Monologue

Not My Story 

Ruth Anna Powell

The first thing you need to know is that this is not my story to tell. It’s hers. The little girl in the corner, the one with the fake smile, the one who confuses you. 

I remember the first time we met. I was alone and I was scared. She reached out her hand and became my first friend. We learned everything together. We grew up together.  But I had no idea.

Because we’re just Small Town America, what could happen here? But stuff like this isn’t just gossip, stuff like this is real. 

I’ve heard she has a baby now and black hair. 

We sat together at Burger King. I told her how sorry I was, and I bought her an apple pie, desperately hoping that a dollar and twenty-nine cents would somehow solve everything. But it didn’t. And it won’t. And that’s ok. Because this is not my story to tell. 

Short Story

Short Story 

By, Ruth Anna Powell 

I listened carefully as my kids ran around the bathroom door, making sure they didn't fall. I poured shampoo into my hand, measuring out a small pile in the middle of my palm. I massaged it into my hair, making sure to scrub it into the ends. My kid's laughter rang through the house and I smiled at how cute they were. I started to wash the shampoo out of my hair. I put too much in and had to scrub. Man, I was tired...

Bang! The room goes quiet. Something rang in my ears and I ran for the bathroom door, almost tripping over the bathtub ledge. I couldn't hear my kids. I started to think of all sorts of horrible things happening to them. I grabbed the doorknob, trying to get out. The knob stuck and I couldn't get through. I screamed at my kids, telling them I was coming. I rattled the doorknob but it felt like it was glued shut. I started to hear people talking on the other side of the door, screaming. I rammed my elbow against the door, again and again, trying to get out. Then something hissed at the top of the door and I looked up. The door was fusing together. I shrieked and tore at the crack with my fingernails, trying to tear it back open. I scrambled around the door as it closed, screaming my kid's names. The door sealed shut and I was stuck in a room with no doors, just a doorknob sticking out of a wall.

The lights started to flash white and then blue and I couldn't see. I stumbled around the room, my hands running over smooth walls, then the bathtub and the sink, and then nothing. I fell forward into the hole just created and hit the ground. My hands sunk into the ground and stuck there. I screamed for help and pulled my hands. With every pull, the ground held tighter but I couldn't stop. I screamed and tugged until I felt something under the ground touch my hand. I felt fingers crawling up my hand and then wrapped around my hands and pulled me down, down, down through the floor. The world around me turned purple and something started beeping in my head. I pulled at the other hands and kicked them but they didn't move. The fall continued as colors flashed around me.

…..................................................................................................................................................................

Donald Roswell held his unconscious wife's hand as the hospital machines beeped around them. He

 looked up as the doctor walked in. The doctor nodded to him and sat down, clipboard in hand.

“What's your wife's name?”

“Carla Roswell.”

“And what happened?”

“She fell in the shower and hit her head on the corner of the bathtub.”

“How long after she fell did you find her?”

“ We ran in as soon as we heard the bang.”

The doctor nodded again and stood up to leave the room. Donald stopped him.

“Any idea when she will wake up?”

The doctor shrugged.

“ No idea. Let's pray it's soon.”

Donald smiled at his wife.

“I wonder what she's dreaming about.”

Creation

Creation
By, Ruth Anna Powell


   The light bulb flickered to life. The crowd gasped and Thomas Edison smiled.
"We will make electricity so cheap, only the rich will burn candles!"
The crowd erupted into applause and Edison stepped away from the light bulb. He had worked so hard for this day.....


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
   Two months earlier.

   He was back to carbon filaments. All that work with platinum and metals like it, and he was back where he had started. He stomped his foot, and immediately felt like a little kid again, stomping his foot when he didn't get his way.
"I haven't failed," he reminded himself and went back to his work. He attached a couple of wires and jumped back at the bang. Another two wires, another two ways. This could go on forever!
   He put his work down and went for his coat. This was it, he was done! He went to blow out his current light source, then stopped remembering how hard it was to light it again. This was why he was working on his light. He took off his coat and went back to his work.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
   It was already cold, and it was barely October. Edison walked over to the woodstove with a bundle of wood in his arms. He shoved the wood in and lit his match. He started to shove that in too but stopped, staring at it. If only he could make his light like this. So bright, so natural, this light fit in. The flame touched his fingertips and he dropped the match. The paper under it caught fire, and in a moment of panic, Edison poured the teapot full of water over it. A little excessive maybe, but it did put out the fire. He put the pot back on the stove. He lit another match and tried not to be distracted by it, but this too proved unsuccessful, because not being distracted by it involved not looking at it, and he burned his fingers again. This time though he just dipped his fingers into the teapot and wondered how his tea would taste. He lit another match and quickly threw it in and slammed the door hoping nothing else would happen. The wood caught and Edison went back to his carbon filaments.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

