Living Room
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An electric fire crackles underneath the droning voice of a newscaster reporting the same story from the night before. In front, the battle between green and beige plastic rages on a shaggy tan plain as a young soon-to-be general calls out orders under his breath, bringing the men alarmingly close to the dooming heat just as he did the night before. The amber hue of dimmed lamps illuminates the close corners of the room but fails to reach the top of the cathedral ceiling, creating a bubble of warmth for just the living space. A worn blue leather couch rests against the wall, and its sister armchair rests against the stair’s banister. The Father lounges, laid out like a cat, on the armchair and matching footstool, popping nuts into his mouth like candy and mindlessly scoffing at the same annoyances on the screen from the night before. Three curled female figures sit relaxed on three sections of couch cushions. The Mother tucks her legs neatly underneath her, scrolling through her tablet and drinking the same tea as the night before. Ears perked up like a horse, she cringes at the crunch of every nut Father munches on, glaring him down and hoping that her cold, hard stare will catch his attention. Leaning on Mother, Daughter One rests her head and looks up at the dark, empty white ceiling, hoping that her unspoken questions will be answered by an intangible force, not yet described. Her fingers brush up and down the phone she’s desperately trying not to unlock. She looks forlorn and puzzled, definitely questioning a deep thought but in such a way that the thought seems to cause her agony. Of course, if someone asked if she was ok, she’s fine. Of course, she was fine the night before. On the opposite end of the couch, pushed into the deep corner as if trying to conceal her presence from the rest of the room, Daughter Two curls up in a ball of determined stress, her thoughts far away from the room. Her computer, humming with effort, balances on her shaking knees, and a pair of glasses rests on the bridge of her nose, trying desperately not to tip off. The crinkle in her eyebrows and creases on her eyes signal the effort and strain she’s putting into a task night after night which will eventually be irrelevant in only a few months. Yet the strain and the stress continue, and the computer will hum for another hour or so as the glasses cling to the clip of her nose for dear life just as they did the night before. The television speaks, the Father chews, the Mother scrolls, the Daughter stares, and the Daughter strains. As if frozen in action, these figures pose in a tableau, unwilling and uninterested in motion. Only the commander-general disrupts the stagnant energy of the room, running around like a child in a museum watched by frowning spectators. Every so often, a brief shift, a sudden unwelcomed breeze, changes the feeling in the room. The tableau breaks just for a second. The Mother looks at the kitchen across the open space, frowning at the leftover dishes, food, and trash from dinner earlier. The Father peaks up at the son (the young commander-general, excuse me) and opens his mouth slightly as if to warn him about the danger his army faces as their commander-general leads them closer and closer to the blazing heat. Daughter glances at her phone’s
