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Emerging Author of the Month: Marni Van Dyk

by

Tell us about yourself.

I started to write, like most of us, when I was a hormonal teenager, and I still always smile when I find those tortured typewriter-written poems on scraps in the bottom of drawers. Great, awful stuff. It wasn’t until I was in university that the very influential professor and talented writer Randall Maggs shone a bit of a light on me and challenged me to push myself to write more, and also, to not take myself too seriously. I listened to him and did both things which I think are equally as important. After graduating, I co-founded the all-female sketch comedy group She Said What with my closest and funniest friends. The project has gone on to do quite well, I’m happy to report that it was nominated for a Canadian Comedy Award among other successes. Creating SSW was a critical point, because we were creating work for ourselves at a time when no one was knocking on our doors offering us any. We became much stronger writers by going through the sometimes arduous process of creating countless stage shows together. You knew right away in that arena if you’ve written something good or not. While writing sketch comedy, I also have been working with an educational institution that takes students overseas to study on location—think studying Roman Gladiators at the Colosseum or the French Revolution at Versailles. I’ve traveled extensively, lectured, performed and written a lot of academic content and held workshops aimed at getting students engaged and excited about the world around them. Most recently, I’ve also been writing for, and playing the role of the “comedic” co-host of a car show airing in the U.S. and the U.K. where I get to ride absurdly fabulous cars and then make fun of them. It’s a tough gig. Also, I’m currently working on my first collection of short stories. The first story from the collection “The Red Mouths” is set to be published in subTerrain magazine.

Tell us about the piece you’ve decided to share.

Sisters Always is a character driven piece that takes a sort of satirical/comical look at how small wants or longings can transform into strange obsessions. In the era of shows like Hoarders and My Strange Addiction, I think we’ve come to understand that really anything is possible and we all have a bit of strangeness in us in some way or another. In a way, I hope, this story touches on that point just a bit. The narrator is consumed with the idea of having a sister, so much so, that it colours her approach to having any sort of relationship with other women. It’s definitely a hyperbole meant to be funny or heaven forbid, silly, and I think it reflects that weird obsessive side we all have but would rather not share publicly. Whether it’s cutting your cuticles, collecting fridge magnets or compulsively applying hand sanitizer, we’re all a bit odd.

When and why did you realize you had a passion for writing?

I don’t know if I ever realized I had a passion for writing as much as a passion for story-telling. I grew up in theatre and dance and the idea of communicating ideas and connecting with others’ experiences through stories, both with and without words, has always been prominent for me. Writing my own stories, whether for stage or the page, was a natural evolution of telling others’ stories through performance.

What pieces of writing/authors have had the greatest impact on you?

Ann-Marie McDonald’s Fall on your Knees. The book is brilliant, no doubt, but for me it was the first time I had read a story where there were so many female characters that were so fascinating, complicated and fully realized in a way that made me see the possibilities in writing for myself. All of the books I read growing up, particularly in school, were about men and boys coming-of-age told through the eyes of men. Reading Fall on your Knees was a revelation for me. Junot Diaz also had a huge impact on me in terms of finding character voice and putting forth the idea to share the kinds of stories we aren’t, but should be telling. I’m also a huge fan of Dave Eggers, Joan Didion, Raymond Carver, Michael Ondaatje, Anne Carson and, of course, Gabriel Garcia Márquez.

What kind of writer do you aspire to be?

A good one?

How and when do you find time to write?

When I’m well-rested, have some alone time and a bottle of wine. Translation: not as often as I’d like. Keeping a notebook on you at all times is helpful however.

One by One by One

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It began with the birds, Icarus-winged, high and fast, far reaching towards the sunset, a reckless dance that swam upon the evening breeze. Starling cloud storms thundered westwards; squawking gulls, twisting and circling, cackled across the thrashing sea. The barn owls flew their perches; the falcons fled the chalk white rocks. Not one pigeon remained on the cold cut stones of Trafalgar Square; not one pheasant lay to roost, grain fat and weary, in the dank and dreary fields of a single country estate.

The people mused, confused, butchers and bakers, cashiers and clerks. Their theories mounted, their solutions babbled and gushed, the world to rights was put upon the public plate of resolution, and they went on, they moved on, they were dismissive and curt. They made do without poultry, for there was plenty of fish in the sea, and cattle upon the land, and grain in the fields. They made do without pigeons, for there were radio antennae and telegram wires. They made do without pheasant and quail and grouse, for there were foxes and rabbits and even stag to hunt too. Life moved on, clicked-but-not-clucked on, and the people built bigger farms to raise the cattle and bigger nets to trawl the seas, and they soon forgot what they had lost.

