Saragun

Funeral Strains: A One Act Play By Gary Beck

Scene 1

(Pre-show. Offstage. Blaring sounds of anti-gay, anti-military protest, by a radical church group, attempting to disrupt the burial service of a gay Marine, Tom Richardson, killed in combat in Afghanistan. ‘God hates fags’. ‘Thank God for dead soldiers’.  ‘America is doomed’. ‘Thank God for IED’s’. ‘God hates you’. ‘Mourn for your sins’. ‘Fags doom nations’. ‘God hates America’. ‘God is your enemy’. The protest is heard distantly at different times during the play. Enter John Richardson, Tom’s father, and Tom’s younger brother, Cal. As they enter the sounds of protest fade.)

John: I never thought I’d be glad to see bikers. When they asked my permission to shield the ceremony from that hate group I was really embarrassed at the public attention of you know what. But when they chased those church fanatics further away I felt like getting a motorcycle jacket, catching up to them, ( He mimes gripping the handlebars and makes  sounds revving the motor) and buying them a beer.

Cal: I don’t know about them, Dad. Most bikers are violent criminals and some are drug dealers. I’m not sure what they did was legal.

John: The hell with legal. They helped us, didn’t they? Those guys are vets, sticking up for their own. The sheriff wouldn’t do anything. Said: (Mimicking) “Those church people have a constitutional right to protest.” You’d think a church would respect the rights of a family burying their 

son. I shouldn’t have to listen to them yelling all that filth, but it got to me. I was so mad I was going to get my rifle from the truck and run them off, if the vets hadn’t shown up.

Cal: What if the protesters wouldn’t go? Would you have shot them?

John: I don’t know, Cal…. But we have a right to bury Tom without their

blaring away like that. It’s bad enough the town knew about our shame. With the media here, they’re broadcasting it to the whole world…. Maybe if I popped a few of them, they’d find another way to spread their twisted message of god. At least they’d go away.

Cal: Then you’d go to jail. That wouldn’t solve anything.

John: I’d feel a lot better.

Cal: Maybe…. But they’re not much different than you, Dad.

John: The hell they are.

Cal: You were pretty violent when you found out Tom was gay. You said 

worse things about him then they did.

John: Yeah. But I was never anti-military.   I served my country proudly,

Cal: Well, so did Tom. But you drove him to enlist when he needed your help.

John: That was his choice…. I almost died of shame when they caught him making out with a guy, and him the captain of the football team. What else could I do? (Sounds of protest, ‘God hates fags’. ‘Thank God for dead soldiers’. They fade away).

Cal: You could have stood by him…. He’d still be alive if you hadn’t kicked 

him out of the house.

John: The hell you say. So now you’re blaming me for his death?

Cal: He’d be alive and safe in college, if you supported him when he needed you.

John: I wouldn’t have a faggot for a son. There’s no way I could live with that.

Cal: That’s an ugly word, especially now that he’s dead.

John: Does the truth hurt?

Cal: That’s not what Tom was.

John: He was a dirty pervert.

Cal: Don’t say that. He was my brother and I loved him.

John: That’s your choice, but I can’t go to that gravesite and face the Marine honor guard.

Cal: Why not?

John: Because they know what he was.

Cal: How do you know they’re not gay?

John: Are you nuts? Whoever heard of gay Marines?

Cal: (Stares at John until reality sinks in.) As long as someone’s willing to

fight and die for his country, what do you care what his sexual preferences

are?

John: (Looks at him strangely) It should matter. We never had gays when I was

in the Corps.

Cal: I’m sure you would have noticed.

John: What do you mean by that?… Maybe you’re a homo. Is that why you’re defending him?

Cal: Say that again and I’ll kick your teeth in.

John: (Laughs derisively.) That’ll be the day. You better get your girlie-man friends to help you. (Cal starts towards John, but stops when his mother, Ellen Richardson, and his younger sister, Norma, enter.)

Scene 2

Ellen: Are you two fighting about Tom again? This is my son’s funeral, John. It’s

bad enough I have to listen to those hate mongers screaming those awful things about Tom, without hearing my own husband echoing them.

John: Ellen. That’s no way to talk to me.

Ellen: It’s true, isn’t it? You call him nastier things then they do.

Norma: Mom’s right. My brother died a hero. You shouldn’t insult his memory.

John: So all of you are against me…. Well I’m used to that…. How do we know he was really a hero?

Ellen: His captain wrote that letter telling us how he died saving his buddies during a Taliban attack. I know my Tom. That’s what he would do.

John: (To Norma) I seem to remember that you and your friends were tweetering, or whatever you call it, not too long ago, saying the war was unjust. Now all of a sudden it’s alright because your brother died?

