sinoniem.

medicine is no exact science,

but Doctor Physician’s patients still always die.



one would think the line between surgery and slice/dice would be less fine.



it takes a steady hand to navigate amalgamous waters,

let alone the use of a scalpel.

the [ ] doctor blames Giles de Tourettes for his difficulties in the OR,

but a playwright would likely pinpoint motivation as the main concern;

sharp objects put into the hands of those with something to prove never bodes well,

and there’s no room at the table for practitioners and their chips. 



and then there’s the mask to consider -
the white gauze which is meant to soften the pronouncements made by the orifice it covers
simply works to muffle it,

and will never conceal his eyes.


those unnervingly blood red eyes.



one is supposed to shrink from the sight of spilling crimson,

not respond to it.

perhaps that’s part of the problem.

Dr. Physician’s ‘patients’ will never know.

koerant.

Honora: a success story.

Liege: visible, cloak gone.

Chimaera: present, always, but forgiven.

Skeeter: was here, is gone- chased out of the room by M.P.’s better half.

Grier: in town.

Coggs: discovering the joys of collaboration.

The Often Orphan: appears from time to time; watches, silently; disappears.
Fractal follows suit, doppelganger in tow.
It’s not a big deal.

Albertina & The Rolling Thunder resolve their differences, Resolve themselves.

The Banshee has screamed off elsewhere.
Her ghost will haunt, but will no longer hurt.

The Mistress leaves her mess on the table.

Yvaine wears the boots.

Dr. Physician: The Mistress is reflected in his every diagnosis.
She sure is an intimidating act to follow.

The Man With the Blood-Red Eyes dogs her steps & marrs her nights.
When she shivers, it has little to do with the cold.


Day in, day out...

prezrene.

The Neighborhood has seen better days.

The shorthand-
The line of angry red [ants] marches down her thighs.
And it’s no picnic.

...one by one; hurrah, hurrah...

Additionally-
We have a Hyde situation, folks.
The casting director isn’t sure how to list The Banshee on the credits-
She’s making more than her alloted cameo.
There is panic in the screenwriting room.

Clawing & ruckus are commonplace in this industry.
Both are usually figurative, however.
This phantasm lends a new and far more literal meaning to all of the above.

Spectral anger is a thing to behold;
The interns agree dumbly to her every demand.

A wise choice, by all counts.

The neighborhood has definitely seen better (read: less haunted) days.

maitheas.

The Sound & The Fury are in her ear.
Extinguishing lamps like it’s their job, they walk through walls and talk down balloons with not a thought to the physics of it.


Eurydice is in her every thought.
As a result, she pays the meat slicer a little too much attention.


The Mistress battles most epically.

Dr. Physician just falls and falls and falls.


“I stole your soul, because you said I’d never be able.”

“Second time now, and you’ve done this before.”

“...But all the whole world is still on my string.”


It’s not a new conversation.


But,
Somehow, someway...okay.

She sings.

“Sometimes, I feel I gotta get away; bells chime, I know I gotta get away. And I know if I don’t, I’ll go out of my mind. But I know sometimes I must get out in the light. Better leave her behind with the kids, they’re alright. The kids are alright.“

The kids, they’re alright.
The kids are alright.

suku.

something like word association:


Spirals: present. tribal tattoos are back in.
Triangulation: a pattern, unavoidable? shE thinks not.
Extricate: word of the...day? Life. What she must do. But it’s not bad, we promise- said with a smile. It's healthy.
Explosions: par for the course. A given in any action movie.
Shrug: the gesture of the moment. Not dismissive; nay, indicative of peaceful acceptance. We like shrugs.


something like the setting:

[img src="ground zero"]


something like the circumstances:

They’re all trying.
They’re all abandoned.
They’re all strong.
They’re all weak.
They’re all lost.
They’re all fucked up.
They’re all okay.


something like the Indie-movie ending:

The castle continues to crumble behind her as she walks blissfully onwards.
Reaching for his hand,

“Don’t worry, love. Don’t you worry, dearest. We’ll find our houses by the sea.”

apenbare.

Enna eradicates weakness; Elsie cleanses the soul.
The twins are witch doctors.


There is no onomatopoeia for the sound the plate made when it hit the wall.
We all break [dishes] sometimes.


Something wicked this way comes.
Show your bones.

kilele.

Like a cursor on a bone-white page,

Subtraction.
This is a subtraction equation.
She looks at her watch (the object in question).
Its mathematical terra-bound spiral matches...

Thoughts shift to the natural disasters filling the space between the ellipses in the sentence last.

