Try this 9.9

    Humphrey had a house on the edge of the forest, a good mile out of the center of town. He lived alone, having moved here two years past with no baggage of any kind, no family, only enough money to hold on to the house and to set  up shop near the town square in a minuscule office. That office, as he had it stenciled on the square pane of translucent glass in the door, was known from then on as "The Bogart Detective Agency."
    Word spread that Humphrey was taciturnly sulky and aloof. He wore his slicked back hair with pomade and always had on a freshly laundered suit. Humphrey would spend his days in his office, around town and his nights out in that small house by the forest. He warranted no second glance aside from the peculiar fact that Humphrey had no secretary, no clients and for all we knew, solved no crimes. Believe me, someone would have said something to him, if only he weren't so damn intimidating. He'd stare at you with those dark, almost black eyes, silent as the grave until the pleasantries were exhausted and you rushed off just to get far away from that presence of his.
     Things continued in that banal routine as is common around here. This detective with no clients payed his bills and seemed well off financially. But five years down the road and not one client, no sign of any business whatsoever, and no personal companion or even acquaintance made people suspicious. Often people care most about money, and certainly other people's money is included in that financial vigilance. Everyone in town was desperate to know how this silent mystery stayed afloat, and what made him stay here with no one by his side, but shit, he was just too frightening a figure to approach.
        Nothing stays secret in a small town for long, unless you dispose of the body properly, and too many townspeople became suspicious before talk of investigating this apparent investigator hopped like fire from the lips of every bored to death resident in this small town by the forest. Our investigations though produced no satisfying results; this guy was clean, as straight and upright as a man could be, so we left him to live his life of quietly bizarre solitude, because that's what seems he wanted.
        Ten years passing in this town and little changes. Humphrey hadn't changed either. And we all kept our distance. Except one day, in the winter of '37, a tiny, fancy car drove through town and out to Humphrey's hideaway near the forest. Evidently it was a man, Humphrey's exact physical match, except this young man's slicked back hair was a vibrant red. Mrs. Flanning, Humphrey's closest neighbor, and the nosiest woman I've ever met, got it from these two men that the new man in town was named Ingrid, a strange name for a man, we all agreed. Before we all new it, these two friends actually moved in together. I suppose this friend needed a place to stay, but years pass and they still lived with one another. It was the sort of occurrence that doesn't happen in a town like this. There began to spread a frightening rumor that these two were dandies, faggots in fact. We were not as a town going to allow such a sacrilege, right near the forest and everything, and so the townsfolk, we decided to pay these two faggots a visit, to show that they aren't allowed to flout the rules of a god-fearing civil society.
      It was in the night, as these sort of things often are, that we made our way to that old house by the forest. We knocked the door practically clear off its hinges. They came to door underdressed and we pushed our way in, looking for anything to away their lifestyle. I've heard they own feminine trinkets of sorts lying about the house. We demanded what their situation was, whether they were together in the coital sense. We screamed it at them, up close, as they shivered in fright. Their response was the strangest and most honest I've ever heard. "Yes, we're lovers, man and wife in fact, if you must know, and as it happens, we're on our way out of here this very night," said Humphrey. The trees in the forest burst into a multicolored light and a sound blared through all our ears like an airplane engine, only smoother, and what should I call it, more metallic? We were stunned and the two strange men walked right past us through the front door and out into the forest aglow. It's been several years and there has been no sign of Humphrey or Ingrid anywhere near this town, and ever since, and I haven't the slightest idea why, I miss those two men in a way I can't begin to describe.

Warm-up picture

Surrounding the isolated valley of Shangri-La are the Kunlun Mountains. Although Shangri-La itself has become quite well-known, its less famous neighbor to the west, within the vast mountain range is a utopia carved into the rock of the Kunlun Caves; this is the Kingdom of Pittsburgh. There is great unrest in Pittsburgh, for the income inequality willfully produced by a corrupt, profit-driven economic system has divided the city's inhabitants into two disparate class systems: the wealthy lotus-eaters of the light, and the cave diving proles of the darkness, or the disenfranchised. The dehumanized proles must wear wetsuits, for they spend all day working the lowest depths of the caves while the lotus-eaters lounge in the artificial light of the metropolitan city center. The proles are organizing a militia in order to overthrow the unstable aristocracy of lotus-eaters who have engorged themselves on their own opulence, their own greed. With their backs turned, some literally, the lotus-eaters will never see the proles approaching with their plans of a complex coordinated attack from all levels of the city at dawn. "What was that?" asked a female lotus-eater, looking into the outer reaches of the light. "Nothing," replied her partner, a male. "I say, it's probably those prole-servants, fetching us some more wine. We ran out not long ago. Since then the mood has dimmed considerably," spoke another male nearby. "I do hope they hurry then. My, how those proles lay about. We give them so much and they can't even keep the wine flowing," said the female, sending herself into a mild tizzy.

