Narratives
The following were staged as Multi-Medium Productions, utilizing the talents of; dancers, musicians, poets and even visual artists, all collaborating spontaneously
on a specified theme which was outlined by the writers narrative.
We would meet and I would outline the theme then we'd get back together
once again for a run through to set blocking.
The performances themselves were highly charged and would constantly change as to our individual moods. The visual art created during these productions would be
auctioned off to benefit the various non-profit events at which they were created.
California at the time had limited arts funding and the various mediums were always competing for minimal grants and funding. This competition obviously created schisms between the different mediums. I was producing an arts television program for cable at the time called From the Heart, which showcased the various regional artists and their varied mediums. Having established a rapport with the majority of the local artists I suggested a collaborative effort for the upcoming Multi-Cultural Festival, which was held in Sacramento every year. The piece I wrote was called Tapestry. It defined the influences each and every nationality had on the constantly blending American culture. It involved artists from each of these contributing cultures working in their individual mediums.
The production was a great critical and emotional success. All of the artists involved developed new found respect for the other's cultures and (more importantly to me)
their constantly competing mediums.
Other productions followed and they, in turn, encouraged a
number of collaborative efforts by others throughout the region.
I have included the following Narratives as an example of these efforts.
I was and still am, very proud of the results.
A celebration of our multicultural heritage.
SYNOPSIS:
Tapestry is a positive celebration of the unique and eclectic blend of the cultures of the Sacramento CA area. Showcasing the art of five different poets and visual artists of varying ethnicity, two interpretive dancers, two percussionists and a writer, the work examines the multicultural influences in our community. It also stresses the fact that, within each of us, there is a weave of different heritages. Originally previewed, in a condensed form, at the 1991 Sacramento Multicultural Festival, Tapestry drew a large audience that was genuinely moved by the positive statement of unity not separatism.
Working together in creative collaboration, each artist will address the theme, utilizing their respective mediums. Each poet will do two pieces (5 7 min total). The first will chronicle, from the historic perspective, their ethnicity. The second will reflect the americanization of that ethnicity. As each poet reads their works, their component visual artist will interpret the poems using their medium. The narrative and the original music serve as the thread weaving the segments together, and dancer's 1 and 2 interpret the narrative and poets respectively.
The completed visual art pieces will be auctioned off after the performance each night and the proceeds from the sales will go to benefit the
Center for Contemporary Art in Sacramento CA.
MUSIC UP FULL, AMBIENT FLAVOR.
COLORED LIGHTS UP DANCE AREA. THEY REMAIN UP THROUGHOUT.
DANCER 1 (Dl) MOVES TO MUSIC.
AS NARRATIVE BEGINS, Dl INTERPRETS IT.
MUSIC DOWN AND UNDER.
NARRATIVE:
Our culture is like a vibrant tapestry, woven with multi-colored fibers, different scents and textures.
A tapestry whose foundation was strung many years ago, when this area was thick and primevil.
The first threads were of braided fibers, raw and natural.
Cured with pungent wood smoke and seasoned with sweet grass and wild herbs.
Woven in virgin forests when this fertile valley was ripe with wonder and magic.
As deer skin drums and bone flutes played counterpoint to voices raised in songs of life and brotherhood,
Flowing in harmony with the wind as it breathed through the pines.
The first threads were spun and the tapestry begun.
DANCER 2 (D2) ENTERS AND INTERPRETS POETS WORDS.
LIGHTS DOWN AREA 1.
UP AREA 2.
NATIVE AMERICAN: Sunrise.
LIGHTS DOWN AREA 2,
UP AREA 1.
MUSIC TAKES ON MEXICAN FLAVOR.
Dl AND D2 EXCHANGE PLACES.
Dl INTERPRETS NARRATIVE.
NARRATIVE:
These threads came from sunny southern climes.
Woven in adobe cities while the eagle soared the thermals and the serpent and the jaguar hunted the forests.
As maize was wrapped in willow shoots and carried in woven baskets
Spiced by hot pepper plants and scented by night flowering cactus.
Their spun colors as deep as obsidian as bright as jade and burnished gold.
Woven around songs celebrating proud ancient civilizations.
The tapestry in place, new threads interlaced.
UP AREA 2.
Dl AND D2 EXCHANGE PLACES.
D2 INTERPRETS POETRY.
MEXICAN AMERICAN: Midday.
LIGHTS DOWN AREA 2,
UP AREA 1.
MUSIC TAKES ON EUROPEAN FLAVOR.
