Scripts
A mother and son attempt to leave a refugee camp in pursuit of a better life but risk losing their identities in the process.
Two therapy patients with a deathly fear of nudity attempt to cheat their way through a game of strip poker.
Getting into Heaven is tricky without the right application materials.
Short stories/fiction
The Right Stuff
(originally written for the Quest Friends! Patreon: Quest Friends! | creating an actual play roleplaying podcast | Patreon)
Theo didn’t much care for coffee. To make good coffee you had to have a good blend, the right machine, the right additives; the right process at just the right temperature with just the right amount of maintenance. All this was commendable on its own–hard work reaps worthy rewards, after all–but the result? A cup of liquid that was gone in 5 minutes? Why bother? A man had to know what to devote his energies to.
That was why Theo got his coffee to go.
He didn’t like this decision. The only thing worse than wasting your time on a pointless endeavor was to pay someone else to waste their time doing it for you. But it would have been rude to refuse the coffee shop owner’s complimentary latte that first time he came in to give a quote for the new counters, and then he was curious if it would be as good the second time, and then also the third time, because consistency of quality was just as important as the quality itself.
After three days of lattes in a row, Theo could not make a judgment on whether it was worth the time or money. It was simply too early to tell.
“Would you like another one?”
Theo looked up from the schematics he was studying but not reading to see one of the baristas–one he had seen before but never spoken to–politely reaching for Theo’s empty mug, his hand hovering just out of reach until he knew the verdict.
“No thanks.”
“Are you sure? Refills are free.”
Theo hesitated a little too long to pretend this wasn’t a deciding factor (it didn’t count as against his morals if he’d already paid for the thing and the refill was free, right?), and the waiter added, “I can give you just half a cup if you want.”
Oh. Well that wasn’t too bad a compromise. “That sounds just fine.”
The waiter nodded and left, and Theo tried to get back to his schematics, flustered, for some reason.
—
A man had to have a routine and this was his: if he didn’t need to do any actual woodworking and he was organizing invoices or drawing up blueprints–or, sometimes, if he didn’t have any work at all and just wanted to read–he’d go to the coffee shop, get his latte, accept the offer for the half-cup refill from the waiter, and then leave once that was finished. He still hadn’t figured out a reason he couldn’t do all this at home without the latte, but there had to be one, or he wouldn’t keep coming back.
“Would you like to try anything else?”
Theo was somewhat ashamed to admit he didn’t understand the question at first. This wasn’t the waiter asking him for a refill. This wasn’t the routine. “Beg pardon?”
“I noticed you always get the latte. It’s a great drink, a very good choice! But we have lots of good choices on our menu. And I’d hate for one good drink to keep you from trying lots of good drinks.”
Theo chuckled, hoping to appear above it all, but polite about it. “I think the latte is enough.”
The man looked confused, but also polite about it. “What do you mean?”
“I wouldn’t want to waste your time.”
“Why would you be wasting my time?”
“Anything other than a latte must take considerable time to make. I’d hate to make a craftsman spend time on something that just ultimately isn’t worth it.”
“Why wouldn’t it be worth it?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to offend–”
“I’m not offended. I’m curious. Why wouldn’t it be worth it? You spend a considerable amount of time on your woodworking, I assume.” A second passed while Theo debated whether the man was being passive aggressive or genuine, and then the waiter smiled wider and added, “The counters are great, by the way! Easy to clean, beautiful to look at, fit perfectly,” and Theo judged by the pep and admiration that it was the latter, so he proceeded, because he could not understand:
“Well. Why is it worth it?”
“Why is it worth it?” The man looked surprised, aghast, concerned, and chastising all at once. “Do you mind if I…”
Theo gestured at the empty seat across from him. The man sat, folding his arms in front of him. “Your woodworking. That’s your craft. Why is it worth it?”
“Because the products last. They’ll be used for years to come. If they’re good. Mine are good.”
“Yes. The counters. Have I told you how nice the counters are? I’m sorry it took me this long to tell you how nice the counters are.”
“You didn’t have to. Happy to do the work.”
