Forensics updated feb 11 2016

TALLWOOD HIGH SCHOOL FORENSICS 2016

FORENSICS SATURDAY 2/20/2016////CONFERENCE HELD AT GREEN RUN HIGH SCHOOL:

GENERAL NOTES AND COMMENTS All participants should arrive at Green Run and Check in with me by 8:30.

There will be three rounds in which the participants will compete.

Students should bring something to eat and be sure to attend to any personal property.

Expect to be at Green Run High School on Saturday February 20th from 8:30 - 1:45, with the potential of staying on until the awards are finished at around 3 pm. All Students May be dropped off and picked up at Green Run.

Please read through the Forensics Manual based upon your category.

Everyone read: Allowable materials 33-34, Frequently Asked Questions P. 40-41, Critique Sheets associated w/category pp. 42-61 Extemp p. 35 also read PDF "for extemp topics" Original Oratory p. 36 Impromptu p.37 also read PDF "for imp topics" Oral Interpretation (Storytelling, Prose, Poetry, Serious solo, Humourous Solo, Serious Duo, Humourous Duo) p. 37-39

ALL ITEMS ARE AT https://issuu.com/demottissuu/stacks/e9a0923d5aa24e5cbe585432403d1c68 THERE ARE FOUR DOCUMENTS, OF WHICH EVERYONE SHOULD: -REFER TO FORENSICS MANUAL (BASED ON THE CATEGORY ASSOCIATED WITH WHAT THEY ARE DOING) -FAMILIARIZE THEMSELVES WITH THE RULES FOR THEIR PARTICULAR CATEGORY -BE SURE TO PICK UP A PARTICIPATION PACKET AND RETURN IT TO MR. DEMOTT IN ROOM 143B -CHECK AND VERIFY THEIR ABILITY TO PARTICIPATE. INDICATE IMMEDIATELY IF THEY ARE UNABLE TO. -SELECT AND PRACTICE AN APPROPRIATE READING. TELL MR. DEMOTT WHAT THE READING IS AND SCHEDULE A PRACTICE. -NOTE: MR. WRIGHT HAS STATED THAT HE CAN ASSIST WITH THE SPEECH CATEGORIES AND/OR STUDENTS WHO ARE HIS STUDENTS. NOTE: THE EXTEMP AND IMPROMPTU PARTICIPANTS SHOULD ADDITIONALLY LOOK AT THE PDF DOCUMENT FOR EXTEMP OR IMPROMPTU.

Thanks, EDM

RULES PLEASE SEE PDF FOR COMPLETE RULES ON WWW.ISSUU.COM/DEMOTTISSUU UNDER THE FORENSICS TAB ABBREVIATED RULES MAY BE BELOW.

IMPROMPTU RULES SECTION 114: IMPROMPTU SPEAKING. 114-1-1 Introduction-The League sponsors a program in impromptu speaking leading to school, conference, regional and state championships.

114-2-1 Topics-Impromptu topics will include proverbs, ordinary objects, events, quotations and famous people. All students, in each section, will draw from the same list of topics.

A different subject area will be used for each round.

114-2-2 Drawing-Students will be assigned to a room with an adjudicator present. All students assigned to the room will check in with the adjudicator and then wait outside the room until they are called for their turn to speak. When the student is asked to speak, he/she will be brought into the room, given three topics and asked to choose one. All students will choose from the same three topics.

114-2-3 Preparation-The contestant shall prepare a speech without consultation and without reference to prepared notes or research materials. The student may make limited notes on both sides of one note card not exceeding 4" X 6" in size and provided by the adjudicator.

114-2-4 Time-Timing begins immediately after the three topics are drawn. There is NO minimum time requirement, but the contestant must cover the subject adequately. The maximum time for preparation and speaking is seven minutes. The student may divide this time in any way he/she see fit. Visual aids and/or props are prohibited. The adjudicator is expected to provide the student with oral time signals, indicating the amount of time elapsed at one minute, two minutes, etc. until the student begins speaking. The adjudicator should then provide the student with hand signals, showing the progression of each minute, again at 6:30 and at the end of the seventh minute, indicate that time has expired. The speaker must conclude the speech at the end of the seven minutes.

Impromptu students have a seven-minute time limit plus a 30second grace period.

114-2-5 Recuse-A student may not leave the impromptu round until all students have finished speaking.

114-3-1 Bases for Judges' Decisions-Criteria followed by judges in determining winners are relevance of theme to topic, thought content, freshness, depth, clarity of organization, sincerity of speaker, adequacy of support and development, use of language, voice and diction and control and use of

body.

The most competitive contestants will have oratorical qualities with speeches that have a clear intro/thesis, body and conclusion (beginning, middle, end).

Judges' rating forms are supplied by the League office.

All contestants are ranked and scored. Judges shall write a criticism for each speaker.

114-4-1 Penalties-In each contest, the contestant shall be given a 30-second grace period beyond the time limit for that event. Any student going over the grace period may not rank first in the round. No other penalty for a time violation shall be assessed. A violation of any other rule in this section, if discovered and reported to the tournament director before the end of the competition will result in disqualification and a redistribution of awards as necessary.

EXTEMP RULES (ABBREV.) EXTEMPORANEOUS SPEAKING. Purpose-The purpose of the extemporaneous speaking event is to encourag students to combine clear thinking, good extempore, conversational speaking and interesting presentation in establishing a definite thought with respect to current fact and opinion on a designated topic as presented by contemporary sources.

112-3-1 Contest Regulations-Topics for extemporaneous speaking shall be chosen from articles appearing in the issues of national newsmagazines such as Newsweek, Time and U. S. News and World Report or from mainstream newspapers with national circulations. Topics will be selected from these periodicals, may relate to either domestic or foreign affairs and will be released at least 30 days before each tournament.

112-3-2 Questions pertaining to topics will be provided and are not to be made known to the contestants before the event.

112-3-3 The speech shall not exceed seven minutes in length. There is no minimum time requirement as long as the topic is adequately covered; however, the contestant is encouraged to speak at least four minutes.

112-4-1 Preparation-Speeches should have as their purpose either to stimulate, to convince, to persuade or to influence action.

112-4-2 In preparing his/her speech, the contestant should concentrate on originality of his/her theme, relevance of his/her content to his/her topic, depth and logic of thought in his/her content, fresh and challenging approach, clarity of organization and adequate evidence. When delivering his/her speech, the contestant should keep in mind the conversational style of delivery, earnestness and concerned delivery (sincerity plus ardor), simplicity, accurateness and vividness of language and manner, pleasing and varied vocal qualities, posture and bodily movement that are neither stiff nor slovenly, and gestures that are felt as necessary. Above all, he/she should concentrate more on quality of content than on quality of delivery even though the latter is important in the process of communication.

112-5-2 Contestants shall report to an assigned area where they will, in order, draw three questions each. From these, each contestant is to choose one and return the other two. All students in each section will draw from the same list of questions. After the first speaker has chosen his/her question, the second speaker will draw his/her question ten minutes later, and so on, in ten-minute intervals for each speaker. A different topic area will be used for each round.

112-5-3 Each contestant shall have 30 minutes to prepare before he/she is to speak. Timing begins immediately after the three questions are drawn. The speaker shall withdraw to the specified area and prepare himself/herself to speak. During this preparation period, he/she must not consult with anyone or make use of previously prepared notes. Reference books, newspapers and magazines shall be permitted.

112-5-4 The speaker shall be allowed to use both sides of one note card not exceeding 4" x 6" in size and provided by the tournament.

112-5-5 At the end of the 30-minute preparation period, it shall be the responsibility of the student to report immediately to the speaking area.

Students must not leave the prep room with any materials other than their question strip and optional note card.

112-5-6 Either before beginning the speech or as part of the introduction, the contestant is to read his/her question in the exact words or phrasing as it appears on the paper he/she selected.

112-5-7 Visual aids and/or props used while speaking are prohibited.

Extemp students have a seven-minute time limit plus a 30-second grace period.

The timekeeper will note for the speaker and judges the time for each speech.

112-6-1 Bases for Judges’ Decisions-Criteria followed by judges in determining winners are relevance of theme to topic, thought content, logic, freshness, depth, clarity of organization, sincerity of speaker, adequacy and concreteness of supporting details, use of language (vividness, simplicity and comprehension), voice and diction (variety, acceptable pronunciation, clear enunciation), and control and use of body. Judges’ rating forms are supplied by the League Office. All contestants are ranked and scored. Judges shall write a criticism for each speaker.

Judges may no longer question speaker at the conclusion of his/her speech (2012-13).

112-7-1 Penalties- Any student going over the grace period may not rank first in the round. No other penalty for a time violation shall be assessed. Any contestant at any conference, regional or state contest who violates any other regulation in this section shall be disqualified.

SEE PDF FOR FULL RULES: THE ABOVE IS ABBREVIATED FOR SPACE.

UPDATED 2/10th/2016

ORIGINAL ORATORY RULES SECTION 113: ORIGINAL ORATORY. 113-1-1 Introduction-The League sponsors a program in original oratory leading to championships on all levels within each group.

These contests are held as part of the school, conference, regional and state forensic meets.

113-2-1 Purpose-The purpose of the original oratory contest is to train and encourage students to present speeches intelligently and truthfully (in an interesting and original manner, direct and conversational in delivery, clear in arrangement and presentation, and with some profit to an audience) on any worthwhile topic suitable for a public speech.

113-3-1 Contest Regulations-A speaker may not use a speech he/she has delivered in any previous year’s contest.

113-3-2 Each contestant shall deliver his or her own original speech not to exceed ten minutes in delivery. Contestant must present the same speech in each round of a given tournament. Adjudicator will not provide time signals, and there is no minimum time requirement.

113-3-3 The oration shall not contain in excess of 150 words of directly quoted material, nor shall the oration be a paraphrase taken completely from one source. The speaker shall clearly acknowledge the sources of any quotations used.

113-3-4 Speeches shall have been thoroughly prepared. The speaker shall be allowed to use both sides of two note cards each of which may not exceed 4" x 6" in size. Visual aids used while speaking are not permitted.

113-3-5 Each speaker shall prepare a manuscript of his/her speech for each round of competition. Following the completion of the speech in each round, each speaker shall submit a copy of his/her manuscript to a judge who shall submit it to the tournament director, who may return it to the speaker.

113-4-1 Preparation-The original oration should have as its purpose to persuade. Therefore, one might wish to speak in order to convince, to stimulate or to inspire.

113-4-2 Any idea might become a subject for an oration, provided it “bothers” a speaker and interests the audience.

