Sam is standing looking in mirror. He is flattening his hair and grooming his face to immaculacy.

Sam[vo of thoughts]: Mmmmm… looking good. Looking very good. Okay… time to practice my speech.

Sam: [clears throat and looks into mirror] Good Evening, shareholders and associates. [pause]

Sam: [deeper and more pronounced] Good Evening, shareholders and associates. [sighs]

Sam[vo of thoughts]: [groans] This is going to be a train wreck…

Sam turns and walks out of the bathroom, making his way to his car. He gets it. [SFX: Car Starting/Motor Running] Mime driving briefly. Sam arrives at his destination. He gets out and hands his keys to the Valet.

Sam: There you go mate.

Sam[vo of thoughts]: Just keep your bloody hands out of the coin tray, you pimply midget.

Valet: Thankyou sir, have a marvellous night.

Sam walks through the entrance into a conference room. [SFX: People talking “dull roar”] Colleague approaches.

Colleague: Hey Sam, how are ya?

Sam: I’m fine thanks.

Sam[vo of thoughts][grumbling]: I’m bloody terrible you ignorant cream-puff…

Colleague: Hey, Sam I’ve got some people for you to meet.

Sam: Oh, fantastic!

Sam[vo of thoughts]: Shit…

Colleague leads Sam to two people, one of them a woman.

Colleague: Sam, this is Chip Buckington. He’s just flown in Dallas.

Chip[broad Texan accent]: Well high there, Sam. I’m curious to see how you goddamn crazy Aussies do business down here.

Sam: [laughs somewhat unconvincingly while shaking hand]

Sam[vo of thoughts]: [continuing laughing] Ah… what a wanker…

Colleague: And this is his lovely wife, Pam.

Sam: Pleased to meet you. [shakes hands]

Sam[vo of thoughts]:  Well, hello there sugar dumplin’… [purring sound]

Colleague: Okay, Sam you’re due to do your speech anytime now.

Sam[squeaked in nervousness]: Really?

Colleague: Not feeling nervous are you Sam? [laughs]

Sam: [laughs] Nah! I’m looking forward to it. All those people… looking… staring…

[Sam turns around and grips a nearby table, his knees buckling]

Sam[vo of thoughts][rambling]: Oh God. Oh God! Help me the people are going to be looking and… and [almost incomprehensible] I’ll trip over or forget how to speak English or my hair will burst into flames and I don’t wanna… [incomprehensible blubbering]… and I just want to be buttercup!

Colleague: You okay there Sam?

Sam: [turns back around] Yeah, I’m fine. Just… um… doing my pre-speech warm-up.

Colleague: Oh… okay then. Well, it’s about time you made your way onstage. The Chairman is going to make his opening speech, then it’s your turn.

[Colleague leads Sam up onto the stage. Sam sits down. The Chairman stands and addresses the crowd.]

Chairman: Good Evening. This financial year has been hugely prosperous for the Company, with record figures in all departments. At this point, I wish to reflect on some issues that we have… [voice fades out, continuing to mouth words. Meanwhile]

Sam[vo of thoughts]: The toe bone’s connected to the, foot bone. The foot bone’s connected to the leg bone. The leg… wait is it the ankle bone first?… yeh I think it’s the anklebone. [sigh] I’m bored, I’m bored, I’m bored.

Chairman: [fading back in]…and so without further ado I invite our top financial analyst, Samuel Jones to inform of us of the Company’s progress.

Sam[vo of thoughts]: I’m screwed.

[Sam gets up and moves to the lectern.]

Sam: [stumbling] Ah, um… good morning- I mean evening, shareholder and associates. I really love the Company… but, [over exaggerated] not in a strange way. [pauses for laughing] [silence]

Sam[vo of thoughts]: Aaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh!!!

Sam: Yes, well… um. Now I’ll outlay our budget for the coming year. It is of great importance that we are able to properly utilize this company’s 23 million dollar worth.

Chairman: Ah… Samuel, its 23 billion.