“Right! Because the products last?”
“Correct.”
“But why doesn’t coffee last?”
“Because you drink it.”
“Right. But doesn’t the time you’re drinking it count?”
“Well it counts, but only so much. The effort-to-use ratio isn’t optimal.”
“What about the effort-to-quality ratio?”
“The quality isn’t a factor. It can be excellent coffee, but what does it matter if it’s gone so fast?”
“No, no, the qualitativeness. Doesn’t the quality of the moment you’re drinking the coffee count for anything?”
“The qualitativeness.”
“Surely enjoying something, even for a short moment, makes the product last. You’ll remember a good coffee.”
The man looked at Theo’s empty latte mug. Theo looked at his empty latte mug. They both looked up at each other.
“I’ll admit I never liked the idea of a latte until I tried it,” Theo said.
The waiter beamed. “And look at you now! You have one at least twice a week.”
Was it that often? Was Theo here that often? Why was he here that often?
Unsure how to proceed, Theo simply said, “Well.”
“Well, you’d like to try it?”
There was literally no reason for Theo to refuse the offer now except out of pride. But that wasn’t the right thing to do, and he knew it. So he nodded.
The waiter fairly leaped out of the chair. “That’s great! I think I know something you’ll like, and if you don’t, I’ll make you another latte, on the house, of course, but let me just–”
And then he was gone.
It was several minutes before he returned, worrying Theo with each passing second about what possible concoction he’d be forced to drink. The waiter returned eventually with the mug, escorting it at a speed that Theo would have thought impossible considering how full the cup was. In an impossible display of efficiency and grace, the man set the cup in front of him without spilling, and a little flower in the froth smiled up at him. It matched the waiter’s smile perfectly, somehow, despite literally being just a flower with little dot eyes and a U-shaped smile.
Theo fulfilled the informal bargain he had made and took a sip.
Dear god.
He took a second sip before saying anything, and the waiter, who was apparently very good at reading him, exhaled a sigh of relief and said, “I was so hoping you’d like it.”
“What is it called?” A third sip, and then a fourth.
“I don’t know yet! It’s not on the menu! I made it up myself! Literally no one would try it!”
“Are you telling me all of this was to get me to try something that no one else wanted to?”
“Yes! So, there’s coffee, I mean, of course there is, but it’s a lighter blend with milk, because I thought that would be interesting to try since usually we use milk to lighten up a darker blend, so I thought, what if I just added chocolate milk instead? And then you can’t really stop there so I tried the coconut syrup and a little bit of pineapple specifically because it doesn’t normally go with chocolate, but you have to have it frothing by the time you add the syrup and the extract, respectively, or it doesn’t sit right, so to help it froth I also added some oat milk, and then I tried it and I liked it, but, nobody else would, they were all like, ‘Alvin! This sounds terrible!’ and I was all, ‘You’re no fun!’ and since it was really just a latte with extra stuff, I thought, oh that man who likes the lattes might enjoy it, so I thought, I’ll ask him next time he’s in! But then you always seemed so busy and I didn’t want to bother you whenever you had actual work you were doing, because, like I said, the counters are so good, I can’t stop you from making good counters for other people, but I also don’t want to stop you from reading, because that looks like a really good book, and…now you finally did and you liked it! I mean…do you like it?”
Under other circumstances Theo might have found this statement presumptuous, but considering that his cup was completely empty, it could not be denied the deduction was earned. “I do,” he admitted, because there was nothing else to say.
—
Theo didn’t much care for coffee–at least, not the regular kind. To make good coffee you had to have a good blend, the right machine, the right additives; the right process at just the right temperature with just the right amount of maintenance. So, if you weren’t prepared to go through the right steps, why even bother?
Alvin came through, picked up the thermos Theo had prepared, gave him a peck on the cheek, and ran through the front door. Theo shouted a goodbye and a good luck–there was some meeting today–and then started resetting the espresso maker for himself.
A man had to know what to devote his energies to.