113-4-3 In preparing his/her speech, the contestant should concentrate on originality and worthwhileness of content and theme, soundness of thinking, excellence of organization, adequacy and concreteness of developmental or supporting details and illustrations and vividness of style. In rehearsing his/her speech, the contestant should keep in mind the conversational style of delivery, earnestness and concerned delivery (sincerity plus ardor), simplicity, accurateness and vividness of language and manner, pleasing and varied vocal qualities, posture and bodily movement that are neither stiff nor slovenly, gestures that are felt as necessary, and general effectiveness as a persuasive, convincing, stimulating or inspirational speaker whose speaking gives prominence to imaginative and emotional elements. (“Soundness of thinking and weight of content are supplemented by a degree of eloquence in delivery by a speaker who is stirred, aroused, and challenged by his/her subject and audience.”) Above all, the speaker should predominately concentrate on quality of content rather than on quality of delivery even though the latter is important in the process of communication.

113-5-1 Contest Procedures-The order in which contestants speak is determined by lot on the schematic pairings.

113-6-1 Bases for Judges’ Decisions-Criteria followed by judges in determining winners are originality and worthwhileness of subject, thought content (logic, freshness, depth), clarity of organization, sincerity of speaker, voice and diction (variety, acceptable pronunciation, clear enunciation), and control and use of body. Judges rating forms are supplied by the League Office. All contestants are ranked and scored. Judges shall write a criticism for each speaker.

Judges may no longer question speaker at the conclusion of his/her speech (2012-13).

113-7-1 Penalties-In each contest, the contestant shall be given a 30-second grace period beyond the time limit for that event.

Any student going over the grace period may not rank first in the round. No other penalty for a time violation shall be assessed.

A violation of any other rule in this section, if discovered and reported to the tournament director before the end of the competition will result in disqualification and a redistribution of awards as necessary.

UPDATED 2/10th/2016

STORYTELLING PROSE POETRY RULES 115-1-1 Introduction-The League sponsors a program in oral interpretation leading to championships on all levels within each group. Championships are determined in storytelling, prose interpretation, poetry interpretation, serious dramatic interpretation, humorous dramatic interpretation, serious duo interpretation and humorous duo interpretation. These contests are held as part of school, conference, regional and state forensic meets.

115-2-1 Purpose-The purpose of these contests is to encourage appreciation of the full meaning of the printed page and the oral communication of that meaning to others with apparent spontaneity, directness, simplicity and sincerity, without distracting the hearer through faulty pronunciation or indistinct enunciation. A speaker may not use a selection he/she has written or a selection written about his/her own experiences.

115-3-1 Storytelling Contest Regulations-A contestant will present a published children's story, not exceeding ten minutes in length including an introduction. Contestant must present the same selection in each round of a given tournament. Adjudicator will not provide time signals and no notes may be used and a contestant may not use a story he/she has presented in any previous year's contest. Each contestant is to work alone without costume or props since he/she will be judged only on storytelling ability. Gestures are encouraged; however, movement must be restricted to movement in place, no walking. The contestant should assume that the audience consists of a group of children. The contestant may differentiate characters by the use of different voices, focal points and body postures.

115-4-1 Prose Interpretation Contest Regulations-Each contestant shall read one prepared published prose selection of his/her own choice with a total reading time of not more than ten minutes.

The contestant should preface his/her reading with an introductory statement which will give the audience a better understanding of the selection read, provided this total time does not exceed ten minutes. Contestant must present the same selection in each round of a given tournament. Adjudicator will not provide time signals. The use of a manuscript is required. No reader may use a prepared prose selection, adaptation or cutting that he/she has read in a conference, regional or state contest in a previous year.

115-5-1 Poetry Interpretation Contest Regulations-Each contestant shall read one prepared published poem or poetic group of his/her own choice with a total reading time of not more than ten minutes. The contestant should preface his/her reading with an introductory statement which will give the audience a better understanding of the selection read, provided this total time does not exceed ten minutes. Contestant must present the same selection in each round of a given tournament. Adjudicator will not provide time signals. The use of a manuscript is required. No reader may use a prepared poetry selection, adaptation or cutting that he/she has read in a conference, regional or state contest in a previous year.

UPDATED 2/10th/2016

DRAMATIC INTERPRETATION RULES 115-6-1 Serious Dramatic Interpretation Regulations-Each contestant shall present one selection of a serious nature chosen from published material. Contestant must present the same selection in each round of a given tournament. The selection should emphasize character development through consistent use of distinct voices, focal points and postures. Adaptations may be for the purpose of continuity only. The contestant should preface the selection with an introductory statement that will give the audience a better understanding of the selection, provided the total time does not exceed ten minutes. Adjudicator will not provide time signals. The use of a manuscript is prohibited. No contestant may use a selection, adaptation or cutting that he/she has used in a conference, regional, or state contest in a previous year. Properties or costumes are not permitted. Movement is allowed, but such movement should be restricted to bending (knees and/or waist); leaning, twisting or swiveling; and no walking.

Use of body (gestures, appropriate audience/eye contact, etc.) to suggest character is permitted.

115-7-1 Humorous Dramatic Interpretation Regulations-Each contestant shall present one selection of a humorous nature chosen from published material. Contestant must present the same selection in each round of a given tournament. The selection should emphasize character development through consistent use of distinct voices, focal points and postures. Adaptations may be for the purpose of continuity only. The contestant should preface the selection with an introductory statement that will give the audience a better understanding of the selection, provided the total time does not exceed ten minutes. Adjudicator will not provide time signals. The use of a manuscript is prohibited. No contestant may use a selection, adaptation or cutting that he/she has used in a conference, regional or state contest in a previous year. Properties or costumes are not permitted. Movement is allowed, but such movement should be restricted to bending (knees and/or waist); leaning, twisting or swiveling; and no walking.

Use of body (gestures, appropriate audience/eye contact, etc.) to suggest character is permitted.

115-8-1 Serious Duo Interpretation of Literature-Each duo team must present one selection of a serious nature chosen from a single published work. Though the material may contain humorous tones, the climax and resolution must be a serious dramatic nature. Contestant must present the same selection in each round of a given tournament. Each interpreter may present one or more characters and either or both may present narration. A selection must maintain the author's intent, characters and words as written, except for minor use of transitions, unless written permission is granted by the author or publisher for modification and/or adaptation of the published work. No contestant may use a selection, adaptation or cutting that either member of the duo team has used in a conference, regional or state contest in a previous year. The contestants should preface the selection with an introductory statement that will give the audience a better understanding of the selection. The use of a manuscript is prohibited. The performers may not have eye or physical contact with each other except during the introduction and should focus off stage. The performers must begin their presentation from center stage and restrict their physical blocking to movement around one another, switching positions, pivoting from side to side or turning around completely. No properties or costumes are permitted. The timing for this event shall be a maximum of ten minutes, with no minimum time requirement.

Adjudicator will not provide time signals.

115-9-1 Humorous Duo Interpretation of Literature-Each duo team must present one selection of a humorous nature chosen from a single published work. Though the material may contain serious tones, the climax and resolution must be of a humorous nature. Contestant must present the same selection in each round of a given tournament. Each interpreter may present one or more characters and either or both may present narration. A selection must maintain the author's intent, characters and words as written, except for minor use of transitions, unless written permission is granted by the author or publisher for modification and/or adaptation of the published work. No contestant may use a selection, adaptation or cutting that either member of the duo team has used in a conference, regional or state contest in a previous year. The contestants should preface the selection with an introductory statement that will give the audience a better understanding of the selection. The use of a manuscript is prohibited. The performers may not have eye or physical contact with each other except during the introduction and should focus off stage. The performers must begin their presentation from center stage and restrict their physical blocking to movement around one another, switching positions, pivoting from side to side or turning around completely. No properties or costumes are permitted. The timing for this event shall be a maximum of ten minutes, with no minimum time requirement. Adjudicator will not provide time signals.

115-10-1 Preparation-In preparing for the contests, the following definition of good oral interpretation should be carefully considered: The prime requisite of oral interpretation is intelligibility, and to that end the contestant must have an intelligent comprehension of what he/she interprets and a due appreciation of its values, as well as the ability to communicate them to his/her audience. A pleasant voice, an acceptable accent and clear enunciation are first of all desirable. Monotony of tone or of pace and overemphasis or acting are to be avoided. Through modulation, proper stress and timing not only must the meaning of the passage be brought out, but also its mood whether of humor, pathos, earnestness, excitement, satire or whatever. The audience must be given an opportunity to hear, to understand, and to feel what the author is striving to convey.

115-11-1 Contest Procedures-The order in which contestants read is determined by lot on the schematic pairings.

115-12-1 Bases for Judges’ Decisions-Criteria followed by judges in determining winners are choice of selection, interpretation, pronunciation, timing, enunciation, eye contact, posture, gestures, voice, poise, appearance, energy level, coherence of story cutting, vocal expression, facial expression, characterization, appeal to children and impact of message and performance. All contestants are ranked and scored. Judges shall write a criticism for each speaker.

Appeal to children only applies to storytelling.

UPDATED 2/10th/2016

Participant Charts SPEECH PRESENTATION (EXEMP / IMPROMPTU / ORIGINAL ORATORY) PLEASE SEE MR. WRIGHT IN ENGLISH OFFICE TO SCHEDULE REHEARSAL

EXTEMP

IMPROMPTU

ORIGINAL ORATORY

Dana de Haan Topic: see topic list

ADRIAN DONALD Topic: see topic list

Hunter Egger Topic: TBD

Empty

Empty

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INTERPRETIVE (SOLO SERIOUS, SOLO HUMOUROUS, DUO SERIOUS, DUO HUMOUROUS, PROSE, POETRY, STORYTELLING) -MR. DEMOTT RM 143B

DRAMATIC INT SERIOUS

DRAMATIC INT

DRAMATIC INT DUO

DRAMATIC INT DUO

HUMOUROUS

SERIOUS

HUMOUROUS

Taya Dennis

Empty

TAQUOIA KILBY Tifanni Mayes Piece: TBD

JEREMY RIORDAN AND SYDNEY BURSON

Empty

Miriam Blanco AND Connor Bishop

Piece:

DANIEL MILES

Empty

Piece:

Piece: DEATH KNOCKS

Piece: SURE THING

POETRY

PROSE

STORYTELLING

KATHERINE FLORES

ANASTASIA MALETZ

NADIA HAMRICK

Piece 1: Abandoned Farmhouse by Ted Kooser Piece 2 After the Winter Piece 3: All This and More

Piece: Icarus Girl by Helen Oyeyemi

Piece: The Devoted Friend by Oscar Wilde

ELENA DAJERO

Empty

Empty

Piece 1: The Darker Sooner by Catherine Wing Piece 2: The Man With the Broken Fingers by Carl Sandberg

UPDATED 2/10th/2016

READINGS and EXCERPTS SEE FOR EXTEMP TOPICS PDF on www.issuu.com/demottissuu under the Forensics tab Extemporaneous: Dana d.