Sam: [pause] Really? [feints]

[Chairman and Colleague jump up and attempt to wake Sam]

Colleague: Come on, we’ll take him outside for some fresh air.

[Colleague and Chairman start carrying Sam outside]

Sam[vo of thoughts]: [just as he is leaving stage] He he he… suckers…

ALL WORKS ON THIS BLOG ARE COPYRIGHT DANIEL GOODMAN 2008. 

Please simply seek the Author’s permission before reproducing it anyway.

Gana

Sanjav Grandiv stood outside Sydney International Airport, his small bag of possessions tucked firmly under his arm. He had just got off a flight from Islamabad, the capital of Pakistan. He looked down at his phrase book, which was a present from his sister. It read in Pakistani:

 To ask for a taxi- in a clear voice, cry out “Tak-si” Give clear directions of your destination. Pay driver upon arrival.

Sanjav approached one of the faded white “Tak-si” vehicles. He walked around to the driver’s side. A short, fat, ruddy man sat there, sweat dripping down his face.

“G’day mate, what can I do for ya?” said the cabby.

“TAK-SEE!” bellowed Sanjav, “I require a TAK-SEE!”

Bits of economy class aeroplane food flew out from in-between his teeth. The taxi driver stared, his eyes wide, bits of yellowed bread now clinging to his unshaven cheeks.

“Ah, yeah mate. Hop in.” he stammered. Sanjav got into the cab. He looked at the piece of paper he had been clutching for the whole flight. For the millionth time he scanned the address scrawled on it:

Herons Loft Apartments

Sanjav handed it to the driver.

“Take me here, please,” he said in a quieter voice.

“That I can do, mate,” the cabby grunted. Sanjav closed the door behind him. As the taxi pulled out of Sydney Airport, Sanjav sat back and watched the Australian scenery pass him by…

“Kitchen’s over there, bedrooms over here, ya got ya Telly here and the toilet lives over there,” said the landlord of Herons Loft apartments. He moved towards the door of the dilapidated unit. Sanjav was still standing in the open-plan kitchen, staring at the toaster in fascination.

“What is this?” he asked. The landlords face broke into a wide grin.

“You’re classic mate. Classic!” he chuckled as he opened the door.

“Now you call me if there’s any trouble,” he said with sincerity in his voice. He stepped out and closed the door behind himself.

Sanjav was left staring at the toaster. He picked up the mysterious contraption and set it down on top of the television, then plugged it into the power. He rummaged in his bag, eventually producing a dusty old cassette tape of Broken Arrow. One of the few pieces of technology that Sanjav had ever had, it had been found in the middle of a footpath, back in Pakistan. He slipped into one of the devices cavities, pulled the lever and sat down…

After hearing the landlords lecture on the correct use of the toaster, Sanjav was left to clear away the thick black smoke that seemed to cling to the furniture. The landlord had also left him with a map of Sydney. A red circle, that Mr. Basing the Landlord, had scribbled on showed the location of a McDonalds that needed workers. Sanjav knew he needed a job. He had promised to send his wage home to his family. So Sanjav seized the chance and took a much more orthodox taxi-ride to the McDonalds…

It seemed only by luck that Sanjav actually got the job at McDonalds. Just as it seemed only by luck that he lost it two hours later. Accidentally dropping his employee hat into the deep fryer, and serving the remnants to a customer, spelt pre-mature doom for Sanjav’s job. After being grilled (figuratively, not literally, much to Sanjavs relief) by the manager, Sanjav was left to walk the dreary backstreets of Sydney. Sanjav had never felt so alone. Normally surrounded by the loving warmth of his brothers and sisters, Sanjav was now going solo. He looked up from the rock he was idly kicking, to a see a large shop to his left. It had a huge cemented area at the side, which was covered in thousands of plants. They were protected from the sun by a massive green piece of fabric. The shop sported the sign “Nursery”. An idea struck Sanjav. He walked into the shop and pulled out his very light wallet.