—
The Sound of the Ocean
(originally written for the Quest Friends! Patreon: Quest Friends! | creating an actual play roleplaying podcast | Patreon)
The Invisible Palace was difficult to get away from precisely because it was, in fact, invisible. Maps and compasses and the hushed discussions overheard between adults were effective ways of gauging distance, but Anastasia would have preferred if she could actually see how small her former home was on the horizon for a less objective and therefore more practical measure of it. She knew the distance was always what the adults deemed “safe,” but whether that meant the palace (if visible) would currently be a dot or a smudge against the skyline was unclear, and so this information was useless to her.
She wasn’t homesick. You had to have known a home for that. Anastasia had some memories, but they were the fuzzy ones of youth—mostly shapes, the way the light filtered through the windows, the muscle memory to which she had managed to commit certain corridors and passageways. No, it wasn’t homesickness or nostalgia that drove Anastasia to search the horizon for the palace, although its nature as the conditional past may have implied some level of memory and longing. Rather, to Anastasia, the palace was the future, the one she had been told she should have had and been promised she would have again, the only object that gave shape to whatever it was they were running from and fighting for.
Or, it would, if it was visible at all. Anastasia needed that shape to be visible, to communicate something—to wink from the hills as it glittered in the sunset, to stretch out a hand in the shadows it cast, to be something she could look up to in every sense of the phrase. Just for tonight.
But the horizon remained empty, and when Anastasia realized that she couldn’t even be sure she was looking in the right direction, she left.
No cosmic force was going to help prepare her for tomorrow. So she would do it herself.
–
“I’m not sure when we started with the animal companions. Or why we’ve always had them. We just do. Every one of us. We have a way with animals, I suppose. I remember when I got my goose. Just waddled on over. Tried to drown me, actually. Classic Timantha. Anyway. Today’s a special day. You’re getting to do the ceremony early because Sera’s doing it. That’s exciting, right? But listen, I want you to remember: I said this was like a search last night, but ‘search’ isn’t really the right word. It’s more of a journey. Well, no, that’s almost the same. But you’re not going through the woods calling for an animal and waiting for one to show up. You’re…okay, actually, scratch that too, you are waiting for it to show up, but it’s more like when you’re waiting for a friend at the bar and you’re keeping an eye out for them. You might walk around to see if they’re already at a table, but you’re also going to get some drinks in the meantime and enjoy yourself while you wait. You get it?”
Anastasia, dressed head to toe in forest camouflage with binoculars too big for her small face hanging loosely around her neck and standing in galoshes with two pairs of socks sticking out the top because they were also too big for her, stared up at her mother somberly.
“Do you get what I’m saying, Anastasia?” she repeated.
Anastasia nodded. It wasn’t a lie if you didn’t put a voice to it. “How do I know when I find the right animal companion?”
“You just know.” Her mother shrugged.
“That doesn’t help me, Mom.”
“I know. It’s a frustrating answer. You don’t like frustrating answers. But that’s how it is.” Her mother reached out to tighten the strap on Anastasia’s binoculars so that the bulky lenses, nearly the size of Anastasia’s head, didn’t weigh the child down further. “You sure you’re ready? Maybe it is a little too early…”
“No!” Anastasia adjusted her backpack and stood up straighter. She glanced at Sera, who, although not dressed in as versatile an outfit as her cousin, had a backpack that clocked in at about three times the size. She looked to be questioning Aunt Rei about something, which made Anastasia feel a little better. If Sera was concerned, then it was okay for her to be concerned, too. “I want to do it at the same time Sera does. I can do it at the same time Sera does.”
Her mother smiled. “That’s my girl. Now take this before you’re off.” She reached into a bag and pulled out a little golden music box the shape of a shell, edged with blue trim that formed the crest of a wave at the edge. She ran her fingers along the trim until she found the wave’s highest point and gently pressed it. The top of the shell popped open, and Anastasia heard the ocean. Her mother handed her the music box, and Anastasia stroked the smooth gold, remembering, distantly, falling asleep to such sounds in the palace.
“Will this help me?” Anastasia asked.
Her mother shrugged. “Probably not. But it’s pretty. Now good luck.”