Extemporaneous: (Empty) SEE PDF FOR IMPROMPTU TOPICS on www.issuu.com/demottissuu under the Forensics tab Impromptu: Adrian D. Impromptu: (Empty) Original Oratory: written by presenter, (Hunter E) Original Oratory: (Empty) Poetry: The Darker Sooner by Catherine Wing / The Man with the Broken Fingers by Carl Sandberg (Elena D.) Poetry: Abandoned Farmhouse, After the Winter, All of the and More (Katherine F.) Prose: Excerpt from The Icarus Girl – Helen Oyeyemi (Anastasia M.) Prose: (Empty) Storytelling: The Devoted Friend- Ocsar Wilde (Nadia H.) Storytelling: (Empty) Dramatic Interpretation: Humourous: Solo: (Empty) Dramatic Interpretation: Humourous: Solo (Empty) Dramatic Interpretation: Serious: Solo, Taya D. Dramatic Interpretation: Serious: Solo, Daniel M. Dramatic Interpretation: Humorous: Duo: Death Knocks – Woody Allen, Sydney B. and Jeremy R. Dramatic Interpretation Humourous: Duo, Sure Thing – Connor B. and Miriam B. Dramatic Interpretation – Serious: Duo: Tifanni M. and Taquoia K. Dramatic Interpretation- Seriuos: Duo, (Empty)

UPDATED 2/10th/2016

ORIGINAL ORATORY:

UPDATED 2/10th/2016

POETRY

The Darker Sooner

BY CATHERINE W ING

Then came the darker sooner, came the later lower.

We were no longer a sweeter-here happily-ever-after. We were after ever.

We were farther and further.

More was the word we used for harder.

Lost was our standard-bearer.

Our gods were fallen faster, and fallen larger.

The day was duller, duller was disaster. Our charge was error.

Instead of leader we had louder, instead of lover, never. And over this river broke the winter’s black weather.

UPDATED 2/10th/2016

Poetry

The Man with the Broken Fingers – Carl Sandburg The Man with the Broken Fingers throws a shadow.

Down from the spruce and evergreen mountain timbers of Norway— And across Europe and the Mediterranean to the oasis palms of Libya – He lives and speaks a sign language of lost fingers.

From a son of Norway who slipped the Gestapo nets, the Nazi patrols, The story comes as told among those now in Norway.

Shrines in their hearts they have for this nameless man Who refused to remember the names names names the Gestapo wanted “Tell us these names. Who are they? Talk! We want those names!”

And the man faced them, looked them in the eye, and hours passed and no names came—hours on hours and no names for the Gestapo.

They told him they would break him as they had broken others The rubber hose slammed around face and neck.

The truncheon handing pain with no telltale marks.

Or the distinction of a firing squad and death in a split second – The Gestapo considered these and decided for him something else again.

“Tell us those names. Who were they? Talk! Names now – or else!

And no names came – over and over and no names.

So they broke the little finger of the left hand Three fingers came next and the left thumb bent till it broke.

Still no names and there was and day and night for rest and thinking it over Then again the demand for names and he gave them the same silence And the little finger of the right hand felt itself twisted.

Back and back twisted till it hung loose from a bleeding socket.

Then three more fingers cracked and splintered one by one And the right thumb back and back into shattered bone.

Did he think about violins or accordions he would never touch again?

Did he think of baby or woman hair he would never again play with?

Or of hammers or pencils no good to him any more?

Or of gloves and mittens that would always be misfits?

He may have laughed half a moment over a Gestapo job So now for a while he would handle neither knife nor fork Nor lift to his lips any drinking cup handle Nor sign his name with pen between thumb and fingers.

UPDATED 2/10th/2016

And all this was halfway – there was more to come The Gestapo wit and craft had an aim.

They wanted it known in Norway the Gestapo can be terrible.

They wanted a wide whispering of fear Of how the Nazis handle those who won’t talk or tell names.

“We give you one more chance to co-operate.”

Yet he had no names for them.

His locked tongue, his Norwegian will pitted against Nazi will.

His pride and faith in a free man’s way, His welcoming death rather than do what they wanted – They brought against this their last act of fury.

Breaking the left arm at the elbow Breaking it again at the shoulder socket – And when he came to in a flicker of opening eyes They broke the right arm first at the elbow, then the shoulder By now of course he had lost all memory of names, even his own.

And there are those like you and me and many many others Who can never forget the Man with the Broken Fingers.

His will, his pride as a free man, shall go on.

His shadow moves and his sacred fingers speak.

He tells men there are a thousand writhing shattering deaths Better to die one by one than to say yes yes yes When the answer is no no no and death is welcome and death is soon And death is a quiet step into a sweet clean midnight.

UPDATED 2/10th/2016

POETRY

Abandoned Farmhouse By Ted Kooser He was a big man, says the size of his shoes on a pile of broken dishes by the house; a tall man too, says the length of the bed in an upstairs room; and a good, God-fearing man, says the Bible with a broken back on the floor below the window, dusty with sun; but not a man for farming, say the fields cluttered with boulders and the leaky barn.

A woman lived with him, says the bedroom wall papered with lilacs and the kitchen shelves covered with oilcloth, and they had a child, says the sandbox made from a tractor tire.

Money was scarce, say the jars of plum preserves and canned tomatoes sealed in the cellar hole.

And the winters cold, say the rags in the window frames.

It was lonely here, says the narrow country road.

Something went wrong, says the empty house in the weed-choked yard. Stones in the fields say he was not a farmer; the still-sealed jars in the cellar say she left in a nervous haste.

And the child? Its toys are strewn in the yard like branches after a storm—a rubber cow, a rusty tractor with a broken plow, a doll in overalls. Something went wrong, they say.

UPDATED 2/10th/2016

After the Winter

After the Winter By Claude McKay Some day, when trees have shed their leaves And against the morning’s white The shivering birds beneath the eaves Have sheltered for the night, We’ll turn our faces southward, love, Toward the summer isle Where bamboos spire the shafted grove And wide-mouthed orchids smile.

And we will seek the quiet hill Where towers the cotton tree, And leaps the laughing crystal rill, And works the droning bee.

And we will build a cottage there Beside an open glade, With black-ribbed blue-bells blowing near, And ferns that never fade.

UPDATED 2/10th/2016

All This and More By Mary Karr The Devil’s tour of hell did not include a factory line where molten lead spilled into mouths held wide, no electric drill spiraling screws into hands and feet, nor giant pliers to lower you into simmering vats.

Instead, a circle of light opened on your stuffed armchair, whose chintz orchids did not boil and change, and the Devil adjusted your new spiked antennae almost delicately, with claws curled and lacquered black, before he spread his leather wings to leap into the acid-green sky.

So your head became a tv hull, a gargoyle mirror. Your doppelganger sloppy at the mouth and swollen at the joints enacted your days in sinuous slow motion, your lines delivered with a mocking sneer. Sometimes the frame froze, reversed, began again: the red eyes of a friend you cursed, your girl child cowered behind the drapes, parents alive again and puzzled by this new form. That’s why you clawed your way back to this life.

UPDATED 2/10th/2016

PROSE – The Icarus Girl – Helen Oyeyemi (Chapter ONE) https://www.bookbrowse.com/excerpts/index.cfm/book_number/1627/page_number/1/the-icarusgirl#excerpt ONE "Jess?"

Her mother's voice sounded through the hallway, mixing with the mustiness around her so well that the sound almost had a smell. To Jess, sitting in the cupboard, the sound of her name was strange, wobbly, misformed, as if she were inside a bottle, or a glass cube, maybe, and Mum was outside it, tapping.

I must have been in here too long-"Jessamy!" Her mother's voice was stern.

Jessamy Harrison did not reply.

She was sitting inside the cupboard on the landing, where the towels and other linen were kept, saying quietly to herself, I am in the cupboard.

She felt that she needed to be saying this so that it would be real. It was similar to her waking up and saying to herself, My name is Jessamy. I am eight years old.

If she reminded herself that she was in the cupboard, she would know exactly where she was, something that was increasingly difficult each day. Jess found it easier not to remember, for example, that the cupboard she had hidden in was inside a detached house on Langtree Avenue.

It was a small house. Her cousin Dulcie's house was quite a lot bigger, and so was Tunde Coker's. The house had three bedrooms, but the smallest one had been taken over and cheerily cluttered with books, paper and broken pens by Jess's mum. There were small patches of front and back garden which Jess's parents, who cited lack of time to tend them and lack of funds to get a gardener, both readily referred to as "appalling." Jess preferred cupboards and enclosed spaces to gardens, but she liked the clumpy lengths of brownish grass that sometimes hid earthworms when it was wet, and she liked the mysterious plants (weeds, according to her father) that bent and straggled around the inside of the fence.

Both the cupboard and the house were in Crankbrook, not too far from Dulcie's house in Bromley. In Jess's opinion, this proximity was unfortunate. Dulcie put Jess in mind of a bad elf--all sharp chin and silver-blonde hair, with chill blue-green lakes for eyes. Even when Dulcie didn't have the specific intention of smashing a hole through Jess's fragile peace, she did anyway. In general, Jess didn't like life outside the cupboard.

Outside the cupboard, Jess felt as if she was in a place where everything moved past too fast, all colours, all people talking and wanting her to say things. So she kept her eyes on the ground, which pretty much stayed the same.

Then the grown-up would say, "What's the matter, Jess? Why are you sad?" And she'd have to explain that she wasn't sad, just tired, though how she could be so tired in the middle of the day with the sun shining and everything, she didn't know. It made her feel ashamed.

"JESSAMY!" "I am in the cupboard," she whispered, moving backwards and stretching her arms out, feeling her elbows pillowed by thick, soft masses of towel. She felt as if she were in bed.

A slit of light grew as the cupboard door opened and her mother looked in at her. Jess could already smell the stain of thick, wrong-flowing biro ink, the way it smelt when the pen went all leaky. She couldn't see her mum's fingers yet, but she knew that they would be blue with the ink, and probably the sleeves of the long yellow T-shirt she was wearing as well. Jess felt like laughing because she could see only half of her mum's face, and it was like one of thoseWhere's Spot? books. Lift the flap to find the rest. But she didn't laugh, because her mum looked sort of cross. She pushed the door wider open.

"You were in here all this time?" Sarah Harrison asked, her lips pursed.

Jess sat up, trying to gauge the situation. She was getting good at this.

"Yeah," she said hesitantly.

"Then why didn't you answer?"

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"Sorry, Mummy."

Her mother waited, and Jessamy's brow wrinkled as she scanned her face, perplexed. An explanation was somehow still required.

"I was thinking about something," she said, after another moment.