Dl AND D2 EXCHANGE PLACES.
Dl INTERPRETS NARRATIVE.
NARRATIVE:
These threads were cultivated, blended and intertwined a hundred times over.
Multi-textured and layered with the fibers of many lands, many influences.
Blown on the wind from the east, they had been weaving their way westward, filling the empty spaces in the greater design.
A dominant thread, by numbers alone, they absorbed the original pattern and set the weave in a new direction.
The tapestry unwound as new threads abound.
UP AREA 2.
Dl AND D2 EXCHANGE PLACES.
D2 INTERPRETS POETRY.
EURO AMERICAN: Sunset.
LIGHTS DOW AREA 2,
UP AREA 1.
MUSIC TAKES ON AFRICAN FLAVOR.
Dl AND D2 EXCHANGE PLACES.
Dl INTERPRETS NARRATIVE.
NARRATIVE:
These threads were stolen, taken from their homeland.
Carried far from the thunder of jungle drums and open fires casting shadows on daga grain bins and soapstone carvings.
Seasoned by cloves, sesame and palm oil.
Their history continued, as circular as coiled clay pots or cotton wrapped tight on wooden spindels.
Their texture soft as ostrich feather fans, as regal as bronze anklets with ivory inlays.
A weave as natural as sorghum and yams, as exotic as kola nuts and copra.
As new threads intertwined, the tapestry defined.
UP AREA 2.
Dl AND D2 EXCHANGE PLACES.
D2 INTERPRETS POETRY.
AFRICAN AMERICAN: Moonrise.
LIGHTS DOWN AREA 2,
UP AREA 1.
MUSIC TAKES ON ASIAN FLAVOR.
Dl AND D2 EXCHANGE PLACES.
Dl INTERPRETS NARRATIVE.
NARRATIVE:
These threads were more delicate in nature.
Wrapped in heady scents of jasmine and magnolia, their texture fine as silk and prolific as bamboo shoots after the rains.
Sweetened by honey, lightly spiced by corriander.
Their tones as brilliant as laquered vessels or thrice glazed pottery.
Their complexity as elaborate as pierced filigree.
Woven in time with the soft metallic tinkle of wind bells as the breeze wafted through the white pines.
Spun as the dragon and the phoenix smiled down from marble wall carvings and rice paper fans dangled in adorned gardens
The tapestry has grown as each thread is sown.
UP AREA 2.
Dl AND D2 EXCHANGE PLACES.
D2 INTERPRETS POETRY.
ASIAN AMERICAN: Sunrise.
LIGHTS DOWN AREA 2,
UP AREA 1.
MUSIC TAKES ON AMBIENT FLAVOR.
Dl AND D2 EXCHANGE PLACES.
Dl INTERPRETS NARRATIVE.
NARRATIVE:
Still today the tapestry continues, shifting features, changing designs.
Alive with the blood strains that course through our city, throbbing with the energy of our mulitude of cultures.
We are all, individual tapestries.
Deep inside each of us our blood flows rich with different heritages.
Bubbling like a rich stew that feeds our souls and colors our lives with a blended universiality which marks us all as unique individuals.
Mixing and blending like a rainbow prism.
Bending all the colors into the shining promise of our future.
MUSIC UP FULL FOR A FEW MEASURES.
DANCER 1 MOVES TO MUSIC THEN FREEZES.
MUSIC OUT.
BLACKOUT.
caught between
Concept and Original Art
by Robert Jean Ray
STAGE IS DARK.
FACING WALL ARMS OUTSTRETCHED.
(MUSIC "MISERARI" UP.)
NARRATIVE:
A soul in torment.
Traveling on a twisted treadmill.
Trapped in the bowels of the beast.
A soul caged in a world of dead ends and blind alleys.
Caught between heaven and hell and no tomorrow.
SPOTLIGHT UP CENTER STAGE.
DANCER KNEELS CENTER STAGE,
HIS HEAD DOWN IN PRAYER.
Living life on the edge of death.
The hot ride on the wild side.
Lost in the dark and up against the wall.
Your hungers feeding our insecurity.
Your needs pushing us to the brink.
A screaming faggot, nigger, junkie seeking salvation
HANDS OUT IN SUPPLICATION
NARRATIVE:
Coming out of the darkness, into the light.
SPIRIT TURNS TO FACE AUDIENCE.
DANCER INTERPRETS NARRATIVE.
NARRATIVE:
A lustful heart has been lanced like a boil,
the pus drained, the wound cauterized.
