, only a message! The character feels defeated.

BLACKOUT

Regrets Only, Please

by Lyza Fennell | Dec 11, 2024 | Playwriting

Regrets Only, Please

Characters:
SABRINA: A woman in her late 30s/early 40s, anxious and eager.
TELLER: A woman in her late 50s/early 60s, world-weary but with a dry wit.

SETTING: A stark, minimalist office. A single desk sits center stage with a sign reading “Regrets Only.”

AT RISE: SABRINA enters through the office doors, rushing and out of breath. She spots the “Regrets Only” sign and approaches the desk where the TELLER is sitting getting ready to leave for the day.

SABRINA: Woo! Hello? Is this the Regrets Only desk? Am I too late? I hope not! I regret not leaving my house earlier. Traffic on the 405 was lamentably packed, as usual. I don’t know why I keep doing this to myself.

TELLER: (Sighs) I regret to tell you that I’ve already shut down my computer.

SABRINA: (Dismayed) No! Please, can you turn it back on?

TELLER: No, sorry.

SABRINA: Well… how about writing it on a pad of paper? You could put it in the computer tomorrow?

TELLER: (Annoyed and impatient) Sorry, lady. I’m trying to get out of here. I need to get to happy hour at the Rueful Roast. I can get half-price on my steak dinner.

SABRINA: (Subdued) Oh, I’m sorry. Look, you won’t regret it! I’ll pay the difference. I really need to get this off my chest before it’s too late.

TELLER: Well, if you’re offering, I’d prefer the Joyful Jambone. I love French food.

SABRINA: Sure, that’s fine! I really need to get this down before it’s too late. I’d be so disappointed.

TELLER: Sure, sure. I’ll just record it, okay? (Pulls out a mini recorder)

SABRINA: (Relieved) Wonderful! It all started with my diagnosis. It made me realize everything I took for granted and how much time I wasted. I figure if I hadn’t wasted half my life being bored, lounging about, watching mindless TV, cleaning my house from top to bottom every week… I might have been further along.

TELLER: (Concerned) Oh yes, sounds like you have a lot to regret. You’ve come to the right place. (Leans down and opens a drawer in her desk, pulling out a bottle of whiskey and a bottle of iced tea) Pick your pleasure, and don’t regret it. If you choose the whiskey, you throw caution to the wind. If you choose iced tea, you’ll respect your body. It’s sugar-free.

SABRINA: Oh, well, that whiskey is tempting me, but I don’t want a hangover.

TELLER: You won’t get a hangover. I’ll tell you when to stop. That’s the trouble with regretful people. They overthink and overdrink. One drink will help break the cycle of regret, please. Don’t worry.

(SABRINA nods, and the TELLER brings out two glasses and pours the whiskey. They lift their drinks.)

TELLER: To life.

SABRINA: I regret not coming here sooner. I’ve been so ashamed of my regret in a world of positive people with wonderful lives.

TELLER: It’s a fallacy. Look at my book. (Pulls out a very thick book) The world is full of regretful people. But it isn’t too late for you because you’re here. That’s a start. And tomorrow, you can do one thing… and don’t be too hard on yourself if you don’t. It takes baby steps to break the cycle of regret, but I can help you.

SABRINA: Oh, I’m so relieved. But can I tell you about my regrets?

TELLER: There’s no need.

SABRINA: Yes, I think there is!

TELLER: No, believe me. It does no good to go over all the things you regret.

SABRINA: Really? Wow. Well, I feel better knowing that. Bottoms up!

(They toast and sip their drinks. SABRINA sits back and envisions her new world.)

BLACKOUT

A Contrast of Personalities

by Lyza Fennell | Dec 11, 2024 | Writing

A Contrast of Personalities

This piece emerged from a writing exercise exploring extremes through repetition. The challenge was to begin each sentence with the same phrase, crafting one ‘good,’ one ‘bad,’ and one blending both into a complex narrative with a backstory.

Alvin is the kind of person who always pees in the shower. Alvin is the kind of person who swears in front of children. Alvin is the kind of person who punches monkeys. Alvin is the kind of person who shits in the woods. Alvin is the kind of person who licks engine oil. Alvin is the kind of person who always runs red lights. Alvin is the kind of person who has road rage. Alvin is the kind of person who votes for Trump. Alvin is the kind of person who loves being misogynistic, racist, homophobic, and transphobic. Alvin is the kind of person who draws swastikas. Alvin is the kind of person who doesn’t wear a condom and spreads STDs. Alvin is the kind of person they call a deadbeat dad. Alvin is the kind of person who cheated his ex-wife out of their house.

