A very quick one today! Just a bit of a scene about the afterlife, written with very little planning. Honestly, as I started to write and thought more about this concept, it just all became too sad. So, I’ve only written a little with this one, and I don’t think I’ll return to this idea. Oh well, still a good exercise!
The prompt:
Write a play set in some form of the afterlife.
And here’s my writing:
A tropical island, dusk. A group of people – all 70-90 – lounge around a banquet table. They’re all wrapped up in towels and throws, with wet hair and soggy swimming apparel.
They sporadically eat a little bit of fruit or seafood, but their heart isn’t really in it.
ANDREW: I don’t want to talk about this again.
BEATIE: There’s no point.
ANDREW: Every day, I think I see something beautiful or new, but…
CAROL: We don’t want to hear you talk about it either.
ANDREW: Even a new person.
BEATIE: Met them all.
ANDREW: There aren’t enough people here.
BEATIE: People aren’t the problem.
DENNIS: I could always play a game of cards.
CAROL: Wonderful.
BEATIE: It’s the same game.
CAROL: We could play something different.
BEATIE: They’ve all been played. And every time we play, it’s the same cards, coming out in the same way, the same hands, the same winners.
DENNIS: Oh, I don’t think so.
ANDREW: There aren’t enough people here.
BEATIE: People aren’t the problem.
CAROL: Perhaps you’re the problem!
ANDREW: No, there aren’t enough people, there isn’t enough space. This isn’t everything.
DENNIS: You think there’s more?
ANDREW: Has to be.
BEATIE: Or you want it to be so badly, that you convince yourself that.
CAROL: I have thought it odd that there’s no one … famous here. No one historically famous.
BEATIE: How would you know? What would you expect them to look like?
CAROL: Well, I think I’d recognise Elvis if I saw him.
ANDREW: Where are my parents, my brother, my cousins? It’s not like this island is so large that I haven’t run into them yet.
DENNIS: Yes, everyone here does seem rather modern, don’t they? Especially the younger ones.
CAROL: Ugh, I hate the younger ones. Can’t stand to be around them, can’t stand to hear them.
BEATIE: It’s too sad.
CAROL: Also they’re so stupid. Most of them.
A baby cries. The group shudder and sigh. Soon the first baby has set others off, and they all cry. A whole group of babies crying.
BEATIE: Christ, someone make them stop.
ANDREW: It’s 8. They’re all wanting a feed.
CAROL: I’m not doing it.
DENNIS: I think some of the younger ones were saying they’re drawing up a roster for the nursery.
CAROL: What, all of us doing it?
DENNIS: Taking turns.
CAROL: Why should I? I never chose to have children.
DENNIS: Well, I never had any practise. Didn’t do my own, why should I do these ones?
ANDREW: Someone has to.
DENNIS: Surely some of the mums of the babies and the children are here, too? They should be doing most of the work.
BEATIE: If it was mine, I would. Forever.
ANDREW: I think it’s too sad. Maybe some have been abandoned.
CAROL: Shit, aren’t we a cheerful lot?
The babies are still crying. The group are getting antsy.
CAROL: (yelling to other tables around them) Won’t someone bloody feed those babies?
BEATIE: I’ll do it. I’ll go.
She stands up and shuffles away.
DENNIS: Shouldn’t really be her responsibility, though, should it?
Samantha Hill 