The poison you've pumped into your veins
has been purged from our system.
HER ROBE FRAMES HIM.
PREACHER:
Redeemed!
A once sinful body has become a cathedral of the faith,
a temple of the spirit.
SPOTLIGHT OUT.
(BED WITH BARE MATTRESS AND OLD
NIGHTSTAND ARE AGAINST WALL.)
NARRATIVE:
You must act!
PREACHER:
Before you back-slide into the lustful needs that have ruled our life.
NARRATIVE:
It is time!
PREACHER:
Meet the Lord, while we're still free of sin.
NARRATIVE:
Do it now!
HOLDS IT UP AND LOOKS AT IT.
PREACHER:
Cross over into the everlasting light of heaven,
before we're damned to the everlasting darkness of hell.
NARRATIVE:
You must die!
PREACHER:
Before, we can truly be born again.
HE SINKS TO SITTING POSITION ON BED, HANDS OVER HIS EYES.
SPOTLIGHT UP ON DANCER
(MUSIC "MISERARI" OUT.)
NARRATIVE:
Let life pass before you.
The stagnant flow that has been existence.
The confused journey that has been the path.
Observe our history, before you step into our future.
BIGOT:
Hey, little nigger boy!
BIGOT:
Got your dancing shoes?
Gonna play you a tune, black and white in blues.
HE GOES INTO A SLOW SHUFFLE WHICH BUILDS IN INTENSITY
AS HE INTERPRETS THE FOLLOWING.
NARRATIVE:
Little boy blue with black skin, caught up in the city's beat.
No one home to let you in.
Lost in the hungers of the street.
Cold and lonely, you made the scene.
Your school room was the neon night.
A world filled with junkies, whores and queens.
All eager to teach you right.
BIGOT:
Hey, little nigger boy!
Got your dancing shoes?
Gonna play you a tune,
black and white in blues.
NARRATIVE:
The white world locked you in a cage.
Turned your soul to stone, your heart to ice.
Life in the streets, filled you with rage.
A boiling anger, sharp as a knife.
Your soul was poisoned, your dreams were killed.
You were hollowed out and left to die
An empty vessel waiting to be filled,
by any hunger that caught your eye.
BIGOT:
Hey, little nigger boy!
Got your dancing shoes?
Gonna play you a tune,
black and white in blues.
NARRATIVE:
Innocent prey, waiting to be claimed.
By hungry predators, deep in the dark
Reaching out for love, you just found shame.
Their unnatural lust, left it's mark
The needle's bite, like the touch of friend.
Filled your soul with sweet escape.
Once the journey started, there was no end.
The hunger grew like a burning ache.
BIGOT:
Hey, little nigger boy!
Got your dancing shoes?
Gonna play you a tune,
black and white in blues.
NARRATIVE:
You can't win the game, cause there ain't no rules.
HE PUTS HIS HANDS OVER HIS FACE.
(MUSIC "GUT BUCKET" OUT)
NARRATIVE:
The whole world is trying to mainline the mainstream.
The whole world is tied off and waiting for the high.
Everybody is a hostage.
Bound and shackled to their own needs, their own addictions.
"SOCIETY" PROJECTION UP LEFT WALL.
DANCER REACTS TO PROJECTION,
THEN INTERPRETS THE FOLLOWING.
Bound and shackled, linked by the chains of society.
Recessions, depressions, elections, assassinations corruption, hunger,
AIDS, crime, serial killers, homelessness, helplessness.
Society has harvested a rich bounty and is planting new seeds for the
Twenty Second Century.
It started back at the dawning of our species.
Frightened of the unknown, we grouped together in tribes.
The stronger took control.
Collecting their tribute, enforcing theirphilosophies.
Punishing any that would protest.
As their greed for power grew, they nurtured hatred towards other tribes.
Violence spread and the ground stained red with the blood of the weaker.
Society grew like a virus, multiplying, dividing, absorbing the individual.
It created a people addicted to order, frightened of freedom, dependent
on the machine.
Blind patriotism, facism, communism, racism, separatism, feminism,
sexism, skepticism, cynicism.
Negative ism's create fractures and schisms.
Bound and shackled!
"RELIGION" PROJECTION UP ON CENTER WALL.
DANCER REACTS TO PROJECTION AND INTERPRETS THE FOLLOWING.
Bound and shackled, by terrors in the night.
Locked up in superstitions, the shamans ruled.
Throwing the bones, counting the beads.
Reading the stars, speaking in tongues.