Mandy is the kind of person who whispers sweet nothings in your ear. Mandy is the kind of person who makes cut-out heart sandwiches. Mandy is the kind of person who puts six spoonfuls of sugar in her coffee. Mandy is the kind of person who mows your lawn and spells “I love you” in the grass. Mandy is the kind of person who jumps on the mic to declare her love for you to everyone in the room. Mandy always canvases in Pennsylvania during election time. Mandy always jumps in front of danger to protect you. Mandy is the kind of person who writes handwritten letters to everyone in her address book every Saturday night. Mandy is the kind of person who dresses up at parties.

Sandy is the kind of person who sneaks into a different movie—and then pays it forward. Sandy is the kind of person who sings loudly during movies—and buys popcorn for everyone in her row. Sandy is the kind of person who stiffs the cab driver—and tips the barista generously. Sandy is the kind of person who crosses the street outside the crosswalk—and always thanks drivers for stopping. Sandy is the kind of person who steals candy at the counter—and buys a newspaper to stay informed. Sandy is the kind of person who tells you to mind your fucking business—and massages your shoulders. Sandy is the kind of person who pays her bills late—and checks on her elderly neighbor. Sandy is the kind of person who drives through the yard after it rains, leaving deep muddy tracks—and makes you breakfast in bed. Sandy is the kind of person who cheats at Pinochle—and brings all the snacks. Sandy is the kind of person who unleashes rats in her enemies’ basements—and takes your dogs for a walk. Sandy is the kind of person who sues you—and covers your attorney’s fees. Sandy is the kind of person who burns the grilled cheese—and scrapes off the burnt bits.

Sandy had a terrible temper, but she always felt guilty. Her instincts told her to do something bad, but she always balanced it out. One day, the rat situation got out of hand. It took over her entire house and then the town. The town exterminator had to pull in help from neighboring areas, and in the end, they had to burn the entire town to the ground.

Why was Sandy like this? As a child, Sandy was kept in a cage in her parents’ home. They whipped her every time she made a mistake. She spent 1,000 days in that cage, marking each one on the wall until she was finally rescued. When the police took her parents away in handcuffs, Sandy told the officer, “Thank you very much. You rescued me. I’m very grateful.”

Her foster family tried to help her through intensive therapy, but it was too late. The trauma had rewired her. Sandy was manipulative. She never got caught, and someone else always took the blame. Sandy would watch and snicker before doing something kind to alleviate her guilt.

Eventually, Sandy became the CEO of a health insurance company. She denied coverage, causing people to spiral into medical debt and bankruptcy. But then she would write each of them a letter, full of kind words about how much she cared. When AI came into play, Sandy was particularly thrilled. The algorithms had a 90% error rate with denials, which maximized her profit. With that extra profit, Sandy built a morgue.

The Dull Women’s Club

by Lyza Fennell | Dec 8, 2024 | Playwriting

The Dull Women’s Club

Welcome to The Dull Women’s Club, where the ordinary takes center stage. A short comedic scene that finds joy and camaraderie in life’s smallest details.

Setting: A meeting room in a church basement. There are mismatched chairs arranged in a circle and a small table off to the side, set up for snacks. Four women—Elsa, Mary, Beverly, and Francine—are seated in the circle. Each has a basket under her chair. The room has an old clock on the wall that ticks audibly, adding to the quiet absurdity of the atmosphere.

At Rise: The women are seated in the circle. Elsa sits upright with a notepad in hand, ready to lead the meeting. Mary adjusts her sweater, Beverly twirls her wedding ring absentmindedly, and Francine quietly looks at her basket. The air is calm, almost too calm.

ELSA
(Claps her hands once for attention.)
Hi, everyone. Welcome back to our weekly club! It’s good to see you. Thanks for coming. Let’s get started. We’ll go around in a circle.
(She looks at Mary with a warm, expectant smile.)
Mary, you go first. Tell us, what was the highlight of your week?

MARY
(Clears her throat, leans forward slightly, and clasps her hands in her lap.)
Thank you, Elsa. For me, Wednesday was my best day this week. I was able to organize my sock drawer.
(She lights up, her hands gesturing enthusiastically.)
I think it’s my favorite activity! There are so many ways to organize socks. In fact, this is my Wednesday ritual.

(The other women nod politely, leaning in slightly, as if this is riveting.)

This time, I organized by color. I’m not sure this is the most efficient way—unless you know all your socks by heart, but this I do know.
(Counts on her fingers dramatically.)
I have 13 pairs of pink socks! Some are pale pink, like a baby’s bottom.
(Pauses for comedic timing.)
Some are fuchsia—like a rashy baby’s bottom.
(Giggles at her own joke and waves her hand dismissively.)
Oh, me! I do crack myself up.

(The women chuckle politely. Elsa writes something down in her notebook.)