Anastasia was gently pushed in the direction of the woods. She saw Sera going a different direction—that was okay, she had already known this was supposed to be an individual event, experienced alone—and adjusted her path accordingly, going an ever-so-slightly different direction than her mother had pushed her. But before entering the woods she doubled back and gave her mom a peck on the cheek, scrambling off even faster once she was on her way again to make up for those lost seconds, her numerous supplies bouncing with the rhythm of her steps.
In retrospect, she wasn’t sure why she went into the woods so quickly. It wasn’t a race, speed didn’t matter, although you didn’t want to have to spend an unreasonable amount of time camping in the woods. But no one met their animal companion right away. What a boring story that would make. And as this was the only time Anastasia had been given permission to stray a meaningful distance from the camp, she moved quickly, with energy and excitement, through areas of the woods she hadn’t seen before, relishing in the invisible boundaries she was crossing.
The first day passed uneventfully, which was disappointing but expected. The boundless energy of childhood could only take her so far when coupled with the abilities of being an actual child. So, once she felt she had reached a respectable distance, she camped by a stream with her music box propped open, falling asleep to the combined sounds of the river and the ocean.
She awoke only to the sounds of the river. At first this didn’t alarm her, because she was more alarmed by the unfamiliar location and the unfamiliar noises and the rush of anticipation that came along with remembering where she was. It was only after she’d gotten her bearings—greeted the birds and the little butterflies perched on her tent—that she noticed the indented patch of grass, just a little drier than its surroundings, on which the music box had been the night before.
She frowned and immediately set to work studying the ground for small disturbances.
The trail led her past a bush, over a small hill, past another bush, and through a log, ending abruptly at the bottom of a tree. There was nowhere further to look but up. Anastasia slowly moved her head back, eyes scaling the full length of the trunk.
A hawk stared at her. Its glittering eyes, filled with challenge focused on her and her alone, at first filled Anastasia with the kind of fear she imagined prey felt in its final moments. But then she realized those eyes were attached to a baby hawk, no larger than a fluff, and she grinned, exclaiming, “Awwwww!” before she could help herself.
The baby hawk was obviously insulted. It ruffled its feathers and moved back, shaking its head in a clear condemnation of Anastasia’s manners. It bumped a small golden object nearly out of its little nest and lunged to grab it, just managing to catch the object with its beak, both feet, and one wing without being dragged to the ground by its weight.
Anastasia’s grin turned into a frown. “Hey! That’s my music box! Give it back.”
The hawk lugged the music box back into the nest and then, as if to establish dominance, pecked it several times. Anastasia put her hands on her hips and tapped her foot. Unfortunately, her own show of dominance had no effect.
“I said give it back.”
A stare.
“My mom gave that to me.”
The hawk laid its head on top of the shell and began scraping it with its beak.
“Get down here right now or I’m coming up.”
The hawk disappeared from view, burying itself in its nest and taking the box with it. But Anastasia was not one to make idle threats: in two seconds she was scurrying her way from branch to branch, wishing she had not left camp for this mission quite so quickly, as there was a chance that if she had waited even a minute she would have remembered her shoes. The bark cut her feet and scraped her pajamas, but she persisted, finally reaching the top, and then something was scratching her bare arms too but it wasn’t bark because it was small sharp little claws and OUCH—
Anastasia landed back on the ground with a thud and another ouch. The hawk stared at her, its little face full of satisfaction, as if it had known all along this would be the outcome, that it had never dreamed this small scrap of a silly human girl could get back what belonged to her. As if she had never been a threat to begin with, as if she was so pathetic that her defeat could barely even be counted as a victory.
Anastasia rolled onto her side, got up, brushed herself off, and looked at the hawk with what she hoped was an equally insulting look of satisfaction. Because what fun would this be if it wasn’t a challenge?