Time moved on, and there came a day a while later when the fishermen came to market with empty carts. The people asked for herring and carp and haddock and cod, but the fishermen had nothing but saltwater and broken nets. They trawled the waves for days and days with no avail; the fish had gone. The herring and carp, the haddock and cod, tench, trout and turbot, all had departed. The streams and estuaries, the rivers, brooks and the heaving seas that whipped and snapped at the sandy shore, all were barren, all were dead. The people asked for answers, they asked the politicians, the policemen, the publicans and the preachers, but none could speak, none could even mutter. A desperate few turned to God, (but she rarely offers reprieve to folks at times such as these).

So they went on, they moved on, dismissive as always and curt. They made do without fish because there were plenty of cattle upon the land; there was plenty of grain in the fields. They made do without cod and chips, and kippers for breakfast, they made do without plant food and finings for the ale. There was always pie and sausage and compost and lager. Life moved on, mucked on, from the fields plucked on, and the people built bigger and better farms, and bigger and better factories, with bigger and better yields, and they soon forgot what they had lost.

Time moved on, swiftly on, as time does at such a time. Soon enough the fields overwhelmed with cattle, and the fens run over with sheep, and the pens brimming and brining with swine, could hold a beast no more. The fences creaked and swayed and yearned, they cracked and sprung and squeaked. The farmers braced against the flow, and the fishermen who’d turned to meat, and then the politicians who’d no other fish to fry, and the preachers (who had nothing to eat). And the fences bulged and burst and broke and the beasts, each one ran free, and knowing, somehow, which way to run, all headed for the sea. The sheep, pigs and bovine, the horses and dogs all flew, and the rabbits and stag, all the beasts of the land, ran swift along with them too.

The people stared in wonder. Not a soul was the least amused. They stood and strained towards what they had lost beneath the great deluge. The worshippers cried for vengeance, but against whom they couldn’t decide, most people just pretended to grumble, then secretly went home and cried.

But they went on, they moved on, forever dismissive and curt, it did not matter in the least little bit how much this catastrophe hurt. They made do without pork and beef, and lamb and mutton and veal; without Sunday roasts and pheasant shoots and sausage and jellied eel; no chicken coops with farm fresh eggs, no cock’s crow in the morning; no dogs to bark in the dead of night to give their masters a warning.

There was plenty of grain in the fields, there was bread and beer and honey; there was cabbage and carrots and turnip and yam, so there wasn’t a need to worry. The preachers and policemen tilled the fields, the farmers and farriers too; even the butchers lent a weary hand (for they had nothing else to do). And soon the fields burst and bloomed with life, they supped on bread and honey and beer, they drank and they sang and forgot what they’d lost because now they had nothing to fear.

And right on time the time moved on, for time is like that when there’s things to go wrong. For one fine day in grey September, as the harvest was carried from the fields, and the pickers and preachers and politics-men were hooraying about the big yields; the worms slid up from the brown patchwork ground and squirmed their way to the shore, and the leeches and beetles and bugs followed on, and many a creature more. The ants and termites and lice and ticks, the wasps, the spiders and fleas, every insect, arachnid and slithering thing, oh, and of course the bees.

So the people moved on, mucked on, blind and deaf they all trucked on. They dithered and blithered and ever dismissed, they feigned to wallow in ignorant bliss. They bumbled and grumbled and eventually cried, then tried to stay curt through tear stained eyes. They made do without honey for a while, they tried and failed to shrug and smile. The winter came in swift and strong, and before too long the grain stores ran low, and the last of the pickles and preserves were scraped from the last glass jars onto the last thin crusts of dry, flaking, butterless bread. The spring rains brought no new shoots; no crops spread their roots in the barren fields. There were no birds and bees, because the bees and the birds were gone. There was no pollination, no propagation, and no final reprieve. By now there was nothing left to do, there was no thing to relieve, so all the people hungered and the people wondered why, and the people tried to figure out what had gone so terribly awry.