Norma: I don’t care about the war right now. I miss my brother and I don’t want

you saying mean things about him now that he’s dead. I stuck up for him

when everybody turned on him, and I don’t want you insulting Cal for

defending the brother he loved and admired.

John: What’s wrong with you people? Tom almost destroyed this family. They 

came close to firing me from my security job at the mall.  Your Mom’s good friends stopped talking to her. Cal’s buddies ignore him and your girlfriends call you insulting names. (Sounds of protest. ‘Thank God for IED’s’. ‘Mourn for your sins’. ‘Fags doom nations’. They fade away.)

Ellen: None of that matters now. I don’t care about anything else but saying

goodbye to the son I loved and lost. (To John.) I know I didn’t always speak up when I should have. Maybe if I did he’d still be alive. Now it’s time to put your bad feelings behind you. I want you to behave like the man I thought you were when we first got married.

John: (Sullenly) Doesn’t it matter what I feel?

Ellen: I should hope you feel the same loss as the rest of us. (John shrugs.) What’s the problem now?

Cal: (Cuts in before John can answer) Dad says he’s not going to the grave.

Ellen: Don’t worry. He’s going. (To John) And you’ll behave respectfully. 

This is the time for our family to mourn Tom and set an example for those who condemned him. Now no more arguing. Come with me. (Exit Ellen and John. Cal and Norma remain.

Scene 3

Norma: It’s about time she spoke up.

Cal: That’s a shocker.

Norma: At least she did it…. What were you and Dad fighting about?

Cal: The usual. He still blames Tom for everything. Then he called him a 

faggot.

Norma: (She looks around, then steps closer.) There is another side to it.  I 

understand why he’s so upset.  He’s not the kind of man who can deal

with that kind of thing.

Cal: (Angrily) Are you taking Dad’s part?

Norma: No, silly. I feel the same way you do about Tom. But just think how it

affected our big, macho Dad. His golden boy son caught in the locker room doing whatever men do to each other. It ripped his world apart.

It was beyond his ability to deal with it reasonably.

Cal: I know that. Believe me. It shocked me too, when I found out. But I never forgot that he was my brother.

Norma: If Tom only told Dad that he was gay before anything happened….

Cal: Yeah. Right. You must be thinking of some other father. Dad would have

reacted the same way and thrown him out of the house even sooner.

Norma: It might have been different if Tom had confided in Dad privately. He 

might have stood by him.

Cal: Don’t make me laugh. Have you ever been able to confide in him?

(She shakes her head no.) I sure haven’t. He’d never accept that a son of his was gay. I’ve been waiting for him to call me a faggot, because I like books. Just before you and Mom got here he asked me if I was a homo.

Norma: (Teasingly) Did you confess?

Cal: Smart ass…. I told him I’d kick his teeth in.

Norma: That’s the kind of talk he understands. I tell you what. I’ll buy you a set of weights for your birthday. You can work out and build some muscles. That should reassure him you’re not gay.(He laughs despite himself and she joins in.) I’m glad you can still laugh.

Cal: There’s not much else I can do. It hurts too much to cry…. I miss Tom all

the time.

Norma: So do I…. I keep asking myself if I could have done anything to prevent him from leaving home like that.

Cal: I didn’t know what to do…. I didn’t want him to go, but I knew he couldn’t live here anymore…. Sometimes I feel like there’s a curse on us.

Norma: Don’t talk like that…. We’ll get through this somehow…. Let’s go to the grave site and not let anyone stop us from saying goodbye to the brother 

we loved. (Exit Cal and Norma. The distant sounds of protest. ‘God hates fags’. ‘Thank God for dead soldiers’. ‘America is doomed’. ‘Fags destroy nations’. ‘Thank God for IED’s’. ‘God hates you’.)

Tommy Twinkle Toes and the Parrot by Michael Bloor

My wife Dorothy’s Uncle Derek reckons that he, in effect, bought the parrot off his crooked father-in-law, the veteran jewel-thief Tommy Twinkle Toes (that really was what the Sunday paper had called him, back in the day: ‘Tommy Twinkle Toes’). Derek took in the parrot when Tommy was arrested and also lent Tommy quite a bit of money towards the costs of his defence lawyer. After Tommy was found (very) guilty, Derek visited him in the jail and asked him what he was to do with the parrot. Tommy begged him to keep it, saying it that would be a consolation to him, in his lonely cell, to know that the bird was in a good home.

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The Marriage Ring by David Henson

The marriage is still 

on its feet, 

but rubber-legged. 

Ringside, I crease 

my scorecard. 

My wife twirls 

her pen. 

When the marriage drops 

its hands, a jab snaps 

back its head. 

The marriage ducks 

behind its forearms. 

A shot to the stomach 

pops out its mouthpiece. 

After the marriage lands one, 

falling rocks batter it 

to the ropes above me. 

