Creative Control

Miscellaneous Mental Musings of an Emerging Artist

Formative moment.

Monologue I Have No Play For #59898

cryman“I’m sorry. That’s very sad. I know that’s very sad. I know I should show more emotion when I hear a story like that. I want to show more emotion, I do. You need to…there’s something I…listen. When I was a kid, my dad, he…you have to understand, my dad was from the old country. And the old school. Broad shoulders, full beard, wasn’t happy unless he worked with his hands, you know? And sometimes, when I’d cry–over whatever, a skinned knee, or a broken action figure–sometimes, when I’d cry, my dad would kneel in front of me, and look me in the eye. Intense, like. His eyes were brown but when he looked at you like that they felt gray, like cold iron. He’d look me in the eye and he’d say: “Crying? Crying? Oh, I’ll give you something to cry about.” (Pause.) He’s take me down to the basement. It was pretty, ah, I think the word is Spartan? Just a lamp, a couch, and an old TV/VCR. He’d sit me down on the couch and he’d say it again. “I’ll give you something to cry about.” Then he’d make me sit there and watch Steel Magnolias¬†with him. (Pause.) And now I can’t cry at all unless I’m in a beauty salon.”

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This entry was posted on September 21, 2016 by in Fiction, Plays, Theatre.
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