Sanjav closed the door of Unit 24 behind him. He was holding a large fern. He sat it down on top of the television. He needed a friend and now he had one.

“Gana,” he said, “I will call you Gana.” He smiled and sat down on his couch. He finally had someone to talk to…

Two weeks of job searching finally paid off for Sanjav. He landed a job at a nearby BP service station. He was given the 11:00pm – 2am time slot. Sanjav stood alertly behind the counter, staring straight ahead. All he had for company was Gana, who sat next to him, and the faint, pulsating hum of the fridges. His mind wandered idly. His train of thought bounced around randomly, until a movement out the corner of his eye awoke him from his ironically named “day dreaming”. Two men had just got out of a car. One of them had a sports bag. The two of them strode towards the door. As they did so, they put on balaclavas. The man with the bag pulled out a shotgun, while the other took out a pistol. They powered through the automatic doors, turned and opened fire on the security camera above the counter. Sanjav fell to the floor to protect himself. The men approached the counter.

“Open the fucking register!” one of them yelled.

Sanjav scrambled up from the ground. His eyes dashed wildly between the two men.

“Now! Money in the bag! Money in the bag!” the man with the shotgun yelled. Sanjav was frozen on the spot. He started to stutter something, but before he could say anything, the criminal brought the pistol down upon Sanjavs head.

Sanjav spent the next two days recovering in hospital. The BP manager had brought Gana in for him. This made him feel better. Gana gave off a warmth that made Sanjav feel like he was back home in Pakistan. Gana even talked to Sanjav, just not verbally. It told him everything would be all right.

After a month of job seeking, Sanjav was offered a job as a security guard at a run-down old shopping centre. He eagerly accepted and was given a security uniform that reeked of the former wearers BO. In addition to this, Sanjav was once more relegated to the midnight shift. A few uneventful nights into the job, Sanjav sat in the brightly lit security room with Gana on the desk in front of him, the fluorescent lights humming slightly. In the distance he heard a distinct banging sound. His heart leapt. He was hoping he wouldn’t have to leave the safety of the security room. The rest of the centre was lit only by a very dim set of energy saver lights. Sanjav slowly got up from his chair. He opened the door and ventured out side. He patrolled all of the dark corridors. He finally decided that it was nothing. As he turned back, something caught his eye. In the distance, two figures were huddled around the main electrical box. Sanjav slowly approached them staying behind the various tables, chairs and floral displays that dotted the floor. He came into earshot of the two people.

“Mate, ya don’t have a fuckin’ clue what ya doin!” one of them said in an angered whisper.

“Don’t worry mate. My dad used ta do this stuff,” the other said calmly. Sanjav recognized them instantly. He knew that voice. The images of the BP came flashing back. He knew these men were dangerous. He had to call the police. Just before he turned to scuttle off, the “electrician” gave out a blood-curdling scream. Sparks flew out of the box and the man was blasted five meters backwards. His limp body slid along the freshly washed floor and came to a stop. He was dead. The other man rushed up to him and knelt down.

“Steve! Steve, mate!” he yelled. Then the electrical box exploded.

The fire spread quickly. The abundant amounts of fake plastic flowers and large paper posters on the walls spurred it along. Sanjav ran to the fire alarm. He pulled the lever. Nothing happened. He pulled again. Still nothing. Then a single word popped into his head.

Gana

Sanjav ran through the smoke filled corridors. He could see Gana through the security room window. As he began to charge towards it, the surviving criminal bolted out of one of the shops. As he ran, a huge fireball exploded from the shop behind him. He fell to the floor. A huge piece of the roof collapsed above him. It dangled precariously. If it snapped it would crush him. The fire was slowly knawing away at the thin piece of metal that was supporting it. Sanjav looked up at Gana. The fire was quickly approaching the security room. Sanjav looked back at man. His legs were broken. He couldn’t move.