And the time moved on, the sands sifted down. The people slinked and shuffled about, their muffled groans offered no new plans; their leaders gave up giving commands. They scratched at rotten tree bark and discarded feather, they chewed on threads and suckled on stone. Soon skulking eyes flashed one to the other; the people craved flesh and bone. The weak began to falter, the old stumbled and swayed, and neither could keep one quaking foot out of the bloody grave. When one fell, the rest fell upon them, tentative at first, a bite and a tear, but the ravenous teeth took hold and before long the unthinkable became thought, heredity and pride reduced to naught. They went on, moved on, but now they weren’t quite so dismissive, and there wasn’t much point in being curt. Soon to be mothers became sick and more weary, unborn children, sensing too well their dreary futility miscarried themselves, their bodies roasted over coal fires, while their bloodied mothers wailed in grief and hunger and soon too were dragged lifeless to the cooking embers, picked to the bone like boiled chicken, giblets and all.

So one by one the publicans, preachers and policemen, the farriers, farmers and fisherman’s wives, one by one the bakers, butchers, clerks, cobblers, cooks, the vicars and the village idiots, one by one the salted sea captains, dashing squires and their coy mistresses, one by one the milk maids, mothers, children and school-house teachers, one by one the grooms and their blushing brides. One by one, the people cut, killed, or starved, and one by one they all died.

The last man had wandered the carrion fields plucking through the scattered bones for food. He had walked past the breached and broken fence posts and the dry and salt-smelling fishermen’s nets. He had stalked along the shore, skimming stones at the black, thrashing sea. It was night-time, and the sky was dark as pitch when the last man stopped looking for food. There was none to be found the last day, and no doubt there’d be none still the next. The man sat down on the sands, staring east across the sea. The smoking coal fires had blotted out the stars; his eyes stung. As he waited there for death’s embrace, tears began to stream down his blistered cheeks, drowning him in the memory of all that was lost. He wailed with all his waning might into the darkness, it was the last song of sorrow.

As the last man sung his last refrain, and his soul melted into the sand, he saw the dawn scratch its chalky line across the far horizon. Shards of silver flashed across dark water, and in the distance, shadowy against the fragile morning’s light, the last man saw with his last shred of sight a silhouette leap across the yawning sun: It was Icarus, twisting and tumbling in the sky amid a flock of starlings. He danced on the wind, catching the shadows with his tapered wing, and headed shore bound on the soft morning’s breeze.

The Night at Marble Arch

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“I am not for this,” he thought as he stumbled down the stairs, wheezing, unable to keep up with his own clumsy feet. And then, almost simultaneously: “I can’t even hear myself think over this racket!”

The air raid siren—like a tail-less, one-eyed alley cat protesting the fresh tear in its shoulder and the sticky blood on its coat—mewled oppressively in the close and heavy darkness.

The coiling metal staircase rattled and clanked with Francis’ every footfall, and he felt for a second like he was in the bowels of a ship. He was convinced the whole suspect apparatus would come crashing down on him, crushing him to death. Or at least it would snap off one or both of his legs.

“Good,” he thought. “Then I won’t have to clean up this mess.”

Unfit for soldiering—which, to his mind, was literally a bullet dodged—Francis had been conscribed to the role of Air Raid Warden. “What is an Air Raid Warden, anyway? ” he wondered now as he heaved himself into the van, unscathed by his duel with the staircase. “Nothing real; the invention of a very particular time and place and circumstance, which will one day cease to exist.”

He thought of the months and years preceding the war as a distant Eden, where wine and whiskey flowed freely and bushels of food spilled from the arms of Muses; where there was intelligent conversation and witty banter and gut-busting laughter and mischief and frolicking—like he and his friends had all been a gaggle of Shakespearean fairies; where there was always a woman when he needed one, with milk-white flesh and honey breath and a tit that fit perfectly in his palm; where the beach was eternal and the murmuring waves lulled him to sleep; where there was Kenneth and Philip and John and Dick and all his beloved apostles; where it was easy to paint; where he was permanently inspired; where he was indubitably loved.

But now. Now he was no longer cavorting on Olympus. Now he didn’t, couldn’t, didn’t, wouldn’t, couldn’t, didn’t paint. “People must have learned to separate the artist from the man and tolerated the artist because of the man but now that there is no artist . . . ” Francis didn’t complete the thought. Instead, he wondered about his lost boys—Kenneth and Philip and John and Dick. Especially Kenneth. Where was he now? What was he doing in this exact moment? “I hope you are able to preserve your individuality. I am afraid I’m rather a dim person these days.”