The marriage is staggered, 

but refuses to go down, 

thugs it out, blood 

winding down its leg. 

My wife reaches up a finger, 

steals a taste,

and shares it with me.

(end)

David Henson

(Image is David and Annabelle)

I Thought I Heard by Bill Tope

“I remember a whisper I heard when I was seven; a uniformed policeman was addressing my aunt, with whom I lived. ‘Your brother, Mrs. Allen,’ he said, ‘lost his life in an automobile accident last night.’

“Aunt Livy’s only brother was my dad, Tom Lewis, Jr. I remember thinking to myself that I was named after him, which made me Tom Lewis, III. I heard a sudden sharp intake of breath and then screaming. I remember worrying about how Aunt Livy was taking the news, but then I realized that the heavy breathing and screaming was coming not from my aunt but from me. But nobody else could hear it. They paid me no mind.

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Going Back to the Red House (Grunge) by Dale Williams Barrigar

The garden has grown

over and become

a sanctuary-of-sorts for all kinds

of stray cats, birds, possums, and other

explosions of indigenous life and

the porch is broken

the shutters just fall

and no more time is to be had

for trifles like these, at all

but there’s a recyclable paper bag

containing donuts once

snagged in a weed tree.

And upon it

“Someone” you will

never forget

has written in

(before trailing off

and going away)

magic marker

calligraphy:

“Dear Sir,

you kissed my feet the last time

I saw you and it made

your hair

fall

around my walking

for a very long time.

But I am OK

this way

out and about again

on my own

yet I thought I

just wanted you

to know

and oh

my hand is steadier now –

and

I used to want you,

I really did, you know”

Dale Barrigar Williams

Season Dream(s) by Dale Barrigar Williams

(This week we are pleased to present work by one of America’s under-appreciated writers and academics, Dale Williams Barrigar, who is also the Co-Editor of this site. He has wonderful twin daughters and a damn fine pack of Dogs, too.)

(Image provided by DWB)

Cabin blizzard on Halloween

visiting Alaska

in the evening

every single flake

that falls

memory of you

as

October branches

scratch

at cabin window

sleeping gone

grizzly bears somewhere

near here

but I’m not fearful

Mr. Sasquatch

but what am I trying so hard

swooning

for

as

the last stripe

of red sunlight

now falls down

around old autumn

apple tree

shadows

crooked trunk

tree branches

turbulent truculent

dreams of another world

in only half sleep

all night long

next morning

November

One

there is an

alone woodpecker

in sudden sunlight red and gray

and his feathers too

are red and gray

as his drummings

on the tree they

sound

like rock and roll…

Dale Williams Barrigar

Wild Bill’s Thursday Afternoon Show by Michael Bloor

‘Hi there and welcome to The Thursday Afternoon Show on Radio Sherwood, with me your humble host and Turntable Operator, Wild Bill Hilcock…

[a burst of Wild Bill’s personal jingle]

‘Not content with simply playing you The Very Best of The Seventies, we also have the latest instalment of our weekly feature: our “Meet the Muse” live interview. This week we’ll be talking to Jeanette Brailsford, who as a sweet seventeen year-old, became the immortal muse of Dogsbreath Donovan, the onlie begetter of that great seventies hit, “Jeanie Baby”…

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I Grind My Teeth: Oral Poetry by Jordan Eve Morral

It was kindergarten.

The creepy guy on lunch duty

pulled my teeth out with a wrench.

They fell out in a clump

of enamel and gum.

Still, I felt convinced

they wouldn’t notice.

I lost my teeth again –

the four front ones on top.

They remained in my mouth

with Scotch tape, held down.

My teeth are so loose

they protrude at all angles;

My lips have parted,

forever alone.

It’s weird. In dreams

I’ll be endlessly falling,

my throat slit,

a child’s voice calling,

but I only wake up scared–

delirious and delusional–

when my fangs are not bared

and able to reflect the moon.

*Dreams of lost teeth commonly symbolize feelings of insecurity, loss, or transformation.

I have always been interested in the concept of dream interpretation, yet I am always going

back and forth between believing and not believing the accuracy of a real-life translation.

However, I have been dreaming about losing my teeth for as long as I can remember. Starting

in elementary school and continuing into the present day, I have had the lingering fear that I will

one day soon be without my teeth.

The hard thing about this constant worry is that I am afraid I will never be able to rid my mind of

it. Teeth are so often the focus of my dreams that I spend my waking hours thinking of them too.

Unfortunately, this leads to more of the same dreams. I cannot stop the cycle.

It is for no other reason than my recurring dreams that I wrote this poem. On some level, I think I

expected it to be a form of catharsis. In this aspect, I believe I have failed. I have simply

confirmed how much time I spend thinking about my teeth. I am perpetuating the cycle.

Jordan Eve Morral

(Image is of the author)