The Swan’s Song – A Play


The Swan’s Song

One-Act Play


A man, in his 20s
a woman, in her 20s


A dark room, with wooden interiors—Gothic paints on the wall, a large black curtain split into two in the middle—covering the window just across the right of the man; sounds of crows crowing and bats hissing. A giant hanging light is lynching down the ceiling with one owl seated on what seems an old and dated piece of room decoration.

The man is seated on a chair with complex designs, with an ancient, Gothic table—a book finds itself placed upon the table, Macbeth. The table contains an inkbottle, a black feather used as a pen (probably Crow’s feather), and an empty notebook with a hardcover (open)—with the words in large, “To thee…”

The Man articulates:

“Oh, the smoke, the flare,
One untidy night’s mourning heard everywhere,
Tremors shaking the foundation rock all clear,
Hold tight—for the shivers distort mindless sights,
I can hear the triumph slowly, yet surely,
As she makes her arrival swiftly, almost deadly.

That dark sight making up for all the Moonless nights,
Slowly she appears lean and alright,
Vision failing my eyes, for I see her in a different light,
Surely, by now, she must be here, or I face the plight,
For it is that night of dissolution,
Into the eternal spear of fairytale’s resolution…

Drama, what drama!
Lightening strikes, mourning intensifies, terrors commence…
As she who hath knowledge of this all arrives in acceptance,
Not looking one bit displaced, she walks with her radiance,
Towards me—oh me, she is here;
Slitting me slowly, almost ticklish, calmly sliding across my chain of gasp,
Deep, deeper—so deep, so firm,
Liberating the soul from the cycles of mores.

Here, she is—plain and black, yet with shades of dark and red,
Vision declining my eyes, for I see her in an altogether different sight,
Image  blurred, mind gone, heart none,
Slowly, yet surely, she has come…
How sweet, how bitter, Macbeth, the kiss of death!”

The man in his 20s falls from his chair, with blood running out of the veins of his left hand. After a few moments, a woman walks in—dressed in a female Gothic uniform—closes the open notebook and walks away from the same direction she came.

Curtains Drop

Reblogged from Phoenix Anecdotes.

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