Her mum leaned on the cupboard door, trying to peer into the cupboard, trying, Jess realised, to see her face.

"Didn't you play out with the others today?" she asked.

"Yeah," Jessamy lied. She had just caught sight of the clock. It was nearly six now, and she had hidden herself in the landing cupboard after lunch.

She saw her mum's shoulders relax and wondered why she got so anxious about things like this. She'd heard her say lots of times, in lowered tones, that maybe it wasn't right for Jessamy to play by herself so much, that it wasn't right that she seemed to have nothing to say for herself. In Nigeria, her mother had said, children were always getting themselves into mischief, and surely that was better than sitting inside reading and staring into space all day. But her father, who was English and insisted that things were different here, said it was more or less normal behaviour and that she'd grow out of it. Jess didn't know who was right; she certainly didn't feel as if she was about to run off and get herself into mischief, and she wasn't sure whether she should hope to or not.

Her mother held out a hand and grasping it, Jess reluctantly left her towel pillows and stepped out on to the landing. They stood there for a second, looking at each other, then her mother crouched and took Jessamy's face in her hands, examining her. Jess held still, tried to assume an expression that would satisfy whatever her mother was looking for, although she could not know what this was.

Then her mum said quietly. "I didn't hear the back door all day."

Jessamy started a little.

"What?"

Her mum let go of her, shook her head, laughed. Then she said, "How would you like for us to go to Nigeria?"

Jess, still distracted, found herself asking, "Who?" Sarah laughed.

"Us! You, me and Daddy!"

Jess felt stupid.

"Ohhhhh," she said. "In an aeroplane?"

Her mum, who was convinced that this was the thing to bring Jessamy out of herself, smiled.

"Yes! In an aeroplane! Would you like that?"

Jess began to feel excited. To Nigeria! In an aeroplane! She tried to imagine Nigeria, but couldn't. Hot. It would be hot.

"Yeah," she said, and smiled.

But if she had known the trouble it would cause, she would have shouted "No!" at the top of her voice and run back into the cupboard. Because it all STARTED in Nigeria, where it was hot, and, although she didn't realise this until much later, the way she felt might have been only a phase, and she might have got better if only (oh, if only if only if ONLY, Mummy) she hadn't gone.

Jess liked haiku.

She thought they were incredible and really sort of terrible. She felt, when reading over the ones she'd written herself, as if she were being punched very hard, just once, with each haiku.

One day, Jess spent six hours spread untidily across her bedroom floor, chin in hand, motionless except for the movement of

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her other hand going back and forth across the page. She was writing, crossing out, rewriting, fighting with words and punctuation to mould her sentiment into the perfect form. She continued in the dark without getting up to switch on a light, but eventually she sank and sank until her head was on the paper and her neck was stretching slightly painfully so that she could watch her hand forming letters with the pencil. She didn't sharpen the pencil, but switched to different colours instead, languidly patting her hand out in front of her to pick up a pencil that had rolled into her path. Her parents, looking in on her and seeing her with her cheek pressed against the floor, thought that she had fallen asleep, and her father tiptoed into the room to lift her into bed, only to be disconcerted by the gleam of her wide-open eyes over the top of her arm. She gave no resistance to his putting her into bed and tucking her in, but when her father checked on her again after three hours or so, he found that she had noiselessly relocated herself back on the floor, writing in the dark. The haiku phase lasted a week before she fell ill with the same quietness that she had pursued her interest.

When she got better, she realised she didn't like haiku anymore.

In the departure lounge at the airport, Jess sat staring at her shoes and the way they sat quietly beside each other, occasionally clicking their heels together or putting right heel to left toe.

Did they do that by themselves?

She tried to not think about clicking her heels together, then watched her feet to see if the heels clicked independently.

They did. Then she realised that she had been thinking about it.

When she looked about her, she noticed that everything was too quiet. Virtually no one was talking. Some of the people she looked at stared blankly back at her, and she quickly swivelled in her seat and turned her attention on to her father. He was reading a broadsheet, chin in hand as his eyes, narrowed with concentration behind the spectacle lenses, scanned the page. He looked slightly awkward as he attempted to make room for the paper across his knees; his elbows created a dimple in the paper every time he adjusted his position. When he became aware of her gaze, he gave her a quick glance, smiled, nudged her, then returned to his reverie. On the bench opposite her sat an immense woman wearing the most fantastical traditional dress she had ever seen. Yellow snakes, coiled up like golden orange peel, sprang from the beaks of the vivid red birds with outstretched wings which soared across the royal blue background of the woman's clothing. Jess called it eero ahty boobywhenever she tried to imitate her mum's pronunciation of it. Sometimes, when her mum was having some of her friends around, she would dress up in traditional costume, tying the thick cloth with riotous patterns around her head like a turban, looping it over her ears. She would put on the knee-length shirt with the embroidered scoop neck, and let Jess run her fingers over the beautiful stitching, often gold, silver or a tinselly green. Then her mum would run her fingers over the elaborate embroidery herself, and smile, turning her head from side to side as she regarded her reflection in the bedroom mirror. Iro ati buba, she would say, lapsing from her English accent into the broad, almost lilting Yoruba one. This is iro ati buba. Then she would wrap the longest, widest sheet of dyed cloth around her waist, over the bottom half of the scoop-necked top, and fold it over once, twice, three times, her fingers moving across the material with the loving carelessness of one who could dress this way in the dark. Her mum, standing smiling in the bedroom, her costume so bright it seemed to stretch the space between the walls.

The thought made Jess smile as she sat waiting with everyone else, looking at this woman, who stared back at her, her small eyes squinting out from their folds of flesh, the fluorescent lighting giving her skin an odd, flat finish, as if the dark brown was catching light and not throwing it out again. Jess kept her eyes fixed on the woman, caught by her gaze, gradually growing frightened, as if somehow she could not look away or let this woman out of her sight. Would that be dangerous, to not look while being looked at?

On the plane, Jess threw a tantrum.

It was Nigeria. That was the problem.

Nigeria felt ugly.

Nye. Jeer. Reeee. Ah. It was looming out from across all the water and land that they had to cross in the aeroplane, reaching out for her with spindly arms made of dry, crackling grass like straw, wanting to pull her down against its beating heart, to the centre of the heat, so she would pop and crackle like marshmallow. She had been reading about Nigeria for the past month, and her excitement had grown so much that she had nearly succumbed to that peculiar febrile illness of hers again, but recovered just in time for the yellow fever and hepatitis C injections that she needed. The anti-malaria tablets were disgusting, coating her tongue like thick, sickly chalk.

It was the combination of the two white pills and the leering idea of her mother's country that made her begin to struggle and thrash, screaming, half dangling headfirst out of the seat, nearly choking on her seat belt, fighting off her mother's hands as she snaked herself away from the little chalk circles. Inside her head, she could hear her skin blistering, could almost feel it, and she tried to outscream the sound. She could hear herself. She felt other people looking, heard people stirring, muttering, and felt good to be making this sharp, screeching, hurting noise. Yet some part of her was sitting hunched

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up small, far away, thinking scared thoughts, surprised at what was happening, although this was not new. She panted as she shook off her father's restricting hands. Sweat was beading on her forehead and her eyelids, and she felt the prickly feeling at the back of her eyelids and that familiar sensation of her eyes almost involuntarily rolling upwards onto her head. It was a kind of peace.

Then her mother, who for a while now had been speaking in a pleading monotone, said something with a sharp buzz, something that she didn't quite catch, and slapped her hard. It was oddly like a cooling wind on her skin, the sting that remained when her mother's hand had left her, and she stopped struggling and hung limp from the side of her seat, her mouth a small, open O, until her father, murmuring reproachfully, settled her properly into the aeroplane seat.

He looked at her, dabbed at her cheek with his handkerchief. "Never mind about the pills for today," he said quietly and put them back into her pillbox.

After a while the minutes sank into each other, and Jess sat still, her eyes following the two air hostesses up and down the aisles. Beside her, she felt her father's heavy, musky-smelling presence, the weight of his arm pressing along hers, heard his shallow breathing as he slept. An air hostess whose name badge said "Karen" smiled quickly at Jessamy, and sleepy as she was, Jess somehow understood that this woman, her jaunty red cap perched atop a black bun of hair, was not smiling at her in particular, but at a child, at the idea of a child. Because she was an air hostess. Smiling at a child. That was what she was supposed to do. Jess gave a drowsy smile in return.

Jess fell asleep slowly, her hand reaching for her dad's. She closed her eyes completely, and the darkness was warm and quiet, like a bubble lifting her higher even than the aeroplane.

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PROSE : Mr. Preble Gets Rid of His Wife by James Thurber

Mr. Preble Gets Rid of His Wife

BY JAMES THURBER One rainy Monday afternoon, Mr. Preble was more serious about it than usual.

“Let's run away together,” said Mr. Preble.

“All righty,” said his stenographer. Mr. Preble jingled the keys in his pocket and looked out the window.

“My wife would be glad to get rid of me,” he said.

“Would she give you a divorce?” asked the stenographer.

“I don't suppose so,” he said. The stenographer laughed.

“You'd have to get rid of your wife,” she said.

Mr. Preble was unusually silent at dinner that night. About half an hour after coffee, he spoke without looking up from his paper.

Let's go down in the cellar,” Mr. Preble said to his wife.

“What for?” she said, not looking up from her book.

“Oh, I don't know,” he said. “We never go down in the cellar any more. The way we used to.”

“We never did go down in the cellar that I remember,” said Mrs. Preble. “I could rest easy the balance of my life if I never went down in the cellar.” Mr. Preble was silent for several minutes.

“Supposing I said it meant a whole lot to me,” began Mr. Preble.

“What's come over you?” his wife demanded. “It's cold down there and there is absolutely nothing to do.”

“We could pick up pieces of coal,” said Mr. Preble. “We might get up some kind of a game with pieces of coal.”

“I don't want to,” said his wife. “Anyway, I'm reading.”

“Listen,” said Mr. Preble, rising and walking up and down. “Why won't you come down in the cellar?

You can read down there, as far as that goes.”

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“There isn't a good enough light down there,” she said, “and anyway, I'm not going to go down in the cellar. You may as well make up your mind to that.”

“Gee whiz!” said Mr. Preble, kicking at the edge of a rug. “Other people's wives go down in the cellar.

Why is it you never want to do anything? I come home worn out from the office and you won't even go down in the cellar with me. God knows it isn't very far—it isn't as if I was asking you to go to the movies or some place.”

“I don't want to go!” shouted Mrs. Preble. Mr. Preble sat down on the edge of a davenport.

“All right, all right,” he said. He picked up the newspaper again. “I wish you'd let me tell you more about it. It's—kind of a surprise.”