“Help me!” the man screamed. Sanjav grimaced. This was an impossible choice. Fate could be cruel. Just then, the fire alarm started ringing in the distance. Sanjav grabbed the man and dragged him towards the exit…

After leaving the man in the safety of the footpath, Sanjav rushed back through the smoke. He run up the halted escalator and rounded the corner just in time to see Gana engulfed in flames. The fern quickly withered and turned brown. Sanjav started coughing. He collapsed to the floor. Then… all was black.

Sanjav awoke in an ambulance. He was rushed to hospital. After being discharged, Sanjav demanded to be taken to the burnt-out shopping centre. He walked through the blackened corridors, finally coming to the security room. On the table sat the remains of Gana. As Sanjav inspected it, sadness welled up inside him. But then, Sanjav saw something unexpected. Under the dead fern, growing out of the charred dirt, was a small budding living fern. Life goes on thought Sanjav. Life goes on.

Epilogue

Sanjav walked through Sydney Airport, his boarding pass in his hand. He had paid for the flight to Islamabad with the money the shopping centre had given him to keep quiet about their faulty fire alarm system. Sanjav had decided Australia just wasn’t right for him. Anyway, he now had a reasonable chunk of money left over from his payout. All “adventures” aside, Sanjav just wanted to get home. And with that, Sanjav strode towards gate 243, with Gana II tucked firmly under his arm.

ALL WORKS ON THIS BLOG ARE COPYRIGHT DANIEL GOODMAN 2008. 

Please simply seek the Author’s permission before reproducing it anyway.

Written in 2006, this is another war poem. It is different in that it rhymes (I’m not a fan of rhyme).

It’s Necessary

It’s necessary they say

As those they speak of die every day.

It is unfortunate, we have no other choice

They speak for themselves, then slay those without a voice.

They talk to their people, with knowing eyes

I’m telling the truth they say, I speak no lies.

Then the camera is turned off, they recline in their chair

They straighten their tie, and adjust their greying hair.

They know nothing of what battles rage far away

Death, heat and metal, but it’s for freedom, it’s okay.

A trillion dollars, here and there, a new plane, and a huge gun

Throwing money at anything that moves, as though such a waste is great fun.

We’ve killed another terrorist leader they boast, smiling and clapping like seals

They show pictures of their dead bodies, tagged, marked and served like a meal.

The people of Iraq will thank us they promise, nodding and frowning like a concerned friend

But the fighting and terror, the blood and flesh, sand and bullets, the death… will never truly end.

ALL WORKS ON THIS BLOG ARE COPYRIGHT DANIEL GOODMAN 2008. 

Please simply seek the Author’s permission before reproducing it anyway.

This is my favourite piece of poetry that I’ve written. Similar to the other poetry from 2006, it explores war, in this case the Holocaust. Originally, the piece had a “optimistic” conclusion, but I’ve removed it. However, if you want to read it, highlight the blank section at the end, and it should be there (in white text).

You Can’t

It’s been sixty years since it happened,

But it doesn’t make it any better, any less worse

Still as terrible as when it began

What is done can’t be changed, oven over time

You can’t reverse horror, just watch it take its course, and the course it’s taken.

People still try to deny it, or talk it down

Saying it didn’t exist, it’s just lies and propaganda

Half-truths and skewed views, to make us feel sorry

Something like this could never happen, nothing so terrible

You can’t analyse horror, just let it flood through you like a river.

The gas chambers ruined so many,

But now it is the gas chambers that are ruined, their bricks and stones crumbling.

The merciless war machine that did this lies defunct, rotting, never to be buried,

It’s torn flag fluttering in the wind, the Swastika staring at world that reviles it.

You see people, all these years later, raising their right arms, and marching with raised legs

“Hail Hitler” they say, then turn and giggle with their friends, not a source of horror, but of humour.

But sixty years ago, it was the utmost symbol of dread.

You can’t measure horror, just fall to the ground and tremble as it flexes it’s muscular neck,

Then slowly, scorchingly, stares into your eyes, pinning you to the floor, and burning hatred into your soul.

