Young Writers Society

Here's a full-length play that my friend and I are writing. We've decided to write parallel to each other, meaning we write each scene simultaneously and then pick the parts we like best out of both pieces and combine them into the actual scene. Below are the two scenes I've written on my own. Tell me how you like it.

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ACT 1

SCENE I

OPEN on an apartment living room, dimly lit and furnished tastefully. It is apparent that the owner of the apartment is meticulous, wealthy, but conservative to the point of being spartan.

ENTER Adam Caious from stage left, apparently through the front door of the apartment. He scans the room carefully – assuring himself that the apartment is empty – and proceeds through the room. He moves towards a stack of magazines under a coffee table and begins searching through them, tossing one or two out of the stack at a time. Pausing, he looks up – thinking, whispering to himself, stands up and walks towards a shelved cabinet stage right.

ENTER Samantha Gibson stage left, through the front door. She is dressed in an overcoat and carries a shopping bag. Adam and Samantha both stop and stare once they see each other. Swearing, Samantha drops her bag, rips off her gloves and throws them to the floor.

Samantha: What the hell do you think you're doing here?

Adam [shrugging]: I left some things.

Samantha: You've still got a key? For God's sake, Adam, I told you to give me your key!

Adam: I had a copy made last month.

Samantha: A copy? A copy. And why would you keep a copy? Were you going to stalk me? Rob me? Adam, when I say it's over, it's over!

Adam [visibly irritated]: Sure. [He moves back towards the magazines and picks them up] Just...don't have a heart attack, alright? I swear the smallest thing, and you explode.

Samantha: Don't get defensive on me! I'm not the one who's trespassing. Godssakes, I'll get a restraining order if I have to.

Adam [shaking his head]: I'm leaving, I'm leaving.

Samantha: No, see, I know exactly why you came back. You just can't let go. You're hopeless, you're dependent, and you can't deal with rejection. You're needy, Adam. I got you all figured out. Well, newsflash, it's long gone. You've crossed the Rubicon, kid.

Adam: I'm the needy one? I'm the one who has a problem with rejection? Sam, you're so screwed up tight that every shrink under the sun couldn't fix you're delusions.

Samantha: Out. Get the hell out.

Adam: I'm so sick and tired of your self-righteous, holier-than-thou attitude! This is exactly why we're done, Sam –

Samantha [shouting]: Don't call me that! Get out! Get out of my house before I call the cops, you –

Adam: Stop! Just shut up and stop talking! I'm leaving, I said I was leaving! Jeez, I'm glad this is over. What a wasted three years of my life!

Samantha [laughing]: Life? Adam, you don't have a life! You're thirty years old and you sit in museums all day and rely on other people for food and clothing and place to stay. You're useless. You're wasted flesh on wasted bones and I swear that the past three years will haunt you for the rest of your God-awful life. Whatever you do.

Adam stops, shocked, wordless. Samantha's chest is heaving, her hair is mussed, and she shakes her head and turns away. Adam stares at the magazines in his hands.

Samantha: You forced me to go there, Adam. I try to –

Adam [holding up a hand]: No. Samantha, just don't say anything else. Keep the stuff I've left. I promise I won't come back.

He tosses the spare key at her feet and walks off stage, through the door. Samantha stoops to pick up the key, shakes her head, and as she walks off stage right she drops the key into a trash can.

LIGHTS dim.

END scene.

SCENE II

OPEN on a small living room, well-lit and well-furnished, with a couch center stage as it was in scene one. Everything about this room bleeds middle-class. It seems to be in a state of disrepair, though still livable, and is definitely not as posh as Samantha Gibson's apartment. It gives off a very conservative, bleak, and naked aura with gray-colored pieces of furniture that seem to hunch over like scoliotic beasts of Notre Dame.

ENTER Adam Caious, from stage left, through a front door and carrying his stack of magazines. He slams the door shut behind him, fuming. Muttering under his breath, he walks over the couch, throws the magazines on top, and sprawls himself next to them. He stares into the audience. And then, hunching over, he runs his hands through his hair and rocks back and forth. Deeply upset. Deeply wounded. Gasping softly, he looks back up, reaches into his back pocket and withdraws a small composition notebook with a pencil trapped between it's pages. Adam flips it open and removes the pencil, drowning in thoughts, rocking gently.

Adam [to himself]: Anger blisters on your lips like mottled roses, crumpled petals withered from the dust storm of your displeasure.

He taps the pencil to the page quietly, face upturned, shrugs, and records his words.

Adam [to himself]: You have superseded the level of tropical storm. The next ring, the next level – with gale force winds and rain drops like bullets serenading sweet music to you – is where you've made...

Adam begins writing what he's voiced again, mouthing the words as they bloom across the page in graphite. Then he stops, his face hardening, his hands trembling, drops the notebook to the ground, and throws the pencil off stage right as hard as he can. He reverts to shaking his head and swearing and pacing around the couch.

And then he hears muffled voices stage left. Whispering excitedly.

ENTER Heather (mother) and Julia Caious (sister and daughter) from stage left through the front door. Their arms are laden with bulging grocery bags and they are talking eagerly, their heads bowed inward. Julia sets her bag down, sees Adam, and smiles.

Julia: Hey Adam!

Adam: Please tell me you bought Aspirin.

Julia [laughing]: Witch troubles?

Adam: From hell. I'm just glad she's over.

Heather [placing her bag next to Julia's]: So am I. Though I'm shocked and amazed it took you this long to figure her out. I mean, here's a situation where the stereotype fits like a sock.

Julia: Rich girl gone psychotic whore.

Adam: Aspirin?

Heather: We've got plenty in the medicine cabinet. Go get it yourself.

Julia walks over to the couch, removes the stack of magazines and sits next to Adam, her eyes brilliant with excitement.

Julia: Guess what, Adam.

Adam [leaning back and screwing his eyes closed tightly]: We're going on vacation?

Julia: Nope.

Adam: Europe?

Julia: No.

Adam: Disneyworld?

Julia [shaking her head and smiling]: We're not going on vacation. Do you give up?

Adam [holding up a finger]: Wait, wait, wait. Hold on. Um. How about Disneyland Paris? I hear our favorite mouse in a beret and a Dalí mustache is quite a sight.

Julia: Godssakes, no, Adam! I'm going to college! I got accepted to Stanford, full ride!

Adam [shocked]: Full ride?

Heather: They were practically begging her.

Julia: Isn't that great?

Adam [trying to seem excited]: Great? Jules, that's [he searches for a word] –

Julia [frowning]: You don't care.

Adam: Of course I care!

Julia: But you're not happy for me.

Adam: Sure I am.

Julia: Don't even bother, Adam. I know exactly what you're thinking. Why her? You're sitting there drowning in your own self-pity and thinking why is she doing something while I'm not.

Heather: Julia...

Julia [shaking her head]: No. This has gone way too far. Adam, why can't you see past your own masochistic nose and be happy for me for once?

Adam: Hell, Jules. I am happy for you. You're not being fair.

Julia [shrugging and standing up]: Maybe not. Then take what I say on a purely sibling-to-sibling basis. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. The only reason you feel worthless is because you're making yourself worthless. If you wanna get out of your sinkhole, then do something about it. You're derelict, Adam. You're a ship without a sail, for God's sake.

Julia glances down at her feet, turns around and EXITS stage right.