“Will you quit harping on that subject?” asked Mrs. Preble.

“Listen,” said Mr. Preble, leaping to his feet. “I might as well tell you the truth instead of beating around the bush. I want to get rid of you so I can marry my stenographer. Is there anything especially wrong about that? People do it every day. Love is something you can't control—” “We've been all over that,” said Mrs. Preble. “I'm not going to go all over that again.”

“I just wanted you to know how things are,” said Mr. Preble. “But you have to take everything so literally.

Good Lord, do you suppose I really wanted to go down in the cellar and make up some silly game with pieces of coal?”

“I never believed that for a minute,” said Mrs. Preble. “I knew all along you wanted to get me down there and bury me.”

“You can say that now—after I told you,” said Mr. Preble. “But it would never have occurred to you if I hadn't.”

“You didn't tell me; I got it out of you,” said Mrs. Preble. “Anyway, I'm always two steps ahead of what you're thinking.”

“You're never within a mile of what I'm thinking,” said Mr. Preble.

“Is that so? I knew you wanted to bury me the minute you set foot in this house tonight.” Mrs. Preble held him with a glare.

“Now that's just plain damn exaggeration,” said Mr. Preble, considerably annoyed. “You knew nothing of the sort. As a matter of fact, I never thought of it till just a few minutes ago.”

“It was in the back of your mind,” said Mrs. Preble. “I suppose this filing woman put you up to it.”

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“You needn't get sarcastic,” said Mr. Preble. “I have plenty of people to file without having her file. She doesn't know anything about this. She isn't in on it. I was going to tell her you had gone to visit some friends and fell over a cliff. She wants me to get a divorce.”

“That's a laugh,” said Mrs. Preble. “That's a laugh. You may bury me, but you'll never get a divorce.”

“She knows that; I told her that,” said Mr. Preble. “I mean—I told her I'd never get a divorce.”

“Oh, you probably told her about burying me, too,” said Mrs. Preble.

“That's not true,” said Mr. Preble, with dignity. “That's between you and me. I was never going to tell a soul.”

“You'd blab it to the whole world; don't tell me,” said Mrs. Preble. “I know you.” Mr. Preble puffed at his cigar.

“I wish you were buried now and it was all over with,” he said.

“Don't you suppose you would get caught, you crazy thing?” she said. “They always get caught. Why don't you go to bed? You're just getting yourself all worked up over nothing.”

“I'm not going to bed,” said Mr. Preble. “I'm going to bury you in the cellar. I've got my mind made up to it. I don't know how I could make it any plainer.”

“Listen,” cried Mrs. Preble, throwing her book down, “will you be satisfied and shut up if I go down in the cellar? Can I have a little peace if I go down in the cellar? Will you let me alone then?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Preble. “But you spoil it by taking that attitude.”

“Sure, sure, I always spoil everything. I stop reading right in the middle of a chapter. I'll never know how the story comes out—but that's nothing to you.”

“Did I make you start reading the book?” asked Mr. Preble. He opened the cellar door. “Here, you go first.”

“Brrr,” said Mrs. Preble, starting down the steps. “It's cold down here! You would think of this, at this time of year! Any other husband would have buried his wife in the summer.”

“You can't arrange those things just whenever you want to,” said Mr. Preble. “I didn't fall in love with this girl till late fall.”

“Anybody else would have fallen in love with her long before that. She's been around for years. Why is it you always let other men get in ahead of you? Mercy, but it's dirty down here! What have you got there?”

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“I was going to hit you over the head with this shovel,” said Mr. Preble.

“You were, huh?” said Mrs. Preble. “Well, get that out of your mind. Do you want to leave a great big clue right here in the middle of everything where the first detective that comes snooping around will find it? Go out in the street and find some piece of iron or something—something that doesn't belong to you.”

“Oh, all right,” said Mr. Preble. “But there won't be any piece of iron in the street. Women always expect to pick up a piece of iron anywhere.”

“If you look in the right place you'll find it,” said Mrs. Preble. “And don't be gone long. Don't you dare stop in at the cigarstore. I'm not going to stand down here in this cold cellar all night and freeze.”

“All right,” said Mr. Preble. “I'll hurry.”

“And shut that door behind you!” she screamed after him. “Where were you born—in a barn?” ♦

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STORYTELLING: THE DEVOTED FRIEND: OSCAR WILDE

NE morning the old Water-rat put his head out of his hole. He had bright beady eyes and stiff grey whiskers and his tail was like a long bit of black india-rubber. The little ducks were swimming about in the pond, looking just like a lot of yellow canaries, and their mother, who was pure white with real red legs, was trying to teach them how to stand on their heads in the water.

"You will never be in the best society unless you can stand on your heads," she kept saying to them; and every now and then she showed them how it was done. But the little ducks paid no attention to her. They were so young that they did not know what an advantage it is to be in society at all.

"What disobedient children!" cried the old Water-rat; "they really deserve to be drowned."

"Nothing of the kind," answered the Duck, "every one must make a beginning, and parents cannot be too patient."

"Ah! I know nothing about the feelings of parents," said the Water-rat; "I am not a family man. In fact, I have never been married, and I never intend to be. Love is all very well in its way, but friendship is much higher. Indeed, I know of nothing in the world that is either nobler or rarer than a devoted friendship."

"And what, pray, is your idea of the duties of a devoted friend?" asked a Green Linnet, who was sitting in a willow-tree hard by, and had overheard the conversation.

"Yes, that is just what I want to know," said the Duck; and she swam away to the end of the pond, and stood upon her head, in order to give her children a good example.

"What a silly question!" cried the Water-rat. "I should expect my devoted friend to be devoted to me, of course."

"And what would you do in return?" said the little bird, swinging upon a silver spray, and flapping his tiny wings.

"I don't understand you," answered the Water-rat.

"Let me tell you a story on the subject," said the Linnet.

"Is the story about me?" asked the Water-rat. "If so, I will listen to it, for I am extremely fond of fiction."

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"It is applicable to you," answered the Linnet; and he flew down, and alighting upon the bank, he told the story of The Devoted Friend.

"Once upon a time," said the Linnet, "there was an honest little fellow named Hans."

"Was he very distinguished?" asked the Water-rat.

"No," answered the Linnet, "I don't think he was distinguished at all, except for his kind heart, and his funny round good-humoured face. He lived in a tiny cottage all by himself, and every day he worked in his garden. In all the country-side there was no garden so lovely as his. Sweet-william grew there, and Gilly-flowers, and Shepherds'purses, and Fair-maids of France. There were damask Roses, and yellow Roses, lilac Crocuses, and gold, purple Violets and white. Columbine and Ladysmock, Marjoram and Wild Basil, the Cowslip and the Flower-de-luce, the Daffodil and the Clove-Pink bloomed or blossomed in their proper order as the months went by, one flower taking another flower's place, so that there were always beautiful things to look at, and pleasant odours to smell.

"Little Hans had a great many friends, but the most devoted friend of all was big Hugh the Miller. Indeed, so devoted was the rich Miller to little Hans, that be would never go by his garden without leaning over the wall and plucking a large nosegay, or a handful of sweet herbs, or filling his pockets with plums and cherries if it was the fruit season. "'Real friends should have everything in common,' the Miller used to say, and little Hans nodded and smiled, and felt very proud of having a friend with such noble ideas.

"Sometimes, indeed, the neighbours thought it strange that the rich Miller never gave little Hans anything in return, though he had a hundred sacks of flour stored away in his mill, and six milch cows, and a large flock of woolly sheep; but Hans never troubled his head about these things, and nothing gave him greater pleasure than to listen to all the wonderful things the Miller used to say about the unselfishness of true friendship.

"So little Hans worked away in his garden. During the spring, the summer, and the autumn he was very happy, but when the winter came, and he had no fruit or flowers to bring to the market, he suffered a good deal from cold and hunger, and often had to go to bed without any supper but a few dried pears or some hard nuts. In the winter, also, he was extremely lonely, as the Miller never came to see him then. "'There is no good in my going to see little Hans as long as the snow lasts,' the Miller used to say to his wife, 'for when people are in trouble they should be left alone, and not be bothered by visitors. That at least is my idea about friendship, and I am sure I

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am right. So I shall wait till the spring comes, and then I shall pay him a visit, and he will be able to give me a large basket of primroses and that will make him so happy.' "'You are certainly very thoughtful about others,' answered the Wife, as she sat in her comfortable armchair by the big pinewood fire; 'very thoughtful indeed. It is quite a treat to hear you talk about friendship. I am sure the clergyman himself could not say such beautiful things as you do, though he does live in a three-storied house, and wear a gold ring on his little finger.' "'But could we not ask little Hans up here?' said the Miller's youngest son. 'If poor Hans is in trouble I will give him half my porridge, and show him my white rabbits.' "'What a silly boy you are'! cried the Miller; 'I really don't know what is the use of sending you to school. You seem not to learn anything. Why, if little Hans came up here, and saw our warm fire, and our good supper, and our great cask of red wine, he might get envious, and envy is a most terrible thing, and would spoil anybody's nature. I certainly will not allow Hans' nature to be spoiled. I am his best friend, and I will always watch over him, and see that he is not led into any temptations. Besides, if Hans came here, he might ask me to let him have some flour on credit, and that I could not do. Flour is one thing, and friendship is another, and they should not be confused. Why, the words are spelt differently, and mean quite different things.

Everybody can see that.' "'How well you talk'! said the Miller's Wife, pouring herself out a large glass of warm ale; 'really I feel quite drowsy. It is just like being in church.' "'Lots of people act well,' answered the Miller; 'but very few people talk well, which shows that talking is much the more difficult thing of the two, and much the finer thing also'; and he looked sternly across the table at his little son, who felt so ashamed of himself that he hung his head down, and grew quite scarlet, and began to cry into his tea. However, he was so young that you must excuse him."

"Is that the end of the story?" asked the Water-rat.

"Certainly not," answered the Linnet, "that is the beginning."

"Then you are quite behind the age," said the Water-rat. "Every good story-teller nowadays starts with the end, and then goes on to the beginning, and concludes with the middle. That is the new method. I heard all about it the other day from a critic who was walking round the pond with a young man. He spoke of the matter at great length, and I am sure he must have been right, for he had blue spectacles and a bald head, and whenever the young man made any remark, he always answered 'Pooh!'

But pray go on with your story. I like the Miller immensely. I have all kinds of beautiful sentiments myself, so there is a great sympathy between us."

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"Well," said the Linnet, hopping now on one leg and now on the other, "as soon as the winter was over, and the primroses began to open their pale yellow stars, the Miller said to his wife that he would go down and see little Hans. "'Why, what a good heart you have'! cried his Wife; 'you are always thinking of others.

And mind you take the big basket with you for the flowers.'