–
She tried luring the hawk down with snacks. She tried pretending to leave by stomping around the corner and taking gradually lighter footsteps. She tried bribing it with other shiny things from her bag—her compass, her eating utensils, her pocket knife. She tried throwing her galoshes into the tree to startle the bird out of it. She tried leaving and then returning wearing the binoculars and all of her other clothes at the same time to trick the bird into thinking she was someone else, some other creature native to the woods who didn’t care about the music box and just happened to be nearby.
And still the hawk continued pecking and scratching at the music box. It occurred then to Anastasia, after she reached failure number nine, that this was her only heirloom.
“But it’s mine,” she said to the hawk, feeling much younger than her eight years, much smaller, much more selfish, much more entitled. “It’s mine. It was given to me. I’m supposed to have it. It’s mine.”
A tear ran down her cheek, and after that the rest were impossible to prevent. Her sobs began quiet and controlled but quickly gathered strength, becoming the heavy, gulping kind that required more air than she could draw in, that turned her face red and her eyes bloodshot and the rest of her body hyperresponsive, a flailing of limbs. An unwelcome burst of excess adrenaline manifested itself, and she threw her binoculars, her shoes, her coat, her gloves. All flew in arbitrary directions depending on the whims of the body she was no longer able to control.
The first item she threw did the most damage. The binoculars had been chucked straight into the sky because that was the direction she happened to be looking when she exploded like a small sun. Their fall was slowed a little by the hawk’s nest, but the collision—right on the edge—did not slow the descent nearly enough, and a very angry bird, a collection of small, sharp sticks that were quickly becoming uncollected as they tumbled down, a dense golden shell, and a pair of heavy-duty binoculars all struck Anastasia at once, hitting her feet, legs, abdomen, and face, respectively.
The binoculars smacking into Anastasia’s forehead blinded her to all other pain at first. Her hands flew to her forehead as she rolled backwards and onto her side in an effort to give her abdomen, which had already been struggling for breath to fuel her sobs, a chance to recover the wind that the music box had forced out of her when it made impact. She curled in her stinging legs and feet, kicking reflexively at whatever flurry of scratches and bites was still trying to draw blood. She assumed this was the hawk, and this was confirmed when she felt a solid warmth connect with the sole of her foot and heard a high-pitched squawk.
She looked through her hands. The hawk had landed on its side with one wing pinned underneath it, and, being a baby, did not yet have the motor skills to gracefully extricate itself from the awkward position. Anastasia watched it struggle to its feet, trying to maintain some air of dignity but unable to prevent itself from falling back down and squeaking every now and again—from pain, Anastasia realized. She had kicked it hard. Unintentionally, but hard. And still, when the hawk reached an upright position after the graceless struggle, it stretched itself out and preened its feathers, making fierce eye contact with Anastasia to make sure she knew that she had not won.
A tension passed between them, and the sound of the ocean.
The music box, after bouncing off of Anastasia, had landed directly on the crest of wave that opened it, releasing the ocean into the forest. The hawk turned toward the sound and hopped the very short distance to the music box, eyeing Anastasia the entire way. When it reached the box, it pressed its body into it, nuzzling against the hard object as best it could, blinking its eyes just a little more slowly, a little more heavily, and slowing its breathing to match the rhythm of the waves.
“Were you just trying to open it this entire time?” Anastasia asked, softly.
Her voice reinvigorated the hawk: it jumped in front of the music box protectively, spreading its wings and puffing its tail plume. Anastasia assumed the wingspan would be an impressive show of aggression on an adult, but the baby’s wings did not stretch very far, and its feathers puffed into a fuzz as if conducting static electricity. Its voice caught on a particularly intense screech, forcing the hawk to cough, a small trill that was impossibly high pitched and impossibly adorable.
Anastasia laughed. The hawk glared and straightened itself, but when Anastasia’s own voice cracked, it made a new sound: a high vibration of squeaks one after another, as clear a giggle as if the little hawk had been human. Anastasia laughed harder, and then so did the hawk, its little chest puffing with happy exertion.
Their laughter faded but the waves kept rolling, lulling Anastasia and Ocean—that was the name she whispered, the name to which the little hawk responded, nuzzling its head into the palm of her hand—into a heavy and dreamless sleep.