Painting the cave walls, printing the bibles.
Holy wars, blood sacrifices, cannibalism, real and
symbolic, natural disasters, genocide, hatred, atrocities.
Anything unexplainable is always explained as God's will.
The inquisition, the Salem witch trials, imprisonment, torture,
executions. Jonestown Guiana, mass suicides, marytrdom, murder.
All done in the name of religion.
Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition.
Pass the collection plate.
Pass gas!
Religion has reached hypocritical mass.
Faith is pure and clear.
It's religion that muddies the waters.
Baited with heaven, threatened with hell.
Bound and shackled.
(MUSIC "BOUND" OUT)
The world is revolving, spinning in space.
You cling to your precarious perch and pray that you won't be thrown into
the abyss.
The clock is ticking.
Times running out.
Already you feel the heat in your- loins.
The chill in your veins.
You're wound up tight and ready to go off.
SPIRIT ENTERS USL. SHE IS DRESSED IN RED ROBE.
NARRATIVE:
The beasts are awakening.
You can feel them stirring within your soul.
Growing like cancer deep inside.
Licking at your senses.
Slowly eating away at you bit by bit, bite by bite.
Filling you with an emptiness.
A hollow void, for sickness to grow.
The night is dark and thick with need.
You can smell it.
Viscous and heady it lays on the hot humid air.
The sweet, sour smell of sweat, musky and arousing.
In the smokey, black depths of your fantasies you see two men, bodies
stripped, lusting, thrusting.
Drives in gear, faces wet with running tears of ecstacy and torment.
Silent fears, of discovery, disease, death.
Slipping, sliding skin.
Grasping, clutching hands.
Kissing, sucking lips, clenched with desire.
Heavy hungers, never satisfied.
NARRATIVE:
The night is dark and thick with need.
You can feel it.
Time's marked by tracks in your arms, desperation in your eyes.
Riding the spike through many sleepless nights.
Essence fading like the tail of a falling star.
The needle calls.
It's poison poised and ready to alter your reality.
Leather belt cutting into biceps, raising veins for easy access.
Sharp spike slipping into skin, shooting sin straight into the center of you.
Head nodding low.
Eyes rolling under leaden lids.
Mouth dripping saliva.
Brain numbed, sinking into oblivion.
Sweet tortured escape.
SPOT ON DANCER.
SPIRIT EXITS USL.
The beasts are awakening.
Padding softly in the shadows.
Lurking just outside your vision.
Smirking, smacking their lips.
So willing to feed your needs.
So eager to suck the life force from your body.
So anxious to drag you down to the depths of damnation.
(MUSIC "MISERARI" UP)
The clock is ticking. Time's running out.
You must act now!
PREACHER:
Rise up into the everlasting light of heaven
before you sink into the eternal darkness of hell.
NARRATIVE:
You must die!
PREACHER:
Before, we can truly be born again.
HE PICKS UP RAZOR AND CROSSES TO DOWNSTAGE CENTER.
SPIRIT ENTERS USL. SHE IS DRESSED IN BLACK.
PROJECTIONS ALTERNATE BETWEEN RIGHT AND LEFT WALLS.
DANCER INTERPRETS THE FOLLOWING.
NARRATIVE:
You lived your life on the edge of death.
The hot ride on the wild side.
Lost in the dark and up against the wall.
Your hungers feeding our insecurity.
Your needs pushing us to the brink.
A screaming faggot, nigger, junkie.
Always playing the quintessential queen.
Miss Sweet, Miss Sad so misunderstood.
Looking for love in all the wrong places.
The prick of a needle, the prick of a lover.
Each dripping death deep into your body.
Always gambling on a stacked deck, on loaded dice,
Just a matter of time before you pay the price.
So climb aboard and take the ride.
The long slide on the razor's edge.
The burning bite of cold steel in hot flesh.
Feel it as it slips deep into your vein and licks the pain from your soul.
BLOOD SPRAYS ONTO WHITE ROBE.
Let your blood flow.
It's sweet heat draining from your cold body.
Let your blood flow.
PREACHER:
Shout hallelujah, I'm saved!
Let your blood flow.
Batisimal juices oozing salvation.
Let your blood flow.
PREACHER:
Shout hallelujah, I'm saved!
Let your blood flow.
Another dead, faggot nigger, junkie.
Let your blood flow.
Let your blood flow.
Let your blood flow.
Amen.
(MUSIC "MISERARI" UP.)
NARRATION:
Lost souls in torment.
Traveling on a twisted treadmill.