"So the Miller tied the sails of the windmill together with a strong iron chain, and went down the hill with the basket on his arm. "'Good morning, little Hans,' said the Miller. "'Good morning,' said Hans, leaning on his spade, and smiling from ear to ear. "'And how have you been all the winter?' said the Miller. "'Well, really,' cried Hans, 'it is very good of you to ask, very good indeed. I am afraid I had rather a hard time of it, but now the spring has come, and I am quite happy, and all my flowers are doing well.' "'We often talked of you during the winter, Hans,' said the Miller, 'and wondered how you were getting on.' "'That was kind of you,' said Hans; 'I was half afraid you had forgotten me.' "'Hans, I am surprised at you,' said the Miller; 'friendship never forgets. That is the wonderful thing about it, but I am afraid you don't understand the poetry of life. How lovely your primroses are looking, by-the-bye"! "'They are certainly very lovely,' said Hans, 'and it is a most lucky thing for me that I have so many. I am going to bring them into the market and sell them to the Burgomaster's daughter, and buy back my wheelbarrow with the money.' "'Buy back your wheelbarrow? You don't mean to say you have sold it? What a very stupid thing to do'! "'Well, the fact is,' said Hans, 'that I was obliged to. You see the winter was a very bad time for me, and I really had no money at all to buy bread with. So I first sold the silver buttons off my Sunday coat, and then I sold my silver chain, and then I sold my big pipe, and at last I sold my wheelbarrow. But I am going to buy them all back again now.' "'Hans,' said the Miller, 'I will give you my wheelbarrow. It is not in very good repair; indeed, one side is gone, and there is something wrong with the wheel-spokes; but in spite of that I will give it to you. I know it is very generous of me, and a great many people would think me extremely foolish for parting with it, but I am not like the rest UPDATED 2/10th/2016

of the world. I think that generosity is the essence of friendship, and, besides, I have got a new wheelbarrow for myself. Yes, you may set your mind at ease, I will give you my wheelbarrow.' "'Well, really, that is generous of you,' said little Hans, and his funny round face glowed all over with pleasure. 'I can easily put it in repair, as I have a plank of wood in the house.' "'A plank of wood'! said the Miller; 'why, that is just what I want for the roof of my barn. There is a very large hole in it, and the corn will all get damp if I don't stop it up.

How lucky you mentioned it! It is quite remarkable how one good action always breeds another. I have given you my wheelbarrow, and now you are going to give me your plank. Of course, the wheelbarrow is worth far more than the plank, but true, friendship never notices things like that. Pray get it at once, and I will set to work at my barn this very day.' "'Certainly,' cried little Hans, and he ran into the shed and dragged the plank out. "'It is not a very big plank,' said the Miller, looking at it, 'and I am afraid that after I have mended my barn-roof there won't be any left for you to mend the wheelbarrow with; but, of course, that is not my fault. And now, as I have given you my wheelbarrow, I am sure you would like to give me some flowers in return. Here is the basket, and mind you fill it quite full.' "'Quite full?' said little Hans, rather sorrowfully, for it was really a very big basket, and he knew that if he filled it he would have no flowers left for the market and he was very anxious to get his silver buttons back. "'Well, really,' answered the Miller, 'as I have given you my wheelbarrow, I don't think that it is much to ask you for a few flowers. I may be wrong, but I should have thought that friendship, true friendship, was quite free from selfishness of any kind.' "'My dear friend, my best friend,' cried little Hans, 'you are welcome to all the flowers in my garden. I would much sooner have your good opinion than my silver buttons, any day'; and he ran and plucked all his pretty primroses, and filled the Miller's basket. "'Good-bye, little Hans,' said the Miller, as he went up the hill with the plank on his shoulder, and the big basket in his hand. "'Good-bye,' said little Hans, and he began to dig away quite merrily, he was so pleased about the wheelbarrow.

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"The next day he was nailing up some honeysuckle against the porch, when he heard the Miller's voice calling to him from the road. So he jumped off the ladder, and ran down the garden, and looked over the wall.

"There was the Miller with a large sack of flour on his back. "'Dear little Hans,' said the Miller, 'would you mind carrying this sack of flour for me to market?' "'Oh, I am so sorry,' said Hans, 'but I am really very busy today. I have got all my creepers to nail up, and all my flowers to water, and all my grass to roll.' "'Well, really,' said the Miller, 'I think that, considering that I am going to give you my wheelbarrow, it is rather unfriendly of you to refuse.' "'Oh, don't say that,' cried little Hans, 'I wouldn't be unfriendly for the whole world'; and he ran in for his cap, and trudged off with the big sack on his shoulders.

"It was a very hot day, and the road was terribly dusty, and before Hans had reached the sixth milestone he was so tired that he had to sit down and rest. However, he went on bravely, and as last he reached the market. After he had waited there some time, he sold the sack of flour for a very good price, and then he returned home at once, for he was afraid that if he stopped too late he might meet some robbers on the way. "'It has certainly been a hard day,' said little Hans to himself as he was going to bed, 'but I am glad I did not refuse the Miller, for he is my best friend, and, besides, he is going to give me his wheelbarrow.'

"Early the next morning the Miller came down to get the money for his sack of flour, but little Hans was so tired that he was still in bed. "'Upon my word,' said the Miller, 'you are very lazy. Really, considering that I am going to give you my wheelbarrow, I think you might work harder. Idleness is a great sin, and I certainly don't like any of my friends to be idle or sluggish. You must not mind my speaking quite plainly to you. Of course I should not dream of doing so if I were not your friend. But what is the good of friendship if one cannot say exactly what one means? Anybody can say charming things and try to please and to flatter, but a true friend always says unpleasant things, and does not mind giving pain. Indeed, if he is a really true friend he prefers it, for he knows that then he is doing good.' "'I am very sorry,' said little Hans, rubbing his eyes and pulling off his night-cap, 'but I was so tired that I thought I would lie in bed for a little time, and listen to the birds singing. Do you know that I always work better after hearing the birds sing?'

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"'Well, I am glad of that,' said the Miller, clapping little Hans on the back, 'for I want you to come up to the mill as soon as you are dressed, and mend my barn-roof for me.'

"Poor little Hans was very anxious to go and work in his garden, for his flowers had not been watered for two days, but he did not like to refuse the Miller, as he was such a good friend to him. "'Do you think it would be unfriendly of me if I said I was busy?' he inquired in a shy and timid voice. "'Well, really,' answered the Miller, 'I do not think it is much to ask of you, considering that I am going to give you my wheelbarrow; but of course if you refuse I will go and do it myself.' "'Oh! on no account,' cried little Hans and he jumped out of bed, and dressed himself, and went up to the barn.

"He worked there all day long, till sunset, and at sunset the Miller came to see how he was getting on. "'Have you mended the hole in the roof yet, little Hans?' cried the Miller in a cheery voice. "'It is quite mended,' answered little Hans, coming down the ladder. "'Ah!' said the Miller, 'there is no work so delightful as the work one does for others.' "'It is certainly a great privilege to hear you talk,' answered little Hans, sitting down, and wiping his forehead, 'a very great privilege. But I am afraid I shall never have such beautiful ideas as you have.' "'Oh! they will come to you,' said the Miller, 'but you must take more pains. At present you have only the practice of friendship; some day you will have the theory also.' "'Do you really think I shall?' asked little Hans. "'I have no doubt of it,' answered the Miller, 'but now that you have mended the roof, you had better go home and rest, for I want you to drive my sheep to the mountain tomorrow.'

"Poor little Hans was afraid to say anything to this, and early the next morning the Miller brought his sheep round to the cottage, and Hans started off with them to the mountain. It took him the whole day to get there and back; and when he returned he was so tired that he went off to sleep in his chair, and did not wake up till it was broad daylight.

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"'What a delightful time I shall have in my garden,' he said, and he went to work at once.

"But somehow he was never able to look after his flowers at all, for his friend the Miller was always coming round and sending him off on long errands, or getting him to help at the mill. Little Hans was very much distressed at times, as he was afraid his flowers would think he had forgotten them, but he consoled himself by the reflection that the Miller was his best friend. 'Besides,' he used to say, 'he is going to give me his wheelbarrow, and that is an act of pure generosity.'

"So little Hans worked away for the Miller, and the Miller said all kinds of beautiful things about friendship, which Hans took down in a note-book, and used to read over at night, for he was a very good scholar.

"Now it happened that one evening little Hans was sitting by his fireside when a loud rap came at the door. It was a very wild night, and the wind was blowing and roaring round the house so terribly that at first he thought it was merely the storm. But a second rap came, and then a third, louder than any of the others. "'It is some poor traveller,' said little Hans to himself, and he ran to the door.

"There stood the Miller with a lantern in one hand and a big stick in the other. "'Dear little Hans,' cried the Miller, 'I am in great trouble. My little boy has fallen off a ladder and hurt himself, and I am going for the Doctor. But he lives so far away, and it is such a bad night, that it has just occurred to me that it would be much better if you went instead of me. You know I am going to give you my wheelbarrow, and so, it is only fair that you should do something for me in return.' "'Certainly,' cried little Hans, 'I take it quite as a compliment your coming to me, and I will start off at once. But you must lend me your lantern, as the night is so dark that I am afraid I might fall into the ditch.' "'I am very sorry,' answered the Miller, 'but it is my new lantern, and it would be a great loss to me if anything happened to it.' "'Well, never mind, I will do without it,' cried little Hans, and he took down his great fur coat, and his warm scarlet cap, and tied a muffler round his throat, and started off.

"What a dreadful storm it was! The night was so black that little Hans could hardly see, and the wind was so strong that he could scarcely stand. However, he was very courageous, and after he had been walking about three hours, he arrived at the Doctor's house, and knocked at the door.

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"'Who is there?' cried the Doctor, putting his head out of his bedroom window. "'Little Hans, Doctor.' "'What do you want, little Hans?' "'The Miller's son has fallen from a ladder, and has hurt himself, and the Miller wants you to come at once.' "'All right!' said the Doctor; and he ordered his horse, and his big boots, and his lantern, and came downstairs, and rode off in the direction of the Miller's house, little Hans trudging behind him.

"But the storm grew worse and worse, and the rain fell in torrents, and little Hans could not see where he was going, or keep up with the horse. At last he lost his way, and wandered off on the moor, which was a very dangerous place, as it was full of deep holes, and there poor little Hans was drowned. His body was found the next day by some goatherds, floating in a great pool of water, and was brought back by them to the cottage.