He put his hand to his heart, furtively, so the two men riding with him in the back of the van wouldn’t see. There in his breast pocket, he kept a picture from those now faraway days, a picture of the whole gang outside the cottage. They are shiny and dirty from a long weekend drinking in the sun and playing in the sand, their pants and skirts are cinched at the waist with bits of rope, the long scarves draped around their necks or wrapped around their heads like turbans are colourful and tattered, and they are grinning, every one of them, like the Cheshire cat. Francis caressed with his fingertips this memento mori just for a second through his heavy jacket. He was ready to hurl himself from the van.

“I know how to make things beautiful,” he pleaded silently. “Do you? Do you? Do any of these waggish boys who are using us like pawns? No, no! They are in the business of making things ugly.”

It so happened that at that particular moment, Francis was hurtling through the blackened streets of London towards an unfathomable ugliness. An ugliness that would be seared forever onto his brain. An ugliness that would shackle his heart, kill his appetite, deaden his once keen and ever-searching eyes.

You might say that at that particular moment, even as he mused about it, Francis didn’t really know what ugly was. Most of us don’t ever find that out, and we ought to thank whatever God we may believe in for that. Because ugliness like the kind Francis was about to see—it makes you recoil to some place unknown and inaccessible to most of us, and it’s very hard to ever come back.

___________

“I wish I could call Buff!” thought Sally as she clambered breathlessly into the bus, teeming with excitement. She might start whistling from every orifice of her body like a kettle at a roiling boil. She couldn’t steady her hand to turn the ignition. It fluttered with its mutinous cohort first to her coat, to pull it up over her shoulders—“Christ, this thing’s like burlap!”—and then to her helmet, to fasten it over her indomitable curls. She breathed in deeply and—“Bugger and blast!”—the keys leapt from her hand and then, for a second that always felt interminable, she didn’t know if she was dead or alive, and then, as always, she laughed. Sparkling laughter that gurgled up from deep inside her and burst like bubbles on her lips.

Every time a bomb fell, even when she was expecting it, even when she could tell you it was coming in one one-thousand, two one-thousand, three one-thousand, NOW! Sally’s heart would seize as though she’d been electrocuted. Every time, she felt as though it would burst with the surcharge of volts. And every time that didn’t happen, laughter surged in her like a wave in the sea.

The ambulance lurched forward now, its shrill, frenetic blasts pitched with the almost melodious drone of the air raid siren, and the eerie, whirring cacophony seemed only to make Sally’s blood course faster through her veins. She careened through the streets of London, unused to the weight of her vehicle, nearly tipping it over as she screeched around one corner, then the next. She was driving into the rubble now, and with the billowing dust against the black curtain of night, she could hardly see where she was going, but at least she was driving away from the bombs now, and at least they were dropped more infrequently. Five one-thousands, then six one-thousands apart. One of them had fallen straight through the lift-shaft at the Marble Arch tube station, where hundreds of people were hiding. “I’m coming,” promised Sally, “I’ll save you.” Her knuckles whitened on the steering wheel as her foot leaned on the gas.

She was the first of the fleet to arrive on site, even with her shaky start. She spilled from her bus ready to do something, anything, she wasn’t sure, really, to transport some mangled body to safety even as it screamed bloody murder and sputtered red all over the sanitized interior of her truck. She thrummed with adrenaline, although she couldn’t have told you it was that, never having experienced it before. She was either going to vomit or take off in flight or both at once. “This is why I left Cornwall,” she thought as she stamped her feet to keep warm and waited. For that was all there was to do now. Wait.

The doors were still swinging on the vans of the Air Raid Wardens, who had arrived at Marble Arch just seconds before Sally, and already disappeared from sight into the bowels of the Underground. “They’ll be coming back up any minute now with the rescues,” determined Sally, bouncing from foot to foot.

“I wish Buff was here! Buff would love this!” Buff was the only thing in Cornwall which Sally missed. The cliffs, maybe, and the wind on her face, and the spray from the ocean when it ran headlong into the bluffs. But otherwise, life in Cornwall was unbearably dull, and Sally couldn’t fathom why her big sis who was always talking about real life in a real city hadn’t taken the chance to go to London with her. To be a hero.