Trapped in the bowels of the beast.
Just as time revolves in a circular motion.
They go round.
Like rats in a mobious maze, round and round and round they go.
Till they can't go no more.
Lost souls caged in a world of dead ends and blind alleys.
Caught between heaven and hell and no tomorrow
BLACKOUT
(MUSIC UP, THEN FADES OUT.)
Written by David Spangenburg
Poetry by Beth Jones
THEY ARE FROZEN IN PLACE AT DIFFERENT STAGE LEVELS.
DAVID (NARRATOR) WEARS "DEATHâ MASK AND WHITE ROBE.
AS HE SPEAKS, SLIDES (DEPICTING DEATH) ARE PROJECTED ON THE WHITE ROBE.
MASK IS LIT BY PINPOINT SPOT.
PROJECTION UP.
"STREAM" MUSIC COMES UP FULL,
THEN DOWN AND UNDER.
DAVID:
This story begins with the end.
Working forward to the beginning it revolves, in a never ending loop,
repeating, changing, evolving.
This story is edited by fate and chance adapting itself to it's unwritten
pages.
This story is life.
It begins with a breath.
The last breath.
Slipping out like a sigh, it carries the seed of light that is Being.
As this seed rises it is drawn to other seeds.
Forming a stream of light that rides the wind.
Searching for new vessels to fill.
Death is never the ending.
It is merely the beginning of a new cycle of life.
UP ON TONY (MUSICIAN)
HE PLAYS A FEW PHRASES.
AS BETH RECITES.
BETH:
As familiar parts of me, important sections, drift and shift.
Her white, thin hands with knarled joints and blue rivulets.
She taught me how to clean asparagus, just so.
Then run off to the store for candy cigarettes.
I loved her old hands, that held rings on with swollen knuckles.
I loved her soft middle and drooping breast, that when pressed close, made an angel's pillow.
So why do I resist my dying, when all the time my life is getting brighter?
With little heads to hold close to my thicker middle
and soft little hands to hold my aging ones.
LIGHTS DOWN PLAYERS.
UP ON BACKDROP.
PINPOINT SPOT UP ON MASK.
PROJECTION UP. SLIDES PROJECTED DEPICT BIRTH.
DAVID WEARS "BIRTH" MASK.
"STREAM" MUSIC COMES UP FULL,
THEN DOWN AND UNDER.
DAVID:
The stream is a doorway to many dimensions,
a window to each end of the spectrum.
As one life ebbs, a new one begins.
The stream flows, harvesting seeds, filling vessels.
Always keeping constant the balance.
An even exchange of essence.
A controlled flow of positive and negative charges.
In cyclic sequence the light inverts the brightness of its being.
Combining the colors till they blend into black.
A negative image of itself, it wears a different face and moons over its creations.
Then, reversing itself again, the stream rises like a dawning sun.
It crests the hill in binding, blinding colors.
Life breathing light.
The stream swells with renewal.
Death becomes birth and the cycle continues.
UP ON TONY.
LIGHTS UP ON BETH.
RUTH AND TONY CONTINUE AS BETH RECITES.
BETH:
By the river We walk just as saints have walked by rivers since
John told of his coming.
We walk our arms stretched in trueness.
Our voices sounding as one while the rocks press into our feet, our bodies, our souls.
Between my brothers I enter the rushing cleanness.
I face the body and watching me and watching heaven they lift arms upward.
My temple trembles and quakes.
Eyes closed tightly all is revealed.
As I fall back into clarity as I fall back into truth
I am washed pure and the spirit descends as I emerge
into light.
UP ON BACKDROP.
PINPOINT SPOT UP ON MASK.
PROJECTION UP. SLIDES PROJECTED DEPICT LIFE.
DAVID WEARS "LIFE" MASK.
"STREAM" MUSIC COMES UP FULL,
THEN DOWN AND UNDER.
DAVID:
As the stream flows backwards into itself.
There is a thickening of space, a quickening of pace.
Energies increase as time expands its horizons.
The vessels begin their circuit.
No instructions given, they blindly choose their paths.
Some vessels are drawn to other's orbits; altering journeys, intertwining destinies.
Some run alone.
Their solitude offering simplicity for their effort.
The stream gives no assistance, nor resistance.
It is merely the flag-waver for the course.
Starting the run, then collecting the runners when they've completed their heats.
Birth blooms into life and the cycle continues.
UP ON TONY.
TONY BEGINS TO PLAY. HE PLAYS A FEW PHRASES.