"Everybody went to little Hans' funeral, as he was so popular, and the Miller was the chief mourner. "'As I was his best friend,' said the Miller, 'it is only fair that I should have the best place'; so he walked at the head of the procession in a long black cloak, and every now and then he wiped his eyes with a big pocket-handkerchief. "'Little Hans is certainly a great loss to every one,' said the Blacksmith, when the funeral was over, and they were all seated comfortably in the inn, drinking spiced wine and eating sweet cakes. "'A great loss to me at any rate,' answered the Miller; 'why, I had as good as given him my wheelbarrow, and now I really don't know what to do with it. It is very much in my way at home, and it is in such bad repair that I could not get anything for it if I sold it. I will certainly take care not to give away anything again. One always suffers for being generous.'"

"Well?" said the Water-rat, after a long pause.

"Well, that is the end," said the Linnet.

"But what became of the Miller?" asked the Water-rat.

"Oh! I really don't know," replied the Linnet; "and I am sure that I don't care."

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"It is quite evident then that you have no sympathy in your nature," said the Waterrat.

"I am afraid you don't quite see the moral of the story," remarked the Linnet.

"The what?" screamed the Water-rat.

"The moral."

"Do you mean to say that the story has a moral?"

"Certainly," said the Linnet.

"Well, really," said the Water-rat, in a very angry manner, "I think you should have told me that before you began. If you had done so, I certainly would not have listened to you; in fact, I should have said 'Pooh,' like the critic. However, I can say it now"; so he shouted out "Pooh" at the top of his voice, gave a whisk with his tail, and went back into his hole.

"And how do you like the Water-rat?" asked the Duck, who came paddling up some minutes afterwards. "He has a great many good points, but for my own part I have a mother's feelings, and I can never look at a confirmed bachelor without the tears coming into my eyes."

"I am rather afraid that I have annoyed him," answered the Linnet. "The fact is, that I told him a story with a moral."

"Ah! that is always a very dangerous thing to do," said the Duck.

And I quite agree with her.

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DRAMATIC INTERPRET SERIOUS (SOLO): Shelly “Don’t Come Near Me” from Buried Child

Don’t come near me! Don’t anyone come near me. I don’t need any words from you. I’m not threatening anybody. I don’t even know what I’m doing here. You all say you don’t remember Vince, okay, maybe you don;t. Maybe it’s Vince that’s crazy. Maybe he’s made this whole family thing up. I don’t even care anymore. I was just coming along for the ride. I thought it’d be a nice gesture. Besides, I was curious. He made all of you sound familiar to me. Every one of you. For every name, I had an image. Every time he’d tell me a name, I’d see the person. In fact, each of you was so clear in my mind that I actually believed it was you. I really believed that when I walked through that door that the people who lived here would turn out to be the same people in my imagination.

Real people. People with faces. But I don’t recognize any of you. Not one. Not even the slightest resemblance.

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Dramatic Interpretation: Wit

MONOLOGUE TEXT This is my plays last scene, here heavens appoint My pilgrimages last mile; and my race Idly, yet quickly runne, hath this last pace, My spans last inch, my minutes last point, And gluttonous death will instantly unjoynt My body, 'and soul John Donne. 1609. I have always particularly liked that poem. In the abstract. Now I find the image of "my minute's last point" a little too, shall we say, pointed.

I don't mean to complain, but I am becoming very sick. Very, very sick. Ultimately sick, as it were.

In everything I have done, I have been steadfast, resolute- some would say in the extreme. Now, as you can see, I am distinguishing myself in illness.

I have survived eight treatments of Hexamethophosphacil and Vinplatin at the full dose, ladies and gentlemen. I have broken the record. I have become something of a celebrity. Kelekian and Jason are simply delighted. I think they forsee celebrity status for themselves upon the appearance of the journal article they will no doubt write about me.

But I flatter myself. The article will not be about me, it will be about my ovaries. It will be about my ovaries. It will be about my peritoneal cavity, which, despite their best intentions, is now crawling with cancer.

What we have come to think of as me is, in fact, just the specimen jar, just the dust jacket, just the white piece of paper that bears the little black marks.

My next line is supposed to be something like this: "It is such a relief to get back to my room after those infernal tests." This is hardly true. It would be a relief to be a cheerleader on her way to Daytona Beach for Spring Break.

To get back to my room after those infernal test is just the next thing that happens.

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Dramatic Interpretation : Balm in Gilead “Flick”

I mean, I was just walking down the street and they came up on me like they was important, and they start pushing me around, you know. And they pushed me into this alley, not an alley, but this hallway and back down the end of that to this dark place at the end of the hallway and they start punching at me, and I just fell into this ball on the floor so they couldn’t hurt me or nothing. But if I came down there with a couple of fighters, a couple of guys, like my friends, it wouldn’t have to be you or anything, but just a couple or three guys, big guys, like walking down the street, you know.

Just so they could see I got these buddies here. See I’m on H, I mean, I’m flying and I gotta talk man, but I’m serious now; just a few guys and they’d leave me be, maybe, because they’d think I had these buddies that looked after me, you know; cause I – you know – they kicked me up, if I wasn’t on H, man, they’d be pains all through me – you know – walking down the street by myself – I start looking around and wondering who’s out there gonna mess me up, you know. I get scared as hell, man, walking down around here, I mean, I can’t protect myself or nothing, man. You know what I mean? You know what I mean? You know what I mean? You know? I mean if I had these couple – of big buddies – fighters – you – you know – if I had a couple of guys – like – big guys – that - you know, there’s like nothing – I could – like, if you walked around with these buddies, I mean you could do, man – you could do anything . . .

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DRAMATIC INTERPRET SERIOUS (SOLO) See PDF for Arthur Miller’s Death of a Salesman (Linda Loman’s parts) at www.issuu.com/demottissuu

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DRAMATIC INTERPRET HUMOUROUS (SOLO)

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DRAMATIC INTERPRET HUMOUROUS (SOLO) EVE’S DIARY – MARK TWAIN

EVE'S DIARY A monologue from the book by Mark Twain

 NOTE: This monologue is reprinted from Eve's Diary. Mark Twain. New York: Harper & Brothers, 1906.

EVE: When I look back, the Garden is a dream to me. It was beautiful, surpassingly beautiful, enchantingly beautiful; and now it is lost, and I shall not see it any more. The Garden is lost, but I have found HIM, and am content. He loves me as well as he can; I love him with all the strength of my passionate nature, and this, I think, is proper to my youth and sex. If I ask myself why I love him, I find I do not know, and do not really much care to know; so I suppose that this kind of love is not a product of reasoning and statistics, like one's love for other reptiles and animals. I think that this must be so. I love certain birds because of their song; but I do not love Adam on account of his singing-no, it is not that; the more he sings the more I do not get reconciled to it.

Yet I ask him to sing, because I wish to learn to like everything he is interested in. I am sure I can learn, because at first I could not stand it, but now I can. It sours the milk, but it doesn't matter; I can get used to that kind of milk. It is not on account of his brightness that I love him-no, it is not that. He is not to blame for his brightness, such as it is, for he did not make it himself; he is as God made him, and that is sufficient.

There was a wise purpose in it, THAT I know. In time it will develop, though I think it will not be sudden. It is not on account of his gracious and considerate ways and his delicacy that I love him. No, he has lacks in this regard, but he is well enough just so, and is improving. It is not on account of his industry that I love him. I think he has it in him, and I do not know why he conceals it from me, but I will put it out of my mind; it shall not trouble my happiness, which is otherwise full to overflowing. It is not on account of his education that I love him. He is self-educated, and does really know a multitude of things, but they are not so. It is not on account of his chivalry that I love him--no, it is not that. He told on me, but I do not blame him; it is a peculiarity of sex, I think, and he did not make his sex. Of course I would not have told on him, I would have perished first; but that is a peculiarity of sex, too, and UPDATED 2/10th/2016

I do not take credit for it, for I did not make my sex. Then why is it that I love him? He is strong and handsome, and I love him for that, and I admire him and am proud of him, but I could love him without those qualities. If he were plain, I should love him; if he were a wreck, I should love him; and I would work for him, and slave over him, and pray for him, and watch by his bedside until I died. I think I love him merely because he is MINE. There is no other reason, I suppose. And so I think it is as I first said: that this kind of love is not a product of reasonings and statistics. It just COMES--none knows whence--and cannot explain itself. And doesn't need to. That is what I think. But I am only a girl, the first that has examined this matter, and it may turn out that in my ignorance and inexperience I have not got it right.

Read more at http://www.monologuearchive.com/t/twain_007.html#HhMJU0g2wXi5WPtG.99

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DRAMATIC INTERPRET HUMOUROUS (DUO): DEATH KNOCKS: WOODY ALLEN

Death Knocks (Nat Ackerman, a bald, paunchy fifty-seven-year-old dress manufacturer is lying on the bed finishing off tomorrow’s Daily News. He wears a bathrobe and slippers, and reads by a bed light clipped to the white headboard of the bed. The time is near midnight. Suddenly we hear a noise, and Nat sits up and looks at the window.)

Nat: What the hell is that?

(Climbing awkwardly through the window is a sombre, caped figure. The intruder wears a black hood and skin¬tight black clothes. The hood covers his head but not his face, which is middle-aged and stark white. He is some¬thing like Nat in appearance. He huffs audibly and then trips over the windowsill and falls into the room.)

Death (for it is no one else): Jesus Christ. I nearly broke my neck.

Nat (watching with bewilderment): Who are you?

Death: Death.

Nat: Who? Death: Death. Listen—can I sit down? I nearly broke my neck. I’m shaking like a leaf.

Nat: Who are you?

Death: Death. You got a glass of water?

Nat: Death? What do you mean, Death?

Death: What is wrong with you? You see the black costume and the whitened face?

Nat: Yeah.

Death: Is it Halloween?

Nat: No. Death: Then I’m Death. Now can I get a glass of water—or a Fresca?

Nat: If this is some joke — Death: What kind of joke? You’re fifty-seven? Nat Ackerman? One eighteen Pacific Street? Unless I blew it —where’s that call sheet? (He jumbles through pocket, finally producing a card with an address on it. It seems to check.)

Nat: What do you want with me?

Death: What do I want? What do you think I want?

Nat: You must be kidding. I’m in perfect health.

Death (unimpressed): Uh-huh. (Looking around) This is a nice place. You do it yourself?

Nat: We had a decorator, but we worked with her.

Death (looking at picture on the wall): I love those kids with the big eyes.

Nat: I don’t want to go yet.

Death: You don’t want to go? Please don’t start in. As it is, I’m nauseous from the climb.

Nat: What climb?

Death: I climbed up the drainpipe. I was trying to make a dramatic entrance. I see the big windows and you’re awake reading. I figure it’s worth a shot. I’ll climb up and enter with a little—you know . . . (Snaps fingers) Meanwhile, I get my heel caught on some vines, the drainpipe breaks, and I’m hanging by a thread. Then my cape begins to tear. Look, let’s just go. It’s been a rough night.