Oh, baby bottoms—they really do come in a range of colors, don’t they?
(Mary’s voice drifts into reflective thought before she snaps back to attention.)
Anyway, back to the socks. I arranged them by shade first. They come in all lengths and types, too! Some are ankle socks, some are compression—I never get dizzy wearing those fuckers!
(The women gasp lightly but smile, clearly amused by her outburst.)
Some are wool, because I do get cold toes come November. And some are patterned.
(Pauses dramatically.)
My favorite pink socks with a pattern are the ones with our Lord Jesus Christ’s face printed all over them. I always feel like I do more good deeds when I wear those socks.

ELSA
(Nods with approval and a kind smile.)
Thanks, Mary. It’s time to move on to Beverly.
(Turns to Beverly.)
Beverly, tell us about your most exciting experience this week.

BEVERLY
(Shifts in her seat, placing her hands neatly on her knees.)
Thank you, Elsa. Well, for me, it was this morning when I organized my fridge.
(Leans in conspiratorially.)
I like to organize my carrots by size. But the question is: is it by length or thickness?

(The women murmur in fascination, nodding as if this is a deep existential question.)

I really do get flustered.
(Glances around the room for empathy.)
So I asked Google Voice to pick for me. Today, it said length!
(Sits back triumphantly.)
I have to say, in the future, I might separate my carrots into two groupings because thick carrots and slim ones don’t seem to marry well.

ELSA
(Leaning forward with genuine interest.)
Thank you, Beverly. That’s fascinating.
(Turns to Francine.)
Now, Francine, tell us about your exciting week.

FRANCINE
(Straightens her posture, her hands smoothing her skirt nervously.)
Yes, well, I cleaned the grout in between each tile.
(Pauses for effect.)
I counted 500 tiles! It took me all day. Heavens!

(The women gasp in admiration. Elsa claps softly, her face lighting up with delight.)

ELSA
(Warmly.)
Wonderful. Thank you, Francine.
(Glances at her watch.)
Now it’s time for snacks. Let’s pull out our baskets and put them on the share table. I wonder what tasty treats we have today!

(The women cheerfully reach under their chairs, pulling out their baskets. They carry their carefully packed snacks to the table and arrange them neatly—peanut butter crackers, cheese sticks, skinny carrots, and buttermilk biscuits. The women exchange pleased glances as they settle back in their seats.)

(They nibble their snacks in contented silence, occasionally murmuring words of praise like “delightful” or “so crunchy.” The old clock ticks loudly in the background, adding an oddly solemn rhythm to the lighthearted scene.)

(Lights slowly dim as the women continue to enjoy their mundane, blissful moment together.)

BLACKOUT

Through the Shadows: A Triptych of Poems

by Lyza Fennell | Dec 8, 2024 | Poetry

Through the Shadows: A Triptych of Poems

Erasure Poetry

These erasure poems are created from Mary Oliver’s original works: ‘The Moths,’ ‘Spring,’ and ‘Hearing of Your Illness’ from Three Poems for James Wright. The words and format are my artistic interpretations inspired by her poetry.

Erasure poetry allows me to engage with existing works in a deeply personal way, revealing hidden layers of meaning and emotion within Mary Oliver’s already exquisite poetry. Each poem below reflects a conversation between her words and my creative voice.

The Kind that Glimmers

Erasure Poem from Mary Oliver’s “The Moths“

There’s a kind that glimmers.
The forest
The pink
Rising
Anything leads

More, more energy.
I was
Running
I stopped.

Unbearable the world,
The pain.

I noticed the forest.
The moths fluttering
Shadows to my reflection.

Green wings
Burn brightly.

Sometimes the dawn
Motionless
In those dark halls.

A solitary figure walking through a stark beam of light in a dark urban space, symbolizing resilience and the journey through shadow and light.

The Bear’s Silence

Erasure Poem from Mary Oliver’s “Spring“

A bear
Is staring
All night.

Four fists
Flicking the gravel
Touching the cold one—
This world.

Rising,
A black ledge.
Her claws
Silence the trees.

Whatever
Life poems its music—
It’s glass
Dazzling,
Breathing.

I think,
Wordlessness.
Perfect.

Grief’s Song

Erasure Poem from Mary Oliver’s “Hearing of Your Illness“

Your illness—
A broken wing.
Fall,
That hesitation
Rising.

I went to Ohio.
Nothing was there.
Trapped, unable,
The creek
Dark breathed fast.
Red blossoms

Lay down in a rank field.
Darkness.
Moment by moment
I felt better.

Pain, they knew,
Would have longed—
The hunger,
Flowing.

They loved you
And waited,
A small pulse—
Their song.

I learned,
With grief,
You went home.

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