LIGHTS UP ON RUTH.
RUTH DOES A FEW FREE FORM MOVEMENTS.
LIGHTS UP ON BETH.
RUTH AND TONY CONTINUE AS BETH RECITES
BETH:
The weeks are marked by Fridays when the garbage man comes.
Another seven days is history.
Heads of state lie in caskets on display.
Their faces, frozen in Moscow smiles, barely visible amid the flowers.
Where are you, Leonid?
Where are you now?
Time magazine said you were the most powerful man in the world for awhile.
So, where has the black Mercedes of death driven you?
Do you swim in a lake of fire?
Can you look the Most High God in the eye?
Inconsequential questions now that you are gone.
But in a world of weeks marked by garbage men, I can understand how New York lost track of time and money.
When the sanitary engineers went on strike.
Could I rely on the postman to count myopic days, or catalogue months by paychecks and rent due?
I want the days to be jewels, like my mother said.
I want to string each brilliant bead on a necklace to adorn my memory, and in ending know that a light shines in this fog of Fridays
LIGHTS DOW PLAYERS.
UP ON BACKDROP.
PINPOINT SPOT UP ON MASK.
PROJECTION UP. DEATH-BIRTH-LIFE SLIDES PROJECTED
DAVID WEARS "DEATH" MASK. SLIDES DEPICT DEATH
"STREAM" MUSIC COMES UP FULL,
THEN DOWN AND UNDER.
DAVID:
This story has gone full circle.
We finish where we began at the end, which is only the beginning.
Just as the cycle perpetuates, this story will continue to unwind,
as long as life exists on this sphere.
We've had but a brief look.
A minute slice of time in a timeless oddessy.
We hope that this story has touched your own individual stories.
Has given them texture, and breathed new color into their already defined lines.
The cycle of Death-Birth-Life is the one experience we all share with equal certainty.
And, though we travel at different levels of awareness.
We all make the journey.
THEN CUTS.
POETRY Copyright 1990 Beth Jones
Fictional prose for two voices
DAVID :
He sighs heavily as the knife goes in.
Deep, slicing through soft tissue, glancing off hard bone.
Deep, down to the hilt, then out, then in again.
It was very sexual.
A hard object plunging into warm skin, that spreads wide to take it all.
Burrowing deep inside hot, moist tissues.
All the way in, then, a slow retreat, only to thrust back again,
in trembling exhilaration.
SIMONE:
He never thought it would come to this.
Their relationship started so normal.
Both wounded by past lovers, they hoped to heal themselves with each others care.
She, so frightened to love.
He, so frightened not to.
They wound their lives around each other and shut the world out.
Their hungers finally being fed.
Their needs digging deep into each others souls.
DAVID :
He smiles at the blade, darting in and out like a tailor's needle.
Slick and red now, seeking its sheath again and again and again.
(FADES OUT)
SIMONE:
Somewhere along the way their hungers grew to large to satisfy. Their needs to big to accommodate.
Love bloomed into obsession, blind passions, overwhelming desires, and as a steady diet of ecstasy dulled the appetite.
Pain became the focus.
It started playfully enough.
A quick bite to sharpen the senses.
A stinging slap to cut the boredom.
Furrowed scratches to heighten awareness.
But, this new seasoning just teased their palates.
As with their love, it climbed slowly to obsessive heights.
Steadily escalating, insidiously increasing in intensity.
DAVID:
His head is reeling.
Overwhelmed by sensations, he breathes with the knife.
He shudders as blood sprays his face.
His senses rising, with each glimpse of flashing steel.
SIMONE:
Their lovemaking became like warfare.
Foreplay alone would leave them bruised and battered.
Their hungers raged like wildfire.
Passion licked at them like white hot flames consuming soft wood.
Sharpening senses, cutting inhibitions, tearing at reality.
DAVID :
The blade is a blur of movement, tearing through muscles and veins.
Slashing at soft, smooth skin.
As his eyes look deep into hers, they mirror her ecstasy, then glaze as the life flows out of him.
The last sight he sees, as he slips into his eternal orgasm, is her straddling his hips, knife clenched in her bloody hands.
Riding hard to ecstasy, she turns the blade on herself.
She thrusts it deep into her womb and rips upward towards her breast.
She screams in rapture as her steaming organs slide onto his ruined body. She falls forward, coming to rest, in his open arms.
SIMONE:
Their bodies intertwined in a still life study.
Frozen in time, in a most intimate embrace.
A portrait of love, immortalized by obsession.