___________

Francis staggered out from Marble Arch and the first thing he saw was Sally. Time suddenly stretched like molasses and she and everything around her—the rest of the ambulances finally arriving on the scene and the other air raid wardens now emerging from the station—seemed to be moving as though suspended in the thick, brown syrup. Her curls bobbed under her helmet as she shifted from foot to foot. They flashed red and gold whenever a headlight or torchlight happened to catch them with their beams. Her blue eyes were startlingly clear and she grinned like the Cheshire cat.

At the sight of her like that, Francis crumpled in a heap on the street curb and wept. He sat there pitching and rolling in a sea of tears until every last drop was wrung from his body.

Sally stopped stomping her feet against the cold. She didn’t even feel the cold anymore. There was a chill in her bones but no amount of foot-stomping would rid her of that. Every last warden who surfaced from Marble Arch was empty-handed. There was no one to save down there. There was not so much as a recognizable human form down there.

“Jellified abstraction,” someone said; Sally didn’t know who, nor did Francis, but now these words passed from the lips of all the dozen or so living souls huddled there in the dark above the mass grave.

The ambulances pulled away and so did the convoy of Air Raid Warden cars. Sally stood for an indeterminate amount of time while thinking about the Cornish cliffs and the wind on her face, of sand between her toes and the beaches where she and Buff spent the endless summers of their girlhood, turning brown and ruddy. She turned the words “jellified abstraction” over in her mind. She wasn’t sure she really got it.

Francis remained in a heap on the curb, immovable. There was a gentle breeze now in the restored calm of those precious hours before dawn and it whistled through his head.

Sally noticed Francis just as she was about to turn back to her bus and drive off into the sunrise. She wasn’t sure at first if he was a man or shrapnel, but then she saw blinking eyes, and these appeared, upon closer examination, to be set quite intently on her.

“Hullo,” she called to him.

No answer.

She turned back to her bus. Her purse was stashed under the driver’s seat, where she kept a flask of whiskey, even though, at this point in her life, she wasn’t much of a drinker. She fished out the flask and approached the crumpled man on the street curb.

“Here,” she said and handed it to him.

He looked up at her as he reached for the whiskey and she saw in his eyes not just thankfulness, not just deep, deep gratitude, but relief. Tremendous relief. As though in that moment he was delivered. He drained the flask in one long sip. Sally’s eyes widened. Francis’ eyes reddened.

“It’s the best medicine,” she said, and smiled at him.

They sat there together on the street curb as the encompassing blackness faded to grey and waited for the sun to rise. It did.

Seasonal Longings

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You wore a crown of orange peels
And smelled of cinnamon and citrus.
Sitting under a tree in Christie Pits we 
Contemplated Summer.
I threw a stone at the sky and 
A cloud swallowed it up.
We were 16—Do you remember?
You wore a crown of orange peels
And smelled of cinnamon and citrus.
Sitting under a tree in Christie Pits we 
Contemplated Summer.
I threw a stone at the sky and 
A cloud swallowed it up.
We were 16—Do you remember?

Firsts

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This is a great way of getting going/self-generating in a spontaneous, stress-free way.

STEP ONE: Give yourself one minute to explore each of the following “firsts” . . . 

  1. My first memory . . . 
  2. The first time I ever tasted a favourite food . . . 
  3. My first day of school . . . 
  4. The first time I remember crying . . . 
  5. The first time I was ever really truly scared . . . 
  6. The first time I felt really truly loved . . . 
  7. My first crush/date . . . 
  8. My first sexual feeling or experience . . . 
  9. The first time I ever lost something (or someone) that I loved . . . 
  10. The first time I ever hurt somebody (intentionally or unintentionally) . . . 
  11. The first time I was ever hurt by somebody . . . 
  12. The first time I ever had a gigantic fight with someone . . . 
  13. The first time I remember feeling totally misunderstood . . . 
  14. The first time I lied or cheated or stole . . . 
  15. The first time I had to make a big decision for myself . . . 
  16. The first time I was left in charge of something important . . . 
  17. The first time I was ever away from home/traveled somewhere by myself . . . 
  18. The first time I experienced illness (directly, or a loved-one) . . . 
  19. The first time I received a gift that I absolutely loved . . . 
  20. The first time I met someone who I would know for a good long time . . . 

TIPS: Challenge yourself to not take your pencil off the page. Even if you can’t remember, or the memory doesn’t resonate with you, write something—anything! At one minute, even if you are mid-sentence or have more to say, you MUST move on! Feel free to write in point form, so long as you’re sure to write in the FIRST PERSON.