It lines up.

The tornados, hurricanes, waterspouts, and maelstroms are always headed for the same place.
That damn four-letter word.
We don’t speak of it.
WASP Rules.
[this.is.how.we.do.things.

this.is.how.we.do.things.]

Jumbled in the jungle, drowning in the air -no water necessary-
Compasses are for pussies.
If one can’t use the heavens which were alloted to us for this purpose, one must just deserve to be lost.
Mustn’t one?

‘Good luck, Chuck,’ she thinks, ‘with your wind-up dolly.’
The doll hospital’s out of business, and there’s a wrench shortage.
Hard times, these.
She was torn out of her pretty plastic packaging long ago by an over-eager two-year-old destructivo.
Batteries not included.

d - o - w - n

we go.

aithiompaithe.

The tide rises; the tide falls.

He’s close to the surface.
She can feel it.

His call, his pull-
They’re drifting over the water to where she stands on the shore.

Alternately churning and too peaceful, the waves contract and release in a mirror image of the thing in her chest.
She clutches at her heart and stares mutely at the simile before her.

The streets are silent; the docks are empty.
A seafaring town can always smell a storm a mile away.
Old habits die hard.
Some habits don’t die.
Dead habits return.

She closes her eyes, in equal parts pain and pleasure.

Soon.
It will be very soon.

The tide rises; the tide falls.

muoto.

The Mistress can’t remember the safe word. 

It’s kind of a problem.
This is no time for short-term memory loss.

Amnesia is so unhelpful.
God damn PTSD.

She edges away from Dr. Physician.

The ones who help are synonymous with the ones who hurt.
[an unfortunate truth]

“This can’t go on.”

^if only the courage existed.
Till then, wishful thinking/pipe dream.

The fun part?
Guessing which is which.

soru.

Grier stands center stage.
No costume, no props, no pretense.
Bare concrete, without curtains to close.

Motivation: none.
Objective: honesty.
Medium: simplicity.

His eyes bore into his audience, searing her to the core in the best of ways.
There’s no bolting from this, no hiding.
It’s in everything.
It is everything.
Has become, will become
Everything.

The word is ‘all-encompassing.’

Palms up, open.
Perfect imagery.
The time has come.
Uncover your eyes, now.
You knew this was coming.

Quietly, 
loudly, 
spoken:

The question.

“What void are you trying to fill? What blemish are you trying to cover? What answer do you seek? What, exactly, are you aching for? Do you know?”

She shakes.
She shudders.
She shivers.
She seizes.

She doesn’t.

Does he?

virvel.

There’s an awful case of identity crisis going around the Neighborhood- no one is safe. 

Neither M.P. nor The Rolling Thunder are sure which of them is which anymore.
It hardly matters; both are disengaging. 

The Mistress and ESquared are in cahoots.
Enna’s running the show, Elsie’s calling the shots, and The Mistress sticks to cowering in corners and waiting to be called on.

She haunts the halls while Dr. Physician practices his practice, breaking habits & breaking hearts. 

Also: somone’s been trying to resurrect The Master.
Imhotep-style.
Everyone’s more than a little worried.
Voodoo is almost always cause for concern.

stat.

We’re not sure what Dr. Physician’s motivation is.

We know that when he moves downstage towards The Mistress, it’s supposed to be her treatment.

There’s a spotlight trained on the wicker chair where she’s settled.

Curled in on herself like that, there’s no other way to describe her but as a kitten child.

Which is slightly absurdist...

He stops moving somewhere around center stage.

She stands up.

The pink gel slides off the light; she’s bathed in pure, white glow.

“Stop that. Stop being considerate. If you have something to say, say it. If you want something, take it. Don’t protect me. I can handle it. If I fall, I want to feel it.”

zellenkamerad.

It’s like college all over again.

Roommates can be such fun.

If they’d stop scrawling all over the walls with their contraband lipstick and speak, that is.

The Mistress doesn’t know what to make of Fractal. 

What little of her she knows, she should be frightened by.

Trouble is, she isn’t.

She thinks they’ll get along wonderfully.

Must be charisma.

This lipstick nonsense has really got to stop, however.

‘REDRUM’ is more than a little cliche, and a tad too cutting.

No pun intended.

Picking at her wristbands, The Mistress sighs and begins the ever-so-typical, ever-so-atypical conversation the only way it can be begun.

“Hey, Picasso. Over here. So... what are you in for?”

hirmutada.

The patients are silent.

Something must be afoot; the patients are never silent.

The Doctor supposes it must be her presence here.

They don’t like her.

They don’t trust her.

He’s not sure he does either.

She hasn’t spoken a word since she arrived.

Perhaps she simply brought the silence with her.

“...list this woman as armed and dangerous.”

The Doctor flicks off the television, shaking his head sadly.

“This is what happens when treatment goes rogue.”

He forgets where he is.

The passing mumbled admonishing remark elicits a glare from her.

Hate. Then, mockingly:

“I know. The apothecary always knows best.”

He sighs.

There’s much work to be done.

This will be one for the books.

gauner.

WE INTERRUPT THIS PROGRAM TO BRING YOU BREAKING NEWS.

According to our sources, a woman known only by the moniker ‘The Mistress’ is now wanted by federal authorities for attempted murder. 

The victim, a man called The Master, was found earlier this afternoon.

Details of the crime have not yet been released, but authorities have already declared Mistress their prime suspect. On the screen is the number of the tip line police have opened specifically for this case. Any information regarding this crime, The Mistress, or her whereabouts should be directed there. Be warned: police list this woman as armed and dangerous.

terga.

Honora entered in the middle of the story.
Now she gets to be the one who works everything out via an oversized narrative monologue.

Read:
The Mistress won’t be heard from for a while.
She’s off listening somewhere.

The Master is licking his wounds in the recovery ward.
Hedge helps him get the bandage fuzz off of his tongue. 

Liege still plays in his sandbox, bubbling and brandishing his ever-peaceful beam of a smile at the world.

Swivel hides in dark corners.
With The Mistress gone, his confidence has been reduced to ashy flakes.

Elsie & Enna thought they owned their new house.
They were incorrect; they’re still in escrow. 

The neighborhood needs a newspaper.

ata.

Skye is dancing.

Liege leads.

It works perfectly, despite his small stature.

The Mistress stares in open astonishment.

Skye hasn’t danced a step in almost five years.

Her waltz is flawless.

The diamonds on her character shoes glint in the studio light as they glance off The Master’s broken limbs.

Hairline fractures.

For now.

His hands clutch tufts of Hedge’s feathers. 

Neither are completely incapacitated as of yet; the applicable phrase is “in hot water.”

Skeeter’s been bound & gagged- he’s old news.

Swivel will be his cellmate. 

All characters accounted for, the dance whirls on.

Skye is has been will be

^ dances.

ocito.

CAST: The Mistress
         Grier

SETTING: the unassuming street corner in Everytown where these uncomfortable-though-well-meaning confrontations inevitably occur.



“Obviously?”

“Yeah...? Obviously.”

“Obviously!?”

“God, yes, OBVIOUSLY. It’s an adverb. Get the fuck over it. That’s not even the point. Stop side-stepping.”

[Scathingly]“You don’t know shit about me, alright? JESUS H. CHRIST. Obviously. Hell. ”

[After watching her stalk away, he now knows that heels were meant to be turned on. He runs his hands through his hair and expels his responsibility with his air, but can’t quite manage to expirate his frustration. It begins to rain. He doesn’t notice, and lights up again. Contemplative/concerned look: he knows something is off. Knows.]

“Obviously...”

su.

The Mistress is proud of herself.
She wasn’t aware she had the power to avert tragedy.
‘You learn something new every day.’

M.P. sees The Mistress’ self-made radiance and desires nothing more than to vomit.
Inwardly pointed disgust tasers will do that to you. 
On paper, she drowns her jealousies in gin and uppers.
In reality, she doesn’t have the balls for either; her cup holds nothing more than coke. 
Non-diet. 
Here’s to living dangerously.

Back in the original story-line, The Mistress gardens as the phone jangles incessantly in the background.
White noise.

The Master can dial until his fingers fall off.
Her parade has no need for his rain.
Never did.

boira.

The Mistress doesn’t know what to do with her head.
M.P. doesn’t know what to do with her eyes.
Swivel doesn’t know what to do with his feet.
Skye doesn’t know what to do with her smile.
Grier doesn’t know what to do with his soul.
Coggs doesn’t know what to do with his cerebrum.
Skeeter doesn’t know what to do with his shoulders.
The Master doesn’t know what to do with his clouds.
Elsie doesn’t know what to do with her inclinations.
Enna doesn’t know what to do with her cells.
Mismatch doesn’t know what to do with her hands.
Sphinx doesn’t know what to do with her answers.
Liege doesn’t know what to do with his pulse.
Chimaera doesn’t know what to do with his research.
Hedge doesn’t know what to do with Its alterations.

Uncertainty is entirely underrated.
Uncertainty is entirely overrated.