Origami No. 4

Here's a snippet from a short play I'm writing called, Reveille! - about two Virginian women in 1862. Reveille! will be one of three short plays in an erotic trilogy called, AMOR NO FLUXO(PRONOUNCED “FLooSHA”), or LOVE IN FLUX.

AMANDA
Oh go on. You’re just jealous ‘cause Godey’s Ladies Book didn’t ask you to submit a story, that’s all.

DOWD
I think it’s wonderful Godey’s ran an ad and invited all its readers to send in a story – not just you.

AMANDA
How would you know? You never read Godey’s so how would you know the first thing about it?

DOWD
Godey’s Ladies Book is a prissy piece of trash for passin’ time and nothing more. Why, any soul in his right mind would pay good money for the paper it’s printed on just so as he – or she – could have something fittin’ to use in the washroom. And I am not referring to washing one’s hands either.

AMANDA
Well that’s peculiar talk coming from a lady. I don’t recall the last time such vulgarity was spoken in our home.
(Beat)
I say Godey’s is not a luxury but a necessity. With its helpful hints and its patterns and needle-work and instructions in housekeeping – why we save twice the price we pay for it in less than a year.

DOWD
Anything I’d write would put to shame 99% of the garbage in that rag – if I had the time.

AMANDA
Then why don’t you write your own story and submit it?

DOWD
The world is an unhappy place, Amanda. My demeanor would have to be on a higher plain for me to even consider the task of sitting down to write.

AMANDA
Well if the world were in a better place, what would you write about then?
(Beat)
Oh, come on. Don’t be a sour puss. Tell me.

DOWD
(Reflecting.)
I suppose I’d write about living here in the valley – before the war...when even the faintest breeze blows in the smell of sassafras blossoms from a mile away and the mockingbirds swoop down on anyone who gets close to their nest – which they do without reservation ‘cause everyone knows you’re never to kill a mockingbird and they know it, too. I’d write about how that dog of yours slouches around so much so you’d think he were dead, except for when he scratches the fleas off his back and nips at the honey bees flying about his head.
(Beat)
Or the farm – I’d write about the farm, and how you’re scared of feeding the chickens –

AMANDA
I am not!

DOWD
You are too. And how one day you proposed we eat the Rhode Island Red and Plymouth Rock chickens as they most certainly were Yankee-bred and would do irreparable harm to a Southerner’s palate. I’d tell of midnight walks along 4 ¼ Mile Road, lit up by the slightest sliver of a moon - like a postcard...where you can hear the rippling and splashing of Little Mountain Run in the dark as she snakes down and around through the Shenandoah Valley, and the horned owl joins the bullfrog and the crickets in a symphony that only God could compose. Or the lonesome whistle of the Blue Ridge Railway...clickety-clackety - reminding me there’s a world to explore beyond this valley. I’d write how exhausted I am after drinkin’ it all in and how I’m able to get a full night’s sleep and wake up refreshed, ready to experience it all over again.
(Beat)
Not like now...where the only smells in the valley are of death and the only sounds are the pangs of innocent folk suffering because of some men’s war. Not like now when I worry that soldiers might steal off with the horses in the middle of the night or that I might awaken to a rifle barrel stuck in my gut - or worse. Where the roads and city streets are filled with blue troops and gray troops – depending on who's in control at the time - marching off to fight and the incessant grumblings of war by townspeople who have nothing else to talk about ‘cause there is nothing else to talk about.
(Beat)
I smell sassafras occasionally. And I’m not saying the crickets have stopped chirping or Ollie stopped shooing bees all together. But it’s - everything I cherish about this place has been smothered by war. The trains bring men into town to fight one another. The air is filled with smoke and fire. The Yankees’ blockade stopped Little Mountain Run from rippling and splashing. People I know have died or moved away. The...the ecstasy I once felt here is gone – replaced with chaos and fear. I used to enjoy the rain – a steady, long, slow rain. It washed the earth clean and made everything smell reborn...new – like fresh laundry that’s come in outta the sun and the wind. The only rain that falls now brings with it the smell of death and the streets run with the blood of young men who are lost forever. And I’m afraid that everything will change and I will forget what it was like.
(Sheepishly.)
I didn’t mean to go and on.
(Beat)
That’s what I’d write about. The way things used to be. Our reality is the war - what joy would there be in writing about that?

AMANDA
Well I’m fairly certain that’s not the slant Godey’s is aspiring it’s readers to write about – all the blood and guts and such. I, for one, choose to concentrate on the positive aspects of the day. War or no war.

DOWD
You be optimistic for both of us. Maybe something good will come of it.

AMANDA
Godey’s Ladies Book publishing my story would be a positive start, I’d say.
(Beat)
Sounds like a storybook – all that, fluff you were talking about. You came up with all that on your own?

DOWD
It wasn’t difficult. I’ve lived it all my life.

AMANDA
(Beat)
“Sassafras blossoms”. I like that. May I use it in my narration? For Godey’s?

DOWD
Not too much fluff for you, I hope.

AMANDA
Well...