STEP TWO: After you get through the list, go back and choose three memories that you want to explore more fully. Give yourself three minutes to expand on each memory, one after the other.

STEP THREE: Choose one of the three, and continue exploring it as a monologue. If having a deadline helps, give yourself ten minutes.

IF WORKING IN A GROUP: Choose a partner, and read your first draft to them, unedited, word for word. Ask them to ask you questions to help you flesh it out. Good things for a dramaturge to ask or say:

I wanted to know more about ________________
I was confused when ________________________
I encourage you to further explore _____________
A lasting image was _________________________

THINGS TO CONSIDER: Experiment with form and style, rhythm, repetition, using different voices, time (linear and non), how where you are and who you’re talking to impacts your voice. If working in a “collective creation” setting, it’s sometimes informative and fun to have a group of your peers take the story and physicalize it. Consider asking someone else to read it out loud—sometimes it helps hearing how other actors inhabit your words.

Sister Scene

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Introduction:
Karen and Stephanie are sisters. Karen is 12 and in grade 7 and Stephanie is 9 and in grade 4. Even though the two sisters are pretty close in age, they don’t act like sisters. They act more like enemies at war. At least Karen does. She’s always trying to pick a fight with Stephanie, when all Stephanie wants is a big sister. Right now the girls are going through a rough time, especially Karen. Their parents have been fighting lately and they both have their own ways of coping with it.

The two girls are both in their room. Stephanie is doing her homework and Karen is fiddling with her hair.

Steph: What’s 9×9?

Looking annoyed.
Karen: 81.

Steph: Oh!
She writes it in her book.
What’s 8×8?

Looking more annoyed.
Karen: Uhhhh . . . . . . 64.

Steph: Oh!
She writes it in her book.
What’s 7×7?

Looking very, very mad and frustrated, she groans and stops playing with her hair.
Karen: Will you just stop asking me all these questions?! It’s not like I’m your personal calculator or something!

Looking very innocent.
Steph: Well soooory!

Karen goes and flops down on her bed very angrily while Stephanie closes her math book, walks over to Karen’s bed and sits down. Karen kicks her off.

Stephanie gets on her feet and quietly says:
Steph: Karen. While you were at your Digital Club meeting, Mom and Dad had another fight.

Karen: So, what’s your point? It’s only like the fifty millionth fight they’ve had this week. I mean what do you want me to do? Help you keep track of their most recent fights?!

Karen rolls over on her bed so that her back is facing Stephanie.

Steph: Well I just thought I’d tell you. Sheesh!
Long pause. Then Stephanie sighs and blabs out quickly and quietly.
I’m scared that Mom and Dad are gonna get divorced.

Karen jumps off her bed. She says this screaming:
Karen: Don’t say that! Don’t ever say that! They’re not gonna get a divorce. Everything is gonna be fine.
She is almost crying. She grabs Stephanie by the arm.
Ya hear me? EVERYTHING IS GONNA BE FINE.

Karen lets go of Stephanie’s arm, flops back on her bed and picks up a book, putting it in front of her face to hide her tears. Stephanie looks really scared, but not knowing what to do or where to go, quietly sits on her bed and opens her math book. She is about to get to work just as Karen gets up, goes to the dresser and takes out a small box.

Steph: What’s that?

Karen: None of your business.

Steph: It was in the dresser and the dresser’s on my side of the room so it is so my business.

Karen ignores her and opens up the box. Stephanie walks over to her bed.

Steph: What are those little round things?
Pause.
Hey, you’ve been hiding candy from me. That’s not fair. Give me some.
Stephanie holds out her hand.

Getting a bit worried.
Karen: No . . . .you wouldn’t want to have it. You’re too young to do Bennies.

Steph: I’ve never heard of that kind of candy before. Give me some.
Stamps foot.
I’m not too young to have candy. You just don’t wanna give me any.

Stephanie stomps over to the door of their bedroom. Karen looks up.

Karen: Hey, where do ya think you’re going?

Steph: I’m going to tell Mom that you’ve been hiding candy in our room.

Karen: No . . . .Don’t . . . .I mean . . . .Here, sit down.

Stephanie runs back to Karen’s bed happily. When she gets there, Karen grabs her hard by the arm.

Steph: Ow! Let go of me.

Karen still holds on, makes sure nobody’s coming and then whispers:
Karen: Look, this isn’t candy.