And as it locks it’s gaze on you, focusing it’s pure, ruthless disgust,

You have chance to draw your sword, and plunge it deep into the beast’s dark, cold heart.

ALL WORKS ONTHIS BLOG ARE COPYRIGHT DANIEL GOODMAN 2008. 

Please simply seek the Author’s permission before reproducing it anyway.

This was written in 2006. It is quite short and simple, and explores the imagery of war. As is my preference, it is non-rhyming.

The Patchwork of Destruction

The sun rising,

Obscured by smoke, twisting and choking.

The sound of nature,

Pierced by the sound of destruction, clanging metal, shrieking glass, simmering plastic.

The desert sand,

Red, blood stained and strewn with dead bullets.

The moon, full and white,

speared as fire streaks across the sky.

The people,

Walking, ruining, carrying the dead away from hell, only to emerge where they began.

The city,

Ruined, rotting, without its light and sounds.

And the world,

Tearless as another of its people falls to the ground and dies.

COPYRIGHT DANIEL GOODMAN – PERMISSION MUST BE GIVEN BEFORE THIS AND ANY OTHER WORKS CAN BE REPRODUCED

The first installment in the 20 Minute Play series, as previously stated, this play was written in 20 minutes. No more, no less. For more 20 Minute Plays head over to Yannick’s site, or keep looking here

MR GABRIEL GOES TO HEAVEN

SCENE ONE: ‘The Bus Stop’

[PETER GABRIEL and his guitarist DAVID RHODES are standing at a bus stop. DAVID has his guitar slung over his shoulder.]

PETER: David, do you think anyone actually listens to my music?

[DAVID thinks briefly]

DAVID: Probably not, no. Oh, there was that one, with the fruit.

PETER: Oh yeah, that was pretty good.

DAVID: Yeah…and that one when the clay bumper cars tried to kill you.

PETER: I think that was the same song…

[PETER looks down the road]

PETER: Oh, the bus is coming. Quickly David, get our tickets out!

[DAVID scrambles madly in his guitar case.]

DAVID: I CAN’T FIND THEM!!!!!

PETER: What? WHAT?

[LFX][Red spotlights splash around the stage]

SONG: ‘Where are the Tickets?’

{Low, foreboding synth guitar rhythm}

PETER [distorted]: David, where are the tickets? Oh, you’ve really dicked it. I could never really have picked it, oh what are we going to doooooooo?

[DAVID responds with guitar licks. Approaching bus runs off the road and over  PETER and DAVID.]

PETER: Ah, fu- [dies]

BUS DRIVER: Oh no! I just killed Phil Collins! [starts to cry]

PASSENGER: No, that was Peter Gabriel.

BUS DRIVER: [laughs] Oh, never mind.

SCENE TWO: ‘Fork in the Road’

[PETER and DAVID wake up CS, in a bare room. Faintly moving white light covers the entire stage.]

PETER: Oh dear, I do believe we’re dead David.

DAVID: I grieve, Pete, I grieve…

PETER: Hey! No ironic and comedic references to my songs’ names.

DAVID: Sorry…

[They both get up. As they do, IAN DURY descend from the above, on wires.]

PETER: Oh, hello Ian.

IAN: Fair deuce, eh Petey? An’ ‘oo’s this scrawny baldie ya brou’ with ya?

PETER: Oh, this is David Rhodes, my guitarist.

[IAN looks at clipboard]

IAN: Oh, yeah, I see ‘im now.

DAVID: So what are you doing here, Mr Dury?

IAN: Well mate, I’m the ‘umorously endowed musical-rela’ed substitute fa Saint Peter, righ’.

PETER: [laughs] Well, I’m no saint Ian.

IAN: Oh, shut up ya vegetarian wanker. Poin’ of matta is that Pete’s gonna to heaven, and Davie’s gonna hell.

[PETER begins to ascend on wires, DAVID recedes into pits of flames, as saxaphones scream out at him.]

PETER: [laughs] That’s what you get for starting Sledgehammer in the wrong key 17 years ago!

THE END