Nat: You broke my drainpipe?

Death: Broke. It didn’t break. It’s a little bent. Didn’t you hear anything? I slammed into the ground.

Nat: I was reading.

Death: You must have really been engrossed. (Lifting newspaper Nat was reading) “NAB COEDS IN POT ORGY.” Can I borrow this?

Nat: I’m not finished.

Death: Er—I don’t know how to put this to you, pal . . .

Nat: Why didn’t you just ring downstairs?

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Death: I’m telling you, I could have, but how does it look? This way I get a little drama going. Something. Did you read Faust?

Nat: What?

Death: And what if you had company? You’re sitting there with important people. I’m Death—I should ring the bell and traipse right in the front? Where’s your thinking?

Nat: Listen, Mister, it’s very late.

Death: Yeah. Well, you want to go?

Nat: Go where?

Death: Death. It. The Thing. The Happy Hunting Grounds. (Looking at his own knee) Y’know, that’s a pretty bad cut. My first job, I’m liable to get gangrene yet.

Nat: Now, wait a minute. I need time. I’m not ready to go.

Death: I’m sorry. I can’t help you. I’d like to, but it’s the moment.

Nat: How can it be the moment? I just merged with Modiste Originals.

Death: What’s the difference, a couple of bucks more or less.

Nat: Sure, what do you care? You guys probably have all your expenses paid.

Death: You want to come along now?

Nat (studying him): I’m sorry, but I cannot believe you’re Death.

Death: Why? What’d you expect—Rock Hudson?

Nat: No, it’s not that.

Death: I’m sorry if I disappointed you.

Nat: Don’t get upset. I don’t know, I always thought you’d be ... uh ... taller.

Death: I’m five seven. It’s average for my weight.

Nat: You look a little like me.

Death: Who should I look like? I’m your death.

Nat: Give me some time. Another day.

Death: I can’t. What do you want me to say?

Nat: One more day. Twenty-four hours.

Death: What do you need it for? The radio said rain tomorrow.

Nat: Can’t we work out something?

Death: Like what?

Nat: You play chess?

Death: No, I don’t.

Nat: I once saw a picture of you playing chess.

Death: Couldn’t be me, because I don’t play chess. Gin rummy, maybe.

Nat: You play gin rummy?

Death: Do I play gin rummy? Is Paris a city?

Nat: You’re good, huh?

Death: Very good.

Nat: I’ll tell you what I’ll do— Death: Don’t make any deals with me.

Nat: I’ll play you gin rummy. If you win, I’ll go im¬mediately. If I win, give me some more time. A little bit —one more day.

Death: Who’s got time to play gin rummy?

Nat: Come on. If you’re so good.

Death: Although I feel like a game . . .

Nat: Come on. Be a sport. We’ll shoot for a half hour.

Death: I really shouldn’t.

Nat: I got the cards right here. Don’t make a produc¬tion.

Death: All right, come on. We’ll play a little. It’ll relax me.

Nat (getting cards, pad, and pencil): You won’t regret this.

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Death: Don’t give me a sales talk. Get the cards and give me a Fresca and put out something. For God’s sake, a stranger drops in, you don’t have potato chips or pretzels.

Nat: There’s M&M’s downstairs in a dish.

Death: M&M’s. What if the President came? He’d get M&M’s too?

Nat: You’re not the President.

Death: Deal.

(Nat deals, turns up a five.)

Nat: You want to play a tenth of a cent a point to make it interesting?

Death: It’s not interesting enough for you?

Nat: I play better when money’s at stake.

Death: Whatever you say, Newt.

Nat: Nat. Nat Ackerman. You don’t know my name?

Death: Newt, Nat—I got such a headache.

Nat: You want that five?

Death: No. Nat: So pick.

Death (surveying his hand as he picks): Jesus, I got nothing here.

Nat: What’s it like?

Death: What’s what like?

(Throughout the following, they pick and discard.)

Nat: Death.

Death: What should it be like? You lay there.

Nat: Is there anything after?

Death: Aha, you’re saving twos.

Nat: I’m asking. Is there anything after?

Death (absently): You’ll see.

Nat: Oh, then I will actually see something?

Death: Well, maybe I shouldn’t have put it that way. Throw.

Nat: To get an answer from you is a big deal.

Death: I’m playing cards.

Nat: All right, play, play.

Death: Meanwhile, I’m giving you one card after another.

Nat: Don’t look through the discards.

Death: I’m not looking. I’m straightening them up. What was the knock card?

Nat: Four. You ready to knock already?

Death: Who said I’m ready to knock? All I asked was what was the knock card.

Nat: And all I asked was is there anything for me to look forward to.

Death: Play.

Nat: Can’t you tell me anything? Where do we go?

Death: We? To tell you the truth, you fall in a crumpled heap on the floor.

Nat: Oh, I can’t wait for that! Is it going to hurt?

Death: Be over in a second.

Nat: Terrific. (Sighs) I needed this. A man merges with Modiste Originals . . .

Death: How’s four points?

Nat: You’re knocking?

Death: Four points is good?

Nat: No, I got two.

Death: You’re kidding.

Nat: No, you lose.

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Death: Holy Christ, and I thought you were saving sixes.

Nat: No. Your deal. Twenty points and two boxes. Shoot. (Death deals.) I must fall on the floor, eh? I can’t be standing over the sofa when it happens?

Death: No. Play.

Nat: Why not?

Death: Because you fall on the floor! Leave me alone. I’m trying to concentrate.

Nat: Why must it be on the floor? That’s all I’m saying!

Why can’t the whole thing happen and I’ll stand next to the sofa?

Death: I’ll try my best. Now can we play?

Nat: That’s all I’m saying. You remind me of Moe Lefkowitz. He’s also stubborn.

Death: I remind him of Moe Lefkowitz. I’m one of the most terrifying figures you could possibly imagine, and him I remind of Moe Lefkowitz. What is he, a furrier?

Nat: You should be such a furrier. He’s good for eighty thousand a year. Passementeries. He’s got his own factory. Two points.

Death: What?

Nat: Two points. I’m knocking. What have you got?

Death: My hand is like a basketball score.

Nat: And it’s spades.

Death: If you didn’t talk so much.

(They redeal and play on.)

Nat: What’d you mean before when you said this was your first job?

Death: What does it sound like?

Nat: What are you telling me—that nobody ever went before?

Death: Sure they went. But I didn’t take them.

Nat: So who did?

Death: Others.

Nat: There’s others?

Death: Sure. Each one has his own personal way of going.

Nat: I never knew that.

Death: Why should you know? Who are you?

Nat: What do you mean who am I? Why—I’m nothing?

Death: Not nothing. You’re a dress manufacturer. Where do you come to knowledge of the eternal mysteries?

Nat: What are you talking about? I make a beautiful dollar. I sent two kids through college. One is in advertis¬ing, the other’s married. I got my own home. I drive a Chrysler. My wife has whatever she wants. Maids, mink coat, vacations. Right now she’s at the Eden Roc. Fifty dollars a day because she wants to be near her sister. I’m supposed to join her next week, so what do you think I am —some guy off the street?

Death: All right. Don’t be so touchy.

Nat: Who’s touchy?

Death: How would you like it if I got insulted quickly?

Nat: Did I insult you?

Death: You didn’t say you were disappointed in me?

Nat: What do you expect? You want me to throw you a block party?

Death: I’m not talking about that. I mean me person¬ally. I’m too short, I’m this, I’m that.

Nat: I said you looked like me. It’s like a reflection.

Death: All right, deal, deal.

(They continue to play as music steals in and the lights dim until all is in total darkness. The lights slowly come up again, and now it is later and their game is over. Nat tallies.)

Nat: Sixty-eight . . . one-fifty . . . Well, you lose.

Death (dejectedly looking through the deck): I knew I shouldn’t have thrown that nine. Damn it.

Nat: So I’ll see you tomorrow.

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Death: What do you mean you’ll see me tomorrow?

Nat: I won the extra day. Leave me alone.

Death: You were serious?

Nat: We made a deal.

Death: Yeah, but— Nat: Don’t “but” me. I won twenty-four hours. Come back tomorrow.

Death: I didn’t know we were actually playing for time.

Nat: That’s too bad about you. You should pay at¬tention.

Death: Where am I going to go for twenty-four hours?

Nat: What’s the difference? The main thing is I won an extra day.

Death: What do you want me to do—walk the streets?

Nat: Check into a hotel and go to a movie. Take a schvitz. Don’t make a federal case.

Death: Add the score again.

Nat: Plus you owe me twenty-eight dollars.

Death: What?

Nat: That’s right, Buster. Here it is—read it.

Death (going through pockets): I have a few singles— not twenty-eight dollars.

Nat: I’ll take a check.

Death: From what account?

Nat: Look who I’m dealing with.

Death: Sue me. Where do I keep my checking account?

Nat: All right, gimme what you got and we’ll call it square.

Death: Listen, I need that money.

Nat: Why should you need money?

Death: What are you talking about? You’re going to the Beyond.

Nat: So? Death: So—you know how far that is?

Nat: So? Death: So where’s gas? Where’s tolls?

Nat: We’re going by car!

Death: You’ll find out. (Agitatedly) Look—I’ll be back tomorrow, and you’ll give me a chance to win the money back.

Otherwise I’m in definite trouble.

Nat: Anything you want. Double or nothing we’ll play. I’m liable to win an extra week or a month. The way you play, maybe years.

Death: Meantime I’m stranded.

Nat: See you tomorrow.

Death (being edged to the doorway): Where’s a good hotel? What am I talking about hotel, I got no money. I’ll go sit in Bickford’s. (He picks up the News.)

Nat: Out. Out. That’s my paper. (He takes it back.)

Death (exiting): I couldn’t just take him and go. I had to get involved in rummy.

Nat (calling after him): And be careful going down¬stairs. On one of the steps the rug is loose.

(And, on cue, we hear a terrific crash. Nat sighs, then crosses to the bedside table and makes a phone call.)

Nat: Hello, Moe? Me. Listen, I don’t know if somebody’s playing a joke, or what, but Death was just here. We played a little gin ... No, Death. In person. Or somebody who claims to be Death. But, Moe, he’s such a schlep!

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DRAMATIC INTERPRET HUMOUROUS (DUO) SURE THING Please see PDF at www.issuu.com/demottissuu under the forensics tab

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ADDITIONAL SUGGESTIONS DRAMATIC INTERPRETATION SERIOUS DUO AGNES OF GOD SEE PDF ON WWW.ISSUU.COM/DEMOTTISSUU UNDER THE FORENSICS TAB

UPDATED 2/10th/2016

DRAMATIC INTERPRET SERIOUS (DUO)

UPDATED 2/10th/2016