Steph: Oh yeah, then what is it?

Karen: These are Bennies.
Stephanie looks blank.
Ya know, pills.
Still Stephanie looks blank.
DRUGS! It’s drugs!

Stephanie looks astonished.

Steph: Drugs! You’ve been taking drugs?!

Karen: Yeah, what’s it to you?!

Steph: I’m gonna tell Mom and Dad on you.

Reaching for her arm.
Karen: Do and I’ll break your arm.

Steph: You know what Mom and Dad said about taking drugs. Drugs are bad for you.

Karen: Bennies aren’t bad for you, they help you. And besides, I’m older and I’m allowed to take drugs. When Mom and Dad gave us that talk, they were talking to you not to me.

Steph: You know that’s not true. They gave US the talk. They were talking to both of us not just to me.

Karen doesn’t answer.

Steph: Why Kar, why are you doing this?

Stephanie strokes Karen’s hair. Karen pushes her hand away. There’s a long pause. Then Karen faces Stephanie and looks her right in the eye.

Karen: You wanna know why? I’ll tell you why. Because they make me feel good, that’s why.

Steph: How do they make you feel good?

Karen: Well . . . sometimes after I have a lot of them, I just feel so happy that I wanna fly, I wanna fly like a bird.

Karen gets on her bed and waves her arms up and down like a bird.

Steph: But Karen, after you have a lot of them, don’t they make you feel awful? You know, sick like you’re gonna throw up? Some people came to my school last month and they said they used to take drugs and after awhile, they began to feel sick.

Karen: Well, I guess sometimes they make me feel sick . . . but I like them. They help me. I mean, just the other day I had a test in history and I had trouble studying for it, so I took a break and downed some Bennies to get me relaxed. Then when I went back to studying, it was like I knew every answer to the questions on that test. And today at school I got the test back and I got an “A.” And that’s not all they help me with.
Karen says this slowly.
Bennies help me cope with the fact that Mom and Dad have been . . . fighting.

Karen turns away. She picks up the container of Bennies about to swallow some, but Stephanie quickly knocks it out of her hand and the Bennies fall out of the container and onto the floor.

Karen: Stephanie! What do you think you’re doing?!
She is ready to kill her.
That was my last bunch and I really need them now.
She is almost crying.

Steph: Why do you need that stuff? I don’t understand it. Mom and Dad always told us that if we have a problem, we should always talk about it.

Karen: Well, the hell with Mom and Dad. Who gives a damn what they say?

Steph: Look, I know you’re not gonna talk about this with Mom or Dad, but at least talk about it with someone else.

Karen: Oh yeah, like who?

Very quietly.
Steph: Like me.
Karen looks astonished.
Very quietly.
You never talk to me anymore, or help me with my homework. Or play “Barbies” with me. It’s not like you’re my big sister. I mean ever since this thing started with Mom and Dad, you always seem to be everywhere but here. You always ignore me and blame me for everything that happens. All I want is for you to be my big sister again. Please?
No answer.
Pretty please? With a cherry on top?!!!

Stephanie gets down on her hands and knees and starts begging. Then, suddenly Karen starts laughing and then Stephanie starts laughing too. The two girls hug each other.

Once they stop hugging.
Karen: You know Steph, that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said in your whole life.

Steph: Yeah?

Karen: Yeah.

Pause.

Steph: So . . . ya think you’ll talk to me about it, or to one of your friends?

Karen: I don’t know. It’s just so hard to talk about.

Steph: Well maybe if we tell Mom and Dad how we feel about all their fighting, it might help you to stop taking those pills. I mean, whenever I have a problem I always tell at least one person. It makes me feel better to know that someone cares. So please, try to talk to someone and stop doing drugs?
No answer.
Pleasssse sis?

Hugs Stephanie and says this slowly.
Karen: I promise you, I’ll try sis, I’ll really try.

END OF SCENE.

Footnote from Julie:
I wrote this scene when I was 11 years old, as part of a collectively created original play called Growing Up Is What You Make It, for the Lifetime Learning Centre’s “Young Company.” I called it “Sister Scene.” I played the role of Stephanie, the younger sister.

I feel compelled to tell the reader that I didn’t have it on my computer (why would I?!), so I actually had to re-type it for Diaspora Dialogues! Despite the fiercest of dramaturgical impulses, I’ve re-typed it as originally written.

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