Try this 6.2

     With the armies of the enemy closing in, the two fighters, one named Pat, the other named Billy, are trapped in the top corner room of a painfully empty French brothel. Long have they sat here, Pat, an amputee, with his prosthetic arm in the hands of Billy; and Billy, a deaf mute, with his hearing aid in the hand of Pat. They have not spoken to one another since the incident last night that drove the entire brothel out of town headed underground to the bomb shelters.
      The enemy advances to the small section of Paris, where Pat and Billy await their fate. I certainly don't know what it is these men have done to provoke a foreign army with enough bombs to send the city into a charred apocalypse but, there was talk amongst the whores, before their evacuation, that Pat has known the enemie's general's wife in the carnal sense. Billy is none too pleased, for the ensuing capture that awaits them both, and the fact that coitus was already guaranteed to them the moment they touched down in Madame Derrida's famous den of pleasure.
      "Well, you can look at me all you want. I wasn't aware at the time that she was anyone's wife," Pat says, his hand resting along the cool glass of his brandy.
       Billy, infuriated, signs quickly, tossing Pat's arm on the floral print sheets of the large bed in the process. "Yes, of course she looked familiar, but what kind of general's wife is in a bar that late. And I don't think holding on to the prosthetic like that is a mature way of expressing your distaste," Pat replies, only half-imploring. More furious movements of arms and hands, fingers alight, as Billy replies in kind. "Now I'm glad you brought that up I really don't see the connection between her and the women here. I thought as men we could understand what's at stake when a woman like her is so openly sensual and wanting. Yes, we had this place planned at the end of the night but, she was an unforeseen obstacle that frankly had to be taken on; and for that I won't apologize. Anyway, you've used this all as some sort of hostage takeover of my arm. It's only fair that I confiscate your hearing apparatus." A hand alarmed. "Yes, aid, hearing aid."
     Pat stirs from the seat in the floor and paces to the window, the clouds of battle closing in. "You don't think they'll shoot us without some kind of trial, do you?" Billy signs dejectedly and quickly scoffs a there's-no-point gesture Pat's way. "Oh well you are just so theatrical. I'm able to take responsibility. I have, haven't I? It's that you think it's funny to take a man's arm because he got more than you did and didn't have to pay for half of it." Billy, as quick as a flash, punches Pat square in the face. "Now you're adding insult to injury...or injury to insult. I don't think that'll help matters. I'll give you back yours when you agree to give me back mine. It's only fair, and damn it, can you see the bigger picture here? By the way, do you think it'll be firing squad, or no?" Billy shrugs with disinterest.
      A voice outside bellows, "Gentlemen, we know you're cowering in fear like women in this establishment. We kindly demand that you make your way swiftly through the front lobby and out here where we can see you up close and personal."
     "Alright, lover. You ready for the end?" They exchange their stolen items. Pat puts his arm around Billy's shoulders, a tear visible on Billy's cheek. They walk toward the door. "Oh I know chap, I know...I should've have gone for the red-head at the end of the bar. She was certainly there alone, no less."

Try this 5.7

        You'd think late at night, when darkness grips one and all alike, would be the loneliest time of day; that may be for some, but for Taylor, the genderless Christ-figure of one of Saturn's 62 moons, Pan, an early spring morning on Earth could represent the very depths of despairing solitude. We won't go into the details of why such a setting as a bright and warm, heather-dappled April morning would elicit such angst in the normally monastic androgyne, but that is only to further confuse the reader as to the experiences and abilities of the character, especially in light of the immediate revelation of her planet of origin. The air in the valley swayed in a gentle ballet as Taylor looked upon the old - and as many villagers had mentioned to her in hushed tones - exceedingly mysterious Tree along the Sweeping Hill. Such a morning as this couldn't help but remind Taylor of the planet she'd be sent along to next, in five months time - and the creature she would have to drag along on that journey. Despite Earth's accommodating atmosphere, certainly in this specific locale, Taylor, the space prophet of Saturn, shivered for a spell and wrapped the scarf once more around her shoulders.

Try this 4.9

Center stage, amid sparse light, sits a rusted car facing the audience, engine steady, a simulation of movement. Two characters, both female; driver in leather jacket, dark sunglasses, strawberry blonde hair; passenger in t-shirt, hair raven black and long. Both women look straight ahead. DRIVER coolly shifts her head to PASSENGER, eyes impenetrable under glasses. PASSENGER turns her gaze away to look out the window, away from DRIVER. PASSENGER pulls her body closer to the car door and rests her arm along the outside of the car, adjusting the mirror in front of her. DRIVER looks back to the road, past audience. DRIVER reaches with one hand into her back pocket, grabs a cigarette from her pack. PASSENGER, while still looking away to the side of the road, body resting against the car door, takes lighter from left pocket, flicks it open, fire a spark. BOTH continue their hard stares away from each other as their arms converge, flame to cigarette, cigarette lights, small stream of smoke, hands stay stuck to one another. Fingers intertwine, palms upward. DRIVER's hand passes cigarette to PASSENGER's hand. BOTH arms languidly dance their way back to BOTH sides. PASSENGER takes a drag of the cigarette, blows smoke out the window, looking up to the sky. DRIVER lightly smiles, looks ahead. PASSENGER shakes her head and sheds a tear. BOTH continue looking in their separate directions while their arms dance back to middle of the seat, finding each other again. Hands held, rested along the seat. PASSENGER takes a few more drags from her cigarette, turns her head back to face DRIVER. PASSENGER smiles. Stage slowly fades to darkness.