   " What is genius?"
Edison stopped smiling. The other questions the reporters had asked had been easy, but this one....... well, this one was not. He looked down at the young man who had asked the question.
"What is genius?"
The question rang in his ears and he wondered how long he had been standing there staring stupidly off into space well the people around him started to wonder if he was quite as smart as they had been led to believe. Genius was hard to describe. How did these people come up with these questions anyhow? It wasn't fair to the poor man who was stuck up there with all those people with their pens and paper around him.
"What is genius?"
You can't describe genius, not on the spot like this. You needed time to think these things through. Time to think up genius answers to genius questions.
Then bang. An answer. A soon-to-be light bulb.
"Genius is one percent inspiration and ninety-nine percent perspiration" he replied truthfully.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
   It was now mid-November, though a lot had happened in a month and a half. The carbon was doing a lot better this time. He was getting somewhere, not just sitting there killing time, and having the occasional temper tantrum.
   He put in the carbon, screwed a couple of things up, and flicked the switch. There was a huge bang as the glass around the wiring shattered into hundreds of pieces.
   Edison put his hands up in front of his face, and for dignity's sake tried to keep back the cuss words. After the chorus of breaking glass was over, he put down his hands and walked over to the thing that had just exploded. None of the wirings had been damaged, but the carbon had been shaken up, and the glass, of course, was all over the place. He put on his coat and hat and started home for the broom.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

   " Mr. Edison! Mr. Edison!" The reporter looked about ready to jump out of his pants he was jumping so high. "To what do you owe your success?"
There were several different answers to that one. Should he go the standard route?
" I owe it all to my parents who worked long and hard to get me where I am now."
Or should he go for more of a wisecrack epic scientist answer?
"I owe it all to the scientists before me. They made science what it is today."
No, he needed something different and more exciting. Something no one had ever thought of before. In his mind, he went through his rooms looking for something new, different, and exciting that no scientist in history had ever said. He yawned and had it.
"I owe my success to the fact that I never had a clock in my workroom."
The reporters all scribbled it down.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

   Edison slowly poured in the carbon filaments. He thought he had it this time, the first practical incandescent light bulb. His light bulb. He held his breath and flipped the switch. The bulb flickered and died. Something was still wrong. He sighed and was stepping forward to turn it off when it started to flicker again. He stopped moving forward. The light flickered brighter and brighter until it was glowing strong. Edison went to light a match. There was only one problem. He couldn't find them. Still smiling, he turned over his entire workroom, carefully of course. Finally, he found them on the shelf next to the door, right where they were supposed to be. He lit one and held it up next to his light bulb. A perfect fit. In December 1879 he would show it to the world.



Source material- goodreads.com
              Invention.smithsonian.org

Keeping Score

Keeping Score
By, Ruth Anna Powell

They watch you. They record every little move you make. Then they broadcast it to the general public. Like today when I grabbed my pencil out from under my little sister in a huff they were watching and my score went down a point. I'll have to be careful. Can't let it get down too low.
   You slip up, you make the least little mistake and they are onto you. Then your points go down. But accidents don't bring them up.
" Wrong must be punished. Most one does is wrong. One must try to do right."
   That's part of her speech. The one at the beginning of the ear. when they reset the boards and reset everyone's view of you.
   At the beginning of the year, people are numb. They don't know who they are. Right now there just a 50. A good place. Then about a week in people start to change. When the kid down the street loses ten points on the first day, people fell sorry for his parents and click their tongues at him. Then they keep shaking their heads until he reaches 0 and the authorities come to take him away. No one knows where they go, but everyone knows they don't come back.
   We reset two months ago. I'm doing well, I've even gone up ten points. But the slip up this morning scares me. Too many like that and I'll know where the 0s go. My bag is packed and I'm on my way to school. I pause to look at the scoreboard. I recognize a few names of the people who have to start being more careful, there the rowdy kids at my high school. One of them was taken away this week. I continue to walk down the street, there's no bus for me, we don't have the money. No new shoes either.
   A normal school day. math and grammar. Then lunch where I hide in a corner and hope the other kids don't find me and taunt my quietly when they think they aren't watching, making fun of my hair that has barely been brushed, and my clothes that are torn and stained. Then back into the building for the same history lesson as always.
   Our founder was a virtuous man who hated everything wrong and ugly in this world. So he built a town, a town with a wall, and brought his family and friends into it. His wife helped him with the scoreboard and they died happy, not seeing what they had done.
   But people never question the greatness of their plan. Not even me. But you can see the looks on some people's faces when they walk past the scoreboard.
   I start to walk back home. I get a few glances, a couple of people say hello, but mostly I'm just a 60. Not a person to pay attention to. Not a person who might be gone soon.
   One of the people to stop and say hello is a friend from school, Clara. When Clara walks past people take notice. But not because she's losing points. No, Clara was a 90. She's the girl who parents point out to their kids, urging them to be like her. Most kids these days must be convinced she's never done a wrong deed in her life.
   We talk for a minute. The scoreboard doesn't come up. It never does. Neither do the people who disappear. These subjects are off-limits. Mentioning the scares people. And they have a point. After all, they are always watching.
   Night. I decide to take a walk, and my parents don't object. Crime is checked here, no one would even think of stealing of murder for fear of the scoreboards, it's nice outside on the porch. I step down the stairs being careful not to step on the broken one I could crack through. I walk down the street breathing in the sweet air that almost tastes good. It's going to rain, I can smell it. Something is glowing in the distance and I walk towards it.
  The bakery is on fire. Most people stand back and watch, but some people run inside and bring out refills of bread, saving them from the fire. Clara is among those people. Suddenly I see something glinting in the fire. The corner of a money box is sticking out from under a fallen beam. I look around, no one is watching. I walk in and grab the box. I hide it under my jacket and back out. No one saw me. I sigh and head for home with the box, not bothering to check the scoreboard. I am safe.
   They come for me in the morning. My score has dropped and they have come to take me away. I say goodbye to my parents and my little sister and step into the back of the truck, silently cursing myself. I left the box where my parents could find it. They could find out what to do with it.
   The road is long and bumpy. I wonder where we are going, but I am alone in the back of the truck, and there is no one to ask. After hours of bouncing up and down the car stops and I get out. There are guards there wearing the same smile she does every year during her speech. They walk me into the building and into a smaller white room where a few more guards are standing. I walk in and they shut the door behind me. I take a look around the room. The walls are lined with guns and a blindfold is sitting on a small table in the middle of the room. Suddenly I know why they don't come back.


The End

Poem: Heartbeat

Heartbeat


Up and down,
A merry-go-round
Beeping and beeping
Red and blue.


Wavering, wavering,
Lying on the seat,
Quavering, quavering,
Is her heartbeat.

Jagged line,
Not like mine,
Still and straight,
A crooked line,

A crash,
A light,
A line,
A dash.

Blinding light,
A honking horn,
The car,
The crash.

Now a jagged heartbeat,
Once a dash,
A living heartbeat,
A song.

Her smiling face,
Her laughing eyes,
I hope that they will see the sunrise,
Again.

Flickering, flickering,
Fading out,
Clicking, clicking,
Don't leave me now.

My sister there,
Her gold brown hair,
A hug, a kiss,
I'd miss all this.

A beep, a scream,
A hiss, a sob,
A click, a call,
I can't believe she's gone.

Poem: Broken

Broken
By Ruth Anna Powell

Never hurting,
Nothing's wrong,
Scared of nothing,
Still and strong.

A tiny quiver,
A chink in glass,
Scared of nothing,
Still and strong.

Falling slowly,
A deep abyss,
Scared of nothing,
Must stay strong.

A small heartbreak,
A slamming door,
Scared of nothing,
Nothing more.

Pain like nothing,
Hurt is black,
Scared of nothing,
Time has passed.

Deep in darkness,
A tiny crack,
Still and strong,
Fighting back.

A ray of sun,
A shining star,
Still